When Charles was a younger man—before his firm had a gym or he knew what a law firm was, really—he decided it would be interesting to live with two women at once. Having sex with both of them, that is. He had a few months of leisure before law school started. He wanted some fun. So, he ran a classified ad in one of those underground newspapers that seem to exist for the purpose of publishing such ads. “Prideful male professional doing penance desires temporary position as domestic servant to two women.”
He got three replies, care of the reference number listed in the ad. He thought about them for a week, thought about the whole thing a second time. He was careful, even then. He wasn’t sure what he was doing. How much control was he prepared to give up, even in a good cause? In the end, of course, he decided it would be an interesting risk.
The way the system worked, the respondents didn’t have to disclose their identities right away, any more than he did. The idea was that you wrote back and forth providing further information until you felt ready to meet. Nowadays, no one would trust that sort of newspaper to protect their privacy, but back then some people did.
“Thank you for responding to my ad,” he wrote to each of them. “I should probably tell you more before we decide to meet—and if you continue to be interested, you might wish to be explicit about your expectations. I am twenty-five years old, heterosexual, very fit, a non-smoker, five-foot-eleven, Caucasian, thought to be decent-looking. For reasons I may not be willing to disclose, I wish to submit to a strict regimen of subordination. I wish to live in your house or apartment and keep it clean. I will look after your laundry, iron your shirts, polish your shoes. Having served in the United States Marine Corps, I am quite good at maintenance and neatness, but you may impose whatever standards you like.
“I know how to cook and will do so if you wish, taking responsibility for the shopping and dishwashing as well. I am prepared to be your waiter in the evening and serve you breakfast in bed. I will wear any form of servant’s uniform or other apparel you direct me to.
“I do not expect to have any personal privacy.”
Let’s see what that elicits, Charles said to himself. The first answer came in almost immediately: “Pain?” He put that couple in the discard pile. They probably lacked finesse.
The second response was interesting, but not a good fit. “We are lesbians,” it said. “We dislike men. We like the idea of having a man serve us, and we can probably make the job unpleasant, which you seem to want, but it is only fair to warn you in advance that there will be no sex.” When he was eighteen, Charles might have seen that as a challenge, but at twenty-five he had more sense.
The last letter came a week later. “We may be what you are looking for,” it read. “We are ‘neatniks.’ Each of us has her own bedroom; you will have to sleep on the couch—and of course get up and put away your blankets before our alarms go off. We have demanding jobs, so we have to stay fit. In your capacity as a cook, that will mean very careful attention to calories and fat grams. If you learned about exercise in the Marines, and could act as a personal trainer, that would be good.
“We think it would be nice to have you serve dinner. We can talk about a uniform.
“We are not looking for sex,” they concluded. They gave their names as Sigrid and Stephanie.
Perfect, said Charles to himself.
“In the Marine Corps,” Charles explained to his new employers—for some reason Sigrid and Stephanie insisted on paying him a dollar a week—“the correct form when being instructed or corrected is to stand at attention and look straight ahead into nothingness. In other cultures, one indicates submission by looking down.”
“A cat may look at a king,” said Sigrid, who had a feline sinuousness to her.
“Meow,” said Stephanie without missing a beat.
“You two seem to know each other well,” said Charles.
“That’s none of your affair,” said Stephanie. Not clear what that meant.
“But we are a bit competitive,” said Sigrid.
He guessed they were in their late twenties. Not glamourpuss beautiful, but more than presentable. Bodies their contemporaries would envy in ten years. From the quality of their furniture, he judged that they earned good salaries.
“In answer to your implied question,” said Stephanie, “you may look at me all you want, so long as you do what I tell you to.”
“Likewise,” said Sigrid slowly, “so long as I may look at you. And you’re obedient, of course. From time to time it might be interesting to have you stand at attention, though. Can you stand at attention for an hour?”
“As you wish, mistress.”
“Umm,” said Sigrid.
The innuendo seemed to make Stephanie uncomfortable. “Now get to work on the kitchen,” she said sharply. “The cupboards haven’t been emptied and cleaned for at least two weeks. The oven is embarrassing. We’ll be back after lunch to inspect.”
It was a Saturday. He’d presented himself as agreed at nine o’clock for what was supposed to be an interview, but they’d told him—nice touch, he thought—that having been engaged, he must start work immediately and wasn’t to go back to collect his belongings. “You belong to us now,” said Sigrid.
