I sit transfixed atop my barstool in Perseus’ Posterity nightclub at the corner of 68th and Halsted, a mere stone's throw from the venerable University of Chicago campus. Having arrived at this favorite undergraduate watering hole some four hours earlier, I’m now- with alcoholic assistance from my sixteenth or seventeenth beer (not exactly sure which, having screwed up the count somewhere in its early teens)- trying to muster courage to solo navigate the five Hyde Park blocks back to my dreary studio apartment in the wee hours of a chilly October Saturday morning.
Two very substantial obstacles stand in the way of my departure. First is the quite obvious endgame currently playing out in the far bar corner between a U of C ice hockey BMOC and his intended entertainment for the evening. Some cocky brute whose unshaven features I recognize from sports section pics in the Daily Maroon - yet his name continues to escape me - is plainly not enjoying an animated, almost heated, conversation with a delicious honey-blonde cutie he’s lured into a booth. Whether from the sheer curiosity and voyeuristic attraction offered as result of my repeated surreptitious glances at the stereotypical “yes-no” melodrama across the bar room floor; or rather the devastating sex appeal of the svelte beauty barely held in check by the athlete’s overly-bold advances, I simply can’t yet bring myself to rise from my perch until the final outcome of this parry-and-thrust is determined. The three of us constitute 60% of the entire remaining population of Perseus’ this hour... with the sexy blonde’s so-so curly brunette cohort now hovering at the bar while the dumb jock makes his last unpolished seduction attempts. On most any other night this blue-eyed buxom lass might well have caught my lingering attention (despite slightly too-bulky hips and derriere punctuating her tall ‘farmers daughter’ milk-fed frame)… but not tonight. I am currently in no mood for anything but self-indulgent second-guessing and sorrow, having received official word earlier this afternoon that my latest Med-School application has been denied. Thus full-bore attempts at intoxication are a foolish exercise in denial of my own... denial of a much less bright future that the world now holds in store for me. Oh! There is a second reason too.
The bartender-owner of this famous South Side establishment is none other than Professor Steffanie Petrosian, Nobel Laureate biochemist and holder of one of the most prestigious endowed chairs in the entire university. She’s still undeniably attractive despite all her distinguished years in academia. I guess by scrutinizing a physically-fit physique as she brings me yet another of her recommended in-house micro brews that she’s in her middle 40's: gray streaks slithering downward through unusually-thick, dense dark waist length tresses, and I cannot help in this foggy frame of mind but to ogle her rich coppery Mediterranean complexion, almost losing focus, perspective (and judgment!) deep down inside the most intoxicating set of piercing green feminine eyes I had ever encountered. Steffanie seems a holdover from bygone days -- a true “Renaissance” type: mysterious humble roots deep within Southeastern Europe, yet who today juggles research at the University with adept management of this successful nightclub. She’s also an accomplished artist of some sort, according to a pretty redheaded student who’s flirted with me on a few occasions during Chem 307 lectures. Roxeanne something-or-another informed me in a salacious breathy whisper at end of one class that she’d stumbled across two creations credited to ‘S. Petrosian’ on display at an upscale Oak Street gallery. “Quite sexy, ones too!” the lithe statuesque coed beauty exclaimed with a wink. Now these side-incomes, as well as $1M+ Nobel cash prize, supported Steffanie’s obviously lavish city lifestyle. A 14-week parade of sleek designer fashions around her Holmes Hall lecture podium took Roxy’s breath away; while I’d often noticed our pretty prof escaping campus with a flourish: chauffeur opening the door to her sky-blue ’34 Rolls Royce Silver Ghost. As a student, you either loved all this panache, or hated her for exacting high classroom standards- or both. Other U of C faculty seemed to stay as far away as possible. Yet in the ‘here and now”: my Chem prof serves me up drink after drink while closing bar hour approaches. And she’s flirting!
