FIC: Radio Friendly 4 of 10 (Blake/Chris, R)
Author: Clio
Title: Radio Friendly Part 4 of 10: You've Come a Long Way, Baby
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: R
Summary: In which Chris Richardson makes an interesting discovery.
Length: 3500 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
Chapter 2: Where Particular People Congregate
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
March 31, 1962
Chris adjusted his tie for the millionth time since he'd got on the train in Astoria, and shifted nervously from foot to foot as he waited for Blake to buzz him upstairs. He'd needed Blake to draw him a map of the little corner of Bank street that he lived on, and even with that he didn't quite understand how west 4th street could ever cross west 12th street, but he'd found it, and he had wine, and he was going out of his mind because Blake was gay.
Blake was gay, and Chris had a crush on him, or maybe more than that, and now Blake's unattainability went from being an untouchable straight man who was also his writing partner to being an out-of-his-league gay man who was also his writing partner. He kept telling himself it was better to be able to be truthful.
Well, mostly truthful. Wild horses wouldn't drag out of him that yes, "He's a Rebel" was about Blake, had come to him that first night they went out when he stood and watched Blake walking up Broadway like he owned it.
"Yeah?" came Blake's voice through the scratchy speaker.
"It's Chris!" he shouted, hoping he didn't sound like too much of an idiot.
"Come on up!" Blake said, and the buzzer went off, allowing Chris to push through the doors into the hallway of the walk-up. Four flights-no wonder Blake had such a great ass.
Upstairs, Blake had left his door open. "Blake?" Chris asked.
A blond head popped from around the corner. "So I was thinking, I decided to make an Italian dinner, and you know it always splatters, so since it's just us let's eat in our undershirts and keep our shirts clean for the club."
"Sure," Chris said, setting the wine bottle on the small kitchen table and closing the door behind him. "Where should I put my jacket and tie and shirt?"
"In here," Blake called out.
Chris followed the sound of his voice into the bedroom. Blake was standing near the foot of his rather large bed in trousers, an undershirt, and bare feet. "Hi! Wow, you look fantastic. Not that it's so difficult for you." He held up a hanger. "Use this."
Chris knew there was no reason to feel nervous taking his shirt and tie off in front of Blake. It wasn't like he was going to be naked. But he couldn't help glancing over at Blake, at his strong arms and the muscles in his back. In a suit Blake often looked elfin, but in his undershirt he looked more like one of those tiny but powerful mountain cats that Chris had seen on Wild Kingdom once. Blake looked up, catching him staring. Thinking quickly, Chris asked, "You have a tattoo? Were you in the service, too?"
"Army," Blake said, nodding. "Got out almost two years ago, been here ever since."
"Where were you stationed?"
"Germany. Just like Elvis. Same time, too."
"So … "
"That's a story, actually. Let's go into the kitchen and I'll start dinner and tell you."
They walked back out and Blake handed Chris a corkscrew. Chris sat at the kitchen table opening the bottle as Blake lit a gas flame under a pot of water.
"Word got around that I'm a musician," Blake said, stirring the small pot of sauce, "so he wanted to meet me and we ended up in the canteen together a few nights just talking about music. I think he would rather have talked to you, actually; you have a lot more in common with him. Anyway, he was talking about all the people who worked for him and all the management and fans were still coming up to him and asking him for pictures and wow, his life was just not his own." Blake threw a fat handful of spaghetti into the boiling water. "He couldn't write his own songs because he didn't really have time, and not everything he wanted to write was in the 'image' that the record company wanted to portray. He seemed to think they knew better than he did, but you know, I don't know that they really do. Have you seen those movies?"
"I liked Blue Hawaii." Chris handed Blake a glass of wine.
"Thanks. Yeah, but that was the only one. But you know probably better than anyone how hard it is for me to give up control. I thought, well, I can write songs, so I'll just write them for other people, and find places to sing sometimes so I don't miss it too much. Funny thing is, I enjoy singing a lot more now that I'm only doing it for myself. After all, I can sing anything I want, and still write popular songs and make money. It's a good life for me so far." He shrugged. "Besides, I know I can't run around telling everyone I'm a fag, but I don't want a sham girlfriend either."
"So you really don't miss it?" Chris asked.
"When I can sing with Melinda once a week in exchange for a song here or there and some arrangements that are more playtime than work?" A timer rang and he turned off the oven and reached into the broiler, pulling out a small metal pan. "Wow, I almost always burn the garlic bread." He turned and tumbled it into a napkin-lined basket on the table. "You must be a good luck charm or something."
"Or something," Chris said. "Can I help with anything else?"
