Worth Celebrating

A Hard Night's Work


I went back to work fighting to keep the smile off my face. It’s okay. We’re gonna be okay. Another fucking crisis averted. And of course, it’s just when I’m feeling relaxed and … okay, happy, that something happens.

I walkd in to the conference room where the team were putting together this fucking pitch, and came face to face with the hottest thing I’d seen since … well, since I left the loft, but I’m not thinking that right then. Face it, Kinney, you weren’t thinking anything, except with your dick.

Turns out he’s been doing some freelance work for us in the art department since we’re short one intern. He’d seen the layouts and had made some suggestions that everyone thought I should hear. So they’d brought him along.

He doesn’t look like an artist. He’s tall and tanned and taut, just the way I like them. And, by the way he was looking at me, he liked what he saw, too.

So I listened to his ideas, and, of course, I had to stand real close to him, brushing against his ass, while he pointed out the things that he’d change with the fucking pitch. And he brushed back, just enough to let me know he was interested, without it being all that obvious to the dickheads I work with. And fuck me if I’m not seriously considering a toilet break so I can fucking drag him off and feed my dick down his throat - at least as a first course, with more to follow later back at …


I am such a fucking twat.

And what really makes that clear to me - later, at least - is that the first fucking thing that came into my mind then was, ‘Fuck Justin. He’ll just have to put up with it.’


It’s been less than two weeks since I told him … okay, promised him … that I would never do that to him again. And the first time …


I am an asshole. A total fucking asshole.

I moved away from the guy so fast that there were damn near skid marks on the fucking carpet.


It was fucking weird when I got home. I felt fucking weird. I felt like I was some cheating fucking husband.  I’m not a husband. And I’m free to fuck who I want, so how can I fucking “cheat”?

But I feel so fucking bad about what I was thinking - or not thinking. And I don’t want him to know what a shit I am.

Except that he already does know, God help him. Better than anyone. And for some reason he still fucking stays. He still fucking loves me. And I don’t … I can’t lose that. I can’t. And I don’t fucking know what to do.

Once I would have gone to Babylon on the way home and got drunk and wasted and fucked my brains out and come home at four in the fucking morning and said, “So what? I’m a fucking free agent, Sunshine. Fucking live with it.”

And partly the reason I don’t is that I’m afraid he won’t. I’m so fucking afraid he’ll leave again. But you know what? If it was just that, I’d go ahead and do it. I’d make fucking sure that he left. Left now. Left on “my” terms.

But it’s not that. That’s not the main thing driving me anymore.

What drives me now is that I don’t want to disappoint him.

Hell, I don’t want to disappoint myself.

See, last time round Justin loved me, but he didn’t like me very much. He had no fucking reason to. But I did. Like him, I mean. From the first night. I didn’t fucking fall in love with him that night. But I guess I did fall in like.

That’s why I took him to the hospital. Asked him to name Gus. Let him stay the night. Hell, even told him about the most famous shower scene since Psycho.

Because I sort of wanted him to like me too. How fucking pathetic is that?

I got over it. Well, I made myself get over it.

The night down by the car I burned my bridges. I couldn’t have some silly kid hanging around, thinking that we could be lovers; couldn’t let myself think that we could be friends. No matter how cute and smart and funny he was.

And after that it was all a fucking mess, and I gave him so many fucking mixed messages that his mind must have been like a fucking salad sometimes.

But this time round it’s different. This time he’s starting to like me. He’s starting to feel like he can trust me. He’s starting to believe in me. In a way that no one else does. No one else ever has. Not Mikey, not Lindz. No one.

And I don’t want to lose that. That’s why I didn’t go to Babylon to throw a “fuck you!” in his face. That’s why I don’t know what to do now. If I tell him that I almost fucked up in the most major way, will that count as me being a total prick? Or will it count as me being honest?

I’m fucked if I know. God, I hate this relationship crap.


It wasn’t all that late when Brian got home. Maybe eleven. He was in a weird mood, too, when he did. Very quiet and thoughtful.

I guess I’d expected that we’d pick up where we left off. I mean, I’d studied hard all the time he’d been gone so that when he got home we could fuck our brains out, but he seemed …


He came in and seemed to sort of hesitate when he saw me. Then he came over and kissed me really quickly on the cheek and said, “I need a shower.”

