Edge Play X

by Wilson, M. Jarrett

  Simeon, upon seeing the thin band of fabric that covered X’s own bands of ochre flesh, a sight deprived to him by just a few millimeters of cloth, felt a deep urge to experience X with all his senses.

  He asked her, “Did you have sex with Compton?”

  There was a pounding at the door.

  “Just a minute,” Simeon said.

  “No sex in bathroom, I need piss,” a man said in an Italian accent.

  X opened the door and Simeon followed her out and through another doorway and into a library. There, a group of people was passing around marijuana pipes and joints. A man handed one towards X and she declined it. That drug wasn’t going to take her to a better place than where she already was.

  Simeon repeated his question. “Did you have sex with Compton?”

  “Yes,” X responded simply.

  “You did,” he said quizzically. “Why?”

  “Because I wanted to, Simeon. I wouldn’t have sex with anyone for any other reason.”

  “Where is Terry?” X asked.

  “He’s upstairs in the private rooms having a drink and a cigar with the man who owns this chateau.”

  “Who owns it?”

  “The masked man who opened the door this evening.”

  The man with the tuxedo and full face mask who had opened the door for them was the one who owned the chateau. He had greeted all of his guests by welcoming them in with a wide sweep of his arm.

  A lighter clicked on and X remembered how she had branded Simeon with the letterpress X. While she forgave herself for the pain she had inflicted, she suddenly wanted to see the wound, to confirm that it existed. The wound connected them both to the past. She reached out and touched his shirt, feeling the perimeter of the bandage under the cloth.

  “Don’t touch it,” he said. “It isn’t healed.”

  A deep compassion came over her, along with a sense of regret for the violence they had traded between each other.

  “I’m sorry, Simeon.”

  He said nothing for a few moments, unsure how to respond.

  “Are you?” he asked, lifting up his hand and touching the tips of his fingers over the bare flesh of her sternum before running them down the length of her belly. The sensation sent electricity through her veins. He noticed her reaction and leaned into her, pressing her up against the wall of books. The air was a fog of smoke, the people continuing to hit pipes and pass around fat joints or cigars filled with the herb.

  X turned her head away from him, took a deep breath of air.

  “Don’t do that,” she said.

  “Why? Because you like it?”

  Simeon lifted his hand up and gently stroked her jaw before letting his hand slide down to her throat. Feeling his hand there, X took a quick breath or air, and upon hearing this, Simeon tightened his grip.

  He whispered in her ear, “Don’t act like you don’t like it. I know that you do.”

  X didn’t deny that his treatment was exciting her, the obsidian thrill of his hand at her throat. Simeon tightened his grip, making X gasp.

  “You left a scar on me,” he said. He pressed his fingers deeper into the side of her neck, dug his thumb into the muscle next to her windpipe. “Don’t ever pull that shit with me again, do you understand?”

  “Yes,” X said breathlessly.

  Simeon removed his hand. He gently ran his fingertips from her shoulder down along her arm, ending at her wrist, sending the shivers through her again. It felt so good to be touched. She wanted to touch him. There was forgiveness in it, in the laying on of hands.

  Simeon reached out and took a hit from a joint and then gently blew the smoke into X’s mouth, the same thing she had done to him when he had been in her bondage chair. The smoke entered her mouth and lungs, and upon exhale, gently floated out of her nostrils, because now, she was kissing him, their lips were sliding over each other, tongues darting in and out of the caverns of their mouths.

  “Since the first moment I saw you, I’ve wanted you, X.”

  After taking her hand in his own, Simeon led X through the hallways and rooms and then down the steps, the pair hurrying outside to a limousine, one exactly like the one she and Compton had arrived in with the exception that the leather seating in Simeon’s was red and not gray. He knocked on the driver’s window, and the man looked up at him from the book he was reading before rolling down the window.

  “Take a walk, buddy. A long walk.”

  The man turned on the car so that it would be warm for them, so that they would have all the controls at the touch of their fingers, and after he opened the door for the pair, X climbed inside, followed by Simeon. There, on the smooth leather row of seats, pestle ground against mortar, pulverizing all of their inhibitions and desires into the finest of powders, a concoction that seemed to linger transcendent in the air until finally settling onto them once again.

  And after they had expended one another, X returned to the chateau and found Compton. On the long ride home, Compton, noticing that X’s chignon was tussled, noticing the glow that had concentrated itself on her chest and cheeks, a glow associated with the flushing that occurs after orgasm, had asked her simply and directly if she had engaged in sex with another man at the party.

  X nodded her head yes, not feeling any need to lie to him, and Compton, receiving confirmation to a question to which he already knew the answer, pulled X close to him, their bodies tangling together as they made their way back to Paris, she achingly resplendent and he basking in her mystery.

  Act IV

  1.

  Newton understood it: For a force, there is always an equal and opposite reaction. Or, to put it another way, what goes up must come down.

