Control, Me

My first IM exchange with Tom (screen name frkysx) went like this.

frkysx: hey

maescami: hey back at you

frkysx: what r u doing?

maescami: laundry for work tomorrow

frkysx: how boring

maescami: I plan on taking a long hot bath after

frkysx: can I help?

maescami: you won't help...you'll get in the way ;-)

frkysx: I promise to b good

maescami: at the bath or laundry

frkysx: both

maescami: how?

frkysx: invite me over and you'll see

maescami: why should I?

frkysx: I'm wearing tight jeans and button up shirt. I look pretty darn good

maescami: how good?

frkysx: invite me over and you can see

maescami: how do I know you aren't a perv?

frkysx: I promise I'm not

maescami: then what's the point of having you over?

frkysx: interesting

maescami: you have no idea

Fifteen minutes after I sent him the directions to my place, I heard a knock at my door. I made certain my balcony door remained ajar. It was part of my plan for a quick getaway. All I would need to do is reach the balcony, jump off and land on the bushes growing along the walk. If reaching the balcony failed, I also concealed kitchen knives around my apartment. After six-months of working at the state crime lab, I knew first hand some anonymous encounters did not end happily, especially those which took place in private homes.

One of the most memorable involved a seventeen-year old girl. She received a page from a male who had dialed her pager by accident while at a friend's house party. When she called him, they giggled over the mix-up but continued a conversation. Eventually, she invited him over. To her surprise, he showed up. In the police report, her friends stated he behaved respectfully and offered no signs of malicious intent. The festivities ended at about 2: 00 AM, by then she had consumed a lot of alcohol. As a gesture of thanks, he offered her a ride home stating he felt it the safest option. He raped her under a bridge on the way to her house. Forensic scientists aren't supposed to judge the victims of violent crimes, but I thought her a fool since she didn't seem to have any foresight.

A second and louder rap interrupted my thought.

Through the peep hole, I saw his long legs encased by faded blue denim fabric. My hand trembled while I reached for the door knob, my breathing became more rapid. I thought of just letting him knock. I could easily say he caught me in the bathroom getting ready.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I asked softly. The door didn't answer, but it provided my forehead all of its support. Yet, its frigidness provided no warmth, nor did the tile beneath my feet. I worried about my credibility. My livelihood. Certainly, if my name ever appeared on the victim name on a police report, my commonsense would become fodder for defense attorneys to question in future proceedings. I didn't need to meet this man with perfectly proportioned thighs with just the right amount of muscular structure to provide a happy ending.

"Leave," I whispered. I looked out again to satiate the siren cry. Then I remembered fairytale princes were often strangers to their respective maidens.

Curiosity, while lethal to four-legged felines, proved to be a greater aphrodisiac which required more than whispers to ignore.

I needed to open the door.

I wanted to meet my prince.

I looked down at my outfit. I wore bright yellow shorts and the Sandman's Death character shirt, I wondered why I felt the need to impress. Why had I wasted the time before his arrival lighting the many candles which now provided dancing illumination instead of changing into a seductive outfit. I took a deep breath when I heard the third knock.

I tightened my hands then opened the door. His form filled the frame. He stood at least one foot taller than me, and looked as damned good as he had claimed.

"Hi," he said as his lips caressed mine. I think my smile let him how of my approval of him. "Didn't I tell you I was hot?" What a jackass. "Here, presents." He handed over a bottle of champagne and a box of Surf.

"Soap and champagne?" I said while I cradled the two items. The combination while simplistic served as the perfect amuse-bouche to the evening. My lucidity washed away in the face of the effervescent potential I held in my arms.

"You said you were doing laundry and you can't do that without soap."

"And the sparkly stuff?"

"For the bath."

"But, I don't like to drink alone."

"We can remedy that if we open it now." His smile made him look even more dashing. I sighed and felt my lower lip tremble from my attraction to him.

We walked to my tiny kitchenette that got smaller by his presence in it.

While he worked on the cork, I took out a couple of glass flutes, a present from my mom before I moved to El Paso. I felt it best to avoid letting him in on that detail.

"Need help?" I asked as I tip-toed behind him. My hands wrapped around his firm waist. He smelled like clean linen sprinkled with musk.

