Week One

It was late afternoon on a crisp sunny Thursday in April, and Danny Vandervere was putting the final touches on his outfit for the White Party. His suitcase was nearly packed, his well-made and fashionable but decidedly slutty clothes for travel, pre-parties, after-parties, poolside, and restaurant meals already neatly folded in a saddle-leather Hermès half-trunk that stood open in the middle of Danny's red-carpeted and mahogany-paneled dressing room; a collection of costly cosmetics and grooming products—mostly unnecessary for a twenty-three-year-old boy naturally blessed with extraordinary skin and hair, but nevertheless cherished and used religiously—were all packed in a matching toiletries case; a few pieces of extremely expensive jewelry were locked in another small case that would go into his soft-sided carry-on bag.

But The Outfit, the all-important White Party Outfit itself, was giving him some trouble. The shirtless ensemble consisted primarily of high-waisted white sailor pants tailor-made in soft but sturdy stretch gabardine, skin-tight from navel to knee and then blossoming into dramatic but not floppy bell bottoms that nearly dusted the floor, hiding the white soft-soled Oxfords that were comfortable enough for hours of dancing without being too gauchely puffy.

Any decoration beyond that would be gilding the lily, as Danny Vandervere is never anything less than breathtaking: he is endowed with a tall lithe body, voluptuous but not bulky with carefully cultivated muscles, exquisitely proportioned with wide shoulders and a tiny waist, almost-spherical pectorals and buttocks, tautly sculpted abdomen and smooth hairless skin; this wonder is topped by a head of glossy blue-black curls arranged in a cherubic halo around a face of nearly unbearable perfection, chiseled Italianate bones and blushing white English skin with luscious red lips and huge thick-lashed gray eyes.

Anything such a paragon chooses to wear to the White Party would inevitably become the rage of fashion within minutes of his entry on the dance floor; he could not only get away with wearing a chartreuse polyester leisure suit if he so chose, but chartreuse polyester leisure suits would become a staple at the next Circuit party. However, Danny is a young man of wealth, leisure, and artistic inclinations, and he has precious little to do with his time besides dressing himself to a degree of perfection rivaling the heads of Mr. Blackwell's famous list.

And so, even with so simple an outfit, there were variables of detail that took up hours of Danny's otherwise idle afternoon. He'd spent the better part of one hour wondering if he should wear underwear or not, trying on thongs and briefs and jock-straps and boxer-briefs, struggling back into the pants with every change; at last he put the pants on "commando" and examined the effect in the floor-length trifold mirror.

Though the effect was certainly eye-catching, it bordered too closely on the obscene for Danny's comfort: though he was by no means shy about showing off his massive member to anyone who was interested in seeing it, he didn't like making it the centerpiece of his body... he wanted people to see his face, too. He also found it uncomfortable to move around too much with it rubbing against his thigh when he walked or danced, as the friction tended to make the monster rather awkward to accommodate in tight pants.

Stroking the beast idly with his thumb, he decided that the thong-back support jock was the best bet, bundling his genitals into a big round basket that was as eye-catching as no underwear but considerably more comfortable, and so turned to fold four pairs of that style into his suitcase.

Then he turned his attention to hats. He had two, a simple canvas sailor's cap as well as a structured officer's peaked cap with a glossy black bill and gold braid. He liked the shape and prestige of the officer's cap, but preferred the all-white of the sailor's cap, which would not interfere with his overall whiteness nor clash with the platinum and diamond jewelry he intended to wear. He wondered if he could cover the black bill and the gold embroidery with the white shoe polish he'd bought for his Oxfords, or if he could find another cap of the same shape but with no color before the shops closed that evening.

"Oh, poop," he sighed when the screaming peal of his doorbell interrupted this important decision-making process.

He reached out to pick up the wall-phone he'd recently had installed, part of a system that he'd had to put in place after an unpleasant occurrence the previous winter: he used to leave the street door to his small 1920s apartment-house open during the day, and would receive callers at the front door of his second-floor flat; but since someone camped out in the darkened stairwell waiting for Danny to come out, intending to do him harm, Danny had a buzzer system installed, with wall-phones in every room of his flat so he didn't have to go very far to answer the bell, and kept the street door locked at all times.

"Hello?" Danny asked the caller; he wasn't expecting anyone, and experience had rendered him cautious of the unexpected.

"Danny, it's Valerien, let me up," came a faintly impatient voice.

"Okay," Danny replied, pressing the button that operated the gate downstairs, then hung up and moved quickly down the long hallway connecting the front and back rooms of his apartment toward the door.

"I'm sorry I didn't call first," Baron Valerien de Seguemont rushed through the door and into the living room without preamble, a short slim blur of silvery-blond hair and silvery tweed suit, "I need to ask you something that won't do over the phone."

"That's all right, Val, I always love to see you," Danny followed his guest into the living room, "Can I get you some...".

"What the hell are you wearing?" Valerien interrupted abruptly once his vision adjusted to the indoor light and he saw his friend's outfit. His big violet eyes, which had been eloquent of despair a moment before, were squinting slightly with confusion; his lovely Dresden-figurine face was crimped with a combination of distaste and disbelief.

"It's for the White Party. Do you think the necklace is too much?" Danny fingered the narrow band of square-cut diamonds bezel-set in bright platinum that circled his throat.

