Galya and the Boxer, or Entr’acte Encounters (closed to Perdita and Ariosto)

[Guest]

OCC - character introduction:

Galina Lebedova Linn (Russian diminutive: Galya)

48, Russian-American, parents emigrated from St. Petersburg, the former Leningrad, to San Francisco when she was 5; an only child, now orphaned, she works as assistant director of development for the San Francisco Opera.

Malnourished as a child she remains diminutive but seemingly curvaceous; thick short black naturally curly hair; pale skin with a slight golden cast; honey-brown eyes; plump roseate lips which curve up at the corners; longish thin stereotypical Slavic nose; long neck; small breasts with large nipples that match the shades of her mouth; disproportionately long legs for her height elongated by years of classical ballet training from ages 7 to 18. (Her ‘turnout’ always appeals and satisfies in sexual situations.)

Smart SF fashion sense, dresses mostly in elegant black and grays with touches of color accents occasionally; often taken for a chic dyke.

Not deeply religious but attends Sunday Orthodox services at the old cathedral for the atmosphere and music, especially the bass voice of the chief cantor; always lights three long candles to the Virgin, mostly out of habit, in memory of her parents.

Has one intimate friend, a Persian woman her age named Elahe.

Prefers the company of men and has had a great variety of lovers but never cared to marry. She is first sexually aroused by a man’s intelligence and creativity, and then must be sure he is at least six foot, has firm thighs and a full mouth; she cannot bear thin, flat lips or soft muscle. Otherwise a man’s appearance is irrelevant except for disproportionate weight or hidden baldness. She is still recovering, after six months of self-imposed celibacy, from the desertion of the love of her life, a 26 year old Russian composer.

A gay friend, the box office manager, keeps an eye out for possible lovers for Galya. When a suitable type buys a single ticket he reserves the adjoining seat for his exotic, grieving friend. She’s had many satisfying sexual adventures through this private subscription plan, but if a sexual experience does not occur she at least enjoys some conversation about the performance during intermissions.

Her next encounter will be at the sold-out performance of La Traviata starring the latest newcomer tenor from Sicily and a mature but in full vocal prime diva from Paris. She is anxious about attending, given her personal grief over Alexei and the parallel tragic plot about an older woman and younger man, but Pan has encouraged her, making grand assurances that her seat mate seems ripe for her picking. He neglected to mention that “Mr. Next” looked to be in his late twenties, if that. Galya never asked their ages, she liked to be surprised knowing they might range from 18 to 70, though her oldest so far was 67 and one of the best ‘cavalier serventes’ of the repertoire.

 

[ariosto]

OOC: Jackie Girand


Jonathan 'Jackie' Girand, doesn't look like an opera buff at all but rather like a middleweight prize fighter which is exactly what he is, right down to a slightly broken nose, scarred brow and calloused knuckles. In spite of this, Jack at 29 is a broodingly handsome man with a black Irish complexion, very dark hair, piercing grey eyes and a propensity to fry in the summer sun. He's tall for a middleweight at 6 even and 165 pounds, but it's all muscle...every bit of it.

So how does a top ranked boxer from humble origins in suburban New York, come to be seated in a one hundred fifty dollar seat at the Opera in San Francisco?
Easy to understand when you know that he's the lover of the moment for Reneé Jocelyn Jordan, the featured diva in this production of LaTraviatta.
He's seen her sing Violetta in similar seats from New York, to Chicago, Houston and now here in SF.

The lady has a propensity for young and very physical types plus a taste for violence that led her to the famous Girand/Ocevedo title fight at Madison Square Garden a month ago where she met and easily seduced poor Jackie made vulnerable by a controversial defeat and a strong dose of self pity. She was just what he needed....for a while anyway.

But he's not so sure of himself right now. His lover is insisting that he know more about the world she lives in, and so even though she'll move on to Vancouver tomorrow, he's agreed to stay in San Francisco for two more opera's much against his will.

