I hate working for rich people; but unfortunately, as a "mobile" fine art dealer, people with serious money are my main client base, so I deal with it. At five to ten thousand dollars a painting I sure do make a great living off them---but I have to kiss a lot of ass and make nicey-nice with some really obnoxious, snooty human beings on a daily basis to do it. These spoiled, privileged assholes really bring out the class bias in me; but of course, for the money, I try my best to keep it civil. I do what I have to do.
My service is unique in that I deal with artists who produce original works based on criteria I provide in consultation with the clients agent or the client himself. I bring the art gallery to you, so to speak. I pride myself on my artistic and design sensibilities and a keen sense of human nature and I've perfected my methods over many years in the business. I'm so good at it that I close my deals 98% of the time. It also helps with the female customers that I'm a pretty good looking guy, and a charming sort of rogue, if I do say so myself. Occasionally, the client is a pampered bitch who's not getting the attention she needs from her over-achieving hubby. He's so busy making money to pay for her diamonds that I sometimes get to "close the deal" for him. I have to admit I get a real charge out of fucking the shit out of these kinds of women, and cuckolding Mr. CEO whenever I can. It kind of makes up for the abuse I have to take.
So the other day I had an appointment out in the Hamptons to show some wealthy financier and his wife some paintings and sculptures for their five-thousand sq. ft. ocean front summer home. I met with their interior designer at the location a month earlier and we had agreed on a color theme and genre presentation that would compliment the multi-level steel and glass contemporary. I was carrying several very expensive original canvasses and two cutting-edge glass sculptures to show them. I stood to make close to fifty thousand on the sale, not counting custom framing and installation, so I was in an unusually good mood. As I backed my Lexus truck up to the garage of the beach house, a male voice rang down from one of the balconies and ruined my day.
"You, hey you, bring the sculptures up here and leave the paintings. Hurry it up; I'm late for a meeting."
As I said, rude, obnoxious people really piss me off. I just smiled up at him, and made a mental note to raise the price another five thousand. "Yes, sir," I replied, biting my tongue. "Be right up."
When I entered the 2nd floor breezeway of the house, I was met by three men: a fifty'ish, rather stiff looking older guy in a very expensive Armani suit; Jonathan, the fey Interior Designer I had been dealing with; and a third, very muscular guy in a running suit who was giving me a very suspicious once over. Mr. Big Shot, The Fag and The Bodyguard: how predictable.
Jonathan spoke up. "Michael, this is Mr. Andropolous, the homeowner, and Benjamin, his personal assistant." I smiled and offered a handshake which was totally ignored by the other two men. Jonathan seemed embarrassed. Mr. A was busy examining the sculptures I had brought, and Bennie Boy had turned to his right and was walking up a steel stairway toward what I noticed for the first time was a woman sunning herself on a chaise lounge on the ocean front balcony. He leaned over her and they exchanged some words. The woman seemed a little upset as she tossed her long brown hair and petulantly turned over and away from him. Bennie Boy kind of shrugged apologetically and returned to the breezeway and began gathering up some travel bags and a briefcase from over in a corner.
"We have to get going, Mr. Andropolous, the helicopter is not going to wait much longer," he said to the stiff in the suit.
"Fine, Fine," Mr. A responded impatiently. He turned to the designer. "Jonathan, you handle this. I've left a signed check on the table. The sculptures are acceptable. You and Elizabeth can decide on the paintings, I've got to go." With that he headed for the door, with Benjamin, his arms full, close behind.
"Yes, sir," Jonathan called out as they closed the door behind them. "Don't worry, sir, I'm sure you'll be pleased." I liked Jonathan. He gave me a lot of work and was easy to deal with. I even let him suck me off once to seal a particularly difficult sale. He let out a deep breath and seemed to be relieved that the boss was gone. Apparently, so did the stunning brunette who was now standing by the railing slightly above us.
"I apologize for my husband's rudeness," she said sweetly, as I took in her breathtaking beauty. I mumbled a half-hearted, somewhat sarcastic "Not a problem, I'm used to it."
What I wasn't used to was her perfect body. She was wearing only a black thong and a thin black cotton halter top, and there was nothing left to the imagination. She was all smooth, soft curves and cascading, luscious dark brown hair. Her face was pretty, classy, in a dark, European mold. A lot of these trophy wives are just boob jobs and makeovers. Not this one, she was a natural beauty.
"I'm Elizabeth," she said, "Jonathan has told me wonderful things about you, and it's a pleasure to finally meet you, Michael." She was great at making eye contact when she talked, unlike her shifty-eyed husband. I wondered just exactly what our little Jonathan had told her.
"Well, thank you. The pleasure is all mine, Mrs. Andropolous," I responded, locked into the deepest hazel eyes I'd seen in a long time.
"Please. Call me Elizabeth, Michael" she said sweetly, and then added in a delicate monotone, "If it pleases you, of course."
Yeah, I thought. It pleases me.
Still standing about 20 feet away up on the balcony level, she admired the sculptures from a distance and complimented me on my taste. "They're very beautiful. Thank you for choosing them for me," she offered, and then she asked me politely if I would please bring in the canvasses.
Outside, removing the paintings from my truck, Jonathan swished past me and got into his little Mazda convertible. He smiled at me and said, "The check is on the table. She really likes you, Michael. Have fun." There was a little more than a hint of amusement in his voice. I got the message loud and clear.
Time to go in and close the deal.
Back in the house I began laying the canvasses out against a wall for Mrs. A to inspect, when she called to me from the balcony.
"Your beautiful......I mean....they're beautiful..." she said. She didn't seem at all embarrassed by the Freudian slip.
I turned and looked up at her. She was standing at the railing, all 5 foot 2 of her, feet spread apart. Her delicate, white-tipped manicured fingers were entwined around the stainless steel, the exaggerated angles of her taught shoulders gently poking through the thick cascade of hair that reached almost down to her tiny waist. The thong was gone, revealing a thin triangle of wispy brown pubic hair. The black cotton halter top was now sitting loosely around her flat, toned tummy, exposing perfectly upturned orange-sized breasts that had no tan lines. The little pink nipples were stiff and seemed to be pointing up at the sun that was streaming in from every direction through the glass walls that surrounded us.
"So, we have a deal?" I said, acting as though this was still about business.
"If you want," she replied. "That's up to you. After the way my husband treated you, the least I can do is offer you an apology...and my...total cooperation."
I heard the buzz words from the moment she began to speak earlier: ..."a pleasure to meet you...my pleasure...if it pleases you...my total cooperation"---submissive language. I got the message. Mrs. A was mine to play with for the afternoon. She was going to be my reward for taking shit from her husband.
I spied a pair of calf-length black leather boots near the chaise behind her. I thought I'd test my theory.
"Put those on," I said firmly, gesturing toward the boots.
