Macho Sluts (11 page)

“Shit, I'm no superstar. I don't give a damn what they think.”

“Yeah, it hurts my feelings, too.”

I laughed ruefully. She drove very fast, hands at home on the steering wheel. My seat was comfortable and deep, tilted back so I could see half the night sky in the windshield's crystal curve. The stars blazed too bright for their pinpoint size, and the moon was a crispy, golden cookie, still waiting for the North Wind to take her first bite. I relaxed into the sensation of being taken somewhere, gliding smoothly through the night to an unknown destination. It was mysterious and soothing at the same time. Whenever she took a turn, there would be a slight tug at my neck, reminding me that she had chosen me and taken steps to “insure my compliance.”

“Listen,” she confided, “I have to confess, this has never happened to me before.” She took a pack of cigarettes out of her jacket pocket and tossed them into my lap. I lit her a cigarette, passed it over, found the ashtray, and pulled it out. “Faggots do this all the time, right? They stick the right color bandana in their back pocket and stroll down the street and take their pick. But dykes … I'm surprised we ever make it with each other.”

“Really,” I agreed. “I resent that romantic thing so much. I just can't take it seriously, having someone fall madly in love with you after their forth beer, and changing their mind over breakfast.”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded. She tapped ashes off her cigarette, then rolled her window down a little to carry out the smoke. “If the only information I had about lesbians was what I got out of women's newspapers, I would never tumble to the fact that we are female queers who actually go to bed with each other. I'd think lesbianism was a political party, like the Republicans and the Democrats, and all these women only got together because of our joint oppression. I mean, I know we all have a common political cause. Nobody knows it better than me, because our group is fucking good, we work so hard, and we can't get a recording contract with a straight company because we're all dykes. But no feminist record company is going to sign us up either, because they think hard-core rock 'n' roll is apolitical, and I have the reputation of a rapist. So we keep on playing for dances and parties and benefits and bars, and we always have a roomful of women dancing their asses off. But I don't even let anybody record our act any more. I'm tired of hearing myself on a scratchy little tape cassette.”

I didn't know what to say. If I'd had a million dollars, I would have written her a check on the spot. “Bringing rock 'n' roll to the matriarchy is a thankless task,” I finally ventured.

She thought that was funny. “I dig what I do,” she said. “I'd play for myself if nobody else would listen. I'd just like to see a little more honesty, that's all. I'd like to hear somebody admit they come out and dance to us because we turn them on, not to further the feminist revolution.”

“That'll happen the same day somebody walks up to me in a bar and says, ‘I want to fuck your brains out,' instead of, ‘I think I'm falling in love with you.'”

She smoked the rest of her cigarette. When she turned to me, she had a crazy little smile on her face. “I want to fuck your brains out,” she told me, and watched me shiver from head to toe. Then she laughed and went back to driving.

There was a hiatus in our conversation, during which I sat peacefully, pretending the ride would never end. It was Jessie who broke the silence. “You know, you almost scared me off back there with your fancy jewelry. I wondered if we were in the same league. I mean, I don't wear my handcuffs on my belt.”

So I wasn't the only one who was afraid of being outclassed. That was reassuring. I smiled with satisfaction, and didn't say anything.

“So where did you get them?” she demanded, a little impatiently.

“It's a long story.”

“This is a long ride. Tell me.”

I shook my head. “You won't believe it.”

“I won't, huh? Come on, quit being coy.”

I rubbed my face, feeling a little sleepy. Where to start … “Well, let's see. My first experience with S/M was with Sue. And she had to hound me for months to tie her up and spank her. I insisted that she do it to me first, so I could be sure it was okay. Surprise, surprise, I found out I really like it, so I reciprocated, and we kept fooling around with it, but not doing anything heavy. I started suggesting we move into it a little further. That made her uneasy. When I bought her a leather paddle, she freaked out. For some reason, that was sick. We eventually broke up, ostensibly over class differences, and there was nobody to talk to. I think I tried once to explain it to this friend of mine, my best friend, in fact. We had known each other since college, when we both came out during the same semester. So I was trying to describe this new component of myself I had begun to unearth, and she freaked out, too. She said something like, ‘After the months I've worked at the rape crisis center, I can't stand to listen to this,' and ran like a bunny. The next time I called up a few of my other old friends, they treated me with what I thought was distaste. Sue was not telling people about our class differences, it seemed. So I gave up calling anybody I used to know.”

