Date: Fri, 8 Dec 2000 07:16:43 -0600
From: Another Private Dancer
Subject: A Far Cry from Normal

This is my first ever erotic submission.

Also, thanks to Justin for inspiring me to write.
And Brian, I am thinking of you too.


		"A FAR CRY FROM NORMAL"

He was frowning.  Trying not to, but still frowning.
	"What's wrong?" she asked him, but he couldn't give
her any real answer.
She was standing there naked in front of him and his mind
was elsewhere, thinking about other things he should have
done during the week... maybe balanced his checkbook, for
sure thrown out a quickly growing pile of junk mail still
taking up valuable space on his coffee table.  He had to go
home;  she was annoying him.
	"I gotta go in early tomorrow," he said absently.
"It's getting late."
	"But tomorrow's Saturday," she protested.
She was killing him.  And now she was starting to piss him
off.
	"I'll only be there a couple of hours.  Look, can we
get together for lunch or something?"  He stood up from the
bed, halfheartedly buttoning his shirt at the same time.
For a moment, she said nothing and merely watched him.
Their relationship was ending and he couldn't make
himself break up with her.  He would be waking up in his
own body and it wouldn't be him.  Three years of nothing
but continual attachment...fending off questions of
matrimony... Hell, he couldn't even bring himself to live
with her.  They ran in the same circles:  His friends were
her friends, her friends were his friends.  It had been
this way forever now.  Her mother knew him better than his
own did.  And still he hadn't cheated on her.  It
frustrated him.  She reluctantly put on her bathrobe.
	"Let me walk you out, then," she said.
Damn it, she was making him feel horrendously guilty.  He
picked up his suit jacket that lay draped over the bed.

	"Call me from your office.  If I'm not home, my cell's
on," she said once they were at the door.
	"Okay."  He kissed her softly, but there was no
emotion.  Then he opened the door and walked out into the
hall.
	"Blaine, I wish you could have stayed."
	"Yeah," he said, a little regretfully.  Pausing for a
moment, he looked down at his shoes.  They need to be
shined, he thought.  They really need shining.  He smiled a
small smile at her before turning around and walking away.
You'll be okay alone for one night, Kate, he thought.
Don't make it seem like such a crisis.  He felt cold
suddenly and shrugged into his jacket.

	There was a chill in the air.  It was already well
past midnight, a bank clock down the street informed him,
and fifty two degrees.  Not freezing, but cold enough
despite his jacket to rub his arms and shiver.  He needed a
vacation.  He needed to go somewhere warm, somewhere far
away where no one could call or send an email.  Where the
hell was everyone on a Friday night?  The bars weren't
closed yet.  But he was alone, walking and thinking.  He
was in a rut, in his professional and personal
relationships among other things that flooded his mind.
	"You just got promoted, you bastard.  What the hell
more do you want?" he wondered, reflecting back on his
first week of heading up their firm's graphic design
department.  Wow, he was management, he thought
sarcastically.  Great.  Everyone hated management, anyway.
He thought about bugging Josh.  His neighbor Josh would be
up.   He'd bring over a couple of six packs and they could
play foosball on Josh's table until the sun poked its head
through the skyscrapers and made them really feel like
shit.

	Maybe he'd get stoned.  He wasn't into weed anymore,
hadn't been since he'd left college two years ago, but
there was no shortage of people he knew who were.
	"God!" he shouted to no one in particular.  Why the
fuck was he so miserable?  What gave him that right?  He
had a position he never thought he'd get in his three short
years of working at the firm.  He had Kate, and she was so
blissfully beautiful.  She was tall, slender, a model as a
child.  He still loved her, he just had to get the hell
away from her.  And then there was his fucking apartment in
the sky.

