A parade of nine or ten men followed, each trying something—finger and toe kissing, hip swiveling, pelvic thrusting, butt wagging. It all went by quickly, and I suppressed one giggle after another as each performed his antics; yet I was ever conscious of pressing my unmentionables against the back of a stranger. It felt distantly sinful.
Finally the last volunteer swiveled his way back into the crowd, and the hostess reasserted herself. She pulled us both up gently, Joe and then me, and I watched as my human horsie scampered off again to resume his allotted position on the plinth. “A special thanks to Candy and Sensitive Guy for indulging us and allowing us to indulge them.”
Joe looked quite satisfied and I wondered for a minute if I was jealous. Then I realized that no, I wasn’t. Not even. Did that mean I wasn’t interested? Or maybe I had been infected with a more open mind. Joe was a hunk.
It was clear we were free to return to our couch, which was, oddly, still free. Apparently people weren’t much for sitting at this place. Or perhaps this was the newbie couch where they recruited all their volunteers, and everyone else knew better.
The hostess began to introduce the first act, a poet. I was still reeling from the last “activity” and trying to remember why Sensitive Guy sounded so familiar. Then it hit me. There was that guy in the online chat room. The guy with the foot fetish. I looked at Joe. Could it be the same person? And how did you confirm that little factoid?
Joe plopped unceremoniously into the deep velvety cushions of the couch. “Well, that was fun.” He gave me a Cheshire grin. “How about for you? Fun? Entertaining?”
“Is ‘different’ too safe a word? I’m not used to strange men waggling their spam bits at me.”
“Different, eh? You clearly haven’t been traveling in the proper circles.” He glanced at the poet, who stood in the center of the room and began to do whatever you call it when a poet reads their work without actually reading. It was the black guy who had greeted us, still sans shirt. Luckily he was far enough away that we could whisper without disturbing his monologue—something about how if a man was a woman, how different life would be.
Joe leaned in. “So … Candy, eh?” He had smudges of lipstick on his lips and cheek.
I decided not to enlighten him and just smiled. “Sensitive Guy?”
He shrugged. “Women always say they are looking for a nice guy, you know, sensitive. That sort of thing. So I figured why not? The truth is, I’m one of those mythical nice guys. You know, the one who never gets to have sex with the girl, but listens to her tell about it all after the fact, the forever friend. So I should get one point for truth in advertising.”
“And do you advertise?” I went on to tell him about my experience with online matchmaking sites and chat rooms.
He was strangely blasé as he admitted to all of the above. “Of course. The online community is much more adventurous than the pickings are in real life. Some of us only find our select, um, interest, in a virtual forum. And that is better than nothing.”
That confession certainly upped the likelihood that the Sensitive Guy I’d seen online was the very one who sat next to me, but I didn’t have the pluck to ask for confirmation. The fact that it could have been him was enough. For now.
I wondered again where Frank had gone. It was just like him to disappear without telling me what he was up to. Frustration and jealousy took turns bubbling up out of the depths of my juvenile delinquency.
But why did I care?
If only I could figure out how to get my emotions to behave. Like an errant puppy, they unexpectedly piddled in the middle of conversations and chewed on raw nerves when I wasn’t thinking. I needed an emotional puppy training session. Sit. Stay. Beg.
The sound of applause caught my attention. The poet had finished and was bowing low, first to the audience and then to the hostess, who was reasserting herself on the stage to make another introduction.
The room lights took on a bluish hue as someone switched the lighting filter. Raucous music was followed by something mellow, with an Indian panache. The Hostess introduced two lithe women who made their way onto the stage dressed in skimpy yoga outfits.
They were built like dancers, with clear muscle definition displayed in every movement. And though they looked very similar, there was a clear age difference. One was in her mid twenties, the other a very firm fifty. The older woman’s only indication of age was the tone of her skin and the set of her jaw—like a toughened pinion pine perched on a rocky ledge, challenging the world to bring on any imaginable force. The younger woman was a fresh young willow, bending in the gentle breeze. Mother and daughter?
