The blue reception

by BRK

 Miserable and alone at his cousin’s high-society wedding reception, Christopher unknowing partakes of a blue-banana fruit salad he mistakes for haute cuisine—right before he starts talking up his hunky, successful, and totally nonexistent boyfriend.

Added: Mar 2023 4,701 words 3,499 views 5.0 stars (5 votes)


“What can I get you, sir?”

I looked up sharply at the dark-haired, square-jawed cater-waiter-slash-bartender in the white tux shirt and satin pink bow tie regarding me with very polite exasperation. The burbling noise of a hundred people chatting and laughing surrounded us like a tide rushing in, and instinctively I pulled my shoulders in, alarmed. I looked around quickly—we were at one end of a huge room packed with people, all nicely dressed and exhibiting alarming exuberance. At the other end a string octet played syrupy classical music while a few couples danced in the limited space available between the performers on one side and the milling, gossiping throng on the other.

Nothing made sense. I had no context, no backstory, no situational continuity for any of this. I just—was, and all of this happy bedlam also, inexplicably, was.

I turned back to my original point of reference, the square-jawed bartender, like he was my rock of stability amidst chaos. He was waiting, not so patiently, for me to tell him what he could get me. “Er—drinks?” I answered him finally. When I saw the storm forming on his brow I added, “I’m supposed to be getting drinks.” How I knew this was a mystery to me, but I grabbed onto it like a shipwreck victim finding a sturdy beam floating through the roiling and churning dark.

The bartender crossed his arms and gave me a scathing look. The crowd was lapping close around us, and other folks were busy ordering from the two bartenders further down the long, ecru-topped built-in bar occupying this end of the noisy, celebrant-packed banquet hall. Their busy, efficient drink-wrangling made my guy’s glowering stillness stand out that much more. I noticed no cash was changing hands, so whatever this event was, someone had spring for an open bar, however limited. This was one serious shindig, and my curiosity was definitely pricked. The existential horror of not knowing where I was or what was going on was already giving way to a hunger to learn more.

Someone jostled my shoulder and tried to squeeze past me. “Hey, can I get—” the jerk tried to call past me to the bartender. But at the prospect of being pushed aside I snapped back to the moment and instantly discovered my gumption.

I turned to look down at the guy—he was a little older, a little balder, and a lot shorter. His suit didn’t fit him well and looked cheap, too, though how I knew that I didn’t know. “Give me a second,” I growled at him, spacing out each word like I’d taken lessons in intimidation. My voice sounded low and rumbly in my own ears, sexy even when used aggressively.

Suit Guy quailed briefly, then reddened in anger. “Well, hurry the fuck up, then, Pretty Boy!” he shot back defensively.

I frowned at the guy, and he tried to give me a defiant look. He didn’t know me, I didn’t know him. His umbrage at my being in the way was compounded by annoyance at… my being good-looking? Whatever.

Dismissing the guy in the suit, I turned back to the bartender, who was now eyeing me like I was pissing on his bar and he wasn’t allowed to do anything about it. He was genuinely fierce, not someone to fuck with, and for a second I was distracted by how solidly built he was under his fitted, piqué tux shirt, like he was a normally middleweight boxer or something and this was his side-hustle. “Can I get—” I started slowly, mimicking the intrusive jerk still fuming half an inch behind me. Then I stalled, because I still didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I was up here “getting drinks,” but I had no more specific information than that.

Evidently I had some facility dealing with unexpected situations, though. I shifted gears and went with, “What’s most popular tonight?”

My moonlighting pugilist narrowed his eyes at me, then wordlessly slapped two clear-plastic drink cups on the bar in front of him, added three cubes of ice and a shot of well vodka each, then topped them with tonic from a one-liter bottle. He made searing eye contact with me one last time, then very deliberately turned his steely gaze to Suit Guy.

All right then. Confrontation over. I grabbed a drink in each hand and swiveled to face the crowd, my sense of relief ebbing quickly. Now what?

Boyfriend, I thought, as though the concept had been placed, dormant but extremely relevant, amidst the central storeroom of my brain. I had a boyfriend, whose name was…

“—white wines, and—seriously, will you move?” Suit Guy yelled at me suddenly over the noise of the crowd. He’d wedged himself in sideways closer to the bar, but I hadn’t shifted out of the square foot of space directly in front of the bartender I’d just been dealing with. “Fucking behemoth,” the guy cursed under his breath, sidling past me more aggressively.

