THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB Ethan
By Lady Poetess. Copyright 1999.
Feel free to reproduce and distribute as long as you leave the credits and the author's note below intact. If you somehow make money out of this, well, good for you but please send some to me at egiggles@moose-mail.com!
Author's note:
This is actually a part of an ongoing fantasy fan-fiction about a fictional group of friends in New York whose weekly poker games form the basis of their story of finding love and laughter. These friends are - under inexplicable circumstances! - dead ringers from some music and movie celebrities, obscure or well known, that I find worth a write or two. The men and their lives depicted here have nothing in common with the real people they are based on apart from their appearances and names. I am not speculating on their sexual orientation or personal past. Again, everything is strictly fictional, apart from the character's good looks. Suing me is a waste of time, as frankly, to be blunt, I'm penniless.
PROLOGUE
He cursed when his fingers lost their hold on the plastic bottle. The bottle fell to the floor with a soft thud that was earth shattering in the silence of the apartment at 3 a.m., and pills scattered across the vomit-stained tiles.
Ethan Hawke gasped, felling on all fours, groping for at least a few before they fell out of his reach. He popped two into his mouth, feeling the bitter fizz on his throat, and placed his forehead on the floor.
"This has to stop," he told himself, his voice a weak murmur. "No more, no more," he repeated like a silent mantra. "No more."
The ghosts were more persistent than usual tonight, drawing him deeper into the abyss than he could ever draw away on his own. He didn't know how long he lay there, watching blood trickle from the shallow cut on his right wrist, until he felt the water from the bathtub overflowing onto his comatose body. Funny, every night he would try to get out when the madness came, but every night too would he bungle it. Shakily he staggered to his feet, using his left arm for support on the basin, and looked at his bloodstained, vomit-stained face. His hair plastered onto his forehead and sides of his normally devil-may-care face.
"I look like shit," he stated, somewhat glad he was still in control of his faculties at least.
It was then he remembered the card in his breast pocket - he groped and pulled out a crumpled card. "Dr Matthew Broderick," he read the name. "Like it or not, Doc, you just got yourself a new client."
Perhaps they were right - he owed it to himself to stop. He wanted to be normal.
ONE
Doctor Matthew Broderick was a nice man. There was no other man more suited to his job as a paid listener. He had the mild-mannered, boyish handsome face that people found pleasant but not sexually attractive (and hence threatening), and his tenor, boyish voice had only mastered the subtle manipulation of his clients' emotions and thought processes he had started learning in his boyish years.
Not that he ever abused his clients. He just pressed a few gentle buttons to make some more stubborn clients open up, and they could all go home easy and having better peace of mind.
He tapped his pen at his right thigh as he frowned at this new client, an Ethan Hawke that his brother-in-law, the wastrel Irish brat Ronan, recommended him. Ethan Hawke was `a little bit psycho', Ronan had said, but Matt's sharp eye had picked out worst signs.
Ethan tried to hide them, but the long sleeves of his shirt sometimes fell back to reveal long pale and thin scars. And the man's brown eyes glittered with a fuck- you brightness that could only arise from defiant desperation. The man couldn't sit still, sometimes slouching, sometimes ramrod stiff, sometimes lying on the couch. And Ethan's fingers, those long, graceful fingers, played with everything within his reach, perhaps subconsciously. The man's fingers closed around a paperweight, in a slow sensual gesture, those fingertips caressing the smooth glass dome with the lyrical reverence of an ardent worshipper.
Matt, despite himself, found himself staring at the man's playing of the paperweight, a part of his long-dormant libido slowly stirring at the sight. He could just imagine those fingers curved around a gently-domed organ of his, rubbing in tender circular motion at the rounded tip, spreading the oozing moisture until Matt's penis was rock-hard, ready for Ethan. Ethan stretched, his already paper- thin white shirt stretching over his taut chest, and Matt felt heat rising on his face when he realized he was gazing at the taut nub of Ethan's left nipple through the silken fabric. Come to think of it, Matt could make out firm muscles on that torso, and was that a dark line of fur stretching along the line from Ethan's navel into the waistband of his jeans?
Matt crossed his legs over, wincing slightly at the uncomfortable erection now bulging obscenely from his slacks. Hell, he could get suspended from his practice if Ethan reported him.
