The Anglophile by Laurie Gwen Shapiro Page B

even a pea tottering, gets the sliver of folded egg and its contents to his mouth.
    â€œWould you like me to show you how to do this?”
    I nod, amused.
    Kit flips my wrist over, and tells me to put a bit of everything on the upside down fork. When the bits of chicken, tomato and lettuce fall off, he holds my hand until I get the precious cargo into my mouth. I never knew having someone hold my wrist could be so erotic.
    Before our meal is halfway through, I joke, “I’m glad you don’t have a briefcase with you.” You idiot, Shari! Did you actually say that out loud?
    â€œPardon?”
    I can’t curb the nervous rant. “Uh, what I mean is, this is the part of the film when you chain me to the bed, and that’s not for me.”
    Kit whistles. “Not in this film. My kinks are much more harmless than that.”
    â€œOh, man, I’ve heard about those British kinks. Are you going to put on my makeup?”
    â€œNo I am not!”
    â€œIs it ice? Do you like ice rubbed all over you? Wasn’t there a duke who liked ice?”
    â€œMaybe. Maybe not.”
    Happily, he doesn’t seem to mind the excessive New York verbiage. He’s still smiling at me like he’s undressing me.
    â€œI’ll find out.”
    â€œOh, you will, will you?”
    I remove his loafer and black sock and reach for the ice water.
    â€œEh, what’s your game?” he cries out in a mock Cockney accent.
    â€œYour heels?” I rub a slightly melted cube along the arch of his foot. His toenails are squarish like Kevin’s, but his second toe is longer than his big toe, and Kevin’s go down in neat order, stubby little Matryoshka dolls. I push Kevin’s face out of my thought clouds. “Ice on your heels?”
    â€œOoh, that’s quite lovely really.”
    I remove his other loafer and sock.
    â€œKeep that ice coming. This is much better than a smoke.”
    We move over to the bed and Kit lies on his back as I rub three more ice cubes into his heel. “That would kill me. You are an iron man.”
    Kit wrestles loose and pulls his black rollneck sweater back over his belly button. With all the G-rated bed action going on, a good number of gold pound coins and American quarters have fallen out of his pants pocket. He leans down to scoop them all up and plops them on a side table.
    I chokehold him with my legs and he wrestles again until we find ourselves both back down next to each other in our clothes. We’re laughing our heads off.
    â€œRecite!” I demand as I lie next to him.
    Hesitation. “Recite what?”
    â€œAny British poet.”
    â€œWhat makes you think I know any poetry?”
    â€œYou read English at Cambridge for fucksake!”
    â€œI know a little verse—”
    â€œThen recite!”
    â€œI know a little of—will Christopher Marlowe do?”
    â€œIndeed! Recite! Stand on the bed!”
    â€œWhat is this, A Fish Called Wanda? ”
    Only one of my favorite movies. “Recite!” I say, excited to be connected to those beloved characters even in a moment of inadvertent umbrage.
    He rises in his bare feet, stands on the mattress, and even if only to humor me, pretends to be swept over with an ungovernable passion. “Was this the face that launch’d a thousand ships/And burnt the topless towers of Ilium? Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss!/Her lips suck forth my soul — I’ve forgotten the rest.”
    I laugh and tackle him to a reclining position. He has the gathering-dignity face of a nude male model about to remove his loincloth. Kit unhooks my new “Wanton” Wonderbra and leans over the bed for his belt that I have just thrown to the floor. From my prone position, I’m amused to see a little zipper on the back of the belt leather.
    â€œYou have handcuffs in there?”
    â€œA Frenchie.” He adds with a little laugh, “I guess it’s a condom to