Breakfast in Stilettos

by Liz Kingswood

  I arrived home at 4:30. Thirty-five minutes to drive exactly 5.56 miles. Google maps said the trip should take ten minutes. It’s taken me two hours during full-on-rush-hour-with-drawbridge, so I counted myself lucky.

  My neighbor, affectionately known to one and all as “Asshole Bob,” was out sticking flyers on all the parked cars he didn’t recognize. The members of the big church across the street invariably filled up our available street parking during events, even though they had their own parking lot. He was undertaking his own David vs. Goliath attack on the behemoth. I had off-street parking and didn’t much mind. A church was a far better neighbor than, say, a high school. Or a crack house. I wasn’t too worried about the worshippers stealing my home entertainment system. Besides, the church had a well-kempt lawn and was otherwise a good neighbor. No late night parties.

  I waved to Bob before grabbing the mail. He grumbled something about calling down the seven plagues, but I was inside before he could continue.

  Sal was huddled over her laptop at the dining table. The temperature was tropical.

  “Did you win the lottery?” I stood doing my Vanna White impersonation at the thermostat.

  Sal looked up. “I was cold.”

  It was no wonder. She sat, as always, in a skintight tank top and barely-there yoga pants. There wasn’t an ounce of fat on her petite five-foot frame. “That’s what sweaters are for.” I turned it down to 68 degrees.

  Sally “Sal” Olsen and I had met at the University of Washington when she answered my ad for a roommate. I had just inherited the house from my grandmother. The extra rent money made it so I could make ends meet while in school. By the time I graduated, I’d gotten used to her. Besides, the house was big and the extra money relieved a little pressure while I did my time working my way up the editorial ladder.

  “Doing research?”

  She looked up at me, pushing her trendy black-rimmed spectacles up her nose. “A presentation. I have to present a paper at the Foresight Institute conference Saturday night.”

  So much for asking her to come with me. “What’s the topic?”

  “Carbon Nanotube Biosensors and the ….”

  My mind tuned out whatever she said next. Sal was a professional student, working on her doctorate in Molecular Engineering. After three years of living with her, I knew only enough to understand the prefix “nano.” Something very, very small. Nanotubes, nanoclusters, nanomachines, nanorobots. Everything after that was unintelligible.

  When she was sober, she could talk on and on for hours in geek-speak about her research, which I’m sure meant something to someone. I’d just nod and smile and try to keep my eyes from glazing over. However, when plied with a few gin and tonics, she could be a good source of periodic Strange and Unusual topics, like the bit about transferring data across the skin. She’d give me the latest news and I would do my own research to translate it for the rest of us.

  I laid my backpack on the counter and sat down at the table with her, flipping through the day’s mail. “You going out tonight?”

  She nodded. “With Jess. The guy from Stanford. He’s doing the presentation with me. We’ll probably be working on it most of the night. What about you? Not seeing Frank are you?” She looked up at me, peering over the top of her spectacles.

  “Nope. I’m staying home to do research for an article Kenner wants.”

  She seemed as relieved as I was disappointed. “What about?”

  I turned to toss a stack of junk mail and catalogs into the recycling bin. “Ever hear of the Slutterati Salon?”

  Sal thought for a moment and then shook her head. “Sounds like a new club. Maybe I should take Jess there when we’re done.”

  I had a sudden mental image of Sal and Jess tied up together with Mistress Maven cracking her whip. “I don’t get the sense that it is a first date sort of place.”

  Sal frowned. “No? What kind of place is it? Do they have a website?”

  She was typing before I could think of anything to distract her. A moment later her jaw dropped. “It looks like a sex club!” She leaned forward. “Kenner can’t be serious.” She looked scandalized but I could tell she wanted to go check it out for herself.

  Maybe it was better that she wasn’t going. I didn’t need the competition.

  I stood and opened the fridge, searching for my leftover lasagna amidst Sal’s veggie-meat substitutes—including several chalky looking blocks of tofu, tan chunks of faux chicken-flavored wheat gluten and several packages of reddish slabs called Fakin’ Bacon. No wonder she was so thin. I found my lasagna and some frozen peas to nuke.

