Time's Harlot: The Perils of Attraction, Seduction, and Desire

by Brenda Kuchinsky

  Sophia, lighting a fresh cigarette, ignoring her scratchy throat, looked at Maria, now nodding off with a live cigar in her hand. If she reached for the cigar, would she strike out and kill her?

  Shaking off her new found fears, Sophia stepped up to Maria cautiously, taking the cigar, and depositing it in the ashtray. This was enough to rouse Maria and give her a second wind.

  She continued seamlessly. “You’re wondering if I got caught. Hell, no. I fabricated some convincing fable of infighting that had gotten way out of hand. My gun was untraceable.”

  She leaned forward and enunciated each word slowly and sonorously.

  “It was so fucking easy.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Sophia said.

  “Say? What is there to say?” Maria sneered. “I was heartbroken. I lost Gloria. And they sent me off to Chechnya of all things. Maybe the Russkies did suspect something and this was their idea of sending me to Siberia. They especially hate gays there. Not that anyone knew for a fact I was gay. I was fucking men. There was a lot going on there. In fact, I know for a fact Putin is about to stir things up there, jonesing for a second Chechen war to make himself look good, the father protector of mother Russia. Something is going to happen soon. Mark my words.” She held her finger up against her right nostril for emphasis. “You know what the unofficial motto of the CIA is?”

  Sophia shook her head, her mouth hanging open.

  “Talk about ironic. This is a good one and from the New Testament no less. John,” she snorted. She paused dramatically. “And you shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free. Isn’t that rich?”

  Sophia was transfixed. She had nothing to say.

  “In Chechnya, I was fucking the second in command in no time. This one liked straight sex. It got boring. Every once in a while he’d add another woman to the mix, which made me happy. He got off on the lesbian sex. My heart wasn’t in it anymore, though. I couldn’t get over Gloria. Chechnya was a shit hole. I got out. No more casualties of war. I admit I miss it. Once you’ve lived with so much power, chaos, and excitement, civilian life is gray.”

  Sophia was speechless, digesting it all. Respect and fear mingled in her head.

  She turned to Sophia for the first time in a long time. “I have you, my pet, to keep me entertained. I’ll be your body guard and your party escort and your carpet muncher. What more could a girl want? And you’re a knockout. Come here you. Time for a ride on the ecstasy train.” Maria, now surprisingly steady on her feet, stood up and raised Sophia up, sweeping her into a tight embrace, kissing her on her lips.

  Sophia shook herself free, none too happy to be kissed by Maria. Last time Maria forced a kiss on Sophia, Bernie got killed.

  “Come on, Maria. Time to fess up about Bernie.”

  “Bernie. Bernie. Bernie. I fed him to the alligators. I took a spin down to Homestead. To Florida City. Those mangrove-lined wastelands on the way to the Keys are full of canals crawling with alligators. Easiest thing in the world. I drove to a secluded spot, unfurled him, and dumped him in. I could hear them thrashing away. Happy as pigs in shit. And, Bob’s your uncle.”

  Sophia was speechless again.

  “By the way. Your rug’s at the cleaner. I’ll pick it up tomorrow.”

  Twenty Four

  The next morning, a searingly sobering day, Sophia approached her parent’s ramshackle apartment building, with the million dollar view, with trepidation. She wasn’t in the mood for Ada’s tragicomic drama or her mysterious, never-to-be-divulged past.

  A quick peek at the Atlantic would boost her mood. There was nothing quite like inhaling great gulps of purging sea air, sweeping away the petty and mundane trivialities of daily life, replacing them with a sense of vast timelessness and that oceanic seamlessness.

  Her craving for a quick fix of meditative transcendence was dashed when she turned the corner, envisioning that endless sweep of empty oblivion, only to stumble upon what could best be described as a Felliniesque scene of pathos and surrealism.

  Ta, a smile reaching just short of his eyes, transforming his lugubrious demeanor, sitting in a beach lounge, a voluminous woman’s shining silver bag in his lap, clapping enthusiastically and bouncing up and down to some imaginary music in his head, was goading Mathilde on in her absurd performance.

