by JR King
“Can I get you anything else, Ms. Anderson?” His fingers idled too close to her, and the way he spoke to her looked like he was well acquainted with the senile-poodle routine. I liked the spray of freckles across the bridge of his aristocratic nose, but I disliked his shaggy, surfer hairstyle. The wavy sun-streaked locks were a little too long and flopped over his broad forehead that was still lineless and, he seemed more than happy to flick them as he went about. He flashed a grin at me before leaving, which was neither terribly ugly nor wry.
I sat down at the dining table arrangement in awkward silence born of frustration and of not knowing what to do. “Don’t flirt with my employees, Elena,” I warned her in a bland conversational tone.
To my amazement, she scowled tautly at me, then swiveled her head away. She was apt to scowl this way whenever I was too controlling.
I sidled closer and crisply said, “Don’t defy me, my pet.”
“Then don’t be mean,” she tried with a petulant roll of her eyes. I watched her cross her legs and place her hands on her lap, the grace of her movements mesmerizing me. “I’ve been good, haven’t I, sir?” she asked softly, her gaze held steady to mine. Her hands knotted and curled together at the base of her abdomen.
I wasn’t smiling exactly, but there was amusement in my eyes. “Eat, you cock-tease, so we can go at again.”
A smile peeked out, and I could see blood rushing to her cheeks. “Happy to oblige.”
I smiled back and did away with the employee subject. Small talk ensued. I forced myself to catch a couple of her looks and smile back. Extrinsic value in check, the breathtaking moment made me wonder if we’d be at each other’s throats by the end of the vacation. Could I forget about work and watch Elena tangled up in the white sheets of my bed 24/7?
Alexander Turner
The Paris Proposal
Destination-wise, history headlines, my peeps. Burlesque—have some sense and try not to picture a dodgy locale crammed up with cheap strippers—had its origins in 19th century England. Striptease entered the scene at the century’s end, when Paris’s extraordinary Moulin Rouge began making a damnable stir. There was American burlesque, and then there was European burlesque. Europeans strictly associated staggering strip shows with tasteful nudity and decadence, only in America is it that these shows got associated with obscenity and immorality. Even Sin City and its dingy add-ons such as silicone-enhanced bodies and knock-out stages rendering shows bigger and glitzier than anywhere else in the world couldn’t take European burlesque up a notch.
Let me tempt you.
The troupe at Club Noir was one of my favorites. Not because it was in the Guinness World Records, but rather its superlative combination of English charm and Parisian glitz and glamour made for excellent circus and dance performances. If Budapest was the capital of porn, Glasgow was the capital of the most active, plastic-free cabaret scene on the planet. Sexy divas, talented dancers wearing dazzling costumes, and pin-up girls with feathered headpieces performed in daunting roles on the stage, introducing the audience to a sophisticated adventure. From slow, seductive striptease and fetish acts to elaborate choreography, girls delivered all types of burlesque pieces—Moulin Rouge tribute, Vaudeville, and Can Can included.
An idea where we were headed?
It was hardly the first time I’d booked a VIP booth to see the most famous burlesque show of all times. Whoever hadn’t heard of the alluring Le Crazy Horse was either crazy or lived on Mars or another planet. This performance was as original and avant-garde as striptease can get. There’s a reason why champagne is a protected French appellation, bubbly from elsewhere is simply called sparkling wine. The same could be said for French burlesque. Sipping champagne, and with a dirty smile, I watched sensual pin-up girls show off their talents and natural assets Mother Nature had endowed them with through sexy dance moves. Very Liza Minnelli: tights and sequins and designer heels. A male performer steadied the star of the show in a golden cage that’d been lowered from the ceiling so she could step into it. Once inside, an invisible pulley lifted her while she—without even the slightest hint of vulgarity—removed all her clothes, making mostly men sigh in awe. Women clapped abundantly or watched with rapt fascination. The cage began to spin in time with the melody as the dancer whipped around, her head thrown back, chanting, “I am a good girl.”
So far, so good. Elena and I hadn’t declared war against each other.