"I'm fine, darlin'." The cork popped on cue. He took one of my hands and kissed it, then turned to look at me directly. I leaned into him, my hands rested flat on his abdomen, he held my waist. Our breathing converged as I matched his relaxed inhalations. Our refuge lingered, the silence enveloped the sounds of our breath. All I heard came from the exploding bubbles in the champagne bottle that now rested behind him. I moved away only when he moved his hands beneath my t-shirt.

One night stands give greater rewards when the goal isn't reached within the first twenty minutes.

Heat travelled from my chest to the tip of my head. Blushing, while innate, betrayed too much internal aspirations. This made me uncomfortable, control left me. An abandonment that rarely occurs. In an attempt to hide my discomfort and regain my restraint, I started to talk.

"You want to go to the couch?" I asked. I clumsily pointed him out to the living room area.

"You just want to check out my ass," he laughed. He took the bottle and the glasses with him.

"You may be right."

I hung back to check out his ass its form allowed the jeans to fall in such a manner that it called out to be grabbed. I looked straight at his face when I next to him on the couch. He seemed larger than life and the scene itself appeared ripped from a Lifetime Movie Network film without the gratuitous violence against the female protagonist. I almost wanted him to leave at this point so that I could call my friends to tell them about my big adventure. But, we hadn't even had our first sip of his gift.

"You have a nice place," he said. I replied absentminded phrases. Blasé small talk need not be remembered. In the middle of the platitude exchange, noticed the strength of his square jaw and his best attribute - those eyes. They harnessed the blue-like storm clouds before a summer rain, and the flecks of gold mirrored sunbeams breaking though the darkness. His lips, thin and moist, formed a warm brooding grin. All his features fit together like a Van Gogh, individually they held little value, but combined an aesthetic pinnacle became a reality. A quick inventory of the rest of his body determined his jeans too tight to hide a knife or a gun. His shirt, a loose, long-sleeved, button up, also seemed devoid of weapons.

Since my employment at the crime lab, a fascination with serial killers made me think all strangers stored scores of cadavers festering beneath their homes and lacked just one more body to complete their set. While the killer vibe didn't ooze from him at this point, all serial killers at one point seemed normal. But I wondered if normal described the stranger sitting in front of me. Did it even apply to me?

A few more platitudes flew between us while we imbibed the warming champagne. I learned he served at Fort Bliss, which explained his almost Army regulation hair cut. I also learned that his training rotation in Saudi started in a few weeks. He explained that this involved a series of vaccines that ranged from small pox to anthrax. I gave him kudos for cleverness, since he easily laid out the ground work for a believable exit strategy at the same time as he revealed just enough of himself to appear vulnerable. This, of course, made me find him even more fascinating. I didn't call him on it, I figured he deserved it since someone looking for an easy fuck didn't want to portray the need of a possible long-term relationship. Besides, I had my means of safety and an easy out must have been his.

"So you're a military man?" I asked while leaning in closer to him. "What's your rank?" I asked as if I even knew what they meant. All the knowledge I held about military ranks, I learned from Hogan's Heroes and I don't think that sitcom translates well to real life. What I got from it however took the form of my first celebrity crush on Bob Crane. Plenty of my adolescent daydreams involved my crawling around the dark tunnels for a quick illicit rendezvous with Colonel Hogan.

"Captain." His turned his entire body to face mine.

"Is that good?"

"I'm kind of an officer."

"That is kind of cool." Or at least I thought it was.

"I'm glad you approve. I work with Patriot missiles."

"I remember those you were one of the guys all over the news during Desert Storm." This I knew, since the Gulf War had entered into my home by way of the television set during that conflict. I slid closer as he poured another glass for himself, and then topped off my glass. I watched closely making certain no foreign pill or liquid landed in my glass. I wanted to make certain I remembered and felt everything this night promised. Plus, I wanted to make certain that I lived long enough to remember and not be left a lifeless corpse unable to address questions about the events of the evening.

"That was us." His smile lit up my room again. "I was in charge of the guys in the field," he said staring at his glass.

"So you've been at war? You've killed people?" The question seemed more surreal than my current situation.

