Pleasure Thieves

"Mr. Hatch." Another please would make him sick.

"What's that again, please?" the secretary demanded.

"Mr. Hatch," he said deliberately, "is calling to speak to Miss Stoddard. Would you kindly get her to the phone?" Instead of roaring, his voice cut the space between the words into ribbons.

"I'll see if Miss Stoddard is in," the girl warned. The elaborate screening was becoming amusing.

He took a long swallow of bourbon. "You do that little thing," it might have been Midwestern guilelessness, "and I'll wait right here."

There was no time for another drink. A vaguely familiar voice said,

"Mr. Hatch, I'm so glad you called. I thought you might call yesterday."

"I just got into New York today," he explained.

"Where are you staying?"

"I don't know yet. Soon as I hang up, I'll stop over at the Brevoort and see if they have something."

"I'd suggest," she was like silk, "that you try the Netherlands Plaza.

The rooms are extremely comfortable. Many of my friends stay there.

If you mention my name, you'll be very quickly attended to."

"Thanks," he said dryly. "Your name seems to command action all over the city."

"Will you be free for cocktails at 6:30?" She ignored his humor, stuffed it back into his throat like a naughty boy being re-fed a lamb chop.

"I'll be free." He hated to banter anyway.

"Oh, I'm very glad." What the hell was this? "Do drop by at 63 East 63rd Street, penthouse C. We'll look forward to seeing you. Until then, Mr. Hatch."

He had a final drink. The bar was filling up with the advertising and publishing pushers having a late afternoon reprieve. When he looked at his watch again it was 5 o'clock. He was suddenly tired and needed a bath and a fresh shirt. The doorman – surprisingly there was a doorman – hailed his third cab of the day. He sat silent in the leather seat for a moment, and then said, "The Hotel Netherlands Plaza."

"Yes sir." The extent of deference in the outside world was astounding.

In the plush lobby of the hotel, he said, "I'd like a room please."

There he was finally caught up in it again. "For how many evenings sir?" The room-clerk guarded his rooms as he would his virgin sister's honor.

"Not sure. It may be a few weeks." Harry was going to defend her honor too.

"Ah," the room-clerk took out a huge ledger and started to follow a list of numbers with his pencil. "Ahh."

"Miss Stoddard," Harry continued, with the magic formula, "thought you might have something quite comfortable."

"Miss Stoddard, Miss Stoddard of Femme Magazine?" Miss Stoddard the Queen of England. The pencil slowed on its drip down the ledger page. "Well, here's something rather pleasant – room 46.

I'm sure you'll be very comfortable, sir."

He wrote "46" in a small square on the page, and turned the book to Harry. "Just sign there." He tapped the space with his magic wand, offering it to Harry. Harry took a fountain pen from his breast pocket, and wrote "Mr. Harry Hatch" in tiny script. Everyone everywhere wanted to know what you were doing.

The room-clerk slapped on a little bell and a uniformed midget was at his side in a second. "Your bags, sir," his never developed voice piped. Harry had left all his depressing equipment in Ossining. He took a bill out of his billfold and handed it to the attentive bellhop.

"I'll need a few things," he explained.

"Anything sir." Harry looked at him with veiled contempt. Like my cock in your mouth, for instance.

"Pick up a decent shaving brush, straight razor, Yardley lather, toothbrush, toothpaste." He looked at his watch. "Is Mark Cross still open?" The bellhop and manager in simultaneous servility checked their watches. "Oh yes sir, the shop will be open till 6 o'clock."

"Good." Harry was willing to let the world service him. "Then get a traveling case for me, and put everything into it." He turned to the elevator. "Oh yes," he called back, then found the bellhop lurking beneath his elbow. He lowered his voice, "Get me some after-shave."

The room looked very comfortable. Dark brown drapes and a dark brown rug gave the room a warm husky look. Over the immense double studio bed lay a deep blue throw. The walls were an immaculate white. Very comfortable, a tad more comfortable than his recent lodgings.

There were a few Picassos and Matisse reprints on the wall, nothing offensive, plenty of respectable nudity. Harry went up close to a reclining Matisse nude. She had red skin and enormous fleshy thighs.

Her breasts, slightly hidden, looked small and generously nippled. He ran his finger over the bush between her thighs. His prick was gently rising, like a wind filled sail, but the flat paper touch of the painting brought him down. You've gotta keep your hands to yourself to make it in your head, he thought. Mustn't touch, mustn't touch, only your cock, that's all.