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Tag: romance novels romance novel authors

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A Woman on the Wildside - A Dance of Fate in Argentina

'He made me comfortable in a manner usually signifying eminent intimacy.  Sometimes such people are guideposts, stationed by destiny to lead you to the next phase of your journey, or as agents of transformation.  On occasion, a stranger appears to offer a passionate night or two, a dance with danger, when traveling away from the homeland.'

Please Note:  "A Woman on the Wild Side" is a series of blogs chronicling author Anastasia Blackwell's experience traveling in Argentina, and features a mysterious young man named Tamerlane Rivera There are plans for the blogs to be compiled and and published when her adventure is complete..

Tamerlane Rivera removed his overcoat and used it to shield me from the torrential downpour.  He guided me from the Recoleta Cemetery to La Biela, a lovely restaurant on the square, known for the common presence of American actor Robert Duvall, whose movie, Tango Assassination, was filmed in Buenos Aires. The restaurant manager greeted Tamerlane as an old friend and offered a prime window table, with a view of the entrance to the cemetery and pedestrians passing beneath colorful umbrellas.  It was August, winter in Argentina, but it would soon be spring and the weather was mild

     Our conversation began formally, with mutual questions about our backgrounds. The chatter of guests and the soothing sound of rain beating against the rooftop afforded a homey intimacy.  He made me comfortable in a manner that usually signifies eminent intimacy. Sometimes such people are guideposts, stationed by destiny to lead you to the next phase in your journey, or as agents of transformation.  Occasionally, they offer a passionate night or two, a dance with danger, when traveling away from the homeland.

     “I followed the family tradition and went to law school,” he told me. “I come from a long line of attorneys and politicians. But, when I experienced first hand the corruption, in the government and courts, I was disgusted.  It is my opinion that there is no justice for the underprivileged in this land, or any other, from my experience.  Institutions are created to earn capital, create fear, and control the masses.

     He paused and looked out the window pane, streaming with rain.

     “Last night, as we stood facing the Tribunal, I saw in your eyes that you had suffered an injustice,” he said.

     “To be driven by fear is to ride in the trunk of your own car. You will never arrive at your destination,’ you told me.

     He offered an enigmatic smile and the reflection of something else.

      “Sometimes the courts will dole out a good result, often published it in the media.  It operates in the manner of a lottery or a slot machine, giving people hope and reinforcement that the system works to their benefit. But even then, the attorneys are the real winners,” he told me.

     “Do you still practice law?” I asked, and held his provocative gaze.

     “I occasionally take cases, to assist those who do not have access to a defense. But, mostly my efforts are centered on working with activists to create an underground social movement that operates both inside and outside the system. Our beliefs are rooted in the sovereignty of the individual.”

     "Are you a revolutionary?” 

     “I am a Transformationalist.”

     “I’m not familiar with the ideology.”

     He paused for a moment and drew a forefinger across his lower lip.

     My group organized the demonstration you attended. We provide political speakers and the trucks used to haul stage set-ups, video and audio equipment, and banners. I keep my eye on the spectators to make certain the crowd remains in control and the police are kept at bay. That’s how I found you, although you would not be hard to miss at any vantage point.” 

     I blushed at the compliment, though not entirely convinced his beguiling manner wasn’t universally administered, as heir to the machismo porteño culture.

     “I presumed your appearance was more than serendipity,” I said.

     “What path led you there?”

     “I asked the ticket seller at the train station what stop to take to arrive at Arenales and Suipacha. He told me to get out at the Tribunals exit.”

     “Then it was fate.”

     “How so?”

     “You got off at the wrong stop.”

     Our waiter, who moved like an invisible puppeteer guiding him by strings, arrived with a silver platter of steaming coffee and dulche de leche dessert, a delicious Argentinean favorite. Tamerlane switched to his native Spanish tongue and engaged the man in a banter that accented the deep melodic tone of his voice.

     A melancholy drifted over me as the pouring rain beat the window, obscuring our view. The world dissolved into a blur, leaving only the security of the present. As he spoke with the waiter I admired his impressive physical attributes.

     He had intense, soulful brown eyes, a strong jaw with a faint cleft in the chin, full lips, and luxurious dark wavy hair grazing to his shirt collar, an expressive chest straining against cotton, long legs, and muscular thighs. His high cheek bones would have made him near model perfect, were it not for the horizontal scar below his left eye socket. I wasn’t certain of his age, although he was clearly younger.  Yet, he hadn’t flinched when I told him my boys were grown.  Tamerlane reclined in his chair, raised his cup of café con leche to his lips, and observed me with curiosity, as the waiter departed.  His skin held tawny color, yet was translucent, naked, like still water - tranquil, yet teaming with life. He was clearly a man who had never experienced rejection or failure.  His eyes held keen intelligence, a radar that searched for subtext and anticipated the next move. Deeply complex and masculine, there was a hint of vulnerability lurking beneath that charged him with the illusive aura of charisma. 

