Shortly after enrolling at the university my world had fallen apart; I had to move. Months and months had passed since Sir and I were able to get together, carnally or otherwise, and it was literally killing me. Everything I had known, my entire existence at home had collapsed with incredible volition, further disrupting Sir and me like the wake of an exploding SCUD missile. Finally I landed on a dubious ledge and hung on. That was enough. For a minute I had a place to call home.
He had called—miraculously I managed to keep the same phone number through the chaotic upheaval—but each time I had missed him, hearing only his answering machine messages every time. Hearing his voice and not being able to call him back was driving me insane.
Sir, overflowing with patience, after many attempts finally got hold of me. At last I was home when it rang. I snatched up the phone and there he was, live, answering machine no more. It was Sir.
Breathlessly ecstatic, I listened for instructions for the meeting time and place. Naturally, it was to be down the street from the Institute. My heart was racing.
I flew there; this time I was ahead of schedule.
Now I waited, watching the slow, seductive rain patterns form and reform on my windshield. Unusual that I was early. It was only seven-thirty and meeting time was eight. There was no one else parked in the large, dim lot. I settled back contentedly into the seat of my car to observe the city winding down from another rat-race day, to watch it take a long breath before beginning the night. A shop owner was locking up, his large display windows encircled with small, brightly glowing orbs that illuminated the mannequins inside. Mists from the pavement rose, floated, and enveloped the flagstones, the street, my car—everything—in misty magic.
I smiled. To relax and slowly close my eyes brought a beautiful calm, a calm that at the same time electrically charged my spine with tingles. There was such pleasure in awaiting this man. I would not have been so patient for anyone else. Not only would I not have waited, I wouldn’t have been early in the first place; I would have made a point of being late so Mr. Someone would have had to wait for me. Truthfully the most likely scenario is I would simply not have shown up at all. For no man was worth it, of all the men I had ever known.
… Except for Sir. He was magic. The delight I took in waiting for him was complete.
Sir.
Almost anything he did was perfect with me because Sir was almost perfect. I say ‘almost’ only because, as I said to him a year before while sitting in his lap at the river, almost nothing is absolute. I know this axiom to be true, yet Sir disproves it every moment I’m with him. I don’t know how he does it, he just does.
My mind drifted back to a short half-hour before, driving down the highway, heading into the city, ‘UN’dressing.
I left the house clothed in my usual battle attire: jeans, sweatshirt, sports socks and tennis shoes. But as the miles stretched beneath my wheels I began a transformation: a rite. As O (‘I’m fond of habits and rites’—O.) I, too, am fond of rites. This ritual carried more significance than its surface allowed. This particular ritual suppressed one entity and empowered another. Exchanging light for dark, as it were, which is exactly what I did.
The yin/yang completely unplanned, I had originally worn all white, or pale, as in the extremely faded jeans, when I climbed into my car. My sweatshirt, my socks, my bra, my panties—all white. Then as I drove I exchanged each item for its counterpart; each article I replaced by black—or nothing at all.
The road, at twilight, was relatively empty. I like to drive in a pocket anyway, in my own space, keeping pace with no one but myself. So the occasional driver who did pass me was either unaware of my movements (re-movements?) or perhaps had an interesting conversation-starter at dinner that evening: ‘Honey you wouldn’t believe what this chick was doing in the car next to me on the way home…!’
Either way, I certainly didn’t care. To ignore outside signals and concentrate on the pertinent was one of my specialties; something I had perfected in an attempt to survive a world that was too raw, too cruel; a world that continually bombarded my brain with overwhelming rushes of data. To say that I am uncomfortable in a crowd is a huge understatement. I can ‘perform’ in front of a crowd just fine, but in everyday dealings with people? I ‘pick up’ their ‘vibes’, for lack of a better word, and as such I just am burdened with gauging the moods, body language, and modus operandi of everyone around me. It’s a gift. It’s a curse. It’s my life.
