by Gia Sola
I admire the slope of her breasts - unfettered it would seem - as they dance to the rhythm of her laugh. It’s a haughty sound, that laugh. It rises from the depths of her soul, bubbling up slowly before turning into an earthy impertinence that rolls over her tongue like a river approaching the falls. It’s music to my ears.
And her eyes - blue like the sky. She throws back her head and they open wide as the universe, while her hair swirls down her neck like a mane.
I want to know what those eyes have seen. I want to go where that mouth will take me. I want to harness her ass and gallop with this filly.
She’s alone at the party - and not unused to going solo. I know that by the way she sashays her way through the crowd, shoulders back, tits up, eyes boldly making contact. I know it by the way she clutches the purse that houses her cash and her keys - and probably that lip gloss.
And I know it, too, by how shamelessly she’s flirting with the host. I watch her touch the lapel of your jacket and straighten your tie, see her nuzzling a breast against your arm.
I find an attendant to get rid of my coat, then make my way through the room and inch up behind her. When your nod gives me leave to interpose, I angle around the curls framing her face and whisper in her ear.
“Pardon, Mademoiselle. Aidez-moi, s’il vous plait?”
She flutters her lashes at me. “What kind of help would you like, Monsieur?” Her voice, too, is voluptuous.
I hold her gaze. And although she doesn’t waver, she reveals an appealing vulnerability by crossing an arm about her chest to hold on to her bare shoulder.
My words form slowly. “I saw you arrive...and decided I wanted to know you.” I extend my hand. “Please allow me to introduce myself.”
She gives me a knowing smile then offers a firm handshake. Her lips look luscious when she opens her mouth to say her name. I want to kiss her but restrain myself. Graciously, you leave us alone, so I say something about needing help to plan an escape from your party and invite her to join me for a drink at the bar.
“Merci,” she says.
I put my palm against the small of her back to steer her out of the salon. She sways to the music, relaxing into my touch. I like that. She sets her purse on the bar and waits until I’ve ordered our drinks before she speaks again. That’s another thing I like, a woman who reflects on what she’ll say. I figure I’ve not only got myself a live one here, but a smart one too.
She takes her vodka martini with ice, stirs it with a red-tipped finger while peering at me from under a veil of lashes. Her eyes sparkle in the light of the chandelier. I tell her so. And ask if she’s enjoying the party.
“Parties are designed with the illusion that we’re social animals,” she says. She puts her finger in her mouth and sucks on it.
“Are we not?” I’m watching her suck. “I’ve been watching you...uh, socialize.”
She curls a knuckle under her chin. “I was reading Aldous Huxley today...” she says.
I interrupt with a condescending ‘Were you now?”
“Don’t interrupt...and don’t be condescending,” she says, pointing her finger at me. The scent of her perfume could turn a man into a beast. It’s familiar but I can’t place it.
“Huxley suggested we may live together and react to one another,” she goes on, “but that always, in all circumstances we are by ourselves. What do you think about that?”
I tell her, “I think ‘The martyrs may go hand in hand into the arena, but they are crucified alone.’ ”
Excitement blossoms like a red tide that flows up from her cleavage. “You know it!”
I’m pleased to have made such an impression but stifle the smirk forming on my lips and sip at my drink. She sips hers.
And then we stand silently among the crowd, two deep at the bar, until she casually touches my watch and leans over to look at the time. It makes me wonder if she’s planned a rendezvous - and with whom.
I move closer, close enough to feel her body heat, close enough to see the freckles sprinkled along her shoulder. Her skin is taut, smoother than most women her age. I wonder how old she is and whether she looks this good naked.
She breaks the mood. “What do you think about the notion of a Utopian existence?”
I shrug, look to the other side of the room. The glass-enclosed humidor vault is thick with smokers and the grand lounge overflowing with people bent on forming a kinship with their next drink. Her lips are pouty when I face her again.
