I leaned in closer to Joe. “So what would you think if I dressed like that and asked to lead you around for a little while?”
“Would you wear those boots?” He seemed completely serious.
I laughed and nudged him again. “You’re joking, right?”
He touched my arm firmly and leveled his black-eyed gaze at me. “Emily, around here no one jokes about that sort of thing. Trust me.”
The room was suddenly short on air. I took in a deep breath as heat suffused my cheeks.
He gazed at me for a moment. I thought with a pang that he might excuse himself and leave, but then he smiled and all was forgiven. The barista broke the tension by calling out our drinks.
Carefully balancing the full coffee mugs, Joe headed to the side bar to add whisky. I followed close behind. I couldn’t help stealing furtive glances at my fellow guests, who were beginning to mingle as I snagged a couple of the strawberry clad cookies from the dessert bar. No one else seemed quite as eccentric as the one couple, but I sensed the real attractions had yet to appear.
Joe and I sipped some of the coffee to make enough room for a decent pour of whiskey. Then Joe led me to a nearby couch. With a heavy sigh, I sank down into the overstuffed padding. I wanted to move past his dark remark but wasn’t exactly sure how. I wasn’t blessed with the small talk gene. I always said too much, too soon. Premature articulation.
When he was settled in next to me, I handed him the cookies. There was a gold lacquered side table next to him. “Can you put these over there?”
He set the cookies in their napkin next to the arm of the couch. “They look good. Still warm.”
I nodded and inhaled a whiff of the coffee’s whisky ethers before taking a sip. Joe slowly assessed each new couple as they walked by, flicking his gaze to the next like a typist slapping the carriage return on an old black Underwood.
I nibbled on one of the cookies as four men lumbered by. They were carrying, log-style, what looked like a human statue swathed in black. Near the edge of the room, they stopped next to a small pedestal and heaved the statue into position. With a shock, I realized it was a person—someone dressed in a black, skintight body suit that also covered his head. He (very evidently a he) was trying hard to remain rigid. He looked like an Oscar award painted black.
The men pulled over a small table that held a bowl of brilliant red poinsettias, which you could safety-pin to the statue guy. They applied a few to show how it was done and then gestured for others to follow suit.
There appeared to be no shortage of volunteers and within a short time the statue was properly trussed like a Rose Bowl parade float. The statue man hadn’t move a muscle and I had to admit he was brave for allowing a bunch of people with pins to have their way with him.
I scanned the room. Frank was nowhere to be seen. Setting aside my irritation, I decided to reprise my original line of questioning. “So Joe, back to where we left off … Why are you here?”
I thought for a moment he wouldn’t answer. He never took his eyes off the parade of people. When he finally spoke, he sounded distracted. “Curiosity, I guess.”
“Or maybe you just don’t know me well enough to say.” I flicked a bit of lint off my skirt.
“Maybe.”
I waited. He wore a glazed expression, as though lost in a fog. So I asked the standard filler question, “What are you thinking about?”
He let out a long sigh. “I was thinking about Whisky.”
Not what I expected. “Whisky?”
“I was thinking back on my last trip to Ireland, where I got the taste for Bushmills.” He lifted his coffee. “It was to be my final vacation with Maire, now my ex-wife. She is very Irish, down to her flame-red hair and green eyes. She’d wanted to trace her O’Neill lineage. We had a grand time huddled in our tiny car, white-knuckling the narrow country lanes and seeing the sights.”
“That sounds like fun. I’ve never been to Ireland. What happened?”
He brushed at the velvet nap on the couch arm. “For me, the trip was a fabulous three-week sexual marathon. But for her, and unbeknownst to me, it was a last ditch effort to get pregnant. When that didn’t happen, yet again, she decided to move on to more fecund ground.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, I guess I’m still a little preoccupied with it.”
He wasn’t over his ex-wife. Rumor had it that smart women ran away at this point, but for me it sparked curiosity. This was where a good story began, in midst of tragedy and heartbreak. “That must have been hard.”
