Blindsided

This story contains sexual inferences.

“I’m sorry Lyssa, your proposal was adorable just like you, but we’re looking for something with a little more, well, intrigue. We just think you’ve been playing it a tad too safe. Hey, good luck with everything, though. If you ever need a good reference, give me a ring, I’ll be happy to oblige.” 

“Wait! I hear what you’re saying Mr. Grayson. If you’d be willing to give me another shot, I’d love to work something up for you with more, what were you looking for; intrigue?” 

“Darlin’, I’m not certain our concept fits well with the ideals of your company. If I were to give you a piece of sound advice, it would be to stay away from any campaigns that force you from your comfort zone. Honey, you’re good at what you do, but good isn’t exactly what we’re after here.” 

“Mr. Grayson, please reconsider. I need your business; your account could make or break my company, and I prefer the former. Maybe if I were to experience your concept firsthand, I could better serve your marketing needs.” 

“Lyssa, let me think about it. I’ll tell you this; if you hear from me by tomorrow morning, we will try again, but if you don’t, then do yourself a favor and move on, ok?” 

“Ok. Thank you, Mr. Grayson.”

“Honey, don’t thank me yet.” 

The invitation she now clutched tightly in her hand was waiting on her desk that morning, black glossy stock with silver embossed lettering, quite mysterious. It provided minimal information, simply stating time and location, and true to her character, Lyssa arrived fifteen minutes early. She stood on the sidewalk in front of the venue, dressed in evening attire, assuming the understated elegance of the invitation warranted her very best couture. She was curious; no marquee announced the identity of the building which appeared to Lyssa as a recently refurbished theater, or intimate concert hall. Three rounded concrete steps led to the heavy wooden doors offering little more than a faint violet glow through the cracks, beckoning to the awaiting attendees. 

Minutes before the specified hour of arrival noted on her invitation, a man and woman emerged from behind the doors and began to usher in their guests, one at a time. Lyssa waited patiently for her name to be called, trying desperately not to think of how uncomfortable she was standing there in shoes too pretty to be taken from their box and actually worn. “Please let them seat us quickly.” she thought to herself, shifting her weight from left to right, attempting to relieve the pinching and pain, even for a second. Finally, after the first dozen or so names to be called, the woman monotonously announced hers. “Lyssa Ward”.

Lyssa cautiously stepped forward, nervously waving her invitation. “That’s me.” she responded with an apprehensive giggle. “How are you this evening?” she offered to the woman who chose to blatantly ignore the pleasantry. “Ok, then.” 

She was silently ushered into the lobby; empty, cold and uninviting. Red velvet ropes defined a path lined with a narrow slip of red carpet leading to yet another set of doors twenty feet in front of her. Ultraviolet bulbs were installed into the vintage light fixtures; frosted glass sconces lining the walls on either side, as well as the brass chandelier overhead. The purple glow, she surmised, was meant to create an eerie, mysterious ambiance, but Lyssa thought it nothing more than a tacky overreach. She willingly followed the woman to the end of the red carpet path where she was stopped, searched, and her handbag seized. “No phones, no cameras, no mirrors, no questions.” the woman informed her. “Now, place this blindfold over your eyes and take my hand.” 

Lyssa reluctantly complied. This was obviously a dramatic ploy to get her to admit he was right. She asked for a second chance, and he was not about to make it easy. He told her under no uncertain terms, she was not the one, but she believed otherwise. He referred to her as predictable and adorably simple with intentional condescension, daring her to prove him wrong. He wanted her to feel vulnerable, beyond control and humiliated, but she did not. She felt empowered somehow, suddenly realizing her worth and his arrogance. Lyssa raised both hands to her eyes and adjusted the blindfold, then offering her right hand to the woman. “Lead the way.” 

She took every step with great caution, hoping her heels wouldn’t betray her and cause her to stumble. Lyssa was led to a chair just a few feet into the room beyond the double doors and told to sit as the women offered a bit of guidance. She was instructed to leave her blindfold in place until otherwise informed. Everything about this presentation was evidently meant to unnerve her, and yet all Lyssa could focus on was how incredibly comfortable the chair she was sitting in felt, and where she might find one to purchase for herself. She ran her hands over the thick armrests, savoring the buttered texture of the leather and as she adjusted herself further into the bucket of the chair itself, it reclined, offering an elevated footrest. “Oh, that was unexpected.” she said aloud, struggling to right herself. 

