eased, and I got the mop from the kitchen. After cleaning up the bedroom floor, I returned to the living room.
I went back over the previous scene in
The Myth of Sisypha,
concentrating on Sisypha while she worked her clear phallus on Mel. Her face was strained like a true lover‘s while she gripped his thighs tightly to get the best leverage on her thrust. His cries only served to make her more passionate. And there was something toward the end that I had missed: when Sisypha had Mel on his belly on the floor, just before she achieved her orgasm, she pulled his hair back so that their faces were touching.
“Kiss me,” she said in a sexually hoarse voice.
He did.
In that moment I could see that he had given in completely to her.
He didn‘t want to be tied down there being battered by her giant dildo, but he gave in to her desire. Her need had become his will.
After that I went off to bed.
Lying there on my back, I could hear my heart rumbling like far-off thunder. I remembered Sisypha telling Mel that if he had a heart attack, it would be a good way to die. That made me laugh, and in the middle of my chortling, I fell off into sleep.
I didn‘t wake up until two in the afternoon.
I climbed Out of bed more certain and sure of myself than I had ever been, ever. I opened all the windows of my house, inviting the breeze off the Hudson to blow through my catacomb-like rooms. I made coffee and checked my answering machine. Twenty-one messages. Sixteen were from Jerry Singleton. He cursed me and told me that he was no longer my agent. He promised to destroy my career. I erased his threats and they were gone from my life.
There were four entries made by Joelle, calls she had made before she finally got me. She was worried—more so in each successive recording. She really sounded like I was her one and only love. I tried to recapture the sexual intensity I had about her in the night, but it was gone.
There was one message from Sasha Bennett.
“It was great to have lunch with you,” she said. “And I‘m really looking forward to getting together for dinner next week. I‘m sorry if I hurt your hand. It was just a feeling I got, you know? But I‘m not really like that. Well . . . bye."
I erased everything. It felt good to have a clean slate.
I logged on to AOL and went into my banking account.
I had saved $58,000 in the past two decades, $2,500 a year plus interest. There were also two $10,000 T-bills and $8,600 in my checking account.
My rent was $1,350 and my expenses were no more than $1,000 a month, probably less. I didn‘t buy clothes often, nor did I take many vacations or own a car. I could live for at least two years without making a dime. That felt very good.
I picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Hello?” the inappropriate new receptionist said into the receiver.
“Brad there?"
“One moment,” she said, putting me on hold. Almost immediately she got back on and asked, “Who may I say is calling?”
“L,” I said.
“Mr. L?"
“Just tell him L."
On hold again I succumbed to a giddy bout of laughing. I hadn‘t laughed like that since I was a teenager. I was still chuckling when Brad got on the line.
“Cordell?” he asked. “That you?"
“How you do in‘, Brad?"
“I‘m fine, but you got my secretary all pissed off."
“Why?"
“Because you were rude, she said."
“What‘s her name."
“Linda Chou."
“J-O-E?"
“C-H-O-U."
While jotting down the name, I said, “Listen, Brad, you know Lucy Carmichael?"
“No."
“She was a student at NYU when you lectured there once. She‘s a photographer."
“Yeah? What she look like?"
“I quit my job as a translator,” I said. “I think I want to start repping artists."
“Quit? I thought you were freelance?” Brad asked.
“I am. I, I was. But I just don‘t wanna do it anymore. So I thought I‘d try my hand at being an art agent."
“And this Lucy Carmichael‘s going to be your first client?"
“Yes sir.
I went back over the previous scene in
The Myth of Sisypha,
concentrating on Sisypha while she worked her clear phallus on Mel. Her face was strained like a true lover‘s while she gripped his thighs tightly to get the best leverage on her thrust. His cries only served to make her more passionate. And there was something toward the end that I had missed: when Sisypha had Mel on his belly on the floor, just before she achieved her orgasm, she pulled his hair back so that their faces were touching.
“Kiss me,” she said in a sexually hoarse voice.
He did.
In that moment I could see that he had given in completely to her.
He didn‘t want to be tied down there being battered by her giant dildo, but he gave in to her desire. Her need had become his will.
After that I went off to bed.
Lying there on my back, I could hear my heart rumbling like far-off thunder. I remembered Sisypha telling Mel that if he had a heart attack, it would be a good way to die. That made me laugh, and in the middle of my chortling, I fell off into sleep.
I didn‘t wake up until two in the afternoon.
I climbed Out of bed more certain and sure of myself than I had ever been, ever. I opened all the windows of my house, inviting the breeze off the Hudson to blow through my catacomb-like rooms. I made coffee and checked my answering machine. Twenty-one messages. Sixteen were from Jerry Singleton. He cursed me and told me that he was no longer my agent. He promised to destroy my career. I erased his threats and they were gone from my life.
There were four entries made by Joelle, calls she had made before she finally got me. She was worried—more so in each successive recording. She really sounded like I was her one and only love. I tried to recapture the sexual intensity I had about her in the night, but it was gone.
There was one message from Sasha Bennett.
“It was great to have lunch with you,” she said. “And I‘m really looking forward to getting together for dinner next week. I‘m sorry if I hurt your hand. It was just a feeling I got, you know? But I‘m not really like that. Well . . . bye."
I erased everything. It felt good to have a clean slate.
I logged on to AOL and went into my banking account.
I had saved $58,000 in the past two decades, $2,500 a year plus interest. There were also two $10,000 T-bills and $8,600 in my checking account.
My rent was $1,350 and my expenses were no more than $1,000 a month, probably less. I didn‘t buy clothes often, nor did I take many vacations or own a car. I could live for at least two years without making a dime. That felt very good.
I picked up the phone and punched in a number.
“Hello?” the inappropriate new receptionist said into the receiver.
“Brad there?"
“One moment,” she said, putting me on hold. Almost immediately she got back on and asked, “Who may I say is calling?”
“L,” I said.
“Mr. L?"
“Just tell him L."
On hold again I succumbed to a giddy bout of laughing. I hadn‘t laughed like that since I was a teenager. I was still chuckling when Brad got on the line.
“Cordell?” he asked. “That you?"
“How you do in‘, Brad?"
“I‘m fine, but you got my secretary all pissed off."
“Why?"
“Because you were rude, she said."
“What‘s her name."
“Linda Chou."
“J-O-E?"
“C-H-O-U."
While jotting down the name, I said, “Listen, Brad, you know Lucy Carmichael?"
“No."
“She was a student at NYU when you lectured there once. She‘s a photographer."
“Yeah? What she look like?"
“I quit my job as a translator,” I said. “I think I want to start repping artists."
“Quit? I thought you were freelance?” Brad asked.
“I am. I, I was. But I just don‘t wanna do it anymore. So I thought I‘d try my hand at being an art agent."
“And this Lucy Carmichael‘s going to be your first client?"
“Yes sir.
Similar Books
