by Rob Manary
“You’re sorry. That makes everything better?” She echoes the words I had used on her seemingly so long ago.
“You ever do something stupid, St. Claire? Something you wish you could take back?” She had used my words. I use hers. I move to take her into my arms. She punches me in the chest but her heart isn’t in it.
“Don’t you ever talk to me like that again. You made me feel like a whore.”
“I’m sorry.” She lets me take her into my arms. I hold her while she cries. We stay locked together in that embrace for a long time.
Tuesday, Day 23
Last night before St. Claire and I took to bed she changed my bloody bandages. I fear I’ve undone all the healing of the last several days. I can’t move my fingers without being rewarded with bolts of white hot lances of pain shooting up my arm. She doesn’t ask what has happened. She knows.
Our alarm rouses us from sleep, and although I’ve been trying not to start each entry by stating St. Claire is in my arms, I can’t state enough how much I love the feel of her in my arms as I wake. And she wakes in my arms.
She doesn’t let me see my hands as she changes the bandages this morning. “I’m not letting you get into the shower,” she says. I fear the worst.
She brings a basin from the bathroom and washes me. She takes her time. I can see in her eyes she is delighted to lavish affection on me this way. I love her ministrations. She especially takes her time washing my cock. I know she loves my cock. I grow hard. “No time,” she warns as she bends down to kiss my hardness. She takes me into her mouth and runs her tongue around the head of my throbbing manhood. I gasp.
“Sorry, Icarus,” she giggles, looking up at me. “No time.” She bends once more to take me into her mouth, sucking me gently for a moment. I can feel the pre-cum leaking out of me.
“Mmm,” she half purrs and I can feel her tongue lick the semen from my tip. She looks up into my eyes with a wicked grin and straightens from my dick. “No time.”
“Fucking tease,” I growl at her.
“You love me,” she says.
“I do,” I say.
“I want to see you with stubble. You looked pretty hot with stubble,” she laughs breaking the mood. “Either that or I’m too lazy to shave you this morning.”
In a pair of jeans and a navy sweater she dresses me. She drapes the gold scarf around my neck. I don’t know how she manages to pick out clothes that perfectly accentuate my lean, toned frame, but she does.
St. Claire is predictable. She lays out the clothes she is going to wear to rehearsal, a pair of grey sweats and a t-shirt, before she goes into the shower. She also packs a gym bag with the clothes she will change into for our night with Guy and Wayne. Between her jeans and sweater in the gym bag I place the large square box I had picked up from Studio 1098. She will find it when she dresses for the evening.
St. Claire comes out of the shower and I watch her dress. I want to move to her, take her by the waist and force her to the bed. I know my hands won’t allow it. St. Claire had also stopped us from really getting started with her ‘no time’ warning. I know better than trying to change her mind about anything. She is a strong and independent woman.
She is dressed and moving towards the door before she remembers she hadn’t kissed me goodbye. She moves to the bed and takes my lips. It starts with a quick peck, her lips barely on mine, but she lets her lips linger. I open my mouth to hers and slide my tongue between her lips. She opens her mouth to mine and sucks my tongue. The kiss stretches.
“Fuck, Icarus, do you always have to send me off to work creaming my pants?”
And she is gone.
I settle on the couch and read for a couple hours. My cell phone rings around noon. I make sure to say, “Hello.”
“Icarus.” I can hear the excitement in St. Claire’s voice. “I just got off the phone with Iggy Pop. Iggy fucking Pop!” I find it sweet how the biggest rock star in the world can be so star struck. “He loves my version of ‘I Wanna Be Your Dog.’ We’ve been doing it in rehearsal but we weren’t sure if we could do it on tour without his permission. Fuck, I probably shouldn’t have done it on Much Live without talking to his people. But he fucking loves it, Icarus. We talked for almost an hour. He thinks I should record the song in rehearsal and just release it free on the internet. I’m babbling, but fuck, just fuck, Iggy Pop loved my cover!” she squeals. “We’re going to record it tomorrow, if we can, and release it tomorrow night, maybe. Rough and raw and rock and roll. I want you to be here when I record it. Say you’ll be here!”
“I’ll be there.” I smile. I love it when she is like this.
