Keith T. Bishop
They Always Come Back
They Always Come Back
Jimmy’s Penthouse; Tuesday, November 7, 2012; Late Evening
Jimmy fucked Anne with the same arrogance and aggressiveness as the last time he saw her six weeks ago. He knew she would come back. They usually did. But when they didn’t, “Fuck 'em.”
He could sense what she wanted, what she needed, the moment he met her, similar to his other bitches: the clenching, the muscling, the biting. Jimmy communicated those same desires equally as well as his prey. It was part of the mutual attraction, the chemistry between them.
While artfully participating in the initial small talk, Jimmy envisioned himself holding them down, fucking them at his will while still trying to create the illusion he cared about one thing they said. When he was confident that his charm, wits, money, and Texas drawl had secured his next lover, the only rap song he could ever relate to, “99 Problems”—but a bitch ain’t one, played in his head. Women were his true release valve.
Although he portrayed that he controlled the markets, that the markets were his “bitch,” he knew otherwise. He was cognizant of the fact that he had no extraordinary foresight, no intimate knowledge of where markets were going. Often, for every trade he made, there was an offsetting trade in another account. He went long crude oil in one account and sold an equal amount in another. One espoused a bullish position; the other bearish. You were always right, at least to half of the suckers. Whichever way the market moved, Jimmy would be set up to boastfully divulge his latest trading coup.
He was godlike to his brethren. To them, Jimmy fucked the markets like he treated his women. Predicting what the bid-ask spread was on every woman Jimmy would potentially fuck was the joke in the office. When the office calculated the bid was low—that Jimmy had little desire to sleep with a particular woman—the estimated offer was unanimously about the same as the bid, implying that the woman would do anything to please Jimmy. Interestingly enough, when the bid was high—that Jimmy wanted to bed someone—invariably the office pool’s offer on whether she would gladly comply came in lower than the bid. The disciples believed Jimmy had the ability to sleep with anyone he wanted and that the hottest, most desirable women would throw themselves at him. Everyone in the office considered him the master, and they were his awestruck followers.
Anytime the opportunity presented itself, Jimmy used this aura to feed the beast. He subscribed to the theory of “perception is reality.” He used this philosophy not only to create social capital amongst his comrades, but to generate much needed self-confidence as well.
In reality, Jimmy needed the endless pool of women more than they needed him. Despite his proficiency in every sport, game, and purported business deal, his insecurities were real. He knew how little control he had over his life. That he was, in actuality, just a pawn. And it was this unbearable realization that insidiously drove him on edge to be revered amongst his peers.