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I
Standing at the bar was a beautiful woman. It was the intermission of one of my favourite music acts; they played long hypnotic improvised pieces that usually left me in a contemplative mood. Right now, I contemplated the poise and elegance of this woman as she lifted a flute of champagne to her lips, gently tilted it, and savoured a mouthful. I had been watching her for at least half the glass. She seemed to be alone.
My stomach churned with nervous excitement as I tried to pluck up the courage to talk to her. My eyes strayed to her body, seductive curves of pale skin, accentuated by the classic black lines of her dress. The sudden movement of her glass brought my gaze back to her face. She was staring straight back at me as she slowly drained the last of her champagne; her lips curved into a smirk.
She tilted her head to one side and looked at the glass, turning it upside down and pretended to look sad. I moved to her side and offered to buy her another drink.
“I thought you’d never ask” she replied, beaming. She added, “You do know it’s rude to stare”.
I blushed as I paid the barman a small fortune for another glass of champagne. She had a rich, cultivated accent. I couldn’t place it, but I guessed it was the result of education rather than social class. Her beauty was equally difficult to place; dark almond shaped eyes suggested an Arabic heritage, but her skin was pale and translucent.
We made small talk for the longest five minutes of my life. Talking to her was like being a nervous teenager again. As we chatted, it became apparent that her mind was as sharp as a whip, I honestly felt out of my depth. The bell rang signalling our return to the theatre.
She finished her expensive champagne and said:
“I owe you a drink, meet me here after the show”. It was not a question.
We returned to our seats, then the second half of the performance began. It was impossible to concentrate, instead of being lost in the music, my mind turned over this bizarre event.
It’s too good to be true, the first thought to enter my head as my eyes scanned the audience searching for her. She must be mad or evil; a clichéd femme fatale fantasy began forming in my mind. Her outfit was totally femme fatale; black heels, fur stole, plunging neckline. My eyes found her three rows down to my left; I could make out her stockinged leg gently swaying in time to the music.
She was direct, intelligent and domineering; all three qualities that supposedly spell trouble when they are possessed by a beautiful woman. I had to admit that I found this stereotype sexually thrilling but forced myself to be a more ‘rational’. She was a single woman, interested in music looking for men at a concert, no harm in that (no, she’s dangerous, my mind bouncing back to images of con artists and psychosis).
Then came the self-doubt (why on earth was she interested in me?) I tried to banish the usual paranoid inner-dialog and I began to wonder if I would sneak away into the night like a coward (aka a sensible fellow) or if I would obey her directive. Which was more courageous? Which was more cowardly? Which was stupid. It was impossible to make up my mind. The music stopped.
*
“What’s your poison, Mr” she produced a beaming smile that made her seem young, I’d guess 25 at most.
I started to relax and I felt a little ridiculous of my fears, (for god sake man you’re afraid of a girl). I thanked her as she handed me my scotch. She sat close to me, enveloping me with her perfume; it was a lovely scent but every now and again I’m sure I could smell her natural odour, a rich, exciting animal musk.
Half way through my whisky I changed the tack of our conversation from the performance by blurting out how I almost didn’t make it to our rendezvous. I’m not sure why I said it, it just seem to come from nowhere. She laughed and replied,
“Do you believe you really had a choice?”
Dumbfounded I stared into her eyes. She stared back her, her confidence seemingly unbreakable. I began to stammer a halting, laughing, flirtation.
“No really, I’m actually asking the question in a philosophical way, I’m not being rhetorical. Do you believe in free will?” The little girl act dropped again, back to the woman in control.
“Well, actually I’m not sure”, I replied. “I guess I haven’t really thought about it.”
She seemed pleased with that answer.
“There are some that believe that people are asleep; at the mercy of the forces acting upon them, but tragically they dream they are in control”. I chuckled a little as she told me this.
“For example, I easily manipulated you.”
My chuckle died, I almost choked as I finished my scotch.
“Seriously, think about it. Just by a look and a gesture I made you buy me a drink. Then by your reaction to my teasing I could figure out you are a confident but beta male, and that you would be easily led by your cock”.
It was very strange to have the veil lifted on a previously flirtatious conversation. Again, she had me on the back foot. For some reason I liked this feeling, it was so different to the usual boring conversations I had recently with people I’d met out.
The room was empty, our glasses empty. I felt nervous and excited.
“Walk me home.” Again it was a directive, and again I felt powerless, unable to refuse. Her smile unnerved me as I held her coat.
“Some seem to have more agency than others.” She said, breaking the silence a block or so from the bar. “Some seem to like surrendering theirs to another.”
I wasn’t really sure what she was talking about.
Then she said, “I know a secret or two, and I know you won’t be able to resist trying to know them.” We had stopped walking outside an apartment building.
She eased her body onto mine, forcing me to hold her or be pushed off balance. Her breath sweet with alcohol on my face as she whispered, “I’ll give you a choice, come up to my flat and do everything I tell you for the next 24 hours or leave and never see me again.” Her hand slid down from my chest to gently squeeze between my legs.
I followed her up the stairs. Did I really have a choice?
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