The Boxer takes his seat, D51 fourth row center and glances at the empty space beside him. The lights have dimmed twice, a restless hush is falling over the audience. He wonders why a good seat like this would be wasted...

 

[Guest]

Galya's Entrance

Pan Fedorov assured me that tonight’s ticket would bring me luck, “if not a fuck!” he laughingly rhymed. “Galya, it’s been over six months, you’ve got to get on with the priorities of life. I swear by my gaydar this boychik will pull your switches, at least for a night if you let him. C’mon, it’s La Jordan and that pretty but majorly talented new divo Siciliano. If no lights turn on you’ll at least enjoy the music and the view on your left. Go for it, Gal pal. Wear your Miyake’s, the dress and ‘parfum’; you’ll knock him out in the first round, um. . . intermission.”

My fag friend laughed nervously at his last line as if it had a secret meaning, but I was already convinced to take a chance and asked no questions. Trusting him with my taste in men I took the ticket and kissed him on the cheek three times in the old Russian way. “Grazie, mio bello,” I said in the language of the evening’s drama.

I wore my black sheath by Issey Miyake, the Japanese master of fashion design. The ankle-length dress is entirely pleated in tiny permanent folds so the transparency is only visible when I move or stretch; the pleats open and close back revealingly. In stasis the tube fits my body like a glove. Tonight the revelation underneath will be a snapped-crotch body stocking sheer enough to show my dark nipples through the movement of the silk. The perfume is Feu d’Issey, an exotic scent everyone says is “me”. Jewelry will be minimal—my Russian gold filigree earrings and matching arm cuffs. Black heeled velvet mules and Chanel red #24 lipstick will complete the look of a sophisticated opera aficionada.

For these special encounters I always time my entrance so that I rush into my seat just as the houselights begin to dim. The feigned flurry causes my unsuspecting seat mate to get a quick view in the muted lights and hopefully be distracted until the first intermission when he can satisfy his compelling curiosity about the lone dame next to him. I trust Miyake’s ‘fire’ enhances his attention.

Pan proved prescient once more. Before I entered the row I took a quick studied look at the considerably male figure to the left of my empty seat. Tall enough, probably just six-foot, he was swarthy and rough looking despite the designer tux; the instant image was an immediately exciting surprise.

As I sat down going through a languorous movement, belying my near late arrival, I completely ignored him, as if I his seat were also vacangt. I felt him turn his head as I neared the red velvet cushion awaiting my now enlivened ass. I knew my fluidly spreading pleats were providing rapidly keen views of my lightly shrouded torso; he didn’t have time for the usual head to toe and back again observation. It’s the perfect first tease.

By the middle of the first act I began cursing Pan, then myself. How could I not have been prepared for the story I knew by heart of the Italian libretto about an older woman, a closed-hearted courtesan, and the passionate young man who alone loves her among the demi-monde of Paris, promising the first true experience of love in her life of prostitution. The lead singers were first rate and the orchestra paralleled and enhanced their passion, but I was simultaneously caught up in my still grieving memories of Alexei, the composer of my soul and orchestrator of my passion and tenderness.

During the duet at the end of the act I became aware of the tears wetting my cheeks and falling to my lap. I sniffled involuntarily and wiped my eyes with my fingers. I felt the masculinity next to me become aware of my plight but continued to ignore him. I forced my thoughts of Alexei the dark back of my mind and concentrated on Violetta and Alfredo making the purest declarations of love through glorious sounds composed in 1853.

By the curtain closing and first applause I was composed and ready for business.

 

[ariosto]

Goddam!..
was about all Jack had time to think before the house lights slipped away and the conductor entered to wild applause.
Goddam, she's a looker.

Her legs are crossed a few inches away from his and in the faint ambience of light still left he has to look twice to see is she's wearing anything at all on them. She is. It is a sheer black material, but when it stretches tight over her knees it seems to disappear....he wants to put his hand over them and squeeze.

