Campus Nymph by Greg Caldwell - Chapter 01

1962 GENRE: Vintage Sleaze | Promiscuous Wife

... PROMISCUOUS WIFE

Boiling passions and naked carnal desire on a college campus ... Night after night, beautiful, passionate Gay tossed sleeplessly on her lonely bed, wondering what had gone wrong with her marriage. Where was the ardent lover who just couldn't keep his hands and lips from her voluptuous body less than a year before, when they were first married? Why was Roger always "too busy"—or "too tired"? When she learned that Roger was involved in a torrid romance with one of his students, Gay decided that what was sauce for the gander was gravy for the goose ...

With provocative abandon she turned to Karl, the virile young college athlete who was never too busy or too tired.

... And Martin York, an accomplished connoisseur of the techniques of love ... Until one day she found herself caught up in a web of seething sin from which there was no escape, and learned what it really meant to be a

CHEATING HUSBAND ...

CHAPTER ONE

Gay Ryan Whitmer thrust her long slender feet into black mules, stood up and appraised herself approvingly. The black lace nightgown set off her white skin, her flaming red hair. Without bothering to don the matching black negligee—which was as transparent as the nightgown—she went out to the living room.

"Roger, darling?" she said hopefully.

Her husband did not look up from the papers he was grading. "Huh?"

"It's midnight, sweet. Can't you stop for now?"

"Can't. Have to turn these back tomorrow." He scribbled an unreadable note in red pen across one of the papers, turned the page.

Gay sat down slowly in one of the plush armchairs and waited. Presently he looked up and saw her. His brown eyes stared. "Gosh, honey, you look great," he said, but with no immense passion. "That nightgown is stunning."

"I adore your taste," she said, and came over to sit on his lap. She curled her arms around his neck.

He didn't exactly push her away, but he wasn't passionate. "Darling, don't do that. I have to finish these tonight."

She pouted, her red mouth close to his mouth. "Why, honey? Why not come to bed? You're so tired."

"Tired or not, I still have to finish this! Now go on to bed, please. I can't finish while you're here looking so gorgeous." He kissed her arm where the strap had fallen down.

She stayed, hoping to change his mind. "You work so hard," she cooed, running her hand over his chest.

"You teach all day, then have those abominated meetings—"

"Abominable," he corrected curtly. "But they aren't abominable. They are wonderful, and very useful. My work with the creative writing club is every bit as important as any class in English that I teach."

"But you have so many meetings! And all those faculty events. I never get to see you anymore."

"We'll have time for each other this summer," he said. "Now get up, Gay, go on to bed. I'll be another hour yet. No reason for you to lose your sleep. You'll be all tired out tomorrow."

"But I'm not doing anything tomorrow," she whispered, close to his ear. She kissed the lock of brown hair above his ear. "Darling, we haven't been together for a week! You used to say—"

"Gay, I'll be all the later coming to bed if you keep distracting me," he said crossly, a frown line forming on his eyebrows.

She gave up. If her kisses and caresses and the sight of her in a flimsy black nightgown did not rouse him, she might as well go to bed.

She set the alarm for six-thirty. Maybe in the morning he would feel more like making love. She stayed awake for a while, but must have fallen off to sleep before he came to bed. She didn't hear a thing.

The next morning, even before Gay opened her eyes to the grey April day, she knew that Roger had left.

The twin bed beside hers was rumpled, but empty. The house was still except for the beating of the rain against the windows.

Sleepily she picked up the alarm clock. Eight-fifteen.

The alarm was still wound tight. Roger must have turned it off before it could ring.

She sat up in bed, scowling. What was the matter?

What was going wrong with them? Roger came to bed and left early in the morning. His excuse was either that he was tired or that he was sure she was tired. He hadn't been this way the first months of their marriage. He had been practically tireless.

She glanced down at herself. Her sleek white flesh glimmered through the black lace of the glamorous nightgown Roger had bought for her. Her breasts were large, firm, with the pink nipples peeping demurely through the black net. She hopped out of bed, brushed her short curly red hair. Angry green eyes met the mirrored eyes.

Roger was avoiding her. After less than a year of marriage, he was avoiding her.

She slammed down the brush. It wasn't for a marriage like this that she had given up a career in painting.

A year ago when she had married Roger in Rome after months of ardent courtship, she had certainly never imagined his ardor would cool so quickly.

What was wrong with her? In the bathroom she stripped off the black lace gown to stand under the warm shower. She smoothed her hands down over her soapy flesh, examined her body moodily as she scrubbed. She had not changed. She was the same woman Roger had married. He had not let her sleep nights for a while. He had kept her awake all night with his love-making.

She sighed deeply as she turned off the warm spray and began toweling. Roger might pretend that it was consideration for her that he made love to her less and less frequently. But she knew there must be some other reason.

Gay thought wistfully to the days in Rome when she and Roger had strolled along the cobblestoned streets, held hands at concerts, kissed long good-nights in the shadowy doorway of her pensione. His hands wandered eagerly over her breasts and thighs under her heavy winter coat. Finally one-night when passion grew too heavy to endure, she went to his room with him and spent the night in his arms. Her own ecstasy startled her. She had been so happy she forgot her resolve to let painting be her life. A week later they were married.

