Part 15 (1/2)

s.e.x is power.

Or is it the reverse: Power is s.e.x?

Whichever is true, I ought to bea”by that definitiona”a powerful woman. I've had a lot of commerce, shall we say, with the opposite s.e.x. A lot.

And wanting too much of some thing, we're told by heads thought much wiser than ourselves, points to a little something called addiction.

There are many varieties of addictions, those guys with the string of fancy degrees inform us. And I guess they're right. I don't have much educationa”I finished high school with average grades and no particular distinction, took a few courses at a local community college, but I know about some things that just aren't learned from textbooks. There's addiction to nicotine and your thirty-one flavors of mind-bending chemicals and exercise and sugar and mental abuse and alcohol and power and sleep and food and danger and flattery anda”

s.e.x, too.

No kidding.

It's a real addiction. Believe me.

Do you know what it's like to be hooked on s.e.x?

I didn't think so.

It pierces and stings, throbs and aches.

Among other things.

You know that old-time song by Peggy Lee? ”Fever?” That's pretty d.a.m.ned close to an accurate description of what I go through. It's a fever that has to be reduced, a hunger that has to be fed, a thirst that has to be quenched.

Sometimes I'm just sitting in my office, staring at boring grocery accounts, my mind filled with numbers that need sorting, and suddenly that one particular sensation comes over me. It's halfway between a cramp and an itch, and it's more than a little painful, and it's all inside where I can't reach. I can't scratch; I can't relieve it except one way. And I sure can't ignore it.

Usually I have to wait until my lunch hour, sitting there at my desk with my legs squeezed together, trying not to gasp aloud. I squirm, try to concentrate, fail. My face is flushed, my breath rapid, and ripples of pain and pleasure roll through me as the gnawing inside increases. I watch the sweep hand on the huge white face of the clock, watch it going around and around all too slowly, the minute and hour hands inching upward. Finally, when the hands get straight up, I grab my purse and leave the office. I half run, half walk down the street to a bar I pa.s.s every morning on my way to work.

It's not a great lounge; that is, you probably won't find many yuppies hanging out there with their white wine-drinking pals, but it suits me fine. You can get a tolerable sandwich or two, some draft, and something more than that. A lot of guys hang out there. A lot of guys who are just as hot as I am.

I've been here before. They know me, I suppose, but I don't care.

I stroll into the cool darkness; my heart still seems to be fluttering inside my rib cage, and I wonder if any of the men seated along the bar can hear that or see my flushed skin. Apparently not. I lick my dry lips and nod casually to the bartender, a fellow some years older than myself and fairly stocky; he has a nose that looks like it was broken a long time ago, over and over. I find a booth toward the back of the room. I look down at the scarred wooden surface of the plank table, at the wet rings left by someone's gla.s.s. I'm wet, too.

I have an old-fas.h.i.+oned figurea”large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, nipped-in waist, and curving hipsa”and blond hair halfway down my back and a face that, while not glamorous, is attractive. They've served me well.

I wait.

Not long, though.

Someone slides into the booth across from me.

”Hey,” he says.

”Hey.”

I look up.

He's got hairy forearms, not like an ape's, but nice; the type you could run your fingers through. The sleeves of his blue work s.h.i.+rt are rolled up to mid-biceps, and those are fairly large. So he must work with his arms, his hands; I like that. His s.h.i.+rt is open a little, and I can see the chest hair, dark with one or two strands of silver. Not a kid. That's okay too. They're usually too anxious; they tend to pop before I get filled. Then I've gotta have two or three of them to make it worth my while.

His face is slightly scarred, maybe from acne when he was a teenager. It's a pleasant face, though it won't win any awards. His hairline is receding slightly. I put him in his mid to late thirties.

He smiles. His teeth are white, fairly even. At least it's not all fake enamel, I realize.

I put my leg out under the table and ma.s.sage his calf with my bare foot.

I see him jerk slightly. He wasn't prepared for that. It amuses me that they never are, no matter how strong they come on to me.

”Want another beer?”

”Sure.” I have barely touched the one in front of me, have barely nibbled the sandwich on the paper plate. It's not what I want to eat.

He waves to the bartender, who nods and within a few minutes comes by with our new drinks. He takes away my half-filled gla.s.s and uneaten sandwich.

”What's your name?” I ask after a moment.

”Barry. You?”

”Eleanor.”

”Nice name.”

A prim name, I think, for someone who definitely isn't. ”Thanks.”

Now, I didn't claim that I was some kind of brilliant conversationalist. Oscar Wilde I'm not, I know that. On the other hand, that's not the reason I came to the bar, remember.

I find out within minutes that Barry works on a road crew and is hoping to get promoted to the office. He is close to having a bachelor's degree and wants to go someplace other than the outside with unbearable heat in the summer and unbearable cold in the winter. I always like ambition in my bed partner.

I tell him I work in Accounts Payable at a grocery wholesale warehouse.

”Not precisely exciting, but it pays some of the bills,” I remark.

He laughs, just as if I'd said something witty. Barry's not here for my conversation, either.

We polish off another beer. Talk about the weather, which is hotter than usual and more than a little humid. The long hot summers of the Northeast. Sweltering. Simmering. Moist.

I'm very humid as I sit across from him. My other shoe is off now and both feet are rubbing his legs. I breathe faster. His hand has crept up under cover of the table, and he's brushed his fingertips against the inside of my lower thigh. I almost wet myself.

”Kind of warm in here,” he says.

I nod, hardly trusting myself to speak.

”Want to go someplace?”

Never thought he'd ask. ”Sure.” I smile and lean forward, and he looks down my front at the shadow between my b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

I get up, pay for the drinksa”I always make it a point of doing that, even though it's generally the guy who makes the first movea”and he follows me outside.