Three Way, page 17
Without her clothes she has mercifully lost part of her senses. Horizontal and bound, the world didn’t feel right to her, or like the way it was. It was soothing to be so disconnected, untouchable, like a faulty electric machine taken out of service. Now they were perhaps cutting her, needling the skin, cameras crunched up tight to capture every single drop of blood. The cameramen not wanting to see it, but having to do it anyway. Special footage this, not normally available. It existed for a rarefied punter who realized he had special tastes that could be pandered to, paid for. By now she could think through most of the pain, anticipate and correct for it, toy mentally with what remained. A little game, a self-imposed mind fuck for her to wrestle with, no audience. What she felt, her own currency not exchangeable. And it was the pain, and the things that it brought, not the unexpectedly good pay, that attracted and repulsed her.
A job, like any other, except that what had started off as something she couldn’t even think about had become addictive, an acquired taste, a curious relief. Her body, that hunk of flesh, her life’s work the controlled environment of its skin that she had spent so much time preparing this morning, was slowly being released from her care. The challenges: to get enough sun for it to glisten as a gold-textured surface, shiny, oiled, even, permanent, but never too much. Never to burn or malt. Or to get dry patches. Every day to feel just the right temperature floating in the bath, to scour every centimeter she could think of afterward with man-made bristles of a dry skin brush, savage-thoroughly, and then once again to reassure herself all of the circulation had been moved into life. Prodded. The oceans of buttermilk that have been applied, soaked-in overnight, rubbed off all over her sheets, every single piece of furniture tainted by it, reeking of decomposing grease, her body a man-made pet she can ill afford, and then all the effort, all the expense, only to wash it all off next morning, and the tedious process initiated again. Again and then again. And then the blockages, the buildup of dirty fat, slippery strings of goo, stinking fat and skin residue patties that clogged up the only orifices she relied on: the bath, the shower, the sink. The wooden floors dotted with greasy imprints, like the paws of some alien creature unaccustomed to human habits. The room deadened by the ghost of deodorants sprayed on in the past, sting of perfume catching you raw-boned in the throat, and over everything a dry residue of talcum powder, hovering, waiting to reattach itself to the skin. Even the washing machine reeling from the over-creaming, the careful measurement of the flesh, the smoothing, plucking, surfacing over the cracks.
In the straight world, without the brutal purity of pain, the women who, like Katje, were twenty-eight, youngish, were now often not young enough to face the haughty cameras; or backstage, the nubile makeup assistants, whose average age, like soldiers preparing for war, was nineteen. The irony: just as you reached the point where you had trained enough; been in enough work to have the contacts, experience; reached the point where it could start to happen, along came the first alarming gray hair, gradual dipping of the breasts, a skin change. The professionals, if they could, dated pharmacists, befriended beauticians, worked at it harder, paid for surgery when they could find it, but they expected it. It was their job, they said to everybody. Annoyed boyfriends who couldn’t grip why it took them so long to get somewhere; roommates sick of seeing half-dressed neurotics at any hour, doing something to themselves, stretching, scraping, taking something out of a bottle. Nothing had been given. Not ever. They had been doing everything specially as a way of life for so long that stopping now had to be learned again. Allowed. And it had always been work. Then as children, now.
Katje thinks back to a magazine feature she once read about a model who complained that her “normal” friends didn’t understand how annoying it was not to be able to eat what she wanted. It’s all right for them! But the girl next door, your friends, someone off the street, got it worse. Although in the course of everyday business they could cover up most of the piece, never had to think about spots on their bumcheeks or lighten a strip of pubic flesh, just in case, nevertheless in them throbbed the dirty desire. The desire simply to be adored. Their everyday bodies ached with it just as the models, the dancers, and the actors did, the desire unchanged, but without professional motivation. For them no tax deductible allowances for anything, and mostly hardly any time to keep it up. And other big issues that stood in the way that were always more important. It was the real women who often had the feeling that these bathroom rituals could never be enough. That the minute you started rubbing yourself dry after stepping out of the bath, the skin under your breasts was already leaking sweat. That even as you stood and blow-dried the freshly wet hair, you could feel heat perspiration breaking the barrier of the clean skin. The impossibility that you could ever feel you looked the way you were wanted to look.
