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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

Before the Beginning

SUMMER LOVERS
Chapter One

It was quaint even by Smallville standards. The Chamber of Commerce had decided this would be a good year to make Independence Day "An Old-fashioned 4th," and from what Whitney Fordman could see, they'd done a bang-up job. The Farmer's Market/Fairgrounds was filled to overflowing with every 4th of July holiday cliché imaginable. There were pie-eating contests and an ice cream social with real homemade ice cream; a kissing booth; strolling minstrels; an organ-grinder and his monkey; watermelon-seed spitting, hog-calling, and bird-calling contests; not to mention Blue Ribbon judging of canned peaches, jellies, jams, and baked goods in Cake, Pies, and Cookie Divisions. Confections of every imaginable type available for sale, and there were the mandatory three-legged races, pin-the-tail on the donkey, and other games that were so old fashioned Whitney didn't even try to figure out what they might be.

The centerpiece of it all was a turn-of-the-century Chautauqua that featured costumed re-enactors delivering "Oratories and Performances for the Entertainment, Education, and Edification of all Upright Smallvillians." Whitney wasn't sure how the men in their black frock coats and ladies in their corsets and bustles were surviving the heat, but it was quite a sight to see.

The sweet, festive, hometown atmosphere was almost enough to make him glad he was home; if every day of the next six weeks could be as relaxed and entertaining as this, he might enjoy his first extended stay in Smallville since he'd graduated two years ago. Of course, it didn't hurt that he had become a bit of a hometown hero and was being subjected to a great deal of flattering backslapping as he strolled the fairgrounds. Everyone in Smallville followed Kansas State football, so everyone knew that Whitney Fordman would begin his junior year as the Wildcats' starting quarterback again this fall. Everyone knew that sports writers nationwide were comparing him to Joe Montana. Everyone knew they were predicting a superstar career for the athlete they called "movie-star handsome."

Hardly anyone knew that it was all based on a lie, that the boy-next-door All American Jock was very quietly and secretly gay. And absolutely no one knew his biggest secret of all...

Whitney took the Chautauqua program out of his back pocket. It was already fraying from repeated viewings, but he wanted to make sure he didn't miss it.

2 p.m. The Honorable Lionel Luthor Delivers an Oratory of Marc Antony's Speech to the Roman Senate Upon the Death of Julius Caesar, as written by Mr. William Shakespeare.

It was 1:35. There was still plenty of time to navigate the mere 100 yards to the Chautauqua tent, but Whitney wanted a seat front row center, where Lionel couldn't miss seeing him. Aside from the thrill of seeing Lionel Luthor perform and being in his orbit again, even in this crowd, Whitney needed to know if the great man remembered him, recognized him; if there was any glimmer of the naked desire he'd been so sure he'd seen flash in Lionel's eyes the last time they'd met. And the time before that.

It actually took Whitney 10 minutes to navigate those 100 yards because he had to stop four times to be congratulated on the championship season he'd enjoyed last year and answer questions about the Wildcats' offensive strategy for this fall. "Make touchdowns," was Whitney's typical answer when asked for his secrets, and most people thought it was charming and funny. Usually, it allowed him to make a quick escape, and he used it to good effect as he made his way toward the striped canvas tent.

There were 30 or 40 people already under the Chautauqua tent seeking refuge from the sweltering July sun, but the first few rows were entirely vacant. Not wanting to be obvious, Whitney hung around at the rear of the makeshift "hall." The canvas walls of the enormous tent were rolled up on three sides. The fourth side, behind the speakers' platform, was curtained off, creating a small enclosure for the Chautauqua performers.

The fairgrounds was a cacophony of laughter, calliope music, shouts, and children's squeals of delight, but Lionel's booming voice cut through all of that. Heart hammering, Whitney looked around and there he was, striding toward the performer's tent, a retinue that included his fellow costumed speaker the honorable Senator William Grayson and at least three reporters and two photographers struggling to keep up with him. It was an election year, and everyone knew that Grayson was Lionel Luthor's go-to man in Congress. One of them, anyway.

