Albertane: After Dark
13 - Sparkles - Stephanie
Taylor lit a clove with much-practiced expertise and took a long drag of the aromatic cigarette. He studied a boy sitting on the other side of the club, also smoking a clove. He wore the trademark expression of all the people who frequented the club: extreme boredom, mild amusement, and vague contempt at the world. He wore simple black jeans, boots, and a leather vest that exposed a lot of his smoothly pale, utterly delicious skin. He was surrounded by people, beautiful boys and girls, almost all of them too young to have been admitted into the club legally, and all of them vying for the beautiful boy’s attention and affection. The boy shook his bleached white hair from his aristocratic forehead and exhaled a long plume of smoke. He was beautiful, and he knew it.
Taylor tossed his own freshly dyed black hair behind his shoulders. After his musical career had ended, upon leaving Hanson only a few weeks ago when he turned eighteen, he had finally been free to pursue all the other things he’d wanted to do. He’d immediately dyed his hair. The long black tresses were striking against his fair skin and blue eyes. Just like the boy in the corner, Taylor was a beauty, and no one needed to tell him, because he was already convinced.
Taylor glanced around the club again. A million people graced the dance floor, engaging in the sort of dancing only seen in Goth clubs. It included flailing arms, a lot of drugs, and general wildness. His gaze once again fell on the boy in the corner. Taylor took a deep breath and stood up, glancing down at his clothes once or twice before walking calmly and coolly towards the boy. Taylor really wasn’t used to approaching someone he was interested in. Due to his fame, most people approached him, not the other way around.
The beautiful creature happened to look up just as Taylor was nearing him. The boy gave him an odd look that Taylor wasn’t sure how to interpret. It could have been a sexy glare, but just as easily might have been a mocking smirk. At any rate, Taylor shrugged imperceptibly to himself and sat down in a blessedly empty chair beside the gorgeous boy.
“New in town?” the boy asked conversationally, offering him a clove.
Taylor accepted the cigarette, lit it, and replied, “Yeah, I am.” It wasn’t a lie; he was new in town. Whatever town this gritty little hellhole was in, he was new to it. He’d been living out of a suitcase for several weeks. His career had given him all the money he would need, and he didn’t see the point in bothering to get a job when it wasn’t absolutely necessary.
The beautiful assortment of scantily clad kids in black shot Taylor a few dirty looks, annoyed because their lust object was paying special attention to Taylor, suddenly oblivious to their presence. Taylor ignored them, before flashing the boy a fleeting smile, showing of white teeth that blackened lips curled over attractively. The boy smiled back, letting one hand drop innocently to Taylor’s thigh. “I’m Wyatt,” he introduced himself smoothly.
“I’m Taylor,” Taylor said, reaching over and taking a sip of Wyatt’s vodka, rather pleased by the black imprint his lips left on the rim. Wyatt smiled, letting his light, feathery fingers glide a few inches higher on Taylor’s thigh. The other kids, Wyatt’s fan club, gave up and headed off, most of them in pairs. Wyatt had made his choice, and they knew they had no chance of going home with him tonight. Wyatt leaned back, allowing his black leather vest to slip a bit, exposing one of his nipples. Taylor smiled, barely able to resist kissing that boy’s chest right then and there.
“You’re beautiful,” Taylor said boldly, bluntly.
Wyatt looked over at him, his caramel eyes glowing with something near amusement. “Am I?”
Taylor’s sensual blue eyes met Wyatt’s, and they stared intently at one another, as if they were almost wary of each other’s presence. “You are,” Taylor finally replied, breaking their staring match.
Wyatt shrugged, lifting one pale, bony hand to Taylor’s cheek and pushing back a few stray strands of Taylor’s raven tresses. His other hand rode even higher on Taylor’s leg, rubbing his inner thigh through his loose, worn black jeans.
“New in town,” Wyatt mused. “Do you like it here so far?” he asked.
“I like you,” Taylor replied with a shrug.
“Good,” Wyatt murmured. Both boys were playing a sort of game that is played in clubs all over the world. A game of seduction, a game of teasing, a game played solely to keep the participants entertained. Wyatt, at nineteen, was already a legend at this particular game. Fuck ‘em and forget ‘em, he thought coldly, entangling his legs around Taylor’s. Taylor, though new to the scene, was catching on very quickly to the rules of the game, also.
