Madame X (Madame X #1) (6 page)

“But I’m not your average client.”

“You aren’t an . . . asshole.” The word tastes strange on my lips. But not unpleasant. I wonder if I’ll hear about my language later. I turn to face you. “And I’m not sure what I’m meant to teach you. Unlike the rest of my clientele, I would not have you hide your true nature.”

You seem stunned. “You—you wouldn’t? Why the hell not?”

I shrug. “There is a refreshing quality to your brand of brutal honesty, George. And you don’t seem . . . entitled.”

“’Cause I ain’t. Daddy and I came from nothin’. I grew up in a hundred-and-ten-year-old two-room shack on damn near five hundred acres. I grew up riding on saddles older than me, driving beat-up old trucks older than me, wearing clothes that didn’t fit, eating beans and rice and nearly turned meat. We had acreage and a lotta head of horses and cattle, but that don’t really translate into cash income all that well. I remember that life, X. I remember having just about nothing, and I know I didn’t do dick-all to earn what we got. Daddy got lucky, yeah, but he busted his ass to turn that little piece of luck into what it is today. So no. I ain’t entitled.”

“And that sets you apart, George. By quite a large margin.”

“I got a large margin for you, babe.” You smirk, and wink.

I suppose the conversation was turning a little too personal for you. “We return to the question at hand, then. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Hell if I know. All’s I know is Daddy won’t be best pleased if I go back to Texas without having finished this. I promised him I would, so I’m going to. He lets me be who I am and don’t say nothin’ about it. He don’t ask any questions when I say I’ve got a date, as long as I keep my shit on the DL. And he don’t tolerate anybody in the office or who he does business with to talk shit about me either. He’s nixed deals because somebody got a case of loose lips about Mike Tompkins’s queer daughter. So I guess I owe him something in return.”

“I’m just not sure what—”

“Just pretend I’m a dude, X. Do what you do as if I’m just another client’s asshole kid.”

“But you’re not a straight male, or an asshole. And those are the kind at whom my methods are aimed.”

“Just . . . pretend, okay? Do what you do, the way you normally do it.”

I take a few steps toward you, pushing down my feelings, and drape my mantle of cold hostility over my features. “What I normally do is cut through falsity and pretense and attitude. If this is going to work, then you cannot question me.”

“Falsity? What the hell you talkin’ about, X?”

“First things first. Sit up straight. Quit slouching. And enough with the endearing Texas drawl. It’s too much.”

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

“It’s bourgeois, and makes you appear uneducated. If businessmen and -women are going to take you seriously, you must present yourself as competent, educated, and smooth. A bit of a drawl is acceptable, and perhaps even will give you a slight advantage, but the foul language and the nearly unintelligible manner in which you speak identifies you as nothing but a slouching, slovenly, foul-mouthed bumpkin from the backwoods.” I ignore the angry gleam
in your eyes. You want to play this game? Very well, then. Let us play. “Appearing as more than merely blue collar is about enacting a host of changes to your essential nature, Georgia. It’s not about the clothes you wear or the car you drive, or the house you live in. Anyone can find a bag of money and buy nicer things. It’s about learning to comport yourself with dignity and sophistication.”

“You think I sound like a bumpkin?” You sound almost hurt, George.

“I do.” I endeavor to slur, to drawl, to draw out my syllables and twist them, and to drop the ends of my words. “Y’all sound like this.” It comes out:
yaaaaawl sownd laahk thyiiiis.

“Got news for ya, missy.” You stand up, pushing off the couch with violence. “I ain’t never gonna sound all hoity-toity like you.”

“Clearly. But is something approaching correct grammar too much to ask for?”

You pace, run a hand through your hair. “I won’t ever sound like you.” It comes out flat, unaccented but lifeless.

“Keep the drawl, but eradicate the poor grammar.”

“That ain’t—that won’t be easy.”

I nod. “Better. You’ll still sound like yourself, but more . . . acceptable in formal situations.” I wave a hand at the condo. “Situations such as this, for example. This is supposed to be a formal client/service-provider scenario. We are not friends, Georgia. We are business associates. And I’ve lost count of how many times you’ve used the F-word alone.”

“I told you, my name is
George
.”

