No Price Too High
In Reaching The Top, Robin Climbed To The Bottom—She Got Lost In A Sea Of Orgy Sex And Slimy Men—Robin Found A Way Out But The Price Came High!
No Price Too High
This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.
Robin Tracey woke easily at three o'clock on that rainswept Friday morning in August—ten minutes before the alarm was to go off—and remembered at once that within an hour she would be getting into McGowan's bed.
She switched on the night table light, swallowed the day's first Dexamyl, and kicked the single bedsheet away from her body. Lighting a cigarette, she stretched and swung her long, excellent legs over the side of the huge bed and smiled at the thought of Vince McGowan, the ex-ex-ex-middleweight pug who couldn't add past the count of ten but who owned a pair of massive shoulders which went on for miles, the raging moralist who'd told her on her television show yesterday morning that “healt'y livin' was good for duh soul,” but who wasn't above becoming a male whore for a fast fifty dollars. The idea of paying him fifty dollars for bedding her, and in his own native habitat, had been a stroke of genius, and she moved with quicker steps than usual to prepare herself.
On her way to the shower she turned on the overhead light to her Sutton Place bedroom and glanced through the window drapes. The rain which had begun when she'd gone to sleep last night at eleven was still bucketing down, more insistently. She had been consciously fearful of few things in her life, but rain, as she had persisted in telling Dr. Weller again and again, still had a way of subtly terrifying her; but this morning, in what would have to be a sewer of a hotel room, the rain would add a kind of sweetly melodramatic spice to the planned assignation. The demons, she reminded herself, can never really get you when you're in full command of the situation.
At the dressing table, framed on either side by a standup seven foot mirror, Robin zigzagged the cigarette into an ashtray, and brought the silk pajama tops over her head. The image of her nakedness and promise of unflagging youth reassured her, as it invariably did every morning. She was thirty-five years old. Occasionally, for perverse, roguish reasons she had never seriously bothered to analyze, she told interviewers she was thirty-seven or forty or forty-five, and would suavely bask in their mild gasps of utter disbelief. The reason for the gasps was obvious; her beautifully etched face—delicate, unmarred porcelain—was ageless; the body, despite the almost unceasing abuses her frenzied life had given it, belonged to a flawlessly proportioned eighteen year old girl. Her deep blue eyes were set aslant beneath a shock of natural, luxurious yellow hair.
Her full red lips gave the immediate impression of being both incorruptible and sensuous. During television's comparative infancy, when the bulk of the glamour girls had worn gowns designed to leave little to the imagination, Robin Tracey had almost fanatically kept buttoned and zipped. Her design had paid off; eschewing both cheescake and breastcake, her manager and press agents were able almost daily to tease the press with backward suggestions that Robin Tracey could, if she wished, send Taylor and Monroe off to the benches.
Robin tuned in the bedroom stereo to a glossy Ella Fitzgerald vocal and sidled to the shower, propped on three sides with wall length mirrors. The rising steam from the shower, gradually obliterating the sight of her thighs and face and legs and generous breast slopes, had never failed to excite her. She let the needles prick as hotly as she could stand them and soaped her tall, full body with a mammoth bath sponge.
In less than an hour, long before she was expected for the morning show at Eden Broadcasting, she would be driven by Dino LaSalle to the supremely ungroovey hotel on West 47th Street and would pay Vince McGowan fifty dollars for the Gorkian pleasure of joining him in bed. Dino's already begun the joke, she reflected; he's told the McGowan boob about my flat chest and dumpy body beneath the expert bras and Bergdorf Goodman trappings.
But the greatest joy, she thought, will come afterwards. I have the fifty dollars ready, all in ones. I'll stand there and feed them to the bureau top. One, two, three O'Leary, four, five, six O'Leary, here's a seven and eight makes more, nine and ten for a big boy whore. Oh, Dino, you quasi-pimp, you, you'd better be on deck downstairs in the Caddy when I come out at the agreed time, on the button. You set up this marvelous meeting for me. You let me down and I'll find the longest knife in Manhattan and make you watch them hang up to dry.
The timing was going perfectly. She emerged from the bathroom, dry but glistening, walking high and proud, as though she owned the only pair of breasts in the world.
