Sid bounded into the gym. The parking lot was full of his clients cars so his step was quicker than usual. Sid or rather Sid as Jojohn had a date in San Francisco in a couple of hours and he needed to conduct the deals in the locker room and get some pec. and back work in before heading across the bridge. The john, a regular client named Barry, a retired Real Estate Broker turned vintner, married, lived about ten miles away but they only met in San Francisco. The idea had been Barry's and was motivated by his ever present concern to keep keep it all on the DL. Having the date 85 miles from Healdsburg provided him space to enjoy the sex and relax in the arms of his stud. It didn't matter to Sid. Sid was Sid to all his firefighter friends, all young enough, dumb enough, crooked enough or a combination of all three to not notice or care about the existence of Jojohn. To them Sid was a stand up sort of guy, one that always bought the drinks, shared or scored the best drugs, lied to their girlfriends or wives for them, hunted and skied with them and sometimes, when they were stoned on a good bowl of Kush, would let himself be blown by one or two of them.
Tonight there was no need for extra stealth as Barry's wife, Isabel, was hosting a private party at their winery, Cave Curee. Isabel or so Barry had told him, would be resplendently dressed in a couture evening gown and holding court in their candlelit, flower strewn faux Tusacan tasting room. A room to be completely populated by drunks on the make, hangers on, a friend or two and the increasingly rare liquor wholesale agent. As a result Isabel Harris would be oblivious to time passing or absent husbands. Couture fashion had that effect upon her. Like a drunk with a full bottle everything else simply didn't matter.
Sid knew that this johns wife occupied and not being a factor during the upcoming evening meant that Barry would want added kinks. All light stuff, use of butter instead of lube, domination and complete silence during the whole session. Sid typically finished Barry in about ten minutes and they'd spend the rest of the hour discussing the progress of the garden Sid and his wife Angelina were planting. Barry liked to offer his advice and felt his freely sharing a decade of experience in building a winery, would somehow benefit Jojohn rather than a fifty dollar tip. Barry directed the development or so he thought.of the small garden at the post-war Rancher fixer-upper that Sid and his wife Angelina had purchased in an older part of Santa Rosa. To Sid-Jojohn what mattered most was that the design hide and incorporate his dozen marijauna plants. Sid, like the rest of the north bay, was nothing if entrepreneurial and his mini farm of kush marijauna plants fit in nicely with his real world job as an ambulance driver. Medical Marijauna was a legal easy side business and explained the bundles of extra cash to Angelina
The free weights were just a head, the juice head cage as it was nicknamed was full, he passed by, circled the fenced off area once and headed to the men's locker room. Four big men, each lacking a discernable neck, one looking like a kid in a fat suit, followed him into the locker room. They waited silently and busied themselves by washing hands or trash talking girlfriends. They waited for Sid to be dressed in his workout clothes before silently, one at a time, approaching him. Four quick exchanges, each consisting of an exchange of three one hundred dollar bills for a small, still sealed box with a Pfizer Lab logo on it. The transaction occurred in a very matter of fact fashion. The locker door opened again but as these four were his regulars and he worked out with most of them they all knew the "dealio". Business was conducted in such an unrushed manner that when a stranger happened in on the scene he would not notice anything unusual about the five men's behavior. Business completed. Twelve hundred dollars pocketed, about half profit., locked in his locker made safer by one of his boy's sitting shotgun near it and reading an auto trader magazine. Sid hit the free weights.
Barry liked Sid's pecs pumped up and since this john was $400.00 per session Sid liked to pump the goods. Barry also supplied the heroin they snorted, post hand job, which meant he would be later than the 8:00 o'clock start time previously agreed upon. Barry would need to visit his drug dealer, a decayed old young man called McCarthy, before they met at the co-op that the Harris's maintained but the bank mostly owned on Taylor Street behind Grace Cathedral. That meant Sid could get a full pec.and back workout in, be able to groom and drive to the city unrushed. While lifting on the incline Sid made a mental note to remind himself that Barry liked to be carried around the living room while they both were naked and be masturbated from behind by Sid-Jojohn, he always had him use butter instead of lube and both would stand before the floor to ceiling window which overlooked the spire of Grace Cathedral and Huntington Park far below. Barry liked to ejaculate onto the window and left the dried cum for the housekeeper or Isabel's dog to clean up. Jojohn never came and never had an erection unless one was caused by his steroid use.
Waving goodbye to the teenage girl attendant who yelled " hey you", Sid was buzzed out. No card needed. That was what life was like for Sid, a waved hello from the doorman, attendant, front desk clerk, bartender and he was golden. Being a 6.4, hard bodied blonde party man, known as the go to guy for hot parties, pussy and drugs, had smoothed life's rougher edges. Those rough spots having been caused chiefly by employment in a dead end job answering what he and his partner Skip termed "Mexican panic calls".for the County Ambulance service. At the ripe old age of 25, both found themselves working as County Public Health E.M.T.'s, forever wait listed by a half dozen County fire departments due to a lack, not of training, but by neither having a parent already employed by any one of a dozen Sonoma County Fire Departments.
Life on the economy was either hooked up legit, a Firefighter in San Francisco let's say, or d.l. like being a dope growing steroid dealer. The worst was life as a Mexican. That world, the Mexican one, was one lived in complete illegality. Backbreaking long hours working in Vineyards and on Marijauna farms. The earnings went quickly, to pay off coyotes, triple rents and money sent south.
