Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: none, although it might be useful to read "No Such Thing As Enough" before reading this.
Pairings: Brian/OMC
Category: Angst, Drama
Rating: NC-17...or perhaps less.
Date: November 17, 2003
Summary: Brian asks himself why Justin is different from all of the others.
Spoilers: None
Warnings: None
Author's Note: This began as a treatise then evolved into a fiction. Along the way, it prompted me to survey my porn collection for photos of "The Look" ...that unique facial expression that guys get when they are so involved in sexual pleasure they undergo an emotional and sensual shutdown. This led to the two galleries of photos that accompany this fiction. Also along-the-way it lost the two sex-scenes I had included because they were a distraction. (I saved them for later.) It was a round-about way to get to a story without any dialogue and without a pre-established plot. But for those who love Brian and Justin together, this fiction is meant to please. Don't miss the two galleries at the end.
But it hadn't always been that way. Growing up unable to please anyone in my family took its toll. I gave-up trying. And I defiantly tried not to please anyone. A rebellious youth giving the World the finger.
But then I saw the looks on their faces. The look was one of seduction turned to servitude. Anticipation turned to realization. Desire turned to awe. Lust turned to rapture. They were getting what they wanted… or even more than they knew they wanted. And I used it against them. What better way to fuck the World than to show them the limits of their abilities to comprehend what was happening to them?…and then to deny them the chance to experience it a second time. Sex turned into lust. Desire turned into unrequited, unsatisfied compulsion. I could do it. I could take them to the edge and drop them over the cliff. Tidy. Final. "Always leave them wanting more," the famous actor had said. My reputation began to grow from the moment of that realization. I could still find the physical satisfaction, but it was amplified by the emotional satisfaction of showing them the limits of their dreams and then denying them a second chance to experience them. They would remember my face as part of the desperate compulsion to re-live that moment.
But I, too, became addicted… addicted to "the look"… the realization that I could bring such overwhelming pleasure to a man that he was reduced to his primitive cravings. It was a feeling of power and satisfaction. But it had its risks, too. What if the performance wasn't enough? Everyone has a bad night. It was certainly another good excuse for the "One-Time-Only" rule. I would be my own worst competition. Could a second time be even better than the first? It was better to leave them wanting more without the necessity of trying to provide it. I was, perhaps, my own worst competition. My broadening word-of-mouth reputation led to heightened expectations, even on the first time. Could I live up to these expectations? Evidently anticipation was a good spur to arousal, because few guys went away unsatisfied. However, I judged my success, not by what they said, but by how they looked at that most vulnerable moment. Very few could put together a coherent sentence afterwards anyway, so their "look" was the measure of my success.
But Justin had had no expectations… just curiosity. He did not know the exaggerated stories. To him, I wasn't a ride at the amusement park reputed to stand your hair on end or to make you weak in the knees. He was a novice. A virgin. I had no reputation to maintain and no expectations to meet. But I gave him all I had anyway.
..............
The sound of dishes in the sink echoed through the almost empty loft and brought me out of my reflections. The sound system had been sold for ready-cash, so I could hear him humming an unidentifiable rock song punctuated by grunted percussion. A year of bussing tables at the diner had certainly had a positive affect on Justin. Before, he could have dirtied every dish in the loft and not even bothered to stack them in the sink; but now he was a neatness-freak, unsatisfied until the table was cleared and the dishes were washed and put away. Well, the table was gone, too. We ate our meals on the floor now, picnic-style. He circled back and forth carrying the dishes to the sink and giving me a little smile each time our eyes met over the wide-spread classified employment ads littering the desk. His smile belied the concern in his eyes. It had been a month since I was fired. Most of the furniture had been repossessed or sold. The checking account was empty. And the credit card debt was bumping the upper limit. Getting new cards was the only option, and it wouldn't last for long.
When he finished, he wiped his wet hands on his tee-shirt. No towels, since I terminated the cleaning service. Things were slowly starting to unravel and come-apart.
He settled onto the futon mattress with his drawing pad in one hand and his Staedler pen in the other. No television. No music. There was little else to do but some recreational drawing. A few furtive glances and he began. I could hear the scratch of the pen in the vast silence. I love to watch him work. The lowered brows… the narrowed eyes, as if he were studying intently… the clenched jaw that made it appear to be hard work… the wrinkled nose when he didn't like the last line laid down on the paper.
His glances in my direction let me know he was drawing me, even though, by now, he had a portfolio full of pictures of me. "A cheap model…but an interesting face," he had said once when I had complained that I had not wanted to sit still for the duration. "So…you'll have to do." I lowered the Post-Gazette a few inches and turned my face a few degrees to see if he would complain, but he didn't. When I realized I wasn't reading the paper any more, I let it fall to the desk. I watched him draw.
Yes, it was the look on his face that had attracted me. But not this intense, serious expression. The youthful enthusiasm was still there… the sparkle in his eyes, especially when he looked directly at me… the continuing curiosity that looked into me instead of at me. I had known he was different from the others that first night, even though I wouldn't admit it to myself. The intensity, the enthusiasm, the sparkle, and the curiosity had been there as I readied him for our first sexual encounter. He had wanted it even before we met. He had come to Liberty Avenue seeking it. He had insisted that we return to the loft after the trip to the hospital. He had chosen me to do it, as much as I had chosen him. But I had thought he was like all the others.
