It's terribly ironic. Curt is pouty, if not bratty, while I'm too bloody horny to see straight. Not that that is anything unusual for me, however as much of a sex fiend as I normally am, compared to Curt I'm finding on this tour that I'm a frigging nun, or Mary Poppins, or something.

Usually. Today … he's sullen. Sick. Or homesick, depending on who asks. However all I see is pout, and it's doing nothing at all to quell my appetite.

"Come on, let's fuck. It'll make you feel better".

I'm saying it right out loud in front of three dozen fans, as I completely ignore them while signing autographs. He finds the former hilarious, while the latter annoys him no end.

"It's like you're dismissing them or something," he told me when he first witnessed this, way back at the start of the tour. "If I had people absolutely desperate for me to sign a little fucking piece of paper I'd at least look them in the face and maybe show some gratitude or something. Talk to them. Say one fucking word."

I don't bother with my usual pat responses, ("Believe me, you don't wanna look these people in the face", or "Just what exactly do I owe them? Of course they bought my album, of course they came to the show- I'm the biggest thing since sliced Beatles,") because today, he doesn't care either way and so I amuse myself, blathering on right in front of them, ("Well, at least let me blow you,"), and continuing something I've been doing all day, comparing our sexual histories. ("You're telling me you've never been with five guys?") All of which he ignores. He's tired, he says. Listless. He just wants to get to the fucking room.

Inside he's immediately on the tv, pounding it with his fists, cursing the "lousy goddam backwards half assed motherfucking lame-ass British tv."

"Telly", I call from the loo, unable to help myself.

"I don't care what you queens call it! The fucking Tigers are in the motherfucking playoffs and they aren't even showing it!"

I enter the room, squinting.

"The what? The who?"

He looks at me, ready to bite my head off.

"The Tigers. The Detroit Tigers."

I burst out laughing.

"Oh my god. So that's what all this is about!? You'd rather watch bloody hockey than fuck me?"

"Baseball!" he bellows.

I laugh again.

"Curt, you tosser, since when are you into sports?! Those are the people who beat you up in primary school! Me, as well!"

He sighs in exasperation and backs up to plop down rather awkwardly into a chair, then sits there pouting.

"Well?"

He snaps.

"I'm homesick, okay? At least if I can see a game, I can see maybe see the skyline behind it. Some sorta connection to home."

We're into the twelfth straight week of the tour and the constant movement, the constant daily change in faces and skylines and fashions and food and smells and dialects are pretty much old hat to me. I've become utterly blasé about it all, this being my 3rd world tour. Every face now to me is pretty much a dollar sign, and/or a potential fuck, and/or another sucker who purchased one of the hundreds of my fiercely overpriced t-shirts that sell out each night.

So to have Curt and his band along for the tour has been fantastic. Total shot in the arm. What's not to love? In addition to having him ever-available to me sexually, it's been a blast just being around him, witnessing the mayhem he and his bandmates get up to. Not to mention of course, the nightly vision that is Curt as human pogo stick – the manic energy, the crazed, semi-dangerous, somewhat frightening and disturbing sight of a shirtless, sometimes trouser-less being pitching himself about without any care for his own safety. The lad cuts himself open and pours out of the contents of his innards and it can't help but grab you by the throat ... and the balls.

So again, what's not to love?

Okay … well ...

Try being reminded, on a daily basis, of such things as ... credibility ... integrity ... of raw, genuine talent ... not to mention things as normal and human, as admittedly admirable, even, as a desire for ...

home.

I've, it feels, so long now stopped caring about such human mundanities - or at least blocked them from my brain. So long I've cynically embraced and even celebrated my disconnection from all things home-y, from any semblance of 'normalcy'. I'm special, I figure. Even among the special people. I'm a rock star, for fuck's sake. A God, as many people see me. And isn't that what we do? Us Gods? Isn't that who we are? Kings and Lords, exempt from such petty human failings ... correct?

