“In these days, when, thanks to surgical and biological wonders we’ve all come to take for granted, men and women routinely maintain their youthful looks well past their seventieth or eightieth birthdays, it probably shouldn’t be too unusual that our number one fantasy girl has just celebrated her forty-fifth. Honey Pilar is forty-five. Does that make you feel old? It makes me feel like the last of the dinosaurs.
“I can remember having holos of Honey Pilar in my bedroom when I was twelve, alongside my Death to Argentina football and my scale model of the Mars colony. My first sexual experience was a dream in which Honey Pilar couldn’t remember her locker combination. And now they tell me this is her thirty-ninth moddy, and she’s old enough to be a grandmother.
“But don’t get me wrong, I still think Honey Pilar is the most exciting woman in the world. I’ve left word with my secretary that, if Honey calls, she can have my home phone number anytime. The problem with Slow, Slow Burn is not Honey, or the fact that she’s no pouting teenager anymore. The problem is that my moddy library has two full shelves devoted to her, and I’m beginning to ask myself, ‘Do I really need another Honey Pilar moddy?’
“I’ve never had a complaint yet from anyone when I’ve suggested we use one of Honey’s moddies. My partners agree with me that they’re likely to get more pleasure from Honey than from anyone else’s moddy (or from me, either, for that matter. Sometimes, when we explore the limits of the bizarre, we do it with no moddies chipped in, with our own unembellished brains. I don’t recommend this to you beginners out there). I use the moddies myself now and then, to see what it’s like from the Honey Pilar point of view, and it’s always an incendiary experience. So whether the moddy is turning my partner into a hungry, writhing Honey Pilar, or consuming me in one of Honey’s recorded sexual firestorms, there’s never any chance that she will fail to perform.
“The question is simply this: How will she continue to keep our interest? Her partner on Slow, Slow Burn is an uncredited seventeen-year-old. As she gets older, must her partners get younger? I am horrified by the vision of Honey Pilar offering the kids ten-speed bikes to entice them. And doesn’t a lifelong relationship with three-dozen plastic moddies begin to resemble (I hate to suggest this) a marriage? I mean, if for the sake of variety you decide not to use the Honey Pilar moddy tonight, what are you left with? You’re left with the person whose sexual performance led you to use the moddy in the first place.
“I realize that so far I haven’t said anything terribly cogent about Slow, Slow Burn itself. I’m not being fair to Honey Pilar, because her new moddy is right up to the standard she’s set throughout her long and dazzling career. I guess it’s just that after all these years, I’m beginning to realize that although I’ve been to bed with Honey Pilar a million times, I’m never actually going to have her, not in any real sense at all. All I’m going to have is two shelves of plastic with her name on it, and an exquisitely detailed knowledge of what she’s like in the sack.
“I wonder what Honey Pilar likes to talk about afterward. I guess I’m getting wistful in my old age. But don’t mind me, go out and buy Slow, Slow Bum. Like always, it does what it’s supposed to do.”
Kit and Honey are throwing a party in their hotel suite. This was the night of the annual Pammie Awards, and Honey is still clutching the special Lifetime Achievement statuette she was given. It has been a wonderful, satisfying evening for Honey Pilar. Reporters and fans and fellow artists come up to her and tell her again and again that the honor is long overdue. Honey knew well in advance that the Association was presenting her with the Lifetime Achievement, so her acceptance speech was gracious and tearful and as nearly grammatically correct as she could manage. She looks beautiful in her silver Lenci sheath.
Kit stands looking out across a city that seems to live for the night, toward a black harbor streaked with the pale green lights of bridges. He imagines that he’s on board one of the slowly moving ships creasing the dark water, going away, sailing off toward some useful existence. Beyond the window the world seems cold and clean. People are hurrying according to unknown but vital reasons, they are not…wandering. The stars are hard, white, not dimmed and hazy with smoke. Kit turns and gazes at the room, at the men and women talking and laughing. The hotel has catered this party, and the champagne is cheap and sweet. Kit sets his plastic champagne glass on the holoset for the maid to clear away. He looks for Honey.
He finds her in a corner, talking with her agent and a representative from ABT. He brings her a fresh glass of the awful champagne. Honey looks up quickly and smiles at him. Her eye makeup looks terrible. The agent indicates the Lifetime Achievement Award in her hand. “They wouldn’t have given that to you if they didn’t love you, you know,” he says.
“I owe you, too,” says Honey. Kit thinks that he wound her up too much earlier in the evening, and now she just can’t stop being gracious.
The agent smiles. “You did all the work, Honey.”
Kit thinks of the seventeen-year-old boy from the beach.
The woman from ABT swallows the last of her potato salad. “Are you giving any thought yet to retiring?” she asks.
The agent glares at her. Honey’s eyes open wide, and then she runs across the room. Kit follows her. He hears the agent say, “There isn’t any air in here anymore.”
Half an hour later the party is over. Kit and the agent are trying to make Honey feel better. “That woman was a fool,” says the agent.
Honey shakes her head. “They give me the Lifetime Award. They do when your career is over.”
“That’s not what it meant at all,” says the agent. “They were telling you that you’re the best, that you’ve always been the best.”
Kit takes a deep breath and lets it out. “I think we’d better call it a night,” he says.
The agent stands up. “Well, anyway, it’s time for me to run. Thanks for all the free drinks.” He bends to kiss Honey on the cheek. “Congratulations, baby,” he says. “Don’t worry about that ABT woman. She’ll be out of a job tomorrow.”
When they’re alone, Honey puts her head on Kit’s shoulder and sobs. He pushes her away. “Don’t start that on me now,” he says. “Don’t get into this sad and insecure business again. I don’t want to put up with it right now, I’m too tired.”
Honey stares at him. “How do you talk to me like that?”
Kit turns away. “It’s easy,” he says. “We have this same conversation about three times a week. I’ve learned my part. You’re still trying to get it right because in your line of work you don’t have to worry about learning lines.”
Honey turns him around and slaps his face. Kit gives her a thin smile. “You want me to pat your shoulder for you, is that it? You want me to tell you that you’re not getting old?”
Honey slams her fist into his chest. He flinches, but says nothing. “I tell you I hate you like this,” she says, tears falling down her lovely cheeks. She runs into their bedroom and slams the door behind her.
Kit stares after her. “You’re still my wife, you know,” he calls after her. “Get undressed, and get ready.” He knows that will make her even angrier.
This is the only part of their relationship that is all his, that exists only between the two of them. As long as there is this small domain that no one else shares, he will stay with her. Kit becomes aroused at last. “I want you,” he says.
She opens the bedroom door and looks at him blankly.
“I want you,” he says. “But tonight I want you to use this.” He offers her a pink plastic moddy. He’s never asked her to be anyone else before.
Her eyes narrow. She looks at the moddy. “But this is me,” she says, not understanding.
He laughs. “Yes, it’s you. Only younger.” Kit wants to make love to her tonight. He will hold her in his arms and let himself be carried away by her passion, but already he is thinking of someone else, a young woman with Oriental eyes, leaning close to a microphone and murmuring cryptic messages in other languages.