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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD-CHAPTER 14-MILESTONE
by plumsuede
BRIAN’S POV
every day's an endless stream
of cigarettes and magazines
The drive home the night Justin returned, the onslaught of headlights coming at
you one after another in the opposing lane, seemed a fitting visual
representation of your life—the past and the present. Your trip began as it did
every night, at least fifteen minutes of cars coming at you, not one
distinguishable from any other. Their lights were bright and caught your
attention, but they were always forgotten as soon as you passed them by. And
then the cars would thin out and a few would pass, occasionally turning your
head, but your focus was changing to the cars in front of you then, keeping time
with them as they traveled ahead of you, your foot always ready to hit the
brakes when things got too close for comfort.
Ultimately though, every night, the lanes would narrow bit by bit until it was
just you on a dark road where you needed your brights to be able to see anything
at all. The congestion and distraction were gone, but as always on a two lane
road in the black middle of nowhere, there would be that one car, that one
beacon, that demanded to be followed, that demanded to set the pace all the way
home.
“Mr. Kinney, you are one mile from your destination. Have a nice evening.”
As a younger guy, the frustration of being forced to slow down for anybody would
irritate and enrage you, but as you got older, you became grateful for that
steady light in the distance that, if you just followed it, would eventually
lead you home.
As you wound along that road that night, you turned off the radio because you
just didn’t want talk radio chatter invading your thoughts. You wanted to think
about him, the fact that he was really home, really in your house, and
patiently waiting for you to get to him. He was so much better at waiting than
you were; you’d actually entertained notions of abandoning your car and
commandeering a private helicopter so the waiting would be over. But somehow,
you didn’t think an emergency landing in your front yard was what Justin had in
mind for that night.
The picture forming in your mind of him waiting inside the house kept changing.
Sometimes you were walking into the living room, approaching him, as he stood at
the bar with his back to you. He wouldn’t turn around, even when you said his
name.
Sometimes he was sprawled out on the sofa—completely nude—sketching a picture of
you, also sprawled on a couch and totally nude, on his chest with a permanent
marker.
Sometimes he’d lead you on a wild chase throughout the house that always ended
with him running out the back door and disappearing into the thick woods.
Distraction.
As you took the last, winding mile to your house, you glanced down at your
gloved hand wrapped around the gearshift and wondered who was really driving
this car.
You or your dick.
After all, you had your dick to thank for introducing you to Justin in the first
place. And tonight, you were going to thank it properly.
If the powerful force of your car’s turbo engine had failed you, your dick
seemed to have enough kinetic energy to get all three of you home. And strangely
enough, it seemed to have an amazing sense of direction tonight. Usually the
only place it was familiar with was due north.
You had sympathy for it, though, because it’d literally been fasting for over
three months. Three months. Hell, they could’ve built Rome in
three months. You’d been compelled on several occasions, albeit mostly when it
was just the two of you, to explain to it that it wasn’t being punished.
Not at all.
“You’re being rewarded,” you told it. “I promise, rewarded.”
It didn’t seem to believe you, though, and threw up on you every time you had
that conversation. But, like most cocks, it still woke up early in the morning
and crowed, so to speak, as if by reminding you of its neglected presence, you’d
give in to its demands.
*********************
home, where my thought's escaping
As you got closer to home, parts of your body that you hadn’t even realized had
gone into hibernation started to wake up. You gripped the wheel, steering with a
determination that rivaled even your innate tenaciousness, and as you approached
the house, you saw him.
In the window.
His blond hair in sharp contrast to the dark shirt he was wearing, his thumb
propping up his chin, his index finger laying across his lips as if he was
studying the front yard. He moved his hand and smiled when you turned in the
driveway, and as you walked up the sidewalk, you watched him pass in front of
another window out of the corner of your eye. You fumbled with your key out of
habit, but he was right there when you turned the knob.
The door opened and you quite literally fell in love.
It was everything you could do, every impulse you could fight, not to just pick
him up off of his feet, toss him over your shoulder, and drag him to your cave.
Maybe he sensed this, his hands clutching your arms, graciously keeping you in
the moment.
It would be the first night that your car ever spent in the driveway.
*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
right here, right now
there is no other place I want to be
The thick wool of Brian’s coat bunched underneath your fingers as he held you.
Finally, when you felt his grasp loosen, you looked up at him and apologized
again, “Sorry I made you trip.”
He just smiled and then said in a voice that was quieter than you’d expected,
“Sorry I couldn’t be there to pick you up. It was right in the middle of a huge
presentation.”
“S’okay. I’m used to taxis.”
His hand rolled down the back of your head, “Yeah, I guess you are.”
……
……
What was probably only a few seconds felt like an eternity to you, and you were
grateful when Brian stepped away, walked into the living room and offered you a
drink. You gladly took the whiskey he handed you, anxious to have something to
do with your hands.
“You look really nice,” you said, thinking that you remembered whiskey burning a
lot more than it did that night.
“Presentation,” Brian reiterated as he hung up his coat, as if he only looked
fantastic when he was performing for clients.
“This house is so big, and it’s kind of cold in here,” you told him, thinking,
after you said it, that you sounded like a simpleton.
“I can change that,” he said, throwing you off guard when he walked past you to
the fireplace. It was only then that you noticed that the fire had been prepped;
he only had to light it. The wood crackled as it came to life. “Better?”
“Yeah, that’s nice.”
He motioned to the sofa, “Sit down, relax. Are you hungry?” You were hungrier
earlier, but your appetite had mysteriously disappeared.
“No, not really. But if you are—"
“I’m fine. Had a late lunch.” He sat beside you on the sofa, and almost
immediately, you felt his outstretched hand resting on your shoulder, warm even
through your sweater. He squeezed your shoulder, “It’s nice to have you back.”
“It’s nice to be back.” Brian studied your face as if trying to ascertain if you
were serious.
……
……
He leaned forward, his fingers wrapping more tightly around your shoulder as he
took your empty glass out of your hand and sat it on the table with a muted
clunk. “Justin, come here,” he breathed, his grip tightening again as he
pulled you to him.
You felt yourself lose all semblance of free will and unable to do anything else
besides stare at his necktie as it came closer and closer to your face. He
lifted your chin with his index finger, and for some reason, when he leaned down
to kiss you, you started talking again, “I missed you.” His response to you, as
always, was more physical than verbal. You caught your breath briefly when your
lips parted, “so much.”
