by Rob Manary
Icarus Rising
by
Rob Manary
This book is a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
Copyright © 2013 by Rob Manary. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.
Cover Photography by Amir Fallah
http://fallahphotography.com/
Dedication
It’s for the girl I’ve loved all along.
Can a taste of love be so wrong?
A Few Opening Words
Quite often I am asked to pen my autobiography and beseeched repeatedly by reporters for an interview where they’ll want to delve far below the surface and crack my firm resolve. Really? I make myself laugh. I don’t speak this way.
Alright, let me get straight to it then.
I am an artist, a painter of the abstract, you know my name. It is often in the papers for some playboy misstep or another. Some of the stories are true, some not, and I have happily allowed the speculation up to this point.
However, something has changed. Or rather, something has caught my eye and each step, I believe, should be painstakingly notated.
Let there be no mistake. I am vain and my hubris knows no bounds. I have decided to take on what might very well be my greatest conquest and I want a record of it. For the next month I will keep a journal of my activities, my machinations, my manipulations, and then I will release it to the world.
Monday, Day 1
There is no better way to wake up than having a skilled mouth on your cock. I struggle momentarily to recall the pretty little blonde’s name who works with such enthusiasm on my hardness. Ah yes, Alicia, a bartender from the corner pub. Her warm mouth envelopes me, I moan her name softly, and wrap my hand in her hair, forcing a quicker rhythm to her ministrations. A pleased sound escapes her throat as I take control, a moan of surrender to my pleasure.
It should probably be noted here that I have been blessed with an above average manhood, both long and thick. I’m not bragging, such information is necessary or little Alicia’s reaction to my lifting her head from my lap and moving her to sit on my thickness will make little sense.
“Please go slow. Please be gentle, I’m a little sore.” She laughs but there is genuine concern in her deep blue eyes.
I had given her quite the workout the night before. I cock my head to the side, give her my sweetest smile, and take her gently by the hips. Then holding her steady with one hand I grab a condom from the nightstand, rip it open, and roll the sheath down my cock. Returning my hand to her hip I lower her onto my manhood. Holding her gently, I let her set the pace. We leisurely make love for an eternity, long minutes that stretch to mutual orgasm.
Alicia and I have flirted for several months, trading sexual innuendos, and thinly obscured promises of a night neither of us would forget. Last night was the first night that found both of us single, and although she is a nubile young thing with a beautiful tight little body, the months of foreplay was definitely better than the culmination of our relationship. The sex, sadly, was almost completely forgettable, if not painfully mundane.
I make her breakfast, we make love again in the shower, and we exchange goodbyes. I send her flowers and make a mental note to find a new pub. After I have seen her a couple more times at work, I will find a new haunt.
As I write, I realize that it is possible that there are some who might read this and not know who I am. My name is Brandon Fahr. I’m thirty-three years old, a Gemini, and I enjoy long walks on the beach and nights by the fireplace. Most of that is true.
I’m a painter, an artist, and incredibly successful. My last painting sold for well over $300,000. I am a favorite of the tabloids and the paparazzi and have used that publicity to my advantage to drive the price of my work through the roof. If the tabloids are to be believed, I have slept my way through the A-list and have had dalliances with stars of both sexes.
I’m a little under six foot one although I claim I am a little over six foot one, and my body is chiseled to perfection. I spend an hour doing cardio each morning and an hour with a personal trainer three days a week. It is unlikely I will chronicle my cardio schedule or how much I can bench press on any given day as I think such mundane details would interest few. It is enough to say I have an incredible body, washboard abs, and biceps and calves that cause envy, but I have worked for both.
So, why have I decided to break my silence in this fashion? It is important to note that I don’t give interviews, never have, and it has only served to heighten my mystique. So, why now and in this manner? That I think it might be fun is the simple answer. I am going after big game this time and I want to chronicle it.
This could be an enormous failure should I be unable to conquer the game I am after, and that too might be fun to have a public record of my failure. You know, the one that got away.
Enough subtly.
I am after Rachel St. Claire. I’ll give you a moment for that to sink in. Rachel St. Claire, the best selling recording artist of the last decade. Her songs have consistently hit number one, and until days ago completely untouchable. At twenty-eight St. Claire has been with her boyfriend/manager for the past ten years. He discovered her when she was eighteen; he was thirty-three at the time. The two have been together for the better part of the last decade, with brief breaks, but consistently together, he always in the picture. I may be a womanizer, but I don’t break up couples, and until days ago Rachel St. Claire was definitely half of a couple.
I think it surprised no one when St. Claire’s manager/boyfriend, a creature who goes by the moniker Wolf, appeared in a sex tape with several underage girls. I hope it didn’t surprise St. Claire given she was such a tender age when Wolf “discovered” her. What did surprise everyone was that St. Claire didn’t stand by her man this time. In the past, incidences with Wolf have been quickly covered up, whispers of his infidelity with underage girls buried with almost frightening efficiency. St. Claire’s money, it is thought, has bought a whole lot of quiet for Wolf. Not this time.
