Denise Bryant - Mother and Daughter

“Are you a close friend of Mr. Bannon's?”

“Yes.”

“Close men friends have a way of confiding these things, don't they?”

“Yes, but…

“Mr. Bannon is married, isn't he?”

“Yes…”

“Well then I don't really think there's much danger that Mr. Bannon would ever say a single word about this to anyone who matters… do you?”

“No… of course not.”

“There are three women on the school board, Mr. Riggs. If I am to be dismissed, there will have to be some better reason than that Mr. Bannon, a married man, paid thirty dollars to have sex with me.”

I was so proud of myself for being clever. I thought I had everything figured out and that I was absolutely covered. I sat back smugly and lit a cigarette, letting my skirt creep up a few inches and not bothering to adjust it.

“Mrs. Bryant…” he said rather softly, looking at me as if he were the great white father and I was some foolish child. “Prostitution is against the law in this state. I'm sure that if I were to tell Lt. Hawkins of the vice bureau that we had reason to believe you were running a bawdy house and accepting dates for pay, it would be no problem at all to have your house watched, your movements checked, your… uh, visitors questioned. As soon as your name ended up on a police blotter, the board would automatically release you. The publicity would be ruinous.”

“Well… what is it you want?”

“I want your resignation, Mrs. Bryant,” he spoke firmly, pulling a sheaf of papers from his pocket. “I have everything typed up for you to sign. You're leaving because of a better job offer…”

“Mr. Riggs… you're not serious?” I questioned with utter disbelief, unable to believe that my whole life was suddenly crumbling just like that. “My… my record as a teacher is perfect. My private life is… quite discreet. I'm not a common whore… I just… Why, Mr. Riggs! You yourself have let me know many times that your personal interests in me were not purely as a teacher. Certainly, you recall the time last December that…”

“I guess I should have offered you thirty dollars and everything would have been fine!” he bellowed angrily, banging his cup down in the saucer. “Well, let me tell you something, Mrs. Bryant. If I had had any idea you were a professional prostitute, I would not have been interested. I was interested in you as something more than just a… a sex companion. My interests are more than flesh deep. You are truly a good teacher, an educated woman with a warm personality. I had thought… Well, no bother what I thought. I want you out of the school by next Friday.”

“Please… don't discard me just like that, Mr. Riggs,” I asked him contritely, walking over to pour myself a brandy and downing it straight, then sitting in the small chair right at his side, “I know… you can only look at this from a man's viewpoint. Try to think of me for a moment-a woman alone, a divorcee, a woman who has known love and can't live and function as a normal human being without love.

“What am I to do, Mr. Riggs? If I date normally, I am restricted to social activities, movies, dances. Even then, you know how rumors fly about a teacher who is a divorcee. And if I do make love with my so-called regular or normal boyfriends, I would gain a reputation as a tramp and be fired for that.

“If I… had dated you… allowed you to make love with me… how was I to know that it would not be just another tawdry affair for you? I… I had no way of knowing how deep and sincere your interest was. If I… just went around with a married administrator or board member, I could get fired too. Don't you see, I had no choice? The only way to have a life that filled me with the love I needed, was to be selectively and secretly promiscuous.

“I'm not a prostitute, Mr. Riggs. There were one or two married men who offered me a few dollars because they knew I… I have a daughter to support. It became a… a habit, I suppose. If I… I could find one man that I was capable of loving and who really loved me, I wouldn't care if he was married or not I need that kind of love. But it… it's impossible to find…”

“Do you mean you'd give up running around?” he asked, as I leaned toward him slowly and let my scoop-neck gape open, “You could… give up the money?”

“How much is it? Thirty dollars once a week… twice a week,” I scoffed, shaking my head and then swallowing hard, and realizing I was only hall acting. “No, Mr. Riggs, I'm not just interested in sex either… but it's a pretty important part of living. And with the right man, the sharing of sex is… is wonderful… wonderful…”

I let my head fall deliberately on his shoulder and I sobbed. There were real tears because I had worked myself into a highly emotional state when I realized that my whole future could very well depend upon what happened tonight. I was, however, unsure of myself in this particular situation. If I overplayed my hand or emphasized sex too much, I would spoil it. I desperately waited for some reaction from him before I could make my next move.

“I wish I could… believe,” he started to say, patting my head very gently, his voice unsteady, ”… that you meant this. I have… well, I'm not a very young man anymore, and I think you have excited and interested me more than any woman I have met in years. Mrs… Riggs is not interested in love, sex, whatever it is about a man and a woman that makes their association exciting. That went long ago. Her clubs, her church work, these all occupy her time.

“It may surprise you to know, Mrs. Bryant… Denise… that I have not had a relation with my wife in seven years. I have had no sex relation with any woman in seven years. When I… thought of you in this context, it has made me very, very intrigued. I can't tell you just how it has… affected me.”

“Why don't you take off your coat and try, Mr. Riggs?” I said softly, standing up and walking toward the bar, “Would you like some scotch… or bourbon? Brandy?”

“Scotch, please,” he requested, removing his overcoat and jacket and loosening his tie. “And call me, Charley, Denise. I may just be an old fool and doing the wrong… stupid thing, but I haven't had anyone to talk to in years. I want to tell you everything, Denise. Can I?”

“Of course, you can,” I told him, bringing over our drinks, “Do you mind if I get into something more comfortable?”

I ran upstairs and took off my blouse, skirt and half slip, then put on a robe and slippers, coming back down immediately to find that Charley had drained his glass and was just staring off into space. He was a lonely man and I felt genuinely sorry for him. After I fixed him another drink and sat curled up at his feet, he began to talk and talk and talk, running his fingers through my hair tenderly as he did so.

It was a most unusual monologue, a confessional as much as anything else. The personal intimacy of it was certainly not conducive to normal romantic aims, but I guess he had picked the right person to tell it to. I can recall just about every word he said after he got over the sometimes boring preliminaries of his childhood and first years of marriage:

“Lucille is a good woman, I suppose. But how can a 'good' woman be a good sex partner? She was never that, Denise. My most pleasurable sex experiences have been when I thought about you… and masturbated.

“Seven years, Denise. That's a long time for a man to go without sex. I often wondered what I would do, how I would act, had you been more… friendly, say invited me in and allowed me to do more than just kiss you. I would worry about it, wondering if I could… would be so afraid and the experience so strange, that I might be potent.

“I'm 55 years old, Denise. I realize I have little to offer a woman in return. Money is out of the question. It would spoil the relationship.