“I don’t want to talk about it. It’s a long story.”
“Well, take care. If you need anything, call me.”
It was all Jeff wanted to hear. He glanced at the pile of boxes that waited for him in the back of the living room covered in dusty sheets. He cheered up for the first time that week.
“Truth is, my neighbors are out of town and tomorrow I’m assembling the bedroom furniture at the end of the day. I could use some help.”
“I’ll stop by around six, then.”
“Thanks, buddy. You have my eternal gratitude.”
“I’m happy with a pizza,” Marco replied right before another burst of hammer blows.
As soon as he hung up, Marco leaped out of bed. He wasn’t sure about going to Monterey by himself and decided to clear his head in the shower. He took off his T-shirt and started to remove his sweatpants when the TV program drew his attention. It was the end of the news, and the presenter offered leisure tips for the weekend.
Apparently, there were many options in town—maybe even more inviting than a day out in Monterey.
7. The Leather Dream Fair I
Under a sunny sky, the fly flew up and down the empty backstreet. Bzzz, bzzz… Much to its delight, it found a banquet of pizza leftovers in an overflowing trash can. While it gobbled pepperoni and stale cheese, the fly saw a couple of highway patrollers ringing the bell at the Stevensons across the street. They wore black leather uniforms, and their eyes hid behind mirrored shades. For a moment, the fly thought they looked like insects too, only huge. Then it shrugged and resumed its meal.
Marisa answered the door and startled at seeing the two men. One of them, with brown hair and a goatee, kept a discreet distance. The other, blond and taller, stepped forward and pulled his shades slightly to stare at her with blue and incisive eyes. After confirming she was “Ms. Marisa Constant,” he informed she had committed a series of traffic infractions.
Marisa began to smile, all the while creasing her forehead in perplexity. Maybe she didn’t quite understand his English. She opened her mouth, closed it, and finally argued: “But I haven’t got a car…”
The man consulted a notepad, flicking through it back and forth, forth and back. The practical gestures denoted skepticism.
“That’s not what I’ve got here… Unsafe operation of motor vehicle… failure to obey the traffic authority… transportation of two Siamese cats without proper carriers… driving under the influence of alcohol…” He interrupted what he was saying, sterner than ever: “You are the legal age for consuming alcohol, correct?” And as Marisa nodded vigorously, he went on: “You’ve committed several violations. Are you aware of the penalties?”
“Uh… no.”
“Are you sure?” he insisted in a military tone. “You really don’t know what the penalties are?”
Since Marisa shook her head, the agent made a meaningful pause. His face became taut with reproval, and he sentenced: “Ten spanks and twelve months of communal service cleaning, ironing and cooking at my place.”
He maintained a grave demeanor for another moment and cracked up, with the face of an angel and a wickedly seductive grin. Then he extended his gloved hand to Marisa and introduced himself as Brian. His companion, Richard, greeted her next, tucking the shades on top of his head to reveal a pair of green eyes.
Marisa laughed too. She knew the whole history didn’t hold water but gave him credit for being persuasive. Brian exulted: he was an actor. In the corner, Valentina emerged from a red BMW with the hood down and waved. Marisa accompanied Brian and Richard, taking the back seat next to her. She was relieved to see Valentina in black shorts and a T-shirt.
“I’m glad you aren’t dressed up, or I’d have to go back and change,” Marisa said, indicating her own jean miniskirt and pink top that read Bodies are made for love over a big red lipstick mark.
“Relax.” Valentina patted her shoulder. “There are all kinds of people at the fair.”
They soon arrived. And then a strange world unfolded before their eyes in the South of Market, amid rustling booths, music shows and public flogging arenas. Past the barriers of the Leather Dream Fair, Valentina and Marisa heard Horny as a Dandy with The Dandy Warhols and Mousse T. The two felt like they had stepped into a fairy tale from a parallel universe. Its characters included drag queen nuns, Roman soldiers, divas from the thirties, and cowboys in chaps and thongs with their white butts exposed.
