Once Is Not Enough (43 page)

“Linda!”

“Will you stop yelling ‘Linda’ and get with it? This man has had every kind of woman in the world. He’s also fifty-seven and slightly weary. You’ve got to turn him on. The sight of that nymphet body of yours isn’t going to turn him on.
You’ve
got to do it.”

She sat in Dr. Alpert’s office and filled out all the questions on the card. Then the receptionist took her to a private cubicle equipped with just an examining table. There were at least seven cubicles in the office. And they were all filled. The waiting room had already begun to get crowded when she left it. The receptionist pointed to the paper coat and said, “Take everything off and then go to the end of the hall.” She wrapped the crinkly examining robe around her and went to the room down the hall. A nurse was waiting with a cardiograph machine. She motioned for January to lie on the couch. Then she attached the electrodes.

When the test was over, the nurse led her to another room. “And now, Miss Wayne, we’ll take some blood samples.”

“But I’m just here for a vitamin shot. I told that to Dr. Alpert on the phone this morning.”

“Dr. Alpert always wants a complete examination on the first visit.”

January held out her arm. She winced as the nurse took the blood. And even more when she pricked her finger. But it gave her a sense of confidence. This was really a doctor to be reckoned with. He was thorough. No wonder his shots were good.

Finally she was led back to her cubicle. She sat on the edge of the examining table and waited. His office had been crowded. But she had purposely come early, explaining, as Linda had told her to say, that she was making a plane and had to be out by noon.

After about fifteen minutes a middle-aged man with a stethoscope hanging around his neck, entered the room. His smile was warm. “I’m Dr. Simon Alpert. Now, what’s your problem? Feel listless? I noted your blood count is only ten. That’s slightly anemic. Nothing to worry about. But you should be twelve.”

She noticed his collar was frayed and his fingernails were dirty. It seemed impossible that this man was responsible for the beautiful Park Avenue office, the efficient antiseptic nurse and receptionist. Perhaps he was like Einstein who never combed his hair and walked around in sneakers. His teeth were tartar-stained, and since his smile was perpetual, she found herself studying the discolored teeth. His gums weren’t good either. He certainly looked as if he could use some vitamins.

“Now just exactly what is it that brings you here? I understand Miss Riggs, a former patient, recommended you.”

She looked away, then studied her own immaculate nails. “Well . . . I . . . there’s a man I’ve been seeing and—”

“We don’t handle abortions here . . . and we don’t give the pill.”

“No, it’s nothing like that. You see this man is divine, every woman finds him attractive, and I—”

“Say no more.” He smiled knowingly. “I get the picture. He’s walked out on you. You’re depressed. Uptight. Stay there.” He waddled out of the room.

In less than five minutes he returned with a syringe. “This will make you feel like a new woman. You’ll get him back. I know.” He was adjusting the needle. She hoped he had washed his hands. “Young things like you, you fall in love, give too much of yourselves. The man gets bored, and then you start phoning him . . . right?” He went on before she could answer. “Sure, it’s the same story . . . phoning him . . . begging him . . . pleading . . . driving him farther away. It’s the same story all the time.”

He untied the string of her examining robe. It fell to her waist, but he barely noticed her nudity. He put the stethoscope between her breasts, listened, seemed content with what he heard. Then he swabbed the vein of her arm. “Listen, don’t call him. Promise Uncle Simon . . . don’t call the bastard.” She felt the needle go into her vein. She looked away. Amazingly enough he did have a light touch . . . no real pain. She turned and saw her own blood floating back into the syringe . . . then watched it gradually return to her arm along with the contents of the syringe. He smiled. “Now, hold your arm up like this.” He placed a piece of cotton on the needle mark. “Just hold it like that for a second. You have beautiful veins.”

She couldn’t believe it. But she felt an instant reaction. A slight sense of floating . . . light-headed . . . but a nice feeling. Then suddenly a wonderful feeling of warmth shot through her . . . like when she got sodium pentothal in Rome . . . that amazing fluidity that went through her entire body. Only instead of the nothingness and sleep the pentothal caused, she felt crackling with life. She had a wild urge to touch herself between her legs because that’s where she was vibrating with a pulsing sensation.

