Just Like Rock n Roll Written: August 21, 2004 I'm not even trying to justify it. This is one of my favorites. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ How you moved is all it takes To sing a song of when I loved The prettiest star 20th century boy I wanna be your toy (Somewhere in London, 1973. 2:00am.) ----------------------- Stars, he thinks. Tonight I want the stars. He can see them in everything, in the corners of his vision, always vanishing before he can focus. Garlands of tiny, twinkling bulbs strung across the ceiling. Guttering candle flames; mirrors scattered across the table. Glitter of wine glasses and razor blades; swirls of shifting color behind his eyelids. He blinks against a fresh curl of smoke and looks out, sprawled and restless on the velvet sofa. His blood is thick with any number of things, heavy and dark, and he stretches against the cushions to feel it tingle and purr in his veins. He wants. The club outside is moving, tight and throbbing with life; bodies and motion, sound and vision, a muted panorama on the other side of one-way glass. He watches them rise, dancing on the edge of the oblivion he created – dancing to the music that is his life, singing his words and wearing his clothing and making the air thick with the force of their lust. The world before him, dancing for his pleasure. Not enough, not tonight. Tonight, he wants-- There. A snap into focus, a coalescing of vague want into sudden clarity. Into a boy, dancing beneath a pulse of light, glowing in relief against the shapes around him. Head thrown back, hair in wet strings on his neck, eyes closed and mouth open, pale blue in the haze. He’s got his arm around someone, can’t see who, doesn’t matter, pinning them close, crotch against arse and muscles clenching in perfect rhythm. Naked skin wet with sweat, dust of glitter over a smooth chest, twinkling across sloping collarbones, perfect throat. The boy’s head drops, tongue creeps out to wet his parted lips, black-ringed eyes opening sharp and bright through the haze and straight into the eyes that watch him from behind the mirror. For a moment there is only blue and blue and blue, and then the music flares and the boy turns and moves and sparkles in the pulse. Stars, he thinks. His hand slides across his belly and over the tight heat of his crotch, slick satin beneath his palm, half-hard and thick against his fingers. He watches the boy until he forgets to blink, while the bottle of wine goes warm on the table and the shapes in the shadows around him fade into their own irrelevant corners of pursuit. His fingers make small sounds as they shift and squeeze. His eyes are full of blue and white. “Can I get you anything, sir?” He blinks, confused. He knows the face that looks back at him, but can’t spare the effort to remember the name. “What?” “Would you like anything, sir? Some more wine, perhaps another round or...?” A gesture to the scattered remnants on the table and a nod to the crowd outside. Then silent waiting. He shakes his head to scatter the weight from his thoughts. He wanted… yes. “Yeah, another round. Just leave the rest. Tell Jackie to keep everyone out of here, right? And bring me...” He can see out again, through the glass, to white arms and wet skin in the center of the writhing crowd. “Bring me that one,” he says. The valet turns his head to follow the gaze. “The one with the blue in his hair, sir?” He nods, eyes half-lidded, hand flat against his belly. “The one with the stars in his skin.” The valet puts the two empty bottles on his tray and nods. “Right away, Mr. Bowie.” ------------------------------ It’s too warm in the tiny lounge and he is thirsty. He tosses back the contents of his glass quickly and bends down to the table, stubbing out his fag. He squints in the dark, fingers white against the tabletop and dark against the drifts of powder he scrapes into a line with the deftness of practice rather than sobriety. Face bent low, one smooth stroke and his eyes fall shut as he shudders. He puts his hands on the table and lets out a shivering breath. A shadow drops across his face. He lets the first wave ride through him before he opens his eyes. The boy isn’t as pale as he seemed. He glows soft and blurry in the dim shadows of the lounge, the tiny lights twinkling off the sparkles in his skin. He stands inches away, motionless, hands at his sides. He says nothing. The varnish on his nails is chipped and peeling. There are smudged palm prints on the purple leather of his trousers. “What’s your name?” His hand rests on his knee, knuckles outward. The boy’s thigh is millimeters away; he can feel the heat of a night’s dancing against the back of his hand. “Dom.” He smiles. “Dom.” Yes. He leans back against the couch, leaves his hand on one of his spread knees. “I’m David, Dom.” “I know who you are.” The boy’s voice is even, no sign of nervousness. His thigh brushes against David’s fingers. The leather of his trousers is worn and slick