Wednesday, November 02, 2005

November 1, 2005 Part II (4,498 words out of 50,000)


I only talk to Cynthia because of her parties – otherwise she’s depressing as fuck. She went through law school in Alabama and passed the bar there, hoping to set-up shop, thinking Alabaman firms would hire her when a black lawyer is prone to scare the shit out of half the jury. She stuck it out as a public defender for ten years before finally deciding the whole deep South scene really isn’t for her and came on up to New York City. Passed the bar only to find out that she was damaged goods – she lost her “edge” or whatever the fuck it is lawyers need to ruin people’s lives. Now she’s a public prosecutor, I don’t know what you call it, the person whose job it is to put petty crooks and deadbeat dads in jail. Thing is she finds herself prosecuting primarily black people, they give her dirty looks every time they get pulled away, their eyes accusing her of being a traitor to her people. She bites her lip until it bleeds and averts her tearful eyes as some cat who was going to hock the TV he stole to buy his son a goddamn baseball glove for his birthday gets carted off to do a couple of months of jail-time. She comes home and plans these elaborate parties, taking on a subservient roll and passing out highballs to people who barely remember her name. Always a good turnout, judges, lawyers, tax specialists, restaurant owners – people who are good to have in your network of friends. The higher-up people are on the social scale the easier they are to grab hold of. Lots of money and the desire to hold onto it makes for easy marks - besides the complexes they’re born with they develop plenty over the years – paranoia, fear of loneliness, trust issues. It’s easy to play someone like this, satisfy their need to trust and feel safe and loved and their deep-rooted issues will shine through - once you get a handle on those you own the person.

Of course there’s always a few low-class minorities at Cynthia’s parties – she invites her dry cleaner and her mechanic – thinking in some way this will alleviate her guilt, not realizing these poor guys just want to watch the Yankee game and have no interest schmoozing with us snobs and socialites at a party where they don’t even serve Budweiser. They walk around nervously, trying to ignore the awkward attempts at conversation by some rich whitie who just found out the darky he’s talking to is a fucking gardener. “Oh – wow, that’s good. So, do you use fertilizer?” The low-class minority just nods and barely manages to sneak out a “yes, sir” and goes back to staring at his Captain & Coke while the whitie uncomfortably kicks his Benromach Vintage 1969 Scotch Whisky that Cynthia bought as if any of these fake fuckers can tell the difference between that and some Hankney Bannister swill.

But the avocado mousse dip is fucking delicious.

This guy Chris I’m talking to is new to Cynthia’s parties. He’s a goddamn scout for a modeling agency – this guy’s going to be part of my upper-fucking-echelon. I’ll take a modeling agency scout over a hotel owner any fucking day of the week without so much as a second thought. This guy goes to pajama parties that play host to a bunch of insecure, worrisome, sex-addicted prospective models trying to get noticed. That’s a fucking candy-store. The fucking pope would get laid at a party like that. And he’s easy, too. Loud, center-of-attention type. Good hair, possibly implants – the guy’s wearing fucking make-up for Christ’s sake. And the coup-de-grace of an easy mark – Banana Republic draped all over his body. This guy can afford the good stuff but he’s fucking clueless so he picks outfits off of a mannequin in a Banana Republic storefront window, considering it to be “top quality clothes”. He even told some chick that his Turkish wool sport’s coat was FROM Banana Republic – he’s proud that he shops in the poor-man’s fancy-wear store. And to top it off, as if this guy really needed to project the fact that he’s a fucking target, he’s wearing Kenneth Goddamn Cole shoes. Probably got them at Macys on sale for fuck’s sake. Picked them up when he went in to get some snazzy Hilfiger jeans at buy-one-get-one-fucking-free.

I’ll be partying with 18-year-old whores trying out the “modeling thing” before turning to cocaine addicted strippers in no time. I wonder how much ass this guy pulls, he has to use the whole “audition” thing to...


She’s new.

Smells like Donna Karan’s Black Cashmere – cheap but different, she might just like the smell. Hair’s pulled way tight, she must be a fan of a good tug. Wearing a turtle-neck, though, she’s a nasty fucking little tease, isn’t she? Got the school girl thing going on as if she can hide those tits behind a pound of wool. Yeah, that’s it – school girl – you can even tell by those fucking glasses she’s wearing, all sweet looking. All emo-indy-chick-innocent and shit. Either way the turtle-neck’s attitude does not match the message of those heels, she’s either in denial of her continuously sopping wet pussy or she’s waiting for a dude like me to get it.

She’s drinking white wine, too – what is she, in fucking college still?

“Well, Chris, here’s my number – call me if you need some help juggling the ladies.”

Son of a bitch laughs and nervously pulls at his tie - I got your number, Chris. You never get laid by any of these chicks; you value your job too much to risk the lawsuit. But you like to pretend, you like to make me believe that you’re banging these bitches on a daily basis. That’s fine, I’ll pretend for you, you can keep me around to feed your ego – I never call anyone out.

