Queer As Folk FanFic by Morpheus

Summary of Part 3:  Shake and Quake.   Justin convinces Brian to make a rest stop in Phoenix, where Justin encounters his former boyfriend Ethan Gold in the hotel swimming pool. Disaster is averted when Brian believes Justin that the meeting is a coincidence; Ethan's performing with the Phoenix Symphony that evening.  However, on the road again, Brian begins to have doubts about the wisdom of taking Justin to Los Angeles, fearing that he's going to spend time rescuing Justin from misadventures in the big city.  Not least of Brian's worries is that Jennifer Taylor will wreak retribution on him if Brian lets anything happen to Justin.  Jennifer's about the only person in the world who can make Brian Kinney shake and quake.  Justin agrees to some relationship rules and they move on toward LA, though Brian continues to worry.

Part 4:  Two Lookers


"It's beautiful!  Brian - it's beautiful!"

"Don't take a tour now, let's bring up the rest of our stuff."

We've just dumped our suitcases and duffel bags in the foyer and already Brian's headed back downstairs.  I'm dying to look around but obediently I turn and follow him down to the parking garage. 

It's late, after eleven, and I was feeling exhausted till we hit the Los Angeles area and then I started getting excited, reading destination signs on the freeway - 'Venice Beach,’ ‘Anaheim,’ ‘Burbank' and other thrilling locations.  Brian groaned at my enthusiasm and warned me not to turn into some freaky California tourist.  "We're residents," he reminded me sternly, "Soon all this will seem very mundane, so crank down the exuberance, can you?"

"No," I contradicted, "I can't.  I don't want to be as blasé as you about everything.  Cynicism can be kind of pretentious, you know?"

Brian merely snorted and reached over to pinch my thigh.  It's one of his favorite punishments and rewards, I've always got bruises there.  The good part is, he almost always kisses-them-makes-them-better so it's usually worth it. 

"Keep your eyes on the map, tell me how far it is to our fucking exit," he growled, and I reminded myself that he was very tired so I didn't get offended.

"We have to switch freeways," I told him.  "Brian, you can't believe all the freeways here!"  I stared at the map by penlight, there's dozens of freeways crisscrossing each other all around LA.  "We need to get on 101 North, that goes directly toward Hollywood, then we take the Vermont Avenue exit - that runs into Santa Monica Boulevard."  When he said nothing, I reminded him, "Santa Monica Boulevard is the main street through West Hollywood.  WeHo."

"I know - I've been here before, remember?"

Mister Crabby.  But I decided to keep editorial comments to myself so I bit my lip and silently watched for signs on the freeway.  We found our exit without mishap and within twenty minutes we were turning onto Santa Monica.  It was late, after eleven, but the traffic was heavy on the boulevard and the sidewalks were crowded - with men.  "Brian," I breathed at him, "I think we're home."

"Keep your dick in your pants and your mind on finding Cahuenga Boulevard, that's where we turn."

Crabbier and crabbier. 

We found Cahuenga Boulevard and turned left, and a few blocks later Cahuenga crossed Evangeline, the street where the condo is located.  It's in a quiet neighborhood, trees line the sidewalks and cars are parked bumper to bumper at the curbs.  Luckily the condo has an underground parking garage, I handed Brian the keycard Bruce Applethorpe had given him, the gate opened and we drove through.  It's not a big building, there's just a half dozen units, but the parking garage has space for twelve cars.  Brian says everyone drives in LA, and he said we'd have to see about getting some transportation for me.  I don't mind taking buses and love to walk, so while I didn't argue with him, I didn't agree either.  We can't afford another car, plus insurance and gas - but tonight was not the time to discuss it.

The building's three stories tall and has an elevator plus a staircase that winds around in a circle as it goes upward.  There's two units on each floor and I was happy to discover that Bruce's apartment is on the top floor - and there's big windows in all the rooms, so hopefully there will be good light - something really important for an artist.  I'm going to be an artist - I am an artist.  Suspension from the I.F.A. was just a temporary setback on that road.  I hope.

We loaded our computers into the elevator and unloaded on the fourth floor, then carried everything in and left it in a pile in the middle of the living room.  Then I began to prowl around the place looking in all the rooms; Brian was yawning but he followed along behind me. 

It's really a cool place, much bigger than Brian said - the way he talked I was expecting a tiny cramped studio apartment, but instead there's two bedrooms and even two bathrooms, well, one of them is tiny, just a toilet and a sink in a room the size of a closet, but the other one is big and has a sunken bathtub! 

