THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB John
By Lady Poetess (Copyright Lady Poetess)
Disclaimer This story is fictitious and bears no resemblance to anyone apart from names and appearances. This is a fan-fiction, not a speculative or slanderous piece designed to make any inferences on one's sexual preferences, personality, or history.
ONE
John Cusack was a photographer. He had an eye for beautiful things. Hence, he knew he had struck gold the moment he saw the sports gear salesman walked up to him. The salesman was young, very young, and John put him around twenty-one at most. He had a square face with clear brown eyes and strong clear facial bones that didn't do anything to hide what the man was feeling. John watched, bedazzled, as emotions such as boredom, ennui, and indifference flitted across the man's face like ripples in a pond.
He made a negligent perusal of other obligatory factors -- the man was slim but the white shirt he wore mould to a frame that suggested a well-muscled form. Physical beauty had long ceased to fascinate John, and hence, he really paid little attention to the way the dark trousers cling to the man's well-muscled thighs and the silently graceful way the man moved.
Okay, so he couldn't help noticing.
"Hi. Can I help you, mister?"
John smiled -- not every day someone called him Mister. Usually it was just John. He glanced at the name tag attached to the man's right side of the chest. Michael V Owen. Bennie always were anal about his employees' dress code. "Actually I was thinking of getting a new pair of shoes. Are you new here? I detect some British accent from your voice."
At once the man was wary. The coldness in those eyes and the way the nostrils flared were impressively expressive. "Yeah, and what sort of shoes do you want?"
"Say, will you be my model?" John asked, reaching for his card in his shirt pocket. "You have just the perfect look. I'm doing a coffee table photo book about --"
"No."
"Huh?" John pulled out his card with some difficulty. "Oh, you think I'm one of those pimps? No, see? I have a studio, the address is here. It's a good and expensive part of NY, I assure you, and the rent is a bomb. I've also credentials, good ones. See?" He flipped the card over and showed the list of his publications. It was something he'd learned to put on his business cards to actually get people to listen to him. He knew he looked boyish, too boyish, to look like anything but a lecherous pimp to some people. "I'll even pay you."
"No."
At that moment Bennie Tulto stormed out from his office. "Johnny! You didn't tell me you're back from England!"
John deftly escaped the large bear of a man's bone-crushing hug. "Bennie darling. I just came back and thought of getting some new pumps. I've met Michael here."
"Mikey? He's my cousin from Liverpool. Great smart boy, aren't you Mikey?" Bennie thumped Mikey's back jovially. "His parents got killed in some accident a few months ago, and now I'm taking care of him."
"Actually, I'd love to have Mikey be the star of my new book," John said.
Bennie blinked, than grinned widely. "Mikey, you hear that?"
"Sure," Mikey mumbled, looking more uncomfortable than ever, a dark red flush creeping up his neck.
"So when do you want him?"
Mikey looked up from his staring at his shoes. "Uncle, you think I should go with him?"
"Why not? Unlike some fake buggers, John's a world-class pro. Always say you're too smart and cute to be a salesman, even if I'm willing to leave you my store when I retire. John would make you a great star. You'll get to meet fashion people, and maybe even be a supermodel!" Bennie's eyes actually lit up in avarice at the thought of the money rolling in.
John noticed that Mikey looked as if he was about to be devoured by sharks. He took pity on the poor man. "Look, here, keep my card. Think about it, and maybe give me a call."
Two weeks later, John was prepared to jump off a bridge. He placed his forehead at the table and emitted a frustrated curse. "I'll never find a right guy to star in my book," he said.
Antonio Sabato, Jr, once deemed the most handsome man on Earth before an accident that scarred his face, sat on the table and folded his arms. "Can't be that bad, John. You have forty-eight candidates after today's interview." As was his habit, he rubbed his hand over the large gash across his left check as he thought. "This one is perfect," he said, pointing at the photograph of a beautifully blond boy.
"You always have a bland taste for blond twinks," John said in disgust. He pushed the photo away, not caring where it landed. "He lacks the… something," he said. He didn't know what that something was, but he knew every one of the forty-eight men today wasn't the right one.
He wanted Mikey Owen. But that man hadn't called.
Damn. John rubbed his face wearily and cursed again.
"It's not that bad. Come on, I'll buy you lunch," Antonio said consolingly.
Michael Owen paced nervously outside the studio. He could hear people talking inside, and somehow he had lost all his nerve to open the door and walk in. He pulled the jacket closer around him, and swallowing heavily, he made to knock on the door.
At that moment, the door opened, and a scarred but still devilishly handsome man and the man -- John? -- stood there face to face with him.
"You're late for the audition," the scarred man said.
"No, he's not!" John said, his face lightening up. "Tony, meet Mikey. He's the right guy. You're here to accept my offer, right? (Say no and I'll kill you.) Come in."
