Mr Romance

by Mr Romance (retail) (epub)

  ‘What?’

  ‘Dorothy,’ mother said. ‘Dorothy and this other business.’

  ‘There’s no harm in it.’

  ‘She’s a lot older than you, Skipper.’

  ‘She’s not that old!’ I protested. A few years. It was nothing. Why were people so concerned with age? What difference did it make?

  ‘It’s a question of experience. You’ve still got a lot to learn. I wouldn’t want you to do something that you’ll live to regret.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Well, if she gave you certain ideas…’ mother said carefully, peeling the crust from the sandwich. ‘Peculiar ideas. If she tried to persuade you into doing something that, you know, that made you feel uncomfortable…’

  ‘Uncomfortable?’

  ‘You know what I’m talking about!’

  I stared in panic at the TV screen. We’re talking dirty! Is it possible? Mother and son. We’re talking filthy. We’re talking fantastic and dangerous. Forbidden acts. Peculiar practices. She was warning me of the perils that lurk in the locked room, the hall of mirrors, the little circus of horrors. What did she want to tell me? Quick! Tell me the truth. Don’t spare my feelings. What did she know about Dorothy that made her fear so much for my safety?

  The Turk had left the ring in search of an interesting weapon and returned with a fire extinguisher. He discharged a volley of freezing fog, knocking down the referee and blinding the Dog who howled and staggered, lost his sense of direction and blundered into the ropes. The Turk seized the advantage, dragged him down to the canvas and smothered his victim’s face in his arms.

  ‘It’s easy to make mistakes,’ mother said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the heat of the moment, when passions are high. Especially if you’re young and innocent and trying to please a person. It’s too easy.’

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I promised.

  ‘They come at you with their silly smiles and their promises,’ she continued bitterly. ‘They string you along with their fancy talk. But one thing always leads to another. One thing leads to another.’ Her face looked pinched by memories and for a moment I saw her as a skinny schoolgirl pursued by smirking romeos demanding the price of her favours.

  The Dog had survived the choke hold and smother. He was handcuffed to a corner post and gasping for air while the Turk set to work, changing the shape of his head with a hammer.

  ‘Go for his goolies, you big nancy!’ mother shrieked in disgust.

  The referee was shouting for help. The bell was ringing. Officials came running. The Turk was cornered and wrapped in a net by men with electric cattle prods. Paramedics were called to haul the Dog from the ring and carry him away as the audience hissed and pelted him with hotdogs and popcorn cartons.

  ‘They know how to play on your emotions,’ she grumbled, returning to the conversation. ‘They get you excited and feeling confused. They try to work you into a frenzy. And then, before you know it…’ She fell silent, lost for words, and waved the remains of her sandwich at me.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s too late! You only make one little mistake and you have to live with the consequences…’

  The consequences! I was too frightened to think about them. Interfere with Dorothy and taste the revenge of a jealous God. Ten times more violent and terrible than anything yet devised by a vexed and jealous husband.

  She turned and gave my hand a squeeze with fingers glossy with bacon fat. ‘I’m glad that we’ve had this little talk, Skipper.’

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  ‘You must consider the future,’ she added. ‘I don’t want you to throw it away for the sake of a fleeting love affair. I’ve met Dorothy’s sort. They’re sweetness and light. They’re sunshine from the back passage. But once they’ve got their teeth into you, they never leave you alone. They’ll always follow and pester you. They’ll make your life a misery.’

  I nodded.

  ‘You might think that you’re ready to experiment but don’t rush into anything you might regret. You’ll be surprised how quickly your feelings can change. Especially at your age…’

  ‘I’ll give it some thought.’

  ‘Your father was the same. Before we were married. His friends had some very kinky ideas. He became quite obsessed. You wouldn’t have recognised him. He was moody. He was secretive. It became a sort of sickness.’

  I was shocked. I couldn’t imagine my father with a hoard of Skirt Lifter annuals. A secret subscriber to Corset Creakers. A slathering slave to Rascals in Rubber. My embarrassment turned to wonder. What secrets dwelt in the heart of that man? The chemistry of love potions. One drop secures her affections. The blueprint for a mechanical woman. Life-sized and lovely. ‘What happened?’ I demanded.