Then she says something puzzling. She says, “I believe humans get desperate about it.”
I’m curious why she uses that word. “What are you desperate about?” I ask. “Being alone? Or being human?” By now, the ice has watered down my drink. I finish it off.
Her gaze is steady as she inquires, “Why do you think I’m alone?”
I’m silent about that, and about the other point too.
She dips her finger into her drink to move the ice around. “Your smile is mocking, sir,” she says. “It’s not attractive.”
“I do not mock you, my dear,” I say.
“I’m not your dear,” she says, as she pivots to scan the room.
I want her full attention; decide to throw a curve ball, and ask, “Do you know who I am?”
With a measured turn of her shoulders, she rotates to face me, and like she’s the pitcher trying to psych out the man with the bat, she looks around before setting down her glass. Then she takes hold of her wrist, raises her hand, and puts a finger between her lips while undressing me with her eyes. Her eyes travel from the top of my head, to my jaw; then she follows the line of my tie down past my belt buckle. She keeps that suggestive hold on her wrist as she removes her finger through pursed lips, giving me a real salacious smile.
“No,” she says. “Who are you?”
I’m thinking I’d better be cool about my interest. Beautiful women are always getting hit on, and I don’t want her to think I’m willing to be just another drone in the hive. I don’t move a muscle. I just continue to lean casually against the bar.
“Perhaps I’m the man of your dreams,” I say.
“Are you now?”
It’s not often that I regret my words. But I know I’ve figured wrong with this one when I see her lose her sexy smile. Nevertheless, I’m compelled to continue.
“You do dream, don’t you?”
The abrupt change in her body language is a slap in the face. She takes a step back. “You think a lot of yourself,” she says.
“I just wanted to create an impression.”
“You have,” she says, picking up her purse. “It was almost interesting, Luke.”
I like to hear a woman say my name. I press her arm. “Je regret. I’m not experienced at this,” I lie, putting on my Cheshire cat smile.
“I think you lie,” she says. “Now take your paws off me.”
It’s time for damage control. I ask her to be patient, tell her I sense that patience is one of her (many) virtues. I tell her how beautiful and smart she is.
“Flattery will get you a second chance,” she says. Then turning to set her purse on the bar, she adds, “But I don’t dream.”
I dismiss her mendacious remark and compliment her intelligence, her charms. In my mind I’m comparing her to a goddess, Persephone perhaps. And just to be fair, I relate a little about my own recurring dream. But ultimately, naturally, I turn to the subject of soul - and sex.
This has her warming up to me, until you come around to interject some logical reasoning.
“What a marvelous teacher you are,” she coos to you. “Pray tell, how long have you known this handsome Devil?”
You reply, offering too much information, mentioning my “hideaway” at the Plaza. When you turn your back, I make an unflattering characterization and she frowns.
“I’m not trying to be kind,” I tell her.
And then just as you’re doing right now, she narrows her eyes. “You might consider it,” she says. “Some say kindness would make the world a better place.”
“Who are they who say?” I ask her.
She turns out a pouty lip and goes back to her drink. I’m hoping another sip of vodka will mellow her out. It doesn’t. “Why do you need a hideaway?” she asks. “Are you married?”
Of course, I don’t answer. I pick up my drink and steer her across the room to one of the leather couches under the window. She won’t sit until I do. And then she takes the opposite end, offering that you told her to watch out for me.
I remind her, “No, Abelard said to be careful.”
But she won’t give it up. “Since you won’t answer about your status, perhaps you’d be willing instead to share more about that dark place in those dreams of yours,” she says.
“It’s not so much that it’s dark,” I confess to her like some schoolboy. “But sailing without a rudder seems to leave me without control.”
When she doesn’t comment on my weakness, it’s easier to share more of my dream’s intimate details. My voice is detached. I can hear it resonate from some subterranean depth as I relate the twisted story of my unconscious excursions - a mortifying nightmare that always has me needing rescue. But then like the woman in my dream, she saves me.
