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    21 Gay Street: Collection of Classic Erotica, #1
    21 Gay Street: Collection of Classic Erotica, #1
    21 Gay Street: Collection of Classic Erotica, #1
    Ebook191 pages2 hours

    21 Gay Street: Collection of Classic Erotica, #1

    By Lawrence Block

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    When Joyce Kendall arrives in New York, fresh out of Clifton College in Iowa, she has a job and an apartment waiting for her. The job’s as a first reader for Armageddon Publications. The apartment’s at 21 Gay Street, and the small Federal-period house is already home to a lesbian couple, Jean Fitzgerald and Terri Leigh, and an out-of-work newspaperman, Pete Galton. The relationships of these four people under one roof add up to a fast-paced story that is not only satisfying fiction but a rare window on Bohemian life in the late 1950s. A drug-fueled rent-party-turned-orgy at the apartment of one Fred Koans is just link to a world some older readers may recall. Gay Street, in the heart of Greenwich Village, runs for only a single block between Christopher Street and Waverly Place. The 1943 movie A Night to Remember portrays 13 Gay Street as the address of the building where most of the action, including a murder, occurs. In 1996, Sheryl Crow made a video on Gay Street for the song "A Change Would Do You Good." 21 Gay Street, a very early Lawrence Block novel, was originally published under the pen name Sheldon Lord. It was never reprinted after its initial publication in 1960, and this marks its first appearance in 56 years. As such, it seems an ideal choice to lead off Lawrence Block’s Collection of Classic Erotica, and the book's original cover, with a painting by the great Paul Rader, is reproduced here.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherLawrence Block
    Release dateNov 17, 2017
    ISBN9781386952022
    21 Gay Street: Collection of Classic Erotica, #1
    Author

    Lawrence Block

    Lawrence Block is one of the most widely recognized names in the mystery genre. He has been named a Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America and is a four-time winner of the prestigious Edgar and Shamus Awards, as well as a recipient of prizes in France, Germany, and Japan. He received the Diamond Dagger from the British Crime Writers' Association—only the third American to be given this award. He is a prolific author, having written more than fifty books and numerous short stories, and is a devoted New Yorker and an enthusiastic global traveler.

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      Book preview

      21 Gay Street - Lawrence Block

      Cover, 21 Gay Street

      Classic Erotica

      21 Gay Street

      Candy

      Gigolo Johnny Wells

      April North

      Carla

      A Strange Kind of Love

      Campus Tramp

      Community of Women

      Born to Be Bad

      College for Sinners

      Of Shame and Joy

      A Woman Must Love

      The Adulterers

      Kept

      The Twisted Ones

      High School Sex Club

      I Sell Love

      69 Barrow Street

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      About the Author

      More by Lawrence Block

      Excerpt: Candy

      21 Gay Street

      Lawrence Block

      writing as Sheldon Lord

      Copyright © 1960 Lawrence Block

      All Rights Reserved

      Ebook Cover & Interior by QA Productions

      Lawrence Block LB Logo

      A Lawrence Block Production

      Chapter 1

      The cabdriver, a short stubby man named Irving Goldin, picked up the fare at the Grayhound terminal at 50th Street and Eighth Avenue. He helped her with her suitcase, then hopped into his seat and headed the cab downtown along Seventh Avenue. It was almost four-thirty in the afternoon, the start of the rush hour, and traffic was heavy. Cars moved slowly along the wide street. It was June and hot, and Irving Goldin, who was carrying a little too much weight on his stocky frame, was sweating freely. It was not only a hot day but a humid one as well, and the sweat remained where it was instead of evaporating. Irving Goldin was uncomfortable.

      At 42nd Street one idiot made a left turn from the right-hand lane while another idiot helped things along by attempting a right turn from the left-hand lane. Irving Goldin cursed, gently because his fare was female, and bided his time. The light turned, and this time he managed to head the cab across the intersection.

      34th Street was, if possible, worse. The cars were piled up and it took two changes of the light before the cab got across the street. Goldin cursed a bit, experimentally, and then began to study his passenger in the rear view mirror. The mirror was slightly clouded, a violation which no cop had spotted thus far, but even so Irving Goldin got a good look at his fare.

      She was a very beautiful girl.

      Her hair was jet black, shoulder length, hanging loose. She had a high forehead and a clear, light complexion. Her eyes were almond shaped, dark brown and quite large. She had a full mouth with only the slightest trace of lipstick on her lips.

      The light turned green and a horn behind him reminded Goldin that he was supposed to be driving, not watching women. He pressed down violently on the gas pedal and shot across the street. Only half his mind was on his driving. The other half was on the girl in the back seat.

