The first question…
“There’s something I’d like you to do for me: lift your skirt up— quite high; show me your panties.”
At a well attended private view in a trendy art gallery, a man, early forties, casually dressed, but with some style and an air of complete self assurance, with a look of wealth about him, although without any sign of ostentation, is speaking to a younger woman— she is pretty, in an understated way, but at the same time very serious-looking, rather carelessly dressed for a prestigious private viewing.
They’ve just met in front of one of the works; Lauren had turned to move on and nearly bumped into him, somehow not having noticed him just behind her. A disaster with the wine had been adroitly averted by his supple back-sway, but they had been physically very close for a moment. She was flustered, is still a little pink, but he immediately gave her space and apologised sincerely, but lightly, in a way that set her at ease at once, but with a lingering awareness of his animal presence that is unusual for her. Also unusually for her, she has found this not entirely unwelcome, so that her blush has persisted.
He had asked her something about the art, and Lauren had found herself— again unusually— glad of the excuse to talk; they had exchanged some slightly stilted words— politeness, on his part, slight discomfort on hers— for the painting, which they are rather close to, is a bizarre portrait of Margaret Thatcher, achieved entirely with latex casts— mostly of dildos— in varying shades of grey.
Picture: Margaret Thatcher made of dildos
There had come a pause; she’d found herself with nothing to say, then felt overtaken by something that had been blessedly absent from their conversation— her extreme social awkwardness, at which point she became unable to think of anything she might say that wouldn’t seem inane; he, by contrast, appeared to be perfectly at ease with the silence.
Normally, at such a point, Lauren would make some muttered excusing noise and walk off, but now, quite simply, she finds that she doesn’t want to. Doesn’t want to not speak to him again, not be near him— just for a little while, at least. There is something calming, about him, his presence, his attention— it satisfies a hunger in her which is mostly suppressed— her need for animal contact.
For, despite the setting and the high-tone nature of their conversation, it is his physical presence, his smiling confidence, his obvious interest in her as a person; expressed without the slightest overtone of leering or particular intent— all the more powerful because of this— that makes her want to remain with him, makes her reluctant to give up on his physical nearness anytime soon.
Then, from the silence, as normal as if he’d been asking if she’d like a fresh glass of wine, that insane, impossible to process question;
“There’s something I’d like you to do for me— right now; lift your skirt up— quite high— show me your panties.”
Picture: Lauren, shocked
The first part had engaged her— she’d looked up, already knowing she would like to something for him— do anything for him, really— so the shock of what he goes on to ask hits her full on.
Lauren’s jaw slackens, her head sways backward, eyes widen. She feels as if she has entered slow time— his request echoes in her mind as she tries to make sense of it, see some ordinary, safe meaning in it, feeling panic build in her belly, fear that this is some simple conversational gambit that she has failed to understand, that she is going to do something silly that will embarrass her.
Through this, he remains relaxed, not smiling, but— interested; looking at her quite seriously, but with great open-ness and something that almost seems like what she can only call love— which it can’t be, of course— he is not in the least lover-like, they’ve only just met…
It’s just that the level of attention, of evident close interest in her, in her as herself, in her feelings, her body language; unusually, noticeably intimate, totally lacking in aggression, in intention, even— just simple but powerfully deep interest— is not something she can otherwise understand.
The moment can’t last, and she can’t in the end find anything in his question but insolence and disrespect, even though her body’s inner, emotional response does not match this rational assessment.
The disjuncture of this with their previous conversation, the mismatch between his calm, friendly attention and the crude implications of what he said, between her body’s warm appreciation of his attitude and her mind’s shocked disapproval— all these contradictions make it hard for her to discover how to react— either to know how she should act, or to know how she wants to act. It seems as if these are incompatible, even as they begin to crystallise, and still she cannot make herself speak …
She should, clearly, object. Object in a loud voice, letting everyone in the room know just what a jerk he is, repeat his words loudly, tell him to go fuck himself, throw her wine in his face— something like that.
As to what Lauren wants — what she wants turns out not to be as simple as it ought to be; turns out to be hard to think about; complex, confused. She does, she does want him to know that she objects to such talk— certainly she does— but also, just as urgently, she doesn’t want to drive him away, or make herself uninteresting to him.
