B as in Beauty

by Alberto Ferreras

  “Nice, huh?” he asked.

  “Very nice,” I lied, semi-horrified.

  This is the thing: I like sex, but I feel that certain people take it way too seriously. For them sex is like a hobby, like golfing or woodworking. They have the tools, they have the trade magazines, and sometimes even a special room in the basement. And that was the case with Richard. He was a professional at it, and that’s what freaked me out. I could smell that sexual intensity in him.

  While he showed me the restraints, the rubber suits, and the latex goods that he carefully kept neatly in a closet, I closed my eyes and thanked God for this saving grace. Yeah, Richard was gorgeous, the kind of guy that I would masochistically like to have walking all over me. But the sex room was a huge turn-off. Who knows? Maybe I would be able to exercise the promised self-control that I had been ready to throw out the window the moment I saw him.

  “Weeeeeell, maybe I should take my clothes off so they don’t get staaained,” he said, with a fake innocence that almost made me laugh.

  With slow and calculated movements he stripped, giving me sexy looks as he took off each and every piece of clothing. He was in spectacular shape. Up, down, and around, there was nothing missing in this man. Let me repeat that: nothing. His butt was particularly well put together. I bit my lower lip.

  “Soooooo, what do you think?” he asked me with a wink as he posed, wearing only a big smile.

  “Nice,” I said, trying to keep myself from howling like a she-wolf.

  He tied a latex apron around his waist, put on rubber boots, a swimming cap and goggles. He looked like the mad scientist of a pornographic sci-fi movie.

  “And nooow…it’s your tuuurn. You can cover yourself with this towel if you want to…but it won’t be for loooong.” He winked.

  I took off my clothes fast and, facing the wall, then covered myself with the towel and lay belly-up on the massage table with a mix of excitement and embarrassment, ready to call Alberto for help if I thought that things were getting out of hand. But where could I keep the phone when I certainly had no pockets nearby? I took a deep breath and tried to relax, while Richard started putting on his rubber gloves.

  “Oooh! Such delicate earrings,” he said, admiring my mink puffs. “Let’s take them off so they don’t get stained.”

  Stained with what? I thought, but I couldn’t utter a word.

  “Sooooooo, B…do you like…chocolate?”

  “Umm…actually, I do.”

  “Greaaaaaaat!” he replied.

  He stood next to the table for a moment, took a deep breath, and yanked my towel off in one motion. Out of nowhere he pulled out a squeezable bottle filled with a chocolate paste and started pouring it all over me.

  “There’s nothing better than chocolate for your skin. Do you like how it feels?” he asked.

  “Yeah…I like it,” I said, trying to sound casual about it.

  The soft sensation of the chocolate over my skin felt delicious. As I looked up to the mirror on the ceiling—did I mention that he had a mirror installed on the ceiling?—I saw my ample body covered with a thick layer of glistening chocolate, and his lean and muscular shoulders hovering dangerously over me. I felt so turned on that I had to close my eyes and pretend that I was having my appendix removed. I desperately needed to remain calm.

  After pouring the smooth sweetness all over me, Richard started with the massage. He began with my neck and shoulders, and it felt great. He certainly knew how to touch a woman. While standing behind me, he bent over until his face was on top of mine and I could smell his fresh, minty breath.

  “Now say ‘aaaaaaah’!”

  I said “aaah” and he quickly poured a bit of chocolate in my mouth. It was Nutella, a chocolate and hazelnut paste that I find simply irresistible.

  As I savored the delicious squirt of chocolate that he gave me, he looked long and deeply into my eyes with such intensity that I had to close mine for fear of being swept off my feet. With my eyes closed and my face turned away from him, I felt his disappointment. But his despair quickly turned into an even more desperate need to seduce me.

  His strokes became broader and more intense; he massaged my torso as if he were creating a sculpture, firmly but sensually at the same time. Then he walked slowly around the table while letting his right hand caress me from head to toe.

  “My, my, myyyyyy…” he said.

  I took a deep breath.

  He positioned himself at my feet and started massaging my legs up and down…up and down…That’s when he started panting.

