January 2002

Just like I did every weekday morning of my life, I parked my Jeep in my designated space on the first floor of the parking garage next to the twenty-story office building where I worked. This, however, was not going to be a normal day, especially since I may find myself without a job or a parking space with my name on it before the day was over.

After walking into the first floor lobby, I saw a gorgeous man in an expensive brown suit waiting in front of the elevators. He had a gray overcoat draped over his arm, was my height, six foot two, and also matched me in build. I would guess that he was probably a few years younger than my thirty years of age. He had shaggy dirty-blonde hair and what I saw were light-blue eyes, once he turned to look at me. He made my highly-accurate gaydar blare like a tornado siren and my dick stirred in response to new meat.

"Morning," he said.

I made no attempt to hide the fact that I was nothing but interested. "How's it going?" I asked after slowly licking my lips.

He stared at my mouth before dropping his eyes down to my crotch. "Good."

Gotcha, stud. I'm never wrong.

The elevator doors opened and we both stepped inside. I hit the button for the sixteenth floor and he hit the one for the eighteenth, where test shoots were commonly done next door to the art department.

"I didn't know that anyone was interviewing models today," I said to the guy after the doors closed.

He chuckled a bit. "I'm not a model."

"Well, you should be... you're hot," I said to him before the elevator stopped on my floor. I gave him one last glance before walking out.

"Good morning, sir," an unfamiliar young woman said to me from behind the desk as I walked toward the reception area.

"That's Mr. Kinney to you," I informed her as I looked up at the brand-spanking-newVangard Advertising sign over the desk.

They sure didn't wait to move in...

"Good morning, Mr. Kinney," the receptionist repeated, a sultry smile on her face. She was clearly checking me out in my gray suit from Monsieur Honeycutt's previous fall collection, which I looked quite handsome in, if I must say. I had my favorite black Armani overcoat open on top.

Although I hadn't fucked a woman since college - and even then, it was a fluke - I gave her my best smile. "Good morning, Miss...?"

"Audrey," she filled in, licking her lips much like I did in front of Model Boy moments before.

Ugh... straight women. If only she knew how many men I've fucked in my lifetime. Hell, I'm not sure how many I've fucked, since I lost count years ago.

I smiled at her again before rounding the corner and heading toward my office. At least, I hoped that it was still my office...

Despite the fact that the asshole guaranteed me a promotion to partner if we had another five million-plus year, my former boss Marty Ryder sold his agency to Gardner Vance, finalizing the deal and informing me of it the previous day. Vance would be relocating his Chicago office to Pittsburgh, which left my future in the company up in the air. In the meantime, I was going to go on about my usual business until I heard otherwise - kicking ass and taking names in the ball-busting world of advertising.

Speaking of ball busters, the current account I was working on, which I had just signed the previous week, was for menswear designer Monsieur Honeycutt's spring collection. Emmett Honeycutt, a flaming French queen that would no doubt make Marie Antoinette's headless corpse roll over in her grave, had just split from his former agency based in London. Rumor had it that not only did Honeycutt hate what they had pitched to him for his spring ads, he also had a lover's quarrel with the ad man in charge of the campaign and somehow got his lawyer to void their contract.

I had met Honeycutt during Fashion Week in New York the previous September, where I was handing out my business cards and kissing ass like a shameless whore. Honeycutt was immediately taken with me, and after a party in which I had gotten properly shitfaced on Dom Pérignon and Johnny Walker Blue Label, Honeycutt invited me to his suite at the Waldorf-Astoria. Although he spoke choppy English in a thick French accent, I could always tell when a man wanted my dick without him saying a word.

Despite Honeycutt not being my usual type, I fucked the man until dawn. He had a huge dick, rimmed me for nearly an hour straight, and had no gag reflex, but his ass was very worn out - not a good combination, for a flamboyant bottom like him. Although I hadn't bottomed since Pa Bush left office, I was seriously considering taking a ride on Honeycutt before the man passed out from exhaustion.

Man can't live on oral alone...

