“Heh. Um, okay.”
He stared at her feet for a second, then reached for them with his meaty hands. His fingertips were warm, but he seemed hesitant about touching her.
“Can I tell you something?” Lysandra asked. “You use a light touch like that, and your girlfriend is ticklish at all? Well, she’s gonna be rolling on the floor, laughing her head off.”
“Really? But the bones are all, like delicate.”
“You need more pressure. I’ll tell you if it’s too much.”
He rubbed her toes for a while. “That good?”
“It’s boring. You’re supposed to be giving me a foot massage, not pushing my toes like they’re buttons.”
“Sorry, miss.”
“You can call me Lysandra.”
He stroked her instep. “That your real name?”
“No. The owner makes us use fake names. It’s his policy here.”
“Huh. Well, I’m Tyson, and that is my real name.”
“You sound like you’re from the South,” Lysandra said.
“Missouri. Came out west a few months ago.”
“Film business?”
“Nah. I used to think I’d be a musician like Chuck Berry. He’s from Missouri, too. But I don’t have the talent. Now I’m just working for a guy.”
“You like L.A.?”
“It’s nice, but it ain’t home. You got real good-looking feet, you know.”
“That’s another of the owner’s policies,” Lysandra said. “He won’t even let you work if you’ve got a bruise on your foot.”
“Really?”
“One girl broke a toe, and he wouldn’t let her come back to work. He hates ugly feet.”
“Feet tell a story,” Tyson said. “I think they’re interesting that way, no matter what they look like.”
“Well, don’t be so afraid to touch mine. Use some pressure. Put your thumbs together on the bottom of my foot, just above the heel. Yeah, there. Now, press in and move up. Slowly.”
He did as he was told, and a s hiver of pleasure ran through Lysandra.
“Again,” she instructed. He did as he was told. “Now, go up my instep in circles. No, small circles. Yes, that’s right.” Oh, it was right. The tension in her body eased and a little sound escaped from the back of her throat.
“I could get the hang of this,” Tyson said.
“Press in just under my toes. Circles. Uh-huh. Press harder.”
He did, and for a moment, Lysandra closed her eyes and sighed.
“You okay, miss?” he asked. “Your head kinda rolled back for a sec. I hope I didn’t hurt you none.”
“No. That felt… good.” No one was more stunned than Lysandra. After the strange range of fetishes she catered to each day – stomping, licking, kicking… hell, there was one guy who made her plunge her high heel into a toy rat – the sensation of pleasure caught her by surprise. It was not a feeling she ever got inside the Tootsie Palace.
“Cool. I think you need more foot massages, miss, um Lysandra, or whatever your real name is.”
“Leslie,” she mumbled, then sat up straight. “Oh, hell.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t tell.”
“Call me Lysandra, okay? Just remember that.”
“Sure thing, Lysandra.”
She didn’t talk after that, worried about what else she might come out with. She’d never told any of the freakshows her real name. Why had she slipped up with this guy? Maybe it was because he seemed so fresh and innocent, like he’d just walked off a farm. Still, business was business. “You need to work on your technique. Want to schedule an appointment for next week?”
He came back the following Tuesday. “Ready for my lesson,” he told her, grinning.
“You look excited.”
“Course I am. I’m gonna get better acquainted with the female foot.”
Lysandra shed her shoes and plunked her feet into his lap. “I’m not going to remind you of anything to start. I want to see what you remember.”
“Okay.”
He started out too gently, but quickly remembered to add pressure and suddenly Lysandra felt light-headed. As he started rubbing her toes, she exhaled in a long sigh. “Maybe I should be paying you for this.”
“You an actress, Lysandra?” he asked.
“How’d you guess?”
“You’re so pretty. Anyway, every girl out here is in the business, or used to be. Even my boss’ wife used to be on TV. What’ve you been in?”
