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Practice

  The orange-clad cityscape of Jersey City as it basks in the late afternoon August sun is the object presently dignified by Jarvis’ unperturbed gaze as he sits in his Manhattan office, Himalaya conference room to be exact, his back to the conference table where fifteen people are sitting, and he looks through the floor-to-ceiling high-performance glass now at a particular evergreen in Sinatra Park that’s nonetheless, again, clad in orange in said August, late afternoon sun -- and he’s idly listening to the Oxford-educated voice droning on behind him. Behind the back of his seat, more exactly: he’s sitting back in his chair, head to toe in Ermenegildo Zegna, legs crossed, elbow on the armrest, his chin resting in his hand and we’re at the point in the negotiation not getting anywhere clear that the leader of the front on the other side of the table has rather randomly resorted to talk about you, or rather, talk about what he thinks about you, to the table, everyone, openly, your team and his alike. The Oxford-educated voice goes on behind the back of Jarvis’ seat:

  “I tell you. It’s amazing just how much things can change in just over two decades. Sure, you could argue that twenty-two years is a long time, within the context of a… lifetime. Within the, to be more precise, the context of your typical, contemporary, civilized quote unquote Western man – one with adequate access to, you know, good health care, nutrition, education, shelter… today, in 2019, the average male life expectancy in the United States is a whopping 78.79 years. It is. I looked it up.”

  He leans to his left to the mid-thirties semi-good-looking readhead taking notes and says, in a loud mock-whisper, “Looked it up on my phone as I took a shit in Jarvis’ corporate restroom earlier so…”

  Now back to the room: “So, it makes sense to think that roughly a fifth of your life is in fact a long time. But then… throw in context. And, if twenty-two years is the span of time that it takes that typical contemporary civilized Western man to go from being a broke, almost homeless, amnesia-afflicted, hickey-plagued drifter that’s just been raped, to being the world-renowned sole proprietor of a multi-million dollar architectural practice with projects across all seven continents… yes, he did get that much-coveted base/lab/resort job down in Antartica last year, case you missed it -- and… with his face gracing magazine covers regularly, a cult following in the millions, female sex partners in the billions; I mean, a Park Avenue condo among over ten other prime, grade-A pieces of real estate worldwide, twelve cars… It’s twelve, right?” He glances over to Jarvis or, more exactly, to the back of Jarvis’ seat. He looks back to the table. “An upcoming trip to outer space and a smartphone contact list that’s a veritable Who’s Who with everything from European royalty to pop music divas to Washington politicians to 20th century rock band frontmen to top-level economic policymakers to…” (he points at himself) “…Arabian princes to blockbuster Hollywood actors and directors to a handful of Ballon d'Or recipients to, believe it or not, the Pope for all that’s holy… really, if twenty-two years is the span of time that it takes that man to go from that to this…” (he slams the table to his left and then his right as he says “that” and “this”) “…then, believe me, siree, twenty-two years… it’s nothing. Nothing! Within the context of a lifetime.”

  The immaculately trimmed, dishdasha-clad Saudi prince takes a sip from his paper cup of lukewarm decaf and sets it back down on the square, 3-D printed titanium coaster with the carved-out shape of a Shallow Arch? right above the letters, “Orr Partners, LLP”, one of sixteen other such coasters set atop the gargantuan, rectangular, black glass conference room table in the middle of the gargantuan, black-glass-encased conference room. He had been addressing the other fourteen people at the table. But now he looks back at Jarvis, and beams the back of Jarvis’ chair a wide, impeccably white smile. And says: “Wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Orr?”

