Gap-Filler for Episode 2-12

I slide back the door with a bang – being noisy on purpose, in case Justin has a guy with him.  He doesn’t usually bring tricks to the loft  - in fact, I don’t think he ever has.  I’m not sure why, we don’t talk about it.  I do guys here; it’s my loft after all.  I’ve been more careful though since he came home while I was fucking the zucchini guy.  I mean, if I want to fuck guys in the loft, it’s none of his business.  And I wanted him to see the zucchini guy.  I was feeling trapped and it pissed me off.  I wanted to piss Justin off, too.

And it did.  He stormed out of the loft that night – he was with Daphne.  I don’t know where he slept, maybe at Daphne’s, maybe at Deb’s, but next morning in the diner he let me know he was pissed, and I almost felt bad about it.  Almost.  I can fuck anybody I want, and that’s never going to change.  He can take it or leave it.  Eventually he took it, though he tossed in a few rules of his own.  It’s funny, I never in my life went after anybody like that before.     

Can’t imagine why I agreed with his rules though, especially the no-kissing rule.  He was the first to break it, and I’ve broken it myself once.  Not this weekend though, I played safe and remembered no-kissing.  It wasn’t easy; I love to kiss.  Sex is not as hot without kissing.  But what I lost in kissing I made up for in numbers; well, that’s what the White Party is all about, numbers.  Uncounted fucks, thousands of dicks, thousands of asses to choose from.  I got more than my share, as usual.   

There’s a small light on in the kitchen and in the bathroom, though the blue neons are turned off, and I can see a lump in the bed – one lump.  I sigh with relief about that.  Not that I would care if Justin had a guy here, it just would complicate my unpacking and getting ready for bed.  The lump doesn’t move as I approach, though I’m not being quiet.  Hell, I want him to wake up.  I mount the steps and drop my suitcase by the open closet door and glance over my shoulder at the bed.

“Mmmmmmm,” sighs the lump, throwing back the duvet to reveal a rumpled blond head and heavy eyes squinting to peer up at me.  “Brian,” Justin murmurs, “You’re home.”  A yawn splits his head in two and I laugh softly as I sit on the ledge of the bed to pull off my boots.  He scoots over and stretches out his arms, wrapping them around my waist.  “Mmmmmmmmm,” he repeats.  “I missed you.”   His breath is warm on my back.

“Hunh,” I grunt.  “That’s your own fault.”  I pull out of his arms to stand and peel off my shirt. 

“Did you miss me at all?” he asks, sitting up and wrapping his arms around his drawn-up knees.

“Yeah,” I agree sarcastically, “There were only fourteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety-eight other guys there to distract me.”

Justin slides out of bed and comes to stand behind me while I hang up the jacket I’d thrown on the floor.  “Tell me all about it.”


Justin reaches around from behind and unbuttons my jeans, pulls them down over my hips to the floor.  “Were the guys all as cute as me?”

I turn around and pull him into my arms.  The skin on his back and arms is so soft.  I watch my hand move up his back to his neck, then move through his hair, and suddenly I grab a handful and pull back his head.  He gasps but he’s smiling, and he closes his eyes before I lower my face to cover his mouth with my own.  His lips are warm and his mouth tastes sweet, sweet.

Justin’s hand slips down and grabs my cock, and I can’t keep myself from crying out.  It hurts.  He pulls away and stares down, and I feel the laughter bubbling up in his chest before it escapes from his lips.  “Is it broken?”

Carefully I clasp his hand in mine and pry his fingers off my cock.  “Only bruised.  Be a good boy and get in bed – I’m going to take a shower.” 

“I’ll wash your back.”

“No!”  I push him away, but gently, down onto the ledge.  “Bed!  Now!” 

