My legs begin moving. The click of my heels is loud in the silence of us. I feel his unreadable eyes on my back until I am swallowed by the angle of the wall. I will use tonight the way it is meant to be used.
I take off the sexy little strappy dress that Lana and I chose together and hang it behind the door. Then I shower and dry my body so briskly it glows. I look at myself briefly in the mirror. My tummy is still toned and flat, but now there are curves, lush curves. I shimmy my shoulders and my breasts dance prettily. I turn and look at my rounded bottom. It’s become a handful. I remember that day he kissed it and declared it sinfully sexy.
‘It makes my cock throb like mad,’ he said. The memory is clear. But to be honest, I am not obsessed by what I look like anymore. I had nothing in those days. So I obsessed about my looks and Jack. Tonight I only care that Vann will like what he sees. Tonight I am a vase. To be filled and used.
I brush my hair and leave the glossy curls carelessly tumbling down my back. Tonight will see me painting my body…for you. First, I adorn my mouth with scarlet, bracelet my body in a red bikini, and then I tie a red velvet ribbon around my neck, tight enough so it constricts my throat slightly. With a brush and black eyeliner I draw a mole to bewitch just above my top lip.
But when I look at myself in the mirror, I see nothing but the too tight ribbon, a strangely erotic gash of red. It tells its own story: the tale of a selfish, shallow girl who became a woman at the hands of a selfless man—a man who put her pleasure before his own.
I pull on the new thigh-length black boots that I picked up from Camden Town and tie the black ribbons that hold them in place.
Now we will see if what he has taught me is enough to seduce the man I want.
I slip on a toweling robe and cross the silent flat.
Thirty-three
Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. —Matthew, 3:19
I stand in front of the door of the master bedroom, left slightly ajar. Take a deep breath and push it open. The lights are dimmed. He has taken off his bow tie, opened some buttons, and is lying in bed waiting for me. He turns his face to watch me. For a moment I am floored. He has made the bed with the red satin sheets that I ordered.
I close the door and flick on the fourth switch from the left. A spotlight illuminates the pole. His eyes swing to the pole then back to me as I walk to the stereo system. My CD is still there, on top, untouched. I slip it in and walk towards the bed. His gaze is locked on me. I was sleeping before he came. I am awake now. Unsmiling, I let my robe slip from me and fall around my boots.
There: there: that leap of desire. He wants me. That is what I needed to see. That live ember in the dying ashes.
The music comes on. El tango de Roxanne.
First the piano then the dramatic wails of the violin. A loud clap. More melodious violins. Then the voice, more raspy than sandpaper snarls: The man who falls in love with her. First there is desire. Then. Suspicion. Then. Anger. Betrayal. Jealousy, yes, jealousy will drive you, will drive you, will drive you MAD! I begin to walk towards the pole, my stride as strong and sleek as a Spanish dancer. A temptress.
I reach the pole and, as the throaty rasp roars Rooxannnnne I execute a perfect cartwheel and grasping the pole hard, throw myself into such an energetic low spin that it makes my hair fly into my face. I land on my legs open wide, almost in a crawl and facing the pole. Flipping backwards, the palms of my hands flat on the floor, I use my legs shaped into a V to hook and pull myself back onto the pole. With both hands I begin to climb it.
You don’t have to put on that red light.
Every time my hands move up to grasp the pole and pull myself upwards, my head and neck dip downwards like a ripened stalk of wheat in the wind. The movement, I know, I have seen, is elegant and full of beauty. It is like ballroom dancing—all the grace comes from the dips the dancer makes before he takes his next step.
You don’t have to wear that dress tonight.
I get to the top as the singer’s scratchy howl fills the air…Roxannne. I squeeze the steel between my thighs, the cold metal pushed into my pussy, and high in the air above him, I fling my hands out and let my body fall backwards into the air, my spine straight, my head upside down, my hair a waterfall of curls.
You don’t have to sell your body to the night.
For the first time since I began on the pole our eyes meet, lock. It is dark where he is, but what I see makes the breath leave my chest. There is a look in the rebellious Barrington’s eyes that is starving hungry, but something else too. Something dark and raw. An intense desire blazes forth that cannot be resisted and refuses all attempts to rein it. Any effort to do so will bring insanity.
His eyes tell me I am a goddess. That he had not expected such intensity, such strength or such skill. His eyes move away from mine, boldly roam my body. Slowly, deliberately I pull my body upwards and I stop thinking about him. I concentrate only on the music while I make love to the pole.
His eyes upon your face.
I twine myself around the pole and, with the same sinuous movements a snake makes, slip and slide down the pole until I sink to my knees with the pole against my back.
His lips caress your skin.
I stand and, holding onto the pole seductively, with pointed toe, high step around it. Just when he thinks I am going to push my ass up into the air and sway seductively, I flip my body over and touch the floor before grasping the metal tightly with both hands and lifting my legs clean off the ground. My body is now in a spread-eagled position perpendicular to the pole. Held purely by the strength of my hands I start spinning slowly around the pole, my legs held as far apart as the hands.
It’s more than I can stand.
As the music builds and picks up speed I increase my speed, the air rushing into my face, my legs scissoring the air, the knees bending, the legs moving upwards, all the while spinning faster and faster and suddenly I am upside down and still spinning like a top.
Why does my heart cry?
A whole orchestra of violins and cellos goes crazy in the most dramatic and sweeping ballad of the entire piece. I execute a turn with a bent knee and maneuvering myself upright on the pole begin the journey up the pole, the same deliberate dip and rise.
Just don’t deceive me.
At the top I prepare for the finale. I split my legs wide. Hold that spread position, with only the tiny strip of wet red net fabric to cover my opening, and wait for the perfect movement. When it comes I loosen my grip and begin my free fall head first. It is like the death drop. Even over the music I hear him gasp.
And please believe me when I say I love.
Two feet from the floor I squeeze my thighs on the pole and halt my drop. I am face down and perpendicular to the floor, held by my strong thigh muscles and the strength of one hand, the other outstretched over my head. At the sudden clash of cymbals I release my hold on the pole and fall flat on my face to the ground. Silence. Then. Guitar. Violin.
Slowly, I begin to roll towards him, pausing every time I am on my side. Like Cleopatra rolling out of a carpet towards Mark Anthony. The music grows and grows. Every movement I make is deliberately submissive, designed to captivate, like the animal that offers its throat to its mate. I reach the foot of the bed.