“I did. And you, Professor?”
“I didn’t get much sleep, I’m afraid. I was busy attending to that matter we discussed.”
“Oh.” She peered at him over the top of her glasses as if seeking evidences of depravity. “And did you accomplish anything?” Her voice, dripping icicles now, said very clearly that she would be satisfied — if not gratified—-only by a negative answer.
However, Dr. Peerloin was due to be disappointed. And Professor Woocheck was human enough to be just a bit smug about that. “I accomplished everything I set out to accomplish,” he told her. “I have made arrangements for the steady and continuous flow of a more than adequate subject population drawn from the ranks of professionals.”
“And just how did you manage that?” Dr. Peerloin asked through locked dentures.
“Experience,” the Professor told her airily. He reached over and condescendingly patted her hand. “It was really very simple for a man of experience.” She snatched her hand away. “Where are you going?” Professor Woocheck added as she started towards the door
“To wash my hands,” she told him haughtily. “To wash my hands!”
CHAPTER THREE
“Scientific exactitude combined with a desire not to alarm the public determined the nomenclature of the project premises: ‘VENUS BIO-EROTIC RESEARCH OBSERVATORY.” Eventually over one hundred skilled technicians, observers and carefully trained interviewers would be employed there. But the initial staff consisted of only two people in addition to the authors. Their dedication»during those early days enabled the study to be inaugurated while the authors were still busy formulating the over-all program. Thus we would now like to express gratitude to F. G. Newton, the project engineer responsible for setting up and operating the complex recording mechanisms used, and to Mercedes Bilkoo, who interviewed the initial subject volunteers and compiled the data used for selectivity and assignment. It was Miss Bilkoo who first noted the semantic difficulties of communicating with members of a societal sub-stratum having a parlance peculiar to its environs . . .”
Chapter One, Survey of Bio-Erotic
Behavior Patterns in Human Beings,
by Woocheck & Peerloin
“On the average, how much intercourse do you have during a seven-day period?” Mercy Bilkoo asked the overly made-up young woman sitting across from her.
“Gee, I dunno. Tell the truth, I’m not much of a one for talking.”
“I wasn’t referring to verbal intercourse.”
“I ain’t much for writing letters neither.”
Mercy took a deep breath and tried again. “Let me put it another way. How many men have carnal knowledge of you in the course of a week?”
“Most of them don’t ask no questions.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, they ain’t interested in getting no knowledge about me. Most times they just wanna screw and get along home.”
“But how many of them a week?” Mercy carefully kept the irritation she was feeling out of her voice.
“Oh! You mean like how many tricks do I turn! Why didn’t you say so? I guess maybe forty-fifty a week.”
“Forty to fifty over a seven-day period.” Mercy made a notation.
“Nope. Only six days.”
"Oh?"
“Yeah. Wednesdays I don’t work.”
“I see. Well, what do you do on Wednesdays?”
“Go to Confession. Haven’t missed a Wednesday night in four years,” the girl said proudly.
“And after that? How do you spend the rest of the evening?”
“Usually with Harold. He’s my steady.”
“He takes you out? Dinner and a movie? Dancing? Things like that?”
“Nah! You kidding? I just pick up a bottle and hightail it over to his place so’s we can shack up all night.”
“You mean after working at your—umm—profession all week you turn a trick with Harold on your night off?”
Mercy was proud of herself for having found an opportunity to use the expression so quickly. It would help establish rapport during the remainder of the interview.
Her pride was misplaced. The interviewee was indignant. “Whaddaya mean turn a trick with Harold? We never!”
“But didn’t you say—?”
“I said we shacked up. But that ain’t turnin’ no trick. He don’t pay. I’m really ape for Harold. We go all night long. But that ain’t no trick! What kinda girl you think I am anyways?”
“I’m sorry,” Mercy apologized hastily. “Believe me, I meant no offense. I just didn’t understand.”
“Yeah?” The girl looked skeptical. “Where you been all your life?”
“Much too sheltered, I’m afraid,” Mercy admitted candidly. “But I’m truly sorry. Now, if you’ll forgive me, let’s get on to the next question, shall we? From which socio-economic bracket do you draw your clientele?”
“Talk English, will ya!”
“I mean what sort of men take advantage of your services? Rich? Poor? Middle-class?”
“Oh. Well, mostly I get the guys offa the factory swing-shifts.”
“I see.” Mercy jotted down “working class” on the indicated space on her questionnaire. “Now I wonder if we can break down the type of erotic service they require of you? Oral? Anal? Masturbatory? Sadistic? Masochistic? Voyeuristic? I mean as pre-coital techniques, or as sources of satisfaction in and of themselves.”
“Huh?”
“Sorry. I guess I’m going too fast. Let’s take it one at a time. Do many of your customers request fellatio?”
“Nah. They don’t dig that long-hair stuff. Sinatra’s their speed. But I once had this guy was hipped on it. Used to play it all the time while we was makin’ it.”
“Play what all the time?” Mercy was bewildered.
“Fidelio. The Beethoven thing. Alla time them trumpets blarin’ an’ him poundin’ away.”
“Not Fidelio,” Mercy told her patiently. “Fellatio.”
“Who’s he?”
“It’s not a ‘he’; it’s an act.”
“I guess I never caught it.”
“No, no. A sex act.” Her professional demeanor ruffled, Mercy couldn’t help blushing as she explained exactly what the term meant.
“Oh, sure,” the prostitute said when Mercy had finished explaining. “Lotsa guys dig that ’cause they can’t get it at home. So I give ’em what they want. Why not? It’s natural they should want a change.”
“Sees oral moral,” Mercy jotted down in the shorthand she would later translate. “What about anal relations?” she asked aloud.
“I don’t getcha.”
Again Mercy explained.
“Oh. Yeah. Once in a while. But not too often. I try to steer ’em off it ’cause it always gives me the hiccups. Now how do you figure that? I asked the doc about it once, but he couldn’t explain it. Anyways, like it’s a drag. Boring, know what I mean?”
“Anal banal,” Mercy jotted down. “Do you use many masturbatory techniques?” she asked. She quickly explained what she meant.
“Nah. No hands. They dig that, whadda they need me at ten bucks a flop for?”
Mercy quickly covered the rest of the list and went on to the next series of questions. “What techniques do you employ if the client is impotent?”
“I treat ’em all the same no matter what kinda big-shots they are!” the girl replied, motivated by an innate instinct for democracy . . .
By the time the interview was over and the girl had left, Mercy was nursing a dull headache. She was leaning back and kneading her temples with the tips of her fingers when “Fig” Newton stuck his head into the interview room.
“You look harassed,” he observed.
“Just feeling the effects of man’s inability to communicate with man,” Mercy answered. “Or, rather, woman, as happens to be the case. Not that the gender engenders any noticeable improvement.”