Both Taylor and Wyatt cringed as the Bauhaus masterpiece, Bela Lugosi’s Dead, gave way to an annoying techno beat. “I can never find a place that plays decent music these days,” Wyatt lamented, sounding much older than his years.
Taylor nodded his agreement. “No one can even dance to this synthesized crap,” he said, gesturing to the dance floor, which was writhing with half-intoxicated bodies trying to rave.
Wyatt smirked. “Trendies, all of them,” he said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. “I’m ready to leave, anyway. Tag along for a drink?” he invited nonchalantly.
“Depends on what you’re drinking,” Taylor replied coyly.
“Snakebite and Black,” Wyatt said, standing up to reveal scuffed black boots he hadn’t bothered to lace.
Taylor shrugged. “Sure,” he agreed. “Clubs are always so maddeningly crowded, anyway.”
They made a pretty pair as they strode out of the club, clearing a path for themselves down the center of the dance floor. Wyatt slid his arm around Taylor’s waist as they stepped out into the muggy night. Wyatt’s apartment was only a few blocks away, located happily in the scummiest area of town, next to kinky stores selling blow up dolls and a strange substance called ‘motion lotion.’
“Welcome to my humble home,” Wyatt quipped as he thrust his key into the door of his third story apartment and swinging it open. The hallway had been covered in graffiti, pot leaves and band names swirling over the walls in a psychedelic haze that made Taylor feel like he was tripping on bad acid, or eating stale ‘shrooms. Wyatt’s apartment proved to be a relieving oasis from the riotous city around them. Cool and dimly lit, with black funeral lace hanging crookedly from the windows, Taylor immediately fell in love with it. Wyatt gestured vaguely towards the couch. “Sit. I’ll get some drinks,” he said.
Taylor nodded, plopping down on the silver velvet couch and running a hand through his silky raven hair. He took the time alone to glance curiously around the room. It was pleasantly cluttered, with notebooks and poetry volumes scattered everywhere. What appeared to be a baby’s casket served as a coffee table, a vase of dead, dried flowers sitting majestically on it. Taylor smiled at the irony of it. Wyatt appeared a few seconds later, and handed him a drink. Taylor took only a sip before setting it down. Wyatt did the same, and in one liquid movement they were intertwined together, bony ribs against flat stomachs, kohl-smeared eyes against pale cheeks.
Taylor immediately began to tug at Wyatt’s vest, which he promptly slipped out of, affording Taylor the chance to bite down on his nipple. Wyatt groaned and stretched under him, attaching his moth to Taylor’s pale, thin neck. Taylor kept his mouth and tongue at Wyatt’s chest, but let his hand fall to the button of Wyatt’s jeans. He got sidetracked as his hand skated over his maddeningly flat, smooth stomach and he felt a cold piece of metal. He pulled away from Wyatt’s spit-dampened chest long enough to investigate the piercing, and was surprised to see the safety pin dangling from his navel. “A safety pin?” he asked, amused.
“Enough acid and anything sounds like a good idea,” Wyatt explained. “Wait until you get my jeans off.”
Taylor smirked and dropped his hands to Wyatt’s jeans, the button and zipper quickly opening for his nimble fingers to reveal the fact that Wyatt wore no underwear. Taylor smiled as he watched his new lover kick off his unlaced boots and peel off his jeans. Wyatt then took Taylor’s hand and placed it gently around his cock, smiling as Taylor shamelessly gawked at the silver foreskin ring he was sporting. “You like?” Wyatt asked.
“Who wouldn’t?” Taylor murmured, sliding down, his tongue leaving a silvery path down Wyatt’s chest until he was able to take his cock in his mouth. Wyatt tangled his hands in Taylor’s hair, still smirking as Taylor swallowed him whole. He let his mind wander as Taylor sucked harder and harder at him. He wondered how many times someone had gone down on him. Fifty times? An incredible number, he thought, but not that far from the truth. Empty-headed girls, horny guys. Beautiful creatures of the night, all of them, but none that even began to penetrate the wall he had built around his heart, his mind, his soul. Everything but his body was kept tightly under wraps.
