Chapter 6

Dating and Tricking

Brian turned and picked up something that was draped over the end of his bed. He turned and made the big reveal.

It was a thick and poofy silver ski jacket. Justin gasped. He truly was floored and very surprised.

"Brian! This is…this is almost….almost mind you….too much!"

Brian then produced a pair of fur-lined, black leather gloves from nowhere as if by magic.

"I keep noticing you wear nothing out there except that jean jacket. You must wear this instead. It must be like you're naked out there."

"Well…not quite…naked," Justin said as lustful thoughts raced through his mind and threatened to compel him to rip that damn V-neck off the brunet Stud. "But it is pretty cold."

"Then you must wear this instead. Promise me now, twink!" Brian admonished, "sternly" as he draped the jacket over his shoulders to see if it fit. If anything it was a little big. The sternness masked his concern and insecurity that Justin might reject his gift as well…he thought. Showing such weaknesses would never do and was strictly against the Brian Kinney Operating Manuel.

Justin turned away and pretended he was trying everything on for size. He hid a small Mona Lisa smile because he wasn't fooled for a moment. And of course, everything fit perfectly.

"Of course I will," Justin replied and then turned so that he was again in what was fast becoming his favorite spot…In Brian's arms. He reached up and pulled Brian's head down and kissed him soft and deep.

Brian groaned in relief and lust. This twink would be his undoing one of these days. And he kissed him back hard.

B*J*B*J*B*J*B*J*

Dinner was meatloaf with the most delightful blend of herbs and spices, vegetables steamed in the microwave, baked potatoes that had been wrapped in foil, and wine. Justin was flummoxed and delighted.

"Brian…I can't believe this! You did all this!? A man who orders Thai so much he's putting the restaurateur's daughter through college!"

"How'd you know I like Thai? And that's ridiculous!"

"Michael talks about you. A lot. As for the rest…well, I just assume."

"You should never assume anything…unless it's the position," Brian said wickedly, "And you're right. I can't really cook. However, thank God, I can read and there's the internet. had some interesting stuff. Say…did you know this…microwave thing…was for cooking?"

"I heard some rumors," Justin answered drily. "What did you think it was for?"

"I dunno….I thought maybe some high tech looking cupboard or something. I was storing my lube in it."

He couldn't help it. Justin burst out laughing.

B*J*B*J*B*J*B*J*

Dessert was delicious.

It was ice cream, on the couch, with their shirts off. They fed it to each other. They got a little careless. Justin dropped some on Brian's chest eliciting a scrumptious gasp. So of course Justin had to lap it all up, Brian groaned.

Then Brian missed Justin's mouth slightly. It dripped. So, of course, Brian had to lick that up. Justin groaned and then squirmed and giggled when Brian eventually showed no signs of stopping.

"Whoa! Down boy!" Justin said playfully as he gently but firmly extricated himself, "Hmmmm…Well…I guess dessert's over. Well let's have a look at what we're dealing with. Then you know my terms."

"I know! I know! What do you think I'm doing?!" Brian said, nipping a nip.

"Well….you certainly get points for effort," Justin said. "But you know the routine. First, I look over what must be done. Then we can fuck."

Brian flinched. For some reason, this time, this way, and coming out of Justin's mouth to boot, saying it that way seemed ugly and coarse. "Don't say that."

"Why not?" asked Justin sensibly.

"I dunno. It's just we were having such a good time. I thought we might have a better….make it….well do something more…than just fuck." Brian thought he sounded absurd in his own ears.

Apparently Justin thought so too. "Brian, what the fuck are you talking about?"

Brian was confused. What was he talking about? What the fuck was he even doing? The last time he had done anything remotely like this, he was on the receiving end of the dinner and nice treatment and in the end he had gone off and fucked the waiter.

"Look Brian, I really appreciate everything you've done here, I really do. But let's not fool ourselves into anything. We've got a good thing going here. You get artwork done and I get my ass plowed. Nothing more."

"Nothing more! What the fuck!? What about the bar? What about…all this? I learned how to fucking cook for you!"

"The bar was…well the bar. Just military training kicking in. I would have done the same for anyone."

"And would you have grabbed anyone's ass afterward and tongue fucked them for 15 minutes? Not to mention scarfing down anyone's homemade meatloaf?"

