Once Is Not Enough (42 page)

“Oh . . . oh, sure . . . yes.”

“Sara Kurtz called. Said she expects some tapes by this afternoon. That you would understand.”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

“And a Mr. Colt called from Washington.”

“What?
”

“A Mr. Colt called from Washington at eight-thirty
P.M.,
and again at ten. He wanted you to call him at the Shoreham Hotel.”

“Oh, thank you. Thank you!”

“I’m sorry if I woke you.”

“No . . . no, it’s wonderful. I . . . I should be up anyhow. Thank you so much!”

She caught Tom at the Shoreham just as he was leaving. “Oh, Tom . . . I came home at twelve and forgot all about checking with my service. I’m so sorry.”

“Wait a minute.” He laughed. “First . . . how are you?”

“I’m fine . . . no, I’m not . . . I miss you. How are you? Do you miss me?”

“Yes . . . to everything.”

“When will you be back?”

“Friday night. Will you have dinner with me?”

“Will I . . . oh wow . . . I mean . . . yes, I’d adore it.”

“Okay. I’ll call you as soon as I get in.”

“Okay. Look, Tom. Maybe I should call you . . . you know . . . I could keep checking at the Plaza . . . because you might miss me between the office and my apartment.”

“I’ll find you, January. Don’t worry.” And then he hung up.

She spent the morning trying to tape an unemotional account of the cocktail party for Tom Colt. His attitude, the people who were there, the trapped feeling an author has when he’s spotlighted as guest of honor.

Linda played it and nodded. “Sounds okay. I’ll give it to Sara.” Then she stared at January. “What’s the matter with you? You look awful.”

She was silent for a moment, then she said, “Linda, I don’t know what to do . . . I’m so scared.”

“Of what?”

“Well, Tom gets in tomorrow—”

“Don’t tell me you’re still going to play the virgin queen.”

“No . . . I . . . I want to go to bed with him. But suppose I don’t arouse him.”

“A man like Tom Colt will be aroused. Don’t worry.”

January stared at her hands in her lap. “Linda, when he held me close that night at the Plaza . . . he . . . he wasn’t wearing anything under the robe . . . and . . .”

“And?”

“There was nothing,” January said.

Linda whistled. “I forgot. Sure. He’s in his late fifties and he drinks. That combination is murder. You’ll have to start right off by giving him head.”

“I don’t think I could. I . . . I don’t even know how.”

“Pretend it’s a popsicle—pretend—oh, hell . . . that’s something that takes practice. If I say so myself, I give the best head in town. Every man says that. But you’ve got to get started. Part of it is instinctive. And a man like Tom will guide you . . .”

“But . . . what happens if he comes?”

“You swallow it.”

“What!”

Linda groaned. “January, when you’re making love with someone you really care about, it’s the ultimate fulfillment and expression of love. The man ejaculating it . . . you taking it . . . and swallowing it. Swallowing part of him.”

“Linda, I may throw up! That’s the most revolting thing I’ve ever heard.”

Linda laughed. “Listen, stone-age lady. It’s also very good for you. It’s loaded with hormones. It’s also great for your skin. I use it as a facial mask whenever I can.”

“You what!”

“I use it as a mask. When Keith was living with me and we were doing it every night, I’d do the hand bit maybe three times a week, and just before the explosion came, I’d be ready with a glass. Then I poured it into a bottle and put it in the refrigerator. It’s great for a facial mask. It’s like egg white . . . only better. You leave it on ten minutes until it stiffens, then wash it off with cold water. Why do you think I let that jerk from the advertising agency stay . . . I got half a glass from him.”

“Linda, that’s the most awful thing I ever heard. I just couldn’t. I’m nauseous. It’s—”

“Well, when you go down on Tom, if you can’t get yourself
to swallow it, let it come all over your face . . . rub it into your skin and . . .”

January jumped up. “Linda, I can’t listen! I—”

“Sit down! Jesus, I realize you spent three years away from everyone and everybody in Switzerland. And Miss Haddon’s wasn’t exactly a place Masters and Johnson would go for research. No one is telling you that you
have
to do any of the things I tell you. But it’s time you learned people who do these things are not degenerates . . . and the least you can do is listen!”

“All right. But I don’t want to rub, swallow, or package any of that stuff.”