  “Well, you know,” starts Jarvis, “don’t believe everything an architect that’s out for money to get his thoughts built will tell you,” says Jarvis, still with his back to the table, leaning back in his chair across from the immaculately trimmed, dishdasha-clad Saudi prince, and, now grinning. “And,” he continues, now rotating in his chair to face everyone in the room, raising his left palm, “just for the record, for anyone not that familiar with the urban legend, it was a she who did the raping, okay? Just, like… I know this may not be that inclusive of me, but, you know, facts are facts. A she. And a hot one, at that.” He raises his hand slightly further, making eye contact with everyone. A few in the room chuckle. “Hey, not my fault. Facts are facts.”

  “Facts.” The immaculately trimmed, dishdasha-clad Saudi prince had said ‘facts’ in unison with Jarvis’ second ‘facts’. “Facts backed up by evidence, like the evidence of six hundred sixty six… what was it? Hickeys?”

  More scattered snickers.

  Jarvis is now rubbing his neck. “Just this morning I put some ice on one of them. Most of the rest have worn off, damn, she did a good job.”

  “Ahh, what do you all say we get back to the hickeys over here,” Rob, PJSC’s middle-aged, Somalian, U.S.-educated, bespectacled lawyer says as laughing gradually subsides on both the PJSC and the Orr Partners, LLP front.

  Jarvis, to the prince: “By the way, you do know that that resort-lab-base you mentioned, the survey point is the actual South Pole, right? Knew you’d like that. Like, you know, the arches’ center in plan. Pretty cool, huh?”

  Zoom in on Jarvis.

  His countenance is the photograph of collectedness, of unshakaeable, impenetrable certainty. This certainty, that of his own invulnerability. Jarvis dispenses an amused, lopsided smirk. Jarvis is…the guy’s good looking. You can’t deny that. And his permanent just-walked-out-of-the-hair-salon hairstyle does too contribute to the casual observer concluding that. The guy’s good-looking – you can’t deny that. And his permanent-cleaner-shaven-than-most-roman-marble-statues visage does too contribute to the casual observer concluding that. The guy’s good-looking – you can’t deny that. And his permanently sharp-as-a-night-hawk's-when-hunting-and-for-sure-this-guy-lives-half-his-life-literally-sipping-on-Tanqueray-and-freshly-squeezed-O-J-and-tanning-with-cucumber-slices-over-them-as-the-cash-rolls-in-while-other-architects-and-engineers-at-his-firm-work-out-the-details-involved-in-turning-his-sensational-genius-parti-idea-into-all-kinds-of-different-types-of-buildings eyes do too contribute to the casual observer concluding that. Sure the guy's good-looking. Even looks young for his age. And says he doesn't, but evidently does, care for his looks. Sure, a born-mesomorph. Sure, six-foot. And living behind a layer of Brioni and Tom Ford and Kiton and Zegna and Charvet whether at the office, at a fundraiser, at home, out sailing, up in the chopper or slumming in the subway or at the park -- while also regularly working out -- show it.

  But going about your life with a posture that's straight, head held high, shoulders back... unless of course if it's maybe some Friday and it's midnight and you're lounging at some exclusive nightclub in the Upper East Side and you’re slumped back in your cushy -- yep, cushy -- burgundy leather sofa with a glass of scotch in the one hand and a stunning hardbody’s ass in the other... show it. Jarvis takes a sip of the Vat 69 in his glass. The cold, still almost perfectly cubic cube of ice that rests against his upper lip is almost as cold as the aforementioned glass in his left hand – not to mention the aforementioned ass in his right one. This lounge they’re at is in the shape of a shallow arch. In theory, he did it. A disgruntled ex-employee ex-one-time-lay pretty much stole it from him – he didn’t have the heart to sue. Plus, who knows. She might be worth another bang some odd day. Upholstered and wallpapered like a 60’s mafia movie set, with intimately-lit round tables arrayed along a stage where it’s either Rod Dangerfield or a Big Band who’re keeping the cocktail-attired entertained; but again, interior space shaped like a shallow arch, he’s the first to admit that the client went too far in their fixation on an ‘Orr’.

