[Series] After Hours - Part 12
Oct. 27th, 2006 06:48 am![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
anesthesiagirl.livejournal.com posting in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png){kind=small}
wl_fanfictionTitle: After Hours
Part: 12
Authors: makingamochrie and anesthesiagirl
Pairing: Colin/OM; Ryan, Greg, Jeff, and Brad make appearances!
Rating: Hard R
Summary: A night of improv.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, please don't sue. AU.
“Are you sure I look alright?” Ryan asked, straightening his tie as he examined himself in the pitted and spotted mirror of the hotel room’s vanity.
Gusting out a sigh, Greg threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Christ almighty, man! We’re not having tea with the fucking Queen! You look fine!”
“Greg….”
“I’m serious, Ry. You look fantastic. If you looked any better, we’d be beating ‘em off with a fucking stick. Now just get your fucking jacket and let’s go already, huh? We’re late as it is.”
Heaving a sigh of his own, Ryan reached for his black leather jacket and slipped it on, zipping it up and tugging on the sleeves. “I know I’m going to regret this. One way or another, I’m going to regret this.”
“Course you are, man! That’s what makes life worth living! Now let’s get a move on.”
Shaking his head, Ryan followed Greg out of the room and down to the parking garage where his rental was stored. It was a Boxter, and Ryan had to sit in it with his chin nearly resting on his knees. Greg smirked. “Just drive,” Ryan growled.
And so he did.
The entrance to the club was brightly lit and smoky when Ryan and Greg finally arrived. In front of them were several presently unoccupied tables. Directly to the left was a blackjack table and dealer. Five seats sat opposite, and all were filled with dazed players deep within gambling fever. Across from the entrance, a long polished wooden bar stood, the wide, swinging white doors to the kitchen directly behind that. Like the blackjack table, the bar was full. To the right were four pool tables, all occupied. A tiny anteroom off to the side held two electronic dartboards and the players currently taking part in the weekly dart tournament.
To the right of all of that stood an empty, largish stage painted matte black. At present, it was simply the repository of dozens of empty beer bottles, beer cans, and plastic cups with the dregs of unidentifiable liquors coating the bottoms.
To the left of the blackjack table stood the entrances to the bathrooms, one for each gender, and to the left of that, a gaudily beaded curtain framed the entrance to a second, darkened room. This room contained another long, crowded, smoky bar, several more tables, all occupied, and a second, smaller stage. Loud disco music blared from hidden speakers, and upon the stage four men, calling themselves The Babe-ettes, strutted their stuff for the twice-weekly drag show.
After paying their covers, Greg grasped Ryan by the elbow and led him to the left, through the glass beads, and into the darkened room beyond. As Ryan resisted the urge to cover his ears—disco had never been his favorite musical genre—Greg grinned almost maniacally and led him over to one of the tables sitting nearest the stage.
The two men sitting at that table noticed him and stood immediately, broad, welcoming grins on their handsome faces. Both were very tall, standing perhaps an inch or two below Ryan’s own six six height, and had short black hair. One was thin and boyish, the other thicker and handsome in a more rugged, he-man sort of way. Both appraised Ryan closely, but not critically, their eyes warm and kind with just a hint of mischief to them.
When they finally made their way through the teeming crowd, both men came around the table and embraced Greg heartily, with a lot of backslapping and name-calling. Ryan stood quietly to one side, aware of a goodly number of eyes on him, until the three friends turned his way.
“Guys,” Greg said, “I’d like you to meet a buddy of mine, Ryan Stiles. Ryan, these assholes are Brad Sherwood and Jeff Davis, wannabe comedians and general all-around fuck-ups.”
As Brad pretended to beat Greg to a pulp, a grinning Jeff reached forward to shake Ryan’s hand, his own soft and warm and almost frail in its bone structure. “It’s nice to meet you!” Jeff shouted over the music and the roar of the crowd.
“Same here!” Ryan shouted back.
“I’m about to make a bar run! What’s your poison?”
“Scotch rocks!”
“Comin’ right up!”
******
Colin cut the ignition, the brick wall in front of the car going dark as he extinguished the headlights. He glanced in the visor mirror, checking that the last few strands of white hair were in place, before he climbed out of car, the soft crunch of gravel under his feet mixing with the muted music that ebbed out of the open door to the club. With a soft sigh of resignation he set off across the parking lot.
Standing in the smoke filled entrance, Colin surveyed the room. He was faced with a broad but warm room with a bar, several gaming options, and what looked like it could serve as a stage…..with an army of maids and a few small miracles. He could hear the same music he’d heard from the parking lot loud and clear now, an upbeat disco tune flowing from what he assumed was a club in the back.
He crossed over the distance of the first room, pulling aside the beaded curtain that separated the rooms, but dropping it quickly at the sight. On the stage were four men strutting around in 70’s go-go girl outfits with elaborate wigs, more sequins than he had ever seen in one place, and the most outlandish platforms he’d ever seen. There was a whole new world awaiting him, but, Colin reasoned, he wasn’t quite ready for drag. At least, not yet.
Colin made his way over to broad mahogany bar on the right, ordered a scotch on the rocks and seated himself at one of the empty tables up against the back wall to watch the room. People came and went, some in pairs or groups, but more were alone. He’d heard about this place from the same friend who’d passed him the card for the escort service, and he’d all but forgotten about it until the morning after he’d slept with Ryan. The club had a bit of a reputation as a high-class pick-up joint with a strict closed-lipped policy.
After that night he couldn’t get the feeling out of his mind. Although he was having a hard time dissociating the pleasure from the giver, he’d spent the past few days reminding himself that it was still, after all, just a business arrangement. At the end of the day, so to speak, he was still the employer and Ryan was the employee and no amount of wishing it was otherwise was going to change that fact.
“Is this seat taken?” Colin was tugged from his introspection by a rich tenor voice accompanied by a dark haired man with slight stubble peppering his chin.
“Uh, no, sure, have a seat,” Colin gestured towards the three other open chairs at the table.
The man sat directly to Colin’s right, angling the chair a bit so that he could face the stage area and was now sitting almost directly next to Colin. “I’m Kyle,” the smooth voice with the not so smooth face offered, his hand extended in Colin’s general direction.
“Oh, hi, sorry, I’m Colin. Nice to meet you.” Colin stumbled, realizing that he hadn’t done the dating scene in nearly 30 years. Was that was he was trying to do, date?
“Uh, you don’t mind,” Kyle gestured, silently acknowledging how close he was sitting to Colin. “The performers tonight are going to be amazing. I used to watch that television show all the time. And besides, you looked like you were enjoying your view of the room.”
