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From Plaid to Prada: Cirque de Cray

From Plaid to Prada: Cirque de Cray -

Wondering how your favorite dating dame got herself in this week’s mess? Be sure to catch up here

Ailee engulfed me in a tight hug. The force of his pull caused me to crash down into his arms. He held onto me for dear life while sobbing. He stroked my hair and nuzzled his tear stained nose in the nape of my neck. I drew back from his clammy hands. Where was all of this whining coming from? Maybe from a cute dog but not from a grown man.

“Let’s get you up and on the couch,” I tried to stand up but was stopped by Ailee’s tug.

“Can you just hold me,” Ailee whined.

From the corner of my eye, I spotted my clutch, a few feet away from me. Eyeing Ailee and the distance of my purse, I slowly reached out to grab ahold of it. If I could get ahold of my phone and text Jessica or Nadia, then I could stall Ailee’s breakdown long enough to be rescued. With each strain, I’m leaning a milometer more towards my purse. As soon as my fingertips graced the bag, like a dog becoming aware of an intruder, Ailee’s antenna peaked. “What are you doing? Are you trying to leave me, Jehan?”

“I need to get my bag. I have to use the restroom. All that water is running through me,” I wiggled out of his embrace, grabbed my bag and looked around to try and find which hallway led to the bathroom. “I’ll be right back. Which way is the restroom?”

Ailee aimlessly pointed to the far right of the room. I found myself wandering down a long hallway of doors. I had missed 14 text messages from Jessica and Nadia. Thank God they were already on their way to Santa Monica, so they weren’t too far out. I turned on my location and texted, “OMG, Ailee is bat shit crazy. Can you come get me? I don’t know where the house is exactly. The GPS stops randomly so just stop in the alley way and when you get here, text me and I’ll come out.”

As I walked past the five doors, I opened each one checking for a restroom. I was also checking to make sure there weren’t any girls being held hostage anywhere. I had this feeling that perhaps the house was a dungeon for kidnapped struggling models. The second to last door before the restroom, looked like a scene out of a horror movie. It resembled a Pilate’s studio minus the people, who are actually doing Pilate’s. The room was a lofty space. Whips hung from the walls, a stripper pole was centered in the room and chains were bundled up to the left side. I quickly closed the door and rushed into the restroom, to escape what I had just seen. I locked myself in the bathroom and tried to calm my racing heart with deep breaths. To my right, on the marble countertop, was a box of colorful wigs. Dazzling dresses draped the chair. I could only assume these were not props for his dinner guests. Or maybe they were.

I texted Jessica, “You won’t believe what I just saw at his house. Please get here as soon as you can. He has a room where he tortures people! There are chains and a stripper pole. I can’t even deal.”

Jessica called within seconds of receiving my text. “Where are you?”

“I’m in the bathroom, trying not to have an anxiety attack.”

“Why can’t you just leave?” Jessica asked.

“Because I don’t even know where my car is! Some guy took my keys right when I got here, and I haven’t seen him since.”

“You mean it’s stolen?”

“I don’t know, Jessica! I don’t know what to do! There’s a torture room next door and a man having a meltdown down the hall. Are you on your way here or what?”

“I never would have guessed he was into BDSM!” Jessica said.

“Into what? Is that the shit Rhianna sings about?” I asked.

“You don’t know what BDSM is?”

“Jessica! I am a Muslim virgin from Ohio! Do I look like someone who knows what this crap is?”

“True. Although, you’d be surprised the kinkiest people come from the most humble places. BDSM is, bondage, discipline, sadism and masochism.”

“Huh?”

“Kinky sex, Jehan. It’s some kinky shit. Here, I’ll have Nadia investigate this guy while I’m driving. We are not far, so try not to get yourself… whipped… or something,” Jessica had a little too much humor in her voice then I would have liked to hear.

I placed two fingers in-between my eyebrows and gently massaged a gnawing pain. My eyes fell on an assortment of toiletries; a dish filled with lipsticks; every shade imaginable. From high end YSL to the lower end Nars cosmetics, Ailee had your lipstick pantry stocked. Well, at least he has good taste, I said to myself as I picked up a tube of YSL’s “01 Le Rouge Red” and gave my lips a touch up. I contemplated giving myself a parting gift, by stashing the lipstick in my purse, but realized my morals outweighed my temptation. Also, I did not want to give him any more reason to call me after tonight.

