Breakfast in Stilettos (19 page)

As they finished, Joe leaned in to whisper, “Well, that was
different
.”

“Ha ha.” I punched him lightly in the arm as the stage lights winked out. The two women exited in darkness. And though nobody was hooting or hollering, the applause was genuine.

The lights came back up in the room, bathed now in a reddish hue. Joe looked around. “Time to sex things up a bit.”

I felt a nervous twinge. I wasn’t sure I wanted things much sexier.

In vain I looked around for the Hostess. Minion Guy was back, carrying a handful of flowers, perhaps left over from the earlier pin-the-flower-on-the-statue event. He was miming his way around the room, offering poinsettias to female audience members here and there and moving toward us in a circuitous fashion.

I thought about the red roses on my table at home and wondered again where Frank had gone. Perhaps he was part of the play and would appear in some over-the-top sex scene later in the evening. Pixie had never told me what Frank’s fetish was. Chances were good that I’d find out this evening. The thought of it made me slightly ill. Still, I was determined.

Minion Guy had only two flowers left when he came to me—one white and one red rose. He held them out to me and I reached to pick one, but he gripped my wrist. Laying my hand flat, he carefully placed both on my palm and gently closed my fingers around the stems.
There were no thorns
,
as though the Salon
offered
all the pleasure of BDSM without even the threat the pain.
Reflexively I brought them to my nose and inhaled. They had a sharp sweetness.

Minion Guy bowed a bit awkwardly and scampered off again to his position.

Joe watched the retreating figure. “I think he likes you.” Then he winked.

“Yah. I can just see it. I’ll take one Minion Guy with fries to go, please.” Secretly I wondered what I might do with a minion of my own. Now
that
would be Strange and Unusual.

I moved in a little closer to Joe as the familiar red-gowned hostess re-appeared from behind one of the thick drapes. Joe gripped my knee, giving me a quick glance to ensure the move was
OK
. I didn’t mind.

The hostess strolled slowly through the crowd, holding out a small, ornate box that she offered to each audience member. Most everyone, in turn, unfolded his or her paper and quickly read the contents. A flurry of giggling and blushing followed in our hostess’ wake.

Soon she offered the box to me with an imperious gesture. “Candy, take one.” Her voice had the underlying breathiness of a smoker.

I dug through the pieces of paper, fingering each one as though I could somehow discern its contents by touch. Feeling silly, I finally selected one and held it tightly between my fingers, reluctant to open it. I had no idea what it would say, but was worried that it contained something embarrassing or risqué—a mortifying mortar of a message aimed straight at my self-esteem.

Oblivious to my impending meltdown, the hostess next held out the box to Joe. He didn’t move, just looked squarely at the woman with that penetrating gaze of his. Then he spoke quietly but forcefully. “No. You choose for me.”

Her eyes widened. “If you wish.” She fished a paper out of the box and held it in front of him momentarily before slipping it into the deep cut neckline of her dress. She smiled coolly. “You may retrieve it from me later, at a time of my choosing.”

Then she turned and walked to the next of her guests. He followed her with his eyes.

Feeling a bit awkward, I reverted to my journalistic mode. “So, do you flirt like that with all the girls?”
OK
, a
jealous
journalist.

“No. No. That was just fun, like theater. Imagine this is a play and you can interact with the cast. You should play along.”

He was right, of course.
I was here to report
. But interact with the cast?

We didn’t have to wait long to see what other people’s notes said. Once the hostess had deposited her box on a table—having supplied everyone with their own task slip—she motioned to the leashed couple.

“This should be entertaining.” Joe gave an evil little chuckle.

“Better them than me.”

Joe nodded, distracted, as though he wasn’t really listening. The Domina led her sub to the middle of the room, right in front of us.

I got a sudden whiff of something like old tires. Looking around, I held my nose. “What’s that smell?”

Pointing to the round derriere right in front of us, Joe whispered. “It’s her. Cheap latex.”

I sniffed. It
was
her. I grimaced.

Joe shrugged. “Coffee and wine both taste bad when you try them for the first time. You have to develop a taste. For some people, that smell is a fetish.” His eyebrows did an impish little dance before he turned back to the scene.

The woman had the man on his knees, blindfolded. She was running a short riding crop over his chest, periodically smacking him lightly. At each little popping sound he would jump. I’d ridden horses enough to know that the crop had a wide flat leather flap at the end that produced more noise than actual pain, but I still wondered if the swats hurt him.