"Aren't you going to ask me anything?" Ethan's voice jolted him from his reverie. "Life? Name?"
"I already have your personal details here." Matt smiled and looked at his notepad. "But we can start with you telling me what you want me to help you to do."
Ethan lay back on the couch and shut his eyes. "That'll be nice."
Damn, he couldn't get comfortable. Ethan fidgeted into a new position on the couch. "This couch is fucking uncomfortable," he grumbled.
"I'll see to getting a new one."
"You're not helping much, Doc. I mean, you're supposed to be my guiding light, that sort of thing on TV, right? How come you never offer any advice?" Ethan picked up a magazine - an outdated issue of Good Housekeeping. Fuck.
"Actually I'm not supposed to. A session is one where you figure out what you want and wish to do in your life, and then we'll outline ways to get there together. It's not my job to actually tell you what to do."
Damn, but Doc sure looked cute when he did that, Ethan thought. The man had dimples, dimples that only showed when he smiled. And Ethan found himself wanting to smile back at Doc. Oh, he recognized Doc's attempts to get him into talking about himself - he was a master at emotional manipulation himself. But Doc was good, Ethan had to hand it to the man. Doc made it so easy not to resist.
A part of him knew it was for the best he complied with Doc. But the devil in him couldn't help wanting to toy with this Doc. Ethan found - surprisingly - an almost violent scorch of lust the moment he walked into the room and saw Doc. But somehow he was aroused just looking at Doc's baby-faced handsomeness and the way gentle sensitivity oozed from the man like the most potent of charisma. In the past, Ethan preferred his lovers raw and fast and easy, well-built faceless men to be fumbled with in drunken haze, not Doc, who was clearly a man who tried to stay in shape but circumstances - schedules, motivations, genetic? - were slowly pulling him down. If Ethan were unkind he would call Doc fat. So he would, if he didn't felt ashamed and dirty sitting before this man whose blue-green eyes radiated nothing but tenderness.
Bloody hell. He would have to fuck Doc and get him out of his system.
Since he was about to fuck this man, he eyed Doc more critically than he would've had. Mentally he jotted down notes: boring fashion sense, needs loosening up, that ugly undershirt really had to go, et cetera. When Doc asked, "What's bothering you, Ethan?" he paused.
Logically he should explain the voices in his head, the pain, and the depression. But he didn't want Doc to see him that way, not now, perhaps not ever. His mind, which was quick when he wanted it to be, hit upon an idea. "Writer's block,' he said quickly. "I can't find anything to write."
Matt put his pen aside and frowned. Somewhere along the last fifteen minutes Ethan had started spinning a cock and bull story about writer's block and the man was showing no signs of stopping that ridiculous story. "Ethan," he said quietly, firmly cutting the man's ramblings. "We're just wasting time if you persist in keeping secrets from me. If you're uncomfortable with me, perhaps I can schedule you with someone else?"
"You got something better we can do, Doc?" Ethan grinned then, and Matt's breath caught at the boyish yet full-blown roguishness in full bloom in that sensual curving of lips. Ethan sat up, and the already indecently tight fabric around his muscular thighs stretched taut with the motion, emphasizing his thick crotch and well-filled jeans. "Come sit beside me Doc," Ethan said.
Matt saw it then in Ethan's eyes - and he didn't know whether to laugh or feel flattered. Ethan wanted him with an intensity that he found breathtaking. He, Matthew Broderick, nicest guy on the block, who had always done the looking and drooling, was lusted by this beautiful creature. Not that he was a stranger to clients forming crushes on him - in fact, he was adept at letting them down gently. But Ethan - Matt glanced at his watch, barely an hour had passed since Ethan stepped in - this man worked fast.
"Very well," he said, swallowing the knot of nervousness in his throat. "We'll stop here. You will make an appointment with Lisa when you feel ready to come back." He put his notebook on his desk.
"Hey, come on. I'm new at this. Maybe you can teach me how to carry out this sort of thing," Ethan said sulkily, but he got on his feet. "It's not even an hour."
"I don't wish to waste your time, not when you're not ready to open up," Matt said not unkindly. "I'm here when you feel like you really want to discuss your problems."
