The BeAst and the Brightest: E-Book

RJ Berrier

• Herausgeber: WS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 541

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Beschreibung

Students at Harvard are frequently called the best and the brightest, but deceit, sex, and betrayal among a group of graduate students turned them into beasts.  This twisted story of three doctoral students and one woman, a would-be feminist whom one of these students loved, begins at Harvard then travels to Paris and back to Boston.  In Paris, three wonderful women befriend one of these students and support him through the hell created by the deceit of the woman he loved and the friends who betrayed him.  Male friendship evaporates at the drop of a pair of panties.  Cynical sex is a two-way street.

Leseprobe

The BeAst and the Brightest

Harvard students are known as the best and the brightest, but sex, deceit, and betrayal by three Harvard graduate students, one of whom loved a woman, Cleo, a would-be advocate of feminism, led to a moral and social disaster. Cleo was faithless, sexually immoral, and untruthful to everyone, even to those closest to her. Betrayed by two friends and the woman he loved, one of those graduate students was almost destroyed, but a wise, grand old lady in Boston, several wonderful French women in Paris, and a former girlfriend in Princeton saved him. These women were real feminists and are the heroes of this novel.

Published byHybrid Global Publishing333 E 14th Street#3CNew York, NY 10003

Copyright © 2024 by RJ Berrier

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. 

Manufactured in the United States of America, or in the United Kingdom when distributed elsewhere.

Berrier, RJThe BeAst and the BrightestSex and Deceit at Harvard

ISBN: 978-1-961757-60-8eBook: 978-1-961757-61-5LCCN: requested

Cover design by: Julia KurisCopyediting by: Sue TothInterior design by: Suba MuruganAuthor photo by: Carlos Chavez Photography

All rights reserved for “The BeAst and the Brightest: Sex and Deceit at Harvard” ©2024 by R. J. Berrier. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author. This is a work of fiction. All of the names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living and are dead, is purely coincidental.

“If I lose my honor, I lose myself.”—William Shakespeare, Anthony and Cleopatra, Act 3, Scene 4

“Gentle Octavia, Let your best love draw to that point which seeks best to preserve it.”(Gentle Octavia, give your most faithful love to whomever most worthily deserves it.)—William Shakespeare, Anthony and Cleopatra, Act 3, Scene 4

“Les vrai menteuses ne savent pas dire la vérité.”(Real liars don’t know how to tell the truth.)—Sasha Guitry, French actor and writer

“Forgiveness is a strange thing. It can sometimes be easier to forgive our enemies than our friends. It can be hardest of all to forgive people we love.”—Fred Rogers

Veritas (Truth)—Harvard University Motto

Contents

Chapter 1Serial Male Killer—Blondie

Chapter 2Mr. Money

Chapter 3Coffee Shop Guy

Chapter 4True Friends

Chapter 5Cleo Abandoned

Chapter 6University Press

Chapter 7Schendler and Boston

Chapter 8Prudence and Alexander

Chapter 9Cleo’s Game

Chapter 10The East West Literary Conference

Chapter 11Confusion and Love?

Chapter 12Les Enfants Terribles

Chapter 13Idyll and Deceit

Chapter 14Deceit and Radiance

Chapter 15Cleo’s Boyfriend

Chapter 16Announcement

Chapter 17Danny in Paris

Chapter 18Cleo’s Dilemma

Chapter 19The Holidays

Chapter 20Back Together

Chapter 21Back in Paris

Chapter 22Danny’s Gifts

Chapter 23Cleo’s Confession and Submission

Chapter 24Cleo Plots to Kill Danny

Chapter 25Tallington’s Betrayal

Chapter 26Preparing for Paris

Chapter 27Cleo and Nicole

Chapter 28Cleo Murders Siegfried

Chapter 29Nicole’s Present

Chapter 30Cleo Rapes Danny

Chapter 31Wonderful Women

Chapter 32Cleo Moves On

Chapter 33Danny Returns

Chapter 34Danny Moves On

Chapter 35Cleo and Vilemann Finale

Chapter 36Cleo and Remington Finale

Chapter 37Love Guides Life

About the author

Chapter 1

Serial Male Killer— Blondie

Sleeping with a guy was just the ante she paid to play another hand in The Game. The guys never knew what game was being played or that they were going to be the losers; they were always going to get “killed.” Cleo did not care how much they might get hurt. They were just characters in her evolving storyline. Cleo’s rule was to never let guys into her apartment; that was her realm, her private self. Having them at her place would give them too much control over her. They might think that because they could get into her body, they could also invade her space and her life as much as they wanted. That was not going to happen.

When guys had served her purpose, she’d wad them up and throw them in the trashcan by her desk, and then she’d write them out of her story as if they had never existed. That was the price they had to pay for being guys. If guys got hurt, that showed them what bastards men have been with women and how strong and independent she had become. The next one to be killed was Blondie.

Cleo looked back at Henderson, who was asleep in bed, as the door closed. “Got him,” she said to herself. The note she left was her standard, “We both know we’re not right for each other, so don’t try to contact me. It’s over. C.”

Blondie was the nickname she secretly gave him. She always had a nickname for her transient lovers, one that depersonalized them, usually without their knowledge. Blondie was very good-looking; he was one of those pretty boys who have a beautiful Greek-god physique and are totally blonde. She had been with him for about three months, sleeping one or two nights a week at his apartment, usually on the weekends. After all, Cleo was a working girl.

One weekend morning, Blondie got up from his bed and walked totally nude over to the bookshelf in his bedroom and picked up a picture. He looked carefully at it and then turned as if to show her his truly great body. He wasn’t just standing there; he seemed to be posing. This was her opportunity. She got up and walked over to him, also totally nude, pressed her body to his, and said, “You are such a great-looking guy; you’re my Greek god; please show me the picture.”