And so, hasn't it proven a mistake, then, a giant, perhaps even fatal one, to have invited him on tour? Because ... worst and most alarming of all as I gaze upon this thorough and utter mess of a man, this ragged beauty with an endless ocean in his eyes, I am reminded, to my horror, yet again, that I'm doing something Brian Slade simply doesn't do.

Bloody well falling in love.

For the hundredth time I turn away from him, from it, this feeling, this intolerable swelling of the heart, and dip right back into the well of what Brian Slade draws from.

"So you didn't answer my question," I call again from the loo.

"What question?"

"Have you ever done it with five guys."

He groans.

"Brian, haven't these little quizzes proven to you by now that you're way, way ahead of me in the perversion stakes?"

"So I take that as a no."

"That would be correct."

"How many, then?"

"How many what?" he snaps.

"How many people have you done it with at once, you dolt?"

He takes a long, deep breath, which is followed by a lengthy pause. I can't tell if he's ignoring me, or trying to count.

"Two."

"Two what?"

"Two girls."

"Well that's pretty pedestrian."

"Whatever," he groans.

"Have you ever thought about two guys?"

"Brian, I ... I don't know. I guess I take what comes my way. Whatever I'm in the mood for. I'm not always in the mood, you know."

"Oh no?" I ask wryly, exiting the loo and holding something behind my back.

"Besides," he continues, "now that I think of it … I guess I don't really get the logistics of three cocks. How that would work."

"Six holes," I offer cheerfully.

He shrugs.

"Ya, but two girls have six holes, too, if ya think about it."

Which I'd rather not, thank you. Instead I swallow the surge of jealousy, and approach, whispering.

"Pity it's just you and me in this room, then."

He raises a hand and waves softly, mumbling.

"Brian, I'm just not …"

I ignore him, incensed at the very first "I've got a headache" that's ever been directed at me.

"Three blokes. Now there's a treat. Wanna know why, logistically speaking?"

He sighs.

"Not really–"

"–Because with three blokes you can be the meat in the human sandwich."

He squints.

"The bloke in between, Curt. And let me assure you, there is no finer sensation in this world."

His face is blank.

"Okay," he says, flatly.

I whisper and move closer.

"Trust me. When one is simultaneously fucking and fucked, or better yet, fucked and sucked, it rips your bloody head off … virgin boy."

He shrugs, maddeningly disinterested.

"Okay. Whatever. Maybe some day–"

I nod.

"–Yes. Tonite."

He looks round from his chair.

"You got a boy hidden away somewhere?"

I drop myself in front of him …

"We don't need a boy."

… and bring my hand round from behind.

"Not when we've got this."

He recoils from the giant purple dildo in my hand.

"What the fuck is that?"

I grin, and lean forward into his neck.

"A little bit of magic."

"Jesus Christ, where's it been though?"

I lean back, annoyed.

"Stop spoiling my fun. It's brand new, it's never been inside another soul, and I'm absolutely dying to try it on you, or rather, in you."

"In me ?" He shrieks.

I smile.

"Yes, Curt."

"Brian, from what I recall, you already got a cock."

I lean in again, and lower my voice for effect, lips making contact with his jaw.

"But I can't fuck you ... and suck you ... at the same time, now can I?"

I kiss down his neck.

"I'm very, very talented, you will admit, but I can't do that."

He fidgets.

"Plus, I mean", I continue. "You claim you're interested in expanding your sexual repertoire."

He shifts slightly as I nibble on his collar bone and speaks distractedly.

"Ya, but … you could just use … y'know, your fingers."

"Mmm, fingers are such nice things, but they can't … (kiss, nibble) … fuck your hole … (nibble, kiss) … like this can."

"Brian, I just … I just don't feel ... I'm exhausted," he says. Pause. Long pause, during which I go on nibbling, and drop my hand to cup and caress his crotch. "Besides … how would it even work?"

