BUTTERED POPCORN

Spring 1987

Flickering images on the screen turned Michael's face blue, then red, then orange, as he giggled and leaned over to grab another handful of popcorn from the box on Brian's lap. Brian twisted his head left and right, checking to see if that old-fart usher was gone, then flipped around the joint cupped in his hand and took a quick drag, and held it out to Mikey.

Michael closed his eyes and giggled again. "I'm too dizzy!" he loudly whispered.

"Shh! You are so lame, you know that?" Brian slumped further down in the theater seat, took a final drag off the end of the joint, and squashed it out under his shoe. He handed over the half-empty popcorn box. He was thinking about not eating popcorn anymore; he'd read somewhere that popcorn made you fat. Or anyway, butter did, and what good was popcorn without butter?

With an appreciative sigh, Brian refocused on the theater screen, watching Patrick Swayze twirling Jennifer Grey in circles on the dance floor. They'd seen the movie twice already, but neither was tired of it. And there was no better time to see a movie than during a weekday, when the audience was sparse and the only other people in the balcony were one or two couples sitting in the highest, darkest corner seats, making out. Brian wished he could talk Mikey into skipping school more often.

Hands held loosely in his lap, Brian fought the urge to touch his dick. It was already tingling, waiting for the scene where Patrick Swayze removes his shirt; it wouldn't take much encouragement to sprout a full-blown woody. He'd remember the scene, later tonite, alone in his bed; it wouldn't be the first time he'd used that image. Without turning his head, he rolled his eyes and sneaked a peek at Mikey's lap. He was pretty sure Michael had a woody, too, though his baggie cords gave nothing away.

They hadn't exactly told each other about...those thoughts, and what they meant. Not in so many words. After last week, Brian thought they would talk about it, but every time he tried to sneak it into the conversation, Michael changed the subject. He remembered sitting close to Michael on the bed, peering over his shoulder at photos of Patrick Swayze in the movie magazine. He'd held his breath, scared, so scared, but daring himself to reach out his hand, touch Michael. He'd leaned back on the bed, pulling Mikey with him, slipped his hand inside and popped it out. Michael let him, Michael didn't say a word, just breathed hard, gasping and moaning. Brian had wanted to touch him like that for as long as he could remember.

When the door flew open and Mrs. Novotny burst in, they both bounced upright on the bed like twin jack-in-the-boxes. Frantically Brian had shoved Mikey's fat, slippery dick back inside his pants and jumped up, off the bed, turned to face the wall and stuck his hands in his pockets. Mikey had sat stock-still, his cheeks flushed red with guilt. But somehow, somehow, Mrs. Novotny hadn't noticed what they were doing. She was chattering loudly about what to fix for dinner and invited Brian to stay.

"Okay," Brian agreed quickly. He loved staying for dinner. Mrs. Novotny was a great cook and served plates heaping with food, always urging Brian to have another helping. She never called him a greedy pig or told him how much his dinner cost.

A long time ago, when he was still a child - maybe twelve or thirteen, Brian had felt guilty for all the cooking and cleaning his mom always complained about, and offered to help her one night. He'd never forget his dad's rage, when he came stumbling home from the bar later that evening to find Brian in the kitchen washing dishes, wearing an apron his mom had tied on him. Pop had pulled Brian away from the sink so hard, he'd slammed into the refrigerator and slid to the floor. Pop screamed that Brian was a sissy! a sissy! - then ripped off the apron with one hand and started taking off his belt with the other. And then, and then. . .

FORGET IT, Brian ordered himself. FORGET IT. Pop couldn't hurt him anymore. He was too big now. Almost sixteen and nearly as tall as the old man. Brian knew that if his dad tried to beat him again, he was going to fight back. Maybe Pop knew it, too, because he hadn't tried anything like that for the past few months.

Suddenly Michael gasped and grabbed Brian's arm. Here it was! Patrick Swayze was removing his shirt. Brian knew that Mikey was holding his breath, and he felt that familiar tightness in his chest, the shortness of breath, the tingling. Both exhaled loud sighs, of desire, of lust, of longing. Brian knew what he wanted to do with Patrick Swayze. And no matter if Michael wouldn't talk about it, Brian was sure he felt exactly the same. Michael liked to be kissed, he liked to be hugged, but every time Brian's hands tried to do other things, sexy things, Michael giggled nervously and pulled away.

***************

Brian let his mind wander from the flickering movie screen. He wondered what Mikey would think, if he knew about the stuff Brian was getting up to. Would he be shocked? Would he be mad? Would he stop being Brian's best friend? He couldn't tell Michael about the men he'd been with. First there'd been the invisible men, the men in cars parked in the darkness behind the dirty-book store on Wickmore. Brian didn't know how he found the place, he'd been scared, so scared the first time. Guys sat in their cars and you went over and if they nodded, you got in, and they sucked you off. He'd done that lots of times. At least six times. And twice Brian had dared himself to walk down Liberty Avenue, the queer part of town. Guys looked at him, their eyes saying all the nasty things they wanted to do to him. The first time, he'd walked the length of Liberty Avenue and back again, with the biggest hard-on he'd ever had in his whole life. And then, when a gorgeous tall man dressed all in leather smiled and reached out a hand, touched his shoulder, Brian had turned and run, run away, run hard, all the way home.

One of the invisible parking lot men had given Brian a magazine, with pictures of naked guys doing amazing things to each other. Despite his vague daydreams, Brian really had had no idea you could do things like that. He'd hidden the magazine under his mattress; his mom would never find it, Brian stripped and remade his own bed every Saturday morning. What would Mikey say, if he showed him that magazine? Brian was afraid to find out.

The second time Brian had walked down Liberty Avenue, he was braver. He enjoyed the looks he was getting, though he avoided anyone who tried to approach him; instead, he took himself and his hard-on to the familiar darkness of the bookstore parking lot. He lounged under a pale street lamp for a few minutes, and then, answering the beckoning fingers of an invisible man in a parked car, Brian pulled open the car door and got in. His breathing quickened as he waited for the fumbling hands on his zipper.

