Sunday, March 27, 2011



Erin Go Bragh


Wayne's body language was just plain freaking me out. He was wigged and squirrely. If he was a cartoon his whole being would be emitting jagged waves of distressed dark energy. I had him walk in front of me as I pointed him to my backroom which was dimly lit by candles. Wayne kept furtively looking over his shoulder at me. He stopped abruptly at the threshold and I bumped into him getting another whiff of what seemed to be his signature scent, l'urine de chat. His lack of hygiene had to be deliberate. Being a single woman in the city, of course I had a cat. I was well acquainted with the stink of a kitty litter box. It seemed he had bathed liberally from one before our little visit. How thoughtful.

I had sobered up rather quickly and made a note to myself to never, ever be so nonchalant again regarding my own safety. My cat needed me, so I formulated a plan. I would get Wayne in restraints, a ball gag if possible in his piss hole of a mouth and a blindfold. I noticed with distaste that his black hair was lank with oil and flaked with dandruff. I could restrain him on the bed so he would be comfortable and then leave him there in a state of benign horizontal suspension for at least 45 minutes. Wayne had not specified anything in particular, in fact he had adapted a pose of the adamantly clueless so I would provide the firm hand he so desperately desired. I would tell him, once I had him down, that he seemed high strung and I was enlisting him in a self improvement program for his own good. I would claim I was teaching him to get into the moment,that he needed to experience the feeling of nothingness or some such shite. Then when his time was up, I would get him the hell out of my apartment.

I approached him confidentially, black leather cuffs and silken black cords in my hands. His reaction was unexpectedly violent. His limbs stiffened as he flung all four of them outward and simultaneously, like a an old timey vaudeville tap dancer. He snarled "Don't you fucking touch me."

Well... "Man makes plans as God laughs" I thought grimly as he took a half step toward me. I soothed "Of course not Wayne" and lowered the cuffs casually, moving toward the bed that Casper, my first real slave, had customized for me.

Not only had Casper outfitted the frame so it could be used as a bed of restraints, but underneath it he had made a long, shallow shelf where I could tuck things under it, hidden from view. During a session I would slip my cell phone out and check the time(although I often used music I had downloaded to pace the length of my sessions, the last song indicating the end of the hour. No one likes a clock watcher. A term often used in this industry)or I would use it to hide away my "tribute". I had the machete and can of pepper spray stored there as well. I casually sat on the bed above where I THOUGHT I had hid the pepper spray. I had it mentally marked beneath my ass and between my legs where at this point, I was hoping to distract him with both.

I pulled a Basic Instinct move and drew my booted legs inward, closer to my chest and crossed my legs lightly at the knee providing him with a spectacular upshot. He was momentarily transfixed by what must have been only a shadow, a promise of what he wanted to see. What they all wanted to see, this slice of life, this secret fold that drives them to distraction. If only they understood the great burden and upkeep of having a vagina, it might make them more humane. I wish I could really TELL them the legend of the Golden Fleece is just that. A legend, but they never listen to reason.

"Wayne"? He tore his eyes away with great effort looking befuddled. I took advantage of this as I heedlessly spread my knees a bit more and pointed at the ceiling.

"Ummmm....yeah?" He seemed both dazed and irritated.

"I have an idea. Be a pet and reach up and turn on the light above you." He gave me a suspicious look but did as I asked. As he turned I stealthily felt for the pepper spray and palmed it in to the top of my boot. I stood up, blew out the candles and told him to follow me into the kitchen where I gestured to a chair. He sat reluctantly while I poured us both a glass of wine. I held the home court advantage by perching on a long legged stool near the front door so I was looking slightly down at him and poised for a quick exit.

"Do you have a girlfriend Wayne?" I asked idly, swinging a leg, sipping my wine. I leaned backwards. The mixed signals seemed to confuse him which temporarily gave me control.

"No!Girls are mean!" He burst out vehemently. Girls? I thought, is he kidding? He had to be at least thirty eight. I nodded sympathetically.

"The operative word is girls, Wayne. Grown women don't have to be mean. You can be strong and confident and still be a nice person right?" He shrugged and nodded begrudgingly.

"They just want a guy for his money. Take me for instance." Yes please, I thought.

"What about you?" I took a fake sip of wine from my glass and he visibly relaxed taking a swig from his own.

