Candy Girl

BY: PROVOKR Staff

Written by Terry Southern (who wrote the screenplays for Barbarella and Easy Rider), Candy was one of the first “dirty books” to pop up on an American bestseller list, selling millions of copies and causing an uproar among the more conservative sectors of the nation. Mixing sex with Dumb and Dumber-esque humor, Candy tells the tale of exceedingly beautiful and hilariously naive young woman named Candy Christian who seems to be always on the verge of losing her virginity in quintessential porno-movie fashion—first to a sexy gardener, then a door-to-door salesman, then her leering uncle (!) and so on and so on. To give you a feel for the erotic prose that attracted so many readers, here are a couple of passages from Candy’s quest.

 

Candy’s attempt to seduce the gardener who tends to her father’s lawn:

At eleven-thirty that night, Candy had another bath—a bubble bath this time steeped with pine-fragrance crystals—and put on the black nightgown she had bought for the occasion. Finally, a fresh application of Tabu, and, by five minutes to midnight, she was in her bed, the lamp a glowing rose, and soft music purring from the radio.

Mr. Christian’s room was at the far end of the hall, so she was not overly anxious about his being disturbed—and the idea of giving herself to the Mexican gardener right under his nose was not without a certain excitement itself; in fact, in one sense, that was more or less the whole point.

Promptly at midnight Emmanuel arrived, entering across the roof and through Candy’s window as they had planned. Candy lay stretched on the bed, the veritable picture of provocation, her blond hair spread like golden flames across the silken rose-lit pillow, and the black shimmering nightgown clinging to her body which lay with a slight reptilian curve, lush at the breast and thigh, lithe and willowy along the waist and limbs.

The gardener stared in amazement; it was too much like a movie or a folktale for him to fully believe, as the lovely girl stretched out her arms, half closed-eyed, whispering:

“Darling, I knew you would come.”

He was dressed as he had been earlier in the day; and still wearing his sneakers, he made no noise as he crossed the carpeted floor to the bed and took the girl in his arms.

“Undress quickly, my darling,” Candy breathed, “and don’t make a sound.” She put a finger to her lips and made her eyes wide to emphasize the necessity of this.

Emmanuel was in the bed in a trice, embracing her feverishly, and snatching her gown at once up to her shoulders.

“Oh, you do need me so!” the closed-eyed girl murmured, as yet not feeling much of anything except the certainty of having to fit this abstraction to the case. But when the gardener’s hand closed on her pelvis and into the damp, she stiffened slightly: she was quite prepared to undergo pain for him . . . but pleasure—she was not sure how that could be a part of the general picture. So she seized his hand and contented herself for the moment with the giving of her left breast, to which his mouth was fastened in desperate sucking.

“Oh my baby, my baby,” she whispered, stroking his head; but the hot insulting hardness of him between her legs was distracting, and somehow destroyed the magic of her breast sacrifice. She closed her eyes again and called upon Professor Mephesto’s words; ‘The needs of man are so many . . . and so aching.’ “Oh how you ache for me, my darling!” She flung both arms around his neck, as he found her tiny clitoris and pummeled it with his calloused fingers, causing her to cry out and stiffen once more in his arms; but, now she fought down the desire to seize his hand, thinking how this was the price of loveliness and the key to the beautiful thrilling privilege of giving fully—and so the gardener would have entered her then, with a terrible thrust to the hilt, so to speak . . . had not a padded scurrying sounded at that moment in the hall.

“Good Grief,” cried Candy, in a very odd voice, “it’s Daddy!” pushing her hands violently against the gardener’s chest. “It’s Daddy!”

 

Candy’s uncle tries to take advantage of her niece as they both visit her dad in a hospital room:

It was quite dark when they reached Mr. Christian’s room, but they found him just as they had left him, half sitting up, staring straight ahead.

There was only one chair in the room, so Candy sat on that and her Uncle Jack sat on the floor, leaning on one elbow, taking occasional sips from his flask.

They sat without speaking for a long time, but finally Uncle Jack put his head down on the floor and dozed off. When Candy noticed, she came down beside him and tried to wake him up, gently, saying:

“Uncle Jack . . . Uncle Jack. You mustn’t go to sleep here, on the floor, you’ll take cold.”

He stirred, reaching out to her with one arm.

“Oh, let me just be here a moment,” he said, “Liv never lets me sleep.”

“Be here with me, sweetheart,” he added imploringly. It was the first time he had used the old name he had always called her before his marriage, and it almost brought tears to Candy’s eyes.

“Oh you poor darling,” she murmured, pressing close to him.

“Yes, give me your warmth,” he said in hushed urgency, “how I need your warmth! Liv is so cold.”

“Oh my poor darling,” said Candy as he nestled his head between her breasts and pressed her closer.

“Give me your true warmth,” he said, raising her sweater and her brassiere and taking her breast in his mouth.

In the lamplight her Uncle Jack’s face was exactly like that of her father’s, a fact which could hardly have escaped Candy as she watched him, nursing, stroking his head and sighing, “Oh my poor darling, oh my poor baby.”

Meanwhile Uncle Jack’s hands were not idle, but had found their way beneath her skirt and along her legs into the sweetening damp.

“Give me all your true warmth,” he said, one hand fondling her tiny clitoris, the other pulling down her white panties.

