You’re walking through Central Park one day when you spot him. He’s an amazing specimen of a man, tall and jacked, wearing a pretty Armani suit. His eyes are dark and empty, but when he passes by you, he flashes you a winning smile. He reminds you of yourself, though your body is sleeker and lither, much like a beautiful savannah animal, a gazelle perhaps. The man is not prettier than you (because that would be quite the feat), but only because he’s handsome in a different way. He’s the picturesque American businessman, rather than a smooth, laid back ladies’ man like yourself.
You walk along next to him for a while and then decide to start up the conversation. “What’s your name,” you ask him, playing it really smooth.
“Patrick Bateman,” says the man. A winning name if there ever was one.
“My name is Dan Rynolds,” you say. He stops and holds out his hand, and you grab it. He has a firm handshake, the kind you want a man to have, and he looks you right in the eyes. It is in that pivotal moment that you connect. He has eyes like yours, eyes like you’ve never seen except in the mirror.
[I've become so numb]
“The pleasure is all mine, Dan.”
“Yes,” you say playfully. “Yes it is.”
He laughs, though it doesn’t reach his eyes, and you know that feeling, can feel it in your cold, dark heart.
“Dan Rynolds, you’re not like the others,” he says, not letting go of your hand. It’s the most intimate handshake of your life, the most intimate meeting. You wonder if this is how all the women feel who you’ve drawn towards yourself and ruined for other men. If it was this sensual, this beautiful for them.
“I’m not,” you say.
“A fisherman can always spot another fisherman,” he says, stepping closer. Bravely, you pull him behind a tree. You’ve rarely kissed men before, but you know that you must have him. You press him against the tree and kiss him fiercely and he responds in kind, wrapping his fingers in your hair.
[Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow]
“We should go back to my place,” he breathes into your mouth.
And you don’t care what it means, don’t care what others might say, you just say, “Yes.”
Patrick’s apartment is spacious and beautiful. Not as big as your own of course, but it’s comparable. The two of you sit down, and he pours you an expensive red wine.
“So tell me about what you do, Patrick?” you ask, sipping from the wine. It is delectable.
“I’m an investment banker,” he says. “I wear nice suits and I make money and I ruin people’s lives.”
The both of you laugh at that last thing.
“I’m a very successful veterinarian,” you say. “When I’m not busy being a professional lady killer, that is.”
Then Patrick leans in with his eyes like twin black holes, drawing
Dennis Dan in.
“Sometimes I kill people.”
You lean in too, so close to his face. So close. “I do too.”
He grabs your hand. “I must have you Dan
Reynolds!” The two of you rush to his bedroom in as close a feeling to ecstasy as the two of you get! You bounce onto his bed, and begin unbuttoning your shirt, moaning in excitement. He has mirrors everywhere! This is your favorite way to have sex!
Bateman is flipping through some CD’s. He extracts one, and places it in the CD player. “I hope you like Steve Winwood,” he says.
“More than anything!!!!!!!!!!!” you say.
[a/n: see I told you he would show up ;)]
He unbuttons his suit and then his shirt. You take off your pants and rub at your crotch, looking at yourself in the mirror while you do it. It’s so hot. He chuckles, looking at his own naked form in the mirror. He’s hard, and his penis is big, big enough to satisfy. No man has been inside you before because you only would have accepted the perfect dick. Now you finally found it.
“I want you inside me, Patrick Bateman!!!”
“I want to be inside you, Dennis,” he says. He slicks his fingers with lube, and begins working my hole. It feels good. Like really good. So good. He also sucks my dick a little bit and does the nice thing with his tongue. That thing that girls do where they swirl the tongue on the head only it’s better this time. It’s better than any girl (or dude) I’ve ever banged. Bateman is staring at himself in the reflection and so am I, but we’re also flicking our eyes back to each other. It’s so intimate, this mutual self-obsession. The thought of it makes me almost blow my load right there.
When Bateman entered me, I cry out. He fills not only my hole, but my God hole a little too as he looks right in my eyes. I can tell I complete him too, and he thrusts into me over and over. It’s like we’re looking into a mirror while we bang, so we don’t even HAVE to look at the mirror. We just stare and stare at each other’s gorgeous, masculine, sweaty bodies and rock into each other. His groans are like the groans of a God, songlike, even.
“I feel so full inside right now,” I say, my mind hazy.
“I love you, Dennis,” he groans as he comes inside me. I come too, hard. The hardest I’ve ever come in my whole life before.
He rolls off the top of me and his words settle in. “I love you.” For once, it's a comfort, not a sign to haul ass out of bed and throw my partner to the wind with just enough cab fare that she won't come storming back. Because I see my reflection in his face. I know he loves the shadow of himself. And I, too, feel it.
“I love you too,” I say. Together, we smile, and it’s genuine for the first time in years.