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West Hollywood, January 1975
He tosses his hair and steals another glance around the club, looking at once haughty and timid. Tries to be subtle about scanning his glitzy, gritty surroundings. Fails. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, catching the swirling, rainbow-colored lights reflecting from a suspended disco ball while a steady beat thuds from the speakers at the front of the room, overlaid by shimmering synth strings and glittering electric guitar flourishes. Dancing, sweat-glistening bodies abound.
You briefly make eye contact—again. He’s been watching you all night—and you him—but you’re not sure if it’s because he thinks you’re cute, recognizes you, or is afraid you recognize him.
He could have done a better job blending in. Here among the campy, mustached, short-haired, muscular men of West Hollywood, he stands out more than a little with his cascading, well-conditioned locks; his tailored, rhinestone-trimmed black jacket; his pointed boots; and bracelets on either wrist. You suppose he never was one to dress down, though—even under pain of death. (Well, maybe not death, but ruined reputation, certainly.) He’s not here alone; he’s got his road manager with him, sitting several feet away, talking to a group of guys and looking vaguely tired. Clearly here as a bodyguard, rather than a companion. Meanwhile, he’s obviously here cruising—though you get the strong impression he’s not fully aware of it, himself. You snort. That sounds about right, doesn’t it?
You know exactly what he is, of course. You know it because the two of you have met. Six years back, when you’d spent a couple of months following the band around, and looked a lot different. You crossed paths in the Bay Area, at a club after a show at Berkeley—or, more accurately, he took a liking to you from afar, and had one of his goons fetch you and bring you over to him. Not that you needed much persuading. As much as he is an eccentric, insecure, lying, morally depraved shit, there’s something weirdly enchanting about him. He asked you, all delicate hands and English accent and bewitching green eyes, if you’d like to go back to his hotel with him. Flattered—and, what the hell, turned on—you accepted his offer.
When you arrived, he lit candles and rose incense and showered you with every rehearsed pulp-romance line imaginable. It was all pretty ridiculous, you thought; you’d only just met the guy twenty minutes ago. He asked you if you wanted a bath, of all things, and you emphatically said no. (You could think of few things you wanted less than to be sitting naked in dirty water while some weird, albeit gorgeous, stranger watches you in silence.) Adjusting instantly, he led you instead to the bed, where he proceeded to remove your clothing with more pomp and circumstance than you ever thought possible. He offered you mescaline and you declined; psychedelics were never your thing. Shrugging it off again, he said that you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life—oh, brother—and that all he wanted in the world was to go down on you, to taste you, to feel you get wet on his tongue. Well, alright, then. You let him.
You remember a lot of things about that night—most of them funny—but the thing that stood out the most, so to speak, was that he couldn’t stay hard. (Seriously.) He gave good head—really good head—actually, it was kind of bizarre how good at that he was—but when he resurfaced, and you went for his cock, you noticed that…well…it didn’t seem to be as interested in the proceedings as its owner. An erection was present when you first started getting it on—and he seemed fine when he was taking the reins, doing his own thing—but any time you got actively involved, it sort of just…drooped. Well. Kind of a bummer, but it wasn’t like you didn’t have issues of your own; besides, you were in bed with Led Zeppelin’s guitarist either way. He dealt with it well enough, too—well-practiced, almost like he did this a lot—brushing it off, laughing with the correct amount of abashment, apologizing gallantly but pinning it on having had too much to drink earlier, gushing that he was just so enamored with you, all he wanted to do was pleasure you anyway. (The word pleasure always made your skin crawl.)
Anyway, it wasn’t awful. You came; he didn’t. Afterwards, you were lying there chatting, which he actually seemed more into than the sex itself. Unable to help yourself, you brought up the band. (How could you not? They’ve always been your very favorite, were back then and still are to this day.) You mentioned Plant, of course, and he got…stiff? (No—not in the way that would have turned the evening around.) Said something forced and off-kilter, then laughed way too loud and changed the subject. The tips of his ears were red, you remember that clearly. You’re not sure exactly what you said that made him act like that, but you remember being perplexed in the moment. You didn’t get to talk to him again on that tour.