There was the momentary fear that Mrs. Sawyer, her housekeeper, or George, her combination butler and cook's helper, would hear the bustling and come dashing in to groan worriedly over her. But she was safe. She flirted with the idea of underwear and decided in favor of it, although she made a fastidious point of nudity under the day's dress; frilly, lacy, vehemently vulgar under-things made antediluvians like Vince McGowan pant, and she was in no mood to miss a McGowan pant. Grinning, perhaps because the Dexamyl was beginning to take effect, she rifled her dressers and came up with a semi-invisible brassiere and a pair of one of those deliciously cornball panties, a black wisp of mesh with the legend This way to Paradise, Daddio sewn directly above the crotch, with appropriate arrows thrown in the bargain, evidently for people who lost their way easily.
Then, after a moment of giddy thought, she got into the most deplorable matronly dress she could find in the accordion closet.
At nine A.M., five sleepy hours from now, she, Robin Tracey, would greet her coast-to-coast, Channel 3 audience on The Robin Tracey Show, and for a solid hour would bathe in the role of America's Most Talked About Woman. Robin Tracey, the bleary-eyed housewife's delight and salvation. Robin Tracey, the gorgeous and ultra-sophisticated hausfrau next door who can interview prime ministers, physicists, movie stars, prizefighters and union leaders and, in the interim, sell tons of breakfast cereal, shampoo, shoes, stockings, magazines, powders, lipsticks, and deodorants. Robin Tracey, who has the magnificent knack for explaining to the poor housewife exactly what's going on in the world, and explaining it all simply, painlessly, but knowingly. Robin Tracey, who sees all, knows all, the wondrous lady who would be at home at the UN and the PTA.
But until six o'clock, until the time when she was expected at E.B.C. to rehearse the morning show, she was free, on her own, accountable to no one. And until six o'clock, the bewitching hour of masks and pretense, she would again search for kicks. At six the world would start banging at her steel door, calling for decisions. She dreaded the thought of her backbreaking schedule—the morning show five times a week; the radio show five noontimes a week; the two TV panel shows a week; the daily newspaper column and the monthly magazine article; the preparations for moving herself and most of her staff to the Coast in November to begin her movie; reading play scripts and television scripts and radio scripts, lecturing at least one night a week in drafty halls on The Sanctity of the American Home to women who wore hothouse plants as hats; the endless correspondence and telephone calls and refereeings; the details, the details, the goddamned details. This morning she would have to meet, and probably parry with, and give final approval to young Valerie Lawrence, the new girl friday she didn't want. The day ahead—the life ahead—promised to be increasingly oppressive.
But she would face up to all that later. Now, coldly, calculatingly, she was ready, eager, to be unashamedly pawed and thrilled by a man who was beneath contempt.
Dino LaSalle was at the wheel of the Cadillac, waiting for her.
“No slip-ups?” she asked, wearing a raincape, stepping into the rear seat. “This is going to be cream and silky smooth?”
“Couldn't be smoother. He's waiting. Waiting to make like Valentino.”
Robin knew, as he gunned the motor, that there was no long range percentage in playing with this kind of dynamite. Dino was young, and handsome, and almost arrogantly insolent. He had come on good recommendation, a boy who knew where all the New York bodies were buried, a twenty-four year old smarty who could dig up the right man, woman, booze, nose candy and assorted diversions on an hour's notice and manage, so far, to keep his attractive mouth shut. Robin had hired him, at what she was certain was a munificent $200 a week plus big Christmas bonuses, for round the clock service and round the clock quiet. The agreement had been that he was to do as he was told, never question or answer back, to get what she wanted when and where she wanted it and as soon as possible and, most importantly, never to make a personal play. “The instant you give yourself the idea that the merchandise is available to you,” she'd advised him early in the game, “is the instant you start packing. Do we understand one another?”
“Sure, why not?” he'd grinned, swallowing her with his eyes in a way which would have brought an insulted slap from a woman a trace more Victorian.
“And while we're sure-ing me, you might remember that I have a perfectly good name, a name you're to call me by. Miss Tracey.”
“Sure, why not?”
