Calendar Boy by Te December 1999 Buffy the Vampire Slayer Ethan/Xander, sort of. NC-17 for language and wet slinkiness. Author's Note: With thanks to Woodinat and Katie V. for inadvertantly providing me with this idea, and to Dawn Sharon for fine audiencing. Spoiler for The Freshman. * Barely two weeks into the stripping portion of his young adulthood and things were already feeling... normal. It was just a job, after all. He got to work, put on something moderately tackier than what he usually wore, then took it off. Nice and slow. He never went too far forward in the beginning of a dance, and you couldn't see faces from the back of the stage. It was easiest that way -- he could pretend he was just doing it for an empty house. Practicing sexy moves for some phantom lover who'd actually want that sort of thing from him. Or rather, practicing for some phantom future lover who'd want that and who Xander wouldn't run screaming from. Whatever, thinking about things would just trip him up -- probably literally. For better or worse, things were normal. Probably had a lot to do with the life he couldn't quite believe he'd left behind in Sunnydale, which was both reassuring and terrifying. Just how well could he adapt? How far had he gone since Jesse... since Jesse? Did the name still hurt as much as it used to? The alarm bells in his head were excellent counterpoint to the bass thump beneath his bare feet -- he had yet to figure out how to sexily remove workboots -- and he cursed to himself. He could feel a round of existential angst coming on and for a fleeting moment he found himself wishing for something Bad-But-Not-Too-Strong to fight, if only for a moment's distraction. And if they oiled up first, the audience would go nuts. So it wasn't *that* much of a surprise to find a delighted-looking Ethan Rayne at the end of his patented Panther Crawl (no one had to know he called it a Panther Crawl), not really. Sure, there was a little shock, but it was mainly a heady mix of terror and embarassment. On the one hand, Ethan might somehow enchant his rhinestone studded jock, thus turning him into XXXander: Rogue Chippendale Wannabe or something. On the other hand, he could always just snap a few Polaroids and plaster Sunnydale with them. Xander couldn't really decide which would be worse, since being XXXander could have its moments and really, this would be just the excuse to never go back and the biggest shock was that he'd never stopped dancing. Panther Crawl to his knees play with his own nipples thrust at the air up again hands in fists get in the strobe light makes you look bigger and wilder -- -- and it was even easier than breathing, really, once you got the hang of it. The other dancers had been surprisingly helpful, especially the aptly named Rock. He'd taken one look at Xander's natural dancing style and told him to do the opposite, which hadn't helped so much as thinking about *other* people who did the opposite. If he had some of Faith's old clothes it probably would've been perfect. Granted, Xander felt a little weird 'peelin' like a woman' -- his boss' words -- but the crowd ate it up with a big greasy spoon. Rock assured him he was more than slinky enough for it. Rock also showed him how to chug like a pro, insisting that if Xander just pretended he was giving a blowjob everything would be fine. Rock was full of helpful advice, really. Sometimes Xander was reasonably sure his life was peppered with one slippery slope after another, which made things a lot easier once you started tumbling down -- -- and slid on his knees back to the front of the stage again, gyrating, offering, demanding and making eye contact with everyone with enough guilt to occasionally peel hungry looks away from his crotch. Hungry. Oh yeah, this was the best part. A crowd full of people looking at him like the freshest, juiciest meat on the block *without* any demonic nudging. And paying for the privilege. Nine Inch Nails in the background now, harsh needy voice entreating a 'precious whore.' Yeah, every dance was a slippery slope, wasn't it? And it was only natural to get hard when you knew that there were at least a dozen men and women right *there* who would suck you off if you just asked. Didn't mean he would do anything about it other than take the money and the looks and yes, the hunger. Who would masturbate while thinking about him? Which one was doing it right now, under the table? -- on his back now, eyes closed against the glare and his own stinging sweat, hips pushing up and up and up and then he's on his belly, sliding himself against the floor, back and forth letting his eyes roll up and his lips fall a little slack... Just one long tease, an extended jerk-off session with all the fantasy he needed right there in front of him, extending bills for the excuse to grope him a little... and Ethan's long fingers were neither more nor less creepily possessive than anyone else's. Ethan didn't bother with eye contact, either. It added something. It wasn't that they were old friends or anything, but the idea that someone who -- technically -- knew him could look at him like this... let Xander play this part... He shook it off. Way too much thought that way, with much bound to be disturbing in some way. God, it shouldn't feel good to have your flesh crawl... Off the stage now -- not Rock's or the others' briskly athletic jog, because the first time he tried that he'd gotten tangled in his pullaway trousers and nearly brained himself -- in the saunter he was quite sure Giles would consider insolent, or possibly even insouciant. Backstage past Stephen the Loa, brush of congratulations, scent of his own sweat *loud* in the closeness of the hall. Freezing away from the lights... he detoured away from the dressing room for the kitchen. No one really minded the dancers washing up a little in the big sinks, since the boss was way too cheap to install a shower. And the watered down Ivory liquid was surprisingly good for his skin. Though the sponges were moderately frightening... His usual wad of paper towels from the bathroom was good enough, and warm clean water felt *good*. Stage, freaky-scary-cold transition of the hallway, followed by cleansing. Yeah, he'd had enough English classes for this. Something vaguely old and religious about it... though not about the hand on his ass. "Jesus, Rock, you gotta be onstage in less than 10 --" "Oh, *I'm* sorry... were