The next thing you knew, he was lying back on the couch and you were going with
him. You kicked your shoes off and started unraveling his tie. You untucked his
shirt and ran your hands underneath it, half rubbing, half holding him. He was
warm and smooth and he smelled like the Brian you knew with a splash of the
Brian you didn’t. A shiver went through you as his lips moved over the side of
your face, behind your ear, and down your neck, his fingers wound tightly in
your hair.
You had no idea who or what was driving this thing because the energy between
you seemed to propel itself from you to him and back again every few seconds.
You couldn’t harness it if your life had depended on it.
Neither one of you had any intention of going gentle into that good night.
*********************
as I remember what a night
After several minutes of kissing him, of feeling his tongue trace the inside of
your mouth, he mumbled into your ear, “On the floor,” as he sat up and more or
less pushed you off the sofa. Brian began to undress you and then himself,
puling you down on the rug in front of the fireplace. Before you knew it you
were on all fours facing the flames, the fire certainly not to blame for the
rising temperature in the room.
His hands ran down the sides of your body and your back with purpose, and you
got the distinct impression that he was admiring you. You felt his cock, warm
and hard, pressing against you, and you knew he was going to take you. For a
split second you worried about coming all over his expensive, oriental rug, but
that second vanished into your memory when you felt his hand between your legs,
his fingers lightly stroking the inside of your thigh, the sounds of his
breathing competing with the sound of hot smoke being whisked up the chimney.
This wasn’t an elegant but sterile hotel room in the city or even the loft where
the two of lived together. This was his house, and you were on his turf, in his
territory, and he was claiming you.
His hand left you for a second and returned warm and wet, and your upper body
sank into the carpet. He felt you take a deep breath, “Relax.”
“Fuck me.”
And he did, just like you wanted, leaving you within an inch of your life.
And then he took that, too.
It started out rough and almost awkward, as if your bodies needed to get
re-acquainted with each other, but within mere seconds the two of you were
moving in one fluid motion. Your eyes locked on the intricate designs in the
carpet underneath your fingers, sliding in concert with Brian’s thrusts. You
reached back and slapped his thigh when you couldn’t stop the ecstatic rush
inside you, and he immediately looped his right arm underneath you, pulling you
back and up so that you were kneeling on his lap facing the fire. Sweat burst
from your pores as you came, your cock held tightly in his hand. You rode him as
you rode the wave rolling through your body, arching your back to accommodate
the sheer force of it. The third time you sat down on him, he came, squeezing
you, grazing your shoulder with his teeth. Brian brought his hand to your mouth
and you laughed; it was so hot, it was already dry.
“Justin,” he moaned, kissing the back of your neck and your shoulders,
“Welcome home.”
*********************
sweet surrender, what a night
Brian looked down on you where you lay in his bed, kissing the side of your
face, commenting on how hot your skin was.
“The fire,” you reminded him.
“Right, the fire,” he mumbled, his lips now buried in your neck, “very hot.”
You smiled, tugging on him until he rose up and looked at you, “Brian, come
here.”
He lay partially on top of you, holding you in his arms, “Hmm?”
“Can we just slow down for a second?”
“You okay?” he asked.
You smiled and rubbed his face with the back of your fingers, “Just a little
overwhelmed, that’s all. Just give me a minute.”
Brian laid his head next to yours on the pillow, “You can have all night. In
fact,” he kissed the top of your head, “you can have anything you want.”
You turned to face him, “I want you,” and then closed your eyes, your
body absorbing the warmth of his.
“Mmm.”
……
……
Something about the way the two of you were laying made you suddenly remember
your first night, or rather, first morning, with him; how you’d wanted so badly
to reach out and touch him, almost to prove to yourself that he was real. Now
when you touched him, when you reached for him, he didn’t ask you what your name
was, he moaned a little and held you tighter.
……
……
“Brian, the house looks amazing.”
“It looks a lot better with you in it.”
……
You laughed, “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
……
Lying with him like this, with your face pressed against his chest, had to be
the most wonderful place in the world to be. You reached up and tucked his hair
behind his ear as you asked, “Who knows I’m here?”
He laughed quietly, “Nobody, really,” and then he paused a second before
continuing, “I didn’t really tell any of our friends.”
……
“Because you didn’t think I’d really come back?”
“Didn’t want to jinx it, I guess,…but I’ve been in a really good mood this week,
so knowing Cynthia, she’s probably figured it out.”
“She won’t tell anybody. She’s more loyal than a Golden Retriever.”
“I know.”
“You have two blonds in your life that love you, huh?”
“You forgot Lindsay.”
“Right. Three.”
“Couldn’t handle another one, that’s for sure.”
“How’s Gus?”
“Unbelievable. He’s great.”
……
The next few minutes passed without words, Brian’s hand smoothing down your
back, his kiss strong and soft at the same time, your fingers toying with his
hair. It became hard for you to believe that you’d mostly gone without this for
six years, as your heart, mind, and body easily settled back into being with
him, listening to him, touching him.
Wanting him.
Every breath he took as he held you felt like a quiet confirmation of your love
for him.
……
After a while he rolled on top of you, both of you hard, and moved against you,
his hand wrapping around your bottom as he kept you as close as he could. You
tore open the condom and handed it to him when the wanting became so
overpowering that you feared you might disintegrate underneath him. His deep,
low moan washed over you as he raised your legs and made his way inside you.
You loved being fucked like this, being powerless under the weight and movements
of his body, being the source of that delicious smile that spread across his
face. He lay on top of you, slowly stroking your cock as he moved, kissing you
with a tenderness that almost drove you mad.
The kind of mad that made you want to grab him, bite his earlobe, and beg him to
fuck the shit of you.
But after six years of waiting to have you back in his bed, he was in no hurry.
You tried to prepare yourself emotionally for what this was going to be, but it
was futile even to try. There was no explaining this or rationalizing it; there
was only the unfuckingbelievable sensation of having him inside you, of being so
completely full and loved, spread and open.
……
“God, I love you, Brian,” you whispered in his ear, the words feeling far
too inadequate for the moment. “I don’t even know how to express it.”
“I’m sure it’s on a canvas somewhere,” he teased you, an attempt to make you
laugh through the intensity.
He’s right, you thought, It’s on all of them.
