Sunday, March 31, 2013


Her fiery mane of hair lured me away from the magazine article I was reading. Taking in the overall package, it was clear that she must have been used to eliciting stares. For even had her hair been a less spectacular hue, she possessed plenty of other eye catching features. The rings on her nose, lips, eyebrow, belly button, and at least two dozen on her ears were certainly noticeable. So too were the assortment of tattoos adorning her lean tigress body. These things probably deemed her a freak to those of a conservative nature. But the exquisiteness of her God given features, which included a striking set of emerald eyes, easily overshadowed the additional attractions.

When I took notice of her, she was already looking my way and greeted me with a shy smile. I didn't think it likely that I would be her type, considering my lack of piercings and body graffiti. But there was no mistaking her smitten expression.

"Do you ride?"

For a second I thought she was making a sexual overture. Then I realized she was referring to the motorcycle magazine that I was reading.

"A 1974 XLCH Harley Davidson."

"My ex was a real motorcycle freak. That's all he ever talked about. I couldn't help but pick up some stuff."

I pointed to a tattoo on her right shoulder blade. "That his bike?"


"Mind if I take a closer look?"

“Sure, go ahead.”

I moved to the seat beside her and slowly appraised the works of art framed in skin. I could tell she was turned on by my eyes gliding over her body.

"They're beautiful."

"Thank you."

"So is the canvas." A little corny, but judging from the way her face lit up, definitely effective.

"You did say EX-boyfriend, right?"

"Mmm hmm."

The train slowed as it approached the next station. She looked out the window resignedly. "This is my stop."

"Are you going someplace you absolutely have to be?"

"Not really. Why?"

"I was hoping you would accompany me to Brooklyn, give us a chance to get to know each other. I'm going to pick up my bike from the repair shop. We could ride back to the city, have dinner together. What do you say?"

The doors opened. She didn't pay them any mind.

"My name is Phoenix."

"I'm Michael."

Phoenix had been born and raised Mary Ann Wenkle in Nowhereville, Nebraska. At the tender age of sixteen she took off with her boyfriend Bobby for infamous New York City, setting up in a roach infested apartment in the East Village. Shortly thereafter she met Dagger, and Bobby no longer seemed so cool and dangerous in comparison. It was Dagger who came up with her new name and persona and swayed Bobby to move back to Nebraska solo. When Dagger was sent to prison, Phoenix spent the next couple of years living recklessly. Then she hooked up with Rex, the aforementioned motorcycle maniac and most beautiful man Phoenix had ever seen. So beautiful that she put up with the multitude of other women in his staple for three years. But when he invited one to move in with them, she decided that enough was enough.

Her second period of living alone led Phoenix to conclude that what she needed was stability. All the notions that had once seemed antiquated and sent her fleeing from her childhood home now didn't look half bad. Marriage, a home, children - these were the things life was ultimately about. No matter how many tattoos she got; body parts she pierced; clubs she partied at; drugs she experimented with; or men she slept with; none of this had been able to provide a happiness that lasted.

She didn't come right out and say it, but Phoenix' recitation of revelations could only mean one thing. The next relationship she intended to get into would have to be serious, with strong potential of becoming permanent. Her days of waking up beside a face she didn't recognize were behind her.

In order to have sex with Phoenix I needed to win her trust. This would take time, and time would build up her hopes. When she finally gave in, it would be to officially welcome me into her life. For me it would be a farewell. I would have to deceive Phoenix into believing I was open to sticking around, wait for her to put her guard down and legs up, and then sucker punch her. Why cause her the pain? Why not just do the leaving now?

If I knew the answer to my questions, perhaps I could change them. But the only thing I know is that when I want a woman, I want her, plain and simple. I will not be satisfied until she has become my lover. Once this has been accomplished, whatever it was that made her irresistible vanishes, or perhaps it remains, but the juices of sex bolster my immune system and make resisting quite easy. I believe in strong beginnings and abrupt endings. The middle never held much interest for me.

We saw each other for six weeks. Each date I was certain would be the one where she finally broke down, but Phoenix was taking the art of taking things slow very seriously. It was a little frustrating, but not much. I sincerely enjoyed her company and was fascinated by the world within the underbelly of the city that she exposed me to. And when she wasn't around, I had no difficulty locating women willing to move a lot faster. My only concern was the growing warmth in her eyes, though this was the very thing I was striving to create. Phoenix was falling in love, and the term “fall” is used for good reason. One usually has to fall first in order to end up flat on their face.

