Macho Sluts (18 page)

Clarissa applauded. “Oh, what a beautiful story,” she said. “I love the way your eyes sparkle when you tell it. Now tell me about the time when Mother gave you away to Aunt Jennifer and—”

“Absolutely not! Up the stairs with you and into your traveling clothes. I've already laid the dress and shoes out on your bed. Your aunt will be here any minute now. Wear the peach satin corset that laces up the front. Hurry, while I clean up. And be sure to put on every one of your crinolines, young lady—don't think you can fool me by stuffing one down the laundry chute! Shoo!”

The Calyx of Isis

During the day, the district south of Market Street in San Francisco housed winos, Hispanic families, punks, and light industry. But at night it seemed to be inhabited solely by leathermen strolling from the Brig, the Ambush, the Boot Camp, the Arena, or the Eagle to the Slot, the Caldron, the Folsom Street Hotel, the Club Baths, the Hothouse, or the Handball Express. Despite the number of these establishments, a particularly popular bar sometimes had such a hold on its clientele that they just overflowed into the street, beer bottles held against their hips at the angle of a hard cock, to converse over one another's motorcycles or slip into side alleys for quick, rough, semi-public sex.

On one block, the typical flow of traffic—the masculine bodies in their silver-studded black skins—was disrupted by a different kind of crowd: women. A mysterious lesbian heiress had used a chunk of her inheritance to purchase one of the big, red-brick warehouses on Folsom Street. After she earthquake-proofed it and brought it into compliance with the rest of the building code, she turned it into a unique establishment, the Calyx of Isis, a women's bathhouse.

The leathermen, amused and fascinated with the depth and intricacy of their own perversity, tolerated this intrusion. Some of them secretly applauded it—not being able to visualize what went on in the Calyx, but sensing they had more in common with it than with Maud's or Amelia's. They weren't sure that what the women did with each other was sex, exactly, but it seemed to be important to them, and they liked the idea of their judgmental big sisters getting out of control. Others were offended and went to great lengths to avoid the Calyx, taking detours around it that increased their resentment. And a few happy clones dropped their lesbian roommates off at the Calyx before proceeding to Ringold Alley or the Trocadero Transfer, maybe stayed to chat a few minutes, and wondered if there would ever be a place where both dykes and faggots could go. There was, but few of them had ever heard of it, and the story of
that
place, the Catacombs, may never be written.

Every Friday and Saturday night, a line of lesbians in their weekend finery wound around the block three deep. Sidewalk vendors catered to the crowd, and most of the women danced while they waited because the Calyx had loudspeakers pointing out to the street.

Security guards in tuxedos patrolled the block in pairs. Any car that slowed down to hurl an insult or bottle was photographed, and the owner was notified that the police had been informed that his vehicle had been used in the commission of a crime. The guards had enough karate and mace to deal with anybody stupid enough to come looking for a fight without vehicular armor. But the Calyx was so well established that this rarely happened any more. So their real job was to flaunt their muscles, flirt with the crowd and keep it in a party mood. They did this as cheerfully as they busted bigots' kneecaps.

Mixed in with the peacock colors of the other dykes was the more somber attire of a few leatherwomen, who nevertheless were as raucous as any of the other patrons. Everybody claimed to have been there the weekend some B&D girls visiting from Seattle had organized a dirty conga-line. The Calyx had stayed empty for half an hour after opening while hundreds of women wound through the neighborhood, hooting and grunting and doing synchronized kicks. Why shouldn't the women in Muir caps and motorcycle jackets and chaps dance and taunt and flatter one another? They were as horny as the other women, and the Calyx of Isis catered to all persuasions— though not on the same floor. “A place for everyone, and everyone in her place,” Tyre, the owner, was fond of saying.

This was a weekday, so when Tyre's periwinkle-blue limousine pulled up to the door of the Calyx, there was no lesbian Mardi Gras to greet her. The Calyx wouldn't open until much later that night, and the crowd would be light.

