Swap On Deck By Marge Sailen


SPREAD IT AROUND! 

Andrea confidently approached Sean and rubbed her breasts against his bare chest ... pressing her wet pussy against his erect, hard penis ... running her hands over his thighs ... squeezing his tight ass ... caressing his penis ... her hands moving up and down his large rod ... faster and faster ... harder and harder ... making his hips move rhythmically with every stroke she made. 

Andrea could never have been this aggressive without the Guru's instructions to take this boat cruise and practice how to drive men wild-and she was going to try hard to follow his advice with as many men she could find! 



CHAPTER ONE 

"Rock of Ages, cleft for me 

Let me hide myself in thee ... " 

That's her apartment all right-20B. And that's her guitar and her voice. But what the fuck's she singing? 

Omigod. "Rock of Ages." You thought she was a little straight but this is too much. Is she going to do that in her next gig? Maybe it's her answer to Judy Collins and "Amazing Grace"? 

"Be of sin the double cure Save from guilt and make me pure ... " 

Make me pure? Ugh! Well, you've come this far, you may as well ring the bell. You can't hit a nympho on every first date, you know. 

"Come in! It's open!" 

Anyhow, if this doesn't work you can always call up Marilyn at about midnight and ... 

HOLY SHIT INSTANT ERECTION MOTHERFUCKER SHE'S NUDE! 

Dressed how? 

Undressed! 

Cunt! 

Close Your Mouth You Stupid Shit She's Loony And Besides Haven't You Ever Seen A Cunt Before? 

No Don't Ask Her To Pirouette So You Can Check Out Her Ass Too! 

Just walk in and close the door calmly and say something nonchalant. 

No Don't Yell Something Nonchalant! 

How about ... ulp ... "Hi." 

Whew. Got that one out. Now it's up to her. Something's up to you, too, and it's going to split your zipper if you don't look away from all that creamy flesh spilling out from behind her guitar. 

"Hi." 

Piss. Up to you again. 

How does she get so casual? With those firm little-no, medium-tits poking their nipples straight at you? The nipples are very red. Are they even a little bit erect? 

"I see you're not dressed yet." Brilliant. That'll win you a Pulitzer for sure. (Aha! The lady smirketh!) 

Man is this weird. You'd better sit down before you fall down. And crawl over and start nibbling her snatch. 

Come to think of it that's an appealing idea. 

That's some appealing snatch. 

Wait ... she's going to talk. 

"I got carried away with ... uh ... rehearsing." 

That's right. Nod diffidently. Make like this is nothing, it happens all the time, your groin is not jelly, and you'll ball her in three-tenths of a second if she gives you the slightest provocation. 

"Well I didn't make any dinner reservations, so that's fine. I thought we'd just ... ulp ... play it by ear." What the hell, she set it out there, you may as well stare at it. "Really, it is fine." No use giving her the impression that you're not appreciative. But what the hell's going on in her head? Maybe she knew you'd want to get into her pants and decided to foil you? Yikes! No Pants! What Do You Do Now? 

Or maybe she's a genuine religious-type nudist. Maybe you're supposed to take off your clothes and ask her if she wants to play backgammon. 

She's smirking again. She's got beautiful lips. Thin and soft and animated. Smirking becomes them. 

This has got to be some kind of joke. A pornographic Candid Camera? Where's it hidden? 

If she's crazy enough to greet you in the nude singing "Rock of Ages" on your first date maybe she's crazy enough to bite your balls off in the clutch. But she looks pretty sane. 

That's it. Get down into that chair across the coffee table from the couch. She's going to sit on the couch and you'll have a beautiful pussy-shot without blowing your cool. And maybe you'll be able to cross your legs before she sees you're gradually coming in your pants. (Nice apartment she's got. High ceilings ... lots of natural wood and brass and rich upholstery ... antiques ... deep carpets ... beautiful view out over the park from those bay windows ... looks like four or five big rooms ... Say Something! 

"Nice body you've got there." 

That was hardly too risqué, considering. She seems to appreciate her body too. Even looks down at it as she says "Thanks." 

She's not looking at you so you can cop a quick hard stare. 

Her hips are just a trifle large and womanly. What a relief from all those skinny-assed model-types! And there's a pronounced undulating curve from her belly down to that fluffy patch of auburn crotch-hair ... which is distributed just right. Not so thick that it looks like a jungle and hides everything (those kind always get hairs stuck in your teeth) and not so thin that it looks like a lawn that's been mowed with the blades too close to the ground. You can clearly make out the generous bulge of her pale cuntlips through it. 

Nothing sloppy about her cunt, though. No loose ends dangling out of place. But nothing mean about it, either. Nice and ripe. Like an apple that's been picked at just the right instant. Is that something like what old Adam got caught in his throat? 

Ah ... she's sitting down. 

"You know, I'm not exactly used to beautiful chicks answering the door in the nude ... hahahahaha ... except for their guitars ... hahaha ... and, uh, it's sort of a low blow ... " 

Point to the lump in your pants. Better to get on top of things than to try to be subtle, right? She's running a quick erection-check anyhow. (Would you have called that stare "pointed"? Hell no! It didn't hurt, did it?) 

"Hahahahaha." 

Nice laugh she's got. Full and throaty but with nice musical overtones. 

"I'm not used to doing things like this either. In fact this is the first time I've ever done anything this zany in my life. But I was feeling in this bored sort of mood." 

Funny thing. Is this some kind of test to see if you're as cool as you pretend to be? Well, that could work both ways. "What would you think if you'd come by my place tonight and I'd answered the door with my dork hanging out?" 

Funny thing all right. All she can do is giggle and get a little bit red in the face. 

"I'd have run like hell screaming for the cops." 

One point for you. But that's not the point. 

"So may I ask what you expected to come of all this?" 

Well said. Brightly enough, and you got to use your favorite impish smile-along with a little face-saving sarcasm. Good pun, too, if she wants to pick up on it. 

"Probably you." 

BOING! Scramble Those Fighters! Let The Dogs Off The Leashes! Shovel That Coal And Get That Steam Up! Rev That Engine And Pop That Clutch! Hey Joe, Hand Me Those Water Balloons! THERE'S GONNA BE A HOT TIME IN THE OLD GROIN TONIGHT! 

"I hope you thought to include yourself." 

Beautiful smile. Coy? Almost shy. Really quite charming. You hit it just right. 

Here you go. Wait till later to find out whether her brain's on the fritz. Her body's a dream and it's coming ... true? This is really going to be something. 

CHAPTER TWO 

Andrea Bentham slipped the strap of her guitar over her head and laid the instrument gently on a bearskin rug to the right of the couch. Without it she felt five times as naked as she had before. She let her ass drift gently down to rest on the antique blue brocade of the cushions and exhaled slowly, looking Sean Michaels up and down with an amused look of frank appraisal. 

Sean had been knocked silly in the head for just about five seconds. His eyes hadn't crossed; he hadn't blubbered incoherently; he hadn't melted into a puddle of lukewarm semen on the floor. But she was giggling inside anyhow. Her instincts had been perfect. She'd sized him up after two brief and casual meetings as the kind of suave super-stud who'd have to keep his cool upstairs even though there was a biological conflagration in the basement ... a guy who always approached girls like her with his Standard Seduction Plan greased up and ready to go into operation. Take a taxi cab to X restaurant, have Y number of Z drinks, put in W minutes of earnest personal conversation leavened with V minutes of abstract intellectual discussion, have U to eat, (YOU only later), polished off with T liqueur, and pop the question: "Like to come back to my place for a while?" I've got some (beautiful) (lovely) (excellent) (original) S's you might be interested in." 

The trouble with the Standard Plan was that it left all the initiating to the man and put the woman on the spot like a golf ball on a tee. When the club took the backswing you decided whether or not you liked the look of the guy's stroke, and if you didn't you just rolled off and let him wrench his shaft with a clean miss. Of course, all the way along you had to make little decisions. Shall I Go To His Place? Shall I Act Aloof? Should I Let Him Put His Hand On My Tit? Shall I Let Him Finger Me? Is He Worthy Of The Priceless Prize Of My Puss? Will He Find, Feel, Fuck and Forget Me? Or (probably worse,) Will He Make A Potentially Honest Woman Out Of Me By Giving Me The Option Of Marrying Him? 

Fuck that. The Standard Plan was as silly as an ice-pop dildo. It was time for a variation on the Women's Lib theme. Time to slap him in the face with a wet cunt, and say, "Hey there, stud, can you get it up without feeling that you've seduced me?" 

Of course there was one small disadvantage. The wet-cunt-slap meant getting in pretty deep before you had any idea whether the guy was going to be worth a shit in bed. Well ... if Sean was the type who fucked you like you were a hole in the ground, shot his wad after three quick pumps, and ran out the door (or went to sleep) before the come even started to dribble out again-tough shit for her. She could still have a good laugh, give him a swift boot in the buns, and retreat to her room to indulge in multiple orgasms after her own fashion. But actually vibrations were telling her that she and Sean were going to synch pretty well. He was sitting in the chair opposite her with his elbow on his knee and his chin in his palm-a lascivious image of The Thinker-gazing contemplatively from her face to her crotch. 

She descended from her own brief flight of thoughtfulness to realize that a slight movement was in order. She drew one knee up and felt her outer cuntlips pulling apart. It felt like an envelope being steamed open. The curving, pouted ridges of flesh were held together by a thin, clear glue of glistening cunt-juice. As the juice started to run more freely, as the heat built up, as she spread her legs just a little more, a tiny slit appeared between them and shot upward and downward like a crack in a piece of glass. 

Sean took a deep breath. As though he were watching her perform on stage he leaned back and made a move to cross his legs. Andrea could see he was trying to conceal a dark blotch growing at a strategic point on his blue double-knit bell-bottoms. 

"You don't have to do that. Cross your legs and you might break it." 

Sean's chuckle evidenced self-possession with overt tones of genial incredulity. He returned his legs to their open position and reflected on the strangeness of what was happening. 

Ordinarily a woman's body was revealed to a man in a set pattern. First you saw the face ... the head, really ... and the arms and legs. The extremities. 

So far so good. He'd heard Andrea sing at Folk City a couple of times. Since he was a writer and had been captivated by her he'd even given some thought to how he'd describe her. Except for the tenuously exaggerated curves of her hips he would have called her willowy. But really, if one wanted to compare her to a type of tree a white birch would have been more appropriate. She had that appearance of pristine rigidity that one associated with the birch. He was sure that the sharply articulated twigs, the brittle deep green of the shiny leaves, the northern crystal affinity with snow fitted in someplace. And why had he thought about trees? Because he'd felt from the beginning that opposite that impression of a stubborn far-sightedness reaching for the sky was a carefully concealed set of roots spreading hungrily into the rich loan of sensuality. Perhaps that was too flowery, but then Sean had felt a hint of romanticism about her too. 

On the more specific side, Andrea had slender legs with slim ankles (there was something about thick ankles that turned him off every time), soft calves and thighs-very womanly although her ambiance was girlish-and, thank God, no knobby knees. Her arms? Well, Sean didn't notice arms much unless they didn't fit in, so they had to be ok. He'd spent more time on her fingers. In fact he'd spent quite a while assessing their delicate sureness as they'd fretted and plucked the strings of her guitar. Educated fingers. That was always an advantage. 

And then her face. (Why was it that he always liked to work descriptions of women from the bottom up?) Deep-set, alert-looking green eyes under finely arched brows. High cheekbones. Pale complexion overlaid with a timid late-spring tan. The kind of girl who had to be careful how much sun she got. A hothouse flower. The image of the royal maiden for whose retiring favors the medieval knight would slay a thousand dragons. Somehow that romantic image had always appealed to him, but in twentieth century America he found himself having to say he liked girls with pure white skin that burned before it tanned. (But not when they got burned and started peeling! Yetch!) 

And then her nose. Perfectly proportioned. Straight. Perhaps just slightly turned-up. With spirited nostrils that looked as if they'd flare when she felt wild. 

And her cheeks: they showed the traces of vanishing childhood dimples. 

And her jawbones: wide, strong, giving her a "healthy outdoors-girl" look to counteract any impression of frailty that the rest of her face might have given. 

And her chin: smoothly rounded to soften what otherwise might have been a clash of angularities between her cheekbones and her jawbones. 

An undeniably beautiful woman. The kind of woman about whose beauty there could be no argument. A classic beauty whose appearance could be compared to no standards because it set standards. 

Was she ravishing? 

No. 

At least not until now. But now she was more ravishing than any dark-eyed big-bosomed witch. 

Handsome? 

No. That was not enough. 

Striking? 

That was on the way. 

Superlatively striking. Electrifying. But with a muted look of intellectualism ... rendered almost severe by the pervasive impression of untouchable purity. 

That was what made it so overpoweringly erotic for her to be sitting casually across from him unaccountably nude ... and brazenly shifting position. 

Sean had certainly expected-by the fourth or fifth date, if he was lucky-to spend a long evening stripping away her clothing and revealing her body according to the usual pattern. He had looked forward to the luxury of tantalizing himself as he removed her blouse and revealed her bra-clad torso and wondered what her breasts and nipples would look like; and afterward to seeing her naked but for panties and wondering what her cunt and ass looked like. He'd expected that long before he got her spread-eagled with his tongue running up and down her slit the rest of her body would have been systematically digested and forgotten. But she'd hit him with it all at once. Naturally her crotch had drawn him like a vacuum, with only the wide aureoles and puffy nipples of her tits to serve as occasional distractions. Now he found himself in the weird position of having to move out from them and fill in what had been left behind. Andrea showed amused patience as he completed the task, his eyes flitting back and forth, up and down, gathering everything together beneath the wavy cascade of auburn hair that broke wantonly over her shoulders and flowed down her back. 

When he was done he pursed his lips. He cocked his head and stroked his full blonde beard. His Irish eyes sparkled. It didn't much matter what he said, so he said, "What kind of sex do you like?" 

The corners of her mouth turned down in another tight-lipped smirk. He couldn't tell what the hell she'd say next. She answered in the tone of a soda-jerk in a Baskin-Robbins store who's just been asked what flavors of ice cream she has. "All kands." 

So he raised his eyebrows and decided to take the short inventory. "Sucking?" 

"Yup." 

"Being eaten out?" 

"Naturally." 

"Being fucked in the ass?" 

"Takes preparation, but if I'm ready I'm wild about it." 

"And of course fucking m every conceivable position?" 

"I don't much care for hanging by my toes from monkey-bars." 

"Hah." 

"Or doing it hi bathtubs full of custard." 

"Hahaha." 

"And outdoors I have to stay miles away from poison ivy." 

"I'll remember that." Then Sean had an obvious thought. "You must have some exhibitionist in you." 

She glanced wryly at her open cunt and fluffed up its fur with the tips of her fingers. "Less than it seems. I told you tonight was a special occasion and I meant it I Just felt like doing something freaky. But now that I've got started I find it does sort of turn me on. So I'm willing to continue ... if that's what you were hinting at. I take it you don't mind ... uh ... exhibitions?" 

"You've checked out the erector-set, right?" 

"I wouldn't deny it. Only it looks more like a gusher oil well to me." 

"You've got to build the tower before you can get the gusher." 

Andrea suppressed a guffaw. Sean was really all right. He was handsome as hell and witty too. Probably pretty smart, which was important to her. But now that they were playing twenty questions she wasn't going to let her turn go by without getting one in. "Ok, Mr. Inquisitor, I've got one for you." 

"What?" 

"A question." 

"Shoot." 

"No, that's your job." 

"Ok, ask." 

"It's about shooting." 

"Oh?" 

"Yeah. Sort of relevant to the economy of the evening." 

"No kidding." 

"Yeah." 

"So ask. Don't be so timid." 

"Ok, I won't. How many times can you come in a given night?" 

Sean chuckled quietly and gazed up at the crystal chandelier that glimmered overhead. "That depends." He paused to shift his organ suggestively in his pants and darted his eyes down to catch her peeking, "Seeing that it depends on you tonight I'd guess at three, maybe four." He hooked his fingers into his belt. "Hey, if you wanted to be sure beforehand I could have supplied lots of references ... " 

Andrea tried hard to blush but failed. 

"I might add that after you've cashed in your three or four I'll undoubtedly be able to remain hard enough for your further pleasure." 

"Jesus." Andrea stood up. "You could be quite a find." She put her hands on her hips. "We were talking about exhibitions, right?" 

"Mmmmm. Glad you remembered." 

"I'm at your service." She dropped her hands to her sides. "And by the way, one thing you didn't catch in your inventory was masturbation. I'm a big fan of that too, so if you feel like it don't be afraid to pull it out and go to work." For an instant she looked like a professional stripper as she whispered, "I'd be flattered to know you like what I'm doing." Then she began to turn slowly around. 

Sean's gaze fastened on her midsection as her pussy revolved out of view and her luscious pear-shaped buttocks turned toward him. 

He loved asses like Andrea's: full, soft, smooth as milkweed down, vaguely dimpled at the sides ... shaped like a ski-slope with most of the weight toward the bottom of the run. They jiggled so irresistibly. And they gave you something to sink your fingers into when you fucked. A pair of heavy handles for a long ride. The idea of digging deep for her asshole was also appealing. The better it was buried in that deep, hot crack, the more exciting it would be to unearth it. 

By this time Andrea had her back to him and he was looking across the cluttered coffee table at a few wisps of hair that trailed tantalizingly down beneath the almost perfectly horizontal crease of her buttocks against her thighs. 

"How'd you like to bend over?" 

As she turned to look over her shoulder at him the mischievous grin that had lingered on her face throughout the evening disappeared. Suddenly she was very serious ... about pleasing him. "And spread my legs a little more?" 

"Perfect." 

Andrea moved her feet apart and bent her head toward the couch slowly. 

Sean's breath came short and the pit of his stomach dropped out. He shifted to lounge more deeply in his chair and undid his belt and zipper. His cock jumped uncontrollably with the first touch of his fingers on it and he had to let go to keep from shooting three feet into the air. His underwear was already a gooey mess. He raised his hips and pulled the pants and underpants down together. Andrea stared upside-down from between her legs and beneath her gently jiggling tits as she rested on the couch with her elbows. He held his rod up and shook it at her. "Will this do?" 

"Mmmmmm. Looks just my size." 

Sean eyed himself reflectively. Andrea fell silent as Sean's gaze bored in between her legs. 

In seconds Sean was stroking himself hard. Andrea's cunt bulged back at him like a pouchful of pleasure slowly splitting open down the middle. The outer lips fell away and hung suspended, two teardrops edged in golden reddish-brown fur, to reveal the thin ridges of her inner lips as they wavered tensely in a glistening wedge that pointed to her clit. 

With every second she became more relaxed and more excited. Her clit broke up out of the slick flesh that buried it and swelled to a bloated pearl of high-tension sensitivity. Above it the inner lips threatened to part. She helped them by churning her hips in maddeningly slow revolutions that rubbed the lips against each other and then broke them apart and widened a gap between them. Higher up Sean could see, still compressed in the deep cleavage between her ass cheeks, the edges of her practically hairless tannish-pink asshole. 

Suddenly Andrea swung her hands back and slapped her buttocks and tore them up and apart. Her cunt and her asshole sprang at him. They opened like flowers under time-lapse photography. The doe-colored ridge of flesh between them stretched and flattened as she dug her fingers into her ass cheeks and strained to spread herself still further. 

Sean jerked hard on his cock and reached his free hand down to goose his balls. He leaned forward over the coffee table to get as close as he could. Andrea's eye caught the tiny bit of white froth that had collected at the tip of his rod and she smiled approvingly. She wet her lips and edged her hands in till she could curl her pinkies into her asshole and the rest of her fingers into her cunt. She shoved in and pulled out, shoved in and pulled out. 

Her asshole grew from a dainty little puckered patch of creases the size of a nickel to a wide, smooth expanse of flesh. The pinpoint of shadow at its center darkened and lightened as she sucked in and out. The hole opened wider with each pulsation and light probed into it, showing depths of redder pink. 

She made an excursion to wet a pinky in the well of her cunt and then returned with it to circle her asshole. Then, with one snap of her wrist, she plunged it in up to the second knuckle. 

She gasped. She churned her hips-harder and shoved back on the pinky, flexing her knees, squatting, getting it in as far as it would go and wiggling it around. 

She pulled it out and yanked her cheeks apart to show him how deep she'd got. 

Sean stared three inches into a tunnel half an inch wide. Around its opening tiny tendrils of sparse, almost invisible hair dotted the landscape like microscopic reeds scattered at the edges of a desert oasis. 

Sean was ready to leap across the table and ram his tongue up her ass. He barely held himself at the dizzy brink of a climax without going over. His hand was motionless on his cock but its slightest nervous tremor sent waves of impending orgasm through him. More than once he felt that hot tightening, that leaden paralysis in his inner thighs, that told him he'd gone too far and he was going to shoot. But each time he exhaled limply and felt a tiny dribble ooze out of him and waited for the wave to drain away so he could catch the next one. 

Andrea started rubbing her clit with an index finger. Her cunt opened wide, pulled by the weight of her stomach as she bent over, and now Sean stared into a bigger, softer, wetter cavern. Around its ragged opening moisture welled and sparkled, lighting the way into a crystal grotto. 

Andrea worked her finger faster and harder, pummeling her clit up and down, right and left, circling and jabbing, feeling Sean's eyes probing her, his excitement filling her up. Her breasts and buttocks jounced to the rhythm of her shallow, desperate breathing and the inside of her cunt undulated in waves, trying to draw something into it. 

Suddenly she was as close to getting off as he was. 

She slowed and stopped. 

It was time to let themselves down a notch so they could get together and build up again. There was no use Sean wasting a good shot on the carpet. She had any number of better places for him to put it. 

She collapsed onto the couch and rolled over to pant at him. "God I'm horny. If you want to eat or finger or fuck any part of me, I'm all yours." 

Sean licked his lips and got up. His pants hobbled him around the ankles. He lurched forward and almost fell as he reached to shove the coffee table out from between them. Andrea laughed and Sean laughed and he moved toward her and stepped out of his pants. She darted a hand out to wrap her fingers around his rod. Educated fingers. Like feathers caressing him. His cock jerked spasmodically as he got rid of the rest of his clothes. 

Motherfucker, did that feel good! The first time she laid a hand on him she damned near made him come. The only reason she didn't was because she knew exactly what she was doing. He knelt by the side of the couch and looked into her flitting green eyes. "How'd you like to sit on my face?" 

She grinned as though she'd scored a big hit on a slot machine. "And rub my cunt all over it?" 

"All over it." 

Sean stretched out on his back on the thick-rug in front of the couch. Andrea stood over him and planted her feet on either side of his head. Then, as if she were about to piss or shit in the woods, she squatted. Her knees pointed out and her crotch loomed down toward his face. He felt like a camera lens buried in the ground: the camera was clicking off a few last delicious shots before the lights went out. 

The furry slitted mound of her pussy gaped open between the white shafts of her thighs. Her ass cheeks split apart and the bull's-eye of her asshole winked in the crevice between two glowing half-moons. 

Then the visuals were gone. Sean closed his eyes to concentrate on the feeling of the gently rough bulges of her cuntlips parting across his cheeks. He felt each tiny hair rubbing against him, merging with the hairs on his beard and moustache, until suddenly the hairs were gone and the squish of slippery private flesh met his lips. 

That maddeningly erotic smell filled his nostrils. 

Faces fitted so well with cunts. Tongues slipped into them so satisfyingly. Sean probed out with his hand and hit the ridge of Andrea's pelvic bone. His tongue bounced over her clit twice and drove deep into her. 

Her body tightened and quivered and she began humping. Her asscheeks swung and bounced against his chin and chest. He stayed still, his tongue extended as far as it would go, jiggling and vibrating as he let her do it the way she wanted. 

She sat down hard on him and impaled herself to the hilt. She lingered a bit while his tongue circled inside her and they both felt her swampy inner folds of flesh swirling ecstatically around it. Then she rocked up to draw his tongue out and flattened it against her clit. Like an aroused nipple the bloated pearl forced its way against him to lap up every tiny lick and tickle. 

Andrea's rhythm quickened and now Sean rotated his tongue in tiny ovals. Deep in, back out, up to the clit, deep in again. He reached one hand down to stroke his cock and brought the other up to bury a finger in her asshole. She squirmed and shuddered. 

She rammed down ferociously. She squashed her clit against his upper lip. Sean strained up into her as the noise of wet, struggling flesh filled his ears. 

She grabbed her tits in her hands and mashed the nipples with her thumbs. 

She ground herself down onto him hard and froze. 

Sean held his breath as her thighs gripped the sides of his head and her pussy smothered him. Cunt-juice ran down his cheeks and into his beard. The shock-waves of her orgasm shot through his body. The currents of her satisfaction short-circuited at her clit and raced through him. 

Sean's air was gone and his chest was heaving. He reached up to pull her cuntlips away from her clit so he could suck in air through his nostrils without moving her. She remained, dazed and transfixed, clinging to his head, until she was done. 

She sighed and broke into a sudden, exuberant laugh. She rolled off him. "Jesus, I almost smothered you," she giggled, brushing away a few hairs that stuck to her forehead in a light haze of perspiration. She was completely relaxed. One good orgasm settled a lot. "Thanks. That was really fine." 

She reached out and stroked Sean's stomach recovering for a second with her eyes closed, playing with the light triangle of hair that wandered up from his crotch. "I bet you've got a hell of a load of come ready to shoot." 

He nodded. 

"Where would you like to put it?" 

"Anywhere you want it." 

"Since sucking was first on your inventory, why don't we try my mouth for starters?" She sat up. Her tits jounced. She licked her lips and wiggled her tongue at him. 

"You'd better get your mouth over it quick or I'll come just looking at you." 

Andrea folded her hands on her lap and didn't move. "Oh, is that so? Just shoot off into the air like a roman candle?" Her teasing tone was shrouded in the sensuality of her rich, low voice. As long as teasing was also promising it just made things all the better. "Just like-what is it that crazy guru's supposed to have perfected-the No Touch Shot?" 

"The what? That crazy who?" 

"The crazy guru-what's his name? Don't tell me you haven't heard of him. Don't you read the papers?" 

"Not the National Inquirer ... " Sean was giving her a cockeyed look. She sure could be weird when she wanted to. 

"No, no, this was in the Daily News. I think the Voice has done some stuff on him and even the Times ... he's been on Johnny Carson ... what the hell's his name? It sounded to me like it'd been concocted out of the name of some near-eastern god ... Baal, that's it ... and the French word for "born" ... n-e-e. Pronounced "neigh," like a horse. Only there was more to it." 

"What the fuck are you talking about?" 

"I'm telling you ... a guru ... one of these Transcendental Fornication guys or something. Name sounds like Bail-of-Hay. They say he's perfected the No Touch Shot. He just crosses his arms and sits in the old lotus position and meditates himself up a hell of a hard-on. After a couple of seconds-Whooosh! "Look, Ma, no hands! No nothing. All in the mind." Andrea tapped her forehead. "I think he demonstrated it once on What's My Line." 

"Aw, bullshit." Sean was laughing even though he kept his eyes on Andrea's body. "For a while you had me going ... " 

"No, it's true-I mean, they say it's true-the guy does it." 

Sean shook his head in mock despair. "Sounds like what we used to call Thinking Off. Only we could never do it." 

"Huh?" 

"Thinking Off. When I was a sophomore at Cornell one of my frat brothers came up with the idea. He was the manager of the squash team and never had any dates. So he was all the time whacking off. Got so his pud was sore. Then some eastern religion course he was taking brought this idea into his head. He never could perfect it. Some of us tried it out-thought the least we could do was try to help him with his technique-but we couldn't do it either. Then a guy who was a junior-horn-rimmed glasses type-told us it was metaphysically impossible. He was a philosophy major so we believed him." 

"So you can't do it." 

"Nope." 

"So there was really no danger you were going to shoot from just looking at me?" 

"Son of a bitch-you knew where you were going all the time." 

"Naturally. And I know where I'm going now, too. Lie down." 

CHAPTER THREE 

Andrea straddled Sean with her cunt hovering over his face. She placed her fingers gently on either side of his cock at the base and extended them down to glide over his balls. She spent a second staring at the slightly curving shaft of his rod as it poked up at her looking like a cross between the charging head of a rhinoceros and a limb of a new-born baby. Then she pursed her lips, placed them over its tip, and slid effortlessly down. 

The delicious warmth, the insistent sucking, the wild tonguing, made it impossible for Sean to draw things out. Four, five, six strokes of his rod down her throat, and the storm in his genitals broke loose. Her fingers found just the right spot on the tubes that ran from his balls to the base of his cock and added that wild, dizzying surge that makes the come blast out in exuberant jets. For a brief flash Sean thought he should try to control the power. It would choke her. But then he remembered her merciless grinding on his face, her total abandon, and he knew she wanted him to be the same way. 

He swiveled his hips and let his whole body swirl away to the rhythm of the rapid, maniacal drums that pounded between his legs. He was going to shoot so hard her stomach would be full of come before she could swallow. 

Andrea wrenched her head back and forth and vibrated her tongue against the top of his shaft. Sean's hips started bucking. He reached up and grabbed her ass and watched her cunt as it bobbed above him. 

With the first gush Andrea opened her throat wide. The hot spray, salty, tasting faintly of mint, flowed furiously in. 

Hahaha! It was like when you were a kid and you left your water pistol out in the sun and then wanted a drink out of it. You stuck it into your mouth and pulled the trigger. (Was that why some women were afraid to blow men? Were they secretly afraid the guns would turn out to be real?) 

Andrea drew up and sucked hard and swallowed as the second and third and fourth blasts came. Her swallowing squeezed Sean even harder. 

Her mouth and throat flooded with gooey slime. She couldn't swallow fast enough. God, he had so much come! Her cheeks puffed out and the pressure broke the seal of her lips on him. Rivulets of semen flowed down his shaft and into the dark blonde of his crotch hair. But still she held on and kept stroking, her whole body wracked with his spasms-her nostrils flaring, her eyes wide and desperate, her hair flying around her shoulders and brushing across his legs. 

