Madam, May I

by Niobia Bryant

  Her space was on the tenth floor. She loved hiding in plain sight among the many commercial and office spaces. The building contained everything from upscale doctors’ offices to designer showrooms and artists’ studios. Her thousand-square-foot boutique/showroom was in a corner unit at the end of the tenth floor. Nestled away from the elevator and prying eyes.

  As Desdemona unlocked the double doors she briefly eyed the name “glitz” etched in lower-case letters in the frosting of the glass wall. She entered the loft-style space and turned on the overhead lighting as she took in the twenty shiny black mannequins displaying each of the high-end dresses she carried.

  Desdemona set her tote and the shopping bag on one of the four leather club chairs situated around a round riser where a model could showcase a gown. Patrice’s choice to display the black lace Suzanne Neville gown on the mannequin nearest the window wouldn’t have been her pick, because the sunlight didn’t bring out the detail work of the lace, but she fought the urge to move it. She didn’t want to undermine Patrice’s confidence, particularly since the business was mostly a front.

  Her consorts couldn’t care less about the dresses they purchased as part of their payments for the services of her paramours. For her, the boutique served a dual purpose—a front for her procurement business and a legitimate source of income allowing her to file taxes and still have a verifiable reason to be in contact with every consort on her list. The profit she made off the sale of the dresses was a bonus.

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle.”

  She stroked her new bracelet as she turned and eyed Byron Levin entering the showroom and walking toward her, looking every bit the powerhouse Hollywood producer in his lightweight suit. He was in his mid-sixties, balding, Jewish, tall with a round belly that was indicative of good living, and wealthy beyond belief. “In town for the Tonys?” she asked, forcing a soft smile as she extended her hand and raised her cheek.

  He shook the first and kissed the latter.

  As required, he had left any staff downstairs. She only met with consorts and no one else.

  “As a matter of fact, I am. Hoping to help get a play adapted to film,” he explained.

  She didn’t bother to ask for any more details. “Care for something to drink? Or is it too early for vodka tonic?” she asked, remembering his favorite drink as she waved a hand in invitation to one of the club chairs.

  He unbuttoned his blazer before folding his tall and wide frame into one of the chairs. “I don’t like to turn down an offer from a beautiful woman,” he said.

  Desdemona was glad to turn her back to him as she walked over to the bar cart in the corner. She rolled her eyes. Byron had been a consort for years. He was big, loud, and boastful, covering up his arrogance with a charm that was as noticeable as a pile of shit on a hot summer day. She fixed his drink from the stocked bar cart in the corner.

  “My visit here is twofold,” he said when she handed him the drink and took the seat in the chair next to him.

  He in turned handed her an envelope of heavy stock before taking a healthy swallow of his beverage.

  Crossing her legs, she opened the envelope and pulled out a raised print invitation to the official afterparty of the Tony Awards being held at the Plaza that very night. Something for nothing didn’t exist in their world. She eyed him coolly and awaited an explanation.

  “I have an associate who might want your offered... services,” he said.

  This was nothing new.

  Being added on as a consort of Mademoiselle was no easy feat. An accepted referral was a sign of clout. Her list was tight and manageable—just the way she preferred. To be accepted by her was a feather in the cap of the wealthy men and women who wanted something to brag about like new jets, concept cars, rare jewels, and deep-throated lovers desperate to prove that he was her number one.

  “Byron,” she began, holding the invitation between her index and middle fingers to extend to him.

  “I know. I know,” he said, finishing his drink. “Just meet him. I will only introduce you as my wife’s favorite boutique owner and nothing else in case you decide not go any further with it.”

  Behind her contentment was an annoyance that she hid well. These days her thoughts were more inclined toward leaving it all behind, not adding to her roster of powerful people looking to buy sex, temporary affection, or ego coddling.

  “I started to bring him with me this morning,” he said, rising to move over to the dresses on display.

  “Byron,” she called over to him.

  He glanced back over his broad shoulder, glass still in hand.