  “Ooooooh my Gooooooood!” he said, clenching his teeth.

  I said nothing, because I knew that anything I said could get me in trouble. That man was damned hot, but he would never hear it from me, because any word of encouragement on my part could turn the whole situation exactly into what I was told to avoid. So I kept breathing while he kept moaning.

  “Ooooooh! Oooooh my!!!” he said, over and over.

  Little by little my breathing became heavier and heavier, I couldn’t help it. This guy was irresistible, and he knew how to use his hands. How could I defend myself from the temptation? Maybe by thinking unhappy thoughts I could distract myself from this seductive force.

  I tried to concentrate on the most unpleasant things I knew. I thought about the skinny lady who chain-smokes outside my office building; Dan Callahan puking on my carpet; cleaning Dan’s puke afterward; Bonnie and all the nights and weekends I worked late to prove myself to her. I thought of my servile attitude, standing like a puppy on my back legs, begging her to throw me a bone. I thought of that bathroom conversation to remind myself how it didn’t matter what I did, she hated me, she despised my body, the same body that Richard Weber, the hottest man on earth, was worshipping at that very instant.

  Maybe he noticed that I was mentally elsewhere, because he started breaking his pattern of motion, to bring me back to the present. He would rush—and then slow down. He would stop—and then restart, teasing me to death, over and over. Respectfully—or strategically—he kept his hands off my most sensitive spots. I thanked him and cursed him silently.

  “Could you bend your right arm?” he said.

  I followed his instructions, and suddenly, in a totally unexpected movement, he flipped me over. His strength made me feel defenseless. Then he started working on my back, thighs, and buttocks, and he must have seen something that he liked, because he let go a deep and heartfelt “Ooooooh my Gooooooood!”

  He took a bite of chocolate right off my left calf. I jumped, but he didn’t stop.

  “Beeeeeee…!” he said, stretching the last vowel like a little lamb calling his mother. “Those legs…! That aaaaaaaaaass…!”

  One thing that I was never into was dirty talk. In other circumstances, I would have laughed at his chatter. But the massage was so good and he was so gorgeous that—I hate to acknowledge it—he was turning me on big-time.

  He took a quick bite of chocolate from my right cheek and I started shaking. He kept moaning, and finally I started moaning too. Suddenly it became a bit of a contest. Who was going to moan harder? I realized that, the harder I moaned, the easier it was to control myself. It was the vocal release that was keeping me from losing the battle.

  “Beeeeeee, I have never, ever, touched a woman like you. Never. I think I’m going to lose control. I’m going to loooooose it…I’m going to loooooose iiiiiit!”

  “Please…don’t…” I whispered as I tightened my muscles. I felt him shaking in a short spasm, then he laughed softly, and I relaxed my muscles again. He was probably wondering what the hell was wrong with me. Why wasn’t I on my knees already, begging him to make love to me? I forced myself to remember the wise words of Madame: “If he asks for sex, twenty times, you say no twenty times.”

  “I’m looooosing iiiiiiit…” he said.

  “Doooon’t…” I begged.

  Frustrated by my self-control, Richard’s expert hands flipped me back up again, and he started working on my leg
s, getting closer and closer to the forbidden zone. He bent my knees and started massaging my thighs with circular motions, starting at the knee, and diving down toward Pleasure Valley. The hand motion became more and more intense; his whole body arched on every turn. He took a bite of chocolate from one of my knees, and I howled softly. Before I knew it, Richard’s face was taking the dive with his hands. I felt his breath between my knees, his ears caressing my thighs.

  At that point I heard myself moaning softly. I let go a faint little “Nooo…”

  He replied with a deep and lecherous “Yessssss…”

  I said no again, and he said yes again. I kept saying no, he kept saying yes, and the whole yes-no thing started escalating in volume and seriousness until I firmly said, “No! Stop it! I think we’ve both had enough chocolate!”

  That did it. Richard—who had seemed to be on the verge of something for the last five minutes—stopped, tensed his muscles in ecstasy, and arched his back, grabbing the massage table as if he was about to collapse.

