Monday, November 3, 2003

Brian

Renovation of the second-floor apartment begins this morning, the construction workers start early, I’m sure the other building tenants will be pissed at me for the noise and the mess – noise and mess that will go on for months. I don’t understand why these things take so long – or anyway, I do understand because it took months to have my loft renovated. I stopped by almost daily for awhile, till the architect, Patrick, and also the construction supervisor ordered me off, they claimed that I antagonized the workmen. Insisting that things be done right is not antagonistic, I could see all kinds of fuck-ups and I was merely pointing them out until I was ordered to stay away. I’m using those same people to renovate the apartment I just bought. In spite of my annoyance with them – our mutual annoyance with each other – they did a fantastic job on my loft and I know exactly what I want done with the apartment.

I was hoping that Justin would have left for school before Patrick showed up here this morning, just my luck it’s a school holiday, I swear there’s strange holidays every fucking month, today it’s Armadillo Day or Kumquat Day or something equally ridiculous. Justin said he was sleeping in but at the last minute he joined me in the shower, which delayed me getting ready, which prevented me from intercepting Patrick downstairs before he made his way up to the loft and banged on the door.

“I’ll get it,” I call, shrugging on my suit jacket and hurrying down the bedroom steps toward the door.

Justin’s in the kitchen cooking eggs – how anybody can fry eggs at eight in the morning is a mystery to me – and he looks up from the stove, surprised.

“Who’d come by so early?” he wonders, but I don’t answer, just pull open the door. I have to invite Patrick in, there’s no escaping now, damn it.

“Morning, Brian.” Patrick’s wearing a retro tweed suit, he looks as delicious as I remember him, all tawny gold hair and perfect white teeth. Of course, he’s gay but it’s never gotten me a discount.

“Morning,” I greet him with a handshake, reluctantly turning him to face the kitchen. “Patrick, this is Justin.”

Always well-mannered, Justin wipes his fingers on a towel and steps forward to extend his hand and when they shake, Justin throws a questioning look at me, so I’m forced to explain.

“Patrick’s the architect who designed my – the loft. He’s going to be working on the second-floor apartment.”

“Oh really?” Justin nods, smiling at Patrick with his mouth but giving me a look with his eyes that tells me I am so fucked. Something else I didn’t discuss with him.

“Do you have a minute to walk through before you leave for work?” Patrick’s asking me and I say sure, be right there, and usher him out the door. I pause, then head for my desk and load up my pockets with my wallet and cell phone, grab my briefcase and throw my topcoat over my arm.

Justin’s wordlessly returned to his frying pan and the frost around him is a foot deep. I’m waiting for an outburst but somehow the deep freeze is worse. I casually wander into the kitchen, setting down my briefcase and reaching in the fridge for a bottle of orange juice. Twisting off the lid and taking a gulp, I say offhandedly, “The apartment needs to be fixed up before I can rent it out. You should’ve seen what a mess it was.”

“Should I?” Justin flips the eggs over, I glance down at the pan and they’re ruined, brown and crinkled on the edges but he doesn’t seem to notice though he keeps staring at them. “Why should I have seen it? It’s your place. None of my business.”

“Justin – “

“Better hurry, you’ll be late for work.” He flips the eggs over again, they’re starting to burn. I want to point that out to him but I decide not to. Taking another gulp of juice, I screw the lid back on and return the jar to the fridge. They I grab my briefcase and head for the door.

“See you tonight,” I call out to him but he’s not looking at me and not answering. As I go out the door and close it behind me, I repeat to myself, “I am so fucked.”



Justin

I try to tell myself I don’t care. Brian bought the place as income property, it’s his money, it has nothing to do with me. Another part of his life that has nothing to do with me. Obviously, it never occurred to him that I might be interested, that I’d like to see the apartment, that maybe I even could have offered ideas for renovating the place, I’m a fucking artist after all.

