Date: Fri, 25 Mar 2011 15:40:41 -0700 (PDT)
From: MJ L <mjl4716@yahoo.com>
Subject: Frat House Troopers

This is my fourth story for Nifty. My previous stories are linked from my blog
(http://xaviermayne.wordpress.com). It's long, but it's totally worth it, I
promise--especially if you like plot and romance with your porn. I do.

This story involves acts of both sex and romance between consenting adult
males, so if that's not allowed where you live then you should march in the
streets. I'm releasing this story under Creative Commons by-sa-nc license,
which means you can do pretty much whatever you want with it, as long as
you give me credit and don't use it for commercial purposes of any kind.

Frat House Troopers
    by Xavier Mayne


** 1 **

      "You want me to what, now?" he asked, convinced he had heard
incorrectly.

      "You are to infiltrate, gather information, and convey the results to
the Attorney General's office. I don't see what's so difficult to grasp. We
do this all the time."

      "I didn't expect when I joined the State Police that I would be asked
to--"

      "To what? Do your job? We serve as the investigative force for the
AG's office.  Sometimes that involves going undercover. That's all I'm
asking you to do."

      The trooper was silent for a moment.

      "This isn't like pretending to be a drag racer to stop sideshows or
something. What you're asking me to do is--"

      "I'm asking you to take on this assignment, which was handed to me by
the AG himself. You are the only one who can do this."

      Officer Brandt looked up, met the Chief's eyes.

      "Why? Why am I the only one?"

      The Chief sighed, and sat on the front edge of his desk.

      "I would think that's pretty obvious," he said, in a more
conciliatory tone than he had used before.

      "No, it's not obvious to me. I wish you would explain."

      The Chief looked at the ceiling, clearly wishing that something would
fall from the heavens and smite him so that he could avoid having this
conversation.

      "Look. You're the youngest guy on the force. You sped through
college, and the academy, and you're on the force at 24. That means you are
the closest in age to the targets of the investigation."

      "But, sir, you said that the men who work there aren't the
target. You said that the AG is going after the person who owns the place,
and whoever is funding him."

      The Chief's eyes rolled--again--as he drew a deep breath.

      "What I meant was that you are the closest in age and appearance to
the ones who work in the house. If we're going to get good intel on what's
going on in there, we need someone working there. And the only way we get
that is to send someone who looks like he could work there. And that's
you."

      Officer Brandt was stunned.

      "Wait, this is about how I look?"

      "Undercover work requires a physically appropriate operative. This is
basic, Brandt! I wouldn't send Ramirez to infiltrate an Asian gang, would
I? You look like the men who work there, that's all. You remember when they
nailed that Senator, the one from, what, Iowa?"

      "Do you mean Larry Craig, from Idaho?"

      "Right, that one. Now, when they wanted to stop men's rooms from
turning into pick-up joints, they didn't send some fat slob in there,
right? They sent someone who could get the right kind of attention."

      Brandt was silent. His role in this investigation had not been clear
to him when he entered the Chief's office; unfortunately, clarity made
things worse. He had drawn this assignment because someone--the Chief? he
shuddered inside--thought he looked the part.

      The Chief continued, hoping to bring this conversation to a close
before more awkward words were spoken.

      "One of the AG's close friends and campaign donors is a contractor
who works in the area where the house is located. His guys got a call to
help with a renovation at the house, and they told him some of the stuff
going on there. What we want you to do is pose as a carpenter, and see if
you can't get them interested in hiring you."

      "And how do I do that?"

      "You look the part, you act interested, and you say yes to whatever
they propose you do. It's that simple."

      Brandt sighed. It was anything but simple.

      "You'll keep working with Donnelly on this--you'll report progress to
him, and he'll get you whatever you need to make it work on the inside."

      Brandt closed his eyes, sighed. Donnelly was his partner, and having
him involved in this investigation would normally have been a good
thing. But what he was being asked to do--he would rather Donnelly not know
about it at all.

      "You're the finest we have, Brandt. Now go make us proud."

      "Yes, sir," Brandt managed to utter, as he stood and backed out of
the Chief's office.

** 2 **

      "So, what does that involve, exactly?" Donnelly asked, lifting his
second beer to his lips.

      "How the fuck should I know? It's not like I've ever looked at one of
these things." Brandt drained his second beer, started looking for the
third. The tavern was quiet, as one would expect on a Tuesday
evening. Brandt and Donnelly had their entire half of the bar to
themselves.

      "Well, all they told me was that I'd be coordinating your support
while you're on the inside, and I get the concept of that, but I don't
really know what it's going to involve.  I was kinda hoping you had more
info."

      Brandt scoffed.

      "Nope, they haven't given me much except a passcode to use so that we
can get on the site and take a look--see what it's all about. I'd rather
have a root canal than punch up that website, I can tell you." His third
beer arrived, much to his relief.

      "Well, ya gotta look sometime. It's Tuesday, and Thursday is your
... insertion."  Donnelly failed to control his giggling at this word, and
Brandt's boot in his shin let him know he should have tried harder.

      "Okay, funny guy, finish your beer and we'll go look. You and me. And
no hiding your eyes at the gory parts, like you always do with those stupid
Saw movies."

      Donnelly wasn't laughing anymore.

      Back at his apartment, Brandt poured two large shots of Jaeger from
the freezer and handed one to Donnelly, who was seated in front of the
computer. Brandt sat next to him and took a big draw off the Jaeger, then
began typing the web address into his browser. The screen filled with a
banner announcing "Str8 Frat Dudes!"

      Brandt took a deep breath as a photo collage of muscular young men in
various states of undress filled in behind the banner. Donnelly looked at
Brandt, his face queasy.  They tipped their glasses up and swallowed the
last of the burning liquid.

      "Well, you gonna click Enter?" Donnelly finally asked.

      "You do it," Brandt replied. "I don't think I can handle what I've
seen already."

      Donnelly took control of the mouse and clicked the button.

      "Okay, it says to enter your ID and passcode."

      Brandt handed over the slip of paper the Chief had handed him earlier
in the day.  Donnelly typed.

      "Okay, we're in." He looked at Brandt. "So to speak."

      Both men stared at the screen, gaping. Where the photography on the
opening screen had left something to the imagination--if you were inclined
to imagine what a football player might look like should his tight pants
come unlaced, for example, or what would happen should an impossibly
beautiful young man should pull the shorts off of another impossibly
beautiful young man during horseplay on the beach--now there was no
imagination required. The goods were on display, in all their glory.

      "Holy fucking shit, man," whispered Donnelly, trying to find a safe
place to look.  There wasn't one.

      "My life is over," mumbled Brandt. "How am I supposed to do this?
Going undercover there means doing, well -- that." He pointed at the
screen, at all of the naked flesh there displayed, at all of the smiling
faces of men who clearly enjoyed displaying it.

      "At least you can see now why the Chief chose you for the job,"
Donnelly offered, as if this were good news.

      Brandt turned on his friend and partner.

      "What the fuck does that mean?" he spat.

      "Hey, chill! I just meant that of all the guys we work with, you," he
pointed at Brandt, "Are the closest thing to that," he pointed at the
screen.

      "If you are telling me that I look like some male whore who sells
himself on a fucking website, I'm going to offer you some free dental work,
courtesy of the curb out front."

      "That's not what I meant. It's just that you are pretty much their
age--"

      "I'm 24. That's two years younger than you, old man."

      "Yeah, but you look younger. And look at these guys -- you are in as
good shape as they are. Whoa -- except that one. Holy shit look at those
abs!"

      "Should I leave you alone so that you can beat it looking at all of
the pretty boys?"

      "Shut up. I'm just saying that you are a good fit for this
cover. That's all. So, is this a standard prostitution sting? Go after the
johns?"

      "No. That's what's weird. They want me to get accounting records, of
all things.  They're going to try to shut them down on Revenue Code
164.32."

      "Sorry, my Revenue is a bit rusty. Let's see, 164, that's consumer
taxation, and the 30s are all about retail goods..."

      "And services. Apparently the AG is going to charge them with not
paying taxes on personal services rendered."

      Donnelly frowned, trying to figure this angle.

      "Why not just go for prostitution?" he mused. "Seems like that's an
easier one to make stick."

      "Because they aren't prostitutes--they perform in videos. The closest
thing to prostitution is the live shows they do. But there's no touching or
anything--the clients who pay to see the shows can be in other states or
countries. It would be hard to make prostitution stick."

      "So, if they hire you on, you're going to be doing ... what? What do
they do on video that people will pay money to see?"

      "Well, let's hit the Videos button and find out."

** 3 **

      An hour later, the two troopers sat before the computer,
slack-jawed. An empty bottle of Jaegermeister lay on its side on the floor.

      "Oh. Fuck."

      This was all Brandt could think of to say. What they had just seen,
what he and Donnelly had just subjected themselves to, well, he had no
words for.

      "Why would anyone want to watch that?" he finally asked, slurring a
bit. The bottle of Jaeger had been nearly full.

      "Well, imagine if that young man--Trent, was it? Imagine if Trent,
instead of being a football player who liked jacking off after a long, hot
shower," Donnelly paused to shudder, "Were instead a cheerleader who liked
massaging her breasts and playing with a vibrator after a long, hot
shower. Would that change things for you?"

      Brandt slugged Donnelly on the shoulder.

      "Of course it would change things, dipshit! But that's a whole
different deal. A hot chick doing that is a .. a work of art. A dude?
Sick."

      "To you, sure. But to someone who's into guys, well..."

      Brandt squinted at his partner.

      "Something you need to tell me, buddy?"

      "Fuck off. I'm just saying that there are people in the world who
like to look at guys they way we like to look at chicks. Different strokes,
man."

      "Heh. That Trent guy had some different strokes all right. That thing
he did with his other hand--what the hell was that? How could that possibly
feel good?"

      Donnelly looked queasy again. "I have to say I wasn't watching that
closely. After that long, slow, camera pan down his back to his ass I kind
of had to look away. I don't need to be looking in super close-up at some
guy's pucker."

      "Great. Some partner you turned out to be."

      "Sorry. I promise that when you're doing it I'll watch every second."

      "The hell you will. I don't want anyone watching anything. What if my
family finds out I'm doing this?"

      "What, do you think your dad has a subscription to Str8 Frat Dudes?"

      Brandt glowered at Donnelly. "My point is, this could fuck up my
future life pretty bad. Once this shit gets out on the Internet, there's no
getting it back. The Chief says that they would enjoin them from using any
clips that I appear in once the charges are filed, but I don't see how that
does any good."

      Donnelly looked at his partner seriously. "This is what you signed on
for, you know. Sometimes you gotta work ugly in order to do good."

      Brandt laughed ironically. "Ugly I could do. This, I'm not so sure
about."

      "So, what's your back story?"

      "I'm supposed to go in as a carpenter on the crew that's working on a
bathroom project in the house. My story is that I'm working my way through
college, but the pay I get as a carpenter isn't cutting it. I chat up the
guys who work in the house, see if they will put a word in for me, or get
me an audition or something. That's all there is."

      "Okay, that's pretty straightforward. Let me know if there's anything
you need."

      "What I will need is a dignity transplant once this is over."

      "Come on, it won't be that bad. Most guys jack off every day for
free--you're going to get paid for doing it. How awesome is that?"

      "Have I told you lately that your upbeat personality is the reason
everyone hates you?"

      "No, but thanks."

      "You're welcome, asshole. Now get the hell out of here so I can
contemplate my fate in peace. And come back tomorrow so you can help me get
ready."

      "Ooh, are we going to shave your chest?"

      "Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you."

      "Geez, so touchy!"

      The next morning Donnelly returned, only slightly the worse for his
Jaeger- induced hangover.

      "So, what's first?" he asked. He had been thinking over breakfast
this morning just how much his partner was sacrificing to take on this
assignment, and he was determined to be helpful if he could.

      "We're going in for a mission briefing. That's supposed to take most
of the morning. Then we have to make me look like a carpenter."

      The briefing was with one of the more junior Assistant District
Attorneys and with the Chief. Brandt had some questions.

      "So, I need to know why we're doing this," he stated when the meeting
began.  Donnelly was a bit surprised by this direct approach, but Brandt
already had the standing in the agency to pull it off.

      The Chief cleared his throat, and exchanged a significant look with
the ADA. The attorney took the hint.

      "What the Attorney General is interested in is protecting the public
from Internet- based obscenity."

      "I thought I was assigned to gather information about tax evasion."

      "Well, yes, but the bottom line is that these sleazy Internet
operations are--"

      Brandt turned to the Chief.

      "Which is it? Is this tax or some kind of morals thing?"

      "It's tax. What we've been told to deliver is information about
Revenue 164.32."

      Brandt turned back to the ADA.

      "Are you intending to prosecute the men who work in the house?"

      He was taken aback at the question.

      "Who cares about them? If we're successful with the tax prosecution,
they're all out of a job. And good riddance, right?"

      "But they're not going to be charged with anything."

      The ADA leaned in close across the table.

      "I don't give a fuck what happens to them. You just get the house
shut down and the little fags can scurry off into the dark. I don't care."

      Donnelly stood and excused himself from the room.

      Brandt turned back to the Chief.

      "I need to know whether the men in the house are going to be
charged. If they aren't, then I can get information from them without
worrying about entrapment. If they are suspects, it complicates things to
the point that I don't think this will work."

      "Officer Brandt, I've told you. It's tax, and tax only." He glared at
the ADA, harshly enough that the attorney sat back and was silent. Finally,
he nodded.

      "Good," Brandt said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to prepare."

      Brandt found Donnelly back at the cubicle they shared.

      "Well, that guy was sure an asshole," Donnelly said in greeting.

      "Oh hell yeah. But I got everyone to agree that this is about tax and
nothing else, and so we're good to go. Now, I guess I need something to
wear. I'm supposed to look like a carpenter, but, well--you know ..."

      "What?" Donnelly asked, clueless.

      "You know, like, sexy or something."

      Donnelly puzzled over this for a moment. "Have you ever met a
carpenter? I don't think sexy is part of the job."

      "Of course not, you doofus. But it needs to be for this to work. My
mom got a birthday card once with a picture of a guy in a toolbelt on
it. We need to do something like that."

      "Why would they put a guy in a toolbelt on a birthday card?"

      "Duh. That's all he was wearing. It was supposed to be some joke
about hardware or whatever. You know, hard-ware?"

      "So, we need to get you a toolbelt, and then you'll go in just
wearing that? That seems kind of weird."

      Brandt sighed and rubbed his brow.

      "You are a fucking idiot, you know that?"

      "Sorry. I'm just trying to get this."

      "Yeah, me too. We have to do is go buy some clothes that will give
the guys in the house the idea that I might want to work there."

      "Got it. Let's roll."

      Donnelly drove to a shopping district downtown where several clothing
stores sat among cafes and antique shops.

      "Hey, aren't we going to the mall or something? What are we doing
downtown?"

      "If you needed regular clothes for work, that'd be fine. But you need
to get tarted up, so this is your spot."

      Brandt looked at him skeptically.

      "And how do you know where to find sexy carpenter clothes?"

      "Did I ever tell you about my brother?" Donnelly asked as he parked
the car in front of a combination laundromat and sushi bar.

      "Just that he was in the Army, and he didn't come home from
Afghanistan."

      "Yeah. He was killed by a roadside bomb almost five years ago."
Donnelly sighed, a breath of old sadness. "Anyway, this used to be his
favorite place to shop."

      Brandt looked around at the stores.

      "Seriously? I can't see much here that an Army guy would want to shop
for. I mean, antiques? And this bar here is called Parasols, and everyone's
sipping fruity drinks with paper umbrellas in them. And that place," he
pointed across the way to a bar called Harley's, "Everyone's wearing
leather, but no there are no motorcycles parked outside.  And doesn't it
seem strange to you that there are just about no women here, anywhere?"

      Donnelly sighed, exasperated.

      "Well, duh, Sherlock. This is the gay district. You didn't know
that?"

      Brandt stopped in his tracks.

      "The what now?"

      "The gay district. I thought everyone knew about Alta Avenue."

      "But your brother--"

      "Queer as a three dollar bill."

      "But he was in the Army..."

      "Yep, and died serving the country that wouldn't let him get
married. Awesome, right?"

      Brandt was quiet for a moment. "Well, when you put it that way, it
kind of sucks."

      "Yeah, it does. Now let's get you some sexy carpenter clothes."

      They made their way to Camp & Dragg, specialists in "Clothes for the
Working Man." Or, rather, men who like the look of the working man. They
entered, and stood for a moment, stunned by the broad array of functional
yet stylish denim, the plaid in many unconventional color combinations, the
fabulous array of steel-toed boots. The table directly in front of them
offered several styles of toolbelt, including one that could hold both a
Fleshlight and a range of dildos.

      "Uh, Donnelly, I don't think this is--"

      "Ooooh! How can I service you two today?" called the salesman, as he
dropped the bandannas he was folding and made his way swiftly to the
troopers' side. He looked them up and down, quickly appraising. "What are
we looking for, gents?"

      Brandt blushed furiously and was silent. Donnelly would have to carry
the conversation.

      "My friend here," he pointed to Brandt, "Needs to something that says
'I am a carpenter.' But in a, you know, sexy way."

      "Donnelly, shut--"

      "Oh, for your friend," cooed the salesman, turning to Brandt. "I
see. Come this way, and I shall reveal to you what you seek." He hurried
away.

      Donnelly socked Brandt on the arm, and hissed, "Be nice! He's helping
us."

      "Did you have to say the 'sexy' part? I don't want him to get the
wrong idea."

      Donnelly glared back. "You are trying to trick your way into a
sex-cam job. What exactly would be the wrong idea about that?"

      Brandt growled under his breath and followed Donnelly through the
store.

      "What I'm thinking, gentlemen, is this," the salesman announced,
holding up a pair of shredded jeans, "With this," a muscle shirt sporting
the logo for a company called 'ACME Erections" across the front, "And
this," a toolbelt in rough leather with a lube bottle hanging from a
carabiner.

      "Oh my fucking god," whispered Brandt.

      "Too much?" pouted the salesman, clearly disappointed to have
overshot the mark.

      "Okay, um, Bryce?" Donnelly began, looking at the brushed-nickel
nameplate.  "So here's the deal, Bryce. See, my partner here," and he
immediately regretted using that word, "Needs to look like a carpenter, but
he also needs to, um, attract attention. If you know what I mean." He
looked significantly at Bryce, hoping his meaning was clear.

      It was.

      "So, you're going to a costume party! Hoping to swing your hammer at
some nice wood?" Wink wink.

      Brandt rolled his eyes. This was worse than he ever imagined.

      "No, no, it's not like that," explained Donnelly. "You see," he
beckoned for Bryce to come closer. "We're straight."

      "Oh, I'm so sorry," tutted Bryce.

      "Yeah, well, thanks." Donnelly drew a confused breath. "Anyway, my
buddy here is trying to get a job as a model."

      "Uh huh. I see," said Bryce, looking Brandt up and down, clearly
picturing him modeling something like jockstraps or sunscreen.

      "And to get the audition, he's going to pose as a carpenter. But he
needs to look kind of sexy, so that they notice him."

      "Well, I think they're going to notice him no matter what, because,
well, damn."  Bryce's tongue darted to the corners of his mouth. He leaned
closer to Donnelly. "Your straight friend is hot."

      "We're both straight, remember?"

      "Oh, right." Bryce winked at Donnelly. "But the people he wants to
model for are gay, right?"

      "Well, not exactly. The ones who need to notice him are straight, or
at least that's what they say on the website."

      Bryce considered this new information.

      "So, let's review, shall we? Your straight friend needs to dress like
a sexy carpenter to seduce other straight guys?"

      Well, that sounded stupid. Donnelly was going over it in his head,
trying to figure out where he had gone astray, when Brandt finally spoke
up.

      "I just need to look masculine, sexy, and like I'd be willing to take
it all off for the right price," he quietly explained.

      "Oh! Why didn't you just say that at the beginning! I have just the
thing. Now, you two go to the dressing room and I'll be right in. You're a,
let's see," Bryce closed one eye and cocked his head at Brandt. "A 30
waist, 32 inseam, and 42 chest, am I right?"

      Brandt nodded.

      "And a cock that's at least 5 inches soft," Bryce murmured to himself
as he tore off down the aisle.

      Brandt and Donnelly found their way to the large dressing room, into
which Bryce bustled a moment later with a pile of clothes over his arm.

      "Here. This, this, and this," he ordered. This was his domain, and he
was clearly in charge. He tossed jeans, two shirts, and a toolbelt over to
Brandt. And then he stood to watch the results.

      Brandt waited a moment for him to withdraw, but as he wasn't budging,
and as Brandt didn't know the etiquette of the gay dressing room, he
decided to go ahead. He took off his shirt, and noticed Bryce's sharp
intake of breath as his torso was revealed. He then unbuttoned his jeans,
and pulled them off.

      "Wait! Stop!" shouted Bryce. "Those are all wrong!" He was pointing
at Brandt's underwear, which proclaimed themselves to be of a middle-range
department store brand.  "If you want your message to get across, your
panties need to send it. Those say, 'I want to do your taxes.' I'll be back
in a jif with the right ones."

      He dashed off, leaving Brandt in just his frumpy underwear and
Donnelly trying to keep from giggling.

      "So, Bryce doesn't like my underwear. Damn, I was so hoping to make a
good impression."

      "Hey, leave it to the expert. He clearly is the Underwear Whisperer."

      Bryce returned with a shiny package of underwear, which he handed
chivalrously to Brandt.

      "Ginch Gonch? What the hell kind of name is that?"

      "It's a name that the boys you are trying to impress will be familiar
with," Bryce patiently explained. He rolled his eyes. Straight boys.

      Brandt just stared at the brightly colored low-rise brief.

      "Honey, you have to put them on in order for them to work their
magic."

      Brandt looked at Donnelly, who in turn looked plaintively at Bryce.

      "Oh, of course. I totally respect your modesty." Bryce turned
around. With the mirrors in the dressing room, he would still be able to
see Brandt's lovely body from four different angles. He was not
disappointed.

      Brandt lowered his tacky drawers and slipped into the ridiculously
flamboyant briefs. Bryce tried hard to catch his breath--Brandt's package
had turned out to be even more toothsome than he had dared hope. And that
ass!

      "All right, now the rest of it!"

      Brandt pulled on the Diesel jeans, which were strategically worn so
as to reveal flesh in several intimate areas, and then the extremely tight
white undershirt, followed by the artfully frayed plaid workshirt.

      "The belt! The belt!" urged Bryce, somewhat breathlessly.

      Brandt fastened the toolbelt around his waist, prompting Bryce to
rush forward to loosen it so that it rested low on one hip.

      "There. Perfect." Bryce stepped aside so that Brandt and Donnelly
could admire his work in the mirror. Bryce stepped quickly around behind
Brandt, grabbed his jeans by the low-slung hips, and pulled them even lower
so that the Ginch Gonch waistband was clearly visible. "Now even
perfecter," Bryce announced.

      Brandt and Donnelly stared into the mirror.

      "Dude, you look ..."

      "Yeah, I guess I do," finished Brandt.

      Donnelly turned to Bryce. "We'll take it all."

      "I knew you would--I mean, what choice do you have? You're going to
have men falling at your feet, big boy, even the straight ones." Bryce
hustled out to ring up the sale.

      Later, back at Brandt's apartment, the two troopers sat drinking beer
and staring at the carpenter's outfit that was laid out on the couch.

      "Do you think this is really going to work?" Brandt asked, concerned
for the first time in his short law enforcement career that he was not up
to the task that had been asked of him.

      "That, my friend, depends on you," answered Donnelly. "And you've
always gotten done what needs doing, so you're golden."

      "I appreciate the confidence. I wish I shared it."

      "You're going to be fine. And I'll be a text message away if you need
me."

      "Thanks, man. That means a lot to me."

      They finished their beers.

      "Well, I better hit the hay. The crew is supposed to show up at the
house at 7 tomorrow morning."

      "Ah, the life of a humble carpenter. An honest day's work."

      "Followed by a dishonest night's work, if I'm lucky."

      "Heh. I'll see you in the morning, then. I'll give you a lift to the
contractor's office."

      At 6:30 the next morning Donnelly deposited Brandt at the
contractor's shop, a huge nondescript shed on the outskirts of the city. As
the car rolled to a stop, Donnelly reached into the back seat and then
handed Brandt a paper sack.

      "Here. I made you lunch."

      Brandt took the bag, looked at Donnelly.

      "You made me lunch?"

      "Yeah. I just thought of you in your little carpenter's outfit among
all those hairy he-men, and I wanted to do something nice for you."

      Brandt was silent. He nodded.

      "Now go get 'em, sexy!" called Donnelly as Brandt got out of the
car. The unusual fit of the jeans, which were loose where he didn't want
them to be and tight where he least expected it, made this movement more
challenging than it should have been.

      "Thanks, partner," he growled and then slammed the door shut.

      In the shop Brandt introduced himself using his cover name of Jason,
and if the other guys noticed that he was sporting jeans that cost more
than the ones worn by the rest of the 8-man crew combined, they didn't let
on.

      The foreman, Willy, called Brandt over.

      "So, new guy," he began.

      "Jason," Brandt prompted, as much to remind himself as the foreman
what his name was.

      "Right. New guy. Look, this place we're working on, it's a little
strange."

      Brandt arranged his features in a confused expression.

      "What's strange about it?"

      "It's like I told the boss last week--there's something not right
about that place.  One, it's deluxe--top of the line everything--but it's
just a bunch of college guys living there. I know how college guys live,
and it ain't that. Two, this bathroom is like something out of a movie
set. I don't know who's spending the money, but they're dropping what looks
like a quarter million on it--a bathroom! For a bunch of college guys!" He
shook his head in amazement.

      "So, what does this mean for me?" Brandt prompted, hoping to get some
good information.

      "I was getting to that. Three, there are cameras everywhere. On the
walls, in the ceiling--it's like a fucking casino in there. Even in the
fucking bathroom! I have a feeling they're waiting for us to slack off, or
do some shoddy work, and then bam! dock us for it.  So watch yourself,
okay?"

      Brandt nodded, trying not to smile. The foreman was clearly clueless
about what was really going on in the house, but he had noticed enough to
tip off his boss and start the whole ball rolling.

      "I'll be careful, thanks."

      The crew loaded into a van and two trucks and headed to the jobsite,
which was located in a gated community in one of the posh suburbs that
ringed the city. The houses here were set on several acres of lush green
lawn, meticulously maintained by large crews of gardeners. They pulled into
the driveway of one such house, at the end of a cul- de-sac, and unloaded.

      From the outside there was nothing to distinguish this house from any
of the others. It was palatial, like the others, and as well-kept as its
neighbors a hundred yards away. The crew walked along the side of the
house, past the garages (there were two) then through a plastic-covered
opening in the wall. One of the first things they had had to do was open a
gap in the exterior wall large enough to allow an 8-person jetted tub to be
craned in. Willy the foreman could only imagine it full of busty
college-aged women; Brandt had a better idea of how it would be used.

      Brandt was assigned to help build the structural supports for the
centerpiece of the new bathroom: a huge shower made entirely of clear glass
panels, with showerheads sprouting from all angles. A dozen house members
could soap up here--more if they were particularly friendly--and Brandt
noticed the camera mounts surrounding the shower on all sides and in the
ceiling. He marveled that the crew seemed not to understand the only use
that could reasonably be made of such an installation. Then again, he might
not have understood it two days ago, before he viewed the video on the
site. The image of Trent, naked, thrusting energetically into the mattress,
gave him a shiver--not just because of his furry ass opening and closing as
he reared back and thrust forward again and again, but because Brandt knew
that if he was successful he too would be doing just that. He closed his
eyes and tried to breathe deeply.

      "New guy! Here, grab this!" And he was back to the task at hand.

      Throughout the morning, Brandt saw no one who worked at the
house--they were clearly staying away from the construction site. He would
have to figure a way to come casually across them.

      "Willy, I need to take a break," Brandt said, just before lunch
time. He hoped Willy would know what kind of break he needed.

      "There's a working bathroom through that door, to the left, at the
end."

      Brandt opened the door and walked down the hallway. He found the
bathroom, and, after checking to be sure that there were no cameras
watching him, started to poke around a bit. Several of the doors along the
hall were locked, but he found one ajar. He approached slowly, and heard
the sound of someone moving on the bed.

      Brandt stood in the hallway, and peered through the two-inch opening.

      On the bed lay a man who appeared to be slightly younger than
himself. He was wearing a towel around his waist and a laptop lay open at
the foot of the bed. He was stroking his chest almost absent-mindedly, and
Brandt noticed that his nipples were erect.  Then Brandt noticed that he
had noticed that the nipples were erect, and he grew slightly queasy. But
he had to continue.

      The young man on the bed slipped his hand down his lower abdomen and
into the towel. He rubbed his cock, still hidden from view, and it clearly
began to respond. He then unwrapped the towel from around his waist, and he
lifted his hips as he pulled it out from under him. He tossed it off the
side of the bed, and then lay back, completely naked, with his erection
growing rapidly.

      Brandt wasn't sure what he expected, but after watching Trent's video
two nights ago he knew that these guys didn't whack off the way he
did. When he did it, it was for a release, and the less time spent the
better. It was like blowing your nose--something in there needed to come
out, and you got it out quickly and went on with your life. Not so the
residents of this house. Trent had taken nearly an hour to jack off,
shower, and then jack off again; it was an exercise in inefficiency, as
Brandt saw it. This guy was going to be no better. He was currently playing
with his balls (who does that? Brandt thought again) and was in no hurry to
start stroking his now lengthy, hard cock.

      Brandt had been away from the job too long now, and needed to get
back. He took another look at the man's body so that he could identify him
on the site that night--it would be good to know something about him--and
his eyes rested again on that ponderous slab of meat between his
legs. Damn, thought Brandt, before he could stop himself. He backed slowly
away from the door and turned toward the construction zone.

      On the bed, the young man turned toward the door and wondered what
happened to his audience.

      Late in the day, as the crew cleaned up, Brandt was surprised to see
the man he had watched on the bed earlier walk through the door and into
the unfinished bathroom.  He looked around for a moment, and then he
sighted Brandt.

      Oh, shit, Brandt thought. He must have seen me--I'm done.

      The younger man walked over to Brandt. He looked him boldly up and
down, taking in his carefully selected outfit. His eyes locked on the
waistband of Brandt's outrageous underwear, and a slight grin played across
his face. He looked up at Brandt's face, and extended a hand.

      "Hey, I'm Nick," he said, as if introducing himself to the
construction crew was something he often did.

      Brandt looked at the hand--it was the one that he had seen earlier
today, cupping and squeezing Nick's balls. Was he really going to shake
that hand? Then two thoughts occurred to him simultaneously: first, that
Nick had probably showered after his session, as they all seemed to;
second, that every man's hand he had ever shaken had been an instrument of
masturbation. The sudden sexualization of mankind--of men--was boggling to
him. But he took Nick's hand and shook it.

      "Jason. Nice to meet you."

      "Likewise. I haven't seen you before--are you new?"

      "Just started to today. Quite a house you've got here."

      "Yeah, it's pretty nice. Have you seen much of it?"

      "No, I haven't, and I'm not supposed to leave the construction
area..."

      Brandt was hoping to be talked out of this rule, just as much as Nick
was hoping to talk him out of it.

      "Well, why don't I swing by at lunch time tomorrow and give you a
little tour?  When you're on your break, they can't really keep you from
doing what you want, right?"  Nick's hand casually stroked his belly,
lifting his shirt a bit to expose his tanned abs ridged with muscle--muscle
that Brandt had already seen. He winked to seal the deal.

      Did he just wink at me? Brandt thought, panicking. Calm--stay calm.

      "That'd be awesome. We break for lunch at 11:30."

      "I'll see you then. And don't worry about bringing lunch--it'll be my
treat." Nick reached out and squeezed Brandt's shoulder, then turned and
walked back out of the bathroom.

      I'm in, thought Brandt. Oh, shit, I'm in.

      He grabbed his phone, punched out a quick note to Donnelly: "Need to
go see Bryce after work--more clothes for tomorrow."

      The response was immediate. "Good news! I'll see you in a few."

      In the car after Donnelly picked up Brandt from the contractor's
shop, he asked for details on how the day went.

      "Well," Brandt started, "I got to see my first live production. Guy
named Nick who just sprawled out on a bed and started going at it."

      "Right in front of the crew?" Donnelly gasped.

      "No, stupid, he was down the hall and had the door mostly closed. But
I could see him, and I think he might have been able to see me. He came in
at the end of the day and introduced himself. I think he thinks I'm
attracted to him or something--he was totally flirting with me. I think."

      "What do you mean, you think?"

      "How do I know what it's like when a guy flirts with you?"

      "Dude, you're a guy. I'm assuming you have flirted before? Sometime
in your checkered past?"

      Brandt rolled his eyes. "Yes, I have. But with women. That's
different."

      "How?"

      Brandt just stared at his partner.

      "How? You're asking me how a guy flirting with another guy is
different from a guy flirting with a woman?"

      "Yeah, I am. I want to know."

      "Well, I'm not going to explain it to you. It's just different." At
the moment, he couldn't see clearly how it was different, and that bothered
him. Luckily, at that point they pulled up in front of Camp & Dragg.

      They walked through the door, and Bryce immediately sighted
them. Brandt was, after all, still wearing the outfit that Bryce had
selected for him yesterday.

      "And how are my favorite straight men tonight?" Bryce called in
greeting as he swooped in on them. "I knew you'd be back. Did the Ginch
Gonch get 'em?"

      Brandt had to smile in spite of himself. "You know, they did. I think
they really did. Now, I need to go back tomorrow, and I need to kick it up
a notch. Whatcha got?"

      Bryce's eyes lit up. "Oh, honey, I have just the thing. Follow me."

      Brandt followed along behind, and Donnelly rushed to keep up.

      "As my dear mother used to say," Bryce uttered breathlessly, "Get 'em
hooked with Diesel, then reel 'em in with Dolce. Am I right?" He handed
Brandt a pair of jeans that looked, to his straight eyes, just exactly like
the pair he was wearing. But he nodded, afraid to look like a
bumpkin. Bryce smiled and tore off toward shirts.

      "Now, this is chamois. Feel it, go ahead, feel it!" he urged, holding
out the sleeve of a doeskin shirt to Brandt. He felt it. It was soft, so
soft, and yet strong. In spite of himself, he enjoyed it.

      "And, finally, simplicity itself. The domestic-partner-beater!" He
held up a white ribbed tank top that would probably have cost $5 if made by
Hanes, but here was $45 because it was handmade in Italy. Brandt added this
to his armful of clothes, and once again Bryce guided them to the dressing
room.

      The three of them were in the room when Brandt turned to Bryce and
said, "I'm going to need another pair of--"

      "Oh, darling, do you think I would forget? Once does not send a
package like that without proper wrapping. I will bring, you will try, they
will love." And he turned on his heel and disappeared.

      The two men exchanged exhausted glances. Five minutes with Bryce was
like an hour in the gym.

      The curtain flew open and Bryce reappeared with a completely
different kind of undergarment. But he wasn't yet ready to unveil it.

      "Well, shuck 'em off, straight boy! We ain't got all day!" Of course,
Bryce would only have been too glad to spend all day trying on clothes with
these gentlemen.

      Brandt took off his shirts, and then unbuttoned his pants and slid
them off. He was standing in front of Bryce and Donnelly in just his bright
orange Ginch Gonch briefs and his work socks.

      "Now, these," Bryce intoned breathlessly as he opened the package in
his hands, "Are miracle workers." They looked like standard black briefs,
if a little briefer than Brandt was used to. "Come on, strip off those
Ginchies and let's go!" barked Bryce, with a sweet smile. He had been
waiting for this.

      Brandt was reconciling himself to giving up his modesty during this
assignment, so he just took a deep breath, hooked his thumbs into the
waistband of his "Ginchies," and pulled them down. Bryce's sharp intake of
breath startled him a bit, and he looked down to see if there was anything
amiss in his junk. He could see nothing wrong, but he did take a moment to
compare himself to what Nick had shown during his performance today, and he
was surprised to find that he stacked up rather well. Bryce would only have
agreed.

      Bryce approached with the new underwear. "Now, these are Andrew
Christian, another name your boys will be familiar with, and they are
designed to show off your assets. Though, to be honest," he stared frankly
at Brandt's crotch, "You don't need any help in that area. Still, these
will make it impossible not to notice." He handed them to Brandt, who
slipped them on without any other thought than wanting to be covered up
again.

      He looked in the mirror, and couldn't see much difference.

      "No, no! There's a little pouch in the front that you slip your
unmentionables into!" scolded Bryce.

      Brandt pulled out the front of the briefs, and tried to figure out
how they worked.  Donnelly was giggling uncontrollably as his partner was
about to be given a lesson in underwear.

      "Here, allow me!" offered Bryce, coming to stand in front of
Brandt. "Now, I'm a professional, so think of me like your doctor." He
pulled out the waistband, and plunged a purposeful hand into Brandt's
briefs.

      "Whoa there, what the fuck are--"

      Brandt was halted by the feeling of his cock and balls settling into
a pouch of their own. They felt free, and yet supported, and he liked it
very much.

      "Oh, I see," he whispered, amazed at what Bryce could accomplish.

      Bryce, for his part, was rock-hard in his own pants--this lovely
boy's package was firm and perfect, and he liked it very much.

      In the mirror they all could see the gargantuan mound at the front of
his briefs.

      "Oh. My. God," they all said in unison.

      "Well, that looks like a winner to me," opined Bryce, thrilled to
have laid his hands upon that massive package. "Anything else I can do for
you gentlemen? Perhaps something for you?" he turned and asked Donnelly,
hoping to cop a comparison feel.

      "No! Nope, we're good. We'll take it all," Donnelly rushed, handing
over his credit card. This would be an interesting expense claim.

      As they left the store, Brandt said, in a voice that brooked no
discussion, "I need a drink." He stood and looked from one side of the
street to the other. Harley's, or Parasols?  They were already on the
Parasols side of the street, so Parasols it would be. Brandt headed
purposefully for the door. Donnelly, as was becoming his habit, followed.

      The maitre-d', always mindful of how to best promote his business,
sat the two outside nearest the sidewalk--the eye-candy position. Their
waiter materialized instantly.

      "And what can I get for you this evening?" he asked.

      "Something strong, I don't care what," grumbled Brandt.

      "Surprise us," Donnelly interjected, trying to cover for his
partner's brusque manner.

      "It would be my pleasure to," assured the waiter, who vaporized as
quickly as he had appeared.

      Donnelly looked at Brandt.

      "Hey."

      "Hey," Brandt replied. It was becoming clear that the stress of this
assignment was getting to him.

      "You're doing great," Donnelly said, looking to reassure him. "You've
already started making your way in, and it's just the first day."

      "Yeah, and I've also become a regular at a gay clothing emporium,
I've had my junk handled by a salesman, and now I'm so desperate for a
drink I'm about to be served something mysterious with a paper umbrella in
a bar where the only women are actually men dressed up for the evening. As
first days go, this one's been a whopper."

      "Look, you're just stressing because it's an undercover assignment
and those are always hard at the beginning. You'll get into it--once you're
comfortable being Jason you'll relax and it will come naturally."

      "I hope you're right. But really, you have no idea what it's like
doing this."

      "Here we are!" the waiter announced as he returned. "One Walking
Orgasm for the gentleman," he set the large pink-and-orange drink before
Brandt, "And one Closet Buster for the gentleman." He set the tall, slender
green drink in front of Donnelly. "Give 'em a suck and tell me I nailed
you."

      Without thinking, both men leaned forward and did as they were
told. Each found the drink with which he had been presented to be
delicious--and strong enough to be flammable. They nodded.

      "You ... nailed us," Donnelly admitted, mostly by way of excusing the
waiter from the table. With a wink, he was gone again.

      "Fuck," Brandt said as he returned to his straw and took a deep hit
of Walking Orgasm.

      "So what's your plan for tomorrow?" Donnelly asked, once Brandt was
halfway through his Orgasm.

      "Well, I guess I'm a carpenter until 11:30, when I have my dream date
with Nick.  After that, who knows? I'm hoping that I'll be able to make my
way into the house if it goes well at lunch." He drank some more. "You
know, we should get back to my place and check this guy Nick out."

      "I thought you checked him out today," grinned Donnelly.

      "Funny. I mean try to find out more about him--what his profile
says. It might help me get in with him."

      "Okay, but isn't that stuff all made up anyway? I mean, do they tell
anything real about them?"

      "I don't know. But at least if I know what it says about him on the
site I won't be flying completely blind."

      They finished their drinks, paid (the bill came with a phone number
scrawled on it--to be polite Donnelly pocketed it) and drove back to
Brandt's apartment.

      On the Str8 Frat Dudes website, they could find no one named Nick, so
they began scrolling through the pictures until they found him. His name on
the site, apparently, was Rick.

      "Very under-cover, right? He changed one whole letter. That'll throw
people off."  Brandt grumbled.

      "You know," sighed Donnelly, who was getting a little tired of
Brandt's constant downer comments, "Perhaps he doesn't really care who
knows that he's doing this. Maybe his family is okay with it. Maybe his
friends know all about it."

      Brandt looked at Donnelly. "Seriously? This guy jacks off on
camera. For strangers. For money. Does that sound like something that he'd
want his family to know about?"

      Donnelly just shrugged.

      Brandt clicked to view Nick's profile. It was the standard breathless
description that could be found in any of the profiles on the site--how
straight "Rick" was, how many girlfriends he had, how good he was at
sports. There were links to a number of solo videos, and then a couple of
group videos. Brandt hadn't looked at a group video during his first visit
to the site (Trent's performance had made him close his browser and keep it
closed), and now he clicked on one.

      "Dude, really?" whined Donnelly, who was clearly still trying to get
over the one video he had seen.

      "I need to know how it works--what they do," explained Brandt. What
he didn't say is that he wanted to see how Nick interacted with the other
guys in the house, to determine whether he was the right one to use as a
conduit. It was standard police work, Brandt assured himself, as he watched
the video window load up.

      The video was titled "Wrestling Showdown," and featured Nick and 5
other guys.  It began with all six in wrestling singlets, and they paired
up for initial bouts on wrestling mats that had been laid out in one of the
rooms of the house. It was clear from the beginning, though, that the guys
were not going to be following standard greco-roman rules; they seemed more
interested in ripping each other's singlets off than in pinning their
opponents. After this initial round, the singlets came off, leaving them
only in jockstraps.

      "Oh, no," whispered Donnelly.

      Brandt turned. "What, you got an issue with jockstraps?"

      "Ugh. I wrestled in high school, and this is all too weird."

      "You mean you never spent an afternoon rubbing up against your
teammates?"  Brandt was chuckling now, enjoying his partner's discomfort.

      "Remind me to never tell you about wrestling team initiation."
Donnelly shivered at the memory.

      On the screen, the second round began. Nick was in the first pairing,
as he had been in round 1, and Brandt immediately noticed his skill at
positioning himself and his opponent for maximum camera coverage. Suddenly,
he flipped his opponent in the air, causing his legs to spread wide,
exposing his ass to the camera.

      "Oh! Whoa there!" Donnelly covered his eyes with his hands.

      "God you are such a pussy!" Brandt scolded him.

      "Since when is it being a pussy not to want to look at some guy's
hairy asshole?  That's not something I need to see."

      "Someone once told me that I should consider that there are people
who are as attracted to men as I am to women, and that it takes different
strokes, and cumbaya, or some shit like that. Actually, now that I think
about it, that someone is sitting next to me right now, hiding his pussy
eyes because the sight of a guy's rear pucker might actually kill him."

      "Look, that part is not meant to see the light of day. Or any other
light, for that matter. It's the one part of your body that you don't show,
no matter what."

      Brandt smirked. "You mean you've never seen an asshole close up? That
means you haven't ever gone down on a woman with the lights on. I mean,
it's right there."

      "Yeah, it is, and on a woman it's okay. But a guy's asshole--ugh."

      Brandt remembered their conversation about flirting earlier in the
day.

      "Why is it different?"

      Donnelly looked at Brandt, surprised by the question.

      "Are you kidding me?"

      "I just want to know why you think it's different."

      "Because it's all shitty and stuff." Donnelly looked like he had just
sucked a lemon.

      "What do you think women use theirs for? Shooting out doves at
weddings?"

      "Oh my god you are an idiot. Now, can we get his over with? Unpause,
please, and let the parade of assholes continue."

      Brandt hit the button, and the wrestling began again. The third round
was soon underway, and this one was completely naked. Once again,
sportsmanship was not a high priority, as the guys grabbed each other's
junk as often as possible, to get the advantage (and to show off for the
camera).

      Brandt suddenly hit the pause button again.

      "Oh, what is it this time?" Donnelly said, exasperated. "Are we going
to have another philosophical debate on the pooper?"

      "No. Look at the guys--take a good look."

      "Do I have to?"

      "You are a state police officer, Donnelly, and this is an
investigation. Yes, you have to."

      Donnelly straightened up.

      On the frozen screen, four guys stood naked at the edge of the mat,
while Nick and one other man wrestled for the top spot.

      "What am I looking for?" asked Donnelly.

      "Their dicks. Look at their dicks."

      Donnelly slowly turned his head to look at his partner. The
expression on his face was pure bafflement.

      "You want me to look at their dicks? Seriously?"

      Brandt nodded.

      "What am I looking for, beauty marks?"

      "Just look. Tell me what you see."

      Donnelly's head swiveled reluctantly back to the screen.

      "Well," he said, his mouth suddenly dry. "Let's see. The darker
skinned guy is uncircumcised. That taller guy over there--well, his is
really red. And your buddy Nick is hung like a fucking racehorse." He
turned back to Brandt. "Did I get it right? What do I win?"

      "No, you didn't. What do all of them have in common?"

      "They're all men, okay? I don't want to think about it more than
that."

      "They're all soft."

      Donnelly's mouth dropped open.

      "You mean, like, to the touch?" he asked, terrified of the
answer. This was seriously weird.

      Brandt closed his eyes, shook his head slowly side to side.

