Connie looked around the living room of Fred Bergen's dimly lit apartment, hoping to spot a familiar face. But the cloud of thick blue smoke which filled the room made her eyes burn and she found it difficult to see anything clearly. Finding herself a cushion on the floor, she settled down, her back propped against a wall, to get her bearings for a moment. She had been at the party for at least fifteen minutes and, so far, she hadn't seen anybody that she knew.
Connie had been living in Forest Hills for nearly a month, occupying a furnished studio apartment on One-Hundred-Third Street just off Queens Boulevard. The rental was high, but she had drawn expenses in advance from the Police Department Paymaster before going out on the assignment. She found the apartment on her first day out and had moved the suitcase containing all her civilian clothes into it at once.
When Connie rented the apartment, she told the landlord that she was nineteen years old and a student at a downtown Manhattan art school. Her long hair, done in braids and tied with two thick pieces of brightly colored yarn, made her story easy for him to believe. When she added that her family lived in Connecticut and that she would be staying in Forest Hills only as long as she remained in school, the landlord had insisted on collecting two months rent in advance. Connie had accepted this as proof that her cover story was convincing and considered it her first victory as an undercover agent.
She told the same story to all the kids that she met at the Glass Onion, which she began to frequent almost as soon as she moved into the neighborhood. She made it her business to drop in at the Forest Hills discotheque every night – except Tuesdays when it was closed – even if only for an hour. At first she just ordered a drink and sat at the bar sipping it slowly while she gave all the regulars a chance to get used to seeing her around.
But it wasn't long before the young crowd that had made the discotheque their hangout began to notice the new face. About a week after she had begun dropping in, Connie started receiving the friendly nods and occasional greetings of many of the regulars. She always returned the greetings with a casual smile or a simple "Hi," not wanting to appear anxious to crash any gates.
The young people who frequented the Glass Onion were a friendly bunch, most of them feeling that the "new culture" to which they belonged required the quick acceptance of strangers – so long as the strangers looked and dressed the same way they did. Connie's braids and her jeans were enough to convince the Glass Onion crowd that she was "all right". She soon became friendly with several of them, sitting with them at tables in the evenings and going out of her way to greet them whenever she happened to run into them on the street during the day.
In her conversations at the Glass Onion, Connie heard many vague references to drugs, quickly learning the meanings of slang words like "grass" and "stuff" and "shit" and "junk". But so far she hadn't seen or come into close contact with anything stronger than Gordon's Gin and Schweppes. Nevertheless she was satisfied with her progress considering the short time that she had been in the neighborhood. And she was certain that no one suspected her true identity.
When Fred Bergen, a young long-hair with a well-trimmed beard and intense look in his dark eyes invited her to a party at his "pad" on Tuesday night, Connie knew that she was coming closer to accomplishing her objective. She had been sure that there would be drugs at the party, and that she would have an opportunity to get some of the information that she was after. But although many of the people in Fred's living room looked like they were stoned on something or other, she hadn't seen anything being used or even smelled the familiar acrid aroma of marijuana smoke. She wondered whether this party was going to turn out to be a waste of time.
Shifting her weight from one buttock to the other, Connie tugged at the hem of her yellow miniskirt in a vain effort to pull it to a more respectable level. Although she had been practically living in jeans since coming to Forest Hills, she had decided that the skirt would be more appropriate for a party. With it she wore a red blouse with puffy sleeves and a neckline that was open, but not low enough to be immodest. But now, as she tried to find a more comfortable position on the cushion, she felt her short skirt sliding up again, revealing too much of her bare thighs and wondered whether it had been a mistake. She looked quickly around her to see if anyone had noticed and was relieved to see that no one was paying any attention to her. She was thinking of getting up and looking for another seat when Fred Bergen suddenly appeared in front of her.
"Hi, Connie," he said, dropping down to sit cross-legged on the floor beside her. "Why are you sitting all by yourself?"
"I just got here a little while ago," she answered. "And I haven't seen anybody I know."
