by Denise Dietz
A knock sounded and a voice said “Room service.”
“Please leave it outside the door,” I said, admiring Victor’s tall, lean, well-endowed body. “I’ll take care of your tip later.”
“The tip’s already been added, Ms. Aarons.”
“Ms. Aarons?” Victor raised an eyebrow.
“Long story. Registration hassle. Sol came to my rescue.”
“Good for Sol. Do you want your dinner right away, Frannie?”
“No, Victor, I want you.”
An echo inside my head said Eat me, drink me.
Not now, I told the echo. Please, please, please don’t do your demon thing now.
Joining me in bed, Victor placed his glasses on the bedside table. Then, he clicked his remote.
This is nice, I thought. Normal.
I can’t even count the number of times I’ve made out in front of a TV. Except I’ve never petted and pawed in front of Disney; mostly it was Steve McQueen, Johnny Depp, Keanu, Harrison and/or Denzel.
Curious, I waited to see what tape Victor had chosen. Bambi? The Little Mermaid? Beauty and the Beast?
I was half right. The Beauty half. Victor had brought Sleeping Beauty.
Leaning against his shoulder, feeling his arm snake around my back, I stifled a gasp.
Then, I un-stifled.
Chapter Forty-seven
If Victor’s video had been rated, it would have been rated X.
Or XXX.
I’d seen Sleeping Beauty before, and remembered that Disney’s version included a soirée that extolled the birth of a royal princess. An evil witch who hadn’t been invited cursed the kid. In usual Disney fashion, there were some funny fairies and, eventually, a handsome prince who looked a little like Leonardo DiCaprio.
Victor’s version stripped away every single piece of clothing, probably not very difficult to do if one knew what one was doing and one had access to the latest computer equipment. Everyone at the party was naked, including the king and queen, the witch, even the fairies. Everyone was anatomically correct. Everyone performed explicit acts.
My first thought was Black Mass. My second thought was Holy shit, a Black Mass! My third thought was If Disney knew this tape existed, Madison would get the shit sued out of him. Talk about copyright infringement.
Victor said, “Frannie, are you all right?”
I realized I’d gasped again. “Yes. I guess so.”
“We can turn it off,” he said.
“No. No, it’s…interesting. Different. Definitely.”
“My collection is called Disneyland After Dark.”
“Really! I wonder what charming outfit Cindy’s fairy godmother whipped up for the Prince’s ball. Can you say leather?”
“How do you feel, Frannie?”
“I’m not sure, Victor. Your video reminds me of…” I almost said Tenia’s Black Mass, almost said that two of the copulating celebrants reminded me of Daniel Pearlstein and Dawn Sullivan. “An orgy.”
“It is an orgy, but how do you feel?”
How did I feel? Repulsed? Aroused? Both?
One thing for sure. If Beauty fell asleep naked, her awakening would involve more than a kiss.
For the third time, Victor said, “Frannie, how do you feel?”
Suddenly, I knew exactly how I felt. “Awake,” I said.
“Good,” he said. “That’s what I wanted to hear.” Lowering his mouth to one breast, he teased my other breast with his fingers.
Silently, I vowed not to flinch. Hell, if he was a breast man, so be it. I’d endure, give him pleasure, and…
That was my last coherent thought, at least for a while.
I urged him on by arching my back and thrusting, first one breast, then another into his mouth. The clock on the bedside table digitized minutes ‑‑ five, ten, fifteen ‑‑ until I finally screamed, “Stop!”
He did, immediately.
“Oh, God, Victor,” I cried, “my nipples hurt.”
“Your nipples are swollen, Frannie, that’s all. When you’re ready for more ‑‑”
“I can’t, Victor. No more. My breasts are on fire.”
“Do you want me to put the fire out?”
Glancing at the TV, I pulled my arms from the sleeves of my red robe, then wriggled out of my stupid piece of macramé. “No,” I said with a whimper. “I want more. Please, Victor, please.”
“Of course, little Frannie, we have all night.”
This time, when I focused on the clock, another fifteen minutes had flown, and I realized my breasts didn’t hurt. My ribs hurt from arching my back. Again, I asked him to stop and he did. Again, I told him I was on fire and he said, “Do you want me to put out the fire?”
“Yes. No. Victor, the tape re-wound! I missed the awakening. What are you doing?”
“Fast-forwarding the tape. Watch and learn.”
“Docendo Discimus. ‘We learn by teaching.’ You teach, I learn.”
“Correct. Watch the tape, Frannie. Watch Beauty.”
Victor placed my fingers between my legs. Then he rose from the bed and walked toward the dresser.
“Don’t leave me,” I cried.
“Watch the tape, Frannie. Don’t take your eyes from the screen.”
I heard what sounded like a gunshot ‑‑ or the pop from a champagne cork ‑‑ but kept my gaze riveted to the TV, and soon my fingers began to move in a mesmerizing rhythm of continuity.
“Very good,” Victor said, as if I were auditioning. “Spread your legs as wide as you can, Frannie, but don’t look away from the screen.”
