Twenty or so men and women huddled with me in the dark alley. The line-up could have passed as a casting call for the Matrix: leather, latex and plenty of exposed flesh. That said something about the dedication of the assemblage, considering the temperature.
The air had a brisk edge as January nights in Seattle often do. Though not yet freezing, the wind carried the threat of frost visible in the huffed breath and erect nipples of those around me.
The woman behind me was clad in a short latex dress. She looked like a toothpaste tube squeezed at the center. Her breasts burped out the top and two long legs squirted into a pair of six-inch ankle-chain sandals.
Her beefy partner was clearly the fist that had done the squeezing, his hands still mid-grip. He sported a long leather duster and a faux-hawk hairdo. His Doc Martens were perfectly unscuffed, as though freshly plucked from the box.
Though he seemed warm enough, she had to be freezing. The tiny bit of leather masquerading as her jacket did little to cover or warm her. Between recurrent giggles of excitement came the staccato chattering of her teeth.
I was tempted to offer my compliments on their having heeded the website’s admonition to “wear something you wouldn’t wear elsewhere,” but I worried about the effect that grip would have on my throat.
The Slutterati Salon was located in an artist’s studio under the huge I-5 overpass just north of downtown. The cars speeding past overhead roared like a waterfall after a downpour. Exhaust fumes tinged air that was mostly laden with the smell of latex, cigarette smoke and a profusion of competing perfumes. Lawn torches guttered in the gusting wind, flaming bright orange with thin trails of black smoke. This was the very definition of Urban.
We were queued up to a dingy red door that would, according to the emailed instructions, open promptly at nine and be locked again at nine-thirty. No late admittance.
“Not even the best submissive whining deters the bouncers.” Or so said Frank. Apparently, my other chilled compatriots had heard the same warning.
A quick assessment of the gathering showed that I was plainly over- rather than underdressed. My outfit, instead of looking safely practical, made me stand out like an Eskimo at a nudist colony. Clearly other people had received a warning to wear nothing that was either warm or could pass maternal inspection.
Frank hadn’t arrived yet, so I had to stand alone in line. I was tempted to wait in the warmth of the car, but figured I should mingle with the local wildlife if I wanted to get the best feel for the place.
The man just ahead gave me a quick glance. He was kind of cute in that Tim Robbins sort of way. Tall and tastefully dressed, which, in this crowd, was saying something. He wore the requisite leather jacket, but the rest of his ensemble was simple: black dress tee, black jeans and a classy pair of black Italian slip-ons. Shoes like that usually meant money or a shoe fetish. Or both.
I was nervous that someone I knew might recognize me. The Slutterati Salon’s website had promised “evocative theater for singles and couples of all persuasions.” I wondered what the Italian shoe man’s persuasion might be. I tried to relax and smiled.
He smiled back. “Hi.”
“Hi, yourself.”
He held out his hand. “My name’s Joe. Joe Stratton.”
“Mine’s Emily Royce.” I shook his hand. It was soft and uncallused. Definitely not a construction worker. His grip was solid, business-like.
Releasing my hand, he leaned in a bit. “I find a more professional tack usually puts people at ease at these things.”
I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but his words seemed to indicate he was a regular. “Have you been here before?”
He shook his head. “Nope. I’m a Salon virgin.”
I figured he was making a joke and laughed in that polite, sociable way. There didn’t seem much virgin-like about him. “Me, too. If that is the right word for it.”
I had the urge to explain that I was here as a journalist instead of a slutterati novitiate, but knew I shouldn’t be telling people about the story. Not if I wanted them to act natural. Like I was an urban Jane Goodall.
His smile was broad and beautiful, displaying big white teeth. “True enough.” His blue eyes sparkled.
The sound of giggling from Fist and Squeeze behind me caught Joe’s attention. He leaned away from the wall. “They look like a happy couple.”
I glanced back. “If only we were all so lucky.” I wasn’t being sarcastic. They did look happy, and in that they had one up on me.
He shrugged, though I detected a little sadness in his face. As if skirting too close to pain, he reapplied his smile. “So, Married? Engaged? Single?”
