by JR King
As someone who liked to stay current, I thoroughly enjoyed restocking. From wine to groceries to Christmas gifts to sex toys. Incidentally, the sex toys were never Christmas gifts. A few highlights, only because you’re so damn curious. For epicurean masterpieces my favorite places to shop were Cardullo’s and Formaggio Kitchen. For naughty masterpieces I shopped at JT’s Stockroom; they had the meanest and sexiest wares. Seriously, google it when you have some time on your hand, that place existed before the goddamn World Wide Web was put together.
My dad was quite a character, ornery and strong-headed. He’d endeavored to teach me humility the old-fashioned way, and as per usual, nothing went south with him. Consequently, I made it a point to listen to the plight of good people. Spencer and Antoinette were my sexagenarian neighbors, their estate a few kilometers away from mine. Antoinette was a foodie, and every Saturday I brought her a few regional treats, handpicked online by me. Just like lending an ear to my favorite waiters and making sure I tipped them well, I listened to my neighbors and helped around the house.
I always came back in time to watch the game. I loved sports. A precise golf swing, a sleek basketball dunk, a well-timed baseball shot, a record-breaking football run. I loved watching trained, disciplined people in action. It was dispiriting to realize I could have had Elena here with me. The Corona in my hand had grown warm but I was too lazy to go fetch a colder one. I chugged the rest of it and put it on the coffee table, purposefully aiming the coaster so it wouldn’t leave a ring on the surface. I dwindled away on the sofa, my mind swerving between Elena and a tivoed baseball game.
I loved baseball. Running wasn’t my forte, plus, I couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn even if I put my mind to it, or else I would have become a baseball player. The Red Sox were playing the Seattle Mariners at Fenway Park. It was a tight, hard-fought game, pretty amazing. Boston won its fourth straight while Seattle lost its fourth straight.
I seized the TV remote and hit the kill-switch, then reached for my iPad. Elena was taking a nap, curled foetally with her face to camera. Relaxed in sleep, her face looked soft and childlike, the seductive lines of her sensuality gone from the features. Loose hair covered half her face, and her clasped hands were drawn up to her parted lips, as if she were praying. Sunlight filtered in through a small chink, casting a meager sheen on the bed. Her lean body looked luscious against the subtle interplay of light and white sheets. I wondered how many other men had seen her like this, but it didn’t matter. This girl, she was mine. For now I was allowing her to explore and experiment. I’d have her crying, welted, and bruised soon enough. Fuck, just the thought made me hard as stone.
I set a fresh beer on the table, laced my hands behind my head and looked around. The clock on the wall said it was now 17:55, which meant I had roughly an hour to kill before I had to get ready to go out. Feeling lonely, I hugged a vanity cushion and closed my eyes.
Later in the car, I didn’t care for talk on the radio, Sirius it was. I’d decided to drive to and from the cocktail dinner in American efficiency, a palladium silver Saleen S7. Although tamed by cruise control, the car snuck in and out of lanes with good stealth, reminding me of a jacketed bullet dipped in silver liquid.
I pulled up in the courtyard of the magnificent three-story brownstone on Commonwealth Avenue just down from the Public Garden. Most of the guests seemed to arrive in Lincoln town cars. This house, I knew, was of international level. French doors, Italian marble, English furniture, Persian tapestry, Chinese vases, Olmec basalt statues, hand-carved Ashanti ebony wood stools and masks, Khmer sculptures. Sure, I know I had to work harder to get rid of my summarizing habit.
I was fairly skilled at putting on my game face for this type of cocktail event. I could even be the life of the party if I actively engaged with the crowd. Samantha North—Jerry’s wife—looked like she’d stepped out of a Thackeray novel, but for her weight. The woman was so gangly that any dress she put on draped her angular shoulders as if it were still on the padded pink Saks Fifth Avenue hanger. I guessed less than ninety pounds. Can you imagine that? To think bones could snap in the midst of a hard fuck.
“Alex! Jerry wasn’t sure you’d make it.” She looked like she’d swallowed a turd, a bony French manicured hand slapped over her mouth.
“Wouldn’t miss this for the world, Sam.” I kissed her cheeks after the customary bottle of wine handoff.
