by Yamamomo (ヤマモモ)
For the first time in a long time, Jonah was not looking forward to the end of his workday.
Usually, going home meant a little workout on the treadmill before dinner preparation. Quentin would soon be home with a fresh bottle of wine, rolling up his sleeves to help with the cooking. Before long, they’d be sharing a delicious meal together, followed by their favorite TV show. Then they’d spend some quiet time reading or playing cards, before finally hopping off to bed for some fun and relaxation.
It was a nice routine. Jonah liked nice routines.
Even tonight, a new routine was already forming in his mind. He would go home, work out a little on the tread machine, and order some cheap delivery. After all, what was the point of making an elaborate meal just for himself? He’d eat his dinner and then watch some TV while maybe nursing a beer. He would definitely not be watching their shared show–for better or for worse, that one got canceled two weeks ago. Then he’d go to sleep. Alone.
Maybe it wasn’t a nice routine per se, but it was a routine, nonetheless. At times like this, one needed routines.
Jonah was halfway through his dinner and three vodka shots down before he realized that, tonight of all nights, he did not want to be by himself. There was an entire city out there, an endless number of bars to be discovered, and an infinite number of men to fill his body and mind. So why should he wallow like this, growing ever more lonesome in the gnawing hollowness of his heart? Surprising himself with the wherewithal to actually put on a clean shirt, Jonah stepped out into the cold.
It should be said that never in any of his plans (or even in the contingency plans of his contingency plans, should the original ones fall through) did Jonah imagine that he would end up at Missy Lafitte’s.
One could even say that he purposefully tried to avoid the venue. After losing count of his drinks, however, it was all he could do to follow the blond cutie that he’d flirted with at the (third? or maybe the fifth?) bar hours ago. The jockish guy from Minnesota had virtually gushed over the possibility of seeing a drag show. Jonah–the native city boy–felt the need to play “nice host” and suggested the only place he knew. In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have followed the guy there. Yet despite the alcoholic haze surrounding him, Jonah knew this was his best shot at not sleeping alone tonight.
The first three performances went by without incident. While they were changing the scene for the fourth and final performer of the night, however, the blond laid a hand on Jonah’s arm and shouted over the boom of the music, “Are you okay?”
“What?” Jonah blinked, “Yah, why?”
The blond shrugged, “You just seem a little tense, is all, as if you’re expecting something, especially every time they announce a new segment. Is there a really awesome or terrible skit that I should be preparing myself for?” At this, he chuckled a little to himself.
Damn it, of all the guys in the bar, he had to go and pick himself a perceptive little bugger, Jonah thought ruefully. He was concocting an elaborate lie of an answer when a statuesque queen sashayed onto the stage. Strands of her dark red wig were cascading freely down her back and almost tickling her perky behind, which was accentuated by a black feather bustle.
Oh, fuck it all.
“The one you’ve been waiting for–Missy Catalana!!”
Jonah heard the blond inhale audibly next to him, followed by a quiet whistle. “Well, now, ain’t that something.” Then, as the queen batted her jeweled eyelashes and made elegant but edgily sexual jokes, the blond turned to Jonah appreciatively. “She’s fucking amazing! Thanks for telling me about this place!”
Jonah grimaced into his drink, hoping that it would pass as a smile. There was not enough alcohol in the world for this. He tossed back the rest of his scotch as a shot, and ordered another one.
Perhaps it was a bad idea to chug down three drinks in the span of a less-than-twenty-minute performance. Perhaps this was why Jonah found himself loudly booing a slightly off-color joke that the queen made, earning him angry, scandalized looks from his fellow patrons.
“Missy Catalana” stiffened slightly, looking in his direction. Jonah, however, felt rather securely hidden in the shadows of the bar. “Okay, okay, I guess someone out there isn’t having as a good time as the rest of us,” the redhead mused. “Maybe this will cheer him up!” Turning around, she bent over and shook her feathered behind vigorously in the lewdest act yet for her this evening, earning plenty of applause and catcalls from the audience.
Having decided that he was definitely no longer having fun, Jonah got up and headed for the door. His abruptness, however, meant that by the time he realized that a) there was a rather bright light between him and the door and that b) he was in no shape to stand at all, he was already sprawled out on the floor beneath that very bright light.
A few patrons around him chuckled, while some others walked over with worried looks on their faces. For his part, the blond was trying real hard to pretend that he had never met Jonah in his life. The little bastard! Jonah thought before realizing that, given the size of the space, he might as well had a spotlight on him. Lifting his head drunkenly towards the stage, he saw the exact moment when the look of confusion on Missy Catalana’s face transformed into one of recognition, then seething fury.
