So Willing

Two

Everything, as a matter of fact, stank. Everything stank out loud, and in spades. And with everything stinking so thoroughly it was no wonder that he wasn’t laughing himself silly.

In a sense, you could blame everything on Betty. There she was, all pure virginal, and there he was, all ready and willing, the experienced hunter tracking down the soft-eyed doe, when all of a sudden his whole frame of reference was shattered. Betty the virgin had suddenly metamorphosed into Betty the old hand.

That got things going to a fine start.

When the family left two days later for the cabin on the lake he was not at all sorry to say a fond goodbye to the little town of Modnoc. He’d sprawled alone in the backseat of the car while his mother and father said stupid things to each other in the front seat, and he’d looked back at the town out of the rear window, thinking unpleasant thoughts about it.

As the sun goes out to sea, he thought, and as our boat sinks slowly in the west, we bid a fond adieu to the sleepy town of Modnoc, with its friendly huts and its rudely plastered natives.

The cruddy little cabin by the cruddy little lake looked a good deal better to him than it really was. The idea of staying in the same town with Betty made him feel little weak in the knees. Of course there was no reason for him to be ashamed of himself. As far as she was concerned, he was the conqueror, the only boy from Modnoc who had managed to get in her pants. From his point of view it was a little more complex. He’d been loaded for bear, and when you’re loaded for bear you can’t get too excited over blowing the tail off a squirrel.

So the cruddy little cabin by the cruddy little lake represented two things — an escape from Betty and a chance at new fields to conquer. There would certainly be girls at the lake, plenty of them, and girls away for the summer were girls removed from the soppy security of the parental abode. If a girl was ever going to take the plunge, she was going to take it on summer vacation.

And if anybody was ready to do the plunging for them, Vince was.

He felt like the Great White Hunter, and he was so pleased with the picture that the discomforts of the safari failed to bother him. He didn’t mind the lousy roads, or the creative stupidity of his father who insisted on driving a steady thirty-five every inch of the way. He didn’t mind the stomach-churning food at the hot dog stands where they stopped en route, he didn’t mind the senseless patter issuing from the front seat. He was the Great White Hunter on the trail of a pack of virgins. The little hardships of the chase didn’t bother him a bit.

When they finally got to the cabin it looked much better to him than it really was. A kitchen, furnished with colonial implements and quietly disintegrating. A bedroom for his parents. Another bedroom, incredibly small, for Vince. A living room that no one in his right mind would attempt to live in. The cabin was looking around for a president to be born in it, and anyone born there could certainly boast of humble origins.

But Vince didn’t care. He didn’t figure he’d be spending much time there. He’d be with girls, around girls, near girls, by the side of girls.

And, eventually, in girls.

But things weren’t working according to plan. Right now, for example, the afternoon was in the process of becoming evening. It was cool, with a breeze coming from the lake that was just a little too brisk to be perfect. The sun was gone and the moon was starting to rise. It was perfect weather for girl-hunting, and what was he doing?

He was sitting. Sitting quite alone by the side of the lake with nothing doing, nothing at all.

All because of that bitch, Rhonda.

The trouble with Rhonda was double trouble. She was impossible to touch and impossible to stay away from. The first day he saw her, which was the second day at the cabin, he knew she was going to be the one. She just had to be. She was perfect.

For one thing, she was different from any of the Modnoc girls. She was from New York City, and this made a big difference. Not just the way she talked, but the way she looked and the way she acted. She was far more mature, far more sophisticated.

And far more attractive.

Of course, if Vince himself had come from New York, he would have thought that Rhonda looked exactly like everyone else. She had dark hair and she wore it long, and the ponytail that hung to her waist looked just like the ponytail of every other girl who went to Bronx Science or Walden or Elizabeth Irwin or Music & Art or New Lincoln High School. She also wore sandals and dark-colored Bermuda shorts and very plain white blouses. She was in uniform, but of course Vince did not know this.

Vince thought she was beautiful. The purple eye-shadow was beautiful, too, and the pale lipstick. But most of all, the girl underneath all the garbage was beautiful.

