Bodies and Souls

by John Rechy

  He tried to slide sideways so he could play with her cunt while she blew him, but she did not allow the movement, kept him pinioned. One more stroke of her mouth and he would shoot! She pulled her lips away. “Okay, I'll fuck you,” she said.

  That fucking smile of hers!

  Straddling him, she spread her great legs, pulling in his cock as he pushed. Up and down, up, down. His hands grasped her breasts. She felt his spilling orgasm, hers reached for his, he thrust his head back, she flailed hers to one side, both came.

  His long body quivered, relaxed, rested. He waited for her approbation. She reached over him. “Fuck—no more cigarettes,” she discovered.

  “That was great,” he said. Now he waited for her to echo him.

  “You know Freud's bullshit about penis envy?” she said.

  “Hey! That's been disproved entirely,” he knew to say.

  “No—he was right.”

  Tom felt as if he had rejected a victor's laurel, without knowing he'd won it. “Well, I have always, maybe deep down, felt that he might have had a— …” he started.

  “But not about women he wasn't right,” Mandy said. “Women don't envy men's cocks. Men envy each other's cocks. Size doesn't matter that much to women; it does to men.”

  He squinted at her. He was no Jimmy Steed, but he was much more than just adequate.

  “Don't worry,” she assuaged him, “you're fine; just fine. It was just a general observation.” She got up and left the room, to search for cigarettes. She returned with one between her lips. She stood near the sliding glass panels. The reflection of the moon in the pool hugged her lovingly, the curves outlined in luminous kissing light. A mirror captured the silver silhouette, front and back at the same time.

  She really did have a sensational body! Tom Bassach knew he'd be ready for her again.

  Still standing there, “You ever tried anal sex?” she asked him.

  When he had tried—with Liz—not even telling her, just letting his cock slide away from one opening and toward the other—she cried when she discovered what he wanted. He denied it, said he hadn't meant to push hard, there. He had fucked one of the receptionists at the studio that way, and another time he— … “Yeah,” he said, man of the world.

  “Did you take it or give it?” Mandy asked him.

  “What?”

  “Did you take it up the ass or put it there?” she enunciated as if he hadn't heard.

  “Listen,” hysteria tinged his voice, “I just fucked you, I made you come twice, so I assume you know I'm not a fag.” He had thought her strange smile was gone permanently. But it either returned now or never left.

  “I know you're not,” she said. She shrugged. “I've tried it; mostly a man's trip, though.” This time she took a third puff from the cigarette. She continued to stand, as if trying to decide something important.

  To let him try? The tip of his cock stirred. And to ask him to spend the night? Go for sixteen orgasms! he thought with amusement, excitement, and apprehension. Or would this be a one-night fuck? Whatever her new TV special, it would have to be spectacular to top “The Lower Depths.” He wanted to be a part of it. Christ, she could help him, especially if she did replace Eleanor Cavendish—and he'd heard a lot of criticism about Eleanor. Her makeup took one hour each day, and she was always arguing with the lighting men. And Kenneth Manning wasn't getting any younger, and so— …

  “Suck my cunt,” Mandy growled. She stood at the edge of the bed, near his head.

  “What?”

  “I said, Lick my cunt,” she growled again even more sexily.

  “I just came— …”

  “Squeamish?”

  “It's just so soon after.”

  She lay beside him, and buried the cigarette with the other dead ones in the ashtray. She reached for his head. Resisting its pull, he burrowed it between her breasts. His hands slid under her buttocks, spreading them, and he felt excited again, yes. Actually, his orgasm had been one of those strange long ones when, finally, he didn't fully shoot; that happened when he waited too long. But: “Let's wait just a while,” he said, to avoid the push of her hands on his head.

  “Okay,” she said. Each time she smiled—“that way”—he felt she was signaling a private victory, hers, unknown to him.

  “Where did you learn so much about women, all about vaginal and clitoral orgasms?” she asked him.

  “Hey, you know, I like to be up on things; read a lot—stay current. Opens you up, you know? I went to a meeting—a women's meeting with Liz—just a girl I know; we signed a petition for equal— …”

  “Does she come—Liz?”

