"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Chapter 48 in the "Queer Theories" series.

Go back to "Vanity Fair -- Part 1", the previous chapter.

The narrator is Justin Taylor, featuring Brian Kinney, Lindsay Peterson, Gus, Carmel and Maria, Armani.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Justin isn't sure he's done the right thing. Los Angeles. June 2002.
Author's Note: We interrupt Lindsay's narrative with a personal request. Actually, an overwhelming request from the multitudes. They want the poolhouse. The poolhouse? Why not? This is for all you voyeurs who asked for it, but especially Max, who gave me the title.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Watch Queer As Folk on Showtime, buy the DVDs, videos, and CDs. Read the stories and enjoy.

I know this whole thing is a gigantic mistake.

I know it the minute I get on the plane.

And I really know it the second I see Brian's face in the airport.

He doesn't want to look at me. He doesn't want to know who the fuck I am.

I'm screwed and I've done it to myself. Without lube, as Brian would put it. Big time.

We ride in a big limo, which is cool. I sit up with the driver, who is wearing a uniform and everything. It looks like a movie as we drive through the streets. I feel like I've been there before, just from watching so much television.

The whole way to the house I try to focus on acting normal. Normal normal normal. I can do it. The Mexican lady -- Carmel -- talks to me. She took one look at me and thought I was Lindsay's brother. I guess all blond-haired, WASPy people look like relatives. I can see the connection. That might not be a bad thing. It explains who I am, why I'm here. Sort of.

How the fuck am I going to get through this week?

We go up the driveway and I feel panicky. Ron. I realize that I'm afraid of him. I thought I was afraid of Brian, but I KNOW Brian. He might make a big noise, but he would never actually DO anything to me. It's what he WON'T do that would be horrible. Not look at me the whole time I'm in California. Decide not to take me to England. Never speak to me again. Never fuck me again.

But that Ron. I have no idea what HE might do to me.

But I get a reprieve. Ron isn't here. I feel incredible relief.

The house is nice. It's not a giant mansion or anything and I'm glad of that. It's not a place you can get lost in. It feels homey. There's a swimming pool and a little house next to it. Brian sticks me in there. Again, I'm glad. I'll be out of the way. If Brian doesn't want to see me, I can hide out. And that Ron -- I can avoid him altogether out here.

Carmel is funny as hell. The way she bugs at Brian. The things she says to him -- no one else would ever be able to get away with saying them. And she's goofy over Gus. She and the other lady -- her mother -- carry him all over. Play with him. They are stuffing him with food. He eats up the attention, basking in their worship. He loves it. You can sure see that he's Brian's son!

Lindsay swims in the pool. I want to swim, too, but I leave Lindsay and Brian out there together, talking. I feel like an intruder. I AM an intruder -- the uninvited guest.

I stay in the kitchen as long as I can, but the ladies are cleaning up. Gus is getting drowsy. He's lying on the clean kitchen floor. He was playing with the little dog earlier, but the dog -- Armani -- I wonder if Brian named him! -- got tired of Gus pulling at him and scratched to go out to the pool area.

Finally, I'm yawning. I feel like I've been up for hours. My neck and back ache from anxiety. So I say goodnight to the ladies and then a quick goodnight to Lindsay and Brian before I escape into the dark poolhouse.

I flip on the light. Maria has made up my bed in a fold-out couch. It's a little lumpy, but not bad. I play around with the computer a bit. Brian's fingerprints are all over it. The programs he likes. The way he stores things and names folders. The websites he has bookmarked. A person's computer is as individual as his room -- and I'd know Brian's as easily as I'd know his living space, or what was in his pockets.

I take off my clothes and try to do some stretches they taught me in the hospital to relax myself and get rid of the tension. I work my hand around, too. Sometimes it cramps up. I have to remember to work it a little every day, so I don't lose mobility. I think of Brian, helping me with my exercises. Tossing the ball back and forth. Never getting impatient or losing his temper, even when I was ready to scream. Or actually screaming.

Sometimes, when you are mad at him, or frustrated with him, or you just want to give up on him, it's easy to forget how he can he. How caring. How gentle. How steady. When he wants to be. I often wonder what kind of a person he might have been if certain things had been different. If certain things had never happened to him. Damaged him. And then I wonder how I would be different if certain things hadn't happened to me, too. How WE would be different.

I turn off the lights and then pull back the sheet and get into the fold-out. The sheets feel cool. I prop myself up on the pillows. Although I'm exhausted my eyes keep snapping open. I'm thinking too much. Finally, I feel my lid begin to droop.

The door of the poolhouse opens. Brian wanders into the room, shutting the door behind him.

"I see you've found the computer."

"Yes. You've already got all the porn sites bookmarked. Thanks, that saves me a lot of time." I pull the sheet up around my chest a little coyly. "Is this where you used to make all your calls? I see the phone right there."

"It could be." He's still being a hard-ass.

"Deja vu all over again, huh?"

"Yes. It seems like you've been here before. Like you've already been in this room many, many times." He walks around and flicks some imaginary dust off the computer screen.

"And this is the sofa of a thousand jack-offs, huh? Who else did you call besides me? I don't see a handy list of 800 numbers taped to the phone."

"Now why would I pay $8 a minute when I could call you for free?"

"I don't know. Variety?"