I looked down at myself in surprise. “Behemoth” seemed… out of line. Sure, I was imposing enough—6’4”, broad-shouldered, and athletically built, filling out the tailored dark-purple shirt and snug dark slacks I was wearing in ways I knew my boyfriend would more than appreciate, but…

There it was again. Boyfriend. He was here, somewhere. I knew it instinctively, even without inductive reasoning connecting my collection of drinks to a counterpart to share them with. Boyfriend. Christopher. Christopher Cochran.

I sounded out the name in my head. It seemed a part of me and yet alien, as if the three-syllable combination had formed in my mind for the first time only seconds before.

An image came to me, similarly new and yet achingly familiar. Slim and slinky, with tight black curls that seemed to mirror his stylish, habitually black attire. Paler than my olive complexion, with freckled cheeks, a pleasant, sharp-jawed face, and a wide smile. Clever blue eyes that glittered when he looked up at me. Feelings of affection, lust, and long-accrued intimacy welled up in me, metatextualizing the familiar/unfamiliar image of my mysterious amour.

Boyfriend. Christopher. Like a new-built ship leaving the safety of port for the first time I left the bar and sailed out into the breach, intent on finding the man my mind told me was mine.

“So where is this tall-and-hunky bookworm paramedic boyfriend of yours, anyway?” cousin Benny asked archly, rattling off the attributes Christopher had ascribed to his man as though to flag how literally too good to be true the picture was, especially as a match for a noted non-Lothario and ex-emo like Christopher. He dipped his finger idly in his sangria and swirled it in a small circle, not bothering to look up at Christopher standing awkwardly next to his table in his all-black tux. He was not smiling, which Christopher figured meant he was only riding him because he was bored out of his mind. Weddings really did bring out the worst in people, he thought.

“I told you,” Christopher said flatly, looking around for someone else, anyone else, he could talk to. “He went to get us drinks.”

“Riight,” Benny said, who clearly hadn’t downed enough of the fruity red beverage to dull his natural vulpine shrewdness. “And does this prince have a name?”

Christopher hesitated. He’d been keeping things vague to minimize potential pitfalls, but there was no reason not to give him a name now that Benny had asked for it. Unfortunately he was drawing a complete blank. He tried to frantically scour through the scads of gay romances he’d read recently for a good, masculine-sounding moniker, but he kept sticking on the title of the last one he’d read, The Fake Beau. Which was actually a legitimate guy’s name. He started to offer it aloud as his answer, before remembering at the very last second that he had another, even snider cousin named Beauregard (often shortened to Beau), and he veered away at the last second.

“Beau—die,” he said. “Bodie.” He nodded and cleared his throat. “I… should probably go find him.”

“Uh huh,” Benny said. Clearly he wasn’t buying any of his story. Christopher sighed. Why was he even here? He hadn’t seen any of these people in years, the cathedral wedding had been two hours of ostentatious claptrap, and the gala reception was turning out to be a posing party in a nest of vipers where the only thing worse than the people who avoided talking to him were the ones who didn’t. The music sucked, the beef wellington was stringy, and he wasn’t too sure about that savory fruit salad side dish, either. It was all well and good to mix feta and a tang of chili pepper in with your berries and pawpaws, but, artsy gourmet presentation or not, banana was not supposed to be dyed blue—and the queasy stomach creeping up on Christopher as he blatantly scoped his surroundings for an exit from this conversation seemed like confirmation of this fundamental fact.

Not that his nausea in this context couldn’t be explained simply by his being an onlooker at an veritable orgy of privilege after so long away. And… maybe his twisting stomach wasn’t excessively proud of the fibs Benny’s incessant bragging about his fabulously successful and attractive husband, his sprawling house, and his overachieving children had goaded him into.

Or was that his sprawling children and his overachieving house? Christopher thought wryly. So easy to get these things mixed up. He couldn’t help but notice that Benny’s rugby-playing orthodontist hubby Rick was himself conspicuously absent, despite them living (unlike Christopher, who’d had to fly in for this shit-show) only an hour away up the coast. That was what had kicked Christopher’s oneupmanship up a notch. Not only was the nonexistent boyfriend he’d been talking up to various parties since dinner now even more strapping than Rick, but he’d found himself insisting the beau in question was actually here with him, somewhere, at this jubilee of shamelessness. The momentary satisfaction he’d gotten from blurting out this particular bit of glibness had quickly been consumed by an unpleasant awareness of just how many different ways he could be caught in this web of lies.

“Welp,” he said abruptly, and started to move away. He had places to be, and, more importantly, places to not be. Like, anywhere in this building.