Justin pretends to pout, but he obeys and crawls between the sheets while I head into the bathroom.  I take a piss and almost moan out loud; it’s really sore.  It’s always sore after the White Party, the price for a weekend of intense nonstop fucking.  I’ve never minded before, but I’ve never had a juicy, horny blond boy waiting in my bed when I come home.  A night without sex,  recovering from an excessive weekend, is no big deal.  But I didn’t count on the effect Justin would have on me.  I want him.  God damn it all to hell.  If he’d joined me in the shower, my self-prescribed dick bed-rest would have gone out the window.  I hope he’s asleep again so I can slip into bed unscathed.

He is, and I do, except that the moment I breathe a sigh of relief, I feel Justin turn over.  He’s still asleep, but he slides over and pushes his way into my arms, his head cushioning on my shoulder.  I used to think he was really awake when he did this, but he’s not.  Some people sleepwalk, Justin sleephugs.  The smell of his clean hair fills my nostrils and I feel my muscles let go and my body relax against his warmth.  I used to hate cuddling.  In just moments I feel myself drifting into sleep.


When I wake up, I hear the shower running, so I drag my ass out of bed, stumble into the bathroom for a long piss, gingerly holding my sore dick.  It’s better today, and I’m glad I passed up a fuck with Justin last night.  I join him in the glass enclosure.  “Hey,” he greets me, opening his arms for me to walk inside.  I close my eyes and let him rub the bar of soap over me, but when he grabs the shampoo, I take the bottle from his hands.

“If you want a ride to school, better hurry and fix yourself some breakfast,” I tell him.  He moves back a foot and shakes his head like a dog, then steps out of the enclosure and grabs a red towel to rub himself dry.  I stare at his naked body through the glass, wondering how the hell this pale, skinny teenager arouses me as much – more – than the beautiful bronze gym-muscled bodies in Miami.  I shake my head, more in resignation than in amazement.  He just does.  Fact.

We don't talk much on the way to PIFA; Justin knows I don't like chat in the morning.  I can tell he's bursting with curiosity about the White Party, and I realize that I'm interested in hearing about the wedding after all.  When we pull away from the Koffee Kiosk drive-though, I mumble through a mouthful of latte, "You can give me the details later, but just tell me if you're glad you stayed for the wedding."

Justin turns to study me and I know he's trying to decide what I want to hear.  "The truth," I answer his unasked question.

"Well. . .yeah.  Yes, I am.  It was really special, for me."

I nod.  "Good."

"It would have been a million times better if you were here too, though," he adds ingenuously. 

I glance at him and he's staring out the windshield.  Justin can be a sly little bugger sometimes, but other times his youthful honesty shines through, and I know this is one of those times.  I almost want to say, 'Sorry,' because - amazingly - I really am sorry I was not here with Justin.  Not here for Lindsay either, though that was Lindsay's fault.  I offered to stay and she practically pushed me out the door. 

At the entrance to PIFA I pull up to the curb, Justin grabs his bag from the backseat and struggles with the door handle.  I know better than to help him, and he gets it open after a moment.  I hear  him mutter, "Fuck!" under his breath, but he turns and gives me his million megawatt smile, making me wish I hadn't passed up last night and this morning.  And yeah, okay, the whole fucking weekend.

Two years ago I'd gone to Miami for the entire week, festivities start unofficially several days ahead of time.  It's always held Thanksgiving week, originally to thumb noses at traditional family get-together times probably, and I've always been glad to have an excuse to skip spending any time with my own family.  The years I missed the White Party, I usually paid a brief duty visit to Mom and Dad, then ended up eating turkey at Deb's. 

I knew Justin had been excited about Thanksgiving at Deb's because his mom was coming.  Deb and Jennifer  are now good friends, which makes Justin happy, but I had dreaded sitting down to dinner with that woman who can hardly bear to look at me, even after all this time.  She puts up a good front - for Justin's sake no doubt - but underneath the façade, she still hates me.  Luckily, everyone was so busy Thursday getting ready for the wedding on Friday that Thanksgiving was glossed over this year.  Linds and Mel were having dinner with their lesbian friends as usual.  Everyone else was rushing around making cakes and bride dresses and decorating George Pickle's ballroom for the ceremony on Friday night. 

