"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Chapter 71 in the "Queer Theories" series.

Go back to "Aperture", the previous chapter.

The narrator is Brian Kinney.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian feels an old itch.... London, July 2002.
Author's Note: This is for the Party Girls!
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've made certain that tonight I'm completely prepared.

I may be a little out of practice, but I'm not rusty. Not rusty in the least.

I wasn't sure if I should go with the black sleeveless vest with the snaps or the red silk tank. The first is easier to rip off quickly, while the second has that tactile advantage of feeling like the tip of a dick woven into fabric.

But I go for the black vest -- fuck subtlety tonight.

I'm also trying out the black leather pants they've made for me for 'Hammersmith.' I'm supposed to be 'breaking them in.' Right. Can't think of a better way to break them in.

Leather, when it gets hot and damp, starts to mold to your body. It has give, like your own skin. These pants are lined with a slippery blend fabric. I rip that right out. I want to feel the underside of the leather rubbing against my dick. The rise of the crotch is high up between my legs. The tailor wanted to fix that -- and I laughed at him.

My hair is a little longer than I like it, but I can't cut it because of the film. Why am I always getting stuck in these 1970's roles? I never thought that time period was my look, but apparently some think otherwise. My hair was even longer in 'The Olympian.' Not that bad, though -- the style actually goes better with the leather pants, I think. A more Jim Morrison/Lou Reed/Iggy Pop kind of thing. Maybe the 1970's WERE more sexual, more predatory. Before the diseases and the Right Wing put everyone in a fucking box. I guess I'll find out tonight if that old voodoo still works in this jaded age.

I try on a couple of the vintage belts the costumers gave me. Most are too cowboy for the right effect. But there's one that looks like bondage gear. That's the one. It's studded and kind of broken-looking, like it's seen a lot of use. I undo the top button of the leather pants to let them slide down a bit, then wrap the belt around, through the loops, to hold them up. Sort of. I want that falling-but-not-quite-off-yet look. That does it.

Now, here's a new twist on my usual routine. I haven't done this since Mikey and I had the band our senior year in high school. But it's not difficult. My hand is pretty steady drawing a line on my eyelids with the kohl. It's not quite black, but more a smoky dark green. Makes a good contrast with my eyes. Just a little along the underside of my eyes. Not a hard line. I smudge it with my little finger. Still too thick. I stroke it with a Q-tip until it's almost gone -- but the shadow of it is there. Then I smudge the top line, too. Yeah. That's the look. Total slut.

I'm better at this than I used to be. I always ended up looking like a raccoon. Too thick, too black. But we weren't going for a subtle effect back then. We were looking to shock. At least, I was looking to shock. Mikey was just going along with me for the ride.

The boots they found are great. Really retro. Snakeskin and trashy. Pointed toes with metal tips. Nasty looking. And the heels jack me up about another three inches. I feel like I'm a couple of feet off the ground already and I haven't even swallowed any Xanax.

I'm wearing my own black leather jacket. It's my old thrift-shop special, reanimated with a selection of pins and chains. It still has that odor of motor oil and gasoline clinging to it. And about a decade's worth of my sweat and fuck knows who's cum. Perfect.

I make sure the pocket of my jacket is well-stocked with my ritual gear. I slip a couple of packets of condoms into the pocket of the leather pants, too. Just in case.

I take the backstairs of the hotel. I don't exactly want to stroll through the lobby of the Chatterton in my outlaw/whore get-up. I walk down to the Tube and check for the right stop. I remember that this club is near the river, under another Underground station. I used to go there a lot when I was a student here. It was a prime hunting ground and it seems like it hasn't changed much. I should have no trouble finding it after being there last week. Maybe I'll even see that same fucking skinhead again. I'd like to get a chance to kick his ass this time. Or fuck it.

