“Fear is the emotion we want to make men feel. It breaks down their confidence. In bed, fear may be engendered in many ways. Fear of consequences: as soon as the sex act is over, confess to him that you forgot to take your birth control pill that morning. Physical fear: Using both hands, grasp his scrotum firmly and question his firmest conviction. For example, if he's a Republican, tell him you think Nixon’s mining the country and when he starts to object, squeeze hard. Fear of female envelopment: As soon as the act is over, cross your legs and prevent him from withdrawing; no matter how he struggles, hold him as long as you can; when he finally pulls free, look at his mangled member pointedly and let him know that you can feel no difference between his tenancy and his vacating of the premises.
“I should point out here that having sex with a man is not the only way to wage sexual war against him. Denying him sex can be equally effective if it’s done strategically. The thing is to first tease him beyond endurance. Use all your wiles. Wear something low-cut and bend over so he can glimpse your bra-less bosom. Let your ride up just far enough so he can tell you’re wearing transparent panties. Tantalize him with perfume. Let him feel the heat of your body. Lead him on with kisses. Permit caresses. And then, at the last minute, let him know that you’re not that kind of a girl. Pant heavily as though suffused with desire, and at the same time appeal to his sense of chivalry not to deflower you. Send the poor boob off with blue balls heavy as lead. And the next day hop into the sack with his best friend and make sure the best friend tells him how great it was.
“Married men are particularly vulnerable targets. When having an affair with a married man, constant reference should be made to his wife and how you identify with her and how sorry you feel for her and how guilty you feel, and doesn’t he feel guilty too? If you work it right, no matter how unguilty he felt before, he should be filled with guilt when you finish with him. Also, if he’s older and has a daughter, keep reminding him how close in age you are to his daughter. Ask him how he'd feel if she made it with some married man. Pooh-pooh all of his protestations about how pure and sweet and virginal his daughter is.
“Sooner or later with married men, you can get down to the real dirty pool. Call him at home in the middle of the night. ‘I only did it because I miss you so much, Sam. I just couldn’t stand it, you being in bed with another woman, even if she is your wife.’ Have a friend call him at the office and say she’s a friend of his wife’s and that she saw him kanoodling with you in your favorite cocktail lounge. Or have a friend call and say her brother is your boyfriend and he’s found out this married man is making it with you and he says he’s going to kill the married man . . . and be sure that she adds her brother is an armed policeman, a former Marine who won his unit citation for pistol marksmanship. Or . . .”
In the audience, Olivia’s mind was drifting. Up to this point she’d been listening carefully, but now she tuned in and out thinking about the punishment of Archer. She thought about enlisting Marguerita’s cooperation. She mulled it over all through the rest of Marguerita’s talk. When the question and answer period which followed the talk was over, Olivia contrived to talk to Marguerita alone. She came straight to the point. “I have this girlfriend who’s been told she only has a short while to live,” she began. She went on to tell the militant Andalusian feminist the details of Archer’s infidelity and Llona’s desire to be revenged in death.
The more Olivia talked, the more intrigued Marguerita became with the situation. Her small, sharp, extremely white teeth ground together as she contemplated yet another masculine aggression perpetrated against yet another pitiable female—this one made even more pitiable by the imminence of death. When Olivia had finished, Marguerita allowed herself a small smile. “I will help,” she told Olivia. “This man shall be punished.”
“How?”
Marguerita proceeded to tell her how. Even Olivia, hardened feminist that she was, found herself shuddering as she listened to Marguerita’s diabolical scheme. For a moment she was so repelled that she almost reneged. But she remembered that this, after all, was just what Llona had said she wanted. It was the ultra in revenge. She told Marguerita she would do her part.
The following morning she did just that. She called Archer at his office. “Will you do me a favor, Archer?” she asked.
“Sure, Cousin. What is it?”
“A friend of mine needs some advice. Her name's Señorita Marguerita Penibita. She’s going to call you and —“
“Call me? Why me? What’s her problem?”
“She’ll explain. Be nice to her, Archer. She’s a very sweet person.”
“Is she?”
“Yes. You'll like her very much. I know you will. Men always do.”
“Sexy, hey?” Archer chuckled, intrigued. Momentarily, he forgot his potency problems.
“Very. I wanted to suggest that you take her out to lunch so you can discuss her problem in an informal atmosphere. Would you mind, Archer?”
“Not if she’s as sweet and sexy as you say she is. I dig Spanish señoritas.”
You bastard! Olivia’s doubts about Archer’s punishment were dispelled by Archer. You deserve anything you get! And you’re going to get plenty! “Then you'll just love Marguerita,” Olivia replied sweetly.
“Will she love me?” Archer was kidding -- but his tone said he wasn’t altogether kidding.
“She’ll love you to death,” Olivia assured him. “She’ll love you to death!”
CHAPTER NINE
“How do you know my cousin-in-law Olivia anyway?” Archer asked.
“We met at one of those women’s club things,” Marguerita told him. “You know how women are with those silly little organizations. Busy work and all that.”
“The devil doesn’t find work for busy hands,” Archer paraphrased.
“I guess it keeps a lot of women from getting into trouble,” Marguerita agreed.
“Some women don’t mind a little trouble, if you know what I mean,” Archer winked.
“I think I know what you mean.” Marguerita looked at him boldly.
They were seated in a rather dark and intime little restaurant near Archer’s office. When Marguerita had called Archer, he’d been intrigued by the throaty quality of her voice and had decided to gamble on her living up to it in person. So he’d asked her to lunch at this place where the food really wasn’t too good, but where the cocktails were generous and the corner tables small enough to force a snuggly coziness.
“You speak English remarkably well for a girl who was born and raised in Spain,” Archer observed. “You have no trace of an accent at all.”
“My people are naturally multilingual. I was brought up speaking many languages. Also I traveled a lot and I’ve spent the last few years in the United States. I don’t have to translate in my head the way many people do when not speaking in their native tongue. I think in English.”
“My cousin said you wanted to ask my advice.” Archer sipped at a martini.
“Yes.” Marguerita stared down into the olive-murked gin of the cocktail glass in front of her and managed a blush. “It’s very embarrassing. Now that I've met you, I don’t think I can tell you about it.”
“Why not?”
“Well, I was expecting an older man. Someone more mature and—-umm—stodgy. What I mean is that you're an attractive man, Mr. Hornsby, young and virile, and I don’t think I-—” Marguerita’s voice trailed oft in a pretty confusion.