HERE’S YOUR 0.R.G.Y.!
(Or it will be, if Steve Victor can come up to the
mark. Or the Mark can come up to the Victor. . . !)
Steve is off on a Wild, swing-a-ling search for
some prime O.R.G.Y. material, to wit: :
(1) One natural (Has to be proved!) blonde
(and busty) hippie.
(2) One sex-starved married woman. She's got
to be gorgeous, French, and a titled aristocrat.
(3) One well-developed Pygmy princess—with
a Ph.D. in psychology from Oxford University, yet!
(4) One redheaded Danish virgin—not pastry,
virgin.
(5) One shapely sabra, willing to lay down her
rifle for an O.R.G.Y.
If Steve can round up this fetching cargo for
Sheikh Ali Khat, he can pay off a real debt. The
elimination bouts are frenzied, it’s no-holds-
barred with the competition, and Steve’s only
hope lies in his ability to maintain a stiff upper
. . . lip!
HERE’S YOUR O.R.G.Y.!
Ted Mark
1969
CHAPTER ONE
Make love, not war! It should be so simple. . . .
“Twin beds!” the South Vietnamese siren demanded.
“One bed for all!” the Viet Cong chick countered.
“Equal space! Equal sheets! Equal status!”
“King-size and individual pillows!” The man from Hanoi backed-up the Cong cutie.
“Let’s compromise,” I suggested with good old Yankee common sense. “How about a round bed?”
“If you think I’m going to share the same mattress with these gangsters—!” The Saigon sexpot was intractable.
“American-made slut!” the NFL lovely snarled.
“There is an American Embassy emblem embossed on the pillowcases,” the North Vietnamese officer noticed. “I demand a pillowcase with the symbol of my country!”
“Why not dispense with pillowcases altogether?” I exercised American diplomacy.
It was an odd time, it was a peculiar place, it was a bizarre combination—for an orgy! The month was January of 1968, the first night of the first Tet offensive1 . The locale was the cellar of a storehouse containing furniture and bedding in the Saigon American Embassy compound, main objective of the Viet Cong terrorist attack that evening. The characters were a sexy South Vietnamese secretary who worked in the Embassy, a curvy female Cong guerilla, a North Vietnamese officer with a Fu Manchu moustache, and me, Steve Victor. The orgy was my idea.
If that seems odd under the circumstances, the explanation is that lovemaking is a way of life with me, and in stress situations I find it an effective way of releasing nervous tension. Some people, faced with their own fear, take a drink. Others take a cigarette. I take a girl—if there’s one handy. This time there was.
Perhaps it won’t seem so peculiar if I remind you that I’m the man from O. R. G. Y. Infamy being as fleeting as fame, let me restate that O. R. G. Y. is the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth. It’s a one-man operation devoted to sex research with “guidance” actually a secondary function-—which, I admit, hasn’t ever really been exercised. Still, as the man behind O. R. G. Y., when I’m on an ego trip, I see myself as carrying on the traditions of Dr. Kinsey. The difference is that I’ve cut out the paperwork and substituted a personalized methodology. This demands a genuine dedication to my work. There’s no substitute for one-to-one (or one-to-more as special situations may require) research in my line. I try to be selfless in this respect, no matter how much energy I have to sacrifice.
Now I was prepared to go the limit in the cause of peace. So here we were, the four of us, enemies and hostile allies, thrown together in a noble experiment to seek peace through passion. (It’s no accident, but, rather, a semantic cosmic joke that the words “peace” and “piece” are indistinguishable when blown into the human ear.) To explain just how this came about requires, I suppose, a bit of backtracking.
Just how I came to be on the grounds of the American Embassy the night the Viet Cong launched the Tet offensive with an attack on the compound is a whole other story told in another book (Come Be My O. R. G. Y., if you’re intrigued enough to spring six bits for a complete telling of the enthralling details). For this account, it’s enough to know that I was there and that I was personally attacked by a Cong guerilla complete with bayonet, black pajamas, and breasts shaped like hand grenades, only bigger and better. Add a heart-shaped face, almond eyes, neatly defined hips, and a cushy derriere, and you’ll appreciate why after I’d disarmed her, I was in turn disarmed so that my hostility was sublimated into a more sexual form of aggression.
Grateful that I hadn’t killed her, the Cong cookie expressed her appreciation by responding to my advances. The result was that we made love, hidden behind a lorry in the Embassy courtyard, while the bombardment continued around us. U.S. Marine rifle fire, the spatter of Cong tommygun bullets, the whistle of mortar shells—all the raucous sounds of war assailed us as we coupled, oblivious to them, there on the grass behind the truck.
Both of us had forgotten the rifle and bayonet with which the girl had attacked me a few moments earlier and which now lay on the ground parallel to us, the blade, by chance, only a few inches from her face. The positioning turned out to be fortunate. On the downstroke of our lovemaking, I felt the cold muzzle of a pistol suddenly prodding the hot butt of my body. I reacted quickly, thereby saving my life. Maintaining the rhythm, on the up-thrust I swept up her rifle in one hand and held it so that the point of the bayonet was at her throat. “If I die, she dies!” I announced, ignoring the moan which my jerking away from the icy pistol muzzle had brought forth from her thrilled body. Only then did I dare to look over my shoulder.
The North Vietnamese captain stood with his pistol drawn and still pointed at my bare rear—aimed just low enough so that if he fired I’d be singing soprano for the rest of my days even should I survive the shot, which was unlikely. The look on his face said he was struggling with the dilemma of whether or not to sacrifice his Cong comrade in the interests of one more dead Yank. Since I was the Yank in question, I had a vested interest in influencing his decision. “Bad politics,” I told him. “Even if you smash me, how will it look if you sacrifice an ally in the process? The NLF doesn’t trust the North as it is.”
His finger relaxed slightly on the pistol’s trigger. My words had hit home. “Imperialist American aggressor!” he snarled. “Withdraw!”
I withdrew—slowly. Then I reached behind me with one hand and pulled up my pants. At the same time I was very careful to keep the point of the bayonet at the Cong girl’s throat. It was the only way I could withdraw with safety. It was my own personal enclave.
The situation had interesting parallels. First she’d collaborated with me while I ravished her. Now she was being “liberated,” but thanks to the bayonet; I was firmly enough entrenched to maintain the situation at a stalemate. And all around us the carnage was continuing.
The three of us were frozen in a tableau. The North Vietnamese officer continued to point his pistol at me. I continued to hold the bayonet at his Cong ally’s throat. The girl lay quiet, ready to accept what might come philosophically, resigned to the impasse for as long as it might last.
And then suddenly the tableau was shattered. But the impasse wasn’t ended; it was merely compounded. Another unexpected element was introduced.
The sexy Saigon secretary stumbled on the scene. She was a tall girl, not fat but well fed in contrast to the leanness of the Cong chick still lying underneath me. And there was a more Western cast to her features, testifying to a French colonial intrusion somewhere in her lineage.