The two began to move into a series of synchronized yoga positions, entwining themselves in a graceful Twister game. They had amazing muscle control, and it was fascinating to see the two create a mirror image of seductive contortions that contrasted in age and experience. For the first time this evening I was moved by the beauty and art of it. Perhaps this was what the slutterati were shooting for—a combination of the erotic and artistic.
A quick glance around confirmed that most everyone was equally enthralled. In their eyes, the lusty zest of the body painting had been replaced with something subtler—simple pleasure. Particularly tricky moves sparked a burst of applause.
As they finished, Joe leaned in to whisper, “Well, that was different.”
“Ha ha.” I punched him lightly in the arm as the stage lights winked out. The two women exited in darkness. And though nobody was hooting or hollering, the applause was genuine.
The lights came back up in the room, bathed now in a reddish hue. Joe looked around. “Time to sex things up a bit.”
I felt a nervous twinge. I wasn’t sure I wanted things much sexier.
In vain I looked around for the Hostess. Minion Guy was back, carrying a handful of flowers, perhaps left over from the earlier pin-the-flower-on-the-statue event. He was miming his way around the room, offering poinsettias to female audience members here and there and moving toward us in a circuitous fashion.
I thought about the red roses on my table at home and wondered again where Frank had gone. Perhaps he was part of the play and would appear in some over-the-top sex scene later in the evening. Pixie had never told me what Frank’s fetish was. Chances were good that I’d find out this evening. The thought of it made me slightly ill. Still, I was determined.
Minion Guy had only two flowers left when he came to me—one white and one red rose. He held them out to me and I reached to pick one, but he gripped my wrist. Laying my hand flat, he carefully placed both on my palm and gently closed my fingers around the stems. There were no thorns, as though the Salon offered all the pleasure of BDSM without even the threat the pain. Reflexively I brought them to my nose and inhaled. They had a sharp sweetness.
Minion Guy bowed a bit awkwardly and scampered off again to his position.
Joe watched the retreating figure. “I think he likes you.” Then he winked.
“Yah. I can just see it. I’ll take one Minion Guy with fries to go, please.” Secretly I wondered what I might do with a minion of my own. Now that would be Strange and Unusual.
Chapter 25: The Task at Hand
I moved in a little closer to Joe as the familiar red-gowned hostess re-appeared from behind one of the thick drapes. Joe gripped my knee, giving me a quick glance to ensure the move was OK. I didn’t mind.
The hostess strolled slowly through the crowd, holding out a small, ornate box that she offered to each audience member. Most everyone, in turn, unfolded his or her paper and quickly read the contents. A flurry of giggling and blushing followed in our hostess’ wake.
Soon she offered the box to me with an imperious gesture. “Candy, take one.” Her voice had the underlying breathiness of a smoker.
I dug through the pieces of paper, fingering each one as though I could somehow discern its contents by touch. Feeling silly, I finally selected one and held it tightly between my fingers, reluctant to open it. I had no idea wh
at it would say, but was worried that it contained something embarrassing or risqué—a mortifying mortar of a message aimed straight at my self-esteem.
Oblivious to my impending meltdown, the hostess next held out the box to Joe. He didn’t move, just looked squarely at the woman with that penetrating gaze of his. Then he spoke quietly but forcefully. “No. You choose for me.”
Her eyes widened. “If you wish.” She fished a paper out of the box and held it in front of him momentarily before slipping it into the deep cut neckline of her dress. She smiled coolly. “You may retrieve it from me later, at a time of my choosing.”
Then she turned and walked to the next of her guests. He followed her with his eyes.
Feeling a bit awkward, I reverted to my journalistic mode. “So, do you flirt like that with all the girls?” OK, a jealous journalist.
“No. No. That was just fun, like theater. Imagine this is a play and you can interact with the cast. You should play along.”