  He coughed. “Sure.” He was about to touch his moustache, but didn't.

  “Good orgasms?”

  “Sixteen peaks, sixteen valleys,” he sparred with her.

  “Gotcha,” she said. “You pick up quickly on the raps, don't you, Tommy?” She didn't wait for his answer; she said, “I'll tell you something you won't learn at those meetings, something about real liberation—something those chanting women at demonstrations don't know: Liberation is inside, deep, deep inside— …”

  “In the lower depths,” he tossed.

  Her sudden look bored into him. “And in men, too,” she said. Her words were carefully enunciated; tinged with vague warning? “Mass killings,” she said.

  “Huh?” That hated sound again; it just flew out of him. He never used it—Liz did.

  “Mass killings—my next special,” she said.

  “The Nazis— …” he started, trying to move ahead of her.

  “I don't mean war,” she said. “You get into all kinds of problems there, issues—the right, the left, the up, the down. Nazis, Viet Nam, Hiroshima—stuff like that, that's war. I'm talking about mass slaughter—Starkweather, that guy on the tower in Austin, Manson, the Skid Row Slasher, the Lovers' Lane Ripper, the Hillside Strangler; explore what makes— …”

  “Could be terrific!” And it could, he knew. “You could start with an overview of— …”

  “Right,” she dismissed him. She reached for the remote-control device on the table on her side of the bed. She turned the television on with a click.

  There was Eleanor Cavendish. Mandy propped herself on a pillow and stared at her. “One more good story and you're mud, Eleanor,” she said, “and then I'll go after Ken.” Eleanor was telling Ken about the growing danger of fires as the Santa Ana winds increased. Yes—and a potentially major fire had already erupted in one of the outlying canyons, Ken told her. The screen showed red flames pouring down a hill. “Sam Bernheimer has a live report— …” Sam Bernheimer appeared among firetrucks and smoke-smudged people evacuating the area but pausing to be seen by the camera.

  “I'm not doing fires any more,” Mandy said victoriously. “No more fires, I told them, unless it's the whole city! And I mean it. … I'll have to go a long way in my next series to reach ‘The Lower Depths.’ I know that, and so does Eleanor.”

  “That mass murder idea could be great if— …” Tom started again.

  She held her finger on the remote selector, sliding over images of faces, fires, cowboys, a man falling, a can of beer, a girl skating, a child eating bread, a ballet dancer, police surrounding a house, a woman chauffeured to— …

  “….—four! There shall be four! And on the other side: There! will Satan face them!” Sister Woman gasped.

  “Those fake evangelicals and their bullshit,” Tom Bassach said.

  “It's not bullshit,” Mandy said, watching intently.

  Tom sat up, startled. “Cummon, you don't really believe— …”

  “Of course not!” Mandy snapped, watching the screen. “But the following she's got, and her power—that's not bullshit. She knows television better than any of us. I learn from her, a lot—no, I'm serious. About how to convince. You know, she actually makes up scripture, quotes it as her own—or just mixes it all up so she's got her own ‘word of God’! And those idiots don't care.”

  “At the Great
Gathering of Souls Sunday, I promise: something awesome!” Sister Woman covered her eyes, as if momentarily blinded. Then she removed her hands; the colorless outlined eyes stared forward. Now they were black, reflecting black.

  “Notice how she creates suspense,” Mandy said. “Four—that's her secret number. Never explains, uses it over and over; and then it's ‘something awesome’—mysteries and secrets and vague promises, to get all those creeps to call and— …”

  “And send ‘love donations,’” sneered Tom.

  “Nine million dollars' worth—that's how much she raised; she's aiming for ten. People leave whole estates to her, instructions in their wills.”

  “Shit,” Tom looked at his cock. That spooky Sister Woman wasn't going to help this situation.

  “And nothing can touch her, not criticism, not ridicule, not scandal. The Enquirer ran what it claimed was documented proof that her rich mother and father were brother and sister and committed suicide together—and their readers, who love to read that stuff, threatened to boycott the paper even though there were no threatened suits or rebuttals from Sister Woman. Now that is power!” Mandy said admiringly.

