Chapter 3
He was not a bad guy at all, the Faculty Advisor who had to kick him out of school.
"She was pretty graphic, that Mrs. Halsted," the Faculty Advisor said.
"Must be her imagination," Paul said. At that point he had some vague notion that he might bluff his way through the whole thing.
"Hell of an imagination, for a New England lady."
"It's that Puritan background," Paul said. "It twists their minds. Witch burning and stocks and bundling and all that jazz."
He saw that the Faculty Advisor was laughing, and stopped.
"Well, shit," he said. He laughed too.
"You know, there was an undercurrent of venom in everything she said. Almost jealousy, or envy of the girls. I think she felt left out. Everything would probably be all right if you'd just invited her to join the festivities."
"Don't talk like that," Paul said. "I have a delicate stomach."
The Faculty Advisor laughed again. Maybe he enjoys kicking guys out of school, Paul thought. Or maybe I'm just an enjoyable guy to kick out.
"You know, we might have been able to squash this whole thing if you'd been with just one girl in that room. And had been indulging in what they call a conventional act."
"Nothing wrong with a little cunnilingus between friends. Or among friends."
"Well, there's that," the Faculty Advisor said. "What with the Puritan mind and witch burning and all that jazz. But two girls, at once."
"Well, hell," Paul said, "how else would you take care of two girls at the same time?" He uncrossed his legs and started searching his pockets for cigarettes. He was a little embarrassed, for the first time. When he finally got a cigarette into his mouth, the Faculty Advisor leaned across the desk and lit it for him.
"My boy," he said, "I admire you. But don't tell anybody I said that."
"I won't," Paul said. Nice guy, he thought. He must be a bitch on a double date.
"It could probably be squashed anyway," the Faculty Advisor said. "Except that the two schools have always enjoyed a very close relationship."
"I was enjoying a very close relationship."
The Faculty Advisor laughed again. He was a laugher, this one.
"I meant the board of directors and that sort of thing," he said. "And the faculties."
"Don't you suppose the faculties go in for this sort of thing, as part of that close relationship between the schools? In an intramural way, I mean."
"Maybe. But they don't live in sorority houses."
"You have a point," Paul said.
"Anyway, as you've gathered, it's been decided that you've got to leave this school, and the sooner you get out, the more comfortable it'll be, for everyone."
"I can leave today," Paul said. "I'm practically packed."
"What about transportation? Can I have this office arrange for plane reservations, or train reservations?"
"Thanks," Paul said. "But I have a car. What about my tuition?"
I'll do what I can. You should get at least a partial refund."
"You have my mailing address," Paul said, "in your records." He stood up.
The Faculty Advisor stood too, and came around the desk to shake hands.
"When you make application to other colleges," he said, "use my name as a reference here. I won't be as graphic as Mrs. Halsted."
"I don't think I'm going to any other college," Paul said.
For the first time, the Faculty Advisor looked shocked.
"Why not? You're much too bright to be a dropout at this stage."
"I'm much too bright not to be," Paul said, and left the office, closing the door behind him.
He was packed in an hour. His textbooks he left for his roommate to dispose of, his papers he threw into the wastebasket, and aside from his tennis racket and his jock strap, there was little personal stuff, aside from his clothes, left to pack.
He was totally devoid of feeling as he closed the trunk lid of the Packard. All he could think was, what a waste of space. I could move a family of six in this thing.
On impulse, he took a Stamford exit off the Merritt Parkway, and found a pleasant, afternoon-deserted bar, got himself a bottle of beer, and put a collect call in to his mother in Beverly Hills. He didn't expect to reach her, although she'd be up by now, it was almost noontime in California. But he felt like talking to somebody, and he and his mother had been on speaking terms ever since she'd gotten him the Packard.
Oddly enough, she was home. She answered the phone herself.
"Paul!" she said. "For God's sake! Don't tell me. You're going to be a father."
"You're a sentimental old fool," he said. His mother was thirty-six. "Nothing like that. I got kicked out of school."
On the other end, his mother was quiet for a long moment
"I'm sorry, Paul," she said.
"I'm not."
"What for?"
"What for what? Not sorry?"
"What did you get kicked out of school for?"
"I got caught in a room in a sorority house."
"That's a very small infraction to get kicked out of school for," his mother said. "What happened to the girl?"
"I guess they got kicked out too."
"They?"
"It was a sort of compound infraction."
"Oh," his mother said. "Paul, I don't know what I'm going to do with you."
"You're not going to do anything with me," he said. "You never did."
"Do you need money?"
"Not yet."
"What college will you try for? You ought to be able to make the Spring semester."
"No college. I think I'll get a job."
"Paul, you're making a mistake."
"No, I'm not I'm fed up with school and I'd like to do something."
"I'm going to get on the plane tonight, with Bill. I think Bill ought to talk to you."