The scarred man was more handsome and oozed sexual charm than John. Yet Mikey found his attention focusing only on John, who looked so boyish he could pass off as 18. John lacked the other man's musculature, height, or even charisma, yet Mikey found himself warming up to this man. He found himself in a wide, empty room apart from a desk and some chairs. The scarred man -- Tony -- sat on one, but John sat on the table instead.
"Well?" Tony said, somewhat coldly, as he folded his arms and studied Mikey. "You going to stand there all day?"
"What am I supposed to do?" He winced at his question -- it sounded stupid even to his ears.
"Do whatever you want," John answered. He too studied Mikey.
Mikey's eyes narrowed in irritation.
"Perfect," Tony declared.
"Told you so!" John broke into a grin and gave Tony a high-five.
Mikey wondered if he had just stumbled into the twilight zone.
TWO
Mikey realized how much he loved seeing John smile. A week later, he was still reeling from the dazzle of the man's smile. It was amazing how the generous tilt of the man's lips, and the way he cocked his head towards Mikey, could make the world seemed so bright at the moment. Too bright.
He watched John adjust the tripod camera. John looked like a cartoon character, if truth be told. He wouldn't stop talking or moving, and Mikey didn't know what to make of him. John wanted Mikey, valued Mikey for his beauty, which was nothing new really. Mikey knew without vanity that people found him beautiful. Yet John didn't want sex from him, and that he found puzzling.
He had seen even his uncle Bennie look at him hungrily when Bennie thought Mikey wasn't looking. And his own father had no qualms in using him for pleasure.
He wondered what John would think if he knew Mikey wasn't always that clean or innocent.
And he wondered why he even cared what John think.
Maybe, maybe, he thought as he looked down at New York City 72 stories below from the City Spire rooftop they were on, maybe John was different from every man he knew. That thought warmed him, as much as it irritated him.
He looked down at the bustle of traffic below, digging his clenched fists into his jacket pockets. At that moment there was a flash.
"Perfect," John said. "Just perfect."
Mikey hated that word. The men who used him always called him that, perfect. They praised his perfect body, his perfect face, his slim body, and his cock that could perform whenever they wanted him, wherever they wanted him. But from John, ah, that was different. It was different to hear a praise in a non-sexual way. Mikey didn't know what to think or react to that.
"I want to go walking down the streets," he said.
"Sure, no problem."
It was a nightly routine. John had wanted to capture nightlife through the eyes of a stranger, a stranger who dared to do things. Mikey was given free rein to go anywhere, do anything, and John and his camera were always close behind. Mikey had joined three young men for a game of poker right there, on the divider that separated the highway. He had allowed himself to be solicited by whores of both sexes as well as drug pushers, although he never once took up their offers. Dancing in clubs, flirting with strangers, or just standing in a place, all captured on film in various moments John thought worth capturing.
Now, as they stood on the rooftop, Mikey looked at the man who thought he was beautiful.
Mikey calmly unzipped his jacket.
"What are you doing?" he heard John say.
He shrugged and unbuttoned the first five buttons of his shirt, slowly, one by one.
John had straightened from behind the camera and staring at the bare flesh exposed in an expression of a man slowly getting seduced despite himself. Mikey turned his back to John and shrugged off his jacket and shirt, letting the cold night air run over his chest.
He saw the flash of a camera. He shut his eyes then, and stood on the precipice of the ledge.
He felt rather than heard John's approach. When John's hands touched his bare shoulder, he burned. Heat seared his senses, and he gasped. He didn't question it, this almost uncontrollable lust that swept through him. When John pulled him down the ledge, when the man's mouth met his, Mikey responded, letting John's tongue into his mouth even as his hands encircled John's shoulders. Deftly with practiced fingers he let his fingers roam, easily unbuttoning John's white shirt and slipping it down the man's arms.
John was like all the rest, his jaded senses told him. But he didn't care. Not when they lay on the ground, their limbs entangled even as their tongues met and danced in a rhythm similar to that of their hips grinding against each other's. "Let me, let me," Mikey murmured, unzipping John.
"Oh yes," John murmured, when Mikey held him gently. He looked down, dazed, at the sight of his cock positioned at the entrance of Mikey's anus. Then warm, wet heat enveloped his shaft, the friction of tight, tight flesh against him making him cry out in pleasure. Oh God, the feel of the sensitive ridge of his cock crown rubbing abrasively at the sensitive muscles of Mikey's anal walls was enough to make him surge his hips up hard. He felt the tight walls give in a slight tearing sound, felt the warm blood trickle down his cock to pool at his pubic bush and down his balls. "Oh, Mikey," he murmured. "You should've told me."
"I should have," Mikey agreed. He gritted his teeth in pain, however.
John felt something break in him at the sight of this fragile-looking beauty in pain. His cock had other ideas, however, and he couldn't help thrusting his hips up once more, this time spearing up deeper until Mikey gave a gasp of pleasure at the intrusion. "Hold tight," he told Mikey, then placing his elbows as support on the ground, he began bucking upwards in short, stabbing thrusts.