So with this chick, this in-the-closet fetish queen, she obviously wants to keep it subtly hidden. The way you play her, the way you play everybody, really, is you give them what they want – you feed their wants and in turn their faults will slowly start to show. For some people it’s quick – the people that don’t have a firm grip on their shit – they don’t even try to hide it. It’s the subtle ones that are a bitch. The people with mommy issues and fear of success. You have to wait those out a bit, look for the clues, put them together. Nobody ever said collecting people was an easy fucking job – you gotta work for that shit, it takes commitment, poise, concentration and all that other shit they try to teach you in business school as if you can get all of this out of a fucking book. Once you get a handle on the shit that drives them, they’re yours to do whatever the fuck you want with but sometimes you really need to put the effort in.

Like this chick Fontay, she’s the hottest interior decorator in the city. She charges tens-of-thousands of dollars an hour just to get the perfect couch to match the perfect drapes to match the perfect painting that matches your personality. This is the chick that Donald Trump can’t afford; she reserves her services for Saudi princes at NYU and oil barons that are putting up their twenty-year-old mistresses. I see her at a charity event (the best place to work people) and think that she can do up my apartment fucking nice.

Not interested, obviously – I can’t even get her to look at me. She’s drinking liquor that I’ve never even seen, it sits behind the bar in a non-descript black box with a lock on it, wearing clothes hand-stitched by a one-armed Italian designer who makes million-dollar dresses for five people on this planet. This chick is making me look like Chuck E. Cheese she’s so high class. But I’m staring her down, watching her every move, waiting for her to give a hint at some shit that’s going on beneath the surface. She yawns – boredom isn’t an opening, unfortunately – not in these circles – only in Hollywood. She stares admiringly at her glass for a moment – platinum and diamond coated – but it’s not a klepto stare, she’s probably making a mental note to tell her assistant to order a set of them. The guy she’s talking to puts his glass down on the table and half of it hangs off of the napkin and this bitch can’t keep her eyes off of it. Now, this may seem obvious with her being an interior decorator and all but it never occurred to me that this chick may just be some type of obsessive-compulsive control freak or whatever you would call it, I never claimed to be a psychiatrist, I just have common fucking sense. The dude excuses himself to go to the bathroom or some shit and the minute he turns around she moves his drink onto his napkin and breathes a sigh of fucking relief. So I do what any sane man would do, I put some pâté on my jacket sleeve and walk up to the bar she’s standing by. It was like I brought kryptonite into her presence – she doesn’t even hesitate to grab a napkin and wipe the goose liver off of my tux that she would normally never touch because it wasn’t made from the wool of an orphaned albino sheep that was raised by a blind monkey in Thailand.

I turn and thank her as if she just took a fucking bullet for me and she doesn’t smile – she lights the fuck up. Her eyes go stern and her shoulders drop back straight as she tells me that she couldn’t let me walk around like that – I tell her I understand her completely – I tell her how much it sucks to have to walk around a disheveled mess and the world needs more people that are willing to wipe smeared goose liver off of a man’s shoulder.

Two hours later I’m in the back of her limo with her panties shoved into my mouth. She’s slapping me repeatedly and telling me to stop looking at her as she rams my cock so hard my stomach’s getting bruised.

When she pulls her panties out I thank her but tell her I didn’t deserve that, I didn’t deserve her cunt-infused panties in my unworthy mouth.

The next night she’s sitting on my face and riding it like it’s a fucking banister. I don’t even get off but that’s fine, I’ll be her man-whore, I’ll be whatever the fuck she needs me to be.

When she gets off I spit the fecal matter and pussy juice out of my mouth and tell her how good she tasted – how I never tasted a cunt so good in all my life, how her ass tasted like fucking Neuhas Chocolates compared to every other ass I’ve ever eaten. She asks me what the fuck is a Neuhas Chocolate.

I swear, this chick is so high-class she makes me look like fucking Exxon.

The following night she has clips on my nipples and a plug up my ass while she rides my cock, her eyes closed and she’s calling me “Philip”. And I’m Philip tonight. I’ll be Tony tomorrow. Fucking Regis Philbin next week. I’ll be whatever the fuck she wants.

Two weeks of being her slut and she finally makes her way to my place. She can’t even stand being in there it’s so chaotic and not tapped into my chi or some shit, I wasn’t listening – she doesn’t even want to degrade me.

“We need to fix this. Now.”

Two days later and my apartment looks like a fucking PALACE. Fontay calls me up and demands I come up and I tell that crazy bitch to go fuck herself – sometimes you need to know when you got all you can out of someone and you need to cut them off. So now I got a place that’s all lined up with my aura and makes the girls fucking wet and she needs to find some other poor shmuck to take a kick to the nuts.

That was hard work. This Donna Karan Black Cashmere wearing chick is going to be fucking cake.


Jacob said...

strong stuff man. Very nice. Defintely painting a strong picture of the main character. I liked the hint of the mouse drinking the white wine. She's clearly out of her league, and the smell of innocence is so foreign to him.

Brilliant work man!

11:05 AM  

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