He waved me off. “I promised myself to stop thinking about it.” He snorted. “As if there’s some kind of ‘off’ switch.” This last line he said under his breath.
He shook himself. “Why am I telling you all this?” He smiled as though forcing himself into a better mood. “So, enough of this gloominess. Let’s talk about something else.”
I was hesitant to let it go. I sensed there was a potential strange and unusual lurking in the depths of Joe’s past or present, but he clearly wasn’t interested in digging it up. Not yet anyway. I sighed and took a sip of coffee. “OK. Something simple, then. What’s your day job?”
That was an easy enough question and he responded promptly. “I’m a Web developer. Mostly back-end work; databases, e-commerce and the like.”
“A programmer?” Great. The classic unemotional, inconsiderate geek. Just what I needed.
“Well, yes, but more than that. I have my own company. Mostly I hire other programmers to implement what I come up with. Programming in and of itself can get pretty tedious.” He seemed to be perking up. “Actually, I can even do a little name-dropping. It helps to sweeten an otherwise dull-sounding occupation. My client base is heavily weighted toward celebrities. Not that I usually meet them, but I do their websites and fix their computers.”
“You’re kidding? Like who?” That was unusual.
He laughed. He shook his head. “Really it’s embarrassing to say. I always feel a little cheap, as though proud to be the one taking out Britney Spears’ garbage. Let’s just say that you’d definitely know who they are.”
“Well, it sounds like a far cry from waste disposal.” I was about to push for details, but something behind me had captured Joe’s attention. I turned my head.
Chapter 23: Adventures in Painting
We had taken a seat on a couch right next to a small stage where a young couple was slowly undressing each other. I wondered for a moment if they were guests just getting a little out of hand, but then another man, already stark naked, joined them. The naked man struck up a lounging pose at the couple’s feet, staring absently upward in what I imagine was an appropriate position for life drawing. I couldn’t help but notice his penis, which was rather large (a show ’er, not a grower), yet amazingly flaccid—considering that there were about thirty of us ogling him. Perhaps that spoke to my ignorance of men’s genitalia; I would have assumed that close inspection equaled erection.
Just as I was about to wonder out loud what they were up to, the Rubenesque woman with heaving cleavage appeared with a tray of small paint cups and brushes and gestured us all forward.
Joe nudged me. “Let’s go. I’ve heard about this. Body painting.”
I’ve never been much for participating in the arts. A patron, yes. A painter, no. Nor was this particular artistic endeavor all that compelling. Still, I let Joe pull me up. He selected a couple of cups for us, blue for him and red for me. I gave my brush a dubious swirl in the thick Kool-Aid red liquid. Then I looked up at the three models, whose transformation into a Pollack-style painting was already underway.
Joe moved me deftly into position behind the standing man, and lifted my elbow so that the paintbrush was at the ready. In front of me were a man’s buttocks—quite muscular and quite naked. I gave some small thanks to the literary goddess that it was the backside and not the front side with which I had to contend. Shoring up my courage, I applied a garish stripe of strawberry red to the man’s derrière. Th
e paint slid on easily. The buttocks didn’t flinch. But I did.
It felt so invasive. And so personal. I was very close, just staring for a moment. Little hairs sprouted here and there from under the thick red paint. His skin had gooseflesh. Even in the overly warm studio, he was naked and a bit chilled or excited—or at least one of the two.
My natural inclination was to rush through this task and be done. I realized that I tended to do just that whenever I felt uncomfortable. Maybe everyone did. But I wanted to resist that instinct. This was a new experience. I wanted to savor it. This man’s naked butt cried out for more.
I stared at the swirl, thinking that I should paint something more meaningful. A runic symbol for bravery. The Mayan symbol for a right of passage. Heck, the Egyptian symbol for tight butt. This tableau was supposed to be literary. Then it occurred to me that I didn’t really know any meaningful symbols, except maybe the peace sign and the swastika, and I didn’t think either of those would be appropriate. I could dig out my iPhone and do an Internet search. When in doubt, do research. Look things up. Right now, however, I needed to participate.
