by Alison Tyler
‘I love this place,’ Anthony said conversationally. ‘I bought a few of the mobiles and hung them outside on my deck. Well, not deck, exactly. My fire escape.’
I smiled at him, only half-listening, wanting so badly to read.
‘Go ahead,’ he said magnanimously. ‘I’ll order us dinner and you can read.’
The place was so dark that I had to steal several candles from other vacant tables in order to make out the typewritten words. The votives were each housed in multicoloured, shot-glass-sized holders. Within moments, I had created a semicircle of tiny candles that beamed a rainbow of light on our table. I pulled out my reading glasses and put them on, but I still had to squint. Moving closer to the papers, I refocused my eyes, squinted harder, and read:
She bent over, offering me herself from behind, lifting her loose garments so that I could more clearly see the secret pleasures, those wondrous pleasures, hidden therein. It was as if she were made of cream, so pale, so sweet that my mouth began to water. I took a step closer, bending to taste her and, as soon as my lips met her swollen sex, she seemed nearly to swoon, falling forwards onto the floor, her hands bracing her body, her hips still arched. This was not a real fainting episode. The move was ingenious, intending on giving me yet better access to the dulcet sweetness that I so truly craved.
I pressed my mouth to her font and drank, licking, lapping, until she cried out. Over and over, she cried out, her body shaking uncontrollably. It was as if she were possessed by a spirit, one that desperately wanted freedom. But I knew this was not the case. If she were possessed, it was by passion. If she were filled with another being, it was the Goddess Aphrodite herself.
What the hell was this? I stared up at Anthony, shocked
‘Is it too dark to read?’ he asked me kindly.
That wasn’t the problem, and he must have known that. I searched for the words to explain what I was feeling, finally managing to whisper, ‘You’re messing with me.’ He was, wasn’t he? He had to be. There was no way that this was the real manuscript. Undoubtedly, he had given me these pages just to tease me. The real pages must still be in his car, or at work. But why would he do something like that? I didn’t have the answer to that, but I repeated, dumbly, ‘You’re playing with me, aren’t you, Anthony?’
‘What do you mean?’ he asked, eyes wide with false innocence.
‘You’re –’ what? What was he? ‘You’re fucking with me.’ I sounded a lot like Nora when I said that.
Now he laughed and, when I gazed into his eyes, I saw a wicked gleam there. He’d definitely expected my reaction, and he was obviously enjoying every moment of our interaction.
‘I’m not,’ he said softly. ‘I’m not fucking with you at all.’ Unsaid were words that I heard in my head: I’m not fucking with you, but I’d like to be.
He looked at the page in my hand. ‘Oh, wait a second, I think you started from the middle.’ Like that was the problem. The middle of smut was still smut. With a flourish, he took the crisp white pages from me and reshuffled, then handed them back to me.
I stared hard at him for a moment, wanting him to explain.
‘Go on, Eleanor. It’s fascinating.’
‘It’s …’ I wished for the right words. ‘It’s pornography.’
‘Just read.’
Right then, the waitress sidled up to our table with our wine and Anthony looked over at me. ‘I come here all the time. May I choose for us? I promise you’ll love every bite.’ He sounded totally different than he had moments before, solicitous, caring about what I wanted. Feeling absolutely confused, I nodded and, without consulting me any further, Anthony began to order.
I returned to reading. The piece was more sexual, not less. In fact, I don’t think I’d ever read anything quite so dirty in my life. Yes, I’ve devoured the classic erotica, mostly at Nora’s suggestion. Colette. Anaïs Nin. Anonymous. But this went beyond those vintage stories. Oh, well, The Pearl was pretty filthy – you know those Victorians and all their hidden deep-seated desires. And The Story of O did leave me speechless. So maybe this tale wasn’t precisely dirtier than those – maybe I found this tale so scandalous because it was the last thing I’d expected to read this evening.
‘Go on,’ Anthony encouraged.