  And here, for X, this fundamental principle was at play. Ecstasy had rebounded to depression. The flood of serotonin, norepinephrine and dopamine had been reduced to a trickle. A drought had arrived. Soon enough, her mental environment would return to a state of equilibrium, but now, as X sat in her studio painting, a thought kept replaying itself in her head, one of regret, one that repeated: Oh, good God, what have I done?

  At least the weather was good. It was early spring in California, warm and sunny, and X had opened the windows of her studio to let in the fresh air. She had just recently started working on a new canvas when Anne came upstairs with a newspaper in her hand. X kept hold of her brush, afraid that if she put it down that she wouldn’t pick it up again.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Anne asked.

  “Tell you what?” X said, turning away from her easel.

  Anne opened up the paper to the society page and pointed to a small article.

  “It says here that you went to Paris with Terry Compton.”

  X motioned to a short stack of boxes that were near the wall. “I brought you back some things,” she said.

  X set down her brush then walked over to the open window and breathed in the fresh spring air.

  Anne said, “I got a couple phone calls from reporters asking for more information about you and Terry Compton. I could only tell them that I didn’t have a comment.”

  “Just tell them that I was accompanying him to the Louvre, and that we are not in a relationship.”

  X walked over to the boxes, lifted off the lid from the top one, and pulled out a purse which she gave to Anne.

  “You want this?”

  Anne took it from her excitedly.

  “Do you know how much one of these purses cost?” Anne asked.

  “Why, yes, I do,” X said. “You can sell it if you want. I don’t want it.”

  “So he took you shopping?”

  “He didn’t go with me. He’s much too busy for that. I went to the shops with a Parisian woman.”

  “And he paid for it all?”

  “Of course he did. You think I’d buy all that stuff?”

  Anne chuckled.

  X felt that it was best to give Anne an explanation before the woman began prying too much, even if what she was about to say was a lie.


  “Terry asked me if I would like to come along on his business trip. He said he would take me around the city and that we’d go to the Louvre. I didn’t want to turn him down since he had just bought all the paintings.”

  “Uh-huh,” Anne said, not entirely believing her.

  There was another explanation, of course, one that she had no intention of giving to Anne, this one being that the CIA had cornered X into dominating Mr. Terry Compton because he had a submission fetish, (there was a slight possibility that he was a murderer, a claim X thought was ludicrous). How could X explain that she had initially detested the man, everything about him, and that now she was actually fond of him? Not in love, but fond? Like her emotions, her relationship with Compton had been a see-saw.

  “Is he a gentleman?”

  X went back to her stool and started painting again.

  “He’s just a regular man.”

  “He’s the one who sent you all those flowers, isn’t he?”

  X didn’t answer.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” Anne said. “Sounds like he’s in love with you.”

  Now X put her brush down and turned around.

  “What?”

  “He bought all your paintings. He sent you an obscene amount of flowers. He took you to Paris. He let you buy what ever you wanted there.”

  Anne pulled a cashmere shawl out of the next box and draped it over her shoulders, enjoying its smoothness against her skin.

  “Look, Terry doesn’t love me. The only thing he loves is money.”

  Anne shrugged her shoulders.

  “A man like that is complicated,” Anne replied.

  Complicated, X thought. The man certainly was an enigma. But she didn’t want Compton to love her. Maybe the man was obsessed, intrigued, driven by lust. But love? X didn’t believe for a moment that the man really loved her. She turned away from the thought, not wanting to admit that it was even possible.

  Anne, the shawl still draped over her shoulders, said, “I must go downstairs—I just heard the door. But you are going to come out with me this evening and tell me every last detail.”

  As Anne went down the stairs, X began to see a shape forming in the colors of her painting, an image growing out of the base coat that veiled the canvas. She spent hours continuing to refine the image, intensifying the chiaroscuro that had already presented itself, highlighting an arm here, bringing to life a torso, then creating a face remarkably similar to Terry Compton’s, until, finally, a figure had emerged from the painting as if materializing from an alternate dimension. It emanated. And this figure, that of a man, mostly naked, his body Christ-like in its posture and wearing a crown on his head, not a crown of thorns, but a jeweled one, was carrying something on his back, not a cross, no, although what he carried on his back was large and heavy and the figure strained under the weight of the burden, one made of gold and shaped into the unmistakable symbol of a dollar sign.

  2.

  Springtime had brought sleeveless shirts, short skirts, and bright colors into bloom. Even X succumbed—that evening when she went out with Anne, she bared the flesh of her limbs, freshly oiled after her shower, smooth as polished silver.

  Anne prodded X with questions about her trip, asking X about Compton’s plane, the hotel where they had stayed, the boutiques where she had shopped, and what sorts of things they had done when Compton was not in business meetings.

  X indulged her friend, describing in detail nearly everything that had occurred on the trip, even how she had gone to Montmarte by herself and how Compton had reacted when she returned, clearly concerned about her safety. X even admitted that they had visited a chateau, excluding the details about what had occurred there. There were important details X left out, in particular, the orgy, and also how she had been intimate with both Compton and Simeon on the trip. Explaining the intricacies of her relationship with Compton would, X knew, be much more difficult if not impossible—after all, how does one begin to explain a man like Compton, a man with an esoteric set of fetishes, a man who had worn a chastity belt to an orgy, a man who had enjoyed being cuckolded?

