by JR King
Mind you, a Republican, but his piffle made our ears bleed less. It wasn’t just that I used to be Republican. Living in a nonofficial red state, I’d grown a thick skin. Politics played a huge part in my career, so I knew when to talk Republican for my company, and even with all my anger issues, I’d never lost my temper because of politics. Greg Jenkins, the man before me, was a cartoonish character, a gawky man drowning in assets, drunk like a skunk, spinning the funniest yarns at cocktail parties. I could tell he wore his hair short in order to de-emphasize the balding. A widower who—to put it politically correct—was rumored to be unnaturally close to his niece, and he was always accompanied by his young daughter, Miranda. This is going to sound uncharitable, but Miranda was pale-white with scads of rouge and eyeliner, clear indications of being a motherless child. Killer bod, though. Having lost my own mother, I felt for her.
“All men may be born equal, but that is where it ends, Mr. Jenkins,” Aidan said quietly. “Some are born into wealth, some into education, some into despair. Some have the world handed to them via a lucky draw from either the genetic pool or money, or both. Am I a lesser being because my great grandfather, unlike Tony’s ancestor, didn’t have the foresight to start a pharmaceutical company out of his garage?”
“Amen to that,” a girl mumbled. Miranda, who was standing equidistant from the group, played the intruding fly on the wall. I signaled her to join us with an elegant crook of a forefinger, meanwhile drinking some of my Balvenie. Her puny figure shivered in trepidation, dancing eyes trying to mask her nervousness as she moved toward me.
Intimidated by my presence?
This was my age-old quest into perception of myself. Not a male-power-trip thing, I was never desperate to be relevant. I was just curious about people’s view of me, however iniquitous. Were they subjective rather than objective? It’s easy to think that what went on in my mind is all that was relative, but it wasn’t. Taking a hard look in the mirror and accepting whatever truth of existence mattered just as much as people’s perception of me.
I asked, “How’s the Chardonnay, Miranda?”
She sipped sophisticatedly. Took in the wine, swirled it around in her mouth like a professional, and swallowed. The way her throat worked with the drink had a little effect on me. “It’s strong, full-bodied, high-handed oak that uplifts the vegetal of the grape…a bit young for a wine?” Her expression? Puckered, unconfident, almost like a scaredy-cat.
“Quite a palate you’ve got.”
A look of surprise appeared on her face. “I-I…it’s very kind of you to say so, Mr. Turner.”
Just like Miranda here, many peeps seemed surprised to find me gentle and kind. I had no official answer as to why everyone feared to be treated like shit by me. Other than my gym-and-food regime and my prêt-à-porter mode of dress, I was easygoing. “Please, call me Alex.”
“Alex,” she repeated. “Alex it is.”
I smiled at her innocent gaze, wondering if she had the intelligence to really look beyond the veil of dangerousness in mine.
“Is she of proper age?” asked some old hag.
That hit my button. I took a moment to catalogue the woman’s appearance. The exaggerated grey eyeliner, fake eyelashes, and caked swipe of orange across her chubby cheekbones were embarrassing enough, not to mention the bright red lipstick that did nothing to enhance her thin lips.
Greg made an air quote. “Ludicrous. Soldiers fight from stem to stern and die at the age of eighteen, but to quaff even just one alcoholic drink isn’t legally permitted at the same age? Then dying shouldn’t be either.”
I was surprised to find out that a congressman, who was blustery to the point of obnoxious, and I saw eye to eye about the legal age of drinking.
For all its practicality, I didn’t know what to say, I just knew silence wasn’t the best answer. But, Tony, as usual, beat me to it. “So what if she isn’t of age? Move on or stay square.”
Replied the God-fearing hag, “You’re a vain one.”
Tony spoke through a whiter-than-white smile. “Do I look like a guttersnipe to you? I employ fifty thousand people. I’m one of the richest men in the country. My company is privately owned and constantly rises on the Best Companies to Work For list. So fuck yeah, I think I’ve earned the right to a little vanity, just like Miranda has earned the right to enjoy herself a little after all that volunteer work for the Children’s Hospital.”
I attempted to stifle my grin, and failed miserably.
