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Price and I sit in my apartment after an evening at Tunnel with McDermott and Van Patten.
I have dragged him back to my place because he would not stop yelling at me about “leaving”, so we ditched the others so I could attempt to decipher what the fuck he was talking about.
Rehab? Quitting P&P? Suicide? It doesn't seem to matter now, as before leaving, we scored some more coke from Ricardo, and whilst incredibly weak, we have each done two more lines, and this, alongside the copious amount of alcohol, has started to make me feel kind of buzzed.
Price fidgets uncomfortably, grinding his teeth as he undoes his Bill Blass silk tie.
Something is deeply wrong with him this evening, and I still cannot work out what it is.
He is handsome, rich, in the prime of his life, and he still has the gall to complain about his job or whatever the fuck else.
To suggest leaving, to leave what exactly? Cynical bastard.
I sigh, audible and performative, maybe in the hopes he will enquire what is wrong, but he doesn't.
Instead, he reaches across to the Turchin glass-top coffee table to retrieve the Finlandia on the rocks he has been nursing.
Unsurprisingly, or I suppose it should be, he chugs the rest of the clear liquid, the ice clattering loudly against the tumbler as he slams it back against the table.
I sigh loudly again.
“Price, you are a fucking animal, were you raised in a barn?” I snap, hot tension rising, and I, too, feel the need to loosen my dotted silk tie by Valentino Couture.
He says nothing, just stares forward at the digital TV set from Toshiba, which is currently turned off, so I assume he is checking out his appearance in the glossy black thirty-inch screen.
He does look good, I cannot deny this. His tan is even and deep, his hair looks thick even with the insane amount of gel he has slathered on it, and this moves me to want to ask what brand it is.
I don't, however, because I am still pissed about his outbursts earlier, outbursts that caused such an intense wave of anxiety to surge over me that I brought him here for god knows what reason.
“What is going on with you at the moment, Tim?” is all I can muster, running a hand through my hair as I glance at him through the screen of the television.
“I want to fuck Evelyn Williams.” Price says bluntly, not even looking at me, still staring vacantly at his own reflection.
“Oh?” Is this bastard trying to rile me up?
Surely he knows that I know he’s fucking Evelyn.
Or are they?
I don’t exactly care since my own fidelity is questionable at best, but are they not fucking?
“Yeah, Evelyn Williams is hot, don’t you think, Bateman?” Price just shrugs, giving me a passing look for just a moment.
“Is she?!” I say this, smiling wildly at him in an attempt to be intimidating like some sort of deranged ape on the precipice of violence.
To get him to stop this incessant line of questioning. Again, I don’t care about him fucking Evelyn, but Price pulling this shit after I so graciously saved him from his own idiocy fills me with such rage that I am unsure if simply coke and alcohol can quell.
I think passively about the xanax in my bedside drawer that I stole from Courtney's medicine cabinet the last time I fucked her.
“Yeah,” Price nods, a little too frantically “I want to put my hard dick between her perfect tits, slap the tip of my dick against her mouth intermittently as I fuck into her chest and blow a load over her plump, full lips.” he shrugs.
To this, I say nothing. Instead, I reach across the coffee table to readjust the Steuben glass animals vacantly before my eyes lock onto the cigar resting in the crystal ashtray from Fortunoff that I don’t remember lighting but its end is charred.
I shift forward and snatch it and strike a match, lighting the tip, hoping this will shake Price into the present and remind him where exactly he is, who exactly he is talking to.
It doesn't.
“I want to fuck her pussy with my fat cock and then her ass, I want to fuck Evelyn in her tight asshole whilst she screams for more and then her pussy again.” He continues, foot now tapping idly as he recounts his fantasies.
“As someone who has fucked Evelyn Williams's asshole, let me tell you-” I start, but the bastard cuts me off.
“Do. Tell me.” he says, smirking smugly, swiftly turning, staring at me with such intensity I feel nauseous all of a sudden.
The thick smoke rising off the lit cigar does not help with this new sensation, but I take a long drag of it regardless.
I am visibly shaking now, and I am unsure if Price notices or cares enough to notice.
