RPS, Christian Bale/Bret Easton Ellis, Casting
Casting
Pairing: Christian Bale/Bret Easton Ellis
Written for the Porn Battle prompt "casting couch"
Through my window I can see the traffic on the street below and the yellow taxis line up and dart out and dominate what little flow there is so that I'm surprised when a knock on my door interrupts my business of the afternoon which is to masturbate while reading a first edition copy of Howl even though I'm still in my Armani suit from the press conference I had hours ago.
The man standing there is dressed in a suit almost identical to mine only his tie is blue with yellow polka dots and mine is red with pinstripes and although something tells me this is not his usual attire he wears it like skin. I recognize the face after a moment and invite him in.
"I'm Christian."
"I'm Jewish."
"No, I mean-"
"I know. I'm not really Jewish anyway."
He wants my blessing to play Bateman, my horrible Patrick, though I don't know why he's asking me. They didn't like my script. He should talk to the woman. I tell him this and he says she's the one who contacted him and he tells me so in a very precise manner which I have to assume is not his own but is quite well affected and emphasized by the most perfect set of teeth I have ever seen.
"Look, I..." he says, setting his jaw and running a freshly manicured hand through newly cropped hair. He's sweating though it's cool in the room and I actually glance at the thermostat to make sure I haven't simply caught a chill.
"It would mean a lot to me..." he continues, and I'm sure he's going to say something else but he doesn't.
"There's sex, you know," I say, "in her script. Not as much as in mine. Not as much murder as in mine either. Or drugs. Or name brands." I feel I'm rattling on and I am almost embarrassed but he seems to be listening with such sincerity that it passes.
"I like sex," he says. "Having it... and pretending to," he is grinning sort of desperately and I'm not sure he isn't going to cry, and I'm not sure I might not also, simply for having my own character standing before me in such nicely tanned flesh, grinning back at me from behind such beautiful teeth. "I could show you," he says.
There is no camera and no coathangers and when he asks me to dance for him I only put my hands in my pockets but he is not discouraged and when I'm naked he fucks me on the bed from behind and shows me his muscles and keeps his shoes on and his tie. His cock smells like expensive soap and tastes like moisturizer and he holds me by my head as I go down on him, keeps me in his own rhythm, faster than I'm used to and I choke a little as he tells me how many sit-ups he does each day and what he might do to me if only he had corkscrew and some motor oil.
He doesn't hurt me but he tells me he wants to and I tell him it might be nice if he did.
The black silk sheets are ruined by the time we've finished and he cleans himself off with them and dresses like I'm not in the room. I wonder how far I'd have to go to find the man that isn't Patrick but I'm not that motivated and when I ask about films he says the last movie he saw was Stand by Me.
"A poignant coming of age story about four friends, portraying a journey not only to find the body of a missing boy, but also to learn the importance of friendship, loyalty, and that no man, or boy, is an island."
I can't help myself. I smile.
"Hey Chrstian," I say once he's at my door, straightening his tie and swabbing sweat from his brow.
"Yes, Bret," he says.
"If I don't see you before thanksgiving," I stop, waiting for nothing, "have a nice one?"
He looks at me for a moment before replying tonelessly, "You too."
Pairing: Christian Bale/Bret Easton Ellis
Written for the Porn Battle prompt "casting couch"
Through my window I can see the traffic on the street below and the yellow taxis line up and dart out and dominate what little flow there is so that I'm surprised when a knock on my door interrupts my business of the afternoon which is to masturbate while reading a first edition copy of Howl even though I'm still in my Armani suit from the press conference I had hours ago.
The man standing there is dressed in a suit almost identical to mine only his tie is blue with yellow polka dots and mine is red with pinstripes and although something tells me this is not his usual attire he wears it like skin. I recognize the face after a moment and invite him in.
"I'm Christian."
"I'm Jewish."
"No, I mean-"
"I know. I'm not really Jewish anyway."
He wants my blessing to play Bateman, my horrible Patrick, though I don't know why he's asking me. They didn't like my script. He should talk to the woman. I tell him this and he says she's the one who contacted him and he tells me so in a very precise manner which I have to assume is not his own but is quite well affected and emphasized by the most perfect set of teeth I have ever seen.
"Look, I..." he says, setting his jaw and running a freshly manicured hand through newly cropped hair. He's sweating though it's cool in the room and I actually glance at the thermostat to make sure I haven't simply caught a chill.
"It would mean a lot to me..." he continues, and I'm sure he's going to say something else but he doesn't.
"There's sex, you know," I say, "in her script. Not as much as in mine. Not as much murder as in mine either. Or drugs. Or name brands." I feel I'm rattling on and I am almost embarrassed but he seems to be listening with such sincerity that it passes.
"I like sex," he says. "Having it... and pretending to," he is grinning sort of desperately and I'm not sure he isn't going to cry, and I'm not sure I might not also, simply for having my own character standing before me in such nicely tanned flesh, grinning back at me from behind such beautiful teeth. "I could show you," he says.
There is no camera and no coathangers and when he asks me to dance for him I only put my hands in my pockets but he is not discouraged and when I'm naked he fucks me on the bed from behind and shows me his muscles and keeps his shoes on and his tie. His cock smells like expensive soap and tastes like moisturizer and he holds me by my head as I go down on him, keeps me in his own rhythm, faster than I'm used to and I choke a little as he tells me how many sit-ups he does each day and what he might do to me if only he had corkscrew and some motor oil.
He doesn't hurt me but he tells me he wants to and I tell him it might be nice if he did.
The black silk sheets are ruined by the time we've finished and he cleans himself off with them and dresses like I'm not in the room. I wonder how far I'd have to go to find the man that isn't Patrick but I'm not that motivated and when I ask about films he says the last movie he saw was Stand by Me.
"A poignant coming of age story about four friends, portraying a journey not only to find the body of a missing boy, but also to learn the importance of friendship, loyalty, and that no man, or boy, is an island."
I can't help myself. I smile.
"Hey Chrstian," I say once he's at my door, straightening his tie and swabbing sweat from his brow.
"Yes, Bret," he says.
"If I don't see you before thanksgiving," I stop, waiting for nothing, "have a nice one?"
He looks at me for a moment before replying tonelessly, "You too."