This was really it: tasting, smelling, feeling, even hearing the eruption of a man's most primitive passions. You knew it all first hand when you took it in your mouth. 

Sean had forgotten where he was, who he was with, what day ... month ... year ... century it was. He thrashed and grunted. His cock ran away with him like a wild horse he was tied to with a piece of rope. His body bounced through clouds, sluiced through the warm water of a tropical ocean, drifted in bottomless expanses of flower petals. 

Then, slowly, the feeling began to ebb. 

His cock went limp and became part of his body again. 

Andrea finished swallowing. She wiped her lips and cheeks with the back of her hand. 

She wandered off and returned with a box of tissues. She cleaned them up and stretched out next to him on the floor. 

"Lady," Sean muttered, "you give one hell of a blow-job." 

"One hell of a short one this time," she observed. 

"Only attests to the high quality. Damn, what a touch you've got with that tongue." 

Andrea reached out and grabbed a small brass urn from the coffee table. "Feel like smoking a joint?" 

Sean leaned back on his elbows and grinned as impishly as his rugged features would allow. "If we can possibly get any higher, let's do it." 

"The sky's the limit," Andrea said, and lit up. 

Then Sean thought of something. "But if I get stoned, I warn you, I'm going to get hungry. And thirsty. This was supposed to be a dinner-date, if you'll remember. And I haven't had anything all day since a pastrami sandwich for breakfast" 

"A pastrami sandwich for breakfast?" 

"Writers tend to eat what they have lying around." 

Andrea looked down at her pussy. "I'll say." She took a hit on the joint. "Dammit," she said from between clenched teeth, "I rolled the fucking thing too tight." Sean watched her breasts flushing and heaving as she struggled to suck the smoke in. "Look, we could send out for something to eat ... " She passed the joint to Sean. 

"Sometimes if you roll them back and forth in your fingers like this ... " He pinched the joint between his thumb and forefinger and spun it rapidly. "It loosens them up." He took a hit. "I know just the place to call. Where's your phone?" 

Andrea watched his cock as he got up and she answered, "In the kitchen." It bounced around and then settled to hang straight down between his legs. When it was soft it didn't look much more than average size, but it had an incredible expansion factor. 

Andrea mused about cock sizes as Sean finished another deep toke on the joint and bent over to return it to her. She'd heard a lot of talk about 12-inchers but she'd never had the least desire to see one, much less be in bed with one. On the other hand, she didn't share the sentiments of lots of her girlfriends who liked small ones better than big ones and said that men with small ones generally fucked better. Sean had a good, fat eight-plus inches hard, and that was just perfect for her. She'd have to open herself up a little extra to accommodate all of it, but that was fine. In fact, it was exciting. But more might have been painful. Sean wandered off toward the kitchen, giving Andrea a chance to assess his physique from the rear. 

Sean's body was lithe and slender and smoothly, thoroughly muscled. He had broad shoulders obviously built up by some kind of athletic activity. The only thing a little strange about his body was that the muscles joining his shoulders to his neck were more prominent than usual. Andrea could see he hadn't been a wrestler or a weight-lifter; his muscles weren't bulging or knotty and they weren't rock-hard. They gave the impression of lean, enduring strength concentrated in his upper body-strength that could last through endless repetitions of strenuous but graceful activity. His hips were slender. His ass jutted out slightly. But for that he would have had the shape of a torpedo. When he turned sideways to walk into the kitchen she noticed that his chest was deep and his stomach flat. His movements were sure and his body seemed to conceal some kind of bidden tension that indicated lightning-fast reflexes. 

From the kitchen Sean mumbled a few words into the phone, hung up, and rejoined Andrea, who by this time was holding the roach of her joint delicately between her fingernails and casting her eyes about the room in search of a roach clip. 

"This it?" Sean asked, picking a scissors-like surgical clamp from among a pile of empty record jackets on an end table. 

"Yeah. How'd you know?" 

"The end's black. Besides, lots of people use these. And I figured you didn't perform too many operations in your apartment. Some food will be coming along in about half an hour." 

"Yeah? Who do you know?" 

"I did a favor for a guy once." 

"Uh huh. Say, where'd you get the beautiful body?" 

"What?" 

"I said, where'd you get that beautiful body? Looks like it was sculptured by Michelangelo." 

Sean chuckled and let himself down onto the couch. "I didn't think it was much of anything anymore. In the last few years a lot of muscles have gone to pot." He poked his biceps. "These have gone down like somebody stuck a pin in them." Andrea lit up another joint and passed it to him. His head was light already and everything in the room seemed to have moved back three paces. "I used to be a swimmer." 

Ha. The torpedo shape. She'd just about guessed it. "High school? College?" 

"Prep school. And before. I was one of these child wonders-you know, AAU meets when I was thirteen. By the time college came along I was swum out Decided to play lacrosse instead." 

"You were a good swimmer?" 

"Yeah ... I guess so. I was undefeated my senior year in prep right through the Easterns. Took 3 firsts. Broke some records. The college coach was pissed as hell when I didn't come out. Told me I was Olympic material.' 

"Were you?" 

"I suppose. But you just have to give up too much to make it to the Olympics. What the hell, I made Ail-American in lacrosse, and it was a hell of a lot more fun than swimming up and down a pool six hours a day competing against a stopwatch." 

The conversation sputtered into silence as Sean regarded Andrea's wistful green eyes through a haze of pungent smoke. She turned sideways on the couch and drew her knees up to her chest, wrapping her arms around her thighs and clutching the outsides of her legs to keep her knees pressed tightly against her breasts. Her eyes drifted up to the ceiling and fixed there as though she was taking in some weird fantasy show playing on the white plaster. 

"This is some damned nice dope," Sean mused absently. "Hey, do you mind if I put on a record?" 

"No, man, go ahead." Andrea's lips looked as though they were being moved by remote control from far away. "Something mellow, though. And no downers. The dope is Mexican. Supposed to be Gold. Looks sort of gold. All tops, too. The only thing about it is it hits you in the head like a hammer. Too heavy if you have anything important to do. Like, I can't perform on it" 

"How about the Dead?" 

"They could perform on it." 

"No, I mean for a record." 

"Sure. Perfect." 

"Side with Sugar Magnolia ok?" 

"California mindlessness. Yeah, I could use that." 

"What else could you use?" Sean clicked a switch and the record fell with a splat onto the turntable. He waited a second to adjust the volume. 

"That's a suggestive remark." 

"When you asked me how many times I could come I assumed you had an interest in a number greater than one." 

Andrea laughed smugly and blinked once or twice, indicating she was awakening partially from her trance. 

"So how about number two right now?" 

"May as well get it in before the food arrives." 

"Ugh ... that was terrible." 

"Shall we go into the bedroom?" 

"Sure." 

Sean turned the stereo up and followed Andrea's daintily vibrating buttocks down a wide wood-paneled hall and through a heavy oak door beneath a stained-glass transom. The apartment was posh throughout and furnished with a somber elegance that made Sean suspect Andrea hadn't decorated it herself. The rent had to be high. At least $500. Andrea was doing ok but she was hardly the kind of star who could pay for a place like this. Maybe she'd inherited money. Or maybe the place was a loan from a rich relation. 

"It's funny," Sean mused as Andrea pulled down the antique crocheted bed-spread and lounged languidly across pale yellow sheets. "Suddenly I just had this bizarre feeling ... like you and I have been married for ten years." 

"Shit, don't say that," Andrea chided. "You'll scare the piss out of me." 

"All over your clean sheets, too. No, I didn't mean it like that. I'm sure as hell not looking for any wives, and you're not in the market for a husband, either, right?" 

"Right as rain." At this Andrea spread out most invitingly on her back. 

"What I meant was, I feel very relaxed with you. We don't have to play any games. You have no idea how much easier things are for a man when he meets a chick like you-a chick who digs sex as much as he does and admits it It's like-your body is just there. I don't have to sit up and beg like a puppy-dog to get a piece of it." 

"Boy are you stoned." Andrea eyed him with amusement as he sat down on the bed. "I have one idea what it does for a man when he meets a woman like me." 

"What?" 

"Makes him full of hot air." 

Sean dove on her laughing and they tussled among the bedclothes until the sensuality of skin rubbing against skin got to be too much for them. 

"Oho!" Andrea exclaimed as she felt Sean's rod stiffen between his legs. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around it "I think we're coming up with something!" 

"Ok, wise girl," he breathed, straddling her and pinning her down, "how do you want it?" 

Her features tightened and a hungry look came into her eyes. "This'll do just fine, baby." She spread her legs and drew her knees up and reached down to spread herself open. "You got something that'll fit in there?" 

Sean let go of her shoulders and leaned back to gaze down at her yawning hole. It was wet and hot and aching for it. He grabbed his rod and waved at her. "How about this? Think it'll fit?" 

Andrea was getting eager. "Yeah, yeah, that looks just fine. Let's try it on for size." 

Sean turned it down and rubbed its tip teasingly across her clit. She winced with pleasure and closed her eyes. Her hips shoved up and her fingers spread her hole still wider. She lunged forward, trying to snare the tip of his cock with the grasping trap of her cunt. "Come on," she whispered hoarsely, "give it to me! I'm ready!" 

Sean smiled down at her and let the head of his weapon wander down the slippery valley of her slit toward her hole ... with maddening deliberation. 

Andrea was getting impatient. The demanding emptiness inside her was like a dull pain. And yet it was delicious. 

It was getting closer. That hot cock was getting closer. It was a big blind water buffalo seeking a mud-hole on a blazing hot day. And it was onto the scent. 

But it lumbered so slowly. 

"COME ON! FUCK ME, DAMMIT!" She was laughing and crying and thrashing and throwing her tits back and forth on her chest. 

Sean slammed it home all at once. 

"OOOMPH! Agh!" Andrea groaned as though she'd taken a hard punch to the stomach. 

Then there was nothing but that glowing poker squirming inside her, filling her with radiant warmth, that thing that had no job in life but to please a pussy. She grabbed it with all the power her belly and thighs and buttocks could muster. 

The world was upside-down and she was riding a horse. She had the saddle-horn up her cunt and her clit was bouncing against the polished brown leather at its base. From up above the shocks of her mount's hooves sent jarring fragments of fuzzy yellow fire jolting through her. This was a ride she'd never forget. 

Sean got right into her rhythm. 

Unh ... Unh ... Unh ... Unh ... Unh ... 

He could feel her about to come in a rush. 

"Not yet, baby" 

Unh ... 

He drew out and skipped a thrust, leaving her insides to clamp down on nothing. 

Unh ... Unh ... 

He drew out again. 

He kept her careening along just below the speed of sound. The barrier, unbroken, receded before her every time she surged forward to shatter it. 

He went about getting himself to the same place. 

He reached down and sunk his fingertips like talons into her ass cheeks. They tightened and loosened in a ragged rhythm as Andrea humped and grasped after him. 

The sounds of fucking grew in volume until they were deafening. There was the sticky squishing of his rod in and out of its swampy sheath ... the chaotic symphony of bated breaths ... the slap of his stomach against hers ... the background noise of the heavy brass bed creaking and complaining and shifting on the hardwood floor ... 

"Come on, baby, give it to me! Fill me full of it! Fuck me hard ... HARD!" 

And then suddenly, for a split second, there was something wrong. Maybe it was Andrea's words. Maybe it was something in her tone. But her pleas fell on Sean's ears as demands. "Oh, be a good stud! Come on! Come on already! Can't you make it? Can't you come? What's the matter with you? Are you fucking impotent?" 

Before Sean could tell himself Andrea hadn't meant it that way she sensed what was happening. Sean had concentrated on pleasing her and left himself behind. She cursed herself for being so damned inconsiderate. Sean deserved better than that. 

She closed her cunt tightly on him and sucked him with it. She milked him. She was jerking him off with her cunt. She went faster, then slower, seeking for his natural rhythm. 

She opened her eyes. Sean was staring down at her with a mixed look of amazement and gratitude. 

He was beautiful. 

Then she felt a sudden tightening of his body and waves of heat like moist gusts of warm sea-air. She'd hit the rhythm. It was just a little faster than hers, but nothing to worry about. She locked into it and humped. 

She was enough outside herself for a thought to flash across her mind. 

Each person had his own unique sexual rhythm. It was as much his own as his fingertips or facial features. It was like a train running perpetually at a certain speed inside him. It was more than just the rhythm of fucking. It was the rhythm of a whole sexual existence. It determined how often that person wanted or needed sex, and so in a way sometimes near, sometimes remote, exerted an influence over all of the rest of his life. You could see or sense it in the way a person walked, talked, gestured, danced ... And if you wanted to get on a particular person's train and ride it to the end of the line you had to get on your horse like a bandit and sit beside the tracks and wait till the train came along ... laboring up a grade, slowly enough for you to ride along beside it and jump up. And then you had to run up to the engine across the tops of the cars and get right up there behind the headlight, hanging in there in the engineer's cabin, waiting for the pell-mell ride down the other side of the mountain. 

If what got you excited more than anything else was that feeling of your lover's excitement things were easier. 

If your lover felt the same way you were in heaven. 

Sean was just about there. For a split-second Andrea'd been a selfish bitch but now she was a saint again. He'd never been with anyone like this in his life. He stared straight into her eyes and all he saw was passion. He could see her seeing right through him to the essence of his blind, mad hunger, and welcoming it. 

She was right up behind his headlight and he was right up behind hers. They were past the point of different trains. Their fireboxes were fused and the heat multiplied insanely. 

There was one thing down between their legs: one eternal machine doing the one thing it was designed for; blowing up and breaking apart again. 

One flesh machine. One machine of glistening, pulsating, thrusting, grasping fury. One battery with two poles-earth and sky. One womb drawing forth the cosmic satisfaction of the lightning-bolt. 

Sean and Andrea stared at each other and they knew they were going to hit it big. 

They were going to smack that see-saw hard with the big hammer and the gong in the sky was going to clang like a mother. They were going to take home the giant pink teddy-bear. 

The giant pink teddy-bear! 

Maybe that's what it would look like afterward. Ludicrous. Grotesque. Sham. Cotton-candy fur. A shyster's prize. Eat it all, kiddies, 'cause it won't keep! But now it was the whole big brassy end of life. 

He shoved. 

She reached. 

She shoved. 

He reached. 

Somewhere, far off, a bee droned in the clover. 

Wavelets shattered with brittle fancy as a sailboat tacked aimlessly in and out of a harbor. 

Fluid changed bodies. 

CHAPTER FOUR 

Ten minutes later the sound of a buzzer cut across the euphoric haze of stoned satisfaction that pervaded the bedroom and Sean hurriedly retrieved his pants and answered the door to receive their food. Andrea stayed in bed while he clanked around the kitchen. In minutes he appeared wheeling a cartful of Chateaubriand, broccoli with hollandaise sauce, baked potatoes, and chocolate mousse for desert. The necks of two Dom Perignon bottles protruded absurdly from a yellow plastic scrubbing-bucket crammed with ice. 

"Jesus Christ, you really do know somebody. This shit looks like it came from Le Pavilion." 

"Le Pavilion's been closed for two years. There's a little French restaurant over on 86th near Broadway. I helped the chef's son get his first novel published. Consequently ... " 

I see. 

For the next forty-five minutes they ate in deliberate silence, savoring the delicately seasoned food and feeling the tingle of tiny bubbles as the champagne flowed freely from the bottles through long-stemmed glasses and down their throats. When they were done Andre trotted off to get another joint and they smoked contemplatively. "It really is incredible," they both were thinking. "Incredible. One minute life looks so - humdrum and boring, and the next minute-POW!" 

Finally Andrea broke the silence. "What would you like for dessert?" 

He grinned. "Wasn't the mousse enough?" 

"The moose made me horny." "Unh huh. Well, how about if I leave it up to you?" 

"OK. Fuck me in the ass." 

"With pleasure. However, I find in my notes from the inventory that you need some preparation for that You'll have to instruct me." 

"Ha. Ok, let's see." She threw aside a napkin and revealed her mousse dish, which still had a large bite lingering in it. "Perfect. Let me excuse myself for a minute." She got up, then leaned over the bed at him. "If I'm going to ask you to eat mousee out of my asshole the least I can do is make sure it's nice and clean." She trotted off to the bathroom. 

Sean already had a hell of a hard-on. This chick was entirely too much. Andrea returned a minute or so later and bent over my side of the bed and spread her cheeks. "Pass inspection?" 

"Son of a bitch. What a beautiful asshole. Yeah, it passes." 

"Glad you like it." She crawled into bed and bunched up a couple of pillows at the headboard while Sean cleared the dinner trays off. By the time he was done she'd flattened her chest on a pillow with the mousse dish by her side and her ass waving in the air like a flag. He sat cross-legged behind her absent-mindedly playing with himself as she dipped her fingers into the remains of the fluffy chocolate goo. With one hand she pulled her left cheek up and out and with the other she spread mousse around the opening and crammed some into it. "It would help if you fingered my clit a little. Gets me into it." Sean obliged, his eyes glued to her finger as it stroked in and out of her hole widening and loosening it. "Ok. Now your job is to tongue it all out. After you're done ... there's a tube of KY in the drawer of the night stand there. With that you ought to be able to get two fingers all the way in. After that-fuck away. Only be a little careful. That's a hell of a big cock you've got there, and I'm not all that used to this." 

Sean kneeled behind her and applied his tongue to her hole. He licked her clean around the outside and then, stopping once in a while to sip from his champagne glass and offer Andrea a swig, he began to penetrate. 

At first things went slowly, and Sean was very gentle. He kept his arm curled around her thigh and his finger on her clit, timing the probings of his tongue with the rhythm of her slowly churning hips against his finger. 

"Aaaah. That's just right," Andrea commented, as he circled his tongue delicately around the creased mouth of the hole and felt it loosening and going smooth. "Really nice." She reached back to grab her ass cheeks and spread herself wide. Sean's cock oozed as she pulled up and out and offered herself generously to him. Once in a while he pulled back to look. Already the hole was wider than it had been during the exhibition in the living room. 

"The trick is concentration," Andrea observed. "I suppose lots of chicks think being fucked in the ass couldn't possibly be fun. How the hell could a whole cock fit up there? But when you figure that homosexuals do it all the time ... homosexual males, that is." She tugged a little harder. "How's it look? It's starting to feel pretty open ... " 

"Looks beautiful." Her hole was nearly an inch wide and Sean could get most of his tongue in without even touching its sides. This chick certainly had some control. When he shoved with his tongue she tightened her ass muscles and squeezed on it. He wiggled it in return. It was like a conversation. 

"I'm getting ready for the fingers." 

"Ok." He pulled his tongue out and stared a long second. The channel was as before; pale brownish-pink at the opening, redder inside, slick and inviting. "Hold it right there." 

Andrea exhaled and continued to pull up and out on her cheeks. Sean got the KY out of the drawer and squeezed a blob from the tube onto his fingers. At the first contract Andrea shivered and giggled. 

"It always feels so chilly. Nice, though. OK ... take it easy ... " 

Sean's rod was pulsing and jerking as he slid an index finger effortlessly in ... to the hilt. "How's that?" 

"Fine. What is it?" 

"One finger, all the way." 

"Mmmmm. We're making good progress. Go for two." 

He drew the one finger out and then started in with two together. He got about halfway when Andrea said, "Good ... I can tell it's going to go ... you can let go of my cunt now. I'll take care of that, just get the two fingers all the way in and then go to it." Already her breath was coming short and she was thrusting upward with her magnificent ass to take his fingers deeper. Her own hand replaced Sean's over her pussy. It was strange, how calm and scientific this all was compared to their earlier encounters. The muted excitement was somehow just as strong ... perhaps because it lingered in the background. 

"Ooooh ... that's good ... " Andrea butted her ass back against his palm as the two fingers disappeared. "Now give me a second ... " She whipped her hand back and forth on her clit till she was on the edge of an orgasm. "Ok. Now when you get your cock up there, I can tell you, it's going to feel so fucking tight that you're not going to last a second. There's no room to play around in there like there is in a cunt." She stopped to pant. "So you're just going to have to come ... " 

She was getting excited by her own talk. 

"You're just going to have to shoot that cream right up my fucking asshole ..." 

She was almost there. Sean drew the fingers out and smeared some KY on his dick. 

"Ok, baby, shove it up my ass. I'm almost there ... Uh ... Uh ... " She slowed her masturbation to keep herself from coming. "When I get off my asshole's going to clamp down so fucking hard ... make sure you get it way up there ... don't let me force you out ... shoot me deep ... " 

Sean rested the head of his cock against the opening. It eased in on its own. He was kneeling behind her, rearing up as straight as he could, with his hands on her waist, staring at the point of connection. An image flashed through his mind: Andrea on the bandstand, the picture of innocence and purity, singing with such overpowering sweetness and clarity ... 

"SHOVE IT UP MY ASS, BABY! UP MY ASSHOLE! OH, OH, GIVE IT TO ME HARD UP MY FUCKING ASSHOLE!" 

Sean gave it to her smoothly. Her tossing head threw her hair across her shoulders like hay flying off the tines of a pitchfork. 

Hay. Bail of Hay. 

The crazy guru. 

Whatever he had, it couldn't be any better than this. Touch beat No Touch every time. 

It was so hot and tight in there. Oh, way in there! Damned near all the way in there! 

He looked down at the pudgy, stiff snake that wound its way into the most private of private places ... the place every human had to remind himself that he was an animal ... and then Andrea's body started to shudder like a ship running aground. "OH MOTHERFUCKER, I'M GETTING OFF, OH GET THAT CREAM UP MY ASSHOLE ... " 

This time it didn't sound like a demand. No matter if it had. The hole was so hot and slick ... her ass cheeks were batting against his thighs, smacking with the sound of loud slaps ... and now it was clamping, stroking, drawing, and there was no choice. The come just had to come. 

"AAAAAAH!" Andrea's ass went rock-hard as her finger hit the button that one decisive time. 

Sean's thighs turned molten and he felt the whole lower half of his body flowing up into that deep crack and crowding into that forbidden aperture. The third time in one night, and he didn't have a lot of come, but what he had blasted out into the close surroundings with a stunning impact. 

Andrea's hole gobbled it up and got squishy. Still she rolled her head and kept her finger on her pleasure-button. She came and came and came. Sean clung tightly to her, his cock jerking crazily with her every convulsion. He closed his eyes ... he didn't know how long ... and rode along with her, taking a new surge of orgasm from every crazily bucking thrust. It lasted a long time. 

Afterward Sean pulled out and watched as Andrea, still dazed, stroked the edges of her asshole tenderly and started to slump down onto the sheets. She was already half asleep. 

Sean got up and turned off the stereo and the lights throughout the apartment. By the time he got back to the bedroom Andrea was dead asleep with a blissful smile haunting her lips. Sean turned out the light, went to the window and gazed for a long moment out over the lights of the park, the traffic far below, the city stretching endlessly out into the blackness ... 

Andrea was on her back and snoring gently. Sean grinned his impish grin, rolled her over, draped his arm across her back, and went to sleep. 

CHAPTER FIVE 

It was almost six the next evening when the sky took on that eerie tinge of low umber mist that says it's going to rain like hell. 

Andrea emerged from the shower with a threadbare scarlet towel wrapped around her and padded across the living room to the bay window, leaving wet footprints and dark drips of water on the old, solid parquet floor between the scattered rugs. She glanced at the grandfather clock that ticked away reassuringly on the mantle and satisfied herself that she still had forty-five minutes before she had to leave for her gig. The towel slipped a bit and she grabbed at it as she leaned over the window-seat to gaze up at the sky. "Damned tits," she said to herself. They'd never be able to hold their own when it came to supporting a soggy towel. 

To the south the clouds suddenly lightened. The late May sunshine struggled down through them, its evening flame filtered out on the way, until the sky out over lower Manhattan glowed with the fluorescence of a blank television screen. 

To the north the mists descended with a vengeance and the umber took on a swampy greenish hue that seemed to seep upward from the masses of trees in Central Park. 

Looking east toward the phalanx of buildings that fronted on Fifth Avenue across the park, where the, fluorescence met the umber along a spectacular vertical front that made the sky look as if it had been divided by a huge sword, Andrea saw the kind of cumulus writhing that Flemish painters loved to capture, romantic writers strained to eulogize, and pulp publishers always felt belonged on the covers of Gothic novels. 

In a way, she supposed, it was sinister. But it was sensual too. That boiling of vapor in the upper atmosphere, that constant changing of light for dark, dark for light ... 

A few fat raindrops splatted obliquely across the dusty window pane. Noisy, aggressive, they seemed to announce they'd come to water the plants and wash things off and make fun of drizzly little droplets that take five hours to do the job. They came at first in twos and threes, like test salvos from a battery of cannons. Once they'd found the range they opened up with everything they had-almost as if fertility also had to mean destruction. 

Andrea slipped down into the window seat to sit sideways looking out and listening while she stripped off her towel and absent-mindedly dried her crotch. "The night before" was like the moment of her birth pushed up to yesterday. Well ... perhaps that was a little dramatic. It was the right idea, but too heavy on the relish. She decided merely to say that it had been a big night and it had changed her. 

And yet, like most big and sudden changes, it now seemed very far away. It seemed like a stepping-stone she'd taken leave of ... a stepping stone to ... she didn't know where. But changes bred changes, that was for sure, and she felt young and free and not a little puckish. She was about ready for anything-and somehow she got the feeling that anything was about ready for her. 

She pressed the towel between her legs and probed with her fingers to get at those last bits of moisture lurking in the crevices between her cunt and her inner thighs. The feeling was mildly provocative. The top of her ass crack was another place where dampness tended to hide itself and she moved the towel behind her to dry that too. Lifting her breasts and drying under them was more a ceremony than a necessity but she did it anyway just to be sure. Then she let the towel slip to the floor. 

With all that luscious-even though somewhat violent-water pouring down outside, why had she retreated into a tiny room with a sink and toilet and bathtub and frosted window long since painted shut, drawn a plastic curtain, turned knobs, and stood under a nozzle? Society was so absurd. If anybody had any sense, every time a rainstorm like this came along the elevators of all these fancy buildings would be crowded with people in the buff-old dowagers, pregnant young women, janitors-with towels over their shoulders and soap-bars in their hands rushing out to take communal showers in Central Park. 

She got up and went to the bathroom for her hair dryer, suddenly remembering times when she'd been six or seven and the summer rains had drawn her out to play in the gutters in her bathing suit. They'd been clean gutters, marked only with the traces of gray gravel that washed down out of the neighbor's driveway and the few long, pale worms that the showers had spirited away and tangled in clotted piles underneath. Nothing like the vomitous gutters off New York with their fifty-seven varieties of dog shit, chicken bones, rotting fruit, chewing gum, old magazines whose gloss had turned to goo ... You could squat in those suburban gutters, if you were young enough that nobody would suspect what you were doing, and let the rainwater sluice between your legs and tickle you. 

Brooding on the storm put Andrea in an erotic mood. She got the feeling that the heavens wanted something climactic, perhaps even apocalyptic, to happen. 

She threw open the door to her closet and bent over to grab at the first piece of hair-drying equipment she saw-a pink plastic air-hose. Lightning flashed in the large window behind her, lighting up her protruding ass like a spotlight. Then a peal of thunder like hearty applause rattled the window pane. She froze for a second, then grinned. Hose in hand, she turned to address the seething world outside her twentieth story apartment. "Oh, you liked that, did you?" 

The hose in her hand dangled and danced absurdly like a hollow tissue-paper snake, the kind you see at carnivals. Or maybe like a water-washed electric worm. Whatever it was like, the idea of connecting it to the dryer and the silly plastic hat and letting it blow hot air out to bake her head was just too ridiculous for words. 

A year before her great aunt had left her some antique tapestries that now hung in convenient spaces on her wood-paneled bedroom walls. In the tapestries satyrs and nymphs chased each other among vine-covered trees. 

Maybe this was the kind of night the satyrs and nymphs would like to dance out the window and fuck among the clouds. If she dried her hair it would mess them up. Either they'd die laughing at the sight or they'd trip on the hot-air hose on their way out and break their saucy little turned-up noses. 

Andrea sent the air-hose skidding back into the closet. Hell with drying her hair. 

The heavens thundered and flashed with insane glee as she turned to face them. Morel More! 

"Oh, you want more, do you?" she asked, sauntering toward the window. 

An audience of everyone and no one. Zarathustra's audience. A better audience than she'd had for any gig in the past six months. She shook her tits as much as they would shake, cupped them in her palms, and pinched the nipples erect. 

There was a low rumble from the northeast where on a clear day she could see the Triborough Bridge. Approval. 

Nice to know that the gods of the sky and the storm didn't mind plain old medium-sized tits. 

But of course they didn't! Whoever they were-Zeus, Poseidon, Dionysos, Odin and his pals (she didn't remember who got in on making storms in what mythology, but those were some of her favorites)-they were born and raised before floppy udders and silicone had come into style. They liked women with modest torsos and big hips; tits that showed they were female, all right, but not necessarily tits that could feed warm milk to every male, god or man, who felt like sucking on them. The gods had ambrosia and nectar. What they needed were earth mortals they could fuck when they took on the shapes of bulls and horses. 

"I warn you," Andrea giggled, running her hands down over her hips and squeezing the generous flesh of her buttocks between her fingers, "I can take anything a mortal man might throw at me, but don't give me any of your overstuffed bull-pizzle!" 

No answer. Resignation? Or tacit agreement? 

"Playing it cook huh?" 

She reached down in front of her, put her right foot up on the window sill and pulled her cuntlips apart. She was strangely, unaccountably turned on. Moisture seeped down from her inner regions and lubricated her swollen clit. It seemed one with the swampy moisture that hung in the atmosphere over the city. 

"What's the matter?" she asked, gritting her teeth slightly as she rubbed up and down on her clit, "doesn't a little open pussy turn you on?" 

