It was next to the Chrysler building, one brisk winter evening, that Broderick first noticed the pale young beauty with the piercing blue eyes, jet black hair, and muscular physique well displayed, even under the brocade coat.
“The movie lacked the intense mood of the book, and I’d have reversed the casting for Brad Pitt and Tom Cruise,” Michael said. They’d found a seat after a wrinkled old prune of a hausfrau had gotten off at Fourth Avenue, and Michael launched into critique of the movie. And the hunky actors.
All while Broderick responded to Michael’s review of Neil Jordan’s film, with “how interesting” and “I didn’t realize that” remarks, Broderick was focused on the black-haired gentleman staring at him. And Broderick stared back, feeling the familiar excitement that came with the allure and seduction, the fantasy of just what would happen between them. When the brocade coat came off and Broderick saw the man’s milky smooth skin, the contours of his muscles, and those eyes ... those eyes ... anything could happen.
“Broderick, you’re not listening to a word I’ve said,” Michael said. “What’s with you tonight?”
“Don’t look now, Michael,” Broderick replied, deciding he could confide in him, “but there’s a young man on the other side –“
“That one,” Michael said, laughing. “He’s been eyeing me ever since we came out of the theater. Boy, what I’d like to do with him when I take him home –“
“I saw him first.”
“No, he’s mine.”
“No, he wants me.”
“What if we share him?”
“A three-way? That would be gross.”
The piercing eyes never left Broderick’s face. Broderick was sure the man was for him.
No comments:
Post a Comment