THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE

by Mark Russell

  'Okay, I won't keep you any longer. Until then, Roderick.'

  Haslow replaced the handset and dropped back on the pillow, his eyelids sliding shut like iron shutters. So, he mused groggily, a blind date at Goldman's tomorrow night, and a come what may with my brother the following evening. Hmm, it's shaping up to be one helluva weekend ...

  Goldman sat cross-legged on his bed. The inclement weather outside hadn't let up. Ragged clouds scudded across the gray sky and light showers persisted alongside shifting winds. The chemist was thankful to be high and dry in his apartment. His ears pricked up when he heard a late-night movie presentation on the portable TV at the foot of his bed: “... and now your Thursday night movie, the television premier of Midnight Express.” He looked expectantly at the screen, then returned his attention to the MK-ULTRA synopsis:

  In October 1955, the most promising drugs, notably LSD and Mescaline, were given to unwitting subjects in “normal social situations” through an informal arrangement between the Bureau of Narcotics and Dangerous Drugs (BNDD) and the CIA ...

  The BNDD? It sounded familiar. Goldman stroked the underside of his chin as the wind outside blew louder. An old Playboy article came to mind. That's right, the BNDD had been transformed into the Drug Enforcement Agency in the early seventies. He twisted round, re-propped the pillows and continued reading:

  MK-DELTA, acting as a functional sub-branch of MK-ULTRA, commenced a series of observational experiments on approximately one hundred and seventy civilians randomly selected from downtown San Francisco and the Bay Area. The experiments consisted of three categories of observation.

  CLOSED HOUSE OBSERVATION: MK-DELTA funded a safe brothel house on Telegraph Hill (see appendix 6D: Operation Midnight Climax).

  The rooms of the establishment were equipped with two-way mirrors enabling agency psychologists and personnel stationed in adjoining rooms to observe the cognitive responses of the “johns” taken to the house and drugged by agency-funded prostitutes. LSD's effect on libidinal function was but one factor in determining...

  Goldman tossed the printouts aside. Again he could only wonder at the clandestine activities of his adoptive government. Nevertheless he was buoyed to have unlocked a cellar of secrets impenetrably cloaked from the public eye. He looked to the TV as the introductory titles to Midnight Express rolled off the screen. The opening scene featured the domes and minarets of Istanbul's blue mosque silhouetted against a hazy apricot sunset. Seagulls circled about local fishing boats as they prepared to dock after journeying down the Bosphorous River.

  Hmm, it's not a bad movie, he thought, I could probably watch it again. Even so he picked up the printouts that dealt with the demise of the MK-ULTRA drug-testing programs in the late sixties:

  ... the drug tests became so widespread in federal prisons and mental institutions that a number of subjects began to file lawsuits against the American government. The number of lawsuits quickly snowballed as growing numbers of astute lawyers hounded federal penitentiaries and mental hospitals in search of potential clients...

  The chemist shifted his attention to the bottom of the page:

  ... see appendix 8A for 1978 amendment listing court hearing dates pertaining to MK-ULTRA experimentation. Listings compiled until August 1985...

  Goldman had read enough and so grabbed a beer from the kitchen. He leaned against the bedroom door jamb and watched the late-night movie unfold on the small screen at the base of his bed. The dark-haired actor portraying William Hayes stood at the departure counter at Yesilkoy Airport, Istanbul, concealed blocks of hashish taped to his torso. Accusatory drops of perspiration threaded down his cheeks. The Turkish immigration officer looked up suspiciously at the western tourist before him ...

  What a loser, Goldman thought, swallowing a mouthful of beer. He's definitely not made of the right stuff.

  NINE

  Michelle stepped from the frosted-glass shower stall. Droplets of water sparkled on her limbs like miniscule diamonds. She stared at a vase of orchids on a marble-top vanity unit. The flowers' seductive shapes and colours seeped into her, each curve and crevice enlivening her own. She closed her eyes and a flood of pleasurable sensations made her weak in the knees. How easy it would be to bring herself to orgasm. She steadied herself against the vanity unit. It seemed the universe had coalesced into her being naked in this steamy room ... and the dizzying perception gave her no cause for complaint.