  ‘I shouldn’t tell you.’

  ‘I won’t breathe a word,’ I said.

  ‘Promise?’ she demanded.

  ‘Promise,’ I said. ‘I’ve already forgotten you’ve told me. What happened?’

  She snorted and brushed down her cardigan. ‘He met some girl who tried to turn him into a Moonie.’

  31

  I counted the days to the end of the month when Dorothy would slip from my grasp. I’d be lucky to reach Jeremiah. Time enough to qualify for a button badge, my mail-order salvation medal. But no time left for love’s delights to fatten and sweeten on the bough. I needed Cupid’s rapid shot. I needed a miracle.

  In the chaos of my lovesick dreams I plotted Katie Pphart kidnaps, smuggling my true love away to far-flung islands, secret castles and isolated mountain cabins and she, in this wild and primitive state, surrendered herself to my dubious care. How simple these storybook seductions! The heroines become hedonists as soon as they’re through the gate to the garden of innocence. Allow them a moment to stand in the sun and they throw away their modesty with their button boots and their crinolines. And so in my dreams we became naked children. We collected honey and fruits of the forest. We hunted crayfish and chased the wild rabbits.

  These wholesome views of nature degenerated soon enough into scenes of robust copulation. I corrupted my trusting captive into a freckled concubine, my sun-kissed nympholept, my naked acrobat, a slave to her master’s monstrous whims. When she failed to amuse I was lavish with her punishments, I gave her no mercy, I spared her no cruelty. She was spread. She was spanked. She was forced to endure unspeakable acts of debauchery.

  He commandeth her to be laced in a corset that be drawn so tight her buttocks do swell to prodigious proportions, whereupon he doth make his cruel designs with a goose feather dipped in ink.

  He shaveth her whiskers most carefully and maketh her squat as to watch her piddle into a pot.

  He bindeth her wrists and listens not to her pleading but causes great mischief within and without her chemise.

  He doth blindfold her eyes and commandeth her enter on hands and knees to sippeth milk from a dish like a beast.

  He spoileth her with wine and then stealeth upon her at night to feast on her fingers and toes.

  He dresseth her for a nunnery and maketh her jump on a trampoline.

  He catcheth her by the throat and though she do struggle and cry out he leaveth many tremendous hickeys.

  He delivereth her to a Nubian who tickleth her extremities.

  He bareth her tender hindquarters and spanketh them with a strap two cubits long, fashioned from leather and knotted silk.

  He doth pluck and plunder her titties while she singeth Victorian battle hymns.

  He filleth her palm with silver and stuffeth her ear with flattery until she kneeleth as a harlot to suckle his privy member and yet she careth not.

  He doth fatten her with sweetmeats until she swelleth to a noble size and cannot rise from the bed but must tolerate his rummaging.

  Shake your head. Turn the page. But allow me the comforts of speculation! What else do we have but imagination to separate ourselves from the brutes? We are human because we have learned the skills to turn our desires i
nto dream, fears into fantasy, curiosity into art. We are human because we alone have the gift to make love with our minds and our hearts. We are mad with love. We are sick with love. These erotic obsessions do not reduce us to the state of beasts but only serve to make us human. And because we are human we are quick with invention. We create the rituals, myths and magic. We fill our dreams with forbidden strangers, cruel caresses and strange encounters. We punish ourselves. We adore ourselves. We abuse ourselves. We confuse ourselves. We cry out to be teased and tantalised. Pornography is a figment of our own imaginations. We feed the fire with our fantasies and fears. How can it be smothered or stifled? We spread the flame as we trample it.

  And besides, in this tug of war between the forces of good and evil, Dorothy had the advantage of angels pulling on her team.

  32

  It must have been the angels who eventually allowed Dorothy to fall so dramatically into my arms. It was certainly beyond her control and far beyond my influence. I was crouched inside the confessional, describing my hot and fleshly thoughts and watching Dorothy through my peephole as she sat listening in one of the old armchairs, head bowed, eyes closed, hands clasped between her breasts, when something most peculiar happened. At first it was no more than a slight shivering in the air, a trembling of wings on the window panes, a vague premonition of danger.

