THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Guillaume

Written by Lady Poetess
egiggles at moose-mail.com
http://www.asstr.org/~bbp

Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This
story has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive.


ONE

"Hey, why the face?" Kerr Smith said, taking a seat beside the
downcast young man without invitation in the pub. "Your Michael
Phelps is the talk of the town. If my Ryan did a near-faultless
performance run on Athens like your boy did, I'd be buying
everyone a drink."

"Yeah," his friend Bryce Johnston agreed readily. "You're not
jealous or anything, are you, Gill?" To the man behind the bar, he
had a ready smile, "Hey, Benjy, why are you sulking over there
for? Can't you see a man down in the dumps here? Give him a drink,
man."

Benjamin Bratt, a former Democrat MP who was now a content
bartender in his boyfriend's establishment, always had a wide and
easy grin that made him a popular guy in Club Abracadabra. "Gill's
been seated here watching the TV," he said, nodding at the small
TV behind him, "glued to the Athens coverage. We're all glad that
our kid Mike did well, but don't ask me why Gill looks like he's
on the verge of the nervous breakdown."

"Please try not to talk about me as if I'm not here?" Guillaume
Labbe said in a weary tone. To Bryce, he said, "No, I'm not
jealous. Why should I be?"

"Because they are all doing what we've always wanted but couldn't
do?" Kerr offered. He was still a little bitter over his fuck-up
that prevented him from competing that year in the Olympics. "I'm
proud of Ryan," he said, referring to his swimmer boyfriend who
was Michael Phelps' teammate, "but it's not always easy watching
him on TV."

"Well, unlike you two I've long accepted that I can swim but not
as good as the big guys out there," Bryce said, putting his hands
on both his friend's back. He was a swimmer but he wasn't fast
enough to qualify for the big time. He knew that, everyone knew
that, but he didn't beat himself up over it. Easy-going and as
cool as a cucumber, Bryce seldom wished for things he never could
have. "Cheer up, Gill. You too, Kerr."

"I am cheered up," Kerr pointed out. He showed his friends an
exaggerated grin. "I'll be seeing Ryan this weekend out they've
done their media rounds and you won't be seeing us two until next
Monday," he declared with a mischievous lift of one brow. "I have
a few interesting ideas on using that silver medal in our
homecoming celebrations."

Bryce choked on his drink. "Oh bloody fucking hell," he exclaimed.
"Why do you have to say that for? I have my drink up my nose."

Gill smiled despite his mood. "I'm not envious of Mike," he
clarified.

"No? Then why are you looking as if you've just received an
invitation to a funeral?" Bryce asked.

Gill sighed. He wasn't ready to tell anyone, but his friends were
doing a great job in persuading him to confide in them. He met
Bryce Johnston and Kerr Smith through a mutual acquaintance:
Michael Phelps, Gill's boyfriend of almost a year, was on the swim
team as Bryce and Kerr's boyfriend Ryan Merriman. A lonely
exchange student from France, Gill was helpless to resist
Michael's good-natured charms (he didn't want to anyway) and spent
a lot of time with Michael and his fellow swim team friends when
he wasn't in class.

Kerr suggested that Gill was envious of Michael because Gill loved
football, played it, but was never good enough for the real deal.
Gill had never entertained professional aspirations where football
was concerned, however. Besides, hailing from a middle-class
family where money could be tight at times, he kept his weight
down for part-time modeling gigs in ads, magazines, and book
covers. He loved football, would love to play it more often, but
he wouldn't act as if it was the end of the world if he couldn't.

No, he was downbeat because of more mundane reasons. "I'll be
going back to France at the end of the month," Gill reminded his
friends. "I'll miss you guys."

"Oh, come on!" Kerr exclaimed. "What year is this, Gill? We have
emails, instant messengers, text messages, and let's throw in web
camera in for good measure. We will still be in touch."

