Pitts Pa.

- 3 -

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Justin

Well, thanks to Brian Kinney, I have a seemingly endless list of sex scenes in my head to keep me masturbating into the next century. Yes, all my stroke memories include him, of course they do. Who needs magazines when you have the real thing in your bed? Or had. Fuck, it’s been a month without him and all I do is think about him, want him, need him, need to feel him inside me. Lying on my bed trying desperately to release some of this tension, I coat my penis with lube and begin to stroke. Did I just say penis? Yes, it’s true, I use anatomically correct language when describing human body parts. That's the way they taught us in sex ed, I have all the parts down, gonads, vagina, sphincter, prostate…the whole hit parade. I can't seem to use the dirty version unless there is a chance of someone's penis being inserted into my anus!

Stroke Memory Number 2,343

Brian and I are sitting at the kitchen table eating dinner. Chinese take out and beer, a lovely meal. I am not sure who started it, but it quickly turned into a game of one upsmanship that I loved to play with him. The rules were unspoken, get the other to cum first you win. Or, get the other to jump you first, you win. Ok, there were dozens of variations of these games, but this time it was all about the words. Brian had absolute control over himself…he usually won but with this type of game is there ever any losers? Nawh.

Anyway. I don't know who started it, I just remember it.

"So, after dinner I am going to take you on the kitchen counter."

"Not before I crawl across the floor, naked on my hands and knees and present myself, mouth open to suck your cock.

"First I'll take your clothes off."

"I will look into your eyes, begging silently for permission before I kiss the weeping tip of your cock, licking your juices off with my pink tongue."

"Then I will turn you over and bend you at the waist, ass up, spread your cheeks…"

"My tongue will start at the base of your balls, I'll lap at them, kiss them, swallow them and love them."

"My tongue will start at the back of your cock, stop briefly at the back of your balls, lick them, spit on them, inhale the scent of you and then .."

Game over, Brian 1342, Justin 0.

Who said what? Who the fuck cares.

Ben Wilson: Brian Kinney's 16 year old Nephew, Claire's First Born

The transfer to the new high school was in the works before Mom went to the hospital. I knew Uncle Brian had found an apartment for us so that we could stay in the same school district, which was cool for Tom and all that, but I was out of that fucking hell hole of a high school the first chance I got. I had auditioned for the arts magnet school jazz ensemble. I play the piano, guitar and bass, all three equally ok, but I think I was picked because they were short a decent piano and organ player. At Fremont, I played football. I was good on the starting squad sophomore year and when I told the coach I was leaving for another high school, you would have thought I had just fucked his ten year old daughter in front of him. He went ape shit, but I stood there, calmly, waiting for the anger to pass, making no sudden moves. I had experience in this arena.

Why did I want out of Fremont? Why not! They all knew. Everyone, the teachers, the counselors, the students, knew my father was a fucking drunk. That my father put my mother in the hospital and was arrested. The pity oozed out of every pore of every person I came across and I was tired of it. I wanted to be anonymous, melt into the crowd, get lost in the music, and put all of that behind me. I also knew that if I quit football my father would probably throw a blood clot, which was only icing on the cake. I would give up hockey too, but that was too much fun. No, now all good old Dad had to worry about was that his eldest was turning into some queer fag like his wife's brother, playing the `piano' and not out on the football field. Give him something to think about while he is in jail.

When the letter came in the mail that I was going to be allowed to transfer to the new school, my mother took it better then I expected. Football, who needed that, and she loved my piano playing. Tom was disappointed, as a freshman, he liked picking up the left-overs of having a popular brother on the football team. But now that I was gone, the coach was looking at him to try and fill my space next year. Too bad that the chances of Tom putting himself out on the field to get hit was about as good as my winning the lottery. Tom doesn't do pain, or much of anything that requires sweating and exercise.

Getting to the new school was a problem at first, but I got on the internet and figured out how to get there on the bus. Ok, three buses, but it was only an hour ride all together. I thought that I would ride my bike during the good weather and hoof it when it rained or snowed. Mom visited the campus and almost put an end to the entire thing. It wasn't in the best part of town but I promised to take the bus and she finally quit openly worrying. Hey, I am six two, 180 pounds and in general, not to be fucked with. She really didn't have to worry, but telling your mother not to worry is like telling the ocean not to be wet.

