Philanthropy Pt. 01

Philanthropy

This story occurred to me one evening, bored at home. It's a bit "not-normal" for me. Truth is, I wanted to examine a real asshole but with some redeeming qualities. The seed was planted, and I wrote Part One while in isolation because of COVID-19 regulations in Canada. I have all this time and I can't seem to focus on my professional writing, let alone this fun stuff. I am NOT a lawyer and don't pretend to understand all legal things. Forgive any errors on my part.

Comments always appreciated.

Part One: The Carvers

I live in an upscale condominium complex overlooking the downtown core and the river that runs through my major city. I'm young looking for a forty-year-old and I keep in great shape by running daily along the river and doing core strength exercises. I pride myself on my health, eating and cooking skills, and my taste for fine food, music and drink. I'm fairly intelligent, a great leader, and focused on only producing the best.

I work at a fairly large technology company that produces mostly business analytics software and have a team of ten working in my section. I am the lead programmer for the company and the algorithms the software uses are mine. It's the secret sauce for all our software and I own the intellectual property rights. Not the company: me. The company went IPO three years back and I am now comfortably wealthy. Well, that's a lie. I'm filthy rich actually and I want for nothing. I am satisfied with what I have managed during my life. My life is pretty good, all things said and done.

I never married because I never found the right woman. I would find someone easily enough and be happy for a time and then get bored. I would find faults in the women and allow them to fester. I am not a nice man. My many exes all agree with that in the end. But they come back to me again and again. I'm an experienced lover and my exes all love to tell me that over and over during make out sessions. They split with me because I can never give them the relationship they want. But they come back for the sex. And my money. It's the only true aphrodisiac; except maybe the lure of power.

It's amazing what a woman will do with you if you are rich. Truly amazing. I've had some wild ass sex during my life. Crazy sex. I love it. Money makes the world go around.

Normally, I search out partners who will fill whatever void I have in my life at the time. I find someone, get close, get intimate, have sex, get bored, and they leave angry. They tell me I am wasting their time. They want a life partner—someone to share their life with. To have children. Luxuriate in my financial security. And all I want is my solitude. I also am incapable of producing children. It's always oil and water relationships. It never works out for them, the poor women. Not that I care.

But listen: I always tell the women in my life the truth. I never hide it from them. They persist in the relationship, imagining changing the way I am. Being that one woman I can't do without. They hope to mould me for their imagined pristine life. In the end, they realise the futility and storm off in frustrated anger. Then comes the late-night buzzing at the building entrance, followed by a soft knock at my door, and then I have crazy sex, and they leave in the morning usually upset with themselves for being so weak.

I've never wanted for sex in my life. I've always found willing partners. But they could never last with me. I love my solitude too much. I crave my privacy, and my solitary life in the big city. I'm not exactly an introvert. I'm something between an introvert and an extrovert: a fucking normal person. I never get lonely. It's the way I'm wired, and I have no complaints. I will die alone, rich, and with a satisfied smile on my face.

Last year something strange happened to me. This is a long tale, but I need to get it out. It's something I need to share. And brag about, to be honest. You need to remember that I am an asshole. I treat the women in my life with respect, but in the end I will never be what they want. For that I am an asshole. All the women in my life have told me that at least once. I wear it like a badge.

Don't get me wrong. I don't think I'm an asshole. An asshole would hide this aspect of themselves. I don't. I declare it on day one and remind them on day last. That usually makes them angrier. But c'est la vie. I can't please everyone. Just myself.

So, my condo complex is massive. Each floor has ten condos: five facing the north toward the river and five facing the mountains to the south. I'm on the top twentieth floor in the large corner condo. It's a huge place. I have three bedrooms, a professional kitchen, a sunroom, sunken living room, and all the most modern amenities you could hope for.