  “He says it’s a place literary people go to get a little thrill. Supposedly harmless, artistic stuff.”

  “Well, you’d better be careful.” She began reading the home page of the website.

  “As to the research, what do you know about BDSM?” I didn’t have any idea what Sal knew about the subject. I didn’t talk about that sort of thing with anyone, so her surprised look wasn’t, well, a big surprise.

  “BDSM? As in the whole sex/fetish thing? It’s that kind of place?” She stared back at the computer with a little trepidation.

  “Oh, I don’t think so, but someone at work said that I should do background research on it before I went. I got some links to check out, but I was wondering what you knew.” I scooped lasagna and frozen peas into a bowl, put it in the microwave, and punched the Beverage button twice. That was typically enough. Then I pulled out a chair and sat down across from Sal.

  She shrugged. “Not much, I guess. I always think that stuff is creepy. People dressed up in leather, doing all sorts of weird things to each other, right?”

  “Well, that is the stereotype. I just don’t know if it is true. Do you know anyone who has a fetish? Or self proclaims to be part of the BDSM community?”

  Sal thought a minute and then shook her head. “I can’t think of anyone. Though I guess if they were, they wouldn’t tell me. It isn’t something my friends at school talk about.”

  No, I thought, not unless nanobyte took on a new meaning and spelling. “You never dated anyone with a fetish?”

  “Well, what classifies as a fetish? Most guys seem to fixate on certain things more than others—big breasts, long legs—of which I have neither.” She gestured to each feature while making a face. “You at least have some cleavage.”

  I looked down at my well-camouflaged chest. Yes, there were breasts of adequate size under my sweater. Not extreme, but enough.

  I tugged at the hem of my sweater, Jean-Luc Picard-style. “I guess that would count as a fetish, but I think it’s just part and parcel of being male. As in all straight males like vaginas, which doesn’t mean they have vagina fetishes.”

  She waved me away as though I had farted. “Quit using that word. I hate that word.”

  “Is there a better word?” When she waved me off again, I wondered, was there a better word? Mostly there were “dirty” words for that particular area on a woman’s body. And strangely enough, thesaurus.com didn’t even recognize the word vagina, much less offer up any synonyms. Granted there were no words for penis there either. Our sexual organs were academically synonym-free.

  My lasagna dinged. I grabbed a dishtowel and pulled out the hot bowl and blew on the steaming mix.

  Sal was still reading. “What are you going to wear?”

  If clothing was like restaurants, Sal could be a five-star gourmet with an ocean view. I, on the other hand, was usually fast food. Today it was jeans, a white dress tee and a black jacket. I looked down and gestured. “What about this?”

  She shook her head. “No way. It says here to ‘wear something you might not wear anyplace else.’ And you wear that everyplace.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. She was right. This was as good a time as any to try something different. Even daring. “OK. I’ll wear something appropriate. I’m open to suggestions.”

  She jumped out of her chair faster than a cat off a hot stove. “I know just the thi
ng.”

  After making me set down my dinner, she dragged me into her room.

  By the time Sal left for her evening, I had five pieces of clothing on my bed, all of which could have had “nano” as a prefix. Lucky for me, Sal would never know what I had actually worn, and I fully intended to go shopping to pick out something a little more me.

  Chapter 5: The Search for Sex

  After I had reheated and eaten my leftovers, I called the Salon and made reservations for two. I was determined to convince someone to go with me; I wasn’t ready to face fetish all alone. With Sal out, I wondered who else to ask. I promised myself that Frank would be my last ditch option.

  I sat down at my desk to sign up for my anonymous email account before I began my evening’s research. For a screen name, I selected Mistress Em. It was strong, evocative and about as subtle as a Las Vegas marquee. If attention was to be had, I’d have it.

  I tapped on the browser icon, launching a new window. While my home page loaded, I scanned the Yahoo headlines. I subscribed to a variety of general, technical and entertainment news feeds, which meant there was always something interesting to catch my attention. I was a news-junkie and the stuff didn’t have to be quality. The latest celebrity trial-du jour was as interesting as the most recent Mars surface tour. Both equally strange and unusual.

