Everything Happened to Susan Read Free Page A

one of those men who make a complete distinction between sex and their ordinary lives, no flow between them. But she can hardly credit herself with being very experienced. Being sexually experienced for a girl is not something to be aimed for, or at least Susan still believes this. Phil, dressing, seems to move further and further from her and in the act of dressing herself she suppresses all knowledge of what had happened between them. It had been as mechanical and limited as a transaction in a store; a little bit of seed had passed from one of them to the other but that was no reason to get personally involved. Vaguely, she wonders if everybody in the pornographic films business approaches sex in this fashion or whether her relationship with Phil has been unusual. It hardly seems worth being concerned about, in the fading light of the room with her clothes back on, sitting comfortably in one of the easy chairs flanking the bed, a cigarette in her hand while Phil puts the final touches to his appearance and sits down facing her. “This really isn’t where I live.” he says. “I wouldn’t want you to think that I live this way because it wouldn’t be fair to you. I just use this place for business. I don’t want to have you think that I make a habit of going to bed with girls either: I’m strictly business, strictly, but I found you very attractive and just lost control of myself.”
    Susan wonders if this lapse of control to which Phil refers is really true and wonders what he would be like if he was really detached sexually; she decides not to follow this line of thought through. She is not experienced, she is willing to admit this (sexual experience being the kind of thing which girls from her background cannot concede to) and she may, just possibly, be in a little bit over her head. “It’s all right,” she says, trying to sound matter of fact and holding her cigarette uncomfortably. “It doesn’t matter at all. You don’t have to apologize for anything.”
    “I’m not apologizing. Where did you get the idea I was apologizing?”
    “I don’t know. I don’t mean anything by it. Please,” Susan says, beginning to feel really uneasy: what would Timothy say?, “you were going to tell me about the picture.”
    “Oh yes,” Phil says, “the picture. I have to fill you in on that, don’t I? I don’t really know that much about it; I’m just kind of a liaison man for them and really don’t know what they have in mind most of the time.” He looks vaguely at his fingernails, shrugs, examines the ceiling. He seems to have lost all interest in her, at least for the moment. His eyes perfectly blank and dull as he stares at the smoke coming from her cigarette and says, “Why don’t you drop by early tomorrow morning and I’ll discuss it in the office? I really don’t have the time now; I got another appointment. If you want the job you can have it, that’s what I said, but after the day you’ve had you must be tired. I know I am.” He stands heavily, ponderously, even with a gesture not unlike her father’s, and goes to the window, pulling aside a curtain to look at some unknown aspect of New York for a few minutes and then wander back to the center of the room. “If that’s okay,” he says.
    “All right,” Susan says. She stands, finds her balance slightly uneven; wonders if there is a slope to this room as there is supposed to be in all buildings in New York, but decides that it is only the aftermath of compound sex; she has, after all, had intercourse or simulated intercourse at least ten times today, the last instance being a social relationship and she has the right to feel tired. “Do you want me to come down tomorrow?”
    “I guess so,” Phil says vaguely. He is informed by vagueness, everything about him is vague; even his figure seems to have a blurred outline in the half-light of the room. He paces abstractedly and goes to the door. “I got a lot of things to think about so if you