by Jo Adler
Once he leaves, I down the first shot and Oliver sips his wine. The tequila warms my core and I feel the heat moving slowly through my body. I’ve never been interested in getting annihilated with beer and booze like some of my friends. When we were in high school, Oliver once consumed half a bottle of Tanqueray, losing his virginity and any future desire to drink gin on the same night. When I smile at the memory of the long ago fiasco, he taps my shoulder and asks what I think of the place.
“So far, so good,” I tell him. “But where are the whips and chains and leather slings?”
His upper lip curls. “For your information, that type of fun is located on the lower level. But I don’t know why you’re asking, sweetie. That’s never been your scene.”
“Well, maybe it will be tonight. You said that I need to break out of my rut.”
“I was talking about food,” he says. “Not fisting or licking daddy’s black leather boots.”
I wince at the imagery. I have friends who are into that sort of thing, but I’m more interested in dominance and submission that doesn’t require extreme pain, bodily fluids or humiliation. It’s totally cool if other people get into that kind of kink, but I’d much rather please an older guy by following his instructions and submitting to his will without whips and chains.
“Although that can be hot,” he adds, “under the right circumstances.”
“And what about those two?” I nod discretely at a pair of gray-haired daddies as they walk into the room and approach the bar. “Would you consider them the right circumstances?”
“Definitely not,” Oliver says when he sees me studying the new arrivals. “The one in the blazer is only into katoptronophilia with ballet dancers, and the—”
“Into what with dancers?”
“Katoptronophilia,” he tells me. “He likes to watch dancers stroke and edge their cocks in front of mirrors.”
“Is that a thing?” I ask.
“It is for that guy.” He arches one eyebrow. “Besides, have I ever lied to you?”
I blurt out a laugh that causes everyone in the room to look over.
“Sorry, gentlemen!” Oliver announces in a loud, cheerful tone. “This one’s hilarious!” He pauses for a split second. “If, that is, you’re into that sort of thing.”
A few of the men offer unenthusiastic grins and a couple actually laugh. After acknowledging them with a nod, I turn back to Oliver.
“Don’t do that again,” I hiss. “I didn’t come tonight to be embarrassed in front of everybody.”
He sneers. “Get over yourself, Greta. You came tonight because your dick is twitching for daddy’s touch. You need to get down and dirty with a hot silver fox.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive,” I say with a subdued laugh. “And I’m not going to deny what you said. I would love to meet someone for a romp.”
“See?” Oliver’s voice is tinged with his trademark snooty tone. “I’m always right when it comes to daddies and dicks.”
“Uh…what about Jean-Michel?” I ask. “Were you right about that being your happily ever after?”
His nostrils flare and his eyes taper. “Don’t go there, Nick. The wound’s still raw and bleeding.”
“I’m sorry, man. That was rude.”
“Pretty much, yeah,” he agrees. “But it’s okay. I know that deep down you love me and want only the best for me. Even if we both know that I don’t deserve unconditional love and support because I can be a bigger bitch than anyone on earth.”
I’ve known Oliver long enough to realize that he’s teasing with the pouty lower lip and gloomy tone. When he’s truly hurting, he stops talking altogether. But when he trots out bad jokes and self-deprecating quips, I know that he’s not really upset. As usual, I give him a moment to feign distress before he changes the subject.
“Speaking of bigger bitches,” he says in a hushed tone. “Check out the old queen in the bedazzled getup.”
I glance over my shoulder at a tall, skinny gray-haired man wearing a sweatshirt with a multicolored crystal Marc Jacobs logo on the front.
“That little princess loves piss play,” he confides. “Which I will never understand. I was at a gallery opening once and he wouldn’t stop blathering about it.” He pauses to make a choking sound. “And the guy that Mr. Urine is talking to gets off by shaving boys from head to toe with a straight-edged razor. Which isn’t that odd, I guess. But he’s also a mean drunk and his hands shake like crazy. I’m telling you merely as a public service. I’d hate to think of you ending up with someone like that.”