Ethan nodded, his expression inscrutable. But he did pause at the doorway and gave Matt a backward glance. "Coward, Doc." Then the man was gone.
TWO
Matt had long ago stopped dreaming. He was born to parents too busy enjoying the social whirl to appreciate their offspring. Hence young Matthew Broderick III was hoisted on his grandfather Patrick and the simple man raised the boy from the farmhouses of Arkansas. Matt had been told adventure stories, had reveled in his grandfather's WW2 stories, dreamed of being a spy himself.
When Patrick passed away from old age, Matthew found himself thrust back onto the not-exactly-welcoming arms of his parents. Patricia was kind enough in an aloof way, for she was a woman more in love with herself than anyone else, but her husband James had taught Matt the harsh reality that was parents' expectations. Matt was valedictorian, would have obtained a football scholarship did he not injure his knee, and collected enough trophies to line the three shelves in the Broderick mansion, but it was always never enough to please James.
No, Matt, had stopped dreaming, after he realized there were better things to do with life. He didn't miss dreams, but he never knew how much he envied those who dreamed until now.
He had surfed the art scene online, and had learned all about the eccentric, bizarre, and self-destructive playwright named Ethan Hawke. Ethan who shot to fame with a stark yet brilliant play about insanity - Twisted Fragments was a critical success that bagged almost every award it was nominated for and was accepted as one of the most accomplished plays of the 90's. Then there was nothing more from this man except for his increasingly wild antics that startled even the jaded palettes of the artistic crowd. The flagrant public brawls, the drunken violence, and the endless parade of men and boys in and out of his life were always titillating material for the bored and cynical, which explained Ethan's still-valid acceptability into their circles.
But Ethan dreamed. The man made good on his imagination to create a life he undoubtedly enjoyed. Lucky bastard. If Matt weren't such a nice guy he would hate Ethan. While Ethan lived the wild side, Matt had to content with boring boyfriends and lifeless routine. Damn Ethan for making Matt realize how dull his life was.
He missed James with an intensity he found alarming. Hence he actually felt relieved when he saw Ethan tapping at his window.
Ethan couldn't help it - he somehow had to be here. After leaving Doc's office he couldn't do anything or even think of anything except Doc and the warm fragrant talc Doc used. At least he wasn't thinking of walking in front of a bus, which was an improvement for which he'd reward Doc for generously. Instead he'd called up Ronan, demanding to know more about his brother-in-law, and Ronan's terse "Leave him alone, he's not your type" only piqued his hunting instincts. An ugly thought then reared in his mind - just what the hell was Doc to Ronan? Ethan couldn't stand the thought of Doc being under any man but him alone, and he had walked up and down the street until he decided the best thing to do was to confront Doc about Ronan.
It was easy to press Doc's address out of Ronan, easier still to convince Doc to open that window and let him in. He had a sad-faced pathetic look he wouldn't hesitate to use as a weapon and Doc fell for his "I need to talk, please?" line hook and sinker. Doc was going to get it big time.
He now scowled at the apartment he was in. Again, he made mental notes, a method he had learned from a therapist to stave off agitation that would drive him to hurt himself - he decided that Doc need some color in the wallpaper, and those silly sunny paintings had to go. And he hated those photographs of Doc with other men on the wall. One had a handsome, golden man with his arms around a younger, smiling Doc in a tropical setting, and Doc looked too happy with that only slightly handsome man. Another photo had a plain man's arm around Doc's shoulder as they showed off their catch. The man wasn't plain, but butt ugly actually. In fact, none of the men in the photos were worthy of Doc.
It was high time Doc got fucked by a man who looked good, and Ethan decided he would be that man.
Five men - five hands had imprinted themselves on Doc's body. Ethan could live with that, he could live with a million strangers' hands imprinted on Doc. He shouldn't complain, not when he couldn't keep track of the men who had used him. Maybe it was time he and Doc started anew.
A part of him screamed a warning that he was in dangerous waters here, for he was making long-term plans, something he had sworn never to do - ever. Yet he didn't care.
He sat there, dumbstruck, when Doc came out from the kitchen with two plates of juicy fried eggs and ham and two cups of the best-smelling coffee ever and offered some to him. "You're probably hungry," Doc said, and Ethan found that he was starving. He devoured the meal and decided that Doc's coffee, fresh from a jar of Nescafe, was better than any overpriced bistro's. Feeling the warmth of his meal settling in his stomach, he sat back on the comfortable seat and allowed his feet to warm by the smooth texture of the rug.
