The Last Place She'd Look (8 page)
Read The Last Place She'd Look Online
Authors: Arlene Schindler
Later that evening, I went to see Julia appearing as a lingerie model in a National Association of Fat Americans (NAFA) fashion show.
Bright lights, flash bulbs, lightning bolts of frenetic energy filled the room. A packed house with enthusiastic men and women eagerly watched the models take the runway stage. Each voluptuous vixen, more provocative, happy, and steamily sexy than the last, fearlessly strutted the runway in skimpy, lacy undergarments. The crowd cheered as if each had scored a touchdown at a football game. Every beautiful model, her double-D's jiggling as she strode, gloriously feminine, was a glamorous waterfall of fleshy female pride. Screw you, Kate Moss! Victoria, this was the real secret. These were womanly women, in corsets and garter belts, all smoking with mature sexuality, while all of your boy-shorts-wearing girls were really stick-figured pseudo-boys, gussying up for immature man-children.
Julia, her megawatt smile, was striding down the catwalk, her buoyant breasts bobbing in a pink teddy and peignoir. I applauded loudly, cheering. She eyed me, flipped her hair back, and winked. I watched the predominantly male audience, men of different ages, sizes, and shapes, smoldering with sexual heat and desire— hot for these women in these outfits — or out of them— as soon as possible.
For the show's finale, the plus-sized models arrived in a line, all in floor length black silk robes. They opened the robes, revealing a variety of black lace panties and bras. Then they all removed their robes simultaneously, took their bows, and strode off the stage, dragging their robes behind them, a cavalcade of femme fatales, victoriously marching back to the wonderland of Amazon princesses.
Later that evening over martinis, I asked Julia, “You enjoy strutting on a stage in your underwear?”
“All those eyes on me,” she cooed, sipping her drink. “It's a fabulous feeling.” Dressed in black pants, jacket, a silk bustier with baby pink accents and white lace trim and still in full make-up, hair curled and bouffant, she was as sexy as any movie star.
“And the men cheer!” she smiled. “I was tingling from the admiration.”
“I wouldn't have the guts, or the breasts.” I ate the olive from my martini.
“It's knowing your audience. Every woman has something about her that's beautiful,” she said.
“And this audience tonight? Who are these men?”
“Men who appreciate big, beautiful women,” said Julia. “Some are overweight, but most are slim or bodybuilders who get turned on by a fleshy form.”
“You see yourself as a fleshy form?” I was surprised.
“There's a goddess inside this vessel! I see myself as lovable, desirable, and silky to the touch.” Julia threw her head back and laughed. We clinked glasses. “You should see yourself that way, too. I can get laid whenever I want.”
“And who were you with last?” I inquired.
“While I was waiting for this guy from
Craigslist
to call me back, I met a woman at the
Outfest Film Festival.
” She adds, “We're both Ida Lupino fans.”
“I wish I could be gender-flexible,” I sighed.
“I think you already are. You just need to loosen up a bit. When you see a woman you find attractive, just say 'hello.'” Julia smiled, stroked my arm, and downed the rest of her drink.
I admired Julia's confidence, and the way she dressed and carried herself, —quite a provocative package. No wonder she always had a devotee when she wanted one. Could I, a goofy ex-gamine who barely fills an A-cup, find a roster of receptive lovers, too?
“Hello is a brave word right now. I'm feeling invisible in the real world, rejected in the writing world, and without mojo or a live body in Diana's world,” I blurted the second Julia put her empty glass down.
“Diana can be a steamroller, Sara. Don't let her get you down,” soothed Julia.
“She doesn't get me down. She just flaunts her sexuality in such a way that I feel like I'm a different species.”
“You are, dear,” Julia replied, “And that's okay. I'll make you feel better about yourself. Remember, I'm your have-a-good-time, get-a-sex-life sponsor. Friday night I'm taking you to a party … a dungeons-and-fantasy party.”
“Wasn't that a geek-boy computer game?” I asked.
Julia laughed. “You're thinking Dungeons and Dragons.”
“What do you wear to a dungeons-and-fantasy party?”
“I'm wearing black leather pants and a bustier,” said Julia.
