Made For Sex (26 page)

It was colors, or tastes, or feelings. It was all that and more and she stretched and yearned. And then it happened. She broke into a thousand pieces, then rejoined. Again and again, in great pulses she flew apart and reassembled. She heard moaning and realized it was her own voice. She calmed just a bit, reveling in the sensations.

Then Chitan screamed and thrust once more. Some instinct made her keep her body still as she felt his staff pulse and throb within her. His loins pressed and relaxed, over and over. Then, still inside her, he collapsed on the platform beside her.

They lay in silence for a long while. She was incapable of coherent thought so she just felt. Her breasts were a bit sore, as was the passage between her legs. But she felt wonderful. Exquisite. Happy. Dazzlingly happy.

Later, Chitan rose and fetched a pan of warm water. Slowly and carefully he bathed the blood from between Rhona's legs. They sipped some fruit juice together in silence. Then Rhona looked at the picture of the woman about to receive the man's phallus in her mouth. “Can I do that?” she asked.

Chitan grinned at her. “Before you leave here we can try anything in those pictures and anything else you would like. And I will teach you special things you can do to increase your pleasure and mine.”

Rhona sighed. It was going to be a wonderful week.

F
or the next few days Fran worked at the video store but her mind wasn't in it. Several times Albert, her boss and friend, caught her daydreaming. But, since even he had no idea of her other existence, she wasn't able to tell him about her internal debate.

When Eileen called four nights later, Fran was still vacillating. “Listen,” Eileen said, “I've been doing a bit of snooping about that week before the dinner and here's the deal. On Friday night there are parties thrown by the publishers involved. They will be held in the hotel where the conference is held and they're traditionally based on the five books nominated. You're supposed to dress appropriately for the period and characters.”

As Eileen talked, Fran pictured herself in a sarong. Not a chance.

“The parties are to hype the books. Lots of press and lots of cover models, both male and female. I went two years ago when Tammy Matterhorn's
Yellow Satin
was nominated. What a sight. Those cover-guy hunks all over the place in period costumes, or parts of them, with their chests bare.” She giggled. “Anyway, on Saturday you'll spend the afternoon signing books and generally being charming.”

“Is that when they choose Miss Congeniality?” Fran asked, a nasty edge to her voice.

“Easy, Cinderella. It's where fans get to know the authors as real people. You know, what's your favorite color, what do you have in the works, like that. Last year, there was someone there from Home Box Office who, it's said, made the deal to option
The Harrington Women
for a Sunday afternoon movie. You know, the ones they do for football widows.”

“Really? They decided on a movie right there?”

“It wasn't just there, but it did happen, partly because of the impression the author made. You know, easy to work with, flexible. She actually worked with the guy who wrote the screenplay. Made a bundle I gather.”

“Hmmm.” There was real money to be made with the Madison Prize thing, Fran realized. This all added more pressure. She'd have to make a decision. “And
The Harrington Women
didn't even win.”

“Right you are. There'll be a lot going on beneath the surface. By the way, are you working on a proposal for another book? You've had quite a long time to think about it.”

“I've got several things in the works.” Fran had nothing. She had thought herself into exhaustion, but she didn't have an idea large enough for a novel. But she couldn't tell Eileen that she might turn out to be a one-novel author.

“I don't mean to press you, but this would be the ideal time to hit Majestic with a proposal. They are certainly going to be receptive.”

“I know. Nicki's working on it.” She realized she sounded a bit impatient, but Eileen was beginning to push her. She knew she could write short stories, but the novel thing had been a fluke. She couldn't ever do it again. But with all the publicity that would go into this prize thing, she really could get a good deal. “I'm sorry I'm so snappy. I'm just really hung up on this ‘being Nicki' thing.”

“You would only have to be a good actor for a few days. You don't have to be Nicki, just play the part in public.” There was a short hesitation, then Eileen added, softly, “And there's a whole world for her to explore.”

“Museums, the World Trade Center, Broadway.”

“Romance. Men. Sex.”

“Yes, and sexy men, too,” Fran said. She sighed and suddenly said, “I'll do it. I'll talk a good game, be Nicki when I have to and enjoy the hell out of it all.” She wondered where those words had come from, but having said them, she felt as though a large weight had been lifted from her.

