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  PLAYING FOR KEEPS

  M. J. RENNIE

  Revised With a New Introduction

  ISBN 9781615087594

  All rights reserved

  Copyright 2012 M. J. Rennie

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

  For information:

  http://SizzlerEditions.com/Intoxication

  Sizzler/Intoxication Erotic Romance

  A Renaissance E Books publication

  (Previously published as SEX AND SEXIBILITY)

  "For what do we live, but to make sport of our neighbors and laugh

  at them in our turn?"

  –Jane Austen

  "The course of true love never did run smooth."

  –William Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  2

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. The persons, places, and situations

  described in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination

  or are used fictionally.

  Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, both living

  and dead, is entirely coincidental.

  3

  INTRODUCTION TO 2012 EDITION

  Nobody knows the boys better than I do, being one myself. The

  ironic fact is that I wasn’t supposed to be a boy, as my esteemed

  parents told me later that they would have preferred a girl. As it

  turned out, I was kind of like a girl in a lot of ways, although a

  tomboy and future lesbian sort of girl, meanwhile blessed with the gift

  of a boy’s body and a male presence.

  But gifts, however, can also be trouble, as you shall see in the

  following narrative. It’s made for an unusual and somewhat solitary

  take on life – this appreciation for the characteristics of both genders.

  The fact is that boys and girls would probably be a lot better off if

  they knew more about what the other was thinking. Girls especially

  are in the dark about who boys are and what they think. Girls think

  they know but they don’t. They never really seem to grasp how

  genuinely submissive the best boys are, how willing and eager to be

  led.

  In return, boys need to have their sexuality managed, guided, and

  directed. Bright men particularly require frequent orgasms, and the

  more inventively achieved, the better. John F. Kennedy comes to

  mind as the classic example.

  The wise woman will therefore supply her man with what the writer

  Elise Sutton calls Loving Female Authority, which is an apt term for

  the phenomenon of a wife-led marriage. In her columns, Sutton

  outlines techniques for soaring male climaxes as well as strict,

  appropriate male discipline.

  Which circles us back to the basic problem.

  From the diary of Bridget Jones to the columns of Candace

  Bushnell to the internal monologues of Anastasia Steele, we have

  lately learned much about how contemporary women view sex,

  romance, themselves, and the opposite gender.

  It may be in some instances that we know altogether too much, for

  feminine authors are not shy about expressing their opinions at length

  about males in books, blogs, newspapers, magazines, movies,

  4

  television, the internet, or just over the back fence. Their obsession

  with romance is also well known.

  What we very rarely hear expressed is how men feel about women,

  for men as a gender are rather reticent when it comes to matters of

  emotion. They don’t talk much about their romantic feelings, either to

  each other or, perish forbid, to women. Why this occurs appears to lie

  in the fact that men are on the whole astonishingly inarticulate about

  their own feelings.

  If they do try to say something about how they feel, it often comes

  out wrong, or misses that level of nuance that distinguishes sincere

  emotion from pretense.

  One way or another, they can’t get it right.

  The narrator of this novel is an exception.

  A novice writer, Patrick Compton boldly takes the plunge,

  describing, in colloquial terms, his feelings for the women of his time

  – their looks, habits, attitudes, behaviors, sexuality, and personal

  capabilities.

  The statements Pat crafts prove that one man was willing to provide

  an honest opinion during the time period covered, from 1977-1979, if

  only to himself. The years were, as the Chinese curse goes,

  "interesting" to say the least.

  The broad outlines of a society that was to emerge are here

  examined in ways that I’ve seen nowhere else described.

  And the most remarkable thing is that I was the person doing it. I

  won’t deny that the source of the ensuing novel is based on my own

  journals, with some small embellishments. I’m seeing my own warts

  here for the most part, and it’s unnerving.

  Still, could there be any subject in literature more compelling than

  the relationships between women and men? I think not. In our

  narrator’s circle, the young women are fishers of men.

  By the time he starts writing, Patrick has been around enough to

  know that sex is a lure with a barbed hook at the center. Like most

  young men, he is willing to snatch the bait without taking the hook, if

  he can. Not very often can he, and when he tries, there are usually

  unpleasant consequences.

  5

  But he is also mature enough to know that a life lived alone is an

  inferior experience and he is therefore not totally averse to getting

  hooked, as long as it is by the right tackle and with the right angler at

  the other end of the line. Can he do it? That is the question, which

  hangs in the balance.

  The memory is faulty and tends to play tricks. Words written as an

  event occurs or in its immediate aftermath are considered factual

  enough to be admissible in court.