In a crowd, I am like a snake in a glass jar writhing to get out; a feral cat in a stranger’s arms, plotting its escape with wild eyes, never once letting down its guard. It’s as if am receiving everyone’s energy at once, perceiving everyone’s screaming thoughts at once, all signals like lightning bolts to my brain pressuring me to perform. Their needs come first. When I am forced to endure it I retreat into a little storm center, a calm in the eye of the hurricane and, quietly, brick by brick, wall myself in. I leave an impostor outside to smile and deal with the noise and the total chaotic mess we loosely call society. It usually works well. In exchange I have become a chameleon; ‘Comfortably Numb’, but safe.
The garb that I had managed to don, albeit by applying some unique driving skills, was to be a little surprise for Sir. I had alluded to having a surprise for him on the phone earlier; tonight I hoped it worked.
I was just re-buttoning my coat as the lights of the city approached. The buildings loomed like iron giants, like Japanese film monsters with glowing bands of fluorescent lights adorning their heads. Every few years new, more expensive and expansive giants sprouted like mushrooms from the dusty holes of the demolished, proud old German-built, former occupants. Now approaching the city, each metal leviathan reared ever larger against a darkening, lead-gray sky.
I truly loved the city—anytime, but especially at night. The magic came out at night. Its mystical mantras echoed everywhere, covering all the city’s grime and dirt with a peachy glow. It even painted the grubby streetlight people with a quaint charm. Tonight though, the rain-drenched streets and alleys were virtually empty.
I caught a red light and took advantage of it to slip on one high, black heel. The light changed and I reached for the other one. The sensation of movement was odd because under my coat I was, for all intents and purposes, completely naked. Oh, I had brought a dress, to slip on when and if the occasion presented itself, or rather, if Sir so suggested—a soft, black, velvety dress—but it was left for the moment in my bag.
I opened my eyes to a distant crash of thunder. The rain was beginning to show threat of fulfilling the weatherman’s predictions of possible severity. Seven-forty-eight. I released a slow breath and let my eyelids close again. A second, more distant and less ominous thunderclap rumbled.
‘Riders on the Storm’. We soon would be just that. The idea tingled my depths, hard.
All I could think about was Sir, our phone conversations, and Sir, his eyes, and Sir… and Sir, and Sir, and Sir…
Oh, those conversations. Unbelievable. Sensuous. Sultry. Hypnotic. I was completely wet now with anticipation.
The downpour backed off as quickly as it had begun and the lightning didn’t flash again.
It was eight-o’clock: the huge clock in the old cathedral behind me chimed the hour. Built in the mid-1800s, and beautiful and sturdy, its tower looked majestically over the buildings around it. You could see it from the Institute. The last of the eight peals sounded and, like the Beatles song, I went into a dream.
The Institute on Seventeenth Street, behind me and half a block away, was another one of those big, old buildings. Three years ago that’s where I first met Sir.
I closed my eyes and remembered.
Brilliant sunlight flooded my mind, the sunlight of a sweltering hot, end-of-summer afternoon. I had walked into the school, a late enrollee, and walked out, head swimming and still disbelieving that I had actually been accepted. I now possessed the materials, the equipment and art supplies contained in the black portfolio case whic
h I held with a death grip in my hot little hand. Still afraid that one of the school officials, Candice or Meredith, would come trotting behind me, informing me that it was all a mistake, that I did not belong there, and that my precious black case that I was ready to fight like a tiger to keep was being confiscated. After all, it contained some three-hundred-dollars’ worth of materials credited to me. That seemed like an awfully lot, then. Especially considering my finances and the terrible curves life had thrown at me of late.
I hadn’t been able to wait to get the portfolio case home, to lay every piece of art equipment out on my bed, to handle and delicately turn over each and every magical, intriguing piece. Artists. We’re a screwy bunch.
Speaking of intrigue, I knew Sir was magic from the first time I sensed him at those elevators. If I couldn’t tell from his extremely subtle glances which, by the way, only another artist/psychic could pick up, then for sure that first ride in his tall, black Mercedes convinced me. The Mercedes alone was impressive enough, set up so high on those huge, wide tires. Indeed, Sir was over the top Magik.