“I’ve got to go. I’ve got a thousand things to do. I’ll talk to you soon.” She hangs up. I’m not sure if it is her turn. I smile some more.
She calls several more times in the afternoon. She gushes more about Iggy Pop, and bitches about difficulties getting the sound equipment to record a quality version of “I Wanna Be Your Dog” at the last minute. She’s decided to shoot a video to accompany the release. Just she and the band tearing through the song. Both are to be released on the internet only. With no fanfare they are going to release the track on her website and on iTunes. I’m happy for her. In a small way I know I have contributed. This, too, makes me happy.
She is supposed to pick me up at ten. I know she has found the box from Studio 1098 when she calls me shortly after nine. There is a long pause after I say, “Hello.”
“Icarus,” she offers finally.
“Yes?” I smile. I have taken her to the ropes. I have taken her breath.
“I love it,” she stammers.
“I knew you would.”
“I’m definitely going to have to put out tonight,” she laughs before growing serious. “Thank you, Icarus. Fuck, just fuck, thank you. I’ll see you soon.”
It’s my turn to hang up, so I do.
St. Claire’s limo pulls up in front of our condo at exactly ten. I’m in the car before the driver has a chance to get his door open. Wayne and Guy are already in the back. They sit facing St. Claire and are holding hands. I’m happy for the two of them.
Around St. Claire’s neck is the custom piece from Studio 1098. It is a thick platinum necklace with a two karat flawless heart shaped arctic diamond hanging from it. St. Claire bites her lip and fingers the diamond as she takes my hand.
“Someone’s getting a blowjob tonight,” Guy teases.
“Is it me?” Wayne asks.
Guy squeezes his hand. “Of course,” he laughs, “But someone else in this car is getting head tonight, too.”
I laugh and shake my head. Wayne has not just come out of the closet, the closet door has flown open, and Wayne has come screaming out. St. Claire is laughing, too, as she leans close to me and whispers, “Advantage, Icarus.” I nod and kiss her while Wayne and Guy look on with ridiculously large smiles on their faces.
“Tell Brandon how we met,” Guy prods Wayne.
Wayne looks a little uncomfortable. “You tell him,” he says. Wayne is such a poor liar I am surprised we have gotten away with this subterfuge as long as we have. Suddenly, I want to confess everything to St. Claire but I don’t know how. The hole is too deep.
“There was a problem with the hotel’s billing system. I had to come down and straighten it out,” Guy begins. The way he steals glances at Wayne I can tell he is as much in love with Wayne as I am with St. Claire. “Wayne was stumbling around the lobby. I rescued him. Took him out for drinks. Had to get him drunk three or four times before I could take advantage of him. Poor dear thought he was straight until I got hold of him,” he laughs.
“I was straight!” Wayne half heartedly protests. “I batted a bit for your team in college but I was straight until you got hold of me.” Wayne laughs and pats Guy’s hand.
“It’s your team now, too,” Guy teases. They kiss. That always makes me uncomfortable. I’m not homophobic and maybe have a few college stories of my own, but I don’t care to watch two men kiss.
I turn to St. Claire; she senses my discomfort and takes my lips. The heat of our kiss makes Wayne and Guy’s quick peck look incredible chaste. St. Claire’s mouth is full of urgency, her kiss fuels my desire. I’m half tempted to throw her down and fuck her right in front of Wayne and Guy. The thought actually does cross my mind. I hear Wayne or Guy start to applaud. Whoever has started to clap it doesn’t matter as the other joins in. St. Claire sighs and playfully pushes me from her.
“I’m just irresistible,” Guy says. “But Mr. Mysterio still won’t tell me what he does for a living. He told me he’s a fisherman.” Guy shakes his head and tenderly grabs Wayne’s cheeks. “Look at that face. Does he look like a fisherman? I didn’t believe him so then he told me a wealthy aunt had passed away and he was living off his inheritance. I don’t know if I believe that either. I love him. He’ll tell me the truth when he’s ready.” Wayne looks caught. “I’m afraid he’s really a high priced escort and that I’ll get a bill.” Guy laughs genuinely.
“For you… no charge.” Wayne laughs a touch nervously.