  I lay on the table feeling horny, disgusted, ecstatic, and freaked out, all at the same time. Richard laughed with relief as he slowly recovered.

  “Wow!” he said. “Wow, wow, woooooow!”

  I guess it was a compliment, but I knew that I shouldn’t address it. “Can I take a shower now?” I said, trying to remove myself from my chocolate bed.

  “Of cooooourse, my dear!” He helped me up, and, flipping a panel on the wall, revealed a small bathroom with a shower stall.

  “These towels are clean. Please take your time, and I’ll meet you upstairs.” He kissed my hand, looking me in the eye, and let go one final “wooooow” before leaving the room.

  I showered as fast as I could, while my mind was racing at a million miles per hour. I had never been in such an intimate context with a stud of this caliber, so I was obviously excited about it. Still, there was something that just didn’t feel right. A part of me wanted to ask him: “Is it true? Do you really find me sexy? Can a Playgirl centerfold like you enjoy touching someone who is far from being a Playboy centerfold, like me?” But another, more cautious part of me decided to keep my mouth shut, play it cool, and follow Madame’s instructions.

  I got dressed and went upstairs, where he was waiting for me. He was barefoot, wearing just a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt—enough to look like he belonged on the cover of an L.L. Bean catalogue.

  “There you aaaaaaare!” he said, smiling.

  I smiled briefly and continued walking toward the door. He followed me all the way to the exit and stopped me before I could step out.

  “Listen, B…I just wanted to tell you that you are amaaazing. I have never, ever, felt anything like this before.”

  “Thanks,” I said, wondering if my ears were serving me right.

  Then he held my hand, and, while gently pulling me toward him, he looked me in the eye and—with a flattering tone of desperation—said, “Soooo…when can I see you again?”

  “I’m not sure. I need to think about it,” was the best I could answer.

  He looked down, biting his lip, and gave me one last, longing look as I stepped out onto the street. Alberto opened the door for me to hop back in the car, and we immediately took off.

  “Is everything okay?” Alberto asked.

  “Just give me a second,” I told him while I pulled out my red cell phone and called the Madame.

  “Madame! It’s B. Can you talk?”

  “Sure, honey, but try to make it fast. I’m in the middle of something.”

  When wasn’t she in a hurry? Anyway, I showered her with questions. “Why is Richard Weber so hot and so creepy at the same time? Why would this guy—who could have any woman in the world—hire someone like me? Why was he so turned on every time I said no?”

  “Honey, I have no time for all these questions; choose one, and I’ll answer that one.”

  I thought hard for a moment, and finally posed my question.

  “What would have happened if I had said yes?”

  “He would have run away,” she pronounced.

  “But why? Does he like me or not?”

  I could almost hear Madame rolling her eyes on the other end of the line. “Honey…he’s a compulsive seducer: he wants to chase but he doesn’t want to catch. There’s plenty of men like him. They work you like pizza dough, they make you soft and smooth until you’re ready for the oven, and then, when you’re finally willing to go into the fire, they lose interest.”

  “But does he like me or not?” I asked anxiously.

  “Does he like you? He cannot even see you! He sees a body that he likes, but you are just an object to him. And by the sound of your voice, I wonder if he’s just an object to you too.”

  “He’s not an object to me!” I replied.

  “If you could really see him as a person, you’d see a guy who will never be able to have a meaningful relationship in his life. That’s what you would see. If you could see him as a person, you wouldn’t be lusting after him, you’d feel sorry for him.”

  Before I could say, “What the hell are you talking about?,” Madame cut the whole thing short.

  “I have to go. We’ll talk tomorrow,” she said, and hung up, leaving me overwhelmed by my own thoughts.

  Was I objectifying Richard? Let’s face it, the guy was gorgeous, but, truth be told, the whole concept of someone who chases something that he doesn’t want to catch is kind of disturbing. Could you imagine spending your life in pursuit of something that in the end you don’t even want? Always longing for something that is useless once you get it?

