Last Updated on Friday, 26 November 2010 13:30 Written by Administrator Wednesday, 10 February 2010 08:49
While Lorraine drove along the esplanade, she wondered how the men were enjoying Tanya.
They probably liked her; the girl had youth on her side.
In Antonio's car park she changed into her white pumps, touched-up her lips and checked her hair. The new hairdresser had performed a small miracle, despite bouts of extreme melodrama: "This is a disaster! It floats like a cloud. It is the blonde of a whore. Tell me who did this! I will kill him! Hair so sensitive, so fine, cries out for Pierre."
Pleased with the chestnut tint and the myriad tiny ringlets that spiralled to the bottom of her breasts, Lorraine agreed. She pushed the curls back to show off her bare shoulders and throat.
As she walked towards the glass doors, her reflection returned an approving smile. The slip dress was soft and sensuous, exposing the upper half of her breasts and the lower half of her thighs. The white nylon highlighted her tan and draped her figure closely, but she could barely feel it at all.
A young couple came out. The man's eyes locked on like radar; the woman's pierced like lasers. That was standard fare from women who deformed their bodies with shapeless cloth.
Geoff met Lorraine at the cocktail bar. The thought struck her that he and Greg were as different as the mixed aromas of the restaurant: the richness of expresso coffee and the heady pungency of garlic. The metaphor pleased her. She smiled at her cleverness as the waiter showed them to their table beside the large window with a view of Port Phillip Bay.
While dusk descended over the water, they sipped their drinks and chatted; he about the new account he had won for Ideas Inc.; she about Sabrini and Associates latest corporate law case. On the bay, the silver-grey sea merged with the sky. There was no horizon and no movement except the blinking of the navigation lights and a few seagulls wheeling past the window. The subdued blend of conversation and Italian serenades added to the calm. But it was a calm charged with expectation.
During the main course, Lorraine decided it was as good a time as any to end the tension. "Have you given it some thought?"
Geoff looked up from his scaloppini, dabbed his lips with the napkin and pushed a sandy lock of hair into place. "I hoped you were joking."
"Really, a gang bang?"
The crass term lodged itself between Lorraine's thighs. She crossed them. "Would you call a symphony a noise?"
"Depends on who's conducting."
"Will you help?"
Geoff began eating again; tense moments passed before he answered. "I'm not much of a fighter."
"You'd just be keeping an eye on things."
"And if they get rough?"
"They won't. You can join in, of course."
"Mm -- about ten should do."
Geoff's knife grated on the china; half of his salad scooted off the plate. Another long silence followed while he retrieved it.
"I'll spray them with DDT."
"I've got a good supply of condoms."
"You know I hate condoms."
"This is crazy. I must be crazy to still --"
"The world's crazy ... paranoid."
"Do you know how many people are keeling over from AIDS?"
He whispered the dreaded acronym; even so it penetrated to the farthest corners of the room. Many heads turned. The couple at the next table continued to stare while Lorraine answered in a hushed voice. "As a matter of fact, I do. I know exactly what I'm doing."
"It's Russian roulette!"
"Forget it then. I'm sorry I asked."
"I care about you!"
"I care about you, too, but I don't try to run your life. We have an agreement."
"'Keeping it casual' doesn't mean sitting back and watching you take stupid risks?"
"What about you?"
"The risks I take aren't stupid."
"Neither is this."
"There's an epidemic!"
"So we're told. But it's nothing to do with sex."
"I don't believe I'm hearing this!"
"We've been misled. I've been reading an Australian study released in ninety-five. The death rate in the early nineties was nowhere near as high as the earlier predictions. They say that's due to condoms. But the virus is supposed to take ten years or more to incubate."
"Look, the people who died up until ninety-five must have had it for more than ten years. That means they got it before the condom craze started in eighty-five. So how could condoms have had anything to do with lowering the death rate in the early nineties? Not only that, the predictions for the future were much the same. After more than a decade of 'safe sex' -- if sex really had anything to do with it -- they should have been predicting a decline."
For a full thirty seconds Geoff's brown eyes bored into Lorraine's, then he shrugged. "That's rubbish."
"It's simple arithmetic."
"What is it with you?" He pushed his plate aside. "I can understand a man, whatever they say, it's not the same. But what difference does it make for a woman?"
"It does feel different. But what I really hate is the idea of being too frightened to really ... touch, inside. It's insidious and repulsive. This whole 'safe sex' thing used to make me feel dirty. But not any more. I refuse to be brainwashed and manipulated."
Geoff released an angry sigh and slumped back in his chair.
"Yes, Geoff, brainwashed! The flu kills more people. Should everyone go to bed wearing surgical masks and rubber gloves in case their partner's got a cold?"
"Come off it."
"I wonder how people would feel about kissing through a layer of latex? Hey! Here's an idea -- lip condoms."
"Your attitude is bloody irresponsible!"
"That's the programmed and proper response."
They ate quietly for a while until Geoff broke the silence in a tone less condescending. "All right, please, just tell me this -- Why?"
"Why do you race fast cars, bungee jump, skydive?"
"That's hardly the same."
"It's exactly the same. The pleasure, the thrill, the anticipation."
"You've done this before?"
"About twelve years ago, I was only eighteen. There was a boy, Lonny --"
"And AIDS isn't the only risk."
"What about other STDs?"
"Slim chance when you check it out. I don't worry about it any more than I worry about breathing everyone else's germs in a place like this. I'm more worried about chemicals in my food. Most people don't give that a second thought. Why should sex be any different?"
