Vicarious (The Vicarious Trilogy) (3 page)

Chapter 5: Addressing Her IT Issues

My next story was related by a stranger in a bar in Chicago. She worked as a sales rep for a major corporation and was attending a large trade show. She had a brash, assertive personality; the word that came to mind was ‘cocksure’. It was late, the second evening of the conference, and we found ourselves in the lounge of a downtown hotel, both waiting for other people.

She was an attractive woman
with a great laugh, and she referred to herself as being in her “dirty thirties.”

“I’d had a bad breakup in the spring, and
last summer, I was treating myself to all kinds of fun. Better than sitting home in sweatpants with a pint of ice cream,” she said as she tossed her long hair.

“One beautiful Saturday, I had plans to go to a party but first I decided to run an errand. I’d bought this netbook and a friend at work told me it could be hacked to load Mac software. He offered to connect me through a friend of a friend to someone who could do this for me.

“So, I’d sent the guy an email, and we set it up. The party was in another direction, but it was a sunny afternoon, and I put the top down on my little roadster and headed to his place, with plenty of time to get to the party.

“He lived in a nice house in the ‘burbs, and had this crazy workshop in the basement. I guess he had a tech job somewhere, but was doing a lot of side work, as IT guys tend to do.

“An older woman let me in—I guess it could have been his mother—and brought me down to the converted basement where he was working. As I’d heard, it was an amazing set up. Total geekdom. Very impressive. Not just a workshop, but a beautifully designed workshop, clean, good lighting, and so on.

“Best of all was IT Guy…very cute, in that scruffy 20-something way. You’ve seen this guy, irreverent t-shirt, short, soft beard, dark hair a
little dirty and pushed to the side. Sort of soft and pale where I normally like sculpted muscle, but overall, pretty damn geek-sexy. He looked up from the bench and we locked eyes while his mom introduced me.

“
She excused herself, said she was off to the neighbors and would be back soon.

“
There was music playing in the background, typical Top 40 stuff, and the sunlight from the basement windows slanted across the room in rich gold stripes. He hadn’t said a word.

“
I pulled the netbook out of my bag and set it on the bench.

“’That’s it,’ I said, inanely. I leaned against the shelving behind me, wondering if I would let him pursue me. A moody, quiet guy would b
e a nice change from the usual ‘let’s talk about me’ guys I’d been running into lately.

“He opened the netbook, plugged in the power source and turned it on. He
turned, and reached past me into the shelving unit to grab something. He still hadn’t said a word, but he was now just inches away.

“That’s when I behaved badly,” she said, grinning and raising one eyebrow. “I turned my head and licked his jaw, just one slow swipe over his short, soft beard, and then I waited.

“He’d closed his eyes, and I could see him trembling. One heartbeat, two, then he opened his eyes and looked fully into mine, his pupils huge and dark.

“We frantically began to kiss and claw at each other. His hair was thick and
up close it smelled almost like a puppy, and he tasted like the beer I saw on the bench. He made his way down my neck while I ripped the top of my sundress open. I had no bra on, of course.

“All I wanted was to come, and as fast as possible. I shoved him down onto his knees and pulled up the skirt of my dress. His clumsy kisses led across my pelvis from hip bone to hip bone while he fumbled my panties down my thighs. Finally! His tongue, right on the buzzer.

“I grabbed two big handfuls of that thick dark hair and came hard in rolling waves. My knees were weak and my thighs shaking from holding myself up against the shelving unit on top of some ridiculous shoes. He started to unbuckle his jeans with one hand while he continued to nuzzle me.

“Over my ragged breathing and pounding heart, I heard the door open.

“’I’m back!’ his mother called from the top of the stairs. ‘Want something to eat?’

“We stared at each other, frozen. I don’t know why, but suddenly I decided I was done.
I yanked my underwear up and reached past him to snag the netbook off the counter. I made it up the stairs and out the door while his mom had her back turned, opening and closing cupboards in the kitchen.

“I had to ruck my dress up while I drove so I wouldn’t arrive at the party with a big damp spot on it, and of course I had to buy a new power cord for that stupid computer. But I still get hot picturing him there on his knees, jeans open and a stunned look on his face as he realized I was bolting out the door and leaving him there alone with his hard-on!”

She laughed again, and then someone in the doorway caught her eye. A tall man, in his prime,
wearing an expensive sports jacket. 

“Nice talking to you,” she said, standing and picking up her beaded clutch. “I’m off to find out if 50 really is frisky!”

Chapter 8
: Model Behavior

“Would you be interested in
talking to the blonde?” asked the photographer I’d previously interviewed. It took me a minute to place the reference.

“The blonde model in your story?” I asked.

“Yes, we met again a few years after that incident, and although I’m not sure she ever connected me with the naïve and shy assistant who ran off set during a shoot, I’m certain it is her. We’ve kept in touch, and she’s done some photography herself.”

“Yes, absolutely,” I said.

“She’s a bit of an eccentric, and often travels. Try her assistant at this number.”