I scanned the audience, observing their curious expressions. The couple had to be a set piece, working for
the Salon
to help warm up the audience. From the flushed cheeks all around, it appeared to be working.

I know I certainly needed a good deal of warming up before I was going to stand there in front of all these people and make a spectacle of myself. Then I remembered the slip of paper.

I looked down at my fingers, slowly unfolding the paper. It read, “
Indulge your partner
’
s secret desire.
”

“Anything interesting?” He was leaning over, trying to catch a glimpse of the note.

I refolded it carefully and stuffed it into my jacket pocket. I needed to assert myself. I could just imagine Kenner if I handed in a flat story. “Sorry boss, the smell of latex made me sick. I had to leave early.” Or better yet, “My sub ate my story. I’ll put him on a tighter leash next time.”

No. I had to write this story. And to do that I had to get involved.

Clearly a story loomed. Why did people come to a place like this in the first place? What were they searching for? And finally, what did it mean to me?

“Well?” He nudged me.

I turned to Joe, trying to imagine what his secret desire might be. I had to figure out what that was before I could indulge it. The liquor gave me a modicum of courage. I nudged Joe’s thigh and smiled slyly. “Oh, you’ll see. You’ll see.”

My leg pulsed under Joe’s continued grip. I suppressed that shiver you sometimes get when you contemplate someone new in
that
way.

The tension in the crowd was growing—anticipation mixed with a physical appetite for
more
. Nearly a hundred people packed the room. I suspected this must be the entire group, who had all wandered from the other areas of the studio to catch the main stage. I scanned the group, recognizing some of the folks who had queued up at the door.

The couple continued their scene. The woman had a side table on which was placed a series of ropes and objects that I couldn’t see from where we were sitting. The woman picked up a long length of blood-red rope and had the man put his hands behind his back. She snaked the ropes deftly around his wrists and then continued to wrap lengths of rope around his chest, arms and thighs.

Joe leaned in. “Ah. She’s doing
Kinbaku
, a form of Japanese Bondage. Mostly guys do it to women, so it is cool to watch it the other way around.”

“
Kinbaku
?” I’d never heard of it. Of course.

“I don’t know much about it. It’s a kind of art form. I think it means ‘beauty of tight binding’ or something like that.” He pointed to the woman’s work on the man. “See the designs?”

And sure enough, the woman was continuing to twine the bindings into intricate twists and turns, so that the ropes formed a design of knotted diamond shapes. They were quite tight and bit into the man’s flesh, which was abundant. He looked like an oddly shaped Michelin man. It wasn’t really sexy to me, but it was fascinating. Any time the woman brought out a new length of rope, she held it to the man’s lips. I remember reading that this was a way to ensure that the sub was still into the game. He did seem to be content.

The crowd was mostly quiet, over a soundtrack of steamy old ’70s tunes. Right now they were playing Marvin Gaye’s
Let
’
s Get It On
. As sexy songs go, that one was pretty good.

The man was trussed up pretty tightly now. The woman threaded another length of rope through his arms behind his back and then looped it onto a ceiling hook I hadn’t noticed until then. As she pulled on the rope it tightened, pulling the man’s back up so that he leaned forward awkwardly. He moaned as she pulled. He was clearly feeling a little pain, but she didn’t berate him for it. Instead, she bent down and kissed his neck and ear, whispering. He moaned louder.

She went to her table and picked up another whip, which I recognized from riding as a quirt. It was longer and had a short, thin length of leather on the end. This one
would
hurt.

I turned my head, for she was making him kiss this one as well. I had a sense of foreboding. I wasn’t sure I wanted to see someone whipped in earnest. But Joe squeezed my knee. “You have to remember that he wants this.”

I was about ready to move in closer to Joe, thinking that maybe there were some things that
I
wanted, when I saw a few familiar faces walk into the room. I froze. Standing on the far side of the room, their eyes darting about as though searching for someone, were none other than Kenner and my mother.

“Oh my god.” I sank down into my seat, shielding my face behind the hand that still clutched Minion Boy’s roses.

“What?” Joe leaned into me as the Hostess took the microphone to announce another act.

“I just saw my mother and my boss. The two people I really don’t need to see in any place even vaguely sexual are
here
.”

Joe perked up, looking around. “Where?”

I smacked his leg. “Don’t
look
. Why do people always do that? It’s like rubbernecking at a car wreck. The scene is undoubtedly going to be ugly. Yet everybody gawks.”

“Like
you
don’t stare.” It wasn’t a question. Joe hunkered down as much as his frame would allow, joining me behind my impromptu screen of fingers and roses.

