... down a hole.
Cat & Mouse
8:00am. I’m going to rob this woman tonight and I have no clean pants. A gambler once told me that if a greyhound ever winds up catching that mechanical rabbit they chase around the track, that's it, they're finished, useless. They wont run after that. Motivation can be fickle.
If I could move things with my mind, now that would be useful—the cigarette from the dresser catches a light from the Zippo then floats over to my lips, a beer from the fridge is halfway up the stairs before I can finish the thought—dream on Wonder Boy, dream on.
No, work, it does a body good. And it builds fucking character, that’s the important thing. After all, if you don’t build anything, you never get the pleasure of knocking it down.
This is my last week in the States. I get my blocks, cross the pond, build a masterpiece.
* * *
9:30pm. Now standing in front of massive oak doors, I take a few deep ones and reach out; the doorbell sounds a grand baritone: somber, preposterous--Gregorian monks ringing God’s balls.
Coming from inside I hear the brisk clip of stilettos across stone. The giant, wooden guard swings heavily aside, revealing the booty: ample, 'curves in all the right places,' shiny, dark-brown hair pulled back in a tight French braid, treasure and sustenance interwoven in a tantalizing tapestry of objectivity.
“Well, hello there. You're right on time, impressive… what on earth are you wearing?”
She’s referring to the swimming trunks, in place of clean pants. I clear my throat and put on some affected pomp,
“My dear, this finely-threaded shroud-of-loin you see before you is a timeless conception of the leisurely lifestyle, it puts the Bahamas in Tommy, only those who have underachieved an incredible lack of status can truly own this ensemble. Sweetheart, you'd best recognize.”
As I wave my hand up and down the front of my body in showcase fashion, with raised eyebrows, making myself sick.
For some reason this bullshit works with her; a secret formula discovered through thousands of unconscious, split-second calculations within moments of our meeting. Some may say this could only be a result of genuine chemistry, love perhaps. I prefer to think of it as a focused dedication to life begetting: fucking.
“The floral pattern is striking,” she ebbs.
To which I flow,
“Wait ‘till you see the mesh thong sewn to the inside.”
“Oh, I can’t wait.” -giggling
“You’ll have to my dear. I’m not that easy.”
Now she laughs, loudly. One of those shriek-type things women do when they’re well tickled. The adrenaline really hits me. I guess that’s what it is, adrenaline, either that or my nuts have decided to mix some extra cake batter for the big party. Either way, I’m already cooking.
“lets get this party started, shall we?”
With a quick roll of her eyes I enter Richard Moore’s 'castle', right through the front gates, me, a Trojan Horses Ass.
The house is a palatial space. Unfortunately, it’s been filled with trendy, chic, shit. It’s obviously her taste. He probably lets her do what she likes with it, he doesn’t care, it keeps her happy without any real investment, she has no rights to any money--no control--after five years.
If I could move things with my mind, now that would be useful—the cigarette from the dresser catches a light from the Zippo then floats over to my lips, a beer from the fridge is halfway up the stairs before I can finish the thought—dream on Wonder Boy, dream on.
No, work, it does a body good. And it builds fucking character, that’s the important thing. After all, if you don’t build anything, you never get the pleasure of knocking it down.
This is my last week in the States. I get my blocks, cross the pond, build a masterpiece.
* * *
9:30pm. Now standing in front of massive oak doors, I take a few deep ones and reach out; the doorbell sounds a grand baritone: somber, preposterous--Gregorian monks ringing God’s balls.
Coming from inside I hear the brisk clip of stilettos across stone. The giant, wooden guard swings heavily aside, revealing the booty: ample, 'curves in all the right places,' shiny, dark-brown hair pulled back in a tight French braid, treasure and sustenance interwoven in a tantalizing tapestry of objectivity.
“Well, hello there. You're right on time, impressive… what on earth are you wearing?”
She’s referring to the swimming trunks, in place of clean pants. I clear my throat and put on some affected pomp,
“My dear, this finely-threaded shroud-of-loin you see before you is a timeless conception of the leisurely lifestyle, it puts the Bahamas in Tommy, only those who have underachieved an incredible lack of status can truly own this ensemble. Sweetheart, you'd best recognize.”
As I wave my hand up and down the front of my body in showcase fashion, with raised eyebrows, making myself sick.
For some reason this bullshit works with her; a secret formula discovered through thousands of unconscious, split-second calculations within moments of our meeting. Some may say this could only be a result of genuine chemistry, love perhaps. I prefer to think of it as a focused dedication to life begetting: fucking.