Brian hadn't seen the second man, the man in the backseat; hadn't even realized someone else was in the car, until a hand snaked around his head from behind and clamped over his mouth. The man's other arm reached around the other side, clamped around his chest, pinioning him to the seat. He struggled, but the man was strong, strong, and held him paralyzed and helpless. "Drive!" he heard the backseat man growl, and the car lurched forward, spun its tires in the gravel of the bookstore parking lot, and pulled out onto the street.

Trying to get leverage, Brian pushed his feet against the floorboards, tried to buck his body upward, to twist away from the imprisoning hands, but he stopped cold when the backseat man theatened, "Sit still or I'll break your neck." The hand on his mouth held his jaw locked tight, he couldn't break free to bite the fingers, then the hand slipped to his neck and Brian froze, suddenly terrified. He sat still, stopped struggling. Maybe they wouldn't hurt him, if he just sat still.

"Be good and we won't hurt you," the driver said, confirming Brian's hope. Brian nodded, but then suddenly he knew, absolutely-for-sure, that they were going to kill him. Through the haze of fear clouding his brain, Brian gradually became aware that warm wet liquid was running down the inside of his jeans; he was pissing himself.

The car screeched fast through the late-night streets, turning right, then left, then right; through empty warehouse streets, then back into neighborhood streets, till Brian was totally lost.

If they didn't kill him, if they did release him, how would he ever find his way home? The car pulled into an alley, then into a driveway, and suddenly stopped with a jolt. The backseat man put his hand over Brian's mouth once more, and growled threateningly into his ear, "One word and you're a dead man, understand?"

Brian nodded. His whole body was shaking now, when the driver got out and came around, opened the passenger door, Brian could hardly scoot out of the car. When he stood up, his knees buckled, he almost fell to the ground. Backseat man grabbed him from behind and hustled him across an expanse of grassy lawn, up some steps and through the backdoor of a house. The driver preceded them, and the two men led and pushed him through the darkened building and into a living room, where a small table lamp threw shadows on the carpet.

Still holding Brian in a tight grip from behind, backseat man growled in his ear, "Are you scared? Are you scared now?"

"Y-yes," Brian agreed; he wanted to be tough, he didn't want to be a coward, but he couldn't stop shaking.

Driver turned on an overhead light, and backseat man suddenly whipped Brian around to face him.

"V-Vic!" Brian exclaimed hoarsely, "Vic!"

Vic let go and Brian's knees gave out again, he crumpled to the floor.

"It's okay, you're okay," Vic said soothingly, putting his arms around Brian and raising him to his feet. He led Brian to a chair, gently pushed him down on it, and said, "Charlie, get the boy a glass of water, would you?"

Charlie, the driver, disappeared. Brian could only stare up at Michael's uncle Vic, speechless. When Charlie returned a moment later with a glass, Brian tried to take it from his hand, but he was shaking too hard to hold it. Vic stepped forward and held the glass to his lips, while Brian gratefully gulped a big mouthful, then almost choked swallowing it.

"You're okay," Vic told him. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

Brian found his voice at last. "W-W-Why?"

Vic pulled a stool over and sat down close to Brian. "You knew I was visiting Deb this week, right?" Brian nodded; Michael had told him. Mikey loved his uncle Vic's visits.

"Charlie and I saw you tonight, strolling down Liberty Avenue, strutting like a peacock," Vic continued. "We were outside the Anvil, talking to friends. Charlie told me he'd seen you before, hanging around outside the adult bookstore parking lot. You do that a lot?"

Brian felt himself blushing but answered defiantly, "So what if I do?"

"Cocky, ain't he?" chuckled Charlie.

"Too damned cocky," Vic agreed. "You're too young for that game, Brian Kinney."

Brian sputtered, "I am not! I've done it a lot! I can take care of myself."

Vic nodded. "Like you did tonight?"

There was no answer for that. Then a thought struck Brian, and he exclaimed, "But gay guys wouldn't do something like that, why would they do that?"

"People are people, good and bad, gay and straight," Vic answered. "But that's not the point. It's not only gays who hang out at those places. 'Phobes hang out there too, sometimes."

"'Phobes?"

"Homophobes," Charlie explained. "Bigots. Men so hateful they'll pick up gay guys, especially kids, and hurt them. For fun. You have no idea whose car you're getting into, at that parking lot. You absolutely have to stop doing it, do you understand?"

Suddenly Brian was angry. "You could have just TOLD me, couldn't you?" he shouted at them. "You could have just explained, not kidnapped me, and scared the shit out of me!"

Charlie laughed and pointed at Brian's jeans. "Scared the PISS out of you, don't you mean?"

Blushing red with fury, Brian jumped up, but Vic grabbed his arms, pulled Brian into a hug. Surprised, Brian let himself be hugged for a moment, then Vic pushed him gently back into the chair. "You would not have believed us, Brian. If you are honest, you'll admit that."

Brian was honest; Brian was always honest. He thought for a minute, then admitted. "Maybe not. Maybe not."

Charlie perched on the arm of Brian's chair and smiled down at him. Charlie had dark hair and eyes like black cherries. He had a wide jaw with a trace of stubble, full red lips, and dimples imbedded in each cheek. Suddenly Brian was aware of the warmth of Charlie's body, so close beside him; he could smell after-shave and beer, and a hint of clean perspiration from the shirtsleeve of the arm Charlie draped casually over the back of Brian's chair. Brian slipped his eyes sideways, and blinked as he realized that Charlie was looking back at him; Charlie's eyes were twinkling.

"Oh, no, you don't, Charlie McDougall," Vic interrupted, grabbing his friend and pulling him up off the chair.

