Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  My point is, when the girl is asking me what I want to eat for dinner, I’m thinking about pussy while she’s cataloguing continental, Asian, or Latin dishes. When she’s proposing a serial or movie after said dinner, I’m thinking hardcore porno and then some chauvinistic and egotistical Leno or Letterman jokes before calling it a night while she’s trying to remember the name of the handsome actor in a shitty sitcom or softcore drama. When she’s asking me how I like my eggs for breakfast, I’m wondering if she’s taken the little yellow pill to control her eggs while she’s worried about her morning breath and such. Now that you understand better why divorce rates are so high, let’s move forward.

  To start manipulating, I let out a gasp of surprise before I leafed through the nonexistent groundbreaking information of the pages, lifting an eyebrow in sudden understanding. “Ah,” I murmured, bobbing my head up and down. I lisped, “That’s how it sold like hotcakes. Putz that I am.”

  “Good evening, sir.” The voice was warm like maple syrup. Final rays of sunlight blazed through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind her so I could barely make out the girl’s face.

  “Good evening.” I adjusted my tie as I rose to my feet. Now I was the solitary jaguar that had landed back on its feet, polished and rejuvenated, in stalk-and-ambush stealth.

  I stared mutinously at her as she was tweaking the flower arrangement, appreciating the silky gloss of her hair. She wore it loose, and it reached all the way down to her narrow waist. She had big brown eyes and this cute, wide-open face I found fairly beautiful, long-legged with a small waist. Very doable—fuckable might be a trendier word—I could have some fun here. Who knows, depending on her sensibilities, she might have some fun too.

  “Doesn’t it look nice, sir?” She giggled in that consummately Japanese manner. It was a crisp, curled sound that gently caressed skin, made more compelling by the sight of light creases fanning her sparkling eyes.

  I quirked an eyebrow, and with a gentle touch of my hand on her wrist I said, “Oh, it certainly does.” Underneath my Kiton wool crepe trousers, my cock was also thickening in agreement as I stood before her.

  “Mr. Turner, he will see you now,” a woman with a British accent announced formally.

  I stiffened, my breath catching audibly. Down boy, I chastised myself as I followed the CEO’s new PA.

  The woman’s considerable height scared me out my wits. She wore thick black eyeglasses, and the corners of her mouth tilted up in a decent smile as she showed me to the office. I was surprised when she started to put the knife at me. “American womanizers are a dime a dozen.”

  Eyes are usually the biggest tell, but hers were hard for me to read through the thick spectacles. I heaved my shoulders. “Crabby much? Beating around the bush with someone I want to fuck isn’t my style.”

  “If you must know, I was rooting for an exotic STD to come your way.”

  It usually took me a full fifteen minutes to dislike someone, but this woman was narrowing that window considerably. She was a too tall, thin middle-aged woman with indented cheeks. Undoubtedly caused by years of sucking it up to rich eunuchs, coming short of trapping even them.

  I reminded myself to keep my cool. Retorting would be the fastest way to screw up. “Domo arigato, Ms. Buzzkill,” I told her, focusing on the man who stood in the corridor.

  Takahashi was a distinguished man, his swagger a mix between Genghis Khan and a Samurai. He was sixty-five, with silver hair that’d recently begun to recede, deep-set slivers of almond shaped eyes beneath heavy black eyebrows, a high forehead, and a modest jaw. Keeping a stiff-arm distance, I trailed behind him like an obsequious corporate executive would follow a boss, down a lushly carpeted corridor and through cherry wood double doors. Biggest corner office I’d ever seen. It was a strange mix of ultramodern and traditional Japanese design. The vast expanse of chrome and glass was blindingly bright, shibori-style carpets on marble. The walls were smooth grey slate and the view of the city beyond the glass was filtered through fine metal mesh.

