"My name is Eros," the masked male cocks his head a smidge at her, and, if only slightly through the shadow casts between the parted zipper, Isla catches sight of a smile tugging at his lips on the latter fragment of his statement, "But you already...
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When Harry was twenty two, if he'd been told by some freakish, time-traveling clone of himself that his Friday nights would be spent wearing a Greek moniker in the form of a fetishized allusion, garbed by a latex mask for total anonymity, he'd probably get a head start for padded walls and a straight jacket.
Do himself a favor with that one.
But if he were told the same thing at twenty three, he'd probably sit back in his arm chair and swirl his whiskey with excitement. Twenty three was an eventful year. Afterall, he'd started drinking whiskey and opened his eyes to the allures and realm of kink. Very good year, that one.
Twenty-four, and twenty-five, and twenty-six were all sort of a blur, an incognizant reminiscence of whiskey and sex and work. Twenty-seven is today, in the process, in the flesh. Today, Harry is twenty-seven, and he spends his Friday nights playing dress up and sex up under a funny little pseudonym. That of the Greek God of love, in fact, (how fitting?), and he wields a leather flogger and dons a rubber hood. The flogger, sometimes — the hood, always.
On Monday, on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday, Harry is just Harry Styles; charming, eligible bachelor with the allure of eastern hemisphere roots, closeted pro nudist, valiantly contending realtor in the heart of San Francisco. On weekdays, he's the person who will always buy the homeless man with the sullied soles who's perched by the cafe a croissant with his own respective coffee order. He'll help the older woman with the walker cross the street. He'll pay for the person behind him in a drive-through. On Tuesdays, like clockwork, he'll wave from his mailbox, clad in his briefs, and say good morning to his neighbor, Ed, who comes out in wrinkly, plaid pajamas to snag his own mail in the mornings. Every morning, he'll drive to the office and pass three of the seven benches in the city with his pretty face and his pretty mouth and his pretty teeth plastered to it. A showcase, an innocuous illusion. An irony.
On Friday mornings he'll slip the black duffel back into his trunk. He'll drive to the office, make some phone calls, maybe show a house, grab a plastic kit of chewy cookies from Cal-Mart for prospective buyers, maybe eat one on the way. In the evening, afterwards, he'll park his Range Rover on a backstreet and take off his rings, one by one. He'll don his ultra-thin, ultra-stretchy, faux leather gloves. He'll grab his black duffel out of the trunk. He'll take a short walk to a shoddy-looking building on the corner, where the sidewalk has chips and weeds tuft between the cracks. He'll shroud the same pretty face that's pasted to a bench only a couple of blocks away and hide it beneath dark, smooth latex and zippers.
On Friday nights, Harry is Eros, and he makes faceless bodies bend and writhe under his will at his fingertips. Sometimes he watches, but he always plays. When he plays, he makes those other faceless bodies spill with pretty, little moans and cries. He makes them beg for his mercy. The latter always falls on deaf ears. Especially when he's wielding the flogger.