Colin chuckled nervously at how transparent he was and how friendly Kyle was as well. He chanced a glance to the man next to him, a martini held in his hand, a well-manicured, but strong hand. Kyle looked back at him and grinned ever so slightly, his face almost boyish save the telltale stubble with the occasional grey intermingled with the dark chocolate.
“So, uh, Kyle, you said there are performers…..not, uh, not the ones in the back?” Colin asked, suddenly aware that he might be treading on thin ice of offending the other man.
“No, no,” Kyle chuckled, “Oh no. The drag thing isn’t my scene. No, these guys are improvisers. You know, comedians who make it all up as they go, no scripts, no monologues?”
“Oh yeah?” Colin asked, suddenly quite interested. His company had sponsored the Just For Laughs Festival for the past few years, and last year he’d finally made a point of attending the show. He’d never laughed harder in his life and, at the insistence of his PR guys, he’d even gone backstage and met some of the performers.
“You’ve probably seen them on television before. Greg Proops, the main guy, was on a show called ‘Whose Line is it Anyway?’ out of the UK….they still rerun it on Comedy Central occasionally, and the other two have done numerous stints. They are all really funny, you’re in for quite a treat tonight.” Kyle finished, his the dark fleck in his eyes dancing as he glanced back at Colin.
“Sounds like fun,” Colin stammered, suddenly taken by the possible double meaning of Kyle’s last words and his desire to blend in for the night. He decided that tonight, he wasn’t the head of a huge, multinational company. No, tonight he was just a regular guy out looking for a good time. He thought about telling Kyle that he’d actually met Greg Proops before, figuring it would make a good impression, but, one look at Kyle said that he didn’t need to pull out any stops tonight.
The two of them chatted idly about just about everything, spanning from politics to entertainment to wine, the conversation flowing almost as easily as the drinks that Kyle kept refilling. Colin distantly noticed that the bar had filled almost to capacity and that the stage, previously covered in bottles and other trash was now cleaned and donned with 3 black leather stools and 3 microphones on stands just ahead of each stool. Leico lights dotted the ceiling at several points and were focused down on the stage, highlighting each stool and illuminating the vast majority of the stage area. The background noise level had risen considerably with the addition of more and more patrons, and Colin found it increasingly more difficult to hear Kyle.
******
As Jeff disappeared into the crowd, Brad finished his mock pummeling of Greg and reached out to shake Ryan’s hand, his grip firm and almost challenging in its strength. The goofy grin on his face, however, belied any challenge his hand might have been telegraphing, and Ryan couldn’t help but smile back. The man looked familiar and he knew he’d seen him somewhere, most likely on television. Leno, maybe.
“Where’d Jeff go?” Greg asked as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Bar run,” Ryan answered.
“Ah. Hope he remembers what I like.”
“He always remembers what you like, you damn lush,” Brad replied, slapping Greg on the shoulder.
A moment later, Jeff returned with a tray and drinks, the bar owner, his own tray in hand, in tow. The owner was short and squat, with spiked grey hair, a scraggly goatee, and a belly that a nine-months pregnant woman would envy. The fact that he had a Buddha tattooed on it would come as a surprise to absolutely no one.
“Gentlemen,” he said, laying down the tray and passing out the drinks and a steaming platter of finger foods, “Mr. Proops, I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have you here. If there’s anything I or my staff can do….”
“Just keep the liquor running, man,” Greg said, taking a healthy sip of his top-shelf vodka, “and we’ll be happy.”
“That’s a promise,” the man replied, grinning. “You’re set to go on at nine. Is there anything you’ll need?”
“Beauty of improv, my man,” Greg replied, stretching back in his chair, eyes glued to the stage, “we don’t need anything but an audience, and sometimes not even that.”
“Oh, you’ll have your audience alright. They’re lining up outside the door even as we speak. We didn’t advertise, since you asked us not to, but word does get around.” His grey eyes twinkled. “By the way,” he continued, handing back Greg’s twenty, “there’s no cover for coming to your own show. And the liquor and everything else is on the house. Are you sure you won’t let me pay you for your time?”
“Not a chance, man. We’re in this for the fun of it.”
The other men nodded enthusiastically, and the owner smiled again. “Very well, then. Thanks again, and if there’s anything you need, anything at all, just ask for me.”
“Will do.”
If the music was starting to give Ryan a headache, he actually welcomed it, since it halted those always uncomfortable ‘so, what do you do for a living?’ conversations right in their tracks. Though he was in no way ashamed of what he was, he also wasn’t overly fond of evenings behind bars, either. His trade was still illegal, no matter how many lawyers and judges he serviced each week. And he serviced plenty.
Despite Greg’s request, Ryan noticed that none of the men drank too heavily. That told him that they took what they did seriously. He supposed it was better to play a drunk than to actually be one on stage, though he had no experience in such matters. When you did stand-up in strip clubs, being half smashed out of your fucking gourd pretty much came with the territory. It sure made the hecklers easier to handle. And some of the dancers easier to watch, if the truth be known.
Soon, the last song of the drag show wound down, and the stage lights darkened. It was getting close to nine, and Ryan felt an anticipatory little tingle in his gut even though he wasn’t going to be performing. He found himself looking forward to the show. The men were professionals, and the audience would be in for a treat indeed.
He looked over as Greg tapped him on the shoulder, grinning at him and nodding his head in the direction of the entrance to the other part of the bar. “You ready? We reserved the table in front just for you…and anyone else you might have you eye on, since they all have their fucking eyes on you.”
Ryan looked around, finding Greg’s words for truth. Many of the men, and some of the women, surprisingly, were eyeing him with more than a bit of lust in their drink-glazed eyes. Several of them were extremely attractive, and Ryan felt as much pull as he would have if he was eyeing a blank wall.
Strange, maybe, but he’d come to accept it as part and parcel of what he did for a living. External attractiveness lost its allure after awhile when it was all you knew. Not that he couldn’t be turned on by a hot woman or gorgeous man, but it wasn’t as frequent anymore. It reminded him too much of his work, and right now, that’s what he wanted to forget.
Rising gracefully to his feet, he followed the others back through the gaudy beaded curtain and into the more brightly lit part of the bar. The pool tables had been closed down and covered, and the dart tourney was apparently over. The tables were all full, as was the bar, and people were standing along the walls, or sitting on the floor, waiting excitedly for the show to begin.
Ryan wove his way around the crowd, pretending not to notice the eyes following his every move, and hunched himself down into one of the tiny plastic chairs next to an equally tiny plastic table that his knees didn’t have a prayer of fitting beneath. A fresh scotch was sitting on the table waiting for him, and he sipped it as he turned his chair to face the stage.