They headed back to bed since it was cool in his Cambridge apartment, and he showed her the picture of him after winning the intercollegiate swim contest for the 100-yard butterfly. He was standing there at the end of a pool, the medal hanging from his neck, with all his swim team buddies around him beaming with admiration. He was wearing a little Jockey swimsuit, cut low, team-issued like the other guys.

Cleo thought, Any of these guys would have done just as well as Blondie, but said nothing.

She didn’t need the champion for her purposes. Although he seemed very proud of himself, he proved to be just an ordinary lover—actually, a pretty good one—but not a champion in bed. Any of the other guys on the swim team could have served Cleo’s purpose just as well, maybe better.

His physique was that of a champion swimmer: broad shoulders, well-developed pecs, long, strong arm muscles, and a small waist. Cleo asked, “How small is your waist?” She knew this would set off another moment of self-satisfaction and bragging. “Just 31 inches, like most male models.” Cleo knew she had just scored a point, but she also knew that she needed to cash it in fairly soon, so she divided the time he had left in half. Two weeks would do it. She just had to finalize the kill, the moment, and the way she would drop him. Given Blondie’s seeming infatuation with himself and how much he was attracted to Cleo, she knew that he would lose at The Game, her method for controlling males. She would get him.

She had picked him up at the Harvard Coop, the big bookstore and general merchandise mart, where students got their course readings, perhaps enjoyed a coffee before venturing out in the cold, and where the students’ parents and Harvard visitors could pick up Harvard-branded merchandise. A lot of would-be Harvard students grew up wearing child-size Harvard T-shirts. That never helped them with admissions. Harvard did make a killing on all that stuff. The magic of the Harvard name sells.

Henderson was looking through the shelves in the Coop’s sports section just flipping through books about the Olympics. His impressive physique made him easy to notice, especially given his 6 foot 4 inch frame, but that is not what attracted Cleo to him. He just seemed like an easy mark. He seemed proud to be good-looking and maybe a little egocentric, even mildly arrogant, like some Harvard guys. In short, he was an easy mark for Cleo, who had gotten rid of her previous male a few weeks earlier. All it took was stepping toward him with a bright smile and a “Hi,” and the conversation began easily. Clearly, he was used to women looking at him and even approaching him, and he knew how to manage the encounter–not too casual, relaxed enough to put the ladies at ease, but engaged, and then he’d make his move.

“Would you like to have a coffee?”

“Sure,” she said.

Cleo would be in experienced hands, and she liked that. That meant few, if any, surprises and no unnecessary drama. He was just going to be the next male she bedded, nothing more.

While in bed together looking at the picture, he invited her to a swim meet the next afternoon to see the competition, where he would have also have the chance to tell her more about his success in the water. He was as proud of his success as an athlete as he was of his looks and his academic achievements. Cleo knew how to judge her compliments—not too much, but attentive to what he was saying and as relaxed as he was. When the swim meet finished, they headed to a local Greek restaurant in Central Square, halfway between Harvard and MIT, and then he invited her to his apartment. Everything was going just as both of them had hoped.

Henderson saw her as an attractive potential girlfriend, an interesting and attractive woman he’d like to know, but unlike her, he never put an expiration date on his relationships. He’d just let things work out. He was clear about three things: he would only marry a beautiful, wealthy blonde, and he would have beautiful blonde children. While not his blonde ideal, she displayed a natural eloquence as flashy as it turned out to be empty, and she was attractive. At 5 feet 10 inches she stood out not only because of her height but because of her hair. She had bright reddish hair, clear skin, a very nice figure, and lovely shapely breasts. Sometimes her eyes could look sinister as if on fire but that was only a fleeting impression which was erased by the radiance of her smile. Her smile brought her good looks to life. Was she pretty? Not really. “Pretty” was not the best word to describe her.” Beautiful”? No one would call her beautiful, but she was very good-looking. She turned heads.

Henderson genuinely liked women and not just for sex. He liked to be with women. He never considered them arm candy or just there to complement him. The woman who had just approached him seemed like someone he’d like to get to know. All he wanted for now was a girlfriend. She wanted a fuck and a little companionship, a male body in bed with her. They both thought they were going to get what they wanted.

As a kid, Cleo kept her distance from her brothers, Mark, the oldest, and Tony, her junior, whom she believed were favored by her grandparents and her parents. Well, she wasn’t sure about her mother, who had her own life.

Blondie seemed too attractive for his own good, just like Cleo’s brother Tony, who was always looking at himself. With his good looks, Tony hooked up with many pretty ladies. He also had many male friends, all good-looking, just like him. He ran with the popular crowd. Cleo’s other brother, Mark, was the business guy. Cleo knew that her father had plans for the two boys that didn’t include her, except in a secondary role.

She kept her childhood in Napa and her years at San Francisco State a mystery. She got by with making only a few tangential comments about her past. The same was true of her work. She only told guys about being an editor and a writer. She never elaborated; they didn’t need to know more. They always assumed that she’d tell them more over time.

After three months, Blondie and Cleo knew each other really well, which upset Cleo. She never wanted to stay too long with a guy, which meant she had to drop Blondie fairly soon. He seemed good for another two weeks, maybe a month, and then she would drop him. She always ended things abruptly, without any explanation as a way of putting them in their place; they were only a male body, only a fuck, nothing more. If they were hurt, that was just too bad.

The kill was essential to her routine, a way of ending the imagined relationship with such absolute certainty that even the dullest guy would realize it was over. The guy would never know why or anything else about her. Sometimes, the guys would call her for several weeks but never get a response. Eventually, they’d get the idea and move on. After all, it had been a short-term affair.

So, after four months, she intended to set up Blondie for the kill by sleeping with him three nights in a row: Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. She told him she needed three nights with him, not just two. “I love being next to you in bed; I just love the feel of your great body and what we do in bed. I love being with you; you’re a great guy,” she told him.