  Takahashi went to the corner where the floor was laid with traditional black edged tatami matting. There was a crisp astringency of jasmine as plumes of white smoke floated from a corner. A low table supported elaborate displays of seasonal flowers and foliage, most likely arranged in accordance with the strict Shinto rules of ikebana. A geisha sat kneeling in front of another low lacquer table, minutely adjusting the various implements on it.

  She didn’t look up at us, as she should.

  I was taken aback when he asked, “Please, will you sit and have tea with me, Turner-san?” This was the formal language and tone used to invite someone to a Tea Ceremony. Very few businessmen practiced it with elegance anymore and, moreover, late night was an unusual time to be indulging in this ancient ritual. Being an American, I was nervous about how much I should show of my proficiency; to know something is to have power over it. It wasn’t only the host, but the guest too who had to follow a very strict protocol during the ceremony, showing off was highly impolitic and considered beyond the pale.

  You must wonder how an overspoiled Bostonian dweeb like me knows about ancient Japanese customs, so I will explain. My nanny was a delicate Japanese woman, and my mother was fond of tea. I grew up in an Orwellian, tyrannical household, long story short, little Alexander had to attend Tea Ceremonies day in, day out. Sucked balls. And I must say, to a young boy with an uneducated palate, the tea tasted awful.

  Attempting to feign nervousness as I bowed back to him in a servile manner, I answered, “I am honored, Takahashi-sama, that you have chosen me to enjoy tea with you.”

  “Please, have a seat. I will be right back.”

  Entering the circle of positive light she gave off, I knelt down to the geisha’s left. She bowed formally before continuing with her preparations. Peeping Tom that I was, I told myself not to look tactlessly at the collar of her vintage kimono. It looked old, like clothing from the Meiji or Edo era. To proceed with the ritual, she inspected the implements sprawled on the table, immaculately wiping each one carefully with a brocaded white cloth. Her fastidiousness regarding the Mingei patterned porcelain was to the point of being clinical.

  By the time Takahashi returned, she was checking to see if the water was boiling in the black, cast-iron kettle, and used a tea scoop to spoon the bitter green tea powder into a bowl. Each movement she made contained absolute control and autonomous grace. No drop fell onto the sleeve of her kimono as she held it formally while ladling boiling water into the bowl with the tea.

  Takahashi and I exchanged pleasantries about the precarious US stock market and the moribund Chinese stock market—despite a fast-growing economy. We watched the geisha when she picked up the bamboo whisk and began to agitate the water and tea mixture into a lovely pale green froth.

  Here’s what you need to know about a Japanese Tea Ceremony. There are two types of teas they serve: usucha and koicha. They are basically the same, except that usucha is considered a ‘thin’ tea, individually served to each guest, and ‘koicha’ is a ‘thick’ tea, colloquially shared among guests, looks like pea soup. There are different opinions as to the reason why they prepare multiple batches and share the same bowl of koicha. Pick your favorite, because all of them are equally persuasive and vague. One reason is to shorten the ceremony, another one is that it’s difficult to prepare one portion, and yet another reason might be that sharing one bowl of tea contributes to that damn feeling of togetherness.

  As for myself, I’d come to enjoy both thick and thin tea. The former always transported me to a calm moment where a host and a guest tried to focus on one bowl, and tradition. The reward came with the latter, where I got to relax and enjoy an individual bowl of thin tea. It’s that perfect blend of formality and casualness that I had yet to discover elsewhere. Although the Japanese didn’t recognize The Great Equalizer as such, their Tea Ceremony brought about the exact spirit. It didn’t matter if you lived in a palace or a d0dgy shack, were drop-dead gorgeous or butt ugly, knowing
how to consume tea is simple and you either know how or you don’t. Isn’t that kind of deep?

  Okay, let’s not get lost. You can steer the guy away from shallowness, but you can’t take the shallowness out of him. Let me bring you back to my host, and the beautiful geisha’s ritual movements.

  Having whisked a bowl of thick tea to the proper consistency, she paused, her hands in her lap, waiting for the liquid to stop swirling.

  When the tea was ready, she slid the bowl over to the guest.