“The floral pattern is striking,” she ebbs.
To which I flow,
“Wait ‘till you see the mesh thong sewn to the inside.”
“Oh, I can’t wait.” -giggling
“You’ll have to my dear. I’m not that easy.”
Now she laughs, loudly. One of those shriek-type things women do when they’re well tickled. The adrenaline really hits me. I guess that’s what it is, adrenaline, either that or my nuts have decided to mix some extra cake batter for the big party. Either way, I’m already cooking.
“lets get this party started, shall we?”
With a quick roll of her eyes I enter Richard Moore’s 'castle', right through the front gates, me, a Trojan Horses Ass.
The house is a palatial space. Unfortunately, it’s been filled with trendy, chic, shit. It’s obviously her taste. He probably lets her do what she likes with it, he doesn’t care, it keeps her happy without any real investment, she has no rights to any money--no control--after five years.
She's a working girl running a hell of a race. Hats off to the oldest profession.
(In mock horseracing announcer) ...
The whores are reaching the starting gate… The whores have reached the starting gate! … And awwway-they-go… It’s Gold-Digger like a gun out of the gate for an early lead, followed by Man-Eater, Celebrity-Wannabe closing third and Private-Dancer bring up the rear… Wannabe looks like she’s building momentum now, moving on Man-Eater, only two strides back now, lots of spunk in this one… passing the first turn, it's Gold-Digger hugging the rail for a two-head lead, Man-Eater making a run for the top slot now, OHHH, GOLD-DIGGER BITCH SLAPS MAN-EATER AGAINST THE RAILING, AND MAN-EATER GOES DOWN… CELEBRITY-WANNABE AND PRIVATE DANCER ARE CAUGHT IN THE FALL… looks like Gold-Digger will take this one.
All is fair in love and whore-racing.
Lillian is a masseuse at a high-end spa, a hot-as-hell Latin mamma attempting to purge her humble roots by trying her luck at the WASP lottery. That’s where she met Richard. Spending her days kneading the blubber of rich, old whales, looking for Moby Dick.
Instead of getting a wooden peg from Dick, she got a pair of D-cup tits, a much better deal.
I followed her for two weeks before I “met” her and we began the affair. The fact that she still works at the spa--after five years with Richard--makes the state of their relationship obvious. I watch her ass: looking like two bubbly pistons pumping away in her Capri pants as she saunters across the marble foyer.
There’s an impulse to rip down Lillian’s pants and bury my face in her cradle.
She undoubtedly thinks she has me--has me in the only way a women really knows when she has a man--by the balls.
In a primal sense she does, they all do.
It's just unfortunate for her that modern society affords substantial benefits to those whom control seduction; a game both sexes now play merely to survive the modern 'metro sexual' cluster-fuck of illusions we refer to as our 'personal lives.'
Sex is now performance art, a civilized perversion of nature that requires savoring and dedication on a higher plane, like French food.
“Drink?”
“Absolutely,” I say, “you're joining me of course.”
She breaks into a semi-dramatic exclamation:
“Richard drinks vodka neat, He’ s such an alcoholic, there're no mixers in the house. Oh, we have diet tonic, which I hate, and some white wine if you like. I absolutely can’t drink vodka straight, I do like my drinks strong, but they have to be fruity.”
Her heir-apparent demur is amusing, a charming little act. I offer a suggestion,
“Sounds like you need a gay bodybuilder.”
She burst out,
“What?” Her eyes widen with amusement.
“Yes, a strong, but fruity drink, a 'Gay Bodybuilder.'” Bullshit a la carte, mon specialite.
“Oh, my god, you’re kidding, that's a drink, really?”
I continue,
“Sure it's a drink, but it’s not made with vodka… it’s made with tequila.”
Eyes still wide, plus a toothy gape as Lillian shakes her head slowly, her sensibilities saying 'no' as her appetite for crude amusement says 'fuck yeah,'
“Tequila… hmm?”
“Yes, tequila… I suppose because it tastes like ass.”
“... Oh my god, that's funny. Gross, but funny. You're crazy.”
“Well, it’s a guilty pleasure isn’t it? Going crazy, tasting ass.”
“Ha. You’re the guilty pleasure.”
“In my experience guilt winds up scattered on the floor.”
With a slight air of regret she offers sincerity,
“You are fun, I can't deny that... I just don't know if I want to fall for you... I have too much to lose.”
