Filthy Gorgeous

by Knight, Jodi

  That’s it. I’m outta here. I stand up and glance at my Rolex. “Dad, this has been all kinds of fun, but I just remembered I have to return some DVDs to the store.”

  “Sit!” his voice is stern, and before I can reply, he’s marching over to the door like a sergeant on parade. He yells into the hallway. “Carole! Get in here please!”

  A few awkward moments later, we’re joined by my Mom. Thank God. She’ll save me. I flicker my eyes at her in a covert plea for help. When I was a kid, all I had to do was look Mom straight in the eye and smile. Candy. A scooter. Knicks tickets. You name it, Slade Jnr. got it.

  So how does that strategy work this time? Mom smiles contritely and stands behind my father in a show of solidarity. “Honey, please listen to your father.”

  Thanks for nothing, wife of Judas.

  My father pushes the pile of magazines toward the center of the desk. “Eighteen magazines. Nineteen articles. Twenty-six women. Can you guess the common denominator?”

  I roll scotch around my mouth and swallow hard. “Umm … can I phone a friend?”

  His eyes dance with fire. “You are! And since you’re making my business your pleasure, I’m making your pleasure my business!” He pulls a red folder from his desk drawer like a magician conjuring a rabbit from a hat. I cautiously open the folder and scan the contents.

  What the hell? It can’t be…

  “Is this what I think it is?” I look at him in all seriousness. “Dad, are you ill?”

  He shakes his head. “Nope. But I’m starting to think you are. Your choices affect my opportunities, son. You’ve ignored our pleas to keep your dick in your pants. We loath to have to do this, but we see no alternative. I mean, I could always fire you if that’s what you’d prefer?”

  I study the contents of the folder and my mouth rounds like a pail. “You want me to get married by my thirtieth birthday or you’ll disinherit me? Are you freaking insane? That’s two months away!”

  I turn to Mom and shake my head. “You need to up his dose of dementia medication—the old guy’s losing it.”

  Dad waves a dismissive hand in my direction. “Settled. We want you settled. A simple proposal will suffice. Whatever it takes. We had hoped that by now you’d have been hit with ‘the thunderbolt.’”

  I interject. “This is bullshit! Dad, let’s talk. Of course I want to work for you, but this is going too far.”

  I mean it. I love what I do, but the thought of working with any other agency and in competition with my father is just, well … wrong. Mom clasps her hand over her mouth and dabs her wet eyes with a handkerchief. “I should have listened to you all those years ago, Jack. We should have had another one,” she sniffs.

  Whoa.

  My father squeezes Mom’s hand. “You know plenty of women, son. So … go pick a special lady.” His eyes narrow. “Don’t go fooling me, boy. No tricks. You must have formed some sort of attachment to one of these women.”

  Christ, it’s like being asked to choose your favorite sexual position.

  I sit in shock as my father rattles off a list of technical terms, blah blah blah. “It’s all here in black and white. Take it. As it stands, the document is all ready to be signed over to your cousin, Skinny Timmy, on your birthday.”

  What the hell? Skinny Timmy is a misnomer; he easily weighs in excess of three hundred pounds. Numerically, that’s ten times greater than the size of his IQ. He flunked college and now operates a Star Wars carwash in rural Oklahoma.

  May the force be with you, Timmy. Preferably in the form of an F-5 tornado.

  As though my father can read my thoughts, he blurts, “I know he isn’t the smartest tool in the box.”

  He’s not kidding. The guy is so dense that light bends around him.

  Screw this. I grab my jacket and make for the exit, then I hear my father’s voice boom through the hallway as I stomp outside. “We’ll be back from our vacation in three weeks, son. I trust you won’t burn the office down in our absence. Think about what we’ve said.”

  Ladies, there’s nothing to think about.

  Commitment? Forget it. I’d sooner ride straight to hell on a porcupine saddle. But I’m a smart guy. I’ll fix this. Give me a couple of days max, but I’ll fix this.

  Mark my words; nobody blackmails Alexander Slade with the threat of monogamy and gets away with it.

  Not even my father.

  Chapter Three

  Men are visual creatures. We’re in awe of the female form. Every nook and curve holds its own cock-stiffening appeal. Shallow? Yes. But it’s this simple: if we won’t go down on you, we won’t want to date you.

