Let Me Watch_A Dark Romance

by Sansa Rayne

  Rope, for sure: diamond braid nylon, twisted jute twine, multi-colored cotton, a retractable clothesline — hemp, if I can find any. White, gold, red and black.

  Zip ties: ranging in size from six to twelve inches. Transparent and black.

  Chains: zinc-plated passing link and stainless steel straight link.

  Tape, lots and lots of it: PVC, duct and electrical. Silver, white, red, blue and black.

  And that’s just the obvious stuff.

  Metal piping and bars, steel mounting plates and brackets, power drills and drivers — bags and bags of nails and screws.

  I laugh when I see the final bill at the register. The cashier, a woman in her early twenties, looks back and forth at me and the items on the conveyor. She’s pretty, with an angelic, heart-shaped face and wide eyes. An orange apron covers her body, except at the top, where her bust pleasantly fills out a black T-shirt. She examines the rope and tape a moment after scanning them; I wink at her when she looks at me from top to bottom, noticing I’m wearing lightweight chinos instead of cargo pants, and a white, cotton button-down instead of flannel. That’s when I think she gets it.

  At least Chase can’t claim I don’t commit. The hardware store is just my first stop.

  Yet, despite my excitement, I never fully forget the possibility that I’m potentially wasting my time. No matter how much creativity I pour into this project, there’s still a serious possibility Sibel will dismiss it outright because it’s coming from me. It would be her loss, of course, but there’s no question that this is being designed for her and her alone.

  Actually, the true recipient of this project isn’t really Sibel, it’s Chase. I try to think of her as an integral piece. Yet, I can’t get the notion to stick. It feels wrong.

  I didn’t spend days trying to figure out how I could impress her artistically just so I can tell Chase I tried. No half-measure will suffice: if after all this work, I’m not convinced I’ve created something truly compelling, I’ll burn it all down and start fresh.

  I have to succeed, for myself and for Chase. If Sibel’s what he needs to keep the old him at bay…

  Finished at the hardware store, my next stop is HD Paradise, a cramped electronics boutique run by a pair of fast-talking and friendly Israeli brothers, Eitan and Lior. I buy all my equipment from them — in my business, you need to stay on top of the HD cameras, and no matter how many high-capacity, ultra-fast SD cards I own, I could always use more.

  By the time I’m finished, I’ve racked up thousands in new cameras, lens filters, stabilizer stands and flash attachments, and more than ten thousand in large, flat screen TVs and mounting brackets. I also pick up something special: an infrared attachment they’ve been hounding me to buy.

  Some people might be impressed by how much I’m spending for just a shot at the woman I want, but I’m confident Sibel won’t care. Chase will be impressed, I realize, laughing as Eitan and Lior load my purchases into a delivery van. But not Sibel.

  Money and commerce don’t interest Sibel; it’s sex and art she’s after. I just have to prove that that’s what I have in mind. — I need to stop thinking like a businessman and use my imagination. Whatever I do, it has to have a deeper meaning.

  That’s the part I’m still working on.

  But I’m getting close.

  I flag down a cab to take me to my last stop; while waiting in traffic, I think about Sibel’s performances at Galleria Carnale and Bowling Green. Clearly, she’s criticizing the way sex is sold. I’d be an idiot not to get it, or to recognize that, as a pornographer, I’m a target of hers. I’m actively trying to impress my harshest critic.

  I’ve got to do something she won’t expect. Nothing that begs for approval, screaming, I agree with you, now please like me! Nothing that argues, I’m just misunderstood by the world! And definitely nothing that insultingly declares, We’re not that different!

  What it should say — will say — is, I am more than what you think, and I will prove it. I want her to see the real me — for whatever reason, it’s important to me. I want to be honest — maybe even vulnerable — and show her my twisted desires. If she finds them repulsive, so be it; and if she likes what she sees…

  The cab stops at the corner outside Betty’s, aglow in flashing red neon. Mannequins strike inviting poses through the store’s windows, dressed in lacy lingerie and tight leathers. Bells jingle as I enter and a clerk nods at me briefly. I recognize her — or, more specifically, the row of rings piercing her lower lip. A half dozen men browse shelves of DVDs, while a few couples laugh quietly and whisper about the sex toys. Trap music plays over the sound system a little too loud, but no one cares.