The way Sir simply picked up that seat belt without a word and definitively plopped it into my lap as John Wayne would have was mesmerizing. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t have to say anything. Electricity surged between us when our fingers touched.
There was tremendous significance in that split second seat belt deal; something supernatural happened. It summoned a bygone time; opened an ancient, long-closed portal. It was a strange and overwhelming power like I’ve never felt with anyone or anything before—or since. Only with Sir...
Nearly three years ago now.
My dream jarred to a halt. Reality was approaching in the form of a loud, growling, wide-center-stripped white Camaro. I heard it coming from a block and a half away, it was that unique. I had heard that engine only once before. Sir had let me experience that animal growl over the phone as he sat in it and talked to me one evening. There was no mistaking it now. It snarled like a proud cougar bellowing its arrival.
Yes, it was Sir all right. He glided slowly through the parking lot gate and circled around behind me. I sat still, not looking at him, already feeling my composure slipping—me, the most confident creature on God’s Earth. Me, Dragon-Slayer and Man-Devourer.
‘Don’t you think it’s rather funny, I should be in this position? I’m the one, who’s always been so calm, so cool, no lover’s fool, running every show, He scares me so.’
Mary Magdalene the Whore. It fit.
But I have magic, too. Not Big Magik, like Sir, but magic, nonetheless. I gathered up as much of it as I could now, turning to peek at him through my rain-speckled window. He looked across at me. I averted my eyes and drew my coat around me in preparation of my revelation.
I wanted to do this right, this minor surprise. I wanted it. More than just to please him, I wanted to provoke him. I wanted to reach in and jerk a response from him so strong that he would literally eat me alive. I wanted no power over him, wanted only to denounce that power that I seemed to have over other men, power that allowed me to control, power that was exciting, exhilarating, devilish, delighting, and, totally and utterly revolting.
Manipulation. I can’t seem to resist it sometimes. It is just so damned easy to do. Sheep actually want to be controlled. I know it’s evil, but it is so damned much fun when I can do it, and I usually can, damn it, so why not? Does a soldier lay down his M-16 to fight with a birch bow? No. That M-16 must be taken away by a worthy opponent, and only then when pried from his cold, dead fingers. To relinquish what has been naturally bestowed goes entirely against the grain. To give easy passage to these sacred rites is sheer blasphemy. To relinquish one’s power, whatever power that is, without a struggle, is to forfeit that power forever. But to lose to an entity with a greater power carries no stigma; no shame, as long as the war has been justly waged. In this there is a holy binding of that power for all eternity. A peace. A balance. Like the gift of healing touch I possess from a different time, I just know.
OK. To the Front.
This, as I said, had to be done just right. I opened my door. Gathering the coat around me casually, I swung my locked knees and stepped down carefully. I made a few calculated, distracting moves upward fussing with my furry coat collar, then stood up and glanced across at his eyes. He didn’t seem to suspect anything. Mission accomplished thus far.
Proceed To Mortar Range.
I stepped to his passenger door whose window was halfway down.
“Nice weather we’re having isn’t it,” Sir stated whimsically.
“Yeah,” I piped, smiling and deftly turning backwards to seat myself in his car. This part also had to be done precisely. The lifting of the legs; the tilting, just so, of the ankles; the positioning of the knees, all in sync, all in one fluid motion. His green eyes mirrored only pleasure at seeing me, nothing more. I was delighted.
“How’re you doing…?” He piped with a grin, in his gravel-y John Wayne voice.
I beamed back devilishly.
Carefully, now, slide the Beretta 92 SB from the breast pocket. Load the 15 rounds of jacketed hollow points from my other pocket while keeping Sir’s eyes impaled on mine. Slowly, slowly… OOPS!
No! The barrel had glinted in my hand! He’s seen it! I’ve blown it. My coat had slid slightly open at the knee and I was sure that I had lost control of his eyes. The rope, which I had hoped to repel down slowly to the last possible second, was now burning my hands. I could see Sir’s eyes starting to twinkle. Would I be granted my wish? I prematurely squeezed the trigger. Bang!
