PERSUASION
Unlike other chapters in this book, which were written 25 years ago, this chapter is new and I have just started it couple days ago. I have no idea where I'm going with this chapter so stay tuned for how it develops.
Soon I will invite editors to join me in developing this chapter. I also welcome feedback from you, readers.
Let's have fun!
PERSUASION
What's wrong? David asked Marla. What's going on?
Nothing, said Marla, a cogitative look in her eyes. I'm fine.
No, you're not, and you need to stop saying that, David said. Marla could always hide anxiousness, and even control rage, but never the grief.
Marla turned around but David grabbed her by the shoulders, turning her around.
Where were you last night? Insisted David.
Marla tried hard to remember.
Davy had come and sat next to her at Cecconi’s Café in West Hollywood.
You really need to focus on things happening around you, Marla, David said ominously.
What?
You and Carla eventually have to work out your issues.
What issues? I'm issue-free.
Uh, based on my intensive research, it ain't so. You have an issue.
Carla?
According to my very reliable sources CarlaSinger is dating...
She's dating the Prince of Hollywood.
There's a Prince of Hollywood? Marla said with mocking innocence.
Uh-huh.
And, she's dating him? Oh, Thank God.
Now you can enjoy this gift she's offering you with a vainglorious mind. You get to be there and maybe Davy in the room, watching.
Oh gross, Carla said. Except we're siblings.
Marla always brought out the Devil in you. Part of me is a little disappointed she's not here now.
Gee, I wonder which part? The sick puppy part?
It's been a while since I saw the old Carla. The passionate Carla.
Oh, David, I had no idea you've felt like that about me?
Funny, but David is not here now.
Hey, I'm so sorry that I've been completely off the radar the past few weeks, said Marla somewhat playfully. Yes, Davy. You're here. With me. Sitting next to me in a booth at Cecconi's. She paused. It's been pretty overwhelming lately.
Yeah, I...I've been a little overwhelmed lately.
A split second after Davy left, Marla saw Carla walking toward her to where she sat.
Perplexed, Marla looked like she'd seen a ghost. The ghost of a previous life, love, torment and She felt heartsink, like a roll of paper crushing into a tight wad.
Jesus, Carla. What are you doing here?
Didn't Davy tell you I was coming? Haven't you missed me?
How could I not?
Okay...so, throwing a homecoming party is out of the question. I get it, but let's have a cocktail, catch up.
Marla just stared at her with emotionless, large blue eyes.
So, you're really gonna hurt my feelings. And you know how I get when my feelings are hurt.
Marla forced a smile, but then smoothed out not to look like she was giving in too easily.
Great. I'll catch you tonight, Carla said, her face lit up. It's so weird seeing you. It feels like I almost never left. Oh, well, I gotta get going...for now.
Carla smiled and turned around.
Marla watched her speeding her pace, her perfectly proportioned ass in a stressed, blue jeans, clearly and deservedly, in love with herself, toward the door and disappear into Sunset Boulevard.
Marla and Carla had never gotten along since they were young. Always venomous without provocation toward each other.
Later that night, they met at 1 OAK LA night club in West Hollywood on Sunset Boulevard. an Ethno Nightlife song by Christian Combs’ Swervin 16 played.
Club music has changed since the 90s techno music, said Carla in a loud voice.
Is this really the best place for us to talk? Marla asked over the loud music.
Remember when we were in Iceland? Carla said back over the loud music
Reykjavik, yeah.
Wait, wait...You left with that Polo Bear, uh, what was her name? Baldina, Greta? No, wait, wait! Loki!
Hera, corrected Marla.
Hera! That's right. It was the most hilarious ever that night.
I totally forgot about Reykjavik.
She was so big, Carla laughed. You felt like you were hanging from a branch when you put your arm around her.
Yeah, Marla chuckled. And you left with that fat Chef chick from the hotel.