Satisfied with my new lip shade, I braced myself and walked out to face Ailee. Maybe he had calmed down by now. Perhaps he had had dessert and was settled after the tantrum. Feeling hopeful, I forced a smile on my face and walked into the living room, confident the night was coming to an end. Ailee had moved from his fetal position at the center of the Persian rug to the white leather couch. He was on his knees, shirtless, with a pair of handcuffs next to him.

“Uh… what are you doing?” I asked, tilting my head to the side, surveying the scene.

“Spank me,” Ailee whined in a tiny effeminate voice. Sort of like when a balloon lets out a squeak of air as you choke the end.

“Wh- what? Spank you?” I asked, backing up.

“Yes, sweetheart, spank me. You’re so beautiful,” He added as if I were lunch meat.

I kept on retreating backwards in the most careful manner, careful not to crush the gold Cartier watch he had left behind. I felt as if he would lunge after me if I turned and ran off. I eyed the area where the front door ought to have been.

“Please,” Ailee weeps. Ailee brings his arms to a fold and places them behind his back, “Cuff me and spank me honey. You’re so beautiful.”

As if the Universe decided I’ve had enough of cirque de cray, my phone went off. I saw the wallpaper image of my mother smiling ever so happily at me. I hit decline. NOT the right time, mother.

“Ailee, love (obviously lying) stay right here. Don’t move, got to take this call,” I said as I backed away from him, cautiously eyeing him with some sort of flirtation from who knows where. Once I reached the front door, somehow the sound of a Koi pond directed me there, I ran into Uncle Fester otherwise known as, Bill. He peered down at me with his beady eyes. The blaze from his glare made me stop dead in my tracks. “Are you looking for these, my dear?” he dangled my car keys, tempting me to take the bait. I snatched the keys out of his hand in one swift move. “You two are sick and need professional help,” I huffed between clenched teeth.

I rushed down the stairs to the driveway and searched for my car. I spotted it down the drive by the front gate. I whipped my heels off and hightailed it to my car before Fester could move his 300 pound body. I jumped in and took off. I had no idea where I was going, but somehow found myself on Sunset Boulevard, heading East. I didn’t know my car could reach 190 mph. The road was windy and dangerous in the dark night. The fact that people die horrible deaths speeding along Sunset didn’t bother me one bit. As I flew through the night, I saw headlights pass me in a flash. Then I heard a screech of tires and a siren went off. Never mind, I told myself, keep going. The flashing red lights filled my rearview.

Cops! Damn.

Took me awhile, but I finally pulled over under an oak tree by a grand mansion in the Pacific Palisades. I can explain this, I tried to convince myself.

The officer approached my side of the door and his flashlight beamed through my window, nearly blinded me. “Ma’am, do you know how fast you were going?”

Dumbfounded and at a loss for words, I just stared up at him unable to speak.

“Drivers license and registration, please?” I reached into my glove compartment and retrieved the necessary documents. The Officer looked at me, suspiciously, as he turned around to walk back to his car.

Thankfully this was a company car so my driving record is clean. Only thing I could get was a speeding ticket. Minutes later the Officer approaches with a more serious look on his face.

“Ma’am, are you aware this car was reported stolen, this evening?”

“What? Stolen? How?”

Then it dawned on me. Jessica. She did this.

“I can explain,” I began. “See, I was held hostage in this house, up the road,”

“Uh-huh. Step out of the car, ma’am.”

“No, no wait. I can show you the text messages,” I reached for my phone and the officer yelled, “Ma’am, keep your hands on the wheel where I can see them!”

“Oh my God, why are you yelling? I swear this is a misunderstanding,” I began to cry. I started trembling with the thought of being arrested for something outlandish, like disobeying an officer. What if my company car gets impounded? How would I explain this to my boss and human resources? My life flashed before my eyes.

“I’m not going to ask you again, step out of the car and place your hands on your head,” he shouted.

I couldn’t feel my body at this point. Fear had taken over me. I managed to steady myself and get out of the car, slowly.

“Face forward,” he demanded. I did as I was told. He reached up and took hold of each hand and handcuffed me. The cold metal of the handcuffs sent shivers up my spine. He read me my Miranda rights and I slipped into the back seat of the police car in my long black gown.

“Wait! I cried out. “My shoes!”

“Your what?”

“I can’t leave without my Jimmy Choo’s!”

The officer in the passenger seat who had been a silent passive observer, on my tax dollar, slid the partition between the front seat and back, closed. I stared into the back of their heads as we drove off.

I’m going to rot in a Los Angeles jail cell. In a Lanvin dress. Barefoot.

Stay tuned for next week, as the saga with Ailee continues! 

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From Plaid to Prada: Cirque de Cray -

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