“Okay. But you also can’t just lie back and give him the pleasure of allowing him to enter you. It
is
a two-way thing.”

“But what do I do?”

“Respond!”

“How?”

“Oh Jesus!” Linda got up and paced the room. Then she leaned over the desk, her eyes level with January’s. “You did kiss back when he kissed you, didn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“And then what! Did you respond?”

“Yes.”

“Good girrrl! Now, when you’re in bed with him and when he kisses your boobs, start feeling him.”

“Where?”

“Oh God, January . . . anywhere. Start rubbing the back of his head. Kiss his neck . . . his ears, . . . his cheek . . . just to let him know you’re alive. That you
like
what he’s doing. Move and groan in pleasure, bite him—”

“Bite him?”

“Oh, not to draw blood . . . playful bites . . . like a kitten . . . scratch his back . . . then let your hands travel . . . then later your tongue . . .”

“Oh my God—” January leaned back in the chair. “Linda, suppose I can’t. Suppose I suddenly get uptight when I actually am in bed with him.”

Linda stared at her for a moment. “I know.” She snapped her fingers. “What time are you seeing him tomorrow?”

“When he gets back from Washington. For dinner.”

“Then at four, you take a vitamin shot.”

“A vitamin shot?”

Linda was spinning her rolodex. She stopped at a card and scribbled down a name and address. “Here. Dr. Simon Alpert. He and his brother Preston are fantastic. Keith took me to him a few times when he was on the health kick. He’s still on it, I guess. He has to be to get it up for Christina Spencer.”

“But how will vitamin shots make me feel sexy about Tom Colt?”

“Look, all I know is that when Keith made me take one of those shots, the whole world exploded . . . everything became technicolor. I worked twenty hours a day. I had orgasms with Keith that seemed to last an hour. I was great in bed without being too aggressive. Keith always said I was too aggressive because I was always directing him. That’s his male chauvinism. I mean, when he’s going down on me, what’s wrong if I say . . . go more to the left . . . or harder . . . or lighter. Some men feel that if they dive, we’re supposed to be grateful. The ones who make a token dive are the ones who kill me. You know . . . touch it with their tongues for one second and then look at you as if they have given you the Kohinoor diamond. And for that, you are then supposed to flip out and go down on them for hours . . . even if their dingle is like spaghetti. But, anyway, when I had a vitamin shot it seems I adored everything he did without once being a stage manager. They’re really fabulous. It’s some kind of a combination of the Vitamin B’s plus some E. Dr. Alpert mixes it in front of you. Try to get Dr. Simon Alpert rather than Preston—he’s got a gentler touch with the needle. But they’re dynamite. Listen, they have to be great—they cost twenty-five bucks a shot. And if Keith shelled out that kind of money . . . well, you know. I took about three of them . . . I think they also have some appetite depressant in them because I didn’t even want to touch food. A lot of women who are overweight go there. In fact, a lot of doctors give them. There’s one who’s supposed to give them to big stars, some Washington big shots, a big composer, and several Hollywood producers.”

“Why didn’t you keep taking them?”

“At twenty-five a shot? They last about three days. One
woman I met in the waiting room told me she took four shots a week. But then I broke up with Keith, so I didn’t need all that energy. Certainly not for the Leons who come into my life.”

“But isn’t it dangerous?”

“Listen, January, you’re twenty-one, you’ve had one affair that you hated. With a dreamy guy . . . that you didn’t dig. So David went down the drain. Now you’ve got a shot at Tom Colt . . . and you sit here and tell me you’re afraid of failing. God, if I had a date with him coming up, I’d be rushing up Madison Avenue to find some divine outfit, not sitting and wondering how I was going to make him get a hard on.
That’s
the only thing I’d be sure of . . .”

January smiled. “You make me sound like I’m retarded . . . sexually.”

Linda laughed. “Listen, there’s nothing wrong with you that a good fuck won’t cure. Now call Dr. Alpert and make the appointment for this afternoon. You’ll never get out of bed. Oh . . . and stop into Leon’s office and ask him to get you a popper.”

“What’s that?”

“Ammies. You put it in a Benzedrex inhaler and leave it on the night table. Then you each take a sniff just as you are about to come. It’s wild!”

“Linda, can I ask you something? Tell me. Doesn’t anyone just go to bed with someone they care about and have a real good old-fashioned affair?”

