"C'mon, Scott, you gotta know it's all mind games." That was his best friend Diesel. "Okay, so he's good at it. That guy can get in your head faster'n Dr. Freud. But his tricks can only work if you let him in your head, man."
Scott glowered at him. These days, even Diesel couldn't make him perk up. Ever since that painted freak Goldust had started trying to fuckin' woo him, sending him love letters and a centerfold of himself and other gay shit, he'd been on the razor's edge - no pun intended. Scott didn't like any of that stuff. He was a healthy, red-blooded American male: he liked cold beer, wrestling, and girls girls girls. Everything had been fine before that pervert had shown up, shamelessly flaunting himself on television, in front of kids. What was this world coming to. "I don't give a crap," he told Diesel, pounding his fist on the table. "If he lays a hand on me, I'll break all his fingers!"
Diesel wasn't even looking at him anymore, Scott realized. His eyes were fixed over Scott's shoulder, toward the stage back door. Scott craned in his seat to see that, sure enough, someone had let in a pack of ring rats eager to get their hands on some of their favorite wrestlers. Several of the other guys had already gathered around them.
"I got just the thing to take your mind off Goldust," Diesel said, as he pushed his chair back.
That name. Scott cringed. Goldust. He wondered what the guy's father thought of his son, dressed up like a drag queen and chasing after guys. Scott had trained under Dusty Rhodes, and he couldn't imagine the man raising a son to be... be... whatever the hell Goldust was supposed to be. Diesel told him Goldust and Dusty weren't on speaking terms, and no fucking surprise why. As he watched Diesel walk over to the ring rats, Scott crossed his arms indignantly. A six foot six wrestling drag queen was sweet on him, and even his best friend laughed it off. Thanks a lot, buddy, thought Scott bitterly.
Whatever the hell Goldust was supposed to be, he sure hit like a man. Scott rubbed his jaw absentmindedly, remembering the solid blows Goldust had given him during their last match. When they had their rematch on the 19th, he was gonna beat the hell out of Goldust - he was gonna embarrass him in front of the fans, in front of the whole world, in front of his old man. He was gonna make Goldust feel as small and confused as he'd made Scott feel.
While the other guys hooked up with the rats, Scott found himself wandering off down a hallway, alone. On a typical night, he loved flirting up a storm with the girls backstage, having them admire his muscles and bat their eyes at him. But tonight was not a typical night. Impossibly, Scott missed his wife. Sure, he loved her; that's why he'd married her. Not that that stopped him from screwing around (or stopped almost any of the guys from screwing around). He supposed that after so many weeks without seeing her, even old pussy seemed like new pussy.
Scott grunted softly as he rubbed at his temples. A pounding headache had come over him suddenly, and he decided to find a place to sit down. He headed for the first door that he saw, and finding it unlocked, stepped inside.
He found himself in a dressing room, lit only by a lamp on the far side of the room. Blinking as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Scott's first impression was that it must belong to one of the girls - a bejeweled robe hung on the wall next to him. Then a soft moan reached his ears, and Scott went shock-still. The moan was followed by panting; harsh, blatantly sexual. He felt his first stirrings all night. Craning his head around the corner, Scott turned his head to the left, and as his eyes adjusted at last to the lack of light, an unbelievable sight lay before him.
Goldust was fucking one of the ring rats. He had her laid across a chaise lounge, at the head of which was a tall, ornate mirror. Scott guessed that it was there so that Goldust could watch himself at work - for him, fucking must be another performance. Goldust himself was completely naked; only shadows clung to him. Although he was facing away from him, there was no mistaking Goldust, Scott would've known those tattoos and his crew cut anywhere.
Scott tore his eyes off the bare expanse of Goldust's back and fixed them on the girl. She was sprawled on her back, eyes wide open but staring upwards, at the ceiling. Thank god she doesn't see me, Scott thought, gripped by panic. Some voyeuristic impulse kept him rooted to the spot, watching eagerly as Goldust knelt between her open and slightly bent legs. The girl's legs trembled, and even in the dim light Scott could make out the rosy flush that covered her body. She was in ecstasy.
She keened and arched her back as Goldust did something to her with his mouth. Scott tilted his head a bit to catch a glimpse of Goldust's tongue flicking against her cunt - he noted dimly that the guy had an obscenely long tongue. Goldust slid a finger in her up to the knuckle, and as he twisted his hand, the girl arched up, spine tense as a guitar string, a begging noise stuttering past her lips. Her eyes screwed shut. Scott barely noticed that he was stroking himself through his pants.
Goldust bit down on the flesh of her thigh, and the girl released a cry of joy. Her hips bucked wildly. Goldust's other fingers slid upward to gently stroke her outer lips. Her hands balled into fists, and she thrashed again, overcome by another orgasm. A bolt of pleasure shot through Scott at the sight. He loved fucking women - he did it more often than he did anything that didn't get him paid - but he'd never seen one like this: drowning in orgasms, twisting upward to meet him, her entire body like an instrument to be stroked and plucked. He cupped himself and squeezed.
Crescendo. The girl wept softly with pleasure. Goldust pulled himself up above her (not for the first time, Scott noticed he was huge; he almost covered the ring rat completely) and asked her, "Do you want another?"
Scott struggled to control his breathing. He couldn't seem to stop palming himself through his pants. He watched as the girl nodded at Goldust, blinking away tears. After a moment she found her voice again. "Yes, yes. I want it."
Still, they seemed oblivious to Scott's presence.
Goldust flipped the girl over with ease. She wiggled on her tummy, sticking her ass in the air, and he braced himself over her. He reached between his legs and grasped his member, rubbing himself against her entrance; Scott could see how she glistened, she must've come hard. Seemingly satisfied that he was wet enough, Goldust pushed into her with one solid stroke, and a gasp escaped from the girl, her voice crooning as she did. He set a slow and steady pace, grasping her hips with his hands, using his strong legs and back to hold himself above her.
Shame flooded Scott. What was he doing - he was letting this pervert turn him into just as much of a pervert. This was exactly what Goldust wanted, he thought, to know that everyone else, including Razor Ramon, was just as freaky as himself. He ground his teeth. Scott knew he would hate himself for staying to watch as much as he had, but he couldn't seem to make his legs do what he knew they should do - turn around and walk out, or charge forward and attack Goldust on sight, as he did every other time he saw him.
Goldust's back flexed with the intensity of what he was doing, and his neck and back muscles stood out starkly, lovingly caressed by the dark shadows cast by the single lamp. He tilted his head back, and as he did so, the mirror before him captured his reflection. Scott was horrified to see his own reflection suspended in that same mirror at that same moment. Goldust stared hard into Scott's eyes, wide with surprise and horror. For a moment, their eyes locked.
Goldust's tongue snaked out of his mouth, and slowly licked his upper lip, a fluid motion from left to ring.
That was enough. Scott turned on one foot and bolted from the room, not caring if they heard his retreat, not caring if anyone saw it. As he ran out he noticed the name plate that read GOLDUST in elaborate, gold calligraphy hanging on the door. Surely he must've seen it before he walked in - why didn't he remember? Scott's feet pounded down the hall, carrying him far from Goldust and every sin he offered.
Safe in his hotel room, Scott bolted every lock on the door, turned on the shower as hot as he could stand, and scrubbed himself furiously, as though trying to erase any evidence Goldust had ever even breathed on him. Afterward, he wiped off the bathroom mirror with the back of his hand, and stared into it. He searched the face he found there: dark hair, wet from the shower, curling around his neck. His heavy brow. His mouth. This was the man who'd stood, enraptured, and watched Goldust fuck some ring rat, with his hand in his pants the whole time. Disgusted, he turned away from himself.
The next night, Scott sought out Diesel and drug him to the bar. "Hit me," he ordered the bartender, throwing a fifty on the bar.
Diesel side-eyed him. "You gotta match against Goldust in a couple of hours. The rematch for the Intercontinental Title. You ain't gonna get wasted and get in the ring -"
Scott gulped down a beer. He sat the empty cup down, and set his lips in a grim line. "I got this."
"You ain't got this -"
"I said, hit me," Scott pointed to the bartender.