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Part Next, by order of the foxmonkey.
(I am so whipped)
By nightfall Justin was cocky again.
“Rolling Stone,” he sang, “ knows it’s tiiiiiiiiiiiime to love me.”
He pulled his shirt up a little, where his belly still gleamed with baby oil. Fine like china, baby. It was a beautiful night.
He danced his way into his house, where Chris was sleeping peacefully on the couch. Lance was eating the last of Justin’s special made-by-a-baker-fan chocolate chip bagels.
He busted a move before punching Lance in the arm.
“I’m the Man, with a plan, and unHAND my freakin’ bagels,” he sang as sweetly as a bird in a tree.
Lance made a face, swallowed the last bite, and punched Justin’s arm twice.
“No. Finder’s keepers, J.”
“’Struth,” said JC, who’d read a book and suddenly become Mr. Auld English.
“Can it with the Knights of the Round Table shit,” said Joey, who had his feet in JC’s lap and a beer balanced on his belly.
Chris grunted and wiggled deeper into the other couch.
This was the good times, the sweetness, all his boys in his own personal box and a whole evening off with no interviews. He was the man with the beer-filled fridge, dibs on the remote, and the tingling fresh breath of a star. JC smiled at him over Joey’s huge feet.
Justin busted another move, until a flushing sound came from down the hallway and Tara appeared, dressed like a female clone of JC, poptrash style.
“Hi Justin. We were just going to watch The Fast and the Furious again. You wanna watch it with us?”
His moves seem to go a little flat.
~
(I am so whipped)
By nightfall Justin was cocky again.
“Rolling Stone,” he sang, “ knows it’s tiiiiiiiiiiiime to love me.”
He pulled his shirt up a little, where his belly still gleamed with baby oil. Fine like china, baby. It was a beautiful night.
He danced his way into his house, where Chris was sleeping peacefully on the couch. Lance was eating the last of Justin’s special made-by-a-baker-fan chocolate chip bagels.
He busted a move before punching Lance in the arm.
“I’m the Man, with a plan, and unHAND my freakin’ bagels,” he sang as sweetly as a bird in a tree.
Lance made a face, swallowed the last bite, and punched Justin’s arm twice.
“No. Finder’s keepers, J.”
“’Struth,” said JC, who’d read a book and suddenly become Mr. Auld English.
“Can it with the Knights of the Round Table shit,” said Joey, who had his feet in JC’s lap and a beer balanced on his belly.
Chris grunted and wiggled deeper into the other couch.
This was the good times, the sweetness, all his boys in his own personal box and a whole evening off with no interviews. He was the man with the beer-filled fridge, dibs on the remote, and the tingling fresh breath of a star. JC smiled at him over Joey’s huge feet.
Justin busted another move, until a flushing sound came from down the hallway and Tara appeared, dressed like a female clone of JC, poptrash style.
“Hi Justin. We were just going to watch The Fast and the Furious again. You wanna watch it with us?”
His moves seem to go a little flat.
~
