by Linda Jaivin
“There was a brief silence on the other end of the line. I thought maybe you were only supposed to say something like, ‘light body hair, big dick.’ I thought maybe I should add, ‘or as close to that as possible, you know, a reedy brunette who wouldn’t mind being tied up would do.’ Well, I then suddenly realized that in the background there was the faint clacking of a keyboard. This was followed by a few electronic beeps and some whirring. ‘Hmmm, I believe that Eddie’s your man. He’s a black American, six foot three, muscled, ten inches when erect, uncut. Would you like to book an appointment?’
“ ‘Uh, sure,’ I said. It all felt very unreal. ‘How soon would he be available?’ The guy said he’d call me back. I began to get the jitters. I decided that I’d say I’d changed my mind. Ten minutes later the phone rang and the sound went through me like an electric shock. I composed myself and answered, my rehearsed response on the tip of my tongue.
“ ‘An hour from now?’ I swallowed hard.”
“See, Chantal does swallow,” Julia chirped, prompting a round of giggles.
“ ‘Yes, that will be fine,’ I said. I gave my address and hung up. I went into a blind panic. I tore into my bedroom and straightened it up, jumped in the shower, jumped out again because I suddenly remembered that I’d asked Alexi to stop over after work. I called him to cancel, refusing to tell him why, though he definitely suspected something was up; jumped back into the shower; then dried and powdered myself with scented talc; and got into my best black bra, garter belt, and stockings. Dabbed the patches of white powder off the black bra with a damp towel.”
“I hate it when that happens. Especially when you don’t notice, and there you are, thinking you’re all elegant in black, and there are snail trails of Johnson & Johnson down the side of your pits.”
“Shush, Julia, she’s just getting to the good part.” Philippa had her elbows on the table, her face in her hands, and her full attention on Chantal.
“I realized I was taking ages choosing between the stockings with the lace tops and the ones with the lace-up tops, and I had forgotten to brush my teeth. I flossed and brushed, and then buffed my patent leather stilettos. I brushed my hair and threw on a kimono. I put on some lippy. I sat down and looked at the clock. I got up and changed to a different kimono. There was still twenty minutes to go. I decided to call and cancel—I would pay the guy for showing up, but forget it, I couldn’t actually go through with this.”
“It’s very hard, you know, imagining you so flustered,” Helen marveled.
“Oh, darling, I really was. I don’t know how those final minutes ticked by. As you’ve probably guessed, I didn’t cancel after all. I poured myself a drink, took two sips, and brushed my teeth again. Finally, after an absolute eternity, the doorbell rang.
“I opened the door to see my fantasy come to life. The most extraordinary thing was, he was even dressed in a sailor’s uniform.”
“Must be a popular request.”
“Yes, I hadn’t quite realized how predictable it was. It’s a bit of a worry. Next time I’m asking for an astronaut. Or a parking inspector—surely, they can’t be popular. Or ET. Anyway, there he stood, grinning at me. ‘Howdy,’ he drawled, looking me up and down. ‘My name’s Eddie, and I am most pleased to be making your acquaintance.’
“ ‘Uh, g’day,’ I greeted him, cliché to cliché. ‘I’m Ramona. C’mon in, big boy.’ ”
“Ramona?”
“I just didn’t want to give him my real name. I thought I’d feel, well, freer that way. Names do tie you down. They come with so much emotional Louis Vuitton that sometimes you can barely stand up under the weight. Much less tango. Anyway, I doubt he was really Eddie. He was Eddie my fantasy. As Ramona, I was my fantasy too, don’t you see? I offered him a drink. My hands were shaking. Perceiving how nervous I was, he put one hand over mine, looked me in the eyes, and said, ‘Ramona, honeypie, don’t be nervous. We ain’t gonna do nothing you don’t want to be doing. You’re the boss lady. And,’ he winked, ‘I’m made to understand you like it that way.’ I blushed. ‘You are,’ he added, ‘one bodacious lady.’
“At this point, he eased his own rather bodacious bod down into the zebra chair. You know how we all sort of just disappear in that chair? He actually filled it up. He looked down at his groin and stretched the cloth of his trousers over what was looking, even through his pants, like the most incredible hard-on I’d ever seen in my life. ‘And willya look at that,’ he said, shaking his big beautiful head, ‘the little fella thinks so too.’
