‘So I act classy in Act I. How ’bout Act II?’
‘Less so. At the party you’ll look cheaper and a lot more stressed out. You’ll recognize Mike, but shake your head to warn him off. Then you’ll slip away. Later he’ll catch a glimpse of you in the orgy room. You’ll be in your underwear, your makeup’ll be messed, and he’ll see you get an injection administered by one of the goons, presumably heroin.’
‘Act III?’
‘You’re hitting bottom, totally drugged. The classy escort he met at the Clift now behaves like a cheap hooker. From the pole you’ll come on to him, beckoning him by making cock-sucking motions with your mouth. By overdoing it you’ll be telling him you’re putting on an act. He’ll see track marks on your arms and be repulsed, but he won’t be able to take his eyes off you because something about you continues to fascinate him. Then you’ll collapse like you’ve OD’d and the thugs who abducted you will drag your limp body off stage.’
‘So … a tragedy. I can do all that.’
‘Of course you can! Acts II and III will be fun for you. But the bar scene’s crucial. You need to be really seductive there … as only a very pricey top-of-the-line escort can. The illusion depends on getting the hook in his mouth. Otherwise he won’t care about your downfall.’
‘Suppose I play it like a spoiled-rotten rich girl fallen on hard times? Like in that old Bob Dylan song – “You’ve gone to the finest school all right, Miss Lonely …”’
Rex nods. ‘Yeah, that’s it!’
‘Suggestion. This’ll mean hiring another actor, but I think it’ll enhance the story. A tough-looking gangster type, fat, ugly, and powerful. And, to keep it noirish, with an unlit cigar clenched between his teeth. The thugs work for him. He owns me. He pimps me out. He likes to degrade me. He’s waiting in the back of a limo outside the Clift. The client’ll catch a glimpse of him as the thugs shove me into his car. At the strip joint he’ll be standing there getting off seeing me humiliate myself. The client’ll notice him because he’ll have seen him two times before, so he’ll figure it’s a master/slave relationship. The client’ll be disgusted by my performance on the pole, but he’ll be fascinated too because for all his decency there’s also a side of him that likes seeing me degraded.’
‘Love it! And I know just the actor. We’ll call this character Fat Man. As always, Tess, you know how to take an idea for a sketch, add a level, and deepen it.’
And as always I’m a sucker for his flattery. ‘So – want to see me pole-dance?’
‘Sure, if you want.’
I nod, strip to my underwear, then do a few turns. The pole’s the portable kind, spring-loaded, but firm enough for me to work it.
‘I’ve forgotten some of the routines – allegra, batman, flying ballerina. Want me to study up?’
He shakes his head. ‘What I want you to do is make love to it. Treat it like a gigantic dick. Try much too hard to act sexy – so hard you come off as sloppy. Act like pole-dancing’s not your thing. Fat Man’s making you do it.’
I try a routine, stumble, pull myself up, make myself dizzy swinging through four or five fast loops, finally collapse into a heap.
Rex is pleased. ‘You’re nailing it, babe! Put your clothes back on and let’s get something to eat. I want to hear about Recital, where you want to go with it, and how I can help you take it there.’
Back home in Oakland I find a voicemail message from Lynx. She thanks me for writing and says she’d definitely like to meet. I call her back. We agree to meet up tomorrow morning. I suggest Downtown Café, but Lynx has another idea.
‘There’s this fetish shoe store, Madame deRouge, on Harrison and 18th. I’ve got shopping to do so let’s meet there. Then if we both decide to continue the conversation, there’s a coffee place around the corner.’
I understand: she wants to check me out.
‘Sure. Meet you at eleven at deRouge,’ I tell her.
I spend the early part of the morning working on Recital in front of my camera, rehearsing then stopping to critique the video. I try to keep Dr Maude’s advice in mind – don’t over-satirize, grant Mrs Z a full measure of humanity. My object is to evoke pity and terror – pity for the woman’s pathetic sense of entitlement, and terror on account of her blatant moral corruption. As Rex told me yesterday at lunch, ‘Satire’s fun and easy to do, but, as a great showman once put it, satire closes on Saturday night.’
