"Top shelf," she says, "I think."
While looking through the medicine cabinet I glance over at her tub, noticing how plain it is, which moves me to say, "You know, Courtney, you should really get your act together and get your tub marbleized or maybe add some Jacuzzi jets." I call out, "Can you hear me? Courtney?"
After a long while she says, "Yes… Patrick. I hear you."
I finally find the tube behind a huge bottle – a jar – of Xanax on the top shelf of the medicine cabinet and before my dick totally softens place a small dab of it inside the tip of the condom, slather it on the latex sheath and then walk back into the bedroom, jumping onto the futon, causing her to snap, "Patrick, this is not a fucking trampoline." Ignoring her I kneel over her body, sliding my cock up into Courtney and immediately she's pushing her hips up to meet my thrusts, then she licks her thumb and starts rubbing her clit. I watch as my cock moves in then out then into her vagina with long fast strokes.
"Wait," she gasps.
"What?" I moan, puzzled but almost there.
"Luis is a despicable twit," she gasps, trying to push me out of her.
"Yes," I say, leaning on top of her, tonguing her ear. "Luis is a despicable twit. I hate him too," and now, spurred on by her disgust for her wimp boyfriend, I start moving faster, my climax approaching.
"No, you idiot," she groans. "I said Is it a receptacle tip? Not 'Is Luis a despicable twit.' Is it a receptacle tip? Get off me."
"Is what a what?" I moan.
"Pull out," she groans, struggling.
"I'm ignoring you," I say, moving my mouth down on her small perfect nipples, both of them stiff, sitting on hard, big tits.
"Pull out, goddamnit!" she screams.
"What do you want, Courtney?" I grunt, slowing my thrusts down until I finally straighten up and then I'm just kneeling over her, my cock still half inside. She hunches back against the headboard and my dick slides out.
"It's a plain end." I point. "I think."
"Turn the light on," she says, trying to sit up.
"Oh Jesus," I say. "I'm going home."
"Patrick," she warns. "Turn on the light."
I reach over and flip on the halogen Tensor.
"It's a plain end, see?" I say. "So?"
"Take it off," she says curtly.
"Why?" I ask.
"Because you have to leave half an inch at the tip," she says, covering her breasts with the Hermès comforter, her voice rising, her patience shot, "to catch the force of the ejaculate!"
"I'm getting out of here," I threaten, but don't move. "Where's your lithium?"
She throws a pillow over her head and mumbles something, retreating into a fetal position. I think she's starting to cry.
"Where is your lithium, Courtney?" I calmly ask again. "You must take some."
Something indecipherable is mumbled again and she shakes her head – no, no, no – beneath the pillow.
"What? What did you say?" I ask with forced politeness, jerking myself feebly back to an erection. "Where?" Sobs beneath the pillow, barely audible.
"You are crying now and though it sounds clearer to me I still cannot hear a word you're saying." I try to grab the pillow off her head. "Now speak up!"
Again she mumbles, again it doesn't make any sense.
"Courtney," I warn, getting furious, "if you just said what I think you said: that your lithium is in a carton in the freezer next to the Frusen Glädjé and is a sorbet" – I'm screaming this – 'if this is really what you said then I will kill you. Is it a sorbet? Is your lithium really a sorbet?" I scream, finally pulling the pillow from her head and slapping her hard once, across the face.
"Do you think you're turning me on by having unsafe sex?" she screams back.
"Oh Christ, this really isn't worth it," I mutter, pulling the condom dowp so there is half an inch to spare – a little less actually. "And see, Courtney, it's there for what? Huh? Tell us." I slap her again, this time lightly. "Why is it pulled down half an inch? So it can catch the force of the ejaculate!"
"Well, it's not a turn-on for me." She's hysterical, racked with tears, choking. "I have a promotion coming to me. I'm going to Barbados in August and I don't want a case of Kaposi's sarcoma to fuck it up!" She chokes, coughing. "Oh god I want to wear a bikini," she wails. "A Norma Kamali I just bought at Bergdorf's."
I grab her head and force her to look at the placement of the condom. "See? Happy? You dumb bitch? Are you happy, you dumb bitch?"
Without looking at my dick she sobs, "Oh god just get it over with," and falls back down on the bed.
Roughly I push my cock back into her and bring myself to an orgasm so weak as to be almost nonexistent and my groan of a massive but somewhat expected disappointment is mistaken by Courtney for pleasure and momentarily spurs her on as she lies sobbing beneath me on the bed, sniffling, to reach down and touch herself but I start getting soft almost instantly – actually during the moment I came – but if I don't withdraw from her while still erect she'll freak out so I hold on to the base of the condom as I literally wilt out of her. After lying there on separate sides of the bed for what might be twenty minutes with Courtney whimpering about Luis and antique cutting boards and the sterling silver cheese grater and muffin tin she left at Harry's, she then tries to give me head. "I want to fuck you again," I tell her, "but I don't want to wear a condom because I don't feel anything," and she says calmly, taking her mouth off my limp shrunken dick, glaring at me, "If you don't use one you're not going to feel anything anyway."
Business Meeting
Jean, my secretary who is in love with me, walks into my office without buzzing, announcing that I have a very important company meeting to attend at eleven. I'm sitting at the Palazzetti glass-top desk, staring into my monitor with my Ray-Bans on, chewing Nuprin, hung over from a coke binge that started innocently enough last night at Shout! with Charles Hamilton, Andrew Spencer and Chris Stafford and then moved on to the Princeton Club, progressed to Barcadia and ended at Nell's around three-thirty, and though earlier this morning, while soaking in a bath, sipping a Stoli Bloody Mary after maybe four hours of sweaty, dreamless sleep, I realized that there was a meeting, I seemed to have forgotten about it on the cab ride downtown. Jean is wearing a red stretch-silk jacket, a crocheted rayon ribbon skirt, red suede pumps with satin bows by Susan Bennis Warren Edwards and gold-plated earrings by Robert Lee Morris. She stands there, in front of me, oblivious to my pain, a file in her hand.
After pretending to ignore her for close to a minute, I finally lower my sunglasses and clear my throat. "Yes? Something else? Jean?"
"Mr. Grouchy today." She smiles, placing the file timidly on my desk, and stands there expecting me to.. . what, amuse her with vignettes from last night?
"Yes, you simpleton. I am Mr. Grouchy today," I hiss, grabbing the file and shoving it in the top desk drawer.
She stares at me, uncomprehending, then, actually looking crestfallen, says, "Ted Madison called and so did James Baker. They want to meet you at Fluties at six."
I sigh, glaring at her. "Well, what should you do?"
She laughs nervously, standing there, her eyes wide. "I'm not sure."
"Jean." I stand up to lead her out of the office. "What… do . . you… say?"