Justin


"You said it was my decision."

"It is."

"Then why are you leaning on me to go see this guy?"

"I'm not fucking leaning. I'm. . .encouraging you to go. That's all."

We're sprawled on the sofa, we've eaten dinner and watched Jeopardy! (I won but Brian insists he was the winner); and now Brian has muted the volume on the tv and announced that Robert's uncle, who works at LA City College, wants to talk to me about the school.

"Brian, I don't have time for school right now."

"Sure you do. After work."

"Night classes." I feel my lip curling in Kinney fashion.

"Why not? Afraid you'll miss the Brady Bunch on Nick at Night?"

"Brian, you said it's a junior college. Probably the classes are too basic for me."

"Maybe. But you won't know unless you look into it."

"But - "

"You know what?" he frowns then. "Fuck it. Do what you want." Brian hunches his shoulder and turns away, points the remote at the tv and the music from a commercial about the Jaguar blares out at us.

"Pretentious piece of shit car," Brian grumbles, and I remember that Michael's old boyfriend had a Jag.

"Can I borrow the jeep to go see Robert tomorrow night?"

Robert's still in the hospital, I checked the bus schedules and it's hard to get there, time-consuming, I'd have to transfer twice, and of course I still don't know my way around LA very well.

"Hmm," Brian says, not taking his eyes from the tv screen, "Maybe I'll drive you."

"Okay. Thanks."

I have mixed feelings about going back to school. Sometimes I ache with the need to draw. At first, after I was suspended, I was sketching constantly, like I've done all my life. But lately, I find myself picking up my sketchpad and staring at it, then flinging it across the room. Not when Brian's home of course.

I think getting suspended kind of cracked something inside me. It's not broken, just cracked. I probably need this time away from art to get over the feeling of. . .I'm not sure what I'm feeling. Angry mostly. But I can't let Brian see that, because he flat out said that me sacrificing the IFA for my political beliefs is what pushed him to do the same with his career. So how can I let him think that I have regrets?

I honestly do not regret what I did. It was the right thing to do and the consequences were worth the sacrifice. But now I’m feeling kind of empty and aimless and - and fucking mad. Or anyway, I'm confused about my feelings. I wish Daphne were here, or Linds. I could talk to them about these feelings, about my confusion. I don't dare mention it to Brian.


Brian

Justin's hiding something from me. He's always been pretty transparent, or anyway he used to be, until he learned to put on a façade of what he imagines is coolness. I know he learned that from me. From me, and from the hard knocks he's had the past few years. Strange that I've always been so impatient with his immaturity and pushed so hard for him to grow up, and now that he's matured, I sometimes wish he were still the boy he used to be.

What bullshit, of course, I don't really wish that. Nostalgia's a bitch. Apparently, this break away from Pittsburgh and all the sturm-und-drang of living in the center of a maelstrom of extended family is somehow not as welcome as I thought it would be. At least, I sometimes surprise myself by wishing I could talk to Lindsay, to Michael, even to Deb. They are so full of bullshit advice, most of it ridiculous, and yet. . .

Oh, Christ, that's a crock. I don't need any of them, never have and never will.

But I wish I knew what Justin is keeping from me.

I can't ask him. He thinks I want him to be tough and independent and unemotional. The kicker is that that's exactly what I want. So then why does it piss me off?

Justin and I got pretty fucking close after the bashing, when he stayed with me and I helped him learn to walk around in crowds and held onto him when he woke up screaming from those damned debilitating nightmares. He confided things in me back then, he wasn't afraid to open up about his feelings. Why'd he stop?

Well, that's easy enough to figure out. I told him to stop. Told him that discussing feelings was lesbionic crap. And it is. Most of the time it is.



Justin

Brian's been glaring at the tv for the past twenty minutes, surreptitious glances show me that his face is hard, his lips a thin line, his forehead wrinkled. Suddenly he picks up his beer bottle and drains it, then slams it down hard on the coffee table. "I'm going out," he announces, without looking at me, then he gets up and heads down the hall to the bedroom. I just sit there on the sofa staring at the tv, feeling stunned.

He's going tricking. I knew it would happen sooner or later, I shouldn't be surprised. And I have no right to be upset about it, because Brian told me upfront that he won't be monogamous. He promised not to bring tricks to the apartment and I have to be satisfied with that.

