Erotica Artist Ch. 07: Sex Goddess

And so, against my better judgement, and determined to spend as little time there as possible, I visited Dana's apartment for the first time. It was in a seedy area just blocks from Chinatown, right above a fish shop, of all places. But somehow the location wasn't that much of a surprise. As beautiful as she was, Dana would still fit right into a neighborhood like this. There was a side to her character that made the choice appropriate.

I purposely arrived around midnight, so that I wouldn't be coerced into staying. It turned out there was little danger of this. People were overflowing the small apartment onto the landing and stairs, and Dana was so busy being the center of attention that I was sure she wouldn't notice I was there.

I was just about to back out of the crammed kitchen and ease my way toward the door when Vince snaked an arm around my shoulders. A striking redhead with enormous breasts clung to his other arm and pouted. She was quite drunk.

"Mason buddy," Vince slurred, himself a little tipsy, "you are just in time to toast our gorgeous hostess."

"So it really is her birthday?"

"Her twenty second, I believe."

"I wasn't sure. I think of her as in her late teens, somehow."

"Well-preserved, isn't she? I have a feeling she'll be gorgeous in her sixties. And she still won't have settled down."

The redhead was stroking her hand up and down Vince's thigh. She was leaning lower and lower against him and one huge breast was exposed almost to the nipple. She sipped her champagne and in removing the glass from her lips she spilled a huge glob of fluid all over his pants.

"Jen, honey, look at that," he moaned good-naturedly, extricating himself from her by degrees.

"Come home with me, baby, and I'll lick you dry," she muttered. But Vince was excusing himself and heading for the bathroom.

"You're a friend of Vincenzo's?" she asked, and for the first time I detected a Slavic accent.

"We just met recently."

"You know Dana then? You're here for Dana?"

"Yes, I am."

"You in love with her too?"

"What? No, no."

"Everybody in love with Dana. Men, women, everybody."

"Not me."

"Me either. She's an Ice-Queen. How you say in English: Cock-it?"

"Coquette?"

"Yes. Too skinny, too perfect. Underneath: ice."

"You may be right."

"You know I'm right. But most men don't see it. Or don't care. The women don't either, and they are just as much in love with her as the men. I see it because I'm not in love with her."

"You don't like her?"

"I like her okay. But I'll never be in love with her. I love men too much."

"You love Vincenzo?"

"A little maybe. But he's chasing Dana the Ice-Queen all the time. I don't hope for much. Not yet. I wait. He'll need me soon enough. Very badly I think."

We both looked over at Dana, who was talking with great animation to the sturdy butch woman I'd seen her with at the concert. A low-cut black evening dress showed off her amazing figure. The delicacy of her arms and shoulders for some reason held my attention more than the near-nakedness of her breasts. The butch woman was wearing a huge lumberjack shirt and by comparison looked like she was fresh from the logging camp.

I tried to attract Dana's attention. All I wanted to do was say hello, wish her happy birthday, grab her prints and go. But though she waved at me she made no move to extricate herself. I was pinned in a corner of the kitchen between Jen the redhead and two stunningly handsome young men with the poise and angular good looks of fashion magazine models.

I couldn't hear their conversation over the blistering music, but I wondered if these fellows were gay or were they too on Dana's list of possibles and potentials. Or perhaps they were discards like Glen, whom I noticed sulking in a corner. How many of these men here tonight were true intimates of the hostess, I wondered. How many of the women?

Clearly Dana had no time for me this evening, and I wasn't in the least surprised. She didn't appear to be too concerned about getting her prints to me either. She ended her conversation with the butch woman only to begin another with yet another strikingly handsome model type, this one in a dove-gray suit no less. I eased myself from my kitchen nook and was again on my way to the door when Vince pounced on me once more.

"Sorry to leave you with Jen like that," he grinned, baring those amazing canines.

"Why apologize? She's a nice woman."

"Getting a bit clingy, I'm afraid, now she's getting older. She used to strip on the circuit for me but managers want them younger and younger."

"Did you really once manage exotic dancers?"

"Oh sure. I never pimped, you understand. But I really am phasing all that out. Classy women like Dana wouldn't tolerate it for long."

