Whipping Up A Storm 2

MAY:

Hooper’s in his leather jacket, the one with a scuff on the shoulder that everyone remarks on. Could have been made for him. Fits like a glove. Bought it in the market along Portobello Road, but it looks like it came from Liberty in Regent Street. It’s his trademark jacket. Been hung on many a hook overnight in a lady’s bedroom.

He is in a small studio off the wheel of Soho: tin can of a top-floor on a four-storey building – standing room only – full of actors, maybe twenty out of an original number in the hundreds. There’s a clash of different aftershaves, a vague leathery masculine smell. It is warm; it is uncomfortable. Makes him think he should have worn his linen blazer. Ahead is a door leading to the room where they read for the part on offer. It’s for a lorry driver who is less manly than his job title suggests.

When it is his turn, Hooper reads the scene through a couple of times to three studio execs sardined behind a desk. There are two men who look as if they have driven through the night, and a middle-aged woman who surely started the day looking like a glamorous newsreader, but whose star has understandably wilted since. Despite what is for them a tiresome example of repetition from the actors, they manage to maintain enthusiasm – ever hopeful the next candidate will get inside their collective heads, release their visions, and make the words they have agonised over burst into life.

Hooper must tread a fine line – no more than a ripple of effeminacy running through the overt masculinity of his character’s trade. At least the request to go through a re-read is positive. He remembers the lines, delivers them as intended and considers his performance solid. But he knows it isn’t exceptional, which bearing in mind the competition it needs to be. Despite an earlier spark of enthusiasm from the two men, he notes the woman has that disappointed look on her face she probably reserves for the end of a firework display.

After the reading and a tactful exit, he pushes through the band of dwindling hopefuls in the anteroom to step out onto the Soho streets.

He leaves the building with the depressing feeling he is becoming a professional auditionee. There’s a case to be made for the argument, that those that wish for something badly enough can aid its fruition by living the associated lifestyle. Self-help groups and coaches tell would-be writers, singers, and actors, to describe themselves as such, and act out their lives as if that is what they are. But just lately, Hooper has his doubts about this as a strategy. Perseverance is one thing, a failure to accept the obvious another. Not for the first time, he clings to the thought of trying his hand in Hollywood. That is where you could get discovered. Where the real action is. Where they make the movies that matter.

For now, he is resigned to the audition being a failure. It is easy to work out the odds. Every response to a call from his agent is an invitation to back a longshot at unfavourable terms. It gives him an affinity with the stragglers from the betting shop below his flat. He and they are undergoing a procedure they are inured to. Both wait for a miracle. Punters are searching for a miracle in the racing pages; Hooper hopes his will appear at the end of a telephone. To fund his objective, he has opted out of mainstream employment, taking work where he can: waiting on tables, escorting, an ad job here and there, modelling, bit-parts in TV shows and movies, if he is lucky; plus the odd porno shoot and engagements he would rather forget, and promptly does.

For all that, something else occupies his mind as he joins the throng in the street. His feet take him to the next stop – the little chapel of pornography known as Mickey’s Adult Shop. It is a place Hooper and other younger actors use from time to time when in need of inspiration for a scene. At least, that is their excuse.

Mickey stocks Under Her Heel. Of course he does. Mickey has every book ever written, providing it isn’t by Shelley or Keats. He has found his perfect place in life. In more ways than one, as it turns out. For those that know him say he is more inclined to watch than do.

Amongst the crackling cellophane and the footfall of would-be consumers, nervy in case they are identified, Hooper plants himself in a quiet corner to eagerly riffle through the book’s pages. He feels a tremor of excitement to be reunited with the lady on its cover – it’s like reacquainting himself with an old ally.

Divided into seven chapters, it charts how whip-smart and cool music agent Veronica Belmont directs her errant but promising protégé, Rick Velden, from rebellion to acquiescence.

Chapter One is entitled Laying Down the Law. Tired of having to pin down her invariably hungover or womanising client, the delectable Miss Belmont, in her tightest and most severe pinstripe business suit (the one on the cover), issues Rick with an ultimatum: Do as she says or find another agent. Something that might not be that easy given his growing reputation for unreliability.

Chapter Two: Last Chance for Rick: After Rick arrives late for an important booking at a plush West-End hotel, an incensed Miss Belmont informs him that she is no longer his representative.

Rick pleads for his showbiz life. Miss Belmont responds by saying she will only consider managing him if he is prepared to change his attitude. Like, big time ... From now on, Miss Belmont will map out a disciplinary programme which he is obliged to follow. He can take it or leave it …

He takes it. His training starts there and then with the scene Hooper is vaguely aware of – the removal of Miss Belmont’s belt from her skirt, as Rick, like a Victorian schoolboy caught scrumping apples, is bent over in an arch for his first taste of discipline. Okay, it’s a thin ladies’ leather belt of little substance; but the act of punishment sets an important precedent. And it’s only a step removed from what is to follow …

Chapter Three: Choose Your Weapons: Stating her belt is an insufficient deterrent, Miss Belmont dispatches Rick to a suitable shop to buy the items she needs to keep him in line. She tells him the choice is his; but, if he returns with a fluffy tickle-stick and an ineffectual rubber flogger, the deal is off. As an indication, she suggests a rattan cane, a leather paddle, and a strap ought to do for starters.

