When was she going to feel something? She tried to respond . . . she stroked his hair . . . it was stiff. He used hair spray! She mustn’t think of things like that now. She opened her eyes to look at him. After all, he was good-looking. But he looked ridiculous with his eyes closed, sprawling all over the couch. Why couldn’t they act sensible and walk into that horrible bedroom and get undressed and . . . and then what? Wasn’t he supposed to hold her close and tell her he loved her instead of just biting her lips and tearing away at her best shirt? She noticed that the gold trim on his Gucci shoes had ripped his silk couch. For some reason that pleased her. Hey, she’d better get with it. . . . She closed her eyes . . . she wanted to feel romantic . . . she wanted to feel . . oh, thank God, he had finally gotten her blouse open without breaking the buttons. Now he was fumbling with the back of her bra. He had real expertise there . . . only now it was up somewhere around her neck. Was she supposed to make some sort of a token protest—or pitch in and help him? She decided to pull away.
“Relax, little baby,” David whispered as his head went to her breasts. He began licking each one gently and she felt her nipples harden . . . and the odd sensation in her pelvic area. He pulled her to her feet, took off her blouse with one hand and fumbled with the zipper on her skirt with the other. Ah, he was good at that too . . . it dropped to the floor. He took off her bra. She was standing in her boots and stocking pants. He lifted her up and carried her into the bedroom. She could have walked. She would have preferred to walk. Five foot seven and weighed a hundred and ten. That was bone-thin according to fashion. But a hundred and ten plus boots must feel like a ton to a man trying to be Romeo. She tried not to think of her long silk skirt lying in a heap on the living room floor. Of her bra beside it. And her silk shirt crumpled somewhere on the couch. What did she do when it was over? Walk out there stark naked and start picking up her things? He tossed her on the bed. Then he pulled off her boots and her panty hose.
And then she was lying there completely nude and he was telling her she was beautiful. Now he was undressing. She watched him take off his pants . . . she saw the large bulge in his jockey shorts. He almost strangled himself as he tore off his tie. He took off his shirt—and then, triumphantly, his shorts. He smiled with pride and came to the bed. She stared at the huge angry penis standing erect against his stomach.
“It’s a beauty, isn’t it?” he asked.
She couldn’t answer. It was the ugliest thing she had ever seen. All red . . . all those veins . . . it looked like it would burst.
“Kiss it . . .” He pushed it toward her face. She turned away. He laughed. “Okay . . . You’ll want to kiss it before we’re through . . .”
She fought off a feeling of hysteria. Where was this romantic sensation she had expected to feel? Why was she feeling only revulsion and panic?
He lay on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows and mouthed her breasts. Then his hands began to explore between her legs. Involuntarily she clamped them together. He looked at her in surprise. “Is something wrong?”
“It’s . . . it’s just so light in here and . . .”
He laughed. “Don’t you like to make love with the lights on?”
“No.”
“The lady commands, I oblige.” He went to the switch and turned off the lights. She stared at him as he walked toward her. This wasn’t really happening. She wasn’t lying on this bed, waiting to be taken by this . . . this stranger. Suddenly she realized she hadn’t gone to the doctor Linda had suggested and gotten pills or a coil.
“David . . .” she began, but suddenly he was stabbing that throbbing thing between her legs. Pushing . . . pushing . . . she felt his fingers everywhere . . . on her breasts . . between her legs . . . pulling her legs apart . . . pushing into her. . . .
“David, I’m not on the pill,” she said in a muffled voice as he tried to kiss her.
“Okay. I’ll pull out in time,” he muttered. He was breathing hard. Perspiration made his chest damp. And all the while he was trying to push that big thing into her. She felt its repeated thrust, repelled each time by its impact against a solid wall of muscle and tissue within her. Couldn’t he see that it was impossible? But the thing only became more demanding . . . again and again. It was ripping her apart. Oh God, he was killing her! She bit her lips to keep from screaming and dug her nails into his back. She heard him mutter, “Great, eh, baby. Fuck me . . . Come on . . . fuck me!” Then there was a blinding pain as he finally tore through her. Unbearable pain as if he was crunching bone and muscle. Suddenly he pulled out of her and she felt a hot sticky liquid shoot onto her stomach. Then he fell on his back, holding his chest . . . gasping. The thing between his legs lay crumped and inert like a dead bird.
Gradually his breathing came back to normal. He turned toward her and rumpled her hair. “Well . . . was it great, darling?” He reached for some Kleenex on the night table and put it on her stomach.
She was afraid to move. The pain was so intense she was frightened. Perhaps he had torn her apart. Linda had said it hurt a little in the beginning; she never said it would be agony. Like a robot she wiped her stomach. It was gooey. She longed to rush into a hot shower. But most of all she wanted to get away. He stroked her hair. “How about giving me some head, baby? Then we can do it again.”
“Head?”
“Go down. . . .” He pushed her head toward the limp thing that now rested on the inside of his leg.
She jumped out of bed. “I’m going home!” Then she stopped when she saw the blood. It had made a violent blotch on the sheets and was running down her legs.