And so many normal women had started off as princesses. The pretty ones, those who had emitted evocative poise in their first underage competitions, whooped and danced a-go-go, stammered posturing that was pedophiliac in all but name, metamorphosed into pressured baby flesh worked through a hundred stressed afternoons. The humbling-down local shows with filthy floors; tryouts; Proper School auditions for doll livestock; rigorous tests that began from as young as three, from as soon as the little girls could find their way to the bathroom to pee by themselves and therefore could be herded into halls, dumped in classes. Left to be prompted into positions, shouted at, stretched, blown up, cut down. By now, most of this talent have resigned themselves to their unaccomplishments with grace. Their hope folded away, but buffeted by the sense of a world where they can pay all their own bills. And this can hold them fast, give power in other means, but does not dwarf the desire. That seeps on as years tick past, unrelenting. And the women who are twenty-eight, but can no longer realize their idealized bodies, feel as keenly as a mother for a lost child the sense of missing in action, the emotional pull to recapture themselves as they were in their former picture-selves.
Uhaaaaghhhhhh. The knife is really wreaking it now, doing something bad. Right arm, top left, a contact point. She moves, tries to escape, even though they warned it would be worse if she reacted. She can imagine it now, pain blasting out raw energy, eco-power for the body system, the body’s defenses springing into life even though it is mute. The body racked in nervousness. Her mind putting it into place, willing it. The glittering knife really another elaborate rubber toy, with a hidden reservoir of fake blood that the user can release with a series of mechanical clicks. The knife in the end as inconsequential as the heel of stiletto shoe, jagged edged, but destined only to skim the surface of the earth, never to force its way through. The pain real where, for what seems like hours but could be only minutes or seconds, time uncountable under the mask, the skin knits in the places it has been tied. The creases white-ringed, uncomfortable. Bondage giving always a throbbing and boiling pain. The jut of the fake blade sometimes had an edge nevertheless, even the droplets of the marketed blood, discernable, another wrench on the sensations. Katje’s skin agonizing as if it were the real thing, the body’s still desperation authentic somehow, even though the experience was not.
Cut to a long shot. Katje’s body now arched, the legs raised, a bondage version of Marilyn Monroe in her first naked shoot. Naked, but for the mask, some rope. But still a dancer on the red sheets, unwieldy breasts thrust defiantly out from the extreme arch of the back, like a stilled limbo dancer ready to spring up, triumphantly. The hip bones rough cut, prominent. Splayed vagina as happy as a dog in mating season, its plump lips loud, one lip hanging, unconventionally lower than the other. Toby sees her pleasure is real, that the horror film mad bitch gets off on it, without telling anybody. She is too well formed to play a nubile virgin, over-muscular in parts from the various energetic training she endures to be a bimbo, but yes, she is interesting, he can use her. And he will. The punters from Fetish Times still get off on the fact that they can read her column as well as see her naked pictures in the same magazine. The fact that she is masked and anonymous just adding to the hype, her eclectic persona growing every month. Fans ringing with questions, other press even illegally running stills, passing it on. She remains anonymous. Someone Out There, a real person with a real job, who likes just to play a little for them.
