THE GENTLEMEN'S CLUB
Brad

Written by Lady Poetess
egiggles at moose-mail.com
http://www.asstr.org/~bbp

Please do not reproduce on any website without permission. This
story has no resemblance to anyone dead or alive.

ONE

William Bradley Pitt knew he was about to be embroiled in a drama
whether he liked it or not at the moment he heard his room mate
Jonathan Lee Miller yelled something that sounded obscene to his
date, followed by the loud slamming of car door. Jonny had
perfected the art of carrying his voice across an open space
without raising his voice, and apparently his date was no wimp in
that area either.

Brad didn't have to put his head outside the window to hear Jonny
yell, "Go fuck yourself, you fuckwit maggot brain! It'll be a long
cold day before you get to kiss my ass!" A loud thump, which was
followed by a strange voice (the date) asking Jonny to cut it out.
"Oh cut your own pathetic dick!" was Jonny's predictable reply.

Brad let the curtains fall back and shook his head, a reluctant
wry smile playing on his lips. Trust Jonny to help him forget -
for a moment - his own dumping by the very proper, very dull Rick
Ashburgh this afternoon. He was still peeved about that incident,
not only because Rick's dear John letter was delivered via email
(minus punctuation, and that prick misspelled `occasion'), but
Brad had always thought it was he who lowered his standards the
most in sleeping with Rick. But Rick was charming - at the surface
- and Brad was so homesick and self-absorbed in his new-life-new-
job blues, he had forgone common sense and indulged in an affair
with a selfish scrub. Brad was again thinking of forgoing men for
life.

"Bad date?" Brad remarked as Jonny stormed through the door.

"Fucking bastard yelled at me for forgetting the rubber. I don't
see him stocking up on rubber in his car compartment, so why the
fuck should he be pissed when he can't get laid? And I don't even
get a decent come for that tedious two hours I listened to him
blab about his new car," Jonny said heatedly.

"Slut," Brad remarked good-naturedly. "You'll get over it."

"So many other fish in the sea," Jonny said, his anger evaporated
now that he had let it out. "There's this cute nude model I saw
recently, and I swear his cock is the - "

"Too much information," Brad cut in. "Besides, Rick gave me a Dear
John email today. He finds me too dull."

"Oh Brad, that fucked-up butt plug calling you dull is like a
whale calling an elephant fat. There's this clay sculptor I know,
and I swear his fingers are the best - "

"I'm swearing off men for at least this month."

"What a waste of mourning period, and over an asshole like Rick,"
Jonny murmured. "Well, I'm off to play with my vibrator. I need a
grade-A explosive orgasm to make up for my lousy night. I have a
spare one, want to borrow mine?"

"No." Brad grinned. "Thanks for the offer anyway."

"You are such a bore," Jonny said, and climbed the stairs to his
living area.

Brad took the ground floor of this apartment with Alberta,
dividing the area in half between them and sharing the
bathroom/toilet. Jonny lived upstairs - it was his house, and he
rented the lower rooms to Brad and Alberta, aliens to Big Apple,
because he claimed that the house was too boring to live in alone,
and he found Brad's good nature easy-sobriety and Alberta's always
cool demeanor amusing. Jonny was also a former alien, a Brit art
dealer and evaluator who made his monies freelancing for
established auction houses as well as private collectors.

Brad didn't even know people did these sorts of jobs for a living,
much less live comfortably off it. Brad's own almost ten years as
a lawyer wouldn't allow him to afford this large house of Jonny.

Apart from his job, Jonny also displayed a reckless, careless
streak more typical of the artists he consorted with. Since both
he and Brad shared the same sexuality, Jonny teased Brad
mercilessly at the non-happening sex life of the latter. If it
wasn't wild, short-term, and reeking of promiscuity, Jonny found
it dull and so dreadfully proper. Which was what Brad was. Jonny
once remarked that Brad's starchy collar of propriety was so stiff
that it was a surprise to discover that Brad was the son of a
factory supervisor and a seamstress, not the offspring of pedigree-
mad socialites. (Bourgeoisie-wannabe Jonny's greatest regret,
alas, was he being an offspring of members of the upper class.)

Brad had prayed that he never develop a crush on Jonny the first
week he moved into Jonny's place. A silly fear, really, for there
was no way Jonny and Brad would suit - both openly acknowledged
and laughed over it soon enough.

"I see the drama queen has struck again," Alberta Watson, an icy,
calm, and handsome woman of forty-five said as she walked into the
living room. "God I'm tired," she said, flopping onto the couch.
"Why did I move from LA? The glamour, the cheap sex, I must be mad
to get away from it all."

Brad handed her a glass of iced water. "Bertie, relax. By the way,
Jonny made it clear that he has a spare vibrator."