“I’ve noticed you in zee front row of my intro Organic Chemistry lectures.. Yez?” a seductive Perseus’ queen coos in my direction using her trademark Mata Hari foreign lilt. Caught like a deer in immobilizing penetrating green headlamps, I just gulp and nod in dumb assent, bedazzled by her exotic and mysterious beauty. A knowing bemused smile curls Petrosian’s luscious full coral lips before continuing, “A handzome guy like you standz out... even in Holmes Hall auditorium packed full with 300 studentz”. I gasp. My eyes go slightly rounder and mouth opens in agog amazement that such a scene can actually be happening here. A world-famous female is coming on to me?? She leans in closer before taking her tale to an even higher, more personal, level. “Here is a little zecret between you and me. I am an older woman- und not suppozed to be given to zuch sexy things- but vhen you haf bended over to put away your notebook und retrieve your backpack at end of zee class... well, your trousers- zey feet you perfectly then”. She waits for my reaction to this confession. I feel a blush rising to my face as I reply, “Doc, are you saying that you stare at my ass”? A multi-millionaress Nobel Prize winner likes the shape of one of her undergrad’s butts?? Surprise and amazement as to the direction of this conversation keeps me off guard for several seconds more. With bright eyes blazing she leans fully forward (offering amazing full glimpse down her blouse front) to plant a gentle kiss upon my left cheek. She even smells exotic: a bit of a cross between eucalyptus and lotus blossoms in the Spring time. These bold advances, however, topple over my current beer bottle, which I manage to right only after a small quantity of freed golden elixir has splashed into my lap. Despite her many apologies and offers to help clean it up, I manage the mopping-off operation solo. It is at this moment when we notice the curly brunette at the end of the bar laughing heartedly in our direction. The propositioning professor instantly snaps back into a devilish defensive mindset:“Und vhat are YOU finding amuzing young lady? Zis ees NOT any of your bizness!! Zere’s nothing sadder than sight of a zingle woman in a bar at one o’clock in zee morning”… The chunky brunette’s face reddens in anger as she plods her way toward a booth where female cohort and ‘hit-on-man’ argue. My would-be seductress returns her gaze to me: I fall back under a hypnotic spell.
“To anzer your question, young Sir, I will tell you zat I am a Callipygianist und a Pygmalionist. Two weaknesses that haf fixed the course und direction of my life for many, many years now. Zo I vill not deny it to you tonight. I adore zee sight of hard sculpted bodies- who does not??- yet my fetishisms haf turned extreme. I vill leave you to your beverage now. Perhaps vee shall see more of each other soon”?
As my Chem professor’s classically curvaceous frame wriggles off in delightful rear view until disappearing into the back stockroom; I next turn attention- as she’s suggested- to the green bottle in my right hand. A local brand (didn’t Doc say she had partial ownership in this brewery?) with quite an extraordinary dark rich earthen flavor. I read the label as best I could... my vision now more than a little fuzzy after one-and-a-half dozen of them! In all my years, I’d never ever heard of such a beer:
(ßλέµµα Γοργούς: uses stone-ground barley and hops for a hardened flavor)
Crowning the top of the oval head-shaped
label was an abstract artful nest of eerie vipers woven and intertwined to create
the impression of human hair. Eyes of each reptile had been painted phosphorescent
to produce a supernatural glimmering sheen to the paper. Tiny venomous fangs
visible along snake upper jaw lines also were dripping with the green glowing
substance too. Though a lifelong Chicago resident, address of this microbrewery
was Greek to me- as too were several of the “special ingredients” added to “maintain
and harden taste”(despite my extensive chemistry background). I now questioned
the wisdom- even sanity- of downing so many of these weird ales. I felt distinctly
woozy draining contents of my last one.
It was just at this moment when somebody tapped me on the shoulder three times.
“Hey there, Handsome… wanna dance”?
Kristin stands before me with an anxious expression painted across dynamite elegant features. Her heart-shaped face is framed by honey blonde hair which reaches collar of a white Oxford cloth button down, cut in an athletic Page-boy style with just the tiniest hint of adorable wavy curls. I sit next to a younger-and-improved Cameron Diaz look-alike. Glancing back across the bar room floor in direction of the booth where her annoying male companion sits engaged in outright argument with the cherubic-chubby brunette, she flicks adorable too-long bangs back from a creased high forehead while affixing an inquisitive gaze back upon me. Deep rich chocolate eyes hint at intrigue and seduction; yet there is some added element of panic or fear masked underneath her coquettish raised eyebrows and subtle wink (two women making advances upon me in less than fifteen elapsed minutes… what the @!#$&*+! Is going on)? Hesitating amid my intoxicated stupor, this tall early-twenties knockout releases yet more weapons from her arsenal. Pressing and running both hands down the sides of her blouse - purportedly to smooth out creases and wrinkles, I suppose - Kristin brings into sharper relief curvatures and undulations of a slender fabulously-fit form: delicious upturned protuberances of her bust line, shapely trim waist flaring out to full, well-rounded hips. My eyes are dragged along for this alluring ride down her perfect physique, and I had to fight off a strong urge not to gasp or drool. With a sexy pas de deux pirouette that sends her blue plaid flannel skirt swirling and fluttering atop well-tanned thighs, she highlights a pair of irresistibly toned gorgeous gams perched prettily atop three-inch heels. Contours of a fantastic fanny spin into view momentarily as she wriggles and writhes in time to the musical beat. A slight tug is all that’s necessary to dislodge me from my barstool after this Siren’s song, and I find myself gyrating atop hardwood in rhythm with the loveliest dance partner I’ve ever had the pleasure to meet. A newly energized juke-box next to the bar door pours out melodies from an old ELO tune.
