BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 22-AFFILIATIONS

JUSTIN’S POV

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

sending you forget me nots

That Tuesday morning after Brian left for the airport, the doorbell rang at eight thirty. You donned Brian’s favorite pants and descended the stairs to see who had the indecency to bother you at that hour, but were quite pleased when it was an exceptionally hot guy from Federal Express,

“Got three packages here for a ‘B. Kinney/J. Taylor.’”

“I can sign for them,” you offered.

“Last name’s Taylor?” he asked, looking at your signature.

“Yeah.”

Two of the packages were large, so Mr. Hottie helped you get them into the foyer.

“Have a good day,” he said, and you closed the front door, watching him through the window as he walked down your very long sidewalk to his truck, enjoying the scenery. When he pulled away, you looked at the return address on all three boxes—The Rockford, Dixville Notch, NH.

Brian’s pocket knife was laying on the table beside the front door, so you used it to slice the boxes open. The first, the smallest of the three, was a gift basket wrapped in champagne-colored cellophane. You pulled it out of the box and cut the ribbon off, revealing a loofah, a back brush, bubble bath, shower gel, and lotion all labeled, Almond Ambiance from the exclusive Moments with Melody collection. There was a note taped to the cellophane from Sarah,

The other two packages were much bigger, one almost three feet tall and narrow, the other wide and flat. You decided to open the flat one next and were less than thrilled to see that it was the painting you and Brian had brought crashing down. It was completely repaired and Sarah had taped a small, pink envelope with ‘Brian’ written on it on the top of the painting. You propped it against the wall and sliced open the last box. Taped to the top of a concealing heap of packing peanuts was a post-it with ‘Justin-especially for you’ on it. As you began to remove them, the contents of the box became visible.

It was a trio of garden gnomes in compromising positions.

Apparently the appropriate gift for a shotgun wedding was obnoxious home decor accessories and over-hyped toiletries.

You closed the box, leaving the packing peanuts scattered all over the floor, grabbed the painting and the basket of bath products and made your way back upstairs. Sitting the basket on your bed, you walked the painting down the hall, opened Brian’s office, stood on a chair, and hung it on the available nail on the wall over his desk. You left the note smack in the middle of it, shut the door, and headed back to your bedroom.

*******************
she works hard for the money

Your track pants were in a heap on the bathroom floor and your toes were sticking up out of the overly-frothy, Almond Ambiance bubble bath you’d drawn for yourself when you decided that there was no harm in having good wine for breakfast. In fact, the only negative thought you had about the entire concept was that you were going to have to get up and go get it yourself. The distance from the bath tub to the door of the bathroom just kept getting longer and longer the more you thought about it, so you distracted yourself by masturbating.

But that didn’t take very long.

……

And you were still hungry.

……

But then Brian called your cell phone and when you didn’t answer, immediately called the house. You answered the (waterproof, voice-activated) speaker phone (with caller ID) that was built into the tile above the tub, “Hey.”

“I’ve landed. I’m officially in Chicago.”

“I’m officially in the bath tub.”

“My lad of leisure.”

You didn’t tell him about the gifts that had arrived half an hour ago, deciding that it was only fair that he be as mortified as you’d been.

……

“You going to paint today?”

“Yeah. What time is your flight back tonight?”

“Don’t have one yet. I’ll just take first available. Not sure how long this is going to take.”

……

“Where’s the new dildo you gave me the other night? I can’t find it.”

“It’s in the top drawer of the dresser. I put it there because I stepped on it last night when I got up to piss.”

“Sorry. Don’t come home too late, okay?”

“I’ll try…Are you threatening to replace me with your acryl-dick?”

“Maybe…but you know what’s weird?”

“What?”

“You two actually have a lot in common.”

“Oh?”

“You’re both completely transparent.”

……

Brian’s voice was a low warning when he responded, “You are seriously asking for it.”

“And the thing is,” you pointed out, “After all these years, I really shouldn’t have to….ask, that is.”

……

“You know, it’s a good thing that I can walk fast with a boner, or I might be late for this funeral.”

“I like the image of you running through the terminal with a woody. That would make a great commercial for Enterprise or something.”

……

“Enterprise…we’ll pick you up….if you’re up?”

“Needs some work. You can do better than that.”

……

“Your confidence in me is awe-inspiring, Sunshine.”

“Oh, come on. I’m your biggest fan, and you know it.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line, and if weren’t for the extra large, indigo, back lit display on the telephone, you would’ve thought you lost him. But you didn’t.