Strange, but he felt something missing in his soul when he looked at Doc's face. And his heart stopped when he realized he was missing the cold. He was actually content.
And when Doc cocked his head and said, "Talk?" Ethan didn't bother to fight it anymore. He talked.
Matthew sat back and watched Ethan sleep. He had long given up the intention to call up that moron Ronan Keating and fire that asshole for letting out his address, and he had long changed his mind about calling the police. Not when he would rather watch this man sleep.
He pulled the warm blanket over the man. Ethan mumbled something and snuggled deeper into the sheets, all the while his partially unbuttoned shirt slipped further to reveal the tanned expanse of muscular chest. Matt couldn't resist - he let his fingers glide across the heated skin, letting the thin layer of sweat pool under his fingers. Now that he knew Ethan's story, he should have lost that romantic dark tormented hero image he had for Ethan. Yet, he only felt more drawn to this man. Ethan's precarious walk between sanity and insanity was straight out of a Kafka novel, and the dreamer in Matt wanted so badly to heal and comfort this man. And Ethan was so good at being in need of comfort.
Ethan dreamed of the day he killed his father. Strange, but he could recall his mother's weak protests, and the woman's one show of defiance to her drunkard husband would cost her dearly. Brad Hawke, still blood-crazed from too much drink and finding his fifteen-year old son sleeping with the boy down the street, beat her bloody with a crowbar. Ethan, still sporting from one eye so bloody he couldn't see straight, had somehow managed to pick up the umbrella with his broken wrists and plunged it right into his father's back. Through bones and tearing flesh, but it was too late. Carol Hawke died from concussions along with her husband, and Ethan found himself in juvenile court.
He couldn't save his mother, and he couldn't save his soul.
He whimpered as memories of his hellish days in orphanages seared his dreams, memories long buried and now resurfaced.
"Ssh!" he heard Doc whisper, and he clung to that like a lodestone. He felt Doc's hand on his fevered skin, and that allowed him to break free of his demons.
He loosened his grip on Doc's shoulder when his breathing steadied. "That's a nefarious trick you played on me, Doc," he said shakily, his hands reaching for his pockets.
"Your pockets are empty, I'm afraid." Matt looked shamefaced. "Your pills are now halfway down the sewer pipes."
Ethan laughed unsteadily. He didn't know what else to do. Already he was feeling the imminent demons, and with that was a fatal desperation that he would be strong somehow not to break down in front of Doc. Not Doc, anyone else but Doc. He looked down at his hands and saw the start of trembling spells he knew know as the start of his attacks. "Doc, please," he pleaded.
He felt himself being raised to his feet. Doc's warm hands comforted him like the warmest of suns, on his back and on his hip, and Ethan staggered blindly under Doc's guidance. Only when he felt warm water hit him that he realized Doc had stripped him and placed him under what seemed like heaven.
Where he once saw darkness, he now felt lighter than he ever had for days. His hands still trembled, as did his legs, but they were now weak because of a strange new feeling flooding his senses - euphoria, the sweetest of drugs. The laughter he heard was his own, much to his surprise, and he realized he bloody well liked the way he laughed. This was good. Doc was good.
Doc. Ethan turned and saw the man standing almost nervously at the shower stall door. The man was soaked, the white shirt clinging to him like a second skin, and Ethan felt his cock rise at the sight. "Doc, maybe it's time you get your reward for taking care of me so nicely."
THREE
Doc didn't know what hit him. Ethan wouldn't let the man off that easy. He kissed the man hard, bruising their lips to bleeding, as he pulled Doc on him. Then Doc answered him with his own deepening kiss, and Ethan groaned, allowing the man purchase to his mouth, throat, anywhere Doc's tongue and mouth wanted to taste and explore. He arched his throat as Doc nibbled on his Adam's apple, his hands deftly stripping Doc's wet shirt off the man's back.
"The trousers," he said when Doc's mouth latched on his nipples, feasting voraciously.
"Oh yeah," Doc said, and stood straighter to let Ethan's fingers hook into his waistband.