“As you wish,” said Charles. He could exist in the running shorts and polo shirt he was wearing. He didn’t have a cat that would starve. “I can wash my clothes when you are out.”
“Or when we’re here,” said Sigrid, “if we decide we like looking at you.”
Stephanie gave her apartment-mate a severe look.
“What’s your name again, servant?” said Stephanie.
“Oliver,” said Charles.
As soon as he heard the elevator depart, Charles inspected the apartment. Granola in the cupboard. White wine in the refrigerator. Professional suits and dresses in their closets. Pictures of what could have been parents in what must have been Stephanie’s bedroom. Medals from college swim meets hanging on the mirror above Sigrid’s dresser.
Why did he assume whose room was whose? Interesting that he was so sure. More silk in Sigrid’s wardrobe? More serious books beside Stephanie’s bed? Well-reviewed Egyptian novel beside Sigrid’s, though. And Stephanie had a fur coat. Must come from a grandmother. No one wore mink anymore. It made too many people angry. Charles wondered what would make Sigrid and Stephanie angry. That could be important. Anger meant passion.
Charles took off his running shoes and lay down on Stephanie’s bed. He rolled over to the other side, turned over on to his back, rolled back again. Then he went into Sigrid’s room and did the same. Then he stripped the sheets off both beds to see what odor they gave off, if any.
So they weren’t sleeping together. Depressions on one side only of each queen-size bed. Different perfume—and Sigrid used more of it. Stephanie’s sheets smelled primarily of soap.
Charles collected the sheets and took them to the tiny laundry off the kitchen. Then he went back to get the towels from the single bathroom. Ah. Twin college diplomas: same year, both with honors. Stephanie had majored in psychology, Sigrid in math. So maybe she didn’t read as many books because she liked numbers.
And “Sigrid” and “Stephanie” were their real names. They were new at this sort of thing, Charles decided. In due course, he would have to talk to them about risk.
His employers came back at one o’clock. “Where’s lunch?” said Stephanie.
“I might ask the same question, mistress,” said Charles, looking straight at her. “You said I was to serve breakfast and dinner. You didn’t mention lunch. But if you wish, I can make a salad in a few minutes.”
“Do that,” said Stephanie.
As they walked down the hall to their respective bedrooms, Charles could hear Sigrid laughing and Stephanie telling her to hush.
Sigrid was back in a minute. “You’ve changed my sheets.”
“Yes, mistress.”
“I didn’t tell you to do that.”
“Clean sheets are part of a very clean house, which I believe is my explicit responsibility. The ones you slept in last night are in the wash.”
Sigrid thought about that for a moment, looking around the sparkling kitchen. “Did you clean behind the refrigerator?” she said.
“I found the apple core.”
“I told her you would.”
“She needs to test me?”
“She wants to get her money’s worth, I think.”
“A dollar a week?”
“She says you are getting psychic income. This game presumably does something for you—or so she tells me. Does it?”
“Yes, mistress.”
Charles waited for her to ask the obvious question, but she didn’t. There was a hint of passive-aggressive about Sigrid. She was definitely angry about something.
Stephanie reappeared in running clothes. “I want you to take me for a run, Oliver. We’ll go to Central Park.”
“Not until you have let your lunch go down,” he said. “Speaking as your person trainer, that is. Would you like me to serve you at the table in the dining room?”
“Serve us both in there,” said Sigrid.
“I will have to make a second salad, mistress.”
“Wasn’t it obvious that we’d both want lunch?” said Stephanie.
“You must ask for what you want,” said Charles.
“Aren’t good servants supposed to be mind readers?” said Stephanie.
“I promised you obedience,” said Charles. “But you must be explicit about your desires.”
“I see,” said Sigrid.
“Which means you have to know what they are,” said Charles, looking at Stephanie, who quickly looked away.
He made the second salad, making use of the rest of the canned tuna from the cupboard and the array of vegetables in the refrigerator, and served them both.
“It would be helpful if you made lists of what you like to eat,” said Charles “so I can give you what you want.” He was standing in a corner of the dining room, which clearly made the women nervous. And telling them what to do, whether they realized that or not. It would be interesting to discover how malleable they were. “Also, if I am to do the shopping, I will need a key to the apartment, so I can get back in with the groceries.”