      "You know, as dim sidekicks go, you should be up for an Oscar. No,
what I mean is that none of the guys has an erection. They're not getting
boned up at all."

      Donnelly quickly scanned the collected cocks once more, and
nodded. "Yep, not a stiffie in the bunch. Now, why does that seem odd to
you?"

      "Put yourself in their place for a moment."

      Donnelly shuddered.

      "I mean, think about you, wrestling, but with hot women. Wouldn't
that get you boned?"

      Donnelly considered this.

      "But they're on camera. Maybe they're nervous about it, or
something?"

      "Again, think about being in their place. You're wrestling a super
hot chick, and she's grabbing at your junk every chance she gets. Could
anything keep you from getting it up?"

      Donnelly thought for a moment, then shook his head. "I'm actually
chubbing up a bit just thinking about it."

      Brandt stared at him for a moment.

      "I did not need to know that. At all."

      "Sorry."

      "Anyway, six limp dicks means that these guys might be straight after
all, just like their profiles say."

      "But what kind of straight guy does--that?" Donnelly pointed at the
screen.

      "The kind that needs money?"

      "Dude, is there enough money in the world to make you grab a guy's
junk like that?" Donnelly pointed to the screen where, locked in
freeze-frame, Nick's fist tightly gripped his opponent's balls, squeezing
them hard while with his other hand he tugged on the guy's dick.

      "Enough money in the world? Come on. Everyone has their price, for
everything."

      "I don't see it. No straight guy would do that."

      "Limp dicks don't lie, buddy. They are just not into each other that
way."

      "I'll reserve judgment until the end, thank you very much. Now, can
we just finish this freak show?"

      Brandt clicked the pause button, and once again Nick and his foe
thrashed around the mat. Nick made short work of it.

      "Nick was totally a wrestler in school," Donnelly opined. "Those are
classic moves."

      "You mean the move where he straddled his opponent and rubbed his
ball sac on the guy's forehead? Yeah, if that counts as classic, I'm really
glad I didn't go out for wrestling."

      "Shut up. I just mean that he seems to know what he's doing."

      "No argument there." Brandt was glad that Nick had been his first
contact. He was clearly an alpha male in the house.

      "So, why is it important for you that they seem to be straight?"

      "Goes to motivation. I figure a frat house--even a fake one like
this--is pretty much a gay man's candy store--especially one that has guys
like that in it. But if they're not gay, then they're not there for
personal enjoyment."

      "A candy store? Are you fucking crazy? Frat houses are not friendly
places when you're gay. My brother learned that one the hard way."

      Brandt turned to him. "What happened?"

      "Well, he pledged, and joined, and this was just about the time that
he was figuring out he was gay. So one night he makes a pass at a frat
brother who he was sure was gay too, and the guy goes berserk. The whole
house came down on him, and he ended up leaving school entirely. It was
pretty awful for him--he didn't even tell me about it until years
later. Turns out the guy he hit on was gay too, just not able to deal with
it yet."

      "So your brother drops out and joins the Army? Glutton for
punishment, wasn't he?"

      Donnelly turned very serious.

      "My brother joined up because he loved this country, and he wanted to
defend it.  It was always what he wanted. But just before he went on active
duty, he met a great guy, and he suddenly didn't want to go so much. But he
went, because he had committed to it.  They were together 10 years--though
they weren't together all that time, of course--and he was just a few weeks
from coming home for good when he got killed. It was awful for all of us,
but I think it was worst for his partner. All those years of waiting,
waiting to have a husband at home, and then it's all gone. They were never
even able to get married."

      "I'm really sorry. I didn't know all of that."

      "Anyway," Donnelly said, wiping his eyes, "I guess that's what's hard
for me with this assignment. I see these guys, and I think, young gay guys
have the deck stacked against them already. Why are we going to go in and
make it harder for them? But then you're not sure they're gay, which makes
the thing just so weird."

      Brandt bumped his shoulder up against Donnelly's--like a dolphin
might nudge another, friendly--and said, "Dude, we're doing a job. They
said they're not going to go after the guys in the house, so that's going
to have to be good enough for us."

      "Yeah, I know. I just need to get some rest, I guess."

      "Me too. Pick me up tomorrow?"

      "Wear that stuff Bryce picked out and I won't have a choice! Rowrrr!"

      Brandt punched his partner, perhaps harder than he needed to to make
his point.

      "Night, pardner."

      "Night."

      Donnelly walked out of the apartment, and Brandt returned to his
computer to do more research.

** 4 **

      The next morning Brandt concentrated on his job--he has been so
focused on looking like someone who might want to wank on camera that he
had kind of forgotten to look like someone who knew how to swing a
hammer. 11:30 came sooner than he was expecting it to.

      "Lunch!" Willy announced, and instantly the bathroom was
empty. Brandt puttered a bit, putting his tools back in order to kill time,
and about five minutes later the door to the hallway opened, and Nick
stepped in.

      "Hey, you free for lunch?" he asked, flashing a brilliant grin.

      "Absolutely!" Brandt walked over to Nick.

      Nick looked down quickly at the front of his pants, grossly distended
by the enhancing power of his new briefs, and then smiled at him.

      "Nice ... pants," he said, cocking one eyebrow up.

      Brandt could feel his cheeks burning. "Um, thanks. They're new."

      "Well, they're sure getting a workout. Come on," Nick called as he
turned back to the hallway.

      Brandt didn't know what to make of Nick's comment. Was he flirting?
Did he think Brandt was gay? He would have to play it cool and let Nick
take the lead.

      They walked down the hallway, and soon were in the kitchen of the
house. It was, in keeping with the rest of the structure, large and
luxuriously appointed. Nick motioned for Brandt to sit at the counter, and
he turned to the commercial range where he had left something simmering
when he went to get Brandt.

      "I hope you like pasta," Nick said, stirring. "It's kind of my
specialty."

      "Pasta's great, thanks. Hey, this is really nice of you, by the way."

      "For the crew that's turning our bathroom into a playground, I'm
happy to serve."

      "Oh, so you invite all the guys in for lunch?"

      Nick looked at him, with a crooked grin. He laughed.

      "Nah, just you. The other guys are so old and sweaty. But you,
well..." He let that sentence drift while he drained the noodles.

      Nick set two enormous, steaming plates of pasta with red sauce on the
counter, and sat next to Brandt.

      "So, Jason, you in school?"

      The name jolted Brandt a bit, but he recovered quickly.

      "Yeah, I am. You?"

      "Just finished my first year at the U."

      Brandt looked around the kitchen.

      "This is a pretty amazing place you got here. Your family must be
loaded."

      Nick laughed so hard he had to put his fork down and take a drink of
water. "My parents? Hah! Good one. No, this ain't my parents' house."

      "Then whose is it?"

      Nick looked at Brandt, seeming to consider how to answer this
question. It was a more direct approach than he had been planning to take,
but Nick's easy manner had convinced him that moving quickly would work.

      "Well," Nick began, then stopped and looked at Brandt again. "Hey,
are you a pretty open-minded guy?"

      "I like to think so," Brandt replied, delighted that this was going
so easily.

      Nick nodded, took another bite of pasta. "Okay. So this house isn't
really a house."

      "You could have fooled me. It sure looks like a house."

      Nick laughed again. "No, what I mean is that it's more of a place of
business than a house. Have you noticed all of the cameras around?"

      "Yeah, but I thought that was because your family was security
conscious or something."

      Nick shook his head. This Jason guy was turning out to be a bit of a
rube.

      "Look, I saw you watching me yesterday. There's a mirror opposite the
door, and I could see your reflection."

      Brandt paled. "I, uh, I don't know--"

      "Dude, chill. It's okay. I'm fine with it. I just thought that since
you liked to watch, you might understand what we're doing here. Did you
notice that there was a camera on the laptop I had on the bed?"

      Brandt nodded.

      "Well, that's what we do here. I live here with a bunch of guys, and
we mostly go around naked all the time, and sometimes we jerk off for the
camera. It's kind of a sex show thing."

      Brandt was silent. He had no idea that things would develop this
quickly. Where should he go from here?

      At that moment, though, the kitchen door opened and three guys walked
in, completely naked. Brandt tried to figure out how his alter-ego Jason
would react to this, but he had no fucking clue.

      Nick greeted the new arrivals. "Hey, guys, this is Jason, the one I
told you about."

      What now?

      The three men seemed to understand immediately what Nick was saying,
and that worried Brandt. They knew that Nick had met him? What had Nick
told them?

      "Hey, good to meet you," the closest of the three said to Brandt, as
he held out his hand. He recognized him immediately as Trent, from the
website. All he could think of as he shook his hand was that he had seen
this guy's asshole. Not exactly the kind of conversation starter he was
looking for.

      "Likewise," said Brandt, and then Trent turned to Nick.

      "We're going out to the pool. Old Moneybags wants another water
video, so we're going to make him one. Let me know how it goes with--" he
tossed his head in Brandt's direction. Nick nodded.

      The three naked men walked through the kitchen and out the french
doors to the backyard.

      "Sorry, was that a little weird?" Nick asked.

      "Um, no. I mean, yeah, a little. This is all kind of strange."

      "I guess I'm just used to it. But they are pretty hot, right?"

      "Nick, I'm not gay."

      Nick laughed. "Heh--that's what my boyfriend always says."

      "No, really. I mean it's fine that you are, I'm just not."

      "Me? What makes you think I'm gay?" Nick was not defensive, just
amused.

      Brandt looked at him, confused. "Well, you called those guys hot. And
you stared pretty hard at my crotch a few minutes ago. And you said you
have a boyfriend."

      Nick laughed again. "Oh, that. Well. I could explain that part, but
it would take a while. Let's save that for another time. But the other
stuff, well, let's just say I appreciate beauty wherever I find it. You, my
straight friend, are beautiful. And you liked watching me jack off, which
makes you maybe a little less straight. Hmm?" Nick took another huge bite
of pasta, and studied Brandt's reaction.

      "I guess I ... uh, I'd never really seen anyone doing that, so I kind
of, you know ..."

      Nick smiled--sweetly, not mockingly--and shook his head. "You never
saw anyone jerk off before? That seems--" his eyes flicked up and down
Brandt's body, "unlikely."

      Brandt had lost control of this conversation. He needed time to
think.

      "How long have you been working here?" he asked Nick, stalling for
time.

      Nick felt the abrupt change of subject, and accepted it with a
sidewards nod of his head. If the chase was going to be a long one, he was
okay with that.

      "I started last fall. Needed to earn tuition money."

      "Does it pay well?"

      "Oh, yeah. Especially for the live shows, and even more for the
private gigs-- that's where the real money is."

      Brandt pushed further.

      "So, do they take a big cut?"

      "They who?"

      "Whoever runs this place. Do they take a lot of the money?" Brandt
knew from his web research that they Str8 Frat Dudes site sold monthly
subscriptions to the live shows for $30 a month, but there were no prices
listed for what Nick referred to as "private gigs."

      "I don't know. All I know is that I can work for three hours here and
take home a thousand dollars. There's nothing else I could do that would
make me that kind of money."

      Before he even knew what he was saying, Brandt blurted, "Well, have
you tried modeling? I mean with clothes on?"

      Nick chuckled and shook his head. "Let's just say that my last
experience with that was not terribly successful. This works better for
me--and the less clothes the better, far as I'm concerned."

      Brandt took another bite of Nick's pasta, which he quite liked.

      "So, what's your boyfriend like?"

      Both Nick and Brandt himself were surprised by this question. Brandt
wasn't sure where it had come from; Nick was sure that Brandt was flirting
with him.

      "Look, I don't want you to get the wrong idea. I don't sleep with
men. I mean, I sleep with one man, Pete, but other than that I'm strictly
heterosexual."

      Brandt had stopped chewing halfway through Nick's explanation, and he
hadn't started up again.

      "What?"

      Nick grinned again. "I know, right? I used to try to explain it to
people, but I kind of gave up." He took another bite of pasta, and then,
seeing that Brandt was still looking at him dumbfounded, he decided to
explain anyway. "See, Pete and I, well, we just fell in love
accidentally. We kind of got thrown together. I mean, I love him and all,
but I'm still basically into women."

      "And Pete's okay with that?"

      Nick chuckled again. "Yeah, not so much at first. But then we got it
worked out.  We're just different people. This summer, while I'm here
stashing cash for school, he's in Eastern Europe with his friend Josh
making the world safe for humanity. He's like that."

      "So, let me make sure I've got this," Brandt said. "You have a
boyfriend, but you are into women, but you work in a place that pays you to
wrestle naked with other guys."

      Nick took a drink and looked at Brandt.

      "Wrestling? I don't think I mentioned wrestling."

      Brandt felt concrete harden in his chest. He had fucked this up. He
had let the conversation with Nick run off the script and now he'd been
caught.

      "Oh, I just assumed that you would, I mean--"

      Nick burst out laughing. "No, stop," he was finally able to
say. "Let's just leave it there. You don't have to explain how you knew
that we do wrestling videos here, just like you don't have to explain why
you were watching me jack off yesterday. That's what's great about this
place, Jason--you don't have to explain anything to anybody. We just do
what feels good, and what people will pay to see. And luckily those are
often the same things."

      Brandt was furious with himself, and yet Nick was letting him off the
hook so easily. Too easily?

      They were finished with lunch now, and Nick took the plates and put
them in the sink. He stood at the counter, rinsing the dishes, and turned
to Brandt.

      "So, Jason, would you ever consider working here?"

      Brandt could hardly stand the shocks he had suffered already, and
here was another. His job required him to answer in precisely the way that
his entire being begged him not to.

      "Hell yeah. Construction pays for shit these days. I could do with
some real money."

      Nick's grin was wide.

      "Awesome. I hoped you might say that." Nick finished the dishes. "How
about this--can you come back tomorrow, and talk to Mr. Drake? He manages
the house."

      "You mean, like, for a job interview?"

      "Sort of. But don't be nervous. I know what sells in this place, and
you, my friend," and here his eyes took another sweeping journey up and
down Brandt's body, "are exactly what we're looking for."

      "That would be great," Brandt lied. Even the bare outlines of what he
would have to do in order to get hired here were too horrible to
contemplate.

      "Cool. How about 10 tomorrow morning?"

      "I'll be here."

      "I'll see you then," Nick said, holding out his hand to shake
Brandt's. Having shaken it, he held onto it a little longer than Brandt
thought normal. "It'll be awesome to work with you." Nick winked and
released Brandt's hand.

      "Yeah, thanks, you too," mumbled Brandt as he walked back toward the
construction area. He had a great deal to contemplate as he swung his
hammer the rest of the afternoon.

** 5 **

      "So, you're in! That's amazing!"

      "Yep. Woo-hoo. Tomorrow morning I go to interview for a job that will
require me to take off all my clothes and masturbate in front of a camera,
in the hopes that the video will be posted on the Internet for a bunch of
sick fucks to jerk off to. Awesome!"

      Donnelly took his eyes off the road for a moment to look
sympathetically at his partner.

      "I know that this part of the job sucks. But you're doing good police
work, and you're getting results. That's worth a lot."

      "Yeah, I'm a shoo-in for employee of the month. Now we need to get me
something to wear tomorrow."

      "Do we consult Bryce?"

      "He hasn't let us down yet. I think that wonderbra for my junk really
did the trick today. Let's see what else he can do."

      The troopers walked into Camp & Dragg for the third time in as many
days, and again immediately heard Bryce's welcoming call.

      "Ooh! They're back!" he sang out as he made his way to them. "And
looking yummy! Who dresses you, doll? Be honest, I can take it like a man."

      Brandt blushed, perhaps slightly less than usual. "You do, Bryce. And
we need you to do it again."

      Bryce's hand fluttered up to his throat. "More work duds? But honey,
it's the weekend! Can't we lighten it up a bit?"

      "Actually, yeah, we need to. I'm going back tomorrow to talk to
someone about a modeling job, so it needs to be a bit more casual."

      Bryce's eyes lit up, his hands fluttering to his throat. "Oh! Oh! Oh!
It worked!  You're about to be discovered! Oh, honey, I'm so happy for
you!" And to Donnelly he stage-whispered, "I did it all--kid was a complete
remodel."

      Donnelly laughed.

      "But, honeys, this is not the place to get a weekend ensemble that
will seal the deal. For that we need to go two doors down." He turned to
call over his shoulder as he hustled them out, "I'm taking a break! Back in
a jif!"

      "You get back here, Bryce!" came a tobacco-laced growl from the back
of the store.

      "Cover for me, okay? Fuck you very much, dear!" called Bryce in
return, not breaking his stride.

      The three shot out onto the sidewalk, and Bryce, holding both by the
elbow, led them to the shop two doors down. It was decorated in a kitschy
tiki theme, and the words "Cabana Boy" glittered over the door.

      The clothing was about as far from the heavy denim-and-plaid of Camp
& Dragg as possible; here, the focus was on the provision of microscopic
bathing attire and peek- a-boo short-shorts. Cabana Boy's customer base
consisted primarily of waif-ish young men looking to catch the eye of
rich-ish old men. Hence the clamor that the entrance of two solidly built
state troopers--and Bryce--produced. No fewer than three floorwalkers
popped up like man-hungry meerkats, all eyes glued to Brandt and Donnelly.

      "Nestor! Nestor get your skinny ass out here this is an emergency!"
shrieked Bryce as he propelled the two somewhat apprehensive men into the
store.

      One of the meerkats scurried to intercept Bryce and his
emergency. Nestor could not conceal his admiration for Bryce's taste in
accessories--particularly the one wearing the butch outfit.

      "Bryce, chill yourself! Nestor here now. Now, why your panties all in
a twist, girl?"

      "These are my very most favorite customers, and this one," he pointed
to Brandt, "needs to make an impression tomorrow." He leaned in close, and
whispered loudly, "He's got a date on the casting couch."

      Nestor nodded sagely. He turned to Brandt, his appraising eyes
flicking up and down.

      "You got two choices. You can get on your knees and suck 'til he hire
you, or you can let me work my magic. Which it gonna be, honey?"

      "I'm straight, so I'll take door number two."

      Brandt's declaration of heterosexuality prompted giggles from Bryce
and Nestor, whose view of sexual identity was perhaps more fluid than
Brandt's.

      "Then we need to make sure you stay off those straight knees. Follow
me," Nestor ordered, and they fell in line behind him as he walked and
spelled out his vision.

      "So, what you are saying to me is that you need a look that's all
'I'm straight but even if I weren't I'm too hot for you,' right? And then
he's all 'I have to have you, you seductive straight man,' and then you're
all, 'Give me the job first,' right? And then he's all, 'The job is yours
now on your knees,' and you're all 'Bitch, please, I got the job, I ain't
going downtown,' am I right?" This was delivered in one breath, at top
volume, with finger-puppet motions. Nestor was, amazingly, even more
exhausting to listen to than Bryce.

      The group arrived at the part of the store that the employees called
"The Island of Misfit Boys." They maintained this area in consideration of
potential customers who wandered into the store unaware that its main line
of business lay in outfitting poolside boy-toys. Here could be found shorts
that exposed almost no ass-cheek, and tank tops that only occasionally
allowed nipples to show. This merchandise was mostly of interest to
straight boys who accidentally walked into the shop, looking for
Abercrombie-Hollister- type clothes; these customers were, of course, of
great interest to the sales staff, who were only too happy to get the
aforementioned straight boys into the dressing room to discuss the proper
measurement of the inseam.

      Nestor chose a pair of khaki shorts and a scoop-neck t-shirt in a
muted shade of blue that perfectly replicated the color of Brandt's eyes.

      "Here, doll," he said matter-of-factly as he handed Brandt the
clothing.

      Brandt could not believe he was about to ask this question.

      "What about, um," he leaned in a little closer, aware that the eyes
of the entire store were now fixed on the noisy band of men around him,
"Underwear?"

      Nestor cackled. "Oh, honey, no! You do not wear underwear with these!
They must be free to slide along the body, caressing your strong flesh,
slipping back and forth light as whisper." Nestor sighed, caught up in the
beauty of the scene, imagining in full detail Brandt's bare skin under his
thin, silky garments.

      "Okay, then, I guess I'll try these on."

      "Oh, yes, yes! To the fitting room!"

      The entire entourage proceeded to the dressing room, and Brandt was
followed in by Donnelly, Bryce, and Nestor, who shut the door in the face
of the other salesboys who desperately wanted to see Brandt slip into
something more comfortable.

      Brandt was completely resigned to his fate now, and simply started
pulling off his clothes, no longer caring how many people were in the room
with him. Nestor flashed Bryce a significant glance when Brandt's shirts
came off. The pants would be next; he licked his lips with all the subtlety
of a fat mime in an invisible donut shop.

      Brandt unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans, forgetting for a moment
just how large a bulge his push-up briefs made. He struggled a bit to work
the jeans down over his package. Nestor's pulse hit the mid-triple-digits.

      Once the jeans were off, he needed to extricate himself from the
stretchy confines of his underwear, and for reasons unknown to him this
caused an unexpected difficulty. It may have been because he was jiggling
his junk pretty hard to pull it out of its special pouch, or because he had
been refraining from masturbation because the nature of his assignment made
jacking less appealing, or because he was in a room full of people all
looking at him as he was about to get naked; whatever the cause, Brandt's
cock was on the rise, and there was absolutely no way to hide it. Fuck it,
he thought, and just went ahead.

      When Brandt's cock sprung free, there was a gasp from all corners of
the room, including, to Brandt's shock, from Donnelly. Soft, Brandt's penis
was a handful, perhaps two; hard, as it nearly was now, it was
substantially more. It arched out over his equally sizable balls, extending
more than 8 inches from his body.

      Nestor fanned himself. Bryce's mouth made a perfect "O," which he
longed to fit over that beautiful, plump cockhead. Donnelly just stared. He
had seen his partner naked countless times, but he had never seen him with
a bone on. He was stunned, and as much as he wanted to drag his straight
eyes away from it, as it bobbed gently up and down, he could not.

      "What? You guys all look like you've never seen a dick before,"
Brandt said, a touch of defensive anger in his voice.

      "Honey, I thought I had, but I have been most cruelly misled,"
answered Bryce, in his best Blanche DuBois voice, his hand fluttering at
his throat.

      Brandt looked at Donnelly, who turned away abruptly. He pulled the
shorts on, and had to tug them a bit to contain the monster in his
crotch. The result was something like stuffing a sausage back into its
casing. It bulged obscenely at the front of his shorts.  He thrust his arms
into the t-shirt, and stretched the fabric over his muscled torso. It clung
to his every ripple and cut; he looked more naked with it on than he had
before he put it on.

      He looked in the mirror. He hardly recognized himself; the shirt
showed every tendon and sinew, the shorts made it perfectly clear what was
underneath. He had to admit, he looked pretty hot. Then he looked at the
reflection of the other men in the mirror, and was again surprised to see
that all three wore the same expression--a mixture of delight, surprise,
and hunger.

      "Well, what do you think?" he asked.

      "I would give you any job you wanted," gushed Bryce. "In fact,
there's a particular kind of job I would gladly give you right now..."

      "Looks awesome, man. Holy shit, you have a body," said Donnelly.

      "Oh my god oh my god oh my god," murmured Nestor, reciting a rosary
of devotion to the male form. He would not be able to get the image of
Brandt's cock out of his head for days.

      "Well, I guess we're a go, then," Brandt summed up. He looked around
him. "Can I have a little alone time to get my other costume back on?" he
asked, suddenly aware of a desire to have at least a scrap of privacy. The
other men filed out of the dressing room, Bryce and Nestor jabbering
frenetically about the only thing in their world at the moment--Brandt's
enormous cock.

      Later that evening, Brandt sat studying the Str8 Frat Dudes website,
looking for any information that would help him play a more effective role
the next morning.  Donnelly was over, as had become their habit lately. He
walked back into the room from the kitchen, and glimpsed over Brandt's
shoulder a video of two of the house members having a jack-off race.

      "Oh, dude. I will never get used to that stuff," he said, as he sat
down on the couch with the sandwich he had just made.

      Brandt swiveled his chair to look at his partner.

      "Funny. Today you couldn't seem to stop staring at my junk."

      Donnelly froze mid-chew. Brandt turned back to his computer.

      "What are you talking about?" Donnelly asked, once he had swallowed
his bite of ham and cheese.

      Brandt snorted. "You know what I'm talking about. In the dressing
room. I get why Bryce and that strange little Cuban guy were staring, but
you? You've seen it before like a million times."

      Donnelly was studying the carpet, still not talking.

      "Just seemed strange, that's all," concluded Brandt, who went back to
his research.

      "I'd never seen it before--ever," he finally managed to say.

      Brandt stopped clicking, but he didn't turn to look at Donnelly.

      "What the fuck does that mean? We shower together all the time."

      "Yeah, but that's different."

      "You keep saying that--things are always different. Well, what's
different?"

      Donnelly paused to choose the right words. "What's different is that
it was hard.  That makes it different. A penis is something we all have,
but a hard-on is a different thing."

      "Yeah, one is hard and one isn't. But a dick is a dick. Just because
it's hard one time and soft the next doesn't mean it's different."

      "It is, though," replied Donnelly in a quiet voice. "A penis is a
penis, but a hard- on is more like a message you send to other people. It's
a desire, not a body part."

      Brandt swiveled his chair around.

      " 'It's a desire, not a body part'? What kind of fucked-up angry
feminist book did you get that out of?"

      "I didn't. You don't have a hard-on unless what you are doing excites
you, and you want more of it."

      Brandt didn't want to think about what Donnelly might be getting
at. His carefully reasoned reply deflected the question.

      "Fuck you."

      "No, fuck you. You were clearly having fun. To me, it was just
awkward."

      "Awkward enough to stare at my dick for like an hour?"

      "Buddy, have you looked at that dick of yours? Have you seen how
large it is?"

      Brandt rolled his eyes. "Of course I have, stupid. I've even touched
it once or twice."

      "Well then you know what I'm talking about. Sorry I was staring--I
couldn't help it."

      Brandt wasn't sure which made him more uncomfortable: that he had
gotten boned up in the dressing room, or that Donnelly had stared at it. He
turned back to his computer for the finale of the jack-off race which,
according to frat house tradition, ended with the "winner" (the one who
ejaculated first) shooting his load onto the loser. Brandt closed his web
browser. He stared at the empty computer desktop for several minutes.

      "Hey," he said softly, still staring at his computer. "Can I ask you
something?"

      "Sure. What?"

      Brandt paused, frowning slightly.

      "How did your brother know he was gay?"

      Donnelly stopped chewing and screwed up his face in confusion.

      "What?"

      "How did he know he was gay?"

      Donnelly chewed haltingly, trying to understand what Brandt was
getting at. He swallowed, and took a stab at it.

      "I guess he probably figured it out when the guy sucking his dick
was, you know, a guy."

      Brandt sighed, shook his head.

      "No, dipshit. How did he know he wanted a guy to suck his dick?"

      "I don't know. It's just something he realized, and once he did it
seemed to make sense--to him, and to all of us. Well, except Mom. She's
still not over it. Why?"

      "I'm just thinking about Nick--about all the guys in the house. They
all claim to be straight, but they do these things that are not by any
stretch normal for straight guys. At least none of the straight guys I
know. It just makes me wonder if some of them aren't really gay, and just
don't know it yet. I mean, Nick talks about his boyfriend, and still calls
himself straight. What's up with that?"

      "Well, when my brother was in high school he dated girls and
stuff--he just wasn't ready yet to admit that he was really attracted to
guys. Even to himself, I guess."

      "I'm just trying to figure this shit out. I've just watched two guys
who call themselves straight jack off sitting next to each other, and the
first one to come shot his load all over the other one. Doesn't that seem a
little gay to you?"

      "The whole thing seems gay to me."

      "But where's the line? At what point do you stop being a straight guy
messing around and become a gay guy having sex?"

      "I don't stop being a straight guy, for anything," Donnelly answered.

      "I'm not talking about you. I'm talking about the guys in the
house. At what point would you say that they cross the line?"

      Donnelly thought about this a bit. "Penetration," he said simply.

      "Penetration? That's the line?"

      "Yep. When a body part enters the other person, that's the gay line,"
he affirmed.

      "So, dick in mouth equals gay."

      "Yep."

      "Dick in butt equals gay."

      "Oh, yeah."

      "Dick in hand equals gay?"

      Donnelly paused. "I'd have to say yes."

      "But there's no penetration."

      "Of course there is. Make a fist, the dick penetrates it. Same diff."

      "Kissing?"

      "Kissing what?"

      "Does kissing another guy make you gay?"

      "Again, we're not talking about what makes me gay. Nothing is going
to make me gay. But, yes, kissing a guy makes you gay."

      "But that's not penetration."

      Donnelly sighed. "Tongues all in there, hell yeah that's
penetration."

      "But what about it there's no tongue?"

      "Then you're not doing it right."

      "I'll remember that next time I kiss you. Thanks."

      "Whatever. Hey, you need a ride tomorrow? For the thing?"

      "No, I'm going to drive myself over. It'll seem weird if I get
dropped off. But I'll call you when I'm done, let you know how it goes,
okay?"

      "Good enough. Catch ya later."

      Donnelly left Brandt alone to contemplate his skimpy khaki
short-shorts and skin- tight periwinkle shirt.

** 6 **

      Brandt walked up the walk to the frat house, regretting every step as
soon as he had taken it, but knowing that he must arrive, must do his
job. He was profoundly uncomfortable; his balls were stuck to his leg,
squished tight by the pressure of the tight shorts. He wished that he could
just be out of them, but immediately realized that this could very well
happen soon enough, and then he was a little sick to his stomach. He
knocked at the door, and waited.

      "Hey! You're here!" Nick said as he opened the door.

      "And you're naked!' Brandt replied.

      "Yeah, I guess I am. It's just easier on the weekends. That way if I
happen through somebody else's shot I'm a bonus, not a buzzkill. Come on
in!"

      Brandt walked through the doorway while Nick held the door for
him. His hip, clad only in the sheer fabric of his shorts, brushed against
Nick's completely bare one as he passed. He was mortified; Nick was
flattered.

      "Mr. Drake's waiting for you in the office," Nick said, as he walked
down the main hall. Brandt tried to look anywhere other than the backside
of his new friend, but, as he was following him, he didn't have much
choice.

      Nick stopped in front of what looked to be a linen closet or other
storage; he opened the door, and Brandt saw that it led instead to an
office. A quite plain one, given the luxury of the surroundings: there was
a desk, a table with a couple of chairs, and a small number of
Tuscan-looking landscape photographs on the wall. At the desk sat a slight
but fit man, perhaps mid-thirties, who was entering figures into a
spreadsheet. He looked up as Nick entered, Brandt following.

      "Ah, Nick, I see you've brought your new friend," said Mr. Drake, as
he rose to reach a hand across the desk in greeting. "I'm Tim Drake," he
said, in a friendly, vaguely midwestern voice.

      "I'm Jason. It's nice to meet you," replied Brandt.

      "Please, sit down." He motioned for Jason to take a seat. "Thank you,
Nick. I'll call you if we need you."

      Nick smiled, turned, and left the office, shutting the door behind
him.

      "So, Jason, tell me. What brings you here today?"

      "Well, um, Nick told me that you might be hiring, and I sure could
use some more money."

      Mr. Drake smiled. "Are you aware of what we do here?"

      Brandt looked at the floor. "Yes, sir. I am."

      "And you're okay with that?"

      "I guess so. I mean," and here he looked up at Mr. Drake, "I'm not
gay or anything, but I need the money pretty bad."

      Mr. Drake chuckled softly. "Oh, I think you'll find, Jason, that few
of our cast members are gay. They are more open-minded than most, but
almost all of them would say they are straight."

      Jason nodded, as if this made sense. Did it? He couldn't tell
anymore.

      "So, would you be comfortable being naked on camera, Jason?"

      Brandt nodded.

      "And would you be comfortable masturbating on camera?" Mr. Drake
sounded somewhat doubtful.

      Brandt's cheeks were burning, but he worried that he was not
convincing Mr.  Drake that we would be able to do what was asked of him. He
forced himself to kick it up a notch.

      "Hell yeah," he snorted a macho laugh. "I jerk off all the time
anyway, might as well get paid for showin' it off, right?"

      Mr. Drake smiled broadly. This clearly was what he was waiting to
hear.

      "Excellent. Well, let's do this. We need to get a camera test first
to be sure that you're the right fit for the job. We'll pay you $250 for
that today, and if we like what we see in the video then we'll talk about
hiring you on. How's that?"

      "Awesome!" Brandt replied, trying to stay visibly excited about this
horrible, career-ending thing he was apparently about to do.

      "Great. I just need you to sign this release, and I'll call Nick back
in. He'll help you record the video today."

      Brandt signed the remarkably brief model release. Mr. Drake dialed,
and then said into the phone, "Nick? Yeah, we're on. Sure, you can shoot
there today. Okay." He hung up the phone.

      "Nick will be here in a sec. Any questions for me?"

      "Nope. Just excited to get going," Brandt lied.

      "I'll be excited to see your video," Mr. Drake replied, and the view
of Brandt's ass as he walked out of the office with Nick confirmed his
notion that the video would be a memorable one.

      "All right," Nick said as they walked down the hall, "We're going to
shoot in the upstairs bedroom today. It's a great room--big sunken tub,
this shower with water shooting all over the place, and a big window so
there's lots of good light on the bed."

      Nick's every word made Brandt's stomach hurt even worse. This was
going to be awful. He pulled out his cell and typed a message to Donnelly:
"Drake, Tim. State College 2001." Brandt had noticed Mr. Drake's class
ring.

      Too soon they arrived at the bedroom. It was, as Nick had promised,
beautiful.  The kind of place that Brandt could imagine spending a
weekend. With a woman. What the hell was he doing here?

      Nick was all business as he got the room set up. "We'll have two
stationary cameras, here," he pointed to the corner opposite the bed, "And
here," he pointed to the ceiling above the bed. "And I'll have this camera
so I can move around and get all the angles. So the technical side is
covered," he said, seeing immediately that Brandt was overwhelmed.

      "Look," Nick said, his voice softer, "I know the first time can be a
little nerve- wracking. We'll take it slow, and make sure you're
comfortable, okay?"

      Brandt could only nod. He was afraid if he tried to speak he would
yak up his breakfast.

      "For the test video sound doesn't matter. So you can ask me questions
if you need to, and I can give you suggestions. All we really want to see
is how you come across on camera, okay?"

      Brandt nodded again. He stood, not knowing at all what he was
supposed to do.

      Nick picked up the camera, and began shooting.

      "So, Mason," he said.

      Brandt looked confused. Nick peeked out from behind the camera.

      "I made that up for you. Pretty quick thinking, huh?" he grinned.

      Oh, great, Brandt thought. Now I have my own porn name. Fucking
lovely. And it's one letter off from my other fake name--and it's like I
don't even have a real name anymore.

      Focus, Brandt, focus.

      He smiled back at Nick, trying to look pleased with Nick's
inspiration.

      "All right, now, how about we head for the shower?" Nick suggested.

      Ah, yes, the shower. That universal experience of frat-based
wankage. Must be clean before we get dirty, right?

      Brandt smiled, slyly, he hoped. He walked toward the bathroom, and
Nick followed him. Funny how Brandt was on camera, yet Nick was the naked
one.

      The shower was large enough to need no enclosure. Brandt reached in
and turned on the water, which splashed down from three shower heads on the
walls and one in the ceiling. He waited for it to warm up.

      "Take your shirt off," Nick suggested. His voice was too soft to be
commanding, not at all like a film director's. It was like he was
encouraging Brandt rather than ordering him to do things. It made Brandt
feel even dirtier.

      Regardless, he whipped his shirt off over his head.

      "Whoa, there, big fella! Let's take this a little slower," Nick said,
handing Brandt back the shirt he had dropped onto the counter.

      "Why?"

      "Because you're unveiling yourself. Your audience is dying to see
what's under that tight shirt of yours, and you're about to show them. But
you have to do it slowly, so that they are aching to see it come off. Build
the suspense before you show them those amazing pecs of yours, okay buddy?"

      Nick's jocular tone of voice clashed with his visible leering at
Brandt's body. Is he attracted to me? Brandt wondered, completely lost. But
he put his shirt back on.

      Nick offered more instruction.

      "Okay, now grab the bottom of your shirt. That's the move that
announces that you're about to take it off. But don't do it yet. Just lift
it up a bit, and then turn toward the mirror, like you're checking yourself
out. That's it--I'm getting a great shot of those fucking awesome abs of
yours. Holy shit you are hot!"

      Brandt was in agony. What the fuck was he doing here?

      "Now, turn away, so that we don't get to see your chest right away as
you uncover it. Make us wait. Ooh, that's it. Now up over your head,
slowly, slowly. Awesome. Now stuff it into one hand and turn back to
us. Ah! Fuck! That's it! I think I just came!"

      Brandt turned to Nick in horror, and saw that he was joking.

      "Hah! Gotcha! Now, let's test the water again, and then we're going
to do the same thing with the shorts, okay?"

      Brandt felt the water, which was by now quite warm enough. Then, he
returned to his strip-tease. He turned his ass to Nick, and hooked his
thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. He pulled down the back, slowly,
and was just starting to show the top of his cheeks when Nick gasped.

      "Holy shit, you aren't wearing underwear! That is so hot!"

      Brandt wasn't sure he could stand being told one more time by a guy
that he looked hot. But he bit his tongue and continued to slip the shorts
down his ass. As he did so, he felt something being taken from him--a sense
of his most private things being released into the world, where people who
didn't know him would see them and make their own use of them. He was
profoundly saddened by the feeling. But then, as quickly as it came upon
him, it vanished. In its place was only a feeling of dangerous power--his
ass could make people stop and look, could excite them in ways that Brandt
had never imagined. He felt suddenly free.

      "Okay, now turn around, slowly, and just show the top of your pubes."

      And just like that, the feeling of freedom evaporated, and Brandt
once again felt like a dirty slut. But he dutifully turned around, and
faced Nick and his camera with his most private part just barely hidden by
the thin fabric of his shorts.

      "Okay, buddy, lay it on me. Show me that awesome cock of yours."

      Brandt looked at Nick.

      "Are you sure you're straight?"

      Nick grinned. "Is it straight to want to rip those shorts off of you?
Yeah, I don't care. I've got to see that huge dick."

      Brandt felt that freeing power creep back into his psyche, confusing
him even more. He was hiding what Nick, and who knows how many other
people, wanted to see.  This was not a couple of fags in a dressing room,
this was an audience of anonymous viewers, perhaps dozens of them, who
would see this video, and for this moment their only thoughts would be
focused on him. On his dick. A slight, but genuine, smile played around the
corners of his mouth. He tugged his tight shorts down further. Most of the
fabric was gathered under his buttcheeks already, and the front slid
smoothly down the length of his cock. In a moment, he was fully
exposed. Nick drew in a admiring breath.

      "Fucking hot piece of meat, dude," he exhaled, his camera trained
closely upon it.

      Brandt kicked off his shorts, and turned to get in the shower.

      "Ooh, nice," he heard Nick say behind him. What was nice? All he had
done was step over the lip of the shower--oh. He must have flexed his ass
muscles somehow in doing so, and that's what Nick was responding
too. Brandt was realizing that being a sexual object meant that everything
he did was somehow a performance. It would take some getting used to.

      In the shower, he did what he always did in the shower--he stuck his
head under the spray for a few seconds, and then grabbed the shampoo,
squirted some into his hand, and starting scrubbing.

      "Whoa whoa whoa there, big guy," called Nick. "You can't just charge
into it like that!"

      Brandt was at a loss.

      "What should I do?" he asked. "This is how I take a shower."

      "But this isn't a shower--it's a fantasy video. People want to see
that rockin' bod of yours, and study it from all angles. They want to see
that you love it as much as they do."

      "What, you want me to start going at it right now?"

      "No, not yet. But what you should do is stand under the water, and
let it run down your body. See how it flows down your chest, and then
ripples over your abs? That's awesome, and that's what they want to see."

      "So, I'm going to stand here and let the water run down my body? Who
does that?"

      "No one, in real life. But that's what we do for these videos. Give
it a try."

      Brandt stood under the water, motionless, and let the water run down
him. It felt stupid.

      Nick peeked out from behind the camera again.

      "Now, run your hands up and down your torso."

      "Why?"

      "Why what?"

      "Why would I do that? I don't even have any soap."

      Nick took a deep breath.

      "Jason, what do you think that the people watching this video want?"

      "Um...I guess they want to see me jack off?"

      "Well, yeah, they do. But not right away. First they want to see you
work up to it."

      "That's what I was doing!"

      "No, you were just standing there. What they really want is to be
here, with you, rubbing their hands up and down your amazing body, feeling
the hard muscle under your soft skin. They want to brush their hands across
your chest and feel your nips harden.  They want to count your six pack and
then run their fingers down your treasure trail, and try to wrap them
around your cock. Which is getting bigger, now that I look at it."

      Brandt looked down, horrified. It was true. As Nick described what
these faceless viewers wanted to do to him, he was boning up. Shit. Brandt
was starting to think he really had become a slut. He decided to ignore it,
if he could.

      "Okay, so they want to maul me. What am I supposed to do again?"

      "You have to touch yourself because they aren't here to do it. Your
hands fill in for their hands. You should do to yourself what they would do
to you if they were here."

      "Who watches these things, anyway?" Brandt hoped that by talking shop
he could distract his still-hardening cock.

      Nick thought about this for a moment.

      "Well, men, mostly."

      "Yeah, I kinda figured that. But creepy old men, or what?"

      "No, actually, most of our viewers are in their thirties and
forties. They want to relive the frat house days they never had, or
something. We get some that are older, and some younger. You remember that
I told you my boyfriend Pete was in Europe with his friend Josh? Well, Josh
was one of the first guys who came to my live shows, and he's my age."

      Brandt took in this information, and glanced down quickly to see that
his dick, as he had hoped, was starting to soften again. Whew. Nick
noticed, but he didn't want to make Brandt self-conscious by mentioning it.

      "So, you good to go?" Nick asked.

      "Yeah, I guess so. It's just kind of weird to think about all of
those guys watching this video. You want me to touch myself the way they
would do it, and that kind of freaks me out."

      "Well, then, imagine that the people watching this video are the
cheerleaders from the U., or lesbian porn stars, or whatever."

      Boom. Brandt's cock began to rise again.

      "Now start feeling yourself up."

      Brandt tried hard to do what Nick asked of him, but it felt so
strange. He rubbed his hand across his chest as Nick had suggested, and to
his surprise he felt his nipples harden. Trying to get into the spirit, he
pinched his left nipple; this was meant to show Nick that he was trying,
but the spark of hot pleasure that shot across his chest--his whole
body--from his nipple shocked him. He looked down in surprise, and saw his
nipple honed to a sharp point, goosebumps all around it. Perhaps he really
had been missing something by rushing through his showers all the time.

      He looked up at Nick, right at the camera, and tweaked his right
nipple; again, an electric bolt sang through his chest and bumps radiated
from the hard nub. Without thinking, he sighed, his eyes half-closing as he
gave a little more of himself to this, this thing whatever it was, that
Nick was making him do.

      "Ohhhh, fuck," Nick whispered. He saw every inch of ground that this
very repressed boy gave up, and he recognized immediately that a wall had
just fallen. When "Mason" licked his lips and began lightly stroking his
abs, Nick knew for certain that he was in, balls and all.

      Brandt felt himself go on some kind of demented auto-pilot, as he
squirted some body wash into his hand and started rubbing it over
himself. Every few seconds he would feel flashes of detachment from his own
body--moments when his hands really did feel like they belonged to someone
else--and then his body responded even more ardently to his touch. His cock
was full-on steely hard and throbbing now, though he hesitated to touch it
in case it wasn't what Nick wanted him to do. Holy fuck, was he really
doing this? Was he really more worried about pleasing some 19-year-old
pervert with a camera than he was about his police work? What the fuck?

      "You're forgetting to wash something," Nick murmured, and Brandt saw
his ever- so-slight head-tip to his crotch. "I'm assuming you usually wash
there too, right?" he asked with a wink.

      Brandt hoped the heat in his cheeks would not show up in the
video. He was just getting the hang of this, and now it was the moment he
had been dreading. Up until now, all that had been recorded was of him
showering; if it anyone he knew ever saw it, he could claim it had been
made without his consent, with some kind of spy-cam. But now he was going
to be recorded beating his meat, and he would have to look totally into it.
This was the career-ending moment, the life altering moment. He couldn't do
it. Never.

      He looked at Nick, who met his gaze with his own golden eyes. He saw
a grin flirt with Nick's lips, and then Nick growled--an urgent, primal
sound--"Come on, do it for me. Stroke it for me. Don't think about them,"
he shot a glance at the camera he still had trained on Brandt's junk,
"Think about me. Give it to me. Just me." He licked his lips.

      Brandt wrapped his hand around his cock.

      He did it without thinking, without stopping to doubt or worry. He
did it for Nick.

      He gripped his cock with his right hand, slick with soap, and slid it
down the full eight-and-a-half-inch arc from base to tip, and then he
pulled it back in to press against his flat, muscular lower belly. This
simple transit made his breath ragged, and he let out a "woof!" as he
repeated it, more quickly, gripping harder, friction building. His hand was
soon a blur along the length of his urgently hard cock.

      "Perfect." Nick's exhaled praise was barely audible, but Brandt heard
it like a bell, and he felt the spasming start in his loins. If he didn't
stop right now he was going to go right off the cliff and--

      "Stop!" said Nick, commandingly. Brandt did as he was ordered to, as
he always did when ordered to do anything. He looked up at Nick, and
shivered off his pre- orgasmic trance.

      Nick smiled. "It looked like you were about to rub one out there, and
we don't want to do that in the shower, do we?"

      How the fuck did he know I was about to shoot, wondered Brandt.

      "Why not?"

      "Ugh--sticky mess. If I ever jack in the shower I just do it in my
hand and lick it up--that's far better than trying to clean it off
later. Anyway, let's get to where you rinse off and get to the bed, okay?"
he said brightly.

      It was too much for Brandt. Had he really been about to come--here,
doing this?  Fuck. He heard the camera start up again, and he knew he was
back on. He would have to think about this later. Or never. Whichever.

