Sexual Solstice (8 page)

And it seemed Edgar had encouraged the presence of friends and co-workers and co-workers wives at other dinners. They both knew it functioned as a buffer to what had come between them. But Gillian had taken to them. For the most part, the women were nice enough. Some could be snobs, but even they found her American ways refreshing and an excuse to step outside of themselves and their formal ways.

“Ma’am?” Gillian’s reverie was broken. “Ma’am, we’ve done a thorough search of the plane and there is absolutely no sign of your husband.”

“That’s impossible.”

“We do follow a search protocol in these situations. We don’t take them lightly. And we have a special crew to do a thorough search. Our headcount shows that there were some inconsistencies, but we didn’t think they were with first class.”

“So. What do I do?”

“Normally we report it to the authorities, both here and in the country of origin.”

“Can you call me a cab?”

“Of course.”

At the Mandarin Oriental Gillian looked down where the lights of the city gave way to the darkness of Central Park. Christmas lights lined Sixtieth Street and various windows here and there. So odd to have come from the London Streets where all the beauty was contained in the first few floors of any building, and now she was surveying the heights of New York and a different kind of majesty that relied more on lines reaching to the heavens. She had left reports with both the NYPD and Scotland Yard and now all she could do was wait. Strange this occurrence. Edgar was a self-made man, not prone to disappearing at random. Gillian sighed. Tried not to think of whether it was a stroke of luck or a curse. Just think: Edgar was probably being hijacked to some compound in Antarctica while she was enjoying having her pussy tongue-massaged by two gorgeous British Airways pilots. What could she do? She was exhausted but she was on holiday, so she ordered chilled sake, a plate of sashimi, and drew herself a hot bath. She had worked on her feet, taken jobs in bars and pubs, right up to that first meeting with Edgar, and a little beyond, and she had always appreciated certain luxuries that she more or less identified as basic human rights––a nourishing and satisfying meal, the time to eat it, and a hot bath.

She got undressed and put on one of her silken robes, a pale peach and pink subtle floral print, that doubled as a wrap in the tropics. There was a knock at the door, and a subdued voice saying “room service.”

“Please come in,” she called, and then turned off the bath. The knock came again, she went to the door, and opened it. “Sorry, I thought in this day and age you’d have a master key.” She turned and led the waiter into the room. “Can I add a tip to the bill? I don’t have any American money with me. I’m sorry I know what a pain that is.” She looked up at a face that had barely changed in the twenty odd years since she’d left Brooklyn. “Good God. It’s you!”

Clear blue eyes under curly brown hair looked quizzically back at her. There were a few fine lines around the eyes, but the skin was still smooth as a baby’s. There was the slightest hint of grey at his temples.

“It’s me! Gillian! Gillian Sheridan, well, Pritchard now.”

“Brooklyn Irish? Is it you?”

“It is I, for damn sure! That voice! A dead giveaway. I hope you’re still acting.”

“Sure, what the hell. What the fuck are you doing staying in a dump like this?”

“Me? Look at you. You lucked out. Tips must be decent! Bob Mason. Or is it Robert Mason? And how is the acting going? Mister Robert Mason. Didn’t you leave Paddies for a TV pilot?”

“It’s great. It’s going great, despite this. Well this is a big money maker so I can’t scoff. Especially around Christmas. Who cares? I can come and go as I please as long as I let the supervisor suck my dick! I start rehearsals Off Broadway in January for a limited run and then, get this, I’m in a fucking Broadway play by that new English playwright, rehearsals start in April.”

“Congratulations.”

“It’s a small part but they needed at least one American when it transferred.”

“There are no small parts, especially from what I remember––

“Gillian looked at Robert and couldn’t help but think of the times behind the bar when he’d drop something, or pretend to, and then get down behind the bar and gnaw at her leg.

“Are you still––”

“Married? Nope.”

“No I just meant are you still a total animal. Do you remember behind the bar?”

“Man I have had a hard-on for you for the past twenty years, pardon my French. Pardon my hard-on.”

“Do you still wear no underwear?”

“Oh come on. I wasn’t that obvious.”

“Of course you were. You were like the pub pervert. Why didn’t we ever do it?”

“You were dating that guy you’d met at Nathan’s.”

