Permission Page 6

  He stocked the freezer with pizza, bought different cereals, and cancelled their meat subscription. He bought his meat at the local butcher until a superstore shut the business down. But in the end, he could not enforce a distance. His secret would catch up with him at home.

  UP THE ELEVATOR TO the rotating panorama bar. Tinted towers and boulevards, mountains rising from the smog. Waiting. The ice in the tumbler, the mountains outside. The ice, the view, the room. Ice, view, room. He was early.

  He’d wanted to leave time to ‘watch the city spin’ (her words, not his) like they had on their first date, after a married friend he knew from church had insisted on setting him up with a ‘lovely young lady,’ which Liz was. He’d been unfair to her. And he needed her to know he was sorry. An apology to her was overdue. Still single after their divorce and now in middle age, he was ready for change.

  Seven on the dot. There she was.

  He still loved the way she moved.

  She dropped into the club chair.

  These were the words that broke years of silence:

  ‘I couldn’t find street parking.’

  Liz looked out the window. He followed her line of vision. The bar had rotated, and now their view was of a cluster of high-rises. In an office with a light on was a man hunched at his desk. In another window, a cleaner was at work.

  ‘Are you watching the city spin?’ he asked.

  ‘Huh?’ she replied.

  Her whiskey arrived.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d ever want to see me again,’ she said.

  He could hear her rubbing her fingers together under the table – a nervous habit she’d always tried to break. The whiskey he’d been nursing was watery and tasted slick, like air conditioning.

  She brought the glass to her nose and took a deep inhale.

  ‘I shouldn’t be here.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Frank worries.’

  She paused, waiting for him to understand. ‘Once a cheater…?’

  ‘You’re kidding.’

  She pretended not to hear him.

  He remembered the guilt, the judgment. His physician said it was all in his head. He’d been able to get it up, but he couldn’t follow through. Liz insisting it wasn’t sex if he wasn’t inside her. Humiliating him when he couldn’t perform. It got worse when she felt her clock was ticking, even though he said she still had time. ‘Men always think there’s time,’ she’d say, first in anger and later crying. Eventually he came undone.

  Breathe. Do what you came here to do.

  She sat up straighter in her chair. ‘You need to know that I forgive you.’

  ‘Right, Liz, that’s exactly why – ’

  ‘God’s plan for you was too big for our marriage to hold.’

  From her wallet, she took a folded paper and put it on the table. ‘I knew this wasn’t a coincidence when you called. Look what I picked up on Sunday.’

  A yellow flyer for conversion therapy, a hand-drawn illustration of the Sacred Heart, fire lapping at the thorns. He began to read – Such were some of you; but you were washed – then stopped. The woman wasn’t his Lizzie.

  Hand over his mouth, hiding a pained scoff.

  ‘Bless you.’

  Let her think it’s a sneeze.

  She squeezed his hand and said, ‘See you soon.’

  Screw being washed by the water of the word. He’d tried to get clean. Nothing could still his desire. Not work. Not abstinence. Not dedicating himself to the service of the greater good.

  He didn’t make it into the bathroom. The tears came by the pay phones. He sat down. He tried to pull himself together by taking in what was around. A carpeted hallway. A leatherette stool. Wood panels for privacy. The price of a phone call. The directory attached to the metal box with a metal cord. He read the instructions on the phone, trying to stem his thoughts and make himself stop crying.

  Listen for the dial tone.

  It’s OK if you can’t breathe.

  Dial.

  Focus on the breath. Observe it.

  1 + Area Code + Number. Deposit Required Amount.

  Take your time.

  US Coin Only. Change Not Provided.

  Breathe.

  That’s right.

  Nice and easy.

  You’re fine just as you are.

  He relaxed. Stood up, got ready to go back in and settle his tab. And then the phone started ringing.

  An incoming call.

  THE RINGING.

  He’d thrown away Liz’s flyer but he couldn’t get the ringing out of his head. Everywhere he looked: pay phones. The sight of them made him feel wild and focused. Alive.

