The Valeditztorian (6 page)

“Emma, you’ve got to be the most g
ullible person I’ve ever known,” said Thomas.

“It’s not a safe?”

“No. The Vault is an S & M club,” Thomas explained.

“Oh.”

“You do know what that stands for, don’t you?”

“Of course
. Sushi and Maki. Don’t look at me like that, Thomas. I’m just kidding. Do you, umm, go there a lot?”

Though we’d been dating for nearly three years, this was the first I’d heard about the Vault, and I wondered what appeal this exotic destination held for Thomas.

“I’ve been there a few times.”

“Alright, I’ll go
with you,” I said.

“Wear something sexy.”

Long after sunset, Thomas and I sped downtown in a cab, his hand between my thighs for the duration of the ride. For the occasion I wore a skin-tight, black spandex dress, fishnet stockings, and my low-heeled Mary Janes.

“You look lovely, Emma,” said Thomas, nibbling on my ear, “but a little too short
. Why not wear shoes with a higher heel?”

“Are you trying to get me killed?”

“No. I just want you to experience a little pain.”

He bit my earlobe so hard it hurt.

“Ouch!” I said, slapping Thomas hard across the cheek.

“Touché
,” he responded, kissing me softly on the neck, just under the angle of my jaw, sending shivers of expectation straight to my core.

Reaching our destination, I paid the cabbie and made toward the Vault’s main entrance
. Before the bouncer even asked for it, I preemptively flashed my license. Since I look about 10 years younger than my chronological age, I’m always getting carded.

“Boy, it’s dark in here,” I said, crossing over the threshold
. “Do they keep the place dim to help all the naked people feel less self-conscious?”

“These people aren’t self-conscious, Emma,” Thomas replied.

“Oh, I see what you mean,” I said, eyeing a middle-aged man who was openly masturbating inside a cage we passed. “He doesn’t look bashful at all.”

“Look over there,” said Thomas, pointing to a central stage where two men dressed in full S & M regalia were going at it
.

“That’s some
demo,” I remarked.

“Would you rather be the one holding the
whip, or the one on his knees?” Thomas asked sensuously, gripping the back of my neck with one of his large hands.

“Neither,” I answered honestly.

“This doesn’t turn you on?”

“You turn
me on,” I said, guiding his lips toward my mouth.

Thomas kissed me deeply, electrifying all fo
ur of my extremities, right down to the tips of my fingers and toes.

“Come on, Emma,” he said, pulling away from me
. “Let’s head upstairs. Maybe we’ll find something you’ll like better up there.”

“What’s upstairs?”

“The couples’ room.”

“Oh.”

“Thomas,” I said after reaching the top of the stairs, “we’re the only ones up here.”

“Yeah, just us and the dentist’s chair,” he said, forcing me
backward onto a long, leather chair that looked like the kind you’d find in a dentist’s office. “Too bad I didn’t bring my handcuffs.”

“We don’t need handcuffs,” I gasped
, as he threw his full body weight over mine. “I don’t want to escape.”

For some unknown amount of time, Thomas and I made out in that chair like
a couple of horny teenagers. Kicking off my shoes, I wrapped my feet around his back, squeezing his torso tightly against mine. Despite Thomas’s thick jeans, it was easy to feel his giant erection pressing against my pelvis. Were we not in such a public place, his pants would’ve been ripped off ages ago.

“Oh, Thomas,” I said, “t
hat thing you’re doing to my feet is awesome.”

“Emma,” said Thomas,
“I’m not touching your feet.”

“You’re not?” I asked.

“Nope. My hands are nowhere near your feet.”

“Oh
. Good point. Then who’s touching them?”

Thomas turned
to glance over his shoulder, as I raised myself up on one elbow for a better view.

Standing behind the dentist’s chair, attending to my happy f
eet, was a hot, young, muscular blond guy wearing nothing but his underwear and a smile.

“Do you mind if I keep going?” he asked politely.

“S’okay!” I replied.

“Yes, I mind!
” said Thomas in the same moment, shooting me a warning look. “This room is for couples only.”

“I noticed you guys heading up here and thought you might like a threesome,” said Mr. Foot Fetish.

“No thanks,” said Thomas definitively.

“Maybe another time
, then,” said my new friend, who shrugged, turned and headed back downstairs.

“But Thomas,” I complained, “I was enjoying that
. How often am I going to get a chance to have a threesome with you and another guy who looks like an underwear model?”

“Emma,” he said, “I’m surprised at you
. Your behavior this evening is very naughty. I think it’s time to take you home.”

“Are you going to punish me?”

“Most definitely.”

“What are you going to do?”

“As soon as we get home, I’m going to tie you up and have my way with you.”

True to his words, Thomas followed through with his threats in a most delicious fashion
. Yes, indeed. Working with ho hum Peter in the lab, I realize that when it comes to men, Thomas has permanently corrupted my value system. But who knows? Maybe there’s more to Peter than meets the eye. On second thought, probably not.  

Before long
lunchtime arrives, and Luciano saunters back in with Grace and Paula, offering to take the three of us out to eat. Momentarily I hesitate, remembering my last encounter with Paula.

Then I hear my stomach
shouting, “Hungry, hungry, hungry!”

Enough worrying about upsetting Paula
, I tell myself. I’m finally going to eat something other than abara!

