200 INCHES!
I am staring at my reflection in the 200-inch LED TV in my home theater.
Apart from TV that covers an entire wall, this room has 16 speakers with Dolby 5.1 surround sound, a blue ray player, seating arrangement for twenty people, and racks full of DVDs.
The vast collection of DVDs makes me believe that my father must have taken a franchise of blockbuster videos in his time and this is my family heirloom. Again, like the bottles in the bar, the DVDs are meticulously arranged by the genre.
Since this is my first day back, and I have nothing else to do, I decide to watch a movie. But, which one? The choice is to the point of overwhelming. I am still adjusting to the world, but I know that under this circumstance only one thing would prove to be useful— ‘Eeny Meeny Miny Moe.’
Thanks to it, the choice is narrowed to the thriller section, and now, it’s just a matter of the cover that’ll catch my attention first. Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?
It took me a while, but finally, the choice has been made. And a good one—I believe. The DVD cover is eye catchy and the story description compelling. Again, it sounds very familiar. I don’t know why? Behold the ‘Ocean’s Eleven.’
With my heart set to make ‘Ocean Eleven’ as the first movie that I have watched, I enthusiastically open the DVD with the same feeling as of a virgin opening his girlfriend’s bra, only to find that the DVD inside doesn’t match the title. There is a half-naked woman on the disk—not Julia Roberts—and title inside read ‘Ancient Secrets of Kama Sutra.’ In case the half-naked woman is not enough of an indication, after reading the title, it becomes clear that it’s a porno.
Well, it’s all right. No big deal.
You don’t have to judge me. Everybody watches porn—or so I’ve heard.
I must be drunk when I accidentally swapped the DVDs.
An honest mistake.
Good thing always takes time. I say to myself, browsing through the collection on my own. I am not in a hurry, so I take my sweet time and stop only when I have a gem in my hand called ‘Father of the Bride.’
Again, I choose wisely. It’s the story of a father who has a hard time letting go of his daughter when she decided to get married. It has everything—romance, humor, the depth of father-daughter relation, and whatnot.
Imagine, you are anxiously waiting for your package to be delivered. The item you ordered last night is on its way, and you couldn’t believe you got it at such a good price. Finally, it gets delivered. You tear apart the package like a savage and look inside. Shit! It doesn’t look anything like you have ordered. Has it ever happened to you?
I have the same look on my face right now. I have a DVD of ‘Father Daughter Seductions’ in my hand in the case of ‘Father of the Bride.’ I am scarred for life. I am not fit to be a father of a daughter now.
This can’t be a coincidence. Two for Two. What are the chances?
I randomly pick another DVD. This one says ‘Legally Blonde’ on the cover, but inside is a DVD of ‘Blondicious.’ At least, both have a blonde on it.
‘Star Wars’ has ‘Star Wars XXX: A Porn Parody.’ This time, both names and genres have some similarities.
‘Titanic’ has ‘Titanic Tits.’
Wait! I am starting to see a pattern here.
‘Operation Dumbo Drop’ has ‘Operation Desert Stormy.’
‘Eye of the Dragon’ has ‘Eye of the Beholder.’
‘Two Girls and a Guy’ has ‘Two Girls for Every Girl.’
Yep—I definitely have OCD.
My hands are shaking. I have the DVD of ‘The Notebook’ in my hand. The cover has Ryan Gosling and Rachel Adams in each other’s arms, drenching in the rain. Their lips, so close to kissing. I know about this movie. My physical therapist Bernice told me all about it during one of our sessions. She has watched it 47 times—extended version with deleted scenes. As a man in love like Noah, I want to watch it—preferably without crying.
I narrow my eyes and slowly begin opening the case.
“Please don’t be a porno. Please don’t be a porno—”
Good, God!
The romance is forever ruined for me. I am staring at the DVD of ‘Diary of Love: A XXX Romance Adaption of The Notebook.’
