THREE HEADS WERE BETTER THAN ONE
Steve Victor, The Man From O.R.G.Y. had a million-dollar puzzle on his hands – with three vital pieces missing. One piece was blond. One was red-headed. The third was brunette. Stripping off their cunning disguises was the kind of undercover action that the Man From O.R.G.Y? Was superbly equipped for – until he found that the secret that each concealed was far more than throat deep and there was just one dangerous way to get to the bottom of it…
THE ULTIMATE TANGLE IN PARIS!
Who was the real Françoise Laval?
Steve Victor examined the three fantastic looking creatures in his Paris hotel room. They all were cooperating with his investigation, having eagerly stripped without his even asking.
All three fitted the description. Blond hair (it was definitely genuine!). Opulent breasts that jutted out in need of a bra. Curvaceous legs and inviting thighs. Even the same pouting mouths, with their tongues flicking over their lips.
Fortunately the Man from O.R.G.Y. knew of a test that would tell the truth. Steeling himself to administer it, Steve started unbuttoning his shirt and unzipping his pants. it was going to be a fight to the climax-and may the best woman emerge victorious!
THE REAL GONE GIRLS
Ted Mark
1966
(Dell printing 1973)
CHAPTER ONE
WHAT WOULD you do if you were the wor1d’s first pregnant man? I mean, morality and all that jazz aside, what would you do? And you're not married, either; remember that! So what would you do?
Exactly!
Abortion!
What else?
And that’s how, having little faith in darning needles, I decided to go to Geneva, Switzerland. If you’re a suburban type and you get caught, you go to Puerto Rico for a combination operation and vacation. If you’re a victim of a tranquilizer foul-up, you book passage to Scandinavia and then call the newspaper to explain why you won’t be eligible to become Mother-of-the-Year this year. But if you’re a male bachelor and enceinte, discretion dictates Switzerland.
There’s sound precedent for unwed mothers of either sex choosing this Alpine map-dot as the spot to be rendered unpregnant. Traditionally, the best girls from the best families have been shipped off to Swiss “finishing schools” under such circumstances. For generations the haut monde of many nations have considered mountain climbing the ideal cure for a fall from grace and many a blushing debutante has been re-virginized the Swiss way—and usually in plenty of time for her coming-out party.
Not that I was planning any such spree. I’d already come out. I’d been out for some time now. Way out. Far out. Too far out! Which is how I got pregnant in the first place.
But that’s another story. And I’ve already told it in The 9-Month Caper. Fifty cents at any newsstand, and I can use the royalties. Swiss abortions don’t come cheap, so go ahead and treat yourself to a copy. Maybe you can write it off your income tax as a contribution to O.R.G.Y.
O.R.G.Y.? Officially, it’s the Organization for the Rational Guidance of Youth. Actually, it‘s a setup to Obtain Research Grants for Yours-truly, Steve Victor.
That’s me. Steve Victor. The guy who turned down the chance to become history’s first male unwed mother. Steve Victor, the man from O.R.G.Y.
However, don’t get the wrong idea. Despite the fact that it’s a one-man operation, O.R.G.Y. isn’t a hoax. It‘s true that I’ve siphoned off some juicy grants from various foundations, but it’s also true that I’ve delivered the research for which O.R.G.Y. has been so generously endowed. And just because this research is in the field of sex and I revel in my work is no reason to fault O.R.G.Y., is it?
Anyway, while I was recovering from my illicit operation at a Swiss chalet right out of Heidi, I was also hunt-and-pecking out some correspondence designed to put O.R.G.Y. to work to pay the tab for the trip back home. If these letters got results, it would be quite a journey. What I was proposing was an O.R.G.Y. survey of European brothels designed to produce a statistical comparison à la Kinsey of the difference between such establishments in various countries.
It never occurred to me that the financing I needed would come from a completely unexpected source having nothing to do with the applications I sent out. And of course I had no way of knowing that the survey would center around a trio of million-dollar doxies and damn near turn me into worm-food before it was over. But I'm getting ahead of my story.
The action really started right after my—ahh—illicit operation. It’s interesting to note that such an experience no more incapacitates the male for further sexual activity than it does the female. I can vouch for that—and I’m the only man who can.
But there is one difference between the male and female in such circumstances. Psychologically, the male is ready to resume his sex life much sooner. While recuperating at the “clinic” in Geneva, I was forced to accept the frustrating realization that my fellow patients-—all female -- were much slower than I to overcome their disillusionment at having been trapped by sex. This was brought home to me one night in particular when, in comradely fashion, I tried to crawl into bed with one of these fallen angels.
She was an American girl. I could tell because she didn't move in the slightest when I reached up under her nightgown to make sure her stitches1 were out. However, she did speak.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” she asked in a bored voice.
“Bringing you succor,” I told her. “I am reaching out to you with the sympathy and understanding of one who has suffered the penalties of seduction to another who has similarly suffered. I offer you the sweet knowledge that life still has its moments of joy to provide. And just such a moment may be ours right now if we but have the courage to—”
I had made the mistake of punctuating my remarks with certain intimate caresses. One of these evoked the response she had failed to display before. “Ouch!” she exclaimed, interrupting me. Still no doubt a bit tender from her ordeal, I thought to myself. It was the last thing I thought for the moment. Having regained her virginity, she had absolutely no intention of risking it again so soon. She hit me over the head, with all her strength and a bedpan.
A full bedpan, no doubt. That was the first thing I thought about upon regaining consciousness and sniffing. The aroma was the last straw. It decided that this clinic was no place to convalesce. Not if I wanted a woman, it wasn’t. And, more than anything else, that was just what I needed after what I’d been through.
The very next day I made arrangements to finish my recuperation at a chalet in the Alps.
It was a small place catering to mountain climbers and skiers. Females who go for this sort of activity—-my researches for O.R.G.Y. have convinced me—fall into a category all their own. They are usually big, healthy girls with large lungs well inflated by the mountain air. Also, they are thrill-seekers who get their kicks pitting their flesh against the elements. And when the elements have aroused them enough, they often display a delightful willingness to pit their flesh against flesh. That, believe it or not, is frequently the true source of those joy-filled yodels echoing around the mountainsides.
So, with a few days of my arrival, I had tuned up my vocal chords and hit the Alpine trail. The sport I had in mind was the slalom seduction of a buxom Bavarian Fraulein named Greta. From my first look at her I had understood why skiing -- in any language—is pronounced “she-ing.”