We're all smugly cloistered behind the velvet rope, patrolled by the uniformed staff, their ostentatious intimidation bestowed by the power to exclude. Of course, we, 'the partners', are all sitting together a little off to one side, close enough to be summoned and close enough to be admired, our skin-tight clothes hiding almost nothing of what lies beneath. Some imagination is allowed, but precious little. We preen, why deny it? Luxuriating in ourselves and the heady physical presence we exude, a critical mass of beauty.
The music is way too loud, and the light pulsates in synchrony with the sound, which resonates deep within me. I adore the decadent feel of it. I watch the faces of the 'public' as they wander past on the edge of the dance floor, veering as close as they dare for a better look, men and women admiring us, wanting us, wanting to be us. I smile at all of them. Ok, I can hear myself, and yes, there's only that velvet rope and a lot of luck between them and me, but it's easy to get over-excited on these party nights, when the threat and promise of something unusual hangs in the air. It's also nice to have a little alcohol, even if we're heavily rationed. I can see my 'partner', along with the other high-rollers, glass in hand, talking too loudly, although the words fail to reach us through the wall of musical energy. The fawning staff ensure their glasses never empty, while we nurse ours. But to be honest, I've never been a fan of too much alcohol; two of these cocktails over the evening is probably the perfect amount.
We know something is going on, Sam and I. Our respective partners, heads of large organisations, spend a lot of time together in public, and we're usually in tow, the glamour. Discretion is all, but we compare notes and, while they pretend and protest otherwise, they are bored with us. In theory, that's demeaning, being treated like chattels, and the power ultimately lies with them, of course, but this form of moder-day-slavery, as some call it, has its compensations. Not least of which is a more peaceful world, who would have believed it?
From my perspective, honestly, I rather like being 'kept'. It's hardly fashionable, I know and 'being used for sex' could be demeaning, but our relationship is surprisingly respectful and all that sexual politics shit was way overdone, in my view. I realise that many believe the gender pay gap and the vast difference in opportunities are still something to protest about, but I, and millions like me, get to spend time learning new languages; Spanish in my case at the moment, and playing the piano, staying fit, dancing and exercising, investing in this gorgeous body. As far as I can see, everyone wins. Which is why the movement has spread, and the United Nations finally endorsed our modern cultural practices last year.
It's been coming; Sam and I thought it might finally happen last week, but I was only sent over there to help with some domestic stuff, another pair of hands. They have a much larger garden than we do, and it was good to be outside, getting my hands dirty.
They're coming over. I elbow Sam discreetly in the ribs, and we stand to link elbows and fall in beside our other halves.
"So, just for a bit of fun, we're swapping Sam and you for the night." The words float to me on a draft of warm alcohol, our faces drawn close by the heavy music. "Is that OK with you?"
It's nice to be asked, but we all know the rules. I play along. "That's fine, it'll be fun." Will it?
I get the 'do exactly as you're told' look and respond with the 'I might, if you ask nicely' look, which we both know means yes!
Their limo is the same model as ours; what happened to competition and envy, although theirs has tinted rear windows, and I'm sure the leather is softer. We don't speak on the short journey. I can't decide whether this is nerves or a power play, demonstrating a deeply relaxed confidence which requires no conversation. The speculation is making me nervous. I want this to work for everyone involved; I need to stay loose.
I know their house and we ascend the stairs together. At the top, I stop in front of the family photograph, the two of them and Edward, their three-year-old. I've seen this style a few times now, playing on Sam's physical attributes, naked from the waist up, holding Edward close, all three of them laughing. I remember when I thought these body images were exploitative, but now it barely registers.
"He's a beautiful child," I say, and we stand together and admire the three of them, our hands brushing in the most delicate, nervous foreplay.
"It's the room at the end of the corridor. Just wait for me there; I'll only be a minute, I want to check on him and the sitter. Don't get undressed".
