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I never pitied the bastards I served. They were all stuck up pieces of shit who treated food like designer handbags. They worshipped that stupid little book by that dumbfuck tire company and it made me wanna rip their heads off. But their bullshittery meant I could afford a place in SoHo, so I just sucked it up and ran with it. And when I worked the bar, I soaked up their misery, the thinly-veiled depression that followed the yuppies around like a cloud of drainflies that kept their heads tethered to the earth by a strand of fishing twine. The one thing that prevented their egos from inflating so much that their heads exploded, and I revelled in it.
That was the truth for all except a one Patrick Bateman. He was an awkward, corny kind of guy by the looks of him. He spoke like an editor for a pop culture magazine, just parroting the opinions of those more popular than him. I'd strain to overhear him from the bar for reasons I couldn't place until I made the guy's accquaintance during a chef's table.
Him and a couple of his Wall Street buddies booked the place's most high-end chef's table experience. Whatever they asked for, I had to make, no matter how insane or wasteful or downright distasteful. Most of them ordered your typical molecular gastronomy bullshit (not that any of them knew what that word even really meant. I'd bet dollars to doughnuts that they just knew it was what rich people ordered). Popping caviar, sous-vide steak, smoke guns, that kind of thing. I rolled my eyes once my back was turned, but whatever. I signed up for this, I supposed. I cranked out their orders the way they taught you in culinary school. Make it hot, make it fast, make it sexy. Now, Bateman on the other hand…
Bateman asked me to make him the place's claim to fame: an uni ceviche. Really, all it was was a bowl of orange mush with some lime and chopped veggies. It was a terribly accquired taste and frankly uni ceviche was the dumbest idea I'd ever heard. He took one bite and made a face as he forced himself to swallow. Great. He was going to complain and insist I make him a replacement. But he didn't. He choked down the whole bowl like it wasn't textural hell. Yuppies didn't finish meals they didn't like. But he did. He was different, whether he was trying to be or not. He was spared the intense formality and eye rolling for the rest of the evening. That included when they all stayed and yapped for about two hours after we were supposed to close. Actually, we wound up in the alleyway behind the restaurant.
"Y' want a smoke?" I asked, plucking a cigarette from a pack of Malboros.
Patrick shrugged. "I don't have much better to do, I guess," he muttered, taking the pack from my hand surprisingly roughly before pilfering a cigarette between his teeth and shoving it back into my hands. Okay. A little weird.
We lit our cigs in unison, him with a gorgeous silver lighter, me with a shitty Bic from the bodega two blocks down. It took a couple tries, given the thing was nearly out of gas from the number of times I've had to re-light the stoves, but I got it in the end.
"Thank you, by the way," I hummed, blowing out a rather sizable puff of smoke. "Most of the superficial losers who walk in here order some fancy Michelin bullshit and leave. Or complain when they order the bullshit and it tastes like bullshit. So, yeah, thanks for polishing off that ceviche." He didn't reply. I guessed that was fair. It was kind of an odd thing to thank someone for, especially when most Michelin chefs lived for the fancy stuff.
Well, my odd choice in conversation topic didn't stop there, because I then added, "You're not like them. Call me crazy, but you feel more alive than the rest of those fuckin' yups. I don't know you personally, but you feel… real in comparison to the rest of those fuckheads."
I couldn't tell if he was listening or not, but he certainly was staring at me now. It wasn't so much a glare, though he seemed to glare at people pretty damn often if that dinner was anything to go by. He looked like he wanted to kill everyone in that room, including me until dessert. Then it was like feeding a starving lion an entire buffalo. His whole body relaxed and he seemed to slip into his own little world. It was kinda fun to watch.
Patrick's nose scrunched up as he took a small puff and flicked basically the whole cigarette away. I guess if you smoke fancy cigars most of your life, a Malboro Red is gonna taste like shit to you. "I've invited everyone for drinks at my penthouse. You should come. It'd be interesting to learn what food at this caliber looks like from the other side of the window," he said, intensely monotone yet still surprising.