I started to stammer, wanting to ask him more questions, but he silenced me with a headshake, pushing a glass of white wine towards me and then nodding enthusiastically. ‘I can’t wait until you finish reading so we can talk about it.’
I took a sip of the wine and then looked back at the pages. I wished I were alone, some place where I could have curled up under a blanket and lost myself in the story. I felt incredibly naked with Anthony there, even though he wasn’t staring at me. He seemed to be checking something on his cellphone now. An email? A text message? I didn’t know.
‘Read, Eleanor,’ he said without looking up. ‘Then we’ll talk.’
‘All right,’ I told him, taking yet another sip. The wine relaxed me. The mobiles, slipping softly against one another overhead, soothed me. Still, I had an intensely difficult time focusing on the words on the page, because all I could think of was that Anthony was playing a trick on me.
But why would he do that?
I thought I knew the sort of man Anthony was. From our few times working together, I’d discovered his unbelievable focus, his biting sense of humour. I also knew, if I cared to believe the gossip, that he possessed a fairly large ego, that he’d blown up several times at our administrators over different policies he didn’t agree with. I tried to think of all the information I had ever read on Anthony. But I drew a blank.
Helplessly, I went back to the papers in my hand, a world-class blush colouring my cheeks. This entire experience was new to me. I’ve never read erotica with someone watching me. It’s always been something I’ve done alone, in the bed or in the tub. Byron and I never shared in this sort of activity together. The thought of confessing that I sometimes ‘used’ printed matter to get off was inconceivable to me. I wondered how Byron and I had ever gotten to that point of total inability to communicate. Weren’t couples supposed to share everything – did he share everything with Gwen?
More importantly to this particular situation, I’ve never read erotica that has been translated for me by someone else, someone dark eyed and dreamy like Anthony. I’m sure very few people have had such an opportunity.
‘Is it too dim to read here? We could go into the bar. Or I could steal you a few more candles.’
I looked down the long room. The bar was through a door at the far end from where we’d entered, and it was even darker than the room we were in. Besides, I didn’t want him to see how deeply I was blushing. More light was not necessarily a good thing at this point.
‘I’m fine,’ I said, shuffling the papers again, trying to find what I’d read before.
I spread her out on the rug, wanting to take her this way. I wanted to take her many ways, but this would be the first. She was wet and ready, and I was as hard as a sapling, my member twitching expectantly as if that rod of flesh knew the myriad of pleasures that were in store for it.
I looked down at the girl.
She was a beautiful sprite, so lively, so willing. I had been assured that this was her first time, that those secret pleasures between her supple thighs had been given to no man before. No man before now. But I found this difficult to believe once I was inside of her, for she moved with a knowledge, moved with an assurance that belied her innocence.
How she knew to draw me forwards, I cannot say. But if she truly were a virgin to this sort of activity with the men of our town, then she must have been taught by an educated female, because her position was not that of a novice.
I plunged inside of her, where she was dripping wet and ready, and she cried out fiercely, so obviously hungry for me, hungry for more. I wouldn’t hurry. It had been a long time since I was with someone so delightful. I made it my business to go slow. She did not want slow. She pushed back on me, trying t
o take from me what I was not ready to give. I responded with a firm slap to her hindquarters, and this brought the most delicious response yet. She moaned and squeezed down on me, but she did not still her passion. If anything, that mild sting of pain made her more excited than she’d been before.
When I pushed in all the way, she gasped, and when I let my hand find the great black ropes of her hair, tugging and making her bend her back like a bow, she moaned sweetly. Sweetly but loudly. Loud enough so that others from the adjoining room must have heard her, for when I looked up, I saw that we had won ourselves an audience.
There was the sound of enthusiastic voices and the stamping of feet, so many eyes watching, hoping that we would continue. And we did. There was no choice, no way that we could think of stopping.