"I'll pass. At this point the thought of a blunt object poking
between my legs is enough to make me want to scream." Alberta was
a lawyer, like Brad, only that unlike Brad, who specialized in
criminal law, her niche was marriage. and divorces. She had
confessed that her job was like an affair with a married man - it
disillusioned her so thoroughly about people yet she couldn't walk
away from it as much as she wanted it. She loved her job, and
sometimes, seeing a man or woman walking away from a bad marriage
with head held high was enough for her to make up for the mad
stress and disillusion her job pressed on her.

Her optimism appealed to Brad as much as it puzzled him. Bertie
had hinted of a really bad marriage and a general lousy track
record with men, yet here she was, still holding out for a happy
ever after.

Brad wanted a happy ever after, but he always believed love was an
exaggeration. A relationship was built on mutual trust,
friendship, comfort, and compatibility. Love was, he liked to say,
lust euphemized to clear one's conscience. Love was the reason
people had one-night stands with delusions of permanence, only to
break apart when morning came. Love made people believe that they
could do more than to sleep with a fellow totally different from
them, deluding them that things would be better and everyone would
be happy after the wedding party.

Ha! Brad's own parents divorced and remarried six times in Brad's
thirty-fours of living. A clear testament of two silly so-called
adults mistaking sexual attraction for `love' couldn't be found
anywhere else. Arnold and Madeline cheated on each other,
quarreled, broke up, and then made up and promised to change (ha,
ha). Currently they are at yet another honeymoon at Bahamas. Brad
gave them two months before the shit hit the ceiling again.

As a child, Brad was traumatized by their parents' behavior, and
for a long time he blamed himself for his parents' constant
bickering and declarations of hatred. As he grew older and
discovered sex and puppy love, he slowly learned that it wasn't so
simple, his parents' behavior. It was all a case of two self-
absorbed twits more in love with the idea of breathless love than
in each other. When things get bumpy, both his parents preferred
to break it off only to replay the early moments of courtship when
passion was fresh and exciting all over again. Brad resented them
for making his childhood a living hell, and the clincher was that
his parents, while weren't above using him as a pawn in their
games, actually had no idea of the damage they inflicted on him.

Nowadays Brad preferred to make contact with his parents only via
a monthly courtesy postcard.

But really, so many dull boring relationships that went nowhere
had to be a sign that maybe something was wrong in his life
philosophy.

"Bertie, do you think I'm dull?" he asked.

"Compared to Jonny, oh yes," Bertie said absently, using the
remote to switch on the extra-wide TV screen that dominated the
living room. "Oh look, male strippers!"

"Oh. Deadly dull blond pretty boys." Brad tried to divert Bertie's
attention.

"You do know you could have described yourself just now, don't
you, hon?" Bertie teased.

True, his pretty blond face was also a sore point with him. He
didn't ask to be born pretty, although he admitted it made his
life easier. Guys and gals threw themselves on him and indulged
him shamelessly since he turned fourteen and learned to flash
those dimples of his. But that came with a price: it was so hard
for people to take him seriously. Worse, while in law school, he
moonlighted as a model and somehow ended up a wildly popular
underwear and jeans model whose face was still peppered on gay
porn websites and an occasional wall even today, twelve years
later. It was a past that continued to haunt him even in the
courtrooms today.

"Oh look, Kate Winslet is being interviewed. What a gorgeous
woman," Bertie said. She swung both ways, she had told Brad,
lesbianism ranking higher than Catholicism in Bertie's books as an
antidote to lousy, abusive men. "That buxom chest and those plump
thighs, oh my."

"Do you think I should try to be a little more. hip?" Brad mused
aloud.

"Huh? You mean, a little more fun? Won't hurt." Bertie shrugged.
"Why not ask Jonny? He's the expert on fun around here."

Now asking Jonny was a scary thought, but Brad was feeling a bit
melancholic and he could use the distraction. "Okay."

"Oh, and do ask Jonny to lend you the vibrator," Bertie said with
an evil grin.



Brad paused and knocked at the door. "Uh, Jonny, is that vibrator
up your ass at the moment? Can you take it out? I'd like to talk
to you."

The door flew open and Jonny's elfin face emerged, his familiar
smug grin always in place. "So you do have a sense of humor," he
said. He was wearing a dressing gown with fell open to reveal
muscular pectorals and some expanse of a well-shaped washboard
stomach. "Come on in."

For some reason, red-hot fire exploded in Brad's loins at that
statement as well as at Jonny's state of undress. His cock surged
to painfully full erection in his pants, and Brad shifted his legs
uncomfortably, every senses in his body focused on the obscenely
obvious bulge in his pants as well as the way the robes parted to
reveal Jonny's left shapely, gracefully muscled thigh. There was
definitely nothing under that robe.