      A pretty one, he thought. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two—somewhere around there. Tough to tell their ages nowadays, but there was no question about this one, she was young. And something worth looking at. He tried to remember what her body had looked like. It was an easy body to remember. It went with the face—long legs, slender hips, a flat stomach, good large breasts.

      A hot day, Goldin remarked.

      There was no answer from the girl.

      Hot, he went on. Though you know what it is they say: it’s not the heat so much as the humidity. One way or the other, it’s a hot one, all right.

      The girl didn’t say anything.

      Goldin shrugged. Evidently the only way to get an answer out of her was to ask her a question. Well, what the hell.

      21 Gay Street, he said aloud. That’s the address where you’re going, isn’t it?

      That’s right.

      That’s in the Village, he said. Greenwich Village. Right?

      That’s right.

      She had a nice enough voice, he decided. Mellow, sort of. Even if she didn’t have a hell of a lot to say.

      The Village, he went on. Winding twisting streets. Never can find my way around there. Always keep getting lost. Bad as Brooklyn that way, almost.

      Silence from the back seat. He looked in the mirror, found a face devoid of expression.

      But, he went on, it’s supposed to be an interesting place. What I hear, anyway. Never spent much time there myself. Bronx is good enough for me. Some people, though, I guess they like it down there. In the Village, I mean.

      I suppose so.

      Hear it’s pretty wild, he said. You know, you hear a lot. Most of it’s probably a lot of nonsense, but you hear a lot. Beatniks, free love, queers, you know. Things like that.

      More silence.

      In the papers, Goldin sailed on, unable to restrain himself. You know, like the cops make a raid and arrest a lot of people for selling dope or something. Or a bunch of bearded guys picket a church or something. Maybe it’s publicity, I don’t know, but you hear a lot.

      More silence. The cab went steadily south, across 23rd Street, across 14th Street. The traffic got progressively lighter. The street was still thronged with cars, but traffic moved along at a steadier pace now.

      14th Street, Goldin announced. We’re in the Village. Officially, that is.

      The girl didn’t say anything.

      The way I figure it, Goldin said, a man has a right to do what he wants. Long as he don’t bother anybody, that is. For instance, I got a brother. A half-brother, actually. My father died and my old lady remarried and they had this kid, he’s what you call my half-brother. About six years younger than me. Anyway, he’s an alcoholic. Not a bum, you understand. What it is, he drinks. Like a fish, more or less. He’ll knock off a quart a day of bonded rye.

      A sports car, a red MG with top down and wheels screaming, cut in on the cab. Goldin hit the brake hard, missed the MG, swore automatically, then took a breath.

      Anyway, he went on, this brother, half-brother, that is—people keep saying how terrible it is. How he drinks, I mean. But who’s he hurting? He don’t beat his wife, he makes good money, holds onto his job, does his drinking at home so he don’t fall over on the street. Way I look at it, maybe he’s got a reason to drink. It’s his business. And it’s the same with these beatniks.

      The clarity of that little message was, for the moment, lost even on Goldin. He thought for a minute or two, retraced his words, and figured out what he was talking about.

      What I mean, he said, they want beards, let ’em have beards. They want free love, let ’em have free love. They’re hurting somebody? Leave ’em be, for the love of God. Right?

      No answer.

      The Village, Goldin went on, must be exciting. Not for me, but I guess it must be exciting.

      I wouldn’t know.

      Huh?

      I wouldn’t know, the girl repeated simply. I’ve never been here before.

      There was something about the delivery of the line which made further discussion impossible. Goldin drove in silence, located Gay Street after considerable difficulty, then discovered that it was one way the wrong way. He cursed, more mildly than before, and looped around until he was coming into Gay Street the right way. He found number twenty-one, announced the fact to the girl, and pulled up at the curb. He turned around, saw that the girl’s body was even better than he had remembered it, and took the two dollars that she handed him.

      Keep the change.

      The meter read a dollar fifty-five. It was a bigger tip than usual. Help you with your suitcase?

      Never mind, she said. It’s light enough.

      Goldin sat there, watching her. She opened the door, then picked up the suitcase and carried it to the front door of 21 Gay Street. The building was a brownstone, a hundred years old if it was a day, and Goldin wondered why a pretty young girl like that would want to live in such a run-down dump. He and the wife were hardly rolling in dough but they had an apartment in a brand-new building in Morris Park. Well, some people had nutty ideas.

      The girl took a key from her purse, opened the door, carried the suitcase inside, closed the door after her. Goldin remained in the cab, his eyes on the door for several seconds after it had been closed. His mind wandered. He thought about the girl, the Village, the wondrous ways of the world.

