Changing Chanel

Strings of lace trimmed paper hearts adorned the walls in a look much more suited to guests in the fourth+ grade than guests in their fourth+ decade. But charity events sell better when they have a theme, and on a mid-February night, there is one theme that is on everyone's mind.

However, undying love is one of the costs that tends to be extracted by a life in law, and so the attendees of Crane, Poole, and Schmidt arrived unescorted--but for the company of their colleagues, which seemed to suit them well enough. Denny was well on his way to remedying that situation, standing at the fountain centerpiece, catching glasses of overly-sweet pink champagne for both his intended conquest and himself.

She was half his age and lapping up his attentions.

Of course Alan could see the situation, but to him it made no difference. Though he did admire anyone who could pull off patent leather stilettos higher than her miniskirt was long. And more than that, hardly anyone wore hose with seams up the back anymore. Seams that went up and up and up until they must disappear into the realm of some magic carpet ride barely concealed between her legs. That in and of itself would have earned her a special entry in his little Black(Berry) book, had there been nothing else that caught his eye about her.

Frankly, she was turning him on. She had turned him on. Had Denny not picked her first, he would have made a beeline for her. But Denny had, and they had their little agreement, so officially she was Denny's...'girl' and this was the closest Alan was going to get to ride that stockinet V between her toned and chiseled thighs. And so Alan chose not to say a word (unless it should involve him groveling upon naked knees for the privilege of delectable torture under the pressure of those chic black heels, polished to a fine gloss and positively designed for licking, while Denny supervised mere inches away); he would not for the world jeopardize her presence across the table.

Of course Shirley knew as well. She had made her evaluation the minute the woman walked in to the room. Once confidently tagged and categorized, it seemed an insignificant to her as well--just another detail to be filed away should she ever need it again--though she did admire the Chanel minidress and the way she carried it off.

Shirley also felt more than a little empathetic for any strong, capable woman who had chosen to live...differently, and as a result, had ended up at this pink and red plastered evening out alone.

The divorcee in Shirley would have liked to have struck up a conversation about choices and who we are and how we end up where we are. But the attorney in her said that the most prudent course of action was to decline to notice that there was anything more untoward than a size sixteen Chanel.

But first and foremost, Shirley was Schmidt--of Crane, Poole and Schmidt--so when Denny escorted the lady over to the table (by her bare and finely muscled arm), Shirley complimented the dress in all sincerity, then leaned slightly forward to listen in silence to how this drama would end up playing out.

Brad sort of knew, but it made him distinctly uncomfortable, so he pushed the information aside. It brought back memories of the night after constitutional law finals, ti many martoonies, and a redhead named Saffire who had promised him the BJ of his life and a trip around the moon for $25. There was no way he was going anywhere near that subject in his mind, so he poured himself a third glass of wine and thought about the Arabian hookers he'd bedded in Kuwait and let Denny Crane--with his name on the door--worry about his own affairs.

Paul suspected, but couldn't decide, vacillating between "is she" or "isn't she," his brow furrowing deeper with every swing. It wasn't until much later, when she and Denny had left the table and Shirley confirmed it for him that he knew for sure.

By then it was already too late.

So it stood that Denny Crane was the only one amongst them without a clue, which was either entirely typical or entirely atypical, depending upon with which eye you choose to squint at the goings-on of the past couple years.

Alan found it rather sweet, the way Denny could still fall so hard and completely for the simple charms of a girl...or the apparent promise thereof.

If Brad were willing to think about it at all, he would have found it weird, un-American and perhaps a little nauseating, but he was smart enough not to let his brain go down that path. The Iraqi hookers were much more fun.

Paul found it exasperating. What else was new? He was never comfortable with these dinners to begin with, and wished they would hurry up and serve so he could get back to the office for a couple more hours of work.

Shirley found it more than a little amusing--was schadenfreude the word?--excepting how it might reflect on the firm should things go awry. Which they generally did when Denny had an erection. Which, judging by the expression on his face, she was certain that he did.

Even without the pumps, Chanel had at least six inches in height on Denny. Shirley wondered what Denny would think of playing his own game from the catcher's position.

