Even while he was still naked, still drying himself after the shower, Stevie knew it was a night for the blue jeans. The stone-washed ones. The ones he had to fight a bit to get into. He’d wear them with a soft linen shirt, the white one, tucked tight inside his jeans, and cinched with the leather belt so the curve of his hips and buttocks would be highlighted.
A gay story: Con with Benefits
He tossed the towel toward the laundry basket, missed, shrugged, and turned to study himself in the mirror that was still covered with steam so he couldn’t make himself out all that clearly yet. Stevie shrugged again, turned sideways, sucked in his flat stomach even further, and held the pose.
The steam was beginning to lessen, and his form began to become visible. God, what a shape he had. He had a good face. Nice longish brown hair, and rounded brown eyes. But yes, he wasn’t tall, five eight, and yes, he was on the slim side.
Except in two places, his lips and his buttocks. For god-only-knows-why reasons, he’d been endowed with natural plumpness on those two places that made men think only about one thing. He’d never weighed more than 65 kilos, most of it, he sometimes thought, in his lips and buttocks. It seemed about half the men he knew stared at his lips, their eyes sort-of glazed, and the other half stared at his butt. He knew what was on their minds. He’d known he was gay since he was thirteen, and male companionship had never been much of a problem.
He was clearer in the mirror now, so he changed position from side-profile to look over his shoulder at his backside, and leaned backward. Some day when he did that his buttocks would sag. But not yet. Not when he worked out every day, sometimes twice. Not just the usual guy routine of arms and pecs and abs. Extra attention to his gluteus maximi, making sure they stayed firm, firm as well as soft.
Morgan was the first to call them derrières. It was probably the first thing he liked about him. Not the last thing, for sure–he’d become attached to Morgan’s many strong qualities. But he didn’t like the way most guys talked about him: bum-boy, ass-man, big buns, kissy lad–demeaning words, and he hated that kind of talk. Assuming he was just for one thing.
But derrière–that showed he had a tender streak. Not that Morgan was always tender with him, often not tender at all. But he could be gentle, almost sweet in his way.
The steam was gone from the mirror now as Stevie pushed himself up on tiptoe, did a slow circle, watching himself closely. For a couple spare hours he’d gone to the roof with his music and lain flat in the sun. Summer was coming to the city, and already he’d a good start on his all-over tan. By August he’d be dark brown. He wasn’t close yet, but already there was a glow to his skin. A good change. His eyes seemed bigger, his hair lighter. His skin… he gave himself a careful once-over.
Sometimes he knew he was looking at himself too much. It could get to be a bad habit, and people might think you were conceited about the way you stopped traffic when you swung your bottom and sucked in your stomach. But when you could stop traffic in the New York, well, maybe he had reason to feel a little conceited.
But he also knew he was lucky. In the world of man-on-man America, plump bottoms were in. Of course men always liked full lips. And maybe the rounded buttocks was like a fashion thing, just a temporary thing. But Stevie had not noticed any decline of men’s interest over the years, the way their eyes were drawn to him there and followed him wherever he went.
He’d read in a kind of intellectual magazine about how beauty was in the eye of whoever was looking. Which explained why some men got turned on by the strangest things. But the long article made Stevie stop and think when it said–he found it hard to believe at first–that back in the day when the Greek homosexuals ruled the world, thousands of years ago, they were penis happy. No big surprise there, but the shocker was that what got them hot and heavy was little ones. The smaller the cock, the more beautiful the guy. So strange to imagine that.
Morgan would have been the ugliest Greek ever if he’d been around back then.
He put on some lip balm, to keep them moist and supple for the evening out. His eye caught the tube of lip gloss he’d bought on a whim a month or so ago but had never worn. Something appealing about making his lips shinier went he went out on special nights. But already his lips got too much attention, and it felt a bit too, well, exhibitionistic to flaunt them in that way. So he’d always vetoed the temptation when it arose.
Stevie left the bathroom, found his jeans, lay down on the bed, and after a struggle, got them over his hips. Then he put on his sandals, went to the closet for the linen shirt and slipped it on. Belt through the notches and tightened, ran a comb through his hair, one more look in the mirror, grabbed his key and took off.
* *
It was just after 11 when he got to the Stall. Stall was a funny name for a gay bar, in an old building in the worst part of lower Manhattan. It was originally The Stallion, which made a whole lot more sense, but the lights for the letters ion had burned out a long time ago and the shortened nickname stuck.
At 11:10 Stevie ordered a light beer, gave Brad, the Stall’s owner, money for the beer and went off by himself to one of the pool tables. He liked pool, and it gave him plenty of opportunities to show off his best asset when he bent over for a shot.
11:15. Stevie concentrated on making a long corner shot, when, from alongside his he heard, “My God, I haven’t seen jeans that tight since college.” He looked over his shoulder at the guy. Tall. Good clothes but dressed down, no doubt because he was in a place like the Stall. A blazer tossed over one white-shirted arm. Pants that looked like quality material. Probably a lawyer, or a finance guy. And, like most of them, a wife or girlfriend at home somewhere, but feeling the need sometimes to come to a place like the Stall.
Stevie said nothing, played another ball.
“I heard there’s a new club opened a few blocks uptown,” the big guy went on. “Have you checked it out?”
Stevie stopped playing, looked at the big guy a moment before he said it: “Look, mister; I have a boyfriend. My name is Stevie, but I’m taken.” Then he stepped across the front of the guy to position himself for his next shot. He felt his support hand lose its grip on the edge of the table and lost his balance, falling sideways and forward a little onto the table. Was it his fault that his buttocks grazed the guy’s thigh? Was it his fault the look came into his eyes?
Where had he gone? Just out for the evening.
What had he done? Nothing at all, really…
* *
From day one, life had handed Morgan a bad deal. His mom had been okay, but his dad had split when he was twelve, and they’d had to move to a crap part of town while his mom worked a crap job to support them.
And he’d had to transfer to a crap school where he was the new kid. He wasn’t a suck-up, so none of the burnt-out teachers liked him, and for some stupid reason the school bully decided he hated him from day one.