     “Is your family buried there?” I asked him, looking out the smeared window toward the gates of the Recoleta Cemetery.

     “Yes.  They lie next to the murderous general.”

     “Is there no other choice of destiny?”

      “Perhaps,” he said softly, and I saw the first crack in his resolve.

     I shifted my gaze to a painting on the paneled wall of a beautiful couple dancing the tango. The raven haired beauty wore a low cut red dress, slit to thigh, and a shapely long leg was wrapped around the leg of her sultry partner. They were either drunk on love or Malbec wine, and their infatuation was tantalizing.

     “Would you like to learn to dance the tango?”  He asked, and broke into a grin that revealed an enviable set of teeth

     “I’ve heard it’s very complicated,” I answered and cut into my dessert, oozing with warm caramel and chocolate.

      For the man it’s complex.  A woman only needs to learn a few moves. The man controls the dance and the woman follows his lead.”

     “It seems women will never break free from that blue print,” I said, with a dash of playfulness cutting through my sarcasm.

     “It takes discipline to understand how to get into the head of your partner, to learn how he thinks, to understand his weaknesses and strengths, while introducing your own spice and personality.  Done properly it transcends the partners and alters the essence of the dance,” he said.

     “I’m not good at following. I like to be in control,” I said, and met his gaze dead on.

     “To be in control is to be out of touch with your instincts,” he said, and I thought he might take my hand - but instead he motioned for the waiter.

     “I call Tango the Dance of Fate.  The man defines the nature of the journey and the woman uses instinct to follow him, while introducing her own stylistic accent.  At some point in the dance, the woman begins to influence the instincts of the man, and the dance takes on a life of its own.”

      “As the couple falls in sync, they inspire each other to create moves neither would have never imagined, if left to their own volition. Art is created when that happens, and sometimes the passion bleeds into the bedroom.  But not always,” he said with a seductive flicker of his eyes.

     “I have experienced what you describe as an actress working with a highly skilled partner. It’s what drives my passion for the craft. But I view it more as a duel.”

     "Duel implies a loser, " he said

    “A duel is a game of strategy," I answered.

     He flashed a charming smile to the women seated beside us, a quartet of coifed matrons with suits buttoned to the chin, primly sipping tea and taking dainty bites of flakey empanadas, who had ceased their casual chatter to eavesdrop.

     "There is an underground club where the greatest tango dancers in the world practice for championships, away from the eyes of the gawkers and those who steal choreography. If you like, I will take you there."

     “Do you dance?” I asked, and finished my espresso,down to the last drop.

     “I used to compete – when I was a student at the university. Now, I enjoy it for recreation.”

     “In that case, perhaps you can recommend a studio for me to learn a few basic steps before you introduce me to the dance floor.”

     “The rain has stopped.  Let me walk you back to your hotel,” he said. “It will be dark soon.”

 TO BE CONTINUED . . .

 

 

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Scene from Screenplay "The House on Black Lake" offers Shades of "Fifty Shades of Grey"

A scene from the Screenplay adaptation of Anastasia Blackwell's erotic thriller, "The House on Black Lake" was presented in a staged reading at Beyond Baroque in Venice California. The scene was written before "Fifty Shades of Grey" became a pop culture phenom. Some say author, E. L. James borrowed the name "Anastasia" in her research for the erotic novel. It is also coincidental that Anastasia Blackwell grew up in the Pacific Northwest and has intimate knowledge of the area, while E.L. James lives outside London.

The controversial power play scene brought requests from audience members, who compared its content with the popular BDSM novel and movie, "Fifty Shades of Grey", to publish the scene from the screenplay, adapted from the book.

INT. SANDELEY'S SUMMER HOUSE - FOYER - NIGHT

Alexandra treads quietly through the dark entryway past the
mounted animal heads. Ramey appears from out of the shadows
and swings her around to face him.

ALEXANDRA
(angry)
Take your hands off me.

He is bleary-eyed, his good looks tarnished by alcohol,
jealousy, and something darkly troubling.

ALEXANDRA (CONT'D)
I don't welcome the sexual advances
of my friend's husband, or anyone
else's for that matter.

RAMEY
Is that so?

ALEXANDRA
Meaning what?

RAMEY
You nearly got off with me in the
hallway last night.

ALEXANDRA
Bullshit!

RAMEY
Not very lady-like -

ALEXANDRA
I have no respect for men who seek
the safety of the cage and the thrill
of the wild - but don't have the
guts to commit to either.

RAMEY
Don't lecture me, dear.

He roughly guides her down the darkened hallway leading to
the bedroom corridor.

ALEXANDRA
Where's Ruth?

RAMEY
She stayed the night in Montreal.

ALEXANDRA
You're clearly drunk.

RAMEY
Quiet. You'll wake the children.

RUTH AND RAMEY'S BEDROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Ramey sits in a hanging chair in a bedroom softly lit by
chandeliers. There is a fire in the fireplace, as the night
has turned cold. A massive four poster dressed in crimson
silk commands the space. Alexandra is stationed by the door.

