Chapter 9

What do I do now, Fern wondered. What do I say to him? Where do I start?

Fern Humphrey was a very frightened woman.

It is strange how simple a thing can sound in the abstract and how complicated it can be in actuality. Even the most basic progression from one point to another rarely is as simple as it seems, and when the points involve individual personalities, the whole thing tends to become complicated beyond all reason.

With any luck, a person finds this out early in life and guides himself accordingly.

Fern was learning the hard way.

She leaned against the door of the motel room, her hands behind her back clutching the knob. Chester was standing by the bed. He was not looking at her. His eyes were looking at the colorful bedspread and the small area of white where the spread had been turned down.

His hands hung loosely at his sides. His whole body was casually relaxed.

This was my idea, she thought, so naturally he's waiting for me to make the first move. I took the initiative in the car, and he expects me to carry through. After all, he's only a boy.

And I'm a woman.

Fern closed her eyes and tried to think. Yes, it had seemed simple in the beginning. Too simple. That should have been a warning.

But how was she to know? How could she have told in advance that her plan had such a flaw in it? How could she have been aware of the traitor inside her that would destroy what she had set out to do?

Very simple. Lure men to destruction with your body. A bit melodramatic, perhaps, but possible under the right conditions. And appealing. So very appealing.

And where better to start than with this boy, this beardless youth, this stammering virgin? He was surely a virgin, she thought. And his terror of her and her beauty had been quite unmistakable.

So the plan had proceeded on schedule. Fern had taken him to a secluded spot and aroused him and led him on.

And it had taken her no time at all to discover the error in her thinking. She knew what was wrong almost immediately.

When his hands touched her breasts, she felt a dim suspicion of the truth.

When his lips kissed her, she was almost sure.

When his hands caressed her legs, a chill of fear engulfed her.

But it was too late to stop. She knew what was wrong, but her mind forced her to continue. She pushed ahead, hoping against hope that somehow she could regain the mental balance she needed to carry the plan through to its conclusion.

So she helped him with his clothing, and she teased him into passion, and she set herself astride him. And all the while, she thought of the man in the car, the dirty hairy man that had defiled her as a child.

But it was no use.

As she settled against him, she knew the truth. It was good.

It was better than it had been with Benny.

There was pleasure in having your breasts kissed and fondled by a woman, but it was also rather silly. The pleasure was real, but the edge was removed by the ludicrousness of the pairing.

You kiss my breasts, dear, then I'll kiss your breasts for a while. Then you touch me, and I'll do the same for you. Then I'll kiss you in that special way, and why don't you kiss me that way at the same time? It's so much more efficient that way.

There, wasn't that nice?

Yes, it was very nice. But nowhere near as nice as a man.

When Chester's lips had touched her breasts, she had felt a thrill of pleasure for which she was completely unprepared. She had glanced down and looked at his mouth where it touched her.

It was the face and head of a man at her breast. It was the teeth of a man she felt against her. It was the breath of a man that warmed her. It was the hair of a man that brushed her skin.

It was the hand of a man that touched her.

It was the essence of a man that followed close behind.

A shudder ran through her as she remembered that moment. The glorious feeling as she was transfixed with his manhood.

She began to move then, and the waves of pleasure washed over her mind. All reason was gone in an instant. All thought was suspended. There was nothing in the world for her but the amazing, consuming thing that was taking place.

Benny had brought her to a pitch of excitement she had never known before. But this transcended anything Benny had done. She had reached the point to which Benny had taken her, and the end was still not in sight. On and on it went, bigger and higher and thrilling beyond imagination.

For an instant, she had felt it happening; the ultimate release, the explosion, the searing climax.

It became too much. It became unbearable. Her body froze, her limbs paralyzed.

It had receded then, slowly, unwillingly, leaving an ache and a longing behind. Gradually, her vision cleared and her mind came back to life.

It might have happened, she thought, it would have happened, if it hadn't been up to me. If he had been the aggressor, there would have been no stopping U.

But she had been forced to stop, and in a moment it was all over and past.

Then, the fear had struck her. She had clambered away and retreated behind the wheel. Her whole body had trembled as the realization of what had happened struck home.

For the first time since her childhood, she had felt the sensation of a man, and it had been better than she had ever imagined. It had been overpowering, it had been overwhelming, it had been wonderful and terrifying at the same time.

So, she sat behind the wheel, and waited for her heart to stop pounding, and tried to force back the realization that all her weapons were useless, that her plan for the conquest of the male was doomed to failure, and that-worst of all-this ineffectual youth had given her a taste of something that destroyed Lesbianism for her forever.

Without even realizing what she was saying, she forestalled his inevitable question by suggesting the motel. The thought crossed her mind in that moment that the best course would be to throw the boy out of the car and drive away from him quickly, but she rejected this. In fact, she had held him when he tried to leave of his own accord.

It was only when they reached the motel that her mind cleared sufficiently for her to realize why this was.

She wanted him.

She wanted that sensation again, she wanted the fulfillment that had been so close, she wanted him with her; she wanted this more than anything else in the world.

But the fear was still there. She could not entirely divorce her desire from the memory of the man in the car, and the dirt and the feel and the smell of him and the things he had made her do. The desire and the memory warned inside her until her mind was numb with the strain of it.

So, she suggested the bar, and he reluctantly agreed, and they passed the afternoon in a vacuum of strained silence, waiting for night to fall.

And here they were.

The moment had arrived, finally. They stood facing each other across the motel room, and each waited for the other to make the first move.

He's just as frightened as I am, Fern thought, but that doesn't help a bit. It doesn't make any difference that he is afraid of the moment when I move toward him, when I give him the signal that I'm ready to receive him, because I can't make that move. I could never do it. I'm afraid.