*********************
BRIAN’S POV
reunited
and it feels so good
You fed him your cock in the shower, holding his head firmly as it collided with
the back of his throat. You’d suggested the shower as a way of cooling things
down a little, your bodies and your emotions. It failed on both counts when you
were stroking his hair after you came and remembered how you could always see
his scar when he was on his knees in the shower.
You took your mind off of that by washing his hair as he knelt in front of you
and making a stupid joke about trying to have rubber knee-pads installed in the
shower before he got home. His response was to laugh and pull you down there
with him, and he turned around and leaned against you as the water streamed over
both of you.
……
The two of you descended the stairs together to be sure the fire had gone out
and to close the flue. For some reason that night, it seemed like a two person
job. You turned off the lights downstairs and led him to the sauna, watching as
his face lit up in amazement when he walked inside.
“Get the fuck out. We have a sauna?”
There was a sadness, a palpable sadness in the air, when he slipped out of the
thin, gray, clingy pants that he was wearing and you were worshipping.
“Yes, we do.” He stretched out of one of the ample benches, and you sat one step
below him and faced him as he tucked one hand under his head, lazily stroking
your thigh with the other. He closed his eyes, and you ran your fingers through
his wet hair, “New York was great, huh?”
He opened them and smiled, “Beyond great. It was fantastic.”
“Gonna miss it, aren’t you?”
“There’s a lot of it I’ll miss: my friends, the endless inspiration, the
anonymity of the whole place, you know?”
“Contagious.”
He propped his chin on his hand, “You know, Brian, I understand now why you
wanted to go so badly. It’s like you can be anybody you want there.”
“It’s liberating.”
“Exactly…We wouldn’t happen to have an indoor pool, would we?”
You laughed at the change of subject, “Not yet. But you never know.”
“That’s a Jacuzzi in our bathroom, isn’t it?”
“Absolutely. And that other door in the bathroom goes to the tanning bed.”
“Man, we are rich.”
“That we are.”
……
“Thanks for letting me come back…for waiting for me.”
*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
knockin’ at the door of your candy store
Brian rose and moved up to where you were, lining up over your body, and even
though you were in a steamy sauna, you felt a chill for a moment as his lips
pressed lightly between your shoulders, “Don’t thank me. This is your home.”
Your fingers wrapped around the edge of your step as he kissed his way down your
back, his hand sliding simultaneously down the right side of your body. When he
got to the curve of your lower back, he stopped, letting you feel his hot breath
hovering over your ass.
Maybe he was reading those articles, after all…
Rimming can be delightfully nasty, or a deeply tender
act that two lovers share.
Some say there is nothing as arousing as having their
lover’s warm, soft tongue and lips give them pleasure in such an incredibly
intimate place, and those who love to give it find the experience equally as
arousing. If you aren’t sure if your partner will be interested in this
activity, always ask before just diving in!
……
Do you like to rim?
I love it.
……
“Up on your knees.”
……
The easiest position for rimming is doggie-style, with
the rim-ee on all fours. This way you can gently spread their cheeks with your
hands, and see everything clearly as you dip your tongue in and out.
……
Or maybe Brian wrote it.
For many people, rimming is a delicious experience, both
on the giving and the receiving end.
……
Or maybe Brian paid someone to write it for him.
……
Or maybe some other guy that Brian rimmed wrote it.
……
You could tell that Brian only had one hand on your ass after a while and knew
that he was jerking off. So you pressed back against his mouth, smiling when you
felt him shoot, felt that warm wetness run down your leg. Brian followed it,
licking the back of your leg clean, his tongue spending too much time behind
your knee where you’re ticklish.
“Stop it. Oh my god, stop it,” you begged, squirming underneath him. He knew
better than to do that; he tried it once to rouse you from sleep and ended up
getting clocked smack in the back of the head with your heel when you woke up.
He complained for a week that he was disoriented because of you, instead of
whiskey and poppers.
For a week.
And then you realized that that incident happened ten years ago.
Ten years ago.
It’d been a decade since you kicked Brian in the back of the head.
Granted, he was probably due again.
But tonight he was spared that fate, and after he’d had his (temporary) fill of
you, he helped you put your sweat pants and one of his sweatshirts on and led
you to the kitchen, “I know you’re hungry. Fucking always makes you hungry.”
Which would explain why you were always hungry when you lived with Brian.
You munched a bowl of Cheerios while Brian ate a spoonful of peanut butter,
telling you, “This is really incredible peanut butter, but it can’t hold a
candle to your ass.”
The two of you were eating like peasants, cursing like sailors, and fucking like
kings.
*********************
man it's a hot one,
like seven inches from the midday sun
Rejuvenated, as only Cheerios and peanut butter can do, you both meandered back
upstairs, stopping halfway up because Brian wanted to make out, his hand
slipping effortlessly underneath the waistband of your pants. He insisted on
taking your pants off for you once you were finally back in the bedroom, staring
lovingly at them before letting them hit the floor.
“What is your affliction with my pants?” you asked, as he came to bed and laid
on top of you.
“They’re sublime.”
“They’re just pants.”
“They’re a cruel mistress whose very existence taunts me into madness.”
You laughed, “And they love every minute of it.”
“Clearly.”
……
Outside your house, skeleton-like trees were becoming slick with a slow rain
that slid down the ruts in their trunks, the indentations years in the making.
The wind blew like insulation on the other side of your bedroom windows,
muffling the occasional sound of weak tree limbs cracking and falling. Inside,
the sweet smell of pot filled the room as Brian lit up and passed it to you.
“I missed seeing you smile,” he said as he handed you the joint, stroking the
side of your face, making you smile again.
Your bedroom was toasty, the fireplace and Brian emitting a steady warmth that
negated the need for sheets and blankets at that moment. Between that and
fucking, showering, and steaming with him, your body was relaxed and receptive.
Once the pot was gone, Brian’s mouth was soft on yours, his kiss drawing out
everything that he wanted from you bit by bit. When he pulled away now and then,
your mouth followed his, your head rising up off of your pillow in an attempt to
bring him back to you. You moaned when you heard him snap open the lube right
next to your ear. He held you close as he kissed you again, his right hand
moving between your legs. You felt your body expecting him, wanting him, and
then shaking for a second as he slipped his finger inside you, Brian’s long
fingers and strong arms always rendering you useless. Your finger traced the
outline of his bicep as you listened to him,
“Feel good?”
“Yes.”
……
“You know, Brian, you’re the only person I know whose drug holder cost more than
their drugs.”
