The Satyr

by Tiana Laveen

  I did it… I let that man do whatever he wanted to me that night. And I liked it.

  Yasmine turned the page of the report before her, simply going through the motions. Her mind was hijacked by a hedonistic ghost, and he wouldn’t turn her loose.

  I have to talk to someone about this… But I can’t. No. I have to keep it to myself…

  She’d fucked a tall, handsome stranger who’d left her forever changed. It had been so long since she’d laid eyes on Raze, but to her body, it might as well had been two seconds ago. The memory of his words told on her beating heart. The deep, confident voice that rolled off his long, flickering tongue had made her spark with fear, yet with him, she’d felt a sense of safety, too. Despite what had transpired, she’d never believed she was in danger, or that he’d hurt her. He had, however, intimidated her, and that was difficult to accomplish. She couldn’t put her finger onto an exact reason why; perhaps, it had been a multitude of things.

  His body was perfection… the kind that if you did not see it with your own eyes, you may believe he’d been airbrushed or photoshopped. Taut, rippled muscles, an eight-pack out of this world. Tanned flesh. She surmised by his last name he was Italian. He had a killer smile, though he’d only flashed it twice, fleetingly. Despite being so damn good looking, he had a bit of ruggedness about him, too.

  Maybe it was the slight roughness of his hands, uncommon for an attorney. She wondered why?

  Or perhaps it was the scar she’d noticed on his back and upper right arm. They looked like old injuries. His speech was neither refined nor unsophisticated, but somewhere in the middle.

  His tone at times seemed sharp, and at others irritated, yet always rich, rough, deep and husky. He spoke with certainty and full authority. He made you want to listen.

  Running the back of her hand across her forehead, she tried to cool her nerves as she fought a smile. Stopping the burst of sweat that bubbled from her core at the mere thought of the man proved insufferable. No one had ever ravished her body the way Raze had. No one had ever made her feel so dirty yet so desired, all at once. When she left the club that night, she was convinced she’d contact him. After all, he did state he offered private consultations, but as the days passed, her nerves got the best of her and the thought of ringing him up subsided.

  She withdrew into a shell of sorts, overthinking and second-guessing everything. Maybe it was her workload, or was that simply a convenient excuse? She’d debated following up so many times, and always talked herself out of it. Not like her to be so indecisive though. He’d opened the door for her, but she didn’t step through. Something didn’t feel quite right. Warning bells of sorts.

  I should have called. I should have called the next day or two. It’s too late now… probably for the best that I didn’t. But I haven’t cum like that since then… I have never achieved that height of ecstasy. How did he do it? I wish I knew his secret.

  It must not be the norm for him to provide his real name, but he’d given it to her anyway, even though they worked in similar fields. Girl, let sleeping dogs lie. That’s not what you want, anyway.

  Standing to her full height, she stretched and yawned, pacing back and forth to take a much-needed break.

  He probably doesn’t even remember me. That’s his job. Well, it’s not his only job; he doesn’t get paid for it. He does this shit for fun, which just makes him a whore. I mean, hell, I don’t want to be another notch on his belt. What am I talking about? I already am. It doesn’t matter… Just forget it… forget him, too. You went there and got what you had gone for, right, Yasmine? He handled that, and then some. Yeah… Damn did he handle that! My word, he handled me like a champ! Nope. Don’t do this! It is clear what and who he is, and what he is about. I need something meaningful in my life. This guy provided a service. Nothing more. Nothing less. She shook her head. You can’t do this, okay? You know what? Just get rid of the temptation. Time to let this go once and for all…

  She walked into her bedroom, yanked the damn nightstand drawer open, picked up the man’s business card, and stared at it, stalling… Then, finally, she ripped it into bits and tossed it in the clear trashcan. She made her way back to her makeshift office in her living room, grabbed the coffee cup with the rancid coffee, and dumped the remains in the kitchen sink. Then, she made herself a fresh cup of green tea with honey and lemon. Squatting back down, she sipped the hot liquid and warmth trailed down her throat, soothing her like an elixir on a dismal, cold day.