	He stopped at a payphone.  He'd left his cell phone at
home specifically because he was going to see Kate.  She
hated it when business associates called on her time, which
they had a tendency to do.
	"Josh, it's Blaine," he said.
	"Blaine."  He sounded tired, like he couldn't remember
who Blaine was.  "Oh, hey, what's up?"
	"Man, I'm sorry.  Were you asleep?"
The night was already shot to hell.  Josh sighed audibly,
but it sounded like he didn't intend to.
	"No... No, just kickin' back.  Watching some late
night.  Didn't feel like going out.  Long week.  You know
how that goes," he said.
	"Damn.  I hear you."  He was silent, longer than
necessary.
	"You okay?"  Josh finally asked.  "Aren't you with
Kate?  God, you broke up with her, didn't you."
	"No."
	"I'm telling you.  Don't do it," he said.
Great.  He was getting advice on the one subject he didn't
want to think about.
	"You throw a woman like that back out to sea, Blaine,
she's gonna swim around and you're never gonna see her
again.  And that'll be when you want her.  I know you.  And
then instead of going out and getting laid like any normal
guy who just cut off his three year ankle bracelet, you'll
come around making me miserable.  Don't tell me it's not
happening in the bedroom."
	Blaine was silent.  He was irritated and he felt like
hanging up.
	"Can you do me a favor?" Josh continued.  "Can you at
least wait until I've had a relationship that long and
share your outlook?"
	"Look, Josh, I just called to see how you were doing.
I gotta go anyway.  I'm working early tomorrow."  He tried
not to slam the phone down and continued walking, faster
this time.
	"What the fuck is wrong with everybody?" he asked out
loud.  No one responded because there was no one around.
Was he that predictable?  Would the whole world be able to
say something wasn't right with him and Kate because he was
making a lousy late night phone call?  And what if he
wanted to walk the streets alone at one in the morning?
That was his goddamn business.  Would the police be
trailing him now?  Was he considered prone to commit
suicide?  Who the hell was Josh?
God, now where would he go?

	He was heading for the sleazy part of downtown.  Run-
down industrial warehouses surrounded him as did pawn shops
and adult bookstores every now and then and bars he
wouldn't be caught dead in.  There were plenty of people
now;  bums asking for money, a few prostitutes trying to
catch his eye...maybe because of his attire.  Still wearing
the suit he wore to work that day, Blaine reeked of fresh
green.  But it was a cold night for the end of August and
he was walking like they were--not driving--so they wanted
men in vehicles to patronize.  A pair of transvestites
looked him over as they passed by and smiled.  One raised
their eyebrows in interested disbelief as to ask, "You
couldn't just bang one of your wife's friends?"  Damn it,
he had to do something spontaneous before it killed him.
	A neon sign with some of its letters burnt out hung
over a doorway.  A dirty white sign underneath declared the
near hovel to be showing off some of the hottest men in the
city.  "Come see our steamy shows with hot steamy hunks!"
the sign continued.  Blaine looked around, embarrassed at
the thought of even being caught paying enough attention to
the place to read its signs.  No one was watching him.  He
didn't move.  He was frowning again.  "What are you, gay
now?" a voice in his head asked him.  He closed his eyes
and lowered his head.  He needed a serious drink, a double
anything at this point.

	So what makes a guy a hunk anyway?
Blaine's mind was growing further and further out of
his reach.  He didn't know what shot he was on at a musty
bar and was having meandering thoughts about stupid shit
now.  He wondered why women were so inclined to go out and
buy a cat at any given time in their lives.  Kate and her
stupid cat.  Maybe that was a driving force against making
what could have been the biggest mistake of his life.  Was
it that he lacked a brain from too many steroids, having
exchanged otherwise valuable cells for lost calibers of
body fat?  Kate had referred to that actor Jude Law as a
hunk...or she had said he was damn sexy or something, he
couldn't remember.  They had seen "The Talented Mr. Ripley"
together.  With alcohol in him, Blaine could see it.  Jude
and...well, maybe even Matt Damon.

