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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 17- FORTUITY

GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV

don’t take your love to town

The non-smoking room he was fucking you in reeked of cigarettes. He’d seen you, this well-dressed man whose facial hair actually didn’t bother you, playing Black Jack. He was impressed that you were winning, hand after hand. And now, he was scoring.

It was what you came for, after all.

Not really the fuck; it was just being chosen that was giving you the rush you needed to come for him. He was jacking you with purpose, his heavy breathing on the back of your neck getting too hot. You glanced up at yourself in the mirror over the dresser.

Disgusting.

His hands were too rough for a businessman, and he’d taken you to an Econo-Lodge. You were beginning to think you were being fucked by a contradiction. But the clothes were right, the attitude, the air of superiority. You owned the same tie he was wearing.

It wasn’t cheap.

“Why is it taking you so long to come?” he asked you, kissing the back of your neck as if that would speed things along.

“I don’t know.”

“Good thing I didn’t rent this room by the hour.”

**********************
BRIAN’S POV

he’s so fine,
gotta make him mine


Showering with Justin had always cast some sort of emotional amnesty over you, the tender gestures you made safe from the eyes of others, the rush of the water pulling a curtain around both of you. It reminded you of seeing a magician when you were a kid, a curtain able to make anything disappear.

“I love fucking you,” Justin was whispering into your back, his hand still between your legs. “Feel how wet you are,” his fingers teasing outside your hole.

“We’re both wet; we’re in the shower.”

He pinched your ass, “You know, I used to have this fantasy about fucking you in the backroom.”

“That’s the classic definition of a fantasy.”

“But it would never last very long because a part of me could feel how mortified you were, even though it was just a daydream.”

You turned around and pressed his back against the wall of the shower, “I used to have a fantasy about fucking you in a rather non-consensual sort of way.”

“Used to?” A mischievous expression spread over his whole face.

“In the backroom, after you’d been following me around all night, pestering the ever-loving fuck out of me.”

“You loved it.”

He was right. You were so fucking addicted to his adoration of you.

Are.

You held his face in your hand, letting your thumb trail up and down his cheek, your face barely a few inches from his, “I wanted to push you up against the wall, pull your tight jeans down, and fuck you before you were ready, just to see that wicked look on your face as you fought to enjoy it.” Because back then he would’ve never indicated otherwise, terrified that it’d be the last time you fucked him too hard. Your fingers wrapped around his chin, holding his face where you wanted it, the water running down the wall behind him, “You wanted me so badly.”

His hand snaked up around the back of your head and pulled you to him. You kissed him hard, forcing him on his toes against the wall. His arms broke your hold on his face, pushing them further down his body where he wanted them.

“You want me to fuck you?” you asked him, the rabidity of his kiss driving you crazy.

He said, ”Yes,” but it meant please.

“After dinner,” you told him, breaking away and turning off the water.

**********************
GABE ZIRROLLI’S POV

what is so great about sleeping downtown?

He gave you his card after zipping up his pants and asked you, “What do you do for a living?”

It was none of his business, “I run an orphanage.”

“Really?” he seemed intrigued. “Then this is quite a fortuitous fuck.”

Your forehead wrinkled, “Why?” You couldn’t find your belt. He’d skimmed it out of your pants and thrown it on the floor, some kind of dramatic, cheap foreplay. You found it, the buckle sticking out from under the bed.

“I’m in fund raising.” You glanced at his card:

 

 

 

He was standing in the mirror, adjusting his tie and fucking with his hair, “Our research shows that children are the most profitable mechanism for opening people’s wallets.” You wanted to tell him that he was an ass, but, then again, you’d lied about running an orphanage, so you figured that was just as shitty. You’d flipped his card in the trash while he was admiring himself. “In fact, I’m in Atlantic City for a fund raising event.”

“Well, good luck with that,” you said, your hand on the doorknob. You never knew what to say when these things were over. Somehow, ‘that should do me for a while,’ just seemed too crass.

Or too honest.

You stepped out on the balcony and could see Zeek smoking in the parking lot. You shut the door and walked down the two flights of stairs.

“Get your itch scratched?” he asked you, stepping on his cigarette and handing you your coat.

“Yeah.”

“Good,” Zeek responded, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his black leather jacket. “Zip up; it’s colder than an Eskimo’s balls out here.”

“You sound like Mama.”

He huffed, “Yeah, she’d be real proud of you right now. So what was it this time?”

“Director of an orphanage.”

“You fucking slay me, ‘Cakes. You. Slay. Me.”