But Lionel eclipsed everyone in his entourage. So vigorous, so energetic, so sexy... Whitney forgot to breathe for a moment as he took in the costumed billionaire in his black frock coat, starched white shirt, string tie, long black hair... He looked like he'd walked out of the pages of the wild west. Not a stuffy, dandified orator, but a handsome, dangerous gunslinger. Doc Holiday or Wild Bill... So beautiful. So sexy.

Something melted inside Whitney as it always did when he saw Lionel Luthor. It centered in his cock, turning him hard and hungry. He swelled uncomfortably, making his jeans way too snug, and was he grateful for the long, loose K State football jersey he'd chosen to wear. It helped hide the fact that Whitney Fordman had a two-year-old hard on for the benefactor who'd changed his life, snatching him from the jaws of a Marine recruitment office and giving him a chance to fulfill his dream of a college degree and gridiron glory and the possibility of a career in Pro football.

Whitney would have gladly gotten down on his knees in tribute to the billionaire — he had, in fact, dreamed of doing so more times than he could count — but gratitude had nothing to do with Whitney's desire to know Lionel Luthor intimately. He'd been in love with the man since the day he'd stormed Lionel's office to thank him for the full academic scholarship that was being funded by LuthorCorp.

For now, Lionel Luthor was eons above him, out of Whitney Fordman's reach, but someday, somehow... Heated fantasies aside, Whitney had no idea how it would happen, but someday he was going to be Lionel Luthor's lover. He would make it happen. He had to. It just felt too...right not to become a reality.

Lionel bounded up the stairs to the stage and disappeared into the speakers' tent. His entourage tried to join him, but apparently there wasn't enough room, and several were left milling around on the stage, wondering what to do with themselves.

Whitney had the same problem. It was only 20 minutes until Lionel's presentation — not nearly enough time to find someplace private where he could do something constructive about the hard ridge straining against his jeans. Somehow, he'd have to make it through the performance and the rest of the day and save jacking off for tonight when he could unleash his imagination and let his beautiful, gunslinger someday-lover do amazing things to his cock.

"Well, if it isn't the jockstrap!"

"Chloe! A little respect for our main man here!"

A hearty slap on the back nearly knocked Whitney over and he turned to find an enthusiastic Pete Ross and glacially cool Chloe Sullivan.

"This is the man who took the Wildcats all the way!" Pete said enthusiastically, pounding Whitney's shoulder now that his back was no longer available. Whitney took it gracefully from the two high schoolers who were a little more than acquaintances, but not quite friends.

"Well, if it isn't Porthos and Athos. Where's Aramis?" Whitney said with a friendly smile and half an eye on the still-empty front rows of seats.

"Huh?"

Chloe poked Pete with an elbow. "The three musketeers, doofus. It was a literary reference." She nodded somewhat approvingly at Whitney. "Not bad, jockstrap. Not half bad."

"You'd be amazed what college can do for you, Chloe. I actually read a whole series of books by this really great author. You should try him sometime."

"Oh yeah? Who?"

Whitney furrowed his brow in pretense of deep thought. "Ummm.... Notes, was his name. Cliff Notes."

Chloe laughed. "Okay. Okay. I deserved that."

Whitney smiled at her. "Yes, you did. How's it going? It's your senior year coming up, right?"

"Right."

"So who's Aramis?" Pete was still stuck on the Three Musketeer reference.

As if rehearsed, Chloe and Whitney responded unison; unfortunately, they had different answers.

Chloe said, "Lana" as Whitney said, "Clark."

Pete said, "Huh?"

Chloe looked at Whitney in surprise that quickly turned to chagrin. "Sorry, Whitney. I just figured--"

The pity in her expression made Whitney feel like a first-class heel. Lana had ended their relationship in the late fall of Whitney's freshman year at K State after she finally acknowledged that she had feelings for someone else. Being the Dump-ee, Whitney had gotten all the sympathy; something he didn't deserve since he'd been dating the virginal Lana to cover up the fact that he was gay.

