Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  The laidback, hilarious atmosphere was incredible. We were—quite simply—having a blast. The girls really did know their craft, on all fronts. I’d already learned, insofar, that one of them knew how to deep-throat to perfection, like you wouldn’t believe. They also knew how to cook to perfection. A homemade Vietnamese style soup made with blue lobster broth had burgundy truffles and hand-raised bean sprouts garnish, followed by Dover sole fillets in champagne sauce, free-raised veal paupiettes, and high point A5 wagyū nicely blackened and not fatty. Food-wise, what more could one want? A delicious protein charred to perfection, rare inside, meaty red juices coloring the creamy roasted garlic mashed potatoes. This was the only way I ate steaks. The plain fact is that high-quality steaks ought to be consumed rare to get the best taste from the flavorful marbled muscle spasms, medium was only acceptable for denser muscles, the thigh part for example. Simple white cake and Hermé macarons rounded it all off. One of the girls had a Bachelor of Science Viticulture & Oenology, rightly so because each dish was flawlessly paired with vintage wine.

  Then we retreated to the living room, where a copious, pungent aroma of marijuana from incense burners tickled our nostrils. Featured were blingy, faux ancient Roman glass mirrors, a replica of Botticelli’s take on Dante Alighieri, and Norbert Wu underwater photography and Keith Ladzinski portraits. We drank bourbon and had our choice of smokes. No smoking dust, just menthols, contraband Cubans, or spliffs—fat ones at that.

  “Ladies, you should consider opening a second location. Beacon Hill. Think about it.” Tony lost all of them pretty much after saying think about it.

  Aidan said, “Well done, ladies. Worth the price of admission.”

  “Games?” one of them murmured.

  My eyes rested on a watercolor of a naked woman as I asked, “What type of games?”

  Tony spoke in a fairly sexual way. “Spin the Bottle, Truth or Dare, Strip Poker, Stinky Finger?”

  Men laughed, and women got their grope on for a while. The way I watched the scene unfold, the only thing missing was a bucket of popcorn in my lap.

  True to the billing, we were offered unlimited sex. None of us declined to get laid. To be honest, it’s why I’d chosen this place. As I’d been riding somewhat of a dry streak, I knew I had to do something before dealing with Elena once and for all. We discussed which girl(s) each one preferred then retreated to adjoining bedrooms. One drawback; the walls were too thin. Aidan was too loud. I was quiet as I came, closing my eyes intensely as though I were trying to remember the terms of a contract rider.

  “Best I’ve ever had, sir,” Natalie returned the compliment.

  I smiled against her neck.

  Classy ladies, bath amenities were labeled Henri Bendel and Frédéric Fekkai. Back in the living room, we asked for their personal phone numbers. Having heard of us and seen us on TV, the girls didn’t hesitate to comply. Aidan started yelling at me and Tony threatened to break my arm if I contributed to the tip. We said farewell around eleven, walking with half-limps and stupid smiles. In my book, these women should have had MOF designations. They’d fucked our brains out, and not vice-versa.

  Cruising around, our second and final stop was a lavish penthouse in New York’s West Village that belonged to some Hollywood mogul. None of us cared where we’d end up for the countdown to New Year, we were happy-drunk, well fucked, and had each other. And the night, as I’d said earlier, still happened to be young.

  As soon as we walked into the bash, our eyes lit up at the overabundance of beautiful young models/actresses lining the hallways. Their eyes lit up at the sight of us. Commercial nudity—male and female—was available, too. More alcohol, and now we were perilously close to being smashed, or perilously close to being so smashed we no longer realized it. You’d think we’d had our fill of women for the evening, but you’re wrong. Then again, maybe you wouldn’t. My dick wasn’t tired, it took much more than what Natalie had done to me for calling it a night.

  Right before midnight, waiters started to hand out frosted flutes. I went to the bathroom, and just as I rushed back my iPhone vibrated.

  I took the bait, answered Elena’s call. My stomach dropped a little the moment I found out she’d cancelled her travel plans. Here’s the rub, she was drunk as a skunk, teasing and slurring and stammering. Fear solidified my blood when she told me she was leaving Boston.