“Luke, you’re speaking in French. I don’t understand,” she says.
She’s a liar. Good girl, I think.
“But you mention a black river. Colors symbolize your values, you know.”
Of course, she’s got it wrong. It’s about the river I used to sail back home.
“Black is a good color to analyze,” she says. “It indicates a draw to the unknown.”
“Perhaps,” I say, stretching my arm across the back of the couch until my fingers graze her shoulder. “But I don’t put much credence in dream analysis.”
“You don’t?” She’s trying to hide her smile as she leans forward to adjust her skirt, running a hand under her smug little ass. “Well, it was you who brought up the subject, my dear,” she says.
Provoked by her taunt, I clear the knot in my throat and get up from the sofa.
She’s a sassy one. She looks at my crotch. “Got a date?” she says.
I smile, give her my best gentleman’s bow, and turn to cross the room. I can feel her watching my back. It’s an arousing sensation and I’m not sure how to gauge it, but I try to shrug it off by taking a walk around the club. I walk as far away as I can get.
That’s how I found you in the kitchen where you gave me that enchantment bullshit. I tell you all I’m looking for is a little novelty, that I like the challenge and that before long my wish will be her command. You insult me with a warning to be careful what I wish for.
.“Yeah, I’ll be real careful,” I say, as you go off to raise a toast with your guests.
No champagne for me, thanks. I head to the cigar vault to pick up a six inch Churchill. Then I order two martinis and a plate of appetizers and return to find her mesmerized by the view.
The city lights flickered with the cloying colors of Christmas. I remember admiring the spires of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. Why, I don’t know, except they rose up to pierce a clear, cold sky. The visibility went beyond Battery Park, all the way out to the torch of that liberty statue.
“You’re very kind to handle our bar service,” she says.
“You like that word, don’t you?” I sit next to her and offer an olive.
She plucks it from my fingers, dips it into her drink, and then she puts the olive in her mouth, puckering her lips as she chews. I want to kiss her, but restrain myself. Instead I watch the slow rotation of her delicate, determined jaw. After she’s consumed the little green fruit, she smiles at me again.
“Is kindness something you’re uncomfortable with?”
I don’t like the question and don’t reply. Believing she’d finally been silenced, I watch her drink her martini, staring into the distance with something of a Mona Lisa look on her lips.
But then suddenly, she turns to face me. “Water symbolizes your view of love,” she says. Damn her.
“Ahh, love,” I reply. “But what about lust?”
“What about it?” She crosses her legs, letting her hand capture my attention as she holds onto a well-shaped thigh.
She’s teasing me. It works. I tease back, take the cigar out of my pocket and fondle it. “Lust is much easier to control,” I say. Sometimes. “And longer-lasting.” Hopefully.
“Maybe the flowing river is an allegory representing your desire for constant motion,” she says. “Or perhaps it’s that you’re developing a thirst for new horizons. How comfortable are you with the idea of love in your heart...and with commitment?”
“I’m contented with the lust in my heart,” I offer.
“Lust? Yes, I see it in your eyes, as well.” Her talk is bold, but she’s the one who blinks.
“Some of us allow Passion to win the war,” I say.
She blinks again. “Who’s waging war against passion?”
“Why, Reason, of course.” I chuckle as I tuck the cigar back into my pocket.
She twists her shoulder, inching away from me. But when her body turns, the strapless dress stays put, giving me a better view of her breasts. Some engineering, I think.
“I love your provocative analysis of dreams,” I lie again.
“Oh, but we haven’t concluded the interpretation,” she says, tapping the swizzle stick along her red rouged lips. “There’s the matter of your being rudderless to consider.”
“Now it’s your smile that’s mocking, cherie,” I say.
“Is it?” She puts the swizzle stick back in her glass so she can fuss with her hair. “So are you French?” she asks, fingering one of the dark curls lapping at her neck. “Or is that an affectation?”