  Now, let’s forget Raze forever and concentrate on this. There’s no way to backtrack or reach him now. I’ve removed the problem so I can get my ass back to work. The bills won’t pay for themselves…

  Bootsy Collin’s, ‘Munchies for Your Love’ belted out of red corner speakers. Nixon lounged against the black quilted headboard of his enormous bed, staring up at the grand domed ceiling of his bedroom. Smoke eddied from his mouth as he held loosely onto a thick white cigar. On lazy days like this, he appreciated his extravagant three-bedroom luxury apartment on Michigan Avenue in the Chicago Loop. It was spacious enough for him to even hide from himself…

  Extinguishing the cigar in a blood red ashtray, he leaned over and collected some weed from his dresser, then made quick work of preparing himself a little something to enjoy. Moments later, he’d gotten a nice morning high. He grabbed a hefty coffee-table-style art book that sat by his tall, clear bedside lamp. He licked his finger and flipped a few pages, pausing on one in particular.

  sa•tyr /'sadər,'sādər/: Mythology noun: satyr; plural noun: satyrs; noun: wood satyr; plural noun: wood satyrs 1. GREEK MYTHOLOGY one of a class of lustful, drunken woodland gods. In Greek art they were represented as a man with a horse’s ears and tail, but in Roman representations as a man with a goat’s ears, tail, legs, and horns.

  This shit is funny. I took Greek mythology in undergrad, but I sure as hell don’t remember this son of a bitch ever being discussed in this manner.

  He glared at the ghastly photos of horned and hunched over creatures with huge, uncut dicks slobbering over hordes of naked women while clutching goblets of wine. He laughed at the various illustrations of the mythical creatures. Some of the drawings were clearly comical, others had a rather dark, almost demonic vibe, reminding him of illustrations of Pan. Many were of beautifully crafted naked men in sculpture form, placed in European art galleries for all to see. Yet others showcased a perfect splicing of man and beast with chiseled, handsome features and long, coarse beards. Most were adorned with horse-like tails and menacing expressions. The book had been gifted to him by Taz several years ago. He had never looked at it in depth until now.

  He typically kept the hardback on his coffee table, but snatched it up when he finally decided to go through it. As he read, he thought about all the names he’d been called over the years. Some were given to him as a child, nicknames from family and friends. He hated most of the epithets. As a kid growing up in Chicago, a town named Cicero, he was sometimes teased for not behaving exactly like his siblings.

  For one, he tended to be more reserved. He enjoyed being alone, taking nightly bike rides instead of playing baseball. He wasn’t into the dances and school functions. Instead, he begged his parents to let him learn Karate and Judo and had an insatiable appetite for watching television shows that dealt with lawyers and crime, ‘Law and Order’ being his favorite. Adding to that ball of wax: His eye color was an unusual royal blue that neither of his parents possessed. He had been born with light blue eyes as a baby, but then they darkened, never turning amber or brown like those of many relatives. According to an ophthalmologist he’d briefly dated, many babies were born with such a color in their eyes, but they rarely stayed that way. Him being of Italian and Greek ancestry, made this even more of an enigma.

  ‘Hey, Nix, where’d you get those eyes?! The mailman?’

  The jokes went on and on…

  Fuck all that shit, and the stupid nicknames, too.

  As an adult, he did embrace all that made him
different and stand out. Not so much as a child. Now though, he took control and named his own damn self: ‘The Rose’ Rossellini. This came to be at work after a client of his was overjoyed from winning what many thought was an impossible case. Nixon had stated the man came out smelling like a rose, and that kinda stuck. Now that was a nickname he could sink his teeth into. He wasn’t an ambulance chaser, a seedy attorney trying to make a quick buck. He prided himself on his professional veracity and truly cared about his clients. He glanced back down at the book and turned another page.

  All he’d known about Satyrs from that college class was that they were ugly, beastly creatures who fucked everything that moved, but fucked it well. They were low-tier deities of sort, addicted to sex, carnal temptations and pleasure, worshipped in Ancient Greece.