      He rinsed off the soap and took the towel that Nick had set out for
him, an impossibly fluffy white monstrosity that looked brand new. He dried
himself, even patting down his cock and balls without being prompted by
Nick. He wrapped the towel around himself and walked into the bedroom.

      Brandt stood before the bed, knowing that this was where he would
humiliate himself body and soul in the line of duty. He breathed deeply to
calm himself, and was so focused on trying to summon the courage to
continue that he didn't feel Nick approach from behind. His warm breath in
Brandt's ear sent a shiver of surprise down his spine.

      "It's okay to be nervous, stud." The deep voice softly filled
Brandt's ear with its rumbling, soothing heat. "But you are the sexiest man
who's ever laid on that bed, and people are going to go crazy over this
video. Now just go do your thing, and I'll be watching." He felt Nick pull
away from his ear, and then lean back in. "I'm totally hard for you, by the
way," he whispered. Then Brandt felt something on his earlobe. Did Nick
just kiss him on the ear? Fucking kiss him?

      Brandt's resolve to get this the hell over with was now
iron-clad. The only way out of this bizarre, oversexed, fucked-up place was
to just get it done. As he moved to the bed, he noticed with some surprise
that there were goosebumps all down his left arm.  Which Nick had
made. When he fucking kissed him. Fuck.

      Brandt threw himself down on the bed. He pulled open the towel and
defiantly exposed himself to Nick, as if he expected the younger man to be
knocked back by the force of his unveiling. Nick knew better than to
continue coaching him now--he could sense yet another change in attitude,
and he decided not to get in the way.

      Brandt grabbed his cock, and began stroking. There was lube on the
nightstand, and he ignored it; there was porn on the monitor at the foot of
the bed, and he didn't even look. He just gripped tight and pumped away,
staring angrily at the camera. Fucking Nick, fucking kissing him. What did
that bastard think was going on here?

      Nick kept his camera trained on Brandt's cock, wincing behind the
eyepiece at the dry rub it was getting. But there was such energy, such raw
power in those strokes that he just kept zooming in on the spectacle. This
was going to be amazing.

      In less than a minute, Brandt could feel the orgasm starting to
build. He tensed his abs to bring it closer--he was chasing it down, he was
going to grab it, choke the life out of it--and he felt the warmth
spreading across his body from his groin. His chest began to tighten, and
his pecs stood up round and taut as every fiber reached out for this
orgasm.  He closed his eyes, threw his head back, and pumped as if he were
trying to wrestle it into submission.

      The guttural growl startled Nick; Brandt wasn't even aware he was
making it. It rose steadily and then came in sobs and starts as he felt his
hands tighten around that elusive orgasm, felt its life begin to flow into
him. He howled as he thrust his hips into the vise-like grip of his hands,
pushing pushing to get all the friction he could. Then he froze, and his
howl trailed off into a supplicant's whine, a plea for completion.

      From his red and motionless cock, gripped tightly in his frozen
hands, the first shot of cum exploded. It shot up, then stretched itself
like a river, a twisting white Amazon, across Brandt's abs. A creaking
groan escaped his lips, and his whole body twitched, and then another blast
erupted, arcing up to his chest. The third flew gracefully through the air
and pooled at his throat. Then the growl returned, the thrusting started
again, and his whole body was in convulsive motion as he beat the life out
of the orgasm he had finally caught and made his bitch. Cum flew
everywhere, splattering like thick rain on the sheets, the pillows, all up
and down Brandt's body. His body wracked with spasms, he jerked and shook
and cried until he was exhausted, empty, done. He panted, his fingers laced
together around his still-hard cock, wet with the product of his frenzy.

      Nick was stunned. Breathless.

      "Oh ... my ... god," he finally was able to force out of his dry
throat. "That was incredible. I've just never ... no one's ever ... that
was amazing."

      Brandt's mind had been a blank, scorched by the cleansing fire of the
most brutal orgasm he had ever experienced. But Nick's voice brought him
back to himself, and to this place, and to what he had just done. His cock
ached, his earlobe tingled, and the air conditioning was blowing across the
pooled spunk on his chest, giving him a chill. He opened his eyes, sat
up. He shook his head quickly from side to side, hoping against hope that
this would prove a nightmare.

      "Did you--" he croaked, his throat rough from the groans and shouts
he was just now becoming aware he had made. "Did you get what you need?"

      "Almost."

      Brandt looked at him quizzically, and he pointed to his crotch. His
cock was standing straight up, and a gleaming silver thread dripped lazily
from its head.

      "Another minute of that and I would have just shot all over the place
without even touching it."

      In spite of himself, Brandt was flattered. The humiliation of this
whole experience came to rest in his mind right next to the pride of having
done well. He had been told on several occasions in the past that he was
too eager to please, and this was pretty much the ultimate proof. He had
just jerked off in front of another person for the first time ever, and
instead of being disgusted by the whole thing he was blushing with pride at
having done it well.

      "Can I go get cleaned up?" Brandt asked.

      "Sure, if I can join you," replied Nick, winking.

      Brandt just stared at him. This was over the top.

      "Kidding! You go take a shower and I'll start getting this stuff on
the computer for editing." Nick gathered up his equipment and walked to the
door. "Just come on down when you're ready--I'll be in the dining
room. That's where we edit video."

      "Okay," Brandt mumbled numbly.

      In the shower, as he scrubbed the cum off his chest (and legs, and
arms, and was there any place this stuff didn't land?), he tried to
think--about anything other than what had just happened. It seemed unreal,
even as he soaped the semen out of his pubic hair, that he had really done
it. He had masturbated, on camera, for money. He had become what he never
wanted to be by doing what he knew he had to do. There was an empty feeling
in his chest, a space where his dignity, his privacy--a big piece of his
humanity-- had lived, and now that it had been taken from him he felt the
ache of that loss. He put his hands against the wall and pressed his
forehead to the cool tile while the hot water washed over him.

      "Damn you, Brandt," he said aloud, hoping to focus his mind, "Get it
together."

      He forced himself to analyze his situation. Clearly he had been
successful in his audition--he was in. But what was the next step? How
would he begin the search for the documentation the Chief was expecting him
to gather? That lived in spreadsheets somewhere, and the only sheets he had
touched in this house were in the next room, splattered with his sperm.

      Fuck.

      "Get it together," he repeated to himself under his breath. He did
what had always worked in the past when the stress of the job overwhelmed
him--he put himself back in his academy days, in that time when his body
and mind were pushed to their limits. The state police force was widely
known for running an academy as demanding as West Point, and graduates
could be justly proud of simply surviving it. Brandt had done more than
survive it, of course, but it was the hardest thing he had ever done.

      Until now.

      As he imagined himself crawling through the stinking mud of the Urban
Assault Course, his resolve strengthened, his spine drew up straight. He
would get through this too. Somehow, he would get through this.

** 7 **

      Packed back into his pool-boy-inspired ensemble, Brandt made his way
down to the dining room. There he found Mr. Drake looking over Nick's
shoulder as the latter clicked away madly. Nick had a deft touch in the
video editing realm, and he was surgically cutting and splicing the rough
footage he had shot. Their voices were obliterated, of course, replaced by
a soundtrack that alternated between thoughtful piano and rhythmic pulsing,
depending on the mood Nick was trying to create.

      "You're here just in time for the big finish!" Nick called over his
shoulder--he had seen Brandt approach in the reflection on one of the
monitors.

      State Troopers have to be ready to see horrific things in their line
of work: accident scenes, murder victims, decomposing remains. But nothing
in Brandt's experience had prepared him to see himself, laying back on a
bed, stroking his penis. It was the ultimate private moment, and here it
was laid bare for these two strangers to see.  Brandt felt his pulse
weaken, as if his heart were preparing change-of-address cards and packing
its suitcase.

      Nick's music built to a crescendo as Brandt bucked and writhed on the
bed, and then cut to silence as the first long, white stream of spunk
geysered out of his cock. Mr.  Drake gasped and pressed his hand to his
mouth.

      "I know, right?" called out Nick.

      Brandt closed his eyes. He couldn't watch any more of this.

      The silence that shortly followed was Brandt's indication that the
video had ended, and that it was safe to look up.

      "So, here's what I was thinking for titles," Nick said, and the
screen changed to a cleanly designed but none-too-subtle announcement of
"Mason's First Time."

      "Two things," Mr. Drake said. "First, go."

      Nick nodded, and resumed typing.

      "Second," Mr. Drake continued, turning to Brandt, "That was
unfuckingbelievable. You sure you've never done this before?"

      Brandt shook his head. He wished he hadn't done it even the once.

      "Third," Mr. Drake summed up, "It was too short. It was mindbendingly
hot, but it wasn't long enough. If people see it only lasts 7 minutes,
they're going to think they're getting cheated. Nick?"

      "Yeah Mr. Drake?"

      "Eugene is going to be filming a solo this afternoon. You should
bring Jason along to get some pointers on how to make it last longer next
time."

      "You got it, sir."

      Mr. Drake turned to Brandt. "That was fine work, Jason. I'll have a
check for you before you leave today."

      Mr. Drake turned and walked back to his office while Nick pressed a
few last keys and stood up.

      "How about some lunch, and then we'll check in on Eugene?"

      "Um, sure."

      They walked toward the kitchen.

      "Nick?"

      "Yeah?"

      "What did Mr. Drake mean when he told you to 'go'?"

      "He meant to put your video on the site."

      Brandt stopped. "What?"

      "He said to put it on the site. I uploaded it, and now you're live."

      "That fast?"

      "Technology, huh? It's pretty awesome. How about burgers for lunch?"

      Nick walked ahead into the kitchen, leaving Brandt in the hallway to
contemplate how it felt to know the precise moment that your life
ends. Brandt's just had. He sat down on a bench in the hallway to wait for
the house to stop spinning.

      He had known that the video would probably find its way onto the
Internet, eventually. None of the Chief's assurances had made that
suspicion go away. But he had no idea that the total elapsed time from his
complete humiliation to worldwide availability of that humiliation would be
under an hour. Fuck.

      "Jason, you coming?" called Nick from the kitchen.

      "Yeah, be right there," Brandt managed to reply, trying to shake off
the feeling that he had just been mugged. Or raped. Or something.

      Focus on the job, Brandt.

      He walked down the hall to the kitchen, where he found Nick at the
grill cooking burgers. He was wearing an apron now, in consideration of the
possible grease splatters that might occur, but nothing else. Brandt stood
at the counter and watched him, forced himself to ask questions that a
detective would consider. He was trying to determine whether what Nick was
doing right now was a performance--in the sense that someone would pay
money to see him do it. On the one hand, he was just cooking. On the other
hand, he was doing it pretty much naked, and his entire backside was lean
and muscled and his ass was smooth and round and--

      Oh, fuck. Brandt closed his eyes. Was he really sizing up Nick's ass?
He was trying so hard to do a good job here, on both sides--to gather the
intelligence that would help him with the investigation, and to be a good
employee of this demented frat brothel.  But that meant looking at things,
in this case Nick's things, in ways that made him profoundly uncomfortable.

      All of the troopers had been lectured repeatedly on the dangers of
undercover work, and there were many stories of officers who had gone into
drug gangs and ended up working for them, addicts themselves. Brandt had
been certain that he would never let that happen to him--he would not
become what he had been sent to investigate. But the reality was far
blurrier than he had imagined it to be. In order to be a convincing frat
house slut, he needed to think like a frat house slut--but where did it
end?

      When Nick whispered into his ear that Brandt was turning him on, was
that just part of the job? And what was Brandt supposed to feel when he
looked at Nick's ass? And what if pretending to feel it made him start to
really feel it, even if he didn't want to?

      Brandt put his head down on the counter. Worst job ever.

      "Hey, you okay?" Nick asked, as he slid a plate of food over to
Brandt and then sat down next to him.

      "Oh, yeah, sure," Brandt replied, hoping he sounded cavalier about
having just jacked off for a worldwide audience. Maybe a dismissive chuckle
would help? "Heh, heh, shit." He picked up the burger that Nick had made
for him, and took a big enough bite to excuse him from conversation for a
moment.

      "Uh-huh," Nick nodded, looking skeptically at Brandt. He was a pretty
good judge of character--of slutty character, at least--and he knew
instinctively that his protege was trying to tamp down the feelings of
shame and regret that most of the guys felt after their first shoot. About
half of them never came back, in fact. Nick himself had been a notable
exception--after his first show he mostly felt that he had found his
calling. But he was empathetic with those who hesitated. In fact, it made
Brandt even cuter.

      In order to keep from having to talk, Brandt was powering his way
through lunch.  He was nearly finished before Nick had taken two bites.

      "Wow, you can eat," Nick said. "You must work out a lot to burn that
off. You're not carrying more than half a burger's worth of fat."

      "We have PT every day," Brandt said, still chewing.

      "PT? Isn't that what they call it in the military?" Nick asked,
squinting a bit at Brandt.

      Shit, I did it again, thought Brandt.

      "Uh, yeah. My dad was in the military. I just call it that. I mean I
work out every day."

      "Oh. So who's this 'we' you work out with? Are you on a team?"

      Think, Brandt, think.

      "Um, no. I just have a buddy I work out with. We keep each other
honest."

      A half-grin tugged at the corner of Nick's mouth.

      "Gotcha," he said. "I was worried there for a minute. We had a guy
here a couple of months ago who was on the wrestling team back at some
midwestern university, and they got royally pissed when they found out he
had done a video. Kicked him off the team. He lost his scholarship and
everything."

      "Well, that sucks," Brandt said, meaning what he said for the first
time in what seemed like days of lying. "Was it because of the gay thing?"

      Nick snorted. "No, he was straight. His girlfriend was the one who
wanted him to do it. They claimed he wasn't supposed to be earning money
while he was on the team.  But a lot of guys on the team held down
part-time jobs, so that didn't work. Then they said that they owned his
image because of the scholarship, and so the video broke their copyright or
some shit like that. Mainly they didn't want anyone seeing him spankin' it
on video, and they found a way. Bastards."

      "What about you?"

      "Oh, I'm not on a team or anything, so no one cares what I do."

      "Does your family know?" Brandt asked. He was out of food now, and
asking questions was easier than answering them.

      "No family," Nick said simply.

      "Oh." Brandt wasn't sure how to follow that one up. It was a strange
thing to say, especially without even a tinge of emotion in his
voice. "What about Pete?"

      Nick closed his eyes and shook his head, chuckling softly.

      "You sure bring him up a lot. Look, I like you and all, and I think
you're smokin' hot, but Pete's my guy. My only guy."

      "Thanks for the reminder, but I'm still straight. I'm so straight
that I don't even have a boyfriend."

      Nick laughed. "You're a funny guy."

      "So are you. Really funny. No, what I meant is does he mind that you
do this work?"

      "Well, we fought pretty good about it at first. I really do need the
money, though, 'cause I don't have parents like Pete's who pay for
everything. He was really pissed when he found out, but his friend Josh
helped convince him to chill about it."

      "Josh is the one who watched your live shows, right?"

      "Yeah. He's the sweetest guy. A dirty streak a mile wide, but you'd
never know by looking at him. I sometimes think he can make people gay just
by looking at them."

      "So, is Pete gay?"

      Nick considered this for a moment, as if there were several viable
options when someone asks a guy if his boyfriend is gay. Brandt still
didn't get this.

      "Yeah, I think so. It's taken him a while. But I have a feeling he's
going to come back from his summer trip a changed man. I think it'll be
really good for him."

      Brandt was about to ask what that meant when Nick suddenly looked at
the clock.

      "Oh, shit. Eugene's going to be doing his thing in a couple. We gotta
get up there."

      He sprang up and headed for the sweeping staircase that dominated the
entrance hall of the house. Brandt followed him--though not too closely,
because Nick's ass was at eye level as he climbed the stairs. It was only
at the second-floor landing that Brandt realized he hadn't taken his eyes
off of that undulating package of muscle the entire time.  Fuck.

      "He's in here," Nick called from a doorway a little way down the
hall. Brandt followed. As he turned into the room, he saw that Eugene
wasn't Eugene at all.

      It was Trent.

      The one whom Brandt had watched jack off during that first, awful
visit to the website. Whose hand he had shaken, despite his misgivings,
yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

      Eugene walked over to Brandt, his hand extended again. Great, thought
Brandt.

      "Good to see you again, Jason," he said in his deep, resonant
voice. It occurred to Brandt that he hadn't heard Trent speak in his video.

      "Uh, thanks. Nice to see you too." Luckily Eugene was still dressed,
which made that statement less awkward than it might have been.

      "So, we gonna show the new guy the ropes?" Eugene asked Nick,
grinning.

      Nick turned to Brandt. "That's his idea of a joke. See, Eugene comes
like a porn star."

      "Hey, I am a porn star!"

      Nick turned back to Eugene.

      "One Facebook fan page does not make you a star, buddy. Anyway," he
turned back to Brandt, "He shoots the thickest, nastiest ropes of cum
you've ever seen. It's like his trademark."

      "You're just jealous. You said it was the best tasting spunk you'd
ever had."

      "Shut up, Trench."

      Eugene laughed. "See, Jason, he calls me that because I wasn't afraid
to take a little dildo up the ass when my fans demanded it. He's just not
committed enough to the craft to do it."

      "I'm saving myself for my wedding night," Nick replied tartly.

      "Yeah, like Pete's going to make an honest man of you someday,"
Eugene taunted.

      Nick's reply was a quick punch to Eugene's pectoral, which sounded
much like he had socked a raw pot roast. The guy was solid. Eugene's
riposte was to grab the still- naked Nick around the neck and flip him over
onto the bed. Then he landed on him, smack-down-wrestling style. There
followed a good two or three minutes of writhing and grappling; the first
minute was aggressive, while the remainder seemed to be for pleasure
only. Nick was completely boned by the time Eugene finally released
him. Brandt studied Eugene's basketball shorts for signs of similar
engorgement, and saw none. He would realize his error shortly, when Trent
revealed the steel-belted jockstrap that was the only thing capable of
holding back his ever-eager equipment.

      "Okay, fuck! You win, caveman. I don't get how that bony girlfriend
of yours can survive you being on top. You must just lay back and let her
climb her way on."

      Eugene turned to Brandt. "Nick's always thinking about what it must
be like to be my girlfriend. Poor guy. He just can't accept that he's never
going to be on the receiving end of this," and here he grabbed a fat
handful of crotch meat and jiggled it at Brandt, and Nick, and the
world. There was plenty to go around.

      Nick rolled his eyes. "Let's just get this show on the road, if the
drama queen is ready for her close-up."

      "Fuck you, buddy," was Eugene's reply.

      "Not with that you won't," Nick wagged a finger at Eugene's
package. "Oh, hell no!"

      Nick grabbed the minicam that was on the dresser, and checked the
battery level.  "Good to go, dude. Let's light 'em up."

      There was clearly no real animosity between the young men, and they
turned to the task at hand like professionals. Brandt was still trying to
figure out the complexities of this little social world. He wasn't getting
very far.

      When Nick flicked the minicam on, the rest of the cameras installed
in the room snapped to attention as well, each with a small but bright red
light. This was a pretty slick setup, Brandt thought.

      More striking, though, was the instantaneous transformation from
Eugene to Trent. When the cameras started rolling, he became a new
person--the one that Brandt had seen on the website several times. He was
all business, and his business here was to make his audience rock hard. He
was, as he himself had said, committed to the craft.

      Trent began to smolder at the camera without ever seeming to
acknowledge that it existed. He was scrupulously diligent in timing his
movements and positioning his body for maximum effect. His strip
performance was sexy without being vampish; masculine yet teasing. How he
managed to do all of this was beyond Brandt--the fact that even Brandt
noticed the subtlety of Trent's performance was a testament to his
talent. If he could make a straight guy see that he was incredibly sexy, he
could do it to anyone. For once Brandt didn't berate himself for what he
saw in Trent, because Trent wielded his body like a weapon. Who could blame
him for falling victim to it?

      By now Trent was nude, but he still had not exposed himself fully to
the camera.  He walked to the bathroom and, predictably, Brandt heard water
running. But as he followed Nick the cameraman, he saw that it was not the
shower that was running, but the bath. Well, you had to give Trent some
points for creativity. But baths are much more the province of harried
housewives and couples experiencing erectile dysfunction--how would Trent
make this sexy?

      The answer was clear to Brandt as soon as Trent turned toward the
mirror and showed his body, in reflection, to Nick and his camera. Now,
Brandt was aware that his own cock was of considerable size. He had even
measured it, not without beating himself up for the very impulse, last
night after that thing in the dressing room at Cabana Boy. He knew that his
was over 8 inches when fully deployed.

      And now he knew that Trent's was even larger, even when it clearly
had some growing still to do. How had he not noticed this before? The
extent to which he had avoided even really looking at Trent's cock in the
videos he had seen was made apparent to him immediately. He had never let
himself see that part. Now he was sizing it up.  From four feet
away. Fucking fuck.

      Trent felt the water in the tub, and adjusted it so that it was the
perfect temperature--not the level he would choose if he were Eugene taking
a bath, but what Trent needed. That meant warm enough to make his balls
hang low (another fan favorite, apparently--he found floppy balls
inconvenient, but he had an audience to please) but not so hot that it made
his skin flush. He had found this out the hard way--after one particularly
hot bath he had been branded "The Lobster" on the website's discussion
boards. He was more careful now.

      Satisfied with the temperature and level of the water, Trent stepped
into the bath-- slowly enough that for a moment his cock and balls swayed
freely over the rim of the tub as he straddled it. Nick knew Trent's moves
well, and had positioned himself directly behind and at ass level to catch
the instant of maximum dangle.

      Trent settled into the tub, and Brandt, in spite of himself, was
curious as to what he would come up with. But he just reclined, his hands
behind his head, and closed his eyes. He wasn't moving at all. Brandt
couldn't understand how nothing happening could possibly please Trent's
audience.

      But Trent was actually hard at work. He had stiffened his abs as he
reclined in the tub, and they remained hard, a wonder of isometric
tension. Again, Eugene's abs would have been smooth and flat as he relaxed
in the tub, but Trent's were a crenelated landscape of peaks and creases,
each unit of muscle rising defiantly out of the water.

      He had other things on his mind as well. He had been reading an
obscure Vedic text on isolating and controlling involuntary muscles, and
was this moment willing his cremasters to release, dropping his balls lower
than the warm water would have on its own. At the same time, he was
carefully flexing and relaxing his toes, assiduously timing his motions to
simulate the natural motion of an athlete stretching his feet after
vigorous exercise. Trent had no clue why his feet were popular, but
according to the stats run by Mr. Drake at the end of each month, they were
fourth on his Physical Hotness by User Consensus (PHUC) report, which
analyzed the mentions of each model's attributes in the discussion
boards. His cock led the way, of course, as it always did, followed by his
balls and his abs, but his feet were a strong fourth and looked to finish
the quarter in third place if the trend held (summer was good for
feet--sandal season).

      Eugene may not have understood the results (why feet? Ick), but he
trusted them.  He was a computer science major, and had built the data
mining tool that calculated and analyzed the trends. He had submitted the
algorithm for the senior project competition; he came in third, but gained
five new fans for his work on the Str8 Frat Dudes site as a result of the
design review process.

      Brandt still thought Trent was just lying there.

      Finally, he started to move. He drew his hands from behind his head
and slowly ran them down his torso, stroking his abs with a studied
absent-mindedness. This resulted in goosebumps spreading across his chest,
hardening his nipples, which he gently tweaked with both hands. He sighed
and turned his head as if surprised by the pleasure this gave him. Brandt
suddenly remembered his own reaction earlier, his accidental thrill from
pinching himself there, and he thus understood exactly what Trent was
feeling (or, really, what Trent wanted his audience to think he
felt--nothing he could do to his body surprised him anymore). Brandt was
hooked--he thought only of what Trent would show him next.

      Trent continued to run his hands over his body, territory they had
known instinctively for ages, as though it were all new to him. This is
what Nick had tried to get Brandt to understand in his shower debut--making
the audience believe that their hands and his hands were on the identical
journey of discovery. It was stupid when one spelled it out, but
unconsciously it was hotter than hell. Brandt felt himself stiffening up.

      Trent groaned and rotated smoothly to his stomach, showing his
sculpted back and round buttocks packed with muscle. Again, it was not the
position that any normal person would choose in the bath, but it did
display his beautiful form to great advantage.  Almost imperceptibly, he
began to thrust his hips slowly and gently, apparently enjoying the
friction of his cock on the surface of the tub. His ass changed from
spherical mounds of hard, smooth flesh at rest to something like muscular
apostrophes as he thrusted. His movements grew more vigorous and urgent; as
his ass reared back the cheeks separated to give teasing glimpses of his
hair-rimmed hole--it winked out of view as quickly as it appeared, and then
it was back, and then gone again. Brandt discovered a new definition of
"sexy"--that which you want not just because it's beautiful but because you
can't have it. He imagined Trent's legions of fans viewing this segment in
slow motion loops, trying to get a good glimpse of that most secret
place. For the first time, Brandt understood.

      Water was slopping out of the tub now, driven by Trent's manic
thrusting (the appearance of complete abandon to pleasure was another part
of the craft) until finally he flipped back over and displayed his fully
erect cock for the first time. Both Nick and Brandt sucked in a sharp
breath.

      Trent's cock was a structural wonder. It pointed straight up along
Trent's lower (and mid-) abdomen, but didn't rest on his body at all. It
was so hard that it throbbed independently of his body, all the way up from
his crotch past his navel and onto the ridges of his lower abs. His balls,
meanwhile, had completed their descent to the bottom of his drooping
scrotum. Together, they formed a continuous line of nearly 15 inches of
genital magnificence, dominating his body with their extent. Brandt had
never seen anything like it, as Trent had not yet learned how to do it when
the earlier videos were recorded.

      Trent got slowly to his feet, facing away from the camera, and then
turned around slowly to reach for a towel--and expose himself fully. The
cock which had pointed straight at his chest continued to do so; it had not
given away a single degree of inflection to gravity. His balls hung even
lower now; they rested several inches away from the base of his cock, and
glistened smooth and round in their thin fleshy sac.

      His performance with the towel was as painstakingly nonchalant as his
bathing had been--every part of his body was caressed, patted, stroked with
a thick white towel (they must get a deal on those, Brandt thought). Trent
ruffled his hair into a carefully careless tousle, and then wrapped the
towel around his narrow waist. The effect was immediate--even Brandt felt
it. As naked as Trent had been before, the covering of his body both hid it
and promised that it would again be revealed. Brandt had thought that once
you were naked, that was it--how would covering up again make the audience
anything but bored? Now he saw it. Mr. Drake had been right--he was
learning a lot by watching.

      Trent made his way to the bed, where he kept the towel on while he
sat on the bed and, again, stroked his now clean and dry body. He did so
with a meditative, faraway look on his face; the afternoon sun streamed
through the window and illuminated him with a shaft of gold. He was
beautiful, Brandt saw clearly now, and wondered how he could have missed
that before. Trent lay back on the bed and reached under his towel to cop a
feel of his cock (again, his purpose in doing so was at variance with how
the action was perceived; the audience would see this as his not being able
to get enough of feeling his amazing prick, while what he wanted was to be
sure it was plump enough to reveal).  Finally the towel came off, and Trent
spread his legs and got to work.

      Brandt was expecting him to reach for his cock, but instead he ran
his fingers up and down his body, as if he were touching someone else. His
wanderings began to spiral in toward his crotch after a few minutes, and
yet he still avoided touching his cock (which was staying hard because
Trent loved the idea of people watching him as much as Nick did). Instead,
he wrapped his fingers around his loose balls and began to tug on them, to
rub them, to even squeeze them a bit so that the skin tautened and
shone. He then grasped each one with a looped thumb and index finger, so
that they were separately drawn to the sides; his scrotum was so relaxed
that he was able to get them several inches apart. Brandt reflected that
his balls had never been that far apart, and he wasn't sure that he wanted
them to be. Eugene probably wouldn't have chosen to have them that way
either, but with his balls placing so high on the PHUC he needed to keep
coming up with new ways to manipulate them without actually yanking them
off his body. He was experimenting during his professional development time
(Mr. Drake gave them several paid hours a month to come up with new
"content" for their videos) with more hardcore techniques, some involving
leather straps, but he wasn't sure they fit with the frat house image. They
did, though, make his balls feel pretty amazing.

      His ball massage concluded, Trent moved to stroking the area below
his balls (he had to lift them out of the way, as they hung down to his
asshole). His fingers wandered close to his anus, but did no more than
brush the outer surface before he moved back up-- he was teasing his
audience so that they would demand a full anal performance, and would pay
for a live show in which he would take more than the small plug he had
inserted last week. He wasn't looking forward to it, but he had his eye on
a classic BMW and needed a couple thousand more to pay for it. If he needed
to take a dildo up the ass to get the car he wanted, he was more than
willing--who wouldn't be? His girlfriend had been helping him to practice,
so he felt that he would soon be ready.

      Trent now, finally, 30 minutes into his video, touched his cock. But
only for a moment, lightly teasing the head and running his fingertips up
and down the shaft. Then, as he had in the bath, he rolled neatly over to
his stomach and began to thrust against the mattress. This was one of his
most popular moves; his longtime fan on the discussion boards, OMGTrent11,
published a list of the precise time in every video that he did the
fuck-the-mattress move. He actually found it awkward, and the friction was
irritating if he went on too long, but he did it for the same reason that
Ethel Merman always sang "Show Business"; not for love, but for the love of
her fans. And money.

      What the fans really enjoyed, though, was what Brandt was seeing
right now.  With his legs spread and his buttocks thrusting, Trent's ass
was a sight to marvel at. It was all muscle and sinew and lightly furred
flesh. As he pretended to lose himself in the feeling of thrusting his cock
against the bed, his ass rose higher and higher on the backswing and opened
more and more. Finally, his rosebud pucker was fully exposed, pink and
virginal. Nick's camera was trained on it, and Brandt was staring right at
it. It had emerged and disappeared several times when Trent suddenly
stopped, frozen at the top of his stroke, his ass spread wide. He paused
there, panting as if worn out from the exertion of scraping his dick
against the blanket, and Brandt was as unblinking a witness as Nick's
camera. It was only when Trent thrust forward again and then flipped back
over that Brandt realized he had been staring at a guy's asshole, and it
had been pretty fucking hot.

      Neurologists argue over the effects of sudden stress or trauma on the
brain; some think that the brain responds by shutting off the awareness of
the stressor, and coming back to process it later. Brandt's brain was doing
exactly this at this very moment. Brandt, who a few short days ago was
nauseated by the sight of Trent's ass, was now quite flushed with
excitement to be in the same room with it. What this meant, for him, for
his sexuality, for his sanity, would not rise to his conscious mind for
some time.

      Trent discreetly dispensed a bit of lube from the pump that lay
hidden at the head of the mattress, and began to stroke his cock more
purposefully. His stoke was slow and deliberate, and he took frequent
breaks to tease the hole at the tip with his finger, or to gives his balls
a tug. His was the opposite of Brandt's performance earlier in the day;
where Brandt had charged toward release, Trent teased it and waited for it
to come to him. It took about 10 more minutes before he was close enough to
grip more firmly and pull with more intensity.

      Brandt, to his mortification, now knew the signs of impending male
orgasm well enough that he could see Trent was close. His balls, those
wayward wanderers, were crawling back to their original home at the base of
his cock; his pectoral tensed and striations of muscle slashed across their
surface; Trent's head tipped back and his mouth opened, his eyebrows
arching with the pained realization of pleasure. His stroke changed to a
short, rapid flicker along the top quarter of his cock (which, in his case,
was nearly three inches), and his ab muscles stood out in sweat-glistened
relief. The end was near, Brandt could see, but he was unprepared for what
it would bring.

      These things happened all at once: Trent's left hand reached down to
cuddle his balls up against the base of his cock; his right hand sped to a
blur in its frenetic milking motion; and he raised his head to look down,
across the straining, heaving chest with its erect and flushed nipples,
past the cobblestone abs now beaded with sweat, down to the head of his
iron-hard penis as it flailed wildly, driven by a seizure of
stroking. Brandt watched it all, took it in, overwhelmed. And then
everything went into slow motion.  Trent gasped, taking in three quick
breaths, and then stopped breathing, as if afraid that the next breath
would be his last. His hands slowed their hyperactive twitching and instead
made small, undulating, coaxing motions. Every muscle, all across Trent's
body, was steely with anticipation.

      And then.

      "Oh." That was the only noise Trent made, but it rang in Brandt's
ear. It was so soft, and yet so full of need, that it broke his heart even
as it made his already rock-hard cock twitch with sympathy.

      And then.

      The first jet of semen shot so quickly out of Trent's cock that
Brandt didn't even see it until it was in mid-air, tracing its arc high
over Trent's chest. They all watched it soar--Brandt, Nick, the camera--as
it gracefully descended. Trent had his eye on it as well, and it was a
testament to his craft that, even in the throes of a very real orgasm that
was also a performance, he was able to make the opening of his mouth look
like the natural drawing of breath. It was into his mouth that the first
volley of hot liquid landed.  By the time it did, a second was in the air
and a third was emerging from his cock, which was really just getting
started.

      Trent's heterosexuality required him to react with surprise and
consternation when his own seed plopped into his mouth--what straight guy
wants that?--but his mostly non- heterosexual audience required him to look
as though a mouth full of semen was perhaps what he had always wanted, but
was afraid to admit that he wanted it. It was a tough line to walk, but
Trent was a master of that particular tightrope. A slight smile played on
his lips, his cum-coated lips, and then he puffed out a quick breath that
sent cum flying. In that moment he proved his heterosexuality to be both
secure and flexible--his motion was almost playful--and many, many of those
watching this video would find themselves also coping with a load of semen
at this moment. It was well played, and Trent knew it.

      His virtuosity proven, he relaxed slightly, and then the cum really
started to flow.  In an almost unbroken stream, his cock unloaded rope
after rope of thick, gleaming white semen that quickly gave his entire
torso the impression of richly veined marble. He was soaked in it, and
still it came.

      Brandt was breathless. He had never seen anything like it--he had
never seen at all, he now felt--and he took a shaky step backward, away
from the bed, and Trent, and the sharp scent of the pooling semen that
covered him. Brandt's legs were shaking, his head was spinning, and whether
that was pre-cum or the real thing his cock was spitting up he was no
longer certain. There was no boundary between what he felt and what he felt
he shouldn't feel, and he shuddered over his entire body--the kind of
shudder that sometimes he experienced after a particularly intense
orgasm--and whether he had just ejaculated or not he couldn't tell. And he
didn't care.

      "Aaaand, we're done," Nick announced as he shut off the camera. "That
was awesome, Euge. You hit that one out of the park." Nick smiled and
arched an eyebrow at his cum-drenched buddy, clearly envious and proud and
turned on and jealous all at once.

      "Shower. Need a shower," Eugene croaked, slowly rising to a sitting
position.  Brandt was startled to see that the cum that laced all up his
torso and his neck and--was that some on his ear?--stayed in place as he
sat upright. Nick had been right about its thickness. Brandt sickened a
little to realize that he was becoming something of an expert on
semen. That was another thought he would have to think later. Much later.

** 8 **

      Nick and Brandt made their way down the stairs, leaving Eugene to
wash up. The idea that he was up there showering alone, without a camera on
him, seemed suddenly odd to Brandt. He was beginning to wonder if he would
ever look at something so simple like showering the way he used to, before
all the world became a stage.

      As they walked down the hall, Mr. Drake popped his head out of his
office.

      "Oh, Jason! Glad I caught you. Here's your check."

      He handed Brandt a very plain business-style check, the kind you
might get in the mail as a refund for over-paying a gas bill. It wasn't
what Brandt was expecting, but then again he wasn't sure what he had
expected--perhaps a lurid red thing with pictures of naked men on it? That
was silly.

      "Thanks, Mr. Drake."

      "My pleasure! Hey," Drake said, turning to the still-naked Nick, "You
should show Jason how his video is doing." He turned back to Brandt. "We'll
want to have you back as soon as we can for another shoot," he said, a
slight huskiness in his voice. He turned back to his office and shut the
door.

      "Come on," Nick said, leading the way back to the dining room. "Let's
see how you're doing."

      Nick sat at the computer, and brought up the Str8 Frat analytics
page. He highlighted the video of Brandt that had now been available for
two hours.

      "Whoa."

      "What?" Brandt asked, alarmed by Nick's reaction.

      "1726."

      Brandt was stumped. What happened in 1726 that had any relation to
anything?

      "What does that mean?"

      "It means that one thousand seven hundred and twenty-six people have
viewed your video. So far."

      Brandt felt sick. He had pushed the idea of people seeing his video
out of his mind for several hours, and now he had to somehow process the
fact that nearly two thousand people had seen it.

      "And that's just so far," continued Nick, shaking his head in
wonder. He leaned in and looked at the map that showed where the hits were
coming from. "Dude, you're huge in England."

      He pointed at the map, on which the British Isles throbbed in red.

      "We sometimes see a spike like that right around this time of day. I
think it's all of the those repressed Brits coming home from their job at
the bank, taking off their top hats and monocles, and settling down for a
nice wank with a beefy American frat boy." Nick was giggling as he
described a vision that was part Mary Poppins and part, well, perverted.

      "Oh, god."

      "You okay, man? You look a little pale." Nick was concerned about his
new friend.

      "I'll be ... fine. Yeah, I'm good." Brandt shook off the shock of
knowing that so many people had already watched his humiliating display,
and tried again to be casual about it. But he could't help wondering
whether anyone might have recognized him, whether someone he knew might
somehow have seen the video. The very thought was impossible, he knew
objectively, but he still felt very much like someone who suddenly realizes
his fly is open. After giving a ten-minute talk in morning briefing. To the
vice detail.

      He felt sick again.

      Nick studied the traces of this emotional complex as it crashed in
waves over Brandt's face. This, too, he had seen before, though perhaps not
this severely.

      "Look, you might just want to call it a day and go get some rest," he
suggested.

      "Yeah, that's a good idea," Brandt mumbled, trying to sort out which
way the front door was.

      "You can use one of the rooms upstairs to crash in, if you'd like,"
Nick offered brightly. "I'm gonna whip up some wicked barbecue for dinner."

      Nick's offer so warmed and steadied Brandt that he was halfway to
accepting before even taking notice of what he was feeling: Nick, the
porno-savant, was offering to take care of him like he was his granny. All
that was needed was some chicken soup.

      "Or I could just make you some soup or something," Nick continued,
his upraised brow furrowed with concern.

      Oh, fuck.

      Brandt took a deep breath and managed to say strongly and with
confidence he certainly didn't feel, "Nah, thanks man, but I gotta get
back."

      He held out his hand to shake Nick's, trying to seal the "who gives a
shit that I just jerked off on video and nearly two thousand people have
watched it" deal he was selling.

      Nick looked at his outstretched hand, smiled, and shook his head
slightly. He reached out his arm, his tan, muscled arm, and grabbed
Brandt's shoulder. He pulled him close and wrapped his other arm around
him. He held him tightly, rubbing his hand up and down Brandt's
back. Brandt tried to remember how to breathe.

      Nick finally pulled back, but kept his arm around Brandt's shoulder.

      "Take care, buddy. I'll see you next week?"

      Brandt gasped, too wrung out to hide his shock.

      "For what?" he asked, momentarily stunned at the thought that more
degradation lay in store for him.

      "Your construction job, right?" Nick smiled. This poor guy was
completely around the bend.

      "Oh, yeah. That. You know," Brandt's powers of dissimulation were
slowly reawakening, his focus on his real goal here coming back. "I think I
might just quit that gig. The money sucked. I can make a lot more doing
this." He patted the pocket he had put the check in.

      "Awesome," Nick yelled, as a grin broke like the sun across his
face. "I was hoping you would say that!"

      Brandt, mortified that he had just offered himself up for more
humiliation, just gritted his teeth, hoping it looking like enthusiasm. It
mostly did.

      "Look, I'll text you Monday and we'll set something up for next week,
okay?"  Nick's mind was already swimming with ideas of how "Mason" could
build his already considerable fan base.

      "Sounds great. I'll talk to ya," breezed Brandt as he made his way
out the door.

      The sun struck him full in the face, shining down for the first time
on Officer Brandt, man-whore.

** 9 **

      "So, he hugged you? Didn't you say he was naked?"

      "Dude was totally naked. It was completely awful." That it wasn't
completely awful was just one more thing that Brandt hadn't told Donnelly,
because he hadn't yet told himself.

      It was Sunday morning, and Donnelly and Brandt were working out
together, as they always did on Sunday morning. Brandt had spent a
sleepless night, mainly because every time he closed his eyes he saw Nick,
or Eugene, or--worst of all--himself, through the window of a web
browser. Sometimes he could see himself watching Eugene's epic ejaculation,
frozen in wonder, a top hat hanging off the corner of his monitor. He'd
given up even trying to sleep at around three-thirty.

      No one else worked out on Sunday mornings, so the two officers
regularly used this time to vent about their week--and Brandt had a lot to
vent about. He started by trying to render events in vague outlines, but he
needed so badly to talk about his experience that he just gave up
sugar-coating it. He started with the end, when he had received the check
and been embraced by Nick (and his penis, which Brandt didn't mention, as
the thought made Brandt's hip burn a bit where there had been extended, and
forceful, contact).

      "So you got paid. That's awesome. What did you have to pretend to do
in order to get hired?" Donnelly asked as he set more weight on the bar so
that he could spot Brandt.

      Brandt took a deep breath.

      "I did it, man. I did it." He grabbed the bar and started his reps,
so that he wouldn't have to elaborate.

      Donnelly squinted down at his partner.

      "Did what?"

      Brandt finished his set, and Donnelly helped him get the bar set
back.

      "I made a video," Brandt uttered glumly, and then got up to get a
drink of water, leaving Donnelly to contemplate this bit of information.

      "Of what?" Donnelly called to Brandt at the drinking fountain.

      Brandt stood, turned back to Donnelly, and shook his head.

      "A cooking video, of course. I whipped up a Baked Alaska so
spectacular that my picture now hangs in the state house in Juneau."

      Donnelly was dumbstruck.

      "You made one of those videos? Like the ones we saw? Like where the
guy gets all ..." Donnelly gasped, as if he'd just swallowed a
tadpole. "And then he ..." Nope, more like a frog. Maybe two.

      Brandt regarded his befuddled friend, and shook his head.

      "Yes, one of those videos, you stupid fuck. Wasn't that the point of
the whole deal? Get into the house, be accepted, figure out how it works?
So, yes, I made a fucking video where I take my fucking clothes off and
jack my fucking junk at the camera, okay?  Get the picture now? And as of
eight o'clock this morning, according to the porn guru Nick, that video has
been seen by, and I quote from his text here, 'More than seven thousand
households,' which seems like a fucking weird way to put it, since it's not
exactly family viewing."

      Brandt was panting from the effort of being both outraged and
sarcastic at the same time. It was Donnelly's turn to look a bit pale.

      "What was it like?" he was finally able to gather the voice to ask.

      "What was what like?"

      "The whole thing. Did it feel weird?"

      Brandt rolled his eyes. But he knew at some level that Donnelly's
questions were to be expected, so he resolved to be patient.

      "Yes, it was weird. Mainly because everyone treats the whole thing
like a business. Well, except for Nick, who treats it like his personal
playground. That guy, I tell ya."

      So, you just got in front of the camera and went at it?"

      "No, no of course not," stumbled Brandt. "It wasn't like that at
all." He was trying to figure out how to explain what it was like, how Nick
had managed the situation, how he had basically seduced him out of his
clothes, how he had pushed his buttons in ways that made him need that
orgasm, not just want it. He didn't have the words for all of that.

      "Then, what?" Donnelly asked, softly, his eyes searching Brandt's for
a clue as to what weighed on his friend so heavily. He, like Nick, was
attuned to Brandt's conflicts in ways that surprised Brandt. Did everyone
just somehow know what he was feeling?

      Donnelly reached out and put his hand on Brandt's shoulder.

      Brandt froze. That touch, Donnelly's touch, Nick's touch. It seared
him, mocked him. He grabbed Donnelly's hand, threw it off him.

      "Don't fucking touch me!" he screamed, his face red, his legs
shaking. He jabbed Donnelly in the chest with his hand, pushed him away
hard enough that his partner stumbled back and fell to the ground. "Don't
ever fucking touch me!"

      Brandt turned and stalked out of the gym, leaving a bewildered
Donnelly shivering in shock.

** 10 **

      It was well into the afternoon before Brandt finally summoned the
nerve to call Donnelly. After the gym episode, he had come home and crashed
into bed, finally able to get the sleep that had eluded him all night. He
awoke at nearly 4, feeling groggy and sweaty.

      "Hey," Donnelly said when he answered Brandt's call.

      "Hey."

      Silence.

      "Sorry about the gym--" Brandt began, but Donnelly cut him off.

      "No. No apologies. Being partners means never having to say you're
sorry, right?  We're cops. We do tough work, and it gets to all of us
sometimes."

      Fuck, Brandt thought. What a guy.

      "Look, I mentioned that thing at my sister's house, remember?"

      Brandt didn't remember. Then he did. Would his mind ever recover from
this?

      "Yeah, yeah, I remember."

      "Well I think you should come. Do you some good to get among people
and have normal conversation."

      "What's the thing for?"

      "It's just dinner. My sister loves to have a big Sunday dinner, and
she's the only one who's going to do it since my mom went off the deep end
about my brother. It'll be just family. You should come."

      "Look, I appreciate the offer--"

      "Great, I'll pick you up in twenty minutes." Donnelly had a partner's
sense of what Brandt needed, and he was too good a friend to take no for an
answer.

      "Wait, what--" But the phone went dead. Brandt took a deep breath and
headed for the shower. Would he ever feel clean in the shower again?

      Precisely twenty minutes later, Donnelly rang the doorbell. Brandt,
feeling more human after cleaning up and shaving, opened the door and
stepped out into the warm haze of a summer Sunday afternoon. It felt like a
day for normal people doing normal things. Brandt wished he were one of
them.