"I'm sure you know how to have it all, Lillian. Besides, eventually, we both go down. It's inevitable.”
“If that's the case, I'm one women who’d rather not go first.”
“If you go down at all I’d be lucky, wouldn't I?”
“Yes, you would.”
She quips proudly, pouring me an Absolut and tonic.
Absolute shit and diet tonic. This man, Richard, is worth millions and he doesn’t even drink decent vodka; there's rubbing alcohol and there's rubbing alcohol, as with all civility, a fine distinction must be made, I would think.
After all, the only redeeming quality of an alcoholic is good taste. It’s fine for the overwrought hedonist to be content with moonshine made from gasoline, but what of company? Richard is no entertainer, undoubtedly another reason Lillian is seeking her theater elsewhere,
She begins to look pensive then confesses,
“You know, I do feel bad about this.”
“About what?” I say.
“Having you here… don’t be offended, it’s just…”
I interrupt to change course, snap her out of it,
“Flabbergobber!”
“Flabber, what?”
She tosses her hair slightly, an eyebrow raise accompanied by a playful smile, like she’s watching a kitten play.
“Flabbergobber,” I repeat, “an utterance of nonsense!”
Now she asks if it’s a word… Furrowing her brow, roused,
“Is that a word?”
“Don’t you know? Good conversation is like good writing, it’s not quite as good if you don’t make up a word here and there.”
I can see in her face that I am now funny, charming, intelligent, and looking good in shorts. Practically everything she wants in a man, except rich. Funny, it’s the one thing she feels will emancipate her from her roots, but it’s the one thing preventing her from being truly happy. Expectation.
Money's an honest mistake.
“I feel I understand you Lillian, deeply, if I didn’t I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn't waste your time, or mine.”
“You’re unbelievable sweet, as long as you understand, I really don’t do this sort of thing, you know?”
“I do.”
“Mm. And if he calls, I know you wouldn’t, but please, not even a sound.”
Tilting my head down I look at her through the tops of my eyes,
“I’m drinking the man’s booze, the least I can do is pretend I’m not here.”
She smiles deeply. She’s tried with every ounce of her reserve to withhold herself for her idea of an appropriate courtship, one that she’s just not getting. I've finally exhausted her resolve and find myself dangerously loving every moment, reeling from the inevitability of failed expectations giving way to the exultation of animal lust.
Getting tied up here would be an easy indulgence, one that couldn't pay for itself.
“I’m going out to the patio for a cigarette, Lillian. Afterward, I’ll return everything to its exact place and dispose of the evidence.”
“Sounds wonderful. Do you like Jazz?”
“Put on some Coltrane and I’ll love you forever.”
She doesn’t miss a beat,
“What makes you think I want you too?”
“OK. I’ll love you tonight, then leave you tomorrow.”
“You’re getting warmer.”
That's it Lillian, take the top. I concede,
“Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.”
“We’ll just have to see won't we?” She whips, enjoying the hell out of it.
This talk was doing it for me and her. I turn and start out to the patio, trailing off,
“Just keep that Absolut away from me, and I’m your Huckleberry.”
Watching her through the glass of the patio door as the smoke from a cigarette twirls up into the boundless nights sky. She turns on the stereo--hopefully Coltrane--then returns to the kitchen, wiping the counter top as she sips her white wine. No traces.
It's hard to resist sinking into self-congratulation, anytime, especially looking in at Lillian, her striking features, breasts accentuated by shadow in high-grade overhead lighting. Basking in my ego, legs crossed with my cigarette hand propped on a knee, posing, poised in one of these shitty, generic Z-Gallery patio chairs I can’t help but feel a twinge of what I hate feeling most: sorry.
She isn’t a bad girl. She just has it that way.
Wealth is a poor substitute for art. Richard is like a forgery of success, like a copy of a good painting; copies women fall for. Life is not about recognizing greatness, it’s about identifying the forgeries. Women are exceptionally poor practitioners of this, weakness men are forced to prey on.
As I consider the endeavor, my vision, I feel a deep comfort, like a warm hand gently cupping my cold nuts.
* * *
Sometime before dawn, Lillian sleeps deeply. Good sex is often a compelling reason to compromise ones ideals, as ecstasy is always a welcome corruption.
But lust between man and woman is a trick. Under the right spell of circumstance, two of us can get together and start a fire that can out-burn hell, a fire that ultimately fizzles to a burnt twig and disintegrates in the slightest breeze. If one can see a forest in the ashy haze that were once trees, they're way ahead of the game.