So I went with the obvious. A nice set of red lips. That at least could constitute an attempt at humor.
I stepped back, waving my brush in triumph at Joe. “Ta-dah! Now it’s your turn.” I nudged him as I passed, giving him room to do his own work.
Joe stepped forward, squatting for better access to the woman’s legs, which were still a blank canvas. He dashed several quick, bold swirls across the top of each foot and up her leg from instep to inner thigh before stepping back to admire his handiwork.
He glanced down at his clothing. “Looks like we have managed to keep the paint where it belongs.” We checked ourselves and verified that we had, in fact, remained splatter-free.
As we stood by, watching the rest of those gathered getting in their painterly licks, I leaned in toward Joe. “So, is this typical of what happens at places like this?”
He shrugged. “That’s part of the fun. We don’t know what will happen next.”
That was when I saw the two elderly women from the Cyclops, each with a cup of paint, heading straight toward the reclined model. They were gazing down with appreciation, and I heard Willa say, “Now that’s how I like a man. Calm, cool and collected. He just needs a little color.” And with a giggle, she leaned over and went straight for the penis.
While Mirabelle was awaiting her turn, she put her brush between her teeth and did a little Spanish dance, trying hard not to spill her paint. Then she noticed me and waved. “Well, hello! Look what we found.” She gave me a thumbs-up before adding to her sister’s contribution.
Joe looked at me. “Do you know them?”
“Apparently.” I smiled, feeling enigmatic enough not to say more.
In the end, Joe’s blue swirls were the only brush strokes left unadulterated. The woman’s torso was a kaleidoscope of color. Her breasts and crotch had been turned an earthy shade of mud from the continual onslaught of brush tips. The two men were similarly stained. My lips had been incorporated into a face with pointed ears and a goatee—a devil with collagen-enhancements. I wasn’t sure whether the Sun Time’s art critic would have deigned to critique the result, but Strange and Unusual it was.
The threesome made a grand departure, circling slowly to show off the group’s creation. When they disappeared behind a heavy drape, everyone slowly returned to their various seats. The sisters disappeared behind one of the curtains, perhaps in search of a little refreshment. We, too, settled back into our couch.
The Rubenesque woman reappeared to collect our cups and brushes. After she left, we all appeared oddly tense, as though dissatisfied with our meager, over-priced appetizer.
Chapter 24: A Poetic Moment
A few moments later the lights dimmed. Joe sat up straighter, glancing around. “Looks as if the show is about to begin.”
Feeling a tingle of anticipation, I scooted closer to Joe. As luck would have it, we were sitting in the main room, where a milling crowd of about seventy-five now huddled, either sitting on other couches and chairs or standing in an arc around the stage. We had an uninterrupted view of the stage, which I assumed would continue to hold the main attractions.
Frank was still nowhere to be seen. I was mildly annoyed. He had, after all, offered to be my subject-matter expert, and I couldn’t very well use his expertise when he wasn’t anywhere near the subject matter. But that was typical of Frank. He always had his own agenda.
On the far side of the room, a woman appeared from behind one of the velvet curtains. She was wearing a red beaded gown that sparkled under the spotlight that followed her through the crowd. She gave the impression of giving each attendee a moment of attention, whether that meant running her fingers over chests, necks, hair, or a kiss on the cheek or lips.
As she approached, I watched her intently. I was intrigued. Who would found an establishment such as The Slutterati Salon? She exuded sexual appeal of an icy, distant sort. Her red-beaded grown was sleeveless and cut low to reveal modest cleavage. Her heels were decorated with the same fire-red beading. However, it was her lips that caught my attention. They were parted in the relaxed, sensual manner of a woman who is confident in her sexuality. I’ve practiced this pouty look to no avail. Somehow I have librarian lips—prim, pursed and proper.
