As She’s Told

The flotsam on the front desk didn’t need any more rearranging. I’d done that three times already, with hands more tense and jittery by the second.

Each impatient tick of the clock nudged me; I wanted to heed the exit sign’s word of command and get out the door. At last my colleague of the afternoon shift arrived to relieve me. Dear Vera. Five minutes late, again.

Before her coat was off I had her filled in: assorted information requests, a new student coming in at three, and that shipment of energy-saver kits only half processed. I hoped she’d put my breathlessness down to irritation. If she did, there was no flicker of an apology; there never was. She just nodded her imperturbable head and went to hang up her coat. I struggled a little awkwardly into my boots, straightened, took a couple of much-needed breaths and flung my coat on. Then I was through the door; under the clock and exit sign and into the snowy street.

The sun was glittering on patches of brilliant white on the roofs and windowsills. The snow at street level was the colour of car exhaust. It was ten after one and the temperature had inched above freezing. I just avoided a wet attack from the tree branches above me. Later the sidewalks would be pure ice. Not my problem.

I heard the streetcar before I saw it – that unmistakable metallic roar accelerating through the traffic noise – and cursed under my breath. The spreading puddles around the curb were ankle-deep. No time for circumnavigation; I splashed through regardless.

Luckily the light turned red and caught the streetcar for me. I searched with a little edge of panic for my token, the one thing in my possession resembling money. Oh, I couldn’t have lost it…no… Then I felt it, wedged into the furthest corner of my pocket, and the red tide receded. At that time of day there were empty seats; I perched on one with care, trying to pant quietly. My ribs strained against tight bands, leather pressing into my flesh.

But I wouldn’t be late.

Research questions and collegial irritation trailed after me for a block or two, and then fell behind in the slush of the streetcar’s wake. My covert body inventory took over instead: a check on each hidden place held captive. Held as if by hard, untiring, single-minded hands. The heat under my usual simmer turned up a notch, and then another. I sat quietly, looked out the window and hoped for the hundredth time that no one on the streetcar could read minds. The three blocks from the streetcar stop had to be taken more easily; I didn’t want to be sweating when I walked through the door. Traffic noise receded behind me; I threaded through quiet residential sidewalks, between snow neatly piled or left in slushy ridges, past the driveway and up the walk. I let myself in, and closed the door behind me. Then I sank to my knees.

***

Anders got into his pickup. In the house behind him was a deconstructed kitchen, half a truckload of cabinetwork, and his crew sprawled on tile boxes, eating their lunch with the radio cranked to Q-1-0-Zeppelin. He pulled his laptop out from under the passenger seat and booted it up, angling it so that passers-by couldn’t see the screen. Sandwich in one hand, he pressed some keys with the other, stroked the mouse, and made a careful check on his property. The phone on his belt bleeped.

‘Thygesen,’ he said.

‘Hey big brother!’

‘Hey Svend! Are you back? How was Greece?’

‘Really good. Fantastic, actually. Invite me to dinner and I’ll tell all. The guy who sublet left the place in a nightmare – ‘

‘Let me take you out. You want Italian?’

‘Ugh, no, I’m sick of restaurants. Haven’t you got some new dishes to try out on me? Or this new girlfriend of yours, does she cook?’

‘Um – no, actually.’ Anders looked at the figure on the screen, retreating out of range. He switched to a different image, and watched her breasts framed between her arms as she passed through a doorway into brighter light. ‘Svend – not tonight.’

‘Oh, come on. I’ll even do the shopping. Don’t you want to show me this house of yours?’

‘There’s something I’m going to have to explain before you come over.’

‘What? What’s wrong?’

‘Nothing’s wrong; it’s just –’

‘Wait a minute…. Something tells me…. You kinky degenerate, you got lucky, didn’t you?’

A few minutes later Anders put the phone away, his eyes never leaving the screen. Dinner out with his brother meant more time alone for his little beauty. He would have just time to feed her and take a shower. He pictured her disappointed face, and he smiled.