"Who'll see it, with all that cock jumping out at them?" Valerien gestured at Danny's crotch with a fey flutter of his hand. Though one of Danny's cock's most ardent admirers, Valerien is extremely traditional in his views and somewhat hidebound about propriety.

"I'm going to wear a jock underneath to the dance," Danny explained, "So do you think the choker is too nelly?"

"Too nelly for what?" Valerien cocked his head to one side prettily, considering the question with the import it deserved.

"The White Party," Danny repeated, "In Palm Springs."

"Oh, merde, is that this weekend?" Valerien wailed and dropped down onto the satin-upholstered Duncan Phyfe sofa that held pride of place in the center of Danny's opulently overfurnished living room, "You've been looking forward to this for weeks, haven't you."

"I've had my tickets since November," Danny sat down beside his friend, tucking one foot under his leg and turning to face him.

"I hate to ask you this, but I'm just that desperate. What can I do to get you to come to the Château instead?"

"But I'm almost all packed, I have hotel reservations and flights booked and everything," Danny objected, then relented when he saw the hunted look return to Valerien's lovely face, "But I don't have to go, I guess. I mean, it's too late to cancel the reservations, but that doesn't mean I have to show up."

"I will make it up to you, I promise," Valerien took Danny's hands in his own, a gesture he reserved for important statements, talking fast and serious, "I'll pay back all your expenses for this trip, and book you into Miami's White Party, or New York's, or Mardi Gras in Sydney if you like or any other party you want attend anywhere in the world. Private jet, suites, you can take friends, I'll even go with you if you want."

"Oh, you don't have to do all that," Danny was somewhat frightened by Valerien's earnestness: he seldom gave the appearance of taking things very seriously, and though he was always generous to a fault and had given Danny millions of dollars worth of gifts during the six months they were together, he never spoke of money or paying for things unless he absolutely had to.

"But I will, and more than that," Valerien vowed, "I'll make it up to you if you'll come up to the country with me tomorrow and stay for the week."


"Of course I'll come," Danny assured his friend, "But what's wrong?"

"I just found out that Grandmère is trying to marry me off," Valerien relaxed against the back of the couch, visibly relieved but still agitated, "This whole house party is a setup, and she wants to be able to announce my engagement by next Saturday."

"But you've always said you planned to marry," Danny reasoned, not sure why his friend was so upset by the news that his grandmother was meddling... it's what grandmothers do, after all, "You told me you were going to marry to continue your family line and tradition, rather than for love; what could be more traditional than an arranged marriage? Certainly easier than having to look around on your own."

"Yes, but I don't like having the whole thing sprung on me, like a trap. Three women are invited to this party, and I will be expected to choose one of them."

"Why do you need me?" Danny wondered, poking Valerien playfully, "You want me to protect you from them? Sleep at the foot of your bed and growl if one of them tries to sneak in and seduce you?"

"To help me choose one, of course," Valerien looked at him sharply, "I trust your judgement, and you know me so well, you'll know if we're compatible. I don't think I'm obliged to marry one of these particular women, and I certainly won't if I don't like them; but from what my secretary just told me, and he weaseled it out of Grandmère's secretary this morning, these are probably the three most suitable women in the whole world. Grandmère has been planning this for ages, studying genealogies and cultivating acquaintances to lead to the proper introductions, and I know she wouldn't try to marry me off to a toad or a nobody. These three will be the crème de la crème of beauty and breeding."

"Well, this is a new one for me," Danny laughed, leaning against Valerien and draping an arm around his shoulders, "Helping my ex-boyfriend choose a future wife."

"I don't care for the 'ex-' appellation," Valerien frowned, resting his head against Danny's chest, "It's not as if we broke up. Our relationship simply evolved from a romance to a friendship."

"Nobody has yet coined a catch-all word for such a thing," Danny reached up and stroked Valerien's gleaming pale hair, silky-soft as a baby's and worn foppishly long to curl around his jaw and the nape of his neck, "But I won't use it anymore if you don't like it."

"You spoil me," Valerien sighed with a smile, laying his hand on Danny's thigh and giving it a squeeze.

"Now look what you did," Danny growled seductively, indicating the sudden erection tented painfully in his tight pants, "You're not going to leave me like this, are you?"

"I'm afraid I'll have to," Valerien gently stroked Danny's cock through the fabric, then abruptly pulled away and stood up, "I have a meeting at the bank in twenty minutes, some sort of diplomat who wants us to invest in some tiny African country nobody ever heard of. I have to rush, or I'll be late."

"Lucky diplomat," Danny sighed and stood as well, taking a moment to adjust his hard-on so that it lay more comfortably against his groin, "Shall I drive myself to the Château tomorrow, or will you pick me up?"

"I'll pick you up at noon," Valerien paused at the mirror beside the front door to check his perfectly-knotted mauve silk tie and tuck a stray lock of hair behind his ear, "The van will pick up your luggage around ten. We can have lunch before we drive up, and get there in time for tea. We'll be doing white tie twice, and a masquerade ball as well, so pack heavy."

"Sure thing. Tell the African diplomat I said 'Hi,'" Danny pulled Valerien into a warm embrace and kissed the top of his head.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you, I don't know what I'd do without you," Valerien breathed into Danny's neck, making his cock lurch violently.

"You'd better go before I rape you," Danny pushed his friend to arm's length and opened the front door for him.