  I raised it to my lips and let a little of the warm liquid trickle over my tongue. Bitterness was what it tasted like, rich and sweet. What my nanny managed to teach me, after years, is that the milled green tea powder—called matcha—was supposed to give off a sweet, rich, grassy aroma. If it were a low-grade matcha, the awfulness crept in, especially in thick tea.

  I tilted the bowl upward and drank in little drafts. Aware that Takahashi was observing my every movement and my every mistake, I made sure to thank him, rotate the bowl, and wipe it properly before passing it on.

  Takahashi consumed the tea carefully, as a food critic would digest an entrée. Picking up the bowl, he bowed, lifted it to his lips, and took in the fragrant steam before taking a sip. He swished the tea around in his mouth for a few seconds before swallowing.

  The intensity of his observation pricked at my skin the second time around. I bowed and lifted the bowl to my lips, drank, then set it down again on the table. The extreme thing about any thick tea was that you’d either love it or loathe it after ten minutes. I squarely fell into the dislike category with this one. I couldn’t politely spit it out, so I swallowed with a smile. Most likely girls did the same thing whenever they had to swallow semen. Payback, right? I smiled as I lifted the bowl and began to wipe it, preparing to give it back.

  Takahashi said, “Well-heeled, well-educated, well-traveled.”

  I bowed stiffly and slid the bowl to him.

  Fucking Xanax made me feel like dead weight. The air had grown a bit thick and it seemed to buzz around my ears.

  Takahashi, who was in the middle of bringing the bowl of tea to his mouth, put it back down on the table. For a moment, silence reigned in the room, and then he gave me a wry chuckle. “How do Americans…ah yes…birds of a feather, no? I’ve never seen a young man accomplice as much as you have in such a short natural life. Perseverance, which you never lack, needs to be maintained, and the rest is just semantics.”

  Sweet Jesus, you should have seen my bat-shit crazy expression. I was blushing like a virgin on prom night, and all of that over what a spry old man told me.

  Takahashi finished drinking. The geisha smiled as she retrieved the bowl and discarded it. She began preparing a batch of thin tea, delicate hands busying themselves with the whisking process.

  From the shadowed far end of the office, I heard a door open and what sounded like clapping. Slow, loud clapping, the kind that gave you chills. “So it goes, Takahashi. Flying high these days?” a stentorian voice resonated behind us. The man advanced as he clapped, and the painful elegance with which he moved froze me. “Drinking tea with my progeny?”

  The upshot came out of left field, making my mouth twitch with a sudden urge to laugh. I felt a hand on my shoulders, the grip persistently firm, the unmistakable musk of Houbigant’s Duc de Vervins hitting my nostrils. I was staring at cheekbones that were cut high, tan skin, and thick black hair with silver bits littering it. Imperious good looks. The kind that made bumbling fools of countless people, taking the audience with it.

  He said, “The toughest steel is forged in the hottest fire, isn’t it? I’ve punished you long enough. It’s time to end this, champ.” His sigh was accompanied by shudders, rolling off him in deep waves, as if discharging tons of bottled up tension.

  This man had taught me strength of character above all other things. Debates and hypotheticals were common sports between us; he’d grill me until I presented a satisfactory scenario. For my mentor, losing or draws weren’t viable options because they weren’t champion material.

  “Thank you, sir.” I must have had dollar signs in my eyes. Must have looked like a twelve-year-old boy whose father just gave him the keys to the Silverado as I was being ushered to a room in which coeval wing chairs encircled the periphery of a small dais elevated in the center of the space.

  David Caruthers grinned at me. “Let’s not dicker over details. Rite of passage, Turner.” He offered me his hand to shake, and I took it. His fingers were long and cool, nails immaculately manicured.

  I couldn’t possibly remember much about the flight back to Boston. I could neither tell you what I was wearing nor who was accompanying me. I remember I had food in the Boeing business jet, then I drank myself drunk, then I was snorting the sweetest snow from the perfect sweep of a brunette’s butt cheek, then I was slumped in a pose that reminded me of the Death of Marat.