"Yeah, what Kerr said," Bryce said. He gave Gill a perceptive
look. "You're worried about Michael, right? That he won't call or
write?"

Gill tried to shrug with a nonchalance he didn't feel.

"Mike's the talk of the town, Kerr," Bryce told Kerr who was
always a little slower to see things where emotions were
concerned. "An openly gay US athlete, who performed like nothing
we've seen since Flo-Jo donned her running shoes, and one who
isn't an angry queer with issues to boot. The GLAAD is salivating
over this while the conservative media is ready with the torches.
The GLBT community will love him. Mike won't be living it down
quietly for the next few months."

"Oh, but isn't that great?" asked Kerr.

"No," said Gill miserably. "I mean, it's good for Mike as he's
always talking about wanting to be a great swimmer, but I don't
see a future for us. I'm going back to France, he'll be here
soaking in the limelight, so there is no reason why he will
remember me."

"You're mistaken about Mike if you think he'll forget you that
easily," Kerr pointed out. "He's so driven at times to win that
sometimes he even scares me. If he wants you as much as I think he
does, I don't think he'll let an ocean separate him from him."

"But do I know that he wants me that much?" Gill asked. "We've
spent so much time just living the good times. I never told him
that our relationship means so much to me. What happens if he's
just interested in a good-time fling?"

"Mike doesn't do flings," Bryce told him. "As long as I know him,
that's the impression I get anyway," he clarified. "Sure,
sometimes he'd hang out with a groupie, but that's just a one-time
event and he makes no secret of that to anyone. But with you it's
different because he's been with you for a year. Mike isn't taking
this relationship lightly if he sticks around for that long. It's
like when he decided that he wanted to hold a world record and
doesn't stop trying until he gets it. And then he spends his time
trying to break his own record. If he works as hard as I think he
did in making this relationship work, he's definitely serious
about you two."

"Yeah," Kerr chimed in. "He takes things a little too seriously.
Not as bad as Bryce's crazy boyfriend, but close."

"Wesley is not that crazy," Bryce pointed out defensively.

"You like them crazy," Kerr answered back. To Gill, he chuckled
knowingly. "I bet you're worried, Gill, aren't you, that he'll get
many people throwing themselves at him that he will prefer to fuck
around than to stay with you? After all, his body is good but
typical of any swimmer while his face is a little too ratty to be
considered good-looking. Put him in a magazine, however, and he'll
get an instant sex appeal."

Bryce gave Kerr an ugly look. "If that's the case, shouldn't you
be worried sick about Ryan dumping you for his future groupies?
You've described Ryan so many times to be as beautiful as an angel
after all. Don't deny it, Kerr. We all heard you when you were
drunk after that first quarrel of yours with Ryan. It's
embarrassing."

"Mike isn't ratty," Gill had to point out.

Actually, Mike Phelps had used that word to describe himself.
Ratty, that was what he called himself as he held Gill and they
both looked in the mirror. Mike had no illusions about what he
was: an ordinary man. This was the reason why he worked so hard to
be extraordinary, Gill had often thought. Mike came from a family
of six where he was the middle kid so the drive to stand out and
be someone different must had started early.

"Maybe I should talk to Mike," he said to placate those two as
well as to calm his tumultuous mood. "I have only one more year to
go and perhaps I can find a job in America..."

"Yeah, don't dwell too much on the future, Gill," Bryce advised.
"Go home, sleep on it, and things will look more upbeat in the
morrow."

"Yeah, but before you go home, you'd better join us. That fucker
Jeremy got a hundred bucks out of me last week by trashing me at
pool. You're the best pool player out of the three of us so you're
going to have to redeem my honor," said Kerr. "Now drink up and
get a move on. I want to wipe that smug smile off that man's
face."




TWO

Michael Phelps was weary down to his bones. If he didn't have to
look at another camera or answer another question about his being
gay, he would get down on his knees and kiss the ground for his
reprieve.

