What I Did for Love (17 page)

“Come,” and she guided me onto the table, gently pushing at me until I was lying down. “Wait,” she said.

She went to the sink, washed thoroughly, and pulled on a fresh pair of thin plastic gloves such as beauticians use. At the warming element where wax had been heating, she laid a long white strip on top of the wax and let it sit there while she turned back to me. With a washcloth that was warm and had the antiseptic soap on it, she quickly ran it around my crotch, lifting my knees and reaching back between my buttocks. Another cloth with warm water only, rinsed me off. She gently toweled me dry, and used a small hairdryer on a low setting to dry the area completely.

Then it began, the first strip laid atop what is called the “Mound of Venus,” the wax warm but quickly hardening to cool, and then she held my skin taut with one hand, pulling the strip with the other, the hair neatly lifting off, and it hurt like hell. “Oh, God,” I murmured.

“Be patient, I will be quick,” she said, and I could see she meant it.

The next fifteen minutes were a blur of cloth strips, pulling, pain, until all the front of me was smooth, and then she had me turn over, and quickly did inside each buttock.

With sterile gauze dipped in some kind of clear antiseptic liquid, she wiped down all the areas she had waxed. I looked down at myself, seeing a hairless nakedness I had not seen since I was twelve years old.

“It will hurt less the next time,” she reassured me.

Like hell there will be a next time, I thought.

After she dried off the latest lotion with the hairdryer on a low setting, she dipped another pad of sterile gauze into another liquid and dabbed it on, so that I felt some relief.

“This is a numbing cream,” she said. “And the soreness should be gone by tonight.”

“What if I soak in ice water?” I mused aloud.

“It might help.” She held my arm as I sat upright, and brought me my skirt to pull on. I was glad I had thought to use this outfit. Oh, God, I thought again.

“There is one more thing I must give you,” she said quietly. She had a small box in her hand. “These are laxatives. Take them tomorrow afternoon. They should work by the evening. After that, only drink clear liquids, apple sauce, gelatin.”

I looked at her, wondering if she knew why Rand had ordered the laxatives and this diet.

She knew.

She thought for a minute and said, “Sit on the table again, pull your skirt off.” She brought a bottle of aloe vera gel. “I am going to put this on, it will be very wet for a while, but it will help.” She was right. It was soothing. I put my skirt back on, and went into the front room. She had put a bottle of the aloe vera into a small plastic bag for me, tying the carry handles so that the bottle did not show.

“Thank you,” I said. She had showed absolutely no reaction to my nakedness, and no expectation that I would be embarrassed or shy. I had to admire her, so matter-of-fact, after what had to be countless vulvas and buttocks and penises and hairy chests, and who-knows-what, that she had seen.

She seemed to read my thoughts and smiled. “You are very easy to take care of,” she said. “Very brave.”

I didn’t feel brave, just relieved that it was over. I pulled the scarf over my hairline and pulled the belt tightly on the raincoat. She led me to a rear door that went one flight down to the back
exit, and watched me as I descended. I put the dark glasses on and opened the door, finding myself on the side street, walking to the next street to hail a cab to go home. I was feeling sore and I dreaded taking the laxatives, but I would do it.

When I got home, ditching the coat and scarf as I entered my building, I changed and went to a pharmacy to get the antiseptic wipes and numbing lotion that Ren had prescribed. I used the wipes though they burned, and then slathered on aloe vera. When it finally dried, I began using the numbing lotion. It felt very strange, but I was going to hide out and sit on pillows, and put wet washcloths in the freezer to make cool compresses. I put towels under me on my sofa, and gathered unread New Yorkers, mail, and newspapers, and settled in to read, and heal.

When Bredon called late in the afternoon I was already feeling soothed, lazy, happy to have caught up on some reading, and he heard that contentment, and was reassured. All the rest of the day, and the next, I stayed in the apartment, music on or some television, mostly reading, sitting on soft pillows to go online, hermit practices until I was no longer sore from the waxing.

On Friday morning I woke to a sense of wary anticipation. Tonight with Rand – the thought perversely starting the warmth and throbbing that the idea of him seemed always to produce. I pictured his penis, that pleasure stick, and wryly thought, if only our coupling were simply for pleasure – and maybe even for love.