Whereas Richard and Brian seemed quite at ease there, the girls nudged each other. Marisa whispered to Valentina that there was a man naked on the corner, his body covered solely with tattoos and a harness (the truth be told, he also wore boots). The friend tried to sound blasé and countered that he wasn’t naked but rather reaffirming his identity (whatever that was). But soon Valentina lost her composure when she saw a guy dressed as a pony carrying a girl on his back: Ma, check that out…
For public flogging activities, the Leather Dream Fair offered three main arenas. The first was under the command of two girls who practiced their sway and flogging to the beat of house music. In the second, presided by a man with a military cap and boots, volunteers subjected themselves to spanking sessions. The third arena belonged to a dominatrix and her pet pole.
The four friends paused at the spanking arena to check out the procedure. A volunteer was just bending over a table to receive a few blows on the butt. Wearing glasses and beige clothes, he looked like a first-grade teacher.
“How odd. I’d never imagine a guy like that offering to be spanked in public. Especially by another man with a military cap and boots,” Marisa commented with Valentina.
“You know what? After witnessing so many eccentricities, nothing shocks me. I mean, how many more naked guys in harnesses do I need to see before I become desensitized?”
After a moment of thought, Marisa was forced to agree. She lost track of how many naked men they had seen since their arrival at the fair. Marisa, however, couldn’t decide if she liked the experience—not all of them were exactly Greek gods. Valentina shrugged and declared that, by now, she found everything quite normal: she even considered volunteering herself.
Marisa then made a point in dragging her away from the arena as fast as she could.
The excursion continued at a stand selling clothes and accessories. Richard and Brian manifested fascination for uniforms and purchased a couple of military caps. The girls, in their turn, focused on a neighboring counter covered in erotic toys. The items that impressed them the most were the following, in this order: 1) large black gas mask featuring a thick cord with a vibrator attached to it, which would haunt them in their nightmares for the next three days; 2) plug for intimate use with the Baby Jesus face on it, perfect for pious fetishists; 3) small, red, heart-shaped paddle, very romantic.
Further ahead, a stand covered in posters with little devils grasping tridents announced: Leather Dream Ball – Tickets for Sale. There, a young man with tattooed arms sold tickets to the fair’s closing party to a couple of tourists. Brian cheered up instantly. Richard, scratching his goatee, remained reticent. He worked at the Stock Market and needed to be up early the next day.
“Ricky, don’t be a party spoiler. Tomorrow you can have an energy drink and be as good as new,” Brian insisted.
“One energy drink won’t cut it. The way I’ve been working lately, I’ll need at least half a dozen.”
“Then have half a dozen.”
Marisa and Valentina looked from one man to the other, praying for Richard to give in. But he shook his head: “It’s easy for you to say that because you sleep until late like a diva.”
“That’s not true, honey. When I have a shoot scheduled, I’m one of the first actors to show up at the set.” With both hands planted on his hips, Brian turned to the girls: “You can’t imagine how tiring a filming session can be.”
“Yeah, as if the Stock Market were a p
icnic,” his partner replied, annoyed.
Brian kept arguing the girls deserved to spend their last night in town in style, until he wore Richard down. In the end, both men insisted in treating Valentina and Marisa to the party. Continuing their explorations, the group wound up in an arena where a blond man was undressing to get tied to the dominatrix’s pole. Brian, always alert, evaluated him with a clinical eye and concluded: with a body like that, they could bet he was a surfer.
When Marisa saw the guy, she couldn’t take her eyes off him and paused a few feet from the pole. The surfer boasted a display of attributes: blue eyes, neck-length straight hair and a dragon tattoo on the chest. With denim overalls down to his ankles, he exhibited a tanned skin that suggested more affinity with the wonders of nature than with those of the whip. He seemed strangely out of place there.
The dominatrix crossed the arena with an assertive stride and stood beside him. A mature and attractive woman, she wore a silver minidress, a huge imperial topaz on her middle finger, and boots with very fine stiletto heels, good for poking a man’s flesh. Her glacial expression was emphasized by platinum hair hanging from a high ponytail. Marisa and Valentina secretly envied her cold authority that, in an irresistible contradiction, conjured the ardor of fire. Ice can also burn.
