Breakfast in Stilettos (6 page)

Dr. Steiner’s office was located on Capitol Hill. Like Rome, Seattle had been built on the seven hills. Of that group of seven, Capitol Hill was the only one that managed to garner the nickname “The Hill” without the added descriptor; just as Mount Rainier, which dominated the southern skyline, got the generic moniker of “The Mountain,” and the ever popular Pike Place Market above the waterfront was called just “The Market.” If you could triangulate “The Mountain,” “The Hill” and “The Market,” you were in beautiful downtown Seattle.

“The Hill,” which rose directly east of downtown, was home to a crazy mix of multi-millionaires, single gays (the older ones moved to the islands), and students. Old stately mansions were in abundance, and Dr. Steiner’s office was located in one that had been converted to
offices
for alternative medicine types—chiropractors, acupuncturists, naturopaths, and, apparently, sex therapists.

I squeezed the Jeep into a small Doris Day parking spot right out front. The house was a three-story manor that had an air of refurbished elegance about it. Nothing even vaguely
sleazy
or sordid. A massive wall of rhododendrons surrounded the perfectly buzz-cut lawn. I could imagine, come spring, the place blossoming with brilliant color.

I grabbed my notes, feeling a twinge of disappointment that my worst fears hadn’t been realized. I had expected something different, something tawdry.

The rain was pelting down, hard as BB’s, so I dashed across the lawn and up the set of curved stone steps to seek shelter on the porch. Several small brass plaques were mounted next to a line of doorbells, one for each occupant. I pressed the one for Dr. Steiner and, within a few heartbeats, heard a young man’s voice ask my name and ring me in. Only as I swung the door open did I notice the small camera mounted overhead. I smiled brightly, trying to wipe any trace of sexual deviance off my face.

Once inside, small signs pointed to the various offices. Dr. Steiner was up the grand marble stairway to the left. The door into her rooms was open and I could see a young man at the reception desk. He gestured with an air of
eternal
patience, and I wondered what drug he was on.

“Please close the door behind you.” He had a Hollywood smile, short blond hair, big brown eyes and a thick British accent. Everything in his dress and mannerism said “gay” in that
Queer Eye
way so often confused with Euro-trash. Or so said all my gay friends. I decided to reserve judgment.

“Dr. Steiner will be with you in a moment. Please take a seat.” He turned back to his computer monitor.

No one else was in the library-ish waiting room. The room seemed too large for a waiting room and I couldn’t help wondering if maybe the doctor held intimate cocktail parties here. A giant mahogany armoire at the far end of the room looked like it would hold a nice array of alcoholic beverages and elegant crystal goblets. Perhaps her clients all met up here for a little pre-party flirting before heading out for an evening at a private sex club. Maybe she offered guided tours. I wondered, with an inner titter, if I could get an invitation.

Two mission-style leather couches and several heavy oak chairs were set at angles around the room. Matching end tables piled with magazines further divided the seating arrangements. I walked from one table to another, looking for the latest copy of
People
. I couldn’t bring myself to actually subscribe to it, but I read it every chance I got—hair salons, doctors’ offices, friends’ bathrooms.

Unfortunately
People
was nowhere to be found. The magazines were mostly scientific journals, seniors’ magazines and a few
National Geographics
thrown in for titillation. I picked up the latest and sat down on the closest couch, which was chilly and
made gaseous sounds
whenever I moved.

I was just getting into an article on sharks when Dr. Steiner’s inner-office door opened. A short balding man backed out of the room, nodding rather sadly. “Yes, of course. I’ll practice.” He closed the door very quietly, paused, then turned and mumbled to the receptionist as he ambled by, “Next week, Zach.”

The receptionist—Zach—glanced up, giving a rerun of the
absolument
parfait
smile. “Next week, Mr. Dobson.”

As I watched Mr. Dobson leave, I could only wonder what sort of “practice” a sex therapist would prescribe. Nothing about Mr. Dobson seemed particularly sexy. In fact, he looked as though he had been denied once too often. And I wondered who might possibly participate in said “practice.”

When no one else came out of the room, I went back to my shark article. It was another ten minutes before the inner sanctum opened again. As the door swung wide, a very tall woman filled the doorframe. She stood at least six feet and was very thin in a rich, emaciated sort of way. It was hard to tell how old she was—maybe forty or forty-five. She was dressed in a conservative black suit.

Only her long, fuchsia-streaked, black hair seemed out of place. She wore it loose, which gave her a gothic mystique. The overall effect was a little disconcerting, as though Cher’s head had been
grafted
onto a young Ivanna Trump body.

She didn’t call me in, just stood there, smiling warmly. That, at least, was encouraging. Zach was the one who spoke. “You can go in now.” As if I couldn’t figure that out for myself.

As I walked toward her, I had the sense that she was sizing me up and disapproving of my height, weight and shoe/belt combination. I held out my hand, feeling a slight tingle as though I was passing it through a
Star
Trek
force field. “Dr. Steiner. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

Handshakes say a lot about a person, or so I had once written in a Strange and Unusual article. Bone Crushers show insecurity. Limp Wrists are pessimistic (or recovering from hand surgery). The sheepish ones grab only your fingers.

