It was late afternoon on a crisp sunny Thursday in April, and Danny Vandervere was putting the final touches on his outfit for the White Party. His suitcase was nearly packed, his well-made and fashionable but decidedly slutty clothes for travel, pre-parties, after-parties, poolside, and restaurant meals already neatly folded in a saddle-leather Hermès half-trunk that stood open in the middle of Danny's red-carpeted and mahogany-paneled dressing room; a collection of costly cosmetics and grooming products--mostly unnecessary for a twenty-three-year-old boy naturally blessed with extraordinary skin and hair, but nevertheless cherished and used religiously--were all packed in a matching toiletries case; a few pieces of extremely expensive jewelry were locked in another small case that would go into his soft-sided carry-on bag.
But The Outfit, the all-important White Party Outfit itself, was giving him some trouble. The shirtless ensemble consisted primarily of high-waisted white sailor pants tailor-made in soft but sturdy stretch gabardine, skin-tight from navel to knee and then blossoming into dramatic but not floppy bell bottoms that nearly dusted the floor, hiding the white soft-soled Oxfords that were comfortable enough for hours of dancing without being too gauchely puffy.
Any decoration beyond that would be gilding the lily, as Danny Vandervere is never anything less than breathtaking: he is blessed with a tall lithe body, voluptuous but not bulky with carefully cultivated muscles, exquisitely proportioned with wide shoulders and a tiny waist, almost-spherical pectorals and buttocks, tautly sculpted abdomen and smooth hairless skin; this wonder is topped by a head of glossy blue-black curls arranged in a cherubic halo around a face of nearly unbearable perfection, chiseled Italianate bones and blushing white English skin with luscious red lips and huge thick-lashed gray eyes.
Anything such a paragon chooses to wear to the White Party would inevitably become the rage of fashion within minutes of his entry on the dance floor; he could not only get away with wearing a chartreuse polyester leisure suit if he so chose, but chartreuse polyester leisure suits would become a staple at the next Circuit party. However, Danny is a young man of wealth, leisure, and artistic inclinations, and he has precious little to do with his time besides dressing himself to a degree of perfection rivaling the heads of Mr. Blackwell's famous list.
And so, even with so simple an outfit, there were variables of detail that took up hours of Danny's otherwise idle afternoon. He'd spent the better part of one hour wondering if he should wear underwear or not, trying on thongs and briefs and jock-straps and boxer-briefs, struggling back into the pants with every change; at last he put the pants on "commando" and examined the effect in the floor-length trifold mirror.
Though the effect was certainly eye-catching, it bordered too closely on the obscene for Danny's comfort: though he was by no means shy about showing off his massive member to anyone who was interested in seeing it, he didn't like making it the centerpiece of his body... he wanted people to see his face, too. He also found it uncomfortable to move around too much with it rubbing against his thigh when he walked or danced, as the friction tended to make the monster rather awkward to accommodate in tight pants.
Stroking the beast idly with his thumb, he decided that the thong-back support jock was the best bet, bundling his genitals into a big round basket that was as eye-catching as no underwear but considerably more comfortable, and so turned to fold four pairs of that style into his suitcase.
Then he turned his attention to hats. He had two, a simple canvas sailor's cap as well as a structured officer's peaked cap with a glossy black bill and gold braid. He liked the shape and prestige of the officer's cap, but preferred the all-white of the sailor's cap, which would not interfere with his overall whiteness nor clash with the platinum and diamond jewelry he intended to wear. He wondered if he could cover the black bill and the gold embroidery with the white shoe polish he'd bought for his Oxfords, or if he could find another cap of the same shape but with no color before the shops closed that evening.
"Oh, poop," he sighed when the screaming peal of his doorbell interrupted this important decision-making process.
He reached out to pick up the wall-phone he'd recently had installed, part of a system that he'd had to put in place after an unpleasant occurrence the previous winter: he used to leave the street door to his small 1920s apartment-house open during the day, and would receive callers at the front door of his second-floor flat; but since someone camped out in the darkened stairwell waiting for Danny to come out, intending to do him harm, Danny had a buzzer system installed, with wall-phones in every room of his flat so he didn't have to go very far to answer the bell, and kept the street door locked at all times.
"Hello?" Danny asked the caller; he wasn't expecting anyone, and experience had rendered him cautious of the unexpected.
"Danny, it's Valerien, let me up," came a faintly impatient voice.
"Okay," Danny replied, pressing the button that operated the gate downstairs, then hung up and moved quickly down the long hallway connecting the front and back rooms of his apartment toward the door.
"I'm sorry I didn't call first," Baron Valerien de Seguemont rushed through the door and into the living room without preamble, a short slim blur of silvery-blond hair and silvery tweed suit, "I need to ask you something that won't do over the phone."
"That's all right, Val, I always love to see you," Danny followed his guest into the living room, "Can I get you some...".
"What the hell are you wearing?" Valerien interrupted abruptly once his vision adjusted to the indoor light and he saw his friend's outfit. His big violet eyes, which had been eloquent of despair a moment before, were squinting slightly with confusion; his lovely Dresden-figurine face was crimped with a combination of distaste and disbelief.
"It's for the White Party. Do you think the necklace is too much?" Danny fingered the narrow band of square-cut diamonds bezel-set in bright platinum that circled his throat.
"Who'll see it, with all that cock jumping out at them?" Valerien gestured at Danny's crotch with a fey flutter of his hand. Though one of Danny's cock's most ardent admirers, Valerien is extremely traditional in his views and somewhat hidebound about propriety.
"I'm going to wear a jock underneath to the dance," Danny explained, "So do you think the choker is too nelly?"
"Too nelly for what?" Valerien cocked his head to one side prettily, considering the question with the import it deserved.
"The White Party," Danny repeated, "In Palm Springs."
"Oh, merde, is that this weekend?" Valerien wailed and dropped down onto the satin-upholstered Duncan Phyfe sofa that held pride of place in the center of Danny's opulently overfurnished living room, "You've been looking forward to this for weeks, haven't you."
"I've had my tickets since November," Danny sat down beside his friend, tucking one foot under his leg and turning to face him.
"I hate to ask you this, but I'm just that desperate. What can I do to get you to come to the Château instead?"
"But I'm almost all packed, I have hotel reservations and flights booked and everything," Danny objected, then relented when he saw the hunted look return to Valerien's lovely face, "But I don't have to go, I guess. I mean, it's too late to cancel the reservations, but that doesn't mean I have to show up."
"I will make it up to you, I promise," Valerien took Danny's hands in his own, a gesture he reserved for important statements, talking fast and serious, "I'll pay back all your expenses for this trip, and book you into Miami's White Party, or New York's, or Mardi Gras in Sydney if you like or any other party you want attend anywhere in the world. Private jet, suites, you can take friends, I'll even go with you if you want."
"Oh, you don't have to do all that," Danny was somewhat frightened by Valerien's earnestness: he seldom gave the appearance of taking things very seriously, and though he was always generous to a fault and had given Danny millions of dollars worth of gifts during the six months they were together, he never spoke of money or paying for things unless he absolutely had to.
"But I will, and more than that," Valerien vowed, "I'll make it up to you if you'll come up to the country with me tomorrow and stay for the week."
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1,456 words.
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