There wasn't time for anything else. Matt climbed on Ethan, and the latter fell onto the wall, hands gripping the towel bars for support, and then Matt's anus spread wide as he felt Ethan's cock pierce him slowly. Ethan thrust up suddenly, hard and savagely, and Matt could only hold on to Ethan's shoulders as the man drove into him furiously.
"Hold that pose." Ethan stood at the doorway, letting the dim moonlight dance on his naked body as he surveyed Matt on the bed. "Oh yes, simply lovely." He meant it, Matt's gently curved belly and unmuscular body and all - Ethan didn't care; Doc was the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life. "Spread your legs a little."
"Like this?" Feeling more sexy and daring than he ever had been, Matt arched his back slightly so that his buttocks left the bed and spread his thighs.
"Hmm mmm. Is that my come seeping out of your thighs, Doc?" Ethan reached down and slowly massaged the tip of his rock-hard cock with his right thumb.
"I think it is." Matt felt great, which was probably why he let his finger slowly up his own anus, something he'd never done before. And he raised the stained finger to his lips and sucked it. "Tastes great too."
"Then I'd best take a sip too," Ethan said, grinning wolfishly.
Matt watched, stunned, when Ethan straddled him and actually lowered his mouth to the mess between Matt's thighs. Then Ethan's tongue snaked into the heated anal chamber of his, and Matt yelped in surprise-pleasure. "Oh my God!" he gasped, convulsing when he felt Ethan's suction and lapping deep up his male cunt, the rough abrasion and warm saliva burning the now-tender, freshly cock-ravaged muscles of his anus. He gulped, and then his eyes opened when he smelled Ethan's pungent cock scent and felt the thick hot cock against his right cheek. He didn't hesitate, he licked at the wide purplish head, tasting the seeping pre-seminal juices, then he swallowed it as deep as he could. The mouth at his ass was better than good, it was pure evil as it probed and tantalized, and Matt, desperate for leverage, sucked hard at the cock in his mouth, plunging his mouth up and down the heavily veined shaft. He didn't even notice or pause when Ethan jerked and his cock burst, spilling his salty fluids down Matt's eager throat, not even the third time Ethan ejaculated into his mouth.
FOUR
Ethan yawned and cursed at the sunlight streaming into his room. He rolled over to reached for something - someone? - at his side. It was then he remembered last night and woke up fully. Doc, great, wonderful Doc. Where was he? Probably now hiding in his office, feeling guilty over the way they had messed up the professional boundaries, Ethan decided. Well, he would just have to get up and tell Doc it was okay. Ethan still respected him in the morning, so could they get back in bed and fuck some more?
Ethan let himself enjoy the warm bed a moment longer before he reluctantly set off in search for Doc.
"You can't do this to me!" Ethan yelled, pounding at the door. "Fuck, you can't do this to me, you hear that! Open up this fucking door."
Doc was afraid. He should be. Ethan's fists clenched in his pockets. "Why, Doc?" he rasped. "Why?"
"I just think it's a good idea," Doc said. "I think there are better shrinks to handle your problems. Dr Jenssen has wide experience-"
"Fuck Dr Jenssen! I'm talking about us, Doc. You and me."
"There's no `us'. Last night's a mistake."
Ethan staggered at the pain in his heart. Why? Doc just used the line he himself used a million times before. But somehow stupid he had believed Doc would be different, that once Doc knew of his secrets Doc wouldn't turn away in disgust. And turned away in disgust Doc had.
And Ethan couldn't bear it.
He surprised himself, but then again, he had nothing more to lose. He went on his knees, right before Doc. "Please don't send me away," he whispered. "I can't live without you."
"Ethan." Doc actually said a foul word in his exasperation. "Ethan. I need time to think. You and I are so different."
The word `different' was a blade through Ethan's hope. "Very well," he said lifelessly, rising to his feet. "Thanks for the fuck, Doc. Thank you." With that, he walked out of the door, never looking back.
There were fools and there were the morons. Matt decided that he was the most moronic of them all. That was the only reason he could think of for his driving Ethan away - with a note, of all things! He was a cowardly moron.