Uncle Brian wasn't happy about the school change either. He could tell it was putting stress on my Mom. He tried to talk me out of it but in the end, Uncle Bri isn't as pushy with me as he is with Mom. He treats her like she is about to break all the time, but she doesn't seem to mind. I can't stomach that whole pity thing, and basically told him to fuck off about the school change - at least it would piss off my Dad. He laughed at that and then never bothered me about it again.

It was nice to have Uncle Brian around again. When I was little he used to come over and play with me and Tom all the time, at least once a week. But he stopped coming by after he finished college. And things had started to get bad with my Dad and Mom and she and Brian had a fight about it. We saw him at Grandma and Grandpa's for a while when we had to go over there on the holidays. Otherwise, we would see him when Mom would end up in the hospital or the police were called. I had his cell phone memorized, along with his address and once he slipped me two twenty dollar bills and said they were for emergencies and then gave me a fifty and said I could spend that if I kept the two twenties in my wallet where no one could see them. I knew he meant for me to use the money if I needed to take Mom and Tom out of the house. I got the feeling he knew exactly what the score was.

The night that we all left the house for good, Dad had come home from a union meeting, drunk as a skunk, but in a pretty good mood. He joked around with Tom and me in the kitchen where we were doing our homework and then went into the living room to watch TV. Mom sent us up to our rooms to finish up our homework and get ready for bed. These are the code words of my childhood. "Go upstairs and finish up your homework" means, "Go upstairs, your father is drunk, I want you out of the line of fire."

Usually I would never leave her alone with him when he was drinking. Since I crossed the threshold into 6 foot and in general grew bigger than him, I had been able to assert some kind of control over him when he was mad or angry, usually getting him to calm down enough to leave the house. But he seemed like he was in a good mood. He did. I swear I would never have left her alone with him if I thought for a second what ended up happening was gonna happen. It had taken me just seconds to get downstairs when I first heard the argument break out. But in those seconds my father had shattered my Mom's jaw and broke her nose (again). Dad was out the front door before I made it down the steps. Ten seconds can change the course of history for a whole family.

That night the 911 operator had just let me hang up after the paramedics arrived in the house and I called Uncle Brian. He picked up on the second ring. He must have recognized the phone number on the caller id and a call from this house at 10pm wouldn't be a call with good news. It was loud at the house, the police had arrived, the paramedics were loading up my unconscious mother on a stretcher and I was trying to yell into the phone while Tom was attached to me weeping like a two year old. It was loud on the phone with him, I think he must have been in a club, because I could hear dance music. A minute latter I could hear Uncle Brian better, he must have left the club.

I admit, my grasp of the English language is weak at best in ideal circumstances. In the case of utter fucking panic, I could only yell, short, high pitched words. I think I screamed, "Dad… hit…Mom! Ambulance! Cops!' But Brian knew, he always seemed to know.

"Let me speak to the police officer there. Come on Ben. Let me speak to the police officer." I have always thought Uncle Brian was the coolest person I knew. That night I think the rest of the world thought so too. He spoke with the lady cop who came up to us as they were wheeling my mother out of the house. Next thing I know I am collecting up my mother's purse and the lady cop has me and Tom in the back of her police car. Uncle Brian asked them to take us to the hospital and he would meet us at the emergency room where he would come for us.

At the emergency room we were taken into a private sitting room where the lady cop and another police officer arrived. They wanted to question us, but Uncle Brian had told the lady cop to wait until he got there and she did. I think she did because we were minors. Uncle Brian arrived right after the second cop did and had Uncle Mikey with him. We hadn't seem him for a few years, but he looked exactly the same. Tom was still crying, clinging on to me. He is so small sometimes, he looks so young and fragile. I tried to calm him down the best I could but he was inconsolable. He hadn't been around for the worst of it, he hadn't learned about being strong for Mom or for a little brother.

Brian took control of the situation, even dressed like the disco queen he is. Ok, I know that's not nice, but who the fuck wears a shiny shirt other than a disco queen? Usually he has such good taste. Fucking hell, I'm sitting here with my weeping brother, my mother is lying unconscious in an emergency room and I have suddenly turned into a silent fashion critic. I began to laugh nervously, not the proper response to the situation. Uncle Brian peeled Tom off me and pulled us both into a tight hug. We are about the same height now, although I am built so much bigger than him. But in his arms I feel small and I let myself relax, someone has come to help.

