Chapter 5

Things couldn't have been better. Then things couldn't have been worse. Some more of the better occurred when the princess went to the modeling agency. I accompanied her, bringing my past shots. We didn't need to make them presentable, becoming the agency's newest finds. It didn't result in a lot more work for me since the teen model shoots happened far less than the regular models. Greater frequency came in a large part because the princess and I had chemistry and we did shoots together. The princess looked more mature and gained more opportunities.

Being in the City helped any school conflicts. She negotiated days off and even a week off when she went to Florida. I took notes at school for her, and when on shoots with her we bribed a smart but impoverished student to take notes. Cute in a boyish way she had a tight body reminding me of the tomboy though more compact. To reward her diligence we seduced her. She liked the princess more than me, so she remained a virgin. Though I would have loved to fuck her, she allowed me to enjoy her body, which eased frustration. The princess discovered the fun of sex with females. The softer lips, the play of breasts, the taste of pussy, the giving of orgasms thrilled her as much as they thrilled me. I would fuck her doggy style while she feasted on the girl's pussy. Bringing the girl to orgasm enhanced hers.

Meanwhile, we worked with the playwright in the evening to craft the play. I quit dance class. The producer's sponsorship continued so Mom didn't mind. The show presented the playwright's take on Milton's Paradise Lost with evil being the charismatic figure he had been in the original only more so. Casting Adam and Eve as adolescents perfectly fit his vision. Set in the present in the rubble of Dresden, creation became re-creation and revolution. The Garden of Eden spread its innocence and then its destruction and then the evil that God punished becomes a doctrine of intelligence and sensuality and humanity. The evil self awareness Satan bestowed made us human. The doctrine preached by the playwright resolved itself as the creation of a wise society conquering stupidity. Neither democracy nor communism, the playwright's political theory resembled early nineteenth century romantic notions of anarchism the closest. Unfortunately, stupidity wins in the end, as it probably would in real life.

The play gained notoriety. An underground word of mouth brought a diverse crowd of the hip, the disenchanted and the curious. We sold out the theater every night. The lovely production with words rich and beautiful, the play also featured more of a plot than the playwright's usual production. But the prurient large crowd came to see nudity and sex. In his usual dark lighting, with flesh colored clothing that verged on transparency and an orgiastic dance of simulated sex including queer sex, discerning simulation rather than actual nudity and fucking proved too difficult for the moralistic law. The play got busted. The playwright and the queer actors were arrested, an embarrassment when the officers realized we wore clothes, but it happened anyway. Charges of indecency and fornication and sodomy and child abuse didn't stick but only when the playwright agreed to never perform it again. The princess and I thought he should have fought it proving our naïveté.

The second terrible event was the death of the Estonian. His frail body gave out. His wife committed suicide after discovering his body in his studio. Her suicide note revealed her guilt. He had become especially weak, coughed blood, but insisted she not bring him to the hospital. He hated hospitals. The princess and I discovered the bodies. The unlocked door when we made our semi-regular visit frightened us. We found the note on the kitchen table where discussions and tea had been served. We found the bodies in the studio, his wife draped over him as if keeping him warm.

Except for the princess, the funeral desecrated his memory. Neither the Estonian nor his wife had family. Colleagues and few friends attended. He was too shy for friendship. The colleagues consisted of fellow artists doing similar work. I admired their canvases. I didn't admire them. Their eulogies were inarticulate and thankfully short. The princess wrote a poem. It quoted him. She breathed his last words. Glancing at me throughout, she saw my pain and my stoic front and it helped her, keeping her tears from choking her. The other eulogizers kept the tears away. We felt too angry to cry.

The wake, not planned, but the artists half drunk at the funeral moved to a nearby bar, worsened the memory, and then we relaxed and enjoyed it. Freed from the weight of the religious space, the artists revealed and reveled in their true nature. They were pigs, but brilliant, troubled, soulful pigs, and funny as hell. The humor broke through our anger and we joined the raucous insanity. Though sober, their inebriation infected us. With childhood a fresh memory, we could join the childish chorus. When the biggest slob and the best artist tried making time with the princess, I told him she was jailbait. "Jailbait?" he yelled in mock fear. The chorus took up the word and we repeated it loudly, pounding the rhythm with the many empty glasses. When it quieted, he invited his friend, a Dutchman of great promise to sit with us. The best of the artists asked the princess how we knew the Estonian. She told him of our discussions. He began to cry. "He was such a lovely man. I should have been there. We talked one time. It was wonderful. Why weren't we there?" he asked his friend. The Dutchman stared at the princess. "Do you model?" he asked. "Not for artists," she said. "You don't like artists?" he asked. "Not tonight," she said. We laughed. "I'll be good," said the Dutchman. "Otherwise my wife would kill me." "You only paint your wife," said the best of the artists. "The way you portray her, I bet she'd rather have another model pose for you." The Dutchman made his wife a horror, but a remarkably vibrant horror. The Dutchman told her his address. "You won't remember me," said the princess. "He will," said the best of them. "Only if my friend can come," said the princess. The Dutchman scrutinized me then nodded. "Let's drink on it," said the best of them. It was closing time. We had our only alcoholic drink, but a tall one, a tall beer chasing a hefty shot of bourbon.

