Page 1 of Madame X

Chapter 1

You are beautiful, today. Your eyes are deep-set and dark brown, with a patina of warmth that I am discovering hides a turbulent ocean of intelligence and cunning and cruelty. You are young, today. Not even twenty-five, I believe. Your youth shows in your inability to sit still on my pristine white leather couch, the way you cross your long, lean, slate-gray Armani-sheathed legs ankle-on-knee, and then stretch them out ankle-on-ankle in front of you, and the way you reach with a Rolex-braceleted wrist and delicately pick at an invisible loose thread on your black V-neck T-shirt, the way you brush at your knee with strong but fragile-seeming fingers, and then touch your jaw and then dig in your hip pocket for your sleek smartphone—which isn’t there, because unshackling you from that device is an integral part of the training program. And youdefinitelyneed training.

Your name is Jonathan, today. Not Jon, or John, or Johnny, but Jonathan. You very subtly accentuate the first syllable,Jonathan. It is cute, that little accent on the first syllable of your oh-so-generic name.Jonathan. As if to make sure I am listening before you say the rest, as if to say “pay attention to who I am.” You are so young, Jonathan. You are only a few years youngerthan I am, but age is so much more than how many times one has spun around the sun. Your age shows through in more than your incapacity for stillness; it is in your eyes, those layered brown eyes, how you look at me with lust and calculation and wonder and not a little fear.

You are like all the rest of you—oh, how I hate the lack of a you-plural conjugation in the English language; other languages are so much more precise and effective and elegant. Let me try this again: You (singular,Jonathan) are very much like all the rest of you (plural, the multitude of men-boys that have come and gone before you-singular,Jonathan).

You,Jonathan, look at me with that needy greedy hungry lusty fear, wondering how you can possess me, how you can circumnavigate the rules binding us to this contract, how you can get me to leave with you and be yours and how you can get me to loosen my top or bend over for you a little so you can catch a better glimpse down my blouse, how you canhave mein any way at all. But like all the others, you cannot. Not any of that.

I am not for you.

I belong to one man and one man alone, and he does not share. Not what you desire of me, at least.

And you—you,Jonathan, and you-plural—you are not worthy to even think his name. You could not even begin to fathom the sophistication and the polish and the culture and the charm and the elegance and the easy power and the natural domination that man possesses. You just cannot.

He is the sun arcing across the horizon, and you are fireflies flitting to and fro in the night, each of you thinking your little light shines the brightest, never realizing how small and insignificant you truly are.

We are sitting on my couch right now, sipping at Harney & Sons Earl Grey tea, and I am noting your posture and the drape of your arm as you lounge, and the angle of your wrist as yousip, and the sweep of your neck and the shift of your eyes. I see all of this, I note each detail, and I adjudicate it all, make mental tallies and prepare my lesson. For now, though, I sip, and try to let you guide our conversation.

You are an abysmal conversationalist, Jonathan. You speak of sports, like a common boy squatting on a bar stool swilling beer. As ifIcould ever possibly spare a single moment of thought for such tripe. But I let you natter on about some player, and I nod andummmm-hmmmat all the right pauses, and let my eyes shine as if I give one single shit. Because you need this lesson, Jonathan. I am going to let you ramble about this football of yours and pretend to care and will let you go on and on and waste my time and yours, and when you run out of words, or maybe even finally realize I am merely humoring you, I am going to gut you like a fish.

You bore me, so I will not be gentle about it, Jonathan.

“...And he’s putting up numbers like nobody’s business, you know? Like, he’s just a fuckingbeaston the field, no one can touch him, not once he’s got the ball. Every game I’m like, I’m likegive him the fucking ball you goddamned idiot, just feed him the ball, it’s all you have to do. Obviously I picked him for my fantasy football league, and he’s gonna make me a shitload of money...” You gesticulate with your hands, roll them in circles, and you go on and on and on, until I’m having to force myself to hear each individual word as if they’re nuggets of sound without substance.

I finish my tea.

I pour another cup, and drink half of that, and you have not finished your first because you’restill talking, and it is just interminable.

Finally, I cannot endure it any longer.

I set my teacup down on the saucer with a loud, intentional clatter, and you’re startled into silence. I let the absence of noiseflow through me for a moment, bathe in the silence and let my thoughts collect, and let you see my displeasure. You sweat, you shift uncomfortably on the leather, and you do not quite meet my gaze. You know you have erred.

“Madame X, I’m sorry, I—”

“That is quite enough,Jonathan.” I say it the way you do, accentuating that first syllable, to show you how silly it sounds. “You have wasted nearly thirty minutes of my time. Remind me,Jonathan, how much per hour do our sessions cost your father?”

“I, um . . .”

I eye you with razors in my gaze. “Yes? Speak up, speak clearly, and do attempt to eradicate the noisome filler words.”

“A thousand dollars an hour, Madame X.”

“Correct. One thousand U.S. dollars per hour. And having just wasted thirty minutes babbling aboutfootball, how much have you wasted?”

“Five hundred dollars.”

“Correct. At least you can manage simple mathematics.” I sip at my tea, gathering my ire into a concentrated ball at my core. “Enlighten me,Jonathan, as to why you thought such ridiculous trash would be worth my time.”

“I, um—”

I set my cup down with a clatter yet again, and you flinch. I stand up, smooth my dress over my hips—and I do not miss the rake of your eyes over me as I do so—and I move to the doorway. “We are done here, Mr. Cartwright.”

“No, Madame X, I’m sorry, I’ll do better, I promise—”

“I don’t think you will, because I don’t believe you are capable of better, Mr. Cartwright. You can’t even stop saying ‘um’ and ‘like’ and using vulgarity. Not to mention wasting our time together to talk about football.”

“I was making conversation, Madame X.”