Dear Lipstic,

That was a pretty tall order you gave me. Wow!

If I met you in real life, I'd probably urge you to focus less on appearances. As I am "meeting" you online, I say "follow your dreams!"

I hope your holidays are enjoyable,

Aime Atem

Things a non-Jew should know:

Chamsa is a Jewish mystic symbol. It looks like a symmetrical hand.

Adonai is a Hebrew name for the Jewish G-d.

Writing the big guy's name with a dash replacing the "o" is a Jewish respect thing. I enjoyed playing with the affectation in this story.

Robbie always gets me into the dumbest messes.

Like the ice-skating fiasco. He insisted he knew how, then ended up as clueless as me. We managed to fell half the rink in one go, then got kicked out.

Like the tattoo on my hand. The reason my mother kicked me out. "I don't care if it's a chamsa. You can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you ruin the body Adonai gave you. Come back when it's gone."

Robbie and I looked it up later; the rule against being buried in a Jewish cemetery if you get a tattoo or a piercing is a myth. Robbie suggested I celebrate with an eyebrow ring. Another bad decision. Now she'll never take me back. Not that she ever liked me much anyway; I'm just the middle son, and I was always too spacey to focus properly and become a lawyer the way she wanted.

I'm sure the inability to leave the house without primping properly didn't sit well with her; honestly, the only time that woman has ever worn mascara was on her wedding day, and she probably thinks that foundation is used in architecture.

She never liked Robbie. Maybe if I was better about listening to her, I wouldn't be in such trouble now.

"Shit! My thong! Robbie, we just bought this yesterday! What the fuck, man?"

I wasn't raised a swearer, but it's the only way Robbie ever listens to me.

"Jesus, Jake, how the fuck did you even get dye down there? We're doing your head, not your pubes!" A leer. "Though, if you want, we could do those too, there's enough dye. I bet you'd look sexy with a navy happy trail."

If I don't act disgusted, he'll see how hot he's making me.

"Fucking gross, man. And it's nacht, not navy. Can't you read the fucking box?"

With a nonchalant shrug, he goes back to messily applying the hair dye. "Carl came by earlier. I told him to fuck off."

"Carl, my employer Carl?" Nod. "Robbie, what the hell? Are you trying to get me fucking fired?"

"He won't fire you. He's fucking in love with you, you flirt. He just needs to learn that you don't belong to him."

"What, it's not like I belong to anyone else. I'm not yours." I wish I was. "Do I need to remind you that my income is the only reason we can afford this shithole? You already got me thrown onto the streets twice, let's not go for a third."

The first time was, obviously, my mother. The second time, he left the tub running in our old apartment. Overflowed the bathroom, the entire apartment, and the floor below us. When the landlord came to yell at us and repair water damage, he found the box of snakes Robbie was illegally keeping as pets and threw us out on the spot. We had to live on stoops for a week until I found us this significantly crappier apartment just a block from my job at the DMV.

"Meh, I still don't understand how he could like the freak with the silver eyes. Poor taste, that man."

That hurts. "It's your fucking fault these are the only contacts I have." I was kicked out at a bad time- among many reasons, I had been about to order new contacts. Now I need the money that would have paid for them to eat, and I'm stuck with the ridiculous year's supply of silver contacts that my wealthy doctor of an older brother got me as a joke last year. My prescription changed a bit since then, so they don't work quite right, and I walk around with a constant headache from eye strain. To make matters worse, Robbie dropped a box on my glasses when we were moving into the first apartment, so I have no choice; silver eyes every day. I get a lot of weird looks at work, and pimply sixteen year-olds just learning to drive make fun of me. Fucking Robbie.

"At least someone thinks I'm attractive. Maybe you'd start charming the occasional lady if you actually went out and got a job."

Here is the root of our problems. I'm gay, and Robbie's straight. As can be expected from such situations, I fell in love with my best friend, and he doesn't know (nor will he ever). That's why he gets away with getting me kicked out of my own house, mooching off of my hard work, and being a total bitch to me. I love him too much to do more than complain, and I can't say no to him.

"Whatever. Dude, we are totally viddyin' on YouTube after we're done, okay? We have to do it soon, 'cause they'll probably take the clip I need to show you down really fast."

Robbie has a fascination for strange, gross things.

"Oh, G-d. What's this one about?"

His eyes gleam. I can't believe this stuff turns him on, but he gets so into it, it's kinda pathetic.

"Well, this girl is sucking this guy off, then she starts trying to actually eat him. He starts bleeding everywhere and-"

"Ugh, gross! I will absolutely not watch that nastyness with you. Change the subject right now."

Robbie's always good for a quick subject change. I don't think he can focus on anything for longer than fourteen seconds.

"Let's go clubbing later. I really want to get dressed up tonight, and we can show off your navy-"


"-hair to the world. Please please please?"

I hate clubs, but I can't say no to Robbie. Plus, I know he'll go with or without me, and I need to make sure he doesn't overdo it. Even if his body can handle it, our income can't.

"Fine, but you get fifteen dollars. No more."

If he were a puppy, his tail would be wagging. He is dangerous when he pulls out the cute. "Okay! Thanks! Jake, can we please dye your pubes too?"

^.^ o ^.^

Robbie is gorgeous tonight – he always is when he actually puts effort into his outfits. He dresses like the mad hatter from Alice in Wonderland; all swanky top hats, jackets with coattails, and patterned bowties. I'm not sure which developed first – my top hat fetish or my Robbie fetish. It never occurred to me that suspenders could be sexy until I met him. He likes to refer to himself as the Obscene Exhibitionist Extraordinaire, and nobody has ever contested the title.

