Norman Singer: The Hungry Husband

Then David waited. More than two weeks. Each day became a nerve-wracking feat of endurance, as he tried to visualize what it would mean to find a stable of tantalizing sex-partners without having to be morally obligated to any of them.

Just when the tension of suspense was becoming something of an emergency, the information reached him. In a plain sealed envelope. First making certain there was no one who might be spying on him at the post-office, David tore open the envelope. He found a list of names, addresses and phone numbers. Nothing more personal. He supposed these girls had received the same limited information about him, although, according to the instructions, it was the man's place to do the initial contacting. He'd really expected something more intimate, like a warm message from at least one of the women. The first name, given in initials, seemed especially cold: J.B. Porter, then a whole bunch of digits on a card that mustn't be folded, bent or spindled, which sounded like pretty much of a drag to start out with.

He was on his lunch hour, and since the post-office was right in the heart of the financial district, David decided to walk all the way to Market Street to make the call in an out-of-the-way phone booth, frequently glancing behind to make sure nobody he knew was nearby. The threat of danger and risk began to work on him like a shot of adrenalin. Christ! He was even breathing better, and walking with more forceful strides.

Hurriedly, he dialed the girl's number. The voice that answered was warm and pleasant, although for a moment the tone seemed oddly familiar to him. Something about the musical, cultured inflections reminded him of someone. Linda? Was that who it sounded like, or did he simply have his wife on the brain, an understandable spasm of nerves and guilt? Naturally he knew it wasn't Linda, despite the reminiscent tone. He asked the girl if she'd have lunch with him the next day. Miss Porter hesitated for several seconds, and he began to think she'd hung up. Then she said yes, she'd be happy to. They decided to meet at La Burgoyne the next afternoon at one. She added that she had dark auburn hair and would be wearing a green hat. David chuckled and said he'd buy a carnation and stick it in his buttonhole, just to keep things traditional. She laughed. A refined, lilting chuckle, and David thought of Linda again, growing impatient with himself for the ridiculous association. Besides, there was much more warmth and humor in this voice, indicating, he hoped, a receptive willingness to please.

The next afternoon David recognized the girl at once, even though her back was to him and she seemed to be reading the menu posted in the window. Trim, lithe redhead, tight tapered hips and behind. Good God, what a knockout he'd nailed the first time up at bat. Then, just as he was wondering why any girl who looked like that had to fill out a questionnaire to find a partner, the lady turned around.

David gasped, and stared and sputtered. OhmyGod!.. it's… it's her! He went white as a sheet as the full shock of recognition hit him. No wonder she'd sounded so familiar. It was Brad's wife. No… ex-wife. Champion Husband-Fleecer, Maneater and the pushiest pushover on the Peninsula! So this was the kind of woman who'd be interested in the kind of man he said he was on that questionnaire: Vampira herself! And here he was, little Red Riding-Stud, strolling innocently through the forest to screw like a wolf.

He started to back away, trying to tell himself this was merely an accident and she had nothing to do with all those digits… But ooh!.. look at the pretty green hat, the dark auburn hair. And dig her eyeing that car nation in his lapel, as she smiled, and then frowned, and then smiled again…

"David…? It is you, isn't it? I thought I knew your voice on the phone. And, of course, you're not just passing by, are you?"

"Yes, yes, Joyce… that's it!" he clutched at this straw-in-the-wind. "And I happened to see you standing here, so… so naturally I… "

"… So naturally you stuck a flower in your buttonhole and decided to be my date," she broke in; he saw that she was laughing uproariously. "Oh my God, David Fortune, of all the men in the world… the perennial Boy-Virgin! And you needn't try to lie your way out of this assignation, you're not clever or lewd enough, darling!" She ran her calculating eyes up and down his body and burst out laughing again. "But really, this is so priceless, I'd have hysterics for about twenty minutes if time and energy weren't so important to us. And sweetie, it's such divine justice, if you don't mind my being rather frank, because you're exactly the sort of structure I had in mind."

"Ah, but you're wrong, Joyce! Don't you see, I lied! I don't know anything about jazz or rock 'n roll or pot or swingin' combos…"

"Pardon?"

The look of total befuddlement on her face reminded David that she hadn't actually seen his questionnaire. Only the computer had read his lies and, as a result, had chosen her. He'd fashioned himself in Brad's image and, via automation, lightning had struck twice in the same place. But ooh damn!.. She was a vivid-looking creature, he thought, seeing her in an unsettling new light now, after all that Brad had told him. And yet, the thought of Brad made his knees go wobbly. How could he even consider touching the woman who had ruined his best friend's life? Especially since it was Brad himself who had come to his rescue, although, ethically speaking, this couldn't be in the nature of a betrayal, since he and Joyce were no longer married. Then why did he feel like The Boston Strangler just looking at that delicious body of hers? Was it because she and Linda were close confidantes and told each other everything?… to say nothing of Brad's description of his ex-wife as a "compulsive blabbermouth?" Oh wow!.. if he needed any reasons for feeling guilty or terrified, there they were…

"Just passing by…" he mumbled again, and with trembling fingers he began tearing all the petals off his carnation.

"Don't be such an ass, David Fortune nee Thorndike. Who the hell is 'Thorndike', by the way?"

David sighed deeply. "My mother, God rest her soul. Who is 'Porter'?"

"My first husband, Goddamn his!" she replied. David let his eyes dwell on the fiery glints of her hair, the steely blue eyes, and her mouth… a full red curve as she smiled at him so derisively. Disaster in the afternoon, he told himself-run like hell!

"I tell you what, Joyce, I'll be the gentleman you know I am and bow out gracefully…"

"You will not!" she said, moving nearer and taking his hand. "You'll take me into this lovely French Feedbag and wine and dine me. And later this afternoon you'll arrange to leave your office an hour early, on the pretext of having a headache or something; after which you will join me in my little Wednesday play-suite at the Fairmont, where I've been conducting weekly matinees for years…"

She hovered closer to him and David inhaled the lush subtleties of her perfume, stared at her moist and crimson mouth, wondering how it would feel to kiss her, going a little limp as he tried to envision all the varieties of her response… and good God, when he thought of her wealth of experience, how could he stand there and look at that tightly black-sheathed body and deny that she'd been sent to instruct his greenest passions? Umm… Those firm high-slung breasts that looked so couched and snug in their cage but would bounce so freely once he set them loose. And what would she let him do to her? Everything Linda had refused him? She wasn't as pretty as Linda, but the animal-content of the woman fairly clawed out at him.

And still his sense of reasoning got the better of him: he'd have to forego this opportunity. Much too close to home.

"Joyce, listen to me… you're a… a very appealing girl, but we can't let this go any farther, and I think you know it. Too many of our loved ones involved."