  I sigh, scanning the racks of skimpy panties. After buying the hardware to create something sexually dark and unique, and the equipment to record all of it, I’m still left with the question of how I’m going to use it. Yasmin, or another model from my site, occurs to me as the best option — a proxy for Sibel. A placeholder, perhaps. However, I’d rather not use a model who’s appeared in my videos before — I doubt it would help sell my work as something new and different.

  Into a basket I throw fifteen pairs of panties and six bras in as many styles and colors. On top of that, I find some sex toys to round out my inventory: a muzzle gag in black, a set of medical psych ward-style wrist and ankle cuffs, cruel-looking clover nipple clamps and more.

  I’m about to ring out when one last item catches my eye: an elaborate leather hood, as black as obsidian and covered in straps and studs. Fitted on a mannequin’s head, I can immediately see how fucking hot it would look on a real model. I whistle when I read the price tag hanging from one of the belt loops, but at this point I’m beyond caring about the money.

  “Excuse me,” I say, waving to the clerk. “I’d like this hood. Where do you keep the new ones?”

  Instead of answering, she slips around the counter. “That’s the only one. Hang on, I’ll get it off the display.”

  Turning to the mannequin, this time no longer drawn to the hood, I notice its stance: elbows pulled behind the back, hands at the waist, wrists cuffed together. Scanning the store, there are several other mannequins offering similar poses. One lifts its arms, its wrists tied together and held aloft by a large, metal hook. Another mannequin stands up straight, but points its head down at the floor demurely.

  Fireworks explode behind my eyes, and for a second I feel the frisson and clarity that must precede every great discovery.

  “Where did you get these?” I ask. “Are they custom-made?”

  The clerk shrugs, still unstrapping the hood.

  “Stop,” I say. “I’ll take the whole thing.”

  “What?”

  I smile, uncontrollably. This is it! This is perfect!

  “I want to buy the mannequin too.” Pointing around the store, I add, “I’ll take all of them.”

  She blinks a few times. “I don’t think they’re for sale, man.”

  That’s not gonna stop me. My mind is working too fast now; like a nature show series of time-lapse photography, ideas are sprouting and hatching and growing.

  “Do you own the store?” I ask, too excited to be annoyed.

  “No,” she huffs.

  “Then call whoever you have to. I don’t care what it takes. Tell your boss it’s Pierce Williams, and I need them for something very important.”

  Half an hour and several thousand more dollars later, I’m carrying the hooded mannequin over my shoulder, holding it at the knees, as I strut down Seventh, headed for the subway. I get a few looks, mostly from people ducking the long, plastic limbs. If you can count on New Yorkers for anything, it’s not batting an eye when someone’s doing something a little weird, as long as you don’t get in their way.

  From the time I leave Betty’s to when I exit the subway, my smile doesn’t fade. I’m practically giddy, imagining how Sibel will react to each of my new ideas. Like a teenager with a crush, I don’t stop thinking about her until I get home.

&n
bsp; That’s when it all cracks apart, and I plummet like a bird shot out of the sky.

  “Where you been?” Chase asks, staring at the mannequin as I set it down on the couch. “What the fuck’s that?”

  I’d spent the day thinking about Pierce and Sibel, rather than Sibel and Chase. I lost sight of the real goal. This is supposed to be for them, not me.

  “Just buying equipment,” I reply, taking out my phone and staring at the darkened screen, wishing it could be a portal to jump through.

  “Equipment? What’s the mannequin for?”

  “Nothing,” I mutter. “Just a little something for me.”

  I wait for my parents outside Port Authority, milling around by the line of cabs waiting for tourists to fleece. Wearing dark sunglasses and a floppy straw sun hat, I’m unrecognized by the thousands of pedestrians. No one is looking, though: it’s Saturday, and everyone has a Broadway matinee or a ball game to catch.