The silence is becoming impossible— she feels her mouth readying itself to speak— something, something must be said— she cannot take this in silence, without any comeback at all— she can’t! But … what to say?
What comes out is pathetic, and her voice— her voice is so soft, so weak, so clearly flustered, that it makes her blush at her own uselessness;
“You … you can’t … can’t talk to me like … like that.”
All that can be said for it is that she has at least managed to speak, and has registered some words of dissent— delivered so hesitantly, though, as to all but undermine their overt meaning.
And as soon as she has said it, she finds herself afraid— afraid of his response; for, whatever else is going on, her staying here, her not responding aggressively— or even defensively; her reply so weak; all clearly put him in the driving seat, make it clear that the initiative is his, that she is now waiting for him to move the situation on. Her heart is thudding. Why is she still here?
And why isn’t he saying anything? For he is still looking at her— still interested, still relaxed. She is aware of a little flash of joy at this— he’s not angry with her, not giving up on her, not walking away; but this is immediately followed by a wash of shame at her own silliness. If anyone should be angry, it’s her! He should be the one blushing, uncertain, confused…
Lauren’s breathing has gone wrong, somehow— she can’t understand it, but she can’t seem quite to remember how to breathe normally. The room is falling away a little, as if it’s just the two of them.
He’s smiling, reaching out, making her flinch a little, before she determinedly decides to stand her ground, although she hasn’t the nerve to raise a hand to push his away, so that there is no opposition as he strokes her cheek with a finger, very, very softly;
“You are very beautiful”, he says; “Very appealing.”
She’s angry at him for saying this, angry at him for presuming to touch her— manages to be angry at last; foolishly, though, because she is so happy to hear him say this, and at the same time it is all wrong to hear it right now. The pleasure in her swelling chest is undeniable, but so is the anger, and this time her voice is stronger as she brushes his hand away;
“You, you can’t say things like that to me … after … after saying … that…”
It’s still unimpressive, but she feels a little stronger, only to be immediately deflated by his calm and reasonable answer.
“But it seems as if I can say those things to you. I just have. You’re still here.”
His tone is not in the slightest combative, and he makes no other attempt to touch her, and again, she knows that she does not want to do the sensible thing (the necessary thing!), which is to leave, right now.
The silence again, the assured but attentive relaxation that surrounds him, contrasting so upsettingly with her own turmoil and indecision, his silence forcing her to speak even though it is so hard to think what to say, until;
” … what ? … Why … Why would you say … say such a thing? You … you were being n…nice before that .”
Oh, such stupidity— she has let him know that she liked talking to him— oh god this is getting so weird…
His answer is sincere, clearly honest, but unstressed, conversational even…
“I wasn’t being ‘nice’. I was being honest. I still am. I usually am. I want to know if your body is as beautiful there as I think it might be, and I wanted to see how you would react.”
Lauren feels herself well up at this last, desperately blinks back sudden tears, urgently hoping that he won’t notice (but of course he does, of course he does). To be so gloriously complimented, and so utterly disrespected within a single sentence— she can’t cope with this! Still, though, it seems impossible to walk away. A flash of insight impresses itself upon her, shocking, unlooked for;
‘I’ve never felt this intensely interested in what will happen next, never felt this engaged, this alive, in my whole life!‘
She finds herself needing to see what is in his eyes, and looks directly at him for the first time since she realised what he was asking of her— she’s hardly looked at him full-on since that moment.
The calm certainty, the almost benevolent interest— a mirror to her own shocking realisation — does something surprising, and to her, delicious and terrifying at the same time— it makes the experience a joint one.
Suddenly, she ’s not having this situation inflicted upon her, but feels like an integral part of it— his question, her response, the shocking directness of his answer, his interest in that most private part of her body, his attention, her sea of conflicting emotions, the heightened sense of her own body driven in equal parts by her knowledge of his sexual intent and her own hormonal response to that— she is part of this. They are active partners in this— whatever it is, engaged, sharing this.
And it’s glorious— as if the sun has shone into her life in a new, delicious way, relentless in its warmth, its intensity. Undeniable— as when it glows , scarlet, through closed eyelids.
Now she knows what she wants to say;
“But … but why— here? why ? Why like this? It … it’s…”
Her tone is more normal now— still not much above a whisper, but clearly wanting an answer, rather than simply expostulating.