"I think she has a fascination for that kind of thing. And for men like you who are maybe a little... shady."

Vince laughed. "Up to a point maybe. But she also wants a guy's undivided attention. No distractions, you understand."

"And is she willing to do the same for you?"

"Oh who knows what goes on with our lovely Dana? You can never really pin her down. That's part of her appeal. But you could be right about her being attracted to shady guys. She likes you well enough, I notice. Tell me, have you really experienced all the sexy stuff you write about or is it all from your imagination? Do you ever have to go out and research a book?"

"Vince, if I experienced all the things I wrote about, I wouldn't have to write about them. A big part of the urge to write this stuff is deprivation."

"Oh yeah? Do you ever take suggestions? What about a guy making it with two women at the same time? You ever write about that?"

"Very rarely."

"You should. Did you know that's practically the most popular male erotic fantasy?

A guy making it with two babes at the same time."

"Is that right?"

"Check it out. You might sell a lot of books."

Vince was suddenly clutched from behind by Jen the buxom redhead, and I saw my opportunity to escape. But at the head of the stairs I found my way blocked by Glen, who was sharing a joint with the bass player from his group, a young leather-clad fellow just as surly as himself.

"So you're getting to be good friends with Dana?" he said in a lowered voice that seemed surprisingly free of malice.

"Not really, Glen. We just run into each other at the paper that you loathe so much."

"Hey, I'm not being critical. She's free to see who she likes. Just don't get too close unless you've got a steel-plated heart and balls to match."

There was no threat in his tone, only desperate unhappiness. I felt a strange empathy with him suddenly, especially when he grinned and tapped a fist to my shoulder.

"See you around," he said as I clomped down the stairs to the street.

The poor guy must really be going through hell, I thought as I strolled the empty wet streets. In love with a woman who seems to have long since dropped him for others, yet who won't relinquish all contact. What a bind.

And one which I myself wasn't going to get into. As lonely and as love-starved as my current life was, it was infinitely preferable to one of broken hearted desperation. Again I was glad to be going home alone and at ease. It would be up to Vince, or Philip, or any number of the stunningly profiled male models to give Dana what she needed. If I wasn't exactly happy going home alone, I was content. I felt safe.

Until four fifteen in the morning when there's a knock on the door of my basement suite and there stands Dana, her low-cut black party dress still on under her open raincoat.

"You left the party before I could talk to you," she whispers. "Can I come in?"

She drifts into the room and walks about, glancing at the books and my desk and my blazing fireplace, the pride of my new living quarters. She keeps her raincoat on and I don't offer to take it from her.

"How did you know where I live?" I ask, confused and wary.

For the better part of two hours I'd been filling page after page of my notebook with analysis of Dana and my negative reaction to her, comparing this with my immediate rapport with sexy Nicole. But for the last few minutes I'd put all thought of her aside and was contentedly reading 'The Princess Casamassima,' the scene where Paul Muniment's sister, totally bed-ridden, has been left alone in her room, quite content to watch the summer sunlight angle across her wall through endless afternoon hours.

"I called Al at the paper," she admits, turning to face me.

Her blonde hair is tousled, but her make-up looks fresh. Standing there in her open coat she might have just stepped from the pages of a fashion magazine.

"Did you bring your prints? Is that why you're here?" I wonder lamely. And when she doesn't answer: "Is your party still going on?"

I have reseated myself at my desk as a hint that I might have work to do. Dana strolls in front of my book shelves, still in her coat, occasionally touching her fingertips to the spine of some volume. Finally she turns again to face me, one hand on her hip. A self-conscious pose but very effective, revealing as it did the flat of her belly and the curve of her hip.

"Mason you're not put out with me for any serious reason, are you? I mean apart from the fact that you think I'm a cock-teaser."

I stare at her, my stomach churning. "I'm not put out with you, Dana."

"But you don't think very much of me, do you?"

I don't answer. I have a feeling she doesn't expect me to. I simply stare at her, fascinated and repelled at the same time, as she slips the raincoat from her shoulders and drapes it over the end of the couch. And I don't utter a word of protest as she slowly shrugs her shoulders and lets her dress slide down off her amazing body.

