by JR King
“None of it is true?” His eyes sparkled, a meaningful suggestion rippling through them.
I gave him my best President Bill Clinton voice: “I did not have sexual relations with that woman, Miss Golddigger.”
Pretty slick, if you ask me. At this point, I was sure any printing of the article had stopped. One less problem without that poor excuse of woman gaining standing.
We stayed on the Dominique Strauss-Kahn topic for a while, switching it up with the video and office-work anecdotes, and cocky me charmed the hell out of the crowd. My personal reactions ranged from innocent shrugs to charming smiles.
First question, a female admirer asked if I’d be willing to do a movie; I told her yes but only with Vincent Gallo or Patrice Chéreau as the film director so as to ensure the sex would be unsimulated.
Second question, a male fan with the cheeriest face asked if I had any interest in a political career; I replied no because it might compromise the sexual-apparatus-filled dungeon I used to howl at the moon. I said this jokingly, a strategic move for plausible deniability.
Third question, another woman asked if I was comfortable with nudity; I answered I was willing to strip down to my birthday suit if Jimmy gave me the greenlight. It took one commercial break and another five minutes to calm down the ecstatic crowd.
Fans grumbled their dissatisfaction when Jimmy said, “Well, we’re running out of time, but I think I speak for everyone when I say I want to know more about the glamazon you’re dating.” He swiveled his head to give the audience a buzz phrase. “This guy has a weakness for the other gender almost as notorious as Sarah’s weakness for Matt.” Back to me. “No offense, but with your anatomy of a serial-dater, it’s hard to believe you’ve become a one woman kind of man.”
“None taken. Want me to honest?”
“Damn skippy,” he prompted.
I grimaced. “She’s a decoy.”
“A decoy? For whom?”
I threw my head back, laughed. “If I do say so myself, it’s epic.” I stitched together a black expression for the tricksy backhand. “I’m dating Matt Damon.”
The startled look on his face drove it home. “Are you fucking him? Please don’t tell me you’re fucking him, Alexander Turner!”
I cheesed from ear to ear. “I said I’m dating him.”
“Potayto, potahto.” He flipped me the bird, obscured by pixelization for viewers.
I shrugged and then winked at the audience. “The task has fallen to me to announce that this is all the time we have today,” I closed for Jimmy, who still looked bowled over when the commercial break started.
It all went tits up, the intimation had Mandy’s lawyer dropping the case. As for the masseuse? She begged me not to come after her for fear of losing all credibility.
Elena Anderson
The Date with Lingerie
The nib of my platinum fountain pen rested at the bottom of the crisp white sheet of paper, fingers fleshed out after writing a letter to my father in a neat cursive hand.
“I kept knocking,” a female voice pulled me up with a start. I was so engrossed in the rocking comfort of my chair that I hadn’t heard her entering my office. Katherine hijacked my nostalgic moment. “Hi!” She moved with a spring in her gait and gave me a peppy wave as she came closer. “What’s with you?” she asked in a kind of wondering way with a semi-frown.
“Big account. Big client.”
It was a full-blown frown now. “Bigger than your man upstairs?”
That made my mouth twist into a grimace. “If we’re talking money—then yes. Russian billionaire.”
She emitted an arrogant, amused laugh. “Don’t say nuthin’, he’ll go berserk. Valerie made him feel very insecure when she treated him like a pariah.”
I exhaled in a rush, my gaze searching. And you know this how? Why’d she know these personal things about him and not I?
Her lips thinned at my silence. “He and I used to do sleepovers. He confided in me like a brother would to a little sister.” Her eyes dropped and she caught her lower lip between her teeth. “Some sister I am, huh?”
“Kate.” I squared my shoulders, trying to pull together the scraps of my poise. “How can I help you?”
“I went to see Alex, and he’s totally fine with it. There’s this sale event I’m invited to, a lingerie shop, cocktails and finger-foods. Christopher was the one who suggested you could be my plus one, and like this we get to spend some time together.” She paused, scanned my face. “I wouldn’t know what sharing means even if it bit me in the ass. I don’t have siblings so I’m very territorial, but I think we’ll be fine.”