“Well,” I begin, swallowing hard “I had been begging Evelyn to let me fuck her ass for what felt like months, maybe years, and she had finally said yes. She demanded I buy her these, like, expensive gummy bears that some faggot had told her were perfect to line the stomach before anal intercourse.” I reach forward to grab my glass of J&B, that was on the rocks but the ice has now melted, and the liquid looks more like murky sewer water than anything remotely appetizing but I finish it off anyway in one big gulp.
“Go on,” Price urges, reaching forward to take the cigar from my hand, into his own and inhales it deeply, “Tell me more.”
What the fuck is his problem tonight? I am almost positive he has his own cigars, if not in his Armani overcoat, then certainly in his new Tumi calfskin attaché case from D.F Sanders. Both have been strewn by the front door, so I surmise he is just too lazy to attempt to drag his drunk and stoned ass up to retrieve them.
I inhale sharply through my nose, running a hand through my hair and notice something as my eyes scan down, watching as Price returns the cigar to the ashtray and not to me directly.
He is hard. His cock is hard enough that I can see it pressed against his linen suit pants by Canali Milano.
I wonder absentmindedly if this is the full heft of his dick, and about Evelyn.
I swallow again, loudly, and my mouth feels dry, and I think about excusing myself to grab the glass bottle of Evian chilling in the refrigerator, but can’t, for some reason.
Instead, I sit there, eyes moving back up to meet Price’s, who is waiting patiently for me to continue.
“And so she was miserable after not eating all day. She demanded we do it at night, so nobody would know or see, which I thought was fucking stupid anyway because it was just us.” I say this, trying not to focus on Price’s visible erection.
Is he getting off on this?
“So it’s around 11pm, and I wait around in her bedroom as she douches, which took upwards of an hour too for some fucking reason,”
My leg is now shaking, and Price says nothing, just waits for me to go on.
“And so once she’s done, she emerges in this cream lace and satin teddy by I think La Perla, and gets on the bed without looking at me. Like, this is all my fault. But she gets on all fours and spreads her legs for me anyway.”
I feel hot, feverish almost, and whilst I can maybe convince myself this is due to the steroids I am taking or the coke I have done or the booze I have drunk, I fear it is something else entirely.
I swallow again, mouth still incredibly dry as I reach a shaking hand towards the bottle of J&B that rests on the floor that I didn't notice before and bring the half-filled bottle to my lips and drink it in deeply. It does little to quell the thirst but does wonders in easing my nerves, and this bolsters me enough to continue.
“And so I shoved my cock in her ass with little prep. I tried putting my tongue into her asshole beforehand, but she made such a noise of discontent it almost made me soft. So I tried fucking her for a little, it felt good. Hot and tight,” I am not looking at Price anymore, simply staring forward, on anything I can focus on.
The Onica, the Wurlitzer jukebox, the ebony Baldwin concert grand piano, my own thumping heartbeat, the Sansui stereo system with Duntech Sovereign 2001 speakers.
“I could only fuck her for what felt like seconds before she screamed at me to pull out. I didn’t though, not immediately, but she started convulsing in protest like some dying rodent, so I told her to at least let me fuck her face-” I hear Price unzip his Canali Milano suit pants and as if in slow motion, like in a movie, I turn to him quickly, eyes fixed on his moving hands.
“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” I snap out, exasperated, unable to fully wrap my mind around the situation unfolding in front of me.
“Bateman, don’t be such a fucking prude.” Price scoffs, sliding a hand into the now open zipper, groaning as he gropes himself roughly through his Calvin Klein underwear.
I think fleetingly about lunging onto Price, wrapping my hands tight around his thick, muscular neck and squeezing.
Not necessarily to kill him, but to see what he does. To scare him and to wipe that stupid fucking smirk off his face.
But I can’t. I can’t move. I just sit there, frozen and watch as he pulls his dick out.
It’s thick, thicker than mine, but less impressive in length.
He is so hard it looks almost painful. The tip is pink and swollen and leaking.
I think about him shoving his dick in full into Evelyn, into her mouth, her pussy and her ass.
How does it feel for her? Does she enjoy Price’s dick more than mine?
Suddenly, images of Price and me fucking Evelyn together flood my brain.