Charlie laughed. He smiled down at Brian. "Promise to look me up, the minute you turn eighteen?" he teased. Mesmerized, Brian nodded.

Vic shook his head in mock disgust. "Come on, kid, we're taking you home. Can you sneak in with those wet pants, or does Charlie need to loan you a pair of his?"

"I can sneak in," Brian confirmed. Although he would have loved to put his legs inside a pair of Charlie McDougall's jeans.

On the ride home, Brian endured a long lecture from Vic, or Uncle Vic, as he asked Brian to call him, now that they were friends. He loved the way he could hear Uncle Vic's smile in his voice; the way Charlie kept interrupting with his own advice from the front seat. Suddenly Brian had gay friends, older friends he could talk to. Vic confirmed it. "I'll give you my number in New York," he said, "Call me - collect! - any time you need to talk, okay?"

"Okay."

"And Brian? Michael's not ready for the life yet, you understand?"

"The life?" A tiny thrill ran down Brian's spine. "Yeah, Uncle Vic, I know. I'll watch out for him."

"You're a good kid, Brian, a good kid. I know you're going to be a wonderful man when you grow up."

Brian swallowed the lump in his throat. Nobody ever told him he was a good kid.

A few nights later, Brian had been walking down Liberty Avenue, when he heard a familiar voice.

"Hey, Brian."

He turned and saw a group of men leaning on the railing outside Woody's. One of them peeled away from the rail and approached him.

"Hey, Charlie." Charlie was dressed all in black, black jeans, black tee, black leather jacket.

They slapped hands and Charlie smiled at him. "Well kid, you got the elevator-eyes down pat, don't ya?"

Elevator-eyes? "Oh."

"You staying away from that bookstore, like me and Vic told you?"

Brian nodded. He'd stayed away, but it hadn't been easy, he was horny as hell. Seeing Charlie didn't help; he could feel his balls tighten in recognition of the guy's sexiness.

"Wish I could buy you a beer," Charlie said, "But you got a couple years to wait, right?"

Tossing his head, Brian bragged, "I drink beer now, I drink it all the time. I smoke dope, too." He hated for the guy to think he was a kid.

"Wanna come into Woody's? I'll buy you a Coke, anyway."

"Sure." Be cool, Brian reminded himself, as Charlie led the way inside the gay bar. He'd never been inside before, he didn't know what to expect. Flashing back to the pictures in his secret magazine, he almost expected to see naked men humping on the pool table. But it was just like his dad's bar inside; Brian was disappointed. Well, not quite like his dad's bar: Pictures of almost-nude men decorated the walls. Charlie led the way to a tiny table, then went to the bar to get drinks. Brian caught the eye of a guy sitting nearby, staring at him. When the guy did what Charlie had called 'elevator-eyes,' Brian almost laughed out loud. He stared back at the man, and returned the up-and-down glance.

Catching him in the act as he returned with a beer and a Coke and set them down on the table, Charlie laughed and said, "Hey, slow down, kid."

"I'm not a kid," Brian replied, then said, giving himself a year or so, "I'm seventeen."

"Oh." Charlie was surprised. "I thought you were younger. Vic warned me to stay away from you. I got quite a lecture, when he left for New York on Sunday."

"Maybe. . ." Brian hesitated, then, with a deep breath and a burst of bravado, he looked straight at Charlie and continued, "Maybe I don't want you to stay away from me."

The older man laughed. "Hmmm." Then he changed the subject, and they talked about other things, music, and movies, and motorcycles. Brian liked being there with Charlie, in a gay bar, being treated like a grown-up for just about the first time in his life. Charlie talked to him like an equal, not a kid, and Brian was aware of a current of something-else going on, under the surface of their talking and laughing.

Somehow, they ended up back at Charlie's house. The house where Brian was brought after the fake kidnapping. Charlie had a stash, and they were going to share a joint. At least, that was the reason for going there, and they did share a joint. Sitting side by side on the sofa, their bodies drew closer and closer together. Charlie's arm went around his shoulders. It was all hazy to Brian, now, until the moment that Charlie had kissed his mouth. Captured his mouth, plundered his mouth, sucked Brian's tongue and every ounce of strength out of his body through his burning, bruised lips. Soon after that they were naked, Brian had never been naked with another person before, had never imagined someone would be kissing him, licking him, over every inch of his exposed, trembling skin.

Charlie had asked permission to fuck him. Brian remembered that clearly enough, because he'd been scared, terrified really, wanting to say no-no-no, but when Charlie had smiled at him, licked two of his fingers and gently pushed them inside, down there, suddenly Brian wanted it. "Yes-yes-yes," he had breathed, begged, demanded, and in a heartbeat, Charlie was kneeling between Brian's legs, holding his dick poised to thrust inside. Charlie hesitated, then once again he smiled, and whispered softly, "Now relax, Brian. I want you to remember this. And anytime you're with somebody else, you'll always think of me."

**************

"Brian!"

"Huh?" Blinking, Brian looked around; the movie was over, the theatre lights had been turned on.

"Jeez, Brian, were you sleeping or what?" Mikey was standing over him, holding the empty popcorn box.

"'Course not," Brian answered, getting to his feet and moving down the row of seats toward the aisle. But his head was still full of memories, of lying naked in Charlie's bed. He wished he could tell Michael. But he knew in his heart that Vic had been right; Michael wasn't ready for stuff like that. Someday he would be. But not yet.

They stopped for rootbeer slurpees at 7-11, Brian's treat, as usual. Sometimes Michael argued with him, but it was only fair for Brian to pay for more things, Brian had a good job at McDonalds and Michael had only a paper route. The manager at McDonalds believed that Brian was already sixteen, he was much taller and looked a lot older than most boys his age. Mikey had six months on him, but he looked about twelve. It didn't help that Debbie dressed him in cords and primary-color striped shirts. Brian favored chinos and pullover cotton sweaters in dark brown and navy blue and maroon. Luckily his mom didn't care what clothes he bought, as long as she could just give him the money before school started in the fall, and didn't have to go shopping with him.

