by Tracy Ellen
It had also come out much louder than I intended. In my agitation, I’d forgotten to whisper my answer in his ear. In the stillness of the apartment, I swore the word ‘nominated’ had bounced off the walls and echoed like we were in the Grand Canyon.
Even over my own incredulity, I had no trouble seeing Mr. Kinky regarding me with surprised incomprehension, added now to his fascinated interest. And that one, sexily arched eyebrow I loved so damn much.
I had moaned and put a hand to my forehead. I remember thinking I’d felt a headache lurking.
I closed my eyes and hurriedly corrected myself. “I meant to say my SECRET fantasy is I want to be DOMinated.” Even in my embarrassment, I had remembered my manners. “Please.”
That brought to mind another point to clarify. Holding up my hand like a traffic cop, I’d rushed on, “This is not to be confused with actual rape. That’s violence and I am not, I repeat, not into violence.” I added quickly, “Or pain. Or nipple clamps, or ping-pong balls shoved in my mouth.” I had recently seen the old movie “Pulp Fiction” for the first time. Talk about strange, yet disturbingly funny. “No drugs. Don’t get any ideas about E, or anything crazy like that, okay? And needles?” I cringed and shuddered. “You come near me with a needle and I’ll kill you. Absolutely no needles- no way, no how…”
My voice trailed off when I finally met Luke’s gleaming eyes. He had been sitting perfectly still and staring at me, as if transfixed.
I then had the most alarming, lowering thought. Moaning again, I covered my mouth and felt my eyes widening in horror.
What if I had misunderstood what Luke meant by secret fantasy? What if he meant something normal like which wife on “The Housewives of Beverly Hills” I would most enjoy torturing slowly before delivering a death blow? Or how many castles I’d buy if I won the lottery? What if he hadn’t meant anything sexual at all? What if he now thought I was a creeper, pervert girl that wanted to wear a spiked dog collar and be hung from my foyer chandelier?
In the dead silence of my living room, you could have heard the proverbial pin drop.
I couldn’t stand the suspense. I squared my shoulders, dropped my hands down from over my mouth, and had glared at the silent man staring at me.
“Well, dammit?”
Luke carefully set his beer bottle down on the table at his side.
When he reached over and pulled me onto his lap, I’d been somewhat mollified that maybe I hadn’t misunderstood his question. When his hand smoothed back my hair and he’d slowly kissed my neck, I realized if I was a creeper pervert, well then, so was he. His kiss made me shiver and rub up against him. No wonder he liked being kissed right there so much.
‘What was I worried about, anyway, for God’s sake? I must be losing my touch. This was a man’s lap I was wriggling on; of course he meant sexual fantasy.’
His voice had been low near my ear. “If you had said you wanted me to tie you up, I’d have worried you were lazy and looking for an excuse to get out of any work.”
I’d giggled while he nuzzled me again.
‘Christ, now the man had me giggling. What next? His name tattooed on my ass inside a heart?’
“Maybe if I don’t call you some Friday night when I’m out of town, you should wonder why.”
‘Holy Crap! What had I gotten myself into?’
Luke’s cell announcing a text interrupted our slow, heated kisses. With one last, quick peck and no explanation other than “duty calls,” he’d left immediately after checking the message. Last night was Friday night, and the first time I’d seen Luke since that day of discussing my fantasy almost three weeks ago. It was a hell of a homecoming.
Chapter IV
“Call Me” by Blondie
Saturday, 11/17/12
7:40 AM
My brain seemed to have only two gears this morning. It had switched back into first. From daydreaming about Luke and fantasies, it was now thinking about work again when I stepped out of the shower.
If you Google Northfield and check out the Wikipedia website, my building is visible in the first picture shown. It’s the red brick one with the turret, taller than those around it. Bel’s Books is located across the street from the old bank, now a museum famous for the robbery attempt by the James-Younger Gang’s in 1876. During the week of Defeat of Jesse James Days in September, I have a front row seat in my apartment living room for viewing all the festive activities. Invites are coveted and I wield much power. Heady stuff for sure.
Bel’s Books inventories a select amount of new books, bestseller hardbacks and paperbacks, but mainly we’re a used bookstore. We do not operate like some used bookstores that buy books from people for pennies on the dollar and then resells the book at half price.