Our first time together took me by surprise. We were riding my bike on the Belt Parkway when Phoenix indicated for me to pull over. She brought me behind some bushes, where we made feverish love as traffic raced by. I didn't even have time to take my helmet off.

I learned something about Phoenix that day that she had been hiding from me. She absolutely craved sex, in fact, she was a nymphomaniac. No psychiatrist had ever made this diagnosis official, but had they mouths from which to speak, my bed, sofa, bathtub, kitchen sink, coffee table, dining room floor and windowsill would have given testimonials in support of the theory. With great effort she was capable of refraining from having sex for a decent period of time. But when she was partaking, she needed to do so a lot. A whole lot. Phoenix had been planning to make me wait another week or two, but the hum of my Harley's 1500 cc engine between her legs convinced her otherwise.

After three less than enthusiastic phone conversations and a schedule grown considerably busier than the previous month and a half, Phoenix began to get the hint that I was not planning a wedding date. Hints not being enough however, she eventually point blank asked me. I'll lie like there's no tomorrow to get in a woman's pants, and be equally honest to get out. So I confirmed Phoenix' worst fears. She pressed for a reason and I pitched my stock answers, but she batted them all way. She claimed not to care that I wasn't emotionally prepared to commit, or that I didn't think we were right for each other, or that I wanted to and in fact was seeing other women. Phoenix wanted to have me by whatever rules I chose to apply, or so she claimed. I knew better than to believe that. She just wanted to keep me around until my defenses were worn all the way down. Since she was leaving me with no convenient way to exit the relationship, I saw no recourse but to bluntly tell her that she couldn't have me because I didn't want her. As for why, since she had not found the reasons I gave acceptable, she could pick whichever one she was best able to live with.

The look in her eyes proclaimed that the world had come to an end, but in fact it must have continued, for I heard from her a week later. I screen all of my calls and would not have picked up had she not mentioned my antique, monogrammed pocket watch. It had been passed down to me from my great grandfather, who conveniently possessed the same initials as myself. I had been searching my apartment with the tenacity of a blood hound for several days, but it had not turned up.

"So if you want your precious watch back, drop by my apartment. I suggest you come now rather than later, because I'm having one hell of a time resisting the temptation to smash it with a hammer."

Something told me I would be better off writing the watch off. God only knew what Phoenix had in store for me. I usually operate on the principle that scorned women are to be avoided at all cost. If my loss had only been a monetary one, I would have accepted this as the price I had to pay for my sins. But the personal value attached made it imperative that I retrieve my stolen property and deal with whatever fury was awaiting me.

When I arrived at Phoenix' door, it was slightly ajar. I knocked and called out for her, but no response came. So I stepped into the small studio apartment. The first thing to come into view was the bed upon which Phoenix lay naked, spread eagle and very still, my watch atop her stomach. As I stepped closer, I noticed the open and empty pill bottle by her side. Then my eyes came across the new tattoo trailing across her stomach in calligraphy. It read simply, Michael.

I placed the watch in my pocket and dialed 911, giving the person on the other end of the phone a brief synopsis of the situation at hand. When asked who I was, I described myself as a not so good Samaritan and hung up.

In a pizzeria across the street I waited to make certain an ambulance arrived promptly. Then I went home and cancelled my plans to go to the movies that evening. I had had enough drama for one day.


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Thursday, March 28, 2013


I suspected from the get go that Lena would be trouble, but figured I wouldn't be around long enough to get too deeply into it. With women like her though, trouble tends to strike swiftly, strongly and randomly.

Needing to take a break from writing, having penned a particularly bulky first chapter that day, I chose to waste a few hours in a bar near my apartment.  You probably figure I'm an alcoholic since so many of my evenings are spent in bars.  The truth is, I rarely consume more than three drinks and they serve merely as a diversion until my real purpose has been served.

I suppose I am a lonely sort, not talented or committed enough for writing to sustain me, so inevitably seeking companionship.  Perhaps craving for women is actually an excuse to keep me from accomplishing anything.  If I could reverse the durations of my writing and break periods, who knows what I might achieve.  You may think I never make it to a second chapter because I play it by ear and depend on inspiration which never comes.  In fact, the reason I stop writing is because I am not creating a masterpiece, and I would rather stop and try again than carry on with mediocrity.  I prefer failing at greatness to succeeding with something commonplace.