Yes. This is the place. Techno music. That's to be expected, although something more hardcore would fit my mood better. The guy at the door looks me up and down, a little startled. I'm not the usual denizen of this circle of hell. I smile at him slightly, showing my teeth. I have that one crooked fang on top -- like a vampire. I always used to try to hide it. But it makes sense to show it now. I flash the fang at him and he recoils. He lets me go right in.

As usual, all the flaming queens make a beeline for me. I have no interest in the limey versions of Emmett Honeycutt, but they have poppers -- which they push on me readily -- and they aren't bad to get me stoked up. They usually have talented hands and even better mouths -- but you have to put up with the rest of their shit, so it's usually not worth it.

I head for the bar. I don't even bother to take my money out. I just have to point at who I want to buy me a drink. I go for just a bottle of lager. I'm not here to get drunk.

But then I have to deal with the guy who bought the beer for me. This one isn't bad. He's got all his teeth and hair. Jeans and a tee-shirt that tells me he's an Arsenal supporter. That's a British football team and not a dick-holding device, by the way. We talk soccer for a minute. But I'm not really interested in a conversation. I'm just killing time until I see something I want.

He slips me a tab of E. Or X. Or whatever they call it here. I'm hoping the result is the same. I usually don't take something from someone I don't know -- but I don't know anyone here. It looks about right. What the fuck. I wash it down with the Foster's.

"You're so hot." He's tracking his finger along the front of my pants. I don't mind. In my head he's just a fluffer, anyway. He's just getting me primed for the main event. Of course, he doesn't know that. But he's getting off on touching me. That should be enough for him.

I move on, ungluing the guy's hand from my belt. "See you," I say. He actually thinks I'm coming back.

I hit the toilets to relieve a little of the pressure. I tower over most of these Brits, especially with the boots. They fucking stare at me like I'm an apparition. One guy literally drops the cock he's jerking and walks over to see if I'm real.

"Fuck me! Where did you come from?"

"From your wet dream," I say, pissing. He stares at my dick.

"I fuckin' believe you!" He reaches out and runs his hand across my ass, feeling the leather. It glistens like the skin of a wet horse.

"See you around." I put my cock away, slowly. I don't mind him and his friends getting a good look. They won't see anything better tonight, even if it is cut. Most limey dick is uncut, but disappointingly small. Thin and concave, like their pasty chests. You have to get up North, where the Viking influence is stronger, up in Yorkshire or Newcastle, to find the really nice, thick dicks. And Scotland, too. If you can get past the fucking red hair.

There's a buzz in the crowd now as I walk around. That's good. That's one benefit of not looking like a fucking clone. I'm not interested in their notions of style or cool. I'm looking to make an impact. To test out the attitude. Method acting? Maybe. And so far it's working.

"Aren't you... from that American band? Are you him?" I have no idea who this guy thinks I am, but why not? That's exactly what I'm going for. Exactly the intended effect.

"Yeah," I say. "You a fan?"


I check him out. Not interested.

"I didn't know you were gay! I didn't think you were."

"I'm not gay," I say, getting into this act. What would Hammersmith say? What would be his take? Yes, he'd go for it. "But I WILL fuck anything, so why not?"

"Why not?" he says, eagerly, pressing up against me. His friends stand back a little, waiting to see what transpires.

"But not you." I poke him with one finger. "Maybe... later. I'll let you suck me off after I've fucked somebody decent. All right?"

"Yes! All right!" It's fucking pitiful how excited he is.

And that's when I see something of interest.

On the dance floor. Shirt off and tied around his waist. Young. I like them young. I never used to, but I do now. Fair-haired. I like the way this one moves his ass. Yes, I'm a connoisseur of that now, too. That ass-maneuver. I can picture my dick inside all that movement.

"Excuse me, but I think I'll be going now," I say to my most recent groper. "I see something... promising."

I upend my bottle of lager. I can feel the E stirring up around inside. My mouth has that dry feeling, my teeth are vibrating.

The mark is dancing away, oblivious. He's running his hands up and down a guy with bleached white hair, cut close to his head. The guy has his arms around him, possessively. But not for long.