“Oh yeah, actually I wasn’t. I lied about that. You scared me. You were too damn horny. I didn’t know how I’d control the reins, you know. I mean shit, if what you did to my calves and knees was any example, you’d be wild. Are all actors that bad?”

A beeping came from Robert’s belt. “Man I have to go. Shit.”

“Why don’t you come back later? Have some saké?”

“Your husband mind?”

“My husband has gone AWOL. He didn’t even make it across the Atlantic.”

“Well, what fucking luck is that?! I get off in an hour, then we can get off for hours.”

“You are so bad. Here take my key. I’m not going anywhere. Just wake me up.”

The door closed and Gillian smiled. New York wouldn’t be an absolute bust after all. Robert had been a great co-worker.

Gillian dimmed the lights, moved a chair around by the window, took the saké and curled into the chair and watched as tiny snowflakes started to drift past the window. Edgar, where in God’s name was he? She knew something was up. But what? Was it business? Was he trying to vanish from the face of the earth? Avoid something or someone? That’s it. He must have seen someone and then decided to make a run for it. A former client perhaps. No. Even that seemed improbable. Well, he was a big boy and could take care of himself. Meanwhile Gillian would be treating herself to room service. How odd. How damn odd to be sitting in a room that went for fifteen hundred a night, and meeting an old friend. Neither of them had changed but there seemed to be miles between them in terms of what money was doing. A plaything for her. Lifeblood for Robert. But they both seemed to know that. Gillian dozed in the chair and then dozed in the bath, wrapped her hair in a towel and flopped on the bed. She left the curtains open so she could watch––floor to ceiling––as Manhattan sparkled below her.

It seemed she’d been asleep for seconds before she heard Robert at the door. “Room service,” he whispered.

“Come in,” Gillian sang in a light voice. She could make out Robert’s profile against the backdrop of the city and the reflection of light off the falling snow.

“I gotta take a shower if you don’t mind.”

“You go ahead.”

“Hey, I brought you something. Open it.”

Not more Champagne, Gillian joked to herself. She knew the sacrifices, whether financial or moral, to bring such a gift, were not to be taken lightly.

“Roederer Cristal Brut ’69.” Robert called above the splash of the shower. About the same price as the room for a night. They’ll never miss it––

“Jesus, that’s nice.”

“Glasses are in the side board. Hey, you relax, I’ll get ‘em.”

Gillian luxuriated in the thought of more Champagne and in King size bed with a man who was––

Robert stepped out of the bathroom. “Oh my God you are swarthy––and hairy!”

Gillian’s eyes roved over Robert as he toweled off his brown locks and face.

“That’s my Italian blood.”

“Italian?”

“Oh sure as shit. I’m not Mason. I’m Missoni. I just thought Mason had some weight to it, you know. Missoni? Too many questions.”

“Roberto Missoni.”

“I love it when you talk dirty. Anyway Mason worked for theatre school, and it still does. I’ll change it back someday when I’m a star, or a director. If I want.” He pulled a robe over his shoulders.

“Oh don’t do that.”

Robert held the robe wide. “Just getting warm.”

While he talked, Gillian stared at his member. “Now I re-member. That’s why they called you the crippler.”

“You bet, the crippler. Gotten me more than one job, I hate to say. I wish it was just my talent.”

“I’m sure you have talent with that.”

“Let’s have some champagne first and then we’ll see.” Robert swiftly and quietly opened the bottle, as he had done for hundreds of guests. He got the glasses from the sideboard and then sat on the edge of the bed while Gillian sat in the chair. “Here’s to drinking my way across the Atlantic, then settling into some saké, and now finally a drink with an honest to God human being, and a fine figure of a man at that.”

“I’ll drink to that. As long as neither of us pass out.”

“Well I’d say that life has been good to you. You are definitely a New York boy, wouldn’t you say?”

“I guess so. Not much of a world traveler. I try to get over to London maybe once a year to soak up some theatre, but I have a good life. Two kids, and they love me. One starting college.”

“A family man. An actor who supports a family. Quite a feat.”

“Hasn’t been easy with a self-centred guy like me. How about you? Last time I saw you, you were on your way to London, said you’d never look back. You’ve made good for yourself––staying in a place like this.”