These were the thoughts keeping me company as I watched Lena from my barstool.  She sat at the opposite end of the bar in a dress cut low enough to draw men effortlessly, and in all likelihood purposefully.  But one proposition after another was shunned with scarcely a glance at the proposers.  She seemed bored by the scene, but then why be in it, at the center no less?

It was a slow night lady wise, the one I was observing being the only one not already spoken for who even remotely piqued my interest.  Had I been hell bent on getting laid, I would have headed elsewhere in search of odds more in my favor.  But for the moment I was content with my thoughts, my drink, and my view.

From time to time she would look in my direction, but with no more focus or attention than if I were a piece of gum stuck to the wall.  I got the impression that she had drunk quite a bit, though she was nursing the concoction currently in front of her.  If I was right, she certainly was a mellow and composed drunk, and such a state can only be achieved through years of practice.

When the seat beside her became available after the sixth consecutive guy who dared to occupy it was rejected and sent scurrying along, she surprised me by placing her purse on it, smiling, then beckoning me to come over.  I didn't need to be asked twice.  She kissed me passionately the moment I arrived by her side, as if we were long parted lovers finally reunited.  I registered no surprise, for very little surprises me.  She called the bartender over to pay her tab.  When he returned her credit card, a quick glance informed me of her name.  She kissed me again, then took my hand and allowed me to lead her outside.       

"I just live a few blocks from here."

She smiled absently at the information. 

Some people get paranoid when good things come their way hassle free.  I was used to easy, but even by my standards this was eerily elementary.  Why couldn't the next War and Peace or Catcher in the Rye come to me in a like manner?  We walked in silence to my apartment.  I commented on it being a beautiful night, to which she responded by briefly gazing at the sky.  That summed up the verbal foreplay.

We were in my bedroom, clothing dispensed of, my hands getting acquainted with the feel of her full bodied voluptuousness, when Lena grabbed my wrists tightly.

"I love you, Eddie."

"Huh?"  Her silence was finally broken, only to get my name wrong.

"Why did you leave me?  You know I can't make it without you."

She looked directly at me, but I clearly was not who she was seeing.  Lena was tripping on something a lot more powerful than what the bartender was serving.  Either that, or she was a certified nutcase.

"You're such a cold bastard."

"Look, Lena ..."  The rest of what I had to say was cut short by her slap across my face.  I was starting to get annoyed.

"How could you use me like that?"

"I just met you.  I haven't done a damn ..."

This time I caught the slap before it reached me.  That was it.  It was time for Lena to hit the road.  I began guiding her out, but she pulled free from my grasp and backed away.  Tears were welling up in her eyes.

"You never loved me, did you, Eddie?"

Intuitively I knew I could make this go in a variety of directions, including the one I had originally intended.  She wanted to make love, but only to some guy who wasn't there, who wasn't me.  Since she was deluded enough to think that I was him, I needed only to play along.  It was well within my area of expertise, pretending to be someone I wasn't.  The only things different were that I wasn't in charge of who I got to be, and I wouldn't get to go by my real name.

Was it worth it?  Was Eddie someone whose throat Lena intended to slit in the middle of the night?  I had no idea what being a surrogate for this guy would entail, beyond what my crotch was anticipating.

I put my hand tenderly on Lena's face.

"Do you still love me, Eddie?"

"As much as I always have."  I meant the meaningless words as much as the real Eddie probably would have, and since I was being him, I could not be held accountable for a single thing I said or did.  This empowered me with limitless freedom.  An actor is not responsible for the actions of the character he's playing, nor do the actions have real consequences.  It's all make believe.

"Do you still want me?" she asked.

"More than ever before."

"You'll marry me then?"

"Whatever you want, baby.  Whatever you want."  But first I would get what I wanted.  Then I would call for a cab.  Which is what I did.  And by the time I held the car door open for her, Lena looked at me with recognition, or lack of it rather, which told me that reality was beginning to kick in.  As the taxi pulled away towards the address she had given, Eddie and I waved goodbye.


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Monday, March 25, 2013



I turned my attention from the replica of a Tyrannosaurus Rex hunting down a Brontosaurus. I had been meaning to check out this exhibit at the Museum of Natural History for months. Show me a guy who doesn't like dinosaurs and you'll be showing me one deeply disturbed individual.