Anyway, Honeycutt had kept my card and his agent had given me a call right before Christmas with an offer to take over his spring campaign. Honeycutt flew in from Gay Paris the day after New Year's and signed on the dotted line, but not before he insisted I take him out for a night on the town on Liberty Avenue, which he had read about online. I hooked him up with a bear that I knew loved getting his ass eaten, since I never did repeats.

Honeycutt's sudden departure from his old firm gave me less than a month to come up with a brilliant concept, shoot the ads, and submit them to all the top magazines before the end of that month to be printed in March issues. It would be difficult, but not impossible. Although Honeycutt had no choice but to approve the ads because of the time crunch, I was still determined to create the best campaign possible, per my well-earned reputation. I was hoping that the campaign would open doors for other designers to sign with us, as Honeycutt was the first major fashion house to do so.

Since it was currently early January and colder than a witch's tit in my part of the globe, a crew of photographers, hair and make up artists, wardrobe assistants, male models, and a select few lucky folks from the agency would be going to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico for the shoot in two weeks. My assistant, Cynthia, and I were supposed to go, but that all depended on whether I was still employed by Vangard at that time. I was bringing Cynthia along because she deserved a nice vacation after putting in tons of overtime before the holiday season.

I was flipping through a thick binder of photographs of male models - hardly any of as hot as Model Boy from the elevator - in my office when Cynthia knocked on my door.

"Mr. Vance wants to speak to you in the conference room upstairs," she said in a worried tone.

I stood up from my desk and straightened my tie and jacket. "Relax, Cyn. I'm sure it's going to be fine." Holy fuck, I hoped so... "Ryder said that he'd put in a good word for me with Vance."

Cynthia snorted. "You trust Ryder to keep to his word, after what he did? Just up and selling the firm out of nowhere after promising you-"

"Hey," I said to her as I put my hands on her shoulders to calm her down. "Whatever happens, happens, Cyn. Even if Vance decides he doesn't need me, I'll take you wherever I go, okay? There's no other assistant in the world that would put up with my bullshit like you do. You're the closest thing to a wife I'll ever have, and I don't plan on divorcing you any time soon."

Cynthia gave me a grateful smile as her eyes brimmed with tears. "Thanks, Boss."

I got into the elevator and rode up to the top floor, where the executive conference room and what used to be Ryder's personal office were located. I imagined that there were workers putting up new wallpaper in the office at that very moment.

Who I guessed was Vance's secretary walked me to the conference room and opened the door for me. Sitting at the head of the massive mahogany table was a bald Italian-looking guy in his forties with a head like a bowling ball. He was wearing a nice suit, at least, which took some attention away from his massive dome.

I walked towards him and the man rose. He stuck out his right hand.

"Gardner Vance," he said in a faint British accent.

"Brian Kinney," I said as I shook his hand in a tight grip.

"Sit," Vance instructed, making no scruples about letting me know who was in charge.

He retook his seat and I took one a few chairs down from him. They say to keep your enemies close, but...

"Ryder tells me that you're the best account exec he's got," Vance said.

"He's right," I said.

Damned right, buddy. I had brought in a third of Ryder's accounts, more than any other executive at his firm.

"Which is why I fired everyone else," Vance informed me.

I raised my eyebrows in surprise, but tried to play it cool. "I've always hated those long lines at the water cooler." I especially wasn't going to miss the two boneheads I was always stuck babysitting, Bob and Brad...

I gave him a tiny smile.

"He also tells me that you are arrogant, willful, and... insubordinate." Vance added.

Ha... thanks a lot, Ryder. "I'll try my best to live up to my reputation," I said proudly.

"Why don't you start by telling me why I shouldn't fire you, too?" 

I thought about it for a few moments and delivered a speech about how I knew more about the company than he did, how my clients were loyal to me and would follow me if I left, and how he'd get more out of me than some talentless toady he'd bring in for half my salary.

After he told me that he had done his homework on the company and that he knew I would never be a loyal employee to him, he said something that surprised the hell out of me.

"Rumor has it that you're gay."

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "The rumor's right, but unless I'm fuckingyou, it's none of your business."

He looked amused. "Actually, it is. I'm willing to keep you on for one reason and one reason only: all but one of your clients agreed to stay with my firm with or without you... and that one holdout is Emmett Honeycutt."

