[Justin]

I like to watch myself. Not like you think. Not like I think I'm so beautiful that I don't even need another person to fuck. This isn't an ego trip, yo. Quit nodding at me. I know what you say sometimes, just like all the rest of 'em. Fuckin' Timberlake and his motherfuckin' ego the size of Texas. You think that, I know.

We both do.

And, yeah, I'm gorgeous. I know it. You know it. We're a pretty boy, and some kind of multimillion dollar industry of lunch boxes and teen magazines and hair products probably depends on that.

But I think you know why I like it like this, just us, just me and my reflection and a bottle of hand lotion. It's our time alone. It's the only time alone.

If someone's breathing hard or screaming like they've seen the second coming, it's not a faceless voice in a crowd. It's just us. No one else gets to touch. No one else gets to smell or taste or say my name like it belongs to them. Like cause they got a piece of my ass they got a piece of me. Like I didn't learn a real long time ago to keep the two separate. Like I didn't get down on my knees more than once to make sure we didn't miss out on the chance of a lifetime, really, kid, this is make it or break it time, you and your pals wanna be famous, right?

Right. But I don't mind if you watch this. I don't mind if any of the guys does. Do. Whichever. Shut up.

I like to think about Lance sometimes, when I'm thinking like that. Maybe cause Lance was this weird sexy thing on the periphery before either of us were really sexy for real. He's sexy now, and I look at old pictures and he wasn't then, but he sounds the same. And it's not like I really want to. I know whatever fixation I had on that quiet, too-pretty boy only exists in what Chris always calls my over-fucking-active imagination. I know he's not like that anymore, if he ever was. And anyway, of anyone, it wouldn't be Lance.

But Lance has actually seen me do it. Or, well, heard me. You don't put two teenage boys in a hotel room or three hundred for that long and not learn to close your ears after dark. I like to think maybe he came home a couple times and saw me when I wasn't trying to hide, when I wasn't trying to be quiet or keep from pressing my face into the pillow, kissing and moaning his name cause he was the only other one who seemed half as confused.

So maybe he's come back from extra rehearsal or dinner with his mom or whatever. And I'm there in that jacked-up sleazy ass hotel room, hand on my dick, sheets up to my neck cause it's nothing like Florida in the winter. Maybe my eyes are closed, and I'm all thrashing around like the hyper little kid I was. Am. Yeah. I've got a thumb and finger inside me and I'm arching off the bed, not even faking like there's anything in the world I'd rather be doing, because no one's there anyway.

Or maybe I know better. My eyes are open and the nightstand light is still on. I see Lance's mouth make a perfect O and curve my fingers around my dick to match. He makes this startled caught in the headlights sound and falls back against the door. It's fucking hot, and as soon as I'm sure he's not gonna bolt I throw back the covers so he can see for real.

His hand rests on the hip of his jeans and he's breathing fast. I take a coupla quick yanks and have to close my eyes cause it's all so much, but then without him there it's less hot so I look again. He's got one palm cupped over his crotch and he doesn't meet my eyes, so I grunt out his name and he flinches, actually fucking twitches, but glances up and pants heavily and undoes the top button. It's so fucking hot I jerk harder than I mean to and gasp again and he's not close enough, he won't be close enough until he's fucking on top of me, in me, fucking me. Fucking us. Fucking Timberlake.

But that's not, not anytime soon, he's not ready for that yet, so I say, "Do it," short and bratty like he already thinks I am, and he thumbs down the zipper and pulls himself out. And then it's like a race, it's a hundred-yard dash on track and field day in sixth grade, everybody trying to finish first.

I let him win, like it's all happening back when I still thought a good handjob was the coolest thing in the world. Before I knew what else was possible. Before the others started looking good, too.

With Joey it's like we're watching porn or strippers or some shit, except that never works cause it's not like Lance, it's not all misty-eyed fake flashback. With Joey I want to fuck him, want to see how far he can bend backwards at the hip. Flip top Joey. I'd sit through a month of his stupid-ass videos if I thought it would do the trick.

I'm not sure there are enough strippers in the world to make Joey get fucked. Willingly. Maybe if -- but it'd never be like that with Joey. He's too fucking nice. Like he'd decide to let me if it was that damn important, J, go ahead, and then it wouldn't be hot at all. It's not show friends, it's show business, and if I'm gonna finally wreak some havoc of my own I don't want anyone cutting me slack. I want to give as good as I've always gotten.

Chris maybe gets that. Chris might let me just reach over and grab him. Might try to plead out on account of age and knowing better. But maybe not. Maybe this time it's me walking in on him, and he holds up his hands like he got caught with a paw in the cookie jar. I don't move till he crawls over on his hands and knees -- but, the thing is, he doesn't beg. Chris has never begged for a damn thing in his life.

And that's where I forget that what I wanted was all that I could take, wanted to commandeer him like a Porsche for a car chase, wanted him to be someone to ride hard and put away wet. Somehow it becomes me on the tail end of the workout, and he kisses the back of my neck while he fucks me and -- and then I stop. I always stop there now, because the one time I didn't I came so hard I passed out and woke up with my hand stuck to the sheets and somehow he'd gotten in the room and there was peppermint tea being dripped down my bare chest. And he tickled me and read off the day's schedule in his Mighty Mouse voice, and it was all just fun and games. I think there are some things I wouldn't mind him taking seriously. Like me. Like this. I take this seriously. Me and my thing, doin' our thang.

JC would probably take it too seriously. All candles and flowing curtains and shit. I'd be like, honey, we got to get our groove on and he'd be all, pleasuring yourself is the safest, most divine kind of sex. I don't need to be thinking about that shit when I've got my hand on my dick. It doesn't keep me hard, and he might not need any help in that area but we can't all be Viagra queens.

So I come back to Lance. I come to Lance and ignore Chris' voice in my head, calling that the easy way out, just kids' play, grow the fuck up already, Timberlake. I come with Lance's groan burned under my eyelids, and he sounds the same as he did a billion records ago even if now it takes me weeks after a concert for my ears to stop ringing.

I don't even remember now how we got as sexy as we are, when we started wanting alone time instead of pretty kids with wet, eager mouths and ready hands. I come with Lance, but it's never his name on my lips. It's always ours. Yours. Mine. If it's good, I sag against the mirrored closet door and steam up the glass and splatter the surface and when I come it's with a whisper. And you open one eye into the foggy picture and whisper back.