ALEXANDRA
I've seen your warlock's den. What
are you, some kind of wizard?

RAMEY
I have a fascination with science
and magick. Does that frighten you?

ALEXANDRA
You don't frighten me.

He rides his hands up the chains.

ALEXANDRA (CONT'D)
Why did you row me out to stay in
the house on the island?

RAMEY
It was like tying you up without
tethers. Knowing I could set you
free - or not.

ALEXANDRA
Cruel games are played by those with
no control over their victims.

RAMEY
True freedom can only be experienced
through absolute containment. When
your body is imprisoned, the soul is
released. And once it happens,
there's turning back.

Ramey observes her intently, and stands.

RAMEY (CONT'D)
You've had a taste of it, haven't
you? It started in the Victorian,
and you went there with me in the
hallway.

ALEXANDRA
Is this the warlock talking, or do
you worship a darker deity?

RAMEY
That's why you fell for the pathetic
charms of Andre Labat.
(he tracks her surprise)
But giving yourself to that little
worm is like a sailor dipping his
cup in the sea when he's dying of
thirst. He'll never quench what I
see in you.

ALEXANDRA
I found the young man quite charming.

He approaches with an ominous gleam.

RAMEY
The night we left you on the island
I made love to Ruth and pretended
she was you.

ALEXANDRA
Save your confessions for your satanic
priest.

RAMEY
(hovering over her)
Does your dark side frighten you?

ALEXANDRA
It must be a lonely world you live
in, where nothing matters other than
fulfilling your perverted needs.

RAMEY
You stay in my house, eat my food,
drive my car, and expect me to babysit
your son so you can go out and
fulfill your perverted needs?

ALEXANDRA
I am your guest, and with whom I
choose to sleep is not your concern.
I'm a single woman - free to do
whatever I desire. I had the guts
to release myself. You, on the other
hand, have no claim on freedom. You
wear the gold band of ownership.
You're no different than your pierced
and branded livestock.

Potent Pause: his eyes darken, flit side to side, and a wry
smile plays at the edge of his lips.

RAMEY
As the master of the household, I
have certain expectations, and rules
that must be obeyed. I would like
you to consent to a punishment for
being such an ungrateful house-guest.
Five lashes would be fair, wouldn't
you agree?

ALEXANDRA
This has gone far enough!

RAMEY
Have you ever taken corporal
punishment from a lover?

ALEXANDRA
Good-night, Ramey.

RAMEY
Walk out that door and I'm taking
you and your son to the airport
tonight.

ALEXANDRA
(turning away)
I refuse to continue with this sick -

Ramey roughly whisks her into his arms, carries her across
the room, and throws her onto the bed.

RAMEY
Turn around and bend over, hands
against the bed.

He unbuckles his belt.

ALEXANDRA
No.

RAMEY
Hide on skin is painful, but it's
the only way to transcend.

ALEXANDRA
The word "no" may sound foreign -
since you've never heard it.

RAMEY
I could tie you up and torture you
with love first - but you don't
deserve it.

ALEXANDRA
You've tortured me long enough.

RAMEY
Then, let's get to it.

Ramey draws his belt from his jeans and Alexandra draws a
breath of anticipation. The tension between the two is
exquisite.

RAMEY (CONT'D)
We're the same, you know. We're the
same breed. I've known it since our
eyes met in the desert.

ALEXANDRA
I'm nothing like your kind.

He slides his opposing hand down the length of the stiff
leather, and pulls it taut.

RAMEY
Do what I say - there's no way out.

ALEXANDRA
You may be a sorcerer, but you are
neither my master, nor my priest.

RAMEY
There's no choice, dear.

ALEXANDRA
My body and soul are not for your
taking.

RAMEY
(overlaps)
We've been conjoined by fate -

ALEXANDRA
That privilege is earned through
commitment and trust.

RAMEY
(overlaps)
And there is nothing -

ALEXANDRA
I will only supplicate myself to a
man who worships me as much as I
worship him.

RAMEY
(overlaps)
We can do to stop it!

He WHIPS the belt up and powerfully STRIKES. Alexandra
releases an involuntary cry, as it barely misses her, and
cracks against the bedpost.

ALEXANDRA
I now realize I made a terrible
mistake.

RAMEY
And, so have I.

ALEXANDRA
Yet, I gave up everything and your
life remains intact.

RAMEY
Look at me. Look into the pupils of
my eyes. They're the place where
you can see inside the mind, and
read what its thinking.

She gazes up into his tortured eyes.

RAMEY (CONT'D)
You're moving away from me, Baby.
It's like you've fallen into the
bottom of a well. You're crouched
down there, but I can't get to you.
I can't save you.

Alexandra solemnly stands and moves to the door.

ALEXANDRA
I didn't ask you to save me.

She turns and walks to the door.

ALEXANDRA
I believe it's you who is looking to be saved. You
need to save yourself, before
it's too late.

She exits.