Date: Tue, 18 Sep 2007 16:41:22 +1200 (NZST)
From: Nick Cramer <antinous48@yahoo.co.nz>
Subject: Chris Trousdale my bodyguard, part 2

The 'Chris' in this story is based on Chris Trousdale as he appears in
pictures on his Myspace page -- punkish, in scruffy jeans.  But the story
is purely fiction, and implies nothing about the real Chris Trousdale, his
habits or his sexuality.

There is one further instalment to come.  But comments on the first two are
welcome -- to antinous48@yahoo.co.nz.

CHAPTER 2: AN EVENTFUL SATURDAY

I woke up the next morning, Saturday, excited and
jittery. I hadn't felt that way, or at least not for
that sort of reason, since my teens. My original plan
had been to prepare for Monday's business meeting in
the morning, then spend the afternoon sight-seeing.
On the face of it, my encounter with Chris involved no
change of plan, since I wasn't due to meet him until
noon -- but I got little work done that morning, and I
was already sitting anxiously in the hotel lobby at
11.45, gazing out through the plate glass window. I
was worried that if Chris turned up wearing the shabby
jeans and jacket he had had on the previous night, the
doorman of my smart hotel wouldn't let him in. To
spare Chris that embarrassment, I was poised to dart
outside as soon as I saw him come near.

On the dot of twelve Chris came into view. But I
didn't leap up and run outside -- instead I leaned
back in my armchair and drank in the sight of Chris as
he walked confidently past the doorman. It was the
sort of hotel where the dress code specifies 'casual
elegance'. Well, no one could have been more casually
elegant than Chris was that morning. He still sported
a bristly chin and floppy spiky hair, but instead of
his ragged jeans he was wearing a clean smart pair,
and instead of the jacket he was wearing a white
T-shirt that hugged his torso, under a crisply ironed
blue shirt, unbuttoned. The shirt had shoulder-flaps,
and sewn on to its two pockets were military-style
badges. A macho look -- but Chris was living proof
that machismo and elegance aren't incompatible.

I stood up. Chris caught sight of me and broke into a
smile. As he walked over to me I registered further
details: a plain ring on his right third finger, a
black-and-white towelling sweatband on his right
forearm, and a small oblong metal plate (a military
identification tag?) dangling from a thin neckchain.
Around Chris's waist was a belt of black leather with
metal studs, and he had rolled his shirtsleeves up,
drawing attention to the swell of his biceps. All
this proclaimed 'You mess with me and you're in
trouble'. But Chris's face told a subtly different
story. His square jaw, prominent cheekbones and chin
with its Kirk-Douglas-style dimple could have belonged
to a routine Hollywood tough guy. But in contrast I
noticed again Chris's delicate mouth, his fine
straight nose and above all his eyes -- long-lashed
and penetrating.

'Good to see you, Chris,' I said, shaking hands. We
both picked up from the night before: studiedly
casual, friendly but low-key. 'You too, Nick,' he
said, adding '-- so Englishmen don't wear suits all
the time!' 'No, even we need to unwind sometimes,'
was my bland reply. 'Glad to hear it, Nick! You
wanna unwind? I'm here to help!' said Chris, putting
his hand on my shoulder with a grin -- but then it was
if he felt he had gone too far, because he immediately
put his hands in his pockets and looked at the floor,
hunching his shoulders.

'Let's have something to drink before we start
sight-seeing,' I said to cover our joint unease.
'Sure,' he agreed. We sat down in armchairs at right
angles to one another -- knees not touching this time,
but there was compensation in that I could get a
better eyeful of Chris in the daylight of the hotel
lobby than in the smoky dim bar. As for Chris, I
could tell that, as we drank our coffee and chatted
(about the hotel, the weather, nothing personal), he
was appraising me keenly too. I noticed more and more
in Chris's eyes a hesitant questioning look, with a
hint of sadness, even though on the surface he was
bright and cheerful.

'Maybe this is a lame idea,' I said, 'but as it's my
first time in Gotham City I'd really like to do all
the obvious tourist things -- the Statue of Liberty,
the Empire State Building ...'

'Why, fine! That'll be fun for me too!' said Chris.
'That is ... I said I'd show you around, but I gotta
admit, I haven't been to those places since I was a
little kid, so I won't be much good as a guide ...'
He hesitated, then looked away from me with a
confused, troubled expression: 'So, I mean, if you
want a proper guide, I'm sure the hotel here can
arrange --'

'No, Chris, I want YOU to show me!' I blurted. He
looked quickly at me -- startled, questioning, perhaps
pleased, all at once. Now it was my turn to worry
that I'd gone too far. I gabbled on: 'I mean, I'll
enjoy it more with you' ('Hell, I'm making this
worse,' I thought), 'that is, you said it would be fun
for you, so why not let's do some sightseeing
together.' I tailed off lamely, conscious that I was
blushing.

Chris smiled at me. His smile widened. 'OK, off we
go!' he said. He leapt to his feet, grabbed my arm
and pulled me up. 'Smart English Nick and local boy
Chris -- we're gonna see the sights of Gotham City!'

