Candy often thought she really needed a lover. Not simply for the sex, but for someone to come home to, someone with whom she could put her feet up on the coffee table and have a drink and relax and talk. Of course, it would be nice to have the sex which would go with it, but more than the sex, she was sure she needed human companionship above all.
That, of course, she could have with the crooking of her little finger, and a smile. Men would come flocking, men who would use her, make a fool of her, hurt her as Lee Ashley had just done. And that sort of thing she could surely live without. The loneliness was preferable.
The trouble was, it brought on a temptation to retreat even deeper inside herself. She knew that if she yielded, started to drink alone to dull the emptiness, enter a world of alcoholic fantasy, soon she would be seeing the world through a bottle.
Candy thought it would be wise to fix herself something to eat, yet she hated to eat alone. She considered driving to one of the dim, quiet restaurants in the area, and decided that would be even worse, to be by herself and surrounded by families or lovers out on a date. Restlessly she put a long-playing tape on the big stereo tape deck. She set the volume low and rummaged through a stack of paperback books, which she bought by the dozen, in futile search for something that looked interesting. She tried a couple and could not get into them. She wanted a drink, but would not let herself have one. Long ago, she had set a rule for herself-when she really wanted liquor, that was the time not to have any. Finally, she lit another cigarette.
Then, in the gathering dusk, she saw headlights turning into the drive. Her heart thumped as she wondered if the Highway Patrol sergeant had picked up on her blatant invitation, but on going to the picture window, she saw it was one of the studio cars.
Oh, no! Candy whispered. The last thing she wanted was to be invaded by studio people who, after their long session on the sound stage, were quite likely stoned on pot, or half drunk, or both. But even so, it would mean she was no longer alone, and she knew she could handle them. So, almost happily, she went to the heavy oak front door and opened it. She was surprised to discover it was Rick Benton, the young midwestern boy, and he was alone.
The slender, handsome blonde-haired teenager was carrying an attachй case, and she found it incongruous. The case belonged in the hands of a big studio executive or an industrialist or possibly a diplomat and looked very much out of place conveyed by a boy who barely had to shave, one who wore an open-neck sports shirt and faded jeans and cowboy boots. Equally startling was his appearance at her house. He had never been here before-she had not been aware he even knew where she lived-and she sensed he might be uncomfortable to find himself in this enclave of the wealthy. She knew he came from the barren prairies of the midwest, and was trying to escape to a more exciting life, despite the basic lack of education. Candy flashed her best welcoming smile at him.
"Why, Rick!" she said, tossing her gleaming mane of black hair back. "Whatever are you doing here?"
"Miss Candy, after you left the studio, a messenger came from NBC with the tape of your appearance on that talk show. There was a note saying you were to approve, and that it is necessary it be done tonight. I was asked to bring the tape, so I brought it to you."
"Oh, thank you!" the raven-haired actress said. "Really, it was too much-making you drive a hundred miles just for this. It could have waited until I went to the studio in the morning."
"I was told it was important," the slender fair-skinned youth said with a shy grin. "And it is nice to have a reason to come away from the city to this beautiful town. Also, I have just now gotten my driving license, and I like to drive."
"Of course," Candy replied, realizing that for this handsome boy actually having both a license and access to a car was a major event in his young life. Through her mind flashed the question of how long he would remain so sweet and innocent. Would the jungle of the movie business in Los Angeles swallow him up, or would he survive, go on to a better life than that of his counterparts? In the few months he had been with the film crew, he had impressed her with his earnest desire to work. No matter what hour of day or night, he was always there, unobtrusively on the fringes, ready to perform the most menial task with a quick, white-toothed smile. "Well, you can't just turn around and go back. I was just going to fix some dinner, and you're going to help me eat it!"
She could instantly sense the unexpected invitation took him by surprise, and perhaps frightened him. He, Rick Benton, the errand boy, being invited to eat in this luxurious home… and a meal which the lovely Candy Mullender, the rising star, would prepare with her own beautiful hands! Smiling, she tried to put him at ease as she took his hands and drew him into the house and swung the heavy door shut behind him. And Candy thought to herself, if only he could stay this way, kind and helpful and respectful and-and innocent. Yet she knew the jungle that lay glittering in the myriad lights of Los Angeles-and all the other big cities. She knew of the temptations of girls and liquor and narcotics, and how susceptible the innocent young country boys and girls were to these things.
Although she herself had not been culturally deprived, and had come from a comfortable-well-off family which even today did not quite approve of her career, she had seen enough to realize why so many youngsters revolted, became anti-social, indulging themselves in dope and God knows what else. It was to break the deadly monotony of their drab, apparently hopeless existence.
In her own way, Candy realized her choice of career was a mild revolt.' When she had firmly set her mind on an entertainment career, her family had tried in vain to persuade her to strive to be a school teacher. But Candy had never been able to picture herself done up with a bun at the back of her head and a highcut long conservative dress on teaching a bunch of screaming kids. This was not to say she didn't like kids, she just didn't want to teach them.
Candy Mullender had an innate dislike of hypocrisy. And there were times, lying alone in her big bed in the early hours of the morning, unable to sleep, that she wondered if perhaps she was not as big a hypocrite as any other. Because she denied herself.
She steadfastly denied herself the right to be a woman, to enjoy her voluptuous woman's body and take a man wantonly, as she deeply wanted to do, and instead finding only superficial, physical, false release through masturbation. Candy was only too aware of the feral animal that lurked just below the smooth golden surface of her skirt. Although she routinely protested the revealing dresses and skin-tight costumes the agency insisted she wear, in moments of true honesty, the dark-haired actress had to admit that she was subconsciously saying, Hey, look at me! as she wore the tight dresses the studio gave her and grinding her hips as she walked, the short skirt flaring up to show sheer bikini panties and the shadowy triangle of her softly-curling pussy hair.
Candy tried to tell herself she didn't want things like the fast, baby blue car which had cost over twenty-five thousand dollars (and was paid for by the agency) and the adulation of millions of young, teenage fans, and the constant exposure on television talk shows and specials where she was sometimes called "the new Farrah," a phrase invented by some flack.
If she didn't want it, why did she work so hard to have it? she sometimes asked herself in moments of torturing honesty. You want it-shut up and go get it! an inner voice replied. It's your thing, so do it the best you can, and maybe the rest of it will all settle itself in time.