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Lofty Ideas
Part III

Here it is, guys. Thanks to Darren and Alan for a fast turn around. It's my little parting gift to each of you. Hope you enjoy. Maybe there should be a Lofty IV?? LOL! I'll be on for a bit and checking in frequently while away. You guys take care and let me know what you think. Have a safe holiday! R.

Justin was having a bad day. The London weather turned bitter by mid- afternoon, and he hadn't planned for it. His sweater and light jacket weren't enough to stave off the chill, and by the time he made it back to his dorm room, he wondered if he was getting a cold. Before he could worry too much about his health, he found a cream colored vellum envelope propped up on his pillow. The embossed return address read; Claridge's Hotel, Brook Street, London WI 1. The fancy calligraphy on the front read simply, Mr. Taylor.

He sat down heavily on the bed. He shed his backpack and opened the envelope. He withdrew a sheet of heavy paper with the same embossed address. The fancy calligraphy continued. He read; "Dear Mr. Taylor, please join me for tea in the lobby lounge of Claridge's this afternoon at four. I will send a car for you at 3:45. Sincerely, A Fan."

His roommate came in as Justin returned the invitation to the envelope with a scowl. Justin glanced at the retro-punk viscount and asked, "Ever heard of a place called Claridge's?"

His roommate looked askance. "The bloody hotel?"

"Yes."

"Of course I have, you twit! Who's not heard of Claridge's? It's some posh digs where girls have debutante parties and old men have trysts. No one who's anyone stays at Claridge's. They stay at the hip new hotels, like the Metropolitan. Why?"

"Someone invited me to tea at Claridge's."

"Who?"

"Doesn't say. Said they'll send a car for me."

"Some old geezer after chicken. I'd go. You may pick up some quid for a quickie in the lift."

Justin grimaced. "That sounds real appealing. NOT! I guess I'll blow it off. I may be getting a cold, anyway. Shit, how can I decline? There's no name, only the hotel number."

"Look, go. So you get a free meal. They do a hell of a tea there, and when the geezer puts his hand on your knee, you squeal about how straight you are! He won't rape you in the lounge of Claridge's, now will he?"

Justin shrugged. He wasn't really worried about being raped. "Do I have to dress up?"

"Yeah, jacket and tie. Daddy's little darling."

At 3:45, Justin went downstairs to find a gleaming white Rolls Royce waiting at the curb. Even in his blazer and tie, topped with an overcoat, he felt unworthy as the driver opened the door for him and he slid into the luxurious leather interior. Claridge's was an Art Deco masterpiece. The black and white marble floor in the foyer, the sweeping staircase leading from reception, the bas relief Art Deco frescoes, all captured an era and held fast to it while the world outside its doors endured rapid changes.

A string quartet played under the domed skylight in the central lobby that was subtly decorated in celadon green with vases of fresh flowers that were taller than Justin. On either side of the open area were small tables fronting comfortable couches and overstuffed chairs. Tuxedo clad waiters bustled among the patrons in this cozy setting, carrying silver tiered trays of goodies and fine porcelain tea pots along with taller pots of steaming water to use to make the tea.

Justin felt out of place, but the maitre de seemed to know just who he was, and led him to an out of the way table near the hearth. The fire burning behind a painted screen was welcome on this chilly day as Justin settled into a chintz wing chair and sighed. He was here. Where was his "fan"? He noticed another person in the identical chair, catty-cornered to his own. The man's face and upper body were concealed by the way the chair's wings protruded. But the hidden stranger wore expensive Italian shoes and his long legs were crossed. His suit was a fine wool charcoal gray with a chalk stripe, very London businessman. A hand emerged, gripping the wing, exposing a white French cuff with subtle white gold cuff link, against a glimpse of pale blue sleeve. As the long fingers tapped a rhythm, the waiter asked if he was ready to order. Justin leaned forward, trying to get a better view and then the man's cuff slipped, exposing a bracelet made of cowry shells. This artifice was completely incongruous with the conservative clothes.