“All my true warmth,” breathed Candy, “oh how you need my warmth, my baby,” and she lay very still while he undressed her and then himself; but when he thrust himself into her, forgetting her taut hymen, the girl cried out, and apparently this was overheard by the nurse in the corridor—because she rushed in at that moment, flinging the door open wide and shrieking in horror at the sight of these two, stark naked, hunching wildly half beneath the sickbed.

“Great God!” she screamed. “Have you no shame! Have you no shame!”

 

At last, big-hearted Candy allows a lowly hunchbacked stranger to take her virginity (sort of):

“Oh, darling, no!” cried the girl, but it was too late, without making a scene, for anything to be done; his stubby fingers were rolling the little clitoris like a marble in oil. Candy leaned back in resignation, her heart too big to deprive him of this if it meant so much. With her head closed-eyed, resting again on the couch, she would endure it as long as she could. But, before she reached the saturation point, he had nuzzled his face down from her breast across her bare stomach and into her lap, bending his arm forward to force down her jeans and panties as he did, pulling at them on the side with his other hand,

“No, no, darling!” she sighed, but he soon had them down below her knees, at least enough so to replace his fingers with his tongue.

It means so much to him, Candy kept thinking, so much, as he meanwhile got her jeans and panties down completely so that they dangled now from one slender ankle as he adjusted her legs and was at last on the floor himself in front of her, with her legs around his neck, and his mouth very deep inside the fabulous honeypot.

“If it means so much,” Candy kept repeating to herself, until she didn’t think she could bear it another second, and she wrenched herself free, saying “Darling, oh darling,” and seized his head in her hands with a great show of passion.

“Oh, why?” she begged, holding his face in her hands, looking at him mournfully. “Why?”

“I need fuck you!” said the hunchback huskily. He put his face against the upper softness of her marvelous bare leg. Small, strange sounds came from his throat.

“Oh, darling, darling,” the girl keened pitifully, “I can’t bear your crying.” She sighed, and smiled tenderly, stroking his head.

“I think we’d better go into the bedroom,” she said then, her manner suddenly prim and efficient.

In the bathroom, standing before the glass, Candy finished undressing—unbuttoning her shirt, slowly, carefully, a lamb resigned to the slaughter, dropping the shirt to the floor, and taking off her brassiere, gradually revealing her nakedness to herself, with a little sigh, almost of wistful regret, at how very lovely she was, and at how her nipples grew and stood out like cherrystones, as they always did when she watched herself undress. How he wants me! she thought. Well, it’s my own fault, darn it! And she tried to imagine the raging lust that the hunchback felt for her as she touched her curls lightly. Then she cast a last glimpse at herself in the glass, blushing at her own loveliness, and trembling slightly at the very secret notion of this beauty-and-beast sacrifice, she went back into the bedroom.

The hunchback was lying naked, curled on his side like a big foetus, when Candy appeared before him, standing for a moment in full lush radiance, a naked angel bearing the supreme gift. Then, she got into bed quickly, under the sheet, almost soundlessly, saying, “Darling, darling,” and cuddling him to her at once, while he, his head filled with the most freakish thoughts imaginable—all about tubs of living and broken toys, every manner of excrement, scorpions, steelwool, pig-masks, odd metal harness, etc.—tried desperately to pry into the images a single reminder: the money!

“Do you want to kiss me some more, darling?” asked the girl with deadly soft seriousness, her eyes wide, searching his own as one would a child’s. Then she sighed and lay back, slowly taking the sheet from her, again to make him the gift of all her wet, throbbing treasures, as he, glazed-eyed and grunting, slithered down beside her.

“Don’t hurt me, darling,” she murmured, as in a dream, while he parted the exquisitely warm round thighs with his great head, his mouth opening the slick lips all sugar and glue, and his quick tongue finding her pink candy clit at once.

“Oh, darling, darling,” she said, stroking his head gently, watching him, a tender courageous smile on her face.

The hunchback put his hands under her, gripping the foam-rubber balls of her buttocks, and sucked and nibbled her tiny clit with increasing vigor. Candy closed her eyes and gradually raised her legs, straining gently upward now, dropping her arms back by her head, one to each side, pretending they were pinioned there, writhing slowly, sobbing—until she felt she was no longer giving, but was on the verge of taking, and, as with an effort, she broke her hands from above her and grasped the hunchback’s head and lifted it to her mouth, coming forward to meet him, kissing him deeply. “Come inside me, darling,” she whispered urgently, “I want you inside me!”
The hunchback hesitated, and then lunged headlong toward her, burying his hump between Candy’s legs as she hunched wildly, pulling open her little labias in an absurd effort to get it in her.

“Your hump! Your hump!” she kept crying, scratching and clawing at it now.

“Fuck! Shit! Piss!” she screamed. “Cunt! Cock! Crap! Prick! Kike! Nigger! Wop! Hump! HUMP!” and she teetered on the blazing peak of pure madness for an instant . . . and then dropped down, slowly, through gray and grayer clouds into a deep, soft, black, night.

When Candy awoke she was alone. She lay back, thinking over the events of the afternoon. Well, it’s my own fault, darn it, she sighed, then smiled a little smile of forgiveness at herself—but this suddenly changed to a small frown, and she sat up in bed, cross as a pickle. “Darn it!” she said aloud, and with real feeling, for she had forgotten to have them exchange names.