“No dick comparisons before nine a.m. Remember?”

“Whoops. I take it back.”

“I’ll see you tonight—"

“Naked?”

“Naked.”

“Jinx. Now you owe me one.”

“Story of my life. You can collect tonight.”

“Have a good day.”

“You, too.”

……

After your conversation ended, you rose out of the tub as the water drained out, drying yourself off with a thirsty white towel that matched the one Brian had used only hours before, and then finger-combed your wet hair before trimming your cuticles. By the time you found the moisturizer you were looking for (Brian’s really expensive stuff) and began working it in, it’d already been a long day. You were exhausted.

But after twenty minutes of lying back in bed and thumbing through a menswear catalog on Brian’s nightstand in which, ironically, the men were hardly wearing anything, you turned off HGTV, put on Brian’s dark blue, silky bathrobe that was way too big on you and wandered downstairs to make breakfast. Brian’s coffee cup was in the sink, and you laughed at it because you knew it was going to sit there all day. You had no concrete plans to confront the dishwasher for at least a week.

There were plenty of ingredients in the refrigerator to conjure up a killer omelet, but you decided that you should choose the wine first, and then make an omelet that suited your selection. A couple of weeks of dining with Brian again had at least taught you that. You opened the door to the basement, immediately regretting going commando as the cold air of the cellar turned your dick into a popsicle.

*******************
ZEEK ZIRROLLI’S POV

I’m takin’ what they’re givin’ ‘cause I’m workin’ for a livin’

That Tuesday morning, you were in a particularly good mood as you drove your white 2011 Ford E250 work van (with brand new lettering) to West Virginia to drop off the three slim-line ice machines you’d found on eBay for Zeal. Kinney had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to buy up the remaining inventory of the discontinued model, figuring that every one you could get your hands on bought him at least another six months before he’d have to break down and remodel the bar. And you were also riding a bit of a high since Kinney had seemed genuinely impressed last week when you told him that you found the last three that were out there and had arranged to have them delivered at a very reasonable price. They’d arrived in perfect condition, and their presence in the back of your van guaranteed that you were not driving like a New Yorker that day.

It was actually a nice drive to Kinney’s palace, but you preferred to make deliveries in the summer when you stood a much better chance of running into Cesaro, Kinney’s pool boy/gardener/occasional housekeeper. When you first met him, you thought about doing the manly thing and asking Kinney if he was fucking him, but the only way you could figure out to ask him sounded like, 'Yo, Kinney, you hittin’ that?' So, you decided you’d just take your chances.

You’d helped Cesaro carry a ton of potting soil into the backyard one day, and the seed was planted, so to speak. He was normally at the house every other Tuesday morning, and to say that the two of you knew the ins and outs of every nook and cranny of Brian’s pool house, garden shed, and cellar would be a bit of an understatement. He also didn’t speak very good English, but he knew ‘fuck, suck, blow, condom,’and ‘help me pick dis up,’ so the two of you had no trouble communicating. Your Spanish was pretty much limited to chanting, ‘Aye carumba,’ as you fucked him, which always seemed to make him smile. You’d decided that one of these days you’d throw caution to the wind and fuck Cesaro in the sauna.

You backed into Kinney’s driveway to get as close to the outer basement door as possible and were extremely pleased when you flung open the back doors of your van to see that the machines had rattled back there for forty-five minutes without a scratch on them. One by one, you loaded them onto your dolly and backed down the makeshift ramp you stored just inside the cellar. You were wheeling the third one into the spot you’d selected in the basement when you heard the noise coming from the kitchen. You smiled at no one in particular; Cesaro had obviously gotten your message that morning. Things were looking up.

Way up.

You’d even worn the appropriate apparel for the occasion:

Condom in wallet. Check.

……

You popped a peppermint Altoid in your mouth and turned off your cell phone. You didn’t need a ‘have you done ‘xyz’ yet?’ call from ‘Cakes or Kinney to interrupt your fiesta. Between the two of them, they’d managed to corner the market on inopportune communication. You heard the door at the top of the stairs open; the whine it always made had become a bizarre aphrodisiac. The hinges were squeaking as you unzipped your pants.

*******************
you had me several years ago when I was still quite naive

You saw Cesaro’s bare feet coming down the basement steps and thought that the winter must’ve been extremely hard on him because you’d never seen his skin look so pale.

Or his eyes so blue.

Or his hair so blond.

You stared at the man who was very obviously not Cesaro and whose greeting of, “Jesus Christ, you scared the fuck out of me,” was almost accompanied by a fall down the stairs. He regained his balance and confirmed the thought that was running through your head faster than Speedy Gonzales, “Zeek?”

