Chapter 1

So now he was a man, or to be more precise: he'd settled into the uncouth shape of one. While growing up he'd suffered all the scorches of adolescence that came with the job – the raging hormones, the brainless response to tits and asses, the relentless erections and the blind urge to empty his balls. He knew women found him attractive – his looks, his voice, his cock. And he knew that any normal, blustering male would take advantage of that, thinking it meant something – or, more probably, not thinking at all.

He never stopped thinking. Even when he got to third base with girls – as it is so crudely called in the adolescent lingo – something kept nagging. He couldn't believe he really satisfied them – or himself for that matter. Of course there was the messy spurting and the convincing spasms and moans of the girl he fucked, but there always, always was this certainty that he ought to know better. He was certain that women just toyed with him, as with all men. They saved their true orgasms for themselves, when they had sex with each other – hot, gracious sex; a dizzying dance of tongues and fingers that made their gorgeous bodies arch and churn, their voices sing like angels.

With men they played a devious game, disguising the truth with layers of insincere adoration and mock compliments. All they were really after was prestige and money. He knew he meant nothing to them; it was lust that forced him to go along. But whenever he'd played the male ape to their soft sweet bodies, there would be shame afterwards. There would be this haunting feeling of having been the clumsy bull trampling its way through precious porcelain, leaving only shards and splinters of what might have been.

He tried dating less. He tried avoiding women, even if every fiber of his being screamed to be with them – or at least be allowed around them in the silly hope to catch a glimpse of their eternal secret.

It became harder and harder to even look at girls, though watching them had always been his greatest desire. He started training his budding arousal to a point where it would morph into a wave of shame – shame that would dilute his lust, spreading it through his bloodstream and turning it harmless. It worked, but it often left him with a blinding headache. Soon he lived in constant shame. He avoided girls and retired into an invisible shell made of work and boredom. It protected him, both against what he feared and what he craved, just to avoid his next disappointment.

And then he saw her.

She must have had an appointment with the editor-in-chief at the culinary magazine he worked for as a food journalist. He saw her walk through the maze of desks, cabinets and glass dividers that made up the office floor's landscape. Everything about her was amazing – her bearing, her clothes, her eyes ... Her business suit was black, as was her hair; even her lips were painted black. It was a blackness that contrasted sharply with the pallor of face, her throat and arms, hands and fingers.

It took her only seconds to pass him by – float him by, rather. It was enough to block any attempt at finishing what he was working at. He wondered if he'd taken a breath from the moment he saw her to the moment she went into the editor's office. He didn't die; at least he didn't think so. But he distinctly felt his private universe shift. A myriad of tiny parts tumbled, reshaping his fate.

His head drifted in a halo of hot, humid air. He knew he'd seen more than just a stunning woman. What he'd seen was what he'd glimpsed fragments of all through his life – as a boy when he watched the heavenly creatures in the schoolyard, as a teenager masturbating to the images of their superior presence, as a man cringing under their mocking scrutiny. What he'd seen just now was the final click of a huge, invisible machine that had started constructing his life from the moment of his birth. And now, with this final click, it had pulled him into focus – each and every atom of his being.

He didn't think he'd moved his eyelids until she came out of the office again. When she re-appeared her body was framed by Jenner's three hundred pound ex-quarterback's mass. Jenner was the editor-in-chief. He also was a dog with women. Sniffing one – anyone – seemed to trip an invisible thread running from his nose to his underbelly. Not this time, though. His face wore an inane smile, like a hypnotized hick in a television show. He really seemed confused; his hammy hand shook hers with male awkwardness. She slid out of his grip like a drop of oil from a pail of water, her lips copying the smile of a painting by a long-dead Renaissance master. Then she turned and her eyes found his.

They slid by him at first. It felt as if the sun peeked through thunderclouds, washing his face with warmth for a second, only to plunge him into darkness again. Inexplicable tears pressed against his eyeballs. Then she stopped and looked at him again, doing the slowest double take ever. She walked towards him, her eyes slowly filling the frame of his vision. Each slow-motioned step was echoed by his heartbeat; the booming must have been heard throughout the office.

The eyes approaching were green like emeralds; he felt their blaze against his face – like a summer's breeze in winter. It warmed the stiff coldness of his skin. All blood must have gone. She was the sun to his moon ­– he could only absorb and reflect, basking in it, and knowing at once he might never be able to live without it again.

Then she was gone.