I have a massive wine cooler filled with the best wines. I have a large selection of the finest spirits. I have all the best cooking appliances with a natural gas stove and all the best pots and cooking utensils. I love to cook and drink fine wines. My girlfriends only see this as part of the larger attraction. Truth is, I love to cook for my women. I love to see their eyes widen in wonder as my food hits their palate. I'm still friendly with a girl who adores my crab filled ravioli. I make her massive batches of my ravioli and freeze them for her. She comes for her order once a month. She's tried to get me to sell it to restaurants in town, but I always refuse. My cooking is a private thing for me.

I had my condo professionally decorated years back. The woman who did the work for me was wonderful. I'm not ashamed to admit I bought everything she suggested. She was brilliant. She was also very dirty in the sack and I fucked her ass harder than any other woman in my life. She could only cum with a dick in her ass and I obliged her. I digress though. The point here is that my condo is exquisite. I have fully automated lights, blinds, music, entertainment, and every connection to the internet and services are tied to my voice. Bill Gates would probably be jealous of me.

I live a luxurious life. I travel all the time. I've done everything I could imagine for a bucket list. I am content. As I've said: I want for nothing.

Okay. The tale. This is going to take some time to tell. You are probably not going to believe me. Maybe you'll be disgusted with how I handled everything. Maybe you'll see the good I did and focus on that. I don't know and don't care.

I mentioned the top floor I live on. Eight months ago, the condo next to mine went up for sale. The previous owner was an older gentleman who suddenly needed assisted living. He was in his early eighties and developed Alzheimer's with early onset dementia. He left one day in an ambulance and I heard his daughter crying in the hallway before the elevator took them both away. I have no idea how he is doing and don't truly care.

A couple in their late thirties moved in with their eighteen-year-old daughter. They looked like any other wealthy couple with one child. They were lawyers and worked crazy hours. The daughter looked sullen and bored and still managed to look stunning. She has long dark hair, usually shrouding and hiding her pale freckled face. She wears braces, glasses, and too much lip gloss. She walks with little style, which is too bad. Her figure is amazing for an eighteen-year-old. She has perfect hips, a full heart-shaped ass, and breasts that stand proud but not too large on her chest. She's most men's eight, but she's a ten to me. I have a type and she's it. Simple as that.

Her mom is her twin, but older and with some surgeries to nip and tuck. Looking at her, I know how her daughter will look later in life. Which will be a positive for some lucky guy. Always look at the mother before marrying someone. Her mother is exactly what she will look like later in life. Choose smart, people.

The husband is a dick. We took an instant dislike to each other the moment we first met. We shook hands, introduced ourselves, and wanted to punch each other. I don't understand it, but it is what it is. I once rode the elevator with his wife and daughter. His wife felt it important to explain to me what her husband did. She explained in detail just how influential he was and just how many important clients they had in their law firm. She added, with pride in her voice, just how respected they both were in the city. I remember gazing at her with the most uncaring expression on my face before speaking.

"Frankly, I don't give a damn. Your husband can go fuck himself or throw himself off your balcony for all I care. Maybe you can push him? Or both go over together?"

She blinked at me for a moment in shock. Then I watched anger flash across her face. I caught the look on her daughter's face. She was trying hard not to laugh, and I suddenly liked her.

The wife's face darkened. She moved a tiny amount, trying to put herself between me and her daughter like I was suddenly a threat. "What a horrible thing to say! I'm only trying to get you to understand!"

I looked at her daughter and saw her roll her eyes before looking directly at the mother. "Horrible? Your husband is a total dick. He swaggers around the building like he owns it. He makes snide comments to me, thinking I can't understand the nuances. I do. He is demeaning, a bully, a true shit. I've met many men like him in my life. He's a failure and knows it. He overcompensates and attacks everyone around him to make him feel better about himself. You married him. You probably understand this better than anyone. I feel sorry for you."

The mother spluttered. She was a typical rich bitch used to getting her way in life. "You're the dick! How dare you say that about my husband! I'm going to complain to the condo authority!"

I laughed then. Which made the colour in her face go brighter. She opened her mouth to speak, but I cut her off. "You'll need my name. Tell them Peter Chase has annoyed you."

