TRADING SPACES
Part 17: A Clam in
Chowder
Brian
"When is the Simpson party?"
"I told you," Justin says patiently, "It's on Friday. My party's Friday, your
party's Saturday, and then we catch the red-eye Saturday night so we're home
early Sunday morning, the twenty-first. It works out perfectly."
Keeping my face noncommittal, I just nod. It works out perfectly, my ass.
Fucking hell. I don't want to go to Justin's office Christmas party, and if only
it were on Saturday, I'd suggest changing our flight reservations to Saturday
morning - an easy-out. But I cannot miss my own office party on Saturday.
Naturally I don't give a fuck about the agency get-together, I loathe all
holiday celebrations. Yet this first year on the job I can't be my normal
nose-thumbing self, I have to be there smiling and glad-handing Bradford and
Slate and all the staff.
I sit unmoving, staring blankly at my computer screen. "Brian," Justin leans
down to slide his arm around my neck, wheedling with his voice and rubbing his
cheek against mine, "It'll be fun, don't you think? You've never been to the
studio so you haven't met most of the people I work with. I'm excited to show
off my partner to everybody."
I've met some of the people he works with and I have no desire to further my
acquaintance. But without a legitimate excuse, I don't see how I can avoid the
Simpson holiday party.
Oh, I could weasel out at the last minute, claiming some deadline at work, but I
know how disappointed Justin would be. He's so proud of his job and so happy for
the recognition they give him. He got a raise recently - we both did; and since
I've paid off one of my gold cards, we've been talking about the possibility of
leasing a car for Justin after the first of the year. And he's agreed to take
two classes next semester instead of just one.
So even with my carefully cultivated reputation for selfishness, I simply cannot
be a big enough fucker to miss Justin's party. "Okay," I agree grudgingly.
"Okay."
Christ, this business of considering somebody else's feelings besides your own
is a real pain in the ass.
Justin
Brian's got holiday-phobia - he's dreading Christmas, the old Scrooge. (I need
to remember not to call him Old Scrooge, it results in severe whisker burn that
makes wearing snug jeans very uncomfortable.) I even had to twist his arm to
have Thanksgiving dinner with Uncle Hank and Aunt Emily - Brian pretended to
resist going but he really wanted to. Or anyway I think he did, I know he had a
good time, he almost admitted it.
We met Brian's cousins Randy and Melody and their spouses. Brian hates the term
spouse but I love it, it's so generic. I'm Brian's spouse and he's my spouse and
it just sounds so much more cozy than 'partner.' But I like 'partner' too.
Actually I like all of those commitment words.
What was cool was that Randy and Melody and their spouses were just as accepting
of Brian and me as Hank and Emily are. Randy's wife's brother is gay which
probably has a lot to do with it. Later on the way home I pointed this out to
Brian but he scoffed. He's not impressed by people accepting him, they either do
or they can fuck off. Which I agree with in theory, but in practice it's more
comfortable to be accepted.
Brian's not enthusiastic about going to the Simpson party, maybe he's still mad
at Andrew. I was afraid Brian would do something after the Mad Rapist incident,
like maybe confront Andrew, but luckily he just let it drop. He didn't like
Andrew before that though, so maybe that's why he doesn't want to see him again.
I've continued getting a ride home after work some nights but Brian's been
available to pick me up a lot more often lately, and naturally I'd rather ride
with Brian. Now we're talking about getting a car for me, after the first of the
year. Since we got to LA I've been arguing against spending that kind of money,
but Brian says we're doing okay financially now, and besides, I know he really
hates me getting rides from other people all the time. Especially my boss of
course. So I agreed, and now I can hardly wait.
Because of the car, and because of the expense of going home for Christmas, and
of course because of Brian's debt and my relatively low-income job, we've agreed
not to buy each other presents this Christmas. Brian hates presents anyway, and
besides, he already gave me the best present in the world - he admitted he loves
me. He only said it once (well, technically twice) in the airport on his way
back to Pittsburgh a couple months ago, but I still smile when I remember the
sound of his voice wrapping around those words. I waited a long time to hear it
and, knowing Brian, we'll both be old and gray before I hear those words again,
but even so, I'm as happy as a clam in chowder.
