by JR King
“Right. I forgot we’re in the Romance category. Hot sex and such.” She looped her hand through mine. “Candlelight dinner, my good sir? You jump, I jump, Jack?”
Come along for the ride.
“Friends may come and friends may go, and friends may peter out, you know. But I’ll be yours through thick or thin, so peter out or peter in,” Elena whispered her first Irish toast.
“Whipped cream, chocolate syrup, cherries on top. May we use all three tonight, when your panties drop,” I whispered back.
Glass plate holders had a colorful face painted on, and the centerpiece was minimalist. Our table at Picasso was lakeside, the terrace entirely outside the soak zone. Dining here was more a case of having a front seat to the dancing fountain show. Naturally, I’d asked for wine to be paired with our dishes, anticipating Elena’s critiquing. I told her to drink slow enough not to get drunk, but fast enough to keep up with the food, and eat stodgy nibbles to soak up the liquid so it wouldn’t hit her medicated bloodstream too fast.
“It’s too sweet. Like muscat.” For the pan-seared foie gras course, the sommelier savant served us some kind of German ice wine.
“Keep it for the dessert,” I told her, picking up my cutlery again.
She tucked away a strand of hair behind her ear and threw back her head. “Yes, chef.”
“How’s the foie?” I cut into the soft texture of fresh goose liver and forked another bite into my mouth.
Using a French-manicured hand adorned with an outrageously expensive cocktail ring, she brought the serving to her lips and cutely sniffed it before drawing the fork to the curve of her bottom lip. Then, she parted her lips and let the feeding utensil penetrate her mouth, closing her eyes. Producing what could only be described as a humming purr, she pressed her tongue against her upper lip and opened her eyes to reach for another serving. “It melts on the tongue. Makes the taste buds climax.”
I smiled at the double entendre.
I stared at the star-studded blackness above, then down again. The dinner was well on its way to becoming a success, and not just because the waiters topped off my glass with measured regularity. When the crowd started thinning, I watched patrons file out, thanking waiters, telling them they’d had a good time. I took in a few abandoned wine glasses, and plates with mountains of sweet treats left behind. There’s something oddly striking about remnants of things left behind, especially deserted glasses with all kinds of lipstick smudges on them. A mix of excess, loneliness, and beauty. One scene in particular was worth a scream, a mother kissing her son’s forehead. Tiny bubbles of nostalgia sputtered inside me. I went over the many times mom and I were left alone when dad got called away. She’d put a smear of lipstick on my forehead, a bit similar to what the women had done to her son. Whenever she did that to me, I felt happy. I was her rock.
Bourbon felt good against my arid tongue during the dessert course. Molten chocolate something, I think. I was distracted because I was about to ruin Elena’s weekend getaway.
I licked my lips and opened my mouth, but Elena spoke first.
“See anything you like?”
“Aside from you?”
“Ask me already. Bringing out your straight-from-heaven puppy dog eyes means you want something.”
“I didn’t make it to the last guys’ night out. Tony and Aidan are flying in tonight, not for me, there’s a cocktail business event at the Wynn. Do you mind,” I moderated my tone, “I don’t want to sound presumptuous, but would you mind if they stayed with us?”
“Why would I mind? Can I come to the cocktail party?”
“I need eye candy to impress a few Asian businessmen, so you have to come with me.”
“You’ve already made up your mind about going, then.”
My lips thinned to force the grin off my face. “I call the shots. Is that an issue?”
She gave me that cheeky grin of hers. “I’m just messin’ with ya. I haven’t been out in weeks. And no offense, but I’d like to see some fresh faces.”
“You’re such a peach. You and I, we mesh.”
Her gaze grew distant. “Are you going to some icky Gentlemen’s Club afterward?”
“Possibly. It’s not about an unmet need—,”
“Where ignorance is bliss, ‘tis folly to be wise,” she interrupted, putting her forefinger to my lips. She stared at my mouth, nearly transfixed, but drew back her hand, stopping herself from engaging in more PDA. “I like having the suite all to myself.” She tilted her head, a devilish smile on her face. “I brought a toy.”
