"Tell me what you desire most.""Do you have all night? I desire a lot of things."
"As do I. But every list begins with one thing. That thing, or desire, is usually the most important."
Sweety held the phone to her ear the way she would have held his hand to her cheek.
"A man’s touch."
"I see," he said thoughtfully. "That's interesting. Tell me, Sweety, would you say you are suffering from skin hunger?"
"I never thought about it that way, but yes, I would say that."
"What terrifies you the most?"
"Drowning. I can’t swim and almost drowned when I was little."
Raymond, "Papi," took some time before replying. Sweety knew he was contemplating something profound, everything he said seemed like it belonged in a text book.
She had discovered his blog Mind Factor two weeks earlier and was immediately intrigued at his eloquence and intelligence in his latest post in which he described the often taboo relationship between fear and eroticism. She left a comment and the link to her own blog, Loserville, Population: Me. Papi visited her blog and over the course of several days generously left detailed replies to all 75 posts.This was her fourth consecutive night of intense phone communication with him. During that short time, he had managed to coax experiences and personal admissions from Sweety that she dared only repeat to herself.
Finally he said “I know what you need. For the two extremes to collide--can you imagine what that would do to your senses? To fear your surroundings, but to squirm in pleasure beneath the hands that confine you there." And that's when he started to tell her about a special underworld he governed, complete with clients and a collage of "wishmasters" who served those clients' needs.
The incoming laughter that pierced the silence of the ladies room prompted Sweety to flush the toilet she'd been sitting on for the past half hour. She hadn't come in there to relieve herself, only to think; but the intruder didn't know that and would expect to hear a flush after hearing someone lift themselves off of the squeaky toilet lid. Sweety took her time until the person was securely locked into a stall, then emerged, washed her hands and returned to her cubicle.
The work day was nearing its end and though her physical presence had interacted with coworkers, sat through two production meetings, responded to and initiated over twenty-five e-mails, edited a 7500 word newsletter, ate lunch, and refilled her coffee mug several times—her mind had entertained nothing but thoughts of Papi, and the phone call from his "woman." That liar. Perhaps she was a naive fool who he had charmed into believing was his one and only. If the woman knew anything about his Terror and Pleasure network, she'd know better than to fool herself. Her number was still in his phone after all this time, it made no sense. Papi surely knew hundreds of adventurous women, probably thousands. Why would he keep the contact information of an overweight bookworm who as he put it "didn't know how to let herself go"?
As coworkers passed her desk and said their goodnights and see you tomorrows, it occurred to Sweety for the first time that the "Anonymous" commenter who would leave a creepy haiku on her blog at least once a week could actually be Mr. Carter himself. She had blocked out so much that she never connected the two.
She realized now that the reason she hadn't gotten over what happened wasn't because of it slipping her mind because of it insignificance. Her memory had been disrupted. The night a ski-masked Papi and one of his wishmasters made her fear and desire collide was far too frightening...and pleasurable to not have affected something.
And now, the gates had been unlocked. But why?
Because it's not completely done and over with yet. There is still some unfinished business to attend to. :o
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