Bill was the man she'd married before she'd left for California.
"What the hell do I want to talk to Bill for? He'd just tell me to do whatever I wanted to do."
His mother was silent for another long moment.
"I suppose he would," she said. "All right, what land of job do you want to get?"
"Some kind of a job in advertising."
"Oh, no."
"Oh, yes."
"Why that miserable business?"
"I understand they make a lot of money."
"Don't be mercenary," his mother said. "Money isn't everything."
"Only people who have money say that," Paul said. "I bet when you were my age you were mercenary as ... well, I hate to think about it"
"Don't" his mother said.
"Anyway, I want to get some kind of job in advertising and I thought you might know somebody for me to call."
He could hear his mother thinking "Call Sam Wycliffe," she said. "He's at Norman, Wade and Gelder. At least he was, six months ago."
"What's his number?"
For the first time since he'd picked up the phone, he heard his mother getting mad. She sounded so natural, at last that it made him feel all warm inside.
"You talk like a boy with a paper asshole," she said, "They're in the phone book You'll go a long way in that business if you can't even look up a phone number."
"Sure I will," Paul said, happy that she'd blown up at last.
"Call us if you need anything."
"Us," she'd said, Paul noticed. That meant that she and Bill were still getting along together, after two whole years. Remarkable, "And, Paul?"
"What?"
"Cut out that two-girls-at-a-time stuff. You're a growing boy. You've got to save your strength."
"For what?"
"For later. Listen, itll stunt your growth."
"All right," Paul said. I'll be a monk. I'll bake bread."
"Make brandy," his mother said, and hung up. Good old Mom, he thought, as he left the telephone booth. American as apple pie.
Back on the Merritt Parkway, Paul's mind kept wandering back to thoughts of his mother, as it often did. She had been a big influence in his life, and not in the stereotyped way, not in the apple-pie, chicken-broth, wear-your-rubbers way. Not by a long shot. If she told Paul to wear his rubbers, when he was younger, she meant Trojans or Sheiks, to be pulled over his precocious young prick, before the Pill became popular in his set. His mother never worried about his catching a cold.
She had always talked to Paul as if he were an adult, and a swinging adult, at that, even when he was preschool age, especially about sexual matters. Dianne Beck had divorced his father shortly after Paul was born, but Paul had never needed a father to tell him about the birds and the bees. Naturally bright, and wiser than his years, he had always found himself gravitating to the company of boys and girls older than himself, and had always felt himself accepted as an equal; at least, as an equal. But miraculously, with his mother's instinctive swinging guidance, he had never fallen into the category of smartass.
Now, ruminating and occasionally grinning to himself as he drove, Paul remembered the time he had first actually seen his mother in action. He remembered the scene as vividly as if it were being projected in glorious wide-screen Technicolor on the Packard's windshield, right before his eyes.
Paul had been fourteen at the time, and had brought home a seventeen-year-old friend of his named Marty Brinegar for dinner. Dianne Beck had been a model all her life, since her late teens, but she had never been exposed to a live consumer's gaze like Marty's. All through dinner, Paul watched in amusement as his friend's eyes ate his mother up. Marty ate his food without tasting, and only to be polite. Paul and his mother did all the talking. Marty was a total conversational loss, but Paul was sympathetic, even at that age. How can the poor guy talk, he thought, with his cock clogging his throat?
After dinner was over the three of them went out to the living room and just sat around. Paul decided it was up to him to break the ice. He knew his mother would be ready for a drink: she'd had three Martinis before dinner.
"Can I shake up a Stinger for you, Dianne?" he asked. He'd been calling his mother "Dianne" since he was four.
"Sure," she said, smiling at him. She melted grown men with that smile. Marty started to shake, visibly. "And maybe Marty would like a beer?" She looked at him, questioningly. Marty only nodded, numbly.
Paul wasn't allowed to drink, yet, not even beer, but he knew how to make drinks. He got out ice in the kitchen, made a Stinger plus a dividend in the shaker, opened a beer, and carried the whole works back to the living room on a tray.
Marty took a grateful gulp of beer, while Dianne sipped at her Stinger.
"Good," she said, glancing at Paul. "God, it's hot. I think I'll get into something cooler, if you gentlemen will excuse me."
She got up and left the room, with a flash of gorgeous tanned legs under her short summer dress. Marty stared after her, his Adam's apple sliding up and down.
"Don't take it so hard," Paul said. "You get used to her."
"Not me," Marty said. "I never would."
Paul heard his mother coming back down the stairs before he'd found anything much else to say to his friend. When Dianne came back into the room Paul saw she was wearing a short filmy white thing and highheeled red slippers and not much else. Hell of a costume, he thought, considering the shape Marty was in already. The nipples of Dianne's still high, firm breasts showed pinkly through the sheer material, the long curves of her body were clearly out-lined, especially the enticing round ass that men had rhapsodized over. "Succulent," her mother had told Paul they called it. And "celestial." And when she sat down on the couch, the filmy hem fell around the slender swell of her hips. When she crossed her spectacularly sculpted legs, anyone could see why she was in such constant demand as a leg model.
