They’d been at it for four days almost non‑stop.
Justin lay on his stomach. His asshole was throbbing, but not in a positive way. His asscrack was chafed raw. He just knew his ass was permanently damaged. His bladder was full and pressing painfully against his prostate, and he was ravenously thirsty.
Brian lay on his back. His dick was throbbing, but not in a positive way. He just knew it was irreparably broken. He swore it was bent in a macabre manner, like a Picasso painting. His real ball was completely deflated and withered, empty forever, he was sure. His fake ball lay heavily against his left thigh crease, the sac around it abraded and on fire and the crease of his left thigh chafed. His bladder was full and pressing painfully against his prostate, and he was ravenously thirsty.
Sucked off and depleted water bottles littered the loft like the sorting floor of a recycling center.
Water, water everywhere and not a drop to drink.
They both groaned in pain and intense thirst at the same time.
Cum was everywhere. On the walls. On the ceiling. On the newly‑refinished hardwood floors. On the new imported Italian fixtures and Moda furniture. On the new Flotaki rugs. On the steel beams, newly painted black. On the new gray and white marble kitchen countertop and gleaming lacquered black appliances. On the new dining table. Splashed across the new HD widescreen TV. Soaking and crusting the new crimson 500 thread count Egyptian cotton sheets. In their hair. In their ears. On their faces. Up their noses. On their cocks and balls and inside their asses. Crusted on their bodies. Their bodies and the entire loft were decorated in pearly white‑turned‑to‑clear strings and ropes and ribbons and dots and splashes and splotches of Pollackeque Modern Art Cum.
*Fuck! What’s that SMELL?* Brian wondered, wrinkling his nose in disgust. It was a combination of The Adonis and Babylon on the raunchiest weekend of all fucking time—sweat, spit, silicon lube, aftershave, cum, body spray, urine, shit, cologne—mixed with the stench of stale curry and cumin and congealed pork and unwashed pussy (shrimp) and soured coconut and fetid Dismal Swamp vegetation.
Brian raised his head painfully, putting a hand over his bloodshot, bleary eyes to block the deathrays of scorching sunlight streaming through the loft windows and invading the bedroom like unfriendly aliens with orbital probes. He looked towards the newly‑redecorated kitchen area and winced, grinding his teeth together.
*Oh. No. OH FUCK NO!* It was a national disaster site. Dozens of half‑eaten, overturned and abandoned take‑out containers from Curry In A Hurry and Thai One On and Mex It Up and Toss Your Salad. Christ, he’d never get that smell out of his pores or nose or new curtains or new rugs or new furniture or....he’s just never get rid of it. Ever. Brian groaned and felt the tension throb and build at the bridge of his nose.
........................................
“Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea,” Justin croaked, badly in need of water but too sore to get up and go to the fridge. If his asscheeks rubbed against each other or touched his hole, he was sure he would die. Hey! Maybe Brian could fetch a bottle of water for him to drink and then he could piss in the empty bottle so he wouldn’t have to get up.
“Maybe not,” Brian rasped, his mouth dry as sand. If only his dick and balls wouldn’t move or sway or touch anything, he might be able to get to the fridge for fluid replacement. Hey! Maybe Justin could fetch a bottle of water for him to drink and then he could piss in the empty bottle so he wouldn’t have to get up.
“Hey, would you.....” they both spoke at the same time.
Justin: “I’m thirsty, you son of a bitch! And I need to piss! Get up! Do something! Fix it!”
Brian: “Well, I need to piss too, you fucking twat! And I’m thirsty, too! YOU get up! YOU do something! YOU fix it!”
They both groaned in pain and thirst again.
Simultaneously: Justin: “Nope, can’t.” Brian: “So not happening.”
They were doomed.
Brian knew they couldn’t just lie there and die from their injuries and their thirst. He’d be humiliated if their dead bodies were found with the loft in such a state of disarray! He could just imagine the headlines in the Pittsburgh gay rags: “Stud of Liberty Avenue And His Blond Twink Found Dead In Condemned Loft! Murder/Suicide Suspected Due To Filthy Conditions! *Think, Kinney, think. Think, think, think, aaahhh.....* OK, maybe neither of them could make it to the kitchen, but the bathroom was right there. The bathroom with the huge new sunken Jacuzzi tub that Brian had installed especially for Justin during the loft remodel. There was cool water to drink and a new charcoal gray toilet to piss in and warm water to soak in. Best of all, there were first aid ointments and Justin‑safe Advil in the medicine cabinet for both of them. They could crawl if they had to. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d crawled across the floor of the loft.
“Justin, the bathroom’s right there. Think you can make it?”
“I think I can under certain conditions. I won’t look at or touch your dick if you won’t look at or touch my ass.”
“Deal!” Brian said a bit too squeakily, but he couldn’t help it.
Amidst much moaning and groaning of the nonsexual variety, they hauled their sore, battered, dehydrated bodies out of bed and walked unsteadily to the bathroom. Brian walked bow‑legged, holding his junk away from his body. Justin walked slightly bent over, his hands pulling apart his asscheeks.
