Free The Natural Order of Things by Kevin P. Keating Page A

cures for a million vices—through prayer, repentance, self-flagellation—but when he looks through the portal that separates reality from the hereafter, de Vere sees not the treasures of heaven but the fiery pools of hell. Having already dipped his toes in the scalding waters, he wonders if he can finally muster the courage to submerge himself fully in what the Jesuits warn is “total depravity.” Of course, most people have no way of knowing just how sublime the river of sin can be, how thrilling to be swept away and carried off to a place you never intended to go. Or maybe they do. The world, as de Vere knows from experience, is full of irredeemable hypocrites.
II
    Six months ago, when he first embarked on these forbidden excursions, de Vere preferred to use his own car, but then late one evening, while idling at a red light, a group of teenage boys, oozing with adolescent virulence, materialized from the shadows. They made lewd gestures, rapped on his door, spat on his windshield. Phlegm hung in heavy green beads from the tinted glass. An intolerable situation. He wasn’t about to let this gang of little brown bastards fuck with his lady. No, that would never do. Aside from an occasional trip to the slums, de Vere’s ostentatious European touring car may be the only thing that offers him some satisfaction in this world. He read somewhere that cars are modeled on the female form, and there
is
, he finds, something rather arousing about its sleek and elegant design, the exaggerated curves of the rear end, the heady scent of leather, the breathless moans of the V6 engine. With mounting agitation, he put his hand on the door handle, fully prepared to kick some ass, but from the corner of his eye he caught the flash of a knife blade. De Vere hit the gas hard and thundered away. Gloating with triumph, he opened the sunroof and raised his middle finger. From this incident he has learned two invaluable lessons: victory always belongs to the man with the most torque and horsepower, and more important, it’s best to take a taxi to and from the hunting grounds.
    Of course these monthly outings wouldn’t be necessary if he hadn’t mismanaged the melancholy business of his marriage. He has grown indifferent toward his wife. Over the years she has become irreparably tarnished, another neglected
objet d’art
in his immense and uncatalogued collection of conquests. Sex with her is boring, pedestrian, another tedious obligation like walking the dog or attending mass on Sunday morning. Hethought about ending things once and for all, getting his lawyers involved, but a messy divorce right now would only hasten his destruction. He is already on the brink of financial collapse. Until the economy picks up, he must bide his time, explore other avenues.
    To his surprise he finds that company parties and gala dinners aren’t exactly conducive to casual encounters with members of the opposite sex, especially when the tiny breasted ladies, with their taut puritanical faces and severe prudish frowns, waste so much time droning on and on about disgustingly conventional subjects: their learning disabled children, their lazy and inadequate husbands, their terminally ill parents, their insipid duties as accountants and business analysts. He manages to seduce a college intern or two, but even they insist on old-fashioned gentleness and solicitude, and he quickly learns that a comfortable lifestyle doesn’t necessarily entitle a man to possess a secret harem of pretty girls (or even a few plain ones for that matter). Though he wants no entanglements, he has an acute understanding of the rules of the game and, for a little while at least, he abides by them, purchases a few extravagant gifts, vials of perfume, diamond tennis bracelets, spa treatments, reservations for wine and cheese tastings, and in exchange for these creature comforts, he expects his mistresses to submit to his modest desires and then to vanish once he tires of their shrill