“Kevin! Kevin Forrester!”
The man who
got out of the car was clearly not Ebony Mars: he was tall, handsome, white,
and, most remarkably, he was calling out Kevin’s name. Brashly exciting on the traffic side,
the man
dashed in front of the on coming cars and bounded across the avenue. Kevin, an
expert at sizing things up from afar, noted the impressive “runner’s lump” that
bounced obscenely from side to side as the man sprinted the last few
yards to the safety of the curb.
“You’re
Kevin Forrester,
right?” the young man said, catching his breath. He gave Kevin a
quizzical stare.
“Yes.
Yes, I am,” answered Kevin.
“I thought
that was you. What the fuck are you doing over here? Don’t you have a party
going on?” He
gestured to the Trianon.
“Ah,
yes.” Flustered, Kevin
extended his hand. “And you are?”
“Dash. Dash Harwood.
Now let’s get out of here before you step on a hypodermic needle.”
“Sure,”
said Kevin.
He put on
his
jacket and slung the heavy back-pack over his shoulder. At a break in the traffic, Dash put
his hand under Kevin’s
elbow – a gesture that struck Kevin as oddly familiar, even solicitous – before
leading him
to the opposite side. Suddenly Kevin remembered where he’d heard the name Dash Harwood
before. It was the curatorial assistants – the Girls from Good Schools, as Kevin called
them – who twittered around him incessantly. Rich, well-connected, and
terrifically ambitious, Dash was the catch of New York society. The Girls
from Good Schools were beside themselves that Peter Merton had his eye on the
fellow as match for his own teenage daughter, a girl who for some reason lost
in family lore, was saddled with the inauspicious name, “Moo.” Kevin recalled
hearing that dash had been absent from the art scene. Apparently he was black.
As
they strode into the marble lobby, Dash turned to Kevin with a smile, “so what were you doing over there? Looked like
you were causing the joint.”
“I
was preparing myself mentally,” said Kevin.
Dash
laughed. “The Biennial isn’t an Olympic diving competition.”
“Actually
it sort of is.”
“Don’t
be silly,” said Dash. “Anyway, you’re a pro. You’re ‘The Man Who Decides
What Art Is!”
Kevin blushed at Dash’s mention of the article just out in Time. It was a profile of him, authored
not by the magazine’s highly respected art critic, Robert Hughes, but some
feature-writing hack who’d exaggerated Kevin’s power and influence with naïve, if
well-intentional zeal. It was a year since Kevin had been appointed Curator of
Contemporary Art at the Merton Museum and only six months since he had been
formally announced as Chief Curator of the Merton Biennial. Yet even with relatively
limited experience in the New York art World, Kevin knew that such exaggerated
could be the kiss of death.
“There
was practically a full-page picture of you in Time,” said Dash. “And a feature article! You’re a star.”
“Yeah, one
that’s about to explode.”
Dash gave the concierge their names. As the man checked them
against his list, Kevin
noticed that his uniform had subtle “period” touches – brocade cloth, wide
cuffs, and gold trim – to match the lobby’s Louis XV décor. The interior of the
elevator, in turn, was modeled on the famous Hall of Mirrors at Versailles,
which made it difficult for Kevin to avoid staring at Dash no matter which way he
looked. The young banker leaned nonchalantly on the golden elevator handrail.
With rakish, jet black hair, a strong Roman nose and intense – some might say
beady – eyes, Dash
bore an uncanny resemblance to the young Christian Bale; Kevin hadn’t
been this close to anyone so sexy in a very long time. He felt the precious tycoon’s eyes
grazing over him
with brazen curiosity. Dash was the kind of person, Kevin decided,
who was so used to having exactly what he wanted that the boundaries between him and
the rest of the world had diminished to the most minimal exercise of desire.
The gap between wanting and having was virtually non-existent. Kevin begins to visualise;
I am hoping this elevator ride will take as long as possible so I get
to continue my visual assault on your sexy body. I quickly moved aside a little
to distribute myself better inside the small space. You turn you head slightly
as you register my movement. I stay behind you though. I want to check out your
ass some more. I stare from the side of my vision. My gaze travels again from
your heels, up your legs, up over your round ass and up to your suit jacket.
You turn you head and look at me. My thoughts are interrupted. I am caught. It
is so obvious what is on my mind. You know exactly what I'm thinking. You look
directly in my eyes for an instant and then turn back to watching the floor
numbers ascend. Your expression is indifferent. For a second I think I see a
hint of a smile at the corner of your mouth, but then nothing. I step towards
you and grab your ass and pull you towards me. I kiss you hard and one of my
hands finds the back of your head. You kiss me back. I'm surprised by the
passion in your kiss. I kiss you back harder. Our tongues find each other and
you tease me with your kisses. I bite and suck on your bottom lip, teasing you
back and you respond by grinding your pussy hard against me. My cock is getting
fucking hard.
