Special Porn Hell 2: Electric Boogaloo
[Well, I'm sick of editing this; must be time to post it. As always, end-user beta-readers welcome. I hope it's not too derivative of the other fics for this pairing, but it's kind of hard not to be when, you know, it's canon. ]
Body Language
by
Dara Sue Vega
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities/references to actual people, institutions or personae are used in a fictitious context and for entertainment/satire purposes only. No assertion of actual facts about anyone or anything referred to herein is intended, nor should such be inferred.
Author's Note 1: Yeah, I don't know what the hell restaurant they're supposed to be at. The only place I've eaten dinner in New York in recent memory is on the sidewalk in front of the Colbert Report studio. Hopefully any actual New Yorkers reading this will forgive my laziness. Also, let's just pretend William Jefferson O'Reilly drinks, even if William James O'Reilly apparently doesn't.
***
This is your life: you're the only John Wayne in a town full of limp-wristed liberals. You call them out on your number-one cable news show five nights a week, and America loves you for it. They should. You're six feet four inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of red-blooded flag-waving patriotism, the red-white-and-blue line between culture and chaos.
You're an icon.
You're an institution.
You're this close to throwing it all away.
And it's all because of him.
That skinny, smirking bastard with the French name and the big, dark eyes and the mouth that doesn't know when to quit (on oh, so many levels).
It's like that stupid gay cowboy movie, except you don't wish you could quit him, not really.
At first you were somewhere between flattered and annoyed, when you noticed him at all. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Just some punk with a show on basic cable. A minor satellite catching a little reflected light from your star. When he first proposed this so-called "pundit swap", you figured it would be good for a laugh, and maybe a ratings boost if you were lucky. So how the hell did the evening end with your pants undone in the back of his limo, and his hands and lips and tongue doing things to you that no steadfast defender of traditional values such as yourself should ever even think of, unless it's in the context of telling your viewers what they should be outraged about?
Technically, the evening started that way more than it ended that way. It was still five o'clock-ish when the two of you walked out of the restaurant into the bitter January cold, the sun barely below the horizon and the sky still glowing orange between the skyscrapers. The chill wind felt good after the heat that had started creeping over you about the time the waiter came to take your appetizer order.
***
"...and our appetizer special this evening is falafel with cucumber sauce."
You narrowed your eyes at the waiter, wondering if he was some kind of pinko subversive trying to be clever. But his face showed only the kind of pleasant good cheer you'd expect from a waiter in a place like this, so either he didn't recognize you, didn't read The Smoking Gun, or was just that good of an actor. You were feeling magnanimous so you gave him the benefit of the doubt. "I'll have a Sam Adams Winter Lager."
The waiter turned to your companion. "And for you, sir?"
"The same," he said, "and I think I'll try the falafel." He glanced at you. The waiter didn't notice the twinkle in his eye and the slightest upturned twist to the corner of his mouth, but he noticed the sudden coughing fit that came over you.
"Are you all right, sir?"
You nodded and took a sip from your water glass.
"I'll be right back with your drinks." The waiter scurried away.
You caught your breath and set your glass down, eyeing the man across the table. He looked back at you with bright eyes and an innocent smile. "All right, out with it," you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. "Whatever you want to say, say it."
He held his hands out in a placating gesture. "I wasn't going to say anything. I don't think anything needs to be said."
"What's that supposed to mean?" You gave him a stare that's made weaker men crumble.
He didn't flinch, just folded his hands on the table, interlacing his long, elegant fingers, and leaned forward. "Just that I know what it's like."
"What what's like?"
"Being a American icon." He looked at you over the top of his glasses, eyes black and piercing. "Having the liars and the leftists always trying to tear you down, looking for any moment of weakness they can exploit."
It wasn't the direction you were expecting the conversation to go, but you weren't complaining. "That bitch was just looking for a payoff." A payoff that she got, due to some unfortunate reels of audiotape, but you didn't elaborate.
He held his hand up. "You don't have to justify anything to me."
"I'm not justifying." You unfolded your arms and leaned on the table. "I'm just telling you how it was."
"You don't have to do that either." He just kept looking at you with those eyes until the uncomfortable silence was broken by the waiter coming back with the beers and falafel.
"Are you ready to order?" He smiled pleasantly.
You realized you hadn't even really looked at the menu. "Do you know what you want?" you asked the other man as you skimmed the entree list.
"I'll have the surf and turf," he said. It was the most expensive thing on the menu.
"And how would you like your steak cooked, sir?"
"Medium rare."
"What kind of salad dressing?"
"Vinaigrette."
"Anything else to drink?"
"Not right now."
The waiter turned back to you. "Have you decided, sir?"
You folded the menu closed. "I'll have the same."
"Medium rare, vinaigrette dressing on the salad?"
"Make it ranch."
"And to drink?"
"Another Sam Adams."
"All righty. Enjoy your appetizers." He took your menus and disappeared again, leaving you alone with your partner in uncomfortable conversation.
He held up his beer glass, proposing a toast. "To defenders of America."
"I'll drink to that," you agreed, clinking your glass against his. "You'd better watch it," you couldn't resist adding. "You look like a lightweight."
He quirked an eyebrow at you. "I'm Irish." To illustrate his point, he took a long gulp of his beer.
"Great." You had to smile a little. "Maybe we can have a drinking contest sometime."
"It'll have to be in a more private setting," he said, picking up his fork and cutting off a bite of falafel. "Wouldn't do to have the liberal media catch us overindulging."
"No." You picked up your own fork. "May I?"
"Be my guest." He slid the plate between the two of you and dipped his falafel into the cucumber sauce.
