Eighty Days Blue

by Vina Jackson

  My mind wandered back to Derek and I made an effort to concentrate on him, out of politeness. He had finished his oral ministrations and I pushed myself up, moving forward to go down on him, but he stopped me and pushed me down onto the bed.

  ‘No, babe, this is all about you,’ he said.

  I sighed, an expression that he took to be pleasure.

  His cock was big and hard at least, and his torso pleasantly firm against my chest, though I wished that instead of his endless light caresses, he would use his fingers to pull my nipples or lightly constrict my breathing. Perhaps he just needed a hint to push him in the right direction.

  I picked up his hand and moved it towards my throat.

  ‘Whoa. You’re not one of those girls, are you? I’m not into that kinky shit.’

  I could feel his cock softening inside me.

  I pulled him down into a kiss, the sexual equivalent of changing the subject, but the moment was gone. He pulled out of me and disappeared into the bathroom. I heard the sounds of the shower running, and later, he returned with two hot chocolates.

  ‘It’s late,’ he said, handing me a steaming mug. ‘You’re welcome to stay over.’

  He was kind, at least, and versed in the etiquette of casual sex, even if not my type.

  I lay awkwardly alongside him until morning and then set about making my escape early, though I doubted that Derek would ask me for my telephone number.

  The street vendors were out in full force around Central Park, heckling tourists who took a millisecond too long to choose between ketchup or tomato sauce. I picked up a bagel and a coffee on the corner of 78th Street and Fifth, and took advantage of a morning off to drop into the Met while I was nearby.

  My mind was in too much of a whirl to appreciate art, and in the end I gave up trying to decide which of the vast array of exhibitions to visit and spent an hour in the Asian section, staring at a fifty-century Afghan head of Buddha, hoping to soak up some of the serenity visible on the features of the stone face with its long, loose ears and wide-set sleepy eyes. I took in the symmetrical brows meeting an angular nose and, below that, a plump, sensual mouth with soft lips, which gave the godlike creature a hint of humanity.

  I thought about the night I’d just spent with Derek, the last weekend I’d had with Dominik, the weeks before that, with Victor, and the time that I’d gone to the fetish club in London on my own and enjoyed being spanked by a stranger. I reflected on how all of those things, the things that I was certain at least half the world would think of as abnormal, turned me on so enormously, yet a night with someone like Derek, a nice guy, a good catch in the social sense of the word, did nothing for me at all.

  Is that what it had come to? Did I need to be restrained or surprised or pushed around to enjoy sex? Did I really want Dominik for the person that he was, or did I just like the way that he made me feel in bed?

  Opting for the long walk home instead of the humid grime of the subway, the sights and sounds of the city that had only yesterday seemed grand and exciting, today reminded me that I was cloistered, hemmed in, trapped among regimented straight avenues and square blocks. I was surrounded by monolithic glass and concrete structures that soared into the sky overhead like so many sentinels, the slice of blue sky in between building tops just a faraway glint, menacing as a guillotine edge floating above me.

  I missed London for its underground hideaways, its narrow, twisting streets and darkened alleyways, its cobbled lanes with old-fashioned names like Cock or Clitterhouse a blatant reminder of a time when the streets bore witness to lewdness on every corner, when bawdy houses overflowed with petticoated courtesans, salacious strumpets and perverse politicians, lords and ladies of the night exuberant in their quest to quench appetites of every nature.

  More puritan times had reigned since, and some of the ruder place names had been changed to reflect the social mores of the modern day, but London remained a city with desire soaked into its very streets. If the stones could talk, I thought, they’d cheer at the sight of each passing corruption. London was on my side.

  That day, New York felt like the company of a disapproving sister.

  I was a few minutes late for that evening’s rehearsal and Simón gave me a searching look as I slipped into my seat. I played on autopilot, with none of my usual flourishes, hoping that my distraction and the machinelike torpor of my bow hand were not too evident.

  That night, I slept with a heavy heart.

  I woke up at 3 a.m., the time of morning that troubles come home to roost, and sent Dominik a text message:

  ‘I miss you.’

  I fell asleep feeling guilty, because I wasn’t really sure if I did.

  The next day, I decided to take matters into my own hands and look around for some kind of kink scene in New York. Every city was bound to have something, I figured. Regardless of yesterday’s temporary depression, I knew from my adventures in London that other people in the world thought and behaved the same way I did. I just needed to find them.

  A quick Google search wasn’t a great deal of use. Perhaps things were a bit harder here for fetish folk. I had heard that in some places, cops took a poor view of public nudity and consensual violence. Or possibly this was just the style of New Yorkers; maybe they were more discreet about their proclivities and you needed to know people to find out where scenes were held. There were a few venues advertising events, but none that caught my eye. A couple of cabaret nights, a foot-fetish party, a men’s spanking society.

  Eventually, I found an introductory rope-bondage workshop, advertised for noon the following Saturday. I hadn’t had much experience of rope, but the pictures certainly appealed, and if my response to the constriction of the corset and the hold-up stockings that Dominik had tied round my wrists was anything to go by, it would be right up my street. Attending an introductory class also virtually eliminated the risk that I might bump into Victor or any of his associates, which was a definite possibility at a club night.

