2.0: Devon


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Devon twisted the throttle and shot up the Ventura Freeway. The Ducati hummed softly between his thighs as he slid between the lanes and darted in and out of traffic. The lights of Universal City reflected in his visor as he flew past it on his way to Glendale. The motorcycle was a gift. One of many, showered upon him by a long line of suitors.

He had always enjoyed motorcycles, though he was raised on Harleys and other lumbering cruisers. If his father were alive, he would have been disgusted by the Italian bike. There was much about his life his father would have disapproved of and his choice in motorcycles likely would have been low on the list. At least it wasn’t a rice burner, he could say that much. There was just something more appealing to him about leaning forward into the wind, cutting through the plodding masses. It was sexier, mounting the bike like a lover rather than a Lazyboy recliner. Riding on a cruiser made him feel slovenly and arrogant, like a fat, greasy king strutting for his subjects. Clinging to the Ducati was more like a knight, charging forward with his lance poised to pierce the heart of anyone who might stand in his way.

Also, it purred like a cat as he flew down the freeway and he liked that. The Harley his father rode sounded like a pissed off bear, roaring at unsuspecting pedestrians. It was loud and aggressive and intrusive. Devon preferred to slide under the radar like a ninja rather than kick in the door like a lumberjack. The Italian bike suited his style. With his oiled, black leather jacket and a matte charcoal gray helmet, he felt like a ninja.

The bike only cost him a few hours of his time and the use of a select set of specialty skills he picked up along the way. At twenty-nine, Devon spent the last ten years of his life learning how to flatter and please those with the means to support him and his tastes. As he grew older and more experienced, he found himself seeking out more extravagant and elaborate rewards for his talents. Rewards he felt justified in claiming.

Most of his friends were older, wealthy gentleman (and occasionally their bored, sedated wives) who appreciated his charm and discretion. Devon had a few selling points that some of his peers (not that he considered anyone truly his peer) lacked. He wasn’t a drug user, he lived clean and he had an adaptability that was nearly chameleon like. He could be an innocent little twink one day and an imposing bully the next. He was just as comfortable in a dive bar or a tuxedo, and he had a knack for anticipating the needs of his friends before even they knew what they wanted.

Devon also never asked for money. He didn’t consider himself a prostitute or escort. He was simply a man with many friends, and he appreciated the gifts his friends gave him. Jewelry was a popular one. Electronics. Art. Memorabilia (many of his friends were in the film industry) and other expensive knick-knacks that he could turn around and sell quickly. Sometimes he kept the gifts he was given (the Ducati for instance) though it was rare. He wasn’t ashamed of what he did, but he also rarely held sentimental attachment to his gifts.

The motorcycle he loved. Not only because it was a spectacular machine, but because it actually meant something to him. The friend who gave him Ducati was a particularly successful (and generous) actor who genuinely cared deeply for Devon. It wasn’t exactly love, but he found himself looking forward to his visits with that one.

While socially, Devon presented as bisexual, leaning gay, privately he identified as asexual. It gave him a certain detachment from the process that allowed him to approach it mechanically, without all those complicated attractions and attachments. That said, he wasn’t a sociopath either. He was fully capable of developing feelings for his friends.

Unfortunately, the majority of guys he was friends with were arrogant, occasionally even mean. The depth of those relationships rarely scraped past sexual activity. They were men used to yelling into phones to get their way and bullying those around them. He called them friends but the relationship was more on the benefits side.

The Actor (which is as much information as he ever gave anyone when it came up) was kind though, and treated Devon as an equal rather than a servant. Even guys who wanted to be slapped around and beaten-up talked to him like an employee outside of the bedroom. The Actor never spoke to him with anything less than respect, and more often than not he accepted Devon as an actual friend.

Ironically, Devon rarely maintained real friendships with any of his friends. The Actor clearly cared for him though, and that made him feel bad about selling the gifts he gave him.

The motorcycle he gladly kept. It was spectacular. He shifted down and tilted onto the exit ramp toward Glendale.

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