Promised Land

Code: TNG pairings.  P/Q, P/R, P/D, P/La, P/Wo, P/m, P/f, C/T, 
Q/R, Q/D, Q/La, Q/Wo, Q/C, Q/m, Q/f, R/Wo, R/La, P/m, P/f, Q/m,
Q/f, R/m, D/La, D/m, La/m, Wo/m, m/m, and assorted multiples. 
TOS pairings: K/S, U/C.  DS9 pairings: Jdax/Quark, Kira/Bariel,
m/m, m/f, f/f, assorted multiples.  XOver pairings.  TNG/TOS:
K/Picard, K/Riker, S/Data/LaForge, Picard/Mc, assorted multiples. 
TNG/DS9: Picard/JDax, Riker/Bashir, assorted multiples.  TNG/VOY:
Picard/EMH.  DS9/VOY: Jdax/Torres.  Plus assorted ST: Ins and ST:
FC pairings, and OFC/m/f.

Warnings: M/M; F/F; underage; non-consensual; rough sex.

Other Warning: Extravagantly long.

Disclaimers: I own nothing, not even this, but Viacom/Paramount
owns all *Star Trek* related things. 

Introduction: This is an A/U world which I'll bet you don't think
is Star Trek, but it is; as a matter of fact, it's about nothing
but Star Trek and the love of men for men.  The story starts in
the Southern USA in the early 1980's, and Jean-Luc Picard is lead
singer of a little traveling bluegrass band.  And it just goes on
from there.

"Promised Land" was started by myself and another writer in
February 1999; as the book grew, so did the awkwardness of the
collaboration, so, in April 2000, I took over editing and writing
and finished this edition in August 2000.

Dedication: A great deal of my contribution was written on the
road from my house to the house of my ailing parents.  So I
dedicate this to Big Daddy Sunbeam (d. 8/25/99) and Big Momma
Sunbeam (d. 9/9/99).

     PROMISED LAND.

1.  Fifteen Cartons of Cigarettes

"Now this here is nothing but pure smut," drawled the sheriff.  

And smiled at his little audience.

And tapped his fat fingers on the publicity material Q had run
off at Kinko's.

"Just tell us where we can get some gas and then we'll leave,"
Jean-Luc said.

"I own the gas station, and my gas is real high.  Y'all might not
have enough money to buy my gas."  The sheriff let his eyes drift
over them and then away.

Jean-Luc held his temper.  "Then we'll play the Rebel Yell Hall
tonight and get some gas money and leave."

"I own the Rebel Yell Hall too."  The sheriff looked at the
publicity material again and gave another smile. " Look at this
stuff.  'Meatpacker's Blues.'  'Bull Daddy.'  'Keep Your Skillet
Good 'n' Greasy'.'"  The sheriff shook his head in disbelief. 
"What you're doing is sin, and I ain't having it in my town."  

Q watched as Jean-Luc's face took on that vacant jailhouse stare. 

Then his lover said, "Q, step outside and give me some time alone
with the good sheriff."

*************************
 
Q was hovering outside the door and listening worriedly.  He
wondered if the sheriff would . . . see another dawn.  Q could
not prove that Jean-Luc had ever killed anybody, and Jean-Luc had
never said, but sometimes, when Q looked at Johnny, he saw the
look of a predator at rest and it frightened him.  Today,
however, Jean-Luc seemed to have opted for another approach, the
undertones of a con job all too clear in the mesmerizing pull of
his voice.  

Fifteen minutes later, Jean-Luc walked out, his handsome lion
face glowing.   

He found Q and smiled at him and Q smiled back before he could 
remember to be suspicious.  "You want to sing tonight, don't you,
Q?"

Q nodded warily.  

"Then get in here and show our new friend the sheriff what I'm 
talking about."

Q shrugged.  If the sheriff wanted to hear them sing... 


At the door, the fat sheriff was looking at him with
anticipation.

Ah.

Q had seen that look aimed at him in prison, and he knew at once
it had nothing to do with music. 

The sheriff sat back in his chair and nodded as Q closed the door
behind him.  

Then Q knelt and took the sheriff in his mouth.


A few minutes after the sheriff's shout, Jean-Luc stuck his head 
in the door.  "What did I tell you?"

The sheriff, his eyes glazed, just shook his head.   He reached
into his desk drawer and pulled out a contract and drew his shaky
X on it.  But then he breathed heavily and looked at Jean-
Luc,"One last thang.  Even that nigra?" 
  
"Yes, even Worf," Jean-Luc said evenly.   Worf: their banjo
player and the third member of the group.

"You are sho nuff amazing, boy," he looked at Q with genuine 
admiration in his eyes.

"Thank you, sir," Q tried to sound as agreeable as possible.  He
was always gracious.  
 
Afterwards, Q followed Jean-Luc back to their Impala station
wagon where Worf was waiting in the white heat of downtown
Naulos, Mississippi, and they drove around the back of the bar
and started setting up.

The sheriff, meanwhile, wandered across the street to the 
preacher's house for an idle chat.  The preacher even lowered his
shade.

That night the sheriff and the preacher man sat right down in
front as Jean-Luc and His Mountain Boys played to a moderately
packed house. 

They sang some standard mountain favorites, and then they sang 
their songs about men in prison, their voices as full of
conviction as if they were standing on a pulpit.  It was hard to
know what to make of the familiar yodeling mountain harmonies
combined with such gritty lyrics.  The townsfolk wondered (and
half-hoped) that sin and perdition had come to  Naulos at long
last, but the preacher said nary a word, and then the Boys were 
gone. 

*************************

Driving down the highway with Q beside him on the tattered car 
seat, Jean-Luc said, "You forgive me, Q?"   Insinuating,
commanding.  "We needed his gas.  We needed the money.  But we
didn't need to go back to jail."

"I know, Johnny.  Of course I forgive you."

Good: the whore understood him.  No matter anyway.  Jean-Luc
glanced over at Q again.

Prison had been very good to Jean-Luc in some ways.  

*************************
       
The next morning, in the weak February sun, when Jean-Luc awoke,
Q was cooking their breakfast over the metal grate of an outdoor
grill.  During the past few months, Q had become adept at
preparing meals over open fires.  Not that they had a choice. 
The three of them had no money, which was why they lived in
campgrounds  and parks.  

In Naulos, the sheriff had opened his store so Q could buy
supplies (but the fat man had watched Q like a hawk as he picked
out eggs, bacon, ice, orange juice, crackers and peanut butter.)

It was a carefully calculated list of foods, designed to keep
them full for long stretches of the day:  a big breakfast, a
snack for lunch, and, for dinner, beans and ground beef  which
they'd pick up later, along with tomorrow's breakfast.

Jean-Luc stood up and Q looked at him as if he knew exactly what
Jean-Luc was  thinking.  He went back to frying bacon for a
moment and then  unexpectedly  smiled.  "We might be better off
in prison."

Jean-Luc scowled.  He hated when Q read his mind, and he hated 
Q's soft, unanticipated smiles.  Later, of course, he might 
savor the  memory of how Q looked in that faded red shirt with
his hair pulled back, but now all he felt was irritation.   

"You wouldn't have made it the last time, bitch, unless someone
was watching over your every step."

Q's eyes widened:  "Can't a man smile?"

"Are you backtalking me?"  Jean-Luc asked dangerously. 

Worf, tuning his banjo, looked up at Jean-Luc's tone. 

Q turned his face back to his bacon.  "No.  No backtalk."

Honor satisfied, Jean-Luc sat back and waited for his breakfast.

Q cooked up the entire pound of bacon.  "Let's eat it all before
it goes rancid."  The truth was that Q loved bacon and he made
that same excuse every day.  Jean-Luc loved eggs.  Worf loved
food.  It was a poor man's meal and looked it. They ate crackers
because they didn't have toast, and they drank juice right out of
the bottle.  Salt, pepper, catsup and  napkins came courtesy of
fast food joints, as did their plastic  forks.  Still, a dozen
eggs and a pound of bacon would fill a man up for hours, and the
morning air was lovely.  And when Q brought the frying pan over
to the wooden picnic table, they all exchanged smiles.  

As he ate, Worf's sentences were broken into little fragments: 
"So how come we.  Almost went.  To jail last night?"

Q did not speak since it wasn't his place.   The habits learned
in jail died hard, and the penalty for speaking out of turn was a
rough one.  He looked at Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc shrugged.  "The sheriff thought he didn't want our brand
of sin in his town.  I sent Q in to teach him differently."  

Worf glanced over at Q who sat watching Jean-Luc from the 
corners of his downcast eyes.  It was the same prison-yard
gaze Q had aimed at Jean-Luc every day in prison -- anything for
Johnny.  Worf's thigh muscle twitched when he thought about Q
kneeling in front of the sheriff.   Whenever Q had knelt in front
of him, it had always been a spectacularly pleasant experience. 
   
Unconsciously, his gaze passed over Q's mouth.  Q's mouth.   It
would be easy to force Q, but Jean-Luc's  friendship meant more
to him than the occasional blow-job. 

"Yes," Jean-Luc had no trouble reading Worf's expression.  
"Tonight he can do the same for you."

Worf nodded his thanks.  Neither man glanced at Q who  accepted
this without comment.  
 
*************************

At about three o'clock in the afternoon, Q asked Jean-Luc to pull
over so he could pick up instant rice, a couple of cans of
tomatoes and a package of baloney.  He also got the  ever-popular
bacon and eggs, some bottles of water, and Kool-Aid.   Lately
he'd  gotten pretty good at being creative with their limited
grocery budget.  For instance, he'd saved some of the bacon
grease from this morning and he would use that to fry the
baloney.   Since he also had onion powder and fast-food salt and
pepper, he could make their food taste at good as prison food,
which wasn't saying much, but at least it was edible.

In prison, Q was just a bitch, but here he was allowed to
contribute.   He was the one who found the map of KOA
campgrounds.   And he was the one who  decided they should dress
alike on stage.   Jean-Luc had laughed at his suggestion, but
,when Q found them plain white shirts and string ties, Jean-Luc
had put his on and nodded at his  reflection in the mirror.  So,
whenever Q could snatch the time, he roamed through second-hand
stores looking for clothes that would look good on stage. 

Meanwhile, he had to get directions to the next campground, get
dinner cooked, and give Worf that blowjob.  


"You think you could take any more time in there," Jean-Luc was
puffing with irritation when Q came out with his arms
full of packages.   Worf was standing beside Jean-Luc, trying to
hide his anticipation.  It  was difficult to hide.

*************************

After the meal, Q and Worf walked off to find a little privacy. 
Jean-Luc didn't even watch them go.

"Let me make you feel good," Q whispered to Worf.  "Let me take
your worries away."  He had the miraculous ability to make the
rest of the world disappear.

"Okay, Q, suck on this."

*************************

Jean-Luc drank his coffee while Q entertained Worf.  Tonight at
the fair they were going to share the stage with a group called
the Big Biscuit Boys.  

This business of competing for attention with another group had
him spooked. He hated not knowing what to expect. In jail, every
day had been a fight for survival, but that was a fight Jean-Luc
understood.  

Fear Alley.  

He remembered Fear Alley quite well.  His last prison was Fir
Valley Rehabilitation Center for Men, but everyone in Kentucky
called it Fear Alley.  

There a river called the Big Doe rushed around Fear Alley like an
embracing arm, and the sound of its rapids had been a constant
soothing undertone.  It was odd to think he'd ever feel nostalgic
for the sound of rushing water, but that had been the first thing
he heard when he reached the the prison gates.  The beautiful
white water kept escapes to a minimum; only a desperate man would
brave them and only an expert could survive them.  The prisoners
tended to be desperate but not expert.   As a little reminder of
fate, rows of tombstones greeted anyone walking into Fear Alley
for the first time.

Jean-Luc had gone into Fear Alley looking at seven years. 
Because he had refused to rat on his employers, Judge Ryan had
been inclined to throw the book at him.         

Fair enough.   Fate could be hard as long as it was fair.   After
all, it wasn't even his first offense.  He'd been in prison many
times.  But it had gone wrong one last time in stupid fucking
Barbour County, Kentucky.  

"Are you running shine, boy?" the agents had asked.

Jean-Luc didn't lie to the police. 

(He never lied.  He never lied to the throaty-voiced harridans he
fucked during long nights on the road; he never lied about the
lead in the moonshine he sold to desperate Greek-immigrant
vendors in mean little convenience stores in the hidden bluffs. 
Lying made life hard, but telling the truth and taking what he
wanted kept things emotionally simple.  Which was all he wanted. 
Anybody offering any sorrow never saw Jean-Luc again.)  

"Yes, I am," Jean-Luc said.

But when they asked him who was running it for, Jean-Luc chose
not to speak  at all, so Judge Ryan smiled and looked at his
bailiff and said,  "what's the max we can give Mr. JOHN LUKE
PEECARD on that, Big Ed?"  and  Big Ed thought and smiled back
and said "seven years."  

"You said  seven years but I thought I heard something else.  I
thought I heard  who Mr. JOHN LUKE PEECARD was running shine for. 
Did somebody say that?"  

Jean-Luc raised his eyes and looked at the judge.  He did not try
to stare the judge down, but his expression did not say any of
the things Judge Ryan was used to seeing in the miscreants before
him.  And something in the courthouse froze: "Seven years, sine
die," muttered the Judge and the bailiff wrestled Jean-Luc back
to his cell.

Still, seven years in Fear Alley wasn't the worst thing that
could happen to a man. Seven years in Fear Alley could look
pretty swanky compared  to some things.

**************************

After Worf and Q came back (Worf looking stunned, Q bright-eyed
as usual), they all climbed back in the Impala and hit the road.
 
They drove in silence until Q said, "What are you thinking
about?"   He was watching Jean-Luc in that way he had, knowing,
gentle.  Q wouldn't hurt a fly, but sometimes his tender
invitations for Jean-Luc to unburden himself were hard to take.

"Shut up."  

Q drew in a soft quick breath; he was hurt, but he tried not to
show it.  He slid closer to the window, moving as far away as he
could from Jean-Luc just in case.

Jean-Luc noticed his lover's attempt to move out of striking
distance but paid no attention.  He could always hit Q later if
he felt like it.  He relented a bit. "You ready to sing?"

"As ready as I'll ever be.  Are you?"

Jean-Luc was restless.  "Think those Big Biscuit boys'll be any
good?"

Q shifted and turned to face him.  "They won't be as good as us";
then he smiled.  

What a pussy.  

Like every pussy since the world began, Q was curling up for a
little nap now, balling up a shirt to use as a pillow and laying
his head against it, resting up for the show. 

Suddenly Jean-Luc regretted his abruptness, but, if he woke Q up
and made him talk,  it would make hFm look weak, and he wasn't
for showing weakness, ever.  So he had no choice but to let his
mind pull him into things he didn't want to think about--his
present life, his past, his utterly uncertain future.  He hated
having to think about things like that; the past meant weakness,
helplessness, and  that was not what he was like anymore.

*************************

"That's it," Jean-Luc said and pulled into the Middle Tennessee
State Fairgrounds.  They had reached their next gig in plenty of
time.  And just in time, too: the gas tank was on empty. 

Jean-Luc and Q had set this deal up before the Naulos gig. 
They'd met a gin-soaked fair-owner in Memphis who said he'd pay
them $250 if they'd come play his fair.  It was on the way to
their next show in North Alabama (a festival of some kind), so
Jean-Luc was quite pleased with himself.   Besides it was
February when it was hard to find gigs. That $250 would be gravy.

Actually they were all very impressed with themselves; everywhere
large men uncoiled giant snakes of electric wiring attached to
bus-sized generators.  A Ferris wheel as big as a city block was
being pulled up by a fleet of monstrous little pickup trucks. 
And a merry-go-round, the tattered horses grotesque in the
daylight, was being hammered together by a troop of tiny wizened
circus workers.   

Q's eyes were wide as  he looked everywhere.  He couldn't believe
it: he was part of a real circus!   Then there was a sudden roar,
and the spangled lights of the roller coaster came on.  It even
had a name!  "The Magic Mountain!"  And the Magic Mountain roared
just like a real mountain!

All those lights!  It was like prison!  "Jean-Luc!  Magic
Mountain!  What a great name for our group!"   Q pointed to the
sign over a roller coaster.   And, if you pretended not to hear
the gears grinding in the various generators or smell the grease
from the french fry booth or be distracted by the thousand and
one reminders of vulgar mortality, it did look like magic. 
"That's us, Jean-Luc!  If we change our name to the Magic
Mountain Boys, that would be exactly who we are.  Remember when
we used to watch the stars in the pen.   We should change our
name.  We ARE the *Magic* Mountain Boys." 

"Shut up, Q."  Q and his damned magic.  
      
*************************
 
As they walked to the manager's trailer, Q's head kept swivelling
left and right.  Everything was so wonderful!  And then he saw
it: the one thing he'd always wanted.  

There was a painting of a big red hand on a piece of Sheetrock
and in crooked letters it read "Sister Queen Tells Your 
Future.  Just $2".   And Sister Queen herself was sitting in
front of her sign, having a smoke and drinking something from a
Styrofoam cup.  When Q's eyes met hers, Sister Queen nodded at
him. 


She didn't have to be psychic to see the need in that one.    
He'd be back.


"Oh, you're here," said the harried manager.  "Do you know the
Big Biscuit Boys?  You'll be opening for them."  He gestured to
some men sitting in his trailer.

Jean-Luc turned to them.  One appeared to be the leader, an older
lumpy-waisted man with a face like a clever badger. 
Compared to the nondescript members of his band, he was good-
looking and slick.  He had a shock of thick white hair  in a high
pompadour that made him look almost distinguished.   

"I'm Kyle Riker," the man said in a smooth voice.  "But you can
call me Big Daddy Kyle.  Everybody else does." 

Q and Worf grew closer together.  Big Daddy Kyle was somehow very 
sinister. 

"Jean-Luc Picard," Jean-Luc answered.  He turned to Worf.  "Ralph
Rodshenko."  He waited until Worf and Big Daddy shook hands; then
he turned his head in Q's direction.    "Q," he said.  "My man on
the mandolin."  He didn't even bother to give Q a real name.

Big Daddy was quick to take this in.  He lifted one eyebrow at Q
as he shook hands.   

Q's eyes dropped.  He was glad Jean-Luc didn't have any  business
with Big Daddy Kyle because it wouldn't be uncharacteristic of 
Jean-Luc to offer Q as an hors d'oeuvres, and there was something
sinister about this man.  

"Here's my band."  Big Daddy Kyle said "my" in a very scary way. 
"Rance Morris on the banjo.  Will Riker on the bass.  I play
guitar.  Uncle Skully on the fiddle.  And here's  my sweet little
precious wife and back up singer, Miss Mona Riker."   He winked. 
Big Daddy had to be three times Mona's age.  She had bleached
hair, blue eye shadow, and preposterous breast implants. "What's
you boys' name?"

Jean-Luc turned his head back.  "These are my Magic Mountain
Boys."  

Q grinned.

Hell.  Shit.  Damn.  Q's stupid suggestion.  Big Daddy Asshole
Riker had thrown him.

"Well, I'm sure you . . . Magic Mountain Boys will be an adequate
warm-up for us."  Big Daddy smirked at them.

Jean-Luc in his frightening way said nothing; he merely motioned
with his head for them to leave.
                    

Outside the three men stopped and looked at each other.

"What did you think of them?" Jean-Luc said.

"Did you see Big Daddy's hair?" said Worf.

Uh-oh.    

Big mistake.  Jean-Luc wheeled around on Worf.   Hair was a
sensitive topic with Jean-Luc.

(Early baldness was a Picard family characteristic.  Thanks, Dad. 
You worthless cocksucker.   But, most of the time, Jean-Luc
didn't mind being bald.  Sometimes, it helped him blend in.  He'd
seen the raspy juke-joint courtesans circling the other
shine-runners, those with extravagant  shoulder-length crops of
hair, like professional wrestlers.  And he'd seen how the ATF
whores followed the honest-to-goodness whores and swooped  down
on their prey.   But he was too nondescript to notice, and they 
all left him alone.   

Good.  

Fuck anybody who didn't like it.)
 
"Well, Q, I guess you win that round."  Then Jean-Luc stalked
off. 

"Looks like we wear hats tonight," Worf said quietly.  Q had
spent a little money on straw cowboy hats, reasoning that
hillbilly bands looked good in straw hats and saying
mysteriously, "our fan base demands it."   Jean-Luc had been
furious.  "A hat is a lie," he said.   But Q loved the way the
big white hats framed their faces.  Like haloes.  

"Wait up," a voice said.
  
Q and Worf turned, closing in together, something they'd learned
in prison.  

It was one of the Biscuits.   
   
"Hi," he said eagerly.  It was the bassist.  He was big and fat
and pale and sweaty with oily unkempt brown hair and a greasy
biker's  beard.  He had little lines around his eyes, and his
huge  huge shirt was worn outside his jeans.  His cowboy hat was
too small for him.  "Glad you're going to be on the program with
us."  They just stared at him.  "I'm Will Riker.  Remember from a
minute ago?"  He said this without irony; people found it easy to
forget him.

They said nothing.  He seemed . . . hungry.  

He walked with them, chattering frantically as if he  didn't want
them to escape; they found Jean-Luc standing by a concession
stand drinking coffee.  He was leaning against the booth with his
arms folded.   Their companion was ecstatic to see Jean-Luc. 
"Hi, remember me?"

"Will Riker," Jean-Luc said calmly.

Will had a huge smile; it was his best feature, a big mouth,
pretty  teeth.  It made him look better.  "You did remember!"

"You play bass."

"Yes!" said the thrilled Will.  There was a pause.      

"You and Big Daddy Kyle have the same last name," Jean-Luc
observed.

"He's my real Daddy!"

"And is Mona your real mom?" Jean-Luc was amused to ask the
question.

Will drew in a deep breath and laughed.  "Oh, no, my real mom is
dead.   Mona is Daddy's ... fifth . . . wife!  He's helping her
get started in show business!"

Out of nowhere, Big Daddy Kyle was behind Will.  "Why are you
boring these talented men with our family business, Will?  Didn't
I bring you up better than that?"  And he grabbed the side of
Will's neck.  "Come with me."  

Will was sweating.  "Okay, Big Daddy."

There was a pause as they disappeared in the tangle of trailers.  

Jean-Luc hadn't moved; his arms were still across his chest. 
"Did you see the way Big Daddy Kyle grabbed that boy's neck?  He
didn't grab his  arms   he doesn't want to damage them." 

"That boy looked old," said Q.

"Yeah, there was silver in his beard," Jean-Luc paused.  "I'd be
fucked before I'd let my old man treat me that way."  

*************************

Killing his father had been a milestone for Jean-Luc.   

He had looked down into the ravine where his old man lay dying. 
"That's for Momma.  You killed her as sure as if you'd choked the
life out of her.   I always thought you needed killing, and now
I've gone and done it."

The old man blinked up at him from within his broken body.  Had
there been pride on his face as he contemplated the
last thing he'd see on this earth?

It was good to know you could  kill somebody.  Part of prison's
charm had been Jean-Luc's own private knowledge that,  if he'd
killed his father, he could kill anybody.  Good information.   

On the first day he walked into Fear Alley,  a guard asked
Jean-Luc if he needed a new sweet poppa and Jean-Luc turned his
amazing slanted eyes on him and now the guard  looked into the
cold menace of Jean-Luc's eyes and backed away slowly. 

Only pausing to mention to the other guard how scary the new man
was. 

So scary that word immediately filtered to the top.  Warden
Dougherty,  a petite, dainty, dreamy man, listened to the
unnerved guard.  Then he called over Assistant Warden O'Brien, he
of the cruel little mouth and eyes.  "Miles," Dougherty said in
his careful nasal voice, "you know how to handle tough cases,
don't you?"

(In Louisville, how O'Brien had ended up in the Kentucky penal
system was the topic of some discussion, along with how he could
afford that swanky swimming pool for the ten little O'Briens. 
The O'Briens  were, hauntingly for the Kentucky locals, Catholic. 
A simpering plaster Virgin Mary looked perpetually down at the
swimming pool while Mr. and Mrs. O'Brien sat in lawn chairs
smoking cigarette after cigarette and the ten little O'Briens
went splash splash.)

"It's okay, Matty," O'Brien said in his raspy brogue (the two
wardens always pretended at friendliness) .  

And O'Brien had led Jean-Luc to his new home: the special block
in Fear Alley for hard men, the block O'Brien called his own.

It was lunch time, and every chair in the cafeteria was taken.    

"New meat," said O'Brien.

"New meat," echoed the trustees.

"New meat," affirmed Ben Sisko, the real power on Fear Alley.

"What am I offered?  Who wants a new roommate?" O'Brien shouted. 
"Stand on the table, you motherfucking daisy. Let the boys see
their new best friend."  A trustee forced Jean-Luc up on the
table. 

"He's old!" said a voice.

"He's ugly!" said another.

"He ain't got no hair   what'll I use for a handle!" said
another.  

But then they quieted as they actually saw Jean-Luc.  He didn't
move; he didn't try to hide.  His shoulders went up a
fraction and then relaxed again, and there was a ripple of
admiration in the crowded lunch room.  He was standing on a
auction block, yet he could still shrug them all off.  The jeers
and comments died down.  He stared them  down.  He'd been through
worse than this. 

"Ben Sisko, you're a clever laddy; surely you can find a use for
this one.  What'll you give me?"  O'Brien implored.

Sisko stepped forward.  This little new guy obviously wasn't 
going to frighten easily, and, if you tried to bribe him, he'd
simply  take advantage, raising the stakes until the day you
looked up and found that you were bending over for him instead of
vice versa.     

And idiot O'Brien could perceive none of that.   Sisko simply 
folded his arms and shook his head.  No. 

"Looks like you have a private cell, sweetheart," said O'Brien.  
"Nobody wants you."

So Jean-Luc had been written off as just middle-aged background
noise   and who needed that when there were so many fresh prison
roses to pluck and bruise?  That night he quietly undressed and
walked into the shower   past little clots of men, past robust
Sisko and his naked harem priced to sell  for a jar of Tang or a
pack of Luckies; past the Aryan Nationals with their tattoos blue
as USDA stamps; past the preening Louisville dope dealers with
their crisp cornrows and glistening muscles; past the bikers with
their baroque arrangements of hair and beards; past the
cobra-eyed Black Muslims clustering in their power; past the
ropey-throated stringy moonshiners (who should have been his
natural  brothers)   he walked with his swelling forearms, his
perfectly  proportioned chest, the huge hands which presaged so
clearly the sizeable angle of his manhood, the small hips which
flared into powerful thighs, long muscled and lightly haired, the
slow walk in fearful symmetry, the walk of someone who knows the
world.  Past them all he walked.

The volume of sound dropped in his wake.  Men paused, looked, and
then forced themselves back into a pretense of indifference,
noticing as they did so that it took a great deal more effort
than usual.  
 
Jean-Luc would do well in prison.
  
Prison gradually settled into routine.  Jean-Luc received
occasional letters from the outside, illiterate little notes
which, translated, said, the bosses are pleased you didn't rat;
you got some money coming to you.  Jean-Luc shrugged.  He had
been through a lot worse than this.   Life was okay; prison was
all right.  

The only thing was: he didn't have anything to drive. 
 
And so in tiny increments, fucking replaced driving for Jean-Luc;
monotonous, rhythmic, other people in your line of sight, a
pleasure when you arrive, the next day it starts all over again. 
He ignored the cliques, and O'Brien began to move a series of
other unwanted, unsellable older men in his cell with him: 
Brownie, Jellico, Mathers, Birmingham Bo.  Jean-Luc used them,
learning how to please and how to be pleasured.  Fucking was
serious to Jean-Luc.   And when Brownie died (heart attack with
some of Sisko's whores in the  showers) and Jellico was put
screaming in the Andrew Jackson Way Clinic  and Mathers and Bo
got paroled, well, that was okay, too.  

Who would be next?

*************************

Q was helping Jean-Luc and Worf set up on stage; in truth, they
didn't have much to set up.  Their amps were shoeboxes
compared to the massive speakers of the Biscuit Boys.  The
Biscuit Boys also had a huge cloth hanging which read "The Big
Biscuit Boys" and showed an idealized mountain with a sleeping
mountaineer lying by an outhouse.  Jean-Luc looked at the hanging
and said nothing.   Then he told Q to go get him some more coffee
(it was free in the manager's office.)            
Q said, "sure."  

Now was his chance!

Sister Queen's little booth was heavily curtained and she had a
lurid  glow-in-the-dark Virgin Mary.   She smiled when she saw Q. 
"Two dollars."