Brian
"Where's that certificate thing?"
Justin's at his computer; he twists around in his chair, his mouth open in
surprise. "Huh?"
I didn't want to have to ask him for it, but he's moved it from the mahogany
chest where he told me he'd put it and I can't find the damned thing. "Where's
that - "
"You mean, our California registration? Our partners thing?"
"We have other certificates?"
Ignoring my sarcasm, Justin shakes his head. "Why do you want it?"
"Don't worry," I frown, "I'm not going to burn it. I just thought, maybe, I'd
get it framed. Or something. Just for the hell of it."
"Oh," Justin still looks surprised, and somehow that pisses me off. Why is he so
amazed that I'd do something nice?
Of course I don't have to answer that.
"Wow," Justin says then, a slow smile turning his cheeks pink. "Brian, that
would be really cool."
"Hmm. So, where is it?"
"Under the bed. I put it in that big box my new easel came in."
"Under the bed? What’s that supposed to do - legitimize our fucking?"
"Brian, you're really going to get it framed? Can I help pick out the frame?"
"You think I can't do that on my own? I may not be an artiste like you, but I
think I can manage without fucking it up."
"Oh," Justin jumps out of his chair and throws his body against mine, sliding
his arms around my waist and smiling up at me, that incandescent Sunshine smile.
"Of course you can," he soothes my supposedly wounded ego. "I just wanted to
help."
His smile widens as he feels my cock grow hard against his hip, and I begin to
get that dizzy feeling I sometimes get when I stare into those incredible blue
eyes. And I know that in a few minutes I'll fall headfirst into a vortex of
almost uncontrollable desire for this beautiful and really fucking adorable boy.
Man. Boy. Whatever the fuck.
I used to be able to resist him. Most of the time. Some of the time. I
distinctly remember that I used to be in charge of deciding if and when and
where and how we'd have sex. You'd think that by now I'd be more in charge
instead of less. It really should annoy me, shouldn’t it? – that mere proximity
to that cheekily smiling face, those juicy lips, the warm smell of his hair and
the feel of his arms wrapped tight around my waist, has this effect on me.
It should piss me off that I'm a sucker for this kind of passion – it’s a
teenage thing and Christ, I'm no teenager, I’m over thirty. Not much over, but
still. . .
I’m almost sure it should piss me off. So why doesn’t it? Instead, sometimes
when I’m holding onto Justin, it's absolutely, positively - fuck or die.
And then sometimes, more amazingly still, I don’t even want to fuck him.
Sometimes I just want to hold him so tight in my arms that he cannot get away.
And it’s at those times that I acknowledge (silently, to myself) that I’m never
again going to let him go.
Yesterday when I made our flight reservations for Pittsburgh, I discovered to my
surprise that I’ve got more than enough frequent flyer miles to pay for our
tickets. Seems there was a side benefit to maxing out five gold cards - all
those charges on my credit cards amassed enough miles to pay for several trips
to Pittsburgh, something I didn't realize when I flew home after Debbie's
mini-stroke.
Almost I called to tell Justin the good news, when it suddenly occurred to me
that he didn’t need to know. And in those few moments after hanging up from the
airlines agent, when I sat with my hand still cradling the telephone, an idea
came unbidden into my head. At first I brushed it aside, but I couldn’t dislodge
it from my brain, and then I spent the better part of the afternoon – when I
should have been focusing on the new DiSorrono ad campaign presentation – making
calls and making plans. Secret plans.
Justin
I took Thursday off work so I could spend extra time at school, finishing up
Brian's Christmas present. We're not doing gifts, but I've painted a picture for
him and I'll convince him later that it doesn't count as a real present. He
knows about the small paintings I've done for our family, in fact he bought the
frames for them, so the gifts really will be from the both of us. He already
shipped everything to Lindsay in Pittsburgh, and she's promised to keep them
hidden away till Christmas.