But I do care, I want to share Brian’s life. I thought that’s what we were doing, sharing our lives, but Brian doesn’t understand that everything he does is important to me. He hardly ever talks about work and he doesn’t seem terribly interested in my classes, he listens when I tell him things but he doesn’t ask a lot of questions. Lindsay says to give him time, he’s just learning to do relationships, like Gus is learning to share his toys at preschool. In a way, I know she’s right but sometimes I get fucking tired of waiting for Brian to get a clue.

He got a clue this morning, I gave him a look that should’ve shrunk up his balls like raisinettes. I just dare him to call me at work tonight and suggest dropping by on my dinner break. I just dare him to do that.



Brian

Around four I decide to call Justin at Borders. I’m not sure of my reception after our non-argument this morning, but when he answers his cell, I ask him what time he’s taking his dinner break, tell him I’d like to drop by and see him for a few minutes.

The brat groans and says, “No, Brian, not again – I want to actually eat dinner on my dinner break, I’m starving.”

I’ve been fucking the shit out of Justin morning, noon and night, so I don’t need to ask what he means.

“I’ll bring you a sandwich. Meet me in the parking lot.”

There’s a pause and a huge sigh, sending me a message I refuse to decipher. Neither of us speaks for a long moment, then Justin says, “Six-thirty. And two sandwiches, okay? And some Cheetos. The crunchy ones. They’re dangerously cheesy.”

“You’re dangerously demanding.”

“And you’re dangerously horny.” With a long-suffering sigh, Justin adds, “Bye,” and clicks off.

In spite of myself, I discover that I’m smiling. For some reason we’ve picked up this tagline for the snacks Justin likes – ‘they’re dangerously cheesy’ – and we’ve been running it into the ground ever since. The other night we were at the munchers’ for dinner, the rest of us lounging around the table waiting for Justin to clean his plate (for the second or third time), and I was holding Gus on my lap. I whispered something in his ear.

With the unerring ability of four-year-olds to repeat anything embarrassing that they hear, Gus turned to his mommies and shouted, “I am dane-jussy cute!” Everyone laughed, but it was Justin’s dangerously blue eyes that sent me a secret message across the table. When someone can get you to act like an idiot without even trying, they know they’ve scored a point.

Sometimes I think we’re keeping score and sometimes I’m not so sure.

When I drive up to the main entrance of Borders I see that Justin’s already outside, smoking beneath the entryway canopy, when he spots the jeep he tosses the cigarette and dashes through the misty rain to throw himself into the seat beside me. We say hey, then he’s silent while I drive two blocks over and three blocks down to a deserted parking lot behind an abandoned strip mall. Our usual place.

I glance around the empty lot, then lean across the seat to pull Justin into my arms for a kiss. In a way, I’m testing the waters and it seems like I’m off the hook, he’s not acting mad. So of course, being my own worst enemy, I bring up the subject of the apartment.

“Were the construction guys noisy today?”

“Yeah. What kind of sandwiches did you bring me?” and he turns to reach into the backseat where I’ve tossed the brown-bagged food.

“Justin, wait.”

Pulling back his arm and settling in his seat, he turns sideways to look at me. When I don’t speak for a moment, he says, “I only get a half-hour break.”

Everybody tells me I’m not tactful and why the fuck should people have to be tactful anyway? Besides, I’m not good at tact, I’m better at honesty. “Justin,” I say earnestly, wishing I could see his face better in the darkness of the jeep, “Without getting all drama-queeny, can you please tell me why you give a flying fuck about that apartment?”

“I don’t.”

“Obviously you do.”

He’s silent for a moment, then he takes a deep breath. “Brian – you just don’t get it. We’re supposed to be sharing our lives. But everything you do is ‘yours’ and it doesn’t even occur to you to discuss things with me.”

“Like the apartment.”

“Like the apartment, like your job, like your family.”

What the fuck? “My family?”

“Brian – I know your sister called you yesterday, and you agreed to go see your mom. I heard you on the phone. But you didn’t say a word to me about it, not a word.”

“You’ve met my mother, do you imagine I’d take you along to visit her?” Christ, he’s met my mother all right.

“No, Brian. I just want you to talk to me about it.”