She had a sudden irrational thought that perhaps they would simply stand here all night, each waiting for the other, and that the dawn would find them still waiting. That, in a way, would be a solution, but only a temporary one. Even if Fern turned the boy away now, told him that she no longer desired his company, sent him back onto the road, the desire would remain behind. She would have to seek out another man. She would be forced to find a male somewhere who would do to her what she wanted and needed. And the whole thing would begin again.

It's so simple for a man, she thought. A man can lose his virginity to any tramp, a loose woman who would show him the ways of love. A man could pay for his education and learn the ropes with no difficulty whatsoever.

But a woman did not have this advantage There might be male prostitutes in the world, but Fern would have no idea where to find them.

An idea struck her all at once. She glanced sharply at the boy beside the bed. He was still standing as she had last seen him; relaxed and waiting.

What about the truth?

It's funny, she thought, that it took me so long to think of that. Am I the sort of person who uses the truth only as a last resort.

She tried to read the expression on his face, but it was impossible. His eyes were still cast downward to the bed. His pose was noncommittal.

What kind of person is he? she wondered. How would he react to my story? What would he say if he knew that the woman who had made love to him this afternoon was an inexperienced fool, a silly old maid who thought she was a Lesbian because she had never really had a man? Would he laugh at me? Would he hate me? Would he run from me?

Or would he understand, and lead me into it slowly, and be gentle with me?

She shook the thought away. No, that would not work. He is a child-he doesn't know himself. He is as terrified of the moment of truth as I am.

I must get away. I can't face this.

There was a loud knocking on the door behind her suddenly, and Fern jumped away, startled. The boy glanced up sharply.

The liquor, Fern remembered with a wash of relief. She had forgotten about the liquor.

She reached out her hand and opened the door. The old lady from the bar was standing on the steps with a paper bag under her arm, and a pitcher in her hand.

"I took the liberty of bringing over some water and ice," she said pleasantly. "I thought you want something cold. Do you have glasses?"

It took Fern a second to absorb what she was saying. "Glasses? Why, no-" She looked at her suitcase. Of course not, she thought. The last thing I would have packed would, have been glasses. "No, I forgot about that. Don't you put glasses in the rooms?"

The old lady smiled. "No, not any more. We lost too many of them. You understand."

Fern noticed that the lady's eyes were peering around her into the room. She seemed to be watching the boy intently. Her gaze flicked from him to the bed, then back again.

Fern's eyes narrowed. What is she looking for? she wondered. What does she want?

The old lady was looking at her, and Fern could almost swear that she saw compassion in her face.

Does she know? Has she guessed there is something wrong? Why is she looking at me like that?

"Well, you're going to need glasses," the lady said. "I'll just go back to the bar and get a couple for you. It'll only take a minute. Meanwhile, you can take these." She held out the frosty pitcher and the wrapped bottle toward Fern.

"Yes-all right," Fern answered, taking them from her. She walked across the room, past the boy's still figure, and put the pitcher and the bottle on the bureau. As she came back to the door, she was sure she felt the boy's eyes on her back.

"I'll come over with you and get the glasses," Fern said. "Wait just a moment."

The lady looked up at her in surprise. She started to speak, but Fern shut the door firmly in her face.

The boy was staring at her, puzzled. Fern took a few steps toward him.

"I'm going to get glasses," she said lamely. w

"Why?" he said.

Fern spread her hands. "Well-for the liquor. You don't want to drink from the bottle, do you?"

"I don't want to drink at all," the boy answered evenly. His eyes watched her closely.

"Yes, but-well, we paid for the bottle. I paid for the bottle. It would be a shame to let it go to waste."

The boy shrugged. "If you need booze, okay," he said. "I don't want any more."

"Need...." Fern repeated. "But-you don't understand. I don't need-"

"Look, lady," the boy said, folding his arms. "I don't know what's the matter with you, but if you don't make up your mind soon, I'd better go back on the road. You keep stalling like this, and well both waste our time."

He's not frightened of me at all, she realized in horror. She felt her own fear growing as he waited for her reply.

"No-" she said, "please. Stay here and wait for me. I'm-I'm sorry. I'll be back in a minute."

I can't let him go, she thought. Oh, God, what am I to do?

"Lady," the boy began.

Fern backed away from him. Her band found the doorknob behind her. "I'll be a minute," she said, pulling the door open. "Wait for me." She turned and went quickly through the door, pulling it shut behind her.

She stood for a moment on the steps, leaning back against the hard wood of the door, and letting the night breezes blow across her hot brow. There was a hard fist of fear in the pit of her stomach, and for a moment she was afraid she was going to be sick. After a few seconds, the feeling passed. She swallowed once, and opened her eyes.

The old lady was standing a few feet away, watching her.

"What do you want?" Fern said.

"I beg your pardon, Miss?"

"I said, what do you want? Why are you watching me?"

The old lady looked suddenly frightened. "Why-why, nothing. Nothing at all. I'm not watching you."

"Yes-yes," Fern said, shaking her head. "Yes, you are. Please leave me alone. Stop watching me. Stop looking at me."

"Miss-" the lady came toward her slowly. "Miss, what's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Fern cried. "Leave me alonel Go away!"

"But what about the glasses?" The old lady was almost to her now. "You said you wanted to go with me to get the glasses."

"No! Go away! Forget the glasses! I want to be left alone!"

The lady stopped at the base of the steps. Her face was puzzled, concerned.

"Please tell me what's wrong, Miss. Why are you so afraid? Is that boy . .

Fern felt the tears welling into her eyes. She tried to stop herself, but it was too late. The sobs rose from deep inside her and burst through her lips.

The old lady was beside her suddenly. "Miss-"

Fern felt herself falling, and then the lady's arms were around her shoulders.

"Help me," she said, as the tears wracked her body. "Please help mel"