There's been not a peep from Mom since she discovered me with Justin, and Clare said it would probably be best if I didn't show up for Thanksgiving.  Best for whom?  I couldn't care less what Clare thinks, but it suited me to skip that annual misery anyway.  I'd noticed that Justin was unusually quiet when we were packing our bags Thursday night for our Friday afternoon flight, but I never guessed he was deciding to stay for the wedding.  I guess it says something for my ego that it didn't occur to me he'd pass up a fuckfest weekend with me to watch a couple of dykes marching down the aisle.  He thought I would be angry but I wasn't.  As long as he was doing it for the right reasons - doing it for himself - I was okay with his decision. 

It wasn't till I'd parked the jeep at the airport, rushed through the crowds and the tight security checkpoints, got boarded on my flight and was buckling my seatbelt, that I realized how disappointed I was not to have Justin sitting beside me.  I've always loved traveling, and traveling alone best of all; yet there I was missing that little brat's excitement and enthusiasm.  I'd been looking forward to watching him experience his first White Party.  He hasn't learned to be totally cool yet, and in some ways I'll be sorry when he does.

Cynthia greets me with a wicked smile and a foot-tall stack of files, my workload is impossibly backed up, and after some de rigeur grousing, I settle down at my computer and spend the day working my ass off.  Cynthia leaves at five o'clock, but not before coming in to lean against my desk and demand, "Where's my present?" 

"Why the fuck should I bring you a present?"

She laughs.  "Because you always do?"

With a grimace I get up and stride to the coat rack, rummage in my pockets till I find a small velvet box and toss it underhand toward Cynthia.  She catches it mid-air and coos, "Ooh, jewelry!"  She must have quite a collection by now, partly from bribery, partly from blackmail.  I watch Cynthia's face as she flips open the box, anticipating her exclamation of pleasure - I know what kind of earrings she likes and I have excellent taste - but I realize she's frowning.


Cynthia holds out the box toward me and asks, "Only one earring?"

"Fuck!"  I grab the box from her hand and snap it shut, return quickly to the coat rack and pull out the other velvet box, toss it to her.

"Ooh," Cynthia exults, "Amethysts!  I have the perfect dress to go with these."  She gives me a quick hug despite my frowning resistance.  "Thanks, Brian, they're really beautiful."

"Go home now, I have to finish the Stutzman presentation."  I sit down again at my desk and Cynthia heads for the door, but she stops to turn around, and laughs.

"I hope he likes it."


She doesn't answer, just laughs again, and closes the door behind her.


He does like it, and insists on jumping out of bed and running in to the bathroom to take off his old nipple ring and insert the new one.  "Oh, it's beautiful!" he calls out to me, then he hurries back and jumps on the bed, crawling over to throw himself into my arms.  "See?  I love it!"

I can't keep the smile off my face as I carelessly flick the new nipple ring; I was sure he'd like it, he loves presents.  "It's a little heavier, does it feel comfortable?  You don't want droopy nipple syndrome in a few years."

Justin throws himself on top of me, holding my arms prisoner beside my head, straddling my hips, leaning over to give me loud smacking kisses all over my face.  "Let's fuck again!" he exclaims, humping me, making our cocks slap together with his gyrations.

"No," I reply, though it's tempting.  "It's ten-thirty, I want to go to Babylon."

With a heavy sigh Justin releases me.  "Okay.  But we're not going to do anybody else tonight, are we?"

I don't want to either, but I can't resist asking, "Why not?"

He clambers off the bed and heads toward the bathroom for a cleanup; absently he's rubbing fingers on his sticky stomach.  "I don't want to share you tonight, you've been gone for days and days."

"Okay."  I join him in the bathroom and we decide to have a quick shower, we're both sweaty and sticky, then we pull on jeans and tees and grab our jackets as we head out the door. 

Babylon's crowded for a Tuesday, we drop off our jackets and push our way through the throng – then I realize it’s a specialty night, there are shower heads set up in two rows through the center of the dance floor and guys wearing nothing but jocks are kickin’ it in the shower spray.  I hear Justin breathe, “Whoa!” and then suddenly Michael and Ben hurry up to us, Mikey gives me a hug.