"Can't rape the willing," Valerien smirked, stepping through the door and heading down the stairs to the Rolls-Royce limousine double-parked outside, "But this obscure little nation-ette looks like a really special opportunity. À bientôt, mon cher!"

Danny shook his head at the young Baron's little quirks of personality, amazed as always by the "can't be bothered" schtick that he used to distance himself from the money-grubbing aspects of his family business: the Seguemonts own and operate the Fiducies Française, a private investment-banking firm that manages their own vast fortune as well as the fortunes of other carefully selected vieux-riche families, with reliably profitable results.

Though the old Comte de Seguemont, Valerien's grandfather, was the presiding genius behind many of the firm's most spectacular financial coups, in society he floats about bonelessly, speaking softly of trifles as if he hadn't a thought in his head, shrugging off the bourgeois mantle of commerce and describing himself as "merely a country gentleman, pottering about with my vineyards."

He neglects to mention that his brilliantly managed winery is almost as profitable as his bank, and Château de Seguemont is considered one of the top five champagnes in the world (though it isn't technically champagne, since it's made in California; but the barrels, machines, vats, the very vines and even the soil itself were brought over from the original Seguemont lands in Champagne), and is produced is such small quantities that it is a costly luxury few have even heard of, much less sampled.

And now twenty-eight-year-old Valerien is following in his grandfather's footsteps, having taken the old man's place as head of the San Francisco offices of the firm (though he remains in constant contact with the elderly Comte, who is still the president of the company), and spends every weekday assiduously husbanding the billions of dollars in his care, hunting out investment opportunities all over the world, and riding herd over an exceptionally brilliant staff of brokers and bankers, financial advisers and trust-fund administrators.

Yet, like his grandfather, he cultivates the elaborate pose of a careless dilettante, referring to the venerable and internationally respected Fiducies Française as "the bank" and dismissing his important work there as a simple sinecure that is meant to keep the noble family present as the public face of the company.

With his understanding of Valerien built over the course of their romance, Danny could see right through the "some kind of diplomat" and "obscure little nation-ette" insouciance: he was sure Valerien not only knew the name of the country but also more about its political history and natural resources than its own rulers did, and had probably even learned a smattering of its language; he most likely had a similar wealth of information on the diplomat he was meeting, including a list of the man's vices and virtues for use as leverage in any future negotiations. It gave Danny pleasure to know that the only reason he and Valerien weren't in bed right then was for the benefit of an emerging nation and its millions of most-likely-impoverished citizens.

Returning to his dressing room, Danny kicked off the shoes, peeled out of pants and socks, then unlatched the safety clasps of his diamond necklace and deposited it on the dressing-table so he'd remember to put it back in the safe; once naked, he shuffled into the adjacent bathroom to shower and masturbate so he could think about something besides his cock.

As he carefully unpacked the half-trunk back into his closets, he mused over how stark a contrast Valerien's family offered to his own: where the Seguemonts were hard workers pretending to be useless fops, the Vanderveres liked to pretend that they were integral to the running of the Royal Vandervere paper mill and its subsidiary industries; but in fact it was their employees who did all the work, more often than not under direction of the administrators of the vast and complicated Vandervere Trust, which actually owned the mills and the million acres of forest that fed them, as well as the houses they lived in and the great piles of money amassed by their ancestors, administering the lavish allowances on which the entire Vandervere clan depended completely.

But then, the Vanderveres were American to the core, descended from Dutch merchants and financiers who'd been in New York since it was New Amsterdam, who had migrated to California in the 19th Century after being granted a a vast tract of the new state by a grateful collection of well-buttered Whig politicians; the Protestant ethos of hard work and austere living was the mask they felt compelled to wear.

The Seguemonts, on the other hand, were still decidedly French—and feudal aristocrats at that, tracing their title and estates in an unbroken male line all the way back to the Capetian dynasty. And even though the current Comte's father had moved the family and its wealth out of France just prior to the outbreak of World War II, stripping their ancient chateau and their Paris hôtel and transplanting their treasures into a new-built Napa Valley castle and a Presidio Heights mansion, the family still retained their French citizenship as well as their French titles, lands, and most importantly, traditions. Valerien was legally an alien in the country where he lived and grew up, carrying a French passport and liable to French military service.

Laughing to himself at the thought of Valerien in the French Army with their drab uniforms and drumlike caps, Danny returned the empty half-trunk to the top of a closet and went to the hall closet to pull out the huge full-sized steamer trunk he'd need for a week's worth of four-changes-a-day living at the Château de Seguemont.

While he was in the front of the house, he sat down at his computer and started messaging his friends, arranging to give away his party tickets and hotel room so they wouldn't go to waste; he also called to inform the airline that he wouldn't be using his first-class ticket to Palm Springs and didn't mind that he'd have to settle for a partial credit instead of a full refund. Knowing Valerien, a much-too-large lump of cash would be electronically transferred to Danny's checking account before the end of the day; the lost plane fare money, which never was much of an object to him in the first place, held no interest whatever.

Though it once stung his pride, Danny had become accustomed to Valerien's largesse. After all, though he'd inherited a few million from his Great Aunt Mathilda (an inveterate gambler who'd parlayed her Trust allowance into a fortune at the tables in Reno, then invested her winnings in empty land on the outskirts of town and simply waiting for urban sprawl to reach it, selling out at a staggering profit and hiding the money under a false identity so the Trust couldn't claim it), Danny invested the whole legacy in apartment buildings and antiques, and had little more to live on than his Trust allowance... a sum which, for most people, would be considered extravagant, but which was unequal to the extravagance of Danny's tastes.