The lights dimmed slightly and a murmur rose from the packed house. The owner, microphone in hand, hopped up onto the stage to a generous round of applause. He did a little jig, shaking the stage alarmingly, and waved his hands for quiet. “Gentlemen…and ladies…when I got a call from one of our next guests the other night, asking if he could come over and do some improv for our patrons, I about shit my pants. Seriously!” he shouted over the laughter. “I mean, we’ve had some well-known folks visit us from time to time, but this was just…well, a dream come true for me. Anyway, I’ll stop hogging the stage and introduce our guests for the evening. The first, you may recognize from several appearances on the Drew Carey Show, Mr. Jeff Davis!”
Jeff ran onto the stage to applause and loud wolf whistles from the men salivating over his face and form. He grinned and bowed, then eased over to stage left as the others were introduced.
“The next handsome stud you may have seen on his many gigs on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno, as well as many other television appearances, Mr. Brad Sherwood!”
More wolf-whistles from the excited male members of the crowd as Brad ran on, grinning at them all and waving.
“And last, but certainly by no means least, a gentleman who has stumped for the cause of gay rights almost as soon as he could talk, a scathing and brilliant comedian seen all over the world—and I do mean all over the world—and known for his improv work on a little show called Whose Line is it Anyway, it is my honor and pleasure to welcome to our stage tonight, Mr. Greg Proops!”
The crowd absolutely erupted as Greg casually strolled on stage, waving as he grabbed the mic from the bar owner’s hand and gave him a kiss on both cheeks. The man pretended to faint and Greg laughed. “Hello, Toronto, you fucking hosers! Are you ready to rock?”
“YEAH!!!”
“Ok, for you folks who don’t know what improv is, it’s where us guys up here on stage make up shit off the top of our heads with help from you. If you give us shitty suggestions, we give you shitty improv. If you give us good shit, you laugh. See how that works?”
Cheers.
“Good. Now, the first game that we’re going to play requires a couple of props. Since we didn’t bring any, you get to supply them.”
Brad walked to the front of the stage and leaned over. He was handed a fresh, cold bottle of beer. “Thanks!” he said, toasting the giver and taking a huge swallow.
“Well, that was original,” Greg snarked. “Anything else?”
An object flew across almost the entire length of the club to land, quivering, at Jeff’s feet. The three men stared down at it for a moment before Greg bent over to pick it up, carefully, and between only two fingers. “Someone’s got some major inadequacy issues.”
“I only hope it’s clean,” Jeff said, eyeing the object—a dark purple, jelly-like double-headed dildo—with extreme distaste.
“Never been used!” came an unidentified voice near the back of the bar.
“No shit,” Greg replied drolly, swinging the thing like a lasso.
The crowd laughed.
“Well, I can see how this gig is gonna go. Ok, the first game we’re going to play is called ‘Change Emotion’. Each of these shitty excuses for props has an emotion attached to it. What’s the emotion for the bottle?”
“Drunk!”
“The originality in this place is fucking astounding. Let me guess, the jellydick is lust, right?”
“YEAH!”
Sighing, Greg shook his head. “Alright. Now we need a place. And if any of you assholes shout out ‘bar’, I’m gonna hurl.”
After one joker shouted out ‘bar’, several decent suggestions were given. Greg picked ‘Arctic Tundra’ because it seemed to give them the most to work with. He handed the dildo over to Jeff, who took it, nose wrinkled, and started off the scene, shielding his eyes as if from the glare off the snow.
“Great going there, Brad,” he growled. “Just had to have another fucking beer when you were supposed to be watching the dogs. Now we’re lost in the middle of the fucking Arctic with no dogs, no sleds, no nothing.”
“We got beer!” Brad hooted, taking another slug and wiping his lips in an exaggerated fashion. “Hic!”
“Let’s see what you can do with that bottle, baby,” Jeff said, eyeing said beer bottle suggestively as he licked his lips.
“Can it, Jeff,” Greg said. “We need to get out of here before we all freeze to death.”
Jeff crossed to Greg, running the tip of the dildo down the center of the other man’s chest. “Aww, Greg, don’t be like that, man! You won’t freeze with me around. I know plenty of ways to keep you warm.”
“Party on!” Brad shouted, toasting nothing and taking another slug. “Hic!”
“Give me that!” Greg snapped, grabbing the dildo from Jeff. His slow, dark grin became sex itself. The audience howled as Greg arched himself into Jeff, whipping the sex toy across the taller man’s backside. “Who was a naughty little explorer, huh?”
“Hey!” Jeff shouted. “Back off! We’re lost, in case you haven’t noticed! We need to build…an igloo or something before it really gets cold.”
“I’m not c-c-cold at all!” Brad said happily. “Hic!”
“Give me that,” Jeff snapped, grabbing the bottle from Brad. He looked at Greg and Brad. “I love you guys,” he gushed, grabbing their shoulders and pulling them in for a group hug. “You guys are just fan-fan-fan-the best!”
Leaning over, Greg deep-throated the longneck, causing the audience to shout and hoot their approval. Smiling, Greg eased back and lewdly tongued the rim, fluttering his tongue inside every so often, making several of the men watching squirm uncomfortably, if excitedly. “Mm,” Greg groaned. “Oh, yes.”
“Give that back,” Jeff said, pulling the bottle away and taking a swig. There wasn’t much left but backwash, so he didn’t swallow. “Well, I dunno (hic!) about the rest of you (hic!) but I’m nice an’ toasted…er…toasty!”
“We gotta build a fire,” Brad said petulantly.
“Lighten up, Brad-man,” Greg oozed, sliding over to the taller man. “Here,” he continued, slapping the dildo across his chest, “take this. It’ll start your fire right the fuck up!”
“Who needs a fire?” Brad said, smiling lustfully. “You and me could start one right here.” He grabbed Greg in a big bear hug and started rubbing their pelvises together, much to the joy of the watching audience. “I think I’m feeling a spark or two right now, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” Greg said. “Not doing a thing for me, jellydick.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’d like to.”
“Nope. I’ll fuck Jeff instead.”
“Huh uh,” Jeff replied. “Me and my bottle are married. Why don’t you fuck him instead?” He pointed to Ryan, who scowled. Jeff smirked. Greg smirked. Brad looked confused.
“I got a compass,” Brad continued, holding the drooping dildo to his crotch like a sundial. “Hm. It’s 3pm!”
“You’re an asshole,” Greg said, grabbing the dildo and deliberately fumbling it. “Oops!” he continued, smirking as the thing slipped ‘accidentally’ out of his hands and landed squarely on Ryan’s lap. Tipping Ryan a wink, he made a subtle ‘come on’ gesture with one hand and, sighing, Ryan stood. The crowd cheered as one of their own appeared to be invited into the game.
