Jazz Age Ch 08 11

8: Hot Lips

In a ten room apartment just off Fifth Avenue on 65th Street, Mr. Phelps Phelps was leaning forward to touch his wife's chin with the fingers of his right hand. Mr. Phelps was standing and Mrs. Phelps was sitting just in front of him. Mr. Phelps wore a dark suit, a gray silk tie, a white handkerchief in the left breast pocket of his jacket. Mrs. Phelps wore a red silk dress with a large bow at the lowest point of the neckline.

Directly behind Mrs. Phelps was a large rubber plant and beyond that the tall windows overlooking Sixty-fifth Street.

Mr. Phelps moved his forefinger back and forth under his wife's chin. "Don't look so sad."

"I never see you any more."

"Darling, you know how busy I am. Always on the run and all that. Busy busy."

"Even the children miss you."

"I'm always thinking about them. And thinking about you too."

"Promise?"

"You know it's true. Just wait till after the election. We'll have a lovely little vacation, just the two of us. Won't you like that?"

* * *

Mr. Phelps Phelps was the grandson of the late William Walter Phelps, the U.S. Ambassador to Germany from 1885 to 1893. Phelps Phelps was originally named Phelps von Rottenburg. His father was a Count von Rottenburg whom his mother met and married while living with her father (the Ambassador) in Germany. Then there came the war between the United States and Germany in 1917 and a divorce between the Rottenburgs. The Countess von Rottenburg chose to assume her maiden name of Phelps and her son's name was therefore changed from Phelps von Rottenburg to Phelps Phelps. This name or that name, the Count von Rottenburg subsequently died and left his American son an income of $70,000 a year. Mr. Phelps Phelps was known to be suave, generous, and shrewd. The rumor was that after his election to the U.S. Congress he expected to eventually become the Republican boss of Manhattan and maybe New York State. "I intend to serve the interests of New York City in Washington," Mr. Phelps said. "I think my entire life up to this point has been a preparation for this momentous job."

* * *

Mr. Phelps Phelps was no longer on 65th Street. He was now on West 52nd Street with another gentlemen and a young lady. Both men wore top-hats and white silk scarfs and black overcoats with white carnations in their left lapels. The young lady was dressed in a long evening gown, an evening coat over the gown, a white stole wrapped twice around her shoulders and neck so that nothing of the bosom of her dress could be seen. They stood in the small space at the side of a stone stairway, at a basement entrance shielded by a large black metal door. Mr. Phelps Phelps stood back with the young lady as the other gentleman leaned forward toward the hole that appeared in the door, toward the bright light and the face in the square hole.

"You got a card?"

"A card? Yes I do have a card, don't I? Now where is it? Well here it is. Is this what you need?"

He showed the card to the face in the hole. A moment later the door swung open. The gentleman with the card stood aside to allow the young lady to enter. Then he waved an arm at Mr. Phelps Phelps.

"You go on, Phel."

Mr. Phelps Phelps clapped him on the back. "I wish I had your girl tonight. She's a beauty."

"Oh no you don't. Not tonight you don't."

They laughed together as they walked one after the other through the open door. In a moment the door slammed shut and the space in front of it was once again in darkness.

* * *

A few days later Mr. Phelps Phelps was making a speech. He stood in front of a small lectern in a large room in the Ritz Tower Hotel on Park Avenue. He wore a dark blue pin-stripe suit and a dark blue necktie with diagonal white stripes. A carefully folded white handkerchief protruded from the left breast pocket of his jacket. His right hand was raised, his fingers extended in a gesture to the audience.

"Let there be no mistake about my attitudes. I'm running for Congress on the Republican ticket in support of Herbert Hoover. It's clear to me, as it's clear to many of you, that Herbert Hoover is a great example of the manhood of America. The more I see of the national campaign, the more I feel that his election is of supreme importance to the country. I want to be there in Congress to help Herbert Hoover solve the problems we're going to face during the next few years. I assure you that if I'm elected you'll have a man in Washington who knows what's good for his district."

The audience applauded. Mr. Phelps smiled. The applause continued and he smiled again.

* * *

At the Ritz Tower Hotel Mr. Phelps Phelps was now at the reception following his speech. He stood with Claire Belfield, but she hadn't yet introduced herself. She wore a cloche hat with a narrow brim and a large feather attached to the hat on the right side, a long graduated glass bead necklace and long suede gloves. Her blue silk dress had a square neckline.

