suffer my desire [ for you ] : julien york.

<center>http://pictures.greatestjournal.com/...302250/1020147

disarm you with a smile
and cut you like you want me to
cut that little child
inside of me and such a part of you
the years burn

i used to be a little boy
so old in my shoes
and what i choose is my choice
what's a boy supposed to do?
the killer in me is the killer in you
my love
i send this smile over to you

disarm you with a smile
and leave you like they left me here
to wither in denial
the bitterness of one who's left alone
the years burn
the years burn, burn, burn </center>

( smashing pumpkins : disarm )

[ journal entry one ]

I never know where to begin in new journals. It always seems appropriate to start off these blank pages with a godly revelation, but I think I shall celebrate this leather-bound beauty with some monumental news instead: The Mason Street job is done! And not only is my bank account's belly glutted beyond six digits, but I have the seven karat canary-yellow pendant that once graced the valley between Misses Eleanor Vanderbilt's small and forgettable breasts.

Johnny asked if I ever felt anything after the job is over. I said that I felt filthy fucking rich, and he scowled, apparently feeling the guilt of ten thousand dollars burning in his pocket. He'll either come around or not, but I sure as hell am not going to wait around. This new job is too damn important for him to get all teary-eyed about it. He may fuck it all up the ass.

A new job. A Misses Jocelyn McGregor. I had "accidentally" taken her latte, blended milk with whip, from the barista's counter and she had made it perfectly clear that it was hers while I was stirring in some sugar. She accepted my apologetic new cup of coffee and even allowed me to purchase her a raspberry scone. We talked about traffic and real estate and white wine (red gives her a headache). She was late for picking up her daughter from preschool.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 19, 2006 09:46 PM: Message edited by: nothing like losing you ]</font>

[ three years ago ]

Julien had been working on the Piazza Della Rovere Job when his very close friend, Peter Jacobsen, rang and invited him to a party in the downward spiral of 1999. He had of course accepted and attended the event alone, and by midnight he had already romanced two unhappy wives in the shadows of the courtyard: Misses Elisabetta D'Antonio and Misses Katherine Marcuccilli. Both had Italian wealth strung around their necks and dazzling on their hands; both eventually became piece-of-cake jobs.

It wasn't until about twelve-thirty that he had stumbled across a dark dreamer with eyes that bled of the Mediterranean Sea. Helena Connelly was the neglected wife of Frederick Connelly Jr., CEO of Cisco Systems. She was immediately interested in Julien, who was extraordinary in black tie attire, and had inquired about him to the host. Peter, leaning in very close, warned her.

"He's a colleague of mine, not one to reckon with, Helena. I don't think Frederick would be too happy about it anyway."

Of course Peter's ominous tone only intrigued her even more. She had taken it upon herself to hunt him down, much to Julien's surprise. She followed him right into the secluded confines of the study with all of it's rich burgundy walls and cherry wood, stiff leather sofas, hissing fire. With a scotch on the rocks in hand, Julien turned around to discover the fragile woman, his mouth working into a quiet smile.

[ journal entry two ]

I was staying at the Shangri-la in Santa Monica for the first week. That entire hotel seems haunted. I could almost see the ghosts of glamorous actresses walk through these corridors. It was built in the 1930s. Art deco style. I'm so glad that I left that penthouse that overlooked the Pacific.

There's something about Los Angeles that makes me drink. I'm already on my second bottle of Isle of Skye 8 year old. I decided to rent out an apartment on Wilshire. Jocelyn's routine has proven to be boring and exactly the same each day, so I've been spending time personalizing the place.

