Author: Sybah Darrich (pseud.)

About: A surprisingly quaint novel about a guy in L.A., living the Hollywood dream. To our knowledge the only TC book that takes the time to X&#@ out its dirty words, and even includes such Hemingway-esque phrases as "unprintable." Still, the author meant well, as, in a contrived "read this" scene, he works in knowledge of titles like Deveraux's Venus In India, Autobiography of a Flea and The Debauched Hospodar.

Reading this, you can almost picture the typist sitting at his desk, with a pile of misnomered Collector's Publications at hand, trying to make a go of it. Too bad he was stuck with the Brandon House guidelines. There are trampolines.

First published 1968 as a Traveller's Companion.

Excerpt:

Stephanie said, “Ummm.” Her fingers went to the buttons of her blouse. “What clothes?”

I seized her roughly and was about to kiss her half silly when my right hand was taken in a peculiar grasp that bent the thumb back almost to the elbow. When I attempted to pull away, I found that I struggled against myself, and her steely little fingers dug into the tender web between thumb and forefinger.

“Let's go outside, lover,” she whispered.

We stopped before the trampoline. It glistened in the moonlight like a taut satin sheet, but the springs and frame that surrounded it reminded me unpleasantly of bizarre torture implementae.

“You're silly, you know, Peter, but really rather dear.” She kicked off her shoes and mounted the trampoline. “Now take off your shoes and get up here.”

It was like walking in a tipsy dream. The expanse of canvas was huge, larger by a few feet than that of a boxing ring, and the tension was subtle, firm yet yielding, like walking through Jello on the moon.

Stephanie smote me, very nicely, hip to thigh. “Now hold me like we were dancing.”

I held.

She bounced.

It was impossible not to bounce with her.

I was in mid-air when she kissed me and we both lost all sense of footwork. We came down on our sides, rolled, bounced, held tighter, bounced a few times as one, screeching with laughter.

Stephanie rolled me over and sat on my backside as if I were a bench. “Isn't it a simply wonderful world?” she asked. “Go get the brandy, Pete.”

It seemed like a very good idea. Three brandy snifters-full later, Stephanie shucked out of her Capris and blouse, and slipped into the pool. She wore brief white eyelet silk panties, and a silk bra, and when I splashed water on those garments, they turned to transparent gossamer. The tiny, pokey nips of her breasts stuck out darkly, but she was obviously a natural champagne blonde... or did her dye job really extend? In less than a trice, I was out of my own togs, all the way down to jockey shorts. But due to the nature of the entertainment, I deemed it prudent to immerse myself instantly. It helped some, but you could sure as hell tell I was male, still.

There's something about a girl in wet lingerie in the soft dusky darkness of a California night that is vastly more intriguing than that same girl in a garment designed specifically for swimming. I offer this thought free to Cole and Catalina and Jantzen in the faint hope that they will bring out a line of swim wear that, while hiding the approved taboo areas, will suggest negligee. At least, it would make for some wonderful court fights.

We dragged the trampoline over to the pool's edge and invented a glorious game that consisted of sipping, bouncing, kissing, and Into The Drink Together... snifters and all.

“I like you, Mr. Evans,” she announced as we towelled off on my shirt enough to share a cigarette. “You're so rich and nutsy and available. I hate stuffy, unavailable poor people, don't you?”

I snapped her bra thoughtfully once or twice, preparatory to taking it off, and bent to suck at her nipples through the sheer nylon. “We'll live on love,” I muttered between nips, “and have a thousand laughs.”

She smelled of lavender and chlorine, and I thrust my tongue into the cleft made by her full breasts where her bra thrust them together.

“Where did your money come from, Peter?” Stephanie pushed me away and tugged her shockingly brief panties into a temporary semblance of decency.

“Just plain old blue-chip investments, honey,” I said, taking her elbow in my mouth, and throwing one of my tanned hairy thighs over her two smooth white ones. “You wouldn't be interested.”

She considered this for a moment, then snatched my cigarette out of my mouth and kissed me briefly before she wriggled free. “No, I suppose I wouldn't, just so it's there,” she said.

I unhooked her bra and slipped it off, so as to study better the fierce upward thrust of her boobs. She set down her drink and stood up, and I thrust my face into the soft flesh of her small round belly and ran my tongue around in her beautiful navel as my busy hands slipped her panties down below her knees, sliding over the satin-smooth skin of her rump and down her long, creamy thighs.