Breakfast in Stilettos (18 page)

We had taken a seat on a couch right next to a small stage where a young couple was slowly undressing each other. I wondered for a moment if they were guests just getting a little out of hand, but then another man, already stark naked, joined them. The naked man struck up a lounging pose at the couple’s feet, staring absently upward in what I imagine was an appropriate position for life drawing. I couldn’t help but notice his penis, which was rather large (a show ’er, not a grower), yet amazingly flaccid—considering that there were about thirty of us ogling him. Perhaps that spoke to my ignorance of men’s genitalia; I would have assumed that close inspection equaled erection.

Just as I was about to wonder out loud what they were up to, the
Rubenesque
woman with heaving cleavage appeared with a tray of small paint cups and brushes and gestured us all forward.

Joe nudged me. “Let’s go. I’ve heard about this. Body painting.”

I’ve never been much for participating in the arts. A patron, yes. A painter, no. Nor was this particular artistic endeavor all that compelling. Still, I let Joe pull me up. He selected a couple of cups for us, blue for him and red for me. I gave my brush a dubious swirl in the thick Kool-Aid red liquid. Then I looked up at the three models, whose transformation into a Pollack-style painting was already underway.

Joe moved me deftly into position behind the standing man, and lifted my elbow so that the paintbrush was at the ready. In front of me were a man’s buttocks—quite muscular and quite naked. I gave some small thanks to the literary goddess that it was the backside and not the front side with which I had to contend. Shoring up my courage, I applied a garish stripe of strawberry red to the man’s derrière. The paint slid on easily. The buttocks didn’t flinch. But I did.

It felt so invasive. And so personal. I was very close, just staring for a moment. Little hairs sprouted here and there from under the thick red paint. His skin had gooseflesh. Even in the overly warm studio, he was naked and a bit chilled or excited—or at least one of the two.

My natural inclination was to rush through this task and be done. I realized that I tended to do just that whenever I felt uncomfortable. Maybe everyone did. But I wanted to resist that instinct. This was a new experience. I wanted to savor it. This man’s naked butt cried out for more.

I stared at the swirl, thinking that I should paint something more meaningful. A runic symbol for bravery. The Mayan symbol for a right of passage. Heck, the Egyptian symbol for tight butt. This tableau was supposed to be literary. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t really know any meaningful symbols, except maybe the peace sign and the swastika, and I didn’t think either of those would be appropriate. I could dig out my iPhone and do an Internet search. When in doubt, do research. Look things up. Right now, however, I needed to
participate
.

So I went with the obvious. A nice set of red lips. That at least could constitute an attempt at humor.

I stepped back, waving my brush in triumph at Joe. “Ta-dah! Now it’s your turn.” I nudged him as I passed, giving him room to do his own work.

Joe stepped forward, squatting for better access to the woman’s legs, which were still a blank canvas. He dashed several quick, bold swirls across the top of each foot and up her leg from instep to inner thigh before stepping back to admire his handiwork.

He glanced down at his clothing. “Looks like we have managed to keep the paint where it belongs.” We checked ourselves and verified that we had, in fact, remained splatter-free.

As we stood by, watching the rest of those gathered getting in their painterly licks, I leaned in toward Joe. “So, is this typical of what happens at places like this?”

He shrugged. “That’s part of the fun. We don’t know what will happen next.”

That was when I saw the two elderly women from the Cyclops, each with a cup of paint, heading straight toward the reclined model. They were gazing down with appreciation, and I heard Willa say, “Now that’s how I like a man. Calm, cool and collected. He just needs a little color.” And with a giggle, she leaned over and went straight for the penis.

While Mirabelle was awaiting her turn, she put her brush between her teeth and did a little Spanish dance, trying hard not to spill her paint. Then she noticed me and waved. “Well, hello! Look what we found.” She gave me a thumbs-up before adding to her sister’s contribution.

Joe looked at me. “Do you know them?”

“Apparently.” I smiled, feeling enigmatic enough not to say more.

In the end, Joe’s blue swirls were the only brush strokes left unadulterated. The woman’s torso was a kaleidoscope of color. Her breasts and crotch had been turned an earthy shade of mud from the continual onslaught of brush tips. The two men were similarly stained. My lips had been incorporated into a face with pointed ears and a goatee—a devil with collagen-enhancements. I wasn’t sure whether the
Sun
Time
’
s
art critic would have deigned to critique the result,
but
Strange and Unusual it was.

The threesome made a grand departure, circling slowly to show off the group’s creation. When they disappeared behind a heavy drape, everyone slowly returned to their various seats. The sisters disappeared behind one of the curtains, perhaps in search of a little refreshment. We, too, settled back into our couch.

The
Rubenesque
woman reappeared to collect our cups and brushes. After she left, we all appeared oddly tense, as though dissatisfied with our meager, over-priced appetizer.

A few moments later the lights dimmed. Joe sat up straighter, glancing around. “Looks as if the show is about to begin.”

