"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 f**k 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 c**k 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 f**k 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."
Chapter Eight
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?"
It takes her a little while but finally, frightened, she guesses, "Just... say... no?"
"Just... say... no." I nod, pushing her out and slamming the door.
Before leaving my office for the meeting I take two Valium, wash them down with a Perrier and then use a scruffing cleanser on my face with premoistened cotton balls, afterwards applying a moisturizer. I'm wearing a wool tweed suit and a striped cotton shirt, both by Yves Saint Laurent, and a silk tie by Armani and new black cap-toed shoes by Ferragamo. I Plax then brush my teeth and when I blow my nose, thick, ropy strings of blood and snot stain a forty-five-dollar handkerchief from Hermi's that, unfortunately, wasn't a gift. But I've been drinking close to twenty liters of Evian water a day and going to the tanning salon regularly and one night of binging hasn't affected my skin's smoothness or color tone. My complexion is still excellent. Three drops of Visine clear the eyes. An ice pack tightens the skin. All it comes down to is: I feel like shit but look great.