A sudden gust of wind threw a wave of drops hard against the window pane. 

"Oho! It does! And now you want to get in?" 

She didn't know who she was talking to, but it seemed in some mystical fashion to be someone. Maybe every male in New York City who didn't mind medium-sized tits. Maybe some poor horny fucker walking alone in the rain among the trees of the park outside her window. 

She opened the window a foot and pressed forward to present her hot hole to the elements. Another gust doused her midsection with half a bucket of chilly water. An insult, or a come-on? 

"Ok, if that's the way you want to play it ... " 

She threw the window open all the way. Magazines blew off her night stand and the curtains fluttered up to point straight into the roof like erect penises. 

"Violence! Well ... take this!" 

She swiveled around and bent over and spread her ass cheeks and stuck her ass out the window. 

"The moon sends you greetings!" 

The cold sting of drops felt good on her buttocks. A river flowed down her crack, washed over the immaculate pinkness of her newly bathed asshole, and rushed to force open her cunt with an insistent torrent. 

There was half an inch of water on the floor but Andrea didn't care. She stood up straight and pulled an overstuffed armchair over in front of the window. She sat down on it, pointed her legs straight at the ceiling, and spread her cunt wide. A fat drop caught her square in the clit and sent a convulsion of pleasure running through her. The thunder and lightning responded ecstatically. Leaves blew in. 

"So what do you want now ... the grand finale?" 

She pried at her cunt until it was wide open and she could see far down into the pulsating cavern of pink, fleshy flora. 

"Come on! Bring your dick in the window! I dare you!" 

Suddenly she had a thought. Could she possibly be seen from anywhere? 

No. Her apartment was on the top floor. 

But what if someone were crazy enough to be out on the roof now, leaning over the cornice? 

No chance. 

Or maybe someone was even crazier, perched in the highest branches of those tall trees on the hill in the park? 

With a telescope? 

Ha. 

Still, she had the feeling that somehow someone was watching her ... smiling benignly, beckoning ... 

"Come on! Bring your dick in the window!" 

Nothing. 

"Impotent, are you? Just can't get it together? Well I'm horny as hell, goddammit, and it's your fault!" 

On a nearby shelf stood a strange hand-carved artifact that one of her loony friends had brought her back from Africa. It was a foot-high wooden penis, complete with balls, that stood forever erect on a flat base. 

The wind toppled it to the floor. She reached out and scooped it up. "Is this what you have to offer?" she asked sarcastically, holding it aloft to the storm like the Statue of Liberty's torch. 

Embarrassed silence. 

"Well shit, then, it'll have to do." 

Grasping it firmly, wrapping her fingers around its base, she introduced its head to her hole. She fingered her clit with her left hand as her right shoved it inside her to a depth of six inches and began circling it around and pumping it up and down. 

She wondered what the African craftsman who had carved it would think if he could see it now. Probably he wouldn't be surprised. He'd undoubtedly wondered just what kind of horny white American middle-class cunt it would find its way into. In fact, probably he had carved it because it would be something that anthropologists would believe was "genuine primitive"-and also something that anthropologists' wives would get some use out of while their husbands were away on field trips. Anyhow, he had to be in league with the spirits of the storm. Maybe he was the one who was watching her? 

Andrea's belly and thighs were getting tense. Her insides stroked the wooden cock as though they could milk a river of come out of it and her finger jiggled on her clit as fast as the raindrops fell. 

It was coming, and it was coming hard. She was pressing the button that opened the gates as wide as they would go, and as wide as they opened, she filled them up. 

The statue could hardly be expected to convulse like a cock exploding inside her. Where would a piece of wood get that intoxicating life of its own? And it couldn't finish up its job by making her crotch a deliriously sticky mess. 

But to make up for that it did just what she wanted it to do. Besides, the storm itself was already coming all over her. She was drenched, squishing her ass in a puddle that had collected on the seat of the armchair, and that was more than enough to get her off. 

She drew the strange dildo out of her hole, felt the surges of orgasm coming, squashed her clit hard, and rammed it back in again. 

Whether the lightning really flashed just then, whether the thunder really roared around her with the sound of a city falling down, she didn't know. But she felt an incredible jarring shock that told her she was either into the best jerk-off of her life or being fucked silly by some disembodied soul pouring the juices of life in through the window, channeling them through the wood right up into the center of her. 

She was transfixed. Her mouth gaped and her eyes were glazed. Her brow seated even in the chilly rain and the muscles of her belly and inner thighs twitched uncontrollably. 

She had something right up in the center of her, that was for sure. She was holding onto something. Was it no more than the memory of Sean? Whatever it was, she was getting something out of it. It kept coming and coming. It was pumping into her like crazy. She didn't know where it was going, but she was sucking up every drop. It didn't bloat her but it saturated her ... with pleasure, with orgasmic abandon, with the revelation of a mystical new dimension in sexual excitement. 

Then the pleasure and the abandon and the excitement started to die away. 

She clutched and sucked. 

No good. It was going. 

The best thing was to let it go; not to try to hold onto it. 

It had to go. 

That was all. 

Maybe someday it would be back. 

CHAPTER SIX 

Tuesday nights at Folk City were always slow, unless someone with a bigger name than Andrea Bentham was playing. Andrea had enough of an in-group following among Village freaks to draw full houses on weekends, but she had yet to cut her first record, which made it unlikely that people would come streaming in from the suburbs-or even down from East 72nd Street-to hear her. On this particular Tuesday the crowd consisted of three sailors who had surely gone astray on their way to a topless go-go bar up the street, two leftover Fifties hippies named Raoul and Harvey who showed up every night to decorate their beards with beer-foam in hopes of hearing the next Bob Dylan before he was discovered by the Philistine's, and three painfully clean-cut college sophomore types with their equally clean-cut dates who Andrea pegged as refugees from Rutgers in the city for a big night with a little money. Halfway through the first set a pair of attractive but besotted middle-aged ladies stuck their heads in the door, started to turn away, were promptly goosed from the sidewalk by a grinning old wino, and fell all over themselves lurching inside. The wino lingered on the sidewalk leering at them through the window and they ordered drinks. Andrea did a few old Joan Baez-Judy Collins songs and they stayed, maybe because they were too drunk to move. The songs were so familiar that Andrea did them well enough without thinking. She spent most of the time wondering how long she'd be stuck singing worn-out songs to limpid audiences and exactly what weird things were going on in her head to make her ask such questions. 

Just before the end of the set Sean walked in. When she was done Andrea joined him at a table. 

"Jesus," he gasped with an exhausted look, "I killed twenty-seven people tonight. That's got to be a record." 

"Ah, bullshit. I bet lots of writers kill fifty or sixty every morning before breakfast." 

"Yeah, but they blow them up or gas them or mow them down with machine guns. I mean, with this hand-to-hand stuff, you really have to work for every corpse. Knife Slashes to Adams Apples ... Elephant Kicks to groins ... Monkey Blows to chins ... I tell you, it isn't easy. I'm beat. I've got to get off this Kung Fu shit. Eagle Beaks to eyeballs ... Christ. I'm going back to fuck books." 

"Not a bad idea. Why don't you do one about me?" 

"Don't think I haven't thought of it. I bet I could whip it out pretty fast ... " 

"Not here, if you don't mind." 

"Don't they have a back room?" 

"Yeah, sure, but I'm hungry. I've got to get some supper before the next set." 

"Right. I remember. We're going to some Chinese place. What's it called?" 

"The Little Chink in the Great Wall." 

"Oh come on ... give me a break." 

"No, really. You'll see. Come on. It's just around the block on Bleecker." 

The restaurant was named in honor of a mural covering one wall which depicted nothing other than a huge cunt between masses of white-wash flesh. Right in its center was a hole about the size of a quarter and into it a two-foot-high statue of an aging Chinaman in long robes was sticking his erect member. 

"See? The Little Chink in the Great Wall." 

"Momma. Reminds me of the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike. Or was it dyke?" 

The restaurant was almost empty. As they sat down the door from the kitchen swung open and a Chinese of about twenty in a tight white coat shuffled toward them with an artificially inscrutable grin plastered to his face. He bowed low and presented them with menus. He spoke with exaggerated gravity. "Onolable guests most welcome in humble establishment of Joe Lee." 

"Oh, cut it out, Joe," Andrea giggled. 

"Oh, yes m'am, yes m'am," Joe said, and picked up a knife from their table. He pointed it at his crotch. "Onolable madam want whole thing, balls and all, or just tenderloin? You my best customa! Eat almost every night at Little Chink. I be happy to cut it out for you. You want it flied, boiled, bloiled, or baked?" 

"Fuck you ... I'll take it raw!" 

"Oh ... so solly ... that against state law." 

"Well then we'll just have to look at the menu." 

"Very vine. Velly vine." 

"And by the way, your Chinese accent shits." 

Joe dropped the knife back onto the table and shook his head. "Can I help it if I was born in Brooklyn and raised by Ukranians?" He sat down for a few minutes and shot the shit with them while they ordered. Half an hour later Sean and Andrea were musing about the status of life and the universe over tea and fortune cookies. 

"These damned things are always so stupid," Andrea said as she cracked open a cookie and removed the tiny slip of paper from it. "They always hit you with some ridiculous platitude in pigdin English. You know, somebody could really have fun ... " 

She opened up the slim strip of paper and read it. An expression of vague interest crossed her face and she turned it over and read something on the other side. She turned it back and read the first side and frowned. She turned it again. "Weird." She handed it to Sean. 

"Let's see. It says, 'Statement on other side of this paper indubitably false.'" He turned it over. "'Statement on other side of this paper indubitably false.'" He thought for a second. "Well, they're both false, right? I mean, nothing's indubitably false. Or is it?" 

"If they're both fake then they're both true too." 

"So they're both true and false. Only at different times. They sort of take turns. Or are they both false and true at the same time?" 

"What's false and true at the same time? Think about it. Can it be true and false at the same time that I'm a woman, or that two and two are four?" 

"Sounds sort of fishy." Sean thought some more. "Well ... they're neither true nor false. That's the answer. They don't say anything." 

"They look like they say something to me. What do you mean? They don't mean anything? They're not language? Hell, they're sentences, aren't they? Statements? I mean, they even say they're statements." 

"Yeah, but their saying so doesn't make it so." 

"Right. In which case they're saying that they are statements and they're lying there. Which makes them both false. And therefore both true. Get it?" 

"No." 

"Neither do I. I'm confused to shit." 

"Let's see what's in mine." Sean cracked open his cookie and fished the strip of paper out. "It says, The Nothing Nothings. Isn't That Something? Momma! Somebody's gone bazooney in the fortune cookie factory!" 

Andrea stopped him. "Hey, I remember that from someplace. The Nothing Nothings." She turned and called to the kitchen. "Hey Joe, get your buns out here for a second! What're you doing, playing with our heads?" 

Joe sauntered out. "What's up?" 

"These fortune cookies. As if you didn't know." 

"They say you're going to marry an Irish guy with a beard or that you must be a singer or something, right? People always call me out when things like this ..." 

"No. Take a look." Andrea smiled blandly at him as though she knew he wouldn't be able to keep a straight face. Then she remembered about the saying she'd heard before. "The Nothing Nothings," she said reflectively. "That sounds familiar." 

Joe's eyebrows went up as he read the fortunes. "Yeah. The Nothing Nothings. Martin Heidegger." He mused and stroked his chin. "Pretty fucking high-powered fortune cookie. This is really bizarre. I've never seen a fortune like this before." If he was acting he was doing a fantastic job of it. "And I know the guy who makes these cookies. He gets the fortunes printed on big sheets from Hong Kong. They've been the same doggerel crap for years. Nobody over there's ever heard of Heidegger." 

Sean eyed Joe suspiciously. "How the hell do you know that's Heidegger?" 

Joe grinned. "I only look like a dumb cook. I'm writing my dissertation for a PhD. in philosophy at NYU" 

Sean's jaw dropped. 

Joe turned to Andrea. "This other one ... it's a version of the liar Paradox. In fact it's the version Bertrand Russell gives in his autobiography. The original was cooked up by Epimenides the Cretan who said all Cretans were liars. You get the same thing if you just say, 'I'm lying.' You are if you aren't playing around with antinomies like this for more than two thousand years." 

"Antino who's" Sean asked. 

"Antinomies. Irreconcilable contradictions. Recently they've come up in connection with set theory. Recently like around the turn of the century." Sean seemed interested and Joe went on. "The idea of a set is basic to mathematics. It seems like a perfectly clear idea. It's just the idea of a group or a collection-like a flock of birds or a bunch of bananas. The trouble is that some sets are members of themselves. Like the word "noun" is a noun, the idea of an idea is an idea, the set of all sets that have more than ten members has more than ten sets as members. It's like a bunch of bananas being another banana. But some sets are like this-members of themselves-and some aren't. So you gather up all the ones that aren't-and that's going to be a lot, because the set of all men isn't a man, and so on-and call that a set, which according to the first rules of set theory you were allowed to do. So then you ask whether this set is a member of itself. Turns out that it is if it isn't and it isn't if it is." 

"Whew!" Sean gasped, wiping his hand across his brow. "I don't know if I ... " 

"Yeah; when Bertie Russell wrote a letter to a guy who had just invented mathematical logic and told him that by the rules he was playing with he'd run into this problem and that meant his most basic idea was nonsense it shocked the guy more than it shocks you. But what I'm wondering is how the hell this and that other one got into a fortune cookie. I'm going to get the box and see what other goodies it has." 

"Come on, Joe," Andrea coaxed as he went for the kitchen, "You had your fun, but let's not get carried away." 

He turned back to her. "I'm telling you, I didn't do it. What did I do? I steamed the cookies open, right?" He disappeared and emerged in a second with a huge box of cookies. "I picked those two cookies at random out of this box myself. Maybe the guy started getting his fortunes from some hippie freak-how do I know?" He sat the box down on the table and started breaking cookies open. 

"Bird in hand worth two in bush." 

"Husband: he who always get next to last word." 

"Penny saved, penny earned." 

And so on through three dozen cookies. 

"Isn't that a bitch? The same old crap." He could see Sean and Andrea were still suspicious. "Look, do you think I'd waste all these damned cookies on a silly goof like that?" He laughed. "Hell, I don't care if you believe me or not. But I guess it's better that the rest are the same old shit. If people started getting cookies that confused them they'd start going to some other restaurant. Who the hell wants to drink their tea and wonder about The Nothing Nothings. Isn't That Something? Honest to god ... I'd never sell another spare rib." 

Andrea glanced at the clock on the wall. Time for me to get back." 

As they strolled quickly back to the bar through the crowded Village Streets, dodging pan-handlers and stepping over an occasional nodding junkie or wiped-out wino, Andrea badgered Sean about the cookies. "Listen," she insisted, "that's just too bizarre to be true. I mean, weird things have been happening lately. They've been really nice, but sort of spooky at the same time. Like me greeting you in the nude for our first date singing Rock of Ages. I still don't have any idea what made me do that. And then ... " She was tempted to mention the episode with the storm but decided Sean would probably laugh it off. "Well anyhow, I just have this funny feeling about those cookies. 'Statement on other side of this paper indubitably false.' And then the same thing on the other side. That makes as little sense as you and I getting those two heavy cookies in the first place." 

They reached Folk City and Sean opened the door for her. "I think you had it right in the first place. It's just Joe fucking around." 

"Maybe. But my instinct says no. If he really did it and then acted the way he did, he's suddenly gone weird. I mean, I've known him for a while. Either way, something's weird." 

"Maybe the world is lying." 

Andrea laughed and picked her way to the stage through a crowd that had filled out considerably. That was normal for the ten o'clock show. It was just as well, because having an audience to sing to might level out her head a little bit. 

An audience? An audience of who? Everyone and no one? 

She'd written out the songs she wanted to do for the second set and dropped the list into her guitar case but now she couldn't find it. That panicked her a little because sometimes when she went onstage without a list she blanked out and couldn't remember a single song she knew. But the audience was restless and suddenly she found the chorus to a song running around in her head ... 

Ripple in still waters Where there is no pebble tossed Or wind to blow 

She knew it was the damned fortune cookies that had done it to her. She'd never done "Ripple"-not once. She knew the words but she didn't know the chords. She'd have to fake them; work them out as she went through. And she was supposed to use a flat pick or finger picks? 

Suddenly she saw the whole chord-pattern laid out in her head. GCG ... etc. The finger-picks put themselves onto her fingers and she turned to the microphone, tested the volume, and set off on an intro. 

The audience was charmed. 

They were more charmed when she'd finished. 

She didn't know what she was supposed to do next but she found herself doing "The Circle Game" for the first time in four years. Her voice was clear and strong and haunting. It danced from note to note like a carefree child jumping from rock to rock across a stream. 

As the next song came to her she realized that she felt more stoned than she'd ever been on dope. She'd always been a meticulous performer. She'd never done a song in public that she hadn't done at least fifty times to her own satisfaction at home. And now-the name of the song hit her like a safe dropped from a ten-story building-she was going to do 'Into The Mystic,' a Van Morrison creation that she'd heard exactly once while stoned on mescaline. 

"We were born before the wind 

"Also younger than the sun ... " 

Her voice filled the room with an eerie, erotic, lyre-like sound. 

"As we sailed into the mystic ... " 

Her fingers tripped over the guitar strings in elegant and intricate patterns. She felt the vibrations in the guitar's sound-box penetrating her stomach and harmonizing with those sent through her body by her voice. She felt the images stirred up by the song harmonizing with the music, as though the music produced the sound-track one would hear in the world of the song's story; 

"Hark now, hear the sailor's cry Touch the sea and feel the sky Let your soul and spirits fly Into the mystic ... " 

There was no doubt about it. This was the best she'd ever sung. She was like a new singer. She could feel it in the reverent silence of the audience. It was ... 

The door burst open and Andrea could have sworn a dozen voices joined her for the last chorus. She could have sworn she heard it because she did hear it. 

"I want to rock your gypsie soul Just like way back in the days of old And together we will fold Into the mystic!" 

Cymbals clanged and tambourines rattled and on the word "mystic" a siren-wail shook the rafters. 

The singers were a procession that wound its way through the litter of chairs and tables and bodies. 

The girlfriend of the of the Rutgers types fainted into her sloe gin fizz. Raoul and Harvey cracked their heads together in a gawking competition. People gaped and muttered and fell off bar stools. The middle-aged ladies stirred from their communal stupor and frowned in studied disbelief. 

It was an orgy. 

It was a sacrament. 

It was ridiculous. 

A gaggle of barely and oddly clad teeny-boppers careened and caroused in spirals toward the bandstand. There was one dripping with strings of animal fur-and nothing else-whose pendulous breasts flopped out and brushed against leopard and bearskin. There was one in a pair of coveralls that had been attacked with a paper-punch until she looked as if she was wearing a blue cloth colander. Her pubic hair stuck out of the holes in tufts. One monstrous redhead was made up like a clown. All in all the gyrating lovelies were dressed and painted to make the Hari Krishna chanters look like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. 

As they surged up and spread out in front of the bandstand Andrea, holding her guitar limply and staring in a dazed stupor, caught sight up two bare-chested wrestlers. They were carrying the front end of something. Something covered with a canopy of red silk. A sedan chair. And two more hulks had the back end. Behind them came two silent, ravishingly beautiful women dressed as haremites. One was oriental, the other black. They seemed to be presiding over the flight from rationality of the babbling teeny-boppers under their charge. 

Andrea couldn't see past the bobbing of tanned limbs and the shaking of fringe, feathers, baubles, boobies and beads into the sedan chair. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sean taking in a pair of coltish haunches that pranced into the corner of his eye-nearly taking off his nose. He shrugged his shoulders with the equanimity of a hardened New Yorker. 

The girls burbled incomprehensively syllables and receded, allowing the wrestlers bearing the sedan-chair-which Andrea could now see was fully curtained-to bring it to within three feet of the bandstand and turn it sideways. Through a small rift in the curtain Andrea caught sight of a pair of pale, knobby knees against the background of gold cushions. There was a shifting and a crotch rather inadequately covered with a lavender loincloth jerked forward and then settled back. Whoever was inside was readjusting his position. 

The wrestlers held the chair stiffly. 

The knees inside shifted again. 

From all over the bar people crowded around-some of them angry that the show had been interrupted, some fascinated, some insensed and indignant at the displays of indecency. But all of them were captivated by the act-many thought Andrea had planned it-and shussshed each other to catch any sounds that might come from beneath the curtain. 

The silence was deafening. 

And then, finally, the awaited-for pronouncement and clue and proverb and adverb came forth: "All right you dumb fuckers, put me down already!" 

The apes obeyed sheepishly. Everyone guffawed and tittered and slapped the best thighs they could find. When the uproar quieted the voice took stern control: 

"Okay! Let's get this landing over with! We're coming in at ten thousand feet bombed out of our minds in a heavy fog with no radar but the clarity of clairvoyance, right?" 

"RIGHT!" the chorus responded. 

"Now the first thing I do is call the control tower. Okay. Wait a second till I get the radio cranked up." 

There was a guttural noise like static from under the canopy. A skinny flat-chested girl in a pink 36-D bra and a man's Speedo tank suit (green) stepped to the fore and, like a second-grader reciting a poem about her dog, chanted. 

"Ra-di-o, 

Ho Ho Ho, 

Wa-vies come and Wa-vies Go ... " six times, rolling her head around as though she had a ball-bearing in her neck. 

"Hey! Control tower! Cheatahoutafishwiferakaho-medadough! National security business! Orders to secure a beachhead in the first lady's underwear! Acknowledge incoherence!" 

The voice modulated to a good imitation of a tinny one coming from a faraway control tower via drunken radio waves. "Cheatahoutafishwiferakahomedadough! What the fuck are you doing around here? I thought I threw you out in 7-come-ll BC!" 

"The eternal recurrence is a heterosexual obligation. I told you I'd be back. Got to pick up a singer for my cruise. Therefore the bold intrusion." 

"Control tower to Cheatahoutafishwiferakahomeda-dough! Is that your name, for shitsake?" 

Brief silence. 

"Are we playing that the name is the key?" 

"That rule is suspended." 

"Good. Try Baalow Nee." 

"You're in." 

"Far out. I've been knocking for a long time. Listen-may I activate the electronic canopy removal mechanisms?" 

"Go ahead, clamcake! You're the control tower now!" 

Suddenly Andrea realized something that nearly made her piss in her pants, although if it had she wouldn't have known why. She understood all this. She didn't know how, but somehow she understood it. 

There was a tiny electric hum. The canopy and curtains of the sedan chair started to recede. They folded into a compartment on the chair's far side like the top of a convertible. Their departure revealed, in order, a flat stomach above the still-lumpy loincloth; a somewhat sunken chest with a diffused patch of salt-and-pepper hair centered on the breastbone; the tip of a long wispy beard a few shades darker than the chest hair; shoulder-length tresses to match; a birdlike neck with prominent Adam's apple; and finally a perplexing face of indeterminate age dominated by a pair of pale sky-blue eyes that looked at once entirely voracious and totally pacific. Andrea could not decide whether the face was handsome or not. Random guesses at age ran through her head. The nose was a little hooked. Fifty-five? But the cheeks were soft and smooth and unlined. Forty-five? The hair and the beard ... they concealed a lot but didn't tell much. Salt-and-pepper ... if he'd started to go gray early he could be as young as ... flirty-five? 

Or maybe he was a hundred and seven. 

Was he made up? He could easily be seventy ... 

The body had a kind of stubborn hardness under its dark tan that likewise made it hard to tell much about its age. 

The intruder's lips were curved upward in a Cheshire Cat smile. 

Andrea cocked her head, grinned uncertainly back, wondered whether someone had slipped LSD into her world, and waited. 

"Well for Christ's sake ... Buddha's ... Confucius' ... Joe the Barber's ... whosoever you want ... don't you recognize me?" The occupant of the chair was indignant. His voice squeaked like a rusty hinge in a high wind. 

"Should I?" 

The voice fell two octaves and intoned, "Should you? Should you? We met on the plains of Thermopylae after the Russian Whipped Cream Invasion. There were no cherries left on the Sundae when we were done. You fell into my arms hindmost in the Procreation Period. I know all about you. You recently earned a black belt in Ostentatious Eroticism." 

"Motherfucker," Andrea gasped. 

"That and that alone is true." The voice modulated again, this time to an easy cocktail-tone. "Anyhow, will you come?" 

"Huh?" Andrea shook her head as though something had suddenly come loose inside it. Sean pushed his way through the crowd and joined her. 

"Haven't you been listening to me?" the visitor wailed plaintively. 

"All I've heard is a lot of noise." Andrea looked apprehensively at Sean. 

"Dig it," he whispered, "this guy doesn't make a whole lot of sense. I mean, maybe he's off his nut. You think he might be dangerous?" 

"Ha!" the man cried. "You may not believe I heard you, but I did! And I'll tell you! Making sense is what I do. For a living. I manufacture it!" He paused as though checking some mathematical computation. "That's wrong. Manufacturing implies mass production; interchangeable parts. Nowadays. But every bit of sense I make is original; unique! I create! Sense?" He looked up at them as though surely they would understand. When it was obvious they didn't he became long-suffering and patient. "It's just because it's original that you can't understand it. A new bit of sense ... it's not that easy to grasp, you know. Don't blame yourself." 

Sean scratched his ass, then his head, and Andrea, having nothing better to do, helped him. 

"I've been on television," the visitor announced as though it would be helpful. "You should at least know me that way." There was a titter or two from the crowd that grew to a significant buzzing. "Don't you read the papers? Don't you read Playboy? December? 'The Guru Who Gets Off?' The one with the bunny blowing Santa Claus?" 

Andrea grabbed Sean's arm excitedly. "Hooooo ... it's coming through! This is that crazy guru! The one I told you about. Remember? The No Touch Shot?" 

"Holy shit." 

The Guru grimaced as though he'd bitten into a chocolate-covered dog-turd. "Ugh. The No Touch Shot. Crude Americanism. In the more esoteric circles of mysticism we call it Thinking Off." 

Sean gagged. 

Andrea's eyes opened wide. 

"Anyhow, have you got the message yet?" 

"What message?" 

"Aha! You've got it!" 

He turned and raised his arms like a choir director. "Okay. A-one and-a-two and-a-three-" 

"The Round Square is Completely Bare The Circle Jerk can Wear No Clothes The Smelly Sock can Have No Nose And Where It Stops the Guru Shows!" 

"That's for sure," Sean sighed as the chant ended. 

The Guru was petulantly bewildered. "Don't you get the gist of my motherfucking invitation?" 

"I'm afraid not," Andrea admitted. "What gist? What invitation." 

"The gist that came out of the gist-mill! Boy, are you slow! Didn't you hear me tell the control tower why I'd come?" 

"What?" 

"Why I requested permission to land, dammit! If I may be granted the privilege of quoting myself, I said, 'Got to pick up a singer for my cruise.'" 

"Oh yeah. I remember something like that." 

"If you'd been smart that's all you would have remembered." His voice softened and went gushy. "The essence of profundity lies in sorting the meaningful from the meaningless. Separating the wheat from the chaff. It's all there-there's just too much of it. You know what I mean? Getting around the bullshit. That's what it comes down to." 

He stopped abruptly and stroked his beard. He leapt off the chair, postured extravagantly, and whirled around. "I can see," he proclaimed to all and sundry, but most especially to the two ravishing chaperon figures who stood across the room near the door, "That the landing pattern dictated by the Cosmic Essence of the Unknowable and the Federal Aeronautics Assholiation for this girl-strip is not optimal. Bring the pinstripe suit. White carnation. Black oxfords. Hold the ox." 

The black woman, her healthy hips swaying under a tinsel skirt, her Afro bobbing like a weather balloon, turned to a chest that had somehow found its way to her side, and the oriental leaned over it with her. In seconds the Guru was decked out in an immaculate pinstripe suit, starched shirt (ruffled), bow tie, bowler hat, and black oxfords with spats. "Bring the cane!" he cried. "You know I can't do this bit without a cane!" A Bat Masterson cane poked out of the crowd. He grabbed it, rapped it smartly on the floor nine times, turned to Andrea, and bowed. "Do I not seem to be the essence of the solicitor? Don't answer that. I am the Guru Baalow Nee. Pronounced Baylow Nay. Spelled B-a-a-l-o-w-N-e-e." He halted reflectively. "You will notice the subtleties in its pronunciation. It is necessary to roll the tongue on the "buh" sound ... " His voice trailed off, then came back decisively. "It is subtle of pronunciation because its roots lie in a conglomeration of languages saturated with religious mysticism. Incidentally, I am the only one who can pronounce it correctly. If you could pronounce it correctly you would have true enlightenment. But of course this is true of any name. If you could pronounce your own name correctly you would have true enlightenment." He looked up at Andrea with the expression of a puppy-dog who is certain that this time he has pleased his master, but all she could do was return a frank admission of confusion. 

"I can see you are not getting the point." He folded his arms in a dignified manner. "Let me summarize what I just said. My private cruise ship, the True Enlightenment, leaves tomorrow at eight o'clock in the morning with a full booking of 982 passengers for a three-week Caribbean cruise. An hour ago I learned that Lawrence Welk had cancelled his contract to provide the entertainment because the hot air might adversely effect his champagne bubbles. Or maybe it was his adenoids. If he has any. Whatever they are. Anyhow, since I'd met you before under ... shall we say, intimate? ... circumstances, I thought I'd drop by and offer you an irresistible $3,000 to replace Welk and his goofers as the resident entertainment. All expenses paid. Eight Now. Three weeks. Good summary? So, as I said before, will you come?" 

"Huh?" Andrea's brow furrowed with perplexity. 

Sean sidled over to her. "You know, your brow's furrowed with perplexity." 