  The address wasn’t listed for privacy reasons. I sent an email, stating that I was new in town and would be interested in attending, to the info address on the website.

  I received a response almost immediately, an email from a Cherry Bangs, her ‘scene name’, no doubt. She wrote that she helped to facilitate the event and that I was welcome to come along as a ‘rope bunny’, a volunteer who would be tied by those learning the art of shibari, and that I wouldn’t be expected to have a go with the rope if I didn’t want to. She suggested meeting for a coffee, as I was new to the New York scene, and we arranged a date for Saturday morning, a couple of hours before the workshop began.

  With a potential kink outlet sorted for the weekend, I went to rehearsal that day with a happy heart and a spring in my step. My good mood was apparent in the music and by the end of the session I felt invigorated. I still missed Dominik but was learning to get by without him. Everything was beginning to click into place.

  ‘You played well tonight,’ Simón said, not so much a compliment as a statement of fact, but I flushed with pride all the same. His brown eyes shone in the light, still full of adrenaline from the evening’s performance.

  ‘Thank you,’ I replied. ‘I thought you were great too.’

  ‘That’s good to hear. It’s always tough taking over, especially from someone more experienced. I never know whether to be soft or firm, how to win respect without being the bad guy.’

  ‘Well, I’m enjoying having you here.’

  Perhaps it was the excitement from tonight’s music that made me keep talking.

  ‘Would you like to get a drink?’

  He stared at me, making up his mind. I hadn’t ever considered dating any of my previous conductors – they’d all been well into their older years – so I wasn’t sure what the ethics were. Besides, it wouldn’t be a date, just two travellers having a drink together. I guessed he must be new in the city too.

  ‘Sure,’ he said with a grin.

  We went to an Italian café on Le
xington. I ordered an affogato, vanilla ice cream with coffee and a shot of Cointreau. The waiter, an American Italian with a booming voice and an electric-blue apron, served it on a tray, the ice cream in a stemless martini glass sitting atop a white saucer with a red napkin and a long-handled silver spoon alongside, the piping-hot espresso and the liqueur lined up behind in shot glasses. He poured the liquid over the top of the ice cream with a flourish and then returned with two biscotti on a plate.

  Simón eyed my elaborate concoction and then his own simple glass of red wine.

  ‘I feel a little jealous,’ he said.

  I handed him the spoon. ‘Go ahead, please.’

  He paused before accepting this gesture of intimacy and taking a spoonful. ‘Hmm, it’s good.’

  I took the spoon back, the stem still warm from the touch of his hand, though the scoop was icy cold.

  ‘In Venezuela,’ he said, ‘we eat coconut and caramel for dessert.’

  He enunciated the ‘c’ in each word in a way that suggested that he was thinking of something else, hotter than coconut or caramel, but the expression in his eyes was nothing more than warm and friendly. If he was flirting, I couldn’t be certain.

  ‘An excellent combination. How long have you lived in New York?’

  ‘I was born here. My mother worked on Wall Street. She met my father on holiday. He was playing in a band. He emigrated to be with her but never managed to settle in, so we moved back to South America when I was a child. They’re still there. I spent most of my childhood travelling between the two cities. I studied music in Caracas. Began by learning the violin . . .’

  ‘Oh? Why did you give it up?’

  ‘I wasn’t very good at it. I was always distracted when I was playing by the sound of the rest of the orchestra. I wanted to control everything.’

  I laughed. ‘A natural conductor, then.’

  ‘I suppose so. You play very well, you know. You play like a Latina. You have passion.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I demurred.

  ‘I’m not just flattering you. But you’re hemmed in by the constraints of an orchestra. Your sound would work better alone, solo.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, but I don’t know if I could. I’d be terrified on stage alone.’

  ‘You would get used to it. I think you’d enjoy it.’

  He reached out his hand and for a moment I thought he was going to take my hand in his, but instead he picked up the spoon and took another mouthful of ice cream.

  Did he mean it? I wondered. My modesty was only true to a point. I would love to play solo for an audience, though the prospect scared as much as it excited me.

  We sat in silence for an awkward few seconds. I scraped the remaining drips of my dessert up with my finger, my focus on the melting ice cream to distract from the sudden discomfort between us.

  ‘I’ve enjoyed the last few weeks,’ I said, breaking the silence. ‘I like the American composers. Philip Glass, particularly.’

  ‘That’s good,’ he laughed. ‘Though I don’t think everyone shares your opinion. Some find him rather repetitive.’

  ‘Does your family celebrate Thanksgiving?’

  ‘Not really. My mother did, but she’s taken up the Venezuelan lifestyle now. I’m actually having a little soirée at mine on Thursday. Just a few other “orphans” in the city who don’t have family dinners to attend. You’re very welcome to come. There’s someone I’d like to introduce you to.’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I replied, ignoring a lingering worry at the back of my head that said that encouraging Simón wasn’t fair, on either him or Dominik.

  A few days later, I was in the same café to meet the woman who had answered my query about the rope workshop.

