THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Richard

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

"Hmmm, pale red hair. That means you need some vivid colors -
mocha, fuschia, and vermilion, for a start."

Richard Roxburgh crossed his arms and tried not to stare back in
consternation at the man walking around him and studying him as if
he was a statue in display. He looked down at his shirt and slacks
and frowned. He was told this sort of colors would suit him in a
formal affair, and the model in the catalogue looked good wearing
them. But fashion designer and consultant Michael Biehn had taken
one look at Richard the moment he walked in and looked as if
Richard was something nasty he found in his soup.

"What's wrong with my shirt?" he asked.

"Do you buy your clothes in sets according to the combination of
clothes a particular model is wearing?" Biehn asked, ignoring
Richard's question.

"Yeah. Thought it makes more sense that way," Richard answered
defensively. Damn if he would let this pansy make him feel stupid.

"It's your hair," Michael said. Absently he reached out and ran
his fingers through Richard's hair like a sensual lover's, sending
a sudden jolt of heat down into Richard's loins. "It's a light,
rare shade of red that can make your skin look even paler than it
actually is. If you wear dull colors like this faded yellow, you
will make yourself even more sickly-looking."

"Really?" Richard looked at the mirror across the room. He
frowned. He did look kind of ill.

"You need to wear some color that bring out the brilliant blue-
violet shades of your eyes. And those dimples are extraordinary
when you smile. You have the muscular build and the height to
carry off clothes to your advantage, Richard. All we need to do
now is to choose the colors."

Brilliant blue-violet eyes? Extraordinary dimples? Richard gave
Michael a sidelong look of surprise. He wondered whether the man
would keep saying the things he was saying if he knew the effect
of his words on Richard's libido. Awareness had flared in his
senses the moment he first saw Michael. Michael Biehn was around
Richard's age - forty - but the man looked twenty with his boyish
yet chiseled, aristocratic, and handsome face.

Richard couldn't explain it, but he became aware of nothing but
Michael's scent and touch the moment the man placed his hand on
Richard's shoulder and turned him around. When Michael studied
him, he felt his cock swell in arousal at the man's intense
scrutiny. One good thing about those slacks - they hid pretty well
his erection. It wasn't just the pretty-boy model looks of Michael
that appealed to Richard (Richard always loved pretty things), but
the endearing scruffiness of the man. Michael's hair was tousled,
and he was wearing a crumpled shirt that bore some stains that
looked coffee in origin. Surprise - the most controversial fashion
designer to come out this decade didn't seem to give a damn about
his looks. Yet he still looked like a prince in his disheveled
state.

Michael's controversy wasn't because of his portfolio, which was
nothing more outrageous than the latest Versace or D&G. His faux
pas was to turn his back to Paris and the avant-garde to actually
cater to the lower to middle class population. Instead of creating
an elite label, he created Close & Personal, a wildly successful
line of clothes that actually looked good on people without the
perfect body shape. Richard's own two hundred pound uncle swore by
Close & Personal, saying that no brand could make waistcoats that
looked good on him like that line. And his one hundred and eighty
pound wife swore that the blouse she bought at the local K-Mart
made her look ten pounds lighter.

A brand that was willingly sold to local chains such as Wal-Mart
and K-Mart was a death knell on Michael's exclusivity. Now,
however, he was restless. Having cemented his reputation as a
household name for practical, wearable clothes of affordable
prices, he now wanted to let his more flamboyant designs fly.
Unfortunately, he was too much tainted by the middle-class stigma
of his products, and fashion circles weren't forgiving of a man
whom they saw betrayed the genius he was bestowed upon by selling
himself cheap.

Fashion, after all, was a province of the young and beautiful, not
the old, fat, or normal. And Michael's misfortune was further
exacerbated by his looks that could be at home in the pages of a
fashion journal, a damning reminder to his critics of what he
could have been.

Here was where unfashionable but too-rich men like Richard stepped
in. Richard, a displaced Australian who just recently became a
permanent resident of Uncle Sam, made his windfall in a global
courier enterprise. Just thirty this January, the press had been
merciless on him. His dull and sometimes awful fashion sense
earned him the thankfully tame nickname `Boring Roxburgh'. The
more trendy fashion magazines listed him as the worst dressed in
three years running, and Mr Blackwell announced this year that he
was disqualifying Richard because surely anyone that bad wasn't
human.

And while Richard wouldn't admit it, these criticisms stung. He
had tried, buying all the fashion magazines he could find and
studying their advice and tips. Now, in desperation, he was
reduced to hiring a fashion consultant, because like it or not,
his PR was suffering from the `Boring' moniker.

