Breakfast in Stilettos

by Liz Kingswood

  This revelation sobered me a little. “So maybe Frank was trying to deal with his, um, sexual preference outside of his relationship?”

  Pixie smiled. “Exactly. That’s the thing most ‘regular’ folks don’t understand. Some of us need our kink but want love as well. And those needs don’t always come or have to come from the same place.”

  I thought that over as the waiter brought out our lunch. Pixie had ordered a spiced pecan salad and I had the barbecue pork sandwich—which looked disgusting in that yummy sort of way—garnished with a bright citrus poblano coleslaw. I knew I’d never make it through the entire sandwich, but I love the taste of barbecue. We both dug in, using the excuse of munching to silently digest each other’s words.

  After a few minutes, Pixie stabbed a slice of apple and pointed it at me. “So you don’t have a kink of any sort? No secret longing that has never made itself manifest?”

  My initial inclination was simply to say, ‘No.’ But I let the thought sit there for a minute, in case some repressed something in the back row of my psyche decided to raise a belated hand. Did I have any secret longings? Even a small one? I remembered the part in Frank’s story where Mistress Maven talked about tying up her dolls. Yes, I had done that as well and, yes, there was something sexual about it. Hmmm. Now that was an uncomfortable thought. I squirmed a little in my seat, taking a messy bite out of my sandwich. Was that evidence of a long repressed fetish?

  I shrugged and decided to give it a spin. “Well, I did have this doll as a kid—a Jane West doll. I never played with Barbies or anything. I liked the Jane West doll because she came with a horse. Anyway, I used to tie her up and imagine all sorts of weird things happening. It was kind of sexual.”

  Pixie leaned in. “Yes?”

  I felt completely ashamed. “Well, yes, it turned me on a bit to tie her up.” Quickly I added, “But that was long ago in a galaxy far, far away.”

  Pixie grinned as she took another bite of her salad. “Aha! You know they speculate that fetishes come from early sexual experimentation. And typically people don’t even remember, or just suppress it. Sounds like we may have hit on something to explore.” She leaned forward slightly as if closer proximity would allow her to see into my head. “So tell me this, what would happen if you could tie someone up now? You know, without any fear of people making fun of you. In fact, assume that the person you would tie up would actually want you to.”

  Oh Jesus. No. No. No. This was not happening. I did not have a fetish and no one was going to lead me to that horse trough. I would not drink. I shook my head. “That is not a picture I want to entertain. I see where you are going, but really, I don’t want to tie anyone up. Honest!”

  She smiled, looking at me with that “I know something you don’t” look, but just shrugged. “OK, if you insist.” She took another bite of salad and added, “But if you ever want to talk about it, let me know.”

  I definitely wanted to change the subject and quickly pushed onward. “So tell me more about the sub/Dom experience. What exactly happens? How do you even begin?”

  Pixie laughed without even the faintest hint of embarrassment. “It was a little bit like finding the right employee/employer relationship. I searched for the requisite skills, did interviews, and then we worked up an agreement! When I first met my Dominant, Master Rhys, we negotiated through a very complex agreement. That was really important.”

  Her insistence on an agreement seemed to be at odds with the stereotype that Dominants do all the determining. From the outside, it looks like abuse. I told her so.

  She nodded. “That’s where so many people misunderstand the Dom/sub relationship. It is a consensual power exchange. The Dominant is really giving the submissive the direction and control she wants, while the submissive gives obedience and consent to the Dom. It requires a high degree of trust. More so than in a normal relationship. It can also be very loving and giving.”

  My mind was flashing on all the pictures of pain. I had a hard time reconciling love with those pictures. “So I’ve heard about the scene.” I told her what Dr. Steiner had said. “For you … What is it like?”

  She took another bite of salad and chewed thoughtfully. “You know that job interview process I talked about. Well, Master Rhys had me fill out a long questionnaire, about fifteen pages worth, asking all sorts of questions about what sorts of punishment and rewards I like. If I want to be branded or collared, what my fantasies are, how much pain I can endure, and what not. There was also a bunch of safety and health questions.”