  Women are the same. Let me give you an example. You’ve had a shit day in the office. You come home, kick off your shoes, and sink your teeth into a bar of chocolate made from the finest Bolivians cocoa beans.

  Feels awesome, doesn’t it?

  Guys get that same serotonin high when we look at a beautiful woman. It’s uplifting. Transcendental.

  Understand?

  Great.

  With that in mind, can you guess what I’m doing after this morning’s game of verbal volleyball with my father?

  I’m getting wasted on Jack Daniels and ogling beautiful women in Ward 8, an exclusive members-only bar on the Upper West. On weekends the club is buzzing with the cities elite; the gorgeous, the successful, and the rich. However, the funky décor and roster of popular DJs are just a small part of the bar’s allure.

  What’s the biggest draw?

  Ward 8 is home to the hottest bartenders in the city. I’m talking the crème de la crème. Keep your Victoria’s Secret models—Ward 8 has the hottest pussy in the city. Each six-hour rotation sees eight new beauties purr and stir their way through their shift as guys watch on in awe.

  And I’ve got a front-row seat at the bar to drown my sorrows. The overwhelming variety of breasts on display have gone some way to dispel the concerns of this morning, but the conversation with my father is still buzzing around my head like an angry hornet.

  I swirls ice cubes around my empty glass and weigh up my options. I guess I could take a position at our rival firm, Ingleby McKay, and sleep my way up the ladder to a decent salary. I met their MD, Lena, at an industry party a few weeks back. She totally has a ladyboner for yours truly.

  My stomach knots. Nope—I can’t jump ship. I’m my father’s go-to guy. His confident. It’d destroy him. Jack Slade may not share my passion for vagina, but he knows he can rely on my rock-solid business acumen.

  I guess I could get hitched…

  I mentally slap myself. No fucking way. There was this one time I had to pitch for a client who wanted to market a new brand of vanilla ice-cream. It was the toughest product I’ve ever had to bid for.

  You want to know why?

  Monogamy is like vanilla. Vanilla is boring. Why choose vanilla when you can delve into a bowl of luxurious chocolate fudge on Monday followed by a tutti-frutti Tuesday? I think you understand what I’m getting at here.

  Romantic entanglements are the beginning of the end. The beginning of the ‘life script’ is the death knell of great sex.

  Let me explain.

  Boy meets girl. Boy proposes to girl. Girl accepts. They marry. A year later, they spawn an infant. Eighteen months later? You guessed it. Girl drops another crotch fruit because Little Johnny has got to have a playmate. Or, a more likely scenario, mommy was sleep-deprived and forgot to take her birth control.

  I hold strict adherence to the ‘life script’ responsible for the demise of more friendships than I care to remember.

  Take Jonas Cooper, an old Harvard buddy. I haven’t seen him in over a year. Man, I miss that guy. Jonas is a corporate lawyer and fellow high-flyer. He was my best friend and wingman. We used to while away our weekends at Piping Rock before hitting up the nightclubs.

  Every Saturday night we’d wine, dine, and seduce some of the most beautiful women in the city. During one legendary bar crawl while at college, we completed nine holes api
ece, and I’m not talking about golf here, ladies.

  Life with Jonas was great.

  Then he met Melissa.

  Before you can say ‘ball and chain,’ Jonas was engaged. It wasn’t long before Melissa—or Medusa as I like to call her—coaxed him away from Manhattan to the dizzy heights of East Brunswick.

  East. Fucking. Brunswick.

  I heard from a mutual friend that Medusa forced him to trade down his beloved Porsche for a used Jeep. Instead of being knee-deep in pussy in Ward 8, he’s now knee-deep in shitty diapers in Chuck E. Cheese’s. Yep, Jonas is so goddamn pussy-whipped that I often consider sending him a sympathy card on each birthday.

  Call me cynical, but I’ve seen what happens once a guy crosses over to that dark and unfettered territory, the personal hell I call monogamy. It ain’t pretty and it sure as hell won’t happen to me.

  A well-manicured hand brushes my forearm. Tracy is a new arrival at Ward 8, and she’s hot as hell. A copper-haired vixen from Vermont, she’s been flirting with me all afternoon.