The dancing shadows on the wall
The two-step inside the hall
Are all I see since you’ve been gone
Turning, turning, turning through all…
Ample boobs bob and juggle… apple-round rump swivels and dangles like delicious fruit desiring to be plucked and devoured. Yet pretty Krisitn’s sexy smile can’t fully hide dark eyes furtively flickering back in direction of the corner booth. Very slowly through my saturated mind, it begins to dawn upon me that I’ve been used as excuse and shield from a pushy jock who wouldn’t take “no” for an answer. Warning bells shrilly sound in my head as I realize whom I might be dealing with: I’d personally witnessed this hockey stud beating various opponents into bloody pulps at several U pf C home games. But now staring at those luscious legs hypnotically hip-hopping mere inches away from my own (bulging) trousers, I decide that it simply doesn’t matter: I’m willing to take the risk. Struggling to keep up with the ballet-like grace and skills of my blonde companion, I’ve noticed Perseus’ proprietor return from the back room to deposit final bar-tab damage onto the counter, along with a well-worn dictionary she leaves at my barstool place. In my testosterone-driven hubris, I expected to observe suggestions of anger or jealousy etched across Steffanie’s exotic countenance; yet instead I see an encouraging smirk. As I redouble my drunken dis-coordinated attempts at dancing (resembling at this stage something of a cross between a robotic rundown due to power failure and last struggles from a fly caught tightly in a spider’s web!), I hear frenzied footsteps thundering over hardwood, followed by a blinding blow to my jaw that sends me hurtling toward the bar. A weird mixture of residual sexual arousal and blunt star-seeing pain wrack my frame. Through a spinning haze of confusion and frustration, I hear a full-fledged fight erupt behind me as the hothead hockey player and bodacious blonde now stand toe-to-toe.
The shouting, swearing and hostility immediately behind me blend into a warm haze of background noise as Steffanie appears with dishcloth in hand wrapped around ice cubes, which she then sympathetically- almost lovingly- places against my aching assaulted cheek. I don’t know which is more soothing… her nursing ministrations or the expression of wanton desire painted across delicate coppery features. Seemingly from out of nowhere, Perseus’ Posterity’s pretty proprietor produces a hand-rolled cigarette, strikes a match across the rough bar countertop, then inhales deeply. With a seductive look I’ll never forget (one eyebrow raised as those blazing green eyes shoot straight through me), she passes the burning cylinder to me. Strange aromas fill the air: hemp mixed with citrus and a piney sharp pang, which makes me even more light-headed. I return her erotic gaze with flirtatious query: “You’re not trying to get me stoned, are you”? For the very first time, I hear her laugh out loud… a blending of sing-song notes and some mysterious throaty undercurrent. I am reminded at once of both overwhelming beauty and some hidden evil… images of The Odyssey’s seductive Circe leap into my mind. With her witch-like cackling and dismissive hand wave, she signals ‘no’ to my question, but all the while reacting and responding to it, her eyes linger upon the couple fighting furiously behind us. I note the alluring professor has difficulty tearing her gaze away from the mid-section of the hockey player who stands with back turned toward us. It is at this moment that I decide to solve a vocabulary mystery earlier set before me. Now, grabbing the dictionary (setting aside the quite impressive bar tab laid on top!) and pass the weird joint- or whatever it is- back to Steffanie. I then turn to the “C” section and read…
The moment has come for One and All,
To assume decorative roles, and clothing to fall;
A Familiar stands forth as lewdly grotesque,
Shocked victims helplessly pose statuesque;
Your troubles, worries and harsh words to say,
Waft into oblivion, flesh hardening into clay;
As muted stilled artworks you shall proudly stand,
By my namesakes Stethno-Eurayle I now command!
These inscrutable words seem to permeate thick smoke-filled air of Perseus’ Posterity, suspending all passage in time and space. Even the ELO jukebox tune is temporarily halted as the incantation penetrates down through sinew and bone into our very souls.
I had absolutely no idea what just happened, only a vague understanding that events had suddenly veered onto another- much more bizarre- course. I look about amid the stunned silence, which follows the strange chant. The chubby brunette sits stupefied in a far corner booth, remnants of Lucy’s toppled last Grasshopper puddling over far edge of the table and onto the floor. Blue eyes crossed and tongue lolling out of the corner of her agape mouth, she appears not to notice the sticky mess coagulating all around her shoes. As a few more seconds pass, Kristen blinks her way out from her own trance, flicking adorable honey-blonde bangs back from a perplexed crinkled forehead. The dumb jock stands as still as a statue, back toward us with legs slightly apart, arms limply hanging down by his sides. His fixed static stare - induced by the hypnotic effect of the strange spell cast, no doubt - is directly into Kristin’s voluptuous bust line. Needless to say, this does not have a pacifying effect upon the knockout coed as she realizes the direction of a rude hockey player’s ogling. She begins telling him where to go… again!