They dawdled all the way home, talking about the movie, what a great actor Patrick Swayze was, and how maybe they could go see it one more time before the theatre started a new show next week. Caught up in their discussion, they didn't notice Debbie standing on the front porch, arms crossed and looking like thunder, until it was too late. Reaching the foot of the steps, they both jumped when they heard her voice boom out, "Where the HELL have you been, Michael Novotny?"

"Um," Michael didn't answer. "Um. . ."

"Brian?"

Bracing himself, Brian stood tall and looked Mrs. Novotny squarely in the eye. "It was my fault," he admitted, "We went to the movies. It was my idea."

"Was not!" Mikey pitched in, "I wanted to go, too."

Debbie was shaking her head at Michael. "The school called. You played hooky again! Get up to your room RIGHT NOW." Brian waited while Mikey walked slowly up the steps, head hung in shame. He knew Mikey hated disappointing his mom. Brian had been amazed to discover that Michael's mother had never spanked him. Not even once, Michael claimed; not even a smack. It was hard to believe.

When they were alone, Brian stood still, waiting to be yelled at. It wouldn't be the first time. Debbie glared at him for a few moments, then shook her head, sighed, and sat down on the stoop. She patted the cement beside her. "Come sit here a minute," she said.

"It was my fault, Mrs. Novotny," Brian repeated, as he sat next to her.

"Tell me something I don't know," she sighed. "You're a bad influence on my son, you know that?" When he said nothing, she went on, "I outta forbid him to see you any more."

Brian clenched his fists, felt his heart bang hard against his ribs, but kept his face frozen, giving nothing away.

"I won't do that, though, so don't worry." She had turned half-around on the stoop and looked intently at his face. "You know why I won't do that? Do you?"

"Why?"

"Because the little bugger loves you. He loves you like a brother. Doesn't he?"

Yes. Yes. "I guess," Brian replied, nonchalant, tossing his head.

"And you love him the same, don't you?"

Yes! Yes! "I guess."

"Mmm-hmm." Debbie raised her arm, and Brian couldn't stop himself from flinching, only a tiny bit, only a teensy bit, but she noticed. She said nothing, but he could see her noticing, and he felt guilty; of course he knew she wouldn't hit him.

Debbie slipped her arm around his shoulders, pulled him against her, hugged him tight. She smelled like apples and Olde English furniture polish and cinnamon. "If you love him like a brother, Brian, then you'll do something for me. For him." She pushed him a few inches away, so she could look into his eyes. "Will you do that?"

Brian cleared his throat. "What?"

"Help me watch out for him. Oh, I know you do that a lot, already. Michael's told me."

"No, I don't," he denied.

"Yeah, you do. You help him with school work, protect him from bullies; yeah, he's told me."

Brian shrugged, embarrassed. "That's nothing."

Debbie let go of the hug and wrapped her arms around her knees instead. She was wearing the most alarmingly bright orange stretch pants he had ever seen.

"It's hard for a mom to raise a son alone; Michael never had a father."

(Damned lucky, Brian thought to himself, but he didn't say it.)

"He's such a good kid, never getting in trouble, or making me worry. At least, not until - "

"Until he met me."

She nodded. "Yep, till he met you. And I could throttle you sometimes, Brian Kinney, you know that?" When he said nothing, she patted his knee. "But you're good for him too. I know you care about Michael, and I'm asking you now to help him some more. Stop playing hooky, will you do that? Because Michael NEEDS to be in school. Schoolwork is harder for him than it is for you, he can't afford to miss classes." Debbie took Brian's hand and squeezed it. "Will you do that for me? Will you do that for Michael?"

Brian hesitated. He hated to make promises. But he guessed maybe she was right, because Michael did have trouble with school work sometimes. Brian loved skipping school. He could make up the work, easy. Yet what fun was skipping school, if Mikey wasn't with him? It was like eating popcorn without butter. He sighed and said at last, grudgingly, "Okay."

"Yay!" Debbie cheered, and hugged him again. "Can you stay for dinner, honey?"

Dinner at the Novotny's was almost worth giving up playing hooky. "Did you make putenesca?" Brian asked hopefully, licking his lips.

 

 

 

 

Fall 1987

"Brian, see me after class, please."

Surprised, Brian nodded, then continued stacking his books on top of the desk while the other students filed out of the Chemistry classroom. Briefly, he wondered if he was in trouble, but couldn't remember anything he'd done recently to annoy Mr. Renfrew.  The teacher sat sorting papers at his desk and looked up as Brian approached. Renfrew was the epitome of the absent-minded professor, Brian thought; his hair always looked uncombed, his clothes rumpled, and things - keys, papers, coins -  were always falling out of his pockets as if they were anxious to abandon their owner.

Mr. Renfrew set aside the stack of papers and folded his hands.  "Sit down, Brian," he waved his hand at a front-row desk, and when Brian sat on the chair, he said, "You did very well on the organic chem test.  In fact, you got the only 'A' in the class."

 

When Brian nodded, Renfrew went on.  "You're a smart kid, you've got great potential - when you're not cutting class or getting into fights."

Brian sighed.  Another one of THOSE lectures.  He glanced out the window, and started to tap his shoe against the chair railing.  All he could do was wait it out.

"In fact, I wanted to ask if you'd like to join Science Club.  There's a great group of boys and girls in the club this semester, and - "

"No, thanks," Brian answered shortly, getting to his feet and picking up his books once more.

Renfrew gave Brian a hard look that surprised him. "Please sit down, Mr. Kinney, I wasn't finished speaking."

Grudgingly, Brian sat back down, but he said, "I don't join clubs."

"May I ask why not?"

"Not interested."

"You know, participation in clubs and other extra-curricular activities looks very good on college applications."

Brian snorted.  "Well, I'm not going to college, so it doesn't mean a thing to me."  He leaned back and folded his arms.

