Date: Sat, 5 Nov 2011 12:09:34 -0700 (PDT) From: First Chance Subject: How Martin Blunt Learned to Live Chapter 1: Nomination How Martin Blunt Learned to Live Chapter One: Nomination It was the former campaign spokesman who told Martin to expect the call on Monday. Late morning, he said, right after the 10AM staff meeting. So when the phone rang at 11:15, Martin was not surprised. He had stayed home that day to take the call in private, spending the morning reading up on trade policy and promises the President had made to the business community. Around 10:30 he put a note pad and pen on the dining room table and left his laptop open to Google. He answered the phone calmly on the 3rd ring. "Good morning, this is Martin." A secretary asked him to hold for Elliott Anders, and Martin felt something he rarely felt: nervous. Elliott Anders was the new White House Chief of Staff, and if the offer was coming from Elliott himself, it would be a good one. It should be. After all, Martin had raised a lot of money. It had to be a good position. While on hold Martin paced back and forth the length of his Capitol Hill row house, from the back sun room, through the kitchen, dining room and living room, looking out the bay windows to the quite street out front still coated with the snow and ice of a January snowstorm that had made last week's Inauguration rather unpleasant, even in VIP seating. When Martin had an important call, he paced. Sitting still made him feel weak, like a target. Pacing helped him control his voice, his tone and feel like he was in charge. Even when he conducted meetings, Martin would walk get up from the table and pace around the conference room when he needed to think. It drove his staff crazy. They said it made them nervous. (Maybe subconsciously that's why he did it?) That's how he lived most of his life: in action, doing things. Martin was not one to sit idle. This behavior explained his perfectly ordered and clean house: in the kitchen cabinets glasses, silverware and coffee mugs were lined in rows like soldiers. In his closets, clothes hung in strict formation, evenly spaced and arranged by color. Martin was meticulous: every towel folded the same, all canned goods in the pantry aligned in order, each book in his office placed in a precise location to get a desired aesthetic. In the past, each girlfriend would initially marvel at his neatness and order, at first thinking he was pretending to be clean to impress them. In time they would discover he was truly this orderly and disciplined, and they would find it sexy, like a sign of a mature and stable man worthy of marriage and baby making. Later, when the relationships inevitably ended, they would throw his neatness in his face claiming it indicated inflexibility and rigidity. Martin had more than just neatness to offer any woman lucky enough to date him. He had more than just his 3 story, historical row house with Capitol views and rooftop deck. He had stunning physical beauty, stand 6'3'', 225lbs of toned, solid muscle gained from 20+ years of faithful and painful workouts. Martin was not slender and didn't have the "swimmer's build", which he took as a euphemism for skinny. He was solid, an imposing specimen with broad shoulders, strong arms, a tight and powerful torso and thick legs noticeable under any suit pants. With barely any body fat he was still a 36 waist and could never pull off the skinny suit look, even when he had business in London. Being part Italian (mom's side) gave him beautiful skin color and thick, jet black hair he slicked back and parted for business, but would let fall in front of his eyes when he wanted a casual look. But being part German, (dad's side) he had those eyes. Martin's eyes captivated people: bright blue, a stark contrast to his olive skin and black hair. Martin was also an an academic and professional success. He had graduated magna cum laude from Vanderbilt University where he played strong safety his junior and senior year (number 45) and then Wharton Business School. For the past 15 years he worked at a major investment bank, rising to Senior VP at the age of 34. He had accumulated considerable personal wealth through generous bonuses well invested, he dressed exceptionally well (which he admitted was easy with money. His secret was mannequin shopping. Go to Brooks Brothers or look through a magazine and see how they dress the mannequin and models. Then buy the whole look. It was free professional styling.) But Martin had something else that made him so attractive: a personality and demeanor that made people line up behind him. Martin was a born leader who inspired confidence in others and a encouraged optimism, loyalty and honesty. He was one of those men that guys meet at a cocktail party and then try to hang out with the rest of the night thinking "I'm really glad I met this guy". Since high school, guys who met him wanted to be his friend, wanted to hang out with him, wanted him to pledge their fraternity or come to their family house for Thanksgiving. Guys wanted to be like him. Girls just wanted him. He did seem to have it all. So, naturally, he would frequently get asked "How are you still not married?!" He hated that question. He was- literally- one of Washington's most eligible bachelors as he ranked 23rd in last year's "50 Most Eligible Bachelors" edition of the Washingtonian magazine. Colleagues and friends often introduced him to high powered, attractive women. They would date, and in due time he would take them to Martha's Vineyard or Nevis for a few days. They would drag him to at least one wedding and for months he'd be seen out