Smoke and Mirrors

by Tiana Laveen

  For the most part, he agreed with the man. He grew up with a man who was a king in his profession, but he hadn’t truly thought about what his father was doing, the meat of the issue, until he got a little bit older. He recalled his first job in California, and an interesting conversation he’d had with a co-worker that summed up perfectly his base belief in the art of pimping and the world of tricks…

  Flashes of his childhood home drove into his skull like a screw as he sunk his hands and arms into the hot sink water of the Langer’s Deli in downtown L.A. The dishwasher in the kitchen was state of the art, but sixteen-year-old Brent was more hands on, wanting to run his fingers over the dishes, in part so that he’d get better tips from the customers when he worked the floor. That actually was just a small portion of the truth. The full story was, it gave him time alone, time to think, time to make money and most importantly, time to daydream. Nevertheless, his uptight boss with the shiny bald head and scruffy mustache never stopped him once he saw how the glasses sparkled. He figured it was the little things that counted, the small attention to detail.

  The place was bustling, as always. He loved the short summer hours from 8am – 4pm, which put money in his pocket that he earned himself, along with time to go to LAX airport, and sit there and watch the planes take off. It was an odd hobby he surmised, but one he cherished nonetheless. He’d sit in his new black Honda his father had gifted him, the fresh car smell rather intoxicating, and tap the steering wheel, daydreaming as his head bobbed to Incubus’ ‘Drive.’ He’d ask himself, “I wonder where that plane is going?”

  And then, he’d make up a destination, pretend to be steering the thing himself. One little secret he hadn’t told anyone, barely himself—not only did he enjoy the look, feel and smell of the aircraft, he wanted to navigate one, too. He wanted to be the damn pilot, the one in control, the bastard in the front seat with all of those people depending on him to take them away…somewhere they could just forget, leave it all behind. How amazing it was that one could get on an airplane and go some place where absolutely no one knew them, and start fresh. How liberating to know that, at any given moment, if he so chose, life could begin, again and again. He surmised it was kind of like when he’d been baptized in a lake by his now deceased maternal grandfather at the age of seven, by a small church off an unmarked road.

  “Breeeent!” his boss called, forcing him out of his daydream. “We need help out here.”

  “I’m on it.” He smiled as he removed his hands from the soapy water, grabbed a towel, dried off, and made his way out to the awaiting crowd.

  “…Two pastramis on rye, two coleslaws and a coke…got it!” He rang up the order and navigated the bustling crowd, going back to the kitchen and slamming five more orders on the counter. A half hour later, he was on a short break, standing outside with a co-worker, Dale, a portly little fella covered in freckles, mousy brown hair, and a contagious laugh. The squatty young man tilted his head to the side and lit up his cigarette, telling a story of joy riding the previous evening. Brent half listened, nodding and smiling at all the right moments. What captivated his attention most were two women across the way, their bodies prime and their intentions clear. They moved about, eyeballing cars, their short skirts hiked up their asses and their tits practically falling out of their tight tops. He ran his hand along his white smock, stained with mustard.

  “Hos.” Dale shook his head and puffed out another ball of smoke from his tiny, pink lips. “They’re all over the fuckin’ place out here.”

  “Why doesn’t anyone do anything about it then?” Brent questioned, really not caring about the answer. He was simply engaging in conversation, wanting to know what someone living on the outside may have thought and besides, maybe the conversation would be entertaining nevertheless.

  “’Cause they pay the cops off, too. Their pimps do anyway, and some of the cops are fucking them.” He took another inhale of his cigarette and nonchalantly tapped his ashes onto the sidewalk.

  “Hmmmm, sounds interesting.” Brent smirked, thinking it was rather intelligent for one to do. Life was about transactions. Dad paid Mama to be able to have him. He had a monetary settlement and didn’t even know it. The girls in Monroe paid him for his time, hoping for something more though back then he’d been too simple minded to figure the shit out. And now, cops got paid to not bust a whore’s ass and haul her into jail. It made perfect sense.

