BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 2-THRESHOLD

BRIAN’S POV
my baby don’t mess around

Justin had spent the previous Sunday morning of that week, his fifth day back in your life, grocery shopping at one of those warehouse stores because as he’d informed you the day before that when you realized that you were out of peanut butter and egg whites, “He wasn’t your goddamn housewife.” Therefore it made sense to him, he explained, to only go to the grocery store once a quarter.  He came home with thirty-two boxes of Cheerios and a case of condoms.

“Here, this oughta last us for a while.”

“What’d you do, rent a mini-van?”

“I took your car.”

“You took my car?”

“Yep. And I hate that thing. It needs to shut up. ‘Mr. Kinney’ this and ‘Mr. Kinney’ that. It’s so oppressive.” You asked him how he planned to make you an egg-white omelet with Cheerios. He put his hand on his hip, and gave you the four-one-one, “Look, I’ve already ordered all of our groceries online. They’ll be delivered once a week. Every Monday. I can’t have my creative energy interrupted because you’re out of guava juice. You’ll break my flow. That’s not gonna work.”

You held your hands up like his forward posture was a loaded weapon, “Okay. Okay. Whatever you say.”

“Good. Then it’s settled. If there’s something you want that I didn’t order, just email me and I’ll add it to the next week’s list.”

“Email you? Can’t I just tell you when I bump into you in the shower or something?” Jesus.

“You’re the one with the techno-car. You’re Mr. Technology, not me. Why don’t you just tell the car and have the car tell me? That way you and I don’t even have to communicate.”

“What is your fucking problem?” you asked his ass as he turned around and walked away from you.

“I think you’re fucking that car. That’s my problem.”

You followed him upstairs and proved him wrong.

Twice.

But this morning, your thoughts were elsewhere when you opened your eyes and saw him walk past the bedroom door and down the hall with a bowl of what could only be an attempt to dwindle the cereal reserves in the pantry. He didn’t even cast a glance back into the bedroom. You heard him open the door to his studio. He didn’t close it.

Somehow you just knew you weren’t getting laid this morning.

You were right.

You waited a few minutes to see if maybe he was just checking to see if the studio was still there and was going to come back to bed, but he didn’t, so you got up and pulled on some Brown Athletics sweat pants and a t-shirt and walked down the hall.  You stood in the doorway, leaning against the door jam, watching him as he held his bowl of cereal in one hand and sorted various paintings and sketches on his table with the other. He seemed lost in thought, rearranging them, stopping to look at them, and then moving them around again. When he picked one up and held it up to the light coming in from the window, he saw you standing there.

“You scared me.”

He didn’t seem scared. The painting, the mural that the two of you’d fought about the night before was still leaning against the windows, but he’d covered it with a drop cloth. You weren’t sure if he was trying to protect it or hide it.

“Sorry.”

“What’re you doing? Are you working from home today or something?” You would’ve been long gone by then. It was almost eight thirty.

“Or something.” He went back to sorting his drawings after eating a huge spoonful of cereal. “What are you doing?”

“Deciding what I want to work on today.” He carried a sketch over to one of his easels and propped it on the tray. “I made coffee. Want me to get you some?” You would’ve killed for some coffee right then.

“I’ll get it myself in a minute.”

He looked at you, “What’s wrong?” He likes to get your coffee as long as you don’t tell him to get it. It’s a very delicate thing—the coffee protocol. You don’t fuck with it.

You shrugged, “Wanna get outta here?”

“Get outta where?” Another picture on another easel.

“Here. This house, this city, this state. Go away for few days.”

He studied your face, “Why?”

“Why not?”

“When?”

“Now. Let’s get ready and go.”

“Can I finish my cereal?”

*****************************
she blinded me with science

You found a perfect parking place at the airport, and punched in your PIN number to lock your computer. Justin was gathering his bag off the floorboard.

“SECURE.”

“Enter time frame.”

“Justin, what’s today’s date?”

He stared at the ceiling and said, “CALENDAR.” The car didn’t respond. “BITCH.”

You laughed a little, “It doesn’t know your voice, and that’s not the command. The command is “DATE.”

