Go: A Surrender

© Jane Nin 2012

for my better lovers

“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.

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.