“Some walk-on parts on TV.” Three years in Los Angeles, and what did she have to show for it, except a lousy job at a foot-fetish parlor in West Hollywood? “You know that video for the Tyger Lounge, the one that shows the guy painting a woman’s toenails? Those are my feet.”
“That must’ve been cool.”
“Not really. The director is one of my freakshows here, so he put me in the commercial. My feet, anyway.”
“Freakshows? That what you call your clients?”
“Only the ones who don’t give me foot massages.”
“You like this, huh?” Tyson looked pleased with himself. “Okay, that’s good. I like that. Maybe I got some talent in these hands after all.”
“Why would you think you didn’t?”
“This one girlfriend of mine, she told me it felt like I was playing This Little Piggy when I massaged her feet. Tell you the truth, that kinda hurt my feelings.”
“So you’re working on your technique, that it?”
“Guess so.” He looked sheepish.
“You have some girl in mind you want to impress.”
He blushed. “Guess I’m pretty easy to read.”
“Is she your girlfriend?”
“No way. Uh-uh. She’s my, um, friend. She’s always talking about how much she loves a foot massage, but her husband won’t do one. Ain’t that funny?”
“A lot of people can’t get what they want from their partner. That’s why places like this exist.”
They were quiet for a while. Had Tyson been practicing on some other girl? He was getting good. Really good. Like, mind-meltingly, heart-thumpingly good.
She wondered what else he was good at.
At the end of their session, she said, “It’s crazy that you’re paying money to do this. Look, why don’t you come over to my apartment. You can massage my feet there. I won’t even charge you.” She was surprised by her boldness. She’d never invited one of the freakshows over. She’d never wanted to. But Tyson was so sweet – so normal – he brought down her defenses.
“Really?” he seemed genuinely surprised.
“Sure. Why don’t you come over tomorrow night, say around seven.”
“That’s real nice of you, Lysandra.”
She smiled, but later she thought, Nice? He was acting as if she was doing him some kind of favor. Maybe he didn’t quite get that a girl working in a foot-worship joint longed for some normal company for a change. Nice was the opposite of what she had planned for him. When he came over to her apartment Wednesday night, Lysandra was ready. She’d lit candles all over and ordered in Chinese food. On the bed were the tiger-striped sheets, her favorites. She put on some Chuck Berry, since Tyson had mentioned him. When the doorbell rang, “You Never Can Tell,” was playing.
“This is nice,” Tyson said, as soon as he crossed the threshold. “You got serious taste. This is real fine.” He handed her a small bouquet of lavender roses. Red was passion, Lysandra thought. Yellow was friendship. What was lavender supposed to be? “Hey, you like Chuck Berry? I love him!” Tyson added.
“Why don’t you sit down? I ordered dinner for us.”
“You did? That’s real sweet of you.”
While she served sesame noodles, she glanced his way from time to time. Tyson seemed fascinated by the room. Lysandra had painted the walls a dark red and hung posters from Hong Kong films of the ’60s. She had paper lanterns hanging from the ceiling and a pair of brass dragons facing off on a table.
“It’s like a fi
lm set in here,” he said, when she came out of the kitchen.
Conversation was easy enough during dinner, but afterwards, when she tried to cozy up to him on the sofa, he said, “How about that foot massage now?”
“You want to massage my feet?” she asked, slightly incredulous. What kind of freaky obsession did he have, anyway?
“I need the practice.”
She moved away and put her feet in his lap. He gently pulled off her heels and started caressing her instep. It felt good, almost too good, and Lysandra wanted it to go on and on. But she also wanted him to stop and pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. She’d lit candles in there, too, and it was where she was planning to end up with him. But Tyson wouldn’t stop. He massaged her feet, and she reluctantly let him. At one point, she dozed off and woke to find him grinning.
“You’re kinda cute when you snore,” he said.
She pulled her feet out of his lap. “Okay. My turn.”
“Your turn? For what? I don’t want a foot massage.”
“Well, I bet I’ve got something else you’ll like.”