The other woman who rounded out our circle fired back, “That vulgar attitude right there is what’s wrong with this country.” This one had obviously once been a knockout, but she’d grown old a little too hard. Mal-baisée, most likely she got off on—lesbian or gay—gang-bang extravaganzas. “Liberal doesn’t mean you’re a better person, just like conservative doesn’t mean I’m a bucktoothed bigot.”
No expletives, this time we all knew that a silent departure was the best answer.
Feet shuffled left and right and I said, “Miranda, if you ever need to talk to someone, I’m all yours.” Maybe it was a dick move.
“I understand.” Her distant politeness suggested I had bestirred a sore subject. “Thank you so much, Alex.”
Maybe it wasn’t a dick move.
Instead of tracing to the booming buffet area, I reversed my course toward a more intimate place. Just to eschew the crowd for a few moments, I loitered in a lounge that looked out over the city. Because the world is a different sight from a higher perspective, I had a thing for views from above. Especially when seen through permasealed floor-to-ceiling windows. I loved the landscapes of mountains, deserts, forests, valleys, and rivers, but there’s something different about the spread of a city across a civilized landscape.
A sturdy clatter of stiletto heels on tiles made me turn around. My heart rate skyrocketed, chest expanding significantly. In the decadent rays of my thoughts, I saw myself removing the jeweled Brian Atwood sandals and the red Giambattista Valli asymmetrical drape gown. A particular memory came to mind. Most of the time my memories surfaced in squirrelly layers, playing like a film, as if portraying the story to someone else. Other times they were gulping glimpses that tried escaping the diarized boxes I’d locked them into. By the time they escaped, they were unrecognizable, as if a stranger with my physique had lived the moment. This memory, however, was fully detailed.
“This one,” the woman pointed at one of the paintings in the hallway, “is supreme. Reminds me of The Treachery of Images. The unalloyed beauty of an object never erodes when it stands alone.” I noted that she had a full upper class British accent.
I removed my shoe and started beating her with it.
Just kidding. I chose the lesser of two evils.
Here she was, my Valerie, her voice devoid of its usual flippancy. “Ceci n’est pas un vaporisateur de parfum. A beautiful bottle, yet no perfume in it to stimulate olfactory. Lighthearted surrealism I’d say, fits in this couloir, but it’s unfit for a seating room.”
“As an artist, you should know about verisimilitude and Sade; chiaroscuro and Dante; simulacra and Magritte. And your friend painted this.”
A frown line marred the skin between her eyebrows. “You do remember me.”
I blew out my breath in a rush. Not to sound pig-headed, but there was a clear measure of physical beauty when it came to women, and it was unique to every person. Red-blooded males weren’t fuckwits; we objectified women at first sight, the rest followed. I met many beautiful women on a daily basis, fucked a clear-cut number of them—don’t ask how many. Models were walking train-wrecks, actresses were nice, and artists—like Valerie—were so deep that they fucked you up for life. This kindred spirit had seen potential in me at a time I felt slightly bereft of it. She was the type of Southern belle you found on the cover of Town & Country magazine, a woman who was winning the war against aging. “How could I ever forget, Valerie?”
“Elope your work-a-day life a little bit and spend a weekend with me at the E
nglish countryside.” She poked me in the ribs with her elbow. “Smell the roses, that will put your dogged perseverance for raising profits aside.”
I took that to mean she was unhappily married. “Basic human nature is to want more, Valerie. Downshifting isn’t part of my vocabulary.”
“Don’t be a chicken-shitted son of a bitch.” She looked questioningly at me, for longer than she needed to if she meant a word she said.
A flash of her bare chest briefly popped in my mind, but I had the good grace to keep my eyes locked on hers. “What’s it to you? How’s that milquetoast husband of yours? Still prefers a cup of tea over Scotch?”
“He’s a Master of Wine. Ever heard of Berry Bros & Rudd?” Valerie fiddled with the low neckline that struggled to contain her cleavage. I could see the creamy flesh right above a very erect nipple. “Go educate yourself, candy-ass,” she crowed.
Irritation welled up inside me. There was no point in wasting any time. Pushing her against the nearest wall, I said, “Fuck you, Valerie. Fuck you. He’s nothing but a jumped-up wine connoisseur.” I hiked up her skirt and prised apart her legs. My voice was right beside her ear, my tongue teasing the shell of her earlobe. “Fancy a bit of how’s your father? I’d bet my life that you’re wet. Wet for a simpleton.”