*The Curtain rises....A fashionable Park avenue apartment in New York City. We're seeing a restaging of Fredo Obermyer's contemporaray version. The one that was such a success at the Met two years ago.
The diva stands stage center in deep conversation with another call girl, her friend Flora....*

Okay, eyes to the front..pay attention.
There's Reneé...dressed in an evening gown, deep red..showing off her wonderful tits. She had it made for this role by some Japaneese guy....Jack can't remember his name, Myoke or something. He smiles watching the two of them chatting so animatedly. He knows that they hate each others guts. She once wished Maria Fucellai (Flora) a raging yeast infection.

The smile turns to a frown as Alfredo enters.
A tall handsome man and one of the rising stars of the Opera world.
Fucking fag.
You wish...Girand. You know good and well that was a smokescreen Renee sent up to detour your jealousy.
No, the SOB is a real ladies man, he's had every woman on the stage except....

Jack won't think the thought.
Instead he turns and steals a long look at his as yet unknown companion.
Nice..older broad, but damned nice. Looks like a thousand dollar hooker he'd had in Vegas before the Gonzaga fight. Hell he'd do her.
She seems utterly oblivious, her eyes...long lashed and lustrous are focused on the stage.
He turns away.

Alfredo's singing now...
Di quel l'amor, quel l'amore ch'e palpito....

Look at her!...look how she looks at him!...Damn it baby, you don't have to make it so obvious!

And so it goes, throughout the act. The thrill he once felt hearing Reneé sing has been modified by the shrill timber of her voice when she rages at him which now seems quite often.
"Ruffian!...Mongrel!...Your hopeless Jackie", and then would come the lovemaking...so fine..so delicious...beauty and the beast.

The scent of the woman next to him has slowly invaded his space. He sniffs...steals another look.
She's crying.
Crying?

The audience bursts into wild applause!
The woman joins in.
Jack looks up on stage as Violetta curtsies low and accepts the worship of the adoring crowd..
He claps too and notices how big and rough and calloused his hands aree compared to the delicate manicured ones of the woman next door.

He smiles...the woman next door.

The curtain closes on sempre libera and Jack turns to face the woman with whom his fate now lies.

 

[Guest]

First Intermission

It really was a grand first act; Jordan and her new partner seemed especially fit to the passion of their roles and Verdi’s luscious score. There’s something else going on there, I’m sure of it. While I applaud with the crowd, all of us obviously enthralled, I can feel my own new partner turning to me. My face is composed once more; the idea of backstage high-jinks has taken my mind off the fictive story and my own recent history. Before the cheering dies down I start to leave our row, oblivious to Mr. Next. I give my excuses to the seated people I have to pass, and know the hunk is following. I walk with a lilt up the aisle and up the grand staircase toward the mezzanine bar. I know he’s following still and that his eyes are catching every glimpse my shift throws off with each deliberated step. I smile while thinking I should write the designer a thank-you note.

At the top of the wide marble stairs is a huge gilded mirror reflecting everyone rising forward. I deliberately ignore its scene, knowing the big-boy is watching to catch any revealing expression on my face. He probably thinks my smile about my dress designer is for him; I’ve yet to meet a handsome humble man.

I greet Albert, my favorite bartender. He gives me the usual, “Galina, caro mia; così bella! Bellissima!” I blow him my usual kiss and am about to order a glass of Cabernet when I feel my victim at my side. In an immediately alluring baritone he authoritatively tells Albert that anything I want is on him. A bass-baritone—my favorite male voice. Bravo, Pan! You think of every detail.

“No, Alberto, on my tab,” I say with my own authority, emphasizing my Russian accent, now near non-existant.

I turn only my head and look directly into a pair of excited grey eyes. I don't let on that the excitement is mutual.

“Thank you, sir. But I do not know you, and I don’t come to this house to meet men. I am here for the music. Excuse me.”

I wink at Albert; he knows to take his time.

