She twisted between the first jumble of crowded tables, chairs draped with women’s coats and bags, thirty or forty faces floating in the air, animated, talking above glowing candle holders of red and green mosaic glass, the light flickering a kaleidoscope across those faces, men and women who were all soft-looking, anonymously young. A jazzy, drunken buzz animated the air. She sat down on the edge of one of the divans. A couple of tables away, a blonde woman was raising her glass to make a toast when one of her friends threw in a joke, derailing the whole group with laughter; several people almost tumbled from their ottomans. Eliza watched surreptitiously at first, then openly, admiring the heads tipped back, the glossy lips, smooth throats, every top low-cut or revealingly open.
Drink, she thought. No thinking. Yes, like the responsible adult you are. You’re driving, Eliza. She looked around for a waiter or waitress, feeling self-conscious. Embarrassed. What if Shar didn’t come? What were all these people doing out on a Sunday night in early February? Didn’t they have to work in the morning? She shrugged off her coat and stood up, swaying in the too-loud music. Back she went, through the tables, toward the bar, feeling disoriented in this old world of young people. The black-haired bartender approached her with a grin on his foxlike face; tattoos encircled both his arms. Eliza thought he might be, at the outside, twenty-three. Twenty-five? She couldn’t tell their ages anymore, except younger than me. She ordered the most expensive wine they had on their chalkboard wine list, a Shiraz. A moment later, he winked as he put an almost full glass down in front of her. “Good choice,” he said. Not wanting to gulp it down out of nervousness, she turned to survey the avid faces again. Half of them were busy on their phones, suspended in digital bubbles beside their friends. Did they know they were there, at the crest of the hill? Their twenty-five or twenty-nine or thirty-two years would click over soon into thirty-five, thirty-six. The dazzling rush down the other side of life would begin. They couldn’t see it coming. The joy was in not knowing how everything would change, and change again.
Catchy French pop boomed over the sound system; she listened to the refrain, a name called over and over. Aisha, Aisha, écoute-moi. Aisha Aisha, t’en vas pas. Arabic rhythms threaded through the usual thumping. Right. That’s where she was. The Silk Route. Where was the silk route again?
She turned around again, steadied herself against the bar and lifted her glass. Put her lips to the edge. But did not drink. Someone had come up behind her. He was too close. He felt as tall as Andrew. She half-turned, slowly, the wineglass still in her hand.
“Bonjour, ma belle amie,” Shar said. “Madame Fleur, comment ça va?”
Eliza slid around, her back against the bar. Shar didn’t step away; they stood face to face, or, more accurately, face to shoulder, for Shar was taller, though not as tall as Andrew. Eliza kissed her on the cheek, a hello peck to the Bonjour. When she drew back to kiss her on the other side, Shar moved forward and caught Eliza on the lips. The women kissed, to the surprise and delight of the bartender and a few people who happened to be ordering drinks. Four full lips. What else could they do, but invite tongues to join in? At such close quarters, what could the bartender and customers do but watch? Then glance away. When the customers moved off, the bartender continued to stare with frank appreciation.
Eliza thought: I have to stop kissing this woman in public. She drew her head back and answered with a decent accent, “Ça va très bien. Et toi?”
“Waa-ooow,” Shar said, en français, which turned the retro wow into a word of sensual pleasure. She took a big theatrical step backwards to look Eliza up and down—her black knit dress, her thigh-high boots, surreptitiously put on in the car—and said in a French accent, “Yeah, I see you are well. Nice boots.” Then, taking a step closer, whispered, “And you are so horny.”
Eliza fell up into the large, deep-lidded eyes. She had been wet since she left her house. No, it had started when she replied to Shar’s text. Ridiculous. It was like bad erotica, the old Penthouse Forum: Eliza’s pussy was dripping wet. She put her hand on her forehead. Did she have a fever?
At home, this would be just another quiet Sunday night.
“I feel like I’ve been lured to this bar against my will.”