  I sipped a cup of wine and began serious research. The lasagna was reminding me from my gastric depths that I wasn’t Italian and had no right to eat that much starch in one sitting.

  Come to find out, Seattle was a haven for the sexually adventurous. We had the weekly newspaper; The Seattle Alien with its notorious sex columnist Dirk Wild; the yearly Seattle Erotic Art Festival; the woman-centric sex shop, Babeland; and even a non-profit organization called the Seattle Sex-Positive Community Center (aka ‘The Wet Spot’) that operated a “real-life, membership-based community center for the benefit of the Pacific Northwest’s sex-positive culture.” And these were the light and fluffy side of it all.

  There were local venues for Swingers, BDSM/Leather/Fetish, Bathhouses, Spiritual Sexuality Workshops, Polyamory, Gay/Lesbian/Bisexual/Transgender Resources, and last, and certainly least, Clothing-Optional and Speed Dating Events.

  Why weren’t the “Regular Woman Seeks Regular Guy” types this organized? Maybe you had to specialize in order to successfully fraternize.

  I decided to try one of the chat rooms Frank had suggested. As the page loaded, images of many half-naked men and women began popping up. And there was nothing particularly artistic about any of them.

  The site allowed me to indicate that I was a “woman” seeking a “man” and to select between such interests as “1-on-1 sex,” “Group sex (3 or more),” “Erotic Chat/Phone Fantasies,” “Bondage and Discipline,” “Cross-Dressing,” “Exhibition/Voyeurism,” “Miscellaneous Fetish,” as well as the mysterious catch-all of “Other Alternative Activities.” The site boasted 171,616 members in Louisiana alone. Yummy. I started simple, with a search for “Anything” with “Anybody 18 to 99” in “Washington State.” That seemed broad enough.

  The search returned a page of penises.

  Reflexively, I closed the lid of my laptop. I took a long sip of wine before lifting the lid to stare at the array of shapes and sizes. Some were full torso shots, while others were just of Mr. Erection himself. Each photo also contained a few short notes such as “46 year old man looking for women or couples (two women).” Only one photo in the list showed a man with his clothes on. He was sitting next to his dog, with a pleasant smile on his face. But then I looked at his text, which read, “44 year old Man. Looking for Women, Couples (man and woman), Groups or Couples (2 women).” He was, literally, looking for anything with anybody. Was the dog some sort of advertisement?

  What man expects a woman to reply to such a personal ad? But it had to work or there wouldn’t be so many ads. I suddenly felt as though I had stumbled upon proof-positive that aliens live among us. The trouble was, I wasn’t sure exactly who the aliens were—them or me.

  I checked off my own mental list of requirements: he couldn’t be ugly, fat, broke, or drunk. Was that too much to ask? Granted, I’d overlook small doses of a couple of these traits for the right guy. But what was The Right Guy? He didn’t fit any of the AdultPalFinder categories.

  I needed better criteria and decided to make a few notes.

  First, he had to be smart. A big brain, but not Vulcan or Stephen Hawking-sized. He needed to possess that grounded, earthy intelligence coupled with a healthy dose of common sense. No long lectures on ion channels or Mandelbrot sets.

  Funny. Or better stated, witty. Galaxy Quest, not the Three Stooges.

  Good looking in that creative way. Hugh Jackman, not Tom Cruise.

  I typed in a search for “smart, funny, good-looking” and clicked the lucky button to inspect my result. There was a list of single men and, lo and behold, at the bottom of the page was an exact match with a link to “Danny Wilson ... smart, witty, good-looking ... and oh yes ... gay.”

  Oops. I guess I needed to add “heterosexual” to my search string.

  Chapter 6: Mistress Em

  Eventually I found my way into a chat room so I could do my requisite lurking. The “room” was simply a browser window containing a fast-paced scrolling dialog. I scanned the participants listed in a small sidebar noting everyone’s screen names. There appeared to be eight men and two women (including myself), though I had no way of telling who these people really were. Sensitive Guy could really be a lesbian and The Bodice Goddess could be a transsexual with a penchant for romance novels. Look at me: Mistress Em, with a fetish-familiarity rating of exactly zero, posing as a porn pro. If only such obscurity worked on job interviews.

