American Psycho (27 page)

Both of them are looking at each other as if some secret signal is passing between them, before Sabrina shakes her head and then Christie follows with the same head movement.

The next question I ask, after another long silence, is, “Did either of you go to college, and if so, where?”

The response to this question consists of a barely contained glare from each of them, and so I decide to take this as an opportunity to lead them into the bedroom, where I make Sabrina dance a little before taking off her clothes in front of Christie and me while every halogen bulb in the bedroom burns. I have her put on a Christian Dior lace and charmeuse teddy and then I take off all my clothes—except for a pair of Nike all-sport sneakers—and Christie eventually takes off the Ralph Lauren robe and is buck naked except for an Angela Cummings silk and latex scarf, which I knot carefully around her neck, and suede gloves by Gloria Jose from Bergdorf Goodman that I bought on sale.

Now the three of us are on the futon. Christie is on all fours facing the headboard, her ass raised high in the air, and I’m straddling her back as if I was riding a dog or something, but backward, my knees resting on the mattress, my dick half hard, and I’m facing Sabrina, who is staring into Christie’s spread-open ass with a determined expression. Her smile seems tortured and she’s wetting her own lips by fingering herself and tracing her glistening index finger across them, like she’s applying lip gloss. With both my hands I keep Christie’s ass and cunt spread open and I urge Sabrina to move in closer and sniff them. Sabrina is now face level at Christie’s ass and cunt, both of which I’m fingering lightly. I motion for Sabrina to move her face in even closer until she can smell my fingers which I push into her mouth and which she sucks on hungrily. With my other hand I keep massaging Christie’s tight, wet pussy, which hangs heavy, soaked below her spread, dilated asshole.

“Smell it,” I tell Sabrina and she moves in closer until she’s two inches, an inch, away from Christie’s asshole. My dick is standing straight up now and I keep jerking myself off to keep it that way.

“Lick her cunt first,” I tell Sabrina and with her own fingers she spreads it open and starts lapping at it like a dog while
massaging the clit and then she moves up to Christie’s asshole which she laps at in the same way. Christie’s moans are urgent and uncontrolled and she starts pushing her ass harder into Sabrina’s face, onto Sabrina’s tongue, which Sabrina pushes slowly in and out of Christie’s asshole. While she does this I watch, transfixed, and start rubbing Christie’s clit quickly until she’s humping onto Sabrina’s face and shouts “I’m coming” and while pulling on her own nipples has a long, sustained orgasm. And though she could be faking it I like the way it looks so I don’t slap her or anything.

Tired of balancing myself, I fall off Christie and lie on my back, positioning Sabrina’s face over my stiff, huge cock which I guide into her mouth with my hand, jerking it off while she sucks on the head. I pull Christie toward me and while taking her gloves off start kissing her hard on the mouth, licking inside it, pushing my tongue against hers, past hers, as far down her throat as it will go. She fingers her cunt, which is so wet that her upper thighs look like someone’s slathered something slick and oily all over them. I push Christie down past my waist to help Sabrina suck my cock off and after the two of them take turns licking the head and the shaft, Christie moves to my balls which are aching and swollen, as large as two small plums, and she laps at them before placing her mouth over the entire sac, alternately massaging and lightly sucking the balls, separating them with her tongue. Christie moves her mouth back to the cock Sabrina’s still sucking on and they start kissing each other, hard, on the mouth, right above the head of my dick, drooling saliva onto it and jacking it off. Christie keeps masturbating herself this entire time, working three fingers in her vagina, wetting her clit with her juices, moaning. This turns me on enough to grab her by the waist and swivel her around and position her cunt over my face, which she gladly sits on. Clean and pink and wet and spread, her clit swollen, engorged with blood, her cunt hangs over my head and I push my face into it, tonguing it, craving its flavor, while fingering her asshole. Sabrina is still working on my cock, jacking off the base of it, the rest of it filling her mouth, and now she moves on top of me, her knees resting on either side of my chest, and I tear off her teddy so that her ass and cunt are facing Christie, whose head I force down and order to “lick them, suck on that clit” and she does.

