Chapter 14: The Esoteric Allure of Humiliation

It probably won’t surprise anyone that I wake up in stark terror on Tuesday morning. Everything I’d done on Monday — the balloon prank, getting Brenda off, accidentally eating Molly out, getting stripped on stage, letting Roach steal the planned marks, tricking Livia, fucking Livia, passing her around the crowd, pulling Molly into the carnal havoc — seemed brilliant at the time. I don’t do drugs, but I wonder if somehow my confidence training memetics didn’t make me feel invincible in much the same stupid way that PCP makes its users feel.

At the very least, Monday’s narrative doesn’t play nearly as well in my mind on Tuesday morning as it had while living through it. I find I can make a sick game out of it: compile a list of the top ten things I did yesterday that could permanently fuck up my job, my relationship with Livia or my legal standing. And I sit there, in bed, eyes open, ruminating on that.

After my campy, melodramatic closing statement at the Cancer Escalation, I honestly don’t remember too much. Livia and I escaped with Molly. We separated from her at some point. We ran around and hid. Mimi picked us up in Scarlet, and drove us back — not, I can see, to our hotel or the Beast, but to some different, cheap, flea-bitten motel on the outskirts. I think the two of us were a bit high, for lack of a better term, on endorphins. I remember us giggling a lot. I remember Mimi being irate, but I’m not sure why. I think the two of us crashed out early, maybe around nine PM. It’s clearly daytime now, though — so we (or at least I) have slept nearly twelve hours. I guess that makes sense, after ... everything.

Livia steps into my room in bra and panties. For once I don’t care if or how see-through they may be. “Look at me,” she says.

I look, and my world shatters. Livia holds up her arms and turns slowly around, showing me. Her body is covered with bruises. There’s the bite mark on her ass, along with a slight red handprint. She stumbles slightly, her muscles weak. A cold, white-hot rage rises up in my heart then, the kind of pure blazing anger men feel when they see the body of a woman they care about bruised and battered. Then I remember why she looks like that and the anger bursts like a balloon, leaving me in freefall into a ravening abyss of despair and self-hatred. I close my eyes and just freeze. After a little while my stomach knots and I just put conscious effort into not puking.

“Marc? Babe? Is something wrong?”

Her tone ... isn’t accusatory. “I’m so sorry,” I say.

“For what?” she asks.

I can read women, as you well know. Really good at it. I’m just ... not doing it, because I’m too caught up in my own churning emotions to think of it. But her question jostles me. I ... just can not parse her. “Livia?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“What are you feeling?”

“Pretty sore, honestly.”

“No. I mean. Tell me what you’re feeling right now, emotionally. Please.”

She seems to get my desperation. “Um. Ok.”

Livia takes a moment to think. In this time, I notice how ... airy and energetic her tone is. She seems more ... childlike than the usual in-control, sultry game-player I know. “Amused, I guess, and a bit proud. I was just looking at all these different bruises I have. It’s ... tropey? Is that even a word? I mean, I’ve read so many kinky novels where the protagonist and her dude do something rough, and then she wakes up in the morning with bruises and feels all shameful and shit. It always struck me as hackneyed writing. The first scene where the protag does something transgressive will be really hot, and then you have to skim the long indecisive bits to get to the part where this dumb bint finally embraces her inner kink and gets really dirty with the dude.

“I’ve never actually woken up with kinky bruises before, though, and doing so ... amused me. It’s ... not something that happens in real life. It goes in the same headspace as fighting a dragon, piloting a starship or robbing a bank holdup-style. Because cliches are both silly and hot. And then I looked at them, and I felt ... proud, I guess. Like a new watermark in my sexual adventuring. It makes me feel ... dirty, I guess, in a really good way. Like when I had your cum on my face. It just made me look so ... scandalous, so amazingly naughty. Like I was thirteen again and just figured out how a girl can make use of a cucumber. I almost want to go get myself off again, but I actually am really sore, and still feel kind of spent. I guess. Is that what you wanted?”

I’m not listening to her as well as I should be. I try to say the most obvious thing to patch things up. “It won’t happen again. Ever. I swear.”

It’s only when I see disappointment crush the odd enthusiasm on her face that it really sets in how much I’ve misread the situation by not reading her.