Now, a year later, Roger had grown cool.

Of course, he was working very hard, Gay conceded, as she dressed in a gold blouse and her favorite green toreador pants. She grinned down at herself as she finished dressing. No other faculty wife dressed like this to do her cleaning and marketing. But clothes like these made Gay feel more cheerful. She liked vivid clothes, the brighter the better. She brushed her red hair briskly until the soft curls lay in obedient waves close to her pert, creamy-skinned face.

Her grin faded. Maybe that was what had gone wrong. Maybe Roger was ashamed of her because she was so different from the other wives at Browne College.

"But he married me," said Gay aloud. "He didn't marry one of them!"

He had been a bachelor of 32 when they met. Gay, only 23, thought of him as an interesting older man—until their second date when he had grabbed her, pushed her against the wall in the darkness of the cold January night, and had kissed the breath right out of her body.

"He had plenty of passion then," she said to the pot of coffee. "What happened?"

They had come back to Browne College in Porterville last fall, and abruptly things were different. Roger put on a serious professional manner, and she teased him about it—until she had finally discovered with stunned surprise that this was his normal manner. The gay passionate man on a sabbatical leave in Rome, the adoring bridegroom who would kiss her in the night or in the sunshine, the lover who adored her with his hands and eyes and voice—all had disappeared except for brief reappearances in the privacy of their bedroom.

One part of the old Roger remained. He still bought her extravagant exotic lingerie and loved to dress her in it: black lace nightgowns, brief black panties and bras, a gold baby-doll nightgown that stopped short of covering the essentials, even a bikini that he allowed her to wear only in their bedroom.

Was he ashamed of her, or of himself? Gay sipped the coffee, nibbled at the toast as she pondered. Was he ashamed that he had married a woman like Gay, an artist, impulsive, eccentric, caring little for social conventions? But he had known what she was like when they were married. She had never pretended to be anything but what she was.

In the living room she found a note.

"Dear Gay, I let you sleep as you seemed so tired. Darling, be sure to clean the house thoroughly. And remember we're having the Sweetmans for dinner. He likes steak and tomatoes, and she is on a diet. Pete is taking me to class, so you can have the car to get groceries.

Love—Roger"

"Oh, damn," said Gay aloud. What a note for a loving husband to leave! Instructions for the day! She had planned to do the laundry and cleaning, and get the groceries. But not after those orders! Defiantly she headed for the small room at the back of the house where she did her painting.

She took down her painting apron from the peg and set to work. But the painting didn't go right. She kept thinking about herself and Roger. Why were things so wrong? Even this room—She bit her lip and mixed paints without realizing what she was doing. This room she had privately decided would be turned into a nursery as soon as she had a baby.

But no baby was coming. Gay stabbed viciously at the canvas with her brush. Roger was taking precautions, though she had begged him not to. Didn't he expect their marriage to last?

At eleven o'clock she stopped. She felt more calm now that she had painted for a while. She laid aside the palette and took a long look at the canvas. She winced.

"It isn't right," she said aloud to the empty room.

It wasn't the way she wanted at all. Nothing was the way she wanted it.

And Roger would be coming home in an hour, wanting his lunch, wanting the house clean and orderly, wanting Gay to be obedient, quiet and non-distracting.

How could she concentrate on her painting? All morning she felt guilty for taking the time to paint, knowing she ought to be doing the laundry and cleaning the house and getting the groceries, just as Roger had told her. She was punishing Roger by running away to her painting. But she succeeded only in hurting herself.

This afternoon she would have to do all the work she could have spread over the entire day.

She felt like two different people trying frantically to inhabit the same body and the same time span, but also trying to accomplish two opposite sets of purposes.

She was Mrs. Roger Whitmer, dutiful faculty wife, her husband's helpmate, social creature, an asset to Browne College. She did want to be a good wife, she did want to help Roger. But when he wouldn't let her help the way she wanted to, what else could she do?

So lately she had begun to retreat to her painting for comfort. After all, at the same moment in space she was also Gay Ryan, artist, the daughter of Elinor Ryan, advertising artist. Her mother and others thought she would have a brilliant future ahead of her—if she worked hard at her painting. But this wasn't what she wanted, not if she and Roger would have children.

Still, it was a comfort to have painting to do. It helped, even when it went badly as it had today. Gay put her brushes to soak. She took a last glance at the canvas.

"There—that's it. The orange is wrong there." But she didn't have time to fix it now. And by the time she got back to the painting tomorrow or the next day, the orange paint would be dry. She would have to cover it, or start over. She had scraped the paint off so much of the canvas it was a wonder there was any canvas left.

She went out to the kitchen, scrubbed the paint off her hands and arms, and looked absently over the shelf for something to fix for lunch. Just then the phone rang.

She went back to the living room. "Hello?"

"Hello, darling," said Roger's voice. "I forgot to tell you I won't be home for lunch. Several of the faculty members are meeting to discuss something."