Marty tried to look away, but couldn't. Paul felt sorry for his friend.
"It is awful hot" Paul said. "Sure is," Marty croaked.
"Why don't you go upstairs and take a shower, Marty?" Dianne asked. "It might help."
The coldest shower in the world wouldn't help Marty, Paul thought, the shape he was in.
"Maybe I will," Marty said, putting down his beer, but he didn't stand up. Paul knew why. His hard-on would show.
"And Paul," Dianne said, turning to him. "Why don't you go out and get us some ice cream?"
"Ice cream? With you drinking Stingers and Marty drinking beer?"
"Why not? You like ice cream, don't you?"
"My bicycle's on the blink," Paul said. "I thought I told you." He had, too. He knew he had.
"Well, you can walk."
"In this heat?" Paul asked. "It'll be half an hour before I get back. At least."
"No hurry," Dianne said. "Walk slowly."
While they were talking, Marty got up and moved toward the stairway and the cold shower. Paul looked at his mother. A vague awareness of something was growing in him.
"Chocolate or vanilla?" he asked, feeling in his pocket for money and moving toward the front door.
"A pint of each," Dianne said. Even Paul was conscious of what an overpoweringly stimulating sight she was, all legs and breasts and smile, as he closed the door behind him.
He walked silently around the house, keeping to the grass, climbed up on the railing of the sun porch, then swung himself up onto the low roof.
At the gutter at the far end of the sun porch roof he squatted, staring in the darkness toward the windows of Dianne's bedroom, only a few feet away.
He didn't have long to wait. After only a couple of minutes the ceding light flooded on, and his mother walked to the center of the room, moving slowly, smiling, and turned on the bed lamp. She paused a moment, then turned on the floor lamp and turned it so its light focused on the edge of the wide double bed. Then she went back and turned off the ceiling light.
Paul had a clear view of her as she came back to the bed, sat down, then raised herself and took off her frilly panties and tossed them aside. Paul had only a glimpse of her pussy, but saw that the fur was of the same dully-gleaming, luxuriant jet blackness as her hair.
From where he crouched, at the edge of the sunporch roof, Paul heard the sound of a door opening, and then Marty came slowly, hesitantly into his range of vision. Dianne must have called to him in the shower. Marty was wearing only a bathtowel, and appeared scared to death, but the bathtowel was poking 'way out in front. Paul turned his attention back to his mother.
She was lying back against the pillows at the head of the bed, smiling gently, her legs apart, one foot still on the floor. Slowly, she raised the knee that lay on the bed, and lazily let her leg sway outward, giving Marty a full open view of her pink-lipped cunt, looking moistly, vibrantly alive in the soft frame of black, rich, silky-looking pussy fur.
Paul had a clear view of Marty, in profile, licking his lips.
"Go ahead," he could hear Dianne saying clearly, smiling at his friend. "Do anything you want I'll like it"
Paul saw Marty lick his lips again. Paul's hand went to his own throbbing cock. He couldn't help himself. Dianne had moved to the edge of the bed and lay back with her legs apart and her knees raised, her feet in the air. Her cunt was an open moist pink slash in all that black fur.
"Go ahead," Paul could hear her saying. "Kiss it" Paul opened his fly and squeezed his cock as he watched Marty drop to his knees, his head between Dianne's open thighs. Paul could only see the back of Marty's head now as it moved forward, blocking his vision of that open tempting twat
"Lick it," Dianne was saying softly, seductively. "Put your tongue in there. Lick up and down. Then suck my whole cunt. Lap my cunt Eat my cunt Gobble my cunt"
Pulling at his freed pick, Paul watched Marty begin to lick, and suck, and gobble. He could hear his friend groaning in excitement
"Ah, there," Dianne was cooing. "That's it. That's a good boy. Now, get into me. Fuck me now, Marty. Please, quick, fuck me now."
Stilling his hand, Paul watched as Dianne got back onto the middle of the bed with her legs spread and Marty, naked now, knelt between her thighs. He saw his mother take Marty's straining cock between her thumb and forefinger and guide it to the wet, welcoming lips of her cunt Paul's hand began to move again on his cock as he watched Dianne move the head of Marty's rigid prick up and down in the bright pink entrance of her visibly moist twat, lubricating it.
Then Paul saw his friend's flanks convulse as he thrust his cock home. Dianne's legs snaked around Marty's back, holding him.
"Slowly, now, Marty," she said. "Fuck me slow, slow, slow."
But there was nothing to slow Paul's hand on his own hard, tingling shaft. His sperm spurted out into the soft summer night, over the edge of the porch roof.
Paul almost fell off it.