by Jody Gehrman
My eyebrows arch. “Okay. Fantasy matchmaker. Explain.”
“You remember Mimi Foster, Sarah Copeland’s cousin? Anyway, I had this fascinating conversation with her at a party last week about how much she loves dressing up in anime costumes and getting spanked. Needless to say, she was wasted.”
“Random,” I comment.
“People have a right to their proclivities,” she tells me with a pious air. “Anyway, the next night I met this banker dude at another party, and guess what he just happens to mention?”
“Don’t tell me—he likes getting spanked, too.”
“Not getting spanked,” she corrects, “He likes to spank. And he happens to have a thing for hentai.”
“Which is?”
“Japanese porn—but like, comic-book porn.” She waves a hand dismissively, not wanting to get off track. “So I fixed him up with Mimi and kapow! They hit it off.” Kapow is one of Wanda’s favorite words. God knows why.
“A relationship based on comic-book porn?” I can’t help looking skeptical.
She downs the rest of her drink and signals the waiter for another round. “Okay, so they might not live happily ever after, but they had an amazing night together. And it got me thinking: all these matchmaking websites, they focus on compatibility in the most conventional sense—you know, like hobbies, religious beliefs, income levels. They don’t even touch on the most powerful factor of all.” She pauses, eyebrows raised in expectation.
“Which is...?” I prompt obediently.
“Your secret self. Your fantasies. The dirty little wish list you don’t dare type into a form on eHarmony. When your fetish matches his, that’s a powerful bond. I consider it a public service.” She squints at me with a sly, conniving look. “And you’re going to be my first big project.”
“Oh, no! Come on. Again?” I’m forever Wanda’s test subject, as evidenced by the “fantasy photography” session last summer. Admittedly, I got some ego-boosting shots out of that, one of which is now indelibly burned into the dirty little minds of my coworkers. God. How will I face everyone Monday?
The waiter brings us another round, which I resolve to sip very slowly for once.
Wanda drains half her glass and leans toward me, her turquoise eyes a little bloodshot and dead serious, all the more so because she’s tipsy. “You need to let your inner minx out.”
“My ‘inner minx’?” I repeat, my tone dubious.
“Yes!” She bangs her fist on the table so hard the platter jumps, scattering a couple of bones. “You’ve got a bombshell inside you begging to be unleashed. Until you let her out, you’ll be stuck.”
“Whatever you say, Sparkle.” I use her nickname in the hopes of diffusing some of her intensity. People around us are starting to stare.
“I intend to unstick you.” She looks determined, but her credibility is slightly compromised by the streak of ranch dressing in her hair.
Chapter Three
Window Dressing
That night, I can’t sleep. I toss and turn, obsessing. Everyone at work saw that nasty picture of me, legs spread in a wide, domineering stance, my hand gripping the riding crop above my head, my nipples practically visible as the corset pushes my breasts up, forcing them so high they nearly spill over. I recall the way Dylan’s eyes dipped down to my cleavage when he came over to give me shit about it, the thin sheen of sweat on his upper lip as he leered.
It’s not as if I’m all that concerned about what Dylan Mackintosh thinks of me. I don’t even respect him; why should I care if he thinks I’m a slut?
That’s when it occurs to me: I’m not lying awake because I’m worried about my reputation. I’m lying awake because I’ve inadvertently awakened the bad girl in that picture. In spite of the person I’ve become for work, the pathetic office drone who tries to please Felicity at any cost, there’s still another me alive and well. A retro sex kitten. An old-fashioned vixen.
And she’s stirring.
I climb out of bed and go to the kitchen for a cup of tea. Nero, my cat, opens one eye and glares at me from where he lies half-buried under the duvet. He’s named after Nero Wolfe, the grouchy, obese detective from Rex Stout’s mysteries. The resemblance is striking; like his namesake, my Nero is about twice the size of a normal cat. He’s also cantankerous, condescending and brilliant. Unlike the detective, though, who dines on only the finest culinary masterpieces, my Nero is a crazed omnivore. He’ll eat anything: banana peels, coffee grounds, plastic bags. I bought the cutest bonsai tree last month, but he chewed it down to a nub. Now he follows me to the kitchen, paunch swinging, and blinks up at me as I make myself a mug of chamomile.
