by Amy Brent
She got the standard admissions tour, which came with a run-down of the amenities (a library with 134,682 books, as if someone had actually sat down and counted them all) and a brief explanation of how work-study worked. Her GED, which she’d taken to become emancipated at the age of sixteen, was still good, so she didn’t need to take that again. The arts program was nice—they worked in traditional media but also alongside programmers and animators—and she thought that there was something in it for her, especially when she saw some of the students’ projects.
Her mother and father would be pretty darn furious about it, though. A fine arts degree from a prestigious university was pretty darn useless as it was—never mind one from a community college. But she could spin graphic design as a good skill and a worthy degree to have. If there was one thing living in LA had taught her, it was that people were suckers for good design.
It was barely noon when she left the admissions office, resolved to talk out the financials with her parents that evening. That gave her three hours before she had to get the car back to her mother—plenty of time to take a dip and do a few laps.
At noon in the middle of the week there were very few people there, and the people that were there were mostly old and saggy. Still, swimming was swimming, and as she dived into the pool she felt her body come alive again, and what a joy it was to be weightless in the water. She could still do nearly a full length of the pool without taking a breath.
Freestyle, breaststroke, butterfly—she did them all, and as she hung onto the pool after a series of laps she heard someone behind her say, “You’re quite a swimmer.”
She turned around, expecting to see one of the old men who were doing languid laps in the pool—there were always older guys around looking to flirt with her, and that went double because her swimsuit had cutaways in the sides, enough to be interesting but not enough to be risque. He was treading water behind her. He was definitely older, but his arms were lean and ripped, and she thought she could make out a well-defined six pack despite the water. His face was vaguely familiar—she had the feeling that she’d seen him before on TV, which was ridiculous because there were no celebrities in Bloomsdale, Maryland. But he seemed pleasant enough, open and honest, with a nice smile. “Thanks,” she said, pleasantly surprised. Most of the men who wanted to talk to her were old enough to be her grandfather, which she found sketchy as hell.
“Name’s Jack,” he said. “I’d uh, shake your hand but I’m kind of busy right now.”
“Max,” she said. “That’s all right.”
“Race you to the other end,” he said, grinning.
Oh really, she thought. He must have only just arrived—otherwise he wouldn’t have made such a silly challenge. “What’s the prize for winning?” she asked, as he slid under the lane marker and into the one next to her.
“If I win, a date with you, if you win, how about twenty bucks?”
She should’ve known that he would go or something like that—not that she planned on losing to him. “One date,” she said, “that’s it.”
“One date,” he agreed, “though I may ask you out again.”
“You’re assuming that you’ll get that lucky,” she retorted, grinning.
“Oh ho, getting cocky now, are we?” he asked.
“Not as cocky as you are, thinking that you can beat me,” she said.
He shook his head, smiling. “I knew I’d like you the moment I saw you,” he said.
“Make it fifty,” she said, trying to decide between her butterfly and crawl—the butterfly was a faster stroke, but it took a lot out of her. But then again, there was only one lap—
“Fifty it is,” he said.
He must be loaded, she thought, as she braced herself against the pool
“Go!” he shouted, and she took off, kicking against the water with both legs in an explosive burst that took her almost a quarter length of the pool before she had to kick again.
The butterfly was faster but it was harder to get right, and if she didn’t time every movement, from the sweep of her arms to the rippling kick with both legs, it would be a sure way to lose. But she was good at the butterfly, if only because it was more fun than lifting weights to keep her upper body toned for her modeling career. She flexed herself, snapping her legs into the water again, certain that he was behind her—three more strokes to go and victory would be hers. He was nowhere in sight. Two more strokes and she would be fifty dollars richer. One more stroke—
And then all of a sudden he rocketed past her and touched his wall just a fraction of a second before she touched hers. “Ha!” he shouted, ripping off his goggles.
She stared at him, bug-eyed with disbelief: how did this happen again? He wasn’t Michael Phelps, was he? “Don’t feel bad,” he said, reaching over the rope to shake her hand. “I should’ve told you that I was the state champion and an Olympic contender.”
“That—that wasn’t fair!” she sputtered angrily. “If I’d known—”
“You’d have still raced, don’t deny it,” he said. “To be honest, I didn’t think I’d beat you.”
She scowled and pulled herself out of the pool, heading to the bench for her towel and flip-flops.
“Oh come on,” he cajoled now, following her. “One date with me isn’t so bad, is it?”
She bit her lip and rolled her eyes as she headed into the women’s locker room. You did make a bet, she thought reluctantly. One date—not the end of the world. She would survive. “Pick me up tonight at seven, 1725 Wynwood Lane,” she said.
“Wear something hot,” he called, as the door slammed shut in his face.
“You what?” her father sputtered.
“You what?” her mother gasped.
I probably should have told them, thought Max, now, turning red. She wore a short skirt and high heels and a sequined, silvery camisole top, with a cute little black bolero. It was a far cry from the jeans and sweatshirt that she’d worn earlier that day, and when her parents saw her outfit they, predictably enough, flipped out. And then, when she told them why she was dressed “like a two-bit whore” as her father put it, she thought they were going to ground her or something absurdly childish like that.