Fred laughed. "Don't wait for formal introductions," he said. "This is a casual party. I don't know half the people myself, and it's my house. But we're all friends, anyway. Here I'll show you what I mean."
He suddenly turned toward a girl who was sitting against the other wall, her eyes closed, her lips mouthing the words of the Rolling Stones record that was being played. "Hi," he said, raising his voice to rouse her from her apparent trance.
The girl's eyelids fluttered open. For a moment she looked lost, turning her head quickly from side to side as though trying to find a landmark. Then, seeing Fred smiling at her, she smiled back and answered, "Hi."
"I'm Fred," he said.
"That's nice," she answered. "I'm Bella."
"Bella," he said, his voice taking on a playful air of formality, "meet Connie. Connie, Bella."
Bella smiled and nodded at Connie. "Hi," she said. "See ya." Her eyes drooped shut and her head nodded as her body began to sway once more in rhythm to the music.
Fred laughed. "Stoned, it looks like," he said. Connie's ears perked up at the word. "I was going to call Lionel and ask him to bring some dope to get the party going," he continued. "But I've been having some trouble with the landlord and I figured it would be cooler to stay clean for a while. So if you want to get stoned, I'm afraid you'll have to do it somewhere else. Looks like most of the kids got high before they came. Sorry I can't be a better host."
"Oh, that's all right," Connie said. "I can live without it for one night, I suppose." Fred smiled. Then, trying to sound casual, she asked, "Lionel? Lionel? I'm not sure I know him."
"Oh, you must," Fred answered. "Everybody knows Lionel. He's everybody's connection. Haven't you met him yet?"
"No, I don't think so," she answered.
"Well, you'll get a chance tonight," he said, "Lionel promised he'd be here a little later. Can I get you a drink? At least there's no law against booze."
"Yes, I think I'd like a drink," Connie answered.
"Be right back," Fred said, rising from the floor and walking toward a table on which stood some whiskey bottles and a few glasses. Connie watched him pour a drink from one of the bottles and then start towards her. But he was stopped by a girl who was wearing tight hip-hugging pants and a see-through top with nothing underneath it. Fred shot Connie a "be patient" glance as he stood talking to the girl.
Connie took the opportunity to look around the room. Her eyes had become accustomed to the dim light, and the burning sensation caused by the excess of cigarette smoke in the air had subsided. The room was rather large and Connie estimated that there were about twenty people in it. Most of them were sitting on the floor or standing around holding drinks and chatting.
Then she noticed Peter and Eleanor, two of the kids that she knew from the Glass Onion. They were sitting on the floor at the other end of the room. Connie was about to get up and go to them when Peter put both arms around Eleanor and began kissing her on the lips. Connie wanted to turn away, but found herself staring at them, watching them kiss.
Peter's hand was moving over Eleanor's back, caressing her through the loose-fitting sweater that she was wearing. Then, without breaking lip contact, he slipped his hand inside the back of her sweater. His motion pulled the garment tight across the front of Eleanor's chest and Connie could see that she wore no bra. Her nipples were outlined clearly against the tautly drawn knit material of the sweater.
Connie found that she couldn't take her eyes off the lewd spectacle. Peter's hand had come out of the sweater now and had slipped around to the front of Eleanor's body. He began cupping the girl's large round breasts right through the sweater. Connie watched the expression on Eleanor's face change from one of contented pleasure to one of passionate excitement. The girl's body was beginning to move lasciviously, as though what Peter was doing to her actually felt good.
Connie felt that it was wrong for her to watch, but found herself fascinated by the sight. And, anyway, if she was going to win the confidence of these kids, she would have to understand what made them tick. Observing Peter and Eleanor was all in a day's work, she told herself. She shifted her weight on the cushion again, trying to straighten the skirt which had ridden halfway up her thighs. She felt very warm, as though someone had turned the heat up full-blast.