Trying my best to ignore the altercation erupting behind me, I bury myself into the aged book set before me. To my shock and astonishment, I read the following definition and description of the first of Professor Petrosian’s two life-long passions:
Callipygianist (kăl/ ĩ pij/ ĩ an ist), noun, One having fascination with the revealed appearance and shape of buttocks [t. Greek: m.s. kallipўgos]; Amer. slang: “mooner”.
Before full weight of understanding of the words could impact onto my dulled spinning psyche, I am once again hypnotized by an astonishing view down front of Steffanie’s blouse as she leans in close to place an insistent whisper into my right ear: “Now you know why I enjoy your departure from my lectures zo much! Zight of your retreating posterior is extremely pleasing to me… I’d be delighted to gaze at your bare buns”!!
This lewd request swirled around my intoxicated head for what seemed like an hour, but what was really only a moment. It managed, however, to sink deep inside my skull and plant as an evil seed, which would be extremely hard to resist. Whether it was alcohol and strange extra ingredients contained in the micro-brews, chemicals inhaled from the Biochemistry Prof’s home-made joint - or both - I had trouble separating fantasy from reality at this point. Those penetrating green eyes seemed to transmute a voyeuristic confession into almost a command! With an evil smirk, she scrutinizes me like a lab rat as my expression goes totally blank… feeling as if I no longer have control over my own actions, I slowly hoist up from the barstool with awkward herky-jerky movements, feeling less like a human being and more like a robot obediently obeying programmed stimuli contained in irresistible software. Taking two steps back from the bar, I spin to turn my back to the pretty Prof, then begin loosening my belt buckle, lowering my zip…
“Geoff, you can go to Hell… I’m leaving with this Guy. He’s cuter than you, anyway!”
Kristin grabs me by the elbow, locking her arm through mine as impromptu inseparable couple. Even in my near-stupefied state, I realize the mortal peril that she’s placing me into. Yet this time, rather than pummel first and ask questions later, the burly Hockey player eyes me up and down quite carefully… sizing up the competition, so to speak. And he clearly finds it lacking. Eyebrows raised, with a condescending - almost disgusted - look upon his face, Geoff can’t help but burst out laughing, nearly doubling over.
He retorts: “You’ve got to be kidding me, baby-doll. That puny little runt!? He looks like an escapee from some chemistry lab (quite a discerning judge of character, I think to myself) or a dirty movie theatre. HAH! Look! He’s some kinda pervert… been playing with himself!”
The misleading evidence was there for all to see. Thanks to Steffanie’s overt seductive advances, I now stood in the middle of the barroom hardwood with trousers top loosened and a distinct wet stain in the middle of my crotch. Looking back over my shoulder for help with an alternative explanation, I find my Chem 307 prof has now maneuvered over to Perseus’s front door - which she holds encouragingly wide open for all of us. The wheels are visibly turning inside Kristin’s head. A panorama of shock, distaste, confusion, then – finally – resigned revulsion dance across lovely brown-eyed features. With a final disgusted up-down stare at my disheveled zipper and beer soaked crotch, the tall slender coed strides purposefully across barroom hardwood atop twin gorgeous gams to collect her mantle and purse and depart for the evening. As she pulls away from me, I distinctly hear her exclaim in my direction, “Creep…” in tones exiting lush ruby lips barely above a whisper.
Her bar-hopping companion is one step ahead of her… already set to go, in more ways than one. Sauntering a buxom hefty frame as seductively as possible (sags and bulges swaying quite non-aesthetically) in direction of the burly BMOC, Lucy hopes to catch a rejected dumb jock ‘on the rebound’. Thinking with a limp member rather than his head, the hockey stud entertains sloppy seconds for a moment or so, exchanging flirtatious banter with this curly-tow-haired milk-maid. I feel utterly dejected and humiliated by a cruel trio: turning to toss a $50 bill onto bar counter and then head for the watering hole’s front door ahead of all other remaining patrons.