Sid had chosen the dl and far from lowering his impression of himself, the choice, once the money started to roll in, gave his already inflated ego a huge boost. The cash allowed him to sneer about parts of town where the " help lived". It felt good to be him. Sid couldn't remember the last time he waited to get into a club, paid for a meal, paid for clothes, housing or trips. Life had, for a lowly paid Sonoma County E.M.T., taken off about the time he became known as Jojohn, first in San Francisco than Vegas. Jack off John. That-was how he was known to his tricks, both men and women. A professional date with Jojohn always ended in his date moaning in sexual ecstasy under his 250 pounds of steroid pumped up hard muscled body. While no longer shredded from hours in the gym or running and clearly water bloated from steroid use, it still paid the bills and as long as the bills got paid his wife Angelina was happy. Angelina while not homely was in fact too hard and sharped featured a young woman to ever be called pretty, the wifey was content and didn't mind his frequent "overtime" work as Sid's and she had a far more abundant life than the one her growing up in a trailer park would have given an observer cause to expect.
Sid always said that one of the owner benefits of marrying a homely girl like Angelina was that felt she had won the Daddy D.N.A pool by marrying him . The only problem with that pool he liked to say was that there were no lifeguards on duty. Angelina didn't understand his ardor in making love was not due to his love of her but the effects of the juice. Angelina was simply there.whne sid was amped on the juice it made no difference if it were his wife or an old mans ass under him. What she mistook for a profound union of their souls was 'roid' aggression nothing more.
Angelina was content and embarrassingly proud of the life she had won with her Sid. For won is what she felt she had done everytime she awoke in her house, in her bedroom flooded by fall morning light in the wine country. Knowing her garden lay just beyond the sheet covered window, her man mostly not in her bed, Angelina was very content. For Sid .it was a straight forward trick. Keep her happy and that meant keeping her in the dark about JoJohn and his Johns and Janes. Sid was aided in this by Angelina having an unnatural lack of curiosity.
The other trick, the tricks, were less difficult. That world was a world of quick satisfaction. It was commodity sex. The story told, the bio of Jojohn, was that he was an underpaid Cal Fire Firefighter trying to pay down student loans from S.R.J.C. Fire Tech. It was made believable by his having been a Cal Fire Fighter. What mattered mostly was being good looking,. It didn't hurt the trade that he was also charming, a young married guy. Jojohn spun a story of being caught up trying to pay for his fixer upper house in a down economy. It worked. The tricks, if they cared at all and most did not, would book a repeat date, add a tip or buy dinner, based not upon his story as JoJohn liked to think but by his magic hand job and make-out sessions. Even the johns who had expected more, a lot more, were sated and pleased with the experience.
The use of his powerful right hand to pump out an orgasm for one of his john's was how he paid for the dragon race he was starting to live for. It, the wank, meant nothing to him and it did not matter to him at all if the money was from embarrassed mothers of brides to be, drunk maids of honors, married men or the stray gay tourist to the wine country. It didn't matter to Sid because Sid wasn't there. The moment he started out for a date Jojohn did his thing. No it wasn't Sid and as far as Jojohn was concerned snorting a bit of heroin post trade made it all tolerable and downright enjoyable. Sid-Jojohn felt the sex-money plus blowing the dragon bested his former extra gig of driving drunk tourists between winery tasting rooms and that the resulting morning cramps, diarrhea, and slight shakes of mild heroin withdrawal were no worse than the hangovers he used to suffer through on Mondays after a weekend of Winery jitney work.
The downside of his measured weekly use of blowing the dragon, snorting white Heroin, was that it was from the poppy fields of Afghanistan, and more expensive than boiling or smoking the black tar heroin the coyotes brought north. The cost was inching up. Barry supplied date night heroin and passed Sid's order and cash on to McCarthy. Still it was a good time and money was not a problem. Sid had a day job, the steroid dealing, medical Marijauna, the tricking, and Angelina worked as a waitress at the Flamingo Hotel. It was, as a character in a favorite movie of his said, "rich pickings". The burning in his nasal cavity had taken some getting used too but the ensuing euphoria, a feel of being cocooned in sensory pleasure, a soft easing from the pain his overworked out body felt, the quieting of steroid induced rages, made, as he told Skippy for a great boys night out. Sid was he told himself in control, Jojohn was, after all, a mere fiction, a creation of Sid's and Sid was, as everyone knew, married, straight and intent on keeping in shape to answer the call whenever it came to be a Firefighter. The jackoff part, well that just came naturally.Practice had made perfect and his technique varied only by sex. JoJohn took over. The tyrst or session was more like a good grappling exercise than making out. It was all mapped out in his mind. Meeting, making out, stripping, frotage, making out, hand job. No exceptions. Jojohn had made an art of faking noisy excitement and pleasure and once he started there was no stopping. Jojohn, dominated, took it to the mat and the opponent would tap out in 20 minutes. Jojohn took no enjoyment out of the act but like the professional he was participated in the session fully.
