The Insiders

At least he had been honest enough to tell her about his collection of porno tapes and to ask her if she'd mind having the tape recorder running while they fucked.

"But what do you do with them, Peter? Do you play them back when you're alone? Do you play with yourself while you listen?"

"I'm the analyst, Eve," he had said reprovingly. He had explained that one day he was going to make up a kind of tape collage that included the voices of all the women he had ever fucked. "Everybody has some secret ambition, luv—that's mine." She had not been able to help laughing. In a way, she really liked Peter. He was honest, he didn't bother to play games; and because she was not one of his society patients, he didn't bother to be tactful with her.

Tonight, Eve was going to play Peter's game. Why not? Maybe he'd play the tape for David sometime; it might even make David jealous. Somehow, she knew David was still jealous, still cared what she did.

And after she had put herself on tape to Peter, he'd let her keep talking, putting herself on tape for herself. It was supposed to help her understand her own hangups better when he played it back for her the next time. Therapy, Petrie-style.

the first tape:

The damn thing is running. Peter, how do I start? What do I say? (Sigh.)

Eve, you were very good tonight, and I'm very sleepy. You just talk—just say anything you can think of. That tape's good for a whole hour more,

and it's all yours.

Oh—shit!

No more dirty words, angel, or you'll get me aroused again. And do try to make any questions you might have rhetorical, would you, please? I'm going to take a nap.

Peter, you really are a cold fish. No—I take that back. You're not too bad, really. For a man. I can see you shrugging in the dark. Don't you like it when I say something nice about you for a change? Oops, sorry, purely a rhetorical question.

You know, this is really a strange feeling. Sitting up in bed talking to myself. At least, it seems like that. I know you're there somewhere, tape recorder, but I can't see you. I should talk to myself more often; it really is kind of fun.'

What am I going to talk about? David, naturally. That's why I'm here. You're going to have to answer some questions later, Peter, dear. Maybe when you play this back. After all, I'm here courtesy of David, aren't IP Does he do this often? Do you tell him what happens between us? Oh, damn, I wish I could have the answers right now, but there you are, pretending to be asleep.

Ml right. Back to David. I don't understand him. Do you, Peter? I suppose I never did understand David, even while I was falling in love with him. I thought I did, of course. I thought I knew everything about him—the way he thought, the way he could turn me on without even touching me. God! Here I was, thinking he'd turn out to be just another guy, looking for some fault, something about him I'd begin to hate. And suddenly it hit me, out of the blue.

I love David. My God, I'm really in love. That's a big moment for any woman—sort of like losing your virginity, only better—more scary, too. Isn't there a song that goes "I've never been in love before"? Well, I haven't. I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever feel that way about a man after Mark, whether I'd ever find another man, one I could really trust. And then, without even realizing it, I was in love with David.

He didn't call. That's when I knew. He used to call me every day, from the first time we met. It was like—like something to look forward to each day. At first I thought it was kind of amusing— David didn't seem the romantic type at all; he seemed very prosaic, very straight. But as I got to know him, I felt as if he was opening up his real self, letting me in, and it was a very private thing— I was the first, the only woman. He made me feel that way.

Anyhow, David would call me. At least once a day. Every day. I started to look forward to his call, you know! I used to unwind while I talked to him, he's—he was, I mean—he seemed to understand. He even let me talk shop, tell him about my aching feet—oh, I begin to see something already. This is an aside to you, Peter; you really are clever. I guess David was my very own tape recorder, only not quite; a tape recorder can't fuck and make you feel like you're the only woman in the world—that's another little knack David had. He would concentrate on me; he made me feel—unique.

And then one day he didn't call! I couldn't get to sleep; I was frantic! I found myself pacing around the apartment like a caged animal, getting on Marti's nerves, and then it hit me, and how it hit me —I loved David. I mean, I'd fallen in love. And he hadn't called. So I made mistake number one—the first in a long line of them. I called him. In the middle of the night yet.

"David," I said, "I love you." And he laughed. "Eve, you're an idiot." That's what he said. Then he said he was sorry he hadn't called—there had been an emergency and he'd had to stay late at the office, working on some brief. And afterward, he'd just fallen asleep. I felt stupid. But good, too. Now he knew. Don't ask me why I wanted to tell him. Maybe I wanted to hear him say the words back. But he never did. Smart David.

Peter, did you analyze David, too? How did you become friends? What did David tell you about me? Ah, come on, Peter, I know you're not asleep —I can tell by the twitch of your shoulder. You want to fuck again, I can tell that, too. Peter? Did he tell you about the quarrel?

Time's up, Eve. You can save the quarrel for the next tape. Roll over now, like a good girl, and tell me you want to get fucked. Come on, there's a few minutes left on that tape, enough for lots of sexy words and noises.

You're a bastard, too, Peter... no, stop it, I don't want... damn you anyhow! Tell me, Eve.

Fuck me, Peter. Fuck me, fuck me!

end of tape.

CHAPTER FOUR

WHEN EVE GOT BACK to the apartment, very late, Marti was still awake, listening to Rod Stewart records. As usual, she had been drinking; a half-filled glass sat on the coffee table within reach.

Eve was worried for her. So far, Marti's drinking had not started to show in her face or her figure, but if she kept it up, it inevitably would.

Marti and Stella must have quarreled again. Eve wondered with a trace of bitterness whether Stella was still confiding in David. Two-faced Stella who stood between two camps and wavered.

"Eve, baby, Want a drink?"