"Fuck," groaned Emmett as he strained with exertion, sweat dripping off his forehead. He looked as dishevelled as Brian had ever seen him, his face red and his muscles quivering.

The brunet grunted in answer, his thighs burning with effort.

His flaming friend raised himself up again. "That's right, baby, harder," he gasped, eyes intent.

"Shut the fuck up, Honeycutt," barked Brian, throwing the other man a sour look. Had he known the man wouldn't shut up the whole morning, he would've never asked Emmett to join him.

The younger man huffed. "Don't... call... me... Honeycutt," he managed to get out in between heavy puffs of air.

Brian rolled his eyes, pulling himself forward. "You sound like a bad porno," he commented.

"And you sound like a big pain in the arse," retorted Emmett, "I'm doing my best over here."

Brian looked at his friend skeptically. "Maybe if you stopped ogling the boxer over there, who by the way is totally straight, you'd have more energy to concentrate on your squats."

"What are you talking about? I did like... twenty already," argued Emmett, not tearing his eyes away from the muscled hunk who was pounding into a boxing bag in the corner of the gym.

The ad executive snorted. "You did exactly seven, Susan Powter," he corrected the queen, "and you're huffing and puffing like a steam train."

Emmett finally gave up the pretense of exercising and sat down on his workout mat. "You know what? You keep doing your rowing thingy and leave me to admire Mr Bulging Muscle over there."

Brian grinned, pulling himself forward on his indoor rower. "Which muscle are you talking about?"

"Oh shush," the other man chided, "he's gorgeous."

"And straight," repeated Brian, wiping sweat off his forehead.

Emmett shrugged. "Never stopped me before," he bragged. "I think he bats for our team, though; he was definitely giving me the eye."

Brian snorted. As if, he thought, he was never wrong about these things - Emmett was going to crash and burn.

After rowing strenuously for another half hour, Brian was ready to hit the sauna. Emmett had already sauntered in that direction twenty minutes ago, panting after the bewitching Mr. Muscle like a dog in heat.

Brian desperately needed some relief of his own and intended to follow up on the unspoken invitation from a dark-haired man just a couple inches shorter than himself and almost as fit. When he walked into the sauna, he discovered his potential trick sitting next to Em, the two men yakking away. Then he did a double take as he saw the bloke he'd been absolutely certain was straight caressing his friend's thigh.

What the fuck? Was his gaydar broken? Even though Emmett was a flaming queen, there was no way he could be mistaken for a woman. Nah, the man was surely straight and just taking a walk on the wild side here on Liberty Avenue. Contented that he'd sussed it out, Brian ambled over to his trick of the hour and quirked an eyebrow at him.

Unhooking the towel from around Brian's waist, the trick let it fall to the floor. His eyes glazed over as he leaned forward and inhaled deeply, letting out a lusty moan of appreciation for the brunet's earthy, sweaty aroma. Groans echoed from around the room as the trick slowly licked his way up to the crown of Brian's dick, swirling his tongue around the head, then gradually swallowing until the cockhead was lodged in his throat.

Brian let his head tilt backward, emitting an appreciative moan of his own. Finally, a queer who actually understood how to give a blow job. He obligingly widened his stance when the man reached between his legs to fondle his balls, rolling them between his fingers as he hummed around Brian's cock.

Buttocks clenching as he imagined a slender digit circling his hole before pressing inward, the brunet came with a roar mere seconds later - the orgasm scrambling his brain. When he opened his eyes, Brian frowned in consternation at seeing dark hair instead of blond locks. He looked around for his Sunshine, thinking they must be out tricking together, before recognizing where he was. "Fucking Twat," he mumbled, causing the trick to glance at him in confusion.

"Not you," he grunted at the man, considering that more than sufficient explanation. His cock was already beginning to stir to the evident amazement of the trick.

"The rumors are true," the bloke whispered reverently, "you really don't have a refractory period."

Brian ignored the snort from somewhere to his left, motioning for the trick to turn over and rest his forearms against the bench. As the man eagerly complied, he vaguely registered Emmett turning over and bracing himself against the cedar wood next to his trick. While prepping the man with the packet of lube that had dropped to the floor when his towel had been discarded, Brian glanced to his left, where Straight Guy was doing the same for Em. He snorted in derision - the bloke's ‘muscle' was definitely overrated. The queen was in for a disappointing ride, he feared.

"Now, I'm ready now," his trick begged. Brian quickly tore open the foil packet before unrolling the condom onto his dick and plunging into the welcoming warmth of the trick's ass. His brow furrowed, however, when he realized that the man's tunnel wasn't as snug as he'd expected, unlike that of a certain blond. Maddened that he couldn't stop thinking about the brat, he thrust harder into the dark-haired trick.

"Bugger off," he growled when Mr. Muscle's hand suddenly clenched around his left arse cheek.

"Ooh, Honey, don't do that!" Emmett chided when he looked over his shoulder to find out what was making Brian so snarly. "Kinney's an inveterate top; no one gets near his ass."

Brian could almost hear a certain teen giggling at that untruth. Since he wasn't ready to admit that he was really beginning to miss Justin, he made a concerted effort to block the blond from his mind, rocking forward into that loose arse again and again. To move matters along more quickly, he reached around and began to stroke the man in tandem with his thrusting motions. Shortly thereafter, the trick began to spurt all over the bench and the wall, his ass finally clamping down more tightly on Brian's cock, providing the necessary friction for the brunet to come.

"You'd better practice your rectal exercises," he warned as he unceremoniously pulled out and removed the condom, tying it off and tossing it into a trashcan in the corner. "No one's going to want to fuck you otherwise."

He ignored the squawking protests from the man, not in the least interested in what the bloke had to say for himself. Neither his trick nor Emmett's were of any further relevance in Brian's opinion. The brunet stretched out a hand to Em, who had collapsed onto the bench, sweat plastering his hair to his forehead and dripping down his face. Unlike Brian, the queen wore a blissed-out expression, so Mr. Muscle had apparently performed more than adequately. That made Brian even more cantankerous; why couldn't he find a halfway decent trick?

