KISSES AND COCK
Brian
"What the fuck are you doing here?" I demand, though I'm not entirely surprised
when Justin rounds the corner of the spin room, I've got a sixth sense about him
and I do think I felt him near me, it must have been while he was following me
from the loft. It wasn't a conscious thought, just a familiar feeling. And I
realize that Justin has - has almost always had - a sixth sense about me too. He
announces that he knows I've been sneaking out every night for the past three
weeks. Wonder why he didn't follow me sooner? Wonder what he thought I was up
to? Maybe a secret tryst with a violin player or something?
Naturally I don't ask and he doesn't tell. I don't explain myself to anybody,
not even Justin. Well, not usually. Except lately I've been doing exactly that.
Strange, that now I have this sort-of need to discuss things with him, way more
than I've ever discussed things with anyone besides Mikey. It must be part of
this partners bullshit I've been sucked into, almost against my will.
Okay, not against my will. But I don't have to admit that to anybody, not even
Sunshine.
I feel my shoulders stiffen as he launches into his boring rhetoric about my
fucking health, blah-blah, and I give it right back to him. Tell him - tell him
exactly what I know the fuckers at the gym will say when – no, not when, if, if
they see me fail. "Poor Kinney."
Then Justin does a one-eighty and assures me that I won't fail.
I keep my laughter inside and so does he. This is a game we've mastered,
psyching each other out. We both know it, but I like the challenge anyway. Guess
he does too.
Justin blots the sweat from my face and gives me that smile, that look into my
eyes that makes my gut squeeze tight and makes me smile right back at him.
Christ, who knew? Who knew there could be this fucking connection with another
man that's so much more than sexual? Who knew that I'd ever experience it, who
knew that I'd ever fucking want it and, God damn it, who knew that I’d ever need
it?
So he gives me a visual, something to goad me toward success he says, something
guaranteed to make my determination and my dick both hard, unzipping his sweater
to expose that pale smooth chest with the rosy baby nipples. I stand on the
pedals and lean forward to bring our mouths together, one kiss, another,
another, and soon pedaling is forgotten, the room dissolves around us and
there's nothing but steamy hot unbelievable mind-blowing sex, down and dirty on
the spin-room floor. It's fireworks with my fucking blond cheerleader, fireworks
every time with him. Every damned fucking time.
Justin
I've resisted following Brian, spying on him, but tonight I couldn't resist any
longer. I had to know what he was up to, where he was going when he sneaked out
night after night. Oh, I had my suspicions. I knew he wouldn't sneak around to
have an illicit fuck - if he wanted to fuck somebody, he wouldn't do it behind
my back, he'd do it in front of my face.
That's okay. It used to bother me, but then, he used to do it purposely to
bother me. I don't mind his careless stranger-fucks, for Brian it's like
sneezing, almost a reflex. But he used to selectively find ways to rub my face
in his fucking around. Brian's a master at emotional torture. He admits as much;
he says he learned it at home. He won't elaborate - it's a miracle he'll even
mention his childhood, sometimes dropping tiny bits and pieces of his fucked-up
childhood for me to fit together into the great Brian Kinney jigsaw puzzle.
So I found Brian at Spyn Werks and another puzzle piece dropped into place. He
admitted - he actually admitted - that he feared failure on the Liberty Ride.
Failure - an "F" word I'd never imagined existed in Brian's vocabulary. I
assured him he wouldn't fail, he couldn't fail - he's Rage after all, my
superhero. Then I distracted him with kisses and cock, and later when we were
dressed again, we hung onto each other tight as we hurried through the navy-blue
streets toward home, to fall into bed for a few hours sleep before dawn.
Brian
There's another chance to play the psych-out game when I come home and discover
that Justin's pitched his tent in the middle of my bed.
I ignore the implications of that action - it's not like I haven't subtly let
Justin know he’s welcome to move back in with me, all he has to do is ask - so
this overt sign of ownership doesn't faze me. He's welcome in my bed any time,
with or without his tent. Every night, if he wants it that way. So far he
prefers to maintain what he imagines is his independence by officially sharing
an apartment with Daphne. Funny thing is, he sleeps here way more than he sleeps
there. But hey, it's his call where he wants to be.
So we spar about what he's packing, then I grab the opportunity to question his
motives. "Michael tells me you're winging to Hollywood tomorrow." I move into
the bathroom so he can't try to read my face, can't decide how to play this
scene to his advantage.
He takes the bait. "I never said I was going," he insists; "I'm doing the ride
with you."
The lad's sense of commitment is tight, which is admirable of course, but
sometimes it interferes with his best interests. And I don't mean his commitment
to me, the commitment he spit in my face when he shoved his way back into my
loft, back into my life, forcefully taking a hand in my recuperation from
radiation sickness after I'd kicked him out on his ass.