“Today is Thursday, February 17, 2011.”

“SECURE. TODAY. SUNDAY. FEBRUARY 20.” Anyone so much as breathed on The Car before then, and a swat team would’ve descended on them.

“Thank you. Secured until Sunday, February 20, 2011.”

He rolled his eyes at you, “Why’d you ask me if the damn car’s gonna tell you anyway?”

“I was trying to include you in the conversation?”

“I really worry about you sometimes, Brian. You are not having a conversation with the car. The car is a goddamn robot.”

But it’s your robot.

You waited until he opened his door and was actually outside the car before you patted the dashboard a couple of times and whispered to it, “I’ll be back.”

You’d never been away from it for this long before.

*****************************
vacation
all I ever wanted
vacation
had to get away

Nate Rockford, Leo Brown’s man behind the scenes, had become your primary point of contact with Brown Athletics over the past three years. Leo was aging, wealthy beyond his wildest dreams (thanks to you), and wasn’t much interested in the day-to-day operations of a sporting goods company. Nate wasn’t either, actually, but his role allowed him to do what he did best: manage from behind the curtain. Now that Brown Athletics had become a global brand in a global economy, now that the world was truly on its way to embracing peace across all borders, the concepts of teamwork and unity were selling basketballs and sweatshirts by the billions. Anytime there was a major sporting event, the opening of a new stadium or arena, or, lo and behold, the Olympics, Brown Athletics was everywhere, and if you looked close enough, you could always see Nate Rockford somewhere in the background on his cell phone making sure that every single branding detail was in place.

“Basically Brian, we want to be the most solid, the most familiar, most thought about name in sporting goods, sportswear, sports. You name it. By every single person, every group we can think of. Don’t leave anyone out.”

“Unique uniformity.”

“Exactly.”

You pictured starving children in Africa running around in Brown Athletics t-shirts.

“You’re one of a million and one in a million,” you said showing him an overhead shot of a 'million' people wearing the exact same Brown Athletics t-shirt and track pants and then another where everyone but the person in the middle of the shot had on their regular clothes. “Makes you want to be one of us.”

“Perfect. Done.” You shook hands. “Keep up the good work. I’ll be in touch.”

Massaging that account was the smartest move you’d ever made.

The Rockford in New Hampshire had been in business since 1953 as one of the most popular ski resorts in the state. It belonged to Nate’s father and then subsequently to him. Owning and running a ski lodge wasn’t exactly Nate’s cup of tea, but he couldn’t bear to sell it, having spent so much time there as a child and thinking of it largely as his second home. From his descriptions of the place, there wasn’t anything elegant about it, but it brought in obscene amounts of money. He and his wife never had any children, and Nate often spoke about the place as if he spent more time there than at his actual house. He seemed to be one of those people that didn’t mind if there were brand new, perfect strangers wandering around his home each week. He thought it was an opportunity to meet people, to network.

You thought he was weird.

Nate was an out-going guy who never met someone he didn’t like. You wondered if you were that way, and then decided that you were, but only if that someone was sucking your dick.

To each their own.

In your meetings over the past few years, Nate had always patted you on the back as he was walking out the door and said, “Don’t be a stranger, Brian. Come on up and spend some time. You’ll love it. And bring your son. Gus? On me. Least I can do.”

You told him you’d come up there if he’d come to Babylon. He laughed. “You gonna explain that to my wife? Don’t you have a Babylon postcard or something?”

So you took him to lunch at Zeal and then gave him a tour of Babylon during the day, when it was safe, “This is my world.” He looked amazed, but smiled the entire time, especially in the backroom, asked you a bunch of questions about what actually went on back there. You were beaming with pride as you answered all of them. “This is a sling.” You knew all he was thinking about was how he could get the name ‘Brown Athletics’ on that sling.

He patted you on the back as he caught a cab out in front of the club to head to the airport, “Okay, so now you owe me. I better see your ass at my place.”

“I had no idea you were interested in my ass.”

“Take care, Brian. Send me those mock-ups.”

“Will do.”

