Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  Frederic’s office was a large chunk of a corner on the top floor. There was curved glass and beige marble, no rococo additions. His wooden desk was too big for even a man his size, and the leather sofas were too plush for office furniture. Among the countless framed pictures in his office there was one of him with President Obama, another one with President Sarkozy, and even one with both George Bushes. When we became better acquainted with one another, one morning I asked him if he’d ever do a tryout for The Bachelor Senior, were ABC to consider the concept.

  He laughed and pinched my cheek. “You’re so cute. No wonder Michael came to see me.”

  There it was. Sara’s boyfriend, who was also my childhood friend, had validated my position in his family’s company.

  “What did Michael tell you, Fred?”

  He began twisting his necktie, laughed. “That he didn’t know you romantically at all. He wants to, but you’re unapproachable. In other words, the company would be safe from harassment lawsuits.”

  Not a joke, I’m afraid. Frederic was lewd. He loved ribald jokes and pulled them out in the company of men, women, and even kids. At my age, I could shrug off casual sexism. Whenever he saw me becoming maudlin, or if he got a hint I was in a morose mood, he’d be on top of me with corny, long-winded tales of his past, notably his exes.

  One morning, I was pulling apart a croissant, poking at the dissected bits and pieces as I pictured the face of you know who, and Frederic saw me.

  “Elenahhh! What’s his name?”

  Since I didn’t want to examine the feeling of anguish that question sent through me, I smiled sheepishly and pretended the dough wasn’t cooked all the way through.

  Later that day, he called me in his office.

  I fluffed my hair and made decent for presentation. I wore a pearl grey silk jacquard dress. Its A-line shape boasted a full knee length skirt. I caught a sight of myself in the window when I rose. Very good.

  I knocked on his door at 16:00 on the dot.

  He shouted, “Come in.” Voracious laughter ensued.

  Frederic was carrying a dainty black and white box with a pink ribbon, closed the door, and beseeched me to sit down on the cushy chesterfield sofa.

  “You, my dear, are sexually frustrated. Sate your frustration, quench your carnal thirst,” he quipped dramatically, and with a flourish he opened the box. “Now eat or I’ll put you over my knee!”

  “I might have pegged you wrong, Fred.” The dichotomy of a straight man being sexually bold was charming, and together we devoured penis-shaped pastries and had espressos. Right then it struck me that he’d become my friend.

  You must wonder why I’ve been telling you about Frederic. All of the above pedals to the end of October, and lunch with him at Sorellina.

  Hobbling toward Copley Square, a cold breeze pawed at me, the wind belting at my legginged legs. Frederic was running late so I chose to have a drink at the bar. A fair skinned girl with an impish nose and a stylish mop of ash blonde hair led me to an L-shaped white stone bar. I took in the black-and-white setting, dark brown accents, centerpiece wall, and listened to the sound of my heels clicking percussively on the polished floor. Fancy place, this eatery, floor-to-ceiling windows and backlit wall murals giving it that upscale Bostonian chic charm. I ordered a glass of champagne and tried to remember which socialite’s look the hostess was trying to emulate.

  “They have half bottles, you know,” a resinous, masculine voice said. “Wanna share?”

  A chill traveled up and down my spine. The voice slicing against the thrum of ongoing conversations drew me in. If curiosity kills the cat, so be it. I shouldered my purse and took a peek.

  The man beside me sported an arrogant veneer, juggernaut build, good looks, too. His eyes were colored an unusual shade of ultramarine, which knocked the wind out of my sails. Long fingers sifted through the thickness of sleek dark hair. His tall frame was covered in a perfectly tailored charcoal business suit with a subtle pinstripe that screamed it wanted to be ripped off and expose the muscular body within.

  I couldn’t help it, a small snicker bubbled out of my mouth staring at the contrast in this place. He maximized the scene by minimizing everyone and everything else. “Half bottle of what?”

  “Krug. I’m just saying, because I’m having some as well. We could also go for a bottle.” His voice was casual, its intonation rough and deep.

  “Maybe you don’t know this,” I kept my voice casual too, and because I was unfamiliar with him, the thought of making a gaffe didn’t preoccupy me, “some people have jobs. Indulging a glass, or perhaps two, is fine. A bottle would be overindulgence. A definite faux pas. Verboten.”