“Wait,” Benny said. Christopher looked down at him, his stomach twisting a little more at the glint in his eyes. “I should come with you,” his cousin said. “Grandmama will want a full report.” He stirred, preparing to get up and march off with Christopher in search of his man right then and there, and Christopher was slightly alarmed to see the thin, straight line of Benny’s pale pink lips almost breaking into a slight curve at the ends.

Fuck. Benny’s mother and his own were twin sisters, both extremely competitive for his grandmother’s approval; and Benny was a devoted partisan of his mom in all things. Dirt on the enemy—like, say, Christopher pathetically pretending to have a hot b-f—was not unlike catnip and the only thing guaranteed to rouse Benny out of his repressive suburban ennui.

“Uh, no need to do that,” Christopher stammered. He nodded toward Benny’s smartphone on the table as if noticing something. “Besides, Rick’s calling you,” he added quickly.

Benny glanced at the phone in surprise. Christopher had meant this purely as a ploy to buy him an extra moment of scram time. But by some fluke of coincidence, at that very moment Benny’s phone did indeed light up, and the rugged, cleft-chinned visage of his hooky-playing, extended-family-allergic hubby filled the screen. Huh, Christopher thought. Weird. He had no doubt Rick, wanting to avoid this wedding by any means necessary, had ensured he was completely unavailable ad incommunicado today, so a call from him mid-festivities was as likely as the caterers serving toasted Spam sandwiches as an inter-course palate-cleanser.

No way was he going to waste such a providential intervention, though. Stepping back from his cousin he turned and slid quickly away, even as Benny lifted the phone with a frown and answered warily, “Rick—?”

A moment later Christopher had melted into the teeming sea of toffs, debs, and dowagers, intent on finding the exits and getting the hell out of there at last. Any hopes he might have had of completing his escape were quashed a moment later, however, by an imperious voice from behind him. “There you are,” it said, stopping him in his tracks as effectively as a lariat at a rodeo.

Christopher turned and pasted on a smile for the one person he’d been keenest on avoiding all night. “Hello, mother,” he said, trying not to grit his teeth.

Lorena stood before him, looking svelte and indomitable in a shimmering silver gown that matched her stiffly-coiffed Jackie Onassis hairdo. She glided closer toward him, and Christopher resisted a impulse to slip backwards in response.

“I hear that you have a boyfriend,” she said icily, as though it were an indictment. Her steel blue eyes hardened and she added ominously, “One you have not presented to me.”

That’s when Christopher pretty much lost it. This woman had been micromanaging his life from the uterus onward, and her most strident controlling streak had been about dictating what was required of him in a partner of whatever gender. It had been her disapproval and outright sabotage that had driven him to break ties with her and the clan she and her sister held in their iron claws, and there was no way was going to play the simpering son again after all these years with a background even to avoid causing a minor ruckus at his sweet cousin Lisa’s obligatory society nuptials.

She wanted a demure, cookie-cutter, ultra-respectable mate for his duty-shirking scion of a son? Fuck that. He was going to make his mother regret asking about his amazing boyfriend—and as he took a step toward her, a fire in his eyes, the fact that this partner was completely nonexistent felt ridiculously liberating.

In the end it wasn’t too tough finding Christopher. A small, hushed crowd had formed on the edge of the dining area, and everyone’s attention was so rapt on the shouting match within (people had phones out filming, even at a do like this) that they barely noticed me. I hardly drew a single look as I filtered through them, drinks still in hand, despite the three or four inches I had on most of the men and the pro running-back physique I had packed into a monkey suit whose taper and cut purred “money” even louder than the open bar. Something else held all their attention, and I had a funny idea I knew what it was.

Sure enough, there at the center of the circle of onlookers was my man—curls, sleek black-on-black tux, and all—dressing down an elegant, serious-looking older woman who at the moment looked like someone who’d demanded the filet mignon and instead been served a small bowl of live, wriggling tree slugs.

“And that’s not even the half of it, mother,” Christopher was ranting, looking fierce, fire-bellied, and altogether exhilarated. “Not only am I dating a seven-foot four-hundred-pound life-saving muscle god with the face of an angel and balls the size of grapefruits and a body that would make a straight man cream in his pants—”

“Christopher,” the silver-haired matron hissed, pale but implacable. If Christopher was trying to shock her into submission with all this talk of muscles and cum, he’d badly underestimated her mettle.

“So hairy, people think twice about spending time with him around a full moon—”

“Christopher!” the matron repeated, her eyes narrowing like a panther’s.

