It took some planning, but Lance thought he had it all set. Simple really. He would just insist that Chris go to the after party. That way he would be sure to keep an eye on him, and maybe, just possibly, get some answers. Not to mention the fact he could gaze endlessly into the unpainted face and dream of being painted himself. Maybe. “No can do Skippy,” Chris smiled, clapping Lance on the back with a wink. “A bunch of hysterical twenty something's trying to give me advice on what kind of food to feed my dogs? No thank ya!” He ruffled Lance’s hair, letting his hand drift down to the back of Lance’s neck. Letting it linger there warmly -- unnecessarily. And Lance crumbled somewhere inside of himself, a bit of rage swirling about with rejection. He knew it was insane to even think such a thing. Rejection. Being shot down by Chris. It was reckless at best. “Okay,” Lance said evenly. “No biggie. I just figured its been so long.” He struggled to keep his persona unfazed, his demeanor unaffected. To act his ass off and pretend he could care less when inside his body was screaming. “So long?” Chris laughed, yanking Lance in. “Dude, we’re together day and fucking night. So long? Shit, I just spent four hours with everyone!” His nose brushed against Lance’s cheek and he shook his head. “So long! That’s priceless!” Lance stood perfectly still as sultry breath and a nuzzling nose crashed over him. As his heart did that funny skipping thing. As his eyes glanced down to see the black nail polish that still adorned Chris’ short nails -- and he imagined those nails dark against his skin in some form of hedonistic fuck session. Then Chris was gone, drifting out of the hotel lobby -- destination unknown. Lance bit his lip and stared after him. Like some kind of ambiguity he just couldn’t get a handle on. “Fuck,” he muttered, slinging his overnight bag higher on his shoulder. “Fuck what?” Joey laughed, wrapping Lance in a head lock. “Fucking get off me,” Lance snarled, backing out of the hold. “Jesus!” “Someone needs to get laid,” Joey chanted in a sing song voice. “Would you shut up?” Lance scowled, his cheeks already burning brightly. His mind already a mangled mess. Brushing Joey away, he stormed toward his room, intent upon trailing Chris again that night. And this time he vowed not to shy away. ******************* Eagle eyes. That’s what they had called him when he was a kid running the back lots of Mississippi. Lance could always spot things the others missed. So when he dressed in black jeans and a button down black shirt, and stood out back in the brush with owl-like eyes, he knew he wouldn’t overlook Chris making his get a way. No way in hell was he going to miss it. In the still of the evening, with a cool breeze whipping up, Lance decided he had to pee.  Nerves he assumed. So he glanced around to check for stray fans, or hotel security, and as the moon glowed brightly in the sky, he unzipped his jeans and pulled himself out. Apologizing softly to the shrub that was about to be unceremoniously watered. Sighing as he relived himself. The sound of the door opening startled Lance, and when he glanced up, he saw Chris make his top secret departure. Same black leather coat. This time a scarf-like headband was tied around his brown hair -- but the same dark sunglasses covered his eyes. Lance scrunched down a bit, his dick still hanging out. His body surging with adrenaline. Tucking in abruptly, he nearly zipped himself up with steel teeth in his mad dash to pursue Chris. He witnessed Chris look around vigilantly, and waited until he rounded the corner. Only then did Lance dare to come out of hiding, cover his own eyes with darkened shades, and begin his journey to the underworld once more. This time with newfound determination. This time armed with courage. Because this night he planned to let himself be dragged into those shadowy places that created such a deviant reaction from his body. This time the orgasm would be on Chris, and not himself. Shaking his head at such lunacy, Lance crouched and followed, this time a little more experienced. A little more stealthy. Wondering just how Chris found all these clubs. It was more seedy than before, Lance noticed, as the cab drove down side roads and alleys. More sinister. Lance was filled with frenzied curiosity. Desire that balled up in his stomach, lurching with every pot hole the cabbie hit. “Don’t let that cab see you,” Lance warned for the hundredth time as Chris’ cab pulled to a stop. He ducked down like a child, peeking out the window so as not to be caught. Not yet. He saw Chris climb out and toss some money at the cabbie. He watched Chris shake hands with the bald man standing guard outside the club. Then Chris was gone, vanishing inside the huge building. Lance felt his blood ignite. Totally consumed with the whole imagery Chris had created. Digging on the whole fantasy world that seemed to be unfolding before him. “All clear kid,” the cabbie said, turning around to face Lance. “Your friend is in.” “Thanks,” Lance mumbled, fishing money from his wallet. He didn’t wait for his change -- he was far too impatient. Needing to get into that club and make his confrontation. Let his presence be felt. Same kind of ID check, only this time the bouncer flashed the light directly into Lance’s pale eyes, causing little specks to mar his