There's no ascertainable segue when, between French fries, Brian suddenly says, "You see, this is how it is: you need to learn not only how to give but to receive as well. Getting off on being rimmed isn't a passive act. You can't just lie there. It's an art that needs a lot of practice."

My mouth is full, so I can only nod and hope my enthusiasm is clear nonetheless.  I like the concept. It's a good concept. I also like art . . . and practice. Well, not soccer or piano practice, which I used to hate, but practice getting off on being rimmed sounds like fun. A whole lotta fun.

He dips another fry in ketchup and stuffs it in his mouth. Yes, "stuffs." I bet you'd never guess it, but Brian Kinney can sometimes be a total pig - and not only when he's stoned. He can just be a regular, plain, ol' pig like the rest of us mere mortals. I was both surprised and relieved when I first realized that fact. He may have the body of a God, but I like to be reminded that he's otherwise human. A human who is currently waving his hand in front of my face.

"Hello, earth to Sunshine," he says. "Are you really that hungover? You only had three shots."

"And hopefully three glasses of water to rehydrate him."

"Mikey!" Brian exclaims when he sees the brown-haired busybody walk up to our booth. "You're just in time."

Michael frowns with suspicion.

"For what?"

Brian pats the seat beside him, and Michael - because he's trained better than a seeing-eye dog - obediently sits down next to his best friend-slash-cock tease.

"I was just telling Justin here that, not only must one learn how to give, one must also learn how to receive."

"Are we talking Christmas presents?" Michael asks. "Please say we're talking about Christmas presents."

"We are definitely not talking about Christmas presents, unless, of course, Santa plans to come up your chimney," Brian says because Michael's presence turns him into a barely pubescent junior high school boy.

Gross.

Michael chortles.

"But," Brian adds. "One could say that we are talking about gifts in a more general sense - as in talents of which, as everyone knows, I have many."

Michael nods sycophantically.

"You're the best ad exec at your agency," he says as though Brian feels like he needs to be reminded of how awesome he is.

Apparently, he does.

"Why, thank you, Mikey," he says. "What else am I the most talented at?"

"You can find the best weed in the city in less than an hour and buy it on credit."

"And?"

"You can hook-up with any guy you want at Babylon."

"Not just Babylon. You forgot Woody's and the gym. Never forget the gym."

"You're the best-dressed man in the mid-west."

"The mid-west?  Mikey, the Pitts is in the east and, besides, being the best-dressed man in the Bible Belt is hardly a high bar."

"You're awesome at bowling."

"For which we can thank my dear ol' dad."

"You've memorized the words in almost every Marlon Brando movie."

"All except 'Apocalypse Now.'  Still working on that one."

Tell me about it. I've had to watch the crazy-ass thing, like, a million times. Why can't he be into an actor like Ashton Kutcher, who, by the way, looks freakishly like him . . .

"You can sing and play guitar better than Robert Smith."

"Yes, and?"

"Uhm . . . well, you're really good at pool."

No, he's not. He sucks at pool. I think it, but I don't say it.  I'm not stupid. I want to get laid. Sulking and watching 'I Love Lucy' at Deb's is definitely NOT my idea of a day well-spent.

"And you're good at darts, too.  Also, you can drink anyone under the table . . ."

"More like blow them under the table," Brian says, finally starting to sound bored with Michael's litany of awesomeness.  "You've forgotten my most sought-after talent.  Justin's not interested in my brilliant ad campaigns."

"Well, he should be," Michael says indignantly.

I roll my eyes.  Brian catches me and winks.  I give him my biggest, widest, awesomest Sunshiny grin.

It may be my imagination . . . hell, who am I kidding, it probably is my imagination . . . but Brian's expression goes soft and affectionate for a second.  But then he turns to Michael.

"My greatest talent," he says dramatically, implying the sound of a drumroll, "is my ability to get off on nothing more than a good rim job and a few seconds of jerking off.  No pillow-humping necessary.  Just a good, old-fashion tongue-fuck is all I need."