I felt a pang of fondness. There was a glint in Katherine’s eyes that attracted and terrified me in equal measure. Looking off in the distance, I scratched my chin. I overtimed a lot, which was fine because it’s paid. “I only get an hour for myself tonight.”
“That’s long enough to find you something the man on the sixtieth floor might be compelled to rend to shreds.”
A twinge of naughtiness climbed up my spine. “A girl after my own heart. I kind of like the idea.”
“Pick you up at six.”
*
I recognized Christopher’s driver as he stepped out of the car; his heart-shaped face tapered severely into a triangular chin. I assumed to be stepping into a gory mess, Redbull cans and power bar wrappers. Contrary to that, the limo was spotless and smelled mouthwateringly good. Katherine was all dolled up like Paris Hilton, minus the hair color and the teeny, tiny pooch, handing out tollhouse cookies.
I asked, “Agent Provocateur? La Perla? French Dressing? Forty Winks? Sedurre? Bloomie’s?”
“Hubba Hubba,” her voice rang like an executioner’s bell.
“Kate, that’s a sex shop,” I found myself leaning forward, speaking with staggered breath, “we’re not going there. Fields have eyes, and woods have ears.”
“Calm down, Mother Teresa,” she laughed. “It was worth it, you should have seen the look on your face. You were this close to,” she shoved two of her pink-tipped fingers in my face, pinched together but for some millimeters, “losing your cool. And know that Hubba Hubba is a sexy lingerie shop that carries toys and BDSM gear.”
“Don’t try to throw me a curve. The smart, climactic solution is to shop online.”
“Is that what your generation does?” she alleged, her voice dipped in rich treacle. “You sounded old just now.”
Anger welled up in me like a geyser. I stifled the words fuck you from tumbling out of my mouth, shaking the emotion off with a roll of my shoulders. “So where are we going?”
“Intimacy. It’s very slush, no sex toys there.”
That melted away my fears like mist. I finally accepted a cookie.
A little later, the car pulled up at Copley Place. I’d heard about Intimacy’s bra gurus, but I’d never bothered.
I need implants, I told Alexander once.
If that’s what you really want, I’ll pay for them, he answered.
The boutique’s colors were a warm honey and rich cream, the ceilings littered with fancy light fixtures. For the cocktail event, they were dimmed, casting the entire space in an intimate glow, and pop music was being piped through overhead speakers. Nicki Minaj. There were lots of beautiful people around us. Models were slurping sparkling wine while plunging crudités in semen-like dip. Wood serving platters had crostinis with black olive and sundried tomato tapenade, and bacon-wrapped dates.
Going through the tables and racks of expensive lingerie, I smiled. I loved the vibrant colors. The very thought of Alexander ripping the delicate lace and satin filled me with inexpressible thrills.
“Is my voice that unpleasant?” Katherine was glaring at me, motioning to the garter belt in my hands. “Wanna try some stuff on or not?”
I answered quickly, tried to sound hip: “Totally.” Looking around, I noticed we’d drawn attention from the other customers. For the Turner family, public failure wasn’t an option. So accordingly,
appearances were of the utmost importance because newspapers hunted love interests as well.
“Come with me.” Katherine grabbed hold of my arm, dragging me to the back of the store and into a dressing room. How long had I vainly lingered? The busy bumblebee’s stall had piles of lingerie heaped up on the silk-upholstered benches and hangers full of luxurious scraps of fabric hung on the walls. “We need cheeky boyshorts and T-backs. V or G-strings?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
I closed the door behind me and rested my forehead against the cool wood to calm down. I turned around and stayed plastered to the door, listening to my heart hammering against my chest. I was so in love.
I had a man waiting for me.
Without a moment to spare, I took my clothes off and got dressed. I was preening in front of the mirror when Katherine knocked on the door. Suspenders held the satin stockings that complimented my frilly black merrywidow and Brazilian brief.
“Wowwy wow wow wow. Good thing he dumped Claudia before it was too late.”
There was something in that which snagged on my mind. “Who’s Claudia?” I blurted naively, surprising myself lock, stock, and barrel. I would probably regret this.