“That’s my wife, Alexander. Don’t slip her the tongue,” Jerry blustered someplace behind me.
“Aw, shucks,” I murmured at him the way you might try to lull a Doberman pinscher, “good boy. Jerry’s such a good boy.”
I was feeling particularly assholish tonight.
A young man in a blandly neat—but not déclassé—uniform brought me a well thought-of drink. There was modest cocktail chatter, clanking of polished silverware, and anodyne music filtering down from what looked like recessed Bose speakers. For the next hour, I made the mandatory rounds, shaking hands and all that jazz. Not only was I fond of sport analogies, I was also quick to quote poems and writers, all helpful feats at social gatherings.
Everything was going well until, “Darling, look who’s here!” a recognizable voice hollered.
I felt my rage flare up like a lit match tossed into a pool of gasoline. I was hoping Valerie wouldn’t come back to her estate in Boston, but no such luck again.
My anger subsided as quickly as it had surged. “Valerie. Pierce. So nice to see you both.”
For the second time in person, I saw the reason why I’d been blackballed years ago. Let’s start with his physical appearance. Pierce Rose was quite odd-looking, a walking contradiction, a jumped-up businessman. Tall and awkward, a teenager’s head on a grown up’s developed body. His hair dropped around the sides of his face in short tangles, a salon-colored mop that looked like it didn’t belong, not even with matching bushy eyebrows. Chunky shoulders, chest, and arms suggested he was a workout fiend, but his rounded midsection said he favored Fish & Chips and sticky toffee pudding.
One step forward, and the wanker’s blazer fell open. Quite the fleshy midsection, his bulk was all flab, not muscle. So you see, not a young Lorenzo Lamas or a mature Benedict Cumberbatch, this forty-five-year-old Vincent Crummles lookalike who pumped iron and then hit crummy, dingy pubs before returning home, that’s whom Valerie had chosen over me. His dick was probably so weak it couldn’t hold up a Prince Albert. It took all my self-restraint to keep from grabbing the collar of his Marks & Spencer shirt and twisting it tight around his somewhat fat neck.
Let’s move on to his expression. He smiled a mirthless, leering grin, showing off his tobacco-darkened, tea-stained teeth. He also stank, smelling of rancid sweat from across the pond. Caricatural, but I swear I wasn’t making up this shitload of detail.
He said, “Long time no see, Alex. How do you do?”
I wanted to deck the tosser for using my diminutive name without my permission.
“Congratulations are in order, I believe. Far from a doddle, isn’t it, Chief Executive Officer?”
I couldn’t resist being a dick. “Valerie already gave them to me weeks ago. Pretty juicy stuff, it was a doozy. I was gobsmacked, I believe.”
His pasty face flushed, and Valerie glared at me. I didn’t move nor looked away as I put her on the spot. Her hand swung up to slap me and I didn’t stop her, readying myself to take the hit unflinchingly. For some unfathomable reason she stopped herself, glared some more, and then to my surprise, her face softened. Her eyes, brown and unblinking, didn’t match her smile. “Excuse me, I need a big martini.” She turned and walked down a centered hallway that split the room in two without throwing a single glance back at us.
“Put it for me, you prick,” Pierce wheezed like a cute cur with no bark. “Come on then, show me how low you Americans can sink. Miscreants that only have a Declaration of Independence don’t impress me.” His face had gone dark red. A couple of veins on his temples were throbbing so hard I thought he was going to ha
ve a coronary right in the middle of Jerry’s living room.
And yet I couldn’t resist baiting him further. “Bollocks. According to historical transcripts, King George wasn’t an able monarch, no chutzpah, whatsoever. Three words for you, rotter: chinless, spineless, brainless. Your king was a bully, really, could hardly rule. That’s why redcoats lost the war.”
Without question, Hemingway he was not. “You total arse. Don’t you fucking dare! Oh, you piece of shit. Don’t you bloody dare!” The bumptious asshole was like a baboon baring canines, fuming and strutting like a bitch in heat to scare off the real predator. “Were it not for French jackanapes, you foolish schmucks wouldn’t have won The Battle of Yorkshire.”