Valerien, however, had twenty or so million in his own right from his late mother, as well as the hundreds of millions he stood to inherit from the Comte, and he could access dizzying sums whenever he wished. It seemed only natural that he would take the role of protector and supporter to his merely-well-off friend.

Though Valerien was probably the most prodigiously generous of his friends, he was not the only generous and wealthy friend Danny had. He'd spent the year and a half after graduating from Stanford and before meeting Valerien cultivating a dozen or so sugar-daddies who fed him at his favorite four-star restaurants, escorted him to choice seats at the opera and symphony and ballet, and bestowed on him all those little luxuries, like platinum wristwatches and lynx-lined ostrich jackets, that were beyond his own means.

Danny didn't like to think of himself as a whore, but he had rather fancied himself something of a modern-day courtesan. His relationships with wealthy men weren't really about sex (though sex was almost always involved), as sex is a fairly cheap commodity and the market is glutted with pretty boys and big dicks; instead, it was Danny's carefully cultivated charm, his unfailingly sweet nature, his surprising intelligence, and his comprehensive understanding of the arts and culture that had the men clamoring for his attention and showering him with Bulgari cufflinks and Brioni suits.

He'd initially chafed at Valerien treating him like a courtesan when he wanted to be treated as a lover, an equal rather than a possession; but he came to understand that Valerien took great pleasure in buying things for Danny, and was hurt when Danny refused anything or tried to pay him back in any way. It was the only way the young aristocrat knew to show his affection, and though he wanted to accommodate Danny's sense of independence, he simply didn't know how. Being the more naturally accommodating of the two personalities, Danny gave in and let Valerien buy him things and pay for everything they did together.

And then there was Mark Willard-Wilkes, called Marquesa by his friends, the dazzlingly beautiful transvestite who most people actually thought was a woman, though a charmed inner circle was privileged to know about the foot-long endowment under the couture gowns. He was the son of a self-made Hollywood tycoon and an old-guard San Francisco heiress, who died young and left him to be raised by his mother's two batty Havishamesque great aunts; he grew up completely ignorant of his father's immense wealth, held for him in trust by an offshore bank, thinking himself dependent on his great-great-aunts and the paltry remnant of the former Willard fortune, a few blocks of rented houses in the Richmond District. Once apprised of his inheritance, though, instead of merely living off the fat of his father's work, he set about rebuilding the Willard empire and was now the third-largest property owner in the City, surpassed only by a Chinese cartel and the Federal government. He was also Valerien's best friend, and the man Danny loved with all his heart... painfully and without reciprocation.

Marquesa had adopted Danny as something of a pet, and then as a favorite fuck-buddy, spending lavishly on him when he was dating Valerien and even moreso since he wasn't. Marquesa was very fond of Danny, and physically infatuated with him, but his love belonged to someone else: Richard Allenwhite, the world's handsomest billionaire, who kept Marquesa like an old-fashioned mistress in a cavernous Art Deco penthouse and increased his wealth exponentially with gifts of diamonds, cars, and apartment buildings.

But since Richard was married and the father of four sons, with no intention of disturbing that relationship (he really did love his wife, exactly as much as his mistress), Marquesa was free to dabble about on his own without infringing on Richard's place in his heart... and he quite frequently dabbled with Danny, aware that the boy was more emotionally involved than he was, but not quite aware that Danny was so insanely besotted with love for him.

Though Danny would never have said so to Valerien, it was partly due to Marquesa's inevitable presence at the Château that he had so easily capitulated and given up a much-anticipated Palm Springs weekend of riotous sex and ecstatic dancing in order to spend a week in the country with three strange women and Valerien's grandparents.

Valerien and Marquesa had been best friends since the age of fourteen, and the orphaned Marquesa had long been enfolded into the Seguemont family; he spent pretty much every weekend at the Chateau, trading fashion gossip with the Comtesse, hunting deer and rabbit in the woods surrounding the vineyards, and riding the huge black Friesian stallion that was kept as a permanent guest in their stables.

Danny had been included in many of those weekends, but he always felt faintly uncomfortable with Marquesa and Valerien together, at least while he and Valerien were lovers: his unquenchable love for Marquesa made him feel disloyal to Valerien, whom he loved but with whom he was not in love. After they decided to just be friends, a lot of that pressure was relieved and his comfort with the two friends restored; but then he wasn't asked to the Château as frequently, so it didn't really matter.

Danny shook his head vigorously to clear his mind of these thoughts, which had a tendency to spiral out of control until he felt sorry for himself and angry with those he loved. He started singing to himself instead, a wordless tune based on the waltz from Sleeping Beauty but ornamented here and there with a "hoo-hoo" or a "cha-cha-cha," diverting his mind from pointless and depressing circular thinking. Once his mind was cleared, he started organizing his wardrobe for the week.

The white tie was easy, as he kept his white-tie ensembles separate in their own bags, with shirts and waistcoats and ties all included; all he had to do was slide two of them into the wardrobe half of the trunk. The black-tie dinner suits he'd be expected to wear to dinner every night were a little harder, as he had rather more of them, and was conscious of the Comtesse's love of absolute correctness in all things: his dinner clothes had to be the best quality, but could not be too flashy, nor could they be too plain.

