Steve Erickson - Our Ecstatic Days

“That’s right,” I murmur.

He turns to the others, the men and all the women reclining on sofas, and says, “This is the one from the Chateau,” and it’s hard to tell just how interesting they find this. There’s almost no conversation between anyone, music in the background so faint

structures numbered by their age and memories, and commuters ride the

it’s as though no one really wants to hear it but someone thinks it’s obligatory, everyone is drinking and I can see on the table disheveled traces of a white powder that got used up hours ago. If they all got stuck in this moment forty years ago, no one has had the desire or energy to get out of it. “Have a drink,” says the host, and one of the women appears at his side with a drink for me.

“No, thank you,” I say — another rule. Believe me I’m as happy as anyone to have a bit of wine or whisky now and then and I could use one given the situation, but it’s a rule, you don’t drink on the job especially given the situation. You just lose control of things which naturally is exactly why the man is trying to get you to have a drink. “Have one,” he demands.

“Not,” I say, “when I’m working.”

“Who says you’re working.”

“You did. You paid me, remember?”

“Exactly. I’m paying you and now I want you to drink.” He shoves the drink at me and I take it with the hand that’s not holding my bag of playthings. The gorgeous woman next to him, she watches me, half smiles, raises an eyebrow, she’s tall — though every woman seems tall to me — five-eight, five-nine, long and sleek looking, her hair black and there’s something exotic about her eyes, some mega-combination of Scandinavian and Mediterranean. Her name is Monica. “Mmmmmmmm she’s delightful isn’t she,” purrs Monica running her eyes up and down me as though the long green coat conceals nothing, “boobalicious little pixie,” she says, “are they real?”

“They’re the realest thing in this room,” I say looking ’round me, and she laughs and takes me by the arm that’s holding the bag and leads me to the sofa. Truth be told, at this moment I’m happy enough to go with her, because the host he gives me the creeps and now watching us walk away he has this slightly

subways in a neverending loop and cabbies wander pell-mell spiraling

flummoxed look like I’ve just slipped from his clutches for the moment and that’s bought me some time. Also, well, truth be told again Monica is as close to being my fantasy woman as I’ve met, she looks exactly like I would want to look if I could look anyway I wanted to, long and dark and sleek like a sexy cat. We sit on the sofa awhile and Monica asks me this and that about who I am and where I’ve come from and about my past, and when I don’t know the answer I make up something. Sometimes she puts her hand on my thigh. Taking a whiff of my drink to make sure it’s not ’sinthe, pretty soon I’m aware of having drunk a bit more Scotch than I planned, but I’m still sober enough to know it’s time to slow down, and Monica puts her hand under my long green cloak and runs it over my breast in this lazy sort of way like it’s no more or less diverting than anything else and I have the feeling she could be as much into me as she’s ever been into anything if she ever saw the point of having to decide one way or the other. Every so often I think she’s going to fall asleep. “I would offer you some candy,” she nods at the white residue on the coffee table in front of us, “but they’ve used it all. The pigs.” She talks in this slow sensual way like she might be drunk or drugged except that she doesn’t otherwise act drunk or drugged. Depravity becomes her.

This goes on at least a good hour perhaps longer, nothing much changing in the room or the cast of characters except when someone disappears a while and then returns. At one point one of the men takes one of the women, a Persian, by the hand and leads her off though it must not be that far away, anyone can hear it going on on the other side of the wall, anyone can hear her crying, then he comes back in alone and when she returns, a few minutes after him, her eyes look deader than they did before. I’ve stopped drinking, just raising the Scotch to my lips now and then to make a show of it. My hope is the whole evening will eventually just get mired in its own ennui long enough for me to slip away, though

boulevards and people drive freeways in search of phantom exits and where in

I have no idea how I’m going to get down the mountain or back to the Chateau. I’m very aware the host is looking at me and I’m trying not to look back. Finally he’s standing in front of us. He waits for Monica and me to look up at him and when we don’t he gives out with this hoarse bark. “Dance.”

“Sorry?” I say.

“Get up and dance.”

“I’m not a dancer.”

“Take off your clothes.”

“I’m not a stripper. You should have hired a stripper.”

“I paid you a lot of fucking money.”

“I explained to your men what I do and what I don’t.”

“Do you want to make it with her?” he says, pointing at Monica. “You can make it with her and we’ll watch.”

“Oh Armand,” laughs Monica in that not-quite-intoxicated way of hers, “why don’t you just let her do whatever it is she does? If you just wanted some little trollop to strip or dance or bang,” waving her arm at the other women, none of whom protests, “you wouldn’t have had to hire her, would you? She’s an artist isn’t she. She’s a professional. Like you said, you paid her a lot of money so why don’t you just let her do whatever it is she does and see what happens.”

Dully Armand reflects on this awhile and says, “All right.”

“Where?” I say.

“Here.”

“Here?” looking ’round at the others.

“Here.” So I stand and open my bag and take out half a dozen candles and some matches, and go ’round the room setting the candles here and there and lighting them, then turn off the one or two lamps so everything is candlelit, then take off my cloak and that surely makes an impression, everyone sort of flickers to life for a second at the sight of the white stockings and white lace

Ueno Park the trees shed their cherry blossoms and, for only a rare moment in

corset, the white being my own recent touch, a departure of sorts from the Domme’s traditional black. I open the bag and out come several pairs of the fur-lined cuffs and the crop and whip and paddle and several blindfolds and ball-gags and all of this really gets their attention. “Strip,” I tell Armand.

“What?”

I smack him ’cross the face with the riding crop. It’s not a hard smack or anything, because like I’ve said I’m not into the heavy corporal stuff, but it’s probably fair to say no one’s done anything like this to him in a long time because now the party is definitely alert. They couldn’t be more alert if I turned a fire hose on them. Armand’s henchmen in particular standing by the doors, they look back and forth at each other like they don’t know what they’re supposed to do, and me, I figure playing this out, taking control of the situation in a way true to my nature, is my only real shot at perhaps getting out of a fix. “Are you sure you want to do this here, or elsewhere?” I say to him.

“Oh, here, by all means,” Monica insists from the sofa.

“Yes, here,” says someone else.

“Uh,” Armand looks ’round, “all right, I guess.”

I strike him with the crop ’cross the face again and now the bodyguards look at each other in consternation, “you’ll address Me as Mistress Brontë.”

Bewildered, Armand nods. “Yes, right.” I strike him a third time; a bit too dull to know exactly how he feels about it, he puts his hand to his face and rubs his cheek. “Right, Mistress Brontë,” he says.