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Whispers	By : Queenie Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Eminem/Marshall Mathers Views: 6549 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know Eminem (Marshall Mathers). I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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**Disclaimer: I'm sure y'all know the deal. This is all made up, none of it actually happened (as far as I know), the events described have all come outta my twisted lil brain. Also, I've got the copyright on Jason Bexley ;) He's one of my favourite original characters, and I don't tend to lend him out. Erm... this story contains prostitution, implied drug use, coarse language and a hell of a lot of gay sex. Sound good to you? Read on!

~Part One~

He didn't look like a fan.

That was my first thought as I saw the boy approaching me with a pen, a notepad and a grin. He looked nothing like one of my normal fans; in fact, he looked exactly the opposite. The kid heading towards me looked like a typical gay brat, longish red hair curled delicately around a real thin face that wore traces of makeup, eyeliner and shit. Too-big jeans were precariously held up by a leather belt, showing off the hollow of his hipbones, and to top it all off he was wearing a tight pink t-shirt, with the word 'slut' proudly scrawled over the front in red glitter. He was a pretty boy, arrogant looking and far too self-confident, considering who he was approaching. Gay trash, the kind of kid who *hated* what I did. So what the fuck did he want?

I was alone in a shitty little bar in New Orleans, the only place I could find where I could be relatively certain that I wouldn't be disturbed, by fans or by shits who wanted to beat me up. I'd found that in NO both were common. I hated touring here, but I didn't have much of a choice, apparently the main act doesn't have nearly as much sway as the management. The place was full of crime, and it wasn't the crime I knew. Not like back in Detroit. There was some sort of mystery around the whole place that made me uneasy. I'd sat in my hotel completely unnerved, for two days before I knew I finally had to get out.

Despite the possible risk, I'd slipped the entourage back at my hotel by telling them all I was just ducking down to the hotel bar for a drink, quickly escaping out the back door. Danger or not, I hated walking around with the entourage following my every movement. The fuckers made me feel like a prisoner, I couldn't do anything without a vaguely guilty feeling, dragging these huge, stupid bodyguards along with me. I figured they'd be grateful I was giving them the night off, anyway. So the result of all this was me hunched at the corner of a little bar which, I was starting to realise uncomfortably, could very possibly be a gay bar, with a young gay kid (who was in no way, shape or form twenty-one) casually sitting himself beside me and ordering a drink.

"So, would I be mistaken in thinking that the great Eminem is sitting all by himself in a gay bar?" he asked in a cockney accent when the bartender had handed him his double vodka and orange. He twirled the vile coloured liquid with his straw and grinned at me. I winced as what I'd been dreading took shape. Fucking typical.

"I didn't know it was one of those bars, ok?" I muttered, shaking my head, my cheeks already flushing. I glanced around furtively, wondering how long the women I could see had actually *been* women. Busted by a piece of gay trash, it'd be all over the news in a fucking hour. 'Eminem, Caught Chatting Up Underage Boy in Gay Bar.' Shit. Just my luck.

"Oh, it's not," the kid said cheerfully, "I just wanted to see your reaction." He winked and slid the paper and pen across the bar at me. "It was quite a good one. Not as much swearing as I'd expected, though." My mouth dropped open, I could feel relief flooding through me, almost enough to drown out the irritation the brat next to me was causing. Almost. Little fucking shit had almost given me a heart attack.

"Don't fuck with me," I growled, scrawling my name across the piece of paper quickly so he'd fuck off. "I'm not in the mood."

"Oh, next you'll be telling me you've got a headache," he scoffed, "Not in the mood indeed." He glanced at the autograph quickly before shoving it aside. "What? No phone number? What's the point then?"

I stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was serious or not. He innocently took a sip of his drink, gazing right back at me with these huge blue eyes. Oh, fuck, don't let him be trying to pick me up…I was still edgy, still feeling a bit out of my league in the fucking weird-ass city. I just wanted to be left alone.

"Look, I ain't a faggot," I said uncomfortably, taking a swig of my beer and looking at him out of the corner of my eye.

