"They're looking for Hot Meat In The Night, even the married ones."
"Married? Don't you have to be single even to fill out one of these things?"
"So all right, what're you, an Eagle Scout or something? Lie! They expect you to. But don't say you're single, say you're divorced. That way, whether or not they're lying, it'll give you a little more leeway with them."
"Twenty contacts," David murmured to himself. "Think of it, twenty women… all strange and new and willing…" Suddenly he gazed up at Brad. "You mean every one of them cooperated?"
Brad shook his head sorrowfully. "Nope."
"I thought not," said David.
"Only eighteen," Brad said.
"OhmyGod!" said David, and felt some quick chills of anticipation: eighteen pretty maids all in a row…
"And I'm here to tell you they were all out-of-sight once I melted their barricades and got their fat little toes up in the air. And you know that old theory about all cats being grey at night? Forget it! Today's women are a whole new ball-game, because man, they have a lot more leisure now… time on their hands to learn and read and study new techniques, and as a result, every pushover's got a specialty these days, some new kind of twist or lick that'll send you to the moon!"
Listening and nodding, David muttered: "They don't just lay there, they give…"
"Right, Buster!" said Brad. "And man… think of the money I've been saving… it's crazy! Imagine all that gash for only fifteen dollars. Less than a buck an ass! It's an open market, Dave, and believe me, you look plenty ripe for it…"
"That's true," David sighed, "I'm ripe for something, God knows…" He thought of his gruesome series of dreams, the unfathomable scenes of depravity…
"If I know you and Linda, Dave, you don't want any permanent rifts. It's just that you kids are so happily married, you're bored; so what you need is a dash of variety…"
"Oh?" David was quite impressed with Brad's certainty regarding the conditions that existed between him and Linda, which only reminded him how very lovely and ideal his marriage looked from the outside.
"You've reached a plateau, Dave, so you've got to strike out and dabble a bit; but without really kicking over the traces, without changing what you've got at home…"
David folded the forms neatly and slipped them in the inside pocket of his jacket. "I'll have to think about it," he said. "It sounds like an awfully involved process to me. There's bound to be some of these women who are just plain lonely and hungry for a family…"
"So all right, hungry for whatever, you tell them they can have it, Dave, and in the meantime, while you're lying, you can be driving them out of their buggy little minds with ecstasy. And man, that's the most fun of alclass="underline" telling a woman what she thinks she wants to hear while you're rolling around in the dark with her. That's where the art-work comes in. It's beautiful!"
Rising, David gave Brad a friendly smile, deciding that his new career as a salesman fit him very well indeed. "I've got to be going now, Brad, I'm late. I'll read this stuff over later, when I have more time. Right now I'm not sure it's what I want…"
But I want something, thought David as he drove back to the office; something soon and something soothing. And yet, why hadn't he corrected Brad's false conception of his idyllic life with Linda? Why hadn't he admitted how frustrating their sexual encounters had become for him? Was it true that he merely wanted a few extramarital playmates without upsetting the affluent structures of his life? He knew how shattering his material losses would be if she divorced him; much worse, even, than those which Brad now faced. Both his marriage and career had thrived on the substantial sponsorship of Linda's parents. One wrong step on his part and it would all come tumbling down…
The problem? How to turn a pastel, suburban conformist into a free spirit without digging his grave?
FOUR
That night, while pausing on his way home in the usual freeway tie-up, David re-read the questionnaire for a third time. Oh, no, definitely not, he decided. If he needed the body-clutch of someone new, it would have to involve a chance-meeting, something off-the-cuff. Nothing so calculated as filling out a form.
Then, just as he was about to toss the papers out the window, he was struck with an idea, and with it came the sting of discovery and he trembled a little. Deception! If it were customary to lie about being single, as Brad had said, why not falsify other answers and see what he came up with? For once he was glad the traffic was heavy and stalling, as he pored over the form, having nearly committed it to memory by now.
Naturally he'd have to tell the truth about his physical description. But in all other categories, mightn't he now become the reckless, mercurial daredevil-type he'd always wanted to be? Sure, like Brad himself! That would insure his success. Oooh… Christ!.. it made his blood run hot when he thought of the kind of woman who might be right for that kind of a guy! After the word "occupation," he'd write: jazz-musician. Sure, man, a crazy French horn player, which is what he'd wanted all his life, so this was only a half-lie. Sure, and he'd get special clothes, all sharp and Mod, and maybe rent a far-out roach-dung pad in the city for these blasts. Women really popped their titties over jazz-musicians, and to make it even more convincing, he might smoke a little pot, hoist a little acid…
Jesus, now I've got the answer, he thought, as the traffic ebbed and he drove on… By becoming somebody else entirely, I can do whatever he'd do without feeling any personal guilt. He felt the idea growing, taking hold; and actually, what a discreet way this was for some lonely young girl to find herself an exciting lover. And hell, with the fag-population of San Francisco what it was-The Queen-City! — it was common knowledge there was a shortage of eligible men in the city. And if it were true, as some of the girls in his office claimed, that the most desirable men were already married, why not draft a few of those ineligibles into emergency service?
A Charity-Drive, that's what he'd be launching; and a dizzying tremor of alarm shot through him as he realized exactly what he was planning, quick flashes of Linda's face and her parents' faces beating at him like bats' wings. He stopped the car and pulled over to the curb while he was still several blocks from his house. Then, his senses abnormally alert and wary, he gazed about on all sides to make sure he wasn't being watched. Satisfied that he was totally unobserved, he pulled out the questionnaire and filled in all the blanks. Except for his coloring, height and weight, it was the most creative tissue of lies he'd ever read. He slipped the form into the glove compartment, which he carefully locked. Then started the car again. Somehow the threat of maybe losing everything made David feel more alive than he had in years. Good old Brad! He'd have to do him a favor some day. Something vital.
He mailed the form the next morning, deciding it would be best if it had a San Francisco postmark. He had used his mother's maiden-name, instead of his own. So in this new underlife he'd be known as David Thorndike. He gave his private phone number at the office, which, until now, had only been used by Linda or one of the servants. He also went to the trouble of purchasing a post-office box for this transaction.
Then David waited. More than two weeks. Each day became a nerve-wracking feat of endurance, as he tried to visualize what it would mean to find a stable of tantalizing sex-partners without having to be morally obligated to any of them.
Just when the tension of suspense was becoming something of an emergency, the information reached him. In a plain sealed envelope. First making certain there was no one who might be spying on him at the post-office, David tore open the envelope. He found a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. Nothing more personal. He supposed these girls had received the same limited information about him, although, according to the instructions, it was the man's place to do the initial contacting. He'd really expected something more intimate, like a warm message from at least one of the women. The first name, given in initials, seemed especially cold: J.B. Porter, then a whole bunch of digits on a card that mustn't be folded, bent or spindled, which sounded like pretty much of a drag to start out with.