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.
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.
Some kids would have knuckled under and done whatever the teachers wanted or the bully said.
Not Morgan.
He was a fighter. So he came out swinging. Trouble was, his growth spurt came late, so he was among the smallest, and the bully and his gang kept kicking the crap out of him. Morgan grew up with bruises and bloody noses. He watched videos on self-defense, and that helped, and his mom sprung for a used set of weights one birthday, but he was still smaller and out-numbered.
When he was 16, he sprouted to almost six feet and filled it out with muscles from hours spent with his weights.
The day he turned 17 he quit school and joined the army. And found boxing.
The army gave him good basic training and they saw his enthusiasm for boxing, where his quickness and his aggression were an asset. He was quick on his feet and he had stopping power with both hands. When he was fresh and especially when he was feeling angry at the world, even the more seasoned boxers took him seriously.
But he still had a problem with authority. There were only so many stupid orders a man could take in a day, and when you're a private you're at the low end of the totem pole with lots of sergeants and lieutenants and other inflated-ego types who like to boss you around. So he was written up for insubordination rather too often and given all sorts of crap punishment duties.
It didn't help that the asshole sergeant had caught him naked in the shower room a couple of times, being serviced by other privates. That was one good thing about the army. Lots of men living together without any women around, and once the other guys saw what Morgan had between his legs, well, who could blame them for wanting to service that or blame Morgan for letting them get down on their knees?
But the army didn't see it that way, and by 18 they said goodbye and discharged him.
At 20 he was driving a cab. Maybe drinking a little too much. But still hitting the weights and now a punching bag he'd acquired along the way.
By 25 he'd almost saved enough money for a down-payment on a limousine--the fancy cars were where the big money was--and at 25, two years ago, a guy got in his cab, a kid in jeans and sandals with lips and a derrière you could die for. He bought him a beer and told him so.
The crap life was behind him. He had one limo. Almost enough saved up to get another. And an incredibly hot boyfriend.
Up ahead now was the Stall. Morgan looked at his watch. Closing in on midnight. In the darkness alongside the bar was the alley where he parked his limo. He pulled into it until he was just past the side exit. Then he turned out the headlights, killed the motor, got out, and moved into the darkness.
And put on leather gloves to protect his hands.
* *
Jones sat alone at the corner of the bar, quietly elegant in his three-piece suit. He had an ordinary face and an ordinary name, and somehow he was not the sort of man you'd notice or remember unless you made an effort to. He'd positioned himself so that without seeming to intrude he could watch the movements of the couple that had begun their sex dance at the pool table but were now seated at a secluded table.
He'd seen Stevie in action before, and he was a tempting option. Though Stevie was also a magnet for other good-looking men, and that expanded the range of candidates, which made Jones's job easier. He worked for a highly select clientele, so it was good to have as many options as possible.
"You only want what I've got physically," Stevie said, sipping the beer the man had bought for him, seated at the corner table in the Stall, looking into the man's eyes. The clock on the wall said it was about twenty minutes to midnight. "And like the others you just want a quickie or a one-night stand."
"I'm not like that, I told you already," the corporate lawyer said.
Stevie shook his head.
"Why don't you trust me?"
"Because men lie. They all lie, especially when it comes to sex. I'm not counting my boyfriend, he's different."
"Some attentive guy your boyfriend is, if you ask me--leaving you alone at night in a rough place like this."
"He has a job." Stevie reached across, placing his hand on the little table next to the man's, and looked him in the eyes. "How many years of education do you have?"
