I get up and take a shower. I masturbate again as images flash through my mind, as my body remembers the sensations.
It’s after that, when I’m making tea in my kitchen, that I start to hear the silence. I think that’s why the tears start falling.
I’m alone again.
I clench on the soreness to feel it, but it only reminds me that it’s already happened.
It’s over.
NINE
Andre
By nine a.m., I have to go into my office bathroom and electroshock my balls until my dick softens enough to go in the cock cage. Usually, I just deal with my arousal, dissociate from it, but I can’t today.
I feel sick enough from the shock that I end up kneeling in front of the toilet in my Tom Ford suit, but the nausea passes. I get up. I straighten my vest and watch chain. I wash my shaky hands. I comb my hair without looking at myself.
But then I do have to look. I need to know that I’m in character.
I can see the flaws. The throb of my pulse above my starched collar. The slight pinching around my mouth. The hollowed-out look in my eyes that everyone seems to feel so fucking comfortable telling me are “just gorgeous.” But no one else will notice these small details. People are easy to fool.
I snag my black suit jacket from the hook and put it on. As I button it, my hands begin to steady.
I start to see what others will see: the wealthy owner of one of the finest hotels in the city. I see privilege and power.
That’s the thing about images: theyarepersuasive. Sometimes, I can almost fool myself.
I step out into the vast, luxuriously modern space of my office. The windows frame a prime view of Lower Manhattan. I’m one floor below my penthouse and 23 above the pavement. The building houses my guest rooms, restaurants, event spaces, and all the other amenities expected of a luxury hotel. Lots of money in, lots of money out. It requires intensiveadministration, and most of that is done by my manager, Gina—who’s sitting on my fucking couch.
Thumbs tapping away on her phone, she makes no sign of hearing my approach, which is unlikely given the clap of my shoes across the hardwood floor. It’s not hard to guess that she heard … something from the bathroom and is pretending that she didn’t. Or maybe she’s just working. She’s always working.
Gina is worth her weight in gold, which is about what I pay her. I scouted her from a lesser hotel years ago. I’ve only owned The Axis for two years, but I spent many years before that putting things in place. I certainly couldn’t retain the former owner’s management.
Gina doesn’t look up until I take a seat at my desk. Then she sets her phone on the arm of the black leather couch. At 31, she’s only a year older than I am, young for her position. Shit runs better that way. Younger people work harder and are more flexible. And older people … I don’t really like being around them.
Gina has a vaguely 1940s style with her structured clothes and upswept black hair. It gives her the gravitas for her role and distracts people from her age. Everyone, really, is in costume, especially at a place like The Axis.
I remind her, “You have my door code for when I’m gone, not for when I’m here.”
“You’ve been out of contact for three days, Andre.”
I keep my face stony, but I wince inwardly. I’ve never lost myself in a role like that. I’ve never struggled so much to come back from one.
Thatiswhat it was. A role. And yet, there’s a scream in the back of my mind, a restless clawing at the edges of the box where I’ve shut away the part of myself that played that role. There’s my dick too, doing everything it can to swell inside the cage even while I’m forbidding myself to call up images of … him.
I point out, “It’s your job to handle shit when I’m gone.”
Gina snorts. “It’s my job to handle shit all the time.”
“So why are in you here harassing me then? Don’t you have shit to handle?”
“I take it you haven’t caught up with all your messages.”
“I’m almost done and it’s only 9:14. What’s your fucking point?” Sometimes, my background slips into my speech. I lose the polish and start to sound like … someone who doesn’t belong on the 24thfloor.
“My point is that you need a PA to weed through shit and pick out the highlights, like I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s more efficient. I couldn’t possibly prioritize without Stephanie.”
“And I’ve toldyoua hundred times, Gina, that I don’t want someone in my fucking business. Hell, I don’t wantyouin my fucking office, so if you can’t get to the goddamn point—”