  “Excellent, I figured you weren’t a goody two-shoes.” His deep-set eyes beamed, his foghorn tone giving the barman a strident command, “Full bottle of champagne.”

  Despite his magnetism, I didn’t back away. “His bottle is on him. My glass is on me,” I told the barman.

  “May I suggest the Roederer Cristal instead?” said the barman.

  “Hum-worthy, the Roederer. A glass for the lady too.”

  “The lady won’t drink any of it,” I declared with a certain confidence I didn’t believe myself.

  For a moment the stranger looked stricken, but he covered it mighty fast. “The lady will drink it. Especially if she wants to go back to her pretty little office.”

  With mouth ajar, I stared at him.

  “Close your mouth, it’s unbecoming to gape like a codfish,” he enjoined me, then moved his fingers to bring about my jaw to execute the order himself. His expression was tender, but a frightful feeling engulfed me.

  I faked a smile, all the while thinking, “Where the hell are you, Fred?”

  He asked, “Are you always this quiet?”

  Possessing a cogent aptitude for interpretation, I tried to decipher his regard. He was inscrutable. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, I thought, big smile in tact.

  “Is it me?”

  Fed up with the Bartlebying, I practically yelled at him. “Who are you?”

  “I believe your future lover, Elena. So, what’s it going to be?”

  I wanted to spit on the smug look of satisfaction his face sported, however, I fought the urge and smiled. “What’s it going to be? This is what it’s going to be! Eat me.”

  He wasn’t fazed. He laughed lamely. It was a deep, resonant, ka-boom pitch of a laugh. “I do like a challenge.”

  “I’m not interested in stalkers. I’m never going to date you. You understand that, right?” What technically was a lie came out sounding like a conviction.

  “I get it. I get your point. Why not get creative?”

  “You sound like a consultant. Champagne, foie gras, and diamonds?”

  “No, jewels and delicacies and a knight in shining armor won’t cut it with you. You’re into games; mind games, to be specific. I’m thinking we could pretend I’ve already fucked you six ways from Sunday. You got bored with me so I had to resort to bogus perversions like role-playing and bondage to entice you again. Keep the flame alive. Consider this tight-assed role-playing.”

  “Oh, you’re good. You’re really good, MBB consultant good. Is this the part where you invite me to some plush suite?”

  “Better. I’ve got a swish penthouse. Would you like to see it? It’s quite ideal to bunk together.”

  “Not interested in a timeshare.”

  “How about the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons?”

  “Elenahhh! Mitchell!”

  I lost all moorings. Phony civility wouldn’t curry favor with Frederic anyway. “Who the hell is this, Fred?”

  He leveled his eyes at me. “Mitchell Christiansen. Star consultant. BCG and McK have engaged in war over him, gearing up to strafe at will. Bain remains old school smart, waving some peacekeeper banner while their goons are on standby to raze the damn village. But for Mitch, call him whatever you want. He doesn’t like Mitch. We’re expanding, he’s leading. Carte blanche per diem, it’s t
hat simple.”

  “Fuck.” I didn’t normally curse in Frederic’s presence, but you know what they say, location, location, location. Sorellina was that location, the one that changes your life, the one with a 300% markup. Attempting to assuage the beginning of a splitting headache, I rubbed at both my temples.

  “Fred,” Mitchell began, “side order of truffled fries with the Cristal? She looks kind of pale.”

  On the contrary, I felt healthy. That same evening when I fell into my bed I went to sleep almost immediately. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t throw up.

  Alexander Turner

  The Diary and the Poker Game

  I started to keep a diary. It wasn’t the same as writing stories. How it happened?

  I’ll tell you how it happened. And it won’t take me six—and counting—seasons of tralala to get there.

  I had what you would call a serious case of chronic sleep deprivation. Not a cheap trick shot, I’m afraid, I’d been diagnosed and written off. My appearance was well because of careful grooming and genes and money. Unless they knew me, most people wouldn’t assume I was sleep deprived.