And obviously a virgin.

She was the only one he wanted. There were other girls at the lake, but next to Rhonda they seemed pretty pallid and dull. They could have been easy, some of them. A few gave him come-on glances that meant he could have them flat on their pretty backsides just by saying the word. But he didn’t feel like saying the word, not to them.

But Rhonda, damn her to hell, didn’t want to hear the word.

All she wanted to do was talk, and walk around in the woods, and go out rowing on the lake, and look at the stars, and think very deep thoughts. This fooled him at first. He dated her about five minutes after he first set eyes on her, and when he asked her what she wanted to do that night she told him she wanted to go rowing on the lake.

Which pleased Vince no end.

Because, as everybody knew, a girl who wants to go rowing on the lake is a girl who wants to do other things. And if the girl herself suggests the rowing expedition it is an odds-on bet that the rowboat is going to get one hell of a workout.

That wasn’t exactly the way it turned out. When Rhonda said she wanted to go rowing on the lake, that was precisely what she meant. She wanted to sit in her end of the boat and look up at the stars and think profound thoughts. That was all she wanted to do.

Fortunately, he figured this out before he made the mistake of making a pass. Otherwise everything would have been shot to hell right at the start. But he played things very cool, very cool indeed, staying on his side of the boat and helping her stare at the stars. In between staring at the stars and leaning on the oars he did some supplementary staring at Rhonda’s breasts. The blouse she wore was trying to hide the fact that she had any breasts, but Vince had a good eye for that sort of thing. He could tell that she was built very well, soft and firm and very nice to look at, and undoubtedly still nicer to hold onto.

She was, he decided, worth waiting for. So what if she wasn’t going to fall into his arms on the first date? Maybe things worked differently in New York.

And, following this line of reasoning, he didn’t try to kiss her goodnight. He just stopped her at the door to her cabin, took her chin in his hand, and looked deeply into her eyes. Her eyes were brown and very soft.

“Tomorrow night,” he said. She hesitated, then nodded, and he turned on his heel and walked off into the night. He had it made, he knew, because he had suddenly figured out Rhonda’s Dream Man. Her Dream Man was sort of a cross between Tony Perkins and Cary Grant, if such a combination was possible. Shy and deep like Perkins, polished and assured like Grant. All he had to do was play that role properly and the prize was his.

Maybe.

The next night was a disappointment. They took a walk to the woods, another type of scene which with any other girl would have been an obvious prelude to a more advanced form of entertainment. Not with Rhonda, however. They walked through the woods and she rambled on and on about how wonderful nature was while he half-listened and half-contemplated how wonderful nature really was.

When he tried to kiss her goodnight she pulled away from him, her eyes very sad. “Don’t, Vince.” He didn’t say anything.

“I like you, Vince. But it’s so... so physical, kissing and all that. I’d like us just to be friends, to share things with each other.”

He felt like telling her something she had that she really ought to share with him. But that of course would have ruined it for good, so he played his role and hung his head and told her that he was sorry, that of course she was right, and that it was his fault that he had permitted himself to get carried away by animalistic desires.

When he got home he took a cold hip bath, as recommended in that corny Boy Scout Manual. It didn’t help.

And if that was bad, the next few nights were worse. Bit by bit he managed to convince her that an experience couldn’t be meaningful unless bodies as well as souls merged. While he told her this he kept his hands to himself, speaking slowly and soulfully. And she agreed, more or less.

More or less. Oh, she wasn’t one to minimize the importance of physical love. She knew how wonderful a thing physical love could be, when two people shared everything there was to share. There was just one little catch. She herself, she explained sadly, was a cold woman. She couldn’t feel anything that way, couldn’t get excited or interested. It just didn’t do anything for her.

“I’ll help you, Rhonda,” he told her. “Let me kiss you. Let me make you feel our love.”

She was willing to be kissed. So he kissed her, first gently and then not so gently. But kissing her wasn’t nearly as pleasant as it should have been. She didn’t struggle or pull away. She didn’t respond, either. She just stood there like a window dummy and let him do the kissing.