Tyson’s eyes darted around the room. “Where’s the bathroom?” he asked, standing suddenly. Lysandra pointed. “Okay, thanks.”
When he disappeared, she leaned forward and reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. His wallet was in there, a brown leather number that still looked new. She opened it, checked out his driver’s license, and was surprised to see his name really was Tyson. Tyson Allan Powell, it read above an address in Echo Park. There were a lot of bills inside, crisp and new. A small photo fell out and Lysandra picked it up, noting a cold-eyed white woman, a brunette with a dark bob staring back. Was this the woman Tyson was practicing his foot-massage technique for? The thought rattled Lysandra. She’d thought they had such a good rapport, she and Tyson. She hadn’t realized he was stuck on someone else.
Still, it didn’t have to be that way.
When Tyson finally came back from the bathroom, Lysandra announced, “Let’s go into the bedroom.”
“Uh, I think I should probably get going…”
“But I want you to give me another foot massage.”
That seemed to pique his interest, and she guided him to her bed. Once he started working on her feet she unzipped her dress. “Just getting comfortable,” she murmured. She let him stroke her feet for a few minutes, letting him relax. Then she pounced. Tyson showed less resistance this time, but he still tried to pull away. She wouldn’t let him, and finally he gave in. Then he gave in again. And again. It was exactly what she had fantasized about, Lysandra thought as she drifted off to sleep.
When she woke, just before five in the morning, Tyson was gone. She turned on a light, wondering if he was in the bathroom, but she spotted a note on the bedside table. Thanks, it read, in a curving, childish script.
Underneath it were two crisp hundred-dollar bills.
Did he think she was a prostitute? She picked up the cash, realizing it was about what he would have paid at the Tootsie Palace to give her a foot massage there. Was that what he was paying for? She felt a lump in her throat, but she was determined not to cry. She would ask him when she saw him.
But he didn’t call. And he didn’t come back to the Tootsie Palace.
Days passed, then a week. Feeling desperate, she drove to Tyson’s building. Then she got bolder, following an elderly woman through the door. She knocked on Tyson’s door and waited. When he opened it, the blood drained away from his face. “Lysandra.” His voice was dull.
“You never called and you never came back,” she said, pushing past him before he could shut the door. “I thought I’d make sure you hadn’t died.”
“You didn’t have to do that,” Tyson said, his voice strained. But Lysandra wasn’t listening to him. Instead, she was staring at a framed photo of the woman she’d seen in the photo in his wallet. Same cold eyes, same dark hair, but she was holding a cigarette and exhaling smoke. There was another photograph, this time of the woman next to an ebony-skinned man with a shaved head. It made the woman seem suddenly fragile and delicate, being next to someone so big, and her white skin seemed suddenly much paler. Lysandra stared at the photograph, feeling the air being sucked out of her lungs and from the room as she realized who the man was.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Tyson said.
“Who’s that woman?”
“My boss’ wife.” He was aiming for formality, but there was an affectionate undertone that made his feelings for the woman clear.
“You’re having an affair with her?”
“No,” Tyson said. “Don’t get me wrong. I love her. But the closest I’ll ever get to her is touching her feet.”
“All that foot massage… that was practice for her?”
“When you do it right, she purrs like a cat,” Tyson said. “It’s the sweetest thing.”
Lysandra didn’t have an answer for that.
“I’m sorry I hurt you, Lysandra. You’re a real nice girl. It’s just… I never knew what love was before I met her. She’s special. She’s like no one else I ever met.”
“You’re having an affair with your boss’ wife, and you think that’s special?”
“Not an affair. No way. But we have… a connection. That’s the only thing I can think of to call it.”
“A connection?” She turned and walked back to the door.
“I’m sorry, Lysandra. I never meant to lead you on.”
“Don’t worry about it.” She looked back at him. “That girlfriend of yours, the one who told you she thought you were playing This Little Piggy?”
“Yeah?” Tyson looked suddenly anxious.