A small part of him was pissed that he had brought back six gold
medals but these people were more concerned about him being gay,
as if he was the only gay guy in America. Yeah, he was gay, so
fucking what? Just because he was gay and he did his country
proud, did that make him a role model or a spokesman about the gay
affirmative movement? He wasn't sure whether he liked the fact
that there were parties hinting that it was his responsibility now
to use his fame to further the GLBT movement just as there were
parties that treated his sexuality as a reason why he shouldn't be
honored with the rest of the Olympic squad. Then again, the fact
that he and the other openly gay athletes were nearly blacklisted
from the squad before they all took off to Athens should have
warned him of the latter.

A bigger part of him wanted to storm back home, damn the media
circus. He wanted to see Gill. He had been home for almost two
days but he hadn't even time to pause for breath. First it was to
Washington, DC for that farce where a homophobic President tried
to pretend that he was okay with an openly gay guy becoming a
sports hero while he and his minions was smashing gay rights left
and right. Mike allowed himself to be petty and embraced that man
he would never vote for hard, trying not to laugh as that man
squirmed in Mike's embrace. Then it was to photo shoots and
interviews that went on from day to night, until he collapsed in
his hotel bed in exhaustion, his tired fingers resting on the keys
of his cell phone but sleep having taken him before he could call
Gill.

He wanted to touch Gill. He wanted to sink his cock into that
man's hot tight ass and pump away a month's worth of celibacy. He
wanted to hold the man in his arms and have Gill tell him that it
was okay that he was just Mike Phelps and not some superhero. And
he wanted to tell Gill that he loved that man. He only hoped that
he hadn't taken too long, fool that he was, to realize it and that
it wasn't too late. Gill would be returning to France soon -
Mike's stomach gave sickening lurch at that thought - but Mike
wanted to surprise Gill. Now that he was a hero, he could do
anything, including getting an awe-struck university to grant him
an exchange student stint to Paris. He wasn't ready to give up on
them, and hopefully in Paris, they would be able to work something
out between them for the long haul. If he had to be a cobbler in
the streets of Paris just to be with Gill, so be it. (Then again,
he could always start a shoe business from thereon.)

"Do you have someone special in your life?" the journalist asked.

Mike looked at the man pointedly, wondering whether this fawning
guy from the Advocate was serious. It had been awhile since he
read that magazine but he was sure that it hadn't mutated into
some gay Teen Beat magazine filled with articles about a popular
celebrity's dream lover fantasies and favorite colors. It was too
bad that Mike had to grant this guy an interview or risk political
suicide with the gay community, because the guy was more intent on
turning Mike into some icon who was gay first, hero second, and
Mike Phelps a distant third.

Gill had once joked that Mike would be groaning about the very
thing he wanted once he had it, fame. Mike always wanted to be
famous for doing something people would remember. Now, Mike was
half-wishing that he had listened to Gill more. "Yeah, I have
someone special in my life," Mike said.

Not his parents, not any one of his family, although he was fond
of them. Looking back, he realized that he had his parents to
thank for his determination to be the best in whatever it was he
did. His father drove a cab and was out of the house from dusk to
dawn, having little time for the family as he worked to make ends
meet. His mother also worked, running a small laundry service that
performed hand washes. She too had little time for the family.
Mike's earliest childhood memory was his mother scolding him
because he was naughty and mistook a tub of laundry for a bubble
bath. He didn't have harsh feelings for his parents - they
sacrificed everything, including, eventually, their health, for
him and his brothers.

His eldest brother Joe worked in a dead-end job as a security
guard in a plant in Detroit. He lived in a trailer, his wife
walked out on him and his three kids five years ago, and he drank
like a fish. The second brother Danny spent more time in jail than
out and was only recently trying to start life anew by working as
a janitor in a public school in Missouri. In a way, the lives of
his much older brothers drove him to aspire a college degree and a
career that would never leave him wanting for money again. He
studied hard, played hard in sports for that ticket to college
before concentrating on swimming because that was what he enjoyed
most as well as the best he was in, and was known to everyone in
his school as the worker ant. He wasn't the smartest kid around
but he worked hard to keep up with the smart kids.

