Thank God for bars, Xander thought, slipping into the booth in the back of The Globe. He didn't necessarily need a place where everyone knew his name; he just needed a place to get a beer. Bars equaled good. In a bar, you could get the aforementioned beer. You could get a cheap dinner and you could get the lay of the land. New town, new job - hell, new clothes - new start. He looked down at his faded jeans and light-blue oxford. The new clothes started tomorrow.
"Can I get you something to drink?" The waiter was tall and slim, wearing black pants and a tight white tee shirt. His hair had blue streaks and he had a small hoop in each ear. Xander smiled. Yep, the gods were smiling - the waiter would know where the nearest gay club was, whenever Xander decided he'd need that info. It would be soon.
He ordered a beer and a burger and pulled a leather portfolio out of his battered messenger bag. It made him cringe. It had been a going-away gift from Jesse. Only Xander hadn't known that going-away was a big old euphemism for getting dumped. There was a lot of blah blah, long distance relationship blah, but getting dumped was getting dumped, and Xander knew it when he heard it. Worst part was, there wasn't even a "one for the road" fuck. Not even a grudge fuck. Barely even a kiss. So - dinner, beer, dancing, pick up. Then start the new job in the morning and see where things went.
The waiter delivered the beer with a smile and Xander sipped it while looking over his employment contract with Worthington Preparatory School. He absentmindedly pushed his wire-framed glasses up, though they hadn't slipped. Teaching was not exactly what he'd planned to do, but, beggars can't be and whatnot. At least it was prep school, so the kids would max out around 17 or 18. One downside of doing his BA and MA at the same time was that, at 22, he was frequently younger than students he taught as a TA.
This job had come out of the blue - Xander had intended to start his PhD this fall, not teach literature to a bunch of privileged rich kids, but Dr. Giles had specifically asked him to do it as a favor to an old friend, Dr. Rayne, the headmaster at Worthington. Besides, he needed the money. He was broke and he owed close to $50,000 in student loans. He'd make enough from the year's work to get a grip on that debt and be able to go back to academia with a little less money stress. It was worth nine months in New England. The big sticking point had been the nine months away from Jesse, but that little problem was all sorted out now, wasn't it?
Stopping that train of thought before it screamed into the station at Bitterville, Xander took a long sip of his beer. His waiter brought him his dinner and he shoved the paperwork back into the bag. He could read it a thousand times, it wouldn't change. One academic year teaching literature to high school juniors and seniors, a small apartment near campus, and more money than he'd made in three years as a TA. He was gainfully employed, romantically unentangled, young, good-looking and horny in a new town.
He drank another beer with his dinner and contemplated a third, but decided to wait. The waiter came through with the name of a dance club and Xander left him a generous tip. The club wasn't far - in the same downtown area as his apartment and the Globe, so he decided to walk. He stopped off at a small pharmacy for condoms and lube, feeling like a total Boy Scout, except that he'd never pass the background check to be a troop leader. That didn't bother him much.
The club was called Dragon, and had a nondescript front entrance. It reminded Xander vaguely of the Bronze, the club he hung out at near school, and he again derailed the train before he could slip into a funk remembering all the naughty fun he and Jesse had gotten up to on the dance floor, in the men's room and also in the alley there. Inside, the club was dark, music was throbbing and there were plenty of pretty boys kissing - looked like home.
Xander wandered to the bar and ordered a beer, then turned to get the lay of the land. Pretty standard. He finished his beer quickly and got another, happy to feel a light buzz starting up. He pushed off from the bar and began skirting the perimeter of the dance floor, looking for a target. He saw a lanky brunet eyeing him, but gave the guy a friendly smile and looked away - too much like Jesse, not going there. A couple of others caught his eye, but no sparkage occurred. The back of the club led out to a large balcony, and Xander stepped outside to get a little air. He walked past the clusters of smokers to the rail, where he leaned, looking out into the distance, breathing in the crisp night air.
Xander smelled the guy as he approached - cigarette smoke, sweat, and some mild, musky cologne that made his cock twitch. Hmmm, he thought, something wicked this way comes. Two hands appeared on the rail next to his. Chipped black nail varnish, cheap silver rings on most of the fingers, including one of the thumbs, and a wide, black leather cuff tightly encircling one wrist. A cigarette burned between the first and second fingers of the left hand before it was flicked over the balcony into the darkness below.
Xander leaned enough to the right so that his shoulder brushed the other man's. "Sorry," he said, straightening up. "I'm Alex." Instinctively, he gave his "club name," no telling what the local climate toward gay prep school teachers was; best to be safe. He held out his hand to shake, getting his first look at the other man.
The punky-looking hands were only the start. The guy was a couple of inches shorter than Xander and less broad, but his arms were layered with muscle and his skin-tight black tee shirt showed off a sculpted torso. He wore blue jeans that were faded almost white and had strategic tears, his feet were encased in battered black boots and a thick leather belt encircled his waist. His face was gorgeous - smooth and pale, with hatchet-sharp bone structure that accented his wide, blue eyes. He wore artfully smudged black eyeliner and had short, spiky, bleached-blond hair. His grip on Xander's hand was firm and hot, and it went straight to Xander's groin.
"Most people call me Spike," he said, grinning wolfishly. His accent was faintly British.
"Is that because of your hair, or do you have other, more hidden, talents?" Xander asked. He released the man's - Spike's - hand and leaned back against the rail, flashing the shy grin that had worked wonders when wooing Jesse.
Spike's smile got hotter, and he curled the tip of his tongue up behind his teeth. "Little of both," he drawled. He looked Xander up and down. "You new in town?"
"Yeah," Xander said. "I'm from California. You don't sound entirely local yourself."
"'m from London, originally," Spike said. He narrowed his eyes. "We done with the small talk?"