He sat up. “For God’s sake, January, why didn’t you tell me you had the curse!” He jumped out of bed and ripped off the sheet. “Oh, Christ . . . right through to the mattress.”
She stood very still with her hand clamped between her legs. She felt that if she moved her hand, her insides would fall out. He turned and looked at her. “For God’s sake, don’t drip blood on the rug. There’s some Tampax in the medicine closet.”
She raced into the bathroom and locked the door. She took her hand away and nothing drastic happened. The bleeding had stopped. She took a towel and washed the blood off her legs. She felt sore and torn inside. The bright light over the medicine chest gave her face a yellow cast. She stared at herself in the mirror. Her eye makeup was streaked, her hair was a mess. She must dress and get out. She washed the makeup off her eyes. Then, draping another towel around her, she opened the bathroom door and dashed into the living room. He didn’t even look up. He was still naked, but he had stripped the bed and was working furiously with cleaning fluid on the mattress.
She grabbed her clothes from the living room, picked up her boots and stocking pants from the bedroom, and rushed back to the bathroom. When she came out, the bed was still stripped, but he was dressed.
“Well, I’ll just have to wait until it dries before I can tell,” he said. “I’ll probably have to call a cleaning service. Come on, I’ll take you home.”
He didn’t speak until they were in the cab. Then he put his arm around her. Involuntarily she pulled away. He took her hand. “Look, I’m sorry if I was cross about the sheets. But they’re Porthault, and you should have told me you had the curse. I know you’ve lived in Europe and some of those foreign characters like it. But I never wade through the red sea. Did you find the Tampax all right?”
“I don’t have the curse,” she said.
For a second he didn’t understand. Then it hit him and he slumped in his seat. “Oh, my God! January, you aren’t . . . I mean you weren’t . . . oh, Christ! But whoever heard of a twenty-year-old virgin? Especially one who looks like you. I mean, you felt tight, but I figured because you were so slim and . . . oh, Jesus . . .” He wound up with a groan.
They drove for a few blocks while he sat and silently stared into space.
“Why are you so upset?” she asked.
“Because, dammit, I don’t go around taking virgins.”
“Unfortunately, someone has to,” she said. “I remember a boy in Italy telling me that.”
When they reached the corner of her street, he asked the driver to stop. “Look, let’s go into that bar for a nightcap. I want to talk to you.”
They both ordered a Scotch. She hated the taste of it but hoped it would make her sleepy. God, how she wanted to fall into a dead sleep tonight.
David made rings on the napkin with his glass. “I’m still in shock. But . . . look . . . I’m really proud that you selected me to be the first. And you won’t be sorry. Next time I’ll really make you happy. January . . . I . . . I really care for you a great deal.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s fine. I mean I’m very flattered.”
He reached over and took her hand. “Is that all you feel?”
“Well, David—I—” She stopped. She had been about to say, “I don’t know you very well.” That was wild. She had just gone to bed with him.
“January . . . I want to marry you. You know that, don’t you?”
“No.”
“No what?”
“No, I didn’t know you wanted to marry me. I know that Dee wants you to marry me. But I didn’t know you wanted to. I mean, this is all ridiculous, isn’t it, David? We’re strangers. We’ve been to bed together but we’re strangers. We sit here trying to find things to say to one another and it shouldn’t be like this. I mean, aren’t you supposed to want to shout . . . to sing . . . when you’ve had your first love affair? When you’re in love isn’t something marvelous supposed to happen?”
He looked past her and said quietly, “Tell me what you think it’s supposed to feel like?”
“I don’t know. But . . . well . . .”
“Like you never want the night to end?” he asked.
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“And that you’re afraid to leave because it’s so wonderful that you want to own the person . . . be together every second.”
She smiled. “Sounds like we’ve both been watching the same late movies on TV.”
“January, will you marry me?”
She stared at her drink. Then she took a long swallow. She shook her head helplessly. “I don’t know, David. I didn’t feel anything for you and—”
“Look,” he cut in. “Those things we both talked about. They don’t really happen. Maybe for one night with kids strung out on pot . . . or people enmeshed in a clandestine love affair . . . or—”
“Or?” she asked.
“Or . . . well . . . if a teeny bopper meets her hero . . . someone she’s always worshipped. I suppose every girl has her dream man . . . just as some men have dream girls. Most of us go through life never meeting or realizing our dream.”
“Must we?” she asked.
He sighed. “Maybe it’s better that way. Because if you ever get it, you might find it impossible to let go. And you can’t hold a dream forever. You can’t marry a dream. Marriage is something different—it takes two people who want the same things, two people who like one another.” When she remained silent he said, “I . . . I love you, January. There . . . I’ve said it.”
She smiled. “Saying it and meaning it are two different things.”
“Don’t you believe me?”
“I believe you’re trying to sell yourself almost as hard as you’re trying to sell me.”
“Do you love me?” he asked.
“No.”
“No? Then why did you come back with me tonight?”
“I wanted to fall in love with you, David. I thought maybe this would do it. But it hasn’t . . .”
“Look . . . it’s my fault. I didn’t know you were a virgin . . . Next time it will be different. I swear.”
