by Avery Aster
“I’m sorry. I know how much you loved Blake.”
“Right.” He noted Thor spoke about his love in the past tense, as if it was behind him and over with. It wasn’t.
“I don’t know what else to say…” His voice rose an octave.
The cell phone chimed as his screen read ‘Lex Easton’.
“Another drama queen is calling in. I’ll meet you at the club in a few, okay?”
“See you soon, buddy.”
“Adios.” He clicked over. “Hola.”
“I don’t…I won’t…I can’t…effin’ believe this.” Lex sounded as if she could barely speak, but she still, as always, managed to curse. “Did you get—?”
“Sí,” he replied, hearing the sadness in her voice. It appeared he wasn’t the only one with selfish thoughts; others felt the same way he and Thor did. But it didn’t really matter because the marriage was going to happen. “Thor and I are going to the club. Can you meet us and we’ll talk about it?”
“Sure. I’ll ring my driver and pick you up in, say, thirty minutes.”
“Bueno.”
He hoped fresh air would calm his unease as he stepped outside. Could he risk not going to the wedding and stand his ground? Knowing Blake, if his friends didn’t support the wedding, he’d most likely cut them off for good. Miguel’s friendship to Blake was too important for that. Saying farewell to the hopes of making Blake his would be a lot harder than he thought.
Vive’s Power Bottoms
Present Day
Upper East Side
Blake Morgan III often poked jokes at himself by saying, if CBS TV executives produced a spin-off show from Julianna Margulies’s smash hit The Good Wife with a unique twist turning the iconic Alicia Florrick role into a gay male—they’d be sure to cast him.
He was always good—too good, in fact. At age ten, he’d given his Boy Scouts pledge to do his best, to do his duty to God and his country, and to obey Scout Law. At twelve, he’d attended Sunday services as an altar boy helping Reverend Robinson at St. Barnabas Episcopal Church in Greenwich, Connecticut, spreading word from the Book of Common Prayer.
At fourteen, he along with his friend, Thor Edwards, were the first boys admitted into the recently-converted-to-coed Avon Porter Academy in Cheshire, Connecticut. He’d blended right in with the other girls, and became fast friends with rock-n-roll royalty Lex Easton, European nobility Taddy Brill, and Scandinavian liquor heiress Vive Farnworth. The year he’d turned sixteen, he came out of the closet. His dream was to get married and be a dad one day. With no boyfriend in sight, he’d rallied his entire state into a mammoth fundraiser aiding to legalize gay marriage; an action Senator Taft coined The Land of Steady Habits Equality Movement.
Then he was accepted, with Senator Taft’s recommendations, into the prestigious Ivy League Columbia University. He’d majored in marketing and met his good friends Miguel Santana and Diego Oalo. Diego and Blake had dated and at twenty-four, they’d married in an expensive wedding attended by New England’s most elite.
Earlier in the year, his friend, Taddy, who he’d helped launch her eminent PR firm back in college, Brill, Inc., had promoted him from EVP to Managing Partner.
That day, all things appeared to be quite great in Blake’s world. Except things weren’t even good, and he wasn’t either. At nearly thirty, Blake was divorced and eager to be bad, very, very bad. Tonight, drinks and cock talk were in order.
Blake felt the pale yellow liquid slide down his throat. His nostrils flared for relief from the burning sensation. Macallan’s single malt scotch proved to be mother’s milk for this Friday night.
“It’s been six months since my ex-husband moved out. Time to put myself out there again.” He sighed at his two friends, Thor and Vive, then sank his small fork into a mussel and ate it off the half-shell. The cilantro relieved his intoxicated palette.
Before cocktails, the three of them had shot off their steam at the Lipstick & Lead Rifle Range. Some people did Yoga or smoked pot to relax, but the Manhattanites preferred to shoot guns. He was getting better at hitting the bull’s-eye.
“I’m not saying I want a relationship. Quite the opposite, actually.” His fantasy of matrimony was over. The straights could keep the marriage thing as far as he was concerned. He’d thrown in the towel at trying to adopt kids, too.
“Gotcha, gorgeous. So, what do ya want then?” Vive inquired and leaned back in her chair. As founding editor-in-chief for Debauchery magazine, she tended to interview even her friends. Her knack for asking point-blank questions kept conversations moving at warp speed.