People hadn’t been looking at me, but they were now. In fact a small secondary circle was forming around me as people moved back from me while others pushed closer, trying to get a better look at towering beast in the perfectly-tailored tux. As I looked down at them, my perspective seemed all wrong compared to just a few minutes ago, like I was standing on a crate or a scaffold and they were all gaping up at me. Any more of a size disparity and it would be like Saruman addressing his troops from the balcony at Orthanc. I felt ridiculous, especially with the two vodka tonics looking small in my large, deft hands. Muscles bunched and shifted against sleeves, vest, and pants legs. Shaggy, fast-growing hair fell over my eyes and itched along my jaw and under my formal duds.

I was everything he was saying aloud and more… so much more that was implied and left unsaid. And yet—despite the strangeness of the situation and a prickly resurgence of my existential confusion, my heart warmed. That was me Christopher was talking about, like I was the ultimate form of man and the living embodiment of what a real lover should be.

More eyes slid from the raging Christopher to me, many of them drifting up and down my improbable, explicitly arousing form. I saw a lot of pinked cheeks and licked lips from partygoers of both sexes, and anyone whose gaze I held for too long started to breathe a little more roughly, their hands twitching as if wondering what they could get away with touching in a public gathering like this.

I decided to ignore the crowd and, handing my drinks to two random, slack-jawed admirers, I waded in, moving closer to main event. My steps were oddly silent despite my size. Intent on wrecking his mother’s authority over him, Christopher didn’t notice—but she did, along with everyone else in the room.

“But you want to know the best part? We fuck all we want,” Christopher seethed in climax, grinning defiantly at the older woman. “Anytime, anywhere, we’re always hot for each other. In fact when we’re alone the question isn’t whether we’re going to fuck, it’s which of his footlong club-sized cocks he’s going to fuck me with!”

“That’s enough!” the matron barked, her eyes like crystal-blue death rays. Everyone stilled, all at once. Even the string octet had stopped playing. I half expected a ringing slap across Christopher’s cheek, until I realized it wasn’t necessary. A look like that was the slap. In fact it made a slap look like a smile and wink by comparison.

But Christopher wasn’t his mother’s son for nothing. He calmed, but he didn’t back down. “It is enough,” he said. “You wanted me to marry a blue-blood, pampered prince, someone you approved of and met your criteria for the perfect cake-toppers at our wedding and matching smiles at the cotillions, and toward that end you were willing to do anything you had to, weren’t you? Well, it’s never—gonna—happen. The love of my life is everything you didn’t want in a son-in-law, and there’s no going back. It’s permanent. Eternal love. What do you say to that?”

Christopher’s mother said nothing. After a moment her eyes shifted deliberately to mine, and to my surprise they were more curious than reproving of my very existence, as I’d expected. Since that existence was seemingly owed to her son’s brutal defiance of her wishes, her consideration and interest felt almost like concession, and an opening.

I looked back at Christopher, and—I felt it. Passionate, inexhaustible love. A need to be with him—to talk, and laugh, and hold and cherish and fuck for hours and days until we’re screaming our infinite pleasure. All that, forever.

“The answer is yes,” I said, my voice now so low it seemed the vibrate through everyone around me. Someone behind me moaned a little, and I’m pretty sure there was a whimper as well, before the silence fell again.

As if in slow motion, Christopher turned to stare at me, his eyes going round. As he gaped at me, putting the pieces together in some subcontextual part of his mind, I spoke again, to fill the quiet and give him time to process. “I mean, that sounded like a proposal to me,” I elaborated, smiling gently. “And so, my answer is yes. Though it might be considered somewhat impolite to get engaged at someone else’s wedding,” I added, glancing over at the bride and groom, who had joined the circle of onlookers along with everyone else at the reception, guests and crew alike. Even my pink-bowtied bartender friend was at the back of the crowd, glaring lustfully.

The bride, a tall, curvy blonde with a pretty smile, was staring at me almost reverently. “No problem,” she said faintly. I glanced at her new husband, a young, fit-looking professorial type, for signs of annoyance at her slack-jawed ogling of another man; but the groom, it turned out, was looking a little flushed himself, and his darkened pupils hinted he was even more of a goner than she was.

I turned back to Christopher’s mother. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Mrs. Cochran,” I told her in my low, rumbling voice, as though I’d been looking forward to it for weeks. “My name’s—” For an instant I hesitated, but… I did have a name. “My name’s Bodie,” I said, and saying it was kind of settling, somehow. I smiled sheepishly down at her. “I’m sorry we had to meet under such… spectacular circumstances.”