“Sounds reasonable,” said Sigrid. She looked at Stephanie. “There’s that hardware store on the way to the Park. It will give you a way to digest your lunch, as Oliver suggests.”
“I thought I might also get him more pairs of shorts and polo shirts. Is there a color you’d like for his livery, Sig?”
They were practicing talking about him in front of him, as if he weren’t there, as if they didn’t care that he was there. They were finding that hard to do.
“Red. Chinese red if you can find it?” said Sigrid. “That just slightly orangey red.”
Charles had the sudden thought that Stephanie might be color-blind. If she was, Sigrid would dance on her weakness exactly that way. But mostly it was boys who were color-blind. Nevertheless, the beginning of an insight?
“Won’t that make him a bit conspicuous in the neighborhood?”
“Don’t you suppose he’d like that—at some level? Do you want to be conspicuous, Oliver?,
“What I want is not an issue, mistress,” said Oliver, looking straight ahead. “The Marine Corps is partial to red, mistress.”
“A question,” said Stephanie suddenly. Something was rubbing her the wrong way, which was good. “If you insist on calling us both “mistress,” how are we supposed to know which one of us you mean?”
“Context, mistress,” said Charles.
This made Sigrid laugh.
“What is that supposed to mean?” said Stephanie.
“The servant means it will be obvious,” said Sigrid. “Aren’t you going to inspect the kitchen, Steph?”
“It’s obviously clean,” said Stephanie, sounding peeved.
“Don’t you want to look for the apple core?” she said.
“I suppose he’s found it,” said Stephanie, “just like you said he would. It’s annoying how often she’s right, Oliver. And I’m the one who took psychology. So, OK, did you clean behind the refrigerator?”
“Yes, mistress.”
Stephanie took a couple of deep breaths.
“You’d better go for your run,” said Sigrid. She turned to Charles. “And run her into the ground, Oliver. She’s impossible if she doesn’t get enough exercise.”
Stephanie didn’t argue.
Pick up some lamb chops on the way home,” said Sigrid. “I think we have plenty of vegetables.”
“Yes, mistress,” said Charles.
“Or are you a vegetarian again?” said Sigrid to Stephanie.
“No,” said Stephanie, a bit too loudly.
“It’s OK,” said Sigrid in a soothing voice. “There’s nothing wrong with carrot juice.”
Stephanie is the real neatnik, Charles told himself. And the health and fitness nut. Sigrid is a natural athlete, has perfect skin, obedient hair. She has a streak of laziness, hard as that is to believe of a competitive swimmer. But maybe the league she swam in wasn’t that tough. Stephanie, on the other hand, has to work hard at everything. Sigrid is genuinely fond of Stephanie, but treats her as a younger sister who needs to be reminded of things. She gets pleasure from needling her. Probably leaves dishes in the sink to annoy her. Or makes her late for work somehow. At some level, Charles told himself, Sigrid probably regards aggravating Stephanie’s foibles as a form of affection.
They went to Central Park. “We’ll just walk there to warm up,” said Charles. It turned out that Stephanie was a good athlete, which was not a surprise, even if she had no medals in her bedroom. She was driven. He pushed her, as instructed, but she didn’t get tired until the fourth mile. They did five.
They left the Park and went to one of those Madison Avenue “yuppie stores,” as Charles thought of them, with shirts and trousers in a range of self-confident colors. “What color would you like, Oliver?”
“It is not for me to decide, mistress.”
Another woman standing nearby must have overheard him. Charles could see that she was edging closer trying to eavesdrop. “You must do what pleases you,” he added.
“Keep your voice down,” Stephanie said in a whisper.
Charles realized how easy it would be to keep Stephanie on edge, what thorough training Sigrid had given her in being stressed out. “Yes, mistress,” he said in a whisper just loud enough that the other woman would have heard him. Fantasies to last her a week, he said to himself as he followed Stephanie to another part of the store.
In the end, Stephanie decided the red the store offered was close enough to what Sigrid wanted. She also decided that while red would be all right above the waist Oliver needed chino long trousers. The store offered a monogramming service. She wanted to have something embroidered on the shirts, but what should she choose?
