Damn, this place needs renovation. I'm sure Sap thinks the look is timeless, and he's partially right--it has the appearance of a place that was decorated before time began. Whatever tacky 80s revival that's sweeping low fashion right now aside, he could do better. I suppose the décor, such as it is, serves its purpose; we all drink more, dance more, and fuck more in an effort not to notice that our playground is a bit worse for wear, and probably has lead-based paint on the wall...which reminds me to make sure Justin never lets his lips touch said walls. As if he ever would, knowing what else has come in contact with those surfaces.

We're being watched already; I can feel their eyes on us like sticky fingertips tangling in my hair. The Royal Couple has arrived in court, and I'm a bit surprised that our constituency hasn't formed a receiving line. Our place as the regal overseers of gay Pittsburgh is by popular choice--me because I worked damned hard for it and Justin because whether he realizes it or not, he was born into the position. After all, I had to spend years building my reputation through countless fucks...but all Justin had to do was stand under a lamppost, and he was in for life. Oh, the title didn't arrive 'til he shook his ass on stage, but he was already a king. Make that emperor; he's more than a simple king. Lord of all he surveys. We try to keep quiet about that fact, lest it go to his head. Either of them.

By the time I've gotten the bartender's attention, it's become obvious that the fags in charge have noticed our arrival. The music shifts ever so slightly into something Justin actually likes, informing everyone present that the show will begin forthwith. Justin doesn't wait for the Beam to burn its way to his stomach before he's strutting his way onto the floor, leaving a wake of hopeful faces turned towards his solar presence. They don't touch--not because they don't want to, but because I'm here. If it was just one of us, they'd be throwing themselves upon some sort of altar, begging for attention. But when the Kings of Babylon arrive in court together, the masses can only admire.

That doesn't mean I don't protect what's mine, so I follow him closely, letting the heat of his body guide me to our designated place. The locals watch in resignation, but they're not who this part of the show is for; this is for the outsiders, the interlopers and the newly arrived who don't know the way things work around here. They're the ones who'll try to cut in, to lure Justin away from me and into the backroom...the ones who think he's just another twink with pretty eyes, a big cock and a perfect ass. They're the ones I'll get to eviscerate as soon as the thought crosses their minds. Because bloodshed turns my pretty boy's stomach, I'll put on this display and nip those thoughts in the bud. Our dancing will go on uninterrupted and Todd will get an extra helping of business later on this evening.

When Justin starts swaying to the music, I don't bother resisting the urge to touch him. He belongs where he is, cradled in my arms, cock in my hand, ass cradling my dick. Both positions are striking claims of possession; we own each other, our bodies belong to no one else. The music here will never be called art, but it has its uses, one of which is to make these displays of vertical sex possible. It's not quite foreplay; I don't do foreplay when witnesses are present. This is exhibitionism toned down just enough to avoid an NC-17 rating. Our cocks are covered, which isn't saying much considering the tightness of our clothing and the size of our dicks. The whole act is coarse, lewd and transparent. We're fucking-not-fucking; we dance on our feet now knowing that we'll be on our knees later.

As my hand tightens on Justin's cock, I feel a momentary pang of regret at how much of a transgression against the art of dancing this act is. For me, dancing has always been about sex. Ballet, club, tap, flamenco, waltzing... they're all about sex. Babylon's dancing is pure fucking, which for most of my life was all I swore I needed. I fucked men, I danced at Babylon. I don't just fuck Justin anymore, and one consequence of that is that this raw body-slamming has lost some of its glitter. We'll never want the star-crossed tearstains of ballet, or the pricktease of tap, but the taut foreplay of waltzing...that I could work with every so often.

The thought sends warm tingles down my spine and I let myself work Justin's body a little harder. He would be glorious on a formal dance floor, blonde hair and blue eyes shining as we floated our way across polished hardwood, spinning and gliding in a finely choreographed display of giddy desire. We couldn't do it here; for one thing, the poor little fags of Babylon would stroke out if someone dared to waltz within these walls, and besides, I would never let anyone but Justin see that much of myself. It would be all too apparent how I felt about him, too obvious that this man has found a home in a place where no one else dares to tread.

My mouth waters at the mental image of waltzing with Justin, at the tension that would build between us as the only contact points between our bodies were our hands, waist and shoulder. Forced separation, unbreakable eye contact, every step dictated from on high. Waltzing as a recitation of everything we never say, that I won't let him murmur even when I'm asleep. I wonder if I could make him orgasm just by waltzing with him. It's a challenge that I truly want to take up.

A broken moan brings me back into the universe of Babylon and I note that Justin and I have progressed from sort-of-dancing to basically-fucking. The handjob I'm giving him is working well; he's plastered against me from calf to head, writhing and undulating like a wild thing. My cock is riding the swell of his ass and he's pushing his dick into my hand as if to make sure I know he doesn't want me to stop. As if I would; my preference would be to never stop touching him, never let him come down from the euphoric sexual high to which only I can send him.

I gasp after he thrusts back, twisting himself against my cock--which leaps in a desire to bury itself inside him. Every breath draws in the heady scent of his skin, hot and moist. I can feel everything inside his body--his lust and desire, the keening wail of want-to-come, the thumping heartbeat that is so close to my own. Whatever surrounds us is fading into nothingness; its presence is meaningless in the face of what I have before me. It's moments like this when I realize that the courtiers who surround us must surely be blind; they continually pursue both Justin and I when a good hard glance at the two of us together has to show that none of them have a chance. What do they possibly have to offer that even begins to compare to this? Nothing, that's what.

Just when I'm about to slide my hand inside his clothes, the music shifts away from where we were going and I'm pushed back into my head. This is not the time to put on a show for the masses, not that I haven't done it before. No, I think it best that the King and his Emperor adjourn to their drawing room, where the atmosphere is more conducive to such delectations as we might prefer at this time. I crave him right now, so to the backroom we go; the thing is, I'm not sure if I can be satisfied with a quick fuck tonight.