Sid, as previously mentioned, was never present but did allow Jojohn to be carried over to gym grappling sessions with newer friends. Sid got a rush when he grappled and overpowered another straight guy. It would start as horseplay, the opponent thrown into submission and than he'd wank him off. Not out of any need to answer any sexual gratification but merely as a power move over an equally fit man. Sid got off on the surprised look the straight jock had on his face at being taken. It was the humiliation it caused the other guy that got Sid off. It was rape by many peoples standards but not in the world of 20 something, steroid fueled bodybuilders, whose frequent, random and uncontrollable erections were as common as their passing steroid rages. The grinding rub outs which resulted from the grappling fights where never spoken of nor planned in advance and since Sid was the gym drug dealer and party source of choice his victims put up with it silently or were banned from what passed as the cool party circuit.
Workout complete Sid headed to the locker room, he or rather Jojohn was ready to go to San Francisco.
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Monday, October 17, 2011
Sophia's. An excerpt from Addiction, a work in progress
The courtyard wall fountain gurgles and the sound of the lightly falling water breaks the stillness of the day. The noon day sun, full of falls golden light, warms the tiles. The warmth of the air is scented by Tea Roses growing in large blue and white ceramic pots set in the recesses of the California Spanish Colonial Moorish column lined courtyard open to the sky.
Sopia opens the French doors from her petite salon and a lively and an unfailingly groomed Pomeranian bounces into the courtyard, followed by an elegant Sophia. The lady of the Maison places a silvertray carrying a bottle of Saint Germaine wine and Perrier down and returns to the salon to retrive another tray of cheeses and two Saint Louis goblets. A bistro table is set for two in the center of the courtyard, away from the fountain, but close enough to hear it rather than outside noise. Sophia reflects upon the scene she has created. Taking it in with a critical eye, Sophia looks not only to the pristine cleanliness of the sunny rose scented courtyard but also to the effect created by the round table covered in lilac Italian linen pressed to perfection and set with the lightly colored Dresden plates, each piled high with macaroons, cheeses, crackers and set off by Regence sterling and the Saint Louis goblets rimmed in gold. It is a lovely scene. The wonder of it is not in the elegant appointments but that that the light rose scented courtyard could be in Eze or any other quiet village in the Maritime Alpes and not on Sutter Street in downtown San Francisco.
Leaving the French doors to the petite salon open allows a half dozen magnificent evening gowns hung on a gilted rolling rack to be seen by her guest seated in the courtyard. The position of the gowns, just in view, seems the right thing to introduce the collection. Light conversation, light food, flowing wine, than perfection worked in silk, tulle, linen Standing next to the gold ballroom chairs placed by the table, Sophia basks for a moment in the sunlight,. fall had been chillier than hoped for but today was bright and felt warm. A burst od spring. Still it was late fall and this was San Francisco not Eze so leaving the doors open to the petite Salon might chill the room. "I'll have Adridge prepare a fire", she thought, a quick use of her i phone and Adige was summoned. Sophia the exceedingly beautiful, perfectly coiffed, effortlessly charming 50 year old owner of this house must sell all the gowns she has sample ordered for her client Isabele. The selection is perfect. A sudden San Francisco fog descending into this private world could make it less so.
Each garment of the spring collection was a masterpiece of the couturiers art. Color, shape, form, every detail thought out and executed flawlessly. Sophia knew every physical asset the client should display as well as every scar or pound that needed to be hidden. Sophia also knows what trend and new style her client followed, as well as every fashion thought that the client had, for the very simple reason that those thoughts had been placed there over the years by a guiding Sophia. The secret was in keeping the client merrily engaged.
Isabele liked conversation and a drink before viewing clothes and when in the right toasty mood would gladly submit to the final pining of a dozen creations. The alcohol was as needed as the gowns. The occasional rebellion rose up among her ladies, usually over cos or time delay and a glass or two would never fail to close the sale. Sophie had long learned to wait for the decision. A sale was always a foregone conclusion. If the dark brown satin evening paintsuit by the new French designer wasn't to the ladies taste than perhaps the Italian gown, taupe and covered in tiny Austrian crystals, a brilliant working of tailoring and embellishment from a season ago would fit the demands of her diary? As confident as she was of the rightness of the selection for Isabeles 50 something pilates toned body and the demands of a winemakers social life, the rolling rack of yet to be viewed gowns, all ordered for Isabelle by Sophia had yet to be purchased and were a substatial investment of time, reputation and guile that needed to sell. The thought of not succeeding briefly annoyed her and tested her practiced look of unflappable perfection that had been cultivated over 35 years of working in the world of created beauty.
." Adridge... where is that fool she thought - pushing the app once again before giving up on 21st century technology. No reply. In haste there arose from our lady a bellowing yell more befitting a teamster than a superbly beautiful woman dressed in an elegant Alexander McQueen white lace dress. Still no reply. Stepping into the long interior hallway that connected the courtyard to the front salon, Sophia bellowed, "ADRIDGE..WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?". Adridge appeared silently at the end of the hall bearing a huge bottle of chilled french vodka and a salver with a set of crimson colored Moser shot glasses. Ghastly thin, Addige personified a qoute of the Duchess of Windsor, " nothing to look at so the only thing to do was dress better than everyone else", Adige did so with flair. Today's custome was a full legnth Venetian dressing gown of velvet brocade, light yellow with teal blue frogging and cord piping, the lining was silk of the deepest shade of navy blue worn over his day uniform of perfectly tailored deep grey flannel pants and a blue and white stripped shirt. " Dear girl I'm not hard of hearing.", Sophia replied "wonderful man, now please do be a useful thing and lay a fire in the salon, I'm afraid it may become chilly" .Adige holding the Vodka bottle up replied, " Dearest that's why I've brought this to your table". Adidge, 45, gay, flabby, was a not particularly sober, not particularly talented decorator, who was very particular only about his clothes, the alcohol he drank at others expense, and most importantly that his tricks be straight or as he liked to say "straight but straying," An expensive french vodka culled from the cellar was his selection today and he placed the chilled frosted bottle dead center on the round table in the open courtyard. Sophia removed it at once and striding into the petite salon placed it behind the daybed facing the four sided mirror, away a bit but still handy to the rack of clothes should need arise to confront the image reflected in those mirrors.