“This is your surprise.” I smiled, unbuttoning my coat less slowly than I had wanted. I let the coat slide off my shoulders and down to the seat.
Oh, yes, Sir’s reaction did please me. His smile froze as the hit smacked him broadside. Beneath a silky, onyx slip the lacy tops of black, thigh-high stockings peeked. The straps of my garter-belt and the filigreed slip danced coquettishly just at the edge of my panty line, if, I had been wearing panties that is.
I wasn’t.
Sir heaved a remark and reached his hand to part the coat further. He pushed the slip up higher on my hips, remarking again, as the fluff between my thighs became fully visible.
Sir’s green eyes were incredible. I sat motionless and let him examine to his heart’s content. Sir did not regard my face, just my uncovered body, allowing me the rare privilege of observing him and his reaction without intimidation. Because, for the suspended moments in time that Sir took to run his hand over my legs, my ankles, my stomach, my thighs, his wide, staring eyes soaked me up like a sponge. To my utter delight, he ignored my face, eyes—the entirety of ‘me’ completely. I was no longer a whole woman, I was a Picasso: legs, torso, feet, but a severed head lolling lifelessly away from its body while retaining the ability to see. His eyes were sparkling; child-like, wondrous; eyes filled with something akin to awe, like….
My thoughts were interrupted.
Now Sir’s gaze was tracing slowly upward. Inch by halting inch, he was just about to my face. I mustn’t look at him now. My moment of power, if it had even existed, had ended. Momentary insanity over, time to retreat. Back to the bunker.
Smiling, I closed my coat and re-buttoned it, snuggling down into the furry softness of the oversized collar, and feeling suddenly safe from, though naked in, the outside world. Wrapped in Sir’s guardian presence, I reveled again in his incredible power.
Sir dropped back against the window, giving one of his shuttered, anticipatory sighs.
“You’re naked,” he overstated with a grin.
“Yeah,” I chimed. Then brightened, “But I brought a dress…” I made an abbreviated motion toward the bag I had deposited into his back seat.
“Good,” he raised his head to glance back, “in case we break down or something.”
“Oh, do you want me to put it on now?” I said, sitting up. My concern was sincere, thinking that it might embarrass him driving around town with a naked woman.
“No!” He boomed with a chuckle, “No, I don’t want you to put it on now!” He made the suggestion sound as ludicrous as it was.
“Oh,” I smiled, contented once again, but feeling happily childish. I wiggled down into the seat, sitting lady-like with knees and ankles glued together.
Sir immediately reached over and pressed his hand against my left knee, those maddening eyes touching mine for a brief eternity. I complied to his touch at once and he reopened my coat to the waist. He then pulled my left leg slightly higher, resting it over the console. I tucked the foot under my right leg, the heel of which caused it to arch dramatically.
Just to know that Sir was coolly observing the statue that he had posed drove me quietly, stark raving mad. My heart pounded with every electric touch.
“Ready?” John Wayne half-asked, half-stated in a voice thick with anticipation.
“Yes,” I spoke in a whisper not wanting to disturb the fragile magic. I didn’t ask where; it probably would have gone unanswered if I had. As usual, I truly didn’t care where we were headed as long as it was with Sir.
He backed the car and spun it.
“We’re going for a ride!” He announced with a broad smile, leaning toward me in his signature style.
Sir had a way of tipping forward for effect when he spoke. Even when he delivered those unspoken instructions with his eyes; it was if he was following them to their mark, exactly like John Wayne.
There was an undercurrent in his last statement as it echoed through my head; something that made my heart skip a beat.
Rightly so.
“Do you want to take my car?” I asked out of nowhere; my silly habit of making conversation to fill in the blank. Gawd he must think I’m just plain crazy, I thought as soon as I said it. I flushed.
He pressed the gas and looked at me again. “No,” he said indulgently, like a father to a child. He chuckled.
I could hear him thinking, ‘Take that lame Toyota over my hot, bitchin’ Camaro? Yeah, right.’
Masochism of M: A Sexual Mémoir Page 9