With Brian's assistance, Emmett hauled himself to his feet, and the two men staggered toward the showers to clean themselves off. Afterward, as they headed toward the lockers to get dressed, they jokingly compared the attributes of their tricks. "Did you get a look at Mr. Muscle's bulge?" Em exclaimed. "No padding at all, just ten-and-a-half inches of pure pleasure."

"I got more of a look than I wanted," Brian complained. "We were standing right next to each other, with you and my toy splayed out across the cedar bench in front of us."

"What do you mean by that?" the outraged queen demanded. "The goods were as advertised."

You'd better start carrying a tape measure," Brian critiqued, "that dick was seven inches max, although it was respectably thick."

Emmett huffed, "My eyesight is just fine, thank you very much; if I did have a tape measure, I'd be proven correct. At least my gaydar isn't faulty, unlike yours. That boy is as bent as a three-dollar bill."

Brian scowled irritably, reiterating, "I'm never wrong. I'll consult with a specialist about my gaydar; it must be on the fritz. Mr. Muscle's orientation aside, my trick was much better endowed, exceeding expectations in both length and girth."

Emmett grinned smugly, "Mr. Muscle did a much better job of satisfying me than your toy did for you. You're in a nastier mood now than you were an hour ago. Besides that little problem with a loose ass, maybe it's because your tricks are so boring," Emmett contemplated. "Really, who wants a clone of themselves every single time? I thought your taste had finally improved after you got together with Justin, but alas, that's not the case."

Brian figured his glare must have subdued the outspoken queen since he didn't say anything else for a moment. Then, as they stepped out of the gym into pelting rain, he murmured, "Just so you know, Baby and I are going to dance the night away at the club tonight."

"Fuck!" Brian groused as a car sped by, spraying water from the gutter onto his new Calvin Klein jeans and his Louboutin loafers, both of which he'd just donned for the first time that morning. His friend had adroitly skipped backward, avoiding getting drenched.

"Fuck!" he griped again when he looked at his mud-splotched jeep, which had just gone through the carwash the previous afternoon. He had been thrilled to find a spot right in front of the gym - no need to overdo the whole exercise schtick by walking to the gym, he had decided, especially with those thunderclouds looming overhead. 

Goddammit, what was up with his friends being right lately? he morosely wondered as he stepped back to join his friend under the covered entrance to the gym. Cynthia had warned him that he shouldn't wash his car when it was just going to immediately get dirty again; Em had correctly pegged that trick as queer; and Michael had repeatedly told him he shouldn't keep fucking that blond brat.

As usual since the burglary, everything came back to that damned blond. None of this would be happening if the kid were just a little more responsible. Wait, had Em just said something about the teenager?

"What was that, Honeycutt?" he queried sharply. "I didn't hear you."

"Enough with calling me Honeycutt!" the queen exploded, "you know I hate that, Bri."

"Yeah, yeah," Brian dismissively waved off Emmett's protest, ignoring the nickname that none of his friends were supposed to use. "What did you just say about Babylon?"

Em petulantly crossed his arms over his chest, which was covered in a garish orange tee. "You could have just listened, you know. Since you're rapidly reaching an advanced age, however, I wanted to tell you that your ex non-boyfriend and I will be tripping the light fantastic on Babylon's dance floor tonight."

Brian knew he should be grateful for the heads-up - he'd forgotten all about Emmett's scheme to go dancing with Justin later this week - but all it did was make his mood even more sullen. Why should the teen, the source of all his problems, get to have fun while he was stuck with the munchers for company? A glum expression on his face, the ad exec refused to consider that he could go somewhere other than Babylon. The only saving grace was that neither Michael, who was working at the Big Q, nor Theodore, who was doubtless watching porn, was present to razz him about his predicament.

Hiding a grimace at the flamboyant queen's reminder that he was in the countdown phase to his thirtieth year, Brian belatedly retorted, "Were you born at the turn of the last century? Only boring old farts talk about the ‘light fantastic'." 

"Pish," Em sniffed, "then we're going to shake our groove thang. Does that suit your majesty better?"

"What-the-fuck-ever," Brian grouched as tossed his gym bag into the backseat, "I won't be there to watch you two nelly bottoms flailing around on the dance floor; I have plans." With no clue as to what said plans might actually be, he slid into the jeep from the passenger side. Even with his long legs, he wouldn't have been able to leap across the large puddle and reach the driver's door without causing irreparable damage to his designer shoes. The cranky stud was already doubtful that they would survive the soaking they'd been subjected to a moment ago, but just in case... Another rushed shopping trip wouldn't suit him at all, and he would rather not replace his footwear after owning them for only four days.

Once he was behind the wheel, Brian peeled out of his spot, sending water flying and making the agile queen jump back again. In the rear-view mirror, he noticed Honeycutt giving him the bird. Brian dismissed thoughts of his irate friend and concentrated on the all-important question of how he was going to entertain himself tonight. An evening with the lesbians didn't sound at all appealing.

After taking over from their colleagues who'd covered the night shift, Justin and Debbie bustled around the diner, making sure the booths and other tables were ready for the breakfast horde. "This may be a holiday, Sunshine," the redhead opined, "but I reckon we'll have as many hungry queers invading the place as any other Friday. Banks, schools, and both state and federal agencies may be closed, but the usual lot of retail workers will come trooping in at any moment. And then there's the lads who work construction - damned if those muscles don't make my heart go pitter patter."

"Your heart?" Justin teased with a saucy wink in Debbie's direction.

"Pshaw!" Debbie cackled, swatting the teen with a dish towel as she passed behind him. "You're getting far too cheeky, Kiddo."

"I'm just copying my elders," the blond impishly replied as he scooted out of range of the towel.