She shut her mouth at my name. She glanced at her daughter for a moment and thankfully the elevator opened at our floor. I beckoned with my arm to let them leave the elevator first.

"Mom? What's the matter?" asked the daughter as her mom dragged her down the corridor.

"Shut up and get inside," growled the mother, firmly grasping her daughter's hand and pulling her along.

I strolled down the corridor toward my door, which was at the end. The mother keyed her door and quickly pushed inside her condo. I passed by and glanced in and saw the mother glance at me with an expression between fear and hate.

The daughter was dragged inside, and the door slammed shut.

I chuckled and walked to my door.

The mother recognised my name because I own the condo building.

I looked into the lawyer couple. They started their own practice shortly after they were married twenty years ago. They handled high-profile cases and were known for supporting big corporations at the expense of the workers. They also lawyered up for some of the more dubious people in the city. They were the type of lawyers who gave lawyers' bad names. They twisted the system and served their clients with little ethics. I hated people like them.

My own lawyer is a woman. I prefer women to handle my affairs over men. Generally, women almost always do what is right and I admire that. Men can be such dicks. A man will always wonder what they can do to get something out of something for themselves. Women do too, I'm not naïve, but women will always put the client first. And they are generally more honest. You may disagree, but frankly, I don't give a damn what you think. This philosophy has always worked for me.

Funny enough, my lawyer neighbours were being investigated by the Bar Association for ethics violations. Not just one violation, but several. In my opinion, they were fucked. According to the press, they were fucked, too.

Turns out me and the press were wrong. They escaped with flying colours. Rumours of bribes and political influence were spun up and evaporated. The media moved on and no one thought anything of it.

Except me. I hated shits like that. They abused the system and I was a champion of the system. I dislike people like them. I suffered it in high school because of jerks like them. I was always the underdog. The skinny kid people dismissed with a single look. But I found my strength on a Commodore PET and fell in love with programming.

I was the textbook nerd. I bought my first computer and started programming. It was an old IBM XT Turbo clone. I started writing software and I spent massive amounts of time on the early internet bulletin boards. I became a subject matter expert and gathered a host of followers. In school, I was a nobody. Online, I was somebody. This is probably where my love of solitude started. I spent hours online chatting with programmers all around the world. They never judged me, just my code. I felt safe in that world.

I invested in information technology and got out before the Dot-Com Bust and made my first million dollars by age twenty. I invested in myself and kept up my online persona. I made a few insider deals on the market, I'm not afraid to admit that, and my millions grew. Then Bitcoin happened and I was an early investor. My millions turned into a couple billion.

It's just money. I know that's a shit thing to say, especially if you don't have money. But it is. Money doesn't make me happy, but it allows me the freedom to find happiness. And I do.

I had a professional makeover, and a design specialist tended to my wardrobe and lifestyle. Because of her, I found running. And healthy eating. She made me a better person and she was probably the only woman who completely understood the way I was. When she was done with me, we fucked like rabbits for a week straight; she kissed my cheek and wished me luck and left. She was the closest I ever felt love toward. It depressed me when she left. Then I got over it.

Why is this all important? It's important to know the neighbours I had. They were dicks. Obnoxious rich dicks. But not nearly as rich or obnoxious as I could get. My lawyers would eat them up and spit them out. So, being the asshole I am, I made it my mission to make their lives miserable. Especially when they nearly ended mine.

I had no idea it would be their daughter who would accomplish this for me.

About a week after the memorable elevator ride, I found myself in the elevator alone with the daughter. I glanced over at her, but she was staring intently at the elevator panel with her hair hiding her face. I smiled to myself and lost myself in thoughts of work and a bug in the software that was alluding me. I was deep in thought when I realised the girl was talking to me.

I looked at her in surprise. "I'm sorry, did you say something?"

She was looking sideways at me. I could see her left eye and her nose poking out from her hair. It bothered me and without thinking I reached out and pulled her hair back behind her ear.

She gasped in shock and backed away from me. Her hand rose to her mouth and I realised my stupidity.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that. I apologise. Your hair shouldn't hide your face, though. You're beautiful. Show yourself off."

