Carl Van Marcus - Lady Disk jockey

What can a beautiful, still-young woman do when her self-centered husband casts her aside for another less desirable mate simply because the new one has a fortune, and he doesnt like to work?

In the case of heartbroken Sally Sue Bennett, as related in this light-hearted novel by author Carl Van Marcus, the girl began to carve a career for herself, hiding the deep hurt she felt. Although passionate by nature, she denied herself the pleasure and comfort of a man. Instead, she worked agonizing hours to build the Sally Sue Show. And for comfort and companionship she took in stray animals and birds until she had a private zoo.

Sally Sue knew how to love life, but she was afraid to love, afraid of being hurt again. In this touching novel, she finally yields herself to a young engineer for the small radio station where she works . . . and fails in her search for love and fulfillment.

Then she becomes embroiled with a precocious teenage boy, Terry, who is old beyond his years. Terry callously decides to exploit the lovely Sally Sues need for him and forms a strange alliance with a somewhat older girl, a beautiful little blonde, Virgie, who after being brutally raped has turned to lesbianism.

With the use of drugs, the two teenagers manage to bring the emotionally disturbed heroine almost to the point of madness and involve her in carnality she had never thought possible.

Buffeted between her sense of right and wrong and her own desires the lovely young divorcee eventually finds a solution which will shock many readers.

It is not the intention of the author to shock. He is simply presenting what might be called an involved case history of four passion-torn people who teeter on the brink of irreparable damage to their own souls.

In one respect, Sally Sues reprehensible behavior is understandable, for there are few things worse than being deprived of a loved mate when one is not really at fault. There is a natural tendency to form a shell and retreat into it and never come out again.

The Publishers hope that the story of Sally Sue will help many to emerge from their own shells . . . or should we say hells?

And thats it from Johnny Cash for now, all you out there. Lets look high in the sky and see that Led Zepplin and hear the caarazy sound IT makes . . . like itll break your head, bambini. . . lotsa noise comin on, like RIGHT NOW AND WIIIIILLD!

The long limbed girl with dark hair and enticing high breasted body took a deep breath and wished she could say what she really felt into the mike. She wanted to curse it but couldnt, because it was her only way of making a decent living. She had long ago managed to completely shut off the horrible sounds that came from the records. If idiots out there in the night wanted to listen to such garbage, she was being paid to keep idiots happy. She continued the spiel, which had been written by some advertising type guy.

This, in case you arent tuned in already, is the Sally Sue Bennett show, coming live and direct from the friendliest club in town, Jacques Trap! They pour honest booze! Right at the corner of Third and Main. So come on down and live a little, until 4 a.m., and then you can go next door and get revived with a great breakfast at Rosies they never close, and now lets hear it from the Led Zep!

Sally Sue released the tuntable, hit switches so she wouldn't have to listen to the terrible sound, spun around in her comfortable swivel chair to Face another mike and console and began to tape a second pitch aimed at the teenagers who would have their transistor radios glued to their ears to hear her sex-laden voice enticing them to drive-ins, malt shops, speed shops and whatever Harold Eaton, owner of the teakettle radio station in the heart of coastal California, could sell time to. She had precisely three minutes and ten seconds to do the tape for teens, and then had to swing back and put on a fun type rap with customers at the bar, interviewing them off the top of her head, looking for laughs, with a bleep button and five second delay in case they used the wrong words, thinking they were funny.

She knew many people tuned into the Sally Sue Bennett Show in high hopes that she wouldnt hit the bleep button quick enough and some blue language would go out on the airwaves. It sometimes happened. The raven-haired woman in her late 20s was resigned to getting at least one nasty letter a month from the Federal Communications Commission threatening to pull her ticket and put her out of work.

She was also resigned to minor indignities, such as being caressed by half-drunk males as she did her chatter thing along the bar and at the booths of the club with a remote mike, but she had developed an instinct which enabled her to evade wandering fingers almost every time. Sally Sue, was repelled by such contact, even though she was honest enough to admit that her body was interesting and knew shed have to put up with as much or more if she was dealing plates off her arm in a diner and not making half as much money.

Smoothly she reeled off her pitch to the young set as the tape flowed, thinking all the while, that there might be something to Womens Lib after all she was the only disc jockey in the country who had to, in effect, do two shows at once through the magic of electronics. And a lot of quick scissoring of her long, shapely legs between a sophisticated Jacques Trap night club and the Rosies Pizza Parlor across the parking lot. There she would rap with the teens and put them on the air while a long playing tape was spinning and covering time at the bar.

Sometimes she felt like a electronic tennis ball. But it was a living, and she was getting noticed in the industry because the Sally Sue Bennett Show pulled in listeners and pulled beautifully. The part from the cocktail lounge was live and direct; that from the pizza parlor and other sponsors taped. Her husky voice was on the airwaves some 14 hours a day. In time, this could lead to a big network job, but for the moment, Sally Sue had to sell herself, and it was a personal thing.

At least once a week, she visited every sponsors place of business, met whatever customers might be there, talked with them, taping the conversations. She collected speeding tickets with an old MGA roadster and a new BMW 750 motorcycle, and used them to paper the walls of her apartment. Sally Sue went about her work with a fury, burying a heartbreak that only she knew about. She supported a collection of animals and birds to ease her loneliness.

A cheetah, a huge Airdale dog, a pigmy owl, a red-tailed hawk, a coral snake, and several cats of uncertain origin. She kept them so well fed they never tried to eat each other.

Sally Sue wrapped the commercial two seconds early according to the chronometer she wore instead of the usual tiny womans watch, and saw that the record had just enough grooves to let her get out of her isolation booth and down to the bar to start some conversation with the patrons. She grabbed the traveling mike and went down the stairway, forcing herself to smile at the admiring whistles of the men.

They had good reason to whistle.

She was tall and sleek, with the blue-black hair long on her back. Her breasts were full, lushly ripened and they bounced as she moved. She walked naturally, with the ease of a deer, and with every step her smoothly-rounded taut ass-cheeks jiggled and the limber muscles of her curvaceous thighs flexed. And by the orders of her employer, she had to exploit her magnificent young body, so she wore a microdress that came barely below the rich swell of her hips, and just above the thrusting nipples of her bosom. The dress was tight and thin, so the tiny buds of her nipples were clearly visible. She wore high heels to enhance the length of her slender, magnificent legs. Her hips, sleek as a sea otters, swayed as she walked into the cocktail lounge with the transceiver which would put it all on the air.