He handed it over, and, before he could get the words out of his
mouth,  she said, "Yes, he loves you, but you have to be patient. 
He's had a  lot of pain in his life and he doesn't mean to take
it out on you even though he does, am I right?"

Q was stunned:  "How'd you know what I was going to ask?"  

"Honey, I'm psychic.  It's my job to know.  You dump your  wife
yet?"

Amazing!  "Uh... I told her it was no use in us being together."

"Get rid of her.  You don't need her.  She don't need you.  You
got kids?"

"Three."

"They're good boys.  They'll be okay."

Then she stuffed his two dollars in her bra.  The oracle was
closed.  

Q wanted to ask more questions, but she was getting up and
opening the door.  

"Uh, thank you, Sister."  

Sister Queen was sure this one was poorer than dirt, but she 
tried anyway.  "Come back, for twenty dollars I'll give you
a half hour reading, past, present and future."

Q smiled sadly and shook his head.  He had filched the two 
dollars from their grocery money and didn't dare tell Johnny
     what he had done because he'd get a slap (at least) for
wasting money.   Twenty dollars might as well have been a
million.  

He was happy though.  She had told him everything he wanted to
hear.  Then his mouth turned down;  he was sure it was bad luck
to lie to a psychic.  "Sister, we actually had four but we lost
one."

She looked up; her eyes were red with drink.  "Don't worry.  The
lost one is in a safe place." 

Outside her booth, someone was waiting for him.   

Will Riker.

Q grew pale.   Would he tell?  

"What'd she tell you?"

"Things I wanted to hear," Q said cautiously.   

"That's what she tells everybody when she's that drunk.  She told
me I'd be rich and famous someday."  Will shook his head  at the
absurdity.

"I've got to get Jean-Luc some coffee."  Q didn't want to join
him in maligning Sister Queen.  He wanted to believe everything
she said. 

"What are you doing after that?"  Will was nothing if not
persistent.

"I'm helping my band," Q said.  What was this leading to?  He
looked at Will.  Who made an unmistakable circle with his mouth. 
Then said, "We could have some fun. You're cute."

Q was touched, but he shook his head.  "I'm in a very tight
relationship.   I'm afraid Jean-Luc will get me if I fool
around." 

"You belong to Jean-Luc?" 

Q said nothing, considering his answer.

Will's smile became knowing and a little wistful.  He said, "You
don't have to be shy.  I'm a slave too.  I belong to my Daddy. 
He makes me suck the other guys while he and Mona get it on."  

Q softened.  They had something in common!  "I know what you
mean.  Jean-Luc owns me completely." 

"How'd he get you?"

"He bought me.  He bought me the first day I was in prison and
I've been his ever since.  He's good to me, though.  He takes
good care of me."

"Wow.  That's really nice.  When I got too old to make a lot of
money turning tricks, my daddy kinda got mad at me."  Will
sounded longing.  "Did you like prison?" 

"Sort of."

Will's mouth dropped open in delight.  "Really?"

"Let me get Jean-Luc's coffee and we can talk after the show."
 
*************************
 
The crowd was sparse.  Nice.  But sparse.  

They applauded when the little band came out wearing their new
straw cowboy hats.  

Jean-Luc could play a few chords on the guitar, and Worf had his
banjo and Q was on the mandolin.  But it was Jean-Luc's singing
that made the difference.   His vowels were  dark-brown and his
'r's purred and there was the occasional catch of breath which
gave the performance the quality of being not heard, but
overheard.  His voice seemed incapable of lying.  The people in
the audience walked away in a daze.
       
The other band was only okay.  Q watched them carefully. 
Although Big Daddy Kyle Riker was competent, he didn't ask for
much from his band.  Their bass player was pretty good, he kept
the band together and doing  what little cooking it did, but in
general they were listless.  They had a twenty-minute set, but
Big Daddy Kyle kept stopping the songs to make jokes about them. 
His ironies obscured any talent he might have, and he didn't even
act grateful for the people Jean-Luc's voice had  brought in.

All this cheered Jean-Luc up.  He, too, could hear that he, Q and
Worf were better, and that pleased him.   

"Still," he said to Q, "that fat bass player isn't bad."

"I was just thinking that," Q smiled.  

Jean-Luc pulled Q close and rubbed his groin into Q's hip.   When
he was on a roll, Jean-Luc always got horny.
       

After the show, the manager met with the two bands.  It was
obvious he felt Jean-Luc's band was better.  Jean-Luc was terse
in acknowledging this; he didn't want any trouble.  But Big Daddy
Kyle was surprisingly honest about his Biscuit Boys. 

"We've been together too long.  We're bored.  Actually, I'm
thinking about starting a Christian puppet show with Mona." 

"Your bass player is pretty good.  Is he coming with you?" 

"Aw hell, I never met a bass player who was worth a damn," Big
Daddy's face was neutral.  "Say, would you like to buy him?" 

He must have been joking.

"I sure would," said Jean-Luc, continuing the joke. 

Big Daddy Kyle nodded.  "Let's go outside.  I want to show you 
something."  And the two men left. 

Worf, Will, and Q looked at each other.

"What was that story you were going to tell me?" said Will
jauntily.

Q sighed.
 
*************************

"New meat," said Warden O'Brien.  These were all low-risk
prisoners whose rights he was violating.  They were not supposed
to go into this particular cellblock, but it was where the money
was, so that's where they were going to end up.  It wasn't
O'Brien's problem.  

"New meat," echoed the trustees.        

"New meat," hissed Ben Sisko.

"Get up on the table, you motherfucking daisy," and the trustees
forced the new meat onto the table.  

It was Quentin's first day in the pen.  He and the other new men
had been marched into the shower and ordered to strip. Then the
uniformed guard conveniently wandered away while two apes came in
to assess the new recruits.  Quentin dropped his eyes under their
hard stares, looking up in time to see their  wicked grins as
they passed him.  

After that, a curly-haired man in a ratty untidy suit and a
cigarette clamped in the corner of his mouth took his group to a
cafeteria.  Then, to Quentin's utter horror, one of the associate
apes yanked his pants down so hard the buttons flew off in every
direction and forced him up on top of a table.  Through his
terror, Quentin heard the ooohs and aaahs, but he had no idea
what they meant.  Then somebody called out something he didn't
understand, and a hush fell over the room for a few moments. 

"It's a done deal," said the untidy man with a cigarette.  "Get
your clothes on and eat lunch." 
 
*************************
       
Kyle and Jean-Luc came back in.  

"Go on," Jean-Luc said.  And Q shyly continued to talk.
         
Kyle's eyes were calculating as he listened through it, looking
for weaknesses he could exploit. 

Jean-Luc listened to it from within a memory.  After all, he had
been there for the whole thing.

*************************
         
Jean-Luc had been quietly eating his lunch in the cafeteria when
they marched the new boys in and put them up for sale.  As usual,
the custom was to put the fresh meat up for a lunchtime auction. 
This new group looked stunned and cow-eyed, and Jean-Luc hadn't
paid much attention until  O'Brien's two goons marched the
tallest one out between them.  One of them stuck his hand in the
waist of the dark-haired man's pants and yanked them down with a
flourish. 

A millisecond of stunned silence.  "Have mercy, sweet Jesus,"
someone near Jean-Luc whispered.  Then the new man panicked and
writhed, trying vainly to cover himself, but all that did was to
make that big dick bounce around and show itself off  more.   

The watching men all sighed and shifted in their seats.   To hold
that writhing flesh, oh, look at that mouth, open now in protest,
but it could be opened later to say yes in a thousand different
ways.

And the new meat, poor fool, could only say the one thing which
made him even more desirable.  

"I'm innocent.  Stop, please stop.   I'm not supposed to be here. 
I'm innocent."

"My favorite flavor," Ben Sisko purred, and the joint cracked up. 
Jean-Luc almost laughed along with them.  Innocent?

He looked at Sisko's speculative eyes and he knew what Sisko was
thinking.  This one would break easily, and then he would  make
Benny a whole shitload of pimp money.

And when the new boy opened his mouth again to say "no . . . no", 
hearts in the jailhouse stopped.  He had a slight overbite which
made his mouth look like the perfect place to put a dick . . .
and those eyelashes . . . and big dark eyes . . . and perfect
pink skin.     

Sisko had some very pretty whores, some as young as eighteen he'd
turned out   whores who knew every trick in the book, and were
young and fresh and lovely, but not a single one of them could
match this man for his cocktail of sweet vulnerabilities. 

"Fifteen cartons of cigarettes," said a voice in thunder.

Everyone was dumbstruck, including Jean-Luc himself.  Ten  
cartons had been the maximum price before; most of the time the
fastidious inmates of Fear Alley kept their smokes and just
rented ass from Sisko.  

What was Jean-Luc thinking?  It was impossible that he should be
the one on his feet, mouth tight, shoulders tense, waiting for a
challenge.   And when no challenge came, he felt a moment of
panic.  He didn't really want this man (but look at those eyes),
who was sure to be the most irritating cell-mate a person could
have (but look at that mouth), what with the way he was whining
(*look* at him) about his innocence.   

For years, Jean-Luc had sat in his cell, idly fucking the faded
charms of Bo and Brownie and the rest.  He was aware that he
could do better.  He could have bought any one of Sisko's
beauties and not counted the cost.  He didn't even have to buy it
if he didn't want to.  He had seen the eyes following his wake as
he walked around naked after his shower.  He knew his slender
body and big dick held an allure for many of the watching men,
but he was indifferent to their interest. 

Now everybody knew what Jean-Luc wanted: he wanted the new meat,
the innocent meat, the long and lean snow-white meat gyrating
like a woman in the trustees'  arms.   Something there had made
him stand up even before he'd known what he was doing and lunge
for this new property before anyone else could see what he saw. 
He did not know what it was, but he wanted it, and wanted it
right away.  

'I'll  have my fun for a couple of weeks, and then maybe I'll
sell him to Sisko.  That's all.'  He glanced over and caught
Benny staring at him speculatively.  So Sisko knew what the new
meat had too.  That was no surprise.  Jean-Luc let his head go
down in the  merest suggestion of a  nod.    
  

Sisko smiled: yes, indeed, let poor old Jean-Luc do the work of
breaking her in, taming and training her, sharpening her
charms, and then he'd snap her up from him.  Picard had clearly
lost his mind.  
 

O'Brien was gratified.  The minute he'd seen this lost boy he'd 
known he'd make good money off him.  After lunch, Jean-Luc would
have to give him most of his stash of smokes and the poor sobbing
sap would be taken to Jean-Luc's cell.  "It's a done deal," he
said. "Get your clothes on and eat  lunch."

        
So Jean-Luc owned him a wife.  For a moment, he was as nervous as
if  he'd been a real groom, on a real wedding day with a real new 
bride.   Then: 'Fuck it, she belongs to me.  She has to do what I
tell her.'

*************************
  
Q's eyes met Jean-Luc's.  Big Daddy Kyle reared back with his
legs open.  "You tell a good little story.  Don't let us men
interrupt," he instructed.

Q lowered his eyes, one of the submissive gestures he had learned
in prison.  He noticed that Will had ducked his head also and the
lively, engaged expression on his face had turned into a dull
hopeful stare, like a dog waiting to be told to fetch.  Or
waiting to be kicked.   Or just plain waiting.  

Jean-Luc nodded.

Q continued.

*************************

In the chow line, a little weasel of a man with bad teeth and 
greasy hair sidled up to Quentin.

"You're in for it now," the weasel informed him.  

"Sir?"

The man looked up at him admiringly.  "Fifteen cartons."  He 
undressed Quentin with his eyes.  "I only cost three." 

"Cypress!"  Somebody growled dangerously in the weasel's 
direction.

"See you 'round, cowgirl."  Then the little man ran off.  
   
Quentin was moved into his cell that afternoon. His cell-mate was
small, hard-eyed and bald.

"What's your name?" the cell-mate said.  His voice was
extraordinary.

"Q-Q-Quentin McConn.  And yours is?"

"We have to change that.  There's already two men named Quentin.  
They'll fuck you up if you take their name."  

That voice again.  What was it saying?  A nickname?  "I had a
teacher once who called me Q."

His cell-mate nodded.  "Q it is."  
  
Q paused. "What shall I call you?" he said, delicately this time.

"They call me John Luke."  And John Luke turned away from him.

Q stared at him fearfully.  

*************************
     
The manager of the fair came in.  He looked exhausted.  "There's
some folks who want your band to sing again," he said to Jean-
Luc.  It was a tactless thing to say; among other things, the
carnival was stuck with the Big Biscuit Boys for six more weeks.

"Let's do it," Jean-Luc said.
     
The crowd had doubled in size, and Jean-Luc's boys blew them
away.

When they finished their second set, Big Daddy Kyle was waiting
for them at the side of the stage.  "You were pure gold, boys,"
he said.  

Jean-Luc and his boys recoiled.

"I mean it.  I really don't care, because I'm just here to
distract the crowd and sell a little codeine cough syrup.  But
you, the future's open for you."  Kyle was gleaming with
happiness.  Jean-Luc was crazy about that little band he had
formed; Kyle would bet the bus he could sell Will to them.  "Now
what were you saying about three hundred and fifty dollars, Jean-
Luc?"

Q gasped: that was all their money.

And Will stepped forward; he knew what was going on.

Jean-Luc had been feeling expansive.  The audience had applauded
warmly, and his band was obviously better.  He glared at Q's
interruption, and Q subsided, hoping he could warn Jean-Luc.  

"Since you don't have a permanent address, I'm going to have to
ask for a security deposit.   I know someone who will hold the
money for the 48 hours it will take for the cash to get here." 
Kyle smiled.  "I'm taking quite a chance trusting a man who lives
in an Impala, but I think I can trust you."   

On paper, Big Daddy Kyle was selling Will's bass viol, but
everyone understood that Will came with it.  Will's eyes went
wide and he glanced at Q in warning.  Q knew better than to move. 
Jean-Luc was closing the deal; he'd get his old bossman to wire
the last money he owed him to the nearest telegraph office. 
Until then he was just renting Will.  He shook hands with Big
Daddy Kyle and headed out the door. 

Q jumped up and followed him out. It was okay for a bitch to do
that.  "Jean-Luc, Will says his father cheats."

Jean-Luc shrugged.  "If he cheats me, I'll kill him."  He was
obviously feeling very upbeat.  


By midnight, it was clear that Jean-Luc had been had. 

Big Daddy was nowhere in sight.  

The manager was beside himself: "That motherfucker was supposed
to stay with me until April!  It's just the middle of February! 
I already paid him for two months!  That band's not shit without
him!" 

Clearly, Big Daddy Kyle and Mona had decamped with both the money
Jean-Luc's old boss had wired and the security deposit.

Q softly told Will to make himself scarce and do everything he
was told.   Q knew how mean Jean-Luc could be when he was angry.  

*************************
     
On his first night in prison, Q had waited until lights out and
then slid out of bed.  Kneeling by the side of the bunk, he began
to whisper the words of Psalm 40.  "The Lord is a very present
help in times of trouble.  In Him shall I put my trust."   

"What the fuck do you think you're doing?"  Jean-Luc jumped out
of the top bunk and dragged Q to his feet. 

Q was shaking with fear.  "I was just... I was..."  He could
barely get a sentence out, and somehow that seem to enrage
Jean-Luc even further.  He began to hit Q mercilessly.  It was
almost as if the anger itself were beating him, and it 
overwhelmed him.  Q panicked, fighting back very inefficiently,
praying any prayer he could think of, the words pouring out of
him.  "Oh, God!  Oh Lord, my maker and my redeemer, have mercy on
your servant for your Son's sake."

All up and down the block the other cons started screaming and
pounding on the bars of their cells.  Dimly Q realized they were
cheering his beating, and in his terror he wailed even louder. 
He hadn't even realized he was crying until Jean-Luc started to
beat him for that, too.  

"Shut up!  Shut up!!!  You make that noise while I'm trying to
sleep and I'll beat you senseless!" 

There was nowhere to hide.  Finally Q balled up in a corner of
his bunk, holding the pillow over as much of his body as it could
cover.  He tried not to scream.
 
*************************

Jean-Luc, still trying to track down Kyle Riker's whereabouts, 
overheard bits of Q's whispered narrative as he walked past them. 
 

He loomed threateningly over Q.  "Don't make me have to whip your
ass again, boy."

*************************

The morning after he bought Q, Jean-Luc woke up with his knuckles
red and sore.    At first, he was confused but, when he
remembered the beating he'd given Q, he jumped down to take a
look at his handiwork huddled against the wall. 

Oh, it had been gratifying to let the anger reign, and at that
moment he couldn't wait to rape Q and see his wide eyes fill with
more tears.  After all, he'd already paid for it.  As he watched,
however, Q curled himself up more tightly, as if he were afraid
of Jean-Luc's anger even in sleep, and the simple motion startled
Jean-Luc.  He remembered the many times his father made him coil
up in a corner, stupid and helpless as Q was now.  Had he looked
like that?

Suddenly Jean-Luc was weak with nausea.  He had so many emotions
they canceled each other out.
 

The whole first day Q was confused.  Jean-Luc obviously hated him
if the look in his eyes was any indication.  But hadn't Jean-Luc
just . . . chosen him?  He didn't understand any of this.  After
wandering all day through pointless menial tasks, he sat down to
supper where everybody was watching him, but he could eat
nothing.

Then, after supper, Jean-Luc had led him to the shower, handed
him soap and a cloth and let him wash himself.  When he finished,
Jean-Luc wouldn't give Q a towel.  Instead, he pointed to the
floor.  

"Get on your knees."

Q knelt, staring up at Jean-Luc in confusion.  Jean-Luc's eyes
were so full of fury and hatred that Q felt sick.  He lowered his
head in capitulation, knowing he was about to be killed.  All
that happened, though, was that Jean-Luc nudged the side of Q's
face with his erect penis.

"Suck on it," Jean-Luc ordered, "And so help me if you bite me,
bitch, you'll never bite anything again."

Q opened his mouth.  That was what Jean-Luc told him to do.

A kind of numbness surrounded him.   He could hear the showers
running and the slap of bare feet on tile as other men walked to
and fro.  Was this commonplace?  Did everybody do this?  Why did
no one pull Jean-Luc away?   Why did no one stare?  Q had his
eyes shut because he didn't want to see the people who stopped
and pointed, but nobody seemed to be paying them any attention. 
From someplace far away in his mind, he felt Jean-Luc's penis
moving in and out, rapidly now; then he recognized the tiny
twitch that meant Jean-Luc was about to come.

"Swallow," Jean-Luc demanded, and he did so.  The taste was
strong on his tongue, but he didn't gag.  He was past reacting,
wet, naked, on his knees, shocked and ashamed, yet oddly calm, as
if this sort of thing happened all the time.

"Get dressed."  

He did so, maintaining that strange detachment.  Now that they
were finished, he could see people looking at him, measuring him,
smirking at his mouth.  He felt as if his lips had been tattooed
with some symbol that announced to the world that he was a man
who knelt on shower floors and let other men stick their penises
in his mouth.  He was now branded, and irrevocably changed, but
still he continued to put his clothes on calmly, following
Jean-Luc's lead, following him out the door and back to their
cell. 

(Q's white face followed Jean-Luc into sleep.  He'd half-hoped Q
would fight him, or object, but Q had simply done as he was told,
taking Jean-Luc into his mouth and allowing himself to be used.  
Didn't the poor fool understand Jean-Luc himself had no choice in
the matter?  It was expected, and the price for ignoring this
customary humiliation would have been Jean-Luc's own ass.

Q, of course, probably didn't understand any of this. 

Well, too bad. 

Nothing Jean-Luc could do about that.  Nonetheless he dreamed
that somehow he was Q getting raped.  He hated every second of
it, but he was helpless.  Tall strangers pressed their penises
against him and Jean-Luc woke up sweating.)

*************************

In the light of the Ferris wheel, Worf listened to Jean-Luc
curse.  Then Jean-Luc's complicated, calculating eyes turned to
Worf, and his jaw twitched.  He knew Worf was good for an
honorable fight.  A man stood up when he had to, and it looked as
if this was one of those times. Jean-Luc's expression shifted. 
He looked away from Worf and turned to Q.  Worf also  looked over
to where Q and Will were sitting by the car looking scared, Will
with his bass fiddle and two paper bags of worldly goods.  Will
had tried to warn them, tried to let on that something was up,
but who listened to a serf?

Then Jean-Luc beckoned to Q.  Worf braced himself to have to talk 
Jean-Luc out of bringing Q along to a fight, but, to his
surprise, Jean-Luc looked Q up and down.  Then he ran his thumb
across his lower lip.   "Well, boys, the world doesn't end when
you have no money and no gas.  No, the world begins in earnest
then."   He raised his eyes to Q's.  "Q, go over there and get
some money."  He was nodding towards the toilets.   

Ah.

Jean-Luc was going to postpone the fight until they were on  more
sound financial footing.  And Q was the means to that
soundness.  

"Okay, Johnny."  Q sounded eager to help.  He and Jean-Luc 
looked at each other and dropped their eyes in sudden
embarrassment.   It was easy to guess what they were thinking --
a whore and his pimp  falling back on old tricks when more
legitimate work fell through. 

Worf shrugged to himself.  You did what you had to, and he
certainly wasn't going to peddle tail.  But he still stepped
forward.  "I will watch Q," he announced.  "I am used to it from
prison, and some of these country boys seem forward."
They were anything but, but Worf thought Q would do better with
someone to watch over him.

Of course, Q chimed in with his usual silliness.  "Maybe I might
meet somebody  who'll help us."

"That's a good girl," Jean-Luc encouraged him; then he looked
down and Worf knew it was to keep Q from seeing his exasperation
at such idiocy.

Q continued prattling.  "I can't work miracles.  It might be all
I can do to come back with twenty dollars tonight."  

He went to brush his hair and gather up his whore supplies.

"Nonsense, Q," Jean-Luc called after him.  "Beauty like yours
always has something to say.  Yours says, 'What will you give
me?'"  


Outside the toilets, Q positioned himself in the classic rentboy
pose--hands in jacket pockets, wide cowboy hat tilted on the back
of his head, one leg propped against the wall. 

"I will be over there."  Worf pointed to a patch of darkness 
between the empty tents.  "I will wave at you, and I want
you to wave back so I know you know where I am."

Q nodded.  He waved as he was supposed to, and they both  settled
down to wait.  

It didn't take long.  Worf soon spotted the potential johns by
their deliberate nonchalance as they drifted by the men's room. 
Q held a brief conversation with one of them and they went
inside.  After a few minutes, Worf stealthily walked across to
the bathroom and stuck his head inside.  The door to the last
stall was closed and he could hear the sound of  someone moaning. 

Q was helpless in many ways, but there were some things at which
he was spectacularly skilled.   He just plain looked  like a
fuck, and, after he'd been with Jean-Luc a while, he acted like
one too.  A stupid fuck at that.   And completely irresistible. 
Q always seemed surprised that anyone wanted him; he seemed to
have no idea that he'd been put on earth to open himself for men.

*************************
 
In prison, Worf had lusted after Q as they all did, but he did
not envy Jean-Luc his good fortune.  More than most, he knew what
it meant to have a perfect woman as a lover and the dangers
therein.  He wanted no more perfection. 

At first, everyone had been amused by Q's praying and by
Jean-Luc's exasperation.  

But after a few months, Worf had seen Q change.  He saw the
torpid beauty unfold, suddenly becoming alive and aware.   

In a way that was scarcely credible.

At the prison Christmas service, the preacher was telling the
story of baby Jesus when he faltered again and lost his
place.  Worf hadn't much cared.  Just the scent of pine and 
holly was enough because it was like being on the outside.  

But after a while, he realized the preacher was stumbling and
losing his place very consistently.  Worf was curious; he 
watched him more closely and saw that every time Q smiled, the
preacher's mouth dropped open slightly and he made another 
mistake.  

If Worf hadn't known that Q was a little... dense, sometimes, he
would have sworn the pretty boy was deliberately
calling attention to himself with the way he leaned forward, the
way he tilted his head,  the way he smiled at the parts he liked. 
It was like a performance within a performance--the preacher's
talk and Q's response.   Each time the preacher lost his place, Q
waited patiently, and then he would lean forward a little more
and cross his arms around his body as if he were settling in for
the rest of the ride.  

But, chillingly, Jean-Luc saw it.  His face was stiff and closed,
and Worf recognized his anger.  Q didn't know he was in for a
deluxe all-expenses-paid asskicking, but Worf could see it
coming.   

In prison, there was no such thing as privacy, so Worf heard the
whole thing later -- the rising wail, the pleas for forgiveness,
the frantic avowals that he hadn't done anything, and then the
desperate Bible quotes, thrown out to the night voyeurs who
savored every chapter and verse.  Like Worf, they too would have
liked to taste the aftermath of that beating, and the tears.  

He wished he could see Q, not just hear him. Q's beautiful mouth
turned down when he was unhappy, which must have been  completely
irresistible to Jean-Luc.  Worf suspected that sometimes 
Jean-Luc beat Q just to see him look sad.  He certainly fucked
him hard enough after a beating.  Worf would lean against the
bars of his cell, hard as a rock, listening in on the whole thing
from start to finish.  He imagined Q's face pulled into lines of
distress; imagined the tears rolling down his cheeks;  imagined
the misery in the wide brown eyes; savored Q's whimpered pleas to
Jean-Luc to please let go of his hair; and savored the obscene
gratification in Jean-Luc's  refusal.  He knew when Jean-Luc
covered Q's mouth with kisses, knew when Q turned his head away,
gasping for breath and pleading softly for God's help, and knew 
when Jean-Luc grabbed his hair again, the better to revel in Q's
soft sobs and pleas for mercy.   Q even cried like a girl. 
Surely Jean-Luc found that irresistible.  Worf certainly did. 
Sure enough, less than half an hour after that Christmas night
beating, Q's lament took on a erotic tone, growing softer, then
louder and more abandoned.    The volume of background noise
dropped a little bit.  Worf knew it would rise again soon, when
other men, inspired by Jean-Luc's beating, lay their own women 
down and gave them what-for.  

And on some level, the best part had been the day after when Q
showed up in the yard with his lips all bruised and his eyes
wounded.  The girls comforted one another.  Their men were more
aggressive--tense and proud and prickly.  They made richly cruel
jokes  about the present Santa left them while the women looked
away from the amused possessiveness of their glances.  And Q, who
had inadvertently started it all, was just as out of it as he
ever was.  Each incident like this one exposed another dimension
of his maddening innocence. 

Worf smiled.

One day he had finally been permitted to sample that innocence.  
And it was worth the wait. 

These farmers were in luck.

Funny that it should be Q, who had no brains worth mentioning,
who was getting them out of the mess they were in. 

Worf's eyebrows shot up.  Obviously someone had passed the word
because men were now going in and out in a  steady stream.  One
in particular, a lanky fellow with farmer written all over him,
cruised back and forth several times before building up enough
nerve to actually walk in.  

Even Jean-Luc cruised by once to check on them, his eyes hard,
but, when he saw Worf's placid expression,  his face softened.   

*************************
                                              
Q was down on his knees earning their traveling money.  As usual,
he tried to pretend he was somewhere far away.  In his mind he
began a letter to his sons:  'Dear Boys, You won't believe what I
did today!  I sang in a county fair!  Me and my friends Jean-Luc
and Worf played and sang and all the people clapped.  It was a
lot of fun.'

The door opened again, interrupting his reverie.   

He heard the men laughing, breathing, heard their gasps when they
realized the pleasure they were in for, but he tried not to pay
attention.  He took their money, molded his mouth around their
dicks and made them happy so they would leave him alone.   

An ordinary man left and an ordinary man came in.  Q started his
drill.  He pocketed the 30 dollars, put a rubber on with his soft
mouth, discreetly drew a loose latex glove out of his left
pocket, caressing the man's erection with his lips while he drew
the glove on tightly with his other hand.  Then he dipped one
gloved finger into the jar of Vaseline and stuck it up the man's
ass as he blew him.  The man gasped, groaned, came, zipped up,
left.  Q sat back on his heels, waiting.    

"'My Dear Sons,' he started over.  'Tonight we sang at a county
fair.  The lights were beautiful, just like magic...'  

He was disrupted yet again as his latest satisfied customer
paused to have a brief conversation with his next one.

"You getting sucked off?"  

"Sucked off?"  Q heard a different voice say.  "What's that mean,
exactly?"

The first voice chuckled, willing to extend his country
camaraderie, but only so far.  "Sucked off," he repeated.  "You
know, sucked off.  Go in there, pay what he asks, then do what he
says."  

Q then heard the first man laugh and walk away.  

The innocent stranger walked in.  Another church-going  country
citizen.  At first, Q expected him to recoil in disgust, but the
man walked towards him step by determined step.  