Without realizing it, the two held their breath as they watched the dominatrix tie the surfer’s wrists to the pole with a neoprene strip. Next, she grasped the whip by the handle and the end, tugging at it with a vigorous crack—that sound alone was enough to stir one’s nerves. The dominatrix released the whip end, ran her black nails on the surfer’s back and, giving him a light tap on the waist, began the session.
The whip hissed like a rattlesnake as it sliced through the air… Slap! The surfer shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, stoically swallowing a moan. Slap! He flinched. Slap! He flinched further, his face red. Slap! He tried to relax to ease the discomfort. Slap! Slap! In rhythmic cadence, six were the blows applied, which the surfer took in silence. The dominatrix smiled and caressed the whip’s fingerprints stamped on his back. Then, without warning, she gave him a harder lash on the buttocks… Slaaap!
“This is for you to remember me,” she said in a satin voice, concluding the session.
The surfer addressed an ambiguous stare at her as she released him, and it was difficult to tell if it signaled relief or if he wanted more. When the surfer finished pulling his clothes back on, the dominatrix kissed him goodbye on the cheek and summoned the next volunteer. As he was leaving the arena, the dazed surfer scooted past Marisa, and they collided violently. He apologized as he patted her arm.
At his touch, Marisa was visited by the proverbial electric current, which caused her an odd tingling from the toes to the last lock of hair. Very light, very brief, it came, spread, dissolved… 0h-ohhhh…
“It was nothing,” she said. And, as a better answer occurred to her, she brought one hand to her arm: “Actually, it’s hurting right here.”
“Here, yeah?”
The surfer brushed his fingertips on her arm—sun, salt and wax on his slightly rough skin. And another electric current. 0h-ohhhh…
“Judging by your accent, you’re not American, right?” she asked, a tad light-headed.
“I’m Australian. Queensland,” he clarified, with music in his voice and pearls in his smile. “Where are you from?”
When Marisa told him she was from São Paulo, Brazil, the aquamarines in the surfer’s eyes glittered: he wanted to go to Brazil for the World Cup. He had a friend from São Paulo, Fabio Lima, maybe she knew the guy? Marisa wrapped a tress around her finger and said no: São Paulo had a population of twelve million. He felt silly and, changing the subject, asked her name. She said it. So he repeated it slowly. Ma-ri-sa. And she asked his. My name is…
And then Marisa’s friends approached, Richard dragged her away and the spell was broken.
“Let’s have something to drink. It’s hot as hell today,” he said.
“Yeah, a drink would be nice,” Brian agreed, averting his eyes from the fat bald guy now being tied up to the pole. “I think we’ve seen enough.”
The surfer hesitated and nodded goodbye. Marisa followed him with her gaze, until he vanished on the street. On the way to the beverage stand, Richard, Brian and Valentina talked about the fair and Russian cinema. Marisa would never know what one thing had to do with the other, for she barely listened. She thought of pearls, musical notes, aquamarines—and a way of meeting the surfer again. As the group strolled away, a song played across the street.
I wake up and think of you
I can’t seem to find you anywhere
Not even in the other hemisphere
You’re my Technicolor dream
Such a cool blast of sta-ars
Fireworks from Ma-ars
You’re my dream in Technicolor
Yeah my dream in Technicolor
“Good afternoon, everyone! Where is the surfer with eyes as blue as the Pacific? Where is he? Marisa is really impressed with him and wants to… ahem… get closer to check if the dragon tattoo has blue eyes too… ah-ah-ah! So where is the surfer? Where is he? Is he going to test that spank arena owned by the macho guy with the cap and military boots? Is he at the beverage stand? Or is he on his way to the airport to catch a plane back to Australia? Will Marisa find the mysterious surfer? And if yes, will she finally learn his name? Will it be perhaps Tom, Dick, Harry…? Ah-ah-ah! How about one more electric current? Oh-oooohhhh… Don’t miss the exciting upcoming chapters!”
