The Spur Ch. 14

Everything conspires to take away from a man who is set in authority over others the sense of justice and reason. Much trouble, we are told, is taken to teach young princes the art of reigning; but their education seems to do them no good. It would be better to begin by teaching them the art of obeying. --Jean-Jacques Rousseau, The Social Contract

JAMILA

Well. I was wrapping up my last semester of student teaching, with a job already lined up out of state in the fall, provided I finished my two outstanding classes over the summer. How am I possibly going to entertain myself in this town, I thought, with nothing to fill up my time but two courses and a tutoring job?

And then I saw him. And I knew exactly how I intended to keep myself interested until launch day.

It was the warm last weeks of the spring semester, and the high school I was assigned to had brought in an "environmental theater" group to immerse our students in the English Renaissance. I was pretty skeptical, but decided to show some spirit by coming in costume--but definitely not Elizabethan costume. Besides being incredibly elaborate and labor-intensive, a hoop and a farthingale and stuffed sleeves hide the body, and I wanted to flaunt mine; after all, I would still own this dress after this workshop. So I made a medieval bliaut dress--a simple sheath tunic that was form fitting except for the flaring sleeves. The belt hung on my hips in an alluring way, too, because in the Middle Ages you were allowed to have hips. My hair--which is naturally honey-blonde--looked gorgeous against the fabric.

So suddenly there's this tall, skinny guy with strawberry blonde hair and a red beard. I learned later that he put lemon juice in his hair so the sun could bleach it; he was very vain of his hair, in an all-natural hippy sort of way. I watched, fascinated, as he led our students in a farandole--a long, snaky line dance with all kinds of twists and turns and ins and outs, until they forgot to be too cool for school and had a great time.

When the program was over, the students heading back inside and the performers packing up their props, he came over to take his leave of me with a bow and a kiss on my hand. But when he stood back up, he found my hand still clamped tightly to his, my eyes locked on his eyes, and a beckoning smile on my lips.

I thought this was a foolproof strategy, but that fool almost defeated it; he just stared, slack-jawed and confused, until I was on the point of giving it up and letting him go. But at the last moment, the penny dropped, a smile of understanding dawned, and, still holding my hand, he approached me, saying, low and discreetly,

"My Lady has made me her captive; what ransom for my temporary freedom, My Lady?" Yes, yes, cornball as hell. But there was something sweet about his willingness to be that much of a doofus, so I smiled imperiously and played along.

"You must ask me out, sirrah!" I said.

"Right willingly, My Lady!" he said; we were both enjoying the goofy little game. We exchanged names and telephone numbers, and he promised to call.

"Fail me not, or I shall have thee hunted down like a cur!" I warned.

"Rely on me, My Lady," he said, with a bow. Then, as if an afterthought, he added, "If it be not too forward to say it, My Lady looks ravishing in that dress."

So he called that evening, and I was relieved that he was speaking more or less normally. We made a date for dinner at a new--and, sadly, short-lived--Ethiopian restaurant, followed by contradancing. The cuisine was new in this little town, and I had never had it before, and I'd never been contradancing either. He said he'd pick me up at 5:30, which seemed awfully early, but I agreed. As we took our seats in the restaurant, he said,

"I think Ethiopian is the ideal first date food."

"Why's that?" I asked.

"Because it's eaten with the fingers. I figure, make a mess, get it over with. Then we can relax."

"Sounds good," I said. "So while we're still all tense and self-conscious, tell me about yourself."

"Well," he answered, 'I studied music and theater in college, and I love the work I'm doing, but I'm thinking seriously of transitioning to psychotherapy."

"Why psychotherapy?"

"I'm told I'm a good listener. Also, as much of a blast as it is to engage a whole audience at once, I really prefer to engage people one-on-one."

"Well, I hope you don't abandon music and dance!" I said.

"Never if I can help it! But what about you? You're obviously a dancer. What's your story?"

"I'm getting certified to teach high school English, but I'll also be certifying as a Phys. Ed. teacher, so I can teach dance as a gym elective. That's the job I have lined up at a private school in the Midwest in the fall, provided I finish these last two classes."

"You mean you're only here for the summer?" he said, looking crestfallen.

"Yup. I'm outta here," I answered, trying to keep it light.

"Well...I guess I'll have to try to see as much of you as I can in the time I have."

