LPfiction

Category Linkin Park

Cliches, Casual Sex, and other Catastrophes by L.Phoenix

Cliches

A/N: Hi there! I’m taking a break from writing my actual novel and, kinda like “Knowing Me, Knowing You”, I probably won’t get around to this as much as I’d like because my novel usually comes first before anything, but I figured I need some hardcore Bennoda smut in my life. Thanks for reading!


Disclaimer: Don't know, will never know, don't own, will never own. FICTION.


Please forgive any typos. They happen. Too often...


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We met in the most cliché way possible.


It was another mundane Saturday night. My buddy Brad and I were sitting in my living room watching reruns of “Family Guy” and chowing down on pizza (stuffed crust, extra cheese, like every other hundredth time before). One episode ends, and another begins, and that’s when Brad sighed—I mean the kind of sigh that’s dramatic and somewhat annoying because you know he’s trying to make it pretty fucking obvious that he’s bored out of his skull.


“What is it?” I asked even knowing I’m giving him exactly what he wanted: my attention.


He looked at me, his tone as dull as the look in his brown eyes. “I’m fuckin’ bored. Saturday’s are like clockwork, man: I come over here, we order Pizza Hut, and watch the same goddamn show.”


“And what? You’ve a better idea?”


He grinned, the light returning back into his eyes. “Let’s go out! Let’s go to a club or something! We’re twenty-eight, dude! Almost to the dirty-thirty and what have we done in our prime? We work, go home, and spend our weekends just chilling on your couch not doing jack. We should be enjoying these years, y’know?”


I admit, he had a point. Of course I’d love a night on the town—I loved the LA night life, but I’d always been too afraid to ask Brad, or any of my other friends for that matter, to hit the clubs with me. The reason? Well, it’s simply really: they loved the pussy and I… I loved the cock. Nice, big, juicy, cock. I’m the only gay dude in our little gang, and that makes things hard… and not in the good way.


“And lemme guess, you’d want to go to a straight club?” I asked.

He sighed again, but not in the same dramatic way he’d done earlier. It was a sigh of ‘oh, fine, we’ll go to the gay bars if that means getting you out of the goddamn house.’


“Here’s the deal, Bennington,” he said. “We’ll hit up the gay clubs first. If you don’t find yourself a nice hunky man to take home by midnight, then we’ll go to a straight club so I can try to find me a nice hunky chick that I can take home.”


He paused. “Erm… that came out wrong.”


I laughed and shook my head. “Man, I’ve been off the scene for so long that going to a gay club would be a waste of both our times. I probably don’t even remember how to fuck a dude anymore. It’s been awhile.”


“Why must it always be about fucking? Why can’t we just be two guys going out on a Saturday night? Don’t you miss civilization?”


“Fuck no. I get enough of that at work.”


It was true. I had the lamest job in lamest job history: a call service… um… person. I worked at a call center. Eight full fucking hours, five fucking days a week sitting in a cubicle the size of a walnut (an exaggeration, sure, but goddamn was it cramped!) For those eight fucking hours I had to talk to angry assholes—usually old people who were neck-deep in their graves—and hook them up with triple AAA for roadside assistance. If I couldn’t answer their questions like why their check engine light kept coming on or why their tire blew after it was just replaced, it was somehow my fault. Like, c’mon crypt keeper, I’m just a messenger! And I know nothing about cars, so back off my shit, you know? I’m just here to connect you to the right provider so you can get your goddamn car looked at and have someone pick your old, saggy, smelly ass off the side of the highway. The first day of training you’re taught how to deal with the aggressive douche bags, but I’ll be damned if it didn’t, as Peter Griffin would say, grind my gears. Not to mention that sitting in a computer chair for that long drove me off the wall. I can’t sit still to save my life. But the money was good, and the job was a cinch for the most part, but by the end of the week, the last thing I wanted to do was to talk or even listen to another human being.


