"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Chapter 35 of the "Queer Realities" series.

Go back to "Queer Theories" for the very beginning of this saga.

The narrator is Justin Taylor, and features Dylan Burke, Alan Wray, Ethan Gold, Jason, Curry, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Justin goes to a party with Dylan. Pittsburgh. February 2003.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Watch Queer As Folk on Showtime, buy the DVDs, videos, and CDs. Read the stories and enjoy.

Every time I go to some college party or mixer it turns out to be a disaster.

So I have no fucking idea why I agreed to go to this party with Dylan.

But here I am -- driving the Jeep through the snow to pick him up at his dorm at Carnegie Mellon so that we can go to some party for the CMU GLBT group. I guess I'm one of those idiots who just doesn't learn from my mistakes.

Okay, the truth is that I'm bored. Bored and angry at myself. And angry at Brian, too. Still so angry at him. So rather than drive up to Springhurst yesterday and have it out with Brian over that fucking interview like I should have, I'm being a fucking princess. So typical. So stupid, Taylor!

I told Brian that I was so busy this weekend that I didn't have time to go up and be with him. So I was determined that I'd work all weekend and make it true. I spent all Friday afternoon and evening in my studio. I caught up on my assignments in a few hours, and then I worked on my Warhol Variations project. Except that there was really nothing more to do. The pieces are finished. They've been finished for weeks. I'm just screwing around with them. Really doing nothing.

And that means that I sat in the studio and brooded. I dicked around on the computer and outlined a few things. I read over my syllabus to see what projects are coming up, but I realized that I have those under control, too. Then I sat and brooded some more.

When I could have been up in Springhurst. In bed with Brian. Making love with Brian.

Except that I'm mad at Brian. I'm punishing Brian. All because of that fucking interview.

But I'm really punishing myself.

I sure am a clueless fuck! What am I doing? What? And why?

This is how stupid I am. Rather than admit that I haven't been fair to my partner, my lover, my boyfriend, or whatever non-defined, non-conventional term you want to use for whatever Brian is to me and whatever I am to him, rather than admit that I am wrong -- because that wouldn't do, would it, Taylor? -- and drive up to New York on Saturday morning to salvage at least part of the weekend... I didn't.

I stayed in the loft and wasted the entire fucking day. I did laundry that wasn't that dirty. I washed dishes that were already clean. I moved things around that didn't need to be moved. And then I moved them back.

And then, rather than call Brian and tell him what a fucking piece of shit he is for saying those things in 'The Advocate,' rather than having Brian yell back at me for being a baby and drama princess and a spoiled brat, rather than finally clearing the air and then having phone sex to replace the real sex we could be having if things weren't so fucked up -- rather than do any of those things I called Dylan Burke and told him I'd really love to go to that party with him.

And here I am driving to pick him up and go to a party I know I'm going to hate.

Justin Taylor -- 1500 on my SATs. Brilliant. Brilliantly stupid.

I park the Jeep and slog through the slush up to Dylan's dorm. It's some tall building that looks like a prison. I walk inside and, like all dorms, it smells like rotten food and dirty laundry. I take the elevator up to the sixth floor and walk down the hall, looking for Dylan's room.

The door is open and there's a guy and a girl sitting on a bed, watching a portable TV.

"I'm looking for Dylan," I say.

"Oh," says the guy with a distinct lack of interest. "He's in the bathroom. He'll be back in a minute. I'm his roommate." But he doesn't offer his name or introduce me to his girlfriend.

"You guys going on a date?" the guy asks, while his girlfriend giggles as if two guys going on a date is the funniest thing she's ever heard in her life.

"No," I answer. "We're going to a party. We're just friends."

"Oh," the roommate guffaws. "Just friends!" And then he and the girlfriend are both laughing like they're stoned or something. I wish I knew what was so fucking funny.

"Hey!" says Dylan, coming down the hallway. He looks like he's dressed for a party in a tight pair of jeans and a new red sweater. He looks pretty hot, actually.

Dylan saunters into the room and picks up his coat. The roommate is snickering. "Have fun, boys!" the guy says with a pronounced lisp. "Don't drop the soap!" That line cracks the roommate up. Straight guys are so fucking predictable.