Peter's hand was inside the sweater again, only this time in the front. His movements were clearly outlined against the material of Eleanor's sweater as he stroked her swelling tits. Eleanor's eyes were tightly shut and she seemed to be laboring for breath. Connie pitied her, recognizing, from the expression on the poor girl's face, that she didn't stand a chance of holding off the lustful explorations of Peter's wandering hands. But the young policewoman also knew that she was powerless to help her. Eleanor had gotten herself into it. Now it was her problem.
Peter was kissing her throat now, and moving both hands sensuously over her body. Eleanor's sweater was inching higher and higher, exposing a wide expanse of the girl's bare belly to Connie's view. Then, to the young policewoman's shock, Peter pulled it up all the way, completely uncovering Eleanor's rounded tits.
Taking a quick furtive look around her, Connie was pleased to find that no one else in the room had taken notice of what the couple in the corner was doing. She looked toward them again, just in time to see Peter taking one of Eleanor's ripe white mounds of breast flesh in his hand, squeezing it gently until her rosy nipples puckered to turgid erection. As he began to roll the quivering pink caps around in his fingers, tweaking and plucking at them to Eleanor's apparent enjoyment, Connie felt her own nipples hardening inside her bra.
She didn't understand what this meant, although it wasn't the first time that it had happened to her. She knew, of course, that her nipples puckered and hardened when she was cold or wet. But she certainly wasn't cold now. The same thing had happened to her several times in the shower, as she washed her breasts. When she rubbed the soapy washcloth gently over their smoothly rounded surfaces, her nipples would begin to tingle and then they would become turgid and erect. The first few times that this had happened, it frightened her. But after a while she had learned that she could avoid it by being quick, brisk, and business-like when washing her breasts.
Watching it happen to another woman's nipples was certainly interesting. It seemed that the more Peter stroked the firm quivering nipples the harder they got. And the better Eleanor seemed to like it. Her whole body was in motion now. She had leaned back against the wall and was trembling all over as her boyfriend's hands explored her body shamelessly. Connie thought that she could even hear the girl's sighs of pleasure from across the room.
Connie's breasts had begun to tingle now, and a warm persistent itch, with its center somewhere in her groin, was beginning to annoy her. She was sure that it would go away if she could only bring herself to tear her curious eyes from the lewd scene on the other side of the room, but her fascination with the unknown was getting the better of her.
Suddenly Fred dropped to the floor beside her and handed her a drink. "We may be short on dope," he said, "but we're long on erotic entertainment."
Connie felt her face flushing crimson red as she realized that Fred had seen her looking at Peter and Eleanor. "I… I… I just noticed that…" she stammered, but Fred cut her off with a laugh.
"Oh, that's all right," he said. "I like to watch, too, sometimes. And Peter and Eleanor certainly don't mind. This is standard operating procedure for them at parties. And you ain't seen nothing yet. If they're at all true to form, they'll both be rolling around naked before long. Get an eyeful if you like. We're all friends here," Connie wanted to explain that she wasn't watching for her entertainment, that she was just trying to get as much information as possible about the kids of Forest Hills. But she didn't see how she could explain without blowing her cover. And after Fred's promise that Lionel, an apparent dope pusher, would show up later, blowing her cover, was the last thing in the world that Connie wanted to do now.
Anyway, Fred didn't seem to think that there was anything wrong in watching. And neither did Peter and Eleanor. Although she faced Fred now, Connie could still see the necking couple out of the corner of her eye. Eleanor was stretched out on the floor, totally naked from the waist up. Peter was bent over her, his mouth sucking hungrily at one of her distended nipples. Connie drained her glass quickly, the liquor burning her throat on the way down.
She tried to stop herself from coughing by taking a long deep breath. Then she smiled. "That's good," she said. "But a little strong. What did you put in it."
"Straight scotch," he answered. "You didn't tell me what you wanted so I decided to play it safe with scotch. I hope it's all right."
"Oh, it's just fine," Connie answered. "In fact I think I could do with another." The drink had given her something to do and taken her mind off the lascivious spectacle on the other side of the room. Fred reached for her glass but she held onto it. "I think I'll get it myself," she said.