"Your elders!" Deb spluttered, momentarily at a loss for a retort. From the way her eyes were twinkling, it was clear to Justin that she was enjoying their raillery, so he prepared himself for a witty comeback.

At that moment, the bells from Our Lady of Fatima, the nearby Catholic church, began signalling the seventh hour of the morning. As Detective Horvath pushed open the door at the same time, Justin's duffel bag in hand, the doorbell jangled, creating a musical cacophony - that was, thankfully, of short duration.

Debbie, who was unaware that the copper had agreed to retrieve the rucksack, glared at the detective. "Didn't you finish up with your interrogation yesterday?" she inquired as she eyed him suspiciously.

The detective, whose rain-dampened gray suit was already rumpled, shifted nervously under the redhead's accusatory stare.

"Well?" Debbie demanded. "I'm waiting for an answer, mister."

"Debs, please, it's okay," Justin murmured, a broad grin on his face as he moved toward the older man.

His eyes have been riveted to the mistrustful redhead until then, Horvath flushed a bit as he finally noticed the teen. "Here you go, lad," he stated, "one rucksack, as requested."

"Ta, that's a huge help," Justin gushed, "now that homophobic prick, uh - I mean - teacher, won't be on my case about a proper uniform. Though Mr. Dixon will undoubtedly find something else to carp about, he won't send me to detention at least." The teen winced as if that might have been too optimistic, quickly reaching out, tapping the wall, and declaring sheepishly, "Touch wood."

Debbie couldn't resist that opening, "Eh, c'mon, Sunshine. You know that's not the right wood to touch for good luck."

When the copper's eyebrows shot up to his hairline at that risqué comment, the waitress didn't back down, suggesting, "Maybe you should give it a try, bucko. Might be you'd solve cases more quickly."

Evidently preferring not to engage the fiery waitress on that topic, Horvath held out the bulging rucksack, "Definitely more than a uniform in here, eh?" He smiled at the ecstatic teen and jested, "How do you manage to tote around those brick-like textbooks?"

The blond flushed crimson as he accepted the duffel, letting it sag to the floor. Fuck! How embarrassing that the copper must have seen his red mesh top - who knew what the bloke had made of that? Grabbing onto the innocuous topic of textbooks, he babbled, "They're probably heavier than bricks. The St. James faculty apparently believe that weighty tomes make for bigger brains."

"Considering the way you trounced me and Vic at Scrabble the other night, they may be onto something, Sunshine." Deb laughed goodnaturedly, the blond joining in.

As the teen once more thought about what a pleasure it was to be around a good sport and not a sore loser, the policeman asked, "You like board games?"

"Yeah, sure," Justin shrugged, "who doesn't?"

"We've always got some kind of game going in the breakroom at the precinct," the detective volunteered. "I'm partial to checkers myself."

"Huh, I've been known to play a few rounds," Deb interjected, apparently warming up to the ‘crackpot cop' a bit.

"Maybe we could set up a board here at the diner," Justin suggested. "I bet it would be a big hit with the customers."

"That's a great idea, Sunshine," Deb enthused. "I'll take some money from petty cash and pick up a couple boards."

Turning to the portly detective, she challenged with a snarky tone to her voice, "Are you ready to take on the competition? Kiki's a champion checkers player."

"I'd be happy to take on the lady," Horvath responded, showing that he really had learned his lesson from the day before.

Justin beamed at the detective, recommending, "Why don't you have a seat and I'll bring you the breakfast special."

"I'd like that," Carl replied, clearly relieved when Debbie accepted his answer without twitting him further. He slid into a booth near the front door and requested, "Do you think I could get some coffee right away? We policemen really do survive mainly on caffeine."

"Coming right up," Justin responded, grabbing the freshly-brewed carafe as well as a cup and saucer.

"By the way, why does she call you ‘Sunshine'?" the copper inquired curiously, avidly eyeing the coffee that Justin was pouring into his cup. "I don't remember Debbie using that nickname yesterday."

"You know," Justin mused, "I'm not really sure why she called me that when I met her." Scuffing his right foot against the floor, he rather abashedly admitted, "I didn't know what to make of Debbie at first, and I'm afraid I was kind of rude. I mean, that was just the second time I'd been on Liberty Avenue, and uh, I was still figuring out how to get what I wanted."

"What was it that you wanted, son?" the gruff detective inquired in a kind voice.

"Ehm, Brian," the blond truthfully responded, blushing furiously.

Horvath visibly managed to suppress an automatic wince. "You hadn't known Brian long at that point, I take it," he prompted.

"No, not long," Justin agreed, "but I was, like, really attracted to him." The teenager wasn't sure how the conversation had veered into his relationship with his ex-lover, but he couldn't figure out how to steer it in a different direction. He squirmed in embarrassment, the coffee almost sloshing out of the carafe.

"Relax, son," the detective urged as he noticed the lad's discomfort. "You can't have made a worse prat out of yourself than I did yesterday."

Reassured by that reminder, Justin murmured, "I think we'd better call it a tie. Anyroad," he continued in an attempt to answer the man's question, "Debbie called me Sunshine right off - maybe because my hair's such a bright shade of blond - and the moniker stuck."

The copper hmmed before observing, "I'd wager that nickname has stayed with you more because of your friendly smile than the colour of your hair."

At that, Justin gifted the detective with a blinding grin, "I think that'll be the official explanation if anyone else asks me about it from now on."

The teen topped off the policeman's mug of coffee, since the man had slurped down over half of it while they'd been chatting. "I'll be back with your breakfast soon," the blond informed him before returning the carafe to the hot plate and schlepping his rucksack to the breakroom.

After Justin got home that afternoon, pleased to have put in a six-hour shift at the diner, he regaled Vic with the story of how four colorfully attired drag queens had adopted two veterans who had wandered into the diner in uniforms from the Vietnam War era. "The vets really ate up the attention," he informed Vic, "I don't think anyone had properly recognized their service to their country before - what with the Second Indochina War being so unpopular."

