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Cavendish was dark and quiet when he stumbled in, too late and cold for the girls at the gate. Sometimes he wished he’d bought a bungalow instead, because the stairs were an absolute bitch at 3 am. He went up slowly, sometimes using his hands to assist. Needs must.
A fantastic night on top of so many fantastic nights, a succession of success; drink and drugs and music and beautiful people and all of them wanting to bask in his glory, to smile at his jokes and look at him with adoration. Quite right too. It had been work getting here but all worth it, god it was worth it, to be young, famous, rich, have any fucking thing you wanted with a snap of your fingers.
He started shedding clothes until he stood in front of the bathroom mirror, naked. Though he’d shaved before going out, the shadow of his beard was already coming back. It looked good. He looked so good, beautiful, even. No one had told him that coke would keep him slim but it was better than any diet; he admired his face, his cheekbones sharper, his jaw more defined, his eyes even bigger. There was a faint suggestion of dark shadows under his eyes, which he thought looked suitably Byronic, a sign that he was living life fast, too busy to take care of himself properly. His hair was a fucking mess, but somehow that only added to the appeal. He tried a look on himself, half-closing those doe eyes and letting his lips curve gently. Fucking hell, that was good. Dead sexy.
1967 had been a year of excess and he loved every day, every minute, every second of it. Music poured out of him, an unstoppable river of songs; the world understood now, told him he was a genius, that he was Mozart. They let him conduct orchestras when he couldn’t read a note. Things appeared: tape machines, instruments, film cameras, all to aid him in the mystical act of creation. He didn’t have to pretend, anymore, that he wasn’t who he really was, that is, the handsome Prince of London. Himself, all grown up.
Somehow he hadn’t wanted to take anyone home, though there were volunteers in abundance. The ones he’d really been after had buggered off early and he couldn’t be bothered with the chase, not when he could float on the ocean of praise that flowed all around him, under him, lifting him up so high. There had been hands on him, on his waist, caressing his arse, up his thighs while he held court at a table in whatever nightclub he’d ended up in. They all wanted to fuck him. Wanted him to fuck them. And why not? A fuck from him was worth ten of anyone else’s on the open market, easy. He could probably fuck Princess Margaret and her husband, if he tried.
He really was beginning to think he could do anything. Dangerous, that path. But exciting.
There was a makeup bag on the bench under the mirror, left by some bird. He took out the lipstick - red, of course, his preference - and dabbed it on, gently, pouting at himself; too much and he’d look like the slut he was in his heart. Then he used the kohl pencil around his hazel eyes, along the edge of his lashes, so now he was a movie star, like Garbo, entrancing. Who could resist?
Not him, apparently. All this looking and touching and preening had gotten him hard. He took himself in hand, casually, leisurely strokes. He used to hate how his face was, back when he was young and it mattered if you didn’t look like enough of a bloke, whatever that meant. Too pretty, too soft. Then he learnt to use it as a shield of sweetness to hide his endless hunger for fame and adulation. Which he’d gotten, a hundred times over. And the face that was too pretty was on every magazine cover and it didn’t matter anymore if he looked like a bloke or a bird because they all loved him and he loved them back, in any and every way he could.
He was drop dead gorgeous like this, all made up, pale body lithe and lean, stiff cock rosy in the dark tangle of curls between his long thighs. A dream that he made come true. He thought of all the women and men who’d sucked his cock and wished he could be one of them, worshipping at his own feet, ruby red lips wrapped firmly around his smooth, hot length. He’d been told he looked amazing giving head but he wanted to see himself in action, his pretty, pretty face flushed and glistening, his mouth full of cock. He ran his hands up and down his body, over the fading bruise on his left hip where someone had bitten him, rolling his nipples between his fingers and gasping.
All the blow jobs he’d gotten, thousands of times in every place imaginable, in this very room, but nothing could compare to imagining his own face with black-rimmed eyes gazing up, wanting to please and knowing just how to please, the lipstick marks he’d leave on his cock; in the mirror he watched himself biting his lower lip and watched his hand on his cock moving faster, he was so hard and slick from his own pre-come and so in love with his perfect cock and perfect body and oh, his perfect face with open mouth and half-closed eyes: the boy in the mirror was heaven on earth. Everyone wanted him and all that wanting flowed through him like fire, just knowing they were thinking of him as they got themselves off or fucked someone else – it was him, always him in their minds, in his mind, in the mirror. And he came and came in his hand, his whole body tensed as he moaned and cursed fuck–ah–fuck! because no one could do it better. No one.
Once he’d caught his breath, he looked at himself again and thought this is my masterpiece: red mouth open, dazed look in his eyes, come all over his belly and hand. A right slag. He pressed a kiss to the mirror, leaving a lipstick mark, and smiled. He left the makeup on, just to see how good he’d look in the morning with it smeared all over, and fell into bed with his favourite person in the whole world; he dreamed of an island in the blue blue ocean under blue blue skies, with only sirens for company.