"What do you want?" Jonny said, closing the door behind Brad,
unaware that the sound of the door closing echoed the sense of
doom Brad felt in his heart. "Go on, speak up. Is the water heater
not working again?" He bent over to pick up a garment, and the low
end of the robe hiked up, revealing the lower curves of a pair of
taut buttocks. And when Brad realized that Jonny had picked up a
pair of erotically designed skimpy thong briefs, he bit back a
groan of need.

What was wrong with him? Here he was, struck dumb by this
inexplicable lust for Jonny, obviously Mr Wrong, and judging by
the way that wet spot in the inside of his left thigh was
spreading on the fabric, he would ejaculate spontaneously if Jonny
showed any more skin.

"I, uh." Brad couldn't speak.

"What do you think?" Jonny pointed at the painting hanging on his
wall. His bedroom was actually two rooms, the wall separating them
removed, and it functioned as a bedroom as well as art studio and
music room. In short a well- moneyed bohemian's pad. "Christopher
of Sotheby's gave it to me as a bonus. It's a minor Minuet,
nothing in the priceless range, and it's not even Minuet's best
work, but it's lovely, isn't it?"

Jonny grinned at Brad, his love for art genuine, and raised his
glass of red wine to the painting. His robes parted as the sash
around his waist loosened slightly at his motion of toasting the
painting, and the folds parted all the way down his body in a
tantalizing triangle of bared flesh, below the navel, below where
Brad could see the start of Jonny's sparse pubic bush.

Brad couldn't help it. A rush of heat in his groin burned, and he
pressed his thighs together as he collapsed onto a chair. The
pressure only triggered the final breaking. He shuddered, and then
he was lost. The first pulse of wet, hot explosion of semen
preceded the powerful ecstasy of his climax, and he clenched his
fists as another spurt burst from him, and another, until he lost
focus of the world.

"So, what do you want from me? Gosh, you look flushed. Hard day at
work?" Jonny asked, casually refastening his robes.

"Yeah," Brad said in a soft sigh. He pressed his thighs hard
together, hoping the sticky mess in his crotch wouldn't seep down
his thighs and embarrass him thoroughly.

"Look, I have to go get rid of some wine from my system," Jonny
said. "Tell me about it when I come out of the bathroom."

Brad dashed out of the room the moment Jonny stepped into his
private toilet-cum-bathroom. Fortunately, he managed to clean up
and change his pants when Jonny finally came out - a record time,
surely, although Jonny pointed out that Brad left his zipper open
later.



TWO

Jonny put down the phone and took a deep breath to steady himself.
His mother was on her usual `nobody loves me' mood and his father
was still not talking to Jonny ten years after Jonny kicked his
closet doors wide open. Coming out was a courageous moment for
him, or so he thought. But it was an anticlimax as it only
reinforced what he suspected but tried so hard to deny: his
parents didn't care for the fact that he was gay more than they
latched on another excuse/reason to point out what a worthless son
he was.

What did he bother calling them every month to say hi? What did he
still hope that one day his father would smile at him and actually
praise him, and that his mother would be proud to call him her
son?

Art was his best friend. He couldn't draw for peanuts, but he
loved it, and he learned everything he could until he could pursue
a career in art. His life was art, passionate art that mirrored
life and its myriad emotions. There were times when Jonny could
look at a painting and wish he could walk into the picture and
live in a world more beautiful and idealistic than this one.

And unlike many colleagues in his career, Jonny didn't believe
there was anything called bad art, only manufactured ones. The
painting he was looking at was definitely manufactured - an
ersatz, mundane depiction of a seaside house - but he liked it.
The sea was beautifully done and it called to Jonny - come drown
in me.

"All artists are stupid idealists," he had told his friend and
client Dylan McDermott, a fanatic art groupie who also contributed
much to Jonny's bank account. "Even the most disillusioned artists
create idealized, perfect depictions of the darkest pain and
longings. Immaculate arts are always extremely black or white,
starkly bitter or beautifully tranquil."

And Brad Pitt didn't know it, but he was also a work of art. A
bland canvas of uninteresting beauty just waiting to be tampered.
Jonny was no artist, but he had the soul of one: when Brad asked
him on tips to be `interesting', Jonny was bored enough and
intrigued enough to embark on this project.

Jonny's friends and Brad's friends traveled the same circles. It
wasn't coincidental - Brad was a new tentative associate partner
to the law firm McDermott & Germann (or Germann & McDermott,
depending on which partner you were asking), and Dylan McDermott
and his sculptor live-in boyfriend linked Jonny's world with
Brad's. It was Dylan who suggested that Brad rented Jonny's loft.