“That would be single. What about you?” “Married? Engaged? Single?”
“Actually, none of the above. Divorced. Unfortunately. Been final for a little over a year.”
I couldn’t tell if he was unhappy about the marriage or the divorce. I asked him.
He scratched absently at the gray-threaded stubble on his chin. “Hmm. That’s a hard question. Probably a little of both.”
“Is that why you’re here? To find someone?” I flinched as soon as I said it. “Well, that was sort of rude, wasn’t it?”
He laughed. “No, not rude. Maybe a little nosey. But I don’t mind.”
I got the sense he did mind. But that made me even more curious. “So why are you here?”
Joe was saved from having to answer by Frank’s arrival. He was dressed pretty much like Joe, all black, only with motorcycle boots, although I suspected he hadn’t come on his bike tonight. He looked ruggedly masculine and I felt light-headed to be standing between two such hunky men.
Frank sidled up next to me, smelling of musky soap. As he gave me a short kiss on the cheek, he sized up Joe. Smiling his best smile, he held out a hand. “Frank.”
Joe gave me a quick glance before shaking Frank’s hand. “Joe. Pleased to meet you.”
It was clear that both guys wanted me to explain who the other was, and it was awkward. What would I say? Joe, this is Frank, my ex boyfriend, who might be my boyfriend again. Maybe. And Frank, this is Joe, who I just met, but I think he’s pretty darn cute and, well, I am still single at the moment.
But I didn’t have to say anything, because a young woman announced, “Hello everyone. Time to come inside.” A young woman dressed in a black corset and carrying a riding crop had appeared at the door, beckoning us inside. I eyed the whip with trepidation. A threat, a promise of things to come? Or part of the price of admission?
Joe smiled at me and leaned in as the line began to move. “Well, for the answer to your question and any other mysteries, we’ll have to wait for later. That is, if you still find yourself curious after all the other distractions inside.” He raised his eyebrows conspiratorially a couple of times, which, on any other day would have elicited rolled eyes on my part. But tonight, I thought it was kind of cute.
Frank seemed not to notice. His gaze was on the door and the people ahead of us. I was focused on what lay ahead as well. My stomach did a few Mary Lou Rettons as we approached the threshold. This was my first foray into the world of the slutterati. That was, after all, why I was here—to meet and report. But the crowd looked to skew more to slut rather than literature, at least if Fist and Squeeze were any indication.
As I neared the red door, I wavered. What was I getting myself in for? Did I really want to stand around and watch these people pretend to appreciate the so-called art and then run off with Frank behind the designated curtain for a quasi-public sex fest? And worse, what would I learn about my ex-lover? Was I ready for that?
Frank grabbed my arm, perhaps all too aware of what I was thinking. “You aren’t chickening out, are you?”
I gave him my best mock-glare.
He just laughed, and then pulled me close so he could whisper. “Hey, is that guy you’ve been talking to single? See if he’s willing to go in with us as a threesome.”
I turned to pass on the message. My first-time offer
of a three-way. “Frank says we can all get in cheaper if we go together, as a group.” Though I wondered whether “cheaper” was the image I really wanted to project right now.
But Joe didn’t appear to mind. “Sure!” I held out my arm for him to take. As I walked up the last few steps to the red door, a gorgeous man on either arm and a big smirk on my face, I wondered if this was how Mary Magdalene got her start.
Chapter 21: The Threshold
My initial sensory impression of the Slutterati Salon was the blast of toasty heat that hit us as we walked inside. Sal-worthy tropical. It was an abrupt but welcome change from the alley. The heat was reason enough to stay, at least for a while. The foyer was darkly lit but roomy enough for about half the crowd. Joe, Frank and I stood in line at a folding table, where a silver-haired man in a black tuxedo sat taking money. Beyond him, near a makeshift closet, an attractive Asian woman dressed in a flesh-colored body suit was checking coats.