"Well, there's a salad in the fridge that needs dressing," Blake said.
Chris found a large wooden bowl with matching fork and spoon sticking out and placed it on the table. "I thought I'd miss it a lot more than I do, I'll admit," Chris said, pouring dressing onto the pile of lettuce, onion, radish and tomato. "But it's fun to write songs for a lot of other people, because then you can pretend to be anyone."
"Like a girl with a rebel boyfriend?" Blake asked, grinning.
"Maybe," Chris replied, not looking up. "But the folk people, like this new guy Dylan, they have stories in their songs."
"They aren't products," Blake replied. He tested a bit of pasta. "The Kittens, they're like laundry soap. You look them over and if you like the packaging, you buy them. I didn't want to be a product, but that's because I'm stubborn and egotistical."
"You're not that bad," Chris protested.
"Maybe not anymore," said Blake, pulling out another strand of spaghetti. "Where's that strainer?"
"You're not going to use a tennis racket?" Chris asked, grinning.
"Friend, I don't play tennis." He poured out the pot into the sink, then dumped the pasta back into the pot and poured the sauce on top.
"How did you learn to cook like this?" Chris asked.
"When I told my mother I wanted to be a musician, she told me that cooking for yourself is cheaper and taught me all her recipes. And I have Italian godparents." He laid out the pasta into a platter on the table, and covered it with meatballs. "Dig in. You'll need a lot of food to absorb the booze I'll be pouring down your throat tonight."
Chris smiled back, trying to remember that this wasn't a date, wasn't a scene from their loving domestic life, but just two close friends getting ready to go out tomcatting together. That they were both looking for men was just a convenient bonus. It didn't mean they were meant for each other.
"Cheers, dear," Blake said, holding up his glass.
"Cheers," Chris said.
Blake's choice of nightclub, Cooper's, was a definite step up from the Wrong Wray in clientele, location and decor, even if it was, of necessity, small and well hidden along a side street. The walls were draped with black curtains and the tables were arranged like any small supper club. Only, some of those men didn't look like men, and some of those women didn't look like women. Blake led Chris to an out-of-the-way table along the side of the room. "I don't care for the floor shows here," Blake said. "Too campy. But the men are a good cross section. You can find any type you want here."
Chris nodded. He'd never been in so upscale a place, gay or not, and was glad that his gray suit was new and therefore still stylish. As soon as they'd sat down and ordered their drinks, friends of Blake's (and, Chris thought, some former flames) started coming over to the table. Chris felt on display in a way he wasn't used to as Blake not-so-subtly showed him off. Sure, he'd gotten plenty of attention at Wrong Wray but that felt different, certainly more mutual. Here, he didn't even have a chance to catch someone's eye; they were all just coming to them, or really to the magnet that was Blake. Not that Chris was surprised; in fact, he was somewhat relieved to know he wasn't the only one who found Blake irresistible. Besides, these men were funny, and fun, and most of them were in show business which gave everyone a common topic of conversation. He even flirted a little with some of them.
But then he'd look at Blake and the new man would pale in comparison. Chris scolded himself to stop being ridiculous; Blake was not interested in him. So what if, after the men walked away, Blake would lean over and mention something to Chris about them that would both make him laugh and put him off them? Blake thinking that Chris could do better wasn't the same as Blake trying to keep Chris to himself.
"Oh my god," Blake said.
"What?"
He turned to Chris. "So I meant to tell you this, only I forgot in all the excitement, but um, the thing I knew about Ryan Seacrest? Yeah, he's gay. And frequents this place. And is headed right for this table. Try not to look surprised. Pretend I told you already."
Chris blinked. "Um, okay?"
Ryan was wearing a dark green tweed suit with an olive green shirt and a green-gray tie, all of which brought out his green eyes. "Well, look who the Blake dragged in," he said with a broad smile. "I never would have known." He shook Chris's hand. "Welcome to the club."
"Do I get a secret decoder ring?" Chris joked, trying not to think about how long it took Ryan to let go of his hand.
"May I join you?" Ryan asked as he sat.
"Of course," Blake said, sitting back in his chair. "But lay off Chris."
Chris and Ryan looked over at Blake. Chris had rarely seen him quite so serious.
"What?" Ryan asked. "I hadn't even-"
"I know he's fresh meat and all," Blake said pleasantly. "And I know he's almost too handsome. But-"
"But he's yours so hands off?" Ryan asked.
"No," Blake said. "But he's an old-fashioned romantic who isn't interested in a quick fling."
"You mean he isn't like you."
"Hey, I know I'm a slut."