“Good girl,” Eileen said, sounding truly delighted. “Listen. Since you're going to fly here anyway, why don't you take a few weeks. Just yesterday I was talking to a friend of mine who's going to be in Europe on vacation for more than a month. She'd be delighted to let you use her apartment while she's gone. It's in the east Fifties, in a great neighborhood and you'll love it. You'll have time to explore the city and get the feel of the ‘good life' that Nicki lives. I won't have much time to spend with you, but I've got a dear friend who has a place just a block away. She's often free during the day and I know you two will hit it off. And she'll be able to guide you with some of the Nicki stuff. You know, ordering in fancy restaurants, wines, all the places you've been. And you'll need Nicki clothes. I know Carla can help you there, too. That's my friend. Carla Barrett. You'll really like her.”

Fran sighed again. She felt she was being steamrollered, but she found she didn't really object. It would do her good. She pulled a small calendar out of her purse. “Okay, the prize dinner and presentation ceremony is the 19th of April. Maybe I could get to New York around the 29th of March. That's a Saturday. That would give me three weeks. How would that work?”

“Great.” Fran could hear the lift in Eileen's voice. “You will just love it here. New York is the only place to be. For me it beats April in Paris any day.”

“And for Nicki?” Fran put on a broad, very phoney-sounding French accent. “Nicki says that eet is Paree or nothing.” Both women laughed, but beneath the laughter Fran was both exhilarated and terrified. “I will be there,” she said. “I will. And I'll get to meet you face-to-face. And Sandy, too.”

“You know,” Eileen said, “that amazes me. I feel like we've known each other for a lifetime, but I've never actually seen you.” She hesitated. “Or Nicki.”

The two women talked for a while longer, and at several junctures Fran had the urge to tell Eileen that it had all been a mistake and that she was going to stay in Omaha. But she didn't.

After she hung up, Fran lay on the bed and considered what she had gotten herself into. She wanted to do it. She wanted to have people tell her how wonderful her writing was, how much they had enjoyed the book. She wanted that kind of reinforcement. And New York. She had always wanted to see it. Not the cliché tall buildings or the hustle and bustle, but the real New York. Rich people eating at Le Cirque, dancing at the Rainbow Room. Educated people visiting the Metropolitan Museum of Art and Lincoln Center. Refined people always knowing which fork to use and what clever remark to make. Not small town, small person, small Fran Caputo. She'd never fit in. She could never be Nicki. But she could give it a shot. After all, what did she have to lose?

Slowly Fran got up and wandered into the bathroom. She closed the door and faced the mirror on the back of it. She pulled off her sweatshirt and sweatpants, socks and then removed her underpants. Damn it, she thought, looking at her small breasts, I don't even need a bra.

She gazed at herself and tried to be objective. Okay, good points. Slender. Skinny, she muttered. No. Wrong attitude. Slender. Perky breasts. Right. Tiny breasts. All the characters in her stories had large, voluptuous breasts. And legs. They all had long, sexy legs. Fran looked at her legs. She was short. She sighed and cocked her head to one side. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” her parents' friends used to ask her. “Willowy,” she would answer, and everyone would laugh.

But that's what I want more than anything. That's what Nicki is, at least in my mind. Tall, slender, graceful. She enters a room and everyone stops to look. Long arms with pianist hands. Long fingers with perfectly oval nails. Coral nail polish that perfectly matches her coral lipstick which blends correctly with the shades of her outfit, all coordinating with her shoes, bag, hose and underwear. All put together to complement her tall, slender body.

I'll never be that Nicki, Fran thought. I can't grow eight inches in a few weeks. I can't have my breasts enlarged. She ran her hands over her small tight mounds and large dusky nipples, then shook her head.

But no one knows what Nicki looks like, she answered herself. Maybe Nicki's short. Maybe she's flat-chested. “Well, she'd better be,” Fran said aloud. “Because this is Nicki, for good or bad.”

