April North

9

She was very drunk.

She sat on the couch, alone now, listening to the music that played on the hi-fi system and watching the proceedings. There were not too many proceedings left to watch. Most of the guests had managed to pair off into couples, or to make up otherwise acceptable groups, and had hence repaired to bedrooms for fun and frolic. Larry Ellis was off taking a shower with a girl; April had seen them stroll by, Larry’s hand buried in the girl’s blouse and his nasal voice explaining quite explicitly just where he was going to soap her, and just where she was going to soap him, and just what they were going to do standing up.

One couple was dancing now. The girl had removed dress and bra and the man had taken off his shirt. Both were barefoot and naked from the waist up. They swayed slowly together, their bodies tight in passion. Once they parted momentarily and April could see the girl’s pink nipples. They were hard as little rocks.

Craig had been with her for awhile. Craig had taken her into a bedroom, and Craig had undressed her, and Craig had made love to her. That had been good in a way, and she had needed it. But somehow it had left her unsatisfied. She was still hot as a pistol, still needed something desperately. Craig was gone now and she did not know whom he was with or what they were doing. Nor did she give a damn.

God, she was drunk.

Not just high, with her head pleasantly light and her eyes pleasantly glazed. That stage had come and gone long ago. Now she was unable to stand without swaying, unable to walk without reeling. Her head was off in its own private world and her body was at once tired and hungry.

And they were having an orgy.

Not exactly an orgy, she thought. The Romans would have thought it pallid beyond description. And Craig had told her of orgy scenes he had been in which were far more shocking than what was going on at the Jeffers home. Yet it was still an orgy as far as she was concerned. Men were going off with girls, carting them to bedrooms, laying them and leaving them, taking fresh partners and starting in anew. If that wasn’t an orgy, then what in the name of hell was it?

She turned slightly and her head ached. There was a girl sitting next to her.

“An orgy,” April said.

“Really, honey? It’s an idea, I suppose.”

April tried to focus her vision. The girl, she saw, was Margo Long. Margo, who had waxed so vitriolic on the subject of Craig’s parties and the people attending them. Margo was about half in the bag herself, she realized. But she carried her liquor better than April North. She looked cool and detached, calm and relaxed.

“Jus’ a goddam orgy,” April said. “All at once every thin’ starts happenin’.”

“Is something the matter, honey?”

“I don’t know. I need a drink.”

She stayed where she was while Margo obediently crossed the room and poured liquor on ice. She returned, gave the glass to April.

“It was scotch, wasn’t it?”

“It started that way. I tried vodka somewhere in the middle, but I’m back with scotch now.”

“Then may the Lord help you in the morning. You need this drink like a hole in the head, honey.”

“I guess so.”

While she sipped the scotch, Margo looked at her quizzically. “Someone must have handed you a rough time,” she said softly. “You want to talk about it?”

“Gotta talk to someone.”

“You can talk to me, honey.”

“Can I?” April pursed her lips. “Everybody talks. Chatter, chatter, chatter. Like magpies. Ever see a magpie?”

“Nope.”

“Neither did I. Gotta talk to someone who listens. You wanna listen to me?”

“Sure, honey,” Margo said. She reached out, patted April gently on the knee. Her hands were very soft, April noticed. Soft and cool and infinitely gentle.

“Come with me, April.”

“Where?”

“Outside. There’s a chaise in the garden. We can talk there without interruption.”

“Okay.”

“And the cool air will sober you up a little.”

“Don’t wanna sober,” April said. “Wanna drunk.”

“Come with me, honey.”

She was standing now, with Margo supporting her, an arm around her waist. And she was walking, managing somehow to make one foot go before the other in a relatively orderly fashion. They walked through Craig’s house, out the back door and into the garden. As they passed closed doors, she wondered just which door Craig was behind, and with whom. Not that she really cared, of course. Not that she gave a damn—

The fresh air jolted her. She filled her lungs and her head cleared a little. She was still drunk, of course, still stoned out of her ever-loving mind, but the fresh air did make a great difference. She didn’t feel sick any more and her head worked a good deal better.

“Sit down with me, April.”

The chaise where they sat was larger than the usual run of garden furniture, about the size of a double bed. A plastic affair with a pale yellow terrycloth cover, the chaise was springy and comfortable.

“Kick off your shoes, April. Relax a little.”

She took her shoes off.

“You could take off your dress, too. Just sit around in bra and panties. The cool night air would feel wonderful on bare skin, April.”

