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

the hall opened and Mary Zanfardino stepped out.
For the past four years, Mary Zanfardino had been the leading lady in an endless
series of fantasies much like the one I was now living—save that I didn't have this
good an imagination. I had never succeeded in starting a conversation with her, but I
knew that she was perfectly aware of my attraction to her, and deeply revolted by it.
Now she was thunderstruck. I'd never seen pupils that large.
I turned to look at Marga. I found the sight of her as devastating as everyone else
did. Her hair was disheveled. Her nipples were prominent beneath her silk dress. She
smelled like Tina Turner's panties after a concert. Her eyes were heavy-lidded, and
her smile would have looked just like the Mona Lisa's except for the smeared lipstick
...
I turned back to Mary, former girl of my dreams. She looked like a mud
simulacrum of a woman, fashioned by a primitive and dressed by a small child.
This was no time for introductions. I nod-ded curtly to Mary, brushed past her,
and unlocked my door. As Marga came toward me (utterly ignoring Mary) she was
unbuttoning her dress, and before I could get the door closed behind me she was
out of it entirely. I caught one last flash-glimpse of Mary that made me want to
giggle, but I knew intuitively that if I started I might never stop, and this once in my
life I did not want to remind myself of Jerry Lewis. Then the latch slid home and
Marga and I were alone. I knew that my bedroom was a mess, but I also knew we
were not going to get that far.
I can see it in my mind, even now, but I can't describe it. Just say that, even
displayed to the best possible advantage—that is, even if Marga were wearing
it—there is nothing in the Frederick's of Hollywood catalogue that could ever look
half as lovely, as provocative, as inflam-matory, as what Marga was wearing under
that dress. Enchanted elves had made it. My mouth had gone drier than a user's
manual, and I knew why: some helpful internal resource-dispatcher was rerouting all
the moisture in my body to where it was most needed.
"Which one of us shall undress you, my king?" she asked.
We took turns. She left the crown on my head and I didn't argue.
 *****

No, I'm not going to cheat you; that was not a discreet fade to black. Those
asterisks are there because what she and I did deserves to be set off by itself. It
merits special ceremony.
I will admit that part of me wants to take refuge in those asterisks, to leave the
lurid details in the limbo which is symbolized by the six-pointed star. I never learned
to enjoy locker-room boasting; it never came up, so to speak. But if I don't tell you
just how it was, you'll never understand how I felt afterward.
Besides, it won't be a real invasion of my privacy. I mean, it's only me telling
you, and telling you my version of things, and only the parts that can be fit into
words at that. Not even all of them. I'm trying to make the point that what she did to
me was worse than anything I could do to myself.
So you want to know, was it good, eh friend?

*****

As I've said, I knew going in that it would be a fiasco of some kind; we'd be
interrupted, or I'd Fail To Perform and nothing would happen. Probably that's what
you're expecting, and I can't blame you.