As she rose from her seat on the cushion, her short skirt hiked quickly up, exposing a long stretch of white thigh and a wide open view of the crotch of her lacy white panties. Before she could tug the skirt down again, she saw Fred's eyes focus on her cunt, the lips of which were pouting against the filmy material of her panties. She turned quickly, pulling at her skirt as she did so, quick to smooth it down around her thighs as soon as her back was to him. Connie was careful to avoid looking in the direction of Peter and Eleanor as she threaded her way carefully across the room to the table with the liquor on it.
Francine, a girl that she knew from the Glass Onion, was standing at the table pouring herself a drink. "Hi, Connie," she said when the miniskirted policewoman stepped up alongside of her. Francine was dressed in paint-stained jeans and a close-fitting sweatshirt with the words WATERGATE BUGGING TEAM printed across the front. Connie was beginning to feel overdressed.
"Hi, Francine," she answered. "You're one of the first friendly faces I've seen at this party."
"Well, Fred's around somewhere," Francine answered. "I saw him a few minutes ago. And Peter and Eleanor are over there." She gestured toward the necking couple with a quick movement of her head.
"Yes, I saw Fred," Connie said. "And Peter and Eleanor look like they're kind of busy."
Francine laughed. "Well, you know how Peter and Eleanor are," she said, as though this was enough to explain their obscene conduct. "But it doesn't matter. Most of the people here are strangers to me too. Just hang loose and before you know it everything'll fall into place."
Connie had noticed, in the short time, that she had spent mingling with the young people of Forest Hills, that all of them seemed to have great confidence that everything would work out by itself if they left it alone and "hung loose". It seemed to be characteristic of the new philosophy that they all espoused. "I guess I just never learned to hang loose," she said, forcing a smile.
Francine took a long swallow of her drink, taking an ice cube into her mouth and rolling it around for a minute. "It's easier than you think," she said, the cube clinking against her teeth as she spoke. "You ought to check out the sensitivity session they're having in the next room."
"What's a sensitivity session?" Connie asked, pouring herself a generous shot of scotch and then adding club soda to fill the glass to the top. She didn't ordinarily like to drink much, but she found that the drink Fred had given her had relaxed her and made her feel more social. Since her whole idea in coming had been to make contact with someone who could lead her to heroin, it would be best if she let herself become part of the party. The liquor seemed to be helping her to do that.
"Sensitivity sessions are a form of encounter therapy," Francine answered. "The idea is to lose your inhibitions. To learn to express yourself without fear or embarrassment. Come with me. I'll show you." Francine took Connie by the arm and began leading her to a room in the back of Fred's apartment – probably Fred's bedroom. Suddenly remembering Fred, Connie turned to see that the girt in the see-through top had joined him on the floor and that both of them seemed to be looking directly at Peter and Eleanor – still necking shamelessly on the other side of the room and were whispering animatedly. Connie turned back to Francine and followed her, curious to see what this "sensitivity session" was all about.
There were about a dozen people in the room, all kneeling or squatting in a circle on the floor. They were huddled around something in the middle of the circle, but Connie couldn't see what it was at first. Francine led her to the perimeter of the circle and tapped a kneeling girl on the shoulder. "Move over," she said. "Make room for Connie and Francine. I'm Francine. This is Connie."
"Hi," the girl answered, looking up as Francine spoke. "I'm Greta. Join the encounter."
Francine dropped to her knees beside Greta and patted the floor next to her. Connie knelt beside her and then looked, for the first time, at the object of everybody's attention. In the middle of the circle of kneeling people was a waterbed. And on it was a naked girl. She was lying on her back, her eyes closed. Her arms and legs were spread-eagled, her feet and hands pointing to the four corners of the rippling mattress.
The girl was short and slim, but her naked breasts were huge. They rolled about as the rippling waterbed made the girl's body undulate sensuously. Her nipples were the size and color of strawberries. Her platinum hair was cut in a short pixie style, but her exposed bush of pubic hair was dark and thick. She was smiling, an expression of peaceful serenity on her face. Connie was speechless, unable to comprehend this strange ritual.
