And then one day you turn around, and realize five more years have passed, and while thirty had felt like a sledgehammer was poised over you, ready to shatter what remained of your youth, somehow approaching forty doesn’t feel so fucking bad.

You diagnose it as one of the early signs of senility, and smile serenely as your so-called friends try with increasing desperation to get a rise out of you with quips about your advancing age. You find strategically placed pamphlets advertising the nation’s top 10 retirement communities for aging queers scattered throughout your home and office, and telemarketers leave messages offering to tell you how you could get your very own Senior Scooter for free. You receive a complimentary subscription to AARP’s monthly magazine, and the closer your birthday looms, the more frequent and less subtle your tormentors become.

A few months before the blessed event, after you have spent the night drinking and playing pool at Woody’s with Michael, the loft phone rings insistently at three a.m., waking you from a dreamless, relaxing sleep.

“Yeah.” You mumble sleepily, cradling the receiver between your shoulder and your neck as you fall back down onto the comfort of your pillows.

“Hey.” The voice on the other end makes you smile. You’re always happy to hear from him, but you know tonight’s call is most likely the result of a no-doubt panicked message from Mikey, citing certain death and destruction if he waited even a second longer to “just fucking call him.”

“Fucking Mikey.” This is how most of your conversations go. No small talk, no polite conversation, just familiar words that are the shorthand that define your decade long love affair with Justin Taylor.

His laughter rolls over you like a wave of warm water, and suddenly you’re wide awake and missing him more than you want to admit, even to yourself, even after all this time.

“So I take it you’re not suicidal, practicing self-destructive pain management techniques, or terminally ill tonight.” The teasing note in his voice disappears when he lists the last possibility, and where you once would have snapped out a response, now you don’t hesitate to reassure him.

You had promised to never withhold any negative changes to your health from him after your second bout with cancer two years earlier. That had been a minor case of melanoma, quickly removed in an out-patient procedure with no need for any further treatment, other than occasional follow up visits to your dermatologist. But since Justin wasn’t with you to examine and categorize every mole and freckle on your body in person, you agreed to a monthly preventative check-up to avoid any pouty princess moments.

You had also given your word that any future health issues would be immediately relayed post-haste to the West Coast, where Justin has been living for the past four years building a reputation as an up-and-coming art director specializing in small independent films. His days of pavement pounding were becoming but a vague memory since he’d started receiving more offers than he could dream of handling in two lifetimes.

“I’m fine, Justin. Fucking fabulous as always. Whatever stories Mrs. Novotny-Bruckner ha been filling your head with are bullshit.” You sit up and fumble for your cigarettes, settling in for a conversation that would last until Justin was satisfied that all was well in the Pitts.

“He told me you’re freaking out about turning forty.” Justin always did get right to the point. It was one of the things you liked best about him, especially when it came to sex. Your dick was twitching in appreciation already.

You laugh and choke on a lungful of smoke, quite certain that your exact opposite reaction was the reason Michael had made that assumption.

“Where the fuck did he get that idea from?” You calmly finish your cigarette and try to decide what Justin is wearing right now. You’d bet your Prada boots that he was naked, pacing slowly next to his bed.

“He told me you’ve been quiet and depressed for the past few weeks.” He was starting to sound less sure of himself, and you were starting to wonder if he still kept that 10-inch long dildo in the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

“I’ve been busy and distracted by several annoying clients and incessantly incompetent employees. He sees me at the diner nearly every morning, and I haven’t tried to slit my wrists with a butter knife in at least a week.” You roll your eyes at the unnecessary drama that prompted this call, even though you suspect Michael was pushing Justin’s buttons because you’d let it slip that you hadn’t talked to him in a few weeks. It appeared that Mikey had been studying at the Dolly Levi School of Matchmaking in his advancing years.

“He worries about you Brian.” His tone softens and you close your eyes to feel it caress you, let it wash away all the miles that separate you, all the lonely nights spent hoping that someday he’ll find his way back to your open door. “I worry, too.”

You spend a few minutes reassuring him that you are not getting ready to throw yourself, or him, or anyone else in your circle of family and friends off of any sort of fucking cliff because you are approaching the big four-oh.

“Christ, how much of a pathetic queen do you think I am?” you finally ask him impatiently. Your dick has been hard since you heard his voice, and you’re seriously considering having him put on his cock ring and insert his largest butt plug, before denying him an orgasm for a week for delaying your customary phone sex for so long.

Finally, he moans your name in answer to your question, and you know that he’s put you on speakerphone and started to masturbate. “Tell me what to do.” He loves it when you order him around, giving him kinky directions that always end in mind-blowing bi-coastal orgasms for both of you.

“Pinch your nipples, and imagine it’s my fingers touching you. Sliding my way down your hot body, until I’m almost stroking your rock hard cock. It’s dripping for me, twitching as you try to move it closer to my hand, but I’m just out of reach. Hands off your cock, Justin!” You hear him moan in frustration, but you know he’ll obey because he wants the pay off as badly as you do.

