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Every Gal Has One


We, the Publishers, do not feel it necessary to refer you to the theories of renowned psychologists before and after Freud to elucidate the intricate relationship between sex and religion. Instead, we wholeheartedly recommend that you read the following story which sets forth in bold and uncompromising turns a concrete fictional example of just such a relationship. You may then arrive at your own conclusions.


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Every Girl Has One

James E. Vandemere

This page copyright © 2009 Olympia Press.


In a short introductory preface such as this it is naturally impossible for us to do justice to the complex motifs which author James E. Vandemere subtly weaves through his searching new novel, Every Gal Has One. However, let it be said that two themes clearly predominate: sex and religion.

At first glance it would seem that by normal standards these two realms of human experience lie at opposite poles with no common ground between them. Religion in its broadest sense, the selfless worship of a Supreme Being, has long been considered the loftiest achievement and most noble expression of the human mind. Indeed, the capacity for true religious experience is often used to distinguish mankind from other living beings instead of the more familiar criterion, “the ability to reason.”

We now have machines which can be said to “reason” in a limited sense and numerous scientific experiments have shown that the lower animals use rudimentary processes of reasoning to achieve their goals. The difference between the reasoning powers of man and those of machines of the lower animals may therefore be said to be one of degree only. This argument does not apply, however, where religion is concerned. Only man is capable of the reverence, love, gratitude and will to serve and obey which distinguish the true religious experience.

Sex, on the other hand, with all its connotations of bestiality and sensuality, not to mention the brute will to survive, is something which we most definitely do share with the lower animals. The sex experience would consequently seem to be separated from the religious experience by an unbridgeable gulf. There seems to be a fundamental opposition here, as evidenced by the fact that nearly all organized religions place severe strictures and limitations on sexual behavior. Where then, we ask ourselves, does the common ground lie? It is to this question James E. Vandemere addresses himself in his thoughtful and sympathetic analysis of the strange bond between nineteen year old Netty Desins and her foster brother, Calvin.

Imagine an isolated Montana town in the foothills of the Rocky Mountains. Outside this town Ma and Pa Desins, fanatical devotees of an obscure religious sect, eke out a meager living on a small farm. Childless, and believing it to be their Christian duty, they take in a homeless orphan who is one-eighth Cherokee Indian. Both Ma and Pa are descended from families which have suffered grievous casualties from the Indians during the homesteading of the West, and all their lives they have heard tales of the brutal massacres of their forefathers. Subconsciously they believe that the small male child they have taken into their home is tainted with savage blood and must be purified. They name him Calvin — Cal, for short — and set themselves the task of raising him in such a way that his barbaric heritage will never assert itself.

The winters are long in Montana. The farmhouse where Ma and Pa Desins live is often snowbound for a month or more at a time. There is no television set in their home because they believe images to be the work of the Devil. The radio is turned on only to listen to sermons. There are numerous religious pamphlets but no illustrated magazines. And above all there is no laughter, no gaiety, and the only respites from the grinding struggle for survival are spent in prayer.

Although there are no pictures whatsoever in the house, the young boy Calvin discovers the miracle of pencil and paper at an early age and shows a precocious ability to reproduce striking images of whatever he sees. Ma and Pa are appalled, and see all their unspoken fears justified. The Devil has entered their home through the one-eighth of Indian blood simmering in their adopted child's veins. They redouble their efforts to turn him into a True Believer. Naturally pencil and paper are forbidden the child except for school work. When he continues to draw in the dust or snow or on steamy windowpanes, he is severely punished. As he grows older, his ration of chores is inexorably increased so as to leave him no time at all for temptation.

The child naturally does not understand that his foster parents believe this treatment is for his own good. He rebels, the punishments grow harsher, the restrictions more rigid. He turns inward. And then the miracle occurs. When Calvin is ten years old, Ma Desin gives birth to a baby girl, Netty.

Immediately the gloomy house is transformed. The delighted gurglings of the tiny baby become peals of silvery laughter as she takes her first toddling steps. From the start Netty is irrepressible. She is adored by her stern mother and taciturn father. For her foster-brother she is the beginning and end of life itself.