“Aw, I got that for free,” he said, nodding toward his sleek silver case. “It
was a prize in the bottom of a baggie.”
You laughed, “And you have no idea how fucking sexy you are when you’re getting
high.”
He grinned and raised his eyebrow, “Oh yes, I do,” his palm pressing against the
delicate skin between your ass and your balls, his thumb gently caressing them
as you moaned. You knew what he was doing, he knew that you knew, and you were
more than happy to lie back and enjoy it.
An impromptu fisting rehearsal.
He was so beautiful when he was like this, his eyes were so dark, his hands were
so warm and soft, and as he fluttered the two fingers inside you, you reached
for your cock, stroking it with one hand and his hair with the other. When he
worked up to three, you felt that familiar feeling of almost floating as his
face moved down your stomach, his lips brushing over your stroking fingers, and
then ending up gently licking and sucking on your balls. Having your hand on
your cock, his mouth on your balls, and then four fingers in your ass was about
as close to heaven as a person could get.
He knew your body wasn’t ready to take anymore, not just yet, but he stayed
inside you, kissing and nibbling between your legs until your breathing and the
pressure on his hand told him that you were going to come. And as you did, he
pushed your hand out of the way and swallowed your cock, drinking down every
ounce that was pouring out of you. You collapsed against the sheets, exhausted,
and he was still inside you…mumbling something about possession being nine
tenths of the law.
”More,” you said, your hand moving over his face.
He shook his head, “Not tonight.”
“Uh.”
“Soon,” he promised. “You’re not ready.”
“I want to be ready,” you whined, and he smiled at you.
“I know. You will be.” Your ass squeezed his fingers and he laughed, “Let’s
fuck. Shall we?”
*********************
I am a rock
When you were a little boy and your mom finally explained sex to you because
your father just couldn’t seem to get the words out, you were completely
disgusted. The whole concept seemed completely revolting, but there were
probably two very good reasons for that. One, you never imagined yourself ever
touching a girl and your mother made no mention of boys touching boys.
Two, your mother was explaining all of this to you by way of a bright yellow
pamphlet (no doubt from her generation) entitled, How to Talk About Sex with
Children Ages Five to Eight.
You were ten.
And therefore, of course, deeply offended that you were behind schedule.
The pamphlet went to great lengths to explain fertilization…between chickens.
Not once, in the ten years of your life up to that point, had you had even a
remotely sexual thought about a chicken. For a year after that, you refused to
eat eggs, but then your mother made you a cake for your eleventh birthday and
after you ate it, she told you it had eggs in it—so you got over it.
But the thing you remember most about that pamphlet and the reason that you
stole it out of your mother’s dresser, under the guise of sparing Molly the same
fate as you, was the black and white picture of the statue of David strangely
placed on the page after the chicken debacle. You remember staring at that
picture at night in your room, hiding the pamphlet in your pillowcase and
extinguishing the flashlight when you heard your parents’ footsteps on the
stairs.
The first time you got a hard on, you cried, fearing that you, too, were turning
into a statue.
How you became an artist after all of that, you’ll never know.
And it was so nice to be back in bed with Brian, where he was quite clearly the
artist in residence. You weren’t exactly sure what to expect the first night you
met Brian, what sex would really feel like, who would do what and when, but he
took all of those nagging questions away from you one by one as he stroked you,
kissed you, rimmed you, and fucked you.
You were so scared when you realized that he was going to fuck you, that he
wanted to fuck you. And when he undressed and began to touch you, you wanted
to tell him that every time you closed your eyes, you saw the statue of David
lying on top of you, and that he wasn’t as heavy as you thought he would be.
So, that night, after he’d gotten his fill of you, quite literally, and it was
time to go to sleep, a question was burning inside you that you just had to ask.
You waited, much to Brian’s chagrin, until he was almost asleep before you got
up your nerve,
“Brian?”
“What?”
……
“I was just wondering, have you ever been to Italy?”
He rolled over and looked at you like you were an alien he’d brought home by
accident, “No. Why?”
You were afraid to tell him why because maybe Brian had read that stupid booklet
too, and he would know exactly what you were thinking and what you’d done
at night under the covers with a flashlight, “No reason.”
That night, you decided that this man sleeping beside you didn’t even own a
flashlight. He didn’t need one.
“Whatever. Just go to sleep.”
You pretended right then that he’d said, “Justin, go to sleep,”
and fell asleep that much faster.
And after that night, you returned your father’s flashlight with very dead
batteries to the garage, putting it back in the same place you’d stolen it from
seven years ago. When your father came home from work that night, he marched
into the kitchen with it, demanding that someone tell him, “Where the hell
has this thing been?” You just smiled at the green bean casserole on your
plate and said nothing. And that night in bed, you’d thought about Brian under
the covers and how you’d never need a flashlight anymore.
*********************
no, a little birdie told me you can’t make it by yourself
The first morning you woke up in your spacious, new home wasn’t of your own
accord. It was six-o-three a.m., and Brian was leaning over your shoulder and
staring at your face. An alarm had probably gone off, but you weren’t quite used
to ignoring them. All three of Daniel’s had gone off at four thirty in the
morning and you could hear them all the way in your room. Besides, you were an
artist, and artist’s don’t punch a clock.
Brian obviously thought otherwise, “Wake up.”
“No.”
“I wanna fuck before I get in the shower.” Never let it be said that Brian
Kinney doesn’t believe in the direct approach.
You poked your ass in his direction, “Here, my ass is awake.” When you heard
Brian fumbling with condoms and lube, you rolled over, “Honestly, you don’t even
care if I’m awake or not, do you?”
The expression on Brian’s face was your answer, but he shrugged and gave you one
anyway, “Not really.” And then he looked more closely at the look on your
face and added, “You know I’ll have a better day if we fuck.” You were still
groggy, but you could’ve sworn he was batting his eyelashes and pouting. You
performed a perfect dramatic sigh as you rolled on your stomach, and Brian’s
arms came down over yours, holding your hands as he fucked you. “I love you.”
You laughed, “You love fucking.”
“I love fucking you.”
……
“You have to go to work?” you asked as you realized that it was very nice to
wake up this way.
“Yeah. Things will let up in about a week or so. Then I can play hooky.”
He kissed the side of your face as you told him, “I don’t want you to go.”
“How else will I ever afford the indoor pool you want?”
