It Started as a Joke (All the Presidents' Beds, #1) (2 page)

I recognized a handsome, swarthy gentleman as Alessandro, a legitimate online dating hookup.  Oh, and there was blond Kyle, a regrettable craigslist hookup I had during a stressful time at work when I just needed some release—he must have been excited to come, since I had never contacted him again despite repeated texts and emails.  Ah, and that wonderful old man over there in coveralls and a trucker hat once trapped a family of squirrels who had taken refuge in the crawlspace above my apartment.  A lesbian fling from my time of experimentation, gone full-dyke in a Miami Heat hat and baggy jeans (Oh honey: boys quit wearing baggy jeans before Britney quit acting sane) chatted up my other lesbian fling, who had gone full-glamorous and—holy shit—sexy.  Thus, this motley crew and dozens of other randoms RSVP’d because Sandra probably promised an open bar.

And open it was.  The restaurant—another one of The Mogul’s tenants—had closed down for the night to celebrate me.  And I looked like shit.  When Sandra got a good look at me, she immediately pulled me into the bathroom.

“Girl, you look as bad as Norm,” she said.  (Norm! That was the exterminator-guy’s name.)

“I know.  Things have been busy at work.  I didn’t even remember it was my birthday.  I was going to suggest a cheap bar, but you seemed so gung ho,” I said.  “I didn’t realize how highfalutin this place was, or I probably would have changed before I came.”  My voice sounded desperate.

“Oh honey, I’m so sorry.  It didn’t even cross my mind—this is usually the easy time of year for you—I should have been more considerate.”  And that was why she was my bestie.  She spends a ridiculous amount of money, organizes a massive party, and apologizes for it.  She doesn’t spend all her time screaming at the Pepes of the world.

“It’s ok.  I should have been more assertive,” I collapsed onto her ample bosom.  "Thank you for this, whatever this is.”

“It’s your last year of life.  Once you hit 30, it’s all downhill,” she said.

“You’re 32,” I said.

“Not for me; I have a rich husband who adores me and a fucking hot ass after two kids,” she said.  “For you.”

“Happy birthday to me,” I said.

“I’m just messing with you.  You are perfect, and I know you enjoy being alone,” she said. “But that Alessandro drove up in a Jag and I think he smells of money.”

“Total closet case.  He was the perfect boyfriend until it came time to cum,” I said.  “It was doggy or nothing for him to finish.  And I’ll do anything to please my man, but when you put the cellphone with gay porn on the headboard while ostensibly ramming it in me, that’s a flag on the play.”

“Basketball?”

“Football,” I said.  “I’m nobody’s beard.  Except, perhaps, James Buchanan.”

“James Buchanan?” she replied.  Then, light bulb.  Her face split into an outrageously large smile. “President James Buchanan!

“Was it at this restaurant?” she asked. “Is that what made you remember that?  That was over a year ago.  The Mogul wasn’t even a mogul then, just The Little Bump.”

“Ha, Little Bump, tiny mogul,” I said.  “Let’s go back out there; The Mogul’s money won’t spend itself.  Come by my place tomorrow after you drop the kids off at daycare; I’ll talk to you then.”

Sandra spent the next hour practically smothering The Mogul in their booth.  He had a permagrin painted on his handsome face, probably due to the fact that Sandra was giving him a handy through his pants pocket.  He liked that kind of thing: gracefully toeing the line of decency and depravity, forever maintaining the façade of The Mogul while keeping his trench coat on over his suit so Sandra’s magic hands wouldn’t become a piece of communal knowledge.  Sandra knew where her bread was buttered, and she’s at least as clever as I am: when I met her as an undergrad, she was regarded as the rockstar PhD candidate in particle physics that was going to push the university to the top of the bullshit college rankings. 

She gave up the glamorous life of a researcher for the well-appointed mansion and perfectly-coiffed hair of The Mogul.  Since she left school, I’ve never seen a tear in her eye that I’m not responsible for (either inadvertently or not); in fact, her formerly prominent scowl lines have completely disappeared, and she does have a rocking ass, as she previously mentioned.  Maybe if I’d taken her advice, my surprise party would have been less full of online hookups and more full of, well, real friends. 

And maybe that’s what is driving this mission: I have frown lines, scowl lines, and Sandra’s seen me cry more often than a handful of times.  Whenever I catch a glimpse of Old-Alice, she looks like an older version of the I that inhabits my imagination.  And that sucks.  If I’m not going to settle down and have a family, I sure as shit better do something awesome.