The story hit like an atom bomb. St. Claire has three songs in the top ten and is rehearsing for a world tour. Wolf’s theatrical debut hits every entertainment news show, and far from the normal damage control St. Claire’s camp is allegedly famous for, St. Claire cuts him loose. She publicly disavows Wolf, emphatically denies any knowledge of her long time manager’s extracurricular activities, stresses he has been fired from his role as her manager, and offers to set up a fund for Wolf’s victims.
And so Rachel St. Claire hits my radar. That St. Claire is beautiful and extremely talented piqued my interest. A little internet research told me the rest of the story. I had heard of St. Claire but she existed only on the periphery of my existence. I think we attended the same “happening” once or twice, a club opening, or a fund raiser, but I don’t think we have ever exchanged pleasantries. There is an abundance of fan sites devoted to Rachel St. Claire. I cruised several of them, the camera loves this woman.
The more I studied St. Claire the more my fascination grew. Beyond being incredibly beautiful she is a manipulator of her image, of the media, a chameleon that has managed to stay relevant and change with the currents for the past decade. She has released six albums over the past eleven years and each one has hit number one i
n the United States and more than two dozen other countries. Her most recent release debuted at number one. I was smitten; I wanted to know everything there was to know about this cunning, calculating, breathtakingly beautiful woman.
It was then I decided I would pursue Rachel St. Claire. I spent most of the day flipping through the channels for glimpses of her and hours and hours poring over the internet for what I could find of her. Then I picked up the phone and called Wayne and told him I wanted to know everything there was to know about Rachel St. Claire.
Then I went to the corner pub to flirt with Alicia.
Tuesday, Day 2
I have known Wayne for nearly twenty years, and he is singularly bad at everything save following orders. I believe I have saved him from a lifetime of fast food servitude or a career as a supermodel. Wayne is one of the most attractive people I have ever met, but I am firmly convinced that his complete lack of charisma would prevent him from attaining any sort of modeling career. Wayne is actually six foot one with a body that needs little honing in the gym and a cherubic face framed by curly blonde hair. At first glance he is perfection, but he is devoid of any presence and is prone to nervous fidgeting.
Wayne is, however, fiercely loyal to me and extremely adept at carrying out my orders and my whims. It has been several days since I gave him anything to do so I knew he would doggedly tackle the research I needed done on Rachel St. Claire. Truthfully, Rachel St. Claire is not the first woman I have become smitten with and, consequently, not the first woman Wayne has had to dig up information on for me. I like to think if I were a James Bond villain Wayne would be my loyal henchmen. What a formidable duo we would make.
My long time companionship with Wayne has led the media to speculate he is my partner. This is not true, even if we were lovers we certainly have never been partners, but the tabloids need fodder. Wayne might be considered a friend but he is also well paid by me and we are far from equals. I am not surprised, then, when the phone rings promptly at six in the morning. Wayne knows I am up, finished my cardio and usually enjoying breakfast by six. I smile as I grab the phone and am greeted by his slavishly eager voice.
“Good morning, Brandon.” He sounds extremely pleased with himself.
“What did you find out, Wayne?” I find exchanging pleasantries tedious.
“Rachel St. Claire, born in Detroit, Michigan, twenty-eight years old.” I hear him flipping through the pages of a notebook, apparently only now editing what he feels I might find important. Likely, he has found the same volumes of information I have found on the internet. “Her first hit was Rocket Girl when she was eighteen years old.”
“Tell me something I haven’t found on my own, Wayne.” I cut him off and chide him gently, but I know the effect is the same as applying a whip to his back.
“She’s a natural redhead,” Wayne offers sheepishly amidst more shuffling of paper.
“That’s a little better. My tea is getting cold. How about we do it this way? I ask you questions, you tell me what you’ve found.” Dealing with Wayne can be amusing and torturing him can be even more fun but I have an art auction to get ready for. “Where is she now? I hear she is rehearsing for her upcoming tour. Tell me you know where she is staying. Tell me you know her favorite colour, and her favorite flower, and tell me you know the name of her assistant, and your bags are packed and you’re ready to seduce St. Claire’s personal assistant.
“She’s rehearsing in Toronto and she’s staying at the Royal York. She and her entourage have taken up the entire top floor of the hotel. Her favorite colour is white and her favorite flower is the orchid.” There is a long pause. There is more that Wayne doesn’t want to tell me. I let the uncomfortable silence linger between us. I know it will be agonizing for him and he will confess quickly. “Her personal assistant is Guy Howard, and yes, he is a flaming homosexual.”
I laughed warmly. “Pack your bags, lover boy, we all have to make sacrifices. If I am not mistaken, St. Claire’s latest single is her fifteenth to go number one. Send her fifteen dozen white orchids and have the card read ‘Icarus’. Call me when you get to Toronto, and take a room close to the Royal York but not at the same hotel. And quit your frowning, I can hear it over the phone. I’m not asking you to fall in love with this Guy, fuck him, or marry him, just seduce him. I’m transferring $100,000 to your account. That should pay for any inconvenience up to this point. Call me when you hit Toronto.” I hang up, quelling any protest he might muster. I am much too pleased with how well the pursuit of St. Claire is already going.