“To your friends, perhaps. To your dates. At home, or at the bar. But in the boardroom? Your name is Georgia.” My tone leaves no room for argument. “
Be
Georgia. It will simplify things exponentially in professional situations.”

“You’re asking a lot, X.”

“Businessmen are an easily confused lot, Georgia. They understand numbers and money, P-and-L statements, stock assessments. They do not understand a businesswoman named George. They’ll spend the entire meeting trying to figure out what to think, how to talk to you. Are you a man? A woman? They won’t know. And that will detract from the point of the meeting.”

“So I’ve gotta go back to pretending to be a prissy bitch woman.”

I shake my head. “No, Georgia. Just . . . present them with something even remotely approaching the familiar to them. Wear a business suit. Even a man’s suit, if you prefer. But have it tailored to fit you . . .
properly
. You don’t have to accentuate your female anatomy, but also do not attempt to hide it. Unless you’re going for a transgender appearance?”

You frown. “I—no. I’m still a female, but . . . I’m not a girly-girl. I don’t wear dresses. I don’t do fussy hair and makeup and heels. I like men’s clothes.”

“Do you bind your breasts?” I ask.

“No.”

“Will you?”

“Probably not.” You hesitate. “Tried it, a few times. I hated it.”

I pause, formulate my thoughts. “You have to find a medium, then. You don’t have to mitigate your sense of self. That’s not what I’m asking of you. But if you want the men of the business world to accept you even slightly, you have to pay a little deference to the way things are for them. It’s unfair, perhaps, but it is reality. There are women in positions of power. CEOs, CFOs, presidents. But it is still a man’s world, Georgia. And if you wish to play in it, especially in the upper echelons, then you have to play the game.”

“No. I don’t. I am who I am, and they can take it or leave it. I
ain’t gonna change who I am just for a bunch of stiff-necked old dangly ball sacks.”

My eyes close slowly. “Georgia. I’m not asking you to—”

“Yes, you are!” You take several stomping steps toward me, stare hard at me. “Change the way I talk, dress different.
Be
different.”

“You said you wanted to do this? Well . . . this is what I do, Georgia. I remove the pretense. I cut through the
shit
. Which, in this case, is the confusing way in which you present yourself. Are you trying to be a man? It seems sort of that way, but not entirely. And in the boardroom, business discussions will be forgotten in favor of wondering what they’re supposed to think you are. My suggestion is to present yourself as . . . androgynous, I suppose you could say. A male business suit, not a woman’s power suit. An expensive bespoke suit, but tailored to accommodate your bust and hips. Sleek, slim shoes. A watch in dark leather with a sleek profile. Let your hair grow a little and sweep it back from your face.”

“So you want me to dress like a metrosexual guy, basically.”

“If that’s the term you wish to use, then sure. It’s an appearance that could go either way. The point is, it’s
professional
. An appearance befitting the head representative of Tompkins Petroleum. Dress how you wish on your own time. Speak how you wish, do what you wish. Your personal life is your own. But when conducting business—when on the clock, so to speak—portray yourself a businessperson. And I use the gender-neutral construction intentionally.”

You perch on the arm of the couch. “Won’t they still be wondering whether I’m a man or a woman?”

“Yes. But if you use correct grammar, do not curse and use vulgarity or crude expressions, and dress professionally, and if you prove that you know the business and demand to be respected and taken seriously, those questions of your gender will eventually cease being
as important. They’ll still whisper behind your back, of course, but if you demand it with your appearance and your behavior, they’ll be forced to treat you as an equal when it comes to business.”

“What about less formal situations where a suit isn’t appropriate?”

I shrug. “Tailored slacks, a tailored button-down, a men’s polo shirt in a size that fits snugly.”

You seem uncomfortable. “The problem there is when I wear tops that fit, my tits show.”

I keep a steady gaze. “So?”

“So, I don’t like it. They stare. Makes me feel like that girl in the dresses all over again.”