That sounded fine. But she remembered that sitting around in bra and panties might be difficult, since she had neither. She looked at Margo. The older woman was perfectly calm, perfectly lovely in the half-fight that filtered out to them from the noisy house. An opulent figure, April thought. Lush breasts and a lush belly and a lush behind. A big woman, and a lushly pretty one.

And I, she thought, am just a lush.

“Can’t strip,” she said. “Nothing under the dress.”

“Left your underwear inside?”

“Nope. Left it home. Didn’t wear any.”

“Really?”

“Wanted to be sexy,” she said. “For Craig, because I love Craig. But he laid another girl.”

“He generally does,” Margo said.

“That Sue Maynor.”

“Oh, hell. Everybody lays Sue Maynor.”

“Guess so. I didn’t want him to. He can lay me and nobody else, the bastard.”

“Poor April,” Margo said. “Listen, honey, I’ve got an idea. Why not take off that dress, after all? Then you can stretch out on the couch here and I’ll massage your back. It’ll make you feel a hell of a lot better.”

“But I’ll be naked.”

“So what? I’ll strip down, too. Nobody is going to see us, April. They’re all in the goddam house laying each other. And there’s not a neighbor for five miles in any direction. Strip down, honey.”

Somewhere in the back of her mind, a little voice was telling her to for God’s sake not be a damned fool, because something fishy was going on. She chose not to hear the voice. Margo was a friend, a gentle and considerate friend. And Margo was going to rub her back, and it would make her feel wonderful.

What was wrong with that?

Nothing at all.

She got out of the dress. Margo had gotten out of her own leotards and tunic in the meantime, and was left with bra, half-slip, panties. Margo’s figure looked even better now, April noticed. Margo looked feminine, warm, ample.

“Want to help me with the bra, April?”

She fumbled drunkenly with the clasp, finally got it open. Margo turned then, and she saw how perfect Margo’s breasts were, how large and well shaped.

“See anything interesting, honey?”

April blushed.

“You really shouldn’t have to stare at me,” Margo went on. “Not the way you’re built. God, I wish I were young again. Although I never shaped up that perfectly, not at any age. You look good, April. You really look wonderful.”

She sat silently while Margo took off April’s own undergarment. For a moment April was embarrassed. But then Margo told her to lie down on her stomach, and she stretched out and closed her eyes and the embarrassment vanished.

“Now just relax,” Margo was saying. “Just relax, honey. This will feel fine.”

Margo began to massage her back and April felt the tension draining from her body. Her eyes were closed and her muscles began to relax, to lose the feeling of insufferable tightness that had plagued her ever since she had seen Craig leaving the bedroom with Sue Maynor. She felt nothing but the terrycloth beneath her and Margo’s hands on her, on her back, rubbing her neck, stroking, touching, helping her to feel better.

“Got to make you feel good,” Margo said. “You’re so beautiful, April. Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?”

Hands that did wonderful things to her naked flesh. Hands that rubbed her back, pressed the small of her back, came around the sides to massage her ribs. Gentle hands yet strong hands, almost masculine hands, yet so soft—

“Craig Jeffers is an ass,” Margo said. “Any man who could pass up something like you for a slut like Maynor isn’t worth the powder to blow him to hell. You’ve got a nice behind, honey. Did anyone ever tell you what a sweet little rump you’ve got?”

Hands that touched her buttocks now, patting and caressing, touching bare flesh. Hands that stroked her thighs, squeezing and patting the tired muscles and making her feel much better, much looser, much happier.

“So beautiful—”

She felt Margo’s lips at the back of her neck, kissing her. Now why on earth would Margo want to kiss her? Yet it felt nice. Margo nibbled at the nape of her neck, spread a row of glowing kisses down the center of her back. She felt Margo lower herself upon her, felt the weight of the woman, felt two firm peaks of flesh that were Margo’s breasts pressing against her back.

Margo’s breasts were so warm.

Margo lay upon her, holding her, touching her, massaging her. And kissing her. And the whole world was light and airy, light and dreamy, light and lovely, and she was floating high in the sky on a terrycloth cloud.

“April—”

She sighed softly, happily.

“Roll over, April.”

“Why?”

“So I can do you in front.”

The explanation was a fine one. She rolled over, her eyes still closed, and she heard the sudden and worshipful intake of breath as Margo saw the full beauty of her naked body. Margo’s hands touched her now, holding her at the waist, massaging her flat stomach and stroking her hips.

Then, suddenly, Margo was holding her breasts.

The contact was electrifying. All at once the edge of the drunkenness was broken and all at once reality returned. She knew, now. She knew that this was not a massage, that it was not friendship, that it was in fact nothing more or less than lesbian love.

And she didn’t care.