Or maybe I do. I've accepted Justin's commitment - fuck, I've embraced it. But
in the back of my mind is this niggling knowledge that he'd be so damn much
better off without me. I know it, everybody knows it - except Justin. Despite
everything, sometimes I can't help wondering when he'll figure it out. I thought
he'd figured it out when he ran off with the fiddler. As it turned out, the
fiddler didn't deserve him, and Justin came back to me. Someday will he figure
out that I don't deserve him, either?
Oh fuck this shit; I quickly stop psychoanalyzing myself and start in on Justin
again instead. "I'm not going," I tell him, "You were right, I'm not ready, I’m
not in good enough shape. After thirty miles I’m winded, there’s no way I can
make it."
He doesn't buy it; he's not stupid.
"That’s bullshit! You're just saying that to get me to go to Hollywood," he's
derisive, deservedly so - I was sloppy, I haven’t had time to finesse my
tactics.
"Sacrificing your future – now THAT’S what I call charity," I smilingly sneer,
the best comeback I can think of. He moves away into the bedroom as I turn on
the shower and begin to undress. I've overplayed my hand, I need time to think
of a different approach.
I don’t get time, Justin's back, he's shed his clothes and joins me in the
shower. Sliding his arms around my neck and fitting his body close to mine,
Justin presses his lips to my neck. "Nice try," he murmurs, pulling my head down
so that our lips meet beneath the dancing warm spray of the shower. "But Brian,"
he continues, "I've got almost fifty people sponsoring me on this ride, and I -
"
"Shut up," I order him, sliding my tongue into his mouth. I feel him begin to
pull away so he can draw breath to argue, but, "Shut up for now," I clarify,
making our front teeth click together, it's hard to talk, mouth-on-mouth. He
laughs then and desists, hugging me tighter, sliding his arms down my back. Our
cocks, slippery with soap and spray, slap and rub against each other, impatient
for attention.
Justin
"Help me take down the tent," I ask Brian as we towel off and move into the
bedroom.
"No, leave it," he insists, "We can break it in tonight, then donate it to
another team. So it doesn't go to waste."
"Brian," I grit my teeth, "I'm going on the ride, with you or without you, so
I'll be keeping the tent." I grab his towel and take it with my own back to the
bathroom to hang on the rack to dry. I hate damp towels clumped up in the
hamper.
Without answering, Brian crawls through the tent opening, across the expanse of
blue duvet and fluffs up the pillows before sliding under the top sheet. I come
back from the bathroom and follow his lead, he lifts the sheet for me to slide
down inside and automatically our bodies moosh together, my head settles on his
shoulder and he uses his other hand to softly stroke my arm. Then he lowers his
head and he kisses my forehead, my nose, and finally my mouth - but not a
lip-lock, just a gentle caress.
"It's your decision," he says, "But tell me what's behind your determination to
do the ride? Your sponsors will understand the importance of this meeting in LA,
your entire future's at stake. Family and friends will understand too. And I'll
cover the promised donations from your sponsors, that's a given."
"I made a commitment," I answer stubbornly, clamping my lips tight shut. Why
should I have to explain the concept of commitment to Brian? I remember the way
that, even after I left him, Brian continued to pay my tuition at school, and
he'd insisted that I take the expensive computer he bought me. "You of all
people must understand."
He's quiet for a moment and I think he's not going to answer. Then he clears his
throat and tells me, "I do. But what you need to understand is that your first
commitment is to yourself. Not," he adds quickly, "Not just in this situation,
but in your whole life." He pulls away so he can look right into my eyes. "Your
first commitment must always be to yourself."
"But - "
"No buts. Think about it."
So I do. I lie silently in Brian's arms thinking about his words, trying to
understand. "Do you mean," I ask finally, "That if I trade doing the race for
this opportunity to get Rage produced on screen, maybe I could be more help to
the hospice financially, somewhere down the line?"
“More than that,” Brian insists.
So I think some more. “It’s bigger,” I realize out loud, “I think I get it now,
Brian! It’s not really selfish to look out for yourself first – in a way, it’s
selfish NOT to.”
“Be the best you can be,” he agrees, “Then everything else will fall into
place.”
“And,” I add eagerly, “If you don't take care of yourself first, you won't be
any use to anybody else?"
"Ah," Brian purrs against my ear, "You've justified those S.A.T. scores. Give
the boy a gold star."
"No," I laugh, "Give the boy a kiss."
"And a cock," Brian adds quickly. "The perfect reward: A kiss and a cock."
"Especially yours."
"Especially mine," he agrees sanguinely, before touching his lips to my mouth
once again.
7/12/04