"Yeah," he said in a casual manner. "That's kind of how I'm here." His knees now dug into the side of my thigh.

"Wow," was the only thing I managed to say. My initial fear seemed realized. I sat next to a killer in my own house. But, instead of running him off, I wanted to make sure he stayed. A sense of serenity covered me completely. I felt protected. When we each finished our drinks, he took my glass and placed it on the floor next to the couch; he did the same with his. My tired I forced my tired eyes to stay open. He placed my head on his shoulder and held my hand.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked softly.

"Not at all," I answered quickly.

"You know it wasn't my intent to get your defenses down by getting you drunk," he said sliding my right leg over his lap. I felt his thigh muscles beneath his jeans push up against my own. Foreplay needed to be over fast. While I hadn't been trolling for a hook-up, getting laid proved to be most urgent

"Liar," I said straddling him.

His hands travelled beneath my shirt again, this time I moved closer. The brittleness of his facial whiskers on dug into my palms when I cupped his face with both of my hands. Our lips locked. Our tongues pushed against and around each other. He tasted like caramel; smooth and sweet. He lingered on my palate and clung to the back of my throat. I felt his fingers push into my bare flesh beneath my shirt. I pulled his shirt out of his jeans. My hands moved around his bare back, they felt tiny-his skin-smooth and warm. He grabbed hold of my right wrist and twisted my arm behind me. I attempted to wiggle it free, but his grip got tighter. I tried again, with the same result. I figured this was what a python attack must be like, a life and death dance between predator and prey, which advances further at the struggle of the kill.

I felt his hips push up between my legs. I ceded to his grasp mostly because I couldn't really fight him and I feared physical harm. The thought of visual proof of this encounter quelled the fight in me. Only victims ran around with bruises and casts. Or, perhaps the lack of fight stemmed from a latent desire to experience complete abandon, or the amount of control I faced daily in my life. I started to struggle again this seemed like the best alternative to gain greater domination.

Our teeth crashed into each other as he kissed me. Blood run down my throat, who it belong to meant little. Its salty taste provoked further desire. Body fluids, while a necessary by-product of a sexual encounter, never enticed anything more than a need for a shower. A life-long advocate of safer sex and stranger danger, I generally carried the need for control even in to the bedroom. This came from my first internship in an HIV research laboratory. The knowledge gained there followed me though out my life. The awareness of a lingering wasting death and prolonged suffering made the need for a condom a no-brainer. Responsibility overwhelmed any need for spontaneity. Restraint belongs to foresight. A stranger held me in a vice like grip while we exchanged bodily fluids. A part of me analyzed the situation, but because of an overabundance of champagne it failed to contemplate the full extent of decadence taking place.

Perhaps I wanted to tempt fate, or see if I could be different than all of the other victims I read about in the case files at the lab. I wanted to face the unknown and prevail, to prove I could avoid that label no matter what or who I allowed in my house. By doing this properly, I would beat the odds and thus gain the grace of providence.

The muscles around my shoulder remained stretched and bent out of normal alignment. I felt his fingers tighten around my wrist. Discomfort turned into pain. I wondered if my long-sleeved blouses would cover the bruise I imagined I would have the following day. My co-workers lived vicariously through other's exploits and offered little restraint in sharing their observations with the rest of the office. While I recalled my wardrobe, he twisted my wrist that shot a sharp pain from my hand and to the front side of my face. He gazed at my face as I tried to break free. His expression remained stoic yet held steady as if taking notes of his observations. My alcoholic buzz dissipated. Every single muscle bundle beneath my skin burned. My struggle for release now included my other hand. I wanted not to panic, I felt stupid. Do those girls whose panties end up on my evidence table feel stupid? I noticed his grin. After a while, I realized the futility of my struggle.

I still squirmed.

Somehow the instinctive fight or flight response required the continued stirring, and after a few minutes a burning sensation caused by the hyperextension appeared and travelled from my upper to lower back. My back went into several series of involuntary contractions, it fought to bend forward at my waist, and this caused him to keep my hand fixed at my back. His nails dug into my wrist.