I haven't been in the master bedroom before; it's beautiful. I'm surprised Sam didn't mention it. Ours is rather Spartan in comparison, functional. Wow, a circular bed in the centre of a circular room. As I walk in, the lights dim, and I can see that the walls are mirrored with random fragments of coloured glass so that my image is fractured, and my reproduced movements dart and dance as I move across to the bed. I'm still exploring the kaleidoscopic possibilities when I sense that I'm not alone, and slivers of another person flit around me.
I turn and smile; I'm good at this, putting people at ease. Not that I've had much practice in this context for some time now. I'm remembering the last time I had a different sexual partner, and realise it's more than a decade ago. Suddenly, I'm excited at the prospect, and in this body suit, that is instantly obvious.
"I want you to be completely passive."
OK, not my regular role, but I can work with that, I think. "Whatever works for you." I hear myself say.
"What works for me is you on your back in the centre of the bed and I don't want you to move, not at all, unless I tell you to."
This is not what I was expecting, not what Sam had confided, this need for control. Still, it could be interesting, I guess.
"So, let me see you properly."
I peel the skin-suit slowly down until it is a small bright pile at my feet.
"You have a very impressive, very beautiful body."
Despite this being the exact reaction I have when I see myself naked in the mirror, it requires all my willpower to accept this frank appraisal without embarrassment. I keep my hands on my hips, and we hold eye contact, and I am rewarded with the first hint of a softening smile.
"You obviously look after yourself."
Dead right; you don't get to look like this sitting around eating doughnuts all day. I smile, "Our bodies are important; body and mind in harmony." I sound like an advert, but this produces a slight nod of agreement, and I see the first signs of a reciprocal arousal, which resonates and amplifies mine. The smile widens.
I lie on the bed in a Shavasana pose, so much sexier sounding than the portentous synonym, 'corpse pose'. I take several breaths and concentrate on relaxing. It's surprisingly challenging to do when you know someone is going to climb on top of you at any moment. I resist the word 'mount' although it repeatedly attempts to insert itself in my internal narrative. This is not a helpful train of thought.
The house is silent, and I can hear the sound of clothes being removed, the sibilance of material sliding against skin, and I focus on my breath, retaining a semblance of relaxation, while also, mysteriously, managing to remain deeply aroused. I realise that this might work.
My eyes remain closed throughout, and the slice of time that follows is difficult to describe because it occurs entirely within my mind. Well, without being too obvious, other things are inside other body parts, but the experience is very firmly an internal one. I attempted to relax while my body was being beautifully and gracefully stimulated. You should try it, it's exquisite torture. I should get a medal for lasting as long as I did, but suddenly I realised I was about to lose control. My words emerged as a plea.
"I think I'm going to come."
The rhythmic movement does not falter, and the control required to produce these two words tells me I am not the only one who is close, "You may."
And I do, and I don't do it quietly, and we share the violent ecstasy; the directive to be passive, apparently forgotten, fabulously redundant.
***
I wake with an arm across my waist, a leg across mine beside an unfamiliar head of hair and panic for most of a second. It all comes flooding back. The bed has formed around me, and I am covered, and I remember none of that, only the sex. I slide from beneath the unfamiliar limbs and remember I have no underwear. I untangle and pull the body suit up to my waist, ignoring the fragments of my body that dance in my peripheral vision in this self-centred room. I can't identify an ensuite, although there must be one, and wander down the corridor where I discover more conventional domestic geometry. The bathroom has a floor-to-ceiling mirror, and as I pee, I watch myself and wonder how I and so many of my gender manage to be content in this new world.
I'm lucky, I know that, blessed with genes that confer a comfortable, luxurious lifestyle. I am a prize. Is that right? It's working for me. I never fancied any of those manual jobs, which, in these times, are the only alternative for us. And it's working better for most people. Societies have tried so many other ways to coexist harmoniously, and this iteration seems to be working as well as any. Women have been running almost every important facet of commercial and governmental life for fifty years, and there has been no serious conflict anywhere in the world for three decades. People are talking about the end of history.
I wonder if the lady of this house needs anything more from me; I could play some Beethoven for them over breakfast. I shake off the last drops and flick my penis back into the suit and admire my broad shoulders and tanned torso as I wash my hands.
