Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖
- Author: Winn Schwartau
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too.”
Scott shook his head. “I don’t know . . .”
“What, you don’t wanna get laid? What’s the matter with you?”
The Spook couldn’t believe his ears.
The sheer intensity of the omnipresent sexual stimulation gave
Scott the urge to pause and ask himself why. The desire was
physically manifest, but the psychology of hookers; it wasn’t his
style. In the three years since he and Maggie had split, Scott
occassioned to spend time with many ladies. He had kept himself
in reasonable shape without doing becoming fanatic about it, and
his high metabolism helped keep the body from degenerating ahead
of schedule. So he had had his share of companionship and oppor-
tunity, but right now he was enjoying the freedom of his work and
the pleasures that that offered. If a woman was in the cards, so
be it, but it was not essential at the moment.
“Nothing, it’s just that, well, I prefer to know the lady, if you
know what I mean.”
“Oh, no problem!” The Spook had an answer. “That’s an all night-
er and will cost you 1000 guilders.”
“No, no,” Scott said quickly. “That’s not it. I just don’t get
a charge from hookers. Now, if some friends set it up to like a
real pick-up, at the beach, a bar, whatever, as long as I didn’t
know. That could prove interesting. Hmmmm.” He smiled to
himself. “But honestly? I been a couple of times, just for
giggles. And boy was it giggles.”
Scott laughed out loud at the memory. “The first time it was a
friend’s birthday and a bunch of us put up enough to get him laid
at the Chicken Ranch.” That was the evening Scott had lost
almost two hours of his life on the drive back to Vegas. He
speculated to himself, in private, that he may been abducted by
alien creatures from a UFO. Right.
“I know the place,” added the Spook.
“I was designated drunk driver so I drove him over to the high
desert in the company van, about an hour’s drive. Before we went
in I insisted on a couple of beers. He was getting laid and I
was nervous. Go figure. At any rate, the security cameras let
us in and two very attractive ladies in slinky gowns lead us over
to the couch. They immediately assumed that we were both there
for, well, the services. I was too embarrassed to say no, that I
wasn’t interested, but then out came a line of 20 of the most
gorgeous girls you could imagine. The madam, I forget her name,
stepped in and begged our indulgence for the interruption. It
seems, she said, that the BBC was filming a documentary on broth-
els, and they had a camera crew in the next room, and would we
mind too terribly much if they filmed us?” Scott feigned extreme
shock.
“Filmed you? For TV? Even I won’t go that far,” the Spook said
impressed with Scott’s story. “My movies are all first run
private. Alphabetical from Adelle to Zelda.”
“Not film that, pervert!” He had pegged the Spook. “They only
filmed the selection process, the initial meetings and then the
walk down the hallways to the bedrooms.”
“So what’d you do?” The Spook asked with interest.
“We did the camera bit, Jim got laid and I take the fifth.”
“You chicken shit asshole,” hollered the laughing Spook.
Scott took that as a compliment from the male slut to whom he was
speaking. “Listen, that was a long time ago, before I was mar-
ried, and I don’t want it to screw up our divorce. Three years of
bliss.”
The Spook kept laughing. “You really are a home boy, huh?” He
gasped for air. They continued down a side street and back up
the Oude Zijds Achterburgwal, the other main canal in the Dis-
trict, so Spook could check out more windows. Those with the
curtain drawn indicated that either services were being rendered
or that it was lunch hour. Hard to tell.
As they passed the Guys and Gals Sex Shop, the Spook abruptly
stopped and stepped back toward the canal. He whistled to him-
self in appreciation of the sex goddesses that had captured his
attention. In the basement window was a stunning buxom brunette,
wearing an invisible g-string and bra. She oozed sexuality with
her beckoning lips and fingers when she spotted the Spook’s
interest. In the first floor window above the brunette were two
perfectly voluptuous poster blondes, in matching transparent
peignoirs. They too, saw the Spook, and attempted to seduce him
to their doorway. Scott was impressed that the ladies were so
attractive.
“Some sweet meat, huh?” Said the Spook ogling his choices. “Well
are you or aren’t you?” He asked with finality. “I’m all systems
go. You get first choice: 2 from window A or 1 from window B.
What’ll it be?”
Scott responded immediately. “I got a safer way. There are five
billion people on the planet, and at any given time at least a
million have to be having sex. So all I have to do is tune into
the Planetary Consciousness, the ultimate archetype, and have an
orgasm anytime I want.”
“You’re a sick mother,” laughed the Spook. “Transcendental group
sex. At least I can tell the difference between pussy and pray-
ing.” He asked Scott again to pick a girl.
“I have to pass. It’s just not my thing.” Spook glared at him
askance. “No really, go ahead. I’m a bit tired, I just arrived
this morning.” He had forgotten to take his 3 hour afternoon nap
and it was close to 6 in the morning body time. “I’ll see you at
the conference tomorrow. All right?”
“Fuckin’ A!” The Spook beamed. “I get ‘em all.” He motioned to
the girls that he would like to hire all three of them, at once.
They indicated that that would be a fine idea. “Listen, I don’t
mean to be rude, but . . .” the Spook said to Scott as he pro-
ceeded up the stairs to meet the female triumvirate. He turned
briefly in the open doorway with two of the girls tugging at his
clothes. “Scott! What happens if the medium or the message gets
sick? Think about it.” The door closed behind the Spook as the
girls shed their clothes.
“Medium? Jeez you are really fucked,” laughed Scott. “Pervert!”
He called out as the window curtains closed.
Scott got directions to the Eureka! from a live sex show sales-
man. For all the walking he and the Spook had done, miles and
miles, it was odd that they had ended up only a few blocks away
from the hotel. Ah, but that would figure, thought Scott. The
Sex Starved Spook was staying at the Europa around the corner
from Sin Street. Scott rolled a joint of his own to enjoy for
the pleasant evening promenade home along the canals. Spook,
what a character. In one breath, perfectly rational, but then
the Jekyll and Hyde hormone hurricane. Wow.
What Scott Mason could never have imagined, indeed quite the
opposite, was that the Spook was unable to respond to the three
very attentive ladies he had hired for that very purpose. Noth-
ing. No matter what stimuli they effected, the Spook’s brain
could not command his body to respond. His confusion alternated
with embarrassment which made the problem only worse. Never
before had the Spook had such a problem. Never. One of the
ladies spoke to him kindly. “Hey, it happens to everyone once in
a while.” At hearing that he jumped up, removed the loose condom
and zipped his pants while screaming, “Not to me. It doesn’t
happen to me!”
Scott did not know that the Spook bolted into the street and
started running, in panic, away from the scene of his most pri-
vate of failures. He ran all the way, in fact beating Scott to
his hotel. He was driven by the terror of the first sexual
failure in his life. The Spook felt emasculated as he sought a
rationalization that would allow him to retain a shred of digni-
ty.
He was used to commanding women, not being humiliated by them.
What was wrong? Women fell all over him, but why this? This of
all things? The Spook fell asleep on the top of his bed with his
clothes on.
Scott did not know that he would not be seeing the Spook tomor-
row.
* Wednesday, January 6 Washington, D.C.“Eight more!” exclaimed Charlie Sorenson into Martin Templer’s
face. “What the hell is going on?” The private office on twenti-
eth and “L” Street was well guarded by an efficient receptionist
who believed she worked for an international import export firm.
Consulting offices were often easier for senior intelligence
officials to use for clandestine, unrecorded meetings than one’s
own office. In the interest of privacy, naturally.
The two NSA and CIA agents from “P” Street held their clandestine
meeting in a plain, windowless office meagerly furnished with a
desk,
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