Obviously surprised, Renfrew stood up and walked in front of his desk, perched on the edge in front of Brian.  "College is vital for children of your generation," he stated.  "And a student with your intelligence can do very well, and prepare for a successful career."

"Not interested," Brian repeated, rolling his eyes and looking away, out the window.

The teacher continued earnestly,  "Don't throw away your future, son, nothing is more important right now than school.  I'm sure your parents must want you to continue your education - "

Without turning his head, Brian cut his eyes back to the teacher and interrupted.  "No, they don't."  

Brian perfectly remembered the day he'd approached his father about going to State College after graduation next year.  His dad's words had been precisely, "You're a fucking idiot if you think I'm gonna pay for you to screw around for four years in some fucking college!  I worked hard all my life and you're not going to college on MY back.  You can fend for yourself, sonny-boy, same as I did, nobody ever helped ME, now did they?"  He'd also made it clear that, if Brian expected to live at home for a single day after his eighteenth birthday, he'd be paying room and board.  His mom had said nothing.  When had she ever?

"They don't," Brian repeated, "And I have to go now, I'll be late for work."

"Where do you work?" Mr. Renfrew asked.

"McDonald's," Brian answered absently, standing up and gathering his books once more.

"Without college, you'll be at McDonald's forever. You know that, don't you?"

Brian glared at the teacher.  The words stung.  The words stung because he was afraid, really afraid that they were true.  Fuck you, he wanted to say, but didn't; instead he brushed roughly past the teacher and hurried to the door.

"If you want to go to college, Brian, if you really want to - there's other ways than parents."

Brian stopped with his hand on the doorknob.  "Like what."

"Scholarships, loans, work-study."

"Not for guys like me."

"Exactly for guys like you."

Brian turned around and stared at the teacher.  He hoped his eyes didn't show his hunger.  "How?"

"Come see me tomorrow morning, before school starts.  I'm usually here early.  We can talk about ways and means.  My sister's a counselor at Penn State.  There's lots of resources out there for good students."

"Okay.  Maybe.  If I can."  He tried to sound nonchalant as he turned and walked out the door, but despite himself, Brian could not keep from rushing through the hall and down the stairs.  Don't get excited, he kept telling himself; Renfrew was an old loser.  Probably just wanted more students in his stupid club.  Don't get excited!  By the time he reached the exit and saw Mikey waiting for him on the lawn, he'd calmed down and assumed his normal facade of cool.

************************

"Science Club?  Science Club?" Michael exclaimed, open mouthed.  "Why the hell did you join the Science Club?"

"Just for laughs."  

They were lying side by side on the floor of Michael's room with their feet on the bed, listening to Bruce Springsteen, eating Oreos, and doing homework.  

"Who said," quizzed Brian, "'I regret that I have but one life to give for my country?'"

"Colonel Sanders?  I don't know, who cares?  Tell me why the hell you joined Science Club!"

Brian shook his head.  "It's a secret."

"Secret?"

"Promise not to tell?"  When Michael nodded, Brian whispered, "Terry Johnson says that they're learning how to build bombs in the club.  I'm going to build a HUGE bomb and blow up the whole fucking school!"

Michael's eyes widened alarmingly.  "No!  No, Brian, you can't do that!"

"Why not?  You can help me.  You hate the school too.  We'll be heroes."

Grabbing Brian's arm, Michael pleaded urgently, "No, no, please don't, Brian!  Please!"

Brian burst out laughing; Mikey was so easy.  

"Shit," Michael said, deflated.  Then he got mad. "Damn you, Brian. You asshole!" and he reached out a clenched fist to punch Brian's ribs, but Brian caught  his hand and held it.  He grabbed Michael's other hand and flipped him over on his back, then straddled Michael's chest and pressed his hands flat on the floor.

"Gotcha!  Gotcha!" he crowed to his struggling friend.  Then he whisper-shouted, "Oh, no, here comes MISTER HANDS!"  Michael shrieked with laughter as Brian's hands turned into a tickle machine, roaming quickly all over Michael's prone body till Mikey was squirming and giggling.  

Brian laughed too, they rolled around on the floor hanging onto each other and laughing, till they were out of breath, then lay twisted together, gasping and hiccuping.  Gradually Brian became aware of the warmth of Michael's body, pressed close to his; he breathed in the Mikey-smell of Irish Spring and old comic books and Oreos.  Their legs entwined, Brian was aware of Michael's dick, growing hard beneath the fabric of his jeans.  Just like his own was.  They lay frozen for a moment, then Michael disentangled a hand from his twisted shirtsleeve and slowly, hesitantly, reached out to brush the hair from Brian's eyes.  They stared at each other for an eternity, till Brian took a deep breath and said, extraordinarily calmly, "Let me up, I gotta take a piss."  He tore his eyes away quickly, but not before he saw disappointment cloud Mikey's face.

Hurrying to the bathroom, Brian locked the door, flushed the toilet, and stood still, staring at himself in the mirror.  "No!" he whispered.  "No!  You can't." God, it wasn't fair.  He wanted Mikey.  He'd always wanted him.  And now, when finally Michael was ready, was wanting him too, Brian couldn't have him.  It wasn't fair.

"Life isn't fair," he'd heard his dad say dozens of times, when he wanted a bicycle, when he wanted a skateboard, when he didn't want to change schools. Oh, he knew it was true all right.   And Vic had said the same thing, the time Brian called him, crying because Charlie was getting hot-and-heavy with somebody new, a tall, thin boy named Paul, and wouldn't see Brian any more.

"Get over it," Vic had advised; harshly for Vic, who was always so kind and never teased Brian when he asked stupid questions.  "Charlie's my friend, but he's no good for you, and not just because of his age."  Brian had been shocked to discover that Charlie was almost thirty; he didn't look old. Luckily, Paul moved to Dallas in the summer, and lately Brian had been able to go over to Charlie's house again.  Not often, but sometimes.   

