Chapter 7
For a while I just lay there moaning. Then I pulled the rag out of my mouth, sat up and asked for a drink. Mr. Lynx found a bottle of whiskey and poured me a generous shot.
"You've earned it, kid," he said. "But cheer up: from now on fame and fortune lie before you; a New Star has been born. How do you feel?"
"Awful," I said, choking on the whiskey. And I did, as you can well imagine, seeing as how I'd been scrubbed violently all over. I was sore everywhere but happy, too.
"Is the movie really all made?" I asked between gulps.
"It is," said Mr. Lynx. "At least, I have all the new footage I need. Of course, I'll flesh out the final product artfully. Stock shots of the African jungle, stock shots of bare-bosomed native girls doing tribal dances. Plus dream shots. Tony here will not only dream about the sexy animals you played, but I'll have him dream about other girls. Use shots from my last three pix: Secrets of the Sultan's Harem, Nude Interlude, and Return of the Swamp Nudists."
I shook my head admiringly. Mr. Lynx really was a genius when it came to low-cost movie making. It looked like I'd hitched my wagon to a rising star in the movie business. No doubt Mr. Lynx would go on making bigger and better movies-and I'd be his star in all of them. Or most of them, at least.
Mr. Lynx told me to go take a shower, using plenty of soap to get the turpentine and the last of the paint off me, and I did. When I came out he'd gone off with his famous screen writer, Dagobert. Only Tony Jeeves was left, sitting on a chair and glaring.
I gave him a friendly smile. He scowled at me. "You have to stick around for an hour," he told me. "Mr. Lynx' orders. And I have to stick around to watch you."
"Watch me?" I said, wondering if Tony was implying that I looked so ravishing, all pink and naked, that he couldn't keep his eyes off me.
"Yeah," said Tony, spitting inelegantly on the floor. "Lynx says the paint he used is plenty dangerous. He doesn't want you going into a coma and dying; he might need you for retakes. But if you're feeling okay an hour from now, you probably won't have to be hospitalized."
"And you're staying to keep an eye on me," I said. "How nice of you," I added, thinking I must have been wrong in thinking he'd scrubbed my breasts with sadistic relish.
"Bah!" said Tony. "I'm obeying orders is all." He combed his curly hair back with a graceful gesture. He sure was a handsome hunk of man, I reflected. He was still wearing just the tiny loincloth, and his body just gleamed-all muscles and knots of muscles.
I sat down seductively at his feet. "Do-do you like the way I look?" I asked, kind of coy-like.
He stared at me. "Frankly, no," he said. "Your hair's rather nice, though. I would love to have long hair like yours. It isn't practical, though.
"I guess you're what they call gay, huh?" I queried. Tony just shrugged. "Don't you like girls at all?" Tony yawned. "Do you ever wish you were a girl?
Tony looked carefully around, then leaned forward confidentially. "Often," he said. "What heaven to be able to wear high heels all the time; to dress in satin and lace; to have boys flock around me!"
"But," I said, "why is that? Tell me why you dislike real girls?"
"Because they are real girls, I suppose," said Tony, tossing his curly hair.
"Well," I said, "I don't want to tell you how to live your life and all, but it seems to me you're making a real mistake, being gay and all. Maybe you'd get to like making love to girls if you tried."
Tony gave me a scornful look. "You don't like girls-sexually, I mean-do you?"
"Oh, no," I said. "I like boys-men."
"Well," said Tony, "just imagine if you woke up tomorrow as a man-but with the same inclinations you have now. Would you go on chasing men, or would you switch to women?"
I thought about this. It would be tough to be built like one sex but feel like the other inside. I didn't say this, however. What I said was, "If I had to live my life as a man, I'd make a real effort to be a man. Just as you should."
"I'd rather die," said Tony scornfully. Then he got to his feet, picked up a pair of Indian clubs and began juggling them. For exercise, I guess. Most likely he had to exercise all the time to keep his muscles from getting saggy.