“I’m not really selfish,” she says. “I mean, I know how much effort you put in to last night, both with the waiting and the ... everything. I’m ... I get accused of being a selfish lover. Sometimes it’s fair. It blew up my first relationship before the Trips, and I’ve heard it from Mimi on occasion. And it’s usually a fair criticism. But I’m also, I mean ... I realize that. I’m willing to put just as much effort into figuring out your fantasies as you put into mine.”

“You don’t have to do that,” I say. “Like. Literally, I’m a pickup artist. I figure out what women want and give it to them. It’s something I enjoy doing. The only think I want in return is sex — and I got that. I ... didn’t mean what I said that way. We’re ... not communicating well. I’m in a weird mood.”

It suddenly clicks for her. “Oh my god, Marc! Are you doing the bullshit ashamed protag thing I just lampooned? Seriously? Because ... this is real life and I can’t just skim chapters, so that would suck. Um. And I don’t want you to feel bummed and stuff, because I am a kind and sensitive soul that cares about her lovers and doesn’t like it when they feel bad. Yeah, that’s it.”

I chuckle in spite of myself. I don’t say anything right away, though. Both of us probably benefit from a minute to just gather thoughts.

Finally, I ask her. “Was it good? I mean, the third Decan.”

She laughs. “You really need to ask?”

Then she sees that I do need to know, to hear her say it with certainly. “Yeah. Arguably the best night of my life. Almost certainly the best single sexual encounter. It was ... transcendental. I don’t have good words for it. I knew it was going to be good when you forced me into the nympho role. I ... acted it and lived it, and it became real. And the crowd-surfing and groping ... I came like three times during that. And then, out of nowhere, the thing with Molly ... I mean, I don’t think she’d been with another woman before. It’s ... something I dreamed about, just grabbing a girl like that, since that birthday party all those years ago.”

The words are an aloe to my battered psyche. The next question, however, is not. “How did you get her to, uh...”

“I just asked. I’m not sure if I should have. I ... need to call her and talk to her. Later today, but before she has to go back to Summers. She was peeping the whole time. Dragging her in was ... spontaneous, for both of us. I wish that Gloria and Lucy hadn’t highlighted her like that. I don’t actually know her all that well.”

Livia laughs. “Holy shit, Marc, you really are a pickup artist. I thought you arranged that with her secretly, but...”

“You heard everything I said to her. The only thing you didn’t notice was her peeping from the beginning. I may have ... encouraged that with eye contact.”

Livia cackles like a maniac, with cascading peals of delight. “Wow, I mean, just ... wow.”

“I hope it doesn’t have bad consequences.”

Livia shrugs. “It wasn’t like with Cathy. We didn’t hypnotize her or trick her. You told her something you wanted her to do and asked consent. She gave it. Sorting out the fallout is up to her.”

“Maybe we can still help.”

Livia shrugs. “Sure.”

“It’s not Molly I really want to talk about, though. I need to know ... did I cross any lines with you? Badly, I mean? Did I hurt you at any point?”

“Um,” Livia says. “Well, the bruises hurt on a literal level, I guess, but that’s the awesome kind of hurt and while I don’t want to do it every night, if you ever feel like a repeat performance I’ll be more than eager.”

“Okay.”

“There is one thing, though. I was going to talk to you later, but since you asked ... I want to first say, in the context of last night, what you did was not only appropriate but perfect. The Cancer Escalation was perfect, the symbolism of the three Decans, with giving people — including me, spontaneously — reasons to blush ... it all fits together like poetry. It was wonderful. And your trick put me into a symbolically submissive role, and honestly left me fucked into such a stupor that I couldn’t be a credible stage presence. Nice accomplishment, by the way. Definitely not easy to do. So, last night, everything went perfect and I’m very, very happy with how it turned out — both as an Escalation and a personal erotic fantasy.

“But I do need to express this clearly, so you know it’s a strong red line. The Escalations, the Zodiac symbolism ... these things are mine. You will not ever decide that a show is or isn’t an Escalation again, right? I don’t want you to, but if you really think you can pull off something amazingly erotic that will spoil one of our shows ... I can probably get over that. We have as many shows as we need. But there are only ever going to be twelve Escalations, one for each Zodiac sign, and the reason it only gets called at the end is because it’s only an Escalation if everything is perfect.