The Presidential suite at Hôtel Fouquet’s Barrière was ideal for a marriage proposal. When we set foot on the balcony with an enchanting view of the Eiffel Tower, I jokingly said to Elena: marry me. We laughed it off and shared a slice of Irish coffee cheesecake with hazelnut whipped cream and caramel sauce, and I left it at that.
For our haute cuisine meal the next evening, I chose to hold court in Versailles-style grandeur. The three-Michelin-starred Le Meurice was one of Paris’s finest restaurants, and its timeless décor made it another great evening spot to propose. Alain Ducasse was one those chefs who used a daisy chain of courses to tell you a romantic story. There was imperial gold and celestial bronze and mirrors and frescoes lining the walls, and the considerable windows overlooked the neighboring Tuileries gardens. If you’re not a fan of the Salon de la Paix backdrop at the Château de Versailles, you won’t like this place. I jokingly proposed again, and this time we didn’t laugh…we went on to admire the crystal chandeliers. For your information, I had a ring in my jacket pocket. Elena never went snooping through my stuff, another great reason to marry the girl.
On to third time’s the charm.
The jet bumped down hard on the runway, slightly rising up in the air and banging down again. Sweet-talking the thirty-ton metal beast to strut on a tarmac was, I knew, all about calculations. Though the pilot had warned us that he’d chosen a steeper trajectory due to windy weather, when Elena saw the jet’s wings pendulum back and forth, she squeezed her eyes shut.
I coolly asked, “You okay, babe?”
She opened her eyes and looked at me anxiously. “That doesn’t feel all right.”
“Brandon is a good pilot. Trained to fly fighter aircrafts.”
That’s how I roll—in the air. Damn, the previous phrase didn’t even make sense. Nothing made sense anymore.
The Mediterranean summer morning was heavy with the scent of salt, and beaded with hazy moisture from a cloudburst that was sulking about. We were staying in a private villa at the Hôtel du Cap. Frank had made sure Elena visited each summer, until I’d taken over.
The décor here was vieillot, meaning sinking into dotage, a mixture of Eisenhoweresque and gone yachting on one of the many SS Old Moneys, but the food, wine, and service compensated for all that. What was great here is that no luxury was too lavish or no whim too extravagant. Five star services came with a butler on speed dial, several maids, and masseuses came to us, not vice-versa. While a personal chef set about preparing breakfast favorites, I served us double espressos and freshly squeezed orange juice from a cultivar of blood oranges. After a lazy breakfast, thick sex and a slim nap, we went to the Eden-Roc restaurant for lunch. For a daylight proposal, the terrace was ideal. The French Riviera dotted with yachts, the romantic view of Lérins Islands, the large infinity pool, the hush of waves so low that you’d undoubtedly hear her say yes…
“Monsieur Turner?” The woman in front of me? I made the mistake of looking at her legs. I felt dizzy, the varicose veins running up and down them looked like a complicated roadmap. Her head was too big for her shoulders, I even feared her neck would collapse from the weight of it. “We must apologize for this inconvenience…,”
Double standards were on the menu. An impossibly wealthy scion of Saudi oil money had booked the restaurant. I empathized—and not just because he and I shared the similarity of being the lucky offspring of a family that controlled more riches than many nations. Variety is the spice of life; Arab Muslims who were tired of lurking around shishas and burkas often came here. Forget marriage proposals, it was also a
perfect weekend getaway from a stodgy environment where customs and the law forbid bacon, drugs, alcohol, and commercial female company. Maybe I could do without the bacon, I’m not sure. Have you ever had breakfast in an Emirates private lounge? It’s so good you won’t notice there’s no bacon. Pay attention the next time.
So, this is how I gave up. No more puss-pie proposals. It wasn’t going to happen. It was one those situations where the girl was a Mormon and would only embark on her sexual journey until after marriage—meaning never. In this day and age, who would buy something without inspecting the goods first? Only if you were a tstl hero type of self-pitying whiner does paying skyrocketing divorce fees become you.
Asked Elena, “Wanna go to the champagne lounge? The view’s nice.”
“Once bitten, twice shy,” I gave a serrated reply, frustrated as fuck. She was in a chipper mood ever since we’d arrived, making me wonder about the times she’d traveled with Jax. Jealousy is like malaria, I’d concluded. It can lie dormant, and just like that you’re suffering an attack.