Sophia's clients knew no world other than one of calm perfection. A world as sweetly scented as the abundant floral arrangements she changed daily in the petite salon. Worry was simply unknown and if it did arise, typically went no deeper than a feeling of general anxiety associated with the fear of hosting a boring dinner party. A vodka drinking, gay male interior designer, while not an unknown companion in Isabelle Harris's set, would distract from the sale and the sale of the collection, all of it, was the reason for this tete a tete. "Oh you.... bother you're such a puritan Soph." saidAddige. "Adige be a dear,... build the fire!" The command issued was answered by a resigned shrug and Adige as ever was eager to sing for his supper among the rich and Sophia's clients were that, the international rich, swept pass Madame and did as commanded. "Don't light it and do be neat, keep the area clear near the ottoman and don''t get in Mde. Chia's way. "
Mde. Chia was a superbly skilled and perfectly ancient tailor, one rumored to have escaped the Reds in Mde Chaing Kai Shek's personal entourage. Information which overawed the younger clients and caused no end of amusement to Sophia's old guard ones, who all knew that Mde. Chi'a had grown up on Larkin street and was as American as Betty Bloomer. Her tailoring skills having been acquired from her grandfather and a keen, honest, love of the work. Mde. Chia's cost was prohibitive but eagerly paid for as her skilled use of a needle could transform a 10 into an 8 and make the client who was wearing an off the rack 12 feel 18 again. That was the magic they paid for and pay they did. Mde. Chia also had a wonderfully reassuring smile and an ability to blend into the woodwork unless needed. Mde Chia brought forth an ice filled Christofle champagne cooler from the mini cabinet hidden in the corner and retrieving the bottle of vodka from behind the daybed placed same in the cooler and set both on the granite topped 18th century bombe chest nearest the mirrors opposite the apricot colored Louis 15th marble mantelpiece where Adige was skillfully building the start of a future fire. "Adige where are the glasses"..."lowrd woman..enough " roared the kneeling man. " Have I been called here to amuse our Isabel or be a house slave...? HA! piped in Mde. Chia , a rank rebellion is what this is and it will stop at once.. I order it so" , Grabbing the vodka a mock imperial Sophia playfully cried out Comrades here's a toast to the success of our mission.". Sophia filled three Moser shot glasses and passing the salver between them insisted that each.take a glass. " A toast than ...here's to us." they clinked the bottom of the others glass and raised the glass to their lips. The doorbell in the front salon chimed. A gulped drink followed by a breathless Sophia ordering "Quick..Adridge drape yourself over the ottoman and do be amusing Mde. Chia test the lights over the gowns and the ones over the step platform in front of the mirrors .. oh and fresh glasses. A delighted Sophia checked her makeup in the mirrors.
Sophia, a picture of elegant composure, glided into the courtyard scooping up Coty the Pomeranian and strode down the long hallway through to the front of her Salon and answered the door. It was the client.
Sopia opens the French doors from her petite salon and a lively and an unfailingly groomed Pomeranian bounces into the courtyard, followed by an elegant Sophia. The lady of the Maison places a silvertray carrying a bottle of Saint Germaine wine and Perrier down and returns to the salon to retrive another tray of cheeses and two Saint Louis goblets. A bistro table is set for two in the center of the courtyard, away from the fountain, but close enough to hear it rather than outside noise. Sophia reflects upon the scene she has created. Taking it in with a critical eye, Sophia looks not only to the pristine cleanliness of the sunny rose scented courtyard but also to the effect created by the round table covered in lilac Italian linen pressed to perfection and set with the lightly colored Dresden plates, each piled high with macaroons, cheeses, crackers and set off by Regence sterling and the Saint Louis goblets rimmed in gold. It is a lovely scene. The wonder of it is not in the elegant appointments but that that the light rose scented courtyard could be in Eze or any other quiet village in the Maritime Alpes and not on Sutter Street in downtown San Francisco.
Leaving the French doors to the petite salon open allows a half dozen magnificent evening gowns hung on a gilted rolling rack to be seen by her guest seated in the courtyard. The position of the gowns, just in view, seems the right thing to introduce the collection. Light conversation, light food, flowing wine, than perfection worked in silk, tulle, linen Standing next to the gold ballroom chairs placed by the table, Sophia basks for a moment in the sunlight,. fall had been chillier than hoped for but today was bright and felt warm. A burst od spring. Still it was late fall and this was San Francisco not Eze so leaving the doors open to the petite Salon might chill the room. "I'll have Adridge prepare a fire", she thought, a quick use of her i phone and Adige was summoned. Sophia the exceedingly beautiful, perfectly coiffed, effortlessly charming 50 year old owner of this house must sell all the gowns she has sample ordered for her client Isabele. The selection is perfect. A sudden San Francisco fog descending into this private world could make it less so.