"Of course you are! You're far too pretty to be straight, sweetheart. Now, don't break my heart, I was just getting my hopes up. Even if there was no phone number." He batted his lashes at me, and I caught just a hint of a smirk around the corners of his mouth. I had the strangest feeling that he was making fun of me.

"Look, fuck you, if I say I ain't a faggot, then I ain't a fucking faggot." I snapped, glaring at him. To my surprise, he merely burst out laughing.

"No shit? Mr. Mathers isn't gay? Well, there's a surprise. I'm *fucking* with you again. Christ." He downed most of his drink in one go and immediately ordered another without so much as a wince. I was vaguely impressed, but getting sick of the company. And getting sick of having some little gay brat make a fool of me.

"I told you not to fuck with me," I snarled in as menacing a voice as I could manage, slamming my beer down a little too hard, causing some of it to spill onto the bar. But the kid wasn't phased; he merely tsked reprovingly and used my autograph to mop up the spilt liquid.

"But you make it so easy," he protested, dropping the sopping paper into the ashtray and shooting me a sunny smile. "Oh, come now, Mr. Mathers, you looked so bored. I couldn't help myself." He rested his chin in his hands and looked at me y. y. "So what are you doing here alone, anyway? Where're the three million bodyguards I've heard about?"

"None of your fucking business," I muttered, "I came here to be alone." I prayed he'd get the hint, gay bar or not, it'd take one reporter to spot me talking to this brat for the rumours to start. And that was something I could do without. And he, like the rest of the damned place, was making me uneasy.

Unfortunately, he looked like he had no intention of leaving soon. "Yeah, a lot of people come to places like this to be alone," he said, nodding wisely, "All for different reasons, though. What are your reasons, Mr. Mathers?"

"None-"

"None of my fucking business, right," he finished for me with a smile. "Sorry. As you can probably tell, I'm not from around here. I think I tend to talk too much for Americans. Ask too many questions."

I nodded. "Yeah, you do."

He looked a bit miffed, and shrugged. "Right. Anyway, I gotta get back to work." He downed his drink again and set it gently down on the bar, before swivelling on his stool until his body was facing mine. He leaned in until his lips were right next to my ear, and before I could react, whispered softly, "So, Mr. Mathers, would you *like* company tonight? I don't cost very much and I can shut up when I'm told…"

I jerked away so fast I almost fell off the stool. The little fuck, I couldn't believe he'd just done that. In front of everyone one in the fucking bar, too. Jesus Christ, he just wouldn't take a hint.

"You're a fucking…whor-" I paused, took a breath, "You're a prostitute?" I should have guessed, he was too brazen, too confident, too pretty, to be anything else. Fuck, did I just say too pretty? Well, for a boy. He was pretty boy. Yeah.

He lifted one shoulder in a tiny shrug. "Call me a whore if it'll make you feel better," he said easily, "Are you so shocked?"

I shook my head, at a loss. "Look, I told you, I-"

"Ain't a faggot," he cut in again, and my words seemed suddenly ridiculous coming out of his mouth, flavoured with his London accent, "Yeah, so what? Most of my customers aren't 'faggots,' at least, not until they buy me."

"Fuck me," I breathed without realising it probably wasn't the most intelligent thing to say, considering, and immediately going red again. He smirked.

"Yeah, that comes about two hundred dollars later, Mr. Mathers."

"No, I didn't mean it like that," I hurriedly replied, "Shit, kid, you know that crap's gonna get you killed here in America? You ain't in England no more." I ran my fingers through my hair, suddenly feeling unexplainably distressed. I hadn't been lying, if the kid had tried that back in Detroit…I knew some people who would have killed him for less.

"In England, I've nearly been killed far more times than I'd like to count," he shot back, rolling his eyes, "People here have actually been quite friendly. Most people don't seem to want to slit my throat."

I shook my head again, continuously shocked at the shit coming out of this kids mouth. "How old are you?" I asked, almost dreading the answer.

"How old would you like me to be?" He batted his lashes at me a few times, his little smirk returning, and I rolled my eyes.

"Just fucking answer the question, will you?"

"I'm eighteen," he said defensively, "But don't tell our friend the bartender that." He tapped the side of his nose which was such a British thing to do I almost laughed, "You've got stupid drinking laws in America, Mr. Mathers."

