Though the early signs were always the same, he always chose to ignore them.

It would start with a shift in his backroom behavior. Instead of several blowjobs a night followed by one good fuck, it shifted slowly so that pretty soon there were no blow jobs, and he was fucking two or three tricks a night. Then he started taking longer lunches, and squeezing in a visit to the baths for a lunchtime fuck. Yet as days went by, he was less and less satisfied. He then progressed to four fucks a night, plus two at lunch time, but still it seemed that as soon as he put his dick back in his pants, he needed another fuck.

It was usually around that time that he admitted to himself that his body craved something he was not giving it. What he needed, though he was loathe to admit it, even at this late a stage, was a cock up the ass. He needed to get fucked, to enjoy every queer’s right and privilege to have a dick buried in his rear end, to have his ass pounded into, to - god help him - be a bottom.

As soon as denial became impractical, he started preparing himself. For a week or so, he consumed nothing but fruits and vegetables, and drank a lot of water. It was quite unnecessary, he intellectually knew that, but he couldn’t help himself. He finished his cleansing with a couple of days on a liquid diet. He just could not face being fucked without knowing his bowels were completely empty. That it was absurd made no difference. It was the preparation that he needed.

Ordinarily, he would then take a three day weekend, drive to Philly, or Chicago, or New York, and call a succession of hustlers to come to his hotel and fuck him until the urge had passed. Until, usually after four or five times bottoming, he was finally satisfied and would grab his latest fuckmate, turn him over and pound him into the mattress. Whichever hustler was lucky enough to receive that treatment not only got the fuck of his life, but also a very generous tip. Brian was always very happy to be back to normal (and secretly relieved, for there was always that looming fear that this time, it would be a permanent condition). He would go home to Pittsburgh immediately, and resume his life as the stud of Liberty Avenue, the king of Babylon, putting the whole episode out of his mind until, usually about a year later, the cycle would start all over again.

The present episode had followed the usual pattern, but there was a slight complication. Two months previously, at around ten at night, Brian had been involved in a fender bender at a red light in downtown Pittsburgh. He was innocent of all wrongdoing, since he had just been sitting there in his Corvette waiting for the light to change. The driver - whose car had hit his from behind - had been under the impression that the fact he was driving a four-wheel drive was a guarantee against slipping on the icy road.

Sadly, that car had also hit a pedestrian who was crossing illegally behind the Corvette, and who had been taken to the hospital with a badly fractured pelvis. Because there had been an injury, all drivers involved had had to submit to a sobriety test, and well, it was ten at night, and Brian was on his way home from Woody’s where he had played a couple of rounds of pool with the guys. Apparently, three double shots of J&B and a couple of beers in two hours elevated his blood alcohol to .13 percent, which made him legally drunk.

He had spent 48 hours in jail, had paid a $500.00 fine, and to his great disgust, had seen his license suspended for three months. His attorney had explained that he could actually have had a blood level of .2 had he had a less well-trained liver and that then all the penalties would have doubled, but that did not improve his mood any. He had been a little unsettled knowing that he had not felt the slightest bit drunk that night, and that he drove after consuming at least twice that amount of alcohol on a regular basis…

Taking taxis everywhere and walking back and forth from the diner to Kinnetik was really not that big a deal. However, it meant that he couldn’t drive out of town for his yearly butt-fucking fix. He’d have to fly. Sadly, there were no business trips planned in the near future. He checked the rates for flights out of Pittsburgh. Alaska Airline had just opened a new connection from Pittsburgh to Seattle and was running a special with a first class round trip for $1500.00. He’d never been to Seattle. He bought a ticket for a week hence, leaving Friday at 12:00PM, returning Monday at 8:00PM.