  I became angry. “I’m done playing scrimmage. I’m coming to get you, Elena. Listen to this, I get what I want, a hard fact you’ll soon learn. When you’re mine, when we’re done playing catch-me-if-you-can, this will all be so much easier for you. No more hesitations, indecisiveness, and worrying. When you’re mine, you won’t have to worry about playing games.”

  The line was dead, the girl of my dreams had hung up on me. You can envision how pissed off this made me. If she were here, I would have whipped her bloody for her take-no-prisoners attitude. Now normally, I wouldn’t dwell on her being alone in Boston, but the fact that Frank was overseas worried me. I was fighting the urge to go watch over her myself. A sick-ass idea started brewing in my mind. I realized she was an adult. I knew she was capable and independent. I knew all these things, yet somehow I couldn’t stand that I was unable to prevent any harm coming to her. I called Robert and set in motion the last mission.

  Midnight came. 2011. The Fifty Shades of Grey year…enough foreshadowing. Before Tony and Aidan could question me, we were back in the limo. Right away, the guys wanted to know what was wrong. So much for me trying to act normal. I was in a daze, told them what I was planning to do. They nodded and—quotidian games aside—made me promise I would go easy on her.

  I promised not to go off the deep end. We laughed and we kidded and we got sozzled, passing around the Eagle Rare and drinking from the bottle. Tony and I tried faces on as we grunted out like Aidan while he was fucking earlier. A few imitations merited to be enumerated: one of a Doberman holding his breath as he came; one of a constipated chipmunk; one of Tony gnashing teeth as though he were about to pass a bowling ball, one of me screwing up my face as though I were about to pass the biggest kidney stone through urination. The last imitation was a worthy Paul Edgecomb urinary tract infection, to think I could have been in The Green Mile.

  “Two fucking peas in a pod,” Aidan kept barking.

  After cruising around for a bit, we dropped off Aidan at his cousin’s home, which was by far the most important residence in SoHo. It was one of those clutch moments, Tony and I had to go upstairs for a drink. On the cusp of leaving the Carrington soirée and the city, Aidan thanked me profusely for the hell of a time, and promised the next guys’ night out would be on him. With him gone, Tony and I put our feet up in the limo.

  Tony started with, “She’ll obey.”

  “How do you figure?”

  “Her reluctance adds up to one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She wants a man with a firm hand.”

  I took the cigar out of my mouth. “It’s not like she’ll have a choice in the matter.”

  “Wait, it gets better. Are you ready for this?”

  I nodded.

  “She’s a comer. You know it. I know it. Daddy issues.”

  “Whatever issues she has, she’ll be in training. Knute Rockne style. Kidnapping was never part of the plan, but desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  “Lord knows if I was in your wingtips, I’d be doing the same thing. When are they grabbing her?”

  We made good time with the late night traffic. The limo pulled to a last stop in front of my jet—you know where it was headed. I opened the door and swung one leg out. “They’re grabbing her tomorrow. Jerry knows I’m settling this in my own backyard.”

  If you ask me, with Elena’s drunk-dialing stunt, it’s like she was unimpeachably begging for a life lesson. All the king’s horses and all the king’s men wouldn’t be able to stop me from utilizing the nuclear option. Whether she’d love me or not didn’t matter—love is nothing but a complica
tion anyway. I loved her enough for both of us. I could live with just her luscious naked body in my bed, pleasuring her with unrestrained abandon every night. It was easy to picture her beneath me, her dark locks spread out on the white silk sheets, my name on her pouty lips as I fucked her sore. I know, I know, it’s horrible. Could I be any more of a self-absorbed asshole?

  No, I suppose I couldn’t. Deal with it. I never claimed to be a saint. It’s not that the girl should never win, but rather, I should never lose. Call it hubris, dominance, or just a need for control. I was Hades and she my Persephone. And if I must go down, I’ll go down swinging. Happy New Year.

  Elena Anderson

  The Loneliest Night of the Year

  Once in a while, there comes that crystalline moment when you know you can’t let the grass grow under your feet. Mine came on Boxing Day.

