Chapter 6

"You were right, Stan. You were right all along!"

"Well, I'm not so sure it's such a clear-cut question of right or wrong!" The psychiatrist sat comfortably in his chair while his patient, Helen Randolph, lay extended on the couch beside him.

"Can you imagine him doing such a thing to me?" she asked.

"Well... "

"I'm through! I tell you I'm through with him. Through waiting for him to treat me like a human being. Why I can hardly sit down!"

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to find myself a man. Just like you told me to do!"

"Now Helen, that's not what I told you to do. I just said that there are options. That you must not think of yourself as trapped. That other women seem to solve their sexual problems by an extra-marital affair. That sometimes this very affair is what changes the chemistry between man and wife, making them mysteriously more computable, more compassionate. More patient."

"Oh, shut up! What it boils down to is that I'm going out to get laid."

"If you want to put it that way." Stan was thinking that Helen's anger was a good thing, her belligerence was finally going to bring her to a point of real action which-whether right or wrong-would take her to a new point in her problem and give her a new point of view.

"I'm sick of taking these lousy birth control pills for nothing!" Helen declared. "It's depressing, to say the least!"

Stan was silent. He wondered what his wife was going to fix for dinner that night, wondered how she would like getting it up the ass. What would it do to change their relationship? She would probably guess that the idea had come to him through one of his female patients and they would have a jealous scene. Oh well. Helen Randolph was still talking. The 50 minutes was almost up, thank God. He was very tempted to screw her himself. She was a good-looking woman, no doubt about that, and it wouldn't be the first time he'd done such a thing. She'd certainly hinted as much to him any number of times.

But Stan was certain that such an act would ruin his relationship with Mrs. Randolph. There were times when he had been able to have sexual relations with a patient without it sending either one of them off the deep end, but with Helen, he was sure that it would be a fiasco for a number of reasons. One: he himself was too attracted to her. Two: she was far too hysterical a type. Three: she would form an attachment to him that might take years to break, whereas if she were to have an affair with someone else, he could help her through its beginning, middle, and end.

"Are you listening to me?" Helen demanded.

"Of course I'm listening. But I see that time's up for today," Stan said, smiling and standing up.

"Next time I see you, I'll no longer be a virgin!" Helen said, her eyes still betraying the anger she felt at her husband's harsh anal rape of the night before.

"Have a good time. That's the main thing," Stan said, giving Helen a friendly kiss on the cheek.

"Don't worry, I will!" As she left the psychiatrist's office, she was grateful for what she considered his blessings in what she was about to do. Even though she hadn't told him the details of her plan, she'd been thinking of it for some time. Ever since Stan, himself, had shown her one of those filthy hippie newspapers. She'd been profoundly shocked when she'd seen just what kind of things were going on in the world, more or less openly. And her analyst had intended her to know that there were other life-styles, other ways of sexuality. Now, however, the beautiful blonde wife was planning on putting the paper to good use. She was going to answer one of the ads.

When she got back home, Helen mixed herself a drink right away. The disturbed wife was discovering just how comforting the soothing alcohol could be... in the absence of any other pleasures that she could find in her own home. Holding the colorful Bloody Mary in her hand, she sat down on the bed in her room near the telephone. Once more she brought out the underground newspaper and turned it to the page that had interested her. The blonde woman scanned until she reached the small ad again, and then her heart started thumping, for it read:

Attractive bachelor, 37 years old, wishes to meet charming ladies for mutual pleasure. Experienced in pleasing. Knowledge of French, gourmet, interested in the arts. Call 324-8886 evenings.

It sounded so perfect. So very perfect! And besides, just calling wouldn't do any harm, would it? If he sounded just awful, all she had to do was hang up. Right? Still, just the idea of really calling that number gave her the shakes. She paced up and down in her room, changed into a flowing robe and continued to pace, imagining what the conversation would be like when she called later on. She didn't dare to really imagine an actual meeting, yet secretly she hoped that this would be the result of the conversation. As her courage failed her, Helen thought. Why this is ridiculous! I couldn't possibly do such a thing! Then at other moments she would think, Why not? Why shouldn't l? Others do it! And besides, I'll get back at Adam if it's the last thing that I do!