I was silent as I thought. During her recovery, Elena had experimented, sometimes making me use a toy on her, or letting me watch as she used them on herself. I fucking loved watching her play with herself. The sight of her nipples, pale pink coronas with taut peaks of darker flesh at the centers made my mouth water. Sucking tits was really comforting, almost therapeutic. If you must know, I don’t envision receiving milk, and I don’t see penetrative sex as an attempt to return to the womb. Elena liked the vibrator moving in her when my tongue was pressed against her clit. She liked playing on all fours, driving me absolutely insane from the chair in the corner where I sat as she did anal play. I showed her how much pressure to use and that the most important thing was to be gentle and go slow. The first time she slid an amber glass dildo with Swarovski crystals into her all by herself, I nearly came at the sight. It was the display of her fingers in her pussy while she used a bejeweled toy to fuck her ass and the sound of her screams as she came that had me exploding in my own hand. One time, we masturbated together. Epic. I was stroking myself as she straddled me. She pressed her breasts against my chest. Teased herself with a dildo. The moment I’d felt her warm breath against my ear, her soft tongue flickering against my earlobe, the crowns of her erect nipples brushing against my chest, it was as though twin bolts of electricity were injected into my flesh. My cock twitched violently within my own grasp, so much so that Elena had to steady me.
“Fuck,” I breathed, adjusting myself for the third time since this conversation had started. “I think I need some alone time in the nearest bathroom.”
“You go on tomorrow, Mr. Turner, watching dem girls while I play with myself. I’ll enjoy the suite,” she laughed, obviously pleased with her game.
“It’s a villa,” I corrected her, bracing myself for a punch in the eye.
Maybe she went looking for an icepick when she left the table. Attempting to gather the last drops of bourbon, I tipped my tumbler upward.
On our way out, the hostess gave us two gift boxes. Mini chocolate chip muffins for breakfast.
Indulging in midnight’s stillness and a little excess, I gobbled them up in the limo. It’d been weeks since I felt so happy and carefree. And, the entire time, various sexual scenes percolated through my mind. Elena had fallen asleep, likely a by-effect of the alcohol consumption. I put her to bed. My dick was hard. It took all my self-restraint not to rip off her clothes and bend her over and pound into her flesh until I exploded.
I was about to hit the sack when Tony and Aidan came in, all guns blazing. Elena continued sleeping peacefully.
At the wet bar, I took a long, wide pull of the amber liquid, and low-growled a satisfied ah as the rim of the glass lost contact with my mouth. The peat was meant to remain on my taste buds for a while to come.
Aidan huffed out a laugh. “Seems like you needed that, Alex.”
My lips curled halfway in a satisfied smirk. “It does, doesn’t it? Look around, what do you see?”
“You arrogant little shit,” Tony observed snidely.
My knuckles popped as I clenched my free hand into a fist. I gave them a huge grin. “In life, we all must choose between honest arrogance and hypocritical humility. Look how far vaunted arrogance got me. Why change?”
“How unoriginal. You read that somewhere,” shouted Tony. “Serve me something, you flunky.”
Fucking friends. I loved them. “Instead of shouting at me, loser, go make sure so
me girl shouts your name while you drill her. Or can’t get it up post-flight?”
“Fuck you, Alex.”
“You’re so not my type, Tony Elliot.” My quickness with the cocky rejoinder earned me a pat on the back.
Alexander Turner
The Christian Grey Conundrum
Like most of the scrapbooking type of cougars, highboy tables were spandexed too. Men were robed in different types of suits, and from the likes of Ralph Lauren to Gieves & Hawkes. For the next hour, I made the mandatory rounds, shaking sweaty hands and trading witty anecdotes with gun-toting Republicans. That famous memory capacity I had? While a bit rusty, it hadn’t deserted me. I sedately recalled who was single, who was married with kids—even their names in some cases, who was divorced, who was separated, and who was in an open relationship. Nowadays, the latter was quite hip. Then there were the Lost couples. Not inhabitants from some fictional island; couples that were going through a transitional phase, experimenting with duct tape and filament rope and cable ties from Home Depot since Fifty Shades Of Grey came out. So you think you want to be a dominant? I was sure some network was developing this show.
