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The Litney Casting Couch

Read Lionel's Journal

SUMMER LOVERS -
• Book Cover
• Chapter One

• Epilogue, for MIT Challenge

DADDY LONGLEGS
• Chapter One
• Chapter Two
• Chapter Three
• Chapter Four
• Chapter Five
• Chapter Six
• Chapter Seven
• Chapter Eight
• Chapter Nine
• Chapter Ten
• Chapter Eleven

THE RING -
• Charade
•Monday Night Quarterback
•New Man in Town
•With Charity for None
• Masque and Mirrors
• The Bachelor Auction
• Giving Thanks

THE RING COVER ART
• "New Man in Town" Calvin Klein Ad #1
• "New Man" CK Ad #2

• Duplicity

WARNING: NC-17 Slash Fiction

It's never a good idea to put anything on paper that you would be afraid to have someone else read. Journals have a way of jumping up and biting you in the ass. Prophetic words. So why am I setting pen to paper?

I have words I can't say. Thoughts I can't express. I have taken a lover half my age, younger even than my eldest son. I refuse to label it mid-life crisis, though the world would surely do so and laugh at Lionel's Folly. But who could look at that face, that body, that glorious cock, and blame me for what I have done? Who could bask in the light of adoration in those magnificent blue eyes and turn away the Fountain of Youth?

I lied to him today. Without question, not the first time, nor will it be the last, but it would not do to have him know the lengths I went to or the price I paid to engineer a logical excuse to be with him at his Commencement. He asked if I engineered my speaking engagement at his Commencement. I scoffed and told him not to be foolish.

I refuse to feel guilty.

Today I threw him out. He got too close. Too intimate. Asked for too much. They always do, and thus this was inevitable. Why, then, am I trembling with the need to call him back, invite him once again into my bed. My home. My life.

He asks too much and I find I am too compelled to give him what he wants. That is not like me. Neither is wanting him.

It is finished. It must be.

I went there again today, to the Coliseum, drawn like a masochist to the pain of a lash or salt in a wound.

What? Do I think if I see him often enough and pretend he is nothing he will become nothing? That the wanting will end, the need will abate? That I will sleep at night without thinking of the pleasure of watching his face as he studies his next move and the one after that, absently fingering one of my pawns? That I will forget the sound of his voice raised in lively debate as he tries to impress me with the depth of his understanding of Scipio's conquest of Carthage?

I am cursed with perfect recall. I have forgotten nothing, and seeing him every day at practice does nothing but strengthen my skills as an actor. My determination to let him go is matched only by my desperation to get him back.

But I do not feel desperation. It is not allowed.

I need a drink.

His fast is ending. Mourning has come to an end. This weekend he will take another lover, one who is by all accounts is as young and beautiful as he.

The thought of him with someone else is nearly unbearable. Is unbearable.

Whatever it takes.

I have taken possession of the property that temporarily escaped my grasp. Oddly, I feel no shame for the price I paid to reacquire what was mine all along. Nor do I feel as though I have made myself vulnerable, though logic tells me that must be the case. The pleasure was enormous and could become as addictive as my beautiful young lover. So very young.

What will it take, now, to keep him?

It would be so easy to give him everything he wants. But what he wants is not what he needs. Nor what I need. My need is... is... is apparently too complex for even these private pages. He wants me to say I miss him. Why can't I? Because missing him is weak, and is therefore a thing to be abjured. Does refusing to give voice to a fact make the fact disappear?

3:55 pm

This afternoon he asked if I am nervous and laughed, quite fittingly, at my denial. Tonight I play host to a fierce competitor and 30 million citizens of the world. Not a unique situation, but the first time I have pinned my club's fortunes so publically on the shoulders of one man. And it goes without saying, the first time a man on my field has also been the lover in my bed.

If Whitney is valiant, the decisions I have made in his regard will be hailed as far-sighted and daring. If he fails, I will be the goat.

Oddly, of all the thoughts that press on my mind, the one that concerns me most is how I will embrace and comfort my lover should he fail. I do not suffer loss easily. Should he fail, he will take the loss on his shoulders and despise himself most for having disappointed me. I know this and as his lover, must be ready to ease the pain of his defeat. But I am not a nurturing man. My own son would tell you that I have never praised failure nor coddled weakness. I am not sure how I will embrace my lover if he fails.

12:25 am

He has gone out with his friends to celebrate our victory. Just as my meeting with the Mayor was a responsibility that had to be addressed, so is it Whitney's responsibility to build an image for himself as "one of the boys." That image -- how he is perceived by his team mates, the sports media, the fans, and the world at large will be worth millions to the Sharks' franchise over the life of Whitney's career. Considering the lengths I am going to to protect Whitney and maintain the privacy of our... relationship, I understand his need to have a few drinks with his teammates after the game.

But I want him here. Now.

He was magnificent tonight.

 

Last Entry Posted 1/10/03
The Usual Disclaimers Apply