It’s an awkward position for all of us, so this only goes on for maybe two or three minutes, but during this short period Sabrina comes in Christie’s face, while Christie, grinding her cunt hard against my mouth, comes all over mine and I have to steady her thighs and grip them firmly so she won’t break my nose with her humping. I still haven’t come and Sabrina’s doing nothing special to my cock so I pull it out of her mouth and have her sit on it. My cock slides in almost too easily—her cunt is too wet, drenched with her own cunt juice and Christie’s saliva, and there’s no friction—so I take the scarf from around Christie’s neck and pull my cock out of Sabrina’s cunt and, spreading her open, wipe her cunt and my cock off and then try to resume fucking her while I continue to eat out Christie, who I bring to yet another climax within a matter of minutes. The two girls are facing each other—Sabrina’s fucking my cock, Christie’s sitting on my face—and Sabrina leans in to suck and finger Christie’s small, firm, full tits. Then Christie starts French-kissing Sabrina hard on the mouth as I continue to eat her out, my mouth and chin and jaw covered with her juices, which momentarily dry, then are replaced by others.

I push Sabrina off my cock and lay her on her back, her head at the foot of the futon. Then I lay Christie over her, placing the two in a sixty-nine position, with Christie’s ass raised up in the air, and with a surprisingly small amount of Vaseline, after slipping on a condom, finger her tight ass until it relaxes and loosens enough so I can ease my dick into it while Sabrina eats Christie’s cunt out, fingering it, sucking on her swollen clit, sometimes holding on to my balls and squeezing them lightly, teasing my asshole with a moistened finger, and then Christie is leaning into Sabrina’s cunt and she’s roughly spread her legs open as wide as possible and starts digging her tongue into Sabrina’s cunt, but not for long because she’s interrupted by yet another orgasm and she lifts her head up and looks back at me, her face slick with cunt juice, and she cries out “Fuck me I’m coming oh god eat me I’m coming” and this spurs me on to start fucking her ass very hard while Sabrina keeps eating the cunt that hangs over her face, which is covered with Christie’s pussy juice. I pull my cock out of Christie’s ass and force Sabrina to suck on it before I push it back into Christie’s spread cunt and after a couple of minutes of fucking it I start coming and at the same
time Sabrina lifts her mouth off my balls and just before I explode into Christie’s cunt, she spreads my ass cheeks open and forces her tongue up into my asshole which spasms around it and because of this my orgasm prolongs itself and then Sabrina removes her tongue and starts moaning that she’s coming too because after Christie finishes coming she resumes eating Sabrina’s cunt and I watch, hunched over Christie, panting, as Sabrina lifts her hips repeatedly into Christie’s face and then I have to lie back, spent but still hard, my cock, glistening, still aching from the force of my ejaculation, and I close my eyes, my knees weak and shaking.

I awaken only when one of them touches my wrist accidentally. My eyes open and I warn them not to touch the Rolex, which I’ve kept on during this entire time. They lie quietly on either side of me, sometimes touching my chest, once in a while running their hands over the muscles in my abdomen. A half hour later I’m hard again. I stand up and walk over to the armoire, where, next to the nail gun, rests a sharpened coat hanger, a rusty butter knife, matches from the Gotham Bar and Grill and a half-smoked cigar; and turning around, naked, my erection jutting out in front of me, I hold these items out and explain in a hoarse whisper, “We’re not through yet.…” An hour later I will impatiently lead them to the door, both of them dressed and sobbing, bleeding but well paid. Tomorrow Sabrina will have a limp. Christie will probably have a terrible black eye and deep scratches across her buttocks caused by the coat hanger. Bloodstained Kleenex will lie crumpled by the side of the bed along with an empty carton of Italian seasoning salt I picked up at Dean & Deluca.

The colleagues I have to buy presents for include Victor Powell, Paul Owen, David Van Patten, Craig McDermott, Luis Carruthers, Preston Nichols, Connolly O’Brien, Reed Robison,
Scott Montgomery, Ted Madison, Jeff Duvall, Boris Cunningham, Jamie Conway, Hugh Turnball, Frederick Dibble, Todd Hamlin, Muldwyn Butner, Ricky Hendricks and George Carpenter, and though I could have sent Jean to make these purchases today, instead I asked her to sign, stamp and mail three hundred designer Christmas cards with a Mark Kostabi print on them and then I wanted her to find out as much as she could about the Fisher account that Paul Owen is handling. Right now I’m moving down Madison Avenue, after spending close to an hour standing in a daze near the bottom of the staircase at the Ralph Lauren store on Seventy-second, staring at cashmere sweater vests, confused, hungry, and when I finally took hold of my bearings, after failing to get the address of the blond hardbody who worked behind the counter and who was coming on to me, I left the store yelling “
Come
all ye faithful!” Now I scowl at a bum huddled in the doorway of a store called EarKarma and he’s clutching a sign that reads
HUNGRY AND HOMELESS … PLEASE HELP ME, GOD BLESS
and then I find myself moving down Fifth toward Saks, trying to remember if I switched the tapes in my VCR, and suddenly I’m worried that I might be taping
thirtysomething
over
Pamela’s Tight Fuckhole.
A Xanax fails to ward off the panic. Saks intensifies it.