Never one to lose an opportunity, he set up appointments both Friday afternoon and Monday morning with Seattle companies he had cold called. One made expensive high quality camping and sporting equipment. The other made running shoes. He knew about the first one because he had bought a sleeping bag from them as a birthday gift for Hunter who was going to do some winter camping with his classmates in Yellowstone. The bag rating promised comfort with an external temperature as low as -45, and was the best he’d found. The second one he was aware of because he owned a pair of their shoes. The shoes were great, but their advert in Attitude really sucked. It was unlikely these meetings would lead to anything. Even though Kinnetik was very successful, Brian had aimed all his previous expansion efforts eastward, and that is where his reputation was made. Yet, one never knew, and this way his trip became a business expense.

On February 4th, Ted drove him to the airport. If he was surprised at Brian’s sudden desire to test his chances on the West Coast, he did not share it with his rather grumpy boss. Actually, like most of Kinnetik’s employees, he was hoping a weekend away would bring their boss back in better spirits. Brian had been as approachable as a bear with a toothache for the past couple of weeks, both at work and at Babylon, where he lately seemed determined to fuck the entire gay male population in as short a time as possible…

When his flight landed, Brian was surprised by how grey and low the sky was over the rainy city. It looked more like early evening than early afternoon. If this was the usual state of affairs in winter, it was no wonder Starbucks had started here. No one could survive this daily gloom without caffeine. He got a triple espresso from a sidewalk stand outside the airport. A cab took him to the Edgewater Hotel where, despite the crappy weather, his room had a magnificent view of Puget Sound and the surrounding mountains.

The Internet had listed the hotel as gay friendly. The receptionist was obviously queer. The bellhop was not only gay, but also very friendly. After fucking him while still wearing his camel hair coat, Brian pumped him for information about the gay scene in Seattle. He was surprised to learn none of the clubs had backrooms, and that despite the ubiquitous rain, the best place for a casual fuck was a public park. Since he was not looking for that, it didn’t really matter.

More annoyingly, there were no actual “escort” agencies either. Apparently, all the hustlers were independent, and a horny fag had to do his own research to find what he wanted. He didn’t have time for this shit, not if he wanted to make his three o’clock with REI. How fucking inconvenient! Brian was used to ordering hustlers like he did Thai food, picking what he wanted from a menu. At least for that evening, he would have to take his chances at a club. The bellhop recommended “Cuff” as the club with the hottest guys.

REI was housed in a magnificent building that must have cost an absolute fortune, with waterfalls, rock formations, sculptures of Northwest wildlife, and an indoor climbing wall. His meeting with their publicity people had been pointless. They handled all advertising internally, and felt they needed no external help. Brian obviously did not entirely agree, but was definitely speaking to deaf ears. Also, they considered themselves a Northwest company, and in all dealings, gave preference to other Northwest companies, so that even if they were to farm out some of their advertising, it would not be to a Pennsylvania firm. Brian really wondered why they had even agreed to meet.

It was 5:00 o’clock and fully dark when he got out. It had been getting dark since 3:30, due to the ever-present clouds. With time on his hands, Brian treated himself to a facial, a manicure, a pedicure and a wax at a Capitol Hill spa also recommended by the bellhop. The spa was very nice, the ambience very professional, the treatments thorough and as pleasant as they could be. Waxing was waxing. Even after years, it still hurt like a bitch. Once again, Brian told himself he was going to make an appointment for permanent laser hair removal, but he always forgot, and always ended up waxing ‘one last time’…

Capitol Hill was definitely the gay area of Seattle but it was much less in your face than Liberty Avenue. Straight Seattleites were evidently open-minded and tolerant, and mixed with their gay counterparts without issue. Straight families with children were having dinner sitting next to affectionate gay couples, groups of friends with gay and straight couples hung out together. It was … nice. But weird.

He made his way back to his hotel and took a nap, asking for a 10:00PM wake up call. He left his room at 10:30, rested, looking hot and feeling horny. It was interesting to note how exceedingly friendly everyone was. If you made eye contact with anyone, they would smile and say, “Hi!” Cuff was a nice club, and the guys were hot. As usual, as soon as he entered, guys started to cruise him, but even the few lesbians present did the smile and “Hi!” thing. Weird.