Bingo.

"Don't you worry your pretty head. Leave all the fussy details to me. You won't even have to leave this chair."

"But–"

"Shhh."

I lean up and press my lips into his. He doesn't respond … much, until I slide down his zipper and reach inward.

I grin into his mouth.

"I thought you weren't in the mood."

A hand grabs the back of my head.

"Shut up."

Our mouthes tangle and mash, tongues darting, seeking, finding, before I lower my face and plunge him into the warm, the wet … the deep.

"Mmhh."

My favorite sound this side of the universe.

I release him and hurriedly go for his boots, then the bottoms of his trousers, tugging so hard that with lifted hips they - and I - nearly fly across the room.

Next, a finger hooks into the collar of his Tshirt.

He hesitates a moment …

"What, I have to be completely naked for this to work?"

… before going to yank it up from the back.

"You're such an unbelievably whiny brat today," I say, ripping the material from his body.

"I'm homesick, Brian."

"Ya, ya, homesick …" I snort, "or is it just sick?"

"Both, a bit, I think," he answers morosely.

He doesn't get it – that the 'sick' I referenced wasn't the physical kind, poking at his reputation as a nutcase.

No matter, the creeping maternal instincts immediately kick in.

He would've told me if he was actually sick, right? Has that been the reason for his mood all day? That he's genuinely unwell? Which would be completely understandable considering the massive stresses of the tour, the lack of a single decent night's sleep ever, the intense media spotlight … And here I've been such an arsehole to him!

Brian Slade, however, rushes to the rescue ...

"Ya?" I force a smirk. "Well, for either, I know the perfect antidote."

I dive hard on a nipple, chewing and roughly dragging it outward from his body between tightly clenched teeth, eliciting an immediate yelp of pain.

"Ow! That hurt!"

"It did", I grin, brazenly pinching and twisting the other between thumb and forefinger.

His eyes widen and he pushes both palms against my chest - he's as genuinely angry as he is turned on - hissing "you sexy bitch" in my face as he grabs it and pushes me towards the floor ...

In response I push back, laying a hand in the center of his beautiful naked chest, pinning him deep into the chair, waving the dildo around threateningly.

"This is going in you, boy."

His head shakes. His eyes plead.

"No," he pants.

It's a game we engage in of late. Normally a ferocious top, Curt has discovered that he likes to play the reluctant virgin/bottom, resisting to the last, only to be 'forced' by the cruel top, which is both ridiculous, considering the usual degree of his sexual appetite, and strange, considering that I am most assuredly the queen between the two of us. And who wants to be dominated by a faggy queen?

"That's exactly what makes it hot," he's said, "the role reversal. The boy in makeup flipping things around and ruling your ass."

I stand and lean over him.

"You saying 'no' to me, Curt Wild?"

He blinks those enormous eyes, nervously biting his lip.

"It's huge."

I look down at it admiringly.

"Yes. It is. And it might even hurt a bit, making it's way up that tight, pretty pink hole of yours ..."

I raise my eyes to his, which pool with lust, clearly relishing the notion, or at least our filthy discussion of it.

"But that's what you get for being such a pouty little fuck-hungry brat all day, don't you?"

He blinks. He gulps.

I lean into his face and reach down to begin slow pumping of his fattened cock.

"Is that what you want? A big hard dick ripping open your tight virgin ass?"

He pants. His eyes drop shut.

"Is that what's making you hard right now, you fucking cock whore …?"

His tongue snakes out to wet his lips.

"Mmh …" he mutters.

I grab him by the hair and throw my lips at him in mad, messy kiss as I push against the bottoms of his feet, spreading his knees and planting them on either end of the wide open chair. It is a sight for the ages: Curt Wild, pinned, flustered, naked, and hard. I lean in to gnash on those gorgeous pink nipples and then throw my mouth down over the hardness as he slithers and mutters and curses my name, the sound of which, could, I swear, make a dead man come.