Fast-forward to 1975. You did not go out tonight expecting to find Jimmy Page in Studio One of all places. Not because you don’t know he’s a flamer—let’s be clear about that—just because Zeppelin’s supposed to be playing shows in the Midwest right now. After all, you know people in the industry who know them, and people talk. Even if you didn’t, you’ve been at every show they’ve played here (and a few in other cities) and you’re not an idiot. You read rock magazines, too. Plant doesn’t exactly play it close to the vest; whether he thinks no one catches it or just doesn’t care is anyone’s guess. You have friends—other men—who have fucked him.
Page is a different story. He’s always been stand-offish in a way that he probably thinks reads as mysterious, but in reality amounts to a morbid admixture of aloof and painfully shy. It’s more than that, though; by now his reputation as a notorious womanizer is well-publicized, but then you hear people talking about him from behind the scenes and, well, it turns out your date with him wasn’t an isolated incident. On the other hand, a friend of a friend tried hitting on him in a gay bar (a gay bar!) a few years back, and was apparently met with so much vitriol that Page may as well have punched the guy. Lo and behold, he was spotted sneaking off into the women’s bathroom with a couple of drag queens less than an hour later—imagine that. Long story short, he’s a venomous, self-hating closet queen who seems to use girl groupies as props and men as punching bags. (Lady transvestites he seems fine with, though you suspect his motives there are questionable at best, too.)
Case in point: here he is, smack dab in the middle of a gay club, pretending to neither be who he is, nor to know where he is. He glances at you again; oh, he definitely thinks you’re cute. Knowing him, though, there’s no way he’s going to approach you in a million years. Couldn’t do it back in the day; definitely isn’t about to do it now.
Grinning, you knock back another shot of bourbon. What do you have to lose? Not your dignity—that’s his thing. Repugnant as he is, he sure is pretty. You straighten up, smooth your hair back, and start making your way across the room while he furiously reverts his gaze to his beer bottle and picks at the label.
“Hey, there,” you say, sidling up behind him. Feigning being startled, he turns to face you.
“Hello,” he says warily.
“Are you here alone?” you ask casually.
“Sort of,” he shrugs. He’s probably trying for cool and detached, but only manages meek. He’s wearing eye makeup, you notice.
“You want company?” you say. In an instant, his face molts through at least twenty different expressions at warp-speed, and he checks behind him, paranoid. Interesting—you don’t remember him being this skittish.
“Oh,” he says quickly, “I’m not, uh…” Then he winces, like he’s not sure why he said that.
“Sure you’re not, sweetheart,” you say, and he winces again, but doesn’t clap back. The bartender approaches; you order another whisky, neat, and ask him if he wants anything; he nervously agrees, and you tell the bartender to make it two.
“Do I know you?” he says, squinting at you.
“No,” you lie, leaning on the bar with one elbow. You notice him ogling your chest and biceps and you covertly tug your white tank top further down, stifling a giggle. So predictable.
“Do you know me?” he says.
“Of course I do,” you shrug, receiving your drink and passing him his as the bartender sets them down. “Listen, it’s L.A. I know closeted rockers, it’s not a big deal.” His mouth tightens at that, even as he accepts the glass of brown liquor.
“I told you, I’m not…”
“Then what are you doing here?”
“Checking out the scene.”
“Okay. Like anything you see?”
“The regular bars are too crowded,” he says icily, tapping the fingernails of one hand tensely on the tabletop. “This is the only way we can go out without being mauled by groupies.”
“Seems like you’re having a good time,” you retort with sarcasm. “Seriously, man, what the fuck are you doing here?”
“Why the fuck do you want to know?”
“I’m making conversation.” He narrows his eyes and takes a drink. You get the feeling that neither of you is really sure why you’re doing this.
“…are you sure we haven’t met?”
“Never,” you shrug, downing your drink. “I’d definitely remember if we had. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a fan, though. Not one of the crazy ones—don’t worry.”
