As David drove into San Francisco that mid-August morning he was relieved to be greeted by the city's cooling gusts of summer fog. If one had to work during the summer months-and he supposed he really didn't, if he wanted to let the Montclairs finance another world cruise for his family-it might as well be done in a temperate climate. San Francisco's built-in air-conditioning kept it the only spot in the area to remain unaffected by the heat-wave that was raging farther inland.
… Then why am I still burning and feverish, he wondered. Whether it be body-heat or barometric pressure, there was still a flaring-up inside of him, something abrasive and churning…
He thought of his work, and how he'd learned to adjust to it, become absorbed by it. A daily mental distraction from the aimless insularity of his life. Luckily, a man's work always came first. But women thrive on love and sex and are content to stay home all day and wait for it. Where the hell had he read that? A survey, a public-opinion poll? And if so, why didn't they say which women… why didn't they point them out?
He worked on a particularly interesting case that morning. Big phony insurance-claim that would involve endless litigation. But, by eleven, he found his mind wandering unaccountably to his friend Brad Grogan. It had now been several weeks since they'd lunched together, and the mention of him at breakfast that morning had rather amused David. Calling him a "company-man" was an old joke between them, as Brad had quite often applied the term to him right there in the office. It occurred to David that Brad Grogan was now the only friend he had who wasn't married, who no longer lived the same kind of life he did. He had grown weary of talking and lunching with men who were nothing but carbon copies of himself, digging the same grave-routes every day of their lives-married and suburban and TV-trained and chained.
On impulse, he telephoned Brad at his auto showroom out on Van Ness Avenue, and asked if he was free for lunch.
"You mean you're gonna duck the old fraternity sit-in for one day?" Brad laughed on the phone. "Don't they give you three demerits if you step off their treadmill?"
"I'll risk it," said David.
"Okay, rebel. I'll see you at Paoli's at one."
Brad Grogan was a rangy-looking ex-half-back who still looked every inch the gridiron champion. He looked a lot more Greek than Irish, with a swarthy, olive complexion, full, generous features and flashing brown eyes. Lately he'd taken to wearing his jet-black hair a trifle longer than usual, and even went the Nehru love-beads route on occasion, to further convince his old buddies how completely he'd kicked over the traces of wedded bliss.
As usual, David was pleased to see his old friend. But curious too. Wasn't this man lonely and rootless, living all by himself in a bachelor apartment after all his years of marriage and solidarity?
After they'd ordered lunch and their cocktails arrived, David asked Brad this question aloud.
"Lonely, hell!" Brad grinned at him. "I'm even thinking of taking a cabin in the country, just to see what it's like to be by myself again."
Bravado, thought David, closely studying Brad's face. Still the same big rugged features, an undeniably handsome and healthy-looking face. Except for the dissipation about the eyes and a certain overall gauntness. Those were the signs David was searching for-world-weary-tiger signs.
"I was lonely living with Joyce and her kids," said Brad. "That's why I cut out, broke the pattern. And you'll notice I said her kids, because that's how she was about anything that either came out of her body or went into it. Ownership. That's she knows. Her house, her kids, her future, and man, believe me, whenever I banged her, it was her prick in there which she was using for her own private recreation… masturbating herself with my meat. How about that? The fact that I was also getting my kicks was purely incidental with Joyce…"
David gazed nervously about to make sure this colorful lingo was not being overheard. Satisfied that the lunch-hour throng was too noisy to notice them, he said: "And did you, Brad? Get your kicks with her I mean? Was it a good marriage in that department?"
Brad gave him a rueful grin and nodded. "Joyce has been a wild lay since her early teens, David. Don't tell me you're one of the few who didn't get in on it. Or did you?" Suddenly he burst out laughing. "Jesus Christ, I don't believe it. You're blushing!"
David took a drowning gulp of his vodka martini. "Sorry, Brad, I don't think I was ready to hear anything like that about Joyce. And if it's true, it's very ironic, because most of the gossip has been about your promiscuity, not hers."
"Gossip spread by whom, David? Joyce's dearest sorority-sisters, right? Even your pretty little wife testified for her."
"Don't remind me," said David.
"Goddamned finishing-school cunts, they're organized, the stinkin' bitches! They'll lie their asses off whenever there's a hunk of community-property at stake. They're ball-breakers from birth, every last one of them. And I'll tell you something, Dave: give me a grateful ghetto-broad any day!"
