Auction result revives memories of my favorite artist
This is a "politician's autobiography." You all know what that means. Fact has been blended with fiction and dreamed aspiration. I have exaggerated some, but not much. Mostly I have changed names and places to protect the innocent. All portrayals of sexual activity involve people over 18. ©2024, Brunosden. All rights reserved.
I read yesterday that a few weeks ago, a painting by an American artist, Jerry Roper, was sold at auction in Berlin for just over $300,000 plus the buyer's commission. This was a new high for works by the artist, now living back in the US. The article triggered fond memories from just over 20 years ago.
I'm no longer in the art business, but I still own several of Jerry's earliest paintings from a time when I knew him well, and so I've followed his career.
I had graduated and gotten an MBA from an Ivy university. There was no active US war and the draft had long ago been abolished. So I was free to do as I pleased. I, like most of my class, accepted a job on Wall Street where business was booming; salaries were high; and, bonuses were even larger. We were, within a few months of reporting for work, part of the generation that considered itself kings (and there were a few queens—the female kind) of the universe. Through acquisitions and IPOs, we were changing the world, and making enormous profits for our firms and huge bonuses for ourselves.
I was technically bi, having experimented casually in college, and newly married—in what I later learned was an open marriage. But, frankly, I was working so hard, I was just about celibate. We lived in the same apartment and pursued our separate demanding careers. Marriage just seemed to be what everyone was doing, and I had known Marie for years. So we took the leap.
I worked incredible hours—this was the end of the heady time (for Wall Street) when foreign companies were bargain shopping in industrial America, and we on Wall Street were helping them to find treasures. Every deal meant another notch up in our bonuses. My average day started at 9 or earlier, after a long commute in from Jersey, and ended at 10 on a good day, after midnight when I was near a closing. And it was six or seven days a week.
Needless to say, my marriage suffered. I later learned that Marie (a dark-haired, Mediterranean beauty) had several guys on the side, serially not together! Quite simply, I was never home; we never vacationed; and, she was an attractive woman, often alone in hotels away from home. And given the adrenalin that my job produced, I was always horny, occasionally "handling" matters solo in a john stall midday so I could concentrate on work. I didn't dare try to hook at the office, nor did I have the time to cruise.
In order to induce us to keep the late hours, in addition to end-of-year promised bonuses, the firm provided cars to take us home if we worked after 9. The office provided a buffet of sandwiches (to keep us at our desks). Then, there was a line-up of Town Cars outside the high rise office doors every night. We checked out with the duty security officer, picked up a chit and headed for a car.
Many of us had been liberals in college and felt a little guilty about the life we were leading and the results that we were achieving (the sale of America's industrial base and the loss of American jobs). But, we swallowed our consciences or locked them securely in the attic and counted the money. One of the very small ways we assuaged our consciences was to ride in the front seat with the driver, rather than limo-like in the back. It was a small way of demonstrating "solidarity" with the people. I typically did this unless I left after midnight and wanted the extra hour of sleep in the back seat.
Thus I often struck up conversations with the drivers, particularly if they spoke English and seemed amenable to a conversation. Some of course had music plugged into their ears. When I spotted one of them, I entered the car through the back door and was soon snoring.
One of those nights resulted in one of my first extra-marital sexual encounters, and my first homosexual activity since college. The driver was a young black, well-dressed and well-spoken, probably Jamaican from the accent. He spoke with a deep mellifluous accent that we used to call a bedroom voice—like Harry Belafonte. I learned later that his father was a regular but had the flu. He was subbing to hold his Dad's place in the valuable limo line. In the late dark of the Manhattan night, he looked like a handsome young buck. He had blindingly white teeth, a close shaved head and pecs that seemed to burst his uniform shirt. His black jacket was probably in the trunk. His hands on the wheel were enormous—and you know what they say about guys with big hands and feet. As was typical, the conversation between two young guys turned to football, then sex—specifically whether and with whom we were getting any and how we enjoyed it in bed. It was clear from the comments that he was a frequent flyer, maybe bi—or at least that he fucked men from time to time.
Not to belabor the point, I was horny and almost immediately threw a boner which was pretty obvious in my tight suit pants. I didn't even bother to try to conceal it. He reached over, tapped my thigh, and when I didn't protest, he grabbed it. I nearly creamed right then and there. I, in turn, responded by placing my hand on his thigh which inched toward his equally hard member. Fortunately, we weren't far from my apartment by then. He was soon to become my first black cock—and my first man since college.
Marie was on a business trip, and the building was dark when we arrived in the Jersey suburb. (No kids yet.) I invited him in for a drink—and we both knew what that meant. He accepted readily, informing me that I was his last ride for the night, and that he intended to take the car home after his last ride. There wasn't much doubt about the double entendre of the word "ride."