Slipping out of bed, dressing with careful eyes on the silhouette of Lillian’s' erotic physique lightly draped in translucent 500 count Egyptian cotton; pulling a tightly rolled pair of latex gloves from the inner pocket of my shorts initiates a thought of more, deeper penetrations. I quickly dismiss them, again forcing immunity to the naturalness of recent events.
This relationship with Lillian is perfect. I'm a ghost. Lillian won’t even know what’s happened, and couldn’t tell if she did. Even if she's forced to confess, she still doesn’t know who I am. I’m dead. Any vendetta, any trail, would turn up cold. No traces.
Down the long, rail-lined hallway of the second floor to the opulent split-double staircase, descending decadence on my way to the study: maroon, mahogany, brass and books. The massive painting behind the leather-topped desk: racehorses in full stride, Gold-Digger out in front.
Crossing the room toward the painting, swinging it away from the wall. Recalling the code to the safe: the numbers of the horses in the race from left to right... bingo.
Inside the safe is a black leather bag. Pulling it out, turning to set it on the desk, pausing for a moment.
I draw in a long breath.
Deep sigh.
Unzipping the bag there's cash, lot's of it, which will be left behind, a message that this, isn't about money.
Wedged in the side is a 9mm, next to that is what I'm after.
The photograph--a seed from which great things will grow.
I pull it out and stare; old, creased, worn, framed and familiar; it sends me back to a childhood I never had, my mother at my bedside, amusing me with my favorite bedtime limerick: There once was a man from Venice, his name was Dennis T. Menace, with a gut full of rum and a twist of the tongue, he’d take a penny and turn it to threepence. A magician.
My mother would have been a great bullshitter, I'm sure of that.
The cash and gun go back in the bag and the bag goes back in the safe. The photo comes with me. I flip the lid to the desktop humidor and help myself to a symbol of victory--a slow roll in the fingers and draw under the nostrils--robust and delicious.
Leaving the study.
Walking out the front door--cigar wedged at the side of my mouth leaching a bitter-musk drip to the back of my throat--I'm greeted by darkness.
Crossing the street to the car.
Half way across the road I freeze solid, my eyes glued to the horizon. Fixating on the dark blue of the horizon as it meets the black of the earth.
My imagination overcomes me...
From the black of earth, under the horizon line erupts an enormous orange cloud, crawling with red, smoldering fire that surges angrily upward; on the sheen of my eyeballs dances a reflection of the blast, heat searing my face with imposing candor as this unrelenting expulsion mushrooms into the sky like the clandestine hand of God thrusting up toward the heavens.
Maybe he's going to scratch his balls.
Victorious!
Time to go home and wash Lillian off my cock.
***
A week later I'm in London, drinking a martini, Churchill, lemon twist; leave the olive skinned girl at the bar for the pouty red head in the booth, the options of a happy man.
She’s sitting at the corner of the bar with company, elegant silk scarf stylishly covering her bald skull, Asian, and European by the sound of it. She has a posh demeanor that smacks of overdone.
Her face is strong, impenetrable but feminine, a castle gate with a pink coat of paint.
She hoists the Marc Jacobs from the ground, lifting it clear past bar level, suspending it in the air at the end of a lithe forearm and impressively flexed deltoid,
“This is the new color, blue-green steel.”
The mutual reception is of reserved pretense with slight, seething shivers of contentment and approval at the spectacle of high fashion hovering in mid air; a gracefully executed swan-dive from realities’ jagged cliff into a divertive pool of materialism.
Feeling a sudden impulse of meanness I fantasize a smooth approach that has me leaning intimately into her ear and asking,
"When you die of cancer, would you like that buried with you, Cleopatra?” Then five seconds later fantasizing the ultimate reply:
“What’s the point of that?”
This accompanied by a stern, disapproving look, resoundingly controlled, devoid of any hint of self-pity, to which I have no adequate response, retreating stiffly, aroused and provoked.
She knows I’m watching. Once. Twice. Hardly taking her eyes off now. I raise eyes at the barman, sliding forward an empty tumbler,
"Hit me again."
Healthy pour.
The glass tips steady and reassured. A jingle of ice cubes and the cool liquid slithers down my throat, a pistol-pop starting the race.