All I can do is shake my head. “I don’t do that touchy-feely, bare-your-soul, lesbionic crap, and you know it.”

“But I want you to. I need you to do that. I’m asking you to do that.”

I swing my head away and stare out the windshield. Impasse.

Or maybe not. I don’t understand, I mean I really don’t understand, why Justin wants me to talk to him about all this shit. But he says he NEEDS me to do it. Lindsay says I have to try harder this time to do some of the stuff that Justin needs. Maybe even stuff I don’t want to do.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, I turn back to look at Justin. I still can’t see him very well, and maybe that’s a good thing after all. Easier. “My mom asked Clare to call me. She wants to see me. I don’t know why and I don’t really care, but I agreed to go see her next week. That’s all.”

“Okay,” Justin says.

I wait for the third-degree but when it doesn’t come, I continue. “I’m going to Cleveland on Thursday, my Big-T Tires client wants a presentation for his executive board, he likes the proposed campaign but his board doesn’t, I have to try and win them over.”

When I pause again, Justin asks, “Are you worried about it? Your campaign idea?”

“No. Not exactly. But I worked my ass off on it, the guy approved it, and now he looks to be reneging. It’s a big account and Vance has been on my ass about it for the past two weeks. So I’m not exactly worried about it, just pissed off.”

“Is Vance on your ass all the time? Is that why you’re working so many extra hours at home lately?”

“Yeah,” I agree – silently adding to myself, ‘that, and Lindsay’s no-fucking-around-for-three-months bullshit.’

Justin’s quiet for a moment, then he says, “Seems like you have to keep proving yourself over and over to that asshole. Cynthia says you bring in almost half the income for the entire agency.”

It pisses me off that Justin and Cynthia have some kind of relationship, friendship almost, I hate that they talk about me behind my back.

“Brian, she doesn’t tell me any specifics,” Justin reads my mind, “We just talk about how hard you work and what a giant prick Gardner Vance is.”

“’Giant prick’ is the wrong term for Vance – I’ve seen him at the urinal.”

With a laugh, Justin leans over the seat to slide his arms around my neck and pull down my head for a brief kiss.

“That’s two out of three,” I murmur, “Can we forget about the apartment for now?”

“Okay,” Justin breathes, as his lips press against mine. “Let me blow you so I can get back to work.”

“What about your dinner? “

“I’ll take it in the backroom and eat it on bathroom breaks.”

“You’re dangerously clever.”

“You’re dangerously hard,” he murmurs, his hand busy unzipping my pants and slipping inside to grab my cock. Then I relax and lean back against the door, eager for his warm mouth to suck me off while I twist my fingers gently in his hair.



Tuesday, November 4

Brian

I must have been out of my mind, agreeing to the munchers’ condition – three months of monogamy before I give Lindsay a load of my sperm for another baby. Sometimes I honestly think I cannot do it, and sometimes I wonder if that's a terrible admission to make, even to myself. Why is it so damned difficult? Mind over matter, that's all it is.

But no, no it's not. I see no value in monogamy, none at all - it's ridiculous. Men are hardwired by nature to fuck as much as possible, it's a natural thing, an evolutionary adaptation. It was the female of the species who masterminded the whole damned socialization shit that trapped men into such an unnatural and probably even dangerous exercise in futility. No man's faithful by choice.

And I hate that damned word 'faithful.' What the hell does being faithful have to do with fucking anyway? If you sort of more or less commit to somebody, to maybe wanting to be with that person forever, or any way for as far ahead as you can imagine, what does that have to do with keeping your dick in your pants?

It's only been a couple weeks and I've lost track of all the ass I've passed up, and that's just during the day. If I were going to Babylon most nights as I normally do, the number of missed fucks would be well into double digits.

When I was twenty-four I worked out this theory about guys like me, guys who need to fuck several times a day: We have more testosterone than normal men, we build up these huge reserves of jism that have to be jettisoned constantly or we’ll probably explode. I was fucking this doctor at the time of formulating my theory; an orthopedist in a luxurious apartment with a view of the river, his wife was in Europe so he was free to screw around. Anyway, I told him about my theory – and the prick just laughed. He insisted it had no basis in medical fact. That pissed me off so much I only let him come once before grabbing my clothes and striding out of his million-dollar penthouse. I still believe I’m right.


