Go: A Surrender Read online

  Go:

  a surrender

  by

  Jane Nin

  © Jane Nin 2012

  for my better lovers

  1.

  “I know your problem,” the man standing to my left said, as the bartender set an empty glass in front of him and poured. “You think you’re bored with sex.”

  I’d been accused of being a bitch before, a bitch or a snob; that’s what happens when you’re a woman in a bar and someone talks to you who you don’t want to talk to and you follow your own inclinations instead of theirs. But this guy…

  Nobody else had ever taken such bold aim. Or hit so near the mark.

  “Why do you say that?” I asked him, trying to be nonchalant, but also stealing a closer look. He looked wealthy, but quietly wealthy—which in Houston was unusual. His suit, though understated, fit so perfectly it had to be bespoke. Shoes looked genuinely Italian. Plus, he was drinking wine, which suggested he’d been wealthy for awhile. Long enough to cultivate tastes that extended beyond the stuff that was expensive for expensive’s sake.

  It’s true, I might be just slightly more patient when the guy talking to me in a bar appears to be rich. Whatever; sue me.

  Anyway far more important was that I was incredibly curious what he’d say next. He swirled the glass now, held it up to the light, then spoke. “It’s a deductive process.”

  “Oh? Walk me through it.”

  A bar stool separated us and we were speaking too loudly. He cocked his head—a question. I nodded for him to move closer. The bartender pretended he wasn’t watching, but deftly switched my empty drink out for a full one.

  Now that he sat beside me I could see the lines in his face. Crow’s feet around his eyes—he’d laughed a lot in his life; at what, I couldn’t guess. And silver in his hair. He’d lived some; I liked that.

  “Well?” I pressed.

  “One, here you are.”

  “Can’t argue with that.”

  “You asked me a question. I’m answering it. Don’t interrupt.”

  I barely had a moment to feel sheepish before—

  “One, here you are, which means you’re not afraid of going to a bar alone. Which also means you’re not afraid of men talking to you.”

  “True.”

  “But. Two. You’re also used to it. Which means you aren’t flattered just by it happening. Right?”

  “Also true.”

  “However, to review: one, here you are, which means you must be here for a reason, and that’s not because you enjoy avoiding talking to men who don’t interest you. Ergo—”

  “Oh, Latin, now—”

  “Ergo, three: You’re looking to get laid.”

  He paused, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth, waiting for my indignation. I decided to temper it.

  “That’s a bit artless, don’t you think?”

  “Hmm. Maybe. How about, you’re willing to get laid. Open to it, I mean.”

  I shrugged. He was right. I was willing. Particularly if it was him applying. “Maybe,” I said.

  He made a face, like, don’t be coy.

  “Okay, sure,” I said, “I’m open to getting laid. As you so eloquently put it.”

  He took a sip of his drink, said nothing. Who could blame me—I had to know: “Are you offering?”

  “I haven’t finished yet.”

  “Finished…” I’d forgotten where we’d started. He was smart and he looked like he could kiss, and he had nice hands—the nails clipped short, which told me he knew or cared about the female body.

  “I was telling you how I’d deduced you were bored with sex.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “Bored is a strong word.”

  “Sure,” he said. “And maybe it’s not quite right. I’m not suggesting you don’t care about sex. Obviously you do, or you wouldn’t be here seeking it out.”

  “Seeking it out?”

  “Let’s drop the pretense,” he said, “I don’t need you to be genteel.”

  He had my full attention now, and he continued. “You’re here because you want to fuck.”

  He might’ve made me blush.

  “No shame in that—frankly, I respect it. But.”

  “But?”

  My hanging on his every word, it wasn’t an act. I truly wanted him to decipher me. I wanted him to tell me who I was, and why I was that way—like maybe if he could tell me all that he could offer me some key to myself that I didn’t have. And maybe, if I had the key, I could unlock myself and get the machinery working, finally figure out how to be happy.

  I’d never figured out happiness, you see. Never figured out love.

  Sex I’d figured out. Or so I thought.

  “But,” he said. “The fucking. You don’t expect it to surprise you.”

  He looked at me. True?

  “True.”

  “Like I said, you’re bored. Expecting nothing out of the ordinary is called boredom.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “And? Is this where you try to sell me on S&M. Whips and leather? Contracts?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Here’s what I think. You’ve had good sex—”

  “Have I?”

  “Come now, women who have shitty sex don’t go alone to bars hoping to have more of it. The sex you have, it’s good. Decent, anyway.”