I spot Lynx right away. She’s the only one in the store. She looks just like her website photo, but without the lascivious smirk. I catch her glancing at me as we browse the merchandise. She picks up a shoe with an exaggerated stiletto heel.
‘What’d you think?’ she asks.
‘Nice piece of sculpture, but I couldn’t walk in it.’
She smiles, then leads me over to a glass case near the cash register filled with fetishistic black-leather head-encasement helmets and hoods.
‘What’d you think of these?’ she asks.
The cashier, a busty freckled redhead, gazes at me amused.
I get it. I’m being tested. If I blink, blush, blanch, or act uneasy, I’ll fail and Lynx’ll blow me off. So to make sure I pass I run my tongue subtly across my upper lip.
‘I like them,’ I tell her. ‘Something to wear to church. Or maybe the Easter Parade.’
Lynx and the redhead guffaw.
‘Let’s go get coffee,’ Lynx says.
She leads me to a café two doors down. We settle in at a sidewalk table. After we order she studies me as she quizzes me about my interest in Chantal.
‘You wrote that you knew her slightly?’
I tell her about meeting her at kickboxing class.
Lynx nods. ‘She had a barter deal there. Twelve BDSM sessions with the sensei in exchange for Muay Thai training.’
Well, there’s a revelation! I never would have imagined Kurt being submissive.
‘You wrote she used the name Marie?’ I nod. ‘That was her middle name. She used it sometimes in her, you know, vanilla life … such as it was.’
Lynx turns serious. She admits she’s extremely upset about what happened to her friend and is still trying to work it out in her head.
‘I’m not the only one,’ she tells me. ‘The whole East Bay domme community’s in pain over this. Everyone liked Chantal. She didn’t have any enemies in the business I know about. Now everyone’s scared there’s a woman-hating killer on the loose. No one wants to take on anyone new.’ She sips her coffee. ‘There was a San Jose domme killed last year. Shot twice. And, the weird part – whoever did it went to a lot of trouble. After he killed her he dug out the bullets. That’s the story going around. What’d you think?’
I tell her that suggests the killer was worried the bullet markings could be traced.
‘Like maybe a cop?’ she asks.
‘Are there cop clients?’
‘We don’t ask people what they do. Cops session just like everybody else. If you’re wondering why I wanted to check you out it’s ’cause I wanted to make sure you weren’t a cop.’
I tell her I understand even though I don’t. Seems to me that other women in the business, feeling threatened, would bend over backwards to help the police.
But Lynx is on to other things. She tells me the last time she saw Chantal was at her tag sale.
‘Practically all the East Bay dommes came,’ she says. ‘Her decision to sell off her stuff – that seemed weird to me, coming so sudden, but most of the girls figured it for another case of domme-burnout. Happens in our business. People quit cold turkey, sell off their stuff, and move on. Some go back to school, others get a straight job, others might marry a client, settle down, and start popping out kids. But I knew Chantal well enough to see this wasn’t just burnout, that she was seriously disturbed. When I asked what was going on, she whispered, “Something’s gone horribly wrong here.” When I asked what she signaled she didn’t want to talk about it. She was usually open with me so I figured whatever it was was cutting her pretty deep.
Anyway, it helps me to talk about her. She was a terrific kid. I’m going to miss her a lot.’
I’m pleased at her willingness to talk. I also find myself liking her.
‘Josh told me you two used to work together.’
‘We shared space for a year. Saw our clients separately. Occasionally we’d do a double. Not often. Our styles were too different.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘I’m more a physical type. I specialize in corporal punishment.’ She grins. ‘The masochists love me. I wield a mean whip.’
‘And Chantal?’
‘She liked working the psychological side – what she called “therapeutic dominance”. She knew how to punish a slave. She wouldn’t hesitate to slap one across the face. But she wouldn’t take on masochists, only submissives. She thought of herself as a healer and her work as a form of therapy. Chantal wasn’t into inflicting pain. She used to say her greatest pleasure was to burrow way deep into someone’s head and take up residence there. Or as she liked to put it, “pull a demon out of a guy’s closet and give it a kiss”. Basically she got off on mind-fucks.’