Unable to suppress a grin, David listened intently, taking special note of Brad's increased profanity. A telltale trace of the underworld, perhaps? But why? If his wife had been so highly sexed, where was the need?
"But… what the hell, I didn't want my kids' lives messed up by a lot of scandal about their mother, so I let everyone think I was at fault; but it was really Joyce who was playing dirty, not me. At least, not until I left her…"
David tried to absorb this abrupt switch in public opinion: Brad wanted to save Joyce's reputation to protect his kids. So he'd completely taken the rap, and was shelling out alimony besides. And now David tried to see the brittle but vivacious Joyce Grogan as a swinging nympho…
"Well then, functionally, at least, Joyce did fulfill a need for you, Brad… right?"
Brad chuckled and said nothing for a moment, as the waiter appeared with their food. They started to eat. "Look, Dave," Brad said between mouthfuls, "it's true that Joyce and I had a helluva lot of sex, but Christ!.. I could have been anyone. When you go back to the office, ask Clint Sheffield and Steve Morgan if they didn't get the same feeling when they screwed her. In fact, you can poll the whole fuckin' staff. They's why she gave so many parties for all my friends and business associates, in order to make contacts, and then meet them at some later date for a motel-quickie…"
"But how can you be so sure all that really happened?"
"Oh look, Dave, I knew she'd been playin' around for years; that's why I finally cut out. But I didn't know who she was playing with until she told me herself…" "She told you?"
"Yep, she always was a compulsive blabbermouth, but this time she waited until after the divorce was final and everything was in her name. Then she gave me all the details. She waited for my first scheduled visit to the kids, then read off the whole list to me. All of them were old buddies of mine, or co-workers. Hell, I'd been suspicious of every one of them, but dammit, I didn't know for sure, and I wanted to leave it that way! Of course, you weren't on that list, Buddy-Boy, because you happen to have the kind of wife I've been dreaming about all my life; a one-man monogamous broad! Better hang onto her, you lucky bastard!"
David thought better of embellishing this oversimplified image Brad had regarding Linda, even though he, David, was certainly learning some astounding facts about Joyce Grogan. "Well, now I know why you quit your job, Brad, and… dropped everybody you used to know."
"Oh yeah, man… everything changed for me after that. But I'll tell you something, when she read off those names to me that day, I wanted to kill her. Then I thought, what the hell. She's a good mother and the kids need her So I took a hike…"
David stared at him. "Then you had all the grounds and she filed the complaint!"
Brad laughed wearily at this. "Oh Davey, sometimes I think you really are as innocent as you look. Don't you know that in the State of California it's always husband-fleecing time? That's why my dear old buddies decided not to come to my rescue when she was shooting her mouth off and blaming me for breaking up our home. Sure, those guys knew the real facts in the case, but what the hell could they do about it… join up for a mass confession in order to save my hide, and then face the same catastrophe themselves? She never bothered with anyone single, you know; picked only married guys who wouldn't dare squeal…"
David thought about this, feeling very callow and unworldly at the moment. "Oh wow, Brad… you make me realize that nobody's life is what it seems on the surface. So… well, I'd like you to know that mine isn't either. Not lately." And that's all I'm telling you, he thought, determined not to rehash all the dread depravity of his nightmares. How could he face Brad with such grisly details?
Brad was eyeing him speculatively, as if for the first time that day he observed some subtle changes in David. "Look, Buddy-Boy, if you're gonna tell me your marriage isn't perfect after all, I'm gonna kick Santa Claus right in the nuts the next time I see him!"
Perfect, thought David. Yes, that's the word for it: a plastic relationship…
"I have a beautiful marriage!" Suddenly David started hitting the table with his fist. "It's as pretty as a picture post-card! Why hell… I could just sit and look at it for hours and hours!"
"Cool it, boy, your salad's twitching," said Brad, watching David's face go tense and drawn, starting to wonder about him. Quietly handsome conformist society-boy gets everything he wants all these years-including the most luscious-looking wife in all Christendom-and then pow!.. everything goes, morals, scruples and sperm, right down the old drain. And with some of them it's gutter-hopping time until they breathe their last…
"All right, Dave, so there's trouble in paradise. But you listen to me: Your Linda's much too good to throw away. At least she's always looked pretty damned good to me. Christ, she's sweet, faithful and built-what more can you ask?" Then he stared shrewdly at David. "Now tell me real quick-she is faithful, isn't she, David?"
"Right, Brad," David nodded. "And she's sweet, and she's built…"
"Okay, that means all you really need is a little hiatus, a fling. The thing to do is somehow manage all that without going completely ape and having to be strapped down to a table."