Charlie had taught Brian so much.  How to put on a condom, how to rim, and, oh, lots of other things, not just sex stuff.  About dealing with people and about relationships.  It was Charlie who'd explained that you can't have sex with friends; sex ruins things, he'd said, and shared awful stories of ruined friendships from his own life.  At first Brian didn't believe that could happen with Mikey, nothing could ruin their friendship, they'd been tight almost from the moment they met.  They shared everything, well almost everything.  Michael was the only person in the world Brian told about his dad beating up on him, and Mikey shared his own feelings about his dad abandoning his family.  Nothing could change that closeness Brian and Michael shared.

'But what if it did?' he'd asked himself, over and over in the quiet moments inside his head.  What if it did?  Brian could not bear, really could not bear, the thought of losing Michael.  If he could not escape to Michael, if he no longer could crawl into Mikey's bed for comfort in those scrawny arms; if he couldn't escape to the Novotny house for Debbie's pasta and hugs; if Michael somehow started hating him, and then maybe Uncle Vic would hate him too. . .then what would Brian have left in his life to escape to?  Nothing.  Nothing and nobody.

Not Charlie.  Charlie liked him okay, but he'd made it clear from the beginning that Brian was not his boyfriend; Charlie didn't have boyfriends.  Charlie would kiss him, Charlie would fuck him, and Charlie would take him on fabulous sexual adventures in the kidnap-house on Church Street.  But only sometimes.  Only when he wasn't busy doing something, or someone, else.  Brian accepted that. It was okay.  Or, if it wasn't really okay, what choice did he have?  

Looking deep into his own eyes in the mirror of the upstairs bathroom, Brian sighed.  He was ready to return to Michael's room now; nothing would happen.  He wouldn't let it happen.  Sex was sex and friends were friends, and the only true friend Brian had ever had, the only person in the whole wide world that Brian had ever cared about, was Michael Novotny.  Sex you could get anywhere; Charlie said so, and hadn't Brian proved it to himself, many times now?  If Michael was ready for sex, he'd have to get it from somebody else.

************************

It had been one of those lucky evenings, one of those times Charlie let Brian come over to the kidnap-house.  Inside his head, Brian always thought of the house that way, it lent an aura of danger and adventure to his times with Charlie. They had smoked a joint and drank a bottle of beer (Charlie had had several bottles of beer), and Brian had been introduced to the intense pleasure of sixty-nine.  They lay spent, exhausted, the perspiration drying on their naked skin as they sprawled on Charlie's bed.  

Soon Brian would have to get up, get dressed, and go home to his lonely narrow bed.  He wanted to roll over, wrap his arms around Charlie, fall asleep in his arms.  But Charlie didn't like afterwards-hugs. "When it's over, it's over, you can't relax with somebody hanging off of you," Charlie  explained, and Brian nodded.  He was sure that was true.  But he sort of wanted to do it, anyway.

 

The house was dark when he got home, about two in the morning; a good sign that he could get up to his room without seeing anyone.  Bad timing made him enter the upstairs hallway just as Clare came out of the bathroom.  "You're home awfully late," she said loudly, accusingly.  "It's a school night."

God, he fucking hated Clare.  "Shh," he implored. She ought to have more sense than to wake up their dad in the middle of the night.  Clare had had her share of beatings, too, although now that she was working full-time as a secretary at an insurance company and paying room and board, Pop didn't seem to bother her any more.  

"You smell like beer," she said accusingly, standing with hands on her ample hips beneath the long flannel nightgown she wore.   

"Shh," he repeated, moving away toward his room.

"What the fuck!" he heard his dad growl, and Brian's heart leaped in his throat.  The hall light was snapped on, and he just had time to see a gleam of satisfaction come into Clare's eyes before Pop had come roaring out of his room and stormed into the hallway.

"Brian just got home this minute and he stinks of beer," Clare reported, then suddenly Pop was grabbing Brian's jacket, pushing him backwards across the hall.  Brian saw his mom framed in the bedroom doorway, watching silently.  Always silently.  He fucking hated her, too.

Brian crashed against the wall and barely caught himself in time to keep from falling to the floor.  His father's fist came whizzing toward his face, and Brian twisted away at the last minute, so Pop's hand smashed into the wall instead.  His roar of pain and fury nearly drowned out the sound of smashing glass, as a framed photograph fell to the floor with a crash.  Pulling away, Brian backed off from his dad; he wanted to run away, but he knew that would make things worse; he'd tried that before.  Get it over with, that was the best way.

Jack was holding his hurt hand, moaning.  Then, "It's broken," he said in a normal tone of voice, which scared Brian more than shouting.  "You broke my fucking hand, you fucker."  His dad threw back his head and glared at Brian.  "You're going to reform school this time.  Joanie, call the police."

Brian's mom stood like a statue in her long blue chenille robe, hugging herself.  "We're not going to give the neighbors a free show, calling the police in the middle of the night," she said coldly.  'You want to make a laughing-stock of yourself, do it somewhere else."  She turned and went back into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.  In the silence of the hallway, Clare also divorced herself from the scene, and went into her room, shutting the door.  

Brian and his dad were left to stand staring at each other.  Pop was calm now, and surprisingly, sober. "Look what you did to your father," he said, holding up his injured hand.  The knuckles were grazed and bleeding.

"I'm sorry I was late," Brian answered evenly.  He wasn't sorry about his dad's hand, and he wouldn't pretend to be, either.  "Do you want me to put a bandage on it?"  He pulled open the bathroom door and flipped on the light.  Pop followed him in and sat down on the toilet.

Pop rested his hand on the sink.  "You smell like beer and sex," he said.  Brian could feel his dad's intense stare, while he busied himself with cotton balls and hydrogen peroxide, and searched the cabinet for band-aids.

"I had one beer, that's all."  You couldn't smell sex, could you?  he wondered.

