Private Relations (6 page)

But that didn’t change one thing: Bobby had no right to do what he did.

“Like I said, let’s get back to the office. We can talk about our past
 
indiscretions another time.”

“Indiscretions?” Bobby said. “Is that what I was to you?”

Ignoring his question, I asked for the check and began gathering my things. He reached out, grabbed my arm. Answer the question, he said. He deserved to know.

“This is hardly the time or the place,” I said. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Why can’t you just give me a straight answer?”

“Because if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past ten years, it’s that I’m better at dealing with other people’s baggage than I am at dealing with my own.”

Chapter 11

I returned to Victory & Associates alone.

I sat alone at my desk, staring blankly at my computer screen.
I should have been writing Kurt a memo, an email -- some sort of record of what I’d done in my afternoon alone with Bobby. And yet, the words just wouldn’t come. I looked around, saw the rest of the staff talking or typing or nursing cups of coffee as they monitored for client coverage on one of our many television screens.

I could always ask for their help. After all, they were the ones who would really be helping Bobby through the process of salvaging the Academy’s reputation in the court of public opinion. I was a researcher of facts, an interviewer of persons of interest. Yes, I could draft press releases, pitch reporters, conduct media audits and help the more experienced staff with broader strategy -- but I wasn’t truly one of them.

They were white-collar professionals; I was a whore in sheep’s clothing.

I got up from my desk, walked into Kurt’s office. He wasn’t there, of course, but I made myself at home anyway. The last time we’d been in there alone, he’d all but offered me a full-time position at the firm.

Was I a fool not to accept?

Suddenly, Kurt opened the door and walked inside. As usual, he was talking on his cell -- though he gave me a cursory nod before settling down at his desk. I took out my iPad, typed a few talking points into a document. When Kurt ended his call, he leaned back and told me to give him the full download on what I’d learned thus far.

“We have a problem,” I said. “Our little teacher-student sex scandal is far more personal to Bobby than he let on.”

“Is it?”

“The boy who slept with his teacher? It’s his nephew, Drake.”

“Shit…”

“I still think there’s a chance we can salvage this. First things first, though: We need to draft a statement to the school community itself, preferably
after
we meet with the Board of Trustees and have them media trained.”

“If the student in question is Bobby’s nephew,” Kurt said, “then he’s going to have to remove himself from the investigation. Take a leave of absence from his position as principal.”

“I agree.” I reached forward, took a notepad and pen off his desk. “Still, we need to be careful. Drake has a right to privacy, and if Bobby announces he’s taking a leave of absence right after addressing this situation, people could get suspicious.”

“We can’t reveal Drake as the student.”

“Exactly.”

It was a complicated situation, one that had even Kurt perplexed. Much to my disappointment, he didn’t seem to think that turning down the business was a reasonable course of action -- even if it would make my life a lot easier. I sat before him, squirming slightly in my chair. I didn’t like lying to him. Or if not lying, then not letting him know the truth.

Bobby and I had a history.

It could cloud my judgment.

What if I let my emotions get in the way?

“What do you think of all this?” Kurt asked, shaking me out of my inner reflection. “I know it’s been a while since you were a student, but how do you think the community will react?”

“Shock,” I said. “Pure and simple. New Hope Academy is a small, insular community that prides itself on cultivating the best and brightest young minds in the region. The idea that a teacher would cross that line with a student is…”

“Terrible.”

“That about does it. But that’s what we’re here for, isn’t it? Fixing people’s problems so they don’t have to.”

Kurt smiled, the kind of brilliant grin that could sell anything from toothpaste to sports cars. He’d been married for close to five years now, to a beautiful woman named Alexandra who was a successful artist and children’s illustrator. Beautiful couple, rewards careers -- and a stunning three-bedroom apartment in Park Slope to boot.

Deep down, I couldn’t deny that he had the kind of life I envied. I used to think that in an ideal world, I could grow up to be just like him.

“Is there something you’re not telling me?” Kurt asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Whenever you get a new client, you’re usually talking a mile a minute. This time, you’re awfully quiet.”

“Is that a bad thing?”

“For you? Yes.”

“I have a lot on my mind these days,” I said, which wasn’t a complete lie. “The holidays, you guys -- my other work.”

“Are you
ever
going to tell me about this other job of yours? I’d really like to know who gets the rest of your time.”

“I would never work for one of your competitors behind your back,” I said. “You know that.”

“As long as you aren’t trafficking drugs across the border, I suppose we won’t have anything to worry about.”

I desperately wanted to tell Kurt the truth. Just as I’d revealed my true identity to Bianca, I felt an overwhelming need to tell Kurt who I was outside of his office. That when the sun went down on Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights, I was no longer Jesse. I became Matthew: a high-priced escort for any woman or couple that could afford my services.

Oh, the adventures I could share. Accompanying an Upper East Side divorcee to the Opera, only to have sex in the limo on the way to the Met. Or the time when one particularly adventurous woman
 
wanted me to pretend to break into her apartment in Gramercy Park, only to be “captured” and forced to pleasure her all night long less she call the police.

