Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  Moving on to better things.

  Nooners rock: try pounding one out, you’ll keep wanting to go back. Between a vest and a cummerbund, the former is the way to go. Rachel tore that, my paisley knit tie, and my oxford shirt away. Although she looked like a fish out of water, not to mention her Jewish origin, oral sex was the first thing on the menu. This girl knew how to service a man well with her mouth. I diligently returned the favor, and as the cold January afternoon progressed, she took classic renewals beyond the confines of the king-size bed. Taking her against the foyer wall, across the desk, and in the shower were all good alternatives during lunch break sex. To set the record straight, she and I weren’t an item, just childhood acquaintances.

  A few days ago, I ran into her at the Harvard Club. To lure me into her cobweb, she whispered she wasn’t wearing underwear. Very few men are wholly immune to a pantyless woman, and inexorably, her sultry voice enkindled a flickering flame. Harvard ground wasn’t suitable for pursuance; we got to a nondescript pub. I asked Rachel if she were single, and she hung her head in disappointment.

  Gallantly, I offered her my elbow. When I gave her my credit card to start a tab at will, she started to argue, but I insisted. I told her to order our drinks while I watched her from a few feet away. At the bar, she turned and looked at me, asking for approval. I nodded, she lowered her eyes, and turned away to give the bartender my card.

  It wasn’t only about her submissive nature. I couldn’t stand submissives who had the mental capacity of a drawn out fart—think girls who say holy crap all the time—and obtained glossy degrees the old-fashioned way. I asked the right questions and Rachel gave the correct answers. Other than being an art buff, I liked her because she knew about Charles Baudelaire and was particularly fond of John Locke, could quote Simone de Beauvoir and René Descartes in spades, and understood nuclear fission. With a half-dead cock buried in a gem of a woman and PC muscles still twitching, I knew better than to answer my phone.

  David fucking Caruthers.

  “Alexander, c’mon.” Rachel spread her thighs a little wider and moaned.

  My eyes dropped to drink in the gorgeous sight of her pussy’s lips wrapped around my cock. The meaty thuds of my hips meeting her behind resumed at will. When she arched her back and came, she squeezed me so hard I thought I was going blind. My teeth found her shoulder. Before I knew it, it was half past one. Fuck. Get me out of here! Do something!

  I sacrificed my shower time in favor of cleaning Rachel’s collarbone from my teeth marks. She told me she didn’t want to go back to her fiancé, and I held her. Words would have been inappropriate, but what was appropriate is taking a proper amount of time to ice down her bruises, or else they’d spread. Enough ice left over in the Dom Pérignon ice bucket for several treatments.

  I had fifteen minutes to get back to the office on Hollywood Boulevard. I was accustomed to being punctual. Not only had my father engrained in me at an early age to be prompt, there’s no such thing as fashionably late that sounded right to my ears. But when idiots repeat such things long enough, other dumb people entertain the useless thought.

  For the sake of my amour propre, I always returned showered after some afternoon delight. On those rare occasions that I lost track of time, I resorted to the bottom drawer of my desk. The desk itself was a made-in-America product, designed with state of the art integrated technology solutions and responsibly sourced material. Wait till you see the inside of the drawer.

  It was the kind of drawer that every working and highly sexually active man worth his salt has; a special desk drawer filled with essentials of personal grooming. I, for my part, kept Kleenex sanitizing moist wipes, hand lotion, floss, breath spray, hair gel, a comb, aluminum free deodorant, cologne, and condoms in it. Except for the condoms—silly mention, but there you go—I grabbed every item and used them for a touch-up as I consulted the mirror behind my door. With hair back in place and the smell of dirty sex overpowered by extremely expensive cologne and cool eucalyptus peppermint, I sat down behind my desk and had an après-sex treat.

  Right on time.

  David Caruthers walked into my office. He smiled like some kind of cretin and gave me a prompt what gives look. The CFO and I had a relationship that might be described as messy. He was the mudslinger type who ate kippers and bangers for breakfast, imagine argyle socks and Old Spice, and thought that if he rode my butt hard and often enough, I might just up and quit. If only I could stick a telephone pole up his wazoo.

  David had thick blonde locks, a ruddy complexion, handsome patrician face, eyes the blue of ice. The Brooks Brothers suit he wore had one of those pocket squares that matched his tie. I hated folding pocket squares. Come to think of it, I’d never folded one.