At this very moment, maddeningly ... there is a knock on the door.

Curt practically catapults out of the chair.

"Brian?" Jerry calls.

I do the one singularly most unnatural thing in this entire world: drop Curt Wild's cock from my mouth.

"NO!" I shout, spitting mad. "Get the FUCK AWAY FROM THAT DOOR!"

"Brian, I need to speak with Curt," he says, nonchalant, all business.

"And I am about to FUCK HIS ASS!" I shriek at top volume, "and so HELP ME GOD, if you don't GET AWAY FROM THAT DOOR RIGHT THIS INSTANT, I will participate, IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS, in the GANG BANGING OF YOURS! DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME JERRY?!"

"Yes, Christ!" he mutters, and storms off.

Despite himself, Curt chuckles.

Angry, genuinely fuming now at the interruption, I pour that fury into Curt, ordering him to push that round, supple bottom towards me. I want to ram the dildo home right this instant, but can't – not yet - it would kill him. We do enjoy a bit of talk and teasing pain play on occasion, just to get the juices flowing, but I'm no sadist.

"More," I order him, as his eyes fly open. "Now!", I bark, gesturing to the edge of the chair.

No longer in control of himself, he surrenders those achingly shapely plump cheeks, sliding them further forward.

Oh God. That perfect, pouty mouth – the ready and eager ingester of so much drink, drug, pussy and cock as to put your average rock star – even me - to shame; the spewer of the vile-est of vocabularies; as well as, each night on stage, an absolutely inexplicably gorgeous singing voice … Here before me, hung part way open, transfixed, yes, with arousal, with rough talk and forceful images, but also somehow inexplicably … with innocence, with a beauty I don't right now think I've ever witnessed.

I shake myself out of it – out of the leanings of my near-to-gushing heart … and lube up my new best purple friend, eying Curt with my heaviest, sultriest, most well practiced lids. I am, at this, as well as other things, quite the seasoned performer.

What is this, though ... ? How can it be ...? That he, who finds himself naked, cornered, vulnerable, coaxed, with the certain knowledge that he is about to be royally, mercilessly fucked … how can look back at me with such unmitigated sincerity? Boyishness? Such a ridiculously sweet, open, entirely performance- free face, at once, jittery, flustered, and wildly turned on, and yet, tentative, and nervous, shy, even?

I'm a mess, it says. Unwell and unstable. Far from home and lost in this world to begin with ... but I'm here. In your hands. This life, all of this, is new, and weird for me, uncomfortable some of it, a bit scary ... but I trust you.

My heart, thudding to this point with sheer animal lust, instantly bursts open.

From my mouth, it comes. No stopping it.

"Oh, God. I love you".

Brian Slade is instantly on me.

Oh shit. Oh SHIT! Run! Hide! Pray he didn't hear that!

Curt, eyes shut, panting with the buildup, with intensive erotic anticipation, half mutters.

"Wh-wha?"

Horrified, I gulp … "Nothing," and poke him with a lathered finger or two, which shuts him up quick.

"Ya want my big dick?" I hiss quickly, saved by the aroused male brain's notorious susceptibility to blunt, stupid language.

"Y-yes," he whispers weakly.

"Good," I say, toying with and poking his prostate. "Then shut the fuck up and take it," I whisper, and lean down to swallow his.

His head shoots back. He squirms and mutters. I slide in a third digit followed shortly by the carefully introduced dildo as he white knuckles both arms of the chair.

"Fuck … fuck … oh FUCK ..." he gasps, struggling to accommodate the oversized object.

Genuinely not wanting to hurt him, (though it's not like he couldn't stop me any time he wanted), I whisper.

"This okay?"

"Yes!" he hisses.

I stifle a giggle and re-bury my mouth in his lap.

