Luna Rising

by Selene Castrovilla

A dark-haired, dark-skinned guy in leather pants sidled up to the end of the bar. He caught Luna’s eye and she felt the zap of mutual attraction. Wow! I never thought I’d feel that again! He headed right for her. “My name is Memphis,” he said in a Barry White deep voice. He drank an amber, antiseptic-smelling alcohol, clinking ice as he brought the glass to his lips. His race wasn’t clear—he could’ve been Hispanic, black or a blend of a couple of things. His eyes had an exotic Asian shape to them. They protruded slightly.

  Luna introduced herself, Sunny and Lois. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, presumably to all of them, but focusing on Luna. She was grateful for her pinot grigio. She’d never be able to handle talking to a guy without it. Being dumped gave her zero confidence, but the wine was counter-balancing.

  Memphis talked about Columbia University (his alma mater), his experiences at Burning Man and his addiction to nicotine. All this he directed at Luna, with an occasional nod at Sunny and Lois. It was obvious even to Luna: he was flirting with her. It took her a while and the rest of her wine to feel comfortable with his attention. Her second wine helped even more, and she found herself excited and flattered. But this was a guy who schlepped out to the desert to escape society’s rules, and then met with people weekly to relive the experience.

  Was he really relationship material?

  Memphis headed downstairs for a cigarette, promising to be right back.

  “So what do you think of him?” Luna asked Sunny.

  “He has bulging eyeballs,” Sunny said.

  Lois laughed. Who knew she was capable of laughter?

  “Jeez, can you ever say something nice?” Luna asked Sunny.

  “Occasionally,” said Sunny, draining her martini. “But there’s nothing nice to say about those popping peepers.”

  “So you think I should blow him off?”

  “I didn’t say that, I just said what I noticed. Other than his freak-show eyes, he seems like a nice enough guy.”

  Lois nodded.

  Memphis came back reeking of tobacco, for which he apologized. “I know… disgusting habit.” He hung his head in mock shame.

  “No big deal, my ex-husband smoked,” said Luna.

  “Glad you said ‘ex’,” Memphis said with a sly smile.

  Lois noticed some of her skydiving friends across the room. She took Sunny over to meet them.

  “I thought they’d never leave,” Memphis said in his gritty voice. “Not that I don’t like your friends, but I like you more.” He smiled largely now.

  “I like you, too,” Luna said.

  Memphis bought Luna another drink and they chatted. He loved literature, so that was a good starting point. Here are some other things he told her:

  STATS ON MEMPHIS

  Name: Memphis Fang.

  Ethnic Background: African American and Chinese.

  Marital Status: Single

  Children: None.

  Body: Thin and wiry.

  Hair: Black, slicked back with gel.

  Occupation: Corporate recruiter.

  Favorite Physical Activities: Running, swimming, racquetball.

  Other Likes: Reading, experimental cooking, celebrating the full moon (he belonged to a group that howled at the moon in unison, which he felt cleared his kinetic energy), heading to the desert once a year to express himself.

  Dislikes: Whining, pushiness, self-centeredness.

  Religion: Raised a Buddhist, but didn’t follow it these days.

  Favorite Writers: Hemingway, Faulkner, Joyce.

  Favorite Dessert: Torte.

  Favorite Expression: An Einstein quote – “A man should look for what is, and not for what he thinks should be.”

  After four pinots, Luna was feeling lightheaded. Memphis took her out for some air. He had a Marlboro perched on his lips, but then their eyes locked like they did earlier. He dropped the cigarette to the pavement, grabbed her up and kissed her. He tasted like that antiseptic alcohol he’d been drinking (apparently so potent it washed out the tobacco), but she didn’t even mind. His kiss was sweeping and strong, like the twirling mops at a car wash. Whew! What a rush.

  They stood there for awhile with their tongues locked, until a chill ran down Luna’s body and Memphis led her back inside.

  “So, what tribe do you belong to at Burning Man?” she asked him when they were back on a bench upstairs.