“Eggo?”

……

“What the—"

(You had no idea that Kinney’s preference for blonds extended to his housekeeping staff.)

Your disappointment that it hadn’t been your hot, Latin piece of ass coming down the steps, however, began to fade because this option was even better.

*******************
I’ve had nothing but bad luck since the day I saw the cat at my door

It was eleven forty-five that Tuesday morning when you finally got back in your van, furious with yourself for being so unbelievably stupid. It was all beginning to make sense. Very, very horrible sense…

The trail of blond twinks Kinney left for dead every Saturday night…

The paintings that arrived a few times a year…

You tried to calm yourself down by smoking a cigarette, but your hands were shaking so badly you couldn’t even light the fucking thing, so you flicked it out the window, “Fuck.”

While you drove, drumming your fingers on the steering wheel, you tried to convince yourself that you had in fact bought Eggo’s silence by agreeing to immediate and thorough instruction on how to use the robo-pliances in Kinney’s kitchen. (You hoped against hope that you’d also convinced him to stop kicking the dishwasher because, “It’s just gonna be me that has to come out here and fix the fucking thing.”) Kinney, you tried to explain to him, wouldn’t even let you wash his precious car, much less want to know that someone (who he employed, no less) had been the fox in his own personal hen house. You crossed yourself as you crossed back into Pennsylvania, thanking the Patron Saint of Business Travel that Kinney was out of town and cursing yourself for ever thinking that there was such a thing as un-coveted country club ass.

You were due at Zeal by ten thirty to unload the weekly delivery. When you’d turned your phone back on, there were three messages from Gabe, each one getting more and more pissed. The last one was especially moving,

”Where the fuck are you? If your phone’s off, that can only mean one thing—that you’re balls deep in a piece of green-card jail bait.”

*******************
the way things are going,
they’re gonna crucify me

When you finally got to the restaurant, you parked in the handicapped spot (because it served your brother right), jumped out, walked inside and prepared to be inundated with Gabe’s favorite Tuesday morning cologne, Hysteria. You responded to the expression on Gabe’s face before he could even start with you, “Get your panties out of your crack.”

“What the fuck is wrong with you? You know the truck comes on Tuesday mornings. You want me to get a health code violation? They’ll shut us down.”

You ignored him, walking right past him, through the kitchen, and out the back door, propping it open with a triangular wooden block. He followed you and continued, “You want me to hire somebody else to do this?”

“I want you to shut the fuck up.” The two of you continued to spar while you carried each case of chicken in, stacking it in the walk-in freezer.

“You know, the light’s broken in here again. You told me you’d fix it last week. That’s a six point violation.”

You slammed the door to the kitchen when you were through and told your little brother, “I’m about to give you your own, very personal, six point violation. We need to talk—in your office.” The two of you walked into his office, and you let him have it the minute the door shut, “Why didn’t you tell me that Eggo was Kinney’s better half?”

“What?”

“Eggo-- Justin, Kinney’s partner. Why didn’t you tell me? You’re sitting here having a fucking fit about some unlikely fucking health inspection, and not telling me that I was crashin’ the custard truck into a giant ‘no trespassing’ sign.”

You could tell by the look on your brother’s face that he had no idea what you were talking about. And right as you were making that connection, Emmett knocked on the door, "Everything okay in there? Lunch rush is—"

“Can it, Fruit Salad.”

“No, let him in,” Gabe snapped at you. “Ask him. I have a restaurant to run, thank you very much.”

So you opened the door right as Emmett was about to knock again, grabbed his wrist and pulled him inside, shutting the door. He was flustered, “Look, I don’t know what’s going on with you two, but we need a host out there.”

“I’ll go,” Gabe volunteered, giving you a dirty look as he left you alone with Emmett.

Emmett was the only effeminate fag you’d ever met who wasn’t spellbound by your machismo. It confused you, but you respected him for it.

“What’s the problem, sweetie? Oh, I just now got your shirt. Funny.”

“All right, Juicy Fruit, how long have Kinney and Eg-- Justin been a thing?”

“Oh gosh, over a decade.”

“A decade? you asked incredulously.

“At least. Why? What’s wrong?”

You got up and left the restaurant, announcing to anyone without ear shot, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at the cemetery digging my own grave.”