Pretty soon he was twirling the clubs high over his head and catching them real deftly-behind his back and stuff like that. Me, I sat on my heels and watched his muscles rippling, and I got to feeling pretty sexy. What a hunk of man he was! What fun it would be to make love with him, I mused. If only ... Then I had a clever idea.
I waited until he had both clubs up in the air, and then I screamed and pointed behind him. "Look!" I yelled.
He jerked his head around to look. Clunk, clunk. Both Indian clubs came down on his head. His eyes rolled wildly, and then he toppled over with a thud, out cold. I scrambled to my feet real quick, rolled him over, checked his skull to see if it was broken-it wasn't-and then I ran to get the ropes Mr. Lynx-had tied me with.
A couple minutes later Tony groaned and came to. "Ub glub!" he said when he found he had a gag in his mouth and his arms and legs were tied to posts so he was lying helpless on his back.
I stood over him and smiled. "I decided," I told him, "that you're going to make love to a girl--me-whether you want to or not. It'll be good for you, I think. And if it isn't, well, it'll be plenty of fun for me."
His eyes rolled in horror, and he began to tug at the ropes, but without getting anywhere. I'd tied him real tight. I stood over him, almost drooling. Maybe I should have felt sorry for him, but I didn't. What the heck! I'd been ravished, over and over-why shouldn't I get to ravish somebody myself?
I leaned down, grabbed his loincloth, ripped it off. He moaned and closed his eyes. I looked his naked body up and down carefully, licking my lips with anticipation. He was sure manly in the right places. Only he didn't look exactly eager, if you know what I mean. Well, I was willing to bet I could change that. And I set to work.
I began by kissing him. I couldn't kiss him on the lips, of course, on account of he had the gag in his mouth. But I kissed him just about every other place.
He writhed and twisted like he was being murdered or something! I just went on kissing him, light butterfly kisses and long, deep kisses, teasing kisses and passionate ones. I kissed his eyes, his ears, his cheekbones and his neck.
I kissed my way down his chest and back, and up his arms-which were stretched out back of his head. I kissed my way down again to his belly, then kissed both of his legs, tops and sides.
He was groaning by this time. With dismay, I guess. Then I straddled one leg and bent my head to let my hair sweep across his belly and upper thighs and so forth.
He stopped groaning then. I bent way forward and pressed my breasts against him, then lifted my body a bit and kind of rocked back and forth, so my breasts slapped against his flesh.
He began to get interested; I could tell. Not because of anything he said-he couldn't talk anyway, with the gag in his mouth-but by the way he, well, reacted.
I raised my head to leer at him, then bent and kissed him dead center. Only he didn't feel dead, believe me.
"Ungk gunk!" poor Tony moaned through his nose, which I interpreted to mean that he was getting excited but didn't want to get excited. I went on kissing him.
I used my lips and I used my tongue, and sometimes I used both. It wasn't long before I was rigid with excitement. And so was he. I went on kissing him, and tonguing him, and mouthing him.
I'd sure been right about figuring he was a muscle man, I reflected while I worked away at him. I'd never seen-let alone kissed-such a man as he was. I wondered how much he weighed.
About that time his whole body began to tremble and pulse, some parts more than others, and he began to breathe real fast through his nose.
I figured he was about as excited as a man can get. Well, almost. But I was sure that if I kissed him for even another few seconds, I'd find out just how excited he could get.
So I stopped. He moaned-through his nose. He wanted me to keep right on kissing him.
Well, the heck with that! I wanted some fun, too. And with that gag in his mouth he wouldn't be able to kiss me while I kissed him.
Just to bug him, the way he'd bugged me, I said: "I think maybe I'll go get some paint and glue and paint you good." And while I said it I was smiling right at the place I was thinking of painting. "Yes," I said, "and after I get you painted good, I'll scrub all the paint off you with a hard brush. A wire brush, maybe."