I slam the case shut in frustration and throw it away. It crashes into another DVD which caused a domino effect in one of the racks. The arrangement and order of them are messed up, but none of them fall on the ground except one—'A Christmas Story’.
I hear a somber music in the room.
Is that a sign?
Ignore that, it’s just the static coming from the speaker. The acoustics in this room is really great.
Of all the movies, it has to be ‘A Christmas Story,’ and it’s right at my feet. Is this a miracle?
Should I open it? No, I can’t. I am already scarred enough for a lifetime. The father-daughter relationship is ruined, romance is ruined, and now I don’t want to ruin Christmas for me. But the case is already half opened. Would it hurt to take a peek? I guess not. I won't read the title if it’s a porno.
I pick it up, open the case, and quickly close it after just a glance. It’s neither a movie DVD nor a porno. Just a plain, unlabeled DVD like the unnamed section at the bar.
My curiosity is already piqued by now. I have to at least check it out to know what’s in it. It could be anything—a family secret, important business documents, formula of Coca-Cola. The possibilities are endless here.
I take a deep sigh and put the DVD in the player without giving it any more thought.
“Hey, Fucker!”
It’s me—the skinny, long hair, cocky, young me—on the 200-inch screen.
“Good . . . You are doing very good.” He looks down while the camera is still pointing at his face.
“I believe my business plan has worked and you are rolling in dollars by now. So, congratulations!”
That kid on the screen is barely 20, but he is so full of himself. Look at the smug look on his face.
“I know why you are watching this video, Brandon. You are all grown up now. You must have fallen in love.”
Holy fuck! Is this some sort of time traveling shit?
“Now, you listen to me, asshole!” He brings his face closer. “You cannot fall in love. If you do, all the things will end for you. You will get married and fuck the same pussy again and again until your dick falls off. And if you fuck someone else during the marriage, then you are screwed. Be ready to say goodbye to the major chunk of your money in the divorce. And the fat kid that you will have would be nothing but a pain in the ass for life.”
I am seeing myself for the first time—totally candid. I cannot believe what I dick I was. I am sorry, Mom and Dad, but that’s on you. You raised an asshole.
“That’s why I am making this video to show what you will be missing out on if you get married.” He then turns the camera away from his face to the bed. “How are things going down there? Don’t be greedy. Share it!” Two blondes are on the bed—under the sheet and kissing each other. “Say hi to the future me.”
“Hi, Brandon,” the girls say in unison and blow a flying kiss for the camera.
“That’s the best you could do. Come on, ladies! The future me is lost. He is looking for something more than this. Show some titties. Shake some booties.”
The girls oblige, pulling the sheet down off their naked bodies, and nuzzle on each other’s boobs before turning around and twerking their asses for the camera.
He zooms in on the view—trying his best to leave me a nice erotic message from the past.
I am not going to lie—the view is magnificent.
“Tell me you are not hard right now?” he says, turning the camera back on him.
I put my hand on the crotch. “I am not!”
What the hell! Why I am not hard? Is something wrong with me?
No, it can’t be. I was hard in the balcony, imagining myself with the tall naked blonde.
“Fuck! You are very goo
d.”
He turns the camera down. Two more blonde girls are in the room, on their knees, sucking his cock and balls. He holds one of the girl’s head and blows his load in her mouth.
“Good girl. Now share it with Jordan. She also put quite an effort into draining me.”
The girl with the white load in her mouth moves her face closer to the other blonde on her knees. They are about to snowball and . . .
I have seen enough. I shut the TV off, take the DVD out, and break it in half. Now I know why I was welcomed at my balcony with women shoes. Being a womanizer is one thing, but I was a sex freak. Let’s hope I am not on the sex offender list.
GOOD NEWS—I AM NOT on the sex offender list.
I was so sure I would be, but glory to the lord—I am not. I just finished looking it up online.
More good news—I have a library.
You don’t believe it?
Look around.
I am as surprised as you are right now.
