The Lesson

He has vanilla blonde hair, chocolate cookie eyes, strawberry cream lips and a shoulder-hip ratio that makes me dizzy. He winks at me when he walks up to the bar of the Calypso Club and when he orders the cocktail de jour, a Screaming Orgasm, he raises his voice just enough that I can hear.
        I don’t mean to stare. But I do.
        I hope you don’t notice. But you do.
        “You wanna fuck him?” you ask with a nod in Vanilla Boy’s direction.
        “All I did was look,” I reply.
        You buy a drink for a bimbo in a neon green polyester dress and pat her plastic ass. She purrs and leans against your chest.
        Fuck her ass, I think, you cannot punish me for a look.
        You kiss the bimbo.
        “Fuck you,” I say.
        Then I run.

        You don’t call. When I call you don’t pick up.
        In my first letter I accuse you of being unfair.
        Your silence remains dark as night.
        In my second letter I apologize for having looked at Vanilla Boy.
        Your silence turns night into a black hole of fear.
        In my last letter I beg to be allowed to see you again.
        You don’t give me one word.
        I stop eating.
        I stop sleeping.
        I pray that soon I stop breathing.

When you finally knock on my door, I open without asking a question and you enter without offering an explanation.
        Behind you, Vanilla Boy steps in.
         “I brought you a present,” you say.
        You lead me into my bedroom, undress me and lie me down on my bed. You tie my hands to the headboard with a tenderness that makes me ache for you.
        A hungry smirk distorts Vanilla Boy’s features as he unbuttons his shirt and opens his belt. His trousers drop down to his ankles. When he hobbles towards the bed his feet get entangled and he almost trips over.
        I look at you. Your conspiratorial glance, your suppressed laugh, are the most beautiful things I have ever seen. I spread my legs wide.
         “Do you want him to fuck you?” you ask.
        It must be your wish so I nod, but you hold the boy back. He wags his tail at half-mast like a sad Labrador puppy.
        You clamp my labia and my nipples. With gentle hands you attach a golden chain to the clamps thus connecting my cunt and my breasts. A lock clicks shut, and the chain stretches all my most sensitive body parts simultaneously. I try lessening the pressure by bending my back and sigh with relief. If I keep perfectly still the discomfort is just about bearable
        You shake your head slightly. Allowing me to lie still is not high on your agenda.

        Vanilla Boy’s first thrust forces my hips down and my shoulders back. The movement straightens the chain. The chain gives the clamps a sharp pull. Pain like burning knives flashes though my body.
        I gasp and my eyes beg you to stop the boy. You do so by touching his shoulder. He rests inside me with an embarrassed grin.
        “Still want him to fuck you?” you ask.
        “No!” I whisper. “Please, no.”
        A shadow of disappointment darkens your face.
        “You mean I went to all this trouble and you are not even grateful?”
        When I don’t reply you yank the chain.
        “No. No. No.” I moan from deep within.
        “So you do want him to fuck you?”
        Too scared to say yes, too scared to say no, I move my head ambiguously, wishing you to interpret it the right way.
        You slap me.
        “What a whore you are. You still want to fuck him!”
        I remain quiet since whatever I do or say seems to make things worse.
        “Don’t you ignore me. Answer my question!”
        But I don’t remember the question any more. I only remember that there is no answer and when you slap me again I start to cry.
        You push Vanilla boy to the side. He stumbles against the wall and pulls up his trousers with a bewildered shrug.
        You fuck me slowly.
        Every move you make rips my flesh apart.
        You watch me cry out.
        You watch me cry out again.
        And again.
        And again.
        Until I cannot cry any more, until I melt into my fate, accept that I take the pain, that I take the blame, that I take life and death from you.

Two days later we are back at the Calypso Club. Vanilla Boy walks up to the bar. I know he looks at me when he orders his cocktail, a Babe on the Rocks, but I don’t look at him.
        “Sure you don’t want him to fuck you?” you ask.
        The bimbo next to you is neon yellow today. You take her hand. She laughs a silvery laugh and shakes her peroxide locks; her glossy, fat lips shine.
        I cast my eyes to the floor. There is only one answer to your question.
        “I want what you want,” I say.
        I don’t look up but I know you smile.