The Rockford welcomed you with open arms, your one call to Nate that morning all that was needed to line out your instant honeymoon. Nate’s middle name at Brown Athletics was ‘I’ll handle everything,’ and he had. A sixty second conversation with him, and you had an all expense-paid vacation for the next four days. The man lived up his reputation.

Nice.

Wealth was so… comforting.

*****************************
I thought love was only true in fairy tales
meant for someone else but not for me

The restaurant at the lodge had the most incredible view of night skiing and the view across the table from you was just as breathtaking. It really made you wonder why you hadn’t done this before. Your waiter was obviously gay and was cruising Justin hard. Years ago, it would have pissed you off because he wasn’t cruising you, but now you’re just flattered when that happens, more evidence of your impeccably good taste.

Justin was fairly quiet on the plane and not very talkative at dinner. You broke the silence, “You know, it’s amazing to me how you give off such a strong gay-vibe, but not such a strong ‘taken-vibe.’”

He wiggled his eyebrows at you, “I’m talented like that.”

“Apparently.” You watched him chew his baked potato and stare out the window as you refilled his wine glass.

“You’re trying to get me drunk.”

“I don’t have to try. It requires no effort whatsoever.”

“This place is really nice, Brian. It’s ungodly freezing, but it’s beautiful.” You knew he was referring to the scenery and not the décor. You were both kind of trying to ignore the décor.

“Yeah, it is.” The dining room was clearing out a little; your dinner started late to begin with. A log crackled and split in the fireplace, and you watched as your waiter reset two tables near you. You caught his eye and tapped on your bottle of wine. He brought you another. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

“What are you thinking about?” you asked him because you could see the wheels turning in his blond little head.

He smiled, “I just never in a million years, much less this morning, thought I’d be sitting in a place like this with you, you know? I feel like I should pinch myself or something.”

“I’ll be glad to pinch you.” He kicked your shin under the table. You opened the second bottle of wine and filled your glass.

"This place belongs to the guy who runs Brown Athletics?" he asked you, his fork poised in the air.

"Yeah. Nate Rockford. They're my biggest account."

"Wasn't that the account you were trying to get when you couldn't go to Vermont that time?"

"Actually, yes. It was."

"Ironic, huh?"

“We should’ve done this a long time ago, Justin. But we didn’t, so I guess we just go forward from here.”

“Yeah. It really was important for you to take that trip."

"Yeah, it was."

"Yeah."

He seemed preoccupied or tired, not his usual enthusiastic self. You chalked it up to the emotional evening you’d had the night before and the traveling today. You hadn’t fucked him in almost thirty-six hours, definitely the longest you’d gone without making love since he’d been back. You wanted him.

And it wasn’t something you were used to, not getting what you wanted.

For the last six years, while he’d been gone, your life had changed while you hadn’t even been paying attention. You knew he didn’t know; he hadn’t been around to see it. Hell, you didn’t even see it, and you were living it. You began acquiring things other than men, other than notches in your belt. First Babylon, then the restaurant, and you always had other projects in the works, things that came and went. You were still at Babylon on many a night, but more often than not, you were in your office transferring funds into the operating account, meeting with Ruben about careless bartenders who were serving under age twinks, and then, occasionally, plucking someone off the dance floor to finish off your evening. But your choices were getting younger and younger, and if you chose someone older, it just complicated matters. Men in their later twenties or worse were there to meet someone; you were quite the catch to them. And you were nobody’s catch.

Except Justin’s.

It just didn’t make much sense to you anymore. It was either boring or annoying, and you hated both. Getting some idiotic club-kid to suck your dick at eleven o’clock at night just became a hassle, and a pointless one at that, when you knew who you were literally saving yourself for. It gave you a perverse sense of satisfaction to pass those boys by and leave them wondering why you didn’t want them. Suddenly, the whole scene felt beneath you.

You’d also listened to Debbie’s and Michael’s, and, in the beginning, Theodore’s, endless ramblings about how you should pack up everything and move to New York. Expand Kinnetik. Follow Justin. Be with him. And you’d be one hell of a liar if you said you didn’t come damn close to doing it, but Ted saw your reluctance even before you admitted it to yourself. You were sitting in the conference room one day at Kinnetik about three weeks after Justin had been gone sifting through various options for office space in the Big Apple:

"All right. What gives?” he finally asked you after fifteen minutes of putting up with your fleeting attention.