My cock in her pussy, Price in her ass as she screams and moans, I suddenly feel lightheaded, and my dick aches.
“Don’t just stare at it, Bateman, you want to suck it or what?” I hear Price saying, and I have no idea how long I have been staring at his dick, and this terrifies me. My hands clench, and I impulsively think about actually killing him. Cutting off his cock at the base. Watching the blood spurt out of it in red and brown streams. Grabbing the Fortunoff crystal ashtray and bludgeoning him to death with it.
I think about how this would devastate Evelyn and end their obvious affair, and more importantly, limit any potential repeats of the events of this evening.
But Evelyn would simply find another chiselled, handsome and successful individual to have an affair with. There are dozens at P&P, and the idea of her instead fucking someone like Paul Owen chills me to my very core.
So I shift gears, trying in my intoxicated state to formulate a plan that does not end in me dismembering and dissolving Price’s body in lye.
“Let’s just get this over with”, I say sternly, and for some ungodly reason, Price takes this as me coming onto him, and he leans forward, placing a hand on my thigh and gives it a hard squeeze.
This sickens me. Not only does Price think I am interested in him, but that I would be submissive to him. So I grab him by his shoulders and shove him roughly back onto the long white down-filled sofa, climbing atop of him in one swift movement as the urge to strangle him returns but passes.
Price just laughs, loud and obnoxious in my ear as I part his legs to climb between them.
“I never actually thought you were a real faggot Bateman, wait until the boys hear about this!”
I am not looking at his face, but I can tell he is smirking smugly.
“You started this, you fucking queer.” I murmur as I undo my pleated trousers by Valentino Couture and slide my throbbing cock out of the monogrammed Ralph Lauren boxer shorts, shifting my hips forward to grab both of our dicks in my hand.
But the friction is too dry, and it hurts, so Price shoves my hand away, spits on his own large open palm before wrapping it around us both, jerking slowly in an upward motion.
The bastard moans loudly in my ear in response as his hips rut against my own, and I think about Evelyn.
I think about how Evelyn has already heard these moans and felt the weight of this cock.
How many times exactly? Would she be jealous of me or Price in this situation?
“You’ve done this before, haven’t you?” I hear myself saying without thinking “Who was it? VanPatten? McDermott? I bet you let that little faggot Paul Owen sodomise you or god..don’t tell me it was Carruthers?” I spit out between lewd grunts in an attempt to regain some semblance of control in this situation.
“You’d like that, wouldn't you? Thinking about other men fucking me gets you rock hard, right?” Price is saying, completely composed.
Unbelievable.
In a moment of weakness, I lunge forward and bite him roughly on the shoulder through his cotton shirt by Ike Behar before moving up to bite the side of his neck.
He moans in response, which surprises me because I would not have previously thought of Price as masochistic, but it spurs me on to bite him hard enough to draw blood and grind my hips down onto his own.
“Fuck Bateman, you’re a fucking freak,” Price groans, but I feel his dick twitch against me, and he moves us quicker.
I assume this means he is close to cumming.
I can hear myself panting like a rabid animal and have to focus on this so as not to lose my composure. I need to ensure he finishes first, so I roll my hips again, thrusting into his open palm and rutting against his cock roughly.
But instead of this pushing him over the edge, he takes a fistful of my hair in his free hand and roughly forces my head up to look into his eyes and demands breathlessly, “Tell me more about Evelyn, tell me how you fuck her.” and mortifyingly, this sends me over the edge.
I cum bucking into Price raggedly and swear I hear myself cry out a pathetic, whiny moan as I do so, or maybe, hopefully, that was him.
He finishes quickly after, both of our shirts are covered in thick strings of cum, and I am immediately thankful my dry cleaners have already ceased questioning the stains they have routinely found on my garments.
I peel away from Price, shoving myself back into my boxers and quickly trying to compose myself, I eye Price wearily.
He looks spent, his usually pristine hair ruffled, eyes closed tightly as he returns to earth.
I think about Evelyn.
Price swings his legs off the edge of the sofa, zips himself back into his linen pants and runs a hand through his messy hair.
“Let’s do another line” is all he finally says to me.