David looked at him, expectant and impatient to hear more. Seeing this expression, Brad laughed. "I knew it!" he said. "You need help, so you've dug up an expert right? I'm supposed to play Big Brother and 'fix you up,' as we used to say back when we were sophomores. Well, I'm sorry, Dave, you'll have to do it yourself, because believe me, you won't enjoy one juicy minute of it if you have to hire a pimp."
"Oh hell, that's crazy, Brad. I could never think of you like that. You're a friend who's been around a lot more than I have, so… well, you have contacts… and…"
"No, no… you are gonna do it, not me. Unless there's discretion and complete freedom of choice, lechery's for the birds. You've gotta be an independent sneak, an aggressive loner, can't tell your right nut who's lickin' your left nut. Cool… sotta voce, get it?"
"No," David said quite honestly.
Grinning, Brad seemed about to relent. "Tell you what-I will give you a push in the right direction-but nothing more than that. Tomorrow we'll lunch together again, but you come over to my apartment and I'll whip up some sleazy old eggs or something. I've got something to show you. Something confidential. After that, Brother, the ball is yours, and you run with it!"
He wrote down a Telegraph Hill address and handed it to David, who had anxious insomnia that night instead of fluid nightmares. He was in the hands of Dirty Destiny now, and he wondered what the hell was ahead for him, adventure or catharsis?
Brad Grogan's one-room studio apartment had a sparkling view of the Bay, although there was little else to heighten its appeal. It was slovenly and cramped, but it boasted a small bar, a stove and a refrigerator which, to David, made it look like the typical bachelor-pad.
While they lunched on a surprisingly expert Western Omelette, David waited for his host to bring up the subject of in-depth hanky-panky, but apparently Brad wanted to prolong the suspense, because he discussed just about everything else until they'd finished their meal and were having cigarettes.
"All right, Brad, it's time for the commercial," said David. "Tell me where the action is and how I can get in on some of it without getting my ass in a sling…"
Brad laughed. "Translated, that means you want to commit a whole bunch of sex-crimes without getting caught-right?"
Smiling, David nodded. "You took the words right out of my jockey-shorts."
"And without Linda finding out so she can pick you clean like Joyce did me…"
"Brad, what you're talking about is called 'Safe Fun'. Is there such a thing?"
Brad laughed again, this time shaking his head in exasperation. "Oh man, all you married-slaves are really gullible, you know that? And your dizzy wives too, spreading all that horny gossip about me. Jeez!.. all the whores I'm supposed to be keeping and wining and dining. All on $72.50 clear a week! And Dave, I swear that's all I have left after I pay out alimony and child-support. You see this upholstered smudge-pot I'm shackin' in? A hundred and thirty a month just because it's on the most glamorous hill in the world and has a view, which I need, to keep from climbing the walls. So tell me, on a budget like mine, where do I squeeze in one fifty-dollar hooker after the other. Even the pigs hustlin' the Tenderloin are fifteen and twenty bucks."
David considered all this thoughtfully. "That must mean you've got a steady girl who puts out and doesn't charge…"
"Are you out of your skull?" Brad roared. "I'm not going that hearts-and-flowers route again. I got me a harem, Dave, and at bargain prices. Want to get in on some of it?"
"You mean… you'd introduce me to… to…"
"… An IBM Computer," Brad finished the sentence. "After that, you're on your own."
David stared at him, as Brad went over to his desk and pulled out several official-looking papers. He brought them to David and flung them in his lap. "Here, boy, fill out one of those questionnaires and start swinging."
David glanced down and read the huge black letters at the top of one of the forms: COMPUTER-MATE, INC. New Advanced IBM Computer Mating of Men and Woman's PBI (Personality/Background/Interest) Compatibility For the Perfect Date. "Oh, no!" David groaned, looking up at Brad. "You've got to be kidding. What does all this kindergarten social-work have to do with sex?"
"Ah Hah!" laughed Brad. "Hooray for the power of the corporate image if you think these coast-to-coast stud-services have anything to do with social work!"
David's expression went a little blank. "Would you repeat that please?"
"No. Just shut up and listen, you poor, sheltered sch-nook! I guess it was bound to happen some day that Public Relations and Automation would take over man's most urgent need: Nightly Orgasms. And with the Population Explosion what it is, the ratio of people who are all in heat at the same time is absolutely stupendous! But hell, crime is mushrooming too, so nobody's got the guts to walk the streets at night any more and hunt for their kicks. So what else is there but Digit-Screwing? Somebody's got to corral all that sex-starved livestock and aim it in the right direction."