Mikey screamed, he actually did. The pleasure of being taken was unbearably painful yet divine. His fingers clenched into John's back and shoulders, bruising the man, and he ground his anus hard in circular motions at John's thrusting groin, wanting it, wanting to feel the elusive climax that would make him forget. Then John was throwing his head back, teeth gritted, his body thrusting up so hard that he almost threw Mikey off. Mikey felt it then, the warm, steady spurts of creamy semen gushing up his anus with each pulsing throb of John's cock. He gave a cry of exhilaration at that feeling -- it was heedy, triumphant, to have this man adoring him in the most intimate way possible.
He more than repaid what John gave him when he took John afterwards, his own climax searing them both into their own private paradise.
THREE
"You're so beautiful. Innocent," John murmured as he kissed Mikey's shoulders. "I feel so guilty for corrupting you."
Mikey froze in the man's embrace. Three days now, three days since their first coupling, and John lavished devotion onto him with an intensity that terrified him as much as it pleased him. After all, his own dead father once treated him like that too, as long as he blew the man and then fuck that old man hard like the way they always liked. John was nothing more than another dirty pervert with a taste for illusionary innocence. Didn't Mikey prove that? John was so easily seduced.
Yet John was different. The man didn't demand adoration as much as he lavished it, and that was breaking Mikey into pieces.
John, who let old people have his seat in subway trains, who acted the clown all the time. And who thought Mikey an innocent because he had let John pop his cherry. And he had no idea how to tell John otherwise, that his own father taught him how to fuck, how he blew his teachers to pass his exams, and how he dicked the soccer coach after each game in high school and college. He had hated these man with vehemence, and he was terrified of hating John the same way too.
He raised his body, resting on his left side and lifting his right leg up to his shoulder. He felt John's cock prod at the tight ring of muscles of his anal entrance, then in. He shut his eyes then at the pleasure, not only from the rhythmic fucking, but also from the way John held him close, so close that he fancied he could hear their heartbeats.
He felt loved in John's arms, and he wanted more. And that was the most terrifying thing of all.
The book was almost finished. John paused and looked at the photos pinned haphazardly across the walls of his study. Everything Markie. Markie looking melancholic on the rooftop, Markie laughing as he turned a woman in his arms as they danced, Markie Markie Markie everywhere.
He made a career out of making people beautiful, no matter how physically unattractive they may be by society's standards. Beauty had no meaning for John, not when he could see beauty in anything. But Markie, Markie was enchanting, a mix of innocence, vulnerability, and defiance at some unknown fate that he made John mad for him.
"John?" he heard Markie say.
He turned and his breath caught. Markie came in wearing only the skimpy bikini briefs he favored, the U of the front low, and the tight blue pouch hugging every contour of maleness almost indecently. The thin red trail of hair from Mikey's navel, that run down the muscular stomach to thicken into the thick, curly red bush that John now knew very well, spread into the start of a triangular delta millimeters from the low waistband.
For the first time in his life, John Cusack was struck by beauty.
And when Mikey looked at him, the gamut of emotions displayed clearly on his face, John felt a vague, dull pain in his heart. He looked at his rough, callused hands, and then at Mikey's pale, ethereal beauty, and cursed. He was ten years older than Mikey, he looked like a thin version of Elmer Fudd -- how the hell would he compete when Mikey's attention turn to another man, a younger and more good-looking man?
He never felt so unworthy and dull as he had that moment.
"Mikey? What is it?" He tried hard to infuse some cheer in his voice. He failed.
"I have a confession to make." Mikey swallowed. "And I won't blame you if you turn away from me in disgust afterwards."
"I won't," John said.
He didn't. Mikey told him everything, and it was anticlimactic the way John just sighed and told him, "But what's this about your father sexually abusing you have to do with us?"
But Mikey noticed how the man's fists clenched until they almost drew blood. He didn't say anything about that. "Can I move in with you?" he said instead.
EPILOGUE
Bennie was pleased to see Mikey go. "Always knew he would be good for you!" he told Mikey.
Mikey always intended to leave the following Monday, and John always agreed that Mikey should. But on Sunday, when Mikey would wake up to the feel of John's arms around his, holding him as if Mikey was the most precious thing ever and that he was afraid Mikey would fly away, and Mikey realized he didn't mind the warm breaths that was John's snores on his nape as they lay on the bed, Mikey's back to John's front. Mikey also didn't mind John's eccentric inability to sleep unless he was deep up Mikey's ass, where his penis would then harden in time for an early morning fuck, which usually took place even before they were fully awake,
No, he didn't mind.
He also didn't mind the way John made him laugh, or the off-key ballet tunes John would hum each morning as he shaved.
"Am I in love?" he asked his new friend Ryan.
"You don't want to know."
Mikey thought that made sense, so he always stayed.