“This is my life’s work, and I should be the only one that decides at the end that a show is actually an Escalation. This isn’t about being upstaged — I don’t mind that. We could easily script a routine where I’m humiliated or in a submissive role or something and thus can’t do the outro justice. But we’ll have hand signals or something, and before you tell the audience it’s an Escalation, you check that with me covertly to make sure I’ve signed off on it. Every Escalation has to be perfect, and I define perfect. Got that?”

“100% clear,” I reply. “Dead serious. I get what this means to you, and I’m probably one of the few people in the whole world that understands how a show like ours can be art, and can matter. I will never announce an Escalation again unless you script it, and approve it in some way once the show is over.”

“Thanks,” Livia says. “I knew you would understand.”

“Is that the only thing over the line? The crowd thing was ... really stupid in a few practical ways. I want to make sure it didn’t hurt you on any level beyond the bruises.”

Livia laughs. “In retrospect, I can see how it was irresponsible. It could have started a riot. Probably not a thing to repeat, and I hope we don’t lose Summers as a venue. But ... I’m still wildly happy that you did it. I mean, you tossed me into a crowd of other men to get felt up, all because you thought I would enjoy it. I’ve never had a long-term lover that would do that. Men are ... men are jealous, Marc. I know you didn’t train to read men —”

“I’ve never really related to other men deeply, honestly — excluding, maybe, my grandfather. I’ve trained many men to be more confident, to pick up girls, and I think I’ve improved their lives, but I never found myself really confiding in them. My closest friends have all been female fuck-buddies. It’s just practical, I guess. Why invest in a friendship, when you can get the same things from a friendship with benefits? And other men, especially newer pickup artists and macho guys, well ... women adore me, but men call me a poof or a faggot all the time.

“It’s weird, given that I’m known best for my way with the ladies. I think they don’t like flamboyancy and style, like it’s a threat to their vision of ‘real’ masculinity. They don’t want to have to compete with guys like me, so they denigrate me. But it gets me pussy, so I long ago stopped caring what male peers think and just focus on the ladies. Frankly, trading away the respect of men for the adoration of women is a wonderful deal. They make just as good friends, and it gets me laid, and that’s what really matters, right?

“So I ... guess I don’t understand men that well. I’ve always thought that a real, loyal friend with benefits, one who doesn’t care how many other girls you fuck and still sticks by you ... I mean, that’s the ultimate male fantasy right there. And you, I mean, we actively perv on other girls together. Bisexual girls kick so much ass. How could I be offended at you playing with other guys, when I get all that in return?”

“Well, all my other lovers haven’t thought it was such a great deal in the end. It’s on me, in a way. I love me some dominant guys, and shockingly most dominant guys assume they’re in control, and can dictate the terms of the relationship, and decide who can and can’t touch me. And they’re usually okay with the girls, but not the guys. And it’s not just men. You don’t see this side of her, but Mimi can be really, tiresomely clingy at times. It’s starting to piss me off. Between you and her, frankly, I think I may be in the process of trading up.”

“Neither of us is interested in relationships or monogamy, Livia. You don’t have to trade anything to have me. And, for the record, I like Mimi. Not sexually, but just to be around. She brightens the mood.”

Livia laughs. “Well, yes. I guess she does do that.”

I get up and order breakfast. We’re in a two-bed cheap hotel that Mimi apparently drove us to last night. I order room service for breakfast, find out there isn’t any and decide to order take-out instead. So we have Chinese brunch in bed. We’re both ravenous. It was a really intense day, after all, and we also skipped supper. Livia gets strength and color back, and my equilibrium recovers. Looking at her with a clearer head, I can see how she was amused. The bruises aren’t that bad, and I have to admit they do look kinky. The exception is the bite on her ass, which is awful. It will probably leave a faint mark. She’s already put antiseptic on while I was asleep, though.

After lunch, Livia and I curl up together. I nuzzle her in a playfully sexual way. “Oh, Marcelo,” she says. “I want to, but we can’t. I want to just spend the next three days doing nothing but having wild, kinky, acrobatic sex with you. I want to figure out your fantasies, delve into you, do all the things we couldn’t do yesterday. But ... we have a show on Wednesday. We need to prep, and we apparently still need to find this Mary girl, as well as picking marks for the banana contest. I’m thinking Michelle, but we need at least one other — and ideally two. And a fresh face, a gorgeous model, would be great. So you need to be out on the prowl. I do too, I guess.”