"Jennifer!" Of all the women I knew, she was among the last I expected. It had been so long. My God, it had been fifteen years.

"I can't believe it's really you," she said.

"Me neither." My high school sweetheart, prom date, first ever girlfriend in the flesh. "You look incredible, Jennifer." And she did indeed.

I caught up on the passage of her life over lunch. Jennifer lived in Chicago now, where she worked as an investment banker. A five year mistake of a marriage had produced a cherished son and a substantial amount of misery. For the latter reason she was in the process of getting a divorce. She was staying with her parents for a couple weeks as a brief respite from the tribulations of real life, which included a custody battle for her son, Paul.

Over drinks I provided the details of my considerably less complicated existence. She was proud of my attempting to be a writer and certain I would eventually make it to a second chapter and beyond. Her words of faith and encouragement made me feel like the teenager I had been when we first met.

Had it really been one and a half decades ago when I believed we would be together forever? It didn't seem she had aged a day, or that my heart beat any slower upon looking at her. The details of the day we broke up came back to me with startling clarity. Jennifer had no definite proof, but strong enough suspicions regarding enough of the girls I had fooled around with behind her back to pull the plug on our relationship a few weeks before graduation. It struck me as no big deal at the time. My cockiness and luck with girls had grown immeasurably in the two years since Jennifer and I conducted our first experiments in the art of kissing and introductory anatomy. And even if I had managed to remain monogamous throughout high school, going to different colleges would surely put an end to that. Our romance, sweet as it had been, had doubtlessly run its course. My only regret was that unlike the majority of my on the side girlfriends, Jennifer had not yet granted me access to her most prized treasure, and now likely never would. We had done just about everything under the sun short of intercourse, and with this I would have to make due.

To her credit, Jennifer dumped me in a calm, dignified manner. Every word of her indictment was well rehearsed, and my attempt to dispute her claims was half-hearted at best. Despite her apparent lack of emotion however, I knew I had hurt her far beyond what she allowed me to see. At the time, I didn't think she would ever forgive me. And perhaps she never would have, had another man not come along later who sinned far more grievously against her.

By the time we were downing after dinner cocktails, I knew my wish would come true at long last.  As I gazed affectionately at the girl who had taught me about love, I wondered if she had it in her to re-teach the lessons I had somehow forgotten. Then I realized the more pertinent question was whether or not I had it in me to learn them again.

When we arrived at my apartment I was as drunk as I wanted to be, and Jennifer as drunk as she needed to be.

"Better late than never" were the last words she spoke before we progressed to make tender, poignant love.

"Worth the wait, don't you think?" were the first ones I said when we were done.

Jennifer didn't answer. She had a lot on her mind, and mine was surprisingly full as well. I was actually thinking about resuming a relationship with her, long distance at first, then her eventually moving back to New York or me heading out to Chicago. I had no real ties here, other than my love for New York City and my Mom. My mother would have no problem with abusing her frequent flier miles.

I said I thought about these things, not considered them. This night was clearly an end rather than a beginning. The tears falling quietly down Jennifer's face said as much. They broke my heart, even though I knew they had nothing to do with me. Maybe because of this.

Then I found myself jealous of her pain. That I had never cared enough to hurt so bad, or been cared for enough to bring about such misery. The feeling only lasted for a moment. What good could misery possibly do for me?

"I wish I could do something." I didn't realize I was speaking rather than thinking until Jennifer responded.

"You did what you could."

As I watched her get dressed to leave, I couldn't help but feel gypped and a little angered. This was not how things were supposed to go. Our crossing paths in a city of millions and completing what had begun when we were different people, just starting to be formed, was a miracle of sorts. Miracles were to be celebrated, not moped over. What happened between us that night was special, and she was spoiling it with self pity. This was not how I wanted to remember our first time. I wanted her to be happy. What we had done was supposed to make us feel good, or else why do it?

Jennifer had finally given me her body, but kept everything left over for herself. It had been a revisiting of our past with the components in reverse position. In essence, nothing had changed between us. It appeared I would never possess all of her at the same time.

I concluded that perhaps when the dual memories had grown faint enough, I would be able to match up the experience of Jennifer giving me her body to that of her surrendering her heart. Sadly I realized that the concocted image might be the only genuine love affair I would ever have.