Vic shuddered, "I just escaped being drafted, since the war ended as I came of age. I didn't believe we had any justification to go to war, but I'm still grateful to the men and women who served; if I'd been called up, I wouldn't have dodged the draft."

"I doubt I'd be so brave," the teenager confessed, "especially after seeing those two blokes. One of them was badly scarred on the left side of his face, and the other was missing a hand."

"You're a courageous young man, Sunshine," Vic claimed, placing a comforting hand on the youth's arm. "You'd have done your duty."

"Maybe..." Justin trailed off, lost in thought, before continuing, "You'd never know those two soldiers had been maimed, with how they flirted and bantered with the drag queens and everyone else in the diner." 

The excited teen reached into his pocket and pulled out a bill to show Vic. "The scarred guy slipped me an extra tip as they were leaving the diner. I thought at first that it was a fiver, which would already have been generous, but then I realized it was a fifty-dollar banknote. I was sure it was a mistake, so I started after them, but the fellow turned around and shook his head at me, mouthing, ‘Keep it.'" A bewildered Justin glanced at Vic. "I didn't do anything special to earn a tip like that."

"You must have been a breath of fresh air, Kiddo," Vic declared, "your friendliness and smile charm everyone. You probably made those two GIs feel attractive and desirable. It's good you didn't chase after that serviceman and try to return the gratuity; you'd have wounded his pride if you'd done so."

"Hmm, I think it's my bubble butt rather than my smile that earned the tip," the teenager jested.

"That's what would have gotten a tip out of an old geezer like me," Vic lustily affirmed. He leered at the teen as they climbed the last flight of stairs to the attic, which the two men had decided they should reconnoiter that afternoon and come up with a plan for the next day.

"Shit," Vic commented as he looked around in dismay, carefully edging his way between stacks of boxes and an old upright piano that was missing some of its keys. "I don't see how we're going to get through all this junk this weekend."

"We'll manage," Justin asserted confidently, right before sneezing repeatedly.

"Uh-huh, just like your allergy meds are going to keep you from getting sick?" Vic skeptically commented before emitting a mighty ‘Achoo!' of his own.

"See," the teen gasped between sneezes, "it's the dust that's the problem, not my allergies."

"I'm going to give Sis a call and make sure she picks up some dust masks on the way home," the older man decided. "Between all the dust bunnies, mouse droppings, and mildew, we'll never last an hour otherwise."

"I think I've got a decent sketch of the way things are currently arranged," Justin coughed out a few minutes later, "so why don't we confer downstairs about our plan of attack?"

"Let's wet our whistles with beer while we do that," the older man proposed, "just to eliminate any lingering dust mites."

"Of course," the teenager solemnly affirmed.

As the two men descended the stairs, the phone started to ring, so Justin raced down the remaining steps two at a time, snagging the phone from the hook just as whoever was on the other end hung up. Shrugging, the teen grabbed two beers from the fridge, only for the shrill sound to begin anew.

Vic lifted the phone this time and greeted the caller with a hearty "Hello" while Justin uncapped their bottles.

"It's Emmett, for you," the older man announced moments later, swinging his hips in an unmistakable version of the cha-cha. "He's planning for you young-uns to paint the town red - or Babylon at least."

"Hey, Em," Justin cheerily greeted his friend, accepting the handset from Vic and handing him a beer in exchange.

"Baby, are you ready to cut the rug? Get down? Boogie? Dance the night away?" Emmett barraged the teen, pausing dramatically between each question.

Once he'd stopped giggling, Justin exclaimed, "I am so ready!" his excitement turning his reply into a high-pitched squeal. The lad flushed in embarrassment, mortified that his voice had gone squeaky for the second time in as many days - especially when he saw Vic's lips twitching as the man tried to suppress a smile.

"Shit, sorry, Em, didn't mean to burst your eardrums," he blustered. "It just seems like forever since I've enjoyed a night out."

"Why, Sugar, you sound just like little ole me," Emmett declared in a much higher register than his normal honeyed drawl, instantly putting the blond at ease. "And in case you didn't realize, that's a compliment."

Justin felt himself truly relaxing for the first time in a week. A night out with his flamboyant friend was exactly what the doctor had ordered. Covering the mouthpiece with the palm of one hand, he called out, "Hey, Vic, would it be okay if I invite Em over for dinner? I'm not sure what's in the offing or if there will be enough."

"Like Sis always says, ‘the more queers, the better,'" Vic responded. "I can't imagine Debs cooking a meal that wouldn't feed at least five hungry adults - unless a certain teenaged bottomless pit scarfed it all down," he teased.

As if on cue, Justin's stomach rumbled noisily, making the teen blush some more while Vic chuckled. "You're going to need a snack to tide you over till dinner, Kiddo. Let me see what I can rustle up."

"You want to come here for dinner?" the blond invited him after removing his hand from the mouthpiece. "No idea what we're eating, but Vic's sure there will be plenty."

"Oh, yeah, Baby," Emmett exuberantly responded. "Tell Deb I vote for penne alla vodka, would you? Maybe we can prepare it together - another cooking lesson for you, Sweetie."

"Penne alla vodka," Justin repeated for Vic's benefit. "Vic says you had him at ‘vodka,'" he joshed, the older man nodding in vehement approval.

"Vodka improves any dish or drink," the queen verified. "What time should I be over there to begin imbibing?"

"Dunno, hold on," the teen requested. After checking with Vic, he suggested, "Why don't you come over at six o'clock? That'll give us plenty of time to prepare the food, eat, and relax before we hit Babylon to work off the calories."

"I'll be there with bells on," Em confirmed. "Well, maybe not literally, but I'll definitely be attired in the finest club wear." A note of concern in his voice, he asked, "Do you have any suitable clubbing clothes, Baby? I just remembered all your things are locked up in the growly stud's loft."

