vanillafluffy: (Stan smile)
[personal profile] vanillafluffy

The Donor

Political campaigns always need money, and TJ knows that the donor he’s meeting with has promised to give as much as the law allows. Under one condition, namely that TJ be the one he hands the check to. Doug isn’t above taking advantage of his brother’s status as Gay Bachelor of the Year—TJ doesn’t want to know who came up with that one, although he’s mildly curious about who the competition was—and the donor is supposed to be a big deal in the local GLBT scene.

He winds up at a modern house on the side of a wooded mountain—modern by way of 1977—and “My friends call me Larry!” greets TJ warmly. He’s fifty-ish, silver-shot dark hair, dimple when he smiles—TJ thinks if he was into daddy bears, he’d be in luck. He’s not though—he has enough daddy issues in real life without dragging them into the bedroom.

Larry is cordial to the point of what-did-I-let-myself-get-talked-into?. He holds the handshake a little too long, stands oh-so-close and stares into TJ’s eyes with a look meant to be seductive. The room TJ’s invited into is a swinger’s paradise—in addition to an amazing view and lavish bar, it has a gigantic stone fireplace and a conversation pit.

He’s hurt that TJ won’t drink with him—clearly he’s already started happy hour—but TJ’s sobriety is his business, and he has no desire to sacrifice it to this guy, no matter how much money he’s willing to donate. There was a time when he might have had “just one” to keep the guy company, even times when he might have gone to bed with him, his type or not, just because it felt good for a while.

Celibacy for the duration of the campaign is his platform; too many star-fuckers wanting selfies—and all he needs is for a pic of his junk to go viral. And it’s too tempting, in the heat of passion to say what the hell, a line or two won’t really hurt… he knows that particular mistake from prior experience.

Larry’s checkbook is right there on the bar, but he’s making no move to cough up the contribution he’s promised…does he think sexual favors come with the receipt, no pun intended? While TJ doesn’t think Doug would literally pimp him to finance the campaign, Larry certainly seems to expect a good time.

On the other hand, Campaign HQ expects him to bring back a check and not cause hard feelings with a major donor. Damn, another double entendre. Celibacy is not his friend. What with a series of hotel rooms and switching time zones, god knows he has enough trouble sleeping even without horniness.

Something occurs to him then, and he surreptitiously checks his trousers pocket. Yes, the vial is there…maybe he can manage to live up to everyone’s expectations after all.

“Tell me, Larry, are you familiar with…Cottontail?”

“Never heard of it, unless you’re talking about bunny rabbits. Plenty of those in the woods.” He gestures to the scenic panorama displayed out the back window.

TJ unleashes his best here-comes-trouble smile and focuses it at Larry like the weapon it is. It has a 99-percent success rate, and clearly Larry is in the majority. He pulls the plain brown pill bottle from is pocket and rattles it enticingly.

“This is Cottontail,” he says, uncapping it and shaking two small pills onto the bar. “I had a couple in the car on the drive up, so I’m already feeling good…you should give it a try, it’s fabulous.”

“Like X?” Larry inquires, looking from the tabs to TJ.

“That stuff makes X look like baby aspirin,” TJ says with a wicked chuckle. “A little booze on the side just helps it kick in faster.” This time the smile includes a wink, and Larry snags the pills and washes them down with a swig of whisky.

“There you go! Hey, while we’re waiting for that to kick in, if you could just write me out a check? They’d have my head if I got side-tracked,” he smirks knowingly, “and went back without it.”

Larry writes the check, and TJ tucks it safely into his wallet. “Want to turn on a little music?” he suggests, batting his lashes at the donor. “Let’s get the party started.”

Later, with the check turned over to Angela, ringmaster of his ring of the campaign circus, TJ goes back to his hotel room, a smile of satisfaction on his face. He’s still clean and sober and he can look at himself in the mirror without regret.

He calls Crispin, his NA sponsor, for the nightly decompression. Crispin always tells him that talking about his problems, even if time differences make it after midnight in Washington, is preferable to medicating them.

TJ looks forward to recounting this particular adventure. He’s pleased with himself for solving his dilemma creatively. Cottontail? He’s still not sure where that bit of whimsy came from.

“Crispin here.” TJ loves to listen to him, even when it’s recounting the foibles of his students—he teaches literature at GWU—or reciting whatever poet he’s currently lecturing on. “How’s it going on the campaign trail?”

“Wait til you hear,” TJ says, gleeful. He tells about Larry and his expectations. “—So I got him to make out the check. Then he turned on the stereo—it was The Doors, ‘Riders on the Storm’—talk about apropos—Jim Morrison?! Then I went over to the conversation pit and started dancing on the coffee table….”

Crispin coughs. “Good grief.”

“I peeled off my shirt—I had on a wife-beater under it, so he didn’t see much. Actually, I saw more of him than he saw of me, ‘cause he sat on the couch and jacked off while I danced. He got his rocks off, and started snoring about twenty seconds later. I put on my shirt, wrote him a ‘Thank you!’ note on a bar napkin and split. Isn’t that wild?” He waits in vain for an answering chuckle.

“TJ, I’m appalled. Drugging a stranger like that? You don’t know what his medical issues are, and for that matter, what were you doing with sleeping pills?”

That’s so far from the response TJ expected that he stares at the phone for a moment. “Lighten up, Cris—it was melatonin. Perfectly legal, over-the-counter, okayed by my doctor and my rehab therapist. Nothing to get upset about. You’re acting like I roofied him or poisoned his drink or something.”

“Controlled substance or not, you chemically altered someone without their knowledge. That’s not something to take lightly, TJ. I certainly wouldn’t think it was funny if someone did it to me.”

TJ has run into the stone wall of Crispin’s ethics before—mostly annoyingly his refusal to get it on with TJ because it would be ‘a conflict of interest’ as his sponsor. No amount of charm and smiles have helped his case.

“Yeah, and I didn’t want to fuck the guy just because he gave my mom money,” TJ says, taking a deep breath, trying not to growl. “I’m going to make sure if I have to meet with any more donors that it’s in a public place, because there’s a limit to what I’m willing to do to get her elected.”

“That’s good to know,” Crispin says, but there’s a lingering note of censure in his tone nonetheless.

“Look, I got out of there with the check, with my sobriety intact, most of my dignity, and whatever shreds of virtue a quasi-reformed slut like me may have left. I think I did pretty good. Sorry you don’t approve of my methods, but sleep on it, and tell me tomorrow night what you think I should have done.”

It isn’t an apology for what he’s done, they both know that. “And remember, I had to come up with something on the spot, I didn’t have the luxury of time to plan it out.”

“Understood,” Crispin answers. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

Some evenings their calls go on for an hour or more and TJ surreptitiously masturbates to the warm honey of Crispin’s voice, but he’s in no mood for that at the moment. It certainly quashes the fantasy he entertained on the drive back, where Crispin was the donor, and after dancing for him, TJ showed his appreciation for his contribution properly….

“Good night, Cris.” He disconnects and plugs the phone into the charger, scowling.

At least this isn’t going to be one of those nights when his libido is going to cause insomnia. TJ avails himself of a couple melatonin tablets, takes a hot shower and climbs into bed, absently humming the song Mom used to sing when she tucked them in as children….

Here comes Peter Cottontail, hopping down the bunny trail—

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