Lexington Black by Savannah Smythe

are heir to
vast wealth. If you're a handsome fucker like me, it's even worse.
An ugly man will know that their potential partner is likely to be
more about the money than the love, but a good-looking bastard like
myself will never really be sure. My therapist says I have trust
issues. Well, hold the fucking front page, mister.
    Okay, so here's the deal. In the mirror I see
someone 6'4" and well-built, (thanks Irish Dad) with pale blue,
almost grey eyes and sharp cheekbones in a long, oval face, topped
with straight black hair ( ciao , Italian mom.) They also
imbued me with a gigantic sense of self-worth. When I asked why I
didn't have any brothers and sisters, my mother told me that
perfection could not be bettered, and for years I believed her.
    What an arrogant asshole I was, until
Melville School cut me down to size.
    After I came out of the closet, I had no
patience with people who hid their true nature. I valued honesty
above everything else. The wealthier you are the more it counts. I
can't understand celebrities who are afraid of ruining their
careers by coming out. Ditto action movie stars. Everything they
are afraid of is bullshit. Once I informed my father and seen his
world come crashing down around his feet, I made no attempt to hide
my sexual proclivities. After all, at the time I thought my
inheritance was dead in the water anyway.
    I work by day in my office on Madison Avenue,
overseeing the staff of Black Tower Investments, Inc., acting as a
benign, and sometimes not so benign, presence that people can come
to if they need help. I have a vast, glass-lined office, in which I
break all the rules and smoke Cuban cigars when the mood takes me.
There is Grand Marnier VSOP on an antique card table that was sent
over from England soon after I returned home when I was eighteen.
As the years go by, I know I am morphing into the man who has
haunted my thoughts for years. I know it, but I don't want to stop
it.
    And now I cannot stop thinking about Robin,
his beloved middle son.
    Robin Martyn. Just rolling his name around my
tongue makes me hard. Crude, but it's true. As soon as I saw his
beautiful face, I knew I had to have him.
    I was drawn to him whilst he was polishing
the white Audi, giving the car loving, almost sensual attention. I
was transfixed by the way his muscles moved under the white cotton
shirt, his brown wavy hair and long, lean limbs. Of course, I
didn't know who he was then. My eye had just been caught by an
attractive man caressing the hood of a beautiful car. I watched him
under the pretence of admiring the vehicle, but when I saw his face
fully for the first time, the breath was snatched from my body. I
knew that face almost as intimately as my own.
    At that moment, my feelings on honesty
changed. I would have to lie like the devil if I wanted that man in
my bed.
     
     
    ******
     
    When I was twelve, my mother got it into her
head that the only decent education I would get would be in
England. No-one considered asking me what I thought of the matter.
I do remember protesting wildly, and sobbing into my pillow on the
first night at school whilst the other boys whipped me with socks
to get me to shut up. It took a year for the torment to stop, and
it only did because I grew about a foot in that time and learned
how to tackle.
    At the age of fourteen I became friends with
two boys who had been boarding at the school since they were six
years old. For all that time, they had been inseparable, and now
they were in senior school, their devotion to each other had taken
on a different dimension. Their names were Peter Wyngarth-Jones and
Gavin Farquar, but we knew them collectively as "The Queens" due to
their sarcastic, effected speech and camp mannerisms. They were
constantly bitching about other people, as well as each other, and
were so incredibly intelligent that they could have run the
country. Because of their academic prowess and vicious tongues,
they were left alone, which made everyone's life