The Lie of Clark Kent

Elsewhere, he is not Clark Kent.

He wears jeans, not leather, because they're comfortable. He does not wear mesh, or silk, just cheap Hanes cotton stretched tight and nearly see-through from over-washing. He does not dance, because he has two left feet and that's not why he came to the club, anyway.

He does not wait, either.


In Smallville, Clark Kent is a lie.

Secrets are a way of life, and he has as many as he has lies. He lies to the town, he lies to his friends, he lies to his parents. Different lies to different people, all concealing who he really is and what he really is not.

Truth is an abstract concept, and he supposes he knew once how to be honest.

The only thing he's honest about now is that he lies.


Muted red light casts the back room in a sinful glow, morphing bodies into shadows of lust and debauchery. The scent of sex and spunk is heavy in the air, the floor tacky and littered with wrappers and discarded rubbers. The strong bass from the music penetrates the room and underscores the grunts, moans, and slick sucking sounds.

In the center of the room, away from the hidden edges, is where he takes them. Strips them bare. Bends their bodies how he wants. Exposes the truth, because flesh cannot lie. Makes them wait, until the pleas are honest and raw.

Makes them wait a little more.


He had peeled off childhood and became a man at thirteen-years-old (according to his fake birth certificate, another lie). The gifts he had enabled his rapidly changing body and hormones to take him places outside of Smallville and experience for himself what the older boys talked about in the locker room, and even more than that.

To his parents, Clark Kent is still a boy. He allows them to believe that.


Experience has taught him to choose the jaded, older males for sucking and the eager, young males for fucking. Men had better mouths, boys had tighter asses, and the women were too used in the clubs.

A single hand holds them in place as he takes what he wants. Reciprocation is not something he bothers with. Release is what he seeks, a truth he cannot lie about, a benediction that's torn from his body with a silent scream.


Clark Kent knows of Lex Luthor's interest in him. It is not the first time someone older and male, or female, has expressed a physical desire for him. But he is Clark Kent in Smallville, an innocent lie, a puppy who wears his heart on his collar for all to see. The interest may be there, but he is not approached and he does not approach in return. Instead, he keeps up the lie.

But the lie is slowly being picked apart, by Lex.

And Clark Kent lets him.


Water is what he drinks, after. Bottled, expensive in a club where alcohol runs almost free. He tilts the bottle to his lips and the ice cold trickle washes away the taste of truth.

His muscles shift beneath cotton as he takes what's left of the bottle of water and pours it over his head. He rubs his hand through the dampened locks, creating curls. Droplets slide along sun-tanned skin stretched taught over strong cheekbones and cling to thick lashes framing green-blue eyes.

He sets the empty bottle on the bar, tips the bartender, and leaves the club for Smallville to resume the lie of Clark Kent.

In the back room, his conquest for the night is finding the relief that was denied, with another.


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