Jonny's single, desperate arty acquaintances and friends were mad
about Brad, a man so starkly pretty in his pretty-boy handsome,
golden looks that he put the sun to shame. But Jonny wasn't
affected at all. Brad was just that - pretty and little else, an
uninteresting and bland white bread guy who blanched at the
suggestion of borrowing Jonny's large assortment of sex toys. Brad
was also a rabid monogamist, going out with dull, boring
boyfriends one at a time for an unbelievably (to Jonny) long
period of time before parting friends (unbelievable!). Brad
probably fucked like a timid rabbit, maybe he and his partner
talked about weather as foreplay.

Now, Jonny is going to experiment on Brad, to see if he could turn
the man into some interesting specimen. He wanted to crack his
knuckles in anticipation as he waited for Brad to emerge from the
hair salon. Jonny had told Mario Lopez, the popular barber who
could do wonder with hairstyles as well as ice blends and
smoothies, to do his worst. First to go had to be Brad's perfect
prettiness.

Brad came out looking as if he had just been tortured by a barrage
of barbaric gladiators ten minutes later, his face clearly
reflecting his horror. Just as he would, for his almost shoulder-
length immaculately groomed preppie-lawyer hair was, err,
butchered by Mario. Maybe not butchered, for Mario was too much an
artist himself to create beautiful chaos. Brad's hair was now much
shorter, ending just a fraction where his ear lobes were level at,
closely shaved to the skin towards the end. Brad's hair at the
front were charmingly short and spiky strands flew askew in the
wind in beautiful disarray.

"My hair!" Brad started to bluster.

Jonny loosened the man's tie. Perfect - Brad looked like a
roguish, carefree rogue masquerading as a yuppie. The short hair
only allowed his dimples to shine and the well-formed cheekbones
to stand out. And Brad askew and his face flustered were more
devastatingly attractive than the perfect Ken doll Brad was
before. Which was why it was natural for Jonny to felt his breath
and heartbeat quicken at the sight, and even more natural for
blood to rush to his cock.

"Remove the tie," Jonny said. "Get rid of the tie," he reiterated.
"And loosen the first button after the collar button."

"But I have to go back to the office," Brad said testily.

"Do it!" Jonny barked, his lust overriding his common sense. He
wanted to see, he must see.

Brad sighed and maybe even smiled as he forcefully tugged his tie
off and loosened his shirt, revealing taut, golden bronzed chest.
Hmm, was Brad tanned everywhere? Jonny wanted to find out now, his
impulsive lust urging him on. In fact, he wanted to leap across
the table separating them and proceed to sexually assault that
man. How would Brad like the idea of Jonny sitting astride that
man's lap and riding that man's cock in full view of the public
right here right now?

"Thank you," Jonny said a little breathlessly. He calmly tipped
his coffee cup. "Oops."

"Fuck! I have to meet a client in my office at three."

"It's only one. I'm sure there's a spare pair of pants at this
tailor's I know." Jonny smiled his most angelic. "Want me to show
you where it is?"



For twenty bucks, Marie Soleuil would let Jonny step into the
storeroom behind the changing room, and for a hundred, she would
forget that Jonny could look down from an opening near the
changing room's ceiling into the room. Jonny hence stood against
the wall, on the ladder, looking down as Brad tried on several
pair of trousers. Another hundred bucks had Marie passing on
trousers with the wrong sizes to Brad.

There was something madly arousing at the sight of clean white
shirttails hanging over naked taut buttocks. Brad was a man who
didn't believe in underwear, it seemed, as there were no boxers or
briefs in sight. Just smooth pale buttocks, a seductive triangle
of tan-less skin, and a promisingly thick shaft ending just above
low hanging balls. Brad turned, and in his exasperation as he
called for yet another pair of pants that wouldn't fit, the lower
button of his shirt had fallen loose to expose a surprisingly
thick triangle of crotch fur that tapered slowly from a hairy
trail from his navel.

Jonny's head was slowly getting dizzy from the blood leaving his
system to his unruly cock, and his buttocks were clenched hard as
he savored Brad's perfect body. God, as he pressed his cock
against the wall and pumped his hips, who would've thought his
boring tenant was this fucking fuckable?

He couldn't fight it. His hands ripped at his zipper and soon his
semen splattered onto the wall in thick pulses. Jonny bent over in
his pleasure, and while the orgasm was enough to sate him - for
now - he was also disappointed deeply that his cock was fucking
only his own fist, and his anus was clenching on air.

Soon, he promised himself. Soon, he would have Brad.



THREE

Brad looked at the crowd around him in bewilderment. He felt out
of place in this art festival event. A week into Jonny's
indoctrination of Brad in the art of being cool, Brad had acquired
a new wardrobe, a new hairstyle, and a new found passion for
Broadway (the only thing Jonny succeeded in introducing to him).
He still couldn't bring himself to read the self-indulgent
ramblings passed off as quality literature according to Jonny, and
he would throw up if he spent another hour in Jonny's circle of
self-indulgent deluded philosopher-wannabe friends.