“Huh?”

“What’s wrong with you? Your heart’s not in this.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you don’t give a damn about this. You’re not bossing me around about it. You don’t care about the office space. You’re not listening to me when I’m going over the business plan. You’re not even acting excited about this at all.” Sometimes the fact that Ted was an accountant and was used to distilling things down to raw figures leant itself well to your style of emotional management.

You pushed your chair away from the table and stood up, “My heart is in this, that’s the problem.”

“This is what you’ve always wanted. To make it big. ‘New York’s where it’s at.’ I’ve listened to you go on about that for years.”

“I wanted to make it big, on my own. I’ve done that. I’ve got national accounts. That’s not it. I can’t do this. I’m sorry we wasted so much time on it.” Ted gathered up all of the files the two of you had been going over and started putting everything away. You sat down, defeated. “There’s nothing I want more than to be with him.”

“Then I’m not sure I understand.”

“If I do this, if I show up there now, he’s going to feel obligated to be with me, and I don’t want that. If I go up there and we live separate lives, and I make it big, he’ll feel like I’m competing with him. If I fail, he’ll feel guilty. This is his chance to be somebody. I didn’t want anybody hanging onto me when I was his age or when I almost got to go to New York; I can’t do that to him. There’s no way this will work.”

He looked at you at nodded his head, “Father Kinney’s Home for Runaway Boys is closed for business then, huh?”

“He’s not a boy anymore.”

That night you and Ted went out and got very, very drunk. Well, you did. Ted watched and eventually drove you home. It was the first time he’d ever driven the ‘vette. From what you remember, you sat in some no-name bar with him regaling him with all the reasons you couldn’t go to New York.

“This isn’t a list of reasons why you can’t go to New York, Brian. This is a list of ‘Things I Love About Justin.’”

“It’s the same fucking thing, goddamnit. Stop interrupting my list.”

“Okay. Sorry.”

“So, I don’t know what number I’m on, but it’s his socks. See my socks?” You vaguely remember swinging your leg up on Ted’s lap.

“This is number seven.”

“Goddamnit, Theodore, you just interrupted me again.”

“I answered your question!”

“Did you know that Theodore was one of The Chipmunks?”

“Yes, thank you for reminding me.”

“Fucking Chipmunks. Who was their damn leader?"

“You mean Alvin?”

“No, the human dude.”

“You mean Dave?”

“Yeah, that freaky guy. They were always saying, ‘C’mon Dave.’” You did your Chipmunks impression. No one appreciated it but you.

“I really didn’t need to hear that. What’s number seven?"

“Oh yeah, number seven. See my socks? See how tight they are? That’s how you should wear your socks. But Justin doesn’t wear his socks like that. No. His socks are always too big for his feet. Every time he takes his fucking shoes off, his socks are all baggy.”

“I never noticed.”

“And I fucking cannot stand that. I mean if you take your shoes off, and your socks are loose, then you pull them up. How can you just walk around with baggy socks?”

“I have no idea.”

“But he doesn’t even care. Just walks around with his socks flopping all over the place, driving me up fucking wall.”

“So inconsiderate.”

“I told him. I said, ‘Your socks are too big. Buy smaller socks.’ And you know what he said?”

“He likes them that way?”

“How did you know that? That’s exactly what he said. Told me to fuck off and worry about my own socks.”

“You hate socks. You always walk around barefoot.”

“Exactly, Theodore. That is why you are so fucking smart.”

“Thank you.”

“I miss his baggy socks.”

“I know you do.”

“What number am I on?”

“Eight. You’re on number eight.”

“Eight. He does this thing when I fuck him—"

“Okay, Brian. You’ve had enough. Time for me to take you home.”

And then, finally, six years later, you’d gotten a call a little after eleven o’clock one night while you were sitting in bed surfing for porn and watching the news. You looked at the caller ID: New York City, but a number you didn’t recognize.