  For the sake of privacy and for purposes of art, I’ve altered many of

  the real names, places, characters, circumstances, and individual

  situations in this book. Otherwise, it stands as a true chronicle of the

  period. What else can I say?

  The essence of the novel is the contrast between how young women

  appear to young men in reality, particularly one young man, as

  opposed to the romantic fantasies women entertain about themselves.

  The obvious question: Could I have ever actually been this guy?

  The answer, fortunately and unfortunately, is yes.

  On the other hand, our Mr. Compton’s views, from raunchy to

  exalted, are not that unique nor are they out of the bounds of common

  experience. As the story unfolds, we are treated to an unvarnished

  look at the young people of a certain generation, now much older, and

  soon to be gone forever.

  Nothing fundamental ever really changes between the sexes,

  because at a certain level, we are what nature dictates. Males seek to

  maximize their sexual opportunities, meanwhile taking steps to ensure

  that the progeny they parent are their own.

  Females in turn seek security for their offspring as an absolute

  value
. All the rest is window dressing – style, fads, art, politics,

  religion, fashion, music, mores, and gadgets.

  Throughout the 1970s until his retirement in 1980, the famed

  journalist Walter Cronkite would end his newscasts with the following

  words:

  "And that’s the way it is."

  6

  Well, this is the way it was, sort of. This is how it played out in a

  particular time and place, one young man’s view meant to serve as an

  emblem for the universal.

  Should your millennial or global grandchild ever wonder what it

  was like to be young and in love back in the good old days, here’s an

  answer, a romance from a male standpoint, and its intended audience

  is a single specific young woman, and by extension, every other

  young woman who has had her troubles with ... a young man.

  –M. J. Rennie

  7

  CHAPTER ONE

  A Complicated Winter

  November 10, 1977

  Beginning a new volume.

  One year ago this month, I moved back to Cyanide City, also

  known as Portland, Oregon. Since August, I have been living with

  Chesley Harlan in this 1920s period house in the Southeast part of

  town, not quite a mile from the neighborhood where I once lived. The

  address is 3024 SE 25th. One block away is the Clinton Street

  Theater. Every Friday and Saturday at midnight they run The Rocky

  Horror Picture Show. I’ve never seen the movie, but I really dig the

  costumes on the chicks who line up outside to see it.

  Okay. Enough said for the glorious homecoming of Patrick J.

  Compton, age 26. I still hate this town and my dissatisfaction with

  life in general remains undiminished. The only therapy I have for this

  condition is my habit of compulsive writing.

  Unlike my previous efforts at journal composition, from now on I

  plan to break from my straight summary occasionally to enhance this

  narrative with nonfiction "novelizations" of some of the more

  interesting events as they occur.

  These novelizations will occasionally involve vivid sexual

  description, so be aware of that if you are reading this without my

  permission!

  Once again I have decided to take a stab at my The Dark City

  manuscript. I’ve been working on it in fits and starts since last month

  but now I am truly serious.

  What a pile of shit it is.

  Got a letter from Polly Ellsworth last week and I am not quite sure

  what to make of it. In a discussion I had with Charles R., he said

  Polly might split from her boyfriend after all. So I wrote her and

  offered to go down there or see her up here.

  Whichever.

  But her response was frankly puzzling. Maybe she just wants to

  flick me shit again. Here it goes:

  8

  Dear Patrick:

  Your most recent letter does deserve a response. I still live with the

  man you mentioned. I plan to move at least every 2-3 weeks.

  Sometimes I move to my own place daily – if only for an hour or so.

  My cat Meow is never there, but the freshly painted white walls,

  the overstuffed furniture of a neutral color, and Venetian blinds make

  up for the loss of my furry one. Suffice it to say that I have felt the

  need to move into a place of my own ever since the first month of

  living with Mr. G., and, although the need has survived and possibly

  grown, I have not made the appropriate actions to satisfy it. I voiced

  my dissatisfactions to Lori in May or June and quite possibly she

  assumed that I would/could move, hence the information you

  apparently received second hand from Monsieur Charles.

  In all actuality, and what else is there? – (nothing like whimsicality

  to pick up an otherwise stultified correspondence) I have never even

  looked, even casually, for a place of my own.

  You brother Mick is in Africa, eh? The Peace Corps? I do envy

  him, although it is probably mentally and emotionally taxing, or

  maybe not. Good old Mick. I suppose you do miss him. And you’ve

  moved into a house with the turnkey.