Both my dick and my eyebrows take notice of his words. Brian can reach orgasm on little more than a rim job? Last I knew, he didn't even want to let his asshole come out to play. I smile sillily as I revisit my fond memories of meeting the adorable little guy.

"Stop reminiscing about my asshole," Brian says.

Michael makes a sound that could either be a gag or a sob. Most likely something in-between. I have the sneaking suspicion he'd sell Deb's soul for a glimpse of the treasure between Brian's ass cheeks.

I smirk at him. Brian catches me.

"Justin," he says. "Stop that."

He's serious. I blush and proceed to study what remains of my hamburger with rapt attention as though I'll be quizzed about it on Monday.

"No one comes from a rim-job," Michael says. "Especially not you."

Brian laughs fondly and puts his arm around Michael's shoulders.

"Okay, Mikey," he says. "You're right. I can't come from a rim-job."

Michael smiles at him with equal fondness.

"Thank you," he says.

Jesus Christ! The two of them are SO weird!  Poor Michael. He can't deal with the thought of anyone touching Brian at all, let alone his asshole (and let alone me), so Brian pretends that no one does even though Michael knows he's lying. Warped much?

"Chow down," Brian says to me. "There are places to go and things to do."

My dick had gotten distracted by the WTFness of Brian and Michael's relationship - and not in a good way - but now it perks up again.  I know what Brian means.  He'd all but said Hurry up! I'm horny as hell and need to fuck your pert bum before my balls explode.

I eat my hamburger so fast that I choke on it.  When I start coughing, Brian moves to sit beside me so he can thump me on the back.

"Easy now," he says. "Don't kick the bucket on me. If you're going to choke on something, I want it to be my dick."

When I stop hacking, I glance at Michael through watering eyes. He looks like a kicked puppy. Brian stands up and goes back to his seat. When he sits down, he takes Michael's chin in his hand and kisses him too intimately for me not to feel jealous.

"See you at Woody's," he says.

Surprisingly, Michael can recognize a way to save face when he sees it. He wipes his mouth.  

"Ugh.  You taste like greasy fries."

"Bye bye, Mikey," Brian says, standing up. "C'mon, Justin."  

He takes a twenty out of his wallet, gives it to the cashier, and walks to the door with a farewell to Deb and not a second glance at me.

I shove my plate away and go trotting after him.

Michael snickers.

Asshole.  Like he doesn't trot after Brian, too.  Pot/kettle, Mikey. Pot-fucking-kettle.

"So," Brian says as we walk toward his building with our chins tucked in our collars and our hands shoved in our pockets in a mostly vain attempt to stay warm. "Do you want to rim me again?" His breath smokes in the sunless morning air.

I can't answer. "Why?" you might ask. Because I've swallowed my tongue, and one needs their tongue to talk. No need to look it up. It's a well-known anatomical fact.

Brian laughs. I must've made an embarrassing little sound of some kind.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

I eagerly express my agreement. Suddenly I don't feel cold anymore. Quite the opposite. I've gotten so warm at the thought of rimming him that I'm actually considering taking off my parka, but by then we've reached our destination.

We take the elevator. I LOVE taking the elevator.  It means he's going to kiss me, and not in a neat, tidy way. He's going to stick his tongue down my throat and get spit all over our chins.

I'm not disappointed.

I'm breathing hard and feeling light headed when we finally enter the loft and close the door behind us.

"First things first," Brian says, stripping off his coat and leaning down to pull off his boots. "Let's take a shower. If you're like me, then you want to be sure your ass is clean before a guy gives you a proper rim job."

I glare at him. I HATE it when he implies that asses aren't just for fucking and fingering.

He laughs. He always does. It's annoying.

"Too bad, Sunshine," he says far too cheerfully. "Shit happens."

I roll my eyes.

He comes over and sslloowwllyy unzips my parka.

"Look," he says. "Facts are facts.  Learn to deal with them, or you're not going to fully enjoy getting rimmed. To fully enjoy it, you want to feel as clean as your comfort level requires."

The coin drops. "You didn't feel comfortable when I rimmed you the first time."