***

The two brothers sat in a Chinese restaurant on Spadina, melted slush from their boots converging on the linoleum between their feet. Even sitting down they looked big: four long forearms taking up space alongside the teapot and little ceramic cups. The browner arms were Svend’s; Anders’ were the more corded, with the small scrapes and abrasions of harder usage. They spoke low, the two long heads inclined together, switching to Danish whenever the waiter brought them another dish.

‘Okay,’ Svend said over his plate, ‘Why can’t I see her? Where is she?’

‘Where do you think she is?’

‘Oh, you’re kidding! Really, she’s locked up there?’

Anders nodded.

‘And she likes it?’

‘What do you take me for?’

Svend snickered. ‘Demented.’ Then he raised his palms against his brother’s prickly glare, his blue eyes wide. ‘But ethically demented! Truly!’

‘Damned straight.’

Svend thrust chopsticks into a dumpling and dipped it in Hoisin sauce.

‘How did you find her?’

Anders swirled his tea, sipped. ‘At a kind of party, you know, quite a tame get-together – no, actually, first I met her on a chat line.’

‘I thought you’d given up on those.’

Anders’ mouth twitched. ‘Not quite.’

‘You said they were depressing.’

‘Hell, yes. I couldn’t sit through much of it at one go. I kept quitting and going back. But I needed some contact – some kind of chance.’ Anders shovelled rice onto his plate. ‘Good thing I did, as it turned out. But, yes, it could be depressing. Boring too. Assholes posturing, playing games; same lines over and over. Brutal, stupid.’

Svend raised his eyebrows. ‘You surprise me.’ He dipped another dumpling, eyeing his brother. ‘Not about the chats; I mean you. Suffering fools. Gladly or any other way.’

Anders shrugged. ‘Any amount of dross can be worth sifting. Depends what you’re after. And how much you want it.’ He finished piling his plate and picked up his chopsticks.

***

It had been so precociously warm, that night just barely into spring, that windows all over the city were cracked open to the air for the first time in half a year. Grimy snow still clung, its dug-in claws trickling away into the faded tufts of last year’s grass.

The smell of thawing soil brushed past Anders on its way into the unfinished room. Apart from the lit windows of neighbours and the glow of streetlights, the only light came from the computer screen in front of him. It was propped on a wooden box so as to be at eye level. The words on the screen scrolled in jerks and fits and starts: multicoloured words, a babble, a torrent of words. Anders slumped back, one long leg propped on the desk, and watched the screen from under half closed lids, eyes shifting from one chat room to another; he had four of them going. None interested him.

Three were talking about nothing in particular. One was going through a reiteration of the communication theme.

<julieB> Master and i talk all the time – otherwise how would he know?

<Mikesgirl> did the playlist and he knows what i wont do.

<julieB> and what you like right?

<Mikesgirl> yeah yeah yeah!!! rofl

Anders sighed.

<shadow> but doesn’t that spoil it?

The light eyes flicked wide, and followed now as the lines scrolled.

<julieB> suede flogger mmmm

<Tremain> what do you like Mikesgirl?

* IzatU has joined d/sTO

<IzatU> hi all

<Mikesgirl> Izzy!! <hugs>

No answer for shadow. Anders’ foot came down off the desk, and he closed the other windows. He could just remember the name from other nights, never saying much. His hands went to the keyboard, and words appeared next to his nick.

<Joachim> shadow, what do you mean? spoil it?

There were fourteen people in the group and eight of them greeted IzatU

and were greeted by him in return. Anders’ grip on the edge of the desk slowly tightened. In the middle of the mêlée came another line.

<shadow> Joachim, I mean if a sub chooses that means control.

contradiction in terms.

Words scrolled while he typed his answer. He looked up as he pressed

‘enter’ and saw

<julieB> shadow how else can a sub get needs met? Fantasy is one thing, reality somthin els

<Mikesgirl> hon subs do have control probly more than doms

<Tremain> what do you like shad

<Joachim> shadow you mean subs don’t have control, or shouldn’t?

He waited as the lines flicked and scrolled.

<shadow> I know julie. but for me it’s a contradiction. If I say what I want then it’s me in charge. And then there’s no point at all. Joachim, subs in general can do what they think best. I can only speak for myself.