It is as if Professor Petrosian stands somehow outside unfolding events, watching secret perverse plans proceed according to expectations with bemusement or full prior knowledge of bizarre twists and turns to come. With each step taken toward her as she holds open Posterity’s door at closing hour, those piercing green eyes sear deeper and deeper into my heart and mind. A mysterious lascivious smile hovers over full pink lips, and waist-length thick dark tresses writhe and swirl (is it a brisk breeze blowing in from Halsted Street moving through undulating hair… or something else?) No words are spoken as we pass - only a subtle kiss blown in my direction - yet I have the distinct impression that this is not the end of our very personal relationship: only the beginning. As I cautiously descend the dozen or so steps to the slippery sidewalk (a misty drizzle has begun to fall, coating wooden stairs and sidewalk beyond with a glassy glaze in the near-freezing Midwestern October night air), I feel Steffanie’s riveting, gripping stare affixed to my khaki-covered backside. A callipygianst indeed, I think to myself. But then - quite suddenly and overwhelmingly - certain of the Professor’s enticing words that night reverberate and rebound inside my drunken skull as an unavoidable compulsion:
I’d be delighted to gaze at your bare buns…I’d be delighted to gaze at your bare buns…
Ensnared within an exhibitionist stupor, I lose track of events and circumstances behind me. Wrapped in multihued woolen waist-length mantle (which still allowed presentation of those perfectly-muscled and proportioned legs), Kristin has stormed out of the South Side watering hole in a huff and has managed 3/4 of her descent of its front steps. Not far behind exit Geoff and Lucy, the former indecisive about whether or not to agree to the somewhat brazen -almost desperate- advances from the latter. Ego and pride (what would his hockey buddies say if they caught him bedding down such an overweight and average-looking coed?) battling with a heightened and rejected libido, this arrogant jock took out his frustrations upon Steffanie: “Good night, Granny. Thanks for the brews”.
I didn’t need to look back (my hands were once again moving of their own accord, down at my waistline fumbling with zipper and pants buttons) to realize that our mysterious proprietor of Perseus’ Posterity took these parting words none too kindly. The distinct SLAM!! of the establishment’s wooden and elaborate mirrored glass door told the tale clearly enough. The obnoxious self-centered trio stands in the chilly night air, perched atop icy steps…retreat cut off as they now notice my inebriated frame on the sidewalk.
“Hey, everybody, LOOK! It’s the four-eyed weasel pervert from inside the bar,” taunts Geoff. “You know, junior, there’s a peep-show parlor two blocks down 68th Street and around the corner. Seems like that sort of place would be right up your alley and…”
“What’s the matter, Mac, is a REAL woman too much for you to handle? When the time comes for you to put up the goods, your widdle wankie won’t work wight? HAH HAH!”
Lucy and the dumb jock’s cruel words (Kristin completes her descent to the sidewalk in an embarrassed hushed silence) have minimal effect upon me: in one ear and out the other. I was already long gone. My course - determined by ingestion of various ancient elixirs and venoms and set in stone by the magical incantation pronounced inside the bar - was straightforward. Or -more correctly- backwards. Without any verbal reply to the taunts of my companions, I slide trousers and boxers down to where they rest atop my socks and shoes. Reaching over to grab the backs of my shins, Steff’s sexy countenance appears in my mind as an overpowering vision of delighted loveliness and domination.
Here I stand, bare-assed and bent over, helplessly mooning the entire neighborhood!
Resulting confusion taking place behind me is not visible, given my very awkward and embarrassing attitude of the moment. I hear a distinct audible feminine Gasp!! , as well as derisive laughter, scuffling-- then swearing. A shrill October breeze gusts down the deserted city street, damn near freezing off parts of my anatomy usually safely ensconced in cozier locales. Floating down that wind - just faintly discernable above its chilly howl - was that same evil cackling I’d heard from Steffanie earlier, then:
Accompanying these bizarre foreign words is an electric flash of pulsating light and energy… like a simultaneous capture of a movie starlet or supermodel prancing down a theatre red carpet entrance by all attending Paparazzi photographers at once! There seems no explainable source for this blinding blast, as Halsted Street stands empty, save for the four of us. Then, in a groggy horror, I realize that the mysterious green-white wave of electricity - or whatever it was - has emerged from my exposed backside and then washed inexorably over a dozen yards between the sidewalk where I dumbly stoop to the exterior of Perseus’s brick and glass façade. All is eerily silent behind me.
After what seems like an eternity - but in actuality is merely a minute or so - the front door of the famous South Side drinking establishment swings open, and staccato click-clacks of high heels are heard descending a concrete entryway staircase. I realize that mere moments have elapsed, since the same jukebox song continues to play on:
Through all I sit here and I wait
I turn to stone, turn to stone
You will return again some day
Yes, I’m turning, turning…
As the sound of approaching footfalls grows ever louder, It now dawns upon me that I can’t budge an inch from my full mooning pose: my fingers and hands stuck securely as if coated with superglue to my ankles and shins, both loafers seemingly cemented to the sidewalk. Words cannot escape from sealed-shut lips. I’m completely paralyzed… somehow transformed by chemicals and incantations into bawdy inartistic mirror imaged opposite of attractive male statues such as Rodin’s Thinker or Michelangelo’s David. From someplace deep in the recesses of my mind comes the phrase uttered earlier tonight: standing lewdly grotesque. That’s me in a nutshell, and there isn’t a damn thing I can do about it as the footsteps halt immediately behind me. Steffanie speaks in a triumphant, hushed tone: “Now then, zis eez vhat I call putting your bezt side forward, young Sir. I’d mentioned before zat I hoped vee vould bee zeeing more of each other, but REALLY, zis ees a bit much”! I stand there red-faced and bare-assed, powerless to respond or resist the taunting advances of a woman more than twice my age. Now a curious hand and caressing fingers run slowly across the taut curvatures of my bottom, alternately squeezing and flexing immobilized fuzzy glutes. I am reduced from student to mere eye candy and plaything for my Professor’s amusement. Probings around and into my crotch reveal that my pose isn’t the only thing statuesque and rock hard. My captor emits a peal of delight and series of giggles before placing a cardboard carton next to my frozen feet. In the very next instant I experience a sharp pang of discomfort and relief as Perseus’s proprietor lands a merciless swat onto my backside. The shock and pain somehow break her carefully crafted spell, and I am released from solidified imprisonment. Crimson-cheeked, I hastily pull up trousers to face my Chem 307 prof.