“I just wanna fuck all day.”
“See what a little whore you are when you wake up?” he asked you as he gripped
your hip and then whispered in the back of your neck, “I want you to come.”
“Let me up,” you whispered back, and he backed off a little so you could push up
on your knees. You steadied yourself, rubbing your cock, and Brian’s hands slid
under your ass, his thumbs spreading you open as he fucked you. The moment began
to fast forward as Brian’s breathing became harsher, and you came right before
he did, the weight of his body pressing you back into the sheets you’d just
risen from. He rolled you over and kissed you, and you let your hands wander
down to his ass as you held him, “You are a very sexy alarm clock,” you told him
as he kissed you for the last time before getting up to shower.
“Wanna join me?” he asked hopefully.
But you were already falling back asleep.
*********************
your reason for living’s your reason for leaving
Later that morning, you were lying on black sofa in the home theater room
watching a movie when the phone rang and scared the shit out of you.
"This is MCI with a collect call from, ‘Alan’. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes. Alan?” You could hear the noise of the city rushing around him.
“Justin?”
“Hey. What’s up?” It’d been a week since the full moon.
“Sorry I’m calling collect.”
“That’s okay. You all right?”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine. I just didn’t get a chance to tell you goodbye.”
And then he paused and you would’ve thought that he hung up, except you could
hear car horns honking every few seconds. “I’m really gonna miss you.”
“I’m gonna miss you, too. I already miss everybody, actually.”
“It’s weird to go to the studio and not see you there or your stuff. It kinda
freaked me out.”
“How’s Harper?”
“Fine, I guess. But she misses you; I can tell.”
“I miss her, too.”
“Justin, I just wanted you to know that I wasn’t the one who stole your
computer.”
“That’s okay. That was ages ago; don’t worry about it.”
"I’m not positive, but I think some friends of mine stole it. I think they
followed me to Josie’s place sometimes. They knew she fed me and stuff. I think
they were sort of jealous.”
“Alan, it’s no big deal. Just—"
“Anyway, neither of them are alive anyway. They’ve been dead for awhile.”
“Alan, don’t worry about it; I’m serious. Just take care of yourself, and stay
warm. It’s freezing out there. I’m sure I’ll get back to the city for something,
and maybe I can see you then.”
“Yeah, that would be cool. I’d rather tell you goodbye in person. But, look,
I gotta go. Some cops are staring at me like I don’t have the right to use a
fucking pay phone.”
“Okay, okay. Take care, Alan. Thanks for calling.”
“Bye, Justin.”
You hung up the phone, went in the kitchen and found nothing to cook for dinner.
Brian had left the keys to the ‘vette on the counter for you with a note that
said,
Have a good day, Sunshine.
I’ll see you tonight.
Naked.
You drove to the grocery store with the radio blaring some obnoxious music that
reminded you of the city.
*********************
now I've been happy lately
thinking about the good things to come
The grocery stores on the edge of West Virginia were nothing like the grocery
stores in New York City. They were excessively bright and not at all busy. You
took your time shopping, trying to remember what Brian liked to eat, what Brian
wouldn’t eat, and ended up with a cart full of fruits, vegetables, the makings
of a mammoth salad, chicken, wine, and beer.
You spent the rest of the day looking for recipes on line that you thought Brian
would like and then made dinner for the two of you consisting of salad,
vegetables, chicken, and some fresh fruit for dessert. Granted, you weren’t
Martha Stewart, but you figured that your considerable skill in the bedroom more
than made up for your lack thereof in the kitchen.
Brian came home on time, and you prided yourself on the fact that you hadn’t
called him sixty-five times that day. In fact, you’d called him only once to ask
him how to get to a grocery store in the first place. He wanted to know what you
did all day, and you told him about your noise-polluting adventure to get the
groceries, and he laughed and said that even though he didn’t know what to call
what he was eating, it was really good.
“It’s just a chicken thing,” you said. “Found it on the ‘net.”
He molested you the entire time you were trying to wash the dishes and put
everything away, badgering you about why you wouldn’t just use the dishwasher.
You didn’t want to tell him that it was because you’d never seen a dishwasher
like that before, and you couldn’t figure out how to turn it on. You tried once
and it spoke to you, “I’m sorry, I don’t know what action you’d like me to
perform.”
As far as you’d ever known, dishwashers only did one thing, so you answered it,
“I want you to wash the dishes.” But It just sat there, doing nothing and saying
nothing, so you kicked it and told it to fuck off, refusing to speak to it for
the rest of the day.
So, while you were scrubbing pots and pans by hand, Brian whispered in your ear
that he had a surprise for you and eventually led you upstairs to what was your
very own studio. Your mouth fell open when you walked into the room, and when he
stripped you and cuffed you to your brand new table, you remembered exactly why
it was that you loved Brian—nothing with him was ever boring or
unsatisfying.
*********************
lookin’ forward to a little afternoon delight
You surprised Brian at his office the next morning, and spent your first Friday
afternoon home at the loft with him, making love, snoozing, and having a
fabulous lunch from Brian’s own personal restaurant. You weren’t sure if the
fact that Brian owned a restaurant meant that you shouldn’t worry about
improving in the kitchen or that you’d better take a cooking class immediately.
After you’d come, slept, and eaten with him, he had to go back to work for some
accounting-crap meeting with Ted, ‘revising first quarter projections, blah,
blah, blah, whatever.’ He kissed you goodbye in front of the office and popped
you in the ass when you turned to walk to back to the ‘vette. You drove home
listening to some weird CD you’d found in the home theater room amongst Brian’s
overflowing collection of music and DVDs. It was basically just song after song
about fucking, and you started to wonder if he’d accidentally bought the
soundtrack to a porn movie or something.
When you got home, you sat in bed with a bottle of wine and your laptop and
checked your email for the first time since you’d gotten back. There were
messages from Daniel and Harper, one from your Mom, one from Brian that he’d
sent before you’d gotten home telling you to have a safe trip, that he couldn’t
wait to see you, one from some freak trying to sell you ‘VIAGRAH,’ and six
emails from the refrigerator.
The refrigerator.
When you opened the first one, there was a list of things that it apparently
needed or a wish list or something:
3.8 ounces of butter or margarine
1.6 quarts of orange juice
4 bananas
7 grade A extra-large eggs
When you opened the other five, they were all exactly the same, all sent to you
in four hour increments of one another, beginning yesterday:
Skim milk, expired.