**********************
NATE ROCKFORD’S POV

I am the living legacy of the leader of the band

It was common knowledge in the world of athletic apparel that Leo Brown wasn’t aging gracefully. In fact, you’d spent Valentine’s Day at Leo’s side instead of your wife’s, his deteriorating condition demanding it. He knew he was dying, a lifetime of heavy drinking and smoking to blame. You thought you’d been there to reassure him about the future of his company, of his brand, but it was the other way around.

That Monday, he’d informed you that he was leaving his company to you. You had no idea. Seemed Leo’s only dying wish was that his name carry on, knowing that he wouldn’t, and he felt confident that you could do that for him. So, you’d agreed.

Leo had no children and his wife had died over five years ago. His vices had increasingly kept him company since her death, and even before his body began to give out, you could see his spirit giving up. And you knew now that Leo had formally stepped down from running the company that he wouldn’t be long for this world. A man needs his passion to keep him alive.

**********************
you had a hold on me right from the start

You’d met Sarah Cooper, your passion, over thirty-six years ago when you’d ventured away from The Rockford for an evening of entertainment void of your parents and tertiary responsibility. The smoky bar at the bottom of the mountain where you found yourself that night changed names shortly thereafter and was then demolished to make way for a strip mall, so you and Sarah had long since found a new home within the dark walls of The Tavern.

She was on stage the night you met her, wearing a tight black dress with burgundy piping and black heels that you’d only ever seen before in the corners of your sometimes-filthy imagination. She kind of reminded you of Marlo Thomas and, subsequently, of the rather embarrassing crush you’d always had on That Girl.

You’d always been ashamed of the things you pictured That Girl doing, but one look at Sarah, and you thought you hit the mother load. Somehow imagining Sarah riding you while wearing a little pill-box hat and patent leather pumps (her tiny purse dangling daintily off her arm all the while) didn’t make you feel as compelled to ask for forgiveness. For some reason, every time you thought of Marlo Thomas or Jackie Kennedy that way, you’d wound up in the confessional.

You’d gone there that night to be invisible, to drink at a bar where everyone didn’t know your name or ask you for a refill. But her piano player flew off stage in the middle of her act because his wife was in labor, and Sarah stood on the edge of the stage, microphone in hand, inquiring if there were any other piano players in the house. You raised your hand because you were already halfway drunk, and she walked down the three stairs between the stage and your table and asked if you were serious.

She smelled exactly like what you believed Marlo Thomas smelled like (apparently Jean Nate) and had the darkest eyelashes you’d ever seen. She was leaning on your table, her hands splayed in front of her, a dark red polish on her nails, “You can really play?”

“Yeah, by ear.”

“What’s your name?”

“Nate.”

“Well, Nate,”
she asked, pointing to the stage, “What are you waiting for?”

She sang as you played, and you distinctly remember the song, Anticipation by Carly Simon, because it was exactly what you were feeling.

Much later that evening, you’d invited her back to your ‘room’ at The Rockford, not immediately revealing that you were Nate Rockford. It was late enough that your parents were sound asleep, and the employees that worked nights were more than discreet. A few nodded at you as you led Sarah up the stairs, your penchant for brunettes in strappy heels known to all of them.

You’d bummed a cigarette off of her after you’d fucked her, mesmerized by the way she held it when she smoked. “That was the best orgasm I’ve had in weeks, Nate.”

“You rate your orgasms?”
You were such a literalist back then.

I guess I do,” she responded.

You asked her if anyone had ever told her that she looked just like That Girl, but she thought you said Batgirl and replied that purple leather wasn’t her first choice, “But if it turns you on…”

And it did.

……

Do you always come like that?” you asked after the second fuck, regretting it immediately because you sounded like a complete moron, as if you’d never seen a woman orgasm before in your twenty-three years of life. (She was the third, and the first one you knew was faking it.)

She’d laughed at you, “Oh, I always come. I just don’t always come back.

She was nineteen going on thirty-seven.

**********************
we can never know about the things to come

It’s your job at Brown Athletics to keep everything running smoothly from production to distribution to branding to sales. You pride yourself on your foresight; after all, you’d grown up as a pint-sized manager of the family business, garnering an odd respect from the hotel staff before you were even thirteen.

But you never saw Sarah’s breast cancer coming.

She was young, in her early thirties, and the news hit her hard, sending her self-image down the drain after her mastectomy. Her reconstructive surgery left her as beautiful as ever, but she couldn’t see it. To her, her days of being a desirable woman were over. What followed was a long course of psychotherapy and anti-depressants that took their time but eventually seemed to do the trick. The weight gain that came along with the meds frustrated her as she’d thought she’d fought the last battle with her body for awhile, but support groups and even vacationing cancer survivors helped lift her spirits when your reassuring platitudes were no longer appreciated.

