The Black Suit

Pisarro’s getting cryptic on me. Her email reads, Map to my condo follows. 7 p.m. Walk right in (don’t knock). Report to the kitchen for instructions.


It’s a new-looking building, three blocks uphill from the main strip of San Carlos. The layout’s a little wacky. From the front gate, I have to walk downstairs, then take an elevator three stories back up. I’m wandering the walkway, trying to figure out the numbering system, when the next door takes an irrational leap to Pisarro’s address.

I do what I’m told and barge right in, a clean entryway of large white tiles and black grouting. The tiles continue leftward into the kitchen, a modern confabulation of blondewood cabinets and gunmetal appliances. At the right is a tiled counter separating kitchen and dining room; this is where I find my instructions, written on the back of a postcard from New Orleans.

Drink a half cup of coffee (warming on coffeemaker behind you). I want your nerve endings open. Report to mantelpiece for further instructions.

I take my java to the living room, divided from the dining room by a stand-alone fireplace. Note number two is on the back of a postcard from Milan, taped to a long, barbecue-style lighter. I sit on the couch before a smoked-glass coffee table (balanced on the back of a bronze female nude) and read the following:

Light the Duraflames in the fireplace. Find the CD player and press play. Adjourn to my balcony, enjoy the view, then enter the door to the right. Proceed to the number one. Do not remove your clothes until you see red. Do not speak.

The Duraflames start up easily. The CD player produces Pavarotti. I carry my coffee to the balcony, which provides a stunning view: the downtown strip, the train station, the downbending arch of the San Mateo Bridge, the East Bay a band of rhinestones shimmering in the cold. I finish my coffee, Pavarotti telling his poet’s life to Mimi on the garret floor. I toy with the idea of stopping right here. My destiny lies on the far side of this door; how deliciously tantalizing to leave it unopened, to leave it perfect. I’m fooling no one. I turn the knob; I walk in.

I’m expecting candlelight; I get a lamp, casting the room in sepia. On a large bed, over a spread of gold and copper, lies a black form. The head-piece is a kind of mesh, allowing breath, but the rest is thicker. I sit on the edge of the bed and find that the bodysuit is spotted by numbered patches. I touch the fabric and find that it’s velvet.

“We-ell…”

“Sh!” A single, harsh spurt. She’s serious. I raise an apologetic hand, and proceed to number one.

It’s a six-inch square over her stomach, held at each corner by a knot of string. I pull them loose and lift the fabric to reveal a field of light olive skin, marked by a tangle of cubic snakes. A crossword! I notice a clear filament, tied to one corner of the opening, trailing all the way off the bed. When I pull it, a black pen peeks over the bedspread and crawls my way. It’s a permanent marker – evidently, Dr. Pisarro wants this memento to last.

But what of clues? I search the opening for more filaments, then I notice the patch of fabric, its inner skin tattooed with words:

1. Pepper __________

2. Spanish explorer

3. Prurient literature

4. Cupid’s weapon

5. Dependable

6. Nibble

7. Painting



I fill in Grinder, Pisarro, erotica, arrow, reliable, bite and art, holding steady on my quivering canvas as she fights the tickles. I blow my letters dry and proceed to number two.

Number two is a half-sock on her left foot. I pull it off to liberate five pedicured tootsies and a slip of paper reading Dresser. Upon said dresser I find five colors of nail polish, and set carefully to my work. After ten minutes, Pisarro’s piggies are silver, bronze, emerald, hot pink and metallic blue – a strange array if ever I saw one. I blow them dry and run a finger down the middle of her sole. She squirms in protest.

I locate number three on her right forearm, tugging a Velcro patch to reveal a strip of skin, one inch by three, the mound of the flexor muscles descending toward the elbow. No instructions. Being a student of patterns, however, I find a rectangle of paper Scotch-taped to the inside of the patch. But not just paper – sandpaper. Scrawled across the back are the words Draw blood.

Game or no game, I’m going to need some confirmation. Then I feel Pisarro’s left hand, patting my shoulder, and I know exactly what she wants. Playing soccer, I would sometimes dive across bare soil, and small rocks would tear at my skin. Days later, I would run my hand over the ant-size scabs, and feel an odd tingle of pleasure.

I begin slowly, not wanting to go any deeper than necessary. The paper draws white scratch-lines, blushes of pink, then beads of red as the sand breaks through. I wipe my thumb across the blood and lick it off. Pisarro shivers. I blow my work dry, and move on.

Number four is a prize, and Pisarro has treated it accordingly. The circle of felt over her left breast is secured by four loops, threaded through eyelets on the surrounding fabric and held in place by tiny combination locks. The back of each lock confesses its numbers on a strip of white tape, but still it’s five minutes before I can unwrap my present, the lovely mound and tan areola that triggered my lunacy four months ago.

So close to the promised land, I am not about to break a rule, so I check the inside of the patch to find the word Nightstand. Upon said nightstand, I find a spatula and a small gift-wrapped canister. I open the lid, dip my finger into its creamy white contents and lick off a dollop of vanilla frosting.

Five minutes later, I have completed the finest birthday cake in my 42 years, hiding the final sliver of flesh with a painterly stroke. I see no reason to forgo my pleasure any longer, so I lower my mouth with the intent of cleaning every inch.

I am taking my time, paying extra gratuities to Pisarro’s eraser-tip nipple, when her stoicism begins to burst. She squirms against me and opens her legs to reveal the number five. I tear away the Velcroed patch to unveil a carefully shaved arrow of pubic hair, aimed at Pisarro’s butterfly-wing labia, beaded with moisture. By this time she is bucking, and I am desperate for instructions. The inside of the patch reads Shoebox, foot of bed, and I’m there in a flash. The box contains several phalluses and a bottle of massage oil.

Pisarro isn’t going to make it. I start with the handle of a paintbrush, then a tapered candle, going slow, trying to back her off. Next is a peeled carrot, then a zucchini. A dildo of clear plastic. She waves her arms in the air like a gospel singer. I insert the anatomically detailed vibrating penis and her breath turns into bird-like shrieks. She explodes. I hold her torso, watching her pelvis as it describes arcs in the air.

I slide next to her and hold on to her breast as she comes back down. I’ve known all along that number six resides over Pisarro’s mouth. I take off the patch, and receive my invitation with a delighted shiver. I back off the bed and shuck my pants, cup my hand beneath the black, faceless head and lower my cock to Pisarro’s red lips.