I know it’s not much. Just a couple hundred books. It’s not as spacious as the gym and the home—pardon me—porn theater. But at least it’s something. And you know what they say about books. ‘They are the light of knowledge.’ And I have a couple hundred of those torches of knowledge in this confined space.
I pick the thickest looking book for reading—‘Technical indicator for stock trading and investing.’ The title alone is enough to add a couple of ounces, but it feels awfully light in my hands. Could I have unlocked my muscle power with only one dumbbell curl?
I open the book, flip the title, foreword, copyright—the usual not time worthy pages—and reaches straight to the first chapter.
It’s a good book. Well written. Easy to understand technical lingo. Author has nicely put it together. It’s true what they say. Size matters. Few pages in, and I am proud to choose this book on the basis of its size.
And the rest of the book is hollow—completely hollow. It’s not entirely useless though. It’s carrying four packs of weed. So, it must be worth something.
I put the book back on the shelf and open another one. It’s hollow too, only some pills inside. Could it be oxy? In another one, I find an ounce of white powder—probably cocaine.
It’s like the porn room all over again. I am finding it the hard way that looks can be deceiving. This room is nothing more than a hiding spot for drugs. No knowledge of light in here. Just the knowledge of drug abuse.
Jeremy was right earlier. I was leading my life like the first half of his life.
“AAAH!” I SCREAM WHEN I open the door to the next room.
I don’t know the purpose of this room in my luxurious penthouse is. It’s creepy, it’s dark, and has a stone brick wall—much like a prison of some old castle. It’s giving me chills.
My pupils are getting adjusted to the light now, and I see the Saint Andrew's Cross with its best friend, Spanking bench. And just like that, I am embarrassed by my past some more.
It’s my sex dungeon. No expenses are spared in building this—I can tell you that. Apart from the usual—chain, whips, mask, shackle, hanging on the wall—this room also has plenty of sex toys and equipment. There is a bondage bed, a throne, a fuck machine, sex swing. But what sticks out the most is the hanging steel cage.
“I heard your scream. What happened?” Jeremy arrives panting.
“What is this, Jeremy?” With a tilt of my head followed by rolling of eyes, I gesture at the room. God! I can’t even look at it.
“The Cage? I told you it’s a little too much when you bought it. But you just laughed at my face and threatened to make me its first prisoner.”
“I am sorry about that . . .” That’s the 47th time I apologized to him since I woke up from the coma. But I still feel there is a long way to go. “. . . but I am not talking just about the cage. What’s with the whole room?”
“Sir, it’s perfectly normal to spice things up in sex life. You have nothing to be embarrassed about. I am pro sex dungeon myself.”
“Does co-op board even know that I have a sex dungeon in my apartment?”
“Well . . . yes. They did object, but . . .”
“But?” I prepare myself to hear who is next in the long list of people I have wronged.
“Do you remember the woman that tried to scratch your face in the elevator?”
“The middle age lady off her knockers? Yep, I remember her. She was this close in gauging my eyes out.”
“She was Katie Shale, the president of the co-op board. Alongside her, was her husband, Randall Shale. As the president, she objected and send you a notice. In retaliation, you befriended her husband and invited him over for drinks. When he was completely plowed with alcohol, you shot a few photographs and videos of him in comprising position with two prostitutes in this very same dungeon. ‘If the dungeon goes, your presidency goes’—I believe that was the message you sent to her when you forwarded her those photos and videos. Long story short, their marriage is on the rocks since then, and she hates you for ruining her marriage just to save your sex dungeon.”
“I hit the jackpot. Yay! I am a blackmailer and a home wrecker too.” I mock myself.
What a prick I was? A marriage hangs in the balance because I couldn’t let go of a sex dungeon.
Say what you want to say about my past self. I was an ass. I have belittled people. I have played mental games with innocent for my personal amusement. But you can’t deny that the guy knew how to get the job done. He didn’t take no for an answer. That’s the first, and probably the only thing I like about Brandon 1.0.