“Alright,” he frowns, clearly not trusting you. It’s funny; he looks a lot older than he did the last time you met—clearly the past six years have put some wear and tear on him—but he’s somehow still got the same baby face, even if his jaw is a bit sharper and his eyes more exacting. He’s changed his hair—more carefully-constructed curls now than loose, messy waves—but something else is different about him too. The lighting behind his eyes.
“Look,” you say, setting your empty glass on the counter. “I get it, you’re not gay. But you do look bored.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means, a blowjob’s a blowjob, right? Come on, follow me to the bathroom. It’ll be fun, I promise.” You grin at him; he’s struggling with something. Then he squares his shoulders; his nostrils flare and his eyebrows twitch upward.
“Fine,” he says curtly, finishing his drink as well and getting to his feet. He’s got several inches on you—in more ways than one, if you remember correctly—but you probably outweigh him by at least ten pounds. Tilting your head toward the back of the club, you turn and start making your way, not checking to make sure he’s in tow, lest you look desperate.
You push open the door to the men’s room and sidle past a few couples—and a few groups—getting it on in front of the sinks. You duck to check under the stalls, and find there’s one close to the back that’s free; you shoulder the door open and step inside, then finally turn to see whether or not he pussied out.
Against all odds, there he is—looking supremely uncomfortable, and clearly doing his best to make himself small and unnoticeable, glancing anxiously over his shoulder (oh, please, as if anyone is paying attention to you right now) before hurrying into the stall after you. You close and latch the door, as a courtesy to him. As soon as it’s locked, his demeanor shifts slightly; he doesn’t relax, exactly, but the mild terror lining his face is replaced by something like vague interest.
“I’m _____, by the way,” you say, stepping closer, voice covered by the muffled pulse of the music from outside.
“Jimmy,” he returns, as a courtesy to you, and you both smirk.
“Yeah, I know.” You take a step forward and he fidgets. “Can I touch your cock?”
“Yes,” he says quietly, with a defensive little hair toss. In spite of that, he’s blushing faintly in the dim red lighting. He’s speaking in his chest voice, you notice. You move your hand to the front of his pants and he’s already half-hard—you fucking knew it—and you massage him slowly, taking great satisfaction in the way he holds his breath and gazes self-consciously down at you, eyelashes fluttering. Wordlessly, you unzip his fly and push his jeans down around his thighs, pull his cock out, pausing to spit in your hand before you give him a few strokes. You let your eyes trail crudely down his body, watch with curiosity as his erection stiffens under your touch. It’s slender and kind of delicate like him, uncut, standing pale against his dark pubes. You return to his face to make sure all systems are still go. He wavers—then, as if making an abrupt decision, leans in to kiss you, his lips searching and haphazard against yours. As soon as is polite, you duck to mouth at his neck instead; he sucks in air through his nose and lets his head fall back with a thud to rest against the metal stall door while you pump him in your fist. True to your word, you drop to your knees and blow him. He comes fast, with a soft, low groan, knees trembling slightly and one hand balled up tight at his side. You glance upward and he’s holding his other arm over his face, covering his eyes; seeing that feels too intimate, and you quickly avert your gaze.
You swallow, keep sucking him until he gasps “okay, I’m done,” and then you get back to your feet. He clears his throat self-consciously; doesn’t meet your eyes or speak while tucks himself back into his pants and zips up.
“Oh no—that bad?” you joke, feeling somehow obligated to lighten the mood. He chuckles quietly.
“Of course not—uh—the opposite actually…” he says, straightening up. His eyes snap back to yours, and suddenly, the stage of his face is set once more. “Guys always give better head.” He says it with entitlement—as if this is something he does all the time, for fun, just because he can. Hilarious.
“I mean, you don’t have to convince me,” you return, and you’re pleased to see he falters. “Cigarette?” you chirp.
“Yeah, okay,” he says, and you fish out one for each of you.
“So, do you have plans for the rest of the night?” you ask casually, lighting his cigarette first, and then yours.
“Don’t know yet,” he shrugs, taking a drag. You lean, facing each other, on the walls of the stall.