“ ‘Not so little fella,’ I replied. I thought to myself, well, Chantie, isn’t this what you wanted? I gathered my courage, opened my arms, let my kimono fall open and then crumple onto the floor and my nervousness somehow miraculously dropped away with the rustling silk. I sashayed over to him, and, well, I must say, I did get my money’s worth. With interest.”
“Oh, come on, Chantie! You can’t just leave us with that. We want details,” cried Julia.
“Details!” echoed Philippa.
“Details!” Helen joined the chorus.
“Oh, you know.” Chantal lit a cigarette. “You know what happens next. Kiss kiss, rub rub, lick lick. In and out here, in and out there.”
“Don’t believe it.” Philippa shook her head. “What about the S&M part?”
“It’d be a lot easier, you know, if you girls weren’t such attentive listeners.”
“C’mon!”
“All right, all right. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘as a matter of fact, I do like being the boss. So you, sailor, will call me mistress from now on. Out of that chair, now, and on your hands and knees at my feet.’ ”
“Wait a minute.” Helen suddenly twigged. “Are you saying you made a slave out of a black American man? Jeez, Chantal, isn’t that just a bit sus? I mean, when you think of the historical resonances and ideological implications . . . I don’t think I could do something like that.”
“Helen, remember, we’re talking about enacting a fantasy. With his consent. Not real life, darling. As much as I sometimes think an entourage of scantily clad male and female slaves of all stripes and colors would suit me, I would probably die of embarrassment if anyone actually threw themselves at my feet begging for the opportunity to serve. So do you want me to go on, or not?”
“But . . .”
“Oh, Helen, let’s save that for later,” Julia cooed, refilling Helen’s glass and putting a friendly hand on her arm. “Do let her go on. It’s getting most exciting.”
“He dropped to his feet, and put his lips on my shoes. ‘May I worship your ankles, mistress?’ he pleaded.
“ ‘Have you been a good boy?’ I asked.”
“Where’d you pick up this dialogue, Chantal?” Philippa interrupted. “You sound like a natural.”
“Of course I’m a natural, darling. So he hung his head and said, ‘No, mistress, I’ve been a bad boy. I don’t deserve to worship your pulchritudinous pivots, not until I’ve been properly punished, anyway.’ I strode over to the closet and took out a suede lash.”
“What were you doing with a suede lash in your closet?” Julia chuckled.
“Oh, right, it was, uh, for a costume party, yes, a bit of a dress-up thing, you know.” Chantal hurriedly resumed her narrative. “Anyway, I walked over to behind where he was kneeling. I noticed that he’d lowered his head down onto his arms and stuck his ass into the air. I hooked a finger under the waistband of his pants, and tugged them down, exposing his dark cheeks. He was, of course, wearing no underwear. I couldn’t resist running my hand over his bum. He pushed it up into my palm, and I stroked the firm, muscular globes. I ran my hand lightly down the crack, past his anus and over his balls. I heard him expel his breath with a little sigh of pleasure, at which point I drew myself up and let the lash crack down upon that beautiful flesh. He winced, and the buttocks contracted in the most aesthetic manner, all sinews and definition, rippling waves of melted chocolate. I brought it down again, and again, until a roseate glow began to blus
h through the brown skin, and when I felt it with my hand, it felt hot to the touch.
“ ‘Sit up, sailor,’ I ordered him, and he obeyed, rocking back on his heels. ‘Does that hurt?’
“ ‘It hurts good, mistress. It hurts real good.’
“ ‘Take off that top, sailor,’ I commanded. He took it off very slowly, raising his arms and swaying from side to side as he went, showing off the extraordinary lineaments of his arms and back. I knelt down beside him for a moment, on the carpet, right there, in fact”—Chantal pointed to the patch of white carpet between the zebra chair and the dining room table. Their gazes followed her finger—“and kissed his neck and back. I trailed my fingers after my lips, digging in harder and harder with my nails until I could see the scratches on his skin and he was beginning to writhe under the pain. I stood up then and whipped his back, and his bum too, perched so pertly, as it was, upon his heels. I had put a Cowboy Junkies CD on the player, and I was just sort of swaying back and forth to the music as I lashed him. It was quite hypnotic, really, and exciting, in a rather mad sort of way. To have this incredibly large and male and muscular creature writhing in pleasure-pain on your own living room floor, totally at your command, I mean, what more could a girl want?