  Mathilde, her silver leggings sparkling in the sun and her turquoise oversized top swathing her sunken sun spot speckled chest, was gripping a long balancing pole with the intensity of a performer risking life and limb in a high wire act, her hawk-like eyes unerring and unrelenting, while maneuvering on the uneven sand where the worst injury that could befall her would be a tumble onto her bony tush in the cushioning sand.

  Rudy, dressed in his perpetual outlandish clown costume, was off in the distance, closer to the surf’s foamy edge, gamboling with Remy, his beloved mouse, dangling from his greasy locks, performing a more death defying act than Mathilde.

  When Mathilde, her concentration broken, spied Sophia, she dropped her javelin and tripped over to her, her blue bow bouncing in her starched hair and her turquoise eye shadow weighing down her eyelids.

  “Zophia, ma Cherie, I was practicing my act for Papa’s pleasure.” She beamed. “I thought our visit was next Monday,” she said, looking puzzled. You don’t come on Thursday?”

  Like Ta, Mathilde did not relish change.

  “I came to check up on Ma. Someone threw tomatoes at her yesterday when she was on stage. Ta didn’t tell you?”

  “Tomatoes? What a waste. There are sick people in this world. Who would do such a thing?” Mathilde asked, her predatory gaze, tinged with an envious shade of green, unwavering. “Ta never tells me anything.”

  “Maybe the new woman in the building with the numbers?” Sophia asked. “Do you know anything about her?”

  “She’s okay. Just sad, like all of us. Magda. I talked to her yesterday,” Mathilde said, shrugging her sharp shoulders. “Look at that Rudy. He’s wearing the right clothes. What a clown, what a bucher.” Mathilde clucked in disapproval.

  Sophia walked over to Max.

  “It’s not Monday. Ach. You’re here because of the tomatoes. I talked to that schlemiel over there yesterday. He said she’s fine. I’ll visit when Mathilde’s gone. She is so eyferzikhtik,” he said, gruff and grateful.

  Sophia, grimacing at the image of Mathilde as a jealous Jezebel, pecked him on the cheek, saying, “See you next Monday. Tell me if anything looks funny.” She stomped off. “So much for thalassic tranquility,” she muttered.

  Before she could try the door, Ada flung it open, breasts heaving, sweaty skin sallow, and her capacious crimson Kimono sagging open. Her wild roving eyes rested gratefully on Sophia as she pulled her inside and slammed the creaking door.

  “That fershtinkener shegetz comes here with that rat. He thinks if it’s in a cage, I’ll be okay. I can’t see it, I can’t smell it, and I can’t have it near me. I’ll die. Why is he doing this to me?” she moaned, tearing at her wild tresses.

  “Maybe he likes to scare you.”

  “Bist du meshuggah?”

  Now her anger shifted squarely to Sophia.

  “Okay. Okay. Don’t kill the messenger. He loves it like he loves you. It’s a love rivalry.”

  “Du bist ferruckt today,” Ada spat out, venom permeating every word.

  “Let’s change the subject,” Sophia said.

  “Let’s eat,” Ada said.

  “Great idea.”

  A disparate variety of goodies quickly loaded down the table, groaning with food. Sophia made Swee-Touch-Nee while Ada fetched the sugar cubes. Peace prevailed.

  Twenty Five

  Using the spare key Maria had given her, Sophia let herself into an empty house. The two Siamese cats were sleeping side by side on the capacious unmade bed.

  A hastily scribbled note on the coffee table told Sophia that Maria was working until dinner time. This was a perfect excuse for a getaway. She was beginning to feel claustrophobic. And she
had impetuously invited her to the masked ball. What was she thinking? She was getting deeper and deeper into Maria, getting inextricably entangled with a volatile woman who, not knowing her own strength, had killed someone the first time she was in her home.

  Then again, she had freely confessed to bashing in Gloria’s brains without hesitation and blowing away her lover. She couldn’t handle any frustration. Her disinhibition was her sexual calling card, but it didn’t work so well in other areas of life.

  Sophia knew she had to start disengaging. How would Maria handle that? They had gotten too close too quickly. She was worried.