As your wife, Sarah certainly had no need to work for a living, but after the cancer, you searched for something to give her back her self-worth, and decided that she should run The Rockford. You accepted a standing offer with a casual clothing manufacturer nearby as their Director of Marketing in the early eighties, and slowly watched Sarah bounce back. She was more than capable of sustaining the resort; in many ways, due to very low turnover, it almost ran itself. And then, a few years later, you were walking through a brand new clothing store in Chicago discussing floor layout when you bumped into Leo Brown. He was shopping and listening to everything you said. He introduced himself, and the rest, as they say, was history.

Running operations for Brown Athletics pulled you farther away from home, but Sarah was in full bloom in her role at The Rockford. You enjoyed your new job because instead of being bound to The Rockford seven days a week as you’d been for most of your life, you got to travel all over the world. And Sarah found comfort in the guests and audiences of The Rockford, many of whom knew her from her pre- and post-cancer days.

And although you loved your job and the many opportunities it afforded you, there was nothing better than coming home to Sarah on Friday nights. You were able to be with her and unwind at the same time, two things you valued more than anything.

**********************
BRIAN’S POV

and wrap my heart 'round your little finger

Your hands had roamed under Justin’s shirt as you stood behind him in the bathroom while he was trying to dry his hair.

“You’re totally in my way,” he complained, almost smacking you in the head with the hair dryer by accident.

“Don’t care,” and you didn’t, “Your nipples are much more fascinating to me.”

He finally stopped fucking with his hair, unplugged the dryer, laid it down, and covered your hands with his over his shirt. He tilted his head back against you, his lips on your neck. “You’re making me crazy,” he warned.

You’re making me crazy. You started it.” Although you were the one who made him put back on the same clothes he’d worn for a couple of hours at lunch because every time you looked at him, your pants got a little tighter. You slid your right hand down his chest and underneath the waist band of his black pants that you’d only let him zip about thirty seconds ago and watched your finger running up and down beside his cock, underneath the fabric, as you told him, “The thing about these pants is that they so sublimely flatter your hot, little ass and your beautiful cock at the same time.”

“Two for the price of one.”

And you wanted to pay that price until you were flat broke.

And then some.

And then he turned around, pulling off the towel wrapped around your waist, “And it’s very hard to concentrate on anything while your dick is pressing against my ass.”

“You could suck it and subsequently alleviate that problem if you’re so inclined.”

“Oh, I’m inclined,” he told you as you bent your head down to his to kiss him. But he bypassed your kiss and whispered in your ear instead, squeezing your cock in his hot hand, “After dinner.”

**********************
NATE ROCKFORD’S POV

these are the good old days

The Tavern, a commonplace name given to it by patrons of years past, was the darkest eating establishment at The Rockford. The two outer doors were a rich mahogany, majestic in design, with large, vertical, brass pulls measuring about a foot in length. The inside consisted of a solid-oak bar that almost seemed to rise seamlessly out of the floor. The walls of The Tavern were lined with generous booths that surrounded an assortment of variously shaped tables that peppered the rest of the dining area. Your mother and father could never agree on circular or rectangular tables, so you’d ended up with an odd collection of both. The piano on the raised part of the restaurant took up room that could’ve easily been occupied by paying customers, but The Tavern had never been judged by profit margins, standing out instead because of it’s quality menu, wide bar well-suited for anyone to drink their troubles away, and weekend entertainment. In the early evening, when The Tavern opened for business around five o’clock, the doors would be propped open, welcoming any and all until it’s capacity was met. Then the doors would close as the evening began.

When you arrived at The Rockford that night, one of your assistant managers was working the front desk, which meant that Dave had been helping Sarah warm up. Being able to play the piano wasn’t a pre-requisite for management at The Rockford, but it certainly never hurt. And if Sarah had been warming up with Dave, then that meant she’d had a good day, that she was feeling well, and just knowing that made you pick up the pace a little.

You were smiling when you walked inside, the whoosh of the door announcing your entrance, and Sarah immediately turned from where she’d been leaning over the bar, “Welcome home.”

“Hey.”

“How’s Leo?”

She knew because you’d talked to her on the phone after your first meeting with him that past Monday, discussing Leo’s offer with her. You’d accepted it the next day. You hugged her, told her she looked beautiful, and commented on the fact that she wearing new shoes, “Those are sexy.”

She looked down at her foot and turned her ankle, “Expensive, but worth it. So, how is he?”

“Not good. He’ll go any day now.”

“Shit. I’m sorry,” she said, rubbing her hand over your upper arm to soothe you.

You turned around, leaning against the bar, surveying the crowd that was dining at The Tavern that night, “Full house, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Did you give Brian my message?”

She pointed to one of the most private and tallest booths on the lower part of the dining area a few feet from the bar, “He’s right there.”

You didn’t recognize the man who was with him, but assumed that it must be Justin because Brian had mentioned him now and then over the years.