"BRIAN!" Justin's delighted squeal of recognition punctured the polite murmurs of the other guests. Justin leapt to his feet, crossing over to the other chair, pushing past the waiter to throw himself into the arms of his lover. Brian braced himself against the onslaught of youthful adoration, kissing Justin hotly before he pushed him back.

"Don't you look cute in your 'widdle' blazer," Brian teased.

"Shut UP!" Justin said with a wide smile, taking in Brian's crisp white collar and interesting tie that had a navy blue knot while the rest of it was silver-gray. He was drop dead gorgeous and Justin wanted to ravage him right there in that wing chair. Brian read his expression and laughed.

"We have plenty of time for that. Sit down, I've ordered."

The waiter brought champagne rather than tea and Justin turned his chair slightly so he could better see his lover. He tucked one leg under him as he sipped champagne and nibbled on the delicate sandwiches, the scones with jam, and the pastries. Brian merely sipped champagne. They caught up on things, and then Justin watched him give the waiter his black American Express Centurion card. He leaned over to whisper, "What room are you in, Brian?"

Brian smiled. "816. But not at this hotel."

They left after Brian signed off on the charge, returning to the Rolls. "Metropolitan Hotel," Brian told the driver and Justin smiled. Of course. Would Brian stay anywhere other than the hippest place in London? Justin leaned over to kiss Brian deeply and Brian responded by pulling him onto his lap as the driver cut into the heavy afternoon traffic heading towards Park Lane.

"Don't get me hard," Brian cautioned Justin, pushing him back against the seat.

"Feel this," Justin pressed Brian's hand to his crotch. Brian felt the steel, then removed his palm from Justin's fly.

"At your age, you get hard watching the traffic light change color."

Justin laughed. "Only if you're there next to me. GOD! I have SO missed you!"

Brian watched Hyde Park slip past as the driver took the park's byway to avoid the traffic. Two well turned-out girls were riding horses and an old lady and small child fed the ducks that glided by on the Serpentine. Brian loved London. It was so...elegant. The Metropolitan Hotel was the first new hotel built on Park Lane, home of many such luxury establishments, in decades. It was small, but perfectly contemporary. They crossed through the starkly modern lobby and took an elevator up to the eighth floor, deliberately not looking at each other as they stood side by side in the small enclosure. Brian used an electronic key card to open his suite. The large rooms featured lovely views of the park. It was furnished in sparse clean pieces. The dominant color was white.

He switched on the privacy light that illuminated outside the door and threw the bolt. "You better be naked and in that bed by the time I turn around," he growled at Justin and the games began.

It was almost midnight. When he went to the window, Justin saw the park as nothing more than an expanse of black interspersed with amber street lamps. He had decided fucking was a cure for an incipient cold, because all of his symptoms were gone. Suddenly the city that was beginning to feel a little cold, a little impersonal, was magical again. All because he was here with his lover. Could Brian change the personality of London? Justin supposed it was his own personality that changed. He was not lonely, not horny. He was at peace.

"What are you looking at?" Brian asked, turning on the lamp beside the bed as he sat up and lit a cigarette. He admired this view of Justin's nicely rounded buns, that sweet little cushion of flesh he had so vigorously invaded. What a beautiful ass. What a beautiful young man. And he was his, all his. Brian smiled as Justin glanced over his shoulder at him.

"Just the park. This room must cost a fortune."

"Not cheap."

"Why are you here, Brian? I know it's not just to see me."

"That's part of it."

"And the other part?" Brian held open the covers, silently beckoning Justin back to bed. Justin obliged, resting his cheek against Brian's sternum as Brian casually looped his arm over him. "Cyn found an article in the Wall Street. There's this company here that's made a splash in Great Britain, and is hoping to export its success to the U.S. market. They make running shoes that are supposed to make Nikes and others pale by comparison. Their logo is interesting, a bulldog face with a Union Jack behind it. They're called Bulldogs."

