Butterfly (4 page)

3

Having sex with a stranger was nothing new to Trudie Stein. It was how she usually

spent her Saturday nights. However, having sex with a stranger under these peculiar cir-

cumstances, she decided as she gazed up at the butterfly logo over the door, was definitely

new.

And it excited her beyond belief.

As she accepted the claim check from the parking valet and heard him pull away from

the curb in her electric-blue Corvette, Trudie felt a sudden, unexpected jolt of fear.

But what was there to be afraid of? After all, her cousin Alexis had been coming here

for weeks now, Alexis who had gone on and on to Trudie about the fantastic wonders of

this place. “
Where you can act out any fantasy you want,”
Alexis had said. And then there

was Dr. Linda Markus, for whom Trudie had designed and built a sun deck and spa at her

beach house—Dr. Markus had been a member of Butterfly, according to Alexis, for even

longer. In fact, it was Linda Markus who had recommended Trudie’s cousin for member-

ship, the two being very close friends since medical school. And so now here was Trudie,

thirty years old and searching for something, standing on the sidewalk of Rodeo Drive,

on the threshold of having her most desired fantasy come true. Thanks, really, to Dr.

Markus.

That was how Butterfly operated, Alexis had explained. Since it was a small, private

“club,” each member was allowed to bring in one other person. Dr. Markus had chosen

her best friend, Alexis, and Alexis had decided to recommend her cousin Trudie. Two

weeks ago, just after Christmas, Trudie had come here for an interview and orientation

with the director. Three days ago she had received her special bracelet, and now she, too,

was a full-fledged member with all the rights and privileges that Butterfly offered.

Trudie turned up the collar of her coat and squinted at the building in the cold

January glare.

What Butterfly offered…

“I tell you, Trude,” her cousin had said, “Butterfly has done wonders for me already.

It’s helping me to find myself, to sort myself out. Perhaps it can rescue you, too.”

Rescue. Trudie certainly hoped so. The endless and demeaning cycle of one-night

stands with men who never called back, or who proved to be disappointments in the light

of dawn, had Trudie Stein on a winding track leading to nowhere. And she desperately

wanted to go
somewhere—
with
someone.

Well, that first step had to be taken.

So she took it, right through the glass doors of Fanelli, the posh Beverly Hills men’s

store with the enigmatic butterfly on its plain façade. Trudie was familiar with the store;

15

16

Kathryn Harvey

she had come here years ago and purchased a Loire Valley work shirt for her boyfriend,

and he had turned around and given it to
his
boyfriend. The store was elegant in a brass-

and-mahogany way, and was at the moment crowded with customers returning or

exchanging holiday gifts.

Trudie paused a moment to calm her racing heart. She recognized a few of the faces in

the crowd: there was the movie director whose swimming pool she had designed and

built; there was that famous rock idol Mickey Shannon, trying to look inconspicuous;

and over by Toiletries, Trudie recognized Beverly Highland, the famous society hostess.

For an instant Trudie wondered if
she
was a member of the secret operation upstairs.

But everyone knew what a staunch supporter of Good News Ministries Beverly Highland

was, and what an exemplary, moral life she led. Besides, Trudie saw that the telltale but-

terfly bracelet was absent from her wrist.

Most of the customers in the store, Trudie knew as she pushed her way through, did

not know about what went on upstairs. The director had assured her of that. These peo-

ple were actually here to buy things—very few were like herself, heading for the back of

the store and making sure her bracelet could be seen—the bracelet made of delicate gold

links and displaying a small butterfly charm.

She finally reached the back, where live mannequins modeled fashions for seated cus-

tomers. This part of the shop was overseen by special staff members, women in black

skirts and white blouses with butterflies embroidered over the pockets. These, Trudie

knew, were separate from the staff that worked the rest of the store. Only these knew

where the private elevator led.

Trudie had seen male models before. In fact, a few of the guys who subcontracted for

her worked as models on the side. Perpetually suntanned, sinewy from hard labor, and

usually with golden locks, they tended to look as good in silk blazers and gray flannel

slacks as in dusty jeans and T-shirts. But Butterfly’s models, Trudie had always thought,

could have put her he-men to shame. And now she knew why, the
real
reason why they

looked so good. It had nothing to do with modeling clothes.

Trudie took a seat, declined an offer of tea or Perrier, and watched the fashion show

that was a daily feature of the classy Fanelli.

Spellbound, she kept her eye on the doorway to the models’ dressing room. The men

came out one by one and slowly passed among the seated customers, the majority of

whom were women. The models sported a variety of fashions, from leather bomber jack-

ets to Savile Row pajamas, and the men themselves covered a range of types, in age and

physique and manner.
Something for everyone,
Trudie thought as her excitement mounted.

The brass ship’s clock on the wall ticked and the men came out of the hidden dressing

room, strolled about, smiled, posed, and disappeared again. Customers got up and left,

more came in and filled the seats. Most left with purchases under their arms (but none,

Trudie saw, stepped into that special elevator at the back of the store).

As she looked the men over—the one with the Arnold Schwarzenegger physique in

the fisherman’s pullover, the short wiry Asian in kung-fu lounge wear—Trudie became

aware of two other women who had sat there for as long as she had. Her eye went to their

wrists. They wore identical butterfly bracelets.

BUTTERFLY

17

And then she saw him.

He was silver-haired and distinguished-looking, maybe in his sixties, and modeling an

exquisite black cashmere topcoat. Trudie was suddenly breathless. He was
gorgeous.

Him. She would choose him.