“How do you know all of this stuff?” I ask.
Oliver shrugs with a blasé smile. “Everyone has at least one dirty little secret. Some people know how to be circumspect.” He leans closer and lowers his voice. “And some people, like our friend there in the Marc Jacobs sweatshirt, don’t know when to stop oversharing. It’s like that old saying, ‘Loose lips can’t suck dicks.’”
“That’s so not right,” I say. “Did you coin that phrase?”
He tilts his head to one side. “I appropriated it from some guy I hooked up with the other night.”
“Before or after Jean-Michel gave you the heave-ho?”
His eyes go wide with contempt. “After, thank you very much. I know you think that I’m a tramp, but I only made one teensy mistake during my Jean-Michel years.”
“That’s all it took.” I smile. “But that’s water under the bridge, right?”
He glares at me, but doesn’t offer a snappy retort. After we study the crowd for a few minutes, I ask Oliver how he managed to get the invitations for tonight.
“They were actually a parting gift from Jean-Michel,” he says. “We met in a similar type of club in Berlin, so it’s a little like a fisherman returning his catch to open waters. Even though he got tired of me, he wants me to be happy with someone else.”
“Ah, isn’t that special?” I tease. “The guy lied to you and led you on, but all is forgiven because he gave you two invites that he didn’t want?”
Oliver snickers at my question. “Isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle a bitch? Have you already forgotten what Taylor did to you? He fucked those two idiots in your marital bed, sweetie.”
“Thanks for the reminder,” I say. “And, for the record, it wasn’t our marital bed. Taylor and I never officially tied the knot.”
“Lucky you,” he replies. “Going through a real divorce with lawyers and paperwork is a much messier proposition.” I notice one corner of his mouth lift. “And speaking of propositions…”
I follow his gaze. He’s appraising two men at the far end of the room. They’re both studying the crowd and slowly sipping their cocktails. One is on the short side with a slight belly, a receding hairline and an ornate gold mask. He’s dressed in a blue blazer, gray slacks and gleaming black loafers without socks. The man that he’s talking to looks like a model of perfection: just over six feet tall, square jaw dusted with dark scruff, casually dressed in a linen T-shirt, jeans and scuffed brogues. The mask covering the top half of his face is glossy black with silver sequins around the edge. His muscular arms and pecs make it clear he’s very familiar with the inside of a gym, and the matching sleeve tattoos on both arms suggest that he marches to the beat of his own brawny drum.
“Which one are you talking about?” I ask.
“Very funny,” he scoffs. “Obviously the one standing closer to the Hockney.”
I glance over my shoulder again. “They have a Hockney?”
“You are so blind sometimes,” Oliver hisses. “I spotted it the second we came into the room. Whoever owns this place has just as much good taste as green dollars. I mean, from this very spot, I can see amazing pieces by Hockney, Rosenquist and Nevelson.”
I laugh. “Sounds like a law firm, doesn’t it?”
Oliver dismisses my quip with the wave of one hand. “Focus on the men, babe. There’ll be plenty of time for giggles tomorrow after we spend a hot night with a hot—” He stops a
bruptly and tilts toward me. “Don’t look now, but the beautiful hunk is on the move.”
When I turn for a third glance, the man with the sleeve tattoos is heading in our direction.
“Holy fuck!” Oliver gasps. “Did you see the massive mound in his pants?”
I look again, shifting my gaze down below his waist. When I catch a glimpse of the bulge, my breath catches in my throat.
“He’s either trying to steal an ottoman,” I whisper, “or that man has the biggest cock in history.”
“I’m hoping it’s the second option,” Oliver replies under his breath. “Because that fucker is going to be my buckin’ bronco in about an hour.”
“You seem pretty confident there, mister.”
“Bet your fucking ass!” Oliver flashes one of his megawatt smiles. “And now, my friend, watch and learn how a real boy pleases his new daddy.”
