Rafael Yglesias - Hot Properties

Marion agreed in a daze and they walked out to the elevator and looked at each other with amazement. Six months had passed since she tossed him out, and these weekly sessions were all that was left of their marriage — apart from its history, which had come alive for them during the intervening days, their minds casting back for fish to fry on Dr. Feldman’s stove. “Well!” she said, smiling at Fred.

“Heavy shit,” he answered. “You wanna go on a date?”

She cocked her head at him, her eyes, which only minutes before had been manufacturing tears, now clear and sparkling. “Sure,” she said with a smile.

The rumors flounced down Newstime’s halls, an ingénue seducing everyone from his work, peeking in doors to mock the dull with laughter, the quick with worrisome teasing. David was often asked to confirm, deny, or amplify the various stories. But he couldn’t enjoy his position, since he knew the truth. He was obliged to be silent, and knowing the reality, he couldn’t enjoy speculation.

Chico told him that Rounder was out of favor with the queen about a week before the news buzzed in the lower honeycombs of the hive. The focus of the complaints were the cost overruns due to the editor in chief’s indecisiveness and his penchant for running “soft-news” covers during hot-news weeks. It only added to Chico’s and David’s amusement that the latter grievance of Mrs. Thorn’s— Rounder’s love of features — was the reason she hired him in the first place, preferring a man with commercial instincts rather than Chico, whose background was in hard news.

“It won’t be long now,” Chico told him. “One more fuck-up and he’s gone.” Chico’s strategy during the last six months had been to do nothing to restrain Rounder’s desire to run soft stories, and to put no pressure on the editor in chief to make decisions quickly. Chico credited David with the conception of this plan, and praised him repeatedly for it. “I would’ve kept doing his job for him,” Chico said gratefully, “if it weren’t for your advice.”

Although David was encouraged by these words, he also noticed, now that the moment of Chico’s mating flight, alone — in joyous ecstasy above the hive with the queen — was imminent, that the promises earlier made about promoting David to Marx Brotherhood weren’t repeated.

Whether it was tension over this or the wait for the expected great event. David felt irritable all the time, scratching against the stubbly surface of the unkempt world. It was obvious to everyone at the magazine, David felt sure, that Chico deserved to be Groucho, and that he would also be elevated. Yet it had not happened — they were still stuck in this temporary and unsatisfactory universe.

And then one Wednesday morning the buzz grew fierce with the news that Mrs. Thorn had flown in from Washington unannounced and was headed upstairs for a conference with Chico and Rounder. It was confirmed moments later over the phone when David picked up his line, to be greeted by Chico saying without a hello, “This is it! This is it!”

“You think?”

“Definitely. Gotta go.”

David closed his door to keep out gossips, knowing he couldn’t successfully pretend he wasn’t excited, and somehow feeling that to reveal his expectations would jinx them. He tried to imagine the scene taking place above him. He couldn’t. The real face of power at Newstime, despite his intimacy with Chico, despite his presence at all the cover and run-through meetings, remained in shadow, as difficult to picture as what Mrs. Thorn was like undressed in bed.

For a few unbearable minutes he sat and waited. Then he flipped to the back of his appointment book where the telephone number he had called so often was scribbled. He gently lifted the receiver and got an outside line, pausing, a man at the edge of cold water, wanting its refreshment but squeamish at its first shock. He pressed the numbers and let it ring. She answered, as always, in an angry tone:

“Yes?”

“Is this the mistress?” he asked, surprised at his husky voice, so choked the words were barely escaping the constriction of his throat.

“Yes?” Even more irritated and impatient.

“I saw your ad,” he said, and felt a burst of sweat release from his underarms. At last he had done it! He hadn’t hung up in a panic like all the other times.

“Your age and occupation?” she snapped instantly.

He hadn’t been ready for this. It panicked him. “What?” he said, flabbergasted.

“Your age and occupation,” she repeated, bored.

“Uh, I’m thirty-one. I, uh, I’m an executive.”

“I offer dominance and submission. I have a completely equipped dungeon located in Chelsea. It’s a hundred for the hour and it’s a full hour. Do you want to make an appointment?”

“Uh …” He swallowed hard. His breath was so short, his heart’s percussion resounding so frighteningly throughout his body that he almost felt too weak to remain conscious. “I’ve never done this … can I ask some questions?”

“You’ll have a consultation with the mistress to discuss your limitations before the session begins. It’s important you understand, however, that this is dominance and submission. There’s no sex.”

“What does that mean?” he asked, his surprise at this statement overcoming his shy terror.

For the first time, she sounded startled, surprised by his return of serve. “Well, it means slavery, basically.” She recovered her stern tone and went on: “Do you have a particular fetish?”

“Uh, I don’t know. I thought I might like to be forced to …” Overwhelming embarrassment flooded his consciousness, followed by incredulity at the fact that he was actually having this conversation. He cleared his throat. “To worship you.”

“You mean body worship?”

“Uh, yes.”

“Anal worship is permitted. Pussy worship is not.”

He loved her saying that — the flat tone, so matter-of-fact that she could have been someone ordering a large orange juice with the breakfast special. Now he wanted to provoke more discussion of her rules. “Uh … can I worship your breasts?”

“No!” Now she was furious, speaking rapidly, the words clipped. “That’s not dominance. That’s sex. You go to a prostitute for that!” And she hung up.

David stared at the phone, abashed. And amazed. Could she really mean it? She wasn’t a prostitute? She could afford to turn down someone willing to pay a hundred dollars an hour just to lick her breasts?

He imagined kneeling behind her as she lowered her ass onto his mouth, and felt hard. He replayed in his mind her controlled dull voice: “Anal worship is permitted. Pussy worship is not.” He rubbed himself through the pants, his penis straining against his underpants, and wanted desperately to speak to her again.

He picked up the phone to call back — without noticing that the line light was on. Through the receiver he heard the media writer Charlie Huddleston saying to his secretary:

“You mean Little Chico isn’t up there with them for the beheading?”

His secretary was laughing, which covered the sound of David picking up the receiver.

“Do you think he’ll take you up to Animal Crackers with him?” Huddleston went on.

“God forbid,” she said, still giggling.

“Is he really bad to work for?” Huddleston said.

“No. But he’s no fun. Spends most of the time in there with the door closed. I don’t know what he’s doing.”

“Probably drinking,” Huddleston said. “He’s bombed every Friday night. I guess its tough being a prodigy. Well, you better buzz me through.”

“Okay,” she said, and instantly David’s intercom rasped.

He felt no rage. He flipped the button.