"Spider Robinson - Copyright Violation" - читать интересную книгу автора (Robinson Spider)

Understand, I knew perfectly well that something was going to go wrong. I would
never get her to my place, or she'd change her mind, or I wouldn't get it up, or I
wouldn't get it in, or I'd get in and it'd be disappointing, or she'd have AIDS, or a
bonebreaker boyfriend—the exact nature of the doom was as yet unknown, but I
knew in my heart that something was going to go wrong. (And of course, I was
mistaken about that.) But I didn't care. The thrill of seeing all those stunned faces
watching her leave with me, rubbing up against me like a cat who's just heard the can
opener, was—I firmly believed—worth any disappointment. (And you know,
perhaps I was nearly right about that.) As we reached the door, she opened it for me
with her left hand, and her right hand settled firmly and unmistakably on my ass to
guide me out into the night. There was an audible collective gasp from behind us.
Once we were on the street I flung up my arm to hail a cab. Cabs never stop for
me, even when I wave large bills at them. I was operating on dream logic.
And a cab pulled up with a squeal of brakes, and the cabbie jumped out and
opened the door for us.
It was her, of course, not me. I knew just how the cabbie felt. I could sense his
astonishment that she was with me, and I agreed with him, and gave him a smile that
tried to say, "It's a dream, pal, go with it. For God's sake, go with it!"
When he got back behind the wheel, he adjusted the rearview mirror and I met his
baffled gaze. I gave my address, Marga added "—and hurry!" in a voice thick with
lust, and his eyes widened even further. We started up with a roar and a lurch, and
the moment we were up to speed she opened my fly.
The cab seemed to lock its brakes on ice, spin wildly and smash into a gasoline
truck. She made a small sound of contentment and continued what she was doing.
The phantom flames roared ...
The cabdriver was so profoundly shocked he was actually driving at a safe legal
speed, and took us to my place by the shortest, most direct route. Marga appeared
to be totally engrossed in what she was doing, and God knows I was, but she
sensed when we were approaching our destination somehow, and had me zipped
back up as the cab came to a halt. She paid the driver before he or I could think of
it. I had just enough presence of mind to hold the door for her as she got out. A
group of leathered teens were monopolizing the stoop of my brownstone, as usual.
They turned to brown stone at the sight of us, and did not even turn to watch as we
walked up past them and into the building.
 As the elevator door closed behind us, she shut off the light, leaned back against
the wall and pulled me against her. She tucked my face against her neck and hugged
me so tightly, with both arms and one leg, that I could move only a single muscle.
But she seemed to be under no such constraint: she rippled, in several directions at
once, and if I lived one floor higher I'd have disgraced myself. But the elevator door
slid back and light burst in on us, and reluctantly she released me.
Standing outside the elevator, waiting to board, was Hal Grimsby, the slickest
stud in my build-ing, a jock type who had been bringing home a different girl every
night for the four years I'd been living there, each girl prettier than the last. He was
making no move to get on the eleva-tor. You could have put one of his handballs
into his mouth without touching his lips.
Marga straightarmed him out of the way and led me past him. "Hurry, darling,"
she said clearly. "I'm dripping."
Behind us, Hal made a faint gargling sound. The elevator closed and left without
him.
And still it wasn't perfect yet. As we approached my apartment, the door across