“So let them stare. If it bothers you that much, then bind them, or get a reduction. Wearing baggy clothes in a vain attempt to . . . not even really hide or disguise them, but—I don’t even know what the purpose of the baggy shirt is, to be honest.” I gesture at your shirt and then pause for a moment before starting over. “Whatever the case, it says you aren’t sure about who you are or what you want. Georgia, my point is, you’ve owned your sexuality, yes? You are a lesbian. Okay, well and good. But you haven’t owned your
body
. You have to decide if you’re comfortable with your body, with the fact that you are, very obviously, a woman. And a well-endowed one at that. I’m not saying dress like a woman. But don’t hide what you look like. That only confuses the issue and makes you seem insecure.”

A long silence. And then, “I
am
insecure.”

“And it shows.”

“So don’t hide them, but don’t highlight them. Just . . . let them be there?”

“Or do something about the fact that you aren’t comfortable with them.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“I’m sure it isn’t. I’m distilling a very complicated issue down to the absurdly simplistic.”

“Which ain’t—which
isn’t
exactly fair to me.”

“I’m not paid to be fair. I’m paid to get results. It’s not me who must do these things, so I have the luxury of stating things that are, clearly, more easily said than done.” I move to stand a few inches away from where you are still perched with a hip on the arm of the couch, one foot flat on the floor. “Confidence, Georgia. It’s what I tell my clients most frequently. Everyone is attracted to confidence. It’s about just enough arrogance and cocksureness to seem aloof, yet approachable. Caring about how you present yourself, caring what you look like, making sure you always look your best, behave above reproach, speak with authority, yet appearing as if you don’t care what others think about you. Confidence is sexy. True arrogance is not.”

“What about you, X? What are you attracted to?” Suddenly, the air is thick, and tense, and I am caught off guard.

I take a step back. “This isn’t about me.”

“Isn’t it? If I succeed at your little game, then shouldn’t you be affected by it?” You follow me, and now you are in my space.

Staring down at me. Eyeing me. Assessing me.

We’re of a height—flat-footed you would actually be an inch shorter than I am, but in those boots with the thick heel, we are even. Yet somehow you manage to look down at me. Your presence somehow captures that masculine energy of dominance, of heat, hardness. You are close, too close, nose to nose with me, green eyes blazing, seeing. Your hands go to my waist, clutch me. Pull me flat against you. Breasts smash against breasts. Hips mash against hips. Yet, despite the scent of your arousal in the air, in my nose, there is no thick ridge between us, no physical thickening of desire. It’s baffling. Disorienting. You exude masculine need. You hunger. Your
hands dig into my hips just so, and your eyes rake down from my eyes to my cleavage, and your lips tip up in an appreciative grin.

I am breathing hard. Gasping for air. Dragging deep lungfuls of oxygen, swelling my chest within my dress, and you notice. Your hips grind. Something in me sparks, flashes. Heats. The strange mix of your softness and hardness is alluring and disorienting. Your hip bones are hard against mine, yet there is softness, too, and when you grind again, I feel the spark once more, when your front rubs against mine.

I am still, tensed, rigid. Frozen. I do not know what to do. What is happening? What am I feeling? What are you doing?

What am
I
doing, letting this happen?

I shove away, stumble backward. “This . . . that isn’t appropriate, George—Georgia.”

You smirk. Swagger as you follow my retreat. “Ain’t so absurdly simplistic anymore, is it, X?”

“You signed a contract, Georgia.” I am reminding both of us, and you somehow know it.

“Ain’t none of us that simple, babe. You felt it. You felt
me
.”

“The contract, Georgia.”

You sneer. “Fuck the contract, X. You and your haughty pussy want me, X. You smell me, and you don’t like it. I
complicate
shit for you, don’t I?” You stand chest to chest with me again. My nipples betray me, go hard. I know you feel it. “You wet, X? All slippery for me? You know how good a dyke can make you feel? I know what you like, ’cause
I
like it, too. Just the same way. No guy can ever lick your pussy as good as I can. I know
just
how to make you squirm, make you want it and want it and want it, and not give it to you till it’s too fuckin’ much to take. I know, X. I
know
. You want a taste? Get a little dirty? Be a little bad?”

How did this happen? Where did this come from? One moment
we were discussing you, your appearance, everything was proper and in control and at least somewhat familiar. And then, suddenly, apropos of nothing,
this
. You, in my space, in my head, under my skin.

There is a gleam in your eye. Something . . . clever, and malicious. You know exactly what you are doing.