  There were months of searching and cold feet, searching and nerves. A mental map of phone booths across the city. He had to find the right one. Wherever he was temping, he made note. Wherever he ate, drank, ran errands, he made note. Commit nothing to paper. Save no documents. Leave no digital trail. He’d gone analogue since Human Resources called him in and that job went out the window. One day maybe, he’d find another nice university to work at. He’d always been good at data, the architecture of information. How to put things places where they’d stay until you needed them.

  Pay phones at the French dip place where he took his lunch break when he was filling in for the clerk on maternity leave at Feinstein, Lavers & Witt. A man on the phone. Why wasn’t he on his cell? Suspicious. He needed to find one that was private.

  The phones at the Metro station where he could be anonymous in a crowd, but where it was uncomfortably empty between the trains and there was always someone lingering.

  The phone bolted on the stone wall of Al’s Bar, beyond the reach of the green neon and lights from the parking lot. A man leaning against it with his elbow on top, watching, watching, eye contact. Smile. A subtle gesture with the neck and eyes. You got the wrong idea, buddy. Head down, walk on.

  The one on Sunset by the café with the outdoor patio. A glass box for people with nothing to hide. Wedged in a groove of the phone was a card with a busty lady begging him to call, but he had someone else in mind. He’d been dreaming of her since he was a child. Suddenly one day there she was, in a Superman comic. Proof that what he wanted did exist.

  When Sapphire decides to be bad…she’s very, very bad. Superman kisses Star Sapphire’s pink boots in front of a gasping crowd. Let the whole world see you’ve become my slave! Superman rendered powerless by his female foe. An obedient slave. She gives him a ‘practical task.’ Destroy the Galaxy Building and everyone in it! With that the whole world will know Superman is my obedient slave – for all time! The things she makes him do. The moment Superman is set free. An inevitable release. It was all he could do to take the edge off – busy his hands with thoughts of Star Sapphire. When other boys talked about getting their peckers wet, he kept his mouth shut, thought of Star Sapphire and the humiliation he hoped she would make him endure.

  TONIGHT’S THE NIGHT.

  The black socks not the white ones, the dirt will show less though the lint will show more. But lint can be picked off, and dirt will make the fibres grimy.

  The black socks are better for sneaking.

  He’d always been good at sneaking. It was his second nature to hide.

  But this sneaking is new.

  This sneaking will lead to sneaking no more.

  He hopes.

  The backpack and the newspaper.

  The pocket full of change.

  The wallet, too. Never leave home without it. In case you get run over. In case they need to ID you.

  This is too big for in here. Murphy bed and a bathroom in the hall. Paper thin walls. No place for this call. Don’t want anyone listening.

  Ear to the door. Listen for the chatty neighbours. Nope, no Nestor. No Fred. No Irma and her late-night callers who keep their eyes down and mouths shut until she lets them in. They’ve got it easy.

  Unlock the door and scan the hallway. All clear.

  Carry the squeaky sneake
rs in one hand and pull the door shut. Quietly, so no one will know. Remember to lock it.

  Avoid the elevator.

  Head for the stairs.

  Or maybe the elevator.

  No, no, the stairs.

  Stop deliberating. Make a choice. Don’t linger in the hallway.

  Sit on the stairs in the stairwell.

  Avoid the puddle under the pipe.

  Check your soles. Already grey with dust and lint and that one red thread. If there is lint, there will be a red thread.

  Filthy.

  Pick the thread and lint from the socks, brush them off. Slip the sneakers on. Doesn’t matter if they squeak on the floor in here. Tie them tight.

  Down the emergency stairs, out the back, through the alley. Away from the pay-by-the-week hotel, through Skid Row to the edge of where’s hip. Less than a mile, but a hot walk no matter how cool the night.

  The Weekly in his backpack.

  The shush-shush of denim.

  Eyes on the street. Eyes from the street. Nothing to see here.

