Chapter 2

I lived fairly close to the midtown office building on the east side of Manhattan Island purposely, preferring walking to other forms of transportation in the city. My apartment, though small compared to apartments of its price in other cities, had plenty of room for me with two bedrooms, one I used for my home office, an adequate kitchen and a really nice sitting room that had large windows which looked over Grammercy Park, a fairly tony area.

The government had been generous funding my project, and advisory positions added to my income, but the biggest windfalls I have to admit came from under-the-table cash offerings from various organizations and institutions encouraging advising some of my students to bring their particular genius to them, and though I accepted these bribes, I also thoroughly investigated the interested parties and if found wanting I wouldn’t follow through, making whatever excuse necessary. But those positions I accepted and filled with my students, I managed to gain even more cash in kickbacks. Cash filled my safety deposit box, and I dipped into it occasionally for fancy meals, premium champagne to toast in the new year, a favorite single malt scotch which I sipped at bedtime and only needing replenishing every month or so, a couple bespoke three piece suits and custom shirts and shoes from a tailor in London when I spent a summer in Europe, and some specific one time things like a jeweled Rolex to go with my suits, an Arshile Gorky painting and a Joseph Cornell box I just had to have. The most common use though were the escorts I visited about once a week, two of whom I favored: a mixed race vixen combining African, Asian, Polynesian and European, svelte and athletic, and a pure buxom Swede with ancestry probably dating back to the Vikings. Both had charm and a knack for conversation since at least some of their elite clients would expect that, although the mixed race woman’s encyclopedic knowledge of current film and music and the various affairs of those who created them, gossip in other words, took some getting used to until I found myself interested in learning about the latest releases, the trends and surprises, and the complex network of lust and love in that rarified world. The blonde beauty on the other hand dwelt in the sciences, the social ones mostly like philosophy, sociology and psychology, though physics crept in from time to time, especially string theory and notions of the possibility of the multiverse. Of course I’m not one to claim, for instance, that I would buy Penthouse or Playboy for the articles, and both women were expert at giving pleasure and receiving it too, which, more than anything, made me prefer them. And their different ways of achieving those results, the vixen being wildly athletic and the Viking being soft and loving, was why I Iiked having the two preferred choices.

Now that I’ve revealed myself to be susceptible to the sins of greed and lust, an impure narrator I suppose, take it how you want. None of us are angels, and the cleverest of us probably get away with more of the sinful side than the less clever. Probably the scariest thing imaginable is a genius sociopath. Since I subscribe to the golden rule, caring and even worrying about any negative effect I might have on the world, I’m definitely not one of those. A genius could very well convince or excuse himself of anything, and I’ve met a few clever bastards who, for instance, managed to manipulate data to prove themselves to be the superior race (not just whites but mostly) or do unscrupulous, harmful things to others because of a more solipsistic view of superiority or simply they can get away with it. I like to think my sins are victimless.

Anyway, thankfully you’re probably thinking, back to the story and to the scrumptious young goddess to whom I’d finally become intimate. We walked slightly east of a direct line to my home to have dinner at a favorite Italian bistro, one with a candlelit ambience, obviously romantic, but I frequented it for the fresh ingredients, everything wonderfully prepared and everything made from scratch including the bread and pasta, and even the olive oil had been provided by a cousin of the proprietress, Mamma Lucia, from the old country of Southern Italy, to the muscles and calamari, my favorites. It also had the charm of Mamma coming out from the kitchen and flirting with me, and despite late middle age thickening her substantially, she retained some of the beauty from her youth, which, from pictures I’d seen of her as a teen and young adult, had been considerable.

Her daughter, lovely in her own right, but not the beauty her mother had been, more her disposition and her honest smile, worked the front end as hostess, and seeing me in the company of a woman, brought me to a small table at the back with the most privacy.

“Would you just like to hear the specials, or see the menu?” she asked.

“The menu please,” said Emily, and the daughter handed her one.

“And the wine list,” I added, and she had that too.

“Sea bass just came in this afternoon,” she told us. “Baked and lightly seasoned with a truffle oil and lemon zest crème sauce on the side. And yes Joe, the calamari just arrived as well.”