  ‘She stealeth forth in the night,’ I mumbled. ‘And entereth my private chamber and withholdeth nothing from mine sight but delivereth mine unworthy hands even unto the glory of her hindmost quarters and the raiment thereof which is choice silk yet not withstanding cast asunder so that I tremble in myself and feel sore afraid…’ I paused as I tried to gather my thoughts. It was hard work. I fancy my voice lacked conviction, but I stubbornly clung to my battle plan in the hope that these lewd incantations would finally melt my ice maiden’s heart.

  ‘She scorneth all manner of modesty to dwell in mischief and her bodice breaketh open and she confoundeth me with the whiteness of her bosom while she plucketh at mine terrible engine of war…’

  When I squinted again through the torn screen to monitor my progress, I saw Dorothy had left the armchair. There was something wrong. She was still sitting with her eyes closed, in an attitude of prayer, but she seemed to be floating, held aloft on a slender cushion of air. Her feet drifted free from the carpet. Her shoes were loose. Her skirt ballooned with the force of inflating petticoats. I blinked and stared. She had started to levitate!

  ‘And behold, she delivers me into temptation, yea, even unto…’ I stopped and gawped in astonishment as Dorothy’s shadow climbed the wall and filled the confessional with darkness.

  ‘And, lo, my strength faileth me and my heart doth break for I am grown fermented in the sight of her…’

  She floated silent and serene above the top of the folding screen. She didn’t struggle. She seemed to be held in a trance. Her eyes were closed. Her hands were still clasped in prayer. She was wearing a ponytail that now stood rigid and erect as if she were being hauled to Heaven by the very roots of her hair. I reached out my hand to save her but she drifted slowly beyond my reach until she hung, helpless, beneath the ceiling.

  I crept into the centre of the room and peered up into the open umbrella of her skirt. The novelty of viewing her from this angle occupied me for several minutes. She was a rare and lovely sight! Her arms and legs were bent in the attitude of a swimmer. She was moored beside the lampshade and swaying slightly from side to side against the influence of the tide.

  As I watched, a shoe slipped from her foot and fell to earth, cartwheeling across the carpet. I reached up to clasp the remaining shoe and pulled it from the hook of her toes. It felt warm and soft in my hand. A dark-green leather moccasin. I wrapped one hand around her ankle and gently pulled her foot towards me. Her long leg straightened, the muscles stretched, but she continued to float against the ceiling.

  ‘Dorothy!’ I whispered. ‘Dorothy!’ I summoned my courage and pulled on her leg like a bell rope. But nothing happened. She sank and promptly rose again. Her lungs were filled with helium.

  I managed to grasp her other foot and struggled to hold her fast, with my head beneath her skirt and my face between her knees. And still she floated above me. Gasping for breath and smothered in peppery petticoats, I groped for her waist and tried to make a snatch at her wrists, but the violence of my attack disturbed her buoyancy and she dipped and rolled away, caught on some invisible draught and sailed towards the top of the wardrobe.

  I gave chase, secured her ankles and discovered, after a little experimenting, that pulling and pushing her feet like pistons could drive her forward, making her paddle across the room. In this manner I guided her across the ceiling, careful to avoid the lampshade, until she floated over the bed where I tried once more to find a method of bringing her down.

  Despite my rough treatment she hadn’t woken from her trance. She remained so calm and composed, she might have been hypnotised. I should have summoned help. I should have called for witnesses. But I hesitated. I didn’t want to share the sight and I wasn’t anxious to break the spell. It would be enough for the moment, I told myself, to find a way to moor her safely to the bed and wait for this enchantment to fade. A tether for her wrist. A shackle for her ankle. A simple anchor to keep her from danger.