  “That would have gotten you dismissed from my list,” she said, her voice firm. She softened the truth with a smile.

  He chuckled and nodded, turning his attention back to the frocks before him. “I know, and I don’t want that,” he admitted. “My little regular gal is dedicated as hell to get me over the finish line with a smile.”

  Plum—or at least that’s the name she uses—draws some of my highest fees. And I even heard he tipped her well on top of that. For all that cash she better be dedicated.

  “Let’s surprise Dolly with this one right here,” he said, pointing to a beautiful gold sequined gown that would look lovely on his wife—a former beauty queen who had dedicated the last thirty years of her life to his career, their family, and charities. “She already has a gown for the Tonys, but she can save it for some other shindig. Hell, she can use it as a fucking dust cloth for all the hell I care, long as I get me some Plum while I’m in town.”

  For a moment Desdemona allowed herself a vision of his bulky body drenched in sweat as he rutted away between Plum’s thighs. She frowned.

  “Would you like the dress delivered?” she asked as she rose to her feet.

  “No, I’ll take it. Good optics and all,” Byron said with a wink.

  “It’s always about the optics, love,” she said, her voice husky as she walked to the rear of the loft where they kept the inventory. “Mrs. Levin is a ten, right?”

  “Like you don’t know, Mademoiselle,” he drawled.

  “We only have that in a size six,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm.

  “That’s fine; it’ll give her a little motivation to fit in it.”

  Desdemona leaned back to give him a stern, chastising look. His back was to her, and he missed it. She eyed the wide expanse of his back and remembered well the roundness of his belly from too many vodka tonics and medium-rare steak dinners. The nerve, you big-gut, wide-back son of a witless bitch.

  Desdemona pulled out a red lace gown with a wide skirt and thin sequin belt. “I do have this one in her size,” she began, carrying it over her bent arm to then hang it on the garment bagging jack next to the large wooden desk serving as the checkout counter. “I think just selecting another gown that fits her beautiful figure is more appropriate than a low-key shot at her weight when it’s insult enough that you just sang the praises of another woman’s pussy. You know?”

  He walked over to join her, setting the empty glass on the corner of the desk. He eyed her, and there in his eyes was his battle over whether to accept her opinion or not. Whether to be reprimanded by a madam—a black madam nearly half his age—or not.

  Desdemona paused with the scanner to the barcode on the price tag for the nearly three-thousand-dollar dress. She couldn’t care less whether he purchased the dress or some time with Plum—and he knew that. For every consort off her list were a dozen more waiting for entry to the promised land.

  “I think Mrs. Levin will really like this one. Don’t you?” Desdemona asked, looking at the dress and then back over at him. “Happy wife. Happy life.”

  Suddenly he chuckled and gave her the charming toothy smile. “Is it possible you’re trying to help me be a better husband while helping me cheat?” he asked.

  Desdemona scanned the tag before reaching into the top drawer of the desk for a pack of strong mints. She withdrew the can, opened it, and extended it to him in her palm.
“It is my job to look out for you in any way I can,” she said, going a softer route. “The same way I wouldn’t want your staff to smell vodka on your breath, I wouldn’t want you to pick an unnecessary fight with your wife.”

  He took a couple of mints and popped them in his mouth, giving her a nod of thanks.

  Desdemona finished ringing up his purchase. “That will be three thousand, two hundred and sixty-one for the dress,” she said, turning to slide one of her black garment bags with “glitz” in gold lettering up over the dress.

  He handed her his credit card.

  “And just the one session with Plum?” she asked, as she swiped his card and printed his receipt for his signature.

  A session was two hours—and that was her minimum. Anyone looking for anything less wanted less than the experience she trained her paramours to give.

  “Yes. I’ve been waiting for this all month,” he said withdrawing a manila envelope from the inside pocket of his blazer.

  “That brings your remaining cash balance to five thousand,” she said.

  He dropped the envelope onto the desk with a light thud.