  Anne seemed satisfied to hear about the luxuries of their travels and accommodations. Elated for her friend’s good luck at garnering the attention of such a prominent man, Anne seemed immune to the riot of activity going on around them. People danced, talked, and flirted behind them as they sat at the bar, interactions which now seemed quite tame to X.

  After a couple of bar hops, the pair ended up at the establishment owned by Michael. As they found a place at the bar to sit, X was relieved to see that he was not working that evening. Peering towards the back of the bar, X saw that the pool tables were being used by people oblivious to the activities that had not so long ago taken place upon the one closest to the wall.

  X’s relief was short-lived, as just after their drinks had been set in front of them, Michael emerged behind the bar, the man seeing her there with Anne. He acknowledged her briefly but did not come over to talk to her, lingering by the far end near the cash register. And that was fine with X. Small talk after intimacy was an awkward thing; after fluids had been exchanged, what exactly does one discuss?

  Later that evening, after the band had started to play, after the bar was crowded shoulder to shoulder, X made her way back to the bathroom. When she exited, Michael was there. He stopped the conversation he was having with one of the bar patrons and said hello to her. The man he was speaking with took his cue to leave and X stopped to chat.

  X looked over her shoulder and saw Anne happily dancing in the crowd with the accountant she had recently started seeing, the one who worked for the state. So when Michael asked her if she would like to go back to his place with him, X agreed, happy to let this man become the most recent body with whom she had communed. She let Anne know that she was going to head home. Anne, happy as she twirled and twisted with her new friend, bid her farewell, see you tomorrow.

  And once at the bartender’s house, he performed another opus for which X was the grateful audience.

  Morning came. X, naked in the sheets, her head slightly throbbing from the alcohol she had ingested, awoke with a start, a sudden shudder passing through her body. The nude man beside her was still sleeping. He looked handsome when he slept, peaceful. X sat up and looked down to the floor where her clothes were still tangled with his, hoping that she would be able to dress and leave before he woke.

  She pulled on her underwear. Next, her skirt went on. Then, after locating her bra, an undergarment which she reshaped from the deformities it had gotten after a night on the floor, she began to fasten it behind her back. It was then that he awoke.

  “Good morning,” he said, seeing her dressing and not wanting her to leave, still groggy from a night of little sleep.

  X leaned down and picked up her wrinkled shirt. It was one that she had gotten in Paris. If Madeleine could see the state it was in now, X would have been ashamed.

  “Don’t go,” he implored, reaching over and pulling her towards him.

  “I need to get going,” X said, although she didn’t really need to. She wanted to.

  “Boyfriend will wonder where you are?” he asked as he sat up in bed, the sheet draped across his hips.

  “No,” X answered. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “It’s okay. I saw in the paper that you went to Paris with that Compton billionaire,” he said.

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” X answered.

  “The paper said that he bought all your paintings, said that you went to Paris with him. It insinuated that he’s your boyfriend.”

  X sat silently for a moment.

  “I went to Paris with him but he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “It’s alright if he is,” Michael said. “You wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve been with who had a boyfriend or a husband, or even a girlfriend for Christ’s sake. I just thought it was interesting that this time the guy is a billionaire. I’m just curious.”

  Steinberg had been r
ight. People had found out. X wondered for a moment how the paper had found out about their trip. They would have had to confirm it with Compton’s office before printing it, wouldn’t they?

  X sensed something lurking below the surface of his questions. Maybe the man was comparing himself to Compton. He had fucked a woman whom he thought belonged to a powerful man. Maybe it made her seem more valuable.

  “He’s your patron then?”

  “No, he’s not my patron. I didn’t want him to buy my paintings. I don’t want him to own them.”

  “It’s not such a bad thing, though, is it? You’ve gotten a certain degree of fame since he bought them as I understand.”

  “I don’t even like him,” X said.

  Michael put his hand to his face and rubbed at his stubble. “He’s rich. That attracts a woman.”

  X shook her head in disgust. “His wealth is revolting.”

  He leaned over and began to rub her arm. “If you’re his girlfriend, I don’t care. Really.”

  X sensed that what he was saying was not entirely true and she pulled her arm away.

  “Look,” X said. “I don’t have to explain it to you.”

  No, she was right, he knew. She didn’t have to but he wanted her to.

  “So you don’t fuck each other. You’re just friends,” he said.

  X didn’t answer.

  “You do fuck each other, but you’re just friends.”

  “He’s not my friend,” X said, growing irritated at his words.

  “What is he, then?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me.”

  The words spilled out of her mouth then, unexpectedly almost, lubricated by their intimacy, by his prodding, by her need to tell somebody. She told him that she was Compton’s dominatrix.

  “What?”

  “His dominatrix.”

  The man was genuinely surprised.