      "Looking good there, buddy," Donnelly chirped, incessantly buoyant.

      "Um, thanks." Brandt used to shrug off compliments about his
appearance, but now he saw them in a different light--the light of a video
camera. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and tamped down the blush
that was creeping up his neck.

      "Let's go," he managed to say, sounding almost upbeat.

      It didn't fool Donnelly, but he decided to take Brandt's attempt at
face value.

      The drive to Donnelly's sister's house was spent in nearly complete
silence, twenty-five minutes of Brandt looking out the window trying to
remember what things used to look like, before it all changed, and Donnelly
staring at the bumper of the car in front of him, trying not to glance at
Brandt. They pulled into the driveway, next to what looked like a
pimped-out minivan.

      "Nice ride," Brandt said, looking at the minivan. "But why would
someone spend so much lowering a family hauler and custom-painting it? It's
still a minivan."

      "It's been modded for a wheelchair," Donnelly replied, as they walked
up to the front porch. He didn't mean it to sound snarky, but it did kind
of come off that way.

      "Oh," was all Brandt could think of to say. Inside, he hated himself
for being so wrapped up in his own fucked-up situation that he was unable
to even register basic human empathy. Donnelly had never mentioned anyone
in his family who was in a wheelchair, though.

      Donnelly opened the front door and stepped in.

      "Hey Sis! What's cookin'?" he called, holding the screen door open
for Brandt to follow him. "It better be good--I brought company!"

      "Oh! Did you bring someone special?"

      "Yeah, he's pretty special. It's my dork partner!"

      Donnelly's sister emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a
towel and looked excitedly at Brandt.

      "So this is Officer Brandt! I've heard so much about you. Welcome,
welcome!"  She extended her hand and smiled broadly.

      "Thank you. I'm ashamed to say that I've heard very little about
you." He slugged Donnelly in the arm by way of pointing out exactly where
communication had broken down. "Thanks for the invite for dinner."

      "You're always welcome here. Please, call me Chris."

      "I'm very pleased to meet you, Chris."

      She looked expectantly at Brandt, hoping perhaps to learn his first
name, but Brandt was looking elsewhere, focusing hard on his duties as a
guest in this house.

      "You have a lovely home," he said, hoping it sounded genuine. Why was
this all suddenly so difficult? He found himself trying to imagine how he
would act if he hadn't just made his porn debut. Why should that matter
now? But it did.

      Chris glanced around what was, even in the most generous light, a not
very elegant ranch-style tract house in a neighborhood that had long ago
ceased to be respectably middle class.

      "Oh, this old place? It's not much, but it works for little ol'
me. Now, come to the backyard and meet the other folks!"

      She led the way through the kitchen to the backdoor.

      In the backyard, on a modest little patio surrounded by a small swath
of grass, was the rest of Donnelly's family. A boy of perhaps four years
played in a makeshift sandbox, while near him, in a wheelchair, sat a man
of about thirty with a baby on his lap.  He was talking animatedly to her,
while the baby stared back at him and drooled happily.

      Donnelly led the way over to the pair in the wheelchair.

      "Hey there, Delilah! How are you, little princess?"

      The man in the wheelchair turned the baby around so that she faced
Donnelly.  Instantly a toothless grin overtook her little face as Delilah
recognized her uncle. She bounced her legs energetically and completely
without coordination. Donnelly reached out and picked Delilah up, and held
her close. A spot of drool quickly spread across his shoulder.

      "Hey, I'd like you to meet Will. Will, this is my partner."

      Brandt smiled at Will and extended a hand. Will reached up and took
it, shaking it firmly. Corded muscles stood out along his arm.

      "Pleased to meet you, partner," Will's deep voice rumbled.

      "Ethan."

      "Pleased to meet you, Ethan. This one," he nodded to Donnelly's
prized bundle of love and drool, "Is my daughter Delilah, and that one,"
nodding to the sandbox, "Is Dylan."

      "You have a beautiful family," Brandt offered, immediately feeling
stupid of offering the same compliment to Will that he had to Chris about
her living room. He tried to figure a way to fix it. "They have their
mother's eyes." There, that should work.

      Will smiled, as if Brandt had just told a well-meant but not terribly
funny joke.  "They do, you're right."

      Brandt squatted down next to Dylan, who immediately handed him a dump
truck.  Brandt had no idea what to do with it, so, with a roll of his eyes,
Dylan demonstrated how to load sand into his own truck with a small yellow
shovel. He then handed the shovel to Brandt and waited for him to do the
same, which he did.

      Brandt looked up to Chris, who was coming down the stairs with a tray
of drinks.  He hadn't noticed before how pretty she was, though he saw
enough of Donnelly in her to make him stop that line of thought before it
had a chance to begin.

      "OK, Chris, I've got it working again, but please, next time it jams
up just call me instead of trying to fix it yourself. I'll be happy to stop
by anytime."

      This was a new voice, a male one. These Donnellys seemed to go on
forever.  Brandt stood up.

      Will made the introductions.

      "Ethan, this is Lucas. Lucas, this is Gabriel's partner Ethan."

      Lucas extended a hand.

      "Gabriel's partner, eh? Must be a challenge keeping him out of
trouble."

      Brandt shook Lucas's hand.

      "Yep, but someone's got to do it."

      Brandt was hoping for some explanation as to how Lucas fit into the
family, but then Lucas walked over to to Donnelly and held out his arms.

      "Delilah! De-LIE-lah! Come give Daddy a hug, sweetie!" Donnelly
handed the still gleeful baby over.

      Wait, what? Great, Brandt thought. Now I'm hearing things.

** 11 **

      A few hours later, the group relaxed under the glow of little white
lights strung from tree to tree, around the big table that Lucas had
dragged to the center of the patio.  The remains of dinner lay about, and
now they sat, laughing and talking. Delilah was asleep in Chris's arms, and
Dylan was back in the sandbox managing his fleet of dump trucks.

      "So then, while I'm back in the cruiser trying to get the first-aid
kit out of the glove box, the monkey grabs Gabriel's flashlight." The table
erupts into even louder laughter. "And then he jumps off the top of the
car, grabs him by the holster, and bites him on the ass!"

      Chris, already weak with laughter, looked as though she might pass
out; Lucas was howling, and Will had tears running down his cheeks.

      "Hey, it hurt," Donnelly offered, pitifully. "It could have gotten
infected."

      This only made them all laugh harder. Even Dylan was laughing, in the
sandbox, without knowing why.

      "How long you guys been together?" Will asked, when the laughter had
died down a bit.

      "Nearly two years. The entire time I've been on the force." He looked
across the table at Donnelly. "He was my first," he added, giggling. He'd
had three beers, which was two more than he normally had with dinner.

      "Well, I think this little one needs a diaper change, and I'm going
to get the dishes done," Chris announced, handing Delilah to Lucas and
rising to her feet.

      Brandt wasn't sure why this seemed odd to him. Why wouldn't mom
change her baby's diaper?

      "I'll help with the dishes," Donnelly said, rising.

      Brandt stood as well.

      "No, no, you sit, and have another beer," Chris insisted. "No
domestic labor for guests. At least the first time," she winked at Brandt
and headed up the steps, with Donnelly and Lucas, holding Delilah,
following.

      Brandt, alone at the table with Will, sipped his fourth beer.

      "So, Will, what do you do?"

      "Right now I'm preparing to compete in the Paralympic Games."

      "Wow. That's awesome. What's your event?"

      "Biathlon."

      "That's the one where you ski and shoot, right? How'd you get started
on that?"

      "Well, I always liked skiing, and during my Army training I found I
was a pretty good shot."

      "Oh, so you were in the military?" Brandt asked, and then, emboldened
by the beer, continued, "Is that how you, um..."

      "Yep. That's how I ended up in the chair. Afghanistan."

      "Wow." Brandt wasn't sure what to say. Then he was. "Thanks."

      "For what? People don't normally thank someone for getting a spinal
cord injury."

      "No, I mean for going in the first place."

      "Well, it was kind of my duty. But," Will added, raising his whiskey
sour to Brandt, "You're welcome."

      "Donnelly's brother was over there too, right? Did you serve in the
same place?"

      Will blinked a couple of times.

      "We were in the same unit. Matter of fact, the same explosion that
landed me in this thing killed him. He was good people, and it sucks that
he's not here raising a beer with us."

      Brandt had only found out about Donnelly's brother a few days ago,
but now he felt as though he had lost a friend. He decided to shift to a
happier topic.

      "So, how long have you and Chris been together?"

      Will smiled.

      "Chris and I aren't together."

      Brandt squinted at Will.

      "Oh, I ... what?"

      Will chuckled.

      "I'm with Lucas."

      Brandt was halfway through a nod when he realized the absurdity of
what he'd just been told.

      "Whoa, for a second there I thought you meant that you and Lucas were
like, lovers or something." Brandt laughed at his misunderstanding.

      Will smiled. "I did. Lucas and I have been together for almost five
years, and Chris is the surrogate mom of Dylan and Delilah."

      Brandt carefully replayed that statement in his head, trying to shake
the sense of it clear from the beer-addled mess he was trying to use for a
brain.

      "So you and Lucas are ... Oh, I see." Brandt tried to figure out how
to save this delicate social situation. "That's, um, great."

      "I'm glad we have your blessing, Ethan. It means a lot to me." Will
grinned at Brandt, clearly meaning no malice. "And how about you? Anyone
special in your life?"

      Brandt could only shake his head. He didn't want to say anything that
might make him look like even more of a dolt.

      "Gabriel says you're pretty much married to the job right now. He has
a lot of respect for you, you know. He talks very highly of you. A lot."

      Brandt blushed. Why, he had no idea.

      "He says you're on some super hush-hush investigation right now that
we're not supposed to ask you about. But after a couple of these," he held
his glass up, "I'll ask anybody anything." He grinned and took another
drink.

      Brandt, suddenly emboldened by Will's statement, decided he could do
that as well.

      "You don't seem gay."

      Well, that was a little more blunt than he had intended, but there it
was.

      "Well, that's probably because I wasn't before Lucas."

      "What?"

      "True story. I was married at the time, but she couldn't handle my
new, post- explosion condition, so she left. And then there was Lucas, who
was my physical therapist at the VA. He showed me he could pretty much
handle anything, so I let him.  And we've been together since."

      "But ... but .... people just don't wake up one morning and decide to
be gay."

      Will laughed. "I used to think that too. But Lucas is a pretty
amazing guy."

      "So, he ... Oh, never mind. I shouldn't be asking you this stuff."

      "No, no, it's fine. I'm happy to talk about it. I've kind of made a
career out of talking to veterans groups about trauma recovery, and my
relationship with Lucas is a big part of that. Ask away."

      "So, basically, Lucas seduced you? Made you gay?"

      Will smiled and shook his head. "No, I wouldn't say that. More like
he showed me that love doesn't give a fuck about labels and identities. He
loved me when I was broken and alone, and I realized that being straight
was a bigger disability than being paralyzed."

      Brandt was silent.

      "I guess I was just lucky that when I needed someone the most, he was
there," Will concluded.

      Brant felt tears welling in his eyes, though he had no idea
why. Donnelly came back out of the house, and sat back down at the table.

      "So, what did I miss?" he called out, grabbing another beer.

      "Oh, just some war stories," chuckled Will, whose jocular manner did
not betray his concern for this Brandt fellow, who was trying to hide his
tears from his partner.  There's some undealt-with shit going on there, he
thought to himself.

      Brandt, for his part, stared the shiny vinyl tablecloth decorated
with hula girls and willed the world to stop so that he could collect his
thoughts. Donnelly saw right away that Brandt was in trouble.

      "Well, we'd better get on our way. Come on, pardner, let's get
moving. The taxpayers expect a full day of work tomorrow."

      Brandt shook his head sharply, knocking loose whatever thought
structures had been forming while Will talked.

      "Yeah, we should hit the road." Brandt drained his beer and stood,
swaying a bit.  "Nice to meet you, Will." He extended a hand, which Will
shook, once again surprising Brandt with the strength of his grip.

      "You too," smiled Will, who was trying to say something to Brandt
with his eyes, something like "I see that you're hurting, and I could help
you if you would let me," but Brandt wasn't up to reading things in
people's eyes right now.

      They made their way through Chris's house, saying goodbye to Lucas
and the kids as they went, and were soon back in Donnelly's car heading for
Brandt's apartment.

      "So, buddy," Brandt began as they merged onto the freeway. "Is anyone
in your family straight?"

      Donnelly sighed.

      "Well, there's me, for one," he replied, in a tone of mock
indignation. "And Chris.  She's not only straight, she has a string of
deadbeat ex-boyfriends to prove it. Which, now that I say it out loud, is
perhaps a sign that she should consider the lesbian thing."

      "But Will and Lucas were a surprise," remarked Brandt, trying to
sound casual as he probed for information.

      "Okay, but they're not technically family. I mean, yes, the kids are
related to Chris biologically, and Will knew my brother in Afghanistan, but
they aren't officially family.  Really." Donnelly trailed off. There wasn't
a good way for him to capture what all of those people meant to each other,
and how they really had become a family over the last several years.

      "I mean, it's fine and all," Brandt continued, striving still for a
casual tone that did not betray the turmoil inside him, "I just ... I just
don't really get something Will said."

      "What was that?"

      "Well, he said that he wasn't gay before he met Lucas."

      Donnelly waited for a moment, in case there was more. There wasn't.

      "Yeah?' He prompted Brandt to continue.

      "Doesn't that seem strange to you?"

      Donnelly turned to look at his partner.

      "Are you asking as an investigator, or just as a person?"

      Brandt scoffed and shook his head. "I'm just saying that I've never
heard of that happening before."

      "And do a lot of gay men come up to you and describe the exact moment
they knew they were gay? Does that come up a lot in everyday life?"

      "Whoa, there, buddy, I'm just sayin'."

      "Well, what you're just sayin' is about someone I consider part of my
family."

      "Look, I don't mean that it didn't happen that way. I just never knew
that it could.  I didn't think 'gay' was a switch that just got thrown one
day."

      "So what if it is? Why does that seem so strange?"

      "But aren't people born that way? Isn't that what we're always told
in those sensitivity training sessions they keep making us sit through?
That sexual orientation is like eye color?"

      Donnelly thought for a moment. Brandt was right--they had had that
hammered into their heads several times over the past year.

      "I guess it's not like that for everyone."

      "Yeah, I guess not," agreed Brandt, and returned to looking out the
window.

      He couldn't say to Donnelly what was really bugging him. That if it
had happened to Will--burly, regular Army Will--it could happen to anyone.

** 12 **

      Brandt sat for a time in the quiet darkness of his empty
apartment. Moments like this were why he lived alone, when he could
organize this thoughts in the dim stillness of the evening. But this
evening it seemed perhaps too still, too quiet. The chaotic goodwill of
Chris's house, of Donnelly's strangely extended family, danced at the edges
of his consciousness, reminding him how nice it felt to be around other
people. Here, where he controlled everything and accommodated no one else's
quirks, this had always been his sanctuary. Now it just seemed empty.

      He reached reflexively for his phone, which, as soon as he held it in
his hands, struck him as a pathetic attempt to reach out for connection, or
some such psycho-babble shit as that. But he immediately saw a string of
texts filling his in-box--he had muted his phone when he collapsed after
the gym.

      All of the texts were from Nick.

      The first few, from mid-morning, were additional updates about the
performance of his debut video. By early afternoon, the number of views had
risen into the low five digits, and Nick was peppering his increasingly
breathless messages with an embarrassing number of exclamation
points. Finally, the last few texts, sent about an hour ago, indicated that
his video had set a new 24-hour record, and that Brandt needed to come to
the house tomorrow to "plan the next moves."

      Brandt was absorbing this last bit when the phone rang, startling him
into almost dropping it on the floor.

      It was Nick.

      "Hey, Nick," Brandt answered, bracing for more bad good news.

      "Dude! You are huuuuuuuge!" rang out Nick's voice, shattering the
former calm of the evening.

      Brandt took a breath.

      "I mean," Nick continued, "I knew you were huge, but this video is
huuuuuuuge!"

      Brandt sat silent, his eyes pressed closed.

      "Jason, you there?" Nick's voice was finally calming a bit.

      "Yeah, yeah ... I'm here."

      "So, here's the deal," Nick sailed on, satisfied that Brandt was
listening, "You got named 'New Meat of the Week' on FYFB.com! The traffic
to your vid just doubled...in the last hour!"

      "New Meat of the Week?" was all Brandt could utter in response to
this bizarre new bulletin.

      "Yeah! It's like getting the Pope's blessing. Everyone looks for the
New Meat on Sundays, and this week you're it!"

      "Who did this? Why?"

      "FYFB.com. You've heard of them, right?"

      "Um, no," replied Brandt, who was making his way to the computer to
see for himself.

      "You really are straight, aren't you? It's Fuck Yeah Frat Boys! Dot
Com! They post reviews of the fine cinema that we produce, and the lame
stuff our competitors put out, and a front-page hit like this is pure gold!
I've never seen anyone get New Meat so quickly--we normally have to promote
the new guys, practically beg to get them noticed."

      As Nick rattled on, the site was coming up in Brandt's browser
window.

      There he was.

      The discerning critics at Fuck Yeah Frat Boys.com had chosen three
stills from "Mason's First Time" to feature on the front page. The first
was Brandt lifting his shirt off (the second time), which he couldn't
really object to, since all it showed was the muscles of his upper body and
the form he had worked hard to sculpt them into. As he scrolled down,
though, he winced. The next picture showed him stroking himself in the
shower, dripping wet and rock hard, looking for all the world like he was
completely lost in the pleasure he was experiencing. Nick's work, he
recalled, not his.

      The last shot, though, was all him. He was laying back on the bed,
his red cock gripped tightly in both hands, every muscle standing out in
sharp relief, and the first burst of cum was just beginning to emerge from
the tip of his penis. His eyes were tightly shut, his head thrown back, and
between his tensing buttocks could be seen just the shadow (Brandt leaned
in close to the monitor, hoping he wasn't seeing it) of his asshole.

      Fuck.

      "Fuck," he said into the phone.

      "I know, right? Well, we're watching the traffic meter spin here like
the odometer on the fuckin' space shuttle, and Mr. Drake is getting very
excited. He wants to meet with you tomorrow to talk about your future. This
is fuckin' awesome, dude!"

      "Yeah, awesome," Brandt managed. "When should I be there?"

      "Come whenever you want. We'll be here! I have some amazing ideas for
your next video, and I bet you do too. See ya tomorrow, right?"

      Brandt could think of nothing he could show on video that hadn't
already been displayed. The limits of his imagination would soon be
apparent to him.

      "Right. Tomorrow. Thanks."

      He slid open the keyboard on his phone and typed a message to
Donnelly. "Good news. Going back to the house tomorrow for meeting with
Drake. Have anything on him?"

      He snapped his phone shut, and sat for a few moments, staring at
himself on the computer screen.

      Fuck.

** 13 **

      The next morning, standing before his closet, Brandt suddenly
realized he had nothing to wear. He had clothes in his closet, of course,
but this would be the first time he was going to the house without Bryce's
ministering hand (and eye) to dress him. He wasn't sure anymore what he
should seem to be, or to look like. For a moment he tried to think like
Bryce, but that just made him a little dizzy, so he grabbed a pair of jeans
and a shirt without thinking too much about it. It was the kind of thing he
would wear if he and Donnelly were going to grab a drink on a Saturday
afternoon. He looked at himself in the mirror and shrugged.

      His phone buzzed.

      "So, what ya got?" he asked Donnelly as he walked to the kitchen.

      "Not much. Timothy Drake majored in accounting and finance at State,
top grades, full honors. Licensed tax accountant, went into mergers and
acquisitions. Did an MBA, joined a big investment house. Huh. There's
really nothing on the guy."

      "Well, that doesn't help me much," Brandt muttered as he poured
orange juice.

      "Hang on. There's another sheet here from the DA's office. Looks like
Drake filed a sexual harassment claim a couple years ago against his boss
at the investment place.  They fired him, he filed criminal sexual assault
charges."

      Brandt waited. Donnelly was silent.

      "Well, what happened?" Brandt asked.

      "Nothing."

      "What do you mean, nothing? Nothing doesn't just happen when someone
files a criminal complaint."

      "That's what's weird. There's nothing else in the record. The whole
thing looks like it just went away."

      "That can't happen."

      "I'm telling you it did. There's just nothing here. Look, I'm going
to check back with the DA's office and see if I have the whole file."

      "OK. I'm heading over to the house. Text me if you find anything
more."

      "Roger that. Good luck today."

      "Thanks."

      Brandt spent the drive to the house spinning increasingly twisted
scenarios about what might have happened to Drake's complaint against his
boss. By the time he arrived, there was a tangled plot involving blackmail,
gunplay, and flying monkeys. Too much caffeine, he thought as he shook his
head to clear it.

      He rang the bell and was a bit startled when Nick answered the door
wearing clothes. Brandt had gotten used to him being naked. This thought
made him slightly uncomfortable.

      "Jason! It's great to see you!" Nick wrapped his arms around Brandt,
gave a squeeze that Brandt thought lasted about a second and a half too
long, and then pulled him into the house. "Come on in. Mr. Drake will be
thrilled you're here."

      They walked down the hallway, passing several groups of young men, in
various states of dress, talking animatedly into the cameras on their
laptops. Clearly Monday morning was a busy time in the porn mines.

      Nick knocked on the door, and announced that Jason had arrived.

      "Come in, come in!" called Drake's voice from within the office. As
the men entered his office, he was coming around from behind his
desk. "Jason, it's great to see you again."

      "Good to be here, sir," Brandt replied, taking the seat that Drake
pointed him to.  Nick sat in the other, and Drake perched on the corner of
his desk.

      "I assume Nick has told you about the success of your debut on the
site?"

      "He mentioned it perhaps once or twice," Brandt replied, thinking of
the several dozen texts he had received from Nick over the last two
days. He looked over at Nick, who winked and grinned.

      "Well, we've never seen anything like it. The response is
phenomenal. It's not just the people watching it, though you set records
there. And it's not just FYFB.com either, nice as that was. What's been
really amazing is the email traffic that you've generated.  We've got
inboxes filling up with all kinds of begging for you to make another
video."

      "So, is that what you want me to do today?" Brandt asked, hoping that
his utter emotional devastation at the very idea didn't show through.

      "Actually, no."

      Brandt felt a warm wave of relief sweep through him. It was followed
by an even deeper chill, though, as he suddenly thought about what Drake
might have in mind if it wasn't a video.

      "Are you aware, Jason," Drake continued, "of the services we offer
besides the videos?"

      Brandt thought for a moment.

      "Nick mentioned that the guys do live shows sometimes."

      "Yes, they do. But there are other kinds of entertainment we offer as
well."

      Brandt felt heat rising in his cheeks. He didn't like the way this
was going.

      "You're not talking about actually... I mean... you don't mean in
person, do you?"

      Drake laughed.

      "Oh, no, Jason. We never do that. That's not actually legal in this
state--or any state outside of certain areas of Nevada."

      Great. Now Brandt was getting a legal lesson about prostitution from
a porn accountant.

      "Then, what is it?"

      "For very special, very wealthy clients we offer a one-on-one
service. It's a sort of video chat. Just you and the customer, alone, for
an hour."

      Nick seemed surprised.

      "But, sir, we don't usually do those until the guy has some
experience, has done some live shows--"

      "I know, Nick, I know. But our new friend here has such a big
following that we think it might be most profitable to have him do a
private show first. In fact, several of your fans, Jason, have already
offered considerable sums of money to have the first private show with
you. What do you think?"

      Brandt's chair seemed to be made of fire. He could feel sweat
trickling down his legs.

      "What would it involve, sir?" he asked, playing for time so that he
could have a minute to think of what the hell to do.

      "It's simple, really. We set you up in a room upstairs with a
webcam. Your client sits in front of his own webcam, so you can see each
other. You talk to him, then you take your clothes off, then you do what
you did on the video you made for us earlier. That's it- -no more."

      Oh, is that all, thought Brandt. Drake made it sound as though he
would be doing nothing more than exchanging pleasantries with a pen pal.

      "Mr. Drake, I'm not sure I'm ready to--"

      "Jason, I don't want to be dramatic here, but this is your
moment. You will never be worth more than you are right now, at least not
in this line of work. I think that the bidding on your private show could
go quite high."

      "Bidding?"

      "It's a new idea we've been wanting to try out. Eugene--you've met
Eugene?"

      "Yes," Brandt croaked. You could kind of call watching a guy jack off
a meeting, of sorts.

      "He's come up with an idea to have customers bid on private
shows. You would perform a private show for the high bidder."

      Brandt didn't know what to do. This was clearly what Drake wanted him
to do, and it would bring him closer to getting the information he needed,
but the idea of this kind of performance made him a little queasy.

      "If this goes well, Jason, there's no limit to what you can do. In
fact, the owner of the site wants to come to the house to meet you, and he
has never done that before. If you do this private show, he just might
offer you something even more exciting when he comes."

      That was it. Brandt was being offered the chance to meet the owner,
the one that he was supposed to be getting the goods on. He had to do
it. He worked up his best gung- ho grin--actually, he borrowed it from
Nick. It worked.

      "I'm in, sir. Just tell me when, and I'll be here."

      Drake smiled broadly.

      "Excellent! I'll have Eugene put up the auction today, and we'll plan
to do the show with the lucky winner on Friday night."

      "Great. I'll see you then." Brandt stood, as did Nick. They walked
out of Drake's office, and back down the hall to the kitchen.

      "So, you have plans for lunch?" Nick asked.

      "I don't have plans at all, for anything. This is all happening so
fast."

      "I hear ya. Like I said yesterday, we've never seen anything like
this. It's gotta be kind of overwhelming."

      "To say the least." Brandt was just trying to breathe.

      "How about we grab a bite to eat, and we can talk about it?"

      "Sounds good. I'll drive."

      "I'll give directions. It's what I'm good at."

      This, Brandt already knew.

      A half hour later they were in a booth at a restaurant the next town
over, waiting for their food to come.

      "So, Nick? Can I ask you something?"

      "Sure, man, what is it?"

      "How did you feel about doing this stuff when you started?"

      Nick chuckled and shook his head.

      "I know I'm not normal or anything, but I loved it. The idea that
there were people out there looking at me, getting off on my body, I loved
it. I still love it."

      "But you're straight, right? Mostly?"

      "Yeah, mostly."

      "And the people watching you are guys, right?"

      "Mostly. There are a few women sometimes, and once one of the
sororities on my campus bought a month's subscription, but mostly it's
guys, yeah."

      Brandt twirled the straw in his iced tea, and sighed.

      "It's weird for you, isn't it?" Nick asked, his voice soft with
concern.

      "Yeah, it is. I keep thinking I'll get used to it, but it's not
really happening."

      "Then you should stop."

      Brandt looked up at Nick, startled.

      "What?"

      "If it makes you uncomfortable, you should just stop. This isn't the
kind of thing you should be doing if you aren't fully into it."

      Brand shook his head quickly, certain he was misunderstanding Nick.

      "But, you're the one who's all excited about my video, and about me
doing more for the site."

      "Yeah, but only if you want it too. If you don't, then you shouldn't
do it." Nick said this simply, as if it must surely have been clear all
along.

      "But wouldn't Mr. Drake and the owner be mad?"

      Nick scoffed. "No. Jason, they're good people. I mean, I work with
Mr. Drake every day, and I know he wouldn't want you to do anything that
made you uncomfortable. And I've never met the owner, but the way he runs
the site has always been decent--the guys always get paid, and no one is
ever forced to do anything they don't want to do."

      Brandt was touched by Nick's concern and support, but it didn't
change the fact that he would have to go ahead with the private show if he
was going to get further into the business of the site.

      "Nah, I'm fine with it. It's just something to get used to. It's not
the kind of work I've ever done before."

      "Yeah, it's kind of a strange way to make money. But it's awesome
money!" Nick lifted his glass. "To horny guys who pay the bills!"

      Brandt laughed and raised his glass to Nick's.

** 14 **

      That evening, as Donnelly and Brandt ate dinner at Brandt's
apartment, they discussed the next steps in their plan.

      "So, you want me to bid on you?" Donnelly asked, not sure he
understood what Brandt was getting at.

      "Not on me, stupid, on an hour-long private show with me."

      This is the plan Brandt had come up with to accomplish his goal of
meeting the Str8 Frat Dudes site without having to have video sex with a
stranger. A strange man, to be precise. The thought still made Brandt
shiver.

      "And then what?"

      "Once you win the auction, they set up the show, and then we have an
hour on video to play chess or something."

      "Won't they notice that we're not doing the whole sex thing?"

      "Nick says they don't record the private shows in order to protect
the clients. So no one will ever know that I didn't do anything. Perfect
plan, right?"

      "Yeah, except for how we're going to pay for it."

      "I'll take care of that. I'll talk to the Chief tomorrow. Meanwhile,
you keep looking into Tim Drake. I want to find out how his assault case
evaporated, and how he ended up running the porn shop."

      The talk that Brandt had hoped to have with the Chief turned into
several--at least once a day he had to go into his office and ask for more
money as the auction ratcheted higher and higher. Nick sent him hourly
updates, and by Tuesday morning he and Mr.  Drake had come up with a plan
for pushing the bids even higher--they would tease Mason's first private
show by putting up some photos showing what he would be wearing Friday
night.

      "What, exactly, will I be wearing?" Brandt asked when Nick called him
to tell him of this latest brainstorm.

      "I'm thinking jockstrap. That should work."

      "Nick, I'm not sure if I even have one anymore. It's probably not
much to look at even if I did."

      "Ick. You don't want one that's actually been used much. You need
something super sexy."

      "I don't see how a jockstrap is sexy."

      "That's why you're leaving this to me. All you need to do is to go
get a hot new jockstrap and meet me at the house tonight. We'll do a shoot
that gets the bids up. And all the boners. Hah!"

      "Okay, so I'll swing by the sporting goods place on the way over."

      "No! I'll send you the address of the place you need to go. Talk to
my buddy Andy."

      Breathe, Brandt.

      "Great. See you tonight."

      The text with the address arrived shortly after. He would be going
back to Alta Avenue, apparently.

      That afternoon Brandt and Donnelly headed out for what Brandt hoped
would be his final outfitting. Judging from the address, this one was on
the next block down from Camp & Dragg and Cabana Boy. They pulled up in
front of a store called Sporting Wood.

      Here, the sales staff wore referee's striped shirts and hotpants;
whistles hung around their necks, and they had yellow penalty flags
sticking out of their pockets (these they would toss when they wanted a
particularly hunky customer to bed over and pick it up). As usual, Brandt
and Donnelly were like chum in the water; their arrival attracted the
attention of every member of the staff. The first to arrive, somewhat
breathlessly, demonstrated by his fluster that he had never in his life
played a sport that involved wearing clothes.

      "Welcome! How can I help you sport wood today?"

      "We're here to see Andy. His buddy Nick sent us."

      "Ahh, yes. Nick! What a lovely personality that boy keeps in his
pants. Andy is right this way." They followed their referee down the aisle,
to where another ref was sorting compression shorts into colorful stacks.

      "Andy, some friends of Nick's are here to avail themselves of your
services!" the bubbly salesref exclaimed. Then he turned to Donnelly and
whispered conspiratorially, "His services are the stuff of legend, sister."
Donnelly could only stare back in alarm.

      "What can I do for you gentlemen?" Andy asked as he placed the final
violet stretch short on the stack at the end of the rainbow.

      Brandt could see right away what it meant that Andy was a friend of
Nick's. He had a similar build, a winning smile, and his ref's shorts were
particularly tight.

      "I need a jockstrap." Brandt said simply. Better get it out there
right away.

      "I see," Andy responded, his eyes flicking up and down Brandt's body,
again with an appraising gaze that reminded Brandt of Nick. "What's your
sport?"

      Brandt chuckled. His sport would be just about anything, since he was
good at every sport he'd ever tried.

      "Umm, it's not really for a sporting event..." he trailed off, hoping
that Andy would pick it up from there.

      "So, you're just going to wear it around? For some extra support?"
And again his eyes brushed across the crotch of Brandt's jeans. He squinted
as if measuring.

      "Not exactly," Brandt said, drawing closer to Andy and lowering his
voice. "It's kind of for a modeling thing."

      Andy nodded. "Ah, I see. This is where Nick comes in, right?" he
whispered with a knowing wink.

      "Right you are," Brandt nodded, happy to have the conversation
over. Shopping for slut-wear was getting easier every time he had to do it,
but only slightly.

      "I know exactly what you need. Why don't you gentlemen go to fitting
room 1. I'll bring in a couple of choices and we'll give them a try."

      Donnelly shut the door of the fitting room behind them and Brandt
began to strip off his clothes. He was down to his boxer-briefs when he
realized that Donnelly was staring at him.

      "What?" Brandt asked.

      "Nothing," Donnelly replied.

      "You're staring at me. What's up?"

      "You're awfully quick to get naked these days, aren't you?"

      "In case you haven't noticed, I've kind of had to get used to it the
last few days. I figure it's easier if I just get right to it. Otherwise
Andy's going to get here and just stare at me, and then it's awkward."

      "Yeah, wouldn't want to be awkward. This is much better--just me in
here with you all naked."

      "Oh grow up, ya pussy," Brandt growled at Donnelly as he whipped off
his underwear and flung them at his head. Donnelly ducked, then turned and
stared aghast at the crumpled garment on the floor behind him.

      He turned back to Brandt, blinked at him twice, and then burst out
laughing.

      "You sick fuck! You're enjoying this!"

      Brandt was shaking with laughter as well.

      "You looked like a kid at the zoo that a monkey has just flung poo
at!" Brandt's abdomen rippled with muscles as the gasping laughter seized
him. His cock was bobbing up and down merrily.

      Donnelly was still wiping his eyes when the door opened and Andy
entered, holding three boxes which he set on the bench along the side of
the fitting room. The first of these boxes was already open.

      Andy turned and noticed that Brandt was naked. He started a bit, took
a step back, and said, "Whoa there, mister, getting ahead of ourselves a
little there, aren't we?"

      "Well," explained Brandt, feeling suddenly self-conscious, "I thought
it would be quicker if I was ready to try things on." Somewhere inside him
there was registered a vague disappointment that for the first time he was
naked in front of a man who didn't immediately tell him how sexy he looked.

      "Oh, we don't have people try these on--it's against the health
department rules.  So that's why I'm here." With this Andy hooked his
thumbs in the waistband of his boyshorts and pulled them down. Underneath
was a brilliant red jockstrap.

      "Here we have an update on the classic jock. Notice the rolled
waistband for comfort." He pulled the waistband away from his body so that
they could see the craftsmanship. "There's a modified strap anchor on the
back," he extolled as he turned around, showing them how the red straps
joined the waistband with an elegant arc of spandex, framing his tan and
smooth buttocks.

      Andy looked over his shoulder at the stunned men.

      "The pouch is woven directly into the straps so there's no chance of
chafing."  Andy bent suddenly forward, with his legs spread, to show where
the straps met the pouch. Other things were shown as well.

      "Oh, I see," Brandt muttered, trying to keep it together. Donnelly
wasn't able to do even this much. He stepped back and sat heavily on the
bench.

      Andy sprang upright and turned back to the men.

      "So, what do you think?" He looked from Brandt to Donnelly and back
again, trying to gauge a reaction.

      Brandt took a breath and summoned his professional demeanor.

      "That's nice, Andy, thanks. I think, though, I need something a
little more traditional."

      Andy grinned. "Ah, I thought you might. Here, let's try this one." He
grabbed the bottom box from the pile and opened it. He shook out the scant
patch of fabric and held it up.

      "Hmm. There's not much there." Brandt was trying to picture himself
in that tiny thing, and having a hard time.

      "Oh, just wait!" Andy replied, and quickly slipped off the red
jock. It took him a minute to work it down over his athletic shoes, during
which time Brandt tried to find somewhere safe to look. Donnelly had simply
closed his eyes.

      "There we go!" Andy stood proudly before the men, wearing the sleek
white jockstrap. The front was made of the finest mesh, so that the outline
of his cock was clearly visible.

      "I don't think I want to show quite that much," Brandt replied,
gesturing to the packed pouch before him.

      "Oh, this is for you?" Andy asked, surprised.

      "Yeah, didn't I say that?"

      "I just assumed, when you said you were a friend of Nick's, that you
were looking for something for him to wear when he modeled for you. He
sometimes has his private clients come here to pick something out for him
to wear."

      "Actually, no. I'm going to be ... well, I'm sort of a model for the
same company."

      Andy nodded, slowly.

      "And I'm, you know ... straight."

      Andy looked him up and down again, and nodded again.

      "Well, that makes two of us. That's why they hired me--lots of
customers prefer that."

      "And it makes three of us, actually," grunted a clearly miffed
Donnelly.

      Brandt decided that no good was going to come of continuing their
conversation along this line, so he changed the subject.

      "So, I'm looking for something even more traditional. Got anything
like that?"

      Andy, ever the professional, smiled again, and returned to his
stack. "I think this one may be to your liking."

      He held up a strap that looked for all the world like the ones that
Brandt had worn since he started with pee-wee football in grade school. He
smiled.

      "That's the one!" he exclaimed. "Can I try it on?"

      "Not unless you're going to buy it. It's not returnable once you put
it on."

      "Oh, I want it," Brandt replied. Andy handed him the strap and he
slipped it on.

      "Oh, now this is nice," Brandt sighed as he looked in the
mirror. "There's something different, though. What is it?"

      "The pouch," said Andy. He reached over and pulled the waistband out
so that Brandt could look into the pouch with him. "It looks like the old
cotton/spandex dealies that our dads wore, but it's woven of raw
silk. Nice, right?" Andy's hand was almost touching Brandt's cock.

      Brandt looked up, met Andy's eye. "Yeah, that's ... nice," he
whispered, wondering why it was suddenly so warm in the fitting room.

      Andy slowly released the waistband of Brandt's jock, grinning slyly
as he noticed the contents shifting--growing, perhaps?

      "So," came Donnelly's sudden, loud voice, "I'll go wait in the car
for you."

      "Hey, buddy, you didn't tell me which one you liked!"

      Donnelly fixed him with an strangely intense stare. "The red one, of
course. That white one makes you look like you just came in from the
practice field, all sweaty and gross. Yuck." And with that he turned on his
heel and left the fitting room.

      "What's up with your buddy?" Andy asked, as he stripped off the
jockstrap he was wearing and got back into his ref's outfit.

      "Beats me," Brandt answered. "He's kind of touchy these days."

      Andy gave a shrug and a shake of his head that is the universal sign
of male solidarity (it means, "chicks, right?" or "guys, right?" depending
on the gender involved).

      Brandt was going to protest that he and Donnelly weren't, you
know... but it didn't seem worth going into. Some things get more
complicated if you try to explain them.

** 15 **

      After jock shopping, Donnelly returned to work and Brandt headed over
to the house for the photo shoot.

      Brandt was something of a celebrity, even in the strangely sexual
world of the Str8 Frat Dudes house. As Nick escorted him into the photo
studio, several of the guys followed along. They were used to watching each
other work, and they had certainly heard how amazing the new guy was
supposed to be. Several of the guys were hoping to get some pointers from
watching Brandt, an idea that would have struck him as ridiculous in the
extreme.

      "All right, we just want a few simple shots of you in your jock,
looking, um, available. No naughty bits, though--we want to save that for
Friday night, right?" The rest of the guys groaned in disappointment.

      "Gotcha. Let's do this," Brandt grunted, hoping to just get it
done. He stripped off his clothes, then turned around and realized he had
just exposed himself carelessly to about a dozen men. He took a deep breath
and tried to carry on.

      Nick had positioned a leather couch in the studio, and motioned for
Brandt to sit down on it. He did, as carefully as possible, wincing a bit
as his ass cheeks hit the cold leather upholstery. It warmed quickly,
though, and he looked to Nick for direction.

      "Just look natural," Nick suggested, as if it were a natural thing to
recline on a leather sofa wearing a jock.

      "Good. Now run one hand through your hair. Great. Let's tweak a
nipple, shall we? Thatta boy." Brandt was on auto-pilot, just doing what
Nick asked. Soon he was poking his fingertips under the waistband, much as
Andy had done.

      Oh, shit.

      The memory of Andy grabbing the front of his jock, for some reason
unknown to Brandt, caused him to start chubbing up. Soon his dick was
seriously on the rise, and there was a limit to how long he could keep it
contained. It was tenting out the pouch, and his balls were threatening to
escape the sides as the fabric stretched. Nick sensed he was racing against
time, and he clicked the shutter faster and faster before Brandt lost
containment altogether.

      The rest of the guys could see that Brandt's jock was fighting a
losing battle. For his part, Eugene admired the way that Brandt made it
look completely accidental that his cock was about to emerge from the top
of the jock--he had worked up a convincingly spontaneous erection with an
ease that made Eugene envious.

      Brandt, on the other hand, was desperately willing his cock to
subside. Perversely, that seemed only to encourage it.

      There was a gasp in the room as the head of Brandt's cock appeared,
poking out from the top of the pouch.

      "And that's a wrap!" called Nick. "Great job, Jason. I got some
terrific shots. We'll get these up and the bidding will go through the
roof."

      "Awesome," replied Brandt, hoping it sounded convincing.

      "Now, if you'd like to take care of that," Nick continued, nodding
his head at Brandt's protruding member, "We can give you some privacy."

      Despite himself, Brandt smiled.

      "Nah, I'm saving up for Friday." He looked down at the crystal
droplet that had formed at the tip of his cock. "I guess I'm gonna need to
wash this thing first."

      "I'll do it!" came a voice from the back of the room. Brandt never
did figure out who said it.

** 16 **

      The photo session had the desired effect. The pictures went up
Wednesday morning, and by Friday the price for Mason's first private show
was at $10,000, and then $15,000 as the bidding entered the final
hours. The Chief had agreed to go to $19,000 (before he could commit
$20,000 of department money he needed to get approval, and that would be
awkward given the circumstances). Brandt hoped it was enough.

      Donnelly, meanwhile, had been beating the bushes at the DA's office
and elsewhere, trying to track down what had happened to Tim Drake's sexual
assault complaint. He hit dead-end after dead-end, until his only hope was
the Assistant DA whose name was last in the paperwork; she was on vacation,
however, and wouldn't return to the office until Monday. Donnelly had no
choice but to wait.

      Brandt drove to the house in the early evening of Friday, dreading
what was to come. The bidding would close in under an hour, and the last
text from Nick said that the current price was $17,000. He knew Donnelly
was at home monitoring the bidding, and he just had to trust that his
partner would win the auction. The alternative was unthinkable.

      Brandt arrived at the house just before the close of the
auction. Nick met him at the door, as usual, and brought him into the
dining/computer room. There Eugene was monitoring the auction system,
making sure everything was working.

      "Now, if ebay is any indication," Eugene was explaining to Mr. Drake,
"there's often a shitload of bidding that goes on in the final few
minutes. We're ready--but it could get wild."

      The counter in the corner of the big computer monitor indicated that
less than 15 minutes remained. The counter next to it registered a high bid
of $18,500. Brandt's throat began to close.

      "Hey, Jason, you okay?" Nick asked, seeing Brandt pale as he watched
the auction enter its final moments.

      "Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little nervous, I guess."

      "That's understandable. Let's go get you a drink." Nick grabbed his
hand--he actually took Brandt by the hand--and led him into the
kitchen. Brandt sat on a stool at the counter and tried to focus. On
anything.

      "Here, try this," Nick offered as he passed Brandt an iced
tea. "Chamomile--I made it this morning."

      Brandt looked at the glass and smiled. Nick was taking care of him
again, and he was actually glad. Being here with him just felt warm, and
let him forget the fucked-up reason he was here. For a moment.

      "Thanks, buddy. Just what I needed."

      Nick watched him sip the tea.

      "So, are you ready for your big night?"

      "Ready as I'll ever be. I just hope I get someone who's, well ... I
don't know..."

      "Sane, and not awful to look at?" smiled Nick, who had been there and
done that.

      "Yeah, I guess. What are they normally like?"

      "Well, everyone's different. Thing is, with the bids going this high,
I have no idea what they're going to be like. You could be spankin' it for
a guy in a top hat and tails or something."

      "That would be awkward," giggled Brandt.

      "Yeah, well, if all else fails you just let me tell you what to do."

      Brandt stopped breathing.

      "What?" he managed to spit out.

      "Just give me a sign, and I'll suggest something if you get stuck."

      "But I thought you said that no one else watches these private
performances."

      "We don't record them, but someone else is there in case it gets
weird or the guy gets in trouble for some reason. Sometimes the private
sessions get so intense that the guy loses control. So we have another guy
there to help out. It's for your protection, really."

      Brandt tried to swallow both this new information and the mouthful of
iced tea that was growing warm in his mouth. He didn't know what to
do--this whole plan had been predicated on the idea that no one would see
the video of the private session, but now--now he would actually have to
perform. Why is it that everything, no matter how awful, always got worse?

      "You know, it's nice of you, but I don't think I really need--"

      Brandt was cut off by a sudden cheering from the next room, and the
sound of high fives being given. Footsteps, and then Eugene and Drake came
into the kitchen.  Drake slapped Brandt on the back.

      "You sir, are a phenomenon! Congratulations."

      Brandt winced and turned to ask what he most feared.

      "How much did I go for?" He didn't really want to know.

      "Are you ready?" was Mr. Drake's reply.

      "Yes, sir, I am," returned Brandt, impatient to know his fate.

      "Your first private video session was just auctioned off for ..."
Drake paused here for dramatic effect, which only resulted in Brandt
wanting to kill him, with his bare hands, right now.

      "Twenty-four thousand dollars!" A cheer went up in the room once
again, and the only voice not joining in was Brandt's. This was it--he was
completely screwed.  Donnelly's limit had been $19,000, and now someone had
outbid him by $5,000.

      Brandt bolted into the bathroom off the kitchen, where he hoped the
running water would cover the sound of him emptying his guts into the
toilet. He sat on the toilet lid for a few minutes, then availed himself of
the mouthwash conveniently provided on the sink. Finally, he had pulled
himself together enough to open the door and stride into the kitchen.