For a year or so, a little of the reborn warmth and affection in the hearts of Ma and Pa Desins overflows to their foster-son. Then they begin to find that he is too attentive to their darling daughter and that she in turn responds to him too eagerly. She seems to prefer him to them. In short, they are morbidly jealous. The round of chores for the twelve year old boy is increased but Netty follows him everywhere.

Life is made increasingly unbearable for Calvin. At seventeen he enlists in the Marines, and seven long years later he returns from Vietnam, a war hero. Netty is then fourteen... Enough said.

We, the Publishers, do not feel it necessary to refer you to the theories of renowned psychologists before and after Freud to elucidate the intricate relationship between sex and religion. Instead, we wholeheartedly recommend that you read the following story which sets forth in bold and uncompromising turns a concrete fictional example of just such a relationship. You may then arrive at your own conclusions.

The Publishers

Sausalito, California

February, 1975


Cal Desins stretched lazily under the wrinkled sheet that covered his trim smooth-muscled body and stared up at the bright June sun steaming through the skylight of his artist's studio in the Montparnasse quarter of Paris. By God, he mused contentedly, in just five years he'd sure as hell come along way from Mineola, Montana.

For a brief instant, in his mind's eye, he followed the silhouette of a coyote drifting like a shadow across the barren brown foothills that rolled monotonously away from the small farm where he'd been raised as a boy. In the distance towered the glacier-capped peaks of the Rocky Mountains, blazing white in the rays of the rising sun while he finished up his morning chores. Light the kitchen stove, chop the wood, milk the cows, feed the hogs, feed the chickens, clean the stables...

And so on and so on and so on. Then get ready for school. Never pick up a pencil except to write down the Wisdom of the Lord. Above all, never draw a picture of anything the Lord has created. That was the deadly sin of Presumption.



The farm where he'd been raised... an angry scowl knitted his thick black brows and an expression of savage bitterness crossed his aquiline, sharply chiseled facial features. The farm where his foster parents with their nutty religious ideas had worked his fucking ass off would be a better way of putting it. They'd never let him forget that he was a homeless orphan with an eighth of Cherokee Indian blood in his veins when they did their Christian duty and took him in under their roof.

Cal's intense black eyes smouldered fiercely as he thought about all the shit he'd taken from “Ma” and “Pa” Desins before he escaped into the Marines. They were always mouthing off about his “barbaric heritage” while they treated him worse than a goddamn slave. They'd never broken him, though, the hypocritical bastards, and now he had it made!

By the almost perpendicular angle of the shaft of sunlight striking the floor he reckoned it must be close to noon. Any minute now he'd be hearing the impatient tattoo of Odette's heels on the stairs as she hurried up the five twisting flights to his door, bringing him a couple of warm buttery croissants for his breakfast and her warm buttery mouth for his other physical needs. The thought made his thickly alerted cock twitch visibly under the thin sheet. Shit, Odette, sure did like what she smilingly called her “genuine American lunch”.

During the few weeks they'd been making it together, they'd developed a number of pretty cosy little routines. Like, if he was still in bed when she got there, she'd playfully scold him in that sexy French accent of hers for being such a lazybones. Then he'd ask her to massage his thick shoulder for him and one thing would just naturally lead to another.

Starting with his neck muscles, her slim strong knowing fingers would work their way slowly and tantalizingly down along his back until they reached his lean tensed buttocks. She'd tease and lightly gouge his ass-cheeks with her sharp lacquered fingernails until he relaxed and spread his thighs far enough apart for her to dip into his crotch with one hot little hand and snare his aching balls from behind. Then she'd knead them together very gently, every once in awhile pricking the sensitive skin under the dense black pubic hairs around the burgeoning base of his throbbing cock with the tips of her nails. When he couldn't stand the delicious agony of anticipation building up in his loins any longer, he'd give a groan of surrender and roll over on his back, letting his long hard swollen rod whip up toward her waiting mouth.

“Aha...!” she would exclaim in her lilting musical voice, looking down at his straining, wildly jerking member with a gleam of triumph in her light blue almond-shaped eyes. “Monsieur desire somezing, non? What does Monsieur desire? Tell Monique...”

Still massaging his balls gently with one hand, with the other she would stroke the thick creamy foreskin slowly up and down his rigid rock-hard cock-shaft, pulling the bulbous blood-engorged head toward her smiling mouth and talking to it in a deliberately exaggerated accent.