“Do you need to wear your ring, boy?” You lower your voice halfway between a growl and a purr, knowing that he gets off on subtle power games, especially when he hasn’t been with you in a while.

“No, Brian. I’ll be good.” He’s panting lightly, and you have to stop stroking yourself for a moment, as you imagine how he looks, spread out on the bed, blissed-out look on his face, cock hard and dripping onto his stomach, hands fisting into the sheets as he waits for your permission to touch himself again.

“I move my fingers into your mouth, and I have you suck on them until they’re soaking wet.” You smile as you hear him obeying. “Are they wet enough yet, Justin?”

“Yes, Brian.” He answers quickly and immediately starts to beg. “Please fuck me.”

“Very soon.” You promise, wishing he was here next to you instead of a fucking half a continent away. “Now, I’m going to fuck you with my fingers. Do you feel them pushing their way into your tight, hot hole?” You pick up the pace a little, because you know you aren’t going to last long tonight.

“I’ve got three fingers stretching you out, and on every stroke, I’m nailing the perfect spot. Do you feel me, Justin? Because I feel your ass squeezing my fingers inside your hot tight tunnel. “ You hear him start grunting loudly, and you know he’s almost there.

“I’m between your legs now, Justin. My fingers are still moving inside you as I swallow your cock. I pull it in deeper until it’s hitting the back of my throat. Go ahead. Fuck my face. You know I love it when you do that.” You can’t hold back your own panting and groaning, and you feel your balls tighten as you get ready to shoot your load.

“Come for me, Justin. Shoot your load right down my throat. I want to taste you.” You hear him shout your name, and you can picture him writhing on the bed, ribbons of come spurting from his cock, his tongue poking out of his mouth as he rides out the waves of his orgasm.

You curse softly as your own release slams into you like a fucking tidal wave. As you shoot your wad onto your stomach, you wish he was next to you, sliding his fingers through your spunk as you start to catch your breath.

When your mind begins to clear, you bite back a sigh as the usual doubts begin to cloud your mind. A part of you knows that he’ll always be in your life, but as time goes on, and his successes take him further away from your door, your decision to be content with whatever he can give you gets more difficult to live with almost daily.

“What are you thinking about?” his lazy, contented voice pulls you back to the present, and before you can filter your response you answer him truthfully.

“You. I miss you, Justin.” You catch your bottom lip painfully in your teeth, but you won’t punish him for your slip of the tongue.

“I miss you too.” He answers quickly, as surprised at hearing those words from your mouth as you are at speaking them. “God, I can’t believe you actually admitted that.”

“Yeah, well, once every ten years I can satisfy your inner breeder-like desires.” He snorts in your ear, and you allow yourself a soft chuckle.

“I’m really glad I called you tonight, Brian.” He was starting to sound homesick so you decide to cut the evening’s festivities short.

“I’m glad you called too, Sunshine. It’s been far too long between phone sex sessions, and you know those pussy boys in Hollywood can’t really give you what you need.”

He’s quiet for a moment and you enjoy just listening to him breathe. “Yeah, you’re right about that. There’s only one man who can satisfy me.” The conversation has turned far too lesbianic for you, so you quickly wrap things up.

“Now, give your teddy bear a kiss good-night, close your eyes, and dream of me.”

“I always do.” He admits, sounding relaxed and ready to drift off. “Later.”

You clutch the phone tighter for a few seconds before you return his farewell. “Later.”

You don’t go back to sleep, but watch the dawn break over the city, cigarette smoke drifting before you in ghostly wisps.

And when his heart finally leads him back to you, and he comes home to stay in the early hours of your fortieth birthday, you are as ridiculously happy to see his battered duffel bag as you are to see his smile. You hold him in your arms and let your breath ruffle his long, blond hair. You think that forty feels pretty fucking fabulous despite the onset of certain age induced twat-like tendencies that feel suspiciously like tears of happiness.

“Welcome Home, Justin.” You whisper the words with a fervor that reminds you of a moment long ago, and the relief you felt when you overheard the doctor tell Jennifer Taylor her son had miraculously survived severe head trauma. He pulls back and searches your eyes, somehow knowing where your thoughts had drifted, his hands gently cup your cheeks, and he pulls you back from that darker place and time, with a power that only he possesses.

His smile has a wicked edge to it, and you know that whatever he says at this moment will be as non-conventional as the rest of your relationship. You roll your lips into your mouth and arch your eyebrows, feigning breathless anticipation at his upcoming words of wisdom.

“Happy Birthday, Brian!” His eyes were promising forever. “Did you know that today is the first day of the rest of your life?”

You smirk at his deliberately corny turn of phrase, and drag him to your bed, where he has always belonged. You drape yourself on top of him, needing to caress and reclaim every inch squirming restlessly beneath you. You think that maybe you’ll be forty-one before either one of you leaves the bedroom again. You brush his hair gently from his forehead and let the smile you save for him light up your face as you give him your answer.

“It’s about fucking time!”