That delectable Tibetan, Ti Nih Baapuh, is back but Steve “The Man from O.R.G.Y.” Victor doesn't have her.
Steve is caught up in Papa Baapuh‘s out-of-whack time machine, busy grappling with gorgeous beauties of other eras (and dodging their infuriated menfolk).
All Steve can do about Ti Nih is tune in on his wrist radio and hear the sound effects that spring from her fun and games with that mysterious American “diplomat,” Charles Putnam.
Being a man from O.R.G.Y. is back-breaking work all right, all right. (It hardly gives a guy time to save the world from its own folly, thinks Steve, panting.)
But come along for the ride anyway, you won't be sorry!
Come be my O.R.G.Y.
Ted Mark
1968
CHAPTER ONE
Call me Stud!
It was the best of nights; it was the worst of nights; it was a night like all other nights — like all other nights during the past month for me, Steve Victor, that is. Which is to say the night was stuffed with love.
Love!
Shove it up your heart!
Why was I so bitter? After all, wasn’t I one man who could truly say, “The world is mine!”? Yeah, only I didn’t want it. Not this world, anyway. Zero in on the night, make the scene, and my dog-in-the-manger-ishness becomes understandable.
The scene: Saigon by starlight; a future fairyland — and a futuristic fairyland, too — neon-shiny and phallic-spired and melting into picturesque wooden huts and jagged debris and hunks of homes tossed willfully over the landscape, then rising again out of watery rice paddies to jungle trees goosing the sky; a romantic fairyland softened by the smog of night which distorted the ugly reality of vulgar architecture and war’s ruin and turned it into a shimmering make-believe of sensuality, an erotic dreamland; a scene permeated by the sweet-smelling miasma of tropic foliage only faintly tainted by the too-sweet smell of decomposing dead bodies because the wind was right; a setting palpitating to an Eastern jungle beat which was really Western artillery pounding a Vietnamese village some distance away, U.S. cannon conquering the countryside and being subtly conquered in return by an Oriental atmosphere which reduced its boom to the pulsing of ageless Vietnamese drums exorcising evil spirits with a pounding love of life. Yeah, the scene was a paradox, a maze of contradictions with Yours Truly in the center of the maze.
Close up the scene was just as unreal, but more sharply defined. At least it was sharper from where I was sitting—-or, rather, reclining, to be more exact. From my bed in the shack, I could look out the window and see a long line of Vietnamese queueing up and shuffling forward towards the door to my hut. The line was composed entirely of women.
It was sad, because those towards the end of the line were doomed to disappointment. They must have realized this, but they kept their places in line anyway. Conceivably, they might wait it out until the following night. They wanted satisfaction and the wait might be worth it to them. Only there was always the chance that they wouldn’t get it the next night either. There was always the chance that I wouldn’t survive until the next night.
You see, I was the reason the little ladies were lining up. I was the only source of satisfaction available to them in a world gone mad. I was the only sexually functioning male on earth! To put it another way, I was the most successful male whore around because I was the only one in the world. I had a monopoly on screwing; I’d cornered the market, and now the market was cornering me!
As far as sex was concerned, the world really was mine. But I was only flesh and the effort of accepting all this homage was destroying me. Now do you dig the reason for my bitterness?
If you do, you’re probably wondering how I ever got into this predicament and how the world ever got into this situation. It isn’t easy to explain, but I’ll try. And you’ll have to try to suspend disbelief if you’re going to understand.
I’ll start at the beginning. That would be about May of 1967. At that time the name Steve Victor carried some weight in certain select circles. You see, I’m the man from O.R.G.Y.
The initials stand for “Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth.” The name is about as accurate as the term “marriage manual.” What I mean is that such booklets may have to do with marriage problems and manual techniques, but that’s hedging the question because what they really are is “how—to” opuses not so much concerned with general “Guidance,” or the hang-ups of “Youth,” as with the specifics of sex.
The Organization is primarily concerned with investigating sexual customs. As was the case with Kinsey1 , its financing came from various foundations and institutions interested in shedding light on this most taboo topic. Unlike the Kinsey outfit, O.R.G.Y. is strictly a one-man operation -- and the one man is me, Steve Victor.
I conducted all my own investigations and always did my research personally. Nice work if you can get it? I used to think so. But that was before the demand for my services swamped the supply I’d been endowed with by nature.
Anyway, back in May of 1967, I Went to a small village in the mountains of Tibet to investigate the polyandry practiced by the natives. Polyandry is the custom of women taking two or more husbands. Tibet is one of the last places in the world where it is still followed.
It wasn’t easy to gain admission to Tibet. The country had been conquered by the Chinese and was administered by the Red Guard2 . I had to pull strings to go there. And all the strings led to Charles Putnam.
Charles Putnam . . . Fit him in as a governmental parenthesis between espionage and diplomacy. Define him as a figment of the imagination without which no government can function. Picture him as a block of granite polished to high camp, made up of sartorial splendor, impeccable bearing, smooth manners—and the ruthlessness of a rhino calculating a rampage underneath it all. Know that Charles Putnam is not his real name because he has no name; officially he doesn’t exist; as a matter of fact, he doesn’t even exist unofficially. Peel an onion and the center is—nothing. Peel away the red tape of the federal government and the center is—-Charles Putnam. The only human thing about him was that he was susceptible to sexual experience-—but that’s putting me ahead of my story.
The thing is that Charles Putnam arranged for me to get into Tibet. I was accompanied by a companion who subsequently kicked off, done in by the very polyandry we were investigating, as it were -- but that too is another story3 . The important thing is that after my buddy’s demise, Putnam himself had to come to Tibet to extricate me from the idiotic, unbelievable, totally fantastic predicament into which I’d gotten.
Putnam’s concern with me stemmed from the fact that in the past I’d been of use to him in the shadowy area in which he functioned. My connections in the nether-world of sex had led him to seek me out in connection with various espionage hi-jinks on more than one occasion. He’d waved the flag in my face and I’d responded by becoming an agent for him. His getting me into Tibet in the first place was a sort of repayment. His endeavors to get me out of my fix, however, developed more from his fear that I’d compromise our government than from gratitude. It seems my disappearance from Tibet had set the Red Guard seething with suspicion, and Putnam’s tenuous connections were in danger of being snapped if he couldn’t produce me and come up with some logical explanation.