by CJ Roberts
“Wow, you have very old-fashioned morals,” I remark, surprised at his conservatism.
“Each to their own, but for me that sort of practice is so not erotic.”
“What if it’s the other way round? With some−” I am about to say, ‘some Mrs. Robinson type,’ but stop myself. I am Mrs. Robinson in many people’s eyes…. being forty, hanging out with a younger guy – having designs on him sexually. Pearl Robinson – Robinson is the last name I need right now. My lips curl up at my silly pun.
“Well, being male that’s hard for me to imagine because as a teenager, I happened to love more mature women and always had older girlfriends but I suppose a boy, in certain instances, could also be vulnerable.”
“Well, millions of people might disagree with your attitude. Most people believe anyone is a fully-fledged adult at eighteen.”
“You see?” he exclaims. “That’s what’s so strange about this country. You can whip and tie a girl up at that age with her consent but not offer her a glass of wine, or you’d be breaking the law.”
“You’re right, I hadn’t thought of that. Most states you have to be twenty-one to drink.”
“Anyway, wielding a whip is not my cup of tea, I can assure you, Pearl. Even if it is consensual. I can’t imagine wanting to hurt a woman. Females are the gentler sex and should be treated with respect. Wanting to tie up a person and spank or whip her is something I could never do. I can’t imagine how anyone could seriously get off on that.”
I catch a glimpse of Alexandre’s face and he looks angry as if I’ve touched a nerve. Mama Mia, what made me steer the conversation in that direction? He must think I’m a pervert! Now I’ve really blown my chances.
But then he adds with a wry smile, “A little harmless dress-up, maybe. A little food-play, but nothing that could hurt anyone.”
Food play? Dress-up? My only contribution to dress-up was when I put on some heels and asked my ex-husband to do it to me with my shoes on. He didn’t get it at all, told me to take them straight off. Seriously, is this what turns Alexandre on? Dress-up? Food? What kind of food? Mick Jagger and his legendary Mars Bar, shoved up you-know-where, type of food? (My brother told me that – is it true, I wonder)?
“Speaking of food, Pearl, you must be starving, I bet you didn’t have time for any breakfast. I picked up some fruit and croissants and a couple of bottles of freshly squeezed orange juice.” He leans behind him and produces a bag of goodies. “We can stop off for a coffee if you like or just wait until we get there.”
“I can wait.”
“Really? Can you?” The way he looks at me when he says it makes me wonder if there’s a double-entendre somewhere. His eyes seem to be undressing me and he runs his tongue along his bottom lip ever so slightly. Perhaps the double-entendre is my imagination, and maybe he’s just innocently licking his lips. Whatever, I’m feeling the heat between us.
Then he says, “As well as literature there are lots of erotic French films, too. Here, I’ll play you the soundtrack to this famous one from the 70’s – Emmanuelle – maybe you know it.”
He puts on the music and I do recognize it – beautiful and very sensual. There’s something about a man singing in French which is a real turn-on. Alexandre hums along to the tune and winks at me again. I sense a tingling in my groin which takes me by surprise. Our conversation about sex, the erotic music, the deep vibration of the Corvette’s heavy engine makes me throb with desire. I wriggle in my seat just looking at him – his defined arm muscles flexed at the steering wheel, and he looking so handsome, driving this sexy femme-fatale of a car with such control – all this is excitingly new to me, truly unexpected.
I feel a pulse between my legs.
It’s amazing how just ninety miles away from New York City you feel as if you’re on a different planet. When we arrive at Shawangunk Mountains – pronounced Shon-gum and known simply as ‘The Gunks’ – Alexandre informs me that this is one of the best places for rock-climbing in North America and has a steady stream of eclectic visitors from all over the world. It is also home to several conservation groups. The scenery is breathtaking. Lush green stretches as far as the eyes can see, topped by imposing white and gray quartz cliff-bands, several miles wide, shooting up from the earth like proud monuments.