He assumed he would probably ride every day, so he filled a separate large suitcase with his custom-made English riding boots, several pairs of kidskin-padded riding breeches, three riding jackets (Harris tweed, black velvet, and hunting pink), white shirts with stocks, extra-long boot-socks, a top hat and a riding helmet, and a selection of antique crops.

He'd once been an equestrian athlete, winning a series of dressage trophies with his gorgeous dapple-gray Andalusian as a teenager, but he'd seldom had opportunities to ride since he left his family home in the far northern mountains to attend college, and then moved into San Francisco afterward. His father had sold his horse out of spite, anyway; and though Danny occasionally went riding at friends' country houses, or rented livery horses in the Park, he didn't think it worth the trouble to obtain and stable his own animal.


Closing and latching his riding-gear case, he returned to the big steamer trunk and started filling its lower drawers with underwear and socks. Since dressing for the Château was a much more formal proposition than dressing for the White Party (one does not wear shorts or jeans at the Château de Seguemont, much less flimsy linen capris and Daisy Duke cutoffs), he didn't have to pay much attention to the choices of undergarment: a dozen or so pair of white boxer briefs and an equal number of jockstraps would suffice. Another dozen pair of white athletic socks went into the drawers, and then black clocked formal stockings, some Argyles in various neutral shades, and several plain beige and grey socks on top.

Next came a selection of blazers, several pairs of khakis, several more of slacks, and three lightweight spring suits, packed in the wardrobe half with sheets of tissue hanging in between. He knew it didn't matter what order or how neatly he packed his clothes, since the Château servants would unpack it all into closets and drawers before he even arrived, and throughout his stay would give his clothes an airing and a touch-up with an iron before laying them out for him; but Danny has what he calls a "tidy soul" (though others would call it a nascent obsessive-compulsive disorder) and was incapable of performing a task sloppily.

Some skimpy nylon shorts went in next, since he liked to run in the mornings, along with some equally skimpy scoop-neck tanks, some relatively modest Speedos for the pool, and a few pairs of white shorts with white polos for tennis. Then came a dozen vee-neck cashmere sweaters in a spectrum of pastels; a dozen dress shirts, professionally laundered and starched, folded with blue ribbons around them; a dozen sport shirts, as precisely pressed and folded as the dress-shirts; two dozen neckties that were briefly compared to the shirts and jackets before being folded into the trunk; a pile of brilliant white Irish linen handkerchiefs; and finally a sheaf of beautifully patterned silk scarves to wear as ascots or instead of ties.

A separate specially-compartmented case held ten pairs of shoes, ranging from running shoes and tennis sneakers to wingtips and opera pumps, all meticulously cleaned or polished and packed with wooden shoe-trees inside. His toiletries case didn't need to be repacked, but his jewelry case did—he'd have a lot more opportunities for jewelry at the Château than he would in Palm Springs. A dozen jeweled cufflinks (Danny loved the number twelve and habitually did things in dozens), tie pins and stock pins, wristwatches and bracelets filled up the larger locking jewelry case that matched the rest of his Hermès luggage.

Having packed up more clothing for ten days than he would ordinarily wear in twenty, he closed the trunk and wrestled it down the hall to stand by the front door, placed the other cases in a pyramid beside it, and collapsed on the couch with a satisfying sense of accomplishment.

"I'm hungry," he said to himself after a few moments of laying back on the couch and studying the living-room furniture, taking immense pleasure in the elegant lines of the eclectic collection of neoclassical and Art Deco pieces he'd chosen. He glanced over at the Empire malachite-and-ormolu mantel clock and was surprised that so much time had passed since Valerien's visit: it was almost five o'clock, well after tea-time but nowhere near time for dinner. He tried to keep his eating times as routine as possible, so that his digestion would be as predictable as possible... a full colon is very inconvenient during certain favorite activities, and Danny didn't like those kinds of surprises.

Since he didn't want to wait another three hours for dinner, though, he decided a small snack wouldn't disarrange his peristalsis, so headed into his long steel-and-granite kitchen, as narrow as a ship's galley but fitted out with more equipment and conveniences than were necessary for the very little light cooking he did in it. Rummaging in a refrigerator full of restaurant leftovers and fresh produce, Danny decided on a small plate of sliced Fuji apples and sharp white cheddar cheese.

While nibbling on his snack in his small square dining room (Biedermeier birch chairs around a circular Moderne bronze table, overhung by a chandelier of bronze tree-branches dripping with mismatched crystals), he realized that he was going to be gone for ten days instead of the planned three, and that his refrigerator would have to be emptied of any near-to-perishing items before he left the following day. He also remembered a handful of appointments he'd have to call and cancel, and three dates he'd have to reschedule.

Those preparations took him well into the evening, when his bowels moved at their accustomed hour and Danny went into the bathroom to begin his evening rituals.

Since he spent a great deal of time in his bathroom, bathing and grooming himself frequently (or obsessively), it had been made as beautiful and luxurious as possible within the bounds of the space available in a 1920s townhouse flat. All of the fixtures were made of creamy rose-veined marble, or painted to resemble it; the walls and cabinets were French provincial paneling painted a soothing ivory, and the hardware was light silver with a warm patina. The entire ceiling was a skylight fitted with milk-glass panes hand-painted with rose-colored veins to match the marble, fitted with warm halogen floodlights above it that imitated the sun when it was dark out.

