Authors: Astrid Lee Donovan
Jack DiStefano sat at the bar of the Omni, nursing the same glass of scotch he had been sipping on for the past forty-five minutes. Even though he didn’t have to be in Newport for the auction until that Sunday, he wanted to plan his trip accordingly. He had been coming to Providence once or twice a year for over twenty years now—ever since the collapse of his marriage—and had long since fallen in love with the charms of the waterfront city; the vibrant artistic culture, the scent of the fires burning across Waterplace Park in August, the very electricity and spirit that haunted the streets year-round captivated him, rejuvenating him. He forgot he was 57 years old the minute the taxi parked in front of the Omni. Each year, he felt the pull of the small but bustling downtown area seeping its way into his veins. He promised himself that soon, he’d move operations from Miami to downtown Providence. Who needed all the gaudy and transparent glitz and shallowness of South Beach when these streets were haunted by a spirit that made him feel so goddamned alive? Manhattan and Miami both bowed to the narcissist in him, placating a rich, middle-aged man’s ego; but Providence was where he could feel anonymous and reborn again.
Jack’s bread and butter was in real estate development, but his passion was for art collecting; and Newport hosted some of the finest private collections in the country. These were reserved collections, for serious bidders; and Jack had his eyes on a few Francis Bacon canvases to round out his collection. He considered himself a Bacon fanatic, his eyes tuned in like magnets to the strange visceral contortions of the figures and the stark, primal savagery of the colors. It was a collection that few of his colleagues understood, other than as a passive name to be dropped to appear more cutting-edge than other dilettante collectors. But Jack was deadly serious about his love for Bacon. Original canvases took up prominent display in the Gramercy Park condo where he lived the six months of the year he wasn’t scouting, developing and prospecting from his Miami operations.
It was Thursday night, and Jack had already noticed that two attractive young women were attempting to appear coy gazing in his direction from the other end of the bar for the better part of half an hour. One, a short but heavily made-up redhead, made no small notice of the act of licking her lips seductively each time she took a sip of her martini; while the other, bedecked with a wild mane of teased hair, strategically leaned over her drink from time to time, displaying ample cleavage for the eyes of glazed over salesmen and investment managers milling about the dimly lit room.
Escorts
, he thought, chuckling to himself at the thought that this was, after all, still semi-Puritan New England.
But what’s the harm? Let’s play their game. Might be good for a laugh.
The truth is, neither girl was an escort but two slightly drunk and very attention-seeking young ladies who were simply in town to catch a concert. Jack, despite his age, had a certain effect on women—particularly
younger
women—that had little to do with his wealth. Vast though it might be, Jack never felt the need to publicize or flaunt himself ostentatiously. He liked simplicity in all of his dealings. Transparency. Still, there was something of an aristocrat in him, with his refined but subtle mannerisms and calm, methodical air. So if it wasn’t his wealth—or his lack of any notoriety whatsoever (Jack abhorred both the limelight as well as his colleagues in real estate who regularly sought to appoint themselves visible public figures and spokespeople for the industry)—then, what was it? His looks?
It was true that Jack looked 10 years younger than his age, but handsome wasn’t exactly the most adequate word. Striking may have been a bit more accurate, with his long, aquiline nose and penetrating, deeply sunken eyes. He was in fantastic shape, owing to a strictly adhered to regimen of yoga and martial arts; but the lines of age had begun to show on his narrow face ever so slightly, ultimately giving him a distinguished look. His tersely clamped mouth, a mouth that in its shaped suggested both cruelty and commandment, still maintained its vigor and from it sprung a rich and deeply precise voice without any trace of an accent; a voice that intimidated all who heard it with its suggestion of authority.
No, what Jack possessed was a vital and inextinguishable spark -an inner essence, one eternally hungry and forever insatiable. And in spite of—or perhaps because of—years of lovers across several continents, years of experiences, wealth and insight that made him seem more like he was not born of this age, Jack was perpetually jaded, bored and eventually… exhausted.
Jack commandeered his way past the two younger women, drink in hand, to the restroom to freshen himself up. He could hear their nervous giggling as he walked past and thought to himself,
maybe they’re just playing around. Trying to lead what they presume to be a dirty old man on. Hoping to get a few drinks and a bite to eat out of me.
Still, Jack had nothing but time for younger women. And the same was true for them, he realized. While he knew that not every younger woman were possessed of the inverse Oedipal complex, he knew that there was a great deal more women looking for a father figure role in their partner and he relished in that fact. Until, of course… things got a little too serious.
He left his drink at the bar upon his return, and signaled to the bartender that he was stepping outside for fresh air and would return shortly. Truth was, he was stepping outside to have a cigarette and knew that the hotel generally viewed that as being the absolute hallmark of a clueless out-of-towner. Jack had quit the habit several times before over the past 20 years, but always came back to it. An old friend, he likened it to.