“They look like they’re having a good time,” you remarked, noticing that Brian’s leg was propped on Justin’s side of the booth under the table, as if locking him in. The scent of Sarah’s telltale perfume and shampoo drifted under your nose when she turned her head to follow her gaze, and you took a deep breath and enjoyed it.

Years ago, when Sarah was recovering from her mastectomy, she withdrew into herself, declaring herself done with her performance hobby and began to spend all of her time at her other hobby—art. Sarah dabbled in just about everything, from pottery to painting, and her zeal for the pastime quickly led to sales of her New England-y knick-knacks in the gift shop at The Rockford. For some reason, Sarah latched onto the gnome as her primary subject, and you suspected it had something to do with the lore surrounding their elusive, private qualities. The worse Sarah was feeling, the more gnomes she produced or painted. At times, her attention to her hobby bordered on obsessive, but she was actually turning a profit from the little creatures, so you figured that a profitable obsession was better than melancholy.

As her sales grew, she began to market them outside The Rockford, making a killing during a time when boutique customers would spend money on anything reminding them of their visit to New Hampshire. Her stage name when you met her had been Sarah Melody, and she kept Melody as part of her branding when she branched out into toiletries. What gnomes and toiletries had to do with each other, you had absolutely no idea, but with a resort that had to be stocked daily with lotions, shampoos, soap, and, at Sarah’s insistence, candles, the product line sold itself with pint-sized renditions ending up in every bathroom at The Rockford at cost. As customers paid for their incidentals at the end of their stay, they’d often purchase gift sets of Moments with Melody on their way out, declaring it a fabulous souvenir from their vacation.

It’s not often that you actually like the lotions and soaps in a hotel,” customers would remark, usually elderly women with husbands who carried their purses for them, an automatic marital obligation for visitors over sixty. “Thank you very much; we’ve had such a wonderful time.” Sarah would often sell the actual painting hanging in their room because they’d heard from a friend of a friend that, “Those paintings are actually for sale. You must get one, Gladys; it would look perfect over your mantel in the guest room.” By the early-nineties, Sarah had a website, and although she’d never top the money you made, she often came damn close.

But your favorite ‘moments with Melody’ were the Friday nights when you returned from a week of wheeling and dealing, to find her dressed in black with her hair down, the top of her tight sweater stopping just above her ass. You were in your early fifties, but the sight of her looking like she did the first night you met her, always sent you back in time to about twenty-five. (Well, that, and a little Viagra before you retired for the evening.) She’d warm up before The Tavern opened, and it wasn’t uncommon for waiting patrons to gather outside the doors just to listen now and then.

She stood at the bar that night, supervising the things that needed supervising, while you sat beside her and ate a quick salad, enjoying a couple glasses of a favorite Riesling. The typical flow of an evening at The Tavern was guests enjoying a full course meal, then a round of after-dinner drinks and desserts, and then, once they were happy, sated, and too full to get up, serving as a captive audience for what a now-deceased regular at The Rockford had always referred to as ‘a modern Sonny and Cher.’

“Did you send them that bottle of wine at their table?” you asked Sarah as you finished your second glass.

“Of course.”

Hospitality ran in your blood, and Sarah was kind enough not to point that out every time you reminded her about something she’d already taken care of. ‘I may not have grown up in this place, Nate,’ she’d say to you about once a month, ‘But I know a thing or two about keeping people happy.’ You toyed with the idea of going over and saying hi to Brian and his partner, but they seemed to be involved in deep conversation, and you didn’t want to interrupt.

**********************
BRIAN’S POV

I got you babe

You’d walked hand in hand with Justin down the stairs to The Tavern, attracting a few curious looks from older patrons. It was hard to tell whether they were disgusted with what they saw or thought it was cute. As you reached the last few steps, Justin tugged on your hand, turning you around to face him. Because he was on a higher stair, you were almost the same height, “Brian, I just want you to know that I’m having a really good time.”

“So am I,” you said with a smile.

He leaned forward and against you, his hand wrapping around your neck, “I want you to kiss me.”

You kissed him slowly, enjoying the taste of his minty mouth as he teased you with his tongue, and then confessed, “I can’t wait to get you back in bed and kiss every part of your beautiful body.”

He blushed, no doubt because you were coming on to him in front of people with probably more discretion, “Mmm.”

You tugged his hand, “Let’s go eat. Gotta keep our strength up.”

As you entered The Tavern, holding the enormous door open for him, you were greeted by a hostess who seemed to know exactly who you were, “Mr. Kinney?”

“Yes.”

“Right this way. We have a table reserved for you, sir.”

You couldn’t help but wonder if it was you she recognized or perhaps your more-spirited partner from lunch.