She bit back a smile. Yes, schadenfreude was definitely the word.

But more than that, Shirley felt a little nostalgic for the once upon a time days when Denny Crane had looked at her like that.

She decided not to have a second glass of wine.

It was a curious quirk of social mores that at the time that she had bedded him, she couldn't allow herself to love him, and now that she loved him--albeit in a...unique and special way--she couldn't allow herself to bed him. Now how ironic was that?

Yet according to conventional wisdom, she was the woman who had it made, and the transvestite in the faux designer pumps who was feeling Denny up--to the blatantly obvious glee of both--under the inadequate cover of a tablecloth printed in candy-pink hearts was the one assumed to have...problems.

Now how ironic was that?

And as Denny had no clue, he was free to enjoy every tickle of the long, manicured, sinuous fingers that kneaded his thigh and inched their way slowly but surely toward his groin. He was free to enjoy the scrape of acrylic nails across his package and the invitation of the big toe on the oddly muscular size 11 bestockinged foot, which even now titillated the side of his calf.

If he didn't find a coat room soon, he might conceivably embarrass himself right here and now.

She squeezed his crotch.

Denny squeaked.

Shirley's eyes widened. She knew that squeak by heart.

"Excuse us," said Denny. "I have to go check...my coat." He led her up from the table, one hand on her the ripe, round cheeks of her sublimely thoroughbred ass.

"Denny, you can't do this!" Paul hissed.

"Sure I can; I've taken a blue pill."

"Denny!" Shirley's eyes blazed across the table.

"Shirley, I know you're jealous, but don't worry: there's plenty of Denny Crane to go around."

Shirley gaped at him. The worst part of Denny's...dementia, or whatever you wanted to call this thing...was the way he caught you totally off guard on those occasions that he was still absolutely right. And still way ahead of you.

"Alan, you have to stop him!" Shirley urged.

"I do?" Alan pretended to consider the idea. Shirley was at her most arousing when she was most upset. "I thought the only onus upon my mortal coil was to pay taxes and die."

"Consider the firm," Paul tried. "The reputation of Crane, Poole and Schmidt--"

"--I'm sure is stalwart enough to withstand the hi-jinx of one lone transvestite in last year's eye make-up and Tiffany knock-off rhinestones."

"He's your best friend." Shirley leaned across the table. She was almost as arousing when she was earnest as when she was upset. "Think of what's about to happen."

"Yes." A smile slicked across Alan's face. "I am. I wonder if they'll allow me to watch."

"It could demoralize him; I don't have to tell you about how his self-worth is dependent upon appearing to remain the man he used to be. You know him even better than I do."

"Ah, but not nearly as well as you have." Alan smirked.

"Alan, please." Beyond anything else, Shirley did adore Denny Crane; the plea in her voice made that clear.

Alan pushed back his chair. "Since I am helpless in the face of a beautiful woman who begs, I shall go. But under no circumstances is anyone to form the opinion that I am doing this for the firm." His own glass empty, he downed Brad's near full one of 1993 Cabernet, and strode off towards the Dreaded Cloakroom of Delight.


**


"Pardon me; am I interrupting anything?"

Denny jolted up from among the coats. "Not yet, but your timing is superb."

"Of course. Ninety percent of courtroom presentation is timing; the rest is chicanery, deceit and misdirection."

"Three minutes," said Denny. He slid his hands under her skirt and pushed it up from the rear.

Like an all-American quarterback, she reached back between her legs and grabbed at him, landing him with practiced aim.

"Maybe two," Denny choked as he jiggled behind the row of coats.

"Denny, I am afraid that I must insist." Alan stepped around the rack and snatched under the tailored Chanel miniskirt. He tugged at her pink sateen thong until it snapped off from around her hips, and her assets swung free and clear in the breeze.

"Hey!" Chanel squealed in protest.

"Oh my," said Denny. He thrust into her--his hand once more.

"Denny--" Alan cleared his throat and nodded to the...newly introduced evidence.

"Give a girl back her lingerie." Chanel straightened up and snatched the thong back. "They're clearly not your size." She shot Alan a castrating glare as she smoothed her skirt.

