London Broil

by Linnet Moss

  “So that’s how you ended up so close to the Herald,” said James when she explained this. “But it’s not fair— I want to know everything about you, and this flat reveals none of your secrets. It’s all someone else’s taste.”

  “Yes. Almost as though I got to see you naked, but not the reverse,” she said, thinking of the way he enjoyed déjeuner sur l’herbe. She’d put a pan of water on to boil, and now she poured in a sackful of fresh edamame and set the timer for two minutes.

  He looked around at the décor, which was restrained, a mix of oatmeal, cream and brown colors with an occasional flash of blue. The tiny kitchen opened onto a dining area with a table for four, and a living room with low couches, a coffee table and a television, plus the desk where she worked and a few bookshelves (still laden with Celia’s collection of early female novelists: Fanny Burney, Maria Edgeworth, Elizabeth Inchbald.) There was also a small balcony with potted plants and two wrought-iron chairs. Behind a partially closed door was the surprisingly large bedroom, with a king size bed, and a bath that boasted a garden-style tub set into a tiled enclosure. She’d enjoyed soaking in that tub, surrounded by candles, more than a few times after a long day seated at a library desk.

  “What does your place look like?” he asked. “In Pennsylvania. Do you have a house?”

  “Yes. I love it. It’s a sprawling split-level house with huge closets and bathrooms, and the living room walks out to a glorious garden. Where the books don’t fill the walls, they’re covered with pictures. I have some artist friends in New York who work in oils, and I mostly buy their stuff. That is, when I can afford it. I try to find painters whom nobody’s heard of.”

  “Me too, though I’m more interested in photography,” he said.

  “What can I give you to drink? I have a white Burgundy and some Pinot Grigio.” She poured them each a glass of the Burgundy, then neatly drained the edamame, blotted them with a paper towel, and sprinkled them with flaky Maldon salt. Meanwhile she transferred the boiling water to a plastic mixing bowl, into which she carefully placed the jar of gianduja.

  “These are brilliant. I had them in a bar in Japan once,” said James. “They ate dish after dish of them, with vats of beer. Now you see them here in restaurants, at exorbitant prices.” He picked up a bright green edamame pod and bit into it, pressing the tender bean out with his teeth, savoring the salt, and discarding the pod. Before they knew it, the large pile of edamame had been converted to a large pile of empty pods.

  Next she put out a plate of Sweet Georgia Browns, buttery crackers topped with gorgonzola and toasted pecans. Instead of orange blossom honey, she had used chestnut honey, which gave a more robust flavor. He didn’t comment on these, but by rate of their disappearance, she knew he approved. They stood in the kitchen enjoying the salty and rich flavors with the chilled wine.

  “James, did you ever read the Odyssey?”

  “Yes, but not until I was grown. I was told that I couldn’t understand Joyce’s Ulysses unless I knew Homer. Very entertaining, I thought. Easier to read than Joyce.”

  “Do you remember when Odysseus’s raft is smashed and he washes up on the island of the Phaeacians? The princess Nausicaa is there with her maids, and Odysseus has to come out of the bushes naked to ask for help. All the other girls run away, but Nausicaa stands her ground because she’s a princess.”

  “Yes, as I recall, he held a branch in front of himself. Ticklish situation, that.”

  “But tremendously sexy. This macho, bearded warrior walking up to the virginal princess, but she’s the one with the clothes, and he’s naked. It’s the reverse of your fantasy, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, although he’s the one with the power. He could throw her down and have his way with her any time he wanted.”

  “That’s true, and yet when you read the poem, it’s the furthest thing from his mind. She’s the one with the power, because he needs her help.”

  “And that turns you on? When you told me your fantasies,” he said, “they were all passive ones, about having things done to you. It’s my experience that most women enjoy the feeling of the man taking control. They even have fantasies of rape.”

  “Yes. Many women have an atavistic desire to be pursued, and caught, and held down during sex. It’s obsolete evolutionary programming, I suppose. But that doesn’t mean we want to be raped. A rape fantasy is just the opposite. It’s a fantasy, so the woman controls every aspect of it. She decides exactly what happens, and how, and who does it. That’s a far cry from a real-life rape,” she added dryly.