*******************
BRIAN’S POV

I make my living off the evening news,
just give me something that I can use

late afternoon, that same Tuesday back in Chicago…

News of the Brown Athletics plant relocation foreshadowed everything else on the local news in Chicago that night. Earlier that afternoon, in the limo, you, Jay, and Nate tried to formulate a plan of action. You were pretty sure that hiding out in a limo on one of city’s back streets while Nate consoled himself with the rest of his licorice stash wasn’t going to be the answer. As the limo driver took the back streets to Brown Athletics’s offices, you focused your attention back on the matter at hand, “We need to get in front of this, Nate,” you advised.

“I don’t even know what exactly I’m getting in front of. I haven’t even finalized anything yet.”

“Doesn’t matter. You’re going to have to. Indecision is an untenable position.”

“Even if it’s the truth?” he asked.

“Truth isn’t anything more than well-defined intentions.”

Nate’s exasperation with a situation was always the first signal that he was close to finding a solution. You’d seen it many times. Any minute, his sugar high would start to fall and reason would return.

*******************
got a good reason for taking the easy way out

Nate’s office was lush—two long, dark brown leather sofas that were each long enough for you to stretch out on, and the fourth wall of his office, the one behind his desk, was completely glass and offered a spectacular view of downtown Chicago. Just being there, looking out over the city like that, helped you understand the hysteria over the plant relocation. Blue collar labor in Chicago, just as in every other industrial area in America, was being outsourced and replaced with minimum wage jobs that a Chicago city-dweller could no longer live on. The few industries that remained were getting desperate while legislators worked tirelessly to pass legislation chock full of incentives to attract new industry and reward the ones that stayed. And though Nate had no intention of moving the plant overseas, as far as you knew, the citizens of Chicago hardly made the distinction. Outsourcing was outsourcing as far as the city was concerned, domestic or not.

Nated paced back and forth in front of the window while Jay surfed the ‘net looking to see who was putting the story out. You clapped your hands together and began, “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. We’re going to call a press conference now so we can make the eleven o’clock news cycle.”

“Just like that?” Jay wanted to know, glancing up from the monitor.

Nate spoke up, “He knows what he’s doing, Jay. He’s run a political campaign before.”

“Did the guy win?” Jay asked.

“Moving on,” you conceded.

……

“There’s already talk of a boycott,” Jay continued, shaking his head at whatever he was reading.

Nate’s patience was beginning to wane, “It’s not like I’m moving the plant to China. Jesus.” And then he sat down again, resting his forehead on his palm and sighing, “Leo’s been in the ground for what? Five hours?”

“Get this,” Jay added, pointing to pictures of signs the protestors were carrying, “Their slogan: The one thing NOT to wear.”

Nate ran his fingers through his hair in defeat, “Oh, that’s just perfect.”

No, you thought, Now it’s personal.

*******************
so don’t delay,
act now,
supplies are running out

For the last ten years, you’d worked tirelessly to mold the image of Brown Athletics into something that rivaled Nike’s market share. The brand had become something that most CEOs would give their right arm for—a wholesome, global, everyman name that was worn by the rich, the poor, and the in between—not just professional athletes. After the Drew Boyd debacle and his unsuccessful replacement (who was indicted for statutory rape before he ever made it to the first photo shoot), you encouraged Leo to stay away from celebrity endorsements. ”That’s exactly what we don’t want,” you’d explained and then launched a new campaign that made its mark by mocking the other guys:

And for the high end men’s magazines:

You’d used market saturation, brand loyalty, uniform price lines, and the manipulation of good old-fashioned American values to convince customers that every piece of Brown Athletic wear they owned got them one step closer to their own humanity.

In your hands, nostalgia was a weapon.

*******************
when it’s said and done,
we haven’t told you a thing

An hour later, the press conference you engineered in front of Brown Athletics headquarters brought out the Nate Rockford you were used to. He was confident, upbeat, and said a lot without really saying anything at all:

“I’ve know Leo Brown for over three decades. He was a man I admired and trusted, and I’m honored to be taking his place as CEO of the company he literally built from the ground up. Leo was a pleasure to work for; he understood the value of work and believed in making those who worked for him feel like family.

“Tomorrow I’m planning to meet with all employees at both the plant and at headquarters to discuss the future of Brown Athletics. Today, I want to remember my friend. Thank you.”

Nate concluded his statement and left the podium as the reporters were clamoring,

“Mr. Rockford, is it true that--?”

“Do you have time for a couple of questions?”

You stepped up to the microphone, as you were the only person left anywhere near it, “Not at this time. Thank you.”

