I'd Rather Fight Than Swish
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright ©; 1969 by Coronet Communication, Inc.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: May 2008
ISBN: 978-0-446-54142-8
Contents
WILL THE COXEMAN COME THROUGH AGAIN?
OTHER BOOKS IN THIS SERIES BY TROY CONWAY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
WILL THE COXEMAN COME THROUGH AGAIN?
Enemy agents by the dozen have been infiltrating America.
How?
Why?
There’s only one man who has the brains and the stamina to find out—and that’s Rod Damon, The Coxeman, superspy extraordinaire.
And from what the enemy knows, and when it knows it, it is all too apparent that the answer lies close to home. Too close, in fact. Someone in Rod’s League for Sexual Dynamics is a double agent, and Rod must uncover him (or her) before all his agents are killed off.
Will Rod bare the traitor? Or will the Free World be destroyed?
Other Books In This Series by Troy Conway
THE BERLIN WALL AFFAIR
THE BIG FREAK-OUT
THE BILLION DOLLAR SNATCH
THE WHAM! BAM! THANK YOU, MA’AM AFFAIR
ITS GETTING HARDER ALL THE TIME
COME ONE, COME ALL
LAST LICKS
KEEP IT UP, ROD
THE MAN-EATER
THE BEST LAID PLANS
ITS WHAT’S UP FRONT THAT COUNTS
HAD ANY LATELY?
WHATEVER GOES UP
A GOOD PEACE
JUST A SILLY MILLIMETER LONGER
THE BIG BROAD JUMP
THE SEX MACHINE
THE BLOW YOUR MIND JOB
THE CUNNING LINGUIST
WILL THE REAL ROD PLEASE STAND UP?
ALL SCREWED UP
THE MASTER BAITER
TURN THE OTHER SHEIK
IT’S NOT HOW LONG YOU MAKE IT
SON OF A WITCH
CHAPTER ONE
I, Rod Damon, had been challenged.
In the usual, free-wheeling, all-stops-out way. Strictly a case of put up or shut up. After all when a man is world famous for a certain kind of schtick, he must learn to expect challenges and know how to deal with them. But I’ll tell you one thing, when you are the champ and the King of the Hill, you can’t come out second best. Nobody remembers the runners-up.
Especially when your schtick, your own thing, is Sex. S-E-X. Since I was only the vaunted head of L.S.D.— League of Sexual Dynamics, for those of you happening along late—I had to accept all challenges. Haven’t I been telling and showing the world for five long years that a man well-hung, who knows how to use it, can rule a universe of women? My answer for the ills of mankind is getting it and getting it good and plenty. With a platform like that, I am always open to attack. By the skeptics, the prudes, the frightened ones and let’s face it—the fakers who just want to get a little for free. All those and the Very Hard Up.
But it was hard to tell about the Puerto Rican señorita. More than that. It was impossible to be sure. She shouldn’t have had any hang-ups at all. Not the way she was put together.
When she stood up in the seminar I was conducting at the university in one of the many wide, enormous, big-window rooms that always let the sun in, I had to blink against Old Sol as well. But the señorita, who turned out to be one Rita Cortez, flung the challenge full into my kisser. Right in front of a class of about thirty of the most prime specimens of the human female animal. My programs on sexual education, designed right after I earned the doctorate in Sexology and rewrote the book, has drawn thousands of willing, panting aspirants yearly. Having released the American female, and the European and Asiatic, from sexual slavery, with my advanced theory of applying ancient sexual mores, customs and techniques to the bedroom department, I had cut quite a swath through fame. I was Rod Damon, America’s master of the bedchamber.
So I was in full sail, with a university at my disposal, all the money and food and wherewithal I needed, with an occasional sideline of spying which I will tell you more about later, when Miss Cortez stood up, shook her maracas and castanets at me and brightly posed her challenge:
“Professor, I dare you!”
“Dare what?” The class snickered, expecting the usual silly bet or challenge: like how many women could Professor Damon satisfy sexually in sixty minutes? I was always being confronted with that old chestnut. It is one of my easiest performances. I can handle as many women as the physical passage of time will allow.
“Will you accept the challenge?”
I stared at her, shaking my head, checked the Delaney cards in front of me for the seating arrangement and the identity of my pupils and folded my arms. The hot sun was baking my face but already my shipping department was warming up on its own. Miss Cortez, who had risen from her seat, would have made Dolores Del Rio strangle herself with her own bra.
“I am a miracle worker, Miss Cortez. But you stump me. Even I cannot accept a dare when I don’t know what that dare is.”
Now, the class really let her have it. The redheads, the blondes, the brunettes, all the wanton little and big coeds who had come to hear and learn, and perhaps seduce the great Rod Damon.
Miss Cortez did not bat an enchilada.
“Dear Professor Damon, it is very simple. Without touching your phallus—without so much as whispering at it—I can make you ejaculate. Fully, completely. Inevitably.”