“Ah, zee poor Monsieur is deaf and dumb, non? But 'ee know what 'ee want, hein?” Then she would shake her little head with its soft cloud of perfumed platinum-blonde hair reprovingly before she hunched down between his outspread legs and bent eagerly forward, moistening her gleaming lips with the tip of her tongue in preparation for her “genuine American lunch”.

It was a fucking good thing she had to be back at the gallery by two o'clock, Cal reflected, otherwise he'd never get any painting done. She worked at the art gallery where he had had his first, and very successful, one-man show in Paris. That was how they'd met and ever since then, well, let's face it, he'd been goofing off. Almost two months now.

His gaze wandered to a half-finished painting on the easel across the large but spartanly furnished studio. What the hell was wrong with the goddamn thing anyway? It was a semi-abstract view of the rooftops he could see from his windows. In the foreground a woman's head was floating mysteriously as if the rooftops were in her mind. At least, that was supposed to be the effect. A rich collector had commissioned him to do it and it would mean a lot of bread for him... but he couldn't seem to get it right somehow. Maybe...

His dark eyes narrowed as an idea came to him and he was halfway out of bed when he heard the staccato pounding of Odette's footsteps on the stairs. Christ, it sounded like she was in even more of a hurry than usual today. Maybe, if she got hot enough while she was having her “lunch,” he could fuck her up the ass afterwards. That was the only thing she hadn't let him do yet. She claimed she was still a virgin up there but he'd been getting her gradually used to the idea, playing with her tight puckered little anus every chance he got. She already liked it when he rammed his finger up her ass while he was fucking her juicy little cunt, so he figured it was just a question of time... He lay back down in bed and grinned complacently up at the ceiling. The fucking painting could wait!

Odette burst into the studio like a miniature blonde tornado, her furiously flashing blue eyes raking every corner of the room. With scarcely a glance at the bed where Cal lay watching her in astonishment she strode to the opposite wall and jerked aside a curtain which concealed a small clothes closet. Nothing but clothes... Then she crossed to the cubicle which doubled as kitchenette and washroom. Nothing there but a sink and a two-burner hotplate. As in many old Parisian buildings the toilette was on the landing outside. That was where she headed next. Cal heard her jerk open the door, then slam it. She stalked back into the room, brandishing a rolled-up newspaper at him.

“Where is he, hein? Where you hide theese bitch!” she hissed wrathfully, approaching the bed and glaring balefully down at him like an enraged bobcat.

“Whaddaya talking about, cherie?” Cal asked in genuine puzzlement. He'd never seen her so mad before and even though she looked pretty cute with her cheeks all flushed and her sweet little tits jutting out accusingly through the sheer nylon blouse she was wearing, she also looked pretty scary.

“Don't 'cherie' me, you bastard!” she spat at him. “Where your sister, hein? Sister, my foot! She no more your sister than me!”

Cal remembered that a couple of weeks before she had found a snapshot of his kid sister Netty — his foster-sister, to be exact — in his wallet and had made quite a scene about it because she claimed it was Netty's face that recurred constantly in his paintings. That was ridiculous, of course. Netty had been fourteen years old when he left home, just a long-legged colt-like kid with budding tits about as big as lemons, and he hadn't thought of her in years. He'd completely forgotten the little snapshot tucked away in one of the folds of his wallet. He never used the damn thing anymore anyhow, because the French money didn't fit in it. To pacify Odette he'd just told her that Netty was his sister without going into the technical difference between “sister” and “foster-sister”.

Shit, he was ten years older than Netty and had never thought of her as anything but his sister until that last night... the night before he'd run away... and what had happened then was none of Odette's goddamn business. The cute little French broad was the hottest fuck he'd ever had but that didn't mean he belonged to her, for Chrissake. There were a million other beautiful cunts out there roaming the sunny streets and jealousy was something he couldn't stand in a woman. Particularly when there was no fucking reason for it.

“Look, baby,” he growled, raising himself up on one elbow and scowling at her. “What the hell's going on? You're not making any sense.”

“Zat!” She flung the newspaper at him and watched him like a hawk when he picked it up. It was the International Herald Tribune, he saw, the American newspaper printed in Paris. It was folded so that the first thing he saw was the Personals column of the Classified Advertisements page. The top ad read:

Helen, all is forgiven. Please come home. DAD.