JFC, how amusingly flatulent. We were a hair’s breadth away from a barroom donnybrook situation, so as a phony pacifist, I had to switch gears and take the high road. “Gotta love the French, Pierce. Ta-ta.”
Part of me wanted to depart as fast as I could and drink myself into enough of a stupor to pass out. I paid the Roses no mind, and mingled for a good while. Just as I was about to leave, Jerry asked me to assist him with the final cooking of gorgeously aged beef ribs. He, in the afternoon, had surgically removed the shortribs and cut them into individual portions, simmering the slices like confit in the rich tallow. We crisped the rest of the meat on an open-flame grill while sampling bourbon and discussing the pros and cons of a Josper. In the end, I was served a huge cut of the rib and a sliver from the ribeye. Jerry had used a marinade made of garlic, rosemary, thyme, and barrel-aged balsamic vinegar from Modena to uplift the richness of the meat grain; who knew herbs and vinegar overlapped so well with beef. I rarely gushed about food, but this was flawless, also perfectly teamed with creamy polenta and sautéed yellow foot mushrooms.
En route to another bourbon, a girl in an illustrious Guy Laroche halter dress striding across the deck made an impression on me. The devil sat appropriately on my left shoulder. A tail of flames stroked my neck, horns producing an evil ding, eyes sparkling like chips of mica while he whispered obscenities in my ear.
I’d love to play with her. She was tall and leggy, at least five foot eight, lean and lithe like a cheetah, with black hair that hung straight down to her shoulders.
Stalking toward her to stake my claim, I brushed an imaginary speck from the collar of my pristine Turnbull & Asser shirt, slim fit and Regent collar of course.
“Why do you think people enjoy sexual pain, Miss?”
She appraised me as if I were a captivating book cover. “The trick, William Potter, is not minding that it hurts.”
Sold.
“I like your taste in movies.” I caught her by the wrist. A cascade of Tiffany charms chinked as a diamond bracelet slid down her arm and caught at my fingers. Her wrist was delicate, fine-boned, could snap like a twig. I realized it would also look lovely tied.
“Would you like to have a drink with me?”
There was silence for a few seconds, interspersed by the screeching of cicadas coming from the landscape garden as the words hung in the air.
“A-a drink?” She looked a little nervous, voice thrumming with concealed desire. Her glowing skin looked as smooth as a Southern drawl, making me wonder to what extent its hue would heighten with a harsh kiss of leather.
“A beverage, a liquid to keep you dehydrated, nourish your liver—I could go on.” She withdrew her hand the second I let go of her wrist.
“And then what? Are you a priest? Will you make me confess my sins?”
“No, but you’ll confess all right. And I do have a priest on speed dial if you want to be absolved.”
“That’s a nice suit. Where do you work?”
“Turner Holdings.”
“What do you do at Turner Holdings, silly?”
With my authoritarian mien, most of the people here knew who I was, which made me wonder if she was just trying to yank my chain. “I’m the CEO.”
She wagged a forefinger in the air between us. “Oh my gosh! Oh my gosh!” Her face was quite the picture: Edvard Munch’s Scream, to be exact. Jaw slack with horror, eyes so wide her eyelids had almost lost themselves in the back of her head.
“What will it be?”
There was a beat before she looked up and let her eyes meet mine. She knew damn well what I had in mind. “Is having a drink all you want?” she picked up reluctantly.
I cocked my head and offered her a charming smile. “Not in so many words. I want you, bound, gagged, in a bedroom.”
She looked at me with a hot gaze that I’m certain was mirrored in my own eyes, and said, “Okay,” drawing out the last syllable, “but I have limits.”
I nodded. “I’m sure you do, sweetheart,” I hastened to assure her. Her limits meant squat to me, but there’s no point in saying it out loud. The look of horror she’d give me behind a closed bedroom door was worth the wait. “Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.” The idle lie—the smoking gun, if you will—had sprung out too swiftly from her mouth.
“Tell me the truth.”
“Yes, sir.” The underlying lust within her eyes sent a frisson of arousal sliding up my spine.
“My place it is.”
“If I am to accompany you, I need to know where we’re going.”
I gave her the death stare. “Shut the fuck up. Not a word, unless I’m asking you a question. If you want the pleasure of my company, you will do what I tell you to do from now on.”