"Because it's -- It just is. And I still don't get it."
Lorraine leant closer. "Imagine. You're the only man in a room full of women. They're all horny. They're touching themselves --"
"You're incorrigible." He adjusted his bow tie and rearranged his legs.
"They're dying to touch you. Dying to suck you. Dying to f--"
"Keep your voice down."
"You're going from one to the other. They're feeling you, kissing and teasing. You're lying down and one by one they're using you -- using you to give themselves pleasure. See their faces?"
"Cut it out."
Lorraine could see the silk shirt sticking to his ribs. "Now, it's their turn. One lies across the table. She opens her legs."
"Another one drapes her legs up over the arms of a chair --"
"Can you see it? It's all wet and soft -- waiting. It wants you -- wants you so badly."
Lorraine had slipped her shoe off. Her toes, concealed by the tablecloth, found his penis erect. She stroked, then prodded firmly. "You come. But you still have your fingers and mouth."
He shivered and swallowed.
"You'll do it?"
Lorraine withdrew her foot and contemplated her cappuccino for a minute or two. Finally, she scooped up some froth and licked it from the spoon, making sure Geoff noticed the way her tongue twirled around the tip.
Lorraine lay listening to the breeze dancing through the leaves of the Japanese maple outside the bedroom window. Her fingers played between her legs, absently plucking at the lips, stretching and letting go. After looking forward all day to having Geoff, it was not easy getting him out of her mind. His excuse for sending her home alone did not wash; having to catch an early flight to Brisbane had never stopped him before.
Too bad. He had his life to lead; she had hers. She thought about the 'party'. Invitations: that was the first thing. Then they would phone her. That would give her a chance to vet them, to make sure they agreed with what she had in mind. But where would she find the right men? And what would she say on the invitations?
She sniffed her fingers, then wet them with saliva.
Lorraine invites you to ...
Lorraine requests the pleasure of your company ...
Lorraine requests the pleasure of your -- cock.
She said it aloud, loving the sharp feel of it on the roof of her mouth. "Lorraine requests the pleasure of your gorgeous, big, smooth, hard cock ..."
Orgy ...! Something orgy ...
Two fingers slipped inside. Mm, 'orgy' was a nice juicy word, a word you could really wrap your cunt around.
What would they think, the people at Sabrini and Associates, solicitors to the powerful and wealthy? Lorraine pictured their faces, old Angus Sabrini, the others and dear Edith the receptionist. They would have a fit. All the same, she often had an urge to tell them: "So, you think touch typing is all I'm good at? Come to the HotSpot one night and see me in action ..."
Was 'orgy' right? Could you have an orgy with only one woman?
The men would need snacks -- savouries, dips, perhaps a few sweet things, drinks --
Now she knew what to call it. But that did not solve her immediate problem, neither did three fingers. She picked up the telephone and dialled Greg's number.
Greg sat leaning against the pillows with Lorraine crouching backwards over his lap. He smacked her buttock. "So'd we hit the money, honey?"
Lorraine could not answer; she was still lost in the pleasure, riding out the last waves and twinges. Finally, she flopped back against his chest and pulled his penis out to watch it while massaging firmly. She loved the feel of it between her fingers; loved the way the head gleamed; loved the way it fitted her mouth. She bent down to suck at it, then squatted and pressed it back in.
He rammed up into her. "Y'know. You're a fuckin' top slut."
That was a 'top' compliment coming from him, but his contempt for women disturbed her.
He rammed harder. "Mega-slut, to tell the truth. Sure beats screwin' some frigid fuckin' bitch."
This was definitely the last time! Pity. She had enjoyed Greg immensely during the night and again this morning. He was built like a stud bull. That excited her, but his smell excited her more; a leathery scent that brought back memories of Lonny's motorbike throbbing between her legs.
Greg's hands slipped inside her night shirt. It was a tee-shirt, really. Lonny's -- an oversized and faded remnant of the past. He rolled a nipple between each thumb and forefinger, much too roughly. Lorraine slid up and down again while stroking his scrotum and the root of his penis. She wanted him to come so that he would go.
Wearing nothing but Lonnie's old red tee-shirt, Lorraine threw herself into tidying and cleaning. Staying bottomless added an erotic element to housework. It also meant fewer clothes to wash.
At three in the afternoon, with the house spotless and her body grimy from head to foot, she lay down for a while. There was plenty of time before she needed to get ready.
Stretching lazily on the pink satin sheets, she gazed up at the mirrored ceiling. That was one of her better ideas. Beneath that ceiling she and Keith had enjoyed some hot times, but rarely more often than once a fortnight.
If she ever married again she would insist on adding an extra vow: 'Thou shalt fuck daily.' Even that might not be enough. What about variety? Was it really so hard to understand her need for more than one man? Maybe Keith would have coped better if she had told him from the start. Anyway, seven years was a pretty good effort. And what about the small fortune she had spent on sexy lingerie, videos, magazines, books? Nothing worked; Keith was a 'once a fortnight' man and that was that.
If only he had not found those stupid condoms. Who could blame him for thinking she had bought them for him and for assuming she was accusing him of infidelity, not protecting him from hers? Her heart pined for Keith, but only briefly.
Lorraine slept deeply and woke at five. The morning session with Greg was good at the time, but the remarkable girth of his penis had left her vagina aching and her vulva stinging.