  “But will they surrender to Satan, Sister Woman? Though his power is temporary, it is terrible to behold, terrible in its mighty persuasion!” Brother Man bemoaned.

  “He looks like a fag.” Tom cupped his groin securely.

  Sister Woman shook her head. Her eyes seemed to melt into tears. “God always wins. It is sinners who lose.”

  “Cummon, Mandy, turn the fuckers off.” Tom reached for the remote control.

  Mandy grasped his hand, stopping him. “Just look at her!” She shut off the sound. In pale lavender chiffon, Sister Woman wove her invisible web with her hands. “Great! She's just great!”

  Tom looked from the face on the screen to Mandy's. “You're really serious about learning from her?” He tried to make it both question and statement.

  “I told you—yeah.” She clicked off the television. “She knows mass communications.” She faced him in bed. “Have you ever thought about what that means? Hear it: mass … communications. Mass— …”

  “Religious, too,” he said. “Lots of resonance. Mass communications,” he repeated.

  “You'd make a good weatherman,” Mandy said.

  This time, one hand touched his moustache and the other connected it to his crotch. For a moment he liked the outlaw image she had evoked of him—the way she saw him—but then he had second thoughts, “Look, I'm a liberal guy, but not a radical. I hope I haven't said anything that gave you the idea that I'm— …” It wouldn't help for it to get out at the station that he was an extremist, for God's sake. “And I was just a kid when they— …”

  “I didn't mean that kind of weatherman.” She laughed. “I meant those cute guys the stations hire now to tell the weather. Even if it's going to flood, there they are, all sunny smiles.”

  He liked the outlaw better. “I sure the hell don't see myself that way,” he said.

  “You're not. Believe me, you … are … not.” She spread her legs, offering them to him. “I've got some sweet honey dew for you, stud, just for you,” she said.

  “Honey dew melons.” He cupped her breasts. Oh, he was ready—and astonished and turned on to hear her talk like that, actually kittenish.

  She guided his mouth to her breasts. He licked. She moved his head until she located his tongue on the exact spot she wanted aroused, just slightly to the left of her right nipple. “Stay there,” she said.

  His cock was erect; he was hotter than before. Now he would do this—on his own—wouldn't really do it, just tease her. … What a body! He slid his head right to the edge of the triangle of pubic hair. He held her thighs closed, pretending to caress them. She flung her legs open. “Eat it!” she commanded, and he dove hungrily into the lightly furred moist opening. She held his head firmly down, but he was not resisting, not at all. He was licking willingly, lapping at the opening, tongue dabbing, darting, exploring, entering, pushing into the dewy folds.

  Then she raised his head. “Let's fuck,” she said.

  He was hot! And she was waiting for him now! Look at her!—leaning down and forward! her hands propped on the bed! her ass toward him! He knelt behind her. One of his hands grabbed one of her breasts, the other grasped her slim waist. His cock brushed her ass. She squirmed. Holding his cock, he moved it down, toward her cunt, rubbing it into her hairs. Tentatively, he returned the eager cock to the nearer opening. Was she inviting, coaxing him to fuck her in the ass? Oh, yeah! The head of his cock touched the tight knot. She allowed it to remain there. Now with both his hands he parted the buttocks, he aimed his cock and— …

  She slid down, flat on the bed, turned her body over quickly, facing him. His body fell on hers. She opened her legs, and his cock slipped into her cunt. Her legs curled about his shoulders, slid down his back. He pushed in, then out, then almost totally out, at the very mouth of her legs, in, out, then again almost, almost completely out, only to lunge back in one hard thrust. Deep! Deep! Deep!

  Her hands reached over his shoulders, slid down to his back, farther down to his waist, down, down to his narrow buttocks. She grabbed the slender mounds of flesh, spreading them open, kneading them. He pushed in and out of her. She felt his hard cock in her liquid warmth.

  Now! She pushed her finger into his ass, forced it deep, deeper, shoved another finger in. Deep!

  “Ouch!” And he came and came and came.

  He rolled off her, onto the bed. She had not come. He looked at her. Her smile—that smile—branded him this time. She puffed once on a new cigarette, and put it out, as if not to interrupt the growing smile. In a moment it might issue laughter.