The office lights returned to their glaring selves. The room was empty again, but for the jumble of battered furniture and the shining linoleum. His colleagues crouched over their desks – oblivious to what happened. Did anything happen? He sat and shook. His body shivered while cold sweat evaporated. He felt a growing tightness in his pants. He covered it, feeling the usual shame.

A small square of lilac paper stuck to his computer screen. Words were penned down in black, spidery writing. "Pick me up at the Memphis," it said. "Seven o'clock."

He'd been at the Memphis before. He knew the lobby – the blond wood paneling, the gray stone floor, glass everywhere, a huge clock, and a bank of elevators. He was early, of course. His body felt uncomfortable inside his new white shirt and khaki slacks – like a visiting stranger. He wore too much aftershave too. After checking the clock he walked over to a bench opposite the elevators, and sat down.

All afternoon he'd considered not going. It seemed easier not to; there sure would be embarrassment if he showed up, wouldn't there – awkwardness, humiliation? Hadn't he sworn to avoid girls? Why would this time be different? He'd considered the consequences of going – the confrontation, the conversation, the lack of conversation, the lulls in conversation, the banalities. There would be the sickening demands of convention, and of course, the unavoidable disappointment. He'd considered everything, and reconsidered, but the simple thing was: he couldn't stay away.

That afternoon, trying on his new slacks in the hot fitting cubicle of the department store, he was caught by the reflection of his face in the tall mirror. It was just another face, he thought, only special to him because it always had been his. Long nose, dark curly hair, black eyebrows ... nervous eyes. Nothing new. So why did she pick him? What did she think? Had there been amusement in her gaze, irony or even sarcasm? He couldn't remember. He remembered nothing but this sea of emerald green, engulfing him.

Yes, he shouldn't have come. But yes, he couldn't stay away.

The clock's hand passed seven. Was he supposed to wait for her down here, or should he go up? The note had been vague on that. "Pick me up at the Memphis. Seven o'clock" was all it said. No room number, no specification. Women would be late, he knew, it was part of the game. So he waited for another quarter. At twenty past seven he rose and went to the desk. The girl behind it was blond. She wore a white starched blouse, pancake on her face and too much mascara. He opened his mouth and realized there was nothing he could say. He had no name, no room number, nothing. He felt the muscles of his face force themselves into a smile, his eyebrows rising. Then he turned on his heels and walked back to the bench.

Half past seven came and went. He considered leaving. He considered staying. He tried to look at himself through the eyes of the girl at the desk, seeing how pathetic he was. The green-eyed woman had played him. He had played along. And now she stood him up. Maybe she was watching him. Did he feel hurt, miserable? He didn't. There was this taste of 'just desserts, ' a bittersweet taste that seemed to suit him. She had played the game and he had played along; she'd been in her regal position, he in ... well, his. He started to rise when the doors of the left elevator opened.

She looked incredible. Her leather jacket was tight and deep dark green, as was her calf length skirt. The jacket's zipper stopped at the base of her breasts, displaying a lot of pale cleavage. She looked chic and elegant, but in a blatantly pornographic way. The skirt's front zipper was closed from her waist to half of her thighs, leaving the rest of her stocking clad legs free and visible until they disappeared in black high-heeled ankle boots.

She was not alone. Left and right of her were two intensely bluish-black women. They were tall and looked like fashion models in colorful outfits that hugged their bodies at chest and waist and hip, only to blossom out in other places. They looked like extravagant flowers, swaying on the stems of high-heeled sandals – or rather they were a twittering flock of exotic birds invading the quiet lobby.

As they crossed the hall a cloud of sweet perfume spread.

None of them was aware of the world around them. They talked in high, exaggerated sentences, gesturing, smiling, giggling. And they passed him by without notice. He had risen, hands out, smile on his face. But the black-haired, pale woman didn't even see him. She didn't look. She didn't stop. All he could do was watch her slip through the revolving doors, smile at the doorman and disappear with her friends into a waiting taxi. Their giggles echoed in his head. His hand still reached out to get their attention. All he could do was stare at the spot where the cab had been, until the clearing of a throat woke him up to the present.

The girl in the starched blouse held out a scrap of paper – lilac paper. He stared at it. Then he slowly took it from her hand. On it was the spidery writing he knew. "Something came up," it said. "Tomorrow same time, same place?"

The note hadn't been kind, really, or even an excuse, had it? Maybe not, but he was here again, wasn't he? Same time, same fucking place? Same damn bench, same clock, same dizzy schoolboy arousal? Sure, but it didn't feel like he'd accepted. It didn't even feel as if he'd had a say in the matter. It felt like coercion – self-inflicted coercion if that was at all possible. He'd forced himself to be here. Or had he?