"Well, I don't care what you think of me," she goes on, "I still find you kind of tough to resist."

All the weeks of silent protest and determination come to nothing as I sit there in a state of paralysis, unable to take my eyes off her breasts, and the rest of her nerve-shattering body, completely nude but for a black lace garter belt and matching stockings.

There she is at last: my wet-dream incarnate, the ultimate fantasy figure from all my erotic fictions, in the flesh, with all the trappings, her smiling mouth agleam. I don't speak, I don't move, as she steps forward, drops to her knees between my legs, strokes her hands up and down my thighs.

I am lost.

* * *

When I wake at noon she is gone. Without a trace, as if she hadn't even graced the premises. As I reach for her across the vacant bed I sense already the sadness of abandonment. Seduced and abandoned at my age! So much for my manhood!

I cannot believe that with all my good intentions I have allowed this to happen. I considered my defenses impregnable. But then from the start Dana has found ways to confound me.

My melancholy continues throughout the day between my hopeless attempts to call her on the phone. I feel no sense of joy, or pride, or wonder at having had sex with the deeply coveted, amazingly sensuous and beautiful Dana Tessera. There is no sense of triumph. Only regret at having let it happen, and desolation that she is not there to share the morning after. Already I miss her, and this I consider a very bad sign.

What chafes me most is my lack of resistance. Why did I let her in last night? And once I'd done that, why did I let her stay? Why didn't I jump up from my chair in protest the second she let her coat slip from her shoulders? Why did I sit there, utterly passive, transfixed, while she let fall her dress?

Why else? The old sex obsession once again. Sitting there watching Dana strip was like living a scene from my sex fantasy books. The woman was sexually riveting, and she came with all the trappings, right down to my favorite fetishes, the black hose and garter belt. Even a shaved pudenda. I sat there in utter passivity as if I was reading this scene or watching it being acted out in one of my eight millimeter movies. I didn't resist. I didn't lift a finger to help her, but I didn't resist as she dropped to her knees between my legs and undressed me.

And given my history, my imagination, my obsession, how could I resist such an onslaught? Even knowing in advance what it would mean, what price I might have to pay? I could not have acted differently to save my life.

Yet these thoughts offer no consolation through my desolate day. And I am thankful, in late afternoon, to head to work at the warehouse. I volunteer for the most physically demanding jobs and come home with aching muscles and sweat-soaked clothes.

Before I go to bed I call her twice more, but each time I get nothing but her answering machine. I leave messages for her to call me, but I don't hear from her the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Finally, on the evening of the third day, she shows up at my door again and sweeps past me into the room as if she'd been gone only a few minutes.

"Mind if I stay over?" she whispers, kissing me as she peels off her coat.

She's so cheerful and warm that I feel the desolation of the last few days evaporate. And along with it the ache that has filled my every hour. She's brought two chilled bottles of wine and she moves straight to the kitchen to open one.

"Dana, where have you been?" I ask levelly. "Did you get my messages?"

"Of course, but you know how hectic my life is. I'm hardly ever home, and when I am the last thing I want to do is talk on the phone."

"I needed to talk to you. About the other night. I needed to see you."

"Sweetie, what's to talk about? We had a lovely time. We're going to have a lovely time again tonight, I hope, and not waste time talking."

She handed me a glass of wine, clinked her own glass against it, and with her free hand cupped the mound of my crotch. She really was like some irresistible force of nature. There was nothing you could do to protect yourself. Resistance, as the saying goes, was futile.

And so again I found myself in a torrid embrace with her, found myself fondling and kissing and caressing and ogling - for I could not help myself here either - her utterly perfect body.

Whenever I did this - paused mid-caress to gaze in stupefaction at her full, exquisitely shaped breasts, for instance - she simply smiled at me with complete indulgence, complete empathy, as if she understood fully the power of her own perfection. She let me stare as long as I wished, her fingers all the while curling gently the hair above my neck.

The first time I had been overwhelmed by her and had remained passive through much of the early lovemaking: I had sat there, at my desk of all places, my pants and shorts rumpled around my ankles, while she slowly, expertly performed the sweetest blowjob of my life, keeping her eyes locked on my face the entire time. Even Nicole had not had this kind of power over me.

