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Llona knew even that amount would be a strain on her resources, but she was still feeling the afterglow of the last "treatment." In her widowed situation, she simply had to do something! She just had to have some release! Her solitary pleasures just weren't enough. "I guess I can afford it," she told Bill Archer.

"Fine." He beamed as he accepted the money from her. "Then I'll see you next Friday at two o'clock and introduce you to the rest of the ladies. I'm sure you'll find much in common with them. And I'm positive that you'll benefit greatly from the treatment given our little group."

Despite Bill Archer's assurances, Llona found her first "group treatment" something of a letdown after the private session which preceded it. The principle was the same, but the fact that it was carried out on something of an assembly-line basis detracted from the depth of the experience.

With the group, Archer worked with two assistants who moved from table to table in a prearranged fashion that didn't take into account the differences in reaction to stimulus by the various ladies on the tables. Nevertheless, the objective seemed to be accomplished with all of them -Llona included. And from Llona's point of view, it was still better than going it alone.

It was on her third or fourth visit to the massage parlor that Llona met Mrs. Valentine. It was Mrs. Valentine's first time with the group. She was assigned the table next to the one on which Llona was lying, and Llona couldn't help noticing her. Mrs. Valentine was like a compact cache of dynamite, fuse sizzling from the moment she mounted the table, which finally erupted in a series of explosions accompanied by high-pitched cries of ecstasy that testified to the efficacy of the Bill Archer practice of massage.

She was a small girl, was Mrs. Valentine, petite, Bar-dot-like, breasts shaped like perfect, ripe pears, hips from which wine-jugs could have been slung, legs shapely and strong like a dancer's, a sculpted, foam-rubber tail cushion. Her face was the face of a pixie, heart-shaped with high cheekbones, a saucy button of a nose, pouty lips and pert chin, complexion a permanenet red-gold tan, and eyes that flashed the signals of a sex-kitten ever-ready to purr, albeit a sex-kitten with sharp claws and set to pounce. Mrs. Valentine was alive and lively, a bounce given substance, a hungry libido on legs made to arch.

Mrs. Valentine was a greased ping-pong ball for a solid two minutes following the massage. When she'd finally stopped squealing, she rolled over on her side and her eyes met those of Llona, who was lying on the next table. "Wow!" Mrs. Valentine said. "I needed that!"

"It certainly seemed very therapeutic for you," Llona agreed.

"You can say that again!" Mrs. Valentine giggled. "I'm Olivia Valentine," she went on to introduce herself.

"I'm Llona May-I mean, Llona Rutherford," Llona responded.

"Glad to know you. What say we get out of these Mother Hubbards and into a nice warm gimlet?"

"I'm sorry. Do you mean-?"

"I'd like to buy you a drink."

"Oh. Well, thanks," Llona accepted.

"Meet you out front." Olivia Valentine bounded from the table.

Some twenty minutes later Llona was seated across from her in a dimly lighted cocktail lounge. She sipped at her drink quietly as Olivia chattered.

"You married?" Olivia wanted to know. Then, without waiting for an answer: "I am. My hubba-hubby's a Kin-sey dropout. Like he's a real sexual disaster area. Same with you, huh? You wouldn't go for the treatment if it wasn't, I guess."

"My husband's dead," Llona told her.

"You think yours is dead? You ought to try my Morty. He couldn't make it in a Russian whorehouse with a pocketful of rubles!"

"No. I mean my husband's really dead. I'm a widow."

"Oh. Sorry about that. I thought you meant- Gee, you're awful young to be a widow. Around my age, I guess."

"Probably."

"Still," Olivia observed, "if you don't have a ball-and-chain, why bother with the massage bit? There must be plenty of guys around would be glad to see to your needs."

"Yours, too," Llona pointed out. "Being married wouldn't necessarily have to stop you."

"In Birchville it would. This town's too damn small."

"That's my problem, too," Llona sighed. "I haven't been a widow long enough."

"Well, I might as well be a widow. For a recent bridegroom, my Morty's got all the enthusiasm of a permanent soprano choir boy."

"Then you haven't been married long?" Llona inquired idly.

"Just a couple of months. Mrs. Mortimer Valentine. I'm still not used to it. And the way things are going in the sack, I hope I never am."

"If my husband had lived, I'd only be married a couple of months myself," Llona said. "When were you married?"

Olivia told her the date.

"Why, that's the same day I was married!" Llona exclaimed. Then she remembered something which filled her with a sudden renewed hope. "What did you say your husband's name was?" she asked Olivia.

"Mortimer J. Valentine. Why?"

Mortimer! That was the name Archer had mentioned during that interlude on her own wedding day, Llona remembered. He'd come to her wedding by mistake. He'd thought he was at the wedding of his cousin Mortimer! "Does your husband have a cousin named Archer?" she asked Olivia, her heart pounding.

"You must mean Arch. Yes, he does. I've never met him, though. He was supposed to come to our wedding, but for some reason, he didn't show."

Llona thought she knew the reason. "Look," she said earnestly. "I know you don't know me very well, but this is terribly important to me. Do you think you could arrange for me to meet your husband's cousin?"

"I guess so. Why not?" Olivia looked at her curiously. "We've been meaning to ask him to dinner," she added. "Why don't you come, too? He's not married and it will balance things. Only one thing-"

"Yes?"

"You will be discreet about where and how we met, won't you?"

"Oh, yes," Llona promised. "Why don't we just say we're old friends from summer camp when we were kids and we recently met again on the street?"

"Good. I'll arrange it, then." Olivia took her phone number and promised to call her as soon as the date was set.

Llona left then: Her heart was singing. She was sure that at long last she'd traced down her Archer. She couldn't wait to see him and confirm it. She couldn't wait to lie in his arms once again. She dreamed about him all through that night.

The dream was even better than the vibrator…

Chapter Four

"Goddam Jews!"

"Shh, honey."

"Lousy hebes!"

"Take it easy."

"Stinking kikes!"

"Can't you forget it?"

"How can I forget it, Olivia? Every time I go to bed with you this happens. And all because of those dirty Jew bastards!"

"Mortimer, maybe if you'd forget about it, then it wouldn't happen this way all the time. Besides, I don't see how you can blame a whole ethnic group for-"

"You don't see! You don't see! Well let me just show you, Olivia!" Mortimer Valentine turned on the lamp on the nightstand and agitatedly hopped out of bed. "Just look at this!" He wasn't wearing any pajama pants and now he took hold of himself with one hand and waved his manhood under his wife's nose. "Take a good look!"

"It looks all right to me," Olivia said placatingly. "It's no different from any other man."

"What do you mean? How do you know? How could you know a thing like that?" Mortimer sputtered with excited suspicion. "How many other men-?"

"None!" Olivia assured him hastily. "No other men. I just mean that from what little I've read… But of course I've never actually seen another man to make a comparison."

"Well, all right, then." Mortimer was mollified by his wife's protestations of innocence. "But that's exactly what I mean. How can you judge? That's what I'm saying. It's not the same. It's not what it should be. And all because the goddamn sheenies-"

"Now look, Mortimer," Olivia said wearily, "other men have been circumcised, and they don't carry on about the Jewish people the way you do."