By Emancietta “Emasculetta” Berkley
It’s a sunny morning, late spring, and I still can’t wrap my head around it – I’m sitting on a park bench with him. With Roman Alastair Northcott Broughton Castell. Sitting on the same bench with me, admiring the riot of colours in the park gardens. It’s his park, open to the public six days a week. I mean the man is not even twenty-nine yet. He’s wearing one of his signature suits – no tie, cufflinks the price of Midas.
The Park, as it is popularly known in the city, as if it was the only park in Hamburg, surrounds the RAC Business Park, a building complex of chrome, glass and marble that reaches up to the skies. He dedicated the building to his mother, Lady Marissa. There’s a ginormous statue of her as the goddess Nike, the Goddess of Victory, riding a chariot, right in the middle of the park, and I’m sitting with him facing the statue. So don’t mistake it for his other buildings, like the RAC Business Centre where he has his offices. I decide that’s a good opener for the interview with this extraordinary man. But his blue eyes on me unsettle me and I say:
EB: Mr Castell, tell me about yourself, the real Roman A.N.B Castell.
[His smile is as straight as a shepherd’s crook.]
RAC: Ms Berkley, if you don’t know about me you’re yet to be born. There’s no Real Roman Castell and Unreal Roman Castell. I’m all of me.
[Those eyes and the smile are really hard to deal with. At least as a woman, and believe me I’m not the timid sort. But I’m thinking I only have one minute with him – yepp, ONE. He dictated that as the condition for this chance in a zillion to interview him out here in the open. There might never be another interview granted for the next decade. To anybody. So I skip asking about his mother, the woman he calls his favourite girl.]
EB: Is it true that you and Ms Berg broke up at the opera house La Scala in Milan? If so, why? You’ve been together for the longest time known in your history with the ladies as Europe’s Most Chased-After Bachelor & Dominant.
RAC: I’ll answer this for both of us. For me and for Ms Berg. We’re no longer sleeping with each other, but we’re the best of friends. In fact she may be my only close female friend. And I’m sure you can answer your Why question for yourself.
[Damn. I’m still chewing his first sentence in my racing brain. Was it a secret message to Ms Marie Berg? Or coded one to me? Like: Don’t you dare bother her, Ms Berkley?]
EB: Mr Castell, there have been talk in certain close circles about you chasing after another lady, Ms Shana Lindqvist. We’re all wondering why you continue this quest when you can have any woman in the world at the—
RAC: Prof Dr Lindqvist is my novelty. She ups the anticipation while cancelling out the expectation. I prefer a woman with fire in the belly. The harder she battles me, the harder I get, pun not just intended but included. I don’t want a Stockholm syndrome relationship, with her bending to my will and doing everything I demand or anticipate, to please me, her captor. Instead, Prof Dr Lindqvist captivates me with womanhood defiance of the highest order. We are two sides of the same scale. In order for the equilibrium to be maintained, for us to work, we have to each have equal weight. That’s her, my woman.
EB: That’s not exactly what is associated with a Dom, Mr Castell.
RAC: You should never associate that with me, ever, Ms Berkley. Look for those breed of dominants elsewhere. When all my commands are meekly followed, where’s the challenge? What’s left there to dominate?
EB: You sound as if you and Ms—ah, Dr Lindqvist are already an item. Anything we, as the public, should probably know?
RAC: You should learn the art of listening, Ms Berkley. I’m a Domristocrat. One of a kind. And I’ll make Dr Lindqvist my woman. My Subristocrat, because she is. I’ve patented those two words just for the two of us. A full century patent.
EB: I’m not sure I got that, Sir.
[I don’t know why I call him Sir – it just slips out of me. He smiles. I damn near fall off the bench, shift a little away from him. His aura-pull is forbidden and outlawed in Christendom. Or should be.]
RAC: Again, I derive no joy from boot-licking servility of the current trends in the scene, Ms Berkley. It has no originality to offer me and make me feel as if I were some feudal lord who needed slavish dependence to prop up my dominance. What I need is a woman with fire in the belly, dynamite in the brains and an indomitable spirit. A woman who would give me a good fight before I brought her down under my command. A woman who offers me half a dozen wars in hundreds of strategic battles simultaneously. A Domristocrat’s woman. My woman. The woman worthy of all of me, heart and soul. Did you get me this time, Ms Berkley?
[Gulp. OhJesusLordGulp. I’m not sure I have, and I’m not asking for clarifications. I dread what I might hear. For my own womanly safety. Normally I’m granite. I have a reputation and have been labelled “ball-crusher” and “Emasculetta” in my career as a journalist. My column, Emancietta’s Column, was dubbed Emasculetta’s Column.]
EB: It was an intriguing explanation, Mr Castell. You’re a determined man.
RAC: In all I do, Ms Berkley.
[He adamantly refuses to call me Emancietta, even after I’ve asked him to do so several times before we embarked on the interview]
EB: Do you have a way of knowing which woman is submissive simply by a glimpse at them, Mr Castell?
RAC: That’s part of the nature, Ms Berkley. It’s what a Domri is all about. I’m a Domristocrat and a hunter. I must know how to locate and single out the prey blindfolded.
EB: So what’s the difference between a Dom and a Domristocrat?
RAC: Me. I’m one of a kind. Patented, remember?
[His listing-to-port-smiles are nipple clamps, you can quote me on that. And then the under-look? Lordamercey!]
EB: Suppose, just suppose, you discover Dr Lindqvist is not inclined to the BDSM lifestyle, what would—
RAC: I’m thrilled she isn’t. That’s why she is my woman. She’s no submissive, she’s Subristocrat, Ms Berkley. And now, [he looks at his watch – a piece that cost about a third of America] you said you needed a minute. We’ve surpassed that.
[He rises, like an unfolding laid-back panther, towers over, and holds his hand out to me. I look at it.]
RAC: I enjoyed the minute.
[My hand has found its way into his ultra-soft palm… Emancietta is Emasculetted.]
EB: Thank you, Mr Castell. The pleasure’s mine. And good luck, Sir.
[Over his shoulder… with that go-shower-little-one look]
RAC: For once, I just might need it, Ms Berkley. But challenges are me.
I watch him stride smoothly across his park to his Limited Edition Veyron, not any of his chauffeur-driven limos. The black and maroon thing he left parked underground in its own white marble car park with every other car parked about three cars away in all directions around the Veyron. I’d met him there, underground, and sat next to him in the car as he drove us the few hundred yards to the statue on the gravel paths here, that only gardeners’ vans are allowed to drive on, and parked it next to a flowerbed.
I watch him drive himself off like a god in his own version of a chariot, out to outdo any other modern Ben Hur who would dare.
Wow. Make a note and chisel it on marble: I, Emancietta Berkley, had a private interview with Roman Alastair Northcott Broughton Castell, on a sunny May midmorning in front of the statue he dedicated to his mother, Lady Marissa, at the RAC Business Park, for over one minute…