All eyes were pinned to the tall, handsome stranger as he stepped confidently up onto the stage, the jelly-dildo grasped lightly in one hand. “So,” he said, easily slipping into character and approaching Greg. “You want to get warm, do you?” he asked, trailing the head of the toy down Greg’s chin and neck, then back up across his lips. “Lick it.”
The audience was moaning in pleasure.
“We need to….”
“Lick it, I said.”
Eyeing Ryan, Greg deliberately opened his lips and licked around the head of the thing. It tasted awful, like melted plastic left in a car to soften and rot for days, but he kept his composure, happy that so easy a trick had gotten Ryan up on stage with them.
The audience moaned some more as Greg took the head into his mouth and began to move along it.
“Nice fire starting tech-tech-thingie you got there, guys,” ‘drunk’ Jeff commented. “Didja learn that in the Scoy Bouts?”
Handing the dildo to Jeff, Ryan grabbed the bottle and immediately began staggering about the stage, humming to himself and grinning at nothing in particular. Brad approached him, smiling as well. “Do you know how to get out of here?”
“GRRRRRRR,” Ryan growled, holding his arms in front of him to their full, long length, the beer bottle at the very end. “GRRRRRR.”
“Holy crap!” Brad shouted, jumping back. “It’s the Abominable Bean Pole, and he’s drunk! RUN!!!”
Greg grabbed the dildo from Jeff and sauntered over to Ryan. “He’s not abominable. He just needs a little lovin, don’t you, tall, white, and skinny?”
“GRRRRRRRRR. (Hic!) EXCUSE ME!”
“Here,” Greg said, handing Ryan the dick back. “That should melt your tude, man.”
Ryan, beer bottle and dildo in hand, paused for just a second before going into the best rendition of a drunk, lustful, Abominable Snowman anyone had ever seen. He was chasing everyone across the stage, and no one seemed in too much of a mind to keep away,
Just when the thing was about to turn into a full-out orgy, the owner came back on and waved the scene to a close, to the boos of the entire audience.
The four men fell together in laughter. “See?” Greg said. “I fucking told you you were a natural, Stiles. Maybe you’ll believe me the next time.”
“I’ll stick to my real job, thanks,” Ryan replied, shoving the bottle and toy into Greg’s chest, though his eyes were smiling. He had enjoyed himself, far more than he’d thought he would. Something about flying by the seat of your pants got to him in a good way, and was so much different than the mostly scripted encounters he had with his customers.
Mostly.
Thursday was coming up. His stage rush ratcheted even higher at the thought.
Business, Ryan, he told himself. Remember, only business.
If only his hormones would listen.
*******
Colin leaned back in his chair, transfixed by the sight on stage. Ryan was up on stage in front of him, prancing around and toying with the other performers like they were his puppets. Who was that man anyhow? As far as Colin knew, he was simply a high-priced male escort, but the man onstage was so much more. He was absolutely brilliant, a natural in the company of professionals. How did he know these guys? His invitation to the stage couldn’t have been a complete coincidence; one of those men must know him well enough to know his apparent innate improv talent. Was he sleeping with one of them? With all of them?
Between the sexually charged show on the stage before him and the relentless thrumming of his brain, struggling to process Ryan’s appearance into his life, Colin found his libido charged and ready. Ryan had sauntered across the stage, a giant purple dildo in his left hand, and Colin had gasped as the sudden image of where he’d like Ryan to put it flashed through his head.
He glanced across the table at Kyle, the outline of his face glowing in the soft light from the tabletop candle. He was quite cute after all, what harm could it do?
“Hey, uh, you wanna get outta here?” Colin asked, already rising and grabbing his coat. He was halfway to the door before he even glanced back, an alcohol laden confidence assuring him that Kyle was indeed following just steps behind.
Colin stumbled out into the cold parking lot, pulling Kyle along behind him. They laughed heartily as they crossed the distance to Colin’s sedan, the evening of drinks cutting the cold better than any winter coat. Colin fumbled with the keys, dropping them into the snow-covered lot several times before finally successfully slipping them into the lock and opening the driver’s side door. He slipped in and hit the lock button, granting entrance to Kyle on the other side.
The door barely shut behind Kyle before his hands were on Colin’s lap, working at his zipper and freeing his now straining erection. Colin gasped slightly as the heat of his shaft met with the cold air of the car, but it was quickly overcome as Kyle’s warm mouth engulfed his cock. His tongue was incredibly talented, drawing senseless patterns up and down the ridge on the underside of Colin’s erection and it wasn’t long before Colin found himself thrusting into Kyle’s waiting mouth.
Colin threaded his fingers through Kyle’s hair, pulling just slightly as the other man ghosted his teeth over his cock. His head lulled back against the headrest, his mouth agape, breath coming in short, heavy pants. Colin could feel the pressure building in his balls, the tightening threatening to throw him of the cliff into orgasmic oblivion. He tried to warn Kyle, but he either didn’t hear or chose to ignore Colin’s words, and he swallowed readily as Colin exploded in violent waves.
Kyle curled up against Colin and nibbled at his neck, the tongue tracing lazy circles over Colin’s collarbone. Colin reclined back in the seat, his breath returning while cold, sober reality settled in like a deep fog. He felt dirty and used, and not the least bit sexy or sated. Kyle glanced up at him expectantly and Colin realized that he was meant to return the favor now.
The evening of alcohol in his stomach churned in slow waves, nausea building exponentially as he tried to gear himself up to the task at hand. His lips were dry and his mouth wet with cold, thick saliva. He swallowed hard and licked at his lips, his mind racing. I can’t do this.
“Uh. I’m sorry. Kyle. Um, thank you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry…..I……uh,” Colin stammered, unable to say the things that he really felt, that he had never gone down on a man before, that he didn’t feel right, that…..That it wasn’t the same as it had been with Ryan. That was what it really came down to, wasn’t it?
“What the fuck man?” Kyle yelled. Gone was the smooth voiced couth man he’d been speaking with all evening, replaced by an irrational, angry drunk. His red eyes projecting nothing but disgust, he opened the car door. “You’re a fucking tease man. You’ve been all over me all night, I fucking go down on you, and you’re fucking sorry? You know what? Fuck you man. I’m fucking sorry. Fucking sorry that I wasted my time. Shit man.”
The tirade continued as he stumbled out of the car and slammed the door. Colin could still hear his rant as he watch Kyle weave across the parking lot and back towards the bar door. He sat there, alone in his car, for a few minutes before starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot, eager to put the night behind him.
