Filthy Lucre - Ryden

2

Brendon was tired – and he was sore. The muscles in his thighs were aching, his back and his neck were stiff, his hips were colored with bruises. It had been a long night, but now he was curled up in his own bed where he could lay flat and close his eyes.

He'd left the apartment earlier that evening and had serviced seven guys during the nine hours he'd been out. Two of those seven only wanted blowjobs, but he was feeling beat and it was nearing four AM. Jon would be home soon – he rarely stayed out past three thirty. That was just tempting fate; staying out after the bars started to close.

As he rolled up a blunt, he flicked absentmindedly through a glossy magazine that he'd taken from a hotel lobby a few weeks ago – it was full of advertisements for watches he'd never be able to afford and suits that cost more than his month's rent, but it was nice to dream. He needed to relax and there was nothing like a few hits of weed before bedtime to ease his aches and pains and put his thoughts on mute.

Brendon and his friend, Jon, shared a room above a massage parlor in Hamilton Heights, New York City. It had been advertised as a prime location "studio apartment" when they moved in a few years back but it was in fact, a rather dismal looking room on the third floor of a rundown apartment block - a small boxy space that was sweltering hot in the summer and plunged to arctic temperatures in the winter. No heating, no air. The kitchen area was minimal – a refrigerator that never had food in it, a small gas stove and a microwave that had been broken for way longer than it had ever worked. They had a bed, which they shared, and a grubby old couch they inherited from the previous occupants and that was about it. Living in Manhattan was expensive, the money Brendon earned hooking went on rent, paying off debts to angry dealers and what was left, he used to help his parents out as best he could. Jon squandered his cash on cigarettes and cocaine when he could get a good enough deal on it.

Jon took a lot of drugs. Brendon accepted this, but it didn't stop him worrying. Whatever gets you through the day, he used to think to himself, as he watched his friend smoke heroin before passing out in their bed. Jon hadn't taken smack for over a year, but sometimes he'd return home at night with that familiar glazed look in his eyes and Brendon would spend the night watching him, listening to his breathing and making sure Jon didn't roll over onto his back in his sleep and choke and die.

Brendon had been totally in love with Jon Walker from the very moment they met. He'd have done anything for that hopeless bastard.
He lit up the blunt and turned the page of his magazine, happily surprised to see an incredibly homoerotic photograph of that billionaire's son.

Ryan Ross, the title read, The American Wet Dream.

Ryan Ross was a good-looking guy, so it was a shame he came across in the press as a total tool – but there he was, spread over Brendon's lap on a double page, his tight pants slung dangerously low, his left hand pushed precariously down inside his jeans, his other laid against his cheek, lips parted, his little finger curled into his mouth. His hair was tousled, as if he'd just been fucked. Ryan Ross was all sharp hipbones and tight, pale skin. He'd read the stories of that boy's wild antics in all the tabloid papers and maybe, under vastly different circumstances, they could've been friends. Brendon's eyes lingered. Long limbs and a prominent Adam's apple. He was impossibly beautiful.

After that scandal had broken out in the press that Ryan Ross had stalked the streets of the East Village looking for male escorts, all of the hookers Brendon knew suddenly picked up their pitch and moved to that part of town in hopes of being picked up by him. Brendon thought it was kind of pathetic really, chasing some spoiled little rich boy across the city like that.

He heard the key in the lock and slapped the magazine closed. Brendon's heart always skipped a beat when he saw Jon and he smiled up at him, sympathetic to the exhaustion plastered over his friend's face.