It was about as stimulating as kissing a dead fish.

He kept trying. When the kisses didn’t do anything he tried touching her and, although his hands had been itching to get hold of her body, the act itself didn’t live up to his expectations.

The body did. He didn’t undress her, just ran his hands over her clothing. It was enough to convince him that all that was there belonged to little Rhonda. And little Rhonda was not little at all. She had as nice a body as anyone he had ever came across.

Her breasts were better than Betty’s — a little larger and quite a bit firmer. Her legs were perfect.

But all she did was submit to his touches. She didn’t quiver or breathe hard or clutch at him or anything. She just acquiesced, and her body as a result was not the body of a warm girl but the body of a very well-formed statue. Perfect and flawless, but no more responsive than a slab of marble.

And somehow this took all the fun out of it. At first it was a challenge, trying to find some way to coax a response out of her. Then, as he kept meeting the challenge and failing wretchedly, it began to become a bit of a bore. Especially because of the way she talked.

They would kiss (or rather he would kiss her) and they would pet (or rather he would pet her) and every few minutes she would pull her head to one side and start telling him how miserable she felt over the fact that she didn’t feel a thing. It was bad enough knowing that she didn’t feel a thing without hearing about it all the goddamned time. That made things just so much worse.

It was a week now, a week of frustration that didn’t seem to be getting him anywhere in particular. And the fact that there was so much other stuff available didn’t help matters. He would see girls down by the lake and know damned well that they’d spread their pretty selves for him the minute he said the word.

And here he was with Rhonda.

Who wouldn’t.

He had a date with her in half an hour, but somehow he didn’t even feel like going. To hell with her. Let her sit in her cabin and play with herself or something. There wasn’t any sense wasting his time with her. And it was sure as hell a waste of time. Maybe some of the guys would be all excited at the prospect of playing doctor with a pretty girl, but he’d been around long enough to want more.

To hell with her. He could go out now and find himself something within five minutes, something that would come across on the first date and be all ready and willing any time he wanted. That made one hell of a lot more sense than wasting his time on a hunk of ice from the big bad city of New York.

He hung his head in disgust. The Great White Hunter was out of his class, that was the trouble. He just wasn’t good enough to drag down this particular prey.

And then, suddenly, he stopped hanging his head and began to shake it resolutely. Dammit, he wasn’t giving up! And he wasn’t going to play games any more, either. He was going to win.

He got up, went back to the cabin, got the keys to the car from his father and drove into town. The man at the liquor store was decent enough not to ask to see his draft card. He bought a gallon jug of red wine, knowing that wine was the only drink that had a chance of working on her. Beer was too vulgar and liquor was too strong. Wine would appeal to the romantic side of her, and that was what he wanted.

It didn’t seem fair, somehow. But it was no time to worry about fairness. He was going to use the wine, and the wine was going to get her drunk as a skunk, and then he was going to have Rhonda and get her out of his system so that he could concentrate on other girls. This virgin bit was a pain in the neck. Maybe once he got his first virgin out of the way he’d be able to concentrate on bigger and better things.

Although, when you stopped to think about it, it wasn’t easy to imagine any bigger and better things than the two big and good things under her blouse.

He hopped back in the car, put the jug of red wine in the backseat and broke some speeding laws on the way to her cabin, which was no mean trick in his father’s car. She was waiting for him, and, happily, her parents weren’t around. Coming on strong for the parents was a big thing with him, and it was sort of annoying that it was so useless with Rhonda’s parents. They didn’t really care who she went out with and she didn’t care what her parents thought about him, so talking to them was a total waste of time.

“Come with me,” he told her mysteriously. “Tonight is our night.”

He led her to the car and drove off to the lake. “We’re having a picnic,” he explained. “A special place that I’ve never taken you to before. It’s sort of a private place of mine.”

The place, he went on to explain, was an island in the middle of the lake. What he didn’t bother explaining was that he usually avoided the island because it was the dullest spot in the world.