Alexandre has thought of and organized everything – packed water bottles, sunscreen, bug-repellent, even a spare camera in case I forgot mine (which I had) and, of course, his own gear. The guide will bring mine. I see Alexandre is a man quietly in control of situations – organized, methodical, leaving nothing to chance. He behaves way older than his years and has a cool sophistication about him, too. No wonder he’s been so successful at such a young age.
“That’s where we’re going to climb along the Shawangunk Ridge. Up there where you see that tower?” he says, pointing. “That’s Sky Top.”
There’s a stone tower perched on top of a mountain with a craggy rock-face below of pale golden stripes, creating from afar a series of patterns like old men’s distorted faces etched into the rock formations. It looks terrifyingly vertical. Each horizontal stripe adding age to this natural masterpiece of nature. It’s awesome in the real sense of the word.
“Sky Top is home to about three hundred rock climbs like Strawberry Yoghurt, Petie’s Spare Rib and Jekyll and Hyde. Don’t you just love the wacky names? It’s private property and has been off-limits to climbers for more than ten years but we’ll be having lunch at Mohonk Mountain Lodge so we’re all set up. You look nervous, Pearl. Don’t be, our guide knows these climbs like the back of his hand so you’ll feel quite safe. I’ve been here several times – I know them too.”
Our guide, Chris, is young and enthusiastic and looks like a surfer. He has a hard tan and deep crow’s feet around his sun-weathered eyes. He claps his arms around Alexandre and says, “Hey, man, you made it. My favorite frog in the world.”
“Very funny. This is my friend, Pearl. What have you got planned for us today, Chris? As I told you on the phone, Pearl’s just a beginner, so we don’t want to scare her with any overhangs – go easy on her today.”
“Frog?” I ask.
“Don’t mind me, just teasing,” Chris cackles.
“As you probably know, we French get called Frogs by half the world – can’t think why. Don’t worry, when you come for dinner I won’t serve you frogs or snails.”
“You cook?” I ask Alexandre.
“A little.”
Chris squints at the mountains before us. “I thought Pearl could start with Finger Licking Good this morning and see how we go.”
We make our way along the trail until we come to a clearing beneath a massive rock-face. Chris goes through endless instructions, teaches me knots, commands, names of bits of equipment and safety checks. There is so much to learn and I kick myself. Why did I agree to this? The truth is, I lied to Alexandre. I have never been rock-climbing. Well, I once went with a group of friends in Idyllwild, California, so technically I did go. I even put on the gear but the rock-face was so daunting, I was too chicken to go through with it. I am a novice and I’m too ashamed to tell him. I’ve never, ever climbed more than several flights of stairs. It’s too late now to come clean without humiliating myself further.
Alexandre helps me step into the leg loops of my harness and tightens the straps around me, hitching me up so it’s snug against my pelvis and hips. When he touches me I sense my heart race. The shoes feel as if they are four sizes too small but they both assure me they are the perfect fit for good grip. I’m also given a helmet – uh, oh, not such a sexy look, but at this point, peering up at the rocky wall in front of me, I need all the help I can just to stay alive.
“You said this was for beginners,” I grumble.
Alexandre looks amused. “It is.”
“But I can’t climb that!”
“Yes you can. Rock climbing is about faith, Pearl. Faith in yourself. Believe that you can overcome anything and you will. Trust me.”
“I�
��ll try,” I say, not completely convinced.
“Good girl,” he says tapping me on my behind. “Now climb up that rock-face and remember, don’t look down any further than your feet. Keep going higher and higher. Take your time, don’t rush, don’t panic. Just believe in yourself. Now, I’ll go up first, I’ll be leading. There will be this rope connecting us. If you fall I’ll have you – the rope will catch you, hooked into pre-placed bolts in the rock, so don’t worry. Chris is down here with you. He’ll be coaching you all the way. Trust him. He’s been doing this for years, he’s a pro.”
I watch Alexandre as he climbs without hesitation up the sheer rock-face, clipping the rope into nooks and crannies. Easy for some. Meanwhile, Chris is explaining more technical stuff to me, how the ropes work, the carabiners.