He put his arms around her while whispering in her ear, “You are my goddess. Do you know that? Can you feel that when I make love to you? Don’t our bodies tell each other about the affection and love we are feeling?” She just looked at him and gave him a big, radiant smile. The bright flash of that smile would make him think that everything was going really well. He would think she really liked him and that a nice emotional relationship was developing between them. She was just setting him up for the kill. To avoid revealing herself, she would often use the blinding light of her smile or verbal ballet—turning, gliding, and darting—to distract with the flash of her clever words.

After the three-night sleepover the next weekend, they decided to meet at a restaurant not far from Blondie’s apartment on Friday at 6 p.m. The nights were so cold that staying out late didn’t seem like a good idea. Cleo met him at the restaurant’s reception desk, and as he leaned over to kiss her, she sneezed. A big sneeze. Then she sniffled. He seemed concerned; was she all right? They sat down at a table, and Cleo started to feel worse. Henderson asked her if she felt like staying; she insisted that everything was OK.

“It’s just a little cold.”

But as the dinner progressed, she felt worse and worse. Henderson could see that she was really suffering, so he paid quickly and got a cab despite the fact that he lived fairly close to the restaurant. They arrived at his apartment just 10 minutes later. She was sick, just a cold, but a bad one.

Once in the apartment, he turned up the heat and gave her a blanket. “How about some chamomile?” he asked.

“Sure.”

The tea helped but did not prevent a surge of fever. She was really coming down with a bad cold. Insisting that she had to stay with him, he helped her undress and gave her a big sweatshirt to wear and then held up the covers as she slipped into bed. Tylenol, some cold medicine, more chamomile, and some kisses on the cheeks were offered to make her feel better. Since she liked classical music, he put on some Mozart softly. He kept kissing her cheeks, her neck, and her hands and talking with her until she went to sleep.

Blondie looked at her sleeping in his bed and thought, Maybe this is the one. She’s not blonde and probably not wealthy, but I really like her. I really like her.

Then he gave her a soft, lingering, loving kiss on the cheek. His thoughts about his life were changing.

The next morning, she woke up aching with fever. Sneezing. She saw Blondie next to her in the bed, wearing a big T-shirt and some cotton lounge pants. She was happy to see that he had no intention of trying to play with her. They spent Saturday with her in bed—more chamomile, toast, and applesauce he bought at the little store downstairs from his apartment. She felt better but was not able to go home. He insisted that she stay. He lent her a book so she could try to read, but Saturday was devoted to sleeping.

Dinner Saturday night was some chicken noodle soup he had bought at that same little store. This was “homemade” soup sold in a big buccal, the kind with the metal clip on top. Authentic and delicious. She ate a lot with a few pieces of toast. She tried to watch TV with him that evening but went to sleep without realizing it, curled up next to him. He gently picked her up from the couch and carried her in those strong arms to bed. He tucked her in and tenderly kissed her cheeks.

Sunday morning, she woke up feeling much better. She told him that she was hungry, so he made her a nice brunch: an omlette with some herbs that tasted really good, sautéed potatoes, asparagus, and sourdough toast. Since she was from SF, she liked sourdough bread. She was surprised by how well he cooked. He told her that he had always liked to cook and had learned a lot from his mother with whom he had cooked starting at about 11 years old. Who would have guessed? Then he started talking in the most flattering terms about his mother—a real beauty devoted to her family, worked for free in politics to elect the “right” people. Obviously, he adored her, but Cleo thought she sounded just like the type of woman she did not want to be, a woman focused on being a housewife and mother, someone devoted to others.

Cleo started to realize that his arrogance was actually just a touch of innocent narcissism, not totally unjustified. Despite his masculinity, his beautiful body, and his accomplishments in sports and academics, Henderson had some elements of humility and femininity. Not that he was gay. Sexually and socially, he was all hetero, but softness resided in that classic masculine body that made him tender and vulnerable and able to give of himself. His surface pride and arrogance hid certain feminine sensibilities. Very hidden but real. Cleo did not want her femininity to be at all like his. She wanted to be dominant, not a nurse for someone weaker. There was to be no submission in her life. Her goal, her brand of feminism, was not to be equal to men but to dominate them.

Cleo had rejected her family and its money. She wanted to live her life in literature, even if that meant not being wealthy like her family and many of their friends in Napa Valley. She saw how her mother had been hollowed out to become one of those women who “lunch,” who “shop,” and occasionally finds a lover who furthers erodes her sense of self. You can only fool yourself so much into believing that this or that lover really cares about you. Her mother knew that the waiters, guys at the gym, and other men she picked up occasionally were using her as well as her using them. With each one-night stand or short liaison, she became harsher and more cynical, and finding any pleasure became an empty pursuit. She would redouble her lunches with her girlfriends and shop with greater passion.

Cleo spent the week at her apartment as usual but had accepted a rendezvous for the next Saturday. She declined a Friday night dinner with Blondie, saying she wanted to get totally over her cold. They met Saturday at the first restaurant where they had eaten together and then headed to his apartment. He put on some music and got her to dance, something she enjoyed but with restraint. Then, right into bed, no sweatshirts, T-shirts, or lounge pants. Doing it, several times, then hugging in each other’s arms. She gave him a quick kiss, turned over on her side, and fell asleep.