In fact, we do not buy used books from customers at all. Instead, we give a store credit for a percentage of the book’s value based on a sliding scale, dependent upon the age and condition of the book. In this sense, we could be considered a paperback exchange. Our inventory is continuously being restocked with approved trade-ins, but no cash is being paid out. Customers can then apply their store credit towards the reduced retail price of their next book purchase. They can buy new and used books at a lower price than other used bookstores or eBook prices.
Toweling off, I toyed with an idea of creating a membership club. I would charge a flat, yearly fee to customers interested in belonging. It would be similar to the subscription lending library concept popular in England during the late 1700s to mid 1800s. I set the idea, and the modern problems involved, on the back burner in my brain to simmer away. It was time for the really important decisions of my relaxing weekend off to enjoy my life to the fullest.
I have a wide array of moisturizing lotions and potions to choose from to anoint myself. Stella’s always giving me something new to try. My niece is a fervent supporter of all things organic. Not a carcinogenic chemical or a poisonous perfume was allowed to slip past her eagle eye and into my bathroom, much less soak into my skin. Should the apocalyptic need occur, I can eat or drink from most of the jars or bottles in my bathroom. Super to know, but the lotions need only to smell delicious to make me happy.
I relish everything ultra-feminine. I’ve never worried if I am cool or a hipster, I could care less. I am what I am, a female that unashamedly, blissfully wallows in every frowned down-upon stereotype out there for being such a girly-girl in the new millennium. In my mind, there’s a balanced symmetry that’s very satisfying about loving everything pink while also running a business and digging guns, trucks, and power tools. I prefer sci-fi, zombie, and action movies over dramas and tear jerkers. I love wearing dresses and pretty undies more than jeans and T-shirts.
Although, after Luke owning my butt so easily last night, I need to step it up. It may mean possibly breaking a French manicured nail, but I am going to search out a teacher and put the time into learning some solid fighting moves. Playing with Luke, the message hit home that a weapon or a serious drop kick to the gonads isn’t always be possible to decide a bad situation in my favor.
I was pondering the merits of gardenia oil over orange blossom lotion when I heard the buzz of my cell announcing a message. I had forgotten the phone was in the bathroom on the charger.
There was a text with the one word: Awake?
Let me backtrack here a second. When I introduced myself, I mentioned which nicknames I do answer to, but neglected to say which names I won’t answer. I will never answer to the name Ana.
I’m sorry Annas of the world, but that name brings back memories of a little brat I met when I was five and starting the first grade. It was the very first day of big-girl school for me.
The brat named Anna called me “a baby” when I got teary-eyed before class started. I had choked up because bossy Anna informed me the fistful of yellow, daisy-like flowers I had painstakingly picked for my new teacher were dumb, icky weeds.
None of the adults heard Anna the Botanist tormenting me first. No, they only saw me swatting her with the flat sid
e of my Troll lunch box upside her fat head. I was officially marked a troublemaker and a kid to keep an eye on from day one of my school career because of Anna Lynn Johnson.
Don’t worry, I got even.
Anna Johnson and I have been fast friends ever since. We are the inseparable dynamic duo- Anabel and Anna, still hanging and still managing to get into trouble together almost twenty-five years later.
To this day, it’s still perceived by many that I lure her into bad behavior with my evil ways and she is the good girl. The reality is somewhere closer to this: On the outside, Anna’s pretty and vivacious. She’s a brown-eyed, brown-haired cutie that resembles a chipmunky cheerleader. With her trendy hairstyle and preppy, conservative clothes, she can pass for a preschool teacher or a preacher’s wife. On the inside, she’s a frustrated exotic cage dancer and wildly fun.
Anna isn’t technically an orphan like me. Her mom gave birth then dumped the baby Anna on her much older, spinster sister Lily. Her mother then took off for parts unknown and died a couple of years later in a DUI head-on car crash with a telephone pole. Anna’s father has always been a blank space on her birth certificate.
Unfortunately, Anna has no siblings or other extended family. Her elderly Aunt Lily provided the basics; shelter, clothing, and food, but she’s a rigid, morally self-righteous woman. It wasn’t a hard shell on the outside that covers up a tender heart. Aunt Lily is through and through one uptight, battle-axe of a fundamentalist church lady.