 

[ariosto]

Jack's play...


Jacks face remained passive, with just the barest hint of a flush to indicate the wave of embarassement and anger he felt.

Tight assed bitch!

"Of course you do. So do I...to hear the music I mean."
He walked up beside her to the bar, paying her no further attention.
What the hell did it matter any. He was fucking the soprano wasn't he!?

"Gin and tonic Albert. Tangueray, extra lime."
He kept his eyes on the bartenders hands as he mixed the drink,
half hoping when he turned away she'd have melted in the crowd.
She hadn't.

The woman was standing just outside the crush at the table, a faint smile playing on her lips. Impervious to the admiring looks of the men and the cat eyes of the females as they brushed by.

"Your bartender mixes a good drink Lady."
Jack walked up to her and stuck out his hand.

"Look my name's Jack Girand and were sitting next to each other. I'm not here to pick up a dame. Just want to be cordial."

She looked down at his big hand and then up into his eyes. Her expression was inscrutable.

 

[Guest]

First order

Good, he’s taken the bait. Oh how easy it is; I hope he can manage to surprise me soon. His name is familiar, suits him. Jack’s a good name for a man like him. And he likes a “G&T as I do, Tangueray and extra lime. I keep no expression but a slight smile, no disdain this time. I take his hand warmly. He squeezes back gently, thank goodness. I hate being mauled in a handshake, usually only Europeans know how to shake a woman’s hand properly.

“Forgive me, Jack. Perhaps I seemed rude; I find it easy to assume the worst intentions, even in this house. As for the music, I am still in it. It’s in my head as I speak to you. Did you enjoy the first act? And forgive me too for not realizing we spent it together.

Before you reply, would you mind getting me what you’re having? This wine is boring. Tell Albert it’s for me, Galina Linn. I mean only that he’ll mix it just right, a little less gin than he gave you.”

 

[ariosto]

If she'd meant to brush him off she couldn't have done a better job. Galina Linn might have an 'in' with the bartender but not with the score of people now lined up in front of him.
By the time he'd returned the houselights were dimming.
She was talking to some tall queer looking guy and accepted the drink with a regal gesture that set Jack's teeth on edge.

"Jack this is Norman Summers. He's a writer. Norman, Jack here is a.... What do you do again Jack?"

"I knock people out."
He held out his hand.

The writer took it in his own very limp one.
"I know what you do Mister Girand, I'm a boxing afficianado. A fan of yours in fact."

I'll bet you are!...Norman Summers, sounds like a damned poem I read once...hated it.

"Nice to meet you Norman, I'm heading back down...looks like its about to start."
Without another word he turned and melted into the crowd.

Half way down the aisle he was startled when Galina's hand slipped under his arm.
"You didn't like my friend." she whispered.

He gave her hand a light squeeze and grinned.
"Nah...I thought he was cute."


The curtain rises and Jack notices his companion is sitting much closer...

 

[Guest]

Act Two

Galina watches Jack as he returns to the bar.

My goodness, Pan—that is a superman!

Her lustful gaze was interrupted by the nattering nabob, Norman Summers. Certain he had noticed Jack and merely wanted to force an introduction she did without pleasantries and cruelly spewed at him—

“Yes, Norman, he is my seat partner this evening. We’ve barely met but you don’t have a chance; he’s leaving this house with me. You should consult Pan more often, if he’s still speaking to you after last Sunday’s matinee. How could you even have pretended ignorance that the new stagehand was marked for him? Ah, here comes my encore, please take yourself away.”

Of course Norman stayed and fawned over Jack, but I found out more about ‘superman’. A boxer! A prizefighter! And evidently a successful one. Why is he here?

I caught up with the lovely brute before reaching our row. I think he was surprised, pleasantly, to have me take his arm. His reply about Norman made me smile. A witty pugilist?