You sliced off a wedge of the nearest piece. Your fork clinked against his as you dipped it in the sauce. There was something weirdly intimate about it. The two of you withdrew your forks in perfect synchronicity and took a bite. For foreign food, it was good, you had to admit.
"So who do you like for the '08 Republican nomination?" you asked, going for another piece of falafel.
He licked a spot of cucumber sauce off his lip with a flick of his perfect pink tongue, and you suddenly became very preoccupied with spooning out a serving of the sauce onto your side of the plate.
"Mike Huckabee's the most Bush-esque. But McCain's got crossover appeal."
You nodded, swirling your forkful of falafel around in the sauce. "If Huckabee can sell his tax overhaul, he might have a serious shot."
"Any bets on who's going to have the first sex scandal?"
You looked up sharply to see him pop another bite of falafel into his mouth. Somehow he managed to smirk while chewing.
"Did anybody ever tell you, you have a one-track mind?" You raised your own fork. "Anyway, I think it's about time the Democrats had another good scandal. They're overdue." You took your bite, hoping for a minute of pleasant silence.
He finished chewing. "I do not have a one-track mind. I just know what's good for ratings."
He had a point. If it weren't for perverts and pedophiles, you might still be in Scranton busting crooked appliance-repair shops. "The folks love to have somebody to feel superior to."
"Far be it from us not to give the people what they want." He took another sip of his beer, then set his glass down and rested his chin on his hand. "Do you ever think it gets out of hand?"
"What does?"
"America's need to drag the sins of the rich and powerful into the light of day."
You raised your eyebrows at him. "Only when the one having their sins dragged into the light is me."
He broke into a grin, looking down at the plate for a second and then back up at you. "I hear you."
"So," you said, finishing your beer, "did you really do it?"
"Do what?" His eyes widened, all innocence.
"Come on. I saw your little 'Salute to the Ladies.'"
"That was settled in a closed court proceeding," he said, his smile fading. "But it was all a big misunderstanding. Besides, I can't believe anyone wouldn't be honored at the opportunity to be groped by me."
"Same here." You speared the last piece of falafel with your fork. "Not that I ever actually groped anybody. It's not my fault these women's libbers go around demanding total sexual freedom and then get their panties in a bunch when you try to have a friendly little chat about vibrators."
He nodded sympathetically. "And pro ball players slap each other's asses all the time, so why is it such a big deal when you do it to your intern?"
You blinked. "What?" Not that you were surprised, he was French after all, despite his protestations to the contrary.
"I'm just saying, what has this country come to when you can't have a little camaraderie with another man without it getting turned into something sordid?"
You raised your eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure I've never had that kind of camaraderie with any of the men I know."
"My point exactly. We have to take it back from the gays."
You held your hands out, shaking your head as you stifled a chuckle. "Hey, don't look at me, pal. Only the luckiest ladies get to slap this ass."
"I'd offer to put on a dress, but that would be somewhat counter to the point I'm trying to make."
"Please, whatever you like to do in the privacy of your bedroom is none of my business."
Was that a slight hint of red creeping over his cheeks? "I was speaking rhetorically, of course. Um, moving on..."
He was spared the agony of trying to change the subject by the waiter arriving with the salads and another beer for you. "Can I get you anything else, gentlemen?"
"Not right now," you said, and your dinner date shook his head in agreement.
The waiter made himself scarce again and the two of you dug into your salads. You were debating whether to take pity on him and steer the conversation to something more innocuous or revel in his discomfort some more when he asked, in between bites, "So, who's been your favorite guest?"
You pondered the question for a minute, pushing your salad around your plate with your fork. "I liked Jenna Jameson. She was interesting." Even if she never did send you any of her videos, the tease. "How about you?"
He smiled, looked down for a second, and when he met your eyes again the faint pink tinge was back on his cheeks. "My favorite guest is going to be on tonight."
***
He brought up the subject again in the alleyway between the restaurant and the parking lot. It didn't occur to you until later that maybe he had an ulterior motive for not having the limo waiting out front.
"Do you ever get lonely?"
You shrugged. "I'm surrounded by people all day long."
"I mean for somebody who really gets you."
You turned to look at him, and found that he was already staring at you. His eyes were even darker and deeper than usual in the seedy arc-sodium light. Your own eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you trying to say? Spell it out for me."
"Just that I understand you. Maybe better than anyone. And I'm here for you."
You stopped in your tracks and grabbed him by the upper arm. "Listen, cut the crap. Do you have the hots for me or something? Because if you do, just fucking say so already."
"Please," he said, raising his eyebrows, "you make it sound so sleazy. I'm just saying, I know it isn't easy being... who you are, and if there's anything I can do..."
You let him go and stepped back, looking around for hidden cameras. "Is this some kind of setup? Did that prick from MSNBC put you up to this?"
"No!" His eyes were wide, and he had one hand over his heart and the other held out toward you, palm up, beseeching. "I would never do that to you!"
"Yeah?" You crossed your arms, eyeing him warily. "So what would you do to me?"
He took a step toward you, looking up at you from under lowered eyelids. "Anything you want me to." Another step, and he was farther into your personal space than most men ever got without getting decked. He licked his lips. "Anything."
Despite the cold air, you felt a slow heat creeping up the back of your neck. You grabbed him by the arm again, dragging him in the direction of the parking lot. "Just get in the damn car."
He almost had to walk double-time to keep up with you. When the two of you got to the limo, his chauffeur got out and opened the door for you. You got in first, and he whispered something to the driver before climbing in after you.
"What did you say to him?" you asked, when the door was closed and the engine was running.