“She was just playing with your head. You give a great foot massage.”
“Thanks, Lysandra. That’s real nice of you.”
He was still talking as she walked away, but Lysandra’s mind was racing. She didn’t know the name of the man in the picture, but she didn’t need it. She knew her Friday five o’clock freakshow when she saw him. Normally, all he evoked in her was revulsion, but now, she couldn’t wait to see him. His wife had a foot-massage habit that another man was taking care of? Lysandra couldn’t see Stanky Mr. Keds taking that news well.
-
Hilary Davidson’s debut, The Damage Done (Forge, 2010), was nominated for the Anthony Award for Best First Novel and the Arthur Ellis Award for Best First Crime Novel. Her second book, The Next One to Fall, a mystery set in Peru, will be published by Forge in February 2012. Hilary won the 2010 Spinetingler Award for Best Short Story for “Insatiable” and her stories appear in collections such as Blood, Guts, & Whiskey and BEAT to a PULP: Round One. Visit www.hilarydavidson.com.
Comanche
By Jason Duke
Willie Jones looked around the empty bedroom at the back of Devilwood Springs. The room was as Kara had described it, no windows, the walls and ceiling covered in mirrored panels positioned at different odd angles. The mirrors reflected myriad fractured copies of him through the bleak emptiness of the room. His lean build, tucked black Under Armour shirt, dark blue jeans, unnervingly stared back on him everywhere he looked.
He closed the door behind him; it fit perfectly and blended into the wall. He walked to the middle of the room, boots thudding the vintage Mexican saltillo clay tile floor, and set the step ladder he had carried with him, under the dominatrix chains that hung from the ceiling. The chains were looped through a large metal ring bolted to the ceiling, fastened with hard leather straps at the ends. Harsh white light glared from studio lamps placed in the far corners, one in each corner. He pulled a tiny spy camera from his pocket. A hole had been cut into the glass where the metal ring was bolted to the ceiling, and he stepped up the ladder to the hole, then he wedged the camera inside.
The camera lens shined in his eyes, and he thought about Kara, the night he met her at Drai’s nightclub two months ago. Her full name was Kara Knightley, she was lying on one of the nightclub beds out near the pool, sipping from a bottle of Cristal
. She motioned with her finger for him to come over, then introduced herself. Willie asked her if she was the movie star because she had the same dark brown hair and deep haunting eye shadow.
He lay down next to her and she said, “Gee, I haven’t heard that one before.”
“You get that a lot?”
She nodded.
“Sorry,” he said.
The bottle was less than half full. She poured it out behind her, signaling the hostess.
“Another one, please,” she showed the hostess the empty bottle.
The hostess nodded, then left.
Kara rubbed her finger down Willie’s loose white shirt to his tight black leather pants. “Are you going for the pop rock look, the Jim Morrison look, or what?”
He smiled, looking past the balcony to the Hollywood sign in the smog-shrouded distance. Kara tapped his cock and said, “That thing is enormous, you must be a porn star.”
“I’ve done one or two.”
“What was it called?”
“Comanche,” he said.
Two bottles later, they left the nightclub together. He opened the passenger door to his Audi, she got in, and they drove to his Venice beach studio. Looking out of his kitchen window, she could see the large Jim Morrison mural up the street. She thought definitely the Morrison look, though she was more interested in what was beneath the pants. He staggered into the kitchen and she jumped on him, knocking him to the floor, started ripping off his pants, his shirt. One night, while they lay in bed, the gibbous moon shining in through the window, she could hear the waves crashing in the surf along the shoreline. She nestled her head into his brawny chest, rubbing his chest with her free hand, one of her legs draped over his. He teased her nipples with soft, delicate little pinches. His heart thumped loudly in soothing rhythm to the crashing waves.
“Were you always into porn?”
“No.”
“What’d you do before porn?”
“I had a few run-ins with the cops and did some time upstate. I’d rather not talk about it.”
“What for? Please tell me.”
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