"Just checking. So are you calling me a slut? Because compared to you, darling …"
"No, not a slut, not at all. But Chris will want your heart, and you won't be able to give it to him."
Ryan scowled. "Why not?"
Blake leaned forward. "Because you've already given it to someone else."
Ryan just stared at Blake, wide-eyed, as though he'd been slapped, then collapsed back into his chair. "God, am I really that obvious?" he asked, and lit up a Camel.
"Only to the trained eye," Blake replied, softly. "Is it worth it? Being the other woman, I mean."
"Yes? No? I don't know. Sometimes, sometimes it is," he said. "But it isn't like I can do anything about it. Even if there were no Paula, it wouldn't change much. They don't have that kind of marriage."
Oh, Chris thought. So it's Cowell.
"No," Blake was saying, "you can't do anything about who you fall in love with."
Chris looked over at Blake, wondering why he sounded so sad. Blake being romantically rejected was not a situation that could exist in Chris's universe; why would anyone not want Blake to fall in love with them?
"Does she know?" Blake continued.
Ryan looked up. "Yeah, actually, she does. But she was never in love with Simon; he was her producer, and she married him, and he took care of her while she was still singing, and he takes care of her now. She has her dogs and her friends and she decorates the houses he buys and now she's decorating other people's houses and she seems to like her life. And if he divorced her tomorrow, she'd still have that life. She thanked me once, actually. Said she didn't want him crawling all over her anyway."
"So Paula gets what she wants and Simon gets what he wants. What about you?"
"Me? Friend, I don't even know what I want." He gulped the rest of his drink. "But whatever it is, it isn't here."
"Why don't you call him?" Chris asked.
"Well, it's the weekend and we don't usually-"
"Just call him. Offer to make him dinner or something."
"That sounds pretty domestic." Ryan paused, playing with a matchbook. "But maybe, yeah."
"I bet he's just sitting there in that big apartment, working, thinking he's letting you have your fun," Blake added.
Ryan smiled a little. "Okay, you know, I will call him. I'll, um, I'll see you later." He got up and all but sprinted to the back hall, where there was a pay phone.
"Hope you weren't shocked that I'm a slut," Blake said, smiling.
"Naw. I kinda had that figured."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I just thought you were a womanizer."
"Ah," Blake said. He drummed his fingers on the table.
"So, um, thanks for that, anyway," Chris said.
"Ryan really isn't a bad fellow," Blake replied.
"Just unavailable."
"Well, that, and he's pretty short."
"I kinda like my men short."
"Yeah?" Blake asked.
"Yeah, but not as scrawny," Chris answered, looking out over the dance floor.
"I see."
Chris looked at Blake, who was facing slightly away. His hair was aglow from the lights of the club, just like when Chris had watched him walking through Times Square. Inside and out, this one, he was just so beautiful. Chris sighed.
"What?" Blake asked turning toward him.
"I'm really going to regret this," Chris said, and before Blake could answer he leaned over and kissed him. He only meant to try a quick kiss but Blake wouldn't let him go, prolonging the kiss until they were breathless and had to pull apart.
"No," Blake answered. "If I have to I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never, ever regret that."
Chris was never sure how they got out of that club that night; the next thing he remembered was trying very hard not to kiss in the cab, which mostly led to giggling and inappropriate touching where the driver couldn't see them. Then up those four damn flights of stairs.
"If you're supposed to be such a slut, how did you get so many men up here?" Chris asked as they rounded the third flight.
"By the time I brought them home they wanted me so much that half the time they'd offer to carry me," Blake replied.
"Well the only place I'll carry you is over a threshold, I'll tell you that right now."
Blake turned. "You really are an old fashioned romantic, aren't you?"
"Hey," Chris said, "you're the one who said 'the rest of my life.'"
"I did, didn't I?" Blake unlocked his door, opened it. Seeing Chris paused on the landing, he said,"Get in here."
Odd how different a small apartment can look under new circumstances. He shut and locked the door behind him, as Blake walked further into the living room, turning on a lamp and taking off his loafers.
"I'd say get a drink, but I think we've had enough," he said, as he filed through the shelf of records. "But have a seat. Kick off your shoes."
Chris sat down on the end of the couch. He knew what was going to happen, but for the life of him he couldn't work out how.
Blake pulled out a record and looked up as he put it on the record player. "Don't worry, baby," he said. "Still the same Blake. Let me just do this." He put the needle on the record and then walked over to the couch, sitting on the cushion next to Chris. He leaned in, and they were kissing again, slow, like they had all the time in the world. Chris turned in Blake's arms, and they shifted, taking off their jackets and tossing them who-knows-where, with ties following, until Chris was lying sideways on the couch, back propped up against the arm, and Blake was kneeling, straddling his legs. Chris's hands slid down Blake's back, resting on his hips, then pulled Blake into his lap.