"Listen," the Guru said indulgently, "I didn't expect you to take a freak show like this on faith." He clapped his hands. One of the wrestlers hurried to his side. "Oh for Christ's sake. Et Cetera. I told you that when I clapped that meant to bring the money!" He turned apologetically to Sean and Andrea. "Sorry. This is only a dress rehearsal. Of course there's never any real show ... " 

The ape lumbered off and returned with a pair of saddle-bags draped over his arm like a towel. The Guru took them, smelled the leather, commented on the demise of its vivacious fecundity, and then opened them up. He fished out a sheaf of bills. "$3,000. In hundreds. Cash. As real as any money. You could turn it into francs, pounds, deutschmarks, yen ... back and forth around in a circle. Not counterfeit. Except in so far as it's money, which is counterfeit for happiness." He sneezed. "I've got to get rid of that line. It's trite. Juvenalia. Anyhow, to make a long story short, that's what I'll pay you if you pack up and make it down to Pier 52 before eight-thirty in the morning." 

Andrea swayed uncertainly. "What ... what do you mean, we've met before under intimate circumstances?" 

"The plains of Thermopylae?" 

"Huh? Oh yeah. Bullshit." 

"Except for one thing I forgot to mention. It was raining. Very hard. Just like earlier tonight." Andrea's head spun. The storm. The feeling there was someone, something, somewhere, watching her ... with her ... And then the fortune cookies. Rock of Ages. Everything. She stared at him for a long moment but his vibrant blue eyes revealed nothing but blank innocence-as though all he'd done was make a business offer and wait for a response. Finally she leaned forward and whispered, "The Nothing Nothings. Isn't That Something?" 

The Guru giggled as though taking pleasure once more in an old, old joke. "I doubt it. At least, nothing like a hot dog. But I'd relish your company." 

Sean hopped down from the stage to examine the sheaf of money at close range. He'd never seen so much money before. He wasn't sure he remembered what a hundred dollar bill was supposed to look like. Was it really Franklin's picture that was supposed to be on it? It looked awfully good. He turned to the Guru. "Is this on the level? $3,000 for a three-week cruise?" 

"I can't promise it'll all be on the level. Ships roll, you know, despite gyroscopic stabilizers, and I have minimal influence with tropical storms. But if you think the bread's going to go poof, why don't you take your peter out of the oven?" 

"Yeah. Sure. Do you always talk in riddles?" 

"Never. That's the problem. Anyhow, make up her mind, if that's your job, because I've got an appointment with the Fairy Godmother of the Eternal Equinox in three and a half minutes. Got to figure out how to paint shuffle board courts on the rear smokestack." 

"Naturally." 

Sean leapt back up onto the bandstand and he and Andrea retreated into conference. "Look," he began, "this is the weirdest thing I've ever heard of ... shit, life is flying off its hinges lately ... but if this guy's really who he says he is ... Baalow Nee?" 

"It's him," Andrea assured him. "Now that I look closely I recognize him from his picture." 

"Well shit then, he's got to be on the level. Some level. Because he's an established phenomenon. A going concern. He's got a reputation to protect. Something. Right? Anyhow, three grand isn't to be sneezed at." 

"Yeah, but the whole idea tickles my nose." 

Sean laughed. Andrea got more serious. "Look, do you think I ought to do it-whatever it is?" 

"I'd really hate to see you split for three weeks just when we ... well, I guess it's pretty obvious what we ... but shit, why not?" 

Andrea couldn't resist. A leap into the unpredictable. A fat hop into a zany zoo. There was no way she was going to let that Guru out of her sight until she got some questions answered. There had to be rational answers, but she wanted them. So it all boiled down to ... what the fuck? But she'd only do it on one condition. She turned to Sean. "Will you go?" 

"I wasn't invited." 

"So-hell invite you or I won't go." 

Before Sean could answer the Guru bellowed, "Bring anyone you want! I don't care! Bring your mother, your uncle, your cook, your skuncle, your favorite schnook ... just make up whatever there is of your mind! You're getting a five-room suite, for Christsake!" 

"Son of a bitch, that guy really does hear everything," Andrea muttered. She paused while Sean thought it over. The Guru sure talked funny. Your uncle, your cook, your skuncle ... Your cook! "Hey," she said, "I'm going to ask Joe Lee if he wants to go." 

Sean was still musing. "I guess it doesn't make much difference if I finish up my book at home or on a boat. Besides, when I was done I could start a fuck-book about you. There'd be lots of weird shit I could throw in." 

Andrea turned to Baalow Nee but he beat her to the punch. "I see you've decided." He threw the sheaf of money onto the stage. "Pier 52. Any time before 8:30 in the morning. I'll sent a couple of my girls with you to help you pack." He flopped down into his sedan chair and motioned for his attendants. "Let's blow this fire trap before it burns down!" 

He surveyed his bevy of dithering pulchritude. "Princess Summerfallwinterspring!" A petite, dark-eyed girl slithered out of the crowd. A few feathers floated down off her gaudy headdress and her doeskin dress climbed halfway up her bare ass as she bowed. "Take Virginia Vagina with you and help these freaks get their shit together." 

A tall blonde, slender but ostentatiously buxom, her blue gauze dress revealing about all there was to be revealed, joined the Princess and blinked at Sean in a manner meant to be seductive. The Guru grinned his satisfaction as the apes jerked his sedan chair aloft. The chorus took up the chant, 

"The Is Is Not, "The Not Is Is, "The No Touch Shot "Will Never Fizz!" 

and the procession receded onto the street like an ebbing tidal wave of Fellini extras. 

CHAPTER SEVEN 

"I'll be fucked," Andrea murmured, leafing through the pile of bills in her hand and eyeing the two girls before her with stark amazement. "What the hell. Let's get going before I come to my senses." She packed up her guitar, peeled off a couple of hundred dollar bills, and handed them to Sean. "Give these to Bert." Bert was the manager of Folk City. "Tell him I'm sorry I had to fink out on my contract-right in the middle of a gig no less-but this ought to make up for it and besides he knows a dozen performers as good as I am who can make it down here in half an hour." 

Princess Summerfallwinterspring and Virginia Vagina babbled nonsense to each other and trailed after Sean and Andrea as they hot-footed it around the block to the Little Chink in the Great Wall. "Hey Joe," Andrea cried upon bursting into the restaurant, "pack up your wok! You're going on a trip!" 

It took a few minutes to convince Joe that the Nothing wasn't Nothinging on him and a few more for him to call an uncle and arrange for the restaurant to be taken care of in his absence. He disappeared upstairs to his apartment and emerged with a wok containing two pairs of socks, a change of underwear, and three philosophy books. "This ought to do it for three weeks." They stepped outside and hailed a checker cab. The driver, about forty and paunchy, gave them a funny look as they got in. As they sped uptown toward Sean's place the Princess took off her headdress. "Jesus it gets hot under there." She was lounging on a jump-seat across from Joe. She pulled her legs up and leaned back and closed her eyes. Joe did a double and then a triple-take. 

It was true. She wasn't wearing underwear. The way she was sitting he could tell for sure. Her bushy pussy winked at him from between her slim, darkly tanned legs. Andrea, sitting next to him with Sean on the other side, felt him take a deep breath. 

"Wink back at it," she suggested. 

Sean stroked his chin and contemplated the Princess's muff. "Bet you didn't know what you were getting into, Joe." He turned to Andrea. "Pretty shrewd of the old Guru to send these two with us-to make sure we didn't slap out with his three thou." 

"That's not why we came," Virginia protested. 

"So why did you come?" Sean pressed. "To help us pack? That's a good one." 

"Well, that and ... we're supposed to sort of get you used to the ... well, the atmosphere that's going to be on the boat. You know. Get your heads in the right mood for the cruise." She attempted again to put on a seductive air. It was like Lucille Ball trying to play Sophia Loren. 

Sean took another side-glance at the Princess's pussy and the trim cheeks of her ass bunched up beneath it. "And how are you supposed to do that?" 

"Like this!" 

Virginia's blue gauze dress featured a zipper running all the way down the front. She yanked it halfway down. 

Her tits were suddenly very white and very free. She shook her shoulders and tossed them at Sean as though she expected him to catch them. They bob-bled around, the wine-red patches of her nipples gyrating against the background like polka-dots on a movie screen, and then swayed, juggled, and jounced to rest. "See?" 

"I'd be blind if I didn't." 

"Well," she asked, as though anxious to be sure she'd done things right, "what do you think?" 

"I think that's a hell of an initiation to mysticism." 

Virginia fingered her right nipple reflectively. Sean took a survey of her long, youthful torso and the hips that blossomed gently out below it. "The Guru says that the road to true enlightenment lies not around the body but through it," she recited hopefully. 

"I'll bet." 

Virginia frowned. Next to her the Princess snapped her eyes open as though springing a trap and caught Joe staring at her hole. She grinned triumphantly. She leaned toward him. "How'd you like me to suck your lolly-pop?" 

By this time Joe had completely recaptured his composure. He smiled back sedately. "I guess I wouldn't mind too much," 

Virginia pouted at Sean. "Don't you like my tits?" She held them up and pointed them at him in a gesture he was soon to think of as characteristic. They were like two mellons in their bloated enormity. She caught him shooting Andrea an "isn't-this-too-much-for-words" look. "You two married or something?" she asked with alarm. "I mean do you think there's something wrong with my ... uh ... being un-hung-up about my body?" 

Andrea came back in the tone of a patient mother engaging in a Platonic dialogue with her child. "Do you?" 

Virginia got confused. 

The Princess reached over into Joe's crotch to see what was up. It turned out to be plenty. She gave Virginia a conspiratorial wink and began massaging energetically. Joe regarded her with pleased equanimity. "I never blew an oriental before," she confessed. 

"No time like the present." Joe looked past her through the Plexiglas shield. The driver was cocking his ear and glancing into the mirror now and then. He obviously could hear some of what was going on and he was interested. "You don't think that guy'll mind you giving blow-jobs in his cab?" 

"I'll blow him too if he wants!" the Princess shouted. 

The driver didn't have to strain to hear that one, and he had a pretty good idea who she was talking about. He almost ran into a beer truck. He stopped at a light and turned around. 

The Princess was unzipping Joe's trousers and getting into position. Joe pointed to the driver's incredulous face and the Princess, gripping his organ firmly, turned. "I said I'd blow you too if you want!" She made sucking motions with her lips above Joe's cock and pointed through the seat at about the level of the cabbie's own apparatus just in case he hadn't understood. 

His mouth fell open. The light changed and horns blared and he drove on shaking his head and continuing to glance eagerly into the mirror at every opportunity. 

Virginia was still trying to get it up to answer Andrea's question when Sean reached over and grabbed her boobs. She started and then grinned as though all were suddenly right with the world. 

"Not bad," Sean commented. "Nice consistency. Just like pizza dough." 

"Pizza dough?" Virginia didn't know whether to be complimented or insulted. "You Italian?" 

Sean declined to answer. He kept kneading her tits methodically. They were nice tits. Really nice tits. There was so much of them. And despite Virginia's systematic idiocy she had a certain naive charm. 

Suddenly, like the scatter brain she was, Virginia came up with an answer to Andrea's question. "I don't think there's anything wrong with it," she said defensively. "I mean, you get your body for free, right? So why be cheap with it? And it's natural, so why cover it up?" Sean's massage was getting right to her. "Mmmmmm. And besides, it feels so good." 

"That's peachy," Sean muttered, but Virginia couldn't hear him over the sound of the Princess's lips smacking on Joe's dong. "Ok, Virginia Vagina, let's examine your last name," he said loudly. 

"Huh? You mean you want to examine my vagina? My cunt? Sure. Wait a second." She fumbled for her zipper and drew it all the way down, revealing a creamy white navel and then a pair of yellow lace panties. "The Guru said I should wear these. Otherwise ... well, this dress is pretty thin, and I might have got arrested." 

"Good philosophy," Andrea observed. She and Sean were poking each other with their elbows and generally having a gas of a time. 

"Yeah," Virginia agreed, pleased that Andrea had said something mildly positive. She lifted her ass and started peeling her panties down. She got her fingers rolled up in the tight elasticized material and couldn't get them out. Sean helped her. 

The receding cloth revealed an ostentatiously bulging cunt sparsely furred with curling tendrils of blonde hair, beneath which the flesh was as white as flour. Except that its slit, which was already hanging slightly open and spilling inner lips wantonly out, was baby's-bottom pink. It looked like it had already been meticulously greased for action. 

Her panties gone, Virginia spread her legs wide and put her hands on her knees. She looked down as though checking to make sure it was the same cunt she'd had before. It seemed to be. She looked at Sean hopefully. "Well, how do you like it?" 

Sean was about to comment on her anxiousness for approval of her physical attributes-hardly standard for a dedicated mystic-but he refrained. "I can't make a judgment yet. I have to refer the matter to my vagina inspector." He turned to Andrea. "Want to give me a report on this one?" 

Andrea, who was being jostled violently from the other side by the Princess's attack on Joe, got into the spirit. "Gees," she gasped, "I gotta make an inspection? Here?" She leaned toward Virginia. "I mean, on visual inspection I'd say it's US Grade AAA Super-Prime Quadruple-Choice Fuckable. Maybe even good to eat." She said this as though they'd come across an appealing-looking but unknown fruit in a strange forest. "But you can't always tell. I mean, it might have a mousetrap inside or something." She smiled patronizingly at Virginia, who had retreated into her favorite guise of blank bewilderment. "Excuse me." 

She motioned for Virginia to spread her legs wider and draw them up. As the young lovely complied Andrea grabbed her pussy. 

Virginia's eyes opened wide and her pupils dilated till they nearly took over her baby-blue irises. She tottered on her jump-seat. 

The cab stopped at another light and the driver looked back again. He caught a full view of Joe getting off into the Princess's mouth and a side view of Virginia's boobs and her cunt with Andrea's hand in it. He shoved his plaid cap back on his head and wiped his upper lip. 

The Princess, still swallowing, whirled and waved at him. After a second her throat had cleared enough for her to shout, "I said I'd do you too! You up for it?" She cackled gleefully and clawed at the partition. 

The light changed and the driver charged ahead as though getting the last few blocks to their destination was a matter of life or death, but nobody could tell which one he thought it was. 

"So," Sean asked as Andrea got three slim fingers up Virginia and wiggled them around, "how's it going?" 

"Man, it's a big one," Andrea said with the tone of a twelve-year-old who's hooked a five-pound bass. "Shit, I bet you could get two cocks in there." She felt Virginia squirming with pleasure. "Just for the record, honey, you ever had two in there at once?" 

"Uh huh," Virginia moaned. "Two medium-sized ones. Not two big ones. I'm working up to that. The Guru says you have to live up to your natural potential. Why do you think they call me Virginia Vagina? My real name is Ruthie Fleegerschmog. Hey-you like fingering girls' pussies?" 

"Better than sheeps'," Andrea allowed, diddling with her clit. "I most prefer my own, though. Only doing my job, honey. When you're inspector for a stud like Sean here you get a little jaded. I have to do twenty or thirty of these a day. You see, whenever a chick wants a piece of Sean, he refers her to me first. Lots of mornings I wake up and open my door and find five or six chicks combing their cunt-hair outside my door." 

"Really?" It took a long second for Virginia to catch the gleam in Andrea's eye and laugh. "You fooled me." 

"I bet I'm not the first one." 

"Huh?" 

The cab pulled up in front of Sean's building. 

Joe yanked his pants up and Andrea pulled her hand out of Virginia's hefty sheath. "Inspection completed." 

She held her hand up for Sean to smell. The odor was surprisingly faint. It reminded him of water-lillies in a shallow pool in mid-summer. 

"The visual and tactual results are satisfactory. I'll leave the final decision on the olfactory aspects to you." Virginia obviously had no idea what "olfactory" meant. "I still haven't devised a satisfactory test for the auditory aspects. And I really didn't do a taste test at all. Of course you can project that with fair accuracy from the olfactory results. But to do a proper job I'd have to perform thorough cunnilingus under laboratory conditions." 

Virginia's eyes lit up. That was one she knew. "That means you'd have to eat me out, right?" she said with an anticipatory smile. 

"Right. But we really can't do that under the present conditions ... " 

Joe got out of the cab. The Princess followed him and went up to lean against the driver's door. "You want a quickie in the cab, or you want to go up with us and take your time?" 

The guy sputtered and grinned and frowned. "Well ... what the ... you mean you're really gonna blow me?" 

She stuck her head in the window and half-shouted into his ear, "I said I was going to blow you, didn't I? I'm going to suck you off! Take your penis in my mouth and manipulate it, causing you to ejaculate! Now ... you want a quickie in the cab, or ... " 

Sean could tell the cabbie wanted to go upstairs but he was leery of going into strange apartments with strangers this strange. Funny how New York made you paranoid. Or maybe he had to meet his wife right away. Finally the guy said, "I gotta get back downtown pretty quick for a ... " 

"Fine." The Princess cut him off. "I'll give you a quickie in the cab. Special service in the comfort of your own golden chariot." She yanked his door open. "Move over and whip it out. I suppose you'll want to feel my pussy or my tits or something while I'm doing you?" 

The cabbie shoved over on the seat and gazed indecisively at his zipper. 

"Shit, if you can't get it out, I can." She proceeded to unpack his pants. "Hey, not a bad one," she exulted, fingering his uncircumcized member lightly. "I sort of dig them au naturel. You want it lying down or sitting up?" 

The driver loosened up fast under the preliminary massage but was still visibly thunder-struck. 

Virginia and Sean and Andrea got out, Virginia pulling her dress around her but not bothering to zip it up. Joe sat on the steps of Sean's brownstone holding the Princess's headdress, his wok-suitcase by his side, laughing his head off. As the others joined him they could see the driver's hulking body moving clumsily around inside the cab, getting into position beneath the flitting white material of the Princess's dress. It seemed he had decided that he wanted the Princess on top of him in the sixty-nine position. Just before her ass lowered onto him two thick hands loomed up and grabbed it and pushed her dress off it almost desperately. Two skinny, hollow-cheeked buttocks, girlishly firm, loomed in the window and then disappeared, pushed down by the pressure of fat fingers. 

Joe shook the Princess's headdress and watched feathers fall off it as the cab shook gently. Occasionally the buttocks appeared in the cab window. Virginia sat higher up on the steps eyeing the philosophy books in Joe's wok curiously and singing, "Ra-di-o, Ho-ho-ho, Wa-vies Come and Wa-vies Go" to herself like someone who couldn't get a particularly catchy tune out of her head. Sean and Andrea lounged against the rail patiently. All in all it was a weird scene for John Fuocoforte a theater manager about Sean's age who lived across the hall from him, to run into on his way home from a Mets game. 

"Hey, man, what's going on?" John asked as he saw everyone's attention focussed on the cab. He gave Sean an inquisitive look and copped a quick stare at Virginia, who held her panties in her lap and neglected to keep her dress-such as it was-securely around her. 

Sean took the headdress from Joe and waved it at John as though it were an answer to his question. "A friend of ours is giving our cabbie his tip." 

"Oh. Yeah. Well, I guess I'll ... " 

The Princess's ass made a particularly long and vivid appearance in the cab window. 

"Whaaat?" John's curiosity, to say the least, was aroused. 

"There's a chick in there giving the cab driver a blow-job." 

"Yeah. Sure. Huh?" 

"Do I have to explain a blow-job to you?" 

"You don't have to explain it to him," Virginia cut in sweetly. "I'll give him a demonstration." She eyed John lasciviously. 

John stared at her as though she'd come from Mars. 

She pulled her dress open and grabbed one of her tits and pointed it at him. "Bang Bang! You're alive!" 

John stared at the tit until she said, "Look, I've got more shit inside this dress too ... " and swept the cloth off her lap. 

Just then the gentle rocking of the cab ceased. The Princess's smiling face appeared. "Mission accomplished!" 

The driver sat up looking as if he'd just had a far-out accident. The Princess patted him on the shoulder and climbed out of the cab, leaving him to puzzle over how to tell the steering wheel from the gas pedal. 

John and Virginia engaged in an animated but incoherent conversation as the party, now six strong, clomped up the stairs and gushed into Sean's apartment. They were supposed to be packing for a trip but it was obvious that Virginia and the Princess meant to take most of the night initiating the Guru's new staff members to standard procedure. Virginia threw her dress over a lamp and flopped down onto Sean's immense water bed. She drew her legs up over her head, yanked her pussy open, and yelled, "Free fucks! Come and get it!" 

John was thinking about taking her up on it when Andrea stepped in front of him. She'd never met John before but he was tall and dark and handsome, well-built, with swarthy skin and bushy black hair. He had a genial smile and a gregarious, innocent sort of air about him. And he looked like he'd know just what to do with a piece of ass. Besides, Andrea thought it right that Sean should have the first crack-so to speak-at Virginia. After all, she'd been inspected. So she said, "Pardon me, but I think that cunt is taken. However, I've decided that I'm not going to get any cock unless I get with the crazy rhythm around here. So I offer you a substitute for that bit of plastic pulchritude over there." 

She stripped off her dress, yanked her panties down to her knees, grabbed John's hand, and shoved it between her legs. "Cop a feel of that for a second and see if you can get into it." 

John's rod blasted erect so fast that he almost got into it pants, underpants and all. 

By this time Sean had his clothes off and he was onto Virginia before she had time to shout "Free Fucks!" again. With one good shot he plowed her furrow dead-center and the soft casing of youthful pussy closed over him. He started humping away at a mile a minute. 

Joe and the Princess took the other end of the water bed. The Princess, never too slow to get her clothes off, waited while Joe unlaced his boots and flung his clothes to the winds. 

"Whooopee! Ride 'em cowboy!" Virginia screeched as Sean got up high on her. She started bucking and slapped his ass with her palms. The two of them set up such huge waves in the water bed that by the time the Princess was laid out properly and Joe got into position over her he had trouble hitting the target. The Princess tried to hold it steady for him but it just wasn't as big as Virginia's and every time he made a stab at it, it moved. He hit her in the thighs, in the stomach-almost snagging her belly-button-in the ass, the water bed. He got up off her and shouted, "Time out, dammit!" 

Sean froze. 

Andrea, who was about to sit down on John's king-sized thing as he sat in an easy-chair, turned to see what the trouble was. 

Joe pointed to the Princess's puss. "That motherfucker's jumping around like a goddamned jackrabbit! Chinese are not natural marksmen!" 

The haitus in the frenzy was all he needed. Without further ado he crammed it in and was off and humping. "Okay, everybody! Play ball!" 

Sean and Virginia didn't need a second invitation. He'd already decided that she didn't have anything upstairs because it was all downstairs. She clamped on him, teased him, attacked him, until he was about to go crazy. Her big loose-lipped cunt felt like a plump, hairy pillow against his groin. She strained up to cover his mouth with hers and sucked his tongue as though it were a second cock. She tickled his ears and ran her nails down his back. She shoved her bulbous breasts against his chest and rubbed back and forth till he could feel their huge rock-hard nipples like little pebbles on floating cushions between them. She just plain liked fucking. She was like a kid on a wild roller-coaster ride. She wasn't much good at talking about it, maybe, but she was fantastic at doing it. 

Andrea took it more slowly with John. He rubbed his palms over her nipples. She squatted down on him little by little, covering the tip of his cock with the hot, wet entrance to her hole, riding, down till it sprang free and shot up across her clit, and then repeating the motion. He bit his lip in tense expectation. 

Suddenly he yelled, "Oh shit! I forgot! I completely forgot! How could I have done that? What time is it?" 

Andrea exhaled-realizing for the first time she'd been holding her breath-and laughed. "What the hell do you mean, what time is it? It's time to fuck me, stupid!" 

"No! I mean, yeah, but no! Don't you see? I forgot! Fuck, I said that already. Not fuck. Yeah, I said that too. But-I forgot ..." He babbled on for a while. 

Andrea was in stitches. Everybody else was too preoccupied to notice what was going on. The bed sloshed and creaked and the moanings and groanings added up to a minor symphony. 

John got soft and Andrea slid down to rest on his lap. Finally he got it together to spit it out. "I've got a motherfucking date tonight! At eleven thirty! This chick is coming over to my place!" 

Andrea searched the walls and caught sight of a clock in the kitchen. "It's twenty-five to twelve." 

"PISS! I mean-nothing against you." He slapped her ass enthusiastically. "But like, I'm really crazy about this chick. I've been after her for a long time and I don't know how the hell I talked her into coming to my place in the middle of the night for a first date. She's a nurse and she gets off at eleven and I told her we'd go out for a ... PISS!" 

"Go out for a piss?" 

John was too numb to appreciate anything. 

"There's only one solution," Andrea said. 

"What?" 

"Coitus interruptus." She got up. "Go ahead downstairs and see if she's there." 

"If she's here she'll be in the hall outside. I told her to ring Freddy's bell if I didn't answer. In case the game went into extra innings or something." 

"Maybe she's down at Freddy's." 

"Not a chance. Freddy's gay and he's got a hot date tonight. He was going to give her a pillow and a can of beer and tell her to cool her buns in the hall up here." 

"So take a look outside and see if she's here, numbskull." 

"Like this? Sure. And what do I say? 'Sorry, but I was detained by a slight orgy?' And then I wave my schwantz at her, right?" 

"Might not be such a bad idea. Nice to get everything out in the open right away." 

"Not with a chick like this." 

"Oh-the innocent young thing, huh?" 

"From upstate. Been in the city four months. Look, if I open the door she's got to hear ... see ... smell ... THAT." He waved in the direction of the bed full of writhing limbs. 

"Fuck it. I'll look then. If she's there I'll say you called and said you'd be late getting back because ... I don't know, the subway went the wrong way or something ... and she should wait. Then you can slip down the fire escape and out the alley, back in through the front door, and-voila! So ... get your ass into the kitchen." 

John did as he was told. 

"Could I have a little quiet in the fucking gallery, please?" Andrea said in the direction of the bed. The storm subsided mildly. She went to the door and peeked out. 

There was a tall classy-looking chick with straight black hair, big brown eyes, long face, slightly prominent but regular nose, olive skin, and a bored expression sitting on a cushion in front of John's door drinking a beer and reading the sports section of the Daily News. She was pretty flat-chested but overall lithely and quite sensually proportioned. She wore a conservative flower-print pants suit. She smiled strangely at the face that poked out from behind the cover of Sean's door and waved with a drumming-the-fingers motion as though she'd expected to see Andrea. 

"You John's date?" 

"Who else would I be? I'm not the exterminator." 

"Listen, John called and said ... " 

"Bullshit." 

"Huh?" 

"I said, BULLSHIT." She smiled sweetly. "As in plain old ordinary brown bullshit." She folded her paper, knocked back the rest of her beer, left the can on the step, and moseyed over. "John called and said the subway went the wrong way or something, right?" She had a large canvas shoulder-bag that she adjusted easily to hang across her stomach. "Those doors aren't that thick, you know. I can hear everything that's going on in there." Her face was a cipher. Andrea tried to close the door and hide behind it. 

"Don't be bashful. I've seen lots of naked chicks. Guys too. I'm a nurse." She craned her head to try to see in. "Never caught an orgy, though." Andrea relented and she shoved the door open. 

Two couples stopped in mid-fuck. 

"Where's John? That piece of chicken-shit! Hiding in the kitchen?" She stepped in and closed the door behind her. She repeated her dainty wave in the direction of the bed. "Don't let me interrupt you. I'm just here to check the plumbing." 

There was an uncomfortable shuffling noise from the kitchen. 

The tempo of activity on the bed picked up again although all four of the fuckers continued to give the newcomer suspicious sidelong glances. 

"What're you doing in there, schmuck?" the girl called into the kitchen. "Putting on an apron?" She pointed at John's clothes, which were strewn around the armchair. "I see he forgot a few essentials." She gave a snort of mock-disgust and shouted again, "Come on out and finish up what you were doing!" She smiled knowingly at Andrea. "I can wait." 

Andrea about dropped her teeth. 

There was more shuffling from the kitchen. 

"Come out here and face up to this like a man! And don't come out with anything on, because that's not the way you went in! Besides, I want to check out your equipment" 

Andrea collapsed onto the couch. The incredible had struck again. There had to be some explanation. 

"If you turn out to be needle-dick the bug-fucker, I'm going home!" 

John finally emerged timidly from between the kitchen's double doors. He looked like he'd spent an hour in an electric blender. "Look," he began sheepishly, "I know what you think, but ... " 

"But me no buts, wise-ass. Just finish up what you were doing." She sat down on the couch next to Andrea, opened her pocket-book, and took out some knitting. She smiled graciously. "I'll watch." 

John's jaw looked like somebody had pulled the pin out of its hinge. His arms hung limply at his sides. He didn't know whether this was good or bad, or whether it was for real. 

"FUCK HER, STUPID! That's what you were doing, wasn't it? Coitus interruptus, for Christsake! I wouldn't have put up with it, frankly." She stole a glance at the bed and seemed stimulated. "If you hurry up you might even get the first crack at me. Otherwise I think I'll take on that studly looking guy with the beard." 

John knocked his head like he was trying to get marbles out of it. 

"Am I allowed to pass?" Andrea asked. "I think maybe John would rather ... " She stopped. "What's your name, anyhow?" 

"Joanna. Yeah, you're allowed to pass, I guess. But really, I'd like to see this creep do his stuff." She chuckled reflectively. "Maybe I'll decide it would be fitting punishment for him if I balled with those other guys and didn't give him a piece." 

Andrea laughed and shook her head incredulously. Joanna looked to be about as cool a chick as she'd ever come across. Besides, she could see the sensuality oozing out of her. She wondered what had given John the impression that Joanna was uptight. She turned to John. "Well, I'll leave it up to you." 

In the background Virginia came with an ecstatic screech. The Princess squirmed out from under Joe and turned around so he could come at her from behind. His dick, glistening with her juices, eased up between her tight little ass cheeks and disappeared. 

"Don't leave it up to him," Joanna advised. "He doesn't know his peter from my twat. You want it? Take it. You don't want it? Maybe I shouldn't want it either." She looked at John tauntingly. "Who the hell wants a reject?" 

There was a moment of stony silence. John's rod looked like a piece of overcooked macaroni. He shifted from foot to foot uneasily. 