I was wasted. Too many straight up Brennivin shots...Black Death, it was called. She kept ordering Black Death on her tab. She was trying to get me drunk. That shit was potent, and I needed flesh...Flesh was flesh...and she had lots of it. She was desperate and I was thirsty. After a dozen shorts of Black Death she looked like Beauty Queen. Fuck...The next morning she was a fat and ugly LGBT activist.
Hey, ladies, said one of the guys. Can, l, uh, get you guys another round?
Oh, no, we're good, said Marla.
Sure, Carla interjected cheerfully. Sorry, my Icelandic girlfriend drinks only Skyr Drykkur.
Huh?
It's yogurt. She's into vitamins and minerals. She thinks alcohol drinks lead to sex.
Oh. He looked at her like ‘duh! Aren't you bitches here for sex?’. There was no “Taken” at 1 OAK LA. You were either single, Broken Up, or a Taken Cheater, which all led to sex. Bitches who claimed that they were here for listening to music were just in denial. Your ass just doesn't happen to fall into 1 OAK LA because you're satisfied with your life. You were there because you were fucked up, unsatisfied, and lonely.
I'm sure your irrigation pipe has a lot of it and is ready to water her garden.
Now, we're talking, his face lit.
No, no, I wasn’t being rude, Marla cut in. I just didn't wanna take anything if I couldn’t offer anything in return.
We’d be happy with just one dance.
Desperate men, Marla thought. She hated desperate wankers.
THE WANKER
One of The Desperate Wankers was tied to her bed, now. He was naked and the black leather straps were so tight almost cut into his wrists. Still blasted from too many tequila shots and cocaine lines, (probably laced with Chinese fentanyl), his surroundings quaked and wobbled as he tried to lift his head up with wide eyes bouncing around the room, looking out the window, to see if it's night or morning, but he couldn't.
It was a dim, windowless room.
A basement? Thought The Wanker.
The Play Room was quite large, but like a cell, windowless, with mirrors on the walls and ceiling and a wooden floor. There was suspension equipment that consisted of a system of ropes and straps, but didn't look like the kind of a workout system, obviously for suspension and restraint of a body. There was a leather armchair and a circular leather bed, and above it hung a frightening array of gags, different types of restraining devices...leather straps, handcuffs and knives, all of varying sizes and shapes.
A ray of light came from a cracked door and hit the night table beside his head, revealing a small mirror with lines of cocaine on it.
The Wanker’s heart lost a few beats, feeling an elephant on his chest, his throat had collapsed, and he could feel his pulse in his eardrums.
This was what happened when it happened, his eyes showed. He was a victim, and what else could it be? He had seen enough TV to know what was happening. He was in Jeffrey Dahmer’s basement. Jeffrey had drugged him to be strangled. Oh, fuck! The wanker thought. Oh, yes. He had read all about it. Dahmer was going to strangle him with his hands before taking Polaroid pictures of the corpse in suggestive poses, then, dismembering his body in his bathroom, boiling his remains, dissolving them in a container of acid except for his skull, which would be kept in a cabinet alongside other skulls in a broken refrigerator. Wait! His mind raced. Neighbors! He could shout as loud as he could and, surely, his voice would be heard. Fuck! His voice was collapsed and the only way the fucking neighbors would find out him when they started complaining about the smell eminated from his corpse
a broken refrigerator. He tried to calm himself, thinking that he needed to get a conversation going. He had to make him, she, her, they, oh, fuck, (Fucking Wokes), realize that he, she, they. or whatever the fuck noun, had picked the wrong man, and that he wouldn't say anything if he, she, they. let him go...
The Wanker’s mind raced with guilt and regret, and even shame, promising himself that he was going to quit drugs and partying with strangers. No one night stands for him, he swore...if he could get out of this...fucking basement alive. He had been doing it for too long, and he spent too much money on drinks and pussies he couldn't get but only jerked off to in his lonely apartment.
He promised himself that he would go to more auditions instead; he would also get a job…No more fucking one-night girl! He would find a girl a man dated and cared for...but not marriage, of course; a girl who would support him in his acting career.