  She was working in the kitchen, bringing a big pot of salted water to the boil; though she didn’t look up, she could feel his assessing eyes on her as she worked. She sautéed a mix of tender greens in a skillet with olive oil and sliced garlic: spinach, arugula, rapini. She poured in a splash of the wine, and it sizzled with the greens. Then she added a couple of cups of cannelini beans, gently simmered the day before with lots of fresh sage until they were meltingly tender, yet held their shape. At the same time, she tossed ribbons of fresh pasta into the pot. When it was done, she drained it and added it to the skillet, sprinkling the whole with lemon juice, salt and pepper, and tossing the mixture. Finally, she plated it and garnished both servings with a topping of toasted panko breadcrumbs mixed with finely grated parmegiano-reggiano cheese, black pepper, and dried oregano.

  They carried the plates and wineglasses to the table, which was set with Celia’s flowery china dishes and silver, as well as a candlestick with tall, slender tapers. The light outside was dimming. James twirled the pasta on his fork and took a bite. He closed his eyes and said nothing for a moment, then looked at her and nodded. “Excellent. I’ve half a mind to propose to you on the spot, like Nolly. The breadcrumbs put it over the top.”

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief. She’d debated her menu for hours, finally deciding that the hint of fall in the evening air justified something more substantial than a lighter, summer-style pasta. She got up to retrieve the salad, composed of fennel, avocado, and orange slices (she’d labored to trim them of all the white pith) with a white wine vinaigrette and lots of black pepper. “I’ve not heard your fantasies yet, James. Have you ever fantasized about rape?” With the salad, she set out a sourdough baguette and a crock of Plugra butter that she had mixed with thyme, salt, lemon zest and a tiny hint of garlic.

  “That’s a taboo,” he said, slathering a baguette slice with the soft butter, “but yes, most men do think about it at one time or another. As you pointed out, it’s only a fantasy. Very few men who think about it would ever do it. Though as a crime journalist, I admit that rape is far more common than most people realize. It often goes unreported by the victims.”

  “Very true. So what is a man’s rape fantasy like? I don’t suppose it’s the counterpart of a woman’s fantasy, where you’re the pirate who takes captive a virginal noblewoman and ravishes her?” She started to laugh. “Right now I’m imagining you in a pirate costume with a big feathered hat and those boots that come up to the thighs.”

  He had a mouthful of orange and she had to wait for him to swallow. “No, my fantasies are more to do with teaching pert and saucy lasses a lesson. Especially when they enjoy teasing me overmuch.” He gave her a meaningful look.

  “I see. And as a man, do you ever fantasize about giving up control, and having delicious things done to you? At your job, you have to tell other people what to do all day. Would you like it if you didn’t have to make any decisions or initiate anything in bed?”

  “That isn’t really my style, but once in a while I could fancy it,” he said. “I like a woman to climb on top of me and ride. I can see her face, and her tits from below as she bends over me, and her hair. But she sets the pace, and after a certain point I always feel the urge to flip her back under me, or take her from behind.”

  “All the better to administer a few good smacks to the rear end, eh, James? I still haven’t decided how I feel about that part
icular predilection of yours, but I wouldn’t mind tying you down for some little games of my own devising.”

  “Tying me down? That’s more Nolly’s thing. But I promise to hold still whatever you do… no, you have my word,” he said, seeing her skeptical look.

  “Have you ever had a fantasy about a teacher?” she asked as she was clearing up the dishes. “No, don’t get up; I’ll take care of these. It stands to reason that after Miss Sweeney, you might have looked with new eyes on some of your teachers.”

  “Now and then, yes, I had a few notions when the teachers were young and comely. And in my university days, there was a certain professor…. at first I majored in ale and fistfights, but then I switched to journalism and drama. Eventually I got my BA at Birkbeck, and then did postgraduate work at City, here in London. We had to meet with our professor and conduct a practice interview. I was hoping for a repeat of Sweeney Pie, but it never happened. In fact, I got bloody awful marks on that interview.”

  “But you were turned on during it?”