"I told him to take the long way." He sat with his back to the door, looking at you.
"Why, so you can make another weird pass at me?" You turned in your seat to face him.
"I wasn't making a pass at you! I was just..."
"Just what?"
"Just proposing a little bit of... recreation... between colleagues."
"Yeah, well, the last person who wanted to get recreational with me ended up suing me for sixty mill, so you'll excuse me if I'm a little skeptical. And why am I even having this discussion? I'm not into guys."
"Oh, of course not. Neither am I."
You just arched your eyebrows in response.
He elaborated. "Nope, I am one hundred percent heterosexual. I loooove the ladies."
You just stared at him. "Okay, clear something up for me. Did you or did you not just offer to do anything I wanted ten minutes ago?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"And if what I want is for you to get down on your knees and suck my cock...?"
"I'd be happy to do that for you."
"Jesus, am I speaking English, here? Because the words you're saying are not sane responses to the questions I'm asking!"
He tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed. "How so?"
"You just said you were straight and now you're offering to suck my dick! Nothing about that seems weird to you?"
"Just because a man shows physical affection for another man doesn't mean he's gay!"
"When the physical affection is a blowjob, yes it does!" By this point, you were thoroughly convinced that this was some kind of elaborate Comedy Central prank.
"But straight men do it all the time!"
"NO, THEY DON'T!" This was by far the most insane interview you'd ever had, and it hadn't even officially started yet.
"Really?" He blinked. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm fucking sure! That's why they're called straight men! Because they don't fuck other men!"
He raised his hand to his chin contemplatively and frowned. "What if they're both Republicans?"
You threw up your hands in exasperation. "Okay, you know what? I give up. You win. You're the straightest man I've ever met in my life, now get on your knees."
You thought that once you called his bluff, he'd knock it off. You didn't even consider that he might not be bluffing. So when he slid off the seat to kneel between your legs and unzip your pants, you were so surprised that you forgot to object. At first you just rolled your eyes, thinking he was taking this a little too far for a joke. Then his hand slid into your briefs and started stroking.
You inhaled sharply and felt your face redden, despite the fact that suddenly a whole lot of your blood was being redirected elsewhere. You opened your mouth to yell at him but somehow that part of your brain short-circuited when he slipped your growing erection free and lowered his head to take a long, slow lick.
Your breath was catching in your chest and your heart was pounding. The big head knew this had to stop, and right now, but the little head was enjoying the sensuous caress of that tongue too much. You finally forced your arm to move, your fingers to find a grip on his hair, but he only took it as an encouragement. He looked up at you, a sly smile turning up the corners of his lips, and then took your cock in his mouth. Every inch (and despite what certain smear-merchants liked to insinuate, there were more than a few inches), greedily, effortlessly, and you wondered disjointedly if in whatever straight-men-suck-cock Bizarro World he was clearly from, gag reflexes didn't exist.
His mouth was moving now, and his fingers were touching you everywhere his mouth wasn't, teasing strokes that conspired with his eager sucking to render you incapable of rational thought. Somewhere in the dim recesses of your mind there was one last shred of sanity screaming that this couldn't possibly be happening, that you couldn't possibly be letting this happen, that there was no way this could end in anything but complete, apocalyptic disaster for you and everything you held dear, but those protests were quickly drowning in waves of hot, wet sensation. Your hand slid down to rest nervelessly on his shoulder and you leaned back against the seat. You shut your eyes but could still see him hungrily deep-throating you, his own eyes closed behind his glasses, his lips wrapped around your cock, his hair tousled where you'd grabbed it. You were picturing everything he was doing to you as he did it, every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his hand, every slick, tight embrace of his throat as he moved his head up and down.
Your grip tightened on his shoulder and a moan escaped your throat. You clenched your teeth and tried to think about baseball, politics, anything other than the fact that another man was giving you a strong contender for the best blowjob of your life. It didn't work. You looked down again and the sight of him, so completely, insatiably wanton, almost made you forget how to breathe. You closed your eyes again and surrendered. He was sucking harder and faster, pulling you closer and closer to the edge, and you were moving your hips and telling him don't stop, don't ever stop, and then your words dissolved into a low, groaning gasp as you came in his mouth with one last thrust.
You heard him swallow and he kept licking and stroking as the blood slowly returned to your brain. You sat there panting, your eyes closed, wondering if there were any way to get out of the limo without having to open them again. He brushed his lips over your cock in a gesture that was almost but not quite a kiss, then tucked it back in and re-fastened your pants. You heard a rustle of fabric and felt the heat of his body as he pulled himself up onto the seat next to you, sitting too close and then even closer as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours.
It was too much, it was all too much, but this was the last straw. Your eyes snapped open and before you could even think about it your hand came up in a sharp slap. He pulled away from you with a surprised gasp.
"Hey, look..." For once in your life, you were at a loss for words as he stared at you, wide-eyed, rubbing the reddening splotch on his cheek. You had never hit a woman, and you had certainly never hit a man who had just gone down on you. You let your eyes wander southward just to get away from that hurt, shocked expression on his face and you blinked when you saw that apparently getting slapped hadn't dampened his arousal any. When you looked back up at his face, it was red from more than just your handprint, and you knew he noticed you noticing him.
"Of course I don't expect you to -" he stammered.
"Shut up." You grabbed his arm, dragging him into your lap and wrapping one arm around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him tight against you. Your other hand was undoing his belt and unzipping his pants. "Straight guys don't soul-kiss each other, and they don't talk about their feelings when they could be fucking."
He leaned his head back against your shoulder and inhaled sharply when you slid your hand into his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his erection. "This is really - ah! - an honor," he gasped as you stroked.