The rest of the night is blurry. After Brian talked to the doctors and told us my Mom was going to be ok, he let the police speak with us separately but with him present. These cops knew what they were doing, they had a print out of all the phone calls made about problems at the house, calls from neighbors hearing the fighting and screaming. I had been through this before. No, my father hadn't ever hit us. Yes, I have seen him hit my mother. No, I did not know they were even arguing tonight, I just heard the screaming and came downstairs. Brian told me not to lie to the police about my father never hitting me. "I'm not lying, Uncle Brian, he has never hit me or Tom, I swear!" Brian looked devastated and then calm. See, he is the coolest person I have ever met.

When the Child Protective Services social worker showed up, I began to panic. Visions of after school specials began to flash before my eyes - me in a foster home, fighting off gang members for toilet paper. Luckily, Melanie, a lawyer friend of Uncle Brian's showed up, and made arrangements to have Tom and I released to Uncle Brian.

Uncle Mikey took us both back to Brian's loft and put us to sleep. I had never been to his loft before and was kind of stunned at the whole thing. Tom insisted that the blue lights above the bed and the bathroom light be left on.

Mikey seemed to know how to act and what not to say. He seemed like an old pro at putting Tom and me to sleep, no stupid comments like, "it will be better in the morning, you'll see!" He just let us be and right before he got up to go sit in the living room, he leaned over and whispered to me, "You are safe here. Your mother is safe, Brian is with her. You can sleep now. I'll be on the couch if you need anything. Ok?" I nodded and began to cry for the first time that night as Tom clung onto me for dear life under the soft buzz of the blue lights.

Molly

The joys of complete intoxication from adrenaline are never wasted on me, it is by far my most favorite high. No matter what I have tried, coke, E, speed, nothing comes close to the rush I get from just pushing, just going on one step further than I think I can make it. Dance class had ended an hour ago but I stayed late, hoping to get some private practice time in the studio.

Kennedy Perkins, my only ‘friend’, as I will loosely term him, and my dance partner, stuck around after class and we just went crazy. He is the rudest, crudest homosexual boy toy I have ever met. Filth is his middle name. But when Kennedy takes his strong sculpted body out on the dance floor he is the embodiment of beauty and grace. Kennedy spends as much time on Liberty Avenue in search of the perfect fuck as he does in high school and dance practice. A senior, destined for greatness according to just about everyone who is anyone in ballet in Pittsburgh, Kennedy is what you would call `the real thing'. I know that, the same way that I knew in January as my body grew too tall, too fast, that I was merely a poser, lucky to ever even get into the stadium, let alone dance in the big show. I knew my destiny as a ballerina was to be a member of some small city troupe in the chorus. I was already plotting a change to modern dance or even flirting with the idea of just packing a bag and hitting the rails as a hobo. I'll get back to you on that one. Kennedy on the other hand, after spending time in New York, would be traipsing across Europe in the next few years as a principal dancer. The only reason he was even still in the Pitts was because his mother was undergoing radiation treatment for breast cancer, and the only person that Kennedy seemed to have any feelings for was his mother. The rest of the world got his contempt. Me, I got his attention on the dance floor and his contempt.

In addition to his God-given grace and talent, God also dished out some unbearably beautiful black curly hair, fine creamy white skin and an ass that you could crush rocks with. Kennedy was easy to hate. "Ok, fatso," he yelled at me after class. "Let’s rock!"

"Fuck you!" I spat at him. I went over to the boom box and dropped a mix tape in. Practicing for an inner city dance recital in an effort to reach out to the youth of the city…Kennedy and I had choreographed a routine mimicking the dance hip hop ballet madness in every Hollywood teen flick in the theater.

No mincing words that fucker, oh no, going for the jugular, pushing the little button labeled `I am fat' in my head. My fat ass slapped his rock hard ass and we got down to just dancing, dancing, dancing over and over, again and again and there was no fatso, no fear, no pain. My lungs burned, my muscles ached, my stomach cramped. I am in heaven.

Ben

Rehearsal space was easy to get in the school after hours, because most kids had access to whatever they wanted at home or had private lessons lined up at CM in the afternoons. It was easier to practice at school than in the apartment with Mom hovering over me at every moment. My teacher Mr. Mesa gave me a key to the music room where the baby grand was kept, and told me not to tell anyone about the special privilege. He had just met me and felt he could trust me. I have that kind of face and, yeah, well, he could trust me.

I had a lot of interest in the dance studios that lined the way to the main music room and recital hall. Ok, I had a lot of interest in a dancer in the dance studios. Or at least in hoping that she was there. Molly Taylor. Ms. Taylor had been assigned to give me a tour of the school two days before.…

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