“Sounds familiar,” Jessie said. “Where did you go from there?”

“I spent about a month just going to my shop and coming straight home. Staring at TV. Then I got disgusted with myself and fed myself a couple of drinks and drove myself down to one of the men's leather bars. I was lucky the first time—it was real crowded, and the bartender didn't spot me, so I hung out all night, tucked behind the jukebox, taking everything in a mile a minute. The next time I went there, it wasn't so busy, and they kicked me out. So I went down the block to the next bar. It was real hard. But I kept thinking, there must be other women like me somewhere, I can't be the only one, and sooner or later they'll show up here, too. Because there is no place else to go.” I paused to take a deep breath, but Jessie didn't say a word. She was fascinated. I wondered how much of my story was her story.

“Well, one night I was having a terrible time. I had hit my three favorite places. None of the bartenders I'd managed to make friends with were on duty, and none of the men I had met were there to vouch for me, so I got bounced out. I decided to check out this tiny little place I usually never bothered with. I just wanted to sit down for a few minutes and have a quick drink before I went home. So I walked in, asked for a beer, and the guy behind the bar says, ‘I don't want to be rude, honey, but this is a men's bar. I think you'd better leave.' I didn't even try to argue. I just slid off the stool and headed for the door.

“‘Can she stay if I buy her a drink?' somebody asked. I thought I was hearing things. It was a very female voice. I did this slow-motion turn and panned the room. She was standing in the doorway, with the darkness behind her. As she moved toward me, I saw that she was wearing a black satin dress and a diamond choker. Oh, yes, with long, black gloves. And you know those spike-heeled fetish boots that look impossible to walk in? Well, she wasn't having any trouble walking in hers. There were two men behind her, about six feet tall, in full leather—her honor guard or her bodyguards or something. They never looked at each other, only at her. I don't think they ever spoke. They just kept their hands behind their backs and stayed right at her heels. When she was about five feet from me, she stopped and threw her long, black hair back over one shoulder. She tilted her head and looked at me. It was obvious that she found me very amusing. While she enjoyed her private joke, I stared back at her. Her face was round, with strong features. She almost looked Chinese. And there was flesh around her chin, not quite a double chin, just enough flesh to make her look voluptuous and a little greedy.”

“I don't believe this,” Jessie said. “Are you making this up?”

“I warned you about that. You don't have any right to complain, so shut up.” Jessie continued to grumble, but I ignored her. “She made a little motion with her hand. The two guys froze where they were. I followed her down to the other end of the bar. The dress and her long hair rustled when she walked. Everything became more and more unreal. I felt like I'd walked into a movie. The bartender brought us each a tequila sunrise, without being asked. She took off her gloves—slowly—and tossed them to me. I folded them and laid them in my lap. I couldn't understand why I had caught her eye. I was wearing all the leather I had—a beat-up pair of cowboy boots and a bomber jacket. I looked like I'd gotten lost on my way to see the Ramones. But I looked like I belonged there more than she did.

“I think her first words to me were, ‘Do you come here often?' Some cornball line like that. Her voice was so rich, it was a little threatening, like holding a conversation with a jaguar. She had my whole story in five minutes or less. From out of nowhere, she produced a little white card. There was an address on it, nothing else. ‘Present yourself, properly attired, tomorrow at one,' she said, and held out her hand for her gloves. A split second after she stood up, her escort was back in position. When she turned to go, a flash of white thigh was exposed. Her dress was slit up the side. And I saw that she had a riding crop stuck in her boot.”

The grumbling had subsided into silent skepticism. I continued smoothly on.