Brad had the exciting job as a business professor at UCLA. I mean, it may not be ‘exciting’ per se, but it was a lot more enthralling than working for a triple AAA call center. There was at least two hours a day I spent contemplating my life choices: I shouldn’t have left Phoenix and moved to LA for some chick when I knew I was 100 percent gay; I shouldn’t have led her on for three years, and I shouldn’t have cheated on her with the male stripper across the hall; I should’ve went to school instead of job-bouncing. But I did or did not do those things. So there I was: a twenty-eight-year-old hermit with absolutely no future, absolutely no love life (or even a goddamn fuck buddy for Christ’s sakes!), and absolutely no desire to hit the bars with my best bro on a Saturday night.


God, when did I get so boring? I used to be the biggest party animal in existence! After my ex and I broke up (or, to be more clear, she dumped my ass, and for good reason. Shit, wouldn’t you dump your boyfriend if you caught him mid-blowjob in your bed?), I went full-fledge into my sexuality. It didn’t matter if I just worked my third twelve-hour-shift in a row, I’d go home, get into my ‘sexy clothes’ and hit the scene and always, always went home with some hot dude and got my ‘sexy on.’


Eventually, when I was twenty-five, I settled down with a cute architect, Zeke Hammer, and lemme tell ya, his last name suited him damn well. That fucker could ‘hammer’ like no other. He was just as loud as me, just as crazy as me, and we’d scope out the bars together and choose another guy to invite into our bedroom. I mean, we were having threesomes out the ass (no pun intended), but we’d never exchange names or other bits of personal information with the guys we’d bring home. It was simply casual, it was simply sex, because at the end of the night, Zeke and I had each other. All in all, it was the best relationship, the greatest arrangement.


Unfortunately, such arrangements don’t last long when you’re trying to formulate a romantic, committed relationship. Can you guess which one of us wanted said romantic, committed relationship? Surprisingly, it was me. Having threesomes and orgies with your boyfriend is all fun and rainbows and unicorns and shit… for about the first year. After that it starts to get as old as the rude geezers shouting at you for not having a reasonable explanation as to why they’ll have to wait thirty-minutes for a tow truck. Zeke and I lasted for another year and a half, but I kept hounding him for a ‘normal’ relationship, and he ghosted me. I mean, straight up fell-off-the-face-of-the-earth ghosting. I haven’t had a relationship or even just casual sex since then. For whatever reason, it really messed me up; it murdered the hopeless romantic in me. Perhaps it destroyed me so badly because Zeke was my first boyfriend? Or was it because I felt as insignificant as an ant in a picnic basket after he ghosted me? Who knows.


“Chaz?”


“Hm?” I asked.


“Are we going or not?” Brad asked.


I hesitated. Call me cynical or boring all you want, but all I could think of in that moment was a laundry-list of things that could possibly go wrong if we went out. Possibility Number One: I’d be so boring that Brad would just get angry and say fuck it and give me the silent treatment for a couple days. Possibility Number Two: I’d end up having fun, get shit-faced drunk, and Brad would have to babysit me the entire time and he’d give me the silent treatment for the rest of the week. Possibility Number Three: Some dude would hit on me and I’d tell him to screw off and I’d end up drinking to drown my self-pity, and Brad would have to babysit me and he’d give me the silent treatment for two weeks. Possibility Number Four: I’d be so uncomfortable in the gay bars that we’d end up at a straight bar where I’d be even more uncomfortable and end up shit-faced drunk and Brad would pick up some C-cup bitch with long legs and he’d throw me in a taxi cab and I’d wake up with a hardcore hangover.

Do you see the pattern here? Do you see my dilemma?


“Chester! Get outta your head, dude, and answer me!”


I shifted in my seat and grimaced. “Ehhhh, I dunno, man. The thought of being around a bunch of drunk, sweaty strangers makes my skin crawl.”


“Awww, c’mon, Chaz! Please! Just this one night and I swear, if you don’t end up having a good time, I’ll never ask you ever again. Like, ever, ever, ever. Ever.”


I groaned, rolling my eyes. “Fine.”


“Hell yeah!”