  I’d had the same dream two nights in a row. I shook it off and wore my prettiest winter dress. I pulled up my hair into a high ponytail and applied a little more makeup than usual. Grandpa whistled when I walked into the kitchen and I blew him a kiss. Trying to push back the agitation, I averted my eyes from him.

  He asked, “What’s the special occasion?” as he painstakingly transferred an egg white omelet from a pan onto a plate.

  “Wanted to look pretty today.”

  “Nonsense,” grandma told me.

  I’d come to realize that Alexander’s deceitfulness far exceeded anything my mind was capable of imagining, so I was waiting for the other shoe to drop. In that crystalline moment, count your blessings and peel off, I reflected with surprise. Taking a break from work and Turner City was what I needed; the dream was the universe’s way of telling me to act. In a few weeks, Alexander would give up and move on to dating another actress.

  My voice creaked like the hinges of a rusty gate as I hurried on, “I’ve decided to take a two-week holiday. I’m going back to California to surprise JR and Maria. Put my feet up.”

  “Mitchell really threw you off your game.” The phone rang and grandma answered, covering the base of the cordless phone with her palm. “I think it’s a wonderful idea, El.”

  I draped my arms around grandpa’s neck and mimicked her. “Do you think it’s a wonderful idea?”

  He blew out a deep breath. “What constitutes taking a holiday?”

  “If the ticket is non-refundable, I’ll go to Barbados.”

  He threw his head back in gleeful laughter. “Who cares whether or not it’s refundable? You definitely need time off.” He gave me a quick I’ll cut you some slack nod.

  “I’m getting old,” I cracked, my face splitting into a ridiculous grin.

  “What was that?” He gripped the panhandle tight. We laughed and hugged and had breakfast, and then I drove them to the airport, enjoying the feel of the X5. My Mini was spindly compared to this awesomeness.

  Home alone it was. Beyond the half-open window, cars kept making screeching noises. I booked a Delta Airlines ticket online and called Sara to confirm my attendance at a New Year’s Eve party. I imagined gulf water lapping at the shores, dappled beams of sunrays reaching my naked skin amid the strong, salty wind. Too bad it was too cold for nekkid sunbathing and Patrón Gold margaritas. I split my sides with laughter, heedless of the noise it made. My back snapped audibly as I arched, and I dozed off in a catnap.

  *

  I was shivering as it flurried. I grumbled to myself that the forecast hadn’t mentioned flurries this afternoon. I peered up at the sky, studying the beautiful and unique shade of violet. That’s when I felt an unpleasant sensation, as if someone was watching me. My head whipped around but I couldn’t spot anyone. I stood there for a while, wondering what prompted me to have such anxiety. I told myself I was being crazy, or at the very least, no one was spying me on New Year’s Eve. I thoroughly investigated the block and saw no one.

  I shuddered and walked back home, pausing now and then to make sure no one was following me. The block in which we lived was pretty safe, and either way, I had a remote panic button on me that worked within a certain radius. Grandpa always made sure I felt free and safe.

  I put the TV on and stared numbly at the screen before growing tired of the harsh flashing images. Just when the walls appeared to be closing in on me, Sara buzzed the gate much earlier than expected, startling me. She’s here already? I hadn’t changed into something nice yet. I wore a bathrobe.

  “Dish the dirt later. Wanna make hay while the sun shines?” She lifted the felt floppy hat off her head for dramatic effect. “McLaren’s? They have a two-for-one special at happy hour.”

  “Naughty, naughty Sara.” McLaren’s was a swish lounge on Boylston Street that catered to a large pansexual crowd, and was reputed as a top-notch pick up bar. “I’m in.” This is where the half a dozen pillows or so on the English sofa came in handy. I grabbed the closest one and threw it at her. It bounced off her chest and onto the floor, another one hitting her as soon as she bent over to pick it up.

  “Not fair, El.” She threw the first pillow back at me, which I evaded.

  I fixed an innocent who me? look on my face. A third and a fourth pillow hit her, frustrating her enjoyably. I was laughing so hard that moisture started spilling from the corners of my eyes.