Still, he knew how to play the Game of Subterfuge like a pro. "It's okay Chloe. I stopped contemplating slitting my wrists over Lana a long time ago. But you two are usually sleuthing with Clark, so I thought..."

Whitney noted that Pete had suddenly turned sullen. "Yeah, well...Clark's not having a great summer."

"He's got a job," Chloe said quickly, tossing Pete a dirty look that told Whitney something wasn't being said.

"Must be a really crappy job if it's keeping him from celebrating the 4th of July," Whitney commented mildly, fishing without anything to use as bait and wondering why he cared. It was common knowledge that Lana had dumped the absent Whitney for an in-the-flesh Clark Kent. By Christmas of that year, they'd been a couple, and Smallville would have been stunned to learn that Whitney had spent that entire holiday break watching them hold hands, kiss chastely, stare at each other adoringly, and in general making Whitney insanely jealous. Of Lana. Fortunately, his infatuation with Clark had ended ages ago. One unrequited sexual fantasy was about all Whitney could handle, and Clark wasn't it.

"He's working at the Amanetti Stables. Taking care of the horses this summer," Chloe told him.

That didn't sound like slave labor to Whitney. More like his idea of heaven. "Really? I was thinking about going out there this week. Throw myself on Mr. Amanetti's mercy and see if he'll let me ride Knute or Molly. Or Knute and Molly." When Whitney's father had fallen ill and money had become tight, Jack Fordman had forced his son to sell the family's horses. There were days that Whitney grieved for that loss almost as deeply as he still grieved for his father. Knute was a big black gelding that had been as much a part of Whitney as an arm or a leg.

"The Amanetti's are spending the summer in Italy, getting back to their roots," Pete informed him. "But I'm sure Clark would let you ride."

"I'll check it out," Whitney said, still wondering about the unspoken undercurrent he'd felt. "Listen, guys, the seats are starting to fill up and I want to catch--"

"Oh, man, don't tell me you're going to listen to the speechifying!" Pete exclaimed. "I was hoping you'd tell me about that last drive in the Rose Bowl. That was awesome."

"Maybe later, Pete," Whitney said cordially. "I'll be home for six weeks before training camp starts. We'll catch a brew some afternoon and I'll tell you a whole bunch of lies."

"Cool, man."

"Now, wait a minute, wait a minute," Chloe interjected. "I actually flagged you down with a mission. I need a favor, Whitney."

Whitney glanced at the rapidly filling front rows. "What? Can it--"

"I've got a cousin who's transferring from Met U to Kansas State this fall. One semester only, to take course in the School of Journalism from a visiting writer," Chloe told him. "She's not going to know anyone, and I thought maybe you could hook up with her. Show her around."

The seats were going fast. "Sure, Chloe. Be glad to."

"Her name is Lois Lane. You're gonna love her."

"I'm sure I will. Listen, I don't want to be rude, but I'm not going to get a seat if I don't go on down. As it is, the only thing left is in the front row."

"Can you blame them? Who'd want to be that close to Lionel Luthor?"

The sarcastic comment went through Whitney like a crack of lightening and before he knew it he was saying, "Actually, I would, Pete. If it hadn't been for Mr. Luthor my Mom might be visiting me at Arlington Cemetery like Troy Huckstep's Mom. I'm sure Afghanistan would have been a real picnic. Catch you guys later."

He turned and walked away, barely catching Pete's muttered, "Oh shit. Me and my big mouth. There goes the Rose Bowl story."

Whitney made a mental note to find Pete later and give him all the details about that amazing game. The Rosses weren't the only family that had been adversely affected by some of LuthorCorps dealings in Smallville, but there were two sides to every story. Until Whitney knew Lionel's he wasn't going to believe that he was the evil monster some people wanted to believe he was.

He found a seat front row center, right where he wanted to be, and waited to be enthralled.