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" You moved your hand slowly up and down his length, which was considerable. You wondered briefly if he hadn't been kidding about his hypothetical stint in porn. "I'll do the talking here." You nipped lightly at his neck, tempted to give him a hickey before you remembered that other people had seen the two of you leave together and they'd be seeing you return. You settled for running your tongue from his collar to his earlobe as you rubbed your thumb over the head of his cock. His breathing roughened and he squirmed in your grasp. You clutched him more tightly and stroked your fingertips down the underside of his shaft, whispering in his good ear, "You like that?"
"Yes," he breathed.
You gripped him harder and stroked faster. "You liked sucking my cock, didn't you?"
"Yes." His voice was low and harsh.
"Maybe after we're done taping I'll take you up to my office and fuck you." You bit his earlobe for emphasis.
This time he just moaned.
"You'd love it, wouldn't you... I'd get your pants off, bend you over my desk, tease you a little... you'd beg me to fuck you, and I'd give it to you hard, make you scream my name..."
"Oh God, yes..." His breathing was coming in ragged gasps, and he was thrusting into your hand.
"Maybe I won't even wait 'til after the show. Maybe I'll do you on the anchor desk right in front of the cameras." The rocking of his ass against your groin combined with the mental imagery of the things you were saying to him were, unbelievably, insanely, making you hard again. You used your other hand to grip his hips, holding them still, determined not to lose control of yourself or the situation again. "Would you like that?"
His arms now free, he put one hand over yours on his hip and reached up to clutch at your hair with the other. "Yes, oh fuck, yes..." he moaned, tensing in your grasp as he came. Afterward he lay limply against you, eyes closed, catching his breath.
Your own arousal was insistent. You gritted your teeth, doing your best to ignore it until either it went away or you had a moment alone, and fumbled in your jacket pocket looking for your handkerchief.
His eyelids fluttered open and he smiled lazily. "Mmmmm... that was really nice."
"Yeah, great," you said, wiping off your hand. "You know what else straight men don't do with other men? Cuddle."
He stretched, inadvertently rubbing against your hard-on, and looked up at you, a gleam in his eye. "Ready for round two already?"
"No. Will you pull yourself together? We're almost there."
"I can tell him to circle the block a few more times," he said, reaching for the intercom button.
You batted his hand away. "No! Christ, stop fucking around. We have a show to do."
Right on cue, the limousine pulled to a halt in front of your studio.
"We're at the Fox News building, sir," came the driver's voice over the intercom.
"Zip your damn pants before he opens the door," you hissed at him, shoving him back to his side of the seat. You were relieved when he complied. For your part, you managed to get your hair smoothed back to some semblance of neatness and your jacket off and strategically placed over your lap.
***
"So, did you really mean it?" he asked in the green room before your show. It was just the two of you and a fairly unimpressive deli platter.
"Mean what?" You checked your makeup and hair one last time in the mirror.
"What you said you were going to do to me on the air."
You turned to look at him. If he were anyone else, you would have assumed he was kidding, but in the last two hours, you'd learned not to take anything for granted where he's concerned. Neither humor nor apprehension showed on his face, just a kind of bemused curiosity. "If I said yes, would you let me?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if America's quite ready for that, yet."
You couldn't help chuckling. "Are you kidding? Think of the ratings. We'd probably beat the big three."
He shook his head. "But people wouldn't understand. Not really."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
"We probably shouldn't mention it."
"Yeah, we probably shouldn't."
"I won't tell if you don't." He winked.
"Hey, what happens on The Factor stays on The Factor."
***
You didn't fuck him that night, on the show or afterward. But you thought about him as you hastily got yourself off in the bathroom before reporting to the makeup girl, and again when you got home. In fact, ever since then, you've barely been able to think of anything else. Every time you have a minute to yourself, you're mentally replaying the events in the back of his limo, or you're imagining the sounds he'd make as you fucked him over your desk (or his desk, or maybe even Jon Stewart's desk), or you're lathering him into a frenzy in your favorite Caribbean shower fantasy. Sometimes the scene ends with him on his knees. Sometimes it ends with him braced against the shower wall, hands splayed against the tiles, his moans echoing in the steamy room as you take him hard. And every now and then, you fantasize about having your way with him in an actual bed.
You know it can't happen again. It's bad enough that it happened the first time. You haven't spent decades in the news business without learning (from bitter personal experience on one occasion) that people like you who do things like this always get caught. His slip-up on the air the other night was too close for comfort already. Your audience forgave your tawdry little phone sex escapade because half of them think women are responsible for all the sin in the world anyway, but would they forgive this? Doubtful.
And yet...
Your hand hovers over the phone on your desk.
If you pick it up, there's no going back. Even if what happened that night was a one-time aberration and he turns you down, he'll always know you wanted this, wanted him, and you'll always know that he knows. And if he doesn't turn you down...
Is it worth it?
Is it worth everything?
***
-beep-
"Stephen. It's Bill. Call me."
-click-
***
The end?
***
Author's Note 2: Believe it or not, I made the Sam Adams reference and had the neck-licking scene in mind before I read Those Who Trespass. I don't know whether to be encouraged or alarmed that apparently I'm on Bill's wavelength.
Things made reference to in this story:
Stephen on The Factor
Bill on The Report Part 1 Part 2
What happens on The Factor doesn't stay on The Factor
Stephen's Salute to the American Lady
Stephen's hypothetical porn career
Bill's phone sex escapades, specifically this one and this one.
