“What happened then?” Sappho wanted to know.
“For a long time I drifted from one pinball machine to another, feeling nothing, for all the world like a bee flitting from flower to flower. Oh, I had my kicks all right, but there was never any real emotional satisfaction. And it made me feel cheap, settling for what I could get that way. It made me feel like the kind of fellow who’s driven to two-dollar whores.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” Sappho said.
“Yes. I thought you would. That’s why I’m telling you all this. It’s important that you realize that I have gotten over it. And that you can cure your obsession as well.”
“But how? How can I stop wanting my drainpipe? How did you get over your incubator-juke box-pinball machine fixation?”
“Simple. I was made to recognize the fact that it was basically a sublimation. I didn’t really want that juke box, you see. Nor those pinball machines, either. Truly, I didn’t even want the incubator back. It had never really been anything more than a substitute.”
“A substitute for what?”
“At first for Mother, of course. But later, the substitution was for the more natural object of affection. I was substituting these machines for girls. As soon as I was made to realize this, as soon as I experienced the fullness of sex with a real girl, I was cured.”
“And do you think that would cure me?” Sappho asked ingenuously.
“Absolutely. Only with a man, of course. Once you experience sex with a man, your fixation for plumbing fixtures and things which resemble them will be cured.”
“But I wouldn’t even know how to start with a man.”
“That’s what I’m here for. To show you.” He walked around the desk, took Sappho by the shoulders, and kissed her. “There. Do you see? You’re starting to learn already.”
“Yes.” Sappho was breathless. “I do see what you mean. Kiss me again.”
He kissed her again and began fumbling with the buttons of her blouse.
“What happens now?” Sappho asked naively.
“Now we really make those colored lights spin, baby!”
“Colored lights? But I thought you were cured!”
“I am. But there’s always a little residue of neurosis. I always see colored lights. Wait. Maybe you’ll see them, too.”
“No,” Sappho said a long time later. “I didn’t see any colored lights. It was nice, though. I think the cure is beginning to take effect.”
“No colored lights, eh? What did you see?”
“Spinning drainpipes.”
“Ummm! Well, we’ll just have to keep up the treatments until that’s resolved.”
From that day on, Sappho visited the therapist for “treatment” twice a week. She kept up the visits for six months. By then, her obsession with plumbing fixtures was completely gone. Still, she had to overcome the therapist’s objections before he’d let her leave treatment. Finally she did, and she was glad; she was getting awfully damned tired of ‘him and his colored lights!
“. . . And so that’s how I became a nymphomaniac,” Sappho told Penny now as the two girls sat in Penny’s apartment.
“But I don’t understand,” Penny protested. “I thought he cured you.”
“He did. He cured me of drainpipes. He convinced me that men were better.”
“But isn’t it just as sick if you’re so uncontrollable with men that you have to have one after another make love to you. “
“Maybe it is,” Sappho granted. Maybe it is. But believe me, honey, they sure beat drampipes!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
THERE WERE glints of daylight slivering the sky by the time Sappho finished speaking. Noticing them, she decided to leave and try to catch a few hours sleep before going to work. Penny, however, had given up on the idea of sleep. In less than an hour she would have to dress and leave to meet Balzac Hosenpfeffer at the draft board.
Besides, Penny’s mind was churning. Sappho’s frank admissions of nymphomania, in no way softened by what she had told Penny about her background, still left Penny undecided as to the Greek girl’s ability to fill in as editor of Lovelights when Penny took her leave of absence. Weighing Sappho’s roundheel tendencies against Annie Fitz-Manley’s budding homosexuality, Penny simply couldn’t make up her mind as to which might be the lesser drawback in doing the job. Oh well, she sighed to herself, there was still Marie D’Chastidi to be considered. Perhaps a talk with her might prove her to be the one least unfit for the job.
On this thought, without meaning to, Penny did drift off to sleep. It was only a cat-nap, but the morning sun woke her with a start, and she realized that she would have to hurry if she was going to meet Balzac on time. She ran a comb through her short blonde hair, decided not to bother with make-up, threw on a sweater and a pair of slacks, and dashed out of the house.
Twenty minutes later her cab was pulling up in front of the draft board. Balzac Hosenpfeffer was waiting. With him was his companion of the day before, the fellow girl-watcher with whom he’d been promenading along Fifth Avenue. “Hi, Penny,” Balzac greeted her, and then turned triumphantly to the lad beside him. “See! I told you she’d show. Come on now! Pay up!”
“I sure have to hand it to you, Balz.” He passed Balzac a five-dollar bill. “I wish you’d tell me what your technique is.”
“Some other time.” Balzac took Penny by the arm and led her up the steps of the building housing the draft board. “I’ll see you around.” He waved good-bye to his friend.
“You don’t miss a trick, do you?” Penny observed.
“Well, now I can take you out to lunch.”
“Sorry. I’ve got other plans. Let’s just get this over with.”
“Okay. Wait here a minute.” He left Penny sitting on a bench in the waiting room while he went over to talk to the receptionist. He returned after a moment. “We’re in luck,” he told her. “The draft board is meeting and they’ve agreed to see us right away.”
The intercom buzzed. The receptionist listened a few seconds and then looked up at Balzac and Penny. “You can go in now,” she told them.
Balzac led Penny into a large room. Six men were seated behind a long table. One of them gestured for Balzac and Penny to take chairs on the opposite side of the table. Balzac held out a chair for Penny and then sat down himself.
The man who had gestured, evidently the chairman of the group, was the first to speak. “Suppose you tell us why you asked for this meeting, Mr. Hosenpfeffer. You haven’t been called up yet. There’s no question of requesting a deferment at this point.”
“Oh, no, sir!” Balzac was extremely deferential. “I don’t want a deferment. I’ll be proud to serve my country -—if my number comes up, that is. Of course, I’m engaged in essential industry, so it isn’t likely that —”
“What sort of essential industry, Mr. Hosenpfeffer?” one of the members of the draft board wanted to know.
“My firm manufactures American flags.”
“Oh! I see!” The draft board member was visibly impressed.
The member sitting beside him was a little more curious, however. “And what is your specific job, Mr. Hosenpfeffer?” he wanted to know.
“I’m a Star Counter.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I count the stars on the flags. Each flag is checked individually before it’s sent out. You see, there was a slip-up a few years back when Alaska and Hawaii came into the Union. A whole shipment of flags went out with only forty-nine stars on them. At first we suspected Commie subversion. But when we investigated, we found it was only a seamstress who counted the states wrong. Seems she kept leaving out Montana. Just couldn’t remember Montana.”
“Was there a security check on this seamstress?” the chairman of the draft board asked.