After discreetly stepping into the rear parking lot to look less ostentatious, he took a quick look around and lit up. Immediately behind him was the short redhead. He had always had a soft spot for “painted women,” and the redhead certainly matched that description. Her eyeliner was thick and severe, and the unearthly maroon of her lipstick was insistent even under the pale parking lot lights.
“Mind if I join you?” Her voice, husky and slurring, seemed to congeal in his ears.
By god
, Jack thought to himself after taking a good look at her close up.
She can’t be older than 24. Too young, but… no, she’s still too young.
“Not at all,” he replied, offering her a fresh cigarette from his pack. “Although I should warn you, it’s a disgusting habit to get started with.”
“We all need some kind of vice in our lives, don’t we?” Her voice attempted to sound far more seductive than it actually was, and Jack was amused. He decided to play along.
“Well, you know what they say… virtue can be faked. Depravity is real.” He peered at her, wondering if she’d be able to catch the reference. She didn’t. “Actually, no sensible person says that. Klaus Kinski did.”
“Who?”
Jack chuckled, continuing with an almost condescending air. “Perhaps it’s not that important. What are you and your friend doing at the Omni, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“We just came in town to see a show and wanted to find someplace to have a drink a bit more classier than some of the other places. See maybe if we could meet someone a little more interesting…”
“I’m afraid I might not fit that bill. I’m old enough to be your father—or grandfather, in some cases…”
“What makes you think age is anything more than—”
“A number?” Jack’s voice sounded quizzical, in fact almost reproachful. “When you get to be my age, numbers mean more than anything else.”
The young redhead narrowed her eyes, cooing in a low, almost comically sultry voice, “Well, let’s see if you can guess what number I’m thinking of, shall we?”
When the exchange first began, Jack may have been amused; but now he was merely bored. He paused for a second, smirked and replied without skipping a beat. “I frankly don’t care. But I’m thinking of two numbers, myself. 10—as in, I’d prefer to spend no longer than 10 minutes speaking with the likes of you. And 20—because that’s probably the amount of brain cells you still have in that self-absorbed head of yours. Have a good evening, you two!”
And with that, Jack extinguished his cigarette and turned around on his heels with no flourish other than a roll of his eyes, leaving the young woman cursing him in a screeching voice as he made his way up through the bar and lobby and to the elevator.
Laura and Gloria found themselves in the lobby of the Omni checking in the following morning at 8 a.m. Laura was none too pleased; a major overnight thunderstorm had delayed their flight for several hours, which meant staying in Philadelphia International’s waiting lobby overnight with the likes of Gloria, whose ability to find fault with the slightest inconvenience resulted in a biblical litany of accusations and complaints. As she continued chattering into the wee hours of dawn, Laura wondered how this woman—who in both height and girth resembled and out-of-shape NFL quarterback—could have maintained a marriage for over twenty years.
As a result of Gloria’s nonstop harangues to virtually no one in particular during their sequester, Laura had about three hours of sleep in total and was looking forward to catching a few hours of a cat nap before attending the afternoon’s workshop. Gloria was, however, rambling effusively about everything from the anticipated menu during that evening’s introductory speech to the additional amenities offered by the hotel. All to the amusement of Jack DiStefano, who had taken notice of the incongruous pair as he walked into the elevator with them. He was struck by the dichotomy—one much younger, incomparably pretty (if bleary eyed) woman trying desperately to block out the inanities provided by an older, more gargantuan sized ignoramus seemingly oblivious to the unease of her younger charge. Both bemusement, and pity; he wondered if this was the average sort of behavior expected in junior-level corporate environments. It wasn’t something he certainly experienced over the course of his thirty-odd year career; but then again, he had left the rat race at the age of 26 to become an entrepreneur, and hadn’t looked back since. He tried to make eye contact with the harried looking Laura, to transmit the slightest shred of sympathy, but it was obvious that she was in no state to even acknowledge his presence. Gloria, on the other hand, was giving him a look that indicated that at any given moment she was prepared to devour him alive. Jack gritted his teeth and smiled ahead. Both ladies got off with their luggage at the 9th floor without saying a word.
It had been a habit of Jack’s to wake early, even on his days off, to go running in the early dawn. It never failed to amaze passersby that this older man could run upwards of three miles without seeming to break a sweat. It never ceased to amaze Jack knowing that he could do so while still being a regular smoker for over thirty years (although for the past few, he had narrowed it down to no more than four a day.) Yet Jack wasn’t simply running to stay in shape. It was his way of exercising—and exorcising—his own considerable energies. There was inner neutrality that had evaded him all these years, and he often felt as if he was chasing it well past his twilight. He would be turning 60 soon, and knew he could have easily retired in absolute comfort and leisure years ago; but he also knew that to do so would be to fulfill an absolute lie. He knew that something was compelling him, something much greater than he could comprehend; but he also knew that whatever it was could easily devour him whole if he didn’t keep himself occupied. So he continued with the charade of acquisitions, of endless prospecting, of wheeling and dealing, of three-martini lunches, of fake smiles and even more fake similes. He knew he was at an age where personal reinvention was out of the question; so he turned his energies to the only pass time that gave order to the endless frenzy of his day-to-day operations—collecting.