"I want you to introduce me to what's cool. Not to change my life
into something that's not me," Brad had told the sullen Jonny
gently but firmly. "Just tell me what are on the menu and let me
do my choosing, okay?"

He had brought Alberta with him, serious sober Alberta, to help
him feel more control of himself in this alien environment of
passionate, eccentric artists and performers. Jonny had cruelly
dumped him and Alberta here and told them he had something to
discuss with some important art scene players. "Go mingle awhile,
I'll be back ASAP to introduce you to people."

Brad didn't know where to start in his mingling, and judging from
Alberta's wide-eyed bewilderment, she didn't either. They stood in
a corner, like penguins in Las Vegas, entirely out of place.

"Hey, hey, hey handsome, love that hairstyle!" came a sultry
female voice. A very striking young woman in her twenties stepped
into view. Striking, because she was wearing black eyeliners,
lipstick, and pure black braided hair extensions. "Hi to you too,"
she said to Alberta. "I'm Eliza."

"Don't scare them honey." Ethan Hawke, crazy playwright who
recently published a slim novel about love, lust, death, and what
rot that bowled almost every snobby critic in New York over.
Needless to say, Brad thought the book was rubbish. "This is Eliza
Dushku, she does tattoo in her days and performs virtual art in
her nights. She dances, if you want to be mundane." For Alberta,
he said, "I'm Ethan Hawke."

"Ah. You wrote that book," Bertie said politely.

"Unfortunately, yes." Ethan winced, genuinely embarrassed by the
book. "Actually, I never wanted to publish it. It's a personal
work of mine, about me and my - what am I saying? Come on, let me
help you blend in. Liz, take Brad's hand, and now, Alberta, take
my hand. Have you met David Duchovny and his dear wife Gillian?
Two nicest NYU professors until night falls and someone puts
Sondheim on the radio."



Ethan had repeatedly reiterated his disgust over the critical
acclaim Jonathan Larson's Rent had received. His sore points were
the fact that the main couple was straight and worse, self-
absorbed boring breeders. The most interesting couple was Collins
and Angel, but who got the limelight? A boring and whiny pair of
lesbians who wouldn't threaten the security of male critics and
theatergoers (ooh, lesbian, kinky, kinky) and a straight couple of
morons. Bah!

Brad listened politely and without paying any actual attention.
Ethan was pissed because the organizers had ignored his protest
over tonight's Larson Appreciation Night (Ethan wanted Sondheim
instead of Larson). He found his eyes scanning the crowd for
Jonny, where was Jonny?

He found himself standing in a crowd, Alberta beside him, waiting
for a show to start. Ethan had gone as suddenly as he appeared,
and Brad felt lost in the crowd. Then the room darkened somewhat
and there was a wild roar from the audience when the stage
curtains parted.

Eliza, Brad thought stupidly.

The drums kicked-start the music, and Eliza gave a loud, sultry
"Ooh oh ooh woah-oh!" before launching into a tune Brad recalled
was called Out Tonight from the musical Rent. Brad blinked when
Eliza winked at his direction, then stared stupidly when Eliza
playfully threw her denim jacket at Brad.

"She's amazing," Alberta whispered.

Brad looked, really looked at the stage instead of hunting for
Jonny, and he had to agree. Eliza played the dangerous slut very
well, as she purred and sashayed her way through the song. She
sang excellently, but she radiated also enough sex heat to keep
the audience entranced. When she purred that she was the sexiest
feline on Avenue B and that men were lucky to have her around, she
made that the truth.

Brad turned to tell Alberta that yes, she was right, only to see
his friend's face. Oh Alberta, he thought, watching that woman's
face, an expression of a sensible woman slowly being seduced
despite herself, what have you done?

He needed to get Alberta out of here. As he scanned the crowd,
lost, his eyes caught sight of Jonny and his own heart stopped
beating. He gave an anguished moan, not knowing it was his own
moan, when he saw Jonny laughing with a stranger. A handsome,
magnetic stranger whose muscular build stretched his fine shirt, a
hunk who radiated sex from his bulging biceps to his tight jeans.
And Jon placed his hand on that man's arm and laughed.

Alberta watched Eliza, lost in the spell the latter wove with
lethal seductiveness. Brad felt his own heart contort in agony at
the thought of Jonny with another man, and realized maybe he and
Alberta weren't as smart as they thought they were. Fools, fools
all of them.



"You do know that Brad is watching you like a hawk?" Vin said.