I gulped. “If I had your body, I'd wear one, too. You wear a bustier out in the world more than anyone I know.”
“Everyone should flaunt their assets,” Julia said. “For me it's tits. For you, it's wits.”
“Okay. I'll polish my wits and see you Friday.”
Friday night, Julia's dusty Corolla was outside my house at 9 p.m. I slid into her car wearing all black: pants, a long jacket, and a simple, sheer tank top. Julia was in her high-cleavaged glory, with full make-up and lips glossed like a soap opera actress on Univision.
“Are you ready for a fantasy evening?” she asked in a mock Ricardo Montalban accent. We drove for almost an hour, out near the airport, where all the buildings housed U-Hauls, rental cars, or storage units. There was a nondescript, dimly lit building where cars were lining up. “That's it. That's the place.”
We parked. The couple walking alongside us looked like corporate office workers who'd arrived straight from their jobs (except for the fact that he had a leather dog collar around his neck and she was holding the chain, walking him to the club). At the doorway stood a woman who looked like Vampira and another dressed in a Catholic school girl's uniform with a thigh-high red plaid skirt.
I exhaled as we entered, thinking I'd be the squarest, most uptight woman there. We were escorted down a long entrance hall by a security hostess dressed in a slinky black jumpsuit á là James Bond's girlfriend. Another door opened … into the party.
Some party. A cavernous room that was probably a storage facility during daylight hours, with décor resembling a church basement. Wood-paneled walls provided a backdrop for cheap folding chairs, card tables, and a bar that was merely two tables covered by a paper cloth and offering beers and hard liquor.
Every former 6th-grade geek, freak, misfit, and outsider was dressed up in their best fetish finery. Men were either emaciated or rotund—and leering, more than looking, at the women.
Yes, the women. Where do you shop for freak-show clothes like these? There were two platinum blondes with identical short, spiky haircuts wearing matching black leather mini-skirts and shiny red patent-leather bustiers, pushing basketball-sized breasts skyward. They took turns sitting on each other's laps while they alternately kissed and warmly greeted everyone who sat at their table. Body piercings were everywhere. The most beautiful women in the room were transvestites.
I learned that latex brings out the best curves in everyone. I scoped out the patrons as my eyes ricocheted around the room. The cornucopia of couples was mesmerizing. It was like a car accident – I couldn't look away, repulsed and attracted all at once. The air was heavy with smarmy sexuality.
Feeling like a sexual tourist, I was reminded of the bar I'd visited with Beth. If the gay bar was Paris, this was Amsterdam. Then I found the roadmap for our vacation from “sex as we've known it.” I picked up a brochure from a stack on the corner of the card table and read:
“Club DV8 has the nation's largest, most elegant, and best-equipped dungeon
. (I'd hate to think we were going to an inferior dungeon; you know how dungeons can be.)
Fully air-conditioned and heated, cleaned daily
(let's hope so),
and filled with state-of-the-art equipment.
(It's so bothersome to use 20th century flogging equipment.)
We have a total of seven complete theme rooms and dungeons in 7,000 square feet plus a 2,500-square-foot social area complete with stage and lighting. Bondage, Spanking, Slave Training
, (what's graduation like?)
, Tickling, Role Playing, Wax, Fire & Ice, Foot Worship, Electrical Play, Role Play, Wrestling, Feminization, English Caning
(I don't think that's chair-making.),
Domestic Discipline, Nipple Torture, Suspensions, Flogging, and so much more.”
(What's left, fondue frolic?)
I tried not to stare as we ventured to theme rooms where people engaged in their role-playing pleasures. Voyeurism was highly encouraged and seemed to be the preference of the gaggle of geek boys who arrived without female companionship. In one room, I counted 35 people watching as a man was shackled to a wooden stake and then flogged by the woman who'd accompanied him.
I was intrigued, repulsed, and mesmerized by the circus of scenarios that seemed more theatrical than sexual. I got a weird thrill out of being this close to couples touching and sharing licentious energy, making me feel that I was having a second-hand sexual moment, anonymous and in a small crowd. It felt like watching the making of a porno film.