  He sets the glass down in unintentional synchronicity with the onstage drummer’s current punchline-fill final cymbal crash. No Dangerfield, no Dwight McDaniels either, Wordmaster D claims he can hold his own. This emcee however looks more like a reggae bandmate than a rap artist. Struggling rap artist at that, if Jarvis may be allowed. To make up for this Rastafarian countenance that, there: he perhaps keeps intact solely to satisfy some religious mandate, Jarvis casually reflects, underneath the dreads and the beads and above the red, yellow and green-painted lion face of his tie-dye t-shirt hangs a single -- not that thick -- gold chain of questionable, to Jarvis, karat rating with a similarly single, similarly questionably-karat-rated pendant, this one of an oversize -- of course -- BMW logo.

  “Yo yo yo is that Mr. Jarvis Orr in tha house? Front row, right here center-left?”

  Oh, shit.

  “Yo yo! I’ll be dammed! Mr. World-class STARchitect Mr. Jarvis ORR in tha HOUSE to-NITE!!” Stage spotlight noisily rotates and centers on Jarvis’ table, flooding both he and his date and their drinks with Golden-Age-Hollywood stadium-light-white light. But both beam perfect whites at the stage and surrounding, cheering, equally perfect-whites-beaming, cocktail-clad, clapping crowd – he lightly amused, she heavily embarrassed. Not getting up, Orr raises his hand -- not the right one -- waves at the crowd. As the clapping subsides and this giant spotlight swirls back to douse center stage again, Wordmaster D continues: “So, Mr. Orr.”

  “Jarvis,” you can hear Jarvis call out in the background.

  “Ok. We on a first name basis, there now, Mr. O- I mean, Jarvis, all right! Get a discount on my new house??” Some in the audience laugh.

  “Schedule an appointment,” you can hear Jarvis call out, to the crowd’s now raucous laughter.

  “Hey there Jar.. I mean, weren’t we like, already personal there?” More laughs from the crowd. “Just like a minute ago?” More laughter.

  Jarvis just smiling, shrugging, his date perhaps seeking protection from the not-anymore-literal-but-nonetheless-quite-there spotlight, leaning now much closer to him, arm to arm, her cheekbone against his wide shoulder. The laughter starts subsiding,

  “So then let’s get personal. Tell me about yourself. Hell, I know that! Anyone not know about Mr. Orr there raise your hand, see? No one. Let’s see. Let’s go basic, then. Tell you what. Tell me about your date. Hold up, hold up! I don’t mean the lovely lady by your side, Mr. O… Jarvis.”

  Scattered chuckles across the slightly-bent-bar-shaped hall. Jarvis grins on, amused.

  “I meant your date as in the event. Tonight’s night-out event, in your life. How it started out. And where is it… going??”

  Laughs, hoots and cheers from the crowd. Someone shouts out, “Rap rep!”

  And now the crowd goes wild. And they begin to chant, “Rap rep! Rap rep! Rap rep! Rap rep!”

  Jarvis looks around. His date looks terrified. He’s grinning widely, shaking his head slightly. For some unknown reason, while her visage is, too, frozen in a wide grin, her head’s doing the opposite of his. It’s slightly nodding.

  “Yo yo yo that’s right! Mr. Jarvis Orr and his lovely date in tha house!” hollers the rapper into his mic. Wordmaster D appears well more than amused. “You know the drill, Mr. Orr. You do, don’t you?”

  The chanting continues: “Rap rep! Rap rep! Rap rep! Rap rep!” Wilksmarg, of Jarvis’ accounting team for the CNPC project, walks over from the next table and leans into Jarvis’ ear: “You’re supposed to go up to him and basically tell him what to put into rap.”

  Jarvis replies, “Figured as much.”