He was right, of course. I was here to report. But interact with the cast?
We didn’t have to wait long to see what other people’s notes said. Once the hostess had deposited her box on a table—having supplied everyone with their own task slip—she motioned to the leashed couple.
“This should be entertaining.” Joe gave an evil little chuckle.
“Better them than me.”
Joe nodded, distracted, as though he wasn’t really listening. The Domina led her sub to the middle of the room, right in front of us.
I got a sudden whiff of something like old tires. Looking around, I held my nose. “What’s that smell?”
Pointing to the round derriere right in front of us, Joe whispered. “It’s her. Cheap latex.”
I sniffed. It was her. I grimaced.
Joe shrugged. “Coffee and wine both taste bad when you try them for the first time. You have to develop a taste. For some people, that smell is a fetish.” His eyebrows did an impish little dance before he turned back to the scene.
The woman had the man on his knees, blindfolded. She was running a short riding crop over his chest, periodically smacking him lightly. At each little popping sound he would jump. I’d ridden horses enough to know that the crop had a wide flat leather flap at the end that produced more noise than actual pain, but I still wondered if the swats hurt him.
I scanned the audience, observing their curious expressions. The couple had to be a set piece, working for the Salon to help warm up the audience. From the flushed cheeks all around, it appeared to be working.
I know I certainly needed a good deal of warming up before I was going to stand there in front of all these people and make a spectacle of myself. Then I remembered the slip of paper.
I looked down at my fingers, slowly unfolding the paper. It read, “Indulge your partner’s secret desire.”
“Anything interesting?” He was leaning over, trying to catch a glimpse of the note.
I refolded it carefully and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. I needed to assert myself. I could just imagine Kenner if I handed in a flat story. “Sorry boss, the smell of latex made me sick. I had to leave early.” Or better yet, “My sub ate my story. I’ll put him on a tighter leash next time.”
No. I had to write this story. And to do that I had to get involved.
Clearly a story loomed. Why did people come to a place like this in the first place? What were they searching for? And finally, what did it mean to me?
“Well?” He nudged me.
I turned to Joe, trying to imagine what his secret desire might be. I had to figure out what that was before I could indulge it. The liquor gave me a modicum of courage. I nudged Joe’s thigh and smiled slyly. “Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see.”
My leg pulsed under Joe’s continued grip. I suppressed that shiver you sometimes get when you contemplate someone new in that way.
The tension in the crowd was growing—anticipation mixed with a physical appetite for more. Nearly a hundred people packed the room. I suspected this must be the entire group, who had all wandered from the other areas of the studio to catch the main stage. I scanned the group, recognizing some of the folks who had queued up at the door.
The couple continued their scene. The woman had a side table on which was placed a series of ropes and objects that I couldn’t see from where we were sitting. The woman picked up a long length of blood-red rope and had the man put his hands behind his back. She snaked the ropes deftly around his wrists and then continued to wrap lengths of rope around his chest, arms and thighs.
Joe leaned in. “Ah. She’s doing Kinbaku, a form of Japanese Bondage. Mostly guys do it to women, so it is cool to watch it the other way around.”
“Kinbaku?” I’d never heard of it. Of course.
“I don’t know much about it. It’s a kind of art form. I think it means ‘beauty of tight binding’ or something like that.” He pointed to the woman’s work on the man. “See the designs?”
And sure enough, the woman was continuing to twine the bindings into intricate twists and turns, so that the ropes formed a design of knotted diamond shapes. They were quite tight and bit into the man’s flesh, which was abundant. He looked like an oddly shaped Michelin man. It wasn’t really sexy to me, but it was fascinating. Any time the woman brought out a new length of rope, she held it to the man’s lips. I remember reading that this was a way to ensure that the sub was still into the game. He did seem to be content.
The crowd was mostly quiet, over a soundtrack of steamy old ’70s tunes. Right now they were playing Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On. As sexy songs go, that one was pretty good.