Simpson's holiday party got underway this morning. Fridays are always
casual-clothes day at the studio (most of the art department already dress so
casual, Andrew said he was afraid that today they'd show up in pajamas). Coffee
and pastries from an expensive Beverly Hills patisserie were delivered at nine
o'clock, and Andrew arranged for a catered lunch from That's a Wrap sandwich
shop. It's been a kind of open house party all day long, nobody's really
working, instead staff from all the departments have been visiting each other's
offices, chatting and drinking wine.
Brian's office party is going to be at a fancy restaurant in downtown LA. We're
going to be all dressed up, probably Brian will like that better than Simpson's
which is just a casual family-ish thing. Starting at five, our guests began to
arrive – mostly significant others but also some people's kids, and there'll be
a buffet dinner catered by Xanadu in the biggest meeting room where everybody
helped decorate a huge tree a couple days ago.
Brian's late of course, he hates being early to parties, and besides, I know he
had a project to finish up at the agency today, since we're taking time off to
fly home for the holidays. He calls me from the car.
"Hey, I'm turning off the freeway, almost there."
"Tell the guard your name, he'll tell you where to go."
"Nobody tells me where to go."
"Ha-ha." I move away from the group of people I was chatting with, move away to
look out the window, I can see the parking lot from here, we're on the second
floor of the three-story main building. "Come to administration, the party's in
conference room B."
"B?" he repeats. "Aren't we invited to the A party?"
"You're very jovial, have you been drinking Christmas cheer already?"
"How'd you guess?"
"Brian," I interrupt, "Everybody's dressed pretty casual, you won't be
uncomfortable, will you?"
"Hunh," he mocks, "That just means everyone's underdressed but me. THEY should
be uncomfortable." He pauses then adds, "Besides I'm wearing my gray Armani, you
know how fabulous I look. Everyone will want to fuck me - even the women."
"Especially the women. There's a lot of wives and girlfriends."
"Is Andrew's girlfriend there?"
"Brian," I'm suddenly wary, "You're not going to say anything to him, are you?
To Andrew?"
"Like what?"
"You know what." Suddenly I'm tense. The Mad Rapist thing was months ago, it's
totally behind us now. "You're not, are you?"
"I'll be my usual gracious self." Brian answers, his voice oozing artificial
sincerity. He waits, then adds in his normal voice, "Justin, I won't do anything
to embarrass you at your party. Okay?"
"Okay."
"I'm at the gate now. See you in a few minutes." He rings off and I click off my
phone, suddenly worried. Oh, I know Brian will keep his word, but I'm worried
anyway. I make my way across the room to stand at the door, to be ready to greet
Brian so I can take him around and introduce him.
Brian
I've promised not to embarrass Justin at his party and I hope it's a promise
I'll be able to keep. I don’t give a fuck about Andrew - he's not likely to
mention my previous visit to the studio. But that little pointy-nose assistant,
what's his name? Reg. Reg is an unknown quantity. I don't know enough about him
to predict his behavior when we're face to face again. Maybe he won't recognize
me.
Justin greets me at the door and he smiles when I bend my head and kiss him - a
chaste peck on the lips. A public hello kiss, that's all it is. When I pull away
Justin says eagerly, "Come and meet everybody," and he takes my hand and moves
through the crowd.
It's a large conference room, full to bursting with a hundred people or more,
employees and their families, noisy and cheerful. As usual Justin and I have
already talked a few times on the phone today, and he told me about the generous
Simpson food and drink arrangements. Everyone seems to be feeling no pain.
Except for a shared holiday shot of whiskey in Matt Bradford's office this
afternoon, I'm sober. I plan to stay that way, keep my wits about me. Even now
I'm glancing around the room, looking out for that tale-tell blond forelock on
Justin's horsy nemesis. Maybe I can avoid him.
Justin stops beside Andrew Whittaker, who smiles and nods. “Happy holidays,
Brian, so nice to see you again.” Then he turns to introduce his partner. “This
is Jacob Kingston,” he says, as Jacob extends his hand and smiles brightly. He’s
young (no surprise), twenty-four or twenty-five at the most, which means Andrew
snagged him when Jacob was a teenager, since they’ve been together five years.