Xander let his shy grin become predatory, and watched Spike's reaction - more heat. "Works for me. Dance?"
Spike slipped a hand under his elbow and pulled him away from the railing. "After," he said, leading Xander back inside.
The men's room was built for this sort of thing. The lighting was fairly dim and the last two stalls didn't even have toilets in them. The last one, however, still had grab rails from its previous incarnation as an entry on a list of Americans with Disabilities Act requirements. The door was barely locked when Spike launched himself at Xander, tangling his hands into his hair and pulling him down for a kiss.
Xander grabbed the smaller man's hips and pulled their bodies together. Yeah, this was what he needed, no pressure, no bullshit, just cock to cock and a hot tongue in his mouth, blunt nails raking his scalp and the pounding urgency - must. fuck. now. Spike was all over him, making soft noises and thrusting and grabbing. He felt great. Xander got a hand between them and yanked at the leather belt, getting it out of the way quickly. Spike's jeans were button-fly, and so old that all four buttons came undone with a quick yank. He didn't have underwear on, and Xander moaned as a thick, hard cock slapped into his hand. Spike's moan answered and he nearly climbed up Xander's body, thrusting eagerly into his palm.
"Can I fuck you, Spike?" Xander asked, after tearing his mouth away to breathe. "I really want to fuck you."
Spike dropped a hand to Xander's crotch, and clever fingers traced the outline of his erection. "Yeah, Alex," he said, panting. "Fuck me."
Xander spun Spike around and pushed the back of his neck down with one hand. Spike grabbed the perfectly positioned rail in front of him and arched his back as Xander stripped his jeans down to puddle around his boots. Spike spread his legs as much as he was able. Xander pulled the condoms and lube out of his pocket before opening his own pants and shoving them down to his hips. He opened the lube and got some on his hand, then brushed his fingers lightly down the cleft of Spike's ass. "One or two?" he asked.
"Oh, fuck - two," Spike groaned, and Xander obliged him by pushing in with two fingers at the same time. Spike howled as Xander began stretching him, quickly and none too gently.
"You OK?" Xander asked.
"Fuck, yeah," Spike groaned. "Get on with it."
Xander laughed. "Pushy bottom," he observed, shoving a third finger in. A strangled yelp was reward enough.
"You have no idea," Spike said.
Xander pulled his hand back and quickly rolled a condom on, squeezing more lube into his hand and slicking himself. He lined himself up and pressed forward, breeching Spike's body with one long, controlled thrust that didn't stop until they were fully joined. Oh, God - he was so tight. Xander couldn't move for fear of embarrassing himself, so he leaned forward and kissed and bit at the back of the other man's neck. Every muscle and tendon in Spike's arms was standing out in sharp relief, and Xander thought the metal of the rail was in serious danger of bending.
Xander got a grip on himself and straightened up, resting his hands on Spike's hips. He pulled out as slowly as he could, and then repeated the long slide into Spike's willing body. He kept up the slow thrusts until he could see the other man's arms shaking with the tension, then he dug his fingers into Spike's hipbones and began fucking in earnest.
Xander was proud of his stamina, he was proud of his big dick and his tried and true ability to fuck. It was something he was very, very good at, and he was giving Spike the benefit of everything he had ever learned. He rode the smaller body hard - first fast, then slow, alternating deep thrusts with shallow strokes that stimulated Spike's prostate and made him gasp and curse. Finally, as he felt himself nearing orgasm, he reached around and started pumping Spike's cock in time with his thrusts. Spike came hard, muffling a yell against his own forearm and splattering the wall. Xander followed almost immediately, calling the other man's name.
He placed his hands on the wall, leaning over Spike to catch his breath. After a moment, he reached down to grasp the base of his cock as he pulled out. Spike straightened and handed him a handful of tissues from a box located on a shelf Xander hadn't even noticed until then. Xander stripped off the condom and cleaned up, while Spike took care of himself and the wall. Xander took the wad of tissues out of Spike's hand and tossed the whole mess into a conveniently provided trash can while Spike pulled his jeans up and buttoned them.
Xander turned, and couldn't resist the grin gracing Spike's face. He grabbed his shoulders and pushed, pinning Spike against the wall for a long, hot kiss. They broke apart when they heard a quiet knock at the door.
"You guys done?" the voice came from outside. Xander grinned at Spike and shrugged. They exited the stall, freeing it up for the couple waiting outside.
They exited the bathroom, and the throbbing music swirled around them. Spike leaned in. "Wanna dance?"
Xander raised a hand to cup Spike's cheek and smiled. "I better go - I start my new job in the morning." He paused. "Thanks."
"Same to ya," Spike replied, then turned and walked off onto the dance floor.
That night, Xander slept like a baby and didn't think about Jesse once.
The next morning, Xander felt like a tool. He was wearing dark dress pants, loafers, a white oxford and the tweed jacket with corduroy elbow patches that Dr. Giles had given him, he suspected as a joke. His hair was brushed back from his face and he was wearing his glasses. He was in his classroom, waiting for his morning students to arrive.
Around five minutes until eight, boys began streaming into the room, all wearing the school uniform - black pants, white shirts and grey blazers adorned with the school crest. By eight, all of the seats, save one, were filled. Xander introduced himself and got the class started by having the students write short autobiographies while he began calling roll, trying to match names with faces.
"Connor? William Connor?" he said, receiving no answer. He checked the clinic sick call list that had been emailed to him earlier that morning to see if the missing student was listed. He wasn't. Xander continued down the roll. Once finished, he sat down at his desk and called up the proper form to report a student cutting class. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed movement near the door.
"William Connor?" he asked, not looking up.
"That's me, mate," a familiar voice answered, "but most people call me Spike."