Clark stopped dead still in the middle of the barn and looked for the next chore. He'd been working since sun up, doing his farm chores, most of his dad's chores, and his full routine at the Amanetti Stables. He'd done everything at more-or-less "regular" speed to make the work last, but it hadn't. There was literally no more work to be done on the Kent farm and Clark wasn't sure what he was going to do. He had to have work. He wasn't going to survive if he didn't have something to focus on, something occupy his brain and keep it from going places that were so dark and lonely that the vacuum of emptiness threatened to crush him.

"Clark? Clark?"

He turned to his Mom and wondered how long she'd been trying to get his attention. Sometimes it felt as though he was viewing the world through mud--nothing was sharp or clear. Except the pain.

"Sorry, Mom. I finished moving those feed sacks down from the loft. What do you need me to do now?"

Martha put a gentle hand on her son's arm. "I need you stop and enjoy the holiday, honey."

"Holiday?"

"The 4th of July. You know. Independence Day? Firecrackers, fireworks? Pie eating contests? Your father and I are almost ready to leave for the fairgrounds. You need to jump in the shower and get ready."

Clark vaguely remembered hearing something about a special celebration in Smallville, but it didn't have anything to do with him. In the last few weeks, Smallville had turned on him. He was a freak. A pariah. People whispered behind their hands. And worse.

Funny. Clark had always assumed that when the time came for the world to reject him because he was a freak it would be after someone caught him using his superspeed or his strength. It had never occurred to him that facing up to the truth about his sexuality and falling in love would be the thing that made him an outcast. When he walked down the streets of Smallville, his super-hearing caught all the slurs... Queer.. Fag... Homo... Butt Monkey..., and his particular favorite: Lex Luthor's Whoreboy.

He'd ignored them when they started. He'd been afraid his parents would hear and be hurt, but nothing else had mattered because he'd had Lex and that was worth any kind of torment. When Lex had been here, Clark hadn't felt ashamed or embarrassed; being with Lex had been so right that anyone who thought it was wrong was just plain crazy.

But Lex was gone now. When the whispered rumors became back porch gossip, Lex had decided it was time to return to Metropolis. Lex had reasoned that once he was gone, the gossip would abate. Clark's life would return to normal. It was entirely for Clark's good that he was leaving, Lex had said.

For his part, Clark was having a very hard time finding anything good about wanting to curl into a ball and die. Abandonment had turned something bright, white, and precious into something dirty and shameful. Anger, love, loneliness, bitterness, fear, guilt... Clark had more emotions roiling inside him than he could possibly handle, so he'd stopped trying. In the three weeks since Lex had deserted him, he'd sealed a lid onto the cauldron and was making a superhuman effort to feel nothing except a profound urgency to complete his next chore.

Maybe he could take another partime job. Or go back to the Amanetti's. They had a fence that could use a new coat of whitewash. And that storm last month had blown a few shingles off the stable roof.

"Clark, sweetie..."

He looked at his mother again and realized that he must have zoned out. She looked so sad. And disappointed. Not in him, but in her inability to ease his pain. Clark wished he could accommodate her and develop some kind of super power that would make all the ugliness go away.

"What, Mom?"

"Honey, come to the fairgrounds with us. It'll be fun."

Clark felt a little sliver of incredulity slice a wedge in the seal on the cauldron. "Fun? You gotta be kidding. I'm not going to town, Mom."

"But Clark--"

"Do you want a repeat of what happened last time?"

"No, but--"

"Maybe they could add me to the fun and games. Make a booth out of me. Play Dunk the Fairy, maybe? Or Beat the Crap Out of the Queer."

"Clark--"

"You want me to send somebody else to the hospital?" he asked hotly.

"That wasn't your fault," Martha said insistently. "There were four of them!"

"But the fucking queer should have turned the other che--"

"That's enough young man!" Jonathan's voice reverberated through the rafters, shocking Clark to silence. Clark and Martha both whirled toward the tractor entrance to the barn. "Don't you ever talk to your mother like that again. Apologize!"