you expecting someone else?" Insinuating British boys' school voice at his ear. The Anti-Giles. Damn. "I figured it was too much to hope that you'd just watch the show and go crawl under your rock again." "Well, that *had* been my plan, but I consider myself to be the adaptable sort." Xander snorted to himself. "Of *course* you do. Get your hand off my ass." "Is that all I get? No indignation? No threats to call that neckless genetic marvel you call a bouncer?" "Would it help?" "Probably not." "So what's the point?" And at that the hand was removed, leaving a hallucinatory imprint of heat and the stage. Ethan fetched a heavy sigh. "I was hoping you'd be more entertaining." He wanted to wash off Ethan's touch, but there was something... else about hot soapy water on his ass with an audience. A part of him filed the thought of it away, another part did its best to stop thinking about it by opening Xander's mouth. "I didn't hear you complaining when I had my crotch in your face." God, he could feel the blush in his *ears* -- "Ah, well, that *has* always been one of the better ways to shut me up..." "What *did* you do to the boss, anyway?" "I gave him a pretty picture and he's enjoying it quite vigorously in his office." Breath against the back of his neck. "Would you like a pretty, too?" "Why are you here?" "I told you, for the show." He was starting to feel tired. Bored. Adrenaline crash? "You're headed back to Sunnydale, aren't you?" "The idea had crossed my mind, yes. The last time was so *interesting*..." "Which part? Giles kicking your ass or Buffy kicking your ass?" "Really, do you even need to ask?" "God, you're such a sick fuck --" Soap starting to dry scratchily on his skin. "I never denied it. Have you --" "Don't even think about finishing that question." Xander turned around finally, pushed Ethan back and tried not to notice the appreciative glance down his torso and beyond. Apparently, not *too* deep a crash. "That's not fair, you don't even know what I was going to say!" "Did it involve messy gay sex?" Smirk. "It's touching to see you speculating on my mental processes." Xander shook his head, looked around for... something. He wasn't entirely sure what. A gun or a gag or a baseball bat or some lube or a lit candle or brass knuckles... they would probably all be taken exactly the same way. There was, predictably, no one else in the kitchen. The fried cheese was busily integrating itself with the plates and pans. The drains in the floor were clear.... he might as well waste some water. "Look, if you're going to hex me, kill me, or torture me could you wait until I get this soap off?" "Absolutely." Ethan cheerfully hopped up on a relatively clean counter and leaned back against the rudimentary spice rack. It didn't occur to Xander that he hadn't once even come close to asking Ethan to go until he had the water temperature perfect. Not even any pretty pictures as an excuse. A look back over his shoulder revealed Ethan focused on the way Xander was scratching his belly. His cock hadn't quite begun to peer past his g-string, but he had the feeling that had more to do with how surprisingly well made it was than anything else. Stuffed in like a sausage. One more meat reference to himself and he was going to commit ritual suicide with a dildo. Or something. Shit. He closed his eyes, yanked off the offending bit of leather with the move reserved for the Saturday late show, and began spraying himself down. The room was large, and filled with metal, but that just made the whole thing feel like a locker room. Xander seized on the thought and held it close. Yeah, people would see him in the showers, but no one would really *look*... Much better. "You really ought to scrub a bit to get that soap off, you know. The water pressure from those hand sprays leaves much to be desired, as I'm sure you can feel for yourself." A locker room shower with Ethan perched on the shoulders of some jock, both of them watching Xander critically... Damn. "I don't recall asking for your opinion." "True... A boy your age should really know by now how to ask for what he needs." "What I -- no, I'm not going there. Fuck off, would you?" Sound of feet hitting the floor, steps moving away >from him, a door opening and closing. And then no more voices or steps. Xander wondered if he'd hurt the other man's feelings, then wondered about the state of his sanity, and then simply washed himself as best he could. It wasn't his job to babysit Giles' exes, and he'd call to warn the guys just as soon as he was no longer naked and wet and feeling it with each and every nerve ending. And then back to normal, with the addition of more sexual activity with Rock. Groping was great, more than great, but more would be greater. More. Definitely. Rock had caramel colored skin and too-smooth hands. Always wore gloves when he was lifting. Rock liked to tell jokes with his finger up Xander's ass and make him come laughing... the water came down teasingly soft on his body and for a hard scary little moment he was tempted to just go on like this, getting hotter and hotter until something broke free. Xander tilted his chin to his chest, breathed in once through his nose and gave his cock an experimental stroke. Right there in the middle of the kitchen, still naked, still so fucking wet his skin was doing that silent squeak thing and it felt good enough to do it again but if he could stop himself from a third -- "Ohhh fuck..." Not even *close* to his own voice. Xander opened his eyes and whirled to find Ethan half-leaning against the door, blood-dark cock playing hide and seek in a pumping fist. Another hitching groan and Ethan came while he watched, spunk hitting the floor in four sharp spurts. Xander didn't realize his mouth was wide open until Ethan licked his own lips. Xander snapped his mouth shut and shook his head. Ethan grinned -- leered almost -- and tucked himself away. "Bravo, boy... you're really quite a natural for this line of work..." He opened his mouth as if to say something else, and then simply pulled out a crisply folded fifty and left it on the nearest countertop. And walked out. After a while several snide comments about stamina, dirty old men, and old age in general bubbled up Xander's throat and sat there uneasily as he sprayed away the evidence. It took a while to swallow them back, but he did. Ethan's money spent no differently than anyone else's. end.