A binge is a sincerely personal thing; no two are alike, at least that’s what my therapist says, and he should know, eating disorders are his specialty, not that he’s particularly good at treating them. That is not why I saw him, anyway; well, it was initially. Okay, I’ll admit, I was fucking him.
His name is Martin Allende, and he’s the hotness. But wait…enough about him; I’m not ready to entertain a lengthy discussion of my sex life. We’ll dissect his character later, among other things.
Anyway…
It took hours to get from Elite donuts to the parking garage by the office, or, at least, five minutes. Everyone I passed, either in their own cars, rushing to work on the tree-lined sidewalks or lounging about on cardboard beds with comfy newspaper blankets, seemed to be in the thralls of donut consumption. I even found myself jealous of the bum, whose dirty face had a fresh smudge of raspberry jelly and powdered sugar. Of course, when I saw him, he was washing it down with some Boone’s.
The garage was nearly empty, only a few cars spotted the early morning spaces. So I felt a bit better about the screeching the tires made up the spiral ramp. When I got to my reserved space, the frenzy began. It was 7:36 A.M.
By 7:40, it was all over.
I tossed the box on the ground for building maintenance, as if it were the ’70s, and the box was a full bag of McDonald’s trash flying out the window and landing on the side of the freeway at the foot of a tearful Indian stereotype; I headed in to my office, searching for coffee.
Did I say “office”? A brief interlude, if you will, because my office is the shit. Let’s make that “The Shit.” Take notes, I’m going to go pretty fast here. The bones:
Corner office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows.
Ebony-stained hardwood plank floor, hand-distressed.
View of Lake Union.
Private bathroom, with shower.
Furnished in glass, plastic, steel and leather.
Can you say mid-century modern?
In a word? Superb.
My work afforded me other perks, naturally: an 1,800 square foot, 18th floor condo, for one, with a patio garden and unobstructed views of the Puget Sound and in the distance, the snowcapped peaks of the Olympics (even from the tub). From my deck, I could see the Space Needle. And on some summer evenings, my ears stole the music drifting from the concerts at the pier, while I lounged on linen-cushioned teak.
“For all intents and purposes, the faux-hawk is swiftly becoming the metrosexual comb-over and we all know it.” I began the pitch with my legs crossed and ankle popping, just like Momma, my hips balanced on the mahogany buffet of the conference room. “Your father had that slick soft serve swirl piled up there, but with your faux-hawk you’ve got at least a semblance of style, or do you?”
Gardner shifted his ass in the chair, from left cheek to right, his face said, “I’m not sold.” But his ass, sunk deep into plush comfy leather, said, “This bitch is making me uncomfortable.” I half expected him to reach up and flatten the peak in his own hair. Chang stared and focused on me. I glanced at my partner, Pendleton, his shrewd face softened into a smile as he nodded. I reached for the remote and clicked. The room lights dimmed and the plasma opposite Gardner and Chang filled with light and color.
A montage of images: men in beautiful Italian or bespoke suits and shined shoes descended stone steps from between stone columns, the financial sector—cut to—the same men at the vanity struggling with hiding their hair deficiencies—cut to—a man at dinner with a less than attractive woman, her makeup poorly executed and hair unkempt, longingly watching a nearby banquette—close-up on—the aging male model with the full head of hair making out with the young pouty-lipped blonde we hired from the pages of FHM—cut back to—a pained expression, despair.
“It’s a cover-up, gentlemen, a lie.” I paused the ad, stood, and bent toward them for punctuation. “It’s not about style, or a last grab at a youth they never knew.” How many of these faux-hawked men were ever punk, honestly? Certainly not Gardner; he looked like an accountant, hair grey at the temple, beady eyes shielded by cheap wire-framed glasses and worst of all a short-sleeved dress shirt, the definitive oxymoron. In fact, Gardner himself was an oxymoron, a rich plastic surgeon masquerading in blue collar drag22. I went on, “What it is…do you want to know?” I held them both in the cold warmth of my eyes; they nodded, mesmerized. “It is truly about pain, or rather, pushing it down, covering it up. Your product, your service, is miraculous for these men, a blessing.” I pointed to the screen, but did not avert my gaze; I was locked on target, Gardner and Chang in my sights. “They’ve bought into societal expectations. They’ve had to because women certainly have. They have to look a certain way to be loved; a full head of hair is essential to wholeness. Because the media demands it, it is so; women have been the targets for as long as modern advertising has existed and have fallen right in line. Despair. This, gentlemen, is how we sell Renewal Clinic to the balding masses. Dismay.”
