Douglas McCallister - Rich man, poor man

He ticked off the names of their closest friends in his mind, knowing that he would never ask them. They would be shocked, he thought, or maybe titillated. But, in any case, they were sure to refuse. And then what? He would have made a fool of himself, and for no reason. He wondered how other couples found willing partners, how and where. And then at last he pushed the whole idea from his mind, giving it up as useless.

John finished some last minute work and thought of asking Miss Lowrey, Emma Lowrey, to have a drink with him, then discarded that idea as he had discarded so many others. It was pointless, purposeless. Oh,

sure, his secretary was a good-looking girl with the kind of figure that made his eyes almost pop out of his head. But, if he got involved with her the way he'd like to, if he got her into bed and fucked her silly, which was what he wanted to do, then what? Nothing, he thought disconsolately, except that he'd soon be looking for a new secretary. And he didn't think the delights of a quick fuck would compensate for the troubles that would follow.

He laughed bitterly. Jesus! He must be getting old! Well, whatever it was, he didn't think much of the idea of taking Emma Lowrey out. Not tonight, anyway…

John signed the last letter on his desk, put a few important papers into a drawer and locked it, pocketing the key. Then he got up and walked out, slamming the door behind him. He said, good night to Emma Lowrey in the outside office, walked the length of the waiting room and went out into the hail. Pausing at the elevator, wondering whether it might not be better to work late, to call Penny and have her beg off any date she might have made for the evening. But that too seemed useless, fruitless, and he pressed the button at last, saw the light flash red with the little arrow pointing downward, and then the doors slid open, noiselessly, and he stepped inside the small cage. It glided downward, depositing him on the ground floor in a matter of seconds. And then John Whitmore walked outside.

He stopped at the corner, looking up, his spirits revived and refreshed by the soft breeze that blew through the tops of the trees lining the avenue. It whipped up the tiny skirt of a young girl standing at the intersection, waiting for the light to change, showing her soft white thighs, the twin spheres of her rounded buttocks outlined beneath the little white panties she wore. John stared, then watched with a sinking heart as she walked off in the other direction. Then, he followed her discreetly, wishing he had the courage to approach her.

But when she turned and stared at him, oh Christ, just as if he were a dirty old man, he stopped before a newspaper stand and studied the magazines that were affixed to it. Then, a row of glossy covers, adorned with drawings of half-naked girls, caught his particular attention. He picked up one from a pile on the counter of the stand and started to turn the pages. There was a naked woman spread from one page to another as the centerfold, the staple that held the magazine together stuck straight through her navel. He stared at her voluptuously mounded breasts, thinking once again of Penny. And then he heard the vendor's harsh voice rasping, "Read it at home, mister. Come on, move it along. Buy it here and read it at home," A blush of shame spread across John's handsome features.

What did this character think he was, anyway? Some sort of dead-beat? Some oversexed satyr? A bum? Oh, Jesus! He glared across the counter at him, then plunked down a couple of coins, picked up the magazine and walked off with it.

As he waited for the light to change, he riffled once more through the pages of the magazine still clutched tightly in his hand. A title at the top of one page caught his attention, much as the cover had a few minutes earlier, and he read it with a quiver of excitement. "Join the club," it said. More explicit instructions followed -an address, a coupon to be filled out, the group's rules, and then his eyes ran down the column of advertisements inserted by those who were already members, women looking for men, men looking for women. There were couples, too, couples looking for other couples, and it struck John, much as a beam of light might illuminate a page he had been trying to decipher, that this was the answer to his problems!

The light changed, and he rolled up the magazine and stuffed it in his pocket. He could put his own ad in. Why not? he asked himself again as he crossed the street and headed for the lot where his car was parked. He climbed into it, pulling the magazine out of his pocket and laying it on the seat. And then he started the motor and drove off. Once home, he tucked the magazine back into his pocket before going inside. Penny was waiting for him, dressed in a long black hostess gown that clung to her curves like a racing car at high speed. He felt a flash of desire for her, an aching tenderness that made his loins blaze like a brush-fire.

God! He would like to screw her now, like to pull her down beside him right in the middle of the living room carpet and fuck up deep inside her. He stood in front of her, waiting for some sign of recognition of his overpowering need, but there was none, and he pecked dutifully at her cheek and went in past her.

Just as dutifully, Penny brought the cocktail tray, laden with the well-chilled martinis in a shaker, the stemmed crystal cocktail glasses, the little silver dishes of nuts and crackers. "Darling," she said, "You look

tired."

John nodded. "I am," he admitted. "A little."

Penny poured a drink out for him. "This is just what the doctor ordered, then," she said. She smiled, sending sunlight through the room. But the light seemed to fade almost at once, and John felt, as he had a hundred times recently, that they moved on separate wavelengths, in little worlds of their own, orbiting in their own spheres, passing close yet never really meeting.

He was grateful to Penny, grateful for so many things, and yet, there was a wide, yawning chasm inside him, an emptiness that ached

unbearably. Oh, God! He wished that things were different, wished he knew how to make them so.

They had dinner by candlelight, one of the sophisticated touches that Penny had agreed to because it pleased her husband, although she secretly thought it was "rather silly". She had worked hard over the dinner, too, hoping to please him, but even she had to admit that the steaks were overcooked. John liked his rare, something Penny thought sickening, and the salad was tired and wilted. He groaned inwardly at the store-bought ice cream, but finished it off dutifully, and then lit a cigarette while Penny cleared the table. Later, they sat opposite one another in the luxurious living room, John reading a novel and Penny leafing through a confession magazine. She sighed at last and put the magazine down, stifling a yawn. "I'm tired," she said plaintively, "I'm going to bed."

John looked at her over the top of his book.

"Are you coming up?" she asked.

He shook his head. "Not right away."

"Will you be long?"

"No."

Penny waited, not quite satisfied with his answer, then asked querulously, "How soon?"

John glanced at her with just a trace of annoyance on his fine features. "Not very long, I said," he repeated, and she at last turned and went slowly down the hall. As soon as she had disappeared, John found the magazine again, then poured himself a brandy before he sat down to thumb through it.

He stared admiringly at the models in it, all in scanty attire, showing their large and lovely breasts, their white rounded ass-cheeks. There were even those who exhibited sparse patches of pubic hair for his delectation. He sighed, thinking that Penny would put any one of them in the shade, at least as far as feminine pulchritude went.

He turned the pages slowly, tearing himself away from the full page photos and then, at last, came to the column that had caught his attention. He read through the advertisements carefully, wondering if he would find exactly what he was searching for among them. None, though, seemed to offer just what he wanted, and at last, he went into the library and sat down there at his desk. With a paper and pencil before him, he carefully composed his own advertisement. He wrote out a check, slipped it into the envelope along with the letter and sealed it. Fishing in the top drawer of the desk, he found a stamp, licked it and affixed it to the letter. And then he slipped it into the pocket of his jacket. He would mail it in the morning on his way to work…