For all my effort, for all the elaborate buildup and dirty talk ... he doesn't much last. The sheer girth and thrust of the rapidly moving object combined with exquisitely deep, tasty, expert (if I do say so myself) deep-throat action ... and the naked breathless sweating writhing flailing cursing man in the chair positively explodes round about minute two, calling out at a volume reverberating all over the hotel.

So crazy-turned on by the whole scene, I dislodge the purple and toss it the floor, and without further ado, climb aboard and proceed to fuck the living Christ out of him as he raises his hips and thrusts up, fucking me back, the two of us grunting and cursing in the other's face as the chair hurtles and stutters and bangs violently into the wall behind, until, just moments along, I explode, myself.

The room is suddenly quiet except for our labored breaths and weary kisses. The sex, once again, spectacular.

I look. Oh god. That face. That unspeakably beautiful post-orgasm glow.

"That was ..." he says, turning his head slowly side to side. "Wow."

We laugh. We kiss. We stumble towards and fall back onto the bed, contemplating the ceiling.

Goddammit. Once again – as has been the case each of the last few dozen times - there is absolutely no hiding from, and no mistaking it: the super intense sparkling crackling energy rocketing back and forth between us, the overwhelming feeling of … what is it?

Love.

Coupledom.

We're a pair, it says. A genuine match.

I'm so sick of it – so bloody sick of pretending what is there, what is screaming in both of our faces ... isn't. I want to blurt it to him, to shout in his face about the massive elephant in the room, in our bed – to, at the very least, relieve the buildup of pressure before my head explodes.

The minutes pass. I, we, instead ... say nothing.

It feels as if the elephant is sitting on my chest, now, impeding my breathing …

Finally, I give in, succumbing to the usual cliché fears (if he knew how I felt, it would drive him away, etc.) and shut my eyes.

Seconds before drifting off ... I feel a sensation.

Which turns out to be ... his hand, snaking across the sheet ... to mine.

My eyes pop open.

Wow.

Okay.

We've never done this. It's not really something we do - affection. We are each too cynical, and ultimately, maybe too chickenshit, or is it shy? I'm certainly too shy to turn my head right now and look at him. I don't want to embarrass him or call attention to what he's done. It's nice, it's amazing, just to lay here, fingers entwined. Much as I'd like it to, it doesn't have to mean anything, though ...and he very well might not mean anything by it.

Right?

So leave it alone, arsehole.

I can't possibly sleep, though, now that's he's gone and done it. No chance. And so I lay here pondering the whole sorry situation ...

Perhaps what he and I have been doing these last several weeks, I realize, is following a bit of a script. The one that says we are okay to fuck and bang and blow – indeed, it's certainly what is expected of us ... aaaand it's not like we haven't enjoyed every moment, truth be told. But the script maybe also says we shouldn't do too much beyond this, that we are merely temporary friends and coworkers, after all, that we shouldn't, for example, do the types of things we've been doing ...

Talking for seven straight hours, for example, like we did the other day. Pouring over stacks of old records, placing the headphones over the other's ears and sharing favorite lyrics and licks. Squinting at the tv, laughing and pointing and mimicking foreign soap operas and game shows. Donning ridiculous disguises and sneaking off to get lost down windy back streets, daring the other to eat the most revolting thing at each cafe we happen upon (so far: cow testicles, chocolate covered ants, pig ears …), having a quick puke, and then racing back and barely making it in time for soundcheck.

Perhaps we shouldn't lay about, barechested, each afternoon as we do in grassy city parks, silently soaking up the sun, (until Curt invariably sidles up to a bum and asks about his life.)

No more swimming lessons in heated hotel pools (he, having never really learned); no more laying awake in bed - or, after everyone else has gone to sleep, on the bus or the plane, reading to each other from favorite books; and definitely: no more stolen kisses at the Louve.

Maybe this becoming close business whilst engaging as we have been in non stop, super intense sex is genuinely ill advised, because, of course ... one runs the risk, doesn't one? There is definite safety in the friendship/fuck buddy business - it's well known - that simply isn't there in the lover/boyfriend thing.

