Julia and Mr. Page

by Serafina Conti

  “Go to bed, Julia,” he said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.

  “I could bring you a snack, Sir, or a drink. I could help you up the stairs.”

  “Go to bed.”

  “Sir—”

  “Don’t try my patience, Julia,” he snapped.

  “Yes, Sir,” she said. “Good night, Sir.”

  He didn’t answer.

  In her room she found her overnight bag beside the door. She hung some things in the closet and took out some toiletries, which she carried to the bathroom. She drew a bath and had a long soak: the warm water soothed her sore anus.

  She went to bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. There was too much to think about—how she’d been there and not there, the center of attention and a mere thing for them to use, how they’d perforated and slimed her, and at the end, how she had become a nonentity in their midst, present but unseen. She would do it again and again, if Mr. Page told her to.

  But he worried her. When had she ever seen anyone so tired as he had been the two evenings she’d spent with him?

  It came back to her in a flash—a memory from when she was just nine. Her mother, dying of breast cancer, had been that tired, and she’d become thin and pale. It was as if a huge hand were closing around Julia’s heart.

  What was the name of that medicine she’d seen in Mr. Page’s kitchen cabinet? She took her phone from her bag and Googled “Gleevec.”

  She stayed up till three in the morning, reading and rereading web pages.

  Mr. Page woke her at eight, not by tying her up but with an invitation to breakfast, which he was making himself.

  “I’m not a bad cook, when the mood strikes,” he said. Was it just her imagination, or was there a glimmer of cordiality in his manner this morning?

  She sipped coffee and watched him fry sausage and bacon and make toast and home fries. He brought her a plate heaped with food.

  “This looks delicious, Mr. Page, but it’s about four times as much as I usually eat,” she said. “Will you be insulted if I take like one bite of each thing?”

  “If I were Christian Grey, I’d take you to the red room of pain and cane you,” he said.

  “Thank God you’re not Christian Grey, Sir,” said Julia. “I’d be a sow after two weeks with him.”

  “I’m not obsessed with food,” he said. “I myself am unlikely to eat more than you do.”

  They passed a minute in silence, then Mr. Page said, “Will Laura be rescued by a rich man who supports her in exchange for sex?”

  Julia said, “The notion is too unrealistic. No one would believe it.”

  Mr. Page laughed—a strange, sharp cough of a laugh, but there was no doubt what it was. Julia was startled and pleased.

  She said, “I’d like to rescue her, but I think she’s got to go farther downhill before she can climb out. Prostitution. Maybe drug abuse. Injury. Loss. Horrible things happen to homeless people on the street.”

  “I suppose so,” he said sadly. “Funny that fiction should so often be harder on people than life.”

  “My life would be very hard, Sir, if it weren’t for you.”

  “Maybe a little harder, but you’d be all right.”

  “May I ask more about you, Sir?” said Julia. “What do you do when you’re not reading, playing with other people’s money or exploiting women’s bodies?”

  “There’s not much to say,” he said. “I’m a pretty dull fellow. I read, watch TV, dine with friends, play—”

  “Do you have kids?”

  “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

  “I’m interested,” said Julia. “We have a relationship. It’s only natural to want to know something about you.”

  “Ask something else,” he said.

  “Do you have brothers or sisters?”

  “Julia!”

  “You wanted to know if I was alone in the world, Sir. Now I want to know if you are.”

  “I like being alone. And anyway, I’ve got you.”

  “But you don’t treat me like family, or a lover, or even a friend, Sir.”

  “We’ve talked about writing—”

  “You won’t even tell me if you have a family, Sir.”

  “Our contract doesn’t specify that I have to open up to you.”

  “Maybe you need something more than the contract specifies right now, Sir. I’ve been your sex-toy for just a few days, and I am going to stay, but . . . I’m concerned about you.”

  “You’re concerned.”

  “About your health, Sir. Your chronic leukemia.”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “I haven’t been prying, Sir. But I couldn’t miss how tired you get, and when you sent me to the cabinet for Advil last week, I saw your Gleevec.”