  “I think I'd better go.” He sat up. That abruptly. Angry.

  “Did Mandy wear Tommy-boy out?” she asked. There was a cold meanness in the studied, taunting tone. Where had he heard it before?—that tone of mean triumph? He looked startled at Mandy Lang-Jones. He had heard it in his voice when he was with Liz, when he was with the others, when— …

  Even more furious, he dressed. Was there anything to gain now from her? He wanted to say something that would crack her hardening smile. He looked at her and said, “With all your bullshit, Mandy, you're not liberated—not in any way, not even in your— …” Yes! This was it! He took sure aim: “… —no, not even in your very, very lowest depths.”

  The smile didn't crack. It widened, preparing laughter.

  He wanted to go on—to tell her she was dishonest, disdainful, cruel in her life and mean in that high-rated precious series of lies she might get a prize for; wanted to tell her she wasn't even honest about her dishonesty, still had to rationalize it now and then, call it a public service; he wanted to tell her that she— …

  But he wouldn't say any of that, and her unrelenting smile told him she knew it, and why—because both knew he would have done—would do—the same or equivalent things in the world they shared. The only difference was that she had been in it—that world of lies—longer than he had. And yet— …

  And yet what he hated her most for was that she had given him the best fuck of his life.

  Smoke from the cigarette concealed her expression. He heard her calm voice.

  “Fag-hags—that's what gays call women who pretend to know all about them. Well, I've got a name for men like you, with all your bullshit about women: Tommy-boy, you are a cunt-runt!”

  Softly—and she knew he would do it that way, softly, and even call out, softly, too, “Goodnight, Mandy, see you soon, huh?” and she might, she just might—Tom Bassach closed the door—softly—as he walked out of her house.

  Mandy touched the soft brush between her sculpted legs, touched her flat stomach, her round breasts,—soft, firm. With a sharp stab in the direction of the television screen, she fired the remote control, hopping from station to station as the dark screen unbunched into a soundless picture of Eleanor Cavendish, her lips moving.

  Mandy said, “No more fi
res for me, Eleanor—and Ken! No more fires!”

  Lost Angels: 12

  “Well, that crucifixion was certainly inspiring!” said the woman with the newly set hair and tint, dabbing happily at her glistening tears.

  Rushing out of the Movieland Wax Museum, Lisa waved at Orin and Jesse standing by the naked David outside the Palace of Living Art.

  “Well, couldn't you just see how He'd die for our sins, right there and then, bless His soul?” the heavy woman continued merrily. “Well, good-bye, you three, lord-love-you.” She waved gaily at Lisa and Jesse and Orin.

  “You worried us, Lisa!” Jesse smarted. Orin allowed, “You did for a fact.”

  Lisa didn't say a word. She just walked on to the car. She sat in the back seat. Checking Orin's look for approbation, Jesse lowered the top of the Cadillac. Hot wind spiraled in.

  In the car as they drove on the freeway, Lisa was moody, surly. “I haven't had a flavor-of-the-week in ages,” she pouted in a child's voice.

  “You want one?” Orin offered.

  “No!” she snapped.

  Traffic was beginning to harden the freeway. They moved slowly, just as slowly when they drove minutes later along Sunset Boulevard. This time when they passed Schwab's Pharmacy, Lisa didn't point out that that was “where they discovered Lana Turner.” Missing her observation—which he always greeted with, “You've told us and told us”—Jesse said wistfully, “That's where they discovered— …” He couldn't remember whom, and Lisa didn't remind him.

  Orin turned off Sunset, crisscrossing along lawned, tree-tunneled, arrogant streets—onto Wilshire Boulevard and into Beverly Hills.

  “Rodeo Drive.” That struck Jesse very funny. “Rodeo Drive?”

  “That's the famous street where the richest people shop,” Lisa said curtly.

  The famous shops on the street brandished their snobbish names. Limousines parked in front of a striped awning: “By Appointment Only.” Manikins there were headless. “Ugly,” sneered Lisa. In another shop floppy rag dolls modeled expensive clothes. “Ugly.”