by Alix Strauss
I think of Bernard, at work or perhaps at home, taking a damp cloth and dusting his wine collection. I picture him bent over, pants down, ass revealed to me. A paddle in my hand as I stand behind him ready to swing.
On the other side of the second leaflet is a list of Safe S&M Guidelines, basic terminology, and definitions. The last regards information on something called a Novice Excursion. A dinner and field trip are held once a month for S&M’ers at the Chelsea Gallery Restaurant. I put everything back feeling somewhat normal.
The bedroom is grimy. Sheets are touching the floor, revealing parts of the mattress. Pillows are tossed everywhere and dirty underwear, T-shirts, skimpy red lingerie, and black spandex shorts are on the carpet by the chair.
In the bathroom, I find a bottle of K-Y Jelly and a mini blue vibrator in a travel bag along with more condoms. I run my hands under hot water in the sink, use the soap while wishing I had those plastic gloves actors wear on crime shows like CSI.
About to exit, I give the hall closet the once-over. It reveals a jean jacket, down coat, mink scarf, and matching hat. Shit. She’s still in the hotel. I glance my watch, 2:45 p.m. Fuck. Having late lunch? High noon tea? Spa treatment? I need to leave, now. I’m about to close the door when something shiny catches my eye.
I bend down closer and uncover a weird-looking leather-and-metal contraption that rests on the floor. It looks like the kind of collapsible brace you’d give a person suffering from sclerosis. I pull it out, lift it up. It’s solid and feels as though it weighs about a pound. There are two padded, long bars, each about an inch in width and a foot in length that are held together by three sets of black leather straps piped in white stitching. The two lower ones seem to attach via Velcro, the top one, which looks like a collar, has a snap. I take off my suit jacket and slide the contraption onto my body, like a life vest that locks on the side rather than the front. I snap the collar part closed, then seal myself with the other straps, one of which rests under my breasts and another that wraps around my pelvis. I make the middle strap tighter and suddenly feel a tremendous release in my chest. For the first time all day I let out the deepest of sighs. The cool metal bleeds through my T-shirt. I realize if I wasn’t wearing any clothing, my breasts would be poking out, perfectly exposed from the design of the unit. The two bars, one pressed up against my front, the other on my back, run from my collarbone to my pelvis where leather and metal meet again. I model in the mirror and smile. I look like a freak, a car accident victim. But I don’t care. I can breathe. I feel strong and invincible. I wonder if this is how cops or construction workers feel, grounded by their heavy belts and garb, weighed down by the necessary objects that define them.
I return to the pamphlets again, hoping to find some information on where I can order one of these brace things or a description to tell me what the hell I’m wearing. As I reach for the envelope, the phone rings. I jump, realizing I’ve been in here too long. I rip off the unit, the sound of Velcro is loud and unpleasant, and instantly I miss the locked-in feeling. I scan the room for a shopping bag, and when I come up empty reach for the extra pillow in the hall closet, take it down, remove the case, and shove the sex thing inside. I take a large towel from the bathroom, drape it over the arm holding the stolen goods, carefully put the pills back inside the envelope, snag the pamphlet with the calendar information, put my jacket back on, and slip out unnoticed.
Back in my office I hide the brace inside a Banana Republic bag and stuff it under my desk. Three more hours to go. I should leave now. Skip the meetings I have with catering and housekeeping. Perhaps I can take a personal day. Hard to Breath Day. I wonder if my boss would permit that.
At home I say hi to Dale’s smiling black-and-white face on my wall and remove the brace from the bag. I Windex and Lysol the entire unit. Then I strip down to my underwear and parade around the house. I am Super Metal Girl. I dance around for a few minutes, breasts poking out, metal cold on my skin, leather slightly itching me, and only feel silly when I catch Dale’s eyes, as if she’s staring in judgment. I remember the brace she wore. Twins more than twenty years later. I slip on one of Bernard’s old T-shirts, which he’s left here. It fits over the contraption perfectly. I light a candle, dim the lights, say the blessing for the dead, then a little prayer, the brace still on my body. I remove the photo of us from the wall and place it on the faux marble floor in my kitchen.