Skim milk, expired.
Skim milk, expired.
Skim milk, expired.
Skim milk, expired.
You replied to the final milk expiring email:
No, it isn’t. I just bought it yesterday.
And then you paused before you hit ‘send’ and added:
But thank you for your concern.
Then you looked at the bottle of wine you’d brought to bed from Brian’s wine
cellar just to make sure you hadn’t accidentally picked up a bottle of vodka by
mistake. You started to answer Harper’s email, when the one you sent to the
refrigerator bounced. You opened it:
Please do not reply to this address.
You thought about going downstairs to personally tell the refrigerator that it
could go fuck the dishwasher, but, admittedly, you were kind of afraid, feeling
like the two of them were the top rung of a Kitchen Appliance Mafia that had a
contract out on you for invading their space. So, you called Brian instead.
On his cell.
Knowing full well that he was in a closed-door meeting with Ted saving the world
or something.
He answered as if in a panic, “Justin? What’s wrong?”
You became immediately paranoid, “Why do you think there’s something wrong?”
“Because I told you about my meeting this afternoon, and you said you’d only
call if it was an emergency.”
Yeah, well, whatever, it kind of was an emergency. Somehow on your way home
you’d accidentally driven into the Twilight Zone.
“Nothing’s wrong. Sorry.”
“You sound upset.”
……
“Justin? Say something.”
“Brian, why is the refrigerator emailing me?”
You heard Brian breathe a sigh of relief, “Because you’re home all day, so
there’s no need for it to email me anymore.”
Somehow that didn’t really answer your question, so you tried a different angle,
“It’s telling me that the milk is expired, and the milk isn’t expired because I
just bought it yesterday.”
“That’s because you didn’t reset the expiration date when you got the new
milk.”
“And that it needs, and I quote, ‘3.8 ounces of butter or margarine, 1.6 quarts
of orange juice, 4 bananas, and 7 grade A extra-large eggs.’”
“That’s because we have .2 ounces of butter, .4 quarts of orange juice, 2
bananas, and 5 eggs left in the refrigerator and those are high priority items.”
“Oh.”
“You won’t receive emails about anything other than high priority items,
unless you want to.”
That terrified you, “No, no, I don’t want to.”
“Okay. That’s fine.”
……
“Justin, are you there?”
“I don’t like this. Somehow the refrigerator emailing me is making me feel
violated.”
“Well, we can have therapy-time with you and the fridge when I get home. I
need to get back to my meeting.”
“Fine.”
……
Silence.
……
“Go back to your meeting.”
“Justin.”
“See you later. Bye.” You hung up and finished of the entire bottle of wine.
*********************
dear, I fear we’re facing a problem
When Brian got home for the first Friday night of your rekindled relationship,
you were still upstairs in your bedroom, still in front of your laptop, still
trying to compose a response to the refrigerator that accurately reflected your
true feelings. Brian sat down beside you on the bed, his eyebrow going up very,
very high when he saw the empty bottle of wine you drank.
“That was a five thousand dollar bottle of wine.”
“Well, it was very good,” you told him, refusing to look at him. You knew how
much that wine cost because you looked it up on the internet after you drank it.
“What are you doing?” he asked you, putting his hand on your upper thigh. It
felt like some sort of conciliatory gesture.
“Nothing.”
“Let me see,” he said, turning your laptop a little and trying not to laugh as
he read aloud what was on the screen:
“Dear Mr./Ms. Refrigerator,
“I guess I should introduce myself to you since you and I will be living in this
house together. My name is Justin, and I’m Brian’s, well, you probably call him
‘Mr. Kinney,’ but anyway, I’m Mr. Kinney’s partner. You may address me as Mr.
Taylor.
“You’re a little drunk, aren’t you, Mr. Taylor?” Brian asked, before continuing.
You didn’t answer him; it was clearly a rhetorical question.
“It is my personal preference not to receive emails from you because although
I don’t hold a degree of any sort, I am intelligent enough to make my own
grocery list. Therefore, I would appreciate it if you would cease emailing me
immediately. I do realize that it’s 2011, but you are still just a machine and
should not have regular correspondence with humans without their consent.
“Thank you for your prompt attention to this matter.
“Sincerely,
“Mr. J. Taylor
“P.S. You probably are not aware of this because you’re a refrigerator, but it
is considered very poor email etiquette to email someone from an address they
cannot reply to. Thank you, and I look forward to an amicable relationship in
the future.
“cc: dishwasher@kinneyhousehold.com”
Brian closed your laptop and moved it to the end of the bed, doing a shitty job
of hiding the grin on his face.
“Don’t laugh at me,” you told him.
“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, jerking on his tie and unbuttoning his
shirt.
You laid back on the bed as he undid his pants, tossing his belt on the floor,
“Yes, you are.” Brian’s body felt nice on top of yours and he shed your t-shirt
immediately. You drew little circles around his nipples with the tips of your
fingers, trying not to look at him, “I want to be mad.”
“I can tell.” He stopped your hand and planted it back on your pillow next to
your head, “It makes me want to fuck the shit out of you.”
“Yeah, well, what doesn’t?” you asked, feeling your frustration dissolve away,
despite your best efforts to hold onto it.
Brian’s mouth was behind your ear talking to you in that tone that always went
straight to your dick, “I was going to take you out to dinner tonight, someplace
really nice, but you’re trashed, so I guess we’re staying home.”
“I had to get trashed; I was under a lot of… domestic pressure.”
“You were bored and horny.”
“Same thing.”
…..
Somehow in the course of that conversation with Brian, he’d managed to take your
pants off. You didn’t notice this until he started kissing his way down your
chest. When he started talking again, your entire body vibrated with the timbre
of his voice, “I had a nice time with you at the loft today, Sunshine.”
You smiled, running your hand down your stomach and underneath your hardening
cock, pushing it into his face, “So did I. Guess everybody knows I’m back now,
don’t they?” You laughed when Brian’s nose ran the over the top of your leg and
started heading south.
“Theodore asked me fourteen times where you got those walnuts because you
wouldn’t let him have one.”
“They were our nuptial walnuts. Too bad, Ted.”
“Now, I’m going to have to give him some for Christmas or something. See what
you started?”