The mute morning streets were empty of passing cars as Dino cruised the distance from Sutton Place to the West Side. Despite the rain, now heavy, now softening to take a relieving breath before resuming its force, there was a faint, haze lying low against the ground, lending Manhattan an atmosphere of unreality. Robin focused her attention on the nape of Dino's neck and wondered for how long he could be trusted. Her angel of a friend—Big LeRoy—the closest thing she'd seen to an ancient Warner Brothers caricature of a gangster but nevertheless a good man to have around when you were Robin Tracey—had provided her with Dino. The boy would never think to cross her, LeRoy had assured her, wiping the sleeve of his $300 suit under his nose, because no one ever brought up by LeRoy ever does nothing besides what he's told. The recollection comforted her.
Dino parked the Cadillac, as agreed, in the least obvious corner past Sixth Avenue and stepped out. Even with the rain and without lights she could see The Marigold Hotel sign on the awning halfway down the block. Dino would leave her here and walk on ahead to see that no policeman, no Tracey-gawkers would be up and around.
“Make it fast,” she ordered. “I don't want to spend the day here.”
Watching him tack down the block and disappear into the shabby hotel, Robin rolled down her window and flung her cigarette outside. She swiftly lighted a fresh one, as if by keeping busy she could forget—until he came back—that this was the last place in the world she wanted to be. The rain tormented her and the semi-blackness about her was frightening.
It had struck her as a wonderful joke when she'd thought of it yesterday afternoon, not summoning the fighter to her home but going through the delicious motions of skulking to his. Last night as she'd waited for sleep and a little under an hour ago when she'd come awake, it had all promised to be fun, an ingenious new kick.
But now she was alone, except for the unwelcomed darkness and rain, and all of it was cheap and disordered and wretchedly seedy. I said I'd stop this senseless running as soon as I got where I was going, she thought gravely, as soon as the pressures let up. The pills, the drinking contests with myself, the sex, the sex, the frantic frozen sex. The constant need to wear two faces, to thumb my nose at the people I don't hate. The relentless search for any kind of sex kicks, like the feeble minded gum chewers who wear ill-fitting brassieres and read confession magazines on the subway.
I'm a grown, extremely intelligent woman, in some ways sturdily mature. With a little energy I could meet another full, put-together man like Brad Sergeant. Instead, I pose all day long as a full, put-together woman expert on love, marriage and the verities. And at night—when the wolf bays and the moon is full, right out of Bela Lugosi—I rush out to take a bath in the nearest human dung heap...
Dino was taking far too long. The urge grew in Robin to open the rear door and hurry out, to hail a cab on one of those rain-tossed, dreary streets and go to her kid sister Anne's (“Robin? What is it, sis? What's the matter?”
“Nothing's the matter, Anne dear. I—just need company"). Or to her analyst, Dr. Weller (“Robin, we agreed that you weren't to come here at any times other than your regular session hours.”
“I—just need company").Or to Phyllis Holbrooke, probably the only friend she had who wasn't ready for The Hartford Retreat (“Robin, darling, I've told you before: Jack and I love you, but you simply can't barge in any time you—”
“I—just need company").
Not home, though. She couldn't go back home.
As she made ready to escape from the suddenly stifling car, a man and a woman staggered past, completely oblivious to her or the rain. He was a stubby, grossly fat man, drunk and shirtsleeved. The woman, drunker than he, lurched against him and ripped the dark morning with a piercing giggle. The sheets of rain had glued her shiny skirt obscenely to her buttocks, and she giggled again as one of the man's hands slid gingerly over the skirt and squeezed.
Robin was afraid she was going to be sick. But then Dino appeared, opened her door as he glanced from left to right, and peered in.
“Okay,” he said. “Night clerk's sawing wood and there's one old dame in the lobby with him, but she's kind of crocked and she won't see you anyway if you just take the first steps you see.”
“What's the room number again?” she asked as she slid out of the car, purposely avoiding the sight of the man and woman.
“Two-o-nine. McGowan said it's at the top of the first flight, that the hallway's dark but he'll have his light on and the door opened a little. Remember: keep away from the elevator.”