But I have fulfilled my task, and she has moved on to more urgent and immediate pleasures. Spinning atop her heels with a lascivious smile plastered across her pretty features, she marches swiftly back to the trio hovering on front steps of her business. And hovering… and hovering… and hovering. Following Steffanie’s progress with rapt attention, I take first notice to condition and circumstances of my tormentors from only minutes before.
Kristin stands transfixed amid a back-stepping retreat from my imposed exhibitionism, her lovely face revealing raw shock and surprise from sudden sight of bent bare buns. Eyes saucer-wide and mouth caught open and agape, her head is swiveled slightly to the left-- as if starting to avert her sight from some horrific grotesqueness. Both arms have emerged from beneath the woolen mantle, remaining poised halfway upraised to her face with palms outward in a feeble protective gesture. Legs and arms akimbo, the gorgeous coed reminds me of the street mime performing a ‘trapped in a box’ routine outside Marshall Field’s just the other day; and yet also of some delicate sapling tree in full bloom of beauty, crown and limbs reaching skyward for life-giving light and warmth from the sun. This second impression strikes me because Kristin is rooted to the spot. Just as I had been only moments before - and identically to her motionless companions teetering atop the stairway behind her - all power of movement had been stolen from Kristin’s curvaceous frame: she was a fully-clothed stiffened store mannequin adorning Halsted St.!
Yet Professor Petrosian works swiftly and steadily to alter the circumstances of the honey blonde and her companions. Hovering and circling her immobilized captives, she removes earrings, necklaces, wristwatches and other jewelry, then pockets these treasures and spoils. Next, producing a shiny pair of jagged garment shears, Steffanie commences to cut away Kristin’s clothing before my astonished eyes. I watch with a mixture of genuine offended shock and voyeuristic bliss as her woolen mantle is joined on the pavement by shredded white blouse, plaid skirt and remnants of suntan-colored sheer pantyhose. In less time than it takes to describe the process, a beautiful rigidly posed coed teeters amid her intoxicating back-stepping frightened lean wearing only matching aquamarine lacy bra and panties. Perseus’ pretty proprietor makes short work of these articles, too. Helplessly frozen with creamy naked skin glistening alabaster in autumn moonlight, she is left perching atop high heels as her captor moves to undress Kristin’s companions.
The slippery slope of the bar’s front steps has created a tantalizing convoluted tableaux vivant out of the troublesome duo behind the knockout blonde’s frozen frame. Geoff must have tried to halt and ridicule my bent-round circumstances further, only to slide down onto one knee. He perches amid something akin to a baseball catcher’s crouch: straining forward with head and torso craning in front of his squatted center of gravity, one arm outstretched, finger pointed directly at me. An interesting expression, mixing bemused disgust, is plastered over his gruff unshaven features, one half-laugh stuck in the midst of leaving his wide-open, gaping mouth. A fixed thousand-yard stare at once encompasses bewilderment, discomfort (maybe from his semi-tumble onto one knee?) and sexual frustration from the night’s disappointments.
It’s a Kodak moment.
Steffanie wastes absolutely no time making mincemeat out of the hockey stud’s leather varsity jacket, sweater, t-shirt, blue jeans and mini-briefs. I watch in astonishment as the Nobel laureate bartender tosses all of her muscular captive’s clothing aside, and (with surreptitious glance up and down Halsted to make sure the coast is clear) plunks down into a knees-and-elbows flattened position before the halted hockey star. Her movements are slow, sinuous and serpentine. The exotic vixen is clearly savoring the moment of triumph as she slithers forward like an advancing soldier under fire to bury herself amid Geoff’s poised presented playthings. It takes only precious few seconds of ministration with fingers, lips and tongue to bring helpless treasures to full attention: and there they would stay. I’ll never forget sight of a prone professor sprawled atop Perseus’ front stairs with head buried between sinewy parted thighs. Mercifully, close-up view is obscured by luxuriant thick strands undulating wildly in a stiff October breeze. I wonder what - if anything - this brazen jock thinks of the tables now so completely being turned!