Then one of the people in the circle said, "All right, now, let's all concentrate on making Janie feel good. Just our minds at first. No hands."
The people in the circle closed their eyes and took on expressions of intense concentration. Someone began chanting a long low plaintive sound. At first Connie thought that it was the word "home". But as more people joined in the chant, she realized it was "om". She had read somewhere that there were people who said that Om was the sound made by the creation of the universe.
In a moment, all the people in the circle were humming the resonant monosyllable word. Connie, not wishing to attract attention to herself, joined in, shutting her eyes tightly and humming the mysterious term. It made the back of her throat tickle and she couldn't help smiling. She opened her eyes for a moment and noticed that the others were smiling, too.
"All right now," someone said softly. "Time for the laying on of hands. And remember! This is a sensual encounter. Not a sexual one?"
Connie couldn't imagine what they were talking about. She opened her eyes and then stared in wide-eyed disbelief as members of the circle, boys and girls alike, began to touch Janie's naked body with their palms and fingertips. At first they stroked her arms and legs only. Connie saw one girl running her fluttering fingertips up and down the length of Janie's shapely leg with little circular motions that brought her fingers closer and closer to the naked girl's crotch. One of the boys was kneading the flesh of Janie's upper arm, running his knuckles up into her armpit and grazing the curving skin of her tit with the back of his hand.
Soon all hands but Connie's were on Janie – stroking, petting, rubbing, and caressing every part of her naked body. As the exploring pairs of hands moved across her smooth white belly and firmly swollen tits, Janie began making soft sounds of pleasure in the back of her throat. Connie saw one of the girls in the circle take one of the naked girl's nipples between her fingers and roll it gingerly, first one way and then the other. At the same time, one of the boys began twining his fingers in the girl's thick bush of dark and wiry pubic hair. Connie couldn't believe her eyes.
Francine, whose hands were caressing the inside of one of the girl's naked thighs, looked up at Connie and smiled. "Don't be afraid," she said. "Join in. Once you get started, it feels almost as good to be in the circle as it does to be in the center. Just touch her. Any place."
Connie, afraid that Francine's words might draw attention to her non-participation, reached out and touched the naked girl's hand, stroking it lightly with her fingers. She hoped that this would satisfy the perverse requirements of their depraved little game.
Gentle hands were everywhere on Janie's body, exploring her nudity with completely uninhibited freedom. She had begun to writhe and squirm in response to the action of the erotically stimulating hands. She bent her knees and raised them, positioning the soles of her feet flat against the surface of the water-filled mattress. Then she moved her knees away from each other, bringing them closer to the surface of the rippling bed. This spread her thighs and formed them into a large vee, at the vertex of which glistened her cunt, with its lips obscenely stretched open, inviting the gaze of all who knelt around her.
A boy and a girl who knelt at the foot of the bed leaned forward at the same time to stroke Janie's shiningly moist pussy, the boy stiffening his finger for insertion in the pink inviting slash. Connie was aghast. She wanted nothing more than to get out of the room as quickly as possible. But she didn't see any way of leaving gracefully.
She noticed that Francine was concentrating her attention on the inside of one of Janie's thighs. As her hands moved lightly up and down the expanse of satiny-smooth white skin, they came closer, and closer to Janie's throbbing cuntal slit and the two pairs of hands which labored lovingly at it. Janie was writhing and moaning deliriously as the unknown hands stroked her and the unknown fingers fucked her. She humped her hips slowly up and down in the unmistakable rhythm of sexuality. Connie couldn't imagine where it all would lead, but was sure that it was the most sinful spectacle that she would ever be likely to witness. Combined with the liquor that she had consumed, it was beginning to have a dizzying effect on her and she longed for an opportunity to beat a graceful retreat.