She is a cold and unaffectionate woman, but I guess if she loved anyone it would be Anna. This questionable love manifested itself by Aunt Lily being extremely over protective of Anna growing up, to the point of ridiculousness.
Aunt Lily believes evil lurks in the hearts of all mankind, especially women. Yep, EVIL is just waiting to prompt us female sinners to do any number of deviant deeds. I’ve not heard too many people referring to Jezebel in casual conversation, but Aunt Lily seems to know the woman personally. Anna’s aunt is a woman who believes many women are reincarnated Jezebels responsible for tempting and leading poor, defenseless men astray.
I discussed this with my grandmother after first hearing the name Jezebel when I was quite young. NanaBel’s private opinion to me was Aunt Lily’s harshness stemmed from a bad experience with love that soured her as a young woman. My private opinion to nobody but myself: describing Aunt Lily’s temperament as only soured at love was like saying Hitler was merely miffed at the Jews.
Aunt Lily diligently worked full-time at her church thrift store during the week. She belligerently stomped around brandishing her antique cane she was never without, while bullying people into buying junk they didn’t need. On the weekends, she devoted her time to her church- doing God only knows what.
It wasn’t Dickensian, but still sad. It was not a very fun home life for a kid as lively and loving as Anna.
Somehow, ruthlessly sly NanaBel convinced the domineering and fanatical Aunt Lily that it was her own idea that Anna spent the majority of her time on Division Street with us. Anna was growing up smack dab in a nest of bourgeoning mini-Jezzies while being nurtured by the biggest Jezebel in the Northern Hemisphere, or quite possibly, the world. Yep, that’s right, my grandmother.
Anna fit right in to our riotous household like a homing pigeon come to roost. Anna and my grandmother are a mutual adoration society. Anna has always been treated like another granddaughter, chore chart and all. My siblings probably thought Anna really was another sister; she’d practically lived in the apartment since first grade. Due to Anna being my BFF, I even chose bunk beds for my room, and not the Princess Pink Ruffles canopied bed I lusted after with all my little girl heart.
When the need arose, and it frequently did, I would complain in a whisper to NanaBel about the latest stunt Aunt Lily had pulled to keep Anna at home. Aunt Lily was always denying permission for Anna to come with me to a materialistic birthday party or to the ruinous movies. NanaBel insisted it was done out of Aunt Lily’s love she harbored for Anna, even if she was cold and undemonstrative. I was pretty convinced it was because Aunt Lily was a mean old bitch, but I wisely kept my own counsel. I didn’t want to be grounded for discourtesy and cursing. NanaBel was tough on those subjects, especially with seven-year-olds.
Besides, NanaBel could be counted upon to pick up the phone and perform her magic. Nobody can withstand NanaBel. She’d smooth over whatever objections Aunt Lily had to allowing Anna to join me and the other kids having fun.
Anna’s also my one exception to my strict rule of everyone forgetting my daily existence before ten in the morning.
I checked my phone. It was 7:45 AM. After her text, I called Anna and put it on speaker. I chose the gardenia oil and began to smooth it up my legs, feeling my bliss at the slightly peppery, floral scent.
“Okay, its opinion time,” my friend announced in lieu of a greeting. “I’m deciding between mammoth blueberry muffins with a sugar crusted topping or vanilla frosted raspberry scones for the feature of the day. Which sounds more scrumpdillyicious to you?”
I didn’t need to think. “Size always matters. I vote massive blueberry.”
I could hear pots and pans clanging noisily in the background while she worked. Whatever Anna did, she did loudly and with frenetic energy. Her home kitchen was outfitted to meet professional catering standards. She rose early six days a week and cooked in the comfort of her own kitchen for Bel’s Books café, Laissez Fare.
A couple of years ago, Aunt Lily had deeded title of her house over to Anna with the caveat of life tenancy- good health prevailing. Anna was pleased with this deal while it chilled me to the very marrow. I was horrified at Anna’s Stygian bargain of life tenancy with that strong-as-a-pack-mule, hellfire spouting, seventy-five-year old Debbie Downer of an auntie. It was a living nightmare worse than anything I could wish on my worst enemy. Anna had shrugged at my appalled protests on her behalf. For my friend, having her soul destroyed was worth the price of a free house and a professional kitchen.
