Somewhere in the mishmash of fucking, squirming, bouncing and gasping, Ham Wiskett came, howling. Mimi patted his back and soothed his exhaustion. "There, there!"
Eventually they let Helen roll herself off the bed and stand, woozy.
"Take a shower," offered Ham generously.
"Let me out of here," whispered Helen through the hair that fell over her face. "Let me OUT!"
"Ah come on," said Mimi, standing naked in her naked husband's embrace. "That's the only way he can get his rocks off, don't you understand? So what if! Meanwhile I had a little girlish fun."
"It's wonderful when a man and wife understand each other," said Ham.
Mimi kissed him. "Isn't it, dear?"
CHAPTER FIVE
And then, one day, a man wanted to buy a girdle. At heart, Helen remained the girl from the wheat fields of Dakota. True, she had been raped by a mad uncle. True, she had yielded to sly offers that came from older girls who had fallen for her freshness and above all for her figure. True, she had lain twiddling and sucking and tonguing and sighing with these girls in the hay and between the sheets, let alone the quick diddles behind a row of lockers in the girls locker room.
True, she had grown to like having female fingers explore her twat, to be followed by a female tongue so eager to suck honey that sometimes she checked her cunt, later, to make sure that it was still all there.
Let alone that our heroine, Helen Troy, had gone through a hostess-training school, and as to what happens in hostess-training schools, well.
But the experience includes men. Men haunt hostess training schools. They have been known to climb in through the windows and to wait outside in the shrubbery to snatch girls who had snatches, and probably no girl could get very far if she didn't have one, so that was not so hard to do.
Beside, they didn't have to snatch. They only had to ask.
So anyway, Helen had been to hostess training school, an experience said to turn any dewy girl into a wary and sex-wise woman.
Let alone the actual job of being a hostess. Imagine you are back in the last chapter. Again form an erection-encouraging mind-picture of that row of hostesses at that wild party with those rubbery South American businessmen. There the row of hot cunts stands, panties down, skirts up, displaying their well-proportioned behinds for a countdown on black-and blue pinch marks.
Such goings-on are not for the unsophisticated girl. Yet Helen Troy still kept something of the Girl Of The Golden West in her psyche. Her hair still reminded men – that is, some men – of corn silk. Her smile still told of prairie sunrises rather than of the sexual stew of a big city with its blue-tinged atmosphere of fucks, sucks, orgies and bodies-for-sale.
That was why Helen did not at first realize that the man who wanted a girdle was a transvestite.
"You got any idea what style girdle she would like, sir?" Helen inquired.
"Oh, uh, like that one hanging over there," said the slightly built man who wore an artist's flowing tie.
"Ah yes, our Model 444. Very popular. What size, sir?"
"Size?" he said vaguely, looking around at the sea of pink and pastel colors that announced what goes on beneath female outer dress. Then he brightened. "Well, sure I know what size, I mean, I never measured it in inches, but if you've got a tape measure?"
"You're expecting the lady to join you here?" Helen inquired sweetly. "Hell no, sister. Give me a tape measure and I'll put it around my own hips. I want the girdle for me."
"Oh."
"Listen we got an act going down at the Mister Madam Club. What we need is, we need one woman on tap to advise us, y'know, guys can make awful mistakes when they put on women's clothes. I mean, they know what looks good on them, like, I look mighty pretty in something flowing and yellow and with flowers in my hair. But they can make mistakes, I mean, wear a today's style with something that was stylish yesterday."
"Oh."
"So you got good taste, you gotta have or they wouldn't let you work here. So look, sell me the girdle, I send in other guys for girdles and tell them to ask for you and you give me a percentage, see?"
"I'm afraid that doesn't attract me, sir."
And meanwhile the department's buyer, himself a prissy little sort, stood nearby, watching them.
"Well, listen, we need someone like you. Listen, I got a better idea. You get finished here around five-thirty, six, huh or even on Thursday you're finished by nine. So you come on down to the Mister Madam."
"I don't think that that type of entertainment really…"
"Nah. It's you who gives the entertainment. Listen. What we want to do, it's wild, it's sensational, you never heard nothin like it. Comes the end of the show, see, all the guys in drag they pull out their pricks and wave them at the audience, which always is good for a big laugh."
"Well, meanwhile you been dancing along with us and nobody knows you're a woman. But when we pull out our cocks – we wear pink ribbons tied in big bows around them, I mean, we have a helluva gag man – when we pull out our cocks you don't pull out yours, if you know what I mean."
"I…"
"But when we all turn and look at you and march you out stage-center and make motions you should show your cock to the house, it's laughing so hard it's pissing in its pants, you know what you do then?"
"Tell me," murmured Helen wearily.
"You flop back, where two guys are waiting to catch you by the arms. And two guys lift you, one by each leg and they hold you flat, like that, with your legs toward the audience and then comes a tarantara from our three-piece band. And then…"
"I suppose they spread my legs apart."
"Yeh! Chee!"
"And I suppose the audience gets a good view of my vagina."
"Huh?"
"My cunt."
"Sure! So then they see why you didn't pull your prick out with a big pink-ribbon bow on it, and wave it! Hey, I can get you good money. I can get you, let's see…"
"My mother wouldn't like me to go on the stage," Helen said. "Ever since my grandfather took an actress for a second wife and it turned out she wore rouge, we simply don't want another actress in the family."
"Yeh, but listen, I got an even better idea." The transvestite leaned close, turned to gaze around for possible eavesdroppers, then whispered, "At the same time you show your cunt, you unzip your tits!"
"I don't recall zippers on my tits, but I'll check when I get home."
"Nah. Not your tits. Your bodice, up here. You unzip your bodice, which we got made to flop open, and you pop up your tits, which I see you got good ones. And hey!" the little man went on, blinking eagerly, as though he sat in the audience at the Mister Madam, hardly able to believe, the wondrous treat that unzipped before his eyes, "you show your tits, see, but first we showed our cocks, didn't we?"
"Oh, is that what you meant?"
"And then you showed your cunt, didn't you?"
"I seem to recall something about that."
"Well, now, hey this is great. This. Is. Guhreat."
"Tell me, tell me!"
"You show your tits. The audience cheers. Well then we guys, we see you've got us licked. I mean, see what I mean, we got pricks to match your cunt but when it comes to tits, what have we got?" He motioned into his jacket, made a throwing-away gesture. "We got nothing but pillows inside our bodices."
"For goodness sake! You mean it?"
"Sure I mean it. What'd you think, men got?"
"So what we do is, we throw away those little pillows because we can't compete with you, see? And you think the audience won't howl? They'll roar. They'll piss in their pants."
"They'll be awfully wet by then."
"Hey!" Another glow of inspiration touched the transvestite's face. "Listen to this. You ain't heard nothing like this. Listen. You listening? Because what we do is, we put a star on one of those pillows that the guys throw. They throw the pillows into the audience, and don't worry the doorman collects them before they get out of there. But meanwhile one guy in the audience, he's got the pillow with the star. So we give him a pass to the Girl Scouts Convention."