“I ordered him to stand up, to turn and face me, and take off his boots and bellbottoms. Before he did this, he dug into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a handful of condoms, which he tossed onto the carpet. I thought, wow, and counted, one two three four five six seven eight nine. He’s certainly come prepared for some action. His ginormous meat whistle, however, had decided to take a bit of a rest. Time for a wake-up call. I flicked it lightly with my lash. Immediately, it perked up and waved at me.”
“I love it when men do that,” Julia squealed. “It always cracks me up.”
“Then what happened?” Philippa demanded impatiently.
“I took his purple-helmeted warrior of love between my fingers and, very, very slowly, lowered my mouth down toward it. As I approached it, I could see that tiny nub of pre-cum pushing its way up to form a perfect pearl on the tip, a dollop of cream on dark plum pudding. I licked it off, and he shuddered.
“ ‘Now sailor darling,’ I said, rising, and twisting one of his nipples, hard, as I went, ‘I am going to give you your instructions for the rest of the evening. You are going to tear my lingerie off me with your white and pearlies. You are going to worship my cunt as if it were the first you’ve ever seen, and the last you’ll ever see again. You are going to lay me down and ravish me, fucking me good and hard and long as only big strong Yankee sailor boys can. You are going to fuck me so that I feel it all the way up to my eyeballs.’ ” Chantal lit a cigarette, and blew smoke rings into the air. She seemed lost in thought.
“And?” Philippa, unable to bear the silence, interjected.
“And he did.” Chantal smiled. “Two hundred dollars and I had the best rumpy-pumpy of my life. Fireworks! Let’s go outside.”
“Oh, they really have started.” Julia was the first to realize that Chantal was being literal. Grabbing their glasses, they hurried onto Chantal’s balcony, which overlooked Woolloomooloo. It was a clear summer’s night, and from the balcony they had a good view of the Sydney Harbour Bridge and the top sails of the Opera House. Glittering bursts filled the air over the harbor. The city center, with its narrow ridge of tall buildings, shimmered like a giant cruise ship about to pull out of its moorings.
A spectacular red flare soared high into the air with a great whizzing sound. No sooner had it taken off than it exploded, its sparkling ejaculate dissipating almost as soon as it hit the sky.
“Boy firecracker,” observed Julia, “of the worst sort. Gets your attention in a big way, then once it shoots its load, it’s gone.”
Three soft whistles and now three twinkling jellyfish in gold, violet, and green danced in the air, one after the other, waving their phosphorescent tentacles as they leisurely faded back into a pulsating sky.
“That was beautiful,” Philippa commented.
“Girl,” Julia nodded. “No doubt about it.”
When the fireworks crescendoed with a great, multiply orgasmic explosion that filled the sky with glitter, Julia sighed with appreciation.
Helen was the first to speak. “You know, I still find it a wee bit disturbing, Chantal, this thing about you enacting a mistress-slave fantasy with a black man. I realize that it was consensual, and that he obviously enjoyed it and made money out of it, and that no sexual practice should be considered unduly transgressive if it is mutually agreeable and, oh, I don’t know. Do you think I’m overly analytical? Should I get the dessert going?”
Chantal grimaced like a naughty girl caught with her hand in the cookie jar. “It was a bit over the top, wasn’t it?” They all sat in silence for a minute or two.
“I’d better put on the kettle.” With that, she stood up and strode into the kitchen.
Helen looked guiltily at the others. “Do you think I upset her?” she whispered.
Julia laughed. “Don’t worry about it. I’m actually quite sure she made the whole thing up.”
“What?” Helen looked surprised.