I need to be okay with this. Mostly I am okay - nobody knows better than I do that tricking is meaningless to Brian. A million anonymous mouths and asses ready and willing to get him off with no strings attached. Before Brian met me, he never had a long-term relationship. He claims he never dated or had boyfriends but I know he did a little of both in college. Michael let things slip sometimes when we'd be working late into the night on Rage.

But somewhere along the line, Brian swore off love and commitment. And of course, after I walked out on him, he turned off love even more. Yet Brian didn't turn his back on me when I left. Even knowing that I'd been breaking the rules, even when he found out about Ethan and confronted us in the diner, Brian didn't turn away, didn't kick me out. It's hard to believe even now. And it reminds me anew, I have to accept Brian's terms that our relationship remain open. I have to give him that freedom, I have to be okay with it.

With a heavy sigh of resignation, I pick up the remote and point it at the tv, start channel surfing, trying to concentrate on images on the screen, trying not to think about Brian roaming the bars on Santa Monica Boulevard. The guys'll go crazy for him, I know that very well. They'll swarm him and he'll be up to his neck in cocks and asses within minutes.

I hear him coming back down the hall and I force my shoulders to loosen up, I let my head loll back against the cushion, hoping that I look complacent and relaxed. I feel him come up behind the sofa, and in a moment I feel his hand on my shoulder, so I bend my head backward and look at him upside down. He's put on jeans and a long-sleeved black silk tee, he's so tall and delicious and incredibly edible. "Have fun," I say casually, giving him a little smile.

I'm rewarded with a squeeze of my shoulder, then he bends forward and kisses my lips. "Later," he says, pulling quickly away and heading for the door.

"Later," I call after him, then turn to stare blankly at the tv again. I wish I didn't care. I wish I didn't care so much.


Brian

I realize that Justin has surprised me, I was sure he'd make a fuss, yell, and scream or at least pout, but instead his mature, accepting response to my going out throws me for a loop. I kiss him, I walk through the door and down the stairs to the garage, get in the jeep and put the key in the ignition. Then I just sit there for a moment. I cannot possibly be disappointed that Justin didn't try to stop me from tricking. What a ridiculous thought.

With a shake of my head, I turn the key and gun the engine, then pull out of the garage and head down the hill toward the heart of WeHo. Almost all my life I've been able to compartmentalize people and events, I can shut the door and move on. I'm just out of practice, that's all. I keep shrugging my shoulders trying to dispel the image of Justin sitting on the sofa alone as I walked out of the condo, and after a few minutes, the image is gone. Now I'm free to fuck around. And Christ, I need it. The release of anonymous sex has always relaxed me, it's a great stress reliever. No matter what problems are bugging me, I can forget them in an orgy of fucking and sucking.

There's a bar on Santa Monica I've noticed before, called Heads Up, for some reason, it stands out among the dozens of bars in WeHo. When I park in the lot behind a row of buildings and enter the front door, immediately I feel at home - the bar has a very Woody's type of ambiance. Like any bar, it has subdued lighting, a pool table, small tables scattered around the room. Unlike Woody's there's a back room, it seems I'll have the best of both worlds rolled into one. There's an empty spot at the bar where I perch on a stool and catch the bartender's eye. He gives me a sly smile, he likes what he sees, and he's a looker himself, medium height, streaked short hair, well-defined bare shoulders. There's three bartenders and they're all shirtless and all attractive. When he hands me a glass with an inch of JB, I lift the glass to my lips, sniffing the bourbon like it's fine French wine, and I turn to lean against the bar and let my eyes roam around the dimly-lit room.

Naturally, I'm aware that I've captured the attention of many of the room's occupants, and there's a fair share of potentially fuckable men gathered around, some alone, some sitting at tables of two or three, a few shooting pool. I lean my elbows back against the bar and exude my aura of sex appeal. I've often felt like a sexual Spiderman, throwing out an invisible net of pheromones to attract a horde of men eager to fly into my sticky web. I stop that line of thought before it gets too preposterous and concentrate instead on cruising the room, focusing on two or three of the most likely candidates. The first one to approach me is a dirty blond, a twenty-something guy of medium height, his face a study of linear art - sharp cheekbones, a square jaw with deep dimples, arched eyebrows. Beautiful at a distance, but up close he looks hard around the edges. Older than I thought, not twenty-something, instead he's thirty-something. Still, his looks and demeanor are good enough for a quickie backroom fuck.

"Hey," he greets me, "Haven't seen you here before. Buy you a drink?"