For a minute, he thought about what she’d asked, but nothing came to mind. Instead he glanced down at Hedda Hopper, Vive’s Lhasa Apso, asleep on her lap. Though her days as Best in Show at Westminster Kennel Club had long passed, Hedda appeared brushed and in first place.
“I can tell you what Blake needs.” Thor Edwards, the mouth of Manhattan, who often spoke on his behalf and everyone else’s because he had nothing better to do, encouraged him to finally say it.
“What?” He didn’t know what those two had in mind.
“Sex,” Thor said.
“Mind-blowing, ass-ripping, butt-fucking sex,” Vive added.
“No way!” He wasn’t ready.
“Yes way.” Thor argued. “Say it. Say it like you have to have it. Just fucking say it already. Say, ‘I need sex’.”
“I, ahhh...I would need a date in order to have sex. But I imagine sex would be nice.” A true declaration. It felt good to say those words; he’d been holding out, holding back for far too long.
“What kind of sex, Blake?”
He hadn’t thought about it much. “My new romantic life should be casual, but safe. Yes, nothing risky, just fun.”
“Casual?” Flabbergasted, Thor’s hazel eyes widened. “Now we’re talking. I’ve never heard you be so cavalier before. It’s about effin’ time.” Thor slid a piece of Bruschetta in his mouth, then licked the sauce off his manicured hand.
“Call it a date or sex, but either way, boys, it’ll be here soon enough. Taddy bragged she hooked you up with a shit-load of dates. Tomorrow night starts with Nello Lamas.”
The thought of going out with that Argentinean playboy made him nervous. “I won’t know what to do with myself.” Blake felt like a teenager all over again.
“Nello is hawt!” Thor took another bite, then said, “You were married to MLD for five years and he never gave your tight ass a hard pounding?”
“No.” Thank the heavens.
“Not even once?”
“Thor, I said no, didn’t I?” He shook his head, confirming his failure.
“I just can’t fathom. I mean, really.” Jerking his head back with great dramatics, Thor slammed down Scotland’s finest. “It doesn’t make any sense.”
His ex-husband was incapable. Blake had made an effort over the years to let his partner take the lead, an interest, be a star. But Diego had come out on the bottom in every aspect. “I was in a relationship with a blowup doll.”
A month into the marriage, Blake had realized they were headed for frigid ruin. Diego had refused to embrace real intimacy, let alone untamed intercourse, at least with him anyway. He couldn’t speak for the others. Oh, and there had been several.
The marriage was history, the divorce papers freshly inked with their signatures. Blake Morgan III was unattached once again. Look out, New York City!
“You should’ve never gotten married to him. Even your parents said so.”
Vive rubbed his face in it. She also never said Diego’s name. She’d call him Blake’s It, Needle Dick, and of course the group’s pet name for him, MLD. Vive usually sang the acronym in a mock operative voice, even to Diego’s face.
“I’m well aware of who my folks rooted for me to partner up with, thank you very much.” His parents had urged him to marry their clique’s Latin stud.
“M-I-G-U-E-L.” Thor chanted the name as Vive toasted yet another drink, which woke up
Hedda.
“Caliente.” He loved mimicking Miguel’s sexy Mexican accent when he wasn’t around to flex his muscles, defending his Latino pride. “Speaking of the devil...” Blake glanced down at his cell phone. No text messages. “Where are Miguel and the girls?” he asked, worried he wouldn’t show. Ever since Blake became single, it appeared Miguel avoided seeing him one-on-one. He couldn’t figure out why. “He should be here by now.”
Thor swigged and then commented, “Perhaps he’s working on some painting or got inspired by something—”
“I bet his driver is stuck in traffic,” Vive interrupted. “Christ, I don’t get why anyone lives that far downtown. Below Forty-Second Street is uncivilized, let alone below Fourteenth Street. Isn’t that right, Hedda?”
The dog never barked. Vive ran her long, sculpted fingernails through her pet’s grizzle-colored coat. It fascinated Blake how Vive took Hedda with her into Manhattan’s poshest restaurants and stores, and no one ever said a damn word. Maybe they were afraid Vive might slam their establishments with an editorial in Debauchery. Her ability to make or break a brand, eatery or business came from just two sets of words “loved it!” or “hated it!”