He led her to the rowboat, carrying the jug of wine in one hand. She asked him what the wine was for and he told her a picnic was just not a picnic without a jug of wine. She seemed to accept the explanation.

Rowing across the lake was a real pain in the neck, but he was so fired up at the prospect of finally getting at Rhonda that the rowing didn’t bother him as much as it usually did. It was, he reflected, a nice night for seducing a virgin. Dark, quiet, just a moon in the sky with no stars out.

“The wine will be good,” he explained. “You see, there’s been something wrong with our relationship.”

Relationship was one of her favorite words.

“I know,” she said. “I know, Vince.”

“The wine will help,” he told her. “It will relax you, which is the important thing. You’ll be able to escape from your inhibitions.”

Inhibitions was another of her favorite words.

“I suppose so,” she said.

“And after all,” he went on, determined to fit her two favorite words into the same sentence, “inhibitions can damage a relationship.”

“You’re right, Vince,” she said. “You’re right.”

They beached the boat and climbed out onto the crummy little island. Instantly she started going into orbit over what a beautiful private place it was and how glad she was that he liked her enough to share it with her. While she talked on and on he managed to pull the cork out of the wine jug with his teeth.

“Come with me,” he said. “Sit by my side.”

She sat with him.

“Here,” he said. “Drink some of the wine.”

She took the jug and tilted it, taking a healthy swallow. He waited for her to choke on it but she didn’t. Instead she passed him the jug, her eyes shining.

“It’s good wine, Vince.”

He tried a sip and decided that either she was off her nut or that he just plain didn’t like wine. But it didn’t much matter. The important thing was getting the wine into her. He didn’t have to drink anything himself.

So he passed the jug back to her.

She took another swig and this time her eyes were very dreamy. When she spoke, her voice was husky.

“I think you’re right, Vince. I think maybe the wine is a good idea. It might relax me. It might push my inhibitions to one side so that the real person can shine through.”

“Sure,” he said.

“I want the real person to shine through, Vince. I don’t want to be inhibited forever. You know that, don’t you, Vince?”

“Sure,” he said. He handed the wine back to her and she took another drink. Then she kicked off her sandals and stretched out on the ground.

“Makes me sleepy,” she said. “I have to lie down, Vince.”

His heart jumped. It was working. Evidently she wasn’t used to drinking. Hell, she was young. Maybe this was the first time anybody’d ever given her anything stronger to drink than a glass of chocolate milk. What-ever it was, he knew he’d picked the right way to do it. If it was cheating to get a girl drunk, well, that was just too bad. If it was cheating; he was a cheat. It was working, and that was all he cared about.

“Vince—”

“What is it, Rhonda?”

“Come lie down next to me.”

She didn’t have to ask him a second time. It was the first time she’d ever wanted him near her — other times she’d merely accepted him. So he stretched out beside her and took her in his arms.

At first he thought it was going to be different. When he kissed her her lips pressed hard against his and her arms went around him, holding him tight. For a second, just a second, he thought the wine had done its work.

Then she relaxed completely. She was a statue again, a hunk of plaster.

He went on kissing her, forcing his tongue between her parted lips, running his hands over her body. But it wasn’t doing him a bit of good. He was getting excited, but that wasn’t important. The important thing was to get her excited.

“It’s no use, Vince.”

“Don’t worry.” Trying desperately to sound tender instead of obeying the impulse and snarling at her. “Everything’s going to be all right, Rhonda. There’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“But it’s not fair. I want to like it, Vince. I want to feel it.”

“I know you do.”

“But I just can’t.”

“Of course you can,” he said automatically. “Of course you can, dear.”

“I can’t.”

He sat up, reaching for the wine, and he told her that of course she could, that for a moment she had started to respond.

“I felt you getting... excited,” he said. He had almost said hot.

“For a second, but—”

“That’s a beginning,” he went on. “Have a little more wine. That should do it for you.”

She took the wine from him and he sighed with relief when she started to raise it to her lips. Then suddenly, she lowered it. Her eyes were troubled.

“Vince,” she said, “what will happen after I drink enough of the wine?”