  I began reading the screen that zipped by rapidly as everyone added comments to the conversation. It took me only a few lines to realize that I had walked in on a room of people partaking in cybersex. The men were telling the woman what they were doing, while she disciplined them in ALL-CAPPED profanity. After a few more lines, I was able to pick out the characters and who was getting which response.

  SensitiveGuy had a let-me-lick-your-shoe fetish. “Goddess, I’m running my tongue over your divine black boots.” He was clearly an articulate gent with good typing skills.

  She responded with a speedy, “LICK ME SLUT.”

  FuzzyWes was apparently a furvert, who insisted on describing—in iffy prose rife with typos—the domina in a stuffed plushy cat outfit. I had to admit that the fur-thing would have stumped me, but the good goddess fired back with a quick, “COME DOGGIE. BEG.” That set the Fuzz into a frenzy of animalistic superlatives.

  Gr8NewSlave simply typed “SPANK ME” over and over again, to which the goddess deftly responded in kind. I tried to imagine how the guy jerked off while typing something that required both hands. Maybe he just pressed Control+V to paste it repeatedly.

  I was getting the sense that being an online mistress required no real dominant skills; just curiosity, good reading comprehension, tolerance of bad grammar and the ability to type in short rapid bursts. “Spank. Spank … Spank.”

  I got my first instant message from someone named Neal4U. “Mistress, how may I serve you?” I was stunned for a moment to be “instant messaged.” Thank God, or Goddess I quickly corrected, that I wasn’t face to face with this person. It was a little unnerving to have someone throw themselves at your feet, if only typographically.

  A true dominant might like this and think it appropriate or even mandatory, a proper show of submission. I had to learn to think in terms like “mandatory” and “submission.” Harsh words with no room for argument.

  I decided that the best response was just to ignore him. For now. A good servant knows to wait, right?

  I continued to watch the online conversation, wondering how this sort of thing ended. Did they all type AHH-AHHH-AGGHGG or something when they reached an orgasm? Or maybe light up an e-cigarette?

  Another instant message appeared. Someone n
amed LongJohn69. [ick] I couldn’t help mentally adding editorial brackets. “Mistress 3m [sic]. I beg if [sic] you. Plese [sic] command me.”

  Typos and a bad moniker. In a world of Jake Gyllenhaals and Scarlett Johanssons, most people judged on looks. I judged on articulation, grammar and creative flair.

  Literature major that I was, I had to respond. “How DARE you misspell my name! On your knees and type Mistress Em a thousand times.” I thought about adding something sexual, but that would just make him happy. I double-checked for typos and hit SEND.

  The flash of anger reminded me of a time when I used to have opinions. Strong ones. Give me a topic and I would argue for hours, hands gesturing, passions ignited. Friends in college told me to go into law. Prosecution.

  But one day I woke up in the middle of an argument that had no purpose, bellows pumping a useless fire. I stopped. Stopped arguing. Stopped defending myself. Stopped setting a boundary between where I started and everyone else ceased. My world had become one big Gaussian blur. And I didn’t like it.

  I even tried professional therapists, but eventually each told me that she should be seeing me instead of the other way around. Not helpful.

  Online dominance had the allure of personal therapy. After all, here it was my job to set the boundaries and cross them at will. That was what these people wanted. And what I needed.

  Neal4U made another attempt to get my attention. “Mistress, I am here to please.”

  I stared at the screen as an undercurrent of anticipation tickled my senses. Why not? It was research after all. I was up for a little hands-on.

  I turned off the desk lamp. Some things are better done in the dark. The screen before me glowed brightly, the stark nakedness of black on white phosphors; the total absence of color against the combined power of all colors at once. Black and white. Dominance and submission. No dithering allowed.

  The words came more easily than I expected and Neal responded with grammatical vigor. For a moment, the blurry state of my boundaries sharpened and I wondered whether I had the persona to be a real dominatrix. But then I thought about the part of dressing up in neck-to-thigh latex, and the clarity faded as a smirk crept across my face.