The table she led you to was exceptionally private, part by location (at least six feet from the bar) and part by design. The back of each booth appeared almost striped with a dark wood paneling and was a few inches taller than even you when you sat down. You faced the dining area; Justin took the more private side, facing the bar. The waitress excused herself for a moment after handing you giant, leather-bound menus that once opened, completely obstructed your view of Justin, and his of you.

Moments later, she returned with a bottle of a 2001 Chateau Rieussec Sauternes, “Compliments of Mr. Rockford, sir.”

“Is he here?” you inquired, glancing around for a second and not seeing him.

“He’ll be here shortly, sir.”

“Thank you.”

Justin closed his menu after she walked away, “The last time I’ve heard anyone call you ‘sir’ that many times was that night we spent at the Meat Hook way back when.”

If I recall correctly, “That was you calling me ‘sir.’”

“I don’t recall,” he lied, re-opening his menu and immersing himself in it to change the subject. He read the menu for a few minutes, and then glanced up at you, tilting your menu down so he could see your face, “You’ve got the hottest spouse in this whole place. No one here even holds a candle to me.”

“I believe you mean, ‘I’ve got the hottest spouse in this whole place, sir’.” He laughed. “And don’t look now, but that gnome to your right is holding a candle to you.” He rolled his eyes at you as you continued, “In fact, perhaps they’re all holding a candle to you because they think you’re their leader. It’s a vigil.”

“I’m not that short.”

“You are when you’re on your knees.”

He reached over with his menu and smacked you the top of the head with a smile, “Cut it out.”

“I believe you mean, ‘cut it out, sir.’”

……

“By the way, Brian, did you happen to see that Gnome of the Month calendar in the window of the gift shop?”

“Please tell me the gnomes weren’t in sexual positions.” You wanted reassurance.

“That’s disgusting.”

“I think I’m going to nominate you for the November gnome for next year. You’d look cute in a little red hat.” And nothing else.

“Shut up and read your menu, Brian.” He knew you couldn’t; he had your glasses somewhere on his bionic little body. He corrected himself with a smirk on his face, “I’m sorry. That was rude. Shut up and read your menu, sir.

“Give me my glasses.”

“Don’t have them.”

“Shit.”

You got up to go back upstairs, and he laughed at you as he produced them, “Here.” You took them from him and opened your menu with a flourish. It was the wrong one--the Wine and Spirits menu. “That’s the wrong menu, sir,” he said, handing you the correct one. You opened the correct menu, ignoring his eyes hovering over his from the other side of the table as he said, “I love you, sir.”

You tried to sound sincere, “How comforting.”

“You look very sexy tonight,” he told you, pretending to read the appetizers. “Almost good enough to eat.”

……

“Is that a promise?”

“Perhaps. I suppose if you buy me dinner, I’m obligated.”

“Well, then,” you said, closing your menu and crossing your arms on top of it on your table, “Nate’s not paying for this one.”

**********************
I drank the potion she offered me

When the two of you had entered The Tavern forty minutes earlier, Justin had immediately recognized Sarah hovering around the piano and moved to your other side to conceal himself from view, declaring, “Oh shit, that’s all I need. I hope she doesn’t remember me.”

“Fat chance, Sunshine,” you told him, putting your arm around him. “I’m surprised you remember her.”

……

After you were seated, Justin eyes quickly scanned the restaurant, “Is Nate here?”

You glanced around and didn’t see him, “Doesn’t look like it. Don’t worry; I’ll introduce you.”

“As what, the guy who pissed off his wife?”

“If the shoe fits…” He’d kicked you under the table, “Ow. Okay, you win; your shoes fit.”

He told you that the prospect of meeting Nate was making him a little nervous, but it certainly wasn’t curbing his appetite. When the waitress returned, pouring you both a glass of the gifted white wine, Justin ordered three different appetizers, and, “Some water, please.”

The waitress turned to you to take your order and you added, “Um, I’ll just have water. There won’t be room for anything else on the table.”

Justin made a face at you as he surrendered his menu and after the waitress was out of earshot, “Fucking makes me hungry.”

“Apparently.” You’d propped your legs on either side of him, your long legs giving you an advantage he didn’t have, considering the table was awfully wide.

“What are you doing?” he asked, curling his fingers around your shins.

“Measuring you before you eat, so I can see how much weight you gain after dinner.”

“We’ll fuck it off.”

……

Well, he had you there.

……

Just then one of the doors to The Tavern opened, spilling light from the lobby all over the dim restaurant. It darkened again as the door closed, and you watched Nate walk over to the bar, greet and put his arms around Sarah. Justin observed you observing them and made the connection that that man wrapping his arms around Sarah’s waist must be Nate, “Oh my god, he loves her.”

You laughed, “’Fraid so.”