  She was wearing a narrow, black, leather belt. The perfect article! I clambered onto the bed, and standing on tiptoe, managed at last to unfasten the buckle. The belt slithered loose and her shirt came adrift from her skirt. A white silk shirt with six glass buttons. And here, I confess, I lost my reason. I grew confused. My thoughts were scrambled. To avoid the risk of suffocation it seemed important to loosen her collar. So I spread her arms and picked at the buttons. The shirt sagged apart and floated open. She was wearing a most impressive bra spun from some wonderful gossamer, embossed with delicate silver flowers that gathered against the shoulder straps and scattered across the creaking cups. Between the cups nestled three satin rosebuds, tied with a bow of sculpted ribbon. I gave them scarce a glance. There was no time to waste in admiration. Concerned with her general health and safety, I reached out and started to work my hands around her shoulder blades in search of the suffocating strap. There must be no restraint. Nothing must hinder her breathing.

  It wasn’t easy. The bed behaved like a trampoline, making me dance from foot to foot as I tried to keep my balance. I fell to my knees more than once as I struggled to set her free from bondage and grabbed at her arms and legs for support. She rocked and swayed against my weight, sweeping the ceiling, drifting in circles. But I was stubborn, I was cunning, my fumbling fingers found their mark and the burgled bra came apart in my hands.

  And then, all at once, the laws of gravity had their revenge and snatched the prize from my grasp. The angels lost interest in their game. The strings snapped. Dorothy shrieked and crashed to earth. She came down with tremendous force, flinging herself against my chest and knocking me to the bed.

  I was stunned. When I dared to open my eyes again I found myself pinioned against the mattress with Dorothy sitting astride me. I was blind. It was hot. I was buried alive.

  ‘What happened?’ she moaned above my confusion. ‘Skipper, what happened? Where are you?’ She was coughing and sobbing and rocking herself back and forth on her heels.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed! You’ve had a strange experience!’ I managed to shout through her petticoats.

  She yelped in fright, yanked open her knees and lifted the hem of her skirt. ‘Oh, my poor child! Are you hurt?’ she cried, as I struggled in vain to lift my head from that dark and delicious bed of pain.

  ‘No!’ I whispered, wincing. ‘Nothing broken.’ My ears were alight, my shoulder was torn and most of my ribs felt cracked.

  Dorothy, splay-mouthed and shivering, quickly rolled from the saddle and crouched for comfort among the pillows. ‘Whatever happened?’ she asked again, feeling her face as she searched for her spectacles.

  ‘I don’t know. You were pray
ing. And then you were floating,’ I said, by way of explanation. Oh, yes, a likely story! I didn’t think she’d believe me. It was simply too fantastic. I didn’t believe it myself. I lay there exhausted and stared at the ceiling. ‘You floated in circles around the room…’

  ‘I don’t remember…’

  ‘You don’t remember anything?’ And now the glimmer of hope. The faint possibility of escape.

  ‘Nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘I was taking your confession…’ She was still very drowsy and confused. She stared at her naked feet and frowned, as if surprised by the sight of her toes.

  ‘It was like a dream!’ I said. ‘You were floating around the room. And the room was filled with a wonderful light! It was a miracle! It must have been a miracle. But when I tried to reach out and touch you…’ I swallowed the words and fell silent, turning my face away, encouraging her imagination.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I don’t know how to explain…’

  ‘Take your time,’ she coaxed. ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘You grabbed me and threw me down,’ I said, at last. And I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: my heart is like wax, it is melted in the midst of my bowels.

  ‘I threw you down on the bed?’

  I nodded.

  ‘I can’t believe it!’ She looked worried. Perhaps she’d been fingered by the Devil. These things happened in Dorothy’s world. ‘Did anything unfortunate take place while I was under the influence?’

  I didn’t answer. I pushed myself up on my elbows and took time to look around the room. Her black leather belt had landed some distance away, curled on the chest of drawers like a snake.

  ‘Tell me, Skipper,’ she said, very urgently. ‘It’s important. Whatever happened. No matter how terrible. I want you to tell me everything.’ She was frightened. She had woken suddenly from her trance to find herself mounting me in a frenzy. It was natural under the circumstance that she’d come to the wrong conclusion. And I was ready and more than willing to help her along that yellow brick road. I make no excuses for the deceit. My life depended upon it.