I rewrote this chapter two times and still not satisfied but there's only one more chapter after this-I'm pretty sure. Anyway. I had to tone it down and that's why I had to rewrite.
8
As soon as I had assured Greer I would attend her tableaus—what she specified were 'tableau vivants'-I regretted it but she had me by the short hairs and I would have agreed to anything just to keep her from talking so her warm, wet lips would slide up and down my cock again. It seems many times my prick overrules my common sense. So, after seeing her off in her buggy and silently admiring her driver's infinite patience, I went to wash, shave and consider my position before I went downstairs to eat. I stared in the mirror as I spread shaving soap on my cheeks and neck. I didn't care to be a whoremaster. Her argument in joining her in business struck me because she saw or sensed that I had no one close; hell, I didn't even have a close friend anymore since so many hadn't returned from the war or had died in the following years and that left me hollow. There was no one to discuss ideas with or share thoughts about books or plays or life or death or anything. I loved my brothers but even they didn't know my secret thoughts nor would they have understood, and although my father often said he knew me, he didn't.
Despite the attraction I felt for Greer, for some reason that's buried somewhere in my past, I have contradictory feelings about sex. I certainly enjoy it and have paid for it more times than I care to admit, and yet there's something about it that I find repugnant; it's a base urge that unfortunately, is often mistaken for love. I don't begrudge anyone a good fuck and it's not the smells and tastes of the act that are…off-putting, but the domination aspect; one person always dominates another whether it's with the mere attraction of what lies between their lies or to the other extreme, with whips and ropes. I've grown up on a ranch and at a tender age saw trembling mares roped and hobbled, their tails looped and pulled out of the way so a choice stallion could easily and brutally mount her. Our sows fell on their front knees supporting the weight of a slobbering, rutting boar and many times while in town, I heard the whimpering and crying of a bitch stuck to a male dog. In Abilene, at the end of my first trail drive and at only fifteen years of age, I saw two drunken, laughing cowboys drag a protesting saloon girl into an alleyway. It was only when she returned to the saloon, stumbling while pulling up the straps of her dress, her lip rouge smeared about her mouth, her eyes glazed, her hair tumbled, that I was sure what had happened. Had one held her down while the other took his turn under her skirts? It made me sick to think of it. As a kid I wondered why man was designed so stupidly as to put his cock and balls down there next to his asshole, and why a woman's anatomy was even worse. Hell, a woman could actually smell twenty times worse than any man and yet, if she offered herself up, there would be men shoving each other out of the way to get to her.
As I've said before, I'm not one for brutality, not one for domination although I easily could do so, but give me a woman who willingly and lovingly and without recompense, participates in a sexual relationship and I'm a happy man. Unfortunately, it hasn't yet happened but most of the fault lies with me, I'm ashamed to admit; those women I hoped could fulfill that combination, for some reason or another couldn't or wouldn't and I've had my heart broken a few times. I guess it's made me protective. Nevertheless, I'm willing to explore various ways to experience sexual pleasure. So, with that argument in mind, I decided to seriously consider Greer's offer. What did love matter anyway as far as sex and money was concerned?
After a quick bite in the hotel restaurant, I dressed for Mrs. Parker's Parlour. Reluctantly. I put on a starched white shirt, my gray weskit, thinly-striped pants and, dreading it, a gray cravat. I slipped on the cutaway jacket Hop Sing had insisted I take. I planned on wearing the top hat but couldn't bear the stiff dress shoes, so pulled on my boots; I'd get them shined by the Chinese boy who stood outside clutching his shoeshine box offering a shine for five cents. I took one last look in the mirror, put on the hat, and headed to the door but stopped, deciding I'd wear my holster. So, taking off my jacket, I buckled it on and hoped I wouldn't need it.
I was late and buggies lined the street in front of Greer's place just as they had in front of LeStrange's gallery; if they were the same buggies bringing the same people, I didn't know, but I wouldn't have been surprised. It seemed to me there was a circle of people in Sacramento with too much money and too many perversions who patronized the same services and it made me wonder if Harland Bolling was inside. Well, I'd find out soon enough but I hoped he wasn't. I liked the man and didn't want to think of him salivating over some nubile, naked woman gyrating on the floor. But then, I was there and what made me think I was any better than any of these people?
I gave my name at the door to a young woman in a dress cut so low she may as well have been topless; it was probably an introduction to what was inside. But before I was allowed in, I had to pay five dollars. I heard the sound of a metal box open and close as I stepped into a foyer and a rough-looking man wearing fancy livery, of course, stepped in my way. I judged he must have been an ex-fighter as his face was scarred and his nose crooked, the bridge smashed flat; he stated he'd never seen me there before.
"That's because I've never been here before. Now," I said, "if you'll excuse me." As I started around him, he shoved me back. I wondered what Hop Sing would say if I returned to the Ponderosa with a soiled and ripped dinner jacket, a broken hand, split lip and two black eyes because if he put hand on me again, I would have to take my chances and hope he had a glass jaw. I was relieved he merely told me to wait there while he walked away. But I'd be damned if I'd wait around like some dog for its master, so I started into the lit interior. Greer and the "boxer" came my way and seeing me, she smiled and hurried over.
