Facade

“He’s one of those men with a woman’s skin. Soft, satiny, and hairless. I bet he gets hard when you touch his nipples and has a small, tight ass.”
    Jonas had swallowed, equally turned on and creeped out by how closely Clay had described his lover. “Who says he’s even gay?
    All those fashion designers are flamboyant.”
    “Oh, this guy is gay, definitely. He’s queerer than you and I together, trust me,” Clay had quipped.
    “I heard he had a wife,” Jonas had chuckled along, silently glad the tabloid pictures had obviously eluded Clay.
    “No bloody way! That guy likes it up the ass, I tell you.” Jonas hadn’t reacted to Clay’s insolence.
    Clay’s sexual fantasy regarding Nicky was a simple one. Clay had whispered it in Jonas’s ear while he was fucking the older man in the shower. He wanted to share the designer with Jonas, the two of them fucking the young man together until he begged for release.
    Jonas had smiled. He was more than aware of what Nicky’s fantasies were and saw a curious match in the two men’s desires.
    He’d have to ask his lover first, though.
    Nicky had been as eager as a puppy and that hadn’t surprised Jonas. Clay’s reputation preceded him, after all. Getting the two men on the same continent was another matter, though. Eventually it was Tanna who’d succeeded. She had booked Nicky a runway show in 206
    Zahra
    Owens
    Buenos Aires during the same week that there was a World Conference on Plastic Surgery in the Argentinean city.
    Jonas had briefed Nicky carefully. “As far as he’s concerned, you are one of my clients.”
    “Does this mean he’s going to shag you before you bring him to the show?” Nicky had asked that morning. His face displayed an amused smirk.
    “If he wants to, tough luck. I’ll tell him he has to save his strength for you.”
    “Will he listen?” Nicky had clearly been amused by the idea of the insatiable Clay.
    Jonas had kissed him firmly. “He better, if he wants a piece of your ass!”
    “So I’m your client?”
    “Yes, you are. And what we’re about to do to you is your biggest fantasy as well as Clay’s,” Jonas had answered.
    “Biggest? You can say that again!” Nicky had snorted. He moved closer to his lover and nudged him. “I’m going to enjoy both of you.”
    “I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you,” Jonas whispered tenderly.
    “I’ll make sure he doesn’t hurt you either,” Nicky replied, but Jonas could tell his lover wasn’t nearly as serious about it as he was.
    “I bet you’ll make a bundle from this little three-way. Not to mention, I’m sure you’ll enjoy it too. Now I need to go, fame in Argentina awaits me!”
    Jonas smiled widely as he watched Nicky flounce his way out the door.

    CLAY and Jonas had only ever gone to sporting events together, so Jonas was pleasantly surprised at seeing Clay’s wide grin when they walked into the room where the fashion show was going to be held.

    Façade
    207
    The large room was decorated with browns and black, shiny surfaces interweaving with matte rawhides, and the lighting was subdued. Most of the other visitors were already seated, and the men squeezed their way through elegant society ladies and their well-to-do spouses toward their front row seats.
    The show started with the women in frilly skirts, checkered shirts, body warmers, and cowboy boots. The girls in the first group were riding wooden stick horses, but the second group were riding butch, bare-chested men in tight jeans and wearing bridles.
    As usual, the whole show was meticulously choreographed.
    Jonas had seen Craig, Nicky’s choreographer, ordering the models around earlier and many times before. Despite the fact Craig was the original screaming queen, Jonas had yet to meet a model who messed with him. For a moment, he wanted to share this with Clay and then remembered he wasn’t supposed to know things like that.
    Seeing Clay’s enthralled look and wide smile told him small talk wasn’t really necessary. The man was as captivated by the models showing a variety of day and evening suits and leisure wear as he was at a Lakers game, only without the cheering.
    The finale was spectacular as usual. The women walked out slowly in long, straight evening gowns made of smooth black leather. The skirts were all virtually the same but the tops were all different, from tight and form-fitting to mere strips of leather covering only the necessary areas. As they spread out over the catwalk,