Love Letters to Myself

By Blair Schulman

She's Daddy's little girl...and his ex-wife. A wealthy loner is led down the garden path by a beautiful manipulator with an appetite for greed. He narrates the destruction she leaves behind in her designer-heeled wake.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 31, 2000
• ISBN: 9781462096916

Blair Schulman

Blair Schulman is a native New Yorker who likes to see The Beautiful People run amok.

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All Rights Reserved © 2000 by Blair Schulman

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission in writing from the publisher.

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Printed in the United States of America

Contents

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

Epilogue

About the Author

I

Lust and avarice are the two most worthwhile sins. Together, Cleo and I have learned of their special pleasures. She, however, is better versed in the ascension of its rewards. Consequences to follow.

Though her name reminds me of a sleek feline she is a rose. Beautiful and sweet-smelling, but get too close and her thorns will prick you good, drawing blood and there she will sit, beautiful and impassive. As you suck the blood diamond from your finger her long-stemmed wickedness mocks you silently. Better to have left her in the cutting bed.

Around sevenish I wait for her in my lobby. There is a feeling of warmth and fear surrounding me, like the first kiss from a very seductive stranger who is pulling out your wallet as he slips you the tongue. It envelopes me, and not for the first time today, when Cleo Pierce King LaSalle arrives in New York’s last remaining Peugeot taxicab.

Let’s go sailor, I’m thirsty! comes a voice from the open window.

Inhaling noxious French exhaust fumes entering the cab, I am reminded of Cleo’s talent for manipulation. The cab lurches forward towards our destination.

Soooo, that’s the new suit, huh? It’s cute. she says, looking me up and down, appraising the fabric.

Cute? There’s nothing cute about a Brioni, Cleo. It is the standard for expert tailoring. I am hurt by her comment. Privately, I think there can be nothing ‘cute’ about anything that costs six thousand dollars.

I’m sorry, honey. Come here. and she turns my body so she can rub my neck. Her face reaches the nape and sniffs. Oooh, you smell great. There’s nothing cute about that. You smell like a man. and gives me a lick behind the ear. Then she purrs softly, like a cat who’s been fed her cream. I turn back towards her to catch the face that goes with the purr. It smiles back.

She saved this bridge from falling apart but only last month there was a great chasm jumped. For the first time my friendship with Cleo was seriously questioned. The image comes back to me in agonizing detail.

Late August. Where the evening is almost blessed release from the day that holds momentum at gunpoint, Cleo and I did what we like to do best—get dressed up and go to where there would be press.

We received invitations to the re-opening of the Guggenheim Museum. It had been closed for renovations and they had an opening night Champagne party for its members. It was a legitimate excuse to buy new clothes. We spent the previous afternoon in Barney’s, driving the salespeople insane. This was for her, of course. My Baldessari suit was out of storage for the event and I couldn’t wait to slip it on. There are certain clothes that just reek of custom-tailoring and this suit was one of them. Black raw silk trousers, white pima cotton dress shirt and a single breasted jacket with a jacquard print. Unzipping the storage bag that afternoon my heart leapt a little, the fabric knew every inch of my body and it was one of those unexplainable joys that beats buying off the rack.

The evening started out with great intentions but in a nutshell, we got drunk and were thrown out of the Museum. We met some people there. No one important really, it’s August and no one is in town. Anyway, one of them, a jewelry designer loaded on Quaaludes, knocked

over a Rauschenberg. Cleo stole his watch and whispered in my ear, Get us a car.

A fat man with a moustache in livery was leaning against a grey Cadillac limo. He throws down his cigarette and approaches us as we approach him.

Where you folks goin?

Uh… Good question. O.K. The Crown. Ninth off of Second.

O.K. Ten bucks.

Sold. and we tumble into the back.

The first thing Cleo and I do is look for the wet bar. It’s up near the privacy glass. In the little fridge I find a split of Mumm’s. That’s better after all that Frexinet. I pour us a loving cup full from a row of glasses and we sip, alternating between working the stereo system, which sucks, and arguing whether or not we should keep the moonroof open.

It’ll fuck up my hair. she says.

You’re already fucked up, what’s the difference at this point?

You’re right. and leave it open, a smooth undercurrent barely touching the tops of our heads but affording a perfect view of the darkened towers on Fifth Avenue.

I sit on the opposite couch and stare at Cleo while she sips from the glass. It’s drunken moments like this where I question my homosexuality. She is a truly lovely creature and I have to shake myself free from those thoughts because I know nothing will ever happen. We’re just too close. But still, I’m getting excited.

Pervert. Would you just admit it already! You’re bi. You want me. I can tell. and she reaches over to my crotch and gives it a rub. I respond accordingly.

You are a bitch. You know I love men. Just stop this.

I’m all the man you’ll ever want. Watch this. It’s not too often I let someone in so easily. and she spreads her legs, the dress hiking up her thighs revealing a garter belt and no panties. It’s nice to see she has shaved for the occasion. Come here.

Abandoning all decorum I dive right in, secretly excited at having a taste of the cherished flesh. It is unlike me to want something so far on the opposite pole of what I outwardly desire that once I taste the salt of her I find myself totally engrossed in the sheer pleasure of touching this forbidden fruit. Her melting pot has sucked me into a vortex. I pick up my head and say, I’m drowning.

