“Well, maybe. Once. A movie. A while ago…and I read a couple books.”
Helen laughed. “Don’t consider those trash books real. They’re nothing like this life. They’re written for men to give themselves something to jack off to.”
I nodded. It hadn’t seemed real when I read it, but then, what did I know?
Helen looked at me thoughtfully. “Then let us negotiate a contract so you’ll know your role and responsibilities. If you remain as my boy, it will have to be by your own informed consent. I don’t want to be accused of raping, coercing, or intimidating you. You have to know what you’re getting into. This is not a game to me. It is a lifestyle. There are others in this life, but we are hidden more than the average homosexual. Since the Stonewall riots, it has almost become acceptable to be queer, but it is still frowned upon to be sadomasochistic, especially since these wonderful feminists have raised their voices in the gay cause. It’s all right to be queer as long as you do it their way. So we still stay hidden. You must know that what we do in that room upstairs cannot be told to anyone. If this was twenty or thirty years ago, not only could I be arrested, but you could be thrown into a mental institution.”
“But even if we’re only doing what we want?” I was still naive enough to ask.
“Things have changed. Soon we may be able to live it openly but not quite yet.” She shook her head. “There are a lot of us but not enough. We can be open in certain areas but not everywhere. Maybe someday…”
We continued for a few minutes, discussing whether this type of life would ever truly be accepted. Then she changed the subject back to me.
“When I first saw you in Boston, you looked very feminine. I had to ask if you were straight or lesbian. Andrew said he thought you were bisexual. Are you?”
“I guess so. I never really analyzed it.”
“In your lesbian relationships, are you a butch or a femme?”
I’d never considered that either. I knew I wasn’t the masculine stereotypical dyke that I’d seen in some of the bars, but then, I wasn’t the ultra-femme that always wore lipstick and eye shadow, either. I’d always taken control of the relationships. Always been the one to make decisions, do the manual work. Did that make me the butch?
“I guess I’m probably a bit…just a little butch,” I decided.
Helen laughed. “Just a little butch? I like that. Just a little butch. Good. Then that’s what you shall be. Little Butch. That will be my name for you. Yes, I do like that. Little Butch.”
I smiled. I think I liked it, too.
“Then, Little Butch, we need to negotiate a contract so you know what you can expect and what’s expected of you. We’ll spell everything out so there’ll be no misunderstandings. Agreed?”
I nodded. Somehow, it made sense.
Helen took out a pad of paper and began to jot down some notes. “There’s usually an advocate to take your side. Do you want one?”
“Do I need one?” That didn’t sound right. My stomach started to turn. This was harder than having a booking agent to find performance jobs.
“Not if you don’t want one. You’ll have to trust me, though. And seeing that this is your first time and you’re untrained, we’ll put lots of escape clauses in it.”
“Fine with me. I trust you,” I said with a nonchalance I didn’t know if I felt.
“All right. First, there will be a training period. During that time, everything will be carefully explained to you, how you should act, what you can and cannot say, what you can do, etc. If I am satisfied with your progress, I will extend the contract, making you my full submissive or slave, a full member of my family. If not, I will release you, and you will be free to go your own way. Also, during the training period, if you cannot or decide you don’t want to adhere to the rules of the training, you may break the contract.” She looked at me for agreement.
“How long will the training period be?”
“Until you learn what I think you should know. If you train as quickly as you did last night, it shouldn’t take long at all.” Her smile warmed me. I had the feeling that somehow, this was the right thing. For the first time that day, I felt the same surety and desire I’d felt last night.
She reached down and ran her fingers through my hair, stopping to caress my cheek. “I have the feeling that this is right for you. Perhaps enjoy will become the right word.”
“Perhaps,” I said. “I think I did enjoy most of last night.”
Helen smiled broadly. “I thought you did. Now, terms of the contract. This will be an exclusive contract. You will not sleep, have sex, or whatever you want to call it, with anyone else without either my permission or my request. In fact, you will not even talk with anyone unless you have my permission. Is that understood? That part is not negotiable.”
I nodded happily. At that moment, I didn’t want to be with anyone but her.
“During your training period, you will be required to perform certain acts with Neisy. And that is also not negotiable. She is a part of my family right now and is bound to me by the same type of contract. Shall we continue?”
I thought it over. I didn’t really want to have sex with Neisy, but if it brought me closer to Helen, well, maybe… “All right.”
“In exchange,” she continued, “I will train you and provide you with food and lodging and an allowance to buy necessities. This, of course, has nothing to do with the contract we negotiated about your work with my music. That contract is totally different and is still in force. You, in reality, will do whatever I ask of you, without question. You will turn over all conscious decision making to me. I will guide you in all ways, and you will seek my advice and consent in everything. And you will be rewarded in many different ways for work done well…or disciplined for errors. Of course, to those outside this apartment, it will look like you merely work for me. You will be introduced to strangers as my personal assistant. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes,” I answered firmly. I was ready at that moment to sign my life away to this woman. I was amazed that I was ready to sign my life over to her…but there was always a way out, wasn’t there?
