Chapter 5
LUSTFUL LAWYER
John Pilsner cleared his throat, taking his eyes off her exposed thighs. She's such a young girl ... probably eighteen or nineteen. About all he really knew about her was that her name was Valerie and that she was in the steno pool. He sneaked a glance over his horned-rimmed glasses, just in time to catch her tugging downward on her mini-skirt. That always amazed him. First a girl wears an extremely short dress, and then she's forever tugging it downward to cover herself. Personally, he hoped the midi would truly return on the scene-especially about the office. Maybe then the junior attorneys and the law clerks would pay more attention to their work.
"Valerie, read that last paragraph back to me-no, that's all right, don't bother."
"Will that be all, Mr. Pilsner?" She nervously uncrossed her legs. "Did I do something wrong, sir?"
"No-no..." His smile was strained "My thoughts seem to be straying. Make that for my signature, and type it up in three copies. I know it's late and you probably want to get home, but this is extremely important."
"Yes sir." He watched the young girl seemingly bounce out of his office, amazed at such a blatant sexual display in so short a skirt that seemed to have its own way of highlighting her buttocks. He drummed a pencil on his desk, happy to know that his regular secretary Martha would be over her virus and back to work in a day or two. He was lost without Martha to keep order for him.
The middle-aged woman had been there a year before he had arrived as a junior partner. Martha's hemlines had never gone up or down with the times, always remaining at what John Pilsner considered "a decent level" slightly below the knees.
"Damn that girl..." he now muttered to himself, trying desperately to recall what he had dictated in that letter to Clarence Traymore. Basically, it was all there, he thought, even if he had been distracted. There should be enough there to put Clarence on his guard-an unknown group was trying desperately to buy up Traymore stock. John recalled their last phone conversation, and realized that he would be on the phone again with Clarence in a matter of days. But John was a lawyer of the old school and he believed in "put it in writing." Then it became official.
John Pilsner pushed his padded chair back, got up and started pacing about the room, wondering how long that new girl would take to type out such a simple three paragraph letter. He checked his wristwatch, he didn't want to be late for his date.
His date ... that was a totally new phrase for him, and it frightened him somewhat. He brought a hand up to his receding hairline, pulling in on his stomach. It surprised him that he was suddenly contemplating buying a hairpiece and going on a diet to trim down his weight. But then-what would his wife think? Lisa ... had he remembered to call her and tell her that he wouldn't be able to get home until very late? Yes, he had. He stopped short, realizing that she had accepted this without even waiting to hear his fabrication. But then, most of the time he was out with various attorneys and clients until all hours of the night.
"But not tonight ... " he inwardly murmured, thinking about his young date.
"Date...." He tried the word on for size, and it made him smile. Yes, he was actually going on a date-just as soon as that idiotic young girl from the steno pool-what's her name, Valerie, would have that important letter ready for his signature.
His date. He hurried over to the phone and grabbed at the receiver. First he had to look the number up in his little book. He dialed, repeating each number to himself as he did. He listened to the first ring, then the second, and then the third. "Damned..." he muttered to himself, realizing he was acting like a schoolboy.
He heard the voice on the other end and instantly lit up. "Hi!" he beamed, trying desperately to not sound like a stuffy, middle-aged corporation lawyer. "Did you just get there?" He smiled, seemingly pleased with the reply. "I'm still in my office, but I should be able to get away in ten or fifteen minutes. In the meantime," he started, breathing heavily. "Why don't you get into something that will really please me?
You were telling me about that powder blue negligee..." He suddenly found his free hand down on his crotch, rubbing and brushing the rising bulge. "Wear something frilly and beautiful. I've been thinking about you that way."
John listened intently, his hand working more furiously at his crotch as he did. "I'll get there as soon as I can-just be ready for me," he moaned, then hung up the receiver.
John Pilsner drew his hand away from his crotch, suspiciously looking toward his closed door, wondering if that girl had been listening in. If she had, he told himself, she would have been in for quite a shock. In this, the most respectable law firm in town, John Pilsner was considered a pillar of respectability, and certainly wouldn't be telling his date to be ready for him in a sheer negligee.
"His date...." He tried it on for size, over and over again. "His date..." This would certainly be a "first" for John Pilsner. Oh, there had been those encounters-but never anything planned. This was different, this was totally planned-a premeditated affair.
Lisa ... his wife would never understand. How could he possibly expect her to understand? He would just have to go on being a decently good husband to her. John Pilsner had always prided himself on being a "decently good husband." And how about his son? No ... a seventeen year old boy couldn't possibly understand his need for tonight's date-a date that could lead to much more. Much more than he could possibly cope with, he was intelligent enough to realize. But there was no turning back for him; in so many different ways, this date had been in the making for a few years now, possibly even before he married Lisa.
John perched himself on the edge of his desk, wondering if it didn't go back even further than that. He shrugged, asking himself how he had managed to keep so much of himself submerged for so long, masking it all in his "Live right, good, straight and narrow" concept of life.