Galina returns to her immersion in the music and story. She is moved deeply by Violetta’s inconsequential pleas to Giorgio Germont, Alfredo’s father, who asks her to give up his son for the sake of his future and that of his family. The courtesan knows she has no choice—she must give up her first happiness out of love; it the price of her short-lived happiness. It’s as heartbreaking as ever—the music and words underscore the tragedy. For Galina only Garbo in “Camille”, and Maria Callas’ acting-voice, perfectly captured the nuances of this scene, but Jordan is doing a very fine job of it. .The weeping pain underlying her voice is palpable.

Oh, but Alyosha gave me no choice, none. He merely looked at me one afternoon and said, “I’m not in love anymore. I’m not in love.”

Near the end of the act, when Alfredo insults Violetta by throwing money at her in public, Galina realizes she has been leaning against Jack. She gasps as if seeing the scene for the first time. Jack takes her hand tenderly as if to comfort her. She turns instantly to him, taken out of the scene by his touch, and there is an intent intimacy in his look. For the first time this evening, and since Alexei, she feels vulnerable. Quickly she turns back to the stage, listening to the mournfully compassionate chorus of party guests singing to the stricken Violetta.

As soon as the curtain goes down she turns to Jack.

“Let’s get to the bar fast, I need that G&T. Please?"

 

[ariosto]

All during the second act the 'matter' of 'laJordan' had been receeding in Jack's mind as the 'matter' of Galina grew and grew until the woman's very breath carried more weight then Reneé's exquisite warblings on stage.

Let’s get to the bar fast, I need that G&T. Please?"

The house lights upped and he was happy to see the crush of people headed for the lobby this time was not nearly as great.
*Guess everybody took a leak after act one.* he thought, taking
Galya's arm and steering her through the crowd and straight up to Uncle Albert.

"Two more of those. It seems we drink alike."
The bartender smiled and produced the drinks in record time.
Jack held his up and swished it around...
"Damn for 7 bucks you'd should get a glass anyway. I never liked drinking out of plastic."

She arched an eyebrow at him.
"I didn't think pugilists were so paricular."

He slipped an arm around her waist. The texture of her dress intrigued him..scales and skin, skin and scales.
It would be fun to strip it off her real slow.
"When I fought for hundred dollar purses in Stockton I'd drink out of the gutter. Now it's different. I'm never going back there."
He downed his in a gulp and set it back on the table.
"Thanks Al you mix a mean one."

He took Gayla's empty and noticed a soft blush of lipstick on the rim.
He couldn't resist...
"You left the best part."
He tipped it back, his lips over the coral smear.
"Tastes like Revlon."
He grinned,
"Want some more?"

 

[Guest]

Act II Intermission

It’s getting difficult to keep my bearings; his arm about my waist caused a shiver to start but I stopped it with my first gulp. Shit, I never gulp. And that shiver began right in the core of my clit. Ah, this evening may go quickly. Hold your reins, Galyushka.

“Spassiba, milashka. I too regret the loss of crystal in this fine house. Opera is expensive; our tickets barely pay half the costs. Still, I cannot see this plastic makes more than a paper-cut in the budget.

I know Stockton, I am glad you escaped. My own family fled Leningrad at the height of the ‘cold war’. Are you old enough to remember that?”

I laugh but quickly recover at his expression. He has a temper, passion. Good.

“Forgive me, moy dorogoy malchik; I cannot presume you are less than a dozen years younger than me. I myself can be many ages, and many things for the right man.

The ‘best part’, eh? It’s Chanel, a discontinued shade. I use it infrequently; in fact only have a few more full lips’ worth. You like? Perhaps after the performance you might look at me, as you are doing now, and simply whisper, Give me some lipstick, Galya. That’s my nickname in Russian. I will translate yours later.

Nyet, spassiba—no more drink; I want to be awake for the rest of the evening.”

I laugh without subtlety.

“We’d best get back to our seats. You might take my hand again; the last scene destroys me every time, just for a time; I think you might bring me back to life with ease.”

