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Aspen, Colorado has class on the outside and inside.
Doesn’t matter how often I’ve been here, I’m still blown away by how pristine peaks and trees can give way to such black-tie sophistication in the lodge’s bar. I suppose I should expect nothing less since this isn’t just any old watering hole like the ones we have back at home.
No, this is practically a lounge — a place where well-to-do people come to put themselves, and their wealth — on display. Some of that wealth is in jewels and fancy watches; some of it is in fancy clothes. But most of it, as I look around the bar at all the hot honeys and snow bunnies, is beauty. Looks. Perfect proportions from top to bottom on nearly all of these girls. Thin waists and curvy chests and hips for days.
But, of course, my brother, Paul, can’t see any of it. Or if he does, it doesn’t do it for him. I notice this — the way he’s scowling, scrutinizing all the girls like there’s nothing good about any of them — as I look at the drinks menu. I don’t really look at it since I already know what I want. Beer. A German import.
I’ve got to get him out of that mood if my plans are going to be successful, I think, placing my order. He’s gotta find some girl he can send a look at for over five seconds, otherwise the invitation we paid a small fortune for will go to waste. Jordan takes the menu from me like we’re a couple of kids having to share the crayons. Can’t let that happen. Those invites are not given out to just anybody.
My friend Jordan orders a rum and Coke after thumbing through the menu just so he can comment about the names of the “fancy drinks.” He catches me looking and nudges his chin in my brother’s direction. The look on his face says, “Get talking to him. Do something.” He mimics Paul’s frown. His million-mile scowl.
“Talk to him,” Jordan whispers, “before he starts thinking we’re just here to get wasted.”
I nod at him, muttering, “Don’t you think I don’t know that?”
The bartender delivers my beer, followed by the shot of tequila I ordered for Paul. “I was the one who came up with this idea to get him off the hamster wheel called Darla.”
Jordan’s handed his rum and Coke by the bartender as I lean toward my brother and get his attention. I have it. But just barely. Paul looks about ready to clock out, and we just got here.
My brother waves down the bartender and ordered another shot.
“With all the pretty women swarming this place, I’m sure you have a good guess as to why I brought you here, right?” I ask.
Paul looks unimpressed. Unintrigued by my question to him, as if I’m the most obvious and unoriginal person who’s ever walked the earth. He practically rolls his eyes at me. He spits something into his shot glass. Maybe a bit of lime left over from his shot, as he peruses a gaggle of girls. All in snow bunny fluff.
“To get laid?” he replies in a bored tone.
The attitude laced through those three words is so thick it takes every muscle in me not to punch him in the face.
Not just to get laid, I think, reminding myself that he doesn’t know half of what I do, and that if he did, he wouldn’t be such a dick, to give you something Darla couldn’t give you even if she made a deal with the devil. It’s not this measly trip to the bar. This is just the beginning, brother of mine.
I’m just about to answer his cocky response with some variation of those thoughts when Jordan pipes in. “You don’t need just a fuck, man,” he says from over his straw. “If that was enough, we wouldn’t need to take you here to get your mind off your ex.” A pause, as he takes a sip from the small straws feeding him equal parts rum and soda. “You need an experience.”
“And we’re going to help you get it,” I say, sipping the foam from the top of my beer, before taking a deep drink.
My brother remains unmoved. Again, his eyes drink in the sea of beautiful women as if it’s a desert where sex appeal goes to die. Where he would rather die than be for another moment. He shakes his head resolutely.
“Nah,” he says. “None of these girls are gonna do it for me.” The bartender produces a second shot for Paul, and he knocks it back. “I’m 38. I don’t need or want another precious princess.” He grimaces with the burn of alcohol. Savoring and hating it, much like Darla, his ex. “Someone on her high horse who’s going to demand my worship.”
Paul’s eyes settle on some woman on the other end of the bar. I go to look at what has caught his attention but see nothing of note.
“What I need is a girl who’s submissive, yet feisty,” he continues, ordering a third shot. “And I don’t think there’s any girl here that fits that bill.”
Part of me wants to break his nose for his unceasing pessimism, but I decide on patting his shoulder instead. Much more conducive to the “brotherly love” I’m trying to show him by bringing him on this trip. By making this about much more than just some time on the slopes, in or out of bed.
“You let us worry about that, bro,” I say. I try for a smile and to put some energy in my words to him. After all, he didn’t ask to find his girl in bed with another man. And anyone would be pissed after that.