"All the way back ... " he inwardly murmured, recalling a very specific day in his life. Was he eleven years old-or twelve? What he could remember most clearly was that he had been sent home from school with another one of his bouts of nose bleeding. "Mommy's boy Johnny has another nosebleed!" the other boys would taunt him.
That exceptionally muggy spring afternoon ... he had quietly entered the house through the kitchen entrance, since he knew his mother often suffered from "her migraines," and she might be up in her room taking a nap. Maybe, just maybe ... if he was real quiet ... he could tiptoe up there and get on the bed with her. He enjoyed it whenever she cuddled him warmly, bringing him up close to the warmth of her bosom. There was always that special fragrance, whenever he managed to work his mouth up into the crevice of those huge mounds.
He especially liked the way she would plant kiss after kiss on his face, some of them falling directly on his lips. She would understand about his nosebleeds. She would call him her darling little boy; but never a sissy, as the other kids did.
Up the stairway, down the hallway, he heard his mother first laugh and then giggle, and then a strange unidentifiable sound. Moving steadily toward the bedroom, he stopped short, hearing the sounds of a man. Not his father, he knew his father didn't make such sounds ... this was a different man ... a stranger ... but not a stranger to his mother.
The boy had edged slowly toward the opened bedroom door, cringing along the wall. His young mind told him that maybe he would have to defend his Mommy from "some sort of a beast of a wild man." He would be very quiet, and discover what he would have to do to rescue his Mommy. He peered through the crack in the door, wondering at first why the man was so naked. And his Mommy, she was wearing one of those silky things, a negligee. Wide-eyed, he wondered what she was doing kneeling between his spread-out legs, that tremendously big thing in her mouth.
Her mouth ... it was going up and down on that big hard thing, making strange slobbering sounds. He watched her, the way her hands were about that man's midsection, seemingly pumping him upward every time her mouth thrust downward.
Those sounds ... coming from him ... coming from her. And then he heard the man, loud and clear:
"Oh, you wild cocksucker!"
On wobbly legs, he found his way back downstairs and out of the house. Somewhere along the way, before his favorite spot in the playground, he stopped long enough to vomit on the curb. He let it all out until he shuddered convulsively.
"Why is my darling little boy home so late from school?" was all she asked, hugging and kissing him. "Dinner is almost ready and I made you a very special dessert. Now go wash your hands like a good boy."
John Pilsner bounced off the edge of his desk, impatiently checking his wristwatch, wondering how long that idiotic girl out there would take to type such a simple letter. And then she'd probably have a number of errors, he told himself.
Thank heaven, Martha would be back and handle all the bothersome details. For a moment he entertained the thought of letting the letter go until the morning. No, it was much too important, he wanted to be on record as soon as possible in the matter.
He'd wait to put his signature on it and place it in the mail chute himself. After all, his date was waiting for him.
"His date...." He still could not fully comprehend the meaning of it. It wouldn't be a cheap affair, he'd make certain of that. He had to go through with it, he was certain of that. Or ... possibly face a repetition of what had happened a while back ... that horrible episode ... while parked on a dirt road.
His high-beam lights had instantly picked up the tall form of the hitch-hiker. "Probably a local boy," he had told himself, breaking to a stop to pick him up.
"I'm only going as far as the country club," he smiled at the boy, instantly noticing that he wasn't much older than his son, Timmy. "Will that help?"
"It sure will!" the boy beamed, slumping back in his seat and widely angling his lean legs. "I'm tired of walking."
"Well, you've got long enough legs for it," John replied, his eyes going to the bulge at the crotch of the boy's skin-tight dungarees.
"Yeah, I'm big for my age," the boy replied, seemingly winking over at John.
The boy's flippancy irritated John. What right had he to assume that John was interested in him sexually? After all, that was clearly his intimation. Or, was it? John began to doubt himself. Maybe the boy hadn't really meant that at all. "Maybe," John thought, "I'm really just an old faggot."
Every time John's frustrations gave way to such doubts, images of his son, Timmy, came to mind-Timmy playing ball, Timmy winning his first swimming meet. These visions of his son were not sexually arousing. They were a way he had of making himself feel guilty.
"You live in town?" John asked, yanking his eyes away from the boy's crotch area, and fixing his gaze straight ahead on the seemingly traffic-less road.
"Just sort of temporary," the boy replied, purposely evasive. "I might be heading for New York pretty soon-if I can scrape up enough money."
"Do you have a job?" John asked, annoyed with himself that his eyes kept continually returning to the boy's long legs and that bulging area at his crotch. Why? Why, he asked himself over and over again. He was a normal person, a married man with a teenaged son. So why was he getting so excited sneaking glances over in the semi-darkness of the front seat at this boy's crotch.
And why did this boy have to wear those dungarees so damned tight-it was disgusting. No, it wasn't ... or he wouldn't be continually glancing over at the beautiful sight.