He’s nearly as tall as Andrew, with light brown hair and dark green eyes, his
skin is fair but not pale, and he’s dressed in artfully faded jeans and a
long-sleeved navy cashmere sweater. He’s a beauty, although he can’t hold a
candle to Justin.
But I’d fuck him, and judging by his wide-eyed look at me, he’d like me to.
Andrew sees the look and throws a proprietary arm around Jacob’s shoulders.
“So,” he says, “You two are going home for Christmas?”
“Yes,” I answer shortly, surprised to discover that I still feel hostile towards
him.
“Our family’s in Pittsburgh, we’re catching a red-eye tomorrow night so we can
be with them for a special dinner Brian’s arranged on Sunday night,” Justin
expands on my answer, as always giving away a lot of unnecessary personal
information.
“I’m not much of a family-man,” Andrew confesses with a laugh. “We’re leaving
tomorrow for the Bahamas. I like to spend Christmas week far, far away from
family.”
Lucky bastard.
“Maybe you two would like to join us next year?” Andrew gives me a quizzical
look; I can’t tell if he’s joking or not.
“No thanks,” is my terse reply.
Justin, obviously sensing my lack of enthusiasm at the invitation, rushes in to
explain, “Oh, Brian and I wouldn’t miss spending Christmas with our families,
but thanks for asking!”
Of course I’d do almost anything to avoid spending Christmas with our families,
but I let the story stand, and Justin quickly adds, “Excuse us, please, I want
to introduce Brian to Joe and the other artists!” as he hooks his arm through
mine and drags me away.
“Merry Christmas,” I throw back over my shoulder, unable to resist giving young
Jacob a look that should make him cream his jeans. I see Andrew’s arm tighten
around Jacob’s shoulders and turn him away; he’s done everything but piss on the
guy to definitively mark his territory. I don’t really want Jacob, but I don’t
mind letting Andrew think that I do. One more reason for him to keep his hands
off Justin.
Thinking about Andrew Whittaker, I’ve forgotten to scan the crowd as Justin
moves us along toward one end of the conference room where the art department is
apparently holding sway. There’s a group of about fifteen or twenty huddled
around one end of an enormous conference table, mostly young men but a few older
guys and several women, fellow artists or girlfriends, and they welcome Justin
with alcoholic greetings of holiday cheer.
“Merry fucking Christmas!” one of them shouts, throwing an arm around Justin and
hugging him. Right away I’m annoyed, the guy bears a hideous resemblance to a
fiddle-player we used to know, the same greasy dark hair and eyes, even scraggly
chin whiskers that look like nothing so much as sparse pubic hair.
“Merry Christmas, Terry,” Justin laughs, hugging him back, and extending a
“Merry Christmas” to the rest of the crowd. He pulls away from Terry and turns
to take my arm again, tug me forward. “Everybody,” he says, “I want you all to
meet my partner, Brian Kinney.”
I say a general hello, accept an offered bottle of beer, and move to sit down on
a folding chair. Surprisingly enough, it’s enjoyable watching Justin interact
with his coworkers.
Justin
“Hey.”
There’s a short line to the small men’s room off the conference room; I take my
place behind Jacob and return his greeting. “Hey.”
“Are you having a good time?” Jacob doesn’t wait for an answer. “The Simpson
party is always so fun, all the other parties we go to are so formal. Do you
like casual or formal parties best?”
“Casual, I guess. Brian’s work parties are formal but I like them too. Or
anyway, I’ve only been to one so far, their holiday party’s tomorrow night.”
“You’re so lucky,” Jacob sighs deeply, shaking his head.
“I know,” I agree, then add quickly, “But you’re lucky too – Andrew’s gorgeous.”
“Oh, I know,” Jacob agrees. “I just mean – you’re lucky that Brian’s so
committed to you. I’d give anything if Andrew would do that.”
“You mean, register as domestic partners?” Someone comes out of the men’s room
and we move forward in line. “How did you know about that?”