“Hello?

“It’s me.”

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You all right?”

As the years had gone on, you’d spoken to him less and less, not because you didn’t want to or he didn’t want to, but because it was just too hard. It just became an unspoken understanding between the two of you. The conversations you had with him always went fine; it was after you hung up the phone that you just couldn’t take anymore. The dread would start the minute you’d hear his voice.

“I’m fine. I know it’s late. Is it too late?”

“No. It’s fine. Just watching the news.”

“I called because I want to talk to you.” You turned off the television. The dread was already starting.

“Okay.”

“I don’t want to live in New York anymore. I don’t need to be here.”

“You don’t?”

“No. It’s too expensive. Too hectic.”

“Right.”

“I want to come home.” You shut your computer off and pushed it off your lap.

“You do?”

“I want to be with you.”

“When?”

“I don’t exactly feel right just calling up and asking you this, but I don’t know how else to do it.”

“When?”

“Three, four months. When my lease is up, so you’ve got a while to think about it. It would have to work this time, Brian. I’ve thought about it. I know what I want.”

“Right.”

“I’m sorry to do this out of the blue. I feel really weird.”

“Don’t.”

“Okay, well, I’ll let you go. You can think about it and let me know.” He hung up before you could say anything. You looked at the clock: 11:14 p.m.

……….

……….

11:15 p.m.

You picked up the phone and called him back.

“Hello.”

“I don’t need to think about it. You can come home tonight if you want.”

“I think you should think about it. It’s a big step. It’s been years.”

“I don’t want anybody else. I’m never gonna want anybody else. I don’t need to think about it.”

“I want to be monogamous. Maybe not right away, but eventually. I love you, Brian. I don’t want to share you with anybody.”

“Okay.”

“I’ll call you in a couple weeks when I have more details.”

“Sounds great.” It occurred to you that you might be dreaming.

“Brian, thanks.”

“Thank you.” And you were listening to a dial tone again.

You stared at the phone for a few seconds before putting it back in its charger, your fingers instinctively picking up your cigarettes and lighter that were right beside it. You lit one and tried to smoke it, the tightness in your throat making it impossible. Grabbing your ashtray, you took it and sat in the dark in the chair beside your bedroom window.

It was mid-October, 2010, then and the leaves were dying on the trees in your backyard. Autumn had been beautiful that year, but beautiful or not, it was still a prelude to winter, to the death of everything. You looked down at your cigarette that was basically smoking itself.

You didn’t want to admit to yourself, but for the last six minutes, you’d felt re-born.

There was nothing wrong or uncomfortable about sitting in a nice restaurant in a nice hotel having a quiet dinner with him. You were used to his different moods, for lack of a better word. Or phases, you thought. He goes through a lot of phases. He was certainly never boring. It was hard for you to believe that the man who was sitting across from you in some incredibly expensive, gray dress shirt was the same one who’d put on your clothes and his headphones and danced like a moron in front of the window in your loft. He was cutting his last piece of steak when you asked him,

“Justin, before you came home, when we talked about it, you said something about getting tested, about being monogamous. Are you ready to do that?”

He put down his glass of wine and looked at you, the maturity in his face arousing you all of a sudden, “I already did it, Brian. I did it the next day after we talked. Everything was fine. I haven’t been with—"

You interrupted him, unintentionally, “So did I. I mean not the next day, but that week. I did it. Got the results. All good.”

“All good, and you stopped tricking?” He had an incredulous, almost doubtful, look on his face. Didn’t offend you at all. You were ready to quit, and you did. Once you put your mind to something, that’s pretty much it.

“Yeah. Gave it up. Wasn’t nearly as hard as I thought it would be.”

His mind was already working overtime, “So we’re good? You’re absolutely sure?” He drained his glass of wine. This wasn’t a scenario either of you had prepared for. You had given some thought to talking about it, maybe half a minute, if that. Hell, going on the honeymoon wasn’t planned.

You started counting and re-counting in your head, checking and re-checking, your brain desperately trying to fast forward and process this new information.

“Yep, yeah, we’re good to go.”