  Hour after hour, I found myself turning in bed. It was more than six weeks since we’d met, since we’d kissed. Give or take, about a thousand hours of erotic torture. A magical Ebersol night I’d named it, when I was completely engrossed, driven to the edge of delirium by bouts of licking and sucking.

  The built-in computer system of the house adjusted to my mood, and now bittersweet strains of The Doors’ The Crystal Ship floated throughout the space, dulcet tones trying to soothe me. I roamed the space that bathed in a predawn gloom, studying signature works by Anthony van Dyck, Renoir, Magritte and Vincent van Gogh, the very best of Europe conflated well with the trinkets from Shreve, Crump & Lowe and Delft Blue porcelain. Landscape paintings were from Willard Metcalf, portraits by John Copley, and abstracts by Frank Stella. The Seymour card table that had once been owned by a US President and the Qing Dynasty vases came with provenance documentation.

  Hamilton drove me to the office. Not only my driver, under his stewardship my properties thrived, and he was also medically trained. He was over fifty with shaggy brown hair and hazel eyes that rarely drooped from ever-present fatigue. Every day he wore a different business suit. The nondescript dress shirts and colorful ties made him look kind of gay, and he frequently whipped out a scarf to match his tie. You know the type, loud and proud to be gay, writing sonnets in his spare time.

  His eyelashes were long and thick, almost like a girl’s, and sometimes when he looked at me he swept them up in a deliberate slow motion. It freaked me out whenever he did this.

  I lost myself in the rush of tasks that comprised the morning. At one point I was taking a sip of whiskey and, in a moment of anger and overlooking the fact that is was hardly lunchtime, I knocked the rest of it back.

  For lunch, Tony and I met up at an outdoor café on Newbury Street that provided ideal seats to take a break and watch the world go by. Had I felt happier, I would tell you about the expensive boutiques interspersed with the funky salons, and the fashionable galleries and the floral swags. I would describe the many sidewalk cafés that gave this street a European feel. I would elaborate that this was definitely the trendiest, classiest, and most elegant shopping street in New England. I would also describe a few gawkers and lookie-loos, and generally people who would never be able to purchase any of the items displayed in the windows. Judging by their appearance, ninety percent didn’t know blue diamonds exist. I would explain the myth about this place; it had more art galleries than any other stretch of asphalt in America. Most people would never know because they didn’t bother to look up, so there, now you know.

  Tony said, “Am I boring you?”

  “You gotta ask, honey bun?”

  He stabbed at the chicken on his plate. “Conjecture based on what I see before me, when was the last time you got your dick wet? You look like dog shit.”

  “Gee, thanks. It’s my Ambien face.” I leaned my elbows on the table and placed my chin on fisted hands. “Take a good look, sweetie.”

  “Can’t sleep, huh? You already like to write, why don’t you write down your feelings? Dust off your palms and start keeping a sissy diary or some such shit. Call it pussy talk.”

  “I loved you, man. I really loved you.”

  Noting the verb tense, he started groveling.

  Late in the afternoon, I pushed myself back from my desk, the wheels of the high backed office chair carrying me away from the impotent keyboard and the mocking blank page on the iMac screen. My slitted eyes alternated between the several pieces of equipment. Which one would be the most satisfying to destroy first? I leaned back further, staring sightlessly up at the matt whiteness of the ceiling. It was agonizing, this frustration I felt. Frustration at not being able to touch Elena and taste her and breathe her hurt in, in all the ways I’d imagined and dreamt. It felt like hitting a brick wall naked, at high speed. I knew she was wondering why I hadn’t contacted her, thinking I was toying with her for my base amusement. The white ceiling yawned down at me, the quietness rendering me introspective. I sat upright, knowing the blank page still waited for me behind the display of the black screen. I brought myself back to the keyboard with keenness and fearless fervor. Talk about alliteration, right? I paused only for a moment, relishing the souvenir of the kiss with Elena, then, happy as a clam, I began typing.

  I want everything with you, Elena. Every loving thing a man and woman can do together—that they can do to one another. To evoke bourgeois sentiments. To give and take pleasure in every possible way. I know very well that a girl like you can propel me to the brink of insanity and then make me sane once more, over and over again. I want to give you that chance. I want to give myself to you…all of me can be had…

  Things got down-and-dirty, not my usual writing style.

