Messalina: Devourer of Men Read online

  Messalina:

  Devourer of Men

  by Zetta Brown

  ISBN: 978-1-905091-11-9

  Published by Logical-Lust Publications www.logical-lust.com © 2008

  Cover image by Helen E. H. Madden www.pixelarcana.com © 2008

  Messalina: Devourer of Men is a work of fiction. The names, characters, and incidents are entirely the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be copied, transmitted, or recorded by any means whatsoever, including printing, photocopying, file transfer, or any form of data storage, mechanical or electronic, without the express written consent of the publisher. In addition, no part of this publication may be lent, re-sold, hired, or otherwise circulated or distributed, in any form whatsoever, without the express written consent of the publisher.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Here’s where I say a big THANK YOU to those people who put up with me during the process of writing this book:

  Anne Drake (aka “The Goddess of All Things Computer”), Laura Parker Castoro for her mentoring and friendship; Melanie Eversley, Judi McCoy and Leslie Brown for their suggestions early on in the process; Cindy Passmore Malone, Krissy Guajardo, Suzy Koehler McMillan, J.C., and Ben Eden for reading the first complete draft, and finally, Rachel McIntyre for her editing and putting it all together.

  Thanks to y’all—it’s finally finished!

  To Jim

  “Yum”

  Chapter One

  “DARK PLACES”

  My name is Evadne Cavell and I am a sex goddess.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  For me, sex is a compulsion. Some want chocolate, I want sex, preferably anonymous sex, and I attempt to control myself by having rules. I can look and I can touch, but no names, no body fluids and no penetration. As a result, it’s been over three years since I’ve had proper, hard-banging, toe-curling sex. That’s when my fever comes because my sexual frustration is at a point where anything I see gets me aroused, but I act as if the word FRIGID is wrapped around my waist like a chastity belt.

  As if I need one. I’ve been on enough blind dates, and placed and answered enough personal ads to realize when I’m being used as practice until something better comes along.

  But let me say something else: There is a direct link between Denver’s historic movie palaces and my sex life. For example, at the age of seventeen I saw The Rocky Horror Picture Show at The Ogden Theater as a “virgin” and was sacrificed on the altar of the Sweet Transvestite.

  This led to my first act of defiance against my parents when I dyed my hair red, got tattooed, and every Friday for a year, I played the role of Columbia for the movie audience. I acted shamelessly with those people and lost a few friends when I began dating some of the white boys. Not only was I playing against type, I got a reputation as a black girl “playing in the snow.”

  I saw it as expanding my tastes.

  Now, I’m thirty-five. The Ogden no longer shows movies, but my love for films still provides crucial access to my sexual nature.

  Today, on this summer afternoon in early June, I sit in the second-floor lobby of The DeLuxe Theater waiting for the next showing of an animation festival. As usual, part of me is nervous at the thought of getting caught but this just makes another part of me wet with anticipation. I drum my fingers on the tabletop and look at my watch.

  Twenty minutes to go.

  I’m dressed in an outfit as liberating as it is confining that would scandalize anyone who knew me. Wearing a white linen shell with a red cashmere sweater and black ankle-strap shoes, I resemble one of those Parisian Apache dancers. My black cotton pencil-skirt is so tight and thin I suspect that I’ll be leaving a damp spot on the red vinyl seat.

  Thanks to my African heritage, I have no need for spray-painted tans or silicon implants. And although I give off signals as eye candy saying Eat me , I’m a size 20 in a size zero world with my full, rounded hips, the sharp dips at my waist and the paunch of my belly.

  My size isn’t the only reason why it’s been three years since my last fuck. Family and work have made things difficult too. If I could live away from them both, I would be a poor, but happy, slut having sex whenever and with whomever I liked. But I can’t turn my back on my responsibilities just to get laid. That’s not how my parents raised me.

  I’m the youngest child of the Cavell family, with its close ties in artistic and civic circles. I’m also an assistant professor at Bellingham College and one of the few African-American instructors there hoping for tenure. My behavior doesn’t mesh with the College’s increasingly conservative image. Any hint of “impropriety,” to quote my boss, would not be welcomed.

  It’s nobody’s business anyway. I’m just trying to get by living the life of a shy exhibitionist. I may dress plainly for the sake of my job and to cover my biker-babe-Betty Boop tattoo, but that’s during the week.

  I can look at anybody and see them naked—see them having sex, writhing and grunting and coming. Most of the time, the person I’m watching is the last person I’d want to see naked, but sometimes, I’ll be spying on some man so intently that I get moist between my legs or cramp like I’ve come really hard. It’s gotten to the point where I have to wear sunglasses so people can’t see me observing them. I keep my expression bland and neutral. I am passion under ice. Except, once a week, on my day off, when I allow myself to thaw out.

