Milligan Books occupies the bottom floor of an office building on a street corner not far off the campus of Trent University. Most of the year, the sun sets directly in the path of the large windows at the front, illuminating the space, as much as it can in a relatively dense city. The aesthetic itself could best be described as quirky; large walls exclusively made of plexiglass reveal an art deco design that has been restored, but not remade. Surrounding the shelves and the brown carpeting were deep red walls illuminated by globe-shaped lamps. Students at the school come to Milligan for the warmth, the open space, a location to study. The coffee shop inside is spacious enough that it's rarely hard to find a seat.
I came to Milligan because it's the only place I've ever found Amber Rose's books. Naturally, I could've ordered them online. I had originally found her work online, through free samples. I could download ebooks, but I prefer a physical copy in my hands (hard as it is to hold a book with one hand sometimes), and Amazon didn't stock her books frequently enough that they'd arrive in less than a month. And after reading the samples, I was always too anxious to wait. Even if that meant biting the bullet every six months and buying something from the erotica section of a popular bookstore with open windows.
Each of her novels followed a similar pattern: In some far-flung, high-concept setting, a powerful woman (or women) takes sexual control of a man (or men). They varied in their specifics, of course, like how consensual that relationship may be and what the woman's long-term intentions with her new boytoy are. There is no dearth of stories of that nature on the internet, but few that satisfied my evenings the way Rose did. At the risk of being labeled the most pretentious porn consumer in the world, I can't deny that nothing turned me on the way she mixed character into her stories. Most of what I read online was pure scenes of rough, degrading, female-dominant sex. No shade to such stories, but hers were explorations of a character she got deep into the mind of, explored the background of, made believable. She created a man, and then showed you the process of him being turned into a sex toy. The ends were the same, but the process of getting there was a sensual and psychological labyrinth. Mixed with plenty of scenes of rough, degrading, female-dominant sex.
Her latest, called
Serpentina
, was set in a post-apocalyptic future. The premise had her taking hostage two young men - brothers - and telling them that she'd sell one at the slave market, while keeping the other as her concubine kept in (relative) comfort. They had six weeks before they reached the market to curry her favor. Naturally, each of them would struggle with his own self-interest against his loyalty to his brother. From what little I could glean, it seemed that the older, shyer, protective one would find that his sibling was playing dirty, and have to cope with being betrayed. I was anxious to find out what he would do. Anxious enough that I was standing in line, on a Tuesday morning, holding a red book to my chest, tapping nervously on its cover and waiting my turn.
Whether or not I was actually ashamed or just afraid of the awkward interactions such a cover might spark, I don't know. My social anxieties are a mixed-up blob that more than one therapist had helped me unsort, bit by bit, though exactly what I felt every time I waited at the counter for the over-conversational young man working at the desk is mixed up in a lot of other memories. Suffice it to say, men raised in religious Jewish homes prefer to consume their smut in private.
The clerk's name was Drew. I didn't want to know that, but he'd been there the last three times I'd been here, and I unconsciously read the little nametag on his vest, right below the bisexual pride pin. He was hard to not notice, with his carefully curated dark curls, streak of blue, and a gaunt, angular face. He was a grad student studying sociology at Trent. I didn't want to know that either, but he told me that the last time I'd been there, buying a copy of the Iliad.
"Original Greek?" he'd asked then. "Impressive."
"I'm just learning," I'd said, kicking myself for engaging.
"I feel that. I had to learn French to read some documents for my thesis."
On a day that I was buying something more private, I laid down the book on the counter, face down, thanking God that at least I was last in line, and praying Drew didn't have a comment. My prayer was not answered.
He flipped the book over to scan it. "Amber Rose," he said in his smooth baritone.
"Uh. Yeah."
"You a fan?"
I asked myself if, when I was in college, I was this comfortable talking to strangers about their erotica habits, or if it was just him. "I guess?"
"Same, she's got such a dark mind. Sweet as a button in reality, though. $13.50."
Suddenly, I wasn't trying to end this conversation as quickly as possible. "Wait. Do you know her?" I wasn't sure what I intended to do with the answer to that question, but it had to come out.
"Yeah, I'm dating her roommate." He looked at my surprised face as he handed me back the credit card. "Hey, did you not know she's local to the area? Yeah, that's why we stack her stuff."
"No, I didn't know."
He laughed quietly. "Sorry, don't mean to be rude. It's just... you know, you're kind of her type."
I looked back and forth. My first reaction to being told I was the "type" for my favorite author was doubt. Not solely because I found that implausible, but also because there was no way Drew was actually that forward. I wondered if I was on some prank show. Seeing no cameras, I skeptically continued. "Her type?"
"Blonde, beard, glasses, big arms. Ripped jeans." He was leaning his elbows on the counter, examining me, presumably with the eyes of his friend, but undoubtedly with a carnal curiosity of his own. It occurred to me that he was using Rose as a front for his own interest in me, and that was back when I thought I was straight. On the other hand, those
were
characteristics common to the men in her books. Even though having myself compared to them still seemed somehow incorrect. Amber Rose was a mythological figure in my mind, and I was just Theo. "You interested?" Drew asked, snapping me from my internal monologue.