"Is that so?" I asked, trying not to smile.

"I spoke with him personally on the phone over the weekend, and if my French is correct, he said that unless I kept you on, he would ruin me by telling the whole world that I am, as he said, a ‘homophobic cunt.'"

I couldn't help but chuckle. "Well, I'll be sure to tell Monsieur Honeycutt ‘merci' next time I talk to him."

He gave me a stiff smile. "Per your contract with Ryder, which he transferred to me, you will maintain your current salary and benefits. You may also keep your current office, your company credit card, and your title of ‘Account Manager.'"

I nodded slowly. No partnership with the accompanying pay increase and profit share, but at least I wouldn't be losing anything. Except... "May I can keep my assistant, Cynthia Moore, too?" I asked.

Vance told me that she could stay before the door to the conference room opened.

"Oh, Brandon, there you are," Vance said.

I turned to see Model Boy walking towards us. "Sorry I'm late," Model Boy said to Vance, "but I was on the phone with Raul Stevens."

Raul Stevens was the name of the photographer who would be doing the shoot in Mexico, and I was expecting a call from him that morning.

What... The... Fuck.

"Oh, that's quite alright," Vance said. "I'm just getting acquainted with our new account manager from Ryder. Brandon Greene, this is Brian Kinney."

I stood up and grasped Model Boy's... uh, Brandon's hand, unable to find anything to say to him.

"Brian, Brandon is a partner of my firm, and you will be working directly under him," Vance announced.

"Oh... it will be a pleasure," I said tongue-in-cheek as I continued to shake Brandon's hand, which he seemed to be in no hurry to take back.

I prefer to be on top, but as long as my dick is buried in his ass...

"Brandon will also be running point on the Honeycutt campaign and he'll be accompanying you to the photo shoot in Mexico," Vance casually added.

I abruptly pulled my hand out of Brandon's grasp. "What?" I asked as I turned my head to look back at Vance. "That's my account, and nobody dances center stage when I'm running the show."

"Well, Monsieur Honeycutt said that he didn't mind if someone else was in charge, as long as you were still on the campaign and we didn't 'fuck it up,'" Vance said, gesturing with air quotes around the last three words like he was Dr. Evil. "I assured him that Brandon knows what he's doing. This account opens us up to acquiring other international clients in the future, and I want the best members of my company working on it."

I took a calming breath as Brandon placed a hand on my shoulder and said, "Don't worry Brian. We're going to get along famously."

I turned to give Brandon a forced smile. "I just bet we will."

"We don't have much time before the shoot, so I put a team together to work on the campaign and they're waiting for us to join them down in the conference room next to the art department."

"Ah, yes Brian, you must meet my art director," Vance said, as if we were talking over tea. "He interned for me when he was a student at the Art Institute of Chicago and I gave him a job after he graduated about two years ago. He's still quite young, but he's the most talented and competent member of my art department, which was why I put him in charge after my old art director decided to stay in Chicago with his family. He's remarkable."

"You're gonna love him," Brandon chimed in.

After we said au revoir to Vance, Brandon and I walked down the hall to the elevator.

"Why didn't you tell me who you were earlier?" I asked him.

"You didn't ask, nor did you introduce yourself, either," he said. "You were too busy undressing me with your eyes."

I hit the down button for the elevator. "I asked you if you were a model, and you said no. That was an opening for you to tell me who you actually were."

Brandon smirked at me. "Well, the next time you give me an opening, I'll be sure to take it."

The elevator doors opened and we stepped inside. I hit the button for the eighteenth floor.

I turned to him and said, "Trust me, pal, if anyone is going to be opening around here, it won't be me."

"Oh, really?" he asked.

"Mmm," I confirmed.

"We'll see about that," he said before the doors opened at the eighteenth floor.

We walked down the hall into the large room where the art department was housed. I looked around and saw that Vance had kept no one from Ryder's art department. I almost felt special, being the only one from Ryder's creative camp that Vance chose to keep.

"Taylor," Brandon called out to someone in the room.