  Probably best if no one reads pussy talk.

  *

  Manipulation 102: if you want to gain control over someone, start with his or her friends. It makes things infinitely easier. That is, of course, if you’re interested in playing high-stakes, like I was.

  When I’m talking about the poker game on Thursday night, which was every first Thursday of the month, try to recall Leonard Nimoy’s parting words in the new Star Trek movie. Only, this was the place where no women and frumpy, unfuckable dullards have gone before.

  Tony’s mansion in Dover—or the mansion that was Dover—was thoughtfully furnished, every room a superb blending of sophistication and sterile function, the fever pitch being culture and comfort. Beyond the antebellum portico and the ornate stained glass windows were oriental carpets, antique oil paintings, and even a Pietra Dura marble dinner table.

  Our host said, “You know, gentlemen, it would be easier and faster if I reached for a ruler and whipped our cocks out.”

  “Find the ruler!” we all exclaimed.

  “Ain’t nothing like a friendly game of poker,” Tony laughed. “Besides the fact that I don’t want to put you scuzzballs to shame, I don’t believe I own a ruler.” Peals of laughter and boos interrupted him briefly. “Usual Thursday night. Hummer as a starter, T-Bone or pasta as a main, dealer’s choice as a dessert.”

  Upstairs, a brunette was expecting me.

  Young, and she had perfect porcelain skin.

  Dark brown eyes flashed beneath a lazy black sweep of curled eyelashes. “Good evening, sir.” Her reddish-brown hair was combed neatly, bangs bobby-pinned to the side of her face. The gold-rimmed buttons of her white blouse strained with the pressure of her breasts, and I saw lace indentation in the fabric. Never mind the soft, warm, curious eyes looking at me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her lips. They were just the ticket for a good blowjob, almost out of proportion to the rest of her face. They stuck out obscenely, and in that moment, I was struck by the abstract impropriety. Pumped full of filler or not, plump lips like hers were inappropriate for a young girl’s face. They were lewd and indecent an
d altogether divine. Men lived to feel such lips around the base of their cocks before dying. See what they’d look like swollen and bruised.

  “Start, sweetheart.”

  “Oops!” Having dropped her purse, she bent over to pick it up, knees straight. Her behind pushed out and her skirt pulled up, revealing more of the backs of her thighs. I didn’t even blink as I watched her carnivalesque performance. Such gauche theatrics were growing old and ascribed to amateurs.

  “Stop,” I told her. “Is this you first time?”

  For a moment she said nothing. A noise that was too close to a whisper broke from her throat as I got closer and looked at her.

  I bent forward, our faces almost touching as I brought my lips up to her ear. “I can’t hear you.”

  “No, sir.”

  I traced the plane of her cheekbone. “Would you rather I lead?”

  “I want,” she murmured, and locked her eyes to mine, perhaps sensing that my patience was about to evaporate, “you to lead.”

  Behind the closed door of the guestroom, I started undressing her. I bowed my head, letting my mouth hover within inches of hers. A scent of muscovado and cinnamon filled my senses. We breathed each other in for a long moment. Her scent was foreign, yet it smelled clean in way that felt familiar. I could also smell her desire grow by the second as my touch coaxed her into doing the things I wanted. With her blouse off, on her knees, she undid my belt buckle and unzipped my Dormeuil trousers.

  “Open wide,” I ordered, tugging her hair and her head back roughly when she didn’t obey quickly enough. The usual happened. I closed my eyes and conjured up the image of Elena sucking me expertly as I throbbed against the tongue, uncaring whose tongue it was. The spontaneous, casual consummation felt cold and was mere convenience compared to what Elena stirred within me. To my horror, the poor call girl I was using with spectacular lack of enthusiasm realized that something was amiss.

  I didn’t release her. Not through the gagging or the jagged sobs or the humming. Not for all her staggered whimpers. Noisy sucking sounds filled the room, presaging my impending climax. She wanted to suck cock for money and got far more flesh to handle than she could have dreamed of, and now she was choking on it. On the product of her ministrations.