  “Oh yes. She had glasses like Miss Sweeney, and lovely big eyes, and her mouth drove me wild; she had this pair of lips that made me want to… feel them all over me, but especially certain parts of me. Afterward she tried to help me by quizzing me on all the bits I got wrong, but I was hopeless. My woody and I had to flee in disgrace.”

  She laughed at the thought of James following his woody out the door. “Who’d have thought glasses could be a turn-on? But I had a student who worked nights at a strip club, and she told me that she always earned more money when she wore her glasses. In fact, they hired her because they thought she looked like a teacher.”

  “Mmm,” he said. “I don’t suppose you fancied her?” She rolled her eyes. Why did men find the thought of two women together so exciting?

  They were still seated at the dining table. Laura reached over and took his hand. “Now, James,” she said, looking into his eyes, “for the next part of the evening, I’m going to be your teacher and give you a test. Do you promise to be a good pupil and do everything I say?”

  “I’ll try my best, Miss Livingston,” he said, grinning.

  “Good, come over to the sofa and sit down. Now turn to one side,” she said, picking up a long, black silk scarf. “I’m going to put this over your eyes. This is a test about the flavors of things, and the poetry of flavor. You know a lot about wines, so we’ll start with wine. I’ll read you the description of a wine, and you have to guess what it is.”

  “Why do I need a blindfold, if I’m not actually tasting the wine?”

  “You’re blindfolded so that I’ll have more power and you’ll have less. And also because I happen to think it’s very sexy, and because it suits my purposes,” she said, caressing his hair. Just the sight of him with the silk blindfold over his eyes, skimming his high cheekbones, aroused her to a surprising degree.

  “Do I have to name the vintage? I’d be crap at that,” he said.

  “No, no, just the varietal, or the region if it’s European. I’m a very lenient grader, but if you get it wrong, you have to take off a piece of clothing.”

  “And if I get it right?”

  “Then I’ll give you something good to taste, or maybe I’ll talk dirty to you. Would you like that?” He grinned again. “I’m beginning to like it already,” he said.

  “Okay, are you comfortable? Here’s the first one: A creamy yet refreshing wine, with a long seamless finish. Subtle hints of pear blossom and the toasty aroma of buttered sourdough.”

  “That sounds like Champagne,” he said.

  “Close enough. It’s the 1999 Schramsberg J. Schram vintage sparkling wine, made with Chardonnay grapes from Carneros. Well done, James!”

  “What’s my reward, professora?”

  “Just a minute, I have to get my tray of goodies….open your mouth.” She put a tiny round of dark cake with a crusty top between his teeth. “What does it taste like?”

  “Dark chocolate, moist texture, and… oh! red chili pepper. Let me have another of those.”

  “All right, but you’ll have to earn the next one. Now, what’s this? Nuances of oyster shell, chlorophyll, menthol, white flowers, quinine and pineapple. A pure finish, which… mounts inexorably, and then lingers for a minute or more.”

  “Oyster shell. That has to be a Chablis,” he said confidently. “A very suggestive Chablis. Are you making these up?”

  “Of course not. It’s the 2008 Domaine François Raveneau Chablis Clos. Hmm. I can see that if I’m ever going to get you naked, I’ll have to move to the Advanced level. Meanwhile, here’s another bite of cake, and I’m going to hold a shot glass to your lips.” She gave him a sip of single malt scotch.

  “Talisker,” he said triumphantly. “I’m waiting for the dirty talk. You can start any time now.”

  “That’s a lot of sass from someone who’s forgetting he’s my student. The scotch was a reward, not a test question,” she said with asperity. “Item number three: Very aromatic bouquet of small ripe red fruits: cherry, raspberry, currant.” She lingered over the next sentence: “Beautiful flesh in the mouth… a delicious union of mingled tannins and fruits.”

  He had to think about this one. “Beaujolais,” he finally said.

  “A noble effort,” she replied, “but I’m afraid it’s Pinot Noir, the Bouchard Père & Fils Reserve 2008. Now take your shirt off. Not too fast. I want to enjoy this.” He was wearing chinos and one of his short sleeved cotton shirts, this time in a small red check pattern. He unbuttoned it and pulled it from the waist of his trousers (not belted, she noticed with satisfaction), and held it out.