“I’m dead.”

“Drama queen.”

Your plethora of appetizers arrived, and the platters were so large that you and Justin decided to forego the small plates that came with them and just graze over all three of them simultaneously. You put a mozzarella stick in your mouth, trying to remember the last time you’d actually eaten cheese-much less fried cheese. Justin refilled your glass of wine and then read you the description on the bottle at your request and because you’d given him back your glasses ten minutes ago.

“Brian, listen to this: ‘2001 Chateau Rieussec Sauternes; Pale yellow-gold. An elixir of a nose: apricot, rose petal, minerals, nuts and spices. Crushed fruit flavors offer almost painful intensity, with penetrating limey acidity buffering the wine's great sweetness. Complicated by an intriguing carnal quality. This extremely young wine shows a slightly aggressive, almost tannic finish and extraordinary subtle persistence. Like a couple of the vintage's other standouts, this is almost painful today and really calls for a good 10 to 15 years of cellaring.’”

“Sunshine, I think they bottled you.”

“Very funny.”

“You do have an ‘intriguing carnal quality’ and your flavor is almost ‘painfully intense.’”

“Not to mention my ‘extraordinary subtle persistence.’”

“I’m a little freaked out that they picked out this wine for us; I feel like someone’s been spying on us,” you told him. “I mean, you could definitely use a ‘good ten to fifteen years of cellaring.’”

“And now, you’re mocking and drinking me.”

“Every hour on the hour, right?” you asked, tapping his glass with yours. “Here’s to your extreme youth and slight aggressiveness.”

“It’s my trademark,” he remarked, raising his eyebrows at you.

“I think you should have the entire description of that wine tattooed on your inner thigh.” The thought of reading between his legs started making you hard, even without your spectacles.

“Ouch.”

You grinned at him from across the table, your pale yellow-gold, vintage standout.

**********************
these are their stories

Your dinner conversation with Justin was wandering all over the place, and you were enjoying it. It was nice just to be able to sit, talk and laugh with him, knowing that you’d also be getting serviced later that evening by the very same mouth that was regaling you with stories from the city. The two of you had a lot to catch up on.

In his adventures exploring your house, he’d been amazed at the design of both Jenny’s and Gus’s rooms and wanted to know, “Who did that stuff? It’s amazing.”

“Ruben.”

“Ruben?”

“Yeah.”

“Jenny’s room looks like a fairy tale come true.”

“I know.”

At that point, the conversation veered down the path of how you met Ruben, actually interviewed him, at a roller skating rink in Pittsburgh. Justin was rather incredulous, “You interviewed him at a roller skating rink?”

“Yep.”

“Why?”

“Because that’s where he was working before he worked for me.”

“At a roller-skating rink?”

You’d missed seeing Justin’s forehead crinkle up like that; it made you nostalgic for his teenage years. Of course, so did the way he insisted on having a straw in his water and just kept sucking down glass after glass. Just all that sucking.

“He was the D.J.”

“Get the fuck out. For like little kids?”

“For ‘like’ everybody. Anybody who wanted to skate.”

“Did he make everybody do the Hokey Pokey?”

“Occasionally. In fact, we do the Hokey Pokey at Babylon now, just with more emphasis on the ‘pokey.’”

“Imagine that.”

You elaborated, explaining to Justin that when Theodore had called Ruben to set up an interview, Ruben had informed him that he was working at the roller rink ‘all the time ‘cause they hardly pay me anything.’ He’d told Ted that if you wanted to interview him, you’d need to meet him down there on his break or comp him for the hour he was going to miss. You were so intrigued by this bizarre approach to job hunting, that you told Ted to forget it, that you’d go down there yourself and see what this guy was all about. You went on a Saturday night when all of your fuck-prospects had fallen through.

The last time you’d been at that roller rink that you seriously thought they’d long ago demolished was when you were thirteen and trying to teach Mikey how to skate. The effort proved futile; Mikey’s utter lack of coordination and self-confidence amounted to you skating backwards for about an hour while dragging him in circles to an extended remix of I Want A New Drug. It wasn’t one of your finer moments, but in retrospect, it may have been prophetic.

Ruben was starting a couple’s skate (ladies’ choice) when you walked in that Saturday night and you watched in amazement as he monitored every single person skating on the floor and tried to encourage people ‘not to leave anyone out. We’ve got plenty of guys who need a partner, ladies.”

A very skinny, little girl with long blonde hair and glasses knocked on the side of Ruben’s booth to get his attention; you figured she was maybe twelve. They’d shared a few words, and then Ruben exited the booth and started walking right over to where you were sitting. He hadn’t known you were coming; as far as you knew, he didn’t even know who you were.

The young lady standing by my booth would like to skate with you, sir, but she’s too shy to ask you.”