Swim faster…faster. Her head is thrown back and the wind hits it on an angle, her hair splayed against the leather headrest. We are speeding down Fifth Avenue missing all the lights I assume. Cleo groans loudly and thrusts her hips in my face and I cannot get over this feeling of sexual entropy. So totally different than when I am with a man. My entire being is wrapped up in pleasing Cleo. As usual, she is getting her way.

Take down your pants! she says in between heavy gasps.

I pull away from her and take down my trousers. In the passing moonlight it looks white and menacing. I don’t believe I have ever intimidated anyone with it but Cleo smiles and starts to grab.

This is all wrong, of course. Not the direction I want things to be going. Just then the limo swerves sharply and we tumble over each other, the Champagne sinking into the carpet. The two of us falling off the soft leather couch. Cleo is ass backwards; her legs are on the armrest, her arms are across my chest and my feet are caught in the cuff of my pants. I crane my neck to look but tangled hair is covering her face. The sight is ridiculous and I begin to laugh hard. Cleo sort of laughs through her hair and as the car slows a little we straighten ourselves up. That dangerous threshold of screwing around where friendship almost passed fell apart in that brief moment and my laughter turns into a sigh of relief.

After the drinks have come and gone and the cigarette smoke clears we would still have to face each other in startling sobriety. Now I can look at her and still keep my self respect. If we had actually gone through with this, and I’m not discounting the probability that we would have, all would have been lost. Nothing damages a platonic relationship more than knowing for a fact how well your prowess fares compared to the war stories we told each other over the years. No matter what’s been told you’ve always expected more.

Back to the present. Our cab speeding down Eleventh Street at a breakneck pace. Staring intently I understand my main attraction for her. Bitchery first. Then her innate sense of good taste. She wears an organza summer wrap over an of-the-moment calf-length black dress, golden hair expertly highlighted and perfectly rounded breasts straining to be released from their neckline.

What are you thinking about? she asks me.

Champagne. I respond.

Drink it, don’t think it. and she smiles this special award winning smile, her hair catching glints of early evening dusk.

Cleo has a blondness that is pure soap-opera slut but with a clean and pretty reality that will have a brunette clinging to the power of Ultress Summer Blonde #12. Something, that in L.A. (her hometown, the only person I ever met who has a family extending four generations in that rootless place) would not cause a stir, but here in New York she is an entity. A natural blonde. I have seen it, her collar matches her cuffs. It all frames mysterious blue eyes that promise wet sheets and howls, a perfect five foot seven figure that would have men descending into a pit of Norwegian rats if it meant a chance to sniff her panties after a long day. If they only knew she didn’t wear any.

It’s easier to stay friends with her than not. It’s been a lot of work so far. About the only I’ve ever done in my life. Our backgrounds are worlds apart. However, the thing we can agree upon most is our extravegance. My family’s wealth is total. Without doubt or question. Upon my twenty-fifth birthday it was all handed over to me. Cleo’s was also handed to her. Then taken away. Then amassed once again after her much-publicized divorce.

Growing up, I knew about the King’s and the LaSalle’s through the gilded gossip mill that seeps through East Side society like a fatal disease.

Those in the know are struck dumb by the juicy headlines, scandalous assaults and trivial chunks of sordid bacchanalia.

Basically, I have always known Cleo and her mother, Pilar, as trouble from the word ‘go.’ Maybe that’s why I became fast friends with her. My parents would drop dead if they knew I got her admitted to the Imperial Club. But they already did before we met. My grandfather, on the other hand, would probably laugh and tell me, "Atta boy!’ not knowing I was as queer as a three dollar bill. These thoughts makes me tip the cab driver an extra ten when we finally arrive at the restaurant feeling like a James Bond martini, shaken not stirred.

You think Doral is going to be surprised? We’re attending a surprise party for our model friend. She’s a well-known fashion model, definitely not the prototype for human compassion.

I think her expression of amazement will be about as real as her tits. Cleo remarks.

Glynnis probably opened her big mouth.

She’s always opening her big mouth for something.

Talk about the pot calling the ket.

Shut up. Doral will be truly impressed with our displays of affection, regardless of how insincere we may appear. It’s not as if she’s going to appear on ‘Jeopardy.’

This was true, I thought. She is one who has not been inured to life’s finer graces. A small town girl who still can’t believe her own luck by getting the hell out of Trailer Park, New Hampshire and starting her life again at eighteen. Screwing the right people have gotten her to a point where she commands four-figure working day rates. Good bone structure helped, too. Unfortunately for her she forgot to read a few books and newspapers along the way and thinks Christie Brinkley is the Senate Majority Leader.

I think I want to go home.

Cleo looks at me in shock. Whaaat? And leave me without an escort? I think not. You, my darling, are the most handsome, the smartest and the wealthiest of all my friends. I will hear of no such thing. Now let’s go inside and be wonderful. You always are with me.

And so, bound by our obligation as arrivistes we enter. .Excelsior!