Each garment of the spring collection was a masterpiece of the couturiers art. Color, shape, form, every detail thought out and executed flawlessly. Sophia knew every physical asset the client should display as well as every scar or pound that needed to be hidden. Sophia also knows what trend and new style her client followed, as well as every fashion thought that the client had, for the very simple reason that those thoughts had been placed there over the years by a guiding Sophia. The secret was in keeping the client merrily engaged.
Isabele liked conversation and a drink before viewing clothes and when in the right toasty mood would gladly submit to the final pining of a dozen creations. The alcohol was as needed as the gowns. The occasional rebellion rose up among her ladies, usually over cos or time delay and a glass or two would never fail to close the sale. Sophie had long learned to wait for the decision. A sale was always a foregone conclusion. If the dark brown satin evening paintsuit by the new French designer wasn't to the ladies taste than perhaps the Italian gown, taupe and covered in tiny Austrian crystals, a brilliant working of tailoring and embellishment from a season ago would fit the demands of her diary? As confident as she was of the rightness of the selection for Isabeles 50 something pilates toned body and the demands of a winemakers social life, the rolling rack of yet to be viewed gowns, all ordered for Isabelle by Sophia had yet to be purchased and were a substatial investment of time, reputation and guile that needed to sell. The thought of not succeeding briefly annoyed her and tested her practiced look of unflappable perfection that had been cultivated over 35 years of working in the world of created beauty.
." Adridge... where is that fool she thought - pushing the app once again before giving up on 21st century technology. No reply. In haste there arose from our lady a bellowing yell more befitting a teamster than a superbly beautiful woman dressed in an elegant Alexander McQueen white lace dress. Still no reply. Stepping into the long interior hallway that connected the courtyard to the front salon, Sophia bellowed, "ADRIDGE..WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?". Adridge appeared silently at the end of the hall bearing a huge bottle of chilled french vodka and a salver with a set of crimson colored Moser shot glasses. Ghastly thin, Addige personified a qoute of the Duchess of Windsor, " nothing to look at so the only thing to do was dress better than everyone else", Adige did so with flair. Today's custome was a full legnth Venetian dressing gown of velvet brocade, light yellow with teal blue frogging and cord piping, the lining was silk of the deepest shade of navy blue worn over his day uniform of perfectly tailored deep grey flannel pants and a blue and white stripped shirt. " Dear girl I'm not hard of hearing.", Sophia replied "wonderful man, now please do be a useful thing and lay a fire in the salon, I'm afraid it may become chilly" .Adige holding the Vodka bottle up replied, " Dearest that's why I've brought this to your table". Adidge, 45, gay, flabby, was a not particularly sober, not particularly talented decorator, who was very particular only about his clothes, the alcohol he drank at others expense, and most importantly that his tricks be straight or as he liked to say "straight but straying," An expensive french vodka culled from the cellar was his selection today and he placed the chilled frosted bottle dead center on the round table in the open courtyard. Sophia removed it at once and striding into the petite salon placed it behind the daybed facing the four sided mirror, away a bit but still handy to the rack of clothes should need arise to confront the image reflected in those mirrors.
Sophia's clients knew no world other than one of calm perfection. A world as sweetly scented as the abundant floral arrangements she changed daily in the petite salon. Worry was simply unknown and if it did arise, typically went no deeper than a feeling of general anxiety associated with the fear of hosting a boring dinner party. A vodka drinking, gay male interior designer, while not an unknown companion in Isabelle Harris's set, would distract from the sale and the sale of the collection, all of it, was the reason for this tete a tete. "Oh you.... bother you're such a puritan Soph." saidAddige. "Adige be a dear,... build the fire!" The command issued was answered by a resigned shrug and Adige as ever was eager to sing for his supper among the rich and Sophia's clients were that, the international rich, swept pass Madame and did as commanded. "Don't light it and do be neat, keep the area clear near the ottoman and don''t get in Mde. Chia's way. "
Mde. Chia was a superbly skilled and perfectly ancient tailor, one rumored to have escaped the Reds in Mde Chaing Kai Shek's personal entourage. Information which overawed the younger clients and caused no end of amusement to Sophia's old guard ones, who all knew that Mde. Chi'a had grown up on Larkin street and was as American as Betty Bloomer. Her tailoring skills having been acquired from her grandfather and a keen, honest, love of the work. Mde. Chia's cost was prohibitive but eagerly paid for as her skilled use of a needle could transform a 10 into an 8 and make the client who was wearing an off the rack 12 feel 18 again. That was the magic they paid for and pay they did. Mde. Chia also had a wonderfully reassuring smile and an ability to blend into the woodwork unless needed. Mde Chia brought forth an ice filled Christofle champagne cooler from the mini cabinet hidden in the corner and retrieving the bottle of vodka from behind the daybed placed same in the cooler and set both on the granite topped 18th century bombe chest nearest the mirrors opposite the apricot colored Louis 15th marble mantelpiece where Adige was skillfully building the start of a future fire. "Adige where are the glasses"..."lowrd woman..enough " roared the kneeling man. " Have I been called here to amuse our Isabel or be a house slave...? HA! piped in Mde. Chia , a rank rebellion is what this is and it will stop at once.. I order it so" , Grabbing the vodka a mock imperial Sophia playfully cried out Comrades here's a toast to the success of our mission.". Sophia filled three Moser shot glasses and passing the salver between them insisted that each.take a glass. " A toast than ...here's to us." they clinked the bottom of the others glass and raised the glass to their lips. The doorbell in the front salon chimed. A gulped drink followed by a breathless Sophia ordering "Quick..Adridge drape yourself over the ottoman and do be amusing Mde. Chia test the lights over the gowns and the ones over the step platform in front of the mirrors .. oh and fresh glasses. A delighted Sophia checked her makeup in the mirrors.