As she slept, Henderson kept looking at her and felt his heart melting; he was starting to feel a special kind of love for this woman. Why he felt a special affection for her eluded him, but his feelings were real and undeniable. Yes, he liked her and was enjoying being with her. Sex with her was good but a little limited. He believed that she’d loosen up over time and be better in bed. He certainly appreciated and enjoyed her lovely young body. He told her that he loved her smile. But he was starting to realize that she had touched him deeply, and he wanted her to feel the same about him. He had thought that he could plan his life; he thought he knew what he wanted in a woman, in a relationship. His heart was leading him in a different direction simply because of what he thought was a chance meeting at the Coop with an attractive woman. Hearts can change lives. Henderson said to himself that the wise thing to do was to follow his heart. He would let love guide his life. He knew that love is more powerful, smarter, and more authentic than anything the rational mind can imagine. He was strong academically, like most people at Harvard, but he also had layers of social and emotional intelligence.

He put his arm around her, placing his hand next to her left breast. Although lovely to touch, it wasn’t her breast he wanted to feel; it was her heart. He wanted to feel her heartbeat. Yes, he knew that love doesn’t come from the heart muscle; it comes from your mind and your spirit, but he was deeply romantic and wanted to feel her heartbeat. Did she share his feelings, his incipient true love? Blondie had felt sweet affection for really all of his girlfriends. Despite many relationships, he was not a womanizer and was certainly not a guy who mistreated women. He cared for and respected women as much as they were attracted to him. He had deeply cared about some of these women. He had never hurt or mistreated a woman. While no stranger to love, his feelings for Cleo were becoming more profound than he’d ever experienced; he felt almost overwhelmed by what his heart was signaling.

He said to himself, Maybe this is true, pure love.

She wasn’t anything he had thought he wanted, blonde and wealthy. He was hungry not only for her body and companionship; he was starting to want to share a profound and perhaps lasting love with her. He was welcoming this whole woman into his heart and his life. This was new and revealing to him. Passion, ardor, and fascination were taking possession of his mind and body within a new, deeper, more expansive dimension of love that was opening up in his heart. He really wanted her; he imagined a life together. No, his feelings weren’t just lust or infatuation. This was different. As a wave of tenderness wept through all those muscles, he kissed her several times softly on the cheek and fell asleep.

The next morning, while he was still sleeping, she left early. Her adieu was the usual, curt note. She had never felt any love. He had just been another fuck. Blondie never knew what had happened. He had started to think that she could be “the one.” He felt bewildered and hurt, really hurt.

Cleo’s note suited her perfectly since it was hard to interpret. Did they both actually know that they were not right for each other? Had Blondie participated in this decision? No, it was all Cleo, but by saying, “We both know” she was rejecting any responsibility for how he might feel about her decision. She wanted to make the decisions, but not accept responsibility for them. That released her from any concerns, any scruples about how her males might feel about what had just happened. Not taking responsibility was critical to avoid second guesses or any doubt about how she treated guys. She never assumed responsibility for anything since she could so easily twist the story she told others and even herself. She had to be totally free to make decisions without regard for the other person. Cleo appreciated the care she had received the previous weekend, but that did not change her plan; Blondie had to be cut loose. She needed to win this hand in The Game. The time had come for the kill. She was proud of her note. Blondie, that is, John Henderson, had meant nothing to her.

Chapter 2

Mr. Money

After leaving Blondie, Cleo headed later that afternoon to Harvard Square, where she called a guy she had met, James Fitzgerald Braddington, Mr. Money to her, to accept a rendezvous for the next Saturday night. He was to be her next score. She was glad to get his message machine. Leaving a message was so much easier than a conversation. He called her back saying how happy he was to hear from her and was looking forward to dinner together.

She had met him not really by chance at an upscale men’s clothing store, Alan Bilzerian, on Newbury Street just off the Boston Public Garden. She was on her way to Trinity Church for an afternoon concert when she suddenly decided to go into the store. No, she wasn’t shopping for someone; no guy was going to get a present. The “present” was meant for Cleo. She had gone in remembering an experience in San Francisco at a similar upscale men’s store. She was shopping for a male. Suddenly, there he was, Mr. Money. She asked him for advice regarding a sweater for her dad, and it developed from there.

As an undergraduate at SF State in downtown San Francisco, she had encountered one of her first good lovers at Wilks Bashford, a men’s clothing store for wealthy men like her father. She had dropped in to buy that requisite Father’s Day present, a shirt and a tie. As she looked through the tie drawers to match something to the shirt she had selected, she noticed a guy looking at her with interest. He was in his early 20s, decent-looking, nicely dressed, but casual, as would be expected on a Friday afternoon in California. She asked for his advice about a matching tie. The conversation started, and Cleo knew where she wanted it to go.

Her introduction to good sex had been the summer after her second year at the university when she went with her parents to Australia to see her brother, Mark, who was managing their vineyards in New South Wales. As usual, she was not the center of attention, so she could spend her days at the beach resort where they were staying. She had the classic summer romance with the guy who ran the Jet Ski business. Sexually, he was experienced and talented; she enjoyed him a lot. He knew how to make her thrilled. He’d ask if she was up for a “thrill.”

She always said, “Yes. Thrill me, please. Please thrill me.”

After the Jet Ski guy, she had decided not to continue her sexual journey with undergraduate boys, who tended to just fumble around down there trying to figure out what worked, what women wanted, and where “it” was. She had tried those guys the first two years at the university and had found them to be “zeros in bed.” She had no intention of giving remedial education to her bed partners.

Returning to SF from Australia, she was eager to sleep with more experienced guys, and the one she noticed in Wilks Bashford seemed to fit the bill. They started talking; then she got the invitation she’d hoped for: “I’m headed over to Rickhouse for a drink. Would you like one, too? It’s just over on Bush Street.”

She said, “Love to.”

After drinks at Rickhouse, this guy, whom she nicknamed Tie Guy, invited her to dinner in Chinatown. She agreed. He was polite and had nice manners without being mannered or too self-conscious. Then, to his apartment for the after-dinner delight. They had another drink and kissed a bit, but then she told him that she didn’t feel that well, but really, really wanted to see him again, and something about, “Don’t be disappointed,” then she grabbed a cab. What they both wanted and what he had expected would come later when she was ready. A few days later, she called him, asking if they could get together again. A dinner was set up, followed by a visit to his apartment where, as they sipped a glass of wine, she asked him if he liked sex. When she was ready, she went right for it. Her hand in his, they headed to the bedroom. He was much more skilled in bed than those undergraduate guys.