  “I’ll just fold this up for you. Did you bring a clean shirt in your gym bag for tomorrow? Good,” she said briskly. “Item number four: Creamy, rich, opulent and sophisticated. Oozes flavors of espresso, ripe cherry, cola and licorice. Extraordinarily generous in the mouth with a finish counted in long minutes.”

  “A well-aged Barolo?” he asked. “Yes,” she said, impressed. “It’s the Sandrone 2004 Cannubi Boschis. James… do you have any idea how sexy you look with that silk blindfold, and no shirt, and that promising bulge in your trousers? Oh yes, that’s right where I’m looking now, and I’m thinking about what we’re going to do later.”

  “We could move straight to the main festivities,” he said hopefully.

  “Oh no. You have to finish your test. This one’s a bit different. Item number five: Chocolate notes and pepper flavor with a deep, full-bodied earthiness, giving way to creamy espresso on the finish.”

  He shook his head doubtfully. “Cabernet Sauvignon?”

  “No, it’s a cigar,” she answered. “Hah!”

  “That’s a trick question. I want to appeal my mark.”

  “I said we’d start with wine, remember? I never said they’d all be wines. Now, take your trousers off.”

  “What about my socks? Don’t they count?”

  “I suppose so, but they count as one item.” She waited while he dutifully peeled them off. “Now, then: what kind of a cigar do you think that was?”

  “Hmm. You said it was deep and full bodied and chocolatey, so I’m guessing a maduro. How long was it?” She checked a printed page from the cigar website. “This stick is seven inches long and has minimal veins and a smooth, satiny wrapper.”

  “If it’s that big, then a Churchill?”

  “You are so right. It’s something called a Gurkha Special Ops Maduro Churchill. James… do you know what it reminds me of? A certain part of you that I want to taste. In fact, just reading that description has made me so hot that I’ve pulled my top off. And I’m touching my breasts right now. Can you picture that? I’m crossing my arms over my chest to squeeze them together… and I’m pinching my nipples very gently. They’re getting hard now.”

  James groaned softly. She could see his hands reflexively closing and then opening, like the paws of a cat kneading its bedding.

  “The next item tests your applied knowledge. Taste from this shotgla
ss.” She held it to his lips. “No, keep your hands at your sides. You promised, remember?”

  “It’s another scotch, a blended one, with a hint of peat and smoke. Uhh, Loch Lomond? A wild guess,” he said.

  “No, Mr. Whelan, it’s Irish.”

  “Coonemara! Damn. You had to pick the one Irish whiskey that tastes of peat.”

  “Drop your trousers, Whelan.” He stood up and unzipped his chinos, revealing a pair of black boxer briefs, along with a sizable erection. “You do know that you’re going to pay for this later?” he said in a soft voice that caused a warm tendril of delight to expand inside her.

  “All right. This is your last question. I’m going to climb into your lap now, but don’t move.” She settled herself, facing him and pressing up against his erection, then lifting herself with her thigh muscles. “Open your mouth.” And cupping her left breast, she lifted it slightly and brought the nipple, covered with chestnut honey, to his lips. He suckled it, making a sound deep in his throat, and the firm tugging on her nipple caused her to grip his shoulders and tilt her head back in pleasure. “Oooh,” she moaned.

  Suddenly he reached up and ripped off the blindfold. The renewed contact of their eyes felt electric. “Professor Livingston, did I pass?” he said, running his hands from her buttocks up her bare back. His hands were always so warm.

  “There were eight questions,” she said. “Stop touching me there, I can’t think straight. You had four right and three wrong and you didn’t answer the last. What was the last flavor?”

  “Chestnut honey à la Livingston,” he said, bringing her face down to his and kissing her so that she could taste the remnants of honey and whiskey on his lips. He leaned forward, still holding her on his lap, and picked up the bottle of Coonemara on the tray and one of the shotglasses.

  “You performed very respectably,” she said. “I recommend postgraduate study. But you didn’t fulfill my fantasy. I wanted to see you blindfolded and completely naked.”

  “Drink this all at once,” he said, pouring a half a shot. She downed the contents of the glass, coughing slightly at the afterburn.