against the back of David’s knuckles. His knuckles trace lightly in a slow, easy pattern. “I was watching you dance.” He’s closer, somehow, looming above him, and David’s knee is between his thighs. Dom’s eyes are lined in smudged black kohl. They do not move. “Did you like what you saw?” David smiles. His high is smoothing out in a pleasant rush, his cock full and snug against his trousers. He slides his knuckles up a bit further and the boy’s lips part slowly. A tiny nudge and the thigh opens out a fraction. The boy draws in a breath and his spangled chest shimmers with the movement. David draws another slow circle, a little longer, a little higher, barely touching, and watches a shiver run down Dom’s back, gooseflesh across his belly and nipples going small and hard. The music outside has changed; howling vocals and frantic riffs drop to a low crooning and a slower rhythm that crawls into every corner and fills every space with heavy, pulsing sound. The boy is swaying slightly, as if unable to fully stop his body from flowing with the music. David can see the want in him, tense and coiling and resonating through every pore. He’s already vibrating with it. David licks his lips and listens to him breathe. “Would you like to dance for me, Dom?” The vocals swell, loud even on the other side of the glass partition, and if the boy makes a sound it’s lost in the shaking echoes. His eyes have closed, his head tilting back as his hand slides up his belly and closes into a fist against his skin. His other hand dangles behind him, keeping him balanced, as his knees bend enough to let his hips drop for a single, sinuous rotation. He straightens, bends back over the curve of the music, throat pale in the light and another slow rocking of his hips. His hand dips down, down, snaking beneath the waist of his trousers until David can see the first shadows of dark hair. David’s palm opens flat, five dents against skin-tight leather, before reaching round to cup the boy’s thigh and pull. Dom moves forward in a smooth surge, straddling David’s thighs as easily as David’s hands skim across his back and draw him in. Dom grinds down immediately, his erection already straining in his tight purple trousers, his hips picking up the beat and matching it effortlessly. David’s lip curls and he draws in a breath, but he settles his hips and watches Dom move above him. His eyes are moving behind their lids, the pulse in his neck pounding as fast as David’s own, and David wonders what cocktails might be fizzing inside his veins. He drops his hands to the boy’s belly and feels the muscles moving there, rolling beneath slick skin, before he flicks his fingers and pops open the top two buttons. Dom’s eyes open. He moves his hands off the velvet cushions, trails them along David’s thighs as he straightens and bends back, rolling his hips up, spine curling like a serpent to the swaying pound of the music. His head tips back at the first touch of David’s fingers on his fly. When David pops the last button draws his cock out straight and hard against his belly, Dom’s mouth falls open and his hips jerk once in their ceaseless movement. The glitter on his skin shines bright with fresh drops of sweat. David smiles. The boy was beautiful on the dance floor; up close he makes David’s balls ache with undiluted lust. He presses the heel of one hand against the pressure and pushes down, hard. The other he wraps around the boy’s cock, and squeezes with the next swell of music. He feels the moan more than he hears it. “Move for me,” he whispers. He strokes Dom in perfect time with the music, shifting against the increasing undulation of his hips. The boy’s cock is slippery with sweat and whatever oil he’d smeared that glitter on with, hot and slipping inside David’s fist, the head dark and wet out of its foreskin. The tip glistens with the ring of a thin silver hoop. David flicks the piercing with his thumbnail and gives a smile at the resulting cry. Dom is dancing for him, even grace and flawless rhythm, back arched and hands balled in soft velvet. He is gorgeous in the glow, the planes of his face smooth and white, gasping for air and whispering voiceless words until his thighs begin to shake and spasm and David twists, squeezes at the base and Dom is coming, back rigid and arms knotted as he goes taut and rides out every pulse that David pulls from him until he falls forward and locks his elbows to stop them from trembling. David watches him catching his breath, and feels his own cock throb with sudden impatience. He takes a deep breath until his blood settles. The boy lifts his head, and his eyes are heavy and glazed. He brings up a hand and draws it slowly along the length of David’s belly, up to his chest, down toward the low rise of his satin trousers. David stops his descent and smiles. “Are you thirsty?” He sits up briefly, reaching past Dom to pluck the bottle of wine and the nearest square of glass off the table. Somewhere along the way