Then the man held out his hand.  "They call me Zefram," he  said
in a creaky voice.

Q was bemused.  That never happened before, but he shook hands.  
"Zefram?  That's Biblical, isn't it?"   

"Yup."

After that, they seemed stalled.  Then Zefram pulled his wallet
out.  "What do I owe you?"  He looked so dazed and uncertain he
probably would have signed over the farm if Q had asked for it.  

But Q was an honest whore.  Sort of. "Forty dollars."

Zefram  agreed.  "Sounds fair."  He handed Q two twenties.   Q
shut the stall door and knelt and smiled at Zefram from the small
pile of newspapers he'd put down to protect his knees.  Then Q
reached out slowly, unzipping Zefram's pants, and pulled Zefram's
penis out.  It was flaccid, which was a bad sign, but, as Q
handled it, it began to stiffen.   

"Lordy," Zefram said, astonished.

Q rubbed his face against it while his hands were busy below.  As
Zefram sighed and moaned in disbelief, Q dabbed some Vaseline
inside the condom and put it in his mouth. 

"You don't have to do this, boy," Zefram said.

"I want to," Q looked up at him and Zefram's eyes grew large. 
Then Q wrapped his mouth around Zefram's burgeoning erection, 
the condom gliding over it with practiced ease.  

Zefram's head reared back -- Q could feel the motion through his 
mouth  -- and his penis jerked out of Q's mouth. 

Zefram appeared to be trying to say something.

"It's alright."  Q soothed.  Hands free, he could reach out and
pull him back.   "Didn't anyone ever do this for you before?"  


Zefram shook his head. "When I seen them men going in and out, I
thought something like this might be going on," he whispered.

Q smiled again.  "Let me show you what it's like."   He took
Zephram in his mouth again, all the way to the back of his
throat.  He massaged the tip by swallowing against it.   He
massaged the sides with his suctioning cheeks.  He covered his
teeth with his lips and applied pressure to the top and bottom.  

Zefram was beginning to catch on.  He rocked.  He laughed.  This
was the best ride of the night, he cried.  Of the week.  Of the
century!  "Shit!"  He cried.   Then:  "My Lord, my Lord!" 

And suddenly he was gasping and sagging over Q who was holding
him in a loose embrace so that he wouldn't fall down.  Then he
righted himself .  "You sure are something," he whispered.

Q was amused, delighted with the man's pleasure, always glad to
be of service.

Zefram couldn't seem to stop smiling, staring down into Q's eyes
as if he'd just found true love.    He reached down to caress Q's
face with  big rawboned farmer's hands, unexpectedly gentle. 
Then he ran his fingers over Q's mouth. 

Q picked up the Vaseline and condoms and shoved them in the
pocket of his jacket.  He had two hundred and thirty dollars. 
That ought to be enough.  

He leaned back on his knees.     

Zefram was still staring at him intently.  He took his wallet  
again and pulled out another bill.  "Pretty as a young girl," he
mused.   "Your mouth . . ."  He shook his head in wonder. "And
you're so nice about it..."   He sighed and fished in the pocket
of his overalls to pull out a pen; then he wrote something on the
bill and shoved it at Q.   

Then, after reaching down and patting Q's hair, just as he would
a dog or a kid, he let in a gust of steamy air as he staggered
away.

Q looked at the words written on the money, and his face did a
curious thing: tears sprang to his eyes even as he smiled. 
 
*************************
 
(From then on the farmer cannot go down the road without looking
for tattered posters from traveling shows, and when
he sees them he is immediately erect.  Several times he has to
stop and . . . make himself  . . . hear the frantic clatter of
his own breath . . . feel the slow  clotted warmth on his own
hand . . . clean himself up with one of those festive plaid-edged
hankies his grandchildren gave him for Christmas.   He thinks
about Q's lips, Q's mouth, Q's eyes, Q's sensations.  And he gets
hard quickly again, like a young boy.  What would his wife say?  
He calls her Momma, but he doesn't want Momma to suck him off.  
Amazed that having sex with another man invigorates rather than
emasculates him, he revels in the heretofore unawakened elements
of his own masculinity.   Men's secrets, Q's sexiness, and by
extension his own.  Passion is a country he wants to visit again
and again.  Like a spy, alert and alone.)
 
*************************
 
"Where's the money, Q?" Jean-Luc said as Worf and Q came back.  
Q said nothing.  "Here," Worf said. 

Jean-Luc's nerves were at the breaking point.  He looked at the
two hundred and thirty dollars.  "That's it?" his jaw was pulsing
with anger.

"That's a lot of cock," Worf pointed out.

Jean-Luc didn't hear him.  Something was different with Q. 
Jean-Luc was never wrong about his possession.  "Is that it?" 

Q couldn't say anything.

"Give me the rest of that money, you whore."

How did he know?  Q's eyes teared up.  "Please, Jean-Luc, it's
just five dollars."

"Did you hear what I said?"

Q's voice went soft, low -- he was begging, "It's only five
dollars."

"Let me have it."

Q could not tell Jean-Luc no.  He brought out the money from his
shirt pocket.  The pocket over his heart.

Jean-Luc stared at Q with utter contempt.  Then he looked at
Zefram's five dollar bill.  "What is this shit?"

"That last man . . . gave me a Valentine. . . because it's
Valentine's Day."  It was true.  Zephram had written "honest
Abe says happy valentine day pretty honey " on the bill in his 
scratchy uneducated hand. 

Jean-Luc was too furious to speak.  Then he said, "Get in the
car, all of you."
       
On the remaining driblets of gas in the Impala, Jean-Luc got them
to a convenience store where he filled the tank.  Meticulous in
his fury, he checked the oil and water and brake fluid and air
                                                  and transmission  fluid.  The Impala had to  last a long time. 
Then he went to the window  and paid.  "Oh, and do you have
change for a five?" he said in a loud  toneless voice.  When he
got back in the car, he threw the five ones at Q.  "Here's  your
fiver, cocksucker."

In the back, Will and Worf were quiet.   Then Will said, "I want
a candy bar."

Everyone was silent; then Q handed him one of the dollars.  The
others watched, amazed, as Will walked into the store, spoke to
the clerk, fiddled around at the checkout, and came out with a
Payday.  

"Sorry 'bout that," he said.

Jean-Luc hit the accelerator and drove furiously. 

What if all his decisions turned out like this?  He'd lost all
their cast, but he still had to feed all of them and get on the
road and Q was worried about some damned love note.  So he had to
be rough on Q.  He had to teach him that this was not a game.
 
*************************

Lying together in the folded-down back of the Impala, Worf and
Will started going through Will's bags of stuff.

Earlier Worf had said: "I guess we should turn in.  Jean-Luc, you
mind if we take the inside tonight?" 

For answer, Jean-Luc grabbed the sleeping bag and some blankets
and tossed them at Q.  Then he gave Worf a smirk that
was somewhat more strained than intended. Q was trying to cry
quietly, but it was really  getting on Jean-Luc's nerves.  "He's
all yours," Jean-Luc had said.

Will was apparently very happy about that.  He turned to Worf
with a  smile. "What do you want me to do?"  

Worf looked a little stunned.  He'd never had a whole human at
his  disposal before.  He'd had a wife once, a porcelain
ballerina, exalted and not completely possessable, then suddenly
                              so foully tainted that . .  . 

Well, that was history. Right now, he wasn't sure what to do
next.

"Go ahead and lay out the rest of the blankets inside the car.  I
guess."

Will nodded agreeably, let the back seat down and spread their 
blankets.  Then he folded himself in, but not before grabbing his 
precious luggage.

"I'll show you my stuff."

Worf tilted his head toward the beat-up trombone perched
carefully on top of the other detritus.   "Can you play that?" 

"A little."  Will quieted some, losing his air of determined 
cheer. 

There were some old jeans, some torn underwear, a couple of 
cheap shiny show shirts and several tee shirts.   

"Look, Worf!" said Will boyishly.  He showed Worf a little metal 
yellow  school bus scarred with use.  "I used to play school with
this!  I've lost a lot of toys.  Well, some I gave away to my,
well, they weren't my brothers, they were the kids of my various
moms, but I loved this toy too much to give it away!  I found it
in a dumpster!  Isn't it great!"

"You played *school*?"

"It's very complicated."

(When Will turned thirteen, Big Daddy Kyle had set him down for a
father-son talk.  "Son, I rely on you" -- this was news to the
ignored  Will   "you know that.  And I know you want to be
daddy's little man, and I know you want to keep on helping your
daddy out, don't you?   You know you're very cute.  Very very
cute.  I want to teach you something.  It's a secret man thing." 
The curious secret had involved fingers, carrots; Will had almost
choked.   That weekend, Big Daddy Kyle sold his son's cherry for
$500 to a man who returned again and again,  a tall guy with
flashy cheap suits and suspicious reptilian eyes.  After that,
Will did everything he was told, desperate and disappointed if
Big Daddy Kyle stopped telling him what a good boy he was.   How
much money had Will earned  on his knees between the ages of
fourteen and seventeen?  Will told himself it must have been a
million dollars,  all of which his father spent.   His father
even slapped him around if he didn't bring home $1000 a night. 
But the older he got, the lower his earning potential became. 
Then he got pudgy, just enough to turn  customers off, and  then
pudgier.  "Fat boy like you will have to get a real job," Big
Daddy Kyle said dismissively.   Will began to fill in for the
d.t.-ridden bass player sometimes.  Will found out that, if he
let the bass player fuck him, he would teach him to play bass. )

But that was then; this was now.  Safe with Worf, Will looked 
down at the school bus and smiled.

(If only Big Daddy Kyle had let him stay in school somewhere   
Will would have kept on sucking and fucking those old guys -- but
he could have also been in the band with his trombone, his
natural musicianship.  Sitting with the other eighth-grade boys
on the back of the bus.  The little school bus.  They could go on
a long-distance band  trip, maybe to the state finals for the
band competition!  Night would fall.  They'd get rowdy.  They'd
talk rough.  They'd show each other their . . . things in the
darkness at the back of the bus, Will and the other boys, and
he'd have one special friend and they'd be closer than girls and
they'd go camping and take off their clothes together and show
each other . . . )

"Vroom vroom" he said, and made the little bus go up and down 
Worf's thigh.

Worf looked startled.  Will returned to the bags.  

"Here's some reefer.  And I got a lotta cough syrup."  

"Jean-Luc will want you to get rid of that."

Will shrugged.  "Oh, here's my most prized possession!  My tape
recorder.   I found it in a parking lot in a convenience store! 
It runs on  batteries!  We can tape stuff!  We can tape us
singing and picking and singing!" 

"Nice object."

"Sometimes," Will leaned in, "I tape myself saying sexy stuff 
into it and play it back.  It's a hot thing I can do for myself."

Worf's head moved back a fraction.  "Things like 'suck my dick?'"

Will's lips parted ferociously and he nodded.  "Things like 'suck
my dick.'"

Worf looked at his new present and breathed in: "Suck my dick."

*************************
  
Outside, Jean-Luc tossed uncomfortably on the hard ground.  Q 
was still weeping in their make-shift sleeping bag. He hated Q.  
Q -- vague, cloudy-headed Q with his geisha eyes and whore's
mouth, and his foolish prattle that forced Jean-Luc to think and
wish and imagine.  After he had met Q, he suddenly could not help
dreaming, as if Q had infected him somehow.  Q made Jean-Luc
think about what he wanted rather than what he knew how to
endure.   He could imagine himself in a future, and suddenly the
things he did were not as appealing as they had been. Annoying Q,
brainless, yet smart in all kinds of ways, and deathly good in
bed, and Jean-Luc was shocked all over again at how correct his
instinct had been that afternoon in the lunch room. But he had to
put up with a lot of shit  from Q.  Take this.   Here Q doesn't
say a word about sucking cock all night.  But let Jean-Luc get
change for one fucking five-dollar-bill and it was boohoos til
sunrise.  Well, Q was going to  have to learn that . . . shit
like that just didn't matter.  You had to move on. You can't give
in to every emotion.  You can't give in to any emotion.      

"Shut up, Q."

*************************

Q wanted to shut up, he wanted to not feel these things, or to
feel them only in Jean-Luc's arms.  But someone else had treated
him as if he mattered, and Q wanted to explain to Jean-Luc, but,
when Jean-Luc looked at him that way the words didn't come out
like he wanted and all he'd done was make Jean-Luc angry.  And
angry Jean-Luc had turned mean, deliberately breaking that fiver
so there was no possibility Q could have it back.  

He turned restlessly against the damp shirt he was using a
pillow, twisting away from the memory.  

Then something rustled.

Something paper-y.

He nearly jumped out of his skin.

With the stealth of an abused child, he moved his hand to the 
source of the rustle.  It was a tiny piece of paper.  He palmed
it.

He knew that whatever it was Jean-Luc couldn't be allowed to see
it.  

"I'm going to pee," he said softly, and got up and walked away. 

The night was incredibly bright and beautiful.  Under the Milky
Way and the full moon, he could easily read the little piece of
paper.  Flimsy, off-white, it looked as if it had been torn from
the back of a phonebook somewhere.  

He held it up to the starlight.

Oh.

"This is a valentine from Will" had been written on it; then  in
a different hand, "& WORF."   How did. . . how did they . . . 
and then he remembered Will fooling around at the counter of the
convenience store.

One of them had even drawn a heart below it; it looked like
something a dog might draw.  

A flood of emotion, strong as the stars themselves, flowed over
him.

He went back and crawled in beside Jean-Luc.
 
*************************

Jean-Luc's eyes rolled back in his head: what a bitch!  Now, 
having pissed, Q was lying there, merry as could be, the bright
stars reflected in his dark eyes, that downcast smile on his 
mouth.  But instead of the stiffness of the sobbing Q, now Q's
body had changed to softness itself, a molding softness, the
thing that made Q so desirable.   Jean-Luc suddenly thought of
all the cocks Q had sucked that very night.  But who was it owned
Q? 

"One more dick tonight won't kill you," he said out loud and 
moved in on Q.

*************************
 
It took them a couple of days to get to Tennessee. In that short
time,  Will tried their patience enormously. Q finally just gave
in and ordered him around.  He was relieved  that Will was away
from his horrible father, but it was hard not to break down and
scold him like a child.   

Will's manners were awful, his habits disgusting.  

"Don't do that with your fingers. Go get a tissue.  And go wash
your hands."     

"Wash your hair.  No, I mean go back and do it right now."   
Jean-Luc did not object when Q did this.  Fastidiousness
was second nature to him; it left fewer footprints.  And Q was a
bitch with a bitch's natural fussiness.   Worf had been raised by
prissy Methodists who had beaten any slovenliness out of him.    

Will had evidently been raised by wolves.  He clutched his fork
in his fist like a Neanderthal, chewed with his mouth open,
smacked his lips.

Jean-Luc recoiled, "Go eat over there."

Will looked at him uncomprehendingly, but he obeyed  nonetheless,
taking his paper plate over to a stump on the other side of the
car. 

Worf looked embarrassed.  It had taken him a very short time to
feel responsibility for Will's behavior.  But he could not
refrain from a certain softness when he thought about Will. His
woman now.  His own bitch. 

*************************
 
On the other side of the state line, Will asked, "Where will the
band play now?"  He didn't want to say 'we' yet.   

"A blind festival here in North Alabama.  Something about Helen
fucking Keller," Jean-Luc said.

"Where?" said Worf.

"I have no idea.  And it would take an act of God to put some of
these rat towns' asses on the map."

"There's a KOA campground near here, and the festival is over at
Tuscumbia," Q said.  "We could spend the night in the
campground and go over there tomorrow."

Jean-Luc nodded.  "I guess we could practice in the campground,"
he said grudgingly.

                    
It was one of those strange February weekends in Alabama when the
sun was shining and the air was like summertime.  "That
campground's near a lake," Jean-Luc lifted his chin in pleasure. 
"Let's go swimming."

"We have no swimsuits," said Q, with just the faintest edge of 
flirtatiousness in his voice.

Jean-Luc smiled.
       
They parked and got out.  No one was around.  The sun was
bone-white.

Will was standing there embarrassed.  The other men were
undressing, and they were perfect.  Perfect bodies.

Jean-Luc noticed he was still dressed: "You think I can't tell
you're fat from here? Get in the damned water."

Will did not want to undress in front of these men; he was quite
aware that not only was he fat in comparison, but he
was also smallest in one very important way.  Definitely
smallest.  It was easier with . . . he could compete better when
he competed with . . .  

"You heard Jean-Luc.  Undress," Worf ordered.  

Will was where he always was: no choice but to obey.

Worf watched him: then he leaned in and whispered, "I like your
big ass."
       
The sunshine had been deceptive; the lake was freezing.  They
splashed for a while, but soon they gathered back on the shore,
drying in the warm  sun, enjoying its heat. 

Jean-Luc was lying down watching the others; they were all
talking now. 

Will was over his self-consciousness.  He was relaxing with his
back to Jean-Luc, facing the other two who were sitting  shoulder
to shoulder,  looking like deities in their beauty.  

Q was moving his hands and smiling, touching Worf, who had a 
half-smile on his face.  They were all talking about music.  They
were laughing too.

Jean-Luc didn't want to feel the way he did, which was happy. 

Watching Q gesture, watching Q pull his hair behind his ears,
watching Worf frown at Q and gently remove a bug climbing up Q's
arm.  Then Jean-Luc looked at Will: he too liked Will's big old
fat-girl ass.

Life was pleasant; Jean-Luc distrusted that.
 
*************************
 
The Helen Keller Days festival went very well.  To Jean-Luc's
dark intense murmur, the constant thrum of Will's bass added a
darker color which set his voice off even more.  
 
After two encores, they knocked it off and took the stage down;
then they were free to wander around in this strange
festival of the blind.

It was a very sensuous place   everywhere the scent of good food
cooking, everywhere cloth and jewelry for sale whose
touch enchanted, everywhere the sound of bells and chimes and
other bands playing.  And the Boys felt a certain peace walking
among so many outsiders.

Then they heard it.  

A tense guitar boogie which kept changing rhythms, but which was
always consistent.  Somebody was driving that guitar like a
train.  

"Listen to that beautiful work," Q smiled.

They walked over to the stage.  It was one man, a young black man
with sunglasses, sitting alone, but the music he made
seemed to represent a thousand souls.

Abruptly the music ended, and a older white man got up on stage: 
"That was Gordon LaForge, one of our old Boys from the Alabama
School for Blind Boys -- he graduated some time ago, but Gordon
is still waiting for his ship to come in," he said in an oily
insinuating way.

The three Magic Mountain boys didn't look at each other.

"Where's that school at, I wonder," said Jean-Luc.  
 
*************************

Since they thought it might seem odd if all of them showed up at
the blind boy place, Jean-Luc left Worf in charge of their
campground.  He told him to watch out for the other two.         

Worf loved the campground; now he had a pair of slaves to step
and fetch for him.  Q sucked him off in the morning, and Will
sucked him off at night. He told them it was a contest to see
which one was better.  The whores were tickled by the simplicity
of their camp life.  And Worf was in ecstasy.  

He was even able to vary their pleasure a little.

He put his hands on Q and looked at Will: "Maybe you'd like to
see me fuck Q in the ass."

Will was stunned, hard as stone, leaking already.  "Oh yes," he
breathed out.
 
*************************

Geordi didn't need a cane to get around the blind boy's home.

He knew it by heart.  He knew every creak of every floor board;
he had  been there for over twenty years, left by parents too
poor to give him the proper treatment for his condition.  It had
been his home for twenty years.    Every day alike.  Every night
the same.

He lifted his head.  A car in need of repair was coming up the
drive.  Had the owner gotten lost?  He heard a  lone pair of
footsteps come up the wooden walkway.  

It was a man, slim by the sound of him, with a deliberate pace
that slowed down as he approached.  Stopped.  "You're Gordon
LaForge, aren't you?"

White, middle-aged, tense and mean.  Geordi was suspicious. 

"What do you want with me?"

"I''m in a band, and we heard you at the Helen Keller festival.  
We want to ask you if you'll join."  There was hard edge in the
voice.  This was not a man used to getting what he wanted from
life. 

"Who are you?"

"Jean-Luc Picard."

A hand slid into his; large, firm, muscular, but not the right
callouses to be a musician's hand.  Geordi's suspicions returned. 
"What instrument do you play?"

"I don't.  I sing."

Geordi believed him instantly.  He had been so busy listening 
for clues that he'd missed the greatest clue of all, the  velvet
purr of this man's voice.  

Musically, Geordi could hold his own against anybody.  Of that he
had no doubt.  But the rest of his life was one-sided and
pitiful.  His friends had graduated and gone on to make lives for
themselves.  But Geordi had graduated and stayed, teaching music
to the younger ones, studying theory.  Going nowhere.  Night
after night spent in the soothing racket of the Home.

He felt trapped.

But suddenly not anymore.  Jean-Luc played mountain music by the
sound of him, and Geordi's guitar would fit right in.  Jean-Luc
said they played prison songs (whatever they were) and old
classics.   Intrigued. Geordi asked Jean-Luc to give him a tune. 
Jean-Luc started right in on a song Geordi had never heard
before, but which he understood to its marrow.  Jean-Luc's low
voice was all that it promised to be.  Smooth, a little ragged
around the edges because it hadn't been trained, but for the most
part flowing effortlessly around the music.  It was, quite
frankly, spectacular. Geordi felt privileged to hear it.
  
"You really can sing.  And that's a great song.  Did you write
it?"

"Actually, my boyfriend did."

Ah. Hmm.  Geordi thrust his head forward, a gesture Jean-Luc
would learn was his equivalent of a nod.  "Call me Geordi. Let's
go tell them I'm  leaving."

The manager was vaguely relieved; he liked it when the boys got
mainstreamed.  But he had to ask:  "Have you ever worked with a
blind person?  Have you ever been around a blind person?  Do you
know they have special needs?"

"I have worked with all kinds of people.  I know how to deal with
special needs," Jean-Luc said. 

*************************
       
And, for the first fifty miles, it was exciting.  Jean-Luc talked
to him about the band, about their songs.  He sang a bit and
Geordi sang with him. 

Then the Impala just stopped.  Jean-Luc was barely able to safely
roll it off the Interstate.

"Shit.  Shit.  Shit," he said.  

Things had been going too fucking well.  It had had to end.  

"Geordi, help me push the car into this grove of trees.  We'll
spend the night here and tomorrow I'll see what's wrong and go
get parts or whatever.  Shit." 

Geordi was impressed by this man's anger.  Jean-Luc clearly felt
things very deeply.

Well, they had crackers and soft drinks and vienna sausages in
the car so they had something to eat, and they had the car so
they had somewhere  to sleep.  

Things could be worse.

Mighty humid for February.  That was Alabama for you.  

Jean-Luc made the first move.  "You're a pleasant traveling
companion.   I'm only sorry I couldn't provide us with better
transportation."  His  voice was low.  He liked Geordi's well-cut
features, his compact muscularity.  And he was so different from
the others.  Q, Worf, Will all were much taller than Jean-Luc,
but Jean-Luc was bigger than Geordi.  But even more appealing was
his personality.  If it all worked out, Geordi's quiet calmness
would be a welcome respite in the group.  He wanted Geordi to
stay.   "I want you to like our band."

"I'm glad to get out of the Home.  I wanted to see the world."
       
Jean-Luc looked Geordi over.  Well, he couldn't spend every
second of his life coddling this man.  "Did you have any lovers
in the home?"
 

Was this man saying what Geordi thought he was saying?  He had
heard people on television seducing each other, but he assumed
that was just big rich Hollywood stars reading scripts.  He never
thought . . . 

"I might as well tell you, Geordi.  I've never made love to a
blind man before."

Geordi breathed in.  Jean-Luc took his hand again.  That warm
rough flesh of Jean-Luc's hand.  "You have a very kissable mouth. 
Help me to know how to make it good for you."

"It's already good," Geordi said.
       

It got better. All Jean-Luc wanted was to play with the wonderful
arcs of Geordi's ass.  Geordi was slightly plump, and his smooth
compact fleshiness delighted all of Jean-Luc's senses.   Soon
they were standing together naked hidden in the trees of the
median of the interstate.  That delighted Jean-Luc too   the
whoosh of passing trucks, the pounding stereos of the college
boys' 4x4's, the strobe of all the headlights; when you fucked on
the edge of disaster, it was just tastier.  

Jean-Luc broke from a kiss; "Don't worry.  Nobody can see us."

"I'm not.  I can tell that there are trees all around."

Jean-Luc rubbed Geordi's smooth thighs; there was a faint 
bristle of hair there.   He kissed him until Geordi was sighing
and writhing.  Then he licked Geordi's mouth  avariciously, and
stuck his tongue between Geordi's lips.   

"Suck me," he murmured, and Geordi did, gently pulling 
Jean-Luc's tongue in as deep as it could go.  

"Do you have your eyes closed?"  Geordi pulled back and asked.

"No."  Jean-Luc sounded a little surprised.

"Close them.  We'll be alike."

"Mmm. Yes.  I'd like to discover you that way."  He ground
himself into Geordi more carefully.  


It began to rain.

Jean-Luc erupted into dark laughter.  "What else can go wrong?"

"Please don't stop," Geordi whispered.

"You'll get wet."

"I want to be wet."

"I have a better idea," Jean-Luc said.  He led Geordi to the
Impala.  "I want to fuck you in the car.  Make the car good for
something.  Get in the front seat.  No, not so far over.  Just
crouch there, baby, keep your big ass within my reach.  I'll
stand out here in the rain and fuck you from here."  Then
Jean-Luc reached in the glove box and got out a lubricated
rubber.   "Don't worry.  The dome light never worked on this
fucker.  Now, get that ass ready for it."  And he place himself
at the edge of Geordi's asshole; Geordi groaned deep in his
throat.  He could feel the rain pouring off Jean-Luc; he could
feel Jean-Luc's wet hands on his hips.  Then Jean-Luc was all the
way in.  Clearly Jean-Luc was one to pound all the way at first,
to make his lover's ass feel all the way full, to gently massage
his balls with his lover's ass.  He liked them impaled, pinioned,
stuck up the ass with all of him.  

"Harder, lots harder," Geordi said.  Jean-Luc pulled his head
back.  He liked this collaborative kind of fucking.  Geordi
wouldn't be as weak as Q or that Will; his giving orders meant
Geordi could make his own pleasures, it meant Geordi wouldn't . .
. depend so fucking much on Jean-Luc.  He kept pounding and
Geordi was groaning.

Then he reached around to Geordi's remarkably fat dick; "Ummm,"
he said, thinking of seeing it in Q's ass, and that was it: "Oh,
God, oh, God," and he came, startled by the way his heart felt,
startled by the sudden chill of the rain he hadn't even noticed
all over him.  He pulled out and rubbed the rainwater over his
chest.   

And as abruptly as the rain had started, it stopped.  "Storm's
over," he laughed.

Geordi touched his hand and, after a pause, said, "no, it isn't."


It was the first time it had happened to Geordi, but he already
knew he loved taking it up the ass.   It had been an incredible
sensation -- a shock of pressure and a pain that quickly
disappeared, then a dick in his ass, good and hard.  In the home,
at night, he had heard other boys doing this.  Heard the quick
gasp,  then the long moaning sighs of pleasure, and the sudden,
sharp intakes of breath they were  probed deeper and deeper.  He
understood the way it built and built and built, making him want
to thrust back as hard as he could, making him want to stay this
way forever.  It was like the time he'd gone ice skating, one
stroke leading to another and another and another until you were
sure you were going to take off into forever.  

"Oh, God," he groaned, "I never knew."

"Do yourself, Geordi, let me see you."

So Geordi turned around, opened his legs wide, and pulled and
pulled.  Soon enough he lay back against the seat, gasping,
his hands sticky, his mind in a whirl.  He couldn't help but
envision a perfect future.  He and Jean-Luc would sing together. 
They would do this together.  Life would be wonderful.

Jean-Luc set up the back of the Impala as a makeshift bed, and
they lay down together while Geordi told him stories of his life
in the home and Jean-Luc listened enchanted.

Then the next morning they hitchhiked into the nearest town and
bought a used alternator.  An elderly man gave them a ride back,
and they were on the road again.

*************************

The car had rolled slowly down a quiet road and pulled to a stop
on some gravel.  Geordi got out and listened.  A dove trilled off
to his left and high up.  The air held the scent of pine straw
and burning wood and outdoor cooking.  A distant latrine.  They
were in a campsite of some sort.   Then someone said, "Jean-Luc,"
in a voice that spoke of sheer happiness.