"No thanks." I have no interest in niceties. "Wanna fuck?"

"You don't waste any time, do you?" Then he laughs and puts a hand on my arm. "But okay, how about your place? Live near here?"

"How about the back room?" I counter, glancing at his hand, noticing that he bites his nails. It makes his fingertips look blunt and ugly. A small flaw, I can overlook that - he doesn't need to touch me, all he has to do is drop his pants and bend over.

"I'm Matthew," he says as if it matters, tightening his grip on my arm.

"I'm horny," I tell him, turning toward the back of the bar, "Let's go."

He comes along willingly enough, still hanging onto me. We pass through a beaded curtain separating the bar from a short hallway with toilets and a pay phone, then he pushes against a door that says 'Employees Only' and we enter the almost-dark backroom, a murky place with a few tv's showing porn tapes, the usual suspects standing around - trolls jerking off as they watch a few couples fucking and sucking. I find an empty space and take hold of the trick, swing him around to face the wall.

"Hey," he says, turning his head to peer at me over his shoulder, "Hold on - I'm a top."

"Sure you are," I nod agreeably, "But not tonight." I reach around and unzip his jeans, pull them roughly to his ankles, then push my knee between his thighs to spread his legs apart. Then I reach into my back pocket for a condom, I always carry two or three.

My pocket's empty. I try the other pocket, then realize that, amazingly, the cupboard is bare. I've stopped routinely shoving condoms into my pants. When did that happen?

"Need a rubber?" the trick asks. Not waiting for an answer he leans down and rifles through the pockets of his jeans, standing up and twisting around to hand me a foil packet.

It's a Trojan.

I hate Trojans. I only use Kimono Micro-thins. Fuck. The cheap little bastard uses Trojans. And he is little too - I didn't get a good look at his ass till I pulled off his jeans, it's flat, barely rounded, and tan - he must go to nude beaches, or maybe he gets a spray-on in a cheesy tanning shop. What a waste, there's something so erotic about a pale white bubble butt.

"Never mind," I tell the trick, handing him back the condom. "I don't use Trojans."

"Huh?" He takes the packet and looks up at me in surprise. Quickly recovering, he adds, "All right - I'll suck you off instead." And he moves those hands with the bitten-down fingernails to the front of my jeans. I don't want him to touch me.

"Another time," I suggest, pulling away and turning toward the exit. I'm barely aware of his curses following me as I push the door's handle and leave the dim backroom for the darkness of the bar's parking lot. Getting into the jeep, I sit for a moment deciding what I want to do next.

What I want to do, damn it all to fucking hell, is go home. I want to go home and grab Justin and pull off his clothes and lick every inch of his beautiful pale body, caress his flawless round white ass, suck on his perfect artist-fingers.

Damn it all to fucking hell.

For form's sake, I decide to drive around for a while. Well, it's not that I care what Justin thinks if I come back too soon. It's just a nice night for a drive, clear and dry and warm - I love the warm nights in California. So I drive for a while, up to Hollywood Boulevard, past landmarks like the Kodak Theatre where Justin's elephants are illuminated with white light, the streets thick with traffic, the sidewalks thick with whores and hustlers and teenagers and tourists. I take a right onto La Cienega and drive aimlessly for a while, paying no attention to direction, and after maybe twenty minutes, I realize that I've reached LAX, the Los Angeles airport. Making my way through the maze of lanes around the airline terminals, eventually, I find my way around to the main street that leads back toward downtown LA.

Half an hour later I admit defeat. Somewhere along the way I took a wrong turn. I'm lost. I've passed signs that indicate I'm in the Watts area; on the right side of the street are railroad tracks, huge spaces filled with empty rail cars, piles of equipment, storage sheds - everything deserted as a tomb. On the other side of the street are closed factories and run-down houses, I've barely seen any people around, very few cars, how the fuck did I get here, and how the fuck do I find my way back? It's well after midnight, twelve-forty; then it's one o'clock and still I keep driving. I don't have a fucking map - Justin took our maps into the house to study, to learn his way around LA, and now I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere and there's not even a gas station where I can stop for directions.

A gas station. Fuck. One glance at the gas gauge confirms the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach: I'm on empty.



