5: Mr. Solonenko

The next morning, I called the number on Vlad’s card and set up a meeting. I wore a pair of Valentino slacks that hugged my ass and an Armani button-down shirt that left little to the imagination. “Mr. Solonenko,” I said, shaking his big, square hand. I held on for just a moment longer than necessary, making eye contact. “It’s so nice of you to agree to talk to me.”

“Pleasure is mine.” He licked his lips, and I felt like Little Red Riding Hood meeting the wolf. But I’d met a few wolves before, and I knew how to handle them. “Please, have seat,” he said, motioning me to a big leather armchair across from his desk. “So, who is Adam Beller?”

I sat back and crossed my legs. “I’m going to be the best-known party planner on the Beach. Within, say, six months or so.”

Vlad raised his eyebrows. “Really?”

I went into a quick spiel about my experience in college. My hand found its way to my neck. “It’s hot in here. Do you mind if I…”

I unbuttoned the second button of my shirt, then the third. Vlad’s tongue was nearly hanging out of his mouth. “You are very handsome man,” he said.

“You think so? That’s sweet. I know I’m kind of a twink, but some men like that.” I looked down for a moment, then back up at Vlad. “I prefer my men older, bigger. Like you.”

If I’d been a fly fisherman, I couldn’t have set the hook better. Vlad was starting to sweat.

“Maybe we help each other. I know many club owners. I introduce you.”

“That would be wonderful.” I unbuttoned the rest of my shirt and slipped it off. “What could I do for you in return?”

Vlad shifted in his chair. I figured his hard-on was pressing painfully against his pants by then. “I must be discreet,” he said. “Would not be good for my reputation, you know, in business.”

“I am very discreet.” I stood up, kicked off my loafers, and unbuttoned my slacks, which slipped to the floor. I’d gone commando that morning, so I stood there naked, waiting for Vlad to make the next move.

He pressed the intercom on his phone. “Marina?” he said, his voice hoarse. “You hold calls, please?”

“Yes, Mr. Solonenko.”

Vlad walked over to the office door and pressed the button to lock it. Then he came up behind me and kissed the back of my neck. I shivered at his touch as he ran his big hands over my thighs and then my sides. He groaned softly as he pressed his body against mine. Then he moved me over toward the desk.

Keeping one hand wrapped around me, he jerked open the desk drawer and removed a condom and a bottle of lube. “Yes, such sweet ass,” he murmured into my ear. “Such sexy man.”

Vlad was a big boy, and while my ass isn’t exactly the Holland Tunnel, it’s seen a dick or two. He was in me quickly, banging against me in short spurts, groaning. I yelped a few times but then surrendered myself to the experience. I’d never been with a Slav before, and I was already chalking his name onto my roster. With a final burst, he shot into the condom, and said something in Russian.

He pulled out, then grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the desk and pushed the box toward me. As we both cleaned up, he said, “I have new premium vodka. You can plan party, no?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, yes.”

“You are good, you keep mouth shut, there is more work.” And then his mouth snaked into a smile. “And more play, yes?”

“Yes.”

He e-mailed me a contract later that day, and two weeks afterward I ran my first party, the Vladi Extreme launch at the Palms. Vlad didn’t want word getting around the Beach that he swung both ways, and I wanted my reputation to rest on my ability as a party planner, not as a piece of ass. So I didn’t tell anyone about our relationship, and neither did he.

Sometimes he came over to my apartment for consultations, and sometimes we fucked in his office. With minor bumps, we established a relationship that worked for both of us. I knew there was something shady about Vlad’s business, but I looked the other way.

I had a taste for big men, so sex with Vlad was no hardship. Vlad’s dick was a shower, not a grower, a chubby ten inches soft, hardly bigger when erect. He wasn’t into foreplay, which was sometimes a pain -- no pun intended. But I loved the way he filled me up, the way his pubes scratched against my ass, the Russian sex talk. Pososi moyu konfetku meant “suck my dick;” vstat' rakom meant “give me your ass.”

I looked at my watch as I downed the last of my coffee in Javier’s shiny kitchen. It was almost one, and I had to be at Vlad’s office at two. I cleaned up after myself; I could tell Javier was the kind of guy who wouldn’t appreciate coming home to a messy kitchen or bathroom. Then I hurried downstairs and hailed a cab.

My business attire hadn’t changed much in the four years I’d been on the Beach. I favored sleek black slacks and skin-hugging silk shirts, and I changed quickly once I got back to my apartment, keeping on Javier’s tiger-print briefs. When they slid against my skin, I remembered the night before and got hard all over again.

I was hoping Vlad would be in the mood for love that afternoon; I needed someone to take my mind off Javier. My ass was already tingling as I got to his office, a tall building on Lincoln Road. Marina, a statuesque blonde from Minsk, was on the phone when I walked into the reception area. While I waited I gazed at the lush photos of Russian landscapes on the walls: the banks of the Volga, snow-capped Urals, the harbor at Vladivostok. The furniture was sleek and Scandinavian, blond woods and eggshell cushions. The whole office breathed money.

Marina finished her call and then buzzed Vlad. When I walked into his office, he was seated at his massive mahogany desk, the location of so much of our sex play. He wore a tailored Hugo Boss suit in black pinstripes, with a white shirt and bright orange tie. As usual, his hands and arms were loaded with heavy gold -- chain link bracelet, diamond-rimmed Rolex Masterpiece, massive rings set with star sapphires and smoky topaz.

I licked my lips and crossed my legs when I sat down across from him. But Vlad had only business on his mind. “I am launching new product,” he said, handing me a draft brochure. Vladi Vodka was introducing a line of premixed specialty martinis: apple, chocolate, key lime, orange, cherry, and lemon.

I’d run a ton of parties over the last couple of years promoting Vladi Vodka, though it wasn’t my favorite; it had a metallic aftertaste that had to be covered up with mixers. “Sounds yummy,” I said, toying with the top button of my shirt.

He barely looked up from his laptop. “I want to introduce new products in gay neighborhoods around the country. You will coordinate all events.”

My mind was spinning. It was by far the biggest job I’d ever gotten, and the first that would take me out of my Miami Beach comfort zone. I’d have to scope out the best bars around the country, recruit staff, supervise decor, music, and guest lists. I forgot about my dick and started thinking about my wallet instead.

“You have two-hundred-fifty-thousand-dollar budget,” Vlad continued. “I want Palm Springs, LA, San Francisco, Fire Island, New York, Chicago, maybe Key West. You can do this?”

I nodded, having trouble finding my voice for a minute. “Yes, I can do it. When are you going to launch?”

“Three months. Is enough time?”

It wasn’t. But I would make it work. “I’ll put together a proposal for you.”

He reached behind his desk and brought out a cute little carrier box with six slots in it, containing pint bottles of each flavor. I stood up and took the box from him, and he said, “I have many meetings today. E-mail me when you have proposal.”

I almost asked him if he wanted to bang my ass before I left, but I stopped myself. I never beg for sex. And besides, the rush I got from knowing I was facing my biggest job ever was almost enough to satisfy me. Almost.