I was panicking. “What do I do? I can’t believe they showed up.”

“
Your boss? OK. That’s weird. What do you do anyway? You never said.
” He was still trying to catch sight of them as they walked through the crowd.

“OK.
Time for some quick
truth. I’m a writer for the
Sun Times
. That’s my boss. I’m here writing a story on this place.”

He
looked at me for a moment and then
laughed
.
“
Aha. Now things start to make sense. You are a writer!
”
I was relieved that he didn’t look upset.

“Yes,
in real
life I channel
Lois Lane, no
t Candy Lane. So my boss knows why I’m here. A
nd my mother knows, too.
And
I know exactly why they are here. They are worried that I’m going to do something stupid like get back together with my ex-boyfriend. As if I was twelve or something.”

“And would that ex be Frank?” Joe raised a silver threaded eyebrow.

I shrank a little more.

He just nodded knowingly.

Now I felt exactly like a naughty twelve-year-old. Not that I had been particularly naughty at that age. My cousins hadn’t called me Goody Two-Shoes for nothing.

I realized how silly I was being. I wasn’t doing anything wrong, at least not yet. I wondered whether I had a small fetish that compelled me to seek punishment for imagined misdeeds. I wasn’t even Catholic and yet I had a
penitent’s
portion of guilt. I dropped my hand and
gave my roses another sniff
. “Well I feel like an idiot. I have no reason to hide. I’m just earning my keep. I better go say “Hi.”

Joe jumped up. “
OK
. Let’s.” He offered me his hand. I let him pull me up, still clinging to the roses for moral support. “If I go with you, you can show that you aren’t with this ex of yours. And perhaps they will head back to the depths from whence they sprang.”

That sounded a bit covert, but I was up for all the guilt avoidance I could muster. “Right. They are over there.” I pointed toward them. Mom and Kenner had stopped gazing around and were watching the main stage, a little mesmerized. I followed their eyes. The couple was leaving the stage—he trussed up and she leading him. His skin was marked with several red stripes, but they looked superficial.

The hostess had selected a female volunteer from the audience. After leading her onto the stage, she bent her over a table at the waist and lifted her skirt, exposing a rather naked set of firm butt cheeks. Well, she
did
have on sheer panty hose, the non-control top kind, so her butt was covered with a shiny, translucent covering. I tuned into the dialog.

The hostess gestured to the
derriere
on display. “Shall we have a spanking?”

The audience responded with hoots and applause. Again, I questioned the literary merit of the event, but not its eroticism. The first smack sent an indecent thrill through me. I’d never been spanked in any serious way. I wasn’t sure that I’d like it—either giving or receiving. The scene was, however, captivating to watch.

As
I made my way
across the room, the
Hostess gave her volunteer one open-handed whack after another
while the crowd chanted out the count
. The woman’s backside quickly turned a rosy pink.

Mom spotted me when we were almost upon them. Kenner was fixated on the spanking scene. I could just imagine the Shakespearean quotations bursting forth like fireworks in his brain.

Mom waved us over, smiling in that indulgent way she had when she officially disapproved of something but unofficially found it amusing. Kenner finally noticed us, although every few seconds his eyeballs still twitched none-too-discreetly back to the spanking.

I bypassed the obvious “Why are you here?” question, settling on the more subtle expectant regard.

She took my cue and launched into an explanation before Kenner, who was obviously composing a response, could speak. She had to yell a bit to be heard. “Sorry to crash your party, Honey, but Lawrence and I thought we’d stop by and see how your story was going. And whether You-Know-Who was with you.” She cast a suspicious look at Joe as if, perhaps, he was Frank in deep disguise.

“Mom, this is Joe Stratton. He’s been kind enough to help me with my story. Joe, this is my mother, Catherine, and my boss, Lawrence Kenner.”

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Royce, Mr. Kenner.” Joe shook hands with both of them, smiling pleasantly as though he was meeting them at church instead of at a sex club. He certainly knew how to play up the Mr. Nice Guy role.

“Oh please, call me Catherine.” Mom looked around at the gathering. “I think I’m underdressed.”

“The operative word would be ‘
over
dressed.’ ” Mom had on her extra warm full length green woolen cloak with its big hood. She looked like she had gotten lost on the way to a Celtic fair or a convention for fans of
The
French Lieutenant
’
s Woman
.

“How did you two get in?” A quick glance at my watch confirmed that it was well past the gatekeeper’s deadline.

