DARK ROOTS
Part 7: Boomerang
Brian
“Mmm,” Justin murmurs as we kiss, “I missed you.” He wraps his arms around my
neck and pulls down my head for another kiss, then murmurs against my lips, “Did
you miss me too?”
“It was a quick business trip, I was only gone one night.”
“Yeah,” he agrees, “But did you miss me?”
“Possibly.” I turn around then and move toward the bedroom, keeping one arm
wrapped around Justin and dragging him along with me. I dump my raincoat and
leather garment bag down on the bed, unzip the bag and pull out my suit. Justin
reaches past me to grab my toiletries bag from the bottom and carries it into
the bathroom while I hang up my suit and put my shoes on the shoe rack. He
returns to grab my raincoat, shakes out the wrinkles and reaches for a hanger.
I change into jeans and I’m pulling a white tee over my head when Justin says,
“Brian.”
“Hmm?” I smooth down the tee and turn around to see that Justin’s holding my
airline ticket stub in his hand. It was in my coat pocket; I meant to throw that
away when I got off the plane.
“You went to Boston?” he asks, surprised. “I thought you were going to
Cleveland.”
“Plans changed a couple days ago, thought I told you. Do you want to go out for
dinner or order in?”
“I had dinner at Deb’s last night, there’s a ton of leftover lasagna in the
fridge.”
“Good, I’m hungry,” I announce, moving down the steps and into the kitchen with
Justin on my heels.
“How was Boston?”
“Overcast, a little chilly.” I open the fridge and pull out a bottle of beer. I
hold it up in the air without turning around and ask, “Want one?”
“Sure. Uh, Brian. Have you been to Boston before?”
“Yeah.” I hand him a bottle. “We can just eat the lasagna cold, right?”
“You are so lazy!” Justin exclaims, pushing past me to pull a Tupperware
container from the fridge. He pops the lid and shoves it into the microwave. I
congratulate myself for distracting him and take a seat at the counter, sipping
my beer and watching Justin pull plates and silverware from the cupboard and set
them on top of the counter.
“I was only ever in Boston once,” he says; he’s not distracted after all. He
climbs on the other stool and takes a swig of beer. “I thought it was a cool
city but there wasn’t time for sightseeing, Dad took me to look at colleges on
the east coast. I was going to apply to Harvard but changed my mind.”
“Think you’d have got in?”
“Maybe,” he shrugs, “But Dad went to Dartmouth so of course that’s the school he
wanted for me.”
“You’d have wowed them at Dartmouth,” I tell him, wondering why I don’t feel
jealous of the opportunities Justin so blithely dismisses.
Maybe because I know the price he paid for the privilege of his childhood years.
People sometimes think Justin had it easy growing up, but it’s not true. I got a
glimpse of his life that time I took him home and tried to fix things up, after
he was disowned by his dad. Craig Taylor was just as belligerent and domineering
as my own – as Jack was; only he was wrapped up in a more refined,
upper-middle-class package.
Justin’s told me that he felt like he could never measure up to his dad’s high
expectations. Being queer and an artist were the final straws that cost him his
father. And there was plenty of evidence how easily Mother Taylor gave up on her
son time after time, fobbing him off on me whenever things got tough. Just
because I was okay with that, and just because Justin wanted to be fobbed off on
me, doesn’t change the fact that he was hurt by it. Not that he’s ever
complained about his mom, but I know.
“You really think I’d have done well at Dartmouth?” Justin beams now and his
cheeks turn pink; he looks like a smirking cherub. He doesn’t need a lot of
praise, but he always eats it up.
“Sure. You have above-average intelligence and you’re usually fairly competent.”
Justin grins. “Don’t overdo it, Brian, or I might get a swelled head.”
Sliding my hand over his thigh and into his lap, I fondle his khaki-covered
cock, murmuring, “Let me see if it’s swelling.”
Justin snickers and swats away my hand just as the microwave buzzes. He jumps
down and retrieves the Tupperware and a serving spoon, sets it down between us
and peels off the lid, then spoons us each a scoop of Debbie’s homemade lasagna.
Justin
I’m curious about Brian’s business trip to Boston. He’s being casually offhand
about it, which either means (a) that it was strictly business or (b) that it
was more than business. Sometimes I can tell when Brian’s hiding something, but
not always. He’s very good at covering his tracks. I decide to let it go for
now, and “What are you doing tomorrow?” I ask, as we dig into our plates full of
lasagna.