“The Lower East Side is unlivable.” She crossed her arms, raised her taupe-painted brows, and asked, “Have we already forgotten Miss Sandy?”
Hurricane Sandy had taken Miguel’s loft and the rest of lower Manhattan’s power out for two months. He’d stayed with Lex and her fiancé, Massimo, on the Upper East Side. Lex had just given birth to Massimo Junior, and Miguel helped with the newborn responsibilities until his electricity came back.
“I love living in Chelsea,” Blake commented. “But I agree about the Lower East Side. It must be published in some creative guide to being so bohemian that Miguel has to live down there.”
“And where are Lex and Taddy? They should be here by now, too.” Vive held up her cell phone showing no messages. “We’re being stood up.”
“They’re probably still at that bridal photo shoot for the Manhattanite Times. You know how Lex can be about her hair and makeup now that she’s going to be crowned Princess Tittoni.” He didn’t want to attend, let alone be in, a wedding the following week. The thought of cheering on matrimony when his own marriage had just crumbled, made his chest tight. Vive and Thor were trying to cheer him up, though. Lex had put them up to it. She’d been determined to make her royal wedding a celebration to remember.
“Well, if they’re gonna be late, this’ll give us a few minutes to discuss what you want for this new chapter in your life.” Thor pulled out his tablet, made a few screen strokes, and held up the glowing flat monitor to Blake’s view. It read ‘Blake’s Sex Wish List’.
“Yay! It’s gay cock talk.” Vive clapped her Chanel fashion-jeweled hands together.
Poor girl hadn’t seen dick in months. She lived vicariously through everyone else’s romps, especially her homosexual friends.
“Guys…no.” It was one thing to talk about sex, but he couldn’t carry out whatever they were thinking. In private, he’d vowed celibacy to himself, especially after Diego hadn’t given him much of a choice. Blake regretted even bringing up the topic of sex, but from the looks on his friend’s horny faces, there was no turning back. Shit.
“Blake—Yes.” Amused with himself, Thor kept typing. “I attribute my fierce sex life to the fact that I exude positive affirmation to make men want me.” He set his tablet down and reached for a crab cake. No one did seafood appetizers tastier than Club Macanudo. “You have to put these fantasies out into the universe. Then they’ll happen.”
“Sex is this effortless, huh?” Blake retorted. He’d try and humor them along for a good laugh, but that was where this would stop, joke only. Right? “From what I hear, Nello will be more than enough.”
“Yup. You ever read The Power of Now?” Thor asked.
“No.”
“Or The Secret?” Vive added.
Blake shook his head. “I don’t believe in that hogwash.”
“Your attitude explains why you’re twenty-nine and have yet to bottom.”
“Bottoming isn’t everything.” Blake forked at the crab cakes. In the last six months, he’d lost twenty pounds. He could afford the calories.
“Getting banged is, too. Submitting yourself to a man who wants to dominate your body is the most erotic form of expression on this planet.” Thor said that almost lyrically. He lived and breathed through his asshole.
Vive leaned forward as Hedda’s paws hung off her lap. “Amen to that, gorgeous.”
“Take it from me, a power bottom. I know what I’m talking about. We need to find you a top, one who’s hung and brutal.” Thor bit down, making a loud crunch from the cracker. He continued with his mouth full. “I don’t care what he looks like as long as he has a hard cock and knows how to use it.”
“Why?” Blake asked, unsure he liked the sound of that.
“The better their body is, the worse the face appears. On the contrary, the better their cock is, the worse the body is. It’s true.” Thor pointed his finger in Blake’s direction. “If only they could all be headless, it would go with their heartless ways and reinforce the only thing we really care about…dick.”
“That’s not true.” Blake squirmed in his chair. Somewhere deep down inside, he sort of still believed in true love, again. Maybe.
“Let’s hear it. Your wish list, please,” Vive bossed. She got into anything relating to smut. It’s what kept hers and Thor’s friendship going. That, and the fact they both loved to gossip and were the offspring of two of America’s richest families.