I haven’t told anyone at Simpson that Brian and I registered with the state.
“Oh, are you registered too? We did that last year, Andrew wanted to be sure I’m
protected, in case something happens to him.”
“Brian wanted me to be eligible for benefits at his agency.”
“That’s cool,” Jacob nods. “But I mean – you’re lucky that Brian’s willing to be
monogamous for you. Andrew likes to play around, it’s no secret, and I try to be
okay with it, but. . .”
“Wait,” I say, putting a hand on Jacob’s arm. “I never said – “
“It’s not a secret, is it? Andrew said Brian told him that you two are
exclusive.”
“Huh?” Someone else comes out of the bathroom and Jacob moves to go in but I
pull on his arm, pull him out of line and demand, “Brian told Andrew what?”
Patiently Jacob repeats, “Brian told Andrew that you two are monogamous, that
you don’t see other guys. I just wish Andrew would – “
“When? When did Brian say that?”
“Ow,” Jacob pulls his arm away, I guess I’ve been squeezing it. “I don’t
remember exactly,” he shrugs, “A while ago. Andrew told me that your partner got
mad when some Simpson client made a pass at you or something, so he came
storming into the studio and threatened to beat Andrew up or kill him or
something, I’m not sure what exactly. But – “
“Brian threatened Andrew?”
“Yeah, that’s what I just said. Let me go, I gotta take a piss before I
explode!”
“Jacob, just one more thing, okay? Did – did Andrew get mad at Brian?”
“Yeah, he was kind of mad, at the time,” Jacob agrees, then he shakes his head
and sighs again. “But I think it’s very romantic – your man standing up for you!
You are so lucky.”
Then he turns and goes into the men’s room while I stand there staring into
space.
After a minute I remember that I have to pee too, so I cut in line and hurry
into the men’s room for a piss, then return to Brian’s side.
I’m sort of angry at Brian for threatening my boss, but I’m also happy to know
that he told Andrew we’re monogamous. I can’t imagine Brian saying that word
without choking to death, even if it was only to make Andrew keep away from me.
Whatever my reaction, I can’t seem to banish the stupid smile from my face. And
when Brian welcomes me back to the corner where he’s perched on a folding chair,
pulling me down to sit on his lap and whispering in my ear, “Hey, I sort of
missed you,” I know I won’t really be able to stay mad at him.
Brian
I expected to be bored at Justin’s party and if it goes on much longer, I’m sure
I will be. But in a way it’s amusing to watch him chatting with his peers.
Everyone’s older than Justin but he’s not only holding his own with them, it’s
obvious they like and respect him. The little shaggy-haired twerp that annoyed
me by hugging Justin is now hugging his girlfriend, a petite rosy-cheeked
blonde. The girl’s obviously had breast enhancement surgery – nobody that tiny
has double-D tits – and the combination of bazookas and braces on her teeth is
unnerving. Not to say revolting.
My gaydar has identified several gays among the art department crowd, but fewer
than I would have expected – most are straight, their orientation given away not
only by their lack of interest in me but also by the plethora of baggy jeans and
loose-fit tee shirts. Among this lot, Justin’s a wonder of sartorial splendor in
his pressed khakis and cotton knit pullover that I bought for him at Saks
recently. Guess I should stop harassing him about his clothes.
For a while I keep my eyes peeled for Andrew Whittaker’s assistant, but as time
goes on I relax, finally realizing that he’s not here, he’s probably out
cruising Santa Monica Boulevard for a holiday trick to drag home to his
hideously decorated apartment. There’s no longer any need to keep a low profile,
so when the two beers I’ve drunk kick in, I lift Justin off my lap and wander
away in search of the men’s room.
And of course that’s when I see him, I almost walk into his back before noticing
the hand lifting up to flick the telltale blond strip of hair off his forehead.
I make an immediate u-turn and move quickly away at an angle and, keeping my
back to the room, I go out the main doorway and move down the hall to a
different entrance to the conference room. If I can slip around the edge of the
crowd, I can make my way back to Justin’s group in the corner and convince him
that it’s time to go home.