  “BDSM,” he said.

  “Um, hate to sound ignorant but—What does that mean?

  “It’s a complex acronym.”

  “Oh.” Like that explained it.

  “It’s derived from the terms bondage and discipline, dominance and submission, sadism and masochism.”

  Holy cannoli! She suddenly felt a long way from suburbia, where stuff like this was never, ever mentioned.

  “Does that bother you?” he asked.

  “I… I don’t know.” She stared at him, trying to reconcile his words with her mind. “It scares me.”

  “Don’t be afraid.” His smile looked large and freaky. She was buzzing, and bugging. He continued, “We don’t have to do that. Either way, it’s fine.”

  “Are you the… sadist?”

  “I play the dominant role, yes.”

  “Oh, wow.” She’d seen pictures of women hanging from ceilings, bound in so many ropes they looked like cocooned grasshoppers about to be consumed. God, are there any normal men out there? “Does sex even happen during all this bondage stuff?” How could anyone penetrate those restraints?

  “Oh, it happens,” he answered. “But like I said, no pressure. We don’t have to do that.”

  He kissed her again. Damn, they really had chemistry. Too bad he wanted to torture her.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Luna and Sunny took the train to Freeport to get Sunny’s car. Lois had gone home with one of her skydiving friends—a lipstick lesbian named Francesca.

  “So?” Sunny asked, when the train was out of the tunnel and they could hear each other without straining.

  “So what?”

  “So I saw you making out with Mr. Eyeballs.”

  “And?”

  “What did he have to say for himself?”

  Luna thought briefly about not telling Sunny. This was embarrassing. No, wrong word. This was mortifying. But Sunny was her best friend, and that was that. “He said he’s into BDSM.”

  “Which is…”

  “Basically, it’s bondage.”

  “He wants to torture you?” Sunny’s voice was a little loud for the Long Island Rail Road. Luckily, the car was nearly empty.

  “I don’t think ‘torture’ is quite the word—” though it was the word she’d thought of, too.

  “My ass it isn’t. Have you seen those women in hoods? They look pretty tortured to me.”

  “You can’t see their faces.”

  “Exactly! Is this what you’re looking for in a relationship: pain and dehumanization?”

  “I wouldn’t wear a hood. I’m claustrophobic.”

  “Christ on a sesame seed bun with a pickle! Why would you want to have anything to do with this man’s insanity at all?”

  Luna stared out the window, at the darkness blurring by. The train’s hum seemed disturbingly loud tonight. “Is it so different, to be a physical submissive instead of an emotional one?”

  “You are fucked up. You really need a shrink.”

  “I told you, I’m done with shrinks.”

  “Then talk to your chiropractor.”

  “I know what he’d say. He says the same thing anytime I ask advice.”

  “Which is?”

  “He says nothing is right or wrong. The question is whether it makes me happy.”

  “And does it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “That’s why you’re fucked up!”

  “Can’t I just play it by ear?”

  “With a man like that? No.”

  “He said we don’t have to do that stuff.”

  “Yeah, right. You don’t have to do it yet. Next
thing you know, you’ll be in a ratchet gag.”

  “Ratchet gag?”

  “I saw one on-line once. You can get the picture from the name. Not an attractive look.”

  Bing! The train announcement system sounded. “This station is Jamaica,” said a computerized voice

  They were halfway there.

  The lights flashed on and off, the way they always did at Jamaica.

  Sunny sighed. “When you go out with him, make sure you keep your cell phone on.”

  Three nights later, Luna was buzzed in and clomping her way up to Memphis’s fourth-floor walk-up. You should listen to Sunny, Jiminy chimed in. She cares about you.

  Jiminy picked the darndest times to chat. “Sometimes I think you don’t care about me.”

  Why’s that?

  “You come, you go. Anytime you want.”

  Hey, it’s not like I’m getting paid for this. Do you have a specific complaint?

  “I called out to you that night Alex dumped me. You didn’t answer.”