Wanting some inside info, Brian made his way to the bar. The bartender smiled at him and said, “Hi!” before inquiring, “What will it be?”… Brian asked for a double shot of bourbon and gave the bartender ten bucks for the seven dollar drink. “Have you worked here long?” he asked.

“Going on seven years…”

Brian slid a fifty onto the bar in the bartender’s direction and said, “Good. Tell me about the best tops…”

The bartender pocketed the money. “Well, I hear a lot of shit from here, that’s for sure. My name’s Jim, by the way.” He gave Brian a My shift is over at 2AM smile. He was cute enough, with a slim body, a head of very short red hair and a crooked smile, but Brian wanted information, not a trick. He did not volunteer his name. When he was out of town for this purpose, he always paid cash, and if a name was needed he went by his middle name.

“Are you checking out the competition?” asked Jim.

Shit. He himself could usually tell tops from bottoms at a glance, and he knew that in person he unconsciously projected that I am the best top you’ll ever have the pleasure to meet aura. That’s why he always attracted tricks like bees to honey. In this case, it was going to be rather counter-productive. He shrugged noncommittally.

The bartender smiled knowingly, sure he had it right. “There’s Reggie.” He gestured with his chin toward a tall, light skinned, gorgeous black man with striking golden eyes. “He likes twinks, even chicken if he can get it, though they are pretty serious about carding here, so he has to make do with over twenty-ones.” Indeed, the man was grinding against a very young looking guy. He might have been twenty-one, but he looked younger, with wild dark curls and dimpled cheeks.

“There’s Brandon.” Once again, he indicated a guy with a head motion. He chuckled. The guy in question was getting a blowjob right on the dance floor. At Brian’s questioning glance, Jim added: “The management really frowns on this kind of thing. Most guys go back to their cars in the downstairs garage. But Brandon gets away with it. He attracts a lot of guys here, and never goes to any other club. He’s a fucking machine, and lives less than a block away. Sometimes, he’ll take a trick home early in the evening, and come back for seconds. He’s the best around, and everyone knows it. A bit of a jerk though.”

Brian could tell that Jim had had a turn with Brandon, and thought he deserved his reputation, both as the best, and as a jerk. Brian checked the guy out: Tall, blondish shoulder-length hair, blue eyes, and a good body. He added ‘hung’ to the list when Brandon pulled a ten-inch dick out of his trick’s mouth, having just unloaded down the kneeling guy’s throat. A definite candidate…

“Then, there’s JT.” The bartender was scanning the room. “It’s too early for him, I think, and he usually comes to the bar first just to say 'Hi,' so I don’t think he’s here yet.” He smiled fondly. “He looks like a kid, but he’s twenty-one, twenty-two, I think. Man, what a fuck!” He shook his head in obvious recollection. “Fantastic cock, incredible stamina, always ready to go. And he is so fucking sweet.” He realized he was waxing poetic and laughed at himself, commenting to Brian, “We are all half in love with him, but he doesn’t want anything serious. He’s in school, getting his masters. He’s finishing this May I think.”

Brian gestured for a refill, and the bartender automatically served him, took his money and made change. “There are a couple of others, and some wannabes, but these three are probably the only ones that will give you any real competition. What are you into?”

“Discretion”, answered Brian, throwing back his drink, straightening up, and making his way to 'Brandon'.

The guy Brandon was dancing with took one look at Brian, smiled, and started moving to include him, probably thinking Christmas had come early. However, Brian ignored him completely and stepped right into Brandon’s personal space, his arms coming up in his usual dance move, blocking out everyone else from his quarry.

Brandon gave him a slight smile, and said, “I think you have the wrong guy, stud.”

Brian just stared at him for a while, still dancing, still cutting him out of the crowd. He rolled in his lips, and answered, “Are you not the hottest top around?”

Brandon could not help but smile at the compliment. “Takes one to know one,” he answered.