Shar laughed. “It took so much persuasion to get you here! Let me lure you a little further, to my apartment. It’s not far.”
“Oh, really? I was hoping you lived on the east side. Or in Mississauga. That way I’d never be able to see you again. If it can’t happen in my own neighbourhood, it takes too much time. Forget the suburbs.”
“Sorry, ma chère. I live two blocks away.”
“Oh, no. That’s terrible.”
“Should I move? Leave town?”
“Peut-être.” They grinned at each other.
“Do you want a drink?”
“I’ll have what you’re having.”
Eliza waved to the bartender, who jumped, almost stumbling, toward them. A moment later, setting down Shar’s glass, he said, “This Shiraz really is good, isn’t it?”
“The elixir of gods,” Eliza responded. “No! Of goddesses.” The women cracked up. The bartender licked his lips.
Shar winked at him. “You should have some yourself.”
Eliza pointed to the corner where she’d left her coat. “Let’s sit, shall we?”
They sat, facing each other; Eliza snuggled into the corner of the sofa. Shar lifted her glass; black liquid slid into her mouth. “Shiraz,” she said. “A city in Persia. Close to Persepolis. The oldest wine-making region in the world. The Persians made wine thousands of years before the French.”
Eliza couldn’t think about wine. She must not think about anything. Rational thought would force her to leave the bar and return to her children, the house, her husband, even that wedding proposal, printed out, sitting on her desk.
The collar of Shar’s white blouse opened to reveal a surprisingly wide expanse of chest in a body so narrow. Eliza could spread both her hands on that flesh, press down, not touch the white fabric at all. She could see Shar’s black bra straps. But no cleavage. It was tailored like a man’s shirt. Was it a man’s shirt? Like the jeans, loose, frayed at the hem—don’t think it, she thought, too late—exactly like a pair of her husband’s jeans. Shar had not dressed up. The black belt had a plain large buckle at the centre. The sleeves were rolled up to her elbows; she wore no rings, no bracelets, no adornment, though Eliza’s eyes glittered on her, slid down the long neck, back up to her face, her mouth, dropped to the slender forearms. Shar raised her glass, drank, stretched to put it down. She laid her left hand palm-up on the velvet sofa like an offering.
If they had spoken. If they had prodded each other with words, those old, blunt tools. If they had never seen each other naked. If they had not already breached mouth and skin. If she had never entered the water. It might have stopped there. A show-off kiss at the bar, a drink. Nothing more. Just the mistake of a woman in her forties (the skin around her eyes grown thin, lined) as she squinted back toward the abandoned part of her life, what she had left behind.
Shar raised her glass and they toasted to nothing, tangled up as they were in each other’s eyes. This is exactly how it had been with Thalia. Desire so powerful she could not control it. Refused to control it.
It no longer seemed dark in the bar; Shar’s wrist and inner arm glowed pearlescent. The long hand spread open, with its knobby opposable thumb, always separate from the other fingers. Working with flowers, cutters and glass made Eliza conscious of the extraordinary machines she used every day, two hands, ten fingers, hundreds of interlinked bones, woven tendons, the skein of fascia overcoating and connecting all, that net under the skin. Her hands were hard, calloused.
As she stared down at Shar’s fingers, her mouth filled with saliva. She wanted to suck them. Make them wet enough. She wouldn’t think. Nor organize, plan, sort, do the accounting on the back of a napkin, in her head, on her phone, she would not add or subtract or fill in another spreadsheet.
She didn’t care if she had chosen wrongly then. The past was gone, the path lost even as it had opened before her, the pale, plain way of a woman’s arm, extended. Now was the only time left.
18
Press Here
EVERY HAND SHOULD COME WITH A LABEL AND A manual. Miraculous hand, treacherous hand. Press here. Go on, do it. You know you want to.
Go ahead. Blow up your life.
