don’t want this,” whispered Sera, clutching his lapel as he passed.
“I want this, Sera. I need this!”
The voice was not that of a con man; it was real. It was the most real voice that Sera had ever known, and she once again, as with so many times in the past, pushed her needs into a little bubble, into a subset of the greater needs, the needs of Gamal Fathi. He was the man who had won her. He was the man whom she loved.
Al turned and addressed the six men. “Sera has asked me if she might undress at once for you gentlemen. She has a very beautiful undergarment which she would like you all to see.”
The men all clamored as one in enthusiastic approval. Not one of the eight people in the suite doubted that Sera would now remove her clothing.)
Reflected in the corner of the mirror is her bedroom window. The translucent shade reveals that it’s dark outside. Enough is enough, she thinks. She has done all the healing that she is prepared to do; any more time spent stagnant would do more harm than good. Opening her makeup drawer, she arms herself with an assortment of brushes, pencils, tubes, plastic boxes, mysterious disks, minuscule magic wands, wads of cotton, and so on. A skilled craftsman, she works for over an hour on what she knows all along is a futile attempt at making herself presentable. Outside of some brushed on, optically-illusory shadows, there is not much she can do to hide the swelling of her features. Also, since she is reluctant to overdo it to the point of looking ridiculous, the painting over of her discoloration has only a minimal effect. Her injuries are still too profound. She looks like a girl who got hit in the face and is trying to cover it up with makeup. Shewraps up the effort as best she can.
But now the ball is rolling and she already feels better, almost elated. A cloud is lifting—visibly—each moment clearer than the last, each decision more perspicuous. Another glance in the mirror reveals that she is smiling, smiling to herself, as though considering herself newly recovered; as these things go, she can’t remember ever before feeling so un-sick, or so anxious to again embrace her hard-won normalcy.
She selects from her closet one of what she likes to call her
fuck-me
dresses. Light blue, light weight, it is backless and slips easily over her head, calling for no bra. She rolls up her stockings and clips them to her garter belt, thus completing her synopsis of the potential architectonics of female undergarments. Already on, her panties are nothing more than two small triangles, black arrows pointing to each other: you are here.
Once again at the mirror, her eyes look at her eyes. She watches herself. Subtly transformed during the inspection, her face wears the partly impartial expression of assessment that is universally found in the gaze of any woman looking at her own reflection. She sees things here that no one else will ever see. Her scrutiny is infinite. Myriad computations, speculations, and judgments take place in this moment. Ultimately, with great magnanimity the face in the mirror is temporarily exonerated, until the next time it catches itself looking.
She finds her work purse and stocks it with lipstick and condoms, a few twenty dollar bills. With no intention of walking the Strip tonight, she has a cab take her to the Hilton. Set off the Strip and next to the Convention Center, it’s usually pretty easy pickin’s there. She’ll be able to find a trick who’s been in town before, attending conventions and tagging hookers. Some guy who’s done enough to keep him from being too excitable, but not so impressed with his own savvy that he gets cocky. A local boy,but not local here. She needs some straight, simple business. She tries not to worry about her face. These guys aren’t that superficial. More smiles.
The main bar at the Hilton has a fair crowd. She can do this by rote. Seating herself in view of the room, making sure that there are empty chairs on
“I want this, Sera. I need this!”
The voice was not that of a con man; it was real. It was the most real voice that Sera had ever known, and she once again, as with so many times in the past, pushed her needs into a little bubble, into a subset of the greater needs, the needs of Gamal Fathi. He was the man who had won her. He was the man whom she loved.
Al turned and addressed the six men. “Sera has asked me if she might undress at once for you gentlemen. She has a very beautiful undergarment which she would like you all to see.”
The men all clamored as one in enthusiastic approval. Not one of the eight people in the suite doubted that Sera would now remove her clothing.)
Reflected in the corner of the mirror is her bedroom window. The translucent shade reveals that it’s dark outside. Enough is enough, she thinks. She has done all the healing that she is prepared to do; any more time spent stagnant would do more harm than good. Opening her makeup drawer, she arms herself with an assortment of brushes, pencils, tubes, plastic boxes, mysterious disks, minuscule magic wands, wads of cotton, and so on. A skilled craftsman, she works for over an hour on what she knows all along is a futile attempt at making herself presentable. Outside of some brushed on, optically-illusory shadows, there is not much she can do to hide the swelling of her features. Also, since she is reluctant to overdo it to the point of looking ridiculous, the painting over of her discoloration has only a minimal effect. Her injuries are still too profound. She looks like a girl who got hit in the face and is trying to cover it up with makeup. Shewraps up the effort as best she can.
But now the ball is rolling and she already feels better, almost elated. A cloud is lifting—visibly—each moment clearer than the last, each decision more perspicuous. Another glance in the mirror reveals that she is smiling, smiling to herself, as though considering herself newly recovered; as these things go, she can’t remember ever before feeling so un-sick, or so anxious to again embrace her hard-won normalcy.
She selects from her closet one of what she likes to call her
fuck-me
dresses. Light blue, light weight, it is backless and slips easily over her head, calling for no bra. She rolls up her stockings and clips them to her garter belt, thus completing her synopsis of the potential architectonics of female undergarments. Already on, her panties are nothing more than two small triangles, black arrows pointing to each other: you are here.
Once again at the mirror, her eyes look at her eyes. She watches herself. Subtly transformed during the inspection, her face wears the partly impartial expression of assessment that is universally found in the gaze of any woman looking at her own reflection. She sees things here that no one else will ever see. Her scrutiny is infinite. Myriad computations, speculations, and judgments take place in this moment. Ultimately, with great magnanimity the face in the mirror is temporarily exonerated, until the next time it catches itself looking.
She finds her work purse and stocks it with lipstick and condoms, a few twenty dollar bills. With no intention of walking the Strip tonight, she has a cab take her to the Hilton. Set off the Strip and next to the Convention Center, it’s usually pretty easy pickin’s there. She’ll be able to find a trick who’s been in town before, attending conventions and tagging hookers. Some guy who’s done enough to keep him from being too excitable, but not so impressed with his own savvy that he gets cocky. A local boy,but not local here. She needs some straight, simple business. She tries not to worry about her face. These guys aren’t that superficial. More smiles.
The main bar at the Hilton has a fair crowd. She can do this by rote. Seating herself in view of the room, making sure that there are empty chairs on
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