Sliding through the door and running my eyes over the crowd like some gay secret
agent-man, I see the forest but not the tree. The tree almost leaps out at me
from behind the door and grabs my arm, shaking it roughly.
“It IS you!” he exclaims, “I thought I recognized you from the back!”
“Hey,” I say coolly, “I recognize your back, too.”
That makes him flush and his eyes blaze at me. “Very fucking funny! You think
you’re pretty fucking clever, don’t you?”
I do actually but this isn’t the time to acknowledge it. “Let go of my arm,
you’re wrinkling my jacket,” I tell him, before pulling my arm away.
But he hangs on tight and, his face red and his voice getting louder, he
threatens, “I’ll do more than wrinkle your fucking jacket, I’m going to punch
your fucking lights out!”
“That’s highly unlikely,” I start to say – I’m taller than he is and have a hell
of a lot more muscle than this flyweight aspiring boxer, but that doesn’t stop
him from throwing a punch at my face.
I’m easily able to dodge the blow and I grab his hand, twisting his arm around
behind his back. All his weight was thrown into the punch and he loses his
footing and almost drops to the floor, only my grip on his arm keeps him
upright.
“Fucking asshole!” he’s shouting now. I tighten my grip on his arm, twisting it
hard enough to make him gasp with pain.
“Shut up and calm down,” I order him grimly, “And keep your voice down, you’re
making a scene.”
“Fuck you!” he screams, struggling to break away, “Fuck you, motherfucker!”
By now we’ve attracted a lot of attention and I’m relieved to see Andrew
Whittaker pushing his way through the crowd. “Move back, everybody,” he orders,
then demands, “What’s going on here?”
I wait to see what Reg is going to say, but at last, a bit late, he realizes
what a scene he has created, and he stands silent, drawing a few deep breaths.
Then he obviously has a flash of what he imagines is inspiration and blurts out,
“He – this guy made a pass at me, so I punched him!”
“Tell the truth or I’ll break your arm,” I say calmly, then look at Andrew and
suggest, “Why don’t we adjourn to the hallway, no reason to spoil your party
with this little melodrama.”
“Yes, okay,” Andrew glances around the room and loudly proclaims, “Nothing to
see here, folks, go on with the party.” Then he turns and gestures toward the
door and I push Reg on ahead of me, still hanging onto his arm. Andrew closes
the door but a moment later it’s pushed open and Justin bursts urgently into the
hallway.
“Brian! What’s going on?”
I sure as fuck never wanted Justin to find out about my tryst with his nemesis
but there’s no way out now, so I give Reg a shake and order him, “Say what
you’ve got to say, but if you lie, I’ll break your fucking arm.”
It seems that Reg doesn’t have anything to say. “Never mind,” he mumbles,
staring at the floor.
”I don’t want to. . .just never mind.”
“Let him go,” Andrew tells me, so I do, and Reg moves quickly away from me,
rubbing his injured arm, his face crumpling from the mask of an outraged man
into the face of a teary-eyed schoolboy. He’s pitiful but I feel no pity for
him.
We all stand silent for a few moments, then Andrew puts a gentle arm around
Reg’s shoulders and asks quietly, “Reggie, tell me what this is about, okay?”
“He – he played a trick on me,” Reg mumbles unwillingly at last. “He pretended
to come on to me, just so he could get my phone numbers. Then he gave them to a
callboy hotline.”
Andrew’s head comes up and he stares hard at me but I say nothing. “Why would he
do that, Reg?” he asks.
“I don’t know,” Reg shrugs, “Probably he thinks I’m the one who did that to
Justin, but it wasn’t me, it wasn’t – “
“Wait a minute,” Andrew interrupts, “How do you know that someone did that to
Justin?”
“You – you told me,” Reg stutters.
“No,” Andrew shakes his head. “No, I didn’t.”
“Justin must have told me then.”
“I never did,” Justin denies it quietly, “I never spoke to you again, after that
day. I never told anybody but Andrew. And Brian.” Justin looks at me and I can’t
read his face; he’s probably mad at me, but I can’t tell.