His eyes anxiously scanned the dining room as he pressed his napkin back into his lap, “Where’s our waiter?”

Thirty six hours and counting…

*****************************
at this moment
you mean everything

You’d never felt more responsible for anything than you did for him when you opened the door to your room. The lodge staff started the fire for you shortly before you finished your dinner. You locked the door and turned off the light, allowing the flames to light the room, and walked over to him where he stood looking out the window, this view of a different side of the lodge. He pointed to someone who had fallen on the slopes and laughed. You smiled, taking his pointing hand in yours and turning him around,

“This is what you want?”

“Of course.”

“You’re sure?”

“Positively sure.”

He reached up to pull your face to his and you kept him pressed tightly against you, how you managed to worm your hand between the two of you and slide your hand underneath his shirt, you’ll never know, and the kiss became something needy, something that was feeding both of you, something that needed to be fed. He gasped when he felt your hand on his chest, like he’d never felt it before.

You understood because it all felt new to you.

So many times you’d fucked him, made love to him, but this felt like something completely different. You felt consumed with a patient, thorough desire for him, all of it, at that moment, burning just beneath your fingertips.

This was never going to end if you had anything to say about it.

Your hand moved slightly on his chest, your palm spread wide, and his breathing faltered, his mouth opening into yours, your tongue gentle between his lips. He licked your mouth slowly, and you let your thumb pass over his nipple, his fingers tightening in your hair as you pressed. His grip around your neck felt like only thing holding him up anymore.

“Is this our honeymoon?”

You laughed, “If you want it to be.”

You walked him in front of the fire. He held onto the mantel, his hand in your hair, as you unbuttoned his shirt, your face pressed into his neck as you spoke to him, so quietly, “I need this so badly, to touch you. I don’t ever want to go this long without fucking you.” He was moaning softly as you spoke to him, “And it’s not about fucking. You know it’s not about that.”

“I know. It’s not.”

You slid his shirt off his shoulders and he started to fiddle with yours, but you shook your head, kneeling down instead and undoing his pants, letting them fall down his legs. He stepped out of them and you tossed them aside. You took off his socks as he played with your hair and then turned your attention to his underwear, running your lips over his cottony-hard-on, slipping your fingers underneath the elastic, feeling how wet he was through the soft fabric. He moaned when you finally took them off, his moist cock falling toward your face.

His hand rubbed the back of your head, “Brian.”

His cock was warm as you ran it along the side of your face, smooth in your hand, slick in your mouth as you wrapped your arms around him and controlled his movements for a while and then let him go, savoring the hard pull on the back of your hair right before he came, the snap on the back of your neck, how he was practically choking you, how you could barely breathe. It made you so hard, made you want to come when he did. His knees buckled into you when he pulled out and you caught him, laid him down in front of the fire, never taking your eyes off of him. It wasn’t difficult at all. There had never been anything else to look at.

Not in eleven years.

His skin glowed from the flames from his place on the rug in front of the fire, and he took you in his arms as you laid on top of him. His body felt like it was burning.

“I can’t believe we’re really doing this,” his voice was a whisper.

“Bend your knees for me.”

You rose up and sat between his legs bent over yours, your slippery fingers pushing deep inside him. He held your other hand, running his fingers through his hair, the muscles in his legs tightening over yours as he arched his back in response to your touch. You’d never seen anything more beautiful, more wanton, more yours in your life.

“I’m ready, Brian.”

You were nervous.

You felt like you owed him so much. Wrongs you should’ve righted. Places you should’ve been or shouldn’t have been. Things you should’ve said. And yet, he was giving you this. You didn’t deserve this, but he still wanted you to have it.

You were his first love.

And, oddly enough, he was yours.

This must be what love feels like, you thought, as you inched inside him. He felt so fragile in your arms that night. You kept staring at his face, kept waiting for him to call the whole thing off, to tell you to stop, but he never did, so you just kept going, a weightless ecstasy taking over your body once you realized you were really inside him.

You froze. You couldn’t think.