  “How does that sound interesting?” Dale laughed grimly. “I mean really…their messing up the neighborhood.” A crimson jalopy with white wall tires drove past, then sat in the middle of the street as the driver stretched his long neck, speaking to someone walking by. The bastard was holding up traffic. Breaking Benjamin’s “Sooner or Later” blasted from the man’s speakers, making Brent feel at ease, at peace. The trees were blowing, and the day seemed kissed by all things beautiful. He slipped out of his daydream, and addressed Dale’s question as diplomatically as he could.

  “Well, money is what makes the world go ’round. You have to work to get what you want…they’re just working.” Brent shrugged. “Why make a big deal about it?”

  “It’s illegal, that’s why!”

  “And who made these laws? The same dipshits that buy hookers, that’s who. They pretend they aren’t procuring sex, are faithful to their wives and law abiding citizens. They tell their mistresses to get abortions, then vote down women’s rights bills. They go to church every Sunday morning, snort cocaine in the afternoon, then makes these laws regarding drug trafficking, absolving themselves of all guilt. They want to punish their temptations for being so, well, tempting.” He smirked. “…Fucking ridiculous.”

  “But that’s different. If there is no supply there is no demand!”

  “Not true. If all the water in the entire world were to dry up this very second, would we, the animals, insects and plant life no longer be thirsty?”

  Dale looked at him for a moment, apparently contemplating the notion.

  “Look Dale, why is it okay to sell pastrami sandwiches, but not your own ass? You own it, it’s yours. You should be able to give it away or sell it to whoever you want.”

  “’Cause man, food and water is needed! No one needs to fuck a prostitute!” The guy cackled. “When was the last time you heard of a guy dyin’ because he couldn’t get laid?”

  “Yeah, I suppose you’re right, Dale, but how I see it is…it’s not about needing to fuck a prostitute. It’s about needing to get off, to feel good for a second or two. People use money to pay for feelings, really. People just wanna feel okay, to feel right, feel nice.” He shrugged.

  “Are you high? What are you talking about?” Dale put his beefy hand on his hip, flicked more ashes, then placed the cigarette back up to his mouth.

  “No, I’m not high.” Brent ran a finger thoughtfully under his chin. “I’m just saying. I’ve done some thinking; it seems to be what I do best.” He laughed at himself. “And how I see it is, we buy stuff to make us feel a certain way, you know? You smoke cigarettes. It makes you feel all right. Some people’s cigarette is a prostitute, you could say. Like, once we’ve met our basic needs, we buy stuff because it makes us feel better, the same reason why we take our medicine, you know?”

  Dale’s attention seemed to heighten. The guy remained quiet, listening intently.

  “Take for instance, a song for your phone, like one for a ringtone. You buy it because you like that song, right? You wouldn’t buy a song you didn’t like. But why do you like that song in the first place, ya know? More than likely because of how it makes you feel. It might make you feel like dancing. Or happy, because it reminds you of someone or of a great day in your life. Maybe the first time you heard it somethin’ real important happened to you. Maybe you got it for someone else, but more than likely, you bought it for you, because it does something to you on the inside. Money is like that to some people. Sex is like that, too.”

  Or at least he imagined it to be…

  “Man, your head is
in the clouds, but you know what? I can understand that actually, as kooky as you sound!” Dale grinned wide, exposing tiny teeth.

  “Yeah, I’m a daydreamer. Never said I’m right about this, I could be wrong. Just an idea, I suppose.” They were quiet for a short while. “Well, we better get back inside before we get fired for having a good time.” He laughed, taking a stab at their slave driver boss.

  Dale went in first, holding the door open for him. Brent paused and looked over his shoulder, catching one of the women’s eyes who continued to stroll up and down the sidewalk across the street. She smiled and waved at him, bending at the knee, shaking her big tits in a lewd way. This time, a girl flirted and he didn’t blush. This time, he didn’t smile or look away coyly. This time, he felt nothing at all. He saw her for what she really was, and in that, he was comfortable. He thought to himself, ‘People buy pleasure. They don’t buy pussy, weed or dessert. No, they purchase happiness, and it just so happens, there are people in the world who find their joy between a set of supple thighs. And hell, who am I to question another man’s source of comfort?’