Her husband punctually wakes up at 6 a.m. and leaves for the office at 6:30. There is no morning interaction between them. She is awake by 7, gets her son (he appears to be seven or eight, brown-eyed and bright) ready for school. He is then driven by their chauffeur at 7:45. She takes a swim in their indoor pool for about an hour, takes a shower and prepares herself for the day. She usually leaves around 10:30 in her silver 2003 Range Rover with her daughter (almost always has a doll in hand). She stops at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. The little girl gets dropped off at a posh preschool about four miles away from the resident by 11 a.m. She goes for a manicure and pedicure on Tuesdays and for a facial on Fridays. Otherwise she usually goes to Acadie's to enjoy a hand crafted French crepe and a second cup of coffee. She takes a walk on the third street promenade or along the beach until 4, then she leaves to pick up her daughter. They return back to the house. Her husband usually misses dinner and gets home at 10 p.m., sometimes later. Johnny has been following him the past week and has discovered that Mister McGregor is staying late seducing a couple different receptionists.

Monday. She was having lunch at Acadie's, like she often does with a select girlfriend or two, but today she was alone. It was about twelve o'clock. Her daughter wouldn't be off school until another two and a half hours. I was sitting a couple tables away from her before she noticed me. "Are you following me?" she asked jokingly. I ended up taking my crepe over to her table where we talked until she invited me for a walk along the beach. I told her I was an art dealer and gave her my number just in case she was interested in buying any art.

Thursday. She took the bait. Called me and I invited her to the apartment where I happened to have some pieces on hand. Johnny was kind enough to drop off some oil paintings of promising new artists on Tuesday. She had barely glanced at them. I had her clothed and gone in time to pick up her daughter.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 19, 2006 09:50 PM: Message edited by: nothing like losing you ]</font>

[ journal entry three ]

McGregor had some time off, but was too preoccupied with golf and a mid-afternoon rendezvous with a blonde receptionist, a Miss Olivia Diaz. Jocelyn left the kids with her mother for most of the weekend. She had appointments made at her favorite spa, but surprise surprise, she was too busy to actually follow through. Instead she was hiding away in my apartment.

She has musical laughter. And she's really quite lovely when she's sleeping. She seems to naturally wake up at seven. I, of course, still can't seem to get more than a couple hours of sleep these days. Her wedding band was tucked away in her purse. It's a shame really, because I thoroughly enjoy fucking housewives with that ring on. Helena never took hers off...

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 19, 2006 09:52 PM: Message edited by: nothing like losing you ]</font>

[ journal entry four ]

I suppose it would be too much of a bother for me to actually sleep tonight. I can function. I can function. I can function tonight but what will happen to me tomorrow? I declare an experiment. I can't see; it's like a thousand photographers' bulbs have flashed and it's embedded in my irises. I try to blink it away. Blink. Blink. But it only worsens.

I watch old movies. The Goonies, Stand By Me, Back to the Future. They're muted and I'm left with the words in this book I've been reading. About a serial killer that started in Seattle. Sweet sweet crime books. I would feel so lost if it were my skull found on a Washington state mountainside, licked clean by coyotes and those santeria-black eyed vultures.

I would feel so lost... if Helena doesn't call anymore. I try to be optimistic, you know. Los Angeles is full of SINGLE beautiful women. I can have one, maybe two a night. But there's nothing like taking a married woman to bed. Or a bottle of Glenfarclas 30 years. A very smoky and smooth mouthfeel. Almost as heavenly as when a woman's orgasm ruptures over my tongue. God. It's been too long. Maybe I should rent one of those porns I used to whack off to when I was fourteen. Some early 90's rim-licking flick.

Ah, yes. The insomnia has got me raving like a madman.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 19, 2006 09:57 PM: Message edited by: nothing like losing you ]</font>

Lucy made me a cup of coffee. She drinks soymilk. I want to meet Gato. She's secretive. I like that. Christiana is from Aspen. She's mysterious. If I had her picture, I'd beat off to it. Met a Jade. She knows how to work those hands. Wonder if she's good with her mouth too. Amar is going to build me a cake since I saved her pen's life. She writes. She makes me smile. She's too good to waste on horny thoughts. I'm in search of a new job.

It was me and a bottle of Glenury Royal 1953. Rooftop. It was late. And then from the shadows came Amar. The name 'Amar' means forever, enlightenment.