Justin

At midnight I decide to go to bed. In the back of my mind I thought Brian might not stay out very long, might come home early, it’s a weeknight after all. But apparently he's having fun, there's no telling when he'll come back. His first tricking adventure in LA, he must be having the time of his life, and legally he can stay out till three. Or anyway that was the rule in Pittsburgh, and though we haven't talked about resuming the rules we'd made before, probably he'll want to do that. That is, if he agrees to have any rules at all.

I don't think I can fall asleep but then I doze off. The phone rings some time later, jarring me awake. I sit straight up in bed and can't remember for a moment where I am. Scrambling out of the sheets, I move across the room to grab up the telephone, a glance at the alarm clock shows that it's nearly three.

"Hey, it's me," Brian announces - unnecessarily, we have caller-ID.

"Hey."

"I'll be there pretty soon." There's a pause, then he asks, "Everything okay?"

"What wouldn't it be okay?" I keep my voice level but I really don't understand what he's asking. "The house didn't burn down or anything, if that's what you mean."

"You sound pissed."

"No," I deny it, "Just sleepy. You woke me up."

"Hunh," he huffs, "Last week you were mad that I didn't call, this week you're mad 'cause I did."

"I'm not mad, Brian," I insist, "It's good that you called. You must be having a wonderful time, it's almost three o'clock."

"You wouldn't believe what a good time I'm having," he starts to tell me but I interrupt.

"I'd really rather not hear about it. I'm going back to bed now."

"Justin - wait."

I wait, but I have nothing to say, I just stand there with the phone pressed to my ear.

"Justin, I'm not really having a good time, that was sarcasm. You must be sleepy if you don’t recognize sarcasm."

Suddenly I'm worried. "Brian - what's wrong? Did something bad happen? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. I'm perfectly fine. It's just that I. . . I got lost, and I ran out of gas."

I'm silent for a moment, then I say, "Why does this sound like a made-up story?"

"Fuck you," he snarls. "I had to call Triple-A, the guy just got here a few minutes ago and he's putting gas in the tank."

"Oh."

"So I'll be home soon, but not till after three. So I called."

"Where'd you go?" I can't resist asking. "We just filled the tank a couple days ago, how could you run out of gas - did you follow some guy to Mexico or something?"

"Yes. Now go back to bed, I'll be home pretty soon."

"Brian?"

"What?"

"Bring me a burrito."

"Fuck you." And he hangs up.

For some reason, I'm smiling, even though I'm still sort of mad. Not mad, but I'm annoyed that he went tricking tonight. It's really kind of funny that he ran out of gas, it's such a non-Brian thing to happen, he's fanatic about keeping the tank filled. If he's far away it may be a while till he gets home, so I decide to get back in bed. I'm no longer sleepy, but a few minutes later I drift off anyway.

I don't hear Brian come in but I wake up when he slips into bed. I turn over right into his open arms, he pulls me hard against him and bends his head to kiss the side of my neck. "Mmm," he says, "Mmm." He moves his thigh over mine and our legs twist together like a pretzel. He flips over onto his back and pulls me on top of him, runs his hands down my hips and caresses my butt cheeks.

"What a great ass you have."

"Thanks," I murmur a bit breathlessly, "Yours is nice too."

He laughs then and lifts himself up off the bed to bring our mouths together. "Christ," he moans, "I want to fuck you so bad."

"You didn't get enough tonight?" I sort of tease. Against my will, there's a slight edge to my voice but Brian ignores it.

"No," he answers simply, then abruptly he flips us over again, so that I'm flat on my back and he's lying on top of me.

"How many guys did you fuck tonight?" Justin, I tell myself, please shut up.

Brian has reached for a condom but he stops in the act of tearing it open. "Twenty-seven," he answers, his voice getting sharp. "Or twenty-eight. I lost track." When I say nothing, he asks, "I thought you didn't want details."

"I don't," I confirm. "I don't want details. I just wondered, you know, how many."

Brian leans back and sits on my feet, the condom forgotten in his hand. He's silent for a moment, just staring at me. Finally, he says, "You have no reason to be jealous."

"I'm not jealous." Now I'm annoyed. "Brian, I'm not fucking jealous, okay? I was just curious, a little curious, that's all. But forget it now. I really don’t care about your tricks, and I really don’t want to know about them."

"It's none of your business who I fuck. Whom. No matter how many whoms. Or even if I drive to Mexico to do it."

"Obviously. Your dick is your own, we established that a long time ago." I'm trying to keep my voice even, unemotional. Rational and mature.