… pens and photo albums, pairs of bookends and lightweight luggage, electric shoe polishers and heated towel stands and silver-plated insulated carafes and portable palm-sized color TVs with earphones, birdhouses and candleholders, place mats, picnic hampers and ice buckets, lace-trimmed oversize linen napkins and umbrellas and sterling silver monogrammed golf tees and charcoal-filter smoke trappers and desk lamps and perfume bottles, jewelry boxes and sweaters and baskets to hold magazines in and storage boxes, office tote bags, desk accessories, scarves, file holders, address books, agendas for handbags …

My priorities before Christmas include the following: (1) to get an eight o’clock reservation on a Friday night at Dorsia with Courtney, (2) to get myself invited to the Trump Christmas party aboard their yacht, (3) to find out as much as humanly possible about Paul Owen’s mysterious Fisher account, (4) to saw a hardbody’s head off and Federal Express it to Robin
Barker—the dumb bastard—over at Salomon Brothers and (5) to apologize to Evelyn without making it look like an apology.
The Patty Winters Show
this morning was about women who married homosexuals and I almost called Courtney up to warn her—as a joke—but then decided against it, deriving a certain amount of satisfaction from imagining Luis Carruthers proposing to her, Courtney shyly accepting, their nightmarish honeymoon. Scowling at another beggar shivering in the misty drizzle at Fifty-seventh and Fifth, I walk up and squeeze his cheek affectionately, then laugh out loud. “His eyes how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!” The Salvation Army choir harmonizes badly on “Joy to the World.” I wave to someone who looks exactly like Duncan McDonald, then duck into Bergdorf’s.

… paisley ties and crystal water pitchers, tumbler sets and office clocks that measure temperature and humidity and barometric pressure, electric calling card address books and margarita glasses, valet stands and sets of dessert plates, correspondence cards and mirrors and shower clocks and aprons and sweaters and gym bags and bottles of champagne and porcelain cachepots and monogrammed bath sheets and foreign-currency-exchange minicalculators and silver-plated address books and paperweights with fish and boxes of fine stationery and bottle openers and compact discs and customized tennis balls and pedometers and coffee mugs …

I check my Rolex while I’m buying scruffing lotion at the Clinique counter, still in Bergdorf’s, to make sure I have enough time to shop some more before I have to meet Tim Severt for drinks at the Princeton Club at seven. I worked out this morning for two hours before the office and though I could have used this time for a massage (since my muscles are sore from the exhausting exercise regimen I’m now on) or a facial, even though I had one yesterday, there are just too many cocktail parties in the upcoming weeks that I
have
to attend and my presence at them will put a crimp in my shopping schedule so it’s best if I get the shopping out of the way now. I run into Bradley Simpson from P & P outside F.A.O. Schwarz and he’s wearing a glen-plaid worsted wool suit with notched lapels by Perry Ellis, a cotton broadcloth shirt by Gitman Brothers, a silk
tie by Savoy, a chronograph with a crocodileskin band by Breil, a cotton raincoat by Paul Smith and a fur felt hat by Paul Stuart. After he says, “Hey Davis,” I inexplicably start listing the names of all eight reindeer, alphabetically, and when I’ve finished, he smiles and says, “Listen, there’s a Christmas party at Nekenieh on the twentieth, see you there?” I smile and assure him I’ll be at Nekenieh on the twentieth and as I walk off, nodding to no one, I call back to him, “Hey asshole, I wanna watch you
die
, mother
fuck-aaahhh
,” and then I start screaming like a banshee, moving across Fifty-eighth, banging my Bottega Veneta briefcase against a wall. Another choir, on Lexington, sings “Hark the Herald Angels” and I tap-dance, moaning, in front of them before I move like a zombie toward Bloomingdale’s, where I rush over to the first tie rack I see and murmur to the young faggot working behind the counter, “Too, too fabulous,” while fondling a silk ascot. He flirts and asks if I’m a model. “I’ll see you in hell,” I tell him, and move on.