Night Life: Justin & Brad (Prologue)

I hate having aggressive friends. Even though this isn't really my story, I feel like I should tell you this. They have this stupid tendency to do whatever they feel like because they assume that I'll just be OK with whatever it is.

I usually am, but that's beside the point, alright?

I bet you think I don't give them enough credit. I mean, we've all pretty much known each other since grade school (except Zip, but he fits in with the rest of us just fine, so he doesn't count). There's me, the bookworm; Derick, the sports nut; Trooper, the dancer (the ballet dancer); Zip, the skater; and Jack, the flamboyant extra.

The four of them absolutely adore shoving me out of my nice, safe, comfortable shell, and into completely ludicrous situations.

Exhibit A:

I'd just turned twenty-one, barely old enough to legally drink alcohol. I didn't think it was a huge deal at the time. I'd been nabbing my dad's beers for a few years by then, but the boys thought the occasion needed to be marked. I was the youngest of our little group, so it made sense in a fashion.

The destination of choice was, of course Night Life, their favorite gay bar…

I guess I forgot to mention that we're all gay, didn't I?

At any rate, Trooper—who wasn't planning to do any drinking, little did he know—picked me up in his economy sized car just after 10:30. There was a girl in the front seat, which should've been weird except that I'd gotten used to seeing her there. Rochelle James, better known as "Rache" had somehow bonded with Trooper over blisters and hamstrings, meanwhile putting in an average of 9 hours dancing every day.

Surprisingly enough, she was both bisexual and something of a party animal, which was neither here nor there. Unusual, but who am I to judge?

By the time we'd parked and walked inside, the place was beginning to fill up, and the others had already arrived.

"Hey, boys; glad you made it."

Some big bear of a man with a deep, echoing voice was waving at us. Troop and Rache returned the gesture, and by the time I realized that I should do the same, he'd already turned away.

A few years ago, back in high school, I'd been to my first and only high school party. It wasn't really a success on my part; I had no idea how to act or what to say, and I was so nervous that I almost puked on a couple of people. Come to think of it, I was feeling a little like that now. I'd known that I shouldn't have gone; that this would to turn into yet another embarrassing situation. I'd told them! I'd told them, and they'd insisted anyway.

See? Aggressive friends.

The first thing I noticed when I sat down were twenty-one shots of something lined up in three neat little rows in front of Derick. He noticed my glance and smiled broadly.

"Here, eat this."

"What is it?" I asked, a bit dumfounded.

"It's bread." Well duhh. Usually, though, the birthday boy got cake; not bread.

"What's it for?"

"It soaks up some of the alcohol in your system. Just trust me. Have I ever steered you wrong? Never mind; forget I asked. Eat up."

Another second of my dubious staring passed over his head before I ate it, wondering if he'd somehow altered the slice. But no, it was just generic wheat.

"Good boy. Here, drink some of this."

Now would be the perfect time to mention that I'm about 152lbs, 5'9", and I've never in my life had hard liquor. I'm skinny, although I prefer lithe, with a runner's body. Do you get what I'm leading up to here? Twenty-one shots was bound to make me shit-faced-throw-up-on-your-shoes drunk.

Fortunately, it never went quite that far. By the time I finished my first shot, seventeen of the rest had already been polished off. They forced me to down the rest, though the first was enough to leave me feeling as though I'd just had a hot poker shoved down my throat. I coughed and spluttered with that one, much to their amusement. The second was just as hot, though strangely it didn't hurt as it glided down to rest in the inferno, previously known as my gut. After that, the third was a breeze, a welcome relief from sobriety.

Next, of course, we ventured to the dance floor. Troop, having been force-fed a few vodka-gummy bears, began giggling and twirling about like some sort of demented fairy. Rache joined him, playing the more masculine partner and pretending to lift him up over her shoulders and carry him away. (They were actually about the same size, so she probably could have if she'd really wanted to.)

Derick and Jack were doing a bizarre, vertical version of the centipede, rocking and grinding their hips together. It would've been extremely sexy had they been able to stop making stupid noises at random intervals, afterward giggling uncontrollably.

Zip had disappeared behind the stage speakers with a very tall, very leathery man with thick black hair, leaving me to dance by myself. Not that I minded—anything but! By that point, I wouldn't have cared if there were dinosaurs roaming about.

I was happy, I was free. I was alive.

What's that? You think that means I shouldn't hate my friends for constantly getting me into uncomfortable situations?

Exhibit B:

I woke up the next morning to the pounding of African drums beating a frantic rhythm in my ears. I opened my eyes, momentarily blinded by the hot Sahara sun. Shooting upright, I was utterly dismayed to find that my head had been invaded by mischievous chimpanzees, intent on wreaking havoc in my nervous system. Desperate to get away, I fumbled blindly for a net, throwing it over them and bashing the bundle against the sand beneath me to quell their restless spirits, only managing to excite them more…

Yeah, so that's not quite what happened, but it is infinitely more interesting than my massive hangover.