“Hmm,” you say, appraising him. He stares back, holding his ground. “Don’t know what you’re doing, or who you’re doing?” You smile; he doesn’t look amused. “Oh, come on, chill out,” you giggle, punching him lightly in the arm, which seems to fluster him. This is kind of weird; then again, you did just suck his dick.
“I told you, I don’t know.”
“Any of it?”
“No.”
“Alright, then.” You stub the cigarette out on the top of the toilet paper dispenser and make to exit. “Well, it was nice to meet you. You’re welcome, by the way. You’re cute—will I see you around?”
“You’re going?” he says quickly, forgetting the lofty, detached thing for a second.
“Yeah?”
“Hang on…” he starts, then trails off, looking confused.
“Hey, if you’re looking for a good time…we don’t have to be done yet,” you say, stepping toward him again. He tenses up, and his gaze darts between your face and your crotch. You pause. “Up to you,” you say lightly. “You know, I won’t tell anyone, if that’s what you’re worried about.”
“And what makes you think I’m worried?” he says acidly. God, what a fucking asshole. No wonder he normally has henchmen to arrange his fucks. At this point, it’s a challenge.
“Nah, I’m just saying, I get it,” you say, doing your thoughtful, empathetic thing that’s always making men fall in love with you. “I have to be careful too—I’m a teacher, actually—if the school found out I could lose my job.”
“Oh, really?” he frowns.
“Yeah. So, I’m just saying, I live a couple of blocks from here. I like you, for some reason. If you want to come back to my place…”
“No,” he says hurriedly, “I mean—not your place—look, I…I’m staying at the Marquis, um—”
“Not the Hyatt?” you probe. He just shrugs evasively.
“Look, you can’t follow me back there, alright, I can’t be seen with—” he hesitates; you raise your eyebrows pointedly. “I mean, I’m keeping a low profile.”
“Got it,” you nod.
“I’m in room 217. If you want to meet me in, I dunno, a couple of hours…look, I don’t do this, alright? Whatever you’re thinking.”
“I’m thinking absolutely nothing,” you say mildly, inclining your head. “So, uh, speaking of which, I’m not sure exactly what you had in mind, but, I do have to tell you…I’m, uh, a transsexual. Female-to-male, that is.” You bite your lip, waiting for the reaction. Honestly, it’s pretty low stakes. If he’s not into it, it’s kind of eh; if he is, lucky him; if he freaks out, well, what the hell is he gonna do to you in here? (Or anywhere, for that matter; you could probably break him in half with one hand tied.)
“What?” he squints. You shrug.
“You know…I used to be a woman, now I’m, well, not.” He frowns, and gives you a very impolite up-and-down, like he’s trying to figure out where. Jesus Christ.
“Really?” he says, disbelieving.
“…Yeah, why the hell would I make that up?” you say, shaking your head incredulously.
“I…well…okay,” he says, looking perplexed. “Do you have—um…” His eyes dart to your crotch again, like he can’t help it.
“Is that a deal-breaker?” you ask, trying not to laugh.
“No,” he says, a flush spreading over his face like a barricade, “of course not.”
“Right,” you nod, mostly just impressed by his ability to be open-minded and shitty at the same time. “Well, I do—it just, you know, comes off.”
“Alright, that’s fine,” he says, brow all scrunched up, probably wondering if he’s gotten himself into more than he bargained for.
“You sure? I’m not offended if it’s not.”
“Yeah, I said it’s fine,” he insists, crossing his arms.
“Okay, just checking…so, second question…” you say, smiling now. “What do you want to do?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, you want to go back and fuck, or what?” He gazes at you, militantly deadpan.
“Yeah, alright, maybe,” he sniffs at last.
“You like to top or bottom? Uh. Logistical question for me.” Might as well get right to it. He hesitates and blushes again. “Yeah, me too,” you nod. “I’d top for you, though, you’re cute—look, I’ll bring it, and you can make up your mind then.” He gets even redder, looking simultaneously relieved and supremely upset.
“Alright,” he mumbles at last, “um—yeah—like I said, I’m keeping a low profile, so I can’t really be seen out and about with anyone…but I’m here alone, um, so—if you want to come meet me later—I don’t have anyone waiting up for me.”
