Jean Sifton: The door-to-door salesman

The lovely young blonde crossed one long slender leg gracefully over the other, and smiled dazzlingly at Doug.

"Thank you so much for picking me up!" she breathed. "I've had absolutely no luck at all this morning – that is, until you stopped for me, Mr…?"

"Fletcher, Doug Fletcher," Doug supplied, darting another look at the appealing young hitchhiker. He had been so surprised to see her, waiting at the entrance to the expressway, that he had impulsively stopped for her. Now he was glad he had – at least the journey to work wouldn't be as boring as it usually was.

"I'm Selma Blake," the blonde went on, as she pulled out a packet of cigarettes. Doug refused her offer of one, and she lit her own, pulling deeply on it. He couldn't resist stealing another glance at her – he was certainly attractive, and the short skirt she was wearing revealed the smooth sweep of her curvaceous thighs. Her long blonde hair swung back freely over her shoulders and she had a youthful carefree look which suddenly made him feel old and careworn.

"Do you always hitchhike to work… If that's where you're going…" Doug inquired, fighting his desire to forget all about the heavy rush-hour traffic and concentrate solely on his beautiful passenger.

"Oh, sometimes," Selma replied enigmatically, and smiled at him again, her full ripe lips curving upward tantalizingly.

Doug was aware of a tightening in his loins, of the stirring of his awakening cock, and hoped that its stiffening was not noticeable through his trousers. Steady on, he warned himself silently, don't forget you're a married man!

"You look angry all of a sudden!" Selma said, and Doug realized that he was frowning, the corners of his mouth drooping, his lips white and tight.

"I'm not… I'm just thinking," he said lamely, angry that she had noticed his reaction to his internal thoughts. Any man would scowl if he had the problems I've got! he told himself, unable to turn his thoughts away from Betty and their fight this morning. Just like me to have to worry about that nagging bitch when I've got a cute dish like Selma beside me.

He couldn't help thinking that their quarrels got more and more frequent, while their love life, such as it was, got less and less frequent. They had tried to figure out what was wrong between them, by calm conversation, but it always ended the same way, with one or the other of them hurtling accusations at the other. But he knew what the problem was… the plain and simple fact was that he wasn't getting a good lay at home and that was bound to get to any normal guy after a while! But Betty, every time they even got near to discussing the crux of the matter, seemed to get hysterical, yelling "it's all your fault," and refusing to discuss it further.

Well, he'd had enough of that, a man could only put up with so much before he cracked, and he was dangerously close to the breaking point now – this morning's quarrel was almost the last straw! If that frigid wife of his had any idea of how she was affecting him, she'd change her tune, and quick, before it was too late…

"Hey, calm down," Selma said suddenly, leaning a reassuring hand on his arm, and Doug was amazed at the shudder of pleasure which rippled through him from the electric contact. "You're all wound up," she went on sympathetically. "Something must really be getting to you!"

Yes, something is, Doug smiled grimly to himself, acutely aware of her gently pressuring hand on his arm.

"Where will I drop you off?" he asked brusquely, avoiding her eyes.

"Central Avenue will be fine," Selma responded, gathering up her bag.

"Look… how… would you like to meet… say for a drink, after work?" Doug heard himself saying almost involuntarily. He was aware of the painful thudding of his heart as he waited for her reply. She'd probably refuse, after all, he had no business asking her in the first place.

"Sure, I'd like that," she said at last, and Doug realized that he had been holding his breath.

"Great, that's great," Doug exclaimed, and said that he'd pick her up outside her office at five.

He sat watching, his eyes glued to the provocative sight of her shapely hips until she was lost to sight in the hurrying crowd.

Hell, it's only a date for a drink, no harm in that, he told himself as he steered the car off in the direction of the city center. And it sure will be better than going home to Betty and facing another of her scenes.

Betty Fletcher grimaced as she swallowed the hot coffee. She couldn't adjust to the slightly bitter taste of the brandy, but knew that the overall effect of the mixture compensated for the unusual taste. Already she felt a warm tingling deep in the pit of her stomach as the hot liquid burned its way down and she could almost feel the tension easing out of her muscles. Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the back of the breakfast nook, and tried to calm her troubled thoughts. She hadn't meant to lose her temper with Doug this morning; she really hadn't. But she just couldn't help it. She felt so irritated and tired, so depressed as soon as she woke up. Of course it was his fault; he knew that when she said she didn't feel like making love, she meant it. But he always persisted, which really got her upset, and made her nervy and on edge all night, usually carrying through into the morning.

If only he'd understand her, or even try to.

But no! All he ever thought about was himself, and sex! He made her feel like an automaton with the constant demands – no wonder she lost her temper with him so much.

She took another deep drink of her brandied coffee, and wondered wearily how she'd get through the day. The idea of calling Tricia, her girlfriend occurred to her, but even the thought of making the effort to get dressed up and go out depressed her. And Tricia was always so inquisitive about the personal side of her married life, giving out details freely about her own sexual encounters, and probing almost rudely about Doug and herself in bed. No, I can't face Tricia this morning, Betty sighed. She looked listlessly around her, mentally arranging in order of most importance the tasks she had to do. But she couldn't even get interested in that. She was usually very house-proud, capable and efficient in running her home, but now she could see telltale curls of dust, clutters of newspapers.

It isn't fair! It isn't fair! she thought desperately, I'm young and attractive still, life shouldn't be over for me after two years of marriage!

Two years! She got up and wandered glumly into the hall. Two years of bickering and frustration, getting worse all the time, with no prospects of improvement.

She noticed, with disinterest, that the mailman had come. She felt a momentary rush of interest as she saw a small package among the usual circulars and a bill. "Personal Products" the discreet stamp in the corner said, and Betty realized that the vibrator-massager she'd ordered two weeks previously had arrived.

She carried it into the kitchen, and poured herself another cup of coffee, adding a liberal splash of brandy, and then sat down again in the breakfast nook to open the package.

She had read the small advertisement in one of the journals Doug subscribed to, and had been impressed by its claims. "Relieves stiff areas of the body," and "pats, stimulates, while you glow all over," and finally, "feel relaxed and happy after the deep massage of our natural feel personal vibrator."

Relaxed and happy. How long was it since she felt that way? She could barely remember, and almost desperately had mailed off the coupon asking for a free trial. She had forgotten all about it in the past couple of weeks, as tension mounted between herself and Doug and things went from bad to worse. But now, here it was, and if it helped a little bit, it would be worth it.