  “If I die,” Mr. Page said coldly, “you’ll be taken care of. You have nothing to worry about.”

  Anger flared in her. “Sir,” she said, “do you really think money’s all I care about?”

  “You wouldn’t be here if I weren’t paying,” he said.

  “So I’m just a whore to you,” she said, “and you’re sure I see you as just a john. That’s why you’ve never kissed me. You don’t kiss a whore. You don’t touch her more than you have to.”

  “I don’t see you as a whore, Julia.”

  “Then stop treating me like one, Mr. Page. Treat me like someone who’s capable of caring about your well-being, even if our relationship is contractual.”

  Mr. Page lowered his head and pinched the bridge of his nose like a man gathering his patience.

  “Go home, Julia,” he said. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

  Julia didn’t think he was going to be fine. If she understood the things she’d read, his leukemia was progressing; she was scared. “Your symptoms, Sir—”

  “You’re not a physician, Julia,” he said. “Go home.”

  “Shall I come back next Friday?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “Next Friday. I’ll send details later.”

  * * *

  On Wednesday, January 21, Mr. Page wrote to tell Julia that she wouldn’t be required that weekend. She was disappointed: she was looking forward to being a sex-toy again for Mr. Page, and more of his friends if he wanted, but she could wait another week. She played with the dildo and butt-plugs he’d given her and bought a vibrator at a downtown sex shop, where she ignored the hungry look the clerk gave her.

  The next week, Mr. Page canceled again, and Julia started to worry, vacillating between a conviction that he was dropping her and certainty that his health was failing. The week after that, her rent was paid as usual, and a check arrived for living expenses, but he didn’t invite her to his house. She wrote to him:

  I hope you’re well, Sir, and that I haven’t offended you. I miss our sessions.

  He didn’t write back. She considered trying to call him, but the idea terrified her. The next week she wrote again to Mr. Page:

  If you’re angry with me, Sir, can we talk about it? That’s the right thing to do in either a business or a personal relationship.

  On February 6 he wrote back:

  I’m not angry with you. I’ll let you know when you’re required. Your support will continue.

  9. Mr. Hamilton

  “This story is a big departure for you,” said Mr. Hamilton, who was teaching Julia’s advanced fiction writing course. A rugged man of about fifty with chiseled features, he was considered an important novelist, and Julia had been honored to win a place in his class. It was Tuesday, February 11, and it had been more than three weeks since she’d last seen Mr. Page.

  “I hope it’s acceptable, Mr. Hamilton,” said Julia. She had worried, when he summoned her to his office after class, that he’d tell her that her subway panhandler story was inappropriate. She’d made the scene where Laura turned her first trick pretty explicit, graphically describing the way her john, a lean sixty-two-year-old man, had taken her orally and anally.

  “Of course it’s okay,�
�� said Mr. Hamilton. “In fact, it’s great. I do have concerns, but they’re about you, not the story. Of course, we all know about your father and your situation. I’m terribly sorry about all that. So much loss, and none of it your fault. It struck me, reading your story, that it might be coming from your own feeling of abandonment—it might be about you losing your family and your support.”

  “I suppose it is in some ways,” Julia said. “You tell us to write what we know.”

  “The scene where Laura comes to the realization that she has to sell herself, and does that, right then and there—it’s powerful and upsetting, a great piece of writing.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton.”

  Mr. Hamilton leaned forward in his chair, a look of concern on his face. “It made me want to check in on you. I know your father was rich, so you probably don’t have financial aid, and it can be hard to get aid when you haven’t had it before.”

  “I’ve already found that out,” said Julia.

  He looked down at his hands, and then at Julia again. “You know, like Laura, we sometimes have to make compromises—to get on in the world. I know I’ve been there, and so have a lot of people I know. We sometimes do things we’re not proud of, because we have to.”

  “I know, Mr. Hamilton. It’s the issue I’m trying to explore in my story. How much are we willing to do to survive?”

