Mary Jenkins - Innocent in Chicago Volume Two

By the time Frankie and Cynthia arrived at Shoo-Fly's apartment for the party, it was well after midnight and fifteen or twenty people were already there, with more arriving as the hours went by and the musicians, strippers and other night people had finished their jobs.

Cynthia had attended Shoo-Fly's parties before and knew basically what to expect. She was certain that there would be plenty of marijuana, assorted other drugs if you wanted them and plenty of people ready to indulge in sex if you were in the mood. His apartment was luxuriously furnished for whatever your whim may be and he reveled in the fact that he could supply the surroundings as well as the drugs for his growing circle of friends. Although he was slightly condescending at times, everyone was more amused by his antics than anything else. He was always good for a loan with no questions asked, and periodically gave wonderful parties.

Even though he preferred men to women, often saying that the only good thing about females was that half the time they gave birth to males, he never tried to molest men after they had once given him a definite brush-off. He would just shrug his shoulders and say, "Well, no hard feelings, but do come around to all my parties and bring a girl friend," and then with a laugh, "and any of their old boy friends for me!"

There was usually some new innovation at his parties, and this time, as he opened the door for them, they smelled the scent of fresh perfume, so strong that it was detectable even through the sweet, pungent smell of the marijuana.

"Frankie… Cynthia," he cried. "Come on in. This is going to be a real ball!"

Shoo-Fly was dressed in a deep purple smoking jacket, white ruffled shirt, lavender string tie, a black sash cinching his waist tightly and lavender slacks. He looked like an advertisement for expensive sin, and Cynthia wondered bow he could see through his dark glasses in the dimly lit room. He continually wore dark glasses and she had always wondered why until one night when she was sitting next to him she noticed that his eyes were grossly over-sized and bulged out wetly like a startled fish. She had shivered with distaste and wondered if he kept them on even while making love!

She wrinkled her nose, sniffing the air as he helped them off with their coats.

"I recognize the pot, Shoo-Fly, but what's the other? Incense?"

He looked at her frowning slightly, "Cynthia dear, you know we had incense last time and that I always have something new. Come with me and see!"

He waved them ahead of him through the hall and into the living room, gesturing with a hand carved pipe with a foot long stem and tiny bowl that he had made especially for him in North Africa for his marijuana and hashish.

The living room was almost thirty feet long, the tall windows heavily draped in red velvet and the floor was covered with a thick Turkish rug. Low chairs and couches were scattered about the room and several dozen large square pillows lay in disarray on the floor. The room was almost completely dark and she had difficulty making out any of the faces that were silhouetted from the indirect lighting. The room was thick with smoke, but she could still smell the sickeningly sweet odor that permeated the room.

"No flowers… no incense… well?" she asked.

Shoo-Fly laughed heartily and said, "Perfume! Perfume on all the light bulbs!"

Frankie glanced at her, amused, as if to say, "God, what a freak!" and steered her to one of the large pillows on the floor.

"What'll you have," Shoo-Fly asked, gazing admiringly at Frankie.

"Not you, at any rate," Frankie replied laughing, and helped himself to a couple of joints.

"Hey, you two," someone yelled at them as they were lighting up their cigarettes. It was Al and Torchy sprawled out casually on one of the couches in the back of the room.

More guests kept arriving and soon the room was full of people all talking, smoking until they were all high, laughing at almost anything and a warm feeling of contentment and peace stole over her. She was leaning back, her head resting on Al's knees as she listened to the talk that floated through the air. She closed her eyes, her face relaxed, giving the appearance that she was sleeping, but she was aware of everything they were saying.

Her mind was so engrossed in the conversations that were going on around her that she didn't feel Frankie slip away from her side and make his way back to the bar at the other side of the room.

He walked cautiously, exaggerating each step as he stepped between and over couples that were lying on the floor.

"Hey, look at Frankie taking those seven foot steps," someone yelled, and she opened her eyes and watched him weave his way toward a group of their friends who were mostly junkies at the far end of the room. They looked dull and listless, as though they were having a horrible time, but she knew that they were actually in a state of complete pleasure as she had seen them earlier in the kitchen, boiling and injecting heroin.

Music floated through the room, deep throaty sounds of a jazz singer belting out the blues and everyone seemed to be in a half-lethargic state.

She felt Al stroke her hair, running his fingers down the nape of her neck, massaging, caressing.

"Let's go on back to the other room," he whispered in her ear. "Torchy's hot to go too."

Just the thought of the room at the back of the apartment made a tight knot of desire swirl in her stomach. He helped her to her feet and pulled Torchy up and the three of them stood there for a moment clutching at each other for balance, laughing loudly, Al reached over and slid Cynthia's low-cut blouse off one shoulder so that it lay in a curve, half-revealing the soft swell of her full, ripe breast.

"A preview of coming attractions," he said.

They walked delicately between the chairs and pillows, stumbling over a few legs and finally reached the door to the hall.

They overheard Shoo-Fly arguing with his newest "Mistress" and chuckled at the ridiculous sounds.

It seemed ridiculous to them to hear two men fighting like a husband and wife and they couldn't stifle their laughs.

"Just a little domestic quarrel," Shoo-Fly volunteered when he saw them standing there taking in what they were saying.

"I see you are about to enter my special little den of iniquity," he continued, pulling his own lover by the arm and steering him into the room along with the other three.

"Wait a minute," Cynthia said, "Where's Frankie?"

"Relax, sweet," Shoo-Fly said, "He's already in there making it with, if I do say so myself, with a delectable little redhead!"

A pang of jealousy passed like a cold steel blade through her stomach, but only for a moment. She couldn't bear the thought of his making love to someone else even though she had made love to many different men during their relationship.

They had joined in group orgies where they had both been partners to other people and she had gotten some sort of a vicarious thrill seeing him saw in and out of another woman, but the fact that he had gone off by himself without letting her know was a different story, and she wasn't sure that she could take it.

They walked down the hall and opened the door to a smaller room, painted in red and black, which was so cluttered with clothes that it looked rather like a bargain basement. The smell of the marijuana filled the room and every now and then you could hear groans of pain and delight come from various section of the room. They undressed quickly and looked around for an empty spot on the floor. Cynthia tried to find Frankie amidst the tangled, writhing bodies that were making love in pairs, threes and other assorted groups, but her eyes had not yet become accustomed to the darkness so it was impossible to tell where he was.