A year after it happened I wrote her a letter. "Please," I begged,
"all I want to know is why. Please just tell me why?" She didn't answer. I should have known. So there I was, humiliated again. And then I vowed that one day she'd beg something from me, beg me not to glue her.
She was an ice goddess, was Miss Cynthia Morse, with her thick blond hair parted to the side, so she could throw it back whenever it fell into her eyes, fling her head and throw it back like the fine Thoroughbred mare she knew she was. Her skin tanned more beautifully under the sun than any human's skin should be allowed to, her eyes were clear and gray, and she had a wonderful smile that made her whole face light up like a sunrise. I don't think I'll ever forget the touch of her, the satiny feel of her flesh, the fresh salty flavor of it, and the smell. Her small but perfect breasts cupped in my hands, the feel of her ribs through the skin of her flanks. She was a knockout beauty and I was plain, she was popular and I was disliked, she was gregarious and I was a loner, but still, she chose me to be her friend.
I was proud of that. I believed I was envied for it. Anyone in the whole college would have been happy to be Cindy's roommate, but she had chosen me. "You'll keep me honest, Bev," she told me one afternoon, spring of freshman year, when we took a long walk together across the meadows and she broached her proposal that we room together in the fall."I can talk to you. You're always there to listen. Know what I think you should be? A shrink. Ever think of it, Bev? I know you'd be good at it. You're so giving, you know. Such a good listener. And you have such good intuitions about people, too."
Oh, I was giving all right! I gave her everything I had.
Friendship, affection, love, later my passion. That was my undoing.
"This it, Cin?"
"Oh, yes, Bev. Down there, yes. There. That's the place.
Yes! Right there! Oh! Do me, Bev. Please do me there again. Oh, yes, yes, your mouth feels so good…"
And I did. I reveled in it. Before I knew what she was up to, I would actually beg to be allowed to taste her. That's how stars-in-my-eyes stricken I was. Well, ha!, she's the one begging now!
There were nights, I remember, January and February nights, when we'd put a Mozart horn concerto on the stereo, then lie together in her bed in the dark of our room, watching the snow falling gently outside.
"This is great, isn't it, Bev?" she said, hugging me. "This is the way it should be. Just the two of us together like this, together and forever. I truly wish our lives could go on like this forever.
Don't you, Bev? Don't you?"
One night I asked her if she thought a day would come when we'd each have a man in our lives.
"Men! Oh, Bev, sometimes you're just so screwy. I haven't seen any men around here. Have you? All I've seen are boys, and I don't mean just the kids, I mean the whole damn male faculty, too. Men!
Ha! Who needs lem? I sure don't. On a night like this, what could a man do for me that you can't do?" Cindy paused, stretched. "Hey, wanna go down under the covers? Feel like it, huh?
It's so nice when you're down there taking care of me. Helps me to sleep, you know. Hey! What're you doing? Oooo! I like that. You never did that before. Where'd you learn that? You've got great moves, kid. No boy I ever went out with knew how to do that. Oh!
Yeah! Yes!"
For two months I loved her, passionately, feverishly. She didn't reciprocate, just had me do special things to her, things she let me know she liked by the way she wiggled and moaned and swooned. And I was glad to do them, although I believe now some part of me must have known I was being used. But even if I'd realized it at the time, I wouldn't have cared. The bliss, you see, was all mine. Her needs became my obsession; her secret chamhers became my pleasure domes.'All day long in my various classes I'd think about servicing her at night. I was totally enraptured by her, enthralled, enslaved, possessed. Cynthia Morse, blond Thoroughbred mareshe became my world.
Looking back now, I can see it all coming and wonder at my blindness to what was going on. She needed me that winter, but as soon as spring came, she was ready to cast me aside.
That in itself could be understood. In this life, as you so often remind me, Mama, people use one another all the time. "It's all this use," you say, "that makes the world go around." But use is one thing, betrayal another. Cindy betrayed my love for her, betrayed it in a vulgar way. Use can be forgiven but not betrayal. You taught me, Mama: Betrayal must be avenged.
I had gone down to Cambridge for the weekend to do some research at Widener Library. My intention was to spend the night in Millie's Harvard dorm room, work the following day, then return to Bennington on Sunday night. But when I got to Millie's, I found I wasn't welcome.
She and her roommates had male guests; there'd clearly be no room for me unless I slept on the floor. In any event there'd be no privacy. I was furious. I'd told Millie I was coming, and she'd promised she'd save me space. We got into a fight, which led to my walking out in a snit. Steaming with anger, I decided to hell with research, I'd return immediately to Vermont.
Back in Bennington, tired and depressed, I taxied to my dorm from the bus stop. Our room was empty. Cindy wasn't there. Feeling needy for her friendship, I decided to search her out.
I found her finally, or rather should say I heard her, for it was her unique effervescent laughter that told me where she was. In a room on the floor below, belonging to Gretchen Hawes and Karen Tate, well-known campus lesbians, close buddies of Cindy's but not, I'm afraid, of mine.
I don't know what made me hesitate before I knocked. Perhaps I was curious about what was inspiring so much giggling inside, afraid, too, that my depressed mood might bring the others down. I certainly didn't want to intrude and put a damper on their fun. So I stood outside the door and listened. And then I understood: they were talking about me.
"She's too much, Cin. Too much," said Gretchen.
"Well, I think she's very sweet," I heard Cindy reply.
"You would. Seeing as how you've been on the receiving end."
Laughter.
"Sick, sick, sick," said Karen. they all broke up.
"Play us some more. Come on, Cin. More!" Much giggling again, and then I couldn't believe what I heard. My own voice, on tape, begging Cindy to let me love her: "Please, Cin. I know just what you need. Please-let me do it. I can make you smile, you know I can. Please. "
The blood rose, boiling, to my face. I felt as if the top of my head were about to explode. My voice! Begging to be allowed to pleasure her! And she recorded it! And was playing it now for them!
"Hey, I've got an idea, Cin." Gretchen tittered. "Bring the little mouse down here one night. Share some of that 'please, please, please' with us, okay?"
"I've got some special places she can do." Karen snickered. "So long as she begs for it." And then: "Sick, sick, sick!"
I wanted to scream. Don't know why I didn't. I wanted to curl up, die right there on the floor. But instead I took hold of the doorknob and shoved the door open. The three of them were sprawled out on their stomachs on top of Karen's bed, the little tape player in the center. Six eyes met mine, laughing, defiant eyes. And then, when they realized I'd been listening, those six eyes turned mean.
"Snooping, Bev?" Gretchen sneered.
But I ignored her. I stared straight at Cindy. "You recorded me?"
She shrugged, then smiled sheepishly. "Yeah, well, I guess I did."
"How does it feel to be a rat?" I spat the words, then reached to the tape recorder and ripped out the cassette.
"Hey, watch it!" said Karen. "You can screw up the machine. We were just having a little fun. God!"
But I kept my eyes on Cindy and let her have it. "Is this your idea of fun?"