Chapter 07 of Campus Nymph by Greg Caldwell

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 SEVEN

After the long and satisfying night with Martin York, Gay felt fully revenged. Roger could not possibly enjoy Doris as much as she enjoyed martin.

Martin was the most experienced, skillful and vigorous lover she had ever known. She settled down and cleaned the house, painted three paintings which she sent to her mother in New York, invited a small crowd of Roger's friends to dinner, and altogether behaved like a demure and good little faculty wife.

Roger knew something was wrong. He kept staring at her suspiciously as though looking for the jack-in-the-box to pop out and stick out its tongue at him.

He asked bluntly one day, "What are you up to, Gay? Who are you seeing? We haven't been together for two weeks, and you aren't falling all over me either."

"Why, sweetheart," Gay cooed in her best wifely fashion. "I thought you were tired! I thought you wanted to wait 'till school was over before we romped around anymore."

"Hum," he said, staring at her doubtfully. "You're still mad about Doris. But that is just about over. I think she is recovering from her infatuation for me."

"How nice," said Gay coldly. "I must send her flowers."

"I don't get it," said Roger.

"You seemed to be saying she has been sick, and is recovering. I'll send her some nice flowers, and a card saying 'Wish you a speedy recovery' or something like that."

"Now you're being sarcastic."

"How clever of you."

They were on the verge of a serious quarrel, but Gay remembered Karl as well as Martin and felt better.

She came over and sat on Roger's lap, played with the hair on the back of his neck and tickled his ear.

"Darling, let's not fight," she said sweetly. "I hate it when we fight. I know you're all worn out with your work." And your stolen evenings with Doris, she added mentally.

"Don't you like me this way?" She leaned closer and let him see down into her carelessly opened blouse.

She cuddled up to him. They soon went to bed, but Roger remained suspicious of her loving, forgiving nature.

He asked her to put on the black lace panties. "Darling, "I have something new. I've been waiting to show it to you."

She put on the black g-string and brassiere, he played with the beads and was quite satisfied with the show she put on. He overslept the next morning and was late to class. Gay lay in bed and chuckled. There was more than one way to tame a husband.

But he kept on seeing Doris. It infuriated her, and she brooded about it. There didn't seem to be anything more she could do, except entice him and get him to make love to her so often that he would be too worn out for his blond mistress.

Her mother raved about the paintings that Gay had sent to her in a long scrawled letter.

"Dearest Gay, I am immensely excited about the new paintings.

I have sold two of them already, checks enclosed, darling I am so happy for you. Showed them first to Don, my boss, he raved also, darling it's so wonderful that you're progressing like this. I feared that your marriage would take up so much time you wouldn't have time for your ART and darling art is so much more important—"

(Here Elinor Ryan had tactfully crossed off several words. Gay smiled to see that the words were probably "more important than marriage to a professor—")

"So interested, darling girl, that you're changing your technique. The figures fascinating. Didn't know you could do nudes. Darling who is your model? Marvelous man. Background a little old-fashioned, but Don raved. Put some clothes on the figures, he said, and I'll buy them for an ad. Sacrilege, I said to Don."

Gay smiled happily over the long scribbled letter.

Her mother was very keen about art, and knew a great deal more than Gay about it. If If she was so happy about the new paintings, Gay figured they must be very good indeed. Her "model" had been Karl and her memories of him. Must be all right, she thought, with intense satisfaction. Martin would have loved to see the paintings, but she had no intention of showing anything she did to him.

Thank goodness, thought Gay, that Roger had been so absorbed in his own doings he had not bothered to come to the small back room where she painted. How shocked he would have been! One painting sold for $250 had been of Karl lying on the flowers, with a vague red-haired, figure bending over him. Gay smiled wickedly. What a shock for dear Karl if the painting ever showed up in an art gallery! And what an even more intense shock for dear Roger! But she didn't care. The paintings were good, that was all that mattered.

She had done some nudes in art school, a few later in the Village, but then she had gone into landscapes and studies of trees and sky. She decided to do more nudes. Maybe even some clothed figures for Don. She could use the money from the ads. She fingered the two checks with satisfaction, decided to open a separate bank account with them. Roger didn't need to know anything about this. Since he had his secrets, she would have hers.

It was almost the end of April. In May she would do some more paintings and rush them off to Elinor.

During the summer anything could happen. Roger might decide to take a vacation in Mexico, as he sometimes suggested. Or they might be busy with other matters.

She would do as much as possible this next month.

Roger came home quite cross that evening. She wondered if he was fighting with Doris at last But no, the students were acting up.

"Only half a class this afternoon," he said angrily.