Body Language
by
Dara Sue Vega
Disclaimer: The following is a work of fiction. Any similarities/references to actual people, institutions or personae are used in a fictitious context and for entertainment/satire purposes only. No assertion of actual facts about anyone or anything referred to herein is intended, nor should such be inferred.
Author's Note 1: Yeah, I don't know what the hell restaurant they're supposed to be at. The only place I've eaten dinner in New York in recent memory is on the sidewalk in front of the Colbert Report studio. Hopefully any actual New Yorkers reading this will forgive my laziness. Also, let's just pretend William Jefferson O'Reilly drinks, even if William James O'Reilly apparently doesn't.
***
This is your life: you're the only John Wayne in a town full of limp-wristed liberals. You call them out on your number-one cable news show five nights a week, and America loves you for it. They should. You're six feet four inches and two hundred and fifty pounds of red-blooded flag-waving patriotism, the red-white-and-blue line between culture and chaos.
You're an icon.
You're an institution.
You're this close to throwing it all away.
And it's all because of him.
That skinny, smirking bastard with the French name and the big, dark eyes and the mouth that doesn't know when to quit (on oh, so many levels).
It's like that stupid gay cowboy movie, except you don't wish you could quit him, not really.
At first you were somewhere between flattered and annoyed, when you noticed him at all. Who the hell did he think he was, anyway? Just some punk with a show on basic cable. A minor satellite catching a little reflected light from your star. When he first proposed this so-called "pundit swap", you figured it would be good for a laugh, and maybe a ratings boost if you were lucky. So how the hell did the evening end with your pants undone in the back of his limo, and his hands and lips and tongue doing things to you that no steadfast defender of traditional values such as yourself should ever even think of, unless it's in the context of telling your viewers what they should be outraged about?
Technically, the evening started that way more than it ended that way. It was still five o'clock-ish when the two of you walked out of the restaurant into the bitter January cold, the sun barely below the horizon and the sky still glowing orange between the skyscrapers. The chill wind felt good after the heat that had started creeping over you about the time the waiter came to take your appetizer order.
***
"...and our appetizer special this evening is falafel with cucumber sauce."
You narrowed your eyes at the waiter, wondering if he was some kind of pinko subversive trying to be clever. But his face showed only the kind of pleasant good cheer you'd expect from a waiter in a place like this, so either he didn't recognize you, didn't read The Smoking Gun, or was just that good of an actor. You were feeling magnanimous so you gave him the benefit of the doubt. "I'll have a Sam Adams Winter Lager."
The waiter turned to your companion. "And for you, sir?"
"The same," he said, "and I think I'll try the falafel." He glanced at you. The waiter didn't notice the twinkle in his eye and the slightest upturned twist to the corner of his mouth, but he noticed the sudden coughing fit that came over you.
"Are you all right, sir?"
You nodded and took a sip from your water glass.
"I'll be right back with your drinks." The waiter scurried away.
You caught your breath and set your glass down, eyeing the man across the table. He looked back at you with bright eyes and an innocent smile. "All right, out with it," you said, leaning back in your chair and crossing your arms. "Whatever you want to say, say it."
He held his hands out in a placating gesture. "I wasn't going to say anything. I don't think anything needs to be said."
"What's that supposed to mean?" You gave him a stare that's made weaker men crumble.
He didn't flinch, just folded his hands on the table, interlacing his long, elegant fingers, and leaned forward. "Just that I know what it's like."
"What what's like?"
"Being a American icon." He looked at you over the top of his glasses, eyes black and piercing. "Having the liars and the leftists always trying to tear you down, looking for any moment of weakness they can exploit."
It wasn't the direction you were expecting the conversation to go, but you weren't complaining. "That bitch was just looking for a payoff." A payoff that she got, due to some unfortunate reels of audiotape, but you didn't elaborate.
He held his hand up. "You don't have to justify anything to me."
"I'm not justifying." You unfolded your arms and leaned on the table. "I'm just telling you how it was."
"You don't have to do that either." He just kept looking at you with those eyes until the uncomfortable silence was broken by the waiter coming back with the beers and falafel.
"Are you ready to order?" He smiled pleasantly.
You realized you hadn't even really looked at the menu. "Do you know what you want?" you asked the other man as you skimmed the entree list.
"I'll have the surf and turf," he said. It was the most expensive thing on the menu.
"And how would you like your steak cooked, sir?"
"Medium rare."
"What kind of salad dressing?"
"Vinaigrette."
"Anything else to drink?"
"Not right now."
The waiter turned back to you. "Have you decided, sir?"
You folded the menu closed. "I'll have the same."
"Medium rare, vinaigrette dressing on the salad?"
"Make it ranch."
"And to drink?"
"Another Sam Adams."
"All righty. Enjoy your appetizers." He took your menus and disappeared again, leaving you alone with your partner in uncomfortable conversation.
He held up his beer glass, proposing a toast. "To defenders of America."
"I'll drink to that," you agreed, clinking your glass against his. "You'd better watch it," you couldn't resist adding. "You look like a lightweight."
He quirked an eyebrow at you. "I'm Irish." To illustrate his point, he took a long gulp of his beer.
"Great." You had to smile a little. "Maybe we can have a drinking contest sometime."
"It'll have to be in a more private setting," he said, picking up his fork and cutting off a bite of falafel. "Wouldn't do to have the liberal media catch us overindulging."
"No." You picked up your own fork. "May I?"
"Be my guest." He slid the plate between the two of you and dipped his falafel into the cucumber sauce.
You sliced off a wedge of the nearest piece. Your fork clinked against his as you dipped it in the sauce. There was something weirdly intimate about it. The two of you withdrew your forks in perfect synchronicity and took a bite. For foreign food, it was good, you had to admit.