“Claudia is the best-kept secret of all time,” she answered, shaking her head with a ghost of a giggle. “I was little, but I retain facts well. Where to begin?”
I practically held my breath as I waited for the explanation.
“As far as everyone knows in this family, the cougar he’s dated was a teenage fling at most. Claudia was his college girlfriend. They were the real deal. Claudia Edwards is the daughter of a French Ambassador Alex dated while they both attended Harvard. In short, the family was waiting for the envelope in the mail that would announce the grandiose wedding. One day, right before his 22nd birthday, Alexander announced their split. It turns out that he’d proposed, she said yes but he freaked out one month later and broke it off.”
“He proposed to Claudia?” I think I screamed.
“Don’t tell him I blabbed. Things are weird enough between us.”
“Aye, of course I won’t tell him.” I sat down and tried to take stock of the situation.
“Alex just texted me,” croaked Katherine. “He’s waiting for us outside. Something important has come up.”
“We’re staying.”
“What about him?”
“Who gives a crap? If he has a problem with my decision, he can take it up with me. Tell him to stop ordering people around and find another hobby. I hear knitting is proliferating.”
Brooding, I went for the healthy option. The spermy dip turned out to be lemon-parsley tahini, which went well with the fresh-cut Romanesco broccoli, rainbow carrots, celery sticks, radishes, haricots verts, and snap peas. Idly queuing to pay, I knew I was cutting it close.
I felt large hands lock onto the bare skin of my shoulders, pulling me away. Just when I thought Alexander would reprove me in front of Katherine, he whispered softly on my cheek. “Someone is moody.” His voice was warm and soft, like fingers brushing over velvet. “I wanted to discuss last-minute logistics. I’m leaving tomorrow morning.”
“Where are you going?”
“Italy and France. Meeting fellow investors.”
France. To meet Claudia? “Can I come?” I spoke with fervor, my words heavy with breath. “I’ll telework.”
“You can come. Is something the matter? Won’t your boss object?” He looked interested, but unsmiling.
“I’m an associate. A reed before the wind lives on while mighty oaks do fall.”
“That sounds old.”
Katherine grabbed his arm, “I know, right,” and they both laughed at me.
We didn’t speak much the rest of the evening, but I sensed his eyes on me. Before going to bed, as I finished brushing my teeth, he pressed himself against my back and stared at my reflection. “Are you sure nothing is going on?” He was palming my ass.
“What else can you do with your hands?”
“Hmm, I like where this is going.”
Alexander Turner
The Romantic Business Trip
Before going to Capri, we made a pit stop. Teatro La Fenice was one of the greatest opera houses in Europe. It was built on the ashes of a former theater, and after a series of intentional fires, the renovated style was 18th century rococo, designed by Aldo Rossi. The list of performers was also legendary: Giuseppe Verdi, Rossini, Luciano Pavarotti, Maria Callas and many others had frequently performed here. I was lucky enough to have witnessed Pavarotti perform La Traviata’s brindisi here.
The maestro looked trim, fit, handsome, with straight black hair that sat perfectly in place without a single stray strand. I couldn’t remember the rest of the show. I believe something was bothering Elena. She hadn’t touched me at all, no PDA and no attempts to seduce me, which left me feeling uneasy. You have to seek insight, gnawed at my mind.
We were staying at the famed Belmond Hotel Cipriani, which was located on the tip of Giudecca Island. Old-growth trees and boxwood shrubs lent it much charm, and manicured lawns and ornate concrete pots full of flowers gave it an old-style look. Beyond the sensational swimming pool, Venice’s eponymous lagoon beckoned me to explore its crystal clear blue waters.
Our Palladio suite was bright and dreamy. Wraparound windows, glass doors opening to a balcony that was layered with flowerpots full of colorful, perfumy plants. I walked over to the sideboard that held snifters and decanters containing various liquors to fix drinks.
There were two massage tables in the center of the living area and, one of the antique dressers was littered with lotions, oils, and a stack of fresh white towels. Two masseurs greeted us with pleasant smiles. One threw a towel over his shoulder, and the other removed a hot oil dispenser from a plugged heating dock. I could smell the patchouli scent the oil was giving off as he filled two non-drip flasks. Just like always, we understood each other without exchanging lengthy phrases, like a polite wave of an Italian maestro that prompted the closing of the red velvet opera drapes.