Brian swallows and shrugs. “The usual. Gym in the morning, Kinnetik for a few
hours, Babylon tomorrow night.”
“You spend every weekend at work,” I point out.
“I’m the boss, it’s necessary. Running your own business always takes more time
than being an employee. Besides,” he adds, raising a forkful of pasta to his
mouth, “I enjoy it.”
“You’re a workaholic.”
“Yeah,” Brian agrees, “And an alcoholic and a sexoholic. ‘Holic’ is my middle
name.”
“You’re not an alcoholic,” I deny it. “You hardly ever get drunk any more. It’s
a sign of maturity.”
“Fuck that. It’s a sign that I need to keep a clear head. At least sometimes.”
Brian takes another bite, then pushes his plate away, he’s only eaten half his
lasagna. “We can get loaded tomorrow night,” he suggests, “And sleep in on
Sunday.”
“Can’t,” I shake my head, “I’ve got early shift at the diner Sunday morning.”
Brian frowns. “Quit that fucking job, why don’t you?”
Swallowing my last bite, I shake my head. “I can’t, I need it. At least until I
find something else.”
Exasperated, he growls, “I’ve told you a million times you can work part-time at
Kinnetik.” When I open my mouth to protest, Brian insists, “And it’s not fucking
charity, if that’s what’s stopping you – I’d work your ass off.”
“I know, and I appreciate the offer, but no,” I‘m resolute. “I think it’s really
important for our relationship, that we keep our personal lives separate from
our careers.”
“Did Dr. Phil tell you that?” Brian’s annoyed, he doesn’t wait for an answer but
gets up abruptly and carries his plate to the sink. “I’m going to take a
shower,” he says as he walks past me. “Don’t run the water till I’m done.”
Which means that I am not invited to join him, which means that he’s really very
pissed off. This is an old argument between us and I’m not going to budge. I
honestly think it would be a mistake for me to have Brian as my boss. It’s hard
enough maintaining the illusion of an equal partnership, especially when I’m not
contributing anything substantial financially, without adding the pressures of
work on top of things.
I’m at my computer when Brian finally comes out of the bathroom. I realize that
my shoulders are tense, I’m waiting to see if he’s going to put on his tricking
clothes. But he doesn’t, he just pulls on his black silk robe and pads barefoot
down the steps and stops behind me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and I lean
my head backward to look up at him. “Hey,” he says, and the sultriness of his
voice lets me know what he wants. Then he bends his head and gives me an
upside-down kiss. “Hey,” he says again, “Wanna fuck?”
Brian
All day Saturday I purposely don’t think about the promise Dr. Shaughnessy made
to call me. Both my home and work numbers are on the papers I filled out in his
office, so if he wants to contact me, he can. If he doesn’t want to, well that’s
okay too.
I spend two hours at the gym, and though a couple lookers give me the eye in the
sauna, I ignore them, preferring just to relax in the steam and think about
work. Cynthia joins me at the office, which she doesn’t have to do on weekends,
but she’s as much of a workaholic as I am.
Cynthia’s been loyal and she’s part of the reason Kinnetik has done so well. Of
course I’ve rewarded her financially, and I gave her diamond earrings last
Christmas. But probably I should be doing more of the bullshit appreciative-boss
routine. Or anyway that’s what Justin claims; in fact the little asshole took it
upon himself to send Cynthia flowers on her last birthday. He signed my name to
the card but of course she saw right through that. I was standing at her desk
when the flowers were delivered, and unfortunately I was ragging on her about
it, suggesting that her boyfriend sent flowers to thank her for a terrific fuck
the night before. When she opened the card and read it, she laughed right out
loud. Then she handed me the card and I barely had time to read “Regards, Brian”
when Cynthia noted dryly, “Be sure to tell Justin thank-you.”
We don’t waste time on niceties this afternoon, another thing I like about
Cynthia; we immediately get to work on two projects on the front burner for next
week, a prospective print campaign for a new client and a proposed new focus for
Brown Athletics. I’m concentrating on a contact sheet of underwear model photos
and I’m annoyed when my cell phone rings. A glance shows that Justin’s the
caller, so I answer by impatiently barking, “You know I’m at work, why not call
the office number?”
“Because, Brian, you’d let it put me into voicemail, and I wanted to talk to you
in person.”
He’s right of course. “Well make it fast, I’m busy.”
“Okay,” he agrees, “I just wanted to see if you still plan to go to Babylon
tonight? Because,” he adds quickly, “Judy called and she’s invited us to a
party.”