"Okay," Joanna relented, putting aside her knitting. "I look pretty stupid sitting around here with my clothes on, right? And John's got a piece of soggy pasta for a prick. Now that's not going to do anybody any good." She stood up and reached behind her to draw down the zipper to her pants suit. "So maybe if I strip"-she put a funny accent on "strip"-"I'll inspire him to put some stuffing in his manicotti." 

She muttered an aside to Andrea. "I may be Polish but I know how to cook Italian-style." 

She continued her oration. "And then he'll be able to do some justice to that horny pussy he left you with." She glanced pointedly at the matted wetness of Andrea's auburn cunt-hair. "After that we'll see what's going on." 

All eyes were on Joanna, although John looked as if his vision was awfully fuzzy. 

Joanna let her pants suit fall to a puddle at her feet. She was wearing a sheer bra and plain cotton panties. "Now I warn you," she said as she unhooked the bra, "I've got little tits, and I'm uptight about it." She shed the bra and hooked her fingers into the waistband of her panties. Her tits were little, all right, but they pointed out sharply to a pair of attractive brownish nipples. "But I think I've got a really nice ass." She pulled the panties off and before anyone got a good look at her cunt she turned around. "See?" She ran her fingers delicately down over her smoothly curving buttocks like a model pointing out a particularly attractive feature of a new gown. 

There was no doubt about it. She had one of the finest asses in the history of womankind. Exquisitely sculpted, basically the same ski-slope shape as Andrea's, but with firmer and more finely delineated buttocks that jutted just enough to be tantalizing without protruding grossly. The flesh was smooth and creamy and the buttocks were nicely separated by the deep, regular cleft between them. Sean, who considered himself a connoisseur of fine asses, frankly preferred it to Andrea's. But only as an isolated ass. Joanna's hips had a girlish lilt to them that, while it fitted her form perfectly, somehow lacked the overt sensuality, the earth-mother image, of Andrea's subtly exaggerated lines. 

"Beautiful," Andrea gladly admitted. She reached out uncertainly. "Can I touch it?" 

"You can eat it if you want to." 

"Maybe later." She stroked Joanna's ass reverently and then cupped the cheeks in her hands. The flesh was surprisingly heavy given the overall lightness of its shape but it gave and sprang back like a cake that's done just right. She bounced the cheeks up and down. Joanna closed her eyes for a second, obviously enjoying herself and not at all hung up about it. She turned slowly around to confront John with her pussy. "As for this," she said, running her fingers down through her jet-black cunt-hair and then pulling up to pout the lips out and stretch them up, "I suppose it's just another cunt." 

"Looks like a classic to me," Andrea commented, noticing the flushed tan of her clit jutting up out of the slick surrounding flesh like an arrowhead. She reached down and gave it a delicate flick with her finger. Joanna shuddered and grinned and her knees buckled. 

She snickered at John. "What's the matter, there, Horny Harry? Still in an advanced state of shock?" John's rod was firm and straight and sticking out brazenly in front of him like a blind man's cane. Joanna punched Andrea playfully on the shoulder. "See? That did the trick. Moral is that his cock knows what it's doing even if he doesn't. You reckon it can see out of that little eye?" 

She sat down abruptly, crossed her legs, and picked up her knitting. She looked at John and gestured toward Andrea. "Go do it, dumbbell." 

There were scattered giggles from the bed. 

John shrugged his shoulders in capitulation. 

Joanna grabbed Andrea's ass and squeezed it. "Mmmmm. Nice." Andrea nodded appreciatively. "Just thought I'd return the compliment." 

The party on the bed got mixed up in the middle of a partner change and ended up in an undifferentiated foursome. Joanna amused herself trying to see who was connected to whom and how as John resumed his original position in the chair and Andrea sidled up to him. 

Joanna figured that Sean had his rod up the Princess's puss from behind-or maybe it was up her ass, it was hard to tell for sure-as they lay on their sides, and Virginia Vagina was draped over them with her face between Sean's ass cheeks, either sucking his balls or licking his hole. Joe was down around her holy area eating everything in sight and the Princess was stroking his cock. Meanwhile Sean had one hand on the Princess's right tit and the other on Virginia's ass, holding it open to give Joe's hungry tongue more ready access. Joanna was tempted to get up and inspect the configuration from closer range but she stayed put for the moment to keep her eye on the progress between John and Andrea. 

It was really quite sexy the way Andrea wiggled her ass and wormed John's rod gradually into her, circling around to wedge her cunt open. John also seemed to have nice nipple-rubbing technique. At least Andrea was enjoying it because her mouth was hanging open and her tongue was hanging out and she was panting like a dog on a hot day. 

Joanna wouldn't have admitted it, but this was one of her favorite fantasies come true-watching a real stud of a guy getting off on another chick (and a truly beautiful one at that) and knowing that when he was done with her, she'd be the next in line. There was something about the idea of a guy's rod wet and sticky with the juice from another girl's cunt and the sperm of his orgasm with her that made Joanna's inner thighs quiver. She could already see John finishing with Andrea and strolling over to her. She could feel that wet worm probing up inside her. She reached down and fingered her clit surreptitiously under her knitting. 

Andrea got all the way down on John and he grabbed her ass cheeks and squeezed them hard. As she started to get wound up he pulled the cheeks apart and circled a finger on her asshole. That really got her off. She jounced up and down. John leaned back to let her grind her pelvis against his and trap her clit just where she wanted it. He had good technique. 

Then Andrea's back arched and tiny cries escaped from her lips. John's rod rammed all the way up inside her and stayed there. He closed his eyes and swiveled his hips and from the way he clenched his teeth Joanna could tell he was about to make it. 

So could Andrea. She had her hands on his shoulders and she was shaking him back and forth the way a mother sometimes shakes a bad child, digging her nails into him and wailing away with cutting, low-pitched moans. 

Andrea hit it first. Joanna saw her thighs and ass cheeks go rock-hard. Her whole body quivered, keeping up a fast vibration of her clit between the top of John's shaft and his pelvic bone. It was a strong one and a long one. His cock stayed all the way up her, absorbing the convulsions of her insides and jerking spasmodically. His finger eased a little farther up her ass and that set her off again, even harder this time. She was climbing to higher and higher levels of orgasm. 

She let go of John's shoulder with her right hand and swung it around and down-to grab his balls. She took them gently in her fingers and bobbled them, searching for just the right place. She found it. John gave a sudden, involuntarily grunt and slammed up into her. Joanna could tell Andrea was getting it and getting it good. 

After a few seconds of frozen orgasm John and Andrea started to come down. 

"There was brief applause from the water bed. "Bravo," Virginia cried, still slumped over Sean and the Princess. Just then Sean let go with his third or fourth shot of the night and the Princess squealed with delight. 

Andrea drew up off John and stretched out easily on the floor. 

"Okay," Joanna announced, "my turn." 

John looked at her with a hungry but still puzzled look. He sat still for a second. Joanna got up and meandered over to him. He was half-erect and his cock looked just the way she wanted it to look-reddish and glistening with clear juices and an occasional smear of cloudy white semen. 

"Wait a second," Andrea said, holding her cunt to keep the come from dribbling out onto Sean's rug. "Let me get something to wipe that up with. Leave the campsite as clean as you found it! That's what we learned in the Girl Scouts." She made for the kitchen. 

"Don't you dare!" Joanna said. Andrea turned around a little surprised. "I want it just the way it is." Andrea nodded comprehendingly and disappeared. When she returned Joanna was kneeling on the floor in front of John delicately licking the head of his cock. 

"Taste good?" Andrea asked, curling up on the floor nearby and wiping her cunt with a dish-towel. 

"Delicious. You two make excellent soup." 

It didn't take more than a few licks to get John back to full strength. He stared at Joanna with something like wonder. She patted him on the thigh. "I'm done giving you a hard time," she said. She got up and pulled him to his feet. "Let's see if we can get a piece of the bed. Chairs don't do it for me so much." 

To her amazement the bed cleared off immediately and everyone took places around it. 

"We're billing this as the main event," the Princess announced. "Besides, we're all beat. For the next few minutes, anyhow." 

"Yeah," Joe agreed, mustering up his most inscrutable shit-eating grin. "This orgy business is hard work." He entrenched himself on a window-seat overlooking the bed between Virginia and the Princess, who took turns diddling with his dick. Sean pulled the couch around to face it toward the bed and he and Andrea curled up on it. 

"Well, okay," Joanna agreed. "Come on, baby." She patted John's ass and took a flying leap into the center of the bed. John followed her, his rod swaying as he crawled to where she'd taken up her position on her back. 

"Is that the way you like it best?" he asked. 

"Yeah. Flat out. Good and hard." 

"If you want to end up that way, why don't we start some other way?" 

"Sure. How?" 

"How about you on your knees and me coming at you from the back?" 

"Groovy. That puts my best face forward." She rolled over and drew herself up to her knees, slapping her magnificent derriere proudly. "Just reach around and give me a little fingering. I'll probably get off a couple of times like that. I usually have a couple of heavy tremors before the big quake." 

John's head was still swimming as he squished up to her, wallowing in the plastic-covered water and. the mess of sheets and blankets. 

Sean went to the kitchen and returned with a six-pack of beer. As he handed cans around to the spectators Joanna gave him a wry look and said, "All you need now's some buttered popcorn. Show's never as good without it." 

"I'm sure we'll manage," Sean returned, curling up on the sofa again and putting his arm around Andrea. 

John knelt straight up behind Joanna and, wrapping his fingers around his rod, ran its head up and down her ass crack a few times. "Exquisite," he said. "Soft as silk." With the other hand he spread her crack and jiggled his cock against her asshole. 

"Hold it," Sean said. He got up again and walked over behind Joanna. "Since you've got such a nice ass, it'd be good to see what's at the bottom of it." 

John pulled his rod away. Everybody else thought Sean had a good idea and gathered around as John continued to hold Joanna's crack open. There were ooohs and aaahs. 

"Perfection," Joe pronounced. "Note the delicate texture; the intrinsic smoothness; the subtle coloration; the perfect symmetry ... " 

"You ever hear of anybody with a square asshole?" Joanna quipped. 

Joe went on unabashed. "Now this is what you call your Northern Royal Princess type asshole." 

"Goes with your tiny Polack tits," Joanna interjected. 

"Please," Joe insisted. "Now as I was saying. It is typically more brown than pink, light in hue-ranging from the color of a grocery bag, as with this specimen, all the way to a light walnut-pliant to the touch, generally with superlative puckering power ... " He tapped Joanna on the right buttock. "Pucker, please." She obliged and the hole constricted strongly, sucking in and bunching at the edges to a tight little doughnut. "And seldom admitting of ready expansion. This type, you will find, is generally difficult to enter with the penis, and lends itself more naturally to communication with the tongue." He gestured to John. "If you please." John gave it a few lingering licks. "Thank you. Your technique is excellent. But-the Northern Royal Princess is characteristically extremely sensitive, almost invariably comprising a secondary erogenous zone far more significant than, say, the breasts, the mouth, the ears, etc., in those who possess it. This implies that where, through diligent practice, the possessor has managed to overcome its natural difficulty of expansion, entry of the male penis into this orifice produces highly significant responses." 

"Never tried it," Joanna admitted. 

"Aha. Not surprising. At any rate, to conclude, this variety of asshole is valued for its extreme sensitivity and unparalleled aesthetic attributes by nearly every connoisseur of such matters." He bowed. "Thank you, Miss Northern Royal Princess. You may proceed." 

Joanna shook her head. "Must say I'm surprised to get a lecture on the appreciation of my own asshole. Okay, John, let me have it." 

She spread her knees a little wider and the spectators, beer cans in hand, leaned forward like a bunch of tourists gawking at the Carlsbad Caverns as John slid a finger into her pussy and pried it open. It was leaner than Andrea's, less bushy than the Princess's, and very slick and sophisticated-looking compared to Virgina's disorganized overabundance. It looked like it was going to be tight. 

"Damn," Sean said admiringly. "That girl is sure put together between the legs." He wondered whether she was going to be damp enough. There was no way a pussy like that was going to be a gusher. There was the lightest haze of moisture on it. John's cock was still good and slimy ... 

John butted the fat tip of his rod up against the opening and hunched down over her, reaching around to finger her clit from underneath. She immediately tensed up and her ass went into a maddeningly slow, methodical series of revolutions. 

"Oooooh," John whispered. "That is so fine" 

"You can just force it in," Joanna said. "It'll feel like tight going but it won't hurt me and I like it that way." 

"A little bit of the rape," Andrea muttered to Sean. 

John took her up on it. He started with long, easy undulations of his body that inched it in a little at a time. When he had it far enough in so it couldn't come out he took to jabbing. Joanna shuddered and her ass cheeks shook like jello. Her hole was so tight that it pulled in and out with John's cock like a pale membrane that had been grafted to it. It reminded Sean of the head of a drum. He thought it had to hurt, being so tight, but Joanna got into John's rhythm and jabbed back more savagely at him than he jabbed forward at her. With every stroke she snapped her hips down to catch her clit hard on his finger. 

The Princess started humming. The high, mellow sound undulated with the two fucking bodies. Virginia took it up. 

It was like magic. It seemed to unite the two with everyone in the room. In spite of themselves-they thought it was a little corny; it sounded like Alan Ginsberg doing his "om" number-Sean and Andrea and eventually Joe joined in. It was obviously getting to John and Joanna. Its tempo picked up with theirs. It was music to fuck by. It was great. 

Faster and faster, harder and harder they went, with the water sloshing in tidal waves in the bed, John grunting, Joanna panting and gasping. 

Joanna came once with a wild wiggling of her ass. John almost went off but he held himself back like a pro. 

They fucked on for a while, perspiration starting to gather on their brows, Joanna's hair tossing crazily. She came again, this time jittering up and down on John's finger like a jackrabbit. John was really getting off on the feeling of his thighs butting up against her ass cheeks and he would have gone on in that position till the end but finally Joanna slumped down onto her stomach. They rested for a second and then, with some contortions to keep him from coming out of her, she switched over to her back. "Okay, baby. Climax time." Without warning she pressed up into him hard, sucked away, pressed up again, arching her back and letting the waves in the bed help her move in tremendously long strokes. 

"Jesus, am I deep," John breathed in amazement. "I feel like it's going to come out your mouth." 

Joanna tossed her head back and forth and that lost look came into her eyes as John battered down into her. "Hold it right there, right there ... " she chanted, "that's it, that's perfect, that's going to get it ... right on the money ... okay, baby, any time ... I'll be right there ... just fuck me like that ... " 

"Agh! Agh!" John gulped for breath. His skin flushed and he galloped at a steady pace. "Agh! Agh! AGH!" 

One mighty thrust and Joanna collapsed under him and went completely limp. She was tossing on the end of his cock like a rag doll, feeling the come shoot deep into her, feeling the ecstatic explosion from far away and from deep in her insides, sucking it up, getting every last twitch, bearing his weight easily as it all bore down on that one point, feeling his skin flash hot, getting those never-ending jolts from the pleasure-point of her clit and turning them into squeezings and caresses in her innermost depths. 

As they finished and the tempo of the mad dash slowly subsided, welcome echoes of the jolts came back again. There were echoes and echoes and echoes. It was many minutes before John's twitching stopped and she felt completely done. 

It wasn't until half an hour later than Sean finally began to pack. 

Things had subsided. Virginia tried to help him with his typewriter and manuscripts but she was so inept that she was finally banished to the bed where she sat talking to Andrea and John. Joanna was making coffee in the kitchen and Joe, true to his cook's instincts, was cleaning everything that would go bad out of the refrigerator. Suddenly Andrea burst out with, "I'm so stupid! Why didn't I think of this before? You guys should go with us! John and Joanna! It would be a gas! The Guru says we've got a five-room suite!" 

John reflected a minute. "Hell, the theatre's just closed down for a month of renovations. I should be here, but I don't have to be. I've got two weeks' vacation coming, and the owner'd probably be happy not to have to pay me for the third." He looked at Joanna. "Can you make it?" 

"I don't know," she said. "I've heard some crazy things about this Guru Baalow Nee. There's an article about this cruise in the paper I was reading.' 

"That's not the question. The question is-can you make it in terms of your job?" 

"Oh yeah, sure, that's no sweat. I was going to transfer from Columbia Presbyterian to St. Luke's in three days anyhow. I could just tell everybody I'm leaving early and taking three weeks in between. They might not like it, but nurses are scarce enough that St. Luke's isn't going to squalk too much. They can't afford to. Hell, I could tell them my dog died. Or the subway goes the wrong way. Or something." 

"What's in that article?" Sean asked curiously. 

Joanna fished the paper out, leafed through to the fifth page, and read. "Guru's Cruise Seeks What Kind of Enlightenment?" 

"Tomorrow morning at eight o'clock the cruise ship True Enlightenment, owned solely by the Guru Baalow Nee, a self-styled mystic of unknown origins who last year burst onto the Commercial Religion scene with the impact of an atom bomb, leaves Pier 52 on the Hudson for a three-week cruise to the Caribbean. Advertized as an excursion into mystical group self-consciousness, the cruise-the first on this ship since its purchase by the Guru two months ago-is viewed with skepticism and alarm by virtually every religious and civic leader this newspaper has reached for comment. The general attitude was summed up by a spokesman for the Archdiocese of New York, who said, "The Guru is not a religious leader in any sense of the word. He is a shyster and an opportunist whose very sanity is open to serious question. To imagine him as the guiding light of 982 souls on dry land is morally and religiously frightening, but to imagine him as the guardian of their bodies as well-as master of a ship on the high seas-raises the question of the physical safety of his charges. The nature of his irrational antics in the past leads one to believe that the True Enlightenment will be saturated with drugs of every conceivable variety; that it will be the sight of numerous orgiastic rites and rituals, the scene of every type of irresponsible and harmful behavior imaginable, and in general a floating enclave of the devil himself. The spokesman added that Catholics are being strongly urged to shun this cruise. 

"Since this newspaper has learned that the Guru himself, who reportedly holds a Captain's license issued by the Indian government in 1959, will be the ship's Master, it has offered the editorial opinion that embarkation on this cruise may well be unsafe. (See editorial page.) The editors do not feel themselves qualified to comment on the Guru's religious status, but point out that the highly respected Guru Thomas Maharanji, confirmed ascetic and Professor of Eastern Religion at Harvard, has offered his opinion: The Guru Baalow Nee,' says Maharanji, lias once more found an ingenious way to separate those who seek religious truth from the burdens of their earthly riches. Since, however, in my opinion at least, the Guru has approximately the religious insight of a horned toad, his cruise will at best be enlightening only to the pocket books of those who are foolish enough to pay the ridiculous amount of $2,500 for their passage.'" 

Sean raised his eyebrows. "Heavy shit," he said. "I must admit ... " 

Virginia Vagina exploded. "Are you going to believe that crap? Listen, the Guru is the wisest man on the face of the earth! He's ... " 

"Yeah, yeah, sure," Sean said, "but I don't care about any of that. Well, what the hell, the only way he can fuck up is to sink the ship, right? And I doubt he'll do that. Besides, the Daily News fails to recognize one important thing. If everybody on this cruise but us has put out $2,500 for three weeks, it's going to be a pretty damned high-class clientele. There aren't going to be many loonies or convicts or whatever else anyone might be afraid of. Anyhow, we're going." 

"Doesn't scare me," John said. "If I spent nine months in the Nam and didn't get my balls blown off m just bet no Guru's going to do that for me.' 

"I'll tell you something," Joe said. "The Guru interests me. I've heard some of the shit he's said, seen him on TV once, and I'm not sure he's the slightest bit nuts. I haven't figured out what he is yet, but some of the shit he says makes a hell of a lot of sense. Maybe it's the philosopher in me finding subtleties that aren't there, but I'm willing to take a little chance to find out." 

"Yeah," Andrea agreed. "He makes sense to me too." But she wasn't about to tell anyone why. 

"Ok," Joanna concluded. Tuck it. If you're all going I sure as hell won't be alone, and to tell you the truth, if the old Guru doesn't find an iceburg to run into in the Caribbean, it sounds like it could be a real gas. Count me in." 

CHAPTER EIGHT 

The scene at the dockside the next morning was predictably strange, but not quite what the Daily News would have led one to imagine. Not that Sean or Andrea or anyone else in their party could focus on it terribly well. They had managed to spend the entire night going from apartment to apartment-John's, Andrea's, Joanna's-concocting or falling into orgies, mini or maxi, at each location, and furthermore rendering themselves ineffective by means of smoking approximately twenty joints and sixteen pipefuls of assorted varieties of marijuana: ineffective and moreover hungry; and also thirsty; and generally spacey. Now, having stopped their two-cab caravan at Nathan's in Times Square to pick up hot dogs, orange juice, beer and jelly doughnuts for breakfast, they arrived at Pier 52. 

"That's it!" Virginia cried, pointing to an immaculate white cruise-ship with Walt Disney balloons and bunches of bananas festooning the rigging. It was seven-thirty and embarkation was well underway. 

"No kidding," Sean sighed, a little bit weary with Virginia's enthusiastic obviousness. "Is that why it has the words 'True Enlightenment' painted in day-glo psychedelic letters on the bow?" 

"Gee, it's pretty big," Andrea observed. "How long would you say it was?" 

"Lots bigger than a row boat and lots smaller than the Queen Elizabeth. How the hell should I know? Three-fifty? Four hundred? Four-fifty? Inches? Feet? Pounds? Decibels? Fuck, I can't even see any more, let alone think. Look at this goddamned pandemonium." Their cab eased to a halt at a crowded curb. Sean continued to mumble. "Pandemonium! Assengers pariving, bonis hlairing, sheople pouting, dorters propping luggage all over the place. We'll be fucky if we let get alone." 

Andrea swung the cab door open. 

"Excuse me, Miss!" A camera flash exploded in her face. 

"Fameras clashing, wots of lierdoes ..." Sean got out the other side and went to the trunk for their luggage. 

A half dozen reporters descended on Andrea like vultures after a hot piece of carrion, pencils wiggling eagerly above efficient little pads, jaws greased up. "Is it true that the Guru led a procession down to a Village club where you were singing last night and offered you a fabulous sum of money to replace Lawrence Welk as his entertainer?" 

Andrea blinked at them. "You call three grand fabulous? You do and you got the story right." 

"Three thousand dollars? Was that the figure? Total?" 

"No. There wasn't any figure. The figure was an illusion. That was the money. Three thousand. Yes." Andrea didn't know whether Sean had been talking like the Guru and she was talking like him talking like the Guru, or whether she was just talking like the Guru directly, or whether Sean was talking like her talking like the Guru only he'd started it, or ... 

She saw the reporters scribbling "$3,000" down on their pads in big block letters. The older ones underlined it twice and the younger ones three or four times. 

"And you are Andrea Bentham, correct?" 

"A-n-d-r-e-a B-e-n-t-h-a-m. Correct, last I looked. You will notice the subtleties of its pronunciation. If your could pronounce it correctly you would gain true enlightenment." 

"I'll try to avoid it," one of the young ones promised, casting a doubtful eye on the ship. Suddenly Andrea was deluged with questions. 

"How old are you, Miss Bentham?" 

"Where are you from?" 

"How long have you been performing?" 

"Have you cut any records?" 

"Is it true that all the Guru's followers you saw last night were indecently exposed young ladies?" 

"Have you ever done strip-tease?" 

"Do you believe in free love?" 

Andrea frowned reprovingly at them. "Now how can I possibly answer when you all just keep talking?" 

Joe Lee came up beside her. "They don't need answers. They just write up each others' questions. Don't you know anything about reporters?" 

The jabbering ceased. Andrea took a deep breath. "I'm twenty-six, I'm from Madison, Wisconsin, I've been performing for two years, I haven't cut any records yet, not as I would define indecent, no, and I've never paid for love in my life. Any more questions?" 

"Does your mother know you're going?" 

"For all I know my mother's going." 

Andrea bit her lip. That had been a stupid thing to say. 

Sean had got their luggage into the hands of a porter and was standing at the bottom of the loading ramp waving to her to come. But the reporters didn't give her a chance. 

"Do you mean your mother would go on a cruise like this?" 

"Who is your mother?" 

"Where does she live?" 

"Does she believe in free love?" 

"What was your childhood like?" 

Andrea could see it now. Juicy headlines like "26 Year Old Singer Goes on Sex Cruise With Mother" were running through the reporters' heads and sure as hell they'd go through the Benthams in the Madison phone directory and get hold of her mother to check it out. She thought for a second. "I'll take these in reverse order. As a child I was miserably over-protected by excessively permissive parents, my mother never paid for love in her life either, she lives in a soap opera in Canarsie, she's the heroin, and she'd go on a cruise like this because she's going. She's over there." She pointed to a fat lady of fifty or so getting out of a cab ass-first who presented the world with a beautiful picture of what happens when you get your garters crossed. "Any more questions?" 

"NO!" 

The throng raced off to besiege the poor lady. Andrea grabbed Joe and they got lost in the crowd pushing its way up the ramp onto the ship. Sean fought toward them from a few feet away. 

They didn't know what to do or where to go so they wandered around for a while picking up a feel for the passengers and overhearing scattered bits of conversation. Two dapper young executive types in searsucker suits: 

"I should have sold that damned Allied Chemical. I know it's going to drop twenty points while we're away." 

"Yeah. Soil your blood pressure. Forget it, will you? Check out some of the ass around here." 

"Not bad. I guess you were right. Better than trying to pick up chicks in the Museum of Modern Art." 

"Some of them belong in the Museum of Modern Art. Look at that one with the body paint ... " 

Two masculine-looking middle-aged ladies, one in a leather vest, the other in a denim Jacket: 

"You think that sounds right?" 

"What the hell's it matter? Well just tell them, that's all. "We're two middle-aged lesbians from Hoboken, and if you don't like it well bust your banana.'" 

"And the first one who asks us if we live close to the ferry ... " 

A college-age boy, clean-shaven, freckled, with red hair down to his waist, in a blue smoking jacket-to himself: 

"The hustle and bustle of the docks in the early morning; the countless people swarming on their aimless ways ... I'd better get that down." He took out a leather-bound notebook. "Not bad. Sounds like Walt Whitman." 

A portly businessman in a three-piece suit with watch fob and his sagging-faced bleach-blonde varicose-veined wife: 

"See here, Grace ... " 

"If I can't see here I can't see anywhere." 

"Oh for Godsake-I should have let you go on this idiotic odyssey by yourself." 

"See here, Harold-you're catching on." 

After a while Sean caught sight of the oriental chaperone-type who'd been with the Guru at Folk City the night before. She was down in front of the bridge at the edge of a swimming pool looking up and waving. 

They hurried over. As they joined her they copped a gander at what she was waving at. It was the Guru himself, framed in the window of the wheel house, his hands resting on the spokes of the wooden wheel. He had a captain's hat on, only it was dyed purple and had an ostrich feather sticking a foot and a half up out of the band. He had a patch over his right eye, a red bandana around his neck, a monkey on his shoulder, and a caricature yo-ho-ho on his lips. The oriental woman was nodding approval and giving him the high sign, which undoubtedly was a perfect indication of his condition. She turned as they came up. "Hello! Glad to see you made it." She waved to the Guru again. "Now. Let's see. Last things first. Your cabin. By the way, the others-your friends-they fell overboard. No, that's not right. They're up in the cabin already. Virginia and the Princess took them." 

She led them into a side door below the bridge, down a hall, and up a flight of stairs. 

The rails were mahogany, the floors teak, there were fabulous tile murals on the walls, there were fountains with live plants and mirrors behind them on the landings ... all in all it was quite an opulent setup. "My name is Mei Ling," she told them. "I am functioning ... " She giggled. "That's a lie already. Anyhow, I am the cruise director. I'll be setting up your singing schedules, making sure you've got everything you need, and so on. The Guru's decided to have a blind stargazing tonight on the deck with beer and body-paint finishing up with a Boston Pee Party at the rail at midnight. So you won't be singing. You'll start tomorrow." She fished a set of keys out of her pocket and unlocked a door that led off a landing three stories from the main deck. "This section's the staff, crew, and assorted freaks and friends. We're going to keep it sealed off from the passengers, so take these keys." She handed them around and proceeded a few steps down a long hallway to another door that was standing open. "Here you are." 

"Hey!" John and Joanna cried in unison from inside. "This is quite a ... " 

Mei Ling took Andrea aside as Sean went in. "Just a few things. I've put some stuff in the suite that you might not have had time to think of. Extra guitar strings-all gauges-some picks, a bunch of song books in case you get requests for things you don't know ... stuff like that. If you look around in there you'll find a few bottles of champagne on ice, hors d'houvres, half a pound of pot with pipes and papers, couple of sheets of blotter, an urn full of peyote buttons ... well, there's no use taking the whole inventory. Also copies of the. Guru's books of poems, "How To, Why To, and Fuck You," "A Guide to Cleaning Martian Coffee Pots," "Eulogy on the Death of the Number One," and so on. You might try setting some of them to music. Oh! I forgot. You might have ... well, what you'd call a "back-up band" for some of your gigs. A little group the Guru's got together. Rod and the Staff. Made up of the kitchen help-or maybe the kitchen hindrance-and the engineers, the shoe-shine boy, and so on, just playing what they've got lying around. The Guru plays the Thin Air Drum. Never makes a mistake." 

There was a humungous blast on the ship's horn and the engines started up. 

"Oh! We're leaving! Look-I've got to see the departure of the shore. So weird to see New York City just floating away like that. Blows my boobs every time." She looked down at her chest. "That's why they're so small." She turned to go. "Don't pop any of those peyote buttons without cleaning them. Give you a nasty tummy-ache." She skipped away down the hall. 

"What did she have to say?" Sean asked as Andrea entered a poshly decorated twenty-by-forty-foot living room to the sound of popping champagne corks. 

"Just a lot of stuff about some stuff that was stuff and a lot of stuff about some stuff that wasn't." John handed her a glass. "Let's go out on deck and blow our boobs watching New York City float away." 