I put my plastic glass down, took his arm and began to lead him back. The very tops of my inner thighs began to spread the wetness my first shivers had released.

 

[ariosto]

Christ she talks a lot, once she gets started...Is Leningrad really like Stockton?


Jack guided her into the line of returning patrons, many of them juiced up on ten dollar cocktails and primed for laJordan's justly famous treatment of Violetta's last scene.

"You gonna tell me what 'doggy magick' means before we go home Lady?"

She turned, was there an edge to his voice?
"Doggy magick?" she smiled.

"What you just said. I don't speak Russian you know. Some Spanish is all."
He seemed genuinely perturbed.

"Oh! You mean 'dorogoy malchik'"
They were now embedded in the crowd, flowing back to their seats. The lights were blinking a frantic last warning.

"Yeah that."

Galya patted his cheek and laughed.
"It means your making a good impression on me young man."

He'd had to step behind her because of the crush around them and now pushed himself hard against her. He could feel the movement of her fine ass as she stepped down the aisle and he hoped she could feel the stiffening meat in his pants as he pressed closer.
Maybe that would make a good impression too.

 

[Guest]

Doggy Magic

I like his simplicity, hope it’s not more like ‘simpleton’, but then I don’t expect much conversation.

Walking down the aisle she feels his obvious and not subtly presented erection.

Yesss, ‘doggy magic’ indeed. I hope he barks.

In their seat with the lights out and the orchestra beginning the final act she moves with subtle expertise and clutches his upper thigh so that one side of her hand rests on his hard cock—hard but malleable, like gold she muses.

“Caro bello,” she whispers, dorogoy malchik is a term of endearment; it means ‘dearest boy’. But I like your ‘doggy magic’; I feel it down there, ready to pounce.”

She keeps her hand in place not caring whether their seat neighbors notice. As the performance continues, especially when Alfredo sings with youth and passion, she focuses her working hand on the ‘doggy’. He’s wearing nothing under the light silk-wool of his tux trousers; she can distinguish his cockhead and traces the half-circle of its rim available to her fingernails. He obviously works to stifle his moans, but when she pinches and pulls the fully grown head he has to lurch and pretend to cough.

By the middle of the act his fly is damp with leaks of the river she hopes to unleash later.

Leash? No, he wouldn’t wear one. Down, Galya, down.

She removes her hand, brings it up to her nose and breathes deeply, then leans to whisper, “I love dogs, moy malchik.”

 

[ariosto]

Okay, she's got her hand on my dick...almost.
He looks down and sees the spot lights reflected on manicured nails... watches as they trace the flaring ridge of his glans just beneath the fabric of his pants. He swallows hard, forces his eyes back on stage.

René is in the midst of addio del passato. The audience is hushed, more than one eye is moist with the passion of the diva's voice and Galya's hand is stroking him with a subdued passion of it's own. Lightly stroking as though his cock was a personal treasure that she can pet absentmindedly while the music carries her away.
Addio del passato farewell to the past...fitting somehow.

Jack tires of subtlety. He reaches down to take her hand and place it squarly on the stiff humming rod between his legs...

“I love dogs, moy malchik." she says lifting her hand away and breathing deep of the scent on her fingers.
Her words annoy him. Her action startles him. Does he smell?!

"Cats...I like cats. No one owns a cat."
His voice is louder than he intends.
Faces turn towards them at the heresy. Violetta is dying for God's sake!

In the darkness no one can see him flush as he swings his eyes once more to the coughing whore on stage.
And no one can see his hand slip into the 'vee'd hollow in Galya's lap and begin to rub the oddly textured fabric over her clit with his fingertips.
It must feel pretty good, he swears he hears her moan.

 

[Guest]

Galya

He nearly made me laugh out loud with the cat comment. Oh, my dear idiot-savant, you are too real.