Oh, she was.
Her brown eyes locked onto my reproachable grey ones with fascination. “Oh God.” Her ragged, strained breathing spurred me on to tease her labia with cruel little squeezes, rubbing her clit until she could no longer contain breathless yelps escaping her mouth. A few seconds later, her back arched and her muscles went rigid, the darkness of her pupils swallowing the brown of her irises whole.
The surge of irony overtaking made me laugh out loud, and the coolness in my eyes was clear. Whenever old girlfriends set another foot in the door, I pushed them out so fast they crashed against the wall. “No snogs. Go back to your husband and his pharma-assisted dick, Valerie.”
Soon thereafter, Katherine, Aidan, Tony, and I got our stupid-glad asses in a Bentley stretch. Immediately the discussions began, tasty bits of gossips about the people we’d encountered tonight flying around. As guys with a few drinks under the belt, and particularly in the presence of a pretty girl, none of us were into discussing earnest matters. Gossip it was. There’s no shame in doing this, that’s what limousine rides after a cocktail event are meant for. That and a pre-drink before having a last drink at someone’s place, or in our case, going for a bite and general mischief at a Barbara Lynch restaurant in the South End.
My boys and me tipped like rockstars. Consequently, even without a reservation, the four-top and flow of Chablis and oysters flavored ten ways couldn’t come any better.
I liked oysters because they were flavored by what they fed on, and the ones grown in salty waters tended to have a clean, sharp flavor. Of the Wellfleets, Blue Points, Chesapeakes, Cotuits, Malpeques, and other types along the country’s shores, locavore-oriented connoisseurs, like me, extolled the virtues of the Wellfleet oyster because of estuaries with clean, contaminant-free areas, cold waters, fast-moving tides, and high salinity. Genetically, Wellfleets were plump and strong-shelled with that distinctive balance of creamy sweetness and salty brine, simple and perfect for a special evening.
The group let me have it. “Here’s to you and here’s to me. And here’s to all the girls that lick me where I pee!”
“Oh, me, me! Manny, Moe, Jack, I’ve got a good one!” Katherine begged, waving a chartreuse purse.
“It better be good,” I told her.
“Listen to this.” Throat cleared, she yelled, “To nipples…because without them, titties wouldn’t have a point!”
Nicely done, we all complimented her.
Aidan, “To the women that love us, to the women that don’t. To the women that fuck us, we love them the most.”
T0ny, “To honor. To getting honor. To keeping honor. And if you can’t come in her, come honor.”
Pretty basic what happened next.
Katherine kept toasting and tipping oysters. “To the hottest CEO!” How she could make eating fleshy bivalves look so elegant remained a mystery.
Tony kept complaining. “Hey, what about me?”
Aidan kept shaking his head. “I can’t remember why I became a lawyer.”
I kept swallowing and licking saltwater and lemon juice off my lips. “We should finish these before all the ice melts. More wine!”
We all kept going hard, kicking it like there’s no tomorrow. An hour or so later, with one step I knew I was loaded when I jerked to a standing to go to the bathroom. I moved my stiff legs as fast as I could, my pupils flaring when I opened the door. At the toilet bowl I got my zipper down not a moment too soon. Leaning against the wall, I started to get that prickly feeling in my limbs, my bloodstream’s way of telling me that the party was over.
If only Elena were here…
The stream of urine hadn’t abated much, so I got worried I was pissing myself to death. God, I was that drunk. Finally, I gave myself a good old shake, reholstered the package, and zipped up my pants.
Shuffling to the sink, I stared into the mirror that hung above it. I looked better than I felt. After handfuls of cold water to the face, I turned off the faucet and began to wipe my face.
Tony came to get me. “Crossed someone’s palm with silver. Back door, champ.”
Momentarily, Tony got rid of Katherine. In the Presidential suite of the Fairmont Battery Wharf, we availed ourselves of complimentary champagne and cigars.
Tall windows brought into panorama the cosmopolitan vibrancy of the wharf. “Why the hell did you guys bring me here?” I growled. “Kate’s waiting at my usual, isn’t she?”