"God, I can feel you," Blake said, sitting up and shifting a little. He reached down to unbutton Chris's shirt.
Chris pulled back. "Did you really just put on The Sound of Music?" he asked, feeling Blake's back muscles rippling under his fingers.
"Well, Coltrane," Blake replied. "So what are your favorite things?"
"What?" Chris asked.
"What do you like to do?" Blake asked again.
Chris sat up to pull off his shirt and undershirt. His glance went to the bedroom door.
"Hey," Blake said. "Don't worry about that. I know you're no innocent-"
Chris turned back. "Oh?"
"You think I haven't heard about the navy?" he asked, smiling. "But we can do whatever you want. Mind you, I'm not jacking off alone in my bathroom, and you aren't leaving until after breakfast-"
"Wasn't planning on it," Chris said, helping Blake out of his dress shirt.
"Good. So what do you like to do?" Blake asked.
"I never thought about it," Chris admitted. "People pretty much knew what they wanted me to do, and it's cool, so I did that."
"Let me guess. Big strong man, bending them over, how could they resist?"
"Sometimes they wanted it a little rough," he added. "But they didn't like me to talk too much."
"'I'm not a fag,'" Blake mimicked. "'He made me do it.' Don't get me wrong," Blake said, running his hands across Chris's bare chest and stomach, "You're big and, wow, you are strong, but when you fuck me, you won't be making me do a damn thing."
"And you?" Chris asked as Blake pulled off his undershirt. "I guess they all wanted in here," he said, thrusting at where Blake straddled his erection.
"The next one who sings 'Nature Boy' to me …"
Chris grimaced. "They didn't?" At Blake's nod he added, "Oh god, that is too awful. I don't mean to laugh, it's just, it's so wrong. 'I'm not a fag; he's a tiny magical creature. I had to fuck him.' It's disgusting."
"Not as disgusting as asking you not to talk." He leaned over and kissed Chris, who wrapped his arms around Blake and pulled him close. Blake shifted and their legs entwined. "I want you to talk to me. Lots."
"Okay. You know what I'd like?"
"Mmm?" Blake replied, sliding back to suck Chris's earlobe into his mouth.
"You know, all the fellas at school, they'd talk about sitting on a girl's sofa, or on her porch, trying to get to second or third base with her-"
Blake pulled back to look Chris in the eye. "Down the shirt, up the skirt. I remember that. You never did that?"
"Well, not, um, not with the person I wanted to do it with."
"So you want me to be the girl you're trying to get fresh with?"
Chris grinned. "I thought you were a slut?"
Blake laughed, low in his throat. "Then what are you waiting for?" Blake asked, kissing him again.
Then it was just tongues, and chests rubbing, and hands wrapped around hard cocks they hadn't really seen yet, and moans, and through it all Coltrane kept blowing like a madman in the background. Later, in the bedroom, there were no strong silent types or nature boys, only Chris Richardson and Blake Lewis with an entire night in front of them.
The next morning, a new reality: Blake sleeping in the sun, cool white sheets around bare shoulders, peaceful weekend morning, and Chris leaning over to kiss him awake. Blake smiles, opens those golden brown eyes, murmurs, "Hi, Chris. Mmm, wanna fuck again?"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 5: Alive with Pleasure. It's a movie!
Notes: Cooper's is named in honor not only of Gary Cooper (my GBF, P____, has a thing for him) but also for the excellent Philadelphia lesbian bar Hepburn's. The one thing in this chapter that couldn't have happened is Chris kissing Blake in the middle of a club. It was a violation of New York liquor laws to have "immoral" activity anywhere alcohol was being served, which gave the police the ability to raid gay clubs just for having people in drag. In fact, the Stonewall riots, which sparked the gay rights movement in 1969, were a reaction to a raid on the Stonewall, a gay bar in Greenwich Village; pride week in June is a celebration of the Stonewall riots. For more about what it was like, see George Chauncey's excellent Gay New York.
Title: Radio Friendly Part 4 of 10: You've Come a Long Way, Baby
Pairing: Blake/Chris (American Idol)
Rating: R
Summary: In which Chris Richardson makes an interesting discovery.
Length: 3500 words
Disclaimer: People sort of own themselves, don't they? Which means this is a work of fiction.