While Sandra had her illicit manual sex in the booth, I traversed the minefield of former flings.  Smiles and nods, mispronounced names, and drunken attempts to kiss the birthday girl kept me moving.

If not for all the damn people, it would have been a hell of a party.  Sandra, of course, picked the perfect restaurant.  It looked as though the dining area had been cleared of half its tables to allow for maximum mingling (Sandra’s work, surely).  The lights were set to that elusively perfect dimness where every blemish is hidden and even the weakest cheekbones stand out.  The waiters glided silently with trays of hors d'oeuvres, picking up every discarded glass, ensuring not a single napkin was out of place.  They wore the standard white button-down shirts and black slacks with aprons, but each also had a brightly-colored neckerchief.  Those neckerchiefs did a good job of allowing the waiters to stand out, and they were an odd enough feature that there was no risk of someone showing up to the party in a white button-down and black slacks and being mistaken for a server like in so many terrible romantic comedies. 

The bar stood opposite the doors, a deep mahogany that reminded me of Al Capone.  Its shelves overflowed with bottles of every shape and size, but I could tell whoever set it up had done so with a great amount of care.  Deep blue bottles flanked by reds, tall bottles cascading down to short ones.  If I were a bartender there, I’d be frustrated that nothing was logical.  There was no area where they kept gin; everything was aesthetics, with form surpassing function.  I stared at those bottles for way too long, and in my reverie a former fling found me. 

Kyle, handsome as ever, was as enthusiastic and dumb as a golden retriever. 

“How’ve you been?!  I haven’t seen you in sooooo long,” he said.  His smile was so broad it crinkled the corners of his eyes in a not-unsexy, Clooneyesque fashion. 

“Oh, I’ve been fine.  Thanks for coming.  My friend Sandra seemed to think hookups were fair game for momentous occasions, but whatever,” I said, wondering if he’d get the hint.

“Totally.  I was chatting before, and I can tell that some of these guys totally don’t even know you,” he replied.  Hint: not gotten.

“Well, there are a lot of randoms to get to, so have fun.  Drink lots; sober cabs are courtesy of The Mogul,” I said.

“The Mogul?”

“The dude over there getting a handy from the hot Asian chick.”

As his eyes drifted over, I made my escape.  Two steps around the corner of the bar and I was free from him.  I attempted to get the bartender’s attention.  Instead, I got Alessandro’s.

“Hello Alice.  You are looking ravishing,” Alessandro lied.

“Ravishing is a bit of an overstatement, wouldn’t you think?” I replied.  The tardy bartender, realizing I was the birthday girl, thrust a Long Island tea into my hand.

“Fine, you look like you just came from work without changing your clothes or showering.  But it was a surprise party, so what should I have expected.  I was merely complimenting you on how you would have looked, had you been armed with both the foreknowledge of the event and a reasonably good time machine,” he said.

I choked.  Long Island down the wrong pipe or time machine reference startling me? One? The other? Both? Probably both.

Alessandro held my shoulders gently and patted my back as I coughed. 

“I apologize.  I didn’t think such an offhand compliment would affect you so,” he smiled. 

“Perfectly alright.  How’ve you been?” I said.  And I actually cared. 

If Alessandro weren’t so deep in the closet that he was dancing with Mr. Tumnus and eating Turkish Delights with the White Queen, he would have been exactly my type.  Suave, handsome, full of vigor and genuine concern for his fellow man; he was one of those people who were interested in all of the things we lie about being interested in: theater, the arts, opera.  But he was also the kind of person who would, if his girlfriend (read: me (read read: should be a boyfriend)) asked, would gladly give up his tickets for an event if she/I/he wanted to stay in and watch the final voting for a particularly trashy American TV show about a person who is not married trying to give a particularly beautiful flower to a person who is also not married and who has been whittled down from a group of a couple dozen other unmarried persons. 

Shit, is that clear enough? 

He gave up tickets to the final night of the Royal Shakespeare Company’s once-a-decade tour of
Twelfth Night
(incidentally his favorite play, and the one where the Duke develops feelings for his ostensibly male errand-boy) to sit down in PJs and watch a shitty reality show that we just as easily could have DVRed. 