“You’re right,” I say. “And ... it’s your first Spring Break, and we just did an absolutely scandalous show. We’re local celebrities now. We both have unprecedented pickup potential at the moment. We’ll be living together for the foreseeable future, and I predict lots of exploratory fucking. But right now is not the right time to zero in on each other. We’re wasting opportunities and we need to worry about the show.”

Livia laughs. “Oh, Marc, you dog. It’s Michelle, isn’t it? Well, great! If you can bang her before Wednesday, that might actually improve the next show. Give her some of the patented eye contact you do so well in the second Decan, and it will resonate with ... recent memories.”

Honestly, my eyes are for Livia at the moment. No, we’re not falling in love. At least, not in the romantic sense. You must surely be familiar with the the stock Hollywood pickup artist plotline, right? Molly — Ringwald, I mean, not Mischief — just did it on the big screen, but she’s not the first. There’s a pickup artist, he doesn’t think of girls as people, then he meets a girl who’s just as clever as he is, and she plays him and teaches him a lesson, and they fall in love, and then he has to convince her he’s a changed man, and then they live happily ever after.

Know, O Cinemaphilic Readers, that this is not that story. I’m not settling down with Livia, and I’ll still be swinging wildly by the final page. Furthermore, I think I had more respect for women than the Hollywood caricature from the beginning — and if you think Livia of all people is going to teach me an important after-school lesson in that vein, you really need to pay more attention to what you’re reading. Frankly, sometimes I’m the one that needs to rein her in a bit, when she gets a little too into her ‘lovely young ingenue’ kink.

But at the moment, I do deeply want to fall into a private sexual wonderland with Livia. It isn’t rational — as I said, there are six more days of Spring Break, and then months of us together in the Beast on the road — but it’s still tempting. Still, though ... I can pull up images of Michelle, Molly, Beckie and even Brenda in my mind — and they’re pretty tempting too.

“Yeah,” I say. “I’m pretty sure I have a shot with Michelle, unless last night really alienated her. And ... you might have an in with Juan and Wendy. I’m willing to bet they’re back at his van, fucking, right now. You might have a nice time, if you ... stroll by there in a tight bikini to check in on them.”

She laughs. “Yeah, that does sound fun. Okay, then. We’ll keep our hands off each other for another six days before we get into the real marathon-fucking I’ve been waiting for. Er, one exception, though. Melody.”

“I still need to call her.”

“Well, if she’s game, I sure am. Or Michelle, for that matter. I want to share someone, you and I, like I do with Mimi and the marks at times. I’ve been looking forward to that.”

I grin. “Agreed.”

She laughs. “So, get out there and find someone tasty!”

I stop and consider. “Actually, I think I need to boot you out. I’ve got a bunch of calls to make. All M’s, weirdly. Mimi, Melody, Michelle, Molly ... and Management. Of Summers, I mean. Guess which one I’m looking forward to the least.”

“I can handle Summers.”

I want her to think I mean Summers, but the call I’m actually the most nervous about is Molly. “It’s my mess,” I say. “I’m the one who planned an impromptu sex show at their venue and didn’t warn them. Let me clean it up.”

Livia shrugs. “Okay. Don’t bend over backwards. Our brand offends venues, but we also make them big bucks. If Summers boots us, we’ll talk to the Candy Store, Button Lounge and DanceSpace. I’m dead certain one of them will grab us.”

I call Mimi — the one call I want Livia there for. I’m expecting a long conversation here, but she’s remarkably taciturn, and there’s none of her usual bubbliness in her curt, controlled voice. This is a sign that something’s wrong; I feel it in my gut. I remember how opposed to Livia being in the human ladder contest she was at the beginning — I’d forgotten that when I decided to toss her to the crowd.

I thank her for getting us out last night. It’s her job, she assures me. I ask her if she wants to come down and do a review session for the next show. Nope. I remind her about finding Jeri. She’s already on it — working harder than we are, she points out. Why are we at a new motel? Cause there was a huge crowd at Summers, and she wanted us to be safe in case anyone tracked us to the first hotel. By ‘us’, I’m pretty sure she means Livia. I ask if she wants to drive Livia to the beach. “I’m not actually a chauffeur, you know,” she shoots back. “I just play one on stage at times — when my leg lets me, anyway.”

