Chapter 14: Art of dominance

Brad arrived the next weekend.

Janelle had gone back to her auntie's place for a few of the intervening weekdays, but came up to Doug's apartment on the Saturday afternoon to find a gangly youth with crew-cut blonde hair lounging on the sofa before the TV, taking in a football game with Doug.

"Brad, meet Janelle."

Doug made this introduction without any further explanation of how Janelle fit into the scheme of things. Maybe explanations had already been given? If so, she'd be curious to know what he'd said.

Brad had the makings of a heart-breaker, though was still at that funny teenager stage of being awkward around women.

Especially around a sex-pot like Janelle. It was hard to conceal a bust of her size, even when she wanted to. Right now she had on a scanty summer dress with thin shoulder straps — of course this meant a certain percentage of black lacey bra was visible, along with goodly portions of the dusky brown bulges it struggled to keep under control. This was obviously not going unnoticed by Brad.

She went to the fridge to grab a Coke, and slipped onto the sofa beside Doug. She made an attempt at conversation.

"So, Brad... how long are you in town for?"

Oh shit, she was making it sound like she already wanted him to leave!

"Coupla weeks, I guess. Wanna check out a few bands, find out what's what."

This was speaking in riddles to Janelle, but Doug translated.

"Brad's pretty good on guitar. He wants to see if he can make it in the music business."

Aha! Another hick kid comes to the Big Smoke looking for fame and fortune! Well, he'd find there's an awful lot of folks already born and bred here who also want fame and fortune. Herself, for example.

"What style do you play?"

"Speed metal, thrash, alternative... but I'll do other stuff to get session work, if there's any going."

Well, good for him, Janelle thought — his finely-honed artistic sensibilities were obviously tempered by at least a dash of commercial realism. Personally she tended toward hip-hop, or anything with a danceable beat. To her, speed metal sounded like a bunch of chainsaws with the throttles jammed wide open.

On further attempt at conversation, she got the distinct impression they'd both rather just watch the football. And that was fine by her - she was not completely averse to a good game of football herself.

When it ended, Doug prodded her thigh.

"Take a stroll by the Waterfront?"

"Let's go."

They did, leaving Brad to crack another beer and turn to a cable music channel.

It was only two blocks to the harbourside promenade, an old wharf area made trendy by developments like yuppie cafes and dink apartments. They strolled slowly, holding hands.

"Doesn't say much, does he?"

"My male relations tend to be the strong silent type."

"Certainly strong. Does he get to chop a lot of firewood out on that thar farm?"

Doug laughed.

They stopped at a kiosk to get icecream cones. It was a clear day with a slight breeze, and the Waterfront was full of strollers, skaters, joggers, and so forth.

"So if I wanna tie you up or do stuff to you in the next few days, it'll have to be with the bedroom door firmly closed?"

"I'll try to scream more quietly."

"Seriously, I'll have to have it. I'll have to have you, sooner or later."

"We'll work something out."

She looked at him with a quiet intensity — a look he found chilling.

"Sooner, not later. In fact, today."

"So that's the reason you came over."

She detected an underlying hurt in the seeming nonchalance of this remark.

"Not the only reason." She slipped her arm through his affectionately. "You set me at ease in other ways too."

He pondered this in silence. It seemed to satisfy him for the moment.

"You could always come and rape me down at the office, like you used to do."

"Mmmm... nah! Guess I've got spoiled, now I've an entire apartment to hunt you down in."

"Where there's a will, there's a way..."

"I guess."

Presently they came by an art gallery, with big promotional banners for a new exhibition.

"Shall we go and take a look?" Doug asked.

"Wasn't your ex into this sort of shit?"

"Yeah, but don't let that put you off."

They gulped down the remainder of their icecream cones, then strolled inside.

It was sculpture. Some in wood, some fired in clay, some a mixture of these two media.

It seemed to have a mainly reproductive theme. Genitalia, and childbirth, and ghostly babes at stylised breasts.

It soon struck them that female forms were predominant, and loomed large. Anything representative of masculinity in the compositions had been simplified, distorted, reduced in size to the point of insignificance, then arranged in the compositions with an irrelevancy bordering on impotence.

Janelle was intrigued.

None of the pieces bore titles, only catalogue numbers. Then again, only an idiot would need the aid of titles to discern the take-home message from these works. A measly few sperm was the sum-total male contribution needed to generate this artist's particular world view. Womanhood could do all the rest, thank you very much.

Janelle stopped before a clay piece that particularly embodied this theme. The slumped form of a puny male was isolated behind grid-like bars, a pathetic misshapen erection poking through. Suspended in mid-air, a pair of strong yet obviously feminine clay hands held out what looked like a milking-machine suction cup toward the slender prick.

"Pester me for any more blow-jobs" Janelle murmured, "and I'm gonna order for you one of these here machines!"

"We are not amused."

"Some of this stuff is alright, though" Janelle said begrudgingly. "You can see a lot of thought has gone into it."

Doug consulted the catalogue.

"Well, how 'bout that!" he breathed.

"What?"

"This one is listed at $3500."

"Get the fuck outta town!" Janelle exclaimed audibly.

Several other patrons turned and glanced over to check out the source of this outburst.

More quietly, she asked "People pay serious money for this kinda shit?"

"Yeah. Why so surprised?"

"I reckon I could do stuff like this with my eyes closed!"

"Go on then, if you think it's so easy."

"Yoo-hoo! Doug! Janelle!"

Oh crap. It was that Christine woman - the gushing brunette Doug's ex-wife was now in romantic liaison with. She flounced up to them, as statuesque as ever, in a designer frock that accentuated her movie-star tits.

"Hello Christine" said Janelle, in much the same way Jerry Seinfeld might sneer "Hello Neuman".

"Thanks for stopping by! I'm so pleased to see some people I know come around to have a look."

Strictly speaking, Christine didn't know them at all. She'd only met Doug half a dozen times, and Janelle a grand total of once.

Janelle let it pass, however, as her thoughts dwelled instead upon the possible inference behind "have a look".

"These are yours?" Janelle asked point-blank.