Brian kept a burning eye contact as he said in the voice he used to mesmerize his tricks, “I don’t want to be a top tonight…”

There was no mistaking the instant interest in Brandon’s eyes. “Well, we better take this elsewhere then…” and he started walking toward the club’s coat check. Once they were seated in his Porsche, he asked Brian, “Your place, or mine?”

“Are your sheets clean?” asked Brian.

Brandon chuckled. “All right... your place, then.”

“Edgewater Hotel.”

“Nice.”

Brandon lived up to his reputation. He blew Brian in the shower, ate his ass, and fucked him twice. He tried to get Brian to do it face to face the second time, but there was no fucking way. No one was going to see how much Brian actually enjoyed getting fucked. As soon as Brandon pulled out the second time, Brian reached for his jeans and put them back on, signaling the evening had come to a close.

As Brandon put his own clothes back on, he asked, “What’s your name?” Brian gave him a 'you gotta be kidding' smile, and opened the door.

Brandon chuckled. “I have a feeling we won’t be doing this again,” he said.

“Smart as well as hung,” replied Brian.

“T’was a pleasure,” said Brandon, before exiting.

“It was,” acknowledged Brian.

Brandon grinned. “Glad to be of service…”

Brian grinned back and shut the door. He wondered what Brandon did when he got the urge to get fucked. Probably called a hustler. Shit. He should have asked him if he had any recommendations. Oh, well. He would have to find a hustler by himself. He pulled out his laptop, got on the hotel’s wifi, and started searching for tomorrow night’s candidates. What a fucking waste of time. Why did they not have proper escort services in this town?

*****

Justin woke up and stretched. He’d slept really well. Mark was a great bottom. They had fucked four times, and he had been just as willing the fourth time around as he was the first. He also didn’t snore or hog the covers. He deserved some kind of reward… He was still asleep, on his belly, his face hidden by the pillow.

Justin straddled the muscular thighs, pressing the base of his hardening cock to Mark’s perfect ass, and began massaging Mark’s shoulders.

“Hmmm,” said Mark with a sleepy smile, without opening his eyes. “Feels good, JT.”

Justin worked his way down until he was massaging Mark’s gorgeous butt cheeks. After a few minutes, he chuckled as Mark started frotting against the mattress. He slid his hand around Mark’s body and encountered a really nice erection.

“I think we need to do something about this, don’t you?” he asked. He got the lube and a condom from under his pillow, and started preparing Mark, who was making little happy noises, showing his appreciation. Justin, spreading Mark's ass cheeks apart, finally slid in. Hmm. Nice. Warm, soft and tight.

“You feel so fucking good, Mark…”

“Move JT, please! Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me…”

He didn’t have to ask twice. Soon, Justin was pumping away, the large swollen head of his dick massaging Mark’s prostate without Justin even trying. It felt so fucking good. After only a few minutes, Mark’s moans increased in pitch.

“So good, JT, fuck, it feels so fucking good! Don’t stop, don’t stop! I’m gonna come. Oh god! Oh god!” Mark came, hard, all over the sheets, and lay there, panting. Justin continued fucking him, but slowly, deeply, loving the tingling in his spine, the tightening of his balls, the goose bumps on his skin. He was right on the cusp, on the edge, and he loved that zone. He tried to stay there for as long as he could. God, he loved fucking. As Mark playfully tightened his ass, Justin growled in pleasure and lost it, shooting bliss in the condom deep inside Mark’s ass.

Chuckling, he collapsed onto the larger man’s body. Mark was huge. At 6’8” he was almost a full foot taller than Justin, and built. Justin licked the sweat off the soft chocolate brown skin. He loved the contrast it made with his own fair coloring. Mark played small forward for the Seattle Supersonics. His body was amazingly beautiful; his uncut cock long and thick, his scent male and spicy. He was one of Justin’s favorite fucks.