Denny looked over. "Now you're interrupting."

Panties in hand, Chanel stalked out in a huff.


**

"So...she was a he?"

Alan snorted. "And Paul fears that you're slipping. Silly man. Surely the Adam's apple must have provided some clue."

"I thought it was just a...glandular condition."

"It was. But the glands were a good bit further down. Denny, she had a foot and thirty pounds on you. You might convince Shirley, Paul and Brad, but you cannot convince me that such a possibility never crossed your mind."

"It crossed my mind," said Denny. As they stepped out to the curb, the cold February air stung their cheeks. "I'm seventy-six years old. How many more rides around the carousel will I get? How many more chances at that big--" He made a grabbing gesture in the air and fumbled for words.

"Brass ring?"

"--do I have left? Some times you just have to say 'damn the torpedoes' and go for what you want. Denny closed his eyes and sighed. "And she did have magnificent torpedoes."

"Duct tape will do that. What I found of more acute interest was the ballistic missile between her legs."

"Hm." Denny grunted. A cab pulled up to where they stood. "The nice thing about mad cow is that you have carte blanche to see only what you want to see." He opened a back seat door.

Alan touched his elbow. He didn't hold, just touched, yet he stilled Denny with a curious look. "Shall I call her back?"

Denny shook his head, a little wistfully, perhaps. "The fantasy is gone." He slid into the cab seat. "Denny Crane. Take me home."

The cabby turned to Alan. "And you, sir?"

Alan plopped onto the other half of the seat. It was too early to go home alone, and going back to a pink and red dinner dateless and without Denny would be...sad.

"Same." He draped his arm around Denny's shoulder. "He's invited me to pop up for a look at his etchings."

**

"Why don't men have vaginas?" Denny asked as they pulled away from the curb.

"Now there's a question that has never before crossed my mind. Remind me to inquire of The Almighty should we ever meet."

"Don't have to. You have Denny Crane. He'll tell you why."

The cabby swiveled his neck to the Denny. "No smoking."

"I'm just going to chew it. I'll tell you why; because vaginas make love...messy."

Alan tipped his head back and licked his lips in the air. "Typically only if one is very fortunate and springs for a bouquet of at least a dozen roses."

"Not that kind of messy...well, that too. But messy in a non-secretional way. Take me and Shirley--"

"There is no you and Shirley."

"Just what I mean! But if she didn't have a vagina, there still would be."

Alan screwed up his face. "Now there's food for thought. Not pleasant food, but food all the same."

Denny chomped on his cigar. "When there's a vagina involved, 'I love you' becomes 'Will you have sex with me' or 'I want to go to Cape Cod this weekend' or 'Damn, I forgot and slept with a cocktail waitress again.' Without a vagina, men can be free to love each other without the...mess."

"Or to sleep with cocktail waitresses."

"That too."

"I love you, Denny."

"See?" Denny puffed his unlit cigar.

Alan patted Denny's leg and the taxi rolled on through the Boston streets.

"Do you have a phone?" Denny asked after a time.

Alan passed his over. "Do you know how to use one of these?"

"Sure. Saw it on TV." Denny flipped it open. It made a chipping sound.

"Dare I ask what you are doing?"

"Calling a vagina."

"That's sweet."

"Love is fine and all that, but right now I need a hooker. I took a blue pill," Denny made a rolling hand motion in front of his fly. "It has to...come out somehow...or terrible things could happen."

"No doubt," Alan drawled. "I read an AMA press release about that just the other day. I have dozens of hookers on speed dial, should you like," Alan offered, observant of Denny's careful pecks at the keypad. "Including a dominatrix with an awe-inspiring collection of exotic cats."

"No thanks," said Denny. Her number was ringing in his ear. "I've grown accustomed to my own. You want me to order you up one?" he added by way of afterthought.

Alan leaned back against the seat. "No thanks; Most generous, but I'll just have a bite of yours."

"Darlene! Denny Crane." Denny grinned into the phone.

Alan closed his eyes and tried not to eavesdrop, filling his mind with memories of exotic pussy...cats.