She stopped.
“Training lesson number one,” she said. “You will always address me and others with terms of respect. You’ll say yes, ma’am, or no, ma’am, or you’ll call me mistress. You’ll never be bold enough to presume you can call me Helen. When we’re in public or there are other people around, you will call me Miss Robins. Is that clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She smiled again. “Good boy. Do you drink?”
“Do you mean alcohol? I have some rum and ginger every once in a while.”
“Well, you won’t. You have to keep your mind very clear. You have to know when to use your safe word. You can’t let yourself get out of control, even if you think you can handle it. Accidents happen when someone is not sharp or too inebriated to make the right choices. I’ll let you know when I think you can handle a drink. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, next point of the contract…”
The rest of the negotiation took about two hours. She asked me about my background, my family, my fears and hopes, my likes and dislikes, Finally, she had me read the list of terms she’d written, and I signed my agreement and consent. She initialed beneath my name and set the paper back on her desk.
“You can have a copy of this made for yourself when you go to the copy service. And you can move your belongings into the room next to Neisy’s.”
I thought of the two rooms beyond the kitchen which had once been maids’ quarters. Neisy and I would share the small bathroom back there.
“Where have you been staying?” Helen asked.
“The Hotel Earle in the Village.”
“That roach trap?” Helen cried. “Go and get your things out of there immediately and shake them out thoroughly. I won’t have you bringing bugs into this apartment! Better still, just drop everything off at the cleaners on the cor
ner. I’ll call and have your name added to my account. Go, but don’t take all day. You still have a lot of work to do on this music. I’ll have Neisy leave out some fresh linen for you.”
She watched as I got to my feet. “Yes, ma’am.” I saluted her with a crisp military swagger.
“And don’t start any of that Mickey Mouse Club silliness. If you mouth off too much, it could get you into a lot of hot water! But then, maybe you’d enjoy that, too.” Her smile was unsettling. I couldn’t determine if that was good or bad. “Just don’t push me.”
I hesitated. All at once, thousands of questions were racing through my mind. “Mistress?” I started. The appellation still felt foreign to my tongue.
“Speak.”
I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted to ask. “How did you know about me? I mean, what made you think I’d go for this, that I’d be good at it? I mean, why me?”
Helen studied me. “In this lifestyle, you learn to judge people’s body language. I watched you. I looked in your eyes. You wanted to be with me that night at the party after the concert, but you were too tentative. I could have snapped my fingers, and you’d have been there at my side. Am I right?”
I had to admit the truth.
“At first, I wasn’t sure, but last night, when you walked into the dungeon, well, the look in your eyes as you stared at Neisy was wonderful. I knew right then that I might never get you out of there. You just looked natural…scared but natural.” She chuckled, then looked back at me. “And I asked Andrew certain questions about you. He said that you were a talented musician, but you needed direction and that you liked to mouth off quite a bit.”
I shrugged.
“He also said you were lovers with his cousin. She was one of the singers in that vocal group, wasn’t she? Which one?”
“The alto.”
Helen seemed to consider this. “Not bad; you have good taste, but she’s way below your league.”
“We just broke up.”
“I know. Andrew said that would probably happen.”
“Does Andrew know what I’m doing here?” I was suddenly very scared that Andrew knew all about what was happening here.
“My God, no!” Helen glared. “That vanilla boy would never understand any of this. He thinks I want to hire you as a rehearsal pianist.” She laughed. “You don’t have to worry. I’m sure that no one in your sweet little Boston circle has the slightest idea about what happens in this apartment. Or if they did, they’d be so scandalized they’d swallow their tongue rather than talk about it! No, my dear Little Butch, I’m very discreet, especially when I’m making inquiries about possible slaves. I’ve had to be, or this would have been out long ago. Now, have I settled your fears, or do you have other questions?”
I thought. “How will I know what’s right or wrong? I mean, how will I know each and every time if I’m overstepping the boundaries?”
She looked at me thoughtfully. “You’ll learn. Some by training, such as calling me Mistress. Other times by trial and error. The first error will be corrected; the second time it happens will be disciplined. If you start acting out just to get my attention or mouthing off because you enjoy the discipline, I’ll stop you. Don’t try to mouth your way around here, Mickey.” She thought for a minute. “In fact, that will be my safe word. If you’re crossing the line or getting on my nerves, I’ll call you Mickey Mouth. That will be your cue to stop.”
“Mickey Mouth?” I asked incredulously.
She smiled. “It just seems to fit, doesn’t it? Now go, before I change my mind, Mickey Mouth.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I grinned and was on my way out the door.
* * *
As I threw my clothes into the suitcase, it hit me. I’d just signed myself into slavery.
I’d never been the one to align myself with any one teacher, only one mentor. I’d taken all I could from each and every resource, sorted through it, and chosen what I felt was right for me. I’d always been the one to hedge all bets, never going steady or making a commitment to one lover. I’d never been faithful. Why had I just devoted my life, my work, and my body to this one woman?
Of course, it was Helen Robins.