"Brian, look at the tub!" I almost-shriek with excitement. 

"That's not a tub, it's a swimming pool."

"We can have a lot of fun in there!"

"Mmm-hmm," he agrees, "And there's room for a few friends to join us."

"No."  I turn to look at him and when he just leans against the doorframe and raises his eyebrows at me, I repeat, "No."

"No what?" he curls his lip, "No friends in the tub?"

"No friends - no tricks - in the apartment."

Brian continues to look at me for a moment, his face expressionless except for those damned arched eyebrows, then he pushes away from the doorframe and comes into the room, raises the lid of the toilet and begins to take a piss.  After a moment he says quietly, "I never agreed to that." 

"Well, agree now." 

Brian shakes his head.  "It's too late, and I'm too tired, for negotiations tonight."

"Brian - "

"No.  Not tonight."

I want to settle the issue - it's really important to me and I want to insist that Brian agree with me.  But he's right, it's late, we're both tired, we can talk about it tomorrow.  And he damned well better agree.

Finished, Brian flushes the toilet and turns to put his arm around me.  "Come on," he pushes me toward the door, "Let's go to bed.  Thank God tomorrow's Saturday, we have the weekend to get settled before I have to report for work on Monday."

Brian keeps his hands on my shoulders and pushes me ahead of him down the hall, steering me past the smaller bedroom and into the big one.

"Oh!" I exclaim when he flips on the light switch, "Oh my God!"

"Like it?" he  chuckles, spreading his arms out Vanna-White-style.  "The latest in Hollywood accoutrements!"

In the center of the room is the bed.  A huge round bed with a mirrored headboard.  It makes me laugh out loud at first, but as we get closer I can see the two of us reflected in the curving mirrors.

"I - "  I'm almost speechless.  "Brian, I know it's kind of, I don't know, kinky.  But. . ."

"Butt?" Brian raises his voice as he rubs a hand over my ass.

"But you know, I think I like it."  I feel my face turning pink, when I think of Mom or our friends visiting LA and seeing this giant sex-bed.  There's a long pause and Brian says nothing.

"We can have fun in this bed," I conclude at last.  "Don't you think so?"

He shakes his head and says disparagingly, "No.  The bed goes tomorrow.  Or as soon as I can get around to buying a new one."  When I open my mouth to argue, he hurries on, "Justin, no.  It's not a bed for normal sleeping, it's a Hollywood starlet stage set for videotaped sex romps." 

We both turn at that moment and peer at our reflection in the glass.  We watch as my arms reach for Brian, slip up his chest and around his neck; we watch the reflection as Brian pulls me tight against him and bends his head to touch his lips to mine.

I thought we were too tired for sex tonight.  But I was wrong.  There's no blankets on the bed, but we fall onto the mattress and pull off our clothes, scattering them over the edge.  Brian chases me around in a circle on the bed till I let him catch me, and we discover that we do still have enough energy to play for a while.

We wind up in the middle of the bed, but at an angle so we can watch our mirrored images.  My breath catches in my throat as I watch Brian's two cocks swaying eagerly where he's crouched above me, my legs open wide to receive him.  He pauses and we watch as he dips his heads and just touches his tongues to the ends of my cocks, pink on pink, then he swirls his tongues around the shafts slowly and bends his heads further to reach my balls, giving each one a slurpy lick before taking them into his mouth and sucking gently.  When I moan he raises his heads and narrows his eyes as he whispers, "Ready?"


Brian laughs softly and leans forward to capture my lips with his mouth while his hand gets busy playing with my ass, poking a finger and then two and then three gently inside me, circling and twitching his clever fingers till I feel myself quiver wide open with longing for the first thrust of his hot cock.  Unwillingly I close my eyes as we kiss, unwilling because I want to watch, I want to watch, but the overwhelming pleasure-jolt of my body as he pushes his fingers deep inside me makes my eyes close in exquisite agony.

The crunch of torn-foil and the snapping sound of latex makes my eyes fly open and I watch as Brian slips the condoms on his twin cocks, already glistening, moist with desire for me, for me and not for anybody else, for me and my twin reflected in the mirrored headboard.  He pauses before entering me, pauses so we can look into each other's eyes, and in unison we turn and look at our images as he lowers his hips and plunges his cocks inside me.  He's gentle at first, always gentle till I let him know to push it harder and faster and harder, I feel my ass muscles practically grab hold of his cock and suck it deep inside.