This was overwhelming. You wrapped your arms around him, afraid that if you didn’t, you might not be able to hold onto this unbelievably perfect sensation that was running through your body like hot lava. You moved inside him, and his hot hands held your face as he kissed you, “Oh god, I love you, Brian. I love you so much.”

“Oh my fucking god.”

“I know.”

“You’re so hot inside, so tight, you feel so, oh god, you feel so fucking amazing.”

“Fuck me before you make me cry, Brian.”

“Why are you gonna cry?” you asked him after you kissed him.

His fingers were soft on your face, “Because you are.”

Your body knew what to do and it switched to auto-pilot and did it, ignoring the chaotic misfirings going on between your heart and your brain. You felt him grab your ass, heard him whisper in your ear about not stopping or keep going or something, felt him practically shake when he came, that hot, wet clench on your dick and then you saw nothing but red.

Hot, red flames pouring out of you and into him, determined to set him on fire just like you were, to make him as powerless and helpless and useless as you felt at that very minute. Determined to consume him. His hips jolted underneath you, and you grabbed him and kissed him hard, refusing to let him move.

He was completely wrapped around you, had no intention of letting go. You tried to breathe.

You were so honored to be dripping out of his ass, so proud. You reached into the pocket of your pants on the floor beside you and pulled out a condom. Not what you wanted; you threw it across the room. You tried again and found what you were looking for.

You opened the box, took his ring out, and slid it on his finger, “You don’t get more married than this, Sunshine.”

He reached for yours and returned the favor, “Here’s to never pulling out.”

You kissed him, softly and for a really long time, “I love you, Justin. I love you, and I’m really glad you came home.”

“I love you, too, Brian Kinney. This is one kick-ass honeymoon.”

You laid back down on top of him, whispering in his ear about how nice it was just to stay in his ass as long as you wanted. He told you that you should both turn around in a few minutes so the other side of your bodies could get warm.

“That’s the only downside to fucking in front of a fireplace,” he explained.

“Only you would think of something like that.”

……

……

“What are we gonna do with that case of condoms I bought?” he asked you.

“Poker chips?”

He laughed, “We could dress up as Dr. and Mrs. Kinsey and give them out at Halloween.” You both busted out laughing and your dick fell out of his ass. “Whoops. Sorry.”

“Kinney. Kinsey. Not much of a stretch, is it?”

“Whoa. I never thought about that. Oh my god. That is so freaky.”

“You crack me up.” He got really quiet.

……

…...

You tried to kiss him and he stopped you, “Now I’m really horny thinking about you as Dr. Kinsey.”

“Okay. Tell me your entire sexual history. Don’t leave anything out.”

“Shut up.”

“We need this information for research purposes. You’re a very valuable part of our study, Mr. Taylor.”

“Do you conduct all of your interviews in the nude?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“You’d be much more convincing if you had your glasses on.”

“You’ll just have to pretend because I have no fucking clue where they are.”

He took a deep breath, “Okay. Well, it all started this one night when I met this gorgeous guy. He was like the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen.”

“I see.”

“So he was all, ‘Had a busy night?’ and I was all, ‘Just checkin’ out the bars.’”

“Let’s get to the good part.”

“So he took me back to his place, took off all of his clothes right in front of me, offered me illegal drugs, and then poured a bottle of water on his head.”

“He sounds like a highly disturbed individual. You should’ve gotten the hell out of there.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“But you didn’t?”

“No, I totally stayed. I made a complete and utter fool out of myself. I came all over everything. He got so pissed at me. Then we went to the hospital, so I could name his baby, and then we came back.”

“I don’t even believe this story. You’re making this up.”

“I’m not! I swear. It’s all true.”

“Please continue.”

“Okay, so we came back, only then he was high as a kite, and he was all, ‘Watch me!’ Doing handstands and falling over. It was totally freaking me out because I didn’t know that much about sex, but I’d never heard of that kind of foreplay.”

“It’s highly specialized.”

“Well, I know that now. Now, every time I see someone do a handstand and fall over, I practically come in my pants.”

“That’s an understandable reaction.”