  Pick up the pace. Hand in pocket, pocket full of quarters and dimes.

  Jangle the change.

  Jangle the coins until they begin to sing.

  Tonight’s the night.

  There it was. Better than all the rest. Glass and steel. A door that shut, near a parking lot that closed at ten. No one around. Not a soul. But worth the risk.

  Nervous fingers. Take a breath.

  Unzip the backpack. Take the cloth from the packet and wipe the place down. The handset, the coin slot, the keypad. Lemon, metal.

  Ready? Ready.

  Take out the newspaper. Folded just so, for efficiency. Suncrisp though it only dropped today. Had to be sure the ads were fresh. Current. Active.

  Exact change. Wedge the phone between shoulder and ear. Dial tone. No one around. The coins go in the coin slot. Careful. Don’t drop them. T-r-r-r-r. The machine is counting one by one. T-r. T-r. T-r. T-r. Until it is enough.

  Type in her number. The clack and push of the keys.

  Listen to it ring.

  Glad to be contained. The pounding inside him. It can only grow as big as its cage.

  It’s ringing.

  Oh God, it’s ringing.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Ring.

  Oh God.

  ‘Hello.’

  Oh God.

  ‘Is someone there?’

  Oh God.

  Click.

  The coins clatter inside the machine.

  Change is not provided.

  Phone on the cradle. Hand on the phone. Forehead on hand.

  Oh God.

  That one was just for practice.

  THE SECOND TRY.

  Blond, black roots, and a scowl. Cut-offs, old T-shirt. Nothing like her ad.

  Hand on his arm, pulling him in. Take a good look outside, before the door shuts, the lock turns. ‘You can put those there.’

  Living room. He puts the roses on the coffee table between a bowl of seashells and the foil from a yogurt cup, yogurt-side-up, not quite licked clean. No vase. No ‘thank you.’

  ‘This way.’

  A regular bedroom.

  Something on the floor.

  Fast-food wrapper.

  Don’t ask if the sheets are clean.

  ‘Undress and lie down.’

  Losing his balance as he takes off his right shoe. Pathetic.

  Bed so soft he sinks in.

  Smells clean enough. A little sandy.

  Unsure of how to move.

  Watch her move.

  Feel excited.

  This is it.

  Leather cuffs around his wrists.

  He wants to feel her skin.

  He wants her to speak to him.

  But instead she dives right in.

  Riding crop.

  Riding crop.

  Riding crop.

  Fuck.

  Riding crop.

  Try to catch her eye.

  Riding crop.

  Closing the eyes, thinking Star Sapphire. But all there is is riding crop riding crop.

  Riding crop.

  ‘Stop!’

  Riding crop.

  ‘Stop stop stop I’m serious stop.’

  Silence.

  His skin in flames.

  ‘You said you wanted me to hurt you.’

  TRY, TRY, AND TRY again, but he had to wait until he healed. Didn’t want to give the next one the wrong idea.

  The bean pole in the bathroom mirror.

  He makes himself look.

  Broken skin.

  Ointment.

  He reaches for his back, stretching his arm, reaching. Pushing his elbow with one hand so his finger can reach the wound.

  So many hard-to-reach places. Imagine another pair of hands. Imagine coming home to them. Lover or friend.

  Slick and antiseptic. The red marks shone.

  To have brushed up against annihilation.

  The sweet relief.

  He hadn’t wanted her to stop. He wanted her to stop. There was pain he craved, but her way had frightened him, unchecked and angry. He wasn’t after a beating, not of that kind. His desire had frightened him. He had feared for his soul. What wanting this meant. If it was a sin. He feared he’d called the devil to himself, when what he was reaching for was divine. But who was he to say that God could be made of images from his own mind, and what did it mean when the image was shadow.

  He felt sick inside.

  The thing in his gut.

  Stifled and writhing.

  Begging for light to define it.

  It wouldn’t let him leave the flesh behind, no matter how he’d tried.

