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FICTION: CBLB Fingering the Wrong Way

June 12, 2010

Image: Michelangelo

The following story, which will be serialized once a week on this blog, is FICTION. Though set within actual cultural set points of time and place, as one would find in historical fiction, no one character is based on anyone living or dead, but imaginary.

This is satire. I hope it’s a fun ride, which is my sole intention as the author.

This work is registered with the Writers’ Guild of America and is additionally protected.  Law will prosecute any use of the following work without explicit permission by the author.

**If you would like to read “Cowboys and Lesbians” from chapter one for the full effect, please go back to this link: CHAPTERONE

Fingering the Wrong Way

The raw edges of the rope that circled his wrists and feet itched Zoro’s skin…

He worried it might have been a mistake to follow her back to her office showroom once the program had wrapped. She had changed tone so suddenly, perked up, and promised him a pair of boots from some new men’s line she was representing. “You look like a 1920’s film star. You remind me of Rudolph Valentino.” She gushed. He thought he had even seen her blush. He initially chuckled to himself: “White women redden so easily, even the difficult ones when they’re uneasy.”

When they entered the dark showroom, she flipped on the wall lights,  giggling  as she pulled out of the main closet out what resembled a burgundy carpet-bag, big enough to hold several pairs of shoes. She told him to sit and  close his eyes so she could surprise him with these magnificent boots, handcrafted by the gauchos of Spain.

“Keep your eyes closed!  I will put them on your feet. You’ll be a king.”

Kat laughed.

“I am certainly not a king…” Zoro started, feeling the grin take him. He had begun to enjoy this game of hers, who was he kidding? His mother always told him he was beautiful and destined for greatness, especially after his father — who had found a job as an engineer in the city — passed from a sudden heart attack.

Kat smelled like a sickly medicinal patchouli  as she drew close and Zoro sneezed. What blew from his nose propelled him forward enough that Kat could bind him to the back of the chair. “What are you doing?” He shouted. Then she shoved the cotton cloth in his mouth, flipping around the side, cackling like some kind of “Joaidane,” (**) and  secured the gag in the back with masking tape  that pulled on the nape of his neck. He tried to kick but could not leverage himself, so she was quick to grab the second rope to tie a  knotted bow where his legs met, just above the logo on his Hermes loafers.

Zoro’s eyes darted around the tornado of this loft filled with rolling racks of clothes in no particular rhyme or reason; shelves of shoes that could double as weapons given the heels and silver bullets on the straps;photos –some shot by rock photographer Mark Seliger, others blow ups from Patrick McMullan — on the opposite wall to the clothes and shoes, of Kat with various lead singers of “hair bands,” heavy metal with a few goth boys mixed in. She had placed Zoro in a hard backed wooden chair in the center of the room and now stood before him smoking, grinning.

Footnote: “Joaidane” (**) Arabic expression for one who talks too much.

HIT MORE LINE BELOW TO CONTINUE READING…..

“This time, you’re the hostage. How do you like that?” She began. “When I was a little kid, when that pussy Carter was president, your country took a bunch of Americans hostage. Now, I’ve got you! Ha ha ha!”

Kat reached under a rolling rack and pulled out a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey. Chugging some from the bottle, she plopped down on the floor, cross-legged with the nimbleness of a rag doll, which Zoro did not expect since she appeared physically out-of-bounds, a pick up truck of a woman.

Zoro breathed heavily into his nostrils and checked the time on the wall clock centering the celebrity wall photos. `Ten pm. Do you know where your children are?’ That was an ad from the television a few years back, and he had forgotten to call his mother earlier that day at six pm, their daily chat. “She’ll send for me, find me…”  The voice inside his head informed him. He prayed silently to Ahura Mazda. “The good will prevail. The good will prevail.” He could be Ahura Mazda himself. His mother told him as much.

“You really pissed me off, you know.” Kat said. “You tried to seduce me on television.” She lit a cigarette, took one drag, then pushed it into the floor boards. Kat began to draw an imaginary circle of ash around herself with her right hand while flicking her lighter on and off with the left, like they did at rock shows. Zoro could imagine her setting him on fire. His sweat now trickled to his shoulder blades and  he could detect the musk of his after shave, which  mixed with Kat’s patchouli, made him want to vomit.  He wanted to spill his guts on Kat specifically, drown her in whatever his body discarded.

“Do you know why they gave me this talk show, Zoro? They gave me this talk show, Zoro, because Amazon sold a million copies of my book Take the Power Back Girls!’  in the first week.  I am a rock and roll fashion icon. I’m known as one radical punk bitch but you started your soft pansy seduction.”

Zoro would have laughed if he had not been gagged. He sucked in some  more air through his nostrils. He smelled like a  spicy sachet discarded in an underwear drawer. Yes, he might have serviced girls of a certain delicate nature in their hours of need, but what man would want Kat? “Reggie.”… Zoro thought. “She would have fried Reggie.”

She finally placed the lighter down  in front of her and took another swig of Jack Daniels.  She marched toward  Zoro’s chair. She stopped short before him and grazed the fingers of each of his hands with her own.

“How does it feel now, hmmmn? How does it feel to be violated?”

She was right. She could have fondled him anywhere else on his body but this finger play disgusted him. He could feel his eyes fill up, flush with an odd shame.

Kat’s beady pupils examined his own for a few minutes while she continued to touch his hands. She began to mumble again. She was counting backwards…”Ten, nine, eight….”

“I need to piss.” She broke out. She turned around suddenly and marched out of sight to the back of the showroom. Fingers free, Zoro began to wriggle anyway he could, managing to hook his forefinger and thumb to  the cellular phone from his right pocket. Although his wrist was tied, he could maneuver enough to hit Reggie’s number, since it was the last one he had dialed. He pushed  it  a few times until he could focus enough to send a text with his thumb. He had just about gotten past “HELP… This Kat woman tied me to a chair,” when he saw the face coming towards him like a locomotive.

Jaded gaze, blood matte lips, unruly uncensored curls, a sweaty grip crushing his hand. “Give me that fucking thing!” She yelled and threw it across the room.


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