  Desdemona left it sitting there as she handed him the garment bag. “I suggest using the mansion rather than booking a hotel suite with your wife and a ton of colleagues in the city for the awards,” she offered.

  He nodded in agreement.

  “I’ll text you the details once I confirm with Plum,” she said, coming around the desk. “And perhaps I will see you at the afterparty tonight.”

  “I hope so.”

  She walked him to the door, and he gave her one last tip of his head before leaving with a lighthearted whistle that filled the air. Locking the door, she retraced her steps back to the counter to check for online sales through their website. She recognized two of the names on the orders from her list. Leaving all the dress orders to be filled by Patrice, she quickly called the consorts from her prepaid iPhone and finalized their requests before opening the calendar and blocking out the times for the paramours.

  Setting the phone down, she sighed and reached for the cash, pulling out a portable cash counter to double-check Byron was not short by even one penny.

  In less than an hour, she had just profited three grand from the dresses and made ten grand from playing Geppetto to her marionettes. That was well over four hundred dollars a minute, and business was far from done for the day.

  Maybe I’ve made enough to retire for good and leave it all behind.

  And do what, though? This is all I know.

  Desdemona closed her eyes and tapped the tips of her stiletto-shaped nails against her chin. It was in these quiet moments that the truth prevailed. It had all become so easy. There was no challenge. Nothing to overcome. Nothing to beat. Nothing to win.

  Biting her bottom lip and tasting the crimson gloss she wore on her lips, Desdemona looked down at the invitation before reaching to have it in her grasp. If nothing else it was something to do and things to see outside of the norm.

  Tapping the corner of the invitation against her palm, she walked over to the inventory hung on racks lining the walls and selected a size eight black strapless gown with a matching elaborate floor-length sheer cape with delicate 3-D silk flowers. “Just in case,” she said aloud.

  * * *

  Hours later Desdemona stood in the midst of the elegantly dressed crowd at the ball sipping on a glass of pinot noir. The room’s neo-classical styling was made all the more luxurious by the colored lighting, sumptuous tablecloths, and sweet-smelling floral arrangements. There were hundreds of guests in attendance celebrating the annual Tony awards lauding the very best of Broadway’s musicals and stage plays. From the floral wall serving as the backdrop for photos to the DJ drawing the bodies onto the dance floor, it was a night meant for the pleasure of celebrities of music, film, and stage. Sumptuous couches intermingled with elaborately decorated tables gave the large grand ballroom some warmth. Wine and signature cocktails quenched thirst, and downstairs a buffet serving samples of delicacies like mini-sandwiches and caviar sated appetites. Winners of the coveted Tony socialized with their awards in hand.

  “Welcome to the Tonys,” she mumbled into her drink before taking a sip.

  There was a time when Desdemona had been starstruck, but those days had long since passed. Knowing some of the inner cravings of the elite had dulled the shine. Nothing like knowing a world-class professional athlete liked being fingered in his rectum while he climaxed to dull the shine and let it resonate that celebrities were like everyone else.

  Desdemona claimed a spot on the mezzanine and amused herself spotting current and past consorts. There were more than a few in attendance. A high-powered manager of a top-grossing pop star. An athlete or two. A politician who trusted her with his predilection for beautiful transsexuals. Some raised their drink to her in a silent toast. Others showed their discomfort with their spouses at their sides. She made a note to speak to them about that at a later time.

  She squinted when she noticed Byron, his wife, and another man she recognized as A-List actor Dirk Blank looking in her direction. Desdemona easily moved in the opposite direction, the edges of her cape rising a bit as she took the stairs and mingled with the crowd.

  Smiling and socializing with the spouses of her consorts. It was a level of phony she wasn’t able to swallow.

  Her heel slipped, and she fell forward with a squeal, her face landing squarely against a hard chest.

  “I got you,” a male voice whispered near her ear.

