NIGHTS IN THE GARDENS OF BROOKLYN by Harvey Swados

Author:Harvey Swados
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3, epub
ISBN: 1590170849
Publisher: Ward & Balkin Agency, Inc.
Published: 2012-11-15T04:30:00+00:00

“Grip,” she said, without turning her eyes away from Peter, “be a gem and get me a glass of wine.”

“Of course.”

“Are you a friend of Freddy’s, Miss Parson?” Peter asked.

“You must call me Imago.” She smiled, and displayed a number of magnificently even, white teeth. “I went to Bennington College with Bert’s sister Electra, a repellent virgin from San Diego. But I’m here tonight because I was eager to meet you.”

Imago had leaned forward as she spoke, and now it seemed that she was suspended before him, ready to fall against his chest if she were so much as touched. A springlike fragrance drifted up to his nostrils from the mysterious valley between her bell-like breasts. Peter felt himself growing dizzy, and as he leaned back among the little pillows Imago swung about on the couch so that there should be no room for Gripping Rotheart when he returned.

The rest of the evening was a blur. Thinking back on it later, Peter could remember little except the smoke, Imago whispering flattering words, and the angry frustrated expressions of Freddy and Gripping when he and Imago left together.

Nor could he remember his first view of Imago’s little apartment, or even how he managed to remove his clothes in the dark without knocking anything over or otherwise making a fool of himself. But he would always be able to recall his halting reference to his total lack of experience, and Imago’s clear-eyed, immediate reply.

“How shockingly refreshing!” she had cried. “I’ll be the envy of my colleagues!” and then, “Don’t just stand there like Dionysius. Come to bed at once, do you hear? At once!”

In the ensuing hours Peter experienced a portion of that soaring delight that he had first previsioned months before in Japan. Intoxicated by Imago’s elastic flesh, he began to appreciate simultaneously the pure pleasure of the selfless spirit, and the benefactions that his dancer’s body was able to dispense.

So in the early hours of the morning Imago sat up in bed, the faint rays of dawn glowing on her enchanting breasts, and cradled Peter’s weary head in her arms. Pressing his damp tousled hair against her smooth belly, she rocked back and forth, crooning contentedly, “You’re a little dear, that’s what. A dear, do you hear? A dear, a dear!”

In the following weeks Imago Parson consumed Peter as though she were a flame and he a candle, melting slowly under the fierce heat of her ardor. Her dark warm bed was a temple wherein he performed the mystic rites required of him as dancer and lover. For now he was persuaded that he who danced, loved, and he who loved, danced; and it was the assurance that he was realizing his dream, even if in an unexpected way, that sustained Peter in the more difficult daylight hours with his beloved.

Imago was Lotions Editor of Chic magazine. It amused her to demand that Peter call for her, for she liked to have a cab waiting on Madison Avenue, and she

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