As the man approaches, I do another quick inventory of his qualities: short brown hair with a tinge of gray at his temples, a dimpled chin, gleaming green eyes framed by the glossy black mask. With the intricate sleeve tattoos, muscular build and casual attire, he’s just my type. I’ve always been attracted to older men who eschew convention and rules; the type of daddy who tells the world that he’s an independent rogue and free spirit without even opening his mouth. It says: swagger, confidence, power, independence. It also says hot as fuck, built to ride and a real man who knows how to work a boy’s ass.
“Go get ‘em, tiger,” I whisper to Oliver. “I want to check out the artwork on the other side of the room.”
“But how will you—”
Before he finishes the thought, I walk away. I’m not ready for this. I shouldn’t have come tonight. It’s too soon. Fucking Taylor. I don’t know why, but my confidence was upended by what he did, what he said and how he dismissed me like an afterthought.
I move quickly to the opposite end of the room, glancing back a few times as the hunk with the massive bulge shakes Oliver’s hand and motions for the bartender.
For the next few minutes, as I contemplate a series of gorgeous black-and-white shots of lilies and tulips that remind me of Robert Mapplethorpe’s floral still life photographs, I look back at Oliver to see how he’s doing with the hot tattooed daddy. They seem to be getting along well, talking and laughing and standing ever closer.
As I walk toward a large abstract painting, I notice a short, pear-shaped man crossing the room. He’s wearing baggy jeans, a black turtleneck and running shoes. His bald head glints in the light from the ornate chandeliers, and his broad grin has an undeniably infectious joy.
“Stanley,” he says, offering one plump hand. “Nice to meet you.”
“Definitely.” When we shake, I’m impressed by his strong, confident grip. “I’m Nick.”
“What do you think?” he asks.
“About the art?” I smile. “I think it’s amazing.”
He shakes his head. “Not just the art,” he replies. “I’m talking about the club itself; the artwork, the architecture, the gracious amenities and the handsome young men.” He rests one hand on my arm. His touch is cool and damp, sending a sudden shiver up my spine.
“I also mean about you and I,” he says, inching closer. “I’ve reserved a space in the basement. I saw you at Club Lariat not long ago, so—”
“Club Lariat?”
I don’t frequent the BDSM outpost in Brooklyn, so I figure he has me confused with someone else.
“You were in the reception area with a buxom redhead,” he explains. “I figured that was a little unusual, but everybody’s got their brand of kink.”
At the mention of a woman with red hair, it all comes rushing back. Dede asked me to ride along when she went to look at a loft that was for sale in the same building as Club Lariat. We’d been so busy laughing and giggling on the elevator that I accidentally hit the button for the wrong floor. When the doors opened and we saw a hunk in black leather behind the glass partition, our giggling had made it nearly impossible to breathe.
“You’re right,” I tell Stanley. “I was in that building a couple of weeks back, but for a totally different thing.”
He reaches over and pinches my cheek. “I’ve got a few different things that I’d like to show you downstairs, boy. Feel like learning how your daddy’s hand feels?”
I shake my head. “I actually—”
“Have you ever been fisted?”
My eyes bulge. “Um, no that’s not—”
“I bet your cock and balls will look fucking amazing inside a chastity cage,” he says. “Do you like that, boy? Do you want to—”
I hold up one hand. “Sorry, but that’s not what I’m into.” My cheeks go red with a blend of unease and irritation. “But I’m sure that—”
Before I can finish, someone clamps a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. When I swivel around, my heart lurches sideways and a bolt of adrenaline rockets through me. It’s the hot daddy with the sleeve tattoos. He’s standing right behind me, flashing a relaxed smile and adjusting the mask over his eyes.
“There you are!” he says. “I wondered where you’d run off to.”
Stanley scowls angrily. Then he starts to say something, but the hunk with the inked arms shuts him down with a hard-edged stare.
“Well, pardon me,” Stanley huffs. “I didn’t realize that you’d already claimed this one.”
“No problem,” says the handsome stranger. “I just wanted to say hello.”