He set the bath to fill and added a generous scoop of bergamot-scented Dead Sea bath salts, turned on the stereo to play a series of beautifully structured Baroque string concerti, and made himself comfortable on the toilet with the morning's New York Times crossword puzzle. Once finished evacuating, then thoroughly flushing out his rectal cavity on the neighboring bidet, he abandoned the half-finished puzzle and sank into the deep fragrant bath, turning the air-jets to a gentle churn and letting his mind wander while his body floated.

He wondered, while he lay soaking, what the three women the Comtesse had chosen for her grandson would be like.  He was sure they'd all be titled Europeans, and Western Europeans at that, and that their titles would be at least two or three hundred years old; he assumed they'd be at least nominally but by no means devoutly Catholic, rich but not noticeably richer than the Seguemonts, and of course very beautiful... this was Seguemont tradition, visible in every ancestral portrait they owned. 

Danny's social circles were made up mostly of men; though he did know quite a few Society dames through the arts events and benefits he frequently attended, as well as clients from his brief stint as assistant to the City's most sought-after interior designer, Theo Ermengratz, he was not very close to any of them.  And aside from Valerien and the occasional visiting dignitary, Danny's address book was generally devoid of titles; he knew a Russian princess, but she was a third-generation New Yorker and didn't often use her title, so hardly counted.  He didn't have enough experience of the species to make a guess as to the three women's personalities.

He also wondered what it would be like for one of these women, married to a man like Valerien.  He was unapologetically homosexual, and had never been with a woman before; as staunchly traditionalist as the young Baron was, Danny didn't think he would consent to anything as crassly modern as artificial insemination, but didn't know if he'd be able to perform his marital functions in the old-fashioned way.  It suddenly occurred to him that this was probably the genesis of his panic over this marriage-mart house party: not that it was sprung on him as a surprise, but that he might not be able to pull it off.  Valerien was not inured to failure, and the thought of it must have terrified him.

When the water grew tepid, Danny crawled out and stepped into the adjacent shower to rinse off, shampoo and condition his hair, and masturbate again (he had a date that night, but needed to get through dinner first without any urgency in his groin).  Stepping over to the sink, he slathered his face with an exfoliating emollient mud-mask and let it set while he meticulously brushed and flossed his teeth; washing it off with a toning astringent, he dabbed around his eyes with eye cream and patted his face with face cream, then rubbed himself down with body cream.

Back in his dressing room, he futzed around with his hair while waiting for all the creams to be absorbed by his skin, adding a moisturizing high-gloss gel and trying out different styles, pushing it back with his hands, then combing it back into a smooth poll, then pulling the curls out one one side and then the other.  When the gel started to dry, he made up his mind and used a plastic pick to fluff the curls around his face in the usual halo, and shook it vigorously for a soft and careless look.

Since he was having dinner with an old friend instead of a new beau, he didn't feel that he had to try too hard to look his best, so getting dressed was fairly easy.  A pair of close-fitting chocolate corduroy jeans with distressed brown leather stack-heeled motorcycle boots, a deep-cut sable silk sweater that left a good deal of his chest bare but covered his arms down past the wrist, and a narrow blazer of rubbed caramel satin completed the outfit, and were accessorized with a long brown and rose paisley cashmere scarf draped around his neck in case he needed to cover up, a small cognac-colored diamond on a gold snake chain, a gold Cartier watch on a natural ostrich band, and an intricately carved gold thumb-ring.

After a moment's consideration of his face, he decided to smudge a little dark mocha shadow around his eyes and tart up his already incredibly long thick eyelashes with a whisk of sable mascara...not enough makeup to look like makeup, but enough to make his eyes smolder.  The man Danny was meeting was particularly partial to smoldering eyes, and the restaurant they'd agreed on was dimly lit, so he felt a little extra something would not go amiss.

Stopping at his lacquered Chinoiserie desk in the living room to take his smart-phone off its charger, then in the front hall to get his keys and wallet out of the little credenza by the door, he headed out through the kitchen and down the alley stairs to the garage in the basement.  Though there were three other units in the building, he selfishly reserved the entire garage for himself, though only one very small vintage Jaguar roadster was parked there; the rest of the space was filled with extra furniture and out-of-season clothes.  Of course, none of his tenants had cars, and Danny charged ridiculously low rents, so they didn't mind.

It was a warmish night, by San Francisco standards, so he put the top down on the racing-green 1963 E-Type before getting in and starting the engine, hitting the garage-door button, and pulling out into the quiet tree-lined side street on the outskirts of the Castro district that he called home.  He crossed Market and zigzagged through side-streets to the foot of Nob Hill, where he left his car with a very pretty parking valet at Henry's Eight, a cozy little steakhouse off the tourist paths that was better known for its excellent bar and gorgeous staff than its food, though the food was especially good.

Danny was a long-time patron of the establishment, and had dated several of the waiters as well as the owner (and so was in a position to know what Henry's "eight" was), so he was greeted warmly when he entered the dim walnut-paneled restaurant, and was escorted to his usual table in the corner near the fireplace, where his dinner companion was already ensconced with cocktails, bread, and a ravishing sommelier.

"Why, Danny Vandervere, as I live and breathe!" Theo Ermengratz crowed in a fruity Southern accent, "And don't you look good enough to eat?"

"Poppy, you old goat," Danny leaned down to kiss the famous decorator on the top of his shiny head before taking his seat, "I hope you're ordering wine and not just buttering the boy up."