"Q," Jean-Luc speaking now.  "I want you to meet our new guitar
player, Gordon La Forge.  Call him Geordi."  Jean-Luc's voice was
triumphant.  He was bragging to this person.  Had they had a bet
going?  But no, the person's voice was pleased and warm as he
moved closer.  There was a hesitation for a moment; then Geordi
held out his hand.  He always hated this, relying on the other
person not to hesitate, to assimilate quickly the fact that he
would have to find Geordi's hand because Geordi couldn't find
his.

Long fingers slid against his palm.  "Pleased to meet you,
Geordi.  I'm glad you decided to join us.  Your music is
spectacular." 

So they at least had that in common.  Geordi thanked him and let
his hand fall to his side.  Other footsteps were approaching. 
Heavy ones.  These were big men, or fat ones.  Another
introduction. 
  
"This is Worf Rodshenko."

A large strong hand.  A deep voice.   From the sound, he guessed
Worf to be black, but he wasn't sure.   

"And this is Will Riker."

Will clutched at him too eagerly.  This was the fat one, his
meaty, sweaty palm closing over Geordi's and staying far too long
for a simple handshake.

"Will, Geordi can't see.  So if he asks for something, don't
point and say 'over there.'"  It was an obvious insult, but, from
Will's cheerfully affirmative answer, he didn't seem to think so. 

"What do you play, Will?"

"Bass.  Though I can blow the harmonica some.  And the trombone a
little."

Geordi perked up.  "Really, where'd you study?"

Now the voice was hesitant.  Confused.  "Well, I just picked it
up as I went along, mostly."  He faded off into a mumble. 

"Will."  It was Worf, his voice commanding.  "Go break more twigs
for the fire.  Don't put them in the fire.  Just leave them right
where they are until Q tells you to bring him some."

"Okay."  His voice held that same weird eagerness.   The heavy
footsteps wandered off, and in a moment he heard the small
spitting sound of twigs snapping.

"We thought you'd be back early this morning.  I saved your
breakfast, but we ate it for lunch when you didn't come."

"Damned alternator blew."  Jean-Luc was moving as he talked.  He
walked right past Geordi, who stood there for a moment and then
unfolded his cane and began to walk towards the sound of
Jean-Luc's voice.

"Oh.  Sorry, Geordi.  Come over here and sit down."  Jean-Luc
came towards him, took him by the arm and led him to a table.  He
walked too fast and Geordi stumbled.  "Sorry." 

That's okay."  He wasn't being treated like a blind person. 

"Why are you smiling, Geordi?"

"I'm just learning my way around."  He pointed.  "Q is making
beans and hot dogs,  the sleeping bags are over there.  The
outhouse is back down that road, and so are the showers.  Will
broke too many twigs because his pile keeps falling.  I can hear
it." 

There was a moment's profound silence.  

"I'll be damned," Jean-Luc murmured.

"Well, if you're that good, what am I wearing?" Will said.  

More silence.  Worf's footsteps.  A slap.  An order. "Apologize." 
       
And Will's voice filled with pain.  "Sorry.  I didn't mean
anything by it."

*************************

Over the next few days, Jean-Luc learned just how lucky he was. 
He hadn't told Geordi he'd be living out of a car, or that he'd
joined a band that lived from hand to mouth most of the time,
singing music no one was used to. He really hadn't bothered to
learn much about Geordi either, apart from the fact that he could
play and carry a tune.  Still he found himself liking Geordi more
and more.  Geordi knew a lot about music.  He had words for
things the others knew by instinct, and he was able to teach them
the names for things.  Jean-Luc learned words like arpeggio,
crescendo, pizzicato.  His band's lack of knowledge embarrassed
him a little at first, and he had wondered if Geordi would think
he was too good for the rest of his rough crew and demand to be
taken back to the home.  But Geordi seemed patient enough, even
with Will. 

The band was cooking.  Q sang a melody.  Geordi played the
accompaniment, twinkling around it.  Q twinkled back on
the mandolin, and Worf whirled around them on the banjo. 
Jean-Luc came in on a phrase but didn't get it quite right.  He
tried again. 

Geordi asked them to play it again, his head cocked in that 
particular way that said he was listening for what was wrong. 
"How about if we do it like this.  Listen."  He eased the last
note down a half step, and suddenly the music reflected the
irony of the words.  "Will, do you know what a scale is?  You
know.  Do-re-mi-fa-soooo?" 

"La-ti-do?"  Will finished for him.

"That's right.  Can you play one?"  Will picked a scale out on
his bass.  "That's good".  Geordi didn't sound impatient or
exasperated.  He sounded encouraging.   Remember just now when I
played that blues bit, and I said it was in a minor key?  Well,
I'm going to play a minor scale, and when I'm done I want you to
pick it out on the bass."   And   Geordi showed Will the riff. 
Over and over and over. 

Finally Will got the bass right.  They played the song all the
way through; then Jean-Luc told them to knock it off for the
night.  He felt exhausted even though the work didn't seem all
that hard.  Still: "Geordi, how about if you give us all another
music lesson.  We could all stand a little more book learning, I
guess."

A big success.  They all loved to listen to Geordi play his
guitar; they liked it when Geordi, leaning his head to one side,
listened carefully to their music and, making one timing or
emphasis change, improved their sound no end.  And they loved
talking to Geordi; his temperate acceptance of every hand the
world had dealt him always helped them to get to the next day.

But Geordi had his own needs.

After his first week with them, Jean-Luc whispered to him, "Are
you getting laid enough?"

"No, are you?"

They both laughed.

"Have you ever had a threesome?"

"No," Geordi said softly, delighted.  "I've heard of them, but .
. ."

"I'll get Worf."

Worf was sitting by the campfire with his arm around Will; they
were talking in a sleepy end-of-the-evening way to Q.  Q was
smiling; it had been a good day. The car was running smoothly,
they had made close to a hundred and fifty dollars at a bar, Q
had fixed a good supper.  

Jean-Luc squatted by Worf: "Want a little fun, friend?"

Worf looked at him.

"Ladies, do you mind?  Geordi is lonely.  I want to keep our
newest member happy.  You girls can amuse each other."

He waited.  

"Well, I wouldn't mind some," said Will.

"And when I let you get some," Worf said, "you will.  But I get
it first."  And Worf and Jean-Luc walked off to find Geordi,
while Q and Will watched them leave.


Geordi was lying aroused and willing in his sleeping bag when he
heard the two men approach.  And suddenly, without preamble,
Jean-Luc was kissing him deeply, full-throatedly.

They writhed against each other: "let's get rid of some of these
clothes, baby," Jean-Luc whispered.   "Worf's going to help us. 
Wait til you feel his."

And Geordi felt another warm presence, and he turned to it.       
  
"Your thing has got me curious," Worf said.  "Besides I like a
big ass and you sure got that."  And Geordi felt Worf's hands,
gentle, not as rough as Jean-Luc's, but with a banjo player's
hard fingertips pulling his pants down.  Rubbing his nipples
through his thin tee-shirt.  "Let me see some titty," he rumbled
and Geordi felt his shirt lift -- oh, he was getting hard in the
right places.  Jean-Luc was still nearby, Geordi could feel him. 

"Let Worf fuck you, you won't be sorry.  Then I'll suck your
dick.  One genuine pleasure in this bad world."

"Is that okay?" Worf said congenially.  His hands were going over
and over Geordi's satiny buttocks.  Geordi began to pump against
the air; it was very okay.  

Worf took Geordi's hand and put it on his cock.  

"Jesus, that is big," Geordi whistled.

"Think about sitting on that baby," Jean-Luc purred.  "I get to
see it all."  He took Geordi's hand and pressed it to him.  He
was fully aroused too.  "Fucking, cock-sucking all the time. 
Isn't it worth it?"

"Let's get busy," Geordi said briskly.  

"Do it with Geordi on his back.  Can you do that?  His dick's too
pretty to hide."

And they worked gleefully, intent on getting the positions just
right, and Jean-Luc got to see all of it, pushing his hard
wet-tipped cock against Geordi's side, against Worf's as Worf
single-mindedly inserted himself again and again into Geordi.   


Meanwhile, Q and Will climbed into a sleeping bed together and
talked about the things women like them always talked about.  Q
kissed the side of Will's face.  Will beamed.

Their men were so much alike, and not always the hard men they
appeared to be.   

Q told Will about the time he was sick in the pen and Jean-Luc
smuggled him in some good food.  Will sighed.  "Worf always buys
me a Payday bar no matter what convenience store we're at."  

They talked about how fussy their men were.  "Everything has got
to be JUST SO for Jean-Luc," Q said.

Will nodded solemnly. "But it's worth it," he said.  "I'm crazy
about Worf."

Q was lying on his side, propping his head up with his hand. 
Will was lying on his back.  Q smiled.  The buxom peasant bulk of
Will's body did have a certain allure.  It was good that Worf had
Will. 

"Worf always says he can't get enough of my big fat butt."  

"You're not fat!" Q protested.  "You're a good size."

They both laughed.

"I like to eat," Will admitted.

Q ducked his head.  Food was always a safe topic.  There was not
a lot you could talk to Will about without it becoming sad and
sticky and perverse.  But, when you talked about food, you could
even talk to Will about his life . . . before. Will loved to talk
about circus food.  Sometimes he had had to fill in at the
various kitchens.  Funnel cakes were his speciality.

"I LOVE funnel cakes," Q whispered. 

Candy apples.  Popcorn balls.  Sno-cones.

"I liked the blue ones best," Will said.

"Oh, me too."

"Wouldn't it be great to rent a little house sometimes?  Just the
five of us?  With a real kitchen."

"A big gas stove!"

"A double-wide refrigerator!"

"A built-in buffet thing in the breakfast nook!"

"Oh, wow."

And then they talked more about their dream home, and Q talked
about finding one with an above-ground swimming pool!  He could
have his sons visit!  Will nodded solemnly.  He had had a
"step-sister" once, a sad case.  She was born with a cleft
palate, but no one had the money to get it completely fixed. 
Will impulsively had told her he'd marry her. "We were going to
have two kids, a little girl named Pixie Brandilynn and a boy
named Barrington Kincaid."  He smiled at the memory.
 
Q kissed Will's cheek again.

"We used to look at the toy ads in the newspapers and pretend we
were making shopping lists for Pixie and Barrington."

"I love toy ads!  I make lists of toys too!"

"They're so great!"

And they were off talking about toys until they fell asleep.

*************************

Their days fell into a pattern.  In the mornings, Geordi taught
them about music.  In the afternoons, they rehearsed; pulling
over to empty rest stops, state parks, empty buildings, anywhere
they could find.  Evenings they sang.  And they learned the hard
way how to represent themselves to club owners and managers.


The car broke down.  Will fixed it.  It broke down again.  Will
looked sober and downhearted as he reported that he'd fixed the
corroded battery with some Coca-Cola, but they were going to need
a new one. 

Jean-Luc loved how they sounded, but this was craziness, this
riding around, five grown men in a car, begging people to let
them play. 

"You'll find a way."  Q reassured him in his warm idiotic voice.

"What makes you so sure?"  He was so down he didn't even hit Q
for being silly.

"I don't know.  I just believe you will."  Q slid his arms around
Jean-Luc.  "I guess because life used to be so bad, and
then it got so good."

Jean-Luc sighed and looked around at his motley friends, his
ragtag car.   "You call this good?"

"Johnny, I'm here with you."  Q explained.  "I could be a lot of
other places that wouldn't be nearly as nice." They exchanged a
look.

Then Jean-Luc turned over on his side, and Q turned over with
him.  He was just tall enough that his mouth was right next to
Jean-Luc's ear.  Q liked to talk sometimes, most annoyingly when
Jean-Luc felt like falling straight to sleep.  Sure enough, this
night was no exception.

"Johnny?  I've been thinking about how we need to get clothes for
Geordi and Will.  You know, so we all match again.  I've been
thinking maybe we should just break down and buy Will a new
jacket because we're not going to find anything his size in a
used clothing store.  Or if we did, it would be a miracle."

Jean-Luc snuggled closer, taking comfort in the way Q's smooth,
solid body wrapped around his.

"Shut up, Q."
        
Q shut up, sighing with happiness.  He loved holding Jean-Luc in
his arms, loved being with Jean-Luc, period.  Johnny beat him,
and hurt him, and made Q cry, but Johnny saw Q and he heard Q,
and, without Jean-Luc, Q would have long since faded into
complete invisibility.  

************************

From his youngest days, Q had been like a ghost to the world
around him.  Even his own mother stared through him. She was
older than other kids' mommas, and tired.  Q's two older sisters
had been full grown when he was born, and he vaguely understood
that he had been a not completely welcome surprise.  She had no
energy to spare for a desperate young boy, even when that boy was
her own son.  Q begged for her attention but she rarely talked.

Sometimes though, if she was having one of her good days, she
took him to church with her.  A Sunday School teacher discovered
his natural gift for singing and playing the piano.  Q only
bothered with it because it made his mother smile, but the
preacher knew Q was a draw and made him a regular part of the
service.  His mother made him a little white suit, and after
church she bought him a big sticky pastry out of Q's share of the
collection plate.  

It didn't last very long.  His father got laid off and started
drinking again.  Q's momma went silent once more.  And Q became
invisible again.  It wasn't long before his momma was getting
beaten every weekend.  She cried and moaned.  Q always ran to
her, promising to help, but she didn't seem to hear him.  When
his father finally exhausted himself and passed out, she sat by
the dining room window, rocking herself, crying out to God to
give her strength and whispering the words to the 91st psalm.  Q
stayed at her side.  He memorized the words to that psalm over
the course of many such weekends, and he whispered it to himself,
just as she did.  He was captured by the images of terror: the
pestilence, and the destruction that wastes at noon day.  He
hoped the words would help him understand her, or that maybe she
might look at him and say thank you, but nothing like that ever
happened.  

One day he woke up and his father had disappeared    like the
midday sun in the psalm.  "When will Daddy be back?" he timidly
asked his mother.

She said nothing, merely looking through him.

By the time he was old enough to drive his mother to church, he
had come to understand that the psalm wouldn't work, despite
incessant repetition.  The Lord promised protection against
adders, serpents, and dragons, but He hadn't said a word about
mean daddies, beaten wives, invisible boys.  As far as the Lord
was concerned, Quentin didn't exist.        
 
He was the loneliest boy in the world.

At school, he was too big to pick on, so most kids just left him
alone.  And he could never be sure anyone would pay attention to
him when he spoke, so he stayed quiet.   He sat in class all day
and stared out the window, dreaming of a magical future when all
the other kids would invite him to their parties or talk to him,
or just call out his name in the hallways sometimes.  None of
that ever happened, but that didn't stop him from wishing.  

His teachers tried to shame him for daydreaming.  

"Quentin," a carping voice would sometimes break through his
lovely reveries, "since you don't need to pay attention, you can
just tell the whole class.  What's the square root of
twenty-three?"

But Quentin always had the right answer.  He didn't know how he
knew things, he just did.

When he got older, it was worse.  He was unpopular, a gangly,
rawboned boy whose pants were always too short for him.  He had a
nice face, but, since he was invisible, that didn't count for
much.  All the girls had breasts now, and, whenever Quentin
thought about touching them, he blushed.  He blushed a lot. 

The beautiful fall when he turned sixteen, he met a redheaded
girl who was just as lonely and awkward as he was.  She waited up
for him after school, and they walked together sometimes.  The
girl was a Crusher, one of a pack of redheaded Crushers who came
into the store where he worked summers and bought RC Colas by the
case.  Quentin and Beverly walked and talked down by the railroad
tracks, and one day, when they were out of sight of people, she
turned to him and, in an oddly listless fashion, had said, "Do
you want to do it?" 

Well, he supposed he did even if he had never done it before.

She remained listless, but they did it two or three times a week.

Soon, he didn't quite know how, she was pregnant.  

He said, "I'll marry you."   

She shook her head. It wouldn't make any difference.

They waited with Quentin at the county clinic. He was cowed under
the social worker's stern admonishment that a pair of
sixteen-year-olds should have more supervision, but her mother
and father truculently insisted that a girl her age would do what
she wanted. 

It was a boy.

Q never caught more than a glimpse of him.  The social worker put
a pen in Beverly's hand minutes after the child was born, and she
signed her son away.  Q followed the social worker down the hall
where she handed the beautiful black-haired baby boy to a
well-dressed couple who waited impatiently.    

The couple didn't even see the lurking, lanky boy as they walked
out laughing triumphantly.  Quentin was confused and sad.  He'd
had such big dreams for his son.  He would quit school, get a
job, marry Beverly, and at night he would come home and play with
his beautiful baby boy.  They might even have another child and
then Quentin would be surrounded by laughing children.   

He wished they hadn't taken his son away, but he thought he
understood why they'd done it.


How could they give a baby to a boy who was invisible?

After that Q isolated himself.  He avoided sex and Beverly
because the consequences were so overwhelming.  In school, he
drifted.  Sometimes he made the highest grades in the class, and
the teachers looked at him with great curiosity.  Other times he
slept at his desk and seemed not to know the simplest things.  

He became partly visible again the following year when the school
hired a part-time music teacher.  Miss Quinn came once a week to
expose the hillbilly kids to culture.  That was the only time
Quentin paid attention.  Miss Quinn obviously hated teaching
music, and everyone hated Miss Quinn back, except for Quentin. 
To Quentin she was a savior.  He looked forward to Friday
afternoons because for an hour or so he could drift away on the
beautiful music she played for them.  After class, he would come
up to her and stare at the records she'd brought from home and
try to figure out why the music sounded so different.  And glory
to God, sometimes she would actually talk to him.  More usually
she would pack up her things and rush home, ignoring him
completely.  Quentin didn't care.  Even a little acknowledgment
was enough to make him slavishly grateful to her.

Some days Miss Quinn looked awful.  More and more her hair would
be uncombed, and she would wear the same clothes  several days in
a row, obviously indifferent to the fact that they became
untidier as the week progressed.  The other kids all laughed at
her behind her back, and the principal stared at her with an
expression of utter distaste.  

Quentin became alarmed.  If they fired Miss Quinn, his one
lifeline to reality would snap and he would drift off into space
and disappear forever.  

By the winter's end, she looked horrible.  He had to do
something.  One raw afternoon, he asked her if he could please
carry her things for her.  After that, he was there every Friday
afternoon, faithful as a dog, waiting to escort her home.  One
hot spring day she invited him in for a lemonade.  Quentin felt
as if he'd fallen into another world. a world where everything
was known and perfect.  He hadn't known there were so many
records in existence.  But the most amazing thing was that she
actually owned a piano.

"You got your own piano!"

She seemed amused, but she wasn't through shocking him.  Miss
Quinn kept liquor in the house!    

She got a bottle out of the cabinet and poured herself a drink. 
Quentin  stared open-mouthed.  A woman drinking liquor!  He
didn't know what to think.

Miss Quinn obviously didn't care about his opinion one way or the
other.  She went on sipping her drink as if there were  nothing
wrong with it.    

After a while Quentin got used to it.  He kept walking her home
on Fridays.  She rewarded him with a nickname, calling him Q.  He
liked that because it made him different.  He'd been named
Quentin because Momma wanted something to rime the way his
sisters' names did, Linda and Brenda.  But now he was Q, Q the
singular.

Sometimes they sat on her back porch and talked about music. 
After a while, they talked about everything.  He told her about
his baby.  He told her how he used to play for church when he was
just a little bitty boy and how the people applauded when he came
on stage.   

Miss Quinn laughed when he told her that.  She went over to
another cabinet and got out a photograph album.  They were all
pictures of her, sitting at her piano when she was a little girl. 
Then, in the pictures she got older, and there were articles
about a prodigy, whatever that was.  There were ribbons, too. 
Lots of first place ribbons.  Then a bunch for second place, and
finally some third place ribbons.  Then the pictures abruptly
stopped.  There was a certificate from music school. 

"I don't know why I stopped," she told him. "I just did."

"Me too." They shared a smile.  Q was thrilled.  Somebody was
actually treating him as if he existed.  After that, he wouldn't
stay away from her.  When school let out, he came over and cut
her grass.  When dishes piled up in her sink, he washed them.  He
heated cans of chicken noodle soup for her and brought them to
her when she couldn't get up out of her chair.  When he found
empty liquor bottles, he put them in the trash.  
               
Q was used to the drinking by now.  In a way, he was almost
grateful for it.  He loved taking care of Miss Quinn.  When she
was sober, she showed him the opera she was writing.  They sat
together at the piano and she talked way above his head, but it
was so nice to learn something new and interesting that he didn't
mind.  

Except for Miss Quinn's drinking, it was the best life a boy
could have.  At first it had been shocking to find her passed out
on the floor, but he had learned to put her to bed, just as he'd
seen his mother do for his father. 

A summer storm cracked a window in her front parlor, and rain
fell on her beautiful piano.   Quentin studied on how to fix it
and took some of his dad's old tools and replaced the broken
pane.  He began to plan on buying a shovel for the wintertime in
case they had snow.

He never got the shovel.  Towards the end of August, the
principal called Miss Quinn's brother.  The brother came roaring
up in a shiny new car.  He was well-dressed and sardonic, and he
berated Quentin because no one else was around to listen.

"How low can she possibly sink?" He demanded.  "Getting fired
from a simple teaching job in the middle of Dogpatch."   He
sounded disgusted.   "Get her dressed and put her in the car."  

Quentin obeyed meekly.  He'd seen Miss Quinn in various states of
undress by now, so it didn't shock him to put clothes on her.  

"Where are you taking her?" he asked the brother. 

"State sanatarium.  Where else?"  

Well, that was that.  Quentin watched her brother's car pull off. 
He wondered what would happen to Miss Quinn's wonderful things,
especially her piano.  

They were gone the next time he went over there.


And in September they had a new music teacher. 

Mr. Kim was young and earnest and he played the clarinet. 
Quentin tried to like his class but the other kids called him
'chinky chinky China man.'  Then, when they saw the hurt 
expression on his face, they closed in for the kill, vandalizing
his car.  Mr. Kim left.  After that, instead of music class, all
they had was study hall.   

Quentin had well and truly disappeared.
     

When he graduated, he got a job at a big tobacco farm.  He worked
hard and lived at home and, since he was invisible, he was very
quiet.  

After a while, his bosses found they liked him.  He was steady
and reliable.  He moved up.  They made a big deal of giving him
pennies more an hour, but it was a sign of their approval, and he
was very proud.  He gave his momma fifty dollars a week, and she
stared at it wonderingly.  She packed a lunch for him and she fed
him dinner when he came home.  He asked her if she wanted
anything.  She said no.  He bought a new colored TV, and set it
up in the living room.  She smiled and touched his hair, but
silence had long since become a habit.   They watched TV together
some nights.  He waited for something to happen, but life went on
the same as always until he sometimes wondered why he'd even been
born at all. 

Thanks to his money, their Christmas and Easter feasts became
more elaborate, but, as the nieces and nephews got older, fewer
and fewer of them came by anymore.  They were growing up, going
their own way.  

His momma's hair went grayer.

The years passed.  

Then one day he ran into Beverly Crusher.  He hadn't seen her for
years.  He didn't know if she'd want to speak to him, but she
smiled when she saw him.

"Quentin McConn!"  

No one had ever been glad to see him before.

She invited him home with her.

He shyly accepted the invitation.

He began to drift into her family's orbit, and, before he really
knew how it happened, Beverly was marrying him and he was loaning
money to her brothers almost before the ink had dried on the
wedding certificate.  

Quentin's bosses really trusted him; they asked him to travel to
one of their other farms in North Carolina.  They would give him
a room.  Beverly said it was a good chance for him to better
himself.  She would move back in with her parents.  

Quentin bought an old truck, and he learned to fix it; then he
went away.  

The bosses gave him a little rent-free room on one of the farms.  
It was painted white.  There was a chair and a table and a little
refrigerator and a nice little metal bed that almost fit his long
body.  He also had a window and a radio.  Quentin was as happy
here as he had ever been.   Every evening after work, he would
buy a newspaper and go to his room to read.  He became a
connoisseur of the evening news.

He pored over the sales pages, keeping track of pork roast
prices, car rebates, stereo ads, women's dress fashions.  The
best days were Wednesdays; every Wednesday, the paper printed the
real estate ads and they would always include a blueprint for a
"Dream Home Plan."  Quentin's mouth watered at the "Dream Home
Plans."  The impossibly idealized drawings of the houses'
exteriors; the cunningly realized blueprints   the prospective
landscaping and carports and lavatories.   There was even a place
where you could send off $14.95 and receive an entire year of
"Dream Home Plans".  He wished for a complete set of "Dream Home
Plans," but such was not for him. 

Beverly needed that money.  But maybe one day...

He played his radio and invented beautiful little worlds around
his "Dream Home Plans."   

Then, after ten months in North Carolina, he went back to
Kentucky.  Beverly was pregnant again.   "The baby's due next
month!"  She glowed as she told him.

"Beverly," he said worriedly, "how is that possible?"

"Well, I don't know.  I didn't get to go to high school," she
wailed; then she began to sob.

What did a husband do?  Q had to make it all up as he went along.
He was trying to fit in.

He got a newer-model car. 

Beverly loved it.

Eventually he found himself with three red-headed sons, first
Jerry, then Vernon, and finally Roger.  Q never raised the issue
that his children looked a bit too much like their uncles.  In
the annual K-mart family pictures, Beverly and the boys looked as
alike as pigs in a pen, but Q looked as if he had wandered in
from another family or photograph or planet.

Beverly said, "Can my brothers use your car?"

Quentin had learned to turn the other cheek.  What choice did he
have?  Of course they could.

The brothers borrowed it often.  They could put as many as six
hundred miles on it in a weekend.  Q figured they were up to no
good, but he didn't know what exactly they were doing until one
day the sheriff pulled him over and arrested him for
possession with intent to distribute. 

Quentin laughed until they pulled five bricks of marijuana out of
the wheel well, but he was in county lock-up, stripped, searched,
and chained before it dawned on him that he was in real trouble.  

He was entitled to one phone call.  He asked the jailer who he
should call.  

The shocked jailer suggested Q call his mother.  

"Son," his mamma was all sincerity and sorrow, "I never wanted to
say nothing to you, but I seen that girl was trouble."

"I wish you had said something, Mamma."

"I'll pray for you, son."  She was very sympathetic, but even Q
realized how useless that was by now.

"Thanks, Mamma, you do that."
  
The detective had been nice to him, in a way. 

"Son," he said,  "Nobody would keep a job like you've got if they
were selling this much dope.  But I noticed two of your
brothers-in-law bought new pickups this year."

They had?  Q was flabbergasted.

The detective knew what exactly had happened.  One of the
worthless Crusher boys had noticed he was being followed
and dumped the car back at Quentin's house.   Quentin got in,
took off, and drove straight into a trap set for someone else.

Crushers, not Quentin, were the problem.

"Quentin, if you go to the jailhouse, Beverly and them Crushers
will raise those boys.  Is that what you want?"

"No!" said Q.  He agreed to wear a wire when he talked to
Beverly. 

*************************

"Beverly, you know it's not fair of your brother to do me this
way." 

"Quentin, don't talk that way.  If Junior goes to jail again,
they'll put him in for life.  He's got too many arrests on his
record and you don't have hardly any."

"You're asking me to take the rap for him?"

Beverly shrugged.  "I can't believe you're asking me to rat on my
own brother."
 
"I'm your husband.  I love you."

"I love you too, baby, but you won't be away all that long."

"Did you know he was running dope in my car?"

Her voice got very sharp.  "Now what do you want me to say to
that?"  She rolled her eyes.  "Honestly, Q, what a question." 
   
Everyone regretted that an innocent boy was going down, but there
was nothing to be done.  

Q was convicted.  

The detective was a kindly man.  He saw Q's gentle eyes and knew
there was no saving this childlike man from the world of trouble
he was in.  Still, he tried to help as best he could.  "When you
get to prison don't accept any favors from anybody.   Don't ask
anyone for help with anything.  Don't say anything to anybody,
you hear?" 

"Yes, sir," Q answered politely.  He was always polite, even when
he was scared shitless.   
     
*************************

Q was sure he would not survive jail.  John Luke, whose name was
spelled very peculiarly, was teaching him how to be a jailbird,
but the lessons were hard.  When Q did wrong, he got a beating
and a terse directive never to transgress that way again.  "I
bought you fair," Jean-Luc said.  "Now you're mine and you do
what I say."                

"Well, okay," Q said.

Jean-Luc had looked at him very oddly when he said that, but what
else was Q supposed to do?  He wanted to be agreeable, wanted to
get along.  And it was harder than it looked.   Jean-Luc was so
strict with him.  He wouldn't let Q go to the showers by himself. 
Wouldn't let Q talk to anyone except some of the other wives. 
Made Q wear loose-fitting clothes.  Demanded to know his schedule
at all times and beat him for not being where he said he'd be. 

But after a while Q saw.  Men who came to prison after he did
hardened in a way that he himself never had to do.   He was safe
because Jean-Luc protected him.   Pretty men like himself  were
passed from hand to hand, but not him because Jean-Luc kept him
close.  Jean-Luc fought for him, and because of this, Q realized,
he didn't have to fight.   

The only person who ever hurt him, as a matter of fact, was his
protector, Jean-Luc.  Q did not understand.  If Jean-Luc couldn't
stand his ways, why did he fight so hard to see that he kept to
them?  

Q was a woman now. He had to sit with the other women and not 
interrupt his husband when he was in the yard.  He had to come
when he was called.  He had to serve his husband the way a woman
serves a man.  But at least Jean-Luc was his sole owner, unlike
some other pretty boys who were members of a harem and could be
rented out for an evening or a year.  

And Jean-Luc was good to him in his way.  Once Q'd been  trained,
the beatings pretty much stopped.  And only once had Jean-Luc
made Q have sex with him, that time in the showers.  

In June, the warden made the prisoners do light maintenance on
the  building for 'rehabilitation'; some of the men got to garden
and some of them got to paint and some of them got to mow and
stuff like that.

Q got put on painting detail for a little bit.  He developed a
cough.

He didn't complain about it, but Jean-Luc watched him with a look
of horror. He frowned when he heard Q buying cough drops from a
trustee; he frowned harder when he heard Q trying to suppress his
racking cough.  He abruptly jumped down from his bunk, took Q by
the chin and stared deeply into his face. "Just a little
sunburn," Q reassured him.  "And the cough will go away when they
let me off this painting job.  They say we're almost done."

Jean-Luc nodded.  The worry left his expression. He let Q's face
go.

Q felt good: Jean-Luc was concerned for him.
 

And Q was grateful to be a woman because he knew he could never
have sustained the hard-edged suspicion and ready anger of the
males.   But, as a woman, he could be protected, even make
friends with the other men who were women.  In the yard, he got
to know a tiny, delicate fairy of a man named Horatio.  They sat
together while Horatio shared with the innocent Q stories about
love in the prison.   He knew all there was to know about being a
woman.

Q's eyes always grew huge and round.  The things Horatio
described in whispering detail seemed scarcely  possible for two
people to do, but the other women nodded knowingly as Horatio
talked.    

"Oh, my," said Q.  "How'd you know about that?"

Horatio licked his lips; he had a striking lisp. "I was a jack of
all trades on the outside, baby boy."  All the other girls
snickered.  "You name it: I worked in my brother's bar.  I did
union organizing.  I was a mechanic, don't laugh!  Hairdresser,
circus worker, musician.  I did it all."

"Musician!"

"Oh, yes!  I still have my mandolin in my cell."

"Let's play together sometime.  I know how to play the piano."

Horatio pursed up his lips.  "Well, it simply ruins my nails."

He loved to gossip.  "Watch out for Sisko," he whispered as the
burly harem master sauntered by, his ebony skin gleaming.  "You
better call him Captain."

"Why?" Q's mouth formed a perfect circle.

"Back in the old days, the big shot in prison was called Captain. 
Well, because he's got something going on with O'Brien, and I
shudder to think what it is, Sisko's kinda like a yard boss.  So
we call him Captain.  Captain Sisko.  He just smiles when you say
that.  But he's still scary."

Q nodded; Sisko was scary.  

"Now look at that man," Horatio would say.  Q looked; yet another
big black man.  "I read his beads from the git-go, girl.  His
lawyer and my lawyer are partners.  It's a funny case.  See, he
was a coal miner and had been since he was a kid.  He was totally
crazy for this girl's brand of stuff and married her.  Well, one
fine day," Horatio leaned in, savoring the story even as he told
it, "he came home?  And she was fucking some other man. He
dismembered him.  With his bare hands. Left him in twenty bloody
pieces on the floor."  Q gasped.  "Remember, This is Harlan
County. They're all crazy in Harlan County.  So his lawyer   her
name is Audrey and she is FUN   told the simple souls of Harlan
County that it musta been a accident.  Right?  He had no weapons
  he just walked in the door.  From the coal mine.  Where he'd
been working  since he was sixteen.  He wore overalls to the
trial.  So he got twelve years for it. It was the most gruesome
homicide call in Kentucky history, and he got twelve little
years!  The reason I remember all this is his wife's name was De-
Anne.  Isn't that the prettiest name?"  Horatio looked pensive. 
"I always wanted to be named De-Anne.  De-Anne."  He smoothed his
hair back.  "Instead of Horatio.   Which is a sucker name. 
Everybody thinks they can fuck with you if your name is Horatio. 
"

"What's that guy's name?"

"Hubby?  Worf Something Something.  They're crazy in Harlan
County."

"Worf?"

"Worf," Horatio confirmed.  And shrugged.  And the other ladies
shrugged. 

Worf. 

(A long story.   On Worf's first day in Fear Alley, a young
brother sat down and began to lay a rap on him.  It was the usual
stuff.   He knew this Worf had to be a bad motherfucker coming in
all silent and hard.  What was Worf's name, anyway?  The man
called Worf squinted.   His mouth turned into a compressed line. 
The muscles in his forearms bulged as tension knotted his body. 
The prisoners surrounding him  tensed in alarm.  The man was
about to go off, and, in a little circle of fear all around him,
hands went into pockets, gripping shivs, forks, or any defensive
weapon that came quickly to hand.  By now Worf's scowl had
deepened and the young brother was stepping back, hands raised in
conciliation.  All that happened, however, was that Worf barked
something that sounded like  "Worf!"  Then just like that he went
back to eating his dinner.  The other brothers eyed one another
and then slowly relaxed and shrugged it off.  The crisis was
over, but they'd learned something important, which was that this
guy didn't like to talk much.   As long as he was left alone to
sit in his cell and play his banjo,  his eyes stayed calm.  There
was just one little bit of leftover confusion.  Was 'Worf' a name
or a warning to stay away?  They decided that it didn't matter. 
From then on everyone called him 'Worf'.)
 
The next time in the yard, Horatio was painting his nails blue 
when Q walked up.  Jean-Luc dropped him off and went to stand
near some other men.   

"Hey, Jean-Luc, looking good!"  Horatio waggled his fingers at 
Jean-Luc.  Jean-Luc didn't acknowledge him, didn't speak, but his
eyes took on the smallest softening of irony.

If anyone else had spoken that way, Jean-Luc would have had to 
fight them.  But by becoming a woman, Horatio had won the right
to be sassy.   To be feminine and girly and harmless.   "Your
boyfriend really likes you," he told Q.  

Q couldn't tell.  "You think so?"

"Oh, yes.  If he didn't, he would have traded you by now."

"He's not my boyfriend," Q said with a certain sadness.  

"Because you all don't . . ."

"Jean-Luc must not be that way."

Horatio exchanged a look with the other women.  

"Baby, he's that way.  'Cause A,  ALL men are THAT WAY.  And B, I
assure you Jean-Luc's on the game.   Hey, do yall remember
Brownie?"   "Yeah, yeah."  "Oh, yeah, he and Brownie used to fuck
all the time."   "Brownie would come in and say Jean-Luc's hot!" 
"He would be limping!"   "Brownie was on cloud 9!"

Q burst into tears. 

For once, Horatio had nothing to say.  He patted Q's hand.

The other women began to gently stroke Q's head and arms.
 
**************************

The men were never supposed to notice what the women did. It was
beneath them (unless there was a fine hell of a catfight).    

But Jean-Luc always watched Q out of the corner of his eye.  He
had to keep adjusting and readjusting to the fact that the
spectacular Q was actually his.  

He beat Q and Q cried, and he was really his.   He ordered Q
around and Q took it, and he was really his.  Secretly he  would
stare at Q's beauty; Q was really his.  Q's subservience,  his
geisha-girl attentiveness, his shyness.  Jean-Luc couldn't
believe it.  He never owned anything so rare and valuable as Q in
prison.  It was as if he had sent away to win a sweepstakes,
hoping to get his hands on one of the "thousands of other 
valuable prizes," but instead he won the grand prize: brand-new, 
never-been-touched, never-been- driven-by-anyone-but-YOU,
goes-150-miles-an-hour, latest- model, beautifully-upholstered, 
elegantly-appointed,
fun-to-drive-and-so-expensive-you-probably-can't-even-afford-
the-maintenance-and-insurance-on-it Jaguar XJ40.    Jean-Luc let
himself gloat sometimes, but mostly he simply looked at  his new
possession; he didn't dare touch it because he knew, he *knew* 
the sweepstakes people were going to come back any second with a
used orange Pinto and tell him, "Oops, sorry.  This is what we
meant to give  you.  That Jaguar belongs to someone else.  You
haven't been riding around in it, have you boy?  Well, wipe it
off some."  But every day he woke up and Q was still a Jaguar. 
And every day, he read the owner's  manual and found some new
feature he didn't even know cars could have.  

He wanted Q so much he was resentful.  How dare Q sit there so
beautiful and rare and not know it?   How dare he present
Jean-Luc with such a problem in logistics and protection and not
be aware of what he'd done?  Jean-Luc had just wanted a simple
little fuck but he ended up with the feed and caring of one
highly sensitive beauty instead.  
  
*************************

Q couldn't take it any longer.  That night as they sat in their
cell: "Jean-Luc, why did you buy me?"
     
"I wanted me some."

But he hadn't really taken it.  Rapes happened every day and
night.  Q heard the screams, saw the shame and shock on the
young and pretty faces in the yard all the time.  By now he
himself had counseled newcomers that they had to stay in the
woman's corner or else risk a  beating.  "You never take it."  Q
was asking for clarification.  "I mean there was that once, but
that was months ago."  His mouth was dry.  He knew he was risking
a beating for being so demanding.

"You asking me to?"  Jean-Luc turned around and looked at him. 

"I was just wondering why..." Q's voice was faltering.  

Jean-Luc sighed as if he were exasperated and jumped down off his 
bunk.  Q braced himself for another beating, but all that
happened was that Jean-Luc led him to the bed and started
unbuttoning his shirt.  Q was embarrassed because they hadn't
called lights out, and people would see them.   

Slowly, watching Q's face very carefully for any resistance,
Jean-Luc leaned forward and kissed him.  Q kept his hands down at
his sides, but he relaxed his lips and let himself be kissed. 
And that was all Jean-Luc did.  

Later, Q lay in the dark and recalled the feel of Jean-Luc's lips
against his.  Jean-Luc's taste, so clean and surprisingly sweet. 
The warmth of Jean-Luc's breath.  He remembered the feel of the
rough denim shirt against his bare chest, and the way Jean-Luc's
hands gripped him gently.  

So, this was going to be a seduction. 

And somehow he knew.  After the seduction, he would be Johnny's
girl forever.  He whispered the word "Johnny" out loud to himself
for the first time.


One day Jean-Luc's food had a roach in it.  He pushed it away
with an expression of disgust.  

Q looked up and saw the roach.  Then he silently handed Jean-Luc
his own plate. 

Jean-Luc looked up, surprised, and then he glared and pushed the
plate back to Q.

Q cut his meat loaf in half, and his potatoes and his peas; he
ate his half.

Then he offered the plate to Jean-Luc again, his eyes  pleading.  

Jean-Luc scowled but took it.  

*************************

It snowed once.

And bitches like Q and Horatio and Sisko's latest stood at the
open windows trying to catch snowflakes with their tongues;
seeing this, their men had no choice but to beat the foolishness
out of them. 

Some of the bitches knew they were pushing it when they tried  to
catch the snow, but they did it anyway.  Horatio's lover, a big
one-eyed biker named Warthog or something that sounded like
Warthog, used a rolled-up bunch of papers (they had a gourmet
approach to sexually-charged beatings), and Sisko used his fists. 
Jean-Luc just grabbed Q's arm and smacked his ass a couple of
good ones with the flat of his hand.  Then he dragged him away
from the window and said, "I think you could put that tongue to
better use."  

He was surprised to see how Q blushed.

The next day in the bitches' corner, the ladies all laughed with
each other because they all had been slapped around for doing the
same thing.  How funny!


So Fear Alley was not always about fear.  

While most prisons lit their cells with one large overhead bare
bulb, Fear Alley was so old that the lighting was as beautiful as
a woman's magazine.  Each cell had three light fixtures  screwed
into the back cell wall, and each fixture was covered with ribbed
celluloid which had yellowed with age, and the light glowed soft
and golden against the ancient bare plaster of the walls.  The
cell Jean-Luc shared with Q was eight feet deep and ten feet
wide. On the left side were their bunks; on the right side was a
toilet, a sink, and a ledge about eighteen inches by four feet. 
That was their writing table and dining room and desk and card
table.  Q always kept their two chairs neatly tucked in under the
ledge.   Above the ledge, there were shelves where they could
keep Q's Swiss Miss packets and his spiral notebooks.   And under
the bottom bunk, Q had covered some boxes in a pretty fashion for
storage.

The glowing casement window was right in the middle of the back
wall. 

But none of that was enough.  After a few months of rooming with
Jean-Luc, Q began to sand the graffiti away with a piece of
gravel.  He had squatted, working diligently, with dust in his
hair and his mouth pursed in concentration.  Then, after he was
through sanding, Q carefully drew evenly spaced 3" by 3" squares
drawn with pencil.               

Jean-Luc watched this with a cross between foreboding and
amusement.  He had never even noticed the graffiti.

One day he returned to the cell to find that Q had placed 
eight-sided stars in each and every square.  He had made them
from the tinfoil wrapped around chewing gum, and fastened them
with a paste made of water and smuggled flour.

Now the silver stars made it seem as if their cell were in the
middle of a bright meteor shower, as if they were riding it to
the future in a  magnificent carriage.

Clearly Q was a natural-born bitch, but the place did look a lot
nicer.

Q gazed at what he had done; then he walked over and looked out
their window. He turned back to Jean-Luc.  "They remind me of
real stars."  

Jean-Luc came up behind him.  Sometimes something about Q made
him want to look at stars.  Then he felt irritated with himself
and went back to his bunk. 

"Come away from that goddamned window."

Q turned, hurt and surprised.  "Okay."

He went quietly to his bunk. 

A few days later, Jean-Luc stared out the window.  "I don't know
what the hell you see."                 

Q diffidently came up behind him.  "I just like to look.  You 
know, I never did what they said I did.  Never ran dope.
Sometimes when I look out I wonder what it would be like if I'd
never come here,  but then I'd have never met you."  He moved
closer.  His arms came up and around  Jean-Luc's shoulders and
Jean-Luc felt himself stiffen; he was not much for tender
moments.

"Just let me, just for a minute," Q begged.

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes.  Goddamn Q, but he allowed it, 
eventually relaxed against Q's broad chest, let himself be held. 

"Stars are alright sometimes."  He felt Q nod against the back of
his head.  He let his guard down further.  "I know you didn't do
what they say."

Obviously. Q's nerves were too exposed to permit him to get away
with any sort of deceit. 

*************************

One day, soon after that, Horatio turned up missing.

"I think he's sick," said one of the other women.  All the women
shared a look.  "I think he's been diagnosed.  I think it hit him
hard."


  wanted to visit Horatio, but Horatio was in the infirmary. 
Quarantined.  Q volunteered to help out.  He wasn't scared.  He
had read about this illness in the newspapers; he knew how it
spread.  O'Brien shrugged and nodded.

Horatio had always been frail, bird-like, so he hadn't changed
much.  But he was paler and his eyes were huge.

"Q!" he said and began coughing.  Finally he caught his breath. 
"This shit is nickel-and-diming me to death."

"What can I do?"

"I want to get cleaned up and then I want to see my husband. 
I've got this fucking quarantine, but I want you to get Jean-Luc
to pull some strings.  Who will it hurt?"  He looked at Q who was
standing up to get him ready. "I never knew what you knew and
what you didn't know.  You know what this is all about, don't
you?" He grabbed Q.  "When that crazy cherry of yours gets
popped, I want you to always use rubbers and get tested, okay." 
     

Q stood with Jean-Luc as the weeping husband left Horatio's cot.
"He'll get better, don't you think?" said the big biker.  
"Horatio said dying was too corny for him."

There were too many emotions.   Jean-Luc stood there with his
arms crossed.  Q was holding the big sobbing biker.

Horatio died within the month.     

They decided to hold a funeral service in the yard; after all,
wouldn't they want the same for themselves?  

All the women came,  along with Horatio's widower and Jean-Luc,
and some of the men whom Horatio in his vivacity had befriended
-- the moody loner called Worf, some others.  

Q did the prayers; as he spoke, they could hear the prison back-
hoe roar as it prepared a new grave at the entrance to Fear
Alley.  Horatio's husband was undone.  Q recited the 23rd Psalm. 
The part about the Valley of the Shadow of Death made the men
draw closer together.  

There was a pause.  Then Jean-Luc stepped forward. "Let us sing
'Amazing Grace.'" At first, everyone joined in, but a curious
thing happened.  By the time they finished, there was silence all
over the yard, partly out of respect for the dead, but a good
deal of it was the effect of Jean-Luc's voice.  Distinctively
resonant in speech, it was absolutely spectacular raised in song. 
Everyone was looking at him, staring in shock, as Q did.  

For once, Jean-Luc seemed a little nonplused.  He had not
anticipated any reaction at all, much less the stunned
appreciation his singing engendered.  "Lord now letteth Thou Thy
servants depart in peace according to thy will, Amen," he said. 

Warthog was much comforted.  "I wish we could sing  Horatio's
favorite song?   It's called 'Brandy'.  'Brandy, you're a fine
girl, what a good wife you'd be, but my life, my love, my lady is
the sea, lalalala.' Remember?"

"I'll try to learn it," Jean-Luc said gently.
     
And it was over.  Warthog walked back over to his group, and
Jean-Luc walked back over to his.  Q stared after him, wondering
now if Jean-Luc's magnificent singing was just a grief-induced
illusion.
 

That night Q tried to thank him for what he'd done.  "It made me
feel better. I appreciate that."

"Shut up, bitch."      


Horatio's lover came by their cell.   "Horatio left this.  I want
you  to have it.  He said yall used to talk about music all the
time."  Q held the mandolin tenderly.  He remembered Miss Quinn.

Looking at the mandolin reminded Warthog  of his lady's bright
beauty.  "You both are so musical that you could use it."  Q gave
the biker a sharp look, but he was serious.  So it hadn't been a
hallucination; Jean-Luc was musical.


Q used what he knew to teach himself some simple chording and
occasionally Jean-Luc would hum along for a while.  His singing
voice was extraordinary.  All of Fear Alley hushed up when Jean-
Luc sang.

*****************************

Warden Dougherty came to the lunch room.  "As you know, Horatio
Boone died of a very contagious disease.  Spread in a very
specific way."  The lunchroom was silent as death.  "We have an
opportunity to test all you men who want to be tested.  If you
take this opportunity, you might not save your life since there's
no cure yet, but you might save someone else's life.  You men
think about it."   
     
Jean-Luc was tested, and he told Q to get tested.  

"Isn't that wasteful?" Q said, "there's no way I could have it."

Jean-Luc looked at Q.  

Q blushed and took the test.

He was negative.  Jean-Luc was negative.  

Horatio's widower was negative too.  "That must be why he never
let me . . ." he sobbed.  Q patted the biker on the back.  

*************************

The weather got warmer.  Men in the cells went around in  fewer
clothes.  Late one evening, Q was walking down the corridor just
behind Jean-Luc, like a Arab wife following her husband, when
there was a sudden commotion in Sisko's cell.  They both glanced
in.  Sisko was seated fucking his latest flame, a younger white
man, just a boy really, right at the edge of manhood, full-
lipped, soft-eyed, who was sitting on his lap. 

The younger man saw them watching and smiled; he was impossibly
lewd.   Sisko's head was thrown back in ecstacy;
he didn't see them.  One of his huge hands caressed the boy's
neck.  

Jean-Luc looked away, but his back and neck were strangely stiff. 
Q noticed his own heavy breathing and knew the time
had come.  
      
They walked on.  
     
As they entered their cell, lights out was called and, at that
second, Jean-Luc touched Q intimately. 

Barely.  A hand on the waist.

Q knew exactly what was coming.  "I... do you...?   Should I...
bend over?"

Jean-Luc's face was amused.  "Get the Vaseline.  I know you have
some because I saw it." 

The cell was so hot, and its warmth was not abated by the huge
attic fan Fear Alley ran at all hours.  The fan made a rhythmic
chunka-thunk-thunk. 

All the time.  Chunka-thunk-thunk.

Somewhere down the hall someone laughed.

Chunka-thunk-thunk.

Q stripped down to his jeans in the cell and went to their 
little sink -- there was no mirror but he could see his
reflection dimly in  the chrome faucet.  He smoothed his glossy
hair down and then, with his back to Jean-Luc, undid the top
button of his jeans and turned and walked slowly to the bunk,
carefully swiveling himself so Jean-Luc could see him.  

Chunka-thunk-thunk.

He had not even recognized himself in his makeshift mirror.  Who
was doing this?  

Chunka-thunk-thunk.  And, seated on the bottom bunk,  Jean-Luc
made no secret of his openly watching Q preen.  He took his tee
shirt off too.

Q, always fastidious, picked up Jean-Luc's tee shirt and then
pressed it to his lips.  Then he held it to his bare chest as if
it were a bouquet.

How did one do this?  He leaned back.  He spread his knees.  

Somebody down the hall said 'unh unh.'

Somebody down the hall said 'yo.'

Chunka-thunk-thunk. 

Jean-Luc's face was very relaxed   His eyes followed every bit of
Q's little performance.   "It's a good thing for me they don't
bottle your stuff," he said.  His voice was rougher than usual,
hoarser.  

"What do you want to do, Jean-Luc?"

"Everything."

Q stood up and pulled his jeans down.  Jean-Luc blinked.  His
face was hungry,  and, when Q sat back down, he pulled Q close
and ran his hands over Q's body.  Gently, but not sexual. 
Feeling his way as if learning it.  Possessive.  

So this was what it meant to be owned.  

Jean-Luc took his jeans off too.

Now both men were facing each other.

Chunka-thunk-thunk.

Jean-Luc pushed Q gently on the bottom bunk.  Then Q  took the
little jar from under the pillow and got some on his fingers and
began to rub himself, preparing  for Jean-Luc.  Their eyes never
left each other.  

Chunka-thunk-thunk.

And Jean-Luc moved and placed himself at the edge of Q.  Q stared
into his face -- Jean-Luc looked almost frightened, and, without
warning, began to move inside Q.  Q's mouth fell open and words
came out.  Aroused, scared almost to hysteria, he wasn't even
sure of what he was saying until he heard somebody praying The
Lord's Prayer and realized it was he himself.   He was panting,
moaning deep in his throat as Jean-Luc fucked him, surging back
against him in an instinctive rhythm, the words pushing
themselves out on each thrust.          

"Our Father who art in Heaven," he heard himself sigh.  Jean-Luc
kept moving and Q's mind caught up with the motions of his body. 
He rocked against his lover deliberately now, instinctively
angling himself in such a way that Jean-Luc's penis gave him
greater pleasure.  "Hallowed be thy name."  

Jean-Luc took both Q's hands in a tight grip and Q felt a surge
of pure happiness.  Johnny was holding his hands.  "Thy kingdom
come."

Q opened his eyes, looked straight into Johnny's eyes.  "Thy will
be done."  Then he moaned, "On earth..."  He was beginning to
lose his place.  "On earth," he sighed again.   Jean-Luc  pushed
all the way inside Q's  body, but there was much less pain than
he expected.  And, after a minute or so, it began to feel just
like Horatio said it would--hard and full and good.  He moved
back against Jean-Luc's thrusts and shocked himself by moaning
loudly.  The feeling was beginning to take over more completely,
beginning to drive away what little rational thought he had left. 


His head arched back on the pillow.  "Oh, God," he whispered. 
"Oh, God!"  He couldn't help it, he was writhing by now. "Oh,
God, oh God, oh God!" 

"Glory halleluier!" someone shouted, mocking him.  

And Q heard Jean-Luc's snorted laughter.  But Q wasn't trying to
be funny, he just couldn't help himself.  He wanted to give
it all to Jean-Luc, his body, his soul, his helpless appeals to
deity.  He was for Jean-Luc and Jean-Luc only.


It was morning.  Q opened his eyes   he had slept so . . .
soundly   Jean-Luc was next to him in the cramped bunk, touching
him   so warm and smooth.  What . . . He said a quick prayer:
gabbling that the Lord not take Jean-Luc from him.  

Jean-Luc's eyes opened, clear, bright.  His arm moved around Q.

"Morning, darling," said a voice.  It was O'Brien, his little
Irish pigsty eyes gleaming.  

Jean-Luc sat up and pulled the covers up on Q.

"God was good to you, wasn't he, Picard?  But it's breakfast
time.  Come on.  I came over here just to be with my boys.  You
know we're going on a road trip today, so all you chain-gangers
better get ready.  Q, you're stayin' here.  I want you to mop the
reception area."

Jean-Luc got out silently from under the covers.  He was naked,
pale, robust.

That tore it.  "For Sweet Jesus' sake, man, get yourself decent." 
O'Brien was infuriated.  What a horrible little con!  The sinful
dark things that went on in that cell last night!  The very
saints would cry!  "Don't forget to wash your hands," he said to
Jean-Luc and fled down the gallery.

Jean-Luc turned to Q.  

How could it be that Q was more pure, more serene than ever,
after the dark-blooded passions of the night before?  But Jean-
Luc's own eyes held the evidence.  

And Q smiled innocently.  "That was so wonderful, Jean-Luc.  I've
never felt that way in my life."

Jean-Luc was speechless.  With lust.  With other things.  


Q waited all day in a daze for the prison bus to bring Jean-Luc
back.  He mopped the floor disconsolately, his hand rubbing the
mop handle almost unconsciously.  

And after supper, when no one had returned, he went to his cell;
he cleaned himself carefully and sat on the edge of his cot with
his hands folded.  Waiting.  Thinking about what had happened. 
The whole day had had a scrim of sexual arousal over it; he did
not feel like himself at all.

Then there was a burst of laughing and talking; the chain gang
had returned.    Q listened to them take themselves to the
showers, and in about twenty minutes he heard the even pad of
Jean-Luc's feet.  He surprised himself by knowing Jean-Luc that
well. 

Jean-Luc came in the cell, clean, barechested, wearing only his
jeans.

"Hello, Q," he said agreeably.  "Did you have a nice day?"

"Yes, Jean-Luc," Q whispered.  He could barely look at Jean-Luc
so radiantly handsome was he.

"I'm going to turn in now.  That was hard work we did."  Jean-
Luc's voice was controlled, even.  He got in the upper bunk.

Q was numb, silent.  What . . . Jean-Luc regretted what they had
done.  Jean-Luc was politely telling him in a noble Jean-Luc way
that he, Q, was not good enough for him.  He, Q, had let Jean-Luc
down with his childish, lustful ways.  Jean-Luc could do better. 
No doubt Jean-Luc had met someone on the chain gang.  Someone
younger and smarter and prettier and more supple, with warm
resilient flesh that gave Jean-Luc more of what he needed.  Jean-
Luc had met someone . . . more like Jean-Luc himself and less
like dull, inept  Q. 

The trustees called "lights-out."

Q sat there, stunned.

And then Jean-Luc spoke: his black-satin voice wrapped the
starlit room.  "Q, what are you wearing?"

Q was speechless for a moment: then, "just my tee shirt, my 
underwear."  His voice sounded reedy  to himself, stuttering.
Jean-Luc climbed down; he was wearing only undershorts.  His
skin, the random scattering of hair on his body, all were
silvered in the starlight of the cell.

"I want to check for myself, Q."  And Jean-Luc sat beside him. 
He put his arm around Q's waist and then pulled up the tee shirt;
he felt Q's boxers and began to whisper, "I don't like these
little underpants.  They don't flatter you as they should.  You
know what I'd like.  I'd like to see you in something filmy and
white.  Something see-through.  A sweet little daddy's girl like
you ought to wear sweet little lace panties."  These words in any
other voice would have sounded absurd, but Jean-Luc made a
believer out of Q.  "Sweet little lace panties.  So I can get you
to spread those little sweet legs and I can see your pussy
anytime I want."  He pulled the boxers down on Q's body, and Q
kicked them away.  Then Q squeezed his thighs together.  "What
are you hiding down there from Daddy?"  Q sighed.  Jean-Luc put
his hands between Q's legs and began to rub him; he rubbed his
balls, his cock, his asshole.  Gently, then firmly, then gently
again.  "Daddy likes his pussy hot, you know.  And wet."  He put
his hand on Q's ass and then put his thumb in Q who began to very
gently buck back against it. "Daddy's girl likes that, huh?" 
"Don't stop, don't stop."  "You want to see how much Daddy likes
it?  Feel Daddy where he's big."  Q put his hand on the
protruding front of Jean-Luc's boxers.  "Yes, rub Daddy's big
thing.  Get Daddy ready."  Q brought out Jean-Luc's erection and
rubbed its thick head.  "Say it, Q, say it."  And Q knew what he
meant.  He spread his legs far apart and pulled up his tee shirt
and said, "oh, Daddy, please, please, Daddy, give it to me,
Daddy," and Jean-Luc was coming over Q's hand and gasping.
     