	He wasn't stumbling, but he felt sluggish entering the
dark and dingy theater.  Like the bar, it was just as musty
in here and probably was in every other joint in the
district.  There were a few other guys scattered around the
room, occupying the dirty and cum-stained pull-down seats.
What, there were no women in here?  Well, he wasn't paying
attention.  At least as a drunk, he didn't care.  There was
a guy on the small stage performing his act, now down to
the tiniest pair of cut-offs Blaine had ever seen.  Yet he
was too drunk to be repulsed.  He was too drunk to have any
more thoughts in his head.  So he sat and stared.
	The guy on stage was eyeing him now, giving him
seductive glances as he swirled around a makeshift pole,
every now and then slowly licking it for effect.  Blaine
heard someone near him inhale sharply.  Facing the stage
curtain behind him, the slim yet hard bodied performer bent
over to look at the small audience from between his legs.
Blond curls, cute smile, couldn't have been more than
twenty three or twenty four... Who was Blaine reminded of?
That actor in that movie Kate had rented one night he
hadn't wanted to watch:  "Cruel Intentions".  What was his
name?  Ryan something or other.  A pretty boy.  Blaine
wasn't interested, but still he watched as the dancer ever
so slowly slid the zipper of his shorts down.  In one take
he ripped them off completely, revealing a rock hard dick
that he figured must have been madly aching to be free.
	Keeping his eyes directly on Blaine, he began to
stroke himself...once, twice, three times, more.  He
gyrated sensually and began to tease the men by crooking
his index finger at them, as if to say "You want some of
this?"  There were small audible sighs, some more intense
than others.  Blaine's cock stirred slightly and he shifted
in his seat, now uncomfortable.  What a strange and yet
stimulating experience!  To glance at a guy for half a
second in a gym locker room was one thing, but to actually
watch a guy get off on stage (whether or not he was
pretending didn't matter) was definitely something
different entirely.  Then again, maybe it was the alcohol
talking.
	The Ryan look-alike toyed with the pole again, though
not like he'd done before.  It was nearing the end of his
act and he'd already accomplished for the most part what
he'd been hired to do.  Giving Blaine one last curious
glance, he bowed politely and smiled at the men who were
thunderously applauding for him.  Grabbing clothes he'd
tossed carelessly about, the lights dimmed and he scooted
quickly backstage.  A few of the men rose to leave.  God,
was that all he'd paid for?  Half a show?  The porn shops
had better video arcades for a quarter.  Whatever, he
reasoned.  He really shouldn't have been in there anyway.
He began to rise when a low voice came over a hidden
loudspeaker.
	"Now, would you please put your hands together for Top
Hat's very own Puerto Rican sex god, Dickie Martin!"
	The voice could have been more enthusiastic, but
instead came off as routine.  Blaine smiled, hardly able to
keep from hysterically laughing.  He pictured some wannabe
look-alike watching hours and hours of the music star's
videos, a reject from some episode of "The Jenny Jones
Show", trying to imitate and perfect his would-be
namesake's erotic moves.  For kicks, he would see what the
guy looked like, laugh, and then leave.  The lights on
stage came up again and David Bowie's "I'm Deranged" began
to play.  Oddly, he was surprised.  He'd anticipated
"Livin' La Vida Loca" or something else that would add to
his amusement.  The curtain partially opened and light
smoke filtered in from who knows where across the stage.  A
Latin man strode forward, wearing a black jacket over a
white shirt that slightly revealed his chiseled chest and
body hugging jeans that might as well have been painted on
him.  Sexy?  Definitely.  Blaine sat back in his chair.
This was not what he had expected at all.
	The dancer had Ricky Martin pinned down to the light
streaks in his dark brown hair.  He surveyed the audience
seductively and slowly began to move with the dark music he
would be dancing to, knowing all eyes were focused directly
on him.  His movements exuded sex, as did the singer's, and
yet they were different.  He was getting off on the music,
touching himself all over, his eyes closed and letting his
body take over.  He was hypnotic, swiveling his hips and
dancing like he was alone in his pleasure.  Grabbing the
pole, he used it to rub himself up against, opening his
mouth slightly and tugging at the black jacket he wore.
Blaine sat transfixed, ever so slowly parting his legs and
leaning forward.  Dickie leaned over, giving the audience a
choice view of his tight ass which he slapped hard and then
massaged.
	He tore off his jacket and threw it to the floor.  His
long sleeved shirt was thin and form fitting, and Blaine
could make out small erect nipples.  But why was he
looking?  He furrowed his eyebrows.  Eyes still closed,
Dickie gently cupped the front bulge of his pants quickly
springing to life down below.  He licked his lips and
pulsated his pelvis.  Was Blaine staring?  God, Dickie was
alluring.  The buttons slowly came undone one by one,
displaying a set of perfect abdominal muscles.  His skin
tone was a beautiful creamy brown, a tan Blaine would never
be able to achieve.  Dickie massaged his inner thighs, his
legs and shirt flared open.  Blaine's inner voice was
becoming more and more persistent.  He strangely desired
this man, longed to touch the lines, explore the definition
that was this glorious man on stage.
	He began to touch himself as he watched, at first
absently.  His hand found its way into his silk boxers and
he was hard.  Dickie made a show of removing his arms from
their sleeves.  Blaine could swear he was alone now, or he
wanted to be, enjoying this man by himself.  He felt
possessive.  Dickie should be dancing for him and only him.
His private pleasure.  He ran his fingers along his shaft,
pumping and stroking, inadvertently holding his breath.  He
was afraid to breathe, lest he pull Dickie out of his
trance and shatter the image standing in front of him.
Dickie opened his eyes just then, as if Blaine had willed
it upon him.  He began to feel his chest and stomach.  His
biceps were taut.  Blaine swallowed.  Dickie was watching
him now, amused at the sight of a fresh face (a
stockbroker, maybe?) in the musty theater.  The rest were
regulars, dirty old men whose only joy lay in prime cuts of
meat they would never be able to do anything more with than
watch and jerk off to.  He would give him his money's
worth.

