Chapter 7

Some months passed before I heard from Joan Carter again. She did not bother to tell me about her affair with Kent but asked, instead, if I had a supply of models for her. She had some pictures in mind to paint and could not seem to find the right women subjects.

I said I didn't know what she had in mind, of course, and would she like to meet me for a drink. We would discuss it over a martini and maybe I could help her.

As I dressed for my appointment with Joan, I had an intuitive feeling that she didn't really want models at all. They could be found through more conventional channels, I knew. So what did she, in fact, want of me? I was interested to hear.

I pulled up in front of the canopy of her house. She came down promptly, looking quite sun-tanned, as though she had been away for the winter. Even though I had known her but briefly, I could see changes. Not the ravages of time but something which looked like a turning back of time. I sensed that she had found a deeper recess of herself that she wanted to explore and in some way she expected that I would be able to help her materialize her desires.

"Well, what have you been doing with yourself?" I said as we drove off into the traffic.

"Oh, this and that," she began. "I spent the winter in Greece."

"Yes, I see the sun was good for you."

"The sun and a few other things," she smiled with gentle introspection.

"Such as?"

"My work."

Her voice trailed off and I knew that there was lots more to hear, lots more that she would tell me eventually this day.

Joan was not a woman to immediately reveal her thoughts or feelings and I was content to wait until she settled herself and felt inclined to speak at greater length.

We went up to a cocktail lounge on the top floor of one of the taller buildings on Fifth Avenue and settled ourselves at a table near a wall-length window. I ordered martinis and we both finished two of them before she loosened up enough to talk.

"I liked Greece very much," she said. "I always do."

I nibbled a Spanish peanut and waited in silence.

"But the Greek women. You know how they are. Very fiery."

"You ought to enjoy that," I smiled.

"Up to a point only, Joe." Her voice sounded quiet with an edge of tiredness, as though something had drained her.

"Would you like me to supply you with Greek women, Is that it?" I asked with the utmost gentleness. "I know a few. Very beautiful ones, too."

"No. That would be too easy. And not very interesting, I'm afraid. What I'd like, Joe, is for you to come back with me to Greece. I want you to meet somebody and help me."

That was a tall order and I felt astounded that

Joan let it fall from her lips so readily after all her show of reluctance.

"I don't think I can leave the States just now," I said, truthfully.

"Just for a couple of weeks, Joe. I'll pay you well, you know."

I knew. But it wasn't the money just then. It was the fact that I didn't want to become entangled with problems about which I knew nothing and I really didn't know Joan sufficiently well to form a judgment as to whether or not I would be able to help her.

I told her this.

She sipped her third martini and sighed. "You're being evasive, Joe. What is there to know about me?"

"You're a complex woman, Joan. Don't sell yourself short. You like men. You've been with a person like Kent. Not any woman could go for that kind of relationship. You like women and yet you are somehow separate from everybody, I sense."

"Perhaps I like myself best of all," she offered.

"Well, that's a good idea. Quite sensible. The Hebrews had a saying, you know. 'If I am not for myself, who will be?' "

"Oh, Joe, you're so erudite," she mocked. "I didn't say I was for myself, only that I must be myself."

"That's what makes you interesting. You are very much yourself. And I must say, just sitting here and looking at you is convincing me to go along to Greece."

"Then you will, Joe."

My vein of reluctance was fading. I was so curious to understand what made Joan tick. The temptation to be with her for a week or two were overriding my usual business-like approach.

When my interest is aroused, I am at my best. It brings me alive to be curious about human nature and there was no one around at that time more interesting to me than Joan Carter.

I made up my mind with a flick of snap judgment and agreed to accompany her to Athens on the following Monday.

Because it had been easy for her to sway me, did not mean that I was going to leave in the United States all my abilities to observe and judge. I suppose I needed a change from home, too, and had leaped at Joan's offer from a point of predisposition rather than that she had swayed me.

Whatever the motive, I found myself sitting on the plane beside her, reading a copy of 'Holiday' magazine and visualizing the sunny climes of a country I had always loved. I dozed and dreamed of Sappho and the plump Greek goddesses of myth. I imagined myself strolling about among the ruins and finding beautiful curly-headed urchins to play with. I conjured up visions of strolling about the port of Piraeus, eating an orange and a sweet Greek honey pastry. I felt relaxed in my sleep, somewhat like a hobo strolling through life with neither concern nor responsibilities to burden him.