He hurt and he didn't know why. He'd been stood up before. He'd been ridiculed and let down by girls, and although it had made him feel embarrassed, he'd had no trouble accepting it : they were women, he was a man. But this time it seemed to cut deeper. The black haired, ghostly pale goddess had cut him off from a destiny she'd promised with her eyes. She'd promised and he'd believed. Losing her was like losing life. It made him a fish pulled from the water and left flapping around, gasping for air. It hurt.

It hurt so much that all he could do was come back here – same time, same place, sitting on the same fucking bench, looking at the same fucking elevator-doors that didn't open to produce her. There was no reason to expect she'd keep her promise this time. There wasn't even reason for hope. And yet, here he was, waiting – folding and refolding the scrap of lilac paper. He didn't know why. He just knew he couldn't be anywhere else right then.

The doors never opened. Well, of course they did, but never to produce her. Each time there was a bell and a light coming up. Then one of the three doors slid open, exposing the neon-lit interior and spreading a sigh of muzak. All kinds of people came out; overweight businessmen, old ladies with poodles, giggling girls, even an Arab with three heavily veiled women in tow.

The cruel 'ping' of the bell ate away at his nerves. It cranked up his expectations, only to crush him with another stab of disappointment. Half an hour went by until he finally rose and walked over to the desk. The white starched blouse held another woman's chest today, he saw – an ampler one that tugged at its buttons. She smiled. He showed his lilac scrap of paper.

"Yesterday," he said, "I had an appointment with one of your guests here – a black-haired, pale-skinned woman in her twenties. She handed your colleague this note and she then gave it to me. It is for another appointment – now."

The girl studied the note. Then she looked up with a vacant smile. He felt the futility of his mission.

"Maybe, uhm..." he went on, "maybe you know who she is. She, ah, dresses quite, uhm, exotic. Yesterday she was in the company of two tall African women, fashion models I'd say..."

It was hopeless. The girl kept smiling, but her face was a solid question mark.

"Do you maybe have a name, sir?" she asked. "A room number?" Of course he hadn't. He imagined how this would come across. Man at five star hotel asks for woman he doesn't even know the name of.

"I'm afraid I can't help you, sir," she said, replacing the smile with a frown. "Even if I knew who she was, it would be against hotel policy to give you her room number. It's because of privacy, you see? I hope you understand."

He understood, he softly cursed and he walked back to the bench to once more sit down and wait. But now there wasn't just the frustration of the elevator doors, there was also the receptionist's gaze of pity each time he looked her way. The combination of the two became too much. He rose and walked to the exit's big revolving doors. On his way he noted the entrance to the hotel bar. A sudden, overwhelming urge made him turn towards it. It wasn't thirst, he knew – it was an unbearable need to numb his brain with alcohol.

As he entered, he saw her.

She was the center of a small group of people sitting and standing at the bar, three men and a woman. They were talking and laughing. It was amazing how many details he noticed in what might only have been a few seconds. Her finger ran around the rim of her glass, making her silver bracelets jingle. Her lips were close to the ear of one of the men, whispering. Peals of laughter filled the room. Suddenly all eyes were on him. He took two steps back towards the bar's exit, as if pushed by invisible hands.

"My little journalist!" Her voice was sweet and warm, as was her smile. "So here you are at last. Why did you make me wait? Never make me wait, honey."

She had slid off her stool, the long, deeply slit skirt closing over her legs. Her hands turned the glass around in front of her lap. Ice cubes added their jingle to the jangle of her bracelets – tiny sounds to fill the sudden silence. The faces of the others floated behind hers, their eyes fixed on him. He stood speechless, watching her walk over.

Her hand touched his cheek. The liquid emerald of her eyes rushed in like a tide. Without looking away she said:

"Guys, meet my little journalist. He's a sweetheart. He waited two days to be with me." Her mouth opened into a smile; her laugh was careless and silvery. Then she leant forward, pressing her lips hard on his. Her hand travelled to the back of his head, pulling him in while her tongue forced his lips to open.

She was greedy, he thought, she took what she wanted. And he gave, gagging from the sudden invasion. His arms hung uselessly down his sides while hers pulled him into a hug. The soft globes of her breasts flattened against his chest; her scent engulfed him like a cloud. He felt weak in her embrace. Her mouth gobbled him up – the caterpillar lips, the dancing fish of her tongue. She made the world disappear around him – the bar, the people. She killed him like a widow spider and yet she had the softness of its gossamer web. She was the proverbial praying mantis eating its lover – yet she was tender like a child.