“Do you normally?” you ask with a sharp smile, before you can help yourself. He narrows his eyes, sizing you up. Then he says—
“Yes. But I’m on vacation.”
~~~
Back at your place, you shower off quickly and then get to work re-constituting yourself, trying to strike the fine balance between clean and didn’t try too hard. You forego underwear, putting on only the harness and then your jeans straight over top. You struggle with your strap-on for several minutes, trying to figure out if there’s some way to make it lie at least somewhat flat without looking like you’re hiding, well, a massive erection. Eventually you deem the task impossible, and settle for throwing on a flannel over your tank top, hoping that the shirt tails will hide it well enough. You have dyke friends who do this all the time, and you’re just not really sure how they manage it.
Checking yourself in the bathroom mirror, you decide it’s fine; you’ll stick your wallet in your front pocket and no one will notice. You look a little rough around the edges from being out all night, so you rinse your face and smooth your hair back. It’s been a while since your last haircut, and it keeps wanting to fall forward in front of your eyes—annoying, but ironically looks better this way.
You actually have no idea what to expect. When you fucked him years ago, he clearly had a system, but you’re not sure how well that system translates to your, well, current situation. Some part of you wants to do this, though—out of curiosity, maybe. Vengeance? At the very least, it should be entertaining.
~~~
The elevator doors open and you step out into the red-carpeted hallway, lined with red-and-navy geometric wallpaper and brightly lit by glass chandeliers the whole way down. At the end, there’s a bodyguard sitting in a folding chair, arms crossed. He sees you and doesn’t react; Page must have let him know someone was coming. Well, that’s kind of cute.
You’re struck by the silence. Shoving your hands into your pockets, you meander down the corridor, awkwardly ignoring the guy at the end, feeling spectacularly out of place in your faded denim jacket and Converse sneakers, shocked you haven’t been arrested yet just for being here. You reach the door that says 217 and stop. You bite your lip, nervous suddenly, though you’re not quite sure why. Swallowing it, you shrug, raise your fist, and give three sharp knocks.
A pause ensues that’s just a little too long to be uncomplicated. Then the door swings open and he’s standing there, barefoot, still in his flared jeans and ironed button-up shirt, staring at you like a deer in the headlights.
“Um, hello,” he says stiltedly, one hand flying to his hair. “Come in.”
“Thanks,” you nod, stepping past him into the hotel suite. He shuts the door behind you, bolts and chains it. You’re once again grateful you’ve got a substantial amount of muscle on him—and that you’ve done this before, and didn’t end up dead that time. He turns to face you; he’s definitely tipsier than he was when you last saw him in the club. Hopefully not too tipsy, but you note that he’s clearly still with it.
“Good to see you again,” you grin somewhat uncomfortably, bending to pull off your shoes, then shrugging off your jacket and draping it over a nearby chair.
“You too,” he says, shifting his weight between his feet. “You, um, fancy a drink?”
“Sure. Thanks.”
“All I have here is whisky.”
“Whisky’s great.”
You putz around and take in the room while he pours you each at least four fingers of Jack. The red carpet from the hallway extends into the room, though the wallpaper is a tamer orange and crème pattern. Almost the entirety of the far wall is occupied by bright orange curtains, draped in front of floor-to-ceiling windows—you think probably overlooking the pool that sits at the center of the building. The bedspread is gold, and the room is mercifully free of tacky stock paintings. You notice he hasn’t really unpacked; he’s got two suitcases open on luggage racks, an acoustic guitar in its open case on the desk, and a few stray garments thrown over the back of a chair.
“Thanks,” you repeat, accepting the drink from him and taking a sip. He leans on the counter in the kitchenette and regards you, taking a drink as well.
“We can sit,” he says, inclining his head toward the bed.
“Alright.” The two of you settle onto opposites sides of the mattress and stare at each other (not exactly comfortable with six inches of solid rubber shoved down one pant leg). “So,” you venture, taking a sip, “you’re not in town for long?”
“Nah,” he says, fiddling with the hem of his jeans.
