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"Marti, don't! Please don't make me unhappy, because I do love you, you know I do! I'm just afraid, that's all. What's there for us, Marti? In the end, I mean? I don't want to end up old and living with another old maid. Old maids—old dykes, they'd call us. And laugh, and snigger at us. And—I've seen it, Marti! We'd get to looking so ugly; all square-bodied and thick, like men. Oh, I couldn't stand that. I'd kill myself first!"
"Stop it, baby, stop it! You're young and you're beautiful and you'll never get old—all it takes is money and face-lifts. So cut out the tears. Go out with George; take him for whatever you can get; go out and fool the god-dam world, then. But baby, come back to me afterward —never stop coming back to me!"
Marti's hands touched Stella, stroked her trembling body, caressed it until the trembling had become a need that made her gasp and squirm.
"Oh, God—yes, baby—yes, yes! Do it to me—let me, too—Marti—Marti, darling—darling!"
They fell together onto the thick shag rug, tugging at their clothes, touching, kissing greedily. Marti kept thinking that at least she'd leave nothing of the life, the passion, the loving that brimmed up in Stella for old man George with his distinguished gray head and manicured hands.
Marti made Stella climax, screaming and whimpering with desire and lust—that soft, babyish mouth was open —little tongue licking greedily out at Marti's nipples. Of course Stella loved her back! Stella would use George, but it was Marti that Stella loved. Stella was hers, hers!
Marti gave herself up at last to pure feeling, ceasing to think and to calculate. Midnight-black hair and blond were all mixed up; their bodies met and tangled and entwined in the age-old Sapphic patterns.
Marti had never been so forceful, so demanding, so generous, and so tender. Under her avid, seeking mouth she felt with joy how Stella seemed to quiver and burn and then melt. Stella's beautiful body lay opened to her hands and lips—possessed completely by her. And as for her own needs—had Stella ever loved her so well? Stella was usually shy and inhibited about the things she would or would not do. But tonight, as if she had to prove something, Stella seemed to go wild. Her hands and tongue were merciless, taking Marti to peak after peak of joy.
After it was all over, they lay panting against each other like animals. Stella's sldn still quivered and shrank with sensation—she lay on her bade with eyes closed and her pink lips parted, still moaning softly. Marti, lying on her stomach with an arm and a leg thrown possessively over her love, was, at that moment, content.
Now let her go out with George—let her try finding out if that was what she wanted, whether George could give her pleasure.
It was only after Stella had left, still half-dazed with the passion that had exploded between them, that Marti let the depression catch up with her again. The last thing Stella had said as they kissed good-bye at the door had been, "Marti, I love you. Please understand!"
So Stella would go out with George after all. How could George resist her? Marti was well aware of Stella's loveliness—and Stella's selfishness. Always, Stel would come first—to Stel. If it hadn't been George, then eventually there would have been someone else. Marti knew that, had always known it. But how could you stop yourself from loving, from needing one particular person?
The last record had ended, and the silence hurt her ears. Why couldn't Eve have stayed up? They might have gotten smashed together, consoled each other. Poor Eve, as unhappy over her stupid, undeserving David as she was over Stella.
Her drink was finished. Should she have another, maybe? Standing up, Marti felt herself sway. A sudden wave of nausea hit her, and she felt beads of sweat pop out on her brow as she clutched onto the arm of the chair. No more drinks—she hated to get sick, hated the agony of vomiting. Carefully, she began to walk toward her bedroom.
On the way, she leaned against Eve's door for a moment. Eve, wake up—I need someone. Hold my hand; talk to me; tell me she'll be back. But there was only silence. Well, she could cry herself to sleep!
CHAPTER FIVE
IN THE WOMEN'S WASHROOM at Hansen, Howell & Bernstein, Stella Gervin studied her reflection in the mirror. Thank goodness last night didn't show, except as a very faint shadow under her eyes, hardly noticeable under her makeup. Stella's lips curved in a smile. Smiling, she gazed back at her mirrored self with a kind of complacence. No wrinkles. And her hair looked pretty this morning; she was glad she was letting it grow again.