“There won’t be a next time, David.”
For a moment he looked nonplussed. “You mean you don’t want to see me again?”
“I’ll see you . . . but I’m not going to bed with you.”
He motioned for the waiter and paid the check. “Look, this is just a normal reaction after what’s happened.”
She stood up and he helped her into her coat. He held her arm as they walked down the street. “January, I’m not going to crowd you. I won’t ask you to go to bed with me. I don’t care if we wait months. Maybe you’re right . . . let’s get to know each other better. But I promise you—you’re going to marry me. You’re going to love me and want me . . . But we’ll take it step by step. Well spend Thanksgiving together in Palm Beach. We’ll have four days and nights together. At least that will be a good start. And I promise—I’ll never ask you to go to bed. When it happens, it will happen the way you want it. And as you fall asleep tonight . . . remember, I love you.
When she let herself into her apartment she ran the tub and tore off her clothes. She eased herself into the warm water . . . and tried to think of all the things David had said.
And it wasn’t until later, as she lay in bed, trying to sleep, that she realized he had not even bothered to kiss her goodnight.
When she awoke the following morning, she found she had hemorrhaged during the night. Her first thought was to call Linda. But she realized she wasn’t up to Linda at the moment. She could just see Linda’s expression if she heard the story. She tore through the phone book and found the number of Dr. Davis, the gynecologist Linda had told her about. When she explained she was hemorrhaging, she was told to come right over.
Oddly enough the examination itself was easier than sitting before his desk, fully clothed, and telling him the cause of her condition. To her relief he explained that although it was rare to experience this kind of bleeding, nothing was really wrong. He gave her a prescription for the pill, and also for a sedative. Then he told her to go home and stay in bed for the rest of the day.
When she got back to her apartment there was a messenger ringing her doorbell. He had a small package from Cartier’s for her. She signed for it, and went inside. It was a hand-carved ivory and gold rose attached to a heavy gold chain. The note read, “Real ones die. This will last much longer—to remind you that my feelings are also lasting. David.”
She put it in her drawer. It was beautiful, but at the moment she didn’t feel like thinking about David. She had stopped and gotten the prescriptions filled. The way she felt now, she had no desire to start on the pill. She put them away, beside the Cartier box. But she took one of the sedatives. Then she called Linda and said she had spent the morning at the dentist’s and wouldn’t be in.
She got into bed and tried to read . . . then the pill took its effect. She was in a heavy sleep when the phone rang at five o’clock. It was David. She thanked him for the necklace. “Could we have a quick drink this afternoon?” he asked.
“I’m afraid not. I’m . . . I’m piled up with assignments,” she said.
He paused. “Well, there’s going to be a Securities Analysts’ meeting on the Coast in a few weeks, and several heads of companies are in town now. I’m afraid I’ll be tied up with meetings the next few nights.”
“That’s all right, David.”
“But I’ll call you each day. And the first free night, we’ll have dinner. I’m getting tickets for Hair next week.”
“That’s fine, David.”
Then she hung up and lay in the semidarkness. It was a peaceful feeling of half wakefulness, half sleep. But at nine o’clock the sedative wore off and she sat up and turned on the lights. The whole night stretched out. She thought about food; but she wasn’t particularly hungry.
She had made a list of subjects that might make interesting articles. She had intended to submit them to Linda today. She studied them now. Perhaps she should try to start one. She was particularly intrigued with the idea: “Is there life after thirty?”
It had come to her when Linda turned down a secretary who had top references and accepted a nineteen-year-old girl who just barely got by with shorthand. “January, I don’t want a woman of forty-three to be a secretary at Gloss. I don’t care if sh
e was secretary to a president of an oil company for twenty years. Gloss is a swinging young magazine. I want shiny beautiful young people in this office.”
January had noticed when she had gone for her “commercial” that most of the girls who worked as secretaries and receptionists at the advertising agency were all in the nineteen-to-twenty-nine age bracket. Of course it didn’t apply to executives, or the woman who was head copywriter. Linda was pushing thirty—but for her job, she was young.
She liked Linda. But aside from their mutual enthusiasm for the magazine, they were worlds apart. At Gloss, Linda was “Power.” When she walked through the halls, everyone snapped to attention. Linda at the weekly editorial meeting was cool and beautiful—in total command. Every editor and junior editor admired her almost classic elegance in looks and style. Yet Linda away from the office, with a man—any man-was devoid of any stature. She couldn’t understand Linda’s attitude about having a “body” next to her. Being able to enjoy sex with a man even if you didn’t particularly like him. Last night had been dreadful . . . even before the pain. She hadn’t felt any desire for David’s body. Was something wrong with her?
She had to talk it out with someone. Not Linda! Linda would immediately suggest vitamins or a psychiatrist.
Suddenly she felt she had to see Mike. Maybe they could have lunch tomorrow. She couldn’t really tell him what happened. But just talking to him might help. It was only nine thirty. He wouldn’t be in, but she could leave a message.
She couldn’t believe it when he answered the phone. (Oh, God, maybe she had interrupted him and Dee. . . .) She tried to make her voice light. “I can call back if you’re playing backgammon.”