He explains, “Now, whenever possible, Pearl, you should try to do most of the work of climbing using your legs. In the ideal case, climbers try to keep their centers of gravity over their feet and then push upwards with their legs. Only use your arms and hands just for balance and positioning.”
“But where do I put my feet?” I squeal, looking up at what seems to be an almost smooth surface.
“You’ll feel your way as you go and I’ll guide you. Little itty-bitty notches and indentations – that’s what you need to feel for with your hands which will, in turn, guide your feet into the right positions. Those shoes you’re wearing have a lot of grip. Imagine you’re climbing a ladder, it’s that simple. But keep your weight down on your toes, not your heels.”
“I wish it was that simple.” My palms are sweating with trepidation.
“Here, dip your hands in this,” Chris says, and I put the tips of my fingers into a little bag he offers me, filled with what seems like white chalk.
Alexandre is way up high, lodged on a small ledge, waiting for me. “Ready?” he shouts down.
I nod and take a sip of water to ease my nerves. Trembling, and I haven’t even started.
“How much experience do you need to have to lead a climb?” I ask Chris, double-checking Alexandre’s prowess – can I trust him?
“There’s no set answer to that. Leading is an art form, make no mistake, and it requires an incredible amount of climbing experience – stress management, decision making, route finding, rope management, gear placement, anchor systems, climbing technique and God knows what else, to be brought together all at once. You need to have a good head on your shoulders, and it helps to be mechanically inclined. I wouldn’t let Alexandre do this if I didn’t trust him implicitly. This is an easy climb but he’s led some pretty tough ones. Don’t worry, you’re in good hands.”
I know what Alexandre was talking about – Concentration with a capital C. I have never been so focused. They say the rope will catch my fall but I can’t trust the equipment, I need to do this on my own, rely on myself. I gingerly put my foot on a hold and try to push my way higher. I manage and feel elated.
“See that little orange-colored knobby bit just up at the level of your thigh?” calls Chris. “Raise your left foot up there and push up through your toes.”
“No way! Are you crazy?” I yell. “That’s miles away! I can’t lift my leg up that high and keep balance.”
“Yes, you can,” shouts down Alexandre. “Climb like a cat—quiet, deliberate, and precise. Picture the move, and then execute it. Use your feet as you would your hands. Pick out the place for your hands first – plan your move. Take your time, this isn’t a race.”
I raise up my left leg. Yoga has nothing on this.
“Now balance yourself,” Chris calls up, “with your right hand. Lift your arm higher. Try to climb in an X shape with your hips being the middle of the X. Hang with your arm straight. Your skeleton can take much more of a load than your muscles can.”
Skeleton. Cat….which?
“Up you come, up you come,” Alexandre coaxes.
After what seems like decades, I finally pluck up the courage to raise myself up. I feel myself falling, my insides churn and drop to my groin, but miraculously I manage to balance myself with my right hand in time. I’m spread-eagled against the rock-face. My elbows and knees are already scuffed and scratched.
“Bravo!” cries Alexandre.
“And now what?” I scream into the rock, my mouth kissing the stone. The sun is getting warmer now. I’m pressed like a starfish, immovable, terrified. All this to try and impress Alexandre but I must look like a total fool. My right foot starts to shake uncontrollably.
“Okay, I can see you’ve got sewing-machine leg,” Chris bellows. “That’s because the heel of your foot is hanging too far down and your leg is starting to shake like a sewing machine. This is very normal for a beginner. Don’t worry, just apply more weight to your toes so your calf muscle spasm can stop.”
I do as I’m told and he’s right, my leg stops shaking. Almost. I push up again and am amazed at myself. The impossible is melting away. I feel free, invincible. I hook my fingers onto a tiny crevice, and what is a small opening feels like a crater to my sensitive hand. Everything is magnified by a thousand. Every indentation. Every chirp of a bird, every whistle of breeze, every miniscule scar on the rock-face, which I use as my life-line to cling onto. I can smell the rock. It is alive with molecules. And right now it’s my best friend in the world. We are as one, the rock and I. I am a daughter of nature. I can think of nothing else except my hands and feet, the rock and my next move. Like a cat I push up once more. I’m not even listening to their instructions any longer; I’m trusting my own instinct, following my intuition. I’m higher now. I can no longer even hear what Chris is saying, he’s so far below. I look up and see Alexandre smiling at me but I don’t smile back. I’m too inside my own intense moment.