He made a kind of bleating sound. He didn't like the idea one bit, that was for sure.
For just a moment I felt real wicked and sadistic, and I thought maybe I should give him a real hard time, now that I had him trussed and helpless. But no. I might get a few sadistic kicks that way, but I prefer sexual kicks.
So I bent and kissed him a bit more, to revive his flagging spirits, and then I wriggled forward, still kneeling, and raised my body about ten inches in the air-and then lowered myself right on top of him.
He made a kind of happy squeal through his nose, and I felt a bit like squealing myself. Instead, I just shoved and wriggled and pushed until my buttocks, finally, were resting on his hip bones.
Talk about a man being big! I'd never dreamed what a really huge man could be like.
I began to try and bounce up and down. It was hard work, believe me. But fun. The best kind of fun. Also I began to jerk and sway my hips, and twist and roll. Did I ever feel stirred up! I felt just great!
It was sorta like being burned at the stake, a huge stake that glowed and tingled electrically. Every time I bounced or wriggled I felt sparks of deep sexual joy crackle.
I began to bounce and churn my hips faster and faster, and it was like a great, pulsing eel or a python was thrashing around! It was wild!
And sexy, and erotic, and passionate, and lusty, and crazy....
And then the throbbing began to get faster and faster, and I felt myself respond in anticipation, and then it was as if a volcano had exploded with sweet, searing lava, all bubbling and boiling and feeling great. And Tony grunted like he was being hit in the stomach again and again, and I screamed and bounced like crazy with jolt after jolt of joy-And it was over.
I rested a while, sweating and panting, then I kind of worked myself loose, like pulling a tight-fitting boot off a foot, and then I rested some more. Then I untied Tony.
He pulled the gag out of his mouth, panted a bit, and then he turned to me and said: "You vicious girl! You vicious girl!"
"What's the matter?" I gasped. "Didn't you have fun?"
"Of course," he gasped. "But it wasn't ... well, proper. You're a girl!"
So what can you do with a man like that? I stuck my tongue out at him. Then I put on my dress and went back to the Village, to Sam's studio.
Only, when I got there, what did I find but a sign on the door. This Is A Raided Premise, said the sign.
Well! I didn't know what to do.
And while I was standing outside Sam's studio which was also my home, if you counted his apartment in back, which I'd sure been counting on, the door opened and a whole slew of policemen came out.
Two of them were leading Sam, two were leading a girl in a dressing gown with big boobs, and the rest were shoving along a bunch of male photographers who were looking real sheepish and holding their hands over their faces and all.
"Sam!" I said. "What's happened?"
A policeman grabbed my arm. "Sam's been busted, that's what. For running an indecent exhibition-namely, making whoopee with his model while of bunch of guys took pictures."
I gasped. Would Sam do a thing like that-.even for big money? Yes, I decided. He would.
"You one of his models?" asked the cop, shifting his grip from my arm to my left breast.
"Oh, no" I said, thinking quickly. "I'm just a lady photographer come to take pictures of naked-I mean of life models."
"Shame on you, lady," said the cop, letting go of my breast. "Now beat it before we run you in."
Which I did, thankful that Sam had been enough of a gentleman not to implicate me. I took the subway right back to the Bronx and Mr. Lynx' studio.
I might have lost my apartment and my protector (Sam) and my cushy job posing nude for photographers, but I still had my career on the silver screen. Or so I thought.
Because when I got to Mr. Lynx' studio, whom should I encounter but another army of cops, leading out Mr. Lynx, his famous screenwriter Dagobert, and Tony Jeeves-who'd put his loincloth back on. Another cop-a lady cop-was nailing up a sign: This Is A Raided Premise.
"Mr. Lynx!" I cried. "What happened?"
"Slippery Louis's bein' busted, that's what," said a cop, making a grab for my right breast and getting a good hold. "You're one of his, heh-heh, actresses, huh?"