“The only reason I’m agreeing to this is because I just bought a new wardrobe and leather boots and I hardly ever have an occasion where I can show them off.”


“Hey, good enough for me!”


Brad headed home with a leap in his walk so he could change for our night on the town. I showered, put my labret back in (something I wasn’t permitted to wear at work even though customers never saw me), and dressed into my new black jeans with the holes in them, a black t-shirt that was tight enough to squeeze the blood out of my ears, and my ankle-high boots with buckles on the sides. To top it all off: a leather jacket that sat on my frame just right. My blond hair wasn’t long enough to spike, but it was noticeable, and I was still in the process of toning my skinny frame, but hot damn I looked damn good, if I may so myself.


Brad returned an hour later dressed in jeans, a black collared shirt, and a beanie. I swear, if he played on my team, I’d bang the flesh off his bones. He whistled upon my appearance.


“You clean up nice! For someone who doesn’t want to sucked off tonight you sure are looking like a lollipop.” He teased and bumped me playfully with his elbow. I felt the heat rise into my cheeks. I haven’t felt sexy in years. In fact, I didn’t feel sexy right then either, but I felt good enough, I suppose. Not ugly by any means, but not, like, porn-star worthy.


“You look good too,” I said. “Alright, let’s get this shit over with.”


We decided to take an Uber since we planned on drinking like two drunk college girls at a frat party. LA during the day was usually a bumble of buzzing people rushing to get to work and tourists from all walks of life taking selfies in front of tattoo shops, famous coffee shops or restaurants, and listening to the sidewalk musicians or watching people breathe fire or dance or whatever crazy shit the sidewalk artists do.


LA during the night was a whole other creature. You could find every sort of person you could think of: half-naked girls in skin-tight, shiny dresses, and high heels, men making out, women making out, cross dressers, and the street performers were at large and there was a lot of neon-lights and loud music and drunk pedestrians trying not to stumble to their deaths into the highways. LA was fun at night, and I didn’t realize how much I missed the scene until the Uber driver dropped us off at ‘Neon-Glow’, one of the largest, most popular gay clubs on the strip.


“Ready to get your drink on?” Brad asked and I shrugged. “Aw, don’t be like that! It’s gonna be a blast! You’ll thank me later!”


Somehow I doubted that. Yes, I missed the night-life, and yes, I missed the gay scene, but I’d been away from it for so long that I’d forgotten how to react to it all. I felt like a goldfish in a pond of piranhas. I was just bound to get eaten alive, you know, and not in a sexual way I would’ve like to have been eaten. And yet there I was, next to Brad, and waiting in line to get into the club.


A bouncer checked our IDs and the thump, thump of the techno music we felt outside increased tenfold when we stepped inside. It pounded into the soles of my feet and up into my chest. For a second, I couldn’t breathe, the beat so intense and vibrating, and we were elbow-to-elbow with shirtless men dancing and grinding against each other. I avoided the obvious ganders we were receiving as we made our way to the bar. I was fully clothed but I’d never felt more naked and exposed.


Brad ordered two shots of tequila and two beers. We couldn’t hear each other over the thump, thump so he nodded his head and we clicked our shot glasses and downed our drinks. The hot liquid hit me instantaneously, warming my belly, and swimming upwards into my head. I learned real quick what a mistake a leather jacket had been. Never mind the fact it was October in California. It rarely got cold here.


So there I was—sweating bullets, standing next to my very straight friend, surrounded by all of these sexy dudes bumping hips and dancing inside metal cages. Brad ordered another two shots of tequila. I hadn’t even finished off my first beer! But how could I refuse tequila? Shit’s expensive! Not to mention Brad was buying. The music was pulsing and the mixture of strobe lights and alcohol had the room spinning like some fabulous, sparkly, carousel of hot men. We hadn’t even been there for twenty minutes and I was fixing to throw in the towel and go home; lounge in my pajamas with a tub of butterscotch ice cream, a horror flick, and call it a night.