      "Let's get upstairs and do a quick test before the event, okay?" Nick
put his arm around Brandt's shoulder, sensing his anxiety but with no idea
of its true cause. He guided him up the stairs to the bedroom that had been
the site of his debut video less than a week ago (six days! how much had
changed in that time!) and where Nick had already set up the equipment for
the private session.

      "Here, you sit on the bed," Nick instructed. Brandt did as he was
told, because he couldn't think of what else to do.

      "Now, when you look here," Nick pointed a strange piece of equipment
at the foot of the bed, "You'll be able to see the other person. The camera
is behind here, so when you are looking at him, you'll actually be looking
at the camera."

      Brandt was trying to focus.

      "Wow, that's like something you'd see at a TV station," was the best
he could do.

      Nick grinned. "Funny you should say that. It was a gift from the
weatherman on Channel 11. You know, 'Neighborhood Weather with Sal?' Yeah,
he got annoyed that the guys in his private sessions were always looking
off to the side, so he gave us this. It's pretty awesome."

      "Yeah, awesome," Brandt agreed weakly.

      Responding to the dismal tone in Brandt's voice, Nick sat down next
to him, their bodies in contact along their full length. Nick had no sense
of personal space, but this time Brandt actually found his proximity
comforting.

      "You still in?" Nick asked, his voice husky and low.

      "Does it matter?"

      Nick bumped him on the shoulder.

      "Course. You decide you can't do this, we stop it now."

      "But that would kind of be a mess at this point, wouldn't it? I mean,
someone's put up over $20,000 for this."

      Nick looked Brandt straight on, his eyebrows cocked. Brandt searched
Nick's golden eyes, and saw there only concern, and support. For him. His
eyes welled up.

      "If you want to stop, I will tell them that we need to stop. I got
you into this, and if I say you aren't going to do it, then there's nothing
they can do about it."

      Brandt blinked, tears edging out of the corners of both eyes,
trailing down his cheeks.

      "You would do that for me?" he asked in a voice that surprised him
with its plaintive tone.

      "In a heartbeat."

      Brandt would later reflect that he had no idea why he did what he did
next. It was simply what he needed to do. He opened his arms, and pulled
Nick to him, tightly. He pressed his tear-dampened cheek against Nick's
strong, dry, stubbly one, and held it there.

      "Thank you," he whispered into Nick's ear. And then, inexplicably, he
kissed it.  Just as Nick had kissed his ear when he stood before this bed
wondering if he could do what he was there to do.

      He could feel Nick's grin widening as his cheek contracted against
his own.

      "I just want you to be okay," Nick whispered back.

      Strengthened, Brandt pulled back. He looked at Nick, and saw that
there were tears in his eyes too. That did it.

      "I will be okay. I'll do this, and I'll be okay." Brandt smiled,
somehow meaning it.

      Nick smiled back, a glowing, even proud, smile.

      "Awesome. Let's make sure we're all set." He patted Brandt twice on
the knee, and then got up to check on the equipment.

      In a few moments, the image of Eugene appeared on the screen as Nick
tested the video link. Eugene looked up, and his eyes stared straight into
Brandt's.

      "Image looks good," he reported, as serious as if Brandt were the
space shuttle about to be launched and Eugene was mission control. "Let's
test sound."

      Nick motioned to Brandt to say something.

      "Got any special requests, big fella?" asked Brandt in a comically
vampish voice.  He was drawing on a reserve of bravado he had not been
aware he had.

      "Hell yeah I do," replied Eugene. "I want to see what you got in that
jock that's worth twenty-four large!"

      "Come up with the money and we'll talk," answered Brandt, and he and
Nick had a good laugh. Eugene smiled and shook his head while he made some
adjustments. Then he looked up again, and said, "We're a go here. Mr. Drake
says the wire transfer has come into escrow, so we're good to go. One
hour!"

      "Got it!" replied Nick, and the image vanished from the screen.

      "So," Brandt began, somewhat awkwardly, "How does this work?"

      "It's super easy. No script, just you on the bed talking with the
client. Just do what he asks, as long as you're comfortable with it, and
keep an eye on the clock. You want to blow your load right near the
end--not too soon, but you don't want to be rushed."

      Brandt was trying to take all of this in, but the idea of timing his
"load" kind of freaked him out.

      "Hey," said Nick, his hand on Brandt's shoulder, "The most important
thing is to just be yourself."

      Brandt was so far from himself that the very idea made him
chuckle. Nick took that as a good sign; for Brandt it was a sign of
surrender.

      They did some final checks, making sure that Brandt could move around
the bed comfortably and stay on camera. Nick left him alone to "prepare,"
whatever that meant.  Brandt just stood at the window, where, once he had
pulled back the heavy blinds, he could see life going on in the
neighborhood. People living normal lives. It seemed like a long time since
Brandt felt normal.

      The prospect he faced was grim. In a few minutes he would be the
evening's entertainment for an anonymous, filthy rich man who would work
him like a puppet through the magic of the Internet. He had already thrown
up dinner at the very prospect; now he didn't feel anything at all except a
grim determination to get through it. He reflected for a moment that it
might actually be easier doing this with someone other than Donnelly,
especially if Nick had to be there. That would certainly have made it
awkward.

      "It's time, Jason," Nick called, bringing Brandt back to himself and
to his situation. He walked over to the bed and sat down, trying to remain
calm.

      "All right. I'll be back here behind the prompter. If you need
anything just look my way, and I'll give you a hint."

      Brandt nodded. In a moment he would meet a man with whom he would
have the closest thing to actual sex that he'd had in a long time. That
realization made the pit in his stomach triple in size. Fuck.

      "All right, the stream is coming up now," Nick said, and then he
pointed to Brandt. Brandt nodded.

      On the screen an hourglass icon spun lazily, leaving Brandt a last
precious few seconds to imagine who was going to be on the other end of the
video connection. He hoped ... what? That it was someone attractive? Would
that make it better or worse? He had no idea.

      Finally, the screen went black and then the image appeared, not quite
in focus.  Then the picture sharpened, and Brandt could see a bed, with no
one on it. There was something on the bed--what was that?

      Brandt's heart skipped a beat (perhaps three) when he saw that what
was on the bed was a chessboard. Before he could even think about what that
meant, he saw Donnelly sit on the bed and look into the camera. Brandt
stopped breathing.

      Donnelly smiled, looking pleased with himself. Brandt tried to figure
out how to handle this.

      Nick, meanwhile, was growing concerned at the silence on both ends,
and motioned for Brandt to speak up.

      "Hi, I'm Mason," Brandt said, barely audibly. Donnelly smiled, and
followed his lead.

      "Hi, Mason, I'm pleased to meet you," Donnelly's voice rose to a
giggle. Donnelly was playing along, but not in a way that would fool Nick,
not for long.

      Brandt knew he had to nip that in the bud.

      "So," he said to Donnelly, trying to sound sexy, "What's your name?"

      Donnelly looked blankly at the camera, and then answered, "Gabriel,"
as if that should have been obvious all along.

      Brandt closed his eyes. Fuck.

      "So, Gabriel, what do you want me to do?"

      Donnelly looked puzzled.

      "I thought we were going to play chess," he said, shaking his head.

      Brandt laughed.

      "You didn't pay all that money to play chess, did you? No, I think
what you wanted was some of this."

      Brandt pulled his shirt off over his head and faced the camera,
kneeling on the bed, his abs drawn up tight. He was intentionally flexing
hard, trying to show Donnelly that he was having to play this for real.

      Donnelly was clearly taken aback by Brandt whipping off his shirt.

      "Do you like what you see?" Brandt asked, trying to get Donnelly to
catch on.

      "Um, yes?" ventured Donnelly, clearly still at sea.

      "Great. Then how about we get more comfortable?" Brandt started to
unbutton his shorts.

      Donnelly stared, his mouth hanging open.

      Brandt unzipped his shorts, and then slipped them off.

      Donnelly gasped. Brandt was wearing the red jock.

      "Wow," Donnelly breathed.

      "Like it? It's new," Brandt said.

      "I didn't think you'd be wearing the red one," Donnelly replied.

      "A friend of mine helped pick it out. I wanted a regular white one,
but he liked this one so I decided to wear it instead."

      "Well, your friend has good taste," Donnelly smiled weakly.

      "Wait until you see the back," Brandt teased, and then he slowly
turned around to face away from the camera.

      It was as Donnelly sat staring at his partner's ass, framed by the
bright red straps of his designer jock, that it all seemed to fall into
place for him. He sucked in a quick, surprised breath, and his eyebrows
shot up.

      "Oh, man, you are so hot," muttered Donnelly robotically, using the
awkward tone of voice in which he might admire a picture of a friend's not
very attractive fiancee.  Brandt was relieved that Donnelly finally seemed
to understand what was going on.

      "Thank you," Brandt said, turning back around. "You aren't so bad
yourself."

      "Well, I'm nothing like you," Donnelly replied, "I mean, look at your
chest and abs compared to mine." He quickly unbuttoned and removed his
shirt. He knelt on the bed, facing his buddy, flexing his not
inconsiderable musculature.

      Oh my fucking god, thought Brandt.

      "Hey, I'm the one who's supposed to be performing!" he chided, trying
to send a message to Donnelly to slow down. It was not received.

      "Well, I'm waiting," urged Donnelly, in a somewhat less stilted but
still awkward tone.

      Brandt looked at Nick, who motioned him to lie back on the bed.

      Brandt sank down, and then scooted back a bit on the bed, away from
the camera, to give himself some room. He lay back.

      He was fully displayed to Donnelly now, stretched out the length of
the bed, and Donnelly's eyes moved slowly up and down his body, from his
furrowed brow all the way down to his fidgeting feet. Donnelly closed his
eyes and shook his head slightly, as if trying to imagine how they had
gotten into the fucked up situation.

      Brandt was worried. If Donnelly froze up this could all come
apart. He was just about to turn to Nick for help when--

      "Turn over."

      Brandt blinked and squinted at the image of Donnelly on the
monitor. Did he just- -

      "I said, turn over."

      Brandt rolled over, and lay with his face down on the pillow,
ostrich-like. He knew that not looking wouldn't make it go away, but for at
least a few seconds he could forget that his partner was right now staring
at him, laid out on the bed like a hooker.  Fuck.

      Donnelly was silent for a long moment. Nick grew concerned, but when
he checked the monitor feed he saw in Donnelly's face exactly what he hoped
to see. This was going well.

      Brandt, having summoned up his courage while hiding his face, looked
back over his shoulder at Donnelly.

      "So, do you like what you s--"

      "Take it off."

      The chill that shot up Brandt's spine was visible. Donnelly saw it,
as did Nick.

      "What?" Brandt asked, playing for time.

      "I said take it off." Donnelly's tone was steadier now.

      In the corner of his eye he could see Nick gesturing for him to take
off the damned jockstrap already. He gave a curt nod, so that Nick would
stop his wild gesticulating. He looked at Donnelly. He had to hand it to
the guy, he was playing the part well.

      "Okay, I'll take it off," Brandt said as he turned back over.

      "No." Donnelly's calm voice crept into Brandt's ears like ice
water. "Lie back down." Brandt stretched back out on his stomach, wondering
what Donnelly was trying to do. As little as Brandt wanted to lose the
admittedly small shelter of the jock, he knew they couldn't delay the
inevitable forever.

      "Now, slide it off," Donnelly growled.

      Brandt took a deep breath and hooked his thumbs in the soft waistband
of the red jockstrap. In order to work it down his hips, he had to lift his
ass up slightly. He realized only after he had done so what kind of view
that would force Donnelly to look at. Stay strong, buddy, he thought. We'll
get through this.

      Nick watched Donnelly's face as Brandt's ass rose off the bed, spread
open slightly, and his most private, puckered place was exposed. There was
no reaction from Donnelly, except a slight twitch at the corner of his
mouth.

      Brandt slid the strap down one leg and then the other, and then flung
it off the bed, right at Nick. Nick picked it up and placed it on the side
table--chances are the client would want it sent to him as a souvenir of
this very expensive show.

      Brandt turned back to look at Donnelly, remembering well the
disgusted face he had made every time he had seen, or even been made to
think about, the ass of one of the guys on the site. Donnelly's face,
though, was one of inscrutable concentration--his eyes were glued to
Brandt's ass. Brandt realized his partner was tougher than he had thought.

      Satisfied that Donnelly was hanging in, Brandt decided to give Nick a
reassuring demonstration of his sluttishness. He began to grind his pelvis
into the bed, thrusting gently, twisting slightly, moving randomly as if he
were fucking a gymnast in the middle of a particularly challenging floor
exercise. Brandt saw Nick grin and give a thumbs up.  Donnelly, however,
still wore his mask of solemn focus.

      "Show it to me." Donnelly's voice was raw, and the force of it hit
Brandt hard. He felt a heat, a reckless, angry heat, spreading from the
place on his body that Donnelly's eyes were burning through. He stopped
thrusting, but his cock didn't want to stop. It grew, seeming to double in
size in an instant, throbbing urgently against Brandt's lower abs. He was,
in a blink of Donnelly's eye, rock hard.

      Brandt looked at Donnelly in terror.

      "Now." Donnelly commanded, his voice low.

      Brandt turned. He lay back, his cock bouncing wildly before coming to
rest on his stomach, counting his pulse out in tiny thrusts. He looked at
Donnelly--his partner who, in the years they had worked together, had never
let him down. It was clearly costing him dearly to play along so
convincingly--the look on his face was one of flushed, barely contained
panic. And now Brandt had to make it worse by showing him the inexplicable
erection.

      "I'm sorry, Gabriel, it has a mind of its own," Brandt apologized,
sincere in his regret at shocking his partner so badly.

      "I like the way it thinks," Donnelly responded smoothly, covering
quite well what must have been tearing him up inside. "In fact, I think
I'll join you."

      Donnelly, already having stripped to the waist, now unbuttoned his
khakis and slipped them off. He was left standing before Brandt in just
his--

      What the hell is that? Brandt thought. Donnelly was wearing a pair of
Ginch Gonch briefs in a pattern that matched that on Brandt's own pair,
except that Donnelly's were blue instead of orange.

      "Um, nice drawers there, buddy," Brandt chuckled.

      "Thanks, Mason. But they're just kind of in the way now, aren't
they?" And with this, Donnelly slipped them off and tossed them aside.

      He straightened up and faced the camera again.

      Brandt couldn't breathe. All he could see, the only thing in his
entire world at the moment, was Donnelly's cock. Donnelly's large,
bouncing, fully erect cock. Donnelly had a raging hard-on. Brandt looked up
at his face, to try to read there some explanation of what was going on
down there. But Donnelly just fixed him with the same steely stare,
unmoving.

      "Wow," Brandt said. "You're fucking huge."

      A smile grew slowly on Donnelly's face.

      "I don't think I'm quite your size," he opined, staring frankly at
Brandt's erection, which was now beginning to drip a clear puddle onto his
abs.

      The two men, forgetting the completely bizarre situation they found
themselves in, simply looked at each other for several minutes. Finally
Brandt noticed Nick pointing to the digital clock on the wall. Given how
well Donnelly had played his role thus far, the rest of the show seemed
like an easy coast. Brandt would never have imagined that it could go this
well, but then again he had clearly underestimated the professional
commitment of his partner. He owed Donnelly a drink for this. A lot of
them, in fact.

      "So, Gabriel," Brandt murmured, the slut-talk coming almost naturally
to him now, "What do you want to do?"

      "I want to watch. I want you do what you did in your video, but more
slowly this time. Right here in front of me."

      Brandt stopped cold.

      "You saw my video?"

      Donnelly's grin was a crooked, evil snarl now.

      "I watch it every fucking minute of the day. Sometimes I stroke along
with you, and when you almost blow your load in the shower I always lose
it."

      Brandt was stunned. His jaw worked up and down, but no words came
out.  Donnelly wasn't finished.

      "You on the bed, the way you grind that shit out? Holy fuck I must
have beat it a dozen times watching that."

      Brandt felt the room start to spin, felt his guts turning to
rock. Donnelly seemed not to notice.

      "So now I want you to do it. Do it slowly, but fucking get on it. And
when you shoot, you say my name, got that?"

      Brandt was in a daze. "You... you want me to say...what?"

      "My name. When you come you call out my fucking name. Just like I
scream yours every time I come watching you."

      Brandt looked wildly from side to side, trying to figure a way out of
this fucked- up mess. Was Donnelly playing the role of the client now, or
was he Donnelly? How did he know the details of the video unless he had
actually watched it? Oh my fucking god, he's been watching the video.

      Nick flailed at Brandt, got his attention, and made a vigorous
wanking motion then pointed at his watch.

      Brandt's mission was clear.

      He lay back on the bed, his cock still, inexplicably, pointing
straight up. His hand shook as he reached out for it, took hold, and
started to move his hand up and down. On the screen at the foot of the bed,
he saw Donnelly move too--what was he doing? He was lying back too, he was
grabbing his dick too! Donnelly mirrored his every move.

      Each man, each straight man, began to rub his cock--while watching
the other do the same. Donnelly matched his tempo, the length of his
strokes. They were in perfect sync. Brandt, grabbed by some perverse
inspiration, reached up with his other hand and pinched his nipple. The
heat shot through his chest, just as it had done when he was filming his
video. He looked to Donnelly, saw him tweak his own nipple, and then Brandt
noted with satisfaction how his partner's back arched and a moan escaped
his lips. This reaction only added fuel to his own fire, and soon both men
were thrusting wildly into their clenched fists, breathing hard and
starting to glaze with sweat.

      Brandt felt the tightness in his loins, and he focused his strokes on
the tip of his cock. Donnelly did the same. They were close. Then, their
eyes met, and though neither had words for it, a perfect understanding
passed between them. Brandt nodded, and Donnelly nodded back. Then the
fireworks they had lit long ago exploded.

      Brandt felt the orgasm begin to tear through him, and saw Donnelly's
face draw into a mask of panic and wonder. They would get there together.

      "Oh my god, Gabriel!" shouted Brandt, as hot jets shot out of his
cock.

      Donnelly froze, as if he had just heard the world itself tear
open. He cried out, an incoherent stream of anguished, strangled moaning,
while his cock erupted like a firehose. He took a breath, held it for a
second, and then breathed out, as a prayer, in a whisper, "Ethan..."

      Silence.

      They lay there, panting, wet, exhausted. Brandt watched the rise and
fall of Donnelly's chest as the heaving gave way to deeper, regular
breaths. He looked back to Donnelly's face and met his eyes. They lay
there, staring into each other, for a time. Then Brandt, unable to hold
back any longer, smiled at Donnelly and giggled--the tension had found a
way out. Donnelly laughed in return, and soon there were tears running down
their faces. When the laughter finally subsided, the tears remained, and in
the quiet space left by their laughter there was just the two of them,
softly crying, wondering what this all meant.

      Nick cleared his throat. Time was up.

      "Um, so..." began Brandt.

      "Yeah, um ... thanks ... uh, Mason. That was, kind of ... well, I'm
... I'm sorry."

      The screen clicked to black, and they were done. Brandt collapsed
back on the bed, and stared at the ceiling, tears still welling in his
eyes.

      Nick came to the side of the bed.

      "Dude, that was off the hook," he said through a grin that stretched
the width of his face. "I've never seen anyone do so well on their first
time! That guy was so wrung out--he couldn't even remember your name."

      It took Brandt a moment to come back to the room, from wherever he
had gone to get through the experience.

      "Yeah, it was..." Brandt's voice trailed off. He cleared his
throat. "Look, could I just get a shower and get out of here?"

      Nick's brow furrowed a bit. "Sure, buddy, of course. I'll go start
the shower for you so it's nice and warm. Back in a sec."

      Brandt lay there, feeling the cold semen run down his sides onto the
bed. What was he going to say to Donnelly? How could they be okay with each
other ever again?

      He heard Nick come padding back into the room.

      "Shower's ready. Come on, big guy." Nick nudged Brandt's shoulder.

      "Nick?" Brand said as he got to his feet.

      "Yeah?" Nick replied, his arm around Brandt, leading him to the
bathroom.

      "Did you ever do something that fucked it all up with someone, like,
all of a sudden? Like maybe there was no going back?"

      Nick looked at him, trying to figure where this was coming from. He
thought that Brandt had come through the admittedly intense experience with
his faculties intact, but now he wasn't so sure. He decided to focus on the
question he'd been asked.

      "You know, as a matter of fact, I do. I've done some stupid stuff,
and a couple of times I nearly lost the person who means more to me than
anyone in the world. But what I've learned is that people, and
relationships, are more resilient than you think they are.  Sometimes you
just have to close your eyes and believe that what you want will still be
there when you open them."

      Brandt nodded. "Thanks, Nick. I hope you're right."

      "I almost always am. Except in Calculus." Nick chuckled and guided
Brandt into the steaming shower. "I'll see you downstairs in a few, right?"

      "Yeah. I'll be okay now. Thanks."

** 17 **

      Brandt showered, dressed, and found his way out of the house. Along
the way, Drake and Eugene and what seemed like every guy who worked in the
house slapped his back, or his ass, and congratulated him on a job well
done. As he headed for the door, Drake pulled him aside.

      "Jason, I'm very impressed. Nick says you handled that like a pro. I
think you may have helped us establish a compelling new business model."

      Brandt just nodded, trying to imagine himself out of this bizarre
place, in his own space, quiet.

      "I've just spoken to the owner of the company, and he would very much
like to meet you. Can you come here for lunch on Monday?"

      Brandt nodded again, reminding himself to look flattered and
excited. Ironically, this was the very thing he most needed to achieve in
order to do his real job, the one that he had been trained to do, the one
that did not require him to be naked.

      "Great. Come by around 11 or so." He gave a little hop, as if
remembering something. "Oh, and here's what I'm sure you've been waiting
for." He pulled an envelope from behind his back, and handed it with a
practiced casualness to Brandt.

      "Thanks, Mr. Drake," Brandt mumbled, and put the envelope in his
pocket.

      A flash of concern washed over Drake's face at the desultory tone of
Brandt's voice, but he knew that emotions sometimes ran deep in the
aftermath of a private session.

      "Have a nice weekend, Jason. Enjoy the spending money."

      Brandt mumbled something that sounded like assent, and made his way
out the door, alone at last. But as he reached his car, he saw with
surprise that Nick was standing next to it, leaning against the passenger
door.

      "Uh, hey, Nick," Brandt said wearily, heavily, as he approached the
car.

      "Just wanted to make sure you're okay," Nick replied, stepping toward
Brandt, who had stopped a few feet away from his car. "I've been thinking
about what you said before, and I don't think I was much help. But if you
need to talk, anytime, please call me, okay?"

      Brandt's shoulders slumped. He was overwhelmed, helpless. Nick's
kindness, which his professional training was urging him to rebuff, warmed
him in his coldest places. He sighed, and he felt unbidden tears once again
wet his cheek.

      Nick took another step toward him, which brought them toe-to-toe.

      Brandt knew what would come next, and in his devastated and exhausted
state he admitted to himself what he no longer had the energy to deny: he
wanted it. He wanted to feel Nick's arms around him, to be warmed in his
strong sheltering embrace.

      It didn't come. He looked up, his eyes blurred with tears. He scanned
Nick's face for a sign as to why he was holding back when he never had
before. The kind, golden eyes crinkled at the edges, as a sweet smile
spread across his face. Nick shook his head slightly, debating, deciding.

      He brought his hands up to Brandt's stubbled jawline, and ran his
thumbs along the hollow of his cheeks, wiping the tears away. Brandt
surrendered to this touch, which he somehow suddenly needed more than
anything in the world. He closed his eyes and leaned his head slightly to
the side, as if trying to nestle into the strong grasp of Nick's smooth,
warm hands.

      Brandt's eyes opened only when he felt the gentle rush of Nick's
breath on his cheek. He saw Nick so close to him, felt the radiant heat of
his mouth nearing his. And then, suddenly and yet in slow motion, Nick's
mouth closed over his own.

      Brandt's breath caught in his throat; his hands flew up to push Nick
away. But instead of shoving him backward they wrapped themselves around
his neck and pulled him in closer. Brandt's eyes closed again as he
registered all of the million little ways that kissing Nick was so
different from kissing a woman. It felt rough and hard and stubbly and
urgent and hot and all of the other strangenesses, yes, but it also felt
like love. Nick kissed him because he needed to be reminded that there is
love in the world and sometimes, when one does not expect it, it arrives,
urgent and rude, and kisses one on the lips.

      For a moment, Brandt was happier than he ever remembered being in his
life.

      And then he remembered his life.

      He released his grip on Nick's neck, and pulled his head back. Nick
broke the kiss and looked at him, his forehead etched with arches of worry.

      "I'm sorry," he blurted, clearly shocked at what he had done.

      "No." Brandt shook his head slowly side to side. "No, don't be
sorry. That was, well...I don't know what that was. But it was nice, and
thank you."

      Nick positively beamed.

      "You kiss well, for a straight guy," Nick teased, ruffling Brandt's
hair.

      "You too," laughed Brandt. "Though I imagine anyone who saw us just
now might not call us that."

      Nick stopped laughing, and looked at Brandt through a thoughtful
squint.

      "You gonna be okay?"

      Brandt looked down for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I think I
am. Mainly because of you. You helped me see some things tonight that I
needed to see. So, thanks again for that."

      Nick grinned. "Word is you're coming back on Monday to meet the big
guy.  You're kind of our hero now."

      "I can't tell you what that means to me," chuckled Brandt. Seriously,
he couldn't.  "I'll see you Monday."

      "Good night, Jason."

      Brandt shivered as the artifice of his fake name rankled against the
truth of what they had just shared. But there weren't words for what they
had just shared, at least not any words that he knew.

      Brandt opened the door, got in, and pointed the car home. He tried to
drive fast enough to leave behind all that had happened tonight, to keep
from having to think about it. But his tears, softly coursing down his
cheek, were his constant companion as he made his way through the night.

** 18 **

      Arriving at home, he stumbled up the stairs to his apartment, fumbled
his key into the lock, and collapsed onto the sofa without turning the
lights on. He lay there for a long moment, staring at the ceiling. In the
dark quiet the tears returned as the events of the evening whirled around
him. He breathed deeply and tried to either think clearly or stop thinking
at all. He was unsuccessful at both.

      "God, Gabriel, what did we do?" he whispered into the dark.

      Great, he thought. Now I'm talking to myself. Fuck.

      "We did what we had to do."

      The voice was low, and it was close. Brandt sat bolt upright, his
reflexes taking control. He sat, not breathing, listening. Had he really
heard Donnelly's voice?

      "Gabriel?"

      "Ethan..." the voice from the darkness replied, in a whisper, a long,
low, dissipated sound.

      Brandt felt his throat closing in panic. He had not even begun to
think about what he might say to Donnelly, how they would be after this
evening. Crazy lights flashed around the margin of his sight as his head
throbbed with sudden confusion.

      "What are you doing here?"

      "Where else would I go?" was Donnelly's simple reply.

      "So you came and sat in my dark apartment?"

      "I didn't know what to do. I knew you'd be upset at how fucked up the
whole thing was, and I guess I figured I'd just put myself here so that you
wouldn't have to go looking for me in order to kill me."

      "Kill you?" Brandt snorted. "I'm the one who got us into that
mess. Why would I want to kill you?"

      Donnelly was silent for a moment.

      "Because I watched your video," he whispered, barely audible.

      "Yeah, about that," Brandt said as he got up to turn on a
light. "That was kind of a surprise."

      "To both of us," agreed Donnelly miserably.

      "That video was the most degrading thing I've ever been through. My
only hope of getting past it was believing that no one I knew would ever
see it," Brandt spoke, slowly, looking at the same patch of carpet that
Donnelly was studying. He sighed. "I can't believe you would do that to
me."

      "I did it for me," Donnelly whispered.

      Brandt had to force himself to look across at his partner. He didn't
know what he would see in that familiar, but now completely alien,
face. What he saw was his best friend in the world, pale and shaking, tears
running down his face.

      "I don't understand," murmured Brandt, struggling to keep the shock
out of his voice.

      Donnelly wiped his face roughly with the back of his hand, as if
trying to erase himself.

      "I can't explain it. Not to you." A sob escaped him. "Not to me." His
chest heaved, and more sobbing rushed from his anguished, trembling
mouth. "I am so fucked up...so fucked up...so fucking--" He took several
gulping of air, trying to catch his breath if not his composure. Failing,
he put his head in his hands and continued crying raggedly.

      "Look," Brandt said, keeping his voice level and calm as he had been
trained to do when talking someone down from an emotional (or actual)
ledge. "The way things went tonight--I thought I would be there alone. But
Nick stayed and watched the whole time. I had to play the part or he would
have known something was up. I just wasn't expecting you to be there. The
bidding went higher than what we had, so I don't know how--"

      "I paid it," Donnelly muttered, his face still in his hands.

      "What?"

      Donnelly looked up. "I paid it. I paid the money."

      Brandt felt as though he'd been punched in the solar plexus. By a
Toyota.

      "What? How?"

      Donnelly took a deep breath. "When my brother was killed in
Afghanistan, some life insurance that my grandparents had bought him as a
kid paid off. My mom was completely around the bend at that point, and
refused to take the money--I think it made his death too real to
her. Anyway, my sister and I split it. Actually, I gave her most of it for
the down payment on her house. I took five thousand, and it's just been
sitting in my savings account since. So tonight, when the bidding jumped at
the last second, I decided to use it." He paused, catching his breath after
spilling all of this out. "I didn't want you to have to do that with anyone
else." His voice caught. "Anyone but me," he whispered miserably.

      "You spent 5K of your own money to have video sex with me? What the
fuck?"

      "I spent 5K of my own money to play chess with you, remember?"

      Brandt was chastened by Donnelly's reminder that he had failed to
manage the situation according to their plan.

      "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. I really tried. I just couldn't convince
him to leave me alone. I'm sorry you had to see that."

      Donnelly closed his eyes, took a deep breath that seemed to go on for
forever.

      "I'm not."

      "What the--FUCK--does that mean?"

      "I can't explain it. Please don't make me," Donnelly begged.

      Brandt's expression reflected his confused anguish.

      "I gotta get outta here," Donnelly blurted, as he bolted upright and
rushed for the door. He would have made it, had there not been an obstacle
in his way.

      It was Brandt.

      He had matched Donnelly's motions, and put himself between his
partner and the door. They stood, inches apart, Donnelly's tear-streaked
face met with Brandt's anger- clouded visage.

      "No."

      Brandt's word was a weapon, and Donnelly felt its force. He took a
breath to beg again to be released, but Brandt sprang at him, pushing him
hard, sending him reeling backward. He sprawled back onto the chair he had
just left, struggling to catch his breath.

      "You're not going anywhere, 'partner,' " snarled Brandt. Donnelly
could see the tendons in his neck tauten, his jaw set.

      "Ethan, please don't ... I can't--"

      "Shut the fuck up!" Brandt shouted. Donnelly had never seen him this
way. He had witnessed his partner wrestle drug dealers to the ground, he
had watched him shoot a hostage-taker at a bank robbery, but he had never
seen him this fierce.

      Brandt looked down at his trembling partner. His nostrils flared as
he tried to think clearly.

      "Good god, Gabriel." Some calm had returned to Brandt's voice. Not
enough to let Donnelly think he might survive, but some. "Who the hell are
you?"

      "I tried to be the partner you needed. I fucked it up, clearly."

      "My fucking partner. Right. Nice to know you've got my back, buddy."

      Something snapped inside Donnelly.

      "I have always been there for you!" he exploded, getting to his
feet. "I have been your partner and your friend and your fucking therapist
for two fucking years and the first time I fuck things up you're ready to
beat the shit out of me? That's fucked up, my friend.  Fucked up." He moved
toward the door once again.

      Brandt blocked him again. They again stood, inches apart, but now
both faces were flushed with anger, their bodies heaving with barely
contained rage.

      "Just tell me one thing, and I'll let you go," Brandt snarled.

      "What," spat Donnelly, his eyes narrowing with a furious intensity.

      "Did you mean what you said?"

      Donnelly frowned, squinting into Brandt's eyes.

      "When?"

      "During the live thing. What you said to 'Mason.' Did you mean it?"

      "What the fuck are you talking about? I don't remember what I said!"
Donnelly's voice rose with the stress of anger--or of lying.

      "You said you watched my video a dozen times. You said you beat off
when you watch it. You said you shoot your shit when you watch me shower."
Brandt was panting.  "That's what you fucking said. Did you fucking mean
it?"

      Donnelly froze, not breathing. Then, slowly, he sagged, spent from
the emotional and physical exertion this day had demanded of him. The tears
flowed again.

      "Yes," he whispered.

      Brandt was silent. Donnelly counted his breaths. One. Two. Three.

      "Why didn't you tell me?" Brandt's voice was as quiet as Donnelly's
had been.

      This was not what Donnelly had been expecting.

      "Tell you what? That I watched a sex video of you? I didn't even want
to admit that to myself." He took a deep, ragged breath. "The first time I
had my eyes closed through the whole thing, like seeing it would blind me
or something. But I had to know what you were doing. So I watched it
again. And again. And then I wasn't doing anything but watching it--and
trying to convince myself each time not to do it again, that I didn't
really want to see it again, but I did." He steeled himself and looked into
Brandt's eyes.

      "I watched it because I wanted to. Because it showed me what I've
been trying not to know. Because it made me see you clearly." He sighed,
then whispered, "Because it changed me into who I've always been."

      Brandt looked desperately into Donnelly's eyes, back and forth
between them, trying to see the truth of what he had said, trying to see
that it wasn't true at all. But it was.

      "Just let me go," Donnelly asked. "I'll arrange a transfer on Monday,
and you'll never have to see me again. No one will know what happened. I'll
say it's all me, and you can get a partner who won't go all pervert on
you."

      "I swear to god, Gabriel, if you try to leave I will fucking--" With
this Brandt grabbed Donnelly by the collar, brought his face even
closer. "You aren't going anywhere."

      Donnelly's breath was short and shallow. But if it had to end this
way, at least it would be over. His mom would be much better off with a
dead cop for a son than another dead fag.

      "Ethan, please, just--"

      "Shut up," Brandt hissed, their noses touching now, their eyes
connected across the breath of space that separated them.

      Donnelly closed his eyes, surrendering. He was ready for the end.

      He felt Brandt's grip on his neck tighten, and then he felt something
more.

      It was a kiss.

      Soft at first, a whisper of contact, a hint of warmth that spread
like electricity through his body. And then a second, and a third, each
firmer and more deliberate, until finally his mouth was completely taken,
occupied by Brandt, opened to his surging pressure. He felt in that moment
what he had only ever imagined--the strength, the power, of a man's mouth
on his own. He had never wanted anything more in his life.

      The kiss lasted until both men were breathless and flushed, and then
Brandt pulled back.

      They looked at each other, the same way they had looked at each other
across the Internet a couple of hours ago. But now they were here, and they
were themselves, and this is what they were now, together.

      "Oh, fuck," whispered Donnelly. "What the hell was that?"

      Brandt snorted, shook his head. "It was a gift from Nick tonight. I'm
just passing it along."

      Donnelly, still deeply stunned, could not form words.

      "Are you okay? Was I too--"

      Brandt's words were lost, stifled beneath Donnelly's urgent lips on
his own.  Brandt's surprise was delicious, and he savored the thrill that
coursed through him, brought about by this strange, dangerous thing they
were doing.

      Donnelly, competitive as ever, was showing a craftsmanship with his
tongue that Brandt had never dreamt of. He flashed back to their
conversation about how kissing, if done right, is penetration. Brandt knew
himself to be penetrated by this kiss, by this man.  The feeling of
release, of vulnerable openness, made his knees weak.

      By the time Donnelly was finished with him, he had a hard time
catching his breath.

      "I think," Brandt panted, somewhat dramatically, "I need a drink."

      "I think I'll join you," Donnelly replied through a smile of pure
relief, broader and more brilliant than Brandt had ever seen.

** 19 **

      Morning announced itself by way of a truck backing up in the parking
lot behind Brandt's apartment building. Its beep-beep-beep was the
universal signal of something large and ungainly having taken a wrong turn.

      Brandt's eyes opened slowly, dulled by the fog of a Jaeger
hangover. He was in the process of trying to remember where he was and how
he had gotten here when he felt a stirring next to him. He jumped. The
number of times he had woken up next to someone--ever--numbered under a
dozen. He lifted his head to look over.

      Donnelly.

      Oh, shit.

      "Morning," came the sleepy voice from the other side of the bed.

      Brandt reached for his phone to check the time. It was 8 in the
morning, later than he normally slept on Saturday, which would make him
late for his usual Saturday breakfast with...Donnelly.

      He sat up, and noticed two things. First, he was naked. That was
unusual, as he wasn't in the habit of sleeping nude. Second, he had no idea
how he had gotten into bed.  Naked. With Donnelly.

      All that was needed to make this a perfectly Hollywood moment would
be a trail of giddily discarded clothing leading from the door to the
bed. Fearing the worst, Brandt leaned over the edge to look down. No, his
clothes were simply in a pile, as if he had shucked them all off at
once. He reached down for his boxer-briefs so that he would be at least a
little less naked, and found that they were torn rather badly.

      What the hell had happened last night?

      He looked back over at Donnelly, who by now was awake and staring at
the ceiling, as if he expected it to come down upon him at any moment.

      "So," Brandt began. He had no idea what to say next.

      "So." Donnelly too seemed at a loss.

      "So this is a little strange," Brandt ventured, gesturing at them,
the bed, the room, the world.

      "You could say that," replied Donnelly, in a voice carefully devoid
of emotion.

      "Do you think," Brandt began, faltered, and began again, "Do you
think we did anything last night?"

      Donnelly turned to look at Brandt, a quizzical expression on his
face.

      "What do we even know how to do?"

      Brandt laughed in spite of himself. Donnelly continued.

      "I mean, I know it looks like we threw ourselves into bed, but
really, what two guys do in bed I have no idea. So I really don't think we
did anything."

      Brandt had to concede that his partner made a good point.

      "I'm thinking breakfast. You?"

      "You read my mind." Donnelly, like Brandt, seemed relieved to have
something to do other than trying to figure out what the hell their
friendship had turned into last night.

      Brandt slipped his legs over the edge of the bed, trying to reach his
underwear drawer without sliding out from under the covers. It was just
beyond his fingertips. He sighed, pulled back the covers, and stepped over
to his dresser. He was keenly aware of being naked now, though Donnelly had
seen him naked on pretty much a daily basis for years. Now it seemed to
matter.

      He grabbed a pair of his tax-accountant underwear and slipped them
on.

      "Hey, can I borrow a pair?" asked Donnelly. "I seem to remember mine
getting pretty stretched out last night."

      Brandt tossed him a pair, and then padded off to the bathroom for a
pee and a brush. Donnelly followed him in moments later, as he stood
brushing his teeth at the sink.  He got out a new toothbrush and set it on
the counter for Donnelly to use, and tried not to look at his partner
otherwise.

      If Brandt was awkward and nervous, Donnelly was the complete
opposite. He stood next to Brandt at the sink, right next to him, touching
him. As he brushed he lay his head on Brandt's shoulder. The casualness of
this contact, the warmth and innocence of it, completely charmed Brandt. He
smiled as he brushed. This morning ritual completed, the men returned to
the bedroom to sort out their clothes.

      They arrived at their usual Saturday morning spot, a retro diner a
few blocks from Brandt's apartment, slightly later than usual and
starving. An aging former cop who sat at the booth closest to the door
every week greeted them. His emphysema forced him to take a long breath
between words, but he was always a cheerful part of their Saturday morning.

      "Well, if--" breath, "--it isn't--" breath, "--my favorite--" breath,
"--couple."

      Brandt froze, horrified.

      "Of troopers," the man finished, breathing deeply from his oxygen
tank. He smiled broadly at Brandt and Donnelly.

      "Good to see you, Sarge," smiled Donnelly, recovering more quickly
than Brandt from the misunderstanding occasioned by the long pause in the
greeting. They passed his booth on their way to their own.

      Their usual waitress was not working this morning, so someone new
came to take their order. They were soon sipping coffee and starting to
feel fully awake.

      Saturday morning was usually when they would decompress from the
week, take some time to talk through what had happened at work and exchange
gossip they hadn't covered by the time they left their desks all of 12
hours ago. This time, however, they didn't have much to say, instead
staring at their hands as they sat on opposites sides of a booth.

      Finally, the silence got to Brandt.

      "You okay?" he asked, knowing that Donnelly would correctly interpret
this very vague inquiry as a very specific question indeed.

      "Yeah, I am. Really okay, in fact." Donnelly smiled. "You?"

      "Good, yeah." Brandt nodded, a little too energetically to achieve
sincerity.

      "You're acting like you're on a first date or something."

      Brandt blushed, looked down at his hands. "But aren't we, kind of? I
mean, things are sort of different between us since we woke up in the same
bed this morning, right?"

      "Who had the hash browns," demanded the waitress, her tone conveying
clearly that she had heard this last statement by Brandt and was not at all
amused by it.

      "That's my partner here," beamed Donnelly at the surly waitress. "He
always gets hash browns. I've been trying to get him to lighten up on the
breakfasts, but you know men, am I right?"

      "And the bacon?" growled the waitress.

      Brandt's turn. "That goes to my man over there. That's how he
lightens up his breakfast. And heart disease runs in his family!"

      Plates clattered onto the table, and the waitress retired with a
grunt.

      "Anyway," Brandt tried to pick up where he had left off when the ogre
had brought their food, "I think it's a fair question to ask where we
stand. In the last 24 hours we've had video sex, almost beaten each other
up, made out, got completely shit-faced on Jaeger, and woken up in bed
together, naked. Now I'm trying to figure out what this--" he pointed to
from himself to Donnelly and back again, "--is."

      Donnelly's response was to take a forkful of his blueberry pancakes
and hold them across the table for Brandt to eat. He had never done
anything like this before, and in his surprise Brandt opened his
mouth. Donnelly carefully, and probably more slowly and with a greater
flourish than was strictly necessary, fed him.

      "There," Donnelly said, as if that explained everything. He could see
by Brandt's expression that it didn't. "Look, we are everything we were to
each other yesterday. We're just something more now, something extra."

      "Okay, but what is that something? What do we call it?"

      Donnelly arranged his face into an expression of pure
stupefaction. "You know, you're right. There should be a word for it. Why
hasn't anyone thought of this before?  There should be a word for what
people feel when they go from being friends to being more than that to each
other." He tapped his temple with a thoughtful fingertip. "Oh, wait, there
is a word for that! It's called being in love, ya big dope. I swear, that
they gave you a college degree."

      Donnelly chewed his pancakes cheerfully, and even stuffed in a piece
of bacon for good measure.

      "Did you just say you love me?" Brandt was sure he had heard
incorrectly.

      Donnelly considered this for a moment, or at least made a show of
looking that way. "Um, yeah, I did. I kind of thought that the making out
last night would have made it clear, but I can confirm that, yes, I love
you. I've told you that before."

      "But that was just as buddies, you know--'I love you, man!' That was
before we slept together."

      The occupants of the booth behind Donnelly got up and moved to
another table, muttering something under their breaths.

      "So, you knew I loved you, but because of last night you thought
maybe I didn't anymore?"

      Brandt shrugged. It really didn't make any sense when one said it out
loud.

      "Let's be clear. I love you. Not in the 'I love you, man' way, but in
the 'I want to wake up with you in the morning' way. It's that kind of 'I
love you.' Does that clear it up?"

      The waitress, who had been taking an order at the next table while
Donnelly was speaking, threw their check at them as she steamed past like a
battleship.

      "You know," Brandt said as he watched the bill flutter to the table,
"This suddenly doesn't seem to be the kind of place I want to have
breakfast."

      Donnelly chuckled. "I don't think it's changed. We have."

      They finished their breakfast and rose to pay the bill. They felt
every eye in the diner on them as they walked together to the register. It
seemed like a long journey, past tables of glaring faces. Brandt was
mortified. Donnelly was angry. He reached out and took Brandt's hand in his
own. Brandt was too shocked to pull his hand away, but the blush blazing
its way up his neck told the story.

      At the register, the ogre waited to ring them up. She snatched the
check out of Brandt's hand, glanced at it, and then waited, looking away
from the men to a point in the middle distance, as if she were trying to
pretend they weren't there.

      Brandt handed the money over, and she pounded at the register. She
gathered his change and then slapped it onto the counter and walked back
into the kitchen, shaking her head.

      "I'm thinking a 0% tip is appropriate?" Brandt asked Donnelly as they
turned to the door to leave.

      They passed the table that had been taken by the former occupants of
the booth behind Donnelly. There were four older men in the booth, and they
all looked at the troopers as they passed.

      "Faggots," one growled, almost too low to hear. But Brandt heard, and
he stiffened. Donnelly nudged him, and they continued out the door. They
would not be returning.

      "Well, that was awful," Donnelly remarked, his voice only slightly
tinged with rancor, as they walked back to Brandt's apartment.

      "What the hell was that? We've been going there for years, and now
all of a sudden they treat us like shit?"

      "Let it go, Ethan. Totally not worth it."

      They walked in silence for a block.

      "I mean, for fuck's sake," Brandt finally exploded. "We've been out
in the world for a grand total of an hour since...well, you
know...whatever, and already we were practically chased out of a fucking
restaurant by a bunch of withered old bigots."

      They climbed the stairs to Brandt's apartment. At the top of the
stairs Donnelly fidgeted while Brandt unlocked the door.

      "What's up with you? Ants in your pants?" Brandt asked as Donnelly
pulled at the leg of his khakis.

      "Funny. No, these dorky boxer brief things you wear are a mess. You
need new drawers, man."

      "Come to think of it, I need something for Monday. I'm meeting with
the owner of the site--after the live thing he decided he wants to talk to
me. I can't go in dressed like a cop, and that's still all I've got."

      "I guess we know where we're headed. We can talk to the underwear
whisperer while we're there, because these things have got to go."

      They entered Brandt's apartment, and found themselves standing
precisely where they had stood last night when their fury turned into
making out. They looked at each other, somewhat sheepishly.