“I’m jonesing for a cigarette,” I whine. Nero looks back at me as if to say Give me some kibble and we’ll talk.
I smoked in college, quit a few years ago; it had to be done, though I still miss cigarettes like a lover I can’t quite get over. My nana died of lung cancer the year I graduated from college, and after that I was filled with self-loathing every time I lit up, so I forced myself to quit. Now all my drawers and purses carry an arsenal of nicotine gum. I pop a piece in my mouth, even though it doesn’t exactly go with chamomile.
The fog’s rolled in and I feel a draft, so I go to my closet for another layer. Flinging open the doors I’m struck by how segregated it is. On one side there’s my work wardrobe. Everything in that clump is boring and bland. Felicity’s given me such a complex about my failure to fit into a size two, my work clothes now operate as a kind of camouflage. I’m an elephant among tigers and panthers. My best bet for survival is to blend in with the furniture. Don’t get me wrong; I’m not obese, but I’m buxom. I’ve got a huge rack and hips you could land helicopters on. I flip through my work clothes listlessly. Just looking at that side of the closet makes me feel a little sick.
And then there’s my other wardrobe—my secret wardrobe. Most of the clothes in that side of the closet I inherited from my nana. She pretty much raised me. Mom got pregnant with me when she was sixteen, and she was totally unprepared for a kid. Dad was never in the picture. So Nana brought me up, and though she was hardly a conventional parent, she did her best. She was a nightclub singer in her youth, a feisty vixen who didn’t get married until late in life—thirty-four, which was “last call” for her generation. She always had a cigarette burning in one hand and a story about the good old days spilling from her lips—some yarn about a gangster she used to date, or a movie star who sent her flowers back in 1958. I loved her. She was colorful, eccentric and just a bit crazy. In the end she became a wheezing ghost of her former self, but I try not to remember her that way. I prefer to imagine her in her youth sporting sequins, red lipstick and Chanel No. 5.
Looking at the clothes crammed into the left side of my closet, I sigh with pleasure. There are emerald-green wiggle dresses, red satin cocktail shifts, blue velvet swing coats and luxurious fur stoles. Elaborate hats made of beaver and trimmed with ostrich feathers sit inside pink striped hatboxes. Dainty kitten heels and patent leather spectator pumps sit side by side on the floor. This is who I am inside. These are the colors and the fabrics that spin through my dreams. I’m built just like nana, and in her day she was the bomb.
I open my underwear drawer and pull out the lingerie I wore for Wanda’s photo shoot. On a whim, I decide to put it on. Nero watches with a dubious expression as I shuck off my frumpy pj’s and don the sleek black Bettie Page gear. It’s funny how 1950s’ style underwear, high-waisted and granny-ish, can be so much sexier than a thong or bikini in the right context. This pair is made of amazing black figure-slimming fabric, satiny to the touch but steely in its ability to firm up flab. The second I pull them on I feel tingly, alive. Slowly, I do up the corset, sucking in my breath as I cinch it tight. Lastly, I pull on a pair of sheer black thigh-high stockings, hook them to the garters and slip into Nana’s patent leather spectator p
umps.
I survey myself in the mirror, pushing my dark hair forward, finger-combing my bangs. My reflection stares back with mischievous eyes. I admire the exaggerated hourglass lines of my figure, the fullness of my breasts hoisted up by the gravity-defying corset.
“Va-va-voom,” I whisper.
In the mirror, I catch a glimpse of someone behind me and spin around, startled. There’s a man standing on the balcony across the street. He’s draped in shadows. I can just make out his silhouette and the burning orange tip of his cigarette.
He’s smoking, the lucky bastard.