A punch of the play button sent the screen into rapid-fire punctuation of my point. Face after face, sunken, sorrowful, hopeless, all with sparse heads of thinning hair, just like Daddy used to make. And then, the screen snaps black; rays of sunlight break the darkness rising from the Clinic’s logo—a piece of crap rendering of a phoenix, I’d have to sell them a new one—violin and cello drift from the speakers, rising, powerful. Blah, blah, blah.
My pitch to the partners of the Renewal Clinic was on fire. Doctors Chang and Gardner had approached the firm for an ad campaign, a hair transplant program, and I was giving it to them, hard, and they were giving me soft grunts of approval. Pendleton and Avery beamed; I gave them a wink as the commercial went on. “The technique is innovative; it’s ground-breaking; a legion of men will now be spared from maddeningly brushing their thinning hair to a messy point, in the vain hope of disguising their pattern baldness.” At least that’s what we’ll say in the commercial. I have no idea whether it’s true, but it sounded good, not my best but good enough; I’ve never been much for fact checking; I’m the creative type. Regardless, they bought it, every word, every image—and applauded, even.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” I said, standing and extending my hand to firm shakes, Chang then Gardner. “I take it we have a campaign?”
Agreement. Smiles. More handshakes and ass kissing.
I pushed the parking button in elevator two and the door, closing, was interrupted by a rude wingtip. The shoe’s owner, a black man of about 6'2", had something wrong with his skin. I noticed that right away; obviously, I am, after all, me. But, honestly, you couldn’t help but notice. Small sores were weeping noxious yellow ooze and there was a general sag to it. He pulled a handkerchief from his inner suit pocket and dabbed like a Southern gentleman on a sultry day; at least he was attempting to freshen.
“Could you push the P2?” he asked. His voice crackled like a tire crossing rough gravel, in slow, popping tones.
I stepped forward and pushed the button until the light blinked on. Behind me, there was movement and from the periphery, shoe soles shuffling. I noticed that the man was now on my heels. What was he doing? I glanced at the floor display. The elevator just passed the lobby, or I would have slammed my finger into the L button and gotten out early. I felt a breath on my neck, cold and forced, as if filtered through the air conditioning. Shivers quaked from the epicenter of my neck as goose bumps spread across my skin like breath becomes frost on a winter window. I stood rigid, expecting to be assaulted at any moment, or, worse, molested; my finger hovered rigid next to the open door button.
The breath was cold and yet somehow thick, as though textured. The shock of the proximity of the elevator’s other passenger forced a gasp that drew in the man’s dense breath.
Wouldn’t you know something cliché would have to happen to me? That’s right, time stood still.
Only a second before, I had realized I wasn’t breathing and drew in that quick gulp of air, but my fear converted this into a s
oothing food thought, and I swallowed the breath. It tasted of sour milk, dust and a vinegary tartness that instantly started my gag reflex. The air didn’t actually travel the full distance to my stomach before it was on its way back out, in the form of a burp. Because, what is more appropriate when you are about to be killed, than belching? So ladylike.
Burp. I thought I heard a snicker. And that was all it took to launch a full-blown belch attack.
Burp. I turned to see the man hiding his face behind his hankie.
Burp. His shoulders were unmistakably shrugging with silent laughter.
Burp. He exploded then, laughing aloud. There was something in the laugh that I interpreted as sinister23.