Clark dropped his head and reined in his emotions, fighting tears because if he ever let them go, they'd never stop. "Sorry, Mom."

Jonathan moved into the shadowed interior of the barn and dropped a hand on his son's shoulder. "And don't you ever talk about yourself like that either," he said in a voice full of emotions that Clark didn't want to acknowledge.

"I--" He tried to look at his father, but couldn't. The tears were there again and he had to escape. "I'm sorry. I'll try to come to the fairgrounds tonight for the fireworks. Maybe. You two go and have fun."

He turned and was gone in the blink of an eye.

"Oh, Jonathan." Martha didn't cry often, but seeing her baby in that much pain was just too much. She turned into her husband's arms, knowing instinctively they would be there for her, and they were.

"I know, Martha. I know. If I could get my hands on Lex Luthor, I'd--"

"Jonathan, this isn't Lex's fault," she said without raising her head from the comfort of his chest. "A person's sexuality isn't a choice and it's not contagious."

"But Lex was an adult--"

"And Clark is a young man who fell in love."

"Lex seduced a child."

"Clark was seventeen when it started." Martha pulled out of his embrace. "I don't want to have this argument again, Jonathan. Its pointless and it's irrelevant. Clark is in agony because he thinks he's lost the love of his life. But he can't mourn it like any normal lost love because a narrow, hateful vocal minority seem to think he should be branded with a scarlet letter because the person he loves happens to be another man. It's just not right. He's had to live with so many secrets--"

"I know, Martha. He'll come through this. He's strong."

Martha looked at the door where her son had disappeared. "I hope so, Jonathan. But this isn't about strength. It's about the heart, and Clark's is broken."

Fourth of July fireworks set the sky ablaze with webs of colored light, but from this distance, the noise was more crackle-and-pop than boom-and-sizzle. Whitney had been invited to at least three tailgate parties on the fairgrounds, but at this very moment he didn't much care for the people he'd have to associate with so he was watching the fireworks from the bed of his pickup on the dirt road that serviced John Lorimer's corn fields. Long legs stretched out on a blanket, his back resting comfortably against the cab of the truck, he was alone with his thoughts and an iced six-pack of beer in the little red cooler beside him.

Those thoughts, predictably, were about Lionel Luthor and his amazing performance this afternoon, but concerns about Clark Kent crept in, too. It hadn't taken Whitney long today to learn why Chloe and Pete had acted so oddly when he'd mentioned Clark. This town wasn't called Smallville for nothing. After Lionel's amazing Chautauqua performance, Whitney had loitered at some carnival booths near the performer's tent, trying not to be obvious, but hoping to catch a word with Lionel. What he'd caught instead was the attention of a group of his former Smallville High team mates.

They'd gone through the usual Jock Ritual and Rose Bowl Interrogation, and just out of politeness, Whitney had asked Butch Walthrop how he managed to break his arm in the off season.

Whitney had never liked Walthrop. He'd made the varsity team as a freshman because he was a tank--280 pounds on a 6' frame. But he was also dumber than a box of rocks and as homophobic as they made them in The Great State of Kansas. Whitney had played with him for two years and had grown to hate him for his unending supply of malevolent queer jokes.

That's why he greeted the news with a mixture of shock and satisfaction when all the boys laughed and one of them hooted, "He got knocked on his ass by a fuckin' fairy! Tossed him like a twig."

Butch glared at them belligerently."He caught me when I wasn't lookin'!"

"Good thing your back wasn't turned!" one of the boys shouted. "Kent might-a mistaken your ass for Lex Luthor's."

Whitney was stunned. "Clark Kent?"

"Yeah. You didn't know?" Jordan Ingram asked. "Queer as a three dollar bill. He was fucking that faggot Lex Luthor until old baldy dumped him last month and went home to Metropolis."

"Clark?" The incredulity just wouldn't quit. The Clark Kent who'd lusted after Lana Lang, tagged after her like a puppy dog, got tongue-tied and tripped over his own feet every time he saw her... Clark Kent, who had fueled some of Whitney's most potent Senior year masturbatory fantasies, was gay?