Who is thinking this? Both of them. Eliza touches the tip of her middle finger to the centre of Shar’s palm. Life, work, love lines, the web of days recorded in a handprint. Shar’s long strong fingers close over Eliza’s. Fingers slide in between other fingers. One palm presses greedily against the other palm, pushes, insists the hand is the body in miniature. Their hands writhe naked on the sofa, over and under, as their bodies hover above their hands, and their minds flicker through and around their bodies. At different moments the thought floats from one mind into the other until they are both thinking, like a Greek chorus: I will have to lie about this.
Press here. You know you want to.
Kaboom.
Has Eliza ever felt so much? Surely she has. She has worn this skin every day for the past forty-two years. It is the largest, most diffuse organ of the body, each bit of it connected to every other bit. That’s why, she thinks, the Amazon’s long fingers between my fingers are actually between my legs. The ring of muscle at her centre tightens up, though all it wants to do is spread wide.
Her mouth opens and Shar closes it with her own mouth, leans up against her and pushes her down at the same time, almost on top of her, while Eliza’s hands are on Shar’s hips, pulling her in. Shar braces herself against the high back of the sofa. Two mouths open, close, open, tongues everywhere. If a snake tries to slide down your throat, swallow it. Tongues, too, need instruction manuals. Stretch it out, put it in. Don’t let it lie in the mouth. Can you lie to yourself, really? The two of them think, again, one right after the other, I shouldn’t be doing this in public. Eliza yanks her sweater dress higher up her thighs. One of Shar’s knees angles between them. Eliza pushes against it.
Both of them ask: Who is this woman?
Shar stops up her laughter. Not because it’s funny but because it’s not. Her own excitement unsettles her. This is not how it goes. Usually she manages both the pace and the intensity of the lust, her own, others’. She pulls back, glances around. The bar has never seen two women going at it like this. Nor the bartender. Shar feels his eyes the entire time, hot on them like the red tip of a laser. So much better than porn, isn’t it, mon petit chou? Hopefully he doesn’t start taking pictures with his phone.
But she can’t keep her distance by thinking about him, worrying about what they’re doing. She disappears into Eliza’s mouth. They both disappear into an avalanche of breast and thigh and hip, falling down the divan, rising up, falling down, oh. Which way is up? White shirt, black bra, tights, dear god. Dess. Aphrodite, Athena, Beyoncé, Eliza, Shar.
“Eliza! Easy, girl!” Shar finds her way out, pulls away. Clear the way, I’m coming up for air! She does up her undone buttons, businesslike. They cannot take off each other’s clothes in the bar. Eliza’s eyes already have that glassy stoned-with-sex look. Shar gathers up her tumbled-sideways hair and tosses it off her face. “Would you like another glass of wine?” Without waiting for Eliza’s answer, she stands up and stalks over to the bar in her almost-cowboy boots.
It’s an escape. Bar first, then the bathroom? Anything to slow this down. Drink more. Is that wise? Not telling, is that wise? Lying by omission. She’s done it her entire adult life, for various reasons. But almost never, anymore, with lovers. She is not ashamed of what she has done, and still does, for a living. So why isn’t she telling Eliza? Talking about sex work certainly would be a way to slow things down. Or stop them altogether. She puts her hands, palms down, on the bar.
The ogling bartender was not so ogley now. He shuffled shamefacedly, sideways, toward Shar. That’s sweet, she thought, he has an erection. His embarrassment won her over. And his politeness. Without a trace of a leer in his face or in his voice, he asked, “What would you like?”
Shar blew her hair out of her eyes. “A cold shower.”
It took him a moment to think of something to say. “I can give you a glass of ice water.”
“That’s something. I’ll have two more glasses of the same wine, too. It’s lovely.”
“When I recommended that Shiraz, I had no idea it was that good. I think I’ll have to, you know, take home a bottle. Or two.”
Shar raised her eyebrows. “You mean you’ll have what we’re having?”
He put the glass of ice water on the bar. “In my dreams.”
She tilted her head back and downed the glass of water. Set the tumbler back on the bar. “Sweet dreams, then. We’ll try to keep it under control.”
“No worries. I’m happy to see you enjoying yourself.”