Your press conference had ended at five p.m., and you underestimated the efficiency of the Chicago local news channels. Brown Athletics was the lead story on every single station. You watched Nate make his speech on three channels simultaneously from the comfort of one of his sofas, his coat buttoned up tight, the wind occasionally interfering with the microphone.

“Look, I’m in stereo,” Nate said, referring to the identical report playing on every damn channel. Nate never had an aversion to being on camera; he just preferred to be in the end zone dumping icy Gatorade on some player’s head while passing out free sweatshirts while Leo looked on from his luxury box.

“Good thing you wore that suit,” you told him.

“Isn’t there some sort of expression that if you’re going to deliver ambivalent news at least look good doing it?”

“There is now.”

*******************
get back to where you once belonged

Before leaving Chicago to return to your respective homes, you and Nate indulged in one last Brown Athletics’s tradition in honor of Leo’s passing—a visit to your favorite cigar bar/restaurant--Cutter. Over the years, you, Nate, and Leo had often dined there at the end of a busy day, and you’d taken plenty of their money trying to teach each of them how to play pool. The only way either of them ever stood a chance of winning a game was if you eventually bowed out, so it wasn’t uncommon for you to adjourn to the men’s room to get your dick sucked while they played. You suspected that they knew what you were doing, but there was always a gentlemanly regard amongst the three of you that probably resembled something like, don’t ask, don’t tell.

Cutter was one of those bars that had flourished as smokers were systemically banned from every human establishment. Its dark décor reminded you of The Tavern at The Rockford except that it was more masculine. The red carpet was fading, and the years of tobacco smoke made the place hover right on the edge of cozy vs. claustrophobic. But that night, it was just you and Nate, sitting in matching leather, wing-back chairs after your meal, puffing and talking. Nate crossed his legs, pointing his cigar at you as he spoke,

“You know, it’s my life, and I’m going to enjoy it. If that means I have to relocate the plant, then that’s what it means.” You nodded, sensing he didn’t really want a response, just a sounding board. “One man’s tragedy is another man’s windfall,” he continued, “That’s the way I look at it.” Speaking of windfalls, you offered to take him once more in a game of pool, realizing at that moment that you really might not come back there again,

“Oh, come on, Nate. Let me take your money one more time, for old time’s sake.”

He shook his head and laughed, “No fucking way.”

As the evening wore on, several of Nate’s colleagues came over to offer their condolences, and as he began to get involved in conversation with one of them, you excused yourself and headed for the men’s room.

You were, not surprisingly, followed.

*******************
I walk the line

You’d seen him, Kyle Rowland, Leo’s personal assistant, wandering through the restaurant, and you wondered who was paying for his dinner as he was propositioning you, “Mr. Kinney—"

“No, thanks.”

“Not even a quick fuck?”

“No, not even a quick fuck. But thanks for the offer,” you said, the sarcasm in your voice not sitting well with him. Didn’t seem to be the answer he wanted, but it hadn’t changed in ten years. And neither had he, really. Every subsequent visit you’d made to Brown’s headquarters after your first meeting had included the same conversation with Kyle: a reiteration of your ‘one fuck only’ policy.

“Only want it when you need something, right?”

You zipped up your pants and moved to the sink to wash your hands, watching him in the mirror, “Fuck. Off.”

Unabated, he continued, “The ring’s new.” The defiant stare he was giving you was steady, constant and really pissing you off.

Over the years, you’d begun to suspect that Leo knew how you’d managed to find him at The Harvard Club that day, and if Leo knew, then Nate knew. Neither ever came right out and told you, and you felt that Leo expected your discretion by granting you his. Your suspicion that Kyle was more than just Leo’s personal assistant was confirmed over the years by the young man’s appearance at any event Brown was sponsoring, always by Leo’s side and a little too attentive.

You ignored his observation while drying your hands, “Nate keeping you on?”

“I’m sure you know that Mr. Rockford doesn’t require my services.”

“Well, what do you know? That makes two of us.”

*******************
listen to what the man said

You exited the men’s room, leaving Kyle standing alone in front of the mirror, and returned to your table. Nate was alone again, the well-wishers having come and gone. He eyed you as you sat back down, “That didn’t take very long.”

“I didn’t realize you’d fired him,” you responded, watching Nate watch Kyle gather his coat and head for the front door.

“Let’s just say he’s not my type.”

……

A silence hung in the air between you like a ring of smoke.

……

“When did you—"

He cut you off, “This morning.”

“Before the funeral?”

Nate shrugged his shoulders as he confirmed your timeline, “Yeah. First thing this morning. I gave him the letter of recommendation that Leo had prepared for him.”