  Desdemona looked up at the man keeping her from falling flat on her face. A streak of fuchsia lighting illuminated his face. He was handsome enough but smelled even better. Warm and spicy. It made her tingle. She gave him a smile she knew showed her embarrassment. “Sorry about that,” she said, standing erect.

  “You okay?” he asked, his hands still on her elbows.

  “Embarrassed, but all in one piece,” she said, stepping back from him.

  “One beautiful piece.”

  The years had made her a good read. Desi eyed him and sized him up. His stance was that of a confident lover. The thickness of his fingers, lips, and nose was indicative of a large penis. She locked her eyes with his, and he held them for a good while before they shifted slightly. A tell.

  Desdemona tilted her head to the side and shook her head. “We’re not doing that,” she said, her voice playful.

  “Doing what?” he asked, bending to speak close to her ear as the DJ switched to a loud and thumping electro house song by Calvin Harris and Rihanna.

  Desdemona leaned in toward him. “Flirting,” she said.

  He nodded as he looked around the room and then back at her. “Because . . .”

  “I’m celibate and I don’t plan to end that tonight with a one-night stand, and I’m not up for a relationship,” she said, holding her hands up and shrugging her shoulders a bit.

  He looked disbelieving.

  She leaned in toward him again and rose up on the toes of her strappy heels. “I’m good, love. Enjoy,” she said into his ear with a lighthearted giggle at her use of the soft-hearted rejection popularized by social media.

  He smiled and shook his head as she walked away.

  Desdemona was honest. Brutally so. It helped her consorts trust her. What she had told him was the truth. The irony was not lost on her. A celibate madam. It had been more than five years since she’d had a lover. A warm and hard body pressed down upon hers.

  Sometimes I miss the intimacy.

  She stopped and turned to look at him—the good smelling man—but he had disappeared in the crowd.

  She took a sip of her wine and then another as she allowed herself to regret letting the moment to be wild, reckless, and young pass.

  To break up the fucking monotony.

  Desdemona reached for her prepaid iPhone. It was a little after midnight. She was ready to call it a night and get reacquainted with her bed.

  And my loyal, uncomplicated, trouble-free vibrator.
Go, Rabbit. Go.

  She texted Byron.

  M.: It’s a no for now.

  “Another pinot noir, please,” she told the bartender, handing him her empty wineglass.

  Bzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .

  As she accepted her wineglass with a thankful smile, Desdemona briefly glanced at her cell phone vibrating against the top of the bar. Byron. Would he accept her refusal or angle for another shot?

  Either way, she had made up her mind.

  Dirk Blank was a brilliant actor. Unfortunately, the respect garnered for his talent did not extend to his behavior once out of character on stage or film set. His career was troubled with arrests, multiple stays in rehab, and violent outbursts on set. His life and career were heavily chronicled on gossip blogs and celebrity-centered TV programs like E! News and TMZ. His talent was undeniable. Award wins. Rankings on Forbes’s list of highest paid actors. A-list privileges.

  One of Desdemona’s many requirements was no drug use by paramours or consorts.

  Dirk Blank seemed to be on the mend with his career on yet another upswing. She’d even read in the trades that Byron was wooing him back to the stage for his newest dramatic play. Still, she wasn’t willing to take the chance of a relapse on her watch.

  Ensuring the safety and protection of her employees was at the top of her long list of duties as a madam.

  Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . . Bzzz . . .

  She checked the incoming text.

  45:???

  M.: 1 bad apple can spoil the bunch

  “Two white wines, please. Thanks.”

  Desdemona turned at the sound of the voice placing a drink order. She recognized it instantly. “Hello, stranger,” she said, looking at the profile of Zora Lowell.

  The woman faced her, and her smile faded a bit as she stiffened her back. Her eyes shifted about the room before settling back on Desdemona as she took two steps back, giving them distance.

  Shame. Desdemona recognized it well.

  “You did nothing wrong, Zora, and no one knows. So, relax,” she said, giving her an encouraging smile. “It’s good to see you.”