It was noon when the plane landed. There was a car waiting for us, a red Buick convertible, of all things. We went into the center of town and to a hotel not very far removed from the busy plaza.

Joan had taken a suite with a large terrace that overlooked the hills bright with gleaming white houses close together upon them. The cloudless sky, a fascinating vibrant blue, relaxed me with a special kind of exhilaration.

As I stood looking out upon the scene, Joan, behind me, said, "I hope you like it here."

"I know I will," I answered.

We were sharing the suite, naturally, an arrangement which I didn't mind at all. I liked her company and she was not the type to pressure. It was easy to relax with her around, never forced into conversation.

"I suppose you'd like to rest a while," she said, "and take a shower. Come downstairs when you're all in order, Joe. I'll be in the lounge."

I did exactly that, took a shower and a nap, stretching out on the cool, firm mattress and really glad to be on what would amount, in my case, to a vacation.

Afterward I dressed in a cream-colored suit with a beige tie that I held in place with a small emerald stickpin, a present from some pleased customer a few years before. A successful merchant of flesh was exactly how I felt and I left the room with an easy, expectant attitude.

Joan, true to her word, was waiting for me in the lounge, a high-ceilinged room with comfortable chairs scattered about on a mosaic floor. The air-conditioning was just exactly right and congenial people conversed, some in a lackadaisical fashion, some more heatedly. I heard many languages, with a great deal of German sprinkled among them. One had a sense of well-being, of material success here in this room and it did not seem at all to represent what I had expected Joan to enjoy. Her tastes, as I remembered them, had been a great deal more pure, not so readily to understand as this hotel implied. Or perhaps, I told myself, this place was not her choice alone. She had perchance come here because of someone or something. I would have to wait and find that out later.

She was dressed in a white linen sheath that looked-quite fresh and emphasized the long line of her athletic shape. Her even tan looked darker against the white and her short hair seemed more continental than strange. There was no doubt that she had all the looks necessary to make a social success of herself, if she desired that. But I knew instinctively that she was out of her milieu in some way.

I crossed the room to where she was sitting with her drink. She immediately stood up and by that action prevented me from ordering a cocktail for myself.

"Well go out," she said. "I'll take you somewhere much more interesting than this, I promise."

"Gladly," I answered, meaning it.

"No, this place isn't my cup of tea, either," she laughed, sensing my thought. "Let's go."

I followed her out of the hotel and we strolled the wide, busy avenue in the late afternoon. The sun was still hot but we walked in the shade where it was quite pleasant. I couldn't help remarking to myself how much resemblance there was between this thoroughfare and some aspects of Fifth Avenue.

There were differences, too, important ones. The profusion of greenery, vistas and, most of all, of course, the people.

Joan hailed a taxi and soon we were riding out of the wide center of town, up into the hills where the streets narrowed and the cab had to go quite slowly in order to avoid hitting chickens that ran loose over the cobbled streets.

I looked out upon shuttered windows and wondered to what dark place Joan was taking us.

We finally arrived at a street where the cab stopped. I got out and could look across to ancient ruins on a hilltop, pillars of the Acropolis mutely speaking of a more splendid time.

But none of this seemed to touch Joan at all. Her mind was elsewhere. She paid the driver and motioned me to follow her into one of the alley-like streets, which I did with growing curiosity.

The small houses, built close together, reflected the strong sun and, as we walked, occasional aromas of cooking touched my nostrils. I followed her long, eager stride. She seemed to be running toward a secret treasure hidden half-way down the hill.

She finally paused in front of a low door, knocked and pushed it open without waiting. I noticed the informality of her manner. She was going toward something known, obviously, perhaps a love affair in progress, one that had burned high during the winter months.

He entered a fair sized room, quite dark, the sun successfully blotted out by the closed shutters. The odor of cooking was strong here and the room was sparsely furnished, almost primitive. I glanced toward Joan and saw her face alive with tension and expectancy. She seemed transformed from her usual withdrawn attitude into something both strong and anxious. "Natasha."

She called the name as though tasting it. The syllables moved around in her mouth with full, delicious appreciation by tongue and lips.

But there was no answer. Apparently no one was at home.