“What?”
That was the last thing you expected to come out of his mouth.

What size do you wear? I’ll get you some skates.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’m not here to skate, I’m—"

“You’re going to turn that little girl down?”
You looked over at her; she was staring at her skates. “Don’t do that. That’s shitty.”

Then, you were embarrassed, “Sure. Sure, no problem; I’ll get some skates.” You smiled at the young girl, got some skates, and caught her smiling at you when you were lacing them up. When you stepped onto the floor, you imagined that there’d never been a guy who looked as good in roller skates, tight jeans, and a button-down black shirt as you did.

You never even knew the young girl’s name, but you skated the rest of the song with her and another one that Ruben put on, “Let’s just keep this going, everybody. You guys look great out there.” Her hand was sweaty and every time you looked down at her, she turned completely red.

Toward the end of the second song, you started praying that this little girl’s father wasn’t waiting in the wings to beat the fuck out of you (because you’d been there, done that), but she thanked you very politely when the song ended, let go of your hand, and skated towards her friends at the concession stand. When she rolled up to them, the entire group dissolved into a fit of giggling and pointing. It was the second pink posse you’d ever seen.

When Ruben announced that he was going on his break, he turned on a long music set and immediately got on the floor. Turned out to be a good thing you hadn’t shed your skates. You had to zoom around to catch him and tell him who you were and why you were there. He didn’t seem the least bit phased that you were Brian Kinney or that the two of you were having a ‘skating interview.’

It was, hands down, the weirdest fucking thing you’d ever done. (And that’s saying something.) After you’d hired Ruben and worked with him for a couple of weeks, you were able to put that experience into much more context. Ruben, god or medication help him, can’t be still. Had he not skated for that interview, he would’ve fidgeted himself to death, and he feared, you later found out, that he wouldn’t get the job.

He was perfect behind the bar at Babylon because no one could take their eyes off of him, and even Ruben understood, “We don’t make any money when they’re back there fucking. We make it at the bar.”

(That next year, you’d talked Gus into having his birthday party at the skating rink, and it was the best damn birthday party Pittsburgh or Toronto had ever seen. You may or may not have couple’s skated with Mel when it was time for ‘Hate Skate.’)

But the most unbelievable part of that evening came when you and Ruben were done, the deal was struck, and you’d retired your negotiating-wheels. When you exited the building, you saw a familiar act being performed (quite well) by an all-too-familiar face:

Molly Taylor.

Justin choked on a stuffed mushroom, “My sister?”

“Your sister.” You waved to the waitress to bring him a lot more water, and then got up and slapped him on the back.

“Jesus Christ, Brian, you didn’t have to hit me that hard.”

“You were choking. I was saving you.”

“Whatever. What do you mean you saw my sister in the parking lot?”

You’ll never forget the look on Molly’s face when you knocked on the window, and she recognized you, “Let’s just say that it must be a gene that runs in your family.” Justin appeared unable to process this information; his mouth full of a ‘loaded potato wedge,’ and he’d just stopped chewing. “’Course, I’ve never actually seen your mother ‘nip Tuck,’ but I have a feeling that you were the late bloomer in your family, Sunshine.”

(And that’s saying something.)

……

“Chew your food. You look like you’re going to faint.”

He finally swallowed, “Oh my god.”

“That’s exactly what I thought at first, but then I sorta thought thatta girl.

A chicken finger flew across the table and almost went down your shirt.

It had been one of the unexpected advantages of not going to New York with Justin—getting to witness the actual passing of the ‘Taylor Torch.’ You’d never really planned on telling him this story, but regardless of your intentions, you felt it was going very well.

Not.

“Now, now, behave, Justin. We don’t need a repeat of lunch.” You ducked to miss the cheese fry.

The entire memory was beginning to make you sentimental because you’d just realized that you’d witnessed both Taylor children giving their very first blow jobs, and no one else could lay claim to that.

“How do you know it was her first?” Justin wanted to know.

“Because I took her home afterward, plied her with liquor and E, and gave her a few pointers.”

“You asshole.”

“That’s how you learned. And very well, I might add.” He knew you were kidding--about her, anyway.

Not about him.

“Why are you so pissed? You should be proud; she was following on your kneecaps.”

“I can’t believe— I just—"

“Well, if it’s genetic, it’s not like she can help it, Justin.”

His oddly arousing yet scolding tone resurfaced, “Honestly, Brian.”

He really didn’t seem to be rolling with the punches like you’d hoped, “If it makes you feel any better, I made the kid get out of the car.”

(You’d made a scene, quite frankly; you were being a tad disingenuous letting Justin think that the sight of his little sister sucking cock hadn’t rattled your cage a little.)

“Molly? You made Molly get out of the car?”