“Who the fuck is Judy?” I drop the contact sheet and pick up another one, only
giving half an ear to Justin.
Patiently he answers, “She’s the teaching assistant in my one of my classes, you
met her at the art show last month, remember?”
“So, is this is one of your artsy-fartsy school chum get-togethers?”
Christ, I went to one of those parties before, the most boring evening
imaginable, and cheap wine to boot.
“Yeah,” Justin answers shortly; he’s annoyed. There’s a pause, then he says, “I
guess that means you don’t want to go. Which,” he sighs, “Is cool. I just wanted
to invite you.”
“I’d rather go to Babylon,” I answer honestly. The fact that I’m at least a
decade older than most of the people at those parties has nothing to do with it
of course.
“Fine.” Justin pauses again, then asks, “So, will you be home for dinner, or
what?”
I’m getting impatient, I need to concentrate on work, and besides, I hate being
pinned down. “I don’t know when I’ll be home. Just do your own thing and don’t
worry about me.”
“Okay.” I can hear the annoyance in Justin’s voice but I don’t have time to deal
with it right now. “See you whenever,” he adds.
I stop concentrating on the contact sheet and think about our conversation.
Probably I’m being an asshole. With a long-suffering sigh, I say, “Justin - “
But he’s hung up already. I consider calling him back, but what’s the point? I
really don’t want to go to that party.
Justin
Of course I’m not surprised that Brian said no, but I can’t help being
disappointed. I’ve worked hard over the years to fit myself into Brian’s world,
with his friends and his adopted family, and I wish he’d make an effort to do
the same for me. Well, he’s fine with Mom, but he’s just not very interested in
what goes on at my school.
Not that I’ve made a lot of friends among the other students myself. I’ve always
been something of a loner, in high school and now in college. I remember telling
Ethan once that I’m not antisocial, but I just don’t like people. That’s not
exactly true but it’s close enough. Daphne’s been my best friend since childhood
and of course I’m sort-of friends with the people Brian hangs with. Still,
sometimes I wonder if I’m missing something, not being part of a circle of
college friends. That’s why I accepted Judy’s invitation to the party tonight.
I arrive at the party fashionably late and within a short time, and to my
surprise, I discover that I’m enjoying myself. Judy’s a lesbian and most of the
people she invited are gay, though she included some token heteros. I haven’t
known very many gay people my own age and it’s fun to be with people who share
my taste in music, and of course we all share our interest in art. We talk about
our classes and our teachers and our chosen career fields. I realize once again
that I’m torn between pursuing fine arts or animation. I get into a fascinating
discussion of print versus screen animation with a straight guy named Charlie,
Sherry who’s a lesbian, and Bailey, who’s this cute first-year kid who told us
he just came out to his family a few months ago.
The party breaks up about midnight, Judy has some family thing on Sunday; but
Charlie, Sherry and Bailey and I are so intensely into our conversation that we
bunch together on the sidewalk outside Judy’s apartment and continue our
discussion for a while. Eventually Bailey suggests adjourning to some all-night
café, I’m game but the others beg off, they say goodnight and walk away. Bailey
and I look at each other, we’re both feeling a bit let-down that our discussion
is ending.
“It’s okay,” I tell him, “You and I can still go for coffee.”
“Could we maybe go to your place?” Bailey asks tentatively. “You said you’d show
me your software program sometime.”
“Oh.” I glance at my watch and Bailey adds quickly, “If it’s not too late?”
It’s twelve-fifteen; Brian’s at Babylon, I remember he said that he wanted to
get loaded tonight and sleep in tomorrow, so he probably won’t be home for a
couple hours. “Sure,” I shrug, “Why not?”
It turns out that Bailey has his own car, it’s an old blue Toyota with a dented
fender but at least he has transportation, which reminds me (as if I need a
reminder) that I’m almost twenty-one and I’ve never owned a car, not even a
piece of junk like Bailey’s. It’s a short trip to the loft; I make sure to peek
into the garage to check that the ‘vette’s not there, then we take the elevator.
Tossing my jacket on the sofa, I lead the way into the kitchen and start the
coffee-maker while Bailey moves around the loft checking the place out. He’s
impressed and does of lot of ooh-ing and ahh-ing, which makes me smile,
remembering my own reaction to seeing the loft for the first time – I was
probably his age back then. I grab hold of Brian’s desk chair and push it across
the floor to my desk and tell Bailey to have a seat, then I fill two cups with
coffee.