"So who do you like for the '08 Republican nomination?" you asked, going for another piece of falafel.
He licked a spot of cucumber sauce off his lip with a flick of his perfect pink tongue, and you suddenly became very preoccupied with spooning out a serving of the sauce onto your side of the plate.
"Mike Huckabee's the most Bush-esque. But McCain's got crossover appeal."
You nodded, swirling your forkful of falafel around in the sauce. "If Huckabee can sell his tax overhaul, he might have a serious shot."
"Any bets on who's going to have the first sex scandal?"
You looked up sharply to see him pop another bite of falafel into his mouth. Somehow he managed to smirk while chewing.
"Did anybody ever tell you, you have a one-track mind?" You raised your own fork. "Anyway, I think it's about time the Democrats had another good scandal. They're overdue." You took your bite, hoping for a minute of pleasant silence.
He finished chewing. "I do not have a one-track mind. I just know what's good for ratings."
He had a point. If it weren't for perverts and pedophiles, you might still be in Scranton busting crooked appliance-repair shops. "The folks love to have somebody to feel superior to."
"Far be it from us not to give the people what they want." He took another sip of his beer, then set his glass down and rested his chin on his hand. "Do you ever think it gets out of hand?"
"What does?"
"America's need to drag the sins of the rich and powerful into the light of day."
You raised your eyebrows at him. "Only when the one having their sins dragged into the light is me."
He broke into a grin, looking down at the plate for a second and then back up at you. "I hear you."
"So," you said, finishing your beer, "did you really do it?"
"Do what?" His eyes widened, all innocence.
"Come on. I saw your little 'Salute to the Ladies.'"
"That was settled in a closed court proceeding," he said, his smile fading. "But it was all a big misunderstanding. Besides, I can't believe anyone wouldn't be honored at the opportunity to be groped by me."
"Same here." You speared the last piece of falafel with your fork. "Not that I ever actually groped anybody. It's not my fault these women's libbers go around demanding total sexual freedom and then get their panties in a bunch when you try to have a friendly little chat about vibrators."
He nodded sympathetically. "And pro ball players slap each other's asses all the time, so why is it such a big deal when you do it to your intern?"
You blinked. "What?" Not that you were surprised, he was French after all, despite his protestations to the contrary.
"I'm just saying, what has this country come to when you can't have a little camaraderie with another man without it getting turned into something sordid?"
You raised your eyebrows. "I'm pretty sure I've never had that kind of camaraderie with any of the men I know."
"My point exactly. We have to take it back from the gays."
You held your hands out, shaking your head as you stifled a chuckle. "Hey, don't look at me, pal. Only the luckiest ladies get to slap this ass."
"I'd offer to put on a dress, but that would be somewhat counter to the point I'm trying to make."
"Please, whatever you like to do in the privacy of your bedroom is none of my business."
Was that a slight hint of red creeping over his cheeks? "I was speaking rhetorically, of course. Um, moving on..."
He was spared the agony of trying to change the subject by the waiter arriving with the salads and another beer for you. "Can I get you anything else, gentlemen?"
"Not right now," you said, and your dinner date shook his head in agreement.
The waiter made himself scarce again and the two of you dug into your salads. You were debating whether to take pity on him and steer the conversation to something more innocuous or revel in his discomfort some more when he asked, in between bites, "So, who's been your favorite guest?"
You pondered the question for a minute, pushing your salad around your plate with your fork. "I liked Jenna Jameson. She was interesting." Even if she never did send you any of her videos, the tease. "How about you?"
He smiled, looked down for a second, and when he met your eyes again the faint pink tinge was back on his cheeks. "My favorite guest is going to be on tonight."
***
He brought up the subject again in the alleyway between the restaurant and the parking lot. It didn't occur to you until later that maybe he had an ulterior motive for not having the limo waiting out front.
"Do you ever get lonely?"
You shrugged. "I'm surrounded by people all day long."
"I mean for somebody who really gets you."
You turned to look at him, and found that he was already staring at you. His eyes were even darker and deeper than usual in the seedy arc-sodium light. Your own eyes narrowed. "What exactly are you trying to say? Spell it out for me."
"Just that I understand you. Maybe better than anyone. And I'm here for you."
You stopped in your tracks and grabbed him by the upper arm. "Listen, cut the crap. Do you have the hots for me or something? Because if you do, just fucking say so already."
"Please," he said, raising his eyebrows, "you make it sound so sleazy. I'm just saying, I know it isn't easy being... who you are, and if there's anything I can do..."
You let him go and stepped back, looking around for hidden cameras. "Is this some kind of setup? Did that prick from MSNBC put you up to this?"
"No!" His eyes were wide, and he had one hand over his heart and the other held out toward you, palm up, beseeching. "I would never do that to you!"
"Yeah?" You crossed your arms, eyeing him warily. "So what would you do to me?"
He took a step toward you, looking up at you from under lowered eyelids. "Anything you want me to." Another step, and he was farther into your personal space than most men ever got without getting decked. He licked his lips. "Anything."
Despite the cold air, you felt a slow heat creeping up the back of your neck. You grabbed him by the arm again, dragging him in the direction of the parking lot. "Just get in the damn car."
He almost had to walk double-time to keep up with you. When the two of you got to the limo, his chauffeur got out and opened the door for you. You got in first, and he whispered something to the driver before climbing in after you.
"What did you say to him?" you asked, when the door was closed and the engine was running.
"I told him to take the long way." He sat with his back to the door, looking at you.
"Why, so you can make another weird pass at me?" You turned in your seat to face him.
"I wasn't making a pass at you! I was just..."