Justin

“Brian, you haven’t been taking Viagra again, have you?”

“I don’t need Viagra, I need you to get your ass over here NOW.” He’s naked, sitting on the ledge of the bed glowering at me. We just had a shower, we fucked in the shower, he wants to fuck again but I want to get dressed and go to dinner.

“I don’t want take-out again tonight,” I complain, “And the cupboard’s bare, there’s nothing here to eat. Can we please go to Luigi’s?”

“Okay.” Finally, Brian gives in, stands up and rummages through the chest for a tee shirt. When he pulls one out and throws it on the bed, he says, “But come with me to Babylon afterward.”

Brian hasn’t been to Babylon all this week. He’s stayed in every night, working long hours on the computer. “I’ll go if you want,” I agree, “But I thought you liked going there alone.”

“Depends on my mood,” he says carelessly, pulling up his jeans and buttoning them.

“But I’ll just hold you back, won’ t I? If I’m there, you won’t be dragging a dozen guys into the back room.”

Brian emerges from the tee shirt he's pulling over his head and gives me a look. “Did it ever occur to you that sometimes maybe I just feel like dancing? Fucking’s not the only reason I like going to Babylon.”

Of course, I know why he wants me to go with him, I’m his excuse for not fucking around. And maybe I’m kind of enjoying myself at his expense, and. . . okay, I’m definitely enjoying myself.

“Are you going to wear that shirt?” He’s just noticed that I’ve pulled on my white shirt with the logo 'Breakfast included.'

"Well duh. That's why I put it on."

"Take it off," he tells me. "If I'm not tricking tonight then neither are you. So you don't need to advertise."

"I'm not advertising, I like this shirt."

"So do all the guys that hit on you when you're wearing it." Brian moves around the bed and grabs my hips, pulls me close. "Take it off." And he grabs the hem of the shirt and pulls it over my head. I don't struggle - sometimes Brian's bossiness is annoying and sometimes it's merely funny.

Brian throws the shirt on the floor and grabs my hips again, pulling me tight against him. He leans down and blows in my ear, making me squirm and giggle. "You know I hate that, it's NOT a turn-on. Brian, stop it." Now he's licking my ear, moving his head and running his tongue down the side of my neck.

"Let me go – I don't want to fuck again, I want to go to dinner."

"In a minute," Brian murmurs, running his tongue down my shoulder and swirling it around my right nipple, slipping a hand inside the back of my khakis, inside the waistband of my underwear, caressing my ass.

Pushing my arms against his chest, I insist, "Dinner first, okay? I'm hungry."

"Then eat my cock." He's got both hands inside my pants now, squeezing my ass, and he's biting my nipple, doing what he calls nip-und-zuck. His hips are grinding against me, his hard erection rubbing against my own.

As he moves his mouth to my other nipple, I ask him, a little breathlessly, "Are you planning to fuck me against my will?"

He laughs then, a guttural laugh low in the back of his throat, and he pushes his cock harder against mine. "Pretend I’m forcing you if you want," he almost growls. "We haven't done that in a while."

"You ARE forcing me."

Brian stops and pulls back to look on me, but he's not letting me go. He smiles into my eyes and says, "Kiss me for three minutes - and I'll bet a hundred dollars you change your mind."

"You're on," I tell him, trying not laugh. And knowing damned well that about three seconds of Briankisses will do the trick.



Wednesday, November 5

Brian

“Come to the baths with me tonight.” I’m standing behind his chair at the new desk in the corner, my hands on his shoulders, leaning down to peer at the drawing he’s working on. We’ve both been staring at our computers for hours, finally, I had to stand up, move around. I’m feeling claustrophobic, I need to get out of the loft.

“The baths?” Justin turns around, his surprise evident. “Why do you want to go there?”

“Guess.”