"Right." 

Andrea took a quick glance around the suite as they gathered themselves together. A dining room with an enormous glass-topped table opened off the living, room to one side through an arch with carved wooden doors. Beyond it lay a bedroom with what looked to be two king-sized water beds. Off the living room in the other direction were two more bedrooms. 

"We're in the one off the dining room," Sean told her as they made their way to the highest deck. 

"I can't get over that suite," John said as they found a break in the crowd at the rail. "The carpets-you could drown in those things. All the furniture's solid wood, some of it antique; every bedroom has a sunken tub that amounts to a small swimming pool; would you believe there are separate stereos and, get this, strobe lights in every room?" 

"I think I'd believe anything," Andrea murmured. She looked down to where the hawsers were being cast off. The crowd that was seeing off the passengers of the True Enlightenment was small but the crowd of reporters who'd dragged themselves out of bed early to record this historical event for posteriority made up for it. There were two TV cameras on dollys panning up and down the ship's rigging and zooming into the wheel house with their football-game lenses. 

"I'm not sure I believe I'm doing this," Joanna burbled into her champagne glass. She was really stoned and really tired. She was swaying back and forth. "Look at that." She hung her head over the rail and peered downward as the ship, pulled by tugboats from the other side, eased gently away from the dock. "We're splitting. We're just splitting." She swayed some more and waxed semi consciously poetic. "Just think. That little distance between the ship and the dock ... four feet, four and a half, five ... that's just going to keep getting bigger and bigger. Until it's a hundred miles and then a thousand, and then two thousand or something ... we're going to be out on the high seas with that maniac at the helm!" 

John put his arm around her. After a few minutes, as the True Enlightenment slipped out into the condom-ridden ebb-tide of the racing Hudson and to the amazement of the entire world sailed off in the correct direction, upstream-no! that wasn't right! it made a U-turn. It was widely recognized that Joanna had fallen asleep over the rail. John carried her downstairs and Sean and Andrea lingered for over an hour beholding the miracle of their ship missing the Staten Island Ferry, the Statue of Liberty, the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, Sandy Hook, the Ambrose Light Ship, and the 7th Avenue IRT all on the same morning. By the time they went downstairs to sleep the True Enlightenment was drawing cute little curliques with its wake in the waving swells of the open ocean. There was a gray-blue guarantee of land off to the starboard but they agreed the Guru would have to try hard to hit it. 

CHAPTER NINE 

"Okay! Everybody up for the blind stargazing! Clear your minds and wipe your behinds! We're gonna commune with the Big Buffoon!" 

Andrea shot bolt upright in her bed. "What the fuck's that?" 

Sean rolled over and rubbed his eyes and searched the ceiling. "Sounds like a speaker ... " 

"Stars are far, so's your cigar, your sex organs are under par ... " 

"Momma." Sean pointed. "Up there. Behind the curtain. A speaker. Christ, the Guru's got himself wired into our bedroom!" 

"You're damned right he does," cackled the speaker. "It's two-way. You can turn me off, though. The switch is on the wall behind the curtain. Then I can still call you but you don't call me. I mean I can't hear you. You turn yourself off. You don't turn me off. It's kind of a world allegory. Anyhow, you are celestially invited to get your buns up to the blind stargazing. Right now. Over, under, in, around and through, and out!" 

By the time they got up on deck there was barely a space to be found between the blanket-wrapped bodies strewn over it. The Guru was up in a crow's nest just forward of them with spotlights from the bridge playing on him. They found a place by the port rail and stretched out just in time to hear his welcoming speech. 

"People, persons, and other various varieties and typical types of humanity! You laid out a lot of bread for this cruise, so I hope you dig it. Are the accommodations cool?" 

There were affirmative cheers from the passengers. 

"Funky! Okay. So the first thing we're gonna do, which is right now and also tonight and probably even today, maybe part of tomorrow, possibly ... time is so damned confusing. Anyhow, what we're gonna do is called by the name of blind stargazing, which is what it is. The idea goes something like this. Hum-dee-dum-dum, Hum-dee-dum-dum. But that's just the way the idea goes. You do something else. What you do is-if you're not too tired or pissed off or horny or anything ... " There were titters from the crowd. " ... now as I was braying, you go when I say go. And what go means is that you close your eyes. It's the perfect word because what you really do is stop looking. That makes it easy to remember. But what have you been looking at? 

"The stars. Now everybody who isn't looking at the stars, look at the goddamned stars, because if you haven't started you can't stop. All you have to remember is that when I say 'go,' you stop. Before I say 'go'-and I didn't say it that time, I just mentioned it-I'm going to talk about some other cosmic shit. 

"Now for the next three weeks we're gonna be a little cosmos here on this row boat, and every cosmos has got to have rules. That's a rule. So the first rule of this cosmos is that there are no rules. Now the second one is the one I mentioned before, about nobody being allowed to stop something before they've started it. You might think that that comes naturally but it doesn't. What it comes down to is that you're never allowed not to do anything. I think you'll find that a truly useless rule. And the last rule is that the first two are not cancelled every time they go into force except on the direct authority of no one. GO!" 

Sean and Andrea, lying on their backs beside each other under a blanket, snorted and guffawed and closed their eyes. There were ripples of laughter through the crowd. The night air was balmy and tangy and pungent with the crusty smell of sea salt Sean remembered once when he'd been eighteen; he'd got a summer job on a freighter. What he remembered most was the flying fish that flew into his porthole and joined him in bed one night. 

He reached out and grabbed Andrea's tit. Better than the flying fish. It made him horny. The Guru hadn't said what to do if you were too horny. Could you blind stargaze and fuck at the same time? 

"Everybody remembered what 'go' means?" the Guru asked. "Good. Now you didn't know what you were supposed to be doing before you closed your eyes, which is a perfectly good explanation of why none of you did it. But then the secret of wisdom lies in knowing what you're supposed to be doing before you close your eyes. Be that as it may, you were supposed to be taking photographs of the stars. Fixing their positions. Putting them in their places. Getting the pattern. Remembering that the big fat white one is so far from the little green knobby one. Now since you didn't know what you were doing, right now you'll just have to make something up. When I say, 'stop', you open your eyes and compare what you've made up with what's up there. The object of the game is to get the whole thing, right? Memorize the heavens. Now the little buggers up there keep moving around, so that's going to make a pretty tough job harder. I'm going to say 'go' a lot of times. I'm also going to say-STOP! For instance, I just said it. Did everybody stop?" 

There were mixed mumblings from the crowd. From very close to Sean and Andrea there was a sudden shifting under some blankets and a high-pitched female voice, half irritated, half playful, squealed, "Freddy, is that all you ever think of? We can do that any time. Now why don't you just try to do what the Guru tells you? You could use some enlightenment!" 

Andrea mimicked the voice with a whisper into Sean's ear: "Sean, is that all you can ever think of? You can put your hand on my tit and squeeze my nipple any time...." Her breath was a little choked because halfway through her speech Sean gave her nipple an extra-lively little pinch. 

"If I can squeeze your tit any time, I can squeeze it now," he intoned in a voice obviously meant to be loud enough for the nearby couple to hear. 

"See?" complained a voice from the darkness. "They're doing it, why can't we? Besides, the guy's got logic on his side!" 

"Well I don't let logic tell me when I want you in my pants," the squealing voice replied. "And it's not now. Shut up and try some blind stargazing. Maybe it'll do you some good." 

The Guru's voice was droning on from above. "Man was not meant to conquer space. He was meant to appreciate it. That's what you've got here. A course in space appreciation. Forget about a bunch of robots with short haircuts playing golf on the moon. What does a hole in one mean to the Eternal Spirit of the Cosmos?" 

Sean pushed his hand down along Andrea's stomach, below the hem of her dress, and then pulled back up, hooking a finger to catch her panties where they were smallest. He wiggled the finger inside and probed the thin mat of hot corn-silk for the feeling of wetness and the always-shocking presence of an aperture. 

His finger slid in. Andrea shifted her body to receive it and ran a hand across his chest. "If a hole in one doesn't mean this"-Sean curled his finger-"to the Eternal Spirit of the Cosmos, it doesn't mean shit!" 

"I'll tell you something," Andrea replied, trying at once to absorb the pleasurable feeling of Sean's fingers in her cunt and to catch the Guru's words and follow his instructions. "I don't want to sound like that blushing young couple from Flushing over there, but I'd sort of like to try out the Guru's thing. I mean, I've got these weird vibrations that there's something special about the guy. Now that doesn't mean I don't want you fingering me in the meantime ..." She grabbed his hand and pressed it enthusiastically into her crotch to demonstrate her point "But I also want to try this thing." She paused and they listened to the Guru some more. 

"The idea of the exercise is not to exercise. Americans, especially Western Hemisphere people, think too much about doing too much. They don't want to admit that the world's doing a lot more than they are, only it's taking its time. Now I ask you, according to the Theory of Relativity, isn't the speed of light taking its time? So you can afford to too. Toot-toot-tee-toot! And while you're doing it, consider if you will the distance between yourself and the nearest star. Scientists will tell you it's X million light years away, and they'll also tell you that a light year is a good long time. What does that all mean? That if you got in your car and packed a good healthy lunch and took off driving straight up, you'd have to find so many gas stations and make so many piss-stops before you burned your ass off approaching the Infernal Toll Booth of the nearest star. 

"Now there's only one reason that we're living, and that's because our planet is not too close to the closest star and not too far either. So it follows that the best place for us to dig any star from is right here. Now if you put this together with the fact that actually seeing is a sense and so is touching, and seeing has to have something in common with touching, and touching has to be more basic because you can be alive if you can't see but not if you can't feel, you come up with the inevitable conclusion that the stars aren't really far away at all. They're right here as much as any fire's right here. And what fire is right here? The fire of life! Which is, after all, the viewpoint from which we are aware of the stars. So don't be thinking that you're trying to take pictures of the stars when they're some unknown zillion number of light years away! Just dig it that those little twinkling pin-points are as close to you, as you are, and introduce yourself to them. Get to know your way around up there as well as you know your way around your own living room. GO!" 

Sean massaged Andrea's pussy gently and listened. He really had not intended to pay too much attention to the Guru and his shenanigans-he hadn't made up his mind yet whether the guy was foxy or nuts but he was just out to have a good time so he didn't care-but Joe and Andrea had suspicions that the guy might have something to say, and he respected them enough to see if he could, as the Guru himself put it, get past the bullshit. 

He looked up at the stars, and the first thing that struck him was the absurdity of trying to memorize their patterns. Why, he could pick out just about any patch of blackness he wanted and if he looked hard enough he could find a star in it. Well, he didn't need the Guru Baalow Nee to tell him he was little compared to the size of the universe. 

Or did he? Or was that the opposite of what the Guru meant? 

Sean and Andrea spent the next hour opening and closing their eyes, getting patterns of stars down in their heads, and checking them against the patterns that were really there when the Guru told them to. They heard a few more squabbles from the couple nearby-who turned out to be just on the other side of a funnel-and they couldn't quite understand what the hassle was about, because they had no trouble-blind stargazing and groping each other to their mutual satisfaction at the same time. In fact the activities seemed to complement each other naturally. Contemplating the heavens induced a feeling of consummate mellowness that helped them relax and concentrate totally on the genital pleasures, without that familiar frenetic feeling that something had to happen right away, or pretty soon, or ever. 

Sean fingered Andrea for a good half hour, and she took it not as a preparation for an imminent fuck, but as a thing in itself; a massage of the place that naturally appreciated massages most. She couldn't count the times she came, not because there were so many or so few, but because it was hard to tell whether the saturating feelings of complete well-being, the passive acceptances of the natural positive of pleasure, that flowed through her continuously like ocean waves, were really orgasms at all, and if they were, whether they were one or many. They were simply nothing like-or it was nothing like-starting at the beginning and going through all the stages of sexual arousal until at last one reached that definite and delirious moment of consummation; after which, having reached the mountain's peak, one slid precipitously down the other side into oblivion or sleep or the decision to go to the bathroom for a piss. It was a single interwoven fabric of ecstasy. Sort of like the single interwoven fabric of the heavens with its random concentrations of energy-the stars. 

While Sean was on the giving end of this operation he found to his surprise that he could really go quite a lot farther than he'd imagined in memorizing the heavens. Some of the work, of course, had been done beforehand. He recognized many of the constellations that ancient astronomers had imagined in the shapes of men with clubs and three-star belts, big gravy ladles, animals; and of course there was always the cosmic candy bar. But beyond that he found he could take a wide view and make large patterns in the sky as a whole, and within them smaller ones, and more and more, until when the Guru ended one of his incoherent orations with a sudden "STOP!", Sean found the stars he'd placed on the insides of his eyelids stayed where they were after his eyes opened. He envisioned himself lying in bed sometime in the future, half asleep, getting a sudden glimpse of the sky that was so complete and so accurate that he couldn't know whether he was inside or out. Maybe the Guru really did have something going for him. Anyhow, it was a sure thing-he could feel it in the tips of his fingers as they rubbed over Andrea's clit and delved into her hole-that Andrea was somehow spellbound by Baalow Nee. It was strange. The more the sky made sense to Sean, the more the Guru's rambling speeches did. 

When Andrea rolled onto her side and reached for his crotch, indicated that it was his turn to do nothing but enjoy, he suddenly realized that the contrast between the huge empty lifeless void overhead and the warm regularly breathing body next to him made it all seem more purely and completely sensual than it ever had before. 

She unbuckled his belt and unzipped his pants and eased her cool fingers into his underwear. It all seemed too casual, yet so significant. He concentrated on not trying to get excited, not trying to call up images that would help his cock get stiff and ultimately produce a gusher of sperm, but on appreciating the physical contact itself for what it was; the stroking of fingers on a particularly sensitive muscle, the coaxing forth of nerve-impulses that were intrinsically positive. 

He felt very close to Andrea. He suspected-he was almost sure-that because they were both engaged in concentration on the same external things-the stars-in the same way, their thoughts and reactions to their sexual activities would be almost identical. In fact he did not ask her. He didn't want to break the magic silence that had overcome the crowd on the ship's gently rolling deck. But in fact he was right 

He was mesmerized. He felt his cock swelling of itself and oozing fluid in a slow, thick stream. 

It seemed as if, under the continuous, relaxed ministrations of Andrea's fingers, the channels that normally burst open all at once for a brief instant of climax were opening slowly, regularly, and somehow staying open. He was maintaining that feeling that came with the usual rush of orgasm over many seconds, many minutes. 

Andrea's educated fingers circled the tip of his cock. Her whole hand wrapped around it and stroked softly, lazily down. She ran her fingertips down over the hairy sack of his balls to his asshole, let them play there for a second, and then sent them on a return journey. She pressed her thumb to the underside of the tip and jiggled it up and down against the slimy flesh. It was simply and totally delicious. 

"Okay, you freaks!" the Guru screeched, breaking the mood like you'd break a match stick, "time for the next ditty, which consists of making yourselves look as ridiculous as you are. Now that's damned near impossible, but I'm sure you'll all try your best. I think you'll agree that J look just about as ridiculous as I am-certainly much more ridiculous than any of you-but that doesn't exempt me from the doings, which I'm going to do too. Doo-too-tee-doo." 

Banks of colored spotlights flashed on and bathed the deck in mottled patches of red and purple and green and orange and blue and yellow. People rubbed their eyes and sat up. The blushing young couple from Flushing stood up and Sean and Andrea got a look at them. The girl was perhaps twenty, with a slender, slightly sway-backed figure and a pretty, innocent-looking face framed by a pixie haircut. She wasn't much taller than five-three but her legs, encased in tightly-fitting faded jeans, were exceptionally long. Her husband, was baby-faced behind his wire-rimmed glasses, shy in manner, about six feet tall, slender, with a carefully groomed head of dirty-blond collar-length hair. As they turned to watch the Guru descending from his crow's nest on a scary-looking metal ladder she poked him and whispered loudly, "I don't know whether I'm going to like this, whatever it is." 

From then on things moved with the speed of light. Mei Ling and the black woman who'd been with her at Folk City supervised the distribution of countless pots of finger-paint of every imaginable color. The Guru's professional wrestler-types circulated through the crowd placing ash-cans full of beer on ice everywhere. Sean, and Andrea made the acquaintance of Mindy and Josh Rudolph, 20 and 22 respectively, of Main Street, Flushing, and together they listened to the Guru's final speech of the night, which he delivered from a podium in front of the swimming pool. 

"I take it you have all grasped the idea of the essence of the essence of the idea, which is related to the paint. Also to your bodies, onto which the paint is to be applied by anyone who happens to come by and apply it. Now anybody who came on this cruise to get rid of hangups that might be hanging them up right now should do something about it, which would consist of either running for cover or standing around watching-until you get nailed anyhow-or painting a picture of the aforementioned hangups on someone else's body. The last is naturally the best, because it ties in with the ridiculousness of the human condition and therefore completely to be sneezed at. But if you think you'd blow your nose trying to force the issue, then go back to your cabin and wait for the horse that comes before the cart, which will be the systematic un-hanging sessions starting tomorrow. Tonight it's assumed that we're out here on a boat all by ourselves with no mommy or daddy or cop or priest or president and we're in a democracy here, which means that everyone's just as silly and bent out of shape as everyone else. The trick is to make out that you're sillier than anyone else. You might look on it as an act. It's not the real you that's getting your dork painted purple with green polka-dots, it's just some actor in a play that you happen to be playing the part of that actor in. Now that's all gratuitous assumption, but of course what isn't in the long run, so the idea is to make the long run short and vice versa. Get it?" He finished his oration by pouring a pot of chartreuse paint over his head and doing a back-flip into the swimming pool. 

About half the people on the deck-mostly older ones-ran for cover. 

Joints began circulating through the remainder from some unknown source. 

Mei Ling and the black woman started tearing off each other's clothes. Virginia Vagina and the Princess appeared with their cohorts and streaked through the crowd, naked tits flopping, buns jouncing, whooping and screeching and mooning people and getting paint sloshed on their asses for their trouble. 

Mindy Rudolph tried to break away and get to her cabin but her husband wasn't having any of it. He doused her with a bucket of lemon-yellow and started tickling her. 

Joanna and Andrea fell on Sean and in a second he was naked, thrashing around while they tried to paint his dick purple with green polka-dots. John stuffed a cigar-sized joint into his mouth and he quieted down. Joe Lee, who'd disappeared for a while, returned in the company of an Amazon they'd seen earlier in a pair of pink hot-pants and matching halter. She was gorgeous, stacked, but also about six-two. Joe set her on John. She picked him up from behind and held him while Joe, with the help of a bleached-blonde middle-aged lady who appeared from nowhere dressed in what looked like three layers of mauve saran wrap, depantsed him. The lady promptly divested herself of what there was of her outfit and sat on John's face. He had a quick snack while she painted dainty little circles around his navel. Virginia Vagina pranced up and sat down on his dick, amusing herself by dabbing little flower-like blotches on the middle aged lady's long, swinging tits as she humped. 

The wide-eyed young poet who'd thought his verse sounded like Walt Whitman's came upon their party while wandering through the crowd in search of sex. He timidly began unbuttoning Andrea's blouse as she and Joanna put the finishing touches on Sean's dick. Andrea noticed him and stuck out her tongue. He staggered back and she leapt up at him. She wrestled him to the deck, ripped off her blouse, and stuck a tit in his mouth. He lay there sucking in ecstatic bewilderment while Joanna relieved him of his clothing. "What's say?" she asked. "Want to do this one yellow with red polka-dots?" 

Mindy Rudolph, half laughing and half crying and generally confused, fought her husband as he tore at her blouse and yelled, "It was your idea to come on this cruise, not mine, so why don't you just do what the Guru says? You could use some enlightenment!" Sean watched with some interest as Josh succeeded in getting her blouse off and freeing her pertly upswept breasts. They bobbled high on her chest as she fought for breath and tried to cover them. 

"I want to go back to the cabin!" she shouted. "I want to ... " 

Suddenly she stopped and stared up toward the bow. The Guru was winding his way toward her, traces of chartreuse paint in his hair. He was good and naked, and someone had painted fuzzy brown fishes and scaly-looking golden bears on his chest and thighs. His lower legs, from the toe-tips to the calves, were painted to look as if he was wearing a gaudy pair of unmatched knee socks, one blue and silver, the other orange and black. 

Josh let Mindy go and she just sat numbly clutching the remnants of her blouse to her chest. The Guru affected a hesitation-step and drew up before her. He frowned contemplatively. "I have sensed a number of unserene vibrations coming from this area." He took no notice of John, whose head was still wedged between the middle-aged lady's ass cheeks and whose dick was still the sole possession of Virginia Vagina, nor of any of the others. Mindy was too stunned to do anything. 

"I see," the Guru intoned with dignity, "that you think you do not want to expose yourself at this little ... tea party, and yet you also think you do. But you think that you should think that you don't. This is what we call a conflict, which is resolved in the following manner. Watch closely." He stuck his right hand into a nearby pot of shocking pink, grabbed his ear-lobe with it, drew his left hand up into his left armpit and began flapping like a chicken. He hopped around pulling his ear lobe. "SQUALK! BAWK BAWK BAWK! HEEBIE-JEEBIE FARTSTORM! BAWK BAWK!" 

Mindy couldn't help herself. Nobody could. She burst out laughing. Gales of laughter swept across the deck like waves in a high storm. 

"There's one more thing," the Guru said. He stopped abruptly and walked over to her. He dipped his dick into the shocking pink, relieved her of what was left of her blouse, placed her hands at her sides, and contemplated her breasts as she sat star-struck before him. "You will notice the paintbrush's only bristle stiffening as the artist contemplates your tits." His cock jumped to attention. "Now. What is needed is a circle here ... " He grabbed his cock and drew a circle around her right nipple. "And a square here." The square around the left nipple was a little lop-sided but that didn't bother him. "In a few seconds, these configurations will cause your nipples to become erect." He started to turn away, then changed his mind. "Aha! You see? It's happening already." Mindy's nipples were puffing up to huge buds that reddened visibly. "That indicates that more action is to be taken." 

John stood gaping at his usually retiring wife as the Guru pulled her to her feet. She was in some kind of trance, staring into the Guru's eyes, her face expressionless but for the traces of a tiny smile at the corners of her cupid's-bow mouth. 

There was no doubt about it. The Guru exuded some kind of intangible magnetism that put Mindy completely under his power. The others felt it too. Joanna and Andrea got up off Sean and they gathered around to watch. A circle formed around Mindy and the Guru as he delicately unfastened her belt and slowly drew her jeans down. She looked comatose but remained standing. 

"You have quite a beautiful stomach," the Guru commented as the cloth of the jeans pulled down across it. "Nicely placed hip-bones. Mmmmm. Very attractive pubic hair. Chestnut-brown. I'm partial to shiny chestnut-brown pubic hair." His cock was jumping up and down between his legs like a Mexican jumping bean as he squatted. "Long legs. I like long legs too." He peeked up between them. "I see that the gates to your womanhood are creaking open." He moved her legs apart as one would adjust a manikin in a store window. "Excellent. The internal fountains are flowing with the sacred juices of excitation." He took a swipe up her slit with his finger and licked it. "Fantastic. Better than a cherry coke." 

He lifted her legs one at a time to get her pants free of them. He stood up and walked around her several times. "I must say you do not look ridiculous. But no matter. That can come later. In fact it will, because I am about to rub some paint off on you." He turned to the crowd. "Look at that ass. Now that is truly fine. The slight curvature of the backbone has the altogether pleasing effect of raising the buttocks slightly and making the interior regions accessible from the rear." He turned to Josh. "You are her husband?" 

Josh took off his glasses, wiped them on his shirt, put them back on again, and stared from Baalow Nee to his wife and back again. "Yeah," he said uncertainly. 

"Excellent. You will enter her via the anus as I enter her via the vagina." He looked around and spotted Sean, Joe, and John. "You three will see to various other aspects-supporting her, sucking her nipples, tonguing her ears, and so on." 

"But she can't take it in the ... uh ... anus," John protested. "We've tried it ... " 

The Guru looked at him reprovingly. "You'll see." He regarded Mindy closely. "She is not in the totally receptive condition. Her insides are as open as all of space." He looked up at the stars. "Let us proceed." 

He stepped up to her, motioned the others to join him, and spread his arms out straight to the side. He crouched and, with a series of little bird-like hops, brought his rod-medium-sized, no more, no less-up toward her hole from beneath. It seemed to coil and strike like a snake, to make its own way, to push her pussy open more surely than a pair of fingers. 

John had his clothes off and he was looking around at the crowd. How the hell had he ever ended up in a gangbang of his own wife? But she seemed ... well, he didn't know how she seemed. Hypnotized? 

"If you all watch closely, you will see an incredible thing happen," the Guru announced. "I can tell that the Hungry Snap is coming." He broke down and giggled. "It's something like a Ginger Snap, only it eats instead of being eaten." He regained his composure. "Now watch. This is a rare phenomenon. It only happens once every few years on the whole face of the globe. There are certain astro-psychological preconditions ... " 

His cock leapt out and pecked at her clit once, twice, three times ... and then her hips started to sway. With each peck of his rod her cunt drew back as though trying to avoid it-Just far enough for it to fall across her clit. The undulations became longer. It was as though she was winding up for something. 

"It is an allegory of the battle between the cobra and the mongoose," the Guru commented. An edge of excitement came into his voice. "Now ... watch ... it's coming ... " 

His cock leapt forward and suddenly instead of pulling back Mindy's cunt shot open like a huge, hungry pair of jaws and pounced. It gobbled his cock whole with a single Hungry Snap. It clamped down and her insides sucked. She went into a frenzy. 

"Grab her! Grab her!" the Guru laughed as she thrashed and tugged and slammed into him, almost throwing them both to the deck. 

Sean and John and Joe seized her arms. With their support her unconscious worries about keeping her balance fled and her feet left the ground. Her legs twined around the Guru's waist and she was off and humping. 

Sean bent her torso back and fastened his mouth on one of her breasts. Joe took the other and John massaged her head and stuck his fingers into her mouth and ears. Josh, standing behind her, was amazed to see her ordinarily tight and impenetrable pink asshole sucking in and pushing out, gaping open as though it was as hungry as her cunt. He was so amazed that he didn't have a hard-on handy. 

Andrea and Joanna spotted the emergency immediately. They rushed like a couple of trainers to his side and went to work, licking, sucking and massaging his member to erection, shouting "Okay, champ, get in there and go for the knockout!" They pushed him forward and he stumbled into Mindy's rear-end. The Hungry Snap struck again and his shaft was far up her ass, rubbing against the Guru's insanely gyrating member through the thin membrane that separated the two channels. 

"Great program on Channel One," the Guru yelled to him. "How's Channel Two?" 

I'm ... just ... getting ... it ... tuned ... IN!" Josh gasped, and let go with everything he had. 

"BaaaaaaaaaaaaaaTOOIE!" the Guru squealed, and got off himself. "Just feel that mongoose eat!" 

Mindy's eyes were wide open and had she not been thrashing and grunting and speaking in tongues, wrenching her hips around and shoving her pelvis forward and her ass back, galloping like a jockey for the BIG FINISH LINE, one would have worried that she was dead. There just looked as if nobody was home behind her eyes. 

While the Guru and Josh were coming her movement suddenly stopped for a split-second and then began in undulations so slow and so subtle that they were barely perceptible. She was in a perfectly pacific state of orgasm that seemed to her to last forever. 

It was several minutes before the Guru felt her forehead, took her pulse, and announced, "She's coming out of it now. We should put her down." 

Somebody brought a blanket and they laid her on it. 

As soon as they took their hands off her she blinked a few times, looked around her and down at her paint smeared nakedness, rubbed her gooey crotch, and smiled. "Gee," she said, "that was fun. When do we do it again?" 

CHAPTER TEN 

"I'm telling you," Andrea insisted, "that guy has got some kind of super-heavy mystical power. Just look at the shit that's happened on this tub in the last three days." It was seven thirty in the evening. They had just finished dining in their cabin with half a dozen guests and now Andrea was cleaning a few peyote buttons prior to her performance at eight. "That first day when everybody came aboard people were hyped-up, pissed-off, uptight, bumping into each other and stepping all over each other, worrying about a thousand things. Now-well take an example. That old banker-type Harold-the one with the crazy wife Grace? I saw Virginia Vagina giving him an underwater blow-job in the pool today. He was standing in the shallow end smoking a joint and watching that wild-eyed young poet from Sasketchewan shove bananas from the rigging into his wife's pussy! Now you can just bet what the guys at the Club would say if they heard about that. And yesterday there was that meditation session that went for six hours and then turned into a Wesson-oil party ... " 

"I'm beginning to suspect you're right," Sean agreed. "Although I still have my reservations-chief among them being that mystical power, which just about amounts to magic, doesn't make any sense. I know you get tired of me trying to explain everything in terms of clever planning or hypnotic techniques or psychological knowledge or just plain old charisma, but I still hold out my reservations." 

"Let's see what you think after the InterFuck Quotillion tonight. Remember the first night half the passengers split from the blind stargazing at the first mention of flesh? Well you know damned well it's become standard practice for women not to wear anything above the waist, and if someone can shove bananas by the pool side without anyone at all screaming-or even staying in their cabin-something heavy's gone on." 

Joanna came into the bedroom where they'd been talking. Andrea was changing her guitar strings now and popping peyote buttons. "Hey-John's gone off with Joe to go down on that Amazon. She claims she hasn't been satisfied yet and they're going to see if a group effort can lick the problem. I'm alone and horny." She flopped down onto a bed. It had become standard policy in their suite not to wear anything at all and Joanna had not deviated from it. She spread her legs and looked casually at Sean. "Want to pop me a quick one before we go to the dance?" 

