EPILOGUE 2030

I'll light the fire while you place the flowers

In the vase that you bought today …

BRIAN

"Haemorrhoids? You've got fucking haemorrhoids?"

Justin glares at me, folding his arms across his chest. "Yeah, that's what thirty years of being fucked in the ass by you does to a guy!"

I press my lips together in a desperate bid to stop laughing. "Um … wow. Sorry. Guess that's one of the penalties of being such a dedicated bottom-boy." My cheeks are twitching and I bite them hard. Most of it is pure relief; he hasn't let me anywhere near his ass for a while now and I was beginning to worry there was something seriously wrong.

His expression doesn't change. "Glad to know that my ass being off limits is such a source of amusement to you, Mr. Kinney."

That wipes the smile off my face in a hurry. "What? You mean I can't fuck you anymore?"

He rolls his eyes. "Oh, suddenly it's serious."

You'd better believe it's serious. Forty-seven years old, and he's still hot as hell. Contrary to all my dire predictions, his calorie intake over the years never did result in his becoming a lard-ass, thank fuck. I might not be able to span his waist with my hands anymore, but otherwise there's little change. "You can have them treated, though, right?" I ask fretfully, taking his hand.

He relents a little. "Yeah, I can have them cauterised." I wince. "But the skin tone will never be the same. We'll always have to be careful … and not so frequent."

Despite his casual tone, his eyes are worried. Maybe we don't manage our old standard of three fucks a day (judged purely by number, not by the number of orgasms achieved per fuck) anymore, but our sex life has never lost its enthusiasm. Thirty years of fucking the same guy and I'm still not tired of it: he's still as great a challenge to me as he ever was. Who'd have thunk?

He leans against me, laying his head on my shoulder. "If … if that's not enough for you anymore … I just want you to know I understand. I won't like it, but I'll understand."

I stare at him, then bray laughter. "Christ, Sunshine, I'm fifty fucking nine years old! If anyone should be out looking for a younger model, it's you, not me."

"Yeah, but I'm the one with the worn out ass," he smiles, but his eyes don't. They're still so blue, so bright, even after all these years. I envy him his sight; I started having to wear glasses for reading many years ago. I wanted to get contacts, but Justin likes me in glasses. He says they make me look like a lawyer.

Jesus.

I run my hands through his hair; he wears it shorter now, and it's a little thinner, but the texture is just the same. He also has the advantage of being blond, so the grey doesn't show so much. When I started seeing grey hairs at my temples I plucked each one daily, until Justin pointed out that I was beginning to look like I had mange. So I visited my stylist and came home sporting a full head of glossy chestnut, which only resulted in the little twat deploying the most lethal weapon in his arsenal - withdrawal of conjugal rights. He said he wasn't turned on by the thought of being fucked by an ageing lothario with coloured hair and Botox. Faced with that ultimatum, what the fuck was I supposed to do? Now I'm more grey than brunette, but Justin doesn't seem to mind.

"You are so full of shit," I tell him. "You know that's all over." It is. I won't pretend that neither of us fell off the monogamy wagon over the years, but it was never an issue, other than having to resort back to the dreaded condoms for a while. Which was about as effective a deterrent as you could wish for, really. We survived, as we always have. I found it easier every day to withdraw from that scene, to allow the younger studs to take my place and to retire undefeated, with my dignity intact. After all, I walked away with the prize, didn't I? And there hasn't been anyone else for a long, long time.

I put my arms round him and he settles against me, his fingers toying with the buttons on my shirt. "This getting old shit really sucks, doesn't it?" he sighs.

"Actually, it's not nearly as traumatic as I'd been led to believe," I tell him.

"No." He chuckles. "Remember that party Michael threw at the undertaker's when you turned thirty?"

"With that fucking coffin and the Tombstone birthday cake? How could I forget?"

"You thought it was the end of the world." He looks up at me and smiles. "But thirty years on, you're still beautiful. So you had nothing at all to worry about, did you?"

No. No, I didn't. And I still don't, because contrary to everything I'd believed up to the age of thirty-five, I am an extraordinarily lucky man.

"You really don't mind, then? About ... " He still sounds uncertain.

"I'm sure we'll find a solution," I tell him, kissing the tip of his nose. "We always have. After all, creativity has always been our strong point." I place my lips against his ear and whisper huskily, "I could always try kissing them better."

He scrunches his face up. "Eew, Brian! That is so gross. I knew you were going to turn into an old pervert eventually!"

"And as I keep telling you, I'm your old pervert. And you love me that way."

He looks up at me with a full Sunshine smile. "No, you love me! You so love me!" he croons. "You sooo love me!" He's seventeen again.

"Shut the fuck up, Baldy," I say, stopping his noise with my lips.

THE END