Thinking of him put me into fantasies. Although I had never before wanted to do it, I thought about what it might be like to run my tongue over his penis, to pull back the foreskin and slide my hand along the shaft of him, as though to masturbate him, but making him as wild as his lovemaking made me. Not that it was “lovemaking,” strictly speaking. It was sex, a bargain, a monetary exchange that he hated me for. I sighed. Sighing was becoming such a frequent habit, so much to sigh over.

I was drinking the delicious coffee that Marilisa had prepared and set for brewing last night. She had been like a sylph, breezing
into my apartment on Thursday night, her visit far later than usual, seven-thirty, a long day for her. She said nothing when she saw all the used washcloths piled in the bathroom. The compresses and creams and aloe vera had done their work. I could hide the creams, but not the cloths. She would have to draw her own conclusions. I noticed that she looked tired, the slightest wisp sticking out from her always neat hair.

“I don’t need anything, Marilisa, do get some rest,” I told her.

“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, but I could see her fatigue in her quiet manner. She had set the coffeemaker over my protests, put some fresh washcloths and towels in the bathroom, and at my urging, left it at that. She had days like this, demands on every side. And then she had days that were relatively easy, many of her “concierge group” going on extended vacations or to homes or apartments in other parts of the country or the world. I knew that Bredon had encouraged her to take at least one course, even online, from the community college. She had never had a chance at higher education before Bredon hired her. Maybe she had begun. I wondered if she would tell me. Some people were invigorated by college courses. Others who were not used to it, found the focused thought of a college course more tiring than physical labor. I had heard people say it about themselves, and I did not doubt its truth.

As though I had summoned her by thinking about her, I heard her little bell at the door. “May I come in?” she called.

“Yes, come in, the coffee is delicious, have some,” I said as I took The Times from her hand and saw her little cart behind her. I always offered, she never accepted. But I was determined to keep trying. Maybe one day she would actually sit down and have a cup with me.

“A package just came for you,” she said. What self-discipline she had. No look of curiosity, no change of expression, the same matter-of-factness that Reza had shown. Oh, the women who tend the world. What can surprise them?

She put the package on the dining room table, checked to be sure there was ample breakfast fare, and smiled her good-bye. I knew better than to ask who had delivered the package. It had to be Tom.

It was a traditional rectangular box that the Fifth Avenue stores used to pack dresses or sweaters, the kind of box that gets wrapped as a present during the holidays. It had a sealed envelope on top with my name in the same block letters as last time, and was taped in such a way that no one could read it without damaging the shiny white wrapping paper.

Tearing away the paper I opened the box, and there laid out neatly was a complete outfit: the white blouse, pullover sweater, red fine wool skirt, an underskirt that I didn’t know where he found, the shoes, the knee socks, the white cotton panties that a pre-adolescent girl would wear, like Thérèse in the Balthus painting. I looked at the note inside the envelope:
Wear these on Friday night. Nothing else.
Which meant, as usual, no bra. And this time, my hairless sex would be covered by young girl white panties.

Even his note could arouse me. I felt a major throb of fear and pleasure from between my legs up to my navel. I touched myself, feeling my own wetness and sensitivity. He had not put his usual “R” at the end of the message. I wondered if he was going to be very rough tonight, and thought, he probably will.

Seeing the cloudy sky I checked the weather report on my laptop. Rain. I pulled out a thin traveling rain cape that had armholes and buttons, that I would use to cover the outfit when I went to meet Rand, and it would cover me on my return. I got the tote bag, and packed a non-wrinkling travel dress, underwear, and closed sandals to wear back home when this night of sex, and his vengeance were over. I was sure he was going to use me angrily. Revenge for my choosing Bredon. He was fixated on punishing me for it. I checked Bredon’s account online, and the final transfer had already been made. Rand had
put the money in early, a surprise.

I checked the calendar again. No hope of an early period. It would be Plan B again. No need to pack tampons. But I put the condoms into the bag, still hoping he would at least use them if he wanted to take me in the rear. The pills Madame Aldiva had given me had done their work by last night. No untidiness, no embarrassment, but the anticipation of tonight’s pain and pressure made me squirm.