Dr. Steiner was a dominating Control Freak. There was nothing wishy-washy or faint-hearted about her handshake. She gripped my hand firmly and then turned her wrist over confidently so that my palm went belly-up.

“Ms. Royce. Please come in.” Her voice had a cultured tone, with a velvety articulation that was slightly mesmerizing. She held on to my hand as she led me into the office, releasing it only when the door had closed. Her touch was eerie, lasting a little too long for business-like, but not long enough to really be called invasive. I wondered if I was being tested. I had a psychology professor in college who liked to stand inside your personal space, just to see how you’d behave. It always made me a bit seasick. The feeling with Dr. Steiner was the same, and I was glad to get a little distance.

She gestured near a large picture window toward three over-stuffed black leather chairs that formed a triangle in the corner of her office. Rain blurred the naked branches of a large deciduous tree outside. None of the chairs appeared to be her official spot, and I guessed that this was another test. Which chair would I take—the one with the view of the tree, the one with its back to it, or the one from which one could either look or not look? I opted for the intermediate position and sat down to more
gaseous
leather. My favorite childhood story had been “Goldilocks.”
Maybe the story should have been
“
Goldilocks and the Three Chairs.
”
And
this was either my baby bear tactic of “This one is just right” or
a
symptom of an indecisive streak too deep to fathom.

Dr. Steiner selected the chair next to the window. The hazy light gave her a shimmering hair halo and cast her face in shadow, making her seem even more mysterious. I wondered if she had chosen that chair on purpose. Regardless, I felt out-maneuvered, which was a pattern worthy of contemplation. After all, I had often ended up, in fetish parlance, the
bottom
in relationships. I had made choices without really thinking things through.

Dr. Steiner smoothed her suit jacket and looked at me expectantly as I pulled out my pen and tapped “record” on my iPhone app. I’ve never been much for preamble when it comes to interviewing people. A good interview flows from the interchange of the questions and answers—information that often neither person knows is there. Some people want the questions ahead of time, but those interviews are usually stilted and dull. Rarely any surprises.

With a click of my pen, I launched into my list of questions. “As I said in my email, I’m doing a story on
T
he Slutterati Salon
and a friend gave me your name as a place to start my research. Can you tell me your connection to
the Salon
and
if there is anything especially interesting about it I should know
?”

Dr. Steiner smiled slightly. Clearly, thinking about
the Salon
gave her pleasure. “I’ve been involved with the good people there since its inception. I know the artist who hosts the parties. Well, the parties used to be private before he opened them to the public. Sometimes they still hold private functions for the regulars. And some of my customers are regulars. Let’s just say that our businesses are sympathetic.”

I was curious how connected they were. “Do you find customers there, or do they find you?”

Her smile dimmed a little. “I don’t typically discuss how my clients find me. Suffice to say that there is sometimes a connection.”

Although unsure what to make of that, I shrugged internally and started to continue. She stopped me with a raised finger. “As to the second part of your question—about something interesting to know—that could lead to a very long conversation. I take it you haven’t been.”

I shook my head. “Not yet. I only first heard of it yesterday, when the assignment came.”

She nodded. “
The
Salon
, as we call it, is a gathering place for artists or for those who enjoy art that blurs the line between media—theater, painting, dance, song, craft, poetry—sometimes all at the same time. And they most certainly color outside the lines. While other venues may promote the physicality of sex,
t
he Salon
offers temptation that appeals to the spiritual, emotional, intellectual and the physical. It has the allure of fetish, of secrets unspoken, of taboo.”

There was something sinuous about the way she spoke, as though just broaching this topic made her a little steamy. The atmosphere was awkward enough that I wanted to change the subject. But I’d come to ask about
the Salon
and ask I would.

“Can you give me some insight into why people go to The
Salon
? I mean, what are they looking for?”

“Oh, there are many reasons, but I guess I would say that most want to watch or participate in a scene.”

“A ‘scene’? Scene as in the alternative culture sense of the word?” I was thinking of how people wanted to be part of “the scene, man.”

“No.” She let the word hang in the air for a moment, maybe weighing her words and what to say to a newbie like me. “No, a ‘scene’ is more like a play, or play-acting, where two or more people act out a fantasy. There are all kinds of ‘scenes,’ and
t
he Salon
encourages people to explore them. ‘Scenes’ there aren’t typically about sex. They are about taboo, power exchange, or any of a number of, let’s say ‘less acceptable’ social behavior that people want to experience.”

“For instance? Can you give me some examples?” I had my ideas, but they were just that,
ideas
or better yet,
nightmares
.

The doctor tilted her head as if considering. “In general, in a Dominant/submission scene, the Dom forces the sub to do what the sub really wants to do. They create an exchange of power; the sub submits and in return the Dom gives him or her exactly what she wants. What the sub wants, well, that could be any one of a thousand things—to be bound or spanked is very common. You’ll probably see scenes of this sort at The
Salon
. Of course, scenes elsewhere can be much more extreme.