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Friday, March 22, 2013


About once a month I go clubbing with my best friend, Jamal. Without the radar to detect women's desires that I possess, he isn't quite in my league when it comes to the mating game. At nightclubs however, Jamal is almost able to keep pace. That’s because enough women subscribe to the theory that good dancers must make good lovers for him to make out like a bandit when gyrating under strobe lights to an infectious beat.

I happen to be no slouch either in the shaking my money maker department, but prefer to ensnare women in a less taxing manner, thus preserving energy for when it counts. So while Jamal gets his groove on moments after we enter a place, I pick a spot to survey my surroundings and seek the pick of the litter.

This is what I was doing one night when I suddenly found myself being yanked to an open space on the floor. I took in the woman who had brought me there without bothering to seek permission. Her face was mildly pleasing, doe eyes set above ample cheek. When she spun around I lowered my gaze for a rear view. My line of vision once again fell upon ample cheek.

Despite her lack of etiquette, I was kind enough not to walk away. No need to be rude. The fact was, I admired her spunk. She had spotted the prize catch of the place and flung me onto her boat before I could protest. I would grant her one dance in order to demonstrate my expert moves for the titillation of more savory women who were observing.

By fifteen seconds into the song, my dance partner was clinging to me like a barnacle to the hull of a ship. If she hadn't already proven that there wasn't a shy bone in her body, she was making her point close to obscenely clear now. And if her intentions were to arouse me, she was right on the mark. She faced away once again, and the more that big ass rubbed against my zipper, the more points she scored. Then she turned back, kissing and groping me like I was the last man on earth. Though I knew I could do better, I decided that her diligent efforts should not go unrewarded.

I was about to inform her of my decision when I was pushed roughly from behind. Turning around, I was confronted with the noticeably distraught visage of a rather large gentleman.

"Not a smart move, buddy."

It didn't appear that he truly intended to be my buddy, and I determined it would be useless trying to talk my way out of the trouble that was obviously coming. I opted not to tell the behemoth who the aggressor actually had been, neither wanting to sully his lady's reputation nor further fuel his brewery fed rage.

"Let's take this outside."

I scanned the room for Jamal, but he was nowhere to be seen. Besides, one on one was a fair fight. Not that I had any desire to engage in fisticuffs. It had been years since I last threw a punch in anger. My foe on the other hand probably did this every weekend. He was more fat than muscle. If we were to take our shirts off and pose, I would be the runaway winner. But I didn't think that was what he had in mind.

Not wanting the confrontation to take place within the club, for I would likely be banned from returning and this was one of my favorite haunts, I agreed to go outside. My hope was that he was as drunk as he smelled, and equally slow. I had no doubt that he was strong enough to seriously damage my treasured profile.

A peek at the cause of my troubles showed a face curious to see some blood shed, seemingly without a care in the world. Her man threw a roundhouse right which I ducked under. I prepared to throw a punch in return, but found my opponent clutching the hand he had broken against a light pole, failing to hold back his tears. I mercifully relieved his pain with an uppercut that left him unconscious before he hit the pavement. Then I grabbed the wrist of his lady with one hand and hailed an approaching cab with the other. Ten minutes later we pulled up in front of my apartment building. It was time for the hero to get the girl.

Once upstairs I lit a candle, and with the press of a couple of remote control buttons filled the room with the sensuous crooning of Teddy Pendergrass. The mood set, I got to work.

"What's your name?" she whispered as I kissed her roughly, my adrenaline flowing as much from the confrontation with her boyfriend as due to her body quivering from my seasoned touch.

"Michael. And yours?" It didn't matter of course, but since she had bothered to ask, I figured I should as well.


"How's the Sunshine band doing?" She either didn't get the joke, or didn't deem it worthy of even a courtesy chuckle. I had her blouse halfway unbuttoned by that point so wasn't concerned if she appreciated my sense of humor or not.

"Were you trying to make your boyfriend jealous?" I asked as I removed her bra and beheld the bounty it held.

"I didn't even know he was there," she said between moans and groans of delight. "He was supposed to be watching the Knicks game."

"The Bulls were up by twenty five in the third quarter," I reported while pulling down her skirt. Jamal and I hadn't waited for the game to end either.

I began taking off my own clothing, anxious to discover if Casey was as energetic on a bed as a dance floor. Nevertheless, I undressed slowly in order to give her a good look. I was likely to be a highlight of her life, not to mention that she had lost a boyfriend on my account, so I wanted to make certain that I gave Casey her money's worth.

