And even if she could, what was the point? Not once in the weeks since her "new" experiences did Larry give her the opportunity to play her new role. Well, maybe he had. After all, he hadn't insisted they spent their every waking moment fucking this style or that style or any style for that matter. She just hadn't had the-what?
Desire? Inclination? No. Guts is what she hadn't had.
"A cream bath?" she could hear him say. "Where in hell did you ever get a thought-like God no, Gert, not with that little runty sawed-off…
Or:
"Cock sandwich? Sure, it sounds fine-but just how and where and who…"
Larry, after all, had a pretty vulnerable ego. No, maybe if there was some way she could make him think a new idea was really his… But then that would defeat her whole original purpose, the real reason why Real reason? She thought about that. Had she been conning herself all along about her real motivations? Larry had called her a chandra something or other-translation: hot-twat broad. She couldn't deny it, and couldn't deny that her original involvement with extra-marital cock possibly had quite a bit to do with the fact that the marital cock was out of town for such long stretches. Nor could she deny another, more simple truth:
She liked fucking.
A fact. A fact realized and now accepted. The coffee suddenly tasted less gray. Outside her window the day still was the same, but she knew that outside the door there was Outside the door there was a metallic clank. A moment's reflection and Gert had the sound identified. Thejnailbox! And where there is a mailbox clanking, there is a mailman!
She was to the door in a shot.
At its opening, the mailman turned. He had been halfway down the walk, but he turned. "Yes, ma'am?" he said.
He was bone thin and some two hundred years past retirement age. She imagined his knees creaked louder than his voice.
"Er, nice day, isn't it?" Gert said with a smile.
He looked up at the sky. "Kind of gray, if you ask me," he said. And with a shrug he was gone.
She emptied the mailbox and went back inside.
Three bills and a mechanics magazine Larry subscribed to.
When the doorbell rang she jumped a startled six inches-well, three inches maybe. Her hand approached the latch with hesitation. Lord, could that mailman have gotten the insane idea that…
"Hi there," he said.
He being of good height, average build, of swarthy complexion, of slicked-down jet-black hair, of conservative suit with a bright orange tie. He was definitely not the mailman. He was "… your territory's vacuum cleaner service man."
"My territory? I didn't know I had one."
He laughed a salesman's laugh, a three-syllable laugh; "Ah-ha-ha!" Accent second syllable. In the event she'd missed it the first time, he repeated it:
"Ah-ha-ha! I should have said your area. It's really my territory. Your area is my territory."
"That's nicely put," she replied with a cool smile. She wondered whether he really could make it so. He was, after all, a salesman. And a salesman enters a lot of houses, sees a lot of women, has no doubt a variety of experiences.
Besides, she liked fucking, she reminded herself. But he hadn't asked her yet. Not that when it came right down to basics the asking was all that important. But it would be nice for a change. She did not miss, however, the way his eyes, weasel-like, roamed over the front of her robe.
"All right," she said, still coolly, "now that we have our geography straight, might we pass on to why it is you rang my bell?"
"I'm a vacuum cleaner service man," he said.
"You mean vacuum cleaner salesman," she countered.
A pained expression came over his face-as if she'd farted or something.
"Salesman? Ah-ha-ha! Why, my good little woman, that's not true at all. I'm simply here to look over your current cleaner and to offer my services, if required."
Oh, they're required all right, Gert thought. If you perform as well as you can "ah-ha-ha". But he was still talking.
"Right you are, my good little woman. But first allow me to get my instruments. They're in the car."
He turned and jogged lightly to a Ford station wagon parked at the curb. Down went the back panel, out came two long cardboard boxes, each with convenient handles, up went the panel, and up the walk sped Super Serviceman.
As he set the two boxes down in the living room, Gert asked. "You're expecting to have to do major surgery?"
"Ah-ha-ha! But you'd be surprised how many things can be wrong with a machine like yours. Now, may we see the old thing?" he asked jovially.
She did not miss the slightly less than jovial tone he placed on the word old, however. Especially since her cleaner was less than two years out of its showcase. But this was his game and she'd let him play it. For a while.
She produced the cleaner from the closet.
"Ah-ha-ha! A competitor's product!" he laughed, getting on his knees to inspect it. "Good machine-rather recent model, too, I see. Of course science has come a long way in the interim, but-ahhh!"
He had opened the outer casing of the cleaner.
Gert sat on the floor, the machine between them. "Something wrong?"
"Well…" He looked at her with a serious expression. Like a doctor who had just checked over your X ray.
"I can take it," she said bravely.
He seemed to consider whether or not she really could. Gravely he said, "There are a few tests I should make." He stood, awkwardly lifting her heavy cleaner from the floor. Heavy? But it wasn't heavy. She'd just carried it from the closet. In which case, why was his shoulder sagging so low? Did ha-ha-Happy Boy have a double hernia or something?
"There?" he said, exhaling from the effort as he clumsily set down the bulky machine by an electrical outlet. As he laboriously unwound the cord from its containing prongs, Gert shook her head violently. Bulky? It was a trim model-it even said so on the front of the thing. And why was he having such a problem unwinding that cord? That was a specific convenience feature of the model.
The cord plugged in, he rose, took two steps and tripped upon a corner of the cleaner. Catching his balance, he grinned.
"Sorry about that. These old machines always seem to have some hunk of metal dangerously hanging out to entrap the unwary."
Gert nodded unsurely as he plugged in the hose extension to the base of the cleaner and placed the rug-cleaning attachment onto the other end. "Now," he said, and with a groping search he found the correct button and the machine sprang to humming life.
"Sounds all right to me," Gert commented.
"What's that?" he shouted. "Can't hear you!" He gestured at the cleaner. "This model was one of their real noisy ones. Or it could be a worn bushing."
"There's no need to shout," Gert said.
"How's that?" He bobbed his head. "You could be right. Out. The bushing's probably worn out. But the real test is…"
He applied the suction end of the carpet cleaner to an area in front of the couch somehow catching the toe of his show again and flailing the air for support. Balance was again restored and after two or three swipes of the rug area, he clicked off the motor.
"Whew! That's better," he said.
"Cleaner, you mean?" Gert asked.
"Sound, my good little woman, I'm talking about sound," he said confidentially. "Some of these motors sound like a 747 tearing down the runway. But now, let's see how well we did, cleaning-wise."
Gert inspected the carpet. "Looks fine to me."
"Sure it does," he agreed. "But your cleaner didn't get out the hidden dirt."
"Hidden dirt," she repeated.
His head bobbed. "Here, let me show you." He went to one of the long cartons he'd brought in from the car. In a flash it was open and out came Out came, naturally, a brand new vacuum cleaner.
"This is the latest thing in home cleaning, believe me. It has what we like to call Solar Magnetic Suction, patent pending. Now, I'm going to run this machine over the area I just cleaned with, your old model and you watch."