That wasn’t exactly what the MC said as he promoted the fair’s attractions.
But it was what she heard.
(music fades in)
Day and night let’s dream on
Oh sweet dream in
Techni-Techni-Technicolor
8. The Leather Dream Fair II
Marco passed by the arena where the dominatrix was tying up a fat guy with shiny bald head, on whose back crawled a tarantula of hairs. That natural upholstery would render the whip job more difficult, thought Marco. He did not stop. Further ahead, he spotted an arena playing loud music, where young men lined up waiting for their turn to be flogged by two girls in shorts and white mini tops. Both were attractive, Latina biotype with long hair, sculpted buttocks and pierced navels. A commotion took place there, for one of the girls shook the flog and asked, puckering her lips: Who’s gonna be the next victim? Who, who? Curious, Marco paused.
All guys raised their arms, except one. And it was precisely the owner of those limp arms that the hostesses chose for volunteer: a nerd in a pastel yellow shirt with glasses featuring a frame as black as his hair, who was simultaneously pulled by the girls and pushed by a couple of friends that sided him. There he stood with his twenty years of age, paralyzed by a smiley and raging shyness, on the verge of initiation on the mysteries of the flog—it was almost as thrilling as the Dungeons and Dragons game in which he got stranded on an island full of demons and… well, but that’s another story.
The girls decided to work together on him. One unbuttoned his shirt and the other removed it. They made the nerd place both hands on the backrest of a silver chair and carried on. Their bracelets twirled like happy hula hoops while the two wrote zeros and eights with pink-thread flogs, zeros and eights that began in midair and ended on the volunteer’s milky back. The girls took turns, swaying their hips as madly as their wrists during the entire song they played for him.
So now it’s all in the clear
I can’t wait another minute
Baby, you know I’m in it
You’re my Technicolor dream
Streaming in colorful places
With oh so many faces
Sweet dream in Technicolor
Techni-Techni-Technicolor
The nerd’s visage (puffy, red, sweaty) now offered an excellent object of study for facial express
ion. Analyzing it, a scientist would write an essay under the title “The epistemology of public flogging in modern times.” Or something like that. Introversion, awe, rapture and all sorts of emotional road forks paraded on the boy’s previously anemic countenance. Behind the glasses, his eyes rolled in sync with the flogs. Rap, rap, rap! Smack, smack! In the end, his mouth gaped wide and delivered the smile of a skinny yogi in the arms of nirvana—both girls flogged him with their own hair and wrapped up the session with a peck on his cheek. The audience applauded, and Marco moistened his lips. All that enthusiasm had made him thirsty.
While cruising along the packed street, he observed people in extravagant clothes. Marco himself dressed as casually as possible, in a jean shirt and pants—discreet, he didn’t trumpet his preferences. Marco couldn’t help but smile. It was the third time he had attended an event like this, and it still surprised him to see the most intimate desires exposed like a variety show. A certain dose of humor sugarcoated the impact of the taboos spreading throughout the fair.
A man enveloped in a cloud of red feathers fluttered by with a sign that announced: Jesus loves you. He walked down the street side by side with Marco and, the moment he and his feathers turned the corner, the sight cleared to reveal a stand where a blonde lay on her stomach on top of a table. The girl, in a cheerleader outfit, was immobilized by a setup of Gordian knots. Marco slowed down to take in her wrists bound to her ankles, the pair of ivory legs, the blue miniskirt and the ponytail with a pink pompom: fetish and innocence united by a respectable length of white rope.
Marco advanced on the counterflow of a shoal of topless mermaids in colorful skirts that swirled around him and swam down the street. Then he saw the electronics stand. And the Electrosex Magic Wand. According to the advertisement on the box, it would take the user to nearly celestial heights. Made of black plastic, it could easily be mistaken for an electric hairbrush. A detailed examination, however, revealed the Magic Wand leaned toward more hedonistic practices, featuring a slot for various glass attachments that had nothing to do with hairstyling. It also included another accessory, a small black plate connected to a cord, which intrigued Marco.
Red: A Love Story Page 23