I go to close my curtains, but hesitate. As I stand there before the window, my breath fogging the glass, something happens. I know he can see me, know he’s taking in my bad-ass curves, my stockings, my creamy cleavage. For a moment I’m reminded of the red-light district in Amsterdam, where the whores display themselves in the windows, tempting potential customers with provocative poses and smoldering looks. I’m surprised at how much the thought of being that whore turns me on.
Before I can stop myself, I reach a hand up and run my fingers through my hair. The luxurious feel of silky strands between my fingers sends a shiver of pleasure through me. I glance back at the shadowy figure on the balcony. He’s leaning forward, elbows resting on the railing, watching my every move.
Shocked at my own audacity, I lift one foot and prop my spiked heel on the windowsill. Slowly, my fingers trembling, I reach down and unhook the garter. My heart races as I roll my silk stocking down, revealing the milky white of my bare thigh.
Is it my imagination, or did the silhouette just adjust himself?
Okay, this is insane. What am I doing? I can feel my panties growing wet, though, heat gathering low in my belly, and I know I’m not going to stop. An exhilarating rush of power courses through me. I’m tantalizing a stranger, a man whose face I can’t even see, whose name I’ll never know. My body, the same one that feels so wrong and ungainly as I march through my workday trying hard to be invisible, suddenly feels deliciously visible. I’m a force to be reckoned with. The man on the balcony wants to touch me. He’s imagining what he’d do to me if only we weren’t separated by all this concrete and glass.
It’s been too long since someone touched me. Ravished me. Suddenly my whole body aches. When was the last time someone seared me with a kiss, cupped my breasts with desperate need, fucked me so hard I couldn’t breathe?
Way too long.
I lean against the glass. The cold melts through the fabric of my panties and feels delicious against my hot clit. I long to reach down and finger myself, but I hold back. Not yet. I want to make this last.
Another movement on the balcony catches my eye. A woman swings open the French doors and steps out onto the terrace, a couple of highball glasses in her hands. I can see her in some detail as she steps into the spill of gold light; she’s wearing a blue dress and sparkly jewelry, a going-out ensemble. Maybe they just got back from a nightclub. Maybe they’ve been dancing, hips pressed together, sweat glazing their limbs. They look young, yuppie-ish, respectable.
I recoil, hiding behind my curtains, blushing furiously. The craziness of what I’m doing strikes me with fresh intensity. I’m Ruby Sugars—I don’t strip for strangers, expose myself in the dead of night! Still I linger, too turned on to sleep, too curious to walk away.
The man tosses his cigarette, takes both glasses from the woman and sets them down. I expect him to lead her inside, but instead he moves behind her and pins her hips against the wrought iron railing. He looks like he’s whispering something in her ear. They’ve stepped out of the shadows, and I can see them clearly—so clearly that I know the exact moment when her gaze turns to my window. Her dark red hair gleams in the light shining from their windows as he runs his fingers through it. Then his hands reach around and cup her breasts. I watch in mute fascination as she arches her back against him, eyes closing in pleasure. I can see his hands encircling her small waist, pulling her to him. His lips wander over the pale curve of her neck, planting a trail of kisses. One hand nudges the bodice of her dress to the side, frees her breast, exposing her body to the cool night air. I can imagine the fog-kissed breeze caressing her bare skin, the shivery pleasure of it. The contrast between his hot mouth on the sensitive skin behind her ear and the cold night air whispering over her flesh.
All the while, she stares right at my window.
Carefully, my breathing ragged, I pull the curtain open again. They’re both staring at me as I slowly undo the top of my corset, letting my full breasts spill out. My nipples pull into tight, hard peaks. I tilt forward until they’re touching the glass; the cold ripples through me, an electric thrill.
The redhead shakes back her hair and arches her back, leaning over, pressing her ass against him. He lifts up her dress and in a moment he’s inside her, making no attempt to hide his thrusting hips as he grips her even tighter. She opens her mouth. I can just make out her moan of pleasure. Without thinking, my hand snakes down into my panties. I’m so wet. My fingers slide easily in and out of my pussy. When I finally touch my clit it’s so swollen and ready, just a few strokes makes me come. I call out, surprised at the sound I make; it starts as a low animal growl and quickly turns into a keening yelp of surprise.
