hormones to the Arabs."
"I forget the whole case now," said Gilly. "Why was it the police were after him?"
"It was the LSD thing," said Varth. "That was strictly Solly's operation. He mixed LSD with Spanish Fly. We were netting close to $10,000 a week on it, but I always told him there would be trouble. That's dynamite. The thing blew apart when a woman in Corpus Christi impaled herself on a fire hydrant, and a kid in upstate New York mutilated himself in a milking machine. Luckily, the police only got Solly's name."
Gilly was up now, removing her pants, and Varth's eyes fastened on her golden triangle. "Now the business is all mine," he said. "I have outlets in thirty cities. But I stick to books and movies. My first book was called The Captain's Wife. It was a classic. The captain is a sea captain who gives his wife a German shepherd pup just before he leaves on a long voyage. By the time the pup is eight months old, he is getting down on her. You can imagine what the pup is doing to her when he's full grown. And then I wrote a book about a wandering gypsy who travels around the countryside with six earrings in his foreskin."
Gilly was on the bed now, stretched out, her naked body beginning the motions that had become second nature to her.
"Another book I wrote," said Varth, "it was about this squirrel monkey who had an enormous dick. This monkey's keeper used to take him around to bridge clubs and charge the housewives for his services."
"Shhh," said Gilly. "That's enough for now."
Varth slowly took his clothes off, folding each garment neatly on a chair. Then he stood nude alongside the bed.
"Come on," said Gilly.
Ansel Varth, pornographer, never moved. Suddenly, he turned his head away.
"Come on," Gilly said again.
Varth shivered. "I can't," he whispered. "I can't."
"You're Jack the Fucker and I'm Lady Asshole," she said.
"No," he said. "I'm Jack the Phony. I can't. Don't you understand? I haven't had a woman since I stopped doing it with Astrid. All I do is write books and make phone calls. I can't get it up any other way."
Gilly made a brief visual examination. He was telling the truth. The poor bastard was positively flaccid.
"Come to Gilly," she said reaching for it. Nothing.
"Poor Jack the Fucker," Gilly said.
"Oh God!" Varth yelled. He leaped away, ran to a dresser and furiously started opening drawers.
"What's the matter?" Gilly cried.
"I'm looking for a pencil," he said. "Pencil and paper. I told you, all I can do is write books."
"Look," Gillian said, holding out her nipples. "I got a pair of big ones."
"I can't," Varth screamed. "I can't get the goddamn thing up!" He was still looking through the drawers. Gilly tried to trigger him with words. "Cunt!" she yelled.
"Pecker!"
"Dick!"
"Suck!"
Varth had found a pencil and was jabbing at the air with it. "Paper!" he screamed. "Where's the hell's the paper?"
Just like that, the answer hit Gillian. "Ansel!" she shouted. "There's a way."
"What?"
"I know how to do it."
"No. No. I can't get it up."
"You can, Ansel. You can. We'll act out a story." Varth looked at her.
"Yes," she said. "We'll act out a story."
"How?"
"Well," Gillian was thinking fast. "Let's make believe that I'm a lady chimpansee and you're a big horny camel."
Varth dropped his pencil.
"See," shouted Gilly. "I'm a chimpanzee." She scratched herself under the arm and chattered. "See."
Varth saw. He leaned over and loped toward her as if he were indeed a desert beast. "I'm a camel!" he shouted. "I'm a camel."
Gilly hopped around chattering.
"I'm getting it up!" Varth yelled. "I'm getting it up." Gilly chattered faster.
"I'm a camel!" Varth screamed. "I'm a camel!"
"Hump me!" Gilly shrieked. "Hump me!"
Varth was on her, grunting, gasping, humping. They heaved together on the white sheets faster and faster and harder and harder. Ansel turned to thunder, and the surf broke warm and dark on Gilly's beach. Again, it broke. And again.
Two hours later, Ansel Varth dropped off Gillian Blake at her parked car near the King's Neck Post Office. He told her that he was mad about her, that he couldn't wait to see her again, that she had changed his whole life. He said that Gilly had given him fresh inspiration. He was a real man. This time, he would surely write the great American dirty novel.
"I'll call you tomorrow," he said.
"Sure," Gilly said. "Sure."
As he drove away, Varth affectionately made an obscene gesture at Gilly. She laughed, and then