Valedictorian, athlete of the year, prizewinner, forerunner - he
was all these and aimed to be more. He was also a good friend, a
cool jock, a brainy nerd, a serious confidante, a good-time
fraternity brother, teacher's pet, hunk, and boy-next-door.
Michael Phelps was the all-rounded kid everyone loved and looked
up to. He was somebody. Now, the weirdest shit was that he wasn't
sure who that somebody was anymore.

Sudden weariness struck him as he tried to listen to and answer
the journalist. He wanted to be with Gill. With Gill, he could
close his eyes and sleep, comforted with the realization that Gill
knew who he really was and would still be by his side. After all,
Gill was there and he had seen Mike when Mike was plagued by
insecurities that he kept hidden from the world. When Mike
sprained his leg so badly that he might never qualify for the
Olympics squad, Gill had seen him weep, rage, and nearly fling a
chair against the wall. Gill had calmed him down, his anchor and
his eye in the storm, and with Gill's soothing that eventually led
to a tender lovemaking between them, Mike woke up the next day
with a determination to heal in time for the training. Gill had
seen Mike at his most weary when Mike wanted to give up.

It was Gill who tutored Mike when Mike, who had stubbornly refused
to ask for help until the last minute, was close to despair
because he couldn't crack it in that basic calculus course and was
in danger of flunking the whole term because of that paper. They
stayed up the whole night working on Mike's inability to
differentiate. Mike managed to keep sleeplessness at bay until the
four-hour paper was done, where he then slept, in exhaustion and
relief, with his cheek on Gill's chest in the campus grounds under
a tree, while Gill finally finished the thick Stephen King novel
he always couldn't find time to read. A C+ (not good, but Mike
passed, and considering his hopelessness at calculus, he felt
good) was his reward. Gill still blushed with adorable redness
whenever Mike reminded that man of how Mike generously rewarded
Gill for his help. Mike smiled to himself at the memory. It
involved some intricate positions that damned near ruined Mike's
cock and injured Mike's back, but it was worth it. Besides, they
became better once they practiced those advanced positions more
often.

How did they become this close? Initially, nearly a year ago, Mike
was just attracted to the beautiful French kid who sat in his
classes. The straight female students as well as the gay male
students were crazy about Gill's looks, from his boyishly handsome
elfin face, slim muscular physique, and the air of studiousness
around him. Mike knew that he was quite average in looks
department, with his face often described as "pixie-like" or "rat-
like", which some would say put him in a different league from the
pretty boy Gill. Mike had never let anything as trivial as other
people's opinion stopped him, however. He chatted up Gill over the
water cooler, took Gill for lunch, and when he realized that Gill
was looking for a friend, became that friend Gill wanted. He never
expected to find in the process a friend. By the time they moved
from being friends to lovers, it was no longer seduction on Mike's
part as much as it was a natural transition for two men who were
good friends as well as attracted to each other.

He had to see Gill.

"Excuse me," he said, interrupting the journalist in mid-babble as
politely but resolutely as he could. "I hate to do this to you,
but can we reschedule this interview? I have been away from my
boyfriend for almost a month, and even before Athens, I was hard
at training so I didn't see him as much as I would like to. I miss
him desperately. I realize that I've never told him that I love
him and I need to do this now. So please, can I leave now? I need
to see him."




THREE

"I'm coming home, Gill."

It was just four simple words uttered by a disembodied voice over
the cell phone. But it was also Mike's voice, and it was a voice
that trembled with emotions barely kept in check. Gill took a
deep, steadying breath before tasting the bubbling spaghetti sauce
to make sure that it tasted perfect. It did. He hastened to check
one more time that the pasta was neither too tough nor too soggy.
There was enough fresh limejuice, Mike's favorite drink, in the
jug. He took the jug out of the fridge and poured ice cubes -
Mike's only vice, the man always joked, apart from sodomy - into
the jug.