For a moment Katje is fazed, orgasm high. It comes and goes all too quickly. She has to time it right because as soon as she’s come, anything that can will chafe. Moment gone, now the comedown. The mask now sweated beyond use. The clutch of the rope at her wrists and ankles a child’s game that seems sad and has gone on too long. Her bladder as usual, wanting to go. The need to satisfyingly piss, paramount. Above her, the two cameramen are talking intently about a missing light. The extras have vanished. She looks a real sight, tied up, anxiously waiting. The end bit, when all the sex acts have finished and she is herself again, is the hardest of all. Her breasts suddenly incongruous, difficult to manage without a bra. She’s not really a porn actress, only allowing herself to be fucked by strangers’ dildos, aping pain. Unusually shot retro bondage pics for punters who have tired of seeing it all. Who need a bit of safety, someone who won’t kill them while they’re getting off. As usual, the fantasy that she exists as one of those too beautiful too die. That she has to be tortured, finished off like a stray extra who wandered into a remake of Last House on the Left. The reality, that the dance lessons were sporadic. She had started gymnastics at fifteen, too late. That earlier she had been a dancer only in her mind, her Barbie doll had had the dresses, the dinky little shoes. And the self-conscious battle ever since to try to catch up with herself. Dancing most days, getting film extra roles, the odd fetish shoot only because she interviews the directors as a part-time journalist. That she is somehow in this world and behind it at the same time. She is everywhere and nowhere.
Now she’s showered again, for the second or third time that day. Her skin is feeling too sore for another layer of body lotion. When she pissed it came with a little sting, today the guys were overzealous, but the sting-pain, though small, feels good, her body shudders deliciously at pain but she has to keep the skin undamaged for potential shoots, other work. The irony is that despite these fake gore photo shoots, she is unable, while still working as a model, to indulge in her predilections for hard CP and cutting. What was it that Brian Yunza had been told while researching skin cutting for Return of the Living Dead, Part III? It’s not the cutting of the skin that’s the problem, it’s dealing with the healing process afterward…. And her skin, on the outside at least, has to look patently undamaged.
In her street clothes she becomes a different person. You would never guess. And he doesn’t either. Joachim, her occasional lover, once feted horror director, now reduced to hash ravings behind closed doors, doesn’t want to hurt her, physically. He indulges in mental cruelty, belittling her with tales of his actress ex-girlfriends. And of course she’s not famous, yet. That’s his intention, but it excites her to hear about these other women. The dark pouty one who appeared in The Witchwoman. I knew she would make it. Lisa, the daughter of the famous Spanish director who has now started making her own movies. Joachim litters the house with hundreds of naked photos of Lisa and thinks she suffers when he talks so raptly about his ex. That she will feel jealous, deflated by comparison. But, mmmm, the delicious decadence of it. Just thinking about Joachim’s treachery, her pussy juices are warming, tingling on her freshly shaved cunt lips. And they don’t even have to touch each other to get excited, it’s mainly masturbatory. Mind fucking leaves no traces. She walks toward his flat, taking pink, smooth strides, but inside her mind is singing.
All McQueen’s Men
ALISON TYLER
In the case of Julissa McQueen, it wasn’t Humpty Dumpty but a relationship that couldn’t be put back together. Perhaps it wasn’t much of a relationship to start with, but Julissa had tried for so long to put up with Raymond’s innumerable idiosyncracies that she wasn’t ready to give up on couplehood. Not without a fight.
It turned out to be a big fight—a mean one, with Raymond cruelly claiming that she’d obviously been unfaithful to him, and Julissa storming out of the couple’s penthouse apartment in tears.
“You with your goddamn poker face,” he called down the hallway after her. “Finally, showing a little human emotion! Didn’t know you had it in you—”
Cliché, she thought as she stalked around the block, the heels of her glossy knee-high black boots click-clacking on the pavement. Such a fucking cliché. He couldn’t accept her fiery independence, so he chose to attack her rather than deal with his own insecurities. The thing of it was that she hadn’t ever cheated. Not on Raymond nor any one of her previous boyfriends. The concept didn’t fit her style. If a connection with a man faded, she ended the relationship before moving on to the next one.
Sure, she might have had a thought of cheating—but who didn’t? Once or twice when an interesting specimen looked her way, she lost herself in a decadent daydream involving a satisfying situation with someone new. Perhaps while on the subway, or at the grocery store, or out on a morning run. But she’d never actually gone through with it.