Her time with Tie Guy lasted six months, during which Cleo learned more about how to enjoy herself with a guy but also the limits she would impose on all her sexual relationships. Just the basics. She limited guys to the missionary position and maybe side to side. Nothing more. She didn’t want them to treat her like a sex toy, something to devour. Enjoy, OK, but not believe they could do anything with her that they wanted. She had not yet developed The Game, but the essentials had started to fall into place. She would be in charge, not that male, not that guy. She would determine the start, the end, and how it ended. One lesson she learned from Tie Guy was that six months is too long; he had started to believe that they had a relationship. Not acceptable. So, three to four months or less seemed about right.

After that first encounter at Alan Bilzerian, Mr. Money had been calling Cleo, who agreed to meet him at a restaurant that was nice but not ostentatious. The conversation proved to be scintillating but mostly about him. Clearly, he had enjoyed a privileged life of luxury travel to attractive locations, but he didn’t seem to be bragging; he recounted details of his trips, which Cleo found captivating. Clearly, he was observant and had a sense of adventure, although limited. He did not want anything too out of the ordinary and certainly nothing physically risky. No unfortunate surprises. He’d just be another serial male who’d end up losing at The Game.

After dinner, he asked if she’d like one more drink at his apartment: a very classic, unoriginal invitation to spend the night.

She would have preferred a direct question about sex, but still, she said, “Yes, sure.”

His apartment was in an old brownstone just off Newbury Street, a high-class, that is, expensive neighborhood. The apartment was too expensive for a young guy who didn’t have family money. She was impressed by the overall look: expensive oriental carpets complemented with antiques and some stylish modern furniture. Some nice original art. No framed posters. A guy with taste and money. As she took off her cape and hung it by the entrance, she noticed a little table with a telephone. Next to the phone was a slightly oblong black book with orange lettering, The Social Register. Cleo had no idea such a thing existed. She assumed he was in it, but she absolutely would never ask him. A social register in America? Was that real? Hard to believe for a girl who grew up in California. But there it was. She again told herself never to ask him about it.

Instead, she asked him about his work, which he described as somewhat boring. OK, clearly, it paid well. He worked for a financial firm started by his great-grandfather that handled government bonds for the City of Boston, the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, and a few other government organizations. He asked what she did and seemed satisfied with a quick description of her work as an editor. She didn’t get to the part about being an aspiring feminist writer. As the conversation continued, Mr. Money leaned over and put his arms around her. He kissed her. She just smiled. He asked if he could see her again.

“Sure,” she offered. Then, with kisses on the cheeks, she headed out.

As she got into bed, she picked up a book on her nightstand and thought, What would l tell him about this book?

Probably nothing. As she got sleepy, she heard her message machine go off; it was Mr. Money, of course. She smiled to herself since she was on top of The Game with him.

The next Friday night, dinner was in a nice restaurant in downtown Boston, followed by another trip to his apartment. Once seated on his couch, he bent over for a kiss. He got that kiss, a discrete one. Then she placed his hand over her left breast and kissed him harder and longer.

“Are you up for sex?” she asked with a mischievous little smile.

Bed came soon. When she was ready, she liked going straight for it. No need for the guy to engage in a prolonged seduction, which might lead him to believe that she had relented due to his sophisticated moves, good looks, money, or compelling personality.

The morning offered a basket of croissants and good, but not great, coffee and orange juice. Cleo’s coffee-making technique beat almost anyone else’s. He was a satisfactory lover—nothing great, but competent. She asked if he was married.

“No!”

He seemed profoundly shocked by the question and insisted that he didn’t even have a girlfriend. Cleo thought to herself that she’d never be a wife or a girlfriend.

At breakfast Saturday morning, he invited her to go with him to Provincetown, at the very tip of Cape Cod. Cleo thought that the drive would be too long, and she had to be at work on Monday morning. She was not interested in staying with him at a hotel in Provincetown that Saturday night and enduring a long drive back in horrible traffic to Boston on Sunday morning. Sunday mornings were her private time. No, they weren’t going to drive; he’d been invited by a friend to go and return in the friend’s private Cessna. They were going to make a day of it, a Saturday jaunt. She had never been to Provincetown but had heard that it was a fun place. So, she hugged him and said she would be delighted to go along.

They headed out to Logan, Boston’s airport, at about 8 a.m. to meet the friend and his girlfriend, Cynthia. Mr. Money’s friend turned out to be a guy almost identical to Mr. Money. All day, Cynthia just smiled. This drove Cleo crazy. She had seen her mother do the same at one social event after another, as if women were just there to decorate the place, smiling happily about everything. The two guys took the front seats, leaving Cleo and Cynthia to take the seats behind them. Mr. Money’s friend, John something or other, had gone over the Cessna’s checklist carefully, which reassured Cleo. She remembered that John Kennedy Jr. had crashed his small plane somewhere over the Cape, or was it Martha’s Vineyard?

The flight was exhilarating. Cleo could see the entire coast, and she watched as the coastline faded to the right of the plane as it cut across the Bay. She then saw nothing but water until Provincetown Airport came into view. John managed a smooth landing, and they were out of the plane in no time. Cleo had really enjoyed herself, even with Cynthia next to her. She thought how fitting it was to go to Provincetown, the site of the Mayflower’s landing in 1620, with a guy who was probably in the Social Register. She assumed that John was in the Register as well, but probably not Cynthia; she lacked the bearing and social ease that comes with generations of money.

