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"Don't. Move. A muscle." he'd whisper. That's how it always began.

We sat on the bed cross-legged, facing one another, both fresh from the bath. He was still in his towel, I wore a short robe. In less than an hour, we'd be at a party, gliding through a sea of familiar faces. He would be theirs, then -- the clever laughing Eddie with the great, wide smirk, playing to the crowd's every expectation. And as much as the crowd would own him then, that's just how much he owned me now. This was our time and neither of us was willing to waste a single moment.

First came moisturizer, then base and finally powder, all applied with an expert hand, his far more expert than my own. The ritual applications were hypnotic, lulling me into a quiet calm, content to be molded and shaped into whatever image pleased him. He slowly smoothed liquid eyeliner over my lashline, concentrating intensely. With my eyes closed, I felt the brush linger, a tiny pressure. My breath caught in my throat, sending small shivers.

"I mean it," he warned, without the tiniest hint of a smile in his voice. "Not one muscle." The brush left my lid and I felt the bed shift as he leaned in close. His scent was heavenly -- boy-smells of soap and shaving cream, tobacco and leather mixed with the androgynous jasmine and sandalwood of his cologne. When he was done, I tried opening my eyes, only to receive a sharp, disciplinary tug on my hair. "Not yet, it's still wet! Keep your eyes closed!" My face flushed. He wrapped one of his hands roughly around my wrists and pulled himself towards me, unexpectedly bringing his lips to my face. With surprising delicacy, he began blowing on my eyelids, long gentle breaths that dried the liner in place. Time stood still as I felt his warm breath against my skin.

"You can relax now."

I opened my eyes to find him sorting busily through the make-up kit. "As for shadow, I'm thinking of a kind of slutty charcoal look," he said, arching an eyebrow in my direction. "Something to make you appear, hmmm...accessible. What d'ya think?" He punctuated the question with a filthy wink and laughed wickedly as I blushed and stammered in agreement. We both knew that I'd willingly relinquished all rights to veto long ago...

Eddie ran his hand lovingly against my cheek, then tightly grasped the nape of my neck, pulling my head into proper position. With my eyes closed, he drew the shadow over my lids, blending it nicely into the brow-bone. He released my neck and moved on, clinically, to the next step of the process. "Look up," he demanded, deftly loading the mascara brush. "I mean it -- look up. You don't want this in your eye, do you? " After a seemingly eternal length of time, he finished and leaned back to assess his handiwork. Studying my face, he purred his approval.

"Almost done...only lips left." His thumb traced my lower lip and lingered there, as if to confirm its current bare state. He smiled. "Do you know how lipstick came to be? I mean, why people started using it?" he asked. I shook my head, no. He chose a tube of creme lipstick and opened it, twisting the base to reveal a blood-red shade.

"Open your mouth...good. Now, tilt your head forward a bit. Yes, that's hmmm...very nice..." Then, with small stabbing strokes, he began to paint the color onto my mouth. "Ancient Egyptians used lipstick made from plant dye -- unfortunately, the plant dye just happened to be poisonous as well. Makes you wonder how many poor fuckers died from their own cosmetics, eh? Here -- smudge your lips around. Good. Blot."

He placed a tissue between my lips. I left my imprint and he ran a quick layer of translucent face powder over my now matte-red lips. It was a trick to set the color, one of the many odd things he'd taught me that I never expected to learn from a boyfriend. He shot me a thoughtful look, and with a hard, careless hand, began loosening the satin belt that held my robe closed. "For centuries, the use of lip rouge was actually criminal. You could be arrested for wearing it. And the only people who used make-up regularly were whores. True story." He stroked my earlobe absentmindedly. "Prostitutes would place rouge on their lips and cheeks to lure customers." With sudden smile, he drew his finger along the tip of the lipstick and finger-painted faint red along my cheeks. "Red lips and cheeks were not intended to make the prostitutes attractive so much as they served as an advertisement of the girl's passionate nature -- the make-up, you see, was intended to copycat the redness, the glow of the body, during a shag..." His hands opened the robe farther.

"Of course," he added meaningfully "they didn't just use it on their faces..." With an evil grin, he began to trace a path from my lips to my neck and between my breasts with his hand. Slowly, he ran a lipsticked finger along each of my nipples, reddening the flesh and rendering it vulgar, finally moving down to color an area of the body that I doubted any prostitute's John would have seen prior to an exchange of cash. I squirmed, anticipating a thrilling concluding act, but his purpose -- for now -- was strictly artistic. With his work done, he closed my robe and patted me on the leg dismissively.

"Off you go. I've got to do my own make-up." I pouted a bit, then rose and walked towards the closet, feeling somewhat lightheaded. He stood and reached for an ashtray. "Oh, and Jules?"

I stopped and turned. "Yes, Eddie?" He lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply and squinted through the smoke. "The color stays until I take it off. Are we clear?" I smiled, still mesmerized. "Crystal."