“You’re nearly here. You’re doing great,” he cheers on. “Grab that bit that’s jutting out to your right, above your head.”
“I can’t, it’s too high.”
“Yes you can. Just do it.”
I reach up but feel myself slipping. Oh no! Mother of Mercy, what’s happening? I can feel my body lose balance, I’m going to fall, I’m going to kill myself. I yelp. I slip. But at the last second my right foot finds a hold and I’m re-balanced, hugging the rock-face once more.
“That’s a tricky bastard that tiny crack, isn’t it?”
“I almost fell,” I pant.
“But you didn’t. I knew you’d find that hold – you were positioned right,” he says. “Well done, chérie, well done.”
I’m in reach of him now. Just one more push and I’m there on the ledge with him. Did he just call me chérie? Or was I imagining it? I make one final heave, my leg quivering with exhaustion and I’m there, hurling myself onto him.
He catches me and hugs me tight in his arms. “I’m so proud of you, you did great. Good girl.” His skin smells of sun and open air, and something else wonderful – a happy memory I can’t quite place. He takes my hand and kisses it with a flourish, then raises my other and kisses it too, but more slowly this time, his lips soft against my fingers. I can feel the breath of his nostrils, gentle like an imperceptibly warm breeze, and I go limp in his strong arms, my legs buckling under me with fatigue.
We’re in Alexandre’s beautiful LeMans Blue Corvette heading back to New York City. I’m stretched out in the front seat going over all the sweet details of the day in my mind. It was arduous but probably one of the most satisfying days of my life. While I was getting my breath back after the first climb, mentally gearing-up for another assault on my limbs, I watched Alexandre and Chris scale a rock-face with overhangs, called Sound and Fury. Alexandre maneuvered his body with grace and precision – I was in awe, especially knowing how hard it is to cling on almost vertically, let alone upside down horizontally! They discussed it afterwards, describing their ‘free-swinging ape-man moves’ and it was true, they looked like agile monkeys – it was nail-bitingly tense to watch. Then I did another climb after lunch, harder than the first, and felt as if I’d conquered the world. It was e
xhilarating. We took lunch at the luxury resort hotel, The Mohonk Mountain House, situated right on Mohonk Lake. It looked like a Victorian castle, with balconies and tall windows and replete with period decor. I guess this must have been where we would have stayed had my face not registered such alarm yesterday. Shame.
I am wary of my desire to please this man. I have never felt this way before. At least, not since my early years when I wanted to please my father while learning to ride a bicycle. The determination to get it right and earn approval from Alexandre is shocking.
I’m mulling all this over, enjoying the car ride, when he turns his head and says with a little smile:
“You’ve passed the second test.”
“Second? What was the first?” I ask bemused.
“You can’t guess?”
“No.”
“You have no idea?”
“No, not a clue.”
He smiles, says nothing, and I’m racking my brains wondering what the first test was.
“Give me a hint,” I plead.
“You’ll find out, soon enough.”
I picture myself wearing the helmet today, my ungainly positions, my elbows and knees scratched all over, and wonder if he’s teasing me. The music is loud – a soulful, dusky voice surrounds us, singing about giving over your heart. I feel vulnerable and know that if I did give Alexandre my heart he could break it.
I ask him, “What’s this great song? I don’t think I’ve heard it before.”
“By an artist called Rumer. Doesn’t she have a lovely voice? The song’s called Come to Me High.”
The lyrics speak my mind. I am on a high. A high from the feeling of staring death in the eye. Of course it wasn’t really that way, the ropes could have caught my fall, and did at one point on the second climb – but still, every nerve in my body has been awakened by the thrill of today. The buzz of fear, the fear of failure, and the thrill of the way Alexandre makes me feel inside.