Carefully, David began to read the questionnaire. "But it says you've either got to be looking for a companionable date, or someone to marry…"
"Ahh, don't you believe it, Tiny Tim! If you read between those lines, you'll see old Marquis de Sade himself offering you the world."
"Push-button pimping," David laughed, "that's what you've made of this, haven't you, Brad… you dirty old fart!"
"Well… that's one way to put it."
David read some more of the form. "Of course, they make it quite clear that anything of that nature is not their intention."
"Oh sure, they stay off the hook, all right. But Christ, they know what people do when they get together, and it's not all finger-painting and ceramics either."
David shook his head in wonder. "And here I thought you were just living it up the ordinary way, playing the field."
"Dave, don't you see, this is playing the field. Would you believe that in a three-month period I made as many as twenty phone contacts, just by filling out one of those forms? Oh man, it's been frantic! I never knew there were so many stacked and juicy amateurs, just dyin' to give it away…"
"But they're looking for husbands, not just a fling."
"They're looking for Hot Meat In The Night, even the married ones."
"Married? Don't you have to be single even to fill out one of these things?"
"So all right, what're you, an Eagle Scout or something? Lie! They expect you to. But don't say you're single, say you're divorced. That way, whether or not they're lying, it'll give you a little more leeway with them."
"Twenty contacts," David murmured to himself. "Think of it, twenty women… all strange and new and willing…" Suddenly he gazed up at Brad. "You mean every one of them cooperated?"
Brad shook his head sorrowfully. "Nope."
"I thought not," said David.
"Only eighteen," Brad said.
"OhmyGod!" said David, and felt some quick chills of anticipation: eighteen pretty maids all in a row…
"And I'm here to tell you they were all out-of-sight once I melted their barricades and got their fat little toes up in the air. And you know that old theory about all cats being grey at night? Forget it! Today's women are a whole new ball-game, because man, they have a lot more leisure now… time on their hands to learn and read and study new techniques, and as a result, every pushover's got a specialty these days, some new kind of twist or lick that'll send you to the moon!"
Listening and nodding, David muttered: "They don't just lay there, they give…"
"Right, Buster!" said Brad. "And man… think of the money I've been saving… it's crazy! Imagine all that gash for only fifteen dollars. Less than a buck an ass! It's an open market, Dave, and believe me, you look plenty ripe for it…"
"That's true," David sighed, "I'm ripe for something, God knows…" He thought of his gruesome series of dreams, the unfathomable scenes of depravity…
"If I know you and Linda, Dave, you don't want any permanent rifts. It's just that you kids are so happily married, you're bored; so what you need is a dash of variety…"
"Oh?" David was quite impressed with Brad's certainty regarding the conditions that existed between him and Linda, which only reminded him how very lovely and ideal his marriage looked from the outside.
"You've reached a plateau, Dave, so you've got to strike out and dabble a bit; but without really kicking over the traces, without changing what you've got at home…"
David folded the forms neatly and slipped them in the inside pocket of his jacket. "I'll have to think about it," he said. "It sounds like an awfully involved process to me. There's bound to be some of these women who are just plain lonely and hungry for a family…"
"So all right, hungry for whatever, you tell them they can have it, Dave, and in the meantime, while you're lying, you can be driving them out of their buggy little minds with ecstasy. And man, that's the most fun of all: telling a woman what she thinks she wants to hear while you're rolling around in the dark with her. That's where the art-work comes in. It's beautiful!"
Rising, David gave Brad a friendly smile, deciding that his new career as a salesman fit him very well indeed. "I've got to be going now, Brad, I'm late. I'll read this stuff over later, when I have more time. Right now I'm not sure it's what I want…"
But I want something, thought David as he drove back to the office; something soon and something soothing. And yet, why hadn't he corrected Brad's false conception of his idyllic life with Linda? Why hadn't he admitted how frustrating their sexual encounters had become for him? Was it true that he merely wanted a few extramarital playmates without upsetting the affluent structures of his life? He knew how shattering his material losses would be if she divorced him; much worse, even, than those which Brad now faced. Both his marriage and career had thrived on the substantial sponsorship of Linda's parents. One wrong step on his part and it would all come tumbling down…
The problem? How to turn a pastel, suburban conformist into a free spirit without digging his grave?