Feeling a tingle of anticipation, I scooted closer to Joe. As luck would have it, we were sitting in the main room, where a milling crowd of about seventy-five now huddled, either sitting on other couches and chairs or standing in an arc around the stage. We had an uninterrupted view of the stage, which I assumed would continue to hold the main attractions.

Frank was still nowhere to be seen. I was mildly annoyed. He had, after all, offered to be my subject-matter expert, and I couldn’t very well use his expertise when he wasn’t anywhere near the subject matter. But that was typical of Frank. He always had his own agenda.

On the far side of the room, a woman appeared from behind one of the velvet curtains. She was wearing a red beaded gown that sparkled under the spotlight that followed her through the crowd. She gave the impression of giving each attendee a moment of attention, whether that meant running her fingers over chests, necks, hair, or a kiss on the cheek or lips.

As she approached, I watched her intently. I was intrigued. Who would found an establishment such as
T
he Slutterati Salon
? She exuded sexual appeal of an icy, distant sort. Her red-beaded grown was sleeveless and cut low to reveal modest cleavage. Her heels were decorated with the same fire-red beading. However, it was her lips that caught my attention. They were parted in the relaxed, sensual manner of a woman who is confident in her sexuality. I’ve practiced this pouty look to no avail. Somehow I have librarian lips—prim, pursed and proper.

Finally she stood in front of me and Joe. She took my hand, pulling slightly in a clear indication that I should stand. She did the same to Joe. The spotlight was glaring. My cheeks heated up as everyone’s eyes turned to me. The hostess gestured for us to stand to either side of her on the stage. The statue man, flower-laden, darted forward and handed her a microphone; then he scampered away to stand on his plinth. The word
minion
came to mind. I suppressed a giggle.

Basking in the full glow of the spotlight and the audience’s attention, the hostess smiled, slipping one hand around my waist. “Good evening, and welcome to
T
he Slutterati Salon
.” Her voice was rich and animated; the previous iciness having melted into thick, warm goo. “Tonight we present a delectable feast of sights, sounds, aromas and tastes to tempt all your senses. Art and poetry. Music and song. We engage players to transport you, to contort for you, and perhaps a few to consort with you.” She paused until everyone was done hooting and clapping.

“In fact, I have two lovely guests here with me now.” She pulled me closer, glancing first at me then at Joe. “What, my delicious man, would tempt
your
senses this evening?”
She held the microphone up to his mouth.

Joe responded with cool grace. “I always like surprises.”

The hostess seemed pleased. “Then we shall all endeavor to surprise you. Yes?” Her gaze swept the audience, who again hooted and applauded.

I panicked, knowing I would be called upon to answer the same question next. She was asking Joe’s name for the evening. Apparently he was expected to make one up. All I could think of was how to answer the same question. What could I say? That I was here to get a story? That wouldn’t be a popular answer. That I was trying to patch it up with my ex boyfriend? Then why was I sitting with another man?

I felt the hostess’s grip tighten around my waist. I could barely breathe.

“And you, my lovely. What shall we call you this evening?”

“Candy.” The name came unbidden to my tongue. Candy? Was I an idiot? If I had flushed before, that flush paled in comparison.

The audience certainly enjoyed my response. I heard several shouted comments about candy preferences that included
sweet
, as well as
licking
and
sucking
.

“And Candy, what would tempt you this evening?”

A giant gaping hole in my psyche threatened to engulf me, when all of a sudden I realized there was something halfway intelligent I could say. I was here to challenge myself, after all. I pushed up my breasts to buoy my cleavage and responded, “I want to discover something new about myself.”

A surge of relief passed through me as the audience whooped it up.

The hostess kissed my cheek and lifted her arms as though to display us. “Here you have Candy and Sensitive Guy.” I was amazed that she could say as much with a straight face. “Show them how much we care.”

Two chairs appeared behind us, and we were gently pressed to sit down. My heart drummed Maraca-style against my chest as I realized two lines were forming in front of us. The audience was going to do something to us. A quick glance at Joe—that is, Sensitive Guy—confirmed that he was extremely pleased. Sensitive Guy. Why was that familiar?

I didn’t have time to think, as suddenly I recognized the beefy visage of Fist in front of me; then Squeeze was jumping unceremoniously onto Joe’s lap, pressing her burping breasts against his chest and giggling as she pulled her top down enough to expose her nipples. “Surprise!”

Oh god
.

Fist was nice enough not to jump onto my lap. Instead he stepped behind me, breathing into my neckline. “Are you ticklish?” He nibbled my neck, which sent a shock of shivers down my back and legs.

Then he was gone and the next guy, a short, thin man with dreamy brown bedroom eyes
knelt in front of me
and began kissing my knees. The knee kissing thing didn’t do much for me. He was missing his true talent, so I lifted his chin. “You should just
look
at women. That alone would make them go crazy.”

And with that he gave me his best Hollywood love scene gaze and slowly moved in to kiss me, to the general approval of all who could see.

Next in line was the hooded Minion Guy that had brought out the microphone. He got down on all fours and indicated that I should sit on his back.