“How was Miami?”

“It rained the whole time, I never left the hotel.”

Ben pipes up, “So the White Party was a great success?”

“Not as good as that one a couple years ago,” I tell him, before I realize I’ve given it away.  Fuck.

Michael can’t let it go, he bursts out, “You two were there together?”

“Along with half of gay Pittsburgh,” I try to downplay it, though I know Michael Novotny and he  won’t leave it alone.

“I was there for research,” Ben tries to fob Michael off; he could save his breath.  Michael says something teasing to Ben and they return to the dance floor.   I head for the bar and Justin’s on my heels.  I turn and glance down at him; he’s smirking.


“You fucked him, didn’t you?” 


Justin’s on to me all right.  Finally I admit it, and I’m glad that Justin doesn’t care.  Not only does Justin not care, he wants details.  Which I don’t tell him, of course.  ‘Gay etiquette.’  What a crock.  I decide to distract him with tales of the White Party.

"You think Ben's hot, you should've seen the Calvin Klein models at the Muscle Beach party on Saturday."

"Calvin Klein models?"  Justin's suddenly breathless, he's a sucker for the men's fashion shows on E! and he's twice bought me Calvin Klein underwear, to wear just for him.  We even had our own fashion show a few weeks ago, though he's under threat of death not to mention it to anyone else.  The wet jock strap contest was Justin's idea and made an incredible mess in the bathroom.

"Yeah, and I hooked up with two of the models at Paradise Found on Saturday night in Fort Lauderdale."  It's all I can do not to laugh at Justin, who's practically salivating. 

"Oh, God," he moans, leaning against my shoulder, as if his knees have gone weak.  "Tell me everything!"

"Later," I insist, signaling the bartender.  "Let's have a drink and then dance for a while, I haven't had any exercise today."

Justin snakes his arm around my waist and squeezes.  "Yeah, you did."

I bend my head and our lips meet.  "Yeah, I did."


"You promised to tell me everything about Miami, start from the beginning."

"Justin, it's late, let's sleep and I'll tell you tomorrow."  My eyes are getting heavy, we didn't do any drugs tonight and I get a taste of what life it like for teetotalers:  fuck once and fall asleep.

"It's not even one o'clock, wake up, old man!"  He's shaking my shoulder.  That does it.

"That does it!" I flip him over onto his back and lay on top of him, full weight. 


"I'll talk until you need to breathe, okay?"


I take pity on him and lift up slightly, lean some weight on my elbows.  He takes an exaggeratedly long breath and exhales loudly.

"The plane was late, I didn't get to Miami, didn't get to the Surfcomber Hotel, until almost nine Friday night.  I should have upgraded myself to the Palms, but everything was full up.  By the time I got changed and grabbed a taxi to the Seaquarium, it was almost eleven."

"What time did it start?"

"Nine, I guess, but eleven is fashionably late, not that anybody notices, there were fifteen thousand queers all in white, most of them tweaking."

"Did you do drugs?"

"Who, me?" I ask innocently and Justin laughs, I give him a quick kiss.  "This was the 'White Dreams' party, and you can't imagine the laser light show, the music, it was totally kick-ass.  There was even a disco dolphin show."

"Gay dolphins!  What did they do?"

I lick Justin's chin.  "I didn't see that, I was busy with a couple guys in white leather jock straps."

"In the back room?"

"There was no back room, not exactly.  Sex was going on everywhere.   There were all these 'theme' areas with different music, different stage shows.  Even a white wedding!"  I laugh, remembering that I'd caught the drag queen bride's bouquet, what a joke.  Almost I tell Justin, but  then stop myself quickly.  He does not need that kind of encouragement.