**

Denny closed the phone and passed it back. "It's not a gay thing," he said as the driver dropped them at the curb. "I'd taken a blue pill. A man can't be held accountable for the actions of his pill."

"Clearly," said Alan. "I am certain that the world will understand."

"If you're locked and loaded and set on target, and the target changes, that doesn't make you gay."

"As the classic Freudian reaction-formation reflex to bone the nearest consenting female so articulately and inarguably proves."

"It's not that," said Denny as the elevator arrived "My phaser's been set on overload by hostiles. All that...power has to go somewhere. Soon. Or it won't be a pretty picture." Not so discretely as he thought, Denny touched himself as soon as the penthouse doors had swung shut.

"I see," said Alan, pouring two glasses from the sideboard decanter. "And what does Darlene have to say about her destiny to be phasered into oblivion tonight?"

Denny took a glass and drained it. "Darlene is...unavailable. She says Valentine's Day is high season. I got Miss Pamela instead. But she said it would be two hours."

Denny tried to settle into a chair, but his discomfort drew him up. He paced the length of one wall. Even a cigar held no pleasure. It only left his mouth twitchy in some indefinable, empty way. He tossed it down. Two hours. How long do blue pills last?

"Two hours?" Leaning against the sideboard, Alan sipped his drink and studied him, gaze split unabashedly between face, chest and crotch. "Well, that's not so bad. They say time flies when you are having fun." Alan tipped a nod to the bulge that Denny sported. "And you do appear to be having...fun."

"Fun?" Denny grabbed him by the shoulders. "You call this fun?" They faced each other in front of the wall. "Alan, I'm locked and loaded."

With a jerk, Denny pulled him closer. Denny was backed against the wall. "Alan, she got me loaded." Their faces were tense inches apart, and the promise in Denny's scotch soaked breath wafted over Alan's skin.

Alan pressed his palm to Denny's crotch. Jammed between the hand and the wall, Denny leaned in to the touch. Eyes closed, he made rough grunts as he ground in and out and side to side. Alan thought his heart would burst; whereas he had thought pig noises soothing, at this moment they were anything but. They aroused him, made him ache to do so much more.

Shaping his hand so as there could be no question as to intent, he ran one hard caress up from base to tip. When he reached the top, he deftly undid the fly.

Denny's crane sprang free. Almost as fast, it was bare and warm and real within Alan's fist. Alan's knees weakened and his head spun as blood sped to his middle at an alarming rate. His hand was the only non-gonadal part seemingly in operative condition, and it picked up speed in synch with the ovine grunts. Alan's head sagged against the pinstriped breast. His hand jerked faster, against his will to make this last. "Oh, Jesus," he sighed.

"Denny Crane."

Mumbled hoarsely, the words had an erotic ring. "Oh, Jesus," Alan repeated and sank down to his knees, lips straining toward their goal.

"Whoa!" Denny caught him by the shoulders. His face fought to resolve something inside. "Alan, you don't have to--"

"Have to?" Dear heaven, but Denny could be absurd when he was trying to be most sincere.

Alan could smell him, feel him, virtually taste him as heated musk radiated out from above the patch of curls. He rubbed a cheek against the velvet shaft, and it palpably hurt to turn his lips away. "Dear God, Denny, even with as monumentally difficult a time as you have comprehending feelings that are not your own, even you could not possibly have misunderstood." The penis bobbed just a tongue tip away, and Alan yearned more than anything to just savor it within his mouth.

Backed against the wall, Denny stared down at him, hands on shoulders, but he did not push him away.

For a long moment, they held each other's eyes.

"Could not have misunderstood...involuntarily," Alan added slowly.

Alan was not a man bound by shame or scruples. There was virtually nothing he wouldn't barter in exchange for what he wanted most at any given moment. And as much as every pore of his being wanted Denny at this moment, the one thing he wouldn't risk was Denny himself. And so ignoring the almost visceral craving of his mouth, he waited.

For Denny Crane was a homophobe, yet he loved Alan nevertheless. Alan could never express in words how deeply that fact touched his soul.

Denny tapped his temple. "Mad cow. You'll never know."