Now I recognize the fragrance! A field of lavender! I smile. “My mother is French.”
She smiles back. “And your father?”
“A New Orleans banker.”
“How fortunate.”
I’m certain her confident tone is a façade, am about to challenge it when a waiter arrives carrying a tray heavy with dessert. She selects a pomegranate compote; offers me a taste before licking the spoon with her last bite. I wonder if this is an affectation, or if it’s an unconscious action. Either way, I like it.
So then, we make small talk about France: the attitude, the culture, the fashion. And about New Orleans. About what she calls the ABC’s of the food: alligator, beignets, crawfish. She’s never been to Mardi gras, but she’s had her fortune told by a voodoo priest and bought a custom-made corset in the French Quarter.
Tourist stuff, I tell her. I tell her I know the real story behind Katrina and can show her NOLA’s dark side.
“I bet you can,” she says.
“Shall we?” I say, standing.
She smiles, accepts my hand. “Yes. If I keep drinking, there’ll be the Devil to pay.”
She has a well-kept apartment filled with antiques; a big couch, a big bay window, a big bed. I’ve got my hands all over her as soon as we’re in the door. Her dress is silky, like her skin. Her body is tight. I figure she either works out or she’s had work done - she’s not that young - but she’s perfect for me and I don’t care how she got that way. She likes me too. We’re so excited, we’re wrecking the place.
I help her get her dress off, unzipping it down to the lilac tattoo of a snake inked across her lower back. I undo my tie and loop it around her neck to pull her close and kiss her. Her honey lips feel as soft as they look. Her tongue is hot.
<
br /> Moonlight bathes her skin as she straddles me and I ease myself inside. I like the way she clutches me. “Oooh,” she says.
I wake up the next morning thinking I couldn’t have conjured up a better partner. She’s almost too perfect to be human.
We’re down to the dregs of the cognac bottle. Luke goes silent as he empties it.
“She’s a devilish enigma, something like you,” I tell him. “And yet, she sounds like an angel, or even perhaps the incarnation of Venus.”
By the look on his face, I suspect he’s going to get maudlin over her. I’m right. He does. But it’s so out of character. “Oh, straighten up,” I say, disgusted with his whining. “You were an angel once in your life. You revolted. And now you’re supposed to be the heartbreaker, remember? I can’t count the times I offered solace to your women, especially the ones you’d say weren’t worth a button off your shirt. It’s always amazed me why they’d be attracted to a guy who so dismisses them.”
When he says he didn’t dismiss “this one,” I tell him I’d take her in a heartbeat, but that all she’d want from me is an ear, leaving the detritus of her broken heart on my shoulder.
He uses his knuckles to rub his eyes, dark pools full to the brim, before hiding behind his glasses again.
I’m thinking the night is over, but he orders another round of drinks and continues his tale.
You spit out some big words, Abelard, my friend. I remember a time when you were filled with vanity and pride, reaping unethical benefits from opportunities you’d taken. I know you’d say they weren’t ‘taken’ but given. And I know you probably believe that in the end it’s our intentions that matter.
And, okay, I’ll admit my original intentions were less than honorable. After all, I have a reputation to maintain. So I was hunting for another conquest. So what? You know my game. It’s all about the chase - and the seduction. You used to compliment my technique, remember? I’d laugh about Heaven’s highway being littered with the remains of humanity’s lost souls - pathetic mortals committing their pathetic acts, having no clue they’re damning themselves to Hell.
Now you can look for me there too. It’s where I was born and where I’ll end up. But is this the end, I wonder? Have I proven to be unworthy? Time was, a man would sell his soul to learn how I’d go about securing my trophies. Yet when I captured this prize, I was not prepared for the enchantment it would bring. Oh, she may not be a stranger to the vicissitudes of terrestrial life - she’s no virgin - but this is a woman whose ethereal calm countered all my efforts to corrupt her. She is, indeed, an infernal Venus.
