Norman Singer: The Hungry Husband

David thought about this, feeling very callow and unworldly at the moment. "Oh wow, Brad… you make me realize that nobody's life is what it seems on the surface. So… well, I'd like you to know that mine isn't either. Not lately." And that's all I'm telling you, he thought, determined not to rehash all the dread depravity of his nightmares. How could he face Brad with such grisly details?

Brad was eyeing him speculatively, as if for the first time that day he observed some subtle changes in David. "Look, Buddy-Boy, if you're gonna tell me your marriage isn't perfect after all, I'm gonna kick Santa Claus right in the nuts the next time I see him!"

Perfect, thought David. Yes, that's the word for it: a plastic relationship…

"I have a beautiful marriage!" Suddenly David started hitting the table with his fist. "It's as pretty as a picture post-card! Why hell… I could just sit and look at it for hours and hours!"

"Cool it, boy, your salad's twitching," said Brad, watching David's face go tense and drawn, starting to wonder about him. Quietly handsome conformist society-boy gets everything he wants all these years-including the most luscious-looking wife in all Christendom-and then pow!.. everything goes, morals, scruples and sperm, right down the old drain. And with some of them it's gutter-hopping time until they breathe their last…

"All right, Dave, so there's trouble in paradise. But you listen to me: Your Linda's much too good to throw away. At least she's always looked pretty damned good to me. Christ, she's sweet, faithful and built-what more can you ask?" Then he stared shrewdly at David. "Now tell me real quick-she is faithful, isn't she, David?"

"Right, Brad," David nodded. "And she's sweet, and she's built…"

"Okay, that means all you really need is a little hiatus, a fling. The thing to do is somehow manage all that without going completely ape and having to be strapped down to a table."

David looked at him, expectant and impatient to hear more. Seeing this expression, Brad laughed. "I knew it!" he said. "You need help, so you've dug up an expert right? I'm supposed to play Big Brother and 'fix you up,' as we used to say back when we were sophomores. Well, I'm sorry, Dave, you'll have to do it yourself, because believe me, you won't enjoy one juicy minute of it if you have to hire a pimp."

"Oh hell, that's crazy, Brad. I could never think of you like that. You're a friend who's been around a lot more than I have, so… well, you have contacts… and…"

"No, no… you are gonna do it, not me. Unless there's discretion and complete freedom of choice, lechery's for the birds. You've gotta be an independent sneak, an aggressive loner, can't tell your right nut who's lickin' your left nut. Cool… sotta voce, get it?"

"No," David said quite honestly.

Grinning, Brad seemed about to relent. "Tell you what-I will give you a push in the right direction-but nothing more than that. Tomorrow we'll lunch together again, but you come over to my apartment and I'll whip up some sleazy old eggs or something. I've got something to show you. Something confidential. After that, Brother, the ball is yours, and you run with it!"

He wrote down a Telegraph Hill address and handed it to David, who had anxious insomnia that night instead of fluid nightmares. He was in the hands of Dirty Destiny now, and he wondered what the hell was ahead for him, adventure or catharsis?

Brad Grogan's one-room studio apartment had a sparkling view of the Bay, although there was little else to heighten its appeal. It was slovenly and cramped, but it boasted a small bar, a stove and a refrigerator which, to David, made it look like the typical bachelor-pad.

While they lunched on a surprisingly expert Western Omelette, David waited for his host to bring up the subject of in-depth hanky-panky, but apparently Brad wanted to prolong the suspense, because he discussed just about everything else until they'd finished their meal and were having cigarettes.

"All right, Brad, it's time for the commercial," said David. "Tell me where the action is and how I can get in on some of it without getting my ass in a sling…"

Brad laughed. "Translated, that means you want to commit a whole bunch of sex-crimes without getting caught-right?"

Smiling, David nodded. "You took the words right out of my jockey-shorts."

"And without Linda finding out so she can pick you clean like Joyce did me…"

"Brad, what you're talking about is called 'Safe Fun'. Is there such a thing?"

Brad laughed again, this time shaking his head in exasperation. "Oh man, all you married-slaves are really gullible, you know that? And your dizzy wives too, spreading all that horny gossip about me. Jeez!.. all the whores I'm supposed to be keeping and wining and dining. All on $72.50 clear a week! And Dave, I swear that's all I have left after I pay out alimony and child-support. You see this upholstered smudge-pot I'm shackin' in? A hundred and thirty a month just because it's on the most glamorous hill in the world and has a view, which I need, to keep from climbing the walls. So tell me, on a budget like mine, where do I squeeze in one fifty-dollar hooker after the other. Even the pigs hustlin' the Tenderloin are fifteen and twenty bucks."

David considered all this thoughtfully. "That must mean you've got a steady girl who puts out and doesn't charge…"

"Are you out of your skull?" Brad roared. "I'm not going that hearts-and-flowers route again. I got me a harem, Dave, and at bargain prices. Want to get in on some of it?"

"You mean… you'd introduce me to… to…"

"… An IBM Computer," Brad finished the sentence. "After that, you're on your own."

David stared at him, as Brad went over to his desk and pulled out several official-looking papers. He brought them to David and flung them in his lap. "Here, boy, fill out one of those questionnaires and start swinging."

David glanced down and read the huge black letters at the top of one of the forms: COMPUTER-MATE, INC. New Advanced IBM Computer Mating of Men and Woman's PBI (Personality/Background/Interest) Compatibility For the Perfect Date. "Oh, no!" David groaned, looking up at Brad. "You've got to be kidding. What does all this kindergarten social-work have to do with sex?"

"Ah Hah!" laughed Brad. "Hooray for the power of the corporate image if you think these coast-to-coast stud-services have anything to do with social work!"

David's expression went a little blank. "Would you repeat that please?"

"No. Just shut up and listen, you poor, sheltered sch-nook! I guess it was bound to happen some day that Public Relations and Automation would take over man's most urgent need: Nightly Orgasms. And with the Population Explosion what it is, the ratio of people who are all in heat at the same time is absolutely stupendous! But hell, crime is mushrooming too, so nobody's got the guts to walk the streets at night any more and hunt for their kicks. So what else is there but Digit-Screwing? Somebody's got to corral all that sex-starved livestock and aim it in the right direction."

Carefully, David began to read the questionnaire. "But it says you've either got to be looking for a companionable date, or someone to marry…"

"Ahh, don't you believe it, Tiny Tim! If you read between those lines, you'll see old Marquis de Sade himself offering you the world."

"Push-button pimping," David laughed, "that's what you've made of this, haven't you, Brad… you dirty old fart!"

"Well… that's one way to put it."

David read some more of the form. "Of course, they make it quite clear that anything of that nature is not their intention."

"Oh sure, they stay off the hook, all right. But Christ, they know what people do when they get together, and it's not all finger-painting and ceramics either."