“I’ll have the breaded calamari and the bass,” I said.

“Would I need a double order of the calamari...?” Emily started.

“We’ll make plenty,” the woman smiled.

“And the muscles with the spaghetti.”

“Good choice,” I grinned.

“I agree,” the woman nodded. “Ariana will take your order.”

Ariana, a pretty blonde with an ethnic Italian nose and brown/hazel eyes, seemed to embody her family’s home at Lake Como close to Switzerland. She’d been a fairly recent addition, maybe a couple months, and tended towards the serious and the efficient, not one to flirt for more tips, perhaps to avoid unwanted attention because of her svelte, athletic body, a skier most likely which featured a taut bottom just full enough to get noticed, which I did, giving it a glance every time she walked away. Though usually distant, I managed to coax her to chat during one of her slower evenings, where I learned where she came from and that she was studying economics at Columbia at a Masters level. That conversation relaxed her relationship to me as waitress and customer and we continued to have bits and pieces of further conversation--she even vented her frustrations a couple times about keeping up at school--so that she’d actually smile at me when she saw me enter the restaurant.

She took our order soon after the hostess left, which included their most expensive prosecco. “Celebrating?” she asked.

“Yep,” said Emily with a giggle.

Ariana grinned, winked at me, and left, my eyes glancing downwards.

“I saw that,” Emily mock pouted.

“Saw what?” I asked.

“That wink.”

I laughed, sort of relieved not to have my ass fetish pointed out, but not really worried because I’d expressed my fetishizing to her, and though Ariana had a fine one, Emily’s was matchless. I explained, “I’ve frequented this place quite a bit, it’s my favorite at least local eatery, and I don’t recall the last time I was accompanied, especially by one as gorgeous as you.”

“And she’s obviously not jealous.”

“Why would she be? We’ve chatted a few times but have never flirted or aimed things towards a sexual conclusion.”

“Tell me about her.”

After a shrug, I did, pausing when the subject delivered the salad with a simple oil and vinegar dressing, but of course the oil was the cousin’s and the vinegar red wine, and along with the tomatoes, red onion, carrots and olives, probably also from the cousin, and a nice mix of peppery and plain lettuce, fresh cooked and chilled artichoke had been added. Delicious. I continued between bites.

After the calamari arrived, tender as ever, with plates for both of us, she asked, “Is that it?”

“All I know,” I shrugged.

“Let me speculate.”

“Have at it.”

“She’s always been the good girl,” Emily began. “Daddy’s favorite, because she asks him about his job.”

“Which is?”

“Importing Swiss watches, and other things less above board.”

“Smuggling?”

“And fencing, but she doesn’t know about that. She just knows about the watches. Anyway, Goody Two-Shoes has a fling with a bad boy skier and her mom and sisters find out, and her mom is disappointed because she expects Ariana to marry some elite man, but at the same time she likes that her daughter isn’t such an angel because she’s jealous of her husband’s affections, and the good girl rebels for the first time, and then the bad boy ends up being a cad, getting her pregnant and running off with some other chick and Ariana is devastated.

“She comes to America on a student visa and gets an abortion here. The affair leaves her cold towards men as well as being cold towards her family since her older sister shows her what her daddy really does. But the estrangement doesn’t last. Ariana visits her home in the summer just after the semester ends, and when she gets back from the visit, she gets a job here.”

Ariana arrived with entrees and the conversation paused for that and for their thorough enjoyment.

“You’ve explained her coldness,” I finally asked. “But does that mean she’s gone without sex?”

“No. She discovers the Sapphic arts with her roommate, a Sephardic Jew from Israel.”

“So she’s bisexual, but obviously enjoys a man’s member.”

“Her frustration isn’t just school,” Emily smirked.

“So if we were to seduce her, it would be like we’d be saving her.”

“And we could help her with her Economics homework.”

We laughed.

Despite the fiction I decided to write my phone number on a small memo pad sheet and left it with the cash, to which, as usual, I added a substantial tip, and watched her reaction.