Taking advantage of my momentary mind-wandering, Justin heaves himself up and pushes, flipping me over onto my back, and he straddles my hips, resting his hands on my chest.  The blue lights make Justin's pale skin look even more pale, like Japanese porcelain.  He doesn't ever really tan, though his skin grows slowly beige after several successive sunburns.  Strange that his fairness is such a turn-on for me, it never used to be.  I'd never tell Justin, but normally I have the same taste in men as he does himself: tall, dark, bronzed and handsome.  And blonds, yeah I'm a sucker for blonds, but usually they're tan and muscular.  I had a few of those in Miami, and the sex was very, very hot.  I can't help wondering what it would have been like to have Justin there in bed with me and those blond twins from Tulsa. . .

"More!  Tell me more," he's insisting.

"Saturday night was the White Heat party, great DJ, but I only stayed till about two a.m.  There was an orgy in this one guy's suite at the Palms, and there was one room with the best quality drugs just spread around like party favors."

Justin's circling one of my nipples with his finger, but at that he stops.  "You promised to be careful."

I sigh.  "I was careful, other people's drugs don't interest me."  The coke was extra-fine, pure white and fine as baby powder.  I'm not stupid, I know my body's used to the cruder grades available in Pittsburgh, so I went easy.

"Anyway, I fell asleep in one of the rooms and somebody woke me up about eight next morning  by stepping on my hand."  I'd been sprawled on an enormous leather sofa, with one arm hanging down on the carpet.  There was a guy sleeping under me, or rather beside me, I didn't even recognize his face.  Don't know if I fucked him or not.  I don't tell Justin that, because he'll worry about condoms.  I'm never too wasted to forgot condoms, but no need to make him worry.

"White Dawn was Sunday morning, so I was glad to be waked up, even if my hand nearly got broken."

"What's White Dawn?"

I stretch my arms over my head and chuff a big sigh.  I'm really getting sleepy.  "It's a breakfast party, at crobar.  I didn't stay long, I was pretty tired and wanted to rest up for the bash Sunday night, the actual White Party, on the grounds of the Vizcaya Museum.  It was fabulous, you would have loved all the food."

Justin's pinching my nipples and frowning.  "Tell about the food."

That makes me smile, Justin loves food almost as much as he loves Calvin Klein models.  "About thirty or forty of the best gourmet restaurants in Miami cater the party - there's dozens of tables almost collapsing under the weight of all the dishes, and ice carvings, with chefs cooking up crepes and all kinds of nouvelle cuisine snacks.  Everybody was pigging out, even the VIPs."

"VIPs," Justin gasps, "Tell me who was there!"

With a final burst of energy, I buck Justin off my hips and toss him onto the mattress.  "No more tonight, I'm asleep."

"But - "

"No."  I lower my head and give him my serious look.  "Tomorrow's another day, Scarlett.  I'm sleeping now."

I barely hear Justin's sigh of resignation before my eyes close and my body lets go.  As I sink into oblivion, I feel Justin slip over to lie in the curve of my arms and nestle his head on my shoulder.  It's funny that I almost missed the feel of his body snuggling against me in sleep all the nights I was in Miami.


Just as I'm entering the loft Thursday afternoon, Deb and Jennifer are leaving.  Deb shoves a paper into my hands and I look down at the face of Dumpster Boy.  "Justin drew it, he did a great job, huh?" she demands, then I notice that it's a flyer with a glaring headline, "Do You Know This Man?"

Before I can answer, she goes on, "We're going to Kinko's to get it reproduced, do you want to contribute to the copy fund?" 

I've managed to nod politely to Jennifer, who nods politely back.  Justin joins us at the door and slips his arm through mine.  "They're trying to identify the guy in the dumpster," he informs me somberly.  "Mom and Deb are going to hand out flyers on Liberty Avenue."

"Oh," I say, not adding that I'm sure it'll be a waste of time.  Deb would just whack me, and I'm not big on conversation when Jennifer's around.  It's funny that only about three people in my entire fucking life have ever intimidated me, and this tiny woman is one of them.  I pull out my money clip and peel off a couple fifties and hand them to Deb, but she hands one back.