“I thought you guys were doing shows in the Midwest, anyway,” you pry, then laugh apologetically. “Sorry, it’s just I was looking at tour dates, you know.”
“We are—well, supposed to—Robert’s sick, uh, he has the flu, or something…” he trails off, voice growing quieter, flirting with self-consciousness.
“Shit,” you reply casually, “you had to cancel shows?”
“Not cancel, no—just postponed them. He’s resting, so that’s why I’m—I mean, there was no reason to wait around in Chicago, if we weren’t playing—it’s so bloody cold, you know—so I flew out here. Figured I’d at least enjoy the time off.” He smiles tepidly, and you wonder what exactly he thinks he’s trying to conceal. You know. Everyone does.
You shrug it off, and place your half-full glass on the bedside table.
“Well, are you?” you grin, edging closer to him. “Enjoying it?”
“Still working that out,” he says shrewdly, placing his drink down in turn, and leaning back against the headboard.
“Maybe I can help you make up your mind,” you reply, lightly swinging one leg over both of his and, without further ado, you lean in to kiss him.
You wanted to play it calm, cool, and collected—but, alright, this is kind of exciting. It’s funny how he almost flips a switch—not unlike yourself, actually—but it’s bigger on him; he’s breathing heavily through his nose suddenly, aggressive with his hands and mouth but somehow reticent at the same time, and you wonder how long it’s been since he’s had this—specifically this. You pause to remove your shirt and he does the same; his eyes linger on your chest but when he touches you it’s like anyone else would, hands brushing easily over your scars. He's so skinny; you’re kind of afraid you might shatter him, but he’s got this quietly frantic energy simmering underneath the surface and you think he might be tougher than he looks.
You shift closer to grind your crotch against his; he’s hard in his jeans, and it’s kind of weird because you can feel it but there’s a whole fucking dildo in the way, which you realize probably isn’t an issue for him. He’s warm, and unexpectedly solid for someone as delicate as he is. Easing back a little, you unzip his fly and take his cock in your hand for the second time tonight. He has it in him to look at you this time; his expression is inscrutable under his heavy lids, but there’s a glint of curiosity there that you somehow think has very little to do with you. You run your hand up the length, stopping just short of the tip.
“You make your mind up about what you want to do?” you ask, teasing with your thumb just under the head. He doesn’t say anything, just squirms. “I’ll suck your dick again, while you think?”
“Alright,” he breathes, bracing himself on his elbows and allowing you to tug his pants off. You make your eyes big and gaze up at him like a chick in a porno while you run your tongue all up and down the sides, making sure to drool on it before sliding your hand down his shaft to the base and slipping your lips over the tip.
“Fuck,” he mutters, then averts his eyes. Smiling even though your mouth is full, you go at it until you hear him start to whimper and you back off. Hands squeezing his skinny inner thighs, you dip to suck on his balls, lower, tongue skating down the underside of his sac, flickering along his perineum on the way to—
“Don’t do that,” he says suddenly, stiffening. Immediately you halt.
“Sorry,” you murmur, reversing your course back to his balls. “This okay?” you say when you take a break.
“Yeah.”
“You like getting fingered?”
“Yeah,” he says self-consciously, but firmly. “Just don’t…not with your mouth.”
“’Course,” you nod, “you got lube?”
“Uh-huh, hang on…” he turns and reaches to the floor to retrieve a tub of Vaseline. You smear your fingers through it and, with the other hand, push one of his legs upward.
“Still alright?” you whisper, rubbing small circles around his hole while he shivers and closes his eyes again, head tilted back against the pillows.
“Yeah—will you stop fucking asking that?” He moans softly when you push a finger in, just past the outer ring.
“No,” you snort. You slide your finger in further, then pull it out, then begin fucking him with it. You’re sure he never asks. God knows what he’s doing to those poor girls nowadays, still trying to convince himself he can get hard for them—the girls without dicks, that is. After a few minutes you withdraw, crawl back to kiss him.