"Twenty-one cuts. And what were they doing?" Painting floats for a May Day parade. I tell you, what this college needs is someone to crack down on this brazen usurpation of class time for all these extra-curricular activities!"

Gay wasn't sure what usurpation meant, but decided now was no time to ask Roger. He was genuinely angry.

She tried to soothe him.

"Surely Petit will crack down if it gets too bad," she said.

"Petit is an old goat! The girls wink at him and kid him, and he practically goes down on his knees to them."

Gay was rather shocked. Roger had never spoken about the college president in that manner before. He must have seen some things that afternoon.

"And those damn panty raids," said Roger.

Gay started guiltily, thinking at once of Karl stealing her black lace panties. "Oh—what's that?"

"Raids," said Roger. "The men—men, get that?—think it's cute to invade the girls' dormitories and steal panties. What an activity for grown collegiates!" He brooded darkly. "One guy in my class didn't turn in a theme. Said he had been out raiding a dormitory and didn't have time to write! Oh, hell."

"It sounds like it has gone too far," said Gay, hoping that was the right thing to say. Actually panty raids sounded like fun. Nothing like that had happened to her in college, or she might have stayed another year.

"Too damn far. This whole campus has turned into a circus! No work accomplished for weeks at a time.

The reason? Spring fever! Panty raids! Sex on the rampage!" Roger stalked off to his desk.

"Oh, Roger, before you start—Mrs. Sweetman called this afternoon to remind us about the faculty rehearsal for May Day. It's tomorrow evening in the gym. The wives are supposed to go also."

"Oh, damn. I've got so much to do."

"Do you think we should skip it?" She felt safe in suggesting that, since Roger was fanatical about doing his duty as a faculty member. "I have a lot of painting to finish, and I wouldn't mind having the time—"

"Now, Gay," he turned on her sternly. "We can't let your painting interfere with faculty events! You must understand that! A good faculty wife is an important asset to a professor—"

She listened with pretended meekness to the lecture he gave her on doing her duty as a faculty wife. Inwardly she laughed. She was learning how to get what she wanted. She was sick of staying at home all the time, while Roger went alone to faculty events, or "forgot" to tell her about them and went to them saying that Gay couldn't come. Mrs. Sweetman had been very tactful about calling to "remind" Gay about the event.

She knew that Roger had been leaving Gay out of things.

"Do you think I ought to go?" she said, finally, when he had spouted long enough.

"Of course you should." He turned back to his papers, his shoulders square with satisfaction. He loved to lecture in and out of the classroom.

Gay made a face at his back, cleared the dishes and worked in the kitchen while he tackled his grading. She had time to dream over the dishes. She decided she would do a painting of Martin next. Martin as Pan, goat-legged, with pipes at his thin sarcastic mouth, the mustache twitching as he eyed some nymphs in the field. She giggled. Oh, that would be fun. And she could remember every detail of Martin's body, she had learned it well with eyes and hands that night.

Background? Hum. A field of red poppies. Forgetfulness.

Yes, that would be her theme. She paused, her hands in the dishwater, thinking. A sort of grayish wash over the whole thing, a dreamy feeling to the painting, except the red poppies growing near the feet of dancing girls. Pan dimly seen in the foreground, a close-up so close one was scarcely aware of it, just his head and a side view of his face, his mustache, his body brown and strong, and the goat-legs. The pipes sketched lightly across the scenes of the nymphs and flowers and the sleeping figure of a woman near the feet of Pan.

Yes. That would be good. She could see it. She would begin first thing tomorrow and work all day.

"Gay?"

She started nervously. She had not heard Roger come out to the kitchen. "Oh, yes, Roger?"

"About tomorrow night? If you don't want to go, could make excuses for you. You're too tired—

They know you paint. Artists must be excused."

"Oh, I think I had better go, Roger," she said coldly.

"They will begin to think it odd if I skip all the events.

I want to make a good appearance!"

"Well—perhaps you're right. Speaking of appearance—don't wear anything loud, will you? Do you have something sort of inconspicuous?"

"I don't mean to wear the black g-string, if that's what you mean!"

"Now, you don't have to get angry. You know as well as I do that you wear rather loud colors. And with your bright hair, everyone stares at you."

She gripped her hands together in the soapy water.

"I'll try to choose something quiet," she said, finally, with a tight feeling in her throat. Roger was ashamed of her. Ashamed of his wife. That was why he didn't want her to go to faculty events. His strict feeling about duty warred with his shame. He didn't want to be seen with her.

"Suppose I choose something for you to wear," he said helpfully. "Come on let's see what I can find."

She wiped her hands and followed him, fuming inside.

She felt sick and bewildered and furious. She had never realized before that he was really ashamed of her. Mrs. Sweetman wasn't ashamed to be seen with her. Elderly nice old-fashioned Mrs. Sweetman sought her out, sat beside her and told her about her grandchildren.

If Mrs. Sweetman wasn't ashamed of her, why was Roger?

Roger fingered her clothes uneasily. "They don't look so bad in the closet, but on you—everyone stares."

"Maybe they stare because I'm pretty," she suggested angrily. ''Did you ever think of that?"

"Often," he said, biting off the words. "They stared at you in Rome, and they stare at you here. It's embarrassing to me."

She stared blindly at the clothes, unable to see because of the film of tears over her eyes. Why was he embarrassed? Why wasn't he proud of her beauty? She was married to him. Why was he ashamed of her?

He finally chose a grey dress with long sleeves.

"That's a winter dress," she said dully. "It's very hot at this time of year. And the gym will be very warm."

"That's right." He fingered another dress. "Here's one that isn't too bad. Maybe I'd better go shopping with you the next time you go."

He had chosen a light green dress. She wore it the next evening, and everyone stared at her as usual. The green set off the red of her red-gold hair, the green of her eyes, the lines of her lithe curved figure.

"You look just like a painting!" exclaimed Mrs. Sweetman affectionately. She glared at Roger, and he scowled back.

It was a dreadful evening. Gay cringed at every glance she received knowing that Roger was seeing them also, and hating them. She felt awful, not knowing how to please him, not knowing what he wanted.

Did he want her to dress like a member of some religious sect, in a grey cap and dress down to her ankles?

What was wrong with him?

She was relieved when the long tiring evening was over, and they started home. She huddled against the side of the car, and stared out at the soft warm night, at the bright stars and brighter moon in the purple sky.

It was a night for love, and sex, and passion.

Instead of turning off on the road toward home, Roger turned on the road leading to the college dormitories.

"Where are we going?" Gay asked.

"I want to see what's going on," he said grimly.

But his eyes were bright, she saw in the dim lights of the cars passing them. "I heard there are going to be more panty raids to night. And the dean has set up some barricades. I want to see what happens. We've got to do something to stop this nonsense."

She stared at him curiously as he drove over to one of the dorms, and parked nearby. He pretended to condemn the events, but he was going out of his way to watch what happened. Was this his usual self? Did he want sex and passion, while pretending to condemn it righteously? It seemed like the actions of a hypocrite to her. Why did he have to pretend? Did he treat her as he did, like a prostitute, because he was ashamed of his own desire for her?

"There they are!" he said, excitedly, leaning forward to peer into the darkness. There were shrieks of laughter from the dormitory. Men spurted out the doors, running, laughing, evading the clutches of several older men who tried to stop them. "Look at them! They've got some panties!"

Sure enough, thought Gay. The men coming out of the dorm were waving panties high, white ones, darker ones, lace-trimmed ones. Several girls chased them, struggled with them, grabbing at the panties. As Gay watched she saw one man grab the girl who struggled with him, wrestle her over to the bush, knock her down, and kiss her. The girl's legs kicked madly, then were still. Gay. bit her lip and glanced sideways at Roger.

Yes, he had seen. He was watching, smiling, his breath coming and going hard.

When the couple finally got up the man triumphantly waved two pairs of panties, one in each hand. The girl ran back into the dorm, her head down.

"Disgraceful," said Roger dreamily, watching another couple now.

Gay felt strange, watching them with Roger. She felt jealous of the young carefree college girls and boys.

They could do as they pleased. They could have this excitement, this wild frantic time, this defiance of all authority. And Roger loved to watch them, she could tell by the way he griped the wheel, by the soft comments he made. He didn't hate this, he loved it. She wondered if he had come before without her.

Finally the students were pushed away by the older men and told to go home. They went waving the stolen panties, laughing, as they streamed past the car, talking of their conquests.

"Guess that's over for tonight," said Roger, starting the car. "I'm going to speak to the dean about it.

They need more men there to stop the raids."

"Why don't you volunteer?" said Gay sarcastically.

"I just might do that," said Roger complacently.

“They need some older men with heads on their shoulders."

Gay was close to laughing aloud. Oh, her strange, foolish husband. Roger with his divided mind. Roger with his passionate body and warring brain. He tried to tell himself he was one man, while his body wanted him to be another. No wonder Gay could not understand him.

Excited by what they had seen, Roger came over to Gay's bed that night and kissed her wildly. He wanted her more passionately than he had for some time: He kept her awake until three in the morning before he finally went over to his own bed.

After he was asleep she got up and took a warm shower, until she was relaxed enough to lie down again.

Strange, strange man. She was used to the direct sexual approaches of her fellow artists, the more calm taking—it—for—granted passions they had.

This thing of denying sex, while wanting it madly, had her very puzzled.

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