Naked Came the Stranger - By Penelope Ashe Page 0,66

she had said. Imagine. Gillian Blake! The Gillian Blake who was on the radio, and whose picture turned up in the newspapers. He and Myrna had seen the Blakes around King's Neck, but they had rarely talked to them. After all, the Blakes were celebrities. You couldn't just walk up and talk to them.

But at the party, Gillian had been very nice. She had seemed very natural to Melvin. Of course, her husband, William Blake, had been a little snobbish. But then he had been a little high. "Corby?" he had said. "That's not a Jewish name, is it?" Melvin had blushed. He had tried to stammer a reply, but Gillian had simply taken his arm and walked him away.

"Don't mind Billy," she had said. "That's the Princeton in him. I mean, he still sends to some silly store there for his sports jackets."

Myrna had smiled at him from across the room, obviously pleased that he was talking to Gillian Blake. Other people had noticed, also. Melvin remembered how self-conscious he had been. In heels, Gillian Blake was about an inch taller than he was. He had found himself staring at her breasts, which had seemed to be beckoning to him through that low-backed green dress. She had leaned in front of him to put down a drink, and her hair, tawny and sweet-smelling, had brushed his face. He had been able to see that she was wearing a strapless white bra. Just talking to her, he had gotten excited. There had been a smile at the edge of her lips as if she knew. She was the most provocative woman he had ever seen. And she was very intelligent, she knew all about existentialism. She said she had majored in Far Eastern religions and existentialism at Bard. After she had left him, it had taken a while before Melvin was able to walk across the room.

Now, as he got the gas can and filled his power mower tank, Melvin felt himself becoming excited just thinking about her. What a woman! And those breasts! Melvin shivered as he imagined how she would be in bed. There was nothing wrong with thinking about it; hell, he was only human. And the important thing was that, in nine years of marriage, he had never cheated on his wife. Never. Not once. Unless, of course, you counted the men's magazines in the bathroom, but that wasn't, well, with a person or anything. Besides, he loved Myrna. It was a fact of which he frequently reminded himself. You live with somebody for nine years, and you build something together. He had once heard Gillian Blake say something similar on her radio show; something about the good and bad of everyday life building a solid foundation for marriage. But it was hard to believe that there was anything everyday about Gillian.

"Gillian Blake?" said Charlie Rider, when Melvin mentioned that she lived in King's Neck. "Yeah, I've seen pictures of her. Now that's what I'd call a piece of ass. And I bet she throws it around, too." It was Charlie's frequently cited belief that Melvin's faithfulness was doing him a great deal of harm. "What you need," he told Melvin, "is a good piece of ass."

"I never even think about things like that," Melvin had said on one occasion.

"Bullshit," said Charlie. "You think about it, but you're afraid. It's your upbringing. You're a victim of Judeo-Hebraic morality."

"That's nonsensical, besides being redundant," Melvin had said.

"No guts," said Charlie.

"I just don't believe in the double standard," Melvin answered. "I think fidelity should be a part of marriage."

"For chrissakes," Charlie said, "you knock something off and your wife'll respect you a lot more than she does now."

"Listen, I love my wife," said Melvin.

"What the hell has that got to do with it?" said Charlie.

"You don't understand," Melvin had said.

"Love!" said Charlie, and he had practically snorted.

"Hey, you don't have to love a woman to bang her. In fact, if you love her you're in trouble. You have to be cool. You never love 'em. You just screw 'em."

"That's disgusting," Melvin had said.

"Bullshit," said Charlie. He said Melvin should get blown. "I bet you never had a good blow job," he said.

"What the hell, that's not being unfaithful. It's not like you're getting laid."

Melvin didn't say so, but the idea fascinated him. Sometimes, when he was eyeing women, he stared at their lips and tried to visualize a good blow job. Myrna's lips were thin, and she had a