“Hmmm…” In hopes hydration might help him think, Blake reached for his water glass.
“Start with number one. What do you crave?”
I want—
His sexual fantasies were interrupted by the loud chime on Vive’s cell phone.
She glanced at the screen. “Mother of pearl! Let the Lex Easton wedding drama begin.”
“What?” Thor asked.
“It’s a text from Taddy, look.”
MELTDOWN ALERT: GOWN DOSEN’T FIT. HELP STAGE PUBLICITY PHOTOS!!! BRING CLOTHES PINS.
Meatpacking District
“Suck in.”
“I am…” Lex Easton, bride-to-be, tried her hardest not to cry, but she sure as hell huffed. Her lifelong friend of twenty-nine years, Taddy Brill, was on the verge of crushing her body into what felt to be a gazillion pieces.
She squeezed on her...as hard as possible.
The dress had to fit.
Taddy zipped her up...as far as she could.
The dress didn’t fit.
“Harder! Suck in harder!” Taddy shouted in her ear.
She’d arrived with Lex to the West Side Studios three hours before. They’d shared the same limo. After eighty minutes of coloring Lex’s honey locks with guru extraordinaire Nackie, another sixty in makeup with dark-circle miracle worker Christopher, and the remainder of time spent getting every curve of her body stuffed into shapewear to make her shapeless, Lex should’ve been suited up by then...Lights. Camera. Action.
But no, the glam squad wasn’t working to her advantage. It seemed impossible to try and get the right picture for The Manhattanite Times. At the rate they were going, there’d be no photos.
“Stop, you’re hurting me.” Lex empathized with every bride who had gone through this in the past. The whole process was really quiet silly when she thought about it. A non-virgin, twenty-nine-year-old woman, walking down the aisle to marry the man who’d already fathered her child. She questioned why she was even doing it. The notion of grabbing her fiancé, jumping in a cab, and going to the courthouse to get hitched seemed more practical to who she was.
The wedding wasn’t for her, Massimo or their six-month-old son, but for her rock-n-roll iconic mother, Birdie Easton.
“Shut up, Lex,” Taddy hissed, foaming at the mouth. Her Harry Winston chandelier earrings, the ones Lex had bought her for her birthday, swung and jingled wit
h every exerted effort.
“Taddy. You’re smashing my tits.” Her breasts were like her waist, which was taking shape after her ass. No part of her wanted to fit into the gown she’d designed for her own wedding. Shit, even the pave-encrusted platform heels Stuart Weitzman had custom-made for her feet were suddenly too small.
“When did your boobs…get so Scarlett Johansson-ish?”
“They’re full of milk.” She thought she had pumped, but come to think of it, she hadn’t. Her day had been booked with Easton Essentials showroom work, a newborn baby who required a diaper change more times than she cared to think about, and then there’d been the wedding preparations. Not just any wedding, but New York’s celebrity-centric, ‘posh to the max’ extravaganza of the decade.
Crap. She needed a nanny, but Massimo, her fiancé, wouldn’t hear of it.
“Hold it. Stop breathing. Let’s try one more time.”
“Ouch.” The clasp caught a piece of her skin, the inch or two which refused to tuck in.
“I almost have…the zipper…up.” Taddy seemed to forget the garment was attached to her. “Come on, you darn bodice. Work with me here.” She talked directly to the champagne organza.
“It’s too tight…” Lex stepped back. Don’t scream, don’t cry. “Let’s call this quits. I don’t think I can take any more.”
“We need the photos. Not just for your personal memories, but for the marketing campaign. Hello,” Taddy reminded, the wedding having been turned into a publicity event for Easton Essentials’ new bridal collection.
The minute the wedding was announced, Lex went into entrepreneurial mode and launched a new line of bridal wear for Easton Essentials called Easton Weds. Not very original, but Bridal magazine had declared it the next Vera Wang.
With her runway-ready designs being a hit, the much-anticipated bridal debut focused on creamy whites, floral brocades, and flirty silhouettes. It was supposed to be timeless, thoughtful, and hugging her body just right. The forty-piece line was carried in over three thousand bridal boutiques across the country. Sales exceeded all projections, but the stores required more images of Lex for collateral support.