I glanced at Joe. Another woman sat on his lap, nuzzling him. He inclined his head toward the human chair. “Go ahead.”

This felt wrong in so many ways … I stood up, and my chair was magically whisked away. The hooded man crawled around behind me. Luckily there were no flowers pinned to the center of his back. I sat as lightly as I could in his flora-free zone, feeling extremely awkward, but I figured this position would preclude me from having anyone jump on my lap.

A parade of nine or ten men followed, each trying something—finger and toe kissing, hip swiveling, pelvic thrusting, butt wagging. It all went by quickly, and I suppressed one giggle after another as each performed his antics; yet I was ever conscious of pressing my unmentionables against the back of a stranger. It felt distantly sinful.

Finally the last volunteer swiveled his way back into the crowd, and the hostess reasserted herself. She pulled us both up gently, Joe and then me, and I watched as my human horsie scampered off again to resume his allotted position on the plinth. “A special thanks to Candy and Sensitive Guy for indulging us and allowing us to indulge them.”

Joe looked quite satisfied and I wondered for a minute if I was jealous. Then I realized that no, I wasn’t. Not even. Did that mean I wasn’t interested? Or maybe I had been infected with a more open mind. Joe was a hunk.

It was clear we were free to return to our couch, which was, oddly, still free. Apparently people weren’t much for sitting at this place. Or perhaps this was the newbie couch where they recruited all their volunteers, and everyone else knew better.

The hostess began to introduce the first act, a poet. I was still reeling from the last “activity” and trying to remember why Sensitive Guy sounded so familiar. Then it hit me. There was that guy in the online chat room. The guy with the foot fetish. I looked at Joe. Could it be the same person? And how did you confirm
that
little factoid?

Joe plopped unceremoniously into the deep velvety cushions of the couch. “Well, that was fun.” He gave me a Cheshire grin. “How about
for
you? Fun? Entertaining?
”

“Is ‘different’ too safe a word? I’m not used to strange men waggling their spam bits at me.”

“Different, eh? You clearly haven’t been traveling in the proper circles.” He glanced at the poet, who stood in the center of the room and began to do whatever you call it when a poet reads their work without actually reading. It was the black guy who had greeted us, still sans shirt. Luckily he was far enough away that we could whisper without disturbing his monologue—something about how if a man was a woman, how different life would be.

Joe leaned in. “So … Candy, eh?” He had smudges of lipstick on his lips and cheek.

I decided not to enlighten him and just smiled. “Sensitive Guy?”

He shrugged. “Women always say they are looking for a nice guy, you know,
sensitive
. That sort of thing. So I figured why not? The truth is, I’m one of those mythical nice guys. You know, the one who never gets to have sex with the girl, but listens to her tell about it all after the fact, the forever friend. So I should get one point for truth in advertising.”

“And do you advertise?” I went on to tell him
about my experience with
online matchmaking sites and chat rooms.

He was strangely blasé as he admitted to all of the above. “Of course. The online community is much more adventurous than the pickings are in real life. Some of us only find our select, um,
interest
, in a virtual forum. And that is better than nothing.”

That confession certainly upped the likelihood that the Sensitive Guy I’d seen online was the very one who sat next to me, but I didn’t have the pluck to ask for confirmation. The fact that it
could
have been him was enough. For now.

I wondered again where Frank had gone. It was just like him to disappear without telling me what he was up to. Frustration and jealousy took turns bubbling up out of the depths of my juvenile delinquency.

But why did I care?

If only I could figure out how to get my emotions to behave. Like an errant puppy, they unexpectedly piddled in the middle of conversations and chewed on raw nerves when I wasn’t thinking. I needed an emotional puppy training session. Sit. Stay. Beg.

The sound of applause caught my attention. The poet had finished and was bowing low, first to the audience and then to the hostess, who was reasserting herself on the stage to make another introduction.

The room lights took on a bluish hue as someone switched the lighting filter. Raucous music was followed by something mellow, with an Indian panache. The Hostess introduced two lithe women who made their way onto the stage dressed in skimpy yoga outfits.

They were built like dancers, with clear muscle definition displayed in every movement. And though they looked very similar, there was a clear age difference. One was in her mid twenties, the other a very firm fifty. The older woman’s only indication of age was the tone of her skin and the set of her jaw—like a toughened pinion pine perched on a rocky ledge, challenging the world to bring on any imaginable force. The younger woman was a fresh young willow, bending in the gentle breeze. Mother and daughter?

The two began to move into a series of synchronized yoga positions, entwining themselves in a graceful Twister game. They had amazing muscle control, and it was fascinating to see the two create a mirror image of seductive contortions that contrasted in age and experience. For the first time this evening I was moved by the beauty and art of it. Perhaps this was what the slutterati were shooting for—a combination of the erotic and artistic.

A quick glance around confirmed that most everyone was equally enthralled. In their eyes, the lusty zest of the body painting had been replaced with something subtler—simple pleasure. Particularly tricky moves sparked a burst of applause.