The woman on the balcony throws back her head with a grimace of pleasure. The man yanks at her hair and thrusts deep into her one last time.
Behind me, Nero meows, pulling me from my trance. The man takes his date by the hand and leads her back inside. They close the French doors behind them. Just like that, it’s over. I let out a breathy sigh, my emotions pinging between pleasure and mortification.
I yank the curtains closed and turn to face my cat, who is once again ensconced in the middle of my bed, gnawing on my silk throw pillow. He gives me a superior, all-knowing look that actually makes me blush. My legs feel a little shaky; I slip off my pumps before stumbling across the room toward bed.
“Shut up,” I warn Nero as I peel off the vampy lingerie and pull my pj’s back on. “And don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing wrong with getting to know your neighbors.”
Chapter Four
Fantasy Man
Sunday morning I walk the seven blocks from my North Beach apartment to my favorite café. Brunch at Café Bovolo is a weekly ritual Wanda and I started over four years ago when I moved to San Francisco. She’s lived in the city longer than me. She dropped out of UC Santa Cruz spring semester our freshman year and never went back. Her parents bought her this awesome place in the Marina District, the lucky wench. I came here fresh out of college and moved in with Wanda for a couple months before we both realized we couldn’t stand living together. She’s a slob and I’m an unrepentant neat freak; even her excellent cleaning lady couldn’t bridge the gap between us.
When I arrive, Wanda’s already there at our favorite table. She looks gorgeous as usual. She’s thrown a turquoise cashmere wrap over a sea green silk camisole; endless strands of brightly colored beads sparkle at her throat. A jaunty suede hat completes the look. I’m surprised she’s here before me. Usually she sweeps in ten minutes late, after I’ve ordered for both of us and sucked down most of my latte.
“You’re not going to believe this,” she says the second I sit down, “but I found your dream man.”
“Not before coffee,” I warn her, signaling the waiter.
She lets out a little squeal. “I’m serious! He’s so perfect you’re going to wet yourself!”
A sour-faced woman with two little kids seated at the next table flashes us a look of distaste, but Wanda doesn’t notice.
“Tell me this isn’t the ‘project’ you mentioned for your—?”
“Fantasy matchmaking! Yes! And this guy has the biggest hard-on for dark-haired voluptuous sex kittens, Ruby. He’s the man for you! At least for one night.”
I clutch my
forehead. “Okay, that’s way too much perkiness this early in the morning. Can we bring it down a couple notches until I catch up on the coffee?”
The waiter mercifully comes over to take my order, and soon we’re surrounded by delicious breakfast foods as well as fortifying caffeine. Wanda can’t stop talking about this guy. In the midst of her excited babble I piece together the following:
1. He’s from out of town, visiting for a couple weeks.
2. She met him at a party in Sausalito (i.e., super swanky).
3. He’s obsessed with 1950s pinup girls.
“You know I hate blind dates,” I remind her.
She holds up one finger. “No, no, no, this isn’t a blind date.”
“It sure sounds like one.”
“It’s a fantasy date.” When my expression doesn’t change, she presses on. “See, on a blind date you’re looking for something permanent. It’s like an audition for domestic life. You spend the first ten minutes obsessing over how his initials will look on the monogrammed towels, or how his nose will look on your baby’s face. This is totally different.”
“Because it’s just a hookup?” I ask, spearing a home fry.
“Because you already know the most important thing about each other: you share the same fantasy.” She takes a sip of cappuccino and licks the foam from her lips. “It’s the ideal setup for one night of no-strings-attached, totally uninhibited, completely fucking mind-blowing anonymous sex.”
The woman cutting up her toddler’s pancakes at the next table pauses to shoot us another scowl.
“That lady said a bad word, Mommy.” One of her rug rats, the one with jam smeared across his forehead, stares at us with wide-eyed awe.