Dr. Alpert smiled. “Feel better?” He tweaked the tip of one of her breasts and she laughed. Because it wasn’t the gesture of a dirty old man. It was just a nice gesture of friendship by Uncle Simon.

“You’ll be fine,” he said. “We’ll have your blood up to twelve or thirteen in no time. Maybe you’ll want a shot a week . . . or sign up for a series. Take that up with Miss Sutton, my receptionist. Some people like them twice a week . . . or milder forms every day. I have a man whose blood is fifteen, but he takes one every day. He’s a famous composer and he works eighteen hours a day. He pours energy into his work so he needs them often. And so do you skinny little things who make love all night and work all day.” Then he tweaked her breast again and waddled out of the room.

She leaped off the examining table and the white robe fell to the floor. She ran her fingers down her breasts. She did it again. The nipples hardened. She felt that divine unbelievable feeling between her legs. She touched herself. Oh, how glorious. Oh, beautiful Dr. Alpert with the dirty fingernails and the wonderful vitamins. She realized with a new clarity that she had probably only been half functioning until now. Maybe she had been anemic all her life. That is, since the accident. Of course . . . before that . . . she always felt alive like this when she was with Mike. And now, she felt alive again . . . aware. The world was waiting to belong to her!

She dressed quickly and wrote a check for one hundred and twenty dollars for the cardiogram and blood tests and the shot. The receptionist explained from here on the shot would cost twenty-five dollars unless she wanted a series of twenty; then it would cost four hundred dollars payable in advance. January
smiled. She’d take them as she needed them and pay twenty-five.

She stopped off at Saks and bought Tom a tie. She went to Gucci’s and sent Linda a belt she had admired, and wrote on the note, “Thank you for Dr. Alpert.” Then she rushed home and packed. And when the buzzer rang at three and the chauffeur announced the car was waiting, she floated down in the elevator eager for the weekend ahead.

She couldn’t wait to see Tom. And she also looked forward to seeing Hugh . . . he was wonderful, too! The whole world was wonderful!

Nineteen

T
OM LOVED
the tie. “I’ll wear it on all my TV appearances,” he said. He had a bottle in the car and offered her a drink. She shook her head. “You’re my high,” she insisted. And when they arrived at Westhampton, she flung herself into Hugh Robertson’s arms. If he was surprised at the exuberance of her greeting, he did not show it. But she had thought about that day they had all spent at Westhampton so many times that her return felt like a homecoming. The oversized couch and fireplace were exactly as she remembered them. The sound of the surf seemed far away, even though she could see the ocean through the picture window in the living room. They sat around the fire. Tom sipped at his drink and Hugh cooked the steaks. She cuddled against Tom on the huge sofa, leaping up now and then to help Hugh with the food.

At ten o’clock, Hugh stood up. “Well, it’s time for me to hit the dunes.”

“You’ll freeze,” January said.

“Oh, I won’t stay long tonight. I’ve got a workroom behind the kitchen with a studio bed in there. I often sleep there. Sometimes I just don’t feel like going to all the trouble of climbing the stairs to go to bed. So you both enjoy the room with a clear conscience.”

After Hugh left, January and Tom sat watching the crackling of the logs on the fire and listening to the rumble of the waves lapping at the shore. January never grew tired of watching the waves—there was something stubborn in the way they would rise in strength, dissipate themselves against the beach, and
then regroup and try again. They reminded her of mischievous little children, scampering to the beach, only to be dragged back by their mother.

She snuggled closer to Tom and traced his profile with her fingertips. He leaned over and kissed her. Then he picked up the bottle of bourbon, took her by the hand, and led her upstairs.

The room was a reconverted attic. The owner was obviously very patriotic. It was painted white and the furniture was bright blue and red enamel. A huge feather bed dominated the center of the room. January flopped on it, kicked off her shoes, and jumped up and down. “Tom . . . come on in . . . wow . . . no springs. It’s like floating.” Then she leaped off the bed and came to him. “I love you,” she said as she unbuttoned her blouse. Their eyes met and held as she dropped her jeans to the floor. Slowly she unhooked her bra and stepped out of her pants. “Here I am,” she said softly.

He stared at her for a moment with a slow smile. She put her arms around his neck. “Come on, lazy,” she whispered as she unbuttoned his shirt. “Let’s go to bed.”