He just keeps staring at me, a look on his face I can’t read. Finally, he says, “You know I don’t want to go tricking with you, we’ve talked about it before.”

“Who said tricking?” I stand back and fold my arms over my chest. “If I were going to be tricking, would I ask you to go with me?” Does he imagine I’ve forgotten our agreement, he made it clear before we got back together that he doesn’t want to share with me. It’s funny that I’d thought he was enjoying it, well he said at first he did. I don’t know why he stopped liking it?

Justin’s shaking his head. “Then why do you want to go?”

Christ, I’m sorry I brought it up. “Forget it,” I say, turning away and going back to my computer. I can feel him staring at me across the room as I log back on but I won’t look at him. I’m aware that he’s getting up and coming over to my desk but I keep my eyes on the screen. “It was just a thought, forget it,” I say again without looking at him.

“Brian – would you promise to only be with me?”

Then I do look up at him, and I feel myself getting angry. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?

“Well no, you didn’t say, but – “

I fling myself backward in my chair and glare at Justin. “Do you imagine I’ve forgotten your – our agreement? We’ve been together a fucking year now.”

Justin nods. “Actually it was a year a few months ago,” he informs me. “But I’m not surprised you didn’t remember our anniversary.”

Christ, he’s not going there, is he? “Queers don’t have anniversaries.” I turn back to the computer, hoping I’ll escape a speech or whatever Justin decides he’s going to torment me with this time.

“Well, we did have an anniversary but I celebrated it alone.”

Christ. Rolling my chair backward again, I tell him tersely, “You know that emotional blackmail shit doesn’t work on me.”

“Brian, it’s okay. I know it’s no big deal to you.” Justin’s face is blank, I don’t see anger or resentment or any other fucking emotion there. He’s learned that from me and he’s getting God-damned good at it.

I should be glad. But instead, I reach out and grab his arms, pull him toward me, pull him between my knees and lock my legs together, trapping him. There’s all kinds of things I want to say – harsh things mostly – but instead, I pull him down roughly till we’re nose to nose. “You could have told me.”

“Right,” Justin agrees, “And you would have said ‘queers don’t have anniversaries.’”

“Yeah. Probably.” How can I deny it? “But you said you celebrated. What did you do?”

“Nothing. It doesn’t matter.”

“Tell me.”

“Nothing major,” he shrugs, “No big deal. I just made chicken alfredo and watched Yellow Submarine.” When I look confused, he adds, “You were in Philadelphia on business.”

I have a sick feeling in my stomach, what’s that about? I don’t do regrets, I’ve never done regrets and I’m not about to start, especially not for missing some arbitrary date on the calendar, it’s not like we had a commitment ceremony or anything, we just decided to live together again, how am I supposed to remember the exact date that happened?

I don’t know what Justin sees in my eyes, but he tells me gently, “Brian, it’s no big deal, I’m okay with it. Don’t feel bad.”

“I don’t feel bad.” Which is almost true. I shouldn’t feel bad. There’s no reason for me to feel bad, Justin knows I don’t do those ritual kinds of things. “But you could have told me anyway. Besides, I like your chicken alfredo. You could have waited for me to get home before you made it.”

“I’ll make it this weekend if you want,” he offers, leaning his forehead against mine. Something else he learned from me. “And I’ll go to the baths with you tonight, as long as we. . . you know.”

“We’ll definitely ‘you know,’” I promise.

So we go to the baths and wander around the halls for a while, me with one arm tight around Justin, one arm ready to push away anybody who gets too close. We peer in some of the group rooms, we watch some action on the sling, we hang around the orgy room for a while, and then we get a private room and lock the door.

“Brian,” Justin whispers as I pull off his towel, “Do you want me to pretend to be somebody else?”

“Yes,” I whisper back, “Pretend you’re Zack O’Toole.”

“Don’t make me laugh,” Justin giggles, “I’ll lose my hard-on and never get it back.”

“Oh yeah?” I taunt him, “Wanna bet?”



