- [Narrator 1] It's shameful. - (dramatic music)
I know, but I don't care.
I deserve this pleasure.
(sirens blaring)
Knowing he would make love to me,
and I wouldn't much like it, but he needed it.
He was a man.
His hand came to me again, and I moved my thighs.
It was his way of preparing me, that and a few kisses.
I didn't touch his.
I rarely did that.
I was vaguely repelled by the intimate length
and rigidity of it.
The entire procedure wasn't quite nice
in spite of the sex manuals and the articles I had read.
I whispered, "I love you. You're wonderful to me."
He loomed over me in the darkness. I sighed.
How wonderful it felt and how much a man he was
and how virile and potent.
I couldn't bring myself to move very much.
It was too much effort, too much involvement.
He was content staying at home, watching TV.
Keep glancing at the dash,
and watching the heat indicator,
needle climbing higher and higher,
and you wonder what you would do
when the engine started to boil,
humming through brilliant nothingness
with fluffy white clouds below.
I jerk out my keys,
savagely searing the lock and shoving the door.
I slam it shut and stand there shaking,
like I'm having a malaria relapse.
She wasn't rude or crude or pushy,
but I knew what she wanted.
You're feeling no pain, I see, well-oiled.
She kept on moving like a well-oiled machine,
waiting expectantly for the thrill to begin.
Staring down, I had to try, had to overcome my feeling
that doing things like that were too intimate, too erotic.
I bent over her body and my lips found her.
[Narrator 2] You're giving me ideas.
[Narrator 1] He kissed me,
his mouth wide and his lips thick.
He was breathing heavily, his tongue plunging into my mouth.
It was hell-like.
I turned my head quickly, not so fast.
[Narrator 2] I closed the door behind me.
Taking a deep breath, I drop a quarter in the slot.
The machine flashes.
I spread my arms touching wall-to-wall.
A shutter runs through my body.
The fluorescent tube flickers its finishing assault.
I hear a murmur, put my ear to the wall,
the pounding of plasterboard.
The doorknob starts to turn. I lock it quickly.
I stroke my crotch thinking of Coney Island, 1969,
the man in the pinstripe shorts
following me to the bathing showers.
I unlock the door and push it open a crack.
A shadow enters and kneels, zippers fall.
I lean back against the wall, loosening myself.
I leave the booth quickly, walk around the small corridors.
Outside a teenager in a leather jacket grabs my crotch.
I strip off my shirt.
A bare red bulb against the black ceiling cracks bits
and rains glass, then silence.
[Narrator 1] We'd only just begun almost nothing.
The lips, the eyes, the neck.
[Narrator 3] I hadn't seen her in ages.
We'd been roommates, sharing close quarters in college,
exchanging clothes and boyfriends.
Mutual fondling, curious probings, soft flesh against flesh.
Whispered questions, hushed answers, tickling excitement,
quick involuntary thrusts, grasps,
enjoying our first climaxes,
breasts thrown into startled relief.
I made myself a stiff drink to make my eyelashes curl,
gulped it down.
The fireworks spreading through my inside,
searing, passion, and a need returned stronger than ever.
In seconds, I was panting, moaning.
I closed my eyes and whirled in sparkling sensations, oh.
An aura of depraved lust descended.
It was automatic, building, climbing, surging.
[Narrator 2] Susan felt Candy's hand
between the folds of her robe
and touched the warm skin of her upper thighs.
It would be so easy to give in,
so easy to forget Chris and marriage,
so easy to slip into the caresses of that shame bed.
Candy's hand pressed between Susan's thighs.
The kiss continued, an inquisitive tongue flickered forward.
Susan inhaled sharply.
An inquisitive finger reached up inside her.
Ooh, she was captured, surrounded,
cornered in that nook in a trap of warm arms, kisses,
tiny exciting touches, thrusting hips, tear...
Tears came to her eyes, screams.
[Narrator 1] No, leave me alone.
I love him. He's my whole life, my whole existence.
He takes care of me, protects me,
buys me things as much as he can afford.
He wouldn't run around on me going to bars,
staying out late.
She was stabbed five or six times, twice in the neck.
She told me about her trip,
an older man who she'd met on the plane.
[Narrator 3] He even made a pass at me.
I finally told him it would cost him 50 bucks
for a good feel.
You should have seen him snatch his hand back.
[Narrator 1] What would you have done
if he accepted your offer?
[Narrator 3] I'd be 50 bucks richer.
[Narrator 1] This was cold financial sex.
That's a very yummy dress.
Her breasts heaving.
I was frightened of what she might say about sex and things,
and Chris was curious and bold enough to ask anyway.
(dramatic music continues)
(narrator 2 speaking indistinctly)
[Narrator 2] When she got there, Candy grabbed her hand
and told her that Chris was talking suicide.
She asked him to talk.
He says, "Yes," bleary-eyed drunk.
They walk outside and she asks why they couldn't be friends,
and he keeps saying how he's sad he's drunk
and won't remember her in a dress.
He bit her four or five times, relatively lightly.
She had on a red shirt with a dress over it,
short sleeves and a leather jacket.
She kept telling him to stop.
"He doesn't mean anything.
"He just feels he's supposed
"to react sexually to women," she said.
Then he just bites her so hard, it actually hurts.
The skin was broken and two teeth marks,
and it was purplish, yellowish color.
"It really would've hurt if I'd been straight," she said.
He kidded that he put his mark on her.