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Stacy Reed has been publishing since 1994 in venues such as the Herotica series, First Person Sexual, Peacockblue, Flasher, First Person Sexual, The Oy of Sex, Mind Caviar, Dare, Whores and Other Feminists, Diverse Words, and Leather, Lace & Lust.

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Prête-à-porter

by Stacy Reed

excerpted from Leather, Lace & Lust

Claire walks into her first closet and makes her way toward the dresses. She walks past her Miu Miu pants and Diesel jeans, blouses from Prada and Christian Dior hanging behind them. In the fall, she will unpack her sweaters from the cedar boxes lining the southern wall and hang them behind the slacks and jeans: the wool cardigans, the light cashmere sets, and then the fine gauge angora pullovers. She pushes past her skirts: pencil straight linen skirts that cling to her well-muscled thighs; tiny pleated minis in which bending over is not an option; yards of taffeta like liquid that frolic around her heals with each step. At the back of the room, facing floor to ceiling rows of Dolce & Gabbana crocodile pumps, Manolo Blahnik Carolyne slingbacks, and Chanel ankle-strap spectators, hang the dresses: shimmering or demure as a crocus, they progress from the shortest to the longest, divided by season. Claire has banished from her vocabulary the legendary complaint: I have nothing to wear.

The dress dictates the sort of experience she will have, so she gives her selection thought. Something navy and fitted, but not tight, something she could wear with pearls, would probably land her a serious young man, the type of guy who jogs before work and checks on his finances every night. Easy to provoke this type to fuck with all the aggression he’s been channeling into “productivity.” This vintage Halston or this limited addition Yves Saint Laurent? Claire rubs the raw silk of a red sari that has been folded and fashioned into sweeping, trembling tiers. This could win her some kind of artist, or maybe a cute but vacuous boy who fancies himself a bohemian because he can’t hold a job. She lets it drop. You always look sexy in Versace, but… Ah! the floral print from Dior. She bought it the moment she saw it on the runway. Folds of billowing organza hover slightly above her surprisingly dark nipples. Magnolias floating in stem green silk cling to her waist and hug her hips. Were it not for a slit to the thigh, she could not walk. At the knee pebbly freshwater pearls are sewn into the hem. Surely this will entice a man who prefers high feminine to efficient contemporary. Then a minimalist architect might fall for it precisely because it defies his aesthetic. But of course all speculation is useless; like almost all of her dresses, this has never been worn, and will be worn only once.

Since her calves are toned and her skin is as pale and opaque as cream, Claire rarely bothers with hose. No way this dress could accommodate even the tiniest strapless bra, so she skips it, and the panties as well; the dress is cut too close to camouflage a panty line, and even if Claire felt like putting up with a violating thong, the dress is cut so low in back that she would sport the “butt floss” look. She only needs to select a pair of shoes.

Claire steps into a pair of sea glass marine Choo stilettos, and turns to face the wide floor to ceiling mirror. Her generous cleavage looks accidental, but can’t be missed. Her thighs are as sturdy as a colt’s. The dress displays her ass to its firm finest. Any number of men might like this one. She licks her fingers and meticulously pulls a few choice strands of her black bob toward her chin. Claire hurries to check her bag: perfume, mouthwash, condoms, Astroglide. She cuts off the lights and takes the elevator to ground level.

She hands the doorman a ten as he ushers her into the night with a stiff bow.

“Thank you, Ms. Vitello.”

Claire sweeps past him and hurries down Royale, past the Monteleone and the antique stores, each with doors open, pouring the shockingly cold breath of air conditioned excess into the southern evening, each specializing in its particular taste for Victorian mourning jewelry, antebellum chandeliers, Russian alexandrite broaches, jade lamps, or Oriental urns and rugs. She doesn’t frequent these opulent stores glittering along her street; emerald pendants and Sheffield samovars are of no more use to Claire than makeup.