  When they emerge from the terminal, they both scan the street, eyes passing right over me. Dad hides his balding skull under a red Phillies cap, while tight trousers and a gray button-down shirt struggle not to snap against his gut. Mom’s pea green, knee-length skirt and blonde highlights blow in the warm wind. Both of their jaws hang a little, awed by Times Square like they’ve never been here before.

  “Hey,” I say, throwing off my hood as I approach. Tension releases from their faces as they see me.

  “Hi, honey,” Dad says as we hug.

  “You look great,” Mom adds as we embrace.

  “You too.” I point to the line for cabs. “Come on, let’s go. I have something important to tell you before we get lunch, and I want to get it out of the way.”

  Informing my parents of my arrest had been a stone sunk in my stomach for days now, but they take it better than expected. The long ride from Times Square to the Lower East Side gives them time to be calm and quiet, and it helps that I’m only expecting to get a fine. Released on my own recognizance in less than an hour, at most I’ll be charged with a violation — not even a misdemeanor.

  “I might be able to get it dismissed altogether, since it was an artistic performance,” I add.

  Dad snorts. He doesn’t have to say, Is that what they’re calling it now?

  “Don’t give me that. I said what I wanted to, and it gave my modeling another shot in the arm: seventeen new calls came in the next day. I got a few magazine interview requests, too.”

  “They say there’s no such thing as bad publicity, Harold,” says Mom, winking at me.

  “Okay, okay,” my dad relents. “I just want you to think about how hard it can be to get a job when you’ve got a criminal record.”

  I nod, wanting to seem agreeable, even though I’m not too worried. My jobs don’t usually require a background check.

  “And that’s on top of your sex videos,” he continues.

  “Dad!”

  “What? Is that not what they are?” he asks as the cab pulls to the curb of Houston Street.

  I swipe my card and punch in a good tip, earning a clipped thanks and a wink from the driver. Pointing my parents toward the line for Katz’s Deli, I shake off Dad’s comment. I’ve no interest in reviving The Art Discussion.

  Or worse, telling them about… the rest.

  And yet, I’ve got a card in my hand I can’t resist playing. “You know, I’ve had real pornographers after me since I started this, and I’ve always turned them down. There’s one in particular who’s asked a bunch of time now. You may have heard of him… Pierce Williams.”

  Thankfully, my parents shake their heads.

  “Yeah, well, he’s not a bad guy. Probably.”

  When we finally get in the door and through the line to get to the counter, my dad orders a corned beef sandwich, while my mom and I split a pastrami on rye. My parents split our plate of pickles. They murmur to themselves joyously as we eat at their favorite restaurant; we come here every visit, despite the hundreds of great places I’d love for them to try. But as long as they’re happy and not talking about my career, it’s fine.

  “Anyway, how’s Steph?” my mom asks, wiping mustard from her lip and grease from her fingers.

  “She’s good,” I reply, glad to change the subject.

  “She seeing anybody?”

  “Not right now. Though she’s got these neighbors who might be into her.”

  Mom waits for a second, then quietly asks, “And you?”

  Is it too late to talk more about my career?

  “Not really,” I say, sipping water from one of the deli’s jar-like glasses. “And please, I don’t really want to talk about it.”

  We’ve been down this road before, and it always hits the same dead end: as much as I love what I do for a living, it’s impossible to date someone without them having certain expectations and biases. They think I’m a nymphomaniac, or that I was abused as a child, or that I’m secretly an escort. Even worse are the guys who want me because of what they think I am.

  My mom doesn’t give up, though. “We’re not saying you need to go out and get married and have a few babies in the next day, but you could at least go out a little. Let somebody take you out for a meal. When was the last time that happened?”

  God, when was it? I laugh to myself, realizing the answer: “A couple weeks ago, actually.”

  Pierce.

  “But it doesn’t count,” I add. “It wasn’t exactly a date.”

  “Why not?” Dad asks, eyeing a couple hovering by our table with a territorial glare I’m not sure is meant for me or our seats.

  “It was Pierce Williams,” I sigh. “I agreed to meet him so I could decline his business offer in person.”