the supply has been replenished; he doesn’t much care who did it or at what point. He hands the bottle to Dom and leans back to set himself up while the boy takes a long, gulping drink. Dom sucks down half the bottle before he catches himself. He stops and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning an apology. David lifts an amused eyebrow. He’s got two lines chopped out on the glass, set on the cushion beside him; he leans over and does one quickly, settling heavily back into the sofa and watching the lights blur in his bloodshot eyes. The boy is watching him intently, trailing his hands in light circles along the tops of David’s thighs. David lets his eyes drift closed long enough for a few beats of his heart to surge through his blood. When he opens them, the boy is undoing the buttons of his shirt one at a time. David smiles, cool air on his chest, mesh dragging against his nipples and his hips roll once beneath the weight above them. He picks up the mirror and holds it between the spread halves of his shirt. Instead of offering it, he balances the glass in one palm and moves the blade carefully, scraping the second line off the glass and onto the flat plane of his breastbone. A grin flits across the boy’s face; he licks his lips before he braces on all fours over David’s outstretched body and dips his head down. He knows what he’s doing and one long draw makes him whip his head back, eyelids dropping, one long shuddering breath through his mouth. David reaches out a finger and wipes a smudge off Dom’s cheek, and slips the finger into his mouth while the boy trembles above him. Dom opens his eyes, gives a slow smile. He bends forward again, lithe and graceful, and licks the traces off the skin between David’s nipples. David takes in a breath, his belly twitching, feeling the boy’s fingers sliding into the waistband of his trousers. He opens his mouth, but Dom is sliding off his lap, kneeling between his outstretched thighs, and David can’t remember what he was going to say. The boy’s hands are on him, slithering over his belly, tugging at his trousers and moving deftly over the buttons and David pushes his hips up, spreads his knees until he feels the last button give and his cock is finally freed from its tight restraints. He looks down just in time to watch the boy wet his lips and take him in, hot and wet and flicking his tongue around the curves of the head. So fucking good, he knew it, he could tell it in the way the boy bit his lips, in the way his black-rimmed eyes darted and his tongue crept out of the corner of his mouth. Fucking brilliant, yeah, and he says so, or tries to, his murmur drowned by the music and the boy’s soft grunt as he moves down all at once and pushes all the way to the back of his throat. David’s hands clench in the sofa cushions as he spits out something profane. He winds a hand into threads of damp hair, blue-striped blond and clumped with sweat and oil and the come on David’s hand, and he doesn’t have to push because the boy is holding him tight and hot and perfect and sucking with reckless fervor and there’s no way David could last, no way he would want to. His blood roars in his ears and the tremors start in his belly; shaking as powerful as the blood burning in his veins and he grips the boy’s hair and thrusts up once into his mouth, biting out a groan, feeling him swallowing around his cock. White light explodes behind his eyelids and everything goes static and perfect and still. When he opens his eyes the boy is watching him, leaning on one elbow and breathing through swollen lips. The kohl around his eyes is smudged; his hair is mussed beyond repair. His eyes are sated and heavy, but his pulse is still pounding and fluttering with his high. David reaches down a finger and wipes a speck of glitter off one sharp cheekbone. “Do you want some food?” he asks. Dom smiles. “I got what I wanted.” And then, a bit less lightly, “Did you?” David’s heart is slowing in his chest; his hands lay heavy and warm on the cushions beside him. “Yeah,” he says, and watches the light sparkle in Dom’s eyes as he smiles. Stars, David thinks. Dom gets to his feet, swaying only once before finding his footing. He sets his trousers to rights and wipes his mouth with the back of one hand, running it over his hair to calm the worst of the damage. “Thanks for the line,” he says, and turns toward the door. There are faint splotches along the small of his back; David realizes they are his fingerprints. “Dom,” he calls, over the never-ending swell of the music. The boy turns, smooth and beautiful in the flickering light. David looks at him through the smoke and haze. “I come here every Thursday,” says Dom. When he pushes open the door, the music pours loud and fresh into the air around him. He turns back at the last moment, and his smile gleams in the light. “I’m a big fan, Mr. Bowie,” he says, and disappears into the throng. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ back