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

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