  After the way you spoke to me earlier? You’re lucky I didn’t ditch you for good. Trust me, Luna. I care.

  She stopped climbing and sighed. “So, you think it’s wrong for me to get involved with Memphis?”

  It’s wrong for you.

  She thought for a moment about this. Then she started to climb again.

  Suit yourself, said Jiminy. But then, you always do.

  Just to be clear, Luna told Memphis she wouldn’t wear a hood. “On this, I’m firm.”

  “I’ve never used a hood,” he said. They were standing in his entranceway, just past his front door. She didn’t want to come in any further without this clarification. “And I told you, we don’t have to do that at all.”

  But like a vampire who just couldn’t stop himself, he reached for her neck all the same.

  Sunny was right. Could the ratchet gag be far away?

  She blocked his hand. “Not tonight, not this first time.”

  He said, “That’s fine.” He put his hand on her waist.

  She asked, “Can you please be tender?”

  “I can.” But his voice was so not tender.

  He smelled of alcohol and tobacco, like last time. Yet his skin had another scent—a nice, fruity one. His soap, no doubt. She was surprised Memphis didn’t use Axe.

  He pulled her blouse over her head and unhooked her bra. There was something so sexy about him making this bold move right there in his foyer. never used a hood,” he said.

  He squeezed her nipples. Not that hard, but still… it was a squeeze.

  It felt good. That’s worrisome, she thought. But then she stopped thinking because the feeling of his fingers was soooo amazing.

  She came on the spot, just standing there. She almost fell over from the intensity, but he held her up.

  “I need to fuck you now,” he said.

  He took her hand, led her into the bedroom. She was still quivering from her orgasm¸ and shaking for more. He stopped at the bathroom for a condom but never let go of her hand.

  The sex wasn’t tender, but Luna didn’t care.

  He pounded her so hard and she came and came. “Ohhhh Godddd!”

  It was surreal, like she was swimming in an impressionist’s ocean. Her consciousness drifted in and out, up and down… the only constant was pleasure.

  She felt his hand on her neck, not pressing, but there.

  Letting her know he was in control.

  For a few drifting moments it didn’t matter if he wanted to dominate her. If that was the admission price to this heaven, so be it. She just kept releasing, releasing, releasing….

  Then she was back. Fully aware. Memphis was staring, studying her with those widened, stark eyes.

  His right hand still gripped her neck, his other worked her nipple.

  She didn’t want to think about his fingers around her throat. She was a sparrow in his palm. He could crush her just like that.

  She didn’t want to look at him scoping her.

  She could come again if she closed her eyes. So she did.

  She screamed out again in exquisite pleasure, lifting off onto a cloud.

  Then she fell asleep.

  She woke up sometime in the night. Memphis was unconscious, his hand still on her throat. She released herself, taking hold of his wrist and moving his arm beside him. He sighed and rolled over, squishing himself against his pillow.

  He looked so innocent and peaceful like that…

  She thought back to their encounter.

  This time he hadn’t hurt her.

  But what would he do if he could have his way?

  And then there was the more disturbing question: to get more of those crazy-good, ever-lasting orgasms, would she let him have his way?

  Memphis’s books were the first things she saw in the morning. He had a shelf next to the bed, filled with classics. The sun was shining on them through the window: Shakespeare, Hemingway, Faulkner, Fitzgerald, Joyce, Melville… But no female writers.

  Next to the bookcase was a dim open closet. The sunlight couldn’t reach that far.

  There was a black leather studded bodysuit hanging on a door hook, mask included. Luna shuddered. Even unoccupied, it looked cruel.

  She did not want to see Memphis inside it.

  He was curled up with his pillow.

  Again, she noted how chaste he looked, lying there…

  Stop! No affectionate thoughts! She chided herself. Serial killers probably look sweet when they’re sleeping.

  This wasn’t love. Memphis was like a conduit, guiding the orgasms that were stored up inside of her.

  That’s all he was.

  A conductor.

  She couldn’t allow herself to love him, ever.

  Memphis was no innocent.