"Sometimes variety can be highly over-rated."

"Now that doesn't sound like the Brian I used to know. For him, variety was everything. The only thing."

"Well, some things change."

"You know, you can have variety without necessarily having A variety."

"Now you are beginning to sound like Ben. Too philosophical for my own good." He pauses. "So -- how's Daphne?"

I burst out laughing. "'How's Daphne'? Brian -- what does that mean?"

"I'm just making conversation."

I push down the sheet. "I'm naked here, with my hand on my dick -- and you're making conversation about Daphne? You really HAVE changed, Brian! What's old Ron done? Did he take your balls to Hawaii with him?" See, I can play dirty, too.

But he doesn't take the bait.

"You think you have things all figured out, don't you?" He's almost whispering. "Sometimes things aren't as easy as you think they are. Or as simple as you'd like them to be."

"Why not? Why can't they be simple, Brian? Straight-forward? Why do things have to be so complicated?"

He doesn't answer. Maybe he can't answer.

"I'm tired. If you don't mind, maybe I should just go to sleep." I pull the sheet up around me and think about how this entire trip has not only been a waste of time, but might mean the end of everything.

Now I feel myself tearing up. Shit! I turn over on my side, facing away from him. The only light in the room is the glow of the computer screen, where little fish swim back and forth on the screensaver.

I hear Brian go to the door. That's it -- he's gone. But I hear him click the lock on the door.

I wait and don't turn around. I can hear him getting undressed. That's an unmistakable sound. He slides under the sheet on the bumpy fold-out and pushes up against my back.

He runs his hand up and down my right shoulder and down my arm, very slowly. I feel his bracelet raking against my skin, catching on the hairs on my arm. He doesn't do anything but this, but it makes me harder than if he had his hand directly on my cock.

He just keeps stroking my arm. He leans against my back, his mouth next to my ear, but he doesn't say anything. Just breathes heavily, like he used to do on the phone. That makes me even harder, thinking that now I'm here -- in that very room -- after all the minutes, hours, I spent thinking about him in one place -- this place -- and me in another -- the loft. And now that has all come together right here.

I feel something cold against my back. Something small, pressing. I know it's the little heart on the chain. I don't have to see it to know. I can feel it perfectly. He must have been wearing it under his shirt. But -- he didn't know I was coming to L.A. today. Didn't know he would be coming to this room and undressing and getting into bed with me.

Which means that he wears it. He must wear it all the time. It couldn't be a coincidence. Couldn't be. I squeeze my eyes shut as I feel myself cum in a rush. Without touching myself, without him touching me. Just by thinking. That hasn't happened in a long time. It's all over my stomach, the sheets. My same old trouble. I'll be doing the wash early tomorrow morning.

Brian rolls me over on my back and begins licking it up, lapping at me like a big cat. My dick is already beginning to rise again. But he avoids it, moving around everywhere but there. He works his way up to my chest. He sighs as he works around my left nipple. A long time. Too long! Stop, I want to say, but I can't speak. Then the right. Around the little ring, pulling at it, flipping it up and down with his tongue. He's fucking killing me here! I KNEW he would kill me -- I just didn't imagine this was the way he'd do it.

He trails his tongue, lingeringly, up my neck. He's prolonging each movement. He puts his hands on either side of me and rubs against me slowly as me licks my neck, my jaw. Two movements at once, but working together. His dick is brushing mine so lightly, it's like torture. Like someone tying you down and taking a feather to you. I want him to stop and not to stop. I'm afraid to yell. Afraid everyone -- Lindsay, the ladies -- will come running, thinking I'm having a nightmare or freaking out.

He reaches my mouth, but he licks around it. Begins kissing around my lips without actually kissing them. Kissing my eyelids. Forehead. Faintly. Softly. My cock is so hard again, already, as Brian's larger, longer dick, as always like a steel rod, presses against it. Intimidates it. Dominates it. Tries to melt into it.

I feel him reach around quietly. But he always moves so quietly, so smoothly, I hardly know what's happening. Hardly know he's slipping the rubber on and lashing it with something wet and slick. Where did he get it? Where did he have it stashed? It's always a mystery how he produces the stuff like a magician -- and then works the trick like a fucking wizard.

And he never stops the little kissing motions. Skimming. Caressing. He moves down to my mouth again and I feel him position me slightly, raise my hips up ever so slightly....

He plunges his tongue into my mouth and his cock into my ass at the same moment, catching my gasps into his own mouth and sending his back at me. My own dick is fucking exploding, but he is thrusting like a maniac, with both his tongue and his cock, moving them both together until I can't stop myself from yelling. I have to tear my mouth away from his in order to breathe. And when I breathe it's just gasping. Dizzy, reeling gasps.

And he keeps driving his dick into me. I try to move my legs into another position, but I can't control them. He wraps them around his waist and bends over me, pulling my ass up, driving deeper. Not stopping. Not. Stopping.

"Is this what you came for, Justin? All the way across the continent? Is this what you want? What you need?"

"Fuck yes!" Is all I can pant out.

"Okay," he whispers, pulling his cock out of me ever so slowly. He still hasn't cum. "Now, for some serious fucking."

Continue on to "Father's Day", the next chapter.

©Gaedhal, July 2002

Send Gaedhal any comments, critiques, suggestions.

Updated July 13, 2002