“I’ll kiss you.”

“I know that. I mean — we won’t go all the way, will we?”

“Of course not.”

“That’s good,” she said. “I... I can’t help being worried. I know you wouldn’t try to do anything... wrong, but I can’t help worrying.”

“You don’t have to worry with me,” he said.

“I know it, Vince.”

“I’m not that kind of a person.”

“Oh, I know, Vince.”

“I wouldn’t try to take advantage of somebody like you, Rhonda.”

“I know.”

“I’m just doing this for you. That’s why I bought the wine — so that you’ll learn to relax. It hurts me to see you so tense all the time.”

He felt like telling her where it hurt.

“I know, Vince.”

“And for us,” he went on, wondering if Hollywood would give him a job if they heard him. “I’m doing it for us, so that we can be closer together.”

“I know, Vince.”

“Drink some wine.”

She drank some wine.

“Have another drink, Rhonda. I think it’ll do you good.”

“Do you really think so?”

He nodded, and she had another drink. This time when she put the jug down he could see how flushed her cheeks were.

He knew just how to play it. After each swig of wine he would kiss her and stroke her as long as she went on responding, and the minute she stopped he would stop also. Then he’d get some more wine into her stomach and start in where he left off.

It was time to begin.

He stretched out beside her and reached for her. This time the kiss was good all the way — her mouth was hot and eager and her tongue matched his own tongue in passion. He hadn’t been prepared for that strong a response and for a minute he thought somebody had sneaked up and switched girls on him. But no, nobody else had a body like the one pressed up against him.

He worked expertly, kissing her, stroking the nape of her neck with the fingers of one hand and fondling her breast with the other hand. He kept waiting for the wine to wear off and for the responses to cease, but the responses just got stronger.

He began unbuttoning her blouse. Now, he thought, she was going to stop him.

But she didn’t.

He unbuttoned all the buttons and managed to lift her up so that he could get the blouse off. While he had her that way, he got up the nerve to unsnap her bra and get that off, and once he got rid of the bra and there was nothing between him and those breasts, it was no longer a question of nerve. There was just no stopping, not for him.

“Don’t, Vince. We don’t want to lose control. We have to be careful, Vince.”

He wanted to pick up a rock and crack her skull with it. Somehow he forced himself to remain patient. “There’s nothing to worry about,” he told her. “I can control myself, Rhonda. I just want to touch you. You like it when I touch you, don’t you?”

Her answer was a kittenish purr.

And then they were both naked and their bodies were touching and she was more excited than any girl he had ever been with in his life. He knew that she was ready, ready for him, and he was certainly ready for her. More than ready. He couldn’t wait any longer.

It began, and he was surprised that she didn’t feel any pain. There was supposed to be pain with a virgin. That was what everybody said. But everybody was evidently wrong, because Rhonda was taking to it like a duck to water. She was having a ball.

When it was over she started to cry. He calmed her, reassured her, told her everything was all right.

“I didn’t want it to happen,” she said. “I was afraid it would happen. And it did.”

“We couldn’t help ourselves,” he told her. It was a good line for this sort of situation.

“You liked it,” he said. “Didn’t you?”

She nodded.

“Well,” he said, “that’s the important thing. You got rid of your inhibitions.”

“Of course,” she said. “I always do when I drink.” He just looked at her.

“Every single time,” she said. “But only when I drink. With Norman and with Phil and with Johnny and with Dave and Allen and Robert. Every time I drink it’s all right and I like it, but I like it so much that I can’t stop. That’s the bad part. I always go all the way when I drink. I just can’t help it.”

He couldn’t believe it. He knew instinctively that it was true, all true, but he just plain didn’t want to believe it.

“It’s very strange,” she said, her voice almost clinical. “I suppose it’s a reaction formation. I’m all repressed and inhibited, and then when I lose my inhibitions I lose all control and I just have to go all the way.”

She looked sad, then grinned. He had never seen her grin that way.

“But it’s worth it,” she said. “Pass me the wine, Vince. I’ll have a little more wine and then we can do it again.”