“Feel how hard I am,” you breathe into his mouth, lips hot against his. He pulls away by inches, gives you a prolonged, shrewd stare. You grin, inviting him to play along. Something flits across his face, a moment of out-of-place shyness. But then the mask goes back on, eyes black and satiny once more, and he reaches for your crotch, hand folding around the line jutting through the front of your jeans. He strokes slowly, up and down, and even through rubber it’s obvious this is familiar territory for him. Hand in his hair, you gently tug his head backward to kiss his neck; he starts to sigh, then stifles it.
“I wanna fuck you,” you murmur, lips just brushing his ear. “Will you let me?” You slide your hand across his chest, coming to rest on one pec, squeezing even though there’s nothing really there to grab onto.
“Yeah,” he whispers.
“Want to suck it first?” You really want him to. You’re dying for it, actually.
“Alright. Get up.” You smile, and raise a surprised eyebrow at him. “Off the bed. Stand. Go on.”
Bossy. Following orders, you get to your feet; he sinks right to his knees in front of you. You start unbuttoning your pants; he blithely pushes your hands aside and undresses you himself in a few rough tugs. Straightening yourself out, you hold it out for him, and he takes it, fixing you with a look that might be hostile were it not for the dark flush in his cheeks and the dirty bob of his erection, standing stiff between his parted thighs. Unlike him, you return the glare, refusing to look away as he pushes his hair up and out of his face and sinks his mouth over your strap, lips stretched and red, charcoal eye makeup smudged and sweaty and god damn you wish that wasn’t hot, but it is. You weave your fingers through his hair—just helping at first, but then he sighs through his nose and digs his fingers into your ass and deep throats your strap and you think maybe he likes it. Daringly, you close your fist and pull, and he moans, low and muffled. Okay, fuck yeah. You keep a firm grip while he blows you. He puts on a good show—lewd with his lips and tongue, deepthroating you easily, fingers occasionally wandering between your legs, beneath the harness—and by the time he pulls off to sit back on his heels and catch his breath, something is inside of you is stirring. That weird, aggressive gleam in his eyes is beginning to dull to something darker, more limbic. Silently, you take your strap in your hand, and rub it around the side of his face, smear spit all over his cheek from his jaw to his eyelashes. He lets you, even leans into it like a cat, parts his lips as if in invitation.
“So, are we doing it?” you say with a tiny smile. He raises an insolent eyebrow.
“I don’t know, are we?” he snips. “I’m waiting for you.” You consider shoving the thing right back down his throat; instead, you say “Alright, then get up, princess,” and you don’t miss the pink that dots his chest and neck even as his lips tighten. You stare each other down again as he gets back to his feet; you wait to see how he arranges himself on the bed, and after a moment of clear deliberation he rolls onto his back, watching you intently—and with guardedness—as you prepare yourself. Holding his thighs open, you shuffle between them; you can’t tell if he’s turned on or mortified when you touch the wet tip to the delicate, silky skin of his hole and rub, but his cock jerks either way. When you push in, he makes a soft, stuttering little grunt, one hand gripping the sheets underneath him, but takes it easily.
You fuck him slow starting off, arms around his suspended legs, each time sinking all the way in until your hips are flush against the backs of his thighs and surprisingly fleshy ass. His eyes are glued to your body from the neck down, brow furrowed and mouth open in a soft o-shape, his inner world inscrutable. You grab his dick and give it a few strokes; he swears and closes his eyes and tells you to go faster so you do, feeling around for an angle that elicits a loud groan and makes his eyes shoot back open to stare at the ceiling. Leaning into it, you fuck him heavier and faster, gripping his hips with both hands, and it’s been almost no time at all but he’s already starting to pant, one arm extended to hang onto the headboard—and to expose sodden, matted, black hair pungent with old sandalwood and sharp body odor. For a few seconds he does something with his face like he’s trying to tame it into a neutral position, then whispers “Will you hit me?”
“Yeah—hard?”
“Yeah.”