“I’m not a child anymore,” she said, which set off another round of apoplectic anger and speechless stuttering noises from them both.
At that moment, though, the doorbell rang, and she could see the conflict: politeness for the stranger, or scolding their daughter for her bad decision? Max didn’t care: she straightened her back and opened the door. “Hi Jack,” she said, as he stepped inside. He was wearing rather tight jeans, she noticed appreciatively, and a simple white form-fitting t-shirt that showed off his slim waist. He carried a black leather jacket over his arm. When he saw her parents, he nodded and said, smiling, “Sam, Darlene, nice to see you—”
“Wait—you know my parents?” she gasped. “Are there any other secrets to you that I should know about?”
He shrugged, grinning. “Don’t worry, I’ll take good care of her,” he said, to her parents, who were still trying to figure out what to say.
“Max,” her father said, now, a low, dangerous anger in his voice. “Can we talk?”
“Dad,” she said.
“Now,” he said.
She looked at Jack helplessly, but he waved her towards her parents, saying, “I can wait. I was expecting this.” He sat down on their living room sofa, while her father pulled her into the kitchen.
“Max,” her father said, before she could protest. “Jack and I have been business associates for most of our adult lives, now. I know the guy—he’s sketchy as fuck—yes, I just said the f-word. That’s how bad he is—”
“Dad,” she said, “I know you think I’m still a little girl, but I’ve been living on my own in LA for three years. It’s just one date, okay? No big deal.”
“You say that—” he began, but she was already on her way back out and she walked out the front door quickly, before her parents could cat
ch up. She knew her father would be trying to run after her, trying to say something that resembled a coherent sentence instead of useless, futile rage. Jack followed her out and opened the door to the car for her.
“What was that about?” Jack asked, as he settled into the driver’s seat and pulled on his seatbelt.
“My dad says you’re a terrible person,” she said.
He laughed. “Yeah, yeah, he would,” he said, softly.
“Well, I don’t think you’re terrible,” she said. “Rude, maybe. Pushy, sure. But you don’t kick puppies or anything, do you?”
He smiled at her. “You know, I knew you’d understand.”
***
For an older guy, he definitely knew where all the fun things were. She’d had her share of men in LA; the younger ones would take her to skanky clubs where the cover was only a dollar and drinks were three for five. The older ones would take her out to classy restaurants and take her dancing. Thirty seemed to be the age of demarcation—she’d never dated anyone older than thirty-five, and now here she was with a guy old enough to be her dad, in a wine club on the outskirts of Bethesda, sampling glasses of wine, olives, figs, and roasted nuts. “I’m not twenty-one,” she’d hissed as they approached the entrance.
“I’ve got that taken care of,” he said.
And he did. Somehow, he merely whispered something to the man standing outside—a bouncer, perhaps, except the place was hardly rowdy enough to need a bouncer—and she was escorted in with him. They took their places next to each other in a booth, and every few minutes someone would come up to the table pushing a cart with a bottle wine and a small plate of food, and they could either take a glass or send it along. It was sort of like dim sum but for wine and tapas, and as she popped a stuffed olive in her mouth she felt Grown Up in a way that she’d never felt before. On her previous dates, the guy would order the wine, and try to tell her how she should swirl the glass, what to look for, how to taste, but Jack would merely say, “Oh, this looks like a good bottle. Shall we try a glass?”
“You’re not going to tell me how to aerate my wine?” she asked now, sipping at the dark, rich liquid on her tongue.
“Why should I?” he asked. “Presumably if the wine needed to breathe, they’d have done it already.”
“Most of the guys that I’ve dated want to teach me things about wine, that’s all.”
“Do you want to learn?”
She shook her head. “If it’s good—like this one—the that’s enough for me.”
“Not a fan of tannins,” he remarked.
“Is that what makes your mouth go dry?”
He smiled at her. “You’re good,” he said, approvingly. “I knew you were smarter than most people think you are.”
“Try telling that to my parents,” she said. “They still think I’m a stupid fourteen-year-old who has her mind in the clouds thinking that she can model. What do they have against you, anyway?”
He darkened a bit, a combination of embarrassment and anger. “My ex-wife. She says that I beat her.”
“Did you?”
“Not exactly.”
She blinked at him, wondering what on earth he could possibly be talking about. He tilted his glass down his throat and gulped it down. “What the hell,” he said, finally, his voice harsh from the wine. “It’s not like we’re going to fuck tonight, anyway, right? I mean, you’re probably still a virgin, right?”
She blushed. Now it was her turn to be embarrassed and angry. “What’s it to you if I am?” she demanded. “Just because I have standards for the men that I will go to bed with doesn’t mean that I’ll never sleep with anyone.”
He leaned back and studied her for a minute, debating whether to tell her. Then he said, “I know what the stories are about me, but I didn’t beat my ex-wife. But my sexual tastes run into the realms of the—shall we say, perverse.”