  I suddenly wanted to come up with my own set of questions for Frank. How much easier that would be than having to have a conversation!

  She continued. “He fills out the same questionnaire, more or less, including what he wants to have control over—what I eat, whom I see, sleeping hours, clothing—that sort of thing. And then we negotiate to see how closely our needs and desires match.”

  “That sounds pretty cool. I mean to be able to list all your sexual desires on a sheet and pass them back and forth. Is it really so detailed that you would, well, know pretty much everything? I assume it discussed all the typical fetishes and what not.”

  She laughed. “Yes, very detailed. From what kinds of gels you want to use to whether you want vaginal fisting.” She rolled her eyes. “Pretty much everything.”

  I felt a little nauseated. Vaginal fisting. I wondered what Scarlett O’Hara would have thought of vaginal fisting. Though Rhett Butler seemed like just the guy to deliver. Or what of Jane Austen’s Emma? Mr. Knightly certainly wouldn’t have obliged, but Frank Churchill? Now there was a man ready for anything.

  I shook all these random thoughts from my mind, concentrating instead on the Dom/sub list. I suspected I couldn’t even dream up what other people routinely checked off on that list. Keeping my voice low, I said, “I bet my list of wants wouldn’t even rate for inclusion on this list.”

  “You never know.” She suddenly sat up. “I know. I’ll send you a copy.” She seemed excited and pulled out a notepad and scribbled something. “I’ll email it. Then maybe you and Frank can use it, you know, to have your conversation.” She used those little quote fingers.

  That was actually a good idea. “I like it!”

  We sat in amiable silence for a moment longer while we ate a bit more. I noticed that the two elderly women at the table next to us were leaving. I nodded an acknowledgement when they turned. Mirabelle leaned in to me. “We found some possible excitement in that little paper of yours. Thank you so very much for your kind suggestions.” When she stood up, she winked and escorted her sister out the door.

  I blushed, realizing that I had unwittingly provided them with an earful of that “action” they were seeking.

  Pixie watched them leave with a look of curiosity, but I waved it off. “You don’t want to know.” I pushed the last of my meal away. I had exceeded my pork allotment for the day. I took a long drink of water and then sat back in my chair. At least my stomach was physically sated. I wasn’t happy about the new hunger that seemed to be awakening. “So back to the scene between you and Master Rhys.”

  She nodded. “Well, once you both know what you like, planning a scene is fairly straightforward. He knows I like to be tied up in a particular way, spanked with a specific flat leather paddle, left immobile for short lengths of time and deprived of sensation in order to build desire. I hate gags, but am OK with a hood. No duct tape anywhere.” She made an emphatic motion.

  “He likes a very assertive submissive, one that resists physically and verbally. That part doesn’t do much for me, but it really turns him on, so I’m happy to oblige.”

  She shrugged. “It’s all negotiated ahead of time. We both win. And, if the situation goes south, one or the other of us can call out a safe word to stop things or at least lighten them up. We set up a variety of cues to make sure we keep in touch with how we are faring during the scene—too much, too little—that kind of thing.”

  “It all sounds so straig
htforward and easy.” Well, it did. Nobody ever understood what I wanted and I was hard pressed to figure out anybody else’s needs. In bed anyway. Could it really be that easy?

  Pixie laughed and reached out to grip my arm. “Oh Emily, it is never easy. Not really. It takes lots of work and negotiation, trial and error. But the bottom line (pardon the pun) is that I get what I want. And that is absolutely worth the effort.”

  How could I argue with that? The BDSM world seemed so organized, with publications, online and in-person communities, social clubs properly stratified by roles and responsibilities, a set of predefined etiquette rules, and even a scene negotiation checklist.

  Well, I had a hankering to get what I wanted as well, but I didn’t even know what to ask for. Frank had given me the obvious stuff—flowers, wine, chocolate, and picnics in the park. The sex was good. At least for me. But I wanted more, and clearly so did he.

  Perhaps this checklist would clue me in as to what was on the menu, for us both.