"Not as much as I like to," he admits. "I wasn't expecting to have my ass chomped on by a hungry hyena disguised as a mild-mannered twink.  Now in the shower.  Chop, chop. But first, take a crap if you need to."

"I don't, and I hate you," I say. Because I do.

"You'll hate sharing that plate of pancakes you ate yesterday even more."

I just stare at him.

"Brian," I say after a few seconds of wishing I lived on an uninhabited planet. "This is SO NOT romantic."

"Whoever said fucking is romantic?"

Oh yeah. Right. For a second I forgot who I was talking to. Suddenly, I feel less warm-and-fuzzy about our first night together . . . well, as warm-and-fuzzy as I'm capable of feeling knowing the bastard hadn't even bothered to remember my name . . . .  That said, I do remember taking a VERY thorough shower before I'd left home that night with the ardent hope that someone would be all about my ass . . . .

"Don't worry," he says.  "Your ass was as clean as a famine victim's plate."

I crack up because three things are hilarious.  One, his analogy. Two, the fact he read my mind, and three, because he may not have remembered my name, but he clearly remembered the taste of my ass and wanted more. It's as big a compliment as Mr. Kinney is capable of giving.

"Ah," he says with relief. "There we go. A laugh.  Now, get your ass in the shower. I'll scrub yours, and you can scrub mine."

"Is that the same as 'I'll scratch your back, if you scratch mine'?" I ask. "A quid pro quo?"

He grins. "Everything about sex - at least good sex - is quid pro quo."

I grin back.  It's all good. Even the poop lecture.  Well, okay . . . maybe not the poop lecture, but that's okay. Unlike with anyone else, when it comes to Brian, I'm willing to put up with his shit - or lack thereof as the case may be.

Fifteen minutes later, we leave the shower freshly buffed and scrubbed, our skin pink from the heat.  I feel my chin.

"I've got some stubble," I say.  "Do you want me to . . . ?"

"Excuse me?" he says.  "I don't think I heard you.  Did you just say 'I've got some stubble'?"

Asshole.

"Yes, that's what I said. My balls really have dropped. I really can grow whiskers; they're just hard to see because I'm blond."

He chuckles indulgently because he knows I have to shave only two or three times a week, whereas he sometimes has to shave twice a day. I watch as he shakes the water from his hair.  I love it when he does that. It reminds me of the first time I kissed him - or rather he kissed me.

"No, don't shave," he replies. "I like a little stubble burn.  It adds to the whole experience."

He smiles when he sees my eyes go all hazy with desire and my dick start to swell. He kisses me deeply and for a very long time. He may have washed every inch of his body, but I'm relieved that he didn't go so far as to brush his teeth. I don't want mint - I want him, greasy fries and all.

"No toothpaste," he says when he pulls back. "And no scented soap. Spit shouldn't taste like Crest, and ass shouldn't taste like Dove - or smell like it either. And don't even get me going on fruity lube."

I ignore him. "Did you know you can get coffee flavor?" I tease.

He shudders and makes a gagging sound. I laugh.

"Speaking of lube," he says. "What did I tell you last week?"

"It should always be water-based," I reply dutifully.

"Why?"

"Because petroleum destroys latex."

"And?"

"It tastes like the pavement of a parking lot."

"Very good," he says. "Alright, enough talking and more doing."

He goes over to his Drawer Of Awesome and pulls out the biggest butt plug I've seen yet. It's made from rock-hard plastic and covered with bumps.

"I'm going to show you how to have the best rim-job of your life," he says, holding it up and admiring it like a vase from the dawn of the Ming dynasty.

I nod vigorously. It sounds like a useful lesson - much more useful than a lesson about the political symbolism in James Joyce's "Ulysses" . . . . well, actually that's too low a bar. Any lesson is more useful than a lesson about the political symbolism in James Joyce's "Ulysses."

"Stop thinking about English class and lube this baby up," he says.

I boggle at him. How does he do that??  I can't decide whether I'm freaked out or impressed. Probably a bit of both.