Excited and uneasy, I held on to Julia's arm as we walked from one “theme room” to another, an X-rated Disneyland. Others walked past us, smiling and eyeing Julia as if she were alone. Meanwhile, she and I found all seven rooms: a classroom with old school wooden desks where students were bent over their desks while teachers spanked them with rulers. Next, a boudoir filled with large-size evening gowns, where three large men were whooping it up, laughing, and admiring themselves in Mae West style, the belles of the 1890s-style gowns, each exclaiming over the other's necklaces and feather boas. Another room with a rack and various shackles was very crowded. We perched on the side of a leather massage table and watched couples spank one another. Some brought their own toys and a bag of tricks. Others borrowed from the selection we'd seen in the “goody room” on our way in.
Watching the pain and pleasure at first was titillating. But with each repetitive slap and every tightening turn of the rack and subsequent flogging, the thrilling sensation dulled; Julia and I both started squirming, itching to move on. Before we left, we stopped in one more room where everyone was wearing nothing but Saran Wrap; it was the spanking room.
That room got Julia and me thinking. A 30-year-old man was lying face-down on a table, wearing nothing but a diaper. A woman was spanking him; first hard slaps, then soft, then a gentle rub, like a schizophrenic mother. She looked bored. She was obviously paid to do this on an hourly basis. How did I know? This dominatrix was not young, or beautiful, or dressed in a bustier. She was over 50, overweight, and dressed like somebody's dowdy mom.
Finally we saw our demographic: the invisible, mid-life woman. She was here making a living, helping man-children live out their fantasies! “Mommy porn?” I asked Julia, suppressing a giggle. Then, right outside the room, we saw this sign:
Do you want to work in a clean, safe, and 'drama- free' atmosphere? We welcome top-quality dommes with experience. Also, professional switches with experience, and submissives, no experience necessary. Cash paid daily, great working conditions, make your own hours. Here is an opportunity to work in one of the great Dungeons of the World.
“I'd like a drama-free work environment, wouldn't you?” I said, snarkily.
“With your schedule, you could fit in a few spankings a week,” she laughed.
“So, you're encouraging me to apply for this?” I questioned, hesitant, although it could open the door for many article ideas as well as expand my sexual imagination in a dark, disturbing way.
“Oh, yes, definitely!” said Julia. “You could probably write about it for your self-help articles. Women's magazines always clamor for articles on sexual specialties. Besides, you can earn $150 an hour.”
“Do you know how many beauty tips and hair care hints I have to wax poetic about for $150? I'm writing down the number,” I remarked, excitedly. For that rate, working in a dungeon seemed like a spanking good opportunity. Plus, it had the fantasy I could spin into smut stories for high-paying men's magazines. I could postpone thinking about my own sexual dilemmas and focus on my clients.
By the end of the evening, we were experts on the
Dom Den
experience. People were aroused, but never really had sex, as the exchange of fluids was prohibited. They enjoyed the exhibitionism, the voyeurism, and the pain. As I continued to watch, I told myself that I was merely studying up for my job interview (and future articles). Dominatrix for one of the great dungeons of the world. Yeah, that would look good on my résumé.
“Please don't let me have a hot flash today. I hope I don't have a hot flash today,” I prayed into the mirror, reapplying mascara for my dominatrix interview. I thought I'd check this out—as a lark, of course—but I really needed the money. My writing career was becoming unreliable. I enjoyed eating on a regular basis, but hated living on the financial edge. I also wanted this job for the adventure factor that I could parlay into new magazine articles. I drove to the DV8 building where Julia and I had explored the world of dungeons.
At five o'clock in the afternoon, there were only three cars in the parking lot. Otherwise, the windowless building looked either closed or abandoned. I found the entrance and rang the doorbell. A very short Mexican man with a gold hoop earring answered the door. He led me down a hallway to a small dark office. As we walked, I said to myself,
“Welcome to Fantasy Island.”
Arriving at the dark office, he ushered me in, then disappeared like a genie going back into a lamp. There was a simple black desk, four rickety office chairs, and a Styrofoam cup with bite marks on it sitting on the side of the desk. I was greeted by two women who looked like the mother and daughter from an
Ivory Snow
soap commercial gone bad. They resembled one another, both with overgrown bangs and oxidized blonde hair from the exact same bottle.