And this was almost the case again, as I lay on the bed with her straddling me, riding me gently. Her bare breasts heaving, her belly hollowed, she sank herself again and again on me, pausing only long enough to smile a wanton smile at me.

I remained passive for as long as I could, just as I had stayed aloof for weeks after first meeting her. But ultimately I gave in, heaved upward, flipped her onto her back, and pumped long and energetically enough to bring her to a rare coital orgasm. She readily admitted the rarity of this occurrence. Ninety percent of her orgasms were achieved through oral sex, and a boyfriend didn't last long, she confessed, if he was unwilling to perform this service. I was more than willing, of course: I was ecstatic. And in subsequent sessions I always insisted on bringing her off first this way.

And there were subsequent sessions. A routine developed in which she would show up at my basement suite, usually unannounced, usually late at night, maybe three, and never less than two times a week. In the morning she'd be gone without a word. She never lingered. If we met at the office our affair was never referred to.

She deflected all my attempts to discuss what was going on between us. And for the time being I accepted this, largely because the sex was so terrific, but for other reasons as well. I enjoyed her company, found her always stimulating and articulate. And if only for a few hours two or three times a week, I relished not being alone.

I could not say I was happy. I never, ever, could say that. But my life was challenging in ways it had not been for a very long time, if ever. For now, at least, I was willing to take what I could get from this amazing dynamo of a woman.

Which was more than poor Glen was capable of, it appeared. One evening, maybe two weeks after the start of my nights with Dana, I ran into him at a concert that she wasn't covering. He wasn't his usual obnoxious, belligerent self, but was much more subdued, almost pensive.

"I wasn't too nice to you before," he began. "Don't mind it. I can be a real asshole."

He fell silent, and I asked him a question or two about his band. But Glen clearly had other things on his mind.

"You've been seeing a lot of Dana?" he asked.

"Not a lot, no. Does anyone ever see a lot of Dana?"

"I did, for a while. I wanted her to move in with me, but she wouldn't. She got tired of me."

I stayed silent.

"I was wild for her. Never felt that way about anyone before. Just fucking nuts about her. Have you ever met anyone like her?"

I admitted I hadn't.

"I'm seeing somebody else now. Figured I had to or I'd go berserk."

It was odd listening to Glen go on like this. He just stared at the floor the whole time he was talking.

"Did you see her last night?" he wanted to know.

"No," I answered.

"The night before?"

"Not then either."

"Shit, you don't know where the hell she is either, do you? We're all so pathetic it's laughable. Pining for a bitch who doesn't give us a second thought. What a bunch of losers."

I didn't contradict him. I went home to scour through 'Cities Of The Plain' in search of the passage where Marcel contemplates keeping Albertine a prisoner. No help whatsoever. Literature couldn't relieve this kind of ache. Marcel was just as lost as I was.

Two days later, when I next saw Dana, I mentioned running into Glen.

"Maybe there's hope for him after all," she commented. "In the past he's always been so possessive, so jealous. Just the mention of another guy made him livid. If he can talk to you like that, it means he's coming to grips with things. That's good."

"And how do I rate in the coming-to-grips-with-things department, Dana?" I asked.

"Very well, as a matter of fact," she smiled. "I couldn't wish for anyone more considerate of my need for freedom and independence. Do you have any idea how rare a quality that is in a man? Next to Glen, you're a model of restraint and maturity. And that means more to me than I can say."

What meant more to me than I could say was the variety and intensity of the sex we shared. This was endlessly amazing to me and, again, was more like something out of my books than anything I had ever experienced in real life, with the exception of Nicole.

Like Nicole, she loved sex for the pure joy of it. It wasn't an act of love, necessarily, or a gesture of commitment, or a political act. It was fantastic play-therapy for consenting adults and nothing more. And she reveled in it, any time, any place, and virtually under any circumstances. She was just as sex obsessed as I was. She thought nothing of going down on me while I tried to start the car in a darkened parking lot. On more than one occasion, as we walked downtown after a late concert, she'd haul me into dim store doorways and have me take her up against a wall. And in the privacy of the bedroom she out-Nicoled Nicole and routinely out-sexed my own most brazen heroines.