Notes: Radio Friendly is an AU set in 1962, when New York was the center of pop music and the Brill Building was where it all happened, when a group of talented songwriters and producers crafted perfect pop hits for artists whose every move was controlled by their label. Pictures and songs will be used along the way to take you back to yesteryear-and for those who'd like more info, see the additional author's note at the bottom.
You're reading this story because lillijulianne was so enthusiastic and allysonsedai insisted that it see the light of day, because they were willing to keep reading even when I sent three chapters in one weekend, and were instrumental in the flow, in pointing out what it needed and what it didn't, and in holding my hand through the entire thing. Thank you, ladies!
Chapter 1: Come to Where the Flavor Is
Chapter 2: Where Particular People Congregate
Chapter 3: This Is the One They'll Have to Beat
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
March 31, 1962
Chris adjusted his tie for the millionth time since he'd got on the train in Astoria, and shifted nervously from foot to foot as he waited for Blake to buzz him upstairs. He'd needed Blake to draw him a map of the little corner of Bank street that he lived on, and even with that he didn't quite understand how west 4th street could ever cross west 12th street, but he'd found it, and he had wine, and he was going out of his mind because Blake was gay.
Blake was gay, and Chris had a crush on him, or maybe more than that, and now Blake's unattainability went from being an untouchable straight man who was also his writing partner to being an out-of-his-league gay man who was also his writing partner. He kept telling himself it was better to be able to be truthful.
Well, mostly truthful. Wild horses wouldn't drag out of him that yes, "He's a Rebel" was about Blake, had come to him that first night they went out when he stood and watched Blake walking up Broadway like he owned it.
"Yeah?" came Blake's voice through the scratchy speaker.
"It's Chris!" he shouted, hoping he didn't sound like too much of an idiot.
"Come on up!" Blake said, and the buzzer went off, allowing Chris to push through the doors into the hallway of the walk-up. Four flights-no wonder Blake had such a great ass.
Upstairs, Blake had left his door open. "Blake?" Chris asked.
A blond head popped from around the corner. "So I was thinking, I decided to make an Italian dinner, and you know it always splatters, so since it's just us let's eat in our undershirts and keep our shirts clean for the club."
"Sure," Chris said, setting the wine bottle on the small kitchen table and closing the door behind him. "Where should I put my jacket and tie and shirt?"
"In here," Blake called out.
Chris followed the sound of his voice into the bedroom. Blake was standing near the foot of his rather large bed in trousers, an undershirt, and bare feet. "Hi! Wow, you look fantastic. Not that it's so difficult for you." He held up a hanger. "Use this."
Chris knew there was no reason to feel nervous taking his shirt and tie off in front of Blake. It wasn't like he was going to be naked. But he couldn't help glancing over at Blake, at his strong arms and the muscles in his back. In a suit Blake often looked elfin, but in his undershirt he looked more like one of those tiny but powerful mountain cats that Chris had seen on Wild Kingdom once. Blake looked up, catching him staring. Thinking quickly, Chris asked, "You have a tattoo? Were you in the service, too?"
"Army," Blake said, nodding. "Got out almost two years ago, been here ever since."
"Where were you stationed?"
"Germany. Just like Elvis. Same time, too."
"So … "
"That's a story, actually. Let's go into the kitchen and I'll start dinner and tell you."
They walked back out and Blake handed Chris a corkscrew. Chris sat at the kitchen table opening the bottle as Blake lit a gas flame under a pot of water.
"Word got around that I'm a musician," Blake said, stirring the small pot of sauce, "so he wanted to meet me and we ended up in the canteen together a few nights just talking about music. I think he would rather have talked to you, actually; you have a lot more in common with him. Anyway, he was talking about all the people who worked for him and all the management and fans were still coming up to him and asking him for pictures and wow, his life was just not his own." Blake threw a fat handful of spaghetti into the boiling water. "He couldn't write his own songs because he didn't really have time, and not everything he wanted to write was in the 'image' that the record company wanted to portray. He seemed to think they knew better than he did, but you know, I don't know that they really do. Have you seen those movies?"
"I liked Blue Hawaii." Chris handed Blake a glass of wine.
"Thanks. Yeah, but that was the only one. But you know probably better than anyone how hard it is for me to give up control. I thought, well, I can write songs, so I'll just write them for other people, and find places to sing sometimes so I don't miss it too much. Funny thing is, I enjoy singing a lot more now that I'm only doing it for myself. After all, I can sing anything I want, and still write popular songs and make money. It's a good life for me so far." He shrugged. "Besides, I know I can't run around telling everyone I'm a fag, but I don't want a sham girlfriend either."
"So you really don't miss it?" Chris asked.
