She streams by in a black convertible, her blonde hair still immaculate. Wraparound shades shield her eyes from mine. No expression. She waits at the light and talks on the cellphone, oblivious to my imagination, too hip and too busy to notice me, unaware that I would do anything just to sniff her perfume and put my lips against hers.

I recognize her. She controls me.

There are recesses in which the libido finds sanctuary. Locked down and secure, the forces that drive my rocket come lurching to the fore when aroused. In my mind the catalyst is Ice and the game that Ice entails.

Ice is the cool barrier between realities, the chilly surface between thought and action. I flame on when confronted by cool: the distant gaze, the you-couldn’t-fuck-me-if-you-were-Robert-Redford attitude, the you-aren’t-worthy-of-licking-my-shoes moment between eye contact and departure.

I can see a woman, her face on tv, and the barrier is great. She is not simply remote but exists on a plain of indifference and control and I succumb to her power without challenge. Ice is the game of disposable scenarios, chance meetings that begin in attraction and culminate in sweat.

Sometimes the moment is crystallized in a glance that never leaves the memory. It has happened time and again that a woman is spotted in a car, on the street, drinking beer from a bottle at the VQ, and my heart dissolves and somehow funnels down to my groin. Juices flow. I want to talk. I want to go up next to them, kneel before them and say “Yes, I belong to you. Do what you want..." and in the dream they want to, they have obsessive needs of their own. At the mere hint of a possible connection (“Hi. I’m Capricorn. Can I buy you a drink?” followed by her response of “No, but you can take me home right now and show me that you’re hung like a Yak...”), my train seizes up in a cowering fear of the unknown. The shaft rises and I discover I’m stuck between action and inertia and strangely immobilized, like frozen water. When I’m bold enough to speak, my mouth utters words of a foreign language, totally without meaning and the moment is abandoned and harm has been done.

In this strange world I envision inside, service is foreplay. I once was used by a woman to clean her home and rewarded with disdain and threats of punishment. She loaned me to her friend who made love to her boyfriend while I cleaned her bathroom on my hands and knees. The world of Ice is rife with contradictions. In Ice the woman makes the rules and the man accepts her verdict.

I serve such Goddesses. The makeup artist with the slick black hair whose distant demeanor and cold gaze excites me so much that I work on her jobs three times as long and hard as I should and then don’t charge her. The mature blonde woman whose understanding of my needs translates to routine service and occasional abuse. The former girlfriend in satin who treats me like shit and I come back on my knees needing more detachment, more threats of hitting me with her shoe.

No feeling from these icons, just the charge of service, the breaking in to their little world, bereft of care and consumed by their own vanity; I revel in their posing and fall prey to their boundless energy.

Sexual power incarnate. And it continues, even now, even at this stage of my incomprehensible life, I tape record shows and capture the polaroid princess for life, concluding too often that I am inferior to these VCR goddesses. They demand nothing, don’t know I exist, but still, they demand everything. There is a price to be paid for my dreams.

There are exceptions, where dreams collide and the ice flows at room temperature. The fantasy is suddenly bogus.

Take Mary. I saw her blonde blunt cut in the paper, just a small shot in a section on bartenders’ favorite drinks. She smiled at me with 85-line intensity, her eyes bright, her smile incandescent, she beckoned me with assumption. She recommended the Citrus Breeze and I complied.

Here's the thing: Track her down and stalking is the crime, leave her alone and the penalty is more severe: zero contact. So from a distance, separated by a high bar and patrons, the slave enters her domain, just to look at the Queen, just to see her exciting face in person, actual size. Inside, the heart is jumping, the palms are wet, the curious spark of an erection anticipates her arrival.

She looks at me and speaks. She asks me what I want to drink and my order comes out as a garbled request for ale, but the words are in Swahili. “Nina taka kahawaha. no sucari, no maziwa,” I mumble. asking for a cup of coffee, black and she eyes me with her head cocked and says “Weinhard’s, okay?” and encourages me with another display of white incisors.

There is a puddle on the seat where my form once sat and I have been reduced to blathering idiot. Sitting there, watching her casually (like a cat about to spring for the woolen mouse), my eyes averting hers each time she’s close to looking my way, I privately stare with the kind of ardor seen only in movies.

Yes. she is the cool Goddess, reaching over to sneak a sensual puff on a Marlboro Light, mixing up a batch of Citrus Breeze, standing there with her blonde helmet of hair, her tall, slender frame existing in this moment to punish me.

My brain downloads the data and feeds it through the fantasy veil and, in my mind, she is dressed in black vinyl, unapproachable. Too damn good for me. She is here to tease, torment and drive me crazy.

I hear her name is Mary and I begin to wonder if Mary is “taken” as they say, and imagine she is wondering about me. Our fantasies merge with each others and I am her heart-bound captive.

She comes from behind the bar and begins the seduction, standing close to me as she places the ale on the table. A few patrons are in the bar but it doesn’t matter. She wants me. She wants to take me home and ride me like a bronco, pinning me to the bed with her arms and tying them down with strips of soft black leather.

She is above me, looking all the more captivating as her elegant breasts bounce with each gyration, her hair tossing back and forth, her marvellous lips moving close to my mouth and then pulling away, and she lets out a small, gutty laugh that tells me she is in control, that she commands me, that I am powerless to resist her extraordinary charms.

I feel her butt, so smooth and round. The skin on her thighs is softer than glove leather and my fingers make their way to the v in her legs and explore the room at the junction. She is moist and her eyes close and her head tilts backwards and her hair cascades and she squeezes my hands. She bites her lip as I move deeper and suddenly she places her gloved hand over my mouth and excitement beacons from her eyes. She maneuvers me in and there is a gasp from each of us as my penis finds its way easily down the tube and is encased by the tight, wet flesh. Feeling at once powerless and immortal, we move with such force and attention that the bodies seem locked in a dance of death. Two fleshy globes bounce in candlelight. She’s killing me, destroying my resolve, reducing me to ash.

And something sinister is wedged between us, a praise and thanks for this improbable frozen moment and her voice seduces me with “would you die for me?” positioned inside “yes!” and all at once she is moving quicker and she is screaming, “Don’t cum, don’t cum” and I hold myself back but unwillingly. The pressure is intense and the rocket must launch. Steam rises in the dark and liftoff begins.

I am beneath the Goddess Mary, her blonde bob and finely sculpted lips above me like an angelic vision and the semen inches ever closer to exploding out and then panics and seeks the freedom of air and her screams come in halting gasps and she squeezes her hands on my neck, shouts somebody’s name and then all is quiet, just soft hair resting on my shoulder and the delicate panting as we catch our breath.

“Two-seventy-five,” she says to me.

I shake my head, mutter, “What?” and she points to the bottle. “Oh, right,” I say and cough up the money. I leave a large tip.

Ice returneth. Barriers and blockades. I am once again a patron. She’ll never knew what fun we had.

There is clarity in this frozen moment.

For more on domination and submission go to the Modern Goddess website @ http://www.teleport.com/~jake1950.