"So what the fuck are you doing here, anyway?" I didn't know why I was even talking to him, he was a gay whore arr arrogant brat, and he was trying to hit on me. Insane, but I was starting to get used to that. I'd be out of there soon; just as soon I finished my drink…

"My friend, Vittorio, owns a chain of bondage parlours," he was replying, quite candidly, "He said he'd take me here with him on this business trip, as long as I could make my own way back. It's my first time in America."

"He your…boyfriend?" I managed to choke out. I could hardly bring myself to say that to a guy, it just sounded wrong on my lips.

The kid laughed. "Tory? Nah, we're just mates. He's a dom, you know, bondage and shit. S & M's never really interested me."

"Oh…?" I replied vaguely, feeling as if he was forcing my mind to open against its will with every sentence.

"I mean, I'll do some pretty heavy shit for my tricks, if that's what they want, but it really doesn't turn me on, you know?" He continued to prattle on; oblivious to the shocked stares I was giving him. I mean, I didn't want to know this shit. He really did talk too much.

"So, you got a name?" I interrupted, causing him to pause and look at me, a bit startled. I guess he hadn't expected me to ask what his name was, hell, I hadn't.

"Yeah. I'm Jason, Jason Bexley." He gave me a little grin, "But you'd have to beat the shit out of me before I told you my middle name."

"I thought you weren't into that kinda thing," I shot back, surprising myself. I knew I shouldn't be encouraging him at all; let alone teasing him like that. But he was kind of intoxicating; making me let down my guard a bit. I mean, I suppose it couldn't really hurt to chat for a bit, could it? He'd been right, I *was* bored. The city, despite its size, seemed lonely all of a sudden. I could use a bit of distraction. And it looked like he wasn't going to go away on his own anytime soon anyway.

"You're right," he grinned, laughing a little, "Exactly. So no beating m to to get to know my middle name, ok?"

"You really don't have to worry about it," I replied, smiling at him for I think the first time in the whole bizarre conversation. Jason looked genuinely pleased to see that smile, relaxing on his stool a bit. I almost wished I'd done it ages ago. "I ain't into it either."

"Well, you see, I could have told you that," Jason grinned and ordered yet another drink. I took his cue, and got another beer, too. After this one I'd go, for sure. "I'm good at working out what people want. It's kinda necessary in my line of work, you know?"

"You didn't guess that I wasn't gay," I contradicted, raising an eyebrow at him. He nodded, conceding the point.

"Yeah, true. Right, so I'm guessing you're not gonna take me home tonight, then?" The look on his face couldn't exactly be called optimistic; it was already too defeated for that. Maybe vaguely hopeful, but he didn't really expect anything.

"Look, I'm sorry. Even if I was…like that, I couldn't, you know?"

Jason patted my hand and gave me a small smile. "Don't worry. I didn't really expect to pick you up anyway. I was just seeing if I had the balls to try." The smile disappeared for a moment, and his eyes went a little cloudy. "Just means I gotta go to work for real now, that's all."

I frowned, somehow feeling a little sorry for him. "What's that mean? What do you gotta do?" I already knew the answer, though. And I didn't really want to hear it.

"It means, Mr. Mathers, that I have to pick one of the lonely men from this bar, chat them up, go back to a hotel, get two hundred dollars off them, and…well. You know what comes next, I assume?"

I nodded slowly, and took another swig of my beer, trying to absorb that. The kid was eighteen, and he was about to go sell his ass for a couple hundred bucks. It didn't seem right. "You really gonna…" I trailed off as I saw him watching me, nodding.

"You're such an innocent," he murmured, and I nearly fell off my chair again. "Yeah, I'm gonna do all that. It's what I do. It's who I am." He turned away from me, scanning the bar. Cruising, I suppose. Scoping for a trick.

"Don't call me innocent. You don't know shit," I muttered, playing with my drink, but my heart wasn't in it, my mind was overloaded. I should have just told him to fuck off from the beginning. Then I wouldn't be feeling...what? Sorry for him?

I watched Jason wink at a middle age man who'd come to order a beer. The man blushed furiously and hurried away glancing over his shoulder at Jason, who blew him a kiss. It was sick. It was fucking wrong.

"You gonna fuck him?" I asked incredulously gesturing at the guy, who was sitting by himself in the corner, his eyes fixed on Jason. Jason shot me a look.

"Well, if he lets me," he snapped, "Though now he probably thinks I'm with *you.*"

I glanced back at the middle aged guy; he was looking at me, then Jason again, then back at me. "Oh, shit. Sorry." I muttered, trying not to feel satisfied, even if I was vaguely astounded that anyone would think I was with a guy. Jason turned back to me with a sigh.

"Men don't want me if they see me with someone," he explained patiently, "He probably thinks you're my pimp. They don't like that, it ruins the fantasy."

"What fantasy?"

"The fantasy that I actually want to be with them," Jason replied darkly, and there was that shadow around his eyes again. I shook my head, not knowing how to respond, not knowing how I was supposed to react.

"So why do you do it? How can you just…sell your fucking body?" I was incredulous, my question probably came out sounding more like an attack. Understandably, Jason was immediately defensive, he looked like a cat with it's back up, his head held high and his eyes narrowed.

"Look, everybody does what they have to, ok? Everybody gets by with what they've got. It's like you with your rapping in a way, you do it because it's who you are. This is who I am. And like your rapping, it isn't particularly pleasant, but there you go." He shot me a challenging look, daring me to argue with him, then tossed his hair out of his eyes and turned away, scanning the bar again. But I wasn't letting it go that easy.

"I just don't understand," I said, "Ok, if you're a fa- if you're gay, that's fine. I ain't, but I can handle it if other people are..."

"Very noble of yo Jas Jason cut in dryly.

"Whatever. But straight or gay, prostitution...it just ain't right." I raked my hands through my hair, looking at him in frustration, "I mean, don't take this the wrong way man, but you're a good looking enough kid. There's gotta be other shit you can do."

Jason gave me an almost pitying look. "I fucking know I'm good looking," he said frankly, "It's all I am. Men want to fuck me, Mr. Mathers, employers don't want to employ me. I didn't finish high school I haven't had any work experience, I've been in jail. And I'm not like you, I can't rap, I can't sing. I don't have any special talents other than sucking cock, and that's that."

I flinched, glancing back down into my beer, studying the amber depths. He was right, for all I knew. I mean, I didn't know shit about hustling, why would I? It was out of my league, and I honestly didn't *want* to know. The best thing to do would be to finish my beer and get the fuck out of there, away from the pathetic story of the gay brat, the story I didn't want to hear and certainly didn't want to be part of.

But for some reason, I couldn't make myself leave.

We spent a few minutes in silence, me still entranced by my own drink, and Jason scanning the bar for a potential trick, before suddenly he sat up with a start, a sly smile curling his lips.

"Well, hello, father," he murmured under his breath, and I wrinkled my brow in confusion.

"What the fuck are you on about?"

"I just saw tonight's customer," he replied, leaning in close to me, "See the priest? He is perfect."

I followed his gaze, my eyes landing on the young Catholic priest who'd just entered the bar. "Oh bullshit," I scoffed, "You ain't never fucked a priest."

"I have so!" Jason looked at me, sounding almost childlike, "I have fucked exactly six priests, two bishops and a cardinal. And a few ministers too, but they don't count."

My mouth dropped open, not so much at Jason's revelation, but at the apparent pride he appeared to have at seducing so many men of the cloth. "Man, that is so fucking wrong," I muttered, "A fucking priest?"

He quirked an eyebrow at me in amusement. "You a religious man, Mr. Mathers?" he asked, trying not to laugh. I almost laughed at the idea myself.

"Nah, no way. It's just...the idea of priests, you know? You don't expect them to be doing that kinda shit. It's wrong."

"Priests," Jason started, "Are the 'wrongest' men you'll find. Fucking kinky bastards, it comes of them being so damned repressed." He shrugged, "They're also the biggest pedophiles out, you have to have heard the stories about priests and what they do to their little alter boys, right? They all want me to be fifteen, fourteen. They're sick, but I like playing with them." He nodded to the one currently sitting a little ways down the bar. "Especially the cute ones."

"That's sick," I announced decisively, "Kid, I like you well enough, but that is fucking sick."

Jason burst out laughing, and before I knew what he was doing, he'd leaned over and kissed my cheek. "Honey, I know it is. Don't you just love it?" He slid from his stool, stretching a little so his top rode up his slim belly, "Well, it's been good meeting you, Mr. Mathers, I can't say I'm a huge fan of your music, but I have always thought you were damn hot. And you didn't disappoint in person."

"Thanks so fucking much," I said sarcastically, trying to ignore the blush that I knew was staining my cheeks. I was a bit dismayed that he was leaving, though I tried to ignore it.

"You're welcome," Jason smiled at me, a real smile, rather than the cynical little smirk he often seemed to wear, "I gotta go work. I'll see you around."

"Yeah, see ya." I said softly, watching as he approached the priest in much the same way he'd approached me, swinging his hips and smiling seductively.

"Good evening, father..."

I looked away, I couldn't watch that shit. But it was impossible not to try to hear the conversation, hear Jason's flirting, hear the priests surprised, hopeful and ultimately sleazy responses.

"Are you a religious man, my son?" I looked up in surprise, it was practically the same thing Jason had asked me. Jason noticed me looking, caught my eye and gave me a quick wink.

"Well," he said softly, licking his lips slowly, "I certainly know how to get down on my knees and worship my father..."

I left. I didn't want to see them together, I didn't want to think of it. It was just too much to lay on me in one night, too much for me to handle. I didn't want to sit there and watch as Jason led that fucking priest out of the room by the hand, didn't want to see if maybe he'd give me another wink, or mouth good bye. I left without looking back, because if I had the jealousy would have been too much.

Yeah, jealousy. I was jealous, and I was sick by the thought that that kid, that little fucking kid, was gonna sell his body to some sleazy cunt of a priest, who didn't know him, and would never know him. Not like I did.

Except that was fucked up, 'cause I didn't know him at all. I mean, I'd spoken to him for twenty minutes in a bar, I couldn't really go around claiming to be his soul-mate, or his fucking protector. What he did was none of my business, and certainly none of my concern. So why the fuck couldn't I get him out of my head, then? What was it about the little shit that made me like this?

I made my way back to the hotel, put up with about thirty people yelling at me for wandering off on my own without really hearing a word anyone was saying, and escaped up to bed. I didn't want to talk to anyone, didn't want to listen to their fucking pointless worries and problems. It all seemed so superficial, so meaningless. I couldn't bring myself to care that my second New Orleans show hadn't sold as well as it should have, because out there was a young boy getting fucked by some screwed up priest who should have known better. Jason had implanted himself in my head, and there was no way to get rid of him. My mind was racing with images of his sad smile, his big blue eyes gazing at me, his lips pouting. It was sick, it was beyond sick. I mean, this wasn't like me at all, I didn't even go for chic's with Jason's personality, let alone guys...

I hadn't lied. I wasn't gay. I wasn't in denial. I wasn't going through a phase. I didn't like guys, there was nothing else to say on the matter. I recited all this as I curled up in bed, trying to reassure myself of the truth of it. Guys didn't turn me on. *Jason* didn't turn me on. He was nothing but a faggot whore, a low, fucked up whore who should have been nothing to me.

It wasn't working. I moaned in frustration, burying my face in the pillow. Fuck it, I wanted The There it was, simple as that. I wanted the little brat, wanted to kiss him and make the sadness go away mad made me feel sick, it was fucking wrong, but it was the truth. My hand slipped down my body to my cock, hardening already just from the *idea* of having him. As I pumped myself, I tried one last time to fix this, tried to imagine it was some hot, blond bimbo sitting on my cock, fucking herself on me. But Jason won again, because as I came, it was him I pictured, whispering in my ear, his hair tickling my face, his hot breath on my neck.

"Fuck you," I gasped as my come spurted out over my hand, "Fuck you."

And inevitably, Fantasy-Jason smiled at me and whispered, "My pleasure..."
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Whispers