“I didn’t start it. You’re the one who—" And then Brian’s tongue was invading
the Land of the Candied Walnuts, and you didn’t want to talk anymore. You sunk
back into the pillows, content with the thought that you weren’t going out, that
Brian was having you for dinner. Besides, you were pretty much the only
thing Brian would eat after seven. When he began to roam back up your
body, you put your hands around his neck and told him, “I’m very, very relaxed.
I wanna rehearse.”
*********************
BRIAN’S POV
I can't care 'bout anything but you
“You little drama queen,” you said before you kissed him.
“Please,” he added, opening the lube. Justin took your hand, emptying a decent
amount into your palm and closed it again, tossing it somewhere in the sheets.
You rolled to your side a little, cradling him in your arm, your leg laying over
one of his. There was nothing more goddamn wonderful than having your slick hand
between his legs.
As you increased the width of your hand inside him, his eyes opened a little
wider, and he just stared at you, his hand seemingly stuck to the side of your
face. He was more relaxed than he’d been the night before, no indication of
anything but ecstasy until your knuckles pressed against him. His legs were
spread wide on your dark sheets, his blue eyes accentuated by the blue of the
bedding. You stopped when you felt any resistance, talking to him, soothing him,
“S’okay. I’m not going any farther.”
“I’m sorry I got mad about the refrigerator,” he said quietly as he kept staring
at your face. “That I called you during your meeting.”
“It’s okay. I’m going to have a long talk with that refrigerator.”
“Don’t, because then it’ll know I ratted it out.”
You smiled, “Then I’ll just drop a hint to the dishwasher, and let him break it
to the fridge.”
He closed his eyes for a second, and when he opened them again, his fingers were
sliding down his chest. When they wrapped around his dick, he arched his back,
pushing into your hand, “Want to come.”
“Okay,” you whispered, watching him touch himself, his free foot pressing hard
into the mattress. You curled your fingers a little inside him and just that
little bit of movement made him moan and come at the same time.
“Oh god, Brian,” and he relaxed again, sinking back into the sheets.
“You’re getting there,” you told him, and he smiled, curling against you as you
held him. “How did it feel? Going a little farther?”
“Unbelievable. It’s like every bit of my body is under your control; it’s a
really wicked feeling.” And then he wrapped his arm around you, burying his face
in your chest, “I know it’s early, but I’m sort of sleepy…I’m just gonna sleep
for a minute.”
You glanced at the empty five thousand dollar bottle of wine and then back at
him as he was falling asleep, and decided that it was worth every penny.
*********************
JUSTIN’S POV
my boyfriend’s back
You spent most of Saturday morning on the telephone with every single person
you’d ever known in or around Liberty Avenue welcoming you back, and after
lunch, you and Brian stopped answering the phone altogether, promising to meet
anyone who was interested at Babylon that night. You spent the afternoon
‘rehearsing,’ the evening at dinner at a steakhouse in Pittsburgh, and then
adjourned to Babylon where you quickly found out that Brian didn’t fuck in the
backroom anymore, that he conducted all carnal matters upstairs in his private
lounge. For anyone but Brian, that would’ve seemed so sleazy, but somehow Brian
made his personalized mixture of wealth and promiscuity seem elegant.
You learned quickly that it was impossible for Brian to walk into Babylon
without having to handle business of some sort since it was his club, so you
danced with him for a while and then parked yourself at the bar while he went
upstairs and made a few phone calls. Babylon was a different place than you
remembered it; Brian’s reconstruction after the bombing gave it the feel of
being much more upscale, although in true Brian Kinney fashion, the backroom was
just as raunchy when you walked through it for old time’s sake. You were hit on
four times, but you just smiled and kept walking. Mostly what seemed really
different was the guy tending bar. When you and Brian arrived at the club that
night, Brian had introduced you to Ruben as the manager of the club and also the
head bartender.
“By choice,” Ruben added. “I’m the head bartender by choice.”
You smiled and tried to shake his hand, but you couldn’t because there was a
yo-yo in it. Ruben was so unbelievably different from The Sap that you were sort
of fascinated just watching him, plus he barely ever looked at you but always
managed to keep a fresh drink in front of you. He reminded you of a magician. At
one point during the twenty or so minutes Brian was upstairs, the DJ started
playing Tequila! and everyone practically rushed the bar. Ruben had the
entire bar lined with shots within less than a minute and was refilling them as
fast as the boys could drink them while juggling.
Even after six years in the city, you’d never seen anything like it.
Brian suddenly appeared on the catwalk, and Ruben tapped you on the arm and
pointed upstairs, “Boss wants you.”
Brian motioned for you to come up, and you walked up the stairs and stood with
him for a minute watching Ruben and his amazing flying bottles of liquor. “He’s
amazing, Brian. He’s not a bartender; he’s a street performer.”
“He belongs in a carnival, trust me, but he brings in cash like a whore on
Sunday.”
“Wow. Did you hire him because he can juggle?”
Brian laughed, “No, it’s just a nice perk. Come on.” He pulled you into his
office/lounge and shut the door, sitting down at his computer for a minute to
fiddle with something.
“What are you doing?”
“Disabling the security cameras in here because I’m gonna fuck you.”
Less than three minutes later, you realized the previous statement was foreplay.
“Oh—" and he was pressing you against the burgundy-colored walls, his thumbs
slipping inside your waistband and tugging your pants right below your ass. He
pushed into you hard and fucked you the way he used to fuck you when you first
met, the entire experience straight and to the point. When he came, he leaned
against you, resting his head on your shoulder, and you turned your head a
little and kissed him on the cheek, his hands covering yours on the wall.
“Brian, these walls are a really pretty color,” you said, “Gives the whole room
this regal look to it.”
“Only fags would fuck and then comment on the décor.”
You laughed, “Sorry.”
“That’s okay; I really like the color, too.” You heard a roar from the crowd
outside Brian’s door and asked him what was going on, “Ruben’s probably standing
on the bar having a hacky sack contest with himself.”
“When you introduced me to him, I tried to shake his hand, but he had a yo-yo in
it.”
Brian laughed, pulling your pants back up, “You should see him in our meetings.
He brings a slinky. He always has something in his hand that he’s fiddling with.
It drives Theodore fucking bananas.”
“Maybe he has ADD.”
“I don’t care what he has as long as he makes me money, and he does, hand over
fist.”
You turned around in his arms, and pulled him down so you could kiss him,
“Speaking of hand over fist…”
“Good lord, all the world’s a stage for you, isn’t it? Rehearse. Rehearse.