"I encourage that!" I said, and we clinked our glasses.

Our food arrived, and Steve showed me how to break off little pieces of the injera pancake and scoop up the spicy beans, curried vegetables, and cottage cheese off the platter. It was messy, at least until I got used to it, but it was delicious.

"OK, so, speaking of dancing" he said. "Have you ever been to a contradance before?"

"No, but isn't that the dancing done in two long lines facing each other?"

"Exactly. And here's the thing. You are going to be extremely popular.'

"Ooh, I like that! How come?"

"One: you're new, and a newbie is always an object of interest. Two: it's going to be easy for you. It will be a duck-to-water situation: you'll learn it fast, do it well, and look sensational doing it. Three: you're gorgeous. So all told, you're going to be in high demand. Now, it's considered bad form to dance only with the person you came with; you're supposed to switch partners after each dance. But this being our first date and all, could I ask in advance for at least every other dance?"

"I may exact a price."

"And I will willingly pay it!"

When we got to the hall where the dance was--a forty-five minute drive away in Harrisburg, which explained why he'd picked me up so early for dinner--they were just starting the weekly tutorial for new dancers, teaching the most common moves so you'd know what to do when you heard the caller call them. Steve was right--none of it was especially difficult. As more experienced dancers began to arrive, and the string band started to set up, I wondered if I'd made a mistake. This guy was sweet, but awkward and dorky--a little like a puppy. I wondered if the people streaming in through the door were a parade of misfits.

Well, I soon learned what a big snob I was. Steve was in his element--experienced, assured, and good at directing me whenever I became momentarily confused. The sound of feet on the floor was surprisingly loud; unlike freestyle club dancing, everyone here was doing the same things at the same time. The coordination was exciting, as though we were all interlocking parts of one big organic machine.

During the break, we went for a walk along the river. Having talked his ear off during dinner and the drive, I wanted to get him talking.

"Ever given yourself completely to somebody?" I asked. "Without reservation?"

"Once," he answered.

"Tell me about it."

"Well," he hedged, "It's kind of a quirky story, and I can't make any promises about its entertainment value."

"I'll be the judge of that!" I said imperiously.

"OK, then--you've been warned! I was playing piano at a Wild West show, and Crystal was one of the dancers. She had wavy ash-blonde hair, green eyes--real green, not hazel-green like mine--and elfin features, like she'd just stepped out of Rivendell. She also did Irish step-dancing, which I absolutely adored watching.

"She was from Texas, and the lover of words in me was fascinated by her Texanisms. She'd say things like "My tired hurts," or "I feel like I've been et by a coyote and shat over a cliff," or "You kicked over a big bucket of crazy." I found it downright exotic.

"She was a big, strong girl--not a shrinking violet, physically or in her personality. Shortly after we met, we were kissing on one of the streets in the park, and she suddenly slipped her hand down the elastic waistband of my shorts and grabbed my junk. So--not a shy person."

He paused for what seemed like a long time.

"I was so in love with her! I never got tired of watching her dance. She was as powerful as the weather, yet playful as a colt or a puppy. I might as well have been wearing horse blinders and a bit, the way she led me around. She had me completely glamoured."

At that point, we heard the music starting up again in the hall.

"Want to go back for the second set?" he asked.

"Definitely!" I answered. "But I want to hear the rest of that story later!"

"Well, I'll tell it if you really want it," he said.

After the set, we joined a group that regularly went out for ice cream after the dance. The people I had taken for social misfits were friendly and welcoming and fun to be around. Note to self.

He drove me back to my place, and I invited him in.

"May I take a shower?" he asked. I had noticed that he was a sweaty guy for how skinny he was.

"You'd better," I answered, and we went inside. While he was in the shower, I opened the bathroom door and poked my head in.

"Knock, knock," I said. "I just need to grab something and then I'll be out of your way." I quickly gathered up all his clothes, and hid them in a kitchen cabinet. He emerged about ten minutes later, wearing a towel and running his fingers through his hair in lieu of a brush.

"Um, My Lady?"

"Yes?"

"Where are my clothes?" Smiling wickedly, I put my arms around his neck.

"Your temporary freedom has expired!" I told him huskily. He grinned.

"Well, well; where does the time go?" he said, taking me in his arms and kissing me.