  “I made my own compromises when I was a student,” he continued. “I was in trouble—I was a pretty unruly kid, to tell the truth. I was on the point of being thrown out of school. A professor helped me in exchange for . . . certain favors. It wasn’t so bad, really, and he was kind. We stayed in touch for years after. And now I’m well established here and in a position to help others. I have a good bit of influence in the financial aid office. I’m sure I can get you a good aid package—full tuition and a stipend to live on.”

  Julia smiled politely and waited for the rest of it.

  “Come to my place on Friday,” he said. “We’ll have dinner, get acquainted, and talk about fiction and financial aid.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hamilton,” said Julia. “I appreciate your invitation and your concern. But I don’t need help, actually. I’ll get through all right.”

  Mr. Hamilton leaned back in his chair again and smiled. “Come to dinner anyway, Julia. Perhaps you don’t need financial aid, but you still need my help.”

  “I don’t see how, Mr. Hamilton,” said Julia, feeling nervous now.

  “I can help you launch a writing career,” he said. “Agents listen to me about who has talent—and who doesn’t. An A in my course, and a good recommendation, would carry you far. An F in my course would be hard to explain to prospective employers, or to agents.”

  Julia was astounded. She’d heard about this kind of thing but had never dreamed it would happen to her. “You’re extorting sex from me,” she said.

  “I’m offering help, Julia, and protection from others who would take advantage of your vulnerable situation.”

  “Okay, Mr. Hamilton,” she said, voice brittle with rage and fear. “I’ll come to dinner. I don’t see where I have much choice but to accept your help.”

  “Excellent,” he said, and stood up. He stepped quickly over to the door and quietly closed and locked it. Unzipping his zipper, he said, “We need to do something to seal our bargain, Julia.”

  His cock was already stiffening as he pulled it out. Julia stared at it. This was a perfectly normal cock—like Alan’s and Mr. Page’s and Eric’s. What made it seem monstrous? You do what you have to do to survive. She leaned forward in her chair. She didn’t give him any preliminaries—no licks or kisses. She just sucked him. She didn’t deep throat him—she’d save that for Mr. Page, if she ever saw him again—but she did it well and pretended to enjoy it, and he said, “That’s good, Julia,” and “There’s my good slut,” and other things before he groaned and filled her mouth with his semen, which she swallowed for want of anything else to do with it.

  He put himself away, took a card out of a desk drawer and wrote his address on the back. He handed it to her. “Friday at six,” he said. “Don’t be late.”

  Julia ran down the hall to the women’s room, closed herself in a stall, and put a finger in her throat to make herself throw up his semen. She spent five minutes rinsing her mouth at the sink. A little calmer, she climbed the stairs to the floor above and knocked on Ms. Kim’s office door, but she wasn’t in.

  She walked to the student center, bought a cup of tea, and called Ms. Kim’s apartment.

  Noye answered. Ms. Kim wasn’t at home, but Julia, in tears, launched into the story anyway and hadn’t gotten far before Noye said, “Come over, Julie. I know Soyuja is going to want to see you. Come now. She’ll be home soon.”

  Julia was crying in Noye’s ample (and naked) bosom when Ms. Kim came home from an afternoon of committee meetings, and the story had to be told yet again. She listened patiently and then asked, “Have you told Arthur about this?”

  Her question brought forth a fresh bout of weeping and the story of how Mr. Page had been keeping her at arm’s length for nearly a month, apparently for the dual sins of discovering that he was suffering from chronic leukemia and sympathizing with him.

  “As to the problem with Hamilton,” said Ms. Kim, “you can file a complaint with the university, but that process is long and uncertain. I would support you in that, but there’s little else I can do. Many women who’ve been in your situation have decided to simply submit, or take an F for the course. Sexual harassment continues to happen because it continues to work.”

  “Why shouldn’t I submit?” Julia said. “Aren’t I a whore already? Mr. Page hired me to fuck him, and he gave me to his friends to fuck too. He refuses to see me as anything but a sex-toy. He’s just like Hamilton.”

