Frankie Fever

Frank took his sweet-ass time. Seriously, I waited for fifteen minutes, went and had some dinner with my family, waited for another fifteen minutes, started rooting through my wardrobe and he still hadn't arrived. Although, when he fell through our front door and apologised for taking so long, I learned that he had to sneak around his Dad and then ran into some ex-girlfriend of his and it wasn't too pretty. Therefore, I forgave him.

Moments later, we were in my room, Frank rummaging through my wardrobe and me sat on the end of my bed. He dragged out a pair of black skinny jeans he'dstolen for given me. I never wore them because I felt stupidly self-conscious in them. Now he was waving them in front of me, ordering me to wear them.

"Frankie, seriously, I can't wear these!" I protested, holding the jeans at arms length as if they were dripping with something disgusting.

"You can and you will!" He said firmly "Now c'mon, threads off!"

I blinked at him. How one boy could be so shameless and confident I'd never know. Seriously, wandering around his apartment with no shirt on while I'm over. Something I wouldn't even think of doing. But he'd just throw his shirt off and skip around the apartment like he was by himself. Not that I was complaining obviously, I got to see that beautiful body. And also gaze in awe at that tattoo and wonder how he could be so brave and how he'd managed to get away with being old enough.

When I made no movement, he marched forwards, taking hold of my belt. I protested bitterly, trying to slap his hands away but he was relentless. My jeans were pooling my ankles in record time and I was stood shyly in a t-shirt and my baggy boxers. Frank laughed at the light blue material I called my underwear. I scowled at him, stepping out of my jeans, arms closed around my hips self-consciously.

"Well," Frank began "I know I'm getting you some 'more appealing' underwear for Christmas!"

"Gee, thanks," I grumbled, snatching thestolen skinny jeans off of him.

Frank went back to rooting through my wardrobe while I sucked my breath in and tried to yank the jeans up my legs. I was terrified of them making me look like the fag that I was. I mean, seriously, only fags, chicks and cool people like Frank wore skinny jeans, right? I was not cool and in no way a chick. Frank had the legs for skinnys. He suited them. He looked good in skinnys. I, on the other hand. . .

"Whoa, hello hot stuff!" Frank growled, emerging from my wardrobe.

He winked at me and made a silly little kissy face. I blinked at him. I'd been expecting him to reel away in horror when he saw me and suggest maybe a different pair of jeans. But no, he was looking me up and down and nodding in approval. I smiled shyly at him; he frowned. Then he ordered me to show some confidence, 'show the ladies what I was made of'. So I struck a stupid fashion model pose, mocking him.

Frank took me seriously and his frown deepened. He stepped over to me, shaking his head. I rolled my eyes to myself as he stood beside me, reaching out and lifting my head.

"Head up," He said firmly, holding his own head high "Walk forwards."

He walked a confident circle, oozing sex appeal as he did so. As he rejoined me, nodding his head expectantly, I felt anxiety creeping over me like a green slime. I could never be sexy and seductive like Frank. I was just that weird kid in the corner.

"Hey," Frank said, looking at my face "What's wrong?"

I shook my head, sniffing and calling myself stupid.

"C'mon, don't be upset-"

N'aww.

"- it's not that hard! Honest."

D'oh.

Frank stood beside me again, head up. He started that sexy walk again.

"Roll. Your. Hips," He explained "I know it seems girl-like but it works! You only need to roll 'em a little, naturally."

He urged me forwards. So I did as he instructed, rolling my hips just a little. Frank nodded approvingly, a grin on his face as I walked around the room, retracing the circle he'd walked.

"Great, Gerard!" He praised "Just remember that! They won't be able to resist!"

He then retreated to my closet again to find me a shirt to wear. I practiced walking that walk again. I didn't wanna' let him down. I was doing pretty well until I tripped. And, just my luck, Frank emerged from the closet and witnessed me stumbling slightly.

My cheeks flushed as he struggled not to snigger at me. I wanted to run and hide in my closet he'd been rooting through and just sit in there all evening, sniffing everything he'd touched. . . Just kidding about that last part. No, really, I was just kidding.

"Never mind," He promised "I've done that a few times. Just carry it. Stand back up straight and keep going!"

How did I even manage to trip anyway? Chicks are the ones that trip when they're trying to walk the walk in those stupid heels. I wasn't even wearing heels.

Frank produced a shirt he'd approved of. Just a plain black button-up one. Apparantly it 'screamed sex appeal'. Woohoo? Of course, after these events, I tried to wear this outfit around Frank as much as possible since he liked it.

Just like he had done to my jeans, Frank pulled my shirt from my torso when I was reluctant to strip in front of him. He didn't bat an eyelash at my pasty torso. I hated my body, Frank's was toned and olive coloured in the summer. Mine was just a body, no fat but no muscle either. Frank had started to drag me along to the gym with him on a Wednesday night for an hour or so, promising it'd be worthwhile when I had the women hanging off my arm.

"C'mon, don't be stupid, Gerard!" He urged "You'll look great! Every girl in that club'll be looking at you!"

But I didn't want every girl in that club. I wanted the guy I'd be going along with.

He pulled the shirt on over my shoulders and started buttoning it up. Like he'd done with my school shirt, he left the top few buttons undone. A quick ruffle of my hair and a sweep of eyeliner and I had Frank nodding in approval at me. I won't lie, I liked what I saw when I looked in the mirror too.

One last spray of Frank's Macho Macho Man body spray and we were both ready. Frank himself looked pretty damn fine in a pair of tight black skinny jeans, ripped at the knees, with a favoured white t-shirt and a black jacket over the top, zipped up leaving just a little of his shirt on show. His hair was brushed so that his black fringe sweeped into his eyes. And of course, he had his famous eyeliner on.

I'd have a hard time keeping my hands to myself tonight.