After squeezing baby oil onto the lips and around the entrance, she massaged it in gently. Soon her fingers began moving with purpose and rhythm. She watched them in the mirror above, then her eyes watched her eyes. Gazing into their blue-green depths created an eerie sort of intimacy, as though the flickering shades of pleasure belonged to someone else.
Her fingertips homed in on her clitoris, stroking faster and faster, skipping across the stiff ridge ...
Lonny's bike throbbed between her legs.
He stopped near the river.
Lorraine bent over the Harley.
Her elbows and face pressed into the seat.
She sniffed the leather, the petrol, hot oil.
Lonny ripped off her panties.
Her clitoris crawled and tingled.
He unbuckled his belt.
Her cunt itched, twitched -- wanted.
He pressed her buttocks apart ...
Lorraine's fingers stopped stroking; she wanted it to last. Her hands brushed her nipples, then she rolled the tee-shirt up over her breasts. Like her buttocks, they were a little too big, but only because she was a little too short. She bounced them on her palms.
"Fuck." Her reflection mouthed the word slowly, holding onto the 'F'.
Splaying her knees and pulling them up frog like, she gazed up at her vulva, lusted over it, adored it. Thick and erect, her clitoris reached out from the hair. Neatly trimmed, the small delta of gold covered the twin mounds of her pubis; plump mounds closely coifed, glistening. She liked it that way and so did the men.
"Cunt." She held onto the 'C.'
Ripe, red, hungry, there shone the focus of her being. She patted it softly then slapped it hard. Her fingers massaged lovingly then slapped it again -- slapped and massaged, slapped and massaged, faster and faster until nothing existed but a handful of pleasure rolling and sliding and churning.
"Fuck my cunt. Fuck-fuck-fuck ..."
Lonny's cock slid in. Big, smooth, hard.
His thighs slapped faster and faster.
Lorraine was coming.
Lonny was coming.
|There were others!
Fists squeezing. Skin sliding.
Everywhere, all around her, cocks.
Big. Stiff. Wet.
Long cocks. Hard cocks. Fat cocks.
Beautiful cocks, cocks, cocks ...
Lorraine opened her eyes. Her clitoris throbbed hot in her palm. White hot, hotter, Unbearably hot.
"Fuck me, fuckme, fuckme-fuckmefuckme ..."
Lonny's cock slipped out.
His semen trickled warmly then cooled on her skin.
Cool, wet, open.
Open, itching, twitching.
The others jostled behind her...
Lorraine's pelvis squirmed and pitched. Two fingers and the slick ridge of pleasure became a blur in the mirror.
Burning, burning, BURNING, BURNING-BURSTING ...
Her thighs and eyes clenched shut.
On Monday night, as Lorraine strolled towards the HotSpot Cinema, two middle-aged couples eyed her disdainfully. They were heading for the triple cinema complex across the street where 'Dirty Harry,' 'Basic Instinct,' and a movie version of a TV soapy were screening. The group spoke loudly enough to ensure Lorraine overheard.
"Probably takes them out the back, ten bucks a go."
"Breeding places for violence ..."
"Degrading to women ... "
"No wonder there's so many rapists and child molesters ..."
Lorraine ignored them until one of the matrons glared directly at her. "Women like her deserve what they get."
Lorraine glared right back. "I get what I want. The actors do too. It's a hot show."
The woman opened her mouth but the man answered for her. "We're going to see a decent show."
Lorraine glanced across the street. "The soapy's full of emotional cruelty. Clint Eastwood's blowing peoples' heads off, and Sharon Stone's murdering a guy with an ice pick while she fucks him. It's not my cup of tea, but whatever turns you on."
Philip, who had heard the discussion from the ticket box, gave Lorraine the thumbs up as she strode inside.
Monday was always a quiet night and Lorraine liked it that way. Tanya, the new girl, could keep Fridays and Saturdays. The weekend crowd considered it all a bit of a laugh, anyway; something to do after a day of hard drinking. But the Monday night audience became far more involved. Lorraine guessed that for many of them this was as close as they came to having a real sex life.
She watched from the projection room with Andy, a good natured engineering student who took the job believing he could study while he worked. He was about twenty, tall and lanky, with sad brown eyes and black bushy hair. As always, his books remained unopened.
On the screen four couples were having sex in various positions. The sighs and groans had been added later. The story line was an after-thought, too, with the same action and close-up scenes repeated again and again. But if the women were being 'degraded', they certainly seemed to love it. True, their pleasure could be faked, but how could anyone fake engorged genitals?
The women took the lead as eagerly as the men. Lorraine loved the way they simply helped themselves to whatever they wanted. It looked so easy: no hang-ups, no pressures. Could real life be like that?
Acutely aware that every man in the theatre had an erection, she undressed. Then, on a sudden impulse, she spun Andy's chair around and undid his zip.
His protests faded quickly to a feeble whisper. "You're on in five minutes!"
Flexing in her fingers, Andy's penis felt too beautifully solid, too satiny smooth, too syrupy-tipped to resist. Lorraine rubbed her nipples across his lips, lifted her leg over him, teased herself briefly and sank down. A few minutes later, her sharp moans, then his, joined those coming from the screen.
He pushed her off. "Go. Thirty seconds."
Lorraine grabbed a handful of tissues, wiped herself, then slipped into her dance gear. She hurried down the aisle to the wing of the stage. The footlights came up and the music began. Andy made the announcement: "Gentlemen, please welcome the lovely and luscious Lorraine!"