"Just what?"
"Just proposing a little bit of... recreation... between colleagues."
"Yeah, well, the last person who wanted to get recreational with me ended up suing me for sixty mill, so you'll excuse me if I'm a little skeptical. And why am I even having this discussion? I'm not into guys."
"Oh, of course not. Neither am I."
You just arched your eyebrows in response.
He elaborated. "Nope, I am one hundred percent heterosexual. I loooove the ladies."
You just stared at him. "Okay, clear something up for me. Did you or did you not just offer to do anything I wanted ten minutes ago?"
"Yes, absolutely."
"And if what I want is for you to get down on your knees and suck my cock...?"
"I'd be happy to do that for you."
"Jesus, am I speaking English, here? Because the words you're saying are not sane responses to the questions I'm asking!"
He tilted his head, eyebrows furrowed. "How so?"
"You just said you were straight and now you're offering to suck my dick! Nothing about that seems weird to you?"
"Just because a man shows physical affection for another man doesn't mean he's gay!"
"When the physical affection is a blowjob, yes it does!" By this point, you were thoroughly convinced that this was some kind of elaborate Comedy Central prank.
"But straight men do it all the time!"
"NO, THEY DON'T!" This was by far the most insane interview you'd ever had, and it hadn't even officially started yet.
"Really?" He blinked. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm fucking sure! That's why they're called straight men! Because they don't fuck other men!"
He raised his hand to his chin contemplatively and frowned. "What if they're both Republicans?"
You threw up your hands in exasperation. "Okay, you know what? I give up. You win. You're the straightest man I've ever met in my life, now get on your knees."
You thought that once you called his bluff, he'd knock it off. You didn't even consider that he might not be bluffing. So when he slid off the seat to kneel between your legs and unzip your pants, you were so surprised that you forgot to object. At first you just rolled your eyes, thinking he was taking this a little too far for a joke. Then his hand slid into your briefs and started stroking.
You inhaled sharply and felt your face redden, despite the fact that suddenly a whole lot of your blood was being redirected elsewhere. You opened your mouth to yell at him but somehow that part of your brain short-circuited when he slipped your growing erection free and lowered his head to take a long, slow lick.
Your breath was catching in your chest and your heart was pounding. The big head knew this had to stop, and right now, but the little head was enjoying the sensuous caress of that tongue too much. You finally forced your arm to move, your fingers to find a grip on his hair, but he only took it as an encouragement. He looked up at you, a sly smile turning up the corners of his lips, and then took your cock in his mouth. Every inch (and despite what certain smear-merchants liked to insinuate, there were more than a few inches), greedily, effortlessly, and you wondered disjointedly if in whatever straight-men-suck-cock Bizarro World he was clearly from, gag reflexes didn't exist.
His mouth was moving now, and his fingers were touching you everywhere his mouth wasn't, teasing strokes that conspired with his eager sucking to render you incapable of rational thought. Somewhere in the dim recesses of your mind there was one last shred of sanity screaming that this couldn't possibly be happening, that you couldn't possibly be letting this happen, that there was no way this could end in anything but complete, apocalyptic disaster for you and everything you held dear, but those protests were quickly drowning in waves of hot, wet sensation. Your hand slid down to rest nervelessly on his shoulder and you leaned back against the seat. You shut your eyes but could still see him hungrily deep-throating you, his own eyes closed behind his glasses, his lips wrapped around your cock, his hair tousled where you'd grabbed it. You were picturing everything he was doing to you as he did it, every stroke of his tongue, every touch of his hand, every slick, tight embrace of his throat as he moved his head up and down.
Your grip tightened on his shoulder and a moan escaped your throat. You clenched your teeth and tried to think about baseball, politics, anything other than the fact that another man was giving you a strong contender for the best blowjob of your life. It didn't work. You looked down again and the sight of him, so completely, insatiably wanton, almost made you forget how to breathe. You closed your eyes again and surrendered. He was sucking harder and faster, pulling you closer and closer to the edge, and you were moving your hips and telling him don't stop, don't ever stop, and then your words dissolved into a low, groaning gasp as you came in his mouth with one last thrust.
You heard him swallow and he kept licking and stroking as the blood slowly returned to your brain. You sat there panting, your eyes closed, wondering if there were any way to get out of the limo without having to open them again. He brushed his lips over your cock in a gesture that was almost but not quite a kiss, then tucked it back in and re-fastened your pants. You heard a rustle of fabric and felt the heat of his body as he pulled himself up onto the seat next to you, sitting too close and then even closer as he leaned in and pressed his mouth to yours.
It was too much, it was all too much, but this was the last straw. Your eyes snapped open and before you could even think about it your hand came up in a sharp slap. He pulled away from you with a surprised gasp.
"Hey, look..." For once in your life, you were at a loss for words as he stared at you, wide-eyed, rubbing the reddening splotch on his cheek. You had never hit a woman, and you had certainly never hit a man who had just gone down on you. You let your eyes wander southward just to get away from that hurt, shocked expression on his face and you blinked when you saw that apparently getting slapped hadn't dampened his arousal any. When you looked back up at his face, it was red from more than just your handprint, and you knew he noticed you noticing him.
"Of course I don't expect you to -" he stammered.
"Shut up." You grabbed his arm, dragging him into your lap and wrapping one arm around his chest, pinning his arms to his sides and holding him tight against you. Your other hand was undoing his belt and unzipping his pants. "Straight guys don't soul-kiss each other, and they don't talk about their feelings when they could be fucking."
He leaned his head back against your shoulder and inhaled sharply when you slid your hand into his boxers and wrapped your fingers around his erection. "This is really - ah! - an honor," he gasped as you stroked.