When she at last stopped, he felt dizzy; he wobbled on his knees. She licked her lips and smiled, turning to her friends at the bar.

"He kisses well!" she exclaimed. Then she turned back to him, her eyes sparkling as she said: "Do you love me?"

The question floored him. He knew it was preposterous and yet it felt perfectly natural. Did he love her? He'd only just met her, hadn't he? And all the time she'd kept him on the wrong foot – confusing him with her capricious promises and her whimsical attitude. How could he even begin to love her? She'd hurt him and disappointed him; she'd ridiculed him in front of strangers. And yet she asked him if he loved her?

She held his gaze. He just stood there, utterly confused. Her hand reached out and her fingers cleaned traces of lipstick from his chin.

"Well, anyway," she said. "Now run and think about it." She pushed him, making him turn. He was at a loss. Did she dismiss him?

"Shooo," she said, laughing as her hands made waving movements from her wrists. The laughter of her companions made the hair in his neck rise. He stepped outside and was drowned by the pouring rain.

After coming home and peeling the drenched clothes off his limbs he took a shower. It soothed him. He loved to shower when he felt miserable – letting the hot water soak his naked body through and through. The fragrant clouds of steam mercifully cut off the world. He closed his eyes, while his hands spread bathing oil over his slippery torso. He felt the hard nipples against his palms, hidden in their nests of hair. He also felt his rib cage and the hollow of his tightly muscled stomach. He avoided his cock, spreading the oil on his thighs and calves. Going up he kneaded his ass cheeks, pulling the muscles tight until they felt like well-polished wood.

Fuck, he thought. He had a man's well-trained body and he should be proud of it. It was hard and hairy in all the right places; a woman's dream and yet he cursed it. Standing under the cascading water he dreamt how his massaging fingers turned the skin and muscles into creamy softness – slick and hairless, curvy and sweet. A wave of sensuality engulfed him. He cursed again as he felt his cock stiffen. His eyes opened; a trembling sigh left his mouth.

It was all so goddamned unfair. Here he was, prepared to put women, any woman, on a pedestal. He worshipped them, adored them, lay down his life for them. In return, all they did was refuse him, ridicule him – making him feel like the vilest turd. And the most humiliating thing was: he loved them even more for doing it.

After turning the water off he stepped out of the cubicle. He grabbed a large white towel and rubbed himself dry. The steamed-up mirror showed glimpses of his body; it made him look like a ghost.

"You idiot," he said to his reflection. "What on earth did you think? Haven't you learned yet that peasants don't get into the castle?" He hated how even now he tried to use metaphors like the silly romantic fool he was.

All thoughts of drowning himself in alcohol were gone.

Drinking herbal tea from a huge glass at the counter of his kitchen, he decided to give up his preposterous ambitions to be with the black haired woman. He chuckled at the word "decided." As if there had been even one moment where it had been up to him to 'decide' anything. He was masterfully reeled in and dumped, humiliated, ground into the earth under the cruel but elegant heel of a woman. He should count his blessings – he'd been worthy enough for her to crush him.

The bitterness of the tea suited him nicely.

The next days were awful, but they were heaven compared to the nights. At daytime he could work. He could drag himself out of bed and into the office. He could loose himself in writing articles, in doing research, making phone calls, listening without hearing to the innate chats and gossips at the coffee machine – about sports, women, the sizes of tits, the firmness of asses.

While the days dragged on, he got better at forgetting. By day three an entire half hour could pass without him thinking of her. There was just this background ache left – throbbing. But then there were the nights he spent in bed alone, staring into darkness, unable to sleep. Or waking up from dreams filled with seas of emerald, ghostly pale skin and fat, swollen lip flesh stretching into mocking smiles. He'd wake up sweating, flipping on the light to try and read a page or two in vain, scared to return to sleep – his eyes hurting from the lack of sleep.

On day four there was a phone call.

He was at his desk, right in the middle of writing how torching an eggplant could improve the taste of baba ganoush. Her voice was a breeze – a gush of hot air crawling into his ear. It felt intimate; too intimate. It licked at the ear's insides, swirling through its convoluted passage – invading his brain. It felt like rape.

"Hi, honey," it breathed. "Did you miss me?" He didn't hear what she said; not the words as such. What he heard was 'open up, let me in.' Her words were almost like a physical force, pushing, penetrating. They made him feel dizzy. They also made him perfectly helpless.