Q was so relieved he could have fainted.


The next night, the night after that, the night after that,  Q
was bent over the filthy bunk, sweating all over in the
oppressive prison heat, learning to take it up the ass and love
it as Jean-Luc pounded into him.  Then Jean-Luc taught him how to
suck cock, and Q loved that too.  Then Q learned to ask for it
face to face, wrapping his legs around Jean-Luc, thrusting back,
lifting his mouth up for a kiss, holding Jean-Luc tightly.  And
it was always amid a stream of endearment-laced obscenities
delivered in that velvet voice that could make Q want to give up
just about anything. "Does Daddy's girl want to take it in her
cunt?  Open up that pussy for Daddy, show Daddy how much you like
it.  Come on, show Daddy what a good girl you are."   

And as they fucked, Q would pray as he stared into Jean-Luc's
eyes and it was as if he were praying *to* Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc
loved that.  He was God to Q, and it was irresistible.  


Often Jean-Luc found Q staring at him so adoringly that he had to
tell him to knock it off.


"Quit looking at me, Q.  Don't make me come over there."

But when the lights were out and Jean-Luc climbed in the bed
beside Q (which he did every night), sometimes he whispered:  
"Where are we?"

And Q learned what Jean-Luc wanted him to say:   "We're on a
picnic.  And you tell me you don't like tuna sandwiches, but
that's all I brought.  So I ask if I can make it up to you."

"Yes, Q, yes."

"Next time I bring hot dogs, but you won't let me cook them.   
You tell me all the nasty things you're going to make me do with
the hotdogs."

"Yes."

"We're caught in a rainstorm.  I'm cold.  You put your arms
around me. But I'm still cold.  You rub me to keep me warm.  You
rub me everywhere; then you think of a way to distract me from
thinking about being cold."

"Yes!"

"Oh, Johnny, please!  Please touch me."

A moan.  "Yes."

Then they were silent.  Jean-Luc had his tongue down Q's throat.  
He squeezed one of Q's nipples.  Q's legs fell open, and his big
hands went to Johnny's waist and he pushed his hips up, rubbing. 
He had to think of a way to ask for what he  wanted. 

"Johnny, it feels so good when you're inside me."  

"Turn over, motherfucker, you're gonna get it good tonight."

Other people were fucking too.  They could hear it.  Moans, soft
cries in the darkness.  Fear Alley was fucking all over.

Q sighed.  Horatio had told him about Brownie limping up to them. 
Well, he'll be the one limping tomorrow.


Because Jean-Luc liked to fuck Q until he knew it was hurting. 
He liked to hear Q whimper.  Lost in sweat, pausing so he
wouldn't come too soon, he waited until Q's face was set in that
grimace of pain and lust, waited for the desperate expression,
the pleading, the whimpering.  He knew exactly how much Q could
take, and he fucked him up to the limits of his endurance and
then let himself come.  

When Jean-Luc would finish one of these marathons, he would fall
asleep on top of Q and sleep like a rock.  Q lay under him and
savored the sensations in his body.  And when he eventually had
to shift to make himself more comfortable, Jean-Luc's hands
tensed around Q's body. Even in sleep Jean-Luc was possessive,
claiming Q as his own.  Sometimes he called Q's name in his
sleep.    

"I'm here, Johnny." 

Jean-Luc appeared not to hear him.  "Motherfucker," he murmured
still asleep.  

Q didn't mind.  Some nights Jean-Luc cursed and snarled all
night.   Or threatened to kill people.  Q knew Johnny wasn't
talking to him.


And despite the fetid cell, despite the boys across from them and
to either side of them listening in, Q came to understand the
hold that Jean-Luc held over him, and what was more, that he
needed it more than he'd ever needed anything.

*************************

Jean-Luc wasn't the only one who enjoyed Q's burgeoning erotic
glory.  

Everyone wanted him now, and each liked something different about
him.  

For some, it was his amazing mouth, which in repose turned down
like an old-fashioned movie star's.

For others, it was the dimple and the downward eyes.  He had a
gaze that meekly lowered whenever anyone looked at him; then he
would look sidewise out of his eyes to see if he was still being
stared at, and, when he saw that he was, he dropped his eyes
again and looked away.  He was submissive and eager to please and
shy, and he never realized that his demeanor made men say to
themselves 'Jesus Godamighty, just a little  taste. Just one. 
Just a bite, God, please.'  And whenever anyone coaxed a rare
smile from him, it would light up his face and make him prettier
than ever.  

(But he didn't give smiles easily; Jean-Luc would beat him if he
smiled at too many other men.  One day an inmate -  who was
flirting but Q didn't suspect it -- showed Q a simple magic trick
with a string and a little box. Q just beamed.  The magician was
delighted: "There's  that smile," he said.  Q blushed and smiled
even more, and Jean-Luc saw  all of this, and the next day in the
yard Q was sporting bruises all down the side of his face and he
didn't meet anyone's eye.  The  magician bore the brunt of
Jean-Luc's hard-eyed stare for all of ten minutes and then
disappeared and spent the next several days hiding in his cell.)

For other men, it was the quicksilver of emotions playing over
his exquisite skin and features.  When Q saw Jean-Luc coming
towards him, his eyes would fix on Jean-Luc's face and, if
Jean-Luc looked relaxed (Jean-Luc was stingy with his smiles),
Q's face turned up and he leaned towards him a little as if he
were eager to get closer.   And if Jean-Luc had his punishing
stare on, Q's eyes would widen and his lips would purse   around
the corners as he shrunk a little.

And, for some of the men, Q's allure lay in the way he moved,
always languidly holding his hands near his face or around
his body.   

Or in the flushing skin, the way the blood leapt up so quickly to
color his face.

Or in the way Q breathed, almost a gasp sometimes, as if he had
to have all the air right that second. 

Or in his voice with its edge of teasing, sometimes; sometimes,
its surprise at what was being said to him.

The temptations of Q were endless.

And he belonged completely to Jean-Luc.
          

Q even remembered their anniversary.

Jean-Luc was baffled.  Their anniversary?  

"It's been a year to the day since you bought me."  Q was folding
in on himself a little.  If somehow Johnny were displeased...

"Ah," Jean-Luc breathed in.   Q seemed to expect something of
him.  "I didn't have time to get you anything."

Then Q's smile was shy, curling around the edges.  He took a
square of wax paper out of his shirt pocket and unwrapped it. 
"Look."  

It was a little cookie in the shape of the number one.

"For one year."  Q broke it in half and gave a piece to Johnny. 
They ate it ceremoniously; then Q blushed and gently kissed him
on the lips.

"Q, I don't know what to say."  Jean-Luc should have been amused
and disgusted.  He should have mocked his lover, but somehow he
just couldn't.

"You don't have to say anything.  I just... you know.  Thought we
should celebrate."

It was as if she really loved Jean-Luc.  But why should that be?

Q knew how to behave by now.  Subservient, as modest as if he
were wrapped head to toe in a chadoor, he never gave
Jean-Luc lip, and he knew to mind his place.  He didn't resent
it.  He seemed to like it.  But again, why?  What had his life
been like on the outside?  Jean-Luc couldn't ask.  Not directly. 
All he could do was watch and wonder.


Jean-Luc wasn't the only man watching Q.   Who in their right
mind couldn't see that Q was broken completely to Jean-Luc's
hand?  And who in their right mind didn't want a taste?  But Q
was obviously uninterested in anybody else.  He wouldn't even
look you in the eye unless you were Johnny or another bitch.  He
had no idea how much he was desired, didn't know he starred in
dozens of rape fantasies.  

Jean-Luc was aware that it was just a matter of time before
someone tried to get him out of the way.  He knew other men
wanted Q.  

Ben Sisko, for example, made no secret of his ambition.  Oh,
Sisko was a real piece of work.  He could be charmingly
entertaining unless you happened to draw his wrath, in which case
he could be terrifyingly, unpredictably violent.  

On the outside, Sisko's charisma had been bottled up by
circumstances.  And because every day brought some painful
reminder that he was a black man in a white society, his anger
was almost boundless.  

But that anger fueled a determination to never give in.  He had
come to the attention of the cops in Paducah when he started
writing about police brutality for a local militant paper.   The
cops began pulling him over every time they saw his old car drive
by.
     
"Hello, Benny boy, been writing some of that science fiction
equality-horseshit again?" said a fat and witty white cop while
his partner laughed and laughed.  

Not all white people were like that.  One white woman actually
gave money to Ben's newspaper; too bad she turned up dead.  It
was clearly part of some strange copy-cat killings, but that
didn't stop the cops from bringing Benny in.  

After they brought him in for questioning, Benny just looked at
them and smiled.  "Serial killers invariably kill women of their
own race.  These are white women.  I don't hate white women
enough to kill them.  One of my ancestors was white."  

The police looked at one another.   Benny was fully dark.  Any
white ancestors had been long ago and far away.

"I heard she loved black men, the blacker the better.  And I know
she used to go down to a bar called Neddies' to fuck a man called
Midnight.  Then she would sneak back to her husband's little...
bed." 

He had smiled at the impact of his story.  The police were
tightlipped by now, enraged by his implication.

He was found guilty of aggravated manslaughter (after all, the
dead bitch had been asking for it) and sent to Fear Alley.
(Meanwhile, the murders continued even though he was locked up.)

And Ben found out something very odd: he liked prison.  Outside,
he had worked and worked and never gotten anywhere.   Even his
poor lovely wife had been forced into leaving him and taking a
job elsewhere just to make ends meet.  

But prison was different.  He did what he wanted to do and he
rose to the top.  He was as powerful as O'Brien, and he was
determined to stay that powerful.  

In prison, the color of Ben's skin was truly irrelevant.  Prison
was the great equalizer.  

Now his harem and his enforcers listened to the beautiful torrent
of breath and venom as Sisko plotted to take Q away.  His voice
was more stentorian than Jean-Luc's, more theatrical, but no less
compelling, and people believed him when he talked.     

"Have you seen her?" h would rave to anyone who came within
earshot. "She's beautiful.  Like a flower.  Just the thing to
brighten my lonely cell, don't you think?  And why should that
pipsqueak have her?" 

His current favorite tried to talk him out of it.  Jean-Luc had
simply been another quiet prisoner until the day he bought Q. 
After that, he was quiet, insanely dangerous, and extremely
vigilant, a man with something to lose.  He would be deadly.

"But I.  Can.  Do it!"  Sisko held up an admonishing finger.  "I
can get her."  He breathed in. "They say she didn't do anything
except end up in the wrong place. They say she's done nothing.  
She's.  Done.  Nothing.  Can you imagine that?"  He rubbed the
bulge that was beginning to press against the inside of his
pants.  

His boy noticed and licked his lips.  "Why don't you let me take
care of you, Captain Sisko?  Maybe you'll change your mind."
 
*************************

Sisko had a band of men behind him.

Which meant Jean-Luc needed help.  He needed brawn, and lots of
it. 

He wasn't that big, and he wasn't that strong, and there were
people here in jail who could kill him with their bare hands and 
then go out in the yard and chat with their friends as if nothing
had happened.  This was going to take some thinking, some
planning.  

He was going to have to do something, find some protection for
them, but how?  
        
*************************
       
Geordi was listening to Will's tape recordings of the band.  
"What the hell is that?"

Will was hurt: "Well, it might not be state-of-the-art but the
price was right.  I found it."

"It's hard to tell anything about our sound from that.  We'll
need a  better tape recorder.  We need better everything,
really." 

Jean-Luc said: "Q can help.  He's the money."  Q said nothing.

"You know what we need the most?" Geordi said.

"A fiddle player,"  Will said and smiled.  Geordi patted him on
the arm; Will had gotten something right!

Will thanked him, touching Geordi's hand in return.  Geordi moved
quickly, laying his palm over the back of Will's hand and pulling
Will's fingers down to his fly.  

Will drew in a quick, gasping breath. "Now?" he asked.

"Later tonight," Geordi specified.  He understood how things
worked around here by now.  He could fuck Will anytime he wanted
because that was one of the things Will was for.  Geordi had been
thrilled to discover this, but at the same time he felt a little
guilty.

"Are you sure you don't mind?" He had asked Worf.

"Not at all," Worf answered generously.  "Especially since you
have no woman of your own."
     

The little band traveled on.  In Memphis, Jean-Luc discovered
that he could set Geordi down on a busy downtown street and folks
would give him money for playing.  Geordi hated it, but he did it
every day because it brought in a lot of cash.  He developed a
routine, dropping Geordi off right at rush hour so he could play
all morning.  Late afternoon  Jean-Luc picked him up and took the
money, and they went and got lunch.  Then they would go back to
their spot,  and Geordi would play until after evening rush hour
was over.  Worf and Q hunted the city for the bath houses and
parks where gay guys hung  out.  Q picked up a lot of tricks that
way.  Will's job was to practice and study music and guard the
car.  In the evenings, they played.  

Memphis had a lot of bars, but most of them were for jazz and 
blues.  The hillbilly clubs let them in suspiciously, but at
least they let  them in.  The boys found enough work to keep them
busy.  They even won a few contests. 


Jean-Luc had been thinking about one thing for some time.

One evening after Geordi had played in a little pocket-sized park
all afternoon and made 56 dollars, Jean-Luc had the others meet
them at the park.  

They hung around eating barbecue sandwiches and watching the
Tennessee shadows grow longer and longer and the park's nature
begin to change.  Men, young and old, pretty and not quite so
pretty, began to gather by the little fountains and statues of
Davy Crockett and soon the familiar sounds of men with other men
rang through the park.

"Check that cat out," Jean-Luc nodded.  A naked man was tied to a
tree.  Will gasped.  As they watch, different men would come over
and fuck him for a while.  And then leave.  

"That's where the heartaches begin."  He turned to face his
little group.  "The only way this will work is if you use rubbers
every time you fuck or get fucked or suck or get sucked by
somebody not in this group.   So we'll buy latex  in bulk and get
tested regularly.  Or else.  Or else I'll beat the shit out of
you."

Worf stood beside Jean-Luc with his arms folded in front of him. 
"It will not be a little girly-slap beating either.  No, not the
kind that you do before you have a fine fuck.  This will be a
beating you will never recover from."

The others nodded.
       

One afternoon, Q sat in a library and painstakingly copied out
the names of  all the radio stations in Tennessee.  Then he got a
lot of quarters and started making calls.  

He had one small success.  One person told him yes, they could
come next month if they sang gospel music.  Q lied and said of
course they sang gospel.  They'd be happy to appear any time he
wanted.  He rushed back to tell Jean-Luc the news.

"Okay, let's celebrate."  It was only May, but the humidity was
threatening to wring the life out of all of them.  They could use
a  treat, and Jean-Luc had caught himself staring longingly at a
sign that advertised rooms for rent with air conditioning and
king sized beds. "Q, go over there and see how much they charge
for rooms."

Q came back; he was smiling: "Thirty-four dollars a night.  But
they only have two rooms available."

"Two is all we need.  Okay, girls.  Let's spend the night
together."
 
When they got their keys, Jean-Luc surprised them.  "Q, you go 
with Worf.  Will and Geordi, you come with me."        
                              
Q looked hurt.  

"Don't give me that look.  You like to sleep with Worf." 

 
Jean-Luc and Will and Geordi settled into their nice room.  While
Will was fiddling with the air conditioning,  cranking it up as
high as it could go,  Geordi was feeling his way around.  Every
now and then, he'd call out a question, like when he'd found the
TV and needed Jean-Luc to read the TV guide for him.  

It surprised Jean-Luc that Geordi liked to watch television, but
he did.  He loved  the sound effects, the professional
modulations of the voices, the background music.  It was all
enjoyable and real to him.  

"Forget that TV and come here.  Will, leave that thing alone and
go shower up."

Jean-Luc and Geordi had already showered.  Jean-Luc was lying 
naked on the bed letting the cool air waft over him and feeling
totally luxurious.  

Geordi turned and held his hands out.  

(Jean-Luc really liked Geordi.  The young man was calm and quiet
and smart.  With him around, Jean-Luc's dream had a stronger
chance at reality.  And, even if things didn't work out the way
he wanted, he would still get some good fucking out of the deal.)
 
"Chair on your right about a foot, Geordi."  Jean-Luc and Will 
spoke at once.  The director at the blind boy's home had been
right.   Geordi needed  special handling.  Not much, but some. 
They were learning. 

Geordi swerved left and found the foot of the bed.  Jean-Luc took
his hand and pulled him up next to him.  

Will stripped with no sense of embarrassment and hurried into the
shower.  He knew what was going to happen next and he wanted it. 
When he came out again, sure enough, Geordi was beneath Jean-Luc
and they were kissing.   

Jean-Luc was taking his time.  Will could tell how well people
fucked just by looking at them, and he knew Jean-Luc would be
good at it.  He was right, too.  Jean-Luc was making Geordi buck. 
"What do you want me to do, Jean-Luc?" Jean-Luc moved off.  "Get
over here and show Geordi just what you can do with that mouth of
yours, Will." 

Geordi gasped.  He'd wondered if they would do something like
this.  "Oh, please, please, please."

Then Jean-Luc grabbed Geordi's throat: "That's why you need to
stick with me.  You never know when something like this will
happen.  Isn't it good?  Isn't it good?" 

Geordi hesitated a moment and then reached his hand out.  He
wasn't sure he liked Will very much, but he liked Jean-Luc and he
loved fucking.  This was good.

The bed creaked.  Will was spongy and ungainly after Jean-Luc's
slender grace, but he was touching Geordi all over and Jean-Luc
was watching. 

"Geordi, you should see this.  Your skin is brown and Will's skin
is pink, and it looks very nice when you wind around one another. 
Slowly."  He ordered.  "I love watching you.  I want to look for
a long time."

Will pulled Geordi's mouth to his nipple.  He took Geordi's hand
and pulled it down to his dick.  This was so nice.  Like a
fantasy.

"Will, suck Geordi.  Take your time.  I'm playing with myself
while I watch you.  When Will's finished with you, I'll let
you suck me.  Would you like that?"

His answer was a moan of gratification.  Geordi moved faster in 
Will's mouth, eager to be done so he could get to the prize which
was Jean-Luc's hard cock.

Will got to watch Geordi go down on Jean-Luc.  He had to do
himself,  as usual, fantasizing that Jean-Luc would suck him off. 
He shut his eyes.   Jean-Luc wasn't ever going to touch him, and
he knew it.   He sighed.  This was hot, but he missed Worf.

       

The next morning, when Q and Worf had come downstairs very late,
Jean-Luc jealously watched Worf .  He wondered just how good a
time Worf had had with Q.

Worf looked dazed.  Well, fuck that,  Jean-Luc knew Q had turned
it on full throttle.    Q made love like an angel, and he must
have made love to Worf all last night instead of simply sucking
him off out of duty, or else Worf  wouldn't look that stunned.

And Worf had probably fucked Q again when they had awakened, 
unable to resist Q's stuff.

Jean-Luc's mood shifted.  Q was going to get it but good.  "Q,
you're sucking cock tonight somewhere.  We need the money." 

*************************

In prison, they had to do a lot of work outdoors in prison.  One
day after working outside on the farm, Q's skin was  red and hot
to the touch.   The next morning, he could barely move and the
jailhouse medic put him in the infirmary.

When Jean-Luc went to see him, Q had an IV hooked up to his arm
because he was so dehydrated.  His eyes were closed and he didn't
respond when Jean-Luc called his name.  The nurse said he slept a
lot, common when recuperating from sun poisoning.  

Sun poisoning.  Not sunburn, sun poisoning.  The whole thing was
so frightening Jean-Luc felt as if his heart would stop
beating.   

Q was out in forty-eight hours.  He wasn't totally healed.  He 
staggered a bit when he walked, and, beneath his still-red
skin, he looked grey and tired.

Jean-Luc gave O'Brien some cigarettes and some money to bring him
food from the outside.  Barbeque.  Jean-Luc knew Q liked
barbeque.  He shoved the food in front of him.  

"Eat that."  Jean-Luc's voice was harsh.   

Q looked up as he were afraid of being punished, but, when the
smell hit his nostrils, Jean-Luc could almost see his mouth
watering.

Q took a bite and then started wolfing it like a starving man.

He would have eaten the whole thing, but Jean-Luc took it away
from him when he was about half done. "You'll make yourself sick
eating too much at once."

Q's eyes followed the carry-out box.  Jean-Luc stared at him.  Q
looked away.  He got up to wash his face and hands at the sink.  

"Jean-Luc I want to thank you for..."

"Shut up, bitch."

"But," Q was confused.  "It was so nice of you to..."

Jean-Luc jumped off his bunk.  "Did you hear me tell you to shut
up?" 

And even though Q pressed himself into the corner of the  cell, 
Jean-Luc slapped the back of his head and his arms and
hands.  He was  careful to stay away from Q's sunburned face. 
"What do you do the next  time I tell you something?" 

"Do what you say," Q whispered.  "I'm sorry.  I'll do what  you
say."  He was a big man, a tall man, but he folded up just like a
baby. 

Jean-Luc noticed a tiny spot of barbeque sauce Q missed.  "Clean
your face up.  You look like a pig." 

Q went back to the sink and washed and washed.      
 

The next day, Warden O'Brien came by the cell early, before
breakfast.  "McConn, you're working inside now.  In the kitchen."

Q was surprised.

Jean-Luc reached under the bed and then wordlessly handed O'Brien
five more cartons of cigarettes.           
 
*************************
 
"There's the bar I spotted earlier," Q said.  He was wearing a
thin red tee shirt he had bought for a quarter and his cowboy hat
and some tight faded jeans and   as a little special touch    a
black rag tied around his neck.  He bit his lower lip. 

It would have been worth anything to be with him.
 
*************************

Everyone watched to see how jail would toughen Q, but, to their
growing astonishment, nothing of the sort took place.  Q stayed
delicate.  If anything, he seemed to develop a layer of serenity. 
Not even Jean-Luc understood why this was. He watched his bitch
from across the yard sometimes, mused on her tranquility,
speculated on the reason  for it.  

He became suspicious, naturally, imagining a liaison carried out
between shifts in the kitchen.  He tried to frighten the
truth out of him, but Q simply cried and swore he was faithful.

"I have to see this for myself, asshole," he said, and the next
day he walked down to the kitchen.  

And he found three burly white men in puffy hats waiting for him. 


"If I had one little frying pan and one little piece of bacon and
my bacon got cooked, I'd let another man use my frying
pan," said the head chef.

"Especially if he had a lot of bacon to cook," agreed one of the
other cooks.

"Each piece of bacon doesn't need its own frying pan.  A good
frying pan can take a lot of bacon," said the third cook.  

And they stood there with their arms folded.

Q came from out back of the kitchen; his face lit like a rose
when he saw Jean-Luc. "Jean-Luc," he said in that voice, a fresh
murmur, more a throb than a voice.

"Don't make me fuck you up," Jean-Luc said; it was so sudden the
men didn't realize at first who had said it.

Q's face crumpled in the beautiful way he had, stunned,  wounded,
with absolutely no way to protect himself.

But Jean-Luc wasn't talking to Q; he was talking to the kitchen
crew. 

And they knew it.                        

Jean-Luc took his eyes off them for a moment to give Q a
once-over.

If they'd threatened him, his bitch would be looking scared by
now, and she wasn't. 

Jean-Luc noticed his own reaction to Q's retreating back.  His
eyes went straight to Q's ass, and he knew that sweet piece of
flesh was a temptation no man would resist for long.  

"Q!"  

Q turned around and came back. 

"Take that goddamn thing off."  He gestured at the apron. 
"You're leaving."

Q at least knew to obey and not protest.  He removed the apron
and handed it to one of the men.  The man grabbed Q's hand as it
reached  out to him, kneading his fingers suggestively.   Q's
dismay was fetchingly transparent.  It was obvious he thought
he'd be blamed for the cook's predatory gesture, and equally
obvious that he was afraid of what Jean-Luc would do.  

When they got back to their cell, Q tried to pre-empt Jean-Luc's
anger by apologizing.  "I know I shouldn't have handed the apron
to him. I  won't do it again." He was sitting on his bunk with
his head tucked  into his shoulders, obviously expecting a blow.  
   
Jean-Luc wanted to hit him til his ears bled.  He stood over Q
with his hands on his hips, but Q looked so. . . "Stay here," he
ordered. "You leave this cell and I'll kick your ass."  

It was early evening.  He went to find O'Brien.  

"Now whaddaya want, Picard?" O'Brien said.

"Q needs a new job." 

"It will cost you."

"He goes tomorrow?"

"First thing," O'Brien agreed amiably enough.

"Then come on by, you've got your five cartons."

"Ten, I believe, boyo."

Jean-Luc said nothing; then he gave O'Brien a small tight nod.
 

Q's new job in the library was perfect.  Nobody ever used the
library but himself and the head librarian.  He was quiet and
safe, pulling books, placing the returns back on the shelves,
keeping track of who had what, putting away the few new
acquisitions that arrived when a generous benefactor donated the
discards from his personal library.  He liked it a lot.

When Jean-Luc got back in from his outside work, he always went
straight to the library to distrustfully watch Q as he
dusted and busied himself arranging old copies of National
Geographic. 

It got to be very pleasant to be in the library, to hear the
calming fan, to peruse the few books Q labored so to put in
order.   Jean-Luc sometimes picked up a book as Q bustled around. 

He read many things, but one book became a favorite;  it had a
yellow cover and little round toy-looking heads with o's for
mouths indicating that they were singing.   

Killing time til Q was off work.  

Killing time til Q was in his arms.  

That Q!  Smiling so tenderly, giving his smiles away to the
elderly trustee who served as librarian!  Some sort of crazy old
history teacher who had started believing he was Napoleon and
drove into buildings, thinking they were sphinxes.  Looked like
somebody had a little too much history.  And Old Mr. History  and
Q had the same birthday, so the superstitious womanish Q thought
this was heap big magic.  


Sometimes Mr. History would take a special book from his shelves
and go to the gent's room for thirty minutes.  The special book
was usually a biography of the Queen Mum.

When that happened, Jean-Luc made Q open his shirt and pull his
pants down to his knees and roll over on the floor, while Jean-
Luc, sweating like a stallion, rode into him until they both
dissolved into sweat and salt and pounding heartbeats.

When Mr. History returned, with his obscure needs patently 
satisfied,  they were decent again, reading.

The name of Jean-Luc's book was *I Hear America Singing.*  It was
nothing but a collection of old folk songs.  The author was Carl
Sandburg; Carl Sandburg was old and white-haired and held a
guitar.

Jean-Luc began to read in that book every day.  It was a curious
volume: every word in it was familiar and corroborated everything
Jean-Luc knew about life, and at the same time it was news.

And he found he could talk to Q about these things.
 
Crowded together on his bottom bunk, they whispered into the late
hours about the things they'd thought about.  And neither laughed
at the  other.  When Jean-Luc found out that Q could be smart, he
was proud.  And Q was glad that his heretofore useless
intelligence made him even more valuable in Jean-Luc's eyes. 
They decided, with Mr. History's help, that Q should get a
correspondence degree in accounting.  Jean-Luc thought that would
be useful, and Q did want to be useful to Jean-Luc, useful for
all eternity to Jean-Luc, but still he  wished he could have
studied something exotic and frivolous like anthropology or
ornithology.  They sounded so much more interesting than
accounting which was just numbers and rules. Still, it was nice
that Jean-Luc was proud of him. 


Bedtime in the pen.

"Johnny?" said Q's sweet baritone.

"Um," Jean-Luc said suspiciously, although they were lying
intertwined in the bottom bunk.

"Mr. History asked me about you today."

"Indeed."  Jean-Luc smiled in the dark.  What could Mr. History
want?

"He said, 'where'd he study?'" Q did an amusing imitation of Mr.
History.  "He doesn't think you sound like a regular con."

"Study?   I studied with Uncle throughout the United States and
then with ole Daddy Moonshine after that.  That's where I
studied."

