It'll sound weird, but I always liked airports. Something about the energy in them, I think, appeals to me. The comings and goings and the dynamic to and fro of humanity gives me a tingle. It's like some of the excitement from all those adventures, even little ones that only matter to the people caught up in them, rubs off and accumulates, there.
Or, maybe it was just because I loved to travel, and at the time, I was stuck there. So, playing piano in the tiny airport bar was as close as I was getting to escaping. But, you know how it is. When life is excitement all you want is calm and when things are calm, all you want is excitement.
So, there I was. It really wasn't a bad place, for the area. It was actually the nicest for a bit of a drive, which is why it often packed in a pretty decent crowd. That's how I'd found it, anyway, on a tip. I wasn't looking for work, but when somebody suggested a place around there that played blues and had decent imported beer, well, the rest was history.
It was actually pretty funny; I'd gotten into a chat with the owner a couple weeks in a row, and he thought I sang and played piano. I'd been working there a week when he noticed I didn't sing, but I tickled the keys so pretty-like, I kept the job, anyway. I played Tuesdays and Thursdays, mostly for tips. Friday and Saturday they had bands, either Jazz or Blues, and often I either helped out or worked the door. Wednesdays were dance nights. Oh, well. You have to stay home, sometimes.
So, it happened to be on a Tuesday that Renee came up and flounced down on my seat with a dramatic huff. "It's demeaning to women."
Renee was the hostess, there, and her coming up to me to chat was nothing unusual. She often would, a couple times a night, and we'd gab, as I could talk and play at the same time. She'd often say she had nobody else to talk to around there, because even though she thought I was an ass, I was the only one around there with an IQ over room temperature. In turn I told her that I'd bet she said that to all the boys.
"Of course it's demeaning to women," I answered, without looking up from the keys. "I mean, seriously, Renee, that feminism thing was cute for a while, but it's getting old. You chicks need to suck it up and get back in the kitchen before we take back the right to vote."
I didn't need to look up to know she was looking daggers at me. But I did, to flash her my best and hopefully most disarming 'only kidding' grin. But, man, if looks could kill. At least, until the grin worked, and she softened and went on.
She sighed, and growled, with a subtle little gesture of her head. "Will you look at that?"
So I did. I was doing a long improvisation at the time, with rolling cascades of notes, so I could take a glance around subtly. I'd forgotten what the melody I was building off on was, so I glanced and did some rolls into something edgy. I chose something edgy because Renee was cute when she was wound up, and I was trying to encourage it, musically.
She was looking at a friend of mine who was at the bar, talking to the owner across it.
"Yeah. His name is Frank. He's a friend of mine. A musician I was trying to get to play, here."
I glanced back to Renee, and the daggers in her eyes were back. Make those icicles. Sharp, pointy, murderous ones, and a little shiver ran down my spine as the redhead on the bench next to me turned on the chill.
"Well, I don't like how your friend treats his girlfriend."
I looked back at the couple there at the bar to see what she was talking about, but I didn't really have to. He did have his girlfriend there with him and I instantly knew what Renee was on about, then.
"Do you see that around her throat?" she whispered, leaning in towards me as I peered. And then she leaned in a bit more, hushing even lower at her perceived 'taboo' topic. "Do you know what that means?"
His girlfriend, you see, was named Gina, and around her neck was a thick collar with a D-ring. I actually thought it was kind of a nice one; oxblood colored leather, with calfskin padding and brass fixtures. Tasteful. But, also obvious.
"She has a neck injury?" I asked, smirking back into Renee's abrupt squint. Then, I chuckled. "Yes, I know what it means, Renee," I admitted, though I didn't add that I actually knew Frank and Gina from lifestyle circles, and not because we were both musicians. I especially didn't point it out because I kinda enjoyed how she was leaning in.
"So, what's the problem?" I asked, still playing. "I thought you were all about people being able to be open about their lifestyles. I thought you'd have been happy to see that?"
"Systematic abuse is not a lifestyle, Rick!"
"She doesn't look very abused to me," I pointed out, "In fact, I know both of them, and if she was I'd know and be the first all over it."
And I could almost hear her teeth grating. "Rick. Seriously? She's wearing freaking a collar. Like a dog." Renee half growled. "Would it be more obviously abusive and demeaning for you if he was making her wear a damned cow-bell?
"It depends on how he was making her, and if the cow-bell actually had a ringer," I quipped, but her look turned more warning, so I pressed on more soberly, "But, I happen to know that collar was a present, and that she loves it, and that she usually wears it because she digs it and not because he makes her." Her head tilted and for an instant she only glowered somewhat petulantly back, as though I was being pointlessly obstinate and purposefully obtuse in not seeing her point. So, I asked, "Would it bug you less if he was wearing the collar? Because before she met him and they became exclusive, she used to be a switch."
This threw Renee. Her thin, little, carrot colored eyebrows knitted together, and her big eyes narrowed and she jutted her bottom lip a little bit. She'd no doubt call it pursing her lips. I call it a pout, and she has a cute one.
"And what exactly is a switch?" she asked slowly and with a note of wariness in her tone. I knew I'd hit on something, though, from the angle of her sidelong look, and the way she peered at me, partly through her orangey eyebrows. It was no longer as clear cut a gender issue as she'd prefer, at least.
"A switch is someone who sort of goes back and forth between being submissive and dominant," I returned, informatively, which only made her squint all the more.
"Oh, don't, Rick. Please don't tell me that you're into all that, too, please."
It was kinda sweet, the way she asked it. Closed minded, judgemental, and condescending, as well, of course. But it had that genuine note of appeal, that sincere entreaty for reason, that innocent note of 'say it ain't so'.
She was so cute. So, I stopped playing.
"Look, Renee," said I, turning to regard her more fully. "You know how you've said in the past that to an extent people can't help their nature? Or at least shouldn't have to or be pressured to, if they don't want to?"
She just looked at me, not answering, but listening, waiting for the punch line. I could tell by the square of her little shoulders she was just bristling to argue whatever point I was building up to. But, I had her attention, so I went on.
"Well, for some people, the need for security in a relationship has to be met to a certain degree before they can proportionately meet their need for intimacy, or affection, or even sexuality. It's like that old pyramid. You know the one. The hierarchy of needs? Like, you really can't appreciate music if you're starving or freezing. Artistic fulfillment can only occur if your more basic survival needs are met, first. Right?"
She nodded. It was a guarded, grudging gesture, and she was still gazing at me with the wary suspicion she might fix a Nazi or axe-murderer with, but she acknowledged it.
"Well, some people, for whatever reason, simply feel more secure when they feel a degree of control in a situation. Others feel that measure of security from feeling someone else controlling it for them. The former are called dominants, the latter are called submissives. In the end, that's just it, in a nutshell."
There was a quiet moment that lingered on, so I turned and went back to playing as she mulled it; something softer, to accommodate.
"You know, you make it sound almost reasonable," she conceded grudgingly, as though vaguely disappointed by my lack of either agreement or unreasonability to argue with.