They practically killed each other trying to suck all the cool water out of the new chrome Kohler faucet. Then, they pissed in unison, grimacing with pain and sighing with pleasure as the urine traveled down their abused urethras and relieved the pressure in their bladders and prostates.
They each took 800 mg of Advil. Brian proceeded to fill the tub.
“Not too hot, asshole!” Justin snapped, grabbing for the knobs.
“You’re the one with the hot asshole, twat! I’m the one with the hot cock and balls. Christ, just lukewarm water with lots of this shit, OK?” Brian snapped back, pouring generous amounts of oatmeal‑based Fuck Recovery For Qweers into the swirl of tepid water.
“And no jets!” Justin insisted, wincing thinking about any movement against his raw, open asshole and chafed asscrack.
“Absolutely no jets,” Brian readily agreed. He just wanted to let his raw jewels float.
Justin and Brian watched the tub fill, almost salivating. When the tub was halfway full, they couldn’t wait any longer. They got in.
Brian got in first. The tub was huge enough that Brian could stretch out on his back.
Justin couldn’t sit, so he turned over on his belly, hugged the tub pillow and spread his knees to open his asscheeks. Justin’s ass and hole were there on display.
“DON’T fucking touch me!” Justin hissed over his shoulder.
“NOT a fucking problem!” Brian hissed back. For the first time since he’d known Justin, Brian didn’t want to see it, touch it, rim it, or fuck it. At that moment, Justin’s ass represented only pain. He took a hand towel from the ledge of the tub, wetted it, and gently covered it.
They floated and soaked in bliss for a long while, replenishing the warm water and Fuck Recovery as needed.
........................................
“Brian? Brian? Bueller?” Justin mumbled.
“Here,” Brian finally responded grumpily.
“Your cum irritates my ass membranes.”
“Well, Cam, your ass juices irritate my cock skin, so we’re even.”
They both sighed and groaned.
They soaked and floated for another hour and then gently, carefully rinsed the cum, sweat, and spit residue from their hair and bodies in the new shower with multiple showerheads, using the most tepid water temperature and lightest water pressure settings. They stayed as far away from each other as the glass enclosure would allow—staring daggers at each other. Justin gave Brian’s limp, shriveled dick an angry, accusing look, as if the offensive organ was A Weapon Of Mass Destruction. Brian sneered at Justin’s Tight Torture Chamber of Pain and Doom.
“You said you wouldn’t look!!” Justin shouted.
“You looked first!!” Brian shouted back.
“Did not!”
“Did too!
“Did not!”
“Did too!”
“Oh, fuck you!!” Justin shrieked and then immediately cringed.
“Don’t. Ever. Say. Fuck. Again.” Brian snarled in that low, dangerous way he had.
They stepped gingerly out of the shower, toweling off briefly, avoiding all raw body parts. A little more civilized by now, they both drank more water, using the new set of bathroom cups instead of drinking from the faucet. Brian popped another 200 mg Advil like it was a tab of E. He narrowed his eyes at Justin, daring him to give a PSA about taking more than the maximum recommended dosage. Instead, Justin snatched the bottle away from Brian and popped another one himself, daring Brian to give him any shit about it.
Next: Oral Hygiene.
A simple ritual that seemed like climbing the Appalachian Mountains in their current state. But their tongues were too fuzzy and their mouths too nasty to forego the ritual. They brushed their teeth with their individual favorite toothpastes.
Justin spit out minty fresh pubic hair like a cat yacking up furballs. “Jesus Christ, Brian! You seriously need to whack your bush down!”
Brian cringed thinking about anything remotely near his cock and balls. “Oh? You first, Sunshine. You seriously need your stubbly balls and perineum waxed,” Brian snarked as the cinnamon burned his chafed lips and tongue and chin.
Justin cringed thinking about anything remotely near his asshole or perineal area. His hole was red‑raw and open and he feared it would never tighten up again. His balls and perineum and asscrack were chafed from Brian’s beard growth. Brian’s five o’clock shadow started at two o’clock. Out of control, just like his pubic bush. Brian hadn’t shaved for four days and his whiskers hadn’t soften a bit. FUCK!
Next: First Aid.
Brian winced as he applied mild analgesic cream to his beloved dick and real ball and entire ball sac and the raw fold of his left thigh where his fake ball always rested and hung and swayed and rested. Maintenance of a fake ball and the tender skin that surrounded it and the crease of the thigh it rested upon continually was a lot tougher and more complicated than his doctors cared about. It was his doctors’ job to cut and remove and stitch and irradiate and do blood tests and follow ups. Brian had gotten the most useful information online from other men with fake balls. Justin had silently and gently and respectfully and lovingly applied the salve countless times over the years.
Justin caressed the imported Baby Butt Butter tube with a grateful sigh. He squirted a liberal amount onto his fingers and gently smoothed it over his tender balls and perineum and asscrack and into his raw asshole.