His friend and fellow too-rich business tycoon Brendan Fraser had
suggested Michael. "Not because he's a friend, but because he is
cheaper than anyone I can think of and also, he will jump at the
chance to polish you up and make his name as someone capable of
delivering more than Close & Personal," said Brendan, who was
always immaculate and gorgeously groomed.

And Ben Affleck, Brendan's nemesis in everything financial and
business, agreed. "Don't tell Brendan I agree with him, but Biehn
has a great style. He made my skinny niece Betina actually look
fabulous in a custom-designed evening gown. And Betina looks like
a cow." Ben never was fond of his family.

So here he was, standing in Michael's messy studio, littered with
measuring tapes and fabrics on the floor and tacked with hand-
drawn designs on the wall, being inspected like a suspect cargo.

"But your skin is good and you have a face that is, while bland,
very handsome when you smile. Quite Marlon Brando-ish, if I may
say," the other man said. "Okay, I'll do it."

That was said so abruptly that Richard blinked in surprise through
his haze of slow boiling lust. He inhaled surreptitiously, letting
the light fragrance Michael wore tantalize his nostrils.
Beautiful, he thought. If he was this inflamed at the scent and
sight of Michael, he couldn't wait to feel the fire when the man
touched him. His cock leapt at that thought of the man touching
him, kissing him, tasting him. He swallowed, tried to steady his
nerves as he tried to form a coherent answer. "Okay," he managed
to say. "So how about us going dinner to celebrate our new
relationship?"



Michael knew he was in trouble the moment he saw Richard's
brilliant, cat-like blue-violet eyes darkened into deep blue in
his desire. He had said that Richard's face was bland, true, but
now, when he was smiling in this predatory yet mischievous manner,
Michael's world stopped turning. He was keenly aware of Richard's
rock-hard and tightly muscled body under that disastrous yellow
shirt, emanating steely strength, and he wasn't invulnerable to
the man's physical beauty.

Oh yes, dinner was a tantalizing idea, especially the naughty
thought of being Richard's dinner. But he would have to let it
past - he had learned the hard way that he was incapable of one-
night stands. He would start clinging and demanding more than what
his partner would be willing to give in terms of commitment, and
then both of them would be burned. Far better to know Richard as a
friend first, before taking things from there.

"Okay, dinner," he said. That wouldn't hurt, right?



TWO

A week later, Michael wanted to kill Richard. Bad enough that the
asshole gave him a tough fight over Richard's wardrobe, the man
adamantly refused to give up his love of garish, loud ties. It was
all he could do not to start a tug-of-war with Richard over that
really hideous purple tie with large yellow pigs all over it. Not
surprisingly, that tie was Richard's favorite.

Worse, Richard wasn't playing fair. "I'll make it clear - I want
you in my bed," he had said when he kissed Michael on the cheek
goodnight after their dinner that night. "I always get what I
want," he warned ominously.

Michael couldn't sleep that night, dreaming of tangled naked,
muscular limbs writhing and pumping, and he had to jerk himself
off before he could get some peace in sleep.

Richard had kept touching him ever since. When they were left
alone in the dresser after the tailors had left, he would pull him
close, not for a kiss - never a kiss - but a smile delivered so
close to Michael's lips that he would be breathless in desirous
anticipation. "Boo," Richard would say then, gently pushing the
man away.

It wasn't fair - he wasn't fair. The man was already devastating
in his charisma, and making him a snappy dresser would be giving
him an unfair advantage over Michael. He couldn't reconcile this
vibrant, mischievous Richard with `Boring Roxburgh' - it was as if
an alien had possessed the old Roxburgh.

As the maitre d' ushered them into the fancy restaurant that
required six days reservation at least in advance for a table,
Michael looked at Richard, absolutely bewildered. "You didn't have
a reservation," he told the man for his ears only.

"Oh?" Richard raised an eyebrow as he pulled out the man's seat
for him.

"I once dated a fellow designer and he had a row with the maitre
d'," Michael explained.

"Well, I'm different. I own a third of this place," Richard said,
smiling at the man's stunned look. "What? You think I should stick
to delivering courier mails? Get real. We all need to diversify."

"The red looks good on you," Michael said.

"This? It's your selection." Richard looked down at the soft,
velvet brocade shirt he was wearing. He liked it - it cost less
than an Armani shirt and the smooth fabric was soft and sensual
against his bare chest. He'd have to trust Michael that the red
brought out the highlight in his hair and the fire in his eyes.
The soft slacks met his liking too. It was nice and comfortable,
not like his usual slacks that pinched.