“Oh, good, I’m glad I’m not abnormal. So I kept trying to fix the furniture every time he’d knock it over, but it just became pointless, and then he wanted me to do a handstand, and I couldn’t do one.”

“Reciprocal foreplay. Very common.”

“I know, and I felt so guilty. So then, he was like, well can you juggle? And I couldn’t do that either. I felt so inadequate. He tried to teach me, but it’s really hard to juggle a CD, a remote control, and a lime at the same time. I sucked at it. He was very patient with me, though. He let me have a lot of tries.”

“Highly disturbed, but very kind. Interesting.”

“I mean he gave me way more turns than I even wanted.”

“What happened next?”

“Well, eventually the CD broke. I broke it. And I thought he was going to tell me to leave because I couldn’t do handstands or juggle, but then he was like, ‘Okay, let’s fuck.’ And then I really freaked out because I didn’t know how to do that either!”

“Quite a dilemma.”

“So he went in the bedroom and I followed him because I didn’t know what else to do, even though I really wanted to clean up the mess he’d made. It was bugging me, but whatever. And he just took his pants off and got in bed and looked at me like, ‘Let’s go.’ So, I took my clothes off and sat on the bed, but to be perfectly honest, I wanted to grab my clothes and run out of there right then, I was so nervous. I was terrified.”

“Really?”

“Really.” You held him tighter.

“Go on.”

“So we were just kind of sitting beside each other, and I was just looking straight ahead, not at him, and he reached out and touched me on my arm, I think, and I turned and looked at him, and he kind of slid his arm across my chest and said, ‘Lie down.’ So I did.” You ran your fingers down the side of his face. “And then he kissed me and told me to roll over, and my heart was beating so fast by that time that I was afraid I wouldn’t hear anything else he was saying to me.”

You kissed the side of his face, “Keep going.”

“And then the next thing I knew, I felt him on top of me, and he was hard, and I’d never felt anything like that before. He said something to me about my body and pressed against me, and all I could do was swallow and think, ‘I’m making him hard.’ That’s all I could think. And then he started kissing my shoulders and then I felt something move down my back and I thought, ‘That’s his tongue.’ And then I realized where it was going, and I really wanted to run out of there as fast as I could.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t know what you were going to do. You didn’t tell me.”

“But you liked it.”

“I was afraid not to like it. You loved it. I could tell. You were licking me and saying things to me that I could barely understand, except that you were going to fuck me. I heard you say that.”

“You were very delicious. You told me to stop. That you were going to come.”

“I didn’t want you to get pissed at me again.”

You smiled at him, “I wouldn’t have gotten pissed at you.”

“And then you rolled me over, and you were on top of me, and I looked at your face, and I fell in love with you,” he looked embarrassed.

“That’s so sweet.”

“I did. It’s stupid, I know, but there was something about the way you were looking at me and the way you were touching me, and it just happened. Like that.”

“And then I fucked you.”

“And then you fucked me. And I wasn’t nervous anymore. I mean, it was weird. It was my first time; I’d never felt anything like that before, but it was amazing. It felt like everything that I’d ever thought that sex was multiplied by a hundred thousand, and the look on your face when you were inside me. God, I thought, while it was happening, that you loved me, too. The look on your face when you came; I’ll never forget it. You were so beautiful, and you wanted me. You made me feel like the sexiest, most beautiful person in the world that night.”

“It was mutual. You were sending me to the moon and back.”

“I was?”

“Yeah. I told Michael the next day that you almost wore me out.”

“No wonder he hated my guts for so long.”

You laughed, “Yeah, that probably didn’t help. I probably shouldn’t have told him that.”

“Hard to believe we went from that to this, isn’t it?” He motioned to the room, the fireplace, the rug, his hand returning to your back.

“I’m glad you didn’t run out that night, Mr. Taylor, even though according to our research, that guy's a total wack job."

“I'll do anything in the name of science, Dr. Kinney......especially if you wear your glasses.”


Lyrics taken from Outkast’s Hey Ya!, Thomas Dolby’s She Blinded Me with Science, The Go Gos Vacation, Neil Diamond's I'm a Believer, Dexy’s Midnight Runner’s Come on Eileen.