Lauren is part of something, with him, now— something that is partly hers, partly his. And she is liking it. Even the shocking part. He wants to see her panties. He thinks she’s beautiful… And despite saying such direct things, his manner is— frankly— highly attractive to her. She has no desire to lift her skirt for him— not here and now at least— but she does want to keep talking to him. I must be crazy! she thinks. But here, in this crowded place, nothing can really happen.
“It’s very simple. I’m looking for a new girl. I have rather specific requirements. I wondered if you might fit the bill. If I’ve upset you, I will be happy to apologise.”
And she is reeling again; such short, direct sentences, with such extraordinary implications— how can he be doing this? How can she be here, listening to this— in earshot of other people, too— has he no shame?
Clearly, from his demeanour, he has none; equally clearly, he does not intend to apologise unless she specifically asks him to— and he seems confident that she will not; she has no doubt, suddenly, that if he were to apologise he would be sincere, that he would apologise from genuine contrition— but there is no trace of that in his smiling face, none at all.
It occurs to her that he must be some sort of sociopath; not to realise how this way of speaking, this— instrumental— way of talking to her (well, about her, really— if she is to understand that she is— was?— a candidate to be this ‘new girl’) come across. Her emotional intensity increases. Just the word sociopath is frightening.
But his eyes— so open, so sincere. She is getting bolder, now— a little, at least;
“And does it work, this— insulting— opening gambit?”
He smiles, almost cheerfully, accepting her jibe without pushback. But again, the answer is shocking;
“Yes. Yes it does, actually; I find it very useful. My success rate has increased since I began to be more direct— and I like the honesty and the speed of it, too. Of course, it isn’t just the approach— I’ve got better at choosing whom I speak like this with.”
Now, now, maybe, she can be free of him. This talk of ‘success rate’ is off-putting, to say the least. But his smile is encouraging her to think that he is deliberately overdoing it, teasing her, and the idea that he chose her is too pleasurable a thought not to explore.
“So, you chose me? You guessed that I might respond to an insolent sexual suggestion?”
His smile gets even broader. She worries, briefly, that she might be playing into his hands by going down this bantering route, but decides she doesn’t care— this is still the most interesting few minutes she can remember for a long, long time, and the tingle in her belly is, frankly, addictive.
‘Would I go to bed with him?’ she asks herself— even with all this odd talk? She’s not sure, but she knows she’d like to think it was a possibility— even if she might say no. Even if he is so much older than her. Would say no. Obviously. (of course, she’s not fooling herself one little bit; of course she’d go to bed with him. Right now, if she only dared; if only she wan’t so … so bloody careful)
“I have been watching you a little, since you arrived. You are, really, quite delightful. An innocent, with a body that she doesn’t yet fully inhabit. And unsure of herself in just the right way. So I engineered a close encounter, to understand your potential for physicality better— all of which make me want to see more of you, try you out, test you more. And so, to your question. Yes. It seems to be working well this time, too.”
He is positively grinning at her now, amused, friendly, soft; but with a tiny challenge in his eyes as well. During this little speech, he had reached out and taken her right hand in his, softly enough, but had then slowly raised it up and away from her body, so that by the time he has finished it is clear that he has done this to open her body, turn her toward him, for inspection— the movement of his eyes confirm this— he’s looking her over like a joint of meat or something!
Everything’s wrong, she knows— alarm bells in her head… At the same time, her belly is now pulsing with desire. This has to stop, right now, otherwise who knows where it will go?
Feeling tears pricking her eyes, she pulls her hand away, and can only manage;
“You … you can’t , can’t … I really have … have to go …”
And Lauren walks, makes herself walk, when really she wants to run, walk to the door, try not to look panicked, not attract attention, get out of there, out of eyesight of anyone there, or who might have seen her leave. Get to safety.
Safety from her own insane risky behaviour. Because now that she has stepped away, forced herself to step away so abruptly, she wants to forget how intense it had been, just how— fascinated— she had been, wants to tell herself that she has just escaped from a real baddie…
Immediately; left, up this side street, away! Away! Left again, a backstreet, quiet; clench fists, wail— intense, but almost silent. Is it in anger, or despair? She doesn’t know, but she gives way to tears, big gusty sobs of self pity and frustrated desire and fear of being unlovable and unwanted, of the cruelty of having been brought to such an emotionally welcome place, then have it taken from her. Sobs quickly and viciously suppressed. Telling herself she won’t give him sobs— as if this is a victory, instead of what it really is— a suppression of her own emotions, of at least some aspect of her deep self.