  And that was that.

  Back in the groove.

  Elena Anderson

  The Girl in Action

  At 10 PM, my alarm clock, blaring the evening’s engagement, woke me. I reached over and took a good whack at it, and then my head sank back into the pillow.

  “Disco nap’s over.” I got a nudge in my ribcage. “Freshen up, lazybones. Let’s get jiggy with it.”

  A tortured whine crackled in my throat as I shifted. My iPhone vibrated at the same time. I grabbed it and read the text. Friends who were at some epic rager sent me a group picture. I flicked through the applications until I came to WhatsApp, launched it, and started typing. I always used full words. Text language—just like accumulating friends on social network sites—was a joke. Aristotle had said it best with; a friend to all is a friend to none, hadn’t he?

  Maria squealed. “What are you doing?” She tried to snatch my phone, but I yanked it away.

  Being from New Jersey, she acted like a loon at times, channeling her inner flower child.

  Being from Boston, I had that groovy attitude most of the time. “Texting JR back. Town car?”

  She didn’t answer. I followed her into the living room where the TV was on. Clutching her belly, it looked like she pondered the question literally. Saturday Night Live’s credits could hardly qualify as interesting.

  “Maria?”

  She said, “Yes,” with remained animation, nodding efficiently. “Get your groove on, time to partay! This will be a legen—wait for it—dary year!”

  Maria was a piece of work. From the moment I met her, I knew she’d had cosmetic surgery. Her celestial nose was just too perfect to be God’s handiwork, and her top-heavy figure left little doubt as to how much she’d paid for it. These days, plastic surgery in LA was common practice. The lingua franca in 2010: nothing that really matters, matters. Fame whores notwithstanding, it was a good year. Catch my drift? You’ve all heard about the KK sisters, so there’s no point denying it. Did people seriously care about the PPP exchange-rate? Or that plutonium was good for power but bad for war? No, they didn’t, as I mentioned, they cared about socialites in the pits and face-lifts. And they cared about whose garb celebrities wore on the Oscar Red Carpet. Just watch prominent news channels. Guilty as charged, but I rather watched to see which journalist had the balls to ask famous people about the type of underwear they wore, or if they went commando.

  2010 also happened to be my last year at Stanford. Rather, I couldn’t wait for the semester to be over so I could go back to Boston. For me, getting a degree wasn’t hard-won. I was lucky enough to be a good student, mostly because I was a bullshitter. Inheriting a lot of my father’s genes felt amazing, and it showed. I was scrappy. I could pull a Leeroy Jenkins from miles away. I went to class unprepared because I had this gift to finish up assignments that were due the next morning, and a few times, due the very same day. One maelstrom of information after the other, I kept thriving on procrastination and manipulation. If I decided, let’s say, to finish my project days before, nothing would happen. No thoughts, no trademark inferences—nothing creake
d through the passages of my brain. Inspiration hid like a frightened puppy until it was almost the hour of truth, then like magic, images exploded into words, creative opinions and quotations strung neatly and evenly across an appropriate timeline. I wished there were an achievement named after me.

  Damn, I’m going too far off track.

  I selected a Proenza Schouler 90s mod dress that was cut much too high above the knee. I had no—if not a rudimental—grasp about how to wind a chignon, so I forwent a sweeping hairstyle. Maria and I went to an upscale martini bar and lounge before going to a nightclub on Wilcox Avenue. From all the names on our club-hopping list, this was the one: a place where commoners dissolved into nothing. The entrance was quite the spectacle with crisscrossing searchlights, velvet ropes, and a celebrity ready red carpet.

  I dutifully followed Maria out of the town car and toward the entrance, swinging my hips with every step I took. A line of people that knifed around an entire block met us, so I considered we’d have to grease someone’s palm because express entries weren’t for all and sundry. Maria disdained the line and approached the nearest bouncer—a large, bald African American who wore diamonds in both ears—greeting him formally.