The car glides down Church Street and we arrive at Crews & Tangos. “I know one of the performers,” Guy says. “And fags just love Rachel,” he teases. “My friend does a Rachel St. Claire set. I hope my boy does it tonight.”
The driver opens our door and we exit the car. The four of us make our way inside. There is a drag queen on stage lip synching to No Doubt’s “It’s My Life.” He wears a deep blue sequined ball gown. He is overweight and stretches out the fabric. When he gets to the chorus another queen comes out sporting a box of Life cereal, a carton of milk, a bowl and a spoon. The heavy queen keeps lip syncing. “It’s my life,” she mouths and pours herself a bowl of the cereal. She happily douses it with milk and sloppily eats and lip syncs between mouthfuls.
I look to St. Claire and she is laughing. I laugh, too. The place is enormous but only half full, I would guess. It is not yet eleven, still early. We draw glances as we enter and take a table. A waiter pounces as soon as we are seated. Wayne and Guy order a couple of vodka and cranberries. I order a rum and coke and St. Claire orders a Long Island Iced Tea. The waiter smiles broadly. He knows who we are. Of course he knows who we are.
“Is Katherine Dior working tonight?” Guy asks the waiter as the chubby drag queen bows to a smattering of applause and leaves the stage. The DJ plays something soulless and electronic. I don’t care for dance music.
“Yes, she is,” the waiter says.
“Tell the bitch she has to do Rachel St. Claire tonight,” he laughs. “Tell her Rachel St. Claire is here and wants to see what she would look like if she had a cock.” Guy laughs. I shake my head and St. Claire laughs. Wayne laughs, too.
The drinks arrive and I reach for my wallet. The waiter smiles and points to a couple of guys at the bar. “They’ve got this round.” The waiter smiles and points to another table. “They’ve got the next round.” He looks around and points to yet another table. “And they’ve got the one after that. Then I’m buying a round.”
As our benefactors are pointed out St. Claire raises her glass and offers her most beautiful smile to each. “Thank you,” she mouths, and as the waiter makes his offer St. Claire leans forward and gives him a peck on the check. He laughs. “I’d rather have a kiss from Brandon,” he jokes. Guy, Wayne, and St. Claire look at me expectantly. St. Claire’s eyes dare me. I lean forward and give the waiter a peck on the check. St. Claire grins and claps. Wayne and Guy laugh.
“If you weren’t so obviously in love with Rachel I’d try to turn you like I turned Wayne,” Guy says. The waiter retreats, the stage goes dark, and another performer is announced.
“Please welcome to the stage, Farra N Hyte!” There is another obligatory less than resounding clamour as the few patrons of Crews respond to the DJ’s prompting.
I would not have guessed that the performer who makes his way on stage is a man. In fact, Farra makes quite an attractive woman. She moves her lips to Cher’s “Believe” and she owns the stage. Farra’s charisma is undeniable. Her second number is another Cher song, one I don’t recognize. I steal a glance at St. Claire. She seems as captivated by Farra as I am. After each song Farra gains more and more of a reaction from the crowd. By the end of the third song, another Cher song I’m not familiar with, the crowd’s applause drowns out whatever the DJ might be saying. Farra looks directly at me and licks her lips seductively before looking to St. Claire and winking. St. Claire laughs and shakes her head. The electronic music returns.
A couple of forgettable drag queens come and go on the stage. We are on our fifth or sixth round of drinks when Guy’s friend is announced with a: “Please welcome to the stage, Katherine Dior!” I switched to straight coke after the first round. I don’t want to greet tomorrow with a hangover, and I certainly don’t want to miss a second of the blowjob Guy had foretold. St. Claire is feeling the effects of her Long Island Ice Teas. She touches my leg often, and under the table she massages my cock several times.
Katherine Dior appears and I am startled for a second at the resemblance she bears to St. Claire. Red curls fall in tiny ringlets around Dior’s face exactly as they frame St. Claire’s. St. Claire had worn a one piece cat suit for her “I Want To Be Dirty” video. The skin tight cat suit is duplicated on Dior’s frame. “Fuck,” St. Claire laughs. “Fuck, he looks just like me.”