      Then he sighed, let up on the clutch, stepped down on the gas and the cab continued along Gay Street. Irving Goldin relaxed and drove, keeping an eye out for prospective fares while his mind reeled happily with thoughts of Morris Park.

      The girl’s name was Joyce Kendall. She was, as Irving Goldin had guessed, twenty-one years old. A scroll of paper which she had casually abandoned at her parent’s home in Schwernersville, Iowa, attested to the fact that she had completed the requirements for a bachelor’s degree at Clifton College in Clifton, Ohio.

      Now, in an apartment on the second floor of 21 Gay Street, she thought how neatly everything was arranged for her, how there were no details to be taken care of, no apartment to rent, no furniture to buy, no job to hunt for. Everything was set, cranked up, ready to go.

      It was always like that. There was a rigidity to her life that always frustrated her—not a monotony, nothing like that, but an ordered quality that was periodically disturbing. Everything was always planned out well in advance.

      Even the move to New York, a bizarre sort of thing which wouldn’t go over well in Schwernersville, was nothing rash, nothing spur-of-the-moment. She had made up her mind, and then she had talked it over with her parents, and then, by George, she had made the arrangements. Other girls didn’t bother with arrangements. Other girls threw clothes into a suitcase and went.

      Not Joyce Kendall.

      Joyce Kendall did things differently. Joyce Kendall found a copy of the Village Voice, a Greenwich Village newspaper, looked in the apartments for rent section, found an apartment that seemed suitable, and called the landlord long-distance, mailing him a check forthwith for the rent.

      Or, for that matter, other girls would come to New York and then look for a job. Again, not Joyce Kendall. It was Friday now and come Monday morning she would report to work as a first reader at Armageddon Publications, Inc., a publishing firm with a Madison Avenue address and a line of vile magazines. The job, like the apartment, was taken care of in advance. Of course, she might have found a more appealing job if she had hunted around a little; just as she might have landed a better apartment for less money if she hadn’t been so anxious to move into a place the minute she hit town.

      She finished unpacking and surveyed the apartment. It wasn’t bad, all things considered—a bedroom, a living room, and what the real estate agents jokingly referred to as a kitchenette. Also a bathroom, with a too-small tub and a too-loud toilet. The furniture was respectable if uninspired, stable if old, comfortable if ugly—the usual equipment to be found in a furnished apartment. With a few pictures or travel posters on the walls and a new rug for the living room floor, the place would be livable, even comfortable.

      She was tired and hot and sweaty. The bus trip from Iowa had been horrible and the damned cabdriver had talked her ears off. What she wanted to do, of course, was to fall headlong onto the bed and collapse into pleasant unconsciousness. But that was not what she was going to do, not methodical Joyce Kendall, not her. She would get undressed and she would hang up her clothes neatly and she would take a shower, and then she would go to bed. She wouldn’t even permit herself the luxury of tossing the dirty clothes on the floor. Not her. Not Joyce Kendall.

      She sighed. Then she stood up and began to undress, unbuttoning the sheer yellow blouse, slipping it from her shoulders and draping it neatly over the back of a chair. Her white bra clung to her like a second skin—perspiration had soaked into it and her breasts itched. She struggled with the clasp, opened it and peeled it off.

      The bra hadn’t really been necessary. Without it, her breasts were still proud and firm, soft smooth flesh that was touchable and strokable and squeezable and kissable and—

      She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Her hands wandered to her breasts and cupped them, touched them, toyed with them. She was ashamed of herself, ashamed of the narcissism of the act, but it was the type of act which, for her, was a usual companion of boredom and exhaustion. When she was tired, when she was sick inside or outside, bored or irritated or aggravated or annoyed, her hands wandered to her body and her breasts tingled from her own touch. She often wondered why.

      She straightened up, unhooked the dark gray skirt and stepped out of it. Her panties were a wisp of sweat-soaked silk which she whipped off in a hurry and carried, with bra and blouse, to the laundry bag that hung in the closet. She took off her saddle shoes, rolled off the white socks and put them into the laundry bag also.

      Now she was naked, and very beautiful.

      She touched herself again—partly because her touch gave her pleasure, partly to reassure herself that she was really there, that it was an afternoon in June and that she, Joyce Kendall, was standing nude and beautiful in a second-floor apartment on Gay Street, in Greenwich Village, in the city of New York.

      Then she entered the bathroom, closing the bathroom door for no particular reason, and turned on the shower.

      The plumbing in the old brownstone was erratic at best and a proper mixture of cold and hot was hard to come by. She settled for a stream of water that was much hotter than she normally preferred. The butt end of a bar of soap remained in the soap dish and she lathered herself furiously with it, rubbing

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