The display suddenly jerked at lightning speed:

*avival has left d/sTO

*julieB has left d/sTO

*Tremain has left d/sTO

*SirTheo has left d/sTO

*Mikesgirl has left d/sTO…

And so on, until only his own nick and shadow’s and two others were left on the screen. A netsplit; the fabric of the network got tears in it sometimes. Probably not long before it was repaired and the group rejoined itself.

Anders had barely allowed himself to wish for a private chat – it was way too soon – troll city. But it seemed the netgods were with him. He typed fast before they changed their minds.

<Joachim> shadow, it’s a contradiction I haven’t figured out myself.

<shadow> the party line doesn’t work for you either?

<Joachim> no

<shadow> why not?

<Joachim> I need control, real, unequivocal. if I have to negotiate, if the sub can pick and choose it’s what you said – no point.

<shadow> games. they call it real life

<Joachim> yes. Games is it exactly. I don’t want to play.

<shadow> neither do I

<Joachim> But would you want to be with someone that didn’t take your needs into account?

<shadow> yes and no. What if what I need is not to have control?

<Joachim> yes. dangerous for you, though.

<shadow> I know. scary.

<Joachim> and then assuming the dom is sane, how real can his control be when the slave can walk out if she feels like it?

<shadow> I really, really wish I knew the answer to that question. That choice just guts the whole thing.

<Joachim> some ideas, but it would take time

*halley2 has left d/sTO

*shadow has left d/sTO

*one4all has left d/sTO

Anders looked up from the keyboard, stared at the screen and uttered a string of Danish curses. ‘Joachim’ was alone on the list. He waited, staring at the screen. He searched IRC for an hour for shadow. Gone. He went back  the next night, and the next. She wasn’t there.

***

I was almost finished with my final year when it all began, living alone in a little apartment in a house in the west end of downtown. Two rooms on the second floor, hot and dry in winter and hotter in summer, a bit of a dump. But lucky to have a place of my own at all. I’d had it with chaotic shared houses, stumbling over someone’s latest hookup roaming the halls, total strangers sharing my breakfast table. Having to hide my towel so no one else used it to mop the floor, or worse.

And I needed privacy. It was hard enough acting normal at school. Even harder to keep body and mind concealed in a house full of raucous extroverts. I spent half my life on the net; well, who didn’t? But I was always on edge in case someone curious walked in.

The chats got me nowhere, and neither did ICQ, or mailing lists, either before or after I moved. Guys trolling, trying to talk me into cyber scenes.

One total stranger after another telling me he was my master and ordering me to suck his cyber cock. No thank you. I got mad, then I thought that my little bits of communication might be putting out the wrong signals, so I shut up. Mostly I lurked. There seemed to be no one like me, which would have been at least reassuring, or like my opposite, which was, let’s face it, the holy grail. Bits I could relate to here and there, enough to get me excited, but never the whole package all in the same place. I hung on, put one foot in front of the other, directed my own performance, no matter how stupid and wrong it felt. Took what care I could of the body that continued, depressingly, my own. I felt attached to the world in only the most tentative ways – mostly polite surfaces, no anchors. Even on the net, where my most intense realities were, I hovered at the edges, always ready to run for the hills.

And then one night someone understood me. It felt like a bell ringing –

a good solid gong. He knew what I was talking about, and he didn’t have the answers, but at least he had the same questions. We had maybe five minutes.

And then the net went down and he was gone. My program tried its multiple servers and still couldn’t get back on. I sat there watching it fail over and over. At last I took it as a sign that I had better finish the paper that was due the next day, and then I had two days – and half of two nights – to finish work on my database. My least favourite part of the entire Information Studies curriculum. I had never had such a hard time concentrating, and keeping my mouse off the mIRC button.

But maybe that’s not all the truth. I could have had just a peek, especially on Friday night after I sent the thing in. But I did other things, like sleep. I’m not sure what I was scared of. That he wouldn’t be there? That he would? Probably he wouldn’t live up to that initial flash of insight. Of course he wouldn’t. That would be asking too much of anyone’s life, especially mine.