  I shudder despite myself. Enticing men in a theater for a bit of slap and tickle is not the way to conduct a happy, healthy sex life. But there’s something thrilling about sitting in a dark room with other people all facing the same direction with our eyes, supposedly, focused on the screen. The darkness allows fingers to fumble with buttons, zippers, and other obstacles that prevent flesh-on-flesh contact. Darkness allows nimble digits to circle around a man’s swollen pride or spread apart the vertical lips of a woman’s secret. Suddenly, the room brightens because of a scene change and, depending on level of nerve, fingers recoil to their proper, prayer-clasped position on your lap or they probe deeper, squeeze harder . . . get wetter. I never wear panties to the theater. A quick rub adds more spice to an Italian film, or makes a French movie saucier.

  I’ve been coming to the matinee at The DeLuxe for just over three years, and ever since I’ve started these anonymous encounters, there has been an increase in the number of single men coming to the same showing. Don’t they have jobs? Where do they come from? Is it the warm weather, because in the winter, I can never get a hook up. It’s a bit disconcerting because there’s hardly a place less exotic to release my pent up sexual pressure, but at least it’s an escape from mainstream movie dreck.

  The DeLuxe is the sole, surviving business in a failed strip mall. Converted from a warehouse supermarket, it houses three screens, a split-level coffee shop, and a café. The décor is faux movie palace but true movie palaces, like The Mayan in Denver, have nothing to worry about. For a suburban theater, it’s survived. But for how long? I’m too chicken to go to the porno arcade across town and terrified about running into someone I know here. What would I do if it happened at the porno theater? But I need some sense of closeness to let me k
now I’m still alive, if only from deep inside, and The DeLuxe makes me feel a little less cheap.

  The following scenario happens almost every week with little variation—like clockwork.

  Some man reads my signals in the lobby and suspects I’m looking for action, which is true, but on my terms. He follows me inside the theater and sits beside me despite the vast number of empty seats.

  Mr. X will then put his arm around the back of my seat. I ignore him. His hand will rest on my knee. I keep my eyes looking forward. His fingers will push aside the material of my skirt and start exploring. Within twenty minutes of the movie starting, he knows I’m not going to resist. He tries to kiss me but I don’t let him. Sometimes he’ll whisper, asking if he can take me to a motel—or worse—he tries to mount me in my seat. I’ll shake my head and push him away. So he ends up finger-fucking me. I’ll feel an orgasm on the rise but it’s over before it starts because that’s when I realize how pathetic I am for doing this. I’ve become skilled at faking orgasms just to get things over with. But I’ll give the guy a hand job, just to be polite, and he always comes.

  When the film ends, I exit as quickly as possible. I have no idea what the man looks like, whether he’s young or old, married or single and I don’t care. I never look him in the face.

  This is my problem and I need to stop before I find myself raped or my disguise as an upstanding citizen is blown.

  The latter nearly happened a few weeks ago just before the movie started. My “partner” for the day had just sat down beside me when someone called my name.

  “Dr. Cavell?”

  Ice water filled my veins and I looked up to see the smiling face of a young woman with red hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and wearing a patchwork halter top that matched her patchwork jeans.

  “I thought that was you! It’s me, Meghan Cross. I was in your freshman seminar last semester.”

  “Ah, yes, Meghan. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. I didn’t know you came to the matinees here.” She looked around the theater. “Great, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is.” I glanced at the man beside me and for the first time, I got a real look of my companion with his three-hair comb over, short-sleeved shirt and polyester, never-crease pants. He looked at us with wide, scared eyes. Considering I was dressed in a lightweight summer dress and a bra that boosted my assets, I’m surprised people didn’t mistake us for a hooker with her john. Meghan caught my glance and laughed.

  “Oh! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb you. I’d better go anyway,” she indicated over her shoulder, “my friends are waiting for me down front.”

  “Well, it was nice seeing you again, Meghan.”

  “You, too, Dr. Cavell. See you on campus.”

  I cringed when she said my name again and watched her trot down the aisle; the patches on the back pockets of her threadbare jeans emphasized her youthful, firm bottom.

  The whole incident rattled me so much that, instead of it taking twenty minutes for the man to get his hands on me, it took thirty. It was also the day I started to think more seriously about the effects of my little compulsions. I resolved to stop. Who needs a man when you have hands and batteries? When I get the urge, I could satisfy myself.

  And it worked. For two weeks, it worked.

  Fast forward to today and here I am, back at the theater.

  This place has become part of my life. It lets me enjoy my love for dark places and my need for anonymous fun, because in the dark, no one has to know or get hurt.

  It’s just so naughty , as my friend Tony would say—if he knew—but I like hiding in plain sight. I’m addicted to it, and right now, I need a hit.

  Unfortunately, it doesn’t look like I picked the best day to get it. The lobby is empty, there’s no one hanging around downstairs and I didn’t see any stray men hanging about like I usually do. My finger drumming increases so I take in my surroundings to distract myself.

  Twenty minutes to go.