Part: 12
Authors: makingamochrie and anesthesiagirl
Pairing: Colin/OM; Ryan, Greg, Jeff, and Brad make appearances!
Rating: Hard R
Summary: A night of improv.
Disclaimer: Don't own anything, please don't sue. AU.
“Are you sure I look alright?” Ryan asked, straightening his tie as he examined himself in the pitted and spotted mirror of the hotel room’s vanity.
Gusting out a sigh, Greg threw his hands in the air in frustration. “Christ almighty, man! We’re not having tea with the fucking Queen! You look fine!”
“Greg….”
“I’m serious, Ry. You look fantastic. If you looked any better, we’d be beating ‘em off with a fucking stick. Now just get your fucking jacket and let’s go already, huh? We’re late as it is.”
Heaving a sigh of his own, Ryan reached for his black leather jacket and slipped it on, zipping it up and tugging on the sleeves. “I know I’m going to regret this. One way or another, I’m going to regret this.”
“Course you are, man! That’s what makes life worth living! Now let’s get a move on.”
Shaking his head, Ryan followed Greg out of the room and down to the parking garage where his rental was stored. It was a Boxter, and Ryan had to sit in it with his chin nearly resting on his knees. Greg smirked. “Just drive,” Ryan growled.
And so he did.
The entrance to the club was brightly lit and smoky when Ryan and Greg finally arrived. In front of them were several presently unoccupied tables. Directly to the left was a blackjack table and dealer. Five seats sat opposite, and all were filled with dazed players deep within gambling fever. Across from the entrance, a long polished wooden bar stood, the wide, swinging white doors to the kitchen directly behind that. Like the blackjack table, the bar was full. To the right were four pool tables, all occupied. A tiny anteroom off to the side held two electronic dartboards and the players currently taking part in the weekly dart tournament.
To the right of all of that stood an empty, largish stage painted matte black. At present, it was simply the repository of dozens of empty beer bottles, beer cans, and plastic cups with the dregs of unidentifiable liquors coating the bottoms.
To the left of the blackjack table stood the entrances to the bathrooms, one for each gender, and to the left of that, a gaudily beaded curtain framed the entrance to a second, darkened room. This room contained another long, crowded, smoky bar, several more tables, all occupied, and a second, smaller stage. Loud disco music blared from hidden speakers, and upon the stage four men, calling themselves The Babe-ettes, strutted their stuff for the twice-weekly drag show.
After paying their covers, Greg grasped Ryan by the elbow and led him to the left, through the glass beads, and into the darkened room beyond. As Ryan resisted the urge to cover his ears—disco had never been his favorite musical genre—Greg grinned almost maniacally and led him over to one of the tables sitting nearest the stage.
The two men sitting at that table noticed him and stood immediately, broad, welcoming grins on their handsome faces. Both were very tall, standing perhaps an inch or two below Ryan’s own six six height, and had short black hair. One was thin and boyish, the other thicker and handsome in a more rugged, he-man sort of way. Both appraised Ryan closely, but not critically, their eyes warm and kind with just a hint of mischief to them.
When they finally made their way through the teeming crowd, both men came around the table and embraced Greg heartily, with a lot of backslapping and name-calling. Ryan stood quietly to one side, aware of a goodly number of eyes on him, until the three friends turned his way.
“Guys,” Greg said, “I’d like you to meet a buddy of mine, Ryan Stiles. Ryan, these assholes are Brad Sherwood and Jeff Davis, wannabe comedians and general all-around fuck-ups.”
As Brad pretended to beat Greg to a pulp, a grinning Jeff reached forward to shake Ryan’s hand, his own soft and warm and almost frail in its bone structure. “It’s nice to meet you!” Jeff shouted over the music and the roar of the crowd.
“Same here!” Ryan shouted back.
“I’m about to make a bar run! What’s your poison?”
“Scotch rocks!”
“Comin’ right up!”
******
Colin cut the ignition, the brick wall in front of the car going dark as he extinguished the headlights. He glanced in the visor mirror, checking that the last few strands of white hair were in place, before he climbed out of car, the soft crunch of gravel under his feet mixing with the muted music that ebbed out of the open door to the club. With a soft sigh of resignation he set off across the parking lot.
Standing in the smoke filled entrance, Colin surveyed the room. He was faced with a broad but warm room with a bar, several gaming options, and what looked like it could serve as a stage…..with an army of maids and a few small miracles. He could hear the same music he’d heard from the parking lot loud and clear now, an upbeat disco tune flowing from what he assumed was a club in the back.
He crossed over the distance of the first room, pulling aside the beaded curtain that separated the rooms, but dropping it quickly at the sight. On the stage were four men strutting around in 70’s go-go girl outfits with elaborate wigs, more sequins than he had ever seen in one place, and the most outlandish platforms he’d ever seen. There was a whole new world awaiting him, but, Colin reasoned, he wasn’t quite ready for drag. At least, not yet.
Colin made his way over to broad mahogany bar on the right, ordered a scotch on the rocks and seated himself at one of the empty tables up against the back wall to watch the room. People came and went, some in pairs or groups, but more were alone. He’d heard about this place from the same friend who’d passed him the card for the escort service, and he’d all but forgotten about it until the morning after he’d slept with Ryan. The club had a bit of a reputation as a high-class pick-up joint with a strict closed-lipped policy.
After that night he couldn’t get the feeling out of his mind. Although he was having a hard time dissociating the pleasure from the giver, he’d spent the past few days reminding himself that it was still, after all, just a business arrangement. At the end of the day, so to speak, he was still the employer and Ryan was the employee and no amount of wishing it was otherwise was going to change that fact.
“Is this seat taken?” Colin was tugged from his introspection by a rich tenor voice accompanied by a dark haired man with slight stubble peppering his chin.
“Uh, no, sure, have a seat,” Colin gestured towards the three other open chairs at the table.
The man sat directly to Colin’s right, angling the chair a bit so that he could face the stage area and was now sitting almost directly next to Colin. “I’m Kyle,” the smooth voice with the not so smooth face offered, his hand extended in Colin’s general direction.
“Oh, hi, sorry, I’m Colin. Nice to meet you.” Colin stumbled, realizing that he hadn’t done the dating scene in nearly 30 years. Was that was he was trying to do, date?
“Uh, you don’t mind,” Kyle gestured, silently acknowledging how close he was sitting to Colin. “The performers tonight are going to be amazing. I used to watch that television show all the time. And besides, you looked like you were enjoying your view of the room.”