Ow! Both Livia and I still feel guilty about that, and she knows it. “Mimi? Is there anything you want to talk about?”

“Nope.”

“Um. Okay, then. We’ll hook up this evening at seven PM to prep the next show.”

“I’ll be there.”

Click. Well, that could have gone better. I want to engage more with Mimi, but the truth is we don’t have time. I mention to Livia that Mimi seems off, kind of hurt, and ask her if she wants to talk to her. “Not really,” Livia says. “Let her sort her own shit out. In a few days things will be back to normal. She sulks when she doesn’t approve of my adventures. Just ignore it.”

That is not the way I would deal with it — but Livia’s a lot closer to Mimi than I am, so it really isn’t my business.

“Okay,” I say. “I hate to be rude, but scoot. I’ve got a bunch of calls that will be easier to make alone.”

Livia heads down to the beach. She does actually pull off a hookup with Juan and Wendy, I believe.

I call Melody. This is when I learn that the other pickup artist is her dealer, she’s already left Lauderdale and is heading to Los Angeles. We actually talk for an hour or two. Light flirting, but it’s more that I get the feeling she just wants someone to talk to for a bit. Then her next ride in the big road trip arrives, and we get cut off abruptly. I make sure she has numbers for the Trips, though.

Summers’ management proves to be a remarkably smooth conversation. The angle they seem to be taking is accepting my “simulated sex” monologue as fact. So there has been no public sex show at their venue, and never will be — just some illusionists making it look convincingly like one. Management wants confirmation that our N-VHS release will include a disclaimer that the sex was simulated — and that we will avoid showing anything that might contradict that. I talk around this, avoiding giving them that. The tapes won’t be out for over a year, though, and that reassures them. Actually, we pretty much keep up our end here — with what we show, it’s a stretch to assume simulated but still not impossible. We keep up the farcical pretense, because farcical pretenses are hot — nothing makes sex sweeter than pulling one over on censors and puritans in the process of getting it!

I broach the topic of Livia using hypnosis to give girls orgasms, as she did with Blair — an element that will be a big part of our next show. Management is actually hugely enthusiastic about this. I get the feeling that we are a huge windfall to them overall, and while they want to dodge all the problems involved with being seen as hosting a live sex show, they’re still really positive toward having us there. Just ... no more sex on stage, please. That assurance I can give them. I even suspect I’m telling the truth — just not a hundred percent certain. It’ll really come down to what they define as a sex act, but I don’t work out the particulars.

Next is Michelle. She actually blows me off, albeit not in an entirely closed-door way. She doesn’t want to be on our stage again right away, after the third Decan, and isn’t quite comfortable with a private date right now either. But ... she isn’t fully closed to being on the Trips in the future, she says. She did have fun in the first two Decans. She considered a hookup with Lorenzo, she confides in me, and it went really sour and vaguely frightening. Turns out he has the very stereotypical tough guy male ego, and after she made him come on stage he got pretty threatening and creepy toward her in private.

She did say she wonders what it would be like if I tried the Make Her Blush routine on her, but she wants it over the phone — and for a lot more than fifteen minutes. That definitely sounds fun ... but I simply don’t have room for a four-hour block of phone sex in my schedule right now. Instead, I get Michelle to give the Trips her contact info. She apparently works out of Los Angeles, too — not really that surprising for an up-and-coming model — and is only in Lauderdale for Spring Break publicity stunts. And, while it’s been an adventure and she liked some things, last night went a bit far for her so she’s wrapping it up for this year.

So Michelle Morris goes in the Rolodex for now, along with Melody — and yes, O Expectant Reader, there is some spicy stuff with each in later volumes; just not right away.

Now the call I’m really not looking forward to. Molly.

We chat a bit. It’s pointedly vacuous and evasive on her part. She’s doing her delinquent valley girl persona full-strength. Everything is breezy and fake and she wants me to know that. I do apologize, sincerely, for both times that I pushed limits. I get a funny quip back, so I don’t push further. Finally she says, “Listen, Marcie. I need to ask you a teeny, tiny favor.”

