She had a good body. She didn’t need the mirror to tell her that men and boys told her with their eyes, stripping her as naked as she was now. Her body, she thought, certainly didn’t look as though it ought to belong to a Lesbian.
Her legs were long and shapely; her breasts were firm and well-formed. She dipped them gently with her hands, looking at herself in the mirror.
She liked her breasts.
I want to be touched, she thought. But I’m not sure whom I want to touch me.
And she began laughing softly.
When she flicked the switch on the wall and turned out the light the room was almost as dark as Ruthie had said, almost as if it were night. She pulled back the covers and slipped into bed. The sheets were wonderfully cool and smooth against her bare skin, the pillow soft under her head.
She closed her eyes.
Jan Marlowe, she thought. You’re a virgin once removed. You tried it once and you didn’t like it.
She opened her eyes, trying to make out the pattern of cracks in the ceiling, but it was too dark to see it. She yawned sleepily and let her eyes close again.
But at least you tried, she thought.
2
His name was Philip Dresser. He was tall and broad-shouldered with his blond hair clipped, close to his scalp in a crew cut, and he was sitting in the balcony of the theater, just barely aware of the picture on the screen.
He was concentrating on the girl sitting beside him. He sat with his arm around her, but it rested on the back of her chair, not touching her. Periodically she would sit back or move in her seat, touching his arm or brushing up against it, and each time the contact brought an increased awareness of her presence.
He wondered what she was like.
He knew very little about her. He knew that her name was Janet Marlowe, and that she was a junior, just one year younger than he was. He knew that she was quiet and hard to approach, but that she had accepted a date with him with no hesitation, that she took his arm crossing the street as if it were the most natural thing to do, and that she seemed wholly relaxed, her mind wrapped up in the movie.
This was what he knew about her, but it was not what he was interested in knowing. He wanted to know whether or not he would be able to sleep with her.
In twenty-one years Philip Dresser had slept with three tramps, seven prostitutes and one girl who had been in love with him. He was very rarely sexually successful with the girls he dated, and this lack of success made him care too much, try too hard, and expect failure before it came.
He looked at Jan, small and pretty in her sweater and skirt. He remembered how the skirt clung to her rounded hips as she walked, how the sweater hugged the upper half of her body. He wanted very much to sleep with her; he intended to try very hard.
And he fully expected to fail.
He wanted to touch her. He wanted to let his arm slip around her and to cup her shoulder with his hand, he wanted to take her hand in his, to move her head to his shoulder, he wanted to do these things, but at the same time he wanted to do them without being overly obvious about it, without setting her on edge in any way. He didn’t know how to do this, so he waited trying to turn his attention to the picture but unable to think of anything but Jan.
But he didn’t have to take her hand, for she took his, and she put her head on his shoulder without any provocation on his part, squeezing his hand as she did so. Her hand was soft, soft and small in his, and her head felt as though it belonged right where it was on his shoulder. And when his arm went around her all of its own accord, his fingers closing lightly around her shoulder, it seemed like the most natural thing in the world.
The balcony of the theater did not seem quite so public any more. It was as though they were somewhere else by themselves, and they remained like that for several minutes. It was good, very good, and he decided that he liked Jan Marlowe very much, that he liked having her close to him like this, and that he ought to kiss her.
But the moment passed.
He had turned his head slightly to look at her when she turned her head also and raised it from his shoulder and looked up into his eyes, her own eyes clear and unblinking.
“Let’s go,” she said.
He didn’t answer. He stood up and helped her to her feet and they walked up the aisle to the exit. She leaned against him as they walked, not sensually but comfortably, almost tenderly, and he put: his arm around her waist, his hand sensing the smoothness and firmness of the flesh beneath her skirt.
The air outside was warm and the sky clear. There was no moon, but the stars were bright, and they walked a block to his car without speaking at all. He wondered just what was coming next. Maybe he could drive for awhile and park without being too obvious about it, and could kiss her and hold her close for a few minutes. And then he could go out with her again in the middle of the week, and again the next weekend, and eventually they could go to a motel and he could sleep with her in a double bed, holding her all night long in his arms.
He realized with a start that he did not really know her at all, that he was crazy to plan or even think so far in advance. But he remembered the way her hand had slipped into his and his mind kept thinking, kept planning.
In his Dodge she sat close to him automatically, placing her head once again on his shoulder and letting one hand rest on his thigh, he drove with one arm around her, driving slowly out of town and along the road by the river.
“Did you like the movie?” he asked, trying to make conversation.
She didn’t answer, and he didn’t repeat the question or ask another. He kept driving, and soon she snuggled her head tighter against his shoulder, making little kisses against his shirt.
He knew that he ought to park the car. He knew this, just as he had known that he should kiss her in the movie, but he seemed unable to ease the car off the road, unwilling to spoil things by hurrying them.
“Find a place to park,” she said, suddenly.
He was surprised. Then, gratefully, he pulled the Dodge off the road and turned off the ignition. Almost as an afterthought, he switched off the headlights.
They turned at once and looked at each other. He saw something in her eyes which he couldn’t quite make out, some message that was going over his head. He was forced to play everything by ear, and while he didn’t like doing things that way, he couldn’t think of any other. There was a disturbingly unreal aspect about the whole scene — all he knew for certain was that she was waiting to he kissed, so he took her in his arms and kissed her.
She trembled. She pressed her lips against his and he kissed her again, amazed at the warmth and softness of her lips. She smelled very clean and very fresh.
When he kissed her again her lips opened beneath his. He felt her arms tighten around him and noticed that she was breathing faster and clinging closer to him, all warm and soft and sweet-smelling.
His hands moved with a will of their own and he didn’t have to think any longer about what he was doing. He lifted her sweater and slipped a hand beneath it, touching her skin, stroking her back, marvelling at the softness of her under his hand.
He touched her breast once, and then he cupped it with his hand when she did not draw away. He felt her breast, felt how firm it was, and he squeezed it gently, very gently, loving her, wanting her, wanting her with an intensity that was new to him and unable to fully understand his own feelings.
I love you, he thought, but he didn’t say anything.
He kissed her again, his lips pressing lightly against hers, and he held her breast while he kissed her. He breathed heavily, saying “Jan,” half moaning the name. She drew away from him, and there was a pause.