Mere moments passed before she heard an unfamiliar voice speak her name, “Lyssa Ward?” 

“Yes.”

“Please keep your blindfold in place for now. I will let you know when it is appropriate to remove it.” 

His voice was throaty, deep and she had to admit, rather sexy. {“Don’t fall for it, Lyssa.”} she told herself before acknowledging her company. “Fine. You know my name, may I ask yours?”

“No, but for tonight, you may call me Rex.” 

“Ridiculous, unless you happen to be a Golden Retriever.” 

He laughed. He didn’t expect her to be charming. “Well then, would you like to choose something more to your liking?” 

“Give me a minute. So, will Mr. Grayson be joining me this evening, or have you been assigned to do his bidding?” 

“You’re quite perceptive. I will in fact be your companion for the duration of your experience here.” 

“Then Rex it is. After all, you are Mr. Grayson’s lap dog, aren’t you?” 

“Ouch. I’d like to think I’m an associate with great privilege to have been entrusted with you.” 

Lyssa smiled, “I believe I have been grossly underestimated.” 

He liked her. He wasn’t supposed to, but he did. She was pretty, but not flashy, smart and certainly not boring, or simple as he had been told. One minute until he could tell her to remove her blindfold; one minute until she realized Mr. Grayson’s intentions. One minute. 

An audible click signaled the beginning of the evening so many had likely overpaid to experience. Did any of the other guests fully comprehend the possibilities? He wondered, knowing his own job was at risk if this didn’t go well. Three, two, one. “Lyssa, you may remove your blindfold if you wish.” 

She lifted the satin fabric from her eyes, placing it in her lap. The room was pitch black, offering no difference. “Are you there?” 

“I am. There’s a round dining table in front of you, positioned between us. Dinner will be served momentarily. In the meantime, may I offer you a glass of champagne and sparkling conversation?” 

“Are the lights ever coming on?” 

“No.” 

“I’ll take that champagne.” 

“Reach your hand straight forward, carefully.” 

Lyssa felt his hand offering the stemware, and gingerly curled her fingers around the glass just above his. She thanked him and wasted no time consuming the champagne. “Are we permitted refills?” she asked honestly. 

“The bottle is on the table, if you can manage to pass your glass back to me, I will do my best to pour it for you.”

While she waited for him to navigate her refill in complete darkness, Lyssa focused on the ambient noise emanating from the other guests. Quiet chatter, glasses clinking, chair legs scraping against the floor, and moaning? Was that in fact soft, involuntary moaning? “Um, do you hear that?” she prompted. 

He poured himself another champagne as well, downing it in one swallow. The bubbles burned his throat and nostrils, but that bit of discomfort was nothing compared to the awkward evening he feared was before him. “Hear what?”

“Oh, don’t play the oblivious game with me. Someone is obviously taking advantage of the dark. Do couples reserve tables together? I was under the impression Mr. Grayson’s concept was created purposefully for singles to meet.” 

“It is. No one here knew their companion prior to being seated with them ten minutes ago.” {"You’d think they would have waited at least until dinner was served.”}

Lyssa giggled uncontrollably, “It’s getting louder, and increasing in intensity.” she tried to whisper, to no avail. Her amused tone carried beyond their table, soliciting an annoyed “shhhhh” from somewhere to their immediate left. 

Someone managed to place their dinner plates in front of them while they shared a laugh over the assumed romantic resonance. Lyssa groped at her plate, “Surf and turf?” 

“Yes. Hey, it could be worse, we could have been served spaghetti.” 

Again, she chuckled; her dinner companion was becoming increasingly endearing. She knew it was quite literally his job to win her over, but somehow, he seemed so much more genuine. If she didn’t know better, Lyssa would venture to say, he wasn’t acting; he was truly charming and likable; and she thought he liked her too. “I’m starved, so pardon my lack of manners as I tear into my dinner.”

“I’m right there with you.” he admitted. “Lyssa?”

“Yes?”