You slap him once, firmly, across his face. “Harder.” You comply; he grunts softly, and you do it again, then grab the side of his face. “You like getting choked?” you breathe with an amount of labor, starting to feel it in your hips and glutes—you’re not used to this. He looks startled, then elated, then ashamed all in the span of a second before darkly muttering “Yes." You lean forward and wrap both hands around his throat, tight enough for him to feel it but loose enough so that you don't end up in jail. “Like this?” “Yes.” He sweats a lot, you notice—it pools in the hollows of his torso and streaks his forehead, plasters his unruly hair to his flushed face—it’s too much, it’s kind of gross—at the same time, the sight of him burning up like this, turning red in your grip, legs open, cock swinging damply on every thrust while he tries so hard to play it cool is kind of doing it for you.
“Fuck, look at you taking this cock,” you mutter, sliding one hand to the center of his throat and digging in with your thumbs and fingertips, other hand palming his pecs. "This is what you really want, huh?" An unexpectedly high whimper escapes his lips and you slap his cheek again for fun, enjoying the way it makes his chest heave. You drive into him harder, rutting against the back of the harness as best as you can, and now he’s moaning little “ah—ah—ah’s” and you’re whispering “Touch yourself—yeah, stroke your cock, show me how much you like getting fucked, wanna watch you come all over yourself.” Like storm clouds parting, his expression opens up suddenly, and then he’s stammering “Oh, god—I’m nearly—I’m coming, oh, god—” (you stop yourself from laughing at his insane politeness in the moment of climax) before ejaculating onto his own abdomen, wide-eyed and dazed, dildo buried as deep as it'll go, still pinned the mattress by your hand on his neck.
Rolling to a stop, you pause to catch your breath, then ease off him, pulling out with great care. Gasping and blinking hard, he sits up slightly and props himself up on his elbows, glancing around at the bed—and himself—like he’s just now remembering where he is. As he resurfaces, his slack, satiated expression begins to give way to embarrassment. Oh, hell.
“That was fun,” you say lightly, trying desperately to keep the mood up.
“Um—yes. Thanks,” he says clumsily, pulling his legs back together and looking thoroughly disconcerted. His hair is an absolute wreck, curls practically vanished and standing vertically on one side; the off-white mess of cum on his skinny stomach is dripping into his bush above his softening cock, which you notice is kind of petite when it’s not erect. God, he’s so much better like this. It’s probably ’cause you just made him come, but an odd wave of affection rises in your chest.
“You’re fucking hot, man,” you grin, and you mean it. Clear panic flashes across his face.
“I—” he fumbles, and you immediately regret opening that can of worms.
“Mind if I go wash this?” you quickly cut in by way of changing the subject, gesturing with the dildo.
“What? Oh—yeah, of course.”
You wander to the bathroom sink, deciding not to put it back on just yet—you’ll figure out what to do with it before you leave. When you return to the bed he jumps, like something just occurred to him, and says “Oh, do you want me to…”
“Nah, I’m good,” you say quickly, shrugging it off.
“…Are you sure?”
“Yup.”
“Did you—you know—”
“Yeah,” you lie. He squints.
“Really?”
“Yeah.” He’s still making a face like he doesn’t believe you, which is amusing; maybe he’s smarter than he looks.
“I’m serious,” you laugh, gathering up your clothing from off the floor. Wasn't the point, anyway. He gets up and heads to the bathroom himself to rinse off. When he returns he tugs his underwear back on, and then flops down onto the bed cross-legged.
“Do you, uh, want to stay?” he says abruptly, then frowns, like he’s startled by his own question.
“Can’t,” you say good-naturedly, pulling your shirt over your head. “Gotta be up early tomorrow. Weeknight.”
“Oh, right.” He looks half put-out, half relieved.
“Um. I had a good time, though. I don’t normally top,” you laugh. “You know, if we ever run into each other, next time you’re in the area, I’d do it again.”
He pulls his knees into his chest. “Yeah. Uh—like I said, I don’t normally do this. So…”
“I know, I remember,” you reassure him. “You said you’re usually with someone?”
“That’s right,” he nods, all the old ramparts sliding deftly into place.
“You’ve got a girlfriend here, huh?” you nod knowingly. Another pause that’s just too long to be casual.
“…Yes.”