A few moments later a short, thin blonde boy, probably no more than five foot nine and a buck fifty who looked about fifteen years old came walking over to us.

"Justin Taylor, this is Brian Kinney," Brandon said to the blonde. "Mr. Kinney will be part of the team working on the Honeycutt campaign."

Part of the team... shit, I haven't been "part" of a team in years. Just like in bed, I always worked best when I'm in charge.

"Taylor is our art director," Brandon said to me.

Justin had big blue eyes, pouty pink lips, and a flawless fair complexion. Doing the math, I figured that he was around twenty-four years old. The only appropriate adjective I could think to describe him at that moment was "beautiful" as my gaydar blared again. His blue v-neck sweater complimented his eyes perfectly, and under it he wore a white collared shirt and a tie pattered with Tweety Bird, which complemented his hair.

Vance sure knew how to hire beautiful gay men... even if this one did have questionable taste in ties.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Kinney," Justin said as he stuck his right hand out to me.

"Brian, please," I said as I took his hand. He had a surprisingly strong handshake for such a dainty-looking guy. I felt the squeeze of his hand all the way down to my cock.

"Brian," he repeated before letting my hand go. I could practically taste whatever kind of minty gum he was chewing and it was delicious.

Brandon led us into the small conference room as if he owned the joint, although it was his first time in the building, from what I knew. He introduced me to a woman named Carrie Samson, another one of Vance's ad execs. She was wearing a conservative black pants suit with a cream-colored silk blouse, appearing as young as Justin did, making me feel very old since she and I were nearly on the same rung of the company ladder.

Justin had brought in a couple of his artists to work with us. One was a young woman named Melissa Ford, whose appearance screamed "tortured artist." Her short jet-black hair looked like it had been cut with hedge trimmers. She was wearing a tight black sweater, a black vinyl mini-skirt, black fishnet pantyhose, and black platform knee-high boots. Her eyes were lined heavily in black and her lips were painted a deep ruby red. Her long fingernails were, of course, painted black and her ears were pierced at least a dozen times with silver studs and hoops.

The other artist was a man named Jerry Hatcher, who looked to be about forty years old. Jerry was wearing a boring white button-up shirt, plain black tie, and black slacks. He was invisible next to Melissa, which may have been what he was aiming for.

The six of us spent the next hour discussing the campaign before we broke for lunch. We decided that although the photoshoot would take place in a beach resort town, very few of the shots beyond ones of the models wearing Honeycutt's beachwear would be taken on the beach. We would take advantage of the beautiful local architecture and flora when showcasing Honeycutt's suits and ready-to-wear line. Melissa and Jerry would fly down to Puerto Vallarta that weekend to scout locations.

Although it was quite chilly out, I walked down to a café on the next block to get some lunch. As I sat down at a small table with my cob salad, Justin walked in.

While he was waiting in line at the counter, I had a perfect view of his bubble butt from my seat. He was wearing a black wool coat, but luckily it wasn't cut any lower than the top of his khaki pants, allowing me to see the goods unobstructed.

After receiving his meal, he turned around to find a place to sit and locked eyes with me. The café was quite busy and there were few empty chairs available.

He carried his tray over to me and smiled wide, making my cock twitch in my pants. "Do you mind if I sit with you?"

"Not at all," I said before he sat his tray down on the table and took the chair across from mine.

I looked down at the offerings on his tray. He had what looked like a BLT on sourdough, a bowl of broccoli cheddar soup, a baguette, and an iced tea. I could practically see the sugar floating in the tea.

"Jesus, how can you eat all that shit?" I asked him.

He looked at me curiously. "What shit?"

"All the carbs and fat on your tray."

"I love eating carbs and fat. I was blessed with a fast metabolism," he said before taking a bite of his sandwich. The mayo dripped onto the plate. "I don't know how you eat that shit," he said, referring to my salad. "I only eat lettuce if it's on a sandwich."

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk with your mouth full?" I asked him.

"Well, my mom's over four hundred miles away, so..." He shrugged before taking another bite.

"Lucky you," I mumbled. "So, I guess you just dropped everything to move out here when Vance said that he was relocating?"

