The no good very bad day.

"Fucking Armani whore ... Brian! Next time pick up your own god damned dry cleaning!" It was one of those days. The ones where I want to go to bed at two in the afternoon for the sole reason that it'd mean the day was over and I didn't have to deal with it anymore. It wasn't really a bad day, just a really really stupid one. Which was almost worse. And it didn't look like it was anywhere near ending, either. At the moment, I was juggling keys, dry cleaning, a bag of art supplies, Brian's stupid fucking guava juice and the door, all trying to just get into the house. My shirt was sticking to me because of the New York summer and because I fell -- yes, fell -- onto a commission piece I had been working on. There was no A.C. in my studio and the piece was totally trashed. Not a good day, all things considered.

Mercifully, the dry cleaning and the guava juice vanished from my hands. "It's on your way home from the studio. What the fuck happened to you?" Ah, the voice of reason, coming from the most unlikely of sources. I was just barely starting to relax, that is until he licked a fucking fingertip and started rubbing at a giant red splotch I knew covered my cheek and went down my neck. "It's in your hair, too. Christ, Justin, did a mob of hunger crazed starving artists attack you?" The fingertip trailed down and yanked at the collar of my t-shirt so he could look down it. Stupid, smug Kinney.

The bag of art shit made its way into his arms, so he could juggle crap for a while, and I yanked my shirt off over my head. I have to admit, it was sort of funny watching his eyebrows shoot up like that. I would have laughed if I wasn't so pissy. Paint was all over me. Seriously. All over. "You look like a technicolor leper." Trust him to know the perfect thing to say.

"Fuck off." And trust me to have a witty come back ready and waiting. Me and my art supplies just stormed up the stairs towards my home-bound studio space and his home office. And I think I was very considerate in not trashing his desk, though I really wanted to. Instead, I sat at my computer and pretended to work and listened to him bustle around on the first and second floors. The town house creaked with every damned footstep and for the first time the great old hardwood floords were annoying the shit out of me.

"What're you going to do when you're a million fucking years old and need a walker? You can't stomp off dramatically on one of those." He was coming up the stairs, fiddling with his expensive as shit camera, hooking up the external flash. "Get up."

"I won't need to stomp off dramatically when I'm a million fucking years old because you'll be already dead. What the fuck are you doing?"

Have I mentioned how much I hated his superior, smug smile when it's aimed at me? It was a beautiful smile; I just wanted to claw it off his beautiful face. "This is a camera." He lifted the thing and smiled at me like I was a retarded toddler. "It takes pictures. Get up." He shook the camera gently, as if that was going to tempt me into dancing for it or something.

"I know what it's for, asshole. Why should I let you take blackmail photos of me?"

"Who said anything about blackmail? Look, I won't leave you alone until you get up. You know I won't. You'll bitch, but you'll do it. So, spare me the grief and just get up?" And the sad thing was that I knew the bastard was right. I could get up and spare us both my drama and the aggravation of an argument or I could sulk and yell at him all day. I got up. It was the easier option.

And the flash nearly blinded me. "Fuck!"

"Hey, Princess. Pose a little. Try to look hot and bothered instead of just bothered."

"What?"

"Justin." Brian lowered the camera from his face and gave me a soulful, long suffering look. "Just do this. Just humor me for fifteen god damned minutes and I'll leave you alone. Okay?"

"Jerk." But I gotta admit, it was only half-hearted as best. So, that's how I found myself standing there in half undone jeans, trying to look sultry. Really, I probably looked pissy, but I'm hoping since I wasn't looking directly at the camera, it's coming across as hot. Probably not. He does catch his breath, though, when I yanked a little at the waist of my jeans and cupped myself through my underwear. The little noise made my chin come up and my lips open, just a tiny bit, and I can feel my eyes narrow, just a little. I'm so easy, most times. Sometimes I think it should embarrass me more than it does.

"Fuck, Justin, you and those underwear." But it's a soft groan of approval at me and my tighty whities. They turn him into a complete perv. Why else wear them? "You'd be perfect for an ad. Fuck if I know which one, but whatever the hell you're selling, I'd buy it." The camera was flashing away and Brian was making all these soft, appreciative noises that were just killing me, but in a really good way. I don't think he's even aware he makes them. "Oh, yeah" and "Just like that" and "God, right there". All this goes on until my jeans are around my knees and my pubes are just peeking out of the tops of my briefs. It's only then that I heard him set the camera down and seriously, all at once, he's yanking down my underwear and sucking my dick into his mouth and shoving a finger up my ass. We're both easy. Really, it should be embarrassing, but it never has been.

It was my turn to make noises, then, though mine are a whole hell of a lot less articulate and a lot louder, but who could blame me? The onslaught of teeth and tongue and hands, oh God, his hands kneading my ass hard, it was just so sudden! How was I supposed to survive that?

I'm weak-kneed when he sits back, cleaning his face like a smug tom cat, swiping me off his cheeks and chin with his fingers and licking them clean. A tongue joins his, and it's mine, which is no real surprise. He's like a drug, a habit I've tried to break, but I fucking can't. The need for him's in my blood and sometimes, when something happens to show me his need for me, I'm surprised. Today, though, I just take his need into my body and let the high throw me around until I can't take it anymore. Until we both break.

Later, when we're both naked on the floor and I'm still covered in paint and now our mingled sweat, and I swear I can still feel his pulse beating in my ass; when his hand is busy running lazy circles on my blue and silver stained stomach, like he can't stand to not touch me, he has the balls to ask, "So, has your day gotten any better?"

So sue me if I laugh and roll over onto him. It's gotten better, after all.