He was also married, and so deep in the closet it was ridiculous. They had met two and a half years ago, when Justin was looking for a model for the body of the video game character he was designing as a senior project for his BA in motion design. “Rage” was a gay superhero who defended Gayopolis against homophobic extremists. Justin had wanted the leaner musculature of a basketball player for Rage, instead of the usual body-builder physique of superheroes. He had written to the coach, hoping maybe one of the Sonics would volunteer. He’d explained that he would use their bodies only, so the players didn’t have to worry about being recognized and labeled as gay, knowing both the black community and the basketball one were fairly homophobic.

Three players had volunteered, hoping to have their game bodies immortalized in some way. Justin had picked Mark Kilgore because he loved the long lean muscle on his elegant frame. They had met in Mark’s downtown penthouse where Justin had sketched nonstop as Mark went through a workout in his home gym. Then Justin had asked for a couple of still poses with Mark lying on the white leather couch. At first joking around, the big man had gone quiet and Justin had realized he’d become aroused.

He had vainly tried to hide it from Justin, who had himself been hard most of the morning. He had approached Mark as one would some dangerous and skittish animal and freed Mark’s erection from his shorts. As Mark hid his face in his hands, Justin had given him his best blowjob ever, and that was saying something. By the time the gorgeous black man had shot down his throat, he had forgotten his embarrassment. He was very vocal in his appreciation and bucking his hips.

After he had recuperated from his orgasm, he had reached out a tentative hand to Justin’s very hard cock, feeling it through his jeans. They had both moaned at the touch.

“I’m going to fuck you, now,” Justin had said. Mark had closed his eyes, as if not seeing Justin made what was going to happen less real, more fantasy than reality. Justin had pushed Mark slightly so he would roll over and lie on his front, and had slipped the shorts completely down the interminably long legs. He had pushed them apart, had caressed the amazing ass, spread the cheeks, and without warning, shoved his tongue into Mark’s anus. Mark had actually shouted in pleasured surprise. Justin had rimmed him until the tall man was a pile of pleasured goo, bucking wildly, moaning and begging, for what, he didn’t know.

Justin had sucked his middle finger and had started preparing Mark as he unbuttoned his jeans, really glad he’d gone commando that day. He’d taken a condom and a packet of lube out of his pocket, and after opening the condom with his teeth had unrolled it on his dick one-handed. Then he had opened the lube, taken his finger out, lubed two, and continued preparing Mark, driving him wild with feathery touches to his prostate. Onward to three fingers, and then, finally, with everything lubed to the max, his cock.

“Oh, fuck!” had been Mark’s comment to that. Justin had been gentle, moving slowly and deliberately until Mark had started moving in counterpoint, showing his willingness. Justin had been able to stop restraining himself and had fucked the hell out of him, until Mark came with a wordless scream.

Justin knew better than to acknowledge what had happened. He took off the condom, tied it closed, and grimacing, put it in his front pocket. After one last caress to the magnificent back, he had covered Mark’s sweaty body with the quilt from the back of the couch, and let himself out. He had left one sketch of Mark doing one handed push ups, with his phone number in small print underneath his signature.

He did not hear from Mark for four months. By then, his work on “Rage” was finished, after earning him an “A” on his final project. After Rage had been nominated in both the Maverick and the Excellence in Visual Art categories at the 2003 Game Developers Choice Awards, the prototype and game design documents had been bought by Microsoft for $500,000.00 plus a quarter of a percent of any profits Microsoft might make from them. Justin had had an excellent attorney, recommended to him by Cornish, his school.

Justin had almost forgotten his afternoon with Mark when he received a text one day. “Rage’s body needs pleasuring.” Justin, who now lived in a nice pre-war apartment on Capitol Hill had sent back, “Tomorrow, 9:00pm, 701 Harvard Avenue E, apt 203.”

Mark had showed up exactly on time. There had been no talking. He had walked in, and had started taking off his clothes. Seeing how Mark wanted to handle it, Justin had walked into his bedroom, lit some candles, and put on Michael Franks. He had stripped naked and Mark was naked on the bed by the time he was done. Justin had proceeded to make love to his superb body, making Mark come three times in an hour and a half, never stopping his ministrations. Finally, he had lain next to Mark, relaxing. Mark had turned to him, supporting his head on his elbow.