	Dickie was flexible.  He was doing things to the pole
women could only dream of, moves that hadn't before been in
any of his acts.  A challenge lay before him and he was
determined to see the man sitting near the back of the
small theater walk out spent.  This was getting fun.  He
concentrated, feeling every inch of the music.  He worked
his hips, sharply whipping them from side to side before
playing with the zipper of his jeans.  Blaine was stroking
faster now.  He could feel a few drops of wetness coming
from the tip of his penis.  Dickie was driving him insane.
He wanted to do the rest for him, yank off those tight
jeans and see that thick, hard cock that was so unfairly
restricted.  Dickie was slapping his ass again, giving the
men peeks of what was to come by tugging on his waistband.
	He swirled forward and freed his cock from its
confined space.  Blaine could hardly control himself.  He
had to have this man, if only for what was left of his
night.  Dickie was naked now, looking at Blaine and giving
him a sexy smile as he opened his mouth and licked his
lips.  "Imagine what I could do to that dick of yours," he
was saying.  "I could swallow you whole."  The song was
ending, though.  The show was nearly over and as much as
Blaine wanted to, he hadn't come yet.  Dickie was working
that ass of his, spreading his cheeks to the audible yearns
of fully aroused men watching him.  Ha, he thought as he
read Blaine's longing expression.  He'd left him wanting
more.  "You didn't even see it coming," he thought as the
song ended and he took his bow to the thunderous applause
of the audience.  Blaine was gone.

"God, what a night," Dickie sighed.  He was backstage,
dressed and more than ready to go home.
"Did you recognize the guy in the back?  You don't see
guys like that around here," someone else said.
The man was still fresh in Dickie's mind.  With the
lights shining brightly in his eyes and all the diffused
smoke, he couldn't make out much more than a blurred image,
but the man wasn't a regular.  Not the type to frequent a
dump like this.  Dickie didn't even know if he was gay.  He
was amusing, though, if anything.  Oh well, he'd fulfilled
his end of the bargain.  If it led to a sudden weird pay
increase, that was most certainly welcome.

