Community of Women by Lawrence Block

oddly, and a little bit thicker, and if it weren’t burning … .
    She laughed. She laughed happily and hysterically, and the laughter cut the edge of her frustration and made her whole again. It was amazing, the way laughter could do that for a person. You couldn’t feel too sorry for yourself when you saw the humor of the situation. You couldn’t wallow in self-pity when it was easier to throw your head back and roar with laughter. And, by the same token, you couldn’t be very highly inflamed with desire when you were so busy laughing.
    She smoked the cigarette, still chuckling softly to herself.
    Elly Carr was at a party.
    It was weekend in Cheshire Point, a venerable and venereal institution, and, as usual, Elly Carr was at a party. She was not especially certain whose party it was, and she was not at all certain what she was doing there, but there she was, by George, and in her hand was a martini glass, by gum, so she did the only thing possible under that set of circumstances.
    She drained the martini. Most of it went into her mouth, and on down her throat, and eventually into her bloodstream, to remain there until it was screened out by her liver at the excruciatingly slow pace of an ounce per hour. Some of it, however, missed her mouth. The part which missed her mouth then dribbled down her chin and onto her dress. She tried to wipe it away, flailing her hand drunkenly, but she somehow only managed to slap frenetically at her breasts.
    Which drew a little attention.
    Almost at once there was a man at her elbow. She turned, staring at him but only half seeing him. He was a short man, with crew-cut black hair and thick horn-rimmed spectacles. As far as she knew, she had never seen him before in her life.
    “You’ll hurt yourself,” he said.
    “How?”
    “Slapping yourself like that.”
    “Oh,” she said. “Nope, doesn’t hurt a bit. Could slap myself all day and it wouldn’t hurt a bit.”
    “But—”
    “See?” She slapped herself for emphasis, swatting her breast hard. This time it did hurt, strangely enough, and she clasped her hand to her breast, trying to soothe the pain. At the same time she looked into the eyes of the little man with the dark crew-cut and the horn-rimmed glasses, and this set up the usual chain reaction.
    Sex.
    She wanted him. It had happened that quickly—from drunken babbling to actual sexual desire. It was ridiculous, disgusting, but there was no way to deny the desire that existed now. It was genuine enough. She ached with want for him—want that had come quite literally out of the blue—and he was right there, and—
    “I told you,” the man said solicitously.
    “Told me what?”
    “That you’d hurt yourself. Hell, that’s no way to wipe up a drink. You should get a sponge or something.”
    “Maybe.”
    “Or just let it evaporate.”
    “I suppose.”
    “Look,” he said, “now you’ve gone and hurt yourself. Why don’t we go somewhere so I can massage it for you?”
    “But—”
    “Just a gentle massage. Sure to do you a world of good. Nothing like an old breast massage to make you feel like a new woman.”
    A girl passed, carrying a tray with martinis on it. Elly traded her empty glass for a full one, drank off the gin, and replaced the glass on the tray all in one fluid motion. The short, dark, crew-cut, horn-rimmed man nodded at her with obvious approval. And equally obvious lust.
    No, she thought. This was the wrong way to do it. It was okay with a salesman and okay with a delivery boy because the natives and the exurbanites didn’t mingle. But when you started putting out for acquaintances at parties you were asking for trouble. Then word got back to your husband, and then the whole world started to fall in on you.
    “Come on,” he said. He was holding onto her arm.
    “But—”
    “You’ll like it.”
    “I know damn well I’ll like it.”
    “Then what’s holding you back?”
    “My husband.”
    The short man whirled around. “So you can go