“I presented myself the next day as requested. But I left my punk duds in a pile on the floor of my closet and dug out a dress I'd worn to my sister's wedding, a white dress with a high neck and long, tight sleeves. It made me feel repressed and virginal. I didn't have any fancy femmie underwear, so I didn't wear any. At first I was embarrassed and thought maybe I was being too theatrical, but then I realized that I was pretty stupid, since I was going to meet someone who was about as subdued and understated as Mata Hari. Dressing up would only help me play my part better. So I hopped in my car and drove to the address on the card. I had to ring the bell and tell her who I was through the intercom. The door opened all by itself, and I had to climb up a winding set of stairs. There was a mirror at the first bend so she could see who was coming. She was wearing a different outfit, but it was the same aesthetic, straight out of Morticia Addams' wardrobe. She seated herself on a red velveteen couch and told me to bring a tray with coffee and little cakes in from the kitchen. I think some of the coffee slopped over the edge of the cups onto the tray. And that wouldn't do. That wouldn't do at all. I didn't think the punishment was in proportion to the crime, but I wasn't about to complain.

“When it was finished, as we nibbled on pastries and drank the cold coffee, she made me an offer. She was a dominatrix. She had a separate room in her house—which I had not yet seen—fixed up with a standing rack and whips and dildoes and chains and a cage and a table. Submissive straight men paid her to do scenes with them. Once in a while, she would find someone who wanted to work with her, and train her to take on part of the clientele. When she was doing S/M for love instead of money, she preferred to play submissive to dominant men. She had an agreement with her master that she would not enter into any other ongoing S/M relationships. But she was curious about S/M dynamics between women. She told me that if I would stay with her for about a month, as her slave, she would give me a taste of every technique she knew. At the end of that time, if I had performed satisfactorily, she would reward me with permanent cuffs and a collar. She also told me that when my training was complete, she would put me out, and I would never see her again.”

Jessie had been signaling for another cigarette for five minutes. I finally “noticed” and supplied her with one. I could tell by the tightening of her jaw that she took due notice of this provocation.

“It was crazy, and I loved it. I agreed at once. Most days, I went to work just the way I always had, but at night I went back to her house and entered this fantasy world where I was her slave and slept at the foot of her bed. I helped her dress and undress, did her makeup, shopped and cooked for her. Occasionally, she would have insomnia, and I would give her backrubs or read to her. She liked Edna St. Vincent Millay. When it struck her fancy, she would find fault with something I had done and teach me another lesson. She only took me into the dungeon a couple of times, when she had a new girl who was going to be working for her. Those were all-day sessions. She had to show her assistant, who usually didn't know anything about the scene, how to use everything in the room—the three-part bondage table and the horizontal rack, the vibrators and butt-plugs and dildoes, all this elaborate enema equipment, mummy suits, and whips and straps and paddles. She usually concluded the training session with a watersports fantasy that went with the cage. If that didn't freak the new girl out completely, she had a job in her dungeon.

“But most of the time, my instruction took place in her bedroom or the Victorian living room. She had eyebolts set in all the doorways, so I could be strung up in any room of the house. She had a sterling-silver hairbrush she used on me quite a lot. Let me tell you, once you've been fucked with a monogrammed silver hairbrush, rubber marital aids just don't do it any more. She was very careful, very knowledgeable, and she made sure I always got off. Sometimes she stopped just short of pushing things to the point where she really enjoyed it because I couldn't handle it. I think she never let herself go with me the way she did with the men she saw, whether they were clients or lovers. Women seemed too fragile or sensitive to her. I always had this sense that she was frustrated, couldn't get enough from me, no matter how hard I tried.

“One night, she woke me out of a sound sleep and told me to follow her. We went into the specially equipped room. She undressed me, put me in standing bondage, then she braided the cuffs around my wrists and the collar around my throat. She had already packed my suitcase. Without saying a word, she brought it in and put it by the door. I knew this was our last scene. For the first and only time, she was completely selfish. It was all for her. It was the only time she ever gave me amyl, and she gave me quite a lot of it. Between beatings, she would use my mouth. When I was finally too exhausted to take any more, she left me in chains and sat on the table in front of me and pleasured herself—first with her hands, then with a vibrator. I went crazy trying to get to her. And I needed to come so badly myself, I couldn't see straight. As soon as she had her orgasm, she started to laugh. She was still laughing when she lowered my hands, put the key within my reach, and walked out. I could still hear her chuckling as she went down the hallway, shut herself into her bedroom, and locked the door. I undid the padlocks, dressed myself, and left, never to return. The End.”