"Sure." Sean kept up his discussion with Andrea, who took no more notice of the proceedings than she would have if Joanna had asked Sean to pour her a drink. He crawled up to Joanna's open cunt and dangled his dork in front of it. Joanna took the responsibility for rendering it serviceable. "Ever since you told me about that weird thing with the storm," he continued, "and what the Guru said that night at Folk City about heavy rain, I've really been perplexed. I mean that shit with the fortune cookies was weird in itself, I suppose, but coming in the middle of all that other stuff ... " His voice trailed off as he concentrated on fitting his cock into Joanna's hole and getting the rhythm going. 

"Mindy believes it," Andrea pointed out, "and she should know. And did I tell you Joe's been taking down some of the things the Guru says and looking at them from a philosophical point of view? He says he's started to get some idea of a coherent system out of it, but it's incredibly complex. He's getting really excited. He even told me he's thinking of changing his dissertation topic and writing on the Guru instead." 

"Instead of what?" Sean asked as he gave Joanna an extra hard pump and slipped his hands under her buttocks to squeeze them and lift her. 

"I forget. Something really vital like the syntax of medieval adverbs." 

"Hold it a second," Sean said. "Joanna's getting off." 

Joanna kicked her legs straight up and Sean reached under her to curl his fingers across her clit. That always drove her crazy. "You got it, baby," she breathed. "Right on the button. Unh ... Unh ... UNH." She gave a quick, hard thrust, wiggled a little, then relaxed. "Wow. Thanks. That was nice. You didn't want to come?" 

"No. I'm saving it up for the big event." 

"That's funny," Joanna said. "I'm working it up for the big event." 

Andrea looked at her watch and threw her guitar into its case. They made their way upstairs. "I hope these damned peyote buttons don't made me too sick to sing." 

"Don't worry about it," Sean counseled. "If you puke into the microphone the audience'll just think it's Rod and the Staffs idea of a new kind of instrument. The barfing throat. Hell, if that shoe-shine boy can whap his pud on the top of a Shinola can and call it percussion, you could pee into the sound-hole of your guitar ... " 

They reached the ballroom floor and, as was her habit, Andrea took out her guitar and prepared to enter singing. Tee into the sound-hole," she repeated. "Where have I heard that before?" 

"In another book." 

"What?" 

"Book. Book. Look, look, my heart is an open book ... I ... love ... nobody but you." He started singing and Andrea recognized the corny old song immediately. She started strumming chords and they waded into the seething crowd of naked bodies wailing their heads off. Sean, just behind Andrea, suddenly had a flash of deja vu. Andrea was wearing just what she'd worn for their first date. 

The idea of the dance was simple. Andrea played and sang danceable music; the Guru, guiding light (and lightning rod) of Rod and the Staff, stood on his head beside her leaning up against a vertical plank drumming the air with his fingers. Behind them the shoe-shine boy-actually a red-faced alcoholic of 57 culled from among the Bowery's finest-sat whapping the aforementioned pud on the aforementioned Shinola can with a microphone two inches away. He was really quite good. Then there was the kitchen hindrance; one cook beating a hard salami (a carrot; a head of lettuce ... ) onto a cutting board, one bottle-washer rhythmically shooting water from a hose into a colander, and one waiter rapping on crystal glasses with a wire whisk (and breaking half a dozen glasses into an ash-can at the end of each song). Out on the floor before them couples coupled and uncoupled and recoupled, the men naturally inserting their penises into the vaginas of each of their partners in turn. The object of the game (ideally) was for each male to dance with each female, or verse vicea, in the course of the Quotillian, and with that in mind everyone was provided with a little chart featuring 491 numbered squares-the number of passengers, 982, being equally divided between males and females. And each person displayed her or his own number after her or his own particular fancy. Sean and Joanna and the rest were counted among the passengers and had their own numbers. Joanna naturally had John write hers in magic marker across her right ass cheek. Sean had his in little silver paste-on stars on his chest. No one was really expected to make it to everyone else but just for fun-or so you could say "I fucked 192 people in one night," and be accurate-people were supposed to check off their partners' numbers on the charts with little pencils, also provided. 

The band struck up and things were underway. Even though Sean had become inured to just about any kind of strange happening whatsoever, the sight of 982 naked bodies overwhelmed him. 

The ballroom was immense. As far as Sean could see there was nothing but flesh. Near him a portly, balding man of thirty-five or so bowed to a slightly pudgy, freckle-face girl, displayed his erection, and promptly won her favors. She was nearly as tall as he was and it didn't take much knee-flexing for him to fit his rod into the delicate pink folds of her practically hairless crotch. They whirled away pirouetting elegantly. Others weren't so lucky. As couples coupled all over the place and Sean approached an almost-skinny fragile-looking blonde, he noticed a tall, rail-thin man trying to couple with a short, definitely fat woman. Friends laughed and kidded them as the man stooped, hunched, squatted and maneuvered, and she tried to climb into the air on her tippie-toes. "Why don't you get a joint put in the middle of it," one suggested. "Go down and then come up." 

Sean and the blonde made contact. She was very helpful about grabbing his cock and circling it around in her hole and shoving it way up in. "Jesus," she shuddered when she stood with his rod up her quivering and quaking, "I don't know whether I can dance like this." 

They took a few steps and then saw another couple composed of a tall man and a short woman-the woman a little lighter than the other one and really quite svelt, with a flat ass but enormous boobs-who'd bit on the obvious solution, which was that the man should just pick the woman up and walk around balling her. It made for a strange dance, but a great fuck. Of course it led men to decide to put the women down after a while and just go at them on the floor, but it was allowed by the rules that that was dancing anyhow. 

Sean learned that the blonde's name was Clarice. He picked her up and started banging her up and down off his hips as though she were a paddle ball. He promptly tripped over a couple engaged in a sixty-nine on the floor and barely managed to descend avoiding injury to anyone. "We may as well stay here and finish up," he told Clarice, sucking on her extraordinarily wide and pale nipples. She agreed. 

From the stage Andrea sang and looked down at the scene-it had to be one in a century-for about an hour. Under the influence of half a dozen high-quality peyote buttons it looked as if a bulkhead had given way and a sea of people had flowed in out of a Hieronymous Bosh painting. Everywhere she looked there were cocks slithering in and out of cunts, people locked in passionate embraces, mouths sucking tits, hands grabbing asses; there was laughing and grunting and wailing and moaning, slapping and sliding and grabbing and gliding, bopping and hopping and humping and slumping, bumping and balling and catching and calling ... Finally Andrea broke off in the middle of a staid rendition of a traditional foxtrot and started rocking to the tune of the Jerry Lee Lewis song, "Slishin' and a Splashin'." "Moanin' and a Groanin', Humpin' and a Bumpin' ... " 

The crowd went wild. Fucks multiplied in a frenzy. Everyone was suddenly on the floor doing it to beat the band. And they did beat the band. After two minutes Andrea couldn't stand it. She chucked her guitar and dove off the bandstand with Rod and the Staff a hair and a breath behind her. 

She landed in the middle of a glistening flesh-pile between the two middle-aged lesbians from Hoboken and Virginia Vagina. They were engaged in an earnest three-way conversation, mouths to cunts. Virginia immediately remembered that Andrea had once suggested cunnilingus to her-she didn't hear a word that long very often, which was why she remembered-and squirmed around to present arms. Meanwhile the lesbians made certain that Andrea's own pussy was not unattended-in fact they paid it several very flattering compliments-and a Fuller Brush man from Kieukuck rambled over to plop his rod into Virginia's mouth. 

The lesbians were startled when they found themselves being entered by a pair of male organs but they were having so much fun with Andrea's puss that they didn't want to break things up. "Just pretend it's a dildo," one suggested to the other, and the problem was solved. 

And so the evening went, from one fuck to the next. As time went on there were high points-points of intense group excitement, when as many as a hundred people would swarm into huge clusters on the floor-and low points when most people sat by the sidelines resting or chatting. Usually excitement was regenerated by single fucks of exceptional intensity or interest that drew crowds of spectators who sooner or later became involved. As could have been expected, many of these featured the Guru, but John Fuocoforte was in on the creation of one or two and so was Andrea. 

Sean and Joanna got involved in a contest to see who could fill in more squares on her or his little card. Consequently they didn't stay with any one partner long, but started a fuck with one, worked it up with another, got to a high plateau with a third, and climaxed on a fourth or fifth. 

They reached 60, 70, 80, pretty much neck-and-neck, but then Joanna started to pull away because Sean had come eight times and he was losing his erection. 

They ran across Joe Lee, who had been casually sampling his way around all night and just happened to have them both beat with 96 squares covered on his card. His cock was still sticking straight out in front of him like a battering ram. 

"No fair," Sean complained. "You've been holding back." 

"Yeah, but when I let go, it's going to be a beauty," he predicted, patting his weapon affectionately. 

It made Joanna mad to think Joe was ahead of her. She mumbled about it as she fitted the blunt, curving organ of Number 83 into her and felt it start to quiver. "Oh no," she thought, "this guy's going to want to come and he's going to take some time." And out loud she said, "How the hell could I get out-fucked by the Little Chink? I'm supposed to be the Great Wall, for cocksake!" 

Number 83, a stocky guy who told her he ran a machine shop as he worked up to getting his rocks off, turned out to be more of a bargain than Joanna hoped for, because he came up with a way for her to get ahead of Joe. "No problem," he said, after he'd got off with a couple of violent attacks to her midsection. "You just stand right here. I'll get all the guys you haven't done yet and line them up. Then IT! show you how you can check off every guy in the place in under an hour." 

She was a little dubious but waited for a few minutes. Sure enough, Bernie-that was the guy's name-returned with two dozen men and told her he had four friends rounding up more. He and a buddy each grabbed one of Joanna's thighs and hooked arms around her back and held her at waist-level. It was as though she was sitting in a chair. A skinny bald accountant type with a stopwatch took her chart and pencil and stood by. 

"Okay," Bernie yelled, "let 'em rip! But remember-just ten seconds apiece! Let's see who can. get off!" He thought for a second. "If you're in the act of getting off when time is called you have another five seconds to finish up. But no faking!" The first guy in line, a bearded freak with a hairy chest, ran up to Joanna and while Bernie and his friend held her open he crammed it in. Joanna couldn't believe it. He must have been saving up as long as Joe; or maybe the sight of her hanging there ready to take on all comers drove him nuts. Anyhow, she could feel him coming after three or four strokes. By the time a voice in the background chanted, " ... eight, nine, ten, TIME!" he'd pulled out and disappeared. His come was squishing inside her and another hot sausage was coming up. 

This was undoubtedly the wierdest thing that had happened to Joanna in her life. She was reasonably stoned and pretty mellow and she didn't have to exert any energy at all. Cocks pushed up into her, pumped and humped, sometimes exploded with come, usually didn't before "TIME" was called. But after the first dozen or so she hardly felt when one left and another entered. There was just one big eternal cock constantly changing size and shape and mode of motion inside her, occasionally gushing forth and spraying her down. 

After three or four minutes-eighteen or twenty-four partner changes-the Guru slipped to the scene of the action through the considerable crowd that had gathered to watch. "Go get some KY," he suggested to a nearby assistant. "If this goes on for long she's sure as hell going to need it." He took another look at the cocks fitting one by one into Joann's huge, loose hole. "Come to think of it, maybe you'd better make it 3-in-l oil-we're plainly dealing with a machine." But the assistant was fortunately already gone. 

The Guru turned to address the crowd as Joanna rapidly worked her total up into the hundred and twenties. "I trust there is no one to whom the origin of the idea of interchangeable parts is not obvious?" he asked. There was general laughter. "Who was it that they say first got the idea? Eli Whitney?" More laughter. "Now perhaps we can see the bizarre inappropriateness of the strictures of monogamy with regard to our society ... " He went on and on and so did the fucking machine. 

The crowd around Joanna continued to grow. Men took turns holding her up as people stood on chairs and tables to get a glimpse and whispered questions to each other about how many she'd done so far and whether anyone else was likely to bag the limit. 

"It really is a staggering accomplishment," a housewifely type with a British accent observed, looking at her card with a measly thirty-four squares filled in. 

It was becoming obvious that Joanna was going to run through the lot. The Guru was slapping KY onto her puss every second or third shot. All around people were yelling out the numbers of the fifty or sixty men she had left to do, while behind her the men she'd done already spilled out in a pile sort of like a slag-heap from a steel mill. "Nice cunt," they told each other. "Wish all women took it like that." "Yeah. Then there'd be piece on earth for sure!" "Did you get a shot into her?" "I did." "I didn't. But then my stroke was way off. I hit one out of bounds on the" ... the guy checked his card ... "thirty-third hole and I still haven't recovered." 

After a while the accountant was yelling out two or three numbers-"398! Number 4! 109! Where are you?" The line was dwindling. "Get the list of who has what number," he asked someone. 

The list was found and the names were called. "Ronnie Strachis! Dennis James! LeRoy Potachie! Come on, men! Let's make it a clean sweep!" 

"Here's DeSnis," a fat woman shouted, shoving a clean-cut boy of eighteen into the fray. 

"Oh Ma, do I have tor 

"Come on, Dennis, be a sport!" "Yes, you have to." 

Andrea, pushing in toward Joanna, recognized the fat woman as the once she'd told the reporters was her mother. The woman caught sight of Andrea at the same time and, as though she'd been waiting for this, gave her a wave and a cheerful "thanks-a-heap-sweetie-pie" smile. 

Meanwhile people were shouting, "Ronnie Strachis! LeRoy Potachie!" off into the crowd. 

"Ronnie's passed out in the corner over there," someone shouted. 

Three men ran to him, hauled him up, and trundled him over to the scene of the action. He was a handsome-looking artist-type but he really was out cold. Andrea enlisted the aid of a few of the Guru's young lovelies but Ronnie kept snoring soundly and nothing they could do seemed to get him an erection. 

"Fuck it!" the Guru shouted, "shove it in there soft! We're going for the ultimate and we can't worry about technicalities!" 

After a few seconds of ingenious work those holding Joanna and those holding Ronnie managed to get the two bodies together and cram his limp noodle into her. Despite Joanna's ten seconds of jouncing on him he didn't wake up, but unknown to him, he went down in the Eternal Record Book as having fucked her. 

And now the burning question became-where was LeRoy Potachie? And even more interesting, who was LeRoy Potachie? 

Nobody seemed to know anybody by that name. The cabin number listed for LeRoy was 9129. If there had been such a cabin it would have been half a mile off the boat's stern. 

Suddenly a deep, rolling voice-obviously the voice of a monstrous, tough black man-boomed out over the crowd over the bandstand. "Hey, you mother-fuckin buncha honkies, I'm the one to finish this job up. What you need here is some funky soul-type style? 

Everybody turned toward the bandstand. The blacks in the crowd-there were forty or fifty-glanced back and forth at each other wondering who was this brother they didn't know. And then, from behind the curtains at the back of the bandstand, emerged-the fucking Guru. 

"Ha-ha, I fooled ya!" 

He leapt down into the crowd and pranced up to Joanna. "I'm number 109-LeRoy Potachie by alias-and the 491st man to plow your cute little furrow tonight. But ... " he held up his hands as an inspiration passed over him ... "I will do it with style. You will be fucked intergalaetically! That, is from a distance. In short, I will ejaculate into the quivering essence of your echtitude from a sacred distance of three feet." 

"The No Touch Shot!" the crowd gasped. "He's going to do it!" Suddenly this, already the high point of the cruise, became the highest possible point. They'd all been dying to see this. 

"Please," the Guru sniffed, holding his nose. "The technical term is Thinking Off." 

"Thinking Off ... Thinking Off ... Thinking Off ... " The correction echoed to the edges of the crowd. 

Andrea went up to Joanna as the Guru assumed the lotus position on the floor beneath her and someone brought a tape measure so the exact height at which she should be held could be determined. "How do you feel on this historic occasion?" 

"Like I've traded in my pussy for a target in a water-pistol range." 

"Ha. I'll bet you have some pretty heavy experiences before the old Guru's done." She backed off and joined Sean and the others as a hush fell over the crowd. 

From various points in the ballroom the Guru's followers took up the familiar chant, 

"The Is Is Not, The Not Is Is, The No Touch Shot Will Never Fizz." 

They kept it up while Baalow Nee, all eyes riveted to him, took a last sighting on the target that hovered so invitingly above him and then closed his eyes. Joanna's cunt was hanging about six inches in front of his face. Her legs were held out straight and pointed one over each shoulder, so that she was facing him. 

"It is my opinion," he intoned, "that everyone here should be fucking their brains out at this particular time. It will create favorable conditions on the emotional weather horizon." With that he started to meditate. 

Before Sean and Andrea could work out a position in which they could fuck and watch-which ended up featuring Andrea on her knees facing the action and Sean banging away at her from behind-the Guru's heretofore limp member had started to jerk erect in definite, almost mechanical stages. 

"Reminds me of a bumper jack," Sean observed. 

The chanting of the Guru's followers turned abruptly to the same humming that Virginia and the Princess had used that night in Sean's apartment, only now its effect was multiplied and even more electrifying. 

Somebody started burning marijuana. A lot of it. There were four pounds scattered in hundreds of huge incense burners all around the ballroom. The air immediately became thick and intoxicating; an even better medium for the sensual tension that pervaded the atmosphere. 

Everywhere people were fitting cocks into cunts. Long ones into wide ones, thick ones into tight ones, skinny ones into huge ones, bent ones into straight ones, lively ones into passive ones, old ones into young ones ... the squishing sounds reminded Sean of an army of cartoon characters marching through a swamp. 

The Guru's cock had come completely erect. It was pointed straight at Joanna's hole. Joanna was staring down at him with an incredulous look in her eyes. Suddenly she snapped her head back-it was almost as though it had been snapped back-and rolled it around and closed her eyes. 

The two guys holding her-Bernie and a friend-looked at her with alarm but the Guru said, "Do not be concerned. That is the Secondary Stage. She will enter upon the Tertiary very soon. The atmospheric tension is very high. The Monsoon Season is approaching. The Earth is in its Time of Dryness. The woman will open as at the Time of Birth." 

"What?" Bernie gasped. "Does he mean she's gonna open up like she's gonna have a lad?" 

"You guessed'er, Chester." 

The Guru's cock jerked a few times. Nearby Sean and Andrea were fucking along easily. Andrea found herself fascinated by the eerie control the Guru had over his cock. It turned her on. And then suddenly she had a strange, familiar feeling. Wetness. Rain. The storm. The feeling was coming again. 

Joanna started to groan as if in pain but a smile of pure ecstasy came across her face. Her legs shook and then went into a kind of palsied trembling. They began to part-not from the hips, but at the hips. The Guru was completely still as her cunt opened slowly, steadily, wider and wider. The moaning kept up. The humming merged with it. Everyone who was breathing was breathing pure marijuana smoke. 

Things started to spin. The room moved. The smoke eddied and swirled. All the separate fucks began to merge into a single rhythm-the rhythm of the hum. 

This time even Sean felt it. Everyone felt it. It was as if they had become some lower, and yet some higher, form of life: bees in a hive, each perhaps a single cell in the living organism of their society. 

Interchangable parts. 

Intrinsically positive impulses. 

One surging moment of complete unity, total excitement, loss of consciousness, flight at impossible speed toward ... 

Joanna's cunt-hole was five inches wide. The outer lips, the inner lips, the clit, the pubic hair, all seemed peripheral and accidental compared to the incredible depth of the smoothly rounded cavern of her womanhood. She was wailing in rhythm with the deafening hum that carried everything with it like an incoming tide. There was one point, one spot, on the surface of her insides that cried and begged and pleaded for relief and yet danced and played and laughed at the same time. 

The Guru's cock pulsed in hard, driving rhythms. The hum sped up till its softly undulating cadences piled on each other, hissing and steaming, screeching and clattering, like the sound of a steam engine plummetting full-speed toward destruction. 

Sean and Andrea were right there. So was everyone else. 982 people were going to get off at the same time, the instant when Baalow Nee ... 

Joanna's cunt was calling wildly and the Guru's cock was answering eagerly and then a huge thick stream of come erupted up out of him like a geyser. It blasted up into her and shattered and frothed and sprayed against that one point, that perfect spot ... 

The combined noise of nearly a thousand people getting off shook the entire ship. It was cataclysmic. It was so deafening, so chaotic, yet so mystically harmonious, that it was almost the same as silence. It could have been lost souls screaming in agony in hell or saved souls singing for joy in heaven. 

In fact it was a whole lot of people shooting their wads and collecting their dough on a very expensive and not completely ordinary cruise to the Caribbean, but no one at the time was much concerned with facts. 

CHAPTER ELEVEN 

"Okay," Andrea asked, "what do you say note?" 

"Uncle," Sean answered. "I give. There's something going on with that guy. I mean, I can't deny that the old Quotillion last night was the mind fuck of a lifetime. I've never seen anything-I've never heard of anything-like what he did with Joanna. And she says she felt as if she was conscious all the time, having the most fantastic fuck of her life, but she wasn't aware that her cervix went through all the biological changes implied by giving birth. I've got to admit that someone's got his pinky playing around in the laws of nature like they were a bowl of spaghetti." 

Joanna and John came in. Joanna was still a little spacey from the experience of the night before but she didn't hurt a bit and she felt great. "Guess what we heard," she offered. 

"Nixon had the CIA take films of the InterFuck Quotillion for his private war against his own obscenity." 

"No. The Guru's gone into solitary meditation. Indefinitely. That oriential chick-what's her name, Mei Ling?-says that the experience last night has sent him into a state of Oneness with the Cosmos. I guess that means he's got one hell of a hangover." 

They all laughed. 

But four days later they weren't laughing any more. 

As the True Enlightenment sailed irregularly southward and entered the Caribbean bound for Martinique, the Guru Baalow Nee was neither seen nor heard. His sudden and inexplicable absence had an affect on the moral of the ship as devastating as his presence had been exhilarating. 

It was sad but true: the Guru was essential to anyone's having a good time. As one young architect from Florida put it, "He's the only one ridiculous enough to set a proper example." And what was more, people hadn't paid their money to get on a ship and potter about in warm climates. They'd come because of the Guru. They liked what they'd seen and they wanted more. They were entitled to it. They had bought it! "Meditation-Schmeditation," they were fond of pronouncing. "He ought to get his ass out here." 

Women started wearing blouses again-mostly, of course, to protect themselves from sunburn-and one or two passengers began to worry that word of the doings on the ship would filter back to hometown acquaintances. Could it be that nobody really ever got anything for nothing? 

On Wednesday evening, a week and a day after the Guru had plucked Andrea out of Folk City, there was a fight in the audience during one of her sets. The Guru's bodyguards put a quick and gentle end to it, but it somehow seemed that the atmosphere of felicity and trust that had once been the life's breath of the cruise was definitely-perhaps irrevocably-polluted. 

After the performance Andrea and Sean sat around rapping with Joanna, John, Joe, Mindy, and Josh. Things had reached such a tow point that everyone was wearing clothes. Andrea didn't feel she'd sung well, Sean was worried about the fact that he hadn't done any work since the beginning of the cruise and was behind schedule on his deadlines, Joanna was wondering whether there'd really be a job waiting for her when she got back to the City ... everyone had his own personal problems. But the question was-why were they worrying about them now? And the answer was, because the Guru had to all intents and purposes vanished. And then the question was-what the hell had happened to him? 

"Maybe he really is nuts," Sean offered. Tin sure the guy's some sort of genius, but maybe he goes on the fritz now and then." 

"Maybe he died," Josh suggested. "And the others don't want us to know about it" 

"Ha. I think he's conducting some land of psychological experiment," John guessed. "Makes sense. He wants to see how we do on our own." 

"The answer is ... not very good," Andrea observed. 

There was a knock on the door. Andrea answered and Mei Ling, with a rather serious expression on her face, beckoned her out into the hall. "The Guru would like to see you. You and your friend-the writer. Sean is his name?" 

"Yes. The Guru wants to see us?" 

"That's right." Mei Ling peered in at the group in the living room of the suite. "Don't tell the others anything but that you don't know how long you'll be." She whispered almost inaudibly; "You are to take a vital part in one of the Guru's most sacred rituals. No outsider has ever been admitted to these rituals before. Once they are performed the Guru will appear again in public and all will be as before. Come quickly." She walked down the hall and waited. 

"Hey Sean," Andrea said casually, "we've got a date." She leaned down and confronted him eye-to-eye. "The Guru wants to see us." 

The group came alive with curiosity. "What for?" "What's going on?" "Where is he?" "What's he doing?" 

Andrea smirked characteristically. "All I'm allowed to say is that we don't know when well be back." She held out her arm and Sean took it ceremoniously. "So don't wait up for us ... " They swept out into the hall and followed Mei Ling up toward the Guru's cabin just aft of the bridge. 

When they got there two of the wrestler-types were guarding the door. They nodded to Mei Ling and she opened it with a key and ushered Sean and Andrea in. 

The cabin was one single room thirty feet wide by seventy long. It was crowded with potted trees and fountains and streams that ran between mossy artificial banks. Wild birds-parrots and peacocks and hummingbirds-squalked and strutted and flitted about. The entire wall of the cabin that faced the sea was glass-one-way glass, Sean could tell, and recessed. He wondered what it looked like from outside. 

Mei Ling led them down toward the far end of the indoor jungle where there was a light burning. They heard the low mumble of voices and the tinny sound of what could only be a cheap portable radio. It was playing oldies from the fifties. 'Teen Angel' was on. 

The Guru was sitting at a card table with the black woman. He was flipping cards up casually, one at a time, smoking a Lucky Strike and talking to her like a Brooklyn dockworker. "Whatcha say, honey-pot? Wanna get laid? Huh? I got me a six-pack in my convertible. I got me a packa Trojans. Whatsa matter, ya scared or somethin? Scared a yer mommy?" He wore a greasy T-shirt and a pair of worn jeans held up by a thick belt with a heavy buckle-the land small-time hoods had once been fond of whipping off when the word "rumble" was heard. The remainder of his pack of Luckies was rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt. 

"Hey, baby, howya doin?" he asked, jumping to his feet and clapping Andrea on the shoulder as they arrived. He squeezed her ass. "Nice trailer ya got there." He nodded to Sean. "Ready ta have some fun, man?" Sean nodded diffidently, unable to figure out what this newest impersonation meant. 

"Okay," the Guru announced. "This here's Sissy." He pointed to the black chick, who was about thirty, very classy-looking, with a sharp-featured face, quick eyes, a bushy Afro, and a five-five figure that looked like it had been poured into a mold. She was wearing a fifties-style dress with sequins. 

The Guru picked a couple cans of Rheingold beer from a six-pack that sat on the floor beside him and shoved them across the table to Sean and Andrea as they took their places. Mei Ling disappeared briefly and returned in a pair of shocking green short-shorts and a skimpy blue halter. Andrea didn't know what to think, but the magnetism of the Guru's presence was strong on her and she waited expectantly for the promised ritual to begin. 

"So howya enjoyin the cruise?" the Guru wanted to know. 

Andrea frowned thoughtfully. "It was great ... before you disappeared. Now it's not so great." 

"Oh yeah. That. Well, a guy can only do so much, ya know. I'm gonna reappear soon. Doncha worry about that. I'll get the shit under control. In fact, that's why youse guys are here." He looked at Andrea evaluatively. "I needed some sexy chick to bang to get me outa this crappy mood I got inta. Fuckin No Touch Shot always puts me in a bummer for a coupla days. That's why I don't pull that stunt much. Anyhow, in my humble opinion you're the sexiest thing on this tub." He got up abruptly. "And you're hip, too. Get what I mean?" He winked at her. 

She wasn't sure she got what he meant but she knew she was going to get laid and that excited the hell out of her. 

"So," he said, "we may as well get started." He waved at Mei Ling and Sissy and addressed Sean. "Some mighty fine ass here, pal, and I ain't been able to do much for it in the past coupla days, so help yerself. We're gonna use the couch here." He pointed to an old, dingy-looking gray couch with stains and cigarette burns that sat nearby. It hardly fitted with the opulent decor of the rest of the cabin-and the ship. "Wouldya believe, this is the original couch from my mother's place in Brooklyn? She caught my eighth-grade girlfriend blowin me on that couch." Sean and Andrea laughed and the Guru grinned. "Come on, sweetie," he said, pulling Andrea up by the arm and leading her to the couch. "How about we start with a nice blow-job, just like the one my momma caught Ruthie Goldfarb giving me?" 

"I'll do my best," Andrea replied. 

The Guru pulled a pack of Doublemint out of his pocket, popped two sticks, and chewed noisily as Andrea drew down his jeans. She laughed when she saw he was wearing plain white Jockey shorts underneath. 

"And make it good," he ordered in a tough-guy voice. 

Andrea fingered his limp cock, checked out his rather tight ball-sack, and, from a kneeling position on the floor in front of him, went to work. She took the whole thing in her mouth and swirled it around, tugged at it gently with her lips, licked it up and down. Baalow Nee sat smiling down at her with something akin to smug satisfaction. 

When, after a few minutes of hard work, Andrea had got absolutely nowhere, he seemed a little frustrated. He grabbed her head between his hands and held it steady and started fucking her mouth. "Hey, baby, way to take it in there!" he cried as he started to get hard and his rod jabbed down her throat. It was a little uncomfortable but it was also exciting. 

The wooden cock-statue from Africa came to mind. 

Out of the corner of her eye Andrea caught portion of the wide panorama of seascape through the glass wall. The moon was up and the clear Caribbean water sloshed and foamed under a moderate wind. It looked like water in a bathtub. 

Mei Ling and Sissy were playing around with Sean-obviously putting on a show they knew the Guru would like. "Hey there, big boy," Sissy began, "want a piece of this?" She pulled up her dress and yanked down her panties and rubbed her pussy. Sean licked it as she stood in front of him and Mei Ling wiggled the rear end of her hot-pants against his extended hand. Sean vaguely wondered when the ritual she had spoken of would begin-or if it had already begun. 

"Okay," the Guru said when Andrea's got his rod pretty much erect, "take off yer clothes. I'm gonna bang the living shit outa ya." If anyone had talked like that to her seriously she would have been pissed, to say the least. The Guru was putting on a good act but he always did. "Just he down there on yer back for starters." He pointed to the couch. 