It was not a very genuine apology. I rarely apologise for things because I rarely do anything worth apologising for. Perhaps this was one of those moments. I wondered if I would come to regret this. I could see her parents suing me for this. I had touched their daughter.

The girl lowered her hand and glared at me. "What's wrong with my hair?"

"I didn't say there was anything wrong with it. Just that you shouldn't hide your face. It is too long though. You should style it. Shorten it."

She glared at me in silence.

"Your choice, obviously," I added.

She turned back toward the elevator panel and stared at it again. I noticed she kept her hair tucked back over her ear. She kind of ducked her head toward her hand and made sure all the strands were tucked behind her ear. I admired her profile for a moment and then looked forward. Goddamn, her tits stand straight out, defying gravity.

We got off on our floor and went quietly to our condos. I didn't see her again for a week.

The elevator doors were closing when a small manicured hand shot in and stopped them. The doors slid open and I saw the daughter standing there. She had changed her hairstyle. It was cut very short. A pageboy cut; I believe they call it. I didn't care what it was called, it was beautiful on her. She now had a pixie look and she was hot.

She got in and I kept staring at her.

She ducked her head for a moment. "Stop staring at me!" she exclaimed.

"I'm sorry. It's just you changed your hair. It's beautiful!"

I could see the quick smile that crossed her face. She was pleased I liked it.

"It was your idea. I was mad at first, but then I looked into it. Mom had a specialist look me over and she suggested this cut."

"I like it. I can see your face."

"Um, thanks."

She glanced at me for a moment. I saw for the first time her eyes were light grey. She wore no makeup. Her freckles danced across her high cheekbones and they were dark and stood out prominently, accenting her pixie look. She was breath-taking.

She smiled awkwardly at me and I realised I was just staring at her and saying nothing.

"Um, sorry. I didn't mean to stare. You are a beautiful young lady."

"Thanks."

"Can I suggest something?"

She frowned.

"I have a friend. A specialist in makeovers. I can put you in touch, if you like?"

Her frown deepened. "A specialist? Why would I need a specialist?"

"To teach you how to make yourself up better."

She glared at me in silence and I realised just how much of an asshole I was being.

Thankfully, the elevator reached our floor and the doors opened. She rushed out with her head down, opened her door, and slammed it shut.

Two weeks later we rode the elevator again.

She started the conversation. "So, I looked into you."

I said nothing.

"You are like super rich."

There was nothing I could add to that, so I kept silent.

"Mom and dad are trying to figure you out."

I watched the floor numbers go up.

"They don't like you very much."

I nodded.

The car rose and finally reached the top. The doors slid open and the girl stepped out. I expected her to walk down to her condo, but she hesitated, waiting for me. I stepped out and we walked beside each other down the corridor. When we reached her door, we stopped.

"Can you send me the contact details for your specialist?" she asked out of the blue.

"Um, sure. Just search for Amanda Bradley. Contact her and mention me."

"Peter Chase."

"That's me."

"I'm Dana Carver."

I blinked at her in surprise. I had no idea what her name was and hadn't really cared. "Nice to meet you, Dana Carver."

She smiled up at me and then keyed her door and disappeared inside.

That night Amanda Bradley contacted me. She asked to come over and talk to me about my neighbour. I said sure and started supper for the both of us.

When Amanda arrived, she was dressed to kill. Being a top specialist meant gracious donations from top fashion houses. She always wore the best. Her makeup was flawless, and she took my breath away. I told her so when I opened the door to her.

"Amanda. You are gorgeous as always, my dear. Come inside."

She air kissed my cheeks and breezed past me. She placed her clutch down on the small side table by the door and then sniffed the air. "Oh, that smells wonderful! What is it?"

I knew what all my women liked to eat. A large part of my brain was reserved for just making sure I fed my women what they desired the most. Amanda was a red meat fan. And not overcooked dried out meat. She loved it running with blood, just past blue but still very rare. In the oven I had cooked a beef wellington. It was almost done.