Once she has the items in her hand, she skips any finger-wagging preliminaries. Although she can do it – has done it in the past – there is no naughty boy spanking over her knee for young Mr Rick Velden. He is way beyond receiving anything so tame, or heaven’s above – so pleasurable! Miss Belmont has no hesitation in revealing herself as a practised disciplinarian. Simmering anger makes her cruel. She removes Rick’s trousers, grabs him roughly by his scalp, and bends him over her desk to crack the paddle on his bare bottom. Later, she follows up by bending him over her sofa to peel off six hard stingers with the cane. Astounded by the experience, head buried in the leather cushion of the sofa, Rick is shocked to silence. Miss Belmont yanks him to his feet, informing him what has happened is only the beginning. That he has taken the first step on a long road; that he is free to leave whenever he wishes, but whilst under her managership, in future she expects total loyalty and compliance; with an accent on the last word!

Chapter Four: Learning to Obey: After a week of misery for Rick, after merciless wallopings, paddlings and canings, prior to making any further bookings on his behalf, Miss Belmont demands proof he can mend his ways. Accordingly, during a heated caning session, interrupting Rick’s wails and moans she clicks her fingers for him to sink to his knees and kiss her hand in atonement. Dissatisfied with the speed of his response, she grabs him sternly by the ear, and marches him to her basement. Here, she introduces him to her newly acquired bullwhip, striping, and flaying his back and buttocks until he is a grovelling wreck, falling vanquished at her feet.

Not finished, Miss Belmont commands that he kiss her shoe. This time, she is instantly obeyed. His face streaked with tears, Rick lowers his head in double-quick time to begin this truly humbling ritual, and to therefore seal his newfound status as Miss Belmont’s underling.

Could that be the excerpt Zola found so captivating? A caning, an order not carried out quickly enough, a whipping, resultant this time in immediate obedience. According to Hooper’s rough calculations, it appears in about the right part of the book.

Chapter Five: Yes, Miss Belmont: According to the lady in question, these are the only three words Rick needs to know. In future, whenever Veronica Belmont issues an order, these words must form his response. And when she clicks her fingers and points to that symbol of feminine power and dominance – her high-heeled shoes – Rick must drop to his knees in abject submission to await her next instruction. Failure to do so will result in whatever form of punishment Miss Belmont chooses, including the drastic solution of leading him to the basement on the end of a leash, where she will unfurl her dreaded bullwhip.

Chapter Six: Working His Way Down: Rick Velden’s life has changed hugely. There are no more drunken nights out on the town. His address book has been ripped up; his string of ladies is no more. He is now a dedicated musician fulfilling his potential. The only lady in his life, Miss Belmont, is responsible for this. She has taught him the meaning of discipline in all its forms. At the click of her fingers, from now on there is only one place for Rick to be: Under Her Heel. That is whatever heel is appropriate at the time: be it the heel of her shoe, her boot, or even her trainers. Rick’s re-education accelerated when he first bent the knee to Miss Belmont to kiss her hand. Since then, at her whim, he has been corrected, disciplined, and subjugated. Finally, he has been trained like a circus animal. Throughout this training, he has demonstrated his total obedience in various ways. Chiefly, by traversing the length of her body with his tongue, until he rests docilely in the shadow of her shoe whenever instructed. But should Miss Belmont feel so inclined, he can be rolled over by a flick of her foot, ending up restrained and captive beneath the sole of whatever all-powerful shoe or boot she is wearing.

Chapter Seven: Behind Every Successful Man … Rick Velden is now a successful singer/songwriter, sought after by every agent and impresario in town. In a televised interview in which he discusses his rise to fame, he brushes off any praise, claiming his achievements are down to the patience and dedication of his wonderful agent, the woman who provides such a strong motivating force in his life: the lovely Miss Veronica Belmont ...

Hooper has spent too long reading the book. From his all-seeing podium, Mickey is edgy. In keeping with proprietors of such establishments, Mickey dislikes browsers. Hooper thinks he is on the verge of issuing his This-ain’t-a-library speech. He replaces the book on the shelf where he found it, alongside Dominant Dykes from Denver and Whip-cracking Wendy. On his way out, under Mickey’s glowering gaze, he surprises him when for once he makes a purchase: a slender chrome-topped whip from the display behind the counter.

Hooper earmarks Saturday as the day to hand Zola the gift. He does so as she stands by the window in the evening. Secured by a large velvet bow, with its rogue designer wisps carelessly straying across her forehead and face, her hair is up in the casual bunch favoured by Madonna. She looks deliciously curvy and saucy in her tight jeans, one hand on a prominent hip, the other, open-fingered, resting on her thigh. She is wearing her white linen shirt, its collar turned up, its buttons carelessly open and flapping at the wrists. The neck is loosely fastened so movement makes the gentle bobbing of her breasts visible. Not the hello boy’s version reserved for the troops, they are small but subtle breasts – more the eyes of a fawn peeping from the fabric of her shirt.

She fingers the offering with one long nail scoring a line along the wrapping, removing the silver paper slowly, her slender fingers turning the procedure into a sensuous experience. It is the technique she employs when unzipping Hooper’s fly before deciding what to do next. Her eyes are aglow, her face partially lit as she peels the paper away to reveal the slim riding whip. Surprised, she hesitates. Her fingers creep along the leather stock. Still examining it with curious eyes, using both hands, she gently bends it into a loop. Finally, she allows it to spring back into shape as she holds it with one hand, slapping the other with its flap.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

He wants to sound casual, even as he speaks an obvious lie. "It’s a prop I found on set. They say Sir Laurence Olivier once used it in Rebecca, but I can’t vouch for that. I thought you might like it for a rainy day."

"Interesting ..."

After that they are silent. Hooper can’t gauge her reaction. Zola is vigorously young. She revels in her youth – thinks older people are victims of misfortune, rather than the process of life. Nothing fazes her – nothing needs to be examined and cross-examined. She lives in the: It Is What It Is age. She leans the whip against the wall, an extra swing to her hips evident as she wordlessly returns to her chair.