Slant

by Eikeltje

  angle to reveal everything but his face.

  He holds out his hand. "Thanks for coming," he says.

  She murmurs politely that she's glad to be here, as if it's the most natural

  thing in the world. Alice guesses his age, from his voice and the skin on his

  hand, as forty or forty-five,well-maintained, but probably not a chronovore--not

  receiving treatments to stay young. This relieves her a little. Chronovores Spock her.

  "Have a seat, please. Let's get acquainted."

  The man wears a pair of loose reddish-brown lounging pajamas and a sleeveless

  vest. His muscles are adequately developed, shoulders broad, and he has

  the suggestion of a tummy roll, not uncomely. She focuses on that small imperfection.

  It gives her faceless client some character; everything else is more

  slippery than ice.

  "I hope you don't mind not seeing my face." The lights twist and refocus,

  switch on and off, as he moves around the couch and takes her extended hand.

  "Your place is lovely," Alice says.

  "Thank you. I don't use it for this sort of thing very often, I assure you.

  Not specifically.., for our arrangement, I mean."

  "Oh."

  "Can I get you anything? What's your thirst?" he asks.

  "A glass of wine, please. Veriglos."

  / SLANT 79

  alcohol to complex intoxicants such as hyper-caff, amine flowers, neuromimes,

  and a broad number of things currently illegal. She prefers her own, natural

  reactions.

  "Good. That's what I hoped you'd say." The man orders an arbeiter to bring

  a glass of white Veriglos. She takes the glass from the arbeiter's traytop and

  sips. "Very nice. You've picked my favorite--Zucker Vineyards, I think."

  She cultivates a tone not overly familiar, expectant but relaxed and unhurried;

  as if they have been lovers in the past. To give value will be the saving

  of her self-opinion, her sense of honor.

  "I don't know much about wine," the man says. His voice is tense, though

  he hides it well enough. "Everything I'm served tastes pretty good." He tries

  to conceal a nervous breath, making a small hup. "I didn't know whether you

  were available.., for private appearances."

  She smiles in the direction of his face, which she can barely make out in

  outline. Something besides shadow obscures his features, not a mask--some

  technological trick, a projected blurring. She puts on her own kind of mask

  now, obscuring not features but intent. "I'm always available for kindhearted

  strangers," she says. "The question is, how available are you?"

  The man's stance stiffens and his hand clutches the fabric covering one hip. Oops, too foru'ard.

  "Not ar all, unfortunately," the man says. She wonders if the room alters

  his voice; and whether, in bed, the shape of his body and his mannerisms will

  be enhanced by some other wizardry. The artificial stranger...

  Actually, to her irritation, she finds this mildly interesting.

  "But for this evening," he continues, "I'm yours, completely and absolutely.

  At your command . . . A final treat. I've done some good things in this life

  and I deserve something in return." He steps to her right and sits beside her.

  Despite the following shadow and blur, she senses him inspecting her from

  this new angle.

  She mimes a little nervousness and looks away, to startle up his protective/

  possessive instincts. In these situations she has not been nervous for fifteen

  years; she knows exactly what is going on, but that is not sexy to many men.

  "I'm honored," she says with a small catch. "This is a little overpowering.

  You must be very wealthy."

  He ignores that. "I think all men hope for genuine passion in their women,"

  he says. "We like to imagine ourselves so handsome and devastating that we

  break down the hardest walls.., don't you agree?" His voice seems to smile,

  so she smiles in return.

  "That seems to be what most men want," she says.

  "I won't expect that of you," he says softly.

  But you're paying, so that's what you'll think you're getting, she vows.

  "I am a gentle man, really," he says. "I don't get off on physical strength

  80 GREG BEAR

  Alice stretches her arms, a little restless. "I hope there's more furniture,"

  she says.

  "I'm referring to my situation," he says. "I hope you'll enjoy being here.

  I'm as concerned for how you feel--who and what you are.., as I am for my

  own pleasure. My own feelings."

  Now it is Alice's turn to stiffen, though she hides it better. This man,

  whoever he is, is of the type dreaded by the sex care trade. He wants to get

  under Alice's professional facade and establish a deeper liaison. He wants to

  touch her emotions as if she were some lovesick young girl; perhaps that will

  be the only way he can get off. In her brief time doing call-ins, she heard other

  women talk about these types, yet she never encountered one. He hides, but he

  wants to know all about me.

  Well, she can mock that, too. "It's always nice when that happens," she

  says. She reaches out to touch his arm, puts on a small concerned expression.