It occurs to me that I haven’t described where I live yet. I am quite fond of hotels and will often take up residence in the penthouse suite of a five star hotel for weeks at a time. I like the idea of crisp, pristine sheets, and room service, and the anonymity a good hotel allows me. When I need to create I have a loft where I paint, a converted warehouse that I keep spartanly decorated, a monstrous, cavernous place in the industrial district in the West End.
But home is a lavish condo that takes up the entire top floor of a building occupied by singers, songwriters, and actors who have reached the pinnacle of their careers and can afford the prestige living in such a building can provide. I managed to buy the building some years ago before it became “the address” to have. That is an unfair appraisal of me. I made the building the place to live, and looking out my floor to ceiling windows at night, seeing the majesty of the city, the incredible lights marking the lives of millions, even I, for a moment, am humbled, and forced to think how far it is I have come.
I mentioned, I believe, I have an auction coming up and it is time for me to promote it. As much as I want to lose myself in the pursuit of Rachel St. Claire, business calls. My latest paintings are perhaps my most shocking; some critics have claimed that I am being shocking simply to be shocking. The truth is they are wrong. I have always been an experimental artist, and if my latest works blurs the line between pornography and art, then maybe the line needs to be distorted, maybe it is time the line was blurred.
My latest works are a trilogy. Each canvas tells a different story, the image captured on my white sheets of two figures making love. I strategically painted my model, important contact points painted in rich shades different from one work to the other. Then on the first set of sheets I slowly made love to my subject. Long, slow kisses, my hands slowly tracing patterns on the body of my subject, laying my model down and covering the body with kisses. Kissing the painted parts and kissing the bare skin. Finally flipping my partner over and laying the body down on the sheets, our bodies painted the tapestry.
The session took hours as I entered my model from behind, the thinnest layer of latex separating my hardness from my subject’s well lubricated hotness. Inching inside I held my subject’s hips and moved slowly, exquisitely painfully slowly inside. I moved forward and my lover would move backwards to meet me, moving in perfect unison, moving so intensely slowly. Finally when neither could take any more we increased the pace, moving slightly quicker, but still agonizingly slowly, and then quicker yet, ever quicker, our breathing increasing, but breathing in unison, until finally, forcing my willing model down to press full against the white sheet, I came deep inside my undulating lover, filling the condom to a scream from my subject.
And that is the first canvas.
The second canvas tells the story of a much rougher encounter. The second sheet shows no depiction of love making, it is raw fucking, animalistic pleasure. The encounter took no longer than twenty minutes but was one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life. I knew my model to be as dominant as I am and painted my subject in bright fiery reds, bold oranges, brilliant yellows, and we coupled like two wild savages. I threw my lover down and forced myself inside. My subject flipped me over and rode me hard, hands around throats, fingernails breaking skin, and love bites left us both marked for weeks afterward. The result was a rich swirling tapestry that tells the tale of pure sex that leaves the stain of what I think original sin must look like.
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br /> The third canvas shows a quickie. I quite enjoy a quickie. I believe the third is the strongest of the three pieces. Where the first is a buildup, a steady, relentless, moving towards the inevitable orgasm and the second is primal, sweat and pain and release, the third is a falling from grace. The third is the rushed, climax driven, often selfish taking of another with thought only of one’s self. Visually, the dark blues and blacks I painted my model with are the most stunning, and the effect of the freight train-like sex on the canvas is wonderful. Of the three, I believe the third is the strongest piece.
So today I dress in black slacks and a long tunic that is slightly reminiscent of a priest's cassock and I go to a luncheon attended by some of the most wealthy art collectors in the city to reveal the titles of my three new pieces: “Icarus Rising”, “Icarus Ascendant” and “Icarus Falling”. Rumour has it that I used a male model for at least one of the pieces and the bidding is believed to start at $250,000 each.
Wednesday, Day 3
I can’t stop thinking of Rachel St. Claire. I have read dozens and dozens of print interviews she has given and perused as many online interviews. I feel as if I know her and yet I am with another girl tonight. In the cab on the way to my place we share desperate kisses, my mouth urgently pressed to her lips, her kiss as breathless, as full of need as mine.
My tongue slowly slips between her lips, my tongue exploring, sliding in and out of her mouth. Deep in her throat she moans, pressing her body against my firm chest, her arms hold me tight. She breaks the kiss and looks at me with lust filled mocha brown eyes. I smile into those eyes, and cocking my head I give her my most boyish grin. Heavily she sighs and I claim her mouth once more.
The cab, the elevator ride to my penthouse apartment, is both a blur of deep kisses. No words, just a mutual need, a hole soul deep that we two strangers are trying to fill. Her shirt is the first casualty. I break our kiss long enough to tear that vestment from her to find a black bra beneath, I’m a sucker for a black bra.