You both knew that he’d done more than that; he’d plugged the leak.

……

“Leo took care of him?” you asked.

“Yeah. Kyle wasn’t exactly employed for his typing skills.” And then he fiddled with his watch, something he always did before pre-meditated words came out of his mouth, “But I’m sure you know that.”

You felt yourself nodding in some kind of covert admission.

“I’m also replacing the copy machine,” he added, a smirk on his face, “I know how attracted you are to those things."

“Especially ones with an automatic feed.”

He continued, “Might as well rid us of temptation now that you’re a married man.”

You flipped him off ever so slightly, but he saw it and laughed.

There’d only been a few times in your life when you’d ever detected Nate’s displeasure at something you’d done, and the moment after Kyle left the restaurant that night had been one of them. He didn’t have to come right out and tell you, you could tell by the tone in his voice. And the fact that Nate Rockford was a client and not your boss was a subtle but remarkable distinction. Your personal reputation had never been of great concern to you, but it was safe to say that if you had the chance to do it all again, you may have made different decisions.

Having spent so much time with him over the years, you knew Nate’s displeasure had nothing to do with his opinion of you or your extracurricular activities; it was always a matter of discretion. Nate had always had a deep and abiding belief in maintaining his public persona. And since you’d done that for him and for Brown for a decade, it wasn’t surprising that Nate reacted when he saw an opportunity to smooth over a chink in your armor.

The two of you sat there for a few more minutes, finishing your drinks, and then walked outside. Your scarf was flying in front of your face as you fought to secure it inside your overcoat. There were two limos out front waiting—one to take you to the airport and one to take Nate to his Chicago apartment. Nate thanked you for your company and your assistance with the media.

“Don’t mention it,” you said, pulling your black leather gloves on.

The flight home from Chicago was peaceful and dark. You had the entire row to yourself in first class, save the pillow and blanket the flight attendant quietly sat on the seat beside you. When you tired of reading, you extinguished the light above your head, leaned back, and closed your eyes.

*******************
I’ll be the one to tuck you in at night

When you walked into your house that Tuesday night, it was as quiet and dark as the plane ride had been. It was a little after midnight, and you sat your briefcase in the kitchen, hung up your overcoat, and made your way upstairs, discarding your clothes as you went. So many times over the years you’d returned from these trips and climbed your staircase to the solitary haven of your bedroom, but that night the haven was occupied. You smiled as you stood in the doorway loosening your tie, the blue light of the television making Justin’s hair glow as he slept, sprawled on his back, as if he’d fallen asleep immediately after having been flattened by a runaway train. You tossed your clothes in the chair, turned off the television, and slid into bed beside him. His hand was splayed on top of the covers and you moved it, tucking it underneath the comforter and covering him up, causing him to stir,

“Mmm, you’re home.”

Your noses touched for a second, a gesture that you’re rarely conscious of anymore, “Hey.”

You moved so that you were on top of him, kissing him behind his ear, breathing him in, your hand slipping underneath his t-shirt. He bristled, “Your hands are cold.”

“They’ll warm up,” you promised, letting your lips move down his neck as he moaned a little, arching into you.

“They better.”

……

“I want you.”

“I can tell.”

……

He began to awaken as you kissed him, his eyes opening, his pupils so dark as the kiss deepened, his warm body wrapping around you.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” you confessed in a whisper.

“Mmm.”

“Coming home and finding you sound asleep…undressing you…” And then your hand changed directions, slipping underneath the waistband of his cottony pants.

“Well, you’ve definitely found me,” he responded, his smile interrupted by a yawn. “I missed you today.”

“No underwear,” you pointed out.

“I wish I could say that was all for you, but I’m just lazy.”

You laughed, your fingers bypassing his cock and moving along his inner thigh instead, “Well, in that case, I’ll take what I can get.”

……

And then your kiss resumed, your hand cupping the side of his face. There were often overwhelming moments when you made love to Justin, moments where you felt exactly in tune with his body, when you felt like the sweet, smooth, calculated innocence he gave off was just for you. And the thought of experiencing all of that would blaze through your mind like an abandoned forest fire if you let it. His body was beginning to respond, following your touch and the sound of your voice. You watched his face as you touched him, always drawn to the arc of desire as it overtook him.

You were compelled to exploit it.

He was trapped underneath you, pinned by the spread of your hands on his chest, the pads of your thumbs circling his nipples, your forceful kiss rendering him voluntarily defenseless, when you revealed your intentions to him, “You’re going to come before I fuck you.”