His dad was silent as Brian spread ointment on the scraped knuckles and applied two band-aids.  Jack flexed his hand and nodded with what passed for approval of the bandaging job.  He continued to stare, and Brian finally had to return his look.

"You turning into a lady's man, sonny-boy?" Pop asked.

Brian shook his head.  "No," he answered honestly.

"Hunh."  Pop stood up and punched Brian's arm with his good hand, but lightly.  "Gonna be a lady's man, like your old dad, I bet," he gruffly whispered. "That's okay.  Just be careful.  They're bitches, all of 'em.  You being careful?"

"I'm not - I don't - "

"Yeah, right.  You're not and you don't!   Ha!  Don't try to kid your old man," he smirked.  "Just be sure you're using rubbers.  Some little bitch'll get pregnant, just to spite you."

"Okay," Brian agreed.  Jack punched him again, a little harder, then stepped out of the bathroom and into the hall.

"Clean up that broken glass before you go to bed," he ordered, over his shoulder.  

************************

Michael was excited, so Brian forced himself not to complain; they were going to a party.  Half the junior class had been invited to a Halloween party at the Gunnerson's, a rambling ranch-style home situated just barely within the confines of their lower-middle-class neighborhood.  They had been there two years before, at a 14th birthday party for Stacy Gunnerson, daughter of a school board member.  Stacy was one of those pretty blonde cheerleader girls, always dressed in expensive clothes and wearing a lot of makeup.  Her brother Roger was also blond, and ruggedly handsome; he was a senior, captain of the football team.

It was a costume party, but Brian had resisted all Michael's coaxing to dress up.  Michael was dressed as a wizard, in a long flowing purple cape that Debbie had whipped up on her sewing machine. Brian had only agreed to go to the party if he could wear jeans, and the black leather jacket that Charlie had given him.  He'd convinced Pop the jacket was cheap vinyl, bought at J. C. Penny with his McDonald's earnings.  Brian knew the jacket had cost two hundred dollars, because he was with Charlie when he bought it, for Brian's sixteenth birthday.

The party was just as boring as Brian knew it would be.  The rooms were crowded with dancing, laughing, chattering teenagers and loud music blaring from a dozen speakers.  Brian had joined groups of dancers from time to time, he'd drank innumerable cups of sickly-sweet pink punch spiked with vodka, he'd even spent some time in Mr. Gunnerson's den, running his eye over the leather-bound volumes of Great Books lining the shelves. Now Brian wanted to leave; he couldn't understand why Michael wanted to be a part of this kind of celebration.

Sometime around midnight, Brian lost track of Michael.  He searched the kitchen and the family room, and finally stepped outside through a sliding glass door.  The patio was dimly lit by candles set on filigree white metal tables scattered around a kidney-shaped swimming pool.  It was chilly; air off the heated pool rose into the evening air in a steamy blur, but Brian noticed a couple huddled on a lounge chair in a secluded corner of the patio, making out, despite the cold.  

A moment later, the door slid open behind him and Stacy Gunnerson emerged.  She was dressed like a princess in a long sparkly blue dress with a rhinestone tiara, and held a wine bottle in one hand. "Hey," she whispered, "Gimme a cig?"  He shook his pack and then lit the cigarette she raised to her lips. She put fingers on his hand to steady the match. Exhaling a cloud of smoke, Stacy asked him, "Having a good time?"

"Sure."  

Stacy laughed.  "Yeah, right, you're bored to death, aren't you?"  When Brian didn't answer, she continued, "You're Mister Standoffish, huh?  Everybody says so."

"I'm not," he denied.  "Not standoffish."

"Shy?"

Brian was annoyed.  "I'm not shy, either."   Without waiting for an offer, he grabbed the wine bottle and took a swig.  It was white wine, slightly sweet and cloying.  Stacy took the bottle from him, tilted her head back and emptied it in one long drink.  He watched her throat working as she swallowed, and for a moment it reminded him of Charlie, sucking and swallowing Brian's cock last Thursday night.  

Something made Brian reach out a finger and wipe a drop of wine from Stacy's lips.  She grabbed his hand and held it tight.  Swaying slightly, Stacy smiled seductively and raised his hand to her mouth, took his index finger between her lips, and sucked it.  Brian felt his balls draw up and tighten. "Wanna come to my room?" she asked, slurring her words.  Brian realized she was very drunk; he tried to pull his hand away, but she held on tight.

"I can't, I'm waiting for somebody," he said.

Stacy giggled.  "Yeah, Michael Who's-it, I bet.  Your little boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend.  He's my best friend."  

Brian tried to pull away but she clung to his hand and laughed up at him.  "Some people think you're gay, you know that?  You and your little friend."

"I don't care what people think.  They're wrong, but I don't care, anyway."   Brian tried to look unconcerned, but he was pissed.  He didn't like people talking about him.  It didn't matter.  Except that it did.  

"Then come up to my room," she said, leaning against him.  Her hair smelled like lavender.  "I'll suck your cock.  You can pretend I'm a guy."  

"Fuck you."

"That too, if you want."  

Stacy giggled, turned slightly to set down the empty wine bottle on a filigree table, but missed by several inches; Brian barely caught the bottle and laid it down flat.  Vaguely he heard it roll off and fall to the ground without breaking, and they listened to it roll away over the patio, away and away and away while they stared at each other.  Then Stacy leaned her whole weight against Brian; he had to put his arms around her or she would have fallen at his feet.  "I feel dizzy," she told him, "Would you help me upstairs to my room?"  She swayed, her eyes closed, and Brian stood undecided, propping her up.  