We are employer and employee, mega super star and unknown opening act. I'm married, (if unhappily), in fact, and my wife has a hugely massive fan base of her own.

In short, should this continue, should we keep proceeding down this road ... things could blow to very, very messy bits.

We pass the moments in silence, holding hands, and not acknowledging that we are.

It's awkward, but at the same time, I have just had as rigorous, if quick, a sex session as any, and therefore all my body wants is sleep.

Just as I'm drifting off for good ... out of the blue, he speaks. His voice is soft, and worn.

"I heard what you said."

"Hm?" I mutter sleepily.

He regrips my hand.

"What you said to me ...before, in the middle of it." He clears his throat. "I just … I just wanted you to know."

My eyes spring open.

Oh no.

Oh dear god.

He can only be referring to that one thing, can't he?

My gut plunges straight into my toes.

What the fuck to say?

Rush to deny?

I'm frozen in place, too mortified to form words, and as the milliseconds pass, the hope, the chance of any possible credible denial or bullshit explanation quickly evaporates.

Pretend I don't know what he's referring to, then?

Forget it. I'm a horrid liar, and by the tone of his voice, he wouldn't believe it anyway.

Oh god. I need to crawl away right now … crawl away from this bed, this room, and die.

But wait! More humiliation!

Is that why he grabbed my hand just now to begin with, I think? To try to soften the blow when he lets me down, when he tells me it's sweet, it's nice ... but he's just not interested?

I'm so wrapped up in the intensity of my self absorbed self loathing that I almost leap into the air when he speaks again.

"I mean … I feel like I know you pretty damn well by this point, Brian, and I know we rag on each other and shit on each other all the time ... but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say … unless I'm completely fucking nuts … what you said … it just … it felt kinda real ..." His eyes flick quickly in my direction, then back to the ceiling. "And I'm cool with that."

Oh god. He's cool with it? Cool with the unrequited, one-sided thing? He'll be nice to me, now, humour me, but, of course, we can't ever sleep together again because he won't want to torture me?

"I mean," he continues, completely oblivious to my torturous readings of his every word, "it's not hard to see. We sorta stopped sleeping with other people a while ago now, right? And much as I'm wiped out by the tour, exhausted and dreaming about home and shit, I started totally dreading the end of it. You have no idea."

Dreading the end of the tour? This tour that he's stuck on with me? But why? What the fuck is he talking about?

"It's not like it has to change things." He announces conversationally, like we're sitting at a cafe shooting the breeze. "It doesn't have to change the friendship … or the working relationship, or whatever. Really, I don't think it does."

The working relationship. We're business partners, after all.

It's like, in an effort to spare me the humiliation of having my declaration acknowledged … and summarily rejected, he's resorted to corporate-speak/PR mode, but at the moment, to my ears, coming from him – a very decidedly non-corporate type - it's the sound of him speaking in tongues, babbling unbelievably confusing and insulting nonsense.

Trying to hold back my humiliation and rage, I flop onto my side to face him.

"You don't think WHAT does?"

He shrugs.

"Being in love. I don't think it has to wreck the friendship."

There. Done. Now I'm incensed!

I sit up quickly. I point to my own chest and begin shouting.

"Is that so?" I snap. "And it won't wreck the business partnership, either?! Well thank god for that! Listen to me, Curt! I am in love with YOU! Because I can never keep my goddamn idiot mouth shut, the cat is now officially out of the horrid, stupid bag! What the fuck are you talking about, with this 'dreading the end of the tour' shit?"

He tries to interrupt but I talk, or rather, shout, right over him.

"You have nothing to worry about or feel humiliated over, do you?! I would like to think if anything right now, you would absolute be welcoming the end of the bloody stupid tour, that you would at least respect me enough – that you'd be decent enough to not want to humour me – your friend, and now the source of your pity - day in and day out, rather than looking me in the eye every fucking day knowing how I feel!"