She moved toward us so that she, Christopher, and I formed a little triangle, and looked up at me, clear-eyed and shrewd. Though she was as imperious as ever I sensed she was also deeply chastened—her son’s accusations had touched a nerve, like she realized she had lost sight of what mattered when it came to shaping your child’s future, and she had been very publicly called out on misbehavior that had nearly lost him to her. For his part Christopher was no longer gaping but he remained mute, watching the two of us interacting as though he no longer knew what to expect from the world.

His mother offered me her hand—a bold move, some might have said, with someone my size. I took it carefully. “Lorena Cochran,” she said, and we shook. She held my gaze as we disengaged. “Are you the man who will make my son happy?” she asked finally.

I grinned, my heart so overflowing with love for my smart, acerbic, fuckable man I could barely even express it. “Always,” I said. It was not so much a vow as a simple statement of fact.

Lorena nodded. “Then I am glad to meet you,” she said.

“Christopher’s getting married!” the groom whooped, and the deafening shouts and cheers that followed stunned my guy all over again. I threw an arm around him and kissed him deep and messy. The cheers and whistles got even louder as he kissed me back with fervor, and we drowned together in an ocean of noise and pleasure.

Some time later we found ourselves alone in a grassy outdoor nook behind the banquet hall, mostly sheltered from view by some fragrant cypress trees. Bodie was seated on a sturdy stone bench, and I was perched on one of his thick-muscled thighs, leaning up into what threatened to become a seriously endless make-out session. At some point I’d mentioned something about how long and talented his tongue was, especially when he was turned on, and the euphoria this engendered when we kissed was so amazing I never wanted to stop—though taking a break from kissing would admittedly allow us to engage in other activities I wanted to experience with him even more.

At last we broke the kiss, and the deepening of the shadows as the afternoon melted toward evening made it feel like we’d been snogging for ages. My mouth and lips were sore, but even that felt nice, like lingering proof of the pleasure Bodie gave me. Slipping my hand into his super-thick hair I shoved his long bangs aside and stared up into his deep, mesmerizing emerald eyes, seeing my wonder at our meeting reflected back at me.

“I have two questions,” Bodie rumbled after a moment.

I grinned. “Ask away.”

He eyed the bouquet I was absently clutching. I looked at it, almost surprised—I’d forgotten I was holding onto it. Lisa had pretty much just handed it to me, sparking a new round of whoops and cheers, right before Bodie and I had headed outside for a breather. “I put you on the spot before, but if—”

I kissed his bearded lips to shut him up. “Yes,” I said when I pulled back. “We are together forever. Love, health, prosperity, and happiness. Plus all the necessary IDs and paperwork. Got it?”

Bodie smiled. “Got it.”

I stroked his bristly cheek. “What’s the other question?”

My beautiful ultra-man bit his lip. “Am I—really a werewolf?”

I barked a laugh, taken by surprise. “Do you want to be?”

He dove in for another kiss, and matters progressed to the point we had to remind ourselves we were in public, more or less. I forced myself to pull free. I was straddling him now and gripping tightly onto his massive, steel-hard upper arms, though we remained, as yet, fully clothed. “I have a question for you,” I panted breathily. “Or maybe two questions.”

He just looked at me, his eyes dark with need.

I gulped, trying to hold onto the shreds of my reason. “I feel like this… ‘saying true things’ thing… I know it’s temporary, somehow. So…” I steadied myself, finding the question harder to ask than I expected. “Do you have any regrets, while I’m still, you know, plugged in? Anything more you want? Or anything that you don’t want?”

Bodie bent toward my ear. “Not a damn thing,” he said, low and growly, and fuck if I didn’t have to force back a serious orgasm just from the feel of his voice against my skin, and the thrill his words gave me.

“Then I only have one more thing to ask,” I said, humping his overstuffed crotch. I met his gaze and gave him a saucy smile. “Just how many huge monster cocks did I fucking give you?”

Dark emerald eyes filled my vision as he bent closer. “That’s up to you to discover,” he said.

I shivered, fighting another climax. Not that I was afraid of cumming—we would both be shooting as many copious mind-blowing loads as we wanted tonight, and every night. But I was upper-crust enough that even in the aftermath of my rebellion and liberation I couldn’t bring myself to force a dry cleaner to deal with tuxedo pants soaked through with a gallon of dried spunk.

“In that case,” I rasped, “there’s something about me that you should know.”

My hypermasculine muscle-hunk angel lifted a brow, causing it to disappear into his crazy, cascading locks. “What’s that?” he asked.

I gave him a wicked smile. “I… can teleport.”

Bodie grinned. I snapped my fingers, just for effect, and a split-second later the stone bench was suddenly empty, with only the cypress trees, a few squirrels, and the memory of two very hot guys in love to keep it company.


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