When he can tell that I'm ready, Brian picks up a rhythm, we have our own rhythm, we like it slow and then fast and then slow, stretching out the pleasure a hundred-fold as Brian's cock teases and tortures and fucks me into oblivion.

And we watch.  All the time I keep sneaking peeks at the mirror and when I glance at Brian, he's sneaking peeks, too.  When I'm ready I slap his thigh, that's our signal to finish, and Brian gives a final few heaves of his hips - thrust, thrust-thrust, thrust!  And suddenly we grunt in unison, and our bodies shudder hard together and then as suddenly we're still. 

A moment later Brian pulls away, strips off the condom and drops it over the side of the bed, then moves close to take me into his arms again.  We lay quietly then, catching our breath; I rub my cheek on his sweaty chest and he fondles my hair in his strong slender fingers.  And we look at ourselves in the mirror and we laugh softly together.

I think we're going to keep this bed after all.


"Here's a good ad," Justin exclaims excitedly, folding the newspaper and sliding it onto the table in front of me.  We're having breakfast at a small restaurant on Santa Monica Boulevard, La Porte d'Or.  It's a warm morning so we're seated outdoors, a half dozen small wrought-iron tables are scattered on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant, shaded with large dark green umbrellas. 

It's just nine a.m. but even at this early hour in WeHo, we're being cruised by the passers-by.  Justin's busy searching the help-wanted ads in the paper so he's oblivious to the attention he's attracting.  Beautiful young blond boys must be a dime a dozen in LA, but Justin's always had that something extra that lifts his beauty above the commonplace.  Maybe it's his energy or his unbridled enthusiasm.  Whatever it is, few men are immune to him - including me, sometimes to my cost.

No doubt about it, LA is teeming with beautiful hot men.  One of them comes to the table with a tray holding our breakfast, and Justin leans back and moves his newspaper.  "Mmm, looks great!"  He's starving of course.

"You'll like the eggs, our cook makes fantastic breakfasts," the waiter tells him cheerfully, "And if you want another bread basket, just let me know."  He balances the tray on his hip and transfers our plates to the table.  "Careful, they're hot," he warns, and I give him a look to tell him that he's pretty hot, too, a real looker.  He catches my hooded glance and smiles, which makes his green eyes crinkle up at the corners.

He's young, mid-twenties; above-average height with brown hair subtly streaked with blond, he's well-built and toned but not over-muscled; I don't like guys who are bigger than me, unless I'm in a certain mood.  His white waiter-shirt has two buttons undone, revealing a peek at his smooth tanned chest, and his black dress pants have been altered to fit snugly on his nicely rounded ass and thighs.

Just then I realize that Justin has glanced up from his plate and notices me cruising the waiter.  I give him my nonchalant look which makes him frown.  Fuck, I've made it clear to Justin that I'm not going to be monogamous any time soon.  Not ever in fact.  Not ever.

"Would you like more coffee?" the waiter's asking Justin.

"No, thanks.  What I'd really like is a glass of milk."

"You got it.  And you sir?" he turns his green-eyed gaze on me.  "Anything I can get for you?"

I lean back in my chair and shut down my libido for the time being.  I'm not going to be monogamous, but I guess I don't need to antagonize Justin on our first day in LA.  "More coffee," I say coolly, picking up my napkin and unfolding it across my lap.  The waiter nods and departs and I brace myself for an onslaught of jealous haranguing.  But it doesn't come.

"Smells great," Justin comments, grabbing his fork and digging it into the steaming scrambled eggs.  "Mmm."

We eat in silence for a few minutes, then the waiter returns with a coffee pot and a glass of milk. 

"Thanks," Justin tells him.  "You were right, the eggs are fantastic."  Then he adds, "Tony, the cook where I used to work?  He made scrambled eggs almost this good, he added cream and a tiny drop of Worcestershire sauce."

"Our chef's named Tony too," the waiter says, "Well, except he wants to be called Antoine, since this place is ersatz-French."  When Justin laughs he asks, "Are you a waiter too?"

"I was," Justin agrees, "Back home, in Pittsburgh.  We just moved here so I don't have a job yet."

"Welcome to California."  His look encompasses me, then he turns back to Justin.  "You looking for a waiter job in LA?"

"Yeah, probably," Justin agrees, "I don’t think I'm qualified to do anything else."