As usual for a Monday the audience numbered less than thirty. They clapped when Lorraine skipped onto the stage. She was keen to try out her new routine. Instead of the usual loud and lusty music she had selected a sensual, Mozart movement. Most strip-tease acts were so predictable they were hardly a tease, but Lorraine had a surprise for this audience.
The cloak of red silk with gold trim was tied loosely at the front and flowed to mid thigh. When she pirouetted, the gossamer fabric clung to her curves. While she swayed and dipped it billowed and swirled, exposing maddening flashes of breast, hip, buttock and vulva.
Starting at the bottom, she undid the ties one by one. The silk floated higher and higher. The audience barely breathed. There were no other women in the cinema; these men were all hers. Lorraine felt every eye on her, imagined every penis straining, pining, twitching.
With the cloak open except for one tie at the neck, she came down from the stage. The spotlight followed as she spun along the aisle, entering the rows, teasing her bare bottom into the men's laps, or leaning over to let them feel her breasts. Lorraine gave some of the men a close view by hitching herself onto the backs of seats and spreading her legs. She could smell Andy's semen and feel it melting inside.
Later, they would enjoy her again and again in their minds and she would enjoy them. The money meant nothing; she danced for herself and the men -- unattractive men, shunned and lonely; old men ignored as asexual; boys, confused and wounded by silly girls; businessmen with inhibited wives and sexless lives; and connoisseurs like her who appreciated nudity and sex just as others appreciated orchids or football or Ming vases.
The dance not only exposed the body it bared the soul, but Lorraine felt exalted and radiant. She glowed with the vitality and freedom that came from having no shame, from expressing her true self. The eroticism of the dance embodied her very essence.
The men seldom touched her. It was she who took their trembling hands and pressed them against her skin. They asked for no more, but Lorraine wanted more. She slipped some of them a small card -- an invitation.
Back on stage, she discarded the cloak and fell to her knees. Her hips wriggled and rolled like a belly dancer's. Her hair tossed around and around. Her hands palmed her stomach and lifted her breasts. Madame de Rochelle's china doll face flashed into her mind. 'Lose yourself in the dance, child. You are the dance!' And her mother's face too. 'Ballet will make a lady of you, young lady, if anything can.'
Falling onto her back with her knees widely parted, Lorraine pitched and heaved in the fucking motion men loved to watch. She dragged clawed fingers over her crotch, letting one slip between the lips, into her vagina, then up to her clitoris to smear it with Andy's juice and her own.
The music ended, but she could not stop. The theatre fell silent except for Lorraine's hoarse breathing and the wet sounds between her legs. Andy was ready to run the next movie. He would caution her later: 'That's going too far. They could close us down.'
It was not the first time Lorraine had orgasmed on stage, but when she rose to her feet the men cheered and clapped like never before. On shaky legs, she took a bow and threw them a kiss.
Shortly before noon on Friday, Geoff phoned Lorraine at work. He sounded anxious and wanted to meet her for lunch at the Collins Street Plaza, but Angus Sabrini needed a huge affidavit typed and Lorraine could not get away until two.
The Plaza had an outdoor cafe with white wrought iron tables and Fosters Lager umbrellas. While Lorraine enjoyed the sunshine and sipped her wine, she admired the three young men sitting nearby. Geoff allowed his eyes only one quick appraisal of their mini-skirted companions, then he reached over and touched Lorraine's hand. "About this -- attitude of yours. I'm really worried."
"There's no need to be."
"You know I'm not possessive. I get around, but I've been careful until now. It's just too risky."
Lorraine knew what he was leading to; she decided to make it easy for him. "If you think I'm not safe, fine. I understand. It's been fun. Let's just be friends."
He grinned faintly. "And here I was all ready for a big fight."
"It's not as if we're madly in love."
"But I am very fond of you."
"Same here. And it has been fun. Really."
The waitress served the sandwiches -- chunky rye piled with salad and ham. Geoff took a large bite from his and made a more thorough reconnaissance of the female clientele, then his attention returned to Lorraine. "Okay. Now that's settled, speaking just as a friend, will you please consider getting some help?"
"I like being a nymphomaniac."
"You have to sort out this denial or delusion or whatever about AIDS."
Lorraine felt her blood pressure rising. "Not only am I irresponsible and a health hazard, now I'm crazy!"
"Not crazy, obsessed."
She took a deep breath. "Look, ordinary people having ordinary sex have got more chance of dying from any number of other causes. We're more likely to get bowled over by a car; one hundred and forty times more likely to die in a road smash. That's not a delusion, that's a fact. In America more people die from sleeping pill overdoses. They'd be safer staying awake fucking! I'm not the one who's deluded. Did you read those books I gave you?"
"I've read enough." He took the books from his briefcase and pushed them across the table. "You can't seriously believe this stuff?"
"I think for myself. And this stuff makes more sense than the orthodox nonsense."
"Come on! These creeps are always crawling out of the woodwork. Look at cancer, every man and his dog's got a miracle cure."
"Who said anything about miracle cures? I'm just saying we've been misled. We've been conned into believing that everyone with AIDS has got HIV."
"They have! Everyone knows that."
"They haven't! That's just it. If you're HIV positive it's only a matter of time and you'll die from AIDS', that's the so-called safe sex message. It's a lie! What few people realise is that only about fourteen AIDS deaths a year are attributed to heterosexual contact. Fourteen! In all of Australia. That is not an epidemic. More people die from contaminated blood products."