  When I think of you living in the environs you mentioned, with all

  those people around, I say to myself "sounds like fun." But I’d never

  put that in this letter. I wonder if you are keeping your political

  talents in use? Hmmm?

  What’s the word from Leanne? I am gradually losing touch with

  Blane. I see him (in the literal sense) about once every three months.

  Just a couple of weeks ago, I felt myself slipping away. Not much

  to do about that, is there? Just slipping away. Like that, in so many

  (or perhaps fewer) words.

  My family is fine. I like my job as a nurse. It is physically and

  emotionally draining, and is fucking hard work. I have been morose,

  (unduly morose, perhaps) after having helped a cherished patient kick

  the old bucket, as they say. Other than that (what?) There is nothing

  new to retort. I may have left some words out of some sentences but

  9

  since you knew me, (in the Biblical, as well as the regular sense) I

  give you complete license to fill in any missing information.

  Yours until Niagara Falls,

  Polly

  What the hell am I supposed to make of that shit? I go back and

  forth. I’m thinking of hopping in my bus and driving down to see her.

  Just to see her. It’s been more than a year since the last time I tried to

  contact her.

  Unfortunately, that previous trip went nowhere. But I’m in a

  quandary. Is she just setting me up to act the fool again? What

  happens if I go down there and she makes out like I’m insane for

  coming down? It would just kill me. If only she would give me some

  clear signal that she wanted to see me I would drop everything and go.

  That is essentially what I asked her when I wrote. I said how about us

  talking face to face? But she did not respond to that. And this is,

  well, so weird…

  I just don’t get it.

  * * * *

  November 13, 1977

  I’ve decided not to drive down to Ashland to see Polly. I do not

  believe she is being serious. I’ve asked her if we could see each other

  and she sends me crap like the above letter. I must therefore conclude

  she is not serious.

  I am serious, but she is not. Oh, how roles have reversed! I’ll

  probably write her again, I suppose, but I expect nothing.

  * * * *

  November 30, 1977 Monday

  From my bedroom window I can see the bank tower, downtown,

  the river, all the way to the west hills. Looking out the window

  yesterday I was positive I saw Polly Ellsworth pull up in front of our

  house. A blue Volkswagen slowed down and then stopped across the

  street. I was absolutely sure it was her at the wheel. That face I

  would know anywhere.

  I ran downstairs right away but the car was already gone. If it

  wasn’t Polly my name is Ronald McDonald.

  10

  Could it possibly have been a figment of my overactive

  imagination? Who knows? I wrote to her right after I got her last

  letter, telling her that I am available for a meeting any time she wants

&nb
sp; to get together. But I’ve heard nothing since.

  I swear I am going crazy here in Portland.

  My mother lives one mile away and pesters me constantly for

  favors, errands, money, home repairs, money, or simply to yak my ear

  off. I wouldn’t mind doing work but she is a total slug who won’t lift

  a finger, is horrible to listen to, and treats me like a slave.

  I’d listen politely except for the fact that her conversation is nothing

  but venom and self pity. The old hag acts like she is on her deathbed.

  Though perfectly healthy, she refuses to work and lives off the Social

  Security payments she gets for my sister Ruthie, age 16. You would

  think she is 93 years old instead of only 53. I fucking hate her.

  My writing goes very slowly. Six short chapters in three days.

  However, I am pleased with the quality. Must keep plugging away on

  this new draft of The Dark City.

  Have made a decision to write about only significant events in this

  journal from now on. Less drivel, more action.

  * * * *

  December 8, 1977

  Far fucking out. I have the whole place to myself.

  * * * *

  December 9, 1977

  Did not get too far with yesterday’s entry. Too many people, too

  many interruptions. In and out, in and out. Boys, girls, beer, reefer,

  and loud, wild talk. The whole place was jammed with people at one

  point. Why are we so popular? I do everything I can to discourage

  them, but without success.

  Nevertheless, late at night, after everyone was gone, I got a bunch

  of stuff done on the book. I’m now up to page 26. These re-writes

  are terribly difficult. Every sentence is a major project, with

  blueprints, competitive bids, forklifts, and guys in hard hats shouting

  orders.

  11

  Having lots of trouble with Chap. 7 right now. Will substitute all

  new material, I think. A whole different slant is needed and I believe

  the word they used to describe him was "incorrigible," meaning there

  is no hope for him.

  Wrote my brother Mick a letter today. Complained about nearly

  everything. Don’t know what good it will do but I got it off my chest.

  Yadda yadda yadda. That’s an expression Chesley has been using for