He came up against the snapped crotch of her bodysuit but soon found her clitoris just above. The sheer silk provided little shielding from his surprising finesse. She moaned very softly but composed herself quickly, with a grin, while spreading her legs just enough to allow better access. She was nearing what she knew would be one of her gentler orgasms when the curtain came down and applause filled the house.

“That was a delightful taste, Jack. I hope you enjoyed your own apéritif."

He looked at her with what had become a consistently quizzical gaze. She stopped talking and took his hand as they went up the aisle with the crowd. On the steps outside she stopped at one so that he stood one below her.

“What hotel are you at? My tits are cold; shall we take a cab?”

She leaned in close to his ear.

“Let’s go fuck, Jack.”

 

[ariosto]

"

"Let's go fuck Jack."

Certainly not an unreasonable expectation all things considered.

Having his throat cut was not an unreasonable expectation either if Reneé Jordan discovered that Jack's absence from the cast party was due to getting a bit of 'strange' tonight. The woman had a ferocious temper that came from her Sicilain Mother. She also carried a gun in her purse.

"There's a problem."
They were standing near the now deserted bar as the crowd flowed past them out into the night.

She cocked an eyebrow.

"I, ahhhh...am supposed to be at the cast party tonight Galya. Be sort of hard to get out of it."

Goddamit...goddamit...goddamit."

"Well Jack that's really too bad...but you must go where duty calls."
She leaned up, gave him a peck on the cheek and turned away.
"Maybe we'll meet at 'Arabela'next month."

He watched her walking away.

Fuck.

He was at her side again in an instant.
"I'm at the Sheraton downtown, but we can't go there."

"Really?"
She slipped her arm under his.

"Yeah...there's going to be someone there I'd just as soon not run into."

 

[Guest]

Galya

"Well. . . you obviously know someone in the main cast, going to the party and all. I could attend too, being part of the company administration. But let me guess. . . . . O heavens, you're not one of Jordan's boy-toys!"

She laughs deeply, then painfully as she sees in his eyes its true.

Tell him, Galina. The poor fool.

"Jack, I thought you might enjoy the gossip later, but from their first scenes I would have bet the possibilities of this evening that the leads were getting it on off stage.

I'm sorry, darling. I truly am, but I've seen her use men cruelly time after time, at least in this fair city.

I use men too, but I'm frank and kind in the beginning and its their choice to be taken advantage of, and to take it."

For once I can't read his face. This could be the finale for tonight. Fuck.

 

[ariosto]

Boy Toy?, Yeah I guess I am.


"You know Reneé pretty good then. I figured she was messing around with him. I never figured there was anything exclusive about things...what the fuck."
They were standing outside the theater now and Jack steered her towards a vacant cab in taxi lane.

His words were at odds with his emotions. He'd suspected he was being played the fool, but the validation of his fears gutted him. If he let it, he knew the kind of rage that would consume him.
Maybe this, this little diversion with the Russian woman would stifle it...maybe it wouldn't.

He opened the door, and Galya slid in graceful as a panther. She'd felt Jack go tense when she told him the gossip and her own take on 'laJordan.' She'd felt the sudden stiffening of muscle in his arm and it sent shivers down her spine. He was very much a man on the edge.

"So where are we going Jack?"

The cab pulled away from the curb. He could see the cabbies questioning eyes in the rearview.
He slipped his hand over Gayla's shoulders and pulled her close against him.
"I donno. You make the call beautiful, this is your town."

It had begun to rain.

 

[Guest]

“555 Lombard,” she instructed the driver, “yes, the crooked part.”

She had the top floor of an elegant duplex with a great view; the small elevator let into an entryway with the city and bay spread out ahead as one walked forward to the living room.

“Jack, I’m taking you to my home. Obviously I hoped to get you in a bed somewhere in San Francisco tonight, but now I just want you to have the space and freedom to be yourself.