      "Hey, can I shower quick before we head out?" Donnelly said. "I feel
like I need to clean up before we see Bryce again."

      Brandt smiled. "Sure, go ahead. I'll grab one after you."

      Donnelly, instead of going toward the bathroom, stepped toward Brandt
instead.

      "You know, if you wanted to..." He looked at Brandt, an eyebrow
cocked rakishly.

      Brandt felt his face burn, which confused him.

      "No, no, you go ahead. I'm good," he said, a reaction that snapped
the rakish cock right out of Donnelly's brow.

      "Okay, I'll be out in a few," he said. He made a faint motion toward
Brandt as if to peck him on the cheek, but then seemed to think better of
it. He half-shrugged, and then headed for the bathroom.

      Brandt sat down on the sofa, shaking his head. What were they doing?
Last night they had practically chewed on each other's tonsils, and now, by
the light of day, it was so fucking awkward. He thought back on their
experience in the diner this morning, when whatever fragile thing the two
of them had built last night withered under the glare of the larger
world. When he woke up this morning, it seemed like his life had suddenly
changed; now he wasn't sure that anything was different at all.

      They took their turns in the shower, carefully avoiding each other's
nudity for the first time ever, and were soon on their way to Alta Avenue.

      "Camp & Dragg first, to consult Bryce?" Donnelly asked as Brandt
pulled into a parking spot. Brandt nodded.

      They walked into Camp & Dragg for the fourth time in just over a
week, and the commotion they caused was just as intense as the first
time. A new salesman glided swiftly to them.

      "And how may I service you gentlemen today?" he asked. It was clear
that Bryce had trained him.

      "We're looking for Bryce. Is he working today?" Brandt asked, while
Donnelly pondered a new display of leather-accented anatomically correct
dildoes springing from rhinestone-studded toolboxes.

      "I fired his lazy ass!" screeched a voice from the back of the
store. "Princess thought she was too good to drop her nail file and sell
the fucking clothes!" There was probably more invective to be laden upon
the memory of Princess Bryce, but it was lost in a typhoon of coughing.

      "Bryce is at Grindstone, across the street," whispered the salesman,
who was then crestfallen when the two men nodded their thanks and exited
the store.

      They jaywalked (it was a weekend, and they were off duty) and found
themselves right in front of Grindstone. The mission of this retail venue
was to equip the office-going man with khakis cut to accentuate his vital
assets, and shirts that appeared to be conservative button-downs until one
noticed that the little polo player on the pocket was wielding a club of a
distinctly different kind.

      They entered, and immediately saw Bryce. Or, rather, they heard him
squeal--he had seen them first. In a dramatic diva-worthy moment, he
catwalked to their side, barely able to contain his excitement.

      "Oh, you found me!" he gushed. "I was hoping you would! I would have
gotten in touch to tell you that I'd made a shrewd step up the professional
ladder, but as many times as I have slipped you my number," he glared a bit
at Donnelly, "I've never gotten yours." He pouted, but only for a second
and a half. Then, maximum wattage on the smile: "But you're here, you're
here. How are you? Famous yet?" He winked broadly at Brandt.

      Brandt could only smile and shrug in response. His fame was not
something he would be able to talk about. Ever.

      "Oh, wait wait wait!" squeaked Bryce. "There's someone here who will
simply expire to see you."

      The men exchanged a look of both amusement and resignation. They
suspected whom Bryce meant.

      "Nestor! Nestor! Your dream is about to come true, darling!"

      "They are here?" came the calm, measured reply from the back of the
store.

      "In the flesh, which is, if possible, even finer than I remember it!"

      They heard a crash as whatever formerly fragile object Nestor had
been handling met the tasteful porcelain tile on the floor. His manic
shuffle announced his approach.

      "Ai, dios mío!" he murmured. "They are here." He stood before them,
arms open wide.

      Brandt and Donnelly were not sure if they were shopping now, or
having a family reunion. Were they supposed to hug him?

      Bryce reached out and lowered Nestor's arms for him.

      "How can I--and my smitten shop-boy--service you today, gentlemen?"

      "I need something for a business meeting," Brandt explained.

      Bryce and Nestor both gasped.

      "You mean to say you have found success?" burbled Nestor. Then he
squinted a bit at Bryce. "You did not have to do what you did not want to
do to get the job so that you can do what you want to do, did you?" he
asked in such a rush that Brandt was not sure how to answer.

      "My virtue remained intact, if that's what you mean," he answered,
which was mostly true.

      An intact virtue was, to Nestor, a total loss, but he nodded as if he
were happy for Brandt.

      "And," added Donnelly, "We need some new underwear. This guy's," he
jerked his head at Brandt, "Are awful."

      "Tell me something I don't know, honey," cracked Bryce out of the
side of his mouth. He led the foursome through the aisles.

      "How did you two end up here?" asked Donnelly, trying to give their
guides something to focus on other than Brandt's crotch, to which their
eyes had been glued.

      "Well, it was just awful," sighed Bryce.

      "Awful," agreed Nestor.

      "That hag who owns the Store That Shall Not Be Named over there,"
Bryce gestured to Camp & Dragg as if he were a zoo guide pointing out a
dead caribou, "Decided I was spending too much time helping people who need
a more personal touch."

      "You mean they fired you for spending too much time with customers?"
Brandt asked.

      "No, for giving the blowjobs in the dressing room," explained Nestor.

      "Ohhhh," both men nodded slowly while Bryce glared at his shop-boy.

      Donnelly turned to Nestor.

      "And you? Cabana Boy seemed to be your niche."

      "I was getting the blowjobs," Nestor stated blandly.

      "And here we are!" announced Bryce, loudly enough to ensure that the
previous conversation was now over. He and Nestor flew into action,
gathering a pair of khakis, a tightly tailored shirt with delicate
needlework, and accessories.

      "Don't forget the underwear!" called Donnelly.

      "Oh, honey, we've been dreaming how we would wrap those goodies every
night as we drift off to sleep!"

      Donnelly grunted. "My goodies need wrapping this time too," he said,
somewhat poutily.

      Bryce and Nestor froze, turned to look at the troopers, and then back
to each other. They exchanged a nod.

      "Come now, to the fitting room!" Bryce called, as he and Nestor tore
off to the back of the store.

      Donnelly and Brandt did as they were told.

      In the fitting room, Nestor laid out the ensemble they had chosen for
Brandt's outerwear, while Bryce arranged boxes of underwear into two
piles. Nestor motioned for Brandt to try on the clothes, and he began
stripping off. Again.

      This time, though, Brandt noticed that Donnelly was doing the
same. He smiled to himself at how much this meant to him--a dressing room
had been the site of his first horrible exposure, and being here with
Donnelly was a way to recuperate that experience.

      Soon, they were both standing in just Brandt's tacky underwear.

      "Now," gushed Bryce, "I have chosen pairs of undergarments that work
together.  For you," he handed a box to Brandt, "a fine boxer to lay
beautifully under the pant. It will cradle your manhood in incredible
softness, just as I would do myself."

      Brandt chuckled.

      "And for you," he said to Donnelly, "In the same fabric, but with a
more...aggressive cut." He handed a box over.

      Bryce and Nestor stood back to await their reward.

      "You first," said Donnelly.

      "Oh hell no. You first," replied Brandt. "You're the one who's so
excited about getting new undies."

      Donnelly nodded at the truth of this statement. But instead of taking
off his, he walked over to Brandt, slid his thumbs into the waistband of
his boxer-briefs, and yanked them down Brandt's legs in one fluid
motion. Brandt stood naked, the tacky drawers gathered around his ankles.

      Brandt, shocked, recovered quickly enough to reach over and give
Donnelly the same treatment, though he took his time sliding the boxers
down his partner's legs. Then the two men stood, completely nude, facing
one another.

      "I just came," announced Bryce in a loud whisper to Nestor.

      Brandt reached down for the underwear that Bryce had chosen for him,
and Donnelly mirrored his motions. They stood back up, and turned to see
how they looked.  Standing side-by-side, they made a beautiful pair. Brandt
was more a bit darker and more heavily muscled, but Donnelly's sinewy build
was executed in flawless porcelain. In matching underwear, they were Bryce
and Nestor's wet dream made real.

      The two men looked at themselves, and then Brandt stole a glance at
Donnelly.  He noticed two things: first, Donnelly had a body, something he
had never fully appreciated before; second, Donnelly was looking at him
while he looked at Donnelly.  Their eyes met, and a flickering spark of
understanding flowed between them.

      "I could die right now," murmured Nestor. "No, wait. I call my mother
to tell her I seen god, and then I die."

      Bryce, however, was looking silently at the men--not their matching
middle parts, but their faces. Suddenly, his face brightened and a smile
exploded across his face.

      "Oh my god! You two have finally figured it out!"

      Brandt and Donnelly turned away from the mirror to look at Bryce, to
try to understand what he meant.

      Bryce was beaming at them like the mother of the bride. His hands
flew up to his face, as if he were trying to stifle a cry, and then he
rushed at them, wrapping his arms around their necks and pulling them
together.

      "Welcome, my dears! I am so happy for you!" He hugged them
harder. "Welcome home!"

      Brandt and Donnelly exchanged a bewildered look behind Bryce's back.

      When Bryce had finished hugging and giggling and exclaiming, though
never explaining, Brandt tried on the outfit (perfect, as usual) and they
got dressed again-- minus the old dorky underwear, of course. They bought
the entire pile that Bryce had brought, and wore the ones they had tried
on. They meant to throw out the old ones, but when they looked around for
them on the floor of the fitting room they were nowhere to be seen.

      Bryce rang up their purchases, and Nestor put them into bags
(featuring a model wearing a tasteful office ensemble on one side, and the
same model tastefully naked on the other) and handed them across the
counter.

      "I hope we'll be seeing more of you gentlemen," Bryce said.

      "I think you've seen everything we've got," Brandt replied.

      "I've seen enough to know that I'll be seeing more," said Bryce, with
a wink.  Donnelly giggled awkwardly at this, the import of which was lost
on Brandt.

      "Please," said Nestor, shaking their hands, "Please come back to us
when we can be doing anything to help you." It suddenly seemed as though
they were being sent on a momentous journey of some kind. The seriousness
of Nestor's manner, however, was shattered by the waistband of Brandt's old
underwear protruding from his jacket pocket.  Brandt just shook his head,
and Donnelly tried to stifle a laugh.

      Back on the sidewalk, they blinked into the afternoon sun.

      "How about we drop these at the car, and then grab a late lunch?"
Brandt asked.

      "Sounds good. There's a place right by the car that looked nice."

      As they walked toward the car, Brandt remarked, "You know, it's
funny. Every time we've been here I only wanted to get the stuff we needed
and get the hell out. Today, though, it's different."

      "Yeah," replied Donnelly. "It's different."

      The restaurant near the car, Stickley and Greene, was done up in an
early- twentieth century arts-and-crafts look. It took a moment for their
eyes to adjust to the rather dim light emanating from the Frank Lloyd
Wright-style sconces along the wall.  Behind an imposing podium in a
craftsman style with Art Deco flourishes stood the maitre d', beaming
expectantly at them as they approached.

      "Two this evening?" he asked.

      Two, Brandt thought. The two of us. Two together. Just a couple of
guys. A couple.

      "Yes," answered Donnelly, stepping in to cover for Brandt's
deer-in-the- headlights look.

      "Excellent," came the murmured response, praising the men for their
good sense in choosing his restaurant. "This way, please."

      He led them through the warmly lit dining area, to a table at
center. It was in the middle of a raised platform, which it shared with
four other tables.

      "Will this be fine, or would you prefer something more private?"
asked the maitre d', the faintest whiff of insinuation emanating from his
arched brow.

      "Oh, no, this is fine," blurted Brandt, desperate not to be thought
of as the kind of people who needed privacy.

      "Very good, then," soothed the maitre d', handing menus to the men as
they sat down. "Cameron will be with you shortly. Enjoy your meal,
gentlemen."

      If breakfast had felt like a first date, then this felt like a first
prom date. Brandt looked around the room, sweeping it as his training had
made instinctual, and saw without surprise that the patrons were almost
exclusively men. Some older, some younger, and some older with younger, but
men all around.

      Their eyes met over the table.

      "Nice place, huh?" said Donnelly, who was smiling with such clear
innocent happiness that Brandt had to chuckle.

      "Yeah, it is," he said, taking a sip of water. "It's just..."

      Donnelly waited for the rest of the thought to emerge, but it wasn't
coming.

      "Just what?" he asked

      "I was thinking about the last time we were in a restaurant around
here, and how strange it felt. Now, though, I don't know... it's ... I'm
not sure how to describe it."

      "You mean the feeling you get when you know that the waiter isn't
going to throw the check at you like that battle-ax did this morning?"
laughed Donnelly.

      "Yeah, that's what I meant. Ugh, what a horrible thing that was."

      "Good evening, gentlemen!"

      Cameron had arrived. There must be, Brandt reflected, some kind of
factory deep under Alta Avenue where they manufacture the staff for their
stores and restaurants.  Cameron, like Bryce, and Nestor, and Andy, and
everyone else Brandt had seen here, was a specimen of male beauty--in this
case a carefully tousled, stubble-faced Adonis in a white button-down and
an art-glass print tie.

      "Can I offer you a drink to start?"

      Brandt ordered his usual, a gin and tonic, and Donnelly chose the
drink that Will and Lucas had introduced him to, a whiskey sour.

      "I think you threw him with your drink order," said Donnelly as
Cameron glided away.

      "What? How did I do that?"

      "The gays order by brand name. You know, like 'Tanqueray and tonic'
or 'Sapphire and tonic.' That kind of thing."

      "Oh, so now you're the protocol officer for the gay community?"
teased Brandt.  "Should I also specify the brand of tonic water, and the
size of the ice cubes I'd like ever so delicately dropped into the glass
from a height of exactly 7.5 inches? How about the kind of cologne the
bartender should be wearing when he mixes it?"

      "Now you're being ridiculous," said Donnelly with a roll of his eyes.

      Their drinks arrived shortly, and without even thinking about it,
Brandt had lifted his glass. It had been his habit to clink glasses with
Donnelly and make some silly toast, even if it was just shot glasses of
Jaeger and the toast was "Friday night, fuck yeah!" But now he suddenly
realized he had no idea what to say.

      "To the beginning," Donnelly announced in a nearly serious tone.

      Brandt looked at his partner, holding his glass aloft, lit by the
flickering light of the candles on the table, a sparkle in his eyes, and he
felt a warmth rush over him, enveloping him.

      "To the beginning," he agreed. "Fuck yeah."

      They clinked, and they drank and smiled at each other without the
need for further words.

      Cameron returned to take their orders.

      "He'll have," Brandt said, nodding slightly at Donnelly while a sly
grin played around his mouth, "the hanger steak, with red potatoes, and
could they crumble a little bacon on them?"

      "Yes, of course," Cameron answered. He had pegged them for a
first-date couple, but no one would do that on a first date. He played
along. "And for him?" he asked Donnelly, smiling his impossibly white teeth
expectantly.

      "I believe my friend here will have...yes, he'll have the salmon, on
watercress, with the jalepeño-caper aoli on the side, and the grilled
peppers."

      "Excellent choices, gentlemen," murmured Cameron, charmed by these
two, so clearly in love.

      Donnelly looked at Brandt a bit squintily.

      "Well, that was fun--did I do okay?"

      "Of course you did. You know that I never pass up a good salmon. And
that aoli gives me the willies."

      Donnelly laughed.

      "So," Brandt continued, looking quickly around, "Is this weird?"

      "Why would it be weird?"

      "Because we're like, I don't know...on a kind of date?"

      Donnelly sipped his drink, then looked at Brandt, the corner of his
mouth tucked up in an ironic grin.

      "We've known each other, what, two years and a bit?"

      Brandt nodded.

      "And in that time, how many days have gone by that we didn't see each
other?"

      Brandt considered this for a moment.

      "Well, there was that time about six months ago that you spent a week
with your sister."

      "That was when Delilah was born," recalled Donnelly.

      "And there was the time that I went home for Christmas, but just for
a day."

      "So, we've been together all but 8 days out of the last two
years. You are the first person I see in the morning, the last one at
night, and the only one I can really talk to." He paused to finish off his
drink. "Forget dating, we've been married for two years. We just didn't
know it."

      Brandt laughed, raised his glass to Donnelly, and drained it.

      They were finishing their second drinks when the food arrived. It was
not the kind of food they often allowed themselves, more perhaps out of the
image of the cop than limitations of budget, but it was exquisitely
presented and perfectly prepared.

      "Oh, my god," breathed Donnelly as he tried the first bite of his
steak. "You have to try this!"

      "It cannot be as amazing as this salmon, I'm telling you," replied
Brandt.

      Donnelly reached his fork over to Brandt, presenting him the perfect
morsel of his dinner; Brandt, seeing this, did the same with his.

      Through their delighted laughter, Brandt flashed back to the scene in
the diner this morning, when Donnelly had fed him a bite of pancake. The
flush of shame came roaring back, forcing his eyes to dart around the room,
looking for potential threats. No one seemed to have noticed them.

      The ate a few more bites, and then Cameron arrived at their table
with two wine glasses and a bottle.

      Brandt looked at Donnelly questioningly; he got a shrug in return.

      "Um," said Brandt, tentatively, "We didn't order any wine."

      "Well, this," said Cameron as he expertly stripped off the covering
on the cork and skewered it with his opener, "Is a gift from the gentlemen
at that table." He nodded over to a booth along the side wall of the
restaurant. "They wish me to present it with their compliments, and to tell
you that you remind them of themselves when they met."

      They looked to the side, and saw two older men with salt-and-pepper
hair smiling at them. They were holding hands across the table. Stunned,
Brandt and Donnelly nodded their thanks.

      Cameron poured, wrapped the bottle, and left the men to their
suddenly more public dinner.

      "You know, we're really not in Kansas anymore," Brandt chuckled as he
lifted his glass.

      "Congratulations, my friend," toasted Donnelly, raising his glass to
Brandt. "A Dorothy reference means that you are officially a member of Gay
Club."

      Brandt made a chivalrous bow to his partner, acknowledging the
accolade.

      They finished dinner, and then walked back to Donnelly's car. It was
only once they had pulled away from the curb that they realized they had no
idea where they were going.

      "Want to go to my place?" Donnelly asked. He lived in a bungalow left
to him by his aunt when she retired to a warmer clime a couple of years
ago. It had been a rental for many years, but she hadn't wanted to try to
maintain it from so far away, and so she simply signed it over to
Donnelly. It wasn't much to look at, but he liked it far more than any
apartment he might have been able to afford.

      "Sure," replied Brandt. His apartment, the site of their bizarre
confrontation last night, was not where he wanted to be right now, as he
basked in the glow of their dinner together.

      During the short drive to Donnelly's house, located in an older
neighborhood just outside the city center, Brandt spent most of his time
looking at Donnelly, wondering how they had managed to get to this point,
wondering what they now were to each other.  Donnelly, for his part,
wondered why Brandt was staring at him. Had he done something wrong?

      They pulled up in front of his cottage, and walked up to the front
door as they had so many times before. Indeed, when Brandt's apartment was
fumigated a year ago (thanks to a globetrotting pharmaceutical rep upstairs
and the particularly virulent bugs he had brought back from one of his
travels) he had even crashed here for a week. Donnelly unlocked the door
and they stepped inside.

      They stood for a moment in this place that was so familiar, and yet,
with the entire world being made new by the sudden turn their friendship
had taken in the last 24 hours, it too felt strange and unexplored.

      "So," Brandt said, his voice bearing the same anxious reserve as it
had this morning when he had greeted Donnelly's shocking presence in his
bed. He still wasn't sure what they were doing, and what they might be
about to do concerned him even more.

      Donnelly, however, felt the time for anxious reserve had past.

      He tossed his keys onto the table next to the front door, and stepped
over to face his partner. He stood for a moment, looking into Brandt's face
with an intensity that made Brandt's stomach turn a flip.

      "What are you--"

      Brandt was silenced by Donnelly's fingers on his mouth. He held them
there for a moment, shaking his head slightly, a sly grin taking shape.

      For his part, Brandt was taken aback--here was Donnelly treating him
like the girl in a 1940s romance, shushing him by putting his fingers on
his lips.

      But then, Donnelly's fingers were warm, and soft.

      But then, they smelled faintly of the chocolate raspberry sauce he
had swabbed off the dessert plate, after they had shared the torte.

      But then, his fingers twitched a little, as if fear and desire were
fighting each other.

      And then, he leaned in and his lips took the place of his fingers and
Brandt was lost in the kiss he had needed for so long.

      He felt Donnelly's hands on his neck, on the back of his head,
pressing them close; that tongue entered his mouth, as it had last night,
and he felt the thrill both of the new and the familiar, a combination that
made him dizzy. Without realizing he was doing it, he wrapped his arms
around Donnelly's waist and held him tightly. Their eyes were closed and
they felt only each other for a long moment as their entire existence
centered on the place where their lips met.

      Finally Donnelly's grip on Brandt's neck slackened a bit, and he
pulled back slightly. His eyes sparkled as they had at the restaurant, and
his expression was one of pure joy. Brandt smiled, caught up in the
excitement emanating from his partner.

      "Dude, that was amazing," breathed Brandt, clearly overwhelmed.

      "Shhh..." Donnelly replied, taking Brandt by the hand and leading him
down the hall.

      Brandt opened his mouth to protest being shushed--again--but then
they arrived at Donnelly's bedroom and he lost whatever words he was going
to say. He had been in this room before, of course, but it was never like
this. Next to the bed he saw the chessboard from last night, the pieces
still scattered around the floor in the corner of the room, and he had a
flashback to how that awful event had unfolded. He shuddered at the memory,
but then realized that he had nothing to shudder about; all of the
strangeness of what they had done last night was made normal by what they
were doing now.

      Donnelly stood in front of Brandt, near the foot of the bed, and
kissed him again, and then again. Then his hands slid up Brandt's torso,
nearly up to his neck. He began to unbutton his shirt. After undoing the
top two buttons, he spread Brandt's shirt open and gazed hungrily at the
top of his exposed chest. He leaned down and kissed the right clavicle, and
then the left, and then kissed Brandt again on the lips. Brandt felt a
surging in his chest that was completely new to him, and he wasn't sure he
could remain standing.  Donnelly kissed his chin, then his throat, and
finally down between his pectorals. He continued to unbutton as he went
down, until finally he knelt before Brandt and kissed his navel, pushing
the shirt completely open. It hung off Brandt's shoulders, as if he were an
angel leaping heavenward whose clothes were too mundane to make the trip
with him.

      Donnelly looked up the expanse of Brandt's muscled torso, and saw his
nipples jutting out from this chest--how could he have missed those? He
stood, slowly, and as he arrived at their level he reached out with his
left hand to pinch one while he caught the other between his teeth. Brandt
gasped, then moaned incoherently, and then his knees buckled. He sprawled
backward onto the bed, Donnelly landing on him, cat-like, his grip on
Brandt's sensitive nipples never faltering.

      Brandt gripped the sheets with his arms outstretched, writhing under
the ministrations of his partner, who seemed somehow to know that his
nipples were wired directly to the fuck center of his brain. He couldn't
take much more of this.

      "Get up here," he growled, his hands gripping Donnelly's shoulders,
pulling him away from his nipples, which were sparkling with sensation.

      Donnelly slid slowly up Brandt's body, maximizing the friction
between his clothed torso and Brandt's naked one.

      Brandt gripped the sides of Donnelly's face as he looked into his
eyes.

      "I...just have...one thing...to say..." he panted, flushed with
emotion and adrenaline and whatever new chemical it was that served as the
pathway between his nipples and his cock.

      "What would that be?" asked Donnelly, innocently.

      "My turn!" grunted Brandt, as he flipped Donnelly onto his back and
landed atop him. He looked down at his partner, who smiled at being handled
a bit roughly, staring up with frank desire in his eyes.

      He froze for a moment, hesitating on the precipice of the biggest
plunge of his life. If he did this, if he did what every fiber of his being
was crying out for him to do, there was no going back. He would be
something different, something new, starting today and forever.

      He dropped his hands to Donnelly's chest, heaved a heavy sigh, and
closed his eyes.

      Donnelly's expression changed from one of lusty playfulness to one of
surprised concern, and then quickly to one of stricken loss. He knew full
well what this meant--to Brandt, and to him. He saw the internal struggle
for what it was, and he knew.

      Brandt's fingers, numb with panic and clumsy with an agitated
restlessness, wriggled and fidgeted where they had fallen onto Donnelly's
chest. Then, unexpectedly, they found their way into the gap between the
buttons on Donnelly's shirt. They touched his skin, and the electricity of
contact blasted through Brandt, up his spine, directly to that part of his
brain that had been ignited by Donnelly's tweaking his nipples. A brilliant
clarity broke through the fog.

      A tearing sound rent the quiet of the bedroom as Donnelly's shirt was
ripped apart by Brandt's sudden, violent, effortless sweep of
movement. Buttons clicked off the wall, sent flying by Brandt's slashing
hands.

      Brandt was panting. Donnelly wasn't breathing at all.

      Suddenly Brandt was everywhere on Donnelly at once--kissing his lips,
eyelids; rubbing his stubbly cheek along Donnelly's taut torso, feeling the
heat of friction; squeezing meaty handfuls of pectoral muscle; his tongue
fluttering on each nipple, a faint whisper of contact like a hummingbird,
followed by full-mouth suction that drew the sensitive flesh into his wet,
hungry warmth.

      Donnelly writhed and thrashed in the face of his onslaught, delirious
with the thrill and release of giving himself to it entire, yielding up his
whole being, to the man he trusted most in the world. The man he loved.

      Brandt suddenly stopped, and brought his face slowly up to stare
directly into Donnelly's. He looked at his eyes, at his lips, at his
cheeks, as if trying to recognize traces of someone he had once know well
and lost long ago. Then a slow spreading smile broke across his face, slow
like a summer sunrise when the early heat makes ribbons of light dance on
the horizon.

      "It's you," he breathed, his expression one of pure wonder. "It's
you. It's always been you, hasn't it?"

      A flicker of confusion flashed across Donnelly's face, but he blinked
it away. He studied Brandt's face carefully, as carefully as Brandt had
searched his, and then he knew--he knew what Brandt meant, and he knew what
his answer would be.

      "Yes. It's me. It will always be me."

      Brandt exhaled as if dismissing a lifetime of doubt and regret.

      "I..." Brandt started, and then shook his head, grinning. Was he
really going to say this? He had never said it to anyone and meant it the
way he did at this moment. "I love you," he said, simply. It was a fact,
now, and he marveled that he hadn't seen it before.

      "I love you," Donnelly answered back, reveling in the feel of the
words as they formed in his mouth. "I've loved you forever."

      Brandt chuckled.

      "You've only known me two years," he said.

      "And I only realized it last week. But, looking back on it, it seems
more like forever."

      "When did you know?" prompted Brandt, intrigued.

      "When we watched that wrestling video. When you asked me to look at
their dicks. I suddenly realized that the idea of you doing that actually
got me going. Scared the fucking shit out of me, that did." He smiled at
the recollection. "Thought I was really losing it."

      "Thanks, buddy. That's nice to hear, that the idea of me scared the
fucking shit out of you." Brandt was still grinning, enjoying being able to
finally talk this openly.

      "Fuck you," growled Donnelly.

      "I'd like to see you try," taunted Brandt.

      It was perhaps less than a second later that Brandt found himself
once more on the bottom, pinned under Donnelly--who indeed remembered his
high school wrestling experience.

      "Would you, now?" Donnelly murmured, a sinister edge in his voice.

      Brandt, for the first time, looked genuinely concerned.

      "Umm, actually, no..." he stammered, his voice a bit higher than it
had been a moment ago.

      Donnelly appeared not to have heard. His hands moved to Brandt's
belt, which he unbuckled with a flick of one hand, the other holding
Brandt's hands back over his head.  Brandt realized in an uneasy flash that
Donnelly knew something about leverage--he was unable to move his arms,
even though he thought himself the stronger of the two men.

      Meanwhile, Donnelly was unbuttoning and unzipping Brandt's pants. His
expression changed instantly; he now looked imploringly up at Brandt, eyes
puppy-like.

      "May I?" he asked, nodding down to Brandt's open fly.

      Whatever panic Brandt had felt about Donnelly having his way this
evening ebbed from him as he looked at the innocent, sweet face of his
partner. Surely he wouldn't hurt me, he thought.

      Brandt nodded his assent, and hoped for the best.

      Donnelly scooted down, kneeling between Brandt's legs, and then
grabbed the waistband of his pants and pulled them down. Brandt lifted his
hips to allow Donnelly to work them down his ass, and he felt the fabric of
his brand-new underwear rub along the length of his cock. The considerable
length of his cock. He looked down and saw, with surprise, that he was
fully erect.

      Donnelly noticed this as well--how could he not?--but he continued
his work of sliding Brandt's pants down and off, taking the socks with
them. Now his buddy, his friend, his partner, lay before him on the bed,
wearing only the boxers that had made Bryce and Nestor mad with lust just
hours ago.

      Donnelly could see their point.

      He shucked off his own pants and socks, and the knelt again between
Brandt's legs, looking down at this beautiful body, really seeing it for
the first time because he let himself really look for the first time. It
made him blush a bit to feel the surge of sex energy flowing to his cock,
to his entire being.

      Brandt looked down at Donnelly, trying to guess what he would do
next. If he were honest with himself, and this certainly seemed like a time
for honesty, he would have to say that he wasn't at all sure what should
come next. He had never, never in his life, imagined sex with another
man. He didn't know if he could do what he thought gay men did with each
other, and he wasn't sure he wanted Donnelly to do it to him, either.  His
heart pounded with terrible possibility.

      Donnelly, for his part, harbored no such complicated reservations. He
simply wanted to feel Brandt against him, to press together all of the
parts they possessed that could come into contact, and to stay that way
until the sun burned out. He put his plan into action, and lay himself down
atop Brandt, feeling the entire length of his best friend's body. Separated
only by a double thickness of their matching underwear, their cocks pressed
against each other, slipping back and forth as Donnelly settled in.

      Brandt never remembered being this hard before. He had always been
able to perform sexually with the women he had dated in college, but this
was different. His cock felt like an iron club, hard and heavy and
dangerous. Next to it was Donnelly's, the heat of which amazed Brandt. As
Donnelly kissed him, he ground their hips together, each cock attempting to
push the other aside, both too hard to give much ground.

      Brandt writhed, and ran his hands up and down Donnelly's back. He
roughly grabbed the waistband of Donnelly's new underwear, and yanked it
down, exposing the pale, smooth, flexing buttocks that lay
underneath. Donnelly reared back, pulled the briefs off of the catchpole of
his hard cock, and slid them down his legs. Then he reached out for
Brandt's. He pulled the boxers off slowly, reverently, as if he were
unwrapping the very best, and very last, Christmas present he would ever
get. Again Brandt thrust his hips up, his buttocks lifting off the bed, and
as Donnelly pulled the underwear off his cock sprang straight up into the
air before landing back against his belly with a heavy smack.

      Donnelly tossed the boxers off to the side, where they landed on the
chessboard.  He then resumed his previous position, stretched out atop
Brandt. He kept his pelvis pulled back, though, so that their entire bodies
were in contact except for their cocks. His was so hard that it throbbed up
along his body.

      He looked Brandt deeply in the eyes, his hands cradling his head, and
then, only then, did he slowly lower his hips to bring full contact for the
first time.

      It was their balls that touched first. At the moment that Donnelly's
hairless sac made contact with Brandt's lightly-furred one he froze. Brandt
was overwhelmed with how soft, and hot, and wiggly Donnelly's balls were,
and he gasped his surprise. Then, kissing him the entire time, Donnelly
lowered the rest of the way. Their hard cocks were pressed together along
their entire length (they were almost perfectly matched, with Brandt ahead
by only a head) and again Brandt gasped.

      Donnelly began to thrust and grind, slowly at first, then with
greater urgency.  Their cocks rubbed against each other wildly, slipping
from side to side; friction came too from the hard lower abs of both
men. The heat was almost unbearable.

      Then Brandt's achingly hard prick released a large clear drop of
precum, which immediately began to spread around his groin. Donnelly's
member slipped over the top of Brandt's and ran into the slick puddle. He
groaned, thrust harder, and felt his own slick begin to spread. Slippery
now, they thrust more frenetically, building the heat and friction to an
unbearable level.

      Brandt felt what he never had before--he felt the steely root of his
penis, anchoring the erection that projected from it. He was aware of this
hardness inside his body for the first time, as if his cock had required
the presence of another like itself to reach its full power.

      Donnelly saw it first in his eyes. The pupils dilated slightly, he
lost focus for a moment, and then the arching brow shaped his eyes into
peaked ovals of pure desire. His breathing grew shallow, and his arms,
grappling sweatily across Donnelly's back, went rigid. He gasped, and
Donnelly thrust harder and more wildly than ever.

      "Oh," Brandt whispered, as he felt the surge begin. "Oh! OH FUCK!" he
screamed, as the pulsations grew stronger. His cock was almost numb with
its bony hardness, but he didn't need to feel anything anymore except the
orgasm that was now exploding through him.

      The first eruption blasted out of his cock, soaking both men with the
hot sticky evidence of what they had created together. Donnelly's body
immediately answered Brandt's, jerking instantly into full orgasm, a rush
he had never experienced before.  Donnelly's first spasm joined Brandt's,
and both men cried out again as they felt their own, and each other's,
ejaculation.

      Slick with semen, the two cocks continued to surge against each
other, racing each other to exhaustion. The tangy smell of cum rose between
them, and still they ground into each other, kissing madly. They didn't
stop until long after the last spasm had made itself felt, and the slick
fluid had begun to grow sticky.

      "Oh my god," whispered Brandt.

      "I know," Donnelly sighed.

      Brandt panted a bit, waiting for his breath to return to normal.

      Donnelly rolled off, then lay alongside Brandt, their bodies still
fully in contact.  He looked down at their torsos, sweat and semen
glistening across the muscled terrain.

      "We're kind of a fucking mess," he laughed as he surveyed the sticky
scene.

      "Totally worth it," replied Brandt. "That was amazing."

      Donnelly responded by kissing Brandt again, all over his face, and
neck, and down the shoulder that stretched toward him. He nuzzled into
Brandt's armpit, getting an unexpected thrill from the warm, damp musk he
smelled there.

      He was struck by a sudden inspiration.

      "You stay here," he said brightly. "I'll be back."

      He kissed Brandt once more, then twice, and then he got off the bed
and padded into the bathroom.

      Brandt watched him go. He saw his partner nude practically every day,
but for the first time he allowed himself to look. He saw the undulation of
his buttocks as they propelled that taut, beautiful body; he noticed the
motion of every muscle as they worked powerfully under that pale, flawless
skin. As he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes, he could hardly
believe how his life had changed--how the way he saw the world, and his
best friend in it, had changed.

      He heard water flowing in the bathroom, too loud to be the sink. A
bath? Brandt smiled again--would he ever stop smiling?--he hadn't taken a
bath in years. The very thought of it brought a warmth over him, and he lay
drifting in and out of sleep until Donnelly slipped back into the room to
wake him.

      "Typical guy--do the deed and pass out," he tutted as he poked at
Brandt with a tickly finger.

      Brandt swam up to consciousness and smiled at his accuser. He grabbed
the poking finger and pulled it toward him, toppling Donnelly onto the
bed. Brandt kissed him, and they rolled over each other, puppies again.

      "Come on, chief, let's get into the tub," Donnelly said as he put his
feet on the floor and stood up, then pulled Brandt upright and led him to
the bathroom.

      Donnelly's bathroom, notwithstanding the general quaintness of the
rest of the small house, was newly renovated. The previous resident, an art
teacher in her late middle age, had convinced Donnelly's aunt to recognize
her long tenancy with a large tub and a separate walk-in shower. The tub
was now filled with mountains of bubbles, and there were candles on every
flat surface.

      Brandt stood in the doorway, taking in the scene.

      "This is awesome," he said, wonder in his voice.

      Donnelly was beyond pleased. "You like the candles and stuff?"

      "No, it's all really silly. But now I don't have to tell my family
that I've turned gay since you, clearly, are a woman."

      A sharp jab in the ribs told him that his joke was not entirely
appreciated.

      Brandt turned to Donnelly, and looked him in the eyes. "Seriously,
this is amazing. I can't believe you would do this for me."

      He kissed his partner, and their bodies again came into contact. The
reaction was immediate, as their recently drained cocks sprang up again,
eager.

      "We'd better get clean before we get dirty again," laughed Donnelly,
as he pushed Brandt toward the bath. He stepped in first, settled back into
the tub, and then held his arms open, gesturing for Brandt to join
him. Brandt stepped into the warm, bubbly water, and settled in by the
faucet, facing Donnelly.

      "It's nicer over here," Donnelly said, beckoning Brandt over.

      Brandt slid across the tub, between Donnelly's legs, and then slowly
leaned back, hesitating as if he expected to press against a hot
surface. But all he felt was Donnelly's body, warm and slippery, and he
relaxed into a soapy embrace. He was astonished at how he naturally fit
into Donnelly, every curve meeting its reciprocal on the other's body.

      And up against his buttocks he could feel the hard, hot erection that
was the result of their kissing, and whose mate now throbbed in front of
him.

      Donnelly reached his arms around and took hold of Brandt, stroking
his chest, feeling every muscle, stopping once or twice to give a teasing
pinch to a nipple. Brandt leaned his head back, against Donnelly's
shoulder, and Donnelly kissed all up and down the side of his head, down to
his jaw, and back up. Brandt leaned back a little further and they
kissed. Brandt felt the world perfected in that moment, and never wanted it
to end.

      They lay in the tub, splashing and stroking and slipping along each
other, the exquisite friction and giddy weightlessness nearly overwhelming.

      In a quiet moment, Brandt chuckled softly and said, "You know what
we'd be doing right now?"

      "There's nothing in the world I would rather be doing right now,"
Donnelly replied.

      "No, I mean if we hadn't ... you know, hadn't started doing this..."

      Donnelly thought for a moment. "Well," he said, "It's Saturday. I
imagine we'd be in my living room, watching the game."

      "You were right when you said we've been married for two years,"
Brandt said.  "We've just made the biggest change of our lives, and all
that's different is that we are in this room instead of that one."

      "Hang on," Donnelly said, sitting up in the tub. He reached toward a
cabinet that sat at the and of the tub, above the faucets. He opened the
doors, revealing a small television set. He picked up the remote, and the
baseball game appeared on the screen.

      Brandt turned to him, astonished. "You are too much, buddy. All we
need now is a six-pack."

      Donnelly reached into the lower part of the cabinet and pulled out a
small cooler.  He pulled out two beer bottles. He popped off the tops,
handed one to Brandt, and settled back in the tub.

      Brandt was speechless for a moment. Then, he held out his bottle to
Donnelly, and said as they clinked together, "To the most amazing man in
the world. And he's all mine." They both took a long drink, and, fit
together as snugly as spoons, watched their favorite team lose badly. It
was the best game ever.

** 20 **

      They awoke when the morning sun began to make its way across the bed.
Donnelly stirred first, and, turning over to find Brandt snuggled next to
him, propped himself on one elbow to take in the view. Here, in his bed,
all his, was the man he had only recently realized he could not live
without. He lay for a long while just looking, and then, as the sun
brightened further, he reached out and stroked the stubbly jaw, and ran a
leisurely finger along the clavicle that stretched so beautifully along his
upper chest. He could do this all day.

      Brandt stirred, and then his eyes flew open suddenly. Donnelly,
startled, pulled his hand back. His buddy Brandt had shown a propensity for
reacting badly to new situations, and he feared that they were about to
find themselves in the same weirdness as yesterday morning.

      But Brandt smiled up at him, and said, with sleep still heavy in his
voice, "Mmmmorning."

      "Good morning, sir," Donnelly replied. "How are you?"

      Brandt looked slowly around the room, taking it in. He was naked,
Donnelly was naked, they had had sex on this bed yesterday, then taken a
bubble bath. He had been completely heterosexual until about 24 hours ago.

      He looked back up at Donnelly.

      "In love. That how I am. How are you?"

      Donnelly, stunned by Brandt's reply, could only gape. As he struggled
to form words, tears welled in his eyes.

      "Buddy, you okay?" Brandt asked, worried that he had said the wrong
thing. Or too much of a good thing.

      "Yeah, I'm okay." He wiped the tear off his cheek. "More than okay."

      Brandt reached up and put his hand on Donnelly's neck. He pulled him
down into the gentlest, most ethereal kiss Donnelly had ever
experienced. His fear of rejection vanished, replaced with the warmth of
knowing he would never be alone again.

      They lay in bed, Sunday-morning indolent, luxuriating in the contact
of their bodies, the warmth of the sun. They would normally have spent this
time at the gym, and the scandal of lazing instead of lifting thrilled them
both.

      "Hey," Donnelly finally said, "I could go for some coffee. You go
grab the paper and I'll brew."

      Donnelly hopped out of bed and grabbed a pair of sweats. Brandt
stood, naked, and looked around, wondering what happened to his
clothes. Donnelly threw him a pair of sweats, which turned out instead to
be a sweatshirt. Brandt put it on, rolled his eyes at Donnelly, and walked
into the hallway.

      Donnelly watched him go, luxuriating in the freedom to watch the
bottom part of his tight, round ass, peeking from under the hem of the
sweatshirt, swinging gently side to side as he walked.

      He arrived in the kitchen as Brandt was shutting the front door,
having retrieved the Sunday paper from the front porch.

      "You went out there like that?" he asked, genuinely scandalized by
the idea.

      "Yeah, it's still early, and no one's up. Except for that old lady
across the street. I think she might need defibrillation," Brandt replied
as he walked back to the bedroom.  Donnelly could hear him laughing as he
went.

      "I'll have none of those sex-show antics around here, young man,"
called Donnelly as he loaded grounds into the coffee maker. "This is a
family neighborhood!"

      By the time that Donnelly had joined Brandt back in the bedroom with
two cups of blindingly strong coffee, the paper was spread about the bed
and Brand sat in the middle of it, still wearing the sweatshirt. Donnelly
stood in the doorway and wondered at how strange this all was--sharing his
bed with a man, with that man. He shrugged and entered the room, handing
Brandt his usual mug bearing the logo of a dive roadhouse where they had
once chased a gang of bikers. It was sort of a trophy, a souvenir of a bust
that made Brandt's name in the department.

      "Thanks, man," murmured Brandt as he took the mug from Donnelly. He
sipped, shuddered at its strength, and then luxuriated in the warmth of the
caffeine glow that spread through him. He clasped Donnelly's hand and
pressed it to his cheek, nuzzling into it the way a puppy might, seeking
warmth and comfort.

      Donnelly, ever the romantic, instantly had a boner.

      He kissed Brandt on the forehead, and then walked over to the other
side of the bed--his side of the bed--and sat down.

      "Here," Brandt said, holding a folded-back section of the paper to
him, "Take a look at what our AG is up to."

      Donnelly took the paper, and read the article Brandt pointed to. It
was about the Attorney General's plans to run for governor, and his
platform of biblical values.  Donnelly winced and sighed--this was the kind
of thing that had made his brother's life hell, and, now that he thought
about it, was not going to make his own life much better either.

      "The guy's a dick," he said to Brandt, passing him back the paper.

      "Completely. It just makes me wonder what he's really up to, pushing
us so hard on the investigation. I don't think retail services tax
enforcement provides much red meat for the values voter."

      "You got that right. All a guy wants to do is watch his best friend
shake his moneymaker on the internet, and this dork gets upset about it. I
mean, come on, help a brother out."

      Brandt smiled over at his partner.

      "You are a freakshow, you know that?"

      "But...but," blubbered Donnelly histrionically, "But you said you
l-l-loved me!"

      "God help me I do," muttered Brandt, leaning over to kiss
Donnelly. They were soon rumpling the remains of the paper rather badly as
they grappled for best purchase in their embrace.

      "You know," panted Brandt during a break in their passionate frenzy,
"What we did last night was awesome..."

      "Damn right," Donnelly agreed between kisses on Brandt's nose,
cheeks, eyes, and any other flesh he could reach.

      "I was thinking...we might try...something--more."

      "If it involves you, and me, and friction, then I am so in," growled
Donnelly, as he pulled the sweatshirt off over Brandt's head.

      "Oh hell yeah," agreed Brandt, who untied the string at the waist of
Donnelly's sweats and began to tug them off. They, along with the newspaper
and the bedspread, were soon swept off and onto the floor.

      As before, the intensity of their kissing caught them both by
surprise. Neither had ever viewed smooching as a particularly erotic
activity, but rather a checklist item on their way to the Main Event. Now,
though, it seemed like sex itself, and both men were rock hard in the blink
of an eye. They rolled and pinioned and gripped, reveling in the resistance
they met in each other's hard body, so different from the soft and yielding
flesh of the few women each had gone to bed with. There was softness here
too, of course-- curves and hollows of never-touched skin that rewarded a
light touch with dazzled goosebumps and a delicate shiver. They laughed and
giggled and moaned, hands and lips roving endlessly, restlessly, across the
muscled landscape of their new discovery. It was as though they had never
really been touched, or held, or kissed.

      Brandt explored his best friend's body with an intensity of attention
that absorbed him completely. He traced the hollow of Donnelly's hip, the
line that led from his outer waist, under his abs, down to a point right
above his cock. He skimmed the inside of the knee with the tips of his
finger, amazed at the softness hidden there; reaching around Donnelly, he
swept his fingers along the lines that divided his buttocks from his
powerful legs, and the line that divided them from each other. Donnelly
squirmed and laughed at this welcome intrusion, and the grappling began all
over again.

      Finally they found themselves, glowing and breathing heavily, arrayed
on the bed lying close but in opposite directions; Brandt rolled toward
Donnelly and found himself looking directly at the one thing he had left
unexplored on his best friend's body. He had seen Donnelly's cock hundreds
of times, out of the corner of his eye, but this throbbing, urgent thing
before him bore no resemblance to the bit of floppy flesh that made an
occasional appearance in the gym shower. It was huge, for one thing, and
Brandt could count Donnelly's pulse just by watching it thrum
impatiently. As both men were lying on their sides, it jutted out toward
Brandt, pointing accusingly at him as if to say, "You want me, you know you
do."