Stella's new blue dress brought out the color of her eyes; its demure ruffled collar made her neck look slender, and the skirt was midlength enough to show that she had extremely pretty legs. She wondered suddenly if David would notice. She had had the feeling that just recently he had been noticing her a lot and trying to hide it. Well, men who knew she was Marti's special friend were usually intrigued. Every man wanted to be the one who could make a lesbian come.
Under her pale skin, Stella flushed. More of Marti's philosophy—she herself hated the word. I am not a lesbian. Bisexual, maybe. It sounded properly clinical, better than lesbian, les. Never. I can always get it from somewhere; it doesn't have to be a woman. A man with soft hands who understands women and likes to go down on them could have the same effect. Against her will, she thought of Marti as she had been last night.
Beautiful, slender Marti with her hard-muscled dancer's body, giving her pleasure—and such pleasure! Could a man ever do the same for her?
One of the other secretaries came in, and Stella turned away hurriedly, the flush still on her face. She picked up her purse and started to hurry out, smiling at the other girl. Thank goodness it hadn't been Gloria. Gloria always managed to make her feel plain and insecure. Privately, Stella knew it was because Gloria had her eye on David Zimmer, who was Stella's boss. To Gloria, any female who worked around David had to be competition, especially since Eve was out of the picture now. So Gloria invariably made it a point to remind Stella of her position, which was outside David's office, and safely behind her desk.
Back at her desk, Stella put her purse away and sat down, crossing her legs. David wasn't in yet Mr. Zimmer. She always called him that in the office; it made for better business relations, and it kept Gloria off her back. It was Gloria, in fact, who had made a point of bringing George Cox into her office, on the pretext that he wanted to see David. Gloria knew very well that David was out that afternoon! Stella guessed that Gloria had also known very well that George would prefer to meet David's secretary. Well, she had no complaints about Gloria on that score, at least. George had seen her, George had liked her looks, and it hadn't been long before his phone call had come, asking her if she'd care to have dinner with a lonely old man. Stella had known that George Cox had been married at least three times and wasn't exactly lonely for female companionship, but the fact that he had asked her out was flattering—and he was such a rich man!
Behind her desk was a window that looked out over the city. Stella loved her view of all the white buildings that seemed to glimmer in the sun when the fog went away, and the faint cresoent of blue in the distance that was San Francisco Bay. She had hated Los Angeles, but the first time she had seen San Francisco she had felt as if she belonged here. Perhaps, she mused, it was because here, for the first time, she had been really free, and able to choose her own friends, make her own life. Thanks to contacts she had made through Mim, she had been lucky enough to land the legal secretary job at H. H.&B.
Mim, whom she hadn't thought of in months, started a whole new train of memory. Mim led to Kevin, and the thought of Kevin, hateful even now, reminded her of herself as she had been just a few years ago—a naive, uncomplaining child-woman, Southern small-town style. Brought up to believe in church and marriage and a life just like her parents had led, raising lots of kids. Well, she'd been lucky that there had been no children. Some kind of trouble with her ovaries, the doctor had said. No children for her ever unless she wanted to stand some kind of operation that might even b
e risky for her. A good thing Kevin had wanted to wait.
Kevin Maynard. She didn't like to remember now that she had once been Mrs. Kevin Maynard. Married to her high-school sweetheart, the only boy she had ever dated, because he had been the only one her parents approved of.
He had been a quiet, ruggedly handsome man, and she had believed herself deeply in love with him. She had taken secretarial training while Kevin did his hitch in the Army, just so that she would be able to help him when he started back to college afterward.
They had been married soon after Kevin got his discharge from the Army, and Stella settled down to the routine of a working wife while Kevin studied hard— he was ambitious and she had admired and encouraged his ambition. And she had even found keeping house kind of fun, at first.
Being a conservatively brought-up Southern girl,
Stella had never questioned the fact that she didn't really enjoy doing "that" with her husband. She wasn't supposed to, was she? It was something a woman submitted to, when the man was her husband. Kevin was kind enough to her, and this was what she had expected from marriage. She did not question the fact that he never tried to caress or arouse her—just rolled onto her and off her, and then they'd both fall asleep. The only time it had hurt was the very first time, and of course she had expected that.