  “So basically in this case, I guess sorta what you did tonight before this and what your plans for later are, I know, I know, but whatever bro, that’s what it is.” Wilksmarg and Jarvis lightly fist-pump and Wilksmarg returns to his table. Jarvis then turns to his date and kisses her lips, peels his right palm from her right ass cheek it was kind of stuck to, and gets up, to the crowd’s delight. He walks over the roughly fifteen-to-twenty feet to the stage, climbs the two steps up to it, comes up to the expectant entertainer, and leans to his ear. The crowd starts settling down, perhaps hoping to hear what Jarvis will say, but there’s no chance: Wordmaster D’s prudently holding the mike away from his body.

  The back of Jarvis’ head and the rapper’s perspiration-heavy light brown face fill the screen now.

  About twenty seconds in, as Jarvis relates on unheard by anyone but the rapper, the emcee brings the mike back to his mouth, eyes the audience, and says, “Lardamercy,” to instant laughs from the crowd.

  He listens on. Jarvis is gesticulating slightly with his hand. He’s not really speaking into the rapper’s ear, but rather speaking with his head very close to the rapper’s.

  Wordmaster D suddenly again holds the mike back to his mouth and says, “Good Lord!” to more laughs from the crowd.

  Jarvis’ date is still frozen in her seat, grinning slightly less.

  At about a minute ten, Jarvis stands up straight and takes a step back, and the rapper does too, saying into the mike, “AAAll right. Now let me process that.”

  Jarvis turns to walk back to his seat, stops, turns back to the rapper and says a few more things. The rapper spits out a laugh. Jarvis again appears to tell him more things, then pats the rapper’s arm twice. The rapper laughs again. Jarvis again turns back, and this time does make it back to his table.

  “Ookaay misters and misses, Wordmaster D processing all that shit in here,” says D as he mockingly jabs his temple repeatedly with his index finger.

  The crowd starts again: “Rap rep! Rap rep! Rap rep! Rap rep!”

  Jarvis, back at the table, his hand slides back through the slit in the back of his date’s romper, and back down to the smooth, cushy, slightly warmer now ass cheek.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Yep: “Cushy.”

  Finally says Wordmaster, “Okay. Hit it, José!!”

  At the onstage drummer’s hit of the crash cymbal once again, starts this wicked, old school, booming, basic, really slamming 4/4 beat, and the crowd goes wild again, and starts clapping along with the snare hit. And just as the piano starts, Wordmaster goes, “Yo yo yo, Jarvis Orr in tha house!!” And then,

  "J-O-R-R -- he's the king,

  Of the shallow arch, you know, that's his thing

  Penn 1 office, conf room is the scene,

  With Arabian nights prince named Abu, that's his queen

  No, not queen like the sublimity at his side that you’ve seen

  But a client nonetheless, not an easy thing to win,

  Discussing terms, but not resolving,

  In this architecture world, your building’s the offspring

  Jarvis gets up, it's time to take a pause,

  Head to the coffee area, for a jungle-themed cause

  In the jungle-themed oasis, he finds his peace,

  Amidst the chaos, here he'll release

  Sips his coffee, lets the tension fade,

  In this moment of solitude, the deal can wait. Everybody!”

  The audience repeats:

  “In the jungle-themed oasis, he finds his peace,

  Amidst the chaos, here he'll release

  Sips his coffee, lets the tension fade,

  In this moment of solitude, the deal can wait!"

  Wordmaster:

  “Yo, so Jarvis feelin' fine, architect in his prime,

  In his company café, steam rising, sublime

  Grabs a coffee, Panama Geisha, black as night,

  Sees a girl born in '97, beautiful sight

  She sippin' mint decaf, he’s like, ‘Nah, that ain't me,’

  But her navy pinstripe romper and wedges, fly as can be

  No socks, no nylons, that's style he dig,

  Bare skin perfection, minds start to rig

  Carmelia, rhinoplasty, severed heads in the mix,

  They talk Kamikaze dives, Rembrandt brushstrokes, Yellow Kicks

  Prince William’s tales, Port-Au-Prince scenes in heat,

  Abduction plots, Iceland summers, interest rates at their peak

  He point blank asks her out, they vibe, plans set for later,

  Meet at the elevator lobby, 7:30's the crater

  Dispatching Arabs first, business suits him tight,

  Tonight’s the night, Jarvis and her take flight. Everybody!”