"You're ignoring all the others, Lorraine. Thousands have died of the disease. Thousands more are HIV carriers."
"Yes, male homosexuals, bi-sexuals, haemophiliacs, drug users, hardly any from straight sex. It's not a disease, anyway, it's a syndrome. And you're damn right. I have got an attitude about AIDS."
Lorraine found herself unloading information like a computer running amuck. "They've grouped about twenty-five previously known illnesses, some of them not even contagious, and called it Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome. Homosexual men get one group of illnesses, drug users another, haemophiliacs another, Africans another.
"The media hype scares you into taking the test. They test your blood for antibodies to HIV, Human Immunodeficiency Virus -- retrovirus actually. The hundred or so other retroviruses we all carry are harmless, but this one's supposed to hang around for ten years, then it strikes."
Geoff tugged at his bow tie, irritably. "I'm not a doctor, but it's established fact that --"
"No. You think I'm some kind of stupid, reckless bimbo! I value my life and the lives of my partners just as much as anyone else. The least you can do is listen. They test for antibodies. They don't tell you the tests are erratic, inaccurate, give false positives. The tests react to the proteins of other viruses and germs, some of them carried by all of us, but particularly by the high risk groups, including the leprosy germ carried by millions of Africans. That could be why equal numbers of men and women test positive there. They've got a high level of malnutrition, too, and a generally lower level of health, which means more germs, more antibodies, more false positives.
"Drug addicts neglect their health; the drugs themselves suppress the immune system so they probably have more germs than the rest of us. Haemophiliacs -- blood transfusions weaken the immune system. Homosexuals -- the rectal membrane's thin, easily damaged, bacteria from their own bowel could get into the bloodstream. Condoms don't stop that.
"Let's say you test positive. They don't tell you what some virologists have been saying for years -- that HIV doesn't infect enough T cells to give you the flu let alone knock out the immune system! They treat you with drugs. They don't tell you that the side effects of some of the drugs are indistinguishable from AIDS. Did you know that? The drugs suppress the immune system, leave you defenceless against the same illnesses they've grouped together and called AIDS!"
Lorraine stopped for breath. Geoff seemed not the least bit impressed. "You read a few books and now you're the expert. You think you've got all the answers. Lorraine, those people are nut cases, quacks, opportunists, unscrupulous bastards trying to make money out of other people's misery! Do you think the vast majority of doctors and scientists all over the world are stupid? How could they all be wrong?"
"Because they're always getting it wrong! Look at history. A couple of hundred years ago doctors killed people with mercury or bled them to death. Thirty years ago X-rays used by your friendly, infallible doctors were so damned strong they caused cancer. Apparently, with some AIDS drugs, at all you have to do is read the list of side effects on the package inserts. At least one of them causes B12 deficiency. The final stage of B12 deficiency is identical to the final stage of AIDS! And you're right, the doctors and scientists aren't stupid. They must know about this. But while they follow the established treatment they can't be accused of any wrong-doing. It takes guts to stand up and be counted.
"Geoff! I'm talking about some of the world's top retrovirologists, chemists and biophysicists who say plainly that HIV does not cause AIDS."
She flicked through the pages of the first book and read statements about the HIV-AIDS theory attributed to some of the renegade scientists. One said it was a fraud and morally destructive. Another said because it was unfalisfiable the theory was useless and that AIDS resulted from enormous exposure to human viruses and bacteria. Another stressed that there were many people with AIDS but without HIV, and many people with HIV but without AIDS.
"You have to take notice when people like these speak up. These are top people in their fields. Are they all nut cases?"
Lorraine produced more information. She named more dissenting scientists who poured out indictment after indictment of the HIV hypothesis. She stopped, finally, when she realised that Geoff was more interested in contemplating the shapely derrière less than a metre from his nose. It belonged to the leggy brunette bending to collect empty glasses.
"I'm listening. Those books should be banned. They could stop people getting treatment that might save their lives." He took a bite from of his sandwich.
Obviously, he was unmoved by anything she had said. For a while they ate silently, but Lorraine soon found herself back on the same subject. "What did you think of that 1995 AIDS report?"
"Seemed reasonable. A lot more sensible than your books."
"Reasonable! Most people would be amazed if they knew the truth. How many people actually go out and buy the statistics like I did? What most people hear about are the overall HIV figures, not AIDS deaths. 'Millions of Africans, Indians, Asians infected.' So we picture millions of people dying like flies. 'Sixteen thousand so-called Australian HIV cases since 1985'. So we think of 16000 AIDS deaths, not 4014 total. And what the AIDS authorities keep quiet about is that only about 140 of those actually died from so-called heterosexually contracted AIDS! Like I said before, an average of fourteen a year, and even that's an assumption. Those people were not in any of the high risk groups so they assume they must have got it from heterosexual sex. How scientific is that?
"It's all circumstantial. You show me one piece of hard scientific evidence that HIV causes AIDS or that AIDS is acquired sexually. I'll bet you can't. One day this whole safe sex fiasco will blow wide open. Sex is as safe as it ever was."
Geoff shook his head. "You really have been sucked in, haven't you? Why do you believe everything these people say?"
"Because they make sense! The HIV theory does not make sense. These people have got nothing to gain by speaking out, except ridicule and vilification. In some cases government's have even withdrawn their funding."
"Good on them! They're dangerous. And you're a prime bloody example of just how dangerous."