Justin remembered the first time Brian presented the product to him.
It was two days after he’d seen Melanie and Lindsay walking down the street with Gus and told Daphne “those are Brian’s lesbians.” They’d taken Justin into their home and Brian showed up later, teasing him about being his stalker. But the on Monday, Brian showed up at St. James Academy in the Jeep and took him back to the loft and kissed him and touched him and licked him and bit him and sucked him and fucked him until his asshole was raw.
Justin was angry and indignant. “What the fuck, Brian? I’m not Gus! I’m not a baby! I don’t have diaper rash! My asshole is sore from your dick fucking it!” Brian had turned him away from the bathroom mirror, caressed his face, put his forehead against his, and rasped: ”It’s the best butt cream there is. It’s imported. It’s organic. All natural. No chemicals. No stinging. It’s soothing. It’s what you need.” Then Brian had kissed him senseless and Justin imagined he heard Brian bury “It’s what you deserve” deep inside his mouth. Brian pulled away and asked: “Trust me?” Justin trusted Brian beyond all reason. “Yes, I trust you.”
Brian turned him around to face the mirror, spread his legs, and squeezed a thick ribbon of the butt butter onto the long forefinger and middle finger of his right hand. Justin winced. “Relax, Justin. This isn’t a seduction. It’s queer first aid.” Justin chuckled nervously. “OK, Nurse Brian.” Justin watched Brian in the mirror. Like the expert he was, Brian studiously examined his chafed ass crack and raw asshole and then tenderly applied the butt butter. An aroma floated up to Justin’s sensitive nostrils. It wasn’t what he expected. It wasn’t zinc. It wasn’t Desitin’s. It wasn’t Johnson’s Baby Lotion. It smelled like the colors green and orange—herbal and fruity. “Better now?” Brian whispered. “So much better now,” Justin sighed.
Confronted with the reeking, sweat-stinky, cum‑crusted sheets, they groaned in unison. Silently, they pulled the sheets off the bed and the pillowcases off the pillows and threw them in a corner. They redressed the pillows and threw two tops sheets over the bed before collapsing.
Justin was on the far left side of the bed, laying on his right side, his ass safe from Brian’s cock. Brian was on the far right side of the bed, laying on his right side, his dick safe from Justin’s ass.
........................................
Two days later, Justin and Brian emerged from the loft, having barely done more than glare and snipe and grunt and grumble at each other while they recovered from The Raw FuckFest.
They went to The Liberty Diner. They’d be safe there. Deb was on vacation with Carl. Michael was hawking the latest edition of Rage at a ComicCon convention in Houston. Ted was at the helm of Kinnetik and he never slacked off. Emmett was catering yet another gay suicide pact.
Brian was wearing sunglasses, a white cotton v‑neck t‑shirt and his oldest, softest gray sweatpants that he only wore for working out at home. His dick and balls were protectively caressed by the fleece lining. Justin was wearing a Pirates baseball cap pulled low over his face, a faded red hoodie, and an old pair of Brian’s cotton White Party boardshorts. The shorts hung off his waist and reached past his knees and the back ass panels drooped over his asscheeks leaving lots of breathing room.
They looked utterly ridiculous and they knew it.
The bell of The Liberty Diner tolled and Ben and Hunter walked in, laughing. FUCK. Brian and Justin sunk further into the booth, hoping to avoid detection.
Ben hugged Kiki and ordered a bacon cheeseburger and double chili fries for Hunter to go. He was so proud of his son. Hunter had just gotten off work at RAW, the hottest new restaurant in Pittsburgh where he was the chef. The littlest hustler was now the toast of the town. He ate like a pig, but served up original vegan fare for his customers.
“Hey, dudes! You look like shit pate slathered on Wonder Bread! Wassup?” Hunter challenged as he slid into the seat across from them.
Neither of them had ever hated Hunter more. They knew it was wrong, but they couldn’t help it.
“Brian! Justin! How’s it going?” Ben enthused as he slid in beside Hunter. He shook their hands and bragged about his son.
“In case you didn’t know, Hunter’s the chef at RAW. Everything is raw. The fish, the vegetables. He’s amazing! You have to experience his food!”
If they heard the word “raw” one more time, Justin and Brian thought they were gonna kill something or someone or themselves or each other.
But then they both experienced a revelation at the same time. These two men across from them would never experience raw fucking ever again. Each intimate latex‑covered sex act would be tinged with fear and worry. FOREVER. Until the end of their lives.
OUCH. That hurt more than any physical discomfort they felt, any lingering anger they held towards one another.
At the same time, under the table, Brian reached for Justin’s hand and Justin reached for Brian’s hand. It was the first time they’d touched since The Raw Fuckfest. They glanced at each other briefly and immediately knew what the other was thinking.
They silently acknowledged their undeserved good luck. It just as easily could have been them, but it wasn’t. They still had the full spectrum of choices, because they were both negative. Ben and Hunter’s choices were limited by their HIV status and their honesty, strength, and integrity.