Hearing this, I can’t decide which form of BDSM strikes me as more caustic: Lynx’s sadism applied to the flesh or Chantal’s psychological dominance inflicted upon the brain.
‘Still,’ I say, ‘she had the cell and the St. Andrew’s Cross.’
‘Sure, she had that … and a lot more. But, see, a major part of a mind-fuck is to create a mood. My place, the one we used to share, is in a cellar. It looks like a dungeon. Chantal wanted something elegant with lots of light. Soon as she saw that loft she knew it was perfect.’
As did I!
‘The building manager told me she called it The Eagle’s Nest.’
‘That’s how she thought of it – high up, aloof, a place where, if you went there, you were likely to get clawed.’
‘Weird name to use, don’t you think?’
‘Because of the Hitler connection?’ She smiles. ‘Tess loved stuff like that. Anyway, to answer your question, she had hundreds of tools, most just for show. That’s what she sold off – whips, canes, bondage devices, hoods, manacles, and her collection of fetish wear. For her those things were props, rarely used, which was why all her stuff was in great condition.’ Lynx crinkles her eyes. ‘I bought her Australian single-tail, the one she called Blackspur. She knew how to crack it, but I doubt she ever used it on a client. It’s a gorgeous instrument. It’s going to be fun breaking it in.’
I wince.
‘Hey, am I making you uncomfortable?’
‘It’s OK,’ I tell her. ‘My monologues are about making people uncomfortable. The other night my old acting coach came up to the loft. He saw the cell and cross, and when I told him a domme used to live there, he pointed out that you guys are performers too.’
Lynx giggles. ‘It’s all about the performance. I’ll raise welts on a guy’s butt, but even when we’re engaged like that we both know we’re play-acting. Chantal was fascinated by the combination of real and artificial. Also by the fact that it’s a transaction, that we’re fee-for-service providers.’
I ask her if she knows Chantal’s real name.
‘Chantal Marie Marceau. I know that sounds made-up. Most of our work names are. Believe me, my parents didn’t name me Lynx! Her background was French Canadian. Both her parents were teachers. When they died in a car accident, she quit college and went to Vienna. That’s where she met this high-end domme, Gräfin Eva. Eva took a liking to her and invited her to be her assistant. That’s how Chantal learned the trade … the old-fashioned way by apprenticeship. She spoke often of this woman. Gräfin means countess in German. She was in her fifties, and, according to Chantal, greatly influenced by Freud. She liked to do mock-psychoanalytic sessions with her clients, ordering them to lie naked on a couch, then reveal their secret fantasies. If Eva felt they were withholding or fabricating, she’d punish them for lying, then, at end of session, hold them close and comfort them. It was Eva who got Chantal into thinking of herself as a healer. She came out here once to visit so I got a chance to meet her. Amazing woman! She radiated dominance. She also had this mantra: “We use pain to defeat pain.” Chantal loved that! It became her mantra too.’
I’m impressed by Lynx. She’s smart and articulate. I can understand why she and Chantal were friends.
‘Did Chantal have siblings?’
‘There’s a brother, a ski instructor in Vermont. I’m sure he’s been informed. You said Josh talked to the cops. He probably told them how to contact him.’
‘I’m not sure about that. Josh says he didn’t know much about her.’
Lynx shakes her head. ‘He knows plenty. Don’t believe a thing he says. He’s a forger. He forges paintings then sells them to dumb-ass collectors.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘That’s what Chantal told me.’ She pauses. ‘I don’t mean to trash your friend.’
‘He’s not really my friend. I barely know him.’
‘Well … like I was saying, Chantal had this brother, but they weren’t close. Still I hope somebody got in touch with him. Considering the way she was found the least she deserves is a decent burial.’
I decide to steer the conversation back to performance. Like Chantal I’m fascinated by the combination of real and artificial in my own work.
‘I’m preparing a new piece,’ I tell her. ‘It involves convincing my audience I’m sixty-seven years old, filthy rich, elegant on the surface but full of resentment and repressed rage beneath.’