Kenner responded with his famous “Are you an idiot?” look. “I just showed them my business card, and they let us in for free. Clearly they want some press.”

He smiled at my mother with a rather goofy look that she returned in kind. I suddenly realized that they were hitting on each other. The world swayed a little.

Mom tugged on Kenner’s sleeve. “We should go mingle.” She patted me on the shoulder. “Honey, I don’t want to get in the way of your story. Just pretend we’re not here.” She smiled at Joe. “Nice to meet you.”

Kenner nodded to Joe and gave me a big smile. I knew another quote was coming. “
Well, thus we play the fools with the time, and the spirits of the wise sit in the clouds and mock us
.”

My mother laughed and pulled Kenner back into the crowd. The two leaned in close to talk to each other.

I watched them in stunned silence as they disappeared into a blur of color and movement. “My mother and my boss are
together
at a sex club. With
me
.”

Joe tapped me on the shoulder. “You
OK
?”

I shuddered. “I feel like I’ve been emotionally tasered.” I took a couple of deep breaths, trying to grapple with this new reality.

“Your boss spouts quotations at will?”

I nodded. “Mostly Shakespeare. I think he’s planning to publish one of those Shakespeare quote-of-the-day calendars. He’s convinced there’s at least one great line for every occasion.

The spanking session had concluded. The Hostess had her arm around the young woman, who looked flushed and excited. As she left the stage, she proudly held up her skirt to display her well-earned crimson butt cheeks. As a few bystanders attempted to smack the moving target again, she shook her finger at their ill-disciplined behavior. Then she disappeared into the crowd.

Spanking is an odd phenomenon. In my Web research, I had come across a fellow who had dubbed himself Captain Erotica. He specialized in spanking women. And while this might not seem like a talent that was much in demand, his online profile boasted thousands of female friends who wrote impressive odes to his expertise with a whip and his adoration of women in general. At a yearly alternative culture festival called Burning Man, Captain Erotica manned a booth just for female spanking. Pictures showed long lines of women waiting their turn in the proverbial hot seat. Not only did they endure it, they sought it out and waited in line for it. Perhaps it was something I needed to experience to understand. I looked at Joe. It might be fun. But no. I wasn’t ready to experience my mother appearing mid-whack.
No. No. No
.

I noticed we were standing next to Minion Guy, who had resumed his statue-like stance on his plinth. Even though his eyes were covered, I had the sense that he was staring at me. Black Poet guy was still wandering around with his whip, trying to rouse a volunteer. The air seemed a bit too thin. “I need to go outside for a bit. Take a breather.”

Joe pointed toward the back of the room, opposite the direction that Mom and Kenner had gone. “I understand there is a deck out back. Let’s go check it out.” Joe guided me through the crowd, past rooms mostly devoid of people but lined with an unusual exhibition of paintings. The canvases were large, almost my height, and featured images of naked people in every shape and size in every sort of situation. It was as though the artist had taken shots of normal folks going about their daily routines and then reproduced them
sans
clothing. There was nothing sexual but something beautiful about these raw depictions of classic run-of-the-mill human beings. I stopped to look at them. These figures, like those in the entryway, were portrayed in rich reds and golds. The oil paint was layered in thick, lazy swirls on the canvas. The artist wasn’t a realist, but there was realism in his work.

I had read on the website that the owner of the studio was the painter and I had an inkling of what he was trying to achieve with the club.

Joe was looking at the paintings as well. “Lots of fat people.”

I laughed. “It is representative. There
are
lots of fat people. I mean, isn’t one in three Americans overweight?”

Joe nodded, thoughtful. “I guess I’m just not an artist.” He turned and headed toward the back door.

I felt a bit disappointed. Frank would have railed on about art and its message
.

Frank and I might have had an argument, but that was better than indifference. Once again I wondered where he had gone. Perhaps he was out on the deck. I followed Joe out the door and into the brisk night air. Any alcohol that might have been in my system evaporated in a gust of cold sobriety. I wanted my leather jacket back. Hugging myself, I found that the deck featured a couple of restaurant heaters. A few brave souls were huddled near them for warmth.

A quick glance around confirmed that no mother, boss, or Minion Guy was present, and that nobody was being teased, tied up or spanked. I felt relieved. I also felt annoyed that Frank was still making himself scarce.

Joe brought out his flask. “Want a nip?”

I took a swig, feeling the heat course down my throat. “We look suspiciously like winos.”

“Ah yes, but very good-looking winos.” He took another swig and offered it back to me.

“No thanks.”