Despite his age (past sixty, though he wouldn't admit to how far past), his baldness (he cultivated a little laurel-wreath of iron-gray curls), his baggy Italian silk suits and fussy pinkie-rings, and his tendency to fly into camp performance pieces in public, Theophilos Ermengratz (né Poppadopalous, called Poppy by those he loves), is one of the sexiest men in San Francisco: bulging with muscle and hung like a bull, huge square hands and a large square head, with an epically handsome face and the prettiest cow-brown eyes, a deep growling voice, and an ineffable air of command that could make the toughest leather-daddies swoon like corsetted debutantes.  He was the only man Danny had ever met who could say "Fan me with a tulip, Beulah" and "On your knees, boy" with equal authenticity.

"I was doing both, in fact," Poppy smiled brightly and winked lewdly at the sommelier, "I got a Mendoza Malbec and this charmer's phone number."


"Pimply ass and a very pointy dick," Danny told his friend confidentially once the sommelier was out of earshot.

"You do get around, don't you?" Poppy raised a quizzical eyebrow at the boy, then dropped his camp accent to reveal the gruff bark of a drill sergeant, "Now let's get down to brass tacks.  You're going to the Château tomorrow."

"Yes, but how..." Danny sputtered in surprise.

"I advised Valerien to invite you, of course.  He always follows my advice," Poppy said with a touch of smug pride, though he was only stating the truth.  Poppy had been Valerien's surrogate parent ever since he'd decorated Valerien's rooms at the Château on the occasion of his eighteenth birthday, and had subsequently decorated his bachelor apartment, his office, and several of his friends' homes; the Baron called the older man Tante Papà in affection, and never made a move in anything socially or aesthetically important without consulting Poppy first. 

"And here I thought it was the pleasure of my company he sought," Danny mock-pouted.

"No doubt," Poppy smirked, "But he was in a panic and not thinking straight.  He wanted me to come at first, but I pointed out that the Comtesse would have seven kinds of kittens if he foisted a mere tradesman on her hospitality for a house party."

"But you're a professional!" Danny objected, "And an Ermengratz, and rich in your own right besides. You're no more a tradesman than the Comte, if it comes to that."

"Let's not forget that I'm the son of Greek immigrants, blue-blood adoption or no," Poppy smiled.

"That's ridiculous," Danny shook his head; Poppy was referring to his late lover, who had adopted him as a son way back in the early 70s, when such things were being done... it was the best legal substitute for marriage in those days, so long as the young man in question was still under 18, as Poppy had been at the time.  Toddy Ermengratz, his adoptive father, was as old-money as Danny was, the last scion of one of Mrs. Astor's 400 families, with a gorgeous old townhouse on Fifth Avenue, a rambling mansion on Long Island (North Shore, naturally), and absolute buckets of money from his great-grandfather's railroads and oil wells. He'd left Poppy a very rich man with a great many important social connections.

"Perhaps so, but remember that I met the Comtesse professionally, not socially, and the poor old broad  is a slave to these distinctions.  And in circumstances like these, with a houseful of titled ladies that you're trying to hitch to your queer grandson, I can quite see her point.  You want to present your best-pedigreed friends and relations, not your decorator.  You and Marquesa are as pedigreed as it gets in the U.S., so of course you are who will have to stand by Valerien in his hour of need."

"I still think you should be the one to go," Danny reasoned, "You are the best judge of character out of anyone I know; you see through people, but I'm always being swayed by appearances."

"Oh, I'll get to have a gander at these geese before Valerien gets himself engaged.  I'll be up at the Château on Sunday for the garden party and next Saturday for the masquerade ball.  I will rate and classify the fauna for our dear little Baron and..."

"Oh my Christ, I forgot the masquerade ball!" Danny wailed in sudden despair, nearly rising from his seat in his agitation, "I didn't pack a costume!"

"Good God, boy, you startled me!" Poppy complained comically, clutching his chest and fanning his face with his hand, "It's not like you left the iron on.  Throw something in a bag when you get home."

"But I hate forgetting things like that!" Danny groused, leaning back in his seat and flicking at the silverware on the table with irritation, "What if I'd got all the way up there with nothing to wear?"

"You would have borrowed something from Valerien.  You know they've got trunks of old costumes up in their attic.  No need to go scaring old ladies like that."

"I'm sorry," Danny apologized, "You know how I am when I forget things."

"You should do it more often," Poppy smiled and reached over to squeeze Danny's hand, "It can't be good for a boy your age to be so methodical and perfect.  Mistakes give you character."

"I think I've had enough character-building in the last year to hold me for a while," Danny laughed ruefully, "Besides, my mother always said that 'character' is just a euphemism for 'wrinkles.'"

"Your mother may be right.  There's a first time for everything," Poppy said as the wine was brought and poured, followed closely by a pair of Porterhouse steaks, presented without sauces, with sides of sweet-potato fries and grilled string beans, "I ordered for you, I'm sure you won't mind."

"You always know what I like, Poppy," Danny beamed at the older man and started cutting lustily into his perfectly medium-rare steak.

"It's the secret to my success," Poppy declared happily, "I always know what everyone wants, and endeavor to give it to them.  Now, getting back to you, I want you to observe the young ladies closely and report back to me when I come up.  You are a terrible judge of character, but a minute and thorough observer; I need your eyes up there so that I can guide Valerien in his choice."