  Of course David wasn’t here to offer me tickets to the NBA All-Star Game or discuss the merits of manscaping.

  In a voice that suggested I’d had one too many Nespressos, I asked, “Knipschildt?” I held out a truffle box.

  Turned out to be a moot gesture, he didn’t buy into my hospitality. Jell-O might have been a better idea.

  His eyes combed the walls of my office. Not that there was much to see; one sidewall had a colossal bookcase, the other one a gigantic credenza and some thickly-framed diplomas, certificates, and a couple of impersonal photographs to make me look like a social person who blends in with the rest of the people at Turner Holdings. To appear normal, whatever that means. I didn’t want to be perceived as different, or a freak. By putting personal mementos and knickknacks on display I wanted to look normal and fit in like everyone else. Not just fit in, but also fit in well.

  David’s overall appraisal wasn’t checking the brilliance of the abstract art I’d hitherto picked out at exclusive galleries, or the respective Jackson Pollock, Clyfford Still, and Robert Motherwell paintings. It was checking the schools I’d attended, perhaps checking if the seals weren’t maladjusted or fake, equating my name with the standards of the company.

  I sighed, loudly enough for him to understand that I wasn’t interested in starting a conversation. He remained stubbornly quiet, and I started assembling a passage in my head. I took out a fancy Visconti pen and began scribbling on a notepad. I wrote call dad—grovel about ten times, then I started working on a semi-phallic drawing.

  I heard, “Who would have thought it.” The cool deliberation with which David said those words sent an icy wave across my back.

  Who’da thunk what now? I fiddled with my pen.

  David was wagging a finger at a photograph of me catching a football my freshmen year. I leaned back, folding my arms and making noises like an octogenarian getting out of bed. “Once upon a time. Though I’m not champion material like the boys out there ATM. Got a nasty little hitch in one of my knees.”

  David went on with a short laugh. “No happily ever after for you? This company thrives on champions, Alexander. We don’t pick cherries off trees, we offer excellence.” This must have been his version of the find-dog-and-beat-with-a-stick treatment. Or as a diplomat would say, “Here, cute doggie,” with a rock beheld the back, that’s how he acted and sat down in one of the oversized club chairs in front of my desk. “And you’re young. Too young for this company and the position of an executive.”

  “Mozart composed a symphony before the age of ten.” I didn’t have the impression that he was going to put me in the same category as the prodigy Amadeus. “Well.” I waved a hand. “Why are you here? I’ve been chasing tail all week. Chop-chop, I haven’t an endless ocean of time. I’ve somewhere I need to be.”

  Speaking coolly, he frightened the life out of me. “You’re leaving for Tokyo tonight. Indefinitely.”

  It felt like lightning struck my forehead, a swimming pain moving throughout my body. I held my breath and waited it out. Talk about being in the soup. Understand that I didn’t dislike Japan. Short men, tall guy like me could rule, whippet-thin chicks who comprehend the art of shibari: what’s not to like?

  Many people who met me had said thi
s: I smiled widely when I get really angry with someone. I smoothed my hand over the desk, smiled all the way back to my molars and counted to ten. At reaching the count of five I said, “Last I checked, Darren okayed this position.”

  He gave me a low snarl, “Why exactly are you working here?” The implication that he’d love to drop me like a bad habit was no less clear.

  I raised my hand like a schoolchild. “Uhm…hum…because I’m the Turner in Turner Holdings.”

  “Not the company, you big leech. Why exactly are you working from the Palo Alto office? You’re minted.”

  I gave him a halfhearted shrug. “California sun and babes help me gain notoriety for sexual exploits and filthy lucre? Jen and Angelina hounding relentlessly over me? Cheesecake factory burgers? Marie Callender’s pies?”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” With that, he pushed himself out of the chair and remained standing before me. Reaching for my notepad, he tore off the front page and ripped the A4 sheet, slowly. “Rest assured, whether or not you get in a lather, you’re going to Tokyo,” he told me. “Or someone else can move in this office by the end of the day.” He let the pieces of paper fall to the floor. I could have sworn they fell in slow motion, emphasizing what he said next. “Shit happens, and when it does, it falls downhill.”