Anna’s laughter has a musical sound. The lucky wench could carry a tune, too. “I said mammoth, not massive. Anyway, I remember you distinctly telling me size doesn’t matter, Junior.”
“No way did I say that. That’d be crazy talk.”
“Yes way, you did say that.” Anna also has a memory like a steel trap. I didn’t ever have to worry I’d be able to forget something from my past.
I scanned my memory banks and hit pay dirt. “Ah yes, I told you that years ago when things seemed to be getting serious between you and, what was his name…Stan, Steve? Whatever, we all knew he had a pencil dick. I didn’t want you to feel bad.”
Over the whirring noise of an electric mixer Anna exclaimed, “What? No way! How did everyone know he had a pencil dick? Who’s everyone, anyway?”
“Yes way, and umm…let’s see. Reggie told me and my sisters. Guess he must have seen Stan or Steve’s little pee-pee somehow. Didn’t they go to the same club around then?”
“I don’t know, but that’s too funny.” She kept laughing. “I never did it with him. So that’s why they called him ‘Little Stevie.’ Gosh, and here I thought it was because he was sort of short.” She abruptly stopped laughing. “Oh just great, your jerk of a brother must have laughed his ass off knowing I was going out with a pencil dick. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me! Junior, you’d better tell me what you know about anyone’s dick size I go out with. I don’t want to hook up with any more baby dills! Oh my God…”
I meekly promised to keep her updated.
She demanded, only half in jest, “What about Jim? Do you know anything about him? Tell me!”
“Well, geez Anna, gossip from the bookstore men’s bathroom has his girth measuring in at…You freak, I promise I know nothing about Jim’s manroot size.” Now I was laughing. “I could guess, though, if it would make you happy. Hey, I know, we could start a Fantasy Package League like guys do with football.”
After we ran with that idea, stopped wetting our pants, and
had both settled back down Anna said, “Okay, I’ll assume no news is good news where Jim is concerned.”
Jim Mardsen was Anna’s new flame. Her question about his penis size was interesting since they had been going out for a few weeks already, but I made no further comment.
During one point a couple of months ago, I thought Anna might hook up with Reggie. At first, this seemed bizarre to me, maybe even slightly incestuous. I mean, come on- Reg and Anna? Upon further reflection, I could see the attraction of like to like. I don’t know what happened to stop the would-be lovers, but something went drastically wrong. One day they were flirting like mad, the next day they were giving each other the cold shoulder.
Maybe it was just as well that a romance between Reggie and Anna was over before it began. My brother’s M.O. is to go out with the same woman only a couple of times before moving on. He’s upfront that he’s out only for a fun time, not a relationship. I’d hate to think he’d give Anna the same cavalier treatment, but I’d hate more to see her hurt by my feckless brother.
Most curious was Anna not rushing to tell me every detail. I had to respect her silence, and Reg wasn’t talking, either. I was positive Reggie had done something extraordinarily dumb to make the normally forgiving Anna not want to acknowledge his existence any longer.
Anna sighed. “I’m going with the scones today. I can’t think about mammoth anything right now. The visual is too disturbing.”
I laughed.
Anna and I co-owned but she operated Laissez Fare, the organic bakery, deli, coffee and juice bar located within my bookstore. It was one in a series of ongoing improvements I was implementing to increase revenues when facing reality at the advent of e-books as competition for printed books. Laissez Fare is, by far, the most expensive investment I have made over the last two years.
Northfield is a river town of about twenty thousand located roughly forty minutes south of the Minneapolis-St Paul metro area. The town has two colleges, St Olaf and Carleton. Both are highly ranked private schools. There are approximately five thousand students with money to spend coming to our thriving downtown area regularly to eat, shop, and hit the bars. I couldn’t compete with the bars, but the shopping and eating parts were up for grabs. I had a ready-made hungry and thirsty clientele shopping at my store. I had a best friend with a culinary background tired of working for someone else. Anna and I brainstormed two years ago and the café Laissez Fare was our resulting creation.