It would be easy to say that for Brian, sex is about control. Power. Having that much more to hold over the head of the other guy, to say, not so high and mighty now, are you? Making tops bottom. Making them pant and moan and beg for more, harder, faster, please, now. Having them come all over the bed and then lording it over them, knowing they don't normally bottom, knowing they're going home and tomorrow, they'll be fucking some twinkie against the wall in the back room. Making sure they know that you are the top, the dominant one in any partnership, and no matter who you top, they're going to fucking love it.
But that's not it.
Sure, that's part of it. That's why he picks the tricks he does. But that's not all of it. It's not even a big part, really.
And don't say love. It's never been about love. Sex is sex and love is love and they're two entirely separate entities. Namely, one is real and the other one is bullshit.
What sex is about for Brian is heat. Passion. That's where it all comes from, the begging and moaning and panting and grunting and heavy breathing, collapsing down on the bed when you're done and staring up at the cracks in the ceiling. The way it takes a little while to get your heartbeat back to normal, and when you're breathing easy again, all you can think of is that was amazing, followed by can we do it again?
And the thing about sex is, you always can. You always can do it again. Do him again. And again and again and again and again and again.
Forever.
That's another thing. It doesn't stop. There's no limits on sex, not as far as Brian is concerned. It's something everyone does. Male, female, straight, gay, muncher, faggot. And there aren't rules on it. Well, sure, there are the basics – condom, lube, stop when he says stop, whateverthefuck. But after that, anything goes. It's all about pounding and thrusting and moaning at the right times. Doing whatever the fuck you want as long as everyone gets off.
Not to mention the fact that it can happen pretty much anywhere in pretty much any fucking position you can figure out.
(And some that you can't.)
And it's the one vice that Brian can't see any potential catastrophes with. If he drinks too much, he gets drunk and wakes up with his head pounding. If he takes too much E or whatever shit Anita cooks up for him, he'll fuck up the loft and wake up with an equally massive headache.
But fucking…
There's nothing castastrophic about fucking.
Not unless you fuck the wrong trick, but there's really no getting around that one.
And sure, he knows about all the little things that can happen that aren't so little. He knows that every time he fucks, even with a condom, he's at risk for HIV or anything else unpleasant. He knows that every cock he sucks, every guy who sucks his cock, every ass he fucks – every single one of those could potentially be death. His death.
It's part of the thrill.
He's not even conscious of it, not until that oddly calm, thoughtful post-orgasmic state, but it's part of it, wondering if he's going to die and this is the fuck that will cause it.
Debbie said it to him once, when she was really fucking stoned out of her mind. She said, "You know, it's only a matter of time before you get something." But she didn't mean something. She meant AIDS, and Brian knew she meant AIDS, and as far as he's concerned – fuck AIDS. Fuck everyone. Literally and figuratively, fuck everyone. Fuck the world.
He reaches into the box of condoms on his dresser and grabs one. "Put it on me," he tells the trick.
And he does.
Brian Kinney. Fucking the world, one hot gay man at a time.