He lies down on the bed and rolls over onto his stomach, splaying his lean body against the midnight-blue sheets.  Suddenly it's like James Joyce never lived and stupid "Ulysses" was never written. In fact, nothing has ever existed before this moment as Brian positions himself perfectly - legs spread and hips canted just so - for me to see every millimeter of his ass crack and everything in its vicinity. His tailbone. His asshole. His perineum. His balls, full and heavy in their sack. He has beautiful balls, as in really fucking beautiful.

"Today," he purrs like some kind of sexy tiger-creature and flexes the muscles in his buttocks, giving them dimples.

I shake myself out of my trance and get on the bed beside him. There's a giant, Costco-sized container of lube on his nightstand, and I use it to liberally coat the butt plug he'd given me.  I'm puzzled though.

"I thought you were going to let me rim you," I say.

"I am," he replies.

"Then why the plug?"

"You'll see. Is it ready?"

"I think so."

He hums with appreciation and cants his hips just a little bit more.

"Don't you want a pillow?" I ask. "That looks uncomfortable."

"It is a little uncomfortable," he says. "But I like that.  Being a little uncomfortable - at least for me - makes getting rimmed even hotter. Besides, my ass looks great like this."

I nod even though he can't see me because it's true. His ass really does look great like that. So does his back. He's bracing himself with his arms, and his spine is rounded in a downward arch. And did I mention I can see everything?

"Put it in me," he says.

I notice his hole loosen all on its own just in mere anticipation of what's about to happen. I know from experience that he loves having things in his ass. He drops his head. His breaths are already coming shallow and fast.

He wants this so fucking badly.

As the old saying goes, there's no need to twist my arm.

I position myself between his spread legs and press the tip of the plug against his entrance. It's shaped like the head of a cock and slippery with lube, so it slides right in. I watch with rapt attention as his anus stretches to accept it. The puckered skin looks taut to the point of pain. He confirms my suspicion with several hitched gasps and an agonized-sounding groan.

I panic.

"Are you okay?"

He groans again.

"Better than okay."

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Of course, it hurts.  Assholes aren't designed for stuff being pushed into them - especially not something that fucking big . . . . . ahhhh . . . fuck that feels good."

It was weird at first - the whole idea that one can use the words "hurt" and "good" to describe the same act (despite John Cougar Mellencamp's stupid song) - but I'm starting to get it.

"Deeper," he says.

I frown.  

"But it gets even bigger."

He laughs breathlessly.  "That's why I chose it.  Don't worry, just do it."

"You realize you just combined the chorus of a Bobby McFerrin song with Nike's slogan," I say.

"Sunshine?" he replies.

"Yes?"

"Shut up."

I'd laugh, but I'm too consumed with awe as I watch his asshole open wider to swallow the increasing girth of the plug, which at its widest, has a circumference roughly the size of a soda can.

Clearly impatient with my slow progress, he rises to his knees and pushes back, forcing the plug as deep into his body as it can go.

All I can do is stare. I never even imagined someone could enjoy having his asshole stretched open that much! I wonder briefly if Brian has ever been fisted - if he has, then obviously he'd enjoyed it. A wave of jealousy washes over me. Did he enjoy it as much as he's enjoying himself now?

Clearly, he's doing exactly that - actually, he seems not only to take pleasure in it but crave it as well. He's rocking slightly forward and back, forward and back, forward and back, fucking himself and moaning with a low growling sound the whole time.  I clench the two fingers holding the ring at the base of the plug, afraid he might push back too fast and too far and swallow the whole dang thing.  

After a few minutes, he tells me to pull it out steadily but slowly . . . very slowly. I watch, fixated, as the backward movement of the plug and the way the bumps catch on the rim of his hole reveal the inside of him - the bright pink flesh of his rectum.

I feel faint with a kind of wanting I've never felt before . . . something about seeing the inside of his body like this . . . it's even more intimate than just seeing his asshole stretched wide. It's . . . .

. . . suddenly and too soon, the plug slides out of him. He immediately moves to place his head on his pillow so he can reach back and spread himself open.