  The effects of the drug she'd taken with Carmen were becoming increasingly pronounced, and all the more enjoyable. Of course Carmen was against taking the drug at first, but in the end had finally agreed to partake; though not before forcing Michelle to confess all she knew about the unheard-of substance. Michelle had obliged her friend with the details, and had rounded off by saying the guy who gave her a lift wouldn't have given her anything harmful, in that he'd given Michelle his telephone number and offered her a ride back to DC on the weekend, should she need one. Both women were aware of the effect they generally had on men, and so the situation hadn't seemed too difficult to fathom.

  Moreover, Michelle guessed that after partying in the Caribbean Carmen had a gnawing need for more of the same, and so Michelle wasn't greatly surprised when her volatile friend had gone halves in the grainy powder; nor was she surprised when Carmen insisted the drug would be better served on her than on Terence, “that lying scumbag of a boyfriend” as Carmen was wont to call him.

  The bathroom's ochre tiles danced on the periphery of Michelle's heightened vision. The music from the living room seeped osmosis-like through the walls. Its gentle beat embraced her body like the fingers of a phantom masseuse. She moaned and ran her hands through her sopping hair. Immersed in a serene lake of self-acceptance, she grinned from the simplicity of this enforced peace and reached for a towel. The golden cowlick between her legs dripping from a central point to the floor. The bathroom door slid to.

  Carmen.

  All was still save for Bryan Ferry's velvety voice drifting in from the living room stereo. Michelle looked at her friend in a new light. She wanted to say how much she loved her, but before she could Carmen stepped forward and pulled Michelle to her.

  'Oh 'chelly, you mean everything to me.' Carmen looped her bronze arms about Michelle who stood statue-like on the bathmat gripping her towel. 'I'm sorry I said all those things before. I love you for who you are ... not for who you could be or should be, or anything like that.'

  Michelle's eyes brimmed with tears and her unused towel fell about her feet. She hugged her friend as if this were their last moment on earth.

  Pilar Artarmon nestled against her husband and toyed with the hairs on his chest. She knew Stephen was fulfilled. The pale snore that came from him was ample testimony. Knowing Stephen was turned on was usually what turned her on, was usually what started her on a long, exquisite climb to a mind-numbing orgasm. She would expertly touch herself, poised on the brink of the relief she craved, waiting for Stephen to succumb, wanting them both to give in at the same time, their combined shuddering only enhancing the fury of her release.

  But for past weeks she hadn't been able lose herself in the act. Had she tired of Stephen so early on in her marriage? She didn't know. So maybe some coke, she mused, staring at the bedroom ceiling, her hard brown body geared for greater excitement. She knew what the Andean narcotic did for her performance in the sexual arena (a saucy ex-girlfriend had given Stephen a gram of the drug for his honeymoon).

  Yes, she wanted to try some again. Of course, good stuff. The kind Terence Cruise used to have. She remembered the photographer, quite fondly in fact. From the time Pilar's New York-based mother had pushed for Pilar to become a model. However her father had put a stop to his wife's glamorous design for their only daughter, shipping Pilar off to Harvard Business School instead.

  But before her father's intervention, Pilar had gone to Ford Models and then on to Alexis Models, who'd arranged for Terence Cruise to do her portfolio shoot. The attractive Filipino and the sportive photogr
apher became friends for a time. In the beginning Cruise gave it his all to try and bed her, employing a repertoire of learned charms and tactic, plying her with champagne and other partying substances – but to no avail. Pilar sensed his contrivance, his history with women; and in any case was too constrained by her Catholic upbringing to flippantly indulge in premarital sex. Nevertheless, she enjoyed his company (he wasn't that forceful with her), and in some way would've been offended had he not tried his hand with her.

  Oddly enough she ran into him a month ago while visiting her holidaying parents in the Capitol. Standing on the corner of a busy intersection, Cruise (looking somewhat haggard; no longer the pretty boy at all) gave her his business card and invited her to visit. Remembering their fun times together, she'd had the temerity to ask whether he could still get his hands on any good stuff.

  Apparently he could.

  In fact, he sold it. However much she liked.

  Now, lying beside her inert husband, she stroked her pubis which rose like a small tan bulb from the base of her belly. Cruise's business card was in her bag. She'd call him in the morning. Why not? She could do with some zing in her life.