I obeyed, and felt the splash of something cold and sticky.
Victor said, “I put the fire out. Now I’ll build it up again.”
I sensed what he planned to do. After all, weren’t Beauty and her prince doing exactly the same thing?
My mom would have had a long “talk” with Beauty. My mom would have said that men never marry the girls they “sleep around with.” My mom would have said that a Jewish American Princess should never allow anyone, not even a Prince, such pervasive intimacy.
Get real, Mom, I thought. Beauty isn’t American.
My Prince of Darkness placed his knees on both sides of my head so that his lower body was directly above my face. Fronting my toes, leaning forward, he used his tongue to cleanse away the champagne.
I wrapped my mouth around his erection, and forgot everything my mother had ever told me.
Chapter Forty-eight
As a Girl Scout, I attended Camp Laughing Water, where every Scout tried her damnedest to accumulate badges. Mine included arts and crafts, diving, canoeing, even sewing, but they should have fashioned a chevron for sex education. I would have shaped it like the Nike swoosh, then proudly stitched it onto my green bosom banner.
My bunkmates and I would sit around a campfire. There, we’d sing “I’ve Been Working on the Railroad” and toast marshmallows and talk sex. A couple of Scouts had already “done it.” We spoke in euphemisms. A penis was a “you-know-what” or “his thing.” An orgasm was “the big O.”
Fourteen-year-old Marion Bloch was the only Scout who said fuck. She pissed off the counselors by saying it, then cried when she didn’t get any badges. After the ceremony, I gave her my sewing badge.
During campfire soirées, I always sat next to Marion. Scorching my marshmallows, I lied like a trooper. Not only had I done it, but I’d experienced the big O. My actress instincts came in handy. Everyone believed me, even Marion, who wanted to know what the big O felt like, and if I had put his fucking you-know-what in my mouth?
Yes, I’d put his thing in my mouth, I told my avid listeners. And the big O felt like a Coney Island roller coaster. Which I’d actually ridden once, sharing (at my stubborn insistence) the first car with my stupnagel cousin Charlene. After the ride, my mother hustled me over to a trash can, then helped me maintain my balance while I threw up a Nathan’s hot dog, an ear of sweet corn, and a large lemonade. Charlene, who never forgave me, had to be carrie
d to the First Aid Station, where she spent the rest of the afternoon puking her guts out ‑‑ assuming her guts consisted of two Nathan’s hot dogs, two ears of sweet corn, lemonade, and the cotton candy she’d refused to share with me.
In truth, this innocent Scout had hit the proverbial nail on the proverbial head. An orgasm with Andre did feel like a roller coaster. However, compared to Victor Madison, Andre was a kiddy coaster. With Victor, you could add a Ferris wheel and parachute jump, carousel and watershoot. The biggest O I’ve ever experienced.
Correction: the biggest multiple O.
And, Madison WAS the one. No bathroom tiles scraped my knees. No icy finger tickled my throat. No voice hissed vomit his kiss.
Instead, Victor turned off the TV and said, “Go to sleep now.”
“Will you wake me with a kiss?” I said, smiling like Scarlett O’Hara.
“Close your eyes, Frannie, and thank you.”
His thank you sounded familiar. To my knowledge, Victor never thanked anyone. Had I heard him say it to me at our first interview? How about the screen test? And why did his thank you bother me?
“Thank you,” I said and fell asleep and dreamed I was at the Academy Awards.
I sat in the audience, Victor Madison on my left, Joan Rivers on my right. I wore my red robe, a red bra, translucent harem pants, and my macramé thong. My hair had grown long again, all the way down to my ass. People kept leaning over my seat and saying good-luck-Frannie. Joan Rivers whispered, Who fits in anymore? I was invited to a pot party and I brought Tupperware.
Why are people wishing me luck? I asked Joan, feeling I could trust her. Outside, in front of the TV cameras, she’d told me I looked like Cher.
That’s a good one, she said, nudging me with her elbow. Because of you, they’ve added a new category. Best performance by a Demon. Your only real competition is Al Pacino.
On the stage, Robin Williams stopped clowning around long enough to announce one of the songs from the best song category.
Jim Morrison, who hadn’t died after all, sang Love Me Two Times, then encored with Touch Me.
Morrison waited until the applause died down, then stepped up to the mike to announce the best performance by a Demon, and I realized I hadn’t written an acceptance speech. Don’t forget Mom, don’t forget to mention Mom by name, I kept thinking, as I waited for Jim to announce the winner.
Problem was, I couldn’t remember Mom’s name. Marion Bloch? Miriam Bloch? What the hell had my name been before it got changed to Frannie Madison? I began to sweat bullets.
And the Oscar goes to Lynn Beth Sullivan, Jim Morrison said.
Wearing a cheerleader’s uniform, Dawn Sullivan sat on Victor’s lap.
They make drinks strong here, she said, an’ now I feel like sleepin’, beauty. Two bits, four bits, six bits, a dollar, all for Lynn Beth, stand up and holler.