Justin happily reported, "Carl Horvath, the detective who is investigating the burglary, brought me my duffel bag this morning; he said the police don't need it anymore. I had my sparkly red midriff top in there - the one you helped me pick out at Torso."

"Perfect!" Emmett screeched, as the blond pictured his friend jumping up and down and applauding. "You pair that with your black jeans, and you'll be fending off the tricks."

"Ehm," Justin cleared his throat before hesitantly inquiring, "do you know if Brian will be at Babylon tonight?" He paused, "He's still barely speaking to me, and I'd rather not have his nasty temper ruin our fun."

"Not to worry," his friend reassured Justin, "I saw the Big Bad at the gym today. When I told him I was taking you out tonight, he begged off going to the club, indicating he didn't want to watch us ‘flailing around' on the dance floor. If anyone other than Brian had insulted me like that, I would have grabbed his nuts and twisted hard. From the stud, however, I know it's just envy; I swear he doesn't know his right foot from his left when he tries to dance."

At first, Justin was simply relieved that Brian wouldn't be at Babylon, but as Emmett nattered on about how dancing-challenged the brunet truly was, he began to laugh hysterically. He had extensive experience with Brian's two left feet and had become quite adept at guiding the man around the dance floor - when the teen could get the older man to do more than shuffle in place, that is.

Speaking of Brian, the brunet was currently sitting at the munchers' dining table, shovelling a yellowish goo into his son's mouth. 

"Ghaba," Gus proclaimed, mashing the palm of one hand against his open mouth and then running that same hand through his own hair before his dad could stop him.

"I know, that crap might work better as shampoo than food, Sonnyboy," Brian sympathized. The so-called banana looked absolutely revolting, and Gus evidently wanted none of it. He had already spit out one mouthful onto the brunet's white Emporio Armani tee, his only remaining clean piece of clothing after getting splattered with gutter water outside the gym.

Grabbing a damp rag, the beleaguered father wiped off the tyke's hands and mouth and then did his best to remove the goop from his son's hair. He wanted to strangle his blonde friend; this wasn't how he'd envisioned spending the remainder of the Veterans Day holiday. The brunet expected to finally fill Lindsay in on the Kip Thomas situation and for her to commiserate with him. After all, he had made the sacrifice of heading home early, so that's what should have happened.

Instead, when he had stepped through the door in his muddied jeans and loafers, Linds immediately placed Gus in his arms and then shrugged into her coat. "Thank goodness you're home, Brian. I thought I was going to have to ring your mobile. Dusty and Marie have invited us out to dinner, and then we're going to catch a show."

Brian had simply gaped at the blonde, who was wearing a lacy, cobalt blue dress under her coat. Belatedly, he noticed a smirking Melanie standing next to her in an elegant brown pantsuit.

Lindsay had just rattled on without pausing, "Emergency contacts are posted on the fridge, should you need them. I left instructions on the table for feeding Gus. It's time for his ‘ghaba' now," she instructed, "it's in the jar on top of the table."

Brian had blanched when she referred to banana as ‘ghaba'. How was his son ever going to learn to speak correctly if his mother insisted on using baby talk? He wasn't able to get a word in edgewise, though, Lindsay still bombarding him with information.

"I'm not sure when we'll be home," she'd finally wound down, before bussing Gus and then Brian on the cheek. "Be good for Daddy, Lambskin," she told her son before flitting out of the house.

"No porn, Brian, not while Gus is awake," Melanie had warned as she followed her partner. "You don't want to warp his brain."

Now, looking down at his banana bedecked-son, Brian murmured, "Never too young for porn, right Sonnyboy?" He glared in distaste at the two Teletubbies videos resting atop Lindsay's lengthy list of instructions. Now there was something that would warp any child's brain, he mused. It would probably give them a distorted impression of their bodies too, watching all those little fatties cavort, desperate to work off an overconsumption of carbs.

His son apparently disagreed though, excitedly waving a pudgy hand toward the topmost video, which prominently displayed one of the creatures in a revolting yellow onesie. "Jushun!" the little boy cheered at the singing and dancing blob.

The brunet's lips twitched. He supposed the rotund yellow ball did bear a vague resemblance to Sunshine although, for it to be a more accurate representation, the weight should be redistributed to its butt. 

"Jushun," his son insisted, bouncing up and down in his highchair.

"Okay, Sonnyboy," the brunet sighed in resignation, "Justin it is." After inserting the VHS tape into the player, Brian lifted his son out of his chair and carried him over to the couch. He settled down with his legs stretched out along the sofa, Gus curled up in the crook of his arm, babbling happily as four colorful, roly-poly dumplings frolicked.

The ad exec couldn't make heads or tails of the show's content, but his son was entranced, and that was all that really mattered. It did appear, however, that big butts were a predominantly male-gendered characteristic. As his eyelids grew heavier and heavier, he decided he'd have to tease Justin about his female alter-ego. The sunshiny creature was almost as light on her feet as Sunshine - there was a definite resemblance after all. On that thought, exhausted from his stressful week, Brian fell soundly asleep.

Some time later, the brunet heard one voice cooing, "Oh, how sweet!" while another snarked, "He's wheezing like a buzz saw."

He flung up an arm to ward off a bright flash of light, barely registering the giggles and whispers about ‘blackmail material'. When the weight on his chest disappeared, he rolled over, snuggling deeper into the sofa and resuming his dream about a gorgeous young blond who was waggling his ass in his face...

As Justin went to close the front door behind him and Emmett later that night, Debbie called out, "Have fun, boys. Don't do anything I wouldn't."

Vic chortled, "That leaves plenty of leeway. Just remember, it must involve cock."

"Going on a manhunt," Em warbled as he pranced down the sidewalk, Justin chuckling and joining in on the chorus.

Shortly after leaving Deb's house, Emmett and Justin bypassed the line in front of Babylon, the hunky bouncer leering at the blond and chaffing, "Ah, yes, Vic, born in 1952. Welcome to Veterans Night at Babylon."