Our arrival at Lusso is marred only by the lack of photographers waiting to record our entrance. A Hollywood premiere would be more to Cleo’s liking. Instead, we go to eat.

Shit. There’s no one here. She looks at her watch, the one she has stolen. It’s seven-fifteen. Let’s leave and come back later

No, we’ll stay. It’ll be fine.

If you’re wrong.

Cleo and I are indeed the only ones in the entire restaurant. Her timing must be off tonight and that can only be no good. The maitre d’ guides us to a bar directly off the foyer where we have a drink.

Our bartender is an Ernest Borgnine double. He holds forth, looking very post-Marty. His face is all creases and jowls and he resembles an old dog who’s spent a lifetime eating doughnuts. Getting over a momentary repulsion I order sweet Cinzano and a vodka lemonade for Cleo. We flirt with each other and wait about four minutes before we wonder if the maitre d’ is gay or not. In my book you are gay until proven innocent or ugly. He makes some lame comment to the bartender who grunts in response. The maitre d’ laughs a little too loud and stares just a little too long at us. He’s gay.

The bartender is not paying the homage we require. Borgnine mixes his drinks and serves them with the efficiency of a drone. He treats us like paying customers only. I think about the sawbuck I put in my left jacket pocket for his tip and transfer it back to my trousers where it will stay. He doesn’t even light Cleo’s cigarette when she plants them between her dried-blood lips. I am devastated. Men would stab each other for the opportunity.

At last he sees me being a gentleman and brings over an ashtray. Of course, it’s not clean. This is beginning to turn into some kind of B-list nightmare. Does Zagat’s know about this? Should we report it? It starts to get a little cloudy around the edges in the bar and I feel a premonition take shape. I trade in my Cinzano for Stoli rocks and start to get blasted.

Cleo is oblivious as she has a direct view of the antiqued mirror hanging over the bar. My sense of foreboding is saved by the entrance of Glynnis Dannie, an actress with a freak Academy Award nomination under her belt and her boyfriend of the month, Ben Cartwright. He’s a lawyer with a bottomless trust fund that makes you forget that he looks nothing like his Bonanza namesake. Also with them is Janice Wall, a cin-ematographer who thoughtfully brought her movie camera. I see the relief climb onto Cleo’s face as she notices the camera and knows her primping and aerobicising will be recorded for time immemorial. It is with careful deliberation that we denounce our breeding and education for a good profile shot.

Good. Now we can have some decent conversation about myself.

Cleo, you’re impossible.

Darling, with me anything is possible. I thought that an apt remark.

Glynnis, divests herself of a tobacco cashmere wrap even though it’s about seventy-five degrees outside, tosses it on Ben’s waiting arms then hip thrusts her way to us and plants air kisses on our cheeks.

Hiyee! The return of Carol Channing on methadrine. I just got off the phone with Jerry and HE just got the green light from Pathe for that cameo on the Attenborough project. Four days work at seventy-five per. The script is a little cheesy, like Swiss cheese all those holes, Ben, love, get me a martoony, olive up, and it is a pivotal scene. I mean La Liz has finally agreed to commit and I share it with her, of course one never shares any scene with HER, I mean, she’s not even a star, she’s like her own galaxy.

Saved by the arrival of Ben and her martoony, Glynnis takes a long drink and Cleo and I exhale. She looks at Glynnis’ dress and I see a short twitch of her nose, like she smells something rotten. Glynnis has a porcelain face that can animate a take-out order and her boobs come close to Cleo’s in dimension, but God, if I were standing in front of a camera all the time I’d think Jane Fonda. Her blue dress, covered in Roman numerals, makes me think of a very large, Jewish tank watch. Cleo concurs silently. Glynnis’ beautiful chestnut hair frames a pair of Christmas ornament earrings that we’ve seen on her ten thousand times and won’t ever like.

Clee doll, I love your dress. Did you lighten your hair? Did Carid do it? I went to him Thursday and he did a super job on me, don’t you think?

She twirls for us and I spot a long grey strand but say nothing. Facing us, she drains her cocktail and lays it down on the bar right between Cleo and myself, her enormous bosom overflowing. Borgnine takes her glass and refills it, not even giving her a new one. Glynnis stares at Borgnine and asks him for a clean glass. He obeys reluctantly and we all watch him to make sure he pours the second drink into a new glass.

Thank you. Glynnis accepts the drink and glares at him draining half of it in one gulp then says, Cleo, did I already tell you all this?

Yes. I was with you. Saks, then that really horrid lunch at Bice. Her annoyance is obvious.

Uh, I’ll just sit here and watch you two. You’re better than television. I say, sipping from my drink.

Ugggh, I hate television. It makes me look sooo chubby.

Well, you know Glynnis. Cleo says to her face.

Ben arrives with her coat check ticket. Here you go dear. and hands her the ticket. Glynnis pushes it back in his palm.

Good, now hold it. You know full well I’m going to lose it and if I do you’ll have to buy me a new wrap. We laugh, she says that to all her boyfriends and has more wraps, coats and jackets than any one person could wear in a lifetime.

So right, my love. My American Express bill reflects that quite vividly. He says this nervously. His hand reaches up to his tie and tugs on it like