He wasn't good in relationships. Back in Paris, he had more bad
relationships than good one, relationships that he had told only
Mike, where he would end up getting used and discarded by jerks.
Perhaps it was a self-esteem issue on his part, as Mike had
suggested, but whatever it was, it hadn't ruined Gill totally;
Gill could still see a good thing when he had one. And Mike was a
good thing.

Two hours at the gym hadn't calmed him down. The sight of Mike's
possessions around him only agitated him. There were Mike's books
on those shelves, well-thumbed stories of great leaders in history
and in legend and biographies of self-made millionaires crammed
side by side with books on swimming as well as Mike's college
reading material. At the corner of the shelf, always cleaned
daily, was an antiqued microscope that was more decorative than
functional - a gift from Mike's father for Mike's high school
graduation day. Mike's father couldn't remember that Mike wanted
to dabble in business (it was younger brother Jack who wanted to
be a doctor) but Mike cherished the gift nonetheless. There were
trophies and framed winning certificates all over the place. All
were mementos of Mike's dreams and desires to make it despite all
odds.

How different this was from Gill's own room, where there was
nothing that he held with particular sentimental value. Maybe it
was for the best that he walked away from Mike because he was so
different from Mike. More importantly, away from his home in
Paris, he could pretend that he was someone different here.
Someone worthy of Mike, someone who would be constant like a man
he needed, not Guillaume Labbe who was a mess inside. He had so
many broken relationships in his wake. How lucky that the bruises
inflicted on him by his last boyfriend healed before he made his
way here.

He would make this night perfect for Mike as a farewell gift to a
man who, for a while, had made him feel as if he was a whole
person worthy of love. He wanted to stay here with Mike, oh how he
wanted to, but he knew he couldn't.

"Gill?" Mike called as he opened the door. "Come greet your man,
baby!"

The fact that Mike was back filled Gill with so much conflicting
emotions that he didn't know whether he wanted to cry or laugh.
Maybe he did both as he put down the spoon and ran to Mike, barely
breathing, his heart dancing. They kissed urgently, their lips
mating with a desperation borne of their keen missing of each
other, and so lost in this kiss and the ensuing vortex of desire
that they couldn't wait any longer.

Mike took Gill on the sofa. Gill arched his back in pleasure,
moaning loudly, as his hands dug into the back of the sofa as he
dug his knees into the floor to stop Mike's urgent thrusts from
sending him flat onto the seat of sofa. Mike raised his right foot
onto the sofa, his hands grabbing Gill's taut bubble butt cheeks
as he watched his cock plunge and withdrew through Gill's wide-
stretched rosebud pucker. After the first climax brought their
lust under more controllable levels, Mike sat on the sofa this
time around as Gill rode him while they kissed, this time savoring
the rediscovery of each other's bodies. Mike used his tongue to
caress Gill's sensitive spot under his Adam's apple until Gill
purred and Gill tightened his ass every time he grazed Mike's cock
head, knowing that Mike's cock ridge was unusually sensitive.
After Gill experienced his orgasm, Mike finished by thrusting his
cock into the sheath made by Gill's interlaced fingers and thumbs
until his come spurted onto Gill's face to smear the man's
eyelids, nose, and lips before flowing down the man's cheeks and
chin. Gill laughed as Mike slowly lay down beside him and started
cleaning Gill's face with his tongue.

"I think we have to call for Chinese food," Gill murmured,
remembering their forgotten dinner.

"After this delicious appetizer, you can call for me anything,"
said Mike before he licked up the last of his own juices on Gill's
beautiful face. He kissed Gill's forehead. "I love you, Gill.
Forgive me for taking so long to tell you."