  Michelle lit a cigarette and settled back on the sofa. Smoke spilled from her lips, curling this way and that in the subdued light of a lamp. The room was certainly quieter now she and Carmen had come down from their drug high. And what a roller-coaster ride it had been – what with each of them taking more than the recommended dose.

  After Michelle's shower, a merrymaking carnival of two had erupted in the living room. The record player had been cranked up to near full volume and a stack of Carmen's records had dropped in turn on to the turntable as the impromptu party got under way. Cocooned in the stylish apartment (without even the distraction of a working telephone), Michelle and Carmen had ranted and raved about everything and nothing. Several times they'd become dysfunctional from strangling bouts of side-splitting laughter (more than once Carmen had slid off the sofa and on to the floor, only to laugh that much harder). The living room had become an unsightly mess of spilled drinks, unfurled confectionery wrappings and cigarette ash.

  Now, bathed in the drug's afterglow, Michelle lounged on the sofa listening to the soothing music of a George Benson record. Earlier she and Carmen had talked intimately about the men in their lives. They'd finally concluded, from the uncanny insight the drug afforded and from resulting womanly pride, that they'd be better off with new mates.

  Much better off.

  Carmen's engagement to her southern-belt lover was now on a precarious footing. Michelle had helped Carmen string fidelity-suspect incidents of the past year into a single, damning accusation that Paulo Jr with his smooth-talking ways would be hard-pressed to refute. Once her phone was connected, Carmen was determined to have it out with her Brazilian fiance before he flew in the following week, and had even talked about having his tattoo removed from her ankle (“Careful, babe, any scarring will definitely put you out of the foot-modelling market,” Michelle had quipped). But now Carmen couldn't think of any better place to be than lounging beside her favourite person in the world, as evidenced by her shoulder-touching closeness to Michelle on the sofa.

  Michelle in turn had found her relationship wanting. The guiling ways of her older mate seemed only too obvious. She saw Terence in a final, desperate sprint to nowhere. His photography days were all but over and it was only a matter of time until he got sacked from his position as Picture Editor at La Belle magazine. After which he would have to deal cocaine full-time to support his growing habit, or else use whatever money he had left to put himself into detox.

  Whichever, he wasn't cut of the right cloth. She knew the time had come to cut her losses. God knew he'd spent enough of her savings while trampling her heart. She dragged on her cigarette and pressed the pale bruise about her eye. To hell with it, she would finish the petering-out relationship once and for all. She had to cast Terence adrift before he sucked her farther into his downward spiral. Yeah, goodbye Terence. It's been a blast.

  Michelle stubbed her cigarette in an enamel ashtray with small S&M bondage figures set about its edges (the ribald piece having taken Carmen's fancy during a stopover in Bangkok the previous year). She decided a late-night visit to the convenience store was in order. She jumped up from the sofa. 'Well C, I'm off to get cigarettes and alcohol. Want anything?'

  Carmen drained her Coke and single-handedly crushed the can. The Salvadorian model tossed the crumpled can on to the littered coffee table and cupped her knees. She put on a coy face and looked up at the ceiling. 'Hmm, I want more of that crazy stuff.' She looked at Michelle, a mischievous glint in her eye. 'You've got his number, so call him and get more. I'll pay for it – just get as much as you can. Please, 'chelly, please.' She puckered her lips and made an endearing air-kiss.

  Michelle thought about it and nodded with resignation. 'Yeah, sure ... okay.' She shrugged on her leather jacket and headed for the door. As the aspiring ex-model disengaged the door's locks, Carmen added, 'And 'chelly, could you – '

  'Yeah, yeah, I know, grab a six-pack of Diet Coke.'

  Michelle stopped on the weed-riddled sidewalk and studied the all-night convenience store across the way. Nobody loitered outside. Good. She squinted from the store's glaring neon sign as gusting wind caused a flourish of pine needles and dead leaves to dance about her blue and white runners. Low-lying cloud darker than the bruise about her eye made her wish she'd brought an umbrella. She pulled up the collar of her jacket and was about to cross the street when she heard loud music coming from an approaching car.