When he failed to answer, she laughed. It was a throaty chuckle, merrily mocking him.

"It is all right, honey," she said. 'All right?' He couldn't agree less. His throat seemed strangled by a fist, his eyes burning. His brain was an empty, airy attic.

"Tonight around seven," she whispered. "At the Seventh Cloud. It is a cute Thai place. I love Thai. Make reservations, please, honey, and be on time."

A metallic click and a string of beeps told him she'd hung up. A gush of fresh air invaded his mind. His throat opened again. He coughed. Only then did he know what to say, or rather: found the power to say it.

"No!"

It took him all of the rest of the morning to consider if saying 'no' would be the right thing to do. It would be the wisest, no doubt, and the healthiest for sure. It was the thing a real man would do, wouldn't it? But he knew that for him it would also be the shortest road to misery, to lying awake at night, endlessly doubting his decision and ending up regretting it. A once-in-a-lifetime chance would have slipped away, although he had no idea what chance. He knew she would humiliate him again. She would play with him, and ridicule him without a doubt. But he felt he didn't care. Even the fear of being crushed tasted sweet.

It took him another hour to admit that his resistance was just make-belief. He craved to be with the woman at any prize. Amidst fear he found the courage to be honest. And when he did, a weight was lifted from his shoulders.

He took the phone and made the reservation.

The restaurant was already packed when he arrived, ten minutes early. He wore his one good suit over a white dress shirt. He'd polished his shoes. Their table was in the back, a small two-person affair tucked away in a corner. He smiled. There were candles and dark wood paneling all around.

He sat down at the table, facing the entrance. After fifteen minutes that felt like an hour the nagging feeling returned: she was late again. Would she come at all? At twenty minutes he shrugged. He'd been early. It meant she was only ten minutes late. Anything could make you ten minutes late. His throat was dry. He ordered a glass of mineral water. Another five minutes passed. The volume of the voices around him rose. He watched the smiling faces, the happy people. Detracted, he almost missed her entrance.

She was dressed in a simple black dress under a short black coat that she wore open. She showed some cleavage. Her black hair framed her pale face. It wore a blood red smear where her mouth was. She smiled seeing him. And she was not alone. Beside her was one of the tall African fashion models he'd seen at the hotel – willowy thin and over six feet on heels. Her dress was made of salmon silk, tightly wrapped around her night-black body. Her glossed lips were painted salmon too. They stretched in a dazzling stage-smile.

When they arrived at his table, things got awkward. He rose, not quite knowing what to do. His hands swam useless in the space between them. He couldn't hug her, could he? He tried smiling. He tried faking a relaxed attitude – failing.

"See, Tasha?" the pale woman said to her dark friend. "This is the one I told you about." Her green eyes sparkled. He reached for the African girl's hand, feeling it slip in and out of his like a limp fish. He murmured his name.

"Ah well, to each his own, I guess," Tasha said after looking him over. She sounded disinterested. Then she sat down on one of the two chairs. The pale woman (he still didn't know her name) took off her short jacket, handing it to him while her eyes stayed on her friend.

"Now watch how he takes this to the wardrobe," she said. Without looking she dropped the jacket; he could just about catch it. Then she slid past him, sitting down on the other chair, the one he'd occupied. He stood with the jacket in his hands, wondering why he didn't run.

"And you know, Tasha..." she said to her companion, ignoring him, "on his way back here he'll bring us each a nice dry white wine. I'm sure he knows what we like."

After he returned with the wine and a blush, he put the glasses in front of them. Only then did he realize his predicament. The women occupied both chairs at the small table and even if there had been a spare chair to borrow from other tables, he'd never find the space to put it down. He stood, awkwardly, and was ignored by the women who'd stuck their faces together in vivid talk.

After a minute he cleared his throat. He had to do it again before the white woman looked up. She smiled, pulling up her eyebrows. His hands tried to point out his predicament while he searched for words.

"I, eh, I thought," he said, staring into the emerald eyes; they looked at him in silent expectation.

"I assume," he tried again. "I assume that ehm, Tasha will..." His voice petered out. The green eyes were a sea now in which he swam around, kicking helplessly.

"Will she stay?" he blurted out.

Dark long lashes closed over the green expanse once, twice. Then she returned to her friend, ignoring him.

"Could you believe this?" she said to Tasha, her tone of voice a mixture of surprise and annoyance. "I invite you. You are my best friend. And now he wants to send you packing. How rude can you get?" She laid her hand on Tasha's.