"I know those shoes. All the young guys here wear them. I plan to get a pair before I go. They are cool looking and from what I hear, they really hold up. Come in some great designs."

"I decided to pitch them. Before everyone else does. I had a brief, introductory meeting with the president of the company today. He's also the founder and principal shareholder."

"And?"

"I like Richard a lot. He's only 35, very hip, likes the idea of a brash young start- up firm handling his ads in the States. He liked the basic concept of my campaign, although we just had time for a taste. He asked me to dinner, but I told him I had to see you tonight."

Justin looked up at Brian's face. "You did? Who did you tell him I was?"

"My partner."

Justin loved to hear Brian say that word in reference to himself. "Is he gay?"

"No, he doesn't read gay. He's married and has kids, but you and I both know that's not a lock. Still, I don't think so. My gaydar was not giving me a signal."

"That was brave to tell him you are, subtly."

"Screw it, Justin. If a business doesn't want to use my firm because I'm gay, I don't need their business. Fact is, advertising is a creative endeavor. Gays are rather well known for their creativity. We're having dinner with him tomorrow. After the big meeting."

"I'm included?"

"In dinner, not in the pitch."

"What's your pitch?"

"The storyboards are in that portfolio over there. Give me your artistic critique."

Justin left the bed and went over to retrieve the large, flat black case that held the storyboards that would illustrate the pitch. He brought it back to the bed and opened it, carefully removing the thick foam backed white boards that contained artist's renderings of the proposed campaign. Brian was leaning back on the pillow, acting bored, while he nervously awaited Justin's verdict. Not only did he respect Justin's artistic integrity, but he was also interested in his thoughts as a young man, the target audience of Bulldogs.

Justin was ominously quiet. Finally, he looked over his shoulder at Brian. "I don't understand. I thought I did. I mean, I get the dog connection, but it looks like an ad for dog food. Is there some subtle message that I'm missing?"

"What do you mean?" Brian sat up, looking over Justin's shoulder at the boards. He groaned and tossed the mock ups aside, one at a time, then looked in the empty case. "What the FUCK?"

Justin grimaced. "It IS an ad for dog food."

"What? Of course it is! Jesus Christ, Cynthia is so fucking fired! She gave me the wrong damn portfolio!"

"You didn't check it?" Justin asked gently and Brian glared at him, reaching for the phone.

"Why would I look? She knows where I'm going and why! She had it on the couch in my office, ready to go. This is for a pitch we're scheduled to make in Los Angeles!" He dialed a number and was quickly patched through to Cynthia. Justin pitied her as he listened to Brian's tirade. Finally Brian said, "Get your fucking ass on a plane and get over here! I can't trust any delivery service to do it. There's lots of flights from New York to London, so get one that puts you into Heathrow early. I don't want to hear it, Cynthia, just get over here and come straight to my hotel! Why should I hold? Ok, hurry up."

Justin stroked soothing circles in Brian's naked back, but felt him tense as she returned to the phone. "WHAT?"

Justin winced. Brian got up, pacing the room with the portable receiver, stark naked, as he gestured to punctuate his fury. "So he's on his way to LA with MY ad campaign and I'm stuck here with HIS? So I'll lose TWO accounts, is that what you're telling me? Stop crying! How could you be so incompetent?" He was silent, as Justin supposed Cynthia had decided to snap back, because Brian's tone changed slightly. "You did NOT tell me to take the case on my table. I would've remembered that. Well, if I was on the phone, why would you think that I even heard you? Can't he ship it to me when he lands? What time is that? Shit. No, what would you do even if the artists could recreate it? Fax me little pages to hold up with the client while trying to convince him I'm a real time agency? FUCK!" He scrubbed his fingers through his hair. "I don't know, I don't know. I guess I'll think of something. I'm hanging up."

He ended the call and looked at Justin. "I'm so fucked."