He began to wonder sometimes if he viewed his objects in more human terms than he viewed people themselves. After all, an object could increase or depreciate in value given the whims and turns of the market; but they remained at heart, loyal. Tangible. Inert, but stable. They neither disappointed nor did attempt to ascribe to themselves anything greater than what they actually were. How many people could he say that about?
Jack slid the card into the lock of his 10th floor room and shuffled inside, slightly out of breath. He switched on the news as he undid his running shoes. He didn’t necessarily want to catch up with the rest of the world while he was away from work, but the bubbly and blissfully vacant chatter of the local news anchors helped drown out his thoughts. He lay back on the bed and, though regretting it, casually reviewed the emails on his iPhone. Anything work-related, he marked as “read,” closed his eyes and let the drone of the talking heads lull him into memory.
It had been almost two years since Jack had last been in any sort of long-term relationship. His own appetites matched his ambitions; a ravenous and inexorable need to devour, to consume, to contort, stretch and ultimately surpass the boundaries of his lovers until they were able to meet his boundless energies. The problem was that very few did. Jack’s sex drive was practically legendary, and very few women—if any—were able to meet his demands in the long run, no matter how youthful or seemingly accommodating. Most were simply too enchanted by the surface of Jack’s world—his looks, his empire, the very novelty of glamour they blithely assumed was their due right as his partner—to fulfill him absolutely. Renee, his last partner, had come close. An exotic looking creature, part Japanese and part Peruvian, with long, flowing hair cascading over delicate, round shoulders. Renee had been a model and actress of sorts whose struggle to make a name for herself was largely due to her ubiquitous and alluring looks. Her beauty was simply too peculiar (though undeniable) for conventional tastes. Equally as magnetic was the sexuality she exuded with each serpentine step.
Her sultry demeanor and mannerisms alluded to her sexuality; in practice it was even more apparent. Renee’s lithe and powerfully energetic body was the ideal canvas for Jack’s erotic imagination, and soon proved a willing partner and confidante in his exercises. One of his favorites was to bring her to the very edge of excitement, with both tongue and fingers, until she was hapless and helpless to his stentorian demands. He would then force her down on hands and knees, brandishing his prick like a weapon, and deftly insert any number of his collection of specially crafted toys into the gaping bud of her asshole as he watched, her body squirming and writhing as he slowly inserted a thinly tapered glass dildo inside her, her panting mouth gasping at the intrusion. Though she protested, though she desired his prick more than anything, Jack was always careful to wear her guard down a little before he even considered surrendering his body to her -to degrade her beauty, to humiliate her, to make her putty in his hands. That was the ultimate goal. Few men were capable of doing so with Renee. Most were simply so enchanted by her looks that they became tongue-tied, mesmerized in her mere presence. But not Jack. Jack had the adroit capability of dissolving each and every one of her boundaries, every scrap of her ego, until she was nothing more than pure flesh, without distinction, indiscernible from a queen, a beggar or the average commuter on the morning train. It didn’t matter how beautiful, how exotic, how lusted after Renee was in the eyes of other men; what was important to Jack was that she submit fully and without the slightest hesitation to every single one of his demands. Which she did gladly, until she too, like so many others who came before her, found herself patently exhausted by Jack’s incessant demands.
Jack knew that the likelihood of a woman some twenty years his junior enduring all of his demands—especially a woman as physically captivating as Renee—was hardly likely, especially in an age of perpetual youth-worship. So he wasn’t at all shocked when she left him, even under the pretext of dating a much younger (and more handsome) actor. Nor was he insulted; he knew the real reason. Renee, like so many other women in his life before her, simply longed for a safer, more predictable way of life; one in which the precariousness of their vanity would be lauded instead of being stripped away.
Jack couldn’t blame her. Still, there was something deep in his heart that cried out for her. Not for her beauty, which was, after all, merely a temporary shell and a largely irrelevant one at that, but for her ability to let herself go completely and utterly. His few dalliances since were limited to a handful of escorts, of whom he paid handsomely. Surrogate vessels, for lack of any more appropriate term. He felt guilty for thinking of it in such a cheap way, but there was no skirting around it. He thought of Renee—the heavily sculpted thighs, the perfectly upturned ass, her absolute malleability—and let himself get carried away. He let his prick spring from his shorts, and masturbated before dozing off fitfully.