I don't bother to dance. I'm not here to dance.

I stride up to the twink and the guy in the middle of the dance floor. I catch the twink's eye. He's startled. The other guy tries to turn him away from me, but I reach out and touch the younger one's arm. It's electric. He twitches and stares at me.

I try to lean over to him, to give him the whisper. The line. But the other guy is getting in the way. Moving him around. Still turning him away from me. Trying to shift him off the dance floor and out of my reach. Hey, fella -- nothing is beyond MY reach.

I don't care for this. I need to separate this gazelle from the herd before I can bring him down. And he's worth bringing down. His face is shining with moisture. I can smell the juice in him. He hasn't cum yet tonight and he's ready to pop.

We do this little dance for a couple of minutes, both of us laying our claim to the twink. Now I'm getting impatient. I could probably move on to something else, but THIS is the one I want. This is the one I've marked. And I'm not leaving without having him.

Finally, I just step in. Let the twink make his choice. The other guy starts to bristle. But the younger one calms him. Murmurs something to him. He seems appeased -- for the moment. The kid turns away from me and towards the other guy.

Fuck THAT.

And then I touch him again. I bend down and breathe along his bare shoulders from behind, my hand on his waist. I run my lips across his neck. He leans back against me, eyes closed. The other guy tries to intervene, but I just tap him away.

I wrap my arm around the twink's neck and take him away with me.

I remember that place near the toilets. Dark. The obvious spot.

Now the twink's feeling my bare arms, squeezing the muscles there, and stroking up from my wrists to my shoulders. He's pulling open the snaps on my vest and pushing it back from my chest. He sees my heart charm and prods at it with his nose, surprised to see something so seemingly out of place on his rough stud.

"Lick it," I say. "Go ahead, bitch."

His pink tongue snakes out and touches the red enamel, hanging in the hollow of my chest. He continues licking his way down my belly. He buries his face in my navel, swirling that tongue gently, then poking it in deeply, thrusting his tongue in and out.

Now he can't wait to get my thick, studded belt undone. He follows the thin line of hair down from my navel with that pink, wet tongue as he opens my leather pants. The heady smell of the leather and my sweat and my dick makes him sway as he goes to his knees.

He's sucking on my cock like a fiend, pistoning it in and out of his plush lips like it's the last thing he'll ever do in his life. Using that tongue, that beautiful mouth. He's hot. He's trying to make me cum, trying with all his might. But I'm holding it. I'm waiting for something better.

Finally, he looks up at me, baffled. He knows how to suck and can't understand why I haven't shot. I draw him up and go for his mouth. Suck in his tongue. Feel him, caress him, my long fingers all over his chest, down his bare sides. I untie his shirt from around his waist and toss it away. Unzip his pants and ease them down to his knees.

"No. Not...." he tries to say. But I catch his mouth again and don't let it go.

While I'm kissing him I feel around for his ass. His cheeks are smooth, moist. Like I said, he's as juicy as a fresh piece of fruit. I dip into my leather jacket and squirt a little lube on my fingers, but it almost isn't necessary. The combination of our sweat and saliva is really enough, but I want this to go right. To facilitate the moment.

He tries to protest -- slightly -- when I turn him away from me. When I bend him over completely, so his head and hands are practically touching the ground. I rip open the package and have the rubber on my dick so fast he doesn't even know I've already done it.

"But... but...."

"No problem," I say, soothingly.

And then I'm up against him. Trailing my cock up the crack of his ass. Sliding into home like Hank fucking Aaron.

"Oh! My God!" He tries to lift his head, but it knocks against the wall slightly as I shove into him. He holds out his hand to steady himself, but I have him tightly in my grip. I'm driving as hard as I can, the leather of my pants slapping against his bare, pale ass. He's doubled over, the better for me to fill his hot little hole with my long cock. I've needed to do this for a while now. Needed this nasty, dirty release.

There's an audience now. One guy comes close, whether just to look or to join in, I don't know. But I push him away. I'm not sharing this moment. I'm not sharing this piece of ass with anyone.