I pulled off his towel and tossed it aside. Laying both hands on his chest, I shoved him sharply backward, and he fell on the bed, his eyes huge and startled. Before he knew where he was, I was on top of him, wrapping the Velcro restraints around his wrists that I had secured to the bedposts that afternoon. Climbing up and sitting on his legs, I kissed him hungrily, then whispered, "You OK?" into his ear. He definitely looked OK, but we all know how our bodies can betray us.

"Um...never better, My Lady!" he said, pulling himself together remarkably quickly.

Enjoying having him naked while I was still fully clothed, I kissed him again, rocking my hips against his erection and digging my nails into his biceps. As his breathing accelerated, I moved my mouth to his neck, his chest, his belly. I teased his glans with the tip of my tongue, enjoying his little gasp as I took him into my mouth. When he began to buck his hips to my rhythm, I stopped abruptly, expecting a moan of disappointment, but not getting one. I pulled my sundress off over my head, leaving my sheer bra and panties in place for the time being.

"Mother of God," he rasped, "you are outrageously beautiful!" I rewarded him with a long, tender kiss on the mouth. Sitting up again, I regarded him coolly, like an art object I had just bought and was seeking the perfect place to display.

"You are mine, slave-boy, for as long as I want you; do you understand that?"

"Of course, My Lady."

"Do you want to know what I'm going to do to you?"

"Only if you want to tell me."

"That's an excellent answer," I said. "Now kiss me, and tell me how beautiful I am."

He lifted his head to comply, and I teased him by keeping my lips just out of his reach, allowing him to almost make contact before shifting just enough to evade him. Once I'd finally permitted him to obey the first part of my order, he looked me in the eyes for a long time, with such intensity, he might have been reading my aura, or my mind, or my future.

"You are as beautiful as the sea after a storm," he said at last, slowly and deliberately, "when the shoreline is strewn with wreckage, but the sun blazes from a sky scrubbed clean and blue, lighting the surface of the waves that roll so deep, and are never still."

It took me several seconds to find my voice. "Well," I managed, "you like to keep a girl off balance, don't you?" He grinned.

"Just calling 'em like I see 'em, My Lady."

At a rare loss for words, I said, "Your hair needs to be brushed before it dries like that." I grabbed a hairbrush off the dresser and began running it through his mop, and while he probably didn't actually purr like a cat, that is what I remember him doing. I paused the brush and ran my fingers through his hair, and he entered the blissed-out state I had seen on men before.

"Why do guys love having a woman run her fingers through their hair?" I asked.

"Good God, what's not to love?" he said.

"If I ever have to help with a fundraising carnival, instead of a kissing booth, I'm going to charge guys to run my fingers through their hair. I'll make a killing."

"And I will be the first in line, My Lady."

I kissed him again on the mouth, running my tongue along his lips, then teased him again by keeping my mouth just out of his reach. When he smiled and lay back on the pillow as though he didn't think my kiss worth pursuing, I bit his earlobe, hard, until he grunted in pain, then ran my nails along the underside of his shaft. He arched his back and breathed deeply, but when I stopped, he simply lay back again.

"Shall I tell you what I think, slave-boy?" I asked.

"If you wish, My Lady."

"I think the reason you aren't begging me to fuck you by now is that you've decided, in that insolent little boy-brain of yours, not to give me the satisfaction. Isn't that right?" He grinned a smug little grin.

"It is easier to conquer than to rule, My Lady!"

"That sounds like a quotation."

"It is."

"And I suppose you think I'm going to ask you where it's from."

"I have no idea what you're going to do, My Lady."

"Excellent!" I said. "Hold on to that!"

Without warning, I began tickling his ribs--and also without warning, he went berserk, thrashing against the restraints and nearly throwing me off his legs. It gave me a faint idea of what a rodeo rider must feel like.

As he struggled, protested, and ultimately begged, I let my fingertips explore his neck, his armpits, his belly, his ribs, and found them all delightfully ticklish. I would have loved to explore his legs and feet, but I was sitting on them, and I was afraid he would kick me if I got off them, he was so frantic.

"I IMPLORE YOU TO STOP TICKLING ME! I WILL DO ANYTHING YOU WANT!"

"You'll do anything I want anyway!" I teased. I risked reaching back to get at his feet while still sitting on his legs, and he clamped his lips together to stifle a scream. I brought my hands back up to his ribs, and he used the brief break to get a full breath.