The very idea was insane, and Whitney couldn't keep himself from saying so. "You guys are fucking nuts."

"Hey, I'm tellin' you, Whit--oof" Someone apparently remembered that Lana had dumped macho Jock Hero Whitney Fordman for Clark Kent and poked Jordan in the ribs to shut him up.

"What are you telling me?" Whitney challenged. "Which one of you actually saw Kent and Luthor doing the nasty?"

"Well..." Put on the spot, all the boys shuffled uncomfortable. "Everybody just knows," one of them finally said.

Whitney shook his head. "Nobody knows dick," he said derisively. "Somebody started a rumor and you boneheads bought it."

"But the whole town--"

"Sorry guys. You're never going to convince me that there's a fairy on this planet who could take Butch in a fight that was even half-way fair."

"Yeah!" Butch shouted, pumped by Whitney's praise. Knowing he'd complimented Butch and bumped him up a notch in his peers' esteem made Whitney physically ill, but just five minutes in the company of these assholes had given him a really good idea of why Chloe and Pete didn't expect Clark to come to the celebration. It didn't matter to Whitney whether the rumors were true. Clark had already been crucified once and that was entirely Whitney's fault.

Maybe he'd go see him tomorrow at the Stables, since he'd been wanting to go out that way, anyway. If these assholes were any indication, Clark could probably use a friend about now.

That decision made, Whitney had extricated himself from his former teammates just in time to see the LuthorCorp helicopter take off. He'd missed the opportunity to speak with Lionel personally. He'd carried his disappointment with him for the rest of the day, through the box social that he shared with his mom, and the square dance that he'd been happy to skip when Ruth Fordman had decided she was ready to go home. Whitney had taken her, packed up the cooler, and sought refuge in Farmer Lorimer's field.

Fireworks crackled in the distance. Whitney reached into the cooler, popped open a another bottle, and took a long pull. The frosty beer and cold glass on his lips sent his mind whirling, weaving a web around Lionel's amazing performance this afternoon. The memory of it washed over him like cool rain on a hot summer day. Lionel had been dynamic, spellbinding... From the front row, Whitney had been convinced that Lionel was performing only for him, that the intensity, the brilliance was only for him. For a small fraction of the afternoon, the world had simply ceased to exist and Lionel had been all Whitney's...bigger than life and twice as sexy.

His deep, lyrical voice; those blazing blue eyes... the memory returned the blood to Whitney's cock, forcing him to drop a hand to his denim-clad crotch. His thumb rubbed the threadbare area, increasing his arousal, and breath hitched in his throat as his cock tried to stretch to full length. He had promised this to himself earlier, that he would go to the place that voice and the incredible man behind it sent him every time.

Whitney dropped the empty bottle next to the cooler and let his hand rub his confined cock. It was enough for only a very short time. His cock wanted more. He popped the top button and the slow rasp of the zipper freed it from its bonds. The heat of the day had not yet abated, and Whitney stripped out of his jersey, the sweaty fabric sticking in all the right areas. Eyes closed, head thrown back, a hand reached into his boxers, caressing the sensitive flesh.

"Yes..." Fingers slid along its length.

"Oh...please...more."

That voice surrounded him. "Is that all you desire?"

His moan was an answer. The tip of his cock glistened with its own dew, swirled around the crown, the heat taking him to places he wanted to go. "More, please Lionel...more."

His hips bucked up, the grip tightened, the heat became too intense to bear, a swipe across the head forced a loud whimper from his throat. "AH!"

"Yes! Romans...the victor of Manhatten, the hero of the state..." The voice, the praise, that tongue..."FUCK!"

An explosion of red and silver shells in the air rivaled the eruption in the bed of the truck.

Panting, returning to reality, Whitney looked down...saw the mess on his hands, chest, and boxers. The explosive release was welcome.

The profound disappointment and the loneliness that followed, was not. "Lionel..."

Chapter Posted 12/09/02
The Usual Disclaimers Apply