“Cream, sugar?” I ask and when he says yes, I fix both cups and carry them over
to the desk, hand him one and sit down in my own chair. Then I boot up my
computer and begin to give Bailey a demonstration of my software. I’m really
happy with the new version I got two weeks ago. We’re checking out the features
and looking at some of the work in my on-line portfolio; naturally Bailey’s most
interested in all my nude sketches of Brian, who wouldn’t be?
“Amazing,” he exclaims, “Just beautiful.”
“Yeah, he is,” I agree a bit dryly – I’m beginning to wonder if asking to see my
software was just a ploy by Bailey to get next to Brian. Maybe he was hoping
Brian would be home tonight. Guys are always hot for him, and this wouldn’t be
the first time somebody pretended to be friendly with me just so they could meet
him..
“Brian’s out for the evening,” I emphasize; “He won’t be home for a long time.”
The face Bailey turns toward me is smiling, his eyes light up. “Oh good,” he
breathes, then I watch as he lifts his hand from where it was resting on his
thigh, and tentatively moves it over to rest on top of my thigh. Then Bailey
leans toward me, closing his eyes.
Quickly I roll my chair backwards a few inches. Oh shit. “What are you doing?” I
ask, as if I truly don’t know.
“N-Nothing!” Bailey exclaims, snatching his hand back. “Only. . .” When I say
nothing, just stare back at him, Bailey’s face is flushed. “I’m sorry.” He licks
his lips, then adds, “I thought you meant. . .that you wanted me to. . .ummm.”
“No!” I deny it. Then I shake my head and repeat more gently, “No, I’m sorry. I
thought you knew that Brian and I are partners.”
“Well of course, everybody knows that. But yesterday Kelly told me that you
guys. . .umm, mess around.” Bailey’s still blushing, now both his hands are
clutched together in his lap.
“Who’s Kelly?”
“This guy I met in Woody’s.”
“People talk too much,” I say mildly. “Let’s get back to the computer, okay?”
“Sure, sure, of course.” Bailey lifts his cup and drains it and then focuses his
attention on the computer monitor. After a while we both relax and our
conversation gets back to normal.
Brian
Of all the boring people in Babylon, I get stuck talking to Ted, both of us
leaning our elbows back against the bar while we watch the dance floor, while I
reject one aspiring trick after another. Either I’ve had them before or they
don’t measure up to my exacting requirements. At first I think Ted’s staying
close to me to pick up on my rejects – he’s used that strategy before; but he’s
not doing it tonight.
Ted’s earned my grudging respect the past year or so. He earns his keep at
Kinnetik and the self-confidence he’s developed there has improved more than his
wardrobe, he’s almost (though wild horses couldn’t drag the admission from my
lips) sexy. Or anyway, he’s less of a loser than he used to be, and he snags his
fair share of tricks now without having to accept the dregs I’ve kicked aside.
Of course he’s not above harassing me each time I shake my head “no” at some
guy. Finally after I turn away a slim redhead who, I have to admit, is pretty
fucking hot, Ted drawls, “Why don’t you just admit that what you really want is
waiting for you at home?”
“You don’t know what I want,” I cast a disdainful sideways glance at him. “Just
because you’ll fuck anything that moves. . .”
“So did you, in the old days,” he smirks at me. “In the old ‘B.J.’ days.”
I won’t gratify him by asking what “B.J.” means. Besides, it’s obvious he means
“Before Justin.” He’s wrong anyway, I’ve always had high standards. Okay, maybe
sometimes if I ingested some bad dope, I might not have been as selective as
usual. And there were a few times I accepted a second-rate blowjob in the alley
if I were in a hurry to get home. But ninety-nine times out of a hundred, a
trick had to be supremely fuckable before I’d shove my cock down his throat.
Ted’s silent for a moment, then he laughs. “Hey,” he guesses, “I’ll bet Justin’s
NOT waiting for you at home tonight, or you’d have left an hour ago.” I give him
a look and curl my lip disdainfully but when I say nothing, Ted laughs again.
“Bingo. Where’s he at tonight?”
I’m not going to answer him. Then I do. I shrug and say carelessly, “Here’s at a
party.”
“You weren’t invited? Or is it a party just for two?”
“Fuck you.” I keep my voice level, no way is Ted Schmidt getting under my skin.
“I don’t do kiddie parties. And,” I add, “Justin’s not - “
I stop abruptly; why am I explaining anything to Ted?