Fran shifted her attention to her face. She turned and looked deeply into the mirror over the sink. Not too bad, she thought, again trying to be objective. Good deep blue eyes, nice skin, good features. But they just aren't quite there. This face has nice parts, but when you put them all together, they are just average. She remembered the way she had described a character in a story she had written. “She had average features. Taken individually they were nothing special, but when combined in that heart-shaped face, they became glorious.”

“Well,” she said to her reflection, “your face is just the opposite. Good features put together to look ordinary.”

She pulled on her sweatshirt, threw her dirty underpants and socks in the hamper and flipped off the light. In the bedroom she turned on the TV and tried not to think about the weeks to come.

Time sped by. Several times Fran picked up the phone to call Eileen, but each time she put the instrument back in its holder. All she could do was the best she could do, and if she didn't pull it off, she would really be no worse off than she was now. And she would have had an amazing adventure.

During her weekly Sunday afternoon phone call with her mother she casually mentioned that she was taking a few weeks off to go to New York.

“New York,” her mother said from Denver, “how exciting. What made you decide to do it? I've been after you for a long while to have some fun, but this is so sudden.”

“Actually a friend invited me.”

Her mother's voice brightened. “A male friend?”

“No, Mom, a girl I knew in school.” She had thought out her story over the past several weeks. “We got back in touch through the high school alumni group and we've been e-mailing each other almost every day. She's got a friend with an empty apartment I can use and, well, I just decided to do it.”

“Good for you,” Fran's mother said. “And maybe you'll meet someone nice.”

“Oh Mom,” Fran groaned.

“You know, Eric's been gone for a long time. It's time to get out, meet new people.”

Little does Mom know, Fran thought, that one of the new people I'll be meeting will be Nicki.

And so it was that the 29th of March found Fran disembarking from a flight to LaGuardia Airport and walking down the long corridor toward the security checkpoint, beyond which Eileen would be waiting. She shifted her small suitcase to her other hand, adjusted her backpack and hustled across the carpet. She surveyed the crowd and saw a woman waving frantically, holding a copy of
The Love Flower
in her hand. Grinning, Fran broke into a trot and, when she reached Eileen, they embraced like long-lost sisters. “I don't believe you're really here,” Eileen said as they separated. “Let me look at you.”

“Not too much to look at,” Fran said. “Just a short drink of water, as my father used to say.”

“Hey, I was afraid we'd have to pull this off with a four hundred pound, dumpy, ugly woman. You're wonderful. And with a bit of help and support, you'll be just great.”

Fran didn't for a moment buy the line Eileen was feeding her, but she loved to hear it.

Eileen scooped up Fran's suitcase. “You've got more luggage, I assume,” she said.

Fran shifted her backpack from one shoulder to the other. “I brought everything I thought might be useful, but one look at you and I realize how Omaha my wardrobe is.”

“Oh come now,” Eileen said.

Fran looked more carefully at her friend. Eileen was of medium height, but still at least four inches taller than she was, wearing a plum-colored wool pantsuit with a coordinated plum and emerald blouse and a black wool coat. A redhead, Eileen wasn't exactly pretty, but she was a handsome woman who made a statement by just standing there.
She
could be Nicki. Oh God, Fran thought, thinking of her lime-green man-tailored shirt and jeans, with the brown wool blazer and trench coat. I just reek of Omaha. This will never work.

“Listen,” Eileen said as she guided Fran toward the baggage carousel, “let's get a few things straight here. You look at me as though I'm some sort of New York model. Just for your information, I'm almost twenty pounds over the maximum healthy weight for my height.”

“No, you aren't,” Fran said, glancing sideways at Eileen who nodded ruefully.

“I select my clothes very carefully to cover up my thunder thighs and gigantic butt.”

Fran stopped in the middle of the crush of people and looked more carefully. When she knew what to look for, she realized that Eileen was, indeed, larger than she should have been around the hips and thighs.

“And,” Eileen continued, “I have my hair carefully styled and I've taken classes with a makeup artist who does the faces of all the gorgeous women in
Search for Happiness
. I wear large, but non-dangly earrings so the effect of my short neck is minimized. I'm an illusion. And eventually you will be too. Not all illusion, since you've got a lot to work with, but you'll be so much more than you are now.” Eileen laughed. “I've dug myself into this. Help, get me out. I don't mean that you're not attractive now….”