Thursday, November 6

Brian

I come slowly out the back door of the dingy club, into an alley that smells of rotten cabbage and stale urine, hoping like hell that nobody I know will see me. Not because I’ve broken my promise of monogamy, I haven’t – jerking off is the ultimate in safe sex. What concerns me is that someone will see me and spread the word that Liberty Avenue’s greatest living fuck is reduced to handjobs in a dark backroom circle jerk. This was a really bad idea, thank God or somebody that I decided to try it out in Cleveland and not home in Pittsburgh. Hurrying around the building to the main street, I catch a cab back to my hotel and give Justin a call, hoping he’s not asleep yet.

“Mmmph?” he says. He was asleep.

“Sorry,” I tell him, cradling the phone to my ear as I step out of my jeans and throw them over the desk chair. “It’s late, go back to sleep.”

“Brian,” he says, and I can hear him yawning hugely, “I’m awake now, everything okay?”

“Yeah, I just – “

There’s a long silence, then Justin says, “You just miss me? Or something?”

“Or something,” I agree.

“I miss you too,” he says, and I hear him yawn again.

“Go to sleep. I’ll be home tomorrow.”

“Did you go out? I mean, I’m sure you did. Did you have a good time?”

“I’m in Cleveland, Justin, of course, I didn’t have a good time.”

There’s another long pause, then Justin asks, “Are you naked?”

“Getting undressed. And this is not an obscene phone call.”

Justin laughs softly. “Let’s pretend it is. Talk dirty to me.”



Friday, November 7

Justin

“Why haven’t you asked me why we’re fucking so much?”

Brian and I are sprawled naked on top of the duvet, catching our breath after a quick but very intense pre-dinner fuck. A quiche is in the oven, the timer should go off in a few minutes. Brian came in the door ten minutes ago, grabbed me from the kitchen and dragged me up the bedroom steps. “Now,” he said urgently, pausing only a moment to look into my eyes and ask, “Okay?”

“Okay,” I’d gasped, already breathless, then he kissed me and I stopped breathing and succumbed to Brian’s desire, helping to pull off our clothes, falling onto the bed with him, the touch of his fingers on my bare skin burning, burning.

Now I turn over so I can look at him, he turns too and we lay side by side, he raises himself up on his elbow, rests his head on his hand. With his other hand, Brian reaches out and gently pinches my hip. “Why haven’t you asked me?” he says again.

“We always fuck a lot.” It’s true.

He’s waiting for the real answer.

“Brian, we always fuck a lot,” I repeat. “I know it’s more lately, but do you think I’m going to complain? I love having sex with you.”

He’s looking into my eyes now, that intense searching look that’s impossible to resist. I can’t tell him, I remind myself; if he finds out that I know about the monogamy agreement he made with Lindsay, the deal’s off. He told Lindsay that if I knew about it, he would not donate his sperm like she asked him to.

Keeping his hand on my hip, Brian’s eyes are boring into my skull. “It occurred to me today,” he begins, speaking deceptively softly, then he corrects himself, “No, actually I’ve wondered for a long time. . .why you haven’t asked me.” When I just stare back at him wordlessly, hoping my face is blank, he continues, “Why you haven’t asked me, how come we’re fucking so much?”

I should have been prepared for this but I’m not. I should have known he’d begin to wonder why I haven’t questioned the fucking and sucking marathon keeping me dizzy the past few weeks. So I hedge again by reaching out to caress his chest, lowering my eyelashes so he can’t see inside and whispering, “You can’t resist me and I can’t resist you. We’re – we were destined for each other.”

“Uh-huh, Romeo. Or I guess you’re Juliet. Look at me.”

My eyes fly to his face and I’m relieved to see that he’s smiling slightly, the corners of his mouth are turned up.

“What?”

Without a blink Brian says, “She told you, didn’t she? Lindsay.”

“Told me what?”

“Justin, you’re a terrible liar. Don’t even try.”

I don’t know what to say. I don’t know how to handle this. I should have been prepared, I should have planned ahead what I would say. He’s right, I’m a terrible liar.

“Brian,” I say earnestly, “It’s not what you think!”