Gill couldn't help it. He burst into a flood of tears at Mike's
declaration.



Mike watched as Gill stood with his back to Mike, the man trying
to get his tears under control. He wondered whether Gill could
hear the sound of Mike's heart breaking to pieces. It was
deafening and terrifying to Mike's ears. "You are leaving me,
right? That's why you cried when I said I love you."

"I have to go back to France," Gill said weakly.

"I'll come with you," offered Mike simply.

Gill turned to Mike then and Mike took a sharp inhalation of
breath when he saw the agony in Gill's face. "Gill," he whispered,
quickly walking towards the man. Gill tried to fight him off but
Mike took the man in his arms to force Gill to look at him in the
eyes. "Why do you want to leave me?"

The other man collapsed as if he was defeated and all wind was
punctured out of him. Mike held him steady. And Gill talked as if
a dam within him had broken: he told Mike everything - the abusive
boyfriends, the feeling of being more worthless than dust every
time another relationship crumbled, and the blame he placed on
himself.

Mike could have told Gill that it wasn't Gill's fault. As Gill
talked about his life back home, Mike could have told the man that
he found Gill's parents complete assholes. It was bad enough that
they fought custody over Gill's younger sister during the divorce
while making it obvious that none of them wanted Gill, but Mike
could have throttled Gill's mother who, even after remarrying,
made sure that Gill never forgot that she never wanted to take him
in. Gill was only six at that time so there was nothing he did
back then that warranted such disgusting treatment, in Mike's
opinion. It didn't take a psychology graduate to see how this led
to Gill somehow subconsciously believing that he couldn't be loved
and searched out relationships that enforced this notion.

"Gill, I love you," he whispered into the man's ear as Gill rested
his head on Mike's chest. "I won't beat you or leave you. You know
me, baby. If there is anything wrong in our relationship in the
future, I'd do my damn best to make sure that we can overcome that
wrong because I don't give up - ever. But if you leave me, Gill,
you take the strongest part of me with you. I don't think I can
keep working at being the best in what I do if I don't have you
with me to remind me that being me is the most important thing of
all. You keep me going when I can't go on anymore and. Gill,
sometimes I wouldn't have gone on were not for you. I can only
hope that I can give you enough reason to stay as much as you have
given me reason to believe that I love you and I don't think I
can't find much meaning in my life if you are not in it."

Gill wiped at a tear running down his cheek and sniffed. "What did
I do to deserve a wonderful man like you?" he wondered aloud.

"You won't give up on us even when we've barely started, would
you?"

"No, I won't," said Gill, his voice steadier. "I was afraid that
you'd stop wanting me now that you're famous and..."

Mike shook his head. "No. In fact, I believe that I will need you
more than ever in the next few weeks. Fame is becoming more
annoying than I thought." He smiled at Gill. His stomach rumbled.
"And I'm hungry," he added before laughing.

Gill managed a small chuckle and reached for the phone.



"I think I've underestimated that fellow," Mike said a month later
as he read the Advocate article about him. Bryce had scanned and
emailed it to him. "He asked me all those dumb questions about
lovers and family that I thought he was doing some fluff piece
about me. How nice that the whole thing turns out to be some
great, insightful piece about how I can be one driven freak but
inside I'd still like to be old Mike Phelps."

Gill took the printed sheets of paper to take a look. Later that
evening this article would join many other articles in a website
he ran for Mike. Like Mike wanted, the website wasn't about the
talented swimmer, the sharp business administration student, or
anything else Mike was over-glorified as to the people around him,
it was just about Mike Phelps, just a kid with a drive to succeed
in what he does best who also happened to be in love with his
current home for the rest of the year as well as with, in Mike's
word, "the cutest French hunk in the country".

In a way, they were slowly learning how to be themselves around
each other. It wasn't easy, but sitting here in a Parisian bistro
before they made their way home, they had a good start.
