Breakfast in Stilettos (17 page)

My initial sensory impression of
the Slutterati Salon
was the blast of toasty heat that hit us as we walked inside. Sal-worthy tropical. It was an abrupt but welcome change from the alley. The heat was reason enough to stay, at least for a while. The foyer was darkly lit but roomy enough for about half the crowd. Joe, Frank and I stood in line at a folding table, where a silver-haired man in a black tuxedo sat taking money. Beyond him, near a makeshift closet, an attractive Asian woman dressed in a flesh-colored body suit was checking coats.

The atmosphere was redolent of oils, solvents and varnish—artist studio odors, as though the nude paintings on the dark walls had been freshly painted. I stared at the one next to me. Older men and women stood together, naked and decidedly unsexy, painted in luscious reds and golds, just as
the Renaissance artists
had
painted
baby Jesus and Madonna.

I had to let go of Frank, who was eager to move ahead of us in line. I held on firmly to Joe’s arm, half to thaw out the remaining chill and half to keep my nerves in check.

“God it’s cold outside,” He said, giving one final shivering breath before releasing the tension in his muscles. “It feels great in here.”

“Agreed.” I shoved my free hand under the opposite armpit to defrost my fingers, exposing a canyon of cleavage.

Joe snuck a peek before looking away. “It’ll probably be too hot inside.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Naked people don’t like the cold.”

“What?” The sound was startled out of me.

“The heat. They keep the temperature up in places like this because it encourages a bit of exhibitionism. Who wants to be naked if it’s freezing?”

“Naked.” I steeled myself. “Nudity isn’t some unspoken requirement, is it?” I looked around, worried that my fellow audience members would already be strutting about in the buff. I didn’t want to encounter them any more than I wished to stumble across a bear in the wild.

Joe looked amused. “Well, there’s no guarantee. I’ve heard that spontaneous stripping is always a possibility.”

I nudged Frank in the back. “You said nobody would be naked.” My fight or flight instinct kicked in, and I was leaning toward the former at the moment.

Frank was nearly at the payment table. He shrugged. “Last time I was here no one was
forced
to
get
naked, at least none of the guests. The
staff
on the other hand, well, they probably will be.” He gave me an encouraging smile before leaning past to talk to Joe. “A threesome is eighty bucks. What is that apiece?”

“Do I look like an accountant?” Joe sounded annoyed, but I could tell he was just teasing. He pulled out his wallet. “How about I give you thirty and we call it even.” Joe handed the money to Frank, who took it without arguing, trying to give him change or promising to buy him a drink later. Frank didn’t understand the subtleties of transactional relationships. He seemed to think everything offered was free for the taking. It was one of the things that irritated me about Frank and led others to call him Mr. Cheap behind his back.

I handed him twenty-five. “I’ll owe you the other dollar sixty-six.” I was half tempted not to pay him back. But that paltry sum wouldn’t begin to recoup the money I’d lost during our relationship. What remained inexplicable to me was how I could be so irritated by some of his behavior, yet so willing to re-up our relationship?

Mr. Cheap proceeded to pay and I watched as the tuxedoed man stamped my hand with a little red heart. I held it up for Joe to see. “I’ve been marked. I guess I have to go in now.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Joe was gazing at me with a contented smile, while I noticed that Frank was scanning the room. And as if purposefully trying to irritate me further, Frank waved at someone I couldn’t see and leaned in and kissed me lightly on the cheek. “I’ll be back in a bit.” He looked at Joe. “Take care of her till I get back.
OK
?” Then he disappeared into the next room.

I wanted to do the big “L” on my forehead gesture at him.

Joe helped me out of my coat and handed it to the coat check. “So who is Frank?”

“Never seen him in my life. Except for those two years we dated on and off.”

“Ah.” Joe nodded. “So is this an ‘on’ or ‘off’ period?”

I gazed in the direction Frank had gone. “Good question.”

Joe seemed satisfied with that answer. He took my arm and, with a flourish, gestured toward the red velvet curtained inner door and into the studio proper. A refrain of “We’re off to see the Wizard” played in my head. I was on a Disneyland ride, with that feeling of anticipation you have when you finally leave the long queue and settle into your car as it creaks to a start. My fingers gripped Joe’s sleeve instead of the railing. But in every other way, the ride was about to begin.

Things were already underway as we moved into the large studio space. An assorted cast of characters greeted everyone personally. The Rubenesque woman who greeted us wore a long black dress cinched tightly to enhance her more than ample assets. She gestured solemnly toward whatever mysteriousness lay beyond. “Welcome.” She leaned forward to press her cleavage against Joe’s chest, creating the effect of a pair of tightly clasped water balloons threatening to burst. I moved past her quickly, lest I receive similar treatment.

