Mikhail Ivanovych Artemenko, to most people, was Misha, a carpenter who lived in Toronto with his extended family. However, in another life, Misha had been held in a Soviet prison for ten years. His father had been a dissident in Ukraine who moved the family to America, but Misha had found ways to piss off the KGB in several corners of the earth. When he was in prison, he did horrible things to survive. When he was released, his own wife and daughter were strangers to him. He left them and started working for some very bad people who stole the lives of others to become immortal themselves.
When his boss developed a cocaine problem that made Scarface look like a hobbyist, Misha became less attached to their work together. Eventually, he betrayed his boss by showing kindness to a woman he used to despise, whom he had even attacked. She helped him reunite with his granddaughter and over time, he became close to many more members of his family. He no longer aged and faced an existential crisis. How could he find meaning in a life that would not end? Did he deserve to continue living?
Misha told himself he was a good person now, but he noticed he was starting to have flashbacks. When his granddaughter told him to go to therapy, he tried it a few times and then quit, saying "What, I am to bear my soul to this woman for fifty minutes and then I go out and leave? Get a frozen yogurt?" Misha needed a new plan.
COLD RAINY NIGHT
Misha was at his home in Toronto, expecting a woman who he had screened through a mutual friend. After some phone calls and preliminary agreements, they were ready to meet in person. It was a cold rainy Tuesday evening when he answered the door.
A tall woman with bleached blonde hair in a high ponytail and creamy honey skin entered without hesitation. She was wearing a black vinyl "raincoat" that he suspected she would have worn regardless of the weather. Her lips were artificially pouty and glazed with a shiny fire engine red lipstick. His eyes followed her across the room. She said nothing until she sat down on the couch and set down her handbag.
"So, Mister Misha. You have some things you need to get off your chest?" she asked, crossing her legs and showing off her thigh-high patent leather boots.
Misha slowly walked into his living room. He had chosen nothing special to wear: just dark, worn jeans and a loose-fitting charcoal button down shirt. On his feet, he wore only his house shoes, as was the Eastern European custom. He grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the mantlepiece before he joined her on the couch.
"I'm sorry, may I?" he asked with a smirk before he lit it. Asking a woman if he could light a cigarette in his own home. Mildly ridiculous.
"Go ahead. We haven't started yet," she told him, her own smile looking smug. "You can talk to me when I'm like this. Now, I'm just Anita. When we start, you'll call me Miss Anita or Mistress Anita and I don't negotiate anything."
Misha could see that she was sizing him up. He knew his 6'6" frame, biceps, and tattoos made him look formidable and he was glad to see that this didn't startle her in the slightest.
"So, our friend the bartender may have told you," he said, flicking his lighter and drawing up the flame to his cigarette. "That I'm looking for, ah, therapy. I tried conventional therapy and I didn't like it. There are parts of my story that are sad and I can't stand when people feel bad for me, so I want to know if you can handle hearing some messed up shit."
"I don't care if it's real or made-up. I can take it," she said dismissively. "What do you want out of this?" she asked him in an aggressive yet bored tone of voice.
"I used to be a very bad person, Anita," he said. He hoped his Russian accent didn't make her balk, either. He knew all the bad guys in action films spoke like he did. But she had a tough kind of vibe, like that chick from the boxing movie, Girlfight. She had that husky voice. "And I am trying to be better. It's just... My family life is fine. Great. I have a good job and friends. But, I can't... Lately, I have a good... uh... when I try to-- and this had never happened before--"
"Spit it out, honey. I know you're paying for my time, but we should get to the real stuff," she told him as she looked at her red fingernails. Misha swallowed hard and tried not to do that irked passive-aggressive grin that he recently became aware of.
"I can't get it up lately." he said. It felt horrible to say aloud. "I take a Viagra when I come home and take a shower until it kicks in. When I have a woman here."
"She never knows?"
"No."
"Why do you think it's happening?" she asked. Something about her reminded him of the caterpillar in Alice in Wonderland: snarky and arrogant.
"I got some bad shit on my mind," he said. "And I think that getting it all out will help my performance... and also... have a real relationship. Not just sex."
"Good, honey. This is good. This is what I do," Anita answered confidently. Her demeanor instantly looked less detached. "So, you wanna start with me interrogating you? With a whip? Strap-on? What?"
"No strap-on," he quickly replied. He took another drag of his cigarette. "I don't want to be penetrated, but I would enjoy being yelled at. Berated, horribly. Whipping, choking, spitting. Maybe you could tie me up. Do some edging. Just do me a favor and stay away from my ass, yes?"
"I got you, baby. Shall we get started?" she asked, abruptly standing up and removing her long coat. Beneath it, she wore a cinched vinyl corset. He could tell that there were at least two parts so that she could reveal her tits when she wanted. For now, they were barely caged in the black straps of vinyl. She also had on black nylons with her sky-high heeled boots and a tiny G-string.
"You don't want to know more about what I like?" he asked skeptically. He put out his cigarette in the ashtray.
"Huh-NEE," she said emphatically while she unzipped her bag. "I'll be able to tell what you like. Your safe word is 'dishwasher.' You ready?" she asked, turning around with a long bullwhip in her hand.
"Yes, Miss Anita. Let's put that right around my neck." he said. He noticed his heart rate was already faster than usual, but not from being excited or turned on. Outwardly, he was trying to appear that way. He knelt in front of her. Her huge tits looked like they were going to swell and burst out of that black corset.