Sophia, a picture of elegant composure, glided into the courtyard scooping up Coty the Pomeranian and strode down the long hallway through to the front of her Salon and answered the door. It was the client.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Demodee classe inferieure de la mode or Fools attire
It was a singular pleasure for this gentleman to assemble the items and accessories to be worn for the day. Assuring himself that each item was in excellent repair and of the current fashion, he pictured himself in the events of the day, checking both weather reports and online crime reports for the specific locations he would visit before deciding on level of luxe. It was all well and good to entertain idea's of the new frugality but standards must be kept and appropriate levels of attire for the season and city were simply not negotiable. In fact negotiating on level of dress was never a passing thought. Frugality may have entered the cultural lexicon but that translated to one new suit added to his well developed wardrobe rather than three. Standards for grooming with attendant cost were exempted from the wise new regime of thrift. The guiding maxim remained wear what fit, was flattering and appropriate for season, weather, time, place and always under dress if not certain.
Fashion for him wasn't a matter of striving, he had always dressed above what his peers would have thought prudent and he had long ago embraced a singular style so that what would be held as pretentious on others was natural for him.. It was simply a matter of sense and fun and as it was far from being an obsession it was deemed a most healthy thing to do. The gentleman liked clothes. It was fun to pair pocket square to shirt and tie, cuff links to suit, socks to play off pants and cut. Layers were always a delightful idea, as were hats, gloves and bags. The gentleman delighted in dressing for a late fall crisp bright day in San Francisco as it often offered him the chance to wear topcoat, scarf, gloves and sunglasses. Black was avoided save for a cashmere topcoat and an Irish dinner jacket. He held black as being far from chic and in fact found that color to be mournful looking on all men. The gentleman did own a black suit but it had last seen the light of day at a funeral. It was no longer a fashionable cut but he kept it as he felt it somehow respectful to wear an out of fashion black suit to a funeral. That idea most likely a result of his years spent at an all boy's Roman Catholic College Preparatory conducted by Religious Brothers who wore contemporary black suits as Habit and reinforced by the sensible and proper tones of his membership in the Episcopal church.
This particular day he dressed in a very casual manner. The attire dictated by a date to luncheon in an area that had long ago deemed it mandatory that professionals should dress casually. A dictum of casual fashion didn't require frumpy or dour and it seemed a good idea to pair a red cashmere crewneck cableknit sweater over a black polo shirt, worn under a black Burberry downvest with novacheck lining. An absurdly expensive pair of jeans worn with a rugged cowhide belt from Barney's and zippered black half boots completed the look. It was a habit of his to mentally add up the cost of the items and the closer he got to $2,000.00 and still not being in anything he'd wear to his own office made him feel much like what he felt a supporter of Louis XIV did as he dressed to dine with sans-culotte. Adding a Swiss watch, signet ring, French wallet and as it was a rainy day, a British umbrella and grabbing a briefcase and portfolio he found the tally to be just under $4,000.00. Armed with this knowledge he bravely set forth into a world which for millions had been made grim by year's of unremitting bad financial news.
The gentleman's own situation was more or less like a good deal of other middle class Americans, one thought twice about purchases and planned vacations instead of indulging in madcap last minute flights but a small private income, a car bought and paid for and a charming house located in a solid neighborhood, one without a mortgage and remodeled during the years of the boom, softened the screaming headlines of ruin, destitution and political incompetence. In fact, when he desired, his days could be spent in his small gardens or reading in his tiny library enveloped in the world of Graham Greene and the Mitford sisters. The gentleman felt himself fortunate but did keenly miss those the economic tide had swept far away. It was a paradox that as much as he loved fashion and luxury the lack of ownership of items of splendor by friends or lovers was never a bar to intimate friendship and acceptance. Associates with gracious manners acquired were held on equal footing with those to the Manor born. It was all simply a way of getting through life pleasantly and the crassness of the times had made the kind heart a dearer than usual thing. The gentleman felt keenly not the lose of value on investments so much as the theft of friends by hard times and the passage of time.