The next
plot complication
was a fiftyish black man with long gray-black dreads, no shirt and remarkable pecs. He flashed a set of brilliant white teeth at me and slipped a muscular arm around my waist. Pulling me close, he displayed a leather
cat o
’
nine tails
whip. “Would you care to give or receive?”

A nervous laugh bolted out of me before I could stop it. I couldn’t imagine either. “Uh, no thanks?”

Joe laughed, clearly enjoying my discomfort, but not in an evil way. The buxom woman had released him and was bestowing her treasures upon another.

I nudged him. “Well, what about you?” The dreads guy displayed the whip to him as well.

Joe’s smile widened. “Actually I prefer to receive, but only from a woman.” He nodded to the dreads guy, who showed me the whip again.

I waved him off. “I think that’s still a ‘no’ for me. At least for now.” I tugged Joe past the dreads guy so he could offer his wares to one of other arrivals. “Maybe I’ll discover something new about myself later. But for now, I’d like to keep my life whip-free.”

He followed me farther into the studio. “How can you know until you try?”

I looked at him. “Listen, I’ve never stuck my eye with a pin either, but I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t like it, you know?”

“Aw, but pain can surprise you. Especially when mixed with pleasure.” He rubbed absently at his shoulder and I wondered if he was remembering a particular incident. I didn’t ask. Not because I wasn’t curious. I was. But the night was young, and I hoped that like fine wine, it would grow richer when given time to breathe.

The large room was divided into a series of smaller “rooms,” separated by more velvet drapes. The subdued lighting lent a warm golden hue to everything. The sound system was playing that odd spiritual, sensual, monks-having-sex style music. The paint smell wasn’t so evident now, having been overpowered by the scent of coffee, chocolate and baked bread that was wafting from somewhere farther inside. The seductive aroma made me light-headed.

Joe moved ahead and steered me toward the baking smell. The promised dessert room would undoubtedly be in that direction. Since the show would
not
officially start until 9:30, we had twenty minutes or so to enjoy the food and drink and watch the pre-show activities. A woman wearing next to nothing was doing Cirque du Soleil-style gymnastics on a rope suspended from the high ceiling.

We stopped and watched her for a while until the
distant
smell of coffee got the better of us. We ventured forth. Within the next draped enclosure I spied the food table, piled with a decadent array of desserts. Simple chocolate truffles nestled on a bed of red rose petals, cookies laden with slices of strawberry hearts, pink-nippled cupcakes … And here was the espresso machine and a barista taking orders. This
was
Seattle after all.

“Coffee?”

I shook my head. “No. I can’t handle caffeine at this time of night. Even decaf gives me the jitters.”

“Ah, but I have the appropriate counter-additive.” He pulled a small whisky flask out of his pocket and tipped it toward me. “It’ll banish the last of the chill, too.”

“You certainly came prepared.” The flask might have been a prop in a morality play. He was my own male version of that ancient Greek nymph, Calypso, luring me into danger. “
OK
, but make sure it’s decaf.”

I stood with Joe as he ordered and then waited for our drinks. A middle-aged couple passed by, decked out in all the trappings of submission/Dominance. The woman—tall and a bit too curvy in her black body stocking, latex mini-dress and thigh-high boots—was leading a man by a silver chain leash. Portly and balding, he was attired in leather pants, vest and collar with silver spikes. Their costumes looked brand-new and straight out of some of the online fetish stores I’d been surfing for research material, but the overall impression they gave was of two bureaucrats who should have their Internet privileges revoked for surfing on company time.

I couldn’t help staring. It was like reading about a mythical animal and then actually seeing a pair in a private zoo. I was amazed at how comfortable they looked, not only with the idea of their fetish, but also with parading it about together in public. It was a dating miracle. Against rather staggering odds, these two people with what I deemed to be
unique
tastes had found each other. You’d think it would be easier for me. I was just looking for a regular guy. Shouldn’t there be a plethora of those? Maybe my singles ad should start with “No leash or collar required.”

I leaned in closer to Joe. “So what would you think if I dressed like that and asked to lead you around for a little while?”

“Would you wear those boots?” He seemed completely serious.

I laughed and nudged him again. “You’re joking, right?”

He touched my arm firmly and leveled his black-eyed gaze at me. “Emily, around here no one jokes about that sort of thing. Trust me.”

The room was suddenly short on air. I took in a deep breath as heat suffused my cheeks.

He gazed at me for a moment. I thought with a pang that he might excuse himself and leave, but then he smiled and all was forgiven. The barista broke the tension by calling out our drinks.

Carefully balancing the full coffee mugs, Joe headed to the side bar to add whisky. I followed close behind. I couldn’t help stealing furtive glances at my fellow guests, who were beginning to mingle as I snagged a couple of the strawberry clad cookies from the dessert bar. No one else seemed quite as eccentric as the one couple, but I sensed the real attractions had yet to appear.

