by Troy Conway
She threw her head back over my shoulder and gnawed at my jaw. “Screw ’em,” she murmured dreamily. She began jouncing around vigorously.
“But,” I protested, “my girlfriend?”
“Tough,” she replied, tonguing my neck with abandon. The tempo of her hip movements increased.
I could see that my rhetoric wasn’t getting me anywhere. So I decided to let her have her way, hoping to get things over with as quickly as possible.
Leaning back on the bench, I arched my hips upward. The new angle put more zing into things. She gasped, and the soft, smooth spheres of her buttocks hammered furiously. Her fingers dug into my legs. Planting my feet against the bench in front of me, I thrust harder. She thrust back and fought to keep up with me.
Finally she couldn’t take it any more. Her legs trembled, and her fingernails dug hungrily into my thighs. Then, with a mad burst of movement, she soared over the top. Clutching her by the hips, I slid her off my lap on the upswing. I zipped my fly, snuggled close to Lola, and tuned in again on The Big Head.
Somewhere along the line he had climbed out of the peace bag and back into the love bag. His face was red with excitement, and his enormous blue eyes were threatening to pop out of his head.
“Now,” he was shouting, “I’m going to show you the POWER of love!
“That’s right, the POWER!
“And the GLORY!
“And you’re gonna SEE it!
“Right HERE!
“Like I said, love is afraid. The cash-crazy world wants to buy and sell it, like toothpaste and scouring pads. But love doesn’t want to be bought and sold. So it stays inside, ‘cause it’s afraid.
“Only here—here in this church—it isn’t afraid anymore.”
“It isn’t afraid, because it knows that all of us are pure, all of us are good, all of us have purged ourselves of the filthy, decadent materialism that’s corrupting the world.
“So it’ll come out in this church, man, and it’ll come out tonight.
“You watch and I’ll show you”
He walked to the edge of the platform and reached for the girl to whom he earlier had given his bouquet of roses. She took his hand and climbed onto the platform with him.
She was a Latin type, with black hair and flashing eyes. Her skin was deep olive and her features were extremely delicate. She wore a white cotton blouse, open at the throat, and a pair of jeans that displayed her slim, shapely lee to excellent advantage.
“This is Chiquita,” he announced. “She’s a girl who’s known poverty, a girl who’s known suffering. And she’s a girl who knows love. Watch now and you’ll see it!”
On cue she walked across the front of the platform. With each step she plucked a rose from the bouquet and tossed it into the audience. “Flowers,” she said sweetly with a faint Spanish accent. “Flowers mean love”
“You heard her,” rasped The Big Head. “Flowers mean love, and Chiquita knows love. Now watch and she’ll show you.”
When she had tossed away her last flower she came back to the center of the platform and stood in front of the table. The Big Head put the microphone on its stand and began clapping his hands rhythmically. The audience picked up the beat.
“Love!” he chanted. “Love! Love! Love!”
For a moment Chiquita stood motionless. Her eyes were fixed on some point in the distance and her expression was blank. Then the audience took up The Big Head’s chant. Slowly her lips began to quiver and she swayed from side to side.
“She’s on, man!” The Big Head shouted enthusiastically. “She’s really on! Now watch, and you’ll see love!”
The tempo of the clapping and chanting accelerated. Chiquita’s movements became more pronounced. Her breasts rose and fell. Her hips swung into a slow, undulating movement.
“Love, Chiquita!” commanded The Big Head. “Love! LOVE!”
Suddenly she dropped to her knees and ripped open her blouse. She wore nothing underneath, and her large, round breasts jutted out with a proudness that startled me.
The Big Head stood over her and scrutinized them. “Love!” he intoned. “These are the fruits of love! The full, firm fruits of love! Open your garden, Chiquita, and display the fruits of love! Love! LOVE!”
Her eyes were squeezed tightly shut Her head was tossed back, and her long black hair cascaded wildly over her shoulders. The gleaming golden spheres of her breasts pulsated hotly in the bright white glow of the spotlight.