"Sure," says Dylan in disgust. "Whatever. Come on, Justin."

We walk back down the hallway and get in the elevator. "That's the kind of shit I have to deal with every single fucking day around here!" Dylan complains. "Man, that gets old after five minutes!"

"Then why do you put up with it?" I ask him.

"Because I can't afford to live off campus," Dylan concedes. "My housing is part of my baseball scholarship, so I don't have to pay for it. But I have to put up with morons like my roommate. And some of the guys on the team are even worse. That fucking jock mentality sucks. And none of those guys play well enough to carry my jockstrap! But if you're a faggot, you have to sit there and take it!"

"Sorry, Dylan," I tell him. "I didn't realize what a pain it was. I've never had to live in the dorm, but I know something about being harassed and it isn't fun." Yes, that's a fucking understatement!

We get to the Jeep. It's starting to snow again, so I get out the brush and clean the snow off the car, while Dylan gets inside. Sometimes I wish Brian and I were out in California full time. We could spend the weekend on the boat or sit around the pool. Or I could drive my PT Cruiser around town or visit Diane or whatever. Then I wouldn't have to drag my ass through the ice and snow and shiver in the loft all winter. Two more years before I finish at PIFA, but right now it feels like a fucking eternity!

"I'm stoked! So let's get this show on the road!" Dylan cries, bouncing on the seat.

I pull the Jeep out of the parking space and he directs me to a student neighborhood not far from campus.

"This party is at Curry and Jason's place," says Dylan. "Curry's family has big bucks, so he rented this house. A bunch of guys crash there, but it's mainly him and his roommate, Jason. They have great parties. And lots of booze and good dope, too." Dylan grins in anticipation.

"I thought this was a GLBT party? That's what you told me the other day." I turn down a side street. It's Saturday night, so a lot of houses are lit up with parties going on. There isn't much else to do around here in the middle of winter.

"Well, it's kind of a GLBT party," Dylan admits. "Most of the guys who'll be there are members. But it's really mainly just a party-party."

I shrug. "That's okay with me. So it'll be all guys? No dykes?"

"Probably not. Curry has a couple of girls who hag around with him, so they might be there, but it's basically going to be a lot of guys." Dylan points to a house. "Slow down and look for a parking spot. That's the place."

It takes me a while to find a place to park, but I eventually get a spot on the next block. Dylan and I tramp up the sidewalk, back to the house. I can hear the music blasting from down the street.

The house reminds me of a frat house -- except one full of club queens. The place reeks of weed and there are guys dancing and making out all over the place. I haven't even taken my coat off and I already have a headache.

Dylan immediately heads for the dining room, where there's a table full of college student food -- chips, pretzels, pizza, and wings. In the corner a guy has a bar set up. He waves at Dylan.

"That's Jason," Dylan tells me, scooping up a handful of chips from the table. "Curry is probably around here somewhere. I'll introduce you later. Let's get a beer first."

We press on into the kitchen, where a couple of guys are getting beer from a keg. One of them turns and grins when he sees Dylan. Then he sees me and stops smiling.

"Justin Taylor, huh?" Alan Wray sneers. "Come down off Mount Olympus to give us mere mortals a thrill?"

"I needed a cheap diversion," I answer. Dylan fills a plastic cup with beer and hands it to me. "And now that I know you're here, I know exactly how cheap it's going to be."

Dylan snorts and fills a cup for himself. "Give it up, Alan. I think Justin can out-snark you. He's had lessons from the Master, after all!"

"Yeah," sniffs Alan. "Brian Kinney. He certainly had some interesting things to say to 'The Advocate,' didn't he, Justin?"

I keep myself perfectly still. I've had a lot of practice making myself look like I don't feel anything. More practice than I've ever wanted. "Brian is Brian," I say, coolly. "He knows how to give provocative quotes. And that's all it is."

Alan sips his beer and glares at me. "I wouldn't want my boyfriend to say that kind of shit about me in a national magazine. It's rather... humiliating, don't you think?"