Unfortunately, I'm not the type of man that can pull off such decadence. Aside from a two-year foray into the world of Steampunk during high school (another sore point between my mother and I), I've generally stuck to casual jeans and a t-shirt. I pull out the button-downs when I'm feeling really fancy, and the scarves when I'm feeling really gay.

Of course, Robbie took one look at my outfit for the night and dragged me back to his room to change, insisting that "You'll never catch the man of your dreams in those rags." Twenty minutes later, he has me in his tightest black jeans (doing their best spandex interpretation, as he's a size smaller than me), a maroon wife beater, and, of all things, a sparkly silver hair band, "to compliment your eyes". And because I can't deny him, that will be my outfit for the evening.

After a brief excursion through the city subway system, we end up at- "Robbie, you know this is a gay bar, right? There won't be any girls that want to hook up with you or buy you drinks."

Shrug. "I think I appeal to men more anyways; I'll probably get more free booze here. Plus, then you can be happy. When the men beat you up for staring at them, you'll know that it's only because they're uglyphobic, not because they're homophobic."

I glare. "And you have no qualms about tricking men that have no chance with you into paying for your pleasure."

He ignores me and leads me to the cue in front of the door. We get in with no hassle. Robbie heads straight for the dance floor, and I nab a stool at the bar to sit and watch him. There is absolutely nothing sexier than Robbie dancing; the prospect of watching him dance with men is a dream come true. I don't really care if he's leading them on. Somebody's getting satisfaction, at least.

The person in the stool next to me leaves, but I don't notice that he's been replaced until the new guy asks me who I'm watching.

"Nobody," I reply," just the dancing."

I turn to look at my neighbor; this kid is clearly doing his best to look like a gay geek. His too-tight Star Trek shirt is sparkly, as are the pompoms floating from his head and the gloves that go up to his elbows. No sense of style whatsoever. Ugh.

He catches my eye and smiles in a way that he probably thinks is flirtatious. "You know, I speak the language of the elves fluently."


He nods. He took me seriously. Oh G-d. "It is. You know, SciFi is the media's desperate method to reveal the truth."

I say nothing, hoping that will send a clearer hint than sarcasm did.

"Because Hollywood is under the oppression of the government, and that's the only way they can reach us, because the government is secretly run by terrorists, because..."

Damn, it isn't working. This kid is annoying. I want him to go away so I can stop seeing his horrible outfit and keep watching my gorgeous Robbie.

When people get between me and Robbie, I have a slight tendency to get cruel.

I lean forward, totally invading his bubble, put a hand on his knee, and leer. "I never knew that. I bet you could enlighten me a lot more. What say we go to your place, pop in the Matrix, get cozy, and-"

"Hey Glitteroid, get lost before I chop off your dick, knock you out with it, carry you to the bay, and get you permanently lost."

The kid squeaks and speeds away faster than Robbie from a good decision. I turn to glare at my sexy roommate, but am surprised by the feral glare directed at me. "What, you're into tasteless underage virgins now?"

"I was going to fucking take care of it. I don't need you around to crush a kid's soul."

"We're leaving. Now." Robbie grabs my arm painfully and pulls me towards the door.

"But I want to watch you dance more!" The words are out before I have any idea of what I'm saying, and the moment I realize what I've just revealed, I pull away and make a dash for the door.

I'm stopped by a desperate grab to my upper arm. Robbie spins me around and says nothing, just stares into my "freakishly silver" eyes, which are currently working on a combination of widening in fear and tearing in despair.

After probably thirty seconds of silent probing (while I, increasingly desperate, can do nothing but stare back dumbly), Robbie pulls me toward the dance floor. Still wordlessly, he turns to face me once we reach it and puts an arm around my waist and starts dancing.

It takes me maybe ten seconds to process, through the shock, what's going on, and I begin to dance with him. Once I do, he pulls me forward and grinds his hips roughly against mine. I cry out, loudly (not quite drowned out by the music, but this is a club – nobody's going to look or care), and drop my head to his shoulder, doing whatever I can to get close to him and pretend this is real, that he's not just humoring his meal ticket.

Then his head is on my shoulder, and his mouth hits my neck, and he's biting and licking and – oh God, what did he just do to my ear? How is this real? I'd pinch myself, but that would require letting go and there's no need, there's nothing I could do that his teeth aren't doing a thousand times better.

I moan into his ear, then attempt to reciprocate the pleasure he is bestowing upon my neck. I still have no clue what's going on, but I know that this man is amazing and sexy and wonderful and everything I've ever wanted.

I don't want it to end, ever, but I push until there's enough room between us that I can look him in the eye, because I need to know-

"What's happening?"

He gives me a sultry grin. "What's it look like?"

I must be blushing, but the dance lighting probably hides it. "But- well- did you get drunk, and I not notice?"

"I haven't had a thing to drink all night. You should know," more grin, "you were watching me. Now can we please get back to dancing?"

I gulp, nod, and grind my hips against his. This time, he's the one that grunts, and he pulls me closer. We dance for two more hours, then return home, utterly exhausted. That exhaustion vanishes, though, once we reenter the apartment and somehow end up on my bed, kissing and licking and sucking and fucking and nothing in the world could be better, even if my pubes are nacht. And in the morning, he's still there and we somehow scrape by with the beginnings of a happily ever after.

And for the first time ever, it seems like Robbie has gotten me into a really wonderful mess.