  “An e-mail wouldn’t suffice?” Dad grunts.

  “Nope.”

  Still thirsty from lunch and the day’s heat, I gather up our glasses to refill at the water fountain. When I get back to the table, my parents are quiet, waiting for me to sit.

  “What?”

  My mom clears her throat, then looks to me sweetly. “Do you remember Adam Pell? My friend Olive’s son?”

  “Vaguely,” I say. “I remember him pushing me off the swing in third grade.”

  “He’s a bit more mature now,” says Mom. “He was engaged until a month ago, but it was broken off somewhat suddenly.”

  “That’s a shame,” I mutter, knowing where this is going.

  “Olive says he’s moving to New York in a few weeks. Maybe I could send him your number.”

  “Mom, please.”

  She sets her elbows on the table and rests her chin on her fists. “He’s not bad looking. Apparently an outdoorsy type.”

  “When have you ever known me to be outdoorsy? Seriously, thanks, but no thanks.”

  My mom’s smile washes away. “You could at least meet him.”

  “And you could listen to me for once,” I snap.

  “Sibel,” Dad warns. “Your mother means well.”

  I shake my head, rolling my eyes. “Let’s just go.”

  —

  I spend the rest of the day with my parents, but in truth, we never leave Katz’s. The argument hangs over us the whole time. We walk to St. Marks to shop, then see a movie; before I know it, my parents are getting on a bus back to Scranton.

  “Stay out of trouble, sweetie,” Dad says before leaving.

  “I’ll try,” I tell him, though we both know I don’t really mean it.

  When I get home, I try to reply to some e-mails, but can’t summon the energy. Instead, I find a crowd-filmed video of myself from Bowling Green and watch it. I turn off the sound, disgusted by some of the comments emanating from the audience, and recall my own memories of the performance.

  In seconds I can feel warmth coating my inner thighs, my muscles clenching at nothing, desperate to be touched. Probing my wet folds, I watch myself writhing in my tight costume, hands cuffed above my head. God, that was hot.

  As I pant, close to climaxing, my thoughts turn to Pierce, who I have to imagine has s
een the video too. Did he rub one out to it? Despite myself, I gasp and rub my clit hard, picturing him stroking his long, thick cock.

  Fucking shit, you’re sick, Sibel.

  I don’t stop, my thoughts staying with Pierce. For a time I’m back in Bowling Green, and instead of strangers approaching to touch me, it’s him. He smiles triumphantly, knowing I’m finally his, that I can’t get away. I want to break off the performance, to tell him his money’s no good, but I don’t. He throws a whole wad of cash into the open briefcase, and then his hands are all over me. Squeezing my breasts, slapping my ass, fingering my pussy. I taste the dry fabric of my outfit against my tongue as I howl blissfully.

  Then the video ends, and I’m back in my apartment, alone but sated.

  For now.

  Why can’t I get him out of my mind? I wonder about it, lying in bed, and before long my hands are once again drifting toward my tender entrance. I’m only stopped by the buzzing of my apartment’s intercom.

  Hopping to the switch as I pull on some sweats, I nearly trip. “Yeah?” I say with some annoyance.

  “It’s me,” says Steph. “Let me in, I’ve got something for you.”

  By the time she gets to the door, I’ve found a clean T-shirt; I’m waiting when she reaches the top of the stairs, a brown package in her hands. She holds it up so I can see the address label. Whatever it is, it was mailed to the P. O. box listed on my website, and it came from a P. O. box listed as Pierce Williams Productions.

  When I shake it gently, something rattles; it’s not heavy.

  “What do you think it is?” Steph asks.

  “Dunno,” I say, using a knife from my kitchen to saw through the cardboard.

  Inside I find a flash drive in a slim, clear case. A label written in thick Sharpie reads, For an audience of one.

  “Hang on,” I say, sprinting to my bedroom to get my laptop.

  Once plugged in, the flash drive opens up to a media folder.

  “Did you… order something from them?” Steph asks.

  “No!” I came close to getting a subscription, but stopped. I definitely didn’t buy any videos.