Ariana didn’t look disappointed that I seemed to be bringing the possibility of sex into our casual friendship, instead looking mostly amused. “I don’t think so,” she told me.

“Too bad,” said Emily with a wink, which made the Italian blonde blush. “If you change your mind, call when you’re done here. Joe and I plan to be up late.”

Ariana walked away stiffly, and I noticed she kept the note.

After a pleasant walk, both of us feeling over full from the generous dinners, we arrived at my apartment. “Very nice,” Emily approved, pulling me into a hug and kiss. “Sit,” she ordered and nearly pushed me into an arm chair. She sat on the couch nearest me. “Your letter?” she asked.

I nodded to a pile of mail on the coffee table, and she found the government letter near the top, opening it, then grabbing hers from her backpack and placing the papers side-by-side. They looked nearly identical. “Good,” she said. “Same class.”

“You don’t trust them,” I said.

“Of course not, but what he told me intrigued me.”

“Which was?”

She pulled a device from her backpack, a small lump of dark plastic with a row of slats surrounding it and pushed a button on top which became red. I heard the quiet hum of a cluster of notes, like a distant ocean wave but continuous. “Walls have ears,” she said.

“I know,” I said, “and with some of the clients I work with to get my geniuses work, I felt the need to buy a bug detector.”

“This is more thorough,” Emily said.

“Are you sure?” I asked.

“I asked for the specs and he showed me, including patent approval. And yes, it could also be a listening device, probably is, but it would be them, wouldn’t it?”

“I suppose,” I said.

“I thought they might just be looking for recruits, like one genius recommending others, except when I told them about you, about how you were the man I wanted and what you did for my fellow young geniuses and that you were a genius as well, Mr. Egghead never asked me for any other recommendations.”

“Your interest in me sexually was the only requirement,” I offered.

“And you being a genius,” she nodded. “I wanted to make sure we were in this together.”

“In what?” I asked.

“The class is called Building a House. Because it wouldn’t be freestanding I asked why it wasn’t called Building a Home and he explained that though the outside would be only imagined they wanted us to imagine it.”

“Why?”

“He didn’t explain. He just shrugged like he didn’t know. Maybe he’s just the salesman, but a more unpleasant front I can’t imagine. Maybe that’s the point, a big head housing a big brain, any attractiveness unimportant. Maybe the whole weird encounter was symbolic: the egghead seducing the hot chick through genius alone.

“But I think I know why they want us to imagine it. It would make it more unique to us and we could weave tales, fantasies if you will, that would make reality more bearable.”

“Bearable?” I frowned.

“More fun?” she offered. “Like creating a memory of the house we designed finally built and looking wondrous when we arrived at it, and you carried me across the threshold like the romantic you are. Maybe decorating it with a picture of that, a virtual image of our proud conception.”

“And what exactly are we conceiving?” I asked.

“You mean the house?” she smirked. Before asking her what other conception, she continued. “It would be a place in which we could be comfortable for a long time, with things in it that would keep us preoccupied, satisfied and content.”

“Like a desert island scenario?”

“Except for having a lot more things to bring along.”

“To where?”

“Outer space!”

“You’re kidding.”

“Nope, unless egghead was kidding, and he had convincing proof.”

“Let me guess: specs.”

“Specs and blueprints and purchase orders and video files. Believe me, I needed convincing.”

“I believe you.”

“About outer space?”

“About needing proof.”

“Unfortunately I wasn’t allowed copies of those documents. You’ll just have to believe me.”

“Emily?”

“Yes Joe.”

“You should know I’d follow you anywhere.”

“To watch my ass?”

“That too.”

She stood and offered her hand, which I accepted, and she used it to help me to my feet. “Perhaps I could convince you more?”

“Couldn’t hurt,” I grinned while leading her to my bedroom, adding “unless it does.”

“Let’s find out,” she said as we entered the smallish room, my king size bed filling most of it, sheets and blankets haphazardly on it. “Not a neat freak?”