“Oh, do tell.” She playfully jabbed me in the ribs.
“Worst snacking menu ever. Worse than potato chips shards.” Our butler breezed toward us, looking sharp, his piercing metallic gaze alert like a hunter as he parroted suggestions. Improvising, I told him to get someone to deliver a picnic basket with distinct delicacies at the Port de Saint-Tropez marina, a departing gesture.
“Pas de souci, Monsieur,” he answered with a flourish.
“We’re like already leaving?”
“Use the word like in a smart context, Elena darling. Don’t act like an American hick. See what I mean? I expect a girl of your caliber to be better than this, and since you’re with me, it behooves you to stand out among people.”
She glanced at me as if I were a repellant. “Stop being such a prick.” Breaking eye contact, her shoulders sagged.
Sadistic prick—I know I am. This is how I paved the road for the first fight. Forget the American Civil War, this gravity was more like the Hiroshima disaster. Frank was responsible for Elena’s excellent conduct, so I knew she’d never make a scene in public. But her angry stare, wow, a nuclear attack that could make skin melt and char flesh. Then bones folded and fell like towers of playing cards, blood evaporated and remains were parched to dust.
She suggested the brasserie, but I dug my heels in. In times like these, I wished I had a submissive girlfriend because it’d make things easier, convenient. Don’t buy into sweet lies that D/s is a higher calling or a better dynamic, it’s basic psychology. For those who want it to be something different, exactly like those who believe in God, it’s what you make of it.
I sucked in a deep breath, releasing my tension with it. “Now’s not a good time to be bratty.”
“Why do we have to leave? Because someone booked the main restaurant?”
“Because there’s a better place waiting for us. Don’t defy me with childish behavior, I don’t play childish games, of all people.” I extended my hand but it was my tacit expression that beckoned.
She didn’t bother to make up a salvageable response. “Whatevs, irascible snobdouchetard.”
Hamilton drove us to the marina and floored it. Ray was the one who walked to the main office where owners had to sign paperwork and show dock permits. Expansive, massive yachts, each built on years of unfettered greed covered the coastline. Most of them were distinguishable Oceanco or Blohm + Voss beauties, some bank-owned or recession-busted.
Even with the broiling temperature, marine birds trilled their mating mantras. Distant waves fragmented into glistening particles. Fanned by the cool, fresh, salty air of the sea, a speedboat brought us to the designated spot to board the Elena bobbing exactly where I’d left it. This superstructure supported two six-passenger helicopters, a complement of jet skis and speedboats, and a mini submarine. Ripples lapped softly against the whitewashed exterior of the mega-yacht. The cymballic clank of Elena’s heels on the steel was irritating the hell out of me. Hamilton—also our captain—suggested she remove her shoes.
I went through five doors and up some stairs. Elena followed me on deck and sat down on an outdoor bench. I could detect her awkwardness as she brought up her legs and sat on her feet. She hadn’t said much since we’d left the hotel and I wasn’t exactly comfortable either.
The salt in the air made had me thirsty. With a water bottle in hand, I approached the free corner of the bench to claim a seat. There was a hollow sound of a distant gull. Opening the water bottle, I drank deeply. I looked at Elena, trying to decipher her ennui. My gaze zoned in on the spaghetti strap that had fallen off her right shoulder. I lifted my hand to pluck it, straightening it slowly, allowing my fingers to graze her skin. “How are you holding up? I’m feeling a bit jumpy.”
Her well-wrought lips gave me a smile of appreciation. “I thought as much. We’ll be fine, Alex. Quibbling with you is fun.”
I reached for her legs and rested her feet in my lap. “We will, sweetheart.” I heard my stomach complaining. “I’m famished, let’s eat something.”
“I’m starving too,” she agreed with small nods.
Through the fine fabric of her dress, I brushed her nipple with my knuckles. “Hmm, I wouldn’t mind putting you between two kaiser roll buns.”
“Cannibalism? Another crass thing you can add to your portfolio.” Adorable little talons clawed up my shirt, and she sniffed my hair before attacking my earlobe with a spate of nips.