"Mr. Cartwright-Adam, so glad you're here!" She slipped her arm through mine and turned to the man. "Rollo, it's all right. Mr. Cartwright may soon be one of the owners, one of your employers. Why don't you take his hat." He eyed me suspiciously and merely nodded. He unceremoniously took my hat and left to stand sentinel again.
"Take a mask," Greer said as we passed a long, thin table with elegantly turned legs. It held an array of masks, some with decorative feathers and faux pearls and simple ones in black satin.
"Why?" I asked.
"So, no one can recognize you." She seemed surprised, as if I was so naïve that I never considered recognition. I laughed, and she stopped pulling me back a step. "No one here wants to be recognized. It leaves them open to extortion or blackmail."
"If their reputation is that precarious, they shouldn't be here. As for the mask, I'll pass."
"Suit yourself but remember, as my silent partner, your name won't be revealed. No one will know of our association unless you announce it. Please, wear a mask." Greer was anxious which made me wonder just what was going on. I declined again. "Very well," she said and proceeded to explain, "but let me explain the money aspect. Everyone pays just to get in. That's the house's free and clear. The guests have already chosen their scenes, what Shunga painting or scroll they care to see reproduced. It's the same no matter what type of painting they choose, Roman, Greek, British, whatever I choose to display. If they're willing to part with more money-a hundred is the minimum, instead of the actors just posing, and the guests looking at them, they will perform the actual act. Then, if the guest chooses, on another night, he or she can request to take one or more of the models, upstairs, male or female, but what they do when alone is their business."
"And of course, you get a cut."
"We get a cut." She smiled and added. "Seventy percent. It's the easiest money you'll ever make."
"I haven't yet agreed to a partnership," I said, "and I doubt I will."
"You will, Adam. Remember," she said, reaching up to touch my cheek, "there are certain privileges you get as partner, and I'm one of them."
I can't deny Greer's allure, the way she aroused me, and yet, I also felt her desperation. For some reason she needed me or, should I say, my money. Then we reached the "Parlour," I saw well-dressed men and women, about a dozen or so, sitting on straight-back chairs in a semi-circle. The women wore glittering gems and expensive gowns, the men, evening wear. And all wore a mask but even with their faces partially hidden, it was obvious Bolling wasn't among them. I felt better doing business with him as I did like the man and it boosted trust in my instincts.
A lovely young woman with her sheer dress opened to her waist exposing her breasts, carried a tray with champagne flutes offering them to the patrons. She didn't protest if people fondled her or kissed the rosy tip that was practically shoved in their faces. I assumed she was an appetizer. Greer had moved close to the open hall, observing, while I stood to the side, no one paying me any attention to me, while on an Aubusson rug, a Chinese girl was on her back, her robes opened to expose her genitals while a male posed above her, his robes pushed back to expose him, ready to enter her. The audience didn't protest that she was Chinese, not Japanese, as they didn't discern the difference; their only interest was the sexual aspect. But since it was a "tableau", the actors had to remain still, the chosen painting on an easel for the audience to see and compare. When the man started to "wilt", another of Greer's female employees waiting for such a moment, would reach over and, in a motion similar to milking a cow, would make him hard again which caused much laughter and salacious comments among the audience.
One of the women tossed money in front of the actors and told them to finish and the whole room finally fell silent as the couple completed the act with all the accompanying motions and sounds of sex. Then there was applause, the couple rose and left, the woman tottering slightly and by the look of her eyes, it was obvious she had smoked opium before her performance. Then the next painting was revealed.
"Oh, that's my choice!" a woman said, clapping her hands. It was of a woman who was pleasuring herself. Cushions were placed on the rug and a Chinese girl came out, pulling back her robe after situating herself, and with her feet flat on the floor, separated her legs and glancing at the picture, adjusted her clothing and placed her hands appropriately, assuming a look of pleasure. One of the men went down on his hands and knees to get a better look and then slapped some bills down and ordered her to finish while he sat closely and watched. "I want to make sure she's not pretending," he said to the group. And while they all watched, a few women tittering, uncomfortable, I watched them. These were well-to-do people who, one night a week, turned into voyeurs, watching others fulfill their sexual fantasies. Did the men leave here to go home and crawl on top of their wives or paramours while picturing these scenarios? I knew I wanted nothing to do with these people or Greer's business or purveying opium, and decided to leave. I was out five dollars but my curiosity was satisfied and my decision confirmed.
I looked for Greer. She was still standing at the far doorway and as I watched, from the back of the house, a woman in simple homespun rushed to her, obviously agitated and she and Greer quickly left. Something was happening and my thoughts went to the young Chinese woman possibly reacting badly to the opium. I followed but stopped at the bottom of the stairs as the women's skirts rounded the top. It was none of my business, I decided, and turned to leave. But then I heard loud voices—one was Greer's and the other was a man's. The unknown woman came hurrying down the stairs and seeing me, stopped. "Get up there and stop him!" She must have confused me for an enforcer and after pausing, we both continued—me up the stairs and her down. I didn't know who "he" was, but I took the stairs two at a time. It sounded like one helluva fight.