Once the plane was secured, they headed over to Commercial Street, which was full of art galleries. As usual in a tourist town, most of the “art” was kitschy, but several of the galleries had really fine art, very expensive, but appropriate for the high-class or at least wealthy clientele who came to Provincetown. Mr. Money explained that some of the clients had probably come in their boats from Nantucket, and, in fact, the harbor was crowded with many multimillion-dollar boats. Provincetown attracted day trippers, but also lots of wealthy visitors. Cleo saw herself in an East Coast version of the wealthy Napa-to-Carmel crowd on the West Coast. She knew it well since her family was part of it, but she would never mention her family or the resemblance she saw between the Provincetown crowd and the people who live in or visit Carmel or Napa.

Cleo saw herself as a budding art critic and noted some things she might have liked to discuss but decided not to with Mr. Money, John, and Cynthia. This was their show, and she assumed that they really didn’t care what she thought. She was essentially right. After an hour or so strolling through the galleries, John suggested they head to a restaurant on the Bay side, where he had made reservations. Once at the table, John suggested lobster for everyone and a very good white Burgundy, but he insisted no wine for him. Pilots can’t drink. Cleo was relieved. John was a nice character, but she could see her father in him. John would probably marry someone like Cynthia, cheat on her, relegate her to a “ladies who lunch” lifestyle, and spend decades flying around looking for something that would always escape him. The amount of time she was going to devote to Mr. Money was going to be the standard three or four months.

Despite having grown up in a wealthy family, or perhaps because money had never been an issue, she was unimpressed by wealth. She was not materialistic at all. Oh, the lobster was delicious, probably fresh from Maine, and the Burgundy, crisp, smooth, and complex, but her motivations in life were different; she wanted to be a fresh, new voice to help steer American literature and art through her influence as an important editor and feminist writer. While not turned off by Mr. Money and John’s displays of wealth, she really didn’t care.

A crème brûlée flavored with lemon and an espresso finished a delicious lunch. They walked back to Commercial Street to visit a few more shops and galleries and then headed back to the airport. Cleo had enjoyed herself, as had everyone. Back at the airport, John once again went over everything on the plane, meticulously going through the checklist. Cleo did not doubt that they would land safely back at Logan Airport.

Once out of the plane, Cleo hugged both guys, smiled at Cynthia, who smiled back, and told Mr. Money that she’d like to see him again, but not until the next weekend.

“Saturday,” he ventured.

“Sure. Call me.”

She gave Mr. Money a quick kiss on the cheek and then went off in a cab to her apartment. Things were going well. Mr. Money thought he’d just had one of the best Saturdays of his life.

The cab dropped her off at her apartment, but she decided to walk a few blocks down the street to Tuk Tuk Thai, a restaurant with takeout. All the Asians do takeout, right? She went for Asian panang chicken and white rice. Back at her apartment, she put the food on her little table and opened up her copy of Huysmans’s Against Nature. This is a work of deep pessimism, often characterized as decadent, in which he explores escaping from the mundane horrors of life through aestheticism and religious conversion. What could be more striking after a day of pleasure, luxury, empty, even if intelligent conversation and tourism? Other than superficial pleasures, Cleo could not think of anything of any substance that had occurred that day. Cleo was clear that Mr. Money would just be another serial male to enjoy in bed, nothing more.

Given her interpretation of feminism, women absolutely could not be submissive, not come under the sway of males, of guys. Relationships inevitably led to one person being dominant, and Cleo was determined never to be submissive. She had to become the dominant person in the relationship. On the other hand, she could not imagine a long-term relationship with a guy she would have to dominate. She did not want to spend her life dragging the same male around or making decisions for two people. No, she was not going to get married, not going to have children, not going to get trapped in American life as a couple, but also, she was not going to live without sex. Women like and need sex just like men, and she was going to get her share. The solution was The Game and serial males.

Boston was full of interesting guys, and since there were so many universities, there would be an endless supply of willing males. Hunting would be good, and she would do with them whatever she wanted. She had no concerns about her reputation since she would be defined by her writings, her feminism, and her impact on culture as an editor. In Boston, there would be no “village gossip” as happens in a little place like Napa. She would be known as a major cultural tastemaker and a feminist guide for women.

Mr. Money left her a voice message Monday afternoon suggesting a concert at Symphony Hall and then dinner at a well-known seafood restaurant. “Would 6:45 p.m. in front of Symphony Hall be all right? That’s Saturday night.”

She called him back on Wednesday, leaving a message on his answering machine at home saying that Saturday was “a go.” He was relieved since he wondered why she hadn’t called him earlier.

The concert and the dinner were fine. Back at his apartment, the expected happened. The next morning, there were more croissants, coffee, and orange juice. He lived an organized, surprise-free life. Cleo started thinking about a shorter time together. He thought things were going well. Cleo knew she had to assume control. This pattern—dinner, perhaps some entertainment, his apartment, bed, sex, and croissants—continued for the next four weeks. Cleo assumed that this would be his pattern for the next 50 or so years. He had made every decision for them. Cleo knew that she needed to go for “The Kill,” the end of her time with him.

Unless she was with somebody, literally some male body, she typically took it easy on Sunday mornings alone in her apartment. Since she slept with some male or another most Saturday nights, she had a habit of announcing early Sunday morning that she had things to do and went straight back to her apartment.

Her standard line was, “I’m a working girl, you know, and you probably have things to do as well.”

Sundays were devoted to restoring herself, relaxing and enjoying solitude, a comfort for her. Solitude was a feeling she treasured. Since there was nobody to deal with, she could devote herself to her writing and reading. She’d usually walk over to Copley Plaza unless it was too cold, to her favorite French pastry shop and get a pain aux raisin, a raisin bun, and an elephant ear, a palmier in French, not the standard croissants. She’d take them back to her place and make coffee her way. She used one of those large French funnels with a paper filter, just like her father had taught her.

