I wasn't changing that much. At least, I didn't think so. I suppose the fact that I could still believe this after taking a leading role in a pornographic video that featured semi-coerced incest showed just how much I had changed.
Life was close to comfortable. Kurt was a fantastic room mate and companion. After the video, he didn't try to change our relationship. A lot of other guys who had mock half raped you on camera might have thought they had free reign, but he was still a sweetheart. He liked his cuddles, and the occasional grope, but if I pushed him away, he took it with good humor. And I didn't always push him away.
I learned more about the B and D subculture each day. What interested me was the importance of role playing. Kurt knew some couples who had been together for decades. To all outside observers they were typical couples. No one knew that one might wear a dog collar in the bedroom, or the other was on orders to wear an anal plug to work.
"There may be some pain going on in the sex," Kurt expounded, "but there's no doubt that there's love on both sides."
"Of course, this area isn't the easiest one if you're new to the life. It's pretty conventional. There's no activities, you have to go to the city for action." Larmont College is in a suburb of a major southern city, I won't say which one (Go 'boys).
Yeah, you pretty much had to go into the city for anything. We had the multiplex at the local mall, but independent film fans were pretty well screwed for selection there. If it didn't have a major Hollywood distributor or producer, it didn't get play.
I am a horror film buff, and these days the hope of the horror industry seems to rest with independent film makers. If I wanted my gore fix without glossy production and air head 'stars', I had to venture into the grittier sections of town and seek out the small theaters, the dollar shows.
I was willing. The problem was that a middle class white girl was a bull's-eye target in those areas. I'd had my purse snatched once, and spent a nerve-wracking quarter of an hour listening to sucking noises and comments in languages I couldn’t understand while waiting for a tow truck when my car stalled.
Kurt suggested that I try dressing to fit the neighborhood, and the local attitude. I tried it, and it worked better than I had hoped.
By the third time I went, I had created a character. I wore heavy blue jeans, a sleeveless black undershirt with no bra (That took some persuading from Kurt, but he was right. Foundation garments just didn't go with 'the look'), and an old denim jacket that had belonged to my father. Instead of a purse, I would carry a leather wallet, chained to a thick belt. The heavy steel toed work boots had also belonged to Dad. I enjoyed walking in them.
I refused makeup, except for a thick scarlet slash of lipstick. I'm normally fair skinned. The vivid red was startling, making my mouth look sulky.
I hadn't worn earrings for years. Kurt presented me with a mismatched set, actually two that had been sold separately. When I was ready for my trip to the cinema, a tiny skull dangle from my left ear lobe, and a minuscule set of handcuffs dangled from the other. Kurt pronounced me 'hot' before I left home.
"Just remember, Emmie," he told me. "Attitude. Show no fear, no doubt. But if confronted by a genuine bad ass, run like hell." Sound advice.
I went to the evening double feature at a tiny, grimy cinema on 'Sin Street'. That was the local street that housed the thickest concentration of adult stores, nude bars, tattoo parlors, hookers, and pimps. It was also the last local bastion of the dollar cinema, and they were showing 'I Drink Your Blood' and 'I Eat Your Skin' back to back.
I took the bus from campus into town, not wanting to have my car out that late in that section. God alone knew what there would be left.
I could tell the difference the moment I stepped off the bus. When I hit the curb, I hit it with authority. The hard heels of my boots rapped the pavement in clocking sounds, the chain at my belt jingled. I had sound effects to go with the visuals. I didn't smoke, so I chewed a large wad of gum the entire evening. I even cracked it occasionally, an action that had always made me want to force the gum chewer to inhale their wad. But it fit.
And it worked. The ticket taker didn't bother to warn me to sit near the back, where it was more secure. The tattooed guy sitting behind me stopped kicking my seat after I turned around and glared at him. The concession stand clerk didn't try to screw me out of my change.
I enjoyed the shows, both cheesier than an all the way pizza in Wisconsin. It was close to midnight when I left the theater, but the street was still alive. There was a constant flow of traffic between clubs, hookers patrolled under the watchful eyes of pimps. The bus stop was several blocks down from the theater, and I took my time, enjoying the show.