"Still looking good for my age, right?" Justin greeted Oscar, the bouncer who'd let him in the first time he'd dared to visit the club. The russet-haired beefcake hadn't even carded a wildly giggling Daphne, instead just waving the teens on with an indulgent smile.

"Exceedingly well-preserved," the man agreed with a flirty wink, "although not more so than your companion." He lasciviously looked Emmett up and down, the queen preening in his orange pleather pants and orangey-brown psychedelic shirt.

"Come find me when you finish your shift, Honey," the southerner purred suggestively, "and I'll show you my moves." Emmett then grabbed Justin's hand and pulled him toward the thumpa-thumpa resounding from the dance floor.

After they had checked their jackets, the tall queen suggested, "Let's grab a drink before we start shaking our tail feathers," already gravitating toward the bar.

"Um," Justin uncertainly responded, as he tried to figure out how many drinks he could purchase with the twenty dollars he'd allotted himself for the night.

"Now, Baby, I asked you out, so the drinks are on me," Em told the blond as he flagged down one of the bartenders.

The teen had no idea whether or not his friend had noticed his hesitation but couldn't help feeling embarrassed by his straitened finances. "That's awfully generous," he stuttered, "but are you sure?" He flushed as he confessed, "I don't know when I'll be able to reciprocate."

"What kind of gentleman would I be if I expected you to treat me the next time?" Emmett declared. "Baby, I want you to save your hard-earned dollars. When you're a famous artist, then it'll be your turn to take me out."

Justin was strongly tempted to tell Em about his plan to repay Brian for his burgled possessions, but the more people who knew, the less likely his objective would remain private. He was sure Em would never intentionally reveal his plan, but who knew what might slip out when the easily excitable queen was amongst friends? Best to think about it later, he decided; it wasn't like he was going to share his strategy at Babylon, while surrounded by gossip-addicted fags.

"Sweetie, have you ever had a cosmopolitan?" his friend inquired. "In addition to that delicious penne, it's proof positive that vodka makes everything taste better."

The teen rubbed his stomach as he remembered the tasty pasta they'd consumed for dinner; he hadn't been able to resist a third helping. Even the good-natured ribbing about whether he was ‘eating for two' and being a ‘growing boy' hadn't deterred him.

"With Daphne once," Justin stated, paling as he recalled swilling alcohol with his best friend, who had sneaked a bottle from her parents' liquor cabinet. They had spent most of the night puking their guts out after consuming over half of the contents. "Uh, I didn't react so well," he admitted without revealing any details.

"Got trolleyed, I bet," Em responded with a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yeah," Justin acknowledged sheepishly, "not all that hard to figure out, huh?"

"What teen doesn't overindulge at least once?" his friend replied in amusement, before explaining, "Vodka neat, which I'm presuming is what you sampled, has an entirely different flavour from vodka mixed into a cocktail."

Batting his eyes, which he'd highlighted with sparkly brown eyeshadow, at the muscular bartender, he queried, "Isn't that right, Freddie?"

"That's true," the barkeep confirmed; "vodka takes on the flavor of whatever ingredients it's mixed with. Thank God."

"Mhmm, cranberry juice and Ketel vodka" - the tall queen theatrically kissed the fingertips of his right hand before flinging them outward in a ‘French chef gesture' - "simply to die for."

"You've convinced me," Justin laughingly conceded, "I'll have a cosmopolitan."

"Two cosmos coming right up," Freddie stated, mixing their drinks while eyeing the two men appreciatively.

"Run a tab for me, would you?" Emmett requested. "Just add anything my young friend wants - cosmos, whiskey, water, whatever. I want him to stay well hydrated, and we may get separated in this crush."

"Sure thing, Em," the bartender assured the queen, "I know you're good for it. Wish I could take it out in trade with you, but the boss frowns on that kind of payment," he jested amiably as he finished preparing their drinks.

Moments later, cocktail in hand, Emmett exclaimed, "Look at all those scrumptious men in uniform!" turning around and leaning back, his elbows resting against the top of the bar.

Justin thought he espied the scarred fellow from the diner, a wide smile on his face as he danced with two other blokes, before the jostling throng hid him from sight. Hoping he would have a chance to boogie with the soldier sometime that night, the blond sipped at his cosmo. "Shit, Em, you were right. This is delicious!" burst out of the teen, as he barely refrained from downing the drink in one gulp.

Bestowing a gap-toothed grin on his friend, Emmett happily declared, "Another cosmo convert. I know that Teddy would love it too if he'd just give it a try. He's so stubborn, though, sticking with bourbon and never trying anything else."

"Will Ted be here later on?" Justin asked. He quite liked the self-deprecating accountant, although the man's ego definitely needed some bolstering. Ted didn't seem aware of his own understated sex appeal.

Pouting briefly, Em responded, "Teddy didn't answer the phone this afternoon. And Michael told me last night that he'd be unavailable; he mumbled something about bidding on a butt plug and cock ring set to match his Avengers' dildos."

The two men looked at each other and rolled their eyes at Michael's uninspiring plans for a Friday night.

"Uh, you don't think Michael's together with Ted, do you?" the teen inquired, a look of horror on his face.

"Shut your gob," Emmett ordered, "Teddy got over his fixation on Michael eons ago." 

"What fixation?" the blond queried, unable to imagine a scenario in which the man with the dry sense of humor and rapier wit would be together with malapropistic Michael.

When he realized the blond was gaping at him, Emmett raised a hand to his mouth, "Oops. I forgot you didn't know us when we discovered that little infatuation." One hand fluttering in front of his face, the tall man insisted, "That's neither here nor there. Old news. Teddy's probably scoping out locations to set up a porn website. He's tired of Wertshafter interrupting his lunch hour porn, so he wants to escape the man's disapproval and set up his own business."

"Does he have a porn star to draw in the viewers?" Justin avidly inquired.

