Three Sides of the Coin (Catherine I)

T
able of Contents
:

Chapter 1: 
Mike 1

Chapter 2:
Narrator

Chapter 3: 
Steven 1

Chapter 4: Mike-2

Chapter 5:  Steven-2

Chapter 6:  Mike-3

Chapter 7:  Steven -3

Chapter 8:  Mike-4

Chapter 9:   The Agency

Chapter 10:   Captain Jack-1

Chapter 11:   Captain Jack-2

Chapter 12:   Steven-4

Chapter 13:   Captain Jack 3

Chapter 14:  Steven-5

Chapter 15:  Captain Jack-4

Chapter 16:  Mike-7

Chapter 17:   Captain Jack-5

Chapter 18: 
Mike-5

Chapter 19:  Steven-6

Chapter 20:   Mike-6

Chapter 21:   End

Prologue:
  All thrills come from getting as close to the edge as one can....... without falling off

Chapter
1:  Mike-1

             
I was fascinated from the first moment I saw Catherine.  She was across the room when I first saw her, at a convention in San Francisco. 

             
The idea had been to put together teams that could do more than just flail away at the customer base.  So we had architects, Interior designers, workmen and builders from across the Western United States get together to try to form consortiums that would streamline the process and maintain the quality that we needed to drive out the lazy and the greedy.  Our conference motto was:  "Faster, better and, ultimately, cheaper."   Although, I personally did not like the word, 'cheaper,' it flowed better than 'less expensive' and when we put it into Latin (Celeriter, Melius, et Frugalitas), everyone had to ask what the words meant.  Kids these days...they just don't know their classics.

             
I was there representing our design team.  Our architectural firm was happy with our work teams, but we needed someone to work with, who understood the Interior Design piece better.  Catherine was there for the opposite purpose.   She understood what people wanted, but she wanted to work on a bigger scale than a private home could allow.   She was in love with the Contemporary Look but most people found that too cold and distant for a living space, but it lends itself very well to our business clients.   They like drama and awe for their clients and customers, and that exotic look with strong textures and geometries go well for that impression.   However, it is after the build that people start to find logistic issues with the designs.   So we needed someone like Catherine who could see the people part of the design and feel the errors before we installed.  It is better to think a bit better than to try to move tons of granite and sheet metal after things are in place.

             
I had just finished glad-handing with a supplier who always seemed to over-promise and under-deliver instead of the other way around.   But instead of doing better, he thought he just needed a better promise. 

             
I turned and there she was.  It wasn't just how beautiful she was, there might have been more beautiful women there.  The event seemed to attract them.   But it was how she just seemed to radiate, to me at least, a grace and elegance that few women can imagine, leave alone project.  And perhaps that was it, the lack of false image.   She stood tall and regal, with a lovely neck that seems to strike deep in my core, long graceful fingers designing ideas in the air.   Her golden blonde hair seemed to pull the light to her like a spotlight and I could hear her laugh across the room.   I was to later learn that she was immune to all the stares of the men in the room because she could not imagine anyone found her that attractive or interesting.    Yet she felt enough pride in herself that she did not grovel or emanate the least inkling that she could be had for a promise.   I watched her gracefully Teflon herself from several players that sought her out, trying to grab hold of her beauty, but yet they all slipped away.   They did not need to be sent away in shame, but only safe in the knowledge that here was a prize that would not be had.   She stood like a modest Ice Queen holding court over suitors for her attention.  The Players knew they had no way to thaw her out and gave up early.   It was her modesty that fascinated me as much as anything.   She had to know she looked good.  No one dresses well by accident.   I should know that as much as anyone.  I have cultivated my metro-sexual reputation in no small part by how I dress.  It is a huge part of my disguise.  

             
Catherine was a perfect manikin.   She stood relatively tall for a woman, and was thin enough to be athletic looking, but soft enough to have the perfect curves.   I knew clothes were designed to look good on women exactly like her.  She had full breasts, placed exactly right, not too low or wide, hips were wide enough to sway just enough to be sexy without being racy.   But her back, oh her back was perfect.   I have found myself addicted to the women with perfect backs. The back can be erotic without being prurient.   A naked back in a dress will still be G-rated.  One cannot do that with a breast or a butt.   So a great back is perfection for me.   I find a perfect woman's back to be incredibly erotic.   I know that is odd.   I know lots of men are leg or butt men, but that isn't it, not at all entirely.   It isn't right unless the shoulders are the right width, funneling down to a nice narrow, but not too narrow, waist, before carefully swelling out to the hips.  The butt has to be rounded enough that it looks right from the front, side and back.  Do you know how hard that combination is?   Hers was the best back I have ever seen.  I could spend hours tracing my hands down her side and up her spine, bending to kiss the groove where the muscles from her back attach, my lips gently stroking, stroking the wings up to her shoulder.  There I would place a soft kiss to the little valley in her collarbone, another sexy woman place so many men ignore.  I mean I would do all these things if I wasn't so gay.

             
Because that is what everyone thought of me, or couldn't help to think of me would be the better way to put it.  And it worked for me.  My grandfather had founded the Architecture firm for which I worked.   And my father still ran it, and my sister will run it when he retires.   I have no desire to do so, or perhaps I would, but I think it best that my sister do so.  While I have no desire to manage, she has no idea how to create.

