The room has the general atmosphere of a building site. There is an abundance of loose chains in piles, and to the back is a platform that has been draped in a sheet of plastic. On one side there’s a massage table and a swing attached to the ceiling with cables, and in buckets against the wall are ropes, clips, metal parts, rubber rings and offcuts. I hadn’t seen this room in the tour earlier.
Tanya is matter-of-fact and efficient. ‘Both of you are consenting adults engaging in a play scenario. It’s not rocket science; just trust the training and go with it.’ Concern flashes across her face momentarily. ‘Are you taking this in?’
Judy was right: this is all a bit full on.
‘I’m going to watch from the back.’ She points to a low-hanging security camera.
‘Does that go online?’
‘Only on Tuesdays. Look, don’t overthink it, and don’t let him take charge. We can talk about anything else that comes up in the debriefing after.’
‘Can I have a minute to myself before he comes in?’
‘Yes—but just remember, you’re not alone, and the first time is always a bit awkward.’ She pauses. ‘I guess I should also tell you that Carl used to work for the defence force, so it’s important not to make any loud noises around him.’
She takes a step towards the door then stops. ‘Actually, that last bit is pretty important: don’t let anything bang or fall near him. Do you want to write it on your hand so you remember?’
‘No, I’ve got it,’ I say, massaging my temples.
She leaves, and I am not sure what to do, so I walk around the room, stretching my neck from side to side and rolling my shoulders to warm them up.
There’s a knock at the door, so I race to the platform and crouch down in what I think is a sexually suggestive pose because my torso is lower than my hips. It’s a runners’ crouch before the gun goes off, but because the platform has been draped in a plastic drop sheet it’s slippery, and my stocking-clad feet slide backwards. My lower spine begins to twinge and I am scrambling to hold my position as a middle-aged man walks in.
‘Are you ready for me?’ Carl asks. ‘It’s just that I usually set a timer for the session and we’re already three and a half minutes in.’ He taps his watch and rocks back on his heels.
Carl is dressed in a checked shirt tucked into chinos. He has a thick brown belt around his waist that has been fastened with a brushed silver buckle that digs into his paunch. His grey hair has clearly been recently cut because I can see the tan line from where the ends of it used to reach. I would say he’s in his early fifties, but has a managerial air, which ages him.
‘Look at me,’ I say, in a voice that is quite frankly so dominant that I almost jerk into a forward roll. I am startled by my commitment. This must be how method actors work: just fully inhabit the role, no questions asked.
I twist around until I’m crouched on the stage like a sexual gargoyle, but I’m still slipping in minute inches across the stage. I’m not sure if I have the thigh strength to lunge up, in a kind of martial arts jump, so instead, I keep sliding until I am on my stomach, looking up at him.
‘Bring that chair into the middle of the room and sit on it,’ I say, which is difficult because all my weight is resting on my abdomen.
Carl strolls over to the metal chair and drags it into the middle of the room before sitting down, straight-backed, one hand placed neatly on each thigh.
I roll off the platform and stand, resisting the urge to brush myself off. I wander over, baring my teeth; I’m not sure what else to do with my facial expressions. I circle the chair, waiting for an idea to come.
He looks up from under his eyelashes. ‘Anyway, it’s nice to meet you,’ he says, extending a hand to shake.
I slap it away. ‘Shut up.’
‘I guess I’ll just get ready then.’ He bends down to untie his shoelaces.
As I watch him slide his feet out of his shoes, I make a hazy plan to sit on him like Tanya sat on Steven. I lift my leg over his lap in a forty-five degree can-can kick, before landing face to face in a straddle. I sit for a moment, angling my head to avoid the stale breadiness of his breath.
‘Easy does it,’ he says.
I imagine Tanya in the other room munching on salted nuts while watching me on the security footage. Are they recording this? I signed a lot of forms without reading them.
I grind my pelvis into his lap and arch my back while focusing vaguely on the polished handle of the door. I absently pinch his earlobes while thinking there really should be a list stuck to the wall in each room. The orientation didn’t give me a repertoire to draw from. There is a level of expectation flowing out of Carl, which I’m trying to manage as the seconds tick by incredibly slowly.
As if on cue, I feel blood gush out of my vagina and stop briefly at the crotch of the leotard before steadily seeping through. I accidentally clench in response and a large glob of it begins to sink into the fabric of his pants. Holy shit. I am losing it. I forgot to change the tampon I put in last night. What no one tells you about grief is that your memory is completely short-circuited, and life becomes just a series of surprising incidents. I should write a book about this. I should tell people how far you travel from the self after grief hoists you out of it.