He seems to accept his situation with true stoicism: not budging a millimeter as Steff’s hands caress big thighs and pecs, always finding their way back to cup rounded glutes.
Lucy was another situation altogether. Doubled over in complete hilarity as my trousers hit the sidewalk, the overweight farmer’s daughter had obviously lost balance amid the distraction while caught midst her descent of the dozen stairs. In a desperate pin-wheeling pirouette, she had managed to prevent fall potential injury only by bending over and placing her palm onto one of the steps. The other hand and flabby arm was stuck out back, sideways, employed as last-minute counterbalance to her precarious predicament. Despite apparent difficulties encountered by maintaining her foothold on the icy stairs, this sex-starved flirt had never allowed her gaze to wander away from my bared buns. Tongue outstretched in lewd appreciation to my display, her facial features were screwed up into comic-book-style presentation of inebriated teetering lust. Giving one final protest against a near-tumble, “OH!! SHiiii…” was halted across her open lips.
Yet with all attentions focused upon the squatting hockey player, Steffanie didn’t take the time to deal with the brunette the same way as she had attended to Kristen. Instead she merely snapped her fingers and gestured with a momentarily upraised hand toward the stilled women caught in mid-stair descent. And immediately, my own thoughts and emotions were subjugated to the wishes and whims of a new mistress. Without any spoken directive or command, I knew what I had to do. Regarding paralyzed Lucy for a second or two with determined intent: she resembles a chunky version of a competitive free-style swimmer hovering atop her starting block, awaiting the “go” signal to begin the race. Yet I knew she wasn’t going anywhere, and it was I who must move ahead. And so I did. Taking up Steffanie’s shears (lying next to the preoccupied prone professor), I unceremoniously snipped and shredded the brunette’s bulging jeans and other clothing without hesitation or doubt. Moving mechanically and without any emotion, I keep eyes averted from the stricken stare of my teetering charge. Once a third nude mannequin is placed upon streetlight display and adorning Halsted Street, I step away with the tatters of feminine clothing and underwear shreds in hand, waiting for Steffanie to finish her fun with Geoff. Perseus’ juke-box completes its song. Then I stand at stiff military attention in silence.
The mysterious mistress soon composes herself, straightening disheveled clothes and smoothing dark tresses still wriggling wildly in the Chicago breeze. Near-final words to me that evening made little sense, yet I felt powerless to reconsider or disrespect the intent and force of her suggestions. I knew that I was in way over my head… but some small part of my psyche actually craved this careening sense of uncontrol as adventure and voyeurism fed my malnourished curiosity and libido. It wasn’t merely dampening effects on my will from the chemicals and hypnotic-like commands, I was determining rapidly as events unfolded that I’d actually enjoy myself as member of the dark side.
“You haf served me well thiz eeevening, my handzome new Familiar. Go home and sleep… dream of me und my power over you. But do not forget to drink two ales per day to keep your phizziology-- accustomed to zee high levels of potions and venoms you ingested here tonight, elze you shall fall victim to zee spell yourself. Understand”?
Of course, I didn’t have a clue what she was talking about, but didn’t want to contradict or anger her with my dim-wittedness. So I nodded. Steffanie Petrosian smiled and emitted her trademark giggling peal one last time before gently kissing my cold cheek.
“We’ll meet for coffee in six days at Zee Oddysey café in Oak Street’s gallery district”
And so I was dismissed. I focused my attentions upon navigating the icy front steps of Perseus’ Posterity without breaking my neck, then targeted my drunken uncertain gait towards the cardboard 12-pack carton deposited at street curbside long moments ago. Yet to reach my assigned objective, I was forced to stagger directly past lovely still Kristin.
Her transformation - slow to fully materialize - had reached its concrete conclusion now. What had begun as immobility upon sight of my spellbinding backside had continued to an amazing mythological endpoint. It was as if Kristen had been cast a Gorgon’s gaze!