Margo’s voice: “April, they’re awful. Men are awful. They take a girl and they ruin her. They make a slave out of her. But I won’t ruin you, honey. I’ll be good to you, honey.”

Margo kissed her. Margo’s mouth was soft, incredibly soft, and kissing Margo was not at all like kissing a man. Her mouth opened to admit Margo’s tongue, and then she felt Margo’s good woman’s body coming down on top of her own body, breasts against breasts, belly against belly, loins against loins. She put her arms around Margo, holding her close, and with her mouth she accepted the full intensity of Margo’s kiss.

The world was swimming now. No, not swimming-floating, floating on its back with its eyes closed, floating in a blue-green sea of cool molten lead. April North was drunk. April North was naked as a jaybird in the great outdoors, with the air cool on her warm bare skin. April North was lying under a lesbian, was kissing and being kissed by a heavy-breasted sweet-mouthed woman. April North was enjoying all of this.

Margo’s lips: leaving hers now, moving to kiss her cheek, to drop kisses on her tightly shut eyelids, to drink at her throat and move gently downward.

Margo’s hands: on her breasts again, flexing the taut flesh, tugging hungrily at the firm nipples, cupping the mounds of female softness and teasing April into a desperate response.

Margo’s mouth: Moving downward into the valley between those breasts, and now she could feel Margo’s cheeks between her own breasts, soft and cool, and then she could feel Margo kissing her breasts, kissing the flesh, kissing the nipples, kissing and kissing and kissing with lips and tongue and

       and

          and

             and

                now the world was inverted, and Margo was inverted, over her, holding her. And now April was caught up in passion, alive with passion, thrilled by a passion unlike anything she had ever known before. Now the world was rocking in a motion older than Adam and Eve...

Faster.

Faster.

Faster—

Then, at last, peace.

Dawn awoke her, sending shivers of light beating against her closed eyelids, and April opened her eyes to blink and shuddered violently. There was a moment during which she was quite uncertain where she was or how she had gotten there. Then memory came in a flash, and she recalled everything, and she sat up shaking.

She was still naked. She was still on the terry cloth-covered chaise in Craig’s garden.

Margo was gone.

Well, she thought, thank God for that. Waking up alone under this particular set of circumstances was impossible enough. Margo’s presence would have made the morning even harder to take.

She stood up, and then all the drinking and all the everything else caught up with her. Knees buckled. She fell to the grass and heaved. She lay there and retched uncontrollably for several minutes.

This time she was even weaker when she stood up, but the nausea had vanished at least for the time being. Outdoor nudity was far less romantic when you were sober and when the sun was shining. She fumbled around for her dress, got into it, and slipped her shoes on. The dress was slightly damp from the dew. She wished she had been a little less dramatic and a little less sexy and a little more practical. Bra and panties would have helped now, and she should have worn them in the first place.

She needed a cigarette.

The back door of Craig’s house was open and she went inside, taking a cigarette from a crumpled pack in the living room. She found a match, lit it, and took a deep drag. The living room was a shambles with empty glasses, empty bottles and overflowing ash trays scattered throughout the large room. The smell of dissipation, compounded of alcohol and vomit and sex, pervaded the atmosphere.

A wall clock indicated quarter to seven. In the morning. And she had still not come home.

God, she thought.

What explanation would satisfy her mother? None, probably. She was up the well-known creek in a lead canoe, and she didn’t even have a paddle. No lie she could possibly dream up would work this time. She had gone to a party after dinner Saturday night and she was coming home on Sunday morning, and that had a funny smell to it no matter how you embellished it.

Then she realized something, and she laughed. The full humor of it hit her and she rolled around on the floor, laughing like a lunatic, holding her sides to keep them from splitting.

This was Sunday morning.

She had to hurry home to go to church with the family.

She took a last drag on her cigarette and ground it out in a copper ash tray already overflowing. She found another cigarette in the crumpled pack and got it going. She sat down — because it was hard to stand up now, hard to keep on her feet — and she tried to make out just what had happened to her.

Everything had happened to her.

Everything, starting with an evening of heavy drinking and sophisticated small talk. Then Craig playing orgy-master with that redheaded Maynor bitch. Then throwing up in the john, going to bed with Craig, getting drunk as a skunk and playing lesbian games with Margo Long on the chaise in the back yard. And waking up.

And now she was sitting alone in the living room and wanting only to go home, where she belonged. She ground out the second cigarette and walked through the house looking for Craig. She tried one room, and there were two sleeping bodies on the bed, but Craig was not one of them. Frank Evans was, and so was Sue Maynor. She had to laugh — suave and polished Frank, the deep-talking pipe-smoker, was just as human as anyone else. He had taken his turn with Slutty Sue like every other man at the party.