  Again he was right. I nodded.

  “Here’s what you haven’t had, though. You haven’t had the sex you’re afraid of.”

  “And what sex is that?”

  “Filthy, utterly objectifying. You’ve fantasized about it, though.”

  One hundred percent true that I’d fantasized about it. And that I’d never been brave enough to have it. I sipped my drink, cheeks burning—which doubtless confirmed his theory.

  “Moreover. You haven’t had the opposite of that, either.”

  Surely he didn’t mean what I thought he meant. “The opposite?” I asked.

  “Sex with someone who adores you.”

  My heart did that thing where it became like a bruise and spread pain all across my chest. I blinked back tears, sipping my drink again, to hide them.

  “I’ve had that sex,” I said, which was somewhat true.

  “With your college boyfriend,” said this man.

  “High school,” I said, but what I thought was, fuck you for being right.

  “Hey, no need to feel ashamed. Anyway, I’m not offering you that.”

  Offering. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were ‘offering’ me anything?”

  “The first kind,” he said.

  “What?”

  “The filthy, objectifying kind. I’m offering you that. If you’re interested.”

  For a pick-up line, it was at least unprecedented. “You’re offering me the opportunity to have filthy, objectifying sex with you.”

  “No. And actually, I’m going to retract the word filthy. I’m offering you profoundly objectifying sex in a variety of contexts. And not with me.”

  “With who, then?”

  “Well, you don’t get to choose. Isn’t that the point?”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was intrigued.

  “I can see it turns you on. Your pupils are dilated. I bet if I felt your pussy it’d be wet.”

  I blushed again, shocked not only by the statement but by the harshness of the word against his refined demeanor. Still, I held his gaze, challenging him. “Feel it, then.”

  “All in good time.”

  “What?”

  “Do you consent? Just to a scenario.”

  “What?”

  “I promise, you’ll be perfectly safe.”

  I searched his face, for some indication I should trust him. Only reminding myself of how those don’t exist. How many liars had I looked in the
eye, never guessing what they were?

  But I was excited. And he was right—my pussy was wet.

  “All right,” I said, “I consent. Do I need to sign something?”

  “Don’t be silly,” he said, “this isn’t recess. It’s not make-believe.”

  “Oh,” I said, weakly. Heart-pounding. It’s a cliché, but there are times and places it’s all you can do. Mine was, then.

  “Excellent,” he said, signaling to the bartender to close our tab. And just like that, we were leaving.

  2.

  His car smelled like new leather and tire and gasoline. I wanted to fuck him already—wanted to make it smell like sex in addition to those other things.

  I could just lean over and kiss him, I thought. But I didn’t want to make it so easy. That is, I’d already made it easy but I wanted to seem cooler than I felt in that moment.

  What I felt was terrified. My breath came shallow. My teeth were chattering slightly, though the heat in the car was on—I felt it warming my lower back, my ass, my thighs.

  I fantasized biting his lip. Caught my breath a little as I pictured him lowering his head to suckle my nipple. What was it about terror that made me want to fuck.

  “Wonderful,” he said into his phone, “we’ll pick the keys up at the front desk.” He looked over at me, searching my face. I swallowed.

  “You’re sure,” he said.

  I nodded slowly, not at all sure.

  “We’ll start with something mild. Sound good?”

  I chewed my lip, still nodding. He put the car in drive and we made our creeping way forward. It wasn’t much of a drive—just a couple blocks.

  Outside the hotel he pulled into the valet line. Moments later we were climbing out. As we approached the door I glanced over at him. I felt small, like a rabbit, or a child on the first day of kindergarten.

  “You have to stop doing that,” he said. I’d been chewing my lip again. “Go on ahead to the bathroom and fix your lipstick. I’ll meet you at the bar. Drink?”

  “Dirty martini,” I said. He was already striding off.

  In the bathroom, I dabbed fresh lipstick onto my mouth. It was soft, expensive light. Made me look expensive—all glossy and golden, like some fine instrument. The waves of my honey-blonde hair glinted in the light. I was like some Jazz Age trophy, cold and untouchable.

  What was going to happen out there? Part of me guessed it would be some sort of role play—a “Hello, Stranger” scenario. Except he really was a stranger, and we’d just run through that game just an hour before. This would be something new.

  I smoothed my hair, my dress, and left the sweet haze of the ladies’ room. The lobby seemed bright by contrast, like a man who looked at you too long.

  Thankfully, the bar was much darker.