I mused about kink and 2011 while others spoke. You know what it’s like when someone goes on and on about their day. It all just goes in one ear and out the other. Yes, we’re all guilty of that. So far, 2011 had seen the Norway massacre, the England riots, and the Syrian uprising; the killing of Anwar al-Awlaki, Muammar Gaddafi, and Osama bin Laden; Hosni Mubarak forced from power; the death of Kim Jong-il; the quitting of Anthony Weiner amid sexting scandals, and the sacking of Joe Paterno by Penn State amid sex-abuse scandals; the—premature—death of Steve Jobs.
Think 2012 will be better? A kinky year?
As the evening progressed, the room grew crowded with lots of slimy, shit-eating bottom dwellers. “Elena, this is Lloyd McNamara,” I motioned to the man stepping up in front of me. “How’s—,” I paused and searched my mind for the right name from the update Meredith had given me, “your wife? Marcia, right?”
He smiled. “My new bride is right behind me.”
Lloyd was sharp as tack, progressing at a steady clip, no seedy hookups. Under my lead, Elena and I kept afloat small talk as I endorsed him. She laughed at his sense of humor, quite politely, because coincidentally, it was as dry as the white wine the waiter topped off our glasses with. Reporters dawdled around the curve of my group. Also, some B-list celebrity was hurting my eyesight. A busty bottle blonde, your typical trailer trash, St. Tropez tan coming from a bottle. Her ass waggled in blue jean cut-off booty shorts, the outlines of her tits visible through the transparent white tank. Kudos to her for wearing a matching bra underneath it, even if a strap had fallen off her shoulder. Her fat butt cheeks were mushrooming out the back of her daisy dukes, but what hurt the most was the nasty black re-growth on her scalp.
And while I scrutinized the blonde, a washed-up CNN correspondent was watching me.
She gave me a hit me up smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
At least one of us thought so. “Any interesting happenings?” I asked her.
“Just you. I’m sure you employ Carnegie’s guiding principle, a man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.”
My lips thinned. Great, another housewife with an extra fifty pounds and a loose twat looking for her own Christian Grey. Her tiny, ugly-shaped eyes were set like discolored brooches on beige vinyl. I could smell her, a vaginal and strangely lewd scent, her perfume reeking of smelly phlegm and rosewater staled with esurience for men. Only thing I wanted to take possession of is her throat, and squeeze it until she either retrieved her good sense or passed out. I didn’t do that, though.
I swigged my glass of whiskey, savoring the warmth sliding down my throat before answering. “Nice to meet you,” I told her, placing the empty crystal tumbler on a tray carried by a passing waiter.
Not being a bachelor was frigging awesome. I enjoyed Elena’s small curves pressing up against me while lackluster businessmen and politicians hemmed me in. She wore a Monique L’Huillier gown and flashy, incomparable Sergio Rossi ankle-strap sandals. Her dress dipped in a scandalous V down her front. The light coming from the five-wing chandeliers flirted nicely with the shimmy sequins around the waist, the swell of her milk-white breasts peeking out, the high split flashing her thigh with each step she took. To die for.
Charming as he was, Boston’s foremost bachelor, Tony Elliot, took her from me. I knew—he knew—we all knew that little Elena had a crush on him. To threesome, or not to threesome, that’s the question. Most guests turned to scrutinize them, their gazes drawn to Elena’s sexy strut. As soon as I saw Carina, the next thing to do was formulate an exit line.
With a sturdy grasp, I shook my empty glass and gave a big, phony smile. “If you’ll all excuse me, I seem to need a refill.”
“Excuse me, gentlemen, do you mind if I borrow Mr. Turner for a moment?” It was a familiar and highly unwelcome voice, a typical buttinsky, Boston’s very own virago, a tyrannical termagant even, Madeleine Moore. I kid you not, this lobbyist had a sour lemon stuck high up her ass full of zits, her extreme optics made her the kind of feminist who squicked me.
Elevating my eyebrows, I looked at her without uttering as much as a greeting, but did return the civility by acknowledging her with a polite tilt of the head.