Mr. Phelps was leaning forward slightly, the bulk of his figure tilted toward Claire. Behind him was a wall covered with an ornate silk wallpaper, part of a gilt mirror that showed the crowd in the large room. The noise of the crowd, people chatting, laughing, the tinkling of refreshment glasses, rose and fell.

Mr. Phelps now had his eyes on Claire's bosom. "Can I offer you a cigarette?"

"Why yes, thank you."

He opened a silver cigarette case. Claire chose a cigarette, slipped one end of it between her lips and Mr. Phelps lit it with a silver cigarette lighter.

"Well I hope I can count on your vote."

"Oh yes. My husband and I will certainly vote for you. I don't like that Pratt woman."

Mr. Phelps chuckled. "She's a bit off the track sometimes."

"I think you might know my husband."

"Really? Who is he?"

"George Belfield. I'm Claire Belfield."

Mr. Phelps hesitated. "Well I might know him. He's in the insurance business, isn't he?"

Mrs. Belfield laughed. "Very much so."

"I'm certainly grateful for the support of your family."

"Oh yes, George and I will certainly vote for you."

"That's wonderful."

His eyes were on her breasts again.

* * *

On East 65th Street Mr. and Mrs. Phelps Phelps were about to retire for the night. Their bedroom had twin beds. They sat facing each other, Mr. Phelps on one bed and Mrs. Phelps on the other bed. Mr. Phelps wore blue silk pajamas and Mrs. Phelps wore a long white nightgown with a lace collar. Between the beds was a small table supporting a dim yellow lamp.

Mr. Phelps rubbed his neck. "Tomorrow's another full day. My God, I'll be glad when it's finished."

"Poor darling. I wish I could help you."

"If it wasn't for that Pratt woman I'd be in without any trouble. She's calling me a Tammany Republican now. What do you think of that? Me, a Tammany Republican."

"She's awful."

"She's too smart for her own good."

"Do you think it's because she's a widow? If she had a husband I expect she wouldn't run at all."

"I've got to win this damn primary."

"You will, darling, you will."

* * *

"What a lovely party," said Mr. Phelps Phelps.

There were thirty people in the room, but Claire Belfield ignored them. This was a West End Avenue political party, a West Side party, and no one in the room except Mr. Phelps had any idea who she was. She'd found the invitation on her husband's desk. On the East Side she wouldn't have dared come out to a party like this without George. But she'd had a week of sitting at home doing nothing while George was in California and she couldn't stand it any more. She told herself George would understand. Anyway she was already cockeyed. And if George didn't understand, the hell with him. No, that wasn't quite nice. If George didn't understand she would pray that understanding would come to him. Oh, you're drunk, she thought. She still had Frank Tucker to feel guilty about, didn't she?

Mr. Phelps already had his eyes on her. She'd seen him as soon as she'd walked into the large room, and it was no more than a few minutes before he approached her to say he remembered her. He was on the West Side as a favor to a friend. How awful that her husband was so far away in California. Mr. Phelps seemed totally unsurprised that she wasn't at home or at least with an escort.

She was wearing a pastel blue evening dress, and as cockeyed as she was she was still fully aware that he couldn't keep his eyes off her breasts. Well wasn't that ducky? Oh nerts, she thought. That was one of Nancy Desmond's expressions, wasn't it? She wondered how old Mr. Phelps was. She wondered about his wife.

Claire said, "Is your wife here?"

"Oh no," Mr. Phelps said. "She doesn't like these political parties."

He stared at her breasts again. Then he offered her a cigarette. He stared at her breasts as he lit her cigarette with a silver cigarette lighter.

Claire smiled at him.

* * *

"Please, Phel, the chauffeur."

They were in the back of his limousine as it moved slowly through Central Park.

Mr. Phelps said, "He can't see anything."

He kissed her again, his mouth pressed against hers, his tongue pushing between her teeth. Claire felt like giggling. He had such a large tongue. Oh you're plastered, she thought. She kissed him back. She kissed him harder as he handled her breasts. She liked it. She wondered how much they could do in the back of a limousine. She couldn't remember ever doing anything in a limousine in Central Park. Not even with Frank Tucker. It's almost like Paris, she thought. It's almost like the Bois in Paris, but she'd only read about that and she hadn't done anything there. Oh God I'm drunk.