sight. He hissed from the instant pain that seared his temples and wobbled back a bit. “Get on in,” the man said gruffly, shoving his shoulder. And Lance moved, stumbling toward the entrance, hoping that he could manage. He paid the requisite cover charge and slipped down the neon pink hall. This one shorter and much brighter. Almost blinding. There was no curtain at the end of the hall, rather a tiny door. One that appeared Willa Wonka’ish in nature. Lance turned and stared at the people behind him, all moving forward in some kind of haze. Each one ducking through the small rectangle. He wiped his palms off on his jeans and wandered through too, hoping that he wasn’t in some kind of mind trip. Hoping he wasn’t about to turn into Alice from Wonderland once he was through. But he didn’t, and as he straightened up, he saw Chris instantly. Drinking a beer. Talking to some girl by the bar with a cut out bra and nipple chains. Laughing at something she said. Tangling his hand in her hair suddenly, and crushing her body to his. It was a sight that left Lance speechless as he gaped. Their lips barely touched, and Lance observed an erotic ritual of tongue play -- the likes of which he’d never seen. The kiss was broken in mere seconds, and Chris was walking away. Lance shook his head, and licked his lips in wonder. Nothing made much sense to him as the pungent scent of patchouli filled his nostrils. He felt high, lifted to some ground he couldn’t understand. Entranced, he moved forward, keeping his eyes glued on Chris. He loved the way Chris moved so easily -- so confidently through the people. How he tossed his long coat to the man in the coat check room and dropped a ten in the tip jar. How he swung his body around like he owned every pair of eyes that fell over him. Lance couldn’t help but stare at the dramatic eyeliner that Chris had applied to extenuate his eye shape. Nor could he help notice how tight the leather pants were that Chris had on. It was some kind of fucked up sensory overload, and suddenly, Lance wanted to pounce. Jump on Chris and haul him down the dirty floor of the club. Stare into his face and pin his hands over his head. Dominate. “Jesus,” Lance mumbled as he adjusted himself. His own jeans were proving a problem, and he shimmied to get more comfortable. In the blink of an eye, he had managed to misplace Chris in the body of dancers. His heart hammered and his throat grew dry as he pushed his sunglasses on top of his blonde spikes and gazed anxiously. Because if he fucking lost Chris ... A hand wrapped around his throat suddenly. A hot body pressed against his back. “What’re you doing here Lance? Hmm?” Lance felt his heart stop. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was Chris licking at his ear. He needed no proof to realize that Chris had him. Another hand slid around his waist, up under his shirt, grazing the sensitive trail of hair just under his belly button. A charge zapped through his veins as Chris’ fingers dipped below the waistband of his jeans, tickling and tormenting with preciseness. “Chris,” Lance whispered lowly. At a loss for anything more than the feeling of his heart trying to escape his ribcage. His entire body on alert, tingling fiercely. It was the tongue that lapped under his earlobe at tender skin that made Lance’s knees falter -- and he tumbled backward into Chris’ body. “You shouldn’t be here,” Chris scolded lightly, nipping at the earlobe before him. “This isn’t for you, Lance. This is for me.” “I know,” Lance whimpered, covering Chris’ arm with his hand. “I’m sorry.” Chris spun him around instantly, pinning him against the wall. Glaring at him with darkened eyes. “Then go.” Lance trembled but kept his ground. “And if I don’t want to?” It was cruel, Lance thought, to have Chris so fucking close and not accepting. To be close enough to kiss but not being able to. To be a poison that sizzled through his blood. Chris slammed his hand just above Lance’s shoulder, a torn piece of lace wrapped around his wrist, and Lance leaned into it. It was instinct, a desperate ache to feel Chris against him again. In any form. He didn’t want to lose the delicious feeling that was washing over him. The scrape of lace touched his cheek, and Lance’s eyes fluttered shut. It was so exotic -- so erotic. He wanted to be touched, to have Chris’ hand just brush against his crotch -- just a little. His hips thrust out a little, searching for contact. Chris leaned in, and Lance could feel the intensity radiating from him. He forced his eyes open, and was faced with ‘fuck me’ Chris. The black stained lips that moved closer, stroking the very tips of the scruff on his face. And Lance waited for the kiss he was so sure was ready to happen. He felt it. “Go home little boy.” And then Chris was gone in a swirl of cool air. Lance blinked in the shadows of the club, unable to comprehend what the fuck happened. He was shaking, and unsteady. “FUCK!” he screamed, lifting his head toward the ceiling. Rubbing his sweaty hands over his face in sheer frustration. Mad with desire, and lust -- all balled up in this horrific energy with no where to go. Lance stormed from the club, humiliated and angry. And when he got back to the hotel, he climbed naked into bed, and stroked himself to orgasm in a fit of pure hostility. With Chris’ face dancing before him. NEXT MENU