I try not to blink. I knew it was a mistake to come here. But it's too late now, I'm here and I can't run or else on Monday morning every fag at CMU will be discussing how Alan Wray made Justin Taylor bolt from the party on Saturday night.

"I guess that's why Brian isn't your boyfriend, Alan," I tell him. "Or even a casual fuck. Brian's fucked a lot of guys in his day, but he does have standards. Which is why he wouldn't touch YOU with a ten-foot pole. Not even when you practically begged him! Talk about humiliation, right?"

I'm thinking of that time at Woody's when I chased Alan out of the place for coming on to Brian. I was sick of guys putting their hands all over Brian -- and Alan was the last straw. I can see by Alan's expression that he hasn't forgotten it either.

"Forget that shit!" says Dylan, draining his cup of beer and tossing it in the trash can. "Let's dance!"

Before I can say anything, Dylan grabs my hand and pulls me into the living room.

"That's Curry," says Dylan, pointing out a guy in the corner on the room. He's a short guy with bleached blond hair and a blue glittery shirt. He's working the CD player, picking out discs, and queuing them up in the stereo. "Curry is big on having a theme for his parties. I think tonight is Seventies Night."

I listen to the music and realize that Dylan is right. All of the music is either campy old disco stuff or 1970's pop, like the Partridge Family or the Bay City Rollers.

I shrug. "I don't mind. As long as it isn't Country!" I guess Brian's hatred of Country music -- a.k.a. 'motherfucking redneck hillbilly crap' -- has rubbed off on me.

"What's wrong with Country?" Dylan smirks. "You some kind of Anti-American Commie Faggot who doesn't like Shania Twain?"

"Shania Twain is Canadian," I inform him.

"No shit?" Dylan shrugs. "That shows you how much I know."

'I Think I Love You' comes on and all of the guys begin to sing along. Seventies Night must be very popular at Carnegie Mellon. Or else David Cassidy is still a pin up for gay boys in the Pitts. Then the Partridge Family segues into a disco song. Something about Dr. Love filling your cavity.

"This music is pretty funny," I say, leaning in to talk in Dylan's ear.

"Music is music," says Dylan. "I don't care one way or another."

"Do you ever go to Babylon to dance?" I ask him.

"Sometimes. But it's expensive to go to clubs. There's the membership fee and entrance fees and the drinks are a fucking rip-off. It's cheaper to go to Pistol and get a beer -- or let some guy buy me one," he grins.

"Yeah," I concede. "That's always worked for me!"

"You blonds are such sluts!" Dylan puts his hands on my hips and before I know it, he's rubbing up against me. Which isn't easy, because Bobby Sherman isn't the best music for bumping and grinding. Then the music moves on to another old disco thing and Dylan really begins to put the pressure on.

It's weird, because Dylan really can't dance at all. Maybe that's why he can pass as straight with so many people -- he's got a klutzy, goofy edge that is so NOT gay. Most of the guys at the party -- the friends of Curry and Jason -- are great dancers. And totally gay. Which means they can do all of the fabulous moves, even to Shaun Cassidy and the Carpenters.

But Dylan doesn't bother with subtle moves. He's just jabbing his dick against the front of my jeans. And his dick is hard. Very, very hard.

Of course, the song that comes on next is 'Go All the Way.' And the guys all around us are squealing out the words: "Please go all the waaaaay! It feels so riiiight, being with you here tonight!"

I fucking hate Seventies Night!

"Listen, Dylan," I say, pushing him back a couple of steps. "Let's take this down a notch, okay?"

"Okay," Dylan smirks. "Let's get another beer."

This time he leads me out to the back porch where there's a big cooler. He reaches in and pulls out two bottles of Rolling Rock, opening them against the doorframe. The beer is really cold, but so is the porch. In fact, it's freezing.

"You know that it's fucking frigid out here," I tell Dylan. "I can't drink cold beer in a snowstorm."

Dylan nods and grabs my hand again. We go back into the kitchen.

And standing there is my worst nightmare. Well, one of my worst nightmares. It's that musician from my vision. The violinist. His name is Ethan Gold and there's stuff about him in the PIFA student newspaper all the time. He was a finalist in some big music competition and he's always playing concerts at the Institute. I guess he's good. I don't really know that much about Classical music.