Fifteen minutes after the curtain had closed, Dickie
exited the back door of the theater which led into a dark
and grimy alley.  The smell of urine was pungent, as was
the smell of cheap wine.
"Who are you?" Blaine asked, startling him.  "I have
to know."
Dickie was more surprised than intimidated.  Like a Monet
amidst a bevy of kindergarten watercolors, this man was a
considerable contrast from the rest of this murky
environment.  Still dressed in his suit from work with his
shirt untucked, the man had been drinking and Dickie could
smell it on his breath.  This night was getting more and
more interesting.
"Who do you want me to be?" Dickie asked.
Blaine didn't care what his price was.  He wanted him.
	"I'll pay you five hundred dollars to do what you just
did for me again."
Dickie was silent.  He wanted to protest.  After all, there
were male prostitutes right down the street going for less
than fifty and he wasn't one of them.
	"A thousand," Blaine insisted.
Dickie looked him over, for real this time.  The man wasn't
hard to look at, very easy on the eyes.  There was a
certain fire in them;  this man would devour him whole.  Or
the other way around.
	"At your place?" Dickie asked, inquisitively.
	"No, yours," Blaine said quickly, before checking
himself.  "Do you live close by here?"
	This was getting better and better.  A thousand
dollars for a short dance and maybe a few small other
favors to make the man happy.  He couldn't make that in a
week at both his jobs combined.
	"I'll get us a cab.  You tell him where to go."

	Dickie's apartment was a studio on the third floor of
a hotel that looked as much like a warehouse as any one of
the other buildings in the area.  In the thick darkness of
the room, it hit him.  He was paying a thousand dollars to
be seduced by some male dancer and it didn't even matter.
	"Where do you want to do this?  I'm probably not living quite
like you in the space department," Dickie said.
	"Here."
Blaine sat on a worn sofa covered in clothes he had no
idea whether or not were dirty.  He sat expectantly, like
in the theater.  Dickie watched him.  After another moment
he set down the backpack he'd used to keep some of his
other costume clothes in and started looking through his CD
collection for something to play.
	"Can I...get you something to drink or anything?"
Dickie asked.
	"No," Blaine said.
He was getting anxious.  They could both tell.
	"Okay."
Without another word, Dickie selected a disc and
placed it in a CD player on the floor.  Nine Inch Nails'
"Closer" beat steadily through the speakers.  Not his
normal dance music, but tonight he would improvise.  The
man was exciting him, like the music in the theater.  He
was intrigued.  Dickie slipped out of the sweater he'd
pulled on backstage, underneath which was the same white
shirt he'd worn to dance in.  He focused on Blaine and
began to pump his hips in time with the beating of the
music.  When the vocals began, he mouthed the intimate
words Trent Reznor sang so Blaine could read his lips in
the dim street light the window offered.
He spread his legs and ran his hands down the length
of his muscular thighs, rotating his hips from side to
side, never missing a beat.  Every movement was slow,
sensual, designed to be felt throughout both their entire
bodies.  Dickie was close enough for Blaine to touch, but
Blaine was motionless, his lips slightly parted in awe.
His hand was moving downward;  he was ready.  Dickie's ass
gyrated in front of him, its sheer firmness begging for
attention.  As per before, he began to unbutton his shirt.
But rather than unbutton all of the buttons, he reached for
Blaine's hand.  He wasn't about to let him finish yet.
"You," Dickie said.  "I want you to do it."
Blaine's heart jumped into his throat.  He was in fear
again, but then he wanted to so desperately.
"Do what you want to do," Dickie said, lowly.  "Don't
fight me."
Blaine paused a moment before reaching out...and with
both hands, ripped open the shirt so the buttons flew off.
In a fury, he smoothed his hands over Dickie's stomach and
around his back, down further and further before grabbing
his ass.  Dickie uttered a low moan.  Blaine rubbed himself
against the Latin dancer and found him stiff beneath his
jeans.
"You know you want me," Dickie whispered in his ear.
He was toying with him, toying with his emotions.  It
was obvious the man had never done this before.  Dickie was
imagining what all he could do to him and smiling a small
smile at his thoughts.  If a dance turned him on, wait
until he experienced his expert abilities as a lover!
Having shed his shirt, he didn't take his eyes off Blaine
as he slid Blaine's jacket off of him and tossed it down on