"I can't help it if someone got a little hero worship crush and thought there was something more. Look Brian. There was a time awhile ago when I would have eaten this up and asked for more. But I know better now. Love is for straights and lezzies. It's not for us. It's just something people tell themselves so they can get laid. So let's just cut out the middle man. The meatloaf was great and all and this was much better than Woody's. But in the end we have a deal so let's just get to it. Let's fuck."

Brian was unsure just how horrified to feel at this moment. A maelstrom of emotions swirled around him, each one worse than the last. Shock. Horror. The feeling he couldn't name; the one eating at his gut as he heard his own words thrown back at him out of this sweet young man. He had been 25 before he had made that shit up. And Justin…Justin was only 18!

But clawing its way out of the horror like a mole out of its hole, was anger. Then white hot anger. Then rage.

"Sorry sweetheart. You just made my dick soft! Just who the hell do you think you are, Mr Hot Shot!? You fucking egomaniac! Well, I hate to break it to you, but Brian Kinney doesn't do hero worship, not for anyone, not ever! So…so you can just take your talent and your ego, bend over and go fuck yourself! Get out! GET THE FUCK OUT!"

There wasn't much anything else Justin could do. Something….somewhere…along the way…had gone terribly wrong.

"Fine…" he said shakily, and got dressed. He put on his jean jacket and then paused. He stared at the silver jacket very hard. Then he regretfully turned away.

"Take it," Brian said harshly from the window where he was standing with his back to everything. "Take it and choke on it. It's the last you'll get…anything….to eat from me ever again."

"Brian…I'm not sure what…I don't…..We were having….I'm sorry Brian." Came a voice behind him that he ignored….ignored with all his might, his face stiff and cold and hard as if carved from a chunk of solid ice.

He heard the door slide. Then slide and bang closed. Then he heard the silence. For a long time he heard only the deep silence of one who has been left utterly alone.

At one point he watched a small, silver jacketed creature pop out of his building and walk away down the street. The creature stopped once, looked back and up, and seemed to stare directly into Brian's eyes. Then he walked on. Brian used every ounce of his willpower not to scream for the young blond to come back. There was an alien pricking at the corners of his eyes. He did not turn his head but only used his eyes to watch the most extraordinary thing walk out of his life and be eaten up by the snow.

He sighed a ragged breath and it was the only sound. He turned around and went into the kitchen. He dumped every bit of leftover food into the garbage and loaded the dishwasher and turned it on.

He went over to the bed. He overturned all four easels and threw the shoes in different directions. He stripped. His eyes still pricked for some reason.

He got into bed. He assumed the fetal position and didn't set the alarm. He pulled the covers over his head. His eyes still pricked but were dry. He still wasn't sure what was happening.

It hit him hard and suddenly. His whole body shuddered and then shook as if he had the most intense of chills. His pricking eyes let go and tears flowed until his face was wet.

He was crying. But it was late and he was here alone and in the dark. No one would ever know.

And that simple fact just made him cry afresh and harder than ever.

B*J*B*J*B*J*B*J*

The next morning he woke up at 6 exactly without the alarm. He called the office (Cynthia) and told the machine that he was sick and working from home and to cancel all appointments. He didn't even have to fake the sick sounding voice. (much) Then he rolled over and went back to sleep.

He was rudely woken up by his cell at around 9. Of course it was Cynthia to chew him out and yell how there were two clients there right now and how the hell was she supposed to tell them they were cancelled.

"I don't know, Cynthia. Figure it out."

"Look, Brian, (and from the way she said it he could tell she was in client company but meant asshole) You are not the top dog or cock of the walk anymore. Get your ass in here in fifteen minutes and if it isn't neither will mine! I will go back to Vance tomorrow and you can be on your own. Got it!?"

Brian sighed gustily. "Geez Cynthia, drama much? Fine! But I'll need a half hour. And I really am sick, you know."

"Yeah, yeah! Tell it to Oprah! Just get here!" She disconnected.

Brian hauled his ass out of bed and took a five minute shower, raced to find clothes, his briefcase, an idea, his well-being, and self esteem. Sadly, he couldn't find the last three things.

He went in but it was with a distinct sense of dread. He knew this was not going to be a good day.

Cynthia gave him the stink eye. The clients gave him the stink eye. Brian received all stink eyes and plastered on the sweetest, fakest smile he could muster and prepared to deliver his pitch about nothing. But he could tell that they could tell he was left with just two things: Jack and shit.