Clarity is a hard thing to come by, but right now it's a tight little piece, stunned and puckered, her mouth agape at the audacity of him to suggest she perform fellatio in the middle of the bar, in front of Marc Jacobs.
If she only knew: 2 glances gets you a formal introduction, an unbroken stare gets you a mouthful of medium-rare, whether you know you want it or not.
There's nothing like tempestuously stroking something new with the middle and ring finger after the first throat-load of scotch, groping at soft cleavage over a low cut blouse, a throbbing erection pressed anxiously against an officious zipper.
The climax is coming.
God! Cancer's caused by repressing shit like that.
In the old days he’d just drag her to the cave by the hair, have his way with her until the nag of hunger flipped the switch on his modus.
The barriers to entry, the castle gates, the walls protecting the trivial insecurities of the “civilized,” they’re now the beasts of burden for the lustful, desirous and savage like him.
It’s now a thinking-mans game, and he was, after all, a thinking man.
Wait now. Here’s a development. Is she? Yes she is… coming over.
This walk means I had her all wrong; not self-conscious but empowered; it’s a trick, self-conscious but she owns it, like it’s her bitch and she makes it heel; she walks the tiger like a dog. The body of a model: tall, slender, perfect. Wearing a tank-top that hugs her lean torso, designer denims, some heals, that fucking scarf. Bang. She’s walking a runway straight to me; throwing off lips and hips--side to side.
That outfit’s nice honey. I can't wait to rip it off.
I was preying on her with my mind, defaming her, having my way with her likeness, telling her who she was and she sensed it. Now she’s on top of me, just the way I like it.
She can turn the tables all she wants, she'll still end up on top of them, getting fucked.
Here comes the opener, adrenaline, batter, adrenaline...
She leans on the bar with both elbows, hands flat on the bar, diamonds, gold, black-widow eyes--the kind that kill when they're done--right in my face. Flirtation this sharp draws blood. Come on bitch, do it, eat me alive you vixen of death.
The lips are apportioned with succulent precision, glistening deep-red, the words are a switchblade in slow motion,
“It’s really quite simple I would think, a deliberate approach, stroking your tie against that firm chest and buttoning your jacket. A charming introduction has me accepting an offer to buy me a drink as you apologize for an interruption that couldn't be avoided. You're overcome by a desire to know me better. You might say something smart-ass, like you’re not much for foreplay, which I forgive since you've done well so far."
Her accent is French, her observations swift and her monologue effortless.
"Sounds like I've done this before," I jolt.
Stoic and unamused she continues,
"Or, I could make the first move, of course you love that, a confident woman is your favorite game. Usually dropping your pants quicker than the little act you’ve got going, this time you feel genuinely ambitious, willing to sacrifice, there’s something worth a piece of that heart you’ve saved for so long. And I just might be it.”
(In mock horseracing announcer) ...
The whores are reaching the starting gate… The whores have reached the starting gate! … And awwway-they-go… It’s Gold-Digger like a gun out of the gate for an early lead, followed by Man-Eater, Celebrity-Wannabe closing third and Private-Dancer bring up the rear… Wannabe looks like she’s building momentum now, moving on Man-Eater, only two strides back now, lots of spunk in this one… passing the first turn, it's Gold-Digger hugging the rail for a two-head lead, Man-Eater making a run for the top slot now, OHHH, GOLD-DIGGER BITCH SLAPS MAN-EATER AGAINST THE RAILING, AND MAN-EATER GOES DOWN… CELEBRITY-WANNABE AND PRIVATE DANCER ARE CAUGHT IN THE FALL… looks like Gold-Digger will take this one.
All is fair in love and whore-racing.
Lillian is a masseuse at a high-end spa, a hot-as-hell Latin mamma attempting to purge her humble roots by trying her luck at the WASP lottery. That’s where she met Richard. Spending her days kneading the blubber of rich, old whales, looking for Moby Dick.
Instead of getting a wooden peg from Dick, she got a pair of D-cup tits, a much better deal.
I followed her for two weeks before I “met” her and we began the affair. The fact that she still works at the spa--after five years with Richard--makes the state of their relationship obvious. I watch her ass: looking like two bubbly pistons pumping away in her Capri pants as she saunters across the marble foyer.
There’s an impulse to rip down Lillian’s pants and bury my face in her cradle.
She undoubtedly thinks she has me--has me in the only way a women really knows when she has a man--by the balls.
In a primal sense she does, they all do.
