However, the moment he laid eyes on them he felt reassured. In fact, he was bowled over. He took me aside almost at once to congratulate me on my taste.

Lola Jackson was a queer girl. She had only one defect—the knowledge that she was not pure white. That made her rather difficult to handle, at least in the preliminary stages. A little too intent upon impressing us with her culture and breeding. After a couple of drinks she unlimbered enough to show us how supple her body was. Her dress was too long for some of the stunts she was eager to demonstrate. We suggested that she take it off, which she did, revealing a stunning figure which showed to advantage in a pair of sheer silk hose, a brassiere and pale blue panties. Mara decided to follow suit. Presently we urged them to dispense with the brassieres. There was a huge divan on which the four of us huddled in a promiscuous embrace. We turned the lights down and put on a record. Lola thought it too warm to keep anything on except the silk stockings.

We had about a square yard of space in which to dance flesh to flesh. Just as we had changed partners, just as the tip of my cock had buried itself in Lola's dark petals, the phone rang. It was Hymie Laubscher telling me in a grave and urgent voice that the messengers had declared a strike. «You'd better be on hand early to-morrow morning, H. M.,» he said. «No telling what will happen. I wouldn't have bothered you if it hadn't been for Spivak. He's on your trail. He says you ought to have known that the boys were going on strike. He's hired a fleet of taxi cabs already. There's going to be hell to-morrow.»

«Don't let him know you got in touch with me,» I said. «I'll be there bright and early.»

«Are you having a good time?» piped Hymie. «No chance of my horning in on the party, is there?»

«I'm afraid not, Hymie. If you're looking for something I can recommend you one up at I. Q. office—you know, the one with the big teats. She goes off duty at midnight.»

Hymie was trying to tell me something about his wife's operation. I couldn't make it out because Lola had slipped up alongside me and was petting my cock. I hung up in the midst of it and pretended to explain to Lola what the message was about. I knew Mara would be on my heels in a moment.

I had just gotten it half way in, Lola's back bent almost in half, and still talking about the messenger boys, when I heard Ulric and Mara stirring. I pulled away and picking up the phone I called a number at random. To my astonishment a woman's voice answered sleepily—«Is that you, dear? I've just been dreaming about you.» I said Yes? She went on, as if still half asleep: «Do hurry home, won't you dear? I've been waiting and waiting. Tell me you love me...»

«I'll make it as quick as I can, Maude,» I said, in my own clear natural voice. «The messengers are on strike. I wish you'd call...»

«What's that? What are you saying? What is this?» came the woman's startled voice.

«I said rush a few waybills up to D.T. office and ask Costigan to...» The phone clicked.

The three of them were lying on the divan. I could smell them in the dark. «I hope you don't have to go,» said Ulric in a smothered voice. Lola was lying over him, her arms around his neck. I reached between her legs and caught hold of Ulric's pecker. I was on my knees, hi a good position to tackle Lola from the rear should Mara suddenly decide to go to the lavatory. Lola raised herself a bit and sank down on Ulric's prick with a savage grunt. Mara was tugging at me. We lay down on the floor beside the divan and went to it. In the midst of it the hall door opened, the light was suddenly switched on, and there stood Ulric's brother with a woman. They were a bit drunk and had apparently returned at an early hour to do a bit of quite fucking on their own.

«Don't let us stop you,» said Ned, standing in the doorway inspecting the scene as if it were an every day affair. Suddenly he pointed to his brother and shouted—«Holy Smokes! What's happened? You're bleeding!»

We all looked at Ulric's bleeding cock; from the navel down to his knees he was a mass of blood. It was rather embarrassing for Lola.

«I'm sorry,» she said, the blood dripping down her thighs, «I didn't think it would be so soon.»

«That's all right,» said Ulric, «what's a little blood between bouts?»

I went with him to the lavatory, pausing a moment on the way to be presented to his brother's girl.

She was pretty far gone. I held out my mitt to shake hands and in reaching for it she accidentally made a pass for my prick. That made everybody feel a little easier.

«A great work-out,» said Ulric, washing himself assiduously. «Do you think I might take another crack at it? I mean, there's no particular harm getting a little blood on the end of your cock, is there? I feel as though I'd like to have another go at it, what say?»

«It's good for the health,» I said cheerily. «Wish I could swap places with you.»»

«I wouldn't be averse to that at all,» said he, sliding his tongue lecherously over his lower lip. «Do you think you can manage it?»

«Not to-night,» I said. «I'm going now. I've got to be fresh and spruce to morrow.»