“I’m not gay. I fuck my wife every night,” he had said.

“OK.”

“I don’t think of any other guys this way. Just you.”

“OK.”

Then Mark, for the first time, had kissed the hell out of Justin and rolled the small body on top of his larger one, cradling him tenderly, caressing his hair, his face, his back.

“I love it when you fuck me. I just love it. After that day, I thought about it all the fucking time. I thought maybe it was a fluke, or that I’d imagined it. But today… Fuck. Today was even better. I may want to do it again. What do you think?”

“OK.”

“You have an amazing vocabulary.”

Justin just smiled at him. Mark smiled back. They got dressed, and Justin walked him to the door.

“I’ll text you,” said the tall man.

“OK.”

Mark had chuckled, and left.

Now they were friends. Mark still maintained that Justin was the only man who aroused him, and Justin went with the flow. They fucked every other month or so, and it was always very good. About a year previously, Mark had asked if he could spend the night, and Justin had said yes. He loved waking up next to a willing body. He liked Mark. He liked that Mark never, ever talked of reversing positions. He loved the gorgeous body, the lack of commitment, and how simple everything was.

Justin rolled off Mark’s body, lying next to him. Mark got on his elbows and they smiled at each other. Mark rolled onto his side and effortlessly pulled Justin into his arms.

“I love how you smell in the morning,” he said, breathing in the blond hair. “Justin, Justin, Justin… You make me feel so good… God, you’re so puny. How come your cock is so big?” He always teased Justin about his size while cuddling with him. Justin suspected it was still hard for him to show affection for another man, even after all this time.

“I’m only puny when compared to men for whom nature traded hypertrophy of the body at the cost of an underdeveloped brain,” he teased.

“And yet, surprisingly, I graduated Rutgers with honors… Go figure.” He caressed Justin’s face, smiling at him.

“Brawn and brain. The perfect man…” said Justin.

“Beautiful and blond, and smart and sweet, and horny and generous in bed. My perfect man…” said Mark. He placed a light kiss on the lips of a completely nonplussed Justin.

“Let’s shower. I gotta go,” he added. That was more like it.

They had fun in the shower, Mark hogging the jets, and Justin punishing him by tickling him.

By 8:30 am, Mark was gone. Justin changed the sheets, started a load of laundry, put on his workout clothes and headed to the gym. He’d always had an incredible metabolism, and had been perfectly happy with his natural body, but had discovered lately how much stress he could relieve by exercising. He was getting his master’s in Visual Communication Design, and as his thesis on the psychology of hidden sexual imagery in modern advertising was getting closer to its deadline, he was feeling the crunch.

He had very intelligently invested his “Rage” money; ironically most of it in Apple stock, but it did not mean he didn’t want to work for a living. He loved what he did, the creative aspect of design and the subtlety of its use in advertising. He was hoping to join an up-and-coming advertising firm after graduation, and eventually head their art department. He’d done his research, and had already decided on the eight firms he wanted to apply to. They were all over the map, from Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and Anchorage, Alaska, to Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. He’d been in Seattle for five years and was ready for a change.

But before he sent his applications, he had to finish his thesis since his graduation depended on it. Dancing at Cuffs and fucking were great short term stress relievers, but an hour and a half at the gym, with forty minutes of running, twenty minutes of stretching and twenty minutes of weight training kept him centered for a couple of days. It didn’t hurt that he now had the best body he’d ever had, with a nice six pack and arms worthy of a sleeveless shirt…

He was on the treadmill, running to “Seal”, when he noticed the man on a stationary bike. Though quite a bit shorter than Mark, this guy also had the long muscles and the elegant frame Justin favored and was so close to his personal ideal it was frightening. If you put a mask and tights on him, he could have posed for the superhero, and with that hair, those lips, that nose… He could have been “Rage,” Justin’s personal sexual fantasy. Running with a hard on was a novel experience…