"Why can't she get on a plane and fly a replacement over here?"

"Because my ad campaign is in a case somewhere over America, between New York and LA. By the time he lands, it would be too late to Fed Ex it or fly it here from L.A. I'm fucked. How can I convince the client I can compete with the big boys if I don't even have a pitch?"

"I guess you'll need a new pitch."

"I guess, Justin. Here, let me pull one out of my ass."

"Do you have to have pictures? Can't you just walk them through it?" Justin knew how Brian worked, and he didn't allow himself to be offended by his lover's defensive sarcasm.

"It's a visual ad campaign. Am I just supposed to sit there and say, 'Visualize a gray sky...camera zooms in on a puddle of water... suddenly...' It doesn't work that way. The guy has been through enough pitches to know what one is supposed to look like. He'll just think I can't even afford graphic art."

"So, let's re-create it ourselves. I've seen enough of those storyboards lying around your office to know how they look." Brian glared at him. "And then... let's put on a show in the garage!"

Justin sighed as Brian began to dress. He was pulling on gray sweatpants and shirt and a knit cap. "What are you doing?" Justin asked.

"I'm going to go for a run in the park."

"After midnight?"

"It may clear my head and give me a brilliant idea."

"Good plan," Justin said drolly.

"Want to go?" Brian extended the olive branch.

Justin shook his head. "That's ok. You go ahead. I'm tired."

He could tell by Brian's expression that he was hurt by Justin's rejection, but he forced himself to be strong. Brian waved and left the suite, tucking an electronic key into his pocket. As soon as Brian was gone, Justin picked up Brian's slim valise from the desk and opened it. He withdrew his neatly typed notes for the pitch and the schedule for his meetings. The address and phone number of his potential client were on the sheet. The fax machine on the desk also made copies, so he copied everything and then returned the paper to the valise, the valise to the desk.

He dressed and picked up the duplicate key to the room on his way out. He paused, scribbled Brian a quick note, and called Cynthia on his mobile while waiting for the elevator. He wasn't surprised she was still at the office and that she was willing to do anything to help salvage this account.

"It didn't work," Brian announced as he entered the suite, his face flushed from his run, his sweats sticking to his clammy body. "No brilliant ideas. Justin?" He glanced around the room, and then went into the bathroom. "Justin? Where the fuck are you?"

He noticed the note, read it, sat down on the bed, read it again. He then fell back with an oath, unable to assimilate one more byte of information.

Brian Kinney showed no sign of fear or concern as he entered the conference room on the twenty-first floor of a tall icicle of a building in the heart of the business district known as the City of London. He faced a phalanx of executives, some male, some female, all fairly young, all wearing Bulldogs no matter what the rest of their outfit suggested. In his black hand tailored suit and gray dress shirt, Brian felt over dressed, but it was deliberate. Expensive clothing sometimes compensated for youth. The president and creative genius behind Bulldogs greeted him and introduced him to the others.

"I've never seen an ad man who didn't have an entourage," the Chief Marketing Officer, or CMO, said. Her appraising gaze convinced Brian he could have her if he played for that team.

"I've found that it seldom pays to waste money on airfare for lackeys, so I travel light," Brian responded, sitting down in a leather swivel chair and accepting an offer of bottled water.

"Do you need any AV equipment?" the president seemed a little concerned that Brian had no obvious paraphanalia to accompany his pitch. Did he carry a tape in that valise? Slides?

"No, Richard, I don't. While my firm is high tech, I feel I can give you a good idea of what we can offer without all that unnecessary shine." He was tap dancing as fast as he could, even though it appeared his feet were not moving. "Now picture this," Brian got up, spreading his hands, using his body as well as his brain to sell his concept. If you can't dazzle them with brilliance, baffle them with bullshit, the old saying went.

The double doors to the conference room opened and the president's assistant stepped in. "Excuse me, but you're Mr. Kinney, aren't you?"

"Yes," Brian forced a cool smile. He didn't need interruptions. Things were grim enough.