Tony shrugged pissily. “You didn’t really think we’d bring you here for a Triple Dutch Rudder, did you?”
“We’re here,” Aidan pointed toward the lit-up private terrace, “to feast our well-hung dicks on that.”
Outside in the cold, two identically dressed brunettes were smoking menthols. Only for a second, I was fairly certain it was a hallucination. It wasn’t just that they looked smokingly hot and eerily identical in their little black peplum dresses, or that they were nearly hugging each other, it was the impracticality of Sisyphean odds. Mother of God, they had gloriously long raven hair, slender waists with small hips, and voluptuous behinds that didn’t bounce up and down as they moved. Tight. Taut. Gorgeous. Alabaster skinned goddesses. Classic all-American bone structure. Lips full and kissably pink. Their matching dresses were strapless and cut in a low sweetheart neckline that flaunted tits so small they bordered on vaguely taboo.
“I, hereby, declare it’s mating season,” gorillaed Aidan. Because this wasn’t suitable for sharing with just anyone, the curtains were drawn.
“Want some of that, champ?” Tony swept his hands toward the girls as they cat-walked inside. “Go get it, or else more for us, then.”
“There’s enough for the three of us. Where’d you guys find them?” As I spoke, the telltale illegality of the adolescent fantasies brewing in my brain barely shocked me. “How authentic are they?”
“Let’s ask them, shall we?” he answered.
What sounded like heaven to my ears might sounds disgusting to yours, but no hot-blooded guy would turn down the ultimate fantasy. What sane, heterosexual man doesn’t fantasize about having two gorgeous sisters at once? Forget Freud, try Nancy Friday. Men in Love. It all boils down to this: a sexual fantasy is a map of desire, mastery, escape, and obscuration; the navigational path we invent to steer ourselves between the reefs and shoals of anxiety, guilt, and inhibition.
Useful bit, the evening carried on exactly as we’d fantasized it would. Classy, intelligent, no name-calling, and a time and place we had to apply our education. Incestuous as it sounded, the three of us—as full-time swingers—had frequently been serviced by sisters, but never twins. A suite was the perfect venue. One located specially in the heart of the city so that we could lose ourselves in the hustle of traf
fic noises. Just imagine the cacophony of sirens and the blat of honking in the midst of tawdry hedonism. Perfect, no?
Eve and Eva, we found out after an increasingly flirtatious, erotic conversation, were perfectly identical twins with non-rhotic accents, their drawls equally sexy and sonorous. They might as well have been named Wi and Fi, because Tony, Aidan, and I felt an instant connection. The suite was a deal breaker for them. Their condo was in South Boston, a few miles from the Financial District. It was one of the four corner penthouses that enjoyed total privacy, boasting magnificent views of the Old Harbor and the Harbor Islands. When the invitations were made, only then did we remove our clothes and join them in the bedroom to spawn our depravity. No unsightly rolls of soft flesh—read: fat—at the base of their bellies. No moles or birthmarks that could tell them apart, not even the taste of their cunts. Also, they weren’t call girls, just sisters who did this type of thing often. They didn’t pleasure each other physically; witnessing men drool over their sibling bond turned them on.
Despite the amount of alcohol, my dick didn’t fail me. How could it? A subdued glow made it sweet but glorious to watch doppelgangers race warm tongues up the sides of our shafts and stage mock battles over who got to swallow whom whole before swallowing the sweetness of their labor. No rubbering up, too. I thanked the Lord for twins and blood tests and birth control, got Eve on all fours, and rubbed myself between the burnished curves of her behind while we both watched Tony and Aidan penetrate her doting sister concurrently. I breached the tight ring of muscle, and kept moving forward, slow and relentless until I was buried impossibly deep, embedded within her. I saw Eva’s sensitive flesh convulse about one big cock that hammered out a slick, rapid motion, the ringlet of her sphincter rippling around another equally spectacular one, dragging me over the edge. Her cries of delight augmented as Eve reached out to stroke her cheek, and then Eve herself cried out rapturously as my fingers and cock fucked her into a crashing wave of nirvana. The incestuousness of it all drove my passion even harder than the pleasure of indulging in a venerable fantasy. Hours later, I wasn’t sure which sister I was impaling until her sibling’s name ripped from her throat as she climaxed.