And then there were the women who read
Fifty Shades of Grey
one too many times, and wanted nothing more than to put them over my knee and spank their asses until they were bright red.

“I’m a male escort,” I said. “That’s my other job.”

“Come again?”

“If they’re lucky. I’ve been doing it since college.”

“You… what?”

“I like sex, and I like money. I figure I should do this now while I still can. And I don’t think you’d be surprised to learn that many times, I rather enjoy it.”

Kurt stared at me in disbelief, then started laughing. It was a deep, throaty laugh that came up from his stomach and shook his shoulders as it exited his mouth. His face turned bright red and tears glistened in the corners of his eyes.

“Something funny?” I asked.

“You really had me!” he said. “You might be in the wrong career, my friend. For a minute there you were so convincing I actually believed you.”

“But…”

Kurt continued to laugh, convinced that I’d been making a joke. And soon, I began to laugh as well. There I was, trying to come clean to one of the people I respect most, and it’d turned into a comedy routine.

“I have to run to a meeting,” Kurt added. “But we’ll catch up first thing tomorrow morning, all right?”

“I’ll be in a bit later,” I said. “I trust you already have the team working on a battle plan for the Academy?”

“Yes, of course.” Kurt paused, his mouth spreading into a grin. “Don’t let me keep you from your night job.”

“As a matter of fact, I have a client event to go to later tonight,” I said, my tone dripping with sarcasm. Little did Kurt know, I was actually telling the truth.

Chapter 12

Rich people
loved
orgies.

The limousine pulled up to the mansion on East Eighty-Fourth Street between Fifth and Madison. A stone’s throw away from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, the mansion was part of Manhattan’s spectacular Museum Mile, a collection of meticulously maintained homes dating back to the early 1900s, if not earlier.

I got out of the limousine and walked to the front door. A uniformed guard stood at the entrance, but as soon as I gave him the password --
Libre
-- I walked right inside.

Patrons sipped champagne beneath the soaring white columns of the foyer. Others disappeared hand-in-hand up the spiraling staircase, kissing and caressing along the way. I walked to the open bar, got myself a glass of champagne.

Of all the places in the world, an orgy is where I felt most at home.

My dear friend Autumn was the organizer behind the event. A former escort herself, she decided that she preferred being a “madam” and taking a cut of her girls’ earnings. She eventually segued into what she called event planning -- that is, planning a series of sexual soirees for Manhattan’s elite.

She’d been the one who introduced me the world of sex work back when we were undergrads at NYU. Suffice to say, we still managed to keep in touch.

I finished my champagne and took in the scene. A bit of drinking, a bit of sex, and an opportunity to meet a new group of people. What could be better?

A second glass of champagne followed. I made my way upstairs, passing through the dimly-lit corridors into the ballroom. Here is where things were really starting to heat up. Couples lay on the sofa, lost in a sea of kisses. Clothing was removed one article at a time, until bare hands caressed the naked flesh beneath.

My cock stiffened in my pants as I watched. Something about watching people together satisfied the voyeur in me -- and thanks to the alcohol, I was quickly getting in the mood for sex myself.

“I was hoping you’d show up, Jesse.”

I recognized her touch, her perfume. Her nails grazed down my back before she cupped my ass in her palm, squeezing just enough to make me arch my back in delight. I turned around, saw none other than Autumn herself standing before me.

“There you are…” I kissed her cheek, let my hand cup the small of her back. “It’s been a while.”

“I should say the same to you. Where the hell have you been these days?”

Autumn had been working as a call girl for nearly two years when we first met in an English lit class, where I couldn’t help but notice she always had large amounts of cash in her purse. We got to know one another, and eventually, ended up sleeping together a few weeks later. Only then did she reveal what she did for a living, and her true ambition upon graduating college.

She didn’t want to be a whore forever. Eventually, she wanted to become a
madam
, one that sold sex on behalf of others and took a percentage of her girls’ earnings. Some might call her a pimp, but mostly, she thought of herself as an entrepreneur.

“I’ve been busy,” I said. “But I wouldn’t miss your party for the world.”

She linked her arm into mine and led me across the ballroom floor. Diamonds dangled from her earlobes, and her curled brown hair was soft to the touch. I couldn’t help running my fingers through those it -- even if she swatted my hand away.

“Don’t touch the hair,” she said. “Men have no idea how long it takes for a woman to look this good.”

“Sorry, dear.”

“It’s okay. I’m glad you made it. This is my third time planning this thing. At the end of the night, I’m looking at making a cool twenty grand.”

“Wow.” I paused, took in just how successful Autumn had become since we’d finished college. “So, what? You hire your girls to have sex with the Upper East Side’s rich and powerful?”

“Basically. Part orgy, part match-making service. All I know is at the end of the night, I walk away much, much richer.”

I admired Autumn’s entrepreneurial spirit. Like me, she’d come from modest roots. A New York City native, she was born to Russian immigrant parents in a cramped two-bedroom apartment with holes in the wall and heat that barely kept the place above freezing in the winter.