Colin chuckled nervously at how transparent he was and how friendly Kyle was as well. He chanced a glance to the man next to him, a martini held in his hand, a well-manicured, but strong hand. Kyle looked back at him and grinned ever so slightly, his face almost boyish save the telltale stubble with the occasional grey intermingled with the dark chocolate.
“So, uh, Kyle, you said there are performers…..not, uh, not the ones in the back?” Colin asked, suddenly aware that he might be treading on thin ice of offending the other man.
“No, no,” Kyle chuckled, “Oh no. The drag thing isn’t my scene. No, these guys are improvisers. You know, comedians who make it all up as they go, no scripts, no monologues?”
“Oh yeah?” Colin asked, suddenly quite interested. His company had sponsored the Just For Laughs Festival for the past few years, and last year he’d finally made a point of attending the show. He’d never laughed harder in his life and, at the insistence of his PR guys, he’d even gone backstage and met some of the performers.
“You’ve probably seen them on television before. Greg Proops, the main guy, was on a show called ‘Whose Line is it Anyway?’ out of the UK….they still rerun it on Comedy Central occasionally, and the other two have done numerous stints. They are all really funny, you’re in for quite a treat tonight.” Kyle finished, his the dark fleck in his eyes dancing as he glanced back at Colin.
“Sounds like fun,” Colin stammered, suddenly taken by the possible double meaning of Kyle’s last words and his desire to blend in for the night. He decided that tonight, he wasn’t the head of a huge, multinational company. No, tonight he was just a regular guy out looking for a good time. He thought about telling Kyle that he’d actually met Greg Proops before, figuring it would make a good impression, but, one look at Kyle said that he didn’t need to pull out any stops tonight.
The two of them chatted idly about just about everything, spanning from politics to entertainment to wine, the conversation flowing almost as easily as the drinks that Kyle kept refilling. Colin distantly noticed that the bar had filled almost to capacity and that the stage, previously covered in bottles and other trash was now cleaned and donned with 3 black leather stools and 3 microphones on stands just ahead of each stool. Leico lights dotted the ceiling at several points and were focused down on the stage, highlighting each stool and illuminating the vast majority of the stage area. The background noise level had risen considerably with the addition of more and more patrons, and Colin found it increasingly more difficult to hear Kyle.
******
As Jeff disappeared into the crowd, Brad finished his mock pummeling of Greg and reached out to shake Ryan’s hand, his grip firm and almost challenging in its strength. The goofy grin on his face, however, belied any challenge his hand might have been telegraphing, and Ryan couldn’t help but smile back. The man looked familiar and he knew he’d seen him somewhere, most likely on television. Leno, maybe.
“Where’d Jeff go?” Greg asked as he pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Bar run,” Ryan answered.
“Ah. Hope he remembers what I like.”
“He always remembers what you like, you damn lush,” Brad replied, slapping Greg on the shoulder.
A moment later, Jeff returned with a tray and drinks, the bar owner, his own tray in hand, in tow. The owner was short and squat, with spiked grey hair, a scraggly goatee, and a belly that a nine-months pregnant woman would envy. The fact that he had a Buddha tattooed on it would come as a surprise to absolutely no one.
“Gentlemen,” he said, laying down the tray and passing out the drinks and a steaming platter of finger foods, “Mr. Proops, I can’t tell you what an honor it is to have you here. If there’s anything I or my staff can do….”
“Just keep the liquor running, man,” Greg said, taking a healthy sip of his top-shelf vodka, “and we’ll be happy.”
“That’s a promise,” the man replied, grinning. “You’re set to go on at nine. Is there anything you’ll need?”
“Beauty of improv, my man,” Greg replied, stretching back in his chair, eyes glued to the stage, “we don’t need anything but an audience, and sometimes not even that.”
“Oh, you’ll have your audience alright. They’re lining up outside the door even as we speak. We didn’t advertise, since you asked us not to, but word does get around.” His grey eyes twinkled. “By the way,” he continued, handing back Greg’s twenty, “there’s no cover for coming to your own show. And the liquor and everything else is on the house. Are you sure you won’t let me pay you for your time?”
“Not a chance, man. We’re in this for the fun of it.”
The other men nodded enthusiastically, and the owner smiled again. “Very well, then. Thanks again, and if there’s anything you need, anything at all, just ask for me.”
“Will do.”
If the music was starting to give Ryan a headache, he actually welcomed it, since it halted those always uncomfortable ‘so, what do you do for a living?’ conversations right in their tracks. Though he was in no way ashamed of what he was, he also wasn’t overly fond of evenings behind bars, either. His trade was still illegal, no matter how many lawyers and judges he serviced each week. And he serviced plenty.
Despite Greg’s request, Ryan noticed that none of the men drank too heavily. That told him that they took what they did seriously. He supposed it was better to play a drunk than to actually be one on stage, though he had no experience in such matters. When you did stand-up in strip clubs, being half smashed out of your fucking gourd pretty much came with the territory. It sure made the hecklers easier to handle. And some of the dancers easier to watch, if the truth be known.
Soon, the last song of the drag show wound down, and the stage lights darkened. It was getting close to nine, and Ryan felt an anticipatory little tingle in his gut even though he wasn’t going to be performing. He found himself looking forward to the show. The men were professionals, and the audience would be in for a treat indeed.
He looked over as Greg tapped him on the shoulder, grinning at him and nodding his head in the direction of the entrance to the other part of the bar. “You ready? We reserved the table in front just for you…and anyone else you might have you eye on, since they all have their fucking eyes on you.”
Ryan looked around, finding Greg’s words for truth. Many of the men, and some of the women, surprisingly, were eyeing him with more than a bit of lust in their drink-glazed eyes. Several of them were extremely attractive, and Ryan felt as much pull as he would have if he was eyeing a blank wall.
Strange, maybe, but he’d come to accept it as part and parcel of what he did for a living. External attractiveness lost its allure after awhile when it was all you knew. Not that he couldn’t be turned on by a hot woman or gorgeous man, but it wasn’t as frequent anymore. It reminded him too much of his work, and right now, that’s what he wanted to forget.
Rising gracefully to his feet, he followed the others back through the gaudy beaded curtain and into the more brightly lit part of the bar. The pool tables had been closed down and covered, and the dart tourney was apparently over. The tables were all full, as was the bar, and people were standing along the walls, or sitting on the floor, waiting excitedly for the show to begin.
Ryan wove his way around the crowd, pretending not to notice the eyes following his every move, and hunched himself down into one of the tiny plastic chairs next to an equally tiny plastic table that his knees didn’t have a prayer of fitting beneath. A fresh scotch was sitting on the table waiting for him, and he sipped it as he turned his chair to face the stage.