  As the wounds healed, he felt better. The body mends itself. If body, then perhaps so mind. It knew how, and he followed its lead. He repeated his ritual.

  He read the ads each week in The Weekly, collected coins, mustering the courage to return.

  Dreaming of glass and steel.

  The women behind the words.

  Even when he wasn’t outside, he had his hand in his pocket, his pocket full of change.

  Jangling the coins in anticipation of the next time he’d be standing in a phone booth, feeling their weight in his hand. The coins. Cool at first, warming in his palm. The way they slip through the slot.

  How they drop.

  That thought alone, enough to make him hot.

  THE THIRD TRY.

  Black bob, red lips, tight dress. Classy. She runs a red nail along the edges of the bills. Dollars he’s saved. Singles and fives. A twenty.

  The man in the kitchen.

  A guy that size would make anyone feel safe.

  Can’t blame her.

  A guy that size. Mighty as Superman. Deserving of what he desired.

  Stilettos. Beige carpet.

  Follow her into the next room. He notices himself hoping. Hoping she’ll show him her feet. Hoping for red polish on the toes. Chipped on one maybe, but glossy. A foot stuck in stockings and leather all day. Damp. A slight callus. Feet that get used.

  A room with blackout blinds, red walls.

  ‘Welcome to my dungeon, worm.’

  Worm. It’s what they’d discussed.

  ‘H-hello.’

  ‘That’s not how you address your queen.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Do you remember what we discussed on the phone? Do you remember who I am?’

  ‘M-m-y qu-qu-queen.’

  ‘Correct. Who do you serve?’

  ‘You, Your Highness.’

  ‘Good. That’s how you’ll address me. Do you understand?’

  He nods.

  ‘And what kind of queen am I?’

  A collar around his neck. All of him that was expanding, now contained. Present.

  ‘A size queen.’ What else could he have said on the phone? She’d asked questions, made suggestions. ‘Size queen’ sounded good. It was the first time someone had really asked what he wanted.

 
‘Damn right I am. Strip.’

  Hesitation met with an unyielding gaze.

  His shoes.

  Her cold stare.

  Socks.

  ‘Look at your tiny feet. You’ve got feet like a girl.’

  Eyes to the ground.

  ‘You know what they say about small feet.’

  ‘Yes, Your Highness.’

  ‘What do they say?’

  ‘Small feet, small…’

  ‘Small?’

  ‘Small penis.’

  ‘I can’t hear you. From the top.’

  ‘Small feet, small penis!’ Voice unusually loud. But he likes the way it feels. Doing as he’s told.

  ‘Good boy.’

  Yes.

  She takes him by the chin and makes him look at her.

  ‘Do you think you’re fit to serve this queen?’

  ‘No, Your Highness.’

  ‘And yet you came.’

  Cold eyes.

  He shudders.

  She notices. Giggles.

  Shirt off.

  ‘You are a wimp.’

  Then pants.

  ‘Look at those skinny legs.’

  Circling him. Close enough to feel her heat.

  ‘Do you really think I’m looking forward to seeing that little willy of yours, worm? That cocktail weenie. That limp dick. Your tiny prick. That useless speck between your legs.’

  All the men she must have seen. Maybe his was a speck compared to them.

  ‘No, Your Highness.’

  She snaps the elastic of his underwear.

  He feels the fear. Remembers she’d asked about limits. He said no beating. It was all he could say until he figured out what kind of pain he wanted. Trust her. Trust her to have listened. Breathe.

  ‘Well, you’re wrong, pinkie dick. I’m looking forward to having a chuckle.’ Softer now: ‘On your knees.’

  Towering over him. Short dress. A glimpse of red lace panties. Fragrant. Yes.

  Shoe nudging cock. Her laughter.

  ‘All my girlfriends are going to laugh so hard when I tell them what a little man you are. They’re going to laugh so hard they’re gonna wet their white cotton panties.’