"She wasn't expecting you?" I asked.

Joan neither nodded nor shook her head. "I can never tell with her. It's always a question of accident whether I'll find her in or out."

It seemed to me that we might have to wait a while. I didn't know if Joan wanted to do that or leave and return later.

She settled this question by scraping forward a wooden chair and motioning me to be seated. There was something almost pathetic in her courtesy.

I shook my head no, preferring to stand. Not only because the chair looked so uncomfortable but because I had an interest in looking around the place, predicting what Natasha would be like by examining her possessions. The conclusions I immediately drew were obvious ones, of course. That she had little money, perhaps even less education, was probably a wild, free soul, the antithesis of Joan.

But perhaps I had misjudged Joan herself or under-estimated her qualities and ability to become abandoned in a love situation. Yes, she looked so very much out of place in her well-tailored dress, neatly done nails and hair. Her continental groomed appearance came over even more dramatically as she, herself, sat down on the edge of the straight-back chair and adjusted her spine to an erect position. The effort was too much for her, however, and soon she was standing again, pacing the room, obviously ill at ease because of waiting.

"She's worth waiting for," Joan said to me after a while. "You'll see."

"I'm sure she is," I answered, wanting to keep her morale high.

She gave me a small smile of appreciation for my aid, but her gaze was obviously distracted by other thoughts.

"As long as we're waiting," I said, "why don't you tell me something about her?"

"I could talk about her for hours," Joan grinned. "I'd bore you."

"Probably not."

"All right, then." She didn't need to be coaxed very hard. "She's probably one of the most beautiful women I've ever known, Joe."

From there Joan went on to tell me how she had met Natasha one December evening near the Piraeus docks. Apparently the girl had been out looking for sailors, but had found none to her taste. Joan had been at loose ends that night and had taken to following the adventures of her beautiful target, more out of amusement than any thought of actually meeting her. The girl, however, had quickly spotted Joan's interest but had chosen to ignore it, preferring sailors to a woman. As the night progressed and the possibility of success seemed less and less imminent, Natasha had paused and allowed Joan to come up and begin conversation.

"There's something about Americans with money, isn't there?" I said to Joan matter-of-factly.

"Yes, you're right," she agreed without bitterness. "Money was my opening gambit and my most attractive point to the girl."

"You took advantage of that, didn't you?" I chuckled.

"Of course. I took advantage of everything I had in my favor."

"And she took it gladly."

"Happily," Joan grinned. "Like a child."

"That's satisfying, too, in a way."

"That's always pleasant."

"And satisfying, too, in a way."

"And the more you gave her, the more she wanted."

Joan leaned against the wall, folded her arms across her bosom. "Elementary, my dear Watson," she said.

"But you didn't stop, did you."

"I couldn't," she admitted. "The more I gave, the more addicted I became to giving."

"And you got nothing in return?" My question seemed to hit her squarely between the eyes. Her forehead wrinkled for an instant, then smoothed again. "Oh, I got bits and pieces. She knew how to dangle the bait, all right."

"And you didn't tire?"

"Every time I got discouraged," Joan shifted her weight and the opposite hip rose in a rather voluptuous movement, "she would give me a little something to keep my hopes up. A kiss, a hug."

"And a promise."

"Oh, yes, that of course, Joe. A promise. Many promises."

"But she kept telling you to be patient, didn't she?"

"How do you know so much?"

I felt my eyelids lower under the burden of many years experiece, but I said nothing.

"All right, so you know the whole story." Joan's manner became clipped, as though losing her patience with me.

"But what I don't know, dear, is where you stand now, and how come you're coming back for more."

"I'm going to get my money's worth," she said, adamantly.

"Oh, I see." My voice became soft. "You're in love with her."

She had not wanted me to say that. It was though I had brought something secret and terrible to the surface.

"Perhaps I'm not really in love with her. I hope not."

"So what you're doing is trying to find out."

"No."

"Then what else?"

"I'm going to have her, that's all. Whether she loves me or not. I just am going to have her. I must."

There was nothing for me to say. Joan's attitude was so clear-cut and direct. She had fooled herself into a state of aggression concerning Natasha but I could hardle envision her in the act-of rape. I knew her desperation but what could she do about it, not being a man?

"Well, what do you want of me, then?" I asked. "How can I help you?"