  Sometimes I just went with snappy comments. “Very eloquently put.”

  The corners of his mouth turned up wryly. “We co-workers should socialize more often.”

  “Fair point well-made, but familiarity breeds contempt. I’d rather be circumspect.”

  David stood tall and seemed pleased with himself, as if he’d just hit the jackpot. It’s an admirable skill to deliver a level threat with panache, velvet gloves and all that. Was I going to get fired? I wasn’t a big fan of ultimatums, unless I was giving them. I had a problem with people telling me what to do, but for Meredith, of course. I was her cute Labrador puppy, and that’s the way it should be. Others could go fuck themselves.

  I tentatively cleared my throat and gave it one more thought. “The timing for Japan isn’t right, David.”

  “Story of my life. Time to cut your losses.” He wore a harsh expression, drew his breath in the same manner.

  “Why Tokyo? What’s in the Hefty?”

  His expression softened, but I could tell by the ticking of his jaw muscle that his teeth were tightly clenched. Avoiding eye contact, he checked his watch. “To deal with a project in turnaround.” There’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that he was telling me the truth.

  “It won’t work, David.”

  He spoke quietly, hesitantly even, “Darren is already in Tokyo. Meet with the client and smooth it over before taking it up with your CEO.” He left.

  I gripped my perfectly combed hair in two fists. Kanpai. If you’re wondering how I can get out of this one, then we’re in the same boat.

  Alexander Turner

  The Final Designation

  Hours later, I was the aspiring alcoholic snacking on cigarette shaped pretzels, slumming it in business class. Sure, it was high on the list of all-time bad career moves, hall of fame most likely. Face it, we all like to point at ways we are different when we want to assure ourselves that some things won’t happen to us, but there’s Murphy’s Law. Misfortune do-si-doed with despair, my plans had gone belly-up, and since by tomorrow I would no longer be riding high atop the food chain, binging was permissible.

  “Glenmorangie or Highland Park?” a voice inquired about my poison of choice. The sex was unidentifiable, the wall of sound noise coming from misfits, mavericks, and oddballs in economy class making it more androgynous.

  “Come lick my shithole, you old fart!” some kid yelled.

  That frosted my balls. If I’d cursed in such a pissant way at my old man, I’d have had the living shit beaten out of me.

  “Sir?”

  I thought the question was rhetorical, but the person seemed to be waiting. “Are you an idiot?” I wanted to say but didn’t. “Highland Park,” is what came out of my mouth.

  I shifted in my chair. I just couldn’t get comfortable. Flying commercial gave me the willies. My hand itched. It was one of those inside itches that scratching fingernails wouldn’t find. In times like these I hated, detested, execrated—not enough adjectives exist—my father.

  Then there was my neighbor who gave me flinty looks. The old man wore designer khakis with a crease to rival his classic hair part, a blue Lily Pulitzer blazer with a pink and green lining and a matching pocket hanky that puffed out like a clown’s surprise flower. Instead of a Mont Blanc, he’d taken out a Bic pen to do his crossword puzzle, its cap chewed mercilessly. I hated cheap pens. I hated him. I determinedly hated the pen. He kept chewing the cap of the shitty pen, and now it looked like it was at breaking point. I wanted to light it on fire, and the plane with it.

  I glanced out the window one more time before sliding the blind shut, placed my iPhone in the seat pocket in front of me. Taking stock of an intimate strife between two lovers seated ahead of me, I wished it were 2011. I disdained the old cliché about a smile lighting up a room, but Elena’s smile could really do that. It had that whole ‘rock your world’ thing going on. It was contagious. It was a startling catalyst, adding color and texture to my life, altering everything around me.

  Fuck Tokyo, I needed to be close to Elena.

  Needles of brain-scrambling pain tore through my head, my eyes burning as sharp light projected images through my retinas. I broke open the Xanax, and the whiskey kept coming. I even passed out after I wrote my resignation letter. Though I was a notable asset, I knew that Darren wouldn’t throw me a second bone. One time deal, son.

  The happy pills mellowed down the uncontrollable spikes of anger. Suddenly the PA system on the airplane booted up with a zingy chime, and the captain announced that we were about to make our descent into Tokyo. A flight attendant came down the aisle to collect garbage, taking an awful lot of time to show the abovementioned couple how to return their seat tables into the compartment alongside the armrest of the chair.