"No. They're dangerous because they're an embarrassment. If the HIV theory was correct it would stand up to any scrutiny. It doesn't.
"You really should study the history to all this. In 1984 when it was announced that HIV caused AIDS the idea hadn't even been tested and debated in the medical literature! But that was it; everyone jumped on the bandwagon. They didn't have much choice because governments who were desperate for a solution grabbed at the idea. Governments fund the health industry -- billions of dollars. It was a political solution."
Lorraine had barely touched her sandwich; she had lost her appetite. "It's criminal. But doctors aren't likely to admit that their patients would still be alive if they hadn't prescribed lethal drugs. Politicians can't admit they wasted billions on a shonky hypothesis that wasn't subjected to the proper scientific testing."
Lorraine's skin crawled. More than a year had passed since she first discovered all of this. It was shortly after Keith left her. The implications were frightening. And yet Geoff seemed totally unaffected. In fact, he was making a point of looking bored.
"Geoff, can't you see it, the contradictions, the inconsistencies? If HIV is the cause and it's sexually transmitted, how come it's barely detectable in the semen of AIDS patients? How come the overall death rate is the same for haemophiliacs and drug addicts with HIV and those without? How come seventy-five percent of AIDS babies in the US are born to crack mothers, and others are haemophiliacs or transfusion recipients?"
Geoff placed both hands flatly on the table and stood up. He leant across and kissed Lorraine's forehead. "It's been fun. And for your sake, I hope you're right." He walked away without looking back.
That was not boredom or apathy in his eyes, it was the very thing he had accused her of -- denial. Geoff was afraid to know the truth.
The discussion left Lorraine feeling very wound up. As she stared into her drink she became aware of the young man at the next table smiling at her -- the blonde with the strong squared off features and blue eyes. The others had left him.
He helped himself to Geoff's chair. "Mind if I join you? I'm Tony. I couldn't help overhearing." He glanced at the pile of books. "I've read all of that."
"I suppose you think it's nonsense too."
"Not at all. But I've learned to hold my tongue. Political correctness is the buzz phrase these days. Say anything against safe sex and you might as well say you're an axe murderer."
They ordered more drinks and chatted for a while. Tony worked as a computer programmer. He had a very analytical mind. Lorraine was relieved to find someone who had delved as deeply into the 'protection' subject as she had. Most people would not even consider anything but the orthodox point of view. Lorraine thought that was because it upset their sense of order.
Tony agreed. "It's like questioning someone's religion. People don't want to think about it. It's all neat and tidy at the moment. Everyone likes neat answers. So you give them a neat slogan: safe sex. And you give them a simple solution: condoms."
"Well, it makes me angry. This must be having a terrible effect on relationships. If one partner insists on protection what are they implying about the other, about themselves? And kids, teenagers, what are they going through? I used to worry about pregnancy; today's kids must be terrified they're going to die."
Tony nodded. "I didn't even trust condoms. I was still a virgin at twenty."
Lorraine thought he did not look much older now. He picked up her copy of the 1995 HIV-AIDS report. "Did you notice the way they used back projection from AIDS deaths to validate the reported HIV infections years before?"
"Yes. I thought that was like deciding someone's guilty and then re-arranging the clues to prove it."
"Exactly. And the figures almost matched. But if HIV actually caused AIDS, those figures shouldn't match. Nowhere near it. You can have HIV and not show any symptoms. So for every reported HIV case there'd be quite a few that went unreported. But AIDS deaths wouldn't go unreported. Back projection should give a much higher number of HIV cases than those reported."
Lorraine thought about that for a moment. "You're right. I didn't pick that up. But it's just another example of propping up the theory. Tuberculosis is tuberculosis, but if you're HIV positive they say it's an 'AIDS defining illness.' The same for the other AIDS illnesses; they've been around for years, but if you're also HIV positive, or sometimes even if you're just in a high risk group, they say your illness is caused by AIDS. That makes the theory self perpetuating.
"Another thing. Nowhere near enough HIV people were dying, so they kept extending the latency period. That meant it had to be a slow virus, which was unheard of. No other retrovirus in history has behaved anything like HIV is supposed to behave. The rules keep changing to accommodate the hypothesis. But the thing that really amazes me is that although the presence of HIV antibodies is supposed to indicate you have AIDS, half the AIDS victims, in the US anyway, don't have antibodies for HIV! How do they answer that one?"
"I don't know." Tony sipped his wine.
"You know what I think will happen? When someone discovers the real cause of AIDS we still won't get the truth. We'll be told the new cause is a secondary factor along with HIV. Then HIV will slowly drop out of the picture completely. Everyone will forget they were misled."
"Yeah. That's neat. Evolution, not revolution. That way no-one has to admit they were wrong."
Lorraine felt wrung out and decided it was time to get on with more pleasant things. "So, was that your girlfriend sitting with you before?"
"No. They're just the gang from work. I'm on flexitime. It's my afternoon off."
Tony responded visibly to the inviting inflection in Lorraine's voice. He leant a little closer. "Your friend sure left in a hurry."
"He means well. He's in the advertising business; I suppose that's why he thinks any slogan that sounds nice can't be bad."
Tony began flicking though the pages of the HIV-AIDS report and stopped when he found the page he wanted. "This could be interesting. Out of those fourteen deaths a year -- supposedly from heterosexual contact -- only about five are women. I wonder how that compares with the pill, the side effects, thrombosis and so on?"
"Hm. I wonder. I never did like the idea of meddling with my hormones."