I sat on the bed as I folded a shirt. Was it the sex? And why was I even considering these alternatives?
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. What had come over me? Even now, eighty blocks away, I could feel the pull. I wanted to get back. Why? So she could beat my butt until I couldn’t sit? Was I that much of a masochist? So she could correct the way I played the piano? So I could grovel at her feet?
I shook myself as if from a bad dream.
But the feeling as she’d touched me, as she’d held me in her arms, as she’d kissed my neck sent shivers through me. Just how much had the paddling turned me on? I tried to analyze the feelings.
I’d never wanted anyone the way I wanted Helen Robins. I’d always wanted her. I remembered falling asleep at night listening to her records, making love to her music, even masturbating to it. Was this what I’d been training myself for all this time?
Thinking back to the night I’d first seen her onstage, I’d known I wanted to be with her. At the party, I’d wanted her. Over the phone, I’d wanted to be with her. Now I had the chance. Even that short scene last night had been what I’d wanted. I could still feel her hands on me, in me. It had felt like a dream coming true.
But on what terms? The ones she’d set forth this morning? The ones that said I would serve her every whim and maybe, only maybe, earn the chance of touching her, hugging her? Neisy had said I’d never make love to Helen, that no one touched Helen, that she only took her pleasure from the pain and pleasure of others.
No, I vowed. I wanted a lover, someone who could receive as well as give. I wanted to kiss and nuzzle and caress. No stone butches need apply. I could just hop a train back to Boston and be out of here tonight. I didn’t have to go back. Helen could send me the tapes if she still wanted me to transcribe them or just send me the money she already owed me, and I’d be done. No! Damn it, I wasn’t going to be a slave to anyone. I was not going back to the Upper West Side.
I slammed the shirt into the suitcase.
Of course, this was Helen Robins.
I started to shake. My whole body ached with longing. I wanted Helen to touch me again. I wanted to see that smile on her face that said, “You please me, my Little Butch.” Even the soreness on my butt felt good because it had pleased Helen to make it that way.
Damn. What was wrong with me? What had I become?
I glanced into the wavy mirror over the rickety old chest of drawers in the shabby hotel room. “Okay,” I asked myself, “which will it be? Boston or the Upper West Side? Marlboros or Shermans?”
Once again, I sank onto the bed.
It seemed like the dream of a lifetime. Helen Robins wanted me. Or was that the nightmare? What did she want of me? Just my body and my musical ears? Or did she want my soul?
Damn, I thought, standing again. How do I make this decision? Is this the kind of life I want to lead? Am I just doing this because it’s Helen? Am I doing it for me?
Walking. That was what I needed to do. I needed to walk around and think it through. Walking had always been the way I’d made choices. Walking, thinking, walking some more, looking for signs to let me know if I’d chosen right.
The answer was out there in the city, in the Village. Maybe right outside on West Fourth Street. Or down the block in Washington Square. I jammed the room key into my pocket, picked up my suitcase, and closed the door behind me. I’d definitely be sleeping somewhere else tonight.
* * *
I’m not sure how far I walked, but my mind was racing. It dawned on me that it all came down to “what do I want to be when I grow up?” Hell, I hadn’t thought of that in years. In high school, I’d gone from one idea to another with no direction, then finally decided on being a music teacher. Then in college, a professor suggested that I give up the idea of teaching in public schools and
make “theory” my focus, along with some composition and arranging. So without even thinking about it, I’d changed my major. Now where was I going? Toward being a great composer? I thought not. A gifted arranger? Probably not. What did I want to do? What did I want?
The thought scared me. I’d always let fate, or at least another person, make decisions for me. It was easier that way because I didn’t have to take any responsibility, could just float though life.
But what did I want? I had no idea.
I kept walking.
Finally, I came up with a short list. I wanted to be a musician…a pianist. A jazz pianist. And I wanted a relationship. A lasting relationship with one person. Would I have that with Helen? Did I have it in Boston?
The answer to both was a resounding no.
But what did I have in Boston? A dead relationship with Ann and a string of one-night stands. The rest of the time I treaded water playing for voice and dance classes and teaching until I was so tired, I had no time for my own music.
I balanced that against what I’d have in New York: a very alive relationship, sort of, if you didn’t consider it one-way, but definitely not a string of one-night stands. I’d be with the same woman, or women, each and every night, for as long as…well, who knew. And I’d be studying the music of the one person in the world I’d dreamed of being like. I wanted to develop my own style and be known in the industry. But at what cost?
I looked around. Somehow, I’d walked thirty blocks without realizing it. I could walk a few more to the train station under Madison Square Garden and be back in Boston before midnight.
My suitcase was getting heavy, and my stomach started to churn at the thought of leaving. Do I stay, or do I go? I walked once more around the block.
“Okay, kiddo,” I said to myself as I stood in front of the entrance to Madison Square Garden. “Go back to Boston and hope you’ll find something safe, or take a big step and stay here in New York with Helen.”
I took a very deep breath. The longing to call someone and talk it over washed over me. Maybe I should call Frank.
In Helen’s Hands Page 4