Walking in the French Quarter is faster than taking a taxi, and infinitely more entertaining. Her heals clatter against the pavement as she pushes through the thick clots of tourists throwing dollar bills into the upturned hat of a kid who looks about eight. He’s glued steel plates onto the bottoms of his Nikes and has taught himself to imitate tap dancing well enough to charm inebriated sightseers hell-bent on experiencing “the local color.” A guy in shades stomps on a wooden board and belts out Sweet Home Chicago over an ill-tuned guitar while a skinny girl dances barefoot beside him. An old man in a shiny polyester suit plays saxophone on the corner, and whores in Spandex twirl on the wrought iron lampposts. Claire zigzags among the knots of spectators, reaches Bourbon, and places a fifty in the sax players’ case. He doesn’t pause.

She turns the corner and sees the ideal spot: The Maiden Voyage. This place is filled with horny men. It is filled with women without clothes. A win-win situation.

The air is cold, colder than the antique shops, as cold as the air in the sleepless, flashing interior of Las Vegas. The men lounge in overstuffed swivel chairs, many of them in sweaters. The women jiggle and bounce on the stages with feigned but boundless enthusiasm, and very tight nipples. The smell of ashtrays and dime store perfume assail Claire. She’ll never get the stink out of her dress. Already it is defiled.

As if the naked nymphs strutting in tacky five-inch heels try his patience with silicone and peroxide, a redheaded kid, by the looks of him not far over drinking age, turns away from the stage and stares at Claire. She is the only woman in the club who is not an employee, and her presence carries the thrill of even greater transgression. The dancers are obliged to cater to the clientele. It is their job. But this woman, this is clearly a woman of wealth and the power to deny. Corrupting her, now that would be fun. The redheaded boy scatters some bills on his table, excuses himself across the club, and climbs onto a barstool next to Claire. She pointedly ignores him and studies the concave stomach and over-developed calves of the vixen on center stage.

Without glancing at him, Claire asks “Like her ass?”

This startles him. She’s already outmaneuvered him, placing him in a position to seem either crass or prude. “I like it,” she goes on, and places his square, freckled hand emphatically inside her bare left thigh.

He motions to the bartender, another beautiful young thing swaying about in fantastically high heels and little else. He orders two mint juleps and says to Claire, “My name’s—“

Claire places a finger over his lips. “Your name doesn’t concern me.”

He looks confused, then asks brightly, “Do you come to New Orleans often?” as if they could ever meet again.

“Some of us live here,” she says and plucks a sprig of mint from her drink. She’ll let the other leaves marinate in bourbon and rum, but she always starts a julep by balancing the sweet, cold alcohol with the slightly bitter herb.

“Really? I’m from Houston. I fix cars.” He is quick to explain, “Nothing but custom jobs. People who want a faster engine, a lower, more streamlined body, or maybe heavy speakers rigged up from the trunk. That sort of thing.” The redhead makes a presentation of buffing a heavy gold pinky ring inset with a sizeable diamond against his starched broadcloth oxford. “It’s good money.”

“Yes, I see.”

“How about you?”

“I buy clothes.”

“Like for one of those fancy shops on Magazine?”

“Something like that,” Claire says, then takes a long drink of the watered-down julep. “Let me see your hands.” Without asking why, he offers the one for inspection while keeping the other on her thigh. His fingernails are clipped brutally short, or maybe just worn down, and they are stained with grime. Thick calluses have formed at the base, mid-joint, and tip of each finger. Good. She is in no mood for some prissy CEO who pays someone twice a week to file and buff his nails. Not tonight.

Claire tosses back her drink and says, “This place is for tourists. Let me show you around.”

The man doesn’t argue, simply settles the tab and escorts Claire into the teaming quarter. He seems at ease being led, freed from the tedium of consulting his map every two blocks.

“Are we going to a cemetery?”

Claire rolls her eyes. “Do you have a vampire fetish?” Christ, he no doubt does. But this is Claire’s fantasy. Plenty of prostitutes specialize in the penchant for vampires, and for a little extra they’ll take it to a graveyard. Claire has a different agenda.