Without another peep, Stanley spins away toward one of the servers carrying a silver tray piled with h’ors douevres.
“I thought he looked hungry,” the guy jokes.
I take a deep breath while keeping my gaze fixed on the stunning blue-gray eyes behind the sequin-bedecked mask.
“Thank you,” I murmur. “He was being a little bit…um, well…”
“Kind of a creeper?”
I nod timidly. “More or less.”
When he reaches for my face, I don’t flinch. It’s like I’m suddenly incapable of doing anything but watch every move of his full lips and beautiful body. His touch is light and precise when he brushes the bangs from my forehead.
“There,” he says when he’s finished. “Now I can see both of your brilliant blue eyes.”
I feel my pulse quicken as I try to take a breath. “I don’t know about brilliant,” I say, hoping that my teeth don’t chatter from the sudden rush of nerves. “But they’re definitely blue.”
He laughs; a warm and smoky sound that envelopes me completely. “And you’re definitely in need of a cocktail. What would you like?”
“I’m okay,” I say quickly. “I already had something with my friend.”
He smiles. “Oliver? Is that the one?”
My throat is now so dry that I’m afraid to attempt anything more than a nod.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I nod again.
“My name is Adam,” he says, holding out his right arm. “Adam Coleman.”
“I’m, uh…” His hand is warm and strong, the grip as powerful and confident as they come. “My name is…”
“You’re Nicholas Hardy,” he says, rescuing me from a moment of sheer panic.
“Although your friends call you Nick. You’re twenty-three. You moved to New York from Colorado. You’re also a painter and a fitness buff and you juggle three different part-time jobs.”
When my mouth drops open, Adam reaches over a second time, puts one finger under my chin and gently closes the yawning gap.
“Oliver’s quite a talker,” he says. “I stopped him when he offered to share a few of your more personal details.”
“Like what?” I ask, finally able to speak again. “What was he going to tell you?”
Adam leans in and presses his mouth against my ear. “That’s for me to know,” he whispers, “and you to find out.”
When he steps back, there’s a playful smile just below the black mask.
“I couldn’t resist,” he says. “That’s some
thing my older sister always tells me when she thinks that I’m being too curious for my own good.”
I shrug. “Did I sound too curious just then?”
He lifts his hand again, holding the thumb and forefinger very close together. “Maybe about like this,” he says. “Luckily, I know how to handle curious boys.”
My cock twitches at the comment. When I’d agreed to join Oliver at the club, I had no expectations at all. Despite protesting that I was more interested in a run with my former roommate and a healthy dinner at home, I was beginning to suspect that Oliver was right about everything. It was going to be a great night. I was going to thank him in the morning. And I was ready to get back into the world.
“How about a tour?” Adam asks. “It would be a shame if you came all the way here tonight and didn’t explore the magnificent artwork on the upper floors.”
“Sounds like a good idea,” I say with a grin. “I definitely like what I’ve seen so far.”
When I realize how that probably sounds to Adam, I start to panic again. I’m being too forward. Too needy. Too pushy.
“That makes two of us,” he says, running his gaze down the length of my body. “I spotted you straightaway. And I’ve actually seen you before, so I’m really pleased that you’re here tonight.”
“You’ve…seen me b-b-before?” I stammer.
“Once at Marie’s Crisis,” he says. “You were having a drink with Oliver and an older gentleman. A few days later, I saw you standing on line at Shake Shack. And then about a month after that, I saw you running by the river with a couple of people.”
“Really?” I feel lightheaded and dizzy. “But I’m wearing a mask. How did you know it was me?”
He points at the signet ring on my left hand that belonged to my grandfather. “Between that, the dimple in your chin and the unmistakably sweet smile, I was ninety-nine percent sure it was you.”
“That’s just…” I gulp in a breath. “I mean, that’s like something that happens in a dream.”
Adam smiles. And I wait for him to make a comment. But instead of telling me something witty and charming, he leans in again. Except this time it isn’t to brush the hair from my eyes.