“Of course, darling—that’s what you had with David!”

She left the office at five and rushed home. She took a long bath. Then she doused herself with perfume. She laid out two outfits. Slacks and a shirt; a long skirt and silk blouse—depending on where he wanted to go. She put on her new Pucci bra; she wondered if Linda would say Pucci bras were out. But then Linda said all bras were out.

At seven, she was still sitting in her bra staring at the phone. She had smoked half a pack of cigarettes and had taken a sip of Jack Daniels. She had bought a bottle in case he came over. She had also bought real coffee and some eggs. She didn’t know what she expected—but she just wanted to be prepared.

By eight o’clock she had called the Plaza three times. Each time, the operator confirmed: Yes, they were holding a reservation for Mr. Colt, but he had not checked in.

His call came at nine. “January . . . forgive me. The planes weren’t going because of weather. So I had to take the train. It was supposed to get in at six. That’s why I didn’t call. But there was an hour wait in Baltimore. And would you believe it? We had to stop in Trenton for half an hour because a woman was in labor—”

“Oh, Tom . . . no!” She was so relieved to hear from him that she was actually laughing.

“Look, I’m beat . . .” (Her heart dropped.) “Would it be all right with you if we just had some room service here at the Plaza?”

“Look, Tom . . . if you’re too tired to see me, I understand.” (What was she saying!)

“No, I’ve got to eat. And I’m starving . . . unless it’s too late for you.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“Good. You’ll find my car in front of your place.”

“You mean . . . you knew I would come.”

“Of course. Weren’t you the one who said . . . no games?”

He was waiting at the door when she came down the hall. She flung herself into his arms and he kissed her lightly. “God, you look great,” he said. “Come on in . . . the steaks are on their way. I figured a girl in love wouldn’t care what she ate.”

He was full of his trip. He had hated every minute of it. He felt like a trained monkey, especially on TV. The performers all told him they were his fans, yet he admired the ease with which they went on, their cool as they sat under the lights and ad-libbed with one another. When he came on, he felt like a prehistoric animal—oversized, out of context, out of place. But the hosts of the shows had all helped him, and somehow he had gotten through. “You earn every book you sell,” he said. Then he added that he had hit number three on
The New York Times
Best Seller list.

They had dinner, and then they sat together on the couch watching the late news as he drank bourbon. She sipped at hers slowly. Tom seemed surprised that she wanted one. But she knew that if they were going into that bedroom she had
to feel relaxed. Suddenly he turned to her and said, “Listen . . . how would you feel about the beach?”

“Westhampton?”

“Yes. Hugh invited me up. We can stay over. He sleeps out on the beach half the night anyway. And he said he’d bunk down on the couch if he wanted to come in.”

“When?” she asked.

“Tomorrow. We could leave at three. I have two interviews in the morning.”

“I’d love it,” she said.

He stood up and took her into his arms and kissed her gently. His hands slipped under her shirt and under the bra. She remembered what Linda had said—“Do something. Show him you carel” Tentatively she let her hand roam . . . down his back . . . toward the front. Suddenly he pulled away. “Look, it’s late and I’m beat. We’ll have the weekend together.”

He got her coat and walked her to the door. “January,” he said, “you haven’t mentioned it once all evening.”

“Mentioned what?”

“Love.” He smiled. “Do you still love me?”

“Oh God, Tom . . . you know I do.”

He smiled and kissed her lips lightly. She wondered why he had said that. Suddenly she looked up at him. “Tom . . . do you love me?”

He nodded slowly. “I think I do . . . I really think I do.”

She was at Dr. Alpert’s office at nine o’clock the following morning. She filled out the card the receptionist gave her. She was a bit apprehensive. But she realized she needed something. Last night Tom had broken the embrace . . . because he had not had an erection. He had pulled away because he hadn’t wanted her to know. She had not aroused him. All the Fracas perfume, the Pucci bra—a waste.

She had called Linda at midnight. And when Linda yelled, “What happened?” and she had answered, “Nothing,” Linda advised her to get to Dr. Alpert’s unless she wanted to blow the whole weekend.

“But is it possible for a man to love you and not get an erection?”

“Oh Jesus, January, do you know how many guys come to
me in wild heat, leap on me, and then their cock turns to rubber and we practically have to fold it in.”