Taking the subway, we arrived at her apartment. She invited me in. No sex involved, she wept on my shoulder until she slept.

School ended. The princess worked more. I saw more of the tomboy, revitalizing that relationship. I went to my blond friend's birthday party. His mother seduced me.

Children grow up and out of birthday parties. The blonde mother sustained the yearly events because she adjusted them to suit her son's age. From clowns and magic shows to ornate puppet shows to semi-popular performers doing recitations and comedy to a couple of young up and coming pop singers getting popular with the young crowd, the parties were events. They began with a delicious dinner catered by a fine dining restaurant. The blond friend sat at the head of the table every year. His mother sat at the other end.

I sat directly to her right. Throughout the meal we chatted. Whatever we talked about interested her. My interests delineated the subject matter. After desert we headed to a newly created screening room. The father owned an insurance company whose biggest customers were large buildings, including retail but more importantly to the parties entertainment venues. He used this to curry favors and got performers and in this case, unreleased movies. Set up like a usual evening at the movies, it began with a newsreel, then a short cartoon and then the feature. The newsreel ended up being an amalgamation of past parties. The blond mother had filmed the earliest parties. The blond friend's oldest brother took over the duties, an apprentice cameraman, mostly a grip in television, a medium beginning to rise. Along with filming this party he had edited the newsreel, hiring an over serious narrator and some silly prerecorded music as soundtrack to the silent footage. The room filled with raucous laughter and screams of recognition, pointing fingers disrupting the projection light, casting shadows. Amidst the chaos, the blonde mother tried continuing the conversation. It proved difficult to hear her and the film distracted, so she pulled me gently out of the room. We ended up upstairs in the master bedroom.

Closing the door gingerly behind her, when she turned she looked nervous. It made me nervous. "Have you ever done massage?" she asked.

"Sometimes when my mom's been working all day I massage her shoulders," I responded. Her laugh surprised me.

"I'm sorry," said the blonde mother. "What does she do?"

"She sews," I explained. "I guess that's not a rich woman's job, but it is high end fashion."

"I'm sorry I laughed." She sat on the edge of the bed. "Could you massage me?" She removed the half jacket that covered her shoulders otherwise naked because she wore an elegant strapless gown. I wondered if my mom had sewed it.

"I don't know how good it'll be. My mom likes it, but..."

"I'll let you know." Taking off my shoes and my jacket, I climbed behind her on the bed. "Why don't you remove your tie, too and roll up your sleeves," she said. I did. Taking a couple deep breaths to calm my nerves, I placed my hands on her shoulders and began to knead. "Relax," she said. I grabbed a couple more breaths. "Open your hands and press with your body. Use smooth strokes. Don't push my spine. Work around it. Ah, that's good. I used to be a masseuse."

"Really?" I said. She had always been an elegant rich mother.

"Yes. That's how I met my husband. Do you mind if I take off my dress?" She had a strapless bra underneath. My hands worked around the bra. Though tempted to remove it because it bit into her skin, it remained for the moment. Her flesh felt soft and smooth. Revealing slight belly fat, having borne three children she looked great. She looked sexy in a milk maiden sort of way. "Do you think I'm attractive?" she asked.

"Are you kidding? You're beautiful."

"I wish some people thought so." Adjusting her golden hair, she stared straight ahead and tilted her head. I noticed the mirror on her vanity. Her face looked sad. Her eyes dampened. She caught me looking and gave me a lopsided, heartbreaking smile. "Your mother thinks I am," she said.

She and my mother went out together every once in awhile for what they called "girls night out." Inevitably my mother came home drunk.

"You must think I'm awfully old," said the blonde mother.

"I think you're sexy," I said.

"Really," she smiled.

"Honest," I said.

"It would be better if I removed my bra."

I swallowed and said, "It looks like it hurts."

Shrugging, she reached back. It looked difficult for her so I unlatched it. Only panties kept her from nakedness. Nervous again, I massaged where her bra had creased her back, staring at her full round breasts. Her large brown areolas, nearly fifty cent piece sized contrasted with her pale breasts. Her erect nipples appeared relatively small. "I think I'll lie down," she said. Disappointed for the moment, I quickly realized I would be seeing and even better feeling those breasts soon enough. I began straddling her softly rounded buttocks and thick thighs when she told me to remove my shirt and pants. When I straddled her and continued the massage, she couldn't help feeling my penis sliding between her buttocks as it emerged from my boxers. She sighed and opened her legs, forcing me to move up and press my genitalia between her butt cheeks.

"Your mother told me what she does. I mean being a mistress. It surprised me, but I love her so I couldn't hold it against her. I did the same in a way, but I guess more acceptably. Could you move lower?" I moved my body between her legs and began massaging her butt. Her legs felt sleek and smooth as they rubbed against mine. "She told me only recently. She hadn't told me before because she thought she'd lose me. It wasn't shame. She's proud of her success."