But now I did stop. I couldn’t help myself. I was more turned on than I’d been this afternoon, when I’d stroked myself to climax in the privacy of my office, watched only by the eyes of the angels on my resource books. The visions I’d teased myself with seemed remarkably tame in comparison to this ancient erotica. I realised that as I’d been reading, I’d automatically put myself in the girl’s role and cast Anthony in that of the male’s. Isn’t this always the case with X-rated reads? One wants to star in the show.
‘Hungry?’ Anthony asked, bringing me around again to the present time. Our appetisers had magically arrived. Had the plate been there for a long time? I didn’t know. I wasn’t interested in the slightest. Instead, I took another sip of my wine and looked over at my dining partner. He appeared to be fully at ease, watching me intently as he ate.
‘Where are they?’ I asked, unable to contain my queries any longer. The pages shook in my hands as I moved from one to the next, and I shifted my hips against the booth, a longing building inside of me.
‘I’m thinking it’s a house of prostitution. That’s what seems most likely to me.’
‘But what is it?’ I murmured, my voice trembling. ‘I mean, what are the papers, themselves?’
‘It’s a diary,’ he said matter-of-factly. ‘Don’t you think? I mean, that’s what I determined when I was working on it.’
I shook my head and shrugged at the same time. I didn’t know what to think.
‘Keep on,’ he said, ‘it gets better and better.’
‘By “better” you mean –’
‘Just keep reading, Eleanor.’
Oh, how I liked the way he said my name. Helplessly, I returned to the story.
The crowd was wild for our lust, and I gave them exactly what they wanted. Taking her. Plunging into her. My girl was like a wild steed, tossing back her gorgeous black hair, nearly whinnying with pleasure as I pushed forwards. Because she had responded so well the first time, I let my hand meet her rear cheeks again, and again, and, each time, she let loose with such a vibrant, powerful moan, that I almost could not stave off my own impending bliss. Her skin, previously so white as to appear nearly translucent, now took on a robust red glow. The colour of wine. The colour of fire. I paused to admire how hot these cheeks were, touching her softly where only moments before my hand had met with a resounding smack.
She did not seem to crave this tender touch. She gazed over her shoulder at me, a wildness to her eyes, and shook her head once. Yes, they said she was a virgin. This I had been told by the mistress of the house. But the look in her eyes was a look no virgin knows to give. This was an experienced maiden, one who wanted from me. Wanted. It was I who was the innocent in this game. She possessed all the power. Those eyes held me captive, told me what to do. Again, my hand met her lovely rump, and, again, she let loose that moaning sound of pleasure.
The crowd taunted me, calling out instructions, words of so-called wisdom that I did not need to hear. They were in a frenzy, as was she. With no more strength left within my body, I pushed hard into her, sealing our two selves together. One of my hands slipped beneath the lean underside of this goddess in the flesh. I rubbed my fingertips between the split of her lower lips, and she met my pleasure with me, holding tightly to me, draining me of every last drop with the squeezing motions of her inner muscles.
Our audience applauded. They had been well entertained. When I turned to look, I saw the couples pairing off again, clients and customers disappearing into darkened corners, leaving for other rooms, where they might re-enact the scene that they had just witnessed. I could have left, too, gone off to drink or to bed. I could have found myself a new maiden and started afresh. Someone called out to me to try again for a second round, and another voice joined the first.
But then, I needed to move. I could not give them all. Because there were things that she and I needed to do alone. In private.
Although I won the displeasure of those that remained of the crowd, I did not care. I lifted her into my arms and carried her down the hall. I need not have concerned myself too greatly. Within moments others had taken our place at the foreground, wooing the crowd with the wild wantonness of their actions.
I carried my nymph down the hall, to the last room, the one furthest from the festivities. I set her down on the bed, and admired her. She pulled her dress entirely off and, for a moment, I simply stared, lost in the beauty of her, the wonder of her body. I had been inside of her only moments before, but now, I took the time to truly drink in her loveliness. She played shy as I watched her. She ducked her head against her arm and refused to meet my gaze. Coy thing, she need not have tried to play that game. I knew her. As if I’d been her lover for years rather than hours. I knew her.