Yet he had stayed awake until dawn that night, watching Ethan sleep beside him. He was never more aware of the differences between them than at that moment, when he looked into the mirror. And what he saw was a dull, staid, out- of-shape man who lacked the color and vibrancy Ethan undoubtedly demanded from his lovers. Could he survive that - he faithfully clinging to Ethan as that man tired of him eventually, until one day Matt turned around and Ethan was gone?
Ethan was a fantasy, an attractive romantic epitome of the tormented hero, upon which Matt had channeled his latent yearnings of a life more exciting. That was why he allowed himself to sleep with Ethan - right? Truth was, he was also afraid of being hurt. That was the real reason he drove Ethan away.
He had to find Ethan and explain. But Ethan couldn't be found, and the address he left with Matt's receptionist was empty. He had called Ronan, in desperation, but that address too led to an empty pad. Ethan was unstable, and Matt knew he would probably never forgive himself if Ethan did something foolish like putting a gun to his head.
At that moment his doorbell rang.
Matt's brows raised. "Ronan, what are you - oomph!"
Ronan's well-aimed punch knocked him to the floor.
He couldn't do it. Ethan dropped the 35-mm onto the floor and slumped against the wall. Fucking useless fag, his father always called him, and now he felt the weight of the truth in that statement.
Fucking useless fag. How right. Doc turned away from him, just like the others when they learned of his true self. When he would ever learn? Why the fuck did he ever dare think otherwise?
Doc was just like the others. Good riddance - Ethan needed no one. Never had.
He sighed raggedly, placing his forehead on the cold marble floor. For a blissful moment, he had learned the meaning of tranquility. He was actually at peace, and with Doc he had felt emotions he thought only possible after a coke high. What else had he to live for now that he had known bliss and lost it?
Fucking useless fag.
"No," he said shakily at the laughter in his head. "No, no, no!"
Who could ever want a man like him? Pathetic, insane, murderer.
"Please stop," he choked, slamming his forehead on the floor again and again. "No more, please."
He didn't feel the pain or the blood. His breathing slowed. And his last coherent thought amidst the cacophony in his head was that at least the laughter had stopped.
"Ethan?"
Ethan wanted to answer. But he was dreaming, he was sure of it. Someone had enclosed him in warm sheets and there was a pleasant burn of iodine on that wound on his head. And he thought he heard Doc's voice.
"Ethan? Can you ever forgive me?"
Doc sounded tired. What the hell, Ethan thought. He wanted to tell that man it was okay, everything was okay now that Doc was here. He could die now. He couldn't work his lips, however, so instead he surrendered into dreamless oblivion.
EPILOGUE
Okay, this is probably the last time I am writing in this stupid journal they insist I keep. Fuck this sissy journal nonsense, I have better things to do, and if any of you brainless members of the Depression Recovery board read this, you'd do well to take my advice to trash this fucked-up waste of time and brainpower.
Since I don't intend to write anymore, I guess I owe it to you guys to sum up how I feel about my life at the moment. Sure, you can say my relationship with Doc isn't healthy. I need him as a father figure, a lover, and a comforter, not easy tasks for Doc since I know I'm the hardest bastard to live with. But then again, I know Doc has high standards for me too. I'm his dream made life, you know? It's my job to keep his life interesting.
The silly man still harbors some fear that I would find him dull and walk out one day. For a brainy man, Doc can have shit for brains. I'm still finding a non- maudlin way to tell him that I don't care about excitement - anymore. What Doc offers me is greater than fancy fucks, you know? I'm still working on his insecurity issues (imagine, me, telling Doc not to fucking stupid!), but that man is nuts about me. That's a good thing because I can't tell him no in anything - it levels the playing fields a lot more pleasantly.
I'm also working on a play, although it's less twisted than my first. I don't know or care how it will be received, but it's still twisted enough. Doc saw a draft and thought it was bloody sick, so I'm on the right track. It's okay - I've accepted that a part of me will always be twisted and deranged. The key is keeping it under control, like you guys said. Yeah, you were right once. That's it. Just once.
It's fucking weird - I look into the mirror every morning when I shave and I can swear there's another person looking back at me. A man with eyes that are still wracked with insanity waiting to break free, but I can swear it's a different me. I don't know if I really know myself anymore, but what the fuck. I don't care. It doesn't matter - I am content, and to me, that's all that matters in this fucked-up sideshow we call life.
EH , 7/14/99