Nice callback. “Sure,” I say. “Anything.”

“I’ve had a ... thing come up. I’m bailing on my wrestling shows at Summers. Can you cover for me with Management?”

We sure can. It doesn’t surprise me she’s bailing. I suspect Livia actually was her first time with a girl. I understand why she doesn’t want to go back to the same venue and do oil wrestling before a crowd full of people who watched Livia suck her to a squirting orgasm. I wish Gloria Sun hadn’t named her right after the act — the announcers probably had no idea how spontaneous that was — but I’m not sure if it would have made a difference. I haven’t reviewed the footage and have no idea how recognizable she would be through the curtain if Gloria didn’t point her out. “I’ll get it covered, for sure.”

“Great,” she says. “Uh, they prepaid. I’ve got a contract, and I need —”

“Keep everything you were paid,” I say, “and take some time. The, uh, work as a ringer you did for us covers all the wrestling sets you would have been booked for at Summers. We can provide them another oil wrestler if necessary. I’ll make everything good with Management.”

We can? I wonder right after saying that. Well, I can probably rope some girl into doing it. I am the Lord of Seduction, after all. Or I could just do it, given how many girls apparently want to see me. But this doesn’t turn out to be needed — Summers has roster of backup wrestlers, according to Molly. Boom Boom Brandi will likely agree to an extra set. It’s only the money and her professional reputation Molly is worried about. That, I can cover.

“Thank you soooo much, Marcie!”

She does sound sincerely grateful, beneath the gimmick teen voice. “Maybe I can do you a solid in return, Marcie. I’ll be seeing Beckie later this week. I might be able to get her to give you her number. You should totally hook up with Beckie, Marcie. I think she’s into you.”

“You don’t say.”

“Yeah. I mean, I barely had to dare her at all to get her to grind your face. She said she really wanted to catch your eye...”

Oh my god, you magnificent cunt! You set me up! Fuck you, and let me fuck you! Please! I don’t say anything for a second, and having dropped her shocker on me she has the good sense to wrap things up. “Anyway, babe, gotta run. Cee-ya!”

Click.

That went a lot better than it could have. She’s flirting, and more than just as a defensive distraction — she’s probably actually horny. And she set me up with the cunnilingus during the oil pile, which makes me feel a lot better about what I pulled on her. She does need time, obviously, but I can do that for her — and it looks like I might be able to get out of another set of insane sexual hijinks with no real harm done. My luck is golden, though it will be a good while before I really clue into the true magnitude of that and realize the scale of things I can truly get away with. I suspect I’ll hear from Molly in the future, too, and look forward to it — frankly, learning that she played me makes her a lot sexier to me.

So I call up Summers management again and negotiate with them. My argument is simple — Gloria and Lucy are their employees, and should not have identified Molly’s participation in the simsex show on the air without her consent, since the crowd couldn’t identify her through the veil. Pretty sure the latter part is bullshit, but they’re quick to agree. They want us back, we have leverage. So they’ll pay Boom Boom full wages for the two oil wrestling sets Molly was booked for, and Molly gets full pay as well. Awesome! And I don’t even feel bad for Summers, as I get the feeling they’re making a killing from their partnership with us.

I press my luck a bit to take care of something else — the stagehand from the wet t-shirt contest on Sunday, who called Jeri “sweet chocolate”. I get him fired, and blacklisted. This isn’t even a favor from management — apparently his name is Dean, he likes to smoke pot on shift and he already has two reprimands — one for groping girls in a contest, and another for trying to trade a contest prize he had no authority to give away for a blowjob in the dressing room. Nice guy.

Well, he’s gone now — management just needed an excuse, and I write out a formal complaint for them. Interesting thing, though — I get to briefly talk to a DJ from Summers who took Jeri’s name down to begin with. This DJ says she gave her name as Cherry, not Jeri or Mary. But clubs are noisy, and all three names are phonetically close. I don’t think much of it at the time.

Well, that’s a solid three and a half hours on the phone. I quickly call Mimi for a sitrep. She’s done great work with parabolic mikes on beach towers. We now know “Mary’s” name is Jeri, and we have a list of places she was sighted, mostly along the beach. I call a cab and check out of the motel.