"Why did you allow it to go on?" she asked. About Helena and me.

I'm a fuckin coward.

<font color="#000000" size="1">[ January 14, 2006 07:33 PM: Message edited by: nothing like losing you ]</font>

Julien didn't like to call it his journal. It was more like a log. It's purpose to organize details of each woman, to capture pieces of them so that he could do his job properly and efficiently. He found it quite unfortunate that he would leave tidbits of himself on those love struck lined pages. It had been a gift from Helena; this notebook from Italy. Leather, with one of those long dark laces to wrap around it like a scarf. It was if she knew that he would eventually have to take the time to pour her all over those pages. The witch.

He had been itching for a drink. Watched that bottle of Scotch from across the room, that pink muscle rushed over his mouth to keep himself from salivating over the dark amber liquid. His heartbeat quickened, his leg twitched before he would stand. Pace back and forth with a cheap papermate pen that he had taken from the doctor's office. He had taken it as a memento from the cute young Filipino nurse he had charmed. He didn't know why; Julien was the type who threw money away on expensive pens with amazing shine and unbeatable grip.

His teeth found that familiar place on the inside of his cheek before he retreated to his office, leaning deep into the leather chair. Biting on the end of the pen before written words were soaking into the pages. The journal yawned across the mahogany desk.

I go to bed at the beginning of each week with the intention to have long, prosperous, heavenly dreams. I wake up every Monday wishing that I had been in REM long enough to feel well-rested. This week is tarnished already.

Strawberry blonde. Tall, but still shorter than me with heels on. I like petit brunettes more, but I'll deal. She's L.A. from head to toe. She volunteers at the art museum twice a week (Wednesdays and Fridays). Is in her mid-thirties and looks it. Smokes Virginia Slims and drinks hot coffee with a straw. Gets Botox injections as frequently as she can. Mrs. Marlena Branse is the third wife of Patrick C. Branse who happens to come from old luscious money. She's known, and almost infamous, for taking on young lovers. I'm a bit older than her typical catch, but she took the bait anyway. We met on Rodeo, she bought me an Armani suit and lunch, and I went down on her in the backseat of her Bentley while her driver was on break.

This job will take dedication and long hours. I can't afford to be just another one of her toys. No. I need to more than that.

You can't call married women in the middle of the night. Their husbands don't look so kindly on that behavior. Helena would just have to wait. Julien flipped his phone closed, the engine roaring beneath the hood, and he was afraid that Alma would be at the window and he'd have to put the key at ease, go back in there and ravage. Third time's a charm. But she was asleep, and he turned off Pine Avenue without further hesitation. He rubbed his temple, unable to forget Alma against the wall, Alma on the bed, Alma against his tastebuds. She was an easy fuck. He liked that.

He had half the nerve to call Lash's girlfriend. His good ole buddy would probably surely slit his throat if Julien actually went through with it. He had already met up with her a handful of times in Los Angeles. She was lovely. A British brunette with a bite. And although he had suspected that she was starting to feel a twinge of guilt, Julien would continue seeing her until she stopped returning his calls.

Instead, Julien would go back to his loft. He'd run a few miles on his treadmill while watching infomercials, take a hot shower and fall asleep an hour before sunrise.

[ logged november 2nd ]

I saw Alma again. Didn't feel like writing about it until now. I got a room at Caesar's. That girl makes me sad for some reason. I think it's because I don't have to try. She just gives it up like it's expected of her. But she's one hot fuck and that's all I should care about.

Went to Los Angeles again for another one of those sick hotel room affairs I waste time with. The upside was that my Ferrari got the best ride of it's life thus far.

I long for a woman with no depth. I tire of Killian's love stare, although it's hard for me to tell if it's really so much love as infatuation. I know what lust looks like, and this is certainly not lust. At least not anymore. She's a mistake. I can feel it in my bones. She's a mistake.

Amar. I almost don't want to tarnish her name on this page. I think for the first time in my life I'm able to have honest conversation with a woman.