I press against you and you push back. I can feel your wet pussy juices soaking the front
of your panties. I push you against the wall and continue kissing you as I pin
both of you hands above your head. I kiss your neck and bite you playfully and
you moan with lust. Your suit jacket is off in an instant and I pull up your shirt
to expose your sexy tits. Your tits is free now and you feel the cold of the air
conditioning on them, which only makes your nipples harder. I keep your hands
pinned above your head and suck your nipples into my mouth one at a time. I
flick my tongue over them, nibbling lightly and teasing you with my teeth. Your
nipples swell and harden between my lips and your moan repeatedly. I pull your shirt
over your head and admire your sexy shoulders and neck.
We kiss and grind
some more. My cock
is granite
hard now
and straining through my pants. My balls are churning. Our lust is escalating fast. I
want to slow down so I can enjoy this, but we don't have much time. I grab your
pinned hands and spin you around and grind against your sexy ass. I trace my cock over the
crack of your ass. I put my arms around you from behind. I'm playing with your
nips with one hand as my other hand moves down between your legs. I tease you
briefly before sliding my hand under and massaging your moist pussy
over your pants. You moan louder. I kiss and bite your neck playfully as I play
with your soft, sexy tits and tease your pussy some more.
I push my mouth
against your ear and tell you all the fucking bad thoughts running through my
mind at this moment…
He caught Dash’s eye and was rewarded
with an easy, generous smile. Kevin glanced at the floor self-consciously. Kevin felt
embarrassed that he
had let himself
slip into that fantasy, sure that Dash would have realised what he was
thinking. So he
was relieved when the elevator pinged and the doors slid open. They stepped
directly into the Desmonds’s cherry wood paneled entrance hall where a modestly
uniformed servant greeted them with a silver tray holding a thick array of dewy
champagne glasses. A maid offered to take Kevin’s backpack but he explained that it was needed
for a presentation and asked where the event would be held. He followed the
woman to a large room that had been cleared of most of its everyday furnishings
with rows of folding chairs set in their place. A portable screen stood in
front of a large and garishly coloured Frank Stella wall relief that extended
around it like a bizarre exploding frame. Gwen, the Director’s heavyset
executive assistant was waiting for Kevin and eyed him disapprovingly. “Donna told me
you’d be here early,” she said. “I’ve been waiting since six.”
“Sorry,
sorry, I was stuck in traffic,” Kevin replied, reaching into his backpack for the
laptop. He
didn’t want to tell her that he had just spent the last five minutes fantasizing
about what Dash
would be doing to him
in the elevator if he had his way.
“Calm
down Gwen, calm down, he’s here now isn’t he and everything’s fine!” Dash said winking at Kevin.
“Fine!”
Gwen exclaimed turning to leave the room, well you have 10 minutes to set up,
everyone’s waiting for you Kevin.
“Thanks
so much. I would have been screwed without you.”
“My
pleasure, Mr.
I-Decide-What-Art-Is.”
“Don’t,”
said Kevin.
“That article was stupid.”
“Are
you kidding?” replied dash. “That article was a fucking gold mine. You should be all
over that shit. It’s cash-in time my boy.”
“I
don’t think you know how nasty the art world can be.”
“You’re
right. I don’t know anything about the art world. Or about art. But I know a
good investment when I see one. Why do you think all these people are here?
Because they love contemporary art? This is big business and, for better or
worse, right this second you are calling the shots. Don’t let this one pass you
by.” Through his little pep talk, Dash maintained a wry grin that accented the
dimples of his
smile. Kevin
studied the way his cheeks hollowed as he spoke, the small movements of the
muscles at the corners of his jaw, and the naked smoothness of the skin
beneath his eyes. He
could smell Dash’s
cologne, which had the earthy, yet opulent scent of the locker room at an
exclusive men’s
club. It was intoxicating.
“Time
to go out there and work the room,” advised Dash. “But let’s start you off
with a drink.”
As they made
their way through the crush of guests towards the bar Kevin felt Dash guiding his elbow with
a light touch just as he had done when they crossed the street, He noticed the
subtle way in which both men and woman cast glances at Dash as he passed. “They either
want to fuck him
or kill him,”
Kevin
thought.
“What’ll
it be?” asked the bartender.
“Champers,”
said Dash,
holding up two fingers. He took the glasses and handed one to Kevin.
“Thank
you,” said Kevin.
“Cheers.” As they toasted, Kevin noticed a red string tied around Dash’s
wrist. “Buddhist?” he asked.
“Kabbalah,” Dash
replied nonchalantly. “Look, there are some folks here I haven’t seen for a
while. Need to catch up. You going to be ok on your own?”
“Of course,” Kevin answered.
“Thanks, really. And nice meeting you.”
Dash smiled
and was gone. “Fuck” Kevin thought to himself, “What a shit way to say goodbye.”
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