Breakfast in Stilettos (16 page)

I awoke with a start, jerking a look at the clock. Damn. It was 8:00 p.m. So much for dinner, although I wasn’t all that hungry. Nerves had gotten the better of me. I sat up, realizing I still had the shoes on. I slipped them off, set them carefully back on the bed and made my way to the bathroom to take a quick shower. I didn’t have much time
—
I couldn’t be late or
I’d be
locked out.

I set the book on the nightstand. I clearly had to stop reading in bed.

Sal had already left for her meeting. I was surprised she hadn’t shaken me awake, but perhaps she was still feeling upset with me. I figured Mom and Kenner were unhappy with me as well, but I pushed that worry out of my head, determined to follow through with the desire to square up with Frank, one way or another. Collapsing the wave-form.

Once out of the shower, I retrieved the jacket and skirt from outside. They were icy cold and damp. I put them over the heater vent and actually turned up the thermostat to a Sal-satisfying temperature. The old floor furnace billowed forth, gusting hot air up into the skirt and jacket as though someone was wearing them. I rummaged through the drawer, looking for acceptable “I might end up naked” underwear. Or better stated, “I might end up naked next to a man with aspirations to have sex.” I didn’t own much in the way of lingerie. Most of it would fall into the category of active-wear—white, practical, and always up for a game of racquetball. It didn’t bunch or ride up your crotch. In short, it wasn’t sexy. But, in the back of the drawer were a few pair of underwear that knew their job. I pulled out a black push-up bra and lacey thong and managed to get them on, ignoring my body’s objections to exposing its butt cheeks and cleavage to a wider audience. I ignored it as I wriggled into a garter belt and the hosiery that matched.

Once properly trussed, I wiped the steamed bathroom mirror so I could put on make-up. I kept meaning to watch the DVD on how to put on the make-up contained within the kit I had ordered a while back. I
was
clearly missing some arcane information on how to make all these slabs of colored pow
d
ers and creams look natural using the handful of different sized brushes that shipped with the kit. I had no clue. Several
America
’
s Next Top Model
episodes had not improved my understanding. I always ended up looking slutty. Maybe this evening that was the goal. Ten minutes later I had a painted face, a Farrah Fawcett hairdo, and a permanent wedgie.

I managed to snake into the skintight scarlet top that I’d borrowed from Sal, wondering whose breasts were peering out of the neckline. Then I pulled on the now toasty leather ensemble. The jacket was satin-lined and slid on like an eel, but the skirt wasn’t lined at all. Once I got it on, I felt the distinct texture of
rough
leather
on my bare butt cheeks, which made me wonder what shape they would be in by evening’s end, if sweat and friction played any role whatsoever.

It was 8:35 and I needed to leave. That left the last item on the list of my transformation. Those impractical shoes sat perched as if lounging about backstage, lazily waiting for their turn in the stripper spotlight. I slipped them on and looked at myself in the full-length mirror in Sal’s room. I suppressed a scream. Vice squad here I come.

I simply wasn’t ready for the whole meal deal. I went back to the bedroom, took off the shoes and rummaged through my closet for some shoes that were a bit more practical. Black, short heeled, a lot less attitude—in other words, lower self-esteem.

A final inspection in the mirror and I was set. I could live with this, but I decided that you never knew when you might need that extra super hero talent, so I boxed the stilettos and carried them out under my arm and into the
nippy
night air.

Twenty or so men and women huddled with me in the dark alley. T
he
line-up could have passed as a casting call for the
Matrix
: leather, latex and plenty of exposed flesh. That
said
something about the dedication of the assemblage, considering the temperature.

The air had a brisk edge as January nights in Seattle often do. Though not yet freezing, the wind carried the threat of frost visible in the huffed breath and erect nipples of those around me.

The woman behind me was clad in a short latex dress. She looked like a toothpaste tube squeezed at the center. Her breasts burped out the top and two long legs squirted into a pair of six-inch ankle-chain sandals.

Her beefy partner was clearly the fist that had done the squeezing, his hands still mid-grip. He sported a long leather duster and a
faux
-
hawk
hairdo. His Doc Martens were perfectly unscuffed, as though freshly plucked from the box.

Though he seemed warm enough,
she
had to be freezing. The tiny bit of leather masquerading as her jacket did little to cover or warm her. Between recurrent giggles of excitement came the staccato chattering of her teeth.

I was tempted to offer my compliments on their having heeded the website’s admonition to “wear something you wouldn’t wear elsewhere,” but I worried about the effect that grip would have on my throat.

The Slutterati Salon
was located in an artist’s studio under the huge I-5 overpass just north of downtown. The cars speeding past overhead roared like a waterfall after a downpour. Exhaust fumes tinged air that was mostly laden with the smell of latex, cigarette smoke and a
profusion
of competing perfumes. Lawn torches guttered in the gusting wind, flaming bright orange with thin trails of black smoke. This was the very definition of Urban.

We were queued up to a dingy red door that would, according to the emailed instructions, open promptly at nine and be locked again at nine-thirty. No late admittance.

“Not even the best submissive whining
deters
the bouncers.” Or so said Frank. Apparently, my other chilled compatriots had heard the same warning.

A quick assessment of the gathering showed that I was plainly
over
- rather
than
under
dressed
.
My outfit, instead of looking safely practical, made me stand out like
an
Eskimo at a nudist colony
. Clearly
other
people had
received
a
warning
to
wear
nothing
that was either
warm
or
could pass maternal inspection
.

Frank hadn’t arrived yet, so I had to stand alone in line. I was tempted to wait in the warmth of the car, but figured I should mingle with the local wildlife if I wanted to get the best feel for the place.