“Alexander Turner,” she gasped, overly loud and with a bit of a slur. I figured the alcohol had hit her bloodstream. Drinking on a half-empty stomach always comes as quite a surprise. There wasn’t a burger in the world this woman had met and let go, and any dessert she ate had been adulterated with high fructose corn syrup. She could be a cover girl for the physical degradation of the entire female race in the 21st century.
She wasn’t totally drunk, but definitely tipsy. Madeleine brushed off her assistant, who, on the other hand, could use a Cream Puff and a Twinkie. The girl bore an uncanny resemblance to a Carrie Prejean mascot, and probably had no idea where Iraq was located on a world map. Then she placed a chubby hand on my arm to steady herself. “We’ve met at the…,” she tapped a finger to her slightly parted lips, searching for the name. On the ball, I now remembered how her pork-greased fingers had bolted through fried wontons, breaded calamari, crab rangoon, battered jumbo shrimps, cheese puffs, crispy egg rolls, chicken fingers and wings, flaming barbecue spareribs, skewered beef teriyaki, and a few other fried delicacies that were arranged around the Sterno-fueled hibachi grill. The famous Hawaiian platter. Just when smart, agencied concerns with healthy eating started playing a critical role in the demise of beleaguered fat-and-cholesterol intensive repasts, some obese chef had tried to revive the PuPu platter, and that at a political event.
It’s a fun, social thing to do, he’d commented to the press.
It’s maddeningly unhealthy, is what it is, someone from Michelle Obama’s camp had commented.
Then again, if a sugar-laced condiment like ketchup is a vegetable, perhaps cholesterol-laced fried dough might someday be declared a cereal, I’d senselessly commented.
“The closed-door Democratic Party fundraiser, Madeleine,” I answered. I tried to keep my cantankerousness contained, and cautiously looked around for an out. Tony? Elena? Jesus, a little help here, please? Anyone?
“That’s right! Yes! How you doin’?” One corner of her mouth crooked upward, trying to replicate Joey’s devastatingly sexy smile. With her long, twisted nose, she was brazenly ugly. I’d say beyond the scope of the usual ugly.
“I’m fine. Thank you for asking.”
“I’m running a—,”
Undaunted, “I’ve an excellent secretary,” I said in a controlled voice. “I know exactly what you’re after.”
“Sheesh.” A light came into her eyes. “You don’t say. I can tell you that in the wake of Joplin Tornado and Hurricane Irene, my organization has raised $2,540,ooo to help rebuild,” she stated, wagging a stubby fo
refinger in the air. “I’d like to work with you.”
“I’ve got no way of verifying that amount, so there’s no point in dissing you. Work with me? It really got me right here,” I tapped my chest with an open fist, “very sweet.” Madeleine was mad as a cut snake, I could see the muscle in her jaw ticking. Holding the sharp veneer of composure in place, the gravel in my voice broke down into softer bits. “I do know you like to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. My girlfriend requires my presence. Good evening.”
Behind me, Madeleine was choking on her cocktail.
Incidentally, I rooted for the choking.
Wading through guests who whooped with laugher, I gallantly declined to join them. I never eavesdropped, but Elena was no little ill at ease talking to Carina. With no solution on the horizon, I had to intercede.
Elena Anderson
The Ex-Girlfriend You Hate
Peering out the window at the windswept Vegas Strip, I shivered. December air was nothing short of arctic. I paused for a moment and watched Tony and Alexander divide an impressively thick stack of five-spots in three.
Even with a mouth gone dry, I attempted to joke. “How thoughtful of you guys! Such loyal acolytes!” Underneath all that bravado and self-righteousness, I had begun to cringe. What girlfriend doesn’t want her boyfriend to be unconditionally happy? What girlfriend doesn’t want to change her boyfriend’s unusual habits? Ugh, fuck me sideways in church.
“Little Elena is jealous?” Tony barked a laugh, which he cut short when footsteps came down the hallway.
“What did I miss?” It was Aidan.
“Tony is…Tony is very mean,” I said, appalled my voice had come out as a whine. I looked at Alexander for affirmation. Got nothing.
“Don’t look at me that way, kitten.” Alexander’s eyes had a shiny sheen—that glossy finish—found on concrete floors. “Takes one to know one.”
“Yeehaw!” Tony laughed. Only the horse neighing sound was missing.