      Brandt had to admit that he did.

      He flashed back to a conversation of last week--about how it's not
sex unless there's penetration. Way back then, days and days ago, Brandt
had never imagined that this moment--and what he was contemplating doing in
this moment--was even a remote possibility. And now, here he lay, alongside
his partner in every sense of the word, seriously contemplating wrapping
his formerly heterosexual lips around that penis. The thought sent a chill
down his spine.

      And then, before the chill had finished washing over him, he leaned
forward.

      Eyes closed, he did this just as he did anything he set his mind
to--all at once, and full-out. He opened his mouth, leaned forward some
more, and Donnelly entered him.  Penetrated him. And Brandt for the first
time tasted what he had never in his life hungered for, the most private
and defining part of the man opposite him. He felt a rush all over his
body: blood rushed to his head, saliva rushed to his tongue, and precum
rushed out the tip of his own cock.

      Which was somewhere surprisingly warm, now that he thought about it.

      The two men suddenly realized that each had been swept up by the same
inspiration at the same moment, and each had taken the other into his
mouth.

      Brandt was overwhelmed. He was trying to take in all of the
sensations that were washing over him. In his mouth was heat, hardness,
salt, and endless pulsing. On his cock was warmth, wetness, suction, and
the flicker of that talented tongue. He moaned softly, urgently, around the
cock in his mouth. He tried to mimic what Donnelly was doing with his
tongue, but it seemed to be everywhere at once--running along the
underside, poking at the hole at the end, swabbing under the flared
head. He decided that he would stake his claim in a different way, and
applied suction at the very tip of Donnelly's cock; he was rewarded with a
warm slippery drop of precum, and some animated moaning that rumbled around
his own cock.

      As Donnelly's slick essence coated the inside of his mouth, Brandt
realized that he had no idea how to do this. Of course, he had had no idea
how to jack off on camera either, and that hadn't stopped him. At least he
had some experience with blowjobs-- though on the receiving end,
naturally--so he thought for a moment about the best one he had ever
had. He tried to think back on what she had done to him, but it was awfully
hard to do that with Donnelly swirling that damned tongue around his
cock. All he could think of was what was happening to his achingly hard
member right now--no other sensation seemed to matter, or seemed like it
had ever mattered.

      Well, this wasn't helping.

      Brandt, who always needed to be in control, finally saw that he just
had to let go.  He had to trust that his body would know what to do, now
that he had given it what it had apparently always wanted. He took a deep
breath and gave himself completely to the hard, pulsing intruder in his
mouth--the distillation of his friend, his partner, his love made
flesh--and did all that it demanded.

      Donnelly noticed.

      He pulled back a bit on the monster that had been banging against his
tonsils and cried out around it, his lips struggling to lift clear of the
stiff, slick flesh, to create some air space through which he could make
his passion heard. The guttural, urgent whine that emerged carried the
complete story--his surrender, his frenzy of pleasure--to Brandt's ear.

      Confirmed in their abandon, the men went at the hard work of
debauchery with a terrifying zeal. They rolled about, thrashing, never
releasing their grip on the other's body, panting desperately around the
fleshy spike in their mouths when they began to see stars and had to gasp
for air. Giving and getting pleasure in equally unbearable amounts, they
had never experienced this totality, never imagined it possible, never.

      Even as they wished for this bacchanal to continue all day, to drag
their exhausted bodies into evening, they felt the tightening
start--somewhere deep inside them, a command was issued that they could not
ignore. Each raced against it, struggling desperately to give more pleasure
to the other, as if this were his last chance to prove his love, as if the
storm that was gathering inside each of them would sweep away what they had
just fought so hard to create.

      Donnelly reached the boiling point first. As the surge grew inside
him, his legs began to stiffen and then twitch out of control. He was
whimpering and quivering all over as his grip on Brandt's ass tightened,
welting the skin bright red.

      Brandt, stung deliciously by the friction and pressure on his
buttocks, thrust recklessly into Donnelly, and then the explosion building
inside overtook him as well. All over his body muscles seized into
exaggerated images of themselves, sinews stretched, tendons corded. A roar
grumbled to life deep in his throat, and wedged its way past Donnelly's
cock, vibrating along its length.

      It was a sound Donnelly recognized. From the video. From that fucking
video.

      It was the roar that put him over.

      The orgasm pierced him, electricity wrapped in ice. He wasn't sure at
first if this new thing, this freezing-arcing-burning, was pain or
pleasure. He couldn't breathe, but he no longer wanted to. He wanted this,
whatever it was, to take him over completely. He got his wish.

      And, in an instant, his life began. Warmth spread through him, and a
surge of obliterating joy. A steamroller of bliss crushed him, overwhelming
and welcome. He would be made new by this, and he craved rebirth into a
life in which this was his whole reality. Whatever sex, and love, had meant
to him before didn't matter at all--he would never need those old things
again. He floated.

      His soul had achieved enlightenment, but his body's needs would be
put off no longer. The pull of the tightening muscles in his groin dragged
him back to earth as they prepared to release the unbearable tension that
had built inside them. Innumerable, unnamed muscles spasmed, and the flow
of his seed began. There were no perceptible waves, no rhythmic pulsations;
there was only pressure, and only one way out.

      Brandt felt Donnelly stiffen--his whole body suddenly steely
hard--and his own body responded, each muscle racked hard against the
others, forming an uninterrupted extent of tension and leverage. Deep
inside he felt the lightning fork of a spasm strike some gland of which he
had only been dimly aware before; from this contracted heaviness he felt
the fluid blast forth, testing the strength of the plumbing that would
conduct it to the outside world--or at least to Donnelly's mouth.

      Together, each man flooded the other with a sweet, sticky surfeit, an
overwhelming torrent of semen. Each hot surge was simultaneously issued and
absorbed in a closed loop of ejaculation and consumption; without conscious
thought both men simply opened and let the cum flow in, no more aware of
swallowing than they were of breathing. The frenzy of orgasm drove them to
new heights of thrusting and thrashing until sticky rivulets emerged from
the corners of their mouths. But still the orgasm would not release them,
and they pumped wildly in its throes.

      Finally, gradually, the waves that had overcome them began to ebb,
and they returned to something like normal awareness.

      Breathing hard, neither wanted to be the first to release the other's
cock from his mouth. Donnelly's tongue danced along Brandt's quivering
member; Brandt suckled gently at the tip of Donnelly's, drawing out the
last drops of his essence. It wasn't until their breathing returned to
normal, and the beaded sweat began to chill them, that they relinquished
their hold on each other. As Brandt's cock slid out from between Donnelly's
lips, he immediately craved its return to that clutching wet warmth. He
shivered.

      "What the fuck was that?" Donnelly rasped.

      "I think we just invented sex," sighed Brandt. "Because that was like
nothing I've ever...well, just ever."

      He planted a kiss on Donnelly's subsiding cock, and then flipped
around to face his best friend. Still panting, he looked deeply into his
eyes.

      "You have a little something..." he said, gesturing to the corner of
Donnelly's mouth, where a streak of cum glistened against his pale, perfect
skin. He leaned close and kissed the spot.

      Donnelly responded by covering his lips with his own, tasting himself
in the mouth of his partner. They kissed, holding each other, the light
strokes of their wandering fingertips leaving goosebumps in their
wake. Donnelly reached over the edge of the bed and pulled the blanket over
them; they snuggled close, discovering new ways for their bodies to fit
together, effortlessly.

** 21 **

      The buzzing roused them a few hours later, their limbs still
entwined. Donnelly picked up his phone from the nightstand and blinked hard
to focus. He typed a response, dropped the phone off the side of the bed,
and turned to put his arm back around Brandt.

      "Hmmm...Anything important?" murmured Brandt.

      "Just Chris. Wants to know if we're coming to dinner." He kissed his
way down Brandt's neck, which was his new favorite thing to do.

      "What did you say?"

      "I said we'd be there, and that we have something to tell them."

      Brandt rolled over, sure he had heard wrong.

      "What?"

      "I said that we have something to tell them." Donnelly smiled that
innocent, bright smile, and kissed Brandt on the nose.

      "What exactly are we going to tell them? I don't think that the whole
double-dutch blowjob thing is really dinner-table talk."

      Brandt was flushing a bit as he said this, alarmed at the prospect of
publicly acknowledging this new...relationship? Whatever they were going to
call it.

      "Yeah, I think we'll skip over that part. But I don't think I can be
there and keep it from them. I mean, it's kind of a big change."

      "You got that right. But can we ease up a bit on the wedding
announcements?"

      Donnelly squinted at him. His good humor on this issue was,
apparently, boundless.

      "Are you ashamed of me, Officer Brandt?"

      "No, of course not," Brandt blurted. "I just think we should wait for
the right time.  That's all."

      "Agreed. I won't say anything until we're both ready. Or until
someone asks-- whichever comes first."

      "Well, they're going to ask, because you texted Chris that we had
something to tell them."

      Donnelly grinned.

      "Well, then, I guess that's settled. How about a shower?" And,
kissing Brandt on the cheek he threw back the blanket and hopped up. "You
coming?"

      Brandt looked up at his bouncy partner and smiled in spite of
himself.

      "Yeah, I'm coming. Run a nice hot one, okay?"

      "You got it," Donnelly replied, and headed to the bathroom to start
the water running.

      A soapy, splashy hour later the men were on their way across town to
Chris's house. Brandt couldn't take his eyes off Donnelly, luxuriating in
the permission granted them by their intimacy to study every detail.

      "What?" Donnelly asked him.

      "What what?"

      "Why are you staring at me? Is there a hole in my shirt or
something?"

      Brandt laughed. "No, nothing's wrong. You're just...kind of
beautiful. I never noticed that before."

      "Gee, thanks."

      "No, I'm serious. I guess I never really let myself see it."

      "After all of those times I paraded it in front of you in the
shower?" Donnelly was doing his best wounded primadonna act.

      "I wondered what that was," Brandt laughed. "I thought you had jock
itch."

      Donnelly's riposte was a smack on Brandt's forehead.

      They laughed as they drove through the warm afternoon.

      At Chris's, they parked next to Will and Lucas's tricked-out
minivan. Donnelly practically bounded up the walkway, and took the front
steps in a single jump. Brandt smiled to himself--he had never seen his
partner so happy. The knowledge that he was the reason gave him a little
flutter in his belly, from which a glow emanated across his entire
body. This, then, was happiness, something he hadn't realized he had been
denying himself.

      Chris arrived in response to Donnelly's frenetic drum solo on the
doorbell.

      "Gabriel! I swear, you're worse than Dylan on that thing! Hello,
Ethan, so good to see you. Come on in!"

      After a quick walk through the house the guys arrived on the back
patio, beers in hand. As before, Will was here, supervising the sandbox
operations that Dylan had underway. Lucas was standing next to Will,
rocking back and forth with a napping Delilah pressed to his shoulder.

      "Hey, guys!" called Will, "You made it!"

      "Wouldn't miss it," replied Donnelly. "Got delayed a little bit by my
diva partner here who wouldn't get out of the shower." He nudged Brandt in
the ribs.

      "Totally not my fault," cried Brandt. "You're the one who couldn't
decide what to wear."

      Will and Lucas exchanged a look.

      Chris came down the back steps with a tray of chips and salsa, and
then settled herself at the long wooden table.

      "So, boys, you have something to tell us." She sipped her white wine
and sat back to listen. She was thinking along the lines of a promotion, or
success in the big secret case they had been working on.

      Will and Lucas were thinking along different lines entirely.

      They had been seen in Brandt and Donnelly, in the few moments since
they arrived, a change so dramatic that they knew it was far more than
something to do with work. It had completely altered Brandt, whose distress
Will had noted last week; now he was ebullient and at ease. And Donnelly
was practically bursting with joy.

      Of course, now that the question had been asked, Brandt's smile was
strained a bit. Donnelly, however, didn't miss a beat.

      "Well, as you know, Ethan and I have been partners for nearly two
years," he said, in the half-formal manner of someone giving a wedding
toast. He stepped to the side, closing the gap between himself and Brandt,
and he grasped his partner's hand in his. The warmth of this simple
intimacy calmed Brandt, and his smile again glowed with real sunshine. He
nodded at Donnelly, letting him know it was okay to continue.

      "So, over the last couple of days," Donnelly continued, "This guy has
finally come to his senses and realized that he's in love with me."

      Brandt laughed loudly, and squeezed Donnelly's hand, hard.

      "What my dim partner is trying to say is that he exploited a moment
of weakness on my part and seduced me before I knew what was happening." He
looked at Donnelly, his eyes sparkling. "I'm considering pressing charges."

      They looked at each other, intoxicated by honesty. They had said it
out loud, and it was real now. Really real.

      Chris broke the silence.

      "Whoa. Guys, that's...amazing," she said. "Congratulations. I feel
like we should have champagne or something."

      "Holy shit," Will said to Lucas. "That thing really works."

      "Told you," Lucas replied.

      "Wait wait, what?" asked Brandt.

      Will laughed. "Lucas always teases me because we've been together for
years and I've never developed any functioning gaydar. Last week I told him
that I sensed something was up with you, and between the two of you, and he
laughed at me. I figured I got a defective one. But now, vindication!" He
thrust his arms into the air in triumph.

      "Dude, you could have told me," Brandt said. "This past week has been
hell. It would have been a lot easier if you had just let me know."

      Will smiled. "I tried to, but it's kind of a hard thing to bring up
to someone. Not everyone would be thrilled to know that they make someone's
gaydar ping."

      Brandt nodded at that--he would have reacted badly indeed, especially
given his emotional state last week when he had met Will.

      Lucas raised his glass. "Well, here's to the happy couple. And,
Ethan, welcome to the family." They all cheered, and drank--and Brandt felt
like he would never stop smiling.

      After dinner, they sat at the table under the canopy of little white
lights, a warm summer breeze lazily lifting the corners of the tablecloth.

      "So," Will asked, a sly grin playing about the corners of his
mouth. "When did you know?"

      Brandt, to whom this question was addressed, smiled and shook his
head.

      "I didn't, for the longest time. And then I thought I did, and then I
would convince myself I was imagining it, and then I got angry about it and
then sad and then I panicked, and then--"

      "What he's trying to say," broke in Donnelly, "Is that he was
completely clueless.  I was about to give up on him, and then he kissed
me."

      "Just like that?" Will asked. "Out of the blue?"

      "Sort of," mumbled Brandt, unsure exactly how it had all happened,
now that he tried to trace it in his memory. "It was all Nick's doing,
really," he concluded.

      "Who's Nick?" Lucas asked.

      "Someone I met doing this investigation," Brandt answered, unsure
whether he should give any more information.

      "So, this Nick guy had something to do with it?"

      "Yeah, he actually had a lot to do with it. I was kind of really
confused, and he just sort of...well, he kissed me, and then I knew."

      "Knew what?" asked Lucas, curious.

      "Yeah, knew what?" chimed in Donnelly, looking with wry suspicion at
his partner.

      "It's hard to explain, really. I guess he just made me realize that I
needed to be more open than I was, and not panic about it. He's a sweet
guy, really."

      "And then he kissed me," Donnelly said, in a mock swoon, fanning
himself delicately.

      "Oh my god you are all a bunch of lesbians," Chris cracked, as she
stood up from the table. "I'll leave you to process your feelings while I
do the dishes."

      "No, sit!" cried Brandt. "It's our turn to do the dishes." He and
Donnelly rose from the table, gathered the dishes that were scattered
around, and took them to the kitchen.

      A few minutes later they were up to their elbows in soap bubbles at
the kitchen sink.

      "Your family is pretty awesome," Brandt said as he looked out the
window at the group on the patio and dried a plate that Donnelly had handed
him.

      "They are. I'm really lucky."

      Brandt leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. "No, I'm really
lucky."

      Donnelly took a handful of bubbles and, for no good reason, splatted
them on Brandt's cheek. They laughed, feeling the rush of new love the
likes of which they hadn't experienced since high school.

      "Look at those two," chuckled Chris as she watched the bubble fight
break out at the kitchen sink. "They're like kids."

      "They deserve to be," Will said. He was idly stroking the back of the
sleeping Delilah in his lap--she had woken for dinner, and then collapsed
again shortly afterward-- and watching the guys through the window. "What
they've been through can really screw people up."

      "I haven't seen Gabriel like this since our brother was killed,"
Chris said softly, sipping her wine. "I was beginning to think that I
wouldn't ever see him happy again."

      "Did you know that he was gay?" Lucas asked. He had known Donnelly
for several years, and yet he had no idea about this side of him.

      "No," Chris replied.

      "He was pretty good at hiding it, if he slipped it past all three of
us."

      "Maybe the two of you," Will said, laughing. "We've already
established that my gaydar wasn't even operational until last week."

      "No, I don't mean that I didn't know," Chris continued. "I mean that
he wasn't gay before."

      Will and Lucas looked at her in surprise. She went on.

      "We talked about it a bit, over the years, especially after our
brother died. He was completely accepting of it, but it was pretty clear
that he was secure being straight." She took another drink. "This Brandt
guy must be pretty amazing."

      "I find him pretty amazing," Lucas murmured, watching Brandt's shirt
ride up as he reached to put a dish in a cupboard above the sink.

      "Dude, I'm right here," Will scolded. Lucas mimed shame at finding
Brandt hot.

      "But it seems odd," Will continued, "That two straight guys would end
up together like this. I mean, what are the chances?"

      "To beating the odds," called Chris, as she raised her glass.

      "Now, we just have to find someone for you," Lucas grinned at her.

      "The problem is," she replied, as she drank the wine she had just
resisted the urge to throw in his face, "I need a straight guy. They don't
seem to last long around here."

      Brandt and Donnelly, watching from the kitchen window, wondered what
all the laughing was about.

** 22 **

      On the way home Brandt suddenly remembered that tomorrow was his big
meeting with the owner of the frat house, and he hadn't briefed in the
Chief. At the very least he would need to wear a wire, and it would be nice
to have a team standing by in case things went south. He began tapping a
machine-gun rhythm on his phone as Donnelly drove through the night. He was
so focused on his emails that the car coming to a stop surprised him. He
was even more surprised to find that they were at his apartment
building. Donnelly hadn't shut off the engine.

      "You coming in?" he asked, snapping his phone shut.

      "No, I don't think so," replied Donnelly. "We have a big day
tomorrow."

      Brandt's heart sank, which was not a feeling he was accustomed
to. Having spent 48 hours figuring what he and Donnelly were to each other,
he was terrified to think of what he was without him, alone.

      "But..." was all he could muster.

      "So, go get a bag together and we'll go to my place," said Donnelly,
as if this should have been clear all along. "That way we won't have to
keep running back and forth."

      The relief Brandt felt at this was the strongest proof yet of how
much their relationship had changed. He never wanted to be anywhere that
Donnelly wasn't.

      "Back in two secs," he said as he sprang out of the car. It took him
under three minutes to grab his outfit from Grindstone and a few other
things, and he was back, panting slightly.

      "Did you miss me?" Donnelly teased.

      "Just a little," Brandt murmured, as he leaned over and kissed his
buddy gently, on the shockingly soft skin at the corner of his mouth.

      "Ohhhh, fuck," replied Donnelly, who gripped Brandt around the back
of his neck and pulled him in tight. The kiss was urgent and yet luxuriant,
as if they had all night, and the rest of their lives, to finish it.

      When they finally came up for air, Brandt growled into his ear,
"Let's get to your place before I fucking explode."

      "You are such a romantic," laughed Donnelly. But his lighthearted
tone was distinctly at odds with the smoking patch of tire rubber he left
in the parking lot of Brandt's apartment building.

      The drive between the two men's homes normally took twelve minutes
(they had made it so many times that both knew exactly how long it
was). This evening they pulled up in front of Donnelly's house eight
minutes later. A dozen minor traffic laws, and two major ones, had been
sacrificed along the way.

      They sprang from the car, and raced each other to the door. Brandt
was about to win when Donnelly goosed him from behind; the shock of his
hand jamming between Brandt's ass cheeks startled the front-runner so badly
that he missed the last step and sprawled on the porch. Donnelly landed on
top of him, still struggling to get to the door.  They both laughed
maniacally as they fought to disentangle themselves, not really wanting to
come undone but aware of the spectacle they were making. Donnelly fiddled
the door open and they fell into the living room, giggling and swatting at
each other.

      Brandt pounced on Donnelly, pinned him to the floor. Their faces were
millimeters apart, glowing with exertion, panting.

      "I hope that's not your service weapon I'm feeling," breathed Brandt,
sliding up and down urgently atop Donnelly.

      "It's not a gun, but it's going to fucking go off if you keep that
up." Donnelly was writhing as the men ground into each other.

      "Oh hell no," whispered Brandt. "I'm going to make you work for it
tonight." An evil grin twisted across his face--another gift from Nick. He
liked the effect it had on Donnelly. "Get up," he growled as he reared back
off Donnelly.

      Donnelly scrambled to his feet and stood, staring at Brandt. There
was a light flashing in his eyes that he had never seen before.

      "Bed. Now."

      "Yes, sir," Donnelly replied and smartly saluted. Then he poked
Brandt in the ribs with a lightning-fast stroke; Brandt, who was fatally
ticklish there, spasmed to the side and nearly fell over. Donnelly bolted
from the room, and tore down the hall.

      Brandt recovered and gave chase. He stomped heavily into the bedroom,
where he found--no Donnelly. He scanned the room, looking for signs of his
quarry; he was about to pull open the closet door when Donnelly burst out
of it, tackling him. They fell back on the bed, wrestling with the
boundless energy of puppies, exulting in their physicality.

      Brandt, ultimately, got the upper hand and pressed Donnelly down into
the mattress, pinning his arms and legs. He pressed his mouth to Donnelly's
ear, and whispered huskily.

      "I own you."

      The steel left Donnelly's muscles, his entire body relaxed, as he
yielded to the hot, growling voice in his ear.

      "Yes," he whispered into Brandt's ear, and then closed his eyes.

      Brandt kissed Donnelly's ear, then along his jawline, and finally to
his lips. The first kiss was delicate and shivery, their lips barely
touching. Donnelly gasped but didn't move; Brandt hovered, then touched
again, and again, each time the force increasing, and each time Donnelly
could taste his fire more strongly.

      As they kissed, Brandt's hands were snaking along Donnelly's torso,
unbuttoning his shirt. He slid his hands under the fabric, and brushed his
fingertips along the firm, smooth skin he found there. Instantly Donnelly's
nipples were erect, goosebumps spreading from them across his chest. The
wicked grin again appeared on Brandt's face, and he kissed his way down
Donnelly's throat to investigate these new developments.

      Donnelly was unprepared for the vigor with which Brandt seized his
right nipple between his teeth, for the power of the suction he applied. He
felt the shirt slide off his arms as he writhed, gripping the sheets in his
fists as he twisted under the assault.

      Brandt was just getting started.

      He released his grip on Donnelly's nipples, and kissed his way down
the flat, hairless abs, down to where the khaki shorts began. He slowly and
deliberately unbuttoned them, and drew the zipper down with his
teeth. Donnelly didn't breathe--he was afraid he might come right now if he
moved a millimeter. He had never been this hard, this achingly hard.

      Brandt tugged the shorts down and off, leaving only a thin, soft
layer of underwear between him and his goal. He knelt between Donnelly's
legs, and folded himself into a posture of worship before his new god. He
leaned forward and pressed his face suddenly, roughly, against the bright
blue fabric. Donnelly jumped and let out a cry, a plea. Brandt kissed and
nuzzled the hard contents of the briefs until the fabric was damp. Then he
hooked his fingers into the waistband and eased them slowly, smoothly
down. Donnelly's cock sprang free, a glistening thread of precum stretching
from its head to the fabric as it was pulled away. Brandt tossed the briefs
aside, and Donnelly was fully naked in front of him. In their previous
clinching, they had always been swept away with lust before Brandt had had
a chance to take in this sight. Now he was determined to take his time.

      Donnelly lay before him, his head turned to the side, his eyes
closed. His outstretched arms were sculptural, the coiled strength of each
muscle smoothly articulated under that flawless skin. Brandt's eyes swept
down the torso, with its ridges of rib on the sides, and hills and valleys
of abdominals down the middle. The nipples, he noted, were still alert,
pointing to the ceiling. Brandt ran his hands down the legs that extended
on either side of him, feeling their solidity--he knew where that came
from, having run alongside Donnelly every mile that he had racked up
building them. Impishly, he reached behind him and ran a finger up the sole
of each foot--Donnelly convulsed and cried out a laugh, but he didn't
move. His surrender was not so fragile that this playfulness would break
it.

      Brandt ran his hands back up the powerful legs, and they nearly met
when they surrounded Donnelly's fully erect cock and fully full
balls. Brandt paused here, wanting to make Donnelly hunger for his
touch. His wait would not be long.

      "Oh, fuck," Donnelly breathed, "Please..."

      "Please what?" Brandt asked, the evil grin now broader than ever.

      Donnelly turned to him and opened his eyes.

      "Anything. Do anything you want," he begged, a whimpering edge in his
voice.  "You own me," he sighed, and then closed his eyes again.

      In answer, Brandt leaned forward until his nose almost touched
Donnelly's cock.  He breathed in the scent of the body wash they had used
in the shower earlier, mixed now with a smell that was pure
Donnelly--sweet, woody, and fucking intoxicating. Brandt felt it was a
fragrance that was his alone, and only he would ever smell it now.

      His breath on Donnelly's cock was driving him insane. He thrust his
hips in an effort to make contact, but Brandt mirrored his motions and
prolonged the wait. Then, finally, when Donnelly was sure he was about to
come just from fucking the air near Brandt, he made contact.

      Brandt kissed him as gently as he had kissed his mouth moments
ago. His lips made contact where the flare of Donnelly's cock rose nearest
to the tip, just below the opening. A brush of the lips, a kiss, a lick,
and then the cycle repeated itself. Donnelly had never felt this, ever,
with anyone--had never dreamed that the universe contained such a wonder.

      Brandt kissed his way down the broad shaft, each softly suctioning
contact causing Donnelly to arch and moan anew. Then Brandt, reaching the
base, licked his way back up to the tip, which he kissed gently at first,
then more vigorously. His tongue played at the opening, and Donnelly was on
fire. Then he kissed back down the length, and licked back to the
tip. Donnelly was certain he would not survive another round.

      This time, though, as Brandt reached the base, he kept going. He
kissed gently the delicate folds of skin in which were suspended Donnelly's
churning testes. This was the softest skin Brandt had ever felt; it almost
seem to disappear when he kissed it. He continued his journey down, and
finally planted a kiss on each of Donnelly's large, round balls. Then he
ran his tongue across both of them, and down underneath them, tasting that
salty spot where the sac connected to Donnelly's body, and then back up,
feeling the skin slide over the surface of those slick orbs.

      Brandt opened his mouth and engulfed the slightly larger, lower ball
on the right side. As he closed his lips around it he could feel Donnelly
twitch and shudder, could hear his breath grow shallow. Clearly he was not
accustomed to having his balls attended to, and Brandt aimed to change
that. He sucked it in, pressed gently all around it, and then let it slip
halfway back out; before it fully emerged, though, he sucked it back in.

      "Oh! Oh! Oh!" Donnelly cried out, his back arching, his hands once
again grasping at the sheets.

      Delighted at the effect he was having, Brandt slipped the ball in and
out of his mouth several times, and then pounced on the other one. He could
feel the surprise snap through the muscles in Donnelly's legs as they
spasmed around him. This one, his mouth confirmed, was indeed slightly
smaller than the other; he slurped noisily around it, causing Donnelly to
convulse again, babbling nonstop.

      Brandt wanted to squeeze both of the balls into his mouth at once,
but as Donnelly had been a good sport so far he didn't want to push too
hard--they were large enough that they might get squished if he gobbled
them both up together. He let the left one slip out from between his lips,
and then he covered them both with kisses again. He licked his way up to
the base of Donnelly's cock, and then along its length to the tip. Taking a
deep breath, he stuffed about half of the seven-inch slab into his mouth in
one swoop.

      Donnelly screamed. It was as if he had been saving up for years to
make this one war-whoop of a sex yell--and before it was over, the orgasm
was clenching his entire body. He had never come this quickly before, but
he had never felt this insanely turned- on before. Brandt had completed
only three strokes before Donnelly erupted.

      The torrent of cum shocked Brandt, who had figured that since they'd
already had sex today the volume would be smaller this time.It was, if
anything, even more than Donnelly had produced this morning. At the moment
of the first ejaculation, Donnelly thrust upward, forcing his cock to the
very opening of Brandt's throat; the semen flew directly down it, causing
Brandt to gag and sputter. This sudden constriction served to envelope
Donnelly's penis more completely, and his second spurt was even more
forceful than the first. Brandt pulled back, swallowing hard, and managed
to avoid choking. Crisis averted, he returned to sucking and stroking,
urging every last bit out of his buddy's cock.  He sucked at the tip, he
squeezed all along its length, forcing it to disgorge every drop.  As
Donnelly's erection subsided and his breathing returned to normal, Brandt
continued to kiss and suckle, bathing every inch of his partner's crotch,
cleaning up every drop of cum.

      "Come here," Donnelly finally croaked.

      Brandt obediently slid up Donnelly's sweat-slicked torso, still
kissing random points (and not so random ones, like his nipples) along the
way. Finally, again, they were face to face.

      "Oh my fucking god," breathed Donnelly, shaking his head slightly and
looking deeply into Brandt's eyes. "That was the best ever. Ever. Thank
you."

      Brandt chuckled. "No, thank you. I needed to do that, and you were a
real trooper."

      "My pleasure to oblige, sir. Now, I need your help with something."

      "What's that?" Brandt asked.

      "I need you to take off your clothes and lie here like I did."

      "And what are you going to be doing while I'm doing that?"

      "You," Donnelly replied, his sly grin rivaling Brandt's.

      If one were to imagine how quickly a firefighter can strip off street
clothes so as to get into protective gear, and then further imagine that
said street clothes were actually on fire at the time, one would have an
approximate idea of the blur that Brandt became as he stripped off every
stitch of his clothes. The boxer briefs had not yet hit the floor when he
threw himself down on the bed.

      Donnelly, without saying a word, climbed atop Brandt as he lay there;
he straddled him as if he were mounting a stallion of great strength and
questionable impulse control. Donnelly was acutely aware that he was now on
intimate terms with a person as strong as, and perhaps stronger than, he
was; this shouldn't have made a difference, especially to Donnelly, as he
was never the type to force himself on a woman (and, in fact, the women he
had dated often found him frustratingly demure in bed). But it did make a
difference, in that Donnelly, even when on top and in command, knew that he
was evenly matched and that control of the situation could slip from him at
any moment.  The thought made his heart beat faster.

      His slackening cock now flopped down over his balls, touching
Brandt's stomach.  It left a trail of glistening fluid, sticky and
hot. Donnelly leaned forward, placing one hand on the bed next to Brandt's
head and wrapping the other around the back of his neck, cradling his head
as if it were the most valuable object in the world, a treasure beyond any
other. His kiss was not Brandt's fluttering whisper of contact, nor his
full-on assault; rather, his was an insistent, slithering invasion, a
conspiracy of tongue and lip that brooked no resistance. His talented
tongue had been an item of talk among the women of the force over the last
several years, and he was justly proud of the many orgasms it had
induced. But only now, only here, had it found its true calling. It had
come home.

      Brandt was surprised that Donnelly's tongue could still surprise
him. They had kissed a fair bit over the last couple of days, but there was
something new each time; now, as before, he had no idea how Donnelly was
able to make his tongue move that way. Now, as before, he simply
surrendered to it, allowed himself to be swept away by it.  Beyond thinking
lay ecstasy, and he was eager to get there.

      Donnelly reached down and found Brandt's nipples, and pinched them
gingerly between his fingers. Gingerly at first, that is. The pressure
increased a little, and then a little more, and then Brandt's back was
arching off the bed and he was groaning.  Donnelly positioned himself just
above the left nipple, and opened his mouth. A string of saliva drizzled
down, landing exactly on target, and his fingers, lubed now, began to slip
and twist as well as pinch. Brandt cried out, and cried out again when
Donnelly repeated the maneuver on the other side. Suddenly Donnelly could
feel the hard poke of Brandt's steely hardness in his belly, and knew it
was time to move on.

      He, like Brandt, took a deep breath in wonder at the sight of his
best friend transformed--no more a buddy, now a lover, an object of desire,
a thing of beauty.  Donnelly wondered when it had been that he realized his
partner was beautiful; was it, as he had claimed, a little more than a week
ago? Now, looking down at the symphony of muscle and soft skin, the memory
of finding him attractive seemed older, seemed to have taken root long ago
in an untended part of his mental landscape. Being able to act on it, now
that was new.

      "Turn over," Donnelly murmured, his voice taking on a commanding,
gravelly tenor that Brandt had only heard once before--during their online
session. Now, as then, he could only obey. Donnelly raised himself
slightly, breaking the contact between them, and then Brandt turned in
place, settling himself down on top of his achingly hard cock.  Donnelly
slid down and wriggled his way between the legs that had been clasped
tightly together.

      As Brandt's legs came apart, as his most private place was nearly
exposed, a terrified shiver crackled through his body. He was not at all
sure he was ready for this--he would be vulnerable to Donnelly in ways that
he had never been before, exposed to an extent he never imagined.

      Donnelly planted a kiss on each buttock, and Brandt felt a calm
warmth spread through him. This would be okay. He relaxed his ass, opening
himself to his partner.

      It was Donnelly's turn to hesitate. What he was about to do, he had
never imagined doing. Certainly not to a man. But now, it was the natural
next step to take, and Brandt's lightly-furred ass, indented on both sides
with a sweep of muscle, was beckoning to him. He did not resist.

      He ran his fingers over the mounds of muscle, watching goosebumps
spread at his command. When his fingers danced into the space between,
where the hair was darker, Brandt's moaned and jostled a bit. Donnelly
couldn't see what was going on beneath, where Brandt's cock was leaking
freely, but Brandt could feel it and he knew it had everything to do with
what Donnelly was doing now.

      If Brandt was expecting a delicate kiss in his forbidden zone, he was
dramatically mistaken. At that moment, Donnelly slid his arms between
Brandt's legs and underneath his hips; his hands hooked around and touched
the tops of Brandt's buttocks. This had the effect of lifting Brandt's
pelvis off the bed--only his chest and his knees touched the mattress. And
his ass was open to an extent that he had never experienced.

      Donnelly pulled Brandt toward him, brought that beautiful ass to his
mouth, and he lunged into it with a hunger surpassing anything he'd ever
experienced. Brandt, shocked by the invasion, pushed forward, but Donnelly
had the leverage--his arms were iron and unyielding, and Brandt's ass was
his.

      "Ohhhh, fuck," whispered Brandt into mattress.

      Donnelly drove his tongue like a knife into Brandt's ass. He wanted
to penetrate it, to taste it, to claim it as his own. He pushed, wanting to
thrust more of himself into Brandt, and his tongue flailed about the hot,
secret insides. He pulled Brandt back even further, lifting his legs off
the bed entirely, and drove his face into the divide between his partner's
futilely clenching cheeks. Brandt could no more close himself to Donnelly's
insistently wriggling tongue than he could tap dance in this position, but
there was something elementally masculine in him that objected to the
entire proposition. The objection was overruled by the aching space inside
him that needed Donnelly to fill it.

      Brandt was just getting used to that alien presence inside him when
it was suddenly withdrawn. He was instantly incomplete, and he needed it
back in him. Instead, though, what he felt was Donnelly's mouth closing on
his opening, his lips pressing against the folds of muscle that surrounded
it. It was the most intimate kiss he had ever experienced, penetrating and
softly suctioning. A deep growling rumbled through Donnelly, sending an
insistent vibration directly into Brandt's core. Wet slurping sounds filled
the room as Donnelly ravaged Brandt's hole, his tongue thrusting
tirelessly, stretching the ring of muscle through which no one had ever
before ventured.

      Finally, Donnelly relaxed his hold on Brandt's hips and his knees
touched the bed again. He didn't break the contact between his mouth and
Brandt's ass; he did, however, reach one hand down to Brandt's dripping
cock. He rubbed his fingers over the head, collecting the precum that was
oozing forth, and he spread the slick fluid all along the solid shaft.

      Brandt could be forgiven for thinking that Donnelly must have grown
up on a dairy farm--the milking grip on his cock was that sure, that
demanding. Donnelly, of course, had grown up in the suburbs, but he did
have definite ideas about proper handjob technique. His grip was tight, his
motions sure, his pace aggressive. Brandt would not last long.

      Donnelly felt the orgasm start not in Brandt's cock, but in his
ass. The delightfully soft folds of Brandt's asshole spasmed, then
clenched. He was not at all sure that he would be getting his tongue back.

      Brandt's back arched, then rounded, then arched again as if he were
trying to fuck Donnelly's fist. Then he froze, and the only sound in the
room was the well-lubed crackling progress of the fist flying maniacally
along Brandt's shaft. Then, the screaming began.

      Brandt's shouts started low and grew to a high, urgent pitch as he
pressed back against Donnelly's face--someone who lacked his strength might
have been thrown from the bed. But Donnelly leaned into it, and gripped
Brandt's cock even harder, and he held on. The cum shooting out of Brandt
hit the bed with a wet, heavy splatter, and Donnelly didn't miss a
stroke. His tongue still occupied Brandt's ass, his lips still sucked at
his sphincter, his fist still throttled his cock.

      It wasn't until Brandt collapsed forward onto the bed that Donnelly
released his hold. Wiping the spit from his cheeks, he looked down upon the
sweaty, panting form of his lover, and he was sure. Of them, of himself. He
let himself fall forward onto Brandt, covering his body with his own.

      "Mmmmmm..." growled Brandt. "That was un-fucking-believable."

      Donnelly snuggled down into him, kissing along his neck and smiling
brilliantly.

      "I love you," he whispered.

      "I never even knew what love was until you," he answered.

      They drifted off, puzzle pieces that fit perfectly together.

** 23 **

      The first two times the alarm went off, Brandt wasn't even aware of
it. The third time, the beeping was accompanied by a gentle nudging, and he
rolled sleepily over to see what the commotion was. Standing by the bed was
Donnelly, looking chipper, holding a mug of steaming liquid that Brandt
desperately needed to be coffee.

      "Mmmmmmmorning," he murmured, rubbing his eyes.

      "Morning, big guy. Time to get moving. Chief wants us there in 20."

      "Why so early?"

      "Well, one, it's not early. It's ten after 8. Two, we need to meet
with Ops to get you wired for your lunch date. Three, there's a whole team
that's going along--I'll be in the truck with the tech guys and Maloney."

      Brandt sat up at this, and took the mug from Donnelly. He took a long
drag on the hot, strong liquid, and then squinted at his partner.

      "Maloney's going? Why are we getting lawyered up?"

      "They want to move fast. If you get the goods, he's going to file the
warrant electronically, and once the judge signs off we'll move in."

      Brandt considered this information. "Okay, so, one, that's
fast-tracking like I've only ever seen on organized crime ops, which is
crazy. Two, I came up with a plan that will get us everything we need
today, so we'll have this one filed by the end of the day.  Three, I
totally fucking love you, man."

      Donnelly, sideswiped by the third item, giggled and grinned
goofily. Brandt laid his hand on Donnelly's cheek, and kissed him--a
nibbling, insistent kiss that promised much more to come once this case was
indeed filed.

      "Now," Brandt said, all business again once he had retrieved his
tongue from the mouth of his partner, "I gotta shower. Be ready in 5."

      He leapt from the bed and dashed from the room, a blur of muscle and
dangly bits that made Donnelly's heart pound. He chuckled softly and walked
back to the kitchen to bundle up breakfast for the ride.

      They arrived at 8:29, having slammed down breakfast in the
car--Donnelly's inspiration had been to tuck the eggs and bacon he had made
into tortillas they could take along--and they charged into the Ops lab
with seconds to spare. The team there fitted Brandt with his wire, a simple
process made unexpectedly challenging by the snug fit of his
Grindstone-issue work ensemble. They switched to one of the slim battery
packs they used for prostitution stings (a fact that they did not share
with Brandt, thinking it would offend him--after what he had been through,
however, wearing a hooker wire would not have fazed him a bit) and had him
outfitted just in time for the deployment meeting upstairs in the Chief's
conference room.

      There, Brandt outlined the situation, as well as his idea for
soliciting the information that Maloney would need for the warrant. They
all agreed that it was a solid plan, and soon Brandt was on his way to the
parking lot--he would take Donnelly's car, while Donnelly rode in the tech
truck (a simulated carpet-cleaning van) with the others.

      "Well, good luck," Donnelly said as Brandt opened the driver's door.

      "Thanks, man. I think we've got this one nailed down."

      "Another criminal enterprise brought to its knees by Officer Ethan
Brandt. Damn, why do the baddies even try anymore, with you on the job?"

      Brandt grinned. "Flattery like that, sir, will get you everywhere,"
he murmured.

      Donnelly chuckled. "Everywhere on you is exactly where I want to be,"
he growled in return.

      "Will you just kiss him goodbye and get in the damn truck?" yelled
Maloney, who was eager to get going. He was a former trooper whose mid-life
law degree had changed his career prospects but not his rough demeanor.

      Donnelly turned to look at Maloney, who stood on the back bumper of
the van, glaring at him. He turned back to Brandt, then leaned in and
kissed him. On the lips. It was not a passionate kiss, but it apparently
went off like a bomb in Maloney's head. He disappeared into the truck.

      "Fucker," Brandt whispered. "You just outed us."

      Donnelly's face was all wide-eyed innocence. "I just did what he told
me to do."

      Brandt, to his own surprise, didn't give a fuck what the others in
the department through about him and Donnelly being a couple. Why not put
all of that sensitivity training to good use, right? He grabbed Donnelly
around the back on the neck, and pulled him into a kiss--a real kiss. In
the corner of his eye he could see the truck rock a bit, and muffled whoops
coming from inside.

      "Crazy bastard," Donnelly muttered through a brilliant smile. "Love
you."

      "Love you too," Brandt replied, winking.

      Brandt got in the car and drove out of the lot while Donnelly walked
over to the truck. By the time he reached it, the noise had settled down,
and the people inside were conspicuously busy with their preparations for
the mission. Donnelly, as the officer in charge, wanted the air cleared.

      "Anyone have anything to say before we get underway?" he asked in a
brusque tone.

      There was silence. The only movement was a very slight head-shake
from one of the techs operating the monitoring equipment.

      "Officer Walters, you got something?" demanded Donnelly in his
officer-in- charge voice.

      "Permission to speak frankly, sir?" Walters asked, still looking at
his control panel.

      "Of course," Donnelly replied.

      Walters turned to look at him.

      "Why didn't you tell us, sir?"

      "Tell you what?" demanded Donnelly. The sick feeling in his stomach
was turning quickly into anger.

      "Look, you remember my kid brother? You met him at the college
recruitment thing last year."

      Donnelly was dumbstruck. This is not the conversation he thought they
were having. The others in the truck shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

      "Tall kid, glasses?" Donnelly asked, trying to focus.

      "Yeah, that's him. Well, he thought you were hot--was totally into
you. Sure you were gay, kept bugging me to introduce him. I told him that
you were straight as they come. Now I find out...damn, man." Walter's shook
his head again. "Brandt is nice and all, but Rickie is a great guy. You
missed out, is all I'm saying'." He turned back to his console.

      Donnelly seemed to have forgotten all the words he knew. He gaped for
a few seconds, then shook it off.

      "All right, we've got a job to do. So unless anyone else has any
burning issues to bring up..." He paused, the expression on his face
clearly not welcoming any response, "Then let's get this thing moving." He
sat down in one of the rear-facing jump seats and buckled himself in.

      As the truck lurched awkwardly out of the lot, Donnelly sat with his
head in his hands trying to figure out what had just happened with
Walters. It occurred to him that this would be a lot easier if everyone
could just be like Maloney (barely hidden disgust) or like Walters
(enthusiastic acceptance). Not knowing which of these reactions he was
going to get from any particular person was the tough part.

      As per the plan, Brandt arrived at the house first and parked in the
wide driveway.  The truck rolled up to a position around the corner from
the house, out of sight.

      "Ah, what a beautiful day," Brandt said. It was a kind of inane thing
to say, but it was the agreed-upon test signal. Immediately, his cell phone
buzzed with a new text.

      "Don't forget to pick up milk," it read.

      The pervasive use of texting had made undercover work much easier in
recent years. No one thought anything amiss if people checked their phones
every few minutes, and this way the team in the truck had a way to
communicate with Brandt--they, of course, could hear him clearly. They had
established a few code phrases--the one about the milk meant that
everything was in place and that he should proceed.

      Brandt rang the bell, and within seconds Nick opened the door, fully
dressed.  Brandt confessed to himself that he was a little disappointed.

      "Hey, Jason! Good to see you. Come on in!" Brandt stepped in the
door, and Nick immediately wrapped his arms around him. Brandt gave himself
entirely to Nick's embrace, feeling that familiar warmth in a new way. Nick
released him, partially, and then gave him a quick peck on the lips and a
wink.

      In the truck, Donnelly jerked his head a bit as heard quite clearly
the sound of the kiss come through the headphones. No one else seemed to
have noticed. But then Donnelly chuckled softly to himself--he owed the
greatest happiness in his life to that guy's kiss.

      Nick put his arm around Brandt's shoulders and led him down the hall,
past the dining room, to Mr. Drake's office. He knocked, and then said,
"Mr. Drake? Jason's here."

      "Oh, do come in, Jason!" came the immediate reply. Nick opened the
door and pushed Brandt in. The door closed softly behind him. It was go
time, when his plan would be put to the test.

      Mr. Drake stood, and reached out a hand. Brandt shook it, firmly.

      "Jason, I'm so glad you could make it today," said Drake, smiling.