‘It doesn’t read like a diary,’ I said, stopping when Anthony offered a bite to eat from his own plate. Our main courses had arrived while I’d been reading. I swallowed, then continued, ‘I mean, not like any I’ve seen from this era.’
‘That’s what I assumed it is. Except that you’re right. I don’t think it’s an average diary, because there appears to be more than one person’s handwriting on the pages.’ He took the papers from me again and then showed me photocopies of the originals, pointing to what he meant. ‘It’s as if multiple people shared the story, adding their own notes or comments as the passages continued. Perhaps the pages were passed from one person to the next, with each one adding his or her own versions, or favourite stories, or sexiest dreams.’
‘And this is how it starts? With the man doing this virgin …’ Fucking her, I thought. Spanking her.
‘That was the first part I could make out. The top of that paper has entirely disintegrated. When I touched it, the edges just crumbled away in my hands. I don’t know if this was the first page, anyway. This could have been part of a much larger body of work. We’ll just never know. And I must admit that I filled in some of the spaces when I couldn’t quite understand the words. I told you that I’m a bit rusty with this.’
He spoke as if he translated pornography on a daily basis. But even though I’m not totally naïve when it comes to this sort of thing, I couldn’t wrap my mind around the subject matter. As I said, I’ve seen porn before – aside from the few erotic books I own, Byron subscribed to Penthouse and Playboy. And I’ve viewed an assortment of risqué artwork. Every once in awhile a piece turns up that surprises even the most jaded of art historians. People have been writing, drawing and sculpting naked bodies for aeons. We’re all animals at heart, aren’t we? Obsessed with what brings us pleasure. But this was different.
‘What were you expecting?’ he asked. I tried to hide my feelings by taking yet another sip of my chilled white wine. I was surprised to find that I’d drained the glass.
I wasn’t sure how to answer him. I’d assumed the papers would be part of some story, like The Iliad or The Odyssey. Or perhaps a play. Or maybe a political history. As the papers had been sealed within a pot, I’d also considered that perhaps they held important information, notes from a spy, maybe. The fact that this was basically porn left me flabbergasted.
‘Really?’ he queried me. ‘What did you think?’
‘I don’t know,’ I told him honestly.
>
‘Just because it’s about sex doesn’t mean that the work isn’t important. People will still want to read it. Really, they’ll want to do much more than that. I can absolutely see a movie being made about this discovery. Everyone is interested when you throw a little sex into the mix.’
I knew that he was right. There always is more of a buzz when a museum features a sexually themed show. Recently, the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art had displayed photographs taken of porn stars on location. Larry Sultan’s photographic exhibit called ‘The Valley’ featured coloured photographs of actual pornographers taken in the suburban homes of a San Fernando Valley neighbourhood. The show had caused some consternation, and Byron had gotten on his soapbox about what was and wasn’t art. But regardless of his feelings, I knew that the exhibition had been a huge success.
If this manuscript were translated by Anthony and published as an example of some of the first printed erotica, it would definitely be huge. There would be magazine articles and photo shoots – Anthony and I standing side by side. ‘I gave her the first pages to read at dinner,’ he would say. ‘You should have seen the look on her face. She was definitely surprised.’ And then I would laugh and say, ‘Nothing about art surprises me.’ We’d make an excellent team, a perfect media darling couple.
But suddenly I remembered how wet I’d been today, fantasising about Anthony. Had he somehow guessed that from the way I’d handled myself in his office? Had he remembered our holiday kiss, as well? That moment was so clearly embedded in my own mind. Was there the slightest chance that he fantasised about it, as well. Here was the big fear I found myself circling: Was there a chance that he’d made up this stuff in order to turn me on?
‘Do you want to read the rest now?’ he asked.
I felt my cheeks go from simply bright pink to a dark crimson. If I said yes, would he know that I was envisioning him in the scenario? If I said no, would he think that I was some sort of prude? If he did, he’d be right. I was some sort of a prude.
‘I’ll bet Nora would like it.’ He smiled at me.
