Chapter 8 #4
“My family has interests in textiles—including everything you’re wearing—wine—including everything we’ll be drinking—technology, real estate, several airlines, and, like everyone else, oil.
We’re diversified, which is the key to forward motion and acceptable profit margins.
My sister heads our legal team, while I’m more creative—I oversee messaging and design for the full range of products and services. ”
“You’re the gay one.”
“And aren’t you lucky?”
I was smiling. Luc was guarded, repeating only vague details easily found online, and in countless articles in Vanity Fair and The Wall Street Journal, which Marcus had forwarded to me.
“But let’s talk about you. You’re an actor, although you downplay any success you’ve had. Most Americans are obsessed with their careers, and with comparing themselves to competitors. Yet you seem more—relaxed.”
“I’d like to be. I love acting, but the business side can drive you crazy.
I’m probably not even on the right coast, because New York’s only good for theater and basement comedy.
Which I love, but I should be heading to California, for pilot season or something supporting in the streaming spin-off of a superhero franchise on its last legs.
So I’m after more non?show business experiences. Like tonight.”
The weird thing was, while I was concocting a plausible bio, I was telling the truth.
This was part of the Tuxedo Society’s appeal: tonight wasn’t merely an acting opportunity, or even a patriotic endeavor, but an adventure.
I’m naturally timid or at least careful, so my back-and-forth with Luc was an unaccustomed feint, toward a larger life.
“My last ex,” Luc said, “was a Formula One driver. He won three Grand Prix championships, was very good-looking, and was exploring what he called his brand potential. Then he began leaning on me, to add his face to some of the fashion houses my family owns, and their lines of sneakers and leather goods and perfumes. I don’t like being used. ”
“So you broke it off?”
“While he was in Saudi Arabia, competing in qualifying events. He most likely should retire. He’s almost thirty.”
I was being tested to see how I’d respond, to both the existence of a celebrated rival and Luc’s cruelty.
“In racing movies,” I replied, “it’s mostly about watching the star’s face while he’s behind the wheel, before his car spins out and catches fire but he staggers from the wreck. I wish they’d drive through rush hour traffic with groceries and their kids squabbling in the back seat.”
Luc laughed. We were at that preliminary stage of courtship, when both people are on good behavior, but goading each other toward honesty.
At the same time, I was performing the role of a guy-on-a-date, flirting and not burping or implementing my very ulterior motives, which I was neglecting.
There was a burst of hilarity from a table nearby and Luc asked, “Who are those people?”
I turned my head. The Tuxes were enjoying themselves a few tables away, all dolled up and being just loud enough to seem harmlessly inebriated.
“Ah,” said Luc, “it’s a boys’ night out. There’s your trainer, the blond from the gym. Let’s make him jealous.”
Luc raised his champagne flute in Brock’s direction, and Brock pouted, but then did a thumbs-up, as if the best man had won.
“He’s sweet,” said Luc. “I’m sure one of those other men at that table will be availing themselves.”
“He’s great,” I said. “You know, for a flawless blond ex–rugby player.”
I’d said this because Ralph Lauren had a discontinued, lower-priced line of sportswear under the Rugby label, and Brock had slipped me deadstock items from the warehouse.
Luc mimed a yawn, but the rest of our meal went well, as I absorbed the following:
Luc’s father had built the company and had Luc work, from his teenage years onward, as a salesclerk, on a loading dock, in Mergers and Acquisitions, and finally, in marketing.
Luc had come out at fourteen and his family hadn’t been surprised.
“My mother began as a showroom model, so she was quite pleased at having a gay son. Karl Lagerfeld attended my fifth birthday party and brought me a teddy bear dressed exactly like himself, with powdered white hair and a frock coat.” But there were issues: “My father won’t let me succeed him, because he thinks I’m irresponsible and superficial, by which he means gay.
When I point to Karl’s corporate genius, my father says, ‘Ah, but Karl was one of a kind,’ by which he means I’m not.
” I noted this conflict because Reggie might be interested.
Luc adored Reata Pershing: “Your First Lady is a marvel. My father’s irritated by her, he thinks she’s overreaching, but I’ll be working beside her, on repatriating artworks.