  The ancient Greeks wrote about a character called Tantalus who was punished by the gods. He was up to his neck in water, and dying of thirst, but every time he tried to bend over to drink it, the water level would drop, so he kept being thirsty and yet surrounded by liquid. Richard was somehow like that, surrounded by women he could have, but as soon as he had them, he wouldn’t want them anymore. No one and nothing could quench his thirst.

  Suddenly I couldn’t think of him as the hot stud with the perfect body, I just saw him for what he was: someone who would be terribly lonely for the rest of his life. I felt sympathy for him, but the sexual attraction disappeared. Yes, he was an exceptionally handsome man, but he had the same psychological twists and turns that we all have. Women always complain of being objectified by men, but that night I realized that I had objectified Richard—and probably many others who had passed through my life before him.

  “We’re home,” Alberto announced “Are you okay, Miss B?”

  “I’m hanging in there,” I sighed.

  “It’s been a tough day for me too,” he said, letting go a deep sigh himself. I understood that he wanted to chat, so instead of getting out of the car I moved to the front of the limo.

  “Would you like to go for a ride?” I asked him.

  “Sure!”

  We rolled down the windows so he could smoke a cigar. I don’t smoke, but I love the smell of Cuban cigars, and his were Montecristos, courtesy of his brother in Miami.

  The night was clear and fresh, and the Brooklyn Bridge looked like a Christmas ornament, hanging over the East River with its bright lights reflecting on the water.

  “What’s going on with you?” I asked.

  “My wife and my daughters are in Florida with my mother-in-law.” He made a short pause before simply adding, “I miss them.”

  He pulled out the picture of his wife and kids. All three of them were chubby and adorable. They had the smiles of people who know they’re loved.

  “How cute!” I said.

  “Rosa is five, and Margarita is seven. They’re good kids.”

  I almost cried. I know, it’s silly, I barely knew this guy, but the fact that a big man like him would acknowledge something so tender and personal in front of a stranger moved me a lot.

  We took the long way back home. He told me about his mother in the Dominican Republic, and his grandmother who was turning one hundred this year. He
told me about the kids growing up, the lack of privacy at home, and how he and his wife could only have sex while doing the laundry in the basement. It was all so simple and sweet.

  “Do you have a boyfriend?” Alberto asked.

  “No,” I replied, somehow embarrassed.

  “Why?” he asked, surprised.

  Every time I hear that damned question, I feel like there’s no way to answer it without being sarcastic. Let’s see…why don’t I have a boyfriend? Maybe I’m ugly, or fat, or stupid. Maybe nobody likes me. Maybe I’m unlovable. What the hell can you answer to that? But in this case, probably because I was feeling much better about myself, or because Alberto asked it in a genuinely surprised way, it didn’t feel like a threatening question, so I answered as honestly as I could.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I bet you’re picky,” replied Alberto, winking at me.

  Before I had time to reply with something like “I’m so not picky, and I’ve been so desperately lonely, that I’ve even considered dating sex offenders that are currently serving time on Rikers Island,” Alberto offered his matchmaking services: “Do you ever go to Miami?”

  “Every once in a while. My parents retired down there,” I replied.

  “Next time you go, you have to meet my brother. I think you two could hit it off. He needs someone like you.”

  That was the sweetest compliment I had ever heard in my life. The fact that Alberto felt that someone he loved needed someone like me in his life was so kind and flattering that I was terribly moved.

  Every once in a while—usually when I most need it—I get a little message from God, but these messages are never delivered by people who claim to speak on God’s behalf. Priests and televangelists don’t do anything for me. The moment I see that they make money out of the faithful, I lose respect for them.

  My messages come usually from obscure and subtle sources. Sometimes God’s messages are delivered by a book that I’m reading, by a song that I heard at the right moment, or even by a stranger on the street. One day I was walking down Fifty-ninth Street, with all my office worries swirling in my head like a Midwestern tornado, when a homeless lady—out of nowhere—told me, “Let go and let God!” and—having said that—kept going. Corny as it may sound, that’s exactly what I needed to hear to stop my self-flagellating thoughts and realize that I was obsessing over things that were way beyond my control.