A Million Miles Away
Brian’s POV
“He’s not coming back.”
“What?”
“I said he’s not coming back. I wouldn’t,” I declared, as I stared through the window at the shiny motorcycle displayed there. I wanted Mikey to think I was totally engrossed in spending my newfound disposable income on something frivolous. Maybe the motorcycle would be my new toy. According to Ted I had plenty of money to dispose of thanks to the success of Kinnetik. The only thing I didn’t have was someone to enjoy it with. The only one I wanted to share it with was a million miles away in California.
“He’s not you,” Michael informed me.
“Get real, Mikey, why would anybody come back to fucking Pittsburgh after they’ve been in LA?” I peered into the window trying to appear totally engrossed in viewing the classic motorcycle.
“But you’re here, and his mom is, and lots of things to bring him back,” Michael protested.
“Justin’s having the time of his life; he’s fucking movie stars. He won’t be coming back,” I restated.
“You don’t know that.” Michael shook his head. “He loves you, Brian. If you’d give him half a chance…”
“It’s time he got on with his life. It’s time I got on with mine,” I said as I left Michael standing by the store window. I hoped I had made it clear that our conversation was finished.
*****
A couple of hours later, I walked into the loft where the intense emptiness seemed to engulf me, like a wave of water that swept over me and wouldn’t let me breathe. Lately I had felt like that every time I entered the loft. It was a feeling I hadn’t been able to shake ever since that phone call with Justin - the one where he said he was going to have to stay longer in L. A. The movie was running behind schedule and he was needed for longer, months longer.
I looked around my loft. It suddenly appeared cold and foreign to me. I might as well be looking at it from underwater. It seemed so strange, so alien, so … blurred.
Everything was the way it always was, I noted with a frown. My modern Italian furniture and my Mies Van der Rohe coffee table stared back at me with cool indifference. Nothing was out of place. It was precisely how I liked it. But somehow it felt wrong. It was all wrong?
Finally getting my breathing to return to close to normal, I studied the space I had called home for many years now. It was all the same, yet … different. None of Justin’s sketchbooks were on the coffee table or the sofa, nor was his computer in the alcove, or his crap lying around the bedroom. Everything was pristine. Just the way a loft should look. Just the way I liked it. It was sexy, cool and elegant like it had been … before Justin Taylor. And like it would be from now on … since Justin was a million miles away and was never coming back.
After a couple of minutes of these maudlin thoughts, I gave myself a mental shake. A smack upside the head would have helped clear the self-pity, but Debbie Novotny wasn’t there to administer it. I needed to take care of this for myself.
I headed for the computer, switching it on without sitting down. I checked for messages on the answering machine while the computer geared up, but there were none. Michael usually left a message every day, but I had just left him. Nobody else seemed to care where I was or what I was doing. And that was just fine with me.
The computer having finally booted up, I started searching some of the porn sites, looking for a likely candidate for this evening’s pleasure. After a few minutes, I found a dark haired, dark eyed Latino with a big dick if his statistics could be believed. I emailed my address and an invitation for an evening of debauchery. The reply was instantaneous. My latest form of pain management was on his way.
*****
I watched with rather detached fascination as my cock moved in and out of Pedro’s ass, or Juan’s ass or fucking Jose’s ass. Whatever his name was, he groaned in satisfaction as my dick hit its mark. It didn’t matter what his name was. His ass was tight and he was more than willing. I wrapped my fingers around a clump of his hair and pulled him back as I drove in. His moans got louder and he started panting. I was getting close and so was he.
Manuel wasn’t a bad fuck, but I found my mind wandering. As I heard my companion climax, I knew I was merely going through the paces. I continued to pound into him, hoping for release … and relief from the thoughts my brain kept dredging up. Or maybe it was my oft maligned heart that was conjuring up the images in my head.
While I fucked this guy, I was actually a million miles away with another partner, who was never coming back.
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