  “There’s a world of difference,” said Ms. Kim. “I know you answered Arthur’s ad because you needed money, but I also know that now your relationship with him means more to you than that. Otherwise, wouldn’t you be relieved that he’s continuing to pay your bills while demanding nothing from you? As for sex with his friends, you could have refused that, and there would have been no repercussions. Everything you do with Mr. Page and his friends is consensual. Nothing is extorted.”

  Noye said, “I think you made love to Mistress Ai and Eric out of love for Mr. Page.”

  The idea that Julia might actually love Mr. Page was simply absurd—so absurd, in fact, that she burst into tears again and buried her face in Noye’s fleshy shoulder.

  “You must stay to dinner,” said Ms. Kim. “Noye is just going to heat up some leftovers, but there’s plenty. You can relax with a glass of wine. I’m going to make some phone calls.”

  Not wanting to be alone, Julia followed Noye to the kitchen and helped out.

  “What made you want to be a slave, Noye?” she asked. She was making a salad while Noye worked at the stove.

  “I’ve always been other-directed,” said Noye. “I love to serve. But when I met Jang-mi, I realized that I wanted to give myself to her completely and do everything for her.”

  “Are you a sex-toy for her too?”

  “Oh, yes,” Noye sighed. “I love it when she uses me for her pleasure.”

  “Does she ever lend you to friends?”

  “Sometimes we get together with friends for play. Women only—we’re exclusively lesbian. To make love at Soyuja’s direction is a different kind of service, as fulfilling in its own way as making love to her.”

  Julia said, “That’s so beautiful. For me it’s not a desire to serve, but a need to be taken.”

  “That’s beautiful too,” said Noye. She turned to Julia, hugged her, and kissed her—a sweet, healing kiss that seemed to promise everything would be all right.

  Dinner conversation drifted with pleasant aimlessness, and afterwards Ms. Kim said, “You shouldn’t be alone tonight. We have a spare room: stay here with us.”

  “I’d better go home,” said Julia. “I don’t have any
thing with me.”

  “Then Noye will go with you,” said Ms. Kim. “If you don’t have a spare bed, she’ll sleep on your sofa.”

  Julia agreed reluctantly, and Noye packed a few things and dressed. She looked almost conventional in jeans and a baggy sweatshirt.

  It was just a few subway stops to Julia’s apartment. She and Noye chatted about favorite books and movies, and when they arrived, Noye busied herself making a bed on the sofa.

  In her own bed, Julia was restless and drifted in and out of sleep. She wasn’t quite sure whether it was in a dream that Noye crept in with her and, with infinite gentleness, pushed her panties aside and licked her to orgasm. But she slept soundly the rest of the night, and when she woke up in the morning, Noye was lying beside her, face half covered with flowing locks of blue hair.

  10. Lunch with Eric

  “Have you decided what to do about Hamilton?” asked Noye. She and Julia were having coffee and bagels in Julia’s kitchen.

  “I’m going to go to his apartment and fuck him,” said Julia.

  “Why, Julie?”

  “Because I don’t want an F. Because the men in my life are just using me and throwing me away anyway, so it doesn’t matter if I fuck one more.”

  There were tears in Noye’s eyes. “It’s never happened to me, what you’re going through,” she said, “and I know better than to say what I’d do if it were me. But I want you to know that Jang-mi and I will be there for you. You can always come to us for support.”

  Julia took her hand, squeezed it, and said, “I know. Thank you.” She knew what Noye was saying was heartfelt, but she also knew that neither of them had any idea what to do about Hamilton, or how to make Mr. Page want her again. So she’d submit to Hamilton. In doing so she’d be breaking her contract with Mr. Page—but that didn’t matter much either, since he didn’t want to see her. Maybe she could find another dominant after Hamilton was done with her—but who would want her?

  It was Wednesday, and she had a literature seminar that met at eleven. She didn’t bother to put on makeup or do much with her hair: she threw on sweats and headed for class, where she paid little attention and was startled and embarrassed when the professor called on her.