  She stepped out to the deck to have a smoke and think. What the hell. It’s my last impromptu day off. I’ll have a drink. She went back inside, peeked at the snoozing seal point beauties. Titi is taking root here too. She poured herself a generous Johnny Walker, admiring the handsome crystal whiskey glass again.

  “This is better. A peaceful day before the Mamma’s Boys have their way with me,” she announced to the bay. She put her legs up on the other chair, inhaled the soothing smoke deep into her lungs, exhaled slowly, two satisfying plumes of smoke, steaming out of her nostrils, and sipped the malty liquor.

  For some unfathomable reason, this last day in August was not brutally searing. She decided to take her top off and, uncharacteristically, soak up the sun.

  The sun, smoke, and scotch all conspired to lull her into a sultry state of abandon. In her twilight state she didn’t detect a lank, loose-limbed figure approaching her, drawn to the inviting shirtless woman, her cleavage prominent in the emerald green bra, quivering ever so slightly with each somnolent breath.

  She looked up when his shadow loomed, blocking out the glare.

  “That shade feels so good. I didn’t realize how hot it was,” she said, licking her lips while gazing at her ideal type. His shaggy blonde locks and lingering blue eyes hypnotized her.

  “Hello, hello.” An English accent, the alluring kind, not the Cockney type, further entranced her. She made no motions to put her top on.

  “Care for a drink and a smoke?” she asked.

  “Yes, please. I’m rather parched. I know what you’re drinking isn’t exactly a thirst quencher, but it looks inviting. And if I may say so, so do you,” he said, sweeping his robin’s egg blues over her entire body, before coming to roost at her breasts.

  “Just keep talking. Your accent makes me swoon. Silly, isn’t it?”

  “Not at all.” He smiled wholeheartedly, taking her hand and raising her up from the languid lounging position.

  “Shall we repair to the boudoir? I’ll take that drink inside. Fuck the smoke. That’ll be for afters.”

  “Isn’t that Brit for dessert?”

  “Precisely, luv. We speak the same language.”

  She was already fully aroused by the word play. She took his hand, leading him into the bedroom, forgetting the proffered drink.

  He shooed the cats off the bed, saying, “lovely specimens.”

  “Remove the brassiere,” he said, intense in his purpose.

  She complied, unhooking it slowly.

  “Ah, lovely strawberry creams.”

  “Does that mean breasts?”

  “Shhh. Not another word.”

  He laid her out on the messy bed like a prized picnic lunch, slipping off her jeans and undies, a sharp intake of breath, indicating he liked her red curly bush, unlike most men, who preferred a clean shaven entry way.

  He spent an inordinate length of time licking, kneading, and chewing on her strawberry creams. She would never forget that phrase. He was not in a rush. He took his time despite her eager panting before he put his head between her legs and worked his way to her thunderous climax industriously.

  This kid knows what he’s doing. For somewhere along the dreamy way she realized he was considerably younger than she was.

  He rose up from her depths, grinning and inserted himself inside of her effortlessly. They rode together until they found the perfect wave that rocked them back to shore.

  She came to from the sleep of the sexually replete, noticing that lover boy was gently snoring by her side, smiling in his sleep.

  “Aaah,” she said, stretching and arching her back. “That was delicious,” she declared to his one open sea blue eye. “Shit. What time is it?” she asked, alarmed at the prospect of Maria finding them. Surely she would kill them in an instant.

  “Four. In a rush, Ginger?”

  “Yes. I’m just staying here and the woman of the house is insanely jealous.”

  “You go both ways, darling?”

  “I guess I do,” she said, pondering that now that someone said it out loud. “I guess I do.”

  He was throwing his clothes on, ready for a hasty retreat. “I’ll take a rain check for the drink and smoke,” he said.

  He ambled over to her and stroked her breasts.

  “And a second go at those delectable dreams. Here’s my card. Call me and don’t wait too long or I’ll be gutted.” He grinned.

  And he was gone. As if she had hallucinated the whole affair.

  Oh, she would be calling him to establish it was real. A younger, British version of Kurt who knew how to please her in the sack. “Pinch me,” she said to the curious cats on the couch, sniffing the air delicately.

  Twenty Six

  Maria was none the wiser. By the time she returned home all traces of lover boy were long gone. Nonetheless, Sophia, knowing what she now knew about Maria’s kill now, ask questions later policy, was apprehensive.