Ethan sees me and Dylan and he gives us both a dirty look. I have no fucking idea what his problem is. I barely know the guy. At least, I think I barely know him. In this life. In my REAL life I don't know him. But it feels creepy looking at him because I keep getting flashes of him touching me. And worse. And I don't like it. I don't like it at all.

Dylan just ignores the guy and we walk by. But Ethan says something under his breath and Dylan hears him. Dylan whips around and confronts Ethan. It's ridiculous, really, because Dylan is 6 feet tall and Ethan is shorter than I am!

"Why don't YOU keep your trap shut, Gold!" Dylan warns. "And I'm not kidding. Don't fuck with shit that is none of your business!"

"I wouldn't dream of it, Mr. Burke," Ethan proclaims loudly. "Don't mind me. I'm only standing here. Who the fuck am I, anyway? Right, Dylan? I'm nobody!"

"Get over yourself, Ethan," says Dylan, shortly. Then he takes my elbow and practically marches me out of the kitchen and up the stairway.

"What was that all about?" I ask. "Are you friends with Ethan Gold?"

"Hardly," Dylan huffs. "But... but...." Dylan pauses. The door of one of the bedrooms is partly open. "This is Jason's room, although he almost never sleeps here. Most nights he sleeps with Curry -- or whoever the two of them can drag home in a drunken stupor."

The room is typical college student slum decor. There's a futon on the floor and piles of clothes and other junk flung all over. A bicycle is leaning against the wall.

"Catch this!" says Dylan. There's a lava lamp sitting on the dresser and Dylan turns it on. It starts bubbling. "Totally rad, man!" he laughs.

"That's the wrong slang for a lava lamp," I say. "That's too Eighties. I think you're supposed to say, 'Groovy, man!'"

"Whatever," Dylan mumbles. He plops down on the futon and I sit next to him. Then he takes a piece of plastic wrap out of his shirt pocket. "Here. I got this from Jason. It's good stuff. Those guys can always afford the real thing." Dylan hands me a little white tab.

"What's this? E?" I don't like taking anything unless I know what it is. Brian always drilled that into my head. Don't do drugs alone. Don't take shit from people you don't know. And don't take anything unless you're certain what it is. Especially with all my allergies. Of course, Brian broke all of those rules all of the time, but I've tried to follow them. I hold the tab in my hand. It looks like Ecstasy, but who really knows? It's not like it's FDA approved.

Dylan pops a tab into his mouth and chases it down with a swig of beer. I hesitate -- and then I do the same. What the fuck? It's a Saturday night. It's not like I've never done it before. It's not like I'm some clueless newbie who just fell off the turnip truck. I've handled my share of substances and I can handle this.

"Sweet!" Dylan grins. His smile is a little lop-sided. "It's not like we need to go to rehab or anything, right?"

"Why did you say that?" I ask, suddenly paranoid. And I think about Brian -- in rehab. "Tell me, Dylan, what did Ethan Gold say to you?"

His face freezes for a moment. "You don't want to know, Justin. He's an asshole."

"What did he say?" I insist. "Tell me!"

"He made some comment about you." Dylan drinks some more beer and frowns. "Forget about it. Like I said, Ethan is an asshole!"

I shake my head. "I knew I shouldn't have come to this fucking party! It's always a catastrophe. The very first party I went to when I was a freshman was at my friend Daphne's. It was a bunch of straight kids and I was bored out of my mind. But then I saw this cute guy and we went upstairs and fucked in the guest room. People were knocking on the door, yelling for their coats, but we just kept fucking."

"Sounds like a great party!" Dylan grins. He lifts his eyebrows devilishly.

"Believe me, it was a huge fucking mistake!" I take a sip of my beer. I can feel the E starting to roll around inside of me, warming me up. E is weird. It doesn't hit you quickly, like coke. It creeps up on you and puts you in a mellow, happy mood almost before you know what's happening. "The guy I fucked found out where I worked and he followed me there and wanted to be my boyfriend! I couldn't get him to leave! So I was a complete jerk and told him to get lost and that I'd only told him that I liked him so he'd let me fuck him. Then I saw him at a party at the beginning of this semester and he started yelling at me! I felt like two cents."