“Oh my God, you’re not into children are you?” she asked—a bit too loudly, it seemed, because all of a sudden he seemed to panic and tried to shush her. Fortunately if anybody noticed they at least had the decency to ignore her remark.
“No, no—nothing like that. I mean things like—well, blindfolds, whips, handcuffs—that sort of thing.”
She had to stifle a giggle when she heard that. For some reason she always associated “handcuffs” with “pink fuzzy things that never really locked” and it just seemed absurd imagining him with them, his arms above his head—probably getting tickled with a feather duster. “Sorry,” she said. “It’s just—not something I’d expected to hear from you.” He was her father’s age, after all—granted, he was far better-preserved than her father had ever been—and for some reason she never thought of older men as being into anything kinkier than maybe having the woman on top.
He shrugged, relieved that she wasn’t going to blurt out any more incriminating insinuations about him. “I am what I am,” he said, stopping one of the waiters and pointing to the bottle on her cart. She poured, and when she walked away he continued, “My ex-wife thought she would be into it, but when push came to shove, no pun intended, I hurt her—that part is true. But it was always part of the game, you see—for people like me, pain and pleasure go together. Our pleasure is heightened when there is an edge to it. It transcends the act of sex and turns it into an—well, an experience, to put it mildly.” He was getting excited as he spoke and she could feel herself getting drawn into his words, her curiosity making her wonder if maybe she could have done it, after all. When she’d been looking into doing pornos the guys who directed those kinds of videos had surprised her when they said they didn’t pay—they didn’t have to, they explained. Women actually paid them, and that had never made any sense to her—they were getting penetrated, shocked, chained, bound, and gagged—why suffer all the extra humiliation if they weren’t paid? But now that he’d explained it to her she began to wonder if there wasn’t something else to it, after all. “You have to know what you’re doing and know your limits and trust your partner completely,” he said, now, looking into her eyes. “There’s an element of faith involved—there’s no middle ground, no ‘I’ll trust him if’. You’re either all in or all out.”
“You must really need to know someone before you try that,” she murmured. Strangely, she found herself thinking, I could trust you. But why was that? She’d only just met him—objectively there was no reason for her to trust him, other than that he seemed to be, well, trustworthy. But unlike her parents, he didn’t make her feel like an idiot, he didn’t twist her words to mean what she clearly didn’t—he respected her enough to take her opinions seriously, even if they didn’t always agree. As a case in point: another bottle of wine and another plate of tapas floated by—crispy eggplant, covered in aioli sauce.
What the hell, she was thinking. It wasn’t as if she would ever model again—at nineteen, she was officially “middle-aged” as a model, and if she reached twenty-one without obtaining supermodel status the most modeling she’d ever do would be as one of the nudes for the art department at Montco. And what the hell, too: her parents would be furious with her anyway for going on a date like this—she might as well give them a reason to be infuriated. It was a shitty reason to have sex for the first time—but at least he would know what he was doing, which was more than she could say for any of her other dates.
He sighed and continued, “And then there are people who aren’t wired that way—for them, pain is just pain. There’s no pleasure in it, and no matter how much they want it they just can’t feel it, you know? My ex was one of those. We tried for six months—and then she filed for divorce, and the rumors began. I spent a small fortune settling that—and, well, my reputation has never recovered.”
“That’s hardly fair,” she said, sympathetically.
“It is what it is,” he said, popping a crumb-covered fried mushroom into his mouth. “But that’s why your parents don’t like me, and truth be told, I wouldn’t approve of you dating me, either. I’m quite the disreputable cha
rmer, according to those who know.”
“So charm me,” she said, “if you can.”
“Are you sure?” he asked. “The kinds of role-play I like aren’t for virgins who have yet to discover what turns them on.”
“I haven’t had sex yet,” she said, evenly. “That doesn’t mean I don’t know what turns me on.” It was a lie—she didn’t know what she wanted just yet—but she did know that his description of pain and pleasure had excited her curiosity like nothing else.
He frowned at her, studying her. “You have to want it because it’s what makes you happy,” he said. “I can’t give you that.”
“Then teach me,” she said.
“All right.” He reached under the table and rested his hand on her thigh, tracing his thumb back and forth across the tender skin on the inside of her thighs. A shiver ran through her, and from it, came a tiny little spark of anticipation.
His hand moved slightly higher up her thighs, but his thumb was still making that slow sweep back and forth, back and forth, setting off tremors of anticipation all over her skin—but just when she was getting turned on by it—just when she could feel herself getting wet and hot—he stopped.
“What—” she began, her voice hardly more than a whisper.
“Rule number one,” he said, softly. “You can always say ‘stop’. It won’t always be that word, exactly—but when we get to my house we can pick a safe word. Until then, though—if it ever gets to be too much, you can always say ‘stop’, and I will stop, and I’ll bring you home, and we’ll never speak of it again.”
“Got it,” she said, wishing he would resume.
“Rule number two,” he continued, “total honesty. I will always tell you what I’m going to do to you—but it is up to you to tell me what you think is all right.”