“I bet you are.”
She dropped the two glasses of wine off at their table, excused herself and went downstairs to the washroom, that last bastion of solitude in the postmodern world. She really hoped that Eliza wouldn’t follow her for the classic lesbian stall maul. After peeing, she pulled her jeans back up and sat down again.
Usually, strangers getting to know her talked. Her clients talked. They often talked a lot; they asked questions and waited patiently while she answered them. They also asked questions she could not answer (which was the point). They told her their fantasies, sometimes, but they also told her their worries, their fears, their actual struggles in the world. She already was a therapist. Even the thought of sex cracked certain people open and impelled them to talk. She had a long session with a man who spent the first half-hour of it crashing into her body so hard that she had to ask, several times, that he ease off; he was hurting her. Each time, he apologized, and became more gentle, but then slowly worked back up to the same furious pounding. He came, apologized again, and started talking. His wife had terminal ovarian cancer. They had three young kids. He said he had never been so angry in his life, at everything. Then he wept in her arms for almost an hour. That, too, was sex work, though not the kind that “society” wished to acknowledge or understand. Once she’d flipped through the childhood photo album of a woman who had been confined for the last seven years to a wheelchair, paraplegic. Shar listened to stories about the little girl, then the young teenager who ran and grew and danced through the yellowed pages. That was the foreplay.
Shar talked, too, but a central part of her job was to listen. People did not typically think of whores as skilled listeners, but for her, it was as important an attribute as giving good head and faking a wonderful orgasm. The activities were not that different. Mouth open or shut, genuine ecstasy or acted, it all required a similar kind of attention, a presence. She attended her clients, tended to them. Which was why becoming a sex therapist was a logical next step. The step out of bed, true. But she would still be doing it; still working with sex, in some capacity. The thought made her calm.
Luckily, her lovers talked. Women loved talking, about everything, not just sex. They talked and talked and talked. They let Shar see who they were by talking. Often it wasn’t what they said; it was just that they were saying, and she was listening. Talking was also foreplay. Just like eating was. Food and drink was often the beginning of sex.
But Eliza had jumped straight into Shar’s body, into her veins, like a dangerously high dose of a recreational drug. Ecstasy. Was it like this? She had never tried it; manufactured ecstasy wo
uld be wasted on her. And chemicals were not good for the body.
The wild woman Eliza in the bar, on the red-plush divan, working her dress up her thighs: ecstasy would come from that. Absolutely. But Shar was used to protocol, either established—the rules on her website were explicit—or carefully discussed. Eliza had wanted Shar to put her hands down her tights, reach through the neckline of her dress to touch her breasts. She had undone three buttons on Shar’s blouse. There, in front of the patrons of the bar, it seemed that Eliza would have allowed anything.
Shar stood up. She flushed. The toilet, that is.
There was only one thing to do with a woman like that.
Returned from the washroom, she didn’t sit but leaned over the back of the sofa and whispered in Eliza’s ear, “Let’s get out of here. I’m going to take you home and fuck you.”
19
Open-Mouthed into the Sea
THE KEY ENTERED THE LOCK; SHAR TURNED IT AND stood back to let Eliza in. They were both breathing hard from rushing up the stairs. The bedroom was just a few steps down the hallway; a green light spilled out of the doorway onto the floor. “That’s the bedroom, isn’t it?” Eliza asked, grinning. “How convenient!”
Shar pointed down the hallway in the opposite direction. “Let’s go to the sitting room. Don’t worry about your boots. I’ll take them off for you.”
Eliza looked inquiringly at the bedroom. Shar smiled. “No need to rush.”
“But I do have to rush.”
She tucked a loose strand of hair behind Eliza’s ear. “There is only one first time.”
Eliza said nothing, but shrugged out of her coat and hung it up on a hook beside the door.
“I’ll get us something to drink. Hydration is crucial.” Shar disappeared into the kitchen, which was past the bedroom at the far end of the hallway.
The Change Room Page 14