"Fuck off," I say to the sightseers.

"Fuck ME!" wails the twink. "Ram me again! NOW!"

I pound his butt as hard as I can. Thrust him against the wall until he's gasping. He's holding his arms wrapped around his knees, trying to remain in position. But I'm not about to let him fall. Not about to let him move. Or get away.

I snake my hand around and seize his cock, giving it a rough, strong pull. Then another. He cums all over the wall, all over my hand, down his legs and pants. And I cum then, too. The roll of the orgasm shakes me and I let my dick ride it out, like at the end of a roller coaster. I wait for it to retreat slightly, then a bit more, before I pull out and toss the condom on the sticky floor.

I let the twink go and he slides to the ground, his pants still around his knees. I reach down and pull them up to cover his pale ass. He just lies there, panting and sighing.

I snap my vest closed, buckle up my studded belt, and walk away without looking back. I think about getting another beer, but the night is still young. There are a lot of other clubs around here and I haven't even considered Soho, yet.

So, I just go.

When I hit the air, I light a cigarette and wait outside the club. I'm sweating like mad and the cool summer night feels good on my bare arms. I dangle my leather jacket from my other hand. Not a bad evening, all in all. And it's really just beginning....

"That was SO fucking HOT!"

Justin has his shirt back on, but his face is flushed bright red.

"Here, put on my jacket. You're all overheated." I slip my leather jacket around his shoulders.

"That guy I was dancing with before came looking for me afterwards, but I ducked behind the bar. You took so long getting to me, I thought I'd have to jack him off right there on the dance floor!"

"I was building up the anticipation." I blow out a ring of smoke.

"For a minute there I thought you were going to grab someone ELSE and take him back by the johns!"

"Are you kidding?" I wrap my arm around Justin and pull him against me. "Don't I always go for the hottest guy in the place? I just like to take my time stalking him."

"Shit!" He breathes. "I mean, SHIT!" He shakes his head and laughs at the intensity of it.

"It WAS hot. YOU made it hot," I say.

"They couldn't take their eyes off YOU. You were like a Rock God come to life," he says. Then he reaches up to take my cigarette away. "Give me that thing!"

"Are you trying to save me from myself? Or just looking for a drag?"

"Both. Only one puff, okay?"

"Here." I hand him the cigarette. He takes a puff or two and then drops it on the ground and steps on it.

"I really like this." He reaches up and touches my face lightly, next to my smudged eye. "You look supernatural. A beautiful demon."

"Good look for the film, then?"

"I'll say! Poor Sir Ken will be so turned on by you that he'll be knocked over by his own hard-on. You have to be careful around him, Brian! He's an old man!"

He glides his arms around my neck and moves to my mouth, slipping that pink tongue into it. I like the taste of my dick coming back at me through him.

"Want to try another place?" I ask Justin. "There's a club up on Charing Cross that's supposed to be good. Or would you rather get something to eat now?"

"I'm hungry. Definitely the food." he says. "Then we'll see about the other. Maybe tonight. Maybe another night."

"You lead the way, twink," I whisper. "We've got all the time in the world."


"Ithyphallic" (ith-uh-FAL-ik) adjective

1. Of or relating to the phallus carried in procession in ancient Bacchic festivals.
2. Indecent or salacious.
3. Having an erect phallus.

[From Late Latin ithyphallicus, from Greek ithyphallikos, from ithyphallos, from ithys (straight) + phallos (phallus).]

"Luxor Temple is more comprehensible than the vaster ruins at Karnak. It was also dedicated to Amun - but to a different manifestation of the same god, associated with fertility and often shown in ithyphallic form." Ronald Wright, 'Images Of Egypt; Temples, Tombs and Entrepreneurs,' "The Washington Post," Jun 11, 1989.

Continue on to "A LIttle Less Conversation", the next chapter.

©Gaedhal, August 2002

Updated August 19, 2002