His body elongated underneath yours, stretching to wake up, “Mmm.”

“’Cause I’m gonna fuck you for a long time.”

“'Kay.”

“Lose the shirt,” you told him as you helped him out of his pants. Your face was so close to his that he smothered you for a second as he yanked it over his head.

“Sorry.”

“I’m not gonna argue with you if you want to suffocate me.”

He pulled your face back in, answering you before he kissed you, “That’s okay. I’m too tired.”

Rain check.

……

You felt his body relax as your lips moved down his chest, moaning as your hand wrapped between his legs so you could guide his cock into your mouth. You spoke when you realized, “Your bottom is plugged, you little rascal.”

“That is all for you,” he replied.

You stroked him, telling him, “Explain to me how someone can be too lazy to wear underwear, but not too lazy to plug himself.”

“It’s complicated,” he said, urging your face closer to his dick.

…….

“We have ways of making you talk,” you teased him.

“You have ways of making me rabid with anticipation, but that doesn’t mean you should.”

……

“Sunshine, are you saying that you’d like your dick sucked?”

“No,” he emphasized, “I’m trying to say that I’d like my dick sucked right now.”

Your lips were brushing the length of his cock, “Right now?”

“Or face expulsion from this bed—" You let him fill your mouth. “Uh.”

His hips pressed into your face as you as you sucked him, pushing on the plug, his leg wrapping around your body to keep you close. He wound your hair in his fingers as he fucked your face, “Push, Brian.”

You obliged him, the pressure making him come down your throat, and you closed your eyes, your head pressed against his stomach until you felt him release your hair, felt the tension in his body begin to fade away.

……

In the aftermath, you stayed where you were for a few minutes, tucked against him, listening to his heartbeat intermingled with an occasional growl of his stomach, the fatigue of the day beginning to emerge.

“Hungry?” you asked.

“I ate.”

(You knew better to ask if there were leftovers in the refrigerator. After all, timing and ass are everything.)

……

Eventually, you moved, your fingers running around the edge of his plug, teasing him until he called for you, “C’mere.” You moved slowly up his body, your hand lingering on his ass, removing the plug. His hand wormed between the two of you, pushing your cock between his legs, a sensual insistence in his voice, “Inside me.” You made him wait until you had his legs on your shoulders, until just the hard feeling of your cock between his legs was making him beg. Your hands were snug around his thighs as you began to thrust, strong and unyielding. “Uh, yes.”

He had little leverage as you fucked him, and you reveled in it. The pace was yours to set and his to struggle against, so you slowed down, burying your face in his neck as he held you, his breath burning your ear, “Brian.” Every thrust you made elicited a beautifully helpless note out of him, the soundtrack of vulnerable, filthy desire.

For you.

When he lifted his arms over his head, his fingers curling tight around the wrought iron bed frame, giving him something to push against, you smiled and kissed the side of his face, following his eyes as they looked out the window of your bedroom, your memory crackling to life for a second, like a radio searching the dial for the right station, ‘Coming back from a funeral? That alone is worth a fuck and a suck, if you know what I mean.’ You smiled and laughed.

“What’s so funny?” he asked, his hands returning to your face.

“Nothing. Idiot on the plane.” You lowered yourself into his arms again, your face pressed against his, the scent of his shampoo filling your nose. Vanilla-almond sweet.

“Was your day okay?” he asked.

“It’s much better now.”

“You know when you called me, and I said I was going to paint?”

“Yeah.”

“I lied.”

“Oh?”

“I was masturbating. All day. I didn’t even really get out of bed.”

You laughed.

“You don’t think that’s pathetic?” he asked.

“I think it’s sweet.”

He kissed you and then asked, “Sweet like what I put in your briefcase?”

“Sweet like your sweet, unbelievably fuckable, little ass.”

……

“Are you gonna come sometime tonight?” he asked.

“Maybe.”

“’Kay, well, let my legs go. I’m not seventeen anymore.”

“You’ll always be seventeen to me.”

……

You kissed him, allowed his legs to fall to either side of you, and then pulled out, “Roll over. On your knees.” You weren’t in the mood to compromise depth.

He obeyed, and you listened to him moan as your thumbs spread him apart and protest when you took your time, “Fuck me.”

When you pushed back inside him, when he felt your hands wrap around his hips, when you were so fucking deep inside him and holding him still, he began to chant something that sounded like your name laced with complete abandon. He came when you restrained him, when he felt you come inside him, panting into the sheets as you enjoyed the sensation of pouring into him.