A few weeks later, I found myself sitting across from an elegant woman in her Manhattan apartment. She was no longer modeling, but t
he walls were filled with her beautiful face across several decades.  

“These photos,” she waved her hand vaguely, “are the ones I display for my family’s sake. Although some may suspect the other kinds of work I’ve done, I’m fairly certain my children have yet to c
onnect dear old mum with the 1970s fetish model B-----. I’m enjoying a modest following on the Internet now, you know.”

I had seen several fan pages devoted to her career, but they seemed to all share the same handful of images. I made a note to ask her whether there were more photos before the interview ended.

“I came to New York to be free. I was sick of Paris, sick of the country, definitely sick of London. Always the same boring people, always the same tattletales who couldn’t wait to hiss about my scandalous behavior. Lascivious hypocrites…how they enjoyed their own vicarious pleasures, at my expense.

“
New York not only had a crackling, wonderful type of energy, but it was also possible to escape one’s own acquaintances in the crowd, if one swam down a layer or two. I quickly gathered a circle of friends who were living as freely as I hoped to: actors, models, photographers, dancers, painters…it was so exciting. The drugs didn’t interest me, but the sex did. It was an idyllic time, really. Not only was very little off limits, there also wasn’t the kind of weary cynicism people now seem to bring to their threesomes and their obligatory oral sex. Looking back, it almost seems like wholesome good fun.

She gazed out of the window at Central Park for a moment, reflecting,
and then picked up her tea cup.

“Perhaps it’s my own youth that I’m nostalgic for…nasty habit, sentimentality.

“While I was running wild in New York, my cousin John was spending down his tiny inheritance in Paris, trying to make a go of becoming a sculptor. Commercial success eluded him until he fell into a strange hobby. He carved a whimsical wooden dildo for a married lover of his, and word soon got around. He tried all sorts of materials, but when he learned to work with rubber and latex, his reputation exploded. He made another fortune, much larger than the first. I don’t know whether it was the generosity of his customers or if his intimate knowledge of their fantasies lent the financial transactions a faint whiff of blackmail...he laughingly began to call me his ‘poor relation’ to hint at his changed circumstances.

“In any event, he called me to say he was sending me something to amuse me, and I should plan to be home on a particular day to receive it. When I opened the door, two tall, slender young women stood there with far t
oo much luggage. Neither spoke more than a few words of English, and their French was even worse than mine. They were among the first of those exotically attractive Eastern Europeans to find their way to New York. They hoped to work as fashion models, but they were hungry enough to take jobs that other girls would hesitate to accept.

“‘How do you like the show ponies?’ John asked when we spoke.

“I laughed. The two girls were curled up on my sofa eating Brie and baguettes and watching television. They had managed to communicate that they were my responsibility now, and looked to me to feed and house them.

“‘You darling man,’ I told him. ‘I adore them…but what do I do with them?’

“‘Ask them to give you a fashion show,’ he said.

“I shrugged and clicked off the television. The ‘fashion show’ was fascinating, frightening, and, of course, incredibly arousing. My cousin’s artistic maturation had led him from that first lovingly-made sex toy down much stranger avenues. The so-called show ponies came with two trunksful of custom fetish gear, made just for their slender limbs and
small breasts.

“After that, it all happened rather quickly. My father wanted me to come home, and threatened to cut off my allowance, and as I was still too young to access my own money, I became a bit of an opportunist. I began to set up special modeling jobs for the girls. As their manager, I made sure we were paid up front, and paid well. The girls and their trunks now occupied the flat next door, and I found a costumier to keep the gear in good condition.

“Eventually, I wanted more control over the quality of the photos, and I wanted to own the rights to the images. It was difficult for a young woman to negotiate these types of deals in those days, so I opted for the subterfuge of having my cousin act as either the client or the business representative, as needed. In essence, he helped launder the money, and I was able to thumb my nose at my father when he did exactly as promised, and cut off my allowance before I reached the age of majority.

“Natalya and Anya—not their names, of course—had been matched in Paris by someone whose erotic fantasies centered on encounters
with twins. Except that Natalya’s eyes were quite dark and Anya’s cat eyes a sparkling green, they were similar enough to satisfy in photos. They quickly became close, enjoying the protection of a sister in a strange new country, and seemed content to act out sexual scenarios together. Natalya just shrugged when I asked her about it, and Anya showed me a picture of her mother with several of her brothers and sisters. She sent money home often and was very proud to be able to help her family.

“The three of us developed a kind of friendship over the months. They were grateful to me for helping them, and we
were enjoying the money. I suppose I was a kinder benefactor than they might have had in other circumstances. Now the world is very much aware of the darker side of these kinds of arrangements, but in those days, we didn’t think anything of it. We were just three pretty girls running wild in New York…what could be more fun?