Now that Raymond claimed she had—and she was fuming at the false accusation—she thought that maybe she should. Why be blamed for something, be punished for it, really, without experiencing the pleasure of actually screwing someone else?
Someone else named Blake.
And someone else named Sam.
And even someone else named Nelson.
Yes, she had them all lined up in her mind, and as she turned the corner and entered her favorite English bar, All The King’s Horses, there they were, as if they’d been magically positioned, waiting for her: All McQueen’s Men.
In truth, they were her poker buddies. She loved the game, had been a pro for years, but she’d never had much luck playing cards with girls. Ladies didn’t seem to put as much thought into the mental war play of poker. Generally speaking, girls lost interest in their hands and started talking about clothes, or hair, or men. Julissa couldn’t stand that. When she played cards, she wanted serious adversaries, men who had no qualms about taking her money. She wanted poker faces.
Raymond wasn’t into cards. He liked playing the ponies. Or watching football on television. He didn’t understand why she felt the need to join her buddies in the smoke-filled private room at the bar, where Nelson, who owned the place, had a weekly game. Raymond was invited, but after going twice, he backed out permanently. Julissa came every week. Or rather, attended every week. Mentally, she came every once in awhile when thinking about what might take place with the three studly guys who joined her at the green felt-flocked table.
Tonight was the night she’d find out.
“There she is,” Blake grinned at her, motioning to the others that she’d arrived. “Let the games begin.”
Julissa just smiled as she brushed a lock of midnight hair out of her startling cat-shaped eyes, and then followed the trio to the back room. Before anyone could cut the deck of cards this evening, Julissa perched herself on the edge of the table and said, “Let’s raise the stakes tonight—”
Sam tilted his head at her as he waited for her to continue.
“What’s on your mind?” Nelson wanted to know.
“Strip poker,” Blake guessed, patting Julissa on the back with one of his large hands, touching her in an almost buddy-style that lingered just a beat too long for someone who wanted to be strictly friends.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. Her long, dark hair tickled against her cheeks. “Fuck poker.”
“Fuck poker?” Sam repeated, shocked. “What do you mean? You don’t like playing with us anymore?”
“She’s leaving us, boys,” Blake said sadly, as if he’d always expected the day would eventually come, but had hoped against hope that it wouldn’t arrive so soon.
“Not ‘fuck the game,’ ” she quickly explained, reaching for the deck of cards and shuffling expertly. The cards danced mesmerizingly between her fingers. “But a game played for the stakes of fucking—” Another hesitation. “Fucking me, that is.” One final pause, “If you’re interested.”
She watched the men carefully to see when they would get it. One by one, she saw the moments when they understood what she was saying—and one by one, they nodded in agreement, nodded as if they didn’t care if she were pulling their chains, they definitely wanted in. Julissa herself wasn’t entirely sure of what she was saying. She knew what she needed. Had thought about it enough, honestly, to have the scene entirely choreographed from start to finish. Handsome Sam would be in front of her, his faded blue jeans open, cock out, and she would lick from his balls to the tip of his shaft as Blake slid her soft skirt up to her hips and lowered her panties. Tonight, she had on a pair of pale lilac-colored ones made of lace-trimmed silk.
She wanted Nelson between her legs, fiercely lapping her pussy while Blake prepared her to receive his cock from behind, backdoor style. And by backdoor, she really meant that she wanted Blake to take her ass. Raymond wouldn’t do that with her. Not that he hadn’t ass-fucked a girl before, because he had and she knew it. They’d teased each other with one of those ‘what have you done’ conversations early on in their relationship, in the playful stage before they’d gotten serious. So yeah, she knew he’d ass-fucked a French girl in New York one summer. But he didn’t do it that way with Julissa, and for some reason his refusing only made her want to go that route even more.