It's just unfortunate for her that modern society affords substantial benefits to those whom control seduction; a game both sexes now play merely to survive the modern 'metro sexual' cluster-fuck of illusions we refer to as our 'personal lives.'
Sex is now performance art, a civilized perversion of nature that requires savoring and dedication on a higher plane, like French food.
“Drink?”
“Absolutely,” I say, “you're joining me of course.”
She breaks into a semi-dramatic exclamation:
“Richard drinks vodka neat, He’ s such an alcoholic, there're no mixers in the house. Oh, we have diet tonic, which I hate, and some white wine if you like. I absolutely can’t drink vodka straight, I do like my drinks strong, but they have to be fruity.”
Her heir-apparent demur is amusing, a charming little act. I offer a suggestion,
“Sounds like you need a gay bodybuilder.”
She burst out,
“What?” Her eyes widen with amusement.
“Yes, a strong, but fruity drink, a 'Gay Bodybuilder.'” Bullshit a la carte, mon specialite.
“Oh, my god, you’re kidding, that's a drink, really?”
I continue,
“Sure it's a drink, but it’s not made with vodka… it’s made with tequila.”
Eyes still wide, plus a toothy gape as Lillian shakes her head slowly, her sensibilities saying 'no' as her appetite for crude amusement says 'fuck yeah,'
“Tequila… hmm?”
“Yes, tequila… I suppose because it tastes like ass.”
“... Oh my god, that's funny. Gross, but funny. You're crazy.”
“Well, it’s a guilty pleasure isn’t it? Going crazy, tasting ass.”
“Ha. You’re the guilty pleasure.”
“In my experience guilt winds up scattered on the floor.”
With a slight air of regret she offers sincerity,
“You are fun, I can't deny that... I just don't know if I want to fall for you... I have too much to lose.”
"I'm sure you know how to have it all, Lillian. Besides, eventually, we both go down. It's inevitable.”
“If that's the case, I'm one women who’d rather not go first.”
“If you go down at all I’d be lucky, wouldn't I?”
“Yes, you would.”
She quips proudly, pouring me an Absolut and tonic.
Absolute shit and diet tonic. This man, Richard, is worth millions and he doesn’t even drink decent vodka; there's rubbing alcohol and there's rubbing alcohol, as with all civility, a fine distinction must be made, I would think.
After all, the only redeeming quality of an alcoholic is good taste. It’s fine for the overwrought hedonist to be content with moonshine made from gasoline, but what of company? Richard is no entertainer, undoubtedly another reason Lillian is seeking her theater elsewhere,
She begins to look pensive then confesses,
“You know, I do feel bad about this.”
“About what?” I say.
“Having you here… don’t be offended, it’s just…”
I interrupt to change course, snap her out of it,
“Flabbergobber!”
“Flabber, what?”
She tosses her hair slightly, an eyebrow raise accompanied by a playful smile, like she’s watching a kitten play.
“Flabbergobber,” I repeat, “an utterance of nonsense!”
Now she asks if it’s a word… Furrowing her brow, roused,
“Is that a word?”
“Don’t you know? Good conversation is like good writing, it’s not quite as good if you don’t make up a word here and there.”
I can see in her face that I am now funny, charming, intelligent, and looking good in shorts. Practically everything she wants in a man, except rich. Funny, it’s the one thing she feels will emancipate her from her roots, but it’s the one thing preventing her from being truly happy. Expectation.
Money's an honest mistake.
“I feel I understand you Lillian, deeply, if I didn’t I wouldn’t be here, I wouldn't waste your time, or mine.”
“You’re unbelievable sweet, as long as you understand, I really don’t do this sort of thing, you know?”
“I do.”
“Mm. And if he calls, I know you wouldn’t, but please, not even a sound.”
Tilting my head down I look at her through the tops of my eyes,
“I’m drinking the man’s booze, the least I can do is pretend I’m not here.”
She smiles deeply. She’s tried with every ounce of her reserve to withhold herself for her idea of an appropriate courtship, one that she’s just not getting. I've finally exhausted her resolve and find myself dangerously loving every moment, reeling from the inevitability of failed expectations giving way to the exultation of animal lust.
Getting tied up here would be an easy indulgence, one that couldn't pay for itself.
“I’m going out to the patio for a cigarette, Lillian. Afterward, I’ll return everything to its exact place and dispose of the evidence.”
“Sounds wonderful. Do you like Jazz?”
“Put on some Coltrane and I’ll love you forever.”
She doesn’t miss a beat,
“What makes you think I want you too?”
