These evenings had thrilled them both but despite their tacit practice of being always direct with each other, professionally and personally and regardless of how cruel the honesty – “Try not to re-write ‘Imagine’.” “Big talk, coming from the Cute Beatle.” “Genius is knowing ‘She loves you, yea-yea-yea’ works; you’d have written ‘She loves you, indeed’.And Lennon wasn’t a hillbilly.” “Your feet are dirty, Your Highness.” – for the first time in their lives they only jokingly addressed what they were really doing and how it made them feel.Maggie’s heart began wildly thumping and her knees were wobbly with adrenaline; the shirts and slacks and jackets that hung about her and packed close on their hangers suddenly smelled so strongly of George that he might just as well have been present. ) and, somewhat incongruously, The Art Of Anal Sex. She took a last look through the video camera’s view glass, made sure the sound was on, and poured herself some wine.
They lived in the same building but in separate apartments, on different floors, as a reluctant and ill-defined nod to propriety; she on the 2nd floor and he on the 4th, with the 3rd floor between them sound-proofed and dedicated as a studio and the ground floor empty and closed off to all but the property’s sole tenants.
Maggie as well had a key to her brother’s door and occasionally liked to wander around inside and for hours while George was either in the studio or on the rare occasion outside altogether.
Maggie had never really abandoned the breezy, cosmopolitan fashions of her adolescence and, favoring hoop earrings and clear fingernail polish, often barefoot and wearing her blond hair straight and waist-length above the beltline of cinching, threadbare denims, her dress complemented a serene cerebral posture – and yet she was proud of and notorious for being recklessly but casually demanding and a harsh and seemingly omniscient judge of character.
She was coolly contemptuous of men for their puerile, simpering advances and dismissive of their women for their envy.
George would remark how her nipples poked ridiculously prominent from behind her shirt, even through her bra, and Maggie would disingenuously note that she’d complain of his erection against her lumbar if the boorish lump weren’t so small, and in the wee a.m.
hours they’d sleepily disentangle, yawn, listlessly mumble their goodnights to each other, and Maggie would go downstairs to her apartment and George would pour himself a nightcap or four to calm the nervy charge running the length of his body. Languidly draped over one another on the couch, George would fondle Maggie’s breasts until, finally discarding any pretence of innocence, he one evening put his hand between her thighs and scrubbed at her vagina through her bluejeans.
§§§ Maggie found George’s porno stashed in an otherwise empty third drawer of a dresser set back against the far wall of his walk-in closet.
She stood inside over the open drawer, among his clothes and amusedly thumbing through a back-issue of Abased Babes, a fringe publication of explicit photos exclusively of popularly pretty college girls being boned in the ass: triple-x still-frames from motel room productions of anonymous cocks rooted up the butts of ambitious co-eds, too fabulously fast-track to wait tables – moonlighters, going for the bonus pay, first-timers – hastily buttered belly-down over a pillow and put to the white-knuckle work, their expressions wide-eyed and focused acutely on an unseen astonishment.
Tall and solid at 5`10“ and 137 lbs., heavy breasted and bouncy, with a trim waist and a taut, meaty behind, Maggie moved with a graceful strength and sensuality that all men longingly noticed – rolling her buns with a provocative rocking tick-tock away from all whom she parted company, always happily unescorted.
She was of gorgeous, Amazonian voluptuousness and she knew this (her face was by contrast only melodious: large, inviting eyes and a straight nose were all that were notable, her mouth unremarkable save for an a appealingly toothy smile).
In his place alone, sipping cold wine that he kept only for drinking with her (George always ordered out for food; one cupboard held surplus whiskey and cartons of cigarettes, and within the refrigerator the balance of room around the wine bottles was beer), Maggie would tune in an oldies station through the stereo and smoke kools and roam around the furniture from room to room, half-listening for the songs she and George had once recorded and lazily snooping through drawers and cabinets as a lover, albeit unconsummated, looking for evidence of infidelity.