Paul downs his third shot as quickly as the first two.
“We’ll help you find the right girl, yo.” That’s Jordan. As I look over, I see he’s halfway through his drink. “By Christmas, you’ll be jingling all the way.” He’s the only one to laugh at his joke, of course. But he doesn’t seem to care. By the glow in his cheeks and the gleam in his eyes, the Coke must be extra heavy on the rum.
I take out my urge to punch something on Jordan’s arm.
He says “ow,” but does too much laughing for me to take him seriously.
“Yeah,” says Paul, getting up from his place at the bar and heading away from us, “all the way home.”
He looks more depressed after some alcohol, not less like he’s supposed to. I’m disappointed that so far the whole point of this trip has failed. We brought my brother here to drink away his sorrows, not drown himself in them. But luckily that’s not all we brought him here for.
“I’ll be waiting outside the lounge. Come get me when you boys are done,” Paul adds.
“Okay, Dad!” says Jordan, now holding an empty glass and looking very happy for it. He guffaws, even when Paul glares and storms out.
I want to say something to him, but I can’t think of sufficient words. Paul is always like this when things don’t go his way. When he’s not in control of the situation. Since he’s my brother and I know him so well, it’s obvious there’s nothing I can do except wait for him to come around.
Next to me, Jordan’s about to order another rum and Coke. I stop him, asking for a beer instead. Something with a little less hard liquor. I have plans for us to lounge around in the hot tub after this, so Paul can hopefully find a girl in a bikini, and I don’t want Jordan completely smashed.
When his beer arrives, and I’ve had a few more uninterrupted sips of my import, I say, “Honestly glad this weekend isn’t just about him, Jordan.”
Jordan clumsily sips at his beer.
“If it was, I’d be more upset about his piss poor attitude,” I add, picking out several beautiful girls from the crowd. “But I’m gonna find myself a girl, too.”
As I watch the faces of these gorgeous woman, I amuse myself by thinking about how many of these refined creatures have an invite to the exclusive place we’re going to tomorrow. How many of these faces— and near naked bodies— I might see up on stage, waiting for me to buy them for a night of out of this world pleasure.
Jordan burps and hiccups, disturbing my thoughts. “Pent-up, huh?” He leans forward. He looks like he’s somewhere between telling me a secret and falling on his ass. “That’s why I keep the snake skinned, at least once a week,” he says, not-so covertly making a jerking-off gesture above his pants. “Keeps me nice and loose.”
I wrinkle my nose at him. “I don’t want to think about anything on you being loose,” I say. “And the kind of frustrations I need to release can’t be done by hand.”
I let my thoughts wander to what I would do if I could enjoy some leather play. I’d put clamps on the woman’s breasts, thighs and pussy lips before making her wear a horse mask and bridal. I’d then make her prance around for me, before impaling herself on my cock and riding me reverse cowboy style. “Get me a little leather, a riding crop, and a woman with impeccable manners, and my tensions are a thing of the past.”
It takes a few seconds, but Jordan finally gets the idea. “Good thing we’re not just relying on your charm,” he says, standing up. The gesture isn’t as graceful as I know he thinks it is. “Half of these babes aren’t going to be into that kind of thing unless you pay them.”
I finish my beer and leave a lot of cash on the bar for the bartender. “Yes,” I hiss, grabbing Jordan and walking him out with me, “Which is why I plan to. And you need to shut up about that right now. If anyone gets too curious, consider our invitations gone.”
Paul, as promised, is waiting for us when we exit the bar. He looks saltier than ever. And now, thanks to Jordan, I’m pissed right along with him. I know I have unique proclivities that not every woman enjoys— or thinks she enjoys. (In my opinion, that just means she hasn’t met the right man to introduce her to them— and that would be me.)
I feel a lot better when I remind myself that I don’t mind paying for a woman who will let me have my way— any way I want— with her. In fact, I prefer it. After all, I’m filthy rich and know that money can buy me anything. Including the satisfaction of knowing that after I tie her up and leave her pussy nice and raw, she’ll be begging me for more, but I won’t feel bad not giving it because it was merely a financial arrangement.
I learned a long time ago that relationships are messy so I prefer the simplicity of an agreement such as that. It works for me, and, from the satisfied coos of every girl I’ve ever bought, as she’s calling out my name repeatedly while she’s out of her mind with lust, it benefits them just as much as it does me.