Good Time Girl. Kate O’Mara
gleefully. ‘They’re always good for a laugh and, boy, could we do with one. And then there’s all those lovely hunky men wandering around in their little skirts – it’ll do you good to see that there are some other good-looking men around, even if they are all in Hollywood.’
‘As this movie was made in 1954, most of them will be pushing seventy,’ observed Claire.
‘Now, now, no ageist remarks, please. What’s wrong with older men? Come to think of it, it’s what you need, a nice older man to look after you. Might treat you properly.’
‘Do they get any better as they get older?’ asked Claire doubtfully.
‘Not really,’ replied Sally, who prided herself on being an authority on the sex. ‘Usually a bit more reactionary. Oh, and their balls get bigger.’
‘Really?’ Claire giggled. ‘How do you know?’
‘It’s a well-known fact,’ said Sal airily.
‘I might give it a try in that case,’ replied Claire.
Sally smiled her approval. ‘That’s better, you’re sounding a bit more like your old self.’
‘I can’t be my old self, not without Rog,’ said Claire bleakly.
‘I mean your old self,’ Sally emphasized. ‘The one you were before you met Svengali.’
Claire looked up, surprised.
‘Oh yes,’ Sally continued, ‘you’ve no idea how that man dominated your life. What was the big attraction?’
Claire reflected for a moment. ‘Sex – initially. It had never been so good with anyone before.’
That night, after Sally had gone home, Claire lay in the dark, trying to sleep. Her mind unwillingly turned to thoughts of Roger. Whatever his faults, he was a considerate and thoughtful lover. She had been astounded the first time they had been in bed together. It had been at his flat after a photo session. First he had stroked her neck and shoulders gently, and kissed her softly, running his fingers lightly down her throat to her breasts, just brushing the tips of her nipples. He had caressed her, lovingly kissing her body all over, driving her wild with anticipation. The sudden unexpected violence of his entry into her drew from her a gasping scream, which seemed to spur him on. His bottom lip glistened with lust as he thrust into her. She had become frantic, when he had suddenly withdrawn and started licking her clitoris avidly. Then sucking on it. She moaned and begged him to fuck her. His eyes had narrowed and the gleam of white, even teeth showed, an indication that he was amused by her pleading. Then he had slapped her sharply on the face, telling her to shut up. He would fuck her in his own good time.
She came to expect more shows of violence from him. On occasions, he would tie her by the wrists and ankles to the corners of the bed, then make her wait for the sublime lovemaking she knew was to follow. After a while, he would kneel astride her face and slowly push his cock into her mouth. He would bring himself almost to the point of orgasm before suddenly stopping and masturbating her until she had reached the same point.
Other times, he would be waiting for her, naked. ‘Tie me up,’ he would say, as she started to undress, eyeing her hungrily. She would see that his erection was already huge. He would stand obediently while she tied him with his hands behind his back to the posts at the foot of the bed. She would take her scarf and blindfold him, then spend an intensely pleasurable half-hour tantalizing him. On her knees she would work her way up his legs with small kisses. As she arrived at his balls, she would see his cock jerk in anticipation of her touch. She would then leave him to wait. He would groan and beg her to continue. After a while, watching him writhe in anticipation, she would suddenly take his cock into her mouth, pushing his foreskin back with her lips. She enjoyed the power of being in control of him sexually on these occasions. After these bouts of titillation, their lovemaking would be frenetic and entirely satisfying, leaving them both exhausted.
Claire lay unblinking in the dark. He’d become bored with her. That was all. He had needed new stimulation, which she could no longer give him. She knew he had not wanted to make any sort of commitment, and had not expected any from her. The last thing he had wanted was for her to have a child. Claire wondered for the hundredth time how she had managed to get it all so wrong. She had thought he loved her. She realized how that she had mistaken lust for love. Well, she’d know better next time. Next time? How could there ever be a next time? She only wanted him. She would never be able to do all those things with anyone else. What she could not put from her mind was the thought that Roger was perhaps doing them at this moment with someone else.
Whoever she was, she couldn’t possibly give him all that she, Claire, had given him. Four years was a long time. He’d soon realize his mistake. He’d start to miss her and come back to her. With this reassuring thought, Claire finally drifted off to sleep.
‘What did you think of last night’s episode?’ Hugh Travis, the producer of The McMasters, tentatively put the question to his immediate superior, Martin Roberts. They were both seated at either side of Hugh’s desk, reading through the next batch of episodes. There was a considerable pause as Martin mulled it over.
Finally he said, ‘Not bad, not bad – a bit slow in places, perhaps, but on the whole, it was – er – well, it was – er –’
‘Crap!’ announced Larry Matthews from the doorway. Both men looked up startled. Larry swung into the room, clutching some scripts and a pair of spectacles in his hands. He closed the door behind him and flung himself into the nearest available chair. ‘Unmitigated crap!’ he informed the ceiling. ‘Weary, flat, stale, and unprofitable,’ he quoted for added effect.
The other two looked at each other. Hugh rolled his eyes heavenwards and shrugged his shoulders resignedly. He knew that Larry was right. His verdict was perhaps a little forceful, but he had a point. The series was becoming stale, predictable and – dare one even think it? – dull. Martin looked dismayed.
‘Oh dear, do you think so? I thought it had moments …’ he faltered. ‘Moments of …’
‘It had moments’, interrupted Larry, ‘of hitherto unplumbed depths of dreariness.’ Here he adopted an attitude of extreme languor. ‘That simply dreadful scene with those two elderly juveniles droning on at each other, boring the pants off me and, I imagine, the rest of the country!’
‘Who are you talking about?’ asked Martin genuinely puzzled.
‘I think he’s referring to Geoff and Bella,’ muttered Hugh. ‘Droning were they? It seemed quite a lively little scene to me,’ he added defensively.
‘Lively? Lively?’ Larry emitted a contemptuous snort. ‘It had about as much life as last week’s doughnuts!’
‘Why do you refer to them as “elderly juveniles”?’ persisted Martin.
Larry looked at him pityingly. ‘Because you know as well as I do that they’re both well into their middle years, yet they insist on prancing around like a couple of teenagers, Geoff in particular. Let’s face it, the succession of prepubescent pulchritude that has passed through these portals, over the last few years to enjoy the dubious pleasure of on-screen, and more often than not off-screen, amorous activities with our leading man, simply to pander to his vanity, has completely deballsed the series.’ He now had their undivided attention. ‘As I remember it, you, my venerable old friend,’ Larry was addressing his remarks to Hugh, ‘had a humdinger of an idea back in the dark ages, seven or eight years ago. A saga centred around a family business of fine arts, antiques, and paintings, the infighting, intrigue of the international art world, sibling rivalry, the struggle for power, at the core of which was a crumbling marriage and all the tensions attendant thereon …’
‘It was your idea, actually,’ Hugh interjected mildly.
Larry glanced at Hugh affectionately. ‘I seem to remember, you dear