She left the room quietly, closing the door. She tried another room, the bedroom where she and Craig had made love so many times. And this time she found him.

He was lying on his back, mouth open, eyes closed. He was snoring, and all at once he did not look romantic or debonair at all. He looked like a bum, a drunken bum sleeping off a wine binge in a pig sty.

For there was a pig with him.

A blonde pig with big breasts and smeared lipstick. April glanced from one to the other. I loved him, she thought. I actually loved the rotten son of a bitch. And she wondered what he and the blonde pig had done, and how many times, and—

She left the room.

She could not talk to Craig, obviously. Not now and not ever, as far as she was concerned. He was rotten and filthy and she would be damned a dozen times before she would try to wake him from his sleep with the blonde bitch to take her home.

But she could not walk, either. Home was too far away. So just what could she do, damn it?

Cars were parked in front. She went from one to the other and finally found a blue Pontiac with Dayton plates and keys in the ignition. She wondered who had been dumb enough to leave the keys, and silently thanked whoever it was for his or her stupidity. She climbed into the car, got behind the wheel, and sat.

She would have to go home. She did not expect a brass band at seven in the morning, but they would have to take her in and they would have to leave her alone. She could make up some sort of story — a car accident, trouble of one sort or another, anything that would placate them for a little while.

She turned the key in the ignition, stepped on the gas and started home. She knew the route. She had driven it often enough in Craig’s Mercedes.

Craig — Craig Jeffers. She had loved him, she knew, and she did not love him any more. She could not understand it — he had always wanted her so much, had spent such a great deal of time with her, had seemed to love her so deeply. And yet he had been able to toss her over and go to bed with other girls. With Sue Maynor, and with the blonde tramp, and with God knew how many others.

Why?

Not because she was no good. She could not believe that. She knew that he had told her repeatedly how good she was, knew how wondrously exhausted she could make him. She remembered how he had cried out one time at the crucial instant, his nails digging into her shoulder, his face contorted in a mixed expression of pleasure and pain. There was nothing Sue Maynor could give him that she could not give him as well or better.

Why, then?

She sighed. She needed a cigarette but there was none around. She kept her mind on her driving, heading toward town and home.

They did not believe her.

When she went through the door her mother was standing with her hands on her hips and a fierce expression on her face. Her father’s face was drawn with worry and anger in more or less equal proportions.

This will have to be good, she thought.

“All right,” her mother said. “Start talking, April.”

She made up her story as she went along, an unlikely story about Craig having a malaria attack and how she had to nurse him through the night and pile him up with blankets and put hot compresses on his feverish head.

“He caught it in Italy,” she explained. “He was there one winter and he caught malaria and he still gets attacks now and then. They say you never get over it. You can be cured and still get terrible attacks years later.”

“And you couldn’t even call April?”

“Well, Mom—”

“We were up all night waiting for you,” he father cut in. “You could have called us, April.”

“Well, Dad—”

“April,” her mother said, “I don’t believe you.”

“What?”

“I said I don’t believe you. This story about malaria. I think you’ve been telling us stories all along. Why, I met Judy Liverpool’s mother the other day and mentioned how nice it was of her to have you over for dinner and she said you hadn’t been there at all. Where were you that night, April?”

“At Judy’s,” she said desperately. “Look, maybe Judy’s mother forgot. I mean, it was over a week ago, and—”

“April.” Her mother stopped, then sighed. “I don’t want to discuss it now. Not today, not on the Lord’s day. Are you coming to church with us, April?”

If you lie, she thought, you have to stick to it. “I can’t,” she said angrily. “I was up all night and didn’t so much as close my eyes. The fever broke finally but it was horrible. Around three in the morning Craig was having horrible hallucinations and everything. I never saw anything like it. Now I’m exhausted. I think I’ll go to bed for awhile, if you don’t mind.”

They said they did not mind, but obviously they did mind. They did not believe her. Once their belief was shattered in one respect, they would question every single thing she told them from then on.

This was going to be bad.

They trooped off to church. April took a succession of hot baths and ate a full breakfast. When they came home she was sleeping soundly, and they let her sleep until dinner time. Dinner was an ordeal, with a good deal of cross-questioning and a generally unhappy atmosphere. The only thing to do, she decided, was to brazen it out.

“I’d better get back to him,” she said after dinner. “I’ll have to take the Pontiac. If he feels okay he can drive me back.”

Her father offered to run her over but she managed to brush the offer aside. She left the house, dressed comfortably now in jeans and a sweater, and drove the Pontiac to Craig’s home.