"But that's another thing everyone takes for granted these days, isn't it?"
"I don't. I'm old fashioned. I'd even prefer to use condoms." She smiled right at him. "But I know my body cycles, and just to be sure, I never leave home without my cap."
Tony searched for a suitable response, Lorraine watched his eyes. Her skin crawled again, but this time the sensation was warm, tingling, focused. Her knees parted a little, making her acutely aware of the breeze on the moist cotton.
Tony's leg brushed hers. "I know we've just met, but maybe we could -- Would you like to --" He was blushing vividly. "I mean, do you feel like another drink?"
"I like your first idea better."
At Lorraine's place, on a rug in her secluded courtyard, they squashed pieces of fruit onto and into the most sensitive places, then ate it slowly. They smeared cream over their bodies then licked it off. They poured wine onto their skin then lapped it up. They massaged each other with scented oils until their bodies hummed.
After several hours of breathtakingly slow, slippery sex they lay on the rug, mellow and sated. Lorraine stared at the clouds, searching for the right words. She had decided to ask Tony to her party.
The floral lounge chair faced the open doorway. Lorraine sat naked with her legs spread widely and hooked over the arms. The evening breeze wafted over her skin, swirled around her breasts, licked up her thighs ...
She was bending over Lonny's bike.
Her cunt was open and wet.
Lonny's semen trickled out.
Their eyes bored into her.
Any second now the men would arrive. They would see her. They would enter. And one by one they would --
At the very last minute Lorraine changed her mind. This was too shocking, too lewd. She jumped up, ran into the bedroom and put on her dance costume: the red silk cloak with gold trim.
The two boys arrived first. They came in a battered old Falcon GT. Ian was fair, curly haired with inquisitive blue eyes. Peter was tall, dark, solidly built, pin-up material. Lorraine mentally labelled them Ian the inquisitive and Peter the pin-up. She told them to help themselves to the drinks and savouries laid out on the table. Their eyes locked onto her, trying to see under the skimpy silk. She swished it around to give them a glimpse of bare bottom as she turned to welcome the next guest.
He was about sixty. He had chained his bicycle to the front fence. Standing on the verandah, he stared at Lorraine and scratched his grey hair as if trying to remember where he was, then his eyes fell to her thighs. She labelled him Daryl the dreamer.
The next guest arrived on a Harley Davidson motor cycle. Distinguished, early fifties, straight postured, silver haired, he was Derek the director. Next came Jim: middle thirties, muscular with quick brown eyes and a weathered, done-everything face. Lorraine named him Jungle Jim. In quick succession, five more arrived: Brian the baby face, twentyish; Ray the rake, forty plus; Bob the basset, big jowelled; Sven the Swede, built to please. Tony arrived last with a huge bowl of fruit salad tucked under his arm.
Chatting nervously, the men gathered around the table. Lorraine felt nervous, too, as she began to mingle.
Daryl was the first to touch her. Hesitantly, he slipped his hand under the cloak to examine her bottom. Lorraine stood motionless while his fingertips traced the crease between buttock and thigh. Her anus tensed.
Another hand brushed the goosed skin. Cool, large, it sampled each cheek then tickled lightly, making her shiver. The hand belonged to Bob. He knelt to adore her more closely.
A fingertip touched the tail of her spine, teased up then down into the cleavage and up again. Other fingers crept around her waist to her belly and down to the hair.
From behind, a hand reached between her legs, cupping, massaging, sliding the lips together. The middle finger delved. Lorraine pressed down, her body straining, tingling, alert.
The pin-up, Peter, peeled aside the cloak to expose one breast and squeezed it between his palms. Ian, the inquisitive, pampered the other, teasing the teat with bunched fingers then sucking through the silk.
Trembling and hot, very hot, Lorraine moved on. Her hands felt bottoms, her fingers slipped between legs, stroking, squeezing. Her breasts, one bare and both yearning, brushed jackets and shirts. She lingered often, pushing each nipple forward to be suckled here, kissed there. Her bottom nuzzled erections. Her tongue slithered down necks, behind ears, into mouths.
While she drifted among them, the men did not paw or grope; their touch conveyed respect and veneration. Her body hummed and glowed, immersed in pure pleasure, suspended in a sensual sea. Like soft seaweed flowing, seductive tentacles entwined, aroused, enraptured.
Tony took her in his arms. While they kissed, his penis leapt into her hand. When she bent to sip, to drape her tongue around, to lick along, to suck, to slide her lips over and down and back, the others watched with envious eyes.
They praised her buttocks; the peachy smooth perfection, the silky slope and curve, the sensuous sweeping cleft, the anal rosette, trembling. They worshiped her vulva; its enticing swell and cleave, its sparkling succulence, beckoning. They sniffed its piquant scent.
Their words were often rough but said with admiration: "Nice arse! ... Beautiful snatch! ... See how her clit sticks out ... I love these cunt lips. Mmm ..." Many fingers probed and entered as did many tongues.
Lorraine let the cloak float away then went from man to man, unzipping, reaching in, freeing, teasing, kneading, slipping the skin. And she returned their compliments, admiring the myriad shapes and sizes, the delicately sculpted heads of pink or purple, the glossy coronas and tender cheeks, the graceful arcing shafts, some dangling soft and languid, some swinging large and heavy, some hovering horizontal, some reaching for the stars.