He turned toward the bureau and poured himself a drink. He swallowed it quickly, then reached out and switched off the light. She lay on the bed and watched him undress in the darkness. She could see the contrast of his buttocks against his tanned shoulders and back. His thighs were strong . . . then he turned and jumped on the bed with such force that it creaked. They both laughed and hugged one another. He was on top of her, resting his weight on his arms. He stroked her hair and in the darkness he whispered, “Oh, baby, I want to make you happy.”

“I am happy, Tom.” She put her arms around his neck and pulled him down to kiss her. He rolled to his side and held her close as they kissed. She ran her fingers down his back. She felt relaxed and at ease, as if their bodies had always been close like this. She was eager to touch him . . . to be taken by him . . . to belong to him.

Then he eased away and she felt his tongue streaking across her body . . . on her breasts . . . her stomach . . . she clutched his head . . . the feeling was so warm and wonderful.
But she wanted to please
him
. . . to do anything he wished . . . his tongue was on her thigh . . . his fingers were exploring her . . . every nerve of her body was responding . . . his tongue seemed everywhere . . . and then she felt an insane sensation . . . so unbearably wonderful. She couldn’t believe what was happening . . . she had never felt anything like it. She moaned. Her entire body was dissolving into an explosion of ecstasy . . . she held his head and shivered . . . and finally fell back wrung out and exhausted. He came up and lay beside her and stroked her breasts. “Did I make you happy?”

“Oh God, Tom . . . I never felt anything like that . . . but . . . we didn’t do it . . . I mean . . . you—”

“I wanted to make you happy,” he said

“And now—” Her strength was returning. Now he would enter her.

“And now we’ll just hold one another in our arms.”

She lay very still. Something was wrong. He held her close . . . but she felt sick with panic. She hadn’t aroused him. She began kissing his neck . . . stroking his body. She wasn’t quite sure how to go about it . . . but perhaps if she imitated him. She got on top of him and began kissing his chest. Then she slid down. But there was no big throbbing thing like David had thrust at her . . . something inert lay between his legs. It was about the size of a man’s thumb. She couldn’t believe it. How could a man Tom Colt’s size—a man as virile as Tom-have such a tiny penis? She began to stroke it, but there was no reaction. Then she put her lips to it. She felt a sudden surge of protective tenderness toward him. Tom Colt, whose fiction exploded with volatile sex . . . Tom Colt, the man women worshipped, the man other men looked up to . . . Tom Colt, the living symbol of man—with a boy’s penis! God, how this must have haunted him throughout his life. She had worried at school when her breasts didn’t grow large enough . . . but at least she had something. But for a man to have nothing . . . the penis was his entire sex object. Oh God, so this was the reason for all the prizefights . . . the scuba diving . . . the championship golf and tennis . . . the barroom brawls. She made love to him with an added tenderness. Poor, poor Tom
. . . to have to write his sex fantasies because he couldn’t live them.

He suddenly pulled her up to him. “January . . . don’t feel you’ve failed me. My pleasure is in making you happy.”

She lay very still. She wondered how many other women he had said the same thing to. And suddenly she was determined to make him feel like a man. She began to stroke him. She let her tongue run up and down his arm . . . his hips . . . She tantalized him . . . coming closer to him . . . then stroking him and pulling away . . . and she saw the small penis begin to stiffen . . . she kept playing the game . . . letting her lips brush against it . . . then darting off to another part of his body . . . her fingers explored him . . . suddenly he rolled her over and got on top of her . . . he began to move steadily . . . faster . . . and with urgency . . . and then she heard him moan and felt his body go limp. He stayed on top of her for a few seconds. Then he looked into her eyes and said, “Thank you, January.”

“Thank you, Tom.”

He pulled away from her and took her into his arms. “January . . . I love you.”

“And I love you,” she whispered.

He stroked her hair. “Do you know what you’ve done for me?” he said. “This is the first time I’ve made it in ten years.”

“I’m so glad, Tom.” She kissed his cheek and it was wet. Then she saw the tears in his eyes. “Tom . . . is anything wrong?” He buried his head against her neck and she held him close and comforted him as she would a child. After a few minutes, he got out of bed and walked to the bureau. He took a long swig of bourbon and kept his back to her. “January, I’m sorry—I—”