"That's why I say it looks great on you," Michael said, looking
down at the menu.

"Smart ass," Richard said happily. Here he was in a fancy
restaurant with Michael. Life was pretty nice. If he could get the
man under him and got rid of his lust, life would be perfect.
"Ready to order?"

"Actually I have pretty much forgotten what these fancy names
represented," Michael admitted sheepishly. "It's been awhile since
I ate in a fancy place with food of Italian or French names."
Especially when one hadn't been invited to Paris for a long time.
And from the small, tight smile on Richard's face, he guessed the
man pretty much read his unspoken thought.

"Very well. I must admit I have no idea what most of these means.
But I do know the shrimp thing I usually have here is
magnificent." Richard gestured at their waiter. "Shrimp thing,
Biehn?"

"Shrimp thing it is then." Michael hid his smile. Richard Roxburgh
was revealing himself to be utterly middle-class in sensibilities
and palettes despite his moneyed state, and even more charming,
the man could be made very content in disgustingly simple ways.
Yesterday, Richard smiled when Michael finally placed his hand
over Richard's as they sat side by side watching the ducks in the
Central Park pond in late evening. It was a luminous smile,
warming him and making him feel as if he had just given Richard
the moon.

Richard was charming and funny. Michael would love being with him
if not for Richard's eyes on him when the man thought he wasn't
looking - dark, intense, hungry eyes. Hunger that could be defused
by a simple touch, but lately Michael was slowly becoming more
terrified when simple touches didn't seem to work any more.
Richard was demanding more and more intimacy and liberties to be
allowed on Michael's body and one day the man's control would
snap.

"Don't look at me like that," Michael said.

"Like what?" Richard chuckled. "Like this? I can't help it. You're
gorgeous."

"You are so shallow," Michael said in a playful drawl.

"Me? Shallow? No way. I'm attracted to you because you're
gorgeous, true, but now I also know you're charming and very easy
to laugh with. It's your fault that I am now even more determined
to have you."

"Can we just be friends?" Michael asked even as his own heart
protested at that thought, the treacherous organ. "Sex spoils
everything."

"Hey, I'm not like all your ex-boyfriends," Richard said with
remarkable perception. "If the thing's good, I won't mind
committing myself to it."

"So what you're saying is.?"

"If you and I have a great thing going, I won't mind having a
steady relationship with you," Richard said. He sat back and
smiled at the other man. "Hey, I'm a nice man. I don't smoke, I
don't sleep around on my boyfriends, and I am pretty good in bed.
I also have an even temper and I can more than provide for you. So
what's stopping you from trying to catch me for your own?"

When Richard put it that way, it did sound irresistibly tempting.
"You're not playing fair," he protested weakly.

"I'm desperate." The shrimp bisque arrived, and Richard winked.
"See? Shrimp things. I love them."



"Well, well, looks like we were spotted by the tabloids. I didn't
even know we were tabloid material," Richard said as they snuggled
to watch the evening. They were lying on Richard's coat on the
grass, Michael's head resting on Richard's chest comfortably. It
was as if they had been doing this for so long, like an old
married couple. Richard smiled to himself wistfully at the
thought. It was corny, of course, but somehow he had grown so
comfortable with the man that the idea of happily ever after was
always at the back of his mind.

There was the lust, of course, that he always kept furiously in
check so as to take things slow like Michael wanted, but now the
desire was also tampered with fondness. He liked Michael, and with
the man, he could talk and joke and even do stupid things. Such as
climbing a tree like a child bent on amazing his first sweetheart
and laughing out loud like a lunatic as they stabbed at each other
with ice cream.

He watched, his smile fading as Michael's long strand of hair fell
over the man's forehead. Beautiful Michael, charming Michael,
Richard thought with a soft intake of breath as he gently pushed
the strand of hair clear of the man's forehead.

"Julie Krakowski is the self-appointed guardian of fashion in
elite society, Richard dear," Michael told Richard, looking up at
the man. "And you're the Boring Roxburgh who is recently seen
around town looking like a new man. Of course someone will
notice." He smiled at the article and the accompanying
photographs. "You're a gorgeous man. They're a fool not to notice
earlier."

Richard shook his head. "It's just the clothes. Did they mention
you?" He scanned the article. "They didn't even mention you. I'll
tell them. I'll call up a press conference and - "

"Oh stuff it Richard. I'm not a celebrity, just a no name
designer." Michael shut his eyes and stretched his long body along
Richard. "You're a beautiful, funny man, Richard. I think I'll
miss you when you go."