“Our deeper entanglement began shortly after I had had a falling out with a lover, and was mooning about. The two girls arrived one evening to cheer me with champagne and strawberries. We reclined on the sofa, with my head in Anya’s lap and my feet in Natalya’s. Anya was a very loving person, and she stroked my hair gently while listening to me be a bit sad, rambling on about the man’s supposedly excellent qualities. Natalya massaged my feet with scented oil, and eventually, we fell into a companionable silence. The candles flickered and we emptied the champagne bottle.

“Anya bit into a berry and rubbed the juice across her lips.

“‘
Poor woman’s lipstick,’ she laughed.

“She looked beautiful. I sat up and, on impulse, kissed her. She tenderly kissed me back, and then suddenly we were grasping at each other, and as I
planted kisses down her long neck and ran my hands through her hair, Natalya undressed her. We spent the rest of the evening worshipping Anya with our lips and our hands. It was really lovely, but not something ever repeated for our own amusement.

“Instead, they invited me to join them in front of the camera. I had my hair lightened to platinum, removed all my body hair, and hired a make-up artist, a sweet gay man who called himself Jean-Luc though he was most likely from New Jersey. At first, his job was to make sure my birthmarks
and identifying moles were well-hidden. Later he helped me explore my own artistic vision.

“As we devised new scenarios to present, I asked my cousin to create several more costumes for the two girls. I was much too claustrophobic to wear those rubber contraptions myself. I liked to wear
feminine lingerie, though, and my attire made a wonderful contrast to their sleek industrial outfits. My favorite was a negligee that the costumier made for me. He stitched up a fragment of netting that matched my skin color, draping it deliciously over my hips, and if it weren’t completely transparent, it could have even been considered chaste. I think I still have it, somewhere.

“As the photos multiplied and I began to think of printing a book full of them, I asked the make-up artist to help me devise ways to enhance certain images.

“I had particular images in mind, such as a nude woman as pale as the sheets beneath her, her hairless pudendum split open to reveal shockingly pink labia, like a viscid and vivid fruit. The makeup artist and I would spend hours formulating just the right colors by blending berries, beets, pomegranate seeds, red currant and grape jellies. Then we’d test them on the girls by painting their genitals with these home-made stains using ultra-soft sable brushes. They would lie on their backs reading fashion magazines, long legs thrown over the sofa and chair backs, utterly unfazed by the whole process.

“We did
an entire series of photos like this, which I had bound into a limited edition of just 3 books. I sold them for enough money to keep the show ponies in magazines and French champagne for a year. Who knew there were men who wanted to see photos of women with their naughty bits painted up like fruit?

“Later, one of the collectors commissioned another book featuring the three of us
drizzled in honey. The exorbitant price he paid was on condition that the actual honey used on our bodies would be included in the sale. At the end of each shoot, the makeup artist would scrape honey from our skin into a special jar the collector had provided. Not the oddest request, I suppose, and I imagine he found it frightfully expensive.”

She stood.

“Let me bring out some of the photos…you can see for yourself.”

We sat together as she paged through albums.

“Here are our infamous sushi photos. That involved some clever negotiation, I don’t mind telling you, for the use of a sushi restaurant, a thousand dollars’ worth of fish and mollusks, and the labor fees of three chefs and the photographer. I love this one, with a cluster of mussels seeming to explode out of Natalya’s crotch. It is a sort of salty inverse of Venus on her half shell. Here she is covered like a mermaid in nearly translucent ‘scales’ made of salmon. Look at the way that octopus is draped across Anya in this shot. She screamed the place down when the chef first brought it out of the tank, but she eventually let me drape that tentacle around her waist just so. The original photo sold for double the cost of the entire shoot.”

The images grew more and more artistic,
more subtle. Suddenly, Anya was missing from the photos, and Natalya began to appear alone.

“Anya, our sweet Anya, married and left us. Natalya
then felt free to express something darker in her psyche. I didn’t want to lose her, but hardcore S&M wasn’t my primary interest. I was leaning more toward art photography. For a while, we tried to compromise. Here she is wearing just a gas mask. Although I very much liked the juxtaposition of her soft skin and the hard, industrial mask, she felt it was not really sexy. Natalya moved on to work with someone else who specialized in catalog photos for leather fetish gear, and I started taking photos myself, rather than simply staging them or being in them.

“I loved being behind the camera, and
once Natalya was gone, I decided to photograph men. That’s how I met my husband.”

She opened a new album,
to show me a pair of images. The first photo was of a naked young man, kneeling, with a huge erection clenched in his fist and a look of ecstasy on his face. On the next page was the mirror image, a photo of a mature man in the same pose, and with the same ecstatic expression.

“He was the first straight man I convinced to pose for me. Well, pose and then masturbate
for the camera. Gay men had no such compunction, but I really wanted to photograph a man who would arouse me. And, after more than 30 years of marriage, he still does.” She tapped the facing page and her eyes and smile were suddenly filled with mischief.

“The children haven’t seen this album, either, of course. Perhaps after we’re both gone, they’ll learn just how freaky good old mum and dad really were…a shocking legacy I suppose.”

I smiled and hoped her children had been fortunate enough to inherit her sense of fun.