Justin stopped staring at the guy, and concentrated on ESPN, which was playing on the TVs with subtitles. Sound Mind and Body gyms were gay friendly, but the majority of clients were straight. He knew from past experience how touchy some straight men were about being approached by gays, and his gaydar was sadly not all that accurate…

He went on to his stretching, pleased with how limber he was becoming, and then on to his upper body weight training. One of his goals was to bench his own weight. He stepped on the scale by the locker room. 132 pounds. He did six reps at 100 to warm up and get some blood into his pecs and shoulder muscles, waited three minutes and adding ten pounds on each side did five reps at 120. He waited another three minutes as he added another five pounds on each side, and before he had a chance to do the three reps at 130, a gorgeous face was looking down on him from above the bar.

“I’ll spot you,” he said. It was the cyclist from earlier, and from his position, Justin was treated to a perfect view of the man's impressive bulge. Fuck. He needed the blood in his pecs, not in his dick. The thought made him grin, and the guy took it as a positive answer to his offer.

“How many reps are you going for?” he asked.

“Just three.”

“OK.”

The first rep was no problem. The second was OK. The third was incredibly hard, as if some invisible elephant had surreptitiously sat on the bar. Justin could not get it back up.

“You can do it,” affirmed his spotter, no doubt whatsoever in his voice. “Breathe in deep a couple of time, get some oxygen to those muscles, come on.”

Justin stopped pushing so hard and did take a couple of deep breaths.

“Now, come on, breathe in, and push as you breathe out.” The stranger had placed his index fingers under the bar. As Justin started to push up, he just gave the bar the smallest tap with his fingers, and Justin was able to lift the bar again, no problem.

They grinned at each other. “Is this it?” asked the man.

“No. One more pound on each side. Just one rep. It’s my body weight.”

Justin stayed on the bench as his spotter added the small weights. He was taking deep breaths, to hyper-oxygenate his blood.

“Ready?”

“Yeah.”

Fuck. How could 132 be so much heavier than 130? His muscles were trembling on the way down. Justin was sure there was no way he could go back up.

“Come on, two deep breaths. You can do this easily. I’m not even going to help… Good, now, deep breath, release and PUSH!”

To Justin’s amazement, though it required every ounce of strength in his muscles and will in his mind, the bar lifted, only trembling slightly, all the way up. The stranger’s smile was a fantastic reward. Justin sat up, unable to stop grinning, and they spontaneously high fived each other.

“Hi,” said Rage’s twin, smiling. I’m Aidan.”

“JT,” said Justin. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Aidan seemed to look at him funny for a second but then laughed. “Bullshit. I can tell you’re a stubborn little shit. There is no way you would have given up…”

How stubborn little shit registered as a compliment, Justin had absolutely no idea…

“Spot me?” asked Aidan.

“Of course.”

He admired the tall lithe man as he walked to the scale and weighed himself. Even just walking through the gym, he seemed to move like a cat, all unconscious sensuality. He had to force himself not to stare as the man returned.

“157”, he announced.

Ten easy reps at 125, five at 145, three at 155. His breathing was perfectly controlled, his technique flawless. The last rep, at 157, was hard, but he managed, with just a “Keep going” from Justin.

After the weights were secured, Aidan sat up, laughing. “I can’t believe it. I’ve never broken 150 before. Hubris. Gets me every time…”

Justin joined his laughter. “Competitive, are we?” he joked.

Aidan shook his head. “You have no idea…”

They finished their workout together, curls, triceps, flies, and finally three hundred abs. They talked about nutrition, the physiology of muscle contraction, body mass index and percentage of body fat.

They hit the shower together, talking about biking versus running. Justin was glad to have something to concentrate on besides his companion’s body. The man was unbelievably gorgeous, his dick just as long and elegant as the rest of him, his motions fluid and full of grace. Justin felt as if he was washing himself with his feet in comparison.