  "How big is this place? I'd love to see more." She wants to speed the process.

  "Certainly," the man says. "I hope you don't mind if I'm curious. I know

  that's so common--the client wants to know everything, tells nothing

  about himself. But I feel as if I've known you for so long ... from your

  vids. I really am a fan, and it would give me no end of pleasure to have you

  tell me, you know, what you'd like all of your fans to know, if you had the

  chance."

  Alice broadens her smile. "Of course."

  "What I'd really enjoy . . ." he says. "If I can.., ask for such things . . . is

  to make love to you, as if we'd just met."

  Alice cannot riddle this easily. He sounds unsure of himself, and this at

  tempt to insinuate into her affections actually does have an awkward sweetness

  that could point to sincerity. Alice knows that the best men are those who

  remain boys in some heart-deep place, and keep some genuine naYvet as a

  kind of talisman against too much reality.

  The calculating, fully adult male, grimly certain of the way of the world,

  able to smell advantage and compelled to go for it, can make a selfish and

  distasteful partner, even for one evening.

  So, what is this male? A good actor, perhaps; as good as she is.

  "What I really need right now," Alice says, "is a bathroom."

  "Right," the man says, and jumps from the couch. "Other rooms, other

  furniture."

  She follows his shaded form into another hall, this one lined with antique

  black and white prints, covered with glass. She thinks they might be from

  Victorian times; men in stiff dark formal attire, festooned with ribbons and

  medals, standing around tables. Other men wearing turbans, fezzes, and robes,

  clearly at a disadvantage, are seated by the tables, and on the tables are pieces

  of paper and feather pens, and beyond the men and the tables, viewed through

  . ;nA

  ,,ro run of minarets or Eastern domes.

  /

  SLANT 81

  silently with each other. The effect disappoints her. Honest immobility is so

  unusual in art now.

  Wh
erever he goes, the male is still shrouded by lights and strategic blurs.

  This kind of camouflage must be terribly expensive.

  They enter a simple but elegant bedroom. The bed is square and flat and

  the pillows are arranged at the top, a very traditional sort of bed. The bedcover

  is a white embroidered down comforter. The floor is polished wood, spotlessly

  clean of course.

  No windows.

  "The bathroom is over there," the man says. Alice follows his finger toward

  a door barely visible against the velvety grayness of a far wall. The door opens

  as she approaches and a light shines brightly within, white marble and gold

  fixtures, dazzling her eyes. She turns within the room to catch a glimpse of

  this uncontrolled light shining on the man, but he has his back to her, and

  the illumination does not seem to reach him anyway.

  The toilet is simple and elegant, gracefully curved like an upside down

  seashell, the seat low-slung, incorporating a bidet. It is a diagnostic toilet,

  common in many homes these days--and ubiquitous in public lavatories,

  where your deposits--though guaranteed anonymous--are quickly analyzed

  and become part of public health records.

  Her bladder is very full. She relieves herself-wondering if the rich male is

  recording all, even the analysis of her urine--, washes herself, and stands to

  adjust her clothing. The seams come together smoothly at her touch. She

  glances in the mirror, asks the door to open, and returns to the bedroom.

  The male has undressed and is standing naked beside the bed. His face is

  still obscured, but the lights do not hide his body. He must be proud of it,

  she thinks. He is about fifty, actually, in good condition, though not heavily

  muscled. His arms and upper torso are shapely but smooth, lacking the delineations

  and hollows that Alice personally favors. His stomach is slightly plump,

  and there is a fair amount of chest hair and even hair on his abdomen. His

  penis is of ordinary size, circumcised. No surprises this far, no apparent projections

  to deceive her he might hope for a genuine experience, not to use her

  as a higher sort of prosthetute.

  "I'd like to see all of you," Alice says. "I'm very discreet."

  "No," the male says. He does not move.

  "Is there anything you'd like?" Alice asks. "I mean, specifically..."

  "Just be yourself," the male says. "I like you the way you are. As I said, I

  appreciate real passion."

  "The eyes make a big difference. To me."

  "Sorry," the male says.

  Alice walks forward, tugging at the top of her garment, fingers working

  along the hidden seams. First she reveals a shoulder. She keeps her eyes fixed

  approximately on his, and bites her lower lip for a moment before tossing her

  82 GREG BEAR

  She glances down again, first at his penis, pausing as if she finds it attractive,

  then at the floor. She has learned these techniques and measured their effects

  on men and practiced them for so long that she does not regard them as artful.

  She is simply good at what she does. The proof is in the male's reaction as she

  draws closer.