Finally she stood in front of me and Joe. She took my hand, pulling slightly in a clear indication that I should stand. She did the same to Joe. The spotlight was glaring. My cheeks heated up as everyone’s eyes turned to me. The hostess gestured for us to stand to either side of her on the stage. The statue man, flower-laden, darted forward and handed her a microphone; then he scampered away to stand on his plinth. The word minion came to mind. I suppressed a giggle.
Basking in the full glow of the spotlight and the audience’s attention, the hostess smiled, slipping one hand around my waist. “Good evening, and welcome to The Slutterati Salon.” Her voice was rich and animated; the previous iciness having melted into thick, warm goo. “Tonight we present a delectable feast of sights, sounds, aromas and tastes to tempt all your senses. Art and poetry. Music and song. We engage players to transport you, to contort for you, and perhaps a few to consort with you.” She paused until everyone was done hooting and clapping.
“In fact, I have two lovely guests here with me now.” She pulled me closer, glancing first at me then at Joe. “What, my delicious man, would tempt your senses this evening?” She held the microphone up to his mouth.
Joe responded with cool grace. “I always like surprises.”
The hostess seemed pleased. “Then we shall all endeavor to surprise you. Yes?” Her gaze swept the audience, who again hooted and applauded.
I panicked, knowing I would be called upon to answer the same question next. She was asking Joe’s name for the evening. Apparently he was expected to make one up. All I could think of was how to answer the same question. What could I say? That I was here to get a story? That wouldn’t be a popular answer. That I was trying to patch it up with my ex boyfriend? Then why was I sitting with another man?
I felt the hostess’s grip tighten around my waist. I could barely breathe.
“And you, my lovely. What shall we call you this evening?”
“Candy.” The name came unbidden to my tongue. Candy? Was I an idiot? If I had flushed before, that flush paled in comparison.
The audience certainly enjoyed my response. I heard several shouted comments about candy preferences that included sweet, as well as licking and sucking.
“And Candy, what would tempt you this evening?”
A giant gaping hole in my psyche threatened to engulf me, when all of a sudden I realized there was something halfway intelligent I could say. I was here to challenge myself, after all. I pushed up my breasts to buoy my cleavage and responded, “I want to discover something new about myself.”
A surge of relief passed through me as the audience whooped it up.
The hostess ki
ssed my cheek and lifted her arms as though to display us. “Here you have Candy and Sensitive Guy.” I was amazed that she could say as much with a straight face. “Show them how much we care.”
Two chairs appeared behind us, and we were gently pressed to sit down. My heart drummed Maraca-style against my chest as I realized two lines were forming in front of us. The audience was going to do something to us. A quick glance at Joe—that is, Sensitive Guy—confirmed that he was extremely pleased. Sensitive Guy. Why was that familiar?
I didn’t have time to think, as suddenly I recognized the beefy visage of Fist in front of me; then Squeeze was jumping unceremoniously onto Joe’s lap, pressing her burping breasts against his chest and giggling as she pulled her top down enough to expose her nipples. “Surprise!”
Oh god.
Fist was nice enough not to jump onto my lap. Instead he stepped behind me, breathing into my neckline. “Are you ticklish?” He nibbled my neck, which sent a shock of shivers down my back and legs.
Then he was gone and the next guy, a short, thin man with dreamy brown bedroom eyes knelt in front of me and began kissing my knees. The knee kissing thing didn’t do much for me. He was missing his true talent, so I lifted his chin. “You should just look at women. That alone would make them go crazy.”
And with that he gave me his best Hollywood love scene gaze and slowly moved in to kiss me, to the general approval of all who could see.
Next in line was the hooded Minion Guy that had brought out the microphone. He got down on all fours and indicated that I should sit on his back.
I glanced at Joe. Another woman sat on his lap, nuzzling him. He inclined his head toward the human chair. “Go ahead.”
This felt wrong in so many ways … I stood up, and my chair was magically whisked away. The hooded man crawled around behind me. Luckily there were no flowers pinned to the center of his back. I sat as lightly as I could in his flora-free zone, feeling extremely awkward, but I figured this position would preclude me from having anyone jump on my lap.
Breakfast in Stilettos Page 13