"Well I'm a young guy and I do pretty good for myself. I own a house with some land and a few trucks. People get jealous that a young guy like me does so good. They are all users. WOMEN are users." He emphasized the word just in case I was missing the fact that he thought all women were the devil. He was grimacing strangely.

"What do you do Wayne?" If I recalled he was a contractor of some sort, self employed.

"Why does it matter. YOU don't care.You are only seeing me because I am paying you.Right?" He said savagely. Oh here we go...the real crux of the matter. Why oh why can't they be good sports about it? That way we would all have so much more fun. Before I could answer he said "Besides, stop saying Wayne. It isn't even my real name. Like Ava is really your name...." He trailed off insinuatingly as he watched for a reaction.

"Really? How clever of you. But your work number checked out when I called you back at what...ABC Plumbing or something like that?" I mused out loud. He refused the bait,running his long nailed hands through his greasy hair which upon closer inspection resembled a plate of black squid ink linguine,his dandruff scattered throughout like finely minced garlic.

"Nah. Wayne scoffed at my gullibility. "I knew about this shop that shut down but they didn't turn the phone off right away. I was in there when I called you and you ASSUMED I owned the place". He said this triumphantly like he just learned the word. He tossed it out like a bright new penny. But he was right. I had surmised the situation poorly.

I nodded in admiration while modestly acknowledging his superior intellect, simpering and widening my eyes, leaning forward so the V of my cat suit deepened and he could see the swell of my breasts. Again he was thrown off stride as he jittered around, scratching absently at his arms. He had trouble keeping eye contact as his unfocused gaze kept jumping around the apartment and on whatever parts of myself that I was displaying at the moment. He paced back and forth, edging closer to me and I got another whiff of him. Aside from the scent of feline urine, I now could detect something like rotten eggs. What the hell, did he roll around in something dead? I suppressed a shiver. I was also suppressing the urge to spring from my stool and wildly spraying the mace in his face. I still had hope that I could ease my way out of this one graciously but I had one eye on the door. As they say, pray but row for the shore.

"Yup.Then I got a throw away phone and I set up a fake outgoing vm message. Get it!" I got it all right, I just might be fucked and not in a good way. Wayne's haunting fragrance fell suddenly into place.

Once, a long time ago, in a very different time and very boring place we shall call Idaho I had the misfortune of smelling the stench in question while visiting far flung friends. They were a couple I had known since high school, MollyAndPeter, brilliant chess club nerds who were coupled for life and quite satisfactorily it appeared. Except they were terribly miscast in this one horse state, having been dropped there by the Corporation that currently owned their souls.

Their home was outstanding and would have mustered a cool four hundred thousand to start in some tasteful suburb of New England. It had a pool and a serene veranda with spacious views of nothing for as far as my eye could see except for the ramshackle home next door. It had a long, lopsided front porch with a weather beaten shed adjacent to it which bustled with activity at all hours of the night. Very young women with dyed skunk like hair,florescent cropped tanks,tongue rings and unnaturally concave stomachs darted around the parameters like shy and vivid lizards.I was watching them one evening, through the slit of a curtain and I asked my friends who the neighbors were.

"Oh them." answered Molly with contempt. "We hate them. They are one of the main reasons why we want to get out of here. Meth heads." If she had been outside she would have spat on the ground in disgust. Peter had nodded in the affirmative.

"They cook that shit day and night. That's why those skanks are always hanging out over there. Bunch of freaks, I'm afraid they are going to wander over here one night and rape and rob us. Or rather rape Molly". He qualified hastily. He strode over to the window and opened it telling me to breath in. I smelled a mixture of ammonia (or cat urine)and the sulfurous scent of hard boiled eggs.

"So that's how I did it" Wayne was wrapping up his narration and I was bought back to the more unpleasant present.

I was certain that Wayne had not only been smoking meth before he decided to take the plunge to stalk me, but he had also been cooking it. Lots of it to smell like this. His twitchiness, strange erratic conversation and the fact that he had taken some time and trouble to deceive me hit me sharply with focused horror. I was gobsmacked. Torn between flight or fight. I had a woman hating tweaker in my kitchen who was possibly setting me up for ...what? A home invasion? A little combo of rape and robbery if I got off lucky and a violent death if I did not? Outside I heard a crowd of people passing by my building, laughing and sounding uproariously drunk. I remembered it was St.Patrick's Day weekend and I suddenly felt terribly alone.

Oh the luck of the Irish...