"Eat me," he demands. "Stick your tongue in me - but just the tip. See that pink? Touch it. It's the most sensitive part of my whole fucking body right now."

I position myself so I can do what he asked. His skin is velvet-soft and hot and slippery-slick with lube. Curious how he'll react, I careful trace the pink ring with the tip of my tongue before sticking it in. He makes a sobbing sound and tries his infinite best to spread his ass cheeks even wider.

"Like that," he gasps. "Just like that.  Don't stop . . . Jesus fucking Christ, don't you dare fucking stop."

He needn't have said anything. There's no way I'll stop until he comes and I get to feel his asshole open and close around my tongue with his orgasm's contractions.

"Gotta . . . jerk-off," he pants. "Hold me open - don't let my hole close up . . . fuck!"

I do as he says and watch the bright pink around his rim pulse with the rhythm of his heartbeat.  It's . . . well, it's beautiful. The color, the convulsive movement, the sounds he's making, the way his body jerks as he strokes himself, pumping his cock fast and hard.

"Tongue . . ." he gasps.

It's the only word he's capable of, so he's lucky I understand what he wants. I lean down and return to teasing his delicate flesh. My tongue caresses him, circling his hole as he starts to shake.

"Beads ...."

This time, it takes me a moment to figure out what he wants, but then I get it. He wants his anal beads. I feel a little faint again because I know what's about to happen and how it's going to look . . . .

With just the gentlest of encouragement, his body accepts each silver ball. I watch them slide in until the last one disappears.

At his impassioned request, I resume licking him, every now and then tugging on the string until I feel his body seize on the razor-thin instant of orgasm.

"Pull . . ." his groans.  "Oh, God!"

Slowly, one by one, I pull the balls free, stopping now and then to lick the excruciatingly sensitive pink ring. Suddenly, and surely at his design, he comes right as the last emerges, the contractions of his orgasm pulsing around it and pushing it out into my waiting palm. He cries out with a choked command to keep licking even as his body starts to shake.

Jesus Christ!

He comes again a minute later when I roll him over, reinsert the butt plug, and swallow his cock deeper than I ever have before. Deeper than is probably safe, but I don't care.  I've never seen - or even imagined - anything hotter in my whole, entire, God-given life.

When I finish coughing, I wipe my watering eyes and gaze down at his face. It's flushed and his hair isn't just damp with sweat - it's positively soaked. He looks dazed, like he's on the edge of blacking out. His eyelids flutter as he gasps for breath.

"I . . ." he says weakly after a while.

I reach down and cup the side of his face.

"You . . ." he says, his voice only slightly stronger.

He turns his head to kiss my palm, and I realize that's the only answer I'll get if I ask him to elaborate.

It's enough. More than enough, actually. Because, man, I'd knocked the ball out of the motherfucking park!

I grin. His smile is wobbly.

"Good?" I ask. My voice is raspy and my throat hurts, but I couldn't care less.

He nods. "Yeah," he croaks. "Yeah, that was good."

He turns his head to kiss my palm again when I burst into a coughing fit.

"You realize this is the second time today I've almost had to use the Heimlich maneuver on you," he says.

I can only nod my head. If I could speak, I'd tell him that blowing him was better than even "Chef" Bob's best burger. Much better. If I'm going to choke to death on something, I'd much prefer Brian's cock.

"So," he says. "That is how you receive a rim job. I hope you took notes."

I laugh because I don't need to write my memories down.  They're forever branded on my mind - and he knows it.

"Good, because it's your turn now," he says and then laughs in return when my jaw drops and a thin trickle of drool escapes the corner of my mouth.

He pushes himself into a sitting position.

"I just need a couple minutes to recover and a glass of ice water with a lemon wedge," he says.

It's an unsubtle hint to get my ass to the kitchen.

Needless to say, I don't need a second one. Playing the happy helper is well worth the effort - no matter how onerous the task. The only drawback is that when I return, Brian has nodded off.  I smile and kiss his cheek.  I'll have to wait a while for my turn, but judging from his blissful expression, I'm more than certain it'll be worth it.