in and out.
“All right,” she promised. “I won’t laugh.”
The next morning Rally sat around her loft in a daze, unable to focus on her writing. Patrick had held her half-naked for an hour the night before, then dressed her in some clean sweatpants and a T-shirt of his, and sent her home in a cab without even a peck on the cheek. The night had been glorious, then kinky, then over.
“What the fuck?” said Rally, out loud, to no one. She said it several times.
Rally stared at her computer, which showed her tentative Five Kingdoms itinerary for France in November. Rally intended to write a piece not about Beaujolais nouveau, the wine itself, but about the culture surrounding the annual release of the wine, the way it was hailed and imbibed so quickly, for one short November week, then forgotten. However, on this particular morning Rally couldn’t focus on wine. She was thinking about how she’d had four thousand dollars of Patrick’s interest wrapped around her the night before, and there’d been no sex whatsoever.
“What the fuck?” said Rally.
The phone rang. It was Sabrina.
“Well?” demanded Sabrina. “How was he?”
Rally wondered what to say. Normally, she shared her dirty details with Kim and Sabrina. But this time, thoughshe was dying to spill everything—especially the price of the Narciso Rodriguez—something told her not to.
“He didn’t kiss me,” said Rally.
“Huh,” said Sabrina. “Well, how’s the wine trip looking? Got your reservations? You psyched?”
“We didn’t kiss,” said Rally absently.
Rally saw Patrick seven Fridays in a row. Patrick never called Rally during the week. He phoned her each Friday, met her at Saks, spent thousands on her, took her to dinner, took her home to his bedroom, cut up her dress, and held her. Patrick, Rally discovered, followed unspoken rules in this ritual and expected her to follow them too. The dresses were always simple, pure-silk affairs by Badgly Mischka or Pamela Dennis. They were solid-colored dresses—black, midnight-blue, maroon—and they came chastely to Rally’s ankles until they were cloven in two and wrapped around her throat in the moonlight. Patrick crossed Rally’s wrists behind her back each time and held her in place for an hour. He never kissed her, never fondled her, never tried to remove her undergarments, never spoke crudely to her, and when the hour was over, Patrick sent Rally home in a clean pair of his sweatpants and a clean T-shirt.
Rally was frustrated and intrigued by Patrick. On their third date she tested his parameters. When she donned her dress at Saks, Rally kept her bra on but left her underwear behind. That night, when Patrick ripped her dress in two, he snorted and backed away from Rally, dropping the dress. Rally turned around and came close to him, tried to kiss him, to coax his hand to her lap.
“Come on,” she whispered.
Patrick glared at her, pushed her away.
Rally came at him again. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Have me.”
“No,” hissed Patrick. He crossed his arms on his chest.
Rally stood tall and vicious in her heels. “What the hell’s this all about, then?”
Patrick stared at her. “It’s about you doing what I say. Seeing what I see.”
“Oh, really?” Rally crossed her arms now too. “What about you doing what I say?”
“If that’s what you want, leave.”
Rally felt embarrassment coming, or tears.
“I don’t understand.” Rally made her voice meek. “Aren’t we ever going to . . . kiss? Make love? I mean . . . don’t you want to?”
“Right now, I want you to leave,” said Patrick.
Rally’s mouth was open. “This isn’t normal, Patrick.”
Patrick’s eyes lit up hard. “I said, leave.”
So Rally left, and expected never to hear from Patrick again.
“Is he a good kisser?” asked Kim.
She and Rally were at home, on the couch.
“He’s wonderful,” lied Rally. Patrick had still never once pressed his lips to
“All right,” she promised. “I won’t laugh.”
The next morning Rally sat around her loft in a daze, unable to focus on her writing. Patrick had held her half-naked for an hour the night before, then dressed her in some clean sweatpants and a T-shirt of his, and sent her home in a cab without even a peck on the cheek. The night had been glorious, then kinky, then over.
“What the fuck?” said Rally, out loud, to no one. She said it several times.
Rally stared at her computer, which showed her tentative Five Kingdoms itinerary for France in November. Rally intended to write a piece not about Beaujolais nouveau, the wine itself, but about the culture surrounding the annual release of the wine, the way it was hailed and imbibed so quickly, for one short November week, then forgotten. However, on this particular morning Rally couldn’t focus on wine. She was thinking about how she’d had four thousand dollars of Patrick’s interest wrapped around her the night before, and there’d been no sex whatsoever.
“What the fuck?” said Rally.
The phone rang. It was Sabrina.
“Well?” demanded Sabrina. “How was he?”
Rally wondered what to say. Normally, she shared her dirty details with Kim and Sabrina. But this time, thoughshe was dying to spill everything—especially the price of the Narciso Rodriguez—something told her not to.
“He didn’t kiss me,” said Rally.
“Huh,” said Sabrina. “Well, how’s the wine trip looking? Got your reservations? You psyched?”
“We didn’t kiss,” said Rally absently.
Rally saw Patrick seven Fridays in a row. Patrick never called Rally during the week. He phoned her each Friday, met her at Saks, spent thousands on her, took her to dinner, took her home to his bedroom, cut up her dress, and held her. Patrick, Rally discovered, followed unspoken rules in this ritual and expected her to follow them too. The dresses were always simple, pure-silk affairs by Badgly Mischka or Pamela Dennis. They were solid-colored dresses—black, midnight-blue, maroon—and they came chastely to Rally’s ankles until they were cloven in two and wrapped around her throat in the moonlight. Patrick crossed Rally’s wrists behind her back each time and held her in place for an hour. He never kissed her, never fondled her, never tried to remove her undergarments, never spoke crudely to her, and when the hour was over, Patrick sent Rally home in a clean pair of his sweatpants and a clean T-shirt.
Rally was frustrated and intrigued by Patrick. On their third date she tested his parameters. When she donned her dress at Saks, Rally kept her bra on but left her underwear behind. That night, when Patrick ripped her dress in two, he snorted and backed away from Rally, dropping the dress. Rally turned around and came close to him, tried to kiss him, to coax his hand to her lap.
“Come on,” she whispered.
Patrick glared at her, pushed her away.
Rally came at him again. “Touch me,” she whispered. “Have me.”
“No,” hissed Patrick. He crossed his arms on his chest.
Rally stood tall and vicious in her heels. “What the hell’s this all about, then?”
Patrick stared at her. “It’s about you doing what I say. Seeing what I see.”
“Oh, really?” Rally crossed her arms now too. “What about you doing what I say?”
“If that’s what you want, leave.”
Rally felt embarrassment coming, or tears.
“I don’t understand.” Rally made her voice meek. “Aren’t we ever going to . . . kiss? Make love? I mean . . . don’t you want to?”
“Right now, I want you to leave,” said Patrick.
Rally’s mouth was open. “This isn’t normal, Patrick.”
Patrick’s eyes lit up hard. “I said, leave.”
So Rally left, and expected never to hear from Patrick again.
“Is he a good kisser?” asked Kim.
She and Rally were at home, on the couch.
“He’s wonderful,” lied Rally. Patrick had still never once pressed his lips to
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