“You see,” said Julia. “I once did a photo essay on sex workers who specialize in bondage and discipline and sado-masochism and they told me they will never act as the bottom for a client. It’s simply too dangerous. They sometimes may accede to a request if they know the client very well, but a first time—never. I don’t think her sailor boy would have allowed her to do that sort of thing. If there was ever a sailor boy at all, that is.”
“Helen, darling,” Chantal called from inside. “What’s happening with that dessert?”
In Beijing, on the same night, Mr. Fu’s wife, Yuemei, put her hands on her hips and studied her husband with a coolness that bordered on contempt. Her trousers and underpants were pulled down to just above her knees. They were standing beside the bed in their tiny bedroom.
He gestured for her, for the third or fourth time, to turn around and bend over.
“Zhe daodi shi weishenme?” she asked, crossly, finally acceding, her palms on the floor. “What the hell is all this about?”
“Bie shuo hua, haobuhao?” he answered, unbuttoning his own pants and pulling out his erect cock. “Can you keep quiet for a minute?”
She grunted as he entered her from behind. He came rather quickly and, withdrawing from her, went to the other room to get them some tissues. Not much fun for her, but she was relieved to be released from the uncomfortable and humiliating position. He’d behaved so oddly since that last job. If she didn’t know him so well, she’d suspect him of having had an affair with that, what was she—Austrian?—photographer he’d had to escort around.
“Qi tama guai,” she commented under her breath when he returned, shaking her head and grabbing a tissue from him. “Fucking weirdo.”
Chapter Ten –
Googy Egg on Toast
“She’s so cool, Carolyn. She spins me out.”
“She’s not bad. I think her beige fixation is a bit of a worry. Not much style. And she’s got thick legs.”
“That’s so unfair,” he protested, fiddling with his green pigtails. “When did you become a fashion Nazi? I just don’t buy into traditional, commercially promoted notions of female beauty. I thought a feminist like you would appreciate that. Anyway, I would describe her legs as voluptuous. Quite luscious actually.”
“So you would. You’re so goddamn politically correct. Hey, come on, I was only pulling your own luscious leg. Hers aren’t that thick. And I know what you mean. I like her too. Remember, I was the one who recommended her classes to you. I wonder what this place is like?” She peered inside a doorway. “It’s just opened. I think it’s the only café in Glebe I haven’t been to yet.”
“I have. It’s excellent. They’ve got really good vegetarian pita sandwiches with sprouts and tofu and stuff. And it’s run by this really together lesbian couple. What? What did I say?”
“Nothing. Sometimes, you know, you just crack me up.”
Marc tossed Carolyn a doleful look. They’d finished their first day of classes for the new year, and Marc had just come out of Helen’s course. He’d been nervous, but she’d given him a big smile and that had reassured him. He didn’t stick around to speak with her, however, because she’d been surrounded by new students. Carolyn, a physics major, had spent a less emotional day grappling with gravitons.
Though late in the day, it was still warm. But the new autumn light was crisp, and the Sydney sky a deep blue. Walking up Glebe Point Road, Marc and Carolyn had passed fellow students schlepping knapsacks full of books, and adorned with tribal regalia: arts students, in their beaded fezzes or long Indian skirts, carried net shoppingbags full of whole-meal loaves and organic peanut butter; law students sported short haircuts and proto-professional wear; and music heads announced their individual tastes on silk-screened T-shirts. Also on the beat were middle-aged crystal healers and aura therapists in vibrant batik turbans, gauntly handsome artists from Latin America with paint splashes on their cotton trousers, and the occasional clot of thick-bodied yobs in red plaid shirts who’d leaked into the neighborhood from some place deeper west. It was as if all the color that was suppressed in Darlinghurst, where black ruled and white accessorized, had crossed the center of town to capture Glebe and its more seriously eccentric sister suburb of Newtown. Glebe and Newtown were candy sprinkles to Darlinghurst’s licorice and cream.
Despite the fact that her manner of dress was neither particularly showy nor eccentric, Carolyn attracted admiring looks from both men and women. She was extraordinarily feline, with long sleek legs, a sinuous, sly way of moving, startling jade green eyes and—reinforcing the impression that she was some highly evolved species of pussy cat—ears that were slightly pointed. She had spiky blond hair and a prickly wit to match. “Want to sit here in the window?” she suggested.
