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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