My Kingdom For Your Story

I am standing on an elderly man. To be more precise: I am wearing six-inch stilettos, digging my heels into a seventy-year-old man’s nipples. He gave me twenty bucks and a glass of wine, with instructions to sip casually for the next ten minutes, carry on just as any woman in Manhattan who is not standing on an old man would carry on.

The fetish party has lured a mixed bag of aficionados to this sleek bar lounge, with its crème leather couches and mirror walls. Men suck on our feet. A loogie is hocked, then "Swallow!"

My old man’s diaphragm throws out sounds that make me picture an octopus strangling an accordion. He squirms for more but I hold back, leaning on the bar. Our wobbling tower of debacle bemuses me: just a month ago I was the kind of woman you brought home to mom. Now I wear clear heels and fake eyelashes. The money is good.

I’m in New York City to investigate my own erotic glitches, become a stripper, and write a novel about the sex industry. I’m a tender-footed rookie, naïve to the art of the tease. Modeling for fetish parties is a crash course in power and fantasy. Plus it gives my low back a break from erosive nights of pole and lap dancing.

I worry my full weight might puncture his lung. “What’s the problem?” the old man huffs. Is he testing to see how well I can ignore him? His face already looks like it’s hemorrhaging.

“More… pressure! Please!” Each word tense as a snapping knot. Give him what he paid for! I stand up straight. I bounce, rock, grind, mash. His tissue melts under my heels. When our session ends, I step down and help the old man up. He clutches his chest in a coughing fit. I put my trembling hand on his, ready to call an ambulance. “Are you hurt?”

He grins, “Hurt so good.” We park on some barstools. “Do you have any fetishes of your own?” I mention fantasies about aliens, robots and octopi. He squints but says nothing; I feel judged, or rejected, or both. I ask,

“How did you get into trampling?” Most clients welcome a chance to tell their story. We are as sick as our secrets in a taboo hospice.

“I was born bent. Even as I kid I fantasized about women crushing me. For years my wife stood on me, until she announced it was perverted.” His face sinks, maybe from his bruised ribs, maybe from older wounds. Calling someone with a fetish a pervert is like calling a homosexual a sinner.

We are quiet.

“Anyways, you did great. Next time dig in harder. You’ll fit right in once you lose the fear of hurting someone.”