“Reg,” Andrew shakes his head, “Reg, did you try to sabotage Justin with Jim
Masterson?”
“Of course not – I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Reg insists
petulantly. “And I need to go home now, my arm is really hurting, I should have
this asshole arrested for assault.”
“With all the witnesses who saw you throw that punch?” I raise my eyebrows and
look down my nose at him. “Not fucking likely.”
“Okay Reg,” Andrew sighs. “Go home now, and put ice on your shoulder. And also,”
he adds, before Reg can turn to go, “Also, I want you to take the next two weeks
off. Consider it administrative leave. After that,” Andrew rubs a hand over his
face and continues, “After that, I’ll make a decision about your continued
employment at Simpson. I won’t have a personal assistant who cannot be trusted
one hundred percent.”
Reg is stunned, he opens and closes his mouth a couple times before turning on
his heel and marching off down the hall.
We three stand there in silence watching him go, then Andrew straightens up and
turns toward me. Before he can speak, I say quickly, “No repercussions for
Justin. He had no idea I fucked over your assistant.”
Surprisingly, Andrew agrees. “No, of course not. I can’t say I’m not pissed at
you, because I am, royally pissed. You should have come to me about this, not –
“
“You wouldn’t have believed me. Justin told you his suspicions and you didn’t
believe him.”
Andrew looks chagrined, but finally he nods. “Okay. But no repetition of this
kind of shit in the future. Not, of course,” he adds as an afterthought, “Not
that I can bring myself to blame you – if Justin were my spouse – “
“Partner,” Justin corrects him, “Brian doesn’t like the term spouse.”
“Spouse is okay,” I contradict, and he turns that bright Sunshine smile on me,
so I can’t resist leaning over and smacking a loud kiss on his lips.
“Brian, let's go home now,” Justin urges, “I don’t want to go back in there.”
“No,” I deny him, and Andrew agrees.
“No, you two should come back into the party. Don’t talk about this to anyone,
of course, but it’ll blow over faster if we all act as normal as possible.”
Nodding agreement, we follow Andrew back into the party and stop at the buffet
table. “I’m starving,” Justin admits, so we grab plates and fill them with roast
beef and German potato salad and half a dozen other inordinately fattening but
irresistible holiday foods.
After another hour of small talk with Justin’s friends (all of whom manage to
contain their curiosity, something no gay crowd would do), we say our goodbyes
and head for home. We’re quiet as we pull onto the Hollywood freeway, then
Justin asks plaintively, “Brian, you just fucked him over, right? I mean, you
didn’t actually fuck Reg, did you?”
“Are you serious?” I demand in my most supercilious voice. “Not even for you
would I treat my cock so disrespectfully.”
Justin slides his hand across the seat and gently squeezes my thigh. “I should
probably be mad at you,” he admits, “But it’s kind of romantic, really. The way
you defended my honor, and everything.”
“Romantic?” I demand. “Moi? You are so wrong. I’d never do anything romantic.”
Justin
We undress silently but when we climb into bed and meet in the middle, I slide
into Brian’s arms and murmur, “I’m as happy as a clam in chowder.”
"If you don't stop saying that, I'm going to have to hurt you."
"Oh, yes please," I grin. "But don't leave any visible marks, we'll be home
tomorrow night – and I know you're already scared of my mom."
"I am not scared of your mommy."
"Liar, liar, pants on fire."
I don't remind Brian of the look on his face when I told him Mom invited us to
stay with her for Christmas. You'd think Torquemada had asked him to sleep over.
Luckily Em's got his own apartment now so we're going to stay in the guest room
at Linds and Mel's house.
"Pants on fire? Sometimes I wonder if you're twenty or twelve."
"I'm nine," I remind him, "And you love every inch of it."
Brian laughs then. "Nine and a quarter." He ought to know, he measured me
himself. "Okay," he gives in, "My pants are on fire. And it's up to you to put
out the flames."
That makes me groan. "Ooh, you're as corny as I am."
"I know," he admits, "I've embarrassed myself. So hurry up now and put me out of
my misery – roll over!"
3/14/04