your good friend Ray Trask’s daughter is one of the biggest sluts in Santa Donate? She’d
kiss her own twat If she was double-jointed, dad-O. That’s how much she thinks of it. Just
a stinking little slut. Two lines of coke and she’s yours for the night. And If you don’t
happen to have any coke, she’s still yours for the night. She’d fuck a dog If she couldn’t
get a man.’ Think that’d wake you up, dad-O? Get you a flying start on the day?
He pushed the thoughts away viciously, knowing they wouldn’t stay gone.
His father came back with the paper. Todd glimpsed the headline: SPY TRIALS
CLOSER, STATE DEPARTMENT SOURCE SAYS.
Dick sat down. ‘Betty’s a fine-looking girl,’ he said. ‘She reminds me of your mother when I first met her.’
‘Is that so?’
‘Pretty … young … fresh.’ Dick Bowden’s eyes had gone vague. Now they came back,
focusing almost anxiously on his son. ‘Not that your mother isn’t still a fine-looking
woman. But at that age a girl has a certain … glow, I guess you’d say. It’s there for a
while, and then it’s gone.’ He shrugged and opened the paper. ‘C’est la vie, I guess.’
She’s a bitch in heat. Maybe that’s what makes her glow.
‘You’re treating her right, aren’t you, Todd-O?’ His father was making his usual rapid
trip through the paper towards the sports pages. ‘Not getting too fresh?’
‘Everything’s cool, dad.’
(if he doesn’t stop pretty soon I’ll … /’// … do … something. Scream. Throw his coffee in his face. Something.)
‘Ray thinks you’re a fine boy,’ Dick said absently. He had at last reached the sports.
He became absorbed. There was blessed silence at the breakfast table.
Betty Trask had been all over him the very first time they went out. He had taken her to
the local lover’s lane after the movie because he knew it would be expected of him; they
could swap spits for half an hour or so and have all the right things to tell their
respective friends the next day. She could roll her eyes and tell how she had fought off his
advances -boys were so tiresome, really, and she never fucked on the first date, she
wasn’t that kind of girl. Her friends would agree and then all of them would troop into
the girls’ room and do whatever it was they did in there – put on fresh makeup, smoke
Tampax, whatever.
And for a guy … well, you had to make out. You had to get at least to second base and
try for third. Because there were reputations and reputations. Todd couldn’t have cared
less about having a stud reputation; he only wanted a reputation for being normal. And if
you didn’t at least try, word got around. People started to wonder if you were all right.
So he took them up on Jane’s Hill, kissed them, felt their tits, went a little further than
that if they would allow it. And that was it. The girl would stop him, he would put up a
little goodnatured argument, and then take her home. No worries about what might be
said in the girls’ room the next day. No worries that anyone was going to think Todd
Bowden was anything but normal. Except –
Except Betty Trask was the kind of girl who fucked on the first date. On every date.
And in between dates.
The first time had been a month or so before the goddam Nazi’s heart attack, and Todd
thought he had done pretty well for a virgin … perhaps for the same reason a young
pitcher will do well if he’s tapped to throw the biggest game of the year with no
forewarning. There had been no time to worry, to get all strung up about it
Always before, Todd had been able to sense when a girl had made up her mind that on
the next date she would just allow herself to be carried away. He was aware that he was
personable and that both Ms looks and his prospects were good. The kind of boy their
cunty mothers regarded as ‘a good catch’. And when he sensed that physical capitulation
was about to happen, he would start dating some other girl. And whatever it said about
his personality, Todd was able to admit to himself that if he ever started dating a truly
frigid girl, he would probably be happy to date her for years to come. Maybe even marry
her.
But the first time with Betty had gone fairly well – she was no virgin, even if he was.
She had to help him get his cock into her, but she seemed to take that as a matter of
course. And halfway through the act itself she had gurgled up from the blanket they were
lying on: ‘I just love to fuck!’ It was the tone of voice another girl might have used to express her love for strawberry whirl ice cream.
Later encounters – there had been five of them (five and a half, he supposed, if you wanted to count last night) – hadn’t been so good. They had, in fact, gotten worse at what
seemed an exponential rate … although he didn’t believe even now that Betty had been
aware of that (at least not until last night). In fact, quite the opposite. Betty apparently
believed she had found the battering-ram of her dreams.
Todd hadn’t felt any of the things he was supposed to feel at a time like that Kissing
her lips was like kissing warm but uncooked liver. Having her tongue in his mouth only made him wonder what kind of germs she was carrying, and sometimes he thought he
could smell her fillings – an unpleasant metallic odour, like chrome. Her breasts were
bags of meat. No more.
Todd had done it twice more with her before Dussander’s heart attack. Each time he
had more trouble getting erect In both cases he had finally succeeded by using a fantasy.
She was stripped naked in front of all their friends. Crying. Todd was forcing her to
walk up and down between them while he cried out: Show your tits! Let them see your
snatch, you cheap slut! Spread your cheeks! That’s right, bend over and SPREAD them!
Betty’s appreciation was not at all surprising. He was a very good lover, not in spite
of his problems but because of them. Getting hard was only the first step. Once you
achieved erection, you had to have an orgasm. The fourth time they had done it – this was
three days after Dussander’s heart attack – he had pounded away at her for over ten
minutes. Betty Trask thought she had died and gone to heaven; she had three orgasms
and was trying for a fourth when Todd recalled an old fantasy … what was, in fact, the
First Fantasy. The girl on the table, clamped and helpless. The huge dildo. The rubber
squeeze-bulb. Only now, desperate and sweaty and almost insane with his desire to come
and get this horror over with, the face of the girl on the table became Betty’s face. That
brought on a joyless, rubbery spasm that he supposed was, technically, at least, an
orgasm. A moment later Betty was whispering in his ear, her breath warm and redolent
of Juicy Fruit gum: ‘Lover, you do me any old time. Just call me.’
Todd had nearly groaned aloud.
The nub of his dilemma was this: Wouldn’t his reputation suffer if he broke off with a
girl who so obviously wanted to put out for him? Wouldn’t people wonder why? Part of
him said they would not He remembered walking down the hall behind two senior boys
during his freshman year and hearing one of them tell the other he had broken off with
his girlfriend. The other wanted to know why. ‘Fucked ‘er out,’ the first said, and both of them bellowed goatish laughter.
If someone asks me why I dropped her, I’ll just say I fucked her out. But what if she
says we only did it five times? Is that enough? What? … How much? … How many? …
Who’ll talk?… What’ll they say?
So his mind ran on, as restless as a hungry rat in an insoluble maze. He was vaguely
aware that he was turning a minor problem into a big problem, and that his very
inability to solve the problem had something to say about how shaky he had gotten. But
knowing it brought him no fresh ability to change his behaviour, and he sank into a black
depression.
College. College was the answer. College offered an excuse to break with Betty that
no one could question. But September seemed so far away.
The fifth time it had taken him almost twenty minutes to get hard, but Betty had
proclaimed the experience well worth the wait. And then, last night, he hadn’t been able