Halfway down there was a little place called the Pandemonium Emporium, and I stopped to window shop. There was a latex catsuit on a well endowed female dummy. The suit had cut outs over the nipple and crotch area. In order to keep it legal, someone had pasted sunflower stickers over the exposed areas. Cute. There was also a dainty little whip, little more than suede thongs attached to a polished wooden handle. I looked closer, and saw that the handle was designed for...other uses as well.
There was a trio of very drunk underage boys weaving their way down the sidewalk, and they stopped to look in the window, too. Two of them nudged each other, giggling over the suit, while the third simply swayed stuporously. One of them glanced at me, and whispered to his companion, who looked also, and giggled. I raised my eyebrow. Yes, little boy?
The first one pointed at the dummy. "You like that?"
I discarded all the hours of English I'd ever taken, thinking of how Langley would react to my grammar. "I ain't gay, bo. It don't do a thing for me."
Another giggling fit. "No, you like to wear stuff like that? You shoppin'?"
"Shit, no. Couldn't breath in a sausage skin like that." I demonstrated with a deep breath. Their eyes focused on my unfettered chest. "Gotta keep the lungs healthy."
"Your lungs look pretty healthy."
Jail bait, I thought. But cute.
The door of the shop opened, and a customer stepped out. That was when number three decided to lose balance. He pitched into the man like he was trying to make a tackle. Whether it was intentional or not, the effect was the same: they both went down.
The impact somewhat sobered the kid. He scrambled to his feet, shoving the other man back down at the same time, slurring, "Motherfucker run into me!" He kicked, missing his target, and hitting a shopping bag instead. The cheap paper split, scattering a number of items on the sidewalk. His companions laughed. He started to try to find his balance for another, more accurate kick.
Okay, it was stupid. I wouldn't have tried it if he hadn't been falling down drunk and about half my size. But shrieking and running for help would have just wasted time. I grabbed him by the back of his baggy sweatshirt and jerked hard, throwing all my weight into it. He lost his footing again and landed on his ass.
I put the sole of Dad's big steel toed engineer boot across his throat before he could move, and things got real still and quiet. His companions were watching me with eyes roughly the size of salad plates.
I said quietly, "You have three choices. I can put this boot down your throat, up your ass, or you can get up and leave." He gargled, and I pressed a fraction. Careful, Emily, I thought. If your ankle gives way now, you'll be up on assault charges.
"I'll leave." He was too drunk to even be angry. I stepped off him, and his companions helped him up. They all three hurried off, casting backward glances. I had a feeling that he was going to take a lot of hell from his friends about being faced off by a woman old enough to be his mother.
I turned my attention to the sex shop customer, a little concerned that he hadn't gotten up yet. He was sitting up, head down, rubbing his jaw. If that had hit the pavement, he was lucky it wasn't dislocated. He was dressed nicely for this area, in what had been well pressed slacks and a button down shirt. His purchases were scattered around him.
I went to him and asked, "You okay?"
He looked up at me slowly. A clean cut, handsome face, remarkable blue green eyes... It was like one of those moments in movies where they focus in on one character by having the background suddenly zoom out of focus. Thomas Langely.
I saw the same shocked recognition in his eyes that must have been in mine. His mouth dropped open, but he didn't say anything. I looked at a spill of magazines, a length of silvery chain, and a braided leather riding crop. Huh.
Well, this makes sense, I thought. He's such a control freak it doesn't surprise me at all that he wants to call the shots in the sack. So those magazines he's been stashing in his briefcase were... I craned my head and read the titles. Stern, Tender Flesh, and Dominion. High class looking publications, not cheap, anyway.
Who are you planning on doing up with that chain, Thomas? I thought. I looked into his face again, amused now. Got your secret, Thomas. I know what shakes your tree.
He still didn't speak. His incredulous gaze moved slowly down my body. He took in the handcuff earing, the gash of lipstick. His eyes lingered a moment on the unbound swell of my breasts, then dropped to the belt and chain, then down to the boots. At last he looked up at me again. And then I knew Thomas Langely's secret.
Because there was something comfortable in his posture, something right. He looked at home there, on the ground at my feet. His eyes met mine again, and quickly fell away as blood swept up his cheeks in a pink tide.
Well, now, Thomas, I thought. You're into B and D all right, but you're not a Dom, are you? You're a submissive.