“OK. I’ll love you tonight, then leave you tomorrow.”
“You’re getting warmer.”
That's it Lillian, take the top. I concede,
“Maybe I bit off more than I can chew.”
“We’ll just have to see won't we?” She whips, enjoying the hell out of it.
This talk was doing it for me and her. I turn and start out to the patio, trailing off,
“Just keep that Absolut away from me, and I’m your Huckleberry.”
Watching her through the glass of the patio door as the smoke from a cigarette twirls up into the boundless nights sky. She turns on the stereo--hopefully Coltrane--then returns to the kitchen, wiping the counter top as she sips her white wine. No traces.
It's hard to resist sinking into self-congratulation, anytime, especially looking in at Lillian, her striking features, breasts accentuated by shadow in high-grade overhead lighting. Basking in my ego, legs crossed with my cigarette hand propped on a knee, posing, poised in one of these shitty, generic Z-Gallery patio chairs I can’t help but feel a twinge of what I hate feeling most: sorry.
She isn’t a bad girl. She just has it that way.
Wealth is a poor substitute for art. Richard is like a forgery of success, like a copy of a good painting; copies women fall for. Life is not about recognizing greatness, it’s about identifying the forgeries. Women are exceptionally poor practitioners of this, weakness men are forced to prey on.
As I consider the endeavor, my vision, I feel a deep comfort, like a warm hand gently cupping my cold nuts.
* * *
Sometime before dawn, Lillian sleeps deeply. Good sex is often a compelling reason to compromise ones ideals, as ecstasy is always a welcome corruption.
But lust between man and woman is a trick. Under the right spell of circumstance, two of us can get together and start a fire that can out-burn hell, a fire that ultimately fizzles to a burnt twig and disintegrates in the slightest breeze. If one can see a forest in the ashy haze that were once trees, they're way ahead of the game.
Slipping out of bed, dressing with careful eyes on the silhouette of Lillian’s' erotic physique lightly draped in translucent 500 count Egyptian cotton; pulling a tightly rolled pair of latex gloves from the inner pocket of my shorts initiates a thought of more, deeper penetrations. I quickly dismiss them, again forcing immunity to the naturalness of recent events.
This relationship with Lillian is perfect. I'm a ghost. Lillian won’t even know what’s happened, and couldn’t tell if she did. Even if she's forced to confess, she still doesn’t know who I am. I’m dead. Any vendetta, any trail, would turn up cold. No traces.
Down the long, rail-lined hallway of the second floor to the opulent split-double staircase, descending decadence on my way to the study: maroon, mahogany, brass and books. The massive painting behind the leather-topped desk: racehorses in full stride, Gold-Digger out in front.
Crossing the room toward the painting, swinging it away from the wall. Recalling the code to the safe: the numbers of the horses in the race from left to right... bingo.
Inside the safe is a black leather bag. Pulling it out, turning to set it on the desk, pausing for a moment.
I draw in a long breath.
Deep sigh.
Unzipping the bag there's cash, lot's of it, which will be left behind, a message that this, isn't about money.
Wedged in the side is a 9mm, next to that is what I'm after.
The photograph--a seed from which great things will grow.
I pull it out and stare; old, creased, worn, framed and familiar; it sends me back to a childhood I never had, my mother at my bedside, amusing me with my favorite bedtime limerick: There once was a man from Venice, his name was Dennis T. Menace, with a gut full of rum and a twist of the tongue, he’d take a penny and turn it to threepence. A magician.
My mother would have been a great bullshitter, I'm sure of that.
The cash and gun go back in the bag and the bag goes back in the safe. The photo comes with me. I flip the lid to the desktop humidor and help myself to a symbol of victory--a slow roll in the fingers and draw under the nostrils--robust and delicious.
Leaving the study.
Walking out the front door--cigar wedged at the side of my mouth leaching a bitter-musk drip to the back of my throat--I'm greeted by darkness.
Crossing the street to the car.
Half way across the road I freeze solid, my eyes glued to the horizon. Fixating on the dark blue of the horizon as it meets the black of the earth.
My imagination overcomes me...
From the black of earth, under the horizon line erupts an enormous orange cloud, crawling with red, smoldering fire that surges angrily upward; on the sheen of my eyeballs dances a reflection of the blast, heat searing my face with imposing candor as this unrelenting expulsion mushrooms into the sky like the clandestine hand of God thrusting up toward the heavens.