She nodded, looking straight ahead. She walked quickly, resolutely, and her rainboots made juicy sounds on the wet sidewalk. The woman behind her giggled again. Robin mounted the three small steps into the hotel's vestibule and in another moment she was in the outer lobby. Dino had been right. The desk clerk, a bald man in a T-shirt and Chinos, was sound asleep, a copy of The News sprawled over his knees. She didn't pause to look for the woman. She found the narrow stairs immediately and ascended them, stopping only once—halfway up the circular flight to the second floor—to wonder again if she could simply run away, explain nothing to anyone.
But then she saw the single light behind a transom at the head of the stairs, the light left on for Rose Trascano, the unwanted and poorest kid in Atlas Point, New Jersey.
He's waiting for me, she thought happily.
* * *
“Why so careful on the noise?” Vince McGowan asked airily after she had silently entered and bolted the door with what she imagined was excessive caution. “Nobody around here bothers nobody, not at The Marigold. Didn't your greasy chauffeur tell you? I can have the radio goin' here full steam any time I like, and nobody tries to crowd me.”
The room, she decided, wasn't quite twice as large as a commodious telephone booth, but the old-fashioned brassbound bed had been carved out of Moby Dick's backbone, and McGowan was sitting up in the direct center of it, suavely closing his comic book. He was a mountain of a former fighter, with tried and true muscles which were guaranteed to dissolve into fat within the next few years. But for now he would do, he would serve. He was bushy haired and almost shaven and handsome in the way pastured bulls are handsome and he wore only flowery shorts. His offhand greeting to her, Robin knew, had been anything but offhand. It has been sedulously and religiously rehearsed.
* * *
“Don't get up,” Robin said. “I don't intend to.”
Robin smiled appreciatively as she took off her rainhat and shrugged out of the sticky plaid cape. He had been briefed by Dino—fifty dollars to do exactly what she wants for half an hour, take it or leave it—but some wisp of chronic primitive integrity had told him to play it cool, play it close to the hairy chest. He must have known that this particular kind of meeting was not really old hat yet to Robin Tracey but, fifty dollars or no fifty dollars, he was going to try some of it his way.
“As a matter of fact, that's exactly where I want you to stay,” Robin directed, viewing both him and the absurd room with increasing pleasure. “Sitting up in bed there, like the king of the jungle. I don't want you to do a thing. I'll come to you.”
“It's your party,” he shrugged, and she could observe his beefy hands trembling ever so slightly.
“Yes,” Robin nodded. She placed the cape over the closet doorknob and ran a comb through her yellow hair as she regarded the dusty wall plaques, the printed memorabilia of past testimonials to his prowess in the ring, the framed cards entitling him to lifetime memberships at this gym or that boxing club. Hanging over the maple desk lamp was a pair of wizened boxing gloves. The rest of the desktop was crowded with glossy photographs—of McGowan in his prime, scowling ferociously at the camera, his gloved fists raised in ready battle; of McGowan shaking hands with Rocky Graziano, smiling at a table with Joe Walcott, standing at a boardwalk rail with his arm around a rather dewy-eyed blonde.
“See me there with Rocky?” McGowan inquired proudly. “Rocky said I had the best legs in the business, next to Barney Ross. He said it for the paper, too. I'll show you in my book.”
“Another time, darling,” Robin said as she began to undo the top buttons of her frumpy print dress. “Another time we'll go all through your scrapbooks. I want you to go through one thing at a time.”
“Anything you say.”
The matron's dress, Robin decided as she finished the last button, had been the crowning inspiration. The lumber yard calendars on his mottled walls, exhibiting the rafts of young girls with slim waists and leviathan bosoms, pointed up his preferences.
Advancing to the side of the bed, she stepped out of the rainboots and coyly brought the folds of the unbuttoned dress together at the waist with her fist. “You don't seem especially overjoyed with this assignment, Vince, darling,” she declared— apologetically, not in challenge.
“Look,” he shrugged again, “it's your—
“I know, it's my party. I—wish you could understand why I have to do this.” She breathed stentorously. “I'm getting old, dearest. I'll be fifty next month.”
“Aw, c'mon, you can't be any—”
“Shhh. I am. The best face lifters in the world are right here in this city. Yes, I can get most men I want—my face will hold out for another year or so—but they get the polite willies as soon as they've undressed me. Do you know why, dearest? Can you guess?”