Slowly she removed her blouse completely, then unbuttoned her jeans. The smooth lines of her belly came into view as she urged down the zipper and slid the waistband over her hips.
“Love!” prompted The Big Head. “Love, Chiquita! Love!”
Slacks at half-mast, she got up and made her way to the upstage side of the low, white table. Facing away from the audience, she sat on the table’s edge and slid into a supine position. Her breasts rose majestically, like twin mountain peaks. Her face was screwed up in an expression of sublime ecstasy.
“Love!” rasped The Big Head. “Love! Love! Love!”
Chiquita writhed on the table as if she were in the throes of orgasm. Her breasts quivered, and her slim hips darted from side to side.
“And now,” The Big Head whispered dramatically. “we’ll show you love.”
He moved to the upstage end of the table. Holding the microphone aloft like a torch, he positioned himself between his enraptured acolyte’s outstretched thighs. Then with hi free hand, he made a moss-like gesture of benediction over her undulating womanhood.
“Love!” he said.
Another gesture.
“Love!”
Another.
“LOVE!”
The loft was silent
The Big Head’s eyes stared glassily into space.
Beads of perspiration glistened on his forehead.
His fingers tugged at his robe, and suddenly the garment fell open
He was wearing nothing underneath.
“LOVE!!!” he shouted.
I strained forward, expecting to witness the ravishment of Chiquita.
It never happened.
The white-robed high priest of The Church of the Sacred Acid, standing twixt the thighs of one of the sexiest creatures a man could hope to see, was as limp as a strand of overcooked spaghetti.
“LOVE!!!” he repeated. “LOVE!!! Love so sure, so confident, so absolutely certain of itself that it needs no physical expression! LOVE!!! LOVE!!!”
Immediately every light in the house went out. There was a murmur from the audience. Then the lights went on again. When they did. the curtain had closed around the platform and The Church of the Sacred Acid looked like exactly what it was—a dingy loft filled with weird-looking people. The audience started toward the exits.
Lola and I headed for the center aisle. In front of us, my miniskirted ex-sexmate was thumbing casually through a dog-eared copy of the evening’s program. She was alone, and as she rounded the corner I got a good look at her. She looked even better in the light than she had in darkness. She also looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t remember when I had seen her before or where.
Lola took my hand and cuddled against me. “Wasn’t it marvelous?” she cooed.
“The greatest,” I replied, thinking more of my bout with the doll in the miniskirt than of The Big Head’s graphic lesson in non-contact love.
“Most people miss the point,” she went on. “I mean, they think it’s a joke or something. They can’t understand how The Big Head can have Chiquita lying there naked in front of him and not want to ball her.”
“Well,” I pointed out, “his act doesn’t exactly have a buffo finish. The impotence bit is sort of anticlimax. Or should I say preclimatic?”
“But that’s it! Lie he said, his love is so great that it doesn’t require physical expression! He can dig Chiquita without balling her, because he really knows where love’s at! The squares don’t understand. But once you know what’s happening, it’s as clear as day
.”
It wasn’t all that clear to me, but I didn’t argue with her.I had other things on my mind—like the babe in the miniskirt. The more I looked at her, the more certain I was that I had seen her before. But where? And when? I thought hard, but couldn’t make the connection.
The crowd in the aisle had thinned. Miniskirt had wiggled her way through three couples and was slithering out the door. I thought of asking Lola if she knew her. Then, in the interests of tact, I decided against it. We angled our way through a mob of longhairs at one of the exits and started down the stairs.
“Well,” said Lola once we were outside, “are you ready for the party?”
I did a mild double-take. “What party?”
“You know! The party! Where I’m going to introduce you to The Big Head!”
“Oh, that party!” I pressed her hand with all the loving tenderness d a hunter patting his bloodhound on the head. “Lead the way, sugar. I can’t wait to get there.”