Brian didn't want Stacy Gunnerson touching his dick.  Yet Charlie had told him he should try pussy some time, just to be sure he didn't like it.  Brian had messed around with girls, back in junior high. Nothing major, just kissing them and feeling them up.  It had made his dick hard, he remembered, but maybe just because it was excitingly forbidden.  At sixteen, Brian was sure he didn't want pussy, yet Charlie always seemed to give good advice.  And it would make a story, an adventure, to tell Charlie, the next time he invited Brian over.  "Okay," he said at last, surprising himself.  He slid open the patio door and helped Stacy into the house and up the stairs.  Brian glanced around, but there was still no sign of Mikey.

Stacy's bedroom was pink.  The walls were pink, the carpet was pink, the bed was pink.  Brian felt faintly nauseous as he shut the door behind them and helped Stacy across the carpet to her bed.  He'd thought she was faking, but apparently she really had felt dizzy, because when she sat down on the bed, she missed the edge, and slipped to the floor with a thump.  Stacy crowed with laughter and sprawled, spread-eagled on the floor.  Brian leaned down and got his arms around her shoulders, hoisted her up, nearly dead weight in his arms; got her upper torso on the bed, then lifted up and laid down her legs, one at a time.  When he turned to look at her face, Stacy Gunnerson was passed out cold.  One arm dangled over the edge of the bed, and she was quietly snoring, her lips parted and a drop of saliva forming in the corner of her mouth. Slightly revolted, and greatly relieved at this reprieve, Brian left the room for the darkened hallway, and pulled the door shut behind him.  

At the head of the stairs Brian paused.  He heard what sounded like soft moans coming from a room directly across the hall from Stacy's.  He shrugged; someone else was getting lucky, probably another cheerleader seduction.  He took one step down, then paused again.  The  moaning voice was somehow familiar.  Who was it?  Then, feeling like a spy on a bad tv show, Brian tiptoed over to lean against the door and press his ear to the wood panel.

Suddenly the door flew inward, it had not been completely latched; it slammed against the wall with a loud WHAP! and snapped immediately back again, rapping against Brian and almost knocking him off his feet.  Brian stood transfixed, staring at the tableau on the bed directly in front of him.

"Ohmygod, Brian!  Ohmygod, Brian!" squeaked Michael, naked as a jaybird, sitting upright and pushing away the curly blond head bobbing up and down on his engorged cock.  "Brian!"  

But Brian had turned away and rushed out of the room, ran down the stairs and out into the street. It had started to rain but he kept on running and running, till he tripped over a curb and went sprawling face-first onto somebody's grassy lawn. Gasping and coughing, Brian gagged, then threw up; he threw up sweet white wine and pink fruit punch and vodka and all the chips and dip he had consumed during the past three hours.  When his breathing returned to normal, Brian stood up and walked home.  His mind was blank, totally blank. He refused to allow himself to think - not about Mikey, and not about the captain of the football team who'd been sucking Mikey's cock.

************************

When Brian saw Michael enter McDonalds the next day, he took a deep breath.  He was ready to face Mikey, and he asked Rudy, the manager, if he could take his break.  When Rudy nodded, Brian grabbed his leather jacket, slipped under the counter and approached the corner where Michael stood, looking pale and nervous.  "Let's go outside, I need a smoke," Brian said.  They walked across the parking lot to the big yellow dumpster, and stopped while Brian lit a cigarette.

"Brian - I'm sorry," Michael said earnestly, putting a hand on Brian's arm.

Exhaling a cloud of smoke that ringed his head, Brian said, "For what?"  

"I - I thought you knew I was - I thought you knew I was - "

"I did."  Brian took another deep drag off his cigarette. "I do.  I always have."

Michael was squinting anxiously at Brian's face. "And I - don't get mad, but I - I thought you were, too."

Brian nodded.  "I am.  Of course I am, Mikey."  He made himself smile, and put an arm around Michael's shoulders.  And then suddenly it was all right, and he relaxed, and really smiled, and then chuckled.  "You just surprised me, is all.  You and Roger Gunnerson, wooo!"

Michael laughed too, but uncertainly.  "He surprised me, too - haha!  He was drunk as a skunk!   He saw my purple robe and thought I was Cleopatra or something!"

"Cleopatra with a dick!" Brian joked, punching Mikey's shoulder.  Mikey punched him back and they roared with laughter.  Then everything was okay again.

"Was that your first blow job?" Brian demanded.

"No," Michael admitted, then added, "My second. My first was Marcia Grundig, last year at that Stevenson kid's party.  But she charged me five bucks!"

When they stopped laughing about that, Michael asked, tentatively, "Have you - been with. . .anybody?"

Brian ground out the cigarette butt under his heel and put his hands in his pockets.  "I've been with LOTS of guys," he bragged.  

Brian couldn't wait to tell Mikey all about his adventures; he'd wanted to tell him for such a long time.  Now they could be best friends without secrets, best friends who could share everything. No more secrets.  They'd already shared all the bad stuff, really; and now they could share all the good stuff, too.   

After Michael had left and Brian returned to work, flipping burgers and assembling Big Macs, he felt a sense of relief.  Now that Mikey was having adventures of his own, there would be no danger of the two crossing the line, that dangerous line into buddysex, which Charlie'd convinced him would lead to the death of their friendship.  Brian sighed deeply.  Now he could relax.   

Except. . . except for one, small nagging thought in the back of his mind:  Seeing Michael with another guy, Brian had been. . . jealous?  He admitted it to himself now, he'd been jealous.  He didn't like seeing somebody else touching Mikey.  His Mikey. Now other guys would be kissing his Mikey, fucking his Mikey, maybe falling in love with his Mikey. Charlie didn't believe in love, and Brian didn't, either.  But he was afraid, very much afraid, that Michael did.  What if Michael fell in love with some guy, and that guy stole Mikey away from him?   

Brian didn't believe in love, and he wasn't sure he believed in God, either.  But standing at the counter, tossing lettuce and pickles on top of two all-beef patties on a sesame seed bun, Brian found himself praying:  "Please, God.  Please-please-please, God, let Michael love only me.  Only me. Forever and ever, amen."