Finally, her courage increased by three more Bloody Marys, Helen at last went to the telephone. With a trembling finger, she dialed the number in the advertisement, holding her breath as she listened to the connections being made. There was the familiar clicking, and then a pause and finally the ring. It was ringing! Panic-stricken, Helen was about to hang up when someone answered.

"Hello!" The deep melodic tones of a masculine voice replied.

Suddenly all the ingrained social instincts in the nervous blonde took over, and it was no longer a question of hanging up.

"Uh... Hello. I... uh..."

"Are you answering my ad?"

He really sounded all right. Not like a mad rapist or anything at least! In fact, his voice was rather pleasant.

"Yes, as a matter of fact I am." Helen didn't quite know where to go from there. But the man took over.

"My name is Andre, Andre Dupres. What's yours?"

"Uh... Helen... Helen Lyons!" Lyons was her maiden name, so she wasn't actually lying. Suddenly the scientist's wife felt a thrill of adventure. It was like being young again. Truly young, when everything was an adventure. In those days, she would do nothing but talk with her girlfriends about boys, wondering what they were really like and full of hopes and dreams of what they might be like!

"Nice name," the unknown man was saying. "And pretty voice. I'll bet a pretty face goes with it!"

"Well, I..."

"Don't be modest."

"I wasn't being..."

"It doesn't matter. I'm sure you're perfect just the way you are! Would you like me to tell you a bit about myself?"

For some reason Helen found herself feeling that she was perfect. Why not, after all. Here was someone who didn't know her, had not had time to assess all her faults, her little idiosyncrasies. Someone for whom she just might be perfect! The confused but oddly excited housewife found herself listening with rapt attention to Andre's life story, and by the time he had finished, she truly felt that she knew him, or at least that she knew him well enough so that she felt comparatively safe in meeting him, as he suggested at a coffee shop in Greenwich Village not far from his apartment on Houston Street.

Helen hung up and realized that she was trembling from head to foot. She had only told the man her name and the color of her hair and eyes. She had said she would be wearing her red coat, brown boots and gloves. The blonde housewife jumped up and squealed with joy. She was free! Young again. She was having an adventure!

Helen took a taxi. It wasn't all that far, and she probably could have taken the bus. She made it a point never ever to take the subway. It was far too depressing, not to mention dangerous, being underground, unable to see the light of day, or in this case, the dark of night. The taxi was warm for the weather was turning quite cold. The driver was pleasant in that he didn't speak to her at all. With a great sense of expectancy, the blonde wife looked out the window at the passing New York night life, the neon signs flashing, the people. As the cab reached the Village, Helen looked attentively at the dating couples, the kids walking arm in arm, arms around waists. It was like another world to her, and she suddenly wanted to be part of it. She looked for women of her age, perhaps her middle class background, and found many. By the time she stepped out of the cab after tipping the driver lavishly, as thought it would bring her good luck, Helen felt as though she had completely left behind her the restrictions and problems that her husband represented. It was a good feeling.

Heart pounding, the voluptuous, love-starved blonde adjusted her hair nervously as she approached the Pussy Cat Cafe. She peered inside the steamy pane glass window before entering. There at a corner table she saw the man she was certain was Andre. She caught her breath. Could that be he? He wasn't too bad looking, rather distinguished, fortyish, balding, reading the Village Voice as he'd said he would be. He looked completely safe! That was the main thing.

She entered the cafe and immediately the man at the corner table looked her way. He smiled broadly, and she smiled nervously back. Then she made her way to his table. They sat having coffee and brandy for some while discussing music, the theater, movies, and Helen was impressed at how well-informed Andre was. When he suggested that they go to his apartment around the corner to watch a special program on the Arts on the educational television channel, Helen thought it would be nice to go. After all, she was an adult. She could take care of herself. Willingly, and feeling very daring indeed, Helen went along with the handsome Frenchman. She was a trifle embarrassed at finding that he was slightly shorter than she was when he stood up. But he amicably took her hand and placed it on his arm as they walked the short distance to his apartment building.

Helen walked along with the near stranger, thinking how polite he was, perhaps it was his European background, for he was half-French apparently and had lived in the south of France for many years. She was also wondering what she would say if she suddenly ran into someone she knew, or her husband, What was that creep doing now anyway, she wondered. No doubt he had not even come home yet, even though it was well past nine-thirty at night.