CHAPTER 4
The party was on Avenue D in a fourth-floor walk-up that was so decrepit it made my apartment look like the Presidential Suite at the New York Hilton. The guests were a couple of dozen hippies who were milling around regaling each other with tales of LSD trips. According to Lola, a swinging time was being had by all. I could imagine myself having more fun at a convention of the Daughters of the American Revolution. Or the Daughters of Sappho, for that matter.
The Big Head hadn’t yet made the scene, so Lola introduced me to a few minor celebrities. There was a poet who was published regularly in The East Village Other, a sculptor whose works had graced the lobby of the Hotel Chelsea and a painter who took credit for one of the abstract oils of Max’s Kansas City. Each in turn told me how LSD had been responsible for his success and how he hoped to achieve even greater heights once he had taken a few more trips.
Next I met a pimply-faced creep named Egbert, who Lola identified as her employer. He was the leader of a rock and roll band called The Decline of the West. Originally they had been known as Marquis and the Sodomites, but the name had been scrapped because it conveyed an anti-love image. Next they had called themselves Niccolo and the Machiavellians, but that had been dropped because it was too materialistic. Finally they settled on The Decline of the West, which Egbert deemed not only loving and unmaterialistic but also symbolic—although symbolic of what he was at a loss to say. The name stuck.
Lola was The Decline of the West’s hummer. Egbert had been standing on the comer of St Mark’s Place and Second Avenue one afternoon when she sauntered by humming a few bars of “A Whiter Shade of Pale.” He had asked her if she wanted to hum professionally, and she had said yes. Now she and The Decline of the West were gigging around East Village on weekends and waiting for the big break that would, with the help of LSD, put them way up on top, along with Procol Harum, Bob Dylan, The Jefferson Airplane and The Moby Grape.
While Egbert spelled out his plans for the rise of The Decline of the West, I listened with one ear. With the other I tuned m on the conversations of the hippies around us. I was hoping to hear something, anything, that would tie in with The Big Freak-Out But all I heard were paeans of praise for LSD.
One thing was certain: these acid-heads really dug their acid.
But were they plotting to take over the country? If they were, they weren’t talking about it.
Finally, shortly after midnight, The Big Head arrived. He had traded in his white robe and sandals for a pair of orange plaid pants, a chartreuse shirt and a pair of tennis shoes. Around his neck was the string of hound’s teeth he had worn during his sermon. On his arm, looking sexier than ever, was Chiquita
My eyes took a quick tour of her sumptuous body. She was wearing a tight pink turtleneck and even tighter white slacks. I could see through the turtleneck that she hadn’t bothered to put on a bra. I wondered if she also went lingerie-less south of the border, and I vowed to find out at the earliest possible moment
The Big Head and his pretty tail wandered through the crowd exchanging pleasantries with the plebeians. I nudged Lola and we edged toward him. She caught his eye, gave him a big smile and asked him to meet Rod Damon. His face came alive with recognition at the mention of the name.
“Damon?” he repeated, giving me a firm handshake. “From the League for Sexual Dynamics?”
“One and the same.”
“I’ve read your books. You’ve got quite a thing going for you.” To Chiquita he explained, “He’s a sex researcher, honey. Like Kinsey and those people. But he gives his work the personal touch. I’ll bet he’s balled more chicks in the last year than most men do in a lifetime.”
Chiquita eyed me with interest Lola suddenly became very interested also. “No wonder he’s so great in bed!” she soliloquized. “I never dreamed I was making it with a certified expert.”
The Big Head smiled. “He’s certified, all right. And the money boys at the big foundations know it. What’s that line from the magazine ads, Damon? While you’re up, get me a grant?”
“He’s always up,” contributed Lola
“ ‘Up’?” echoed Chiquita. “What is ‘up’? And what are ‘grants’? And who are these ‘money boys’? This language is very confusing to me.”
“I’ll explain later,” said The Big Head. He turned back to me. “What brings you to East Village, Damon? Did you con somebody into subsidizing an investigation of the sexual mores of hippies? Or is this a busman’s holiday?”
“I’m subsidized.”
“Very neat. Nothing like mixing business with pleasure.”
I grimed. “You should how.”