As a baby, I’m told, whenever I couldn’t sleep and would cry nonstop, the only thing that would calm me was the hum our Maytag made. My mother swears she would hold me next to it and stand patiently, waiting for me to be lulled to sleep by its shaking motion and misty heat. I do this now, run an empty cycle. I lean my body up against the metal door, the brace still fitting securely around my body. The gentle vibration feels good on my skin, my insides feel comforted by the heat penetrating through the T-shirt. Within minutes I find myself sitting on the floor. The tile is cold. I curl my legs into myself, bend my head back against the dishwasher. There’s an empty plate in front of Dale’s photo, a cigarette in my mouth, vodka and soda in my hand, and cold Chinese takeout in front of me.
I then eat dinner with my sister.
Chapter 3
Morgan
The Lobby Lounge
Trish Hemingway calls back and agrees to meet for lunch. The phony responsibility document I’ve written, which has gotten much praise from my boss after I brought to his attention that we didn’t have one and probably should, sits, like me, waiting for her.
At 1:00 p.m. the restaurant is respectably crowded. Bigwigs and power players sit hunched over, inhaling their overpriced steaks and chicken, drinking martinis and highballs. Two A-list celebs are picking at chicken sandwiches, speaking animatedly with their hands. Leisure ladies eat around their salads, talking about nothing. Waiters mill about, collecting plates, distributing new ones, depositing bottles of water, removing empty stout glasses. I look for Renaldo, a glimmer of hope he’ll come by the table to say hello. In the year Bernard and I have been together I had never cheated on him, or anyone else for that matter. At thirty-two I’m a good girl. Organized and hardworking. Honest and loyal. Damaged and lonely.
When I see Trish enter the restaurant, I wave, watch her stride toward me dressed in a white T, chocolate suede shirt, and perfectly colored, slightly faded blue jeans.
“Thanks for coming,” I say. I wait for her to sit before taking out the form. “I feel like a complete idiot. I’m so sorry.”
“Forget about it.” She pulls out a silver pen from her leather messenger bag, signs the paper, and hands it back. “This is really great of you. It’s been forever since I’ve had lunch here.”
I stare at Trish looking for traces of Dale in her dark ringlets, her soft brown eyes, her cautious smile. I’ve brought the dilapidated copy of her mother’s book Drowning in Ambiguity, which I read in college, with me. If lunch goes well, I thought I’d ask if her mother would sign it.
“Order anything you want. Whatever looks good to you,” I say, her face slightly covered by the oversize brown menu.
“How’s the fruit platter?”
“It’s standard, but nice. You can get that and something else, too.”
“No, that sounds perfect.” She closes the menu. “I’m on this diet thing.”
I lift an eyebrow. “Why?”
“I’ve gained some weight.” She rolls her eyes.
I imagine Dale and I having a similar conversation. Maybe she’d be married by now. Her husband a TV director or a doctor, like my father, might have made a weight comment and she’d have come here, worked out at the gym after her desk job as a book editor, and I would have told her, “You’re not fat,” like I do now with Trish.
“I feel fat,” she says, sighing.
I nod understandingly.
We talk about the gallery, artists, her friend Olive, the party she’s throwing for her. The conversation is smart and real, quick and interesting, and wakes me from what feels like a thick fog.
&
nbsp; When Renaldo bends down to set our plates in front of us, I want to touch his tan hand, remember what his skin feels like on mine. He is careful and moves hesitantly, not looking at me, but he’s smiling, shyly, to himself.
“Thank you,” I say.
He nods. “You’re welcome.”
We walk outside, a reenactment of our first meeting a few weeks ago.
I remove a cigarette from my pocket. Trish stares at me, a smirk on her face.
“I know. I know. I’m quitting on New Year’s. I’ve got thirty-one days left.” I pull out a book of matches from the hotel. “Not that I’m counting,” I add, watching the light catch flame, then attach itself to the thin, white paper.