And Jack had left town.

It was a bloodbath. Cynthia was pissed and no help. The clients were impatient and controlling and assholes. They didn't want coffee. They didn't want scotch. They didn't want Jim Beam. I mean come on! Who doesn't want Jim Beam!? Brian was disgusted.

The clients were unhappy that Brian had nothing prepared and even less to give them. The clients wanted to know where the art for their pitches was and what had happened to the artist that had made them.

Brian claimed he was sick with dropsy.

They didn't believe him.

Brian claimed he had gone off to a hippie, nudist, artist colony to "find himself".

They didn't believe him.

Brian told them he had been kidnapped by Somalian pirates….Aliens?

They didn't believe him.

He told them he had gone shopping at Wal-Mart, gotten lost and was still wandering the vast aisles of the particular store, unable to find his way out.

They didn't believe him.

He told them he had joined the priesthood.

They didn't believe him.

He told them the artist in question was in the hospital after an elephant has stepped on his arm rendering it useless and unable to ….artist for the rest of his life. This was the most plausible thing he had come up with so far but…they still didn't believe him.

At this point, having had enough, one of the clients, the one they couldn't afford to lose (Oh why couldn't it have been the other one oh why? …oh why?) got up and prepared to leave.

Brian sighed gustily.

"I'm in a homosexual relationship with the artist that created your stuff and last night we had a blow out and he fucked off and isn't coming back and I don't know what to do!" said Brian all in one breath.

Everyone sat back down. This they believed.

"Well, where does he live?" they asked.

"I don't know. All I know is where he works in the morning and he hangs out at a gay bar called Woody's in the evening."

"How old is he?"

"Eighteen . I think."

There was a bit of fuss over this but whether it was because of Justin's age or the fact that Brian knew how to pick 'em, was never determined.

"What are his credentials?"

"I don't think he has any. He wants to go to PIFA. He wants to be an animator." Brian gleaned this bit of information from the deep recesses of his memory. Nobody cared.

"Look son," said a spokesman finally, "We don't care. I'm sure he'll make it to school someday but right now we want ads for our shoes and we want him to make them. Find him. Get him back even if you have to put a damn ring on his finger! Is that clear!?"

Brian just sat there at the head of the table with his mouth gaping. "But….but…So…You don't mind that he's…that we're…"

"Ooooooo! A gay artist! The fat spokesman elucidated, waving his hands in the air sarcastically, "Stop the presses! As for you…there are so many reasons why we already don't like you! Trust me! Being gay is waaaaaayyy down on the list!"

"Oh! Well, thank you Sir! I'll take that into consid…"

SLAM! The conference room was empty.

B*J*B*J*B*J*B*J*

Woody's at 7….

Brian hated this place now. He hated it as if it were a deep, dark, scary forest of old. He hated that he had to go in and he dreaded what he had to do.

He trudged up the three stairs, heaved open the door and went in.

There he was. He was in his jean jacket as usual and his hair glowed ethereally in the dark, reflecting off the small lights over the bar. He looked hauntingly beautiful.

Brian made his way (snuck over) to the bar and sat next to Justin.

"Beam," he ordered quietly, scaring the Bejeezus out of Justin. The younger man jumped about a foot from where he was staring morosely into his drink.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asked. Brian expected this.

"I needed to find you,"" Brian said simply.

"Blow it out your poop chute," the other man returned.

"Look, it's not about us," Brian said, "The clients…they want you. You have to come back and do the artwork for me. They will have no one else."

"Please refer to my previous statement," Justin said dispassionately.

"I'll hire you," Brian said quietly.

"What? And give up the glamorous life of slinging hash?" Justin answered sarcastically, "Besides, I haven't even gone to PIFA yet. I have no qualifications."

"They don't care. They want you."

"And what do you want? Exactly what do you want from me Brian? Because I'm clueless when it comes to you. I still have no idea what the fuck went wrong last night."

"Honestly…I don't either. One minute we were having a great time, a great meal, eating ice cream off each other. The next minute I was just a fuck. It sounded awful….ugly. Especially…especially from…."

"From what, Brian?"

"From someone….who was…who is…so beautiful," Brian admitted. He reached out, itching to stroke that beautiful hair….but pulled back in time.

