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Freddie Trumper is not a fag. I mean, make no fucking mistake, he's really not, sordid rumors and press lies aside. He's got a fucking girlfriend and he's not a faggot.
He's just drunk.
Drunk doesn't count, and chess players don't count if Florence can get them to shut up afterwards, and whores sure as hell don't count (not that he does that), but especially drunk doesn't count.
The cute older guy sitting a few stools down the bar actually winks at him, like Freddie would be interested.
"Fuck you," Freddie says.
That's clearly the wrong thing to say, because the guy gets up and sits next to Freddie. "What do you drink?" His accent is thick, but Freddie's too drunk to identify it.
"Drop dead," Freddie says.
The man laughs. "You can have what I'm having, then." He turns to the bartender and the low light catches a few of his gray hairs. "White Russian." He smirks.
Freddie stifles a laugh. "What, can't drink your vodka straight?"
"I won't tell if you won't," the man says. His smile is all teeth. "What's your name?"
"Bobby," Freddie says automatically, 'cause that's what he always says. If they're chess people, they already know him, and if they're not, they don't get the joke and it's fine.
The corner of the man's mouth twitches. "Bobby," he says. "All right. You might as well call me Sasha."
"That's a girl's name," Freddie shoots back, still on automatic.
"Alexander, then."
"I'm not a queer," Freddie clarifies.
"I have a hotel room near here," Alexander says.
*
"Oh, God, fucking Jesus Christ, you're good," Freddie moans.
Alexander looks amused. He props himself up on his elbow and regards the room, looking everywhere but at Freddie. "Sucking dick is a talent every man should have, Bobby." When he says sucking dick, his accent fades sharply.
"So get back to it, would ya?" Freddie snaps, pissed off beyond believe at this suave asshole. They're not usually like this, the guys he picks up in bars (drunk doesn't count).
"Just a moment." Alexander moves to the side of the bed, discarding his jacket, shirt, and suspenders. Something hits the floor with a clunk.
"Hey," Freddie says, suddenly on-guard, "Are you packing?"
Alexander turns, frowning as though he's not sure what Freddie means. "Am I--? Ah. No. Of course not." He smiles. "You are extremely paranoid, my friend."
"I don't usually fuck foreigners," Freddie says. "Now, suck my dick."
Alexander gives him an unreadable look. "Of course."
His mouth is hot and wet and he's very, very good. Freddie arches his back, catching the sheets in his fists. "C'mon, that's it," he pants. Making a lot of noise doesn't mean shit when you're not gonna see the other guy again.
Alexander holds Freddie's hips down, the pressure from his fingers almost enough to bruise. He pulls off for a second to suck Freddie's balls, the hot rasp of his tongue jolting Freddie into another shout.
Freddie grabs Alexander's head and guides his mouth back to Freddie's cock, just wanting to get this done, just wanting to get out. "C'mon, take it," he mutters.
Alexander obliges, taking Freddie's entire length into his mouth like some sort of goddamn professional.
His nails bite into Freddie's hips, and then Freddie's coming, grabbing Alexander's hair before he can stop himself.
Alexander doesn't even choke a little when he swallows.
It actually takes Freddie a second to recover, which is rare, given his track record for getting the hell out. Then he says, "I'm not gonna do that for you, y'know."
Alexander's mouth twists. "I thought not. Still. I appreciate your interest." Every time he says something, it sounds as though he means something else.
Freddie pulls his pants up and waves vaguely. "So, uh, yeah, be seeing you." He doesn't know why he bothers with the lie.
Alexander laughs and picks up his jacket. "Quite."