I found Rand’s body to be a powerful aphrodisiac, and desire fought with reluctance as I tried to imagine tonight. I wondered how much of his true self was being revealed on these two weekends. Did he devise that room full of beds and furniture just for our sexual bargain? Was it all to get back at me for refusing him? So much heat and anger when he had sex with me, when he kissed me and felt me everywhere and pleasured me. But he excited and aroused me so mightily, I ignored his anger and everything except his touch and scent.

Last week, at one point the push of his penis sent me into such a state that my vaginal muscles had grabbed him as he was inside me, making him gasp in surprise. I had pretended to ignore his reaction, remembering my bargain to be silent and his determination not to pleasure me, my attempt to keep him from realizing how sensual and exciting it was to have sex with him. But of course he realized. The chemistry between us could not be ignored or denied.

Getting to his place tonight would be a repeat of last week, and thank goodness knee socks were being worn by young women as part of funky outfits. The rain cape would make my outfit a strange one, but in New York, even the strangest ways of dressing were ignored more than noticed. How Rand had got shoes that fit me so well was a mystery, or maybe not. He had the power to compel personal shoppers to reveal sizes. I knew Bredon’s power to get information from people. Rand’s power was at least as great, and no doubt greater.

So the shoes were comfortable for my walk to the pick-up point for my car service, and as the sun was going down I was in Rand’s park, approaching his house, dressed like a defiantly naughty girl.

He let me in quickly, the room dimly lit, closing the door behind me and throwing an additional bolt. I had not seen that last time, and he said as though reading my thoughts, “Yes, it’s new. Extra privacy.” Matter-of-factly, as he took my bag and put it on a small table, and unbuttoned my rain cape, laying it over the bag. He took my hand and led me to the next room with its beds and sex furniture. The place smelled fresh; all the beds looked newly made up. I wondered what crew he had, and what he paid, to buy so much cleanliness and silence.

He turned to look at me, surveying me up and down, satisfied that I somehow looked like the naughty adolescent girl who might not keep her knees together, so that a boy could look up her skirt and see the places he would love to explore and penetrate. He had the bad boy look in his eyes, and mischief. He was enjoying himself, and I pretended to look elsewhere, but I was feeling the thrill of being with him again. I wanted to press my hand against his rising erection, but held myself in check as he sat me on a high wooden stool, guiding my foot to its rung for me to climb onto it, turning me to face him, my back against the wooden back rest. No cushions here.

He pushed my knees apart, my skirt still covering them, and he pushed the skirt back, lifting it, looking at the cotton panties. He slipped his fingers behind the crotch piece and felt along my bareness and openness, feeling my moisture as he rubbed his fingers flat, up and down.

“Oh, how naughty,” he said, grinning. “So smooth,” he mocked, “bad little girl.”

He ran his hand over my hairlessness, lightly pinching the lips, reaching back to feel inside my buttocks. It excited him, as his ever-faster breathing told me. My own breathing was more rapid, my body thrilling as he touched me, at the pinches, at his
hot skin and the heat of his hands as he held me.

He pushed the skirt higher, so that it was bunched at the top of my thighs, and he positioned my knees even wider apart. Then taking a few steps back, studying my bad girl pose, he quickly undid his trousers, releasing the hard erection that had risen, and undid the buttons of his already half-unbuttoned shirt. In a minute, trousers and shirt off, no underwear, barefoot, he reached behind me for a thin men’s robe, and put it on, leaving it open and loose. It looked like a desert robe, so masculine, so exciting. His eyes were clouded with desire and sexual purpose, the look on his face making me want to faint with anticipation of what was about to happen.

Coming close against my knees, he pulled me up toward him, his penis pushing the crotch of my panties aside as he slid into me, a few quick thrusts, pulling the back of the stool forward to press me against him as he thrust, and then slipping his hand between us, pressing his thumb onto my clitoris, pushing and releasing, then doing it again, and then withdrawing his hand, his penis thrusting quickly, hotly, and I felt him swell and come, an explosion of heat and wetness filling me.