"Didn't I tell you to shut up?" You moved your hand slowly up and down his length, which was considerable. You wondered briefly if he hadn't been kidding about his hypothetical stint in porn. "I'll do the talking here." You nipped lightly at his neck, tempted to give him a hickey before you remembered that other people had seen the two of you leave together and they'd be seeing you return. You settled for running your tongue from his collar to his earlobe as you rubbed your thumb over the head of his cock. His breathing roughened and he squirmed in your grasp. You clutched him more tightly and stroked your fingertips down the underside of his shaft, whispering in his good ear, "You like that?"
"Yes," he breathed.
You gripped him harder and stroked faster. "You liked sucking my cock, didn't you?"
"Yes." His voice was low and harsh.
"Maybe after we're done taping I'll take you up to my office and fuck you." You bit his earlobe for emphasis.
This time he just moaned.
"You'd love it, wouldn't you... I'd get your pants off, bend you over my desk, tease you a little... you'd beg me to fuck you, and I'd give it to you hard, make you scream my name..."
"Oh God, yes..." His breathing was coming in ragged gasps, and he was thrusting into your hand.
"Maybe I won't even wait 'til after the show. Maybe I'll do you on the anchor desk right in front of the cameras." The rocking of his ass against your groin combined with the mental imagery of the things you were saying to him were, unbelievably, insanely, making you hard again. You used your other hand to grip his hips, holding them still, determined not to lose control of yourself or the situation again. "Would you like that?"
His arms now free, he put one hand over yours on his hip and reached up to clutch at your hair with the other. "Yes, oh fuck, yes..." he moaned, tensing in your grasp as he came. Afterward he lay limply against you, eyes closed, catching his breath.
Your own arousal was insistent. You gritted your teeth, doing your best to ignore it until either it went away or you had a moment alone, and fumbled in your jacket pocket looking for your handkerchief.
His eyelids fluttered open and he smiled lazily. "Mmmmm... that was really nice."
"Yeah, great," you said, wiping off your hand. "You know what else straight men don't do with other men? Cuddle."
He stretched, inadvertently rubbing against your hard-on, and looked up at you, a gleam in his eye. "Ready for round two already?"
"No. Will you pull yourself together? We're almost there."
"I can tell him to circle the block a few more times," he said, reaching for the intercom button.
You batted his hand away. "No! Christ, stop fucking around. We have a show to do."
Right on cue, the limousine pulled to a halt in front of your studio.
"We're at the Fox News building, sir," came the driver's voice over the intercom.
"Zip your damn pants before he opens the door," you hissed at him, shoving him back to his side of the seat. You were relieved when he complied. For your part, you managed to get your hair smoothed back to some semblance of neatness and your jacket off and strategically placed over your lap.
***
"So, did you really mean it?" he asked in the green room before your show. It was just the two of you and a fairly unimpressive deli platter.
"Mean what?" You checked your makeup and hair one last time in the mirror.
"What you said you were going to do to me on the air."
You turned to look at him. If he were anyone else, you would have assumed he was kidding, but in the last two hours, you'd learned not to take anything for granted where he's concerned. Neither humor nor apprehension showed on his face, just a kind of bemused curiosity. "If I said yes, would you let me?"
He raised an eyebrow. "I don't know if America's quite ready for that, yet."
You couldn't help chuckling. "Are you kidding? Think of the ratings. We'd probably beat the big three."
He shook his head. "But people wouldn't understand. Not really."
"Yeah, you're probably right."
"We probably shouldn't mention it."
"Yeah, we probably shouldn't."
"I won't tell if you don't." He winked.
"Hey, what happens on The Factor stays on The Factor."
***
You didn't fuck him that night, on the show or afterward. But you thought about him as you hastily got yourself off in the bathroom before reporting to the makeup girl, and again when you got home. In fact, ever since then, you've barely been able to think of anything else. Every time you have a minute to yourself, you're mentally replaying the events in the back of his limo, or you're imagining the sounds he'd make as you fucked him over your desk (or his desk, or maybe even Jon Stewart's desk), or you're lathering him into a frenzy in your favorite Caribbean shower fantasy. Sometimes the scene ends with him on his knees. Sometimes it ends with him braced against the shower wall, hands splayed against the tiles, his moans echoing in the steamy room as you take him hard. And every now and then, you fantasize about having your way with him in an actual bed.
You know it can't happen again. It's bad enough that it happened the first time. You haven't spent decades in the news business without learning (from bitter personal experience on one occasion) that people like you who do things like this always get caught. His slip-up on the air the other night was too close for comfort already. Your audience forgave your tawdry little phone sex escapade because half of them think women are responsible for all the sin in the world anyway, but would they forgive this? Doubtful.
And yet...
Your hand hovers over the phone on your desk.
If you pick it up, there's no going back. Even if what happened that night was a one-time aberration and he turns you down, he'll always know you wanted this, wanted him, and you'll always know that he knows. And if he doesn't turn you down...
Is it worth it?
Is it worth everything?
***
-beep-
"Stephen. It's Bill. Call me."
-click-
***
The end?
***
Author's Note 2: Believe it or not, I made the Sam Adams reference and had the neck-licking scene in mind before I read Those Who Trespass. I don't know whether to be encouraged or alarmed that apparently I'm on Bill's wavelength.
Things made reference to in this story:
Stephen on The Factor
Bill on The Report Part 1 Part 2
What happens on The Factor doesn't stay on The Factor
Stephen's Salute to the American Lady
Stephen's hypothetical porn career
Bill's phone sex escapades, specifically this one and this one.