France has more than its share of stolen goods, and she’s showing us the way.
” Was he lying, to cover his father’s tracks, or was his admiration the real thing?
What about the diamond? Was Luc part of the exorbitant, ill-begotten purchase, or was his father once again excluding him?
And if Pierre was hoping the gem would miraculously produce a more acceptable, presumably heterosexual male heir, wouldn’t this infuriate Luc and his sister, who’d become merely the mother of the boss? How far could I prod Luc on this?
Luc was attracted to me but didn’t trust me: “Of course I’ve had my team do some light investigation. As I’m sure you’ll understand, I rarely have faith in anyone. I expect the worst, but I like being surprised.”
All of this was keeping me off-kilter, since I was being seduced and was on trial.
I questioned whether I was in over my head, not just because of the deceit, but from Luc being so much more prominent and savvy than me.
I was dating way, way above my pay grade, which was new but titillating.
Luc had ordered for both of us and the food was delicious, even if I had no idea what I was eating.
I’m quasi-vegan, but I might’ve nibbled the carcass of some small, exotic endangered animal, but like the rest of the evening, I could claim it was in the line of duty.
Before joining the Tuxes, I’d Googled the word “espionage,” which means, among other things, “the art of gathering intelligence and discovering secrets.” Which also pretty much defines romance.
I leaned into my courage, or my gall, or my Jeremy-Irons-in-a-smoking-jacket bona fides and wondered, “Do you believe in fate?”
Luc stayed still—had I pushed too far, exposing my knowledge of the Clotho? Or might my suggestive musing pay off, in some indication of whose side Luc was on—his father’s or Reata’s?
He smiled and said, “I might. Do you?”
I was stymied—had he lobbed the ball back into my court, to test my manipulation?
“I have no idea. But I’m having a very good time.”
I could hear myself, inventing and delivering borderline cheeseball dialogue, which was also exhilarating. Actors my age prefer fumbling, fragmented love scenes, but this was midnight-in-Paris improv.
“So,” Luc said, “would you like to see where I live?”
We walked a few blocks to a building even more austere and of landmark quality than where the restaurant had been housed.
There was a keypad and fingerprint recognition, and Luc took me through a stark foyer and up a grand, modern marble staircase without handrails of any kind to an expansive, loftlike full floor.
This space was so vast that I barely took in the grand piano, two black onyx fireplaces, low, curved seating, and gleaming wood floors without carpets.
As my eyes were becoming accustomed to the furnishings and scale, in semidarkness, Luc was behind me, kissing my neck.
He tugged off my jacket and reached underneath my turtleneck, still kissing me.
For a second I asked myself: Was I genuinely aroused or doing my job?
Were both possible? If I’d seen Luc’s photo online, which way would I have swiped?
None of this mattered, as he tugged my turtleneck over my head and said, “The rest. Now.”
I kicked off my costly new shoes, unbuckled my belt, and slid my bespoke pants to the floor.
Since my underwear wasn’t really mine either, I dropped it.
I was standing in front of the still fully clothed Luc, both of us breathing heavily yet holding back, since Luc was in charge.
He sat on a couch, never taking his eyes off me. “Display yourself.”
I wasn’t sure what he meant, since I was already naked, but then I got it. I turned around slowly and spread my ass. I glanced at Luc over my shoulder. As I faced him, I ran my hands over my chest and grabbed my cock. Whatever was happening, I was completely on board.
Luc stood and left, so I went with him. We reached his bedroom. The moonlight from a wall of windows illuminated the large but simple bed, without any fussy regiment of pillows or anything besides linens that had cost more than my four years of college. Luc gestured and I lay on the bed, waiting.
Rather than perform a striptease, Luc efficiently removed his clothes, as if he were his own manservant.
His body, fully revealed, was even more chiseled than our workout session had promised.
Luc would be photographed by paparazzi, on beaches and aboard yachts, so he kept himself in impeccably good shape.
His physique had been impersonally honed, as a business necessity.
He was also, in a French and a gay male manner, exceedingly vain.