"You agreed," Brian reminds me. "I said no monogamy and you said you agreed."

Pulling away from Brian, I sit up in bed and lean against the mirrored headboard. "You can make me agree," I say, trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. "But you can't make me like it."

“Fuck,” he frowns, “Are we really going there again?”

“No,” I shake my head, “We’re not going there. I said I accepted it and I did. I do. You have a right to fuck whomever you want. But I have a right to not be happy about it. Okay?”

Brian stares at me, shaking his head. “God, I’m tired,” he murmurs at last. “We have to work tomorrow, let’s go to sleep now.” He tosses the condom back into the bowl and lies down on the mattress, rolls over onto his side, facing away from me. “Turn out the light.”

I sit there a few minutes longer, unhappy that we’ve left so much unsaid. But Brian’s right, it’s late, we have to get up in a couple hours. I lean over and flip off the lamp, slide down in the bed and pull up the sheet, covering Brian and myself. I copy his position, turning my back toward him, facing the opposite wall.

We lay like that for a moment, silent, breathing quietly, then I feel Brian turn over. He scooches across the mattress till his body’s pressed up against my back and his arm goes around my waist, pulling me tight against him. I can feel his warm breath soft on my neck, he nuzzles my hair with his face, then he whispers in my ear, “I didn’t fuck anybody tonight. I almost did, and I will again sometime. But I didn’t tonight.”

“Brian – “

“Now go to sleep.”

“’kay.” I feel my body relax and melt into his. I wonder why he told me? And I wonder why he didn’t fuck anybody. But Brian doesn’t lie. I believe him.



Brian

We barely speak next morning but not out of anger or even frustration, we’re running late and we shower and brush our teeth together with very little conversation. I drop Justin at the d’Or – he’s an hour and a half early but he prefers being early to taking the bus. “I’ll be a bit late,” I tell him as he gets out at the curb. “Eat here or get some takeout, I’ll have Ginger get me a sandwich in the afternoon. What time do you want to go to the hospital?”

“About seven, if we can. But if you need to work I can take the bus.”

“I’ll pick you up at seven, at the condo. I’ll call you when I’m a few blocks away, so be ready.”

“Okay. Bye!” He gives me a small Sunshine smile and waves as I pull away from the curb.

At some point, we’re going to have to talk again. Damn it. I thought we were in the clear about tricking, Justin said he was okay with it. Now I find out he’s unhappy. Maybe this is what he’s been keeping from me. But it’s not my responsibility to make him happy. It’s not. If he wasn’t okay with it, he should have said so.

Yeah, I agree with myself; and then what? If he didn’t agree, then what?

Then he could have stayed in Pittsburgh.

I didn’t want him to stay in Pittsburgh.

Fuck.



Justin

We spend an hour visiting with Robert – or rather, Brian spends about ten minutes and then goes off, leaving us alone. He’s brought along a book to read and he waits for me in the car, smoking and reading ‘Ulysses.’ Brian’s a closet reader – he never wanted anybody in Pittsburgh to know that he reads a lot of books, he says it fucks with his Lothario image.

When we get home we change clothes and head for our computers, but after about fifteen minutes, Brian crosses the room and comes to stand behind me. Putting his hand on the back of my neck and squeezing, he asks, “Are you in the middle of something, or can you leave it for a while?”

“I’m just sort of computer-doodling,” I say honestly, “Nothing important. Do you want to fuck?”

“Always. But let’s talk first.”

“Huh?” I swivel around in my chair to stare up at him, mouth agape. “I thought you said, ‘Let’s talk.’”

Brian frowns. “If you’re going to be an asshole, forget it.”

“No, no,” I assure him, standing up quickly, “I’d like to talk. I’m just. . .I was just surprised.” Surprised isn’t the half of it: Brian Kinney, initiating meaningful discussion? But I smooth out the amazement on my face and pretend to be cool, I let Brian take my hand and lead me to the sofa. I sit down but he’s still standing; he probably needs to pace.

Brian crosses his arms and stands with legs apart, looking down at me. Finally, he says, “Tell me, and I’m serious, tell me why you’re unhappy that I’m tricking.”

“I’m not unhappy about it,” I assure him, “I’m just not happy about it.”

“What?”

“It’s not that I’m miserable or anything,” I try to explain. “I know fucking strangers means nothing to you. It’s just that. . .” Taking a deep breath, I plunge ahead, knowing he’s going to be annoyed, but this time I need to be honest about my feelings. “It’s just that, I want you all to myself. I don’t want to share you.”