Swallowing a bite of toast, I suggest, "You can always fall back on your dancing skills."

"Shut up."  Justin reaches over to punch my arm.

"You guys a couple?" the waiter asks offhandedly, giving me another searching look. 

I wait for Justin to answer but instead he turns to look at me.  They're both looking at me.  Finally I'm forced to answer.  "Yeah.  More or less."  When neither says anything, I add, "In a non-defined, non-conventional way."

Justin shrugs his shoulders and gives the waiter a comical look and they both laugh.  Fuck, they're laughing at me.

"I'm Robert," the waiter says, holding out his hand first for Justin then for me.  Justin tells him our names, then Robert says, "There's an opening here for a waiter, if you're interested."  

"Really?" Justin sits up straight.  "We live just a few blocks away, this would be really convenient!"

"It's at least two miles," I point out before taking a bite of toast; he's paying no attention to me.

"The pay sucks of course," Robert continues, "But there's good tips.  Lots of older guys come here for dinner and they're more generous than younger ones."

"Yeah, I know," Justin agrees, and I'm wondering whether to be insulted or not.

"If you're really interested, come back about two o'clock, that's when the manager gets in.  You have references?"  When Justin nods, Robert smiles at him and then at me.  "Enjoy your breakfast, if you need anything, let me know." 

Justin thanks him and when he's gone, turns to me excitedly.  "Brian, I might have a job the very first day in LA!"

For some reason I'm feeling mildly annoyed.  "Don't be in such a rush, take some time to relax and learn your way around the city first.  You don't need to get a job right away."

"Yes I do," he contradicts, spreading blackberry jam thickly on a slice of toast.  "We're sharing expenses."

"Justin, the apartment's paid for, the only expenses will be gas and food.  My Bradford & Slate salary's plenty for both of us."

"No," he mumbles through a mouthful of masticated bread, "I don't need to be supported any more, I'm going to pay my way this time."

I want to point out that a waiter's salary will hardly keep him in Diet Pepsi and CDs but I clamp my lips shut.  I know that Justin doesn't want to be dependent any more and I don't blame him.  But he doesn't understand that I want to take care of him. 

Jesus, I want to take care of him.  That's another epiphany, how much more self-awareness can I take before my head explodes?

I've always wanted to take care of Justin.  Almost always.

Other than looking out for Mikey and helping to support my son, I've never wanted to take care of anybody.  Not essentially.  Oh, I've helped people financially - my pop, Debbie a few times, that kind of thing.  But I've never wanted to be responsible for another person.  It's kind of a shock to realize that I feel that way about Justin.  Have felt like that for a very long time.  Still, even if I told him - even if I could tell him, which by Christ I cannot, it's not what Justin wants.  He's a man and he wants to take care of himself.  I respect that, and yet it's maddening as hell sometimes.


Robert welcomes me eagerly and ushers me through the kitchen and knocks on the open door of a tiny office where a man in a blue striped shirt is sitting at a small desk.

"Mr. Chambray, this is the guy I told you about, Justin - "


"Justin Taylor.  He's an experienced waiter and would like to work here."

I'm not sure I want to work here but I don't contradict him, just give a big smile to the boss.  "Nice to meet you, Mr. Chambray," I say, holding out my hand.  He shakes my hand and waves me to a chair in front of the desk.

"A moment," he says, he's doing something on a laptop computer, he looks frazzled and I worry that I've come at a bad time.

I feel Robert reach out to quickly squeeze my shoulder and when I glance up at him he grins and holds up crossed-fingers, so I smile back at him.  He's nice.  It's not his fault that Brian almost hit on him this morning.

In a couple minutes Mr. Chambray grunts, hits a key on the computer and then pushes the keyboard away from him and folds his hands on the desktop.

"Ca va," he says, "Okay.  So, you are a waiter already, Mister Taylor?  Where are you working?"

"I just moved here," I answer, then fill him in on my background at Liberty Diner.  He hands me an application and says that he will check my references on Monday and I can call him then to see if I have the job.  I'm still not convinced I want to work here but I can always tell him that later, right now I'm just happy to have found a new job so easily.  I like Robert, and the restaurant is small enough to have that friendly feel, it's not some huge fancy-schmancy place, and best of all, it's in WeHo, our new neighborhood, and it's walking distance from the condo.