"Well," says Dylan. "Maybe it was only because you were fucking the wrong person. The right person would have made it a fantastic party!" Dylan looks at me slyly. "It was Eric, right? Whenever he gets drunk he tells his 'Justin Taylor fucked me' story and starts crying! It's very entertaining."

I sit up straight. "Eric tells everyone his 'Justin Taylor fucked me' story? Jesus Christ!"

"Sure," says Dylan. "Remember, there aren't exactly a huge number of gay undergrads at CMU, so everyone knows everybody else. Eric told me that story the first time I met him. He tells everybody that story!"

"Shit! No wonder people look at me like I'm a fucking freak!" I say. Talk about humiliating. "First, I'm infamous because I'm Brian Kinney's boyfriend. Then my bare ass is plastered on every tabloid cover in the US AND Europe! Then Brian gives an interview telling the entire world that he does NOT have a boyfriend -- meaning that I'm some fuck puppet he keeps around when his dick needs a workout. And now I find out that every guy at Carnegie Mellon thinks I'm a slut and a creep because I fucked Eric and made him cry! I might as well never leave the loft or show my face in public again!"

"Don't sweat it, Justin," says Dylan, stroking my arm. "You're queening out over nothing. Why do you give a shit what Eric says? Or Ethan Gold? Or even Alan Wray? They're jealous! That's why they say all those things about you. But I'd never say anything like that. I stick up for you. I don't let guys talk trash about my oldest friend."

"I'm not your oldest friend, Dylan." I sink back on the futon. I can feel the E working now. It's hard to stay angry when you're on Ecstasy.

"Sure you are," Dylan whispers. "Maybe we haven't been close for a lot of years, but we used to be. And we can be again, Justin. Sometimes I wish I had someone to talk to. Someone who really knows me. Someone who cares about me. You know what I mean? As a friend. A real good friend."

"I am your friend, Dylan," I say, yawning. The lava lamp looks cool on the dresser. There's some kind of blobby stuff inside of it and it's gyrating around as different colors flash. "It's only that my fucking life is so complicated right now. I don't have time to think about doing things for the hell of it. I have my exhibition at the Warhol Museum coming up. And Brian is in...." I stop. I'm not supposed to say where Brian is. But my mind feels mushy. "And Brian is out of town."

"You must be so lonely, Justin," breathes Dylan. "Remember when we used to practice kissing? I told you that it was so we would know what to do with girls. But I was never thinking about girls back then. Were you?"

"No way," I say. "I've never thought about a girl that way in my life. You know what? I fucked a girl once. Can you believe it? But the whole time I was fucking her I sure wasn't thinking about pussy. Not for one second."

"I've fucked plenty of girls, too," Dylan admits. "I can take them or leave them. But I'd rather leave them. I'd rather have my lips on something else. Something much, much sweeter."

And before I know it, we're kissing. It feels hot in the room. I can hear the bad Seventies Night music thumping, thumping, thumping underneath us. Dylan has a big, sloppy mouth. It covers me totally. He sucks on my tongue and I'm so horny I'm ready to scream. I suck his tongue back. It tastes like salty potato chips and Rolling Rock beer.

I don't even think about Dylan taking my pants off. He just does it. And his are off, too. When did that happen? He's got my dick in his mouth. He's sucking the whole thing, right down his throat. It feels so good! He's licking it and sucking it. Then he goes down and sucks at my balls.

"Justin," he whispers urgently. "Suck me at the same time. Do it!"

He moves around on the futon until we're in a sixty-nine position. His dick is long and the head is wide and purple. I take it in my mouth. He's already really wet and drippy and I suck off his juice. I move my head up and down, trying to get it as deep as possible. That's the way he likes it. The way he loves it. Brian -- I mean, Dylan, seems to love it.

My head feels fuzzy, but I feel so great. That's the thing about E. Everything looks beautiful. The lava lamp. The lights coming in through the window. And the music from downstairs. 'Ecstasy! When I'm with you I'm in Ecstasy!' That song plays and all the guys are singing along.