  “How about a drink?” she purrs.

  Did you see the way she not-so-subtly pushed her breasts against my arm. I’m definitely getting a blow job soon, just watch this space. Tracy leans over the bar and squeezes together her perfectly formed breasts. Nothing distracts a guy like a double D-cup.

  “I got just the thing for you, gorgeous. It complements your eyes.”

  She pours a short measure of green liquid into a glass and slides it across the counter.

  I wrinkle my face. “What the hell is that?”

  She winks. “Absinthe. You look like you could use a pick-me-up.”

  I knock back the green liquid on one. Holy hell. It burns down my throat like a trail of fire. Christ, this is what Smaug must feel like every time he opens his goddamn mouth

  Tracy trails a finger over the back of my hand and leans in closer. “You have quite the reputation around here, Slade. You’re all the girls talk about. I want to experience that tongue for myself …”

  Sweet Jesus. My pants tighten as a wave of alcohol-soaked primeval lust washes over me.

  Her voice is husky now. “Would you like to see our new VIP room? I hope you’re not like all those other ad guys. They’re all talk and no action …”

  Fuck me. The VIP room is real? I’ve heard about this mythical place. I’d be lying if I said my interest wasn’t piqued.

  Screw my father; after the day I’ve had, I’d be an idiot to refuse. Tracy leads me by the hand to a small, circular room just off the main lounge. The lighting is soft, and a long, blue suede couch follows the curve of the wall. She closes the door behind us and falls straight to her knees. Seconds later, my dick is out.

  Ladies, never underestimate the power of a good blow job. When done correctly, it’s nothing short of an art form. I’m not a selfish jerk who’s solely out to meet his own needs. I’m simply giving the lady a taste of the ecstasy she’s about to experience.

  I let my head fall back against the couch. And now I feel … woozy? Light-headed. The absinthe is really starting to kick in …

  I reach out and place my hand on the crown of Tracy’s head, guiding her to the sweet spot.

  “Oh, yeah. Hmmm, just like that …”

  Have you ever wondered what’s running through a guy’s mind while he’s getting a suck job?

  Of course you have. Then consider it your lucky day, ‘cause you’re about to find out.

  Fuck, yeah … I hope she does something with my balls … mmm … shit, don’t get whiskey dick … oh that’s good … oh, yeah … high-five, Slade, high-fucking-five … this is grrrreat … she’s good at this … she’s too good at this … umm … I wonder how many cock’s she’s had in her mouth … I bet she swallows … please be a swallower … Christ, I want to come … it’s too early … must hold on … Jesus Christ … I’m so close … I’m so close … why is the room spinning … her neck must hurt … am I taking too long … here we go … oh, God … yes … yeah … fuck yeah … I’m almost there … yes, yes, yes … she’s going to swallow … she’s going to swallow ... good girl … spitters are quitters … this is fan-fucking-tastic … umm … DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TRYING TO KISS ME.

  Of course, none of that is applicable right now, because my dick is limper than a wet noodle.

  I blink a few times, but I can barely see straight. And when I do, guess who’s staring right back at me?

  No, not Tracy.

  My freaking father. He’s talking animatedly, but I can’t hear him.

  What the hell?

  I scramble off the couch and fasten my pants. Fuck, this cannot be real. I ball my fists and rub my eyes like a madman trying to remove chili from his contact lenses.

  When the haze clears, I see it is Tracy.

  Paging Dr. Freud, I gotta get the fuck out of here.

  I ignore Tracy’s pleas for a second chance suck down, and crash out the room, scrambling my way to the fresh air outside.

  Yep, on a scale of one to ten, I’m fucking wasted. I spend a few minutes massaging my temples before I pull my cell from my pocket.

  Looks like I’m not going to solve my Daddy issues alone.

  It’s time to call in the cavalry.

  “Parker, meet me at my apartment—we’ve got an emergency project.” I hear a disapproving sigh at the other end of the line.

  “Daylon again? I’m so over that account. I stand by my copy. If Erik wants me to make changes, he’ll have to wait until Monday.”

  I interject. “It’s another kind of emergency. I’ll explain later”.

  “But it’s Saturday night. I got plans.”

  “Cancel them.”

  “I can’t, I’m the MC at a poetry slam.”