  Chapter 17: The Visitations

  As I drove back to the house, I pondered on everything that Pixie had said during our lunch. One thing was clear: Pixie loved sex. She was happy to talk about it and photograph it. She was also more than happy to have it—whether it was with one, two, three or ten people—male or female, regardless of creed, color or religious persuasion. Sex was Pixie’s hobby, pastime and leisure pursuit. I’d never met anything so comfortable with s-e-x.

  Needless to say, I was mesmerized by her insights.

  And the sharp contrast to my own.

  I liked sex, but it wasn’t something I tended to admit. Not even to my partner du jour. There was no yelling, “Hey baby, give it to me. I want it!” at the top of my lungs. In fact, you’ll get little more than heavy breathing and a satisfied moan from me—if all goes well. The way sex stars go at it, you’d think that everyone enjoys giving and receiving all the nasty talk. Does it make sex better? Or does it just provide extra spice over the wanka-wanka sound track?

  In fact, there was little at, above or below the equatorial zone of my body that inspired me to wax rhapsodic. I don’t gush about food or drink, hound on about the latest great movie, nor hail the glories of my latest pedicure. How can you authentically go on about bodily, glandular things? Maybe I was stunted as a child. My body appeared to have no voice beyond a quiet “please,” “thank you,” or “have a nice day.”

  No one was home when I got there, though the subtropical temperature pointed to my global warming advocate roommate. I lowered the temp and dumped my day’s shopping haul onto the bed—leather jacket, leather skirt and scarlet stilettos. They lay there eerily in place, calling to mind an exhausted prostitute after a cheap trick. The leather jacket smelled of old saddle and musk. The skirt’s previous owner had a penchant for patchouli. I decided to hang them outside to let them air, as though they were squabbling two-year-olds in need of a time out.

  I picked up the shoes. It wasn’t really accurate to call them shoes. Shoes were defined as an outer covering for the foot. However, these were more about uncovering. While the sole might be sheltered, the s-o-u-l was exposed.

  I wasn’t sure I was ready to wear them. Granted, if I didn’t wear them tonight, when else? Halloween? My coffin?

  I set them back on the bed, grabbed the leather items and put them on hangers. Then I escorted them outside, hoping that they wouldn’t attract Asshole Bob’s attention and inspire one of his nasty-grams informing me that I had broken some heretofore unproclaimed rule of neighborly conduct.

  I was just about ready to run myself a relaxing bath when I heard a knock at the door. I imagined some door-to-door salesman and was tempted to ignore it, but then someone familiar called out “Hey Em. It’s me.”

  I peeked out of the room. Sal was carrying an armload of Whole Food bags. “I went grocery shopping.”

  Calling them “groceries” was disingenuous. Health food sold under the guise of fake unhealthy foods—as in veggie sausage links—seemed misleading at best. I think it’s cheating when self-proclaimed vegetarians buy things that are chicken- or beef-flavored, or molded in un-vegetable shapes.

  Sal, still harried from her accident the previous evening, was moving too slow. “You look like you hurt.”

  She shuddered. “I’m still so pissed at that … that … ugh, I can’t even say it. I’m sore. But breathing. Lucky for her.” She made it to the kitchen and plopped the grocery bags on the counter next to Frank’s roses. She took a whiff of them and snorted. “How can something so evil smell so good?”

  I wasn’t even going to respond to that. And lucky for me, the doorbell rang. The door opened immediately, and the singsong voice of my mother called out, “It’s just me.”

  “Hi, Mom.” I waved her into the kitchen as she shed her coat and then gave a start when I realized that Frank’s roses were still sitting on the kitchen table. I moved them quickly to a back counter, which you couldn’t see well from the table, and turned just as Mom joined us.

  She gave me a quick cheek kiss and then swept her concerned gaze over Sal. “Are you OK? Emily told me about the accident. I dropped by to check on you.”

  Sal held her arms out as though for examination. “That was nice of you, but I’m fine. A little sore, and I have a couple of pretty good bruises, but nothing is broken. Thankfully.” She turned on the burner under her teapot. “Would you like some tea?” She rummaged around in the cupboard and brought out two boxes of herbal tea bags.