"When I can sing with Melinda once a week in exchange for a song here or there and some arrangements that are more playtime than work?" A timer rang and he turned off the oven and reached into the broiler, pulling out a small metal pan. "Wow, I almost always burn the garlic bread." He turned and tumbled it into a napkin-lined basket on the table. "You must be a good luck charm or something."
"Or something," Chris said. "Can I help with anything else?"
"Well, there's a salad in the fridge that needs dressing," Blake said.
Chris found a large wooden bowl with matching fork and spoon sticking out and placed it on the table. "I thought I'd miss it a lot more than I do, I'll admit," Chris said, pouring dressing onto the pile of lettuce, onion, radish and tomato. "But it's fun to write songs for a lot of other people, because then you can pretend to be anyone."
"Like a girl with a rebel boyfriend?" Blake asked, grinning.
"Maybe," Chris replied, not looking up. "But the folk people, like this new guy Dylan, they have stories in their songs."
"They aren't products," Blake replied. He tested a bit of pasta. "The Kittens, they're like laundry soap. You look them over and if you like the packaging, you buy them. I didn't want to be a product, but that's because I'm stubborn and egotistical."
"You're not that bad," Chris protested.
"Maybe not anymore," said Blake, pulling out another strand of spaghetti. "Where's that strainer?"
"You're not going to use a tennis racket?" Chris asked, grinning.
"Friend, I don't play tennis." He poured out the pot into the sink, then dumped the pasta back into the pot and poured the sauce on top.
"How did you learn to cook like this?" Chris asked.
"When I told my mother I wanted to be a musician, she told me that cooking for yourself is cheaper and taught me all her recipes. And I have Italian godparents." He laid out the pasta into a platter on the table, and covered it with meatballs. "Dig in. You'll need a lot of food to absorb the booze I'll be pouring down your throat tonight."
Chris smiled back, trying to remember that this wasn't a date, wasn't a scene from their loving domestic life, but just two close friends getting ready to go out tomcatting together. That they were both looking for men was just a convenient bonus. It didn't mean they were meant for each other.
"Cheers, dear," Blake said, holding up his glass.
"Cheers," Chris said.
Blake's choice of nightclub, Cooper's, was a definite step up from the Wrong Wray in clientele, location and decor, even if it was, of necessity, small and well hidden along a side street. The walls were draped with black curtains and the tables were arranged like any small supper club. Only, some of those men didn't look like men, and some of those women didn't look like women. Blake led Chris to an out-of-the-way table along the side of the room. "I don't care for the floor shows here," Blake said. "Too campy. But the men are a good cross section. You can find any type you want here."
Chris nodded. He'd never been in so upscale a place, gay or not, and was glad that his gray suit was new and therefore still stylish. As soon as they'd sat down and ordered their drinks, friends of Blake's (and, Chris thought, some former flames) started coming over to the table. Chris felt on display in a way he wasn't used to as Blake not-so-subtly showed him off. Sure, he'd gotten plenty of attention at Wrong Wray but that felt different, certainly more mutual. Here, he didn't even have a chance to catch someone's eye; they were all just coming to them, or really to the magnet that was Blake. Not that Chris was surprised; in fact, he was somewhat relieved to know he wasn't the only one who found Blake irresistible. Besides, these men were funny, and fun, and most of them were in show business which gave everyone a common topic of conversation. He even flirted a little with some of them.
But then he'd look at Blake and the new man would pale in comparison. Chris scolded himself to stop being ridiculous; Blake was not interested in him. So what if, after the men walked away, Blake would lean over and mention something to Chris about them that would both make him laugh and put him off them? Blake thinking that Chris could do better wasn't the same as Blake trying to keep Chris to himself.
"Oh my god," Blake said.
"What?"
He turned to Chris. "So I meant to tell you this, only I forgot in all the excitement, but um, the thing I knew about Ryan Seacrest? Yeah, he's gay. And frequents this place. And is headed right for this table. Try not to look surprised. Pretend I told you already."
Chris blinked. "Um, okay?"
Ryan was wearing a dark green tweed suit with an olive green shirt and a green-gray tie, all of which brought out his green eyes. "Well, look who the Blake dragged in," he said with a broad smile. "I never would have known." He shook Chris's hand. "Welcome to the club."
"Do I get a secret decoder ring?" Chris joked, trying not to think about how long it took Ryan to let go of his hand.
"May I join you?" Ryan asked as he sat.
"Of course," Blake said, sitting back in his chair. "But lay off Chris."
Chris and Ryan looked over at Blake. Chris had rarely seen him quite so serious.