When we'd left La Porte d'Or (which Brian explained meant The Golden Door) this morning, he'd again encouraged me to wait awhile before getting a job; take some time to relax and enjoy Los Angeles.  I'd love to, but I'm anxious to start earning my keep.  The less money Brian has to spend on me, the more he can use to pay off his gold card debts.  Of course I'd like to try a different job but the only thing I have experience at is waiting tables.  Well, that and a few short weeks as an ad agency intern.  Unfortunately I can't get references from Vanguard or even from the I.F.A.  So my art career is on hold.  Temporarily.

When I leave Mr. Chambray's office, I find my way back through the kitchen where Robert's waiting for me.


"The job's mine, if he likes my references," I tell him, and he throws an arm around my shoulder and hugs me.  I'm surprised but in a nice way, and Robert doesn't try to turn it into anything but friendliness.  Then he calls, "Tony!  I mean, Antoine!  Come and meet Justin, he's going to be Tom's replacement."

Tony/Antoine turns and gives me a quick up-and-down glance before smiling and taking my hand to shake.  So he's gay too.  He's sandy-haired and kind of chunky, probably he samples his own cooking too often. 

"I had breakfast here this morning," I tell him, "Your eggs were fantastic!"  Antoine's smile widens and he pats my shoulder before turning back to his stove.  There's two assistant cooks whom Robert introduces, and he gives me a hurried tour of the kitchen and serving area.  I like this place better all the time.  The kitchen's spotless and everyone's really nice. 

Since it's that in-between time after lunch and before dinner, there aren't too many people in the restaurant, just two couples at tables near the front.  Robert leads me into a bar area, a curving wooden bar with silver fleur de lis decorations and a silver-framed mirror in back; there's about a  dozen silver bar stools covered in leather, and a few individual customers are seated there, drinking quietly or exchanging chitchat with the bartender.

"Simon," Robert interrupts, "Meet Justin Taylor, he's going to be taking Tom's place next week."

"Well, well, what have we here?" Simon the bartender wipes his hand on a towel before reaching across the bar to take my hand in his.  He doesn't shake it, he squeezes my fingers and clutches my hand to his chest.  "Oh my God, I'm in love!" he exclaims, rolling his eyes.  Everybody laughs.

"Don't mind him," one of the customers tells me, a balding guy well over fifty.  "He falls in love twenty times a day."

"But this is different!" Simon insists, he's still clutching my hand.  "You are so beautiful!" he exclaims, "I want you to have my babies!"

"He's already married," Robert tells him, "And his husband is absolutely gorgeous."

"No!" Simon cries, then suddenly he releases my hand and immediately drops dead, falling to the floor with a loud crash.  I'm shocked but everybody laughs again, and in a moment Simon gets back up and joins in the laughter.  "Ah well, c'est la vie, eh?  But my heart is broken, I may never recover." 

"Till the next beautiful blond walks into the bar," the bald guy says dryly.  He twinkles his eyes at me and asks, "Can I buy you a drink, to celebrate your new job?  Though you don't look old enough to drink yet."

"Thanks, but I need to fill out some papers so I'd better get busy.  Nice to meet you Simon - and everybody," I add, throwing a comprehensive glance at the three men in the bar.  Robert leads me back into the restaurant, lends me a pen and leaves me alone as I sit down to complete the application.  He checks on his customers, then comes back a few minutes later.

"I'll give your app to Mr. Chambray," he offers, "I hope you get the job, I already like you better than Tom.  He's very stuck on himself, and he just got a part in a commercial so he thinks he's on his way to fame and fortune.  Are you an actor too?"

"No," I'm surprised, "Are you?"

"Yeah," he admits sheepishly.  "Almost all the waiters in LA are aspiring actors.  Or screenwriters, or trying to break into movies one way or another."

"Any success?"

"Not much.  I had one line in a sunscreen commercial but it got cut.  And I've had a couple bit parts in community theatre - there's a lot of small theatres in southern California, no pay but it's a good way to get experience.  My agent thinks I've got a shot at a walk-on in a new tv pilot they're casting for NBC.  Auditions are next week."

"Good luck, Robert," I tell him sincerely, then I hand him my application and stand up to go.  "Maybe I'll see you next week.  Thanks so much for your help, I really appreciate it!"

"No problem," Robert takes my hand, then gives me another hug.  "I really hope you get the job!" he says sincerely.  "In LA, it's so hard to find nice guys."

"And it's so nice to find hard guys." 