This particular boy who was fucking him tonight seemed somehow cleaner, more pure than most of his lovers. He worked with a fervor, with emotion. Wyatt almost laughed at the thought. Emotion. Ha. Emotion and fucking do not belong in the same sentence. With that last thought, he let himself go, clearing his mind as he came in Taylor’s mouth.
Taylor rose slowly, still almost fully dressed while Wyatt was naked. “Turnabout fair play?” Wyatt asked, even though he knew it was not only fair, it was expected. He untucked Taylor’s plain black t-shirt and pulled it over his head, mechanically unbuttoned his jeans, and began bathing his skin with kisses. To his shock, he felt his heart lurch slightly as he inhaled Taylor’s scent. He smelled musky, with a hint of vanilla, and clove smoke, and plenty of sex. The boy smelled like sex. He kissed harder, with more energy, mentally kicking himself for letting any sort of feeling invade his hardened heart. He quickly unlaced Taylor’s boots and pulled them off, along with his jeans. Like himself, Taylor didn’t bother with underwear. They were both sitting now, and Wyatt pushed Taylor gently back down, working above him, enjoying the feeling of Taylor’s cock rubbing his stomach. He left a trail of bite marks down Taylor’s smooth, hairless chest before arriving at his destination, where he could return to Taylor all the pleasure he had just received. Taylor responded nicely when he started sucking on him, groaning and writhing, pulling his bleached blond hair to encourage him.
Several hours later, when they were both too exhausted to move, they curled together like kittens on the sweat-soaked sofa, naked and glowing and beautiful in each other’s arms, and fell asleep.
Hours later, Taylor awoke to the sound of music. The Cure was being played, and Robert Smith’s intoxicating voice was a nice thing to wake up to. He instinctively reached for Wyatt’s warm body that he had fallen asleep beside, but found no one. He opened his eyes to reveal Wyatt, still naked, still beautiful, snorting a line of coke through a rolled up twenty dollar bill. “Rise and shine,” Wyatt muttered, sniffing several times.
Taylor studied him silently. Brittle sunlight streamed through the lace curtains and stung his eyes. This wasn’t the first time he had spent a night with a virtual stranger, fucking and doing drugs. But somehow he hadn’t expected this from Wyatt. Wyatt was so beautiful, so gorgeous, so seemingly different from everyone else. Wyatt noticed the strange looks Taylor was giving him. “Want?” he asked, gesturing to the cocaine sitting before him.
Taylor shrugged and sat up, rubbing his eyes. Wyatt managed to still look good after their late night, but Taylor knew that he himself must have looked awful, with all of last night’s makeup still caked on his face. He felt vaguely angry, though he didn’t know why. It wasn’t as if he had expected Wyatt to fall in love with him or something. He didn’t even know the boy’s last name. But somehow this cool, offhand treatment he was getting annoyed him. He defiantly leaned over and did a huge line of coke, steadying himself for the burst of nervous energy that always overtook him when he did the drug.
A few seconds later it hit, making him feel light-headed and restless, ready to do everything and nothing all at once. He settled for getting dressed, or at least pulling on his jeans and boots. Wyatt simply watched, seemingly calm even though he had done as much coke as Taylor, or maybe even more. “Leaving so soon?” he asked, a sly half-smile forming on his perfect lips.
“Why stick around? We fucked, we got high....isn’t this where we say goodbye?” Taylor shrugged, running a hand through his hair.
Wyatt looked surprised, or even hurt, for a moment, but quickly got over it. “You’re right, of course. Thanks for the lovely time,” he said, not bothering to stand up and escort him to the door.
“The same to you,” Taylor said, in much the same tone that he would have said, “Fuck your mother,” or something along those lines. He walked coldly to the door and let himself out, not bothering to look back. Wyatt sighed, looking down at his hands. Yet another lover walking out without a backward glance. He noticed Taylor’s plain black t-shirt, still crumpled on the floor where they had thrown it last night. He picked it up and instinctively pulled it on, inhaling deeply. It smelled just like Taylor. He curled himself into a ball and dropped off to sleep, his subconscious conjuring up images of the raven-haired boy he had loved and lost in one night, all due to his stubbornness. One kind word this morning, and he knew Taylor would have stayed. He knew it. But he just couldn’t do it. Instead he had snorted coke and sent Taylor on his way. His way to the next club, the next fuck, the next line of coke. In his sleep, a small, salty tear ran unnoticed down his cheek.