“Justin,” he shakes his head, he’s annoyed all right. “Justin, that’s such a hetero concept, it’s fucking ownership. You can’t own another person.”

“I don’t want to own you – “

“You want to own my cock. Why? Why do you care what I do with my cock? You have all of me that matters.”

“But – “

“Justin,” Brian sighs, sitting down on the edge of the coffee table facing me. “You have everything else. This condo belongs to you too, so you have a say in what goes on here, and I agreed not to bring guys home. You don’t like to watch me tricking so I agreed not to do it around you. But why do you care if I go off alone and fuck other guys once in a while? Monogamy is such a hetero thing, you’re as gay as I am, why are you buying into that straight bullshit?”

“It’s not just straights, Brian,” I protest, “Lots of gay guys do it.”

“Lots of gay guys have dungeons in the basement, do you want one too?”

“Well,” it’s my turn to be annoyed now, “That’s a stupid analogy.”

“Okay, you’re right,” surprisingly Brian agrees. “What I mean is, just because a group of people do something, that’s not proof that it’s right for everybody else. Monogamy is not right for me. Never. That’s just something so basic about me, you have to accept it or - or go away.”

His face looks so bleak it’s scaring me. “I don’t want to go away.” My voice sounds choked up.

“And I don’t want you to go away,” he says gently, leaning forward to take hold of my hand. “I wanted you to come to California with me, remember?”

“You never said that,” I remind him.

He leans his head on one side and raises an eyebrow. “If I didn’t want you to come, you wouldn’t be here. Would you?

“No.”

“I want to live with you,” he says. “I want to come home to you. I want to wake up with you." He pauses, smiles wryly and adds, "And I want to write stupid messages on your back, for Christ’s sake. Do you imagine I’d make a fool of myself like that with anybody else?”

My fingers tighten convulsively in his hand. “Promise you’ll never write on anybody else?”

Brian snorts and shakes his head but he doesn’t let go. “Push, push, push,” he murmurs.

We’re silent for three heartbeats, then he drops his head, stares at the floor. “Fuck.” A moment later he says, “I, Brian Kinney, promise never to write on anybody but Justin Taylor.” Then he raises his head and looks into my eyes. "As long as we both shall live."

With a huge effort I will the tears in my eyes to stay put, not to dare roll over my eyelids and down my cheeks.

"Okay?" he asks.

“Mmm-hmm,” I agree, not trusting myself to speak.

“So now you’ll be okay with me fucking other guys sometimes.”

I nod.

“And you won’t be unhappy about it.”

That’s a hell of a promise to make but I’m trapped by my inability to speak, so all I can do is nod again.

“Okay,” he says briskly, standing up and pulling me to my feet. “Now log off your computer and let’s go to bed, I’m horny as fucking hell.”

Brian turns out the lights and we move into the bedroom, strip off our clothes and meet in the center of the bed. When Brian’s this horny he doesn’t usually like to take his time, but tonight’s an exception, he licks me all over from head to toe, tongue-fucking my belly button, shrimping my toes, softly nibbling on my earlobes; and all the time he’s touching me, caressing me with those magic gentle-rough fingers and murmuring non-words like ‘mmmmm’, and ‘ahhhhmmm,’ and ‘uhhhhh.’ And I’m doing him too, inch by delicious inch, inhaling his Brianscent, tasting his smooth skin, tickling and sucking his tiny nipples. Then he fucks me, lifting my legs to his shoulders and bending down to capture my mouth with his amazing sensual lips, rocking into me slow and fast and slow until I can’t hold on any longer, till my moans grow so urgent that he knows it’s time, and with one final surge he pushes me over the edge, coming right over the edge with me, both of us falling head-first into almost unbearable screaming orgasmic oblivion.

Moments later we’re lying side by side, catching our breath, and Brian leans over to kiss the side of my face. “You awake?” he murmurs.

“. . .no. . .” My eyes are glued shut, I’ve almost slipped into sleep.

“Then you can’t hear me,” he whispers, and he’s right, I can barely hear him, I’m sliding away.

“It’s never like that with anybody else.” His voice is dissolving like mist. “Only with you, Justin,” he breathes. “Only you.”

“Brian – “

“Shh,” he hushes me, “You’re asleep.”

He’s right. I’m asleep.