She bent to adore their velvet warmth: one rolling against her face, another brushing her breasts, another flipping across her nipples, another pulsing between her lips -- a flexing, straining, phallic feast! And while she lapped and suckled, she cocked one leg to let them lick, or lifted her bottom to let them fuck, but only briefly before slipping away to fellate the next -- not briefly enough for some.
Most men, she had learned, preferred to go where 'no man had gone before' -- at least shortly before. Fortunately, her current guests had no such qualms, but Lorraine did notice that the 'early comers' were making themselves invisible at one side of the room.
Fondling her spermy vulva, and licking her spermy lips, she went over to reassure them. After, all it was not an endurance contest!
She asked them to clear the table and to arrange the chairs in rows. When it was done, Tony turned on the music, the same Mozart piece she used for her HotSpot cinema act.
Derek made the announcement: "Gentlemen. A big hand please, for the luscious Lorraine!"
They all clapped and cheered as she skipped across the room and leapt onto the table.
Some of the men had already undressed, others were topless or bottomless. They tried to copy Lorraine's erotic movements while shedding the rest of their clothes. When everyone was naked and seated, Lorraine danced down the aisle.
She entered the rows, teasing her bottom into their laps, easing her vagina onto each penis; the softer ones, too, as well as she could. This time the men needed no prompting to feel her breasts, to pull her nipples, to suck and nibble. And when she hitched herself onto the backs of seats they not only feasted with their nostrils and eyes, they pushed her legs farther apart, buried their noses, munched mouthfuls of vulva, probed with their tongues and penises, but only briefly before she moved on to the next.
Lorraine orgasmed over and over.
Baby faced Brian took her onto the table. Head to foot, they fondled and suckled while the other men masturbated, and when the symphony reached a closing crescendo she mounted him roughly and rode.
Bending over the Harley.
Wet, open, waiting.
Lonny spread the lips, showing her off.
The others stood stroking their cocks.
A finger slid in, stirred around.
'Look, she wants more,'
'What if she changes her tune after?"
'I won't, Rekky! I won't!'
'Anyway, she's Lonny's fuck.'
'That's okay. I don't mind.'
'Come on, Rekky, she's begging for it!'
'No! Anyone else fucks her answers to me.'
They got on their bikes and rode away.
Itching, empty, wanting, Lorraine crouched on the edge of the bed on hands and knees. Several men stood behind her. Everyone had rested and eaten a light supper, now they were gathered beneath the mirrored ceiling.
Daryl slid under Lorraine from the front with his head between her legs. Ian knelt beside him. Lorraine teased penis tip on penis tip, rolled shaft on shaft. Her mouth accommodated one then the other and both together. While Daryl's tongue swirled along and around, she took her weight on her elbows and tilted her backside enticing the men behind her to take turns.
The withdrawal of one, the anticipation while she waited, itching, to shove back on the next, was exquisite.
Ray knelt nearby on his haunches, masturbating. Lorraine watched his fist sliding slowly the full length, watched the gleaming column straining, the head emerging ever tighter and redder. She summoned him closer. In turn with Ian and Daryl, he shared her mouth until all three had come.
While Daryl remained still to let Lorraine slide on his tongue, warm palms stroked her belly and back. Mouths leant under to catch her breasts. She reached out to caress buttocks and chests, to cup scrotums in her hand, to feel raw masculinity flex in her grip, to gorge on the phallic banquet all around, to pump and milk and suck.
Fingers threaded through her hair. Tongues and penis tips left cool trails over her hips and ribs and shoulders. Bob took his turn in her mouth. He came. She swallowed. Derek's semen spattered against her arm; Ian's against her throat.
Dizzy with lust, Lorraine threw back her head to see in the overhead mirror whose thighs were pounding her rump. It was Jim with the weather-beaten face. She watched his grimacing, his shuddering, his relaxing; then Peter, entering, entering, and entering again, gasping, "Good, good, good --"
Daryl lifted Lorraine's leg and rolled out. Sven, slid under from behind, his penis dragging over her anus and vagina and clitoris to spring free in front.
Kneeling, Lorraine skimmed along the underside. Thick! She pressed harder, splaying her vulva, gliding, gliding, gliding. The head found its mark. Big! She pressed down. Too big! She pressed again-again-again, stretching, easing, down, down, down.
Huge! Hard. Superb.
Grinding. Sliding. Grinding.
Hunching. Gasping. Grunting.
Crying loud with the spasms.
Tony knelt before her, his penis dangling. She used her hot breath teasing, her tongue coaxing, until it stood proud; then her fingers massaging until he shivered, groaned and bathed her lips in tangy warmth.
Sven began thrusting hard from below.
Tony sat beside Lorraine and noticed the small stack of 'Luscious Lorraine, Erotic Dancer' cards on the bedside table. He turned one over, read the hand written invitation, and grinned. "Do you do this often? I mean, these 'Cocktail Parties.'"
Lorraine was absorbed in smoothing Derek's semen over her breasts. He replied for her. "First time, I believe. I could only track down a few of the boys so Lorraine handed these invitations out to her HotSpot fans."
Squatting now, over Sven, Lorraine was aware of little else but the sublime tightness and fullness, the exquisite pulsing burn, the insatiable ache. She rode faster and faster, harder and harder, deeper and deeper.
Derek chuckled quietly. "Nothing beats a Harley throbbing between your thighs, eh, Lorraine? They were the days -- Rekky's Raiders. It's a pity Lonny couldn't make it."
In answer, all Lorraine could manage was a faint and creamy smile.