“Uh—” he ventured tentatively.
“Or has Dino already told you?”
“Well, he—” McGowan cleared his throat. “He told me about this drag of yours, figurin' you ain't got such a hot body—”
“Yes,” she breathed. “That's why I have to pay for my love. They come to my apartment, or I go to theirs, and we seem to be doing beautifully. Then they learn the truth. The scarred and flabby and varicosed thighs, the hopelessly flat chest, the rolls of fat that the corsets so far have been able to hide. And they find some way to excuse themselves and clear their throats, the way you're clearing your throat right now.” She stepped an inch forward. “You'd rather I just got on my little pony and rode out of here, wouldn't you, Vince darling, money or no money?”
“Look, uh—lady, I mize well be honest with you. I figgered goin' on your show yesterday, that'd get some interest stirred up again in the game for McGowan. I said on the T.V. where I was doin' great, but the fact is I'm broke an'—”
“And for that reason you'll swallow your pride and hide your eyes and sell it to a misshapen old cow, although you wouldn't otherwise, isn't that it?”
“Well, you throw it kind'a blunt, but—”
“But true. Fine. I admire your honesty, Vince. Now I'm going to undress because I'm hungry for you. Please try not to get too upset when you see how misshapen I really am.”
Yes, prepare yourself for a bosomless Gargantua, darling, she thought victoriously as his face flinched in a martyr's pain. Robin unbailed her fist and the folds of the dress parted discreetly. Within another second, before he knew that the roof could cave in, she had shrugged out of the PTA dress and she stood erect in the scooped-out bra and Eighth Avenue mesh panties.
“I do apologize, darling,” she asserted dryly.
His eyes, she noticed gleefully, bugged at the blaze of voluptuous flesh, and his back, braced away from the bed slats. Rapidly her hands disappeared behind her, forcing the ripe melons forward; she released the halter's hook and let the bra slither down her thigh, to the floor. With a few deft writhings of her lower torso, she peeled the mesh panties downward until they had wrinkled around her ankles, and gracefully stepped out of them. Delighted by his confusion, she cupped the large but flawlessly rounded golden breasts possessively in her hands, lowering her own eyes quickly and pleasurably to the abruptly thrusting nipples.
“No-knockers Robin, they used to call me back at the pool room,” she said, one brow cocked.
His greedy, unbelieving eyes traveled over the wonder of her body and he cried, “Geezus!” '
“Tell me again that you'd be happier if I'd get dressed and leave, darling.”
“What the hell kind'a talk was that-misshapen— that talk? You're—you're terrific!”
Robin laughed and eased herself to the bed, sitting on her knees and bending forward slightly, enjoying his shock. “Now are you going to be a great big middleweight champeen and earn your great big fifty dollars, lover?”
His terror rewarded her. Her fingers slithered to his hairy chest, down to his shorts and helped him wriggle out of them. He caught fire as the nipples scraped his chest and swelled them to an almost painful hardness with the touch of his tongue. Robin, chuckling, grasped his hair in her fists and raised his head so that his eyes eventually were on a level with hers.
“You're back in the arena now, darling,” she said hoarsely, “and you and I are fighting to see who wins the championship. Only in this fight there are no gloves, no fists.” Laughing aloud, then, she called out, “Clang! Round one!”
Her lips met his fiercely, her tongue searching out his passion, and for a suspended moment in time she was winning the match, she was calling all the shots. But then, with an abruptness that startled her, he snaked his powerful arm behind her neck and crushed her to him and her breath was rising in fitful gusts. She circled the small of his back and writhed violently, disobeying him, joyously unready to give in, to give up, bruising his hip bones with her sharp movements, wanting him to lose, needing for him to win, needing his supremacy so desperately...
“You fucking stud,” she groaned softly as he massaged her bloated tits. His cock was growing hard and he was eager to get at her.
Robin moved away from him. He stood above her, naked, and his long fat cock stood straight and tall, bobbing and jerking, pulsing with lust, ready for her.
Vince covered her body with his own and grabbed a breast in each hand. Robin's long fingernails raked across his shoulders and back as his strong fingers squeezed, kneaded, and mauled her huge knockers. At last he took a long nipple between his lips and began to suck it hard until Robin writhed and twisted beneath him.