«Are you going to take Mara with you?»

«I sure am. Tell her to come in here a minute, will you?»

When Mara opened the door I was powdering my cock. We fell into a clutch at once.

«What about trying it in the tub?»

I turned the warm water on and threw in a bar of soap. I soaped her crotch with tingling fingers. By this time my prick was like an electric eel. The warm water felt delicious. I was chewing her lips, her ears, her hair. Her eyes sparkled as if she had been struck by a fistful of stars. Every part of her was smooth and satiny and her breasts were ready to burst. We got out and, letting her straddle me, I sat on the edge of the tub. We were dripping wet. I reached for a towel with one hand and dried her a bit down the front. We lay down on the bath mat and she slung her legs around my neck. I moved her around like one of those legless toys which illustrate the principle of gravity.

Two nights later I was in a depressed mood. I was lying on the couch in the dark, my thoughts shifting rapidly from Mara to the bloody, futile telegraph life. Maude had come over to say something to me and I had made the mistake of running my hand carelessly up her dress as she stood there complaining about something or other. She had walked off insulted. I hadn't been thinking about fucking her—I just did it naturally, like you'd stroke a cat. When she was awake you couldn't touch her that way. She never took a fuck on the wing, as it were. She thought fucking had something to do with love: carnal love, perhaps. A lot of water had passed under the bridge since the days when I first knew her, when I used to twirl her around on the end of my cock sitting on the piano stool. Now she acted like a cook preparing a difficult menu. She would make up her mind deliberately, letting me know in her sly, repressed way that the time had come for it. Maybe that's what she had come for a moment ago, though it was certainly odd the way she begged for it. Anyway I didn't give a fuck whether she wanted it or not. Suddenly, though, thinking of Stanley's words, I began to have a yen for her. «Get in your last licks,» I kept saying to myself. Well, maybe I'd go up and tackle her in her pseudo-sleep. Spivak came to mind. He was watching me like a hawk the last few days. My hatred for the telegraph life was concentrated in my hatred for him. He was the bloody cosmococcus in person. Must polish him off somehow before they fire me. I kept thinking how I could lure him to a dark wharf and have some obliging friend push him overboard. I thought of Stanley. Stanley would relish a job like that....

How long was he going to keep me on tenterhooks? I wondered. And what form would it take, this abrupt deliverance? I could see Mara coining to meet me at the station. We'd start a new life together, righto! What sort of life I didn't dare think. Maybe Kronski would raise another three hundred dollars. And those millionaires she talked about, they ought to be good for something. I began thinking in thousands—a thousand for her old man, a thousand for travelling expenses, a thousand to tide us over for a few months. Once in Texas, or some God-forsaken place like that, I'd have more confidence. I'd stop off at newspaper offices with her—she always made a good impression—and I'd ask permission to write a little sketch. I'd walk in on business men and show them how to write their ads. In hotel lobbies I'd be sure to meet up with a friendly soul, some one who would give me a break. The country was so big, so many lonely people, so many generous souls ready to give, if only they met the right individual. I would be sincere and forthright. Say we get to Mississippi, some old ramshackle hotel. A man walks up to me out of the darkness and asks me how I feel. A guy just aching for a little chat. I'd introduce him to Mara. We'd saunter out arm in arm and stroll about in the moonlight, the trees strangled with lianas, the magnolias rotting on the floor of the earth, the air humid, sultry, making things rot—and men too. To him I'd be a fresh breeze from the North. I'd be honest, sincere, almost humble. Would put my cards on the table immediately. There you are, man, there's the situation. I love this place. I want to stay here all my life. That would scare him off a little, because you don't start talking that way to a Southerner straight off. What's Your game? Then I'd speak up again, soft and distant, like a clarinet with a wet sponge plugging the bell. I'd give him a little melody out of the cold North, a sort of chill factory whistle on a frosty morning. Mister man, I don't like the cold. No sir! I want to do some honest work,. anything to keep alive. Can I talk straight? You won't think I'm cracked, will you? It's lonely up there in the North. Yes sir, we go blue with fright and loneliness. Live in little rooms, eat with knives and forks, carry watches, liver pills, bread crumbs, sausages. Don't know where we're at up there, honest, Mister. We're frightened to death we'll say something, something real. Don't sleep.... not really. Thrash around all night praying for the world to end. We don't believe in anything: we hate everybody, we poison one another. Everything so tight and solid, everything riveted with cruel hot irons. Don't make a thing with our hands. Sell. Buy and sell. Buy and sell, that's all, Mister....