“Pining for you, my dear, forever and always.  That, and I’ve taken up sculpting,” he said.

“I have an art opening at that gallery we once visited.  The one where you said everything looked like vaginas,” he whispered the word “vagina.”

“It was an exhibit called ‘Caverns of Lesbos,’ which I think was a pretty good clue that they were VAGINAS,” I said, raising my voice on the word “vagina.”

“Where you saw them, I saw actual caverns.  Different people, different interpretations.  I would love it if you’d come to my show,” he said.

“That sounds grand.  Do you have a flier or something?” I said.

His hand moved towards the inside pocket of his suit jacket then stopped.  “You know, I must have forgotten them at home.  I can always send you one,” he leaned in, “or we could go get one right now.”

And I don’t know if it was my impending trip through time or my love of his smell or my dread at talking to these people for the rest of the night, but I agreed. 

He pulled his jacket off the stool next to him and walked towards the door.  As I followed him, I looked in Sandra’s direction and mouthed “I’m leaving, ok?”

She pulled her right hand from out under the table and waved at me, smiling.  The Mogul’s face, which had looked placid while staring at the screen of his phone, turned noticeably grumpy when Sandra’s hand came out.  He followed her wave, looked at me.  I smiled, made the universal high school jackoff sign, mouthed “Thank you,” and then gave him a thumbs-up.  He laughed as Sandra’s hand went back down into his pants.

The valet pulled Alessandro’s car to the door.  An October crispness was holding the warm ocean air hostage, so Alessandro had put his jacket over my shoulders.  He held the door for me, closed it, then walked around to the driver’s side, slyly handing the valet the $10 I’d seen him remove from his money clip as we’d waited for the car.  I put my hand in his jacket pocket and pulled out a card.

As he entered the car, I studied the card.  It was, of course, the announcement for his exhibition.

“They’re at home, right?” I asked.

“How did that get there,” he smiled.  “But since we’re already in the car, what do you say go to my place anyway.  I could tell that you didn’t want to be in there.”

“You’re perceptive.  Was it my scowl, my sighs, or the fact that I seized upon your flimsy excuse to leave?”

“All of those.  That, and you looked hot and I wanted to fuck you tonight,” he whispered, and lightly brushed my neck with his fingertips.

Gay or not, the guy knew how to get me wet.  “That’s fine, but we’re going to my place.  I want to shower first; I like my shower; and it’s closer.”

As I unlocked my door, Alessandro gave my ass a gentle squeeze, and then punctuated it with a sharp one.  I yelped. 

“Did I hurt you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied.

“Good.”

Entering the apartment, I realized that I hadn’t given it a deep clean in at least two months.  Sure, to the untrained (read: straight male) eye, it looked fine.  But, Alessandro was not that untrained eye.  His nose crinkled at the smell of unscrubbed floors and dirty laundry.  His eyes surveyed the crumb-covered counters in the kitchen, the magazines piled haphazardly, and I could tell he was judging me.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I said.  “I’m heading to the shower.”

“Do you need someone to scrub your back?” he asked.  Subtle.

“I have a loofah on a stick; I think I’ll be ok.  While I’m gone, pull up your website on my computer.  I’d love to see a preview of your work before your exhibition.”  I walked into the bedroom to grab my towel.

My kitchen shares a wall with the bathroom, which is opposite the bedroom.  The living room, where Alessandro sat at the computer, is open to the kitchen, so Alessandro would be able to see me walk in a towel from my bedroom to the bathroom if he so desired.  I grabbed one of my smaller towels and wrapped it high enough above my breasts so that the bottom of my ass would just peek out from under the towel.  While I liked to pretend I was sure that he was gay, there was always that part that hoped I was wrong.  If he were straight, he’d be perfect.  If he were straight, there’d be no fucking presidents.  If he were straight...

I glided out from the bedroom to the bathroom, and, just as I expected, Alessandro was paying attention to the computer rather than looking to catch a glimpse of me in a towel.  Another implicit confirmation of his sexuality.

After I’d showered, I put my towel back on (this time wrapped at a more reasonable, less revealing level).  As I exited the steamy bathroom, I noticed Alessandro quickly close a window.  His face turned to me in an extra-wide smile, and his eyes were opened larger than normal.  What was he hiding?

“I was just checking my fantasy team,” he lied.  “You are looking very sexy in that towel.  Come, sit on my lap and we will look at my pieces.”