Thankfully, the door retracted; my parking level appeared, and I sprinted out of the elevator and through the lot. A quick glance over my shoulder, and the man was still in the elevator, hunched over now in a full-blown guffaw, clutching his stomach; the door closed, and I hoped he pissed himself. By the time I neared my car, and for no real reason other than that I’m a freak, I was in a full-on run. That’s when it happened. I tripped. My left leg flung straight out in front of me, followed by the right, followed by the inevitable death crunch as my head slammed into the oil-spotted concrete. Time really does slow down when you’re about to die. So, instead of a single thought to encapsulate my feelings on my impending demise, I had five24.
Chapter 5
Into the Lion’s Den
Convent teeters on the edge of the ridiculous. Its Goth-by-Disney vibe makes this club a must visit on our tour of hot spots. Throw in the human element—yes, Convent is one of the few supernatural lounges that lures human victims into the space for our enjoyment—and you’ve got one hot evening…
—Supernatural Seattle
I’m not sure how long I was splayed out like a dead hooker under a Vegas box spring. Both Pendleton’s Hummer and Avery’s Mercedes were missing from their assigned spots—numbers 13 and 14. Mine was 15 and farthest from the elevator, but near enough that they would have noticed my prone figure, if they weren’t so goddamn self-absorbed. Those bitches just drove their inferiority complexes right on by. On any given day, they left around six o’clock, so, it had to be after that.
I must have cracked my head harder than I thought; there was a small puddle of blood that smacked and sucked at my head as I pulled my scalp out of it. Shaky hands followed the curve of my skull, prodding gently for damage. I was relieved by the absence of anything scarier than a sore pucker, no openings. My biggest problem was another puddle, a yellow one. I could smell the musty tartness before I felt or saw. I was sitting in it. I must have been really out of it, to relieve myself in silk Versace. At the very least, I was thankful that I’d already voided the donut binge—four cups of coffee helped—and other than my pride, nothing else seemed to be broken, not even a heel. It could have been worse.
But the atrocity done to my fashions wouldn’t do. I had to get to Convent, to meet Martin, therapist slash lover. I touched on him briefly before, you may recall. Here’s the scoop: gorgeous Mediterranean with brown eyes like Ex-Lax, hair the color and consistency of Spanish hot chocolate, and a body that could cause a woman to take a lenient stance on kink25. In fact, the first time we met, at his office for a session, I grabbed his churro, if you’ll forgive the food reference. Gracias.
The sex wasn’t what I’d consider dirty either, no matter what you’re thinking; it was great because it was mildly dangerous. The receptionist was in the next room, and being considerate individuals, we came with our hands over each other’s mouths. Ethics? I’m neither here nor there on the subject, but I will tell you that he didn’t charge me. So it’s all glitter, baby.
Thus my need to get cleaned up and moving.
The Volvo’s bumper was grimy and greasy but gave me enough slippery leverage to pull myself from the urine, so I couldn’t complain. My legs were fine, no bruises or stocking runs, thank God. I dashed back to the office and took a quick steamy shower in my en suite bath. I couldn’t very well show up to a date with a bloody scalp and a pissy cooch26. I was careful to not reopen the tender spot on my head, but was relieved to find that it didn’t hurt.
While I was blow-drying, the fog began to loosen from the mirror and my face came into focus. I gasped. The image revealed a hideous pallor to my skin; a pale white, and if I looked close enough, the veins were lightly visible. Jesus! It was time for concealer, foundation, blush and shimmer powder, the full line of cosmetics; I depleted my inventory in one application, and that never happens. I was in shock from the fall. Had to be. I convinced myself that a smart cocktail would snap me out of my depression. I threw on my backup impromptu party outfit, a little black dress—I affectionately call her Audrey—and fled the office for the creature comforts of electronica and hard alcohol.
I spotted him immediately from across the room. He waved, from under a large painting of Carmelite nuns, three of them, each face dustier and more somber than the last, habits black as obsidian. I pressed a quick kiss onto Martin’s cheek, anything more intimate and I wouldn’t be able to stop. We were in public, after all.