“No, the guy she was with.”

(You may have opened the door and yanked him to his feet, but those were just irrelevant details.)

“How old was he?”

“Seventeen?”

(His birthday was a week from that night. You’d made him show you his license. You could only imagine the celebration Molly had planned for him.)

At this point in the story, there were several voices in your head, and at least one in your cock, imploring you to stop telling it, that the odds of you getting fellated after this tale were becoming exponentially lower with every word. But as if driving a runaway train through a dark tunnel with only the light of a miner’s helmet, you told Justin the rest of the story, trying to minimize the parts where you looked like the over-bearing, psycho-homosexual lover of her older brother:

Have you been drinking?”

“No, sir.”

“Molly, have you been drinking?”

“No comment.”

“What’s your name?”

“Kyle.”

“Kyle, stand on one foot and put your left index finger on your nose.”

“Okay.”

“Are you having sex with her?”

“Brian!”

“You mean, real sex?”

“Intercourse. Fucking.”

“No, sir.”

“Molly, is that the truth?”

“Yes, Brian. It’s the truth. God, I can’t believe this.”

“Okay, now, while you’re standing there, I want you to recite the pledge of allegiance. Prove to me you’re not drunk.”

“I can’t remember the pledge of allegiance, sir. You’re making me nervous. Can I put my foot down?”

“No. Okay, fine. Just recite something that you know.”

“Um, okay…let me think…um…in the criminal justice system, the people are represented by two separate, yet equally important groups…the police who investigate crimes and the district attorneys who prosecute… the offenders.”

“And?”

“These are their stories.”

“Not bad. I can’t believe you can recite the opening monologue to Law & Order, but you don’t know the goddamn pledge of allegiance.”

“The educational system has gone downhill since you were in school, sir.”

“All right, listen, I’m going to let you go, and Molly, I’m not gonna say anything to your Mom—"

“Or Justin, ‘cause he’ll just tell Mom—"

“Fine, or Justin. But Molly, if you’re gonna be blowing random guys in roller rink parking lots, you need to be using a condom.”

Kyle got back in the car, promising to take Molly right home. As you walked around to your car, you heard him tell Molly, “Fat chance I’m gonna pledge allegiance to that fag. Why didn’t you tell me your brother was so old and gay?”

“He’s not that old. He’s twelve years younger than Brian.”

“And he yelled at ME!?”

“And it’s none of your business that my brother’s gay.”

……

You were pulling out of your parking space, when Molly’s car door flew open and she ran to the passenger side of yours and jumped in, “Take me home, and don’t give me any shit.”

……

“Sorry, Molly. I didn’t mean to—"

“How much do condoms cost?”


…..

Justin looked like a fizzy mixture of mortification and relief when you were done, “I don’t know whether to thank you or punch you.”

“I’d rather not be punched, if it’s my choice.” You leaned way back in your seat before you told him, “I gave her a bunch of condoms.”

“With spermicide, I hope.” His bitchy tone was making you want to touch yourself.

“Yes, we drove to a drugstore about ten miles away, and I gave her an invaluable education… and a gift certificate.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

“I’d rather not—ever again.”

……

The two of you picked at the dwindling appetizers in front of you in silence for a few minutes, until the waitress noticed that you’d finished your bottle of wine and brought you another. He finally spoke as you were pouring, “I guess if I’d been here, I would’ve had that conversation with her and not you.”

“Quite possibly, but probably not at a roller rink.”

“True.”

“I feel like I missed watching her grow up.”

“I know what you mean. I feel the same way about Gus.”

……

“Maybe someday I can do for Gus what you did for Molly.”

“Okay, let’s change the subject.”

……

“Fine, I’m going to the bathroom. Order me some cheesecake and a vodka tonic. And hold the tonic.”

“Yes, dear.”

You made it two.


Lyrics taken from Kenny Roger’s Ruby, Don’t Take Your Love to Town, The Chiffon’s He’s So Fine, Roseanne Cash’s Seven Year Ache, Dan Fogelberg’s Leader of the Band , The Pointer Sister’s Fire, Carly Simon’s Anticipation , Dolly Parton’s Here You Come Again (And Here I Go), Carly Simon’s Anticipation again, Sonny and Cher’s I Got You Babe, Cliff Richard’s Devil Woman, and Law & Order’s opening narration read by Steve Morgan (NBC).

Description of the wine Brian and Justin had at dinner was taken from wineaccess.com and if you’ll notice, I didn’t alter it at all. 0_0
Marlo Thomas’s picture was borrowed from thatgirltv.com. Batgirl’s picture was found here.
You can always review the Timeline if you're having trouble keeping the calendar, places, or characters straight.

Chapter End Notes:

Original publication date 12/31/05

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