A hush fell over the room. Awe registered on all the sweet young things. They were holding their breaths. I could see that. All the rising crests of mammarial wonder thrust out impressively. I ahemed and unfolded my arms, assuming my most intelligent look. Miss Rita Cortez stared back at me, from a distance of about twenty feet Her hair was like night, her lips blood-red, her eyes green flashing fire, and the Snow White image was then uttterly kicked in the pants by a figure Disney would never have dared to show to the kids. Ai-chee-wow-wah! She was put together like a brick adobe but not one of those haciendas had ever been so curved, or surging or splendidly realized as a piece of real estate. It was uncanny somehow; I knew she was Puerto Rican because word had gotten around I had one in class and with the name and all, it was an easy guess. But no lady of Latin countries ever had a whiter, more alabaster complexion. Nor such hilly curves.
“Surely you jest?” I suggested.
“No, I do not. Will you accept?”
I smiled. “I have never said No to anyone, dear lady. Not when it comes to any extension of sexual research, knowledge and education. But tell me—for the benefit of your classmates and myself—you seem to contend that you can make me ha
ve an emission without coming near my phallus. I want to be sure we understand each other. Is that it?”
“In a word, yes.”
Gladly, she was smiling. It could have been mistaken for eagerness or cuteness or just a silly, feminine way to get a taste of Damon but not according to her challenge. The class was hanging on every word now as if we were the only two people in the room, so I decided to play out the moment. In class, I have the taint of the Barrymores. I can act, too. It was a fine moment and I didn’t want to lose it. Miss Cortez had perked up the program immeasurably. But that smile of hers—it was like the flat smile on an obsidian idol. A rock, a stone, a totem pole. It was a bit chilling. I remembered Miss Cortez very well now. She had gotten one hundred percent on my last examination: How To Make A Man Make Love In A Chair. Her answers, her theories, her variations had been startling in one so obviously very young. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-one.
“Miss Cortez—” I took the lovely bull by the horns. “There are only seven methods in the world of erotica that can accomplish what you suggest. Seven known methods, that is. I know every one of them. If you intend to use any of these ploys on me, I can say without shame, and in spite of my own remarkable physical condition, you would win your bet. So what is the point? If you really only want to get me alone and this is the device you have chosen ——” The class didn’t laugh as I thought they would. Miss Cortez glared at me from down the aisle.
“I have challenged you, Professor Damon. I have thirty witnesses. Are you backing down?”
“And I have accepted.” I shook my head. “But surely, you’re not going to submit me to the bull fiddle string attached to the prostate and then twang it—not that old goldie?”
“No,” she said, very firmly.
“You’re not going to attack from the rear? Anal play which most men can never fail to respond to?”
“No,” she said again.
“Then you intend to hypnotize me, fill my mind with thoughts that will make me emit?”
“Certainly not!” She sounded offended.
The class’s collective head was swinging back and forth like so many fans at Forest Hills watching the tennis ball change courts.
“Wet dreams are the only really honest method of ejaculation I know for the female partner is not even needed for such fantasy——”
“Please, Professor. Do give me more credit than that. I do not make this proposal lightly.”
“Hmmm.” I eyed her coldly. “Sodomy then. Well, I’ll tell you. I refuse if that is what you have in mind. I can never bend to the will of any other man.”
“No. Absolutely no. I will be in the room with you. I alone. And I will make you ejaculate without once touching your phallus.”
I frowned. I was running out of methods.
“Ah, I see. The hot oil bathing of the phallus. Of course, now that would do it nicely. Oil, as one sexologist ointed out in his thesis: Oil For The Vamps Of Asia Minor has a most salutory effect. Is that it?”
She smiled, but she only shook her head. I was confused at that.
“Not the seventh way, then?”
“Yes,”she said as lightly as a bird flying across the sky. “Perhaps that way. The seventh way. If it is the same thing we are talking about.”
I bridled at that. “But that’s impossible. You couldn’t know that method. You’re too young. The secret died with Dealey in London and he passed it on to but a handful of experts. All now in their very old age, I might add.”
“You are not old,” Rita Cortez said with all the meaning in the world and the class let out its breath. It was an explosion of sound in the big room. Dozens of female hearts thundering, a score and more of feminine contraltos crying out for knowledge.
“Take her on, Professor!”
“Go get her, Rod!”
“What the hell is the seventh method? A bag full of feathers?”
“I used some marshmallows on a guy once——”
“Go get him, Cortez!”
“This I gotta see——”
“Maybe we should sell tickets—?”
“Hot damn! Professor Damon rides again!”
And stuff like that there. Sweet, honest sentiments all. What else could I expect from a roomful of sex-hungry young things?
“Ladies, please—” I rapped on the desk for silence and order. For a mad second I would like to have pounded with something else.
I stared at Rita Cortez. Now her arms were folded, and she was smiling again. The class quieted down but all the Junes were busting out all over. The warm sun made the room hotter than Hades. Easily matched by the more than loaded “pistol” I carry at all times.