Convent was stellar atmosphere, dark, draped in rich fabric, religiously affected, and crowded as hell. Instead of the Benedictine vows of “Chastity, Poverty and Obedience” painted over the gothic carved bar, it read “Debauchery, Wealth and Recalcitrance.” The ceiling tented in bloody crimson velvet and glowed moody from rotund black iron hanging lanterns, inset with stained glass crosses. They jumped on chains in time to the techno beats, and glowed Christless—the only martyrs here were the aimless temps on the bar stools looking for husbands and finding only serial victimizers. But props to them; they were on the hunt, not sitting on their fat asses waiting for Mr. Right to step out of that Lifetime movie.
“This place is fucking fantastic,” I said.
“Are you feeling alright?” Martin reached for my forehead. “You look a little pale.”
I pulled away. “I’m fine, really, fully functional.” The waitress sauntered up for our drink order. “What’s the house cocktail?” I hoped to change the subject and the waitress was a lifesaver.
“The Penitent Abbess.”
I winked at Martin. The server, awash in a black habit cut far above the knee to reveal garters and those adorable retro stockings with the seam up the back, continued her description, “It’s a muddle of Absolut Vanilla and fresh fire-roasted pear sorbet with a float of crème de menthe.”
“Mmm, I’ll take one now and one in twenty minutes, sister.” I scooted in close to my man candy. He wrapped his arm around me, pulled me in tighter. “So get this,” I said, starting in. Martin was a great listener; the benefit of our dual relationship was the ability to work out my issues for free. “I slipped and fell in the parking garage and must have passed out.”
“Oh my God, are you okay? I knew you looked funny.”
I let that comment pass and continued. “Anyway. When I woke up I noticed that both Avery and Pendleton had left for the day. Can you believe those scumbags?”
Martin shifted to face me sliding his right knee up onto the seat. “Fucks, both. How did you fall?”
That part was still hazy. I let my left hand fall to rest on his thigh. “I was running…for some reason.” I struggled for the details, but they wouldn’t come. I only recalled the running. “Hmm. I don’t really remember from what, or why, but then I slipped on a box27.”
He reached to touch my head and as his hand rose past my face, I caught a smell off him that made me want to eat him alive. I ran my hand up his thigh and let my pinky rest against the bulge at his groin. He patted the back of my head.
“There’s a little bump, but if you could drive I think it’s probably okay.” He brushed my cheek with the back of his hand, tilted his head abruptly and then palmed my forehead. “You’re pretty cold though. Here.” He took his jacket from the hook at the end of the banquette and rapped it around my shoulders.
“Thanks doc,” I said. Sister Chlamydia
brought the drinks, and we slurped and snuggled, watching the animals do their mating rituals28. And, they were animals; in fact, a few were getting a little rough on the dance floor.
Later that evening, in a more literal interpretation of the phrase mating ritual, Martin and I went back to his apartment and after a nightcap of nondescript but chilled champagne he had on hand, I stripped out of Audrey and wriggled between the Egyptian cotton sheets.
Our sex had become familiar by this date and regular to boot, so he was used to the idea that kissing was enough to get me going. His hands moved down my body toward my thighs and then stopped. His face registered confusion.
“Why are you so cold?”
“I don’t know, keep going.” I felt warm. Maybe he was feverish.
He spread my legs and scrambled between to find his leverage, kissing my neck, breasts. I could feel his hard cock slide across my thigh and press against me. I shifted my hips, curling my pelvis against him. My hunger grew from the moment I smelled his scent, the morbid sweetness of overripe peaches. It clung to him like cologne, an essence, liquor. Peach Schnapps, perhaps. He pressed his lips into mine; our tongues circled, and again, I resisted the urge to bite. He positioned himself to thrust and then…
“Jesus!” I yelled.
He was prodding my vagina, poking, attempting to insert his finger, now.
“I don’t think you’re letting me in.”
Martin was right. I was cold, too tight and dry as Death Valley. For the first time in our relationship, I was feeling a little disconnected from my privates.
He slid down the length of my body and pressed his mouth to my vagina, started to lap and then stopped. He seemed to question whether he should speak. “No” would be the correct answer. I was totally out of the mood, by then.
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