  “He point blank asks her out, they vibe, plans set for later,

  Meet at the elevator lobby, 7:30's the crater

  Dispatching Arabs first, business suits him tight,

  Tonight’s the night, Jarvis and her take flight"

  “Yo, Jarvis back in board room, a scene of disorder,

  Fifteen heads turn quiet as he crosses the border

  Sunset painting Jersey, amber glow in his sight,

  Even Abu stops talkin', says, ‘Man of the hour's in the light’

  ‘Sign this as it is, hit hot spots like Dubai,’

  Jarvis nods, says, ‘Not tonight, got other highs. Bottom line:

  Two weeks for schematics, CD's in six months time,

  Advanced payment, five percent or 2.5 mil, by Wednesday's line’

  Lawyer checks the watch, ‘7:15, that's three days clear,

  Mr. Darwish, we cool? Let's make it sincere’

  Client says, ‘Put it on wax,’ the deal’s been saved,

  Jarvis thanks the room, hugs Abu, hits a road well-paved

  From conference chaos to a night that’s serene,

  Jarvis plays the architect, building more than just dreams. Everybody!”

  “From conference chaos to a night that’s serene,

  Jarvis plays the architect, building more than just dreams!”

  “So Jarvis heads to the lobby, center of the office scene,

  57th floor, 35,000 square feet -- a size that’s obscene

  Penn 1 tower, 33rd and 34th, west of Seventh,

  Next to Penn Station, MSG's cold presence

  Comes up to the elevator lobby, confidence in his stride,

  Sees the girl, sees those yams, and his disbelief he can't hide

  L-E-G-S, fly-girl C-A-L-V-E-S fully in sight,

  This B's an animal, a worth-a-fight, a vision in the night, everybody!”

  “Comes up to the elevator lobby, confidence in his stride,

  Sees the girl, sees those yams, and his disbelief he can't hide

  L-E-G-S, fly-girl C-A-L-V-E-S fully in sight,

  This B's an animal, a worth-a-fight, a vision in the night!”

  “She hits the elevator button, Jarvis says with a grin,

  ‘So sorry, B, but, we're takin' stairs, not in’

  Takes her arm gentlemanly, leads her to the fire escape,

  She’s bewildered, but follows without a break

  ‘Let me take these wedges off,’ she pleads with a sigh,

  He says, ‘Nonsense, just two floors, then it's the sky’

  Up the stairs they go, steps echo in the hall,

  Step into the corridor, walk along through it all

  Exit to Manhattan's early evening glow,

  All-black Eurocopter, Mercedes-Benz flow

  She cracks a joke, ‘This better not mean S&M?’

  He laughs, ‘No chance, no fan of James, trust me, friend’

  Skyline shimmering, now New Jacks's vast expanse,

  Two souls connected, seizing their fucking chance

  From office coffee jungle joint to rooftop flight,

  J-man and his muse, taking on the night. Everybody!”

  “Skyline shimmering, now New Jacks's vast expanse,

  Two souls connected, seizing their fucking chance

  From office coffee jungle joint to rooftop flight,

  J-man and his muse, taking on the night!”

  The crowd increasingly clapping along with the drummer’s snare hits, even Genevieve, who’s look is now that wonderful feminine combination of embarrassment and ecstatic glee; practically all patrons singing, swaying and clapping loudly along to these improvised choruses; Jarvis laid back, sipping on a new glass of Vat 69 with a new, almost perfectly cubic cube of ice emerging, quasi-architectural iceberg, from the amber waters of the scotch. The guitarist now starts a new riff at the verge of the new verse. And D continues,

  “Once in the chopper, she says her name is Gene,

  Jarvis nods, ‘Nice to meet you, I’m Orr, the scene’

  Makes a martini, dirty, stirs it with G flair,

  She turns to looks out the window, at the night air

  Like Pacino in Heat, before the diner meet,

  Jersey lights flickering, distant city streets

  ‘So where are we going? Your place?’ she asks, Lardamercy!