  The space around me is dark save for the table where I sit that’s located under a skylight. But I can see the polished, black concession stand glowing under the neon lights and from the constant wiping of a bartender dressed in a white starched shirt. Watching him wipe a circular groove into the counter top, I sigh, mesmerized. Round and round his arm goes and his movements reflect my life. From work to theater and back again, this pattern composes the two halves of my world, and although they’re part of the same design, they never intersect.

  I continue to nurse my cup of cappuccino and try to figure out if I have batteries at home. Sometimes not even hard vibrating plastic can compensate when you’re in the mood for flesh. Looks like I’m going to have settle for a date with “The Bruiser” and take him out of his box when I get home.

  “Excuse me, ma’am?”

  My arm jolts and upsets my coffee. I see a tall man approach from out of the shadows. Then he starts to mop up my drink.

  “I’m sorry I frightened you. Let me buy you another.”

  “What? Another skirt?” I frown as I wipe myself. “No, that’s quite all right.”

  He chuckles. “Now I would love to buy you things, but I meant another coffee.”

  I couldn’t help but give a short laugh and allow a tiny smile at his comeback. Squinting my eyes against the sun, I shake my head. “There’s plenty left.”

  “Yeah, but the thrill leaves once the cream’s gone.”

  Turning aside to toss several used napkins onto a vacant table, when I look back, he’s sitting across from me.

  “Did you want something?” I ask through clenched teeth accompanied by an insincere smile. The sun slicing through the small skylight gives me a better look at him and I try to figure out if I’ve seen him on campus.

  He wears jeans and a blue Oxford shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His body is athletic but not muscle-bound. His face is what I would call boyish. He has a sharp, angular jaw line, full, sensuous—dare I say “feminine”—lips, a straight nose, and a long neck that, despite my annoyance, begs me to bite into it. In fact, his doesn’t look too masculine at all. I smirk. He’s probably gay . . . or bi. Just what I friggin need.

  But what takes my breath away are his eyes—two glowing amethysts fringed with long dark lashes. I never believed eyes like that were possible but something beneath those irises burns making them incandescent as I look into them. Suddenly I want to bend in all sorts of bizarre positions. My skin gets hot. I think I’m blushing.

  A disarming smile creates twin dimples by the corners of his mouth and he leans closer. His auburn hair, violet eyes, and the direct sunlight intensify the contrasts of his appearance with startling effect.

  “Please don’t take this the wrong way,” he says, “but I’ve been watching you for the last fifteen minutes.”

  I frown. This is not part of the plan. Erotic thoughts or not, I level a gaze on him like a government employee asked to work on a holiday. But his confident manner has an edge that his smooth, easygoing voice belies, and I think I detect a Southern accent in his voice.

  “No, please, don’t be angry.” He smiles and places a sketchpad before me. “I want to show you something.”

  I crane my neck to look at the sketch and my guard eases. An annoying sunbeam has been blinding me as I sit here and I must’ve been looking straight at him without realizing it.

  He’s caught me from the front but at a slight angle. The drawing is in a film noir style but it’s definitely me. He even put a sparkle in the pupils of my half-closed eyes and colored the brown of my skin and the blush of my mouth. The compositio
n is divided diagonally as a result of the sunbeam making one side dark, with just a hint of my face, whereas the other side is light and contains most of the drawing. I look mysterious and coy as if poking my face out of the shadows to drink my coffee. My lips look so sensual making an “O” to blow the steam rising from my cup. Considering the atmosphere of the theatre and the main attraction, it’s very appropriate. The only other drawing I’ve seen of myself was a caricature done when I was seven years old. I’ve come a long way. I glance up at him and his smile broadens. But when I laugh, he frowns.

  “Have I done you an injustice, ma’am?” His tone is icy and formal. Not that I blame him. If I found fault with his talent, all of my taste is in my mouth.

  “No, I’m just surprised, that’s all.” I glance up at him. “Is that how I look?”

  He nods and his smile is back again. His gaze on me intensifies, pinning me to my seat.

  “You are a very attractive woman. Your features are symmetrical, balanced. More people than you can imagine have something out of proportion or off-center.”

  I blink. I’ve never heard myself described as “symmetrical” before. And that is a southern accent. Sort of Matthew McConaughey-ish with a slight twang, subtle but it’s there. Jared makes a sound too guttural for a sigh and my PC muscles clench.

  “Your skin glows. It reminds me of a chamois . . . all pale brown and soft.”

  His lips curve into a crooked smile that’s almost too smug for my tastes, and I smirk. Yeah, this man knows he’s got it going on.

  “Well, that’s very nice . . . the sketch.” I push the notebook back across the table to him.

  “Jared Delaney.” He extends his hand. I look at it first with suspicion, then with scrutiny. I don’t want conversation, just a hand up my skirt. His fingers are not too thick and not too thin. Three or four would fill me nicely. I smile.