Lynx snorts. ‘Sounds like a hoot!’
‘I was rehearsing this morning, then running back the video to check whether my monologue was convincing.’
‘Good method! We do that too, video recording. We don’t talk about it because our clients are ultra-concerned about confidentiality. But Chantal and I always recorded our sessions in case someone claimed something wasn’t consensual, and also, like you, to make sure we were bringing off our scenes. We’d check out each other’s videos then make suggestions.’
I’d love to see a video of Chantal in action, but hesitate to ask Lynx for fear she’ll be turned off.
‘In acting class we call that critiquing,’ I tell her.
Lynx nods. ‘Our clients would kill us if they ever found out.’
At the word ‘kill’ we stare at one another, then Lynx brings her hand up to her mouth.
‘Jesus! Sorry! I didn’t mean that the way it came out.’
‘Makes me wonder, though …’
‘Yeah. What if someone did find out? Still, like I said, we only did it for professional reasons. We weren’t into the so-called “consensual blackmail” scene, a fetish of guys who want to be forced into obedience under threat of being exposed to their loved ones and employers. We prided ourselves on treating our clients with honesty and respect. We always trashed the videos after we ran them.’
‘Did Chantal record sessions up in the loft?’ I ask casually.
‘She recorded everything. She was fanatical about it.’
‘Where was the camera?’
‘She had two actually, hidden in the moldings high up, one in the corner where the cell grill meets the wall, the other in the corner opposite. You’d never notice them. When you get back take a look. You’ll see where they were.’ Lynx smiles. ‘Hey, for all I know they’re still there!’
I find this revelation unnerving. Why would the cameras still be there? Wouldn’t Chantal have taken them down before she left?
Lynx, noticing I’m upset, continues to explain the reasoning behind making videos. ‘There’s also a security concern. Say a guy comes to you for a session, then freaks out. You do your best to calm him, ease him out, but it’s safer for you if someone’s monitoring the session in real time. If your monitor, usually a male friend, sees things aren’t going well, he can come in and help. Now if you’re with a regular, you’ll probably turn the camera off. But with a new client, someone you don’t know, you want somebody near
by to watch and make sure everything’s OK. The old way was to leave the room, make a quick call to your friend who was maybe waiting downstairs in his car, then say a code word like “green light” so he knows you feel safe. But a live feed from a camera’s better, assuming there’s someone you trust monitoring at the other end.’
‘So who was watching Chantal’s feed?’ Even as I ask the question, I have a queasy feeling I know the answer.
‘Josh. She told me he loved watching her sessions, got off on it. According to Chantal, watching was his thing. Great trait in a bodyguard. And there he was just three floors down, ready to run upstairs if she needed him. Wish I had someone like that in my building.’
Jesus!
Walking back to the Buckley, I wonder whether to confront Josh about why he hasn’t been straight with me. Lynx told me not to believe anything he says. Now, I think, I won’t.
Back in the loft I check the corners. The cameras are still there, well concealed. I wouldn’t have spotted them if Lynx hadn’t told me where to look. Not knowing whether they’re hard-wired, I’m reluctant to yank them out. Instead I snip off the tiny microphones and cover the lenses with black tape.
I’m spooked. Could they still be live? Could Josh have been spying on me all these weeks? Suddenly I’m feeling paranoid. Even though I’ve deactivated them, I wonder whether there might be other hidden cameras and microphones Lynx didn’t know about.
Josh lied to me about not knowing anything about Chantal’s clients or the scenes she played out with them. So why did he steer me to Lynx? He had to know there was a good chance she’d tell me about his role as Chantal’s security guy. Could his tip to contact her be part of some devious game he’s been playing … such as wanting me to discover he’s been watching me?
Whatever his motive, it’s now clear he can’t be trusted. But rather than confront him, I decide to play it cool, let him wonder what I think, whether in fact I like being watched. Which, I admit to myself, on a certain level I do. But not surreptitiously, not without my consent. A good issue, I decide, to raise with Dr Maude: whether there’s a side of me that actually likes the idea that a voyeur has been secretly spying on me from the day I moved in.
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