Saturday night Claudia came over dressed in a navy pinstripe suit with her blonde hair up in a power bun as I had instructed.
“I’m really sorry Slotnick got your promotion,” she said, kissing me on the cheek.
“Thanks, honey,” I said.
She sat down.
“Who said you could sit?”
She stood up.
“OK, now sit, close your eyes, and open your mouth.
She smirked and sat on the wobbly bar stool I had set out for her. When she opened wide, I tossed in a pill and handed her an open beer. “Drink,” I said.
She swallowed. “What was that?”
“They don’t make Quaaludes anymore.”
“It was Ecstasy.”
“Where would you get Ecstasy?”
“A Colombian guy in Mission Hill.”
Her smirk returned.
“OK, it was a vitamin,” I said.
She sighed and pressed her hand against my cheek. “You’re going to have to be more convincing, or this isn’t going to be any fun.”
“Sorry. I mean: Shut your hole.”
I paused and recalled the game plan for the evening: We had talked about an evening of domination for months as a sexy way to help me express my anger more directly instead of stockpiling it and periodically blowing up. After my work humiliation this week, Claudia figured this would be a good night to experiment. For the next four hours, she was supposed to do whatever I wanted.
To be more convincing, I needed the right mindset. I tried reviewing all the things she did that annoyed me: The spazzy way she threw a football, the faggy European pants she always bought me, the way she always had to be on time, and, most of all, the condescending smirk. Then I looked at her perfectly pressed suit.
“On your knees and give me ten.”
“This is a $1200 outfit.”
After she dusted herself off, a strand of hair hung in her face and rug lint smudged her chin. I resisted the impulse to move the strand out of her eyes. She snatched a napkin from the table and wiped her face in disgust. “Isn’t there supposed to be some phrase if a command is out of my comfort zone?” she asked.
I added another item to the list: The way she always asked too many questions.
“How about, ‘My twat stinks so bad seagulls follow me home from work.’”
She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. For the first time, since we’d started dating two years ago, she looked unsure of herself, unsure of me. For the first time in two years, I felt unsure of me, and it felt kind of good.
An hour later, a cab dropped us at the Kennedy Hotel in downtown Boston. I scanned the lobby: men in suits, women in suits, a bow-tied piano player in a corner, a window partly obscured by burgundy floor-to-ceiling curtains. I grabbed her hand. “Let’s check out the view,” I said.
We walked past the piano player to the window. Then I reached around her and pulled the curtains behind us. We had two feet of private space, a luxury box for an exclusive show.
Claudia looked out the window and pointed to the city skyline reflecting in the Charles River. A soft breeze blew through the partially opened window. The theme from “The Way We Were” played in the background. “I haven’t heard this in a while,” she said, reaching for my hand.
“Give me your panties,” I said.
She reached under her skirt and handed me a black slingshot of lace. I rubbed it against the crotch of my trousers, over my nose, and around my head. Claudia smiled. I smiled. Then I threw the panties out the window.
“You asshole, those cost $50,” she said.
I put my finger to her mouth for quiet. Then, I pointed to the ground where the floor-to-ceiling curtains stopped at our ankles. We could see wingtips, cap toes, and dress pumps inches from our feet. People chatted, argued, laughed, and walked past us. I could smell leathery aftershaves and floral perfumes. I looked at Claudia: she still had lint on her chin. I hate lint.
“Suck me off.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
I stared at her.
“You better make the most of this, buster, there’s only two hours left.”
I unzipped, loosened my belt, and listened to the click of heels beyond the curtain.
Claudia began to lick gently, starting in the crease of my thighs and working her way into my boxers. Then I felt myself inside her mouth, poking her cheek.
When she paused for a breath, I looked at the top of her head and thought of Slotnick. Both women wore their blonde hair up. Both wore navy pinstripe suits. Both knew the price of everything they owned. Cunts.
I forced myself back into Claudia’s mouth and held her head. I pumped and bucked. She started to gag, but I didn’t let up, couldn’t let up. Then I felt all my tension barreling through me into her. I yanked her power bun free.
Claudia jerked my hands from her head, jumped to her feet, and spat several times out the window. I felt a smirk coming on.
“Keep it up and I’ll slap those lips right off your face,” she said.
I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. For the first time in two years, I felt unsure about her.
Randy Ross is a Boston-area writer whose fiction has appeared in The Drum and Side B Magazine. His non-fiction work has appeared in the Boston Herald, the Boston Phoenix, and the Journal of the American Medical Association. In 2007, he took a four-month, solo trip around the world and can now say in three languages: “Do you speak English?” “How much is the Pepto-Bismol?” and “Excuse me, is this the evacuation helicopter?” He is writing a novel inspired by the trip with the working title “The Loneliest Planet,” which he will circulate to agents in 2012. You can find him online at www.randyrossmedia.com and www.theloneliestplanet.com.