His arms were numb and sore too much, suddenly, realizing he had no idea where he was and how long he had been lying there when suddenly Carla startled his eyes in a noir, handmade, wetlook dress with vinyl cups. His pupils still dilated from last night's drink-blast in the club, he swallowed hard, his eyes opened a slit and a shock sizzled through him. Carla?
You're awake, Carla said, her voice, dulcet and pleasant to the ear, put a brief comfort on his mental anguish.
Carla was pretty, just as he remembered her from last night. Her long, abundant dark purple red hair now looked more luminous, even in the dim light, clung to her alluring naked shoulders. Her exuberant and lustered look made him immediately think he was in the presence of a sick individual.
He opened his mouth to speak but his voice was collapsed and constricted. Whatt-thee...heell is gooing oon? He slurred, trying to hold back nausea as a string of saliva ran down his chin.
He was game to try every dirty and dark fetish thing you could think of...but not this: not all tight up to a fucking bed with a crazy woman trying to...what? Rape him with a dildoe? Cut his cock off? Sure, he had butt plays before. He was pegged with a strap-on dildoe and tongue-wheeled anally by a couple of women, but he was dominant. He wasn’t homosexual. It was a prostate orgasm. Admittedly, he had doubt about his sexuality growing up when he thought he was gay. After all, he loved shoving objects up his butt in the shower and reaching intense waves of pleasure deep inside with a shuddering butt orgasm. However, years, even a whole decade later, he found out that it was nothing but stimulating the P-spot, which was surrounded by nerve endings that felt oh-so-mind-blowing-orgasm that propelled semen from the cock like a nature made Pure-Fusion-Weapon, shooting heavy isotopes when touched just right. Was it nature's curse or gift, he was still unsure, since he also found out that not everyone had that Pure-Fusion-Weapon. So, the P-spot was clearly a gift from nature! Or was it? The alcoholic gene was also nature's way of a gift filled with pleasure...and, of course, later a destruction.
She sat on the side of the bed, staring at his penis, her heart beating fast.
She slowly reached out and took hold of his warm and thick cock, then she cleared her throat and gave a wide smile, rolling her eyes. Not that I'm complaining...Dr. Gilmore called in sick and here I am. The most caring and generous Dr Carla Cunliffe. She took a deep sigh and went on. Um, some say, especially my psychiatrist, Mr Harowitz, that I am possessive and manipulative. Maybe he was right.
She squeezed his cock gently and felt it stiffen, starting to rise as she stroked it back and forth. She leaned forward and took the cock into her mouth; sucking it tentatively, she felt it swell and get stiffer.
She paused and put her hand between her thighs, pulling her underwear down as she massaged the erect penis.
She tried to breathe quickly as she climbed on top of him and straddled his chest, her perky breasts swung over face, and suddenly hypnosis took over him. He was into boobs, or Chesticles as he called them. He liked them sprightly A-cup tater tots, baseball size catchers. He remembered once in his Greek History class seeing a painting depicting Greek Mythology paintings. Rubens’ The Judgment Of Paris (the fairest of three goddesses – Juno (Hera in the Greek version), Venus (Aphrodite) and Minerva (Athena) –receiving a golden apple) made his heart miss a beat.
The Wanker was in his early 30s, with a symbol of strength and well defined, chiseled but not bottom-heavy, jawlines, were seamless; he was a slim and average good-looking man with an almost hairless face, which could be very desirable for women who were into pretty boys. She was into blue-eyed, blond-haired boys. She loved Brad Pitt and Christiano Rinaldo came to mind, although she was more a fan of Matt Damon-Face; less accentuated and more harmonious with the rest of his face.
But, she also knew, regardless of the chin shape, a beautiful healthy skin was essential when it came to facial features. Davy was a prime example. She loved Davy’s face. Almost all women loved Davy’s face. Davy was like a classical sculpture concept depicted by the likes of Michelangelo and Antonio Canova who promoted love and tenderness; cherubic features, not overly well-endowed which belonged to more primal and barbaric characteristics.
She leaned closer as her breasts swung over his face, dragging her cold knuckles over his hot face and plunged her tongue into his mouth