Jonny couldn't suppress a shiver of pleasure those words brought
him. He shrugged, however, trying to be nonchalant. Vin would
tease him mercilessly if the man knew. They had once had a very
mad affair together, until one day the lust just fizzled out and
both parted ways while remaining best of friends. Both had a
playful competition on, however, to see which sucker between them
would bite the commitment bug sooner.

"He's not my type," Jonny said.

"That hasn't stopped you before."

"That was before AIDS, Vin," Jonny said. "We can't go back to our
old ways. Nowadays I'm more picky."

"Thirty's a good age to be picky."

"Yeah. Somehow the thought of fucking around at fifty seemed
pathetic now than when I thought about it at twenty. I'm aging
faster than I'd liked."

"Maybe you're just lonely."

Jonny laughed. "Oh Vin, why are we talking like two stodgy old
queens in a party like this?"

Vin grinned in reply. "Don't mind if I make a move on Brad?" he
asked, changing the subject.

Jonny realized he minded very much indeed. Damn. "Not until I'm
done with him," he said. At Vin's look, he clarified, "He wanted
to be cool. I'm cool. What better way to be cool than to fuck a
cool dude, right?"

"You are sick," Vin said. "You know that, man? Sick."



"You are wonderful. Just wonderful," Alberta gushed.

Eliza looked at her as if she didn't know what to make of this
older woman gushing at her like a star-struck fan. "Umm, thanks."

Brad hissed at Jonny, "Get Bertie out of here. She's going to get
hurt."

Jonny only shrugged and Brad wanted to shake that man. "Eliza is a
Rent freak. She wouldn't play playing Pookie to Bertie's Joanne.
Besides, is being hurt that awful? Sometimes the temporary bliss
is worth it, because you never know when you will sample it
again."

"Is that how it is with your lovers?" Brad asked.

"Don't judge me, Brad. Not until you have any idea what I am
talking about."

"What are you talking about?" Brad demanded.

Jonny walked away from the crowded room. Brad followed.

"You and your dull, fucking proper lovers, that's what I'm talking
about."

Brad flushed darkly. "At least I'm not used and discarded like
soiled toilet paper."

"Fuck you!"

"Don't tempt me."

They were alone in the car park now. And at that last sentence,
both realized at once the intimacy of their solitude as well as
the innuendo in their last exchange. "I'm sorry," Jonny said at
last. "I get pissed when people see me like some slut. Who's to
say I'm not happy?"

"I'm sorry," Brad said. "And I get pissed when people see me as a
bore. I like my life safe, who's to say I'm not happy?"

Jonny leaned back against a car. "Are you?" he couldn't help
asking.

"No," Brad confessed. "I'm bored," he said, grinning when he
realized the idiocy of his inadvertent pun. "Sometimes I wonder
how it is like to play it fast and dangerous."

"The grass is always greener at the other side," Jonny murmured.

Maybe it was unconscious on both their part, but Brad placed one
hand beside Jonny and leaned over the man. "You too?" Brad asked
quietly.

"Only when you get me very drunk, I'll say yes," Jonny told him.
And maybe by instinct, his fingers toyed with Brad's collar,
tugging at the fabric playfully. "You're probably not what I
need."

"I can be very good in bed," Brad said in a low purr, and it was
definitely instinct and not conscious action that had him lowering
his head until his lips were grazing against Jonny's.

"Is that so?" Jonny whispered, his words a challenge.

Brad's answer was to kiss the man hard.



FOUR

"I don't think this is a good idea," Brad said two hours later.

"Scared?" Jonny taunted him.

Brad couldn't see the man's face. He couldn't see - he was
blindfolded with a black cloth that wouldn't let any light
through. Likewise, he was entirely naked, his arms handcuffed and
legs tied with thick ropes to each of the four bedposts of Jonny's
specially designed bed. Blinded, he could only squirm in fear and
arousal at the feel of velvet sheets burning his back and
buttocks, the smell of his own fear and Jonny's cologne and warm
skin, and the throb of his erection against his stomach. His cock
oozing slippery droplets of fluid, cold fluid on his feverish
skin, was also driving him mad. He thrust his hips up vainly, only
to feel his bonds tightening around his wrists and ankles
painfully. "Yeah," he whispered. "I'm scared."

"Good."

Jonny's warm breath was on his lips. Brad groaned, and his tongue
snaked out as far as he could, to taste Jonny's lips. He only got
a clumsy swipe, then Jonny was gone. Then Jonny touched him - a
maddeningly brief touch of finger or lips on his neck, his
nipples, his lips, his thighs, everywhere in no predictable order.
Each time too brief, too brief until Brad was struggling with his
bonds, twisting his body so that he could touch Jonny in any way.

Then something cold and blunt pressed against his quivering anal
pucker. Brad cried out as it penetrated slowly. "Sssh," Jonny
whispered. "Relax." Was it a dildo? Brad wasn't entirely certain,
but he welcomed the penetration of his burning anus. He raised his
thigh as high as he could, but Jonny only let the penetration stop
midway.