             
We grew up rich, but I was blessed, not only with a talent to create, but no desire to act filthy rich.  At least not as filthy rich as I was.  Between my share of Grandfather's company, and my piece of the stocks he had purchased, heavily loaded in dividends, from other companies he had watched from their early years, I knew I would never have to worry about missing a meal.  In fact, I could and did, pay cash for everything I had, from food, clothes, furniture, cars and even houses.   And my accounts did not even seem to quiver.  They merely grew larger. 

             
I loved architecture and that was my real legacy from Grandfather.  He and I bonded on this from the beginning and he knew I had a flair for the grace and beauty, the science and art, the surface and the depth of buildings.  I loved new and old, I loved what I saw and loved what lie beneath.  I was born unto this and I was born to do this.  And Grandfather helped, guiding my small fingers to draw soft lines here and bold ones there, helped me build with the toys and to see the last step before I made a false first step.  Building things is a chess game, but more complex in the number of steps and much simpler, because if you knew your opponents, gravity and friction, motion and momentum, Mother Nature and man, then you controlled your side of the board and could never be beat.  And that is what I meant to do.  I wanted to be an architect and that is what I became.  I wanted little else.

             
So having money, I knew, was never going to be a problem.  I should say, not having money was never going to be a problem.  In fact, having money would have been a problem, if I hadn't been so good at concealing it.  I changed my last name by using my mother's maiden name for part of my disguise.  I came recommended from headquarters in Boston to the San Francisco office, so they knew I had connections, but I did everything I could to be just a well-off, but not spoiled, connected, but not too well, a kid from the East coming out to the West to make his mark.

             
I also knew that people feared go-getters as someone who might just go after their jobs.   So I had to have a deeper disguise than just a name to fend off that fear and I had a perfect piece for that.  I was gay.   Alright, I wasn't gay, but I let everyone think I was and I never denied it.  It worked perfectly for the most part.  For the most part.  I know what you are thinking:  Gay guys seldom get the gals.  But to a certain extent you would be wrong and even as you thought it, you realized you might be wrong.   Most women like what they get with gay guys.  They can talk to them, they can share with them and they don’t have to be overly cautious with them.   That allows gay guys to get closer to women than a straight guy could ever do.  To a point.  And we all know which point that is.   But I wanted to suffer for my art, and that is how I had to suffer.  I had to act gay, even when I didn't want to.   And I feared that meeting Catherine might just have been one of those times.   It turned out not to be.

             
Seeming gay worked like this: 1.) Men , and to a certain extent women, who wanted to climb the corporate ladder felt less threatened, a lot less threatened, by an 'almost openly'  gay man as they felt he would never be promoted.   Life is too full of real problems to worry about ones that 'might' come up.  And a guy, who might be gay, is too risky and too reticent to take the reins of power from others.  So I was a safe bet.  2.) And this is unwarranted, but I was given automatic credit for being more creative and more talented than I should have been, due solely to my imagined gay DNA.  In fact, no one was willing to question my work either before I did it, or afterwards because they assumed it would be better than other folks' work.   That did not faze me, it intrigued me, but did not faze me.  I never worked for anyone else's standards, only for my own.   Perhaps that is the true gift of wealth.  You can go with your beliefs, even if it might cost you a job, because you do not fear that someone else could undermine your confidence with the fear of losing your job, your home, and your next meal.  It is that fear, the threat, even if never stated or implied, even if it merely a figment of your imagination that stands guard over the portal of your best works, daring you to pass.  No demon blocks me, so perhaps I am less impressive than the man or woman who perseveres despite that guardian of good sense, and creates the risky beautiful things.  And perhaps I should be jealous of them, but I am not.

             
So as I cast myself around the room to see her back, my awe of her beauty growing as I approach, I see her gracefully cast off man after man with a smooth frictionless smile let their bygones be them gone.   

             
"Hi, I am Mike Adamson from Wilshire Architects."  I say extending my hand and taking her small slender hand in mine. I read from her name tag, “You must be Catherine Elliot from Elliot Interiors."

             
Her handshake is firm, but not aggressive and her eyes dart to my hand.  "You have the smoothest and smallest hand of any man!" She exclaims wide-eyed.  I smile at her statement and she blushes immediately.  "I'm sorry.  That was so rude." 

             
"No," I reply laughing, "I'd get that all the time if people were to actually to tell the truth.  In fact,” I said leaning in, "I already knew that." 

             
She smiled and she said, "That was a rather personal statement, but they surprised me.  They are nice hands, but small.  I normally only find large hands on men nice."

             
"Well," I said, slightly emboldened by her open statements, "I am glad you like them, but now I find I must return the compliment and comment on how lovely your outfit is. Wherever did you find it?"

             
And it really was lovely.  She wore a cream spaghetti strap shell over an ankle length fairly tight print skirt.   It fit her to perfection, tight enough to show her small waist and nicely rounded hips, but not so tight to cup behind her backside, which would show a poor fashion sense.  The print showed four rows of African  mammals in a single line formation, one row black, another white, a third cream matching her blouse and then a fourth a red-brown.