You felt almost despondent when it was over, when you pulled out, and he turned back over, his arms reaching for you as you lay back on top of him, that feeling of being blissfully fucked-out easing through your entire body.

“I want you to masturbate all day tomorrow, too,” you told him.

“I want you to retire. Immediately.”

……

The kiss you shared after the fuck was soft and lingering, and your inability to let it end paid off nicely, “Mr. Kinney, I’m pleased to inform you that your arduous lovemaking has earned the Good Housekeeping seal of approval.”

You weren’t lying when you told him, “I’m honored. I’ve waited my entire life for that.” (If you had a condom for every time you’d put that accolade as the finishing touch on someone’s print or television ad, the entire world would be suffering from a latex shortage.)

“Well, congratulations.”

“When’s the ceremony?” you asked.

“I’ll blow you in the morning.”

……

Your bodies shifted as they cooled, and he curled back into you, both of you facing the window again. Your fingers ran through his hair as he sighed, “Feels good.”

“Did you set the alarm?” you asked.

“Yep.”

…..

“You smell sweet,” you told him, your nose returning to the warm spot behind his ear.

“That’s because we got a gift basket this morning from The Rockford.”

“Were you actually having a moment with Melody?” you asked, feigning shock, the thought of Justin exfoliating all by himself much more arousing than it should have been.

“Actually, I had several. And we now have three morally-questionable gnomes in the garden in the backyard.”

“We do?”

“They were a wedding present from Nate and Sarah. You got something, too. It’s in your office. But you’re not getting out of this bed right now.”

“Okay. Wasn’t really planning on it,” you admitted.

……

And then he announced that he was cold, so you sat up, reaching for the comforter from its exile at the foot of the bed, tugging it until both of you were amply covered, offering, “I can turn on the fireplace.”

“No, then I’ll just get too hot.”

“I don’t know how anyone can be cold after having their brains so thoroughly, and might I add, expertly, fucked out,” you replied, pulling him against you.

“I reset quickly,” he explained.

“Years of practice,” you added.

“Makes perfect.”

You couldn’t agree more.

*******************
last night I didn’t get to sleep at all

You weren’t surprised when you couldn’t sleep, although you refused to admit to yourself that now that you were quite rapidly pushing forty, you tired earlier and were known to indulge in the occasional nap. You were quiet as you rose from your bed, stepping into a pair of (Brown Athletics) track pants and exiting your bedroom, closing the door behind you. The hardwood floors in the hallway were cold underneath your feet.

Your study, however, was carpeted, and the minute your feet registered the difference, you saw the painting hanging over your desk—the gift Justin spoke of. It wasn’t hanging straight, so you adjusted it while removing the pink note with your name on it from the frame. Your reading glasses were downstairs in your briefcase, so you decided you’d just squint:

Your stomach was growling, so you wandered downstairs to the kitchen to find something to eat. When you opened the refrigerator, your eyes fell on a casserole dish that, quite frankly, you didn’t know you had, and the yellow sticky note on it from Justin informing you that it was ‘squash casserole with asparagus—try it before you complain.’

You zapped it in the microwave, and then stood in front of the kitchen window as you ate. The casserole was pretty decent, and as you chewed, you leaned forward over the sink trying to make out the degenerate gnomes in the backyard, but it was too dark and you didn’t want to turn on the flood lights and wake Justin. You rinsed the dish off and put it in the dishwasher, and had your mind not been pre-occupied with the realization that, asparagus….that’s why he tasted different tonight…, you might’ve noticed the dishwasher’s status on its door-embedded monitor:

Or, as you opened the door to get a beer, the refrigerator:

But instead, as you descended the basement steps to be sure that Zeek hadn’t been bull shitting you about the condition of the custom ice machines, you were overly engrossed with the image of Justin between your legs, sucking you off post-asparagusly in approximately four hours.


Lyrics taken from Patrice Rushen’s Forget Me Nots, Donna Summer’s She Works Hard for the Money, Huey Lewis’s Workin’ for a Livin’, Carly Simon’s You’re So Vain, Cliff Richard’s Devil Woman, The Beatles’s Ballad of John and Yoko , Don Henley’s Dirty Laundry, The Beatles’s Day Tripper, Smashmouth’s Walkin’ on the Sun, Don Henley’s Dirty Laundry again, The Beatle’s Get Back, Johnny Cash’s Walk the Line, Paul McCartney & Wing’s Listen to What the Man Said, Uncle Kracker’s Follow Me, and The Fifth Dimension’s Last Night (I Didn’t Get to Sleep at All).