To cut a long story short, it was one of the most
enjoyable afternoons of my life. Despite what he had
said, Chris had plenty to tell me about the places we
visited, and his evident pleasure -- or rather (I
won't be modest) his evident pleasure at showing them
to me -- left me elated.

We had dinner together, then around nine o'clock we
found ourselves strolling back towards my hotel. How
was the evening going to end? I didn't know, but I
wasn't worrying about that: I was just savoring the
here-and-now, enjoying chatting to this sweet gorgeous
young man that I had met less than twenty-four hours
before.

'It's been a great day, Chris. You've been an awesome
guide! And ... and ... thanks again for coming to my
rescue yesterday.'

Chris stopped and turned to face me, with a serious
expression on his face. 'Nick, I don't know how often
you'll be coming to Gotham City. Maybe ... well,
maybe you won't be here often.' Chris's voice was
neutral and calm, but I could sense that it took an
effort on his part to keep it so. 'But whenever you
come, I want to be not just a guide again for you but
...' He faltered, then took a deep breath and began
again. 'Because ... because ...' Chris gently
grasped my left wrist with his right hand and raised
my hand to the level of his chest. 'Put your hand
there,' he said softly. We were standing close
together in the middle of the sidewalk, facing each
other, oblivious to the passers-by who skirted around
us. Guided by Chris, I pressed my hand against his
chest (the first time I had touched it) and felt under
the cotton of his T-shirt his right nipple and the
firm half-moon of his pectoral muscle. Chris carried
on speaking, almost in a whisper: '... what are you
touching, Nick? What's this under your hand?'

My mouth was dry and my heart was pounding. I found I
could hardly speak. But there was no need, as Chris
carried on speaking, softly but with increasing
confidence. 'What you feel here -- it's not just my
body, it's a wall, a strong wall, to protect you,
Nick, a wall to keep you safe. Gotham City can be
dangerous, you've learned that, English Nick, but
you've got a place in it -- if you want -- where
you'll always be safe and ... and always be welcome,
and that place is with me.'

'Oh wow, Chris, I ...' I couldn't say more. Instead
I hugged Chris tight and he hugged me, in the middle
of the sidewalk, for a long minute. When we separated
and looked at each other, silly happy grins were on
our faces. Neither of us said anything. Instead we
walked on slowly, each with an arm around the other's
waist.

At last I found myself speaking again. 'Yeah, you
rescued me, Chris. But we'd already met! Say, when
you saw me in the street and asked me for a light --
what was in your mind then?' As soon as I said this,
I realized that I hadn't seen Chris smoke all day.
Then, too late, it dawned on me that that hadn't been
a wise question to ask.

Sure enough, Chris stopped walking and froze. He
turned towards me, glaring coldly. 'Why d'you ask
that now, Nick? Only a fool would ... But you're not
a fool!' He turned away and slammed the palm of his
had hard against the stone wall of the office building
we were passing. 'I thought we were having a good
time today -- we both were -- but ... but all the
time you despised me! You're smart, yeah -- smart and
so superior! I gotta hustle for a living, sure, but
after all we done today -- after what I just said --
you ... you rub my nose in ...' He leaned his right
hand against the wall, presenting his back to me,
gazing down at th sidewalk, his shoulders bowed. I
stood aghast, speechless. At last he turned back
towards me, his face this time creased as if he were
holding back tears: 'I really thought you liked me,
Nick. Well, my mistake. Why should a smart English
guy like a ... a low-life Gotham City street punk?
Because isn't that what I am, Nick? Isn't that how
you see me? And you're right! I've been a fool,
thinking ...' He took a deep breath and looked at me
solemnly. 'Like I said, my mistake. Thanks for the
meals, Nick and -- goodbye.'

'NO!' I reached out towards Chris, but, quicker than
me, he had already darted round a corner and was
running down a dark narrow side street. I dimly
realized it was the side street up which we had walked
the previous evening, when Nick was guiding me back to
the Hotel Bristol. Numb, dazed, I found myself
shambling back towards the hotel now, only a few yards
away. Then -- 'No!' I said again aloud. Passers-by
looked at me, startled. Turning, I ran back to the
corner and looked down the dimly lit side street. No
sign of Chris. He could be anywhere by now. Even so,
I ran wildly after him: 'Chris! Stop!'

Was there some commotion ahead? In the entrance way
to what looked like a warehouse on the other side of
the street, three figures seemed to be engaged in a
tussle. There was another man, smartly dressed,
watching them. Suddenly I recognized our attackers
from the previous night, struggling to force Chris
through the door of the warehouse. 'Get away, Nick!
They don't want you!' yelled Chris, panting. 'Stop,
let him go!' I shouted -- just as Chris was forced
inside the building. The door slamming behind him.
The smartly dressed man and the two thugs turned to
face me.

'It is unwise of you to interfere,' said the smartly
dressed man.

'Let Chris go!' I said again, standing, panting -- all
too conscious how futile it was for me to issue a
command like that. The thugs advanced menacingly.
'He's seen us. We'd better take him too, boss,' said
the taller one. 'Yes, unfortunately' said the boss,
'we'll have to decide later what to do with him. No,
don't be rough with him. I think he'll come
willingly.'

I found myself ushered through the door through which
Chris had been forced moments before. When we saw
each other again, we were both captives ...