“There are various possibilities, mistress.” He could see that offering suggestions was the best way to serve her in this matter. “You could list your names. You could use my name. You could use your address. You could use a non-existent address on your block, or a non-existent apartment number in your building. Or just the words, ‘Sleeping on the Floor.’ ”
It took Stephanie a moment to register—and then she was confident and in charge again. Maybe it was because they were out of range of the eavesdropper. “A non-existent address because you’re a fantasy creature,” she said. “I see. And rest assured, Oliver, we will winkle out your fantasies soon enough. But you’re supposed to sleep on the couch.”
“Not hard enough,” he said.
“Do you like being uncomfortable?”
“I like discipline,” said Charles. “ ‘Sleeping on the Floor,’ embroidered on a yuppie polo shirt, would be an emblem of my subordination, and your control.” Not a lot of winkling necessary.
“What if our friends saw it?”
“Will you be having friends come for dinner, mistress?”
“Well, we sometimes do. And they are bound to ask what the emblem, as you call it, means.” She paused, and acted out having a sudden thought. “Come to think of it, they are bound to ask about you. What would you want us to tell them, Oliver?” She was riffling through a display of men’s brightly colored neckties as they talked.
“ ‘Sleeping on the Floor’ would be the answer,” said Charles. “You could tell them you won me in a charity auction. I understand such things are not unknown in New York. Half a dozen presentable young men make themselves available for household chores and a dinner date. Do they make themselves available for anything else? Read my shirt. If your friends ask questions, I would recommend you simply smile. But understand, mistress, you may say or do anything you like. My comfort, or embarrassment—for that matter, my fantasies—are nothing for you and your friend to be concerned about.”
Stephanie thought about that for a moment. “I will take your advice,” she said, effectively closing the subject. She ordered three sets of his new uniform. Charles could see that she was pleased with herself.
On the longish walk back, which included visits to hardware and grocery stores, Stephanie asked Charles a series of questions. You didn’t have to be a psychologist to know that they weren’t about him, really. They were about Stephanie—though she didn’t appear to know that.
“Have you ever done this before?”
“No, mistress.”
“Were you really in the Marine Corps?”
“Yes, mistress.”
“Did you ever shoot anyone?”
“Are you troubled about that?”
“No, mistress.”
“I thought you might be punishing yourself for having done that—killed someone. I mean, what you’ve undertaken with Sigrid and me is not a normal thing to do. And you won’t say why?”
“No, mistress.”
“There isn’t some girl you’ve jilted, or who won’t forgive you for something? You did mention ‘penance’ in your ad.” Charles made no reply. They walked a while in silence. “So, what are the limits?”
“I will not let you kill me, mistress.”
Stephanie laughed. “Well, that’s a relief. How about hurting you—no, forget that.”
“If that is something you want to do, mistress, I will accept it as well as I can. Marines are tough. Any man may be broken. But the important thing is for you to discover what you want.”
Half a block of silence. “Well, I’m not going to hurt you. Unless you misbehave. If you fail to keep the apartment clean, I might make you do push-ups.”
“I am extremely comfortable with push-ups, mam. Excuse me. ‘Mistress,’ I should say. ‘Mam’ is Marine Corps language. We are not in the Marine Corps. In the Marine Corps, you do not have personal desires. You have duties, and standards, a tradition to uphold. It is all quite easy, actually. But in this situation you and my other mistress have put yourselves in, there is no field manual. There are no standards. There is no tradition. You must chart your own course.”
“Sigrid is an actuary, you know,” said Stephanie, as if that followed.
“Human resources.”
“Is it interesting work, mistress?”
“Sometimes it is. People are interesting to study. But the job requires you to be objective all the time.”
“By which you mean firing people?”
“If their managers are gutless, yes. That makes me tired sometimes. I may be too soft for the career I have fallen into. It is not normal human behavior, if you think about it, being quote, objective about everything.”
“Civilization is an argument with our baser instincts, mistress.”
“The Marine Corps taught you that?”
“The Marine Corps is very clear-eyed about human weakness—and the strength of groups.”
“Oh, yes,” said Stephanie. “Groups. A large corporation is a forest of groups. It is like a science fiction horror movie, with fast-growing plants trying to strangle each other.”
“And this interests you, mistress?”
“I hate it. I have watched the movie over and over again. There is also a lot of human weakness to come to terms with.”
A block of silence. “Are we a group, Oliver—you and me and Sigrid?”
“Inevitably we will be, mistress.”
Stephanie took a deep breath and then let it out. “Sorry. My issues are not your problem.”
“If you wish to talk, mistress, I will listen.”