  A Pontiac Firebird braked hard before kerb crawling into the side street in front of her. The passenger window slid down and two teenagers of Hispanic origin and dubious intent leaned out. The teenager in front flickered his outstretched tongue at Michelle, while the other hoo-hooed as he pistoned his forearm and fist at her. A musical air-horn pierced the chill night air as the Pontiac roared away, its worked motor and super bass sound system drowning out the drunken laughter of the teenagers inside.

  'Yeah, screw you too!' Michelle flipped a finger at the receding red tail lights and dashed across the leaf-littered macadam, keen to return to the warmth and security of Carmen's apartment. She wrenched open the store's side door. It was going to be a quick search and purchase mission. She cruised heavily stocked aisles and stopped at the store's supply of canned and bottled drinks, cringing her nose at how little appealed. Something in the next door's section caught her eye. She stepped along and opened the misted glass door, grabbing her fancy from a middle shelf. She read the bottle's splashy label: CALIFORNIA SUNSHINE. A SPARKLING CONCOCTION OF TROPICAL FRUIT JUICES AND WHITE WINE.

  It would do. The ex-Alexis model grabbed a six-pack of the drink and an equal number of Diet Cokes and headed for the checkout. She ordered two packets of cigarettes, her dry tongue rasping against her palate like fine-grain sandpaper. She glanced at a tabloid headline in a rack beside the register: EXCLUSIVE NUDE PICS OF BRIAN AND JERRI ON ISLAND HIDEAWAY.

  Michelle added the tabloid to her purchases. She wondered if the lurking photographer had managed any revealing shots of Carmen, confident that if the paparazzi had more eyes would be on Carmen's hard bronze butt than on Jerri's long white legs. She paid for her items and slipped the change into her pocket without counting it, hoping the pimply Asian guy manning the register hadn't ripped her off (she'd left her bag and purse at home during this vulnerable time without a car – not wanting to be preyed upon by muggers).

  On her way out she saw a pay phone. She lowered her bag of goods to the floor and dropped a coin in the slot, then punched in the number Goldman had written on the back of a Baltimore gym card. As her call muscled its way through the lines, she glanced at her watch. Nada. Not there. Only her slim, pale wrist. Damn! She must have left her gold Gucci in Carmen's bathroom. She looked about in earnest and saw a black rectangular clock advertising Virginia Slims cigarettes: 11:48 pm.

  'Jesus Christ.' She slapped down
the handset, blustered by her lack of propriety. How could it be so late? But she knew how and could only chuckle. She and Carmen had made a right night of it, laughing and carrying on like a pair of spoiled princesses. Oh well, so be it. She reclaimed her coin, picked up her bag, and stepped out into the night with all the bravado and “don't mess with me” confidence she could muster.

  TEN

  Goldman jolted awake, the piercing brrring of the bedside phone echoing in his ears. He scowled at the green alphanumerics of his bedside clock. Close to midnight. Who'd call now? Probably some idiot with the wrong number.

  He sat up in bed, the room dimly revealed by the conical light of his bedside lamp. Moving shapes on the television screen cast eerie patterns on his wardrobe door. The movie actors' words sounded forced and brittle as the chemist shook off the last vestiges of sleep and reclaimed his place in the world. Outside, rain lashed the bedroom window, while wind whistled intermittently from under the roof's overhang. The blustery night was still in full swing. Somewhat settled he tried to pick up the thread of Midnight Express.

  Billy Hayes walked around a large stone column in the middle of the Turkish prison's psychiatric ward, much to the dismay of fellow inmates. A crazed, ragged-haired Englishman implored him to walk the other way, repeatedly empathizing that a good Muslim always walks clockwise about the column, and that the people from The Factory would punish Billy if he did not, punish him for being a Bad Machine ...

  Goldman looked at the printouts scattered on the bed. He gathered together pages he hadn't read, namely a Department of Defense report on Bethazetamine (BZ), a powerful hallucinogen created by the army in the early sixties. Not long after his arrival from Australia in 1975, Goldman had seen footage on the CBS Walter Cronkite show which depicted a Silverwood Centre army private under the influence of BZ trying unsuccessfully to complete a basic obstacle course. Snatches of the black and white footage surfaced in the chemist's mind as he flicked to the fourth page of the report: