Half Windsor Knot

I’ve been working on this story for some time.  I waffled between tenses and asked for feedback way too early and succumbed to mixed reviews for various reasons.  Yes, I know this story, like some of the others, end on a note where you may want more and there may be a time when that happens but for now, Greyson’s story ends where it ends.  I am pleased to present him to you now as he is, slightly edited but not really.  I thought perhaps if I released him something else might evolve for him.  Does that sound silly?

Gosh, it’s March 11^th and this is only my second entry!?  What have I been doing?  I started work on another story (oy vey!) but something a little lighter and I look forward to its progression.  For now, here’s ‘Half Windsor Knot’ – the one character in all of the stories I’ve worked on thus far that made me a little crazy.

**

Half Windsor Knot

By all assertions, Greyson Anders Bennett is a perfect example of masculine composition and sophistication.  It is impossible for anyone to accuse him of being cold in appearance.  Today for example, Greyson impresses himself onto the world fully decorated in designer flare.  A crisp white button down shirt, dark wash denim jeans accented by a brown leather Ferragamo belt, sandy brown wool sports coat and the crown jewel, his tie.  Always with a tie and always Puccini, this ensemble is accented by an elegant cornflower blue paisley print.  He likes paisley for its time-honored Indian pattern, 16^th century, the image of the lotus leaf symbolizes good health and renaissance and Greyson would like the world to believe he is the embodiment of each.  On occasion, depending on the shirt he’ll complete his tie in a Pratt Knot but most days he opts for the classic and trusted Half Windsor Knot.  Greyson prefers a semi-casual slant to his fashion.  Not too polished but just enough style to entice others to stare.  This made certain lately by his footwear, taking a liking to UGG chukka boots, made of full grain leather with rich oil finished tops, lace-up style, imported from Australia.

Underneath the premium quality thread count of his attire, Greyson’s physique is sculpted to perfection; chiseled abs, flat stomach, perfect pecs, strong legs, broad shoulders, circumcised penis.  A form glazed in a flawless tan and an unadulterated sheen of arrogance, the kind where when a man knows he’s stunning and likes for you to know how painfully aware of it he is.  His dark hair, strong square jaw and piercing hazel eyes are often the subject of conversation of those whose own eyes fall upon him.  He is a wanted man.

Greyson makes a handsome wage, a heavy hitter at the top of his specialized field. With no set hours, no office to check into and an allusive superior whom he rarely sees, it’s an ideal set-up for a man who doesn’t like being told what to do, when and/or where.  He is connected, practiced and prosperous.  His vocation allows him to consort with a long line of beautiful women from all over the world and because he is so proficient, he is in high demand.  Greyson Anders Bennett is a high class male escort.

Stepping off of the snow encrusted city sidewalk, Greyson ducks into his favored men’s fashion boutique.  He moves casually around the pristine chrome racks, judiciously perusing the merchandise.  After an all-nighter which included a champagne breakfast with a regular client, he felt like spending a little bit of his hard earned money on his way home.  As he enters, the fashion-forward clerk standing guard at the door receives him feeling the winter chill from his sports coat, “Good morning, Sir.  Little brisk out there, do come in and warm yourself.”  He flashes a funny grin and bounces on his heels, “How may I assist you today?”  The clerk, tall and pronounced, sleek and stylish, sports an indigo blue suit, with peak lapels, a blue and white gingham check shirt and a solid indigo blue tie with a flat tip.  His ensemble was heightened by bold red shoes and a Dali moustache, thin and waxed, styled so that each of the outer tips point upward on either side of his nose, his jet black hair was slicked back and curled around his ivory ears, giving the impression he may be long lost kin to the zany artist himself or perhaps an oblivious doppelgänger . 

Greyson’s eyebrow arched at the eager atypical character with an air of antipathy, “Just browsing.” He utters flatly, continuing to look through the mirage of trousers feeling Dali catalogue his every step, anxious to pounce.

“I couldn’t help but notice your tie, Sir.  If I may say so, it is just gorgeous and a Puccini man, spectacular.  Could I interest you in a wee peek at our new arrivals, just in this morning?  There are some truly divine items that I am sure you’ll appreciate.” 

Greyson feels a pang of agitation move through him but indulges him his offer, “Knock yourself out.”

Sprinting ahead, the clerk who introduces himself as Henri, takes center stage, “Here we have an exquisite Jacquard weave tie pairing tiny white polka dots against a dramatic sapphire background; modern without the flash, excellent for any fashionable man’s wardrobe.”  Henri displays the tie draped across his arm, checking to see if Greyson is paying attention.  He was but senses tension building in his jaw.  “I also have this fabulous tie, clean and minimalist, Chevron patterned in cool shades of marine blue and silver.  This one couples nicely with our new line of navy blue cashmere sweaters, both in button down and V-neck.”  There was still little reaction from his customer.  “Oh! And our accessories are all new.  Hats, scarves, belts, wallets, pocket squares, cufflinks …” Henri pointed quickly as he inventories all of the new pieces.

Greyson dismisses him with a wave of his hand and says, “Wrap up the Chevron.  And a cashmere sweater, large.  V-neck.”

“Excellent choices, Sir.  Will these be for a special occasion?” Henri inquires carefully ringing in and packaging Greyson’s purchases.

“A meeting.”

Henri titters, comes around from behind the counter with the parcel proudly placing it in Greyson’s hand, “Your receipt is inside, Mr. Bennett.  It was such a pleasure doing business with you, do visit again soon. Enjoy that meeting.”  Henri flashes a flirtatious wink.

At home, Greyson prepares for his evening with Mariana Dillinger, his most regular client.  Home, a two level meticulously designed condo in a restored Gothic Revival-style Victorian.  Gourmet kitchen with granite counter tops, stainless steel appliances, vaulted master bedroom, marble en-suite with a jetted tub and free standing closet, heated floors throughout with antique cherry finish offset with custom crown molding.  The amenities are classic and decadent; he has two fireplaces to laze next to, a separate two car garage and access to an indoor heated swimming pool.  Flooded with south east morning light, nestled in a quiet community, Greyson takes sanctuary in his surroundings to offset the fast-paced nocturnal lifestyle he’s become accustomed to.   The 67” state of the art plasma TV occupying one whole wall of the living room was at one time his favorite thing.  He spent a great deal of time with his best friend Boz in front of it.  Friends since grade school, they drifted apart soon after Boz married his long-time girlfriend Selena.  Boz knew Greyson’s short-lived modeling career morphed into escorting and while enjoying his monogamous life with Selena, he was able to live vicarious through his best friend for the salacious things.  Selena was never a Greyson fan, she didn’t trust his arrogant nature and when she accidently discovered what he did for a living she gave Boz an ultimatum, “Him or me.”  Being a newly married man, Boz veered off the friendship course and followed his wife.  At first, the boys had secret lunches and beers but it quickly fizzled out to annual Christmas cards sent in the mail.  No calls, no contact.  Greyson won’t turn the TV on anymore, he misses his friend too much and watching a football game alone just isn’t the same. 

Greyson is very popular with his neighbors, mostly female, frustrated housewives and middle-aged but they are always dropping by with a piece of stray mail or a basket of muffins, just to get a glimpse.  One such neighbor, Mrs. Huffington, affectionately known as Toots by the rest of the street, will ring his bell with Kong, her pet Chihuahua under her arm and primp quickly; fix her lipstick with her finger, fluff her Lucille Ball red hair and adjust her generous bosom in the glare of the stained glass of his front door.  Usually her car won’t start or something needs fixing and Greyson will sometimes indulge her, playing it up to its full potential by appearing shirtless to unclog a drain or wink her way as he’s bent over surveying the problem under the hood of her Maserati; anything to touch a fast car.

Occupying his usual barstool at Hotel Diamond, Greyson nurses two fingers of Glenfiddich neat.  He catches his reflection in the mirror, his new tie tuft handsomely contrasting next to a freshly ironed shirt and the cashmere sweater purchased specifically for this appointment.   A younger California blonde with a sleek surfer body and airy attitude takes the stool beside him, a fellow escort from the agency.  “Greyson Anders Bennett, the Legend.  You are lookin’ mighty righteous tonight, Dude.”

“Thane.”  Greyson acknowledges him with an air of reproach.  They are getting younger and younger he mused to himself, the escorts, more reckless and unappreciative of their position.  Greyson takes his job seriously, for the profit but also because he is gifted and he likes being the best at everything he touches.  It takes a special kind of man to provide the highest quality of service to a woman. It requires a specific skill set, a great deal of stamina and sensitivity to date multiple women, pamper them, tend to their needs, make love to them and excite them.  Women of wealth aren’t looking for casual sex, there is usually something important missing from their lives; exhilaration, delight, surprise, companionship, orgasm.  She wants to rebel and sate the loneliness left by her fat philandering husband.  Greyson is an expert and looks down on the new guys who are pretty and naïve and greedy, they’ll never last.  But he will.  He knows the tricks of the trade and is expert at keeping the secret of his success to himself.

“Are you gonna hit the Silver Party tomorrow?  Lots of ripe cougars dripping with jewelry and hard cold cash.”  Thane desirous, rubs his hands together.

Greyson stares straight ahead and answers flatly, “I’ll pass.  The Silver Party is for amateurs.”

With a confused expression, Thane replies , “I don’t know anywhere else someone like us would want to be on Silver Party day.  It’s wall to wall cash cows!”

“You have your priorities, I have mine.” He says coldly.

Before Thane could come to his own defense, a striking middle aged woman in a tight black cocktail dress and six inch heels, dripping with diamonds slunk alongside Greyson and hooked her arm into his.

“Hello, darling.  Are you waiting for me?”

Greyson conceitedly turns his back to Thane and faces her, “Marianna Dillinger.”  He brushes his lips against her cheek and croons, “You smell delicious, good enough to eat.  You’re just in time, I’m starving.”  He grazes her ear with his teeth and her squeal turns into soft moan.  “Shall we?”

Greyson stands and gathers the beautiful woman in his arms and leads her toward the elevator leaving Thane to his own devices, dumbfounded.  On the surface, judging by their intimate behavior and body language, onlookers would merely assume they were a loving couple with an interesting age difference.  No one would suspect the refined woman was compensating her escort handsomely with expensive gifts and an hourly fee.  This is how it was supposed to look, how it was done. 

In the cool light of morning, Greyson stands in the hotel window staring down onto the quiet city pulling on his shirt, making a mental list for his day ahead.  Marianna stretches in the love stained sheets, “Come back to bed, darling.  It’s early.  We’ll have breakfast.”

Greyson leans down and places a kiss on her lips, “I wish I could, but Sundays are reserved for other things.”

“I hate that I have to share you with other women.  Bitches.  You are mine, dammit!”  She laughs and he tickles her playfully until she begs for him to stop.

“I will see you next Saturday.  We have reservations for 8pm at Chic then dessert here in this very bed.”  He grins and rises, tucking his shirt into his pants and zipping them up.

“Miss me until then?” she coos running her hands along the nakedness of her tummy and up over her breastbone, lingering.

He smoothes his hand across the front of his pants and cups his manhood firmly.  “Every inch of me will miss you.”

She squirms, giggles and covers her eyes, “Go on, get out of here before I tie you up and make you stay.”

Sundays are always spent with one woman.  Regardless of how much anyone offered him, he has a standing weekly date he refuses to break.  It was understood and reluctantly accepted Greyson is otherwise engaged.  His Sunday date is an hour outside of the city and secretly, it is the best part of his week, the drive; just Hera, the open road and his music.

Greyson loves his car, his most prized possession, bought and paid for by Marianna Dillinger.  A 2008 solid Venom Red Metallic Dodge Viper SRT.  8.4 liter aluminum V10 engine, full 600 horsepower, polished five spoke alloy wheels, grey leather interior and a sound system with two subwoofers.  She is aerodynamic, flashy, fast, and sexy as hell.  He calls her Hera after the Greek Goddess, wife to Zeus.  Naming his car after the Goddess of women he believes is suitable and directly proportional to his affection for the fairer sex. 

Greyson dresses himself carefully for his Sunday meet.  Black Bally bomber jacket, layered over a Blackbird cherry red silk knit tie weaved into the collar of a white dress shirt paired with a camel beige argyle sweater, white and pea marl green diamonds emblazoning the front and his favorite pair of Dolce & Gabbana jeans with a course matte finish, slim through the thigh with a slight boot cut, accenting the outfit with a pair of Ray Ban gunmetal aviator sunglasses.

He hits the road at 9am sharp with a momentary delay from his neighborhood fan club fighting over who believes he looks the best.  His travels carry him further and further from the city limits through calm countryside that during summer months is a sea of green pastures with brown and white spotted jersey cows grazing alongside farm fences, silos posing as the scenery’s skyscrapers.  In winter however, it is icy and lonesome but oddly peaceful.  He doesn’t mind the drive because it gives him time to breathe, to think and listen to music.  He listens to Billy Idol’s ‘Rebel Yell’ almost three times by the time he arrives to where he is going.

The stately Oak Stone Manor has a long treed driveway that encircles a majestic fountain adorned with sweet-faced cherubs.  The heritage property situated on Lake Fader is six acres of gardens, tennis court, a heated indoor pool with a connecting clubhouse and a stable full of horses.

Greyson parks his car next to the stables and climbs the graceful stairs to the front door.  A porch swing sways in the breeze, squeaking.  Greyson checks his reflection in the window and enters the building without knocking and moves into the foyer.  He is greeted by Audrey, tidy, genteel but business-like, carrying a clipboard, “Mr. Bennett, good morning, so nice to see you I hope your drive was pleasant.  She’s in her room.  You can go straight up.”

“Thank you, Audrey.”  Greyson smiles, takes the stairs two at a time and walks the long hallway to the last door on the right.  He knocks softly and pushes the door open, “Nan?.”

“Punch!  Get in here and let me get a good gander at my grandson.”

Eunice Fudge, Greyson’s grandmother wriggles clumsily to get out of her chair to greet him.

“Nan, don’t break a hip getting out of that chair.”  He laughs and hugs her short robust form.

“Nothing gonna happen to these old bones, Punchy.  Lots of meat on ‘em, I’m padded good.”

Eunice Fudge, 85 and three quarters old if you ask her.  She’s lived in Oak Stone Manor for almost sixteen months and not a Sunday goes by that Greyson doesn’t visit.  It took her some getting used to, living in a senior’s home.  When her body started to rebel on her and her mind weakened, Greyson, her only living relative had no choice but to find somewhere for her to live where someone could watch over her all the time.  The decision was difficult to make until Eunice forgot to turn the burners off on top of her apartment stove and caught a dish cloth on fire, “The walls were just a blazin!” she’d say every time she re-told the story.  “Scared the shit clean out of my knickers.” 

It pained Greyson to have to put her away as she first referred to it.  She was always such a severe, independent woman.  Like the photos lining her bedroom walls depicted, in her younger days she was a looker and full of spunk.  As a girl, Eunice had long wavy butterscotch hair and porcelain skin, she was curvaceous and determined.  It was atypical for her not to get something she desired, it was always her will to achieve by any means necessary.  In the first few years of her twenties, she served as a flight attendant for American Overseas Airlines and claims it was on a trans-Atlantic flight where she met and enjoyed an ongoing dalliance with Rat Packer, Dean Martin.  “Dino always used to say to me, Euni, you’re my pretty as a picture good-time pally. He was a good egg, that Dean.  To be my Valentine, you have to have all your commas in the right place, and by Jesus his were firmly planted.”

Eunice plops back down in her easy boy chair and rests a crocheted blanket across her lap.  She peers at her grandson over her bifocals and asks, “What’s got your Berts and Ernie all twisted up today?  You have that look?  Sit down here and talk to me.”  She nods toward the empty white wicker rocker beside her.  Greyson sits, feeling the weakened chair creak and dip down under his weight.

Averting his eyes he replies, “I’m fine, Nan.” 

Eunice persists, “Now listen here, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday, you’re sullen, you’re wearing it around your eyes.  Out with it.”

Greyson sighs, stretches and shakes his head, “It’s stupid.”

“Let me be the judge of that.  If you’re being an idiot, Nan will let you know, don’t worry about that. You got lips that tighten up worse than a draw string purse when you’ve got goings on, drives me to drink, Punch. You have to get that crap off your chest so you can breathe and straighten up those broad shoulders.”

It was true, Greyson has difficultly opening up and when she calls him unnecessarily and unapologetically male he just shrugs and takes it because he has no defense, he is gratuitously and blatantly male.  He has no intention of changing that about himself simply because he has no idea how.

In a moment of weakness and under her pressure he confesses, blurting out, “I’m lonely.”  Eunice studies her grandson with misgivings but before she can counteract he continues, “You’d think I’d be too busy to be lonely but … there is … there’s this hole in my gut.”

Nan leans over and puts her soft wrinkled palm on the top of his hand, “Punchy, that is precisely the reason you are lonely.  You’re too damn busy.  You need to slow down some, take in a picture, read a book.  More to life than advertising my good boy, you’ve got to take the time to smell the roses.  It wouldn’t hurt you to date once in a while either.  I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to see you settle down a little before I’m giblets in a brewer’s bucket.”

Eunice is oblivious to Greyson’s true occupation.  She has always been under the impression that his suave appearance, fancy car and hectic work schedule is attributed to a career in advertising.  His late nights, business meetings and frequent flyer miles all credited to being Don Draper instead of Don Juan.

“Punchy, let me ask you something.  You spend all your time with everyone wanting a piece of you for what you can do for them, wheeling and dealing, you’re always looking after everyone else.  Question is who is looking after you?”

The query surprises him, “I do.”

“Oh go on with yourself, cream puff.  Sure, you’ve got fancy suits and you drive a shiny car but that don’t mean a hill of beans.  You forget, I ran with the Rat Pack and I know a thing or two about a thing or two.  Punch, you can’t be all things to all people and have nothing left over for yourself at the end of the day.  Pleasing others is noble but if no one is pleasing you, hell, that’s just existing, that’s not living, no way, no how.”

Greyson is speechless, feeling the hole in his gut deepen and ache.  “I’m around people all the time, how can I be so lonely?”

Eunice emits a frustrated sigh and rolls her eyes, “Easiest place to feel lonely is in a crowd of strangers, Punchy.  Worst place to be lonely is in your own regrets.  I got a feeling that you’re experiencing a little bit of both.”

She is right.  He is.  Boz is gone and his clients aren’t his friends or girlfriends.  There is no real human connection other than that he provides a service and is paid handsomely.  It is work.  Working to meet their needs, stoke their desires and fulfill their fantasies.  In the meantime, there isn’t a soul to do the same for him. 

“You’re all I really have, Nan.”  Greyson sweeps his hand through his hair feeling a little too helpless and vulnerable by the direction of their conversation.

“You’re slow, crazy and Cajun if you think an old crone like me is all you’ve got.  We’re the only family we’ve got and that counts of course but you need more.  Skip a meeting, kiss a pretty girl, make a baby.  Go live.  Look at you, you’re almost as dashing as my Dino, God rest his soul, no need of a good man going to waste because he’s writing jingles for bunk we don’t need.  It’s nice that you think your legacy is writing commercials that everyone fast-forwards but you have a name that needs to be carried forward, you need people to remember you for more than your work because let’s face it, there are always younger bucks coming up behind you, leaving you in the proverbial dust.  You’re dispensable at work but at home you’d be revered. I don’t believe that’s your destiny.”

Greyson counters, “I don’t believe in destiny.”

Eunice looks at him a long time, straight in the eye and says in a fiercely serious but loving tone, “Then that is your biggest problem.”

 **

There you have him.  Phew.

It's a Monday.  A few days into losing an hour of sleep and I'm still feeling the sluggy after-shock.  It doesn't help that I stayed out a little too late last night on a work night paying tribute to a beloved musician.  It was worth breaking curfew for but I am a little slow moving today.

Hope your Monday is pleasant.

In propinquity,

Nic