“This was Sigrid’s idea,” said Stephanie. It was all she said until they got home.
When they did get back to the apartment, Sigrid was sitting on the couch, reading the well-reviewed Egyptian novel from her bedside table. “Did you two have fun?” she said. “And Oliver, I need a cup of tea. The Earl Grey. No milk. No lemon.”
“The same for me,” said Stephanie, suddenly brightening up. “And yes, it was a good run.” She explained about the color of the red shirts and the chino long trousers. “Shorts could be misinterpreted. And we should have some people over soon.”
“To show him off?” said Sigrid.
“Why not? He says he wouldn’t mind. You’d like him to mind, though, wouldn’t you, Sig?”
“You seem more comfortable with this situation than you were before,” said Sigrid. Charles was in the kitchen preparing the tea, but could hear her clearly. He assumed she was speaking for his benefit.
“He’s quite nice, you know,” said Stephanie. “You should talk to him.”
“You can have first go,” said Sigrid.
“Oh, nothing like that,” said Stephanie. She explained about “Sleeping on the Floor.”
Charles took in the tea things, poured out two cups, and took the teapot back to the kitchen.
“I’m really stiff after that run,” said Stephanie to Sigrid.
“Have him run you a bath,” said Sigrid. Charles was certain she intended to be overheard.
Stephanie gave a little gasp.
“Indeed,” said Sigrid. “And you could have him wash your back.”
“I couldn’t,” said Stephanie.
“I thought we’d talked about all this. Why did we answer his ad if we didn’t want to have some fun? Why do you buy that newspaper if not for the ads?”
“I buy it for the movie and restaurant reviews,” said Stephanie.
“Right. And you just happen to glance at the ‘Personal’ section—for an hour and a half. You’re repressed—which you ought to recognize, being a fucking psychiatrist.”
“Psychologist. A not-fucking psychologist by your lights. And by the way, when was your last date?”
Charles was riveted. He had nothing left to do in the kitchen but listen. He was living with two good-looking women, who were having a fight because they weren’t getting enough sex. There was only one solution. He took off his clothes, put them into the washing machine, and walked into the living room with a refilled teapot.
“Oliver!” Stephanie exclaimed.
“My clothes are in the wash, mistress.”
“And you look very good without them,” said Sigrid. “Turn around and let us look at you.”
“Sigrid!” said Stephanie.
“We had to get to this,” said Sigrid. “You don’t mind being naked, do you Oliver? You probably quite like it.”
“As you wish, mistress.”
“So as long as you are comfortable with nakedness,” said Sigrid, “run a bath for my inhibited friend. Kneel on the floor and wash her back. And be thorough. She likes to be clean.”
Stephanie was blushing. “Oh, all right,” she said.
Charles turned on the faucets in the bath, adjusting the temperature as it filled. It was a large bathtub, but there was plenty of hot water.
Stephanie went in and closed the door. “Come in,” she called out after a few minutes. She had poured in bubble bath. She was leaning forward, holding onto her knees, with her back exposed.
“Leave the door open if you want a chaperone,” said Sigrid. It wasn’t clear whether she was talking to Stephanie or to him. The bathroom was down the hall from the living room, so it didn’t matter, really, but Stephanie asked him to close it.
Charles immersed a washcloth in the water and started to rub Stephanie’s back. “Soap first,” she said. “And just use your hands.”
“Tell me everything you want, mistress,” said Charles, as he explored the tension in her shoulders.
“I’d like it if you’d call me ‘Stephanie.’ And I’d like you to make the decisions.”
“That isn’t really the agreement,” said Charles after he’d worked on her back for a while, “but I’ll take that as an instruction to wash more of you. Lean back and let me have a leg.”
Stephanie raised one leg out of the water.
“Nice calf,” said Charles, running soapy hands down from her ankle. “Nice thigh. Nice girl, in fact.”
“Pretty messed up in the head,” she said.
“Who told you that?”
“My honors degree in psychology told me that.”
“Did it tell you what to do about it?”
“No.” There was genuine sadness in her voice.
“I recommend an orgasm,” said Charles, as if he had been suggesting a cold remedy. “Releases endorphins, same as exercise. Makes the world less complicated.” Under the bubbles his hand explored further. Stephanie stiffened but didn’t tell him to stop.