But now that the actual moment had arrived, the time for her fantasy to begin, Trudie

felt suddenly shy, inexplicably reluctant.
I’ve been burned so many times…

To look at her, one would assume that Trudie Stein was a smashing success in rela-

tionships with men: she was a tall, good-looking blonde who wore trendy clothes,

moussed her hair into a stylish shag, and drove thirty thousand dollars’ worth of car.

When on a jobsite, she wore shorts with braless tank tops that showed off her tanned, ath-

letic body, and she bossed as many as twenty men at a time. The problem was, too many

of them saw her as just another ditsy blonde, a wealthy, brainless pushover who couldn’t

possibly make it on her own in the tough construction business, and who therefore

needed a “man around.”

As she watched the attractive silver-haired model disappear into the dressing room,

Trudie allowed herself to recall a painful memory that she normally fought back into the

darker corners of her mind.

It was the memory of a night over a year ago. Pool season was starting to wind down—

Trudie’s company had its busiest time during spring and summer, when most pools were

built. That particular November, as the final details were being seen to—waterfalls made

to run, spas turned on, landscaping installed and inspections made—Greg Olson, her

masonry subcontractor, a man with whom she had exchanged friendly flirtations for sev-

eral months, had finally come on strong. “Work will be slowing down soon, Trudie,” he

had said in that drawl she had come to like. “We won’t have business conflicts standing in

our way. What do you say we go out for a drink?”

Well, Greg Olson had money in his own right, drove an Allante, could have any

woman he wanted, and didn’t seem pressed to prove his machismo, as so many of the

other guys did. So Trudie had decided he was safe; she lowered her defenses. And it had

gone well—at first. Dinner and dancing at a restaurant on San Vicente in West L.A.

Afterward, a sultry evening drive along the Pacific Coast Highway. And then—they had

parked! Like a couple of horny teenagers.

Trudie had loved it. The whole scene was so deliciously juvenile that there had been a

kind of endearing innocence to it. As a consequence, she had succumbed sooner than she

had planned. Afterward, brushing sand off their clothes as they climbed the bluff back up

to where they had parked the car, Greg had said, “Boy, you were good down there. You

sure had us fooled!”

“What do you mean?” she had asked as she had gotten into the car, already knowing

the answer, fearing it, not wanting to hear it, suddenly wishing she hadn’t come out with

Greg Olson tonight, that she had listened to her goddamned instincts when they had

whispered: Watch out. He’s up to something.

“We all thought you were a lesbian. Some of the guys even have a bet riding on it.”

When the pool season resumed again, Trudie found herself a new masonry subcontractor.

She also instituted a new iron clad rule for herself: No more going out with guys from the job.

18

Kathryn Harvey

Which left only the Saturday-night pickups, strangers in singles bars who turned out

to be hasty lovers, selfish lovers, insecure lovers, and guys who just had to say, “Was it

good for you?” afterward.

He came out again, the silver-haired model, and her heart jumped.

This time he was wearing a leather trench coat and a white silk scarf around his neck.

When he walked past her, Trudie thought he gave her a special smile. She glanced over at

the other two women: one was already gone; the other was writing something down on a

piece of paper and handing it to an attendant.

Trudie quickly opened her purse and took out a small notepad. She was suddenly anx-

ious, and suddenly afraid that he was already taken. Why was she wasting so much time

sitting here!

Her hand shook as she wrote. This was unbelievable! It was
fantastic!

“What do you do at Butterfly?” she had asked her cousin Alexis.

“Anything you can think of, Trude. They’re very accommodating.”

“Well, like what about Linda Markus? What does she do when she goes there?” And

Alexis had said, “Linda likes costumes. She also prefers to have both her and the man

wearing masks.”

Masks! Trudie thought as she nervously handed the slip of paper to the attendant. And

what was it going to be like with
her
silver-haired lover? Would he really be able to fulfill

the fantasy she had requested, would she really go upstairs and find everything there,

exactly as she had just written it on the notepaper?

Trudie didn’t have long to wait. She sat twisting her hands as the minutes seemed to

stretch by—Trudie Stein who was usually so cool, so smooth when it came to casual sex—

and prayed that the other woman hadn’t beaten her to the silver-haired model. Then the

attendant reappeared, murmured, “Come this way, please,” and Trudie found herself fol-

lowing the woman into the private elevator.

She had agonized for hours over her appearance for tonight’s special “date.” Over the

years, building up her pool business, fighting to make a go of it in a male-dominated

field, and giving orders to tough construction types on jobsites, Trudie had had to learn to

suppress her natural femininity and adopt a crusty, aggressive style. If she didn’t, none of

the guys who worked for her would take her seriously, and the jobs would never get done.

And she knew that, as a consequence, she came across as a pushy broad with a chip on her

shoulder, out to prove she was just as good as any man.

On the job she tried to “neuter” herself with shorts and tank tops (the breasts she

couldn’t help), but when she put away her clipboard and blueprints and got ready for a

night on the town, Trudie reverted to her instincts for the ultrafeminine. For this first

evening at Butterfly she had bought a special outfit: an upholstery-fabric skirt that went

down to her ankles, a blouse of bright blue silk, and silver earrings and necklace. Trudie

knew she was walking femininity with all traces of construction work gone.

The attendant led her down a quiet hall, past closed doors, and finally to the room at

the end where the soft-spoken attendant said, “If you will just go in here, please.”

Trudie did.

BUTTERFLY

19

And the door closed behind her, leaving her alone in a small, intimate dining room

tastefully furnished with French provincial sofa and chairs, shelves filled with books, thick

carpeting, and a table already set with white linen, china, crystal, and candles. There was