"I've decided that the one way to Natasha's heart is through bribery."

"But you've given her all the money she could possibly desire and are willing to give her more. What kind of bribery do you mean, Joan?"

"Don't you know?" Her voice was insinuating.

I supposed I did know but I wanted to hear it from her own lips rather than jump to my own conclusions.

"You'll supply her with me. She loves men. And the price shell pay for them is sleeping with me."

"But I'm sure she can get all the men she wants without a pimp, " I-said bluntly.

"Apparently not, Joe. There's something curious about it. She's a gorgeous girl and yet nothing, no one, seems to satisfy her."

"She needs quantity, does she?"

"And variety."

I made no comment. Was it possible that this object of Joan's love had nymphomaniacal tendencies which Joan, herself, refused to recognize? If that were the case, I would have no part in it. Psychopathology, especially when it has sexual symptoms, creates too many entanglements. I would have preferred to extricate myself immediately and take Joan along, too, for her own protection.

Only I couldn't.

"I'll do what I can," I said, meaning it, "but in the meantime why are we waiting here? If your true love is man crazy, she might be out somewhere rolling around in a warehouse or someplace."

"Don't remind me," Joan said wryly.

"You have to face the facts if you want to get anywhere."

"I suppose so. You're right, as usual, Joe."

I grunted. Already Joan was attributing to me qualities of competence which she could not know that I possessed. No doubt she was judging from the single experience back in New York with Dorris and Kent, and hoping by extension that I could again provide her with someone worth having.

Our conversation dwindled and still no sign of Natasha. I decided that it was useless to wait any longer, and that we ought to come back another time.

Joan, reluctant to leave even the atmosphere of her passion, nevertheless allowed herself to be convinced. We would return later.

Getting back to the center of town gave me a chance to view the lovely Greek women and consider the possibilities of taking some of them back to New York. I was not in the import-export business but the thought of varying my stable women always held an uppermost position in my thoughts.

At Osmona Square, the Forty-second Street of Athens, we went into the cool atmosphere of a bar, drank ouzo and looked around.

I was glad to see that even Joan could manage an interested glance at people who caught her eye, for whatever her reasons. She was not, I saw, necessarily predisposed to the homosexual view. She looked at men with equal attention, her artist's eye ascendant. Nevertheless, the conversation was peppered with Natasha's name. There was no denying the fact that Joan was driven and would have to have her way before she could find peace.

As I sat close to her in the cool, relaxed atmosphere, I sensed the vibrations of passion moving electrically through her body. I realized that she had probably made love to no one during the past few months in the hope and dream of possessing the single object of her compulsion.

The more she drank, the greater seemed to be the intensity of heat coming from her flesh. I understood what was boiling around inside her. Her sexual starvation was eating her alive. Gradually I began to realize that my own sexual interests were being stimulated by the proximity of this attractive, hot woman. After all, I was on vacation, wasn't I? I deserved an interlude of my own.

It was about eight o'clock when I suggested to Joan that we go back to the hotel.

She looked at me through her thick eyelashes with an uncertain expression. She did not know exactly what I was after but sensed it from my manner as well as the suggestion itself.

"Joe, do you want to go to bed with me?" Her voice was filled with surprise.

"Yes, I do," I answered. "There's nothing so strange in that, is there?"

"But you're supposed to be my friend."

I laughed aloud. "You mean there's a line of demarcation drawn between friendship and physicality?"

"It'll be muddled if we do that."

Well, I wasn't going to force anything but I couldn't help saying, "It might do you good, Joan. It might give you a perspective and level your head a bit so that when you go back to Natasha you won't have to leap on her like a lion out of the jungle."

She sipped her drink and thought about my image. "Lion out of the jungle, eh?"

"Don't you think so?"

"Two lions out of the jungle," she smiled, pushing up one side of her mouth. "I could claw her alive."

"Well, maybe that's what's getting in your way, dear."

"Blinded by my own passion and all that rot, eh?"

"You may sound urbane, my love, but you're not acting it, you know."

She had to agree. "I don't want to make a fool of myself, Joe."

"That's exactly what I mean."