"Oh, one's enough, thanks, sweetie!" She leans up to kiss my cheek, and Jennifer kind of waves her hand in the air, which passes for either a thank-you or a royal benediction.  Justin escorts them to the elevator and I walk into the bedroom, take off my suit and change into jeans.  They're still talking when I'm done, so I drift into the kitchen and open the fridge.  It's been stocked again by Justin's mom, which I should appreciate but which somehow pisses me off.  I can feed her son, damn it.  Then I wander over to Justin's computer, and there on the screen is the picture he's just drawn for them.  His skill is so amazing to me, it sometimes takes me by surprise.

Finally I hear the loft door close and I breathe a sigh of relief.  Justin joins me at the computer just as I notice the bottle of poppers sitting next to the monitor.

"What the fuck?" I demand, grabbing the bottle and glaring at him.  "You promised you'd only do drugs with me, remember?"

He shakes his head.  "I didn't use them, Brian, I was hiding them from Mom."  Justin takes the bottle and puts it back in the refrigerator.  I can see the lettuce and other green stuff stacked on the shelves and I try to push down the feeling of anger rising in my chest.

"Why don't you tell your mom we eat out, she doesn't need to bring that shit over here."  I try to keep my voice neutral; Justin is real sensitive about his mom.

'Brian, she likes to bring us stuff, it's just a mother thing to do.  Even your mom brought you a cake once."  I see him remember the occasion of the cake-bringing - my official outing, and I notice his forehead furrow with worry that he's said the wrong thing.

"So," I lean back and rest my elbows on the counter, "Where do you want to eat?"

"Deb sent home some leftover lasagna from last night, I can make a salad to go with it."  Justin and his mom have dinner at Debbie's house a couple times a month. 

I can tell that Justin's feeling tentative, I can tell that he's trying to figure out how to handle this issue of his mom and me.  And while on the one hand it annoys the shit out of me - I hate being fucking analyzed, even by this little brat - on the other hand, I'm thinking maybe HE ought to be annoyed with ME, for being so difficult about his mother.  Suddenly I laugh out loud.  'Fuck it,' I tell myself, and grab Justin, pull him into my arms, and kiss him hard on the mouth. 

Immediately he melts against me, and we lose ourselves for minutes or hours or days in one of those breathtaking, mind-blowing kisses that make it possible. . .maybe even necessary. . .to keep this boy close beside me. 

When we finally break from the kiss, I tell him, "Let's eat the lasagna," and turn him around, push him ahead of me, around the counter and into the kitchen.  "I'll set the table - you're a better microwaver than me."  He smiles happily, he's so easy to please sometimes I want to smack him.  No, not smack.  Kiss.  But no more tonight.  Or anyway, no more till after we eat dinner.  And. . .I glance at my watch.  If we hurry, we can carry our plates into the living room and watch Jeopardy! while we eat.

Then, after dinner, I think I'll head over to the comic shop.  Somehow this fucking-of-Ben issue has to get straightened out, before things get screwed up between him and Michael.  Me and my big fucking mouth.  Oh well, it would probably have come out sometime, maybe it's better to get it over with now. 


"What?" I'm pulling clean plates from the dishwasher, and glance up at Justin, who's giving me his Sunshine smile.

"Jeopardy's on in a few minutes - want to watch?"

"Oh, all right," I agree ungraciously, as if I'm making an extreme sacrifice.  He's not fooled; he knows I love the show as much as he does.  Amazingly, he's just as competitive as me.  At least in a game show; who knows where else?  I pile silverware next to the plates.  Who would imagine that Brian Kinney could succumb to such domesticity - playing house and watching TV game shows with a teenager?

"Hurry, you can help me toss the salad, okay?"

That makes me laugh.  I close the distance between us, press him up against the counter, surround him with my arms, rub his ass with my dick.  "I'll toss your salad all right, but not till after Jeopardy."

"Choose a category," Justin says breathlessly.

"I'll take Sex for a thousand, Alex."

Justin imitates Alex Trebeck’s pedantic voice:  “The answer is, 'Brian Kinney's Favorite Fuck.'"

"Ummm," I hesitate, tightening my grip on his shoulders.  "Who is Justin Taylor?"


Photo Copyright Showtime 2002