It all feels wrong.

But I concentrate on the press of finger tips and the smell of Brut ~

“This shit costs $650 an ounce,” Brian snipes when he catches me testing the contents of small bottle on the bureau on the inside of my wrist. “You don’t fucking bathe in it.”

“I wasn’t --” My objection is cut off as Brian pushes me down on the bed and straddles my legs.

He leans forward, draping his body over mine. Pins my hands above my head. And licks a long line along my neck and down my chest, his breath warm through his nostrils.

~ and the yeasty odour of stale Budweiser and the crunch of dollarama hair gel ~

The mattress shifts as Brian gets into bed, and I waken from the light doze into which I’ve fallen. I don’t know how long he sat on the sofa, nursing his drink, thinking about his son and his father and the way genetics just fuck us all up.

He lays on his back, staring at the ceiling. And I shift to move beside him, press into his side, and put my hand on his chest. Feel the steady beat of his heart through my palm. Wrap my other arm around his head and let my fingers trail through the hair at his temple.

This time, he doesn’t turn away from the touch.

~ and the pound-pound-pounding pulse of a terrible disco remix that reverberates through my eardrums and makes me want to scream.

I concentrate on what I have, what I earned, what I fucking TOOK, because I’m not some kept crumpet that is willing to suck up Brian Kinney’s crumbs of affection and be grateful for the honour.

But the phantom scent of aged whiskey and imported shampoo still follows me as I guide Sean down the stairs to the backroom.

The scent of sex and sweat is overpowering. I stop for a moment at the bottom of the stairs, letting my eyes adjust to the dimness. Sean tugs on my hand, urging me to keep going, but I resist. The music is muted here, the thump-thump of the bass the only thing still audible, a counterpoint to the racing beat of my heart.

Fuck. I’m nervous.

“You’re nervous,” Brian says as he leads me to the steam room.

“I am not,” I protest, but of course I am, and of course he knows I am, but he just nods and smiles that smile, that one that says he’s thinking his own thoughts about THAT but he’ll keep his mouth shut, and drapes his arm more tightly around my shoulders.

I feel exposed, vulnerable, the towel wrapped around my waist offering some physical coverage but not much else, and despite the heat that spills from the room I feel a shiver run down my spine, forming goosebumps on my arms. Yet I’m hard, harder than I’ve ever been, and it occurs to me that the name of this place -- “Everhard,” Brian told me, smirking at the name, “is classier than the Liberty Baths” -- is not a misnomer.

Then Brian is pressing me against the wall, cool concrete on my back. His fingers brush the fold of towel at my waist and I stiffen against the brick. His hand leaves the towel, trails palm-flat across my stomach, up my chest, to my chin. Long fingers tip my head to his; full lips brush against my own.

“Relax,” Brian whispers against my lips.

Sean yanks on my hand again, trying to pull me toward the centre of the room.

“Relax,” I tell him. Yeah. Relax. Fucking relax.

His eyes wander, and I tug him back against me with a jerk. Chest to chest. He’s my height, and there is no reaching involved as I pull him into a kiss. Still locked together, I walk him backwards into the corner below the stairs. It’s dark. It’s quiet -- or at least, quieter. It gives the illusion of privacy.

Relax.

Sean smiles at me, and for the first time I wonder if he’s on something. His pupils are pinpricks in the dark. “You’re a great dancer,” he says.

“It’s a skill,” I tell him, and he nods as eagerly as a playful puppy. And suddenly I just want to do it. Get it over with. I spin him toward the wall and tug at his jeans, working my own pants down over my hips even as he thrusts impatiently into my palm.

Sean leans his head back and giggles. “I want you to fuck me with the crown on.”

Oh christ. “Maybe later,” I tell him, and then I’ve got the condom on, and then I’m pushing inside him. Fuck. Yeah. And it’s... hot... and tight... and... but it’s not... there’s not...

“Relax,” Brian whispers against my lips.

I take a deep breath and try to ease my tense muscles. Brian licks at my lips before turning his attention to my neck. I arch my back, my mouth dropping open as he nibbles on that sensitive piece of skin behind my ear. Brian leans back, trailing one finger down the centre of my chest, as I pant and moan and feel my limbs turn to liquid beneath his touch.

“He’s hot,” Brian says, nodding toward the trick laying on his stomach between us.

The trick watches us over his shoulder, all big brown eyes and sun-kissed skin. A few years older than me, maybe. And he IS hot. But... “Not as hot as you,” I tell Brian, and that makes him smile.

“Well, who is?” he smirks against my skin, the words barely above a whisper. His nose presses into my cheek; his warm breath washes over my face. “I want to watch you fuck him. I want to see your dick sliding into his tight little ass.”

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck!

I push harder into Sean, setting a steady pace. Just want to get off. Get off and get out. He slides his head across my shoulder for a kiss and I oblige, his nails digging into the wall in front of him, his soft pants of pleasure assuring me that he could give a shit that this is a business fuck, a workmanlike fuck. He braces himself against the wall and jerks on his cock. I follow after him, and then it’s done.

Sean turns in my arms, pushing his palms against my chest. “You’re hot,” he says with a smile.

“He’s hot,” Brian says, nodding toward the trick laying on his stomach between us.

“Not as hot as you,” I tell Brian, and that makes him smile.

“I’m late,” I tell Sean as I zip up and back away.

The smile falters. “But... when will I see you again?”

“You’ll see me in your dreams.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I feel like a shit. Not just a shit, but a world class shit. But much as I’d like to, I can’t take them back.