When Marilyn came back, she no longer looked remotely like herself, or like anybody Zak knew or ever expected to know. The glasses, the bookishness, the hipsterism, the baggy clothes, they’d all gone. She was now wrapped in an enveloping floor-length iridescent black … well, he couldn’t quite put a name to it … a robe, a gown, a cape? And was it real leather or fake? Or some kind of man-made material, perhaps developed as a by-product of the space program? And could those strips of leopard skin around the hem and the cuffs be as authentic as they looked?
“Zak,” Marilyn said briskly, “there are one or two things you should know about me before we get started.”
“I want to know everything,” said Zak. It seemed like the right thing to say, but mostly he wanted to stare.
“I’m not talking about innermost hopes and dreams. I’m just talking about sex, okay? I’d like to lay down some ground rules before we start. It saves time.”
“Okay,” said Zak, although saving time wasn’t uppermost in his mind.
“Well,” said Marilyn, “I’ll swallow if I like the taste; I’ll spit if I don’t. You shouldn’t take it personally.”
“Then I won’t,” said Zak.
“I don’t mind being held down, but I don’t want to be tied down, and I definitely don’t want the ball gag and the handcuffs.”
“Good.”
“Sex toys are fine, but I don’t like actual equipment. So a pony harness, no, but vibrators and butt plugs are fine, and available on request.”
“Okay,” said Zak.
“And you know, I really do like dressing up: boots, lingerie, fetish gear if it isn’t too ridiculous. On the other hand, I absolutely, positively don’t want you to dress up.”
“I’m glad,” said Zak.
“If you want to take some dirty pictures, that’s fine, but I don’t want to see them all over the Internet, at least not showing my face, and definitely not under my real name.”
“I can understand that,” said Zak.
“Spanking’s okay, but I think it’s more blessed to give than to receive. Water sports, well, all right, if you really want, though frankly it doesn’t strike me as much of a sport, though I do understand the nature of territorial pissing.”
“The map is not the territory,” said Zak, then wished he hadn’t.
“And I guess we should use condoms,” Marilyn continued. “You don’t look like a guy who barebacks with other guys, but how would I know? Oh, and if you want me to wear a strap-on, I will, but I can’t promise to keep a straight face.”
“That won’t be an issue,” said Zak.
He understood the advantages of talking to women: learning what they wanted, telling them what he needed. Nobody liked everything, and nobody liked everything equally. Even so, he thought it might be better if you worked those things out as part of the process, rather than as preconditions. Marilyn seemed to be giving him a map of her sexual landscape, but there were times when it was much more fun to be without one, to find your own way, to get lost for a while. Even as he thought this, Zak wondered if he might be too immersed in the business of Utopiates.
“Other than that,” said Marilyn, “you can do whatever you like.”
She stood up and let the robe or gown or cape, or whatever it ought to be called, fall away. Zak took a deep, desperate breath. She was wearing a strange, gorgeous, ornate halter corset — he thought “steampunk” was probably the word to describe it — made mostly of leather, though there were bands of suede and silk, some laces, metal clasps and buckles, studs. It was a substantial and devastating piece of costume, curling up around her neck and shoulders, cupping her breasts and framing her crotch, while at the same time leaving them completely, emphatically exposed.
“Fuck,” said Zak.
“That’s the general idea,” said Marilyn.
25. WHAT HAPPENED IN GREENLAND
Zak Webster had never believed those narratives where the hero wakes up in a strange bed with a strange woman and doesn’t know quite where he is or how he got there. Zak always knew where he was when he woke up: not much of an achievement, since it was invariably in his own bed, in the apartment above Utopiates, usually wishing he was somewhere else. And that morning, however strange it seemed to be waking up in the nonrevolving restaurant at the top of the derelict Telstar Hotel, and admittedly not strictly in a bed but, rather, on an inflatable mattress, on the floor, in a tangle of sheets, he knew perfectly well where he was.
But as he stirred and floated up to full consciousness, he realized Marilyn was no longer next to him, and looking out across the room, he saw that she was already up and dressed in her familiar, quasi-hipster street duds, sitting at one of the many tables scattered around the Canaveral Lounge, finishing her coffee, drinking from a mug bearing the Telstar logo of an atom and a communication satellite. Last night’s erotic fancy-dress extravaganza seemed a very long time ago.
“Shouldn’t you be getting ready for work, Zak?” Marilyn said.
He looked at his watch, and yes, he could see he was going to be a little late. After a night like the one he’d had, a different man might have thought he was entitled not to go to work at all, but Zak was not quite that man, and it seemed that Marilyn knew it. Unless, of course, she just wanted to get rid of him.
“Are you trying to get rid of me?” said Zak.
She didn’t say no, but offered the perfectly reasonable observation that “You’re never going to be able to get out of here without me.”
Zak thought of the guard, the dog, the dubious elevator, the reputedly feral squatters, and saw the truth of this. He got up.
“How’s the face?” Marilyn asked.
“It doesn’t feel like mine,” he said.
“Still looks like yours,” she said. “More or less.”
She crossed the room, patted his cheek briskly, as though she were dismissing some rather unlovable nephew. Ten minutes and a quick mouth-wash later Zak was outside the hotel, at the gate, being seen off by Bob the security guard and his dog.
* * *
Zak decided he would play it cool. He wouldn’t call Marilyn in the course of the day, would avoid seeming pushy or besotted or desperate. Instead, despite some serious misgivings, he’d call one or two collectors, tell them he had something special for sale, something rather unusual, perhaps a little macabre, not for everyone, just for connoisseurs: the infamous Jack Torry rape map. “You never heard of that? Oh well, perhaps it’s not for you. Oh really? Well, let me describe it for you…” This would not be a display of the highest moral character, but it was what his job entailed. He was looking at a list of clients, wondering who to call first, when Billy Moore strode into Utopiates.
Zak jumped in his chair: Billy Moore had again succeeded in scaring him. Zak suddenly saw the attraction of having a Taser or a sawed-off shotgun, though he also had a feeling that waving a weapon at Billy Moore would only be likely to make things worse. Billy, like Marilyn just a short time before, scrutinized Zak’s face closely.
“You’re in a state,” he said.
“You should know,” said Zak. “Look, if you’ve come here to beat me up, why not go ahead and get it over with?”
“I’m not going to beat you up,” said Billy. “Not yet anyway. But I do want to know what the hell you were doing there last night.”
Zak thought he might as well tell the truth.
“I was trying to impress a woman,” he said.
Billy considered this. It wasn’t the most improbable thing he’d ever heard.
“Did it work?”
“I guess it kind of did, yes.”
Each in his own way was quietly surprised by this admission.