The lights dimmed slightly and a murmur rose from the packed house. The owner, microphone in hand, hopped up onto the stage to a generous round of applause. He did a little jig, shaking the stage alarmingly, and waved his hands for quiet. “Gentlemen…and ladies…when I got a call from one of our next guests the other night, asking if he could come over and do some improv for our patrons, I about shit my pants. Seriously!” he shouted over the laughter. “I mean, we’ve had some well-known folks visit us from time to time, but this was just…well, a dream come true for me. Anyway, I’ll stop hogging the stage and introduce our guests for the evening. The first, you may recognize from several appearances on the Drew Carey Show, Mr. Jeff Davis!”
Jeff ran onto the stage to applause and loud wolf whistles from the men salivating over his face and form. He grinned and bowed, then eased over to stage left as the others were introduced.
“The next handsome stud you may have seen on his many gigs on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno, as well as many other television appearances, Mr. Brad Sherwood!”
More wolf-whistles from the excited male members of the crowd as Brad ran on, grinning at them all and waving.
“And last, but certainly by no means least, a gentleman who has stumped for the cause of gay rights almost as soon as he could talk, a scathing and brilliant comedian seen all over the world—and I do mean all over the world—and known for his improv work on a little show called Whose Line is it Anyway, it is my honor and pleasure to welcome to our stage tonight, Mr. Greg Proops!”
The crowd absolutely erupted as Greg casually strolled on stage, waving as he grabbed the mic from the bar owner’s hand and gave him a kiss on both cheeks. The man pretended to faint and Greg laughed. “Hello, Toronto, you fucking hosers! Are you ready to rock?”
“YEAH!!!”
“Ok, for you folks who don’t know what improv is, it’s where us guys up here on stage make up shit off the top of our heads with help from you. If you give us shitty suggestions, we give you shitty improv. If you give us good shit, you laugh. See how that works?”
Cheers.
“Good. Now, the first game that we’re going to play requires a couple of props. Since we didn’t bring any, you get to supply them.”
Brad walked to the front of the stage and leaned over. He was handed a fresh, cold bottle of beer. “Thanks!” he said, toasting the giver and taking a huge swallow.
“Well, that was original,” Greg snarked. “Anything else?”
An object flew across almost the entire length of the club to land, quivering, at Jeff’s feet. The three men stared down at it for a moment before Greg bent over to pick it up, carefully, and between only two fingers. “Someone’s got some major inadequacy issues.”
“I only hope it’s clean,” Jeff said, eyeing the object—a dark purple, jelly-like double-headed dildo—with extreme distaste.
“Never been used!” came an unidentified voice near the back of the bar.
“No shit,” Greg replied drolly, swinging the thing like a lasso.
The crowd laughed.
“Well, I can see how this gig is gonna go. Ok, the first game we’re going to play is called ‘Change Emotion’. Each of these shitty excuses for props has an emotion attached to it. What’s the emotion for the bottle?”
“Drunk!”
“The originality in this place is fucking astounding. Let me guess, the jellydick is lust, right?”
“YEAH!”
Sighing, Greg shook his head. “Alright. Now we need a place. And if any of you assholes shout out ‘bar’, I’m gonna hurl.”
After one joker shouted out ‘bar’, several decent suggestions were given. Greg picked ‘Arctic Tundra’ because it seemed to give them the most to work with. He handed the dildo over to Jeff, who took it, nose wrinkled, and started off the scene, shielding his eyes as if from the glare off the snow.
“Great going there, Brad,” he growled. “Just had to have another fucking beer when you were supposed to be watching the dogs. Now we’re lost in the middle of the fucking Arctic with no dogs, no sleds, no nothing.”
“We got beer!” Brad hooted, taking another slug and wiping his lips in an exaggerated fashion. “Hic!”
“Let’s see what you can do with that bottle, baby,” Jeff said, eyeing said beer bottle suggestively as he licked his lips.
“Can it, Jeff,” Greg said. “We need to get out of here before we all freeze to death.”
Jeff crossed to Greg, running the tip of the dildo down the center of the other man’s chest. “Aww, Greg, don’t be like that, man! You won’t freeze with me around. I know plenty of ways to keep you warm.”
“Party on!” Brad shouted, toasting nothing and taking another slug. “Hic!”
“Give me that!” Greg snapped, grabbing the dildo from Jeff. His slow, dark grin became sex itself. The audience howled as Greg arched himself into Jeff, whipping the sex toy across the taller man’s backside. “Who was a naughty little explorer, huh?”
“Hey!” Jeff shouted. “Back off! We’re lost, in case you haven’t noticed! We need to build…an igloo or something before it really gets cold.”
“I’m not c-c-cold at all!” Brad said happily. “Hic!”
“Give me that,” Jeff snapped, grabbing the bottle from Brad. He looked at Greg and Brad. “I love you guys,” he gushed, grabbing their shoulders and pulling them in for a group hug. “You guys are just fan-fan-fan-the best!”
Leaning over, Greg deep-throated the longneck, causing the audience to shout and hoot their approval. Smiling, Greg eased back and lewdly tongued the rim, fluttering his tongue inside every so often, making several of the men watching squirm uncomfortably, if excitedly. “Mm,” Greg groaned. “Oh, yes.”
“Give that back,” Jeff said, pulling the bottle away and taking a swig. There wasn’t much left but backwash, so he didn’t swallow. “Well, I dunno (hic!) about the rest of you (hic!) but I’m nice an’ toasted…er…toasty!”
“We gotta build a fire,” Brad said petulantly.
“Lighten up, Brad-man,” Greg oozed, sliding over to the taller man. “Here,” he continued, slapping the dildo across his chest, “take this. It’ll start your fire right the fuck up!”
“Who needs a fire?” Brad said, smiling lustfully. “You and me could start one right here.” He grabbed Greg in a big bear hug and started rubbing their pelvises together, much to the joy of the watching audience. “I think I’m feeling a spark or two right now, aren’t you?”
“Sorry,” Greg said. “Not doing a thing for me, jellydick.”
“Fuck you.”
“You’d like to.”
“Nope. I’ll fuck Jeff instead.”
“Huh uh,” Jeff replied. “Me and my bottle are married. Why don’t you fuck him instead?” He pointed to Ryan, who scowled. Jeff smirked. Greg smirked. Brad looked confused.
“I got a compass,” Brad continued, holding the drooping dildo to his crotch like a sundial. “Hm. It’s 3pm!”
“You’re an asshole,” Greg said, grabbing the dildo and deliberately fumbling it. “Oops!” he continued, smirking as the thing slipped ‘accidentally’ out of his hands and landed squarely on Ryan’s lap. Tipping Ryan a wink, he made a subtle ‘come on’ gesture with one hand and, sighing, Ryan stood. The crowd cheered as one of their own appeared to be invited into the game.