"Oh, who knows?" Emmett pooh-poohed the subject. "Meanwhile, he's missing out on all these uniformed hunks. That means more for us, Baby!" the queen announced, setting down his empty cocktail glass on the bar. 

"It was a mint idea to offer men in uniform free entrance," Justin remarked. 

Freddie chimed in from the other side of the bar, "The boss is an astute businessman; he knew the uniforms would draw you civvies like bees to honey. He's making money hand over fist, especially here at the bar."

"Let's show these boys some personal gratitude," Emmett suggested, lifting his arms above his head and sashaying his way toward the middle of the jiving crowd.

Justin hastily swallowed the last of his drink before following in Emmett's wake. After waiting on those two battle-scarred vets at the diner this afternoon, the blond felt strongly about showing his appreciation to members of the armed forces for their service. At the very least, he could dance with as many uniformed men as possible.

As the two gorgeous men gyrated to the beat, they attracted all sorts of admiring glances. The blond felt someone pinch his ass but just sighed, guessing his posterior would be decorated with bruises before the night was over. Emmett, who had apparently observed the surreptitious pinch, chuckled in his ear, "That's the price you pay for possessing such a tantalizing bubble butt, Sweetie."

When ‘Golden Brown' poured from the speakers, Emmett expertly waltzed Justin around, the crowd moving back to give them space in which to dance. The queen twirled Justin a few times, the blond easily maintaining the rhythm. As he gracefully spun away from Emmett for the third time, a serviceman stepped forward and swept the teen away, twirling him around the floor before finally dipping him and then lifting him back up.

The young man sensed that the marine sergeant - he was pretty sure that was the correct military branch and rank - wanted to kiss him but was hesitant about doing so. High time, Justin determined, to stop pining after Brian and enjoy himself with someone who clearly desired him. It wasn't as though he and Brian had ever had a rule about not kissing other men anyhow - they were free to kiss, suck, and fuck whomever they wanted.

Stretching up on his tiptoes, the blond placed a soft kiss on the man's mouth. The sergeant's lips parted and his tongue probed for entrance against the teen's mouth, his hand caressing the bare skin of Justin's back beneath the red midriff tee. The teenager shivered as their groins pressed together, both of them hard and aching.

Since he wasn't ready to proceed further, Justin was grateful when Emmett's "Woohoo, you go, Baby!" gave him an excuse to step back.

Justin glanced around, blushing furiously when he saw not only Emmett but a number of other queers applauding. "Ehm," the flustered teen floundered, not wanting the marine to think he'd been leading him on but having no clue how to extricate himself from this situation.

"Easy there, lad," the sergeant teased, "I'm not expecting you to take me to the backroom, although I certainly wouldn't object if you did."

A drawling voice interjected, "How about accompanying me to the backroom instead, as long as my young friend doesn't mind?"

Mumbling, "Feel free," a stunned Justin watched as Emmett grabbed the marine's hand and tugged him toward the back of the club. Damn, but that queen knew how to go after what he wanted, he marvelled.

After dancing with soldiers, sailors, airmen, and marines for the next hour, Justin was ready for a break. He navigated his way to the bar, where he ordered a double shot of Beam and a bottle of water from Freddie, watching the heaving throng as he tossed back the bourbon and then sipped on the water.

"Have you ever considered dancing professionally?" a husky voice inquired.

When no one responded to the question, Justin looked around and discovered a forty-ish, slender, dark-haired man with a receding hairline eyeing him speculatively. Was this loser trying to pick him up? "Huh?" he queried in confusion. "Were you speaking to me?"

"I certainly wasn't addressing Freddie," the stranger dryly replied, "what with him lurching about like a drunken ox when he tries to dance."

Justin wished he could ask Freddie just who this bloke might be, but the bartender was occupied serving thirsty patrons on the other side of the bar. The way the man was looking at him like he was a slab of prime beef was making the young man nervous. "Why'd you ask me that?" he blurted. "Are you having me on?"

"I was in earnest," the man professed. "First of all, you can really dance. I was watching you from my office," he motioned to a glassed-in room at the end of the catwalk, "from the moment you strutted onto the dance floor this evening. Beyond your dancing skills," he prattled, "you're a hot, young, blond twink with a luscious rear end."

 The teen was relieved when Freddie came over in response to the gushing bloke raising his hand.

"Boss," the barkeep greeted the man, "what can I get you?"

"Did you want another bourbon?" the bossman inquired of Justin.

"Or maybe another Cosmo?" Freddie suggested.

"Um," Justin hmmed indecisively, before requesting, "a Perrier, please, Freddie. I'm feeling dehydrated." Like hell he was going to order booze with the owner of Babylon standing right there.

This time, the bartender waffled. "You buying for the lad, boss, or do you want me to add it to his tab?"

"I'm buying, of course," the man barked, acting as if Freddie were an imbecile for not understanding that. "In fact, all of his drinks for the night are covered."

"Oh, no, that's too much," Justin interrupted, "I'm here with a friend and he's the one who's running the tab, Mr..." The blond's voice trailed off when he realized the man still hadn't properly introduced himself.

It was the bartender's turn to act as if his boss were too stupid for belief. "What? You didn't introduce yourself, boss? I'll wager you approached him like some sort of creepy stalker, just like you did with me three years ago."

The bossman had the grace to look abashed, before sticking out his hand. "Arthur Smythe at your service," he gallantly announced in an accent that sounded like it belonged to a member of the British upper crust.

"Justin Taylor," the blond responded as they shook hands. Reassured by the camaraderie between Smythe and Freddie that the man wasn't a crazed stalker, he added, "A pleasure to meet you, sir."

"What a polite young man," the bossman approved, "but there's no need to call me ‘sir'. I'm not in my dotage just yet. You can call me Arthur for now, and once you start working for me, ‘boss' will be fine too."