At that moment… the moment when all others retreated into their own solitary world of sensation… he was still with me… eyes closed a little, but still focusing on my face…lips saying my name soundlessly…fingers touching me trying to please me. Instead of focusing on his own pleasure, he was still trying to increase my own. Instead of fading away, he became more intense. Instead of lying-back unresponsive, he because more focused. We were together in the experience. He was fighting the overwhelming sensations …to be there…for me. Only when I upped the ante, to show him things he'd never dreamed of, did he find the rapture and embrace it. And he apologized for that later. Even when his eyes finally closed, his hands reached out for me…not for support, but to reassure me… soft fingers on my shoulder, a harder clutching at my triceps.
He was smiling now… the slightest hint of a smile before his lips open and the radiance begins. Somehow he was pleased with himself, as if he were sharing my memories. The pen moved more rapidly shading and stippling his drawing. Would he show it to me?
………………..
The second time, I expected him to be like the others. He knew what to expect. We had fucked three times that first night;
By the third time, I didn't know what to expect, but the pressure seemed off. There was no need to perform. There were no expectations other than the joining of our pleasures. He was open to anything I wanted to do, yet he didn't demand more. Instead of a performance, it was a sharing. And slowly, without realizing it, I began to slip into a new pattern. Sure, I still felt the need to "perform" sometimes…with him or with others. But the comfort was there with him. I didn't need to feel the power; the power was there for both of us. I didn't need to compete; no one was collecting tickets or keeping score.
The look on his face never lost its glow, no matter how many nights we spent together. His eyes remained open and focused on me until the end. He smiled when he sensed my pleasure. He showed his enjoyment by every means available. He even began to take-over sometimes… to initiate… to experiment… to improve his technique. At first it felt like a pay-back… but the look on his face showed me he was enjoying it, too.
…………….
The pen-scratching had stopped. The silence brought me back to reality. He was watching me as I returned from my reveries. He smiled… the big, gorgeous smile that brightened the dark room. And he turned the pad to show me his drawing.
I had been correct. It was a picture of me, but not in the pose I had assumed. Instead, it showed my face and bare chest (the musculature slightly better than reality) from a three-quarters side view…head back, lips open, eyes staring upwards, with the same expression I remembered on his own face…the look of pleasure and arousal. He smiled as if to say "This is how I remember you best… not as a looming presence, not as an erotic demi-god, …but as a sensitive, susceptible human being. Vulnerable like I."
I arose from the desk as if I needed a closer look. But, in fact, I wanted to touch him at that moment…to acknowledge that I, too, could now recognize my vulnerability and not feel embarrassed to show it. The pupil had taught the Master the lesson. And I loved him for it.
"I look like I'm dying," I said, reaching for the drawing pad. He rearranged his body to conform to mine.
"Dead to all the things that can hurt you…maybe," he murmured. "I haven't seen this look for a long time…and I miss it. Not since…" He paused, trying to remember.
I rolled over to face him, tossing the drawing onto the floor nearby. "It has been awhile," I said, nodding. "And yet you're still here."
"Do you think that's why I stayed? Or because I liked Stark and Corbusier? Or because you're such a talented ad-man? You still don't get it, do you?" He put his palm to my cheek as if he were guiding my eyes to his. "It's not any of that."
"That's all gone…and you're still here. I know. I just…"
"It's who you are without all that stuff. That's what attracted me in the first place… that made me keep coming around… that made leaving so hard… that helped me hang-in-there when everything was falling apart. You think there's nothing left, when everything that's important is still here." He poked his finger into the center of my chest. "For someone so old, you have a lot of growing-up to do." His eyes flashed at the "so-old" part.
I lowered my chin and set my jaw. You don't remind a man about his age when his whole career has evaporated before his eyes.
"Oh, don't give me that disapproving look." He lay back upon the futon, staring at the darkened ceiling. "You know I'm right, but you just hate hearing it from me. I came to you with nothing but myself. That's all I had to give. And you gave me so much…except for that one thing I wanted. But now, with everything else gone, that's all you have to give. And you give it to me every day, whether you acknowledge it or not." His face took on that peaceful look… as if he'd said something he'd been meaning to say all along.
I opened my mouth to speak without knowing what to say, but he interrupted, quietly, speaking in the soft, after-sex voice. "It's not even your love, anymore, although that's there, too. It's yourself. That's what I wanted all-along. I thought I wanted the words, but now I don't need them." He closed his eyes as if to hold back the tears.
"We can start again," I said bringing my forearm over his chest and pulling him closer. "Two guys under a streetlight on Liberty Avenue… meeting for the first time… with no baggage… no expectations. Just two men of equal need and equal poverty… looking for someone."
He smiled as I rolled atop him as I had that first night…unbuttoning his shirt and slipping out of my own.
"Be gentle," he said with a smile. "Just go slow."
"I have all the time it'll take," I said. His smile faded into "The Look" as we repeated the slow penetration of that first night. A new beginning… for us.
Gallery Two