  He smiles, ‘No, the Met,’ she’s quite taken aback

  ‘The Mets game?’ she queries, confusion in her tone,

  He chuckles, ‘No, the Met-Op, in the zone.’ She says:

  ‘Me no diggin no Wagnerian female fat voice tonite,

  Me more into like what E.L.J. thought Ellis lite!’”

  Genevieve wanes her clapping as she now doubles up in laughter. She whips her head back up, beaming gleefully, radiant, continues to clap to the snare beat.

  D: “Everybody!”

  "’The Mets game?’ she queries, confusion in her tone,

  He chuckles, ‘No, the Met-Op, in the zone.’ She says:

  ‘Me no diggin’ no Wagnerian female fat voice tonite,

  Me more into like what E.L.J. thought Ellis lite!’”

  For the next verse, the band stops playing to let Wordmaster a cappella, except for the drummer who continues to foot-chick the hi-hat, holding the beat. Wordmaster goes on,

  "Yo, listen up, I'll drop some wisdom on this scene,

  Jarvis and Gene, livin' large, in a dreamy sheen,

  500 bucks a ticket for that Fashionista thrill,

  Editor in Chief, they gon' chill and feel the thrill.”

  Cymbal crash to start the bar and the musicians resume – piano, bass guitar, electric guitar, and, of course, the drums. D continues,

  “Intermission hits, they mingle with the greats,

  Alicia Alonso is there, the vibe escalates,

  Then Fred Wilpon swings by, talkin' shop and game,

  Sippin' on their drinks, different tastes but all the same

  J.O. with his J&B, Gene with Pi?a Colada,

  Gene spots Nancy Reagan, bathroom's her saga, psst!

  Nancy Regan died three years ago, Gene, that′s O.K.

  Gene shrugs and guzzles her drinks under that starry sheen

  Pembroke and high-yield, talkin' financial schemes,

  Smoking Dominican cigars, living out their dreams,

  Oxidation of the night, as they peep the haute couture,

  Pret-a-porter dreams, every detail ensured

  But beware the ruin, lurking in the luscious charm,

  Like Himalayas looming, can cause some harm,

  Downtown they strut, perks of the elite,

  Champagne Krug in hand, victory's sweet

  But back to the lecture at hand… (chick chick chick chick chick chick chick CRASH)

  Yo yo, hop in the cab, we're on the move,

  Jarvis and Gene, in the groove,

  Headed to Yojishujin, the new Kazumi Sato,

  The bistro's new, no red tomato

  $250 a head, let's take that dive

  Midtown lights, the city's alive,

  Miso Loops on the menu, gotta grab two,

  Udon Crunchies, a side for me and you

  Tonkatsu Treats, extra-large for the feast,

  Yakitori Pops, let's raise a toast to the east

  Zabuton steak with Okonomiyaki O's,

  A fusion delight, where flavor flows

  Tempura Twists, crispy and light,

  But don’t forget the Sushi Snaps, a colorful sight

  Edamame Eclairs, for that sweet finale,

  Kazumi’s culinary journey, we ride the alley

  NYC socialites, pack the place

  No matter how much Genevieve will try, can’t hide her face

  Even one of the Kardashians whose name J couldn’t recall

  Walks over to their table, fame takes its toll

  The unnamed Kardashian, with envy in her eye,

  Throws shade at Gene, don't even know why

  Mo Rivera steps in, with a fist bump high,

  As Fred Wilpon's crew rolls up, no need to be shy

  Dassai Beyond, uncorked, the scene's alive,

  In this social whirlwind, we thrive

  Sake flows, conversations intertwine,

  From societal depths to cosmic signs

  Envy lurks, beneath the surface calm,

  In this rap game, ain't nobody's palm

  But in this cosmic dance, we find our role,

  Each moment fleeting, yet playing a toll

  So let's toast to life, with glasses high,

  In this intricate web, we amplify

  The dance goes on, the beat won't fall,

  In this rap game, we stand tall

  In the grand scheme, we're just a speck,

  But within this chaos, what the heck!

