Edge Play X (30 page)

2.

Springtime had brought sleeveless
shirts, short skirts, and bright colors into bloom. Even X succumbed—that
evening when she went out with Anne, she bared the flesh of her limbs, freshly
oiled after her shower, smooth as polished silver.

Anne prodded X with questions about
her trip, asking X about
Compton
’s
plane, the hotel where they had stayed, the boutiques where she had shopped,
and what sorts of things they had done when
Compton
was not in business meetings.

X indulged her friend, describing in
detail nearly everything that had occurred on the trip, even how she had gone
to
Montmarte
by herself and how Compton had reacted
when she returned, clearly concerned about her safety. X even admitted that
they had visited a chateau, excluding the details about what had occurred
there. There were important details X left out, in particular, the orgy, and
also how she had been intimate with both Compton and Simeon on the trip.
Explaining the intricacies of her relationship with Compton would, X knew, be much
more difficult if not impossible—after all, how does one begin to explain a man
like Compton, a man with an esoteric set of fetishes, a man who had worn a
chastity belt to an orgy, a man who had enjoyed being cuckolded?
 

Anne seemed satisfied to hear about
the luxuries of their travels and accommodations. Elated for her friend’s good
luck at garnering the attention of such a prominent man, Anne seemed immune to
the riot of activity going on around them. People danced, talked, and flirted
behind them as they sat at the bar, interactions which now seemed quite tame to
X.

After a couple of bar hops, the pair
ended up at the establishment owned by Michael. As they found a place at the
bar to sit, X was relieved to see that he was not working that evening. Peering
towards the back of the bar, X saw that the pool tables were being used by
people oblivious to the activities that had not so long ago taken place upon
the one closest to the wall.

X’s relief was short-lived, as just
after their drinks had been set in front of them, Michael emerged behind the
bar, the man seeing her there with Anne. He acknowledged her briefly but did
not come over to talk to her, lingering by the far end near the cash register.
And that was fine with X. Small talk after intimacy was an awkward thing; after
fluids had been exchanged, what exactly does one discuss?

Later that evening, after the band had
started to play, after the bar was crowded shoulder to shoulder, X made her way
back to the bathroom. When she exited, Michael was there. He stopped the
conversation he was having with one of the bar patrons and said hello to her.
The man he was speaking with took his cue to leave and X stopped to chat.

X looked over her shoulder and saw
Anne happily dancing in the crowd with the accountant she had recently started
seeing, the one who worked for the state. So when Michael asked her if she
would like to go back to his place with him, X agreed, happy to let this man
become the most recent body with whom she had communed. She let Anne know that
she was going to head home. Anne, happy as she twirled and twisted with her new
friend, bid her farewell, see you tomorrow.
 

And once at the bartender’s house, he
performed another opus for which X was the grateful audience.
 

Morning came. X, naked in the sheets,
her head slightly throbbing from the alcohol she had ingested, awoke with a
start, a sudden shudder passing through her body. The nude man beside her was
still sleeping. He looked handsome when he slept, peaceful. X sat up and looked
down to the floor where her clothes were still tangled with his, hoping that
she would be able to dress and leave before he woke.

She pulled on her underwear. Next, her
skirt went on. Then, after locating her bra, an undergarment which she reshaped
from the deformities it had gotten after a night on the floor, she began to
fasten it behind her back. It was then that he awoke.

“Good morning,” he said, seeing her
dressing and not wanting her to leave, still groggy from a night of little
sleep.

X leaned down and picked up her
wrinkled shirt. It was one that she had gotten in
Paris
. If Madeleine could see the state it was in now,
X would have been ashamed.

“Don’t go,” he implored, reaching over
and pulling her towards him.

“I need to get going,” X said,
although she didn’t really need to. She wanted to.

“Boyfriend will wonder where you are?”
he asked as he sat up in bed, the sheet draped across his hips.

“No,” X answered. “I don’t have a
boyfriend.”

“It’s okay. I saw in the paper that
you went to
Paris
with that
Compton
billionaire,” he said.
 

“He’s not my boyfriend,” X
answered.
 

“The paper said that he bought all
your paintings, said that you went to
Paris
with him. It insinuated that he’s your
boyfriend.”

X sat silently for a moment.

“I went to
Paris
with him but he’s not my boyfriend.”

“It’s alright if he is,” Michael said.
“You wouldn’t be the first woman I’ve been with who had a boyfriend or a
husband, or even a girlfriend for Christ’s sake. I just thought it was
interesting that this time the guy is a billionaire. I’m just curious.”

Steinberg had been right. People had
found out. X wondered for a moment how the paper had found out about their
trip. They would have had to confirm it with
Compton
’s office before printing it, wouldn’t they?

X sensed something lurking below the
surface of his questions. Maybe the man was comparing himself to
Compton
. He had fucked a woman whom he thought belonged
to a powerful man. Maybe it made her seem more valuable.

“He’s your patron then?”

“No, he’s not my patron. I didn’t want
him to buy my paintings. I don’t want him to own them.”

“It’s not such a bad thing, though, is
it? You’ve gotten a certain degree of fame since he bought them as I
understand.”

“I don’t even like him,” X said.

Michael put his hand to his face and
rubbed at his stubble. “He’s rich. That attracts a woman.”