Alan's thigh's quivered, and he fell in closer to Denny's thighs. Moist breath and lips brushing oh-so-slightly against the cockhead, "I believe I'll be able to live with the uncertainty," Alan managed, but only barely, before he had drawn the full length of Denny up and into his mouth.

Never an expert cocksucker, Alan nonetheless took pride in his work, and he had picked up a trick or two from professionals he had met along the way. He wanted to make this incredible, a stick-lick that Denny would never forget, but at the first taste, the moment went to his head and he became a muddle of lips and tongue and raw, unbridled lust. He sucked with all his might until the tang of salt tingled against his tongue.

"Alan, stop!" Spasmodically, Denny shoved his heft into the shoulders, but Alan was the stronger--physically at least. If nothing else, his determination allowed him to stay in place. He knew perfectly well that he shouldn't, but if this was all he was to ever have, he would scour and scavenge every scrap that he could. He would savor it in the long, lonely masturbatory sessions ahead.

He held on and swallowed every splendid drop as Denny drained himself down his throat.

Gently he swaddled the retreating organ in his mouth until the cadence of the pig noises indicated that it was time to pull away. Alan knew from long experience how sensitive things could become after orgasm.

And some men's penises could be sensitive as well.

He rested his cheek against Denny's thigh and watched as Denny tucked himself inside his trousers.

Denny pulled away and out of the room.

"Denny--" It was the most sensitive time.

"I'm too old for this. I need to lie down. Are you coming?"

The other room was the bedroom.

As so often happened, Denny's exact meaning was open to interpretation.

Alan blinked. "That is currently...undecided. Regardless, it is not a necessity to make my evening...unparalleled."

"Suit yourself." Denny shucked his jacket onto the clothes horse. "I've always said, people should go after what they want. Grab for that big... brass...cock ring."

Tossing his own jacket and tie to the floor, Alan followed to the king-sized bed.


**

"You shouldn't do that, you know," Denny said as they lay side by side.

"Which? Have sex with whomever I want, or give pleasure to someone I love?"

"That--thing you did." Denny made deep suckling smacks. The pig noises had been more erotic.

"Swallow? A simple act, done by billions and billions every day. ""You know what I mean. There's HVI out there. You shouldn't do that. Some people would call that self destructive--self hate--risking your life that way."

"Those people would be wrong," Alan murmured. He moved closer, head now against Denny's shoulder. "I have seldom loved life more than at this moment."

"You shouldn't do that," Denny repeated. "It's dangerous. You could--" He clamped to Alan's hand and held it, his gaze redoubled in intensity. "Alan, I don't want you...doing that."

It was a strange sort of tenderness. One had to know Denny to realize what a giant leap for him that was.

"Denny, would you believe me if I told you I never had before?"

Denny exhaled and looked away. It didn't take a long moment to make a point.

"I don't have it, you know."

"Pardon?"

"HADES. HVI. I don't have it. The tested me for everything--came up with a fatty liver, high cholesterol, colon polyps and--" He made little circling motions at his ear. "--you know. But I don't have that HVI. In case you were worried."

There is an HIV related dementia. Alan had Googled all possible treatable causes.

"Thank you, Denny. That is one less load upon my mind." Alan snuggled closer in, and the length of his semi-erection jutted into Denny's side. He lay with one hand chastely flat upon Denny's chest.

Denny jerked his head to the side-jutting-area in question. "You didn't--"

Alan cut him off. "Sometimes I don't. You mustn't take it as any sign of my satisfaction or dissatisfaction, or as any reflection upon Denny Crane. I have been known to take my pleasure in some...singularly peculiar ways."

"Um." Denny grunted in an endearingly ovine timbre. He ran a hand over and around Alan's hip.

Alan's eyes flew open in the first genuine surprise he had felt in years. He hadn't known to what great depths he had hungered for that freely offered touch.

It ran up and down his inner thigh.

"I never learned to sew," said Denny, "but this should be the inside leg."

Alan wanted to respond, to say this gift was unnecessary and superfluous, but he found he had lost the capacity for speech. All he could do was repeat the only few words that mattered in this situation, and swell with delight as Denny's breath, predictably, drew in harder in response.