We both jump slightly, neither of us noticed that Brian had come in and was standing to one side of the table.


"What's taking so long?  I got tired of waiting in the car." 

"I'm finished now, Robert was showing me around."

"Yeah, I noticed.  Ready to go?"

"Sure."  I turn to Robert and say goodbye one more time and wish him luck at his audition.  As we leave the restaurant and head across the street to where Brian parked the jeep I tell him, "Robert says that most waiters in LA are really actors waiting for a big break."

"Do not get any ideas," he says sternly as he unlocks the car and we get in.  "I have no desire to live with some famous film star, the paparazzi would drive me crazy."

"Okay," I agree readily.  "Where are we going now?  Grocery store?"

"We should go buy a new bed."

"Brian, no!  No, let's keep it.  Please?"

"You just like watching your buck-naked ass bouncing up and down."

"You liked watching it too."

"Hmm.  Next thing you'll be wanting to install a video camera."

That makes me laugh out loud, but "Can we?" I ask plaintively.

"See?" Brian exclaims as he makes a turn onto Highland, "I knew you really wanted to be in movies!"


I've got Justin convinced that keeping the round bed is his idea.  He's right, I really did enjoy watching him - watching both of us - in the mirrored headboard.  And despite Justin's wishes, I'd enjoy having an orgy on that bed.  And in that huge sunken bathtub.  Christ, something else to negotiate - relationships are fucking hard work, always having to compromise your principles.

We head for a cleaners I'd noticed not far from the condo, I need to get my suits pressed.  If Justin gets the waiter job he'll have to provide his own white shirts and black dress pants, so we'll be giving a lot of business to the cleaners.  Then we need to buy groceries and household products - an amazingly boring task made more palatable by doing it with Justin.  He can even get enthusiastic picking out toilet paper and cantaloupe.  We've stopped at a big Ralph's grocery on Sunset and I'm pushing the cart around while Justin fills it with a wide range of necessary and unnecessary stuff.  He's run off to look for mayonnaise, and when I turn the cart to go down the bread aisle, some guy in a hurry bashes his cart into mine, almost knocking it over.

"Sorry," he exclaims, glancing at me, then doing a double-take.  "Hey," he grins then, repeating, "Sorry, that was my fault.  Are you okay?"

"No," I drawl, returning his elevator-eyes once-over, he's a looker, raven-haired, blue-eyed.  "I think I've got whiplash," I complain.

The looker's grin widens, he's got very red lips, a sensual mouth and dimples in each cheek.  He's young, maybe Justin's age, with dark, dark hair curling long on his neck, and his vee-necked lavender pullover tee is tight enough to reveal his small nipples, which seem to harden as I glance at them.  He's got a great package showcased in tight jeans.  Tall - almost as tall as me, with very long legs.  Christ, I haven't been this tantalized in weeks.

The looker pulls his eyes away from mine to glance at my cart.  "Having a party?" he asks cheekily, "You've got enough groceries there for a month.  Unless - maybe you have a hungry family to feed?"

"Nope, just a hungry teenager." 

Justin’s twenty – or twenty-and-a-half, as he likes to phrase it, but he’s still a teenager in my mind. 

"So - you ARE married?"

"No.  Not really."

And at that moment my hungry teenager comes around the end of the aisle.  "Now we need to find Oreos," he's saying, before he stops in his tracks and takes in the touching shopping carts and the looker leaning casually against a bread rack.

"This your son?" the looker asks. 

Immediately I feel my hackles rise.  My hackles rise, but my dick goes soft. 

When I don't answer, Justin laughs and adds the jar of mayonnaise to our cart.  "Yeah," he tells the guy, before turning to look me in the eye.  "Daddy," he cries, "Please buy me some cookies now, please-please-please!"

"Shut up," I bitch at him, grabbing the cart and moving rapidly off down the aisle without a backward glance at the trick who just alienated me for all eternity.  "Stop whining," I growl, "Or I'll take you home and spank you.  And send you to bed without supper."

"Daaa-deee!" Justin complains loudly, before losing control and giggling like a ten-year-old.

After a moment when he stops to take a breath, Justin says seriously, "Actually the spanking part sounds okay.”

“Oh yeah?” I sneer, but I get an immediate mental image of Justin’s bare ass spread-eagled on the sheets.  Reflected in the mirrored headboard of that outrageous porn-star bed.

“Yeah,” Justin confirms.  “But please let me have supper first?"