I indicated to Brad I wanted to leave and he flipped me off, shaking his head. The bartender tapped me and I looked over my shoulder. He was handing me a shot of whiskey and jutted his chin towards a blond, overly-muscular guy with striking blue eyes that basically glowed in the dim room. I accepted the drink, but not the invitation. I nodded my thanks and smiled, and stared back at the dance floor. I’m certain I just pissed off a potential one-night-stander but, y’know, he was too meat-headed for my likings. Brad smacked me across the head and I scowled at him with my eyes, and he rolled his.


I sipped on the whiskey (smooth and honey-tasting. It was the good stuff. Poor guy… he bought the right drink for the wrong person). Again, I was ready to call it quits. I gulped down the rest of the amber drink, threw a twenty on the counter for the tender, and motioned to Brad ‘let’s get the hell outta here.’ He shook his head again but reluctantly gave in. There was no point in arguing. After all, wasn’t that the deal? If I wasn’t having fun, then we’d leave?

We pushed our way through the hampered crowd, and the red EXIT sign was close on the horizon, but then… something odd happened…


I stopped.


I don’t know why, I don’t know what for, but I just stopped and something—a voice inside my head? —told me to look to my left, so I did, and I saw him. I know it’s not socially acceptable to say that men are ‘beautiful’ because a man should be ‘handsome’ or ‘sexy’ or whatever the fuck, but my God I couldn’t think of a better adjective to describe this… this… I don’t even know. I mean… those dark eyes, and mocha skin, and jet black hair styled into a faux-hawk. This… this… he couldn’t have been human, let’s just put it that way. Ugh! And the way his clothes hung off his body and the way the white t-shirt glowed purple in the UV lights! Shit! I thought my penis had stopped working a year ago. Guess I was wrong because I was fighting against having a full-blown erection right then.


The problem was he wasn’t alone. He was standing next to a red-head with muscles and tattoos. They weren’t touching. They didn’t look like a couple. But in an establishment such as ‘Neon-Glow’, it was trivial to determine who’s a couple and who wasn’t. Brad’s pushing me to keep moving, and I didn’t budge. It was as if the floor turned into wet concrete, gobbled up my feet, and dried around my ankles. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t breathe. My heart skipped a beat and created a beat at the same damn time.


Look at me, you gorgeous piece of man-meat, you! Look at me! LOOK AT ME!

Oh shit! He spotted me. Don’t look away, Chester. Don’t look away! That’s it! Eye-fuck him into the next century. Ooo, did he just smile at me? Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckiddy fuck!


Brad must’ve caught on to what—or who—had me frozen into a living, breathing, statue, because he nudged me forward again, but not into the direction of the exit door. The red-head nudged my smoldering-bullseye and before I knew it, we both sauntering towards each other. We met halfway easily, as if the sea of dancing hunks parted like Moses parted the red sea. Next thing I know, we’re standing face-to-face, and I could smell his intoxicating waterfall cologne and spicy aftershave. We didn’t say anything, not that we would’ve been able to hear each other anyways. Instead, he took my hand, our eyes locked honey-gold to black ink, like oil and water, a deadly combination yet blissfully explosive at the same time. He led me into the middle of the dance floor and grabbed my hips, and tugged me into his tall, slim body.


His movements were skillful. We started off slow at first because, well, we’re strangers, and it’s kinda creepy to start grinding on someone you’d just met thirty-seconds ago no matter how intense and mutual the sexual tension may be. Nevertheless, his hips rotated in tempo to the electronic beats almost as if he were part of the song itself, and he guided my nervous body to match his. For the first two songs, we weren’t standing very close, and he hadn’t become a blur in my vision until Song Number Three, but I’m getting ahead of myself…

We weren’t standing very close—a mere two inches from arm’s length, and his eyebrows were dipped low, his eyes squinted somewhat and boring into mine in a carnal blaze that could’ve set the entire world on fire.


His hands on my hips snuck upwards underneath my shirt, and the second I felt his fingertips on my sticky flesh, I wanted nothing more than to tear off those tight jeans and suck him dry. I haven’t felt this aroused since… since… your guess is as good as mine. Come to think of it, I started to doubt if I ever felt aroused a day in my life. Like, yeah I had threesomes with more than my fair share of hot guys—but that’s all they were: hot. This man, however? He put hot to shame.


