strong desire for instant gratification. Typically American, really, except the people in this ballroom didn’t covet luxury cars, custom homes, real wealth, or financial power. No, their “hot buttons” were the desires of the flesh.
Investment habits? Certainly not active risk-takers. Managing or worrying about an active, diverse portfolio would take too much time away from the boudoir, the party room, the hot tub. This was strictly IRA, mutual fund, retirement plan and cash stuffed-in-the-mattress territory.
Royce smiled wryly. Why, there wasn’t a Big Swinging Dick among them.
At eleven the band finished its set and the MC announced a costume contest. Royce, failing to locate Cliff in the crowd, elbowed closer to the stage, where a menagerie of outlandishly dressed couples lined up to vie for the audience’s applause.
One couple’s efforts to appear as giant condoms—complete with quart-capacity reservoir tips—were cleverly executed, but the ballgoers, perhaps out of sentimentality, expressed more support for Dorothy and the Tin Man, who may have lacked heart but did possess a foot-long steel schlong.
For just plain inventiveness, Royce would have given an award to the two gay men costumed as farmers humping papier-mch sheep affixed to the crotches of their overalls.
Bah bah!
The top prize, however, went to a stunning, bronze-breasted Mayan princess and her consort Adonis, who brandished golden locks and a warrior’s shield. They literally glowed with good health, physique excellence and sweet sensuality. The king and queen of the Erotic Masquerade Ball were presented their medals and began their exhibitionist strutting along the stage, which is when Royce bid the festivities adieu.
Cliff or no Cliff, he’d had enough of this swinger’s stuff. He’d overloaded on all the titillation and gotten himself a case of the blue balls, and finally, boredom. Outside the Hacienda’s lobby, he caught a cab downtown to the Gold Nugget. At the casino’s bar—a good pickup spot, according to an arbitrageur he knew at First Boston—he drank and foraged without result. The pickings were slim and none. A twentyish, hard-faced blonde took a bar stool two down from him, but before he could put on the moves an old fart in a lime green suit with “Sugar Daddy” written all over him arrived on the scene. She gave her benefactor a hillbilly girl giggle while he spread his left hand possessively on her little rump.
Heck, maybe Royce was giving off the wrong vibes tonight. He was, after all, young, wealthy, powerful, riding the fastest of the fast tracks. Additionally, he knew women found him handsome, in a scruffy, bad-little-boy way. He possessed a tall, almost athletic build (got to get to the health club and work on that little pot that was developing) and black Irish features (distinguished flecks of gray beginning to appear at the temples).
So what gave?
“All just out of my league,” he finally told himself. They were polyester and rayon; he was English wool and raw silk.
“It’s your two a.m. wake up call, old buddy. Drop your cock and grab your socks!”
Royce blinked from the blast of light in the hotel room. He blinked again. Two armored creatures were standing vigil at the foot of the bed—pouts on their painted lips—and staring coquettishly at him with their clownishly mascaraed eyes.
“Royce, meet the twins,” Cliff boomed.
“I’m Tawny,” announced one, hands on hips.
“I’m Plenty,” chortled the other, “but we’re not really twins.”
“Ladies,” Royce said huskily.
Cliff wedged between them, circled his arms around their cleavage-packed, metal bodices. “You could have fooled me, girls.”
The two giggled, purposefully whipping their blonde, dark-rooted manes for Royce’s benefit. He knew it was all a show, yet it was an act he relished. Yes, sometimes Cliff was invaluable. By now Royce was sitting up in bed, knees tucked to his chin with the sheet tight to his body.
Investment habits? Certainly not active risk-takers. Managing or worrying about an active, diverse portfolio would take too much time away from the boudoir, the party room, the hot tub. This was strictly IRA, mutual fund, retirement plan and cash stuffed-in-the-mattress territory.
Royce smiled wryly. Why, there wasn’t a Big Swinging Dick among them.
At eleven the band finished its set and the MC announced a costume contest. Royce, failing to locate Cliff in the crowd, elbowed closer to the stage, where a menagerie of outlandishly dressed couples lined up to vie for the audience’s applause.
One couple’s efforts to appear as giant condoms—complete with quart-capacity reservoir tips—were cleverly executed, but the ballgoers, perhaps out of sentimentality, expressed more support for Dorothy and the Tin Man, who may have lacked heart but did possess a foot-long steel schlong.
For just plain inventiveness, Royce would have given an award to the two gay men costumed as farmers humping papier-mch sheep affixed to the crotches of their overalls.
Bah bah!
The top prize, however, went to a stunning, bronze-breasted Mayan princess and her consort Adonis, who brandished golden locks and a warrior’s shield. They literally glowed with good health, physique excellence and sweet sensuality. The king and queen of the Erotic Masquerade Ball were presented their medals and began their exhibitionist strutting along the stage, which is when Royce bid the festivities adieu.
Cliff or no Cliff, he’d had enough of this swinger’s stuff. He’d overloaded on all the titillation and gotten himself a case of the blue balls, and finally, boredom. Outside the Hacienda’s lobby, he caught a cab downtown to the Gold Nugget. At the casino’s bar—a good pickup spot, according to an arbitrageur he knew at First Boston—he drank and foraged without result. The pickings were slim and none. A twentyish, hard-faced blonde took a bar stool two down from him, but before he could put on the moves an old fart in a lime green suit with “Sugar Daddy” written all over him arrived on the scene. She gave her benefactor a hillbilly girl giggle while he spread his left hand possessively on her little rump.
Heck, maybe Royce was giving off the wrong vibes tonight. He was, after all, young, wealthy, powerful, riding the fastest of the fast tracks. Additionally, he knew women found him handsome, in a scruffy, bad-little-boy way. He possessed a tall, almost athletic build (got to get to the health club and work on that little pot that was developing) and black Irish features (distinguished flecks of gray beginning to appear at the temples).
So what gave?
“All just out of my league,” he finally told himself. They were polyester and rayon; he was English wool and raw silk.
“It’s your two a.m. wake up call, old buddy. Drop your cock and grab your socks!”
Royce blinked from the blast of light in the hotel room. He blinked again. Two armored creatures were standing vigil at the foot of the bed—pouts on their painted lips—and staring coquettishly at him with their clownishly mascaraed eyes.
“Royce, meet the twins,” Cliff boomed.
“I’m Tawny,” announced one, hands on hips.
“I’m Plenty,” chortled the other, “but we’re not really twins.”
“Ladies,” Royce said huskily.
Cliff wedged between them, circled his arms around their cleavage-packed, metal bodices. “You could have fooled me, girls.”
The two giggled, purposefully whipping their blonde, dark-rooted manes for Royce’s benefit. He knew it was all a show, yet it was an act he relished. Yes, sometimes Cliff was invaluable. By now Royce was sitting up in bed, knees tucked to his chin with the sheet tight to his body.
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