Chapter 5

Things went along quite nicely for the next few weeks - and quite a bit more conventionally. As the weather turned warmer with the onset of spring, we settled into a very comfortable rhythm. June had communicated her desire to keep the big dildo and a vibrator handy, and both got used pretty regularly as part of our foreplay. On one occasion, June decided to make use of a cucumber, but the damn thing kept slipping.

She started inviting me to various Jaycee get-togethers. I fit in really well - bearded, casual (usually jeans) and absolutely zero tolerance for bullshit. I was reminded of all the reasons I'd dropped out of advertising five years before. Still - they were not only networking; they were actually doing things for the community... and that was more than I could say. All were civil, some were polite, a few were friendly, and a couple were downright charming. I in turn invited her to the annual awards banquet held by my writer's organization (which shall rename nameless.) Bless her heart, June understood the importance of the event - Hell, I even got a haircut and wore a tie - and decided to do me up proud.

When I called for her, she was wearing different makeup than usual. It made her seem a bit older and far more polished. She was wearing high heels, something she normally avoided. And she wore a cheong-sam, the traditional sheath-like dress with the slit up the side. It was jet black, clingy, and tied about her neck, leaving her back and shoulders bare. With her pale flesh and flawless complexion, her slinky dress and a flash of long, shapely leg right up to mid-thigh with each graceful step, she looked utterly scrumptious.

Our arrival at the pre-banquet cocktail party sent a ripple of silence from the doorway through the large event room in the Waldorf. Heads turned and eyes widened. I was noticed only because I was with her. She brought all of her Jaycee and ex-im skills to bear, and by the time we were seated for the actual awards banquet, about a half-dozen editors were introducing themselves to me and asking if I had any novel-length material (I had already published some short stories).

When we got back to her place, she was quite tired, and we slept, snuggling close. I went out early the next morning and did something I had never before done: I bought a ring for the woman. Not only was she bright, sweet, dedicated, beautiful and unbelievably sexy, she was willing to back up - all the way - her man. I put the ring in my dresser and began thinking the whole matter through and trying to determine the right time. And that time wouldn't be too long: Her visa was expiring, and she would have to leave America... unless she qualified for accelerated naturalization, say, as the spouse of a citizen. And I knew she wanted to stay. But I had to be careful. It mustn't seem like gratitude or a payoff for this proud, tough woman who'd worked and thought her way out of the slums of Singapore.

A couple of days later, as I was leaving her place after a deliciously languorous night of intermittent fucking and dozing, June stopped me at the door:

"About tonight - "

"Yes?"

"I have a fantasy..."

Oh, goody! I thought.

"I want you to tie me up."

I paused, regaining composure, and then delivered my brilliant riposte: "Huh?"

"Well - " Abruptly, she seemed almost shy. "You told me once you always wanted to make a woman cum so hard she would pass out. And sometimes when it becomes very intense for me I make you stop what you're doing until I calm down."

"And what would you like me to be doing to you while you're tied up?"

"Whatever you want to do that will make me cum like that. I have wanted to try this for a long time, but you are the first person I ever would trust."

"It's not something I'm exactly keen to do, you know."

"That is one reason I trust you to do it."

"You're not afraid I would hurt you?"

She smiled and slithered into my arms. "You would never hurt anyone, least of all, me." She fumbled at my belt. "I want you to do whatever you want with me and tell me what you are doing and what you are thinking and imagining - " She opened my pants and was fumbling around inside. "It makes me itchy just to think of it."

I disengaged her hand - carefully, I might add - and repaired my attire. (That sounds so damned proper, doesn't it? "Repaired my attire" - faded jeans and a sweatshirt.)

"So you're leaving it up to me, eh?"

"No one knows how to make me cum better - not even me."

I nodded. "Alright, June - I'll be here at nine."

"What would you like for dinner?"

"I'll have eaten. You will, too - no later than 7:30. I want you to be showered and dried off and warm. I want you to wear that old blue nightdress, the one that's worn through near the shoulders. I will call you at 8:30. Take my call on the phone by the bed. Have the answering machine hooked up for the office phones."

She looked at me strangely. "What have you got in mind?"