at fashionable restaurants, gallery events and the Kennedy Center. He'd hold hand through La Boheme, see indie films at E Street Cinemas and be at the corner couch of the Hay Adams Bar. The girls would all think it couldn't get any better. But, 10 months later he would begin to withdraw. One Friday night he would insist on going home to sleep in his own bed alone "because he was so tired". Dinners would get canceled last minute and phone calls would happen less frequently. Martin would blame it all on work. Then he'd have a 10 day business trip out of the country and he'd tell his grilfriend he needed to go alone, knowing she would spend the time crying on the phone with her mother and friends while he walked around London or Edinburgh alone and annoyed. After 6 weeks of tension and distance, the girls would eventually want to talk, a conversation that led to a fight that would end in a break-up. As they fought, his soon-to-be-ex girlfriends called him selfish, materialistic, an ego maniac. "If you spent more time thinking about me and less time thinking about work... if you only cared as much about me as you do about..." he'd heard it all. Amanda even screamed that he was terrible in bed, which was probably true in her case. At least some of the girls were mildly interesting and Martin could perform well enough, but Amanda was so insipid that no alpha male, not even Martin, could act his way through decent sex. Two days later the ex would call to apologize, "what we had was special" and "let's try to make this work". But he'd say it was for the best, and he would have her things sent over. And it would end. Texts and emails would come within hours as news spread that Martin Blunt was single again. Guys would right "hey I know you just got out of relationship but I have this friend...". His female friends would tell him to work on his fear of commitment issues, and that they have a friend from college "It may be too soon but she's really sweet...". Martin would tell them all "maybe marriage is just not in the cards for me", which is a good move. Always blame some third party that can't offer a good defense like "fate" or "life" or "society" or even God. He'd blame whatever, whomever, in order to secure a few months of freedom before the next girl came along. It was his routine, but it was necessary to stay safe. Sure, he knew. But they didn't. Not his friends, not his exes, no one. And that's all that mattered. In the last break up, as he watched his maid Lupe gather Teresa's clothes and personal items throughout the house, he realized just how tired of it he was. It was Sunday, almost noon, and he was still wearing what he slept in the night before: He wore lose fitting green pajamas bottoms and a white tank top that highlighted his well defined arms and strong shoulders. He didn't put on underwear, and the outline of his cock and balls was clearly visible through the pajams. He didn't care. Lupe had seen him in less, and in a worse state. He lay outretched on the couch, barefoot, with his head propped on a pillow as he stared blankly at the ceiling. The sections of the Washington Post lay scattered on the floor along with a mug of coffee and an untouched bowl of fruit. "You want I take the pictures away too, yes? Meester Martin?" Martin didn't move when he responded. "Yeah, get rid of all the pictures. But don't put them in the box with her stuff. I don't think she wants them either." "Okay, I put her tings in de box now and I drive to her apartment and leave de box with doorman. She have a lot of tings, Meester Martin. I no like her, not like the others. She never nice to me and I tink 'Meester Martin he can do better dan you, chica'. But she around here long time so I begin to worry she staying." Lupe talked a lot, and Martin didn't care to listen. After 10 years of her employment, he had a way of zoning her out. She was a great maid, and more than that, she was like a nice aunt who really cared for him. Lupe was there at every break-up, and every beginning. Whether or not she suspected, Martin could only guess. She never let on like she did. That might be because he took great care hiding his personal... products. She wasn't nosey, and even though Lupe had complete access to Martin's house, including the security codes, Martin never thought she would snoope. No girlfriend ever got access to his house. Only Lupe. Sometimes this fact would come up in the fight and help to instigate the break-up. "How come your maid has a key and the security code and you won't trust me with it? Do you trust me at all? Do you even love me?". Funny what gets under a girl's skin. Yeah, Martin realized he needed a change. He was only 38 years old, and he was so tired. Tired of the charade, tired or the games. Tired of being in bed with someone, fully naked, fully exposed, flesh on flesh in the most intimate of positions, and still feel totally alone. Tired of the girlfriends who would show him off to friends and parents and drop hints about Tiffany engagement rings. Tired of the effort that was sex, where girls would confuse stamina with indifference and libido with lack of concentration. Tired of the women who made overt passes and aggressively pursued him looking for a successful husband to get them pregnant. Tired of coworkers who arranged happy hours and would then surprise him with a friend or cousin who happened to be single and sitting next to the only empty chair. Martin was tired, and ready for something new. Watching Lupe clean up from 10 months of Teresa, he made a promise to pursue something new. As luck often favored Martin, luck would once again put