"I'm the star of his latest legitimate nudie movie," I said, standing as tall as I could considering the grip the cop had on my breast. "And Mr. Lynx is a legitimate nudie movie producer. You can't arrest him for making legitimate nudie movies, can you?"
"For his legitimate nudie movies we ain't arresting him, girlie," said the cop, shifting his grip on my breast slightly. "But for his stag movies, like What the Butler Did, and The Girl Who Couldn't Get Enough, we're booking him."
"But I made those movies weeks ago!" moaned Mr. Lynx. "You can't hold me responsible for indiscretions committed early in my career, can you?"
"Let go my bosom!" I said to the cop who was holding me-real tight, too. "I didn't act in any stag movies!"
"She did so," snarled Tony, wriggling close to the cops who were holding him. "And I should know. You wouldn't believe what she and a-a donkey did in front of a camera. She's an erotic beast!"
"Why you rotten pansy!" I screamed, understandably upset. "The only dumb beast I ever got sexy with was you, you creep!" I turned to the cop who had hold of my boob. "Let go, you sex maniac!"
"Tell it to the judge," snickered the cop.
Well!
I knew there was only one thing to do-the thing any decent girl would do in a situation like that. I wriggled and bent my head and bit the cop hard on his wrist.
He yelled and let go of my breast, and I turned and ran. And ran and ran! I expected a volley of shots to come after me, and sure enough, a few moments later I heard shots, and bullets began to whiz all around me. I guess it's true what they say about cops being trigger-happy.
I suppose I should have thrown myself to the ground, but I was too scared to think-or stop running-so I ran. All around me innocent bystanders-old men, old ladies and little kids-were falling to the ground. Whether they'd been shot down or were just dropping to escape the bullets I couldn't tell.
I got to the nearest subway entrance and went down five steps at a time, holding my skirt at my waist which got me plenty of whistles, believe me, seeing as how I had no underwear on.
But the punks whistling at me stopped leering quick enough when cops started pouring down the entrance pumping slugs at me.
I was lucky. I jumped into a train just as the doors were closing, and lay flat. A few bullets whizzed through the metal doors, but none of them hit me. And boy, that subway car sure emptied fast!
I got out at the next station and changed to an express. And at the first stop the express made, I got out and sprinted upstairs and took a cab. Back to the Village. It was the only home I knew.
Once in the Village I paid off the cab driver (who'd been making suggestions all the way downtown) and began to walk. Where should I go? Sam had been busted, and so had Mr. Lynx, along with his famous screen writer and Tony Jeeves.
Pretty soon I found myself on Sheridan Square, and I walked-kind of unsteadily-into the first bar I came to, which was also the first bar I'd visited in New York.
The same gay bartender was there. He smiled at me. "Making out okay?" he asked.
"Just fine," I said. "And I owe you five dollars. Also interest." I slid a ten-dollar bill across the bar, which he took. Then I slid two ones across. "Give me a shot of something very strong," I said. "I need it." And I really did.
I was sure in an awful jam. Losing Sam and his apartment and my job posing nude for photographers was bad enough, and losing my chance to become a big star of the silver screen with Mr. Lynx was even worse. But also I'd bitten a cop-even if only on the wrist. I'd read enough paperback books about life in New York to know what that meant. It meant my life wasn't worth a plugged nickel, that was what.
What would happen when the cops looked for my fingerprints in Mr. Lynx' studio? They'd find them. And then, sooner or later, they'd find me. And beat me up. Or kill me. Or both.
"Give me another shot," I told the bartender. He gave me another, and I drank it down.
"Got troubles?" said a friendly female voice. I turned around. A quietly dressed woman in her thirties was sitting on the bar stool beside me. She hadn't been there when I came in. She'd been sitting at the end of the bar talking to the bartender.
The bartender leaned forward. "What was your name again, sugar?"
"Sharon," I said without thinking.
"Sharon," said the bartender, "this is Mrs. Smith. You can trust Mrs. Smith."