Hey, I played The Demon, I said, tears blurring my eyes.
You fucked the Demon, Dawn said.
Victor, tell that bitch I played the Demon.
Take it easy, he said, or you’ll lose the baby.
What baby? Looking down, I saw that my stomach was huge. Christ, I had to be eight, maybe nine months pregnant. I felt a sharp pain. Then another. As Lynn Beth said, I want to thank Frannie, my inspiration, amniotic fluid flooded my seat.
Victor, I moaned. Our baby’s coming.
He pointed to the stage, then guided my fingers beneath the waistline of my harem pants, between my legs, directly above my macramé. Watch the screen, Frannie, he said. Watch and learn.
There were several screens, all showing Jim Morrison and Lynn Beth and Oscar. My Oscar! As my gaze flickered from screen to screen, a TV camera honed in on Madison, then me, then my fingers.
Lynn Beth said, Mommy, make her stop, I haven’t finished thanking people.
Her microphone screeched, hurting my ears.
The high-pitched squeal woke me up.
Light from the bathroom spawned a nimbus around Victor. Clothed, he carried his suitcase. Gone was the VCR, the silver ice bucket, the candy. Only his flowers remained.
As I focused on the bedside clock, I heard him say, “Sorry, Frannie, this time I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“I just had the weirdest dream, Victor. We were at the Academy Awards, I almost won an Oscar, and I was having your baby.”
He smiled. “Maybe that’ll happen someday.”
“I hope you mean someday I’ll win an Oscar…not the baby part.”
“Fata viam invenient.”
“Well, I sure hope the Fates hurry. I’m not getting any younger.”
“You’re the perfect age, Frannie.”
“For an Oscar?”
“For a baby.”
“Don’t even joke about that, Victor. I want a career first.” Glancing at the clock again, I said, “Why must you leave so soon?”
“I have to go, Frannie. I wish I didn’t.”
“But you said you’d stay the night.”
“I thought I could.”
“It’s only midnight.”
“Yes.”
“Victor, what is it? Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” Dropping the suitcase, he walked over to the bed and knelt by my pillow. “You did everything right.”
“You’re not disappointed?”
“On the contrary, I’ve never been happier.”
“You don’t look happy.”
“Hush. Go back to sleep.”
“Not without you,” I said, then watched him stand up, walk to the suitcase, unzip it, and pull out a fresh bottle of Dom Perignon.
“This is room temperature,” he said, “but it’ll have to do.”
Actually, room temperature was pretty cold, and I made a mental note to call the desk and tell them about my broken heat regulator.
“I don’t want champagne,” I said. “I never ate dinner. My stomach’s empty. I’ll pass out.”
“That’s the idea. Here, this will make your stomach less empty.”
He pressed a chocolate against my lips. I managed to say, “Oony ifoo airit.”
“Only if I share it? Gladly,” he said, and practically suctioned my tongue. “Now the Dom Perignon. We’re running out of time here. Open your mouth, Frannie.”
Like a baby bird, I opened my mouth and let him pour champagne down my throat. To this day, I don’t know why. Maybe I thought he’d stay. Maybe I hoped he’d “awaken” me for the fourth…or was it fifth?… time. Maybe I was thirsty.
After several swallows, I felt a buzz. After half a bottle, I was singing Morrison’s “Touch Me.” I think Victor touched me all over, as if memorizing my body, but I’m not sure. I don’t think I finished the whole bottle, but I’m not sure about that either. I’m only sure about three things. The bottom half of the embroidered hourglass on his turtleneck was full; outside, the rain fell like pitchforks; and, I passed out cold.
Just before I passed out, Victor said, “Thank you, Frannie”…and I suddenly remembered where and when I’d heard it before.
Chapter Forty-nine
Victor had given me the biggest “O” I’d ever experienced, and the next morning I experienced the biggest hangover in the history of the world. Having seen The Philadelphia Story with Katharine Hepburn at least a million times, I now knew how Tracy Lord ‑‑ the character Hepburn plays ‑‑ felt after her nighttime fête with James Stewart.
Except James Stewart hadn’t fucked Tracy Lord four, maybe five times.
Tracy Lord couldn’t remember being carried up to her bed, and I couldn’t remember my last thought before passing out. It was on the tip of my tongue…something about being polite.
I tried to shower away the champagne’s after-effects, although I can’t imagine what made me think soap and water would liquidate a hangover. This is all Victor’s fault, I thought. Everything was supercalifragilisticexpialidocious until he insisted I drink the damn champagne.
Wondering if he’d ever denuded Mary Poppins, I toweled my
body and walked over to the air vents beneath my window. The sun poured through glass panes while heat streamed from the vents. Beads of perspiration dotted my forehead and…whoa. Victor had said he’d turn up the heat, but the room had felt cold before he’d exited stage left and even the “room temperature” Dom Perignon had tasted chilled. Maybe the thermostat had switched over on its own.