Andrea stripped off her clothes. The Guru stood by fingering his erection and staring at her like a sex-starved eighteen-year-old. "Whata life," he said with mixed sarcasm and pride. "A whole goddamned boat-loada pussy, and I get ta take my choice. Any fuckin chick on the whole tub'll come runnin up here an' split her snatch wide open fer me at the drop of a hat" He tossed a remark in Sean's direction: "Not bad, eh? How're ya doin with my private stock?" 

Sean took his tongue out of Sissy's box. "Nice." It was strange. This event was so low-key, so studiously pedestrian, compared to virtually everything that had happened since that first date with Andrea. He wondered when things were going to change. 

Mei Ling pulled her hot-pants off and she and Sissy got into double-eating formation on the floor-Sissy lying on her back with her legs spread and her knees bent, Mei Ling on top of her face to face with her legs even wider. Sean took off his clothes and straddled them both with his crotch above their heads and his face between their legs. As soon as he started to run his tongue from one cunt to the other, into the black one and then info the white one, things started to change. 

"Okay, time for the ritual to begin!" the Guru squealed. He nodded confidentially at Andrea. "So far we've just been rehearsin; gettin warmed up so to speak. It may take you a while to figure out what kinda ritual this is, but it don't matter if ya ever do, really. Ya can just concentrate on gettin' fucked. Now-open wide." She did and he grabbed her cuntlips and yanked them apart. 

"Whata beautiful puss!" the Guru exulted. He split her ass cheeks and fingered her asshole. "Wow! First quality!" He dipped his finger into a jar of KY by the side of the couch and smeared her cunt and ass with it. He slipped a finger up her asshole. "Nice and loose. You musta been takin it up the ass a lot" 

"Pretty frequently." 

That seemed to turn him on. "Ya been fuckin a lot too?" He took the finger out of her asshole and rubbed his cock up and down her slit. 

"Yeah," she breathed. 

"Terrific. I like a chick who digs cock and ain't afraid ta admit it." He waved his rod at her and glanced at the others. "Man, look at those three. Ain't that gorgeous?" He jiggled the tip of his rod against her clit as they watched Sean. He was now on his back with Sissy astride his cock and Mei Ling on his face. "I gotta say, I give good parties." The Guru reached out, grabbed a Rheingold can, drained it-spilling foam on his beard-and then crunched it one-handed and flung it into an artificial pool nearby, frightening half a dozen carp. 

He slammed his rod into her. "Whooopee, Momma, look at me now! How da ya like this one? Beautiful face, far-out body, high-class and gettin it on like a wild woman on the end of my peter! Sonofa bitch, I showed 'em all! Because they are dog-shit and I AM THE GURU!" He pumped and humped like crazy. 

Andrea didn't pay attention to what he was saying-it never made any sense to her anyhow-but how he was saying it had an electrifying effect on her. His voice surged on in a high, flat stacatto patter that rained words off her like machine-gun bullets and communicated his ever-growing excitement to her. And inside her his cock was like a thing alive; like the snake it had seemed to be during the demonstration of the No Touch Shot. 

"Cousin Ralphie! You fuckin bastard! Used ta kid me about bein ugly, never havin no dates! Usta think ya were so fuckin sooooperior! Now where areya? Sellin TVs in Flatbushj supportin four lads and a wife who's so fat she squashes a new chair to kindling every three months! Whaddya got for money, Ralphie? Where's yer three million in a Swiss bank? Where's yer yacht? Where's yer limousine? Where's yer champagne an caviar? And ya thought I was the dumb motherfucker in the family!" 

The words fell on Andrea's ears like rapid-fire raindrops. She was fucking at an incredible rate. All she heard were intoxicating sound patterns, like a hardsell commercial on TV coming over fuzzily at a distance. 

The Guru yanked his cock out of her cunt, shoved her legs back up over her head the way you would to change a baby's diaper, and plunged it into her asshole. She wasn't quite ready and for a second she felt like she was taking a huge and uncomfortable shit but she adjusted-helping herself by reaching down with both hands and pressing two fingers hard onto her clit. 

"And how about this one, friend Harry? Good old friend Harry, who always got all the chicks and flaunted them in my face? You used to rub their titties when you knew I was looking just to make me jealous! And where are you now? In the fucking Marine Corps! Ya still call me a faggot, dumbbuns? Let's see you go up ta any chick on the street and say, Pardon me, but I'd like ta fuck you up yer pretty little asshole, and get away with it! Look at this, Harry? Don't it make yer Manly Prick green with envy?" 

He rolled Andrea over and fucked her ass from behind. 

He slipped his cock out of her ass and into her cunt, back and forth, back and forth. She came twice. 

Sean was fucking Sissy and watching her eat Mei Ling's pussy. The Guru's words might have been Chinese for all he knew but the din made him feel as if he were fucking in the middle of a battle field. He could smell gunpowder. The smoke was stinging his eyes. The bullets were whizzing around him and death was clutching after him but he was just fucking away laughing at it all. 

"WHOOOAAAAA!" the Guru screeched, "ITS ON THE WAY! ITS COMIN FROM A LONG WAY OFF, BUT ITS ON THE WAY ... " He jumped to his feet and hauled Andrea up and draped her over the back of the couch, banging away at her like there was no tomorrow. 

"And all you ignorant creeps put together! You stupid fuckers whining to each other about Enlightenment! Maharanji's the only who who's got the tiniest piece of the truth, and that dumb sonofa bitch doesn't even eat! He knows where I'm at but I've got one up on him because I know where he isn't at, which is inside a pussy with his goddamned cock right now! His peter's probably shriveled up like a fucking prune! Find 'em, feel 'em, fuck 'em and forget 'em! That's my motto! A pussy in every pot! Wheel and deal! A fool and his bunny are soon farted! This one today, that one tomorrow, fake 'em out of their pants, you steal and they borrow!" He flipped Andrea over onto the couch again and dove onto her. His cock found its way into her from the sacred height of three feet with the accuracy of a plumb bob. 

"Riches in your britches, space in your head, the only Good God is the one that's Dead! Pants in your aunts and shenanigans-Phooey! My whole act is a lot of Hooey! Yipes! It's getting nearer! Hear that baby? No need to fear 'er!" His loins were pounding away like a jackhammer. His magical rap was carrying everything with him. "Fuck, you fishes in the pond! Fuck, you birdies on the wing! Fuck, you doggies in the pound! Fucking fucks up EVERYTHING!" 

His voice fell to a desperate whispering. 

"This is stark raving, this is my craving, to choose and to use and never to lose, to have money that's funny and blabber my lines in a pitcher of honey that charges no fines, to cream 'em and ream 'em and blow 'em away like rain that'll come back on some other day-come back, come back, 'cause they can't stay away-they just gotta do it, they'll never resist, cause I've got the power and I've got the gist and there's nobody home upstairs to be pissed, so the end of the story, the end of the song, is YOU'RE ALL GETTING FUCKED BY A DING-A-LING'S DONG!" 

Andrea was dizzily cloud-falling in a rainbow-burst of furious storm-wind when the Guru's atomic missile-shot blasted her clear into the eye of the hurricane. Psilocybin mushroom-clouds blossomed in her bosom and tiny tinkling grade-school triangles winked funny noises out of her womb. Holy Hikers tramped the wilderness of Vagina Park carrying garbled messages to the Queen of the Quintessence and scribes scribbled scrumptiously to get them all wrong. Someone delivered a pizza to her shower-head at four-thirty in the morning but the Drano didn't like garlic. There was sumpthing to be done and the pump went to work. Frizzle-frazzle, frizzle-frazzle, clink-clank, think-thank, thunk. 

When the humid haze of orgasmic euphoria cleared, every word the Guru had spoken stood wiggling before her flaunting its unmistakable meaning in her heretofore unpresented face. He was a phony and a cynic and as he himself had admitted, Maharanji had been right: the True Enlightenment of this cruise was the tangible enlightenment of the passengers' pocket books. 

She was pissed. She was indignant. She was embarrassed because she'd been caught with her pants down, and embarrassed for everybody else who'd been caught the same way. 

Baalow Nee was gazing out over the ocean dribbling Rheingold onto his toes when she came to. Sean was lying on the floor in a swamp of semen and cunt-juice. "Perfect," the Guru was saying. "Just what I needed. Never had such a good one. Ho-ho-ho, I'm all set to go back out there and dish up another steaming plate of bullshit to those brainless boobies." 

Andrea leapt to her feet. "Oh no you don't. I've figured out what kind of ritual that was. It was the kind you can only have in private-it was a truth ritual!" 

The Guru turned with an expression of mild surprise at her accusatory tone. "Of course. Look, do you think silly little Johnny Popper-which is actually my real name-can put on this mystical masquerade perpetually without blowing off some steam? For shit-sake, I'm only human. I think." 

"I think you're fucking sub-human. Three million dollars in a Swiss bank account-yachts and limousines and champagne and caviar-and all those people believing that you've got answers to questions that are important to them ..." 

"Look, Andrea," the Guru said, "calm down. Have a beer." He motioned to Sissy who this time brought a tray of Heinekens and poured the bottles out into crystal glasses. "Why do you think I chose you to do this whole ditty with? Because I need more assistants. Because I'm offering to cut you in. You and your friend here. $50,000 a year to start. What do you say?" 

"BALONEY!" she screamed. "You're full of BALONEY!" 

Sean did a double-take and the Guru looked like he'd been hit in the head with a rock. 

"BALONEY! That's what I said! BAALOW NEE is BALONEY!" 

The Guru shook his head sadly. 

Andrea grabbed a beer glass and knocked back a big gulp for emphasis. 

Sean sipped slowly. "So that's the secret of your name," he mused. 

"Of course. I should've thought it would be obvious to anyone, but to my knowledge you're the first one in the world to figure it out." He drew himself up with some dignity. "Of course I'm full of baloney. But I am also without question the greatest, most profound, and most charismatic religious leader in the world today. If I'm full of baloney, so are all the others. And as I promised, now that you've gained the ability to pronounce my name correctly, you have gained true enlightenment. You've got it in a plain brown delicatessen wrapper. Unfortunately, there is no room aboard the True Enlightenment for those who have already gained true enlightenment ... " 

"Why you seamy son of a bitch ... " 

But instead of completing her sentence Andrea fell promptly and deeply asleep, and before Sean could figure out why she'd slumped gracefully to the floor and closed her eyes, he did too. 

CHAPTER TWELVE 

Andrea was awakened the next morning by the sharp, irregular pitching of the ship and the sound of someone slapping wet towels off their bedroom walls. She opened her eyes to find that there was a whole lot of strange junk in her bed and the walls had been replaced by a three-dimensional representation of the open ocean. 

"Holy fuck! We're in a goddamned lifeboat! That son of a bitch has set us adrift! Sean! Wake up!" 

Sean's head was resting on a rather unusual pillow-a case of pate foie gras with perigord truffles-and his right foot was dangling in an ash-can full of Mumm's Cordon Rouge on ice. Andrea shook him as she counted the land formations visible on the horizon and reached a total of zero. "That maniac has set us adrift in the diametrical center of noplace!" 

It didn't take Sean long to confirm that Andrea had made a correct assessment of the situation. "Jesus Christ. I wouldn't have believed it. I don't believe it. I didn't believe it. I won't believe it. SHIT!" 

Andrea's guitar case and their luggage, including Sean's typewriter and all his manuscripts, lay in the bilge of the thirty foot craft, which was crowded with some of the oddest provisions ever to be provided anyone marooned at sea. 

"Look at this shit," Sean snorted in disgust when they'd taken the inventory. "A dozen cases of champagne but no water. Tate jots gras, three kinds of caviar, smoked oysters, camembert cheese, herring in cream sauce, smoked anchovies, sardines, and fifty other kinds of appetizers. A goddamned tub of sour cream and onion dip. Radishes and celery and carrot-sticks. Triscuits and sesame crackers and melba toast, fritos ... enough potato chips to stuff every teeny-bopper in Des Moines for ten years. But no real food. Five pounds of Columbian tops with pipes and papers. Acid and mescaline and every other drug known to freak-kind. But no first-aid kit." 

He opened a chest marked "navigation aids." He pulled out a set of charts and a sextant and a compass. "Look at this." He came up with a gallon can of KY jelly. "There's a note on top. It says, Wise up and mellow out. Sex is the key to salvation. After you have fucked one hundred times you will be able to reach land safely. Have fun. Your friend, Johnny Popper.' That dirty son of a bitch!" 

Sean wound up to throw the can overboard but Andrea grabbed his arm. "That's for me, stupid, not for you, and we can't afford to start throwing things overboard for giggles." She confiscated the can and opened it. "Jesus, he's dyed the KY green! That loony doesn't miss a trick. Now why don't you see if you can figure out where the hell we are and how we're supposed to go about getting somewhere else." 

Three hours later it was plain-to Sean at least-that where they were was in trouble. There were painstakingly explicit directions with the sextant, and the charts were quite clear. They were sixty miles from Martinique and a slow current was carrying them straight out to sea. Ordinarily the lifeboat, equipped with sails and a powerful engine, would have carried them to Martinique in time for a late lunch, with leisure for a little sport fishing on the way. But although the rigging for the sails was there, the locker marked "sails" contained seven dirty red bandanas. And although there was enough gasoline in 50 gallon drums to get them to Mexico City, the engine was missing its spark plugs. To add insult to injury, the standard oars had been replaced by two plastic toy paddles-one red, the other yellow. There were other alterations, subtle and not so subtle, in the boat's emergency equipment. The short-wave radio had turned into a battery-operated record player. The library consisted of the Mickey Mouse Club song and Frank Sinatra's version of I'll Be Home for Christmas." The drawer marked "flares" held a cap gun and two dozen rolls of caps. The chest labeled "fishing equipment" was occupied by a bamboo pole fitted with ten feet of purple knitting yarn, a red and white bobber, and a hook not quite large enough to land a guppie. 

"What the fuck are we going to do?" Sean asked in exasperation. "I mean, to all intents and purposes we've been murdered, right?" 

"Let's fuck." 

"WHAT?" 

Andrea spread some caviar on a cracker and popped it into her mouth. "Has your command of vernacular English forsaken you? I said, Let's fuck." She made a circle with two fingers and pushed another finger in and out of it 

"Oh, I get it. You believe what the Guru wrote on top of that KY can-that after we've fucked a hundred times well reach land safely? Well as far as I know sexual intercourse has no influence at all on ocean currents, and I'm goddmaned if I'm going to fuck with you because the Guru tells me I should. It's probably some trick to keep us from figuring out anything that'll really help. Or maybe he thinks what he did will be okay if we die happy." 

"Are you not going to fuck with me just because the Guru says you should? Listen, there's not a whole lot else for us to do out here." 

"Fucking expends semen, which is very high in nutrients, which then have to be replaced ... " 

"Sounds like a high school biology teacher's reason why you shouldn't jerk off." 

"But we don't have a lot of nutrients around to replace them with on this goddamned floating hors d'ouvres tray." 

"I've got the solution to that." 

"What?" 

"I won't eat. You'll eat and I'll suck you off and swallow it. You'll fuck me without coming and I'll get off, and then I'll suck you off. Those nutrients you're so worried about won't be wasted. Great ecological breakthrough. Perfect recycling. May be the answer to the world's food problems." 

"FOR SHITSAKE!" Sean laughed in spite of himself. Andrea was sampling the onion dip and rolling a bunch of joints. 

"The way I figure it" she said, "Johnny Popper's just goofing on us. Trying to teach us some kind of lesson. If he'd wanted to do us in he could've tied a couple of those Cordon Rouge cases to our feet and dropped us overboard instead of putting them on ice and throwing them in a lifeboat with us." She lit up a joint, took a hit, and passed it to him. 

Sean started to take a hit, suddenly became furious and threw the joint overboard. "I suppose you think we're bound to be spotted by a fishing boat or a plane or something? Well for your information we're not in anybody's fishing grounds, we're nowhere near commercial shipping or air lanes, and even if we were we'd have no way to attract anybody's attention. Except with this." He picked up the cap gun and fired three shots into the air. He looked all around the vacant horizon. "Where are they? Why aren't they coming? Do you think maybe they didn't hear that?" 

Andrea lit another joint. "Throw these damned things overboard if you want to throw something. We've got these to burn." She handed it to him. He took a hit and obliged. "The way I figure it," she said, "the Guru's gonna come back and pick us up again after a little while. He's got to. I mean, John and Joanna and Joe Lee are on that boat, and they're going to start asking questions." 

"Not for a while. After all, we did tell them not to wait up for us. The ship'll be docking in Martinique today and maybe Baloney can get away with telling them that we suddenly decided to go back to New York, had a plane to catch, and didn't get a chance to say goodbye." 

"Hardly likely they'll believe it." 

"Maybe he'll tell them we asked to borrow one of his lifeboats for a little cruise of our own." 

They continued in this vein for some time, with Andrea rolling joints, lighting them, and passing them to Sean, who took one hit from each and threw them overboard. "We ought to be writing notes on these damned things," he said. Andrea sampled half a dozen kinds of hors d'ouvres. "Why don't you open bottle of champagne? These things are making me thirsty." 

Sean pulled a bottle out of the ice. "There's no corkscrew, and these bottles aren't the kind you can open with your thumbs. He found a knife, chopped the cork up trying to pry it out, and finally extracted it with his teeth, nearly blowing his head off in the process. "And incidentally," he said, swaying a little bit under the influence of the marijuana as he passed the bottle to her, "even if the Guru wants to come back and pick us up, how the hell's he going to find us? The ocean's a big place, you know." 

"Maybe he'll home in on the vibrations of our fucking." Andrea was getting horny and Sean was getting drunk as well as stoned. "So as I said before, let's fuck." 

"Will you forget that, please? I told you, I refuse to fuck." 

Andrea smiled sweetly at him and pulled down her jeans. She spread out on the floor with her legs wide open. "Okay. Have it your way. You resist just as long as you can." 

He eyed her with obvious temptation. She fluffed up her cunt-hair and wiggled a finger casually back and forth on her clit. "By the way, Johnny Popper may be a gold-plated bastard, but he's one hell of a fucker. Before I realized what he'd been saying last night he took me for the ride of my life. Incredible. If you won't fuck me I guess I'll have to get myself off remembering that." 

"If you think I'm going to ball you to prove I can shoot a better stick than Phony Baloney, you've got another think coming. Get off however you want, if that's what you want to do." 

"Okay, schmuck. I'll wait till we polish off the champagne and get off on the bottle." She rubbed the mouth of the bottle against her pussy. "Or maybe I won't even wait." She kicked her legs up, shoved the bottle in, fingered her clit, and started moaning. The bottle shook and fizzed a column of bubbling champagne up into her hole. "Oh, if Lawrence Welk could see me now ... " 

"If you could turn that snap-dragon of yours into an opener my teeth would be a hell of a lot better off." Sean was staring at her frothing snap-dragon, much to the detriment of his celibate resolve. "You got me stoned because you knew it would be harder for me to resist!" 

Andrea saw she had him going. "Look," she pointed out, "there's no law that says you have to come. Hold onto your silly nutrients, for all I care. Just stick it in here and wiggle it around." She pulled the bottle out of her hole and pointed. "That's all I need. Look-it's a beautiful day. The sun is shining, the waves are waving, the fish are flying ... and I'm horny." 

"Oh, all right," Sean agreed. "But this is completely ridiculous. I want you to appreciate that. Here we are stranded out in the middle of the ocean ... " He pulled off his pants and stuck out his tongue when Andrea pointed triumphantly to his hard-on. 

They balled for about fifteen minutes. Halfway through, as they changed position, Andrea said, "Dig it-maybe a plane!! go over, and there's nothing that attracts attention like two people fucking in a lifeboat." She grabbed the KY. "Give me a little of this, will you? That champagne doesn't seem to be getting changed into useful bodily fluids, and I sure as hell don't want to get sore." 

Sean shook his head ruefully as he applied the dark green jelly. "I must say that makes you look ludicrous." He dabbed some on his dork. "Me too." 

In the end Sean came in spite of himself. He was a little bit upset afterward, but not too much, because as usual it was really mind-blowing to fuck with Andrea, and it made him forget their troubles. Besides, he resolved not to let it happen again. 

"All right," Andrea thought to herself when they were done. "One down, ninety-nine to go." She didn't really believe they could fuck their way home, but she'd decided she'd rather go out fucking than moping, and besides, there was always the chance. 

For the rest of the day Sean went crazy trying to rig up sails with their clothing, beating the water with the toy paddles, and indulging in sardonic soliloquies about the poetic justice of their situation, mostly centered around their having mixed mercenary greed with altruism, which according to him had created a massive portion of pure stupidity. By dint of much ingenuity and not a little promiscuity Andrea got him to ball her four more times, although he managed to keep from coming each time. 

By nightfall Andrea was a good deal more worried than she'd been in the morning. They hadn't seen a sign of life all day-except for an occasional shark's fin cutting the water, which scared the hell out of her. But as the sun went down and the moon came up she took out her guitar and started singing Rock of Ages. Despite the fact that she had a green cunt and a troubled mind, that made her remember back to the beginning of it all and she got excited thinking about her first night with Sean. He really was quite a guy. If they ever got out of this ... 

She and Sean started reminiscing, wondering about Joe and John and Joanna, dredging up memories of past orgies, and ended up fucking one more time. Sean just had to come because, as he later remarked, if he hadn't he would have ended up with the most humungous case of lovers' nuts in history, and his balls would have been likely to crowd them out of the boat. Still, he was determined to fuck as little as possible-if at all-and requested Andrea to please try to control herself. 

After he was asleep Andrea snuck back toward the stern, moved aside a case of smoked octopus, and cut half a dozen notches in the gunwhale with a knife. She figured she might as well keep track. 

For the next eleven days Sean and Andrea drifted helplessly out to sea. The currents, carrying them at an average of a little over a mile an hour at first, gradually slackened to nothing, so that they were merely being pushed back and forth by the tides and not going anywhere. Sean figured they were 312 miles from Martinique, still the closest land, at 8:30 in the morning on the twelfth day. 

For the first few days their spirits remained good. It turned out that actually their hors d'ouvres were more nutritious than Sean had thought, although he was sure they were eventually going to be hurting for some essential vitamins. But that was hardly his main worry. Twelve cases of champagne weren't going to last forever, which he suspected might be how long they'd be drifting around before anyone found them, and liquids would be their most vital need. And then there was the possibility of storms. The weather was good, with only a few relatively calm rains to drench them down and give them the unpleasant task of bailing out the bilge with sardine cans. But the weather couldn't hold forever any more than the champagne. Still, Sean couldn't believe they were really going to die in a lifeboat in mid-ocean, even though he didn't see how they were going to avoid it either, and when he had his sense of humor about him-especially when he was stoned, which was a good deal of the time-he spent long hours composing meticulously typed letters to the New York Times exposing Baalow Nee for the crook he was and parenthetically mentioning their predicament. These he committed to empty champagne bottles and cast in the direction of New York City with great gusto. 

After the fifth day, however, the joke started to wear thin. Andrea, who had kept her seduction plan in high gear all the while, marked off number thirty-nine before going to sleep on the fifth night, and suddenly had a fit of discouragement. She cursed out loud and Sean woke up, forcing her to pee over the side quickly to cover up her notches on the gunwhale. They were going to have to start eating the smoked octopus soon, and then Sean would find the notches anyhow and get pissed off and absolutely refuse to fuck. 

She was rapidly realizing how loony it was for her to keep up the facade of blithe sensuality necessary to her seductions. She began to feel like Sheherezade, constantly having to devise new techniques to keep the king's fancy engaged. But the more obvious it became that there wasn't any mortal way for them to help themselves, the more determined she became that they weren't going to lay down and die without giving the mystical solution a chance. She only hoped they wouldn't run out of KY before they reached number 100, because what with drinking only limited amounts of alcohol each day and being constantly exposed to the sun and the elements, they were both getting dehydrated, and without the KY her cunt would get rasped to a frazzle in three seconds. She resolved to use it more sparingly. 

She spent many hours trying to figure out how in the world fucking could possibly do them any good. She imagined the wildest things. Maybe the Guru had planted a bug someplace in the boat that allowed someone in the radio room of the True Enlightenment to count off their fucks and he'd come get them or send somebody after them when they'd reached a hundred. Maybe in some mystical telepathic fashion he could just tell when they were fucking and where they were. She worried about whether a fuck counted if both of them didn't come. Then she cursed herself for being so silly as to think about all this in the first place. But she was going to get to 100 come hell or high water, and in the middle of the fifth night she discovered a way to make things go faster. 

Sean was, as usual, deep in an exhausted, stoned, and partially drunken stupor. She greased herself up, rolled him over, sucked him for quite a while until he got fairly hard, then crammed him in. "If he ever wakes up and catches me," she thought, "he'll throw me to the sharks." To her surprise she found fucking this way quite pleasant. She took it very easy, letting the rhythm of the rocking boat do most of the work, and built herself up to a peaceful but nonetheless powerful orgasm. She put things back where she'd found them and went to sleep. 

Her new technique stood her in good stead for a while, augmenting the countless strip-shows and head-on attacks and protestations of unmanageable sexual appetite with which she managed to bewitch, beguile, and bully Sean into an average of seven or eight fucks a day in spite of himself. She took to copping as many as three or four freebees every night, at the price of having to listen to Sean's wild tales about how the cumulative effects of exposure and a life on rich food and champagne were giving rise to the most unusual and vivid sexual dreams ... also his complaints that she seemed for some reason to wake up unusually tired, and napped frequently during the day. But disaster struck on the tenth night when the inevitable happened: Sean woke up in the middle of an orgasmic fantasy to find himself shooting his wad into Andrea's honey-pot and, amid a ceaseless jabbering diatribe about nutrients, forbade her ever to fuck him in his sleep again. 

But even with this setback and Sean's consequent refusal to give it to her all the following morning and well into the afternoon, on the eleventh night she pulled aside the case of octopus and cut the ninety-seventh, ninety-eighth, and ninety-ninth notches in the gunwhale. And when Sean took their position the twelfth morning she was possessed of not a little excitement-along with not a little apprehension-at the thought of consummating her appointed task some time during the day. What if they hit a hundred and nothing happened? That would be the ball game as far as she was concerned. Their potato chips were soggy, their champagne was hot, they had enough food for perhaps another week if they stretched it, and then they'd start to starve and drink sea water and go crazy and jump overboard to wrestle the sharks. 

And what did she expect to happen? Was a big balloon supposed to float down out of the sky? A yellow submarine from the depths, maybe? Or-this had to be it-a whale had been assigned to come gobble them down and they'd ride back to New York playing dominoes with Jonah. 

After Sean had got over his usual first-thing-in-the-morning swearing streak and general dissertation on the hopelessness of their situation Andrea rolled some joints and stripped off her clothes and proceeded to the greasing ritual. She was slightly bitter at the fact that she'd used up just about all the KY-there was no more than an inch and a half in the bottom of the tin, looking thicker and greener and muddier all the time-on her insane project, because fucking would be one of their few remaining pleasures if they really were going to be marooned in mid-ocean for what little remained of their natural lives, and even that would be limited now. She handed Sean a joint. 

"Not again," he said, as he took a toke and watched her preparing for action. 

"I've got to have it," she insisted. She rubbed up her clit and grabbed for his crotch. 

"Not before I have some breakfast," Sean replied. "No way. Jesus, I guess it's the goddamned octopus. I hate octopus, but ... " 

"WAAAAAAAAH!" Andrea screeched, throwing her head back and forth and writhing around in the bilge. "I'VE GOT TO HAVE IT RIGHT NOW! RIGHT NOW!" She clawed at her cunt and humped up and down. "I CANT STAND IT! I'LL GO CRAZY WITHOUT IT! GIVE IT TO ME RIGHT NOW!" 

"Jesus," Sean thought, "she's cracking up." He knelt beside her and tried to quiet her down. 

"DON'T STROKE MY HEAD, STUPID! FUCK ME! I'LL BE OKAY IF YOU JUST FUCK ME! I KNOW I WILL!" 

Sean was bewildered and confused but he didn't know what to do except humor her. He took his pants down and pressed his limp rod into her crotch. 

She calmed down immediately. "Oooooooh. Yeaaaaah. That's right ... " She stroked his cock for five minutes till it produced an adequate erection and shoved it in. She humped like crazy, got really excited, and came three times. Afterward she was herself again. She got up and searched the horizon hopefully. 

"Damn," Sean said, scratching his head and making for the octopus. "That was weird. I'm really worried about you." 

He moved the case. 

He stared. 

"YOU BITCH!" He examined the notches on the gunwhale, grouped neatly in fours with slashes through them. "Ninety nine! And that was the hundredth!" 

He glowered at her. 

He burst out laughing. 

He started to cry. 

"Okay, Miss Seductress. You're gonna get it now." 

Andrea was wiping her cunt off with her jeans. "Huh?" 

"I said, you're gonna get it now. All these tricks and acts and games and ploys-to get me to do something I didn't want to do, to get me to make a fool of myself fucking you because Baloney put one last funny joke over on you-I'M GONNA RAPE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU!" 

Andrea didn't know whether to be scared or what, but she could sure as hell see Sean meant it. For the first time since they'd been cast adrift he ripped off his pants and his cock sprang to instant erection and he came after her. 

"Wait a second! I've got to grease up again! I wiped it all off! You'll kill me!" She dove for the KY can. 

Sean dove on top of her and struggled to turn her over as she plunged her fingers into the goo for the hundred and first time. 

From inside the can something bit her. At least it felt like a bite. There was something sharp in there. Something metal. "Hey!" she screamed as she felt around and grasped one cylindrical object about three inches long, then another, at the bottom of the can. 

Sean froze. "What?" 

She fished the things out. "I'll be fucked." She smiled. "What would you say these were?" 

Sean grinned and shook his head. "Offhand, I'd say they were spark plugs." 

THE END