My colours were so beautiful. Yellow as pure as freshly churned butter; orange as dazzling as the setting sun; grey like summer rain clouds and black like the velvet night, all mingled together on the table, just waiting to be stitched together. Sewn into me.

They couldn’t have known I’d turn out this revolting. Could they?

They priced me at $49.99. Now I may just be a lowly plaid shirt, but even I knew that nobody was ever going to pay that much for me. People are stupid, but they’re not that stupid. The folks at The Big Q finally clued in, and every week, my price went down. First $39.99, slashed in red pen across my tag. Then $29.99. And so on, and so on. And then I found myself in the place every self-respecting shirt dreads - in the discount bin. Thank goodness none of my acquaintances from the cotton factory were around to see me wallowing in this shame!

When Mr. Novotny lifted me from the rack, my little cotton/poly blend heart skipped a beat. His hand was warm as he smoothed down over my arm before he snuck a peek at my price-tag. He smiled, and if I could have shuddered in anticipatory joy, I would have, that’s for sure. Mr. Novotny was going to take me home!

Then she appeared.

“Michael, put that hideous thing down!” she squawked, the spray for her cinnamon gum liberally coating my front pockets.

She was wearing a clown’s wig and fuchsia tights. She really wasn’t one to judge.

“Ma!” Michael said, and held me a little closer to his chest. That’s right, Mr. Novotny, I thought, Fight for me! “It’s for Brian’s birthday!”

Brian. Now I’ve seen Brian Kinney, strolling through the aisles while he waited for Mr. Novotny to get off work, his upper lip curling in disdain as he perused the stock, his beautiful body draped in Armani or Boss or Prada. And that time that he dragged the elf behind the discount racks and they -- well, let’s just say that that’s the only time I ever regretted being a shirt. Oh, if only I’d been born a jock strap!

Me, Brian Kinney’s birthday present? It was too good to be true.

Michael’s mother snorted out a laugh, and they exchanged mischievous looks. And that’s when I knew I was going to be consigned to the very pit of merchandise hell, the place that every piece of clothing fears with every fibre of their being -- yes, I was going to be the dreaded “gag gift”.

The birthday party was incredibly boring, but Brian didn’t make fun of me at all. I was pleasantly surprised, but I was sure that once we got home I’d be tossed into the nearest garbage can or shoved into the back of his closet, never to be seen again. Or -- oh, the horror -- imagine if he used me as a cleaning rag! To be doused with lemon pledge and spend an eternity wiping god knows what bodily fluids off his dining room table. I just couldn’t stand it. I really couldn’t.

So you can imagine my surprise when he hung me carefully at the front of his closet. I was so proud! The silks were incredibly bitchy, and I can’t say I blame them. I really am the poor cousin where they’re concerned. But I think the sweater vests should learn some humility. They’re no better than me!

Then… oh yes… he started wearing me out. The joy! To be the fabric caressing that lean frame, those firm arms, those abs… there really are no words. First it was just to Woody’s, and a game of pool with the guys. Then the diner. And once, on a night I’ll never forget, he wore me to Babylon. Okay, so maybe it was Country “Ho“Down night, whatever -- I was at Babylon! The lights, the music, the men! It felt like heaven to a simple little plaid shirt like me. Brian strutted around like he owned the place, then homed in on a hot guy in a muscle T. Next thing I knew, I was flung over the exposed plumbing in the back room, and Brian was doing what Brian does best.

Best night of my life.

When Brian found Justin, I was happy for him. Sure, maybe he didn’t wear me out as much, but he had this… thing. This glow. He’d never had that before. I was willing to sacrifice some quality time on his back to see that glow. That’s just the kind of shirt I am.

Still, I was thrilled when he pulled me out of the closet yesterday. We went to the diner. Michael’s mother wasn’t her usual annoying self, and that right there was enough to keep me in a gleeful mood. And if Justin seemed a little off… well, seeing a dead boy in a dumpster will do that to a person.

Then later, Justin… well, I love the boy. I really do. He makes Brian happy, and that’s good enough for me. But when he opened his mouth, I was really hurt.

“When are you going to get rid of that thing?” Justin asked, crinkling his nose and plucking at me with his fingers.

Brian slapped his hand away and smoothed over my wrinkled spot.

“Donate it to the Goodwill or something,” Justin continued. He paused, then went for the jugular. “It looks like something Ted would wear.”

I held my breath. Well, not that shirts have breath, but you know what I mean.

Finally, Brian snorted. “You,” he said, “are giving me fashion advice? Isn’t that like Charo giving diction lessons? Mama Cass holding a diet seminar? Jerry Garcia preaching about--”

“Fuck off.”

Justin stalked off, but not before Brian pinched his arm and gave his hoodie a little flip as he walked away. I breathed a sigh of relief. Justin doesn’t have much room to judge, either.

But that night, Brian tossed me on the floor instead of placing me carefully in the dirty clothes bin. I knew I was done for.

Brian is a light sleeper, and Justin wakes up a lot in the middle of the night. He sneaks out of bed and I know he’s trying to be really quiet, because he is basically a good kid, big mouth notwithstanding. Sometimes Justin will curl up on the couch, listening to music on his discman, hands cupped over the headphones in an attempt to block out even that teeny bit of sound from carrying through the loft. Sometimes he goes to the kitchen and pours out cereal, and invariably the snap, crackle and pop wakens Brian. And sometimes, like today, he crouches over his sketchpad, his pencil lightly scratching out the sight of the rising sun as seen from the big windows in the living room. Maybe this sketch will turn out to be the inspiration for a beautiful painting, one day. Maybe it’ll end up in the trash. With Justin, I never know what’s going to happen next. I guess that’s why Brian likes him, too.

Brian’s arms encircle Justin from behind, and he merely leans into the embrace. He heard Brian coming, of course. Just like I did.

“Goodwill, huh?” Brian murmurs into his ear.

Justin slants up a look that is half-grin, half-scowl. “I just needed something to wear. All my stuff‘s dirty.”

“Uh huh.” Brian slides his hands down Justin’s arms, and it’s… weird… feeling him like this. From the outside. I’m a little too big for Justin; he’s got my sleeves rolled up, and I hang loosely on his slender body. But it feels good. Nice. Comfortable.

“Hmmm.” Brian cocks a brow as his arms wrap around Justin’s waist. Being hugged by Brian is an experience I’ll never forget. We are encompassed by him, enveloped by him. His presence is everywhere.

“Maybe we should keep it,” Justin says.

“Maybe we should,” Brian agrees, and then his fingers are working my buttons free, and his hands are pushing me off Justin’s shoulders, and soon I am in a heap on the floor next to a forgotten sketchpad and a blunt-ended pencil, and the only sounds in the loft are soft moans and whispered sighs.

I may be the most god-awful ugly plaid shirt in existence, but I’m also the luckiest god-awful ugly plaid shirt in existence. I have two men who love me.