There were a few more like that, then he spotted the one that Odette was burning up about:

$50.00 reward for information leading to whereabouts of Calvin Desin. Call 001-4793

Then right under it there was another with the same phone number:

Calvin. I must see you. Urgent. Call 001-4793.

Cal tugged at the lobe of his right ear and scowled at Odette. The two ads didn't make sense. Why not just one or the other? And anyhow, what was there in them, for Odette to get so fucking excited about?

“So what?” he shrugged irritably. “So Netty's in town and she wants to see me. That's normal, ain't it, baby. After all, she's my sister.”

“Yaaaah!” Odette snorted derisively. “She your sister all right! You sister in Jesus, hein!” She unsnapped her purse and threw a crumpled ball of paper at him. Calvin smoothed it out and read:

Dear Brother,

I read about the showing of your paintings in American Art Magazine Quarterly and wrote to the Phoenix Gallery in Paris for your address. They replied that it was against their policy to give out addresses, even though I told them I was your sister, but that they would forward any mail, so I hope you will receive this and answer me right away.

The American Art Magazine showed photographs of two of your paintings and I guess you know it made me sick to look at them. Not just because they are dirty or because you used my face in them, but because I know you must be blaming yourself for what happened that awful night. Only a person tortured by guilt and remorse could produce such wicked paintings.

Dear Brother, don't blame yourself. You must learn to forgive yourself as God forgives us our trespasses. I understand that you think you are lost and eternally damned for what you did that night, otherwise you would never paint such awful pictures. You want your punishment to be as terrible as possible, so you go on sinning to make it worse. But there is another WAY, Dear Brother, a shining beautiful WAY to regain your lost innocence and again walk with a pure heart in the love of the Lord.

I am engaged to marry a very fine man, Wallis Welsh, who came to Mineola after you left. As soon as he finishes Divinity School, we are going to the Rain Forests of South America as Missionaries to bring the Lord's truth to the poor heathen Indians who have never heard of Him or His Word.

Dear Brother, I beg you to join us in our Mission. Each soul you save will be like a great weight lifted from your heart and your torment and suffering will vanish in doing God's work.

Ma and Pa are both with Him now. Pa passed on last December and Ma followed him shortly afterwards, on January 10th, to be exact. They both prayed for you every day of their lives and Ma's dying words were, “Find Brother and bring him home, for I fear he has gone astray.”

Alas, Dear Brother, the article in American Art Magazine shows that she was only too right, but don't despair. It is not too late. It is never too late. Come home to us and we will show you the WAY.

Your sister in Jesus,

PS: It's lucky nobody else in Mineola subscribes to American Art Magazine. If anybody had recognized me in those pictures, I think I would have died of shame. PPS: I have told Wallis what happened that night and he has forgiven you. He agrees with me that the best way for you to walk with God again is to come with us on our Mission to the Rain Forests of South America.

* * *

Cal smoothed out the top of the letter again and with difficulty made out the date, Tuesday, May 16th. That meant that Odette had been sitting on the letter for over a month. She was still standing there, glaring at him, with her hands on her hips and an ugly look on her usually so-kissable little heart-shaped face. His first impulse was to get up and swat her one but what the hell good would it do?

He looked back at the letter and shook his head disbelievingly. He'd forgotten there were still people in the world who thought that way... Believed in all that crap. Poor Netty. They'd sure done a good job of brainwashing her. She'd still had some spark left the last time he'd seen her. He remembered the way her long skinny legs flashed in the deepening dusk as she romped around the lawn with some other children at the party they'd given him when he got back from 'Nam. Then, later on that night, the sweet eagerness of her still-childish mouth in their first real kiss up in the loft of the barn. Her hand had just sort of accidentally brushed his hardening cock... and frozen there. The memory reminded him of what Odette would usually be doing about this time and he decided to play it cool.

“So little Odette is jealous of my poor soul-sister.” He shook his head pityingly at the petite blonde. “How dumb can you get? C'mere, baby, let me explain a few things to you.”

“What awful t'ing happen zat terrible night, hein?” Odette flared at him. “You fuck her, non? You fuck your own sister not even fourteen year old!”