  Well good then; he's not too jaded.

  Before revealing her breasts, she reaches down and tugs open the legs of her

  pants, allowing a glimpse of crotch. Then she pulls the fabric down over her

  breasts, looking at him steadily as if concerned about his approval, she will be

  devastated if he does not approve; as men imagine a young woman new to sex

  might behave. She walks in seeming shreds now, only her abdomen and thighs

  still covered.

  "Very good," he says, and clears his throat.

  She suspects he does not want her to say much at this point, but he does

  not want her to be silent, either. She comes closer, one finger tugging gently

  at the seam beneath her crotch, not enough to separate it. "Will you do this

  for me?" she asks. The male touches her wrist, follows her fingers up into the

  seam, and tugs. The seam separates.

  "Good," Alice says throatily.

  He fingers her a little roughly, but she does not flinch away. This is not for

  her; the male is paying. He rubs and chuckles. "You're not wet," he says.

  "Maybe I need a little more attention," Alice suggests. In fact, she feels no

  signs of impending wetness; there is nothing for her to focus on, nothing

  around which she can invoke a fantasy. The male's body by itself is hardly

  inspiring. His reluctance to show his face irritates rather than intrigues. She

  is not impressed by his wealth and power because for all she knows he is

  e borrowing someone else's apt for the evening; he might be a poor friend of

  someone well-off. No reason for interest here.

  Alice has always been aware of her dreadful lack of nesting instincts. She

  has never reacted to wealth and power alone, nor been tempted to chase after

  partners with status. She trades sex for money, but never self. Self she has never

  given to anyone.

  Not wet. Jesus/

  He works at her awkwardly with his finger, which is dry and a little harsh.

  What you see is what you get: ma/e, middle years, sex a drive not an art, ah we//it's

  a bztsiness.

  "Did you ever imagine, when you were a young girl, that you'd be doing

  this?" the male asks.

  "Having sex?" Alice asks in return.

  "Being paid for it, by someone you don't know."

  "I might know you," Alice jokes, hoping to fend off the personal questions.

  She does not need or want to establish a relationship beyond the most fundamental,

  and that for as briefly as possible. "If you let me see your face--"

  /

  SLANT 83

  "No," the male says again, not angrily, but more forcefully. "Well, did you?"

  His finger seems to be off on its own errands. She knows she will react

  eventually to this sort of fumbling, but real arousal and autonomic moisten

  are two different things at this stage of her life. "Depends what age you mean."

  She has even had orgasms without feeling terribly aroused or connected to

  her partners, contra the hordes of (all too often male) evolutionary theorists who

  buzz around the topic of feminine sex-drive like puzzled flies.

  "Ah." He withdraws his finger and moves the same hand up to her breast,

  where he continues to pursue his mechanical stimulations. "You started

  young?"

  She clasps his hand, forces the fingers flat, and works his palm around her

  nipple. Then she shifts his hand to the left breast. "This one's better," she says,

  and mocks breathlessness. He is not yet fully erect; he is thinking to J' much

  and she must take charge.

  Alice leans toward the shadowy face, wondering how close she can get before

  the illusion of darkness fails. Curiously, it is like falling into a hole; he returns

  her kiss but she still sees nothing. The effect is disorienting, then a little scary.

  Being scared has never stimulated her.

  Alice drops his hand, turns full circle, and removes her garment completely.

  She backs up, rubbing her buttocks lightly against him; this accomplishes the

  desired effect.

  She glides onto the bed. She will tell him a story; maybe he'll finish faster.

  "I started young," she says. "I found men very a
ttractive. I was pretty at an

  early age. Men responded. I took advantage of them."

  "Did you ever think you would have sex for money?"

  She crinkles her eyes, shakes her head. "Why?"

  The male has not joined her on the bed, but stands naked and once again

  de-tumescing, with that shaded void where his upper shoulders and head

  should be. "If we disappoint our youthful selves, what can we do in this life

  that is worth doing?"

  Alice for the first time in this encounter feels real irritation, even anger. She

  blunts it, pushes it under. Smiles and stretches, rolling her hips slightly. She

  would like this to be over.

  "Do you ask your wife such questions?" she asks coquettishly.

  "Never," he says. "She wouldn't stand for it. But I'm curious. I wonder at

  the contradictions between the way I see women, how they see themselves,

  how everybody pretends to see them."

  The male is no fool. She specks him now as a lobe-slave driven by theory,

  his curiosity a cold kind of lust. He does not want sex; he wants personal