“I hate to say it, but I married well.”

“Shit. Did you ever.”

“I wanted so much to be, you know, absorbed into England. Into it all. I was just crazy about it as a teenager and I cannot tell you why. I just felt like my style was completely at home there. It was as foreign as I could get without having to learn another language, and I went to school.”

“The married part?”

“I met him just before I graduated. He had wealth, family, a nice dick, I mean penis––not as nice as yours from what I can see, but I guess the bulge in his wallet made a bigger impression than the bulge in his pants. Anyway, he was good to me. Fatherly, you know, but––”

“But?”

“But the sex really dried up. I don’t know if it was his age, fatigue, boredom. I don’t think it was another woman, simply because I sensed he’d lost his drive completely.”

“No kids?”

“I never really had the kid wanting gene, or the time, and he didn’t seem to want any. He’d been through an ugly first marriage, and I think there was some history or baggage around kids. Not to mention that his kids were at least my age. So in the end, it all meant a whole lot of nice clothes for dinners out. I was completely wooed, by being his wife, and by the glitzy world of high society.” As Gillian spoke she let her eyes roam over every square inch of the fine tuned body of Robert Mason. He wore a towel bathrobe and sat on the bed with one leg up, holding his broad hairy foot, while the other foot rested on the floor. He’d spent his life on those strong feet. Strong calves too. Legs must have been strong from the hours of shlepping. And, unknown to him, his robe had draped off his thigh and Gillian could see the large member known as the crippler. A vein ran down the side of his cock, and the head seemed to be swollen while the rest of the shaft lay at ease. Even his balls lay wide, as if melting into his leg. She followed the line of hair that ran from the top of his towel and bisected his torso, with finer outcroppings on each nipple and a little on his sternum. She marveled again at the white smooth skin. He obviously hadn’t had time for a sunny skin damaging vacation. This was a driven man, who worked to act, and acted to live. His damp locks hung down his shoulders. Here was the real thing. Not only an actor but, perhaps, a real live character right off of the stage. How could he not be cast in something? How could he still be serving food?

“Let’s drink a toast,” Robert held his glass, moved closer, and then encircled Gillian’s arm as she held hers. They drank, their faces close to one another.

“Tickles my nose.”

“At fifteen hundred a pop it better tickle more than your nose.” His face was so close. That voice, those lips, and big white teeth that she remembered. He had the most radiant smile––innocent and seductive all at once. He always had that look that seemed to be saying I don’t know what you’re talking about, and at the same time saying, let’s find somewhere private where we can fuck right now.

They both drank the contents of their glasses. Robert refilled them. Gillian rolled her eyes, “Even I don’t drink this stuff. You have good taste, I’ve got to say.”

Taste this, said Robert and he leaned forward, put one finger in the champagne flute and then touched it to her lips. She remembered how she had watched his hands when they worked together all those years ago. He had stubby fingers, thick, with beautiful nails. They always seemed scrubbed pink. She closed her eyes and opened her waiting lips just slightly and he slipped his finger in. “Taste it again.” And again he dipped his finger into her glass. This time she couldn’t resist and sucked on his finger, and again he pulled from her mouth creating a soft popping sound. “One more time,” he said, and he dipped his finger in her glass. This time she bit lightly, not letting him go, and then wrapped her lips around this finger and sucked. There are so many pleasures, she thought, that we deny ourselves when younger, for better or worse, dreams and fantasies that remain so and are never actualized, but fortunately we seem more able to fully enjoy them, a few decades later. He had wanted so badly to bed her all those years ago, and she had shied away. He still seemed driven and desirous.

She sensed that Robert was closer now; he put both his broad feet on the floor, and leaned into her. Gillian reached out, with her eyes still closed, and touched Robert’s neck, her fingertips just grazing his prominent Adam’s apple. She slowly and lightly trailed her fingers down his throat, to his chest where she languished, opening her hand to let her fingers encompass the soft skin of his firm pectorals. She touched the hair on his nipples, and gave a light tug. She continued the adventure and her hand trailed down the centre of his torso towards his belly. In the meantime she sucked more firmly on his finger, “Ooh yeah,” he moaned, deep and resonant. “Suck that finger. Oh yeah, suck me, suck me hard.”