And I guess that’s when it hit me. Because I knew that look, then. I’d seen it in the mirror after the frat boy incident, after the first time with Ethan. A sort of ‘what have I done?’ look. And part of me wants to sit and cry like the stupid little faggot I used to be, and part of me wants to sit out here and not react, not do anything, until he tells me. Because he promised, he fucking promised he’d tell me.

But mostly I just want to go to him and make sure that it’s alright, that we’re alright. And the only thing that stops me is that I don’t know how to do that.

And all of that goes through my head in about half a minute, and then he stops on the steps and looks down at me and I try to look at him ,look him straight in the eye; I am so determined I am not going to fucking cry because it doesn’t matter. Some meaningless fucking trick doesn’t matter and I am not going to let it matter. Not going to let it fuck this up for us. And I don’t know how much he saw in my face, but suddenly he smiled and said, “You going to come and scrub my back?”

And all I could do was stare at him. At least, I thought that’s all I could do, but my body seemed to have other ideas because it was up the steps to him and then we were kissing and his arms were tight around me and there was only him and me and the feel of us, of our bodies and our hearts thumping against each other’s skin and somehow we’re out of our clothes and in the shower and I don’t remember how we got here.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because suddenly he’s not quiet or thoughtful or sad or anything even remotely like that. Suddenly he’s laughing and teasing and looks like the man he was meant to be. The man I’ve always known he was. He’s happy and loving and for some stupid fucking reason that makes me really want to cry. Because he’s those things because he’s with me. I do that for him. Me.


It only took till I got as far as the bedroom steps to know that I was fucking up. He had gone really quiet and was sitting at the computer with a look on his face that said, “I know you’ve got something to tell me, so are you going to fucking spit it out, or are you going to fucking pretend that nothing’s wrong, everything’s fine and you haven’t been dicking around like some useless fucking asshole who doesn’t have a clue what he’s got right here at home waiting for him?”

Well, okay, maybe I was projecting a bit there. But he was onto me, just the same.

So that made it easy. Now I had to tell him. And once I knew that, I suddenly felt like … like it was okay. I might have come close to fucking up in the worst possible way, but I hadn’t. I’d seen what I was doing and fucking stopped myself. And then I’d avoided the whole go out and get yourself wasted so you don’t have to deal trap. I’d come home. I’d come home to him. And he was here. And …

Just like that I could feel this big goofy smile on my face. I asked him if he was going to come and scrub my back and he was up the steps so fast I only just had time to open my arms to catch him, grab him, hold him against me.

I don’t remember our clothes coming off. I don’t remember getting into the bathroom or turning on the shower, but somehow we were there and it was all warm and wet and clean and happy. Suddenly we were happy. I felt like a little kid.

Well, okay, a little kid with a big fucking dick that hasn’t had nearly enough action this week. But then his mouth was all over it, and I just leaned back and thanked … someone, something … that it was his mouth. That somehow I’d actually managed to keep my fucking dick in my pants for once, till I could put it in the place it belongs. Well, one of the places, because once he’s got me hard and dripping he stands up and turns around, and braces himself and the condoms are just where I need them and the lube and then I’m inside him and this is even better.

I want to tease him, to take it slow, but hell! we can do that later. He’s rocking back hard against me, practically jamming his ass onto my cock and he’s so tight and hot and for some reason I’m suddenly aware of the amazing texture of the skin on his back. It’s like no one else’s that I’ve ever known. It’s milky pale; even when, like now, he’s aroused and the skin of his neck and the side of his face are flushed and hot, his back is still smooth and white and so fucking beautiful it takes my breath away.

So beautiful that I can’t stand it and I come.

And then I pull out of him and he’s making this mewling noise of frustration and disappointment, till I spin him round and drop to my knees in front of him, jamming my fingers hard up his ass and deep throating his cock so that before he can even finish shouting my name, he’s there and my mouth is filled with the salty sweetness of his cum.

We kiss then, long and deep, and I know, I fucking know, that when we dry off and climb into bed I can fucking tell him what happened tonight and he won’t be disappointed. He’ll understand. And he’ll understand what it means for us. And he’ll go on loving me. He’ll go on liking me.

Hell, he might even be sort of proud of me.

Fuck! Don’t get carried away, Kinney.

You haven’t fucked up. And you haven’t lost him. And you haven’t lost his respect. Or your own.

That’s pretty much enough, don’t you think?

I’d say that makes it a pretty fucking good night’s work.


  25th Sept 03

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