The man was trussed up pretty tightly now. The woman threaded another length of rope through his arms behind his back and then looped it onto a ceiling hook I hadn’t noticed until then. As she pulled on the rope it tightened, pulling the man’s back up so that he leaned forward awkwardly. He moaned as she pulled. He was clearly feeling a little pain, but she didn’t berate him for it. Instead, she bent down and kissed his neck and ear, whispering. He moaned louder.
She went to her table and picked up another whip, which I recognized from riding as a quirt. It was longer and had a short, thin length of leather on the end. This one would hurt.
I turned my head, for she was making him kiss this one as well. I had a sense of foreboding. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see someone whipped in earnest. But Joe squeezed my knee. “You have to remember that he wants this.”
I was about ready to move in closer to Joe, thinking that maybe there were some things that I wanted, when I saw a few familiar faces walk into the room. I froze. Standing on the far side of the room, their eyes darting about as though searching for someone, were none other than Kenner and my mother.
Chapter 26: Parentis Interruptus
“Oh my god.” I sank down into my seat, shielding my face behind the hand that still clutched Minion Boy’s roses.
“What?” Joe leaned into me as the Hostess took the microphone to announce another act.
“I just saw my mother and my boss. The two people I really don’t need to see in any place even vaguely sexual are here.”
Joe perked up, looking around. “Where?”
I smacked his leg. “Don’t look. Why do people always do that? It’s like rubbernecking at a car wreck. The scene is undoubtedly going to be ugly. Yet everybody gawks.”
“Like you don’t stare.” It wasn’t a question. Joe hunkered down as much as his frame would allow, joining me behind my impromptu screen of fingers and roses.
I was panicking. “What do I do? I can’t believe they showed up.”
“Your boss? OK. That’s weird. What do you do anyway? You never said.” He was still trying to catch sight of them as they walked through the crowd.
“OK. Time for some quick truth. I’m a writer for the Sun Times. That’s my boss. I’m here writing a story on this place.”
He looked at me for a moment and then laughed. “Aha. Now things start to make sense. You are a w
riter!” I was relieved that he didn’t look upset.
“Yes, in real life I channel Lois Lane, not Candy Lane. So my boss knows why I’m here. And my mother knows, too. And I know exactly why they are here. They are worried that I’m going to do something stupid like get back together with my ex-boyfriend. As if I was twelve or something.”
“And would that ex be Frank?” Joe raised a silver threaded eyebrow.
I shrank a little more.
He just nodded knowingly.
Now I felt exactly like a naughty twelve-year-old. Not that I had been particularly naughty at that age. My cousins hadn’t called me Goody Two-Shoes for nothing.
I realized how silly I was being. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, at least not yet. I wondered whether I had a small fetish that compelled me to seek punishment for imagined misdeeds. I wasn’t even Catholic and yet I had a penitent’s portion of guilt. I dropped my hand and gave my roses another sniff. “Well I feel like an idiot. I have no reason to hide. I’m just earning my keep. I better go say “Hi.”
Joe jumped up. “OK. Let’s.” He offered me his hand. I let him pull me up, still clinging to the roses for moral support. “If I go with you, you can show that you aren’t with this ex of yours. And perhaps they will head back to the depths from whence they sprang.”
That sounded a bit covert, but I was up for all the guilt avoidance I could muster. “Right. They are over there.” I pointed toward them. Mom and Kenner had stopped gazing around and were watching the main stage, a little mesmerized. I followed their eyes. The couple was leaving the stage—he trussed up and she leading him. His skin was marked with several red stripes, but they looked superficial.
The hostess had selected a female volunteer from the audience. After leading her onto the stage, she bent her over a table at the waist and lifted her skirt, exposing a rather naked set of firm butt cheeks. Well, she did have on sheer panty hose, the non-control top kind, so her butt was covered with a shiny, translucent covering. I tuned into the dialog.
Breakfast in Stilettos Page 14