  Cherry looked exactly as her name suggested. Her hair was dyed a vivid pink and cropped into a perfectly smooth bowl shape. She was short, buxom and dressed entirely in pink, aside from a black leather bomber jacket, which gave a rough edge to a look that might otherwise have seemed girlish. Her thick lips were liberally glossed, and her fingers were decorated with a variety of large rings, which shined in the light as she gesticulated. Cherry talked with her hands almost as much as Simón did.

  ‘So you’re new in town?’ she asked, in a voice that suggested she might originally hail from further north. She told me she was from Alberta, someplace near Calgary, originally, and I guessed that explained why she was going out of her way to help out another newbie.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I replied. ‘I’ve been here a few months. Just new to . . . the scene.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that. We’re all friendly. Have you been tied up before?’

  ‘Not with rope.’

  ‘Well, it’s better to learn in a place like this than stumble across a rigger at a party who doesn’t know what they’re doing or strings you up and leaves you hanging there. I’ll keep an eye on you.’

  I watched her hands lightly caressing a large cup of iced coffee with all the trimmings. One of her rings, I noticed, was a large spider, its thick body a long, black stone, with eight silver legs that wrapped round her finger like a cage. Another was a skull, with glittering faux-diamond eyes. I doubted she would be the gentle sort, but it’s not always possible to tell. If everyone’s public behaviour mirrored the way they responded in the bedroom, then I’d presumably have a lot more success in dating.

  The workshop was held in a loft space between Midtown and the aptly named Meatpacking District. The room was part of someone’s apartment, though the hallway leading to the bedrooms was cut off by a privacy screen, and the living room had been transformed into a ‘play space’. It was light and airy, more like a yoga studio than a dungeon. Cushions were dotted around the room, and sitting upon them, attendees in a range of ages and sexes.

  A young couple huddled into each other on a fake cowhide bean bag, looking like predictably nervous first-timers. The rest of the crowd were relaxed, chatting together happily. The sound of a continually boiling kettle gave the room a sense of homeliness, and the kitchen was filled with people waiting to pour water into mugs of tea and coffee. A table to one side displayed a range of herbal teas and a platter of fruit and organic chocolates. Near that sat a lone man with long hair and a scuffed leather jacket, defiantly eating a bowl of potato crisps.

  Cherry introduced me to a few people, and I took a place beside her at the front, alongside Tabitha, who was running the workshop. Tabitha looked like a pagan goddess, with long, dark hair that flowed over her shoulders like a river, and a floor-length crimson dress, patterned with vivid, tiny blue flowers. She was barefoot, and she wasn’t tall, but she commanded the room in a way that made it seem as if she was.

  Tabitha began by outlining the safety issues of rope bondage, including how to avoid nerve damage and asphyxiation. (Never put a harness round the neck.)

  She held up a pair of blunt rope shears. ‘Always have a pair of these handy,’ she advised, ‘if you need to release your partner quickly, in case of fire, injury or an unexpected visit from your mother-in-law.’

  The room tittered.

  She demonstrated a few of the basic ties, laying a length of rope out on the floor and slowly folding it into knots.

  I followed along, surprised by my feeling of satisfied accomplishment when I managed to correctly fix a single column tie round Cherry’s wrist.

  She grinned. ‘See, it’s fun, huh?’

  The second half of the session was more advanced, the bit that I had been looking forward to.

  Tabitha invited me to be her ‘bunny’, as she called it, to demonstrate the tying of a basic box tie, the starting point, she said, for most body harnesses.

  ‘Hold your arms behind your back.’

  Her voice, quiet but firm, made me predictably weak at the knees.

  She moved my arms into the right place, not straight out in the prayer position that Dominik had effected when he tied my wrists with the hold-up stockings, but with my forearms pressed straight against each other, my fingertips on
one hand brushing my opposite elbow.

  She began by tying my arms together, looping a single length of rope round the area midway between my wrists and my elbows, and then binding it round the upper and then the lower part of my chest, creating a border round my breasts and pinning my arms to my sides. She ran her fingers expertly along my arm before pulling the binding tight, checking that the rope was placed safely, not trapping a nerve.

  The room fell into a hush, all the participants now quiet, listening closely to Tabitha’s instructions. She had stopped telling me which way to turn and instead moved me about as if I was a doll, inanimate other than to respond to questions about the tightness of each binding. I began to relax against her body, softening my limbs and holding my shoulders back, allowing her to restrain me at her will. I closed my eyes, conscious of the audience watching.

  Tabitha finished the harness and then left me standing in the centre of the room while she walked around the group, checking the work of the attendees who had now secured their partners in similar knots. She returned to me periodically, squeezing my hands behind my back to check my circulation, making sure that I hadn’t gone numb. I had begun to sway gently on my feet, as if I’d got up suddenly after having a massage.

  I was in a daze by the time that Tabitha returned from instructing the group and began to untie me. The rope brushed against my skin with a soft swish as she loosened the knots. It felt almost as good coming off as it did going on. Freed from the restraints, I stretched out my arms and wiggled my fingers, bringing the blood flow back.