A few years later, while seeking relief for my chronic pain condition, a doctor introduced me to the Visual-Analog pain scale. While intended to provide a precise measure of patient pain, it does little more than rate intensity of a person's ache by use of an arbitrary number range. The scale runs from numbers one to ten. Accompanying the numbers are words such as annoying, uncomfortable, dreadful, horrible then finally agonizing at the ten mark. At the height of my illness, I writhed around in my bed in my agony.

"It really hurts," I said once the pain became dreadful also known as a six.

When he let go of my hand, I was able to relax. I shook the blood back into my tingling hand. The relief lasted a few seconds.

"Are you better?" he asked massaging my shoulder. I leaned into him, our foreheads touched. "You want me to leave?" I wanted to say yes, but I liked how he felt while I straddled him. I rubbed his face with mine and ran my fingers through his hair. He did the same to me. "Does that mean you want me to stay?"

"Stay," I whispered.

Just then, he pulled a wad full of my hair while he kissed my neck and chest. He leaned me back rapidly. His mouth moved about me just as rapidly. I found myself curved back further than I had ever been bent. I yelped when I felt my sternum or backbone pop. The sound and feel reminded me of popping fingers only twice if not three times as loud.

Silence followed the snap.

He released me. I don't know if the sound freaked him out as much as it did me, but his actions held no sign of it. He slid us off the couch then pinned me down on the floor, holding my hands above my head. His knees slid my legs open effortlessly. Instinctively, my hips reached to greet his while my legs wrapped around him.

As much as I wanted to stay in the moment, I needed to determine damage. I quickly decided pain, the universal indicator of maladies, needed to present in case of any breaks or tears. Since I had none, I assumed no lasting damage came from the noise. I noticed that some of the candle wicks no longer held flames. I could no longer see the miniscule details of his face.

"Are you scared?" He whispered in my ear. A good response appeared beyond my grasp. A true response also failed to materialize. This situation, while unfamiliar, still lacked the intensity for me to respond in the affirmative. I associated the word itself to life threatening danger and the need to scream at the top of my lungs for rescue.

"Do you want me to be?" I asked his silhouette.

"Yes," Tom whispered into my ear. I smiled at the feel of his warm breath on my skin. I recognized I still controlled the dance. He performed for me, no matter what he imagined for us, he did it for my reaction. I love attention, I always have and at that moment all of his belonged to me.

"Give me a reason to be," I responded. I wanted it to sound seductive, thinking this would eventually lead to a greater moment of primordial zeal. Unfortunately, it sounded like more of a dare. I thought of saying I was kidding, that it was a joke. I notice I do that in uncomfortable situations, this ploy allows me to say anything I want, and then pretend that I only cared to entertain. But I didn't get a chance to. We kissed again, I closed my eyes for what seemed like a second then I felt the cold strap around my neck, it was his belt. I shuddered when I felt him tighten it and pulled me up from the floor. Was this when a safe word needed to be chosen? When did I go from woman to pet? Better yet, why did I not mind my new lot in this new relationship?

"Come on," he ordered.

He walked me slowly to the bathroom. The belt scraped against my chin, I tried not to move around so much, in case I survived this evening, a bruise around my neck would be difficult to explain. I stared at the dancing lights on the dark walls surrounding us as he led me to the bathroom. Since we stood up, I saw his expression a bit clearer, but not clear enough for me to know his next move. For a woman who loves to read the last chapter of a crime novel first, this situation managed to absorbed my complete attention.

He tugged me harder when I hung back for a second. When we reached the bathroom, he flipped the lights on. Their quick introduction offended my eyes. The stark white color in that room betrayed the mood the soothing darkness captured in the rest of my place.

The dreamlike state moved to a realistic setting.

In this room, he was a man, not a screen name, a soldier or a silhouette. It also accentuated his flaws. Tiny wrinkles and dark circles around his eyes replaced the smooth features which entranced me earlier. He sat me down on the toilet and held his belt around his hand as one does with a pooch in the park.

While I watched Tom adjust shower temperature, I remembered a Law and Order episode where the girl killed in the shower left no evidence behind. Before I completely recalled that the defendant melted her using lye, he began to undress in front of me. Our eyes locked, as much as I wanted to look at every muscular bulge and crevice I wanted to see if I could read his mind. Eventually, I learned the futility of this exercise. His skin looked so white and soft.