But it was a very fine day. The morning fog had burned off and the evening fog had not yet rolled in. When her chauffeur (who was wearing the dress-gray uniform of a West Point cadet) opened her door and handed her out, Tyre spared an admiring glance for her enemy, the sun. Then she covered her sensitive pink eyes with big Italian sunglasses and hurried to the door. Under her conservatively cut Blackglama, she was wearing a hot-pink spandex jumpsuit with more zippers in it than in a full set of luggage. Slung around her hips was a wide, studded belt that came down to a V above her crotch. Her silver pumps had six-inch heels. When you are just over six feet tall and have perfectly white hair that falls to your knees, there is no point in pretending to be inconspicuous.

“Please take Sara home. I won't need the car until the usual time tonight, Michael,” she said. The driver saluted, her white glove touching the black patent bill of the military cover at precisely the correct angle. The two women, lady and retainer, two different kinds of aristocrats, exchanged a discreet smile of complicity. Michael's blond mustache twitched.

Sara (fast asleep for the moment) was a juicy piece Tyre had picked up just before closing time the night before. Once they were in the back seat of the limousine, Tyre had put one hand over her mouth and used the other to make love to her while Michael drove them up to Twin Peaks, through Golden Gate Park, across the bridge, and back to her home via Seal Rock and Ocean Beach, with discreet pauses along the way. Whenever Tyre had directed Michael to park the limo, the chauffeur's gray eyes had not left the rearview mirror. Even when they were in motion, Michael wasn't able to resist keeping track of Sara, writhing in pleasure she was not allowed to express, as often as the traffic would allow. Tyre knew that her trick was going to get quite a ride on her way home. She approved.

She pressed the buzzer and waited for the security guard to check the video monitor and let her in. Her high heels clicked on the parquet floors. A crew was cleaning up the large waiting area. The place looked strange—skeletal, unreal—with all the house lights up, no music, no milling hordes of women. The cashier's booth was unoccupied. As Tyre passed, she saw the rows of neatly numbered keys for rooms and lockers, the big piles of clean towels and robes, stacked-up boxes of lube and latex gloves, and smiled. There was no one in the coatroom, either, but the numbered hangers on the carrousels were all exactly the same distance apart, and the impression of order, readiness to serve efficiently, pleased her again.

There was another cleaning crew at work in the video room. She had to order some new X-rated movies and get one of the large screens repaired. But her secretary, Georgia, who was also neatly put together and always ready to provide efficient service, would already have all this on the list of today's chores.

Tyre walked through the other rooms on the main floor—the disco (which also contained a stage for the strippers and the other sex shows), the refreshment bar, the game room (which held two pool tables, a dozen pinball machines, and twice as many video games)—and back to the elevator that would take her up to her office on the second floor. She didn't bother to check each of the cubicles (plywood-enclosed beds that could be rented by the hour as private rooms) and the maze; that would have to wait until just before the Calyx opened. She also didn't bother to go downstairs and tour the dungeons. They hadn't gotten a lot of use this weekend, and Simba, the Dungeonmaster, was an excellent supervisor, or so Georgia seemed to think. Tyre smirked at herself in the mirrored panels of the elevator walls.

Her office was off to one side of the second floor. The rest of it was taken up with the Jacuzzi and sauna, the showers, a locker room, the masseuses' studio, and a big room lined with mattresses, with a mirrored ceiling, that a patron entered only if she was ready to take on all comers.

The Calyx had another floor as well, but very few of the customers knew about it. This floor was kept available for staging fantasies a little more complex than the scenarios that could be enacted with someone you stumbled on under the black lights that dotted the maze. These fantasies also cost more than mere admission to the club. Tyre handled all these requests personally. It was one of her perks for shouldering the exhausting burden of managing the Calyx.

“Bread and circuses is a lonely business,” she often told Georgia. Owning the Calyx made it easy for her to get access to beautiful women. But women who are starstruck, envious, or determined
not
to be impressed make poor friends and impossible lovers. Many of her employees had the same problem, and slept mostly with each other. The network of women who worked for the Calyx was alarmingly incestuous. It was one of the reasons she had subtly encouraged Michael to take Sara. Having another groupie to pass around would ease the sexual pressure her help put on one another. It would also keep Sara from entertaining any pretentious thoughts about her future.