“I’m so sorry, sweets, to have been the one to confirm your suspicions. I wish I weren’t really, I mean I’d like to just go with the flow we began, but I’m yours for whatever you need now. Talking, drinking, staring out my windows at a beautiful scene. I have music besides opera. Do you like John Lee Hooker, Mississippi, Chicago blues, jazz? What you will, champ.”

I think he’s on an edge; don’t know how sharp or high. God, I’m selfish—I want him to jump off that cliff to me, into me. I hope I’m prepared for it, for him.

Galya was anxious. The post-production plan had changed. Jack held her to him but he didn’t seem to really be there. She leaned into him but made no other advance. He clutched her hard to him but she thought it unconsciously done.

The driver seemed to sense something. He asked nervously, “M’am, your perfume smells good, kind of exotic. What is it? I’d like to get some for my wife.”

“It’s by a Japanese designer, Issey Miyake. It’s called Feu d’Issey; it means ‘fire of Issey’. Thank you for noticing.”

“Thanks, M’am. Here we are folks. That’s $10.45, sir.”

 

[ariosto]

Galya had somewhat misread Jack, which was not unnatural considering their brief acquaintance.
He was far from heartbroken over LaJordan's betrayal. It was in fact somewhat of a relief. He could stop forcing himself to try and like those damned opera's now. He wouldn't have to smile and be friendly to the snobs and pansies that surrounded the fucking diva bitch.
He'd settle the score with her in due time. Right now his anger and frustration would be taken out another way...

"This is it ...my little corner of the world."
Galya walked to the center of the room and stopped.
He stood in the doorway and looked at her silhouette framed against a huge picture window with the glittering lights of SanFrancisco beyond.

"Hit that light switch beside the door, will you Jack?"

He didn't.
He crossed over to her in two quick strides, pulled her to him with an animal strength and as his lips met hers in a crushing embrace, his hands closed over her firm round ass and jerked her tight against the impatient rod that was throbbing in his pants.

*Do what you will.* she had said, and that's exactly what he was going to do.

 

[Guest]

Christ, what signals did I get crossed?

He catches her tight up against his champion’s body, all of it hard, any part of it barely distinguishable from the hard rod and knob at its center. She may as well be naked for all the protection her gauze sheath offers.

Do I want. . . need to be protected? Think, Galya, think. Ignore your cunt lips, they’re just going to sing you into a corner.

“Jack, stop. Nyet! Please. . . ”

She pushes away, lipstick smeared—on him too. She can smell the air in the small space between them. He looks angry, rather ferocious—like a boyar ready to fight to the death for his czar, like Alfredo ready to treat her like a whore and throw money at her.

She walks nervously past him to turn on the lights. Turning back he’s still in place, still aroused—it’s apparent in the back of him too, the tightness of his shoulders, the flexed calves molded by the tuxedo’s wool-silk.

She hesitates but puts her hand on his back between his shoulder blades. He stiffens more but doesn't move.

Horosho, horosho.

“Jack, I want you. I want to make love, or fuck. But I don’t want your anger. I need tenderness and passion.

“It’s so easy to satisfy a woman; men hardly know.

“Satisfy me, Jack. I’ll give as good back, but I won’t be used. I won’t be taken for granted.

“You’ll be glad in the morning, believe me.

“Tangueray and tonic?”

Lord, don’t let him walk out.

 

[ariosto]

Stifling an impulse to tear her dress away and take her on the floor that instant, he forced a smile at her words and released her.

How to play this out...maybe he should leave, head back to the hotel and buy a whore for the night. Something not so damned fragile...
He started for the door.

“Tangueray and tonic?”

Jack turned and watched her cross to the bar. He sat down on the divan, giving himself sometime to think.
"No..I've had enough tonight."

She paused, contemplating the words.
"Enough of what Jack?"

"Enough to drink."
His words were flat and his expression held not a clue.

Galya finished making the drink, her back turned to him, but still able to study him in the mirror behind the bar. His big hands were balled into fists, resting on his knees.

The evening hung on a tenterhook...



OOC...last post for a week Diva. *huggs for you*