Joe and I sipped some of the coffee to make enough room for a decent pour of whiskey. Then Joe led me to a nearby couch.
With
a heavy sigh, I sank down in
to
the
overstuffed
padding
. I wanted to move past his dark remark but wasn’t exactly sure how. I wasn’t blessed with the small talk gene. I always said too much, too soon. Premature articulation.

When he was settled in next to me, I handed him the cookies. There was a gold lacquered side table next to him. “Can you put these over there?”

He set the cookies in their napkin next to the arm of the couch. “They look good. Still warm.”

I nodded and inhaled a whiff of the coffee’s whisky ethers before taking a sip. Joe slowly assessed each new couple as they walked by, flicking his gaze to the next like a typist slapping the carriage return on an old black Underwood.

I nibbled on one of the cookies as four men lumbered by. They were carrying, log-style, what looked like a human statue swathed in black. Near the edge of the room, they stopped next to a small pedestal and heaved the statue into position. With a shock, I realized it
was
a person—someone dressed in a black, skintight body suit that also covered his head. He (very evidently a he) was trying hard to remain rigid. He looked like an Oscar award painted black.

The men pulled over a small table that held a bowl of brilliant red
poinsettias
, which you could safety-pin to the statue guy. They applied a few to show how it was done and then gestured for others to follow suit.

There appeared to be no shortage of volunteers and within a short time the statue was properly trussed like a Rose Bowl parade float. The statue man hadn’t move a muscle and I had to admit he was brave for allowing a bunch of people with pins to have their way with him.

I scanned the room. Frank was nowhere to be seen. Setting aside my irritation, I decided to reprise my original line of questioning. “So Joe, back to where we left off … Why are you here?”

I thought for a moment he wouldn’t answer. He never took his eyes off the parade of people. When he finally spoke, he sounded distracted. “Curiosity, I guess.”

“Or maybe you just don’t know me well enough to say.” I flicked a bit of lint off my skirt.

“Maybe.”

I waited. He wore a glazed expression, as though lost in a fog. So I asked the standard filler question, “What are you thinking about?”

He let out a long sigh. “I was thinking about Whisky.”

Not what I expected. “Whisky?”

“I was thinking back on my last trip to Ireland, where I got the taste for Bushmills.” He lifted his coffee. “It was to be my final vacation with Maire, now my ex-wife. She is very Irish, down to her flame-red hair and green eyes. She’d wanted to trace her O’Neill lineage. We had a grand time huddled in our tiny car, white-knuckling the narrow country lanes and seeing the sights.”

“That sounds like fun. I’ve never been to Ireland. What happened?”

He brushed at the velvet nap on the couch arm. “For me, the trip was a fabulous three-week sexual marathon. But for her, and unbeknownst to me, it was a last ditch effort to get pregnant. When that didn’t happen, yet again, she decided to move on to more fecund ground.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m still a little preoccupied with it.”

He wasn’t over his ex-wife. Rumor had it that smart women ran away at this point, but for me it sparked curiosity. This was where a good story began, in midst of tragedy and heartbreak. “That must have been hard.”

He waved me off. “I promised myself to stop thinking about it.” He snorted. “As if there’s some kind of ‘off’ switch.” This last line he said under his breath.

He shook himself. “Why am I telling you all this?
”
He smiled as though forcing himself into a better mood. “So, enough of this gloominess. Let’s talk about something else.”

I was hesitant to let it go. I sensed there was a potential strange and unusual lurking in the depths of Joe’s past or present, but he clearly wasn’t interested in digging it up. Not yet anyway. I sighed and took a sip of coffee. “
OK
. Something simple, then. What’s your day job?”

That was an easy enough question and he responded promptly. “I’m a Web developer. Mostly back-end work; databases, e-commerce and the like.”

“A programmer?” Great. The classic unemotional, inconsiderate geek. Just what I needed.

“Well, yes, but more than that. I have my own company. Mostly I hire other programmers to implement what I come up with. Programming in and of itself can get pretty tedious.” He seemed to be perking up. “Actually, I can even do a little name-dropping. It helps to sweeten an otherwise dull-sounding occupation. My client base is heavily weighted toward celebrities. Not that I usually meet them, but I do their websites and fix their computers.”

“You’re kidding? Like who?” That
was
unusual.

He laughed. He shook his head. “Really it’s embarrassing to say. I always feel a little cheap, as though proud to be the one taking out Britney Spears’ garbage.
Let’s just say that you’d definitely know who they
a
re.
”

“Well, it sounds like a far cry from waste disposal.” I was about to
push for details
, but something behind me had captured Joe’s attention. I turned my head.