  Every interaction, a tale to tell,

  In this rap universe, we prevail. Everybody!”

  “In the grand scheme, we're just a speck,

  But within this chaos, what the heck.

  Every interaction, a tale to tell,

  In this rap universe, we prevail!”

  “Enter the champion…

  Gene would rather have the lights off but they’re kept on

  So picture this,

  Wordmaster D at Rinaldo’s tonight

  Jar and Gene come join us, Rap Rep takes full flight! Everybody!”

  “Enter the champion…

  Gene would rather have the lights off but they’re kept on

  So picture this,

  Wordmaster D at Rinaldo’s tonight

  Jar and Gene come join us, Rap Rep takes full flight!”

  Yo, Genevieve’s blush level reaches new heightz. For this new verse everyone is again chanting a backing chant of ‘Rap rep! Rap rep!” Everyone keeps clapping, people by now standing, hands thrown up in the air, dancing, laughing. Wordmaster continues, a Capella led on by the hall-wide clapping and cheering, and the drummer’s diligent and lone hi-hat foot chick:

  “But what’s in store for the future? We got no crystal ball

  But thank God architect shared with D his blueprint roll

  Here’s what will be dropping a few minutes from now,

  How this Friday night Orrgene date wraps, don’t disavow”

  The band resumes.

  “They decide to slum it, rough it – walk to Jarvis' pad,

  El Dorado facing Central Park, word, that rad

  Binge drinking, pouring Krug and Jack, no, ain't done,

  In this penthouse paradise, having fun

  UHD TV on, loud tunes, vids, 'n' vibes,

  Like a time machine, 7-7 where love thrives

  Orr steps out to buy some cigs, a quick break outside,

  But back in a flash, awaiting him truly some premium hide

  Gene snap a selfie, send, say, hey, he wants two,

  Chick 2 comes in, night's suddendly brand new

  Hot threesome fucking, prime G-O-N-Z-O material,

  You’ll pardon me Gene, but this brother’s serial

  Post-fuck slumber on the king-size Jarvis and co.,

  Is this a love story? Don’t aim low

  El Dorado penthouse August night, filled with bliss,

  But will Jarvis survive this life of his?

  So yo yo everyone, keep clappin’ like this

  Give it out to Gene and J, who met at the office

  Give it out, too, to Chick two that’s three, think of it,

  Hey, can we all join in,

  Make it a hundred twenty three! Everybody!”

  Ecstatic laughing, cheering, everyone -- even the bartenders, waiters; even Genevieve standing now, clapping to the rap beat as everyone else, matter of fact only Jarvis, still sitting, still grinning, still chilling.

  The crowd repeats, at the top of their lungs, in unison,

  “So yo yo everyone, keep clappin’ like this

  Give it out to Gene and J, who met at the office

  Give it out, too, to Chick two that’s three, think of it,

  Hey, can we all join in,

  Make it a hundred twenty-three!!”