"What is it Helen?" the president inquired.

"Mr. Kinney's associate is here."

"Pardon me?" Brian said uneasily.

"Your art director, sir. Mr. Taylor. Shall I show him in?"

"The entourage," the CMO said drolly and Brian smiled at her. Bitch.

"May I have a word with him first? Where is he?"

"This way."

"Will you forgive me for a moment, Richard?"

"Of course, Brian," he was amused by the elegant young man's obvious nervousness. Brian followed Helen to a reception area, where Justin was waiting. He stood up and Brian led him off to one side, gripping his arm in a vise as he spoke in a low voice while forcing a pleasant expression.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" Brian demanded, noticing Justin was wearing Brian's navy and silver tie with his own blazer, dress shirt and slacks. He looked tired, but chipper. "I thought you got sick and wanted to go back to your dorm to make sure I didn't get it before my meeting."

"Lie," Justin said, smiling as Brian continued to glare at him.

"I don't have time for this, I'm in the middle of a pitch."

"Here," Justin handed him the oversized portfolio.

"What am I supposed to do with this?"

"It's the story boards for your pitch."

"No way you got those boards delivered," Brian started to open the case when Richard came out of the conference room.

"Brian, we can only give you about twenty minutes more. Shouldn't we continue?"

"Of course, Richard."

"Is this your art director?"

"Uh..."

"Yes sir, Justin Taylor. I love your shoes!"

"You must have a pair!" they shook hands, and Brian rolled his eyes, following them both into the conference room, bringing the portfolio with him. Justin took it from him.

"Sorry, everyone, I got caught in traffic," Justin said brightly, offering his most blazing white smile.

"A bit young, aren't you?" The CMO, whom Brian now mentally dubbed 'the wicked witch of London' asked as the others chuckled.

Justin turned his sweetest gaze on her. "Brian believes it's good business to hire people close to the age of your target market. We know what our peers want while your own knowledge of that age is pretty dated."

Brian cringed as she narrowed her eyes at the blond boy in anger. Her associates found his retort quite comical. "What panel are you up to, Brian?" Justin asked and Brian sighed, washing his hands of this account, but knowing he had to go through the motions.

"I was just starting."

"Oh good," Justin moved an easel to the center of the wall so all could see it and placed the first story board on the brace. Brian stared at it in wonder. While it wasn't the work of his art team, it was depicting his ad campaign with style and professional panache. He met Justin's eyes and his lover smiled broadly. "I'm an artist, after all," he seemed to be saying with that smug look, and Brian had to call out all of his control to keep from throwing him on the conference room table and fucking him right there in front of all of them.

"As I was saying," Brian went on. "A gray day. Reminds the viewer of London weather, perhaps, a tight shot of a rain puddle on city asphalt. Grayscale, no color," Justin's drawings depicted his words perfectly. "You hear footsteps, rubber on cement, running."

"Didn't Nike do something like this?" Richard insisted and Brian smiled.

"Hang on, that's the whole idea. It pulls from the old black and white Nike ads, but not in an infringing way. Just as a set up. And then BOOM!" Justin put up the next board which showed a bulldog's reflection in the water, holding a shoe in his mouth. He is the dog on the logo of Bulldogs. "The voiceover, a British accented male, a star would be good, maybe Alan Rickman, says, 'There's a new dog in town,' and then...SPLASH!" A new storyboard showed a Bulldogs running shoe being dropped in the puddle. Brian continued, "The voiceover says, 'Bulldogs. Just CHEW it.' " Justin put up the last storyboard which showed the dog lying in the street by the puddle, chewing on the shoe.

Silence.

"It makes no sense," the CMO said, and Brian smiled at her as if he didn't want to see her strewn naked among the branches of a tree and fed to killer bees.

"It's a parody of the Nike ads. JUST DO IT," Brian explained patiently.

"I see that," she said with a smirk. "But it makes no sense. Who would chew a shoe? Or even want a dog who chews shoes?"