The air was warm and thick, perfect to break in the picnic pannier loaded with charcuterie, pâté, and crusty bread. We were halfway through the lunch when Elena dropped the bomb. “The Fiji postcard you sent me, telling me to wait for you.” She slid my sunglasses down to uncover my eyes. I squinted at her, half-blinded by sunshine. “The color of the water looks the same, doesn’t it?” she shrieked.
I condoned her outcry with a kiss.
I hadn’t sent the postcard and, when I ferreted the information out of my father a while later, he confirmed he hadn’t either. I told Elena I had to work a little in the afternoon. Brainstormed on possibilities but came up with nothing. A dwelling overcast was brooding over the port. I was looking at the grey-blue sky, against which the sun was beginning its descent toward the horizon. My curses were saltier than the air outside.
About 6 PM, I started looking for Elena. A spice of liquor led me by the nose. The table at the aft end of the flying bridge deck was set with Russo-Baltique vodka, Petrossian Beluga sturgeon caviar, buckwheat blinis, and a large plate of artfully arranged jicama, carrot, cucumber, and celery sticks.
I whistled softly under my breath. “Well, well, well, ain’t this a pretty picture.”
“Livestock,” Elena gestured at the bits and pieces, a smile surfacing. “Thirsty?”
“Liquoring me up? Andersons like taking advantage of over-drunk men.”
She struck out like a cobra to grasp my head and her hand found its way to the nape of it, thumbs framing the sides of my face. “We don’t take advantage of over-drunk men, just drunk men,” she avowed. In an attempt to add to the conversation, I considered a pun about zombie sex, but resolved to shut up. “And like this we won’t freeze our tail off,” she finished with a warm smile, tracing the musculature of my arm. I loved the way she’d done her hair. Not a knot, it was in a ponytail braided down her back, a little left out to frame her pretty face, the hank of her braid swinging like jumprope.
I produced a similar smile. “Where’d you get the bottle?”
“I tanked a few raids but got bored so I raided your liquor cabinet, okay? I’m a girl, get used to it. Gifts you received from Monaco. Finders keepers, I never fritter away treasures.”
I gave her a hearty, accentual laugh. “It’s all yours, baby.” I brought my arms up and cupped her breasts. “I like this. You going through my stuff. I love it.”
There was a sheen of sweat on her upper lip. Inexorably, a blush started creeping up her neck and onto her cheeks, her breath coming out fa
ster. “Is it from a…an ex-girlfriend?”
“Real-estate purchases and lucrative investments I made to be ahead of the curve. Traditionally, Monegasque companies send gifts.”
“Then I like going through your stuff. I looked it up on the web. It’s insane.”
I swatted her bottom. Tried my best Southeastern accent, “Don’t go blamin’ me, missy. Man like me would rather invest in Good Ol’ Jack.”
“Did you speak to Tony? Is everything all right? You disappeared abruptly during lunch.”
“Merger emergency. Tony’s fine, he’ll be here on Friday.” My half-shrug lightly jostled her. “You get to choose where we go.” Many a true word is spoken in jest—ultimately, I was going to lord it over her. I went on to spoon sour cream onto a blini and dolloped caviar on it with a gold palette knife. “Do you know that few metals, such as gold and silver, do not impinge the taste of caviar?”
“I’m keeping score, Alex. I can count on the fingers of my hand the number of times you’ve offered me the courtesy to choose for us. Think about the dual standards of Victorian times.”
Grunting, I plopped down. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she mimicked. My cock reversed direction when she clambered onto my lap and settled in a fetal position, with arms garlanded like a resilient talisman around my neck. I could hear her heave a slow sigh over the sound of the lazy waves.
The Mediterranean loomed before us, basking in the sunset. “Wanna go to Monaco, babe?”
“To visit one of your ex-girlfriends?” She sounded flustered, streaked with a hint of anxiety.
“Got none in Monaco. Like in most cities, there too I used an escort service. The girls are clean, intelligent, no-nonsense. Sex is physical, sentiments need not be involved in it. And what’s more important is that such girls don’t desire any type of commitment, nagging me to put a damn ring on it.”