  Even after all this time, Sal still didn’t get that my mom was a tea snob and would never drink tea from any sort teabag. I leapt up. “Mom, I can make you some. I have some of that Keemun you like and a little Pu-erh that you brought over for me to try.” I liked the former but the latter tasted and smelled too much like mulched leaves and dirt. And I was a firm believer that anything beginning with the sound “poo” should not pass one’s lips.

  Mom shook her head. “Thanks, but I just had a couple of cups. I’m quite fine.” She sat down at the table. “I want to hear more about the accident. Emily gave me the essentials over breakfast, but I was so worried.”

  I tuned out as Sal recapped the details, still as full of rage at the driver who hit her as she had been last night. I couldn’t stay raging angry for even a minute, much less overnight and then some. Mom shared Sal’s passion, so the two of them kept it up for a while, with Mom raging about the woman as well by the time they were finished.

  On the other hand, I had an overwhelming impulse to alleviate the situation, to explain how the woman clearly hadn’t intended to hit her, that it wasn’t personal. But I knew better than to open my mouth in their midst.

  Instead I cast made surreptitious glances at the roses, thinking of Frank and wondering what the evening’s activities would bring. I jumped a little when the doorbell rang again.

  Sal and Mom both looked at me as if to say, “Who could that be?”

  I shrugged and walked over to peek through the peephole. It was Kenner. I opened the door, a little stunned. He had been here before, but only once. “Hey boss, come on in.”

  He scuffed his boots on the mat and stepped inside. Sal and Mom were standing at the kitchen door.

  Sal waved, “Hey Mr. Kenner,” and then stepped back into the kitchen. Mom stood and watched.

  Kenner had met my mom a few times when she had come to the office to take me to lunch. He stretched out a hand. “Good afternoon, Catherine.”

  Mom shook his hand, “Hello, Lawrence. Are you here about Sal’s accident as well?” She helped him shed his coat and laid it on the couch next to hers.

  Kenner looked into the kitchen after Sal. “She was in an accident? I hadn’t heard. Actually, I came by for work.” Kenner pulled a thin, white invitation-style envelope from his coat. “This came in after you left on Friday, and it is marked Re: The Salon on the front, so I figured you might need it for your story. I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d drop by.” He handed it to me.

  “Oh, thanks.” I ga
ve it a quick scan. There was no return address, and given the company I had been keeping recently, it didn’t seem wise to open it on the spot. I had no idea what might be inside, or worse yet, what body parts might be exposed. “It’s nothing important, but thanks for bringing it by anyway.” I set it down carelessly, as though it contained a loaf of white bread instead of the decadent morsel I was sure was inside. When I returned my attention back to the group, I noticed the look of disappointment on everyone’s face.

  It lasted for only a moment before Kenner asked for the whole story of the accident.

  Again the recital of Sal’s ordeal, told by Mom with slightly different emphasis, but with the same rage against the other driver. Mom led Kenner into the kitchen as she spoke and soon we were all sitting around the kitchen table.

  When Mom queried Sal about school, the onslaught of nano-conversation made me tune out again. My nerves were definitely on edge, so I started to clean up the kitchen. I set the secret unknown envelope discreetly next to the roses—my growing pile of contraband—and went about doing Sal’s breakfast dishes.

  I had set to drying the doorbell rang again. This was ridiculous. “I’ll get it.” There was barely a pause in the conversation about Sal’s latest scholastic sagas to acknowledge me.

  I made my way to the door, wiping my hands on the “clean” dishtowel. We had two at all times, the clean one for things that had had been washed and the “dirty” one for things that hadn’t, such as spots on the floor. It occurred to me that boyfriends could come in similar designations—clean for presenting to family and dirty for everything else.

  As I crossed the room, I speculated who could be there. We never had this much company, even Saturdays. I figured it had to be Asshole Bob come to complain about my Vader-wear, but a quick peek made my whole body freeze.

  It was Frank. Talk about the “dirty” boyfriend. He was smiling at the peephole as he knew I was on the other end. I always answered the door. “Shit.” My first instinct was to run. Well, that was really my second. My first was to jump outside and kiss him. He looked delicious. But this was quickly overshadowed by the impending threat of execution, should any of my three guests catch sight of him.