And there's his beautiful ass. Brian's ass is so fucking beautiful. So perfect. I close my eyes and stroke it while I suck his cock. It's like a dream. And it feels so great!

Someone opens the door of the room. "Oops," says a voice. "I didn't mean to interrupt your private party, Dylan."

Dylan? How did Dylan get here. Oh, yeah. Dylan.

"Fuck off, Alan," says Dylan, taking his mouth off my dick. "Go next door to Curry's room if you want to fuck. This room is taken."

"I can see that." Alan snickers. "Have fun, boys!" And the door closes.

"He's jealous, too," Dylan whispers. He's stroking my hair while I suck him. "They know how good it feels. So sweet. Right, Justin? Sweet! So fucking sweet."

"Sweet," I echo. "Are you sure that was E?" I ask. Because the lava lamp is moving all over the room. But it feels so right. The lights are blinking in and out. "I think I'm tripping."

"Trip away," says Dylan. "If that's what you're feeling. Jason and Curry always have the best stuff. Always the best. And I have the best right here, too."

He starts licking around the head of my cock. And down the shaft. And then he's rimming me.

"Oh, fuck! Yes!" I gasp as his tongue probes my asshole. "Don't stop!"

"I'll never stop," Dylan says. "It's too good."

I go down on his cock again, sucking it almost to the root. I haven't sucked a guy's cock in a long time. Other than Brian's, I mean. Brian -- yes. And this isn't Brian. Well, why shouldn't I? Brian has fucked plenty of guys in the past year. He's probably fucking someone at Springhurst right this minute, only I don't know about it. So what? It's only sex. It feels good. It doesn't mean a fucking thing except getting your needs met. That's what Brian says. He always, always says.

Yes, your needs. And I need something that is for ME. Something that isn't about Brian all of the time. And Dylan is for me. He doesn't even like Brian. He doesn't care about Brian. Dylan only cares about me. And he feels so fucking fantastic.

But then I remember that last other guy I blew. I stop cold. Dylan's cock is hard as steel in my fist. I feel him probing my hole with his tongue. And then his finger. Then another finger. It feels sticky and slippery. Lubed up.

I drop Dylan's cock. I feel like I can't move.

It was Ron. Ron in his office. While we watched that film he made of himself and Brian. Brian when he was 16. So fucking young. And so fucking beautiful. And I sucked Ron off, right there at his desk. Because I wanted to know what it felt like. I wanted to know why Brian had loved Ron. I wanted to feel what Brian had felt when he was 16. I wanted to know everything he had ever felt so that I could understand Brian like I WAS Brian. Because I loved him so fucking much! So fucking much I almost couldn't stand it!

I hear Dylan murmuring something. He's turning me. His fingers are in my ass again. Moving in and out. Opening me up. And then I feel the head of his dick. Nudging against my hole. Oh my God!

"Wait!" I whisper. I fall forward on my face. I scramble around on the futon, feeling for my jeans.

"Just relax, baby," says Dylan, holding me fast. "This is going to be sweet. You'll love my big prick up your ass, Justin. It'll feel great! We can fuck here all night long. Jason said we could have his room for as long as we wanted it."

"Dylan, wait! Stop... right... now." I'm clawing at the futon. I'm trying to turn around, but I can't get my bearings. Dizzy. My head is coming apart. I'm tripping.

"Stop?" he laughs. "No fucking way! We're only getting started. You'll see, Justin. This is the beginning. Just the beginning." He's leaning across my back, whispering in my ear as I feel him enter me. "I love you, don't you know that? And I'm not afraid to say it. I'm not like HIM! It'll be you and me. Like it was meant to be! I was never, ever thinking of pussy, Justin. Not back when we were kids. And not now. I was always thinking of you. Only you."

"No!" I cry out. "Please, Dylan! Wait!"

But all I can see is the lava lamp, spilling its crazy light out all over the room. Spilling it all over me like stars. Like bullets. Going through me. And the music thumping up through the floor and filling my tangled head. And Dylan. Inside me. Going right through me. Going all the way. And there's no turning back.

Continue on to "Tainted Love".

©Gaedhal, January 2005.

Posted January 21, 2005.