Like me, she’d used her intelligence to gain admissions to a prestigious private school and then matriculated to NYU. There, at the Stern School of Business, she’d studied finance and international business, though her dreams of working at an investment bank were dashed when the recession hit.

And so she stayed in escorting, and according to her, got to meet plenty of bankers (as clients) along the way.

“Don’t let me keep you. Go on, enjoy yourself.” She gestured at an attractive woman standing alone near the staircase leading up to the third floor. Normally, I’d have approached her, guided her up to what I knew where a warren of bedrooms on the third floor that could host more intimate activities.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, “but I was hoping to see you, Autumn.”

“Is that a fact?”

“Come upstairs with me. For old time’s sake?”

“I’m working tonight.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time we mixed business and pleasure, now would it?”

“Besides, I think there’s someone else that has his eye on you this evening.” Autumn turned me around, told me to look at the gentleman off by the fireplace. His eyes zeroing in on me as if I were prey in the wild. This man wasn’t a stranger. In fact, I’d already disrobed in front of him once already. He knew exactly what I was like in bed, because he’d watched me fuck his wife for his own voyeuristic pleasure.

“Excuse me a moment,” I told Autumn. “I need to have a word with Eric.”

“You know him?”

“He’s my high school sweetheart’s gay husband.”

*
    
*
    
*

“You know, the fifth floor is reserved for gay men. Plenty of college-aged rent boys for you to play with.”

“Just shut the hell up and walk me through this place?”

Eric showed up honestly wanting to have a good time. A member of the Upper East Side’s elite himself, he said he’d heard of Autumn’s parties for years, but assumed they were nothing more than urban myths. Eventually, a colleague at his bank finally told him that yes, there were in fact orgies in the Upper East Side, and one in particular that catered to every taste and sexual preference.

“This is the fourth floor,” I said, as we walked through the dimly lit hallway of open and shut bedroom doors. “Swingers and bisexuals, mostly. Mostly male-male-female pairings, though a few female-male-female ones as well.”

“So what, the men take turns fucking her before doing each other?”

“If that’s what all parties agree too,” I explained. “This kind of thing takes some level of coordination beforehand.”

“I see…”

Some couples, exhibitionists that they were, kept the bedrooms door open while they had sex. I leaned against the wall, peered through an open door and watched as a skinny blonde took two men at once: one in her pussy, the other in her mouth. They pounded her at a feverish pace, until they both came one after the other.

Another open door, another kinky scene. A man knelt naked on all fours as a leather-clad dominatrix brought a leather strap across his red ass. He cried out, face red and eyes stinging with tears. Yet at no point did he tell her stop. When she took out the glass dildo, I decided it was time to leave.

“You don’t need me to guide you through this place,” I said to Eric, who looked as if he’d just witnessed a murder. “You just walk through the house, find an open door, ask to join in.”

“It’s really that simple?” he asked.

“There’s no judgment here. For one night a year, everyone gets to take off their masks and reveal all their kinks to a group of like-minded depraved individuals. That’s that beauty of orgies -- all fucking, no judging.”

“This isn’t your first, I take it?”

“I’ve been coming -- no pun intended -- for around three years or so.”

“Interesting…”

By the time we made our way across the hall, the only thing that remained was another staircase to the fifth floor. Oddly enough, I felt an almost brotherly affinity for Eric, if for no other reason than I wanted to see him get laid. How miserable must he be, trapped in a marriage to a woman that, as a gay man, he couldn’t possibly love? Yes, he probably cared for her -- but when it came down to sex, he needed another man. Simple as that. And tonight, in a mansion of carnal delights, he finally had his chance.

“Everything you need is right up these stairs,” I said. “Remember what I told you: Have a look around, see what’s going on, then ask if you can join in. Everyone is cool here, trust me.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re a professional.”

“Point taken.” I paused, wondered if I needed to remind him to use protection. “Look, not to sound like an after-school special or anything, but there are condoms in each bedroom. Help yourself.”

“I’m not sixteen, Jesse.”

“Just take it as a piece of advice from someone who’s been fucking for cash since he was twenty years old.”

Eric’s eyes wandered to the staircase, zeroing in on a few handsome men that were heading upstairs themselves. Though I wasn’t psychic, I had a vague idea as to what was going through his mind at the moment. Whether he was a top or bottom was largely inconsequential.
    

The poor man just needed to get laid.

He took a few steps up the stairs, then turned around one last time. “Vanessa’s here, Jesse. She’s probably in the basement.”

“The wine cellar? Or the pool?”

“One or the other,” Eric said. “Find her. Stay with her. I saw the way you looked at her back at the W Hotel. You look at her the way a husband should.”

“But she’s not mine,” I said. “She’s yours. Even if you don’t
really
love her.”

Eric didn’t have a response. Instead, he turned his back and continued on upstairs, where he would probably have sex with one or more men until he’d tapped himself out for good. Perhaps he’d linger until dawn, when management would eventually throw people out.

As for me? I had more important matters to tend to.

Vanessa was here. And I needed to find her before another man laid even one finger on her body.