Walter Pinge has no life. It was a phrase commonly heard whispered across the floor. That, and talk of how committed he was to his job.
He sat in his private office, day in and day out, quietly number crunching, his obviously intellectual mind constantly churning over behind his thick, black-rimmed glasses. Not even his straight brown hair could hide his palpable intelligence, despite falling flat against his forehead as if to distract one's attention from his mind.
At staff functions he barely said a word, except perhaps to briefly critique a new book he'd just finished reading, or to sprout the virtues of art house cinema. On the rare occasion that Walter spoke of a holiday adventure (like the time he went to Switzerland and spend two weeks snowbound in his hotel suite), a ripple of excitement surged through his work colleagues and they listened intently to how he spent his time. It wasn't that Walter was a particularly good storyteller, but more the fact that he had something to say.
Underneath his neatly pressed suit and matching tie, the girls in the office (and perhaps a few boys) fancied him as a mild mannered Clark Kent, turning into the man of steel every evening to rescue damsels in distress. For one of the few things everyone knew about Walter was the "me" time he spent at the gym several times per week. While the question of why someone so dull should require any time out for himself was beyond everyone's comprehension, but the result was well justified, as evidenced by his V-shaped physique.
Indeed, despite his painful lack of personality, a number of the office flirts had attempted at one time or another to ask Walter out on a date.
"It's the quiet one's you have to watch out for," they'd say, grinning from ear to ear in anticipation of success. Surely someone so tedious must also be lonely and would jump at the chance to have a little company. But Walter always turned them down in his usual polite way and no excuse offered.
Some of the guys even tried occasionally to help Walter out of his shell.
"He just needs a good lay!" they'd proclaim, "and attempt to get Walter out to a strip joint, football match or on a double date with someone's sister. One time they even offered to hire a prostitute for him, but again, Walter declined, politely grateful but adamantly disinterested in the prospect of a night with the boys.
Over time, the offers had become less, much to Walter's relief, though the occasional invitation to a group function or social event still came his way. Of those, he attended very few - namely those held for specific reasons rather than the ones organised for the Hell of it. He was there every Christmas for the obligatory luncheon, and was one of the first to say 'yes' to drinks after work when Barry announced the arrival of his first child. But other than these rare instances, he remained aloof and kept his working life firmly apart from his personal.
In more ways than one, it was probably a good thing that Walter chose to lead his life as such because many people, as he once learned the hard way, simply wouldn't understand.
He led a comfortable life; the proud owner of a Bentley and a four-wheel drive, and he lived alone in the ample space of his own two-storey, beach-side house, paid in cash and cared for by a part time maid who attended three times a week to spring clean.
It was thought, by those supposedly in the know, that the distinct lack of a social circle in Walter's life brought about these fabulous possessions. After all, he had very little to spend his money on, so he was able to save and save and progressively purchase the envious belongings.
But as some had fantasised, the truth was his alone for the keeping. Come 6.00 pm, as the train returned him only a few blocks away from his home, he had already consulted his diary and check for messages outlining any late appointments. Businessmen, politicians, celebrities and other wealthy denizens clamoured for his favours and paid handsomely for his time.
At home from another boring day in the office, Walter would peel off his business attire and refresh himself with a nice long shower, using the moment to playfully examine his tight, smooth frame and to prepare for the evening ahead.
On stepping out of the shower, he would stand before the mahogany-framed full-length mirror and admire his Adonis-like physique. With washboard abs and a powerful protruding chest, his large nipples were like two dark lighthouses, protruding out above the hard, bumpy terrain of muscle.
Inevitably, his 7" cock would be hard, after fondling it under the revitalizing flow of warm water, so he'd stroke it a few times, ensuring the white ammunition was ready to surge out when needed.
A touch of wax, and his flat, lifeless hair would blossom into a mess of youthful design, lowering his age from 30 to an acceptable 24 in the eyes of the beholder. His smooth, baby soft skin was a blessing aided by moisturiser and an asset which he prayed would never go away.
Inside a cabinet, a large array of frames matched every character he played, but on this night he chose contact lenses.
Toothpaste, deodorant, and a touch of mouthwash inevitably preceded the final stages of transformation as Walter made his way to the extensive walk-in wardrobe that offered clothing for all appeal. His tight buns would ripple with each deliberate step and his cock would slowly soften on the journey to the neighbouring room.
Once clothed, Walter would cease to exist. In his place would be 'Steve', the randy ranch hand ready for a ride; or perhaps 'Sir', the harsh bondage master about to punish his slave; or even 'Tommy', the over-developed school captain eager for his first experience off the playing field.
But on this night Walter's companion was the kind which brought him no end of joy. Corey was the son of a New Zealand politician. He was Walter's age and build and he sought no more than 'Adam', a gentle, loving guy of equal standing.
Corey's loneliness stemmed from life in the public eye and his desire for Walter's presence frequently accompanied his journey to Australia deep in his father's shadow.
Corey was a kind, handsome man who sought nothing more than the intimacy he found difficult to achieve back home. His sexuality and the money-hungry hoards that quickly befriended him made romance an impossibility, a difficulty aided by the constant presence of the media. In 'Adam's' arms, he would lose himself completely and become the much loved Everyman of the street, neither known or unknown; neither noticed or unnoticed. Three hours of pure romance and love, beginning with a candle lit dinner and ending when the clock struck 11. And all for only $1,000 a session.
The thought of Corey would always make Walter smile. It was a smile filled with as much fondness as it was pity. He liked Corey, and should fate ever take him that way, he would gladly give it all up for a lifetime of bliss with a man he could respect and admire. For despite the inner sadness, Corey's strength ensured an exterior of smiles and a commitment to go on. After numerous liaisons however, Walter had learned to see through Corey's veneer and found an aching soul that longed for nothing more than to be loved.
It was a need Walter found in all of his clients, but none so profoundly as Corey. He was the only one who paid in advance rather than breaking the spell with the necessary business. All his other clients simply paid on arrival and stated what they wanted. Corey was different. From the moment 'Adam' arrived, the fantasy had to be real.
Every human needs another regardless of how deeply they may bury that emotion. Of that fact, Walter was sure, for he too desired to love and be loved. But his profession had taught him that love can not only be bought, but performed. His evening occupation taught him harshly that caring was a sin and could only lead to pain. As much as he wanted the very thing that he sold, he knew he could no longer give it unless it was paid for in advance.
On this evening of thought, the wanderings of his mind lead to the recent telecast of the Tony Awards and he chuckled to himself at a vision of his personas accepting a joint award for Best Actor in a live performance. But the chuckle soon turned to a sigh as he thought once more about Corey and the hard reality of the vision. Corey was the closest he had ever come to being 'real' with a client. Money or no money, his fondness for Corey was only thinly disguised by the romantic play-acting he bestowed.
The clock struck seven and Walter snapped out of his reverie to select his attire. A tuxedo tonight, with top hat and tails for dancing. Corey's request had been simple - a reunion to celebrate their meeting once more after nine months apart. As governments tightened their belts, Corey's visits had become less frequent, but this recent pause had been longer than ever.
Walter mused over the sense of excitement that infiltrated his stomach as he wrapped the cumberband around his narrow waist. Keeping traditional, he had chosen the black and white tuxedo and he couldn't help but admire the way the cumberband highlighted his narrow waist and broad shoulders. The jacket was next, falling gracefully to the backs of his knees, and he spun around before dancing elegantly with an imaginary partner, softly humming a tune played by the best of orchestras in his mind.