  I wasn’t accustomed enough to him yet so at first I had trouble recognizing him at the bar. But he was there. I sat, and he pushed a champagne flute toward me. Not what I’d ordered.

  “You were overruled,” he said, as if I’d spoken aloud.

  I reached for the glass and took a sip, my delicious apprehension renewed.

  “So, one way we could do this is for you to have veto power,” he said. “But frankly I think that’s not in the spirit of the game.”

  “Okay,” I said, half-guessing what he intended.

  “Okay, you relinquish veto power?”

  “Just for this,” I hastened, “provisionally. I need to know I can have it back if I need it.”

  “Once this is underway I hope you aren’t going to embarrass everyone by backing out,” he admonished. “Remember, these are people we’re talking about. They have feelings. And you’re going to have them in a very intimate situation. So don’t be insulting, okay? Don’t be hurtful.”

  I’d guessed right. I paused for a moment, just taking this in.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I thought you would,” he said approvingly, and I felt a little surge of delight, like a spelling bee champion who’d managed not to botch a hard one.

  “People aren’t always up for this, you know,” he said, and I felt an unexpected jealous fury at the idea that he’d done anything like it before. “Don’t take it personally. They worry it’s some sort of scam, or that we’re crazy—”

  “Aren’t we?”

  “Benignly,” he shrugged, then continued, “—or they worry it’s some bait-and-switch and your services will come at a price. I’m sure we’ll find a candidate, but I’m just warning you. I might have to approach several people first. Just try to stay cool.”

  I nodded. I was determined to stay cool.

  “And don’t drink too fast. If you’re drunk it’ll be pointless and I’ll look like I’m taking advantage.”

  I nodded again, aware now of how quickly I’d been sucking down my champagne. I set it on the bar, commenced to clutching my hands in my lap.

  He sighed disappointedly, drew a slim volume from his pocket and handed it to me. “Stop fidgeting and read this,” he said.

  I looked at the title and laughed. “The I Ching? Are you serious?”

  “No, but it beats nail biting,” he said. “Okay,” he added. “Now, don’t watch me.”

  And with that he left me at the bar. The bartender pointedly didn’t look at me, and I thought how he must see shenanigans like this all the time. But how could I not watch? I hadn’t even had a chance to see who was in here, who he’d be choosing from. I started to swivel my stool, which was when the bartender shot me a sharp look. He was in on it?

  I flushed. Took a thrifty sip of my champagne, and opened the I Ching. Couldn’t read a goddamn word.

  Behind the bar were shelves and shelves of bottles, and behind them a sort of copper-colored, degraded mirror. I peered into it, trying to make out….

  ….his name, I suddenly realized. What was his name?

  Had he said it at the beginning? Had he ever said it? I spun back through the last hour or so, like rewinding a tape, and located nothing—just laughter, the wicked twinkle in his eyes. I couldn’t recall an introduction.

  “Excuse me?” the bartender looked startled that I was able to speak. With one eye on him he sidled over.

  “My drink, is it on a tab?”

  He shook his head. “Charged to the room.”

  “What’s the room?”

  “I can’t give that information out.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  I emptied my drink, suddenly thrilled to exercise this small defiance. “May I please have a martini?”

  Again the bartender glanced beyond me. “I can give you champagne.”

  “I’ll pay,” I said, digging my wallet out of my purse, pawing through it for cash.

  The bartender didn’t move, but instead focused completely on something just behind me. A moment later I knew why.

  “Another champagne for the lady,” said a voice. It was a stranger’s. The bartender was quick to obey.

  I looked over. The man standing beside me was the kind of man one saw in hotels like this. Short and ruddy; thinning blonde hair. An expensive suit designed to make his shoulders look bigger, and too long in the sleeves. Gold rings, banker’s shirt but he’d taken his tie off and unbuttoned the top. I could see the gold chain at his throat, his graying chest hair.

  There was sweat at his temples. He was nervous.

  The bartender handed me more champagne. The man wiped his face with the back of his hand, stared at me. His lips were parted; I could see his tongue.

  “So I get to fuck you,” he said, not quite incredulous.

  My stomach sank and my cheeks flushed. The thought of this man’s hands on me repulsed me. And yet, between my legs, the message was entirely opposite. I was not attracted to him. But I was getting my wish. The sort of fantasy I’d always felt too conflicted about to try to exercise. How had he known this about me, about what I wanted? That, too, made me wet. Wet and frightened.

  “Is that supposed
to be small-talk?” I asked, shakily, trying to come off as breezy.