What else could I do but agree? I mean, I guess I could have said "no, but thanks," but I really wanted a drink after the bullshit his little friends had me make. So I hauled myself into his fancy car ("Ooh, is this a stretch Cadillac? I'm more of a Euro car guy myself, but if I had to pick a company stateside, it'd be Cadillac.") and next thing I knew, I was sat on the end of his kitchen island, three straight whiskeys deep and starting to get a little loopy. I was faring better than the others, at least. They were all out cold at that point.
"Y'know somethin', Bateman? You pick a damn good Scotch. Izzit… is this Glenfiddich?" I slurred out, taking another sip.
He paused doing… whatever he was doing, sharpening a knife, I thought— and almost irritatedly pulled down the bottle to show me. "Glenfiddich Grand Château 31 Year," he said bluntly before swifly perching the nearly two thousand dollar bottle back on its shelf.
"Ha!" I laughed triumphantly, "I knew I tasted red berries in it! Sam Jurgen, eat your heart out! I have a damn good pallete!" I polished off the glass with ease, at which point I still had enough sense in me to realize I should probably stop now before I wound up like the lightweights on either side of me.
The sound of his knife against the stone was music to my ears. Assuming the blade was already sharp, I figured it had to be at least 6000 grit. Pushing myself up on the counter a little to see, I asked, "What'cha sharpenin'?" He turned around to reveal a gorgeous Zwilling 6-inch meat cleaver, its edge glistening from the water on the stone. "Oh, that's a sexy knife," I muttered, reaching out to run my finger along the spine. "Sexy fuckin' knife. I wanna watch it bang through a beef spine."
Patrick stood stock still for a moment, knife clutched in both hands and a somewhat owlish look on his face. "You… enjoy butchery?" he questioned, seemingly surprised that a guy at a Michelin would enjoy something so unrefined.
"Fuck yeah, man. It's almost horny, y'know what I mean? It's— god, how do I even start to explain it without sounding like a murderer— it's like opening up a pussy. A good butcher's knife sails through skin like fuckin' butter, and then you're met with ruby red flesh that's all slick and shiny and ffffffuck…" I pressed my head against the marble counter and tried to let it cool off. Motherfucker, I got hard. Fuck.
I took a couple deep breaths, my unfortunate erection painfully obvious, but I was too sloshed to care. And to be frank, it looked like Patrick was struggling a little too. He was staring down at the knife's edge and licking his lips, almost contemplating the mental image I'd provided.
Tentatively leaning back, I chuckled, "I wasn't lying when I called it horny, huh? Shit man, I drank way too fuckin' much."
His eyes shot up for a second before locking back onto the knife. He had a white-knuckle grip on the handle, to the point where his hand was shaking a little. He set it down temporarily to roll up his opposite sleeve, then picked it back up and laid the side of the knife flat against his arm. He angled it just slightly and slowly dragged down, shaving off a small patch of hair before putting it back down. I saw him shiver as goosebumps raised on his arm. "That's a damn sharp cleaver," I commented, watching his gaze drift between his arm and the knife. "It'd cut through flesh real easy. You could probably cut yourself and not even feel it."
At this point both of us were breathing a little heavier. We were both fucking weirdos, and both a little too in the bottle to really be bothered by it. I rocked my hips up against the edge of the counter, eyes rollling back at the friction, even through the baggy chef's pants. God, that felt good.
Patrick looked up at me as I moved and I could swear to god I saw his cock jump in his slacks. He then picked up the knife again and swiftly tested my theory out on himself. He dug the blade into his skin and made a cut just deep enough to draw blood as his whole body trembled. "Couldn't feel a thing," he said, voice forced and wobbly at the edges.
Oh god, that was equal parts adorable and so hot I got lightheaded. The little warble in his voice was so cute. I was struck with the mental image of having him shaking apart underneath me and letting out wobbly little moans. I started humping the counter at this point, and Patrick didn't seem too far behind. I saw his opposite hand shoot down to palm at his bulge.
"Fuckin' hell, man, are you trying to get me naked or something?" I huffed, hips stuttering as I forced myself to slow down. "God, you look pretty with that red on your arm. Pomegranate red. Fucking delicious."
He froze, seemingly having forgotten I was there altogether. Nervous eyes scanned the rest of the guests, still completely passed out and slumped against the counter. "I'm not gay," Patrick claimed, voice a rasp.
I shrugged and huffed out, "Yeah, okay, whatever helps you sleep at night. Now are we stopping this now or frotting on the couch?"
He looked like a deer in headlights. A little scared but also genuinely thinking about it. He seemed to swallow his pride as he undid the first couple buttons of his dress shirt and walked over to the couch, cleaver still in hand.
I practically ran over, yanking off my chef's coat and haphazardly draping it over the back of the couch. Patrick set the cleaver down and undid his belt and fly, pushing his pants down just enough to reveal thin white briefs with a glistening patch of precum. I wasn't doing much better as I shoved my pants down around my thighs and the entire front of my boxers were completely soaked.
As I sat down, he crawled on top of me and straddled my thighs, our poor twitching dicks sandwiched between us. "You're a disgusting fucking faggot," he hissed as his hips rocked against mine, making both of us shiver for a second. "I hope you catch AIDS and die young like the rest of them."
"Glass houses, Bateman. Last I checked I wasn't the one who cut himself after hearing a man call butchery hot." I grabbed his hips and held them tight against me so I could thrust into that perfect space between his cock and his thigh.
"G-go to hell," he muttered, back arching as our cocks rubbed together for a moment. I let out a groan and rolled my hips up again just to watch his own body betray him. "I mean t-that I hope you burn in hell f-f-for even fucking offering to do t-this— oh God—"
I pulled down our underwear to let out both of our throbbing dicks, letting them twitch in the air for a second. Patrick was just a little bigger than me, a good half inch longer and a tad thicker, but so much wetter at this point. I watched a fat drop of precum roll down his shaft before I took it in hand and gave it a few solid pumps. He moaned like a fucking whore and a hand shot up to cover his mouth. I was fixed with a sharp glare for that, but I was too busy rubbing the soft, shaved skin around his base to notice.
Teasingly, I asked, "You shave? Funny, the only guys I've met who actually give a shit about it are the sluts I've fucked at bars."
Patrick grit his teeth and gave me a rough shove on the shoulders. "F-fuck you!" he shouted, anger barely restrained, "Fuck you! I s-should have caved y-your head in with that c-c-cleaver!"
Still, he fucked up into my fist as I took both of us in hand and started rubbing, delighting in watching his abs tense up and feeling his attempts to shove me into the couch get weaker and weaker. He bit his lip and let out the most delicious little whine as he shifted in my lap to lean back and buck up against my hand and cock, tip dribbling precum nearly constantly now. Patrick braced himself on my knees and I could feel his arms trembling. My hips studdered when I felt something wet and warm on my leg. Oh right. The cut.
He seemed to notice it too as he pushed himself up a little and inspected the wound. It was still a brilliant red, our sweating and moving not giving it a chance to scab over. I took his arm in my free hand and he jumped and tried to wrench it away. Just as he did, I slid my thumb over the cut and he hissed in pain, his whole body shivering. He then paused and, ability to protest without seeming like a hypocrite gone, offered his arm back, looking away as a ferocious blush ravaged his face and neck.
I kept fisting our dicks as I gently ran my thumb over the cut again, pulling a shaking exhale out of him. Then I pushed down just a little in front of the wound and dipped the tip of my thumb into it. Patrick mewled and threw his head back, instict telling him to get me away from his cut but libido begging him to stay.
"How'd I know you're a b-bloodslut?" I laughed breathily, coaxing a little more blood out with some pressure near the opening. "Huh? How'd I know you'd like having your cut fingered like a fucking pussy?"
Patrick just whined and bucked against my shaft a little harder, sending a tremble from the friction up my spine. He fumbled for something behind him before his fingers wrapped around the handle of the cleaver and he shot forward to press the blade against my throat.
"I s-swear to fucking god, if you don't make me cum before those a-assholes w-w-wake up, I'm going to beh-head you like a fucking chicken," he growled, now humping my cock and hand like an animal in heat. I groaned as the friction and speed practically doubled and I squeezed us both a little tighter. That seemed to be the right move, because he made a fucking pathetic, breathy noise and screwed his eyes shut.
I chuckled and moaned as the blade dug into my skin and his rhythm started falling apart. I had an idea. A very stupid idea. But the alcohol in my veins had all but decimated my sense of self-preservation, so I pulled his hurt arm up to my face and licked up the blood that had dried on his forearm. I got to the cut itself and started lapping at it, kissing it, wiggling my tongue under the small flap of skin.
Patrick's hips bucked wildly and he dropped the cleaver onto the couch in favor of bracing himself on the back of the couch, panting like a dog and fucking like one too. "Mmh… a-ahhhh! Mnnn, fuck! Y-yeah you fucking faggot," he keened, dick throbbing violently. "Clean up my fucking blood. Clean my fucking— god, oh god!"
All it took was a few more bloody kisses and thrusts for Patrick to spill, painting both of our shirts with his cum. He kept fucking my fist for a few moments, stopping only when it started to hurt. He pulled away and flopped onto the couch, panting and inspecting his wound.
"I swear to god, if I get sick because I let you lick an open cut like a dumb animal, I'm shooting you in the skull," he threatened, though it didn't really work given how blissed-out he sounded.
I didn't pay him too much attention as I jacked myself off the rest of the way. The metallic taste of blood in my mouth was more than enough to push me over the edge as I came over my legs with a throaty moan.
We both sat there for a few minutes, letting our heated bodies cool off before making any move to clean up. Eventually, we tucked ourselves back into our pants, got up, cleaned off our chests as best we could with some wet paper towels, and I got ready to take my leave.
Pulling my whites back on, I huffed, gesturing to his quote-on-quote friends, "Jesus, these fuckers are out cold. What'd you do, drug them or something?" I took his silence to mean I wasn't far off the mark. So I kept pressing. "Were you planning to have sex with the chef you met four hours ago?"
"Shut the fuck up or I'll twist your head off and pull out your guts like a fish," Patrick snapped as he buttoned his shirt back up. Then after a beat, he added, "Why the fuck aren't you reacting to anything I say or do? I've threatened you about five times now and you haven't even flinched. What the hell is wrong with you?"
I shrugged and slipped my shoes back on. "I'm an openly gay man. I'm kinda used to it."
He paused. "I mean it. I'm going to kill you."
"If that were true you would have done it when we were still sitting on the couch."
He froze and stared over at the cleaver. Still sitting there on the couch. Forgotten in the afterglow. I was right and he knew it. He had the perfect opportunity, and he didn't take it.
"Fuck you," Patrick barked, marching over to me, "fuck off, get out of my apartment, I hope you get hIT BY A FUCKING TRAIN ON THE WAY HOME, AND YOUR COAT'S BUTTONED WRONG!" And with that I was unceremoniously shoved out the door and it slammed shut behind me.
I fixed my buttons and said through the door, "See you next time you go to Dorsia, Bateman!" I heard a few things break, something bang against the wall, and then a few solid pounds on the door.
"I SAID FUCK OFF!" came Patrick's muffled voice.
I shook my head as I made my way down the hall and into the elevator down to the fancy-ass lobby. "There's something severely wrong with him," I muttered to myself as the doors shut and the sight of the penthouse door disappeared.