"Shall I encode my findings on a microfilm and disguise it as a beauty-spot?" Danny joked.

"Don't sass your Auntie.  I also want you to observe the men who are coming with these ladies."

"Men?" Danny brightened slightly.

"Yes, men, you horny little tramp.  The Comtesse invited a male relative to chaperon each of the young ladies.  I don't know who they are yet, Val's secretary didn't get names, but I want to know all about them.  I want to know about the rest of their families, too, if possible."

"I'd hate to be judged by my relatives," the boy shivered with disgust; aside from his three maiden great-aunts, one of whom left him her money, Danny and his large clan regarded each other with mutual loathing.

"Well, you are an exception.  Most apples don't fall far from their trees."

"You are a treasure-trove of cliches this evening," Danny refilled his glass from the bottle on the table, "Though that 'gander at the geese' bit was pretty good."

"I thought so, too," the older man laughed and refilled his own glass, "My next comment was going to be about killing two birds with one stone, but I think I'd better skip it since you're parsing my dialog."

"What about two birds?" the boy wondered as he cut some more steak.

"Well, you may have been wondering why you hadn't been invited initially?  Why the last minute distress-call?"

"I hadn't, actually," Danny frowned.

"Well, the Comtesse—and again I quite see her reasoning—intended to de-gay her party as much as possible.  She has no illusions about Valerien, and she certainly doesn't condemn him in any way, but she does worry that ladies with breeding in mind might be somewhat dismayed by how much homosexuality there is in their family."

"Whatever for? It's not a Mendelian marker."

"And their blood isn't really blue, either," Poppy rolled his eyes impatiently, "Reality and genetics don't matter to the Comtesse.  This is about what people think.  And I suspect she's concerned that these ladies, or their menfolk, will look askance at a houseful of ex-boyfriends and Sapphic sisters.  One easily passes off Marquesa as a woman, and the Comtesse thinks of her as family, but you and Valerien together generate heat that might raise some noble eyebrows."

"Am I supposed to pretend to be straight?" Danny was aghast.

"No, no, nothing like that," Poppy assured him, "But you've probably noticed by now that the Comtesse cannot sit down to dinner without having equal numbers of males and females in neat little pairs."

"I have noticed, actually.  Her secretary dined with us when I was there last, to make up the numbers."

"Well, note my brilliance: by getting Valerien to insert you into the party, that makes it possible for Valerien's aunt Cécile to bring her girlfriend, which had initially been denied her on the grounds that it would imbalance the table.  Now she has to be invited to keep things even."

"So long as I don't have to make out with Tante Cécile's girlfriend, I'm happy to oblige."

"Very good.  Rainbow pride and all that, we have to look out for each other.  Cécile is quite a firecracker, I think you'll like her.  I knew her way back in New York, in the Stonewall days.  A dyke to be reckoned with."

"I look forward to meeting her.  But I'm glad you told me about the gay thing," Danny resumed eating, "I'll try to tone it down, or just attach myself to Marquesa so they won't think I have a claim on Valerien that might impede marriage."

"Ah, thank you.  That will do nicely," Poppy beamed.

"You manipulated me into saying that!"

"Yes, I did."

"Why do I find that so hot?" Danny asked with a sultry smile.

"Your standards of hot are so delightfully low," Poppy told him with a wink, then returned to his subject, "Even without Mendelian genetics, you have to admit the Seguemonts are a pretty queer bunch: Valerien and Cecile are completely out, and even the old Comte sets off my gaydar, wife and children notwithstanding; and the Comtesse's brother, who is also going to be there, is so nelly nobody ever believes he's straight.  He is straight, heterosexual anyway and quite promiscuous about it; but he's terrifically fey and a leading expert on Proust. Again, it's all about  appearances."

"I'm beginning to wish I'd gone to the White Party after all," Danny said worriedly, "I don't know if I'm up to a whole week of Best Behavior."

"I am sorry I made you miss the White Party with my meddling," Poppy looked contrite, "But I knew you'd want to help Val.  Just follow Marquesa around like a lost puppy, as you tend to do around her anyway, and pretend Valerien is your frat buddy instead of your ex-boyfriend.  Everything will be fine."

"And I'll have the microfilm pasted to my left nipple when you come Sunday."

"That is absolutely the lewdest thing I've heard all day!" Poppy crowed gleefully, then added in an undertone, "I'm going to come tonight, and your left nipple is going to be pasted but good."

"Oh, boy," Danny breathed, his cock already hardening in anticipation.

"Now, let's talk about your costume.  If you really don't have anything, I've got dozens of things you could borrow.  A jeweled codpiece and a feather boa, perhaps?"

"I thought I was supposed to tone down the gay!" Danny laughed.

"The only way to 'tone down' a masquerade ball is to not go," Poppy explained, "But seriously, what have you got in storage?  I remember seeing a picture of you dressed in Elizabethan black velvet, do you still have that?  I have dozens of Venetian masks in my warehouse, and some 19th-century replica uniforms in my 'toy box'... you're taking your riding boots, aren't you?  I can see you in Hussar red..."

They spent the rest of dinner and dessert discussing various options available; and as Danny expected, he was invited over to Poppy's loft to look at, try on, and play with some costumes... followed by strenuous sex, some silly and serious talk, slightly-less-strenuous sex, some industrial-strength cuddling, sleep, and breakfast.

A perfect date, in Danny's opinion.
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