  *

  THE HIGH-MIRRORED CEILING reflected all that the room would showcase in a strangely erotic way. Smoke made her director over design, admitting it wasn’t exactly his forte, but oddly enough, he insisted that one two bedroom apartment be allotted for BDSM fantasies. She didn’t wish to admit this, but she was not as knowledgeable of the whole Dom/Sub relationship as she would have liked. Money was time, and in her history of being a Madam, she rarely received those requests from tricks. Still, she did notice an increase in demand for such curiosities, especially after the whole ‘50 Shades of Gray’ hullaballoo. She’d seen it all now. One of the three apartments was set up just like Vegas, roulette wheel and all. It was outrageously fantastic, and sure to bring in more money in no time flat. They’d stocked the place with expensive liquors for the guests, one-of-a-kind cigars, and their very own burlesque dancer, paid in thirty-minute intervals.

  The second apartment was quite spa like, a serene retreat with tranquil music, earthy art and abundant plant life. The type of place where a john could unwind before he got his rocks off, then go home a happy man. But this room right here? She shook her head in disbelief as she continued to browse around. This was the one room Smoke had all-inclusive control of. She hadn’t seen it until it was complete, and boy was it something. On the wooden plaque, matching the black and red gothic décor, hung an assortment of paddles, some small, others large and wide with spikes. Another had tiny bumps on it, also sure to leave a mark. Close by sat a hard, glossy black table with chrome restraints that sparkled like diamonds. She approached it, and ran her finger down one of the chain attachments and the shackle at its end. As she continued her tour, she opened a cabinet, revealing cleaning items such as paper towels, disinfectant, sanitizer, and freshly folded cloths. She closed it and proceeded, stopping in her tracks at the sight of a series of strange lines drawn on the wall.

  “It’s a foldout bed.” Smoke’s voice echoed as he drew near, sliding his hands leisurely into his slate gray pants pockets. He’d paired it with a black shirt he’d left slightly unbuttoned, revealing his collarbone, chest hair and a thin silver chain. “Would you like to see it?”

  “Now I see where you’ve been all this time.” She looked around in amazement. “And yeah.” She waved at the wall in a lazy sort of way, hiding her curiosity. “I’d like to see what our money went into.” Sauntering past her, he pushed a discreet small button on the wall.

  “What I like about these rooms, Paris, is that, given a twenty minute notice, they can be quickly converted to look like a simple bedroom all over again. Behind that curtain,”—he pointed towards the right as the bed slowly lowered—“is a large closet in which your regular chairs, lamps, and so forth are stored.” The machine-like sound ceased once the bed hit the ground, revealing a Queen-sized paradise. In shades of ebony and blood red, just like the rest of the room, the damn thing looked decadent, sinister and lovely all at one time. She ran her palm against the fabric, feeling the quality of the material.

  “What do you know about this?” she asked, crossing her arms.

  “What do I know about what?”

  “You know, BDSM. Bondage and Discipline, Domination and Submission, and Sadism and Masochism.”

  He smirked at her and shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

  “I know what the acronym means baby, the BDSM would have sufficed. What? Are you trying to prove to me that you’re in the know? I can tell by the way you looked at the place, you’re not. Don’t worry, many madams and pimps have fallen down on the job.”

  “You are a real trip!” She rolled her eyes. “Just answer the question.”

  “Since you asked, yes, I know about the lifestyle. It’s not something I dabble in often, but due to the nature of my business, I felt it essential to stay on the cusp of the sexual desires of potential clients. So, I asserted myself, read up and even took classes. I’m an experienced Dom.” He paused and scratched the side of his nose, then cracked his knuckles. “All of my girls have been trained to be a switch.”