the floor.  He started on Blaine's shirt buttons and the
latter inexperienced man didn't stop him.  He placed
Blaine's hands on his ass and swayed to the intensely
erotic music.
It was cold in the studio apartment and the two men
were sweating.  Dickie ran his hands over Blaine's body,
toned with a slim build.  He felt like he worked out.
These days every person of affluence had a gym membership,
the difference being that this man used his.  Blaine
couldn't stand it anymore.  He tore wildly at the zipper to
Dickie's jeans and yanked them down as fast as he could.
Dickie pushed him back on the sofa, pulling down Blaine's
own pants.  His cock was prominent beneath his boxers.
Dickie licked his lips and lowered his head to grab the
waistband with his teeth.
"Oh, God..." Blaine moaned.  Dickie had swallowed his
dick entirely and Blaine could feel the back of the
dancer's throat.  He wanted to cum so badly!  Dickie wasn't
about to let him.  He wanted some of the man's infinite
pleasure.  Smearing the man's dick with lubricator, he got
down on his hands and knees and spread his legs apart.
"Do it," he commanded.
Blaine's voice caught in his throat, but he wasn't
going to deny him.  Grabbing Dickie by the hips, he thrust
his throbbing cock deep into Dickie's ass, emitting a cry
from both men.  He went slowly at first, but could hardly
resist the tight feeling of Dickie's muscles clamping down
on him.  He started to pound the dancer, unlike anything
he'd ever done with Kate, and he felt liberated.  He was
fucking this hot Latin man with every ounce of energy he
could muster.  They were grunting now and Blaine's breaths
were getting shorter and shorter.  Blaine couldn't wait any
longer.  He'd held it in for as long as he could, but even
this was too much for him.  Blaine shot his load, filling
Dickie's ass with white jizm that poured out and down
Dickie's legs.  He was out of breath now, like he'd just
run the Boston Marathon.  But Dickie wasn't done with him
just yet.
"Wait, what are you doing?" Blaine asked nervously, as
Dickie began to lube himself up.  "I've never..." Dickie
placed a finger over his lips.
"I know.  Don't worry," he said.
He had the man lean over the arm of his sofa.
Goddamn, this would be good.  A sweet anal virgin!  After
lubing himself, he took a little of the lube and smeared it
over Blaine's asshole.  Blaine instinctively tightened up.
"Wait... Wait, I don't know if I'm ready..." he
uttered.
"Relax.  I'll go slow," Dickie soothed.  He didn't
know how slow he could go, but he would sure as hell try.
The tip of his penis slid into Blaine's hole and
Blaine clamped down on it.  Dickie moaned.  He went further
in, slowly so the other man would have a chance to catch
his breath.  Damn, did it feel good!  Dickie began pulsing
up and down rhythmically and Blaine's dick began to harden
again.  The dancer was rubbing a pleasure spot and it
wasn't feeling so strange anymore.  And still Dickie
continued at the same pace.
	"Tell me...if you want to...go faster," he said,
hardly able to speak.  Blaine was silent for a moment.
	"Do it," he said and Dickie was free.  He began to go
faster, Blaine was moaning again.
	"Oh...fuck!" Dickie shouted.  He was pounding the man
mercilessly, slapping his skin, never wanting it to end.
He pulled Blaine's hips toward his, going as deep as he
possibly could.  He closed his eyes and left it all to the
longings of his manly dick...
	Dickie shouted loudly.  He was cumming, filling
Blaine's own ass with pure pleasure liquid and he didn't
know when it would end.

	"It would've been more interesting if I knew your
name," Dickie said, naked and laying back on his sofa.  The
CD was still playing, but was now on a different song.
Blaine was hastily buttoning his shirt.  He had to get
home.  The sun would be coming up in another hour or two
and he was totally exhausted.
	"How do I pay you?" he asked.  "I don't suppose you'll
take a check."
	Dickie smiled.
	"I already know you're good for it.  You look like a
thousand wouldn't mean that much anyway," he replied and
rubbed his fingers together.  "Chunk change."
	Blaine slid his jacket back on.
	"I'm not gay," he said, and Dickie laughed.
	"No, of course you aren't.  You got a pretty little
girlfriend or wife maybe waiting at home for you, wondering
why you had to work so damn late."
	He lit a cigarette.
	"Listen, it was fun," Dickie continued.  "Don't say
anymore."
	Blaine looked at him, laying there completely
comfortable in his nudity.  He had the body of a god.  He
knew it.  Blaine didn't know if he'd ever see it again.
But then, he could always be out walking...and never
knowing just where he would end up.