Plunder of Gor Read Free Page A

sunglasses they would not even know if I noticed them or not, not until I turned to them, directly, and they quickly turned away.
    It was one of the small pleasures allowed to a young woman in the culture, that of intimidating and shaming men, teasing them, taunting them, torturing them, particularly those suitably acculturated, conditioned to view the most natural promptings of their blood with trepidation and remorse. Who did we fear and hate more, I wondered, they, or ourselves?
    I considered changing my plans for the morrow but then decided I would not do so. I would go forward and do exactly what I had intended to do. Also, the bruise on my thigh was high enough to be covered by the skirt of my white bathing suit.
    The next incident that I might recount occurred the following afternoon, at the beach. It was not clear to me at the time, but it proved later to be connected with the unpleasantness that had occurred the day before, about closing time, at the office. I was leaning back against a rented wood-and-canvas backrest, set in the sand. I wore a broad-brimmed sun hat and sunglasses. The sand was warm, and my knees were drawn up. My beach bag was beside me, bulging with its miscellany, ranging from brushes and combs to towels and lotions. I had dismissed the incident of the preceding afternoon in the office. It was meaningless. To be sure, certain mnemonic tatters of the interaction did intrude now and then, like the stirring of leaves, like a rustling in brush, scarcely noted, where something might have moved, like whispers, whose source eluded consciousness.
    I became aware, abruptly, of a presence.
    A young man was standing nearby, regarding me. He wore blue slacks, and a white shirt, open at the throat.
    When one is beautiful, one is used to being regarded.
    I suppose it is flattering, but, too, it can be annoying.
    Or is it really annoying, I wonder.
    Do we tell ourselves that it is annoying, feeling we should adopt such a posture, that it is expected of us?
    Would we not be more distressed, if we were not regarded?
    I feigned displeasure.
    It was the thing to do.
    How dare he regard me so, regard me in that way, as he was!
    Is one a mere object?
    How horrifying to be regarded as an object, as something which might be assessed, and bought and sold!
    But how accustomed I would become to such an appraisal! And, in time, I would realize that I was an object, a sentient, aware, feeling, fearing, hoping, obeying, and needful object.
    It was a way of being.
    I would be collared, as what I would then be, an animal, an object.
    I would be bought and sold, as the mere animal, the mere object, I would then be.
    I looked away, a tight gesture, signaling annoyance.
    Surely that should send him on his way.
    Surely that should be enough!
    But when I looked back, he had remained where he was.
    Usually, it is only necessary to convey, by the slightest of movements or expressions, a tincture of impatience, or disdain, and the moment would be done with. A hint of displeasure, or a frown, should be sufficient. The intrusive regard, discovered, is withdrawn, and the offending party, apprised of his oafish vulgarity, withdraws in embarrassment.
    I turned to face him, boldly, letting him know I was well aware of his attention.
    I almost removed my sunglasses.
    He had not left.
    I glared at him, allowing my disapproval to be clear, unmistakable.
    He did not move.
    I became angry, and apprehensive.
    I did not know what was going on.
    Then I suddenly thought he must know me. That must be it, or something like it. Why had he not melted away, quickly, shame-faced, looking down, or to the side? Surely he would not be where he was, continuing to regard me so intently, if he did not know me, or did not think he knew me.
    â€œKajira,” he said.
    That is it, I thought. It was a simple case, certainly an unpleasant one, of mistaken identity.
    â€œI am sorry,” I said. “That is not my name.”
    I drew back, tightly, against the