"What?" Ryan asked. "I hadn't even-"
"I know he's fresh meat and all," Blake said pleasantly. "And I know he's almost too handsome. But-"
"But he's yours so hands off?" Ryan asked.
"No," Blake said. "But he's an old-fashioned romantic who isn't interested in a quick fling."
"You mean he isn't like you."
"Hey, I know I'm a slut."
"Just checking. So are you calling me a slut? Because compared to you, darling …"
"No, not a slut, not at all. But Chris will want your heart, and you won't be able to give it to him."
Ryan scowled. "Why not?"
Blake leaned forward. "Because you've already given it to someone else."
Ryan just stared at Blake, wide-eyed, as though he'd been slapped, then collapsed back into his chair. "God, am I really that obvious?" he asked, and lit up a Camel.
"Only to the trained eye," Blake replied, softly. "Is it worth it? Being the other woman, I mean."
"Yes? No? I don't know. Sometimes, sometimes it is," he said. "But it isn't like I can do anything about it. Even if there were no Paula, it wouldn't change much. They don't have that kind of marriage."
Oh, Chris thought. So it's Cowell.
"No," Blake was saying, "you can't do anything about who you fall in love with."
Chris looked over at Blake, wondering why he sounded so sad. Blake being romantically rejected was not a situation that could exist in Chris's universe; why would anyone not want Blake to fall in love with them?
"Does she know?" Blake continued.
Ryan looked up. "Yeah, actually, she does. But she was never in love with Simon; he was her producer, and she married him, and he took care of her while she was still singing, and he takes care of her now. She has her dogs and her friends and she decorates the houses he buys and now she's decorating other people's houses and she seems to like her life. And if he divorced her tomorrow, she'd still have that life. She thanked me once, actually. Said she didn't want him crawling all over her anyway."
"So Paula gets what she wants and Simon gets what he wants. What about you?"
"Me? Friend, I don't even know what I want." He gulped the rest of his drink. "But whatever it is, it isn't here."
"Why don't you call him?" Chris asked.
"Well, it's the weekend and we don't usually-"
"Just call him. Offer to make him dinner or something."
"That sounds pretty domestic." Ryan paused, playing with a matchbook. "But maybe, yeah."
"I bet he's just sitting there in that big apartment, working, thinking he's letting you have your fun," Blake added.
Ryan smiled a little. "Okay, you know, I will call him. I'll, um, I'll see you later." He got up and all but sprinted to the back hall, where there was a pay phone.
"Hope you weren't shocked that I'm a slut," Blake said, smiling.
"Naw. I kinda had that figured."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah, I just thought you were a womanizer."
"Ah," Blake said. He drummed his fingers on the table.
"So, um, thanks for that, anyway," Chris said.
"Ryan really isn't a bad fellow," Blake replied.
"Just unavailable."
"Well, that, and he's pretty short."
"I kinda like my men short."
"Yeah?" Blake asked.
"Yeah, but not as scrawny," Chris answered, looking out over the dance floor.
"I see."
Chris looked at Blake, who was facing slightly away. His hair was aglow from the lights of the club, just like when Chris had watched him walking through Times Square. Inside and out, this one, he was just so beautiful. Chris sighed.
"What?" Blake asked turning toward him.
"I'm really going to regret this," Chris said, and before Blake could answer he leaned over and kissed him. He only meant to try a quick kiss but Blake wouldn't let him go, prolonging the kiss until they were breathless and had to pull apart.
"No," Blake answered. "If I have to I'll spend the rest of my life making sure you never, ever regret that."
Chris was never sure how they got out of that club that night; the next thing he remembered was trying very hard not to kiss in the cab, which mostly led to giggling and inappropriate touching where the driver couldn't see them. Then up those four damn flights of stairs.
"If you're supposed to be such a slut, how did you get so many men up here?" Chris asked as they rounded the third flight.
"By the time I brought them home they wanted me so much that half the time they'd offer to carry me," Blake replied.
"Well the only place I'll carry you is over a threshold, I'll tell you that right now."
Blake turned. "You really are an old fashioned romantic, aren't you?"
"Hey," Chris said, "you're the one who said 'the rest of my life.'"
"I did, didn't I?" Blake unlocked his door, opened it. Seeing Chris paused on the landing, he said,"Get in here."
Odd how different a small apartment can look under new circumstances. He shut and locked the door behind him, as Blake walked further into the living room, turning on a lamp and taking off his loafers.
"I'd say get a drink, but I think we've had enough," he said, as he filed through the shelf of records. "But have a seat. Kick off your shoes."
