by Trisky
"I think you look like one of the waiters from Mikey's wedding," I laugh and duck the flying Armani sweater heading straight towards my face. That thing is probably worth more than my entire wardrobe put together, but he thinks nothing of tossing it like it's a dish rag, or my sheets.
"For that, you get to hang all of this up when we get home." He smiles devilishly, undoing the black tie, with one hand and massaging the zipper of his pants down, slowly, very very slowly, with the other. I try not to stare. I don't try hard enough. "Want to reconsider your assessment?"
The tie is around the back of my neck, his hands fisted around the ends dragging me bodily towards his mouth before I can even think of a response. I can feel his tongue licking my bottom lip, catching it between his teeth and just sucking before he presses his entire mouth on mine, my breath caught in the space between dizzy and delirious. I've missed this mouth, this tongue rolling with mine, though it's only been gone for two days. I miss it every second it's not attached to me in some capacity. I can feel the intensity of his tongue thrusting around, sucking the air from my lungs into his own, and I know he's missed this as much as I have and that thrills me, sends some surge through my body, into my hands that can't contain themselves and find their way to a zipper, any zipper, into my toes that flap around like little lost seals and my stomach that's expanding and contracting for the first time in two days out of nothing but pleasure. I could just live inside his mouth, stake a claim and never leave. Never ever leave.
"Your turn."
Until he tosses me out with an abrupt shove.
"I already dress like a busboy four days a week, I'll pass." I shove him gently with one hand, and pull his waistband closer to my own, with the other. His hands secure the back of my neck, forcing me to look straight at him.
"Your ass out of those pants in 30 seconds or I make you try on every single piece of clothing in your size in this store, including underwear, twice." He growls that low mumbling sound that makes all my underwear feel tight at the sound.
"Fuck you," I grouse, dejectedly.
"Not right now, but maybe later." And he moves away, leaving my hands grasping at air, at whatever trace of himself he leaves behind.
I unbutton my khaki's reluctantly, grabbing blindly for the first pair of pants I see, his eyes watching me the entire time, even as he removes the small fortune he's wearing. I love to watch him move in and out of clothes, because I know how much he enjoys looking good, how much care he puts into even the most casual outfit. I like to see the sinewy muscles bend and flex in his back, his shoulders lifting up and down and his calves clenching as he tries to balance on one foot. His body is like a little machine, every wheel and spoke working in unison to form the look, his look, that indefinable thing that I've tried a thousand times to capture and have yet to figure out. Some people call him shallow, and he is, but it's more than that. His talent is creating and projecting an image, selling a product, selling himself to the world, getting them to believe in what he's selling, even if he doesn't, and he almost never fails. He should take pride in that, real pride, not the false pride he hides behind.
It's his imperfections that I love the most, because he tries so hard to pretend he has none and if you knew nothing about him, you would believe that, but if you really know him, you appreciate his flaws and weaknesses all the more. I sleep next to him every night, I see him wake up with his hair sticking in every direction and crud in the corner of his eye, smell his rank breath after some particularly hard night of drinking. I wash that scar on his back, so tiny you'd have stand half an inch away to see it, but that he's convinced is unsightly. I listen to him kick the scale for lying to him or curse the computer for not cooperating with his latent genius. I can feel his arm reach out in the middle of the night, when he thinks I'm asleep, and pull me so close to him, I may as well be another layer of skin. I hear the desperation in his voice when he's panting and dying for some kind of release and begging me to give it to him. I've seen his face, his real face, lost, broken, flying high, tired and amazed. He tries so hard to shield me from him, and the harder he tries, the more I move in, the closer I get, the more he needs me to keep trying.
Everyone else thinks he just a shallow shit, dressed up in a Gucci label, and that's exactly what he wants them to see. He's selling them, what they want to buy, and they're more than welcome to it, I'll keep the damaged goods at half price.
His voice interrupts my reverie.
"You are not wearing those."
I look down at whatever he's pointing at, amused at what I find.
"Why what's wrong with them?" I clench my jaw to keep from snorting out loud. Even my unconscious mind screams 'bore me, I like it'.
"They're beige!"
"So? What's wrong with beige?" His stare is mutinous, seizing on my dick, that I shield protectively, keeping his hands off the zipper, as they reach out for it.
"I didn't spend all that time, picking out all these clothes, so you could wear a $200 version of khaki's." He tugs at my hand, to no avail.
"That's almost more than I make in a week, you should be happy they're good quality pants with a designer label and everything." I am undeterred on my quest to bore him into submission, it's one of my better qualities.
"I don't give a shit if they cost $200 or $2000," his hand slithers into my briefs, grabbing hold of the only precious merchandise I care about, "take them off."
"No." He strokes. Killing me with kindness, shouldn't have taught him that one.
"Justin didn't you agree to let me pick out an outfit on the way over here?"
Stroking, fingertips barely touching, up, down, up down. Question? Did he ask me something?
"I like the way..." balls tight, palm on my head, back and forth, back and... oh ohhhh "... these feel." Will. not. give. in. Will not, will not, will not. Pull back, away, push hand away, his stupid, not yours. Breathe. "If you're not careful," breathe "they're going to have to be dry cleaned before I even wear them outside."
"That's the point."
"I'll make you a deal." Compromise, somewhere along the way we figured that one out. He waits, slightly open to suggestion, ever so slight, as I slide out of them and back into my own pants and shoes. "I wear the beige pants that I want and that ugly little cream sweater you've been trying to put me in, forever." See that wasn't so hard.
"So that you'll really blend into the walls? How are we going to tell the difference if you're in the room or not?"
"I don't want to stand out!" Give me khaki's or give me death!
"It's your birthday party, your supposed to be the main attraction!"
"I'll leave the standing out to you, it's what you do best, and I like it that way." He looks at me, taken aback, like he finally understands the unnatural language I've been speaking all these years and I just told him I was wrong, I really prefer pussy. "What... what are you looking at?"
"Wear what you want." He waves me off, turning his back and adjusts his jeans, so that they rest just so, on his hips.
I laugh out of nerves, out of shock. "Just like that? You're not going to argue with me or pout in the corner until I give in and wear what you want me to wear?"
He turns, an odd glow about him that looks suspiciously like serenity, like acceptance, like something I've never seen before.
"You're a man, I can't tell you what to wear. Put on whatever feels comfortable." He's almost smiling, his eyes turned upwards, his lips following, but it's a resigned smile and it gets to me and I don't know why.
"I like these pants, and hey, you did pick them out, so you must have liked them too."
"They're alright, better than alright. They fit you nicely. Beige is a little boring, but you can make it work with the right shirt, make them look sophisticated."
Him smiling that resigned, relaxed smile, at 60, casually amused at my stupid antics, the image comes unbidden into my mind. Comfortable, he looks comfortable.
"I like that black Armani you threw at me," I add quietly, and he picks it up off the floor, handing it to me, "and some of those other pants, they're pretty nice." His hand lingers at the touch. "Thanks."
"Let's get out of here."
And I follow, anywhere he wants to lead.