While his body writhed with desire, he sought the magic catalyst
to melt this unbelievable perfection of feminine beauty.
by Martin Courtney
Vol. 2, No. 5, 1958
THE GIRL WAS unbelievably
beautiful. She was also unbelievably cold. Even posed as she was on the
model stand, nude save for a wisp or two of the filmiest drapery, she seemed
surrounded by an almost tangible aura of untouchability. Here, thought
Nick Thompson, as he peered at her through the viewing lens of his camera,
was the embodiment of la belle dame sans merci, the siren, the lorelei,
all the women of legend who had lured men irresistibly, only to dash them
to the rocks of emotional destruction through lack of response.
This was the first time Hilda had posed for
Nick, though he had been hearing of the incredibly beautiful Wisconsin
Swede for months from other fashion photographers around the city. He peered
at her perfection again through the lens, to convince himself, reluctantly,
that none of the rumors did justice to her.
She was tall-perhaps five feet six--but not
as tall as the statuesque beauty her perfect proportions and perfect posture
suggested. Her hair was a heavy honey blonde that fell naturally to her
milk-white shoulders in a lazy wave no beautician could hope to duplicate.
Her forehead was broad and low and delightfully broken by a sharp widow's
peak, her eyebrows were twin arches of gold, her eyes, slightly tilted
by the fine broad cheekbones that made her face a fascinating pattern of
plane and shadow, were aquamarine blue beneath long, curling eyelash screens.
Her nose was slightly tilted, her mouth broad and full, a sensualist's
The body that flowed gracefully from her smooth,
swanlike neck and throat was a unique, arresting blend of the high-fashion
model's skin and bones and the provocative fullnesses of the pinup girl.
She was firm, smooth and unblemished of flesh, long of limb, a radiant
jewel of young womanhood yet she seemed to radiate dry-ice.
Nick had heard the stories--oh, so many of
them during recent months!--stories that ranged from top-money top-sophisticates
to lusty beefcake lover-boys on from the West Coast. Every man who saw
her wanted her desperately, every man who wanted her paid her court, wined
her, dined her, took her out on the town. Yet every story Nick had heard
about Hilda Rosenquist had the same frustrated ending.
"The hell of it was," it ran, "when it came to the point, I simply
couldn't make a pitch. I froze, I choked up, I couldn't crack through that
wall of ice."
To his surprise, after hearing so much about
Hilda's innate frigidity, Nick discovered the girl to be pleasant, friendly
and beautifully cooperative. She had greeted him with a handshake and said,
"I've seen so much of your work, and I like it very much. What do you want
me to do?"
Looking at her, in all that blazing loveliness,
sheathed by a smart, simple, subtly revealing blue-green silk dress,
Nick had almost blurted, "I want to go to bed with you." But her very forthrightness
had held him back, checking him with invisible reins.
Now, regarding her uncovered perfection, he
understood the others, the expert womanizers who had tried for this woman
and had not even been able to step into the batter's box, much less get
out of it. Thoroughly case-hardened where beautiful women were concerned,
accustomed to accepting beauty as merely a professional asset in women
who posed for him, Nick found himself almost in a state of battle fatigue.
This was not merely a woman he had in his
viewing lens--this was a goddess.
And no man makes love to a goddess save at peril of his life and everlasting
soul. Realizing that he was trapped, between the enchantment of her beauty
and the paralyzing effect of her perfection, he tightened his lips and
set about getting to work. Lorelei or not, a shrewd agent was charging
him $50 an hour for her services, and more than half an hour had already
passed since Hilda had entered his smart, well equipped studio.
He said, "Hilda, relax just a little more...to
the left. Bring the curve of your left hip forward about two inches. That's
The intuitive quickness of her response made
him realize that here was not only the most beautiful woman in the world,
but one of its finest professional models. He added a grudging respect
to his already overrich feelings of frustration, admiration and desire.
"Try not to look so strained," he told her.
Dutifully, Hilda's face relaxed into a soft somberness that seemed luminous
with some inner glow. He made the shot, took another for insurance, then
emerged from behind the camera.
"Hilda!" he exclaimed, approaching her. "Hilda,
you're crying! Have I done something to hurt your feelings?"
She shook her head, causing the honey-gold
tresses to fan out enchantingly before settling back into their regular
perfection. Then, through clenched white teeth, she murmured tensely, "It's
August fifteenth." Then she sneezed and sneezed again, and tears ran down
her exotically made cheeks.
"Hay fever time!" she gasped, and was suddenly
clinging to him for dear life as convulsion after convulsion racked her
perfect body. Nick held her close and pulled out his handkerchief and mopped
up, and then heard his voice saying, "Darling, you're beautiful. I want
you to love me."
"Beautiful...like this?" she gasped, her eyes
"Beautiful...like anything," he assured her.
He lifted her moist lips to his and kissed her lingeringly. Her response
"Darling!" she said. "I was beginning to think
there was something wrong with me. Kiss me again!"
The iceberg was melted by a sneeze, the goddess
was human after all!