  “Stop it,” she threatened me with the cutest glare, squaring her shoulders. “Or else you won’t be able to board that flight tomorrow.”

  “Shiver my timbers! You can always try!”

  She gripped a pillow tight by the corner and jumped me to commence her assault. Pummeled my chest good. Minutes later, we were in fits of laughter, writhing and hiccupping and fending each other off all at once.

  I went to fetch a bottle of chilled rosé. Have I told you about my bathroom? Feels like I’ve only told you how much I vomited in the location. It was a beautiful Victorian styled room. Instead of a claw foot tub, it housed a freestanding Jacuzzi, elegant his and hers pedestal sinks, a separate water closet, antique mirrors, and below an oval mirror a dressing table littered with designer trays that held a collection of lead glass bottles. Sara sat on the suede bench in front of the table, inspecting the careful selection of bottled lotions and perfumes. Beside the table was a lace-cornice covered window that overlooked the patio and the grounds below. We drank champagne from long stemmed glasses nonstop and chatted like schoolgirls about the prospect of flirting with handsome boys while we plucked eyebrows, put on makeup, and curled eyelashes. To not look like a hooker who has been beaten up by her pimp, we took extra care while doing our smoky eyes.

  “Which one is less passé?” She held up a J. Mendel papaya whip strapless sateen dress and a Hervé Leger hibiscus off-the-shoulder bandage dress.

  “Bandage dress. Where’s Michael?”

  “He’ll meet us at the party. Did you say something to him? He’s…a little different. Talking more, listening, being attentive.”

  I whipped my legs around until I was perched on the edge of the Jacuzzi, looking as if I were inspecting my pedicure. “I strongly doubt I would meddle.”

  “That’s so true! Ready to walk on the wild side?” She was outlining her eyes with a kohl pencil.

  I acknowledged with a mere gesture. “As I’ll ever be. Was born ready.”

  We got dressed.

  I was sitting in the foyer, sipping on the last of my champagne and half-reading a verrines recipe book when a number I recognized flashed across the screen of my iPhone. My throat wasn’t working correctly, neither were my lungs. Swallow. Breathe. Sara had prophesied Alexander would be calling tonight.

  A little after the vibrating stopped, I heard the rattle of a car engine pulling up outside the house. A succession of noises—the downward slamming of a limo door; the squeal of another one unlocking; the muted double-click of a man’s leather soles making their way up the granite slabbed pathway to the front door—told me that Michael had brought out the big guns for his two girls.

  There was a lot of drinking ahead. The lounge was crowded with MIT graduates having fun,
and occasional Harvard alumni hopped along for the ride. With pink collars popped up and excessive accessories, a lot of the girls looked like suburban prepsters. Pressing through the mazelike scene, we found a table in a corner. Sara, whose hair shade was that pathogen of blonde that screamed lethally wild in the fractured light, talked me into ordering a vodka soda like in the old times, and then somehow there were six empty tumblers on the veneered table, plus a few John Does had found refuge around it. I was on my fourth drink, halfway off my chair, while a motormouth from Boston College, whose name didn’t matter, sat beside me. We chatted happily and totally disagreed about the philosophy Paulo Coelho evoked in The Alchemist. The author suggests that in order to understand life one must set out on a voyage. With a goofy smile, the guy told me that one has to be willing to take part in a harsh, unforeseen journey and leave one’s comfort zone, in order to become who we can be or who we should be. You don’t even have to like it, you should just embrace what might be and let that be your guide, he added. Right about there I disagreed with him, wishing I remembered his name.

  For me, the pursuit of Personal Legends meant finding answers to unanswered questions, avoiding obstacles, and overcoming insecurities. These were also the necessary ingredients of survival. But whatever, I was drunk enough that my itsy-bitsy lack of debate didn’t hinder me. I hardly knew the super friendly John Doe, and although he was a babe, that’s how I wanted things to remain.

  The vodka sodas, mixed with the earlier champagne, were doing a number on me. I excused myself a little too loudly, saying I needed to use the ladies room.