Chris sat down on the end of the couch. He knew what was going to happen, but for the life of him he couldn't work out how.
Blake pulled out a record and looked up as he put it on the record player. "Don't worry, baby," he said. "Still the same Blake. Let me just do this." He put the needle on the record and then walked over to the couch, sitting on the cushion next to Chris. He leaned in, and they were kissing again, slow, like they had all the time in the world. Chris turned in Blake's arms, and they shifted, taking off their jackets and tossing them who-knows-where, with ties following, until Chris was lying sideways on the couch, back propped up against the arm, and Blake was kneeling, straddling his legs. Chris's hands slid down Blake's back, resting on his hips, then pulled Blake into his lap.
"God, I can feel you," Blake said, sitting up and shifting a little. He reached down to unbutton Chris's shirt.
Chris pulled back. "Did you really just put on The Sound of Music?" he asked, feeling Blake's back muscles rippling under his fingers.
"Well, Coltrane," Blake replied. "So what are your favorite things?"
"What?" Chris asked.
"What do you like to do?" Blake asked again.
Chris sat up to pull off his shirt and undershirt. His glance went to the bedroom door.
"Hey," Blake said. "Don't worry about that. I know you're no innocent-"
Chris turned back. "Oh?"
"You think I haven't heard about the navy?" he asked, smiling. "But we can do whatever you want. Mind you, I'm not jacking off alone in my bathroom, and you aren't leaving until after breakfast-"
"Wasn't planning on it," Chris said, helping Blake out of his dress shirt.
"Good. So what do you like to do?" Blake asked.
"I never thought about it," Chris admitted. "People pretty much knew what they wanted me to do, and it's cool, so I did that."
"Let me guess. Big strong man, bending them over, how could they resist?"
"Sometimes they wanted it a little rough," he added. "But they didn't like me to talk too much."
"'I'm not a fag,'" Blake mimicked. "'He made me do it.' Don't get me wrong," Blake said, running his hands across Chris's bare chest and stomach, "You're big and, wow, you are strong, but when you fuck me, you won't be making me do a damn thing."
"And you?" Chris asked as Blake pulled off his undershirt. "I guess they all wanted in here," he said, thrusting at where Blake straddled his erection.
"The next one who sings 'Nature Boy' to me …"
Chris grimaced. "They didn't?" At Blake's nod he added, "Oh god, that is too awful. I don't mean to laugh, it's just, it's so wrong. 'I'm not a fag; he's a tiny magical creature. I had to fuck him.' It's disgusting."
"Not as disgusting as asking you not to talk." He leaned over and kissed Chris, who wrapped his arms around Blake and pulled him close. Blake shifted and their legs entwined. "I want you to talk to me. Lots."
"Okay. You know what I'd like?"
"Mmm?" Blake replied, sliding back to suck Chris's earlobe into his mouth.
"You know, all the fellas at school, they'd talk about sitting on a girl's sofa, or on her porch, trying to get to second or third base with her-"
Blake pulled back to look Chris in the eye. "Down the shirt, up the skirt. I remember that. You never did that?"
"Well, not, um, not with the person I wanted to do it with."
"So you want me to be the girl you're trying to get fresh with?"
Chris grinned. "I thought you were a slut?"
Blake laughed, low in his throat. "Then what are you waiting for?" Blake asked, kissing him again.
Then it was just tongues, and chests rubbing, and hands wrapped around hard cocks they hadn't really seen yet, and moans, and through it all Coltrane kept blowing like a madman in the background. Later, in the bedroom, there were no strong silent types or nature boys, only Chris Richardson and Blake Lewis with an entire night in front of them.
The next morning, a new reality: Blake sleeping in the sun, cool white sheets around bare shoulders, peaceful weekend morning, and Chris leaning over to kiss him awake. Blake smiles, opens those golden brown eyes, murmurs, "Hi, Chris. Mmm, wanna fuck again?"~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Chapter 5: Alive with Pleasure. It's a movie!
Notes: Cooper's is named in honor not only of Gary Cooper (my GBF, P____, has a thing for him) but also for the excellent Philadelphia lesbian bar Hepburn's. The one thing in this chapter that couldn't have happened is Chris kissing Blake in the middle of a club. It was a violation of New York liquor laws to have "immoral" activity anywhere alcohol was being served, which gave the police the ability to raid gay clubs just for having people in drag. In fact, the Stonewall riots, which sparked the gay rights movement in 1969, were a reaction to a raid on the Stonewall, a gay bar in Greenwich Village; pride week in June is a celebration of the Stonewall riots. For more about what it was like, see George Chauncey's excellent Gay New York.