Business was at hand and business was to be conducted. The journey south a pleasant drive through scenery unchanged by the passing years of suburban sprawl. The destination, a former agricultural town, a ,place now filled with headquarters of companies that have revolutionized communication, entertainment, research, news, literature, university education, employment, shopping, government, music, in fact the whole interchange of commerce and the private lives of people throughout the world. The capitalization of these companies is, he knew, the envy of the business world and billions are possessed by hundreds and millions by thousands of the employees in this small peninsula town situated between the bay and the Santa Clara Mountains. It wasn't the wealth of the place that struck the gentleman from San Francisco, no that was long established and expected, it was the ever present feel of there being several economic divides in the town. Each unique and uninterested in the other. Uninterested chiefly because of years long habit of the one being disinterested in the other and nothing, not the end of agriculture nor te demise of mainline suburban dreams would change that. They were, he thought, much like jugglers rings, each holding in common being metal spheres tossed in the air but nothing else, as they never interlocked or met. The old line suburban town with one or two reminders of the agricultural past went about its affairs along side a work a day poor immigrant Asian community that manifested its business presence in shockingly ghetto stores and horrid ethnic themed cafes. Both were shadowed by the unfathomable power and wealth of the tech corridor by the bay.
The unifying theme, he soon was made aware of, was that to a man the populace was poorly dressed. It wasn't that they were dirty but at some point someone or everyone decided that frump was the mode of the day. The gentleman decided that like a rigid English Puritan the new religion of tech. held fashion to be suspect. This was grimiest Boston in golden California, the fashion ethos being of those who were educated in a studied ignore of New York chic. 40 somethings in t- shirt and sneakers, 20 somethings in polo shirts and cargo shorts, old women in soiled slacks and hideous windbreakers all reminded the gentleman of the pictures he had seen of the Chinese cultural revolution. Even those remembered images did not compare to the shock the gentleman from San Francisco felt in seeing men of a certain age, clearly by bearing all men of education, property, travel, full of life experience and holding deep responsibility in business firms of note dressed as if they were set to clean bathrooms. The gentleman thought the esteem which the wide world held the Lions of Capital was greatly reduced when said Lion dressed like a rag a muffin or refugee from Cuba! The gentleman thought, well this is a fine thing "all well and good you may have millions but if that is how you dress and present yourself. well than really what's the point and frankly it makes you uninteresting and rather suspect. If the man in venture capital or angel funding is this sort and that sort is a full on slacker unable to buck the tide of the socially challenged, why should I deal with him? Than the idea occurred to him that these sorts were the upper middle class, a class that always wished to look like the truly rich and profoundly powerful. Those sought after leaders of the worlds new age were the sorts sometimes spied by the bayside but mostly not as they all worked in sealed off self contained worlds and little needed the downtown. It than occurred to the gentleman that they, the residents, were long accustomed to posing as if being members of, if not actually being leaders of society and they merely were continuing the habit by following the dress of the truly ruling class. They, the powerful, no longer wore bespoke suits, no that was for Communists in Shanghai, here the gentleman from San Francisco observed, the rich or more precisely described, men that are merely millionaires who are to a man made miserable by the knowledge that they are not billionaires, dress as janitors, They are held in contempt by the billionaires as being a stupid sort of fellow. Stupid in that rather than hold true to their own idea's of class and dress they ape the manners of under 40 billionaires who all dress like undergraduates.
The absurdity of discussing business with a fat sixty year old grey haired male lawyer clad in jeans and a shirt with tails out is not for the faint of heart or at least not to conducted over lunch. It also, thought our friend, showed they had no backbone, for they willingly sacrificed attractive dress for that of a fool. What else, thought the gentleman from San Francisco could an ancient 60 something professional of either sex dressed in ragged jeans be called? The fools attire, demodee classe inferieure de la mode, is all the rage. The gentleman cancelled his lunch plans and sitting down to dine alone thought it well that he had learned long before never to believe that clothes made the wearer your friend. It did however more than ever make it the mark and measure of the man.
Fashion for him wasn't a matter of striving, he had always dressed above what his peers would have thought prudent and he had long ago embraced a singular style so that what would be held as pretentious on others was natural for him.. It was simply a matter of sense and fun and as it was far from being an obsession it was deemed a most healthy thing to do. The gentleman liked clothes. It was fun to pair pocket square to shirt and tie, cuff links to suit, socks to play off pants and cut. Layers were always a delightful idea, as were hats, gloves and bags. The gentleman delighted in dressing for a late fall crisp bright day in San Francisco as it often offered him the chance to wear topcoat, scarf, gloves and sunglasses. Black was avoided save for a cashmere topcoat and an Irish dinner jacket. He held black as being far from chic and in fact found that color to be mournful looking on all men. The gentleman did own a black suit but it had last seen the light of day at a funeral. It was no longer a fashionable cut but he kept it as he felt it somehow respectful to wear an out of fashion black suit to a funeral. That idea most likely a result of his years spent at an all boy's Roman Catholic College Preparatory conducted by Religious Brothers who wore contemporary black suits as Habit and reinforced by the sensible and proper tones of his membership in the Episcopal church.
This particular day he dressed in a very casual manner. The attire dictated by a date to luncheon in an area that had long ago deemed it mandatory that professionals should dress casually. A dictum of casual fashion didn't require frumpy or dour and it seemed a good idea to pair a red cashmere crewneck cableknit sweater over a black polo shirt, worn under a black Burberry downvest with novacheck lining. An absurdly expensive pair of jeans worn with a rugged cowhide belt from Barney's and zippered black half boots completed the look. It was a habit of his to mentally add up the cost of the items and the closer he got to $2,000.00 and still not being in anything he'd wear to his own office made him feel much like what he felt a supporter of Louis XIV did as he dressed to dine with sans-culotte. Adding a Swiss watch, signet ring, French wallet and as it was a rainy day, a British umbrella and grabbing a briefcase and portfolio he found the tally to be just under $4,000.00. Armed with this knowledge he bravely set forth into a world which for millions had been made grim by year's of unremitting bad financial news.
