Swallowtail is a novel that traces the narrator's gradual acceptance of submission.
Previously: Following an anonymous coupling in an art gallery's washroom and after having met several of Dex's subsequent challenges, the narrator is given carte blanche.
***
"I realize that I've been placing a lot of demands on you."
Dex and I are meeting for a coffee. It's the first time we've met outside of whatever sexual adventure she has orchestrated for us. It feels weirdly normal after the normally weird meetings between us. Here we are, two people casually meeting at a coffee shop. It happens every day. Yet I can't shake the feeling that this simple act, arising as it has from Dex's unexpected invitation, is somehow significant. We're meeting publicly and though no one in the cafe could possibly give a shit about us, it is a public moment and I find it more exciting than the coffee that sits in front of me. I have no doubt her friends and mine would be bewildered in equal measure that we should be sitting here together in earnest conversation. We're very different. As always, Dex is swathed in layers of black and sports aggressively hued makeup beneath a crown of thorny black hair. Her multiple piercings—ear, nose, lips—glint in the artificial light. Her other piercings, those I now know of—nipples and clitoral hood—are on my mind like a precious secret that only we share. As always, I am the picture of a youngish professional—shiny shoes, pressed pants, crisp shirt, tailored jacket and tie. We're close enough in age that I would not be seen as the girl's father, but far enough that the notion of any physical relationship between us might raise eyebrows or envy.
Her booted leg rests lightly against mine. I'm suffering the distraction of a Pavlovian lust response, which makes me feel like a teenager for whom any physical contact or random gust of wind is likely cause a tingle of carnal anticipation.
"I haven't been complaining," I say.
Yes, she has been placing many demands on me, compelling me to do things that I would have scoffed at before or with anyone else. The memories rise and then submerge, one after the other. Our first anonymous coupling at an art gallery, finding myself on my knees before her in my office, engaging in self-conscious onanism while she watched.
She sips her beverage. I forgot what she ordered. She'd asked for something with more nouns and adjectives than a dictionary. I'm amused that her pinkie sticks out like that of someone who has been to finishing school. "Whatever," she says impatiently, as though my lack of complaint were merely an inconsequential coincidence.
I realize that Dex's simple statement masks a concession of sorts. She probably doesn't need to concede anything, but there it is. She's serious and my levity doesn't work here.
'I might not have been entirely fair to you," she says.
"I don't do anything against my will."
She nods and her lips curl ever so slightly into a smile as though she's humoring me and knows better. She locks eyes with mine. "I'm free on Friday. If you're interested, I'd like you to take the lead. Whatever you want, I'll do. Show me what you like."
There's no coyness or come-hither subtext to what she has said. It is an invitation, a simple offer. It's said with the same intensity that one might be offered a sample of croutons or beef jerky at Costco. I'm tempted to ask her why but hold my tongue when I notice that her smile belies a certain tightness of expression. The offer represents more than a concession. It's bigger than the off-handedness of tone might suggest. I realize that it's a risk for someone who has controlled everything thus far. It isn't lost on me either that the permission to do as I please with her is a gift rather than an assumption this early in the game. I'll have to chew on that one later.
I nod solemnly and Dex relaxes. Message received.
Dex's attention is momentarily captured by one of her black-clad tribe loitering outside the coffee shop. I lean back in my chair and ponder the offer. I have carte blanche. For the first time in our relationship (if that's what you call it), I'm in the driver's seat, if only by invitation. I think of the possibilities for a moment. Various scenarios flash in my mind like erotic postcards. The license to do whatever. I grow dizzy with the possibilities. Finally, the beginnings of inspiration. "I'd like to take you on a date," I say finally. "A real date."
Her brow furrows. "A date?" she asks with the vague squeamishness of a gentile invited to a bris. "To where?"
"A nice restaurant, perhaps. Maybe a show."
Dex shakes her head. "I can't."
"You eat, don't you? You go to shows?"
She rolls her eyes.
"What is it?"
She's angry at me for forcing her to spell it out. She huffs and fingers the stud in her nose. "I don't do nice restaurants. I have nothing to wear to a nice restaurant," she admits. "I wouldn't know what to get."
She's right. My favorite restaurants would look askance at Dex and her coven-appropriate finery. "Okay, then this'll be part of it. I'll take you shopping. It'll be on me."
"No way."
I wonder whether she's embarrassed to be seen with me. No, that can't be it. She's here with me now, after all. I put myself in her platform Gestapo boots. Perhaps she's embarrassed to be seen shopping with an older guy. I can see how the implications would make her uncomfortable.
I mull it over. "How about Sharon? She can take you."
"Your business partner? The woman at the gallery?"
I nod. If anyone can unload a wad of money on clothing, it's Sharon.
"I don't know."
"I still have to ask her, of course. But if it's okay with her, is it okay with you?"
"No," says Dex. "I don't want to be in your debt."
"What happened to me taking the lead? I want to do this. There's no debt in a gift."
"There's always debt in a gift."
***
"She's an interesting girl," says Sharon. It is Thursday and Sharon has just returned from a lunch hour shopping excursion with Dex that has bled far beyond the lunch hour.
I position my mouth into what I hope looks like a knowing smile. Sharon's opinion matters to me and I'm worried that she might see something in Dex that is unknown to me. I don't want to be in the position of defending myself or Dex for fear of unveiling my own murky motivations and general ignorance of the girl who has dominated my thoughts altogether too much of late.
"And a little..." Sharon searches for the word.
"Surly?" I offer.
"Young," says Sharon.
I shrug. "The wrinkly ones were taken."
"I suppose. At any rate, I've done my duty. She's all set for you. Are you sure she's a girl?"
"Quite," I say. "Why?"
"Her shopping aversion."
"Shopping aversion? Be still my beating heart. She's a keeper."
"The weird thing is, for someone who doesn't seem to care and makes a great show of that fact, she has expensive tastes."
"Oh?"
"Very expensive tastes."
Uh-oh. And I'd offered to bankroll the expedition. "What am I on the hook for?"
"Nothing. She paid for it herself."
"Seriously?"
"Cash. Didn't bat an eye."
"You sure it was Dex?"
"If it wasn't, then it was her twin."
That's as far as Sharon's willing to go. She's not convinced about Dex and has graciously suspended judgment. I mentally thank her for not adding to my own reservations.
***