Justin tore off a piece of his baguette and dunked it into his soup. "Well, I had just gotten out of a shitty relationship, so I was eager to get the hell out of Chicago. Plus, the offer to run the department along with a nice pay increase sweetened the deal."

"I guess you found an apartment in town?" I asked, although I had no clue why. I was certainly not the type to carry on a conversation with a virtual stranger over a meal... or ever.

"Yeah, I found a little studio apartment near the, uh..." He suddenly looked apprehensive. "...Gay neighborhood."

I chuckled. "Relax, I'm a fag, too."

He slumped in his chair in relief. "Oh, good."

I cocked an eyebrow at him.

He bit his bottom lip. "I don't mean good, like ‘whoo-hoo' good. I mean..."

I laughed at how adorably goofy and awkward he was, like a Golden Retriever puppy. I almost wanted to take him home and keep him as a pet.

"You're in good company," I assured him.

"Brandon's gay too, you know."

I placed my hand over my heart as I feigned surprise. "Really? I had no idea."

He gave me a big smile. "I didn't know until he invited me to go to a gay bar on North Halstead Street in Chicago for a drink after work one night when I was interning at Vangard during my senior year. Apparently, I'm more obvious than I thought I was."

"I knew you were both gay the second I laid eyes on you," I said. "He barely looks older than you. Was he already a partner at that time?"

"No, he was fresh out of graduate school then. Vance didn't make Brandon a partner until last year after he signed Brown Athletics, which was Vance's dream account. Vance doesn't know it, but Brandon was only able to get a meeting with Leo Brown after fucking Brown's assistant in the copy room. Brandon is originally from Los Angeles and Vance used to work at a firm there with Brandon's dad. Vance offered Brandon a job in Chicago after he got his MBA from UCLA.

"He's twenty-seven now," Justin continued. "I just turned twenty-four last month. How old are you?"

Blech, my least favorite question to answer. "I'll be thirty-one in May." I watched him as he continued to dunk chunks of bread in his soup. "Did you go... to the bar with Brandon, I mean?"

He popped the sopping chunk into his mouth and nodded. I could see a light pink blush on his cheeks.

"You fucked him, didn't you?" I asked.

"No... He fucked me."

I chuckled. "Sorry, my mistake."

"But it was just a one-time thing," Justin insisted. "Before we got started, he told me that he doesn't fuck a guy for more than one night."

A man after my own heart... "Hmm," I said.

"And, he also said he never bottoms," Justin added.

This just gets better by the second.

"But still, his hands and his mouth were everywhere."

"How many times did he make you cum?" I asked.

He chuckled and shook his head at my bluntness. "Wow. Uh... three, I think."

"How big is his dick?" I asked next.

Justin's eyes nearly bugged out as he looked from left to right at the people sitting near us. "What?!" he scream-whispered. "I... it's not like I had a tape measure or anything."

"Well, was it like...?" I raised my hands up, palms facing each other, and parted them about four inches.

Justin made a funny face. "I don't remember. It was three years ago, and like I said, it was only one night."

"Was it bigger than yours?" I asked.

He pressed his lips into a flat line. "Like, an inch, maybe."

"I'm sure you look at your morning wood every day after you get up to take a piss. Show me how big yours is."

He sighed before placing his hands lightly around my wrists. He parted them another three inches, making seven.

"That's respectable," I said. "Mine's about..." I then parted my hands another two inches.

Justin raised his eyebrows. "I don't think Brandon was quite that big."

I buffed my nails on my lapel. "We all can't be. Is he circumcised?"

He snorted. "Yeah... uncut dicks scare me. They're so ugly and you have to hold the skin back when you blow them. No, thank you."

"I'm uncut," I claimed.

"Oh... sorry," he said, looking quite verklempt. Oy vey.

I smiled. "I'm kidding."

He burst out laughing, placing a hand over his heart. "You had me worried there for a second."

"Of course, girth is important, too."

"Of course," he echoed in agreement.

"But, having the biggest dick in the world don't mean a damn if you don't know what to do with it," I added.

"Amen," he said, looking up towards Heaven, if there was such a place.

We spent another ten minutes talking about cock until we both finished with our meals.