The King
Page 35
“No,” Kingsley said, shaking his head. “Not an S and M club. The S and M club. And you’re going to help me, because it’s your fault I’m doing this.”
“My fault?” Søren repeated, pointing at himself. “What leaps in logic did you take to lay this at my doorstep?”
“You turned me kinky,” Kingsley said.
Søren paused.
“I want to argue with that assertion,” Søren said.
“Oui?”
“I said I wanted to argue with, not that I could.” Søren took a breath, sat forward in the chair and clasped his hands. “I have to say I am pleased to see you enthusiastic about something that isn’t drinking yourself to death before thirty.”
“Drinking yourself to death before thirty is so nineteenth century.”
“Whatever the reason for this change of heart, I’m grateful it happened. If I can help you in any way, I will. But, please, recall I am now a Catholic priest, so I’d prefer not doing anything particularly illegal if it can be helped.”
“Nothing illegal. I just don’t know where to start. You’re the smartest man I know, and your friend Magdalena had a club. How do I do this?”
“I suppose you’d start with a location. Magdalena’s club was her home, her home her club. But I assume the town house isn’t zoned for commercial enterprises.”
“And it’s not big enough. And neither is the Möbius. But, yes, you’re right. We’ll need the perfect location. Lots of rooms to play in. A big room for a big dungeon. A bar, too, but we’ll keep the alcohol consumption in check. More or less.”
“More,” Søren said.
“You’re a Catholic priest. Aren’t you all drunks?”
“If I wasn’t before, being back in your life might drive me to drink. Between you and Eleanor it’s a miracle I’m even lucid.”
Kingsley pointed at him. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You would.”
“Maybe an old hospital,” Kingsley said, turning back to his photographs and flipping through them. “Are there any old abandoned hospitals lying around Manhattan? Or a mental asylum?”
“A mental asylum might send the wrong message,” Søren said.
“Oh, you know what they say,” Kingsley said with a wide grin at Søren. “We’re all mad here.”
“Who’s mad?” Blaise asked, as she strode into the office without knocking first. She had what looked like a newspaper in her hands. Not a good sign where Blaise was concerned.
“My girlfriend is mad for interrupting us when we’re working,” Kingsley said, feigning disapproval, which was Blaise’s favorite form of foreplay. The more peeved he was at her, the harder she worked to get back into his good graces.
“I told you, I am not your girlfriend,” Blaise said. “I am your submissive.”
“She has a point,” Søren said. “They’re quite different concepts.”
“Thank you, Father.” Blaise gave Søren a curtsy, which was an act of submission and exhibitionism, as her pale green kimono-style robe barely made it past her hips. At least she had underwear on.
For now.
“What, pray tell, are you doing in my office when I told you not to interrupt?” Kingsley asked, grabbing Blaise by the arm and pulling her down on to his lap. In addition to sternness, she also adored a good manhandling.
“I need ten thousand dollars, please,” she said.
Kingsley looked across his desk at Søren.
“She’s right. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my ex-girlfriend.”
“This is serious, King.” Blaise scrambled out of his lap and sat on his desk facing him. “It’s for a good cause.”
“Oh, God, not another cause.” Kingsley collapsed back in his office chair and groaned. “No more causes. That’s an order.”
“Listen to me, you French fascist,” Blaise said. “I need to picket a church.”
“Chouchou, you know I adore you, but you can’t picket God,” Kingsley said.
“You can picket God,” Søren said. “No prohibition against that in the Bible, to my knowledge.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the support,” Blaise said. Without smiling she looked back at Kingsley. “Listen to me. This is a bad church. They’re the ones who are always on the news with the ‘God Hates Fags’ signs and ‘Abortion is Murder’ signs. And they’re coming to our city. Your city. Read it.”
Kingsley grabbed the newspaper from her hands. He took his glasses out of his desk and put them on.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Blaise said with a purr in her voice. “I can’t be mad at you when you have your glasses on. You look too sexy. Doesn’t King look sexy in his glasses?” she asked Søren.
“I am overcome,” Søren said. Kingsley glared at him over the top of his glasses.
“Just read it, King. There’s a church called The Way, The Truth, and The Life, and they’re trying to take over Manhattan. Those people who have been protesting at the Möbius are part of that church.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I asked them last time I was there. They tried to tell me strip clubs exploit women.”