This was not totally true.  In the army, Jean-Luc had excelled at
chauffeuring officers around.   The one he liked the best had
been named Galen, Commander Somebody Galen.  Galen had been a big
army instructor at the Army Academy in Pennsylvania.  Jean-Luc
got to drive Galen and his smart-guy friends all around, overall
a pleasant task, especially as he listened to them.  

These men talked about things that really mattered.  They got
excited about great abstractions.  Jean-Luc had never been around
men like that before.

One day Galen couldn't remember something, the name of the man
who discovered the Rosetta Stone, and, before he could stop
himself, Jean-Luc had said, "that would be Champillion, sir." 

Galen was stunned into silence. He gave Jean-Luc a severe look.

Jean-Luc looked back at him stoically.  "Sorry, sir, I simply
happened to overhear the commander's conversation the other day,
sir."

"Indeed?"    

He and Jean-Luc began to talk whenever Jean-Luc was assigned to
drive him because Galen liked to talk about archaeology to
anybody and everybody, and he explained a lot of things to
Jean-Luc.  Galen always used very big words.   Jean-Luc always
nodded, but one day he said, "You know a lot, sir.  I don't
understand half of what you say sometimes, sir, and if you don't
want to bother explaining, I understand.  Sir."

But Galen was a natural born teacher.  "I hereby order you to
stop me any time I use a word you don't know unless I'm talking
to someone else.  But I shall expect you to remember them and be
able to use them back  to me, do you understand?"

It became a game.  Jean-Luc liked hearing Galen's words in his
own voice, and of course, Galen loved Jean-Luc's voice.

One day Galen opened the front passenger door of the car and laid
several books on the seat.      

Jean-Luc, holding the back door open, looked at him.   Then he
got in, picked up the books and examined them closely. 

A dictionary.  A thesaurus.  Another one called 'A Primer on
Archaological Research.'  He turned to Commander Galen.

"I believe I have mislaid some books of mine, private."  There
was an undertone of satisfaction in Galen's dry voice.  "If
you should happen to encounter them I trust you will see to it
that they find a home where they will be used and appreciated."

"Yes, sir."

Jean-Luc read from all three books every night.    

Eventually he lowered his guard enough to enjoy asking the
professor questions about words and archaology, and he was smart
enough to remember everything the professor said, so the
professor enjoyed teaching him. It was easy to see, Jean-Luc
thought, that this was as close to an education he'd ever get.

Then Galen was detailed overseas.  Jean-Luc gave him a real smile
when they shook hands good-bye.  Galen thanked him; Jean-Luc knew
what for.  Galen had always teased Jean-Luc about his perpetual
frown.  This smile meant something. 

Some lucky men had fathers.  Well, Jean-Luc had Galen.  

Q dimpled in the dark.  Johnny had revealed something to him! 
Kind of like the 1001 nights only in reverse.  

Suddenly: "Why are you two queens so fucking nosy?" Jean-Luc was
really getting pissed off, "Okay, now let's hear something from
you, asshole."

"I don't have any good stories."

"Bullshit.  What do you girls talk about all day in the yard?"

Q smiled.  "Reggie told us something rich today."

Jean-Luc snorted.  Old Dreamland Reggie.  Reggie was in for
forgery.  Surprise, surprise.  Everything Reggie said was a
fantasy and a lie, including  "a", "an" and "the".

"Okay, let's hear today's story."

"Reggie said that, when he was nineteen, he was still a cherry,
but he went to the movies and it was an old-fashioned
movie theatre and he sat by himself and then a soldier came and
sat down beside him.  And when the hero kissed the girl, the
soldier leaned in and said 'that sure makes me hot.'  And Reggie
didn't know what that meant, and then he had to piss, and the
soldier followed him, and, when Reggie pissed, the soldier showed
him his big cock and said, how do you like that, boy, and Reggie
was confused, and the soldier reached for him, and quick as could
be Reggie was bent over and the soldier was fucking him like
there was no tomorrow."

Jean-Luc began to breathe heavily.   

"What if it was me, Daddy?  Would *you* like to do something like
that to *me*?"

"Motherfucker." Q could be damned irresistible sometimes. "Tell
it like it *was* you."

Q did.  

Nineteen-year-old Q in the dark, on the velvet seat, soldier
Jean-Luc reaching over to hold Q's soft velvet hand, and more,
putting his big hand between Q's legs, Q in black jeans, Jean-Luc
in freshly pressed khakis, kissing, pressing together, showing
each other how hot they were.  A Harlton Cheston movie going on. 
The one called *War Eagle.*  Harlton was a lieutenant in the navy
with a Filipino sidekick; they were lying in the grass together. 
Talking about God.  The sidekick got shot.  "Hold me" he said to
Harlton.  Jean-Luc's tongue was down Q's throat   he was holding
Q's leaking cock, and unzipping himself. " Get down there and
suck it."  The movie was in black-and-white and, because the
theatre was so dark, Jean-Luc and Q were in black and white too,
and nineteen-year-old boy Q was a natural born cocksucker.

Jean-Luc liked that whole sequence of events, especially when Q
gave him a real blowjob.

Then Q cleaned Jean-Luc off carefully while he watched him.
"When you going to tell me about that, Daddy?" Q said.

Jean-Luc knew what he meant.  

Then Q touched it.  

The scar on Jean-Luc's chest.  It was shaped irregularly, just
like a lightning bolt.  

"More stories, Q?"  

"What happened?" 

Jean-Luc was quick in telling.  Long before, he had been stabbed
in prison.  Well, everybody got stabbed in prison.  No big deal.  
But the knife nicked an artery and almost killed him.  The
doctors patched him up and gave him advice.  No drink.  No smoke. 
Ever.  And watch out for that temper of his.  His heart could
still bust open at any moment. 
                              
"No!  Jean-Luc, no!"  Q's eyes were wide.

"Baby, I won't change for nothing.  If that happens, that will be
that."  He moved closer to Q.  "Some whore I was fucking on the
outside asked me if they'd taken my heart out.  She thought I
might not have one."  He lifted his eyebrows.  "What a bitch."

*************************

In the yard, the harem was buzzing.  

Philip who worked in the mailroom had spilt the beans.  She
whispered to the other ladies, "Worf got a letter."

"A letter?"

"It was real official."

There was a dingy cast to the day.

Worf was a genuine wild card.

"When's it my turn, Picard?" Sisko said in the yard.  "Oh, I'm
just joking."  But his eyes were like black ice. 

Jean-Luc had a plan.  It wasn't much of a plan, but it was all he
had.  He put the word out that he was forming a singing group. 
Lots of people in Fear Alley could sing and play.  He picked a
couple of them to sing with him.  It didn't matter how well they
sang, as long as they were big guys, bigger than he was.   

He really wanted Worf in his group.  Worf was crazy and dangerous
and he played the banjo quite well.  

Jean-Luc asked Kurn what Worf's problem was.  

"Lady problems," Kurn answered.  

Worf was being sued for divorce.  That was what the official
letter was.
 
"She never came to see him, then she started sending back his
letters.  Now this.  He's gonna lose it," Kurn predicted.

Well, there was something Jean-Luc could do about that.  He
didn't want to, but, if it worked, he might just earn himself an
ally.

At supper that night at their table, Jean-Luc was very quiet.  

And nobody else had any desire for idle chat when the mood was
like this.

O'Brien walked in the cafeteria.  Cocky, gloating, the inevitable
cigarette stuck between his teeth.  He came to Picard's table. 
He clearly relished being able to make these powerful men dance
to his tune.  

"I'm going to honor your request," he rasped and then made the
sign of the cross.  "Although Christ Himself and Alone knows what
your intention is."


Later in the cell, Jean-Luc folded his arms in front of him. "Q,
wash up.  Then pack some things to take with you.  You're going
to stay with Worf for a while, make him feel better.  That's one
thing you know how to do."   

Q stared at him in disbelief, but Jean-Luc ignored him.   
       
"Yeah, I told Worf to take it out on you.  I said you were clean,
you were trained, and you were good."

"Why?" Q cried.

"I want Worf in my singing group.  You're the payment.  Now do
right by him, or I'll turn you over to Sisko." 
     
So, holding his few boxes, Q walked down the gallery to his new
home; everyone was making wolf-whistles and kissing sounds as he
passed.  

Well.

Q was beginning to realize that he was nothing but a piece of
ass.  And a hot one at that.  He straightened up a little.  And
didn't Jean-Luc want him to be a hot piece of ass, the hottest
piece of ass in Fear Alley?

He began to swing his hips a bit as he walked.  It was rather
nice that all these men were treating him as a hot piece of ass. 
It gave him a kind of status.
                                        

The first night Worf just stood and moodily stared out his
casement window.  

But the next night, Q made sure he got Worf's attention.  He sat
in front of the mirror fixing his hair, inspecting his smooth
skin for imaginary wrinkles, unbuttoning his blue workshirt to
just the right place on his sternum.  

Worf could not help noticing.  "Your man is wise," he finally
said.  

Q tilted his head at Worf.  

"He said the only cure to not having some is to get some."

"Would you like some?" 

Worf was very quiet.  Then he took a deep breath: "Take off your
clothes and let me see you jerk it."
     
At first Q was shy, but then he began to enjoy the avid
expression on Worf's face, and the hard bulge in his faded jeans. 

And after all Q  had a innate talent for sex.

Lying naked on his bunk, Q would shut his eyes and caress himself
erect.  One hand went back and forth on his nipples while he
jerked off.  He spread his legs and pumped his hips. 

His face was flushed, and his mouth fell open as he played with
himself.  He listened as Worf's breathing got harder and heavier
and felt proud of what he was doing.  Worf smiled and he stuck
his big dick in Q's face. 

Q smiled back. 

He felt safe with Worf, and that was strange.  Jean-Luc was only
in for moonshining, and he was one of the meanest men in all of
Fear Alley.  Worf was in for murder, but in some ways Worf was
much nicer than Johnny.  He told Q to fold towels to put under
his knees when he knelt to suck Worf off. 

And Worf never got angry when Q couldn't read his mind.  He never
got angry when Q did read his mind.  Q was surprised to discover
that Worf had a very pleasant side.  When he asked Worf to lie
next to him in his bunk, Worf was surprised and touched.   

And people respected Worf.  He'd been sent to jail over a matter
of honor.  Killing your wife's lover was considered pretty
high-class.  The other girls in the yard told Q he was lucky. 
After a while, Q was able to see what they were talking about. 
First Jean-Luc and now Worf.  
     
In his cell, Worf had a picture of a plump little white couple. 
His adoptive parents, he told Q.  Q stared.  It had only just
occurred to him that he had no pictures of his boys. Other
inmates had family pictures up, but he'd followed Jean-Luc's lead
and kept all personal mementos hidden from view.

Now he showed Worf the letters his sons had written him. 

One of them included a picture of a stick-figure Daddy in jail. 
It was obvious the boy was proud that his daddy was doing time. 
He sketched little drawings of his kids as he remembered them.  

Then Worf told Q about his father's job on the railroad.  He told
how his mother cooked something called latkes and how he, Worf,
would grate big piles of potatoes for her.  Worf loved latkes.  

So Q told Worf about his wife's cooking.  She was pretty good at
it.  When he came home to see his family, she would make great
feasts of potato salad and cornbread and black-eyed peas.  They
had great times in Worf's cell talking about Q's wife's cooking.  

"Macaroni and cheese?" Worf would ask avidly.

"Yep."  

"Tuna casserole?"

"Yep?"
 
"Spaghetti?"

Q lulled Worf to sleep with tales of the great meals he'd had. 
"Country ham with redeye gravy and biscuits.  RC cola.  Rhubarb
pie.  Watermelon.  Collard greens, pineapple upside down cake. 
Ham biscuits.  Chicken fried steak.  Scrambled eggs and Spam." 

"Man, when I get out, I'm going straight to Waffle Shack and get
me some of that.  What else?" 

"Cheese grits, chicken and dumplings, pecan pie."

"Macaroni salad?"

"Yep."  

"Fried apple pies?"

"Yep.  And she did not spare the lard when she fried them."

"She did not spare the lard?"  Worf always sounded wistful when Q
talked like that.  His wife -- ex-wife, he corrected himself --
couldn't cook for shit.  He told about stopping by fast food
joints on his way home so he'd be sure to have something worth
eating.  "She was good in the sack though.  Real hot.  The
hottest."

This was dangerous territory.  Q tried to hustle him past
thoughts of his wife in the sack.  "Can I kiss you, Worf?"

"No."

"Please?"

"Don't tell anyone."

They were sitting beside each other on the bottom bunk.  Q poured
everything he had into that kiss, snaking his hand down to caress
Worf's penis.  Worf moaned and pushed Q's head down.  Q sank to
his knees obediently.

Then he looked up at Worf.  "Would you like to try it a new way?"

It really wasn't a bitch's place to suggest something like that,
but the hot little look Q was giving Worf was making him even
harder.  

Q pulled off his pants and lay back down on his back.  "We've
never done it this way."  Then he pulled his knees up to his
chest.  

Worf slid his pants off and rolled on a rubber.  Before, he'd
said "bend over" and Q had bent over. This was new.  

Q reached over and took Worf's stiff cock and guided it into his
body.  Then Worf pushed himself in carefully.   Q's face was
openly yearning and he moaned out loud as Worf began to glide in
and out and in and out.  Then Q lifted his mouth up to Worf's for
a kiss; when Worf kissed him, he wrapped his legs around Worf's
waist and held Worf to him.

Worf was astonished at how pleasant it was to be wrapped in
strong arms.  With Q, he could use his full strength (which he
never could with his fragile little woman), and he could kiss Q's
lightly haired chest and enjoy the sounds of Q's passion.  

Worf was thrilled for the first time in years. He began to like Q
very much.


Q liked how happy Worf was, but he worried.  Was Johnny going to
make Q stay with Worf forever?  

Only one thing reassured Q, and that was that Jean-Luc didn't
seem to have another woman.  Nate Kurn had been moved into their
old cell, but Kurn was a hard man like Jean-Luc.  He was nobody's
girl.


Jean-Luc was keeping an eye on things, and he was having Kurn
keep an eye on things.

"Worf's a good man," Kurn said.  They were playing cards.  "He'll
do you fair because you're doing him fair.  And he hates men who
steal other men's women."

"I know."


A full moon.  

Worf turned his wolfish face to the window.  "Maybe I never got
as wild as I could have with my . . . ex-wife.  But a night like
this makes me feel wild.  Get naked, Q."

Q smiled at Worf.  And began to undress.  When he was completely
naked, he stood up and gripped the bars; then, he looked back at
Worf over his shoulder like a old-fashioned pinup.  "What do you
want me to do?"

Worf breathed out.  He couldn't look away.  Q had the perfect
ass, the perfect back.  All rosy cream skin and manly muscles and
delectable curves where the muscles ended.  And then there were
the long strong legs and long arms and beautiful hands.  

Q wasn't smiling.  He looked too hot to smile.  He must have
wanted Worf as much as Worf wanted him; otherwise he wouldn't be
standing there as alluring and patient and clearly yearning for
it as he was.  His hands reached up to grab the bars of the cell.

Worf swallowed.  He looked at the sweet perfect arc of Q's ass,
the vulvic promise of Q's wide mouth.  What if he were in Q right
that second as Q gripped the bars and writhed and stuck his ass
out to be grabbed and filled and reamed and Worf were biting Q's
broad shoulders and grabbing Q's narrow waist to pinion him up to
the hilt on Worf's hard-as-bone cock.   
"Let me have it," he growled.

"How do you want it?"

Worf looked around.  The light in the cell was strong,
bewitchingly so.  "By the bars, bitch, where you are now."

Q's eyes widened.  "They'll all see me."

"Yeah, that's how I want it."  And Worf pulled his jeans  off and
pulled on a slickened rubber and began to beat again Q as Q's
fists turned white on the bars.   "You're my cunt," he said
between lunges.  "Til Picard wants you back."  He lunged again. 
"Stick your ass out more."  

Q did.  He was naked and completely pliant.


In his cell, Jean-Luc could hear Q's soft groans and Worf's
hissed imprecations.  And if he leaned his head just the right
way, he could see the unfolding shadows, like a umbrella opening
and closing, of the two men in their cell.  He closed his eyes
and swallowed.  Q was facing outwards, his cock no doubt hard as
ivory, his shoulders and sides bruised from Worf's iron hands.  

Now Worf's groans were louder, and everyone could hear the jiggle
of the metal bars as Q was slammed against them.

Like Jean-Luc, everyone in Fear Alley was listening. Everyone in
Fear Alley was hot.  Everybody in Fear Alley was stiff.  Everyone
in Fear Alley wanted to get wet and sweaty and naked.

And then Worf bellowed and bellowed again, and the bars shook
once more and little rustles from the cell let everybody know it
was their turn now.

The next day in the yard, Jean-Luc stood alone.  He had every
confidence in himself.

Worf walked up to him.  

Everyone else in the yard feigned elaborate nonchalance.

"I want to thank you, Picard, for the loan of your woman."

Jean-Luc nodded, an emperor being paid tribute from an outland
nobleman.

"She is sweet.  Well-trained.  Obedient.  A credit to you." 
          
Jean-Luc nodded again.

"I know I will have to return her soon.  As a matter of fact, if
I were you, I could not have gone this long without it.  When
shall I have her pack?"

"End of the week, if that's not too soon."  Jean-Luc could afford
to be magnanimous. "Til then have you some fun with her.  Christ
knows there's little of that in this wasteland of a world."

When yard time was over, they all filed back in.  And Jean-Luc
caught Q's eye and nodded.  And then he said very softly but very
distinctly, "after supper in the laundry room ."
     
Q was waiting for Jean-Luc there in the steamy and gold haven of
Fear Alley's laundry room.

He had put unbuttoned his shirt to the waist and tied a white
handkerchief around his neck; he wanted Jean-Luc to want him more
than anything.

Jean-Luc stalked in and looked at Q.  

Q wanted to smile; he could see the pride in Jean-Luc's eyes over
his possession.

"I want some pussy," Jean-Luc whispered.

Q pulled the shirt completely off.  And then leaned over to strip
his pants and boots over.  Keeping an eye on the front of Jean-
Luc's jeans the whole while.

"Suck my dick first."

Q grabbed Jean-Luc's narrow hips and unzipped his pants and,
using his mouth, brought his erection out and began to take it
completely into his mouth, into his throat.

"Oh, Christ, not too much, let's save some for the fuck."

And he pushed Q down on a pile of white laundry bags.  Q opened
his legs and pulled his hips up to ease Jean-Luc's entry.

Jean-Luc pulled his pants down and got on his knees; oh, he was
so wet and Q was so ready that it was easy, he penetrated Q's ass
so easily, and it was better than he remembered. Slick and warm. 
And he pushed himself into Q again and again as Q moaned and
signed and writhed against him, holding his thighs open to get
all of Jean-Luc.  

And Jean-Luc could see all of Q beneath him, every inch of Q's
body, so full of sensations and delight, and in the golden light
it only made the fucking all the sweeter and he battered again
and again against Q until his orgasm poured out of him, leaving
him limp and helpless and breathless.

And Q followed him precisely.

In a moment, Jean-Luc leaned back to look at his lover. His
lover.  

Propped rosy and naked on the snowy laundry bags, with his white
neckrag and dark curly hair damp on his forehead, Q looked like a
God relaxing on a cloud, all outstretched arms and bitten lower
lip.

Jean-Luc tried to think of something to say.  "You do what Worf
says, all right, motherfucker?"

"Oh, yes, Jean-Luc!" Q breathed out.
     
*************************
       
They walked into the bar   it was dark, smoky, crowded.

Jean-Luc and Worf agreed that they would stand back while Q
walked in  first.  Heads turned.  Heads stayed turned. 

Q walked unconsciously  through the crowd.   

"You make me horny," several men said to him as he walked by.  Q
looked back at them and dimpled.  He thought that was a nice
thing to say.

"It looks like a long night," Jean-Luc said to Worf.

Q disappeared in the crush of men, in the back where the
restrooms were.

"Worf, close in."

Worf did.  

Jean-Luc sat there.  One beer.  And that was all.  He  watched
the predatory crowd.  Someday he and Q would not have to face a
world like this.  Til then, sacrifices were made.

He heard a growl.  Worf?

No, it was from a table near him, not near the restrooms.

"You were a-cheatin, partner," said a rough-looking character.

"Not at all, sir.  I do not cheat.  I was simply using the
simplest of  mathematical principles," said a very refined male
voice.

The bar erupted in growls.

One of the bartenders looked at the other; then he took off his
apron and went out on the floor.

"That old boy was a-cheatin' me," said somebody to the bartender.
     

"I knew we would have trouble with you.  I could tell it. You're
not one of us, feller; so amscray."

Jean-Luc yawned.  He couldn't see the so-called cheater.  As he
well knew, these hillbillies would use any excuse for a fight.
Fights gave hillbillies big hard-ons. 

"I am like you," said the refined voice emphatically if
unemotionally.

Boos.  Hisses.  Jeers.  Catcalls.

There was a commotion, and Jean-Luc saw the owner of the voice. 
A  small slender man, younger, dark-haired, careful-
looking.  No doubt,  some weird con-man.

Who looked slightly forlorn as he picked up his pack.  Well,
screw him, he wasn't the only one with problems.

Then Jean-Luc saw he was carrying a violin case.  

And was being followed by two beetle-browed sore losers.

They touched the small man on the elbows.  He looked terrified. 
His light-colored, almost transparent eyes were wide with fear.   

A violin case.

Jean-Luc slid off his bar stool and embraced this unknown
violinist.  "Hey, cuz, long time no see.  Who are your little
friends?"

The two assailants were taken aback.

Jean-Luc withdrew from the embrace and stared at them.  "Do you
have  business with my cousin?"

"Jean-Luc, is everything all right?"  

The sore losers turned around and found themselves facing Worf. 
His hat made him looked close to seven feet tall.

"You remember my cousin, who plays the violin," Jean-Luc's voice
had an amused undertone.

The two other men looked at each other and nodded once.  Then
they melted into the crowd.

"Where's Q?" Jean-Luc had to know that first.

"Back there.  Doing very well."

Jean-Luc looked at the light-eyed man with the violin case. "Yes,
I  thought tonight would be lucky."
 
*************************

Money.  A fiddle player named Dave.  Jean-Luc was impressed; he
had won that round.

And Dave was now saying, "I regret, sir, that I will not have the
opportunity to play with you.  I think I should go into hiding, 
perhaps."

"Well, now, Dave, if you think you need a ride out of town, we
have a little room in our car."  The boy had an interesting look,
and if he were any good on that violin of his . . .

"Oooh, yes," Q was saying in his bubbly way.  "It'll be tight,
but you can go with us.  And then maybe we could even play
together later."

"That is most kind, sir.  If you are leaving town, as you say, it
is probably wise that I accept your offer."

Jean-Luc and Q exchanged glances.  Dave had a very peculiar way
of speaking.  Jean-Luc held out his hand.  "Jean-Luc Picard."

Dave took it.  "John Luke?"  He tried again, in a perfect French
accent.  "Jean-Luc?"

"I'll be damned.  Where'd you learn to do that?"

"At... In my father's house."  Whatever he'd been about to  say,
he'd obviously thought better of it. 

Jean-Luc looked Dave over.  He was trim.  He had dark brown hair
and pale hazel eyes that looked almost yellow in certain lights. 
His skin was very fair.  Jean-Luc also noted that, when Q saw him
look at Dave, Q's own expression turned sad.  Good.  He was still
angry  with Q for fucking Worf that morning.  

"Tell me about your violin, Dave."  He walked Dave out to the
Impala,  pausing only to pick up his suitcase.  "Q," Jean-Luc
called over his shoulder, "get the rest of the boys and come on
out."                  

Dave was quite the little chatterbox.  He and Geordi hit it off
right away. Q and Jean-Luc exchanged glances again.  They talked
such advanced music theory  that the rest of the boys were quite
left out.  In the rear view mirror, Jean-Luc could see that Will
was sleeping on Worf's shoulder.  Dave was on the front seat,
half turned around so he could argue with Geordi.  Q was 
listening intently.  

Jean-Luc knew he couldn't understand half of what was being said,
but Q had a head for learning.  Give it a little time and Q would
have it down.   Dave's leg was pressed against his.  It was all
he could do not to take his hand off the wheel and slide it up
Dave's thigh.  A pleasant thing: being right beside a brand new
boy who knew nothing.  He wasn't in the band yet, but Jean-Luc
had a feeling Dave could be persuaded.  The boy had told them
that he'd left home because he was curious as to what else there
was to the world besides his father's house.  

"I began to become aware of being stultified, and I wished to
leave."

In the rearview mirror Geordi was nodding, saying he understood
completely.

"Dave, I would like to hear you play.  You think you could  give
us a tune next time we stop?" 

"I would be pleased to do that, Jean-Luc.  You have been more
than generous."  

All the seeing boys exchanged glances.   

When they pulled over, he opened up his violin case and resined
up his bow with utter willingness, but the music that came out
was completely unfamiliar to Jean-Luc.  He glanced  from face to
face.   Almost everyone had a blank, distracted expression. 
Geordi was leaned forward a bit, a little wrinkle of
concentration on his face.  He was smiling, nodding along in time
to the beat--the only one of them who recognized the tune.

Data's fingers on the violin were quick and sure, and Geordi
clapped furiously when he was done.  The others followed suit in
a half-assed fashion.

"Geordi, why don't you play something for Dave.  Or even maybe
you two could play together."

Q gave him a keen look.   Q knew what Jean-Luc was up to.  

After Will and Worf set up his guitar, Geordi played the same
melody that Data had.  He riffed on it, kissed it goodbye and
then came back to flirt with it some more.  He smoked.   When he
was done, Dave bowed to him.  "Sir, I am Salieri to your 
Mozart."

Well.  Jean-Luc had no idea what that meant, but Geordi
apparently  did.  He smiled widely and shook his head.  "Not at
all, Dave.  You were terrific.  I've never heard such  technical
precision." 

"I would like to learn your improvisational techniques.  Will you
teach me?"

It was just the break Jean-Luc was listening for.  "I bet he'd be
happy to teach you, Dave, but we're a traveling band.  Now, if
you  wanted to come with us and play with us, Geordi here would
have a  chance to show you how he does that.  Right, Geordi?"

"Right, Jean-Luc."

"How about it, Dave?  Want to join?"

Dave looked at him.  He nodded like a person unused to making 
decisions for himself.  "Very well.  I will do so."  He turned to
look straight at  Geordi.  "I relish the opportunity to acquire
more data."

"I relish the opportunity to acquire more data.  Yes. Mr. Data."  
Jean-Luc's eyes were soft and alert; his eyebrows lifted. "In
fact, I  want to stuff you so full of data it'll make your head
swim." 

The boy appeared not to catch Jean-Luc's innuendo.  Did he really
not get it?

In an ideal world, Geordi and the boy they would forever after
call Data would have each other, just as Jean-Luc had Q and Worf
had Will.  Geordi would no doubt be willing to get his that hot
little fireplug dick up Data pronto.   But how to get this across
to Data without scaring him away?  

Well, everybody liked fucking; it would happen.
       
*************************

So. Sitting around the campfire. Singing old songs.  Laughing. 
Relaxing.  

"Data, you do know Q and Worf and I met in prison?"

"Yes sir."

"And that's where Q and I became lovers."

"Then you are homosexuals."

"We certainly are.  Q," hoping the brainless beauty Q would pick
up the cue, "Q, tell Data some of our prison adventures.  I think
our colleagues would find them provocative."
     
Q looked surprised.  "Well," he began, "I remember one time when
one of the meanest men in prison paid us a surprise visit.  It
was late summer and it was so hot your clothes stuck to you and
you had to peel them off.  We used to bring cold water back from
the showers to cool ourselves off with." 

Jean-Luc bit back a hiss of annoyance.  He wanted to shout, 'Not
this story, Q.  Pick a fuck story, for Christ's sake!'  Jean-Luc
knew there was nothing of eroticism in this tale, at least,
nothing Data could pick up on.  There was sex and sensuality but
it hadn't quite ended up that way.   

That night he'd been watching Q who lay like Goya's Maja in  the
lower bunk with his arms behind his head, damp curly knots of
hair under his arms, his head tilted to Jean-Luc who was sitting 
barechested and smiling at him.  And Q's perfect skin was pinker
than Jean-Luc's pale skin, and the coins of skin around his
nipples were copper-colored, and Jean-Luc was pleased to imagine
the creamy pink-tipped  petalled rose their bodies would form
when he fucked Q.        

"Hello, boys."  

Jean-Luc had jumped to his feet.

Sisko unlocked the cell and he and his enforcers walked in.   But
Sisko hardly needed his men with him; his eyes showed he was
genuinely dangerous tonight. "Your bitch is the devil's daughter,
Picard.  Turn her over before she drives me crazy."