Because apparently his torture had not lasted long enough, as they stepped out of the gym, Justin said, “Lunch?”

Aidan seemed to hesitate, and then admitted, “I’m fasting at the moment. Don’t ask.” He paused, adding tentatively, “I’m here on business. If you have a car, you could give me a ride back to my hotel. The restaurant has fabulous fruit smoothies, and I hear the ‘real’ food is outstanding.”

“Where are you staying?”

“The Edgewater.”

Justin made a face. “I’m not exactly dressed for lunch at the Six Seven,” he remarked.

“I have a suite. We could order room service.”

Justin had to seriously reign in his imagination. Aidan’s cock had been completely flaccid in the shower, and he was not getting any vibes from him, not that he could really rely on that... But he was quite sure Aidan was straight, just enjoying his company, and did not want to spend his Saturday away from home alone.

“Sounds good. I’d love to show you the city, but I only have a couple hours at most today… I have to work on my master’s thesis.” He made a face. He usually enjoyed the work, but today, he would much rather have hung out with the beautiful man from out of town…

Aidan laughed. “Don’t look so excited about it,” he joked. Then he shrugged. “I have some work to do myself anyway, for a meeting on Monday.”

They had arrived at Justin’s car, an Audi TT, his one real splurge after “Rage”. The design was beautiful.

“And here I thought you were a starving student,” said Aidan.

“Well, I am a student, and after that workout, I am starving,” answered Justin, avoiding the implied question.

Aidan chuckled. “We’d better go then. I don’t want to be accused of starving a growing boy.”

“Alas, I think I am a little past the growing boy stage,” Justin replied, enjoying the teasing. “Or did I not mention the “Master’s” thesis…”

“Well, I just thought you were a 17-year old wunderkind!”

“I’m a 22-year old wunderkind,” Justin replied.

“Positively ancient,” teased Aidan.

“Ah, but I’ll always be, what, seven years younger than you?” He was being honest. Aidan looked about thirty.

The man glanced at him, as if to check if he were joking and then was silent for a moment. Then he quietly corrected, “I’m twelve years older than you, actually.”

“Talk about positively ancient…” replied Justin, grinning. He was surprised. He’d felt so comfortable talking and joking with Aidan, he would not have thought there was such a difference in their ages. He gave a mental shrug. Who cared? He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Now if only Aidan were gay… Then again, if he were gay, he’d probably be a top. At the hotel door, Justin gave up his car key to the doorman, and they went in. Did he imagine that the bellhop was giving him a dirty look?

Whatever Aidan did for a living he was obviously successful. He was staying in one of the Executive Suites, with huge bay windows overlooking the sound and the mountains. It also had a large sitting room with a roaring fire. Aidan offered Justin the menu and said, “Please, make your choices. I’m going to change.”

The menu looked fantastic, but knowing his host was only going to have a smoothie restrained Justin’s natural enthusiasm for food. He was looking at a ferry in Elliot Bay when Aidan came back wearing a black wife beater and some perfectly fitting jeans with the top button open. He was barefoot. Holy fuck. Life was just so unfair.

Aidan picked up the phone. “So, what will you have?”

“The fruit platter and some orange juice, please.”

Brian chuckled. “Room 602. A guava smoothie, a fruit platter, a stack of pancakes and three eggs.” He looked up. “How did you want your eggs, JT?”

Justin grinned. “Scrambled.”

“Three eggs scrambled, and a large orange juice… Yes, perfect. Thanks.” He looked up at Justin smiling and said, “You did want pancakes, right?”

Pancakes, syrup, and you, thought Justin, who said, “Well, yes, I did.”

Smiling, Aidan joined him at the window. They stared at the view for a while.

“What are those mountains?” asked Aidan.

“The Olympics,” Justin replied.

Aidan pointed to the city’s skyline on their left. “Don’t you think that building in the middle looks like a giant cock?”