She thought, for a moment, of closing her eyes so that she could at least be spared the sight of the shameful happening. But, as much as the encounter game disgusted and horrified her, she couldn't tear her eyes from it. Francine's hands had abandoned themselves completely to Janie's crotch now. And although Connie couldn't see too clearly, it looked as though Francine was rubbing the little button of flesh at the upper end of the naked girl's cuntal slash while the other two pairs of hands concentrated on the vaginal opening itself. Connie shuddered at the very thought of it. Suddenly she felt a slight pressure from, behind, as of someone's knees pressing gently against her back. She looked up to see a tall muscular youth smiling down at her. His long blond hair was tied back into a loosely held pony tail and held in place by a scrap of white ribbon. He dropped a friendly hand to her shoulder as she looked up at him. "Got room for another?" he asked. A silver-and-turquoise medallion which hung from a chain around his neck caught the light as he spoke. He wore a bracelet which matched it on his left wrist and a silver and turquoise ring on the little finger of his right hand.
Seizing the opportunity, Connie rose quickly to her feet. "Here," she said. "Take my spot. I'm ready for another drink."
"Mind if I join you?" he asked. "That drink sounds a lot better to me than this group grope session." He followed Connie toward the door which led back to the living room. Although the living room seemed more crowded than it had been when she left it shortly before, the blond youth had no trouble elbowing a path to the liquor table. "What are you drinking?" he asked.
"Scotch and soda," she answered, wincing inwardly as she realized that nothing could possibly sound more "establishment" than that old executive favorite. But he didn't seem to think so at all as he poured her the drink that she had requested and then mixed the same thing for himself.
"I'm Lionel," he said. "And you must be Connie."
"How did you know that?" she asked, fearing for a moment that her identity had been discovered.
"Simple process of deduction," Lionel answered. "You're the only chick here that I don't know. And Fred told me that there was a gal named Connie here who was dying to meet me, so I put two and two together."
"Did he really say that?" Connie asked, her face flushing with embarrassment.
"No, not really," Lionel answered, putting her at ease immediately. "But he did tell me your name." Then, tactfully changing the subject, he added, "You didn't look like you were enjoying the little sensitivity session in the bedroom."
"To tell you the truth, I wasn't," Connie answered. Something about Lionel's confident voice and easy manner made her sure that he would understand her feelings. "In fact," she added, "I thought it was awful. Does that make me a square?"
"No," he responded. "Not in my book, anyway. All it means is that you haven't been taken in by all that newspeak bullshit about self-discovery, free-expression, and body-awareness. I've always considered it kind of a lame excuse for group sex."
"Well, I'm glad someone agrees with me," Connie said. "I was beginning to feel like an oddball in there."
"Then why did you stay?" Lionel asked, with the directness of his question startling her.
"I don't know," she said. "I guess it isn't easy to walk out on a group."
"I've never had that problem, myself," Lionel said. "I walk out on groups all the time. In fact I'm thinking of walking out on this one any minute. Dullest fucking party I've ever been to. Not a crumb of dope in the whole fucking apartment."
His use of the obscenity shook Connie, knocking her off balance for the moment. She took a long swallow from her glass in an effort to regain her composure. She was sure, from the casual way that he had said it, that his intention hadn't been to offend. She decided to ignore it.
Trying not to show her discomfort at his choice of words, Connie said, "Fred said something about keeping clean because of landlord trouble. That's why there's no dope. I was a little disappointed myself." She was hoping to steer the conversation around to drugs. Fred had referred to Lionel as "everybody's connection" and it was just possible that Lionel was the one that she was looking for – a dope pusher who had access to large quantities of heroin. Maybe, with a little luck, she could complete the assignment that night and get back to her own precinct in Manhattan. At least the whores there were honest enough to say that they were turning tricks instead of attending sensitivity sessions.
"Would you be interested in scoring some dope?" Lionel asked, as though he had read Connie's mind.
"I might," she answered guardedly.
"Then why don't we split this place?" Lionel said. "We can drop in at the Glass Onion for a drink if you like. At least it's quiet there. We can talk it over."
"I'm with you," Connie answered, almost as glad for an opportunity to escape from the party as she was for a chance to get to know "every body's connection".
Shouldering their way through Fred's crowded living room, Connie and Lionel headed for the door and out into the relative quiet of Queens Boulevard.