“These fuck machines are giving me the creeps.” I cringe. “Lock this room for the time being. I’ll decide what to do with it later.”
“As you say.” He nods and closes the door.
“Does this penthouse even have a bathroom or just rooms?” I tightly cross my leg. I need to pee for so long, but I have yet to find a bathroom in this Atlantis of an apartment.
“That’s funny.” Jeremy laughs.
It’s not even that funny, and he is laughing like I am the next Jerry Seinfeld. And yes, I know about Jerry Seinfeld. How can I forget about the person, reading whose net worth gave me goosebumps? I held the Forbes magazine before my face, close to my eyes to see if there was a decimal point somewhere in his almost 10 figure net worth.
There wasn’t.
“Sir, there are six full baths in this penthouse. Let me show you all of them.”
“I don’t have six dicks to pee from. Point me to the nearest one,” I hastily say as it becomes difficult for me to hold it in much longer.
“Your bedroom is next door.” Next door to sex dungeon?! How convenient! “It has an en-suite bathroom. Why don’t you go freshen up while I lay your night clothes on your bed?
“I can take my clothes out from the wardrobe, Jeremy. Thank you very much. God, do you even tuck me in the bed at night?”
“Only once,” he says, remembering. “You were too drunk to even stand straight that night. But you did manage to throw up on me quite efficiently. Not in the toilet, not in the basin, not on the floor—straight on me, twice.”
“Now, look who is joking around?” I say with a grin.
Jeremy shakes his head in a no, and I add one more thing in my mental list to make it up to him.
Chapter 10
I AM GOING THROUGH my wardrobe, wondering what to wear tonight. They all look new to me. All professional wear—cotton shirts, slim pants, made in Italy suits. And then, there is a collection of watches. They look expensive—all twenty-seven of them. Some of them are diamond studded. As always, I am unaware of the prices of the things I own.
Behind all the clothes, my gaze lands on a safe. It’s installed in the wall itself. No keypad. No lock. Just a fingerprint scanner. I assume it’s mine as it’s in my bedroom. Still, to be sure, I put my right-hand index finger on the scanner. It glows green during scanning, then turns red, and the safe opens with the sound of a buzzer.
Neat!
I look
inside and find deeds of numerous properties I own—my penthouse, one suburban home in Long Island, two in Coney Island, an apartment in Tribeca, and my office in Manhattan. There are also a few bond certificates worth a quarter million dollars. A statement of my checking account shows a balance of 3.2 million dollars until two months ago. And a flash drive.
With all the things that I have in this safe, I am worth somewhere around $10 million—and that’s just my personal net worth. I don’t know how much my business is worth or what type of sector I am in.
“I didn’t know you were rich.” I hear a familiar voice.
I don’t have to turn around to see who is behind me. The fragrance in the room is saying it all.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” I say while putting the papers back into the safe.
I really want to talk to her, but I am trying to be assertive here. After all, she left the hospital without saying goodbye. She treated me like a stranger. That hurts!
“Why?” she said sweetly.
“Don’t try to be innocent like you don’t know anything,” I say with a raised voice, and try to be a dominant one in our bizarre relationship.
I turn around, and there goes my dominance out of the window. My assertiveness takes a graceful exit, and I lean against my wardrobe as I look at her.
She is on my bed, wearing tight black leather pants, a black lace crop top, and black stiletto. Her all-in-black look is going very well with her milky-white complexion and her side-swept golden hair.
My God! She is beautiful.
“Come here.” She curls her finger and then taps on the bed, gesturing me to sit with her.
And like a pussy-whipped man that I am, I oblige and quietly sit next to her like a puppy waiting for further instructions.
“I am sorry I had to leave earlier from the hospital without saying goodbye. I had somewhere to be.”
“No-no. You don’t have to say sorry. It’s my fault. I don’t even give you a chance to explain yourself and raised my voice at you. Please forgive me.”
Dreamy Distraction (Quest for Love Book 1) Page 7