"People my age would find it ironic and funny," Justin responded. "They would put a little sexual twist on it too, and would want shirts that said 'Chew it' and stuff like that," Justin piped up, growing silent when Brian shot him a glance.

"We'd be sued," the chief legal counsel groused, and Richard smiled and went over, reviewing each of the boards in order.

He turned to his team and said, "What could be better publicity than being sued by Nike? Everyone would compare the ads. We'd be called the underdog, which plays into our logo. That would be fabulous free publicity and by the time the case was decided, we'd have made our point and moved on with other campaigns. It's bloody brilliant! Plus it's quite jolly. I rather like the dog chewing up one of our shoes. What else do you have, Brian? Let's see the lot!"

"But I'm out of time," Brian responded, glancing at Justin who nodded, assuring him he had illustrated all of his proposed ads.

"Nonsense," Richard said with a smile. "We can make time for our new North American advertising partner. Show us more!"

He went back to his seat and Brian took in the disgusted look on the face of the CMO as he loosened his tie and began pitching the remainder of his campaign.

In the back of the Rolls, Justin felt his eyes roll back in his head as Brian completed the most expert, loving, sensual blow job in the history of fellatio. He never wanted to come and end the pleasure of Brian's lips all over his cock, the sensation of tongue stroking glans, the engulfing of the whole of Justin's erection down the warm enclosure of Brian's throat. But when it became impossible to restrain his orgasm, he buried his hands in Brian's hair as he felt the force of his ejaculation lift his hips off the seat. Brian moaned, swallowed, sat up, wiping the back of his hand across his lips.

"Thanks," Brian said coolly, straightening his tie. "I mean today. You were a big help."

Justin laughed and pushed him back against the seat, kissing him hotly. "My turn!"

"Wait, wait," Brian said with a laugh, wrestling Justin's hands away from his fly. "We're stopping here first."

"Stopping where?"

"Here."

The car braked at the curb fronting a close of lovely Queen Ann styled houses, each detached, located on its own lot and facing the river across the heavily trafficked Embankment. In the distance, the Prince Albert bridge was gaily lit in the dusk. They were in Chelsea, on a tiny block of historic homes. The street was called Cheyne Walk. Justin walked up to a house with him and watched as Brian opened the heavily lacquered door.

"Who lives here?" Justin asked, noticing it was beautifully furnished, the foyer walls a smooth curve of polished mahogany.

"We do," Brian said with a smile, leading him into the sitting room that was bright with chintz and made more elegant with antiques. "At least for the next six weeks we do. I sublet it. Did you know that Keith Richards lived here in the sixties? He got busted on a drug raid in this very house."

Justin looked around, trying to picture the old timer who was once a renegade and who still played guitar for the Rolling Stones living amid this genteel décor. Brian laughed, anticipating his confusion. "It's changed hands a few times."

"You're staying?" Justin said wistfully, and Brian put his arms around him, pulling him close.

"My biggest client is here now. I need to establish this relationship and get the campaign underway. It's just coincidence that you're here too."

Justin grinned at him and then kissed him deeply. "You're such a terrible liar. I've missed you, too."

Brian nodded, holding him in a firm embrace. "I was miserable."

Justin kissed him again, then broke free, running up the stairs and down again, then down the stairs to the lower floor kitchen and back. He was exclaiming about what a great house it was, when Brian informed him they needed to go, reminding him that they had the dinner with Richard.

"I love you, Justin," he said softly. "Thanks for saving my ass."

"It's too good an ass to sacrifice," Justin quipped, walking with him to the door. As they stepped outside, Justin looked over his shoulder at his lover. "Brian, I..."

"I know," Brian saved him the trouble. Justin grinned and slid into the Rolls, moving over to make room for Brian. Their hands touched on the seat between them, a silent testament to their emotions as the driver guided them into the traffic, taking them to where their future was impatiently waiting.

THE END