“If that’s a joke, sorry-but-I-don’t-get-it.”
My grin hardened “Lola and I caught your act tonight—at two-and-a-half bucks a head. There were all of a hundred people in the audience. Not a bad day’s pay for a guy who thinks cash is the greatest evil this side of leprosy.”
Lola squirmed, obviously embarrassed that I had addressed her idol in tones somewhat less than worshippful. But The Big Head took the dig in stride. “Well, I’ve got to make my bail money some way. But I’m no hypocrite, Damon. I believe in what I preach.” Hi eyes took on something of the fervent glow they had radiated on stage earlier in the evening. “The world is going to hell in a handbasket. Look around you. Dehumanization is the password, and the fat cats on Wall Street are calling. the tune. Kids are trained from birth to become cogs in the machinery of big business, if they don’t wind up as cannon fodder first. Meanwhile, art is dying and literature is dead. There’s only one hope for civilization. We’ve got to get back to the basics-love, humanity and brotherhood.”
“In essence, you’re not saying anything that Horace didn’t say two thousand years ago.”
“True. And Hesiod said it five hundred years before him. If you feel like adding to the list, you can ring in Mohammed, Christ, Luther, Thomas Aquinas, Dante, Goethe and Pope John XXIII. But what I have that they didn’t is the pharmaceutical wonder called lysergic acid diethylamide, or LSD. When you use it, you wake up to the real beauties of the world, the beauties that materialistic society has managed to observe. In the wards of Tim Leary, you turn on, tune in and drop out. Or more elaborately stated, you experience a reorganization of your. Sensory faculties, you see things for what they really are, and you turn your back on the cash-crazy society that thinks happiness is nothing more than color TV sets, American Express credit cards and two cars in every garage.”
Without realizing it, he had given me the opening I was looking for. I jumped in feet first. “I’m all for acid,” I told him. “I use it, and I think it’s the greatest thing since indoor plumbing.” He regarded me with an expression of new-found camaraderie. “But,” I went on quickly, “I’m not against material conveniences. I happen to like color TV sets, American Express credit cards and two cars in my garage.”
He smiled the smile of a true missionary all set to pounce upon a convert. “Our points of view aren’t as incompatible as they may seem. I’m not against
conveniences. I’m just opposed to the way society overemphasizes their importance.”
I smiled back, the smile of the spider enticing the fly into its lair. “Then maybe we’re on the same side after all. But our methods differ. You take the long-range view. You’re preaching to a handful of kids and hoping that two or three generations from now they’ll have carried your message throughout the world. Me—I’m not so patient. I want things to happen while I’m still young enough to get in on the action.”
His eyes narrowed. “What sort of things?”
I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “I’ve got a few ideas. But this isn’t the time or place to discuss them. If you’re really interested, why don’t we get together some afternoon for lunch?”
For a moment he said nothing. I could visualize the wheels inside his brain spinning around I made a little bet with myself. If he had nothing to do with The Big Freak-Out, he’d dismiss me with a cordial don’t-call-me- I’ll-call-you. On the other hand, if he was as involved as Walrus-moustache seemed to think, he’d be bursting with curiosity and he’d want to pow-wow with me as soon as possible.
I waited for his reply.
“Well,” he said finally, “I’m not doing anything tomorrow afternoon. How about you?”
“My schedule’s wide open.”
“Two o’clock too early for you?”
“Just right.”
“Where should we meet?”
“How about Max’s Kansas City?”
“Fine.”
There wasn’t anything more for either of us to say. We shook hands, exchanged nice-meeting-you’s and drifted off in opposite directions. I waited until he was out of range, then permitted myself a big cat-that-ate-the-canary grin. So The Big Head wanted to hear my ideas. Eight to five he was now second-guessing me twice as hard as I had been second-guessing him. And unless I missed my bet, he’d be second-guessing me right up to the time of our lunch date. Now to figure out some ideas to put an end to his second-guessing, and at the same time lure him into selling me on joining in on The Big Freak-Out!