"STOP TICKLING ME, YOU PSYCHOTIC BITCH!"

Well, of course, I couldn't let that pass. We need some discipline, after all. I drove my thumbs into the crease between his hips and thighs, and when he squirmed, dug my fingernails into his belly until he yelped and lay still.

"Do you really want to speak to me that way?" I said. "Think hard."

"Boss, I'll speak in Petrarchan sonnets if you'll stop tickling me." I let go, and he collapsed into an inert heap.

"I think I prefer 'My Lady" to 'Boss.'"

"Right you are, My Lady." While he caught his breath, I picked up a robe off the end of the bed and pulled it on.

"Entertain me, vassal," I said. "Tell me a story."

"True or fictional?"

"Finish the story about the woman you gave your heart to." A shadow passed over his face, but only for a moment. Then he righted himself and said,

"It's a long, sad tale, My Lady."

"Are you going somewhere?" I asked.

"Apparently not," he replied.

STEVE

Crystal was engaged to be married--though in my defense, she didn't tell me that right away. But by the time we were sleeping together, I knew. He was considerably older than we were--a real old-school courtly Southern gentleman. And I looked him in the face and told him I wasn't fucking his fiancée. So I absolutely had some pain and suffering coming to me.

Looking back, I don't know that I was the best lover to her that I could have been. Not that I didn't dote on her and everything--it was a total dote-fest on my side. But I was relatively inexperienced, and I had been lucky up till then, because the women I had been with had been willing to tell me what they wanted. But as brazen as she was in some ways, she never said anything about my probably dorky lovemaking not getting the job done for her. And maybe that's because it did; maybe I'm overthinking this. Or maybe she just didn't feel like investing in a future that she already knew we weren't going to have.

Eventually she broke off her engagement, and we spent the summer together. Her plan was to start college in a neighboring state in the fall--I hope this doesn't become a pattern!--but we planned to continue seeing each other, of course.

Early in August she sat me down solemnly and told me she was pregnant. I was twenty- two, she was eighteen. And I offered to marry her. I was that much in love--and besides, my conduct towards her ex notwithstanding, I wasn't a total shit-heel. And I was so blinded by love, and so jaw-droppingly naïve, that when she disappeared into the bathroom for a long time one afternoon a few weeks later, then quietly told me she had 'lost the baby,' I believed her. Unquestioningly. Doing no math whatsoever. I just did my best to comfort her.

And my God, it hurt! Even if it was all an embarrassing lie, I believed I had fathered and lost a child. The pain was so sharp, so intense. Even after I figured out what she had done, the phantom pain of that phony loss would grip my heart ferociously and without warning for a long time.

What I simply cannot figure out was why she did it. I mean, obviously she took up with me as a way of easing herself out of her engagement. But I was so smitten with her, she didn't need to lie to me about a baby. Did she really not know that? I was never as much in love with anybody as I was while watching her dance. Did she need to hear that I would be willing to marry her? Or was she hoping I would abandon her so she would have an off-ramp?

Well, she went off to school, and I wrote to her faithfully. Her letters started off short and got shorter, and soon stopped altogether. She never returned my phone calls. I can't believe she was so cruel, or so needy, that she needed to get me to talk marriage before she dumped me, but I just don't know what else to think. I've always been sort of risk-averse, but it took me a long time to get over being afraid of being hurt again so badly."

He had been staring off into the middle distance, but now he looked me in the eyes.

"So here is your vassal, My Lady: a coward, a moron, and a sneaking-around fucker of a better man's woman. I can show myself out now, if you want."

LAURA

Seeing him lying there, naked, more conscious of his own shortcomings than of the restraints on his wrists (which he actually seemed to have forgotten about,) I was overwhelmed with tenderness toward him. With nothing on my mind but a summer fuck-fest with a cute subbie, I hadn't counted on having all these feelings, but there they were. I wanted to see that light in his eyes he'd had while we danced, while he led the kids in my class, while I'd told him about myself for most of dinner. Not this darkness I saw now.

"Oh, no," I said. "You aren't getting away from me that easily!" I kissed him on the mouth--a long, intrusive kiss, exploring him with my tongue, invading him and marking him as mine. He kissed me back eagerly, welcoming me in.