He immediately ducked his head down and allowed himself to be shuffled out of the bar by the security. Still, he knew that by then, it was too late.
He had been sobering up on the stoop for about an hour before Quentin opened the stage door, nearly knock him onto the sidewalk. Despite the little sigh that told Jonah that his presence was somewhat expected, Quentin still snarled, “What are you still doing here? It wasn’t enough for you to try to ruin the show?”
Turning around to face his boyfriend–ex-boyfriend–Jonah realized how much the stoop put him at a disadvantage. Not only was Quentin a handsome man, he was a tall, lithe one. Their natural difference in height, now exaggerated by the stoop, meant that Jonah had to look up at Quentin to carry on any sort of meaningful conversation. His natural proclivity for taller men, exaggerated by his drunkenness, made Jonah nearly reel from the effect. How had he ever let this one go?
Then, as he lifted his eyes onto Quentin’s face, he remembered.
Although Quentin had removed most of his makeup and was dressed in jeans and a simple fleece jacket, luscious red curls still cascaded to his waistline. Jonah’s mouth fell open, but the alcohol still held enough sway over him that he was at a loss for words. Quentin rolled his eyes, exasperated,
“Close your mouth, Jonah. You look like a drunken fish.”
“But why the wig? It makes no sense. You changed and washed your f-face, why wig back on?” Scowling at his own slurring, Jonah continued, “Argh, I can still talk, I swear. Can we go inside? Too cold.”
Quentin sighed again, “The wig, of course you’d fixate on the wig. Look, Jonah, you told me that all this was disgusting to you, so what are you doing here seeking me out? I don’t have the time or the energy for this. You know I leave for Lisbon in two days, and the other Missys are taking me out for a drink.”
At this, Jonah shook his head vigorously, “No! No, hear me out. I don’t like this–tonight, how it is, who I am–without you.” He reached out a hand and twirled a strand of Quentin’s red curls around his index finger. “But I think I need… I need a man.”
Quentin’s eyes narrowed, “You think that I’m any less of a man because of a mere wig and a hobby? Shouldn’t you have a better idea of who I am after a whole year and a half together?”
“I’d like to think I know you, but you hit the nail on the head when… I mean, it took a year and a half for you to show me… this!”
Jonah meant for the last line to have been spat out with anger and passion, but instead it came out sounding as if he was on the verge of tears. Wrapping his arms around himself, he pleaded, “Can we please go inside? It’s so cold.”
Quentin sighed and stepped back, allowing Jonah follow him to the dressing room. Once inside, he quietly exchanged some words the few men lounging by the mirrors, all still wearing their wigs, who nodded and proceeded to exit the room. It may well have been Jonah’s imagination, but some of the looks he got were less than friendly.
“So,” After the door closed and the two of them were alone, Quentin turned to Jonah, “Your point is that you’re justified in treating me like shit because I took my time revealing this part of myself to you. You think it’s easy to do what I did? You don’t think I’ve noticed the look of disgust on your face every time we came across a transvestite?”
Jonah cringed, trying to think of some retort that would justify himself. Yet once again, his tongue was failing him. The problem wasn’t that the alcohol confused him; he actually recognized the core of the matter with painful clarity. Never once in his life had he been attracted to anyone with even the slightest touch of effeminacy. When he’d first met Quentin at a professional mixer, he was drunk on the man’s powerful bearing, angularity, and remarkable confidence. Of course, over the time that they’d been together, Jonah had found a lot more to love about the man. This was why he had been so shocked and scared by the visceral sensation that had hit him when he’d happened across a poster of Missy Catalana last week. He had long thought himself above such shallowness.
On the other side of the room, Quentin had worked himself into an angry frenzy. “…Do you know how hard it was to maintain the self-respect I needed to keep this part of myself alive, with all the patriarchal macho shit that litters the road to corporate law? And you–you’re a real treasure! To have the gall to tell me that I’m less of a man for it, when the truth is, you are the one who can’t get it up whenever someone doesn’t fit your messed-up concept of perfection!”
Jonah’s eyes widened. Quentin knew. Of course he’d known–this beautiful, tall, olive-skinned man with the widest shoulders and the heartiest laugh and the most meticulously planned dates was also the most insightful person that Jonah had ever known. Now, he was about to lose him, because Quentin was also sporting the wildest head of red hair that Jonah had ever seen.
Suddenly, Jonah had an idea.