  I definitely love having sex. I’m practically insatiable, but I love giving pleasure just as much as receiving. Making a woman cum is a magical experience… Most men can go through the motions of fucking, but few know how to cause cravings, lingering desires. They don’t understand what a woman’s body can do, and what can be done to it. In fact, most guys don’t understand how to please a woman at all. That’s why these women come to me… to get the shit they never got at home. To get the fucking they believe they deserve, the kind of pussy beating that makes them feel ten feet tall – not the dull, played out, vanilla shit they’re used to…

  When he’d first joined The Cage, it had simply been for pleasure. With his voracious sexual appetite at the time, he’d needed a safe place to fulfill his needs, so he’d looked for one. And he’d found it. After an extensive screening process, he was granted clearance. He walked in the club one winter night at one in the morning to fulfill his darkest secrets and most coveted fantasies. He soon found he was not alone in his proclivities. He was like a child locked away in a candy shop. There were plenty of freaks just like him, and best of all, he didn’t have to tell anyone who he truly was. No identification required. Then, something else happened…

  The owner pulled him aside and said, “We’re getting back to back requests for you. You can no longer remain just a member. We want to hire you on our team. But most importantly, you must share with me, Nixon, what in the fuck are you doing to these women?!”

  Well, he was doing what he always did: giving ladies what they wanted most of all, what they needed. More times than not, they longed for a man to take charge. To walk the walk, talk the talk, while making sure they felt safe at the same time. It was a complicated balance of mind fucks, seduction, and using the right words at the right time. The intent was to demolish their preconceived notions of what should happen in the bedroom.

  He could read women as if their bodies were wide open books, the pages blank to the naked eye, but he could see every damn word.

  Blank books. That’s when another idea came to him… That was the true symbol of a woman. The covers were all different, the pages thick and the scent heady and addictive, but every chapter was written in blood, sweat, and tears. There was no way to not get wet. In order to experience the pinnacle of pleasure, one had to immerse oneself in the valley of pain. So he became Raze behind those red, black, and gold walls.

  He could get inside women’s thoughts, pluck out their anxieties and make them face the music, teach them to turn those fears into their footstool and fuck it to death. Women were definitely the blank books, keeping themselves in bondage with invisible handcuffs created from societal standards, traditions, and constructed morals that were not fit for them.

  It hadn’t always been this way, this awareness he had. At first he never understood why they’d choose him over others to pour out their hearts to. To cry, laugh, spill their guts with. They’d share private details within minutes of meeting him. This was no doubt part of the reason why he was such a damn good attorney. If anyone in that courtroom was a woman, be it the judge, the insurance company rep, plaintiff or defendant, he already had the upper hand as soon as he stepped onto the scene.

  Women have been problematic, too. They’ve caused me distress. But I fuckin’ love ’em… They’ve always been around me. From the top to the bottom. Blood in, blood out. Yeah… family.

  Perhaps he understood how to manipulate a woman since he had a couple of sisters who cried all the time? Maybe it was because his mother was so open and free-spirited? His father a well-known former ladies’ man? Or maybe it was simply because he enjoyed sex so much that he felt it crucial to please his partner, even if he only planned to be with her for one night. Whatever the reason, there was a type of woman he seemed to gravitate towards, and it was a guilty pleasure…

  He liked them confident, a little stuck-up, a bit uptight.

  Resilient. A secret desire to be dominated and dropped to their knees was a necessity. Sexually curious women. Intelligent women. Go-getters. Cerebral. Fun. Women with inner freaks behind a beautiful smile and business suit. A good sense of humor. Feminine. Women who desired to have their bodies, souls, and minds explored, fucked and sucked. Women who let him do what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted. He needed full control in the bedroom and the boardroom at all times.

  Queen in the streets, freak in the sheets…

  But true Queens wanted something he never offered. Real love. Love costs too fucking much. It’s the one thing I can’t afford.

  He smashed his joint in the ashtray on the nightstand and sat up, thinking about what he’d get into for the day.