“No, I was wondering if you had another.”
“Gladly.”
Rather than exchange handshakes, this time we happily share a smoke, the unspoken gesture of a new friendship sealed by bad-girl behavior. I cup my hands around Trish’s face, protecting her from the wind so she can light her cigarette easily. We shiver in the inlet of the hotel as I watch smoke come out of our mouths. We look like high school kids afraid of getting caught. I nudge her with my elbow, my hands in my pocket, and we walk up the block. “No one at work knows I smoke. It’s unprofessional looking.”
“It’s an old habit for me. Not a pretty one. It’s either returning to this or eating. Somehow cancer wins over fat every time.”
We tap cigarettes, as if we’re fencing with miniature swords. She’s unaware of Dale, and I think about telling her this now not knowing how she’ll react. I take a quasi-deep breath. “My sister died of leukemia when I was eight.”
Trish freezes in mid-drawl.
“It’s okay. I thought the cancer thing was funny. I’m not sensitive about it.” I raise my cigarette to help punctuate my statement. “I’m also not terribly concerned about my health.”
“How old was…”
“Eleven.”
She does the math. “So she’d be…”
“Thirty-five, same as you, right?”
She nods and blows a stream of gray smoke out of the right side of her mouth, then puts a firm hand on my upper arm. She squeezes hard enough to so I can feel her fingers through my wool jacket. Her eyes are piercingly tense and focused. “That must have been awful.”
For a moment, I stop breathing. I feel the cigarette drop from my hand, but I don’t see it fall to the ground because I’m staring at Trish, who seems too real in this minute. So sincere that I don’t know what to do. People always say the stupidest things, their voices drop an octave or two or they whisper the words, “I’m sorry.” Then they change the subject.
“You must miss her terribly,” she adds.
My head is pounding and something moves inside me, deep and painful. A bit of poison escaping from a sealed sack. “I do.” I could stay like this all winter in the icy air, just me and Trish, a pack of cigarettes, and her hand squeezing my arm.
She lets go and we walk together in silence to the corner of Fifth Avenue and Fifty-eighth Street. I want to continue with her one more block to the gallery. See what it looks like. Learn more about Trish Hemingway who understands. Instead, I watch her get swallowed up by the after-lunch office crowd and hassled shoppers, who are all rushing to get somewhere.
I was hoping Bernard would know we were over without my having to tell him. And since he doesn’t, I’ve decided to strike an inner deal with myself. If he goes with me to one of the sex meetings, I’ll keep seeing him. Like a sheepdog, he’s loyal and always at my side. If only he was more Doberman, more Boxer, things would be different. We wouldn’t be sitting at Gobo—again, wine in our glass, pad thai on my plate, vegetarian duck on his. Yes, Bernard is a creature of habit.
“So,” he says, bringing the burgundy-filled glass to his lips.
“So,” I answer back. I’m suddenly not hungry.
“This is nice,” he adds reaching for my hand, which I extend toward him. Both of us coming together, working as a team of two.
“It is.” I wish I had the brace on. I wish I was home.
“You’ve been rather distant lately. Is it Dale?”
“No.” With my free hand, I play nervously with my napkin, shredding it into tiny pieces, rolling it between my fingers under the table.
“Something I’ve done?”
Yes. “No.” It’s something you are.
“Then what? You’re supposed to be moving in with me. Wasn’t that the plan?” Bernard shifts in his seat, raises a hand toward his chest, and for a minute, I think he’s going to reach into the breast pocket of his blazer and expose his brown leather date book and flip to January fifth, a month away, and point. “See.” But instead he adjusts his tie, loosens the knot.
I’m not a business plan, I want to say. I’m not one of your precious wines that’s going to mature the longer you hold on to it.
We sit quietly, listening to people eat, to the clinking of dishes and silverware. We hear broken bits of conversations from nearby tables.
“I need more spice,” I’m finally able to articulate.
He looks up slightly concerned. “That’s weird. My food is fine. Here, taste.” He scoops up a forkful of vegetarian duck, and moves it in my direction. The fork is too close to my mouth not to accept, so I open obediently.
