Scriptwriter Oliver and actor Jamie set wheels a rolling upon their startling discovery Kurt is cavorting with not just them, but also with their fathers! Revenge is dish best served scorching, and the plot and cast of charming and not-so-charming characters rise to a boil with the addition of high school bullies, a hot porn star, a Lyons' den, television drama, Cannes-bound film, and the trendiest in coifs of the day.
Madness, murder, and mayhem ensue, along with love, lust, and a dash of blackmail.
Set in London, South Africa, and Italy, this madcap romp into the dark side of 'daddies dearest', includes stops along the way for hilarity, makeovers, marriage, divorce, and, of course, Dilly, the dildo.
CONTENT ADVISORY: This title contains MM, MF, and FF sexual situations. This title contains a HFN ending.
"How did an unmitigated, unfeeling piece of shit like me ever get to his position as chairman in your father's esteemed company, Jamie? Simple, I've been fucking Daddy Dearest for the past couple of years. Definitely a case of like father, like son!"
James Adlington sat staring grimly at the sparkling glassware and cutlery in front of him, his mind festering as one unpleasant thought after another flashed through his seething brain.
"Sorry I'm late, Jamie," said a light, tenor voice. "Bloody Ambrose, always has to have a 'can you give me a minute, Ollie' bloody chat when he knows I'm hurrying out to some clandestine lunch date! Silly sod. Why doesn't he simply admit his problem and ring some salubrious escort agency instead of making oblique passes at his long-suffering staff!" There was a moment's pause before the voice added solicitously, "Jamie, you look like shit! Is something wrong? And please forgive the verbal diarrhoea!"
Pulling out a chair, Oliver Pilkington sat his long, athletic frame down opposite his stony-faced friend. Unbuttoning his navy, Gucci blazer, he glanced up at the fey waiter. "I take it Signore Jamie's having his usual Stolichnaya on the rocks, Atilio? Good, same for me, please, and from the look of my guest, better make mine a double with another double for the signore."
"Subito, Signore Ollie," simpered Atilio, giving Oliver an adoring look.
"Thanks, Ollie." Giving a sobbed, "Oh shit!" and after a suitably dramatic pause, Jamie looked up at his best friend and confident and said chokingly, "Jesus, Ollie, it's Kurt..."
"Now there's a surprise," murmured Ollie, gratefully taking his drink from the waiter. Eyeing Jamie over the rim of his glass, he added sarcastically, "Now what's fiendish Kaiser Kurt gone and done? Forgotten to put the cap back on your toothpaste or--even worse--forgotten to give you a goodbye kiss when he rushed off back to his flat in order to shower and change before going to the aid of Daddy's company?"
"Very un-fucking funny, Ollie, and thanks for nothing," replied Jamie in a strangulated voice. "If only..."
"What then?" asked Oliver with genuine concern. "As with the verbal diarrhoea, I'm sorry if I sound a tad unsympathetic, but these Kurt crises do seem to have become a daily mantra. When you said lunch was an emergency and you simply had to see me, well, to put it bluntly, I truly thought... Okay, okay," muttered Oliver. "Chop, chop. Let it all hang out as the old queen said to the rent boy!"
Biting his lower lip, a blond lock falling across the unblemished forehead of his handsome, Pre-Raphaelite face, Jamie said chokingly, "Kurt's finally given me the heave-ho and what's worse--much, much worse--he said... he said..." Looking tearfully at Oliver, he added in a whisper, "He said he'd been fucking Dad as well as me, and it's because of him fucking Dad he's where he is today, namely my father's right hand man! Oh double shit!" he muttered on seeing the slight smile on his friend's face at the unfortunate choice of words. "Talk about a fucking Freudian slip!"
"Thank Christ for Sigmund and his slips!" snickered Oliver in a relieved voice. "Not that I've ever thought of big, butch Kaiser Kurt as a cross-dresser with a penchant for wearing slips before." Taking a sip of vodka, he said with a splutter, "Fucking your dad?" His startled exclamation caused several diners to turn and stare at the handsome pair.
"Yes, Ollie," replied Jamie sotto voce, "fucking my dad!"
"You've got to be joking," said Oliver. Leaning back in his chair, he surveyed his friend with disbelief. "C'mon on, Jamie, you--of all people--should know Hurty Kurt by now; he's simply pulling your plonker, only this time his pull's been a bit more persuasive than usual! You know--my God, all your friends certainly know--you two are always winding each other up, the original Mr Sado and his Miss Masochist!" Taking a further sip he added blithely, "If I were you, I'd simply forget it--see it as nothing more than another tsunami in a saucer!"
"Tsunami in a bloody saucer?"
"As opposed to a storm in a teacup. After all, I am the youngest editor on Grandiose Gadabouts, so what else would you expect from a master of--to quote myself earlier--the verbal diarrhoea!"
"So you think I should ignore it all--the 'it's over' and the bit about Dad?" said Jamie plaintively. "Act as if nothing happened?"
"Precisely." Leaning forward, Oliver added conspiratorially, "What's more, I bet you a blow job--joke, Jamie, joke!--on returning to your vice den later, Mr Roslyn will not only have had Only Roses leave the biggest bunch of red roses outside your other heavenly portal, but a note of contrition to make even a Shakespearean love sonnet pale."
"You really think so?"
"I know so." Oliver gave a grin. "And now, having got today's little melodrama off your maidenly chest, and as it's my turn to buy lunch, shall we order?" Glancing at the menu placed alongside his bread plate earlier, he murmured, "I really should know the menu by heart, but let's see what they have for today's specials." He beckoned a second camp, hovering waiter, "Antonio, today's specials? Anything you'd recommend, as opposed to my usual Veal Scaloppini with cheese?"
After an animated consultation with the verbose waiter, Oliver finally agreed on a starter and his main course.
"Signore James?" asked Antonio.
"After all that dramatica, I'll simply settle for the same, grazie," murmured James sarcastically.
"And a bottle of Pinot Grigio, please," added Oliver. "Plus, we'd like the wine right away."
"I don't believe it!" gasped Jamie.
"Don't believe what?" asked Oliver
"Kurt, he's just walked into the bloody restaurant!"
"Not only what, Ollie, he's here--and what's more, he's not alone!"
"Well, why should he be?" quipped Oliver. "Like us, he's obviously lunching with--ha ha--a business associate."
"First of all, Ollie, you know Kurt would never dream of bringing a business associate to one of London's most outrageous gay restaurants for lunch, and further more--before our row this morning--he told me he was lunching today with Dad at their so-called local, Boisdale in Canary Wharf."
"Oh," said Oliver, sneaking a look at Kurt Roslyn's luncheon companion. Well, Jamie, my friend, whoever it is sex-on-legs, lover boy Roslyn's lunching with, it's certainly not your pompous old fart of a father, that's for sure! "Well," he added, "the guy's definitely not your father or--from the looks of him--a potential business associate; unless of course Kurt's now secretly involved with the production of gay porn films as a sideline!"