  I need a vacation. Not a day or two here and there but a real one. My mother has been complaining, saying I work too hard. My sisters and brother are tired of me not seeing my nieces and nephews. My father says I never come to Rhode Island anymore to visit him, always blaming it on work. My ex-girlfriend said I am a commitment-phobe, a raging workaholic, yet she still calls me. Regardless, she was right about all of her accusations, ya know? Half of me doesn’t want to settle down, but a part of me does. I’m straddling the fence and that’s just not my style. I think if I meet someone who intrigues me enough, I’d consider it. I need a sign though, too. Something that tells me to go ahead and try it out. I have to move smarter this time; I don’t have the patience for a bunch of bullshit. Yeah… I can admit the truth. I do work too fucking much and I am definitely outta my gotdamn mind. But to that I say, ‘So fucking what?’

  I’ve been an attorney for sixteen fucking years and have only had one decent holiday. All those damn years at the University of Chicago, the internships, the summer in New York for more experience, the pro-bono work, and I have yet to spend two solid weeks on an island somewhere, slurping ice cubes from between some sexy woman’s legs before the heat from her body makes ’em melt against my tongue.

  He closed his eyes briefly and ran his hand over his hair, the strands smooth against his palm. He then glanced at the torn piece of paper on the dresser. He’d removed it from the crystal jar as he did every morning, but felt the desire to re-read it.

  Today, Nixon, you have to move with purpose.

  Go after what you want. What is it you do not have that you wish you did?

  Is Fear a factor? Use whatever you are afraid of to get what you want.

  BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY.

  He tossed it down and shifted his gaze to the weights in his bedroom.

  Heading over, he started to pump iron to the sounds of ‘Mary Jane,’ by Rick James. He mouthed the lyrics between each lift, his chest heaving, arms burning and abs contracting with each motion. As he finished, his cellphone rang. He slammed the weights on the bar, took a deep breath, then snatched up his phone.

  “What? I thought I blocked your number.” He chuckled.

  “You son of a bitch.” Tex chuckled. “Look, I need a favor, Mafia Man.”

  “What? You wanna borrow my tips on how to not be an asshole? Sorry, according to my ex, you’re outta luck.”

  “Hey, Mr. Concrete Shoes.” Tex laughed. “No, that’s not it. Look, I need you to come to the courthouse on Tuesday to check out something. I’m getting my balls
busted and I want to request a new judge for my client I told you about, the Johnson vs. Edmundson case.”

  “Who’s the judge for your case?”

  “Milford.”

  “Ahhhh, fuck me, man! What a piece of shit. I hate him,” Nixon said.

  “See? Tell me about it.”

  “I swear that man wants me dead. He’s been giving you a hard time too, huh? All right. I’ve had some luck getting cases away from him a couple of times. It’s not easy though. If I help you, what’s in it for me?”

  “Unwavering friendship and a case of beer.”

  “I have enough friends and the beers you drink are cheap. You can’t afford me.”

  “Since you’re still enjoying your bachelorhood, what about a lady, then?” Nixon grabbed a white hand towel from the back of a nearby chair and swiped it across his brow.

  “I can get my own ladies. That’s not really—”

  “No, no, listen. You know Nona teaches that yoga class on the weekends, right?”

  “Yeah.” He raked his hand through his hair to get it off his face.

  “I’ve gone up there a few times. She’s always forgetting something and wants me to drop it off. Anyway, you should see some of the women! Oh man, Nix, you’d be in heaven!”

  “Yoga… flexible. Good.” He toyed with the idea. It sounded nice enough.

  “Hey, I’ve got a great idea. You want to double date?” As soon as the words left Tex’s mouth, Nixon realized he’d been bamboozled, hustled into a damn trap. He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Nona is always asking me about that. You know, getting a friend for one of her friends and the four of us hitting the town. I don’t give uh shit, you know me, but it would make her happy.” The guy chuckled stiffly. “She gets attached to some of her students and they become friends… She goes out with them, shit like that. We could go to that one steak house we like, the one we went to last April. Shit. What’s it called?”