The next few days are bleak; she oscillates between entirely justified anger at him and anguished self-flagellation at her own many inadequacies. Occasionally, she is forced to crush stupid, vague daydreaming as to how it might have gone if she had stayed, if he had apologised, if he had never said it, if she had said yes…
And then, without really letting herself know what she was up to, she had walked from her dingy little studio apartment, where her latest unfinishable painting seemed to get uglier by the hour, walked all the way downtown, fast, unable to bear the idea of waiting for a bus, and almost ran into the Graham— the gallery where she’d met him, where her friend worked.
“Hi Lol! What’s up! You’re all hot and bothered!”
Lauren is suddenly unsure what to say. She knows why she’s there. But she hasn’t thought about how to explain it. Now, with Kevin, eyes comically round, clearly knowing this is not just some ordinary passing call, she is stuck, until words begin to fall out of her mouth;
“There … there was a guy. Here … on … on Friday night … at … at the show.”
“Ooookaaay… And?” Kevin is grinning openly, now.
“I mean, this is so unlike you, Lol? Really? A guy??”
“It … it’s not like that …” she could feel herself flushing, “Well … not … not really. I mean…”
“Yeees??”
“He … he was rude to me, and … and I need to tell him!”
“Oooh! A meet-cute! I liiike it! Are you gonna marry him?”
Lauren had to laugh. Kevin was right, it was ridiculous. It was just like the set up scene of some cheesy rom-com. Except … except what? It was. Exactly like that. Was she such a fool? Was she so obvious? An unsettling remark, some clever back and forth, and that’s all it takes to get her running half across town, trying to find out who he was…
“I still need to know who he is.”
She says the words in her mind, but they sound very different out loud. The edge in her tone makes it is perfectly obvious to Kevin that it’s true— that she really does need to find out. His smile softens;
“Okay sweetie, if you must know, you must know,” and he turns to the laptop under the counter; “give me something to go on.”
Lauren feels stupid all over again. She knows almost nothing. This is silly…
“Um”
Kevin looks up; “So, the love of your life— the guy that is so under your skin you have to do crazy shit to find him— and you can’t describe him? Clearly, a real dish…”
“Um. Old … older, I mean … um … late forties. Um Dark … darkish, anyway … um … hair. Looked … oh … looked serious … solid … “
“Really? That’s a description? Girl you are worrying me.”
It came to Lauren, then;
“He was ugly; his face … sort of tough. Small ears. Broad shoulders. His eyes. He … he looks right into you.”
She was blushing again, and Kevin’s face was changing, too. He wasn’t looking at the laptop, and his grin was gone, his eyes wide again;
“You’re … It … You were talking to Karsh?”
Lauren doesn’t know what he means; “Karsh? What’s that?”
“Might as well be a what— but it’s a he. You don’t know the name? Bit of a mystery. Rich collector. International. Funds some stuff— magazines, films sometimes. Dark reputation, though— mystery past— one of the ‘-stans or something. Comes and goes. Really? Karsh?”
Kevin sounds doubtful.
But Lauren suddenly knows it’s true. The feeling in her belly is back. The sort of man Kevin is describing — perhaps he could do that to her. Frighten her, not caring what she might do.
Kevin is tapping at his phone; “Not a good picture— there don’t seem to be many— but is that your guy?”
Picture: Karsh
Lauren did her best not to react, to be calm, but she knew she had failed when Kevin said;
“Oh Boy. That’s him then. He bought a couple things. Esmée was very pleased.”
Esmée was the gallery owner.
“But Lol, you really don’t want to be thinking that this guy is your rom-com future life partner. I mean … maybe? But not really, either. What did he say to you anyway?”
Lauren felt herself flushing again, turned, the feeling in her belly stronger.
“I … I have to go. Sorry. Thanks, Kevin, really. Thank you.”
“And she leaves! Just like that! Well, take care, girlfriend! Don’t invite me to the wedding!”