This part of the dance always made Charles smile, remembering the first and probably only sex lecture he had ever had—delivered when he was eleven by a worldly wise fifteen-year-old cousin: “There’s a little nubbin down there,” he’d said grandly, “and if you touch it the right way, the girl goes batshit.”
Stephanie did, biting her lip to avoid making any noise. “Get in the tub,” she said finally. “Behind me. I need to be held.”
“Yes, mistress,” said Charles, getting up off his knees and complying.
“Please,” she whispered. “My name.”
Charles lowered himself into the warm water and put his arms around her. “Stephanie,” he said softly into her ear.
After a few minutes they got out. Stephanie ran the shower to rinse herself off. Charles dried her with a fluffy bath towel, and then began to dry himself. “We need to get you something to wear,” she said.
“As you wish,” said Charles. His only clothes would still be wet and need to go into the drier.
“I have an oversize man’s shirt you can use. Oversize for me, that is. I got given it at an office picnic last year, when it suddenly got cold and I had on a topless dress.”
“I assume you mean ‘sleeveless,’ ” said Charles.
“Oops, yes, of course,” said Stephanie. “And he had a tee shirt underneath. What have you done to me?”
“Nothing hundreds of other men in New York wouldn’t be pleased to do,” said Charles. “And you still have the shirt rather than calling to thank him because . . . ?”
“Don’t be like Sigrid.”
“As you wish . . . Stephanie.”
She gave him a kiss on the cheek and went to get the shirt, which had reassuringly long tails.
Two hours later he served his employers dinner, wearing his own clothes again. Lamb chops, baked potatoes without butter or sour cream, broccoli, tossed salad, red wine from a 24-bottle rack in one of the cupboards, a slice of melon for dessert. Stephanie gave every impression of wanting to get drunk.
“So, how was your bath?” said Sigrid when the fruit had been served. “Shall I have one after dinner?” Charles was in the kitchen but again he could hear the conversation clearly. He had to assume they knew that.
“I’m not going to share him,” said Stephanie.
“I thought we were in this together,” said Sigrid.
“It wouldn’t be sanitary. And if one of us got pregnant we wouldn’t know who the father was.”
“You’re not making a lot of sense, Steph.”
“Never mind. Getting pregnant isn’t an issue. But he’s mine.”
Oh my, said Charles to himself. He went into the dining room to clear away the dishes. Sigrid took advantage of his presence to tell Stephanie she should go to bed. “Eventful day,” she explained to Charles.
Stephanie did as her friend had suggested. Even after four glasses of wine, she seemed reluctant to look Charles in the face.
“I’ll read in my room,” said Sigrid, “so you can go to sleep out here.”
Three hours later Charles woke on the living room floor, underneath a blanket he had found in the linen closet and with a rolled-up bath towel for a pillow. During the more interesting parts of his time in the Marine Corps he had acquired the habit, when he woke, of lying very still with his eyes only half open and assessing the situation. There was someone squatting beside him in a dark long-sleeve tee shirt and leggings. It was Sigrid. “You’re a ninja?” he said very quietly. Actually, what she called to mind was tribesmen squatting around a cooking fire. Men from a culture without chairs—or mercy, for that matter.
“You’re common property,” whispered Sigrid. In a previous life she had presumably lived in such a culture. And been a man.
“If you’re so confident, why haven’t you got your own boyfriend?”
“They always want a relationship.”
“Like Stephanie.”
“Well?” said Sigrid—by which she presumably meant, are you going to have a tumble with me or not?
“I only do one woman in any 24-hour period,” said Charles—which of course wasn’t true. “Start a sign-up sheet.” For some reason he wanted to see how hungry she was.
“You didn’t do her and we both know it.” Sigrid stood up. She reminded him of a heron unfolding, transforming itself from a jumble of feathers into the lean creature it was, able to defy gravity, just as Sigrid defied her hunger. “My door will be open if you change your mind.”
Charles thought about the situation for a quarter of an hour and decided that, as Sigrid had been pretty clear about her desires—as he’s told them both they had to be—honor required him to “do” Sigrid. Also, he rather badly wanted to. She was his type: self-sufficient, strongly muscled under a smooth surface, a pusher of boundaries.
“Leave the door open,” she said as she sat up in bed and began to take off her ninja outfit.
“You want her to hear us?”
“If she does, she does.”
“She’s a bit fragile.”