Maybe he's going to scratch his balls.
Victorious!
Time to go home and wash Lillian off my cock.
***
A week later I'm in London, drinking a martini, Churchill, lemon twist; leave the olive skinned girl at the bar for the pouty red head in the booth, the options of a happy man.
She’s sitting at the corner of the bar with company, elegant silk scarf stylishly covering her bald skull, Asian, and European by the sound of it. She has a posh demeanor that smacks of overdone.
Her face is strong, impenetrable but feminine, a castle gate with a pink coat of paint.
She hoists the Marc Jacobs from the ground, lifting it clear past bar level, suspending it in the air at the end of a lithe forearm and impressively flexed deltoid,
“This is the new color, blue-green steel.”
The mutual reception is of reserved pretense with slight, seething shivers of contentment and approval at the spectacle of high fashion hovering in mid air; a gracefully executed swan-dive from realities’ jagged cliff into a divertive pool of materialism.
Feeling a sudden impulse of meanness I fantasize a smooth approach that has me leaning intimately into her ear and asking,
"When you die of cancer, would you like that buried with you, Cleopatra?” Then five seconds later fantasizing the ultimate reply:
“What’s the point of that?”
This accompanied by a stern, disapproving look, resoundingly controlled, devoid of any hint of self-pity, to which I have no adequate response, retreating stiffly, aroused and provoked.
She knows I’m watching. Once. Twice. Hardly taking her eyes off now. I raise eyes at the barman, sliding forward an empty tumbler,
"Hit me again."
Healthy pour.
The glass tips steady and reassured. A jingle of ice cubes and the cool liquid slithers down my throat, a pistol-pop starting the race.
Clarity is a hard thing to come by, but right now it's a tight little piece, stunned and puckered, her mouth agape at the audacity of him to suggest she perform fellatio in the middle of the bar, in front of Marc Jacobs.
If she only knew: 2 glances gets you a formal introduction, an unbroken stare gets you a mouthful of medium-rare, whether you know you want it or not.
There's nothing like tempestuously stroking something new with the middle and ring finger after the first throat-load of scotch, groping at soft cleavage over a low cut blouse, a throbbing erection pressed anxiously against an officious zipper.
The climax is coming.
God! Cancer's caused by repressing shit like that.
In the old days he’d just drag her to the cave by the hair, have his way with her until the nag of hunger flipped the switch on his modus.
The barriers to entry, the castle gates, the walls protecting the trivial insecurities of the “civilized,” they’re now the beasts of burden for the lustful, desirous and savage like him.
It’s now a thinking-mans game, and he was, after all, a thinking man.
Wait now. Here’s a development. Is she? Yes she is… coming over.
This walk means I had her all wrong; not self-conscious but empowered; it’s a trick, self-conscious but she owns it, like it’s her bitch and she makes it heel; she walks the tiger like a dog. The body of a model: tall, slender, perfect. Wearing a tank-top that hugs her lean torso, designer denims, some heals, that fucking scarf. Bang. She’s walking a runway straight to me; throwing off lips and hips--side to side.
That outfit’s nice honey. I can't wait to rip it off.
I was preying on her with my mind, defaming her, having my way with her likeness, telling her who she was and she sensed it. Now she’s on top of me, just the way I like it.
She can turn the tables all she wants, she'll still end up on top of them, getting fucked.
Here comes the opener, adrenaline, batter, adrenaline...
She leans on the bar with both elbows, hands flat on the bar, diamonds, gold, black-widow eyes--the kind that kill when they're done--right in my face. Flirtation this sharp draws blood. Come on bitch, do it, eat me alive you vixen of death.
The lips are apportioned with succulent precision, glistening deep-red, the words are a switchblade in slow motion,
“It’s really quite simple I would think, a deliberate approach, stroking your tie against that firm chest and buttoning your jacket. A charming introduction has me accepting an offer to buy me a drink as you apologize for an interruption that couldn't be avoided. You're overcome by a desire to know me better. You might say something smart-ass, like you’re not much for foreplay, which I forgive since you've done well so far."
Her accent is French, her observations swift and her monologue effortless.
"Sounds like I've done this before," I jolt.
Stoic and unamused she continues,
"Or, I could make the first move, of course you love that, a confident woman is your favorite game. Usually dropping your pants quicker than the little act you’ve got going, this time you feel genuinely ambitious, willing to sacrifice, there’s something worth a piece of that heart you’ve saved for so long. And I just might be it.”