In two long strides, Quentin closed the space between them and was bending over into Jonah’s personal space, body still taut with anger, “What?”
Looking up towards the taller man, he arched himself up on his toes to meet Quentin’s ears with his lips, “Fuck me, fuck me with your wig on. Show me that you’re the man that I know you to be–despite this, in spite of this, no, because of this part of yourself.”
Quentin growled. “You’re a confused man, Jonah, but I think I will oblige.”
With that, he planted a deep kiss right on Jonah’s lips and cupped his hand roughly against the front of Jonah’s tight pants. Letting out a small whimper, Jonah allowed himself to be half-guided, half-jostled (with Quentin’s mouth and hand still in place) to a couch by the side of the room. Breaking off the kiss, Quentin all but threw Jonah down onto the couch, “Pants, off.”
Jonah was never one to challenge authority, so by the time Quentin stripped off his shirt and was unbuckling his own jeans, Jonah was already naked from the waist down. Instead of peeling down his jeans the whole way, however, Quentin reached for a condom. When he saw Jonah’s surprised look, Quentin laughed, his voice low and raspy. “I’m keeping the pants on, I don’t think you’ll mind.”
Jonah’s face flushed as he snatched the condom from Quentin. “Allow me, please.”
The smirk on Quentin’s face was replaced by a sharp intake of breath as Jonah took the condom between hip lips and rolled it over Quentin’s already-erect penis in one smooth motion, swallowing him whole. Jonah worked the shaft a bit with his tongue before backing off and stealing a look back up at Quentin.
He was rewarded with what could only be called a vision. Quentin’s head was tossed back, his eyes fluttering closed, exposing his long neck from underneath the mass of red curls. His Adam’s apple was bobbing up and down as he swallowed, visibly fighting the urge to follow Jonah’s mouth with his hips.
Jonah wasted no time in vigorously going back to work. Not even a minute later, however, he felt hands cupping his face, bringing him back up into the couch. Quentin’s voice wavered as he breathed in Jonah’s ear, “You want to be fucked or not?”
Jonah felt a quiver of arousal shoot through him as he rasped, “Yes?”
The reddish curls tickled his neck as Quentin looked down and let out a small tsk. “Shirt off then, and put it under you. I don’t want to mess up the dressing room couch.”
Jonah hurriedly pulled the shirt over his head, but he still frowned and asked the obvious, “What am I supposed to go home in, then?”
Quentin shot him an amused look. “I doubt you’ll find a lack of beautiful things to wear here, Jonah.”
Jonah could only reply with a blush as he sank back down to the couch, lifting his legs to accommodate Quentin.
Some lube and a few fingers later, Jonah could have sworn that he was stretched out under a red-headed, bronze-skinned sex god. Truth was, Quentin had never been so aggressive and dominating during sex, and if this was what a night as Missy Catalana and a wig did to him, then Jonah really had a lot more to think about.
At this moment, though, all he could get out from his brain to his mouth was a shuddering groan, “Please, I need you to take me deep, now… and fuck the shallowness out of me. Ugh, please!”
In response, Quentin pulled his fingers out with an obscene pop and Jonah gasped at the emptiness. Thankfully, he didn’t have to wait long before he felt Quentin’s impressive girth pressing against his entrance. He bit down on his lips as Quentin slammed into him, pushing his entire body up along the couch by a few inches.
Arching his head up, Jonah’s lips fell open, only to be caught and claimed roughly with Quentin’s mouth. The man’s long curls fell all around Jonah’s head, veiling the rest of the world from him in a crimson haze as Quentin delivered on his promise; he took Jonah hard, hard enough to bruise, and hard enough to leave him thinking about it for days to come.
Clenching his hand into the reddish curls at Quentin’s back, all matted down with their sweat and sex, Jonah came first.
Quentin smiled as he was about to head into the security check-in. “Would you like me to bring anything back for you from Lisbon?”
Jonah laughed. “Just yourself–safe and sound–and soon!”
Quentin looked at him skeptically. “That’s a given. The meeting’s only supposed to last for two days. You want anything else?”
“Then, how about some of those pasteis de nata? I heard they are delicious.”
“Those are perishable. That’s going to be a tough call.”
“Well, if it wasn’t difficult, I wouldn’t have challenged you with it!” Jonah pouted.
“Fine.” Quentin sighed, feigning exasperation. Leaning in close, he whispered, “I’ll bring it back, but only if I get to wear eyeliner next time.”
Jonah’s eyes widened with surprise, then crinkled with delight. “It’s a deal.”