“Justin’s not into anonymous tricking,” he finishes my sentence. “Some deal
you’ve got going there. You get to fuck around and he stays monogamous.”
Now Ted’s crossed the line of interfering in my private life. Something
everybody in our meddling extended family does all the damned time. “You’re just
fucking jealous,” is all I can think of to say, though immediately I regret my
embarrassingly childish words. How can some schmuck like Ted Schmidt make me
lose my cool?
Ted says something else but I don’t hear his words, instead I push away from the
bar and move quickly through the crowd toward the exit, stopping to pick up my
jacket and shrugging it on, descending the back stairs and heading down the
alley to where I parked the ‘vette.
I cool down on the drive home. A glance at the dashboard clock shows that it’s
quarter to one, and I feel vaguely cheered when I realize that Justin’s probably
home from his party by now. He’s working tomorrow morning but I’m sure I can
talk him into sharing a joint and having a long slow fuck before going to sleep
tonight. After parking, I run up the stairs, pausing to swear under my breath
when I discover that Justin left the door unlocked again. I push it open and
stride into the loft, pulling off my jacket and throwing it onto the back of my
desk chair.
With a blink I realize that my chair’s missing, I’ve thrown my jacket onto the
floor. Then I twist my head around when I hear Justin exclaim, “Brian! You’re
home early.”
Turning and moving toward his desk in the alcove beyond the kitchen, I ask,
“Why’d you move my – oh!”
Justin’s not alone. Some guy is with him, they’re on their feet now but the
chairs they were sitting in are pulled close together at Justin’s desk. Very
close together.
Abruptly I stop in my tracks. “Sorry to interrupt,” I say coolly. “I’ll go away
and come back later.”
“You’re not interrupting!” Justin assures me earnestly, moving forward to slide
his arms around my waist and going up on tiptoe to plant a brief kiss on my
lips. Automatically my arms go around him but I can’t stop staring at the other
man, the man Justin was sitting so close to, before I broke in on them. Then I
realize that he’s not a man, he’s a boy. A very attractive boy. He looks vaguely
familiar.
“Brian,” Justin says, “This is Bailey, he’s a student at the IFA. I was showing
him my new software.”
My eyes move to Justin’s crotch to see if any hardware is visible. Justin knows
what I’m doing, he makes a choking sound, maybe it’s a tiny laugh; he shakes my
arm and says, “Bailey, this is my partner, Brian Kinney.”
“I – I know,” the kid stutters, “We’ve met before. At Babylon. I mean,” he
corrects himself, “In the alley behind Babylon.”
“Oh!” Justin drops my arm.
“Oh, no!” Bailey adds, taking a step forward and staring urgently at Justin.
“Not – it was not like that!” he exclaims. “I mean, I thought he was cruising
me, but he wasn’t! Then I recognized him and he said he was your partner and so
I knew he wouldn’t. . .ummm, you know.”
When Justin says nothing, Bailey hurries on, “That was before Kelly told me that
you guys screw around. So then I didn’t know what to think. And when you let me
come over tonight, that’s why I hit on you. Umm,” he pauses to take a breath in
the heavy silence, and glancing from Justin’s frozen face to my own, he asks,
“Why don’t I just shut up?”
“That’s a good idea,” I agree blandly.
When Justin still says nothing, Bailey grabs his jacket from the back of my
chair and clears his throat. “Well, I’d better be going,” he announces. “Thanks
for the coffee.”
Justin nods and follows Bailey to the door. “See you at school,” Bailey murmurs
and Justin says, “See you,” then I hear him pull the door closed and he walks
back to his desk where I’m still standing, unmoving.
“I didn’t know you fucked guys that young,” Justin says mildly as he picks up
coffee cups and carries them to the kitchen sink.
It’s really none of his business but I deny it anyway. “I don’t. I didn’t fuck
him, he’s not my type.” When Justin says nothing, just turns on the water and
rinses the cups, I move to stand beside him, pulling open the fridge and
grabbing a bottle of water. Casually I add, “And I didn’t know you brought
tricks home. I thought that was one of your rules, no tricks at the loft.”
“Bailey’s not a trick,” Justin insists, turning toward me and frowning. “I told
you, I was showing him my software.”
“Mmm-hmm.” I unscrew the lid and take a long drink of water, then burp and add,
“He said that he hit on you.” I screw the lid back on, then add quickly, “It’s
not like I care, I’m just pointing out that you made the rule.”