“Yes, and it pisses me off. She gets herself in ridiculous situations, emotionally. Falls in love with the wrong guy. Doesn’t have a date for three months and then manages to accept two for the same night and decides she has to call both men and pretend to be sick. Did she even manage to have an orgasm?”
Charles didn’t answer.
“I’ll take that for a ‘no.’ ”
“Believe what you wish to believe, mistress.”
“Oh, I see.” And then, “well done.”
Silence.
Charles was still standing beside her bed. Sigrid lay on her side, looking at him. Both of them were now naked. The only light came from the red numbers on the digital clock radio. “Do you have any special requests, mistress?”
“Just get in the bed,” said Sigrid.
He got under the covers. He touched her in various places to see what she liked. She pushed his hands away a few times, but it was clear she liked everything.
“It’s been a while,” she said, letting down her guard a bit.
“You’re sure it wouldn’t intensify your pleasure to wait another couple of days?”
“Absolutely unnecessary.”
“You’re sure you don’t need to talk to Stephanie first?”
“Not her decision.”
“Why do the two of you share an apartment?”
“Not relevant, but if it will make you get on with it, we’ve been roommates since the first year of college.”
“Do you think you are well matched?”
“No, of course not. But we understand each other. Pleeese, stop asking me questions.”
“May I tell you then, that you are very beautiful, that I admire your directness, that I love your skin . . . ?”
“Not relevant.”
“Yes, mistress.”
Charles knew how to be a tease in bed, but he regarded it as discourteous to seek his own pleasure before he had given a woman everything she wanted, which required a man to pay attention. Another lesson from his older and wiser cousin. What is “the right way?” he’d asked. “Depends on the girl,” was the answer.
In Sigrid’s case, pleasure took a while. When they both were finished, he rolled over on his back.
There was a ghost in the doorway. It gave Charles a start. A nightgown illuminated by Sigrid’s clock radio, the face and arms less distinct. He realized it had to be Stephanie. Sigrid laughed.
“Do you always watch each other?” said Charles.
“When we can,” said Stephanie.
“You owe me a show,” said Sigrid to Stephanie.
“If Oliver is willing, I’ll square accounts tomorrow,” said Stephanie.
“As you wish, mistress.”
“Can I keep him for the rest of the night?” said Sigrid.
“Of course you can, sweetheart.” She walked into the room, around the bed to where Sigrid was and gave her a kiss. Then she turned and went back to her own room, closing the door on the way out.
“Is this some kind of ritual?” said Charles. There was something practiced about it.
“Yes and no. She pretends everything is my idea but she sets it up.”
“I mostly thought she was insecure.”
“She is. That’s why she’s a chameleon. Some games she’s an ingénue, sometimes she’s a vamp. She’ll bring a boy home from a bar and—no, I’m not going to tell you that.”
“Have you answered a lot of those ads?”
“Yes. They’re addictive.”
“What happened to the boy from the bar?”
“I said I wouldn’t tell you.”
“Doesn’t mean you don’t want to,” said Charles. “You two said you weren’t looking for sex.”
“Everyone lies—as Dr. House reminds us.”
Charles let his hands wander a bit, in case that was what she wanted.
“Just hold me,” said Sigrid. She was silent for a while. “That boy. Younger than you. She got him to cry.”
Charles stayed another week. He liked them both, actually. They were gratifyingly responsive to every sexual thing he did. Sigrid could be goofy as well as slinky. And Stephanie cried real tears. But eventually they ran out of games to play.
“Thanks for the memories,” he wrote in the letter he left on their kitchen counter, along with the key to their apartment. “I’m keeping one of the red polo shirts.” It sounded like a line from a trashy novel. If you thought about it, the whole thing had been a trashy novel—except for the fact that actual women had been involved.
“I’ve never been with anyone like you two,” he’d continued. “You’re desirable, unexpected, courageous, kinky in manageable ways—all good qualities. But I must tell you that each time I finished with either of you—when the performance was over and we were alone—all you wanted was to be held. Sex as a performance is a way of holding back. Both of you are closing in on thirty (I read the dates on your diplomas), so perhaps it is time to give up emotional hide-and-seek. All the best, Oliver (not his real name).”
His time with Sigrid and Stephanie also taught Charles a lesson. Never assume you are in control, he thereafter made it a point to remind himself. Where women are concerned, never even assume you know what’s going on. Long-term, the only sensible strategy is love.