"No."  

"Yes.  And you can have her back when we're through.  What's left
of her."   

It had come to that.  Jean-Luc would have to die for Q. 

To either side of Sisko, the enforcers tensed as Jean-Luc shifted
his body into a defensive crouch.  He was ready to fight, and
they seemed to look forward to showing off for their boss. 
Jean-Luc  prepared himself for the battle of a lifetime, even if
he was doomed.

No one noticed that the cell door was still open.  

And someone slipped in.

What?

Then Worf took his place beside Jean-Luc and folded his arms
across his chest.  "I hate."  He glared at Sisko.  "Home
wreckers."

The enforcers looked worried.  It would have taken time but they
could have defeated Jean-Luc eventually.  But Worf was a big
beautifully-built man, with huge pectoral muscles and a slim
muscular waist, and having to defeat Worf and Jean-Luc would be
difficult.

Jean-Luc watched Sisko reassess the situation in light of this
unexpected turn.  Sisko's eyes moved to Q (who was right now
cringing on his bunk as alluring as an oasis) and then turned to
rake coldly over Jean-Luc's battle-ready posture. 

Sisko looked at his enforcers.  Who looked warily at him.  He 
looked again at Picard. He didn't look at Worf; he didn't want
Worf to know he noticed him.  He hit his fist into the palm of
his other hand.   And then he did it again.   He turned to the
nearest enforcer.  And laughed.  Unnerved, the enforcer laughed
with him.  Then Sisko nodded to the other enforcer,  indicating
that he too should share this rare jest.

"So you have turned out Mr. Worf,  Johnny," said Sisko.  "I
understand.  I really do.  I understand what  you're doing now. 
I understand that a man needs what a man needs.   Right, Mr.
Worf?"

Worf said nothing.

Sisko had put his hands to his face and then he lifted his head
with his eyes closed: "I have a vision.  I have a vision.  You
win tonight.  But it's not over.  No, not by a long shot, Johnny. 
We will meet again."

And he marched out, his men behind him, glowering as if to make
up for the nothing they had done.

Jean-Luc turned to look at Worf, a hard, sober look of gratitude. 
He looked at Q.  He knew now that he if he ever let his guard
down someone would take her from him.

"Worf, since you're here, why don't you bring your banjo over and
you can teach Q some chordings."

"Good idea."

And they huddled together that night til lights out while Worf
played Ernest Tubb songs for them.


Jean-Luc wanted to slap Q's big stupid face.  To Q, it was
wonderful that night had begun an undying friendship between Worf
and Jean-Luc.  

Stupid fucking story made Jean-Luc nervous.  All it meant was he
owed Worf.

Well, they still had gigs to go to.  Surely, one of those nights,
Data and Geordi would catch on. 

**************************

The next night, Jean-Luc decided to do something slightly
different:  "Worf, didn't you have a particularly hot boyfriend
in prison?'

Data's head ticked in a surprised way.

Unlike Q, Worf was very dependable about his cues: "One time in
the pen, this same Sisko came to my cell and said: 'I have a
present for you, Worf.'" 

Jean-Luc and Q had heard the story before, Geordi and Data
listened with mouth and eyes wide open, and Will could 
never hear this story too many times.  

*************************

One night, Worf had looked up from his banjo to see Sisko
standing in the door of his cell with two other men.

"Mr. Worf, I was very impressed by what you did the other night
for Picard. How will he repay you, I wonder?"

"My services are free," Worf had told him.  

"A genuinely dear attitude.  But that event made me realize  that
you might not be the man I thought you were.  I had always
figured you for a totally straight man doing straight time.  But
things are different in here   that's why we're the way we are,
right?" 

"Perhaps."  

"See these boys?"

Worf put down his banjo and crossed his arms.  

"They're my finest.  Boys, unbutton your shirts.  Because of my,
you might say, intimate understanding with O'Brien, I get to
cruise the holding pen whenever I want to. Most of the young ones
are not very interesting, but every now and then a Portugese
diamond falls through the cracks and I snatch him up.  I got
these lovelies that way.  They quite rival Picard's lady, don't
you think?   This is Hawke, he's brand new."  Hawke was tall and
pouting and dark-haired and well built; his shirt was open and a
line of hair ran between his chest  muscles down his stomach to
disappear suggestively in his jeans. Then Sisko turned to the
other boy. "And this of course is the most notorious little lad
in Fear Alley.  My  favorite.  Yes, the captain's own personal
baby."  Sisko kissed the young man on the cheek, and the young
man gave Worf his famous lewd smile.  "Son, introduce yourself."

The boy slid his eyes to Sisko.  "Not much to say, really.  Just
that my name is Wesley and I like to take it up the ass.  I like
to suck it too.  And I like big black guys the best."  

Worf had closed his eyes.  A man could only take so much
temptation.  "What's the catch?"

"None."

"What's the cost?"

"None.  Consider this an acknowledgment that I have found new
things  in you.  Useful, beautiful things.  Which one do you
want?" 

"Wesley," Worf had growled.

*************************
       
"What a hot story," Jean-Luc said, not unhopefully.   "Q, let's
go for a long midnight stroll."
                                                       
He nodded at Worf, who said:  "Will, let's do the same."  

"Oh, yes," Will was breathless, "tell me again about that first
night with Wesley.  How it went on til dawn.  How he cried real
tears."

"Seven times in the two nights I had her," Worf said and smiled
as he led Will into the woods.  He remembered how peevish Sisko
had been when his enforcers had had to carry the swooning Wesley
back to his cell.  But what had Sisko expected?

       
In two hours, they all came back, making lots of noise so as to
alert the newlyweds.

Geordi and Data were sitting in the same places, clothes
unrumpled, by the fire.  Chatting happily. 
                         

The next night in a different camp, the Boys decided to go get 
groceries in the car, leaving Geordi and Data to watch the camp. 
They reasoned that that would give Geordi and Data time alone to
sort things out.
 
When they came back, four hours later, Geordi had taught Data
three new songs; they gleefully performed them for the other
Boys, who watched, stunned.
       

The other four met: "What can we do, short of forcing them to
fuck?"

"You know what makes me super-hot?" said Will.

Worf rolled his eyes.

"This!" and he held out a magazine: it had been printed in
bright, inaccurate colors, and it showed men and women, their
skin the color of cured salmon, in all sorts of sexual congress. 
"I found it at a construction site in Tulsa.  Let's show them
this!" 

"Oh, Will," Q sighed heavily,  "Geordi can't even see. . . " 
       

Worf sought Jean-Luc out.  They stood together, away from the
others. 

"I want some of that Data," Worf said.

Jean-Luc nodded.  "Who doesn't?"

"He's different from our women.  He's little. He's got a tiny
ass.  I  like that "  Worf breathed in.  "Will is my woman. 
Nothing will change that.  But sometimes."  He breathed out
again.  "Other. Pussy.  Beckons."

"I'm in complete agreement.  Tell you what, we could take turns."

Worf made a sound deep in his throat.  Then he said:  "May I
suggest . . ."

"Yes, Worf?"

"Get the hottest puss in the land and let Data learn from that." 

Jean-Luc looked at him.
                       

Q was obedient.  That night, he took Data for a walk in the
woods.  When they were away from the campfire light,  he turned
to Data and pulled him into a loose embrace.  "I want to show you
how we do things around here.  We all love one another.  Like
this."  He tilted Data's face up for a kiss.  

Q was a good kisser.  Data accepted this passively for several
moments, and then it was as if Q could hear a gear click in
Data's skull, and suddenly Data was kissing him back, wild
open-mouthed kisses, all tongue, just like his own.

"Does this mean I am now homosexual as well?" Data broke off the
kiss to ask. He was breathing very heavily. 

"Would it bother you?"  

"I do not know.  I must experiment further."  He tilted his face
up again and let his open mouth press against Q's.  Pressure
built slowly as their tongues wound around one another.  Data
sucked on Q's lips and suddenly his body lost all its tension,
melting into Q's as he rubbed his groin against Q's penis quite
by instinct.  When they broke off again, they were both panting
heavily.    

There was no one more virginal than Data, but he was learning
from one of the finest whores in all the land.  He absorbed Q's
seductive wiles almost by osmosis -- the melting eyes; those hot,
deep, sweet kisses; the blushing smile; the way he wrapped his
arms around Q's neck and twined himself against him with sinuous,
irresistible grace.

"Data," Q caressed Data's firm small ass.  "Have you ever had sex
before?"

Data blushed but shook his head.  One night he had found a book
in his father's library.  It had copious illustrations and he had
felt most odd looking at it.  But then his father had walked in
on him, and said, "I think we can do a little better than that,"
and had given him a physics text. 

Data had tried to forget the little book (which in any event
wasn't there when he went to look for it again), but he had
not been entirely successful.

"I want you to fuck me."  Q broke away and pulled off his shirt.  
Data followed suit.  Then they were both nude, their penises
standing firmly away from their bodies, and Q lay down and pulled
Data on top of him.  

end section 12 
"Give me your hand."  He put Data's fingers in his mouth and
licked them thoroughly.  He lifted his legs and held them wide
apart.  "Now put your fingers inside me," he instructed.  "First
one, then two."   

Data was good at this.  He moved them in and out without being
told.  He found Q's prostate quite by accident and massaged it
gently as he discovered the effect his manipulations had.  Q was
rather undone. 

"You sure you've never done this before?"

Data smiled his pleasure.  The grass was very soft; the sky was
sparkling.  Their bodies were beautiful.  

The tiny bit of saliva didn't provide a great deal of
lubrication, but it was enough to get Data inside Q.   He had to
be instructed, but not for very long.  He rolled Q's hips until
they were angled comfortably for him, and then pushed in again
and again.  It was over in less than a minute, and Data was a
trembling, shivering mass of sensation.    

"My God," he whispered.  "I've never, ever felt anything like
that."  He collapsed next to Q, breathing heavily.  In his mind
he went over every second of the last half hour.  He thought he
might be in love.  

"Did you like that?"

"Yes!"  Data sat up to stare at Q.  He noticed that Q was still
erect, but he wasn't sure what to do next.  "Is there not a
principle of reciprocity to be applied here?  You have not
climaxed."

Q thought a minute.  He would never force anybody, not even a
little bit.  "Would you let me to do that to you?  You don't have
to if you don't want to."

Data swallowed.  "That is a somewhat intimidating thought. You
appear to be roughly 80% larger than I am."

Q didn't know quite what to say.  "I'm as God made me."  He
paused.  "As are we all."  

Data's eyes narrowed. 

"How about this, Data,  I'll stay on my back and you can sit on
top of me.  It might be better that way."

"But your penis is dry. I anticipate a great deal of discomfort."

Q smiled.  "I'll show you what to do."  He held his penis out to
Data.  "Kiss it."

"Very well."  He kissed the tip of Q's penis.

"Now lick it.  Just a little to get used to the taste."

Data complied experimentally.  His head jerked up in surprise. 
"It tastes good!"

Q smiled in relief.  This was going to work.  "Do some more.  Get
it good and wet."

"Ah, I begin to understand.  Copious amounts of saliva should
provide an effective lubrication." 

He bent his head to Q's penis once more and then raised it again
to comment:   "If I apply a substantial amount here," He licked
the tip.  "It should theoretically spread more evenly when I..."

"Data," Q interrupted, "please stop talking."

Data stopped talking.  After a while he lifted his head again. 
"Now?"

"Soon."  Q was breathless.  Data's tongue job was endearingly
enthusiastic  if a little clumsy, and Q was extremely
aroused.  He spit on his fingers and slipped two of them inside
Data's body, massaging gently.  Finally Data moved on top of him,
squatting over Q's hips, taking his penis in gentle fingers and
guiding it in.   

"It hurts."  He sounded surprised.  

"Go slowly.  Try to move around in tiny circles, like you did for
me."

"It hurts!"

"Stop if you want."  Q was holding Data's elbows, guiding him,
supporting him, but not pushing him.

"I don't, oh!  Wish to stop.  I... Oh, God!" Data's whole body
shook as his sphincter spasmed around Q's cock.  "It hurts, oh,
Q, it hurts."  But he was pushing himself down on it, adjusting
his body around it, gasping, biting his lips, shuddering with
sensation and emotion and the novelty of it all.  "Ooooh."  His
cheeks finally touched Q's thighs and he rested there, shaking a
little, wondering what to do next. 

Q helped him, pushing his hips up, grinding a little.  "Oh, yes,
Data, you feel so good."

It still hurt. The fullness of it was the most unusual sensation
Data had ever experienced.  He wasn't sure he liked it, and,
though he did not believe he'd been damaged, he decided he did
not want to repeat this act, even as he began to move, shutting
his eyes to savor the experience more fully.  "It hurts," he
wailed softly, rising up and sinking down again.  "It hurts," he
whimpered, increasing the pace.  "Oh, God it hurts so good!"  His
mind processed the sensations, standing back and watching in
wonder as his body took over as if it had been programmed for
this very thing.  His teeth were gritted, he was sweating, his
breath was puffing out from between his cheeks, and, as he felt
the giant cock slamming into him, his imagination increased it in
size until it was the size of a telephone pole, and it still
wasn't big enough.  He wanted more.  He huffed and panted,
gripping Q's arms with sweaty hands, grinding against him
frantically.  

He began to pull at himself again.  The double stimulation of
cock up his ass and his own fingers on his dick made his ears
ring.  And he could do this again any time he wanted.  He jerked
himself off, coming again quickly, nearly fainting with the
ecstasy of it.  

"Let's roll over," Q whispered, and he wrapped his long legs
around Data and flipped him easily so that now Data was
on his back and Q was slamming into him, and Data was riding the
aftermath of his second orgasm, thrusting his hips up to meet
him, loving every bit of it.  The cock in his ass touched him
everywhere.  He felt it in his head, he felt it in his arms, he
felt it in his legs, his fingers, his nipples his mouth.  His
mouth.  He opened his mouth and lifted it up to Q, and Q leaned
over and shut his eyes and kissed him and moaned and came.

The night was suddenly amazingly silent.  Data realized that he'd
been shouting and had just now stopped.  Funny how his mind
hadn't even registered the noise.  He realized that he must have
been clearly audible to the men around the campfire.  He wondered
if he cared.  

       
The next day Data said to Will.  "Have you ever experienced oral
copulation?"  

Will laughed, and Data was abashed.  

Geordi spoke for Will,  "Yes, once or twice."

And Q added, "a day."  

Geordi went on,  "Don't feel bad.   Let's just say you and Will
are on opposite ends of the experience spectrum."
 

Later, Jean-Luc wanted him.   "Let's see what Q's taught you,"
and he took Data to bed.  Data made his head swim with his
innocence. His little ass was tight and firm, and he fucked like
Q but without that undertone of panic Q always had.  For that
reason, Jean-Luc was not completely sad to let Worf have his
turn.  Data was not scared of Worf either.  "This is a very nice
array of pleasures.  I like dick," he  told Worf as he sat on top
of him, rocking insistently.  Worf felt like screaming and he
could barely breathe.


Then, somehow, they woke up someday and Geordi and Data were
sharing a sleeping bag.

Data yawned and said, "Geordi, let me help you refresh yourself. 
There is an appropriate place seventy-five meters away."  And he
and Geordi walked away holding hands.

"You think they've started fucking?" Jean-Luc whispered.

"I don't know about the fucking, but they're lovers."  

Jean-Luc gave one of his dark smiles.

"Daddy," Q whispered.  "We can do the fucking.   How about if I
get a ride on your magic mountain."

"Oh, God," Jean-Luc said.

*************************

Will tried to take a turn with Data, but Worf socked him and Will
subsided.

"Geordi, why is Worf permitted to hit Will?" 

"Worf owns him."

"Is slavery not illegal?"  

"Not around here."
     
**************************

For weeks Jean-Luc's dick was in a state of permanent swell.  He
had a harem like Sisko.  He was leader and father and owner. 
Very satisfying.

And a man could make good money like that.  

Right after prison, someone in a bar had come up to Jean-Luc. "I
know you own that one," he said.  He had a raspy voice, long
dirty blond hair.  "A good top can't fool a good top.  I'll  give
you fifty if I can have some."   

"What are you talking about?", Jean-Luc said lazily.

"Your big boyfriend.  With the huge package.  With the hot
mouth."

They both looked at Q who was standing against the wall.  Talking
innocently to some old man.  Q's jeans were very tight, and, as Q
talked, he kept biting his finger.

"Christ.  Christ.  Christ," said the first man.  "Name your
price."

"He's mine.  Maybe I don't want him to spread his stuff around."  

"Oh, motherfucker, you can watch.  I up my offer to a hundred.  I
get him.  And you get to watch everything I do."

It was a bargain for both of them; Jean-Luc went to get Q.

The man had a little room somewhere.  "I don't want the wife to
know.  He's jealous a lot."

"Everybody's using rubbers," Jean-Luc announced.

"Does this big stroke of good luck know how to put them on with
his mouth?" the man asked.  And then he made Q get naked.  Q's
face was pink as if he were near tears, but he complied.  

"Look at that.  How do you find time to eat and sleep and work? 
I'd be in that 7-2-4-3-6-5.  Get on the bed.  On your back."  Q
did, and the man started pounding away.  "Tell him to jerk off,"
he said to Jean-Luc in an unemotional voice.

"You heard him," Jean-Luc said.  This was actually pretty hot. 

Q was pulling at himself   always a nice thing to see   and the
man kept turning to look at Jean-Luc with a small smile
playing on his face.  He was finished quickly; by this time, Q's
face was wet with tears, although he made no sound.

"Here's your hun, man.  It was worth it."  

"Thanks."

"Listen, I really want to see you both again.  Meet me again at
the bar next week, okay?  The name's Art, Art Baran."

"Sure. We'll be there."


They were, but the man wasn't.  "Guess the wife got to him,"
Jean-Luc said.

The bartender leaned over.  "See that gray-haired guy right
there.  He has a deal for you."  

And that started that.  Q now had a new part-time job.  It was
very handy for getting the music career started; among other
things, they used the money he made to repair the Impala.

(Q even sent a little of it to Beverly.  But Jean-Luc wouldn't
let him send too much, because he had already read her beads.
Just another whore, despite Q's idiot babbling:  "Oh, Jean-Luc,
she's needs money for our boys.")

********************************

It was their first Christmas together!  Q took a little money and
went to a dollar store to buy some Christmas cheer.  Now he
looked around the campsite.  Red marshmallows!  Green
marshmallows!  Gold coins filled with chocolate crisps!  Perhaps
Jean-Luc and Worf might be indifferent, but Geordi and Data and
Will would at least appreciate the effort.

They could even sing their favorite Christmas carols!

Q was determined to make this Christmas better. 


Last Christmas had been awful.

Last Christmas had been one thing after another.  

They had been in Harlan County, the car was making funny noises,
and Jean-Luc was looking grimmer each second as he stood by the
car with his arms crossed.  Watching Q like a hawk. 

Because he was pissed at Q.

Q had lied to him.  But there had been no choice, really.   

They had been in a squalid juke joint earlier, singing for a few
drunks, when someone new walked into the bar.  

They clocked him.  Just another loser.  Sad and fat, with thick
glasses.   

But he never took his eyes off Q.

During the break, Jean-Luc went to talk to him.

Q had sighed.  He knew what was up.

Before the last set started, Jean-Luc had looked directly at Q
and said "Fifteen dollars, Q, fifteen dollars more than we would
have had."

And, after the set, Q and the sad loser had gone out to the sad
loser's car.  

"You're the prettiest thing I've ever seen," the loser breathed. 

"Thank you," said Q.

"Your . . . friend said you'd do it for fifteen dollars."

Q nodded sadly.

"Then I can . . .?" asked the loser delicately.

"What would you like?" said Q timidly.

"You could just show me it."

Q unzipped himself; he wasn't hard at all.  He began to will
himself to be aroused.  Jean-Luc.  Prison.

"My God," said the loser, as Q wordlessly handed him a rubber. 
The loser knew the drill,  and he leaned over and began to take Q
in his mouth.

Q was mighty confused.  Would he still get paid?  He wasn't doing
anything.  

The loser looked up.  In the soft light of the late winter
afternoon, he didn't look quite so awful.  "You don't like that?"

Q shut his eyes.  "Of course, I do.  It feels so good, baby.  Do
it some more."

And as the loser wound his mouth and tongue around Q's cock again
and again, Q tried to make hard.  Jean-Luc.  Prison.  At a
campground the night before, Jean-Luc grabbing Q's hands and
opening Q's legs.  Jean-Luc once in the backseat of the Impala --
Worf was driving, Jean-Luc presented himself and made Q suck him
off in the back seat

"Oh, my," breathed the loser as Q's true magnificence revealed
itself.  "Oh, my, I have never . . ." and he dived back in. 

Jean-Luc and himself in an outdoor shower, kissing and embracing,
himself above Jean-Luc, their hard-ons stabbing at one another,
kissing, hugging, and Q began to come as the loser frantically
tried to engulf every inch of him.

Then they both sat back stunned.        

Q was panting, but he leaned in and kissed the loser who
frantically kissed back, his awkward wet tongue thrusting again
and again. 

Finally they came up for air.  

The loser gaped at Q. "Your friend said you'd do it for fifteen
dollars.  Here it is." He handed Q two damp bills.

Q looked at them.  A wrinkled five and a more wrinkled ten.

And it was Christmas.

"You were so good I ought to pay you," Q said.

The loser stared at him.

"Really, I can't take your money.  Thanks. Merry Christmas."  And
Q climbed out of the car.  As he walked away, he heard the car
slowly move away.

Now to face Johnny.

Who was waiting with Worf at their car.

"Can you believe it?  That no-good . . . stiffed me?" Q said in
what he hoped was a jaunty manner.

Jean-Luc's arms were crossed.  "Indeed."

He knew.  Q knew he knew.  And Jean-Luc knew Q knew.

"Only for five bucks.  Look, here's the ten I got," Q said
hopefully.  Taking out the secret stash he was saving to send his
sons.  

And after all that, it still took four dollars and thirty five
cents just to call his boys on Christmas eve.

Four dollars and thirty-five cents that Jean-Luc said he was
going to take out of Q's ass.

Four dollars and thirty-five cents to make a call with a
connection so bad Q finally told the boys he was at the North
Pole with Santa and the static they heard was just the Arctic
wind blowing.

"Let's go around a circle," Q said to the other Boys , "and share
our happiest Christmas memories."

There was a great silence.  They stared at him curiously.

"One time I saw one of Sisko's whores give himself a blow job on
Christmas Eve.  He was so skinny he could do it," Jean-Luc
finally responded.  "Does that count?"
 
*************************

In January, they found a nearly abandoned campground; they were
the only people around for miles.  The park was their world. 
Pine trees.  A beautiful mirroring lake.  Somewhere always the
evocative smell of burning wood.  

And in their park, they sang together.   They suggested old songs
together and were surprised at how many they shared memories of. 
They hated some of the same, they loved some of the same. 

Then a curious park ranger drove by on his three-wheeler.  Jean-
Luc tensed.  There always had to be one sonofabitch who . . . 

The ranger smiled and nodded and drove on.

By midafternoon, they had their new songs down,  and they cut
loose and sang and played them full out, there among the pines.  

They hadn't noticed him, but the park ranger was back, this time
on foot.  

They froze.

He smiled.  He was a pleasant-looking man with blondish hair,
soft pink features.  He reached behind a rock and brought out a .
. . large cooler.  And opened it.  It was filled with sandwiches
and soft drinks.

"I gotta tell you, that's the prettiest music this side of
heaven.  Will you join me?  You deserve a break after all that. 
My wife made these sandwiches.  I guess you can tell by looking
at me that she's a really good cook."  He patted his stomach.

Q was first.  "Thank you.  Thank you so much."

Then they all smiled and pretty soon everyone was sitting and
eating and drinking as if they were on the most normal picnic
ever. 

"I mean it.  You're a great band.  Do you have a record?"

"Not yet.  We just started," Jean-Luc said.  He was being
surprisingly gentle to the ranger.  "These are good sandwiches."

"You deserve to make it.  You really do.  Will you be here
tomorrow?  I have two little boys -- four and six," he smiled, 
"we're expecting a third   I'd like to bring them out here.  Th
ey both sing in the church children's group.   I want them to
hear as much good music as they can."

"I'm sorry.  We have to hit the road.  We're trying to make
enough money from club gigs to buy a used van or bus, and we've
got what looks like a promising job about seventy-five miles down
the road."  Jean-Luc was surprised at how normal it sounded.  It
was true but . . . normal.

"Well, maybe you'll be around here some other time."

"We will try," Worf said.


Nothing as simple and sweet had ever happened to them before.

*************************

Jean-Luc was driving them to the gospel gig in Roan Mountain, 
North Carolina. 

What the . . . 

The Impala was acting strangely   the temperature gauge was
fluctuating wildly.  They all got out.

Surely Will could cure it.  The others stood back; Will  opened
the hood   steam rolled out and they couldn't see him for a
moment, and then the steam rolled back and they saw him grimacing
and clutching his arm.  

"Will," said Worf.  

"I'm all right. It's nothing.  It's really nothing."

"What is it?" said Jean-Luc, exasperated, concerned.

"Nothing.  Nothing, nothing, nothing."

His arm was badly burned.
       
The next day Will's arm was redder and he grimaced repeatedly. 
"Maybe he should see a doctor?" Q said timorously.

Jean-Luc's jaw was furiously working. "The next office we see,
we're pulling in.  He needs his arms.  WE can't do what we need
to do if he doesn't have his arms."

The sun was shining, it was a beautiful day, but there was a
certain desperation in the Impala. 

Finally a sign appeared: "Cumberland Clinic, Dr. Leonard McCoy
with Dr. Julian Bashir."  They pulled in the lot and stared at
the sign for a while.   

"Let's go in," Jean-Luc said tonelessly.

In the waiting room, Jean-Luc lied and said he would pay the
bills; he had no idea how.  He wasn't even sure how much money
they had. 

It was a long wait with much patience required.  Everyone watched
them and they watched everyone.  Occasionally, a child screamed
as it was being vaccinated. 

Finally one of the doctors came into the reception room. He was
tall and slender, foreign-looking.

And then he saw the Boys.  He looked at his nurse questioningly
and she looked back knowingly and pointed to Will's name.  "There
you go, Dr. Bashir," she said and smiled.

There were a hundred bumpkins ahead of Will, but Julian was
curious.

He called the name "Will Riker" and Will stood up.

Oh, my.

Julian was growing a bit weary of Leonard: his cigarettes, his 
amphetamines, his wheezing. 

"I can see you now," he murmured to Will.

Will followed him into the examination room.

"What's the situation, Mr. Riker?"

"I burned my arm on a radiator hose," Will said. He opened his
knees a bit, and Bashir's eyes flew there.  Will opened them
more. 

"Nurse, I don't think I need you for this.  Go on and run up
those rural VD stats  the government wants and I'll call you
if I need you."  

When she left, he locked the door.

"Let me see your arm first."

"I'll probably need a lot of painkillers."  Will reached down and
cupped Julian's ass tightly.

"Ohhhh," Julian groaned.

"Do you want me to top?" Will asked.

"Oh, Christ, more than anything."  Julian started unbuttoning his
shirt.

"Hey, I like your little boy ass."  Will was also undressing
rapidly.  "Get on the table.  Maybe we can play doctor."

"Oh, yes," Bashir said, "but this is our secret, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah   did you see the big black guy out there   he owns
me."  And Bashir was sitting naked on the exam table with his
legs around Will's solid waist.  And Will was all the way in and
Julian began to gasp and twist to get the most out of it. "Oh,
you're beautiful," said Julian, and he slid his wet lips against
Will's broad shoulder.

"So are you."  Will held Julian's shoulders and shook himself
against Julian repeatedly.  "Oh, God, can you come like this?"

"Grab me from the front."  And they were both coming and gasping. 
Julian had to steady himself, and it took a minute or his eyes to 
refocus. 

And just as Will leaned back, there was a knock. "Hoolio," said a
soft  voice.

"Fucking shit old man," Julian whispered. Louder: "What is it, 
Leonard?"

"I need in there now, boy."

"It's okay," Bashir whispered. "Leonard's one of us too.  To use
your rude country parlance, he *owns*  me.  Actually, he owns
everything.  He won't kill you, but he might want to join the
party."  And, as they reassembled their clothing, Julian unlocked
the door. 

"Got you a new patient, I see.  My oh my."  Leonard was skinny
and wheezy and old, but those poached-egg  eyes had seen it all,
and that was not un-sexy.  "What's the problem, Mr. . . " he
looked at the chart, "Will Riker?" 

"I burnt my arm on the radiator of a Impala."  