There was beautiful silence between us from here on.
My city crib was located on a quiet street in the prestigious Beacon Hill area, steps from the Public Garden. The All American Dream. Complete with high-flying 360-degree vistas, it was artfully designed by acclaimed architect Graham Gund. The private roof deck with two-tiered Zen garden and rooftop infinity-edge heated lap pool was perfect for entertaining.
Evidently, Boston’s finest and serenest house had it all. Media room, library, home gym, custom cabinetry and millwork, plaster crown moldings, wainscoting, one-touch Lutron lighting, Waterworks bath fixtures, Hunter-Douglas window treatments and Back Bay shutters. Closets had automatic lights, there was smart house wiring throughout the home, and now that the fireplaces were gas fired, chimneys had been re-lined and trimmed. The heating and central air conditioning system was a dual-fuel hydro air system with humidification—each floor had its own zone. The electrical and plumbing systems were new, new ductwork, a new Monson slate roof, and storm windows over each retuned window.
It also boasted floor-to-ceiling windows, Murano chandeliers, and a tastefully designed chef’s kitchen. Cabinets had magnetic touch latches, and the Carrara marble countertops had waterfall ends, marble mosaic backsplash, stocked with Viking, Fisher & Paykel, Sub-Zero, and Bosch appliances. Rooms with hardwood floors were refinished with Macassar ebony, and duvet covers had goose down. The honed enameled lava bathrooms had elegant designer colors from Eurolux, and high-end Corbett lighting fixtures. The expansive bay-windowed master suite featured a private garden deck, his and hers dressing room, and a gigantic oval Jacuzzi. The deeded parking had a heated eight-car garage.
The alarm system? Panic buttons, remote ones, too. Windows and doors were wired, motion sensors in every room, a generator automatically sprung to life in case of a power cut—you get the idea.
But, I didn’t bring Carina Lowell back to my house, and I sure as hell wouldn’t bring her to a chain restaurant. It was only moments before we were at the entrance of the Omni Parker House Hotel. I sometimes forgot to breathe when I entered this hotel. Forgot that this was the birthplace of the Boston cream pie. Forgot that 10 US presidents, the Dalai Lama, a widowed Mary Todd Lincoln, Graham Bell, John Wilkes, Winston Churchill, JFK, Ross Perot, Charlotte Cushman, Judy Garland, Ann-Margret, Bob Hope, James Dean, Ted Williams, Babe Ruth, Muhammad Ali, Mick Jagger, Emeril Lagasse, Joan Crawford, and many more well-known people had stayed here. Better yet, Charles Dickens stayed in the original Parker House Hotel, and it’s said that the elevator leading to his ro
om, the eponymous Parker House suite, was haunted for years.
Let me catch my breath for a second…
Please believe me when I say this, I had no intention of getting to know Carina in the biblical sense. Like I told you before, I wanted to play with her. Comprende? You must know me by now, so yes, it was no coincidence I’d picked her up.
I asked her, “What’s on your mind, little one?”
“A Christmas Carol, sir.”
Zing. Perfect…just perfect. “3rd or 10th floor?”
“3rd.”
“Would you prefer stairs or the elevator?”
“Stairs. Keeps you fit, right?”
“I prefer stairs, too,” I lied coolly. I preferred elevators. My early morning gym sessions covered my quota of fitness, largely. I just wanted to check out her butt, and that’s hard to do in an elevator without—ah, you finish it.
Alexander Turner
The Good Dominant
Descending the sprawling staircase, I took in the very best American furnishings married to the very best European ones, and found myself in front of a wall of photos above a Carrara marble mantelpiece. Elena’s wide blue eyes stared at me, her dark hair whipping around her face. She was laughing. Very photogenic. She wore a Valentino long-sleeve scalloped lace minidress, cherry colored nonetheless. The bare legs, the staggering curve of her delicate hips, the slant of her shoulders, the black hair messily framing the most perfect angel-face with strands of glossy, inky silk; these were sweet sights to behold.
“Good morning, Elena.” This force of habit was a ritual I clung to superstitiously. “Pretty soon, this family manse will be yours, baby.” I know I seemed like a moony, nerdish teenager instead of a thirty-four-year-old dominant, and that’s fine with me.