"I'll never go away," Richard said, moving to lie beside the man.

"We have so much differences. Your ties and your furniture,"
Michael murmured sleepily.

"Nonsense. You're just scared of me," Richard said. "Biehn."

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to make love to you," Richard said, letting his hand
unbutton the man's shirt button. And another one. And another.

"I'd rather you don't," Michael said, his eyes closed.

Richard was beyond caring, however. He gently pushed the man's
shirt back, exposing the fair, tightly muscled body he had never
seen until now. Licking his now dry lips, Richard sat up and
pulled his own shirt over his head. Michael's hand lazily reached
up and ran its fingers through the light hair dusting the tight
pectoral muscles in a wide thatch, lingering around each nipple.
Then they followed the trail of narrowing fur until it trailed
along the groove between the abdominal muscles. Richard rubbed his
lips slowly over Michael's, teasing the man until Michael parted
his lips in response. As Richard's tongue gently probed the man's
mouth, his arms coaxed Michael to lift his hips even as his
fingers skillfully unbuckled Michael's trousers. As Michael's
erect cock throbbed free from the confines of trousers and shorts,
Richard's fingers buried themselves in the warm heat of Michael's
anal fold.

One finger slowly penetrated Michael intimately as their kiss
deepened. Michael only spread his legs wider, allowing Richard
access to him. Another finger joined the probing of his inside,
and he broke off the kiss to sigh when Richard's fingers slowly
moved in a slow thrusting rhythm.

"Here, open this for me?" Richard asked, his other hand placing a
silver foil in Michael's hand. "I have no disease that I know of,
but let's play it safe until I get you my medical report, okay?"

Michael was quite touched by this gesture. "Sure," he said. As he
opened the foil, he watched avidly as Richard stood up and pushed
his pants down. The man's thick penis pulsed powerfully and
Michael couldn't resist taking a few licks and sucks at the wide
head until Richard begged for mercy. Then he gently rolled the
rubber over that cock, letting his fingers tease the sensitive
underside of the head while he was at it.

Then Richard had him laid on the jacket, and the man was mounting
him. Michael gave a muted cry when he felt Richard's filling
penetration. His anus stretched, and every nerve in his body
protested deliciously at the invasion. Then Richard was moving in
slow, steady fuck rhythm, his lean muscular hips thrusting in that
fluid graceful pumping. Michael couldn't bear the man's
tenderness, not when he was so close. His hand flailed, closed
around the bottle of Coke.

The man above him gave a choked cry when he pushed the narrow neck
of the bottle almost violently up his anus. Coke spilled from his
anus down to their entwined thighs, the cool liquid a shock on
their heated, sweating flesh. "Move, fuck you," Michael hissed,
pushing the bottle up deeper. Richard jumped, but his legs widened
instinctively as he pushed up in his withdrawal, piercing himself
more on that bottle. Michael pumped the man, moving the bottle
hard in then out of Richard's clenched anus even as Richard pumped
him harder with each increasing pitch of his lust.

Then Richard was shuddering, crying out as his cock exploded.
Michael lay back, letting his muscles relax in delicious sexual
aftermath, barely noticing rubber now being sheathed on his cock
by Richard's nimble fingers. Richard then swung his powerful legs
to straddle the panting man. As Michael thrust his hard cock up
Richard's tight and welcoming anus, he sat up and kissed the man
hard. It didn't take long - just five short thrusts, then Michael
was lost.



Michael looked up from his reading and smiled at Richard who was
walking out from the shower, nude. "They are definitely noticing
your bright colors," he told the man. "And maybe they may even
call you up for an interview one day."

Richard made a face as he dried his hair with a dryer. "I hate
interviews. They ask these stupid questions, it's like a quiz
where I'm supposed to know how to say the correct things. I don't
do them anymore. I have a PR officer to handle that."

"So, what do you think of my bedroom?" Richard asked, changing the
subject that bored him.

Michael pointed at the garish bed sheet that was imprinted with
hideous palm islands. "If I ask, will you get rid of these bed
sheets?"

"I'll even let you redecorate as long as you let me keep my ties,"
Richard said. "I never liked the sheet anyway, I just like the
cartoon motives."

A thought struck Michael. And like a buzzing in his head, it
wouldn't go away. "Richard," he asked. "What color is the bed
sheet?"

Richard didn't even blink. "I have no idea. I am color blind, as
you've just guessed. I'm not even the mild blue-red colorblind
sort. I see everything in black and white."

"That explains your fashion sense," Michael said.