All eyes were pinned to the tall, handsome stranger as he stepped confidently up onto the stage, the jelly-dildo grasped lightly in one hand. “So,” he said, easily slipping into character and approaching Greg. “You want to get warm, do you?” he asked, trailing the head of the toy down Greg’s chin and neck, then back up across his lips. “Lick it.”
The audience was moaning in pleasure.
“We need to….”
“Lick it, I said.”
Eyeing Ryan, Greg deliberately opened his lips and licked around the head of the thing. It tasted awful, like melted plastic left in a car to soften and rot for days, but he kept his composure, happy that so easy a trick had gotten Ryan up on stage with them.
The audience moaned some more as Greg took the head into his mouth and began to move along it.
“Nice fire starting tech-tech-thingie you got there, guys,” ‘drunk’ Jeff commented. “Didja learn that in the Scoy Bouts?”
Handing the dildo to Jeff, Ryan grabbed the bottle and immediately began staggering about the stage, humming to himself and grinning at nothing in particular. Brad approached him, smiling as well. “Do you know how to get out of here?”
“GRRRRRRR,” Ryan growled, holding his arms in front of him to their full, long length, the beer bottle at the very end. “GRRRRRR.”
“Holy crap!” Brad shouted, jumping back. “It’s the Abominable Bean Pole, and he’s drunk! RUN!!!”
Greg grabbed the dildo from Jeff and sauntered over to Ryan. “He’s not abominable. He just needs a little lovin, don’t you, tall, white, and skinny?”
“GRRRRRRRRR. (Hic!) EXCUSE ME!”
“Here,” Greg said, handing Ryan the dick back. “That should melt your tude, man.”
Ryan, beer bottle and dildo in hand, paused for just a second before going into the best rendition of a drunk, lustful, Abominable Snowman anyone had ever seen. He was chasing everyone across the stage, and no one seemed in too much of a mind to keep away,
Just when the thing was about to turn into a full-out orgy, the owner came back on and waved the scene to a close, to the boos of the entire audience.
The four men fell together in laughter. “See?” Greg said. “I fucking told you you were a natural, Stiles. Maybe you’ll believe me the next time.”
“I’ll stick to my real job, thanks,” Ryan replied, shoving the bottle and toy into Greg’s chest, though his eyes were smiling. He had enjoyed himself, far more than he’d thought he would. Something about flying by the seat of your pants got to him in a good way, and was so much different than the mostly scripted encounters he had with his customers.
Mostly.
Thursday was coming up. His stage rush ratcheted even higher at the thought.
Business, Ryan, he told himself. Remember, only business.
If only his hormones would listen.
*******
Colin leaned back in his chair, transfixed by the sight on stage. Ryan was up on stage in front of him, prancing around and toying with the other performers like they were his puppets. Who was that man anyhow? As far as Colin knew, he was simply a high-priced male escort, but the man onstage was so much more. He was absolutely brilliant, a natural in the company of professionals. How did he know these guys? His invitation to the stage couldn’t have been a complete coincidence; one of those men must know him well enough to know his apparent innate improv talent. Was he sleeping with one of them? With all of them?
Between the sexually charged show on the stage before him and the relentless thrumming of his brain, struggling to process Ryan’s appearance into his life, Colin found his libido charged and ready. Ryan had sauntered across the stage, a giant purple dildo in his left hand, and Colin had gasped as the sudden image of where he’d like Ryan to put it flashed through his head.
He glanced across the table at Kyle, the outline of his face glowing in the soft light from the tabletop candle. He was quite cute after all, what harm could it do?
“Hey, uh, you wanna get outta here?” Colin asked, already rising and grabbing his coat. He was halfway to the door before he even glanced back, an alcohol laden confidence assuring him that Kyle was indeed following just steps behind.
Colin stumbled out into the cold parking lot, pulling Kyle along behind him. They laughed heartily as they crossed the distance to Colin’s sedan, the evening of drinks cutting the cold better than any winter coat. Colin fumbled with the keys, dropping them into the snow-covered lot several times before finally successfully slipping them into the lock and opening the driver’s side door. He slipped in and hit the lock button, granting entrance to Kyle on the other side.
The door barely shut behind Kyle before his hands were on Colin’s lap, working at his zipper and freeing his now straining erection. Colin gasped slightly as the heat of his shaft met with the cold air of the car, but it was quickly overcome as Kyle’s warm mouth engulfed his cock. His tongue was incredibly talented, drawing senseless patterns up and down the ridge on the underside of Colin’s erection and it wasn’t long before Colin found himself thrusting into Kyle’s waiting mouth.
Colin threaded his fingers through Kyle’s hair, pulling just slightly as the other man ghosted his teeth over his cock. His head lulled back against the headrest, his mouth agape, breath coming in short, heavy pants. Colin could feel the pressure building in his balls, the tightening threatening to throw him of the cliff into orgasmic oblivion. He tried to warn Kyle, but he either didn’t hear or chose to ignore Colin’s words, and he swallowed readily as Colin exploded in violent waves.
Kyle curled up against Colin and nibbled at his neck, the tongue tracing lazy circles over Colin’s collarbone. Colin reclined back in the seat, his breath returning while cold, sober reality settled in like a deep fog. He felt dirty and used, and not the least bit sexy or sated. Kyle glanced up at him expectantly and Colin realized that he was meant to return the favor now.
The evening of alcohol in his stomach churned in slow waves, nausea building exponentially as he tried to gear himself up to the task at hand. His lips were dry and his mouth wet with cold, thick saliva. He swallowed hard and licked at his lips, his mind racing. I can’t do this.
“Uh. I’m sorry. Kyle. Um, thank you, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. I’m sorry…..I……uh,” Colin stammered, unable to say the things that he really felt, that he had never gone down on a man before, that he didn’t feel right, that…..That it wasn’t the same as it had been with Ryan. That was what it really came down to, wasn’t it?
“What the fuck man?” Kyle yelled. Gone was the smooth voiced couth man he’d been speaking with all evening, replaced by an irrational, angry drunk. His red eyes projecting nothing but disgust, he opened the car door. “You’re a fucking tease man. You’ve been all over me all night, I fucking go down on you, and you’re fucking sorry? You know what? Fuck you man. I’m fucking sorry. Fucking sorry that I wasted my time. Shit man.”
The tirade continued as he stumbled out of the car and slammed the door. Colin could still hear his rant as he watch Kyle weave across the parking lot and back towards the bar door. He sat there, alone in his car, for a few minutes before starting the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot, eager to put the night behind him.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}