"Not anything of a real steady job," the boy replied, suddenly bringing his hand down to his crotch, seemingly to readjust the bulge. "I just sort of make out the best I can," he smiled, stretching his legs further apart.
"And how do you do that?" John asked, now flustered by the lanky leg ever so close to his.
"You're putting me on, man!" the boy laughed, now rubbing his bulging crotch. "Let's just say I'm very cooperative when certain guys want their kicks. You know what I mean?"
John Pilsner fixed his sights on the road before him, after all those years, the image of his mother kneeling between that hairy man's legs, her mouth slobbering up and down on that enormous phallus. Those words from that grunting and groaning animal of a man: "Oh, you wild cocksucker!"
John Pilsner's hands froze to the wheel. "We're almost to the country club," he nervously started. "Do you want me to drop you off anywhere special around here?"
"Wow, I've got a real hard-on!" the boy blurted, rubbing the bulge furiously. "How about you?"
"Me?"
"Yeah ... " the boy snickered, brazenly unzipping his fly. "You wanna feel how hard my cock is?"
"I-I
"Give it a feel," the boy cut in, tugging the throbbing cock out of his skintight dungarees. "It won't bite you."
"I don't know..." John had trembled, his hand reaching over to grasp the lava-hot throbbing prick. "I don't know..." he dumbly repeated, suddenly stroking it back and forth, his mind flashing a neon, that man's description of his mother: "Oh, you wild cocksucker!"
"Hey, mister! Watch the road!" the boy cried out, as John was swerving over into the other lane. "You wanna get us killed?"
John drew his hand back quickly, steering the automobile quickly back to his own lane moments before an oncoming car approached them.
"Wow, that was close," the boy whistled. "Hey, you can cut off on that dirt road up ahead if you want to do me! I get twenty bucks-and I promise I won't rush you."
"Yes ... " John Pilsner found himself uttering over and over again as he turned like a robot down the dusty dirt road. "Yes ... yes ... yes...
"Mr. Pilsner? The letter's ready for your signature."
"Oh-" Startled, he made the trip back to the present, eyes fixed on the young girl exposing so much of her legs. He watched her glide toward him, letter in hand. Now what was her name? Why couldn't he remember it ... oh, yes, Valerie.
"Thank you, Valerie," he managed a smile, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, ready to inspect her work.
"Is it all right?" she asked nervously.
"Why it's perfect, Valerie," he smiled, quite surprised to find her work so professional.
"Is the envelope ready?"
"Yes sir. If that will be all, I'll be happy to mail it for you on my way home. I take the bus right by the main post office."
"Well, thank you," he beamed, looking up from placing his signature on the official statement. "I'd appreciate that. And thank you for staying late. Don't forget to put a voucher in for your overtime."
He watched the girl nervously nod her goodbye and retreat out of his office. "Poor girl ... " he inwardly murmured, "maybe she thought I was going to make a pass...."
Damned women ... he reflected. If you do make a pass-they scream bloody rape. If you don't-they're hurt, and think something is drastically wrong with you.
Well, whether or not he had disappointed the girl, he didn't really give a damn. But he was deeply concerned that something might really be drastically wrong with him. But why now? After all these years? A psychiatrist-maybe he should seek professional help?
Tonight's date ... this could be the answer to straighten out a number of things that seemed to be troubling him lately. This wouldn't be a cheap, vulgar affair. The trysting spot was all set up, a plush suite of rooms at the Spangler Arms Hotel, his date was waiting for him there.
He grabbed his hat and headed for the door. He stopped short, the image of that young boy sitting on the front seat of his car coming clearly into focus. The movie was running again, seemingly in double-time. Those tight dungarees were down at his ankles in no time, and then his jockey shorts, tugged downward so quickly, so expertly. The boy's first words: "Take it, balls and all, mister!"
Strange ... he didn't even know the boy's name ... not that it really mattered. What mattered was that somewhere in this world a living, breathing human being was totally in on a dark, perverted little corner of his life.
Once again, John Pilsner asked himself the question he had asked himself so many times since that sordid affair on the front seat of his car on a dirt road.
What made him do it?
No ... not the physical act of bringing his mouth down over that throbbing projection of young muscle and flesh. Somewhere, somehow, he could possibly find a logical answer for that. And his life could still go on a fairly normal routine.
What made him do it? What obsessed him? Why had he suddenly started begging the boy: "Call me a wild cocksucker! Please, I want to hear it! Over and over again, while I do it! Oh, please, a wild cocksucker. Say it over and over and I'll give you an extra ten dollars!"
"Shit, yeah-for a ten-spot! Eat it-you wild cocksucker!"
John forced the rerun in his mind to grind through a halt. His date ... clean and fine ... no need for vulgar screechings. He hurried out of his office, racing to meet the date he had met in that bar the other night. In a matter of minutes, Junior Traymore would welcome him with open, loving arms.