The gentleman's own situation was more or less like a good deal of other middle class Americans, one thought twice about purchases and planned vacations instead of indulging in madcap last minute flights but a small private income, a car bought and paid for and a charming house located in a solid neighborhood, one without a mortgage and remodeled during the years of the boom, softened the screaming headlines of ruin, destitution and political incompetence. In fact, when he desired, his days could be spent in his small gardens or reading in his tiny library enveloped in the world of Graham Greene and the Mitford sisters. The gentleman felt himself fortunate but did keenly miss those the economic tide had swept far away. It was a paradox that as much as he loved fashion and luxury the lack of ownership of items of splendor by friends or lovers was never a bar to intimate friendship and acceptance. Associates with gracious manners acquired were held on equal footing with those to the Manor born. It was all simply a way of getting through life pleasantly and the crassness of the times had made the kind heart a dearer than usual thing. The gentleman felt keenly not the lose of value on investments so much as the theft of friends by hard times and the passage of time.
Business was at hand and business was to be conducted. The journey south a pleasant drive through scenery unchanged by the passing years of suburban sprawl. The destination, a former agricultural town, a ,place now filled with headquarters of companies that have revolutionized communication, entertainment, research, news, literature, university education, employment, shopping, government, music, in fact the whole interchange of commerce and the private lives of people throughout the world. The capitalization of these companies is, he knew, the envy of the business world and billions are possessed by hundreds and millions by thousands of the employees in this small peninsula town situated between the bay and the Santa Clara Mountains. It wasn't the wealth of the place that struck the gentleman from San Francisco, no that was long established and expected, it was the ever present feel of there being several economic divides in the town. Each unique and uninterested in the other. Uninterested chiefly because of years long habit of the one being disinterested in the other and nothing, not the end of agriculture nor te demise of mainline suburban dreams would change that. They were, he thought, much like jugglers rings, each holding in common being metal spheres tossed in the air but nothing else, as they never interlocked or met. The old line suburban town with one or two reminders of the agricultural past went about its affairs along side a work a day poor immigrant Asian community that manifested its business presence in shockingly ghetto stores and horrid ethnic themed cafes. Both were shadowed by the unfathomable power and wealth of the tech corridor by the bay.
The unifying theme, he soon was made aware of, was that to a man the populace was poorly dressed. It wasn't that they were dirty but at some point someone or everyone decided that frump was the mode of the day. The gentleman decided that like a rigid English Puritan the new religion of tech. held fashion to be suspect. This was grimiest Boston in golden California, the fashion ethos being of those who were educated in a studied ignore of New York chic. 40 somethings in t- shirt and sneakers, 20 somethings in polo shirts and cargo shorts, old women in soiled slacks and hideous windbreakers all reminded the gentleman of the pictures he had seen of the Chinese cultural revolution. Even those remembered images did not compare to the shock the gentleman from San Francisco felt in seeing men of a certain age, clearly by bearing all men of education, property, travel, full of life experience and holding deep responsibility in business firms of note dressed as if they were set to clean bathrooms. The gentleman thought the esteem which the wide world held the Lions of Capital was greatly reduced when said Lion dressed like a rag a muffin or refugee from Cuba! The gentleman thought, well this is a fine thing "all well and good you may have millions but if that is how you dress and present yourself. well than really what's the point and frankly it makes you uninteresting and rather suspect. If the man in venture capital or angel funding is this sort and that sort is a full on slacker unable to buck the tide of the socially challenged, why should I deal with him? Than the idea occurred to him that these sorts were the upper middle class, a class that always wished to look like the truly rich and profoundly powerful. Those sought after leaders of the worlds new age were the sorts sometimes spied by the bayside but mostly not as they all worked in sealed off self contained worlds and little needed the downtown. It than occurred to the gentleman that they, the residents, were long accustomed to posing as if being members of, if not actually being leaders of society and they merely were continuing the habit by following the dress of the truly ruling class. They, the powerful, no longer wore bespoke suits, no that was for Communists in Shanghai, here the gentleman from San Francisco observed, the rich or more precisely described, men that are merely millionaires who are to a man made miserable by the knowledge that they are not billionaires, dress as janitors, They are held in contempt by the billionaires as being a stupid sort of fellow. Stupid in that rather than hold true to their own idea's of class and dress they ape the manners of under 40 billionaires who all dress like undergraduates.
The absurdity of discussing business with a fat sixty year old grey haired male lawyer clad in jeans and a shirt with tails out is not for the faint of heart or at least not to conducted over lunch. It also, thought our friend, showed they had no backbone, for they willingly sacrificed attractive dress for that of a fool. What else, thought the gentleman from San Francisco could an ancient 60 something professional of either sex dressed in ragged jeans be called? The fools attire, demodee classe inferieure de la mode, is all the rage. The gentleman cancelled his lunch plans and sitting down to dine alone thought it well that he had learned long before never to believe that clothes made the wearer your friend. It did however more than ever make it the mark and measure of the man.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)