I stepped to the other side of the vestibule door. She was wearing jeans and a cableknit blue v-neck sweater. She'd pulled them on only to see me to the door, and there was nothing underneath except June. But even through the thick fabric of the sweater, I could see her nipples were hugely swollen, and her chest and neck were brightly flushed.

"June, this is your idea. Go along with it," I said, "and you will cum as you have never imagined you could cum."

Halfway down the block to my house, I was wondering if I'd let my mouth run away with itself. That was a tall order I'd promised to fill for this short woman. But by the time I'd reached my place, I was already analyzing the situation, and the outlines of what would do the trick were forming in my head.

The first thing I did was stop at Rudy's. I had a good working arrangement with Rudy, the semicompetent superintendent for my apartment building. When I needed the use of his workshop, I'd spot him 10 bucks. He'd long since learned that I took good care of the tools - better than he did, in fact. He even let me store some of my stuff there. I checked through the pile of scrap lumber and found some pieces of three-quarter inch CDX (plywood) that were workable and enough odds and ends of one-by and two-by to serve.

I took the BMT to 23rd Street and bought some thick, industrial grade gray carpet remnants at ABC - another five bucks - and then walked home. Along the way, I stopped at Paterson (their spelling, not mine) Silks at University and Fourteenth. To my knowledge, Paterson has never sold silk bolts. Their specialty is good, serviceable fabrics for the thousands of working poor and welfare recipients who try to make a few bucks stretch farther by doing their own sewing. If you want to meet some young, stunningly beautiful and irrepressibly vital Puerto Rican single mothers, Paterson Silks is a good place to go. But be forewarned - they can steal your heart away. They're not just smart, tough and sweet; they're stone foxes.

I bought what I needed in Paterson, walked the rest of the way home, dropped the hardgoods in the workshop, stored the rest in my place, then headed for the Pink Pussy Cat over on West Fourth near Jones Street. It was almost 10:30, and they would be opening.

The Pink Pussy Cat is an adult toy store. There are others, to be sure - but the PPC staff makes it special. They seem to have this basic attitude problem: When people work up the courage to walk down the five steps to the entrance of the well-(but not garishly) lit emporium, the staff for some reason assumes these are people who think sex should be fun and have a sense of joy and humor. When I had entered the PPC to buy a vibrator for Annie, they'd asked me what kind. I'd said, Hell, what've you got? To which the pimply young woman had said, We've got these.

She'd proceeded to take one of each and every vibrator in the store and set it on the counter. Those that could stand up on their bases were so arranged. Then she activated every one of them. The standing ones moved around in little circles, the pumping ones spun and pumped, the squirming ones writhed and wriggled, etc. One of the other clerks switched the radio from Lite Rock to a disco station and the staff that weren't busy stood around and voted on which vibrator won the Dance Fever contest, and someone hung a tinsel garland around it as an award.

We are not talking pretentious, superior, overbearing fools here.

Indeed, they had just opened and the on-duty clerk asked what I wanted.

"I want a dildo - big."

"Long or thick?" he asked, a tad on the fey side, and every bit as professional as any of them were.

"Both. This is for someone who wants that stuffed feeling."

"Woman or - " He grinned broadly and infectiously. " - man?"

"Woman. Good definition of woman, in fact."

"Vaginal, then - or -?"

"Vaginal."

"Color?"

"Her color's got nothing to do - "

His expression stopped me. "Sorry. Flesh, black, latex - whatever."

He located a half dozen, ranging in size from the biggest that I already owned to something he called "Big Fred," which was about 15 inches long and had to be six inches in diameter.

"I just got an inferiority complex."

"I know the feeling," he said.

"Do people use this for a coat rack, or do they really use this for, uh -"

"Mostly gay men into fistfucking and pain, I think." He made a face. "A great deal of pain." He shrugged. "Also, we have a catalog and you can special order - "

"No. I found just the ticket."

And I had. It was called, I think, "California Reaming." It was about 18 inches long. It made no attempt at being lifelike. It was as if someone had put pieces of fruit of increasing size - smallest first - into a latex tube. The result was a knob of latex about an inch and a half thick, followed by a slight depression, then another knob, a bit thicker, and so forth. The knob at the base had to be five inches thick. The base was flattened and there was a hollow opening about a half inch thick.