  That leather get-up in the closet, that hand around her neck—that was Memphis awake.

  Luna pushed the black covers off of her and slid out of Memphis’s bed

  She put her clothes back on and left, without waking him to say goodbye.

  A few nights later Luna and the kids had dinner at Sunny’s. Afterwards, the kids watched a movie in the living room, while Luna and Sunny sat in the kitchen. “I’m not going to see Memphis again, so you can take yourself off high-alert,” Luna told Sunny.

  “What happened?”

  “I realized that there actually is a difference between being a physical submissive and an emotional one.”

  “Amen to the baby Jesus!” Sunny extended her beer towards Luna’s glass of seltzer. “Cheers! Here’s to enlightenment.”

  And here’s to keeping it coming, added Jiminy.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  Luna managed to get by without thinking about a man until the beginning of February, when the stupid Valentine’s Day ads ran so rampantly that they were impossible to ignore. She’d just finished listening to one for a rose company and felt ready to throw herself into a thorny bush when she got a call from a 561 area code on her cell. “Hello?”

  “Cuz!” It was her cousin Dom. “What’s going on?”

  This was an unexpected question.

  The last time she’d spoken to Dom was just before she’d learned that Nick was a paying member of Gay.com. When her husband wouldn’t touch her, but she didn’t know why.

  She’d thought she could turn to Dom. Growing up, they’d been distant – due to the fact that their family sucked at getting together – but he’d been an usher at her wedding. That night, as they shared a dance, he’d said he’d always be there for her. Soon after, Dom got married and moved to Florida with his wife, Jill. They’d opened up a beachfront steakhouse. But even though he was far and they didn’t speak, Luna carried his words from her wedding in her heart. She’d always wanted a brother, and Dom was the closest thing she had. So she’d called him.

  “My marriage has fallen apart,” she confided, pouring her heart into her cell phone. “Nick doesn’t want me anymore. I haven’t had sex in three years.”

  “Don’t y
ou have a vibrator?” he asked. His voice was staticky and distant.

  “Yeah…”

  “Then what’s the problem? You’re covered,” he said.

  “The problem is that I’m lonely… I want to be held…”

  There was an uncomfortable silence on the line. Then he said, “Let me have Jill call you back.”

  But that call never came. Not that Luna wanted to talk to Jill anyway. They’d barely ever spoken before, other than bs niceties.

  After a week she’d deleted Dom from her contacts.

  What had she expected to get from that conversation with him, anyway?

  Empathy.

  She thought he’d at least listen.

  Now he was calling. A little late to reach out again.

  Now he wanted to know what was going on. Well, she’d tell him.

  “I’m divorced,” she said.

  “That’s cool.”

  Cool?

  “I got a surprise for you… Jill and I sold the steakhouse, and as of tomorrow we are back on L.I.! We’re having a ‘coming home’ party on Saturday night. Can’t wait to catch up!”

  “Oh… I…” Luna wasn’t sure if she wanted to go. She hated parties.

  Before she could decide, he said, “I’ll text ya our new address. Ciao!”

  That was Dom, making assumptions and not listening. He had the attention span of a three-year-old.

  Here are some other things about Dom:

  STATS ON DOM:

  Name: Dominick Rissoto

  Ethnic background: ¾ Italian and ¼ Ukrainian

  Marital Status: Married

  Children: None.

  Body: Moderately tall, excessively muscular.

  Hair: Shaved bald, because he was going bald. (By now, he might actually have gone bald.)

  Occupation: Former steakhouse owner.

  Favorite physical activities: Weightlifting, cardio.

  Other likes: Partying, living in the moment, most sports (bowling didn’t thrill him, and he called tennis gay), Muscle Milk laced with vodka.

  Dislikes: The bottom of the bottle, maturity.

  Religion: Like Luna, he was raised without one.

  Favorite writers: Whoever wrote for Muscle and Mad Magazines.

  Favorite dessert: Anything with rum.

  Favorite expression: “What, me worry?”