Still stuck amid her surprised back-stepping retreat from my imposed visual onslaught, the once-honey-blonde’s orientation was now mostly turned to face away from me. Yet as I considered her frozen fabulous form, I now noted what had been mere suspension and powerlessness had transmuted (during intervening minutes of distraction with Lucy and Geoff) into an attitude of absolutely dense mineral-like hardness. Pretty pale-pink curvatures of those dynamite gams that I’d coveted while gyrating atop Perseus’ dance floor had become undulating alabaster white pillars supporting a Greek Goddess’ torso. Rose-colored branches and veins punctuated a marbleized pretty posterior presented to me for closer inspection. Its details were quite incredible: longish bushy nether hairs had crisped and crackled into spiky rigidity to peek out from a delectable upside-down Y-shape where the beauty’s legs, crotch and ass crack joined. I simply couldn’t tear my ogling stare away from her petrified curvatures…index finger finding and tracing a stony horizontal indented crease at this transition point where her legs ended and bottom began. Palming incredibly-firm marble hemispheres of her petrified buttocks, moving then further upwards through the small of her back to come round to the front façade of this new-and-improved Venus de Milo and greedily grasp one mineralized melon that had only recently been a squeezably-soft left breast of a living-breathing woman. Her skin surfaces were cold and smooth… with all but tiniest indentations and imperfections glossed into the sheen of pristine sculpted perfection. Texture of the alabaster aureole and (truly rock-hard) nipple were somehow denser-coarser than that of the rest of the exaggerated teardrop shape now forever captured on dangling display. Kristin did not move or flinch a muscle in response to my untoward advances; arms and legs locked akimbo with a look of shocked surprise cemented -literally- across her countenance: once-entrancing eyes now glossed and reduced into twin blank almond-shaped orbs. The honey-blonde hair had stiffened into long-stranded mineralized clumps crowning an immobile head like some sort of milky-white cowl or skullcap, except for one front bang caught and frozen into curled rigidity while blown from her forehead by the breeze.
With awe and amazement the truth crashed into my sexual reveries and brash curiosity: Somehow I’d been duped into the process of turning this hapless trio into stone statues! I was yanked back from my dreamy allurling inspection of this Kristin sculpture by the harsh voice of Steffanie Petrosian - callypygianist and pygmalionist - who commanded: “I know I told you to go home, my compliant and effective new puppet…so LEAVE US”!!
I was roughly shoved aside by a new character in this series of unbelievable events. He was tall, muscular and middle-aged, yet strangely clad in only thong-wrapped sandals and a leather loincloth. His manner was docile and underconfident: eyes downcast and head shaved bald, shoulders slouched even as he easily hoisted a completely petrified resplendent Kristin into a fireman’s carry and headed back with his Mistress’ treasure to the threshold of the nightclub’s front steps. Apparently during my intimate inspection at street-level, this man-servant had already been busy. Geoff - whose own physique I could now determine had now taken on a similar granite gray hue - had been repositioned back from the brink of the steps to make room for a lithofied Lucy. Her bent-over bulky frame was now placed immediately adjacent to earlier targeted male prey. I’m sure that if she could have spoken, she’d be quite pleased! Obviously, that wasn’t fated to happen anytime soon, as her transformation into sandstone-colored immutable art had just recently reached its climax. Speaking of climax, I think that was the intended goal (or the impression of one) for our mysterious Professor. Geoff’s horizontally-stiff gray genitalia had been ensconced between Lucy’s parted thighs and bent-round cheeks!! Looking like some sort of kinky BDSM erotica artwork, these intertwined acquaintances hover as if caught by camera shutter-stop amid exact instant of unabandoned delight. Eyes saucer wide… limbs flailing and taut… mouth agape with tongue outstretched… this mean-spirited duo had become monumental bookend accompaniments to each other, just as their captor had intended.
Then - without warning - it happened. As the humble lummox hoisting Kristin passed this lusty pas-de-deux, the beauty’s straight left leg squarely struck her former bar-hopping companion’s balancing right arm. With a distinct CRrrrraaackkk! Lucy’s sandstone limb gave way, and a perfectly posed petrified victim tumbled out of control down the establishment’s slippery steps before anyone had time to react! Seconds later, shattered tan remnants of the hapless gal lay littered on the Halsted St. sidewalk all around my feet. I stared at remains of the woman-turned-rubble for long moments of horror and disbelief… that is, until I heard the commotion up above me. The racket was just a fervent as it was unintelligible. Professor Petrosian screams at the top of her lungs in some Mediterranean dialect at lowly man-servant now prostrate before her and pleading for forgiveness. I couldn’t understand a word of it, but didn’t really need to speak the language to get the gist. Our sculptor had lost control of her fiery temper, and no entreaties or fawning contrition would appease her. Baleful pleas became ever more desperate: he raised himself slowly up from knees into a semi-erect stance, grabbing at Stephanie’s waist and arms while sobbing and moaning. At first I dared to stand my ground, but one icy glare from those infuriated green eyes sent me scampering for my assigned twelve-pack and the relative security of my apartment. Perhaps it was all some bizarre nightmare, and I’d awaken fully freed in the morning?
Turning to flee toward 68th Street, I noticed Geoff’s disembodied seven granite inches and accompanying stony scrotum sadly lying at bottom of the stairs. Obviously, these had been disconnected - broke cleanly away at their base - as the straddling armless Lucy had tumbled off and sideways. From stallion to gelding in one fell swoop! I couldn’t help but flinch, in an imagined corresponding sympathetic pain all the way home through icy October winds.
Author’ note: In DSM’s next revolution, Familiarity breeds caught-temptresses