"No, wait." Not the words a man wants to hear as he is stepping out of his pants.

"What's the matter?"

"I can't do this. Gary cheated on me and I wanted to pay him back, but what will that accomplish? It won't change that he hurt me, and it won't change that I still love him."

Despite her words, I saw weakness in Casey's eyes. Her tone sounded more like a plea than a heartfelt statement. A lot of men would have been stumped in such a predicament, but not I.

"Will making love to me change how you feel for him?”

"No," she uncertainly replied

"Then why deny yourself? Don't do it for revenge or to change things. Do it for you. Do it because it will be incredible."

So she did, and so it was.


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Tuesday, March 19, 2013


I thought I knew what I was in for as I headed to the Connecticut home of Marc Jacobs, a friend of mine from college.  He threw these parties three or four times a year, sometimes with a holiday as excuse, on other occasions just for the sake of entertaining and showing off how successful he had become.  Fraternity brothers and other school day acquaintances made up two thirds of the guest list, and we would have a ball reminiscing about events of no significance, except that we had all been there. I usually spent the first hour or so marveling at how poorly my friends had aged, particularly in comparison to myself. Eventually I would be as drunk as everyone else, and like all drunks, would view everything about me with childlike wonder.

This party was destined to differ from the others right from the start, for I spotted Simone as I walked in, nearly salivated at the sight of the black silk dress which clung to her body's raceway curves.  Since she was speaking to someone I didn't know, I had no valid excuse to approach her immediately.  Instead I went through the ritual of warmly embracing old chums, chastising and being chastised for not keeping in touch, exchanging numbers and swearing to get together real soon, all the while knowing that we would not cross each other's paths or thoughts again until Marc's next party. I did this more distractedly than usual, not even bothering to count how many gray hairs, bald spots, pot bellies, and recession of hairlines had begun or expanded since last we met.  I was too busy keeping tabs on the woman in black, whose perpetually in-hand cigarette created a smoky halo.

Hector Rodriguez was in the middle of charming anecdote number four about his precocious sixteen month old twins when I saw an opportunity.  Marc Jacobs had joined the conversation of the temptress and her time monopolizing companion.  Seconds later I headed over and was introduced to Grant and Simone.  Grant was a co-worker of Marc's and obviously gay.  This left Simone ripe for the picking.

Sometimes these things work out nice and easy, for me more often than not, and for this I am grateful.  I've heard plenty of stories about the lengths men have gone to get some woman into bed. These are the same guys who claim the chase is half the fun.  Well they're full of it.  The chase is work, and though it isn't necessary to hate your job, who in their right mind prefers the labor to the paycheck?  And if the amount of toil is excessive to how much you're being paid, sooner or later it makes sense to get a new job.

In Simone was the promise of one hell of a payday.  What turned me on most about her is difficult to say.  Her pulchritude was marked by piercing almond shaped eyes, chiseled cheek bones, Bridget Bardot lips, divinely sculpted shoulder blades, a waist I could almost wrap one hand around.  I made use of all opportunities to gaze at her heart shaped posterior, which moved when she walked like waves on a stretch of sea during a mild storm.  And my conclusion that she wore no bra or panties definitely added to her allure.

But if I had to choose one thing, it would her detachment.  It was impossible to tell where I stood.  Hours went by like seconds, I ignored everyone else at the party, concentrated all of my energy on enchanting this woman.  She remained by my side, so I assumed she must be interested.  But interest wasn't enough for me.  I was accustomed to women being enthralled, mesmerized.

Insecurity began to take hold, making me wonder if I was somehow losing my touch.  I had gone too far to retreat, accomplished too little to be remotely satisfied.  Simone was from Colorado and returning home the following afternoon.  If anything was to happen between us, it had to be that night.  I was considering being bold and plainly stating my desire.  But I would be running the risk of offending her, and that would make the night a complete loss.  I have been with my share and then some of women, and in every case what happened was the result of them deciding it would be so, regardless of who said what first.  With Simone I was clueless as to what she had decided, if she had decided anything, and her apparent ambivalence rendered me too cowardly to ask.     

Then suddenly she told me.

"Let's go upstairs."