I need to get the tampon out or I could go into toxic shock. I pull the crotch of the leotard to one side and tear the stocking until there is enough room for me to push a finger inside myself, finding the edge of the spongy tampon. I tug on the string and it falls out, the colour of dark grapes. It swings between us, and I fling it into the corner of the room. I can’t backpedal from here, so, just like Steven, I lean into the theatre of it all and push my fingers inside myself, coating them in more inky blood. I hold my hand up to Carl’s face and we both study it. Carl pulls away from me, but I lift my finger to his face and paint a moustache on his upper lip. I paint tears falling down the sides of his cheeks. He squeezes his eyes shut as I coat my finger again and paint over his eyebrows, one up and one down. On the tip of his nose, I leave an inky red dot. Like a sad menstrual clown, he continues to sit forlornly in front of me. I wipe my finger clean across the top of my thigh, and it dries into an itchy streak through the fishnet. I want more than anything to wipe it off.
‘The blood might be a bit much,’ he says.
I cup his chin and look into his eyes. ‘I’m the boss.’
‘Right,’ he says. ‘Sorry.’
I motion to the vinyl-covered massage table in the room.
‘Lie down face first.’
Carl springs over to the table and arranges himself on top of the bed.
I hop up onto the table and straddle his back. He emits a faint wheeze.
‘Move,’ I yell at the back of his head. ‘You’re my horse.’
I knock on his skull with my fist, and he begins to rock his body forward and back.
‘Faster!’ I scream, as his sweaty torso makes sucking sounds on the bench below. I thump up and down, actively riding his sacrum until my thighs start to burn. I drop my weight heavily onto him as he continues to rock. Oh my good god, it hits me: I have become the man on the horse. I am at one with my earlier visualisation; I have embodied the scenario at last.
‘Pony is getting tired,’ Carl puffs despairingly.
‘Onward!’
I bounce heartily, swinging an invisible sword through the air above me, and let the voices of one thousand men on horses roar out my mouth: ‘Ai, Ai, Ai, Ai, Ai!’
All the rocking has made me need to piss, and I check that there’s a drain in the room before letting the stream of urine fall across his back. The strong-smelling liquid rolls off his body in rusty streaks and I gaze at it in wonder, because I really don’t remember drinking that much water.
Carl lets out a sharp cry.
‘Do you consent to this?’ I ask, checking in with him, remaining present.
‘Not really … I mean …’ He sighs. ‘It’s okay.’
I look to the ceiling for new inspiration. How long has it been? Fifteen minutes? It would be rude to ask him the time already. What to do next? What to transition into?
‘Lie on your back and grab hold of your knees,’ I say, improvising.
Carl slides off the table and lowers himself to the floor via a series of considered movements which I suspect indicate knee problems. He kneels while holding on to the chair, then swivels while stabilising himself with two hands on the floor, before dropping into a sitting position with his legs loosely crossed. He rolls onto his side, stretches his legs out, until he is finally flat on his back.
I stand off to the side, wondering how to hog-tie someone. I guess there’s no formal way in regard to knots; it’s more about positioning. I jog over to the buckets in the corner of the room and select some lengths of rope.
‘I’m going to tie you up.’
‘Alright,’ he says doubtfully.
I tie his hands together, and then bind them to his knees. The knots seem a little clumsy, which is embarrassing, because he probably knows proper defence force knots. I’m not sure how to communicate the final posture, but it would be good if he folded over a little more.
‘Look at me,’ I say, using three fingers to slap him on the head. ‘Do you love this?’ I ask. Kneeling over him, I can see how much blood is stuck in the hair follicles on his face.
‘It’s alright.’
‘Which part?’
He looks around the room. ‘The setting?’ His eyes focus on me. ‘You?’
There’s a sudden commotion as the door is thrown open by Tanya, who is clutching her forehead with both hands.
‘Off!’ she barks at me. ‘Get off! We’re so sorry, Carl; she’s new.’
A middle-aged woman appears behind her, looking equally stressed.
I frown at them both while unfolding from my low squat. They have broken the fourth wall here—and I did check the room had a drain before committing to anything. I look at Carl for support, but he’s asking Tanya for a towel.
‘I need one too,’ I say.
‘Bronwyn, get her out of here,’ Tanya says.
The second woman glares at me. ‘Follow me, you fucking lunatic.’