She heads toward the river and the crowds thin as they approach Tchoupitoulas Street and disappear altogether as they wander into the steel bowels of the Warehouse District. She scans the shadows. The pitiless yellow glare of the sodium lamps renders the stretches in between all the more inviting. Then she sees an alley no more than three feet wide wedged between a garage and an art gallery. Perfect. Claire leads the redhead toward the alley and, after walking just a few paces, they are ensconced in merciful darkness. Only peripheral grays and the winking glint of scrap metal permeates the gloom. She can barely see his face, which is perfectly fine with her.

He politely, if ineptly, reaches for her zipper, but Claire bats his hand away. “Never mind that. Just shove it up,” she says, already tugging at the hem herself.

He tries to ease the skirt of her dress up her thighs, but it’s no use. The seam rips and the glistening freshwater pearls go bouncing across the filthy cement and roll into puddles faintly shimmering iridescent with oil. He mutters an apology, but pushes the tattered hem to Claire’s slender waist anyway. He shoves his roughened fingers between her shaved labia and homes in on her swollen and slippery clit.

“That’s a good boy,” she breathes. “But I know you can do better. Suck my nipples too.”

Without taking his fingers from her clit, the man fumbles a breast from her bodice with his free hand. He inclines his head and takes her hard nipple in his mouth, staining the organza with his saliva. Claire places his coarse fingers on her other nipple and whimpers. The man rolls her clit between his thumb and forefinger until her shudders gradually subside. She unzips his pants and takes his eager cock in her tiny, smooth hands.

“Tell me what you want,” she demands.

“Whatever you want.” He wraps his hand around hers and says, “That feels good.”

“What if I want something else?” she asks.

“Sure. Anything.”

Claire keeps pumping his dick with one hand and moves her other along the elastic of his underwear until she finds the side seam. The elastic breaks easily and she extricates the Jockeys from between his thighs. “Thanks. Now tell me what you want.”

“Let me fuck you.”

“Is that all?” she asks and sinks to her knees.

His cock is weeping semen, and Claire antagonizes him further by avoiding the shaft and gingerly licking and sucking his taut balls. He tugs at her thick, straight hair and she lets him. Obligingly she suckles the head of his prick, then allows him to push the rest of it into her full-lipped mouth. He thrusts for several minutes, then begs, “Now will you let me fuck you?”

“As long as you promise me one thing,” she says as she stands and rolls a condom down his cock. “Don’t come inside me.”

He gestures to the empty foil wrapper. “How come?”

“I want something to remember you by,” she says and guides his dick into her gushing pussy. He pushes her up against the wall of the narrow alley and within a few strokes Claire is stifling her moans against the redhead’s powerful shoulder. Relieved that she’s come again so easily, he clutches her ass and starts banging into her more vehemently, but she grabs his hips and pushes him from her.

“You promised,” Claire says, and peels the rubber from his engorged cock. She wraps his underwear through her strong, tapered fingers, and within a dozen or so masterful tugs of her practiced hand she feels his warm semen splatter against her silk Dior, rain down on her Choo stilettos, and then ooze in an exhausted trickle through the cotton shorts and into her waiting palm.

·

In the gray moments before dawn, Claire hails a taxi; she’s too tired to walk, and beside, these shoes pinch her toes.

She steps into the cab, and is greeted with the usual “Are you okay, lady?” They always think she got mugged.

“Corner of Royal and Bienville.”

She gets out half a block from her apartment. Garbage men are doing what they can to tidy up the ill-used streets. “Hey, baby! Nice dress! See some action last night? Hey cunt, I’d love to eat your pussy! Bitch, think you’re too good for me?”

Claire turns and glares at the “waste management” employee. He wears a tight wife beater that’s yellowed under the armholes. His biceps are covered in tattoos clearly not executed by a professional, the sort of “body art” you get only in prison. Johnny is penned high on his right pectoral. “No way, sweet thing. I think you’ll do just fine.”

The garbage man goes slack in the jaw and ogles her speechlessly. What the—?

“Come on.” Claire turns on her heel and strides down Royal, not bothering to look behind her. She knows he’s there.

The few tourists still swerving around with absurd fuchsia drinks adorned with miniature umbrellas stare. She’s taken her Choos off and has stepped on some glass; a trickle of bright red blood is drying between her pedicured toes. Her dress, which even a drunk can see is expensive, is torn and soiled. Her knees are chaffed raw and her bare back is covered in scrapes and pocked with flakes of brick—or is it cement? Yet no one asks her if she needs help; she’s too happy.