  ***

  Well, not only was that rap a pretty accurate description of Jarvis’ evening up until the ‘Rap Rep’ five hours ago, it pretty accurately also outlined the four or so early morning hours after it. Clarification: 123 people did not make it to Jarvis’ penthouse at El Dorado, at 300 Central Park West. After Rinaldo’s, only Genevieve and he had walked back to El Dorado, and once there, they had been welcomed by Rutherford, the doorman, who reverently greeted each of them, particularly courteous with ‘Mrs.Orr’. Then Jarvis and Genevieve had stepped inside the building and walked across the luxurious, recently-renovated, throwback art deco lobby, and called the elevator, and had stepped in it and pressed ‘20’ and had gone up to the 20th floor, canoodling all the way up. Once there they had emerged from the elevator and walked to Jarvis’ door, where he had placed his right index fingertip to the sensor and had the door swung open and Genevieve had been awed by the view the wide-open, ceiling-tall French windows in the living room had offered of the dark night sky over the darker-still Central Park, and over the even-still-darker Jackeline Kennedy Onassis Reservoir. He had proceeded to make drinks for them, and they had necked some more. He had turned up the home theater’s volume, which was already playing an FM Station, decidedly more than just a few notches, and had filled thusly the whole apartment with very loud music. After more necking and fondling he had unzipped his suit pant’s zipper and taken out his dick. Then, after blushing, Genevieve proceeded to grab his balls through the pant suit with her left hand and squeeze and release as if they were some kind of stress ball, J’s Johnson becoming almost fully erect and seeing this she had proceeded to put it inside her mouth and swallow it a good three or four inches past the border between her throat and her esophagus. This had made ‘J Johnson’ harder and he suggested she invite a friend over, as the rapper had envisioned. She had then withdrawn her system from the dick, coughed twice, and screamed back to him over the loud rock music, “Did he make that up or was it you who suggested that?” to which he had responded, “Let’s not let down Woodmaster D.” She had said she knew someone who’d be down for this kind of shit and by the way she was a hottie, then had proceeded to put the dick back in her mouth and with her cell phone taken a selfie, looking back at the camera, dick head pressed against the inside of her cheek, then had sent her friend a message with the text: ‘The eldorado floor 20 say mr orr’. Then, opting to crank the heat down a little since it would now be three’s company soon, he had gone downstairs to the convenience store for some Kools. He had come back up and then ‘I Get Wet’ by Andrew W.K. had been blaring from the seven speakers. She had then told Jarvis that Seasyanne, her friend, would be over in about a half and hour. They had then sat around the living room, talking about the music, about the booze, Amazon’s possible acquisition of Whole Food Markets, for around fifty minutes and then Genevieve’s friend had arrived, and not to get into too much more detail, Jarvis thought she was perhaps even hotter than Geneveive, which was a nice surprise, and the sex that ensued well proved Wordmaster’s general description rather quite accurate. No holds had been barred for the next three hours between those three. After seven (just like the amount of speakers in Jarvis’ living room home theater) shaking, screaming orgasms between the three of them, they had fallen asleep, naked bodies splayed out on the king-size bed, overlapping each other, with at least two legs cantilevered over the side of the bed.

  Now, back to the present. Jarvis is sitting by the counter at the island dividing his kitchen from his living room, along the corridor in his 20th-floor Park Avenue penthouse. He’s just seen the girls out. Genevieve even said, ‘Call me’ when she left, and he said he would, but what will happen is she’ll probably come Monday morning be greeted at her cubicule by a cordial, nifty Orr Partners pink slip. But that’s not important.

  Forty minutes later or so find Jarvis in the shower, naked, bottle by his side, sitting on the shower floor with his back against the wall and his legs splayed in front of him and with water showering on them as he takes swigs off the bottle with his right hand as his left is involved in the most pathetic attempt at showering. And yes, he’s grinning. Eventually, he gets out of the shower and half-assedly dries himself up, then puts a pair of boxers on, walks out onto the bedroom, puts on his wristwatch and steps out onto the corridor that leads back to the living-kitchen-dining and turns out the lights and turns off the home theater. Then he walks back to the master bedroom in the dark and steps inside it, closing the heavy off-white wooden door behind him. He gets in the bed, under the thick comforter blankets, and turns out the light.

  And now in complete darkness, in just under three minutes, he’s out.

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