The banging-my-head bit was about when I noticed the boy…er…man. A few inches taller than me (sideways), and much more muscular, he was big, handsome, and terrifying.

And I had no idea who he was.

Or how I'd gotten here, come to think of it, but the dried semen on our chests was something of a clue, though my posterior wasn't at all sore. My conclusion was that either A) we'd only managed to make through some intense foreplay, or B) he'd bottomed for me.

Wow. Just wow. Do you not understand how big this is?

I've always been bottom. Even when I first started out being gay, I went straight for the bottom, never once considering that I might enjoy fucking as much as (or more than) getting fucked. So the thought that I couldn't even remember my first time like that was a bit depressing.

Conclusion: he must've been even more drunk than me.

Speaking of alcohol…

I threw back the coverlet and leapt to my feet, darting into the next room and—thankfully—it turned out to be the bathroom. My guts were empty and my companion awake when I returned. I paused long enough to watch him pull up his pants before wiping the drool off of my chin and following suit. He grabbed some shoes and a shirt and quickly vanished into the bathroom without so much as a glance in my direction.

Well. This was certainly uncomfortable. I decided to cut my losses and leave. Derick was going to pay. Hell, they were all going to pay.

Although, enacting my revenge might be a bit difficult with no car, no sense of direction, and no idea where I was; my phone was no help—it was so dead that I couldn't even turn it on.

That settled it; I would have to ask for directions, and, since the younger boys hanging out at the end of the street scared the bejesus out of me, I figured it was best that I swallow my pride, turn around, and actually speak to the man who, odds were, I'd probably slept with last night.

What a way to start the morning.

Mr. Bubble Butt, as I'd dubbed him, looked surprised by my sheepish return. He was sitting on the bed, knees bent and eyes closed when I knocked on the door jam.

"Hi." God, I'm such a dork. What the hell though; the situation couldn't really get more awkward. I sent him a tiny finger wave and another smile (more of a grimace, really). "I'm Justin."

"Brad." He eyed me like he was afraid I'd eat him. I would be too—afraid, that is—knowing how hung-over I looked. Baggy, bloodshot eyes, pale, pasty face, sweaty hair… I don't do 'drunk-off-my-ass' well, apparently.

"This is a little bit awkward, uhm…" It would've been nice if he'd just say something, instead of giving me that inscrutable stare. "Can I borrow your phone? I'm not sure how to get home from…wherever 'here' is."

One eyebrow flew toward his generous hairline and he smiled this slow, utterly devastating grin that spread across his face like it was contagious. The grin and his slightly scruffy appearance reminded me of a pirate or one of those Adonis statues the Greeks worshipped so much. He was gorgeous. Not that I hadn't already noticed, but now it was just glaringly obvious. He must've been some kind of angel, come to bless me—that or really really drunk off his pecker last night.

At any rate, he seemed to have decided that I was safe—er, safe enough—to be around for the moment. "I can take you home, if you'd like." I shouldn't; I really shouldn't…

"Sure. Whenever you're ready; that'd be great."

It only took a few minutes before we were on the sidewalk, peacefully silent. His strong presence was at once reassuring and exciting, and I didn't feel the need to make any useless conversation.

He stopped at a corner a few blocks away from his apartment building. I realized as the taxi pulled up in front of us that he'd probably driven to the bar the night before. At least he didn't drive you home drunk; that's good, right? The thought comforted, if only a bit. Again, we rode in silence. He paid the driver, refusing my offer to cover half the tab, and led me to his dusty black pick up truck.

From here, I recognized how to get home and yet, strangely enough, I found myself wishing I had actually talked to him, gotten to know him on the ride over.

"Thanks for taking me home. Would you like to stop and get some breakfast? My treat for doing this." I glanced sideways, briefly wondering if he'd even heard me. His expression was no clue to his mood, and his features looked like they'd been chiseled from stone. "I mean… never mind. You probably just want me out of your hair. Forget I said anything; turn left here, please."

His chuckle was like thunder—deep throated and hearty. "It's almost noon now—buy me lunch and we'll call it even." I nodded, relieved, and directed him toward a diner that I'd recently fallen in love with.

The food was good and the company better. His humorous outlook on everything was impossible to ignore. I wanted to ask for another date—more time spent together—but I'd already used up all of my courage.

To my pleasant surprise, he asked me for my number, and we went out again the next weekend—no alcohol involved.

After that, it was as though I spent every second of my time thinking about him. Jack seemed to think it was romantic, though Zip and Derick were more annoyed with my than anything. I can't say what Trooper thought, though he acted oddly after I told him about my new relationship. He and I were the closest of the group and after that…it seemed as if something had changed, though I couldn't say what.

After a few weeks, we moved into the flat above his photography studio, and we've been together for eight months now. I'm completely in love with him, and he with me. Every once in a while we quarrel, but that's to be expected. I'm more convinced than ever that doing so means we're perfect together (and he agrees).

OK, fine. You want me to admit it? Fine, I'll be the bigger person, I will. In reality, I don't actually hate having aggressive friends.