I remembered Rita’s story. A former Puerto Rican call girl, on the lam from there for some nebulous reason, who was working for a Master’s Degree in Sexology. And now she was trying to shame me in front of my class. I held back a smile. We’d see about that. I’d made better dames than her cry out for More with a lot of Uncles thrown in for good measure. Make me come without touching me, would she? Hah! She couldn’t possibly know the seventh method. I’d stake my professional reputation on that.
“All right, Miss Cortez. Game rules. You dared me. I accept the challenge. Any conditions?”
She nodded slowly, choosing her next words with great care. It all smacked of a plan somehow. There was too much cunning in this carnal babe. She hadn’t been an el telephono girl for nothing, had she?
“Yes, Professor. I should like to conduct this test immediately.”
“Sure.” I looked at my watch. “I can polish you off before lunch.”
Nobody laughed. My sense of humor must have been getting worse. Either that or they all were on her side. Miss Cortez stuck out a pink tongue.
“I want the class to watch. From the living experiments room. Behind those two-way mirrors on all four walls. It’s only fair, isn’t it, that they see the way the bet works out?”
“Yes, in the name of research, yes, I suppose.” That should have made me irritable but it didn’t I wanted to give this hot tamale her comeuppance before an audience. Ole!
“And I want movies made of the test, just in case you should pass out. You know how helpful that would be to future historians in the field? It would mean the opening up of new highways into the dark lands of the sexual jungles of the mind.”
I held up my hand.
“Okay, okay. You get a crack at me. Right now. We take movies just in case. The class watches. Fine. But tell me. You have everything to gain, and I have nothing to win, really. Most challenges or bets or dares or what have you, offer some reward for the winner. What do I win?”
Rita Cortez lowered her lids, almost bashfully.
“If I cannot succeed, Professor—you will be free to enter me in order to do so. That will be my loss. . . .”
“Loss?” I set my teeth, refusing to blow my top. “Dear Miss Cortez, in every quarter of the world as we know it, that would not be considered a loss. Or would you care to consult my fan mail?”
“If you say so.” She raised her head, proudly. “Shall we go to the living experiments room and begin?”
I nodded my head and that did it. The room was a madhouse of young ladies springing from their bench seats, streaming for the door, babbling like maniacs. There was a flurry of white legs, swinging derrières encased in miniskirts, bobbing breastworks and flying hair. Everybody left books and papers behind before I could stop them. No one even turned around to wish me luck or something. The last to leave was Rita Cortez. She marched from the room like a queen going to her coronation. Or her execution. I wasn’t sure which. Our staid old university hadn’t had so much excitement and uproar since the day I took the faculty on in the gymnasium swimming pool. The faculty being represented by the O’Hara twins, Miss Jane Slocum and Mary Anne Tidy. They had bet me that a man could not make love in the water. As representatives of the Swimming Class, Music and Drama, I had reacted as only I knew how. I pushed all four of them into the drink and torped
oed them underwater. The O’Hara twins, a sun-browned set of blonde twins, all muscle and curves, nearly undid me that time.
Miss Jane Slocum gurgled something that sounded like the Bell Song from Lakme underwater and dear little Mary Anne Tidy, a perky, filled-out brunette, improvised finely and gloriously in the best Method Acting tradition. All in all, things had gone along swimmingly and for months after, the university regarded me with awe. I had given them a living example of Damon in action.
I also got the private keys to each of the ladies’ private rooms in the big west wing on the campus. There was no trouble about the O’Hara twins. They were willing to share everything.
And now the die was in the cast once again.
Rita Cortez had challenged me. I would either make university history again or fall flat on my . . . face.
It didn’t really bother me. I’m one of those happy characters who will do anything for the Lord God Sex. Ask anybody. Ask Walrus-moustache, that autocratic heel with his James Bond missions who was always trying to get me shot up.
Soon I was alone in the big classroom. The girls had raced on ahead. Probably to the wings that surrounded the special room for live research. It was equipped with special mirrors so that outsiders who wanted to watch and take notes or just learn, could do so to their secret heart’s content. It would do the ladies some good, I decided. They had heard so much about me they might as well see me in action. At my best, as it were. I had no qualms about Rita Cortez winning her bet. I could hold back for a year and a day unless she really knew that seventh method—which I doubted. Dealey had only talked to experts. How could a Puerto Rican girl have learned the method?
I was humming as I left the classroom and locked the door. The long tiled corridor was deserted but I could still smell the assorted perfumes and eau de whatchamacallits of my seminar as they had stampeded on toward the Great Experiment. Great Expectations, for most of them. By my personal estimate, at least twenty of the class of thirty were still virgins. Hence, the tremendous excitement engendered by Rita Cortez’s bold challenge. The twenty green peas would be shelled on Endpapers Day. Cortez couldn’t wait in line, obviously. She was too eager.