opportunity in his lap. During the past Presidential election he was invited to a roundtable with his preferred candidate. His invitation was not a coincidence. Sure, the campaign manager, Elliott Anders, said the panel needed a prominent member of the business community, and this was partially true, but Elliott had done his research and he knew of Martin's leadership, success and huge rolodex. It was after that event that he had asked Martin to become a bundler. Raise $500k for the campaign, and the President would remember you once inaugurated. It was a perfect opportunity. Not only would it keep him too busy to pretend date another blond PR rep, but it could open up brand new doors and opportunities to escape his life-sucking routine. Martin was enormously successful as a fundraiser, and he had all the physical and professional goods to build up the coffers. He turned his DC row house into a mini fundraising hub and used his charm and looks to woo the wives of lobbyists who would pony up $10k for a dinner he himself would prepare: braised short ribs, duck l'orange, rosemary crusted rack of lamb. His favorite weekend escape, the 200 year old clapboard home on the Chesapeake he lovingly renovated, became a virtual bed and breakfast for DC's uber elite who shelled out $50k for weekends of champagne brunches and endless crapcakes mixed with sailing, duck hunts and fishing. Donors stayed in one of the 5 guest suites furnished with antique brass beds, hand woven quilts, and rich marble bathrooms with soaking tubs that overlooked the bay. At night the power couples drank expensive brandy and smoked macanudos in the gazebo listening to the water lap the shore as lights of the night fisherman glistened in the distance. Schmoozing was easy for Martin. And it paid off. One year and $535k later, the new President's chief of staff was making good on his promise. Martin didn't doubt it would happed, though he had hoped for this call during the transition. But 5 days after the swearing in...? Well, that wasn't too bad a wait. That's how he got to this moment, waiting to talk to the White House Chief of Staff. When Elliott Anders got on the call Martin continued to pace while they made small talk about the lousy weather during the inaugural ball. Elliott then lavished praise on Martin's business savvy, successful career and "loyalty and dedication to the President throughout the campaign", another way of saying shit ton of money raised, and concluded he was exactly the kind of person the Administration needed. "Well, thank you, Elliott. It's been a great experience", he said, finally sitting down at the table. "Since I met you at the Fairmont event and got on board. I'm proud to have been part of this victory. Please thank the President for choosing me for this position". He picked up the pen and wrote 'Asst Sec for Intrnatnl Busins Affairs State Dpt'. "Well, you can thank him yourself on Friday," Elliott responded. "The President would like to meet you and a few Senators who will help with your confirmation process. 11am. Someone from my staff will email you the details". "That's just great. I look forward to finally meeting him. You know I hosted his wife for a fund..." "Oh yes, and she spoke very highly of you. You made quite an impression," Elliott laughed, cutting Martin off mid sentence. "I can't imagine how many events she attended during the course of the campaign but she remembers yours the most and has been calling me almost every day to ask what position you have taken within the Administration. She'll be glad to know you will be in the Oval on Friday". "Well, thanks again Elliott, and I looked forward to working with your staff and the State Department officials to get through the confirmation process as quickly as possible. Yes, of course. Understood. Well, thanks Elliott, I'm truly honored. See you on Friday at 11. You have a good afternoon as well." Martin hung up his cell, took a deep breath, and clenched his fist seizing victory like a mosquito. "Awesome" he said. "Just fucking AWESOME!". He pumped his fist in the air like he hit a walk-off home run. Well, in a way he had. A year ago he'd made a move and it paid off. His victory came with a prize- a little vice he allowed himself. It was his best kept secret. Well, second best. Opening the liquor cabinet, behind the vodka he found half a pack of Parliament. Just one, reminded himself. Discpline. He had had this pack for almost a year. That's how disciplined Martin is. Disciplined his health, disciplined in finances, in love, in everything. Martin was always in control of himself, and he fought hard to stay that way. He raised a cigarette up to his nose, smelling its aroma of musky, dry tobacco leaves, sweet and earthy. It was a natural scent, hearty, and manly. Like the scent of the locker rooms at his gym. Like the smell of a guy who worked hard lifting weights, feeling the pain and fighting against it, whose sweat is hard earned, a sign of living hard and not a mere smell of being dirty. Martin thought of the guys in the gym after their workouts, bodies hurting, swollen, breathing heavy from the physical exhaustion standing under the nozzles in the showers as warm water soothed their aching shoulders and backs. Martin thought of the many guys he saw in those showers, guys he carefully noticed but tried to ignore. The guys he had nicknames for: big red, ipod guy, over-squats-dot-com, tats. Guys whose workouts, shampoo and birth marks he knew too intimately. Guys he thought about when he felt frisky. Like now... Smiling, he placed the cigarette on the table, grabbed his laptop, and headed upstairs.