The man just ahead gave me a quick glance. He was kind of cute in that Tim Robbins sort of way. Tall and tastefully dressed, which, in this crowd, was saying something. He wore the requisite leather jacket, but the rest of his ensemble was simple: black dress tee, black jeans and a classy pair of black Italian slip-ons. Shoes like that usually meant money or a shoe fetish. Or both.

I was nervous that someone I knew might recognize me.
The Slutterati Salon
’s website had promised “evocative theater for singles and couples of all persuasions.”
I wondered what the Italian shoe man
’
s persuasion might be.
I tried to relax and smiled.

He smiled back. “Hi.”

“Hi, yourself.”

He held out his hand. “My name’s Joe. Joe Stratton.”

“Mine’s Emily Royce.” I shook his hand. It was soft and uncallused. Definitely not a construction worker. His grip was solid, business-like.

Releasing my hand, he leaned in a bit. “I find a more professional tack usually puts people at ease at these things.”

I wasn’t sure exactly what he meant, but his words seemed to indicate he was a regular. “Have you been here before?”

He shook his head. “Nope. I’m a
Salon
virgin.”

I figured he was making a joke and laughed in that polite, sociable way. There didn’t seem much virgin-like about him. “
Me, too. If that is the right word for it
.
”

I
had the urge to explain that I was here as a journalist instead of a slutterati
novitiate
, but knew
I shouldn’t be telling people about the story. Not if I want
ed
them to act natural. Like I was
an urban
Jane Goodall.

His smile was broad and beautiful, displaying big white teeth. “True enough.” His blue eyes sparkled.

The sound of giggling from Fist and Squeeze behind me caught Joe’s attention. He leaned away from the wall. “They look like a happy
couple
.”

I glanced back. “If only we were all so lucky.” I wasn’t being sarcastic. They did look happy, and in that they had one up on me.

He shrugged, though I detected a little sadness in his face. As if skirting too close to pain, he reapplied his smile. “So,
Married
?
Engaged? Single?
”

“That would be single. What about you?”
“
Married? Engaged? Single
?”

“
Actually, none of the above.
Divorced. Unfortunately. Been final for a little over a year.”

I couldn’t tell if he
was
unhappy about the marriage or the divorce. I asked him.

He scratched absently at the gray-threaded stubble on his chin. “Hmm. That’s a hard question. Probably a little of both.”

“Is that why you’re
here
? To find someone?” I flinched as soon as I said it. “
Well, that was sort of rude, wasn
’
t it
?”

He laughed.
“No, not
rude
. Maybe a little nosey. But I don’t mind.”

I got the sense he
did
mind. But that made me even more curious. “So why
are
you here?”

Joe was saved from having to answer by Frank’s arrival. He was dressed pretty much like Joe, all black, only with motorcycle boots, although I suspected he hadn’t come on his bike tonight. He looked ruggedly masculine and I felt light-headed to be standing between two such hunky men.

Frank sidled up next to me, smelling of musky soap. As he gave me a short kiss on the cheek, he sized up Joe. Smiling his best smile, he held out a hand. “Frank.”

Joe gave me a quick glance before shaking Frank’s hand. “Joe. Pleased to meet you.”

It was clear that both guys wanted me to explain who the other was, and it was awkward. What would I say?
Joe, this is Frank, my ex boyfriend, who might be my boyfriend again
.
Maybe
.
And Frank, this is Joe
,
who I just met, but I think
he’s
pretty darn cute and, well, I am still single at the moment
.

But I didn’t have to say anything, because a young woman announced, “Hello everyone. Time to come inside.” A young woman dressed in a black corset and carrying a riding crop had appeared at the door, beckoning us inside. I eyed the whip with trepidation. A threat, a promise of things to come? Or part of the price of admission?

Joe smiled
at me and leaned in
as the line began to move. “Well, for the answer to your question and any other mysteries, we’ll have to
wait
for later. That is, if you still find yourself curious after all the other
distractions
inside.” He
raised
his eyebrows conspiratorially a couple of times, which, on any other day would have elicited
rolled
eyes on my part. But tonight, I thought it was kind of cute.

Frank seemed not to notice. His gaze was on the door and the people ahead of us. I was focused on what lay ahead as well. My stomach did a few Mary Lou Rettons as we approached the threshold. This was my first foray into the world of the
slut
t
erati
. That was, after all, why I was here—to meet and report. But the crowd looked
to skew more to slut
rather
than lit
erature
,
at least
if Fist and Squeeze were any indication.

As I neared the red door, I wavered. What was I getting myself in for? Did I really want to stand around and
watch
these people pretend to appreciate the so-called
art
and then run off with Frank behind the
designated
curtain for a quasi-public sex fest? And worse, what would I learn about my ex-lover? Was I ready for that?

Frank grabbed my arm,
perhaps all too aware of what I was thinking
. “You aren’t chickening out, are you?”

I gave him my best
mock-glare
.

He
just
laughed, and
then
pulled me close so he could whisper. “Hey, is that guy you’ve been talking to single? See if he’s willing to go in with us as a threesome.”

I turned to pass on the message. My first-time offer of a three-way. “Frank says we can all get in cheaper if we go together, as a group.” Though I wondered whether “cheaper” was the image I really wanted to project right now.

But Joe didn’t appear to mind. “Sure!” I held out my arm for him to take. As I walked up the last
few
steps to the red door, a
gorgeous
man on either arm and a big smirk on my face, I wondered if this was how Mary Magdalene got her start.