Then, as Phelps kissed her, he pulled her hand into his lap to feel his erection. When she made no move to pull her hand away, he left the hand there and he moved his own hand back to her breasts. Her breasts excited him. They were like two large pillows under the dress, large and yet still firm enough to be resilient. The brassiere she wore was a nuisance, but he did his best to get inside it and at last he succeeded. The moment his fingers touched her thick nipple, he felt her shudder against his mouth.

In the meantime Claire had her fingers closed around his stiff penis and it thrilled her. He felt so hot and hard beneath his trousers. She squeezed the cock, wishing she might have it out so she could feel the soft skin and the hard muscle underneath it. Then his fingers pulling at her nipple almost made her spend. He was so forceful, such a lovely forceful man!

But Phelps wanted more than her breasts. He pulled the hand out of her bodice and he dropped it down to her knees. Claire instinctively opened her legs as his fingers slid between them. This was more serious than a hand fondling her breasts. His palm moved under her dress, along the inside of her thigh and over one of the garter straps that held up her stocking. He lingered on the inside of her thigh above the top of the stocking, his fingers stroking the smooth skin, tickling her, caressing her, teasing her with intimations of delights yet to come.

Another kiss, this one even hotter than the last one. Their lips fused together, he explored her gums with his tongue. The intimacy of it made her shudder, and her fingers gripped his penis more firmly. Her legs trembled as he stroked the insides of her thighs.

Then the hand under her dress moved higher, his fingers reaching the edge of her panties, sliding over the edge into the warmth at the joining of her full thighs. Now he stroked more firmly, his fingertips pressing against the bulging lips of her sex, rubbing them through the silk undergarment.

George had never done this to her. In all the years of their marriage, George had never stroked her like this while she was still fully dressed. She tried to remember if Frank Tucker had done it. Yes, he had, but just once. She was certain her fanny was drenched and that Phelps could feel the wetness with his fingertips.

His fingers moved again, now slipping back to insinuate themselves under the edge of her panties, the fingertips searching like tentacles for the hairy cleft of her sex, finding it, gliding in, separating the lips, stroking her again, finding the clitoris and tickling it.

She wanted to cry out, but his mouth still covered hers and all she could do was groan against his lips. She closed her legs on his hand as the orgasm struck, as the hot ripples passed through her belly and made her legs tremble again.

"Oh God!" she gasped.

He continued rubbing her sex, his fingers massaging her clitoris, her labia, and the softer tissues around the opening to her vagina.

She was in a frenzy now. She wanted to do more but she knew it was impossible. Her fingers continued squeezing his penis, rubbing it through the cloth of his trousers in a vain attempt to make him spend the way he'd made her spend just a moment ago. As his fingers continued stroking her sex, she felt the second crisis mounting, and this time she did cry out, her head back against the upholstery, her lips open as she groaned in a loud voice.

She looked at the chauffeur when she recovered, but he seemed oblivious to what was going on.

She groaned again. "Phel, we can't!"

"He can't hear anything."

"Please, no more."

When he removed his fingers from her sex, she thought it was finished, but then she quivered as he pushed her hand away from his lap in order to open the fly of his trousers.

"Phel, please..."

"Just your hand."

She leaned against his shoulder as he brought his penis out, her eyes mesmerized by the hot cylinder of masculine tumescence. He pulled her hand to it and made her close her fingers around it.

"Go on," he said, forcing her hand to move up and down in case there was any doubt in her mind about what he wanted from her.

She moved her fingers up and down, stroking the shaft of his penis, continuing to stroke it as he dropped his hand away to allow her to do it herself.

The feel of his hard cock in her hand, hot and velvet-skinned and at the edge of a crisis, took her breath away. She kept her eyes on it, on the swollen tip and the tiny slit that she knew before long would erupt in a geyser of sperm.

"That's marvelous," Phelps said. He calmly brought a handkerchief out of his breast pocket and he held it over the end of his penis. Claire was sorry because now she wouldn't see the spouting. But she continued pumping it, her hand moving up and down with a steady rhythm, and before long she heard him grunt and her fist moved more rapidly to finish it for him.

She felt happy as she watched his body twitch. She milked his penis, once again wondering about his odd name. Phelps Phelps. Quaint, wasn't it? Then a thrill went through her as she realized his organ was sticky in her hand because some of the sperm had dripped on her fingers. You're awful, she thought with amusement. Claire Belfield, you're an awful woman.