She usually didn’t follow her father’s advice or lifestyle, but he had given her good training in coffee preparation and wine appreciation. As far as she was concerned, his good advice stopped there.

Once she had her coffee, the palmier, and the pain aux raisin, Cleo was eager to pick up her copy of Huysmans again. This book is an account of a person who dedicated his life to the “finer things.” She wanted to see herself as equally passionate about literature and art. She also embraced the idea of being independent and not relying on others to define what she should like, how she should act, or how she should enjoy herself. She certainly did not want any male to define her.

Chapter 3

Coffee Shop Guy

Early one Monday morning, she headed to the Coop at Harvard Square to buy a book. Since she didn’t have to be at work that day until 10:30 a.m., she had time to drop into The Coffee Spot, a little place just off Harvard Square, for something hot to drink. The place was packed. Walking up behind some guy who was alone at a small table, she asked, “Can I sit here?” She was about to launch an adventure that would last more than a year and end with a murder and a rape.

Once she had her coffee, the guy asked her what she was reading—just like that. He had noticed her Coop bag and thought it looked like she had a book in there. This was the first time a guy had started a conversation focused on something that interested her. He let her talk about the books she was reading, what she had just bought, her passion for literature, and her job at Schendler Publishing, one of Boston’s prominent, serious publishing houses. She talked on and on … almost losing herself in her passion for literature until she realized that she had to take off to be at work in downtown Boston in just 20 minutes. As she hurried out, she gave him her number and said, “Call me.”

“Nice to meet you, Cleo,” he said.

Once out in the street, she realized that she had no idea who he was or what he did. She didn’t even know his name. Had he said it?

Her father had invited her to be in the wine business as well as her brothers, but she knew that she’d end up with a boring job, her brothers as her bosses, a dominating husband, and maybe even a couple of brats. That is not what she wanted. Her mother was often assumed to be a trophy wife since she was good-looking and did all the right social things, but actually, she was her father’s first wife. She looked the other way as he maneuvered from one mistress to another. She also knew that there were indiscretions in Australia and Chile, but why rock the boat? His bedtime companions had ceased being of any interest to her.

Cleo’s mother was more wedded to her fairly easy and luxurious lifestyle than to her husband. Everybody knew the score, so there were few hard feelings, even if some chagrin and some distress had seeped into her life from time to time. Cleo was vaguely aware that her mother might have attempted suicide at some point as she adjusted to her flexible marriage, but eventually, she succumbed to the lifestyle provided and defined by her husband. Honest discussions rarely occurred in her family. Members of her family did not air their dirty laundry either inside or outside their little family circle or even admit what type of or whose “laundry” they preferred. Everyone knew that their independence and preferences in life depended on being as autonomous as possible. Everyone in the family lived their own lives.

Cleo had two sets of living grandparents. Her paternal grandfather had started the vineyards in Napa Valley as a young man, and the business had grown and prospered along with the rest of the California wine industry. He had been, in fact, one of the recognized leaders of that industry. When her father suddenly took over the business, her paternal grandparents moved to Sydney for no apparent reason. Given the distance, Cleo and her family rarely saw them. When her father visited her brother and their operations in Australia, he almost always went alone.

Cleo remembered just a few occasions when her paternal grandparents visited her family. These get-togethers were usually limited to a fancy lunch at Jack’s, the famous SF restaurant. Everybody seemed to be on their guard during these lunches, which felt more like a council of war than a family reunion. Her paternal grandparents always left the area or did other things for dinner. They never ventured just the short distance to Napa. Her paternal grandfather was friendly, especially with the boys, but did not interact at all with Cleo, which was just another sign that the boys counted for more than she did. She seemed to be a non-person to him. His behavior demonstrated his macho attitude toward women. Cleo felt that she didn’t even count as a human being to him.

Cleo’s maternal grandparents lived in Carmel, a charming, upscale tourist town on the coast south of the Bay Area. They represented the third generation of a banking family from Kansas City. The second generation had increased the family’s wealth considerably, but the third proved less capable, as so often happens. They contented themselves with tennis, bridge, charities, and some travel. They did visit Napa ever so often and invited Cleo’s family to big occasions in Carmel: birthdays, Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. Cleo liked them, but the relationship was never close with her or her brothers, although when they were together, her maternal grandparents always tried to pay special attention to Cleo, as if to reassure her. The four grandparents never seemed to be together at the same time. Maybe they just didn’t get along; that happens in families.

Several days passed, and she had almost forgotten that guy in the coffee shop, but he had intrigued her. Wednesday night, she found a message on her answering machine from him inviting her to a concert Friday night at a famous church in the Italian North End and then, perhaps, dinner.

She had heard about the concert and thought, Why not?

His message included his number, which she called the next day, trying not to appear too eager. He then left her a message on her machine to meet him at the church at 7 p.m. “OK, it should be an interesting concert,” was the total of this message. So, they would meet again without any more interaction than had occurred during their accidental meeting at The Coffee Spot.

This invitation from Coffee Shop Guy raised the issue of Mr. Money. Cleo had fallen into a pattern of spending Saturday and sometimes Friday nights with Mr. Money. She wasn’t quite ready to cut him loose, and she knew almost nothing about this other guy. So, she left Mr. Money a nice message on his answering machine saying her boss’ boss had invited her to a conference in NYC over the weekend, something about the National Book Awards, and since many authors would be there, she needed to go. Lies can work. He bought it. Her message included the fact that she’d get some time with her boss’ boss. Her boss, a wonderful woman, had severe MS, which dramatically restricted her movements. A trip to NYC was out of the question for her, so Cleo was invited to take her place. These details added credibility to her lie.

When Cleo met this “mystery man” at the Old North Church, she asked him his name, saying she was a little embarrassed. “Danny,” he said.