“I do hear the others.” He admitted. He was supposed to feed her repressed desires or deter her from pursuing a relationship with Grayson; either way, he would be handsomely compensated. However, all he wanted to do was to be honest with her. {“What is happening here?”}

She focused on the sounds surrounding them once more. “Salt?” she asked, truly wanting to offer a cheeky comment about being in the midst of mating season. Lyssa decided not to engage in the game being played by Rex; the very game Mr. Grayson was too arrogant to play himself. {Grayson is using you; you have no real value to him. You’re expendable.”}

“Reach out for it. Do you need pepper as well?” {Grayson is taunting you; he has no intention of hiring your agency. He’s an ass!}

“No, thank you.” {“Tell me, are you supposed to seduce me over dinner?”}

He leaned in and lowered his voice, “I’ll deny ever admitting this, but eating with your hands is sort of fun.” {“There are at least three couples completely disregarding their dinner in favor of being engaged in some sort of intimate act.”}

“Yeah, I’m very grateful for cloth napkins, though.” {“Did they serve condoms with the salad?”}

“So, tell me what is it that you do?” He asked, already knowing the answer. However, it seemed more appropriate than what was truly on his mind. {“These strangers in the night are not exchanging glances; more like bodily fluids.”}

“I own a small advertising agency. Mr. Grayson inquired about our services and upon reviewing our first offering, told me we were not the right fit.” {“And I thought that was an insult? What’s going on here is beyond the dating service he claimed to have created. I’m fairly certain this is somehow illegal, and if not, it’s at least vulgar and unhealthy.”}

“How would you even begin to advertise this, um, dining experience?” {“Good luck trying to please Grayson. He’s beyond maniacal and perverse. And, oh my God, did someone just call for Jesus?”}

“I’m supposed to glean positive points of focus from my own experience, and so far, all I have come up with is the comfort of these chairs.” {“Well Rex, judging by the discernable grunts overtaking the instrumental version of “Dreaming” by Blondie, I do understand the reason behind the reclining seats.”}

“I need this job, Lyssa. {“I am in way over my head. I had no idea this was a darkened den of depravity.”}

“I understand. You’ll hear no judgment from me.” {“I am so judging you! How in good faith could you work for a man who asks you to seduce a stranger in a room where other strangers are being so blatantly promiscuous? It isn’t sexy, it’s just sleaze.}

“How’s your food?” {“I’m fairly certain someone just broke their chair.”}

“Wonderful.” {“Nightmarish! The animalistic cacophony fueled by the obvious is distracting me from any enjoyment food or drink could possibly offer.”}

Lyssa rubbed at her eyelids, careful not to disturb the meticulously applied shadow, liner and mascara. “I was hoping my eyes would have adjusted by now.” {“Honestly, I’m grateful for the dark, this whole concept is wanton and demented.”}

“We have time. The lights will go on at precisely eleven p.m.” {“Say a prayer that everyone is finished with their “main course” by then.}

“It’s true, what they say; when one sense is absent, the others are heightened.” {“Why are women so much louder during sex than men?”}

“So, is it safe to presume, you wouldn’t pay to dine with us?” {“You find the whole concept disturbing, don’t you?”}

“I would not.” {“You’re going to end up in jail my friend. Not only wouldn’t I pay for the experience, but I may just turn you all in to Vice.”}

“Lyssa, you are nothing like Mr. Grayson described.” {“I’m so screwed. You were supposed to either fall prey to my charms or run screaming from the building like a defiled Disney princess.”} 

“I’m going to take that as a compliment. Mr. Grayson is not the businessman I took him for either. Although, I cannot say I’m entirely shocked, this has been an eye-opening experience; pun intended. {“If I hear one more person gasp, “Don’t stop.” I’m not going to be able to control my hysteria.”}

“I owe you an apology. After this whole debacle is over, can I take you somewhere well lit, and buy you a proper dinner?” {“I may not be into what’s going on in here tonight, but I think I’m into you.”}

“Sorry, I must decline.” {“Dude, quit your job, and maybe go to confession and seek penance, and I’ll consider it.”}

“I’m just as disillusioned as you are, Lyssa.” {“I think I need to quit my job and go to confession.”}

“Tell me your real name.” {“This room reeks of sweat and regret. I could gag.”}

“Jon.” {“I am so fired.”}

“Jon, my company is small and not yet well established, but I may have a position for you if you’re interested.” {“Do you have any integrity at all?”}

“I might be. What exactly would I do at your ad agency?” {“Please don’t pimp me out to your friends.”}

“Your first official task would be to draft an email to Mr. Grayson, letting him know we are no longer interested in pursuing his account. {“Then, call the FBI or Vice, or the CDC.”}

“I’m in.” {“We would probably work well together, having at least one thing in common. We were both blindsided.”}