I realize, when looking back over what I have written, that it sounds as if Robert was single-mindedly pursuing my humiliation. While there were times that I believed that, it was not true: rather, his demeanor would change from day to day -- being, at times demanding, at times even affectionate. I came to suspect that he had far less experience than he intimated; that he was finding his way as much as I was and played out a role to prevent this from slipping away. As much as he became an object of desire to me, I eventually understood that he prized the control he exerted -- not just because he wanted to control a woman, but because dominating my matronly, white conformity represented something aspirational for him -- either for political or personal satisfaction. He certainly was not the demon he pretended to be, even though I doubt that he understood it himself.
I also recognize that my behavior warrants some examination: for as much as I was afraid of all of this becoming public, I had emotionally succumbed very quickly. More than that -- my initial reluctance would repeatedly slip away into desire. I had grown up believing in core conservative values; the idea that a white wife would stray, would allow a man to control her, would -- worst of all -- cross the color line was unthinkable. It troubled me; I remember sitting alongside Richard in church vowing to find a way out of this predicament, only to willingly yield to Robert's will when next he demanded.
I don't pretend that what I did was acceptable, or -- as Robert would claim -- that all women want this kind of relationship. But I do acknowledge that it very quickly became part of my psyche. I would never publicly admit to my desires; but I came to admit them to myself with an emotional response that varied from lust to distaste. I started this journey distrusting Robert -- I would come to understand that he only held a mirror to the longings in my own life; that as much as I would submit to his will physically, ultimately he became the unwitting provider of my own satisfaction. I would ache for the struggle, the reluctant submission, the exploration, crossing my emotional and sexual boundaries, "forced" to perform the acts I openly decried -- and privately desired. I remembered an old quote: "A man wants a woman to be a lady in the parlor and a whore in the bedroom." But for me, I realized, it was I that wanted to play those roles.
All of that was still to become apparent; the first time that I drove to Robert's house I still had little self-awareness about the journey I had embarked upon. I was frankly afraid. I had made an excuse that would give me an afternoon on my own, and Robert had given me his address. His home had not been easy to find; he lived in one of those semi-rural areas, his house set apart from anything else.
I entered through a gate that swung open with a weighted preponderance. That gate would acquire a meaning for me; each time I passed through it I left my ordinary life behind; and each time I would be unprepared for the new experience that awaited me.
Robert opened his door, looking cool and relaxed in chinos and a cotton shirt, greeting me with assurance and bidding me into his home. I should tell you about his house because it reflected his personality and would have a bearing on the events that occurred there. Firstly, there were no hints of the feminine: the decor was stark, heavy and utilitarian, with large chairs, tables and television screens. It was simultaneously more stylish and expensive than I would have expected -- and I still believe that it had been decorated by a professional. The lounge area, where he now led me had two large loungers surrounding a coffee table, facing a clearly expensive array of technology dwarfed by a huge screen which was silently playing music videos. His home gleamed and sparkled; I would learn eventually that he had two domestic workers attending to the house and the kitchen. The sun reflecting off the pool, just outside of the window, projected calming waves of light into the room. He beckoned me to sit alongside him, where a tumbler of whisky (I assumed) awaited him, and a bottle of white wine breathed in an ice bucket, one glass already filled and waiting for me. I sat as demurely as I could, crossing my ankles away from him, sitting in the corner of the lounger with a clear space between us.
He smiled. "Thank you for coming Lynne."
"I hardly had a choice, did I?"
He took a slow sip of whisky. "We always have a choice. Have some wine -- I selected it quite carefully."
I shook my head and responded with some deference: "No thank you. This time I stay sober." He pursed his lips, the lips I would eventually come to watch, imagining them running so softly across mine. "You wouldn't want to offend me, would you?" Bending forward, he handed me the wine glass. I took it carefully then, as he watched, took the first slow sip. Placing his hand on my elbow he pressed upwards, forcing me to swallow more, holding it there until most of the glass was empty. There was a mischievous glint in his eye as he finally released me.
I took a deep breath: "That wasn't very nice!"
"Sometimes a lady needs persuading."
In any other circumstance I believe I would have stormed out; but I still had not understood my complicity in this relationship and I felt trapped. I sat in frustrated silence. I was to recognize this progression so often during this relationship: in the first stage of any meeting I would feel outraged; although, I did come to realize later that the outrage would be directed as much at my collusion as at Robert.
"I meant what I said. Thank you for coming. I am pleased you are here. You do know that I have found you attractive from the beginning."
The comment surprised me -- I am nothing if not self-aware; and I am no Venus. Robert was fully ten years younger than me; I was definitively a conservative wife in my appearance; and in a fit of pique I had dressed down for the day: I was in an shapeless and loose patterned skirt that reached past my knees, topped by a plain buttoned blouse. I had worn comfortable ballet flats and the barest of makeup. I retorted with some spite: "You already have me here; you don't have to persuade me."
"You think I'm leading you on? I don't have to, do I?" He sipped his whisky slowly. "The world portrays one type of woman as desirable -- but for many men that's not the case. I like many kinds of women -- I think that most men do."
It was a strange discussion to be having at this point -- Robert was applauding feminist values like a crusader, and notwithstanding my mistrust he appeared to be sincere. He continued: "There are deeper issues. You must know that a white woman -- particularly a married, slightly older white woman -- is unattainable for most black men. And that makes the idea very desirable."