“I meant with us,” I try again, mouth full of food. “I want more life in our relationship.”
I reach for my water wishing I had a cosmo, something instead of the red wine Bernard brought. He looks perplexed. I’m dating Mike Brady, Richie Cunningham. I dig into my bag, feel Trish’s mother’s book still inside, then pull out the stolen pamphlet and slide it over to Bernard’s side of the table, like a drug transaction. He inspects the folded pink paper, then breaks into a hearty laugh.
“You had me going for a moment. I really thought you were serious.” He crumples up the paper into a tiny pink ball, then reaches for his wine and drinks. “Well done,” he says setting it back down. “An S&M club. Very rich.”
Bernard talks like a poorly written British TV show. He pours more wine into his empty glass, then goes for mine. I place my hand over the rim. He’s still laughing and only stops when he notices I’m not.
“Morgan, you can’t possibly be serious.” He lowers his voice a little, then buttons his suit jacket.
“I need something more. I need us to be more.”
“A lot of people think I’m plenty.” He’s sitting upright now, posture in perfect position, as if he’s interviewing for a job. Fighting to keep an account.
“I’m asking you to try something new. If you hate it, at least you can say you gave it a fair chance.”
“What’s wrong with the things we do? We go out all the time. Why is it that’s never enough for you?” A whimper has crept into his voice, followed by frustration. “I know plenty of girls who would be happy with art galleries and wine tasting and…”
“I don’t even like wine.”
Shock registers across his face. “Yes you do.”
“No, you like wine. I go with you because you do. And now I’m asking you to do something for me. For us. I’ve tried it.” The lie flows easily from my mouth, surprising even me. “It was interesting.”
“You’ve already gone?”
“I went to a meeting last week.”
“Places like that are riddled with disease and God knows what.” He’s looking at me as if he doesn’t know the person sitting across from him. Then he glances at his fork, the one that was in my mouth, then his. I can tell he’s thinking it’s now contaminated. He’s wishing he had mouthwash in his briefcase, a disinfectant wipe in his pocket.
“Why did you go? Is our sex life that terrible?”
“We don’t have a sex life.” Sex with Bernard is like trying to build a campfire. There’s lots of preparation, correct positioning of body parts—his legs are like sticks—the waiting for things to get smoking, the anticipation of a spark. But once it comes it rarely catches on or builds into something hot and roa
ring.
“I’d like to experience something other than fermented grapes.” Can we get the bill? I’m done eating, clearly he is, too. As if reading my mind he pushes his plate away from him. I do the same.
“What would your parents say?”
“I’m an adult. They have no say.”
He’s quiet for a moment. I put my hand to my chest, lean up against the table’s edge, think about breathing, about my sister, about Trish, the book in my bag, the fact that Anne has lost her job, that she’s probably sitting home by herself crying and feeling lost. “I don’t think we should see each other anymore.” There, I’ve said it.
“Because of this?”
“It’s more than just the sex thing.”
“I’m trying to understand…”
“I know. I’m sorry.” I toss what’s left of my shredded napkin onto my plate. As I get up I hit the table, almost knocking the wine bottle over. Bernard reaches for it, rather than for me.
“I’ll pack up your belongings and leave them with my doorman.”
“So that’s it?” he says.
I nod, choke back the tears.
“What about your stuff?”
I look at him blankly. “I don’t have anything at your place.” I shake my head. “Didn’t you ever wonder why that was?”
“I don’t know. I figured when you moved in…”
I bend forward, like Renaldo did when he cleared my plate earlier today, and kiss my now ex-boyfriend on the cheek. I’m not sure why I’m doing this. I don’t have a desire to touch him, but I feel as though I need to leave him with something. When I stand back up I see I’ve left a lipstick print on his skin, like the mark from the envelope left in room 2002. I’m tempted to pull out an eyeliner and draw the bubble quote with the word “good-bye” inside. Instead I stride out of the restaurant and hail the first cab I see.