At the same time as Brad screamed in frustration, the tangy
fragrant of Jonny's sex wafted over Brad. And his mouth watered
even as his tongue lapped wildly in the open air, until - yes, he
tasted the spice of Jonny's inner thighs. He lifted his head,
letting his tongue lick at the skin, alternatively suckling the
tender flesh with his lips. Jonny moaned, lowering himself, until
Brad's mouth found that tingling, painfully aching ring of muscles
guarding his asshole. Then Brad was merciless, his lips latching
on Jonny's nether lips like a hook grip, and that rough, clever
tongue pushed up Jonny's inside. He pushed himself down, roughly
jamming his hairy anal gash against Brad's wildly lapping and
sucking mouth, grinding his hips in a wild bucking rhythm. That
tongue prodded him, in and out, slow and fast, like a cock, all
the while stopping to suck vociferously until Jonny felt as if his
insides were being sucked inside out.

No more, or he would lose control. He let Brad eat him a second
longer, then he - with great reluctance - lifted himself off. Brad
shouted then his protest - "Fuck you Jonny, please, let me have
you, please!" - punctuated with wild frantic stabs of his tongue
as he searched vainly for Jonny.

Removing the vibrator with a rough pull, Jonny replaced that toy
with his own throbbing cock. Brad shuddered, every muscle in his
body in contorted pleasure, as he willingly lifted his hips for
Jonny's penetration, only to howl in frustration when he realized
that cock was the only contact he would have of Jonny. Jonny
didn't touch Brad in any other way, penetrating Brad only midway
so that their thighs never touched, until Brad though he would go
mad in unfulfilled ache.

And the merciless Jonny kept doing that, pumping Brad hard but
never fully, never touching Brad. He kept pumping even when he
discharged his heated semen up Brad's quivering orifice for the
first time, his cock still hard as a rock, and he kept pumping and
pumping until Brad was screaming in need as well as begging
incoherently for Jonny to please give him release.

Then, after one last discharge of seminal fluids, Jonny freed
Brad. Jonny laughed when Brad, wildly growling and promising
retribution, pounced on him. The brutal sodomy that followed only
made Jonny howl with pleasure/pain. He cruelly bruised Brad's
buttocks with his clawing fingers as he urged Brad to fuck him
harder, harder, harder damn it, harder until their pelvic bones
banged with a painful crack at each deep thrust of Brad's cock.

"Yes, fuck me, oh God, you motherfucking son of a bitch, fuck me!"
Jonny screamed, throwing his head back in pleasure of Brad's
brutal ravaging. His anus was being torn apart and every muscle of
his as well as his senses were being pushed towards breaking
limit. His fingers pushed Brad's head down for a savage kiss.

Finally, Brad couldn't hold back. He shuddered, groaning like a
dying man as his long-punished cock exploded its climax. His
relentless ejaculation spewed forth, vainly trying to cool both
Brad's heated cock and Jonny's blistered anus.

"Is that all?" Jonny finally asked, his voice scornful (impressive
considering his state of nerves) when they finally broke their
kiss. He rubbed his thighs pleasurably against Brad's sweat-soaked
ones, sighing as he felt Brad's copious ejaculation soaking down
their still joined bodies.

Brad answered with a growl and a hard thrust of his fast re-
hardening cock.

And this Jonny was the one who screamed for mercy.



Brad bit back his groan when Jonny finally removed his nipple
clamps. Not that he needed to, he was gagged, but even two weeks
of punishing sex at Jonny's hands, he still sometimes felt afraid
of that man. And he found the fear arousing. He twitched his hips,
hoping that Jonny would feel Brad's still hard cock pressing
against the man's stomach and had mercy to let Brad have another
go at fucking Jonny.

Yesterday, Jonny had asked Brad for a lift to the nearest 7-11
store while Brad was about to drive to work. They ended up fucking
in the car right outside the store, the driver's seat pushed back
and Brad looking up, dazed, as Jonny rode his cock hard like a
seasoned rodeo. There was an embarrassing wet stain at Brad's
crotch and Brad had to sit down until his pants dried.

The other day at a baseball match, Brad actually fucked Jonny
right there in the audience, an experience Brad still couldn't
believe. Jonny was wearing bagging Bermuda shorts that Brad pushed
easily down to the middle of Jonny's hips, and Brad unzipped his
jeans. Jonny's long shirt that covered his bared buttocks was
pushed up until Brad was fully embedded in that man, and as the
New York Yankees scored a home run, Brad and Jonny cheered with
extra enthusiasm boosted by the scorching jetting of Brad's cock
juices up Jonny's delicious ass. Brad was still stunned that they
got away with that.