The atmosphere was redolent of oils, solvents and varnish—artist studio odors, as though the nude paintings on the dark walls had been freshly painted. I stared at the one next to me. Older men and women stood together, naked and decidedly unsexy, painted in luscious reds and golds, just as the Renaissance artists had painted baby Jesus and Madonna.
I had to let go of Frank, who was eager to move ahead of us in line. I held on firmly to Joe’s arm, half to thaw out the remaining chill and half to keep my nerves in check.
“God it’s cold outside,” He said, giving one final shivering breath before releasing the tension in his muscles. “It feels great in here.”
“Agreed.” I shoved my free hand under the opposite armpit to defrost my fingers, exposing a canyon of cleavage.
Joe snuck a peek before looking away. “It’ll probably be too hot inside.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Naked people don’t like the cold.”
“What?” The sound was startled out of me.
“The heat. They keep the temperature up in places like this because it encourages a bit of exhibitionism. Who wants to be naked if it’s freezing?”
“Naked.” I steeled myself. “Nudity isn’t some unspoken requirement, is it?” I looked around, worried that my fellow audience members would already be strutting about in the buff. I didn’t want to encounter them any more than I wished to stumble across a bear in the wild.
Joe looked amused. “Well, there’s no guarantee. I’ve heard that spontaneous stripping is always a possibility.”
I nudged Frank in the back. “You said nobody would be naked.” My fight or flight instinct kicked in, and I was leaning toward the former at the moment.
Frank was nearly at the payment table. He shrugged. “Last time I was here no one was forced to get naked, at least none of the guests. The staff on the other hand, well, they probably will be.” He gave me an encouraging smile before leaning past to talk to Joe. “A threesome is eighty bucks. What is that apiece?”
“Do I look like an accountant?” Joe sounded annoyed, but I could tell he was just teasing. He pulled out his wallet. “How about I give you thirty and we call it even.” Joe handed the money to Frank, who took it without arguing, trying to give him change or promising to buy him a drink later. Frank didn’t understand the subtleties of transactional relationships. He seemed to think everything offered was free for the taking. It was one of the things that irritated me about Frank and led others to call him Mr. Cheap behind his back.
I handed him twenty-five. “I’ll owe you the other dollar sixty-six.” I was half tempted not to pay him back. But that paltry sum wouldn’t begin to recoup the money I’d lost during our relationship. What remained inexplicable to me was how I could be so irritated by some of his behavior, yet so willing to re-up our relationship?
Mr. Cheap proceeded to pay and I watched as the tuxedoed man stamped my hand with a little red heart. I held it up for Joe to see. “I’ve been marked. I guess I have to go in now.”
“That’s the spirit.”
Joe was gazing at me with a contented smile, while I noticed that Frank was scanning the room. And as if purposefully trying to irritate me further, Frank waved at someone I couldn’t see and leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He looked at Joe. “Take care of her till I get back. OK?” Then he disappeared into the next room.
I wanted to do the big “L” on my forehead gesture at him.
Joe helped me out of my coat and handed it to the coat check. “So who is Frank?”
“Never seen him in my life. Except for those two years we dated on and off.”
“Ah.” Joe nodded. “So is this an ‘on’ or ‘off’ period?”
I gazed in the direction Frank had gone. “Good question.”
Joe seemed satisfied with that answer. He took my arm and, with a flourish, gestured toward the red velvet curtained inner door and into the studio proper. A refrain of “We’re off to see the Wizard” played in my head. I was on a Disneyland ride, with that feeling of anticipation you have when you finally leave the long queue and settle into your car as it creaks to a start. My fingers gripped Joe’s sleeve instead of the railing. But in every other way, the ride was about to begin.
Chapter 22: Inside the Salon
Things were already underway as we moved into the large studio space. An assorted cast of characters greeted everyone personally. The Rubenesque woman who greeted us wore a long black dress cinched tightly to enhance her more than ample assets. She gestured solemnly toward whatever mysteriousness lay beyond. “Welcome.” She leaned forward to press her cleavage against Joe’s chest, creating the effect of a pair of tightly clasped water balloons threatening to burst. I moved past her quickly, lest I receive similar treatment.