He opened his own pants to ease himself, but it seemed wrong--somehow lesser--and he wrapped his hands firmly within the sheets, determined not to let go no matter what. Miracle of miracles, Denny's hand moved inside his trousers, to the freshly shaved skin of his inner thigh, and he thought he would explode at the intensity of the touch.

He rocked hips and legs against the palm wanting more, needing more. Denny's hand moved faster, but only on the thigh.

On the exquisitely sensitive, obscenely erogenous, almost religiously revered, baby-smooth skin of his inside leg.

"Denny, Denny, Denny!" Alan tried the name over and over, crazed for whatever it might potentially unleash.

"Crane, Crane, Crane."

Denny responded at the appropriate intervals, but his hand stayed where it was, never straying higher. It was divine. It was diabolical. It was what Alan had wanted most for so long, and yet it was not quite enough. It would drive him insane if it didn't stop soon, yet he would give anything at all to keep the exquisite stimulation as it was.

And then, warm skin rubbed over the extent of his sac.

It could have been misconstrued as a cramp or spasm, so rapidly was the skin there and gone. The stimulation was at once too much and not enough. It brought him to that terrible precipice where orgasm must either happen now or drizzle away, unspent.

He knew he could--should--jerk himself just once and end this now, but then Denny would cease to touch him, and that would be too sad to bear. Biting his lip, he bid his bluing balls to do their worst and wrenched his fingers within the sheets once again.

But then, in some bizarre accident too awkward to be intentional and too perfectly timed to be anything but, the back of Denny's wrist grazed the underside of his dick, and took one-two-three seconds to work itself away. Then Alan was coming so powerfully that it actually hurt. He pressed his ear to Denny's heart and listened to the thrum.

"Denny Crane." Warm breath curled in Alan's ear.

The man could be unbearably smug. But in all fairness, he had earned his laurels. "Indeed," said Alan, when he could speak. "I would thank you, were I not afraid that you would think I was referring to the sex."

"I'm still not having sex with you." Denny wrapped an arm around his shoulder.

Alan looked up. "In whose reality, pray tell, are we speaking? The William H. Clinton academy of 'not sex?'"

"Mad cow, remember?" Denny tapped a finger to his forehead. "I don't even remember what I had for dinner tonight; was it chicken or fish?"

"Mad cow?" Alan repeated, no accusation in his voice.

Denny's face settled into an unfocused stare. It turned to Alan and begged understanding. "It's the best I can do."

"Like always, Denny, your 'best you can do' makes me feel like a rank amateur."

"Wait thirty years. You'll get there."

"I sincerely hope so." Alan dropped his head against Denny's chest and curled his body around.

Denny cleared his throat. "You could kiss me if you wanted to. If you're not afraid of mad cow."

Alan moved his face closer. "I don't believe it's spread that way." He slid closer to Denny's face.

Denny sniffed his lips. "Is that...me...I smell?"

"In the flesh. Well, not so much the flesh, but a colloidal derivative extracted there from."

Denny shied away. "Mouthwash. Second shelf."

Alan produced a smile, one of his more wistful ones. "Perhaps I will." With a nod of his head, he was up and to the bath. He showered and stripped, then wrapped himself in Denny's robe. It was big and soft and fluffy and smelt really nice.

It was not so unlike Denny himself.

When he re-emerged, Denny was asleep muttering his name--his own name, that is--in between snores and rhythmic exhalations into the pillow.

"Sleep well, Denny Crane." Alan kissed him on the lips.

He returned to the sideboard for more scotch and cigars. He brought back the bottle, two glasses, and--fresh out of hands--he carried both cigars in his mouth. He set Denny's on the nightstand and settled into the wingback in the bedroom to wait. It had a fair view of the picture window overlooking the city, but an optimal view of the bed.

Alan lit his cigar and exhaled a great cloud. One day he should learn to blow smoke rings. He'd been told it was phenomenal oral exercise in preparation for other things.

He checked his watch: less than a half-hour to go. It was a shame that he was no longer up to the antics he had once been capable of. He trusted that Denny, friend that he was, would share his stash of pills. He wondered if Miss Pamela had large buttocks. He closed his eyes and gave his imagination free rein.