(Yes. But I was speaking from a. man’s viewpoint—)
(Works the same for a woman, twin. You’ll see.)
(I hope so. I know that most people—in my day—assumed the opposite. But it’s not true. Sex, whatever else it is—much else!—is an athletic skill. The more you practice, the more you can, the more you want to, the more you enjoy it, the less it tires you. I’m glad to hear—very personally glad—that it works that way for a woman, too. But you aren’t the first girl to tell me so. Uh first time I heard a girl say that, or roughly that, was when Harding was President. Not a girl, a very sweet young married woman who had more in common with you than you are likely to believe. Almost certainly dead now, God rest her soul; she would be over a hundred years old)
(What was her name?)
(Does it matter? Little busybody, you were telling me about Fred and Anton. I still don’t understand how you swung it. The setup, yes—but how did you gentle them to it? Did you split the time and take them into your apartment separately?)
(Oh, heavens, no! That would be rude. And embarrassing for everyone. It would have turned me off utterly. It was a Troy.)
(Well?)
(Boss, can you imagine how excited two men can get while kissing—fondling—the same girl? If she’s willing? If they trust each other? Which they did, they were driver and Shotgun together.)
(Yes, that’s true but I can’t visualize—wups! I just remembered something that happened so many years ago I had almost forgotten it.)
(Tell me.)
(No, no, you go on. Just that history repeats itself—as it always does. Go on.).
(Well, they do, Boss. Excite each other even if they don’t touch each other at all. Just her. ‘Heterodyning’ is the term I learned for it in secretronics; I don’t know what the kinseys call it. But I had been kissing them good-night almost every other night for weeks, and kissing them when they picked me up in the mornings. And the kisses got warmer and it’s never been my nature to discourage a man if I like him—which I did; I felt affectionate toward both of them; they’re nice people.
(Presently we were stopping for a necking session—could no longer call it a good-night kiss—in the basement parking before they would take me up the lift. I had to slow that down by saying, ‘Watch it, boys. You’re not only getting body paint on your uniforms, you’re getting me so mussed up I’ll have trouble getting neat enough that Joe won’t notice it.’ Which did slow them down, more on my account than any fret about uniforms; they liked Joe—everybody likes Joe—and did not want to cause me worry at home. Didn’t tell them that Joe wasn’t fooled; his artist’s eye sees much more than most people see.
(But we settled it that night, Boss. I told them that I was not a tease and that I was as eager as they were. . . but that I was not going to be spread in a basement. But that I would find a chance. They are both nice boys—oh, men, sure; Anton is forty and Fred is as old as I am. Was. So they waited, and didn’t do more than kiss me and grab a friendly feel. Then twice we almost had it made but Joe was busy painting, which I would not interrupt to take the President to bed.
(Then we hit the jackpot. Almost missed at the last minute; Jake was going to send me home in his car. He told me to cancel the call I had put in for my car. Yours, I mean. I surprised Jake by being balky—told him that I didn’t feel safe with Charlie unless he, Jake, was along. True, as far as it went; Charlie is a bad one, not like our four.
(So dear old Jake was going to get dressed and ride with me—I said that was silly, that Finchley and Shorty—I never referred to them as Tom and Hugo and wouldn’t advise you to—)
(I’m not stupid, dearest. When I’m ‘Miss Smith,’ they are ‘Finchley’ and ‘Shorty.’)