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ,” she groaned, “suck it hard, honey. Chew up my tits! Ohhh, that's so good!!!”
Her delicate fingers found his bulging prick and began to pump it savagely, stroking the hot crown, the long thick shaft, the heavy dangling balls. Charges of pleasure raced through his body as he sucked, bit, and squeezed her plump tits.
The hand which jerked on his hard cock was driving him wild, and at last he released one of her swollen breasts and plunged his hand into her hot crotch. His thick fingers explored the dark, matted hair of her cunt, poking and prodding at her drooling cunt-lips. She was very excited, and her thick juices covered his fingers as he rubbed her furry mound. Her own hand still juggled and squeezed his aching balls, and he felt the cum building up in his loins.
At last he slipped one finger between her dripping cunt-lips and into her scalding hole. He rubbed and stroked her hard erect clit until she long cock. I WANT COCK!!! I've got to have every thick inch of it, every fucking inch!!!”
But he did not want to finish things off so quickly. He released her bulging boobs, then slid down her body until his face was just above her warm, moist slit. Her pink lips were spread wide, ready and eager for his long quivering cock; and her full round thighs were hot against his cheeks. He stuck out his tongue and ran it over her open cuntlips, then pushed it inside and flicked it across her clit. Her twat was hot and juicy, and her salty taste filled his mouth as her burning fluids touched his face.
Vince twisted and turned as his tongue moved around inside her cunt, driving her crazy. She began to massage her jugs eagerly, rubbing her hands over the full-blown twin mountains, tweaking the hard nipples. His tongue flicked in and out of her drooling cunt, stroking and licking her clit, rubbing against the tender, damp walls of her pussy.
“Please, Vince, she cried at last, “please stop!!! Let me suck your big cock, Vince, please. Let me feel that big prick jerking in my mouth. Please, you hard-fucking stud!!!””
Vince lifted his head and looked at her. Her pretty face was distorted with burning passion. He wanted to fuck her, to push his hard, twitching dick into her sopping cunt and fire a hot bolt of cum into her. But he had eaten her out and given her pleasure; now she would give him pleasure by sucking on his hard, erect prick.
He rolled off her and sat on the edge of the sofa. Quickly, Robin knelt on the floor in front of him, licked around the rim, flicked across the gaping hole in the tip, then slid down the length of his cock, tickling and teasing the sensitive underside. At last her hot lips reached his balls; her teeth chewed gently at the tight skin of his nut-sac. Then suddenly she sucked one of his heavy balls into her mouth and shook her head back and forth violently, sending waves of electric pleasure through his muscular body.
Robin sucked hard on his balls, moving them around with her tongue as her talented hands jerked and pulled on his erect prick. She was driving him insane, and at last he could stand it no longer.
“You crazy fucking bitch!” he shouted. “You're sucking my goddamned balls off. Get down on your knees, you cocksucker. I'm gonna fuck you like the bitch you are!!!”
“Oh, yes, you wild fucker,” she said, releasing his cock and balls, then dropping to her hands and knees. Her plump ass swung in the air, and Vince could see droplets of thick juice clinging to the dark fur of her cunt.
He slid off the sofa, knelt behind her, and fingered her wide ass. Robin groaned at his touch and spread her legs. He leaned against her, slipping his long, throbbing cock between her thighs. She bent her arms slightly and lifted her ass even higher.
Holding his hard prick in his hand, he guided it between her legs and tickled her hot cunt lips with the bulging crown of his cock. She twitched and squirmed as his cockhead stroked her cunt-lips, then slowly entered her hot twat. His red crown vanished into her cunt, then another hard inch, then another. Suddenly she drove her ass back, forcing every hot inch of his cock deep into her open hole.
“Aaaaaahhhh,” she sighed as his driving prick sank deep into her sopping cunt, “fuck me good now, Vince. Fuck me real good!!!”
Vince rocked back on his knees, drew his cock out about halfway, then bent forward quickly, driving it into her as far as it would go. He was riding her hard, lunging at her again and again. He arched his back and pushed, giving her every bit of cock that he had.