He nods. “Uh-huh. What do I think?”

I have to tell him. I have to. I don’t dare ever lie to Brian again. But I’m sick, sick to my stomach and I almost feel like crying. Except, of course, I don’t cry anymore, I’m almost twenty-one. But I’m ruining everything, ruining Lindsay and Mel’s chance to have another baby, all because I was too stupid to realize that Brian would figure things out.

“Justin,” Brian moves his hand to my face, brushes the hair out of my eyes. “Tell me.”

“Lindsay didn’t say anything, I swear it!” I feel the breath catch in my throat, it’s the truth, and yet. . .

Brian’s mouth hardens into a straight line, his face changes. He pulls away, sits up on the bed and stares down at me. “I can stand almost anything, Justin, except lying. I can’t stand lying.”

“I’m not lying!” I insist, sitting up too and reaching for Brian’s arm. He pulls away but I grab him again and hold on tight. “Brian, I swear I’m not lying. She didn’t tell me!”

“Then how do you know?” There goes that eyebrow, when he raises one eyebrow I always brace myself. “And you do know, don’t you? Don’t you?”

“Y-yes, but – “

“So, was it Melanie? Was it Melanie who told you?”

“No – “

“Then who?” He pulls away from my hand again and waits, I can see his face getting red, he’s getting mad and it panics me.

“I was there when you called. When you called Lindsay.”

“So she did tell you.”

“No, Brian! We were in the kitchen, she had the speaker phone on, I heard the whole thing. It was an accident, she didn’t tell me, don’t be mad at Lindsay!”

He’s thinking, probably thinking back to that phone call. He shakes his head. “Then why didn’t you just tell me you knew? What’s the big fucking deal, Justin? If you knew, why not just tell me?”

“B-because,” I say urgently, “You made Lindsay promise not to tell me. You said if I knew you were being monogamous, the deal was off.”

I anxiously watch Brian’s face and I’m relieved when I see the tight muscles letting go, the slow-motion relaxation of his features, his jaw loosening, his eyes softening. “You’re such a twat,” he says at last.

“Brian – you don’t care that I know? It’s still okay?”

He considers for a moment. “Who else heard my phone call?”

“Only Lindsay and me. And Gus. Gus won’t tell.”

“Ha,” he snorts, “Gus tells all my secrets. He’s dangerous.”

With a laugh, I add, “And he’s dangerously cute.”

Brian reaches for me then, just as the oven timer dings.

“Oops!” and I run for the kitchen. Grabbing potholders, I pull the quiche from the oven, it’s perfectly golden brown on top.

“Mmm, smells good.” Brian’s right behind me, he’s pulled on jeans and he’s carrying my sweatpants. “Get dressed before you spill something on your dick and put yourself out of commission.”

While I’m cutting the quiche, Brian asks, “Is your ass getting sore?”

“Yeah,” I agree, “As a matter of fact, it is. Guess we’ll just have to take turns from now on.”

“Guess again.”

Carrying the quiche to the table, I ask, “Brian – is it hard?”

“It’s always hard.”

“No, I mean, is it hard for you, being monogamous? Do you absolutely hate it?”

“Justin, yes. Yes, I absolutely hate it. Just one,” he says, as I put a slice of quiche on his plate. Then he goes on, “So don’t get any ideas, don’t think this is ever going to happen again, because it won’t. You agreed, remember?”

“I know. But I like it.” I put two slices on my plate and then sit down and pick up my fork, give Brian a smile across the table. “I like knowing I’m the only one you’re making love to.”

“Justin – you always are.”

“Huh?”

“The others,” he says, waving his fork at me, “I’m just fucking them. You’re the only one I ever make love to.”

“Brian.” I drop my fork and stare at him. “You said ‘make love!’”

When I jump up and hurry around the table, Brian grabs my arms and stops me from hugging him. “Don’t get sappy on me, I mean it. And I’m not reading that damn bracelet right now.”

“Just once,” I plead with him. “Just read it once.”

“I’ll read it later. In bed. So hurry the fuck up and finish eating dinner, okay?”