Justin shakes his head. “You know,” he says, “This is so fucked up. You’re
tricking all the damn time and I’m supposed to be okay with it, and then one guy
hits on me – unsuccessfully, Brian! One little punk hits on me, and suddenly
you’re all self-righteous.”
“I’m not self-righteous,” I deny it. “And you said you were okay with my
tricking. You know it means nothing and you’ve said it a million times.”
“Well, I’m not okay with it. What do you think about that, Brian? I’m not
fucking okay with it!”
It’s a standoff, we’re literally standing still and staring at each other,
Justin’s face is red and it feels like mine is too, my neck and cheeks are hot.
I don’t do emotional scenes like this, I just don’t. The urge to turn and walk
away, walk out of the loft, is almost overpowering. Part of me wants to get the
fuck out of here, part of me wants to grab Justin and fling him out the door.
But the brat’s a fucking boomerang, no matter how many times I throw him away,
he always comes back again.
Except. . .what if he doesn’t, this time? What if I throw him out, and this time
he doesn’t come back?
Always I’ve been prepared for that possibility. I was always okay with that. Or
so I told myself. Yet now, somehow, it’s not okay. Suddenly, the possibility
that Justin might go out the door – either thrown by me or of his own volition –
and not come back. . .is just too unbearable to think about. I have to turn
away, I turn and walk into the living room, pull back the curtain and stare out
into the darkness. And I realize that I’m – what? Not scared, nothing like that
of course. I’m not, am I?
For several minutes I stand frozen, staring blindly out into the darkness. I’m
waiting, and I’m aware that I’m waiting, to see what Justin is going to do. If
he threatens to leave me now, what will I do? I don’t know. All I can do is
wait, and I’m aware that I’m hardly breathing.
Then he’s behind me, I don’t hear his footsteps, but he’s behind me and I jump
slightly when I feel his hand on my shoulder. “Brian,” he says softly, and I
hear the defeat in his voice, “Brian, if I have to be okay with your tricking,
then I’ll be okay. I don’t want to lose you. I love you, I love you with all my
heart.”
“No,” I say, but my throat is choked up, no sound comes out. “No, God damn it!”
I growl it out then, turning and taking hold of Justin’s shoulders and shaking
him roughly.
“No?” he’s confused, his eyes are clouded, his forehead furrowed. “No, what?”
“Don’t you make any more fucking concessions, God damn it!” I curse, “Don’t do
it!”
“Brian,” he’s shaking his head, “I don’t understand.”
Pulling Justin hard against my chest, I squeeze him tight until he goes, “Oof.”
Bending my head until my lips brush his ear, I whisper, “I feel about you like
you feel about me. Okay? I don’t want to lose you either. And I don’t want you
to lose yourself.”
“Brian,” Justin murmurs against my chest, he can barely speak, he can probably
hardly breathe. “What are you saying? That I can ask you to be monogamous?”
“No. I don’t know.” I pull back a few inches so I can look into his eyes.
“Justin, I don’t think I can. But maybe I could try. Sort of. Or something.
Within certain parameters.”
Justin smiles gently. “You’re back-pedaling now, aren’t you?”
“Possibly,” I admit. “But I’m sincere. Does that count for anything?”
“That counts for a lot,” he assures me, his smile widening. “And if you’re not
careful, you might accidentally slip up and say ‘I love you,’ or something.”
“Hmm,” I keep my face noncommittal, then bend my head and brush a kiss on
Justin’s forehead. “Now can we go to bed? I haven’t had a fuck since morning.”
“Were you just unlucky tonight,” Justin teases, “Or have you started practicing
monogamy already?” He takes my hand and leads the way to the bedroom, but I dig
in my heels and stop him, pull him around to face me.
“Justin,” I say seriously, fixing my eyes on his face. “I have to be honest. I
really don’t know if I can. Be monoga- monoga- “
“I know that, Brian,” he assures me. “You can’t even say the word. But maybe you
could start small. Show some restraint. Pretend you’re on a cock diet.”
Nodding, I agree. “As long as your cock’s on the menu 24/7, I’ll give it a
shot.”
Then I let Justin pull me up the steps, we shed our clothes and he throws
himself down on the bed and lies spread-eagled, his beautifully pale skin
luminescent against the dark brown sheets. Justin’s smiling up at me, and my
last lucid thought before I throw myself down on top of him is that Ted was
right after all: This is what I was waiting for.
3/11/05 Revised 3/22/05