Rehearse.”
“Take me home. I don’t want to miss my curtain call.”
Brian took your hand and led you down the catwalk, “I think I’ve created a
diva.” As you walked out, a hacky sack came zooming at both of you and Brian
reached up, caught it right on cue, and threw it back to Ruben.
“Whoa. That scared me.”
“He does that every time I leave. It’s a tradition.” Driving home, you asked
Brian if Ruben was gay because you didn’t get much of a vibe off of him. Brian
smiled and laughed and said, “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. If
he is, he doesn’t dip the dill at the club. When he first started working for
me, Theodore and I had a pool going on it, but we never got any indication
either way, so we donated it to a charity and gave up. If you think you can
figure it out, knock yourself out.”
“Maybe you can get Ruben to teach you how to juggle because you’re not very
good.”
Brian laughed and said, “You haven’t seen me juggle in eleven years. For all you
know, I’m a pro now.”
“Ha, I doubt it.”
“Well, let’s see; I run four businesses with almost two hundred employees, have
two homes, two cars, a son in another country, and a partner who calls me at
work because he feels violated by the refrigerator. I think I juggle quite
well.”
“Okay, fine. You win.”
*********************
all my plans depend on you
On Sunday, the thirteenth of February, you went to one of those warehouse
grocery stores and took Brian’s car—while he was in the bathroom. When it asked
you for your destination, you told it to fuck off. Apparently that pissed the
car off, and it kept asking all the way to the store. If the car hadn’t been
full of cases of cereal and condoms on the way back, you would’ve left it on the
side of the road and told Brian that the car left him for some other car, it so
clearly needed a companion.
You hadn’t gone to the warehouse store just to buy Cheerios and condoms, but
they really didn’t have everything you needed, and the prices were so good, you
felt like you had to buy something. So, you bought a shit load of two things
that you knew you’d go through like gangbusters. Needless to say, Brian was not
impressed. When you suggested to him that maybe he should take the car out to
dinner for Valentine’s Day the next day, he followed you upstairs and fucked
you.
Twice.
Monday was Valentine’s Day and Brian said nothing about it all day. Not when he
fucked you before work. Not when you called him in the middle of the day to ask
him what he wanted for dinner. Not when he got home and the two of you were
eating said dinner. The movers had arrived that morning, and you spent most of
the day unpacking your stuff in your studio. While you were cleaning up after
dinner, you told yourself that Brian detests holidays in general, and you
shouldn’t take it personally.
After dinner, Brian helped you unpack some of the heavier things in your studio
and arrange the furniture the way you wanted it. Then he announced that he had
to piss, but didn’t return for over half an hour. So, after wandering around
looking for him and coming up empty handed, you decided to test out the intercom
system in the house and paged him, “Brian, where are you?”
He buzzed back after about fifteen seconds, “Downstairs.”
The only ‘downstairs’ when you were on the first floor was the basement, so you
opened the door to the top of the stairs and called, “You’re down here?”
“Yep.”
The stairs to the basement were steep, and you balanced by putting your hand on
the wall as you went down. When you got to the bottom, you followed the only
light you could see—in the wine cellar.
Brian was waiting for you with a glass of wine in his hand and when you scanned
the room to see where the bottle was, you saw it, on top of a barrel next to
another wine glass and a small red box with a white bow. You gave Brian a
curious look as he handed you the glass of wine and started to pour another one,
“What’s going on?”
Still in his work clothes, Brian looked a little overdressed for the wine
cellar. Although you were really glad he didn’t change when he got home because
he looked scrumptiously hot in his black dress shirt and his black pants.
Suddenly, you felt underdressed for the occasion, whatever occasion this was,
glad that your jeans hung long over your sneakers.
“It’s Valentine’s Day, isn’t it?” he asked with a smile.
“Yes, but—" Brian tapped your glass with his and nodded, indicating that you
should go ahead and have some. You tasted it, and, “It’s really good.”
“It should be; it costs about a hundred and fifty.”
“Dollars?” you asked, as it almost dribbled down your chin; you caught it with
your finger and put it back in your mouth.
“Thousand,” Brian corrected you.
You started to drink a lot slower.
“What’s in the box?”
“Open it.”
You handed him your wine glass for safekeeping and picked up the tiny box. The
lid lifted right off the top, the way they unwrap gifts on soap operas, with the
bow still in tact. There was white tissue paper inside and you lifted it,
revealing a key.
“What’s this? A key to the wine cellar?”
Brian laughed, “Absolutely not. You’re banned from the wine cellar unless I’m
chaperoning you.”
“Then what is it?”
“The ‘vette; it’s yours.”
“What?”
“You heard me. It’s yours. I don’t need it, and I was going to buy you a car
like mine, but clearly, that’s not what you want.”
“Oh my god, but you love that car. You love it.”
“And you.” Brian sat the box down and handed you back your glass of wine. “I
figured you should have it because I got a car just like that when I was about
your age. If you want, we can go down tomorrow and sign the title over.”
You laughed, “God, I feel so sexy all of a sudden. I love that car…but I
didn’t get you anything. Shit.”
“Do you really think there’s anything I need?” Brian asked, looking around at
the wine cellar and gesturing upstairs and beyond. “Besides you?”
……
“Brian, I don’t know what to say.”
“Say you’ll blow me.”
You blushed, “Okay, I’ll blow you.”
You started to walk to the stairs, but Brian pulled you back, “No, Sunshine.
Right here.”
So that Valentine’s Day and for many more to come (so to speak), you went down
in the cellar so you could go down in the cellar.
to be continued…
Lyrics taken from Simon and Garfunkel’s Homeward Bound twice,
Jesus Jones’s Right Here, Right Now, Franki Valli’s and the Four Seasons
Oh What a Night twice, Peaches and Herb’s Reunited, Michelle
Branch’s The Game of Love, Santana’s (featuring Rob Thomas) Smooth,
Paul Simon’s I Am a Rock, Harry Connick Jr.’s Recipe for Making Love,
ABC’s The Look of Love, Cat Steven’s Peace Train, The Orlean’s
Afternoon Delight, The Cardigan’s Lovefool twice, The Angell’s My
Boyfriend’s Back, and Art Garfunkel’s All I Know.
Some of the rimming article was taken from
tinynibbles.com and some was written by me.
And my sincerest apologies to Dylan Thomas for getting your
poetry in my pornage.
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