Free Exit to Eden by Anne Rice Page B

expression "dig in your heels" but I'd never done it till this moment, and I knew then I was totally out of control.
    And now they were hauling me by force onto the pavilion, just like this was a Roman marketplace, two other handsome strong-arm types helping the first three so that I didn't have a chance.
    "I can't do it!" I said, struggling.
    "Oh, yes, you can," said one of them ironically, "and you will and right now." And abruptly they let me go, pushing me forward in front of the master of ceremonies as if they knew I'd be too ashamed to turn and bolt.
    Thunderous applause came from all around. It was just the kind of racket they make at a horse show when a thrown rider gets back on a balky horse. For a second, I couldn't see anything in front of me but light. But I wasn't moving. Just standing helpless on the Roman auction block like all the other imports. I'd scored at least that much.
    "Come on, Elliott, down the ramp," said the master of ceremonies, in a nice pampering lunatic tone, his hand over the mike. And from the front-row spectators on the grass there came a chorus of whistles and cajoling shouts. It seemed to me that I was going to back up, to get off the stage as fast as possible, but what I did was put one foot in front of the other and start walking down the ramp.
    My brain had gone to the moon—this was beyond humiliation; it was execution, it was walking the damned plank. The sweat had broken out all over me again, yet I was as hard as I'd ever been.
    But I started seeing everything again, the eyes working me over, and I started to hear the clapping and the little comments that were all tone and no words.
The system
—
in all its remarkable splendor
. I deliberately slowed my pace. I belonged to these people, and it was a feeling halfway to orgasm. I took a deep breath.
    Turning around and coming back was just a shade easier, so why the hell did I force myself to look right at those watching me, look into their eyes? Smiles, nods, little whistles of approval. You bastards, you.
    Don't do anything smart, Elliott. Don't do it. But I could feel the smile spreading on my face. I stopped, folded my arms, and deliberately winked at the lovely dark-skinned lady who was grinning under her white hat. A roar went up from the front rows. Loud clapping. Hell, don't just smile and look out of the corner of your eye at all the others. Blow a little kiss to the little brunette in the white culottes. In fact, why don't you smile at all the pretty girls, give them all a wink and a little kiss?
    Laughter and cheering from all sides. I had a real rooting section spreading all the way back to the trees. I was getting kisses from everywhere, "right on" fists from the men. Why not make a little fashion model pivot, nothing camp, you understand, just taking my time, looking them over, what the hell?
    Then I was staring straight down the ramp at a gang of the angriest-looking guys I'd ever laid eyes on, the crowd you don't want to meet in a dark alley, all of them glowering at me while the master of ceremonies just sort of gaped.
    "The show's over, Elliott!" one of them said in a stage whisper between clenched teeth. "Come on, Elliott, now!"
    I froze. But there was nothing to do but wave good-bye to my fans and walk right into it. I wasn't going to let them drag me off.
    I bowed my head and moved towards them like I hadn't seen them, was just being a good boy again, and in two seconds they took hold of both my arms and threw me right down the steps and onto my hands and knees in the grass.
    "Okay, Mr. Personality," I heard one of them say in a voice vibrating with anger. Another pushed me forward with his knee.
    All I could see in front of me was a pair of white boots as my head was pushed down so that my lips touched the leather whether I liked it or not.
    Then I felt a hand on my hair, and my head was pulled up until I was looking into a pair of very dark brown eyes. Pretty terrific looking, like all the rest of them, and I