  I handed my glass to another flight attendant who was coming down the aisle with a tray. The woman had a mole on her cheek, and I momentarily stared at it. Whereas the one on Cindy Crawford was nicely shaped, this one was kidney-shaped and had hair growing out of it. Scary.

  I headed to the lavatory and splashed some cold water on my face. There were dark bags under my eyes. Every aspect of my life had atrophied since I left Boston. I looked like a hophead, sloughed and beaten.

  You know, I used to be better than this. I spent my youth being a responsible person—as my grandfather would put it, an old soul. I sounded wise beyond my years and if you hadn’t met me, you’d probably guess that I was older than my correct age at that time. By choosing a lame, cringe-worthy path, I muddied the water. It’d happened after she passed away. I’m talking about my mother. I can’t tell you more about her at this point, not without seriously losing my shit, so I’m drawing a line.

  I reached into my pocket, found my small tin of Altoids and popped a few mints into my mouth. I chewed them up and cupped some water from the sink. When I exited the bathroom, a flight attendant was standing in the hallway, scrutinizing me. “Are you all right, sir? Anything I can help you with before we land?”

  A terse, pregnant silence settled between us. “Nothing,” I answered, uninterested in prolonging that conversation after my first impression of her. Even with a stymied career, I didn’t just boff anything that wore a skirt, I chose carefully.

  The passengers in the elevator were much more bundled up against the winter cold than I was. Leather gloves, cashmere shawls, suede boots. Expats looked tanned from recent Christmas holidays in warmer climes. Fashionably dressed gung-ho locals exuded that air of barely contained anger that inevitably haunts city people who visit their small-town families during winter break. As more people pushed into the carriage, there was little breathing space between the passengers and me, decently wrapped in a grey cashmere
Brunello Cucinelli coat.

  Then I was standing in the lobby of the client’s office, hardly a picture of sobriety. Like a bull in a china shop. I was reading an annoyingly cute inspirational aphorism. This isn’t a daycare center.

  The CEO’s name was sandblasted on wire glass. An eccentric old coot whom I’d met a number of times, but I’d never been invited to his office before, on the top floor of a tower in uptown Tokyo. This building in Tokyo’s bay area was a thirty-story blue glass marvel. A simple flat-roof, its façade consisted of charcoal granite and dark blue glass. Dark spandrels alternated with the steel of window bands, and the horizontal window lines lightened up in the evening.

  I waited in the reception lounge for a good ten minutes, wondering why the CEO wanted to see me, and flipping through the latest copies of Fortune and Newsweek. While I worried about the amount of alcohol I’d consumed, a toothsome morsel caught my eye. A girl stood profiled before me, prodding at the white peonies in the Baccarat bowl on a side table. We hadn’t met.

  Of course I had sex on my mind. Here’s a fact, men think about screwing every five seconds or so. Why the obvious characteristic? For instance, male brains are about ten percent larger than female brains. Calm the fuck down, I resent the implication you’re making. I haven’t said that bigger means better—in this instance.

  For those who fell asleep during Human Behavioral Biology 101, let me explain. Notably, male brains contain more gray matter—also called thinking matter—than female brains, and theirs has more white matter; the stuff that connects various parts of the brain and modulates the correct distribution of actions. Those dominant language skills women possess? That’s because the frontal and temporal area of their cortex are more precisely organized, and are bigger in volume. A lasting functional advantage that females have over males is that they’re faster and more accurate at identifying emotions. Studies have even shown them to be more adept at encoding facial differences and determining changing vocal intonations. As a whole, they’re also better at controlling their emotions, because sections of the brain that control aggression and anger responses are larger. Their best function? By manipulating information endlessly, women use language skills to their advantage. Ever wonder why men snap and women sigh so much? Women build rapport through facilitative gestures while men are more concerned about ego—the chopping of wood and the carrying of water sounds more appealing to us. Then again, when it comes to performing activities that require spatial skills, like putting together furniture and navigating directions, men—given the function of our left hippocampus—generally do better. Don’t believe me? Turn off Kim Cattrall’s voice on the cheap TomTom and watch how a man navigates the car. Whereas women rely on landmark cues, like turning left or right at the closest mall, men navigate via depth reckoning: north, south, etc, just like kissing a girl before eating her out.