  “Switch?”

  “Yes. It means they can act as a Mistress, that is when the woman is in control, or as a submissive, sometimes called a sub, the meaning of which I am certain is obvious from the title.”

  He was so cool and relaxed about it—yet another layer of the man she’d fallen terribly, madly in love with was being revealed; only this one caused her alarm, in a kinky sort of way.

  “And you said you’re an experienced Dom?” She crossed her ankles as she straightened her back, digesting the new information, feeling it like a child exploring the texture of sand in a sandbox.

  “Yes.” He nodded slowly. “Sometimes called Sir, sometimes referred to as Master. When I’m performing or training a girl, I’m referred to as Sir Smoke.”

  “Why am I just now hearing about this?”

  “Because you never asked…”

  “So I have to ask for everything you keep hidden deep inside of you?”

  “It wasn’t deep inside of me. I had no intentions of asking you to engage in this with me unless you showed interest. It isn’t something I have to do; it is something I enjoy doing from time to time, but it isn’t a requirement for me to get off, as you should well know by now. Let’s really get to the heart of the matter though, shall we?” He winked at her. “I take it you’d like to be a Submissive for a moment or two, see what it feels like?”

  She turned her back on him and slowly walked away, laughing the entire time. Pausing, she placed her hands on her hips then turned back in his direction. “And what would give you that idea, Smoke?”

  “Because women who always want to be in charge, women that are dominating and controlling in their professions, often secretly want to be conquered behind closed doors.”

  “Oh, is that a fact?” She raised her brow, her heart beating a wild tattoo.

  He nodded reassuringly. His arrogance grated worse than nails on a chalkboard, yet she couldn’t deny he’d piqued her curiosity.

  “Look, Smoke, I know exactly what BDSM entails. I simply don’t know all the ins and outs. It doesn’t mean I’m interested in being someone’s sexual slave.”

  “No one knows exactly how BDSM is done, Paris. There is this silly preconceived notion that it’s whips and chains, and all sorts of torture devices, when that is just a tiny segment of it. It means different things to different people. To me however, the overall message is that you are liberated sexually, you can do what you want, consensually of course. I’m very comfortable with who I am sexually, Paris. I know what I bring to the table, and what I can do in bed…and out of it.”

  “Are you now?” She smirked, trying desperately to mask her erotic inquisitiveness.

  “Yes. You can be who you believe you are, or the opposite of what you personify. It is a respectful relationship, it is give and take. It is not about abusing another person; it is about consent to s
tretch one’s sexual boundaries. Pain and pleasure are so close together that, shit, it’s no wonder we derive either sensation at times when it seems neither would fit, or quite belong. To me, it is a beautiful lifestyle, for it allows people to just be…”

  She noticed a speck of dust on her left shoulder and swiped it away with a sleight of hand. “What makes you an expert on this? Are the people drawn to such a lifestyle, vying for power?”

  He looked towards the ground and shook his head as if she were a shameful, ignorant little thing.

  “Some are, but not all. And in case you were wondering, not all of us had bad childhoods, either. Many people that are part of the BDSM community had wonderful loving parents that wouldn’t ever give them a spanking for talking back. Many of these people have professional jobs, successful marriages and great families. I enjoy being dominant in bed, you know that by now. I’ve never done anything to you sexually that caused you pain or anxiety. Even vanilla sex can have sub and Dom elements. We’ve already been doing it… This isn’t born from dysfunction, it’s born from love, desire and a need to express.”

  She walked a bit closer to him, swaying her hips before she stopped in front of him and wrapped her hands around his neck.

  “So, what do you tend to do, as a Dom?”

  “It depends.” His lids hooded as he looked coolly into her eyes.

  “Depends on what?”

  “The mood I’m in, what the woman I’m with wants.”

  “…I think I want you to show me.” She took his earlobe into her mouth and gently sucked the soft flesh.

  “You’re not ready. That right there is proof… A sub would never do something like that without asking.”