The thought of chasing after Natasha like a hot, blind animal seemed to impress Joan and it was for this reason, more than for any interest in me for myself, that she did, in fact, finally consent to return to the hotel and bed. . I couldn't have cared less about her immediate reason for sleeping with me. Knowing women as I did, their excuses were of no consequence. Only the act itself could make a difference.

By this time she was half drunk and it showed, not so much in her face as in her movements as she fumbled with her clothing.

"I'll undress you," I said softly. "You just relax."

She seemed more than willing to put the whole matter completely into my hands.

I undid the small buttons in the dress placket at the nape of her neck, then put my lips to the tanned skin there over the bony projection of vertebra. She wore an expensive perfume that reached my nostrils only when I came up very close. There was a citrus aspect to the fragrance that stimulated me and seemed to tell me that the closer I came to her the more secrets I would uncover. This was an idea that appealed to me greatly.

She kept talking while I touched her, about Natasha, about her painting and even a few words now and then about her ex-husband, a violinist whom she had supported through seven years of alternate misery and euphoria.

"So you like to spend money on people, in general," I said. "Natasha isn't the exception."

"I don't know about that, Joe. I'd rather somebody loved me for myself, you know."

I knew. It was a statement that was familiar to my ears, made mostly by rich men deep in their cups, desperate and just plain unconcerned with who heard them voice their inmost thoughts.

She stroked my fingers while my hands moved to take off the dress. Then she guided my touch to her tits. I cupped the texture of hand-made lace and felt a combination of delicacy and strength in her tits beneath the material. Her breathing was shallow but not rapid, yet. She seemed like a creature poised, waiting for the signal to fly.

I'm not easily impressed by women. Perhaps my senses have been dulled by too much contact, too much intimacy. But I remember the sharp pleasure that raced through me as her bra came away and my hands touched the cool points of her nipples. They were large, round and dark and seemed to come alive to my touch, growing hard, thrusting forward, pressing to my palms. The response of her tits to my massaging told me that she had no qualms or hesitation about going to bed with me this night, that Natasha's image did not come between us or interfere in any way.

Joan put her hand on top of mine and pressed me to her harder. She leaned her head back against my cheek, sighed with her eyes closed as I put my lips to the edge of her eyebrow and kissed gently down over her eyelids to the side of her nose. She turned in my arms and slid her hands up the back of my neck into my hair, pressing her body to me as though she were riding in on a high, long and hard-driving wave.

I enjoyed the freedom of her short hair, ruffled it with my mouth while I felt her tits press their warmth to the front of my shirt. "I must undress you," she said thickly. I would let Joan do anything she wanted that would make her comfortable and help increase her passion. Even though she seemed on the brink of explosive desire, I wanted to push her even closer to the edge. I knew that in the dark well of her being was a passion I could truly enjoy and I intended to do so to the fullest.

Her movements against me seemed to agree with all of my intentions. She undid my shirt, pulled it off sleeve by sleeve, then began to open the buckle of my pants belt and zip down my fly. I felt her hands reaching in to me, searching ' and grasping my prick where it hung, not yet erected, but waiting for only the smallest encouragement to stand. She squeezed it just behind the head and my senses leaped.

"Oh, I like the way you're built," she muttered. "Kind of large, nice. Good."

I didn't answer her. My thoughts were wandering at random in an appreciation of the physiology at hand.

She continued to mumble about genitals, all the while, massaging mine with an appreciative touch, firm and loving. My cock began to throb under her sensual touch.

"Come, let me get the rest of your clothes off and we'll lie down somewhere," she whispered.

Word and deed became one. She had my pants off and then my underwear, all the while stroking my ass cheeks and down the backs of my thighs, her hand taking my body as though she were a sculptor feeling her model-which, perhaps, she was.

We were finally nude together, standing and looking at each other's bodies. She, in front of the pile of her expensive under things which she carelessly kicked away with one thrust. I noticed that there was polish on her toenails, unexpected gold glint, a note of humor, of lightness, of feminine self-absorption, perhaps of vanity. All the womanly traits that made the female alluring Joan had taken for her own and adapted to her unique personality.

That was the attraction for me, her specialness. One could single out Joan Carter from any battalion of women. Her strong personality superseded all convention. She was a human being in the true, admirable sense of the word and I responded, my arms tightening with pleasure at the prospect of intercourse with this vessel of secrets.

Were I not a pimp, would I likely have found a woman such as Joan? I do not know.