Object of Desire by William J. Mann Read Free Book Online Page B

was a fuddy-duddy when it came to things like that. He was such a serious young man—a med student at UCLA. He was always saying things like, “Consider all your options before you take a leap.”
    Climbing up on my box in my thong three nights a week, I had no idea what Randall was talking about, nor did I really care to know. All I knew was that I was making good money for doing very little—and for this skinny little kid, all that hooting and whistling was kind of fun. Sure, the free booze and free blow that Edgar provided were nice perks, but the best part was simply getting up on the box.
    â€œHey, baby, give me a wink,” the large black man called out.
    I obliged, turning around to moon the crowd and flex my butt hole. A scattering of guys up front hooted, and more dollars flew my way. I loved it. Who ever would have thought?
    It was getting hot up there under the strobe lights. Sweat rolled down my forehead, and even the half-pint of mousse I’d used to spike up my hair wasn’t going to last all night. “Benny,” I said, leaning down again as he passed, “get me some water, will you?”
    â€œI’m busy.”
    â€œFuck you, Benny.”
    I glanced around for Randall. He was across the room, chatting up some guy in an oxford shirt and loosened tie. Leave it to Randall to spot the executive types. I motioned to him; he spotted me; I simulated drinking a bottle of water. Actually, it probably looked more as if I was asking to suck his cock, but those days, thank God, were over. Randall turned to Mr. Oxford Shirt and seemed to tell him that he’d be right back, and then he headed over to the bar. What would I do without Randall?
    â€œWhat would you do without me?” he asked, handing me up the bottle of Evian.
    I winked, unscrewed the top, and guzzled down about half the bottle. The rest I poured over my torso, sending a cheer up from the crowd.
    â€œShow-off,” Randall said, smirking. He returned to his executive.
    Once, I had been in love with Randall. It was right after I’d first arrived in L.A., a scared kid with big dreams. Randall was a native and not nearly as scared as I was, but he had dreams that matched my own. It was a very long time ago. Six months, in fact.
    I’d responded to an ad he’d posted on the bulletin board at Pavilions, looking for a roommate. I called him, got his address, and walked the two miles to his place. It was one half of a pink stucco house just below Santa Monica Boulevard, near Fairfax, with a bunch of straggly birds-of-paradise growing out front. When Randall opened the door, he was wearing only a white terry-cloth towel around his waist, with shaving cream carefully applied to his cheeks and chin. As he showed me around the place, his towel kept slipping, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad, furry chest. By the time we got to the kitchen, the towel was gone and we were kissing over the sink. I found the taste of shaving cream to be surprisingly sweet and arousing.
    We fucked on his mattress—Randall believed a bed frame was a waste of money for a struggling student—and after I’d shot three head-splitting loads, I paid him two months’ rent. Suddenly not only did I have a place in L.A., but I had a boyfriend as well. Quite the accomplishment—since I’d only stepped off the bus at Union Station that morning. It was far, far easier than I had imagined, far simpler than Dad had warned.
    For a couple of weeks, I was head over heels in love with Randall. But then, one night, walking home, I spotted a tall blond in leather pants approaching me. After the classic double take as we passed each other, we circled back around, grins on our faces. Soon we were humping on his mattress—another West Hollywood boy without an actual bed—and I decided then and there that this was my true love. After all, Lance shared my passion for Doctor Who and Monty Python, while Randall’s