  “I’ve got to get home and rest up for tomorrow Maria.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you and your furry beauty a lift. When will I see you again?” Maria asked.

  “Let’s go to the masked ball together. That’s not far off. Just a week and a half or so,” Sophia replied.

  “A week and a half?” Maria squawked in protest. “I can’t be apart from you for that long.”

  “Easy Maria. It’ll fly by.” Sophia was worrying her ear.

  “Fly by my ass. It’ll crawl. Let me pick you up one night on Lincoln Road after work,” Maria suggested, her eyes desperately seeking Sophia’s.

  “When I’m done with those Momma’s Boys, I just want to get home as quickly as possible,” Sophia countered firmly.

  “Then I’ll just pick you up and give you a lift home. How’s that? Sunday night?” Maria pleaded.

  Sophia reluctantly conceded. She felt the walls closing in on her. She was being squeezed in all directions. Sunday night was the beginning of her down time. She had the feeling Maria wouldn’t be happy with a quick peck on the cheek after driving her home. What had she gotten herself into? Led around by her voracious sex drive, which was like a sports car in overdrive, careening head long into the fast lane. She hoped she wasn’t heading for a steep cliff with malfunctioning brakes.

  They climbed into Maria’s yellow Hummer for the short ride to Sophia’s house. Maria pressed Gloria’s bath robe on her.

  “Something to remember me by,” Maria said.

  “Maria we’re just going down the road. You’re acting like I’m moving to Siberia,” Sophia protested.

  “I’ll miss you babe. That’s all I know. I got so used to having you around.”

  When they reached her doorstep, a pathetic pile of three limp black roses greeted them.

  “Wow. I forgot. You told me about the roses. Somebody loves you or hates you. Or both.” Maria grimaced.

  “I didn’t find one on Tuesday when I came to get Titi.”

  “They appear late at night. I usually find them the next morning. The first one’s thorn bit into my big toe. I had my sandals in my hand. It was a double shock. When I came back late that night – I guess it was early the next morning - with my boyfriend Kurt, we found the second one.”

  “Kurt? Who the fuck is Kurt?” Maria shouted.

  “Kurt’s my boyfriend. An Adonis. I’ll introduce you sometime,” Sophia said, danger signals going off in her brain as the words tumbled
out.

  “I’d love to meet him.” Maria sneered. Look, I know I have no claim on you. I’m just hotheaded and possessive. The moment I saw you walking into the massage studio …,” she trailed off, giving Sophia a peck on the cheek and bounding away to start her Hummer and roar angrily down the sleepy street.

  Sophia and Maria were enchanted. The Versace mansion drew them in. The rather plain three story exterior set back from the steamy crowds, spewing out of clubs, restaurants, bars, and hotels lent an air of serenity and respite to the bawdy madness that was Ocean Drive.

  Once inside, they were captivated by the artsy luxury. A farrago of stylish opulence delighted them. Versace’s signature Medusa head medallions hung everywhere in various permutations. Intricate Italian murals, bursting with color and energy, adorned many walls. The ceilings, graced with artwork or bejeweled with dazzling colors and fabrics, beamed on them. Elaborately gilt framed mirrors, hung in expected and unexpected places, dazzled them.

  “I can’t catch my breath. We’ve walked into a surreal Renaissance palace. We’ve time travelled,” Sophia said.

  She surveyed the enormous room and sweeping stairways teeming with masked guests. She scratched her cheek under the Florentine style mask she had donned. It was pure white with a cascade of feathers on top of the simple mask. Impressive to look at, but itchy to wear.

  She wore a black backless gown with a full tulip skirt. The plunging top barely contained her bountiful cleavage. Between the back and the front, she felt like her top might come off. She hoped she didn’t look too Mrs. Robinson, considering her relationship to some of these young men.

  “Which ones are you fucking?” Maria, as if reading her thoughts, whispered, leaning close and flicking her moist sharp tongue into her ear.

  “I don’t see any of them yet. The place is jam-packed. There are only nine. I mean eight. One is gone.”

  “I know. I know. Don’t rub it in. It was an accident.”