“He’s got bigger tits,” Guy teases and gains a punch in the arm from St. Claire. “Look, Brandon, you can fuck twins.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time he fucked twins,” Wayne says, caught up in the teasing.
Dior is just finishing lip syncing her way through St. Claire’s “I Want To Be Dirty”. She ends just as Wayne’s slip falls from his lips. St. Claire turns to Wayne with a confused look and scrunched eyebrows but stands as Dior finishes and claps louder than anyone. St. Claire is a little unsteady on her feet. I hope Wayne’s words are forgotten in her several iced teas. Dior beams at the praise from the rock goddess, flushing a little red in her cheeks.
I shake my head and look at St. Claire. “You’re drunk.”
St. Claire smirks and grins wickedly. “A little.”
Dior then launches into St. Claire’s second single, “Angel Wings.” I’m still a little stunned at St. Claire’s doppelganger and a little worried about Wayne’s slip up. Dior prowls the stage with all the smoldering sexuality of the woman I love. My St. Claire takes her seat. The waiter arrives with a tray of shots for the table. Wayne, Guy, and St. Claire do the sambuca shot. I give mine to the waiter.
The drag queen who looks frighteningly like the woman who sits beside me finishes her second song to howls of approval from the audience. The crowd is loving that Dior is performing Rachel St. Claire songs in front of Rachel St. Claire. It is a night they will long talk about.
The bar is packed. I’m not surprised. Fags love St. Claire, and doubtless someone texted someone who texted someone who called someone else. We haven’t paid for a drink all night. We could probably drink for the next two decades or more and not pay for a drink.
I’m ashamed to admit I don’t know the third song Dior performs. I recognize it as one of St. Claire’s earlier works, but I can’t tell the name or the album it is plucked from. I vow to figure out which song the last in Dior’s set is. By her reaction St. Claire is delighted by the choice. She smiles at me and squeezes my cock. And Dior is finished and leaving the stage. The crowd goes wild is another cliché. But it happens.
St. Claire excuses herself to use the bathroom. I’m worried for a moment for her safety and wonder if I should go with her. The crowd adores her, I need not worry, they part like the Red Sea so she may pass.
She comes back towards the table but doesn’t sit. She leans in and whispers in my ear. “I want to show you something,” she purrs. She takes my hand and drags me from the table towards the women’s restroom.
“Where are we going?” I am about to protest as she pulls me into the ladies room and starts to unzip me.
“We’re in the ladies room at a gay bar, Icarus, we’re not going to be disturbed,” she laughs, grabbing my hardening member as she slides my pants down. She moves against the tiled wall drawing me towards her by my rapidly stiffening dick. “If we’re disturbed it will be by a couple of dykes and they can watch.” Again that amazing laugh.
She turns to face the wall and slips her pants down, then her panties. She is still holding my cock and she guides me between her legs towards the entrance to her pussy. “I want it hard, and I want it fast, Icarus, Fuck me!”
I drive my cock inside her, shoving her hard against the wall as I bury myself inside her with one stroke. She lets out a little gasp, her body slammed into the tiled wall, her cheek pressed against that wall.
“Fuck, yeah,” she moans as I slide out of her and drive into her again. She wants to be fucked hard. I oblige. I drive forward and force her body against the cool tiled wall again and again. She is screaming as I slam into her over and over. I pound her pretty pussy relentlessly. I can feel her coming around me. I don’t let up. I don’t stop. I give it to her as hard and fast as I can. And it is hard and fast.
Finally, I tense, planting my root as deep in her as I can, I come.
I hold her against the wall as I drain the contents of my balls inside her.
We are both breathless. I hold her pinned to the wall as we both recover. I kiss her neck softly, tenderly. “Fuck, that was good,” she rasps.
Softening, I slip out of her. She pulls her panties up then her pants. Then mine.
She looks at me and smiles. “Try not to look like you just got fucked in the bathroom, Icarus,” she laughs. Looking in the mirror she sighs. “I look like I just got fucked in the bathroom.”
She takes my hand and we make our way back to the table.
Dior has joined Wayne and Guy. The three stand up and clap as we reach them.
The night is a success and I cannot remember a time when I’ve been happier. Not too long thereafter, I help a well-fucked and drunk St. Claire back to the limo and on to our condo.