      "My pleasure, sir," replied Brandt, willing himself into
character. He was not a cop, he was a college student who had found that
rich men would pay money to watch him jack off. The ridiculousness of this
whole operation once again threatened to knock him out of character. But he
grinned, in what he hoped was genuine warmth mixed with slutty ambition. It
was a hard line to walk.

      "And this," Drake continued, gesturing to the chair to his right, "Is
Mr. Big."

      Brandt did a double-take at the handsome, slightly graying gentleman
whose presence had been obscured by the opening of the door, and giggled in
spite of himself.

      "Is that a nickname?" he asked, before he had time to consider
whether that would be an impertinent familiarity coming from his alter
ego. He decided it would be fine, as long as he accompanied it with a quick
glance about midway down the man's body.

      Seeing Brandt's eyes flicker to his crotch, the man laughed good
naturedly.

      "No, it's Bigg, with two g's," he replied, standing to shake Jason's
hand. "But please, call me Barry." Brandt took the man's hand and shook it,
this time giving it a little hesitation that he hoped would convey his
character's awe at meeting, well, Mr. Big.

      "Pleased to meet you..." --a beat-- "Barry." There was a tentative
note in his voice he was quite proud of.

      "Well, let's all sit down and have a chat, shall we?" said Mr. Drake,
motioning Brandt to the third chair around the small conference table.

      As Brandt sat, fingers flew over keyboards in the truck parked around
the corner.  In moments, a list of potential Barry Biggses were displayed
on the monitors, and the men began their work of identifying the one in the
room with Brandt.

      "Well, Jason, first let me say that your work is phenomenal. That
live show auction thing on Friday was just amazing," Drake opened the
conversation.

      "Yes," Bigg added, nodding. "You've set records, and we look forward
to your continued work here."

      The idea of continuing to do this work would normally have caused
Brandt to blanch, but he felt sure that this was all coming to a close, so
he simply nodded. Eagerly.

      "Good, good." Bigg was clearly pleased that his new star / cash cow
was willing to continue. "I have to say, Jason, you bring an energy and an
intensity to your work that I hope we can build on."

      "Thank you, sir," Brandt replied. Then he thought for a
second. "Build on, sir?"

      "Yes, Jason," Drake chimed in. "You have blazed a new trail for us,
and we'd like to have you foster new talent. What we'd like to offer you is
a full-time position, much like Nick's, where you would help bring new
talent up to speed."

      "Of course, we'd like you to keep making videos yourself," blurted
Bigg. "You have an enthusiastic following, and I'll admit that the live
show you did is the hottest thing I've seen in a long time."

      In a moment of telepathic horror, both Brandt and Donnelly choked on
that last bit.

      "You saw the live show?" coughed Brandt. Suddenly, he realized that
despite the fact that his most private parts had already been broadcast on
the Internet, the idea that what he shared with Donnelly had been watched
by others made him nauseous.

      "Yes, of course," replied Bigg placidly. "With all of the excitement
around it, I needed to see it for myself, even if it meant departing from
our customary practice of not keeping recordings of private shows." He
shrugged, confessing his weakness. "It was amazing. In fact," he said in a
lower voice, leaning in conspiratorially, "I amazed myself with it again
just this morning."

      Drake and Bigg laughed, and Brandt, half a beat late, joined
in. Donnelly was trying not to puke.

      "So, Jason," said Drake once businesslike order had been restored,
"What do you think about joining us?"

      The plan. Think about the plan!

      "Well, I'm flattered," stumbled Brandt, trying to get back on track,
"But I'd really like to get to know a bit more about the business first."

      Drake and Bigg exchanged puzzled, but amused, looks.

      "See, I'm not sure at this point whether I'm going go to law school
or business school when I graduate next year, and I'm kind of curious about
how you guys run this company."

      Drake nodded.

      "I see. Well, you know that we always try to use the skills of our
employees to the best advantage--for example, Eugene has coded much of our
web infrastructure. I think he's made more money doing that than he has
doing videos. It's great that you have an interest in the business
side. So, what can we tell you about the company?"

      "Well, I took a forensic accounting course in the spring, and we
learned a lot about taxation."

      Mr. Bigg sighed. "Ah, yes, taxes. A necessary evil, particularly if
one wants the firemen to show up when one's house is aflame."

      "So, I was kind of wondering. There are taxes that need to be paid on
services, not just goods, right?"

      Drake nodded.

      "Do you pay that tax for the live shows and stuff that we do?" Brandt
asked, hoping that Drake would believe that this was something Jason would
actually be interested in.

      "Jason, I'm glad you asked that," Drake replied, beaming. "Our
accounting structure is something I'm particularly proud of."

      "See why I hired him?" Bigg broke in. "All of you beautiful boys
walking around and he gets a boner for the accounting structure."

      "Seriously, though," Drake replied, not to be deterred from his
topic. "The accounting part of a business like this is incredibly
important. There are people who would love to find an excuse to shut us
down, and tax is where they would look first."

      Brandt blushed in spite of himself.

      "So we've been very conservative on that front. For example, did you
look at your check for the live show?" Drake asked.

      Brandt shook his head. So much had happened since he got that check,
and none of it had to do with money.

      "Well, when you look at it, which I recommend you do, you will see it
indicates that we have withheld payroll taxes from it. We play by the
rules."

      "But I didn't fill out a W-4," Brandt replied, being the good
student.

      "No, we haven't had you do that yet," said Drake, warming to his
subject. "So we did a pro-forma withholding on an actuarial-estimate
basis."

      Brandt looked blankly, as even a student with a course on forensic
accounting under his belt would.

      "That means that we withheld the amount of tax that people your age
would have withheld, on average; then, once we get a W-4 from you, we
adjust for any difference from average. It's a way to pay people quickly,
but to also meet our fiduciary obligations."

      Drake looked very pleased. Bigg rolled his eyes and smiled at Brandt.

      "Now," Drake continued, gathering steam, "To your question about tax
on retail services. Here's a question that your forensic accounting
professor might not have asked: Where is this business located?"

      Brandt looked at Drake, not sure he understood the question.

      "Um, here?" Brandt gestured around himself.

      "Ah," Drake nodded, his trap sprung. "That's what I expected you
would say. And that makes sense, given this is where you've worked for
us. But the service that we deliver to our customers doesn't come from
here."

      Brandt squinted a bit at Drake, just as Maloney was squinting at
Donnelly right now in the truck, trying to figure out where this was going.

      "The shows are performed here, but they become a service only when
they are delivered to our customers. And that delivery point isn't here,
but in Springfield."

      "The Springfield two states from here?"

      "The very one--they call it 'Silicon Springs' because of all of the
tech companies there. That's where the hosting provider for the web site is
located. So, the service is actually provided there."

      "Oh, because the tax rate is lower?" Brandt asked.

      Bigg laughed. "Hardly. It's actually higher there."

      Brandt looked stumped, as did Maloney back in the truck.

      "Data protection," muttered Donnelly.

      "What?" asked Maloney.

      "Data protection. Brandt and I were working a case a year ago--at the
crime scene we found a printout of a GoogleMaps page that showed the route
that we knew the killer took. We wanted the suspect's ISP to tell us if he
had accessed that map, but they were based in Springfield. They wouldn't do
it--there, state law says that they don't have to give any information if
the data accessed was legal. And it was a fucking GoogleMap, so no laws
broken there."

      Back in the office, Drake continued.

      "We do it to protect our clients--and the guys who work in the
house. There, we would never have to divulge anyone's identity. As long as
the activity is legal--and it is-- everyone's covered."

      "Wow, that's...creative," said Brandt, as he worked the strategy over
in his mind.  If what Drake had described was true, this whole case had
just come apart.

      "But enough about business," said Bigg, somewhat impatiently. "Is
lunch here yet?"

      "I'll check with Nick," said Drake, reaching for the phone.

      "Ask him to join us," Bigg said, in a voice that struck Brandt as
somewhat carefully casual.

      Drake's eyebrows shot up. "Are you sure?"

      "Yes, it's time, don't you think?" Bigg replied, less casually than
before.

      "I suppose you're right," Drake answered. Then, into the phone,
"Nick, is the food here yet? Uh-huh. Okay. Can you take it to the back
patio and set it up? Great. And then, Nick--" he paused here to exchange a
glance with Bigg. "Please join us for lunch. Right.  Thanks."

      He hung up the phone.

      "He'll have it ready in ten minutes," he said to Bigg.

      "Excellent. Now, Jason, while we wait, how about you tell us a little
about yourself?"

      Brandt's mind was racing to try to figure out how Nick fit into all
of this, so it took a second for him to shift gears into his
backstory. Luckily, he had worked all of the details out when he first got
the assignment, so he could easily fill ten minutes with effortless
dissimulation.

      Things were not going effortlessly back in the truck. The techs were
a blur, chasing down the leads that Brandt had delivered to them. Barry
Bigg turned out to be a local businessman of no great magnitude. He had run
a small business until about two years ago--a pool cleaning service with
customers in most of the suburbs and small-to- medium towns around the
region. No smoking gun there.

      Drake's account of the hosting situation seemed to be on the
up-and-up as well.  The techs had traced back the IP address of the hosting
provider for the web site, and it was indeed located in
Springfield. Maloney made a couple of calls and found that not only was the
business registered there, but the Board of Revenue confirmed that Bigg had
made every tax payment on time since the site went live.

      "Well, as tax evasion schemes go, this one's a bust," muttered
Donnelly. "First I've ever seen where people went out of their way to pay
more tax."

      Maloney was hanging up his phone.

      "We're toast, gentlemen," he said to the group. "There's nothing
here. Aside from the fact that the whole operation is a digital smut shop,"
he shuddered a bit at this, "We got nothing I can go to a judge with."

      Donnelly nodded, then picked up his phone and dialed.

      "Chief Gordon's office," a voice answered immediately.

      "Margaret, it's Gabriel."

      "Oh hey, Gabriel," she replied, her voice lowering a bit. She was one
of the women in the office who could testify to Donnelly's skill with his
tongue. They had dated a few times, but Donnelly's heart just hadn't been
in it.

      He closed his eyes, wishing anyone else were the Chief's admin.

      "I need to speak to the Chief, right now. Urgent."

      Margaret's tone changed immediately.

      "I'll put you right through," she said, and in two clicks the Chief
was on the line.

      Donnelly explained what they had learned, and where it left them. The
Chief asked to talk with Maloney, whom he trusted from long
experience. Maloney confirmed the unraveling of the case, and then handed
the phone back to Donnelly.

      "Tell Brandt we're done. Get the team back here for a debrief with
the DA," the Chief growled, frustration in his voice. The Attorney General
would be getting an earful about the goose chase he had sent an entire team
on.

      "Got it," Donnelly replied, and hung up.

      "Let's move, people," he said to the group in the truck. "This one is
closed." He typed out a quick text to Brandt, and then buckled in for the
ride back to headquarters.

      Brandt's phone buzzed just as they were walking to the patio for
lunch. He caught a quick glance at the message: "Dad says the trip is
off. Meet us back at home when you're done." He stumbled in the hallway for
a second, but recovered quickly. As he had suspected, Drake's story must
have proved correct. The message was the one they had agreed would mean
that the case was being abandoned completely. It was really over.

      "Hey, I need to stop off for a sec," Brandt said as they passed by a
bathroom. "I'll catch up."

      He stepped into the bathroom and splashed a bit of cold water on his
face. What this meant was that he had done all of this for nothing--there
was no case, no reason for him to have humiliated himself, no justification
for what he had been through. Fuck.

      He looked at himself in the mirror, and shook his head. He reached
under his shirt and disconnected the microphone from the transmitter--he
was no longer a wired hooker.  He smoothed his shirt down, ran his fingers
through his hair. It was this last bit, the fingers in the hair, that
suddenly reminded him of Donnelly. Without all of this, he wouldn't have
that. The investigation had been pointless, but it had brought him
something greater than he could ever have imagined. He smiled at the
bizarre economy of the universe, bringing him something so good out of
something so bad. He left the bathroom and jogged out to the patio. Might
as well enjoy lunch--the shit would be hitting the fan back at work, and
he'd actually rather be here while that happened there.

      Drake and Bigg were settled in chairs by the pool, and Brandt sat
down across from Bigg. That left a chair for Nick, who wasn't here at the
moment. The table was piled with Thai food in tidy containers.

      "This is a new restaurant that opened up nearby," said Drake, passing
a plate of spring rolls. "It's quickly become a favorite here."

      It was at that moment that Nick appeared; he stood for a moment
behind the remaining chair, and Brandt saw him jolt when he looked at
Bigg. Brandt remembered Nick saying that no one had ever seen the owner of
the house, but this look gave away more than just the thrill of meeting
someone new--this was recognition.

      "Barry?" he said, in a quiet voice.

      "How are you, Nick?" Bigg replied, rising to take Nick's hand.

      "I'm...but you...wow, it's you?" Nick mumbled, though Brandt noticed
that there was a smile forming--perhaps this was a pleasant surprise?

      "Yes, it's me," Bigg replied. "Now, please have a seat, and let's get
caught up."

      Nick sat, shaking his head as if trying to figure out what had
happened. Brandt, for his part, was impatient to find out what was going
on--if anything was going to affect his (now apparently defunct)
investigation he preferred to know it sooner rather than later.

      "So," he began, "You two know each other?"

      Bigg nodded, smiling. "We do. Nick here is the reason this entire
operation exists."

      Nick dropped his fork. "What? What does that mean?"

      Bigg took a sip of his Thai iced tea and explained.

      "Nick worked for me a couple of years ago when I ran a pool cleaning
business.  He was one of my best employees, mainly due to his popularity
among wealthy older gentlemen. They liked to watch him work." Bigg
chuckled. "I mean, who wouldn't, right?  I'd always tended to choose
attractive young men to work for me because, well, why not?  But Nick was a
wonder. We started to get requests for him to return to particular houses
more and more frequently, and it became clear to me what was going
on. Essentially, we were pimping him out as a performer, not as a pool
cleaner."

      Brandt looked to see if Nick would object to this characterization,
but he was caught up in the reminiscence, smiling to hear the story told.

      "But one evening," Bigg continued, "Nick was cleaning a pool for the
entertainment of a group of men, and he apparently took an offer from one
of them to go with him in his car for a more personal
performance. Unfortunately, a policeman noticed the car parked in a remote
lot at a park on the edge of town, and came to investigate. Nick was
charged with indecent behavior, while the man who had purchased his
time--what was his name? Trevor? Tyler? Yes, that was it, Tyler Banks-- was
charged with a more serious offense."

      "I got community service," Nick said. "It wasn't so bad."

      "All the same," Bigg went on, "I felt terrible. And responsible. And
I took a long hard look at my role in the ordeal, and I realized that I had
let Nick endanger himself.  What if this Tyler Banks had been a murderer
instead of just an unlucky lecher? I resolved to find a way to help young
men like Nick make a living while keeping them safe. And the result," he
gestured around him, "you see here."

      Nick's jaw dropped. "You did this, all of this, because of me?"

      Bigg nodded. "I did. Well," he said, looking at Drake, "We did."

      "But why didn't you tell me you were behind it?"

      "I didn't want you to feel obligated to work here. That would have
been exploitive. I wanted to give you the opportunity to come work here of
your own accord.  And it has worked out, if I do say so myself, quite
well."

      Nick shook his head in disbelief.

      Brandt, though, wanted to probe a bit more.

      "So, you arranged it so that guys expose themselves for money
online. How do you figure that's better?"

      Bigg laughed. "I know it must seem strange, Jason. But think about
it. Here there is an unbreakable wall between the service provider and the
client. It keeps both sides safe."

      The look on Brandt's face showed that he wasn't buying it.

      "Jason," Drake interjected. "How many of the thousands upon thousands
of fans who have seen your video in the last ten days have tried to reach
you? How many offers of sexual contact have you received?"

      "None," Brandt scoffed in return. "Not one."

      "Wrong," Drake replied. "You have received hundreds of such
messages. Some have sent offers of considerable sums of money for a night
or a weekend with you. Some have offered more creative compensation for a
range of activities that would make your hair curl. But we have screened
all of those messages out. All you would see in your fan account right now
would be the messages telling you how hot you are, and how much they
enjoyed watching you. All of the risky stuff has been filtered out, and
that's how we keep you safe."

      Brandt was genuinely impressed.

      "Wow," he said, finally. "You guys really have this all thought out."

      "We've tried to, anyway," said Bigg. "The best part is working with
people like you and Nick, who teach us new things all the time. That's why
we hope you'll join us, Jason. You and Nick would be an unbeatable talent
development team."

      Nick, who hadn't known about the job offer, looked excitedly at
Brandt.

      "That would be awesome!" he cried. "You're going to do it, aren't
you?"

      "I'm thinking about it," replied Brandt. It was only after the words
left his mouth that he realized he was really thinking about it. Which was,
of course, ridiculous. He already had a job.

      After lunch, and after promising to consider the job offer, Brandt
made his way back to headquarters in Donnelly's car. He was trying to sort
everything out, but he needed information from Donnelly to complete the
picture. He parked and ran into the building. Donnelly was waiting for him
in their office.

      "Must have been a good lunch," Donnelly groused when Brandt appeared
in the doorway.

      "Wanted to see if there was anything else I could get to fill in the
picture, that's all. So, Maloney pulled the plug on the warrant?"

      "Oh yeah. He dropped that like a hot rock once we confirmed what
Drake and Bigg told you about the business. The whole deal's on the up and
up, apparently. We're done."

      Brandt nodded, then shrugged. "That's how it goes sometimes."

      "Did you get anything else interesting over lunch?"

      "Not really. Found out how the whole thing started, which was kind of
weird.  Apparently Bigg ran a pool company that Nick worked for, and he
ended up getting arrested for parking with some guy who paid him to get
naked."

      Donnelly frowned at this bit of information. "How does that work?"

      "Well, Bigg felt bad about Nick putting himself at risk like that, so
he set up the web deal to keep Nick out of the clutches of baddies like
that Tyler Banks guy."

      "Huh." Donnelly grabbed his keyboard and starting typing. "That was
Banks, right?"

      "Yeah," Brandt replied. "Why?"

      "Just a hunch. Hang on." He typed more, and then looked at the
results on the screen. "Well, that's odd."

      "What did you find?" asked Brandt, coming around to Donnelly's side
of the desk.

      "Well, here's the arrest report on Mr. Banks, and the charges filed,
but there's no record of a hearing."

      "Wait, what? How can that be?"

      "That's what I'm wondering. Hold on...look at this." Donnelly pointed
to the final entry in the record.

      "What am I looking at?"

      "The name of the ADA handling the charges."

      "Mona Sullivan." Brandt read. "So what?"

      "Remember when I said that Tim Drake's sexual assault charges against
his former boss had just disappeared? It was Mona Sullivan who made them
disappear."

      "Wasn't she going to call you with information on that today?"

      "Yep," Donnelly answered. "What do you want to bet that we're not
going to hear from her?"

      Donnelly looked up at Brandt who was pondering this new information.

      "How about we pay her a little visit? Says here she's at the Judicial
Wing over on 8th."

      "Let's roll, Officer Brandt."

      "Fuck yeah, Officer Donnelly."

      In fifteen minutes they were sitting in the waiting room outside a
group of ADA offices. One upside to having a law-and-order Attorney General
is that there's plenty of work for prosecutors.

      "Officers Brandt and Donnelly?"

      They glanced up to see a harried-looking yet professional woman in
her 40s standing in the doorway to her office.

      "Please come in," she said, and gestured for them to enter her
office. They took seats in front of her desk.

      "Now, how can I help you today?" she asked, her hands folded together
on the desk.

      "We'd like to talk with you about a couple of cases that look a
little funny," Brandt said lightly.

      Ms. Sullivan did not give the impression of being someone who thought
her job was funny, not in the slightest. She frowned.

      "Specifically," Brandt continued, undaunted, "We're interested in a
sexual assault claim filed four years ago by a Timothy Drake, and
solicitation and indecency charges against a Tyler Banks two years ago."

      Ms. Sullivan shook her head dismissively. "I have a huge caseload,
Officer Brandt. You surely don't expect me to--"

      "Both cases were dropped, Ms. Sullivan," interrupted
Donnelly. "There's no notation as to why. And in both cases your name is
the last one on the file. Now, that seems unusual to me."

      The ADA stood suddenly, and walked to the door. She shut it, quietly,
then returned to her seat.

      "Are you suggesting, Officers," she hissed, clearly shaken by the
inquiries, "That there is something improper in the way that these cases
were handled?"

      "Not at all," blurted Brandt. "We were just tying up some loose
ends."

      Ms. Sullivan sighed, and rubbed her eyes. "Well, it was improper,"
she said quietly.

      "Excuse me?" asked Donnelly, leaning closer.

      "I said it was improper. And I'm actually relieved that you asked
about them. I disagreed with the decision to drop them, but I was
overruled."

      "Overruled? By whom?" Brandt asked.

      "The Attorney General himself," she replied, in a voice that was
almost a whisper.

      Brandt and Donnelly exchanged a look.

      "Why?" they asked together.

      "Well, the Drake case was pretty clear. The accused was a college
buddy of the AG, and he called in a favor. Guy was a total creep--trophy
wife and three kids, making passes at male associates on the side. But he's
untouchable."

      Brandt and Donnelly both moved as if to ask more questions, but she
raised her hand and continued.

      "Now, Tyler Banks, that was a bit of a mystery. I dug a bit on that
one. Turns out that Mr. Banks is the nephew of the AG himself. Apparently
his mom, the AG's sister, was a druggie who OD'ed a while back. Father was
never in the picture at all. Now, he's managed to keep it quiet that
they're related, because the kid's pretty messed up. Looks bad on the
campaign trail, if you know what I mean? So I think he hushed that one up
to protect himself."

      Ms. Sullivan, having unburdened herself, was clearly relieved. She
smiled for the first time since their meeting began.

      "Wow, that's...a lot," Brandt finally got out. "But why do nothing
and then dump this all on us? Shouldn't you have made some kind of ethics
case out of it?"

      Ms. Sullivan laughed a somewhat unhinged laugh. "You don't cross the
AG. He has ways of getting even. But this is my last day at this crap
job--next week I start in private practice in Arizona, so I don't care
now. Feel free to do what you want with the information--you are welcome to
it."

      "Thank you, Ms. Sullivan," Brandt said, rising. "Best of luck on your
new career."

      On the way back to headquarters, Brandt said suddenly, "I've got to
get back to the house."

      "Why? Did you forget something this morning?"

      "No, not our house. The frat house."

      Donnelly turned to look at Brandt. "Did you just say 'our house'?"

      "Sorry, your house."

      "No, it's not that. I just...well, that sounded nice. Our
house. Heh." Donnelly's goofy grin shone brightly.

      "You are completely nuts, you know that?"

      "Yeah, I know. And I'm all yours, so that's awesome for you, right?"

      Brandt leaned over and kissed Donnelly on the cheek.

      "All kinds of awesome."

      "Aww, you're going to make me crash into a pole with that kind of
talk."

      "Just drive. I have a hunch about something, and Drake should be able
to clear it up quick-like."

      Donnelly pulled into the driveway and Brandt jumped out and ran up to
the door.  He rang the bell, and the door opened--Nick, as usual. But this
time he was back in his usual uniform, naked as the day he was born.

      "Jason! Back so soon?"

      "Had to come back to try to catch you naked. Missed seeing Little
Nick last time."

      Nick laughed and slugged Brandt on the shoulder. "Little Nick! Good
one, dickhead."

      "I gotta see Mr. Drake real quick--there's something I forgot to ask
him at lunch."

      "Sure, he's in his office. Go on back. I need to get back out to the
pool--there's a shoot going on that I, well...let's just say my part is
coming up."

      Brandt's eyes flicked to Nick's cock before he could stop himself.

      "Funny," Nick said as he headed back out to the pool. Brandt watched
him go.

      A moment later he was outside Drake's office. He knocked.

      "Come in," called Drake. Brandt entered. "Oh, hi, Jason. Is there
something you need?"

      "Just a quick question, Mr. Drake."

      "Sure, ask away."

      Brandt realized he hadn't planned how to ask this.

      "Well, about what you said earlier, about how you protect the guys by
screening their messages and stuff?"

      "Yes," replied Mr. Drake, who cocked his head to one side as he
listened. He was glad to see that Jason was taking the business so
seriously.

      "I was wondering...would there be any way to see if that creepy guy
who was arrested with Nick, that Tyler Banks, has seen any of his videos?"

      Drake frowned for a moment. "That's an interesting question,
Jason. Why do you ask?"

      Brandt startled a bit--why would Jason ask this?

      "Well," he started, not sure where he would end up, "Because it just
kind of worried me. I mean, I don't think I could do this work if I'd had
that kind of experience.  But if this guy has been watching Nick's videos,
and Nick hasn't been bothered by him, well, then, that means it's working,
right? And then I would feel okay about doing it myself."

      Damn, that came out better than he had expected.

      "Interesting analysis, Jason," nodded Drake. He turned to his
computer and typed a few commands. "Hmmm," he murmured as he reviewed the
results.

      Brandt waited.

      "Well, Jason, we have our answer. Tyler Banks has indeed continued to
be a fan of Nick's. He subscribed to the site just after Nick joined, and
he's actually attended every single one of Nick's live shows...wait, with
the exception of the one last week. He didn't show for that one--seems he
let his subscription lapse. But until then, he'd been a solid customer. And
Nick knew nothing about it." Drake turned to Brandt. "I trust you won't
tell him? He might find it...distracting."

      "Of course not, sir," assured Brandt. "Thank you, Mr. Drake. You've
cleared up my concerns."

      "Anytime, Jason. And please, think about our offer. You'd make a
great addition to the team."

      "I will sir. Thank you."

      Brandt made his exit, and soon he and Donnelly were heading back to
the center of the city.

      "Well, what did you get?" asked Donnelly as he drove.

      "Just what I thought I would. Now, I'm afraid, we need to head back
to the Judicial Wing."

      Donnelly turned to look at him.

      "Why? I think we got everything we're going to from that crazy
Sullivan lady."

      "No, we're going to pay a little visit to the Attorney General
himself."

      "To do what, exactly?"

      "You'll see. Just drive."

      They arrived shortly thereafter at the Judicial Wing, and Brandt
consulted the building directory in the lobby. They surrendered their
firearms, passed through the metal detectors, and headed up to the top
floor. Soon they stood in front of the AG's reception desk.

      "Can I help you?" asked the receptionist.

      "We're Officers Brandt and Donnelly, here to see the Attorney
General."

      The receptionist looked quickly at the calendar, knowing already the
answer to the question she was about to ask.

      "Do you have an appointment?"

      "No, we don't," replied Brandt. "But we need to see him."

      "I'm sorry, but there's really no way that--"

      "Pick up the phone, and tell him that we need to talk to him right
now about Tyler Banks. Will you do that please? Now?"

      Something in his tone told her she should do what he asked. She did,
and, to her great surprise, was instructed to admit them to the office.

      They reached across the desk to shake hands with the AG.

      "Officers Brandt and Donnelly, sir. We've been investigating the tax
issues at the website house south of the city--the one you personally
instructed the Chief to look into."

      "Yes, I gathered that," the AG replied, coldly. "Please, gentlemen,
sit down and tell me what's so goddamn important that you had to come see
me about it unannounced?"

      The mention of Tyler Banks had struck a nerve.

      "Well, sir, we found no evidence of wrongdoing. The company has an
innovative business structure, but it's all perfectly legal. Exemplary,
even."

      "So you failed in your investigation," the AG replied, the coldness
in his voice replaced by mockery. "This you had to come up here to tell
me?"

      "No, sir. It's just that we ran across a related case that didn't add
up. Until now, that is. It was the prosecution of one Tyler Banks."

      The AG bristled at the mention of the name, but said nothing.

      "See, the charges against Mr. Banks were dropped without any
justification. And the prosecutor who dropped them said that she had been
ordered to do so--by you. Now, that might happen all the time--I wouldn't
know--but this one seemed odd, especially considering that Mr. Banks was,
until last week, a regular customer of the very Internet service we were
sent by you to investigate."

      The AGs eyebrows flicked up. But still he said nothing.

      "So, what I'm wondering is whether we were sent to shut down the site
on some trumped-up tax charges to spare you the embarrassment of having a
nephew who, once again, has been paying for services of a sexual nature."

      It was Donnelly's turn to gape at Brandt. This was some serious shit
he was alleging.

      "You little piece of shit!" the AG roared. "You have no idea who
you're dealing with here!"

      "I think I do," replied Brandt, with supernatural calm. "I'm dealing
with a megalomaniac who is willing to shut down a legitimate business so
that he won't have his campaign for governor distracted by uncomfortable
questions about his nephew."

      "I will fucking end you," growled the AG. "You make any noise about
this and I will fucking end you!"

      "I'm not going to make noise, sir. I am simply going to file an
ethics complaint that will initiate an inquiry into how the decisions were
made to vacate the charges against your nephew, and to set the tax
investigation in motion."

      "Good luck with that," snarled the AG. "You file one piece of
paperwork and you will be lucky to get a job collecting garbage!"

      "I don't think so, with all due respect. You can tell your ADAs to
drop charges, and they'll do it--they work for you. But our ethics board is
not under your jurisdiction.  Once the complaint is filed you can't stop
it--it's set up that way on purpose. You know, to eliminate the chance of a
corrupt official derailing a valid investigation."

      The AG suddenly had the look of someone who's just watched his chance
at the governor's mansion fly out the window. It would not be coming back.

      "Well, I think we're done here. Officer Donnelly, shall we?"

      Donnelly, stunned by the entire conversation, found his feet and
joined Brandt on his way out of the office.

      "That was fucking amazing," he whispered to Brandt as they waited for
the elevator.

      "Tell me about it," Brandt replied. "I thought I might pee my pants
in there I was so frightened."

      They were still laughing when the elevator reached the ground floor.

** 24 **

      It was a warm, late-summer evening about a month later when Brandt
and Donnelly rolled up once more to Stickley and Greene. They stepped up to
the door, which had a sign hanging from it that read "Closed for Private
Party." As the private party was the one they were going to, they opened
the door and went in.

      The party had been Bigg's idea. After the scandal broke about the AG
having covered up his nephew's indiscretions, the whole story had come out
about Brandt's undercover work. Bigg was so appreciative of Brandt's having
stood up for him and his company that he was throwing a party in honor of
the "troopers with the hearts of gold," as he was fond of calling them.

      As they entered the restaurant, they saw that most of the guys from
the house were there already--Eugene and several others were talking in a
group near the bar. Drake and Bigg were in the center of the room, chatting
with other guests. Nick was here already, and Brandt moved to his side of
the room to say hi.

      "Nick!" he called out as he approached.

      "Jason! Or, wait, I guess I should call you Ethan, right? You're some
kind of spy, man." Nick, as usual, hugged Brandt. Brandt returned the
embrace--he had missed Nick.

      "Nick, I'd like you to meet my partner, Gabriel."

      Donnelly shook hands with Nick.

      "Oh my god. You're the guy from the private show!" Nick looked
Donnelly up and down critically. "Now, wait. If you guys are just partners
in the police kind of way, how did you pull off the hot video sex?"

      Brandt blushed, and then clarified: "Gabriel's my partner partner."

      "Pleased to meet you, Nick." Donnelly bowed graciously.

      Nick, shocked, burst out with a huge grin and turned on Brandt.

      "I knew it! I totally knew it! I could tell from the moment I met you
that you were really gay."

      "Actually, when you met me I was really straight. But you kind of
helped change that, and I owe you one."

      "Dude, that's awesome." Nick looked genuinely pleased at the part he
had played in Brandt's life. He turned to the young man next to him. "And
I'd like you both to meet Pete, my boyfriend."

      "Pete! I've been wanting to meet the guy who is, apparently, the only
man in the whole world that Nick is attracted to."

      Pete shook Brandt's hand and shot a squinty look at Nick.

      "Well, the way he's talked about you, I doubt that's actually
true. But thank you for saying so."

      Brandt was intrigued by the insinuation, but let it go. At that
moment walking in the door were a couple of the people he had invited to
the party: Bryce and Nestor. They were followed shortly by the jockstrap
model Andy, whom Nick had invited.

      Brandt waved and Bryce and Nestor hustled over.

      "Thanks for coming, guys," Brandt called as they approached. "It's
good to see you."

      "Of course it is, honey," smiled Bryce. "Now," he said, stepping back
to appraise Brandt's look, "Who's dressing you? I want to hunt him down and
strangle the bitch with that lovely, lovely belt."

      "Don't worry, Bryce. It's no one on the Avenue. Gabriel and I went on
a little vacation last couple of weeks. Did some shopping in an exotic
locale."

      Bryce's eyes flashed.

      "So, the two of you are...?" Nestor asked what the speechless Bryce
couldn't.

      "Yes, we are," replied Donnelly, taking Brandt's hand.

      "I knew it!" Bryce gasped and hugged both men, delivering
congratulatory air kisses to every cheek within range. Then, catching sight
of Eugene and the rest of the boys clustered by the appetizers, Bryce
turned and hauled Nestor away to the feeding grounds.

      "Whoa, who was that?" Nick asked as the pair dashed off.

      "Bryce and his buddy Nestor. They helped me dress for the job. You
remember, the orange Ginch Gonch briefs?"

      Nick laughed.

      "I do--those things were hilarious," he said.

      "Yeah, but they got the job done," Brandt replied.

      "What job was that?" Nick asked.

      "To make you notice me," Brandt said, in the quieter voice his
modesty demanded.

      "Dude, I would have noticed you anyway!" Nick laughed. "First, you're
gorgeous.  Second, I saw the look on your face that day you caught me
recording a session. I could tell right then that you were into it. The
orange drawers just confirmed what I already knew, and," he nodded to
Donnelly, "What you've finally figured out."

      Movement near the door caught Donnelly's eye, and he saw Will rolling
down into the main area of the restaurant, Lucas right behind him.

      "Hey guys!" he called. "Over here!"

      "Wow, this is some place," Will said, looking around. Then he turned
to Lucas, who was by his side now, and whacked him in the leg. "Why don't
you ever take me anyplace like this?"

      Lucas rolled his eyes. "Like the parents of two kids under five years
old get lots of chances to go out. Honestly."

      Will laughed, and Lucas joined in.

      "Glad you two could make it," Brandt said. "I'd like you to meet
Nick, and this is Pete."

      Will extended a hand, as did Lucas.

      "So this is the famous Nick," Will said. "The man who can turn state
troopers gay with just a kiss."

      "It's a power I try to use for good," Nick replied, in a
superhero-modest tone.

      As the men chatted, Will noticed Lucas scanning the room.

      "Why don't you get us some drinks," he suggested, "And that way you
can introduce yourself to the guys over there instead of just staring at
them."

      Lucas blushed, and Will laughed. Lucas turned and ventured across the
room.

      "I tell ya," Will sighed as Lucas left, "It's hard to have a
boyfriend who's gay."

      All of the men laughed, though each for his own reason.

      "Hey, guys!" came a voice from the door. Donnelly and Brandt turned
to see Chris walking toward them with a man on her arm.

      "She brought a date! Awesome," said Brandt.

      "Oh my god, is that Walters?" Donnelly muttered, squinting. "Yep, it
is. Whoa."

      "Well, look at the guests of honor, back from their two weeks in the
sun!" Chris glowed--she hadn't gotten out much lately, and she was enjoying
herself.

      She embraced Donnelly and Brandt, and then turned to her date.

      "I believe you know Jimmy?"

      "Of course! Good to see you, Walters," Brandt said, shaking hands
with his fellow officer.

      "Good to see you, Jimmy," said Will.

      "Since you're here with my sister, I may have a few questions,"
Donnelly intoned with mock seriousness--though it did strike him as odd
that Will knew Walters. That must mean...

      "Now, Gabriel, be nice," Chris scolded cheerfully. "Jimmy came by the
house just after you left for your vacation--he was looking for you."

      "Yeah," added Walters. "I wanted to apologize for that thing in the
truck--you must have thought I was nuts going off on you like that about my
brother."

      "No, not at all--" began Donnelly, but Chris cut him off.

      "Anyway, since you and lover boy here had already fled for the
tropics, he and I got to talking and, well, here we are." Chris beamed, and
Donnelly was thrilled to see her so elated.

      "I'm happy for you guys," Donnelly said. "But remember Walters--you
break my sister's heart I break your face."

      "Got it," replied Walters, who looked uncertain as to whether
Donnelly was joking. He wasn't.

      With the family drama aired, Brandt introduced Nick and Pete to the
newcomers, and the conversation grew animated all around him.

      "Can I have everyone's attention, please?" Bigg's voice boomed out
across the room, and a hush fell immediately. Lucas took his leave of the
frat boy contingent to return to Will's side, and all eyes turned to Bigg.

      "We're here tonight to celebrate two people who, when faced with an
ethical dilemma of daunting proportions, did the right thing. And I will
forever be grateful that they did. Officers Brandt and Donnelly of the
State Police, can you please come over?"

      There was thunderous applause, and not a few cat-calls, as the men
walked over to stand next to Bigg.

      "Now, the people in this room know him as Jason. Many thousands of
people outside this room know him as Mason. But to us he will always be the
long arm of the law, Ethan Brandt!"

      The room burst into cheers and clapping again--Nick contributed a
wolf whistle that made Brandt's eyebrows shoot up.

      "And many of you are probably not aware that Office Brandt's partner
assisted him throughout his mission, and he went above and beyond--as well
as below and behind, if you know what I mean." Here Bigg winked and leered
at the audience, prompting a spirited "Ooooh" from the crowd. "Gabriel
Donnelly!"

      More applause.

      "Now, I want everyone to take a moment this evening to express their
appreciation for what these two fine officers have done. Without their
principled stand against the evil schemes of the Attorney General--"

      Boos and hisses erupted in the room. Bigg waited for them to die
down, then continued.

      "--Without them, we would not be in business today. So, from all of
us, thank you." Bigg hugged each of the men, and then prompted them to say
a few words.

      Brandt, shyly, stepped forward.

      "Thank you for those kind words, Barry. I stand here tonight a new
man, and I owe that to all of the people here. I thought my life was over
when that video of Mason went on the web, but I see now that it was as much
a beginning as it was an ending. If I hadn't done that video, I would never
have had a chance to know Nick, or Eugene, or Tim, or any of you guys I now
consider my friends. And most importantly, I would not have realized that
the person who had been by my side for two years is the one I want by my
side forever." He leaned over and kissed Donnelly, who blushed and
waved. "So, thank you. Now, can we take that damn video off the site
please?"

      The room laughed and applauded, and Brandt and Donnelly rejoined
their cohorts. Nick put his arm around Brandt and whispered, "I already
took the video down."

      "What?" Brandt asked.

      "I took it down. As soon as we found out about the investigation, and
I saw your picture in the paper. I felt really bad about it, seeing as you
were only doing it for your job."

      "Thanks, man," replied Brandt. "I really appreciate that."

      "Of course, there are probably thousands of copies of it being traded
around the net," mused Nick.

      "You know what? I don't care anymore," Brandt said, surprising
himself. "I got so caught up in worrying about how that video was going to
affect my future, but now I see that my future is fine. I have a great guy,
a great job, and great friends. Plus when I'm old I'll have video proof
that I once was pretty hot. Sounds like a win to me!"

      The party lasted until the wee hours of the morning.

      Arriving home in a taxi (a few too many shots after dinner had
convinced them not to drive), Brandt and Donnelly stepped into the small
living room, piled high with boxes from Brandt's hasty move during the two
weeks between the end of the investigation and their vacation. The bedroom,
though, was clear of clutter, and they made their way there quickly.

      Donnelly stood in front of Brandt, unbuttoning his shirt.

      "I was really proud of you tonight," he murmured as he slid Brandt's
shirt off his arms.

      "All I did was make the world safe for frat boy sexploitation. Not
sure that's really a hero's work..."

      "No, you did the right thing. That asshole Attorney General was on a
rampage, and you stopped him. I read in the paper this morning that he's
giving up his run for governor." Donnelly was working on Brandt's pants
now. "So, the world is a better place now, because of you. Plus, the frat
boys get to keep wanking on the web, so it's a win- win."

      Brandt, standing now in just his underwear, laughed and shook his
head.

      "You are insane, you know that?"

      "Yes, sir, I do," replied Donnelly cheerfully. "Now, get on that bed
and let me show you how heroes are treated."

      Brandt lay face-down on the bed, and watched Donnelly as he slipped
out of his own clothes and then straddled Brandt's ass. Brandt could feel
the heat of Donnelly's cock poking at him through the thin fabric.

      Donnelly massaged Brandt's back, using a massage oil they kept by the
bed.  Brandt was soon groaning with pleasure at Donnelly's firm touch. He
moved from his perch on Brandt's buttocks to massage his legs, and finally
his feet. He then turned back to the part he had skipped, sliding the
underwear down and off Brandt's legs. He continued his massage, working the
oil into Brandt's firm cheeks, finally seeking the middle spot that he
loved so much. His finger lubed with oil, he slid it in, causing Brandt's
groaning to double in volume.

      "Is that too much?" Donnelly whispered. He had started playing with
his fingers in Brandt's ass during their very relaxed vacation, but tonight
he was rubbing a bit more vigorously.

      "Oh my god it's amazing," replied Brandt, who had begun swiveling his
pelvis into the bed to show his appreciation for the internal massage he
was getting. He had never felt this odd and wonderful pressure before.

      Donnelly was quite pleased; indeed, he had gone from being
anal-phobic (it made him laugh now to think of how perturbed he had been to
catch sight of Eugene's hole during that first night of the investigation)
to being an aficionado.

      Brandt felt the pressure in his most secret spot as it surged through
his body and became a part of the entire experience of this evening--the
love that he had felt from the people in that room, their appreciation for
him, his abandonment of humiliation about that video--it all added up to a
feeling that he really was a new man, and this was his new life.

      "I want you," he murmured.

      "I want you too," groaned Donnelly in return.

      "No, I want you to do it," Brandt growled urgently.

      Donnelly was taken aback. "You do?"

      "I do. I totally fucking do."

      "But just a couple of days ago you said you weren't ready, and
weren't sure you would ever be."

      "I'm ready now," Brandt grunted urgently, his pelvis thrusting more
energetically into the mattress. "I want you in me. Right now."

      Donnelly had dreamed of this moment, but he wasn't sure it would
never happen.  He dripped oil onto his middle finger, and then slowly slid
that into Brandt alongside his index finger. Brandt grunted, but he pushed
back against Donnelly's hand. This was what he was hungry for, and he
groaned with the overwhelming feeling of penetration.

      "Oh, god, that's it," he moaned. "Now do it!"

      Donnelly drizzled oil on the length of his rock-hard cock, and then
slowly withdrew his fingers. With his thumbs he spread open Brandt's
muscular ass, and rubbed the head of his cock up and down the crease,
pressing harder on his hole with each pass.  Then he took a deep breath and
pushed against the tight opening, and the head began to slip in. Brandt
gasped, swallowed, then pushed back against Donnelly so that the entire
head popped inside him.

      "Oof," Brandt said. "Hold it there for a sec." He panted a bit,
adjusting to the invading presence.

      "You okay?" Donnelly asked, fully ready to pull back and stop if
that's what Brandt needed him to do.

      "Yeah, it's actually amazing. It's like being caught in the waves at
the beach-- overwhelming, but awesome too." Brandt took a couple of deep
breaths. "Okay, go slow."

      Donnelly lay himself down atop Brandt, and nuzzled his neck. "I love
you," he murmured. He began to make small, slow thrusts, introducing his
cock millimeter by millimeter into Brandt.

      "I--love--you--too," grunted Brandt between thrusts. He kept pushing
back against Donnelly, who kept pushing in, and soon their bodies met, and
Donnelly was fully in.

      Brandt felt waves of sensation crash over him, and he gave himself up
to them.  This act, the one he had regarded with fear and dread, now seemed
to him to be the ultimate expression of love--he had given himself up to
it, fully. He had left his old self behind, and the new one was open to
love in ways that he would never have imagined himself capable of. As
Donnelly thrust into him, he felt clarity, and certainty, and love.

      "Oh. My. God," grunted Donnelly, who was overwhelmed with the feeling
of being inside his friend, his lover, his partner. It was better than he
had ever imagined, so hot and so tight and so complete. He felt his orgasm
building almost immediately, and it would shortly overtake him.

      Brandt had continued to thrust into the bed, and when he felt
Donnelly's body start to stiffen on top of him he too felt the hot pressure
growing inside him. As Donnelly's cock pressed recklessly on his prostate,
stabs of pleasure impaled him, driving him erratically onto orgasm.

      They arrived together.

      Donnelly thrust manically as he felt the spasming start, and his
thrusting put Brandt over the edge. The friction of his cock on the
mattress, combined with the pressure in his ass, resulted in his cock
spurting out a jet of semen every time one was shot deep inside him by
Donnelly. They grunted and spasmed together for what seemed like a full
minute, until finally Donnelly collapsed on top of Brandt, panting and
exhausted.

      They lay there for a few moments, sweaty and quivering, until finally
Donnelly's cock popped out of Brandt; a warm trickle crept down the back of
his balls, part of the ample load that Donnelly had deposited. It was messy
and sticky and wonderful.

      "Was that okay?" Donnelly whispered into Brandt's ear.

      Brandt rolled over and wrapped his arms around Donnelly. He kissed
him all over his face, and then for a long time on the lips. Finally, he
answered.

      "You know, I think we'll have to do that a whole lot more before I
know for sure.  But, yeah, it was fucking amazing. I can't wait for you to
try it." He beamed at Donnelly.

      "Well, tomorrow's Saturday. I say we practice until we can't walk
straight."

      "I don't think I can do anything straight anymore. And that's fine
with me."

      Donnelly laughed and ruffled Brandt's hair.

      "I love you, man."

      "Fuck yeah," Brandt answered, and snuggled into the arms of his love.


If you enjoyed the story, please let me know at mjl4716@yahoo.com. I would
love to hear from you. Also, I would like to acknowledge the fine young men
of Fratmen.com, to whom I owe a debt of gratitude for their hard, hard
work.

My blog: http://xaviermayne.wordpress.com