"Brian!" he yells. "For fuck's sake, I'm trying to tell you how I feel!"

I squint.

"Huh?"

"I thought it was obvious!"

"You thought WHAT was obvious?!" I shriek.

"You fucking idiot!" he shrieks back. "I'm in love with you, too!"

I jerk my head back so hard, it almost strains my neck.

I stare in utter confusion and disbelief.

I can't process it.

I search his face, trying to understand.

My stomach starts to slowly un-cave.

It doesn't make sense, though.

It can't.

"I was trying to say," he continues, "that us falling in love doesn't have to fuck with things."

It hits me again.

"Falling in love?" I cry. "What are you talking about? You never said a word!"

He stops. He laughs.

"Oh my god, neither did you! I'm dreading the end of the tour cuz – I mean, again, I thought it was obvious – we've stopped sleeping around, for fuck's sake. We spend every waking moment together; I totally love every second I hang out with you; I can never get you out of my mind, for fuck's sake; it's to the point where I can't stand when there's a shut door between us – I mean, how pathetic is that? And meanwhile the sex is absolutely A-one fucking in-sane … so when you add it all up, I mean ya, ... I'm pretty fucking sure I'm in love."

I flop onto my back, shocked absolutely stupid – wonderful as it all is, positively mind blowing and screamingly unexpected ... I almost can't listen to it, can't take it in as he babbles onward.

"I wasn't about to say anything cuz … I mean, how ridiculous does it sound? In love with a mega superstar? The guy on the cover of the NME and Rolling Stone and Cream? Ya, right! You're a fucking god, Brian. Why the fuck would it matter what I felt? You're sure as fuck not gonna stop at me, and why should you? Millions of people would kill to be with you. People'd chop off their arms."

My head spins and twirls in equal parts delirium and confusion. I can't make it stop. I raise a hand to each temple and press hard.

"Shut the fuck up a minute."

"Shut up?"

"Yes. I'm trying … holy shit, I'm trying to process. Before I have a fucking coronary or explode in a million hundred pieces … or both at the same time."

He laughs.

My head spins and spins as my heart does back flips and somersaults. I can't take it in and I can't breathe.

This wasn't supposed to happen, plays on a loop in my head.

People don't picture things they want, die over things they'll keel over if they can't have … and then it comes true? Full, living color true?

My brain is tripping over his words, over all that he's said, searching for the punch line, the part that reveals it all as a cruel, sick joke.

I'm searching, scouring, straining my aching head …

When suddenly there's a click. An abrupt shift. My pulse, my body temperature, return almost to normal. It all makes sense, I think.

It was maybe even meant to be.

"You okay?" he asks.

Am I okay? The person over whom I've fallen hopelessly head over heels has just declared his feelings. And, incredibly – miraculously - they involve me.

"You're joking, right?" I say, smiling, taking his hand. "You'd have to be a complete idiot to have no idea just how okay I am."

A super-slow motion smile creeps across his face.

I slide closer. We grab hands. We lean in. We kiss, soft, slow. We pull back.

"And if you honestly think," I say, "for a single second, that I would want to be with someone in any serious way who would chop off their arms - who is looking for the guy on the magazine cover – who thinks that guy is me – you'd be dead, dead motherfucking wrong, Curt. I'm a wanker. I'm an arsehole, but thankfully I'm not guilty of that."

"Okay," he chuckles.

"And while I'm listing what you got wrong-"

He laughs.

"Yes?"

"I must point out that you're wrong about something else, too." I inhale a deep breath. "You have no idea how happy it would make me – how tickled – absolutely elated, absolutely honored I'd be– you have to know this - to stop at you."

He smiles warmly – the pure blazing sun is radiating out of that face.

We lean in again, and kiss, after which we stare and gaze, transfixed, like lovers, like fools.