The next plot complication was a fiftyish black man with long gray-black dreads, no shirt and remarkable pecs. He flashed a set of brilliant white teeth at me and slipped a muscular arm around my waist. Pulling me close, he displayed a leather cat o’nine tails whip. “Would you care to give or receive?”
A nervous laugh bolted out of me before I could stop it. I couldn’t imagine either. “Uh, no thanks?”
Joe laughed, clearly enjoying my discomfort, but not in an evil way. The buxom woman had released him and was bestowing her treasures upon another.
I nudged him. “Well, what about you?” The dreads guy displayed the whip to him as well.
Joe’s smile widened. “Actually I prefer to receive, but only from a woman.” He nodded to the dreads guy, who showed me the whip again.
I waved him off. “I think that’s still a ‘no’ for me. At least for now.” I tugged Joe past the dreads guy so he could offer his wares to one of other arrivals. “Maybe I’ll discover something new about myself later. But for now, I’d like to keep my life whip-free.”
He followed me farther into the studio. “How can you know until you try?”
I looked at him. “Listen, I’ve never stuck my eye with a pin either, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like it, you know?”
“Aw, but pain can surprise you. Especially when mixed with pleasure.” He rubbed absently at his shoulder and I wondered if he was remembering a particular incident. I didn’t ask. Not because I wasn’t curious. I was. But the night was young, and I hoped that like fine wine, it would grow richer when given time to breathe.
The large room was divided into a series of smaller “rooms,” separated by more velvet drapes. The subdued lighting lent a warm golden hue to everything. The sound system was playing that odd spiritual, sensual, monks-having-sex style music. The paint smell wasn’t so evident now, having been overpowered by the scent of coffee, chocolate and baked bread that was wafting from somewhere farther inside. The seductive aroma made me light-headed.
Joe moved ahead and steered me toward the baking smell. The promised dessert room would undoubtedly be in that direction. Since the show would not officially start until 9:30, we had twenty minutes or so to enjoy the food and drink and watch the pre-sh
ow activities. A woman wearing next to nothing was doing Cirque du Soleil-style gymnastics on a rope suspended from the high ceiling.
We stopped and watched her for a while until the distant smell of coffee got the better of us. We ventured forth. Within the next draped enclosure I spied the food table, piled with a decadent array of desserts. Simple chocolate truffles nestled on a bed of red rose petals, cookies laden with slices of strawberry hearts, pink-nippled cupcakes … And here was the espresso machine and a barista taking orders. This was Seattle after all.
“Coffee?”
I shook my head. “No. I can’t handle caffeine at this time of night. Even decaf gives me the jitters.”
“Ah, but I have the appropriate counter-additive.” He pulled a small whisky flask out of his pocket and tipped it toward me. “It’ll banish the last of the chill, too.”
“You certainly came prepared.” The flask might have been a prop in a morality play. He was my own male version of that ancient Greek nymph, Calypso, luring me into danger. “OK, but make sure it’s decaf.”
I stood with Joe as he ordered and then waited for our drinks. A middle-aged couple passed by, decked out in all the trappings of submission/Dominance. The woman—tall and a bit too curvy in her black body stocking, latex mini-dress and thigh-high boots—was leading a man by a silver chain leash. Portly and balding, he was attired in leather pants, vest and collar with silver spikes. Their costumes looked brand-new and straight out of some of the online fetish stores I’d been surfing for research material, but the overall impression they gave was of two bureaucrats who should have their Internet privileges revoked for surfing on company time.
I couldn’t help staring. It was like reading about a mythical animal and then actually seeing a pair in a private zoo. I was amazed at how comfortable they looked, not only with the idea of their fetish, but also with parading it about together in public. It was a dating miracle. Against rather staggering odds, these two people with what I deemed to be unique tastes had found each other. You’d think it would be easier for me. I was just looking for a regular guy. Shouldn’t there be a plethora of those? Maybe my singles ad should start with “No leash or collar required.”
Breakfast in Stilettos Page 12