“What did you do?”
“Flashed them.”
“My fault?” Søren repeated, pointing at himself. “What leaps in logic did you take to lay this at my doorstep?”
“You turned me kinky,” Kingsley said.
Søren paused.
“I want to argue with that assertion,” Søren said.
“Oui?”
“I said I wanted to argue with, not that I could.” Søren took a breath, sat forward in the chair and clasped his hands. “I have to say I am pleased to see you enthusiastic about something that isn’t drinking yourself to death before thirty.”
“Drinking yourself to death before thirty is so nineteenth century.”
“Whatever the reason for this change of heart, I’m grateful it happened. If I can help you in any way, I will. But, please, recall I am now a Catholic priest, so I’d prefer not doing anything particularly illegal if it can be helped.”
“Nothing illegal. I just don’t know where to start. You’re the smartest man I know, and your friend Magdalena had a club. How do I do this?”
“I suppose you’d start with a location. Magdalena’s club was her home, her home her club. But I assume the town house isn’t zoned for commercial enterprises.”
“And it’s not big enough. And neither is the Möbius. But, yes, you’re right. We’ll need the perfect location. Lots of rooms to play in. A big room for a big dungeon. A bar, too, but we’ll keep the alcohol consumption in check. More or less.”
“More,” Søren said.
“You’re a Catholic priest. Aren’t you all drunks?”
“If I wasn’t before, being back in your life might drive me to drink. Between you and Eleanor it’s a miracle I’m even lucid.”
Kingsley pointed at him. “I take that as a compliment.”
“You would.”
“Maybe an old hospital,” Kingsley said, turning back to his photographs and flipping through them. “Are there any old abandoned hospitals lying around Manhattan? Or a mental asylum?”
“A mental asylum might send the wrong message,” Søren said.
“Oh, you know what they say,” Kingsley said with a wide grin at Søren. “We’re all mad here.”
“Who’s mad?” Blaise asked, as she strode into the office without knocking first. She had what looked like a newspaper in her hands. Not a good sign where Blaise was concerned.
“My girlfriend is mad for interrupting us when we’re working,” Kingsley said, feigning disapproval, which was Blaise’s favorite form of foreplay. The more peeved he was at her, the harder she worked to get back into his good graces.
“I told you, I am not your girlfriend,” Blaise said. “I am your submissive.”
“She has a point,” Søren said. “They’re quite different concepts.”
“Thank you, Father.” Blaise gave Søren a curtsy, which was an act of submission and exhibitionism, as her pale green kimono-style robe barely made it past her hips. At least she had underwear on.
For now.
“What, pray tell, are you doing in my office when I told you not to interrupt?” Kingsley asked, grabbing Blaise by the arm and pulling her down on to his lap. In addition to sternness, she also adored a good manhandling.
“I need ten thousand dollars, please,” she said.
Kingsley looked across his desk at Søren.
“She’s right. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s my ex-girlfriend.”
“This is serious, King.” Blaise scrambled out of his lap and sat on his desk facing him. “It’s for a good cause.”
“Oh, God, not another cause.” Kingsley collapsed back in his office chair and groaned. “No more causes. That’s an order.”
“Listen to me, you French fascist,” Blaise said. “I need to picket a church.”
“Chouchou, you know I adore you, but you can’t picket God,” Kingsley said.
“You can picket God,” Søren said. “No prohibition against that in the Bible, to my knowledge.”
“Thank you. I appreciate the support,” Blaise said. Without smiling she looked back at Kingsley. “Listen to me. This is a bad church. They’re the ones who are always on the news with the ‘God Hates Fags’ signs and ‘Abortion is Murder’ signs. And they’re coming to our city. Your city. Read it.”
Kingsley grabbed the newspaper from her hands. He took his glasses out of his desk and put them on.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Blaise said with a purr in her voice. “I can’t be mad at you when you have your glasses on. You look too sexy. Doesn’t King look sexy in his glasses?” she asked Søren.
“I am overcome,” Søren said. Kingsley glared at him over the top of his glasses.
“Just read it, King. There’s a church called The Way, The Truth, and The Life, and they’re trying to take over Manhattan. Those people who have been protesting at the Möbius are part of that church.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I asked them last time I was there. They tried to tell me strip clubs exploit women.”
“What did you do?”
“Flashed them.”