He was thirty-four, older than Jonny, but hell, when it came to
sex, he was definitely the child here. Jonny taught him so much in
the two weeks that Brad was frequently afraid that he would die of
pleasure. It was frightening, this rush of unspeakable pleasure
Jonny easily drew from their bodies. More frightening, however,
was the thought that maybe, perhaps, Brad wanted these two weeks
to last forever.




FIVE

By the third week, their wills were close to snapping. "You keep
distancing yourself from me," Brad snapped in his frustration and
anger the end of the third week, throwing the bag of groceries
they'd bought together (right after they fucked in the cubicle in
the gent's, with Jonny using an imported giant banana most
creatively) onto the table with a careless and hard crash.

"What do you think this is? An Oprah confess-all session? What do
you want me to tell you?" Jonny snapped back.

Brad wanted to tell Jonny that he hated this - he felt used. He
wanted. something. Raking his fingers through his hair in hapless
frustration, he wanted to argue, to shout, and to yell. But he
knew that this would only inflame them and they would end up
fucking noisily and brutally on the floor (or table, or bed, or
anywhere and everywhere).

Watching Jonny stormed to his room upstairs, Brad stared at where
the man had stormed off, unable to understand his own confusing
feelings.

The door closed, and Brad saw Alberta return from her own day at
the office.

"What?" she asked.

"How's you and Eliza?"

Bertie sighed and sat down on her usual chair. "Good," she said,
although her bitter smile said otherwise. "How's you and the drama
queen?"

"Good," Brad said through gritted teeth.

"Eliza's bright, fun, crazy," Alberta said softly. Her eyes took
on a faraway glaze. "We have never even kissed. I don't dare to
tell her I'm slowly crashing down to earth because of her. I just
sit there and watch her laugh, talk, sing."

"Jonny's bright too, fun, and crazy. Reckless, wild, and doesn't
care if I can't catch up with him," Brad said. "He's all wrong for
me, and I tell myself it's just me at the moment addicted to the
way he -"

"Too much information," Bertie cut in.

"Anyway, I feel -"

"As if the sun shines and the world revolves around this strange
infatuation of yours." It was Jonny. He stood at the foot of the
stairs. "What are you looking at me like that for? Since we're all
in the mood to bitch about love, let's all do it with style." He
placed three glasses and a large bottle of champagne. "I hate that
moment even as I crave it. The euphoria, the rush."

"That feeling as if you can fly when he smiles at you," Brad said
softly.

"And the way the dead numbness in your soul grows heavier and more
painful when she's not there," Bertie said, studying her glass.

"I don't believe in love," Brad declared with bravado.

"I'm afraid to believe in love." Jonny raised his glass.

"I want to believe in love," Alberta said as they performed a
toast to whatever.

"So, Brad, is that why you're pissed?" Jonny asked. "You got a big
case of puppy love for my cock and whips and you don't know if
it's love or lust?"

"Oh, it's lust. It's how I like talking to you and doing things
with you that confuse me. I know when it's lust, and this one is
different."

"We are so different, we will dump each other and hate each
other," Jonny said.

"I hate you two," Bertie declared without heat.

"I don't want your parents' stupid marriage and your insecurities
to haunt us both," Jonny said.

"I'll go see a shrink. And I want you to come with me. You have
your own insecurities about commitment as well."

"Go upstairs and fuck, boys. Leave me in peace," Bertie said,
draining another glass miserably.

"You'll get your happily-ever-after, Bertie," Jonny told her
tenderly. "I love you, you old broad even if you, like Brad , can
be boring fusspots."

Brad covered his hand over hers. "You okay, Bertie?"

"Yeah. You boys go upstairs and make up or something. I'll just
watch TV."



Jonny placed his hand on Brad's chest and rest his chin on it.
"We'll never work."

"We're too different," Brad agreed. "So move over and let me walk
out of here."

Jonny only looked at Brad, his face unreadable. "Push me over. I'm
too tired to move."

Brad sighed. "I don't want to."

"Me neither."

"We need to talk."

"We need to talk."

They said that together simultaneously, and that surprised the
both of them into silence for a few seconds. Then Jonny tilted his
head and studied Brad. "Fuck it anyway. Nothing tried, nothing
gained. And it'll probably be fucking good while it lasts. We'll
probably have to buy relationship books and hide all sharp objects
in the house."

Brad's smile was all agreement. "Nothing tried, nothing gained,"
he concurred.



Alberta Watson didn't hear the doorbell until much, much later.
Since she was pretty soused, she didn't pause to wonder who would
drop by at eleven in the night. Of course, crazy, reckless Eliza
would. No surprise to find her standing at the door.

"Hi," Eliza said simply, hugging herself as if in uncertainty.

"Hi," Bertie said, calm and poised as always.