Simone took me by the hand and led the way to one of Marc's guest rooms.  She had become so domineering that it seemed I had no choice but to be submissive.  Her wish was my command.  I may as well have been on a leash.

"Do you trust me?"

What was I to say to that?  I hardly knew the woman, didn't want to know her other than in the biblical sense.  She had imparted a few tidbits about herself throughout the evening.  If given a quiz on her life I would be able to furnish answers regarding Simone's career; where she was born and raised; the jumbled heritage responsible for her unique features, the irony that she did not and had no inclination to learn how to ski; that she had been a blonde for four years before returning to her native brunette status; the fact that she was opposed to the death penalty, except for child molesters for whom she felt it should be mandatory; and that she was a vegetarian with a weak spot for White Castle hamburgers.  Did having this information deem her trustworthy?  My dick and brain engaged in a brief debate, with the undefeated champion once again emerging as victor.

"Implicitly, Simone."

"Then take off your shirt."

I complied, then stood still as she dragged her fingernails slowly down my well defined torso.  When I tried to bring up my hands to return the expert caressing, she pushed them back to my sides.

"Relax.  I'll take care of everything."

"You don't know what you're missing," I said.

"I don't intend to miss a thing."

My objective here is not to be pornographic.  You may have noticed that I have not gone into explicit detail about the sexual aspects of my liaisons.  But Simone was by no means the typical girl next door, so I feel impelled to give an in-depth account of what proceeded in order to illustrate this.

"Grab hold of the headboard."

I obeyed her command, showing no reaction or resistance when the steel cuffs bound my wrists and ankles to the bed.  Only one part of my anatomy stirred as she put a blindfold on me.  I won't tell you which, but it is considerably south of the eyes.

The fingernails etched their path again, much firmer this time.  I grimaced, but did not flinch or make a sound.  In such a vulnerable state it seemed crucial to appear strong.  I felt my belt being unbuckled and pants slid down.  Then Simone sat astride me and rocked ever so slightly back and forth.  Her nails dug into my skin with what had to be all her might.  Pleasure and pain dueled to the death.  She sucked on my nipples, duplicating most of my best moves.  When she bit down, my silence could no longer be maintained.  Her response to the groan was to laugh and accelerate the movement of her hips into my pelvis.  I didn't know which would burst first, me or the bed.

Simone intuitively stopped moments before I was about to lose the battle.  She began applying a lotion of some sort to the scratches she had made.  Before I could be grateful I learned that the substance was intended not to soothe, but burn.  It was as if I had shaved my entire body and then slid into a bathtub filled with cologne.

"Tell me you want me," Simone purred, resuming her exquisitely torturous grind.

"I want you."

The sting of leather went across my chest.

"Like you mean it."

I repeated the proclamation, louder and with more assurance. It must have been satisfactory, for she moved on to the next demand.

"Tell me you need me."

"I need you."

The rocking accelerated, her metallic-like fingernails dragged down my stomach again, we both moaned deliriously in tune with the creaking of the mattress.

"Tell me you love me."

The ensuing silence was like a gun shot in a library.  It was ended by two more lashes.  Then Simone did something far crueler than inflicting pain.  She raised off of me.  Never before had I so missed a woman's touch.
"Tell me."

"Fuck you."

The words left my mouth too swiftly to halt them.  What was I thinking?  One more lie is all that was needed.  I had lost count of how many I had already told that evening.  I had revealed nothing of my true self, whatever that was, but presented Simone with smoke and mirrors.  The practically naked man beneath her was a cleverly constructed hallucination.  Only the name and scarred body tissue were real.  So why couldn't my character claim to love her?  Why couldn't his mouth, or mine, or whoever it belonged to utter three monosyllabic words?

"What did you say?"

I was being given a chance to change my answer, to say the one fib I had never made.  I often wondered if the situation would ever arise when the words would be true.  If so, would I be able to utter them then?

"I said fuck you."

I felt what could have been nothing but the blade of a knife against my throat.  The dull edge of it traced down my body.  Then Simone placed the blade on my most cherished possession.  The knife began cutting through my underwear.  A scream prepared to leap from my throat.  Would it be for help, or the three words Simone had requested?  The former would likely not be heard over the din of the party, and even if it was, would bring the cavalry too late.

I heard the knife clatter to the floor.  Before there was time to register surprise or relief, Simone said a single word.  "Okay." Then she climbed back on and simulation gave way to the real thing.


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