Page 1 of Billion Dollar Love: Manlove Edition

BEAUTIFUL CHAINS

L.J. Longo

“Ladies, I know you all think of burlesque with holy reverence, but can we be a little less hymn and a lot more sex? Thank you. Once again, from the top.”

Mercy can harass the chorus girls mercilessly, because Faizz is at the piano. Scissors sits on the floor, sketchpad in her lap, growling over a costume plan at her elbow on the stage. Joanna and Van whisper in the mid-seats, the only audience.

Carlos stands downstage, his usual worn-out hoodie discarded. He’s wearing his sunglasses—because of course, he is—but his face tilts down contemplatively. His arms are out-stretched, accidentally flexing muscles I didn’t know he had. It’s a strange picture, the techie alone, center-stage, tanned skin and black tank top soaking in the too near light of the lowered grid.

For the first time, I give myself permission to stare at Carlos, because everyone else is looking, too, trying to figure out what he’s doing. Standing so still. Caressed by the light. Could be mistaken for hot if you were into shy guys. Which I’m not.

“Sweetness,” Van calls down. “You gonna sing us some Jesus Christ Superstar?”

Carlos shakes his head but otherwise doesn’t move. “I’m focusing the lights by the heat on my skin.”

That’s … too sexy for comfort.

He ruins his coolness at once, by cringing. “I mean if I’m in the way. I can, uh … fix it—the lights—later. I don’t want to get in anyone’s way.”

There’s nothing for me in this damned squalid theater. Not right now, anyway. So, unnoticed by the chorus, company, or costumer, I steal away. Carlos sees me, but only because I wave to get Van’s attention.

“Got nothing for you, Harp.” She dismisses me.

“Bye.” Carlos really is too innocent and sweet for theater. “Get home safe.”

I smile over my shoulder at him, but I don’t answer because Mercy is not passive in his aggression.

“May we have some quiet, thank you. Ladies, once more. From Bar 12.”

****

Outside New York City, people’s heads turn when I pass—with as much confusion as admiration, as if tall, blond, and skinny is a new breed of humanity. But in NYC, no one stares when I get on the uptown B, no one points me out to their friends. No one tries to strike up a conversation or suggests with cheerful ignorance that I ought to be a model.

The doorman to the condo tower notices me. But doormen in historic apartments on 5th Ave. are as subtle as the gilding on the ceilings; they blend in with all the dizzy little details. They recognize who belongs and know when they want attention and when they want to slip past unseen.

But somebody is watching when I enter the penthouse suite.

It’s not a true penthouse, not in the sense of being the very top of the building or having the rooftop terrace. But with the decorative beams on the ceiling and the sunken marble floor, it’s damned close. Central Park peeks between other luxury apartments, and across the room, I can look slightly down on Rockefeller Center.

I unwrap my red scarf and peel out of my fall jacket, slinky as a showgirl. After all, there’s a genuine silver hook to hang it on. I bend to politely remove my shoes, then rake my hands through my curls to settle them. Putting on a little show for the man I can’t see yet.

The room is lit only by the city’s false starlight and the blinking lights of hidden electronics. The darkness purrs with machines. A smart tower to command the lights and heat and music. At least one camera and God knows what else this dark, minimalist décor is hiding.

The centerpiece is the kabuki mask on the far wall. Even in the darkness the silver and gold catch the light. It’s a demon face. Black and hollow-eyed, the lower half is carved away to let the performer rant and roar, but the cheeks and eyes and brow are extravagantly detailed. Inlaid with precious metal to give that inhuman face the impression of an ever-changing expression. The glowing big screen TV hangs beside it like a caption box.

“Welcome Home, Omocha.”

I freeze at the steps, poised to walk down into the sunken den, but helpless before that mask. My heart taps a ghoulish Bob Fosse routine, one frenetic pulse inside an ocean of darkness and calm. If I could remember free-will, I’d turn and flee, but he’s here, and he’s watching.

So, I stand tall and dignified, in a casual first position, and watch the mask and the screen for further instructions.

The text does not change.

It ought to be a command. Half-riddle. Half road-map. A precursor to tonight’s torture.

Once, it read: “Ice. Cool down in the kitchen.” And I’d found a bowl of ice in the freezer. I’d spent fifteen minutes gliding it over my lips, around my nipples, into my ass. Playing by myself while he watched from … somewhere. He’d emerged like a phantom, faceless in the shadows, but hot as the sun. He’d burned away the chill, stolen more than my breath and sanity as he fucked me.

Once, it read: “Ropes in the bedroom.” And I’d found a silken rope and a kimono to match folded on his huge bed. The light in the room transitioned to an eerie blue light when I changed into his costume. But my lover didn’t come until I looped my hands in a noose. Wearing only that strange mask, he’d more than explored my body that night, tying me down in a dozen different ways, opening and shutting the robe as if debating whether he preferred me to look more lascivious or innocent while he fucked me.

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