The indirect lighting and soft carpets of her office were soothing. So was the music—Phillip Glass. Tyre took off her sunglasses and slid them into her coat pocket. As she hung up her mink, the Siamese cat, Nineveh, brought her kittens, Sodom and Gomorrah, over for review. Tyre crouched and held out a finger. Each of the kittens gravely batted at and chewed on it. Then Nineveh took them away to be held down on one the couches in the reception area and scrubbed.

Georgia was putting a Dresden mug full of hot cappuccino on her desk. “Chocolate croissant or plain?” she asked. She was wearing a wheat-colored linen suit with a gold silk blouse. Her red hair was carefully styled. She walked a little more slowly than other women, as if she had to remind herself that you made your hips sway by putting one foot directly in front of the other.

“Plain, I think,” Tyre said. “Stomach's a little wonky this a.m. But this looks heavenly. How am I going to manage without you when you go to Denver for your last operation?”

The large and capable hands put a tray with two hot croissants, a pot of marmalade, and a saucer stacked with pats of butter in front of her. “Don't be silly, boss,” said the well-modulated, smoke-and-whisky voice. “Half the time it's all I can do to just keep out of your way. Aspirin?”

“Please.”

A paper cup full of cold water and a foil packet of Bayer materialized next to the marmalade.

“Eat something,” Georgia urged her. “If you can make it through the morning, the caterer delivered chicken fajitas for lunch, and I'll mix you up a special batch of margaritas to go with it.”

Tyre was already gutting the croissant and stuffing her face. After she pushed the tray away, it took her ten minutes to rip through an inch of paperwork on her desk. Georgia took notes. She could barely keep up.

There was a grant from a lesbian mothers' collective that wanted to establish a childcare center. “Only if they're open at night and give our patrons a discount,” Tyre said. “But they'd better keep our name out of it or the fundamentalists will have a field day.” Georgia took it down in Mach 2 shorthand.

There was a request from an anthropology professor who wanted to send a team of students in to do participant observation. “Only if they'll take their clothes off and stay in the maze,” Tyre said.

The Annie Kenney Coven that consecrated the Calyx at each equinox and solstice was having trouble finding hypo-allergenic incense and didn't want to oppress women disabled by their sensitivity to fragrance. “I don't know where the hell I'm going to find sneeze-proof incense,” Tyre said, “but tell them we'll do some research on it. We haven't had a lawsuit since they started cleaning up our aura on a quarterly basis, and I want them to keep on doing it. It's good P.R., it's a weird party, and it works. What more could you want?”

The Well Woman Body Care Center had agreed to set up a weekly clinic at the Calyx to do Pap smears and STD tests. They had sent a description of the kind of space, fixtures, and supplies they would need. “Do you believe how much cotton swabs cost? For that price they should come with an attachment for clitoral stimulation and vibrate at two speeds. Georgia, should we break their hearts and tell them they aren't going to need any disposable paper drapes here? And what do they mean, they don't know why I want them to stock latex dental dams! Jesus Christ on the Old Rugged Butt-Plug!”

WIFE (Women for Images of Female Equality, a group Tyre referred to as “Better Living Through Censorship”) was threatening to picket the Calyx if Tyre didn't change her advertising, which featured a woman in a trench coat saying, “Psst! Take a Tour of the Feminist Porn District.” Somebody had thrown a brick through the window of the women's newspaper that reluctantly ran the ad in every issue. (The brick had a sticker on it that said, “This is violence against women.”)

Tyre's mouth got very grim. “Send somebody around to fix those windows,” she said, “and ask them if they want an alarm system installed. I'll pay for it. Remember those pictures we took when Ricki Daft came here drunk on her ass and got obnoxious with the masseuse who didn't want Ricki to pour chocolate syrup all over her? She's WIFE's director. Copy all that shit and just send it to her with a note on my letterhead saying that if any more bricks get thrown at
On the Rag
, they'll get copies of it too. And remind me to double my annual contribution to the ACLU.”

The phone rang. Georgia picked it up. “The Calyx of Isis,” she said. “Serving the Goddess in You. Yes, she's in.” She hit the hold button. “Call for you, boss. I think it's Marlon Brando.” Tyre accepted the receiver.