“OK, Danny.” He was going to be her first Danny.

The concert was fine, but Cleo was most interested in what might happen afterward. Leaving the concert, he asked if she had enjoyed it.

“Sure, very much,” she said.

They walked several blocks to a restaurant Danny knew and found a table right in the middle of the place. It was a typical red-sauce Italian American restaurant filled with students and pseudointellectuals as well as people who were just in the mood for pasta. It was lively and colorful. Cleo thought that Mr. Money would never be found in a place like this, but OK, that was him.

They had just gotten their menus when Danny asked her, “So, what did you actually think about the program and the performance?” Her antenna went up. What was this guy’s game? Could he actually care what she thought? Did he know how interested she was in art, literature, and music? Did he understand that she thought of herself as a taste-maker, guiding literature and the arts? If so, how did he know this about her when she knew essentially nothing about him? OK, she had talked about her job at Schendler when they met at The Coffee Spot. Surprisingly, he seemed to have remembered what she told him. She told herself to be cautious and began with a general statement. Then, he talked about a similar concert he had attended in NYC and commented on how the two compared.

She wondered, What the hell does this guy do? Who is he? Why doesn’t he start his patter like all the other males? Doesn’t he know how to talk up a girl?

As dinner was ending, she asked him where he lived. “Halfway between Central Square and Harvard Yard in Cambridge. I’m at Harvard,” he said. Since she had the weekend free of Mr. Money, she wanted him to invite her to his apartment in Cambridge. But it was such a terribly cold night, and he had met her by taking the “T” from Harvard Square, leaving his car at his apartment. Parking was always almost impossible in the North End, especially on a snowy winter day. The thought of a taxi ride to Cambridge and then going from there to her apartment the next morning seemed crazy. So, she broke a rule and invited him to come to her apartment. They grabbed a taxi and were there in just ten minutes.

This was the first time in years that she had let a guy into her world, and she knew almost nothing about him. Once in her apartment, he helped her remove her heavy wool cape, a garment that women were starting to wear to stand out among all the ski jackets and heavy down coats usually worn in Boston on a winter day.

She had a routine to seduce guys since her method was to bed them as soon as possible, which helped her and her potential bed partner avoid learning much about each other. Meet, unzip clothes, and “fuck.” Yes, she liked that vulgar word more than “having sex” or “sleeping with somebody.” She never said it out loud, but that is what she thought she was doing, fucking. That is also the word used in a phrase made famous by her favorite feminist author, Erica Jong. She advocated that women enjoy themselves and learn about their sexuality by “anonymous, zipperless, fucking.” Cleo had read her book many times; she considered it her feminist Bible. Cleo had bought it at the SF State University bookstore as an undergraduate and was impressed that it was still for sale many years after it was published. Cleo aspired to write a book on feminism that would be another great feminist classic, equal to Fear of Flying.

Jong explained that the encounters she advocated are “zipperless” because “when you came together, zippers fell away like rose petals, underwear blew off in one breath like dandelion fluff.” Cleo took this to mean that avoiding the dance of seduction, much discussion about each other, or making out were not only unnecessary but were also to be avoided. She felt authorized to initiate sex directly, such as, “Are you up for sex?” or “Where is your bedroom?” Cleo developed her routine to avoid personal interaction, which led directly to fucking.

Cleo was inspired by both of Jong’s descriptions of sexual encounters. Sometimes Jong used the word “zipperless” to mean quickly out of your clothes, and sometimes “zipless” to imply no relationship, just fucking, a sexual encounter for its own sake without emotional commitment. Jong wrote, “For the true ultimate zipless A-1 fuck, it was necessary that you never got to know the man very well.”

Cleo’s interpretation was that her males would have an expiration date of about four months. Cleo tried to be faithful to both terms; they suited her purposes perfectly. She only remembered in her Jongian Bible what fit her purposes. That is all she really wanted, a male giving her some pleasure and then a male body in her bed until the next day. Also, she liked to have a guy to do things with as long as the relationship didn’t get serious, at least for her. Sex needed to be handled so that it did not imply or include an incipient emotional relationship.

Her routine was a big hug, a charming kiss, a flashy smile, another hug, then rubbing her hands over the guy’s pecs and making some positive comments. The guys would then inevitably try to touch her breasts, and she would not resist at all. She believed that almost all guys lose their ability to think once they have caressed a girl’s breasts, and she was almost always right. Then, the preliminaries would get cut, often almost totally skipped. Off with his shirt and her sweater and bra, and then she’d drop her skirt. A little more touching, a few kisses, and then she’d deliver her “killer” line, “When I‘m with a guy, I don’t like to take off my panties … pause, pause … I’d like you to take them off me.” If males lost their ability to think once they had touched her breasts, she knew that they couldn’t think about anything except “it” as they removed her panties. Never had this line failed to get the reaction she wanted. This routine assured her of a male in bed with her remaining in control. She got everything she wanted. The guys could believe that they had seduced her, but no, she’d got what she wanted on her terms.

As soon as Danny had helped her with her cape, she intended to begin her routine. But he had walked over to her bookcase and started looking at her books carefully. Then he started asking questions about what she was reading, what she liked most, her favorite authors, etc. She fell into a literary conversation, the subject she was most passionate about.

As she talked, she kept thinking about her routine, but she couldn’t seem to find a way to transition from what she cared about so passionately to getting this guy into bed. Bedding him seemed somehow less interesting, or at least less urgent. Two hours passed, and she was totally sucked into talking about her views on literature, this or that author, and art. She offered him a glass of wine and they both sipped the wine slowly as she talked. She told him about her work at Schendler Publishing, how she had come to Boston from San Francisco for this job, this opportunity, and so on. She skipped the part about what she had done to get the job. Another hour and a half passed by.