"Oh, Roger!" He used to come home every noon, and sometimes make love to her before he went back to his classes. Now he didn't even bother to come home.

I'm sorry, darling. I hope you didn't have lunch started. I thought you would want all day to prepare the dinner tonight."

"Do you think it takes me all day to get a dinner for four people! Do you think I'm such a poor cook that I have to fumble around with recipe books—"

"Look—darling, I'm late. I'm sorry. I must rush."

"Well, rush then," she yelled. "Rush or to your lunch! I'm surprised you bother to come home for bed!

Why don't you start sleeping on your desk?"

"I'll see you this evening, then, Gay," said Roger's voice, with great restraint.

She slammed down the receiver, furiously. Then she sat down and cried with anger. Roger, her adored husband, ignoring her, staying away from her. Oh, she could scream! She could yell! But it didn't do any good.

She dried her eyes, and went to the grocery store.

By the time she had planned a menu that would take care of two hearty men and one woman on a diet, she had calmed down. She would have a very very good dinner and behave very nicely, and Roger would be proud of her.

She flew around the house, cleaning, doing the laundry, hanging it downstairs because the April rain still came down in temperamental spurts. The house shone when she finished at four o'clock. Then she took a shower and changed to a demure pale green dress that the most particular faculty member could not say was loud and brassy. She would look so fine that Roger would be very proud of her.

Roger had still not come home. The rain was pouring down in a cloud burst. Poor darling, and she had the car.

Feeling very remorseful for her behavior, Gay decided to drive over to the college and pick him up. It would be a surprise for him. Poor Roger, he worked so hard, and she scolded him for it. It was too bad.

She put on a raincoat over her fragile green dress and drove through the pouring torrent to the college buildings. There was a light on in Roger's classroom on the second floor. Poor dear, he was probably grading papers.

She dashed inside the building, paused to get her breath and shake her umbrella on the rubber mat just inside the door. The halls seemed so quiet. Most of the classes must be over, all the students gone.

She walked upstairs, her high heels clicking on the wooden floors. She looked around curiously. She'd had only one year of college, and it had been wasted. She had wanted to paint. So her mother finally let her drop out and get an apartment in Greenwich Village so she could work on her painting. College was a strange place to Gay; it seemed odd that people would want to spend so much time studying when they could be living.

She opened the door to Roger's classroom very quietly. After all, he might still be in class. She didn't know his schedule. He seemed to work all the time Someone was there with him. A tall blonde-haired girl in a red sweater. Only she wasn't studying or listening.

She was in Roger's arms, and they were leaning against the wall passionately exchanging kisses.

Gay stared, so stunned it took her breath. Doris Hammond, one of Rogers' star pupils. Some of the faculty wives had kidded Gay about Doris. When he had gone away to Italy on his sabbatical, everyone thought he would marry Doris as soon as he returned.

Instead he had come back married to Gay. What a surprise, said everyone.

"Roger!" yelled Gay. She went over to the absorbed couple and pulled the blonde away from her husband.

With a furious swing of her arm, she struck the girl in the face.

"Gay, stop that! Gay!" Her husband pulled her away from the cowed girl, who held her arm against her face.

"Stop it! Let her alone."

"You bitch! You filthy bitch!" yelled Gay at the wide-eyed girl. "You let my husband alone. You filthy—"

She yelled all the gutter words she could think of, until Roger clapped his hand over her mouth, holding her firmly against his lean strength.

"Doris—get out. I'll talk to you later."

The girl picked up her raincoat and books and ran out of the room.

Roger let Gay go. She turned on him, her temper flaring up high.

"You bastard! So this is why you're so damn busy! This is why you don't have energy enough to make love to me! You're chasing that damn blonde! I could kill you! You damn—"

"Shut up!" said Roger harshly. "Do you want the whole school to hear you?"

"Yes!" said Gay. "I want the whole damn college to hear what an idiot I am! Trust you to do it on the sly! And I thought you were working! The hell you are working! Working that girl—working me for an idiot—"

Roger's face was pallid. With dignity he turned to get his coat and briefcase. "We don't have to have a scene in public," he said coldly.

"Oh, we don't! We don't!" Gay could not think of words to break his icy calm. He acted as though she were at fault for breaking in, instead of him for carrying on an affair with one of his students.

"Let's go home. We have guests for dinner!"

He grabbed her arm, carried her with him down the steps out to the car. She was so dazed she did not even put up the umbrella. By the time they got into the car she was soaked to the skin.

She huddled against the side of the car, staring at the sweep of the windshield wipers. Roger—and Doris Hammond. This was why he was ignoring his wife.

Doris Hammond, and Roger.

The Sweetmans were there when they got home. Roger put on his company manners.

"My wife got soaked picking me up at school. Go and change, Gay, I'll entertain our guests!"

She went and changed. She didn't even know what she wore. She got the dinner, and listened to the conversation.

She didn't know what was said.

Roger and Doris. Doris and Roger. This was why her husband had turned cold to her.

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