One song led into another, and into another, and into another. I was drunk but not in the way I’d expected myself to be. I planned on getting drunk off too many shots of tequila that would drain my wallet dry. I wasn’t planning on getting drunk off the smell radiating off the eye-candy gradually yanking me into his scrumptious form. We were in the midst of an overcrowded, spam-tight dance floor, but it was as though we were the only two people who existed. I saw only him, felt only him, smelled only him. I was so helplessly hypnotized by this individual that I’d completely forgotten about Brad. I’d take deal with his silent treatments later. After all, wasn’t this what he wanted for me? To hook up with some stud and ‘live in the moment’ or whatever? Surely Brad wouldn’t be too upset that I ditched him for… whatever his name was.


We spent an hour dancing. We were drenched in sweat and our hands were stroking bellies and I nearly came in my jeans when I felt the trail of hair that would take me to a paradise of throbbing girth. I wanted to kiss him. He kept licking and nibbling on his bottom lip as if he wanted me to kiss him, but whenever I’d move in, he move out, so I stopped my desperate attempts, convincing myself that maybe he wasn’t a PDA sort of guy, which was kinda ironic considering he was hard as hell and grinding his denim crotch against mine.


Then there came a five second break between songs, and he put his mouth to my ear, and in those five seconds, he breathed a smooth, low, rumbling, “Wanna get out of here?”


Normally I’d say no. Normally I wouldn’t have danced with a complete stranger in an annoyingly populated gay club. Normally I wouldn’t have gone out at all. His invitation hit me like a subway train, and I said, “Fuck yes” just as the song started, but he read my lips, and we started towards the exit.


I couldn’t believe it. Me: hermit, human-hating, sex-deprived, have-to-be-dragged-by-the-ears to the dance clubs, Chester Bennington was leaving the gay bar with…. whatever his name was. He whistled down a taxi and we slid into the backseat. He gave the driver directions to the hotel. Yes, it was all one big, massive-ass cliché. What wasn’t a cliché, however, was the following conversation.


“What’s your name?” I asked.


“No names,” he deadpanned. “Here’s the deal. You’re hot. Like, ridiculously edible. But I don’t do names. I don’t do relationships. I don’t do number exchanges, and I don’t kiss.”


That explained a lot…


“And,” he continued, “I don’t do cuddling and romantic gazes and all that nonsense. We go to the hotel, we fuck each other raw, and that’s that. If you’re okay with that arrangement, then I can guarantee we’ll have one fuck of a night. If you’re not okay with it, then I’ll have the driver pull to the side and I’ll get out and we'll go our separate ways.”


Fuck me! How did history always have a way of repeating itself? This was like Zeke all over again, the only difference being that me and…what’s his name wouldn’t be in an open relationship. In fact, there’d be no relationship whatsoever. There’d be no kissing, no holding each other in the afterglow of sex. There’d be this one night and this one night only. In all actuality, it wasn’t the worst proposal. I sure as Satan’s blazing asshole didn’t want a relationship. A name would’ve been nice. I mean, what am I supposed to shout while he was banging my brains out? ‘Glorious God of All Things Godly?’


“Gotta let me know soon. We’re getting close to the hotel.”


I bit down on my lip. He skimmed me from knee to nose, his inky eyes filled with a sensual inferno that made my groin ache. Goddamn it! Why did I give two flying fucks about ‘names’ and ‘kissing’ when he was looking at me like that? I wanted his body, he wanted my body. It was all human nature; animal instinct. When’s the last time I’ve had a good lay?


I grabbed his hand and wrapped my lips around his index finger, licked it from the bottom to tip, twirling my tongue ‘round and ‘round—a preview of what I’d be doing to his cock in that cliché hotel room.

He moaned low in his throat and began petting my tongue with his fingertip. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes.’”


Damn… clichés were the best!

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