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"It's really not as bad as I thought it would be," she admitted honestly. And then, blushing again, "I mean...."
David laughed, pulling her back up against him. Still holding her gently, he began to excite her again with his fingers, enjoying the way she opened her legs for him after a while and began, quite involuntarily, to rub her breasts up against his chest.
"You're really a very sensual woman, Stella," he whispered to her. He turned her on her side so her back was to him, and then entered her again, lying spoon-fashion. This way, he could play with her breasts while at the same time his finger, pressing on her engorged clitoris, excited her so much that she began to tremble and then to move wildly on him.
Stella wondered why she had never before realized that a man's penis inside her could provide so much pleasure. Or that a man's hands could be just as clever and knowing as a woman's.
At the same time, she was sensible enough and pragmatic enough to understand that this thing with David was merely an experiment for both of them and hardly the beginning of a love affair. But she was also grateful to him for being so patient, so gentle with her.
Stella hoped that George, when she decided to give herself to him, would also be gentle and considerate. But now she felt more confidence in herself. David told her that she could manage George and teach him subtly how to please her—that older men were much easier to handle than younger guys.
She was glad she and David were friends. Perhaps some other day they would come' together like this. Why not? All she had to be was very discreet.
David had Stella back in her apartment by nine-thirty. She was expecting a call from George, who'd had to go out of town. He had a feeling almost of affection for Stella. Poor kid, she'd had a tough life, and she deserved a break. If that Marti female left her alone, she'd be much better off. Perhaps he could hint as much to Eve. He wondered, angry at himself, why just the thought of Eve could give him a hard-on, even after he'd been with another woman.
Damn Eve—why was she acting so stupid? She was turning into some kind of a tramp, and whenever they quarreled now, she'd try to put the blame on him. Why couldn't she realize that women's lib or not, the old double standard still existed? A guy could sleep around and no one thought the worse of him, but a woman who did was soon labeled. Why was he so damned jealous of her still?
He remembered suddenly that they'd had a tentative kind of agreement to see each other this evening, and wondered if she'd still be up, waiting. He stopped the car by a telephone booth and called her.
Her voice sounded as if she'd been crying, but she was mad, too.
"Goddam you, David! Where have you been?"
"Busy, sweetheart. At the office. I just got through. Still want to see me?"
There was a silence at the other end of the line, and then: "I wish I didn't." He heard the small sigh that escaped her. "Oh, David! Why couldn't you have called?"
"Stop making wifely noises, Eve. I didn't call because I kept thinking I'd be finished early. And then, when I noticed what time it was, I couldn't believe it. Can I come over?"
"I—oh, I guess so! Marti's in bed, so don't ring. I'll leave the door unlocked. David, will you be spending the night?"
It had been a long time since they had spent a night together. Why not, he thought. She usually had to be up early, and that would give him time to get back to his apartment before the traffic got too heavy.
"Okay, baby. Look, I'd better hang up now, so I can be on my way. Wait for me."
"Don't I always?"
Was there a trace of bitterness in her tone?
Marti heard David come in, and knew who it was. She wondered why Eve put up with the kind of treatment he had been giving her recently. She loved him, Eve said. But was a love that made you crawl and beg for crumbs, forgetting all pride, all reason, really worth it?
Not for me, I'm stronger than that, Marti vowed to herself, turning restlessly in bed, The drinks she had had earlier had given her a headache, but she couldn't be bothered getting up and going to the bathroom for water and aspirin.
The drinking had to stop. Pat, from the agency, had as much as told her that outright. She guessed they'd heard rumors. Who hadn't? She hadn't tried to hide her feelings for Stella from anyone, nor her reactions to Stella's gradual withdrawal, her betrayal. What the hell, Marti thought, there are other women in the world. No use crying over what was already, in effect, lost to her. Why should she have to be content with being Stella's hidden, backstairs lover?
Suddenly, Marti thought of an offer that one of the photographers she had posed for a few times had made her. Movies. The underground kind. There was a great demand these days for slim, beautiful women—the public was tired of the obvious whores, the usually over-plump and older women who played in the skin flicks. Since Deep Throat and Behind the Green Door, the business had gone almost respectable.
She didn't have to be much of an actress, he'd told her persuasively; they had a really great young director lined up, a guy who was destined to go places. And these movies his company was going to make would be a cut above the usual run-of-the-mill pornography.
"We're going to show them that fucking is fun—and something of an art. Baby, we already got distributorships lined up all over the country, and in Europe, too. Art movies, these will be. Sophisticated porn, aimed at the more educated and discriminating section of the public."
To shut him up, Marti had told him in the end that she'd think about it, let him know. Now, lying sleepless in her bed, Marti thought about it some more. Knowing what she was, what she liked, he had told her about the other girls he had recruited. Young and lovely and eager to learn. Many of them aspiring starlets. There was much demand for lesbian films these days, as well as the S and M variety. Marti could practically have her pick. Of course, it would mean moving to Los Angeles eventually, and she didn't care for the climate there or the constant rushing. But what the hell? She'd think about it. That couldn't hurt, just thinking about it. It was a damn sight better than lying here thinking about Stella and wondering what she was doing. With George. Lucky George!
"Well, at least I'm not going to sit around feeling sorry for myself—just waiting around in case she calls. No more crying jags, and no more booze. I managed okay before Stella, and I'll manage now. My way. Me for me, just like the old days. It's the only way to survive, and Eve had better learn that, too."
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EVE HAD BEGUN TO FEEL, tentatively, as if she could at least start thinking about being happy again. It was a feeling something like being able to release her breath after holding it for a long time. She had started to be afraid that she was becoming hooked on talking into Peter's little tape recorder, just for the sake of trying to sort out her feelings; but now, suddenly, she'd begun to feel as if there might be a chance for her to make it with David.