"You're not repulsed or anything?" Richard asked carefully.

"No!" the other man exclaimed, insulted that Richard could think
such a thing. "I was born in a family of fatties. Even now I have
to watch my weight or I'll balloon up like my parents and
siblings. The only reason I keep myself in shape is because of
some childhood rebellion leftover." He looked at Richard wryly.
"Trust me when I tell you I don't care about whether you can see
colors or not. I have learned long before that physical traits
don't amount to much."

"If I'm ugly, will you still want me?"

"Sure," Michael answered. "I can always make you pretty. It's all
in the clothes and make-up."

"That's one reason why I agreed to come to you." Richard lay down
beside the man. "I saw your catalogue. There is this fat Chinese
lady who is in a supermarket, smiling and wearing a nice dress
that looks good on her. Your clothes are nice and accessible. The
models look happy wearing them, not like some magazines where
those twiggy twinks look positively constipated." He let his
fingers graze the other man's lips. "I have no idea I am
gorgeous," he said.

"I thought I was cheap, that's why you came to me. And yeah, you
are gorgeous. You just need the right maintenance." Michael
laughed when Richard growled and climbed over him. He was still
laughing when Richard took him.



THREE

"Fifty thousand says he turns up in a boring half-mask and suit,"
Ben Affleck, in a Roman toga outfit, said.

Brendan Fraser, wearing a dashing Zorro costume, met his
challenge. "You're on. I'd say he won't even show up for this
party." Everyone knew that Richard Roxburgh had an aversion to
social functions, even all-gay social events held by his friend
Ben Affleck.

"I don't know. He was wearing very nice clothes lately, and he
looks even gorgeous," Matt Damon, Ben's lover who was more
perceptive in matters not related to business, said. He was
wearing the Scream movie killer outfit, minus the mask that he
removed after twenty minutes (he couldn't talk well through it).
"I'll say he'll show up in something Biehn designed for him."

"I love that red brocade shirt Biehn made for Richard," Russell
Crowe said, clad in also a Roman toga. "I ordered a few for
myself, and damn, they look good."

"Richard's a walking billboard for his lover's new line of
expensive clothes. Screw Paris, who needs that snobby city when we
have Boring Roxburgh turned Sex Symbol, thanks to Biehn?" Brendan
said. "Good thing I had the foresight to arrange for a 30% stake
at Close & Personal."

"Not so fast," Ben corrected Brendan. "As it happens, I am in good
progress on getting that 30%."

"Why you son of a bitch!"

"Nasty language, Brendan?"

Alan Gelfant, Brendan's boyfriend, walked up to them, oblivious to
the temper brewing between his boyfriend and Ben. "Wow, did you
see Richard?"

"He's here?" Ben demanded to know. "Where?"

Richard Roxburgh wore a pair of black shades as he walked into the
room. The crowd parted for him the way the waves parted for virile
Poseidon, which was what Richard supposed to be. His metallic blue
jumpsuit shimmered like starlight, reflecting the fiery gold of
his hair and the mischievous glint in his eyes. All eyes were
drawn, however, to the wide expanse of bare flesh exposed by the
jumpsuit, which only had a zipper that covered the flesh one inch
below the man's navel. The suit exposed the halves of Richard's
perfectly formed pectorals as well as the splendidly corrugated
muscles of his stomach. The suit was blatantly sexual and teasing,
the plunging neckline drawing attention to the well-packed bulge
at the crotch. And Richard, heedless of the virility he exuded,
had a darker light blue shirt carelessly worn, unbuttoned, over
the jumpsuit, somehow making his outfit even more arousing in its
juxtaposition between sleaziness and respectability. The outfit
was completed with a pair of black no-nonsense shoes.

And oblivious of everyone's eyes on him, Richard's smile was only
for the man who walked in with him. Michael, wearing the boring
tux and half-mask, smiled back, a proud and besotted man indeed.

"How do I look?" Richard asked. Some things would never change. "I
still think this bloody outfit shows too much skin, and I hope my
parents don't see me in it. And I have to shave my chest and
stomach for this shit suit."

"You look perfect," Michael said soothingly, placing his hands on
Richard's bare chest. "Now stop complaining and go mingle. Just
don't get into dark corners with any hussies, okay?"

Richard flashed him an indulgent look of an utterly infatuated man
doomed to pamper and indulge the object of his infatuation. "I'll
get you later," he hissed however, for he wasn't a successful and
ruthless businessman if he was entirely malleable.

Their enmity in business temporarily forgotten, Ben and Brendan
performed a high five.