“Let’s g
o,” I say. “I’m starving.”

After we’ve all piled
into his car, Luciano speeds us off along the Bahian coastline.

“Wow,” I say,
about 20 minutes later, staring down a rugged embankment to the sparkling ocean water below. “The view from up here is great.”

“It sure is,” says Luciano, who’s not looking out the window out all
.

Instead, he and Paula are holding hands, mooning at one another lik
e dreamy newlyweds. Hopefully this public display of affection won’t result in our car careening off a cliff. On the upside, my initial, tense interaction with Paula appears to be forgotten, at least for the moment.

Approaching
a large edifice hugging the coastline, I ask, “What is that place?”

“Solar do Unhã
o,” Luciano says, barely glancing out the window. “It used to be an old sugar mill, but now it’s a modern art museum.”

“They put on
a great folk dancing show at night,” Grace adds.

Paula chimes in with a
comment that sounds vaguely spooky, and Luciano scoffs at her.

“What did she say?” I ask.

“Don’t listen to her,” says Luciano.

“I can’t, really, since I don’t understand enough Portuguese, but whate
ver she said sounded intriguing.”

“Paula said the place is haunted,” says Grace.

“Haunted?” I ask.

“Paula doesn’t actually believe in
those legends,” says Luciano, “but some people think that the ghosts of murdered slaves haunt the old mill.”

“E
very place has its ghost stories,” I say.

“Yeah
,” says Luciano, “but it would be better if people around here were more scientific, and less superstitious.”

“Is superstition a problem?” I ask.

“Unfortunately, superstition—and suspicion—are both problematic,” he says.

“How so?” asks Grace.

“I’ll give you an example,” says Luciano. “When we started the leptospirosis project, sick people in the favela were being treated with a combination of Candomblé (pronounced ‘Can-dome-blay’) rituals and holy water.”

“What’s Candomb
lé?” I ask.

“It’s a polytheistic, Afro-
Brazilian religion that originated here,” says Luciano.

“Sounds interesting,” I say.

Luciano shakes his head unenthusiastically.

“
Initially, when we offered them free antibiotics and a chance to participate in the study, most of the families refused. I think they were afraid we were going to arrest them, and quarantine them in some sort of medical prison. That kind of nonsense drove me crazy.”

Luciano’s comment reminds me of an
argument my parents had a number of years ago.

At the time, we were
traveling to one of my dad’s softball games. While my mother drove, I sat in the back seat of her car, voraciously reading
Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret
.

“Larry,
” my mom said, “that shirt is filthy.”  

“
No, it’s not,” said my dad.

“Excuse me, but d
id you look in the mirror this morning? The front is all covered with dirt, and some sticky stuff is smeared near the collar. What is that stuff, anyway?”

“Just a little grape jelly, from breakfast.”

“Not the purple stain. I meant the red gunk…on the other side.”

“K
etchup, I think.”

“Just tell me something, Larry
. How many more games are you going to play before you wash it?”

“It’s my lucky shirt, Cecile
. I’m not washing it until we lose.”

“In that case, I might h
ave to curse the team,” said my mom.

“You wouldn
’t do that….Would you?” my dad asked, sounding almost afraid.

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous
. You don’t believe in curses, do you Larry?”

“Yes, I most definitely do.”

“That might be the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” said my mother.

“
No, it’s not,” my Dad replied.

“You’re right, Larry
. You’ve probably said dumber things in the past. But okay, tell me why you believe in curses.”

“
In eighth grade, Belinda Cantrella cursed me when I wouldn’t take her to the annual Sadie Hawkins dance.”

“
Belinda? Wasn’t she that really big girl who wrestled on the boy’s team in high school?”

“Yeah
. That was her,” said my dad.

“You were brave to turn her down.”

“I know. Belinda could’ve easily knocked me unconscious. But I was crazy about Katie Homer, and I really wanted her to ask me out. Of course she never did.”

“And you think that’s because
Belinda cursed you?” said my mom.

“No
. Belinda didn’t curse me until later.”

“W
hen was that?”

“On the night of the dance
. We both went stag, and she cornered me in an empty classroom.”

“What happened
?”

“I
’ll never forget it. In room twenty-three, where Mrs. Andrews taught French.…”

“Mrs. Andrews—the
sexy one?”

“Yeah, the sexy one,” said my dad
. “I still remember her accent. Not to mention her fabulous….”

“Larry….”

“Sorry. In room twenty-three, just as a full moon emerged from behind the clouds, lighting up the whole place with an eerie glow, Belinda pushed me into a chair. Then she stood up on a desk, pointed at me, and said, ‘In the name of the Cantrella family and all my ancestors, I curse you, Larry Silberlight. For the next ten years, anyone you ask out is going to reject you, just like you rejected me. You’ll be sorry you refused a Cantrella.’ Then she spit at me, which was really uncalled for.”

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much,” said my dad.

“Then her curse
didn’t come true,” said my mother.

“What do you say that?”

“Because you started dating Lizzie Martin two weeks later. Then came Caroline Gumpert, followed by Honey Robinson and….”

“Yeah, yeah
. So I dated a few girls. But after Belinda cursed me, I didn’t have
sex
for another ten years, and I’m certain that was her primary intention. So it did come true.”

“Ew
w, Dad,” I piped up from the back, “that’s gross.”