Lying down, Elena and I turned our heads and stared at each other while the professionals squirted oil into their hands and began to work on our shoulders.
Why Venice, you ask? Another wedding proposal?
Here, of all places, I hadn’t planned on it.
Harry’s Bar has to be on your life’s must-see list. If it isn’t, add it—now. Among creative, serape-draped types, this was really an oft-quoted statement. According to the bar’s fantastical history, a young Bostonian, Harry Pickering, a regular at Hotel Europa in Venice, had been the mastermind behind the concept. The hotel bar, where Giuseppe Cipriani was a bartender, was out of character; beers were served in short snifters and champagne flutes. It was quite an international ambiance, and even, perhaps, the most culturally diverse line-up at a European hotel bar. Harry learned that Giuseppe excelled at creating simplistic cocktails, and marveled at the plain ingredients and technique Giuseppe used. They became a somewhat odd couple of friends. Harry never questioned Giuseppe’s talent and inventiveness, and Giuseppe never questioned Harry’s sense of business. Only when Harry didn’t claim his usual perch at the bar did Giuseppe find out that his friend was broke. What’s hard to believe is that a bartender loaned a spoiled brat about 5 G’s, hoping to see returns. As it turns out, when the rare window of opportunity opened up, Harry grabbed it. In any case, he returned to the hotel, giving Giuseppe the quintupled sum of the loan. Harry, who wasn’t a highly expressive character, made a suggestion to Giuseppe to open a cross pollination of a saloon and a lounge, naming it Harry’s Bar. What’s fact is that this place had been frequented by famous historical figures. A few notable customers were Ernest Hemingway, Orson Welles, Charlie Chaplin, Alfred Hitchcock, Truman Capote, Aristotle Onassis, and Baron Philippe de Rothschild.
I’ll enlighten you why I took Elena there.
No matter how you slice it, if President Barack Obama spoke about WoW, it’s that good. Hence, I’d made a try-out characte
r. Many chain-quests and achievements in WoW involved—or were named after—prominent characters like Indiana Jones; Harrison Jones, Jack Sparrow; Jack Arrow, Ernest Hemingway; Hemet Nesingwary. Adele and Charlie Sheen and Tiger Woods and Alexander McQueen were just a few of the pop culture references throughout the game; there were more than a hundred.
“Oh God, Alex.” Elena’s mouth curled up on one side. “Ernest Hemingway’s bar! I did all the quests in Sholazar Basin.”
I didn’t congratulate myself yet. “How do you feel about anal sex this evening, my love?”
“Whatever you want, handsome. Anything. Let’s order bellinis. Pronto.”
Bingo. Well-done. “Good idea,” I told Elena. Bullshit, really. Should I correct her on the topic of Spanish versus Italian? Probably not. I mean, most likely it would diminish my anal sex chances. Couldn’t screw with those odds. “Bellinis. Pronto,” I winked at the bartender with a conciliatory smile.
Dinner in a close by ristorante was classic. Littleneck clam crudo, mussels frizelle, Miyagi oysters, crab-filled crêpes with a traditional sea urchin tomato sauce and basil, baccalà alla Vesuviana, puntarelle and halibut calzone, lamb belly with Jerusalem artichoke and mezzi rigatoni—tasting sizes, of course. I’d heedlessly turned a business trip into a romantic adventure. ME. Can you believe it? Maybe I was feeling insecure. Maybe this would be good for Elena because it’s what she wanted. Maybe I was hoping for her to bring up the marriage subject. While watching her get ready to go to bed, I thought about proposing one last time. Then I remembered the awkwardness and humiliation of all the other times. I wrestled with the final conclusion. In life, I’d made many mistakes. Maybe this was my punishment, the consequences of my cruel actions.
“Going by the book?”
Elena’s head snapped up toward me. “What?”
I made a sweeping motion with my arm. “See? That, right there. The way you’re wiping the cream, it’s nearly anal.”