“She was just fourteen,” he corrected sarcastically. “And, yeah, I fucked her. At least, I started to fuck her but Pa caught us in the act and stopped us.”

“C'est degoutant!” Odette burst out, momentarily forgetting her English in her excitement. “Disgusting! Your own little sister! I never hear so disgusting a thing!”

“She ain't really my sister,” Cal snapped. He was beginning to lose patience with the little blonde in spite of his resolve... “She's my foster-sister. And believe me, baby,” he added, remembering how Netty had carried on in the loft that night, begging him to let her hold his erect rock-hard cock in her hand for just a moment. “Fucking her was more her idea than mine, although she seems to have forgotten that part of it.”

“Foster, foster! What mean 'foster-sister'?” Odette questioned suspiciously.

“It means that we had different fathers and mothers,” Cal explained. “Her father and mother adopted me. We're not blood relations.”

“Hah!” Odette exploded triumphantly. “What I say all along? You don't look alike. You no brother and sister. So now you get married, hein! She come to take you home to America.”

“Listen, Odette,” Cal grated at her, fighting down his own hot temper with difficulty. “You read the goddamn letter, didn't you? It says she's engaged to marry somebody else, don't it?”

“Oh, I read the letter all right,” the fiery little blonde retorted. “Maybe five-six hundred times I read the goddamn letter. I t'ink I make you forget this goddamn Netty you put in all your paintings. But no...!” She pointed dramatically at the unfinished painting on the easel. “There she is again! Two months I suck your cock for you... Do everything you say... But you still put her in your painting. So fuck yooouuu!” she screeched in a sudden paroxysm of fury. “Let her suck your goddamn cock for you, you stupeed American!” Before Cal could open his mouth she had flounced out of the room and slammed the door.

Sheeeeeee-it! Cal thought to himself as he listened to the diminishing drumbeat of her heels down the stairs. He scowled at the wrinkled letter. That fucking Netty! It sounded like she had turned out just like Ma and Pa Desins, only worse. He'd thought he'd gotten rid of all that religious crap when he split from the farm but here she had followed him all the way to Paris. The Rain Forests of South America! Jesus Christ! The sooner he straightened her out on what he thought of her dumb-ass proposition, the better.

He slid out of bed and pulled on a pair of faded jeans that emphasized the slimness of his hips and the comparative breadth of his shoulders. He wasn't a large man... about five-eight... but perfectly proportioned with the long flowing muscles and supple grace of the natural athlete. His straight black hair which he wore shoulder length and the faint but permanent bronze tint of his skin added to the exotic effect created by the proud bold lines of his face. It never occurred to people who didn't know that he was part American Indian but once they learned that his grandmother had been a Cherokee, they would think... of course! That's it!

The French art critics had made a big deal of his Indian blood, reading into his paintings a racial memory of the vast American continent before the Pale Faces had come along and loused it up. Cal could care less what they said, as long as it sold his pictures. Personally, he couldn't see any racial memory in his work. It certainly wasn't any squaw's face that recurred in many of his canvases. But it wasn't Netty's either, unless she'd changed a helluva lot. The dumb cunt must have just imagined she looked like the woman in his paintings, the same way she'd imagined he must be feeling guilty about fucking her in the loft.

Shit, the only thing he regretted was that the Old Man had come looking for them before he could shoot his load of cum up her hot little cunt. She'd played with his fucking cock till he was half off his skull... Then she'd suddenly squatted down on it, driving it up into her tight virginal little vagina right through her maidenhead before he knew what was going on. Christ, had she ever bled! But she swore it didn't hurt and begged him to fuck her. She'd been dreaming about it for two years, she said, ever since he'd gone to 'Nam. He hadn't been laid for over a month and her skinny half-child, half-woman body reminded him of some of the little Viet whores he'd had in Saigon. She begged and begged, so...

They'd been going at it hot and heavy when Pa come snooping around looking for them. He'd noticed when they slipped away from the party. He ordered them .down out of the loft and when he saw the blood stains on Netty's dress, he raised the horsewhip he was holding to strike her.

Cal shivered when he remembered how close he had come to killing the old bastard then. They'd trained him well in the Marines. He knew how to kill with his hands and feet when nothing else was handy and had been decorated in 'Nam for doing just that. But Netty... and some deep intuition that he had better things to do with his life than rot in jail......


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