“Not expecting company,” I replied, not really embarrassed. I did tend to put things away and the apartment building, actually a converted old mansion, had maid service as part of the lease, a handsome full figured black woman in her thirties coming by twice a week. Having a stranger with access to my house would make me cautious, though her stealing would lose her her job, but I kept valuables in a safe and my laptop in a locked drawer just as habit, being in New York and with those large windows I had, though some treacherous guard rails in front of them helped minimize the risk. Bottom line though, my house didn’t look like a slovenly bachelor pad. I just never got in the habit of making my bed.

She obviously didn’t make an issue of it, stripping quickly and lying back on the sheets. I followed, slower, taken by surprise, but teasing as well, along with enjoying the sight of her.

Sliding onto the bed from the foot continued the tease, but she appeared more amused than frustrated and pulled the two pillows on the bed beneath her head to watch. I reached her feet and began messaging both of them, my reflexology studies, learning pressure points that supposedly tied to certain parts of her body which sounds mystical, but having had it done to me, I’d experienced the sensation, I used to caress places tied to what Eastern mystics would call her lowest chakra. A brief moment of shock ended with the sighs of relaxation and the oohs of pleasure. Problem was, though her feet weren’t really dirty, mostly a little sweaty, I would need to wash my hands before bringing any fingers to the place I planned for them to go.

I barely heard my phone ring from the sitting room, or thrum actually since I decided harp plucking grated less than any other ringtone.

“What’s that?” Emily asked.

“My phone,” I told her, revealing how little I wanted to answer it.

“It might be Ariana.”

I rushed off the bed, grabbing warm-up pants from a drawer and putting them on as quickly as possible without falling on my face, the problem with large windows facing the street. As habit, I removed my phone from my pocket when I arrived home, checking if it needed charging and leaving it on the coffee table if it didn’t. The profound distraction of Emily hadn’t changed my automatic actions. The screen showed an unknown number with the same area code as mine. By the time I brought my finger to it to accept the call, it ended. I decided to wait a few seconds in case the caller left a message.

Ariana did, stumbling words letting me know it was her. I called back.

“Sorry, I was busy.” I told her.

“I interrupted you,” she realized.

“Not really. In fact you called at the perfect time not to. Can I be blunt, Ariana?”

“Okay.”

“Emily, that lovely woman with me, the one who winked at you, is currently naked in my bed. I gave you my number because we’re both interested in you, which you must know. I know how busy you are, so it seems unlikely that you called to hang out or to find out if I might know where a party might be. You’re attracted to me, to both of us, and since you have no one who might salve the result of that attraction and maybe haven’t for a while, the reason you called is to be intimate with us. If I’m wrong, please hang up with my apologies, and I hope we can continue to have our nice little conversations at your work.”

I waited a few seconds for her reply. “Can I have your address?”

“I can text it. I presume you are near the restaurant?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t live far.”

“Okay.”

She hung up and I messaged her the address.

“I hope you have condoms,” Emily said, standing in the doorway wearing a white terry cloth robe I’d stolen from an overpriced hotel.

I went to the windows and pulled the drapes closed, something I rarely did, preferring the view and not having the need for privacy, at least in the sitting room, while answering her, “I do, and other things.”

“Other things?”

“KY.”

“I thought that was graduate school sex,” she giggled.

“It might help the other way, less chafing,” I explained.

She nodded.

“Come sit in the chair.”

She did while I dashed to the kitchen to wash my hands.

Returning, I knelt in front of her and opened her robe, pulling her ass forward to the edge of the seat. My hands massaged inside her legs, long strokes, ending at her labia, where fingers gently opened them I could see some redness, but nothing definitive to warn me off. “Please tell me if you’re too sore,” I insisted before pressing my tongue high inside her vagina.

“Mmm,” she murmured. “Joe,” she moaned when my tongue passed over her hardening clit.

“Okay?” I asked her.

“Please,” she nodded, and pulled her arms from the robe, bringing her fingers to tease her nipples. I admired her nakedness once again before returning to my task.

She hovered at a high plateau, probably needing a couple minutes to reach completion when the buzzer buzzed. I kissed her wet swollen tissue before standing. “Stay just as you are,” I told her. She grinned.