  A poetry slam? It’s Saturday night. That’s not a plan, it’s a fucking tragedy.

  “I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “Right.”

  “Oh, and Parker?”

  “Yes?”

  “Bring six bottles of Pishov.”

  “Wait, you mean—?”

  “That’s right, Parker. We’re vodkastorming.”

  ***

  Last week I read an article that said those who work in advertising are 1.47 times more likely to die from alcoholism than your average Joe. That’s no great surprise to me. I’ve always maintained that alcohol is the dirty little secret of the creative genius.

  Hemingway knew it. Kerouac knew it. Hell, even Barney Gumble knows it.

  Can you guess what my team and I do when we run into a roadblock at the office?

  We vodkastorm.

  The concept is simple. We lock ourselves in a room with a crate of vodka and we don’t come out for air until we’ve found a solution. Three hours or three days, it never fails. Vodkastorm has been the catalyst for some of our most famous campaigns. Do you remember that chocolate commercial with the ice-dancing gorilla? What about the giant billboard in Times Square with the naked guy on a unicycle?

  I’m proud to say that they were all creations of Slade Group, and all conceived after a vodkastorm.

  Why vodka? It keeps the mind lucid. Awake. Not like the hallucinogenic green toxin I ingested at Ward 8. I’d sooner chop off my balls and sit in a bathtub of vinegar than let a drop of that crazy juice pass my lips again.

  Pishov is Russia’s finest export since Anna Kournikova. It’s lethal, and at eighty percent proof, it’s creative gold. Mr. Lebedev runs a convenience store next door to Parker’s apartment and he always keeps a little something under the counter for those in the know.

  My team is assembled at my apartment, so let me introduce them. You’ve already met Parker, so let’s start with Karl Lindgren, our Chief of Digital Media. He’s in charge of all things web-related. We attended the same high school. He’s a great guy with a rapier wit. He’s also the most Hispanic looking Swede you’ll ever meet. Needless to say, we’ve never questioned his paternity out loud.

  Karl has this whole hipster style going on that women adore, but he’s
a one-woman guy and very happy with his fiancée, Susie.

  Raj Kapoor is my personal assistant. You figured I’d have a female assistant, right?

  After WangGate, my father decided that it would be in the best interests of the company for me to hire a dude. An intern when he first joined us, Raj is one of the most diligent workers I’ve ever had. When we interviewed him, he was wearing a Pringle sweater, corduroy slacks, and sporting a comb-over so extreme that he made Donald Trump look hip.

  So Parker and I took Raj under our wing. A new Armani suit and a trip to Sapphires later, and his indoctrination into Slade Group was complete.

  Last—but by no means least—meet Petie, my sulphur-crested cockatoo. I know what you’re thinking—what is a mover and shaker like Alexander Slade doing with a cockatoo?

  Let me explain.

  Earlier this year, I ran into an ex-client at the golf club. Pete O’Sullivan is a fun guy, a notorious gambler, and a drunk who’s always in the red. Pete challenged me to a game of poker.

  Unluckily for him, I’m something of a card shark. I tried to extricate myself from the contest and spare him the humiliation, but Pete’s a persuasive guy. A few beers later and we sat down at the table. I beat him, of course, and Pete promised he’d pay all twenty-eight thousand dollars in cash. Truth be told, I had no intention of taking his money.

  When I arrived at the office the following Monday, I found Pete had paid his dues. Sort of. On my desk sat a bottle of Captain Morgan and a letter to say that he was sailing back to Ireland.

  Oh, and a cockatoo.

  A cock-a-fucking-too.

  I’m not a pirate, but Pete had obviously missed that memo. Although happy to accept the rum, there was no question of me taking on the bird. My mind was made up—the cockatoo had to go. Then my cell rang, and at the time it was Billie Jean. I looked down to see the bird moonwalking on its perch. Who can resist a moonwalking cock? I changed my mind right then and named him Petie.

  Anyway, now you’ve met my team, let’s get back to my heartbreaking tale of familial rejection.

  With the Pishov in free flow, I arm myself with a flipchart and marker pen, and give the team a blow-by-blow account of my trip to Montauk. They listen intently as I regale the events of this morning, culminating with my father’s stunning ultimatum.