"I still don't understand what the problem is. You are just a fuck. And so am I," Justin said bluntly.

"Maybe I was. Maybe you were. But not that night. I cooked for you. I dressed nice. I made it a nice evening. Imagine if I had taken you out to a nice place. Imagine if we were serenaded and we had a nice date night and then you got up and dumped a glass of ice water over me and left me to fuck the waiter like some stupid trick. That's what I felt like."

"So what?" asked Justin callously, "Especially since you've done the very same thing. Or something like it."

"How …how did you know that?" asked Brian shakily.

"The story was awfully detailed not to have been based on fact," answered Justin.

"Oh, so what?" said Brian rebelliously.

"So last night it was your turn to get treated like a trick! And you didn't like it very much so you threw a Queen out!"

"I did NOT Queen out! And nobody treats Brian fucking Kinney like a trick!"

"And why not? You treat everyone else like one! You treated ME like one Brian! So why not you?"

"What! I did not!" declared Brian.

Justin gave him stink eye. "Are you kidding me, Brian?... Sorry sweetheart…no repeats…" he mimicked viciously, "If I hadn't seen those easels or helped your ass out would we be having this conversation Brian? Would you…even…remember my name?"

"Trust me, I think I'd still know it….but you're right….I'd be trying to forget it." said Brian.

"Well there you go…Look Brian…I get it. We're queer. We fuck…but aren't meant to settle down. In and out with a maximum of pleasure and minimum of bullshit. You can't expect me to recognize which encounters are "fucks" and which are "dates." And you can't expect everyone to treat you like God when you treat everyone like shit. Case in point….the Tweedles over there."

Justin waggled a few fingers in hello to Jared and Jason whose muscles were blotchy and purple and puffed out as much as their faces. Their eyes widened (or tried to, they were much too puffy) and then the Ruesome Twosome made a bolt for the back door as fast as their legs could carry them.

"Where do you keep getting my shit?!" Brian asked in distress, "Look, I made all that shit up and I was 25 to boot. You're too young to be taking that to heart. You still…you still have a chance at a life!"

"Well so do you, Brian! You're still young too. You started your own business. You recognized when you needed help and asked for it. You've got a lot going on too. As for where I heard it…you forget where I work Brian. I told you….Michael talks a lot about you. He idolizes you…and maybe is in love with you. I can't quite tell."

"Good Lord, I hope not! Mikey's like my brother."

Justin shrugged. "Whatever. You should know though, you have quite a devoted disciple in him of those horrible teachings of yours as well."

"Oh God…" Brian held his head. "Well, I'll have to figure that out later. Right now…right now, I have to figure out what to do with you. "

"Oh that's easy. I have the perfect solution."

"Yeah? What's that?"

"Well….you stand on up…"

"Yeah? OK." Brian stood up.

"You turn around…"

"OK…" Brian turned. Justin stopped him when he was facing the door.

"Now…you walk on out that door….and you KEEP WALKING! Don't bother me again!" Justin ended up yelling.

"Sorry Sunshine. Can't do that." Brian sat back down.

Justin looked thunderstruck. "How did you know to call me that?" he asked.

"Whadd'ya mean?"

"That's what everybody at work calls me. But you never heard it."

"No, I didn't. I dunno. Guess it just suits you."

"Well don't. That's what my friends call me." In his own ears, Justin sounded like a bitch.

Brian thought so too. "Jesus! Justin, who's queening out now? Will you stop being such a bitch!? I know I screwed up! I know…whatever we had will probably never happen. But I still need you to do your art for me. I'll pay you! You can have a whole studio space at the office. You could quit the diner! We could…we could…start over. I'm sorry! I won t treat you like a trick this time…and…I hope you won't either."

"Oh that's over. Whatever we had…dating…or tricking that's just over….with you, at least. I'm not going to abandon Debbie. And I don't want your office space. I don't want to run into you. Ever…again."

"Please! There must be something we can do! Those assholes at work told me to "put a damn ring on your finger" if I had to. They really want you, Justin. I'm desperate!"

"The only way I'd do anything for you is…" Justin began in a rage and then stopped. "No, that's stupid."

"Is if what?" asked Brian.

Justin began again, a bit calmer this time. "The only way I'd do anything for you….is if you were asleep while I was doing it."

TBC