checked her face in her spare monitor.
A long, twisted black string hung out of the corner her eye. It poked out of her tear duct, and as she watched, it wriggled like a worm, tickling her cheek. She cried out and stumbled back from her computer, tripping over her guitar, sending it flying with a musical crash. She tumbled and hit the back of her head on the floor. Bright, flashing lights sparkled at the corners of her vision.
She jumped to her feet and ran for the bathroom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"You like rough trade?" Christian shouted over the music. The little balding guy adjusted his old-school horn rim glasses and licked his lips, eyeing Christian's chain belt and tight leather pants. Booming house beats pounded the air, while swirling gel-filtered lights flashed through the mind-numbing throb of the club. Strobe lights captured stuttering images of sweaty, naked flesh. Two hundred half-naked men, grinding and dry-humping on a dented steel dance floor the size of a large living-room. The smell of hot oil, sweat, and sex covered everything. Jacked-up pheromones baked off the twinks, twunks, bears and circuit boys, all of them working it on the floor.
The little guy nodded like his head was on a spring.
Christian leaned over to shout directly into his ear. "You like what you see?" The club turned the sound-system all the way up on the weekends, and Saturday night was the loudest and wildest. Christian ran one hand along his oiled abs, letting the pulsing lights of the club skate deliriously up and down the ridged muscle. He watched the other man's eyes following an oily drop of sweat as it traced a crooked line down Christian's stomach.
The other man nodded again, throat working as he swallowed convulsively. Christian grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward the bathrooms. A programmed laser light show spelled out the club's name across the walls. Men stumbled out of the washrooms, shirts wet with sweat and pants soaked through with glittering oil and water.
Christian head learned a lot since coming to California. After the paranoiac horrors of the eighties and early nineties, the fast and easy style of West Hollywood gay life had returned with something approaching a holy fervor. He could hook up sometimes three or four times in one night, and be home in time to catch the late-late movies on cable. He never got tired of the noir classics: THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW and NORA PRENTISS. Night after night he fell asleep to those great old stories of losers losing.
Once in the bathroom, Christian turned back to his mark. "You're a librarian, or a teacher, or something?" Christian said, already loosening his belt. "That's hot. Makes my cock hard." The guy wore a wedding ring, and Christian felt cold excitement bubble up in his chest. Odds were even whether or not the guy's wife even had a clue about her husband's double life. Most wives, deep down, sensed the repressed past and desire that drove men like this out to the clubs, and ignored it as best they could.
"Wait." The man put one dove-white hand on Christian's arm. "Please. Not like this."
Christian snorted. "Too late to back out now."
"I mean not here . Can we...can you...outside?" His glasses flashed in the cold white light of the bathroom.
Christian laughed. "No one cares in here, man. You want it, then this is it."
The man slid his hand lower, gripping Christian with surprising strength. "I'll be good," he whispered. "So good. I promise." He moaned when Christian grabbed him by the throat, and Christian smiled approvingly.
"OK. You'd better be." He shook him by his neck. "Now move."
They pushed through the throbbing crowd. The bouncer, a big black power top named Ramage, gave them a curt and knowing tilt of the head toward a security door. Christian shouldered his way through it, into the deafening silence of the alleyway. He sucked in air, tasting the filth and garbage and Hollywood's dirty breeze. He pulled the smaller man
A long, twisted black string hung out of the corner her eye. It poked out of her tear duct, and as she watched, it wriggled like a worm, tickling her cheek. She cried out and stumbled back from her computer, tripping over her guitar, sending it flying with a musical crash. She tumbled and hit the back of her head on the floor. Bright, flashing lights sparkled at the corners of her vision.
She jumped to her feet and ran for the bathroom.
CHAPTER EIGHT
"You like rough trade?" Christian shouted over the music. The little balding guy adjusted his old-school horn rim glasses and licked his lips, eyeing Christian's chain belt and tight leather pants. Booming house beats pounded the air, while swirling gel-filtered lights flashed through the mind-numbing throb of the club. Strobe lights captured stuttering images of sweaty, naked flesh. Two hundred half-naked men, grinding and dry-humping on a dented steel dance floor the size of a large living-room. The smell of hot oil, sweat, and sex covered everything. Jacked-up pheromones baked off the twinks, twunks, bears and circuit boys, all of them working it on the floor.
The little guy nodded like his head was on a spring.
Christian leaned over to shout directly into his ear. "You like what you see?" The club turned the sound-system all the way up on the weekends, and Saturday night was the loudest and wildest. Christian ran one hand along his oiled abs, letting the pulsing lights of the club skate deliriously up and down the ridged muscle. He watched the other man's eyes following an oily drop of sweat as it traced a crooked line down Christian's stomach.
The other man nodded again, throat working as he swallowed convulsively. Christian grabbed him by the hand and dragged him toward the bathrooms. A programmed laser light show spelled out the club's name across the walls. Men stumbled out of the washrooms, shirts wet with sweat and pants soaked through with glittering oil and water.
Christian head learned a lot since coming to California. After the paranoiac horrors of the eighties and early nineties, the fast and easy style of West Hollywood gay life had returned with something approaching a holy fervor. He could hook up sometimes three or four times in one night, and be home in time to catch the late-late movies on cable. He never got tired of the noir classics: THE WOMAN IN THE WINDOW and NORA PRENTISS. Night after night he fell asleep to those great old stories of losers losing.
Once in the bathroom, Christian turned back to his mark. "You're a librarian, or a teacher, or something?" Christian said, already loosening his belt. "That's hot. Makes my cock hard." The guy wore a wedding ring, and Christian felt cold excitement bubble up in his chest. Odds were even whether or not the guy's wife even had a clue about her husband's double life. Most wives, deep down, sensed the repressed past and desire that drove men like this out to the clubs, and ignored it as best they could.
"Wait." The man put one dove-white hand on Christian's arm. "Please. Not like this."
Christian snorted. "Too late to back out now."
"I mean not here . Can we...can you...outside?" His glasses flashed in the cold white light of the bathroom.
Christian laughed. "No one cares in here, man. You want it, then this is it."
The man slid his hand lower, gripping Christian with surprising strength. "I'll be good," he whispered. "So good. I promise." He moaned when Christian grabbed him by the throat, and Christian smiled approvingly.
"OK. You'd better be." He shook him by his neck. "Now move."
They pushed through the throbbing crowd. The bouncer, a big black power top named Ramage, gave them a curt and knowing tilt of the head toward a security door. Christian shouldered his way through it, into the deafening silence of the alleyway. He sucked in air, tasting the filth and garbage and Hollywood's dirty breeze. He pulled the smaller man
Similar Books