X shook her head in disgust. “His
wealth is revolting.”

He leaned over and began to rub her
arm. “If you’re his girlfriend, I don’t care. Really.”

X sensed that what he was saying was
not entirely true and she pulled her arm away.

“Look,” X said. “I don’t have to
explain it to you.”

No, she was right, he knew. She didn’t
have to but he wanted her to.

“So you don’t fuck each other. You’re
just friends,” he said.

X didn’t answer.

“You do fuck each other, but you’re
just friends.”

“He’s not my friend,” X said, growing
irritated at his words.

“What is he, then?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

The words spilled out of her mouth then,
unexpectedly almost, lubricated by their intimacy, by his prodding, by her need
to tell somebody. She told him that she was
Compton
’s dominatrix.

“What?”

“His dominatrix.”

The man was genuinely surprised.

“Dominatrix? Like whip me, beat me,
make me write bad checks?”

“Exactly like that,” she answered.

“Huh,” Michael said, processing the
information. “It always surprises me what people are into. So he took a shine
to you when you were whipping his ass. That’s easy enough to understand, I
guess. And he pays you I suppose.”

“Of course.”

“I can’t blame you for that. A
person’s got to make a living.”

X stood up and looked around, trying
to find her shoes.

“That’s not why I do it.”

X found her right shoe but not the
left one.

“For your career, then.”

“No.”

X kneeled onto the floor and looked
under the bed but still couldn’t find it. Where the hell was it?

“A charity case,” he prodded.

X thought that she remembered leaving
her shoe in the living room, and she left him there on the bed, not wanting to
answer his questions, just wanting to find her shoe and leave. And when she
entered the living room, she spotted it on the floor by the leather couch, her
gait uneven as she walked over to get it. He had followed her into the room,
the man completely nude. X slipped her foot into the sandal.

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me,” he replied. “You’d be
surprised what I can understand.”

“Look,” X said, “I’m trying to get
away from him.”

Michael, unsure why the woman didn’t
just end the arrangement she was in, asked her, “Why don’t you just tell him
that you’re done?”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Why not?”

“It’s complicated. There are variables
that are out of my control. I’m in over my head.”

“Did he threaten you?” he asked, the
thought of it making him want to land a fist on
Compton
’s face.

“Not
Compton
directly, but there are men who
would hurt me if I stop seeing him.”

Michael was silent a few moments,
clearly concerned, and then he responded.

“Look, there’s a place in
Santa Fe
if you want to get away for awhile. I’m going
there in a few weeks. My mother died a few months ago and I’m still taking care
of wrapping everything up, and my dad’s motorcycle is still there and I want to
bring it back to
California
. Why don’t you come with me and stay awhile, just
to get out of here awhile and clear your
head.
”

X considered. Michael went over to her
and pulled her close to him.

“I’ll think about it,” she said.

“Look at me,” he said, and she did. “I
like you. A lot. Promise you’ll think about it?”

X smiled.

“I promise.”

3.

Simeon’s memories of his interlude
with X had quickly become one of his favorite mental escapes. The images of the
separate parts of her body, recollections enhanced and improved by the gossamer
nature of memory, danced through his mind, occasionally joining and forming
into the whole being of X. Simeon attempted to recall the unique features of
the woman: the location of moles and the constellations they had formed; the
gradations of color in her dark hair (strands which consisted of russet, tawny
brown, auburn, chestnut, and mahogany); the peculiarities of the curves of X’s
ass, breasts, abdomen, and legs; the angles, arches, contours, and concavities
of her face. He reserved the end of his mental meanderings for the sweetest
part, the way she had surrendered to his touch, succumbed to her desire,
shivered in their linkage.

Before
Paris
, Simeon had never felt any jealousy for
Compton
’s interactions with X. There were other things
Compton
had which Simeon coveted—incredible wealth, fame,
and unlimited access to pussy (the latter being made possible by the former).
What more could a man want?
But now.
Now, when he
thought of
Compton
being intimate with X, doing the same things to
her and with her that he himself had done, he felt disgust. Rage, even. Given
the choice, Simeon thought, X would choose him over
Compton
, the pathetic, misguided creature that he was.
Sometimes money wasn’t enough. Just look at
Compton
; for him, the money was never enough.

Still, he had a job to do. He had been
told to pressure X into dominating
Compton
’s business partner and he intended to fulfill his
duties. Aside from that, there was a large bonus in it for him if he succeeded.
He had every expectation that X would refuse, as she had already done, but he
had been told to use whatever charm or coercion that was needed.

Charm.
It wasn’t as dominant a trait for Simeon as it
was for
Compton
. Simeon wouldn’t have been able to negotiate like
Compton
could, convincing others to buy, sell, or trade
with an effectiveness usually reserved for clergy or politicians.

So when he went to her apartment early
that morning and knocked, he was irritated when she did not open it. He was
taking a chance that a man wouldn’t be answering the door, perhaps that
bartender from that place downtown, but he had spent part of the night gearing
himself up for this interaction and there was no turning back now. After
knocking again, this time with a fervid intensity, Simeon placed his ear
against the smooth grain of the door, trying to hear any movement inside. The
number of her apartment, three, a brass number that had developed an uneven and
faint patina, sat next to his face as if it were also trying to eavesdrop of
the occurrences taking place on the other side of the door.