Chapter 9: Burning Kisses

On November 7th of that year Herbert Hoover was elected President of the United States. The Democratic candidate Al Smith managed to get only 87 electoral votes against Hoover's 444. The people of the country felt secure that the Republican prosperity of Calvin Coolidge would continue. Charlie Desmond said: "Well, we're all saved, aren't we?"

He planned a nightclub celebration, a small party for himself and Nancy and his most important client Arthur Littlewood and Littlewood's wife and daughter.

Nancy was appalled. "I can't bear them."

"He's the hottest investment banker in New York. That makes him bearable."

"They're awful."

"I thought you liked Mrs. Littlewood."

"She talks too much. And their daughter is too arrogant."

"Well, if you get bored you can watch the floorshow."

The floorshow would be in the Casanova Club, and on the evening of the party the Desmonds and the Littlewoods and the young man escorting Caroline Littlewood occupied a large table in the midst of this nightclub frequented by a mix of high society and affluent gangsters.

Arthur Littlewood was a man in his sixties with a pink bald head and a fringe of white hair around his ears. He never said much. He listened to Charlie Desmond and he watched the doings in the club. Mrs. Littlewood was more talkative. She was a well-groomed woman with a sharp tongue and she liked to drink. This evening she was drinking gin and White Rock and the liquor seemed to go down in a continuous flow without any effect on her. Her daughter Caroline, maybe to show how different she was from her mother, refused to drink anything except Coca-Cola. She was an attractive twenty-two year old who seemed to enjoy taunting the college boy she'd brought along as an escort.

Nancy Desmond disliked all of them and she kept her eyes on the floor. At the moment George Raft was doing a double-jointed Charleston. He usually danced at the El Fey Club, but the Casanova Club appeared to have borrowed him and tonight he was the featured attraction. Nancy had seen George Raft before and as usual she thought he was a slick dancer. And probably slick at everything, she thought.

"Oh boy, he's good," Caroline Littlewood said to Nancy. "He's good, isn't he?"

Nancy smiled at the girl but she said nothing.

"He looks cheap," Caroline's escort said. His name was Dudley and he had the vapid face of a Princeton crewman.

"Nerts to you," Caroline said.

Nancy ignored them.

After George Raft finished his number, a girl came out to sing a song. She was introduced to the room as Libby Holman, and in a few moments she began singing a torrid torch song called "Hogan's Alley".

Nancy knew the song. It came from the musical "Merry-Go-Round"; she'd seen the show when it first appeared on Broadway.

Libby Holman knew how to sing and Nancy was impressed. The girl had slit-hazel eyes, a bee-stung mouth painted dark red, and dark red fingernails. She looked like a young witch, a dark-eyed houri both sensual and demure at the same time.

She's wonderful, Nancy thought.

She was spellbound by Libby Holman. She kept her eyes on the girl, on her seductive face and willowy body. Nancy hardly heard the song any more. Then the song was finished and Libby Holman started another one called "I Want To Be Bad". She seemed to be looking directly at Nancy as she sang it.

She's turning me into jelly, Nancy thought.

It wasn't the first time. There had been a female teacher at Bryn Mawr who had turned her into jelly, and then after that a girl Nancy had roomed with in Manhattan before she married Charlie. And after she married Charlie there were occasionally other girls, secret trysts in secret hotel rooms. They all turned Nancy into jelly and now it was happening once again.

Would that darling girl on the stage have any interest in it? Never give up without trying, Nancy thought.

* * *

A few nights later Nancy said to Charlie: "I'd like to go back to that nightclub."

"What?"

"That nightclub. The Casanova Club. I'd like to go back to hear that singer."

"That girl."

"Libby Holman. Let's go tonight."

"Tonight?"

"Yes, let's go tonight. We can catch the last show. Just the two of us. Don't you think that would be fun?"

She convinced him.

Then she convinced him again the next night and the next.

Charlie thought she was crazy but he humored her. Each night when they came home after a few drinks at the Casanova Club, Nancy was like a wildcat in bed.

The fifth time they were there, Nancy went to the back of the club alone to visit Libby Holman in her dressing room.

"I'm Nancy Desmond and I just wanted to tell you how much I enjoy your singing."

Libby Holman looked her up and down. "You've been out there four nights in a row."

"No, this is the fifth."

"All for me? Well I'm flattered. I guess you do like my singing."

"I adore it."