Claire breezes past the doorman who smiles at her indulgently. He’s seen it before. But when the garbage man tries to get past him, he says “Sir, I don’t believe you reside here.”

Johnny throws back his massive shoulders and puffs out his chest. “Fuck no! But this is where I’ve come.”

“Sir, we do not care to invite foul-smelling men without proper shirts onto these premises.”

“I don’t need no invitation from you, buddy,” says Johnny. “I’m here with her.”

The doorman turns to Claire in confusion. “Ms. Vitello—?”

“He’s with me,” Claire interrupts and leads the garbage man into a mirrored elevator while the doorman looks on in awe.

The doors open at the eleventh floor and Claire leads the sanitation worker to a closet at the end of the hall marked “Housekeeping.” She knows the maids won’t start vacuuming the carpets and polishing the mirrors for another hour, and that is all the time she needs.

The door is not locked and they walk into the flowery ammonia stench of the small broom closet. Surrounding them are mildewed plastic buckets, dry-rotting sponges, coarse brown paper towels, toilet plungers, and mops left standing in puddles of gray water.

Claire heaves herself onto the rim of the cold metal utility sink. “So do it.”

Johnny just shrugs and cocks his head to one side. “Do what?”

“You said you’d love to eat my pussy. Go ahead.”

The garbage man cups her heart-shaped face in his hands. They smell like fish. “Sure thing.” He pinches her cheek playfully, and she immediately feels the bruise start to form. He pushes her knees apart and she groans when she hears the back seam of her dress splitting even wider. As he kneels on the floor of the broom closet, one knee over the drain in the floor, he shoves her dress around her waist and says, “Good. I love a shaved cunt.”

Claire looks down at his head bobbing frenetically between her legs. His hands, stained black as a coal-miner’s, clutch her thighs. She moves them up against her silk-swathed tummy and rubs them up and down her torso. The effect is breathtaking: streaks of filth smudge the creamy magnolias and washed-out green of the bodice. Johnny’s hands stretch to stroke her tits, and the plunging silk neckline rips clean off the organza yoke. Her breasts spill out and he tugs and pinches her nipples as his tongue darts furiously across her straining clitoris. Claire bites down on her lip hard enough to draw blood and prays that some of the other tenants hear.

Johnny lifts his head and smiles like a kid who’s just won a spelling bee. “You ready for my big dick now?”

“I’m ready for bed.”

Claire takes a five hundred dollar bill from her purse. She holds it in front of her pussy. “Which one will it be?” she asks around an irrepressible yawn.

“You think I’m some kind of whore?” he demands.

“Quite the contrary. I would never pay you to fuck; you’ll get the money if you leave.” She takes another five hundred dollar bill from her purse. “Your choice.”

He takes the cash.

“Mind if I keep this?” she asks and yanks his ribbed shirt over his head.

“You paid for it, lady.”

Claire first buries her head in the shirt and inhales deeply, then wipes the cream from between her legs.

·

Claire unlocks her door, turns on a light, and unzips her dress. She walks with the remains of her Dior in her right hand and her ruined heels in the left to her second closet. She tugs a string connected to a bare bulb and blinks blearily at her extensive trophy collection. An Alexander McQueen skirt stiff with semen; Yohji Yamamoto wool pinstriped trousers with the zipper and a back pocket ripped off; a badly lacerated bowling shirt with Bill embroidered on the breast pocket; white Hermès gloves blackened at the palms and fingertips; an Emanuel Ungaro dress with grass stains at the shoulders and seat; velvet Farhi pants torn at both knees; a silk Hugo Boss tie still knotted at either end; Fendis with one of the kitten heals broken off. Claire lays the underwear and wife beater out to dry. When she wakes up around noon she will fold them and stack them in a chest with her other prized acquisitions. She hangs her soiled and tattered dress lovingly on a satin hanger and arranges the shoes carefully on a shelf beside the others.

Now what will she wear tomorrow?