"Interested?"
"I can't speak for her, but if you want, I can pass on your email. She'll hit you up if she wants. She enjoys chatting with her fans, if nothing else." He handed me a business card and a pen.
At every step of this process, I assumed I was being scammed. But I couldn't imagine what con a bookstore clerk would be running on me, beyond either a practical joke or a trick to get my email for himself. Both of which would be extremely ego bruising, and highly likely, but relatively harmless compared to the potential upside. Maybe I was overly suspicious - it wasn't as though he'd offered to introduce me to the president, after all. Maybe a small-time erotica author actually did live nearby. Still, writing my email down took a lot of effort against my fight-flight-freeze response.
-
I learned two things when I checked my personal email during my lunch break:
One, Amber Rose was a pen name, and that I could call her Spencer.
Two, she considered the coffee shop at the corner of Harold and Madison to be the best in town and wanted to meet there the next afternoon.
I still didn't fully accept the reality of it. I still wondered if I was about to get mugged. Though I knew about Russo's Coffee, and you don't typically invite someone to a relatively busy place to mug them. Catfished, maybe, worst case. Still, there was an element of me that believed it was possible. My suspicions fought my hopes, though the back of my mind scolded me for being a fool at each step. Why would someone with such sexual creativity, such confidence and a mind, want me, of all people? She hadn't met me and was relying on Drew's description, so it was possible. Which meant she'd change her mind when she met me.
Or, well, Drew had said she'd like speaking to a fan. That "if nothing else" was a band-aid on my anxiety. Was this a date? If not, it was a chance for me to gush. About porn. In a crowded coffee shop. And if it was a date, it would bomb. And since I didn't know, what tone should my response take? Should I respond at all?
Anyone with anxiety will understand why it took me my entire lunch to write the following:
Hey! Thanks for getting in touch. Yeah, that sounds fun. See you tomorrow!
Needless to say, responding to customer complaints the rest of the day was difficult.
-
The older brother is named Maxos. When he was born, his parents were attempting to cross through the Rockies. His father had been involved with a gang, but when he robbed the wrong person, he had to flee for safety. His mother didn't die during childbirth, but was too weak to continue, and his father was forced to abandon her. His father never explicitly blamed him for his mother's death, but always made him feel guilty.
Hence, his protective nature over Ren, three years his junior. Ren was born to his father's new wife, who doted on him. He became accustomed to being favored, and had never come to see it as anything more than his right. When he was old enough, he took to stealing when he didn't get what he wanted. His father warned him about the dangers of theft, even though he would never tell the full details of what had happened to him; just thinking through it seemed to give him chills. Ren would always turn to his mother to justify any bad action he took.
The story takes little time going from background to action, when Serpentina and her all-female band of raiders invades their settlement. They're taken by Serpentina, stripped, locked in collars and brought through the wastelands on foot. On their first night together, they sit, chained to a tree, and promise not to betray each other, while they seek escape. Serpentina brings Maxos into her tent, has him wash and clean her, then perform oral sex on her. She expresses her disappointment at his abilities, sparking fear.
In the day, they encounter a number of different situations. At one point, Maxos sees an opportunity to escape. When the raiders are fighting off a rival gang, Maxos spots a depression in the land that they can hide in. Ren trips when they try to run. As they're chained together, it spells disaster for both of them. They're able to recover before they're spotted trying to escape, but the fear of another attempt sinks in.
Each night, Serpentina takes one or both of them into the tent - leaving the unoccupied brother to the rest of the camp for the night. They quickly come to associate getting picked by her for the night as a blessing, given how the alternative is the savage attention of a dozen other women. Meanwhile, a night with Serpentina is a sensual evening, albeit one exclusively focused on
her
senses. They even both come to revel in the taste of her body.
Over the first few weeks, it becomes more and more obvious how much she prefers the flaxen-haired Ren. She takes him most nights, and even as he's being shoved around and ridden by the others, Maxos can hear the difference between the moans he induces from Serpentina and the ones his brother does. He reacts with fear of his fate, and relief for his brother, but also jealousy at his clearly superior talent. Not exactly equipped to recognize Stockholm Syndrome, he doesn't process that he's fantasizing about better pleasing his kidnapper. He begins to suspect that Ren intentionally flubbed the escape attempt. Given that it's told mostly from his perspective, it's hard to tell if he has valid reason to suspect that or has simply gone crazy.
The night after this revelation, Serpentina takes Maxos alone, for the first time in a number of nights. He views it as an opportunity to get back in her good graces. After a night of massive focus and effort, he manages to finally make her cum as loudly as Ren does. He walks out of her tent proudly, and glares triumphantly at his brother, who is bent over a log with a raider's fingers inside him. Ren returns the glare.
-
