"Harley?" Craig laughed when I telephoned. "He's no more gay than I am. He's married and for a while he even had a girlfriend on the side, at least until his wife found out. He just puts on the homosexual act to make his clients feel more comfortable. It worked, didn't it?"
"Up until a few minutes before we finished," I said. I was a little embarrassed at the way I'd let the little dressmaker touch me all over my breasts and legs.
But when Sunday evening came and we entered the lobby of the Lyric Opera, I knew right away that Harley Moss had hit a home run. Though I wore pale gray pantyhose to make the leg tease less audacious, I drew surreptitious glances and outright stares from many of the men nearby. Their women looked on with curiosity, amusement, hostility, and possibly admiration.
We shook hands with a few people I couldn't remember, and Craig led the way to our seats. It happened that I blocked the view of the woman behind, and we traded seats with the couple.
As I'd been at Wrigley Field, I found my attention divided between the drama onstage, and Craig's intimate presence. In this setting, less raucous than the ball park, I could better smell his body and feel his warmth, and it came to dominate my attention. His hand never left my wrist.
During the intermission, we sipped wine from crystal cups—no paper or plastic at the Lyric—while Craig introduced me to officials of the University and some 11th and 25th Ward politicians he happened to know. He was clearly bursting with pride as these powerful men struggled for my attention. I smiled, outwardly and also inwardly, wondering what they'd think if they knew I was just a redneck girl from a downstate coal town.
In the middle of a conversation with an alderman, a thought burst into my mind with such force that it made me blink and lose track of the conversation.
I had power!
My looks, my height and bearing, my daring dress, gave me a sense of confidence I'd never experienced before. It seemed that I could crook my finger and lead any one of these men to a bedroom, or to commit a crime, or to sell their souls, all for my sake.
The thought continued to burrow into my mind after the intermission. I had to remind myself it was only a fantasy. The men were attracted to me—that much was obvious— but they were powerful men who'd fought their way to the top of Chicago politics. They were tough men, accustomed to being in control.
When the opera approached the tragic last scene, I remembered the promise I'd made to Craig. My belly churned with a mixture of lust and fear. I imagined lying on my back on his sofa, or his bed, while his tongue explored my pussy. I also began once more to second-guess myself, wondering again how he could bear to put his mouth
there
.
But a promise was a promise, and last Sunday had been nice. Very nice.
* * *
The ancient elevator was hot inside, and creaked and boomed as it rose. The fancy dress stuck to my skin. I was too nervous to think, and stared at the polished brass fittings and brushed steel art-deco trim in the little space. Craig was equally pre-occupied, presumably for the same reason.
Inside his tiny apartment, the cool, drier air calmed me a little, even when I saw the furniture we'd made love in just five days before. I wandered toward the window, studying the city lights glowing through the narrow gaps between nearby buildings. In Belmont harbor, some of the boats were lighted, likely by people having parties, or perhaps private, Sunday-night sex.
Craig held up a part-bottle. "Wine?"
I nodded. "Yes, please." I could barely speak above a whisper. I sat at one end of the sofa, not trusting my legs to hold me up.