Justin had to grin at Arthur's confidence that he would end up working for him. "What kind of dancing did you have in mind?" he enquired, just as one of the club's go-go boys leapt onto the bar and began shaking his ass in rhythm with the music.

Arthur cocked his head toward the bar-top dancer as a soldier reached up and slid a twenty-dollar bill under the hem of his tight red briefs.

The blond's jaw dropped before he began to laugh helplessly. How ironic that he had an opportunity to become a go-go boy in the Pitts when he'd considered fleeing to New York to earn his living as one just this past weekend.

His brow furrowing, Arthur stated, "I hope that doesn't mean you're dismissing the idea out of hand, Justin. Between the generous salary and the tips, you could rake in quite a sum of money. Your muscular thighs, flexibility, creamy skin, beautiful features, bounteous bubble butt - and of course, the way you move to the music - will have the queers of Liberty Avenue shelling out the tips."

"Ehm, Arthur, I should probably tell you that I'm in school," the teen sputtered. Surely the man wouldn't be interested once he realized Justin was still in high school.

"Lots of university students work part- or full-time," the bossman replied, frowning when the bar-top dancer stumbled and nearly knocked over their drinks.

"I meant, um, high school," Justin quietly confessed, flushing when Arthur turned toward him with raised eyebrows, clearly taken aback. 

"Granted, it's a bit unusual for a high school student to work as a go-go boy, but it's not unheard of. You'd be a natural - more fun than work, I'd think." Glancing down at the legs outlined by Justin's skintight black jeans, he wondered, "How'd you develop such muscular thighs? That can't be from childhood dance lessons."

Arthur had posed the question during a sudden lull between songs, so everyone in the immediate vicinity of the bar heard him. A colourful queen who was passing by quipped, "It's all that vigorous fucking." making everyone burst out laughing.

Justin's face flushed bright red at that interruption, but he calmly asserted, "Actually, it's because I played soccer my first three years of high school. I needed to fulfill the PE requirement, and soccer was probably the only sport I actually liked. Not only did I develop ‘muscular thighs' as you said, I also learned a lot about tactics. I'm a small guy, yeah?" he mentioned the obvious. At Arthur's encouraging nod, he continued, "So I wanted a game that didn't rely so much on brute strength. I really enjoyed strategizing and working together as a team to win matches. The coaches decided I should be a striker, since I'm apparently small and nimble, but I sometimes played midfield because I was good at stealing the ball from the opposing team." The teen smiled proudly as he reminisced about his prowess on the field.

"St. James had great results," he noted, "especially last year when we made it all the way to the eastern division youth playoffs. When I was outed at the beginning of this school year, however, I was immediately removed from the team. No one suspected I was a ‘pansy' until then, but suddenly, the coaches and my teammates decided I was incapable of playing soccer," he finished bitterly. "Fat lot of good that's done them," he concluded, "since the team's now in next to last spot in the division, what with another key player transferring schools."

"Well," Smythe consoled him, "it may all work out to your benefit because you're a helluva dancer. Would you be interested in working for me, do you think?"

Justin had been trying to run the pros and cons through his head while they chatted and had determined that he liked the idea of being a go-go dancer. It would be great to get paid for dancing, and it would make repaying Brian decidedly more easy. "Yes, I'd like to work for you," he stated firmly, before adding a caveat. "It would have to fit around my school schedule and working at the diner, though."

Arthur handed Justin a business card. "Why don't you give me a call in the next couple of days and we'll arrange a time to meet? We can discuss what hours you might work and prepare a tentative contract at that time."

"I'd like that, Arthur," the teen responded, beaming at the older man. "I'd better practice my dancing," he laughed, shimmying away from the bar.

Smythe shot him a quick salute as he disappeared into the horde of dancers.

Shortly before three that morning, as they staggered toward Debbie's house arm in arm, a bewildered Emmett related, "It was so weird when I went to pay for our tab, Sweetie. Freddie was busy tallying the intake for the night but Rico, the other bartender, told me the entire bill had been comped."

"Oh, about that," Justin said and then proceeded to lay out Arthur's offer for him to work as a go-go boy.

"Baby," an ecstatic Emmett squealed, "the tricks will be falling all over themselves to get a piece of you! You have to promise that I'll be the first one to slip a tip into your boy shorts, okay?" The queen burbled on, "You do have some sexy underwear, don't you? Tighty-whities just won't do."

The blond looked at his friend askance, as he tried to figure out how Em had become familiar with his style of undies.

"Oh, Sweetie," Em chortled, "it's not like I've never seen Brian pawing at that boring underwear."

At the reminder of his ex lover, Justin speculated that the brunet probably wouldn't give a damn when he saw him shaking his booty atop the bar. Wistfully, the teen wished he could somehow make the man jealous. Wait a minute, he reflected - if he were strutting his stuff in sexy shorts and bopping to the beat, Brian would surely hanker after his ass. 

"What kind of underpants do you think would suit me best?" he asked his fashion-minded friend for advice, anticipating all those horny fags - one in particular - salivating over his extremely fine bum.

The queen immediately launched into a description of styles and colors. "Really, truly," he maintained a few minutes later, as they entered Deb's house, "leopard print briefs are all the rage."

"Those just aren't me, Em," Justin asserted, playfully pushing the taller man toward the couch.

The queen wearily slumped down until he was lying curled up on the sofa - which sagged in the middle and was far too short to accommodate his long frame. "I do declare, he mumbled, "entertaining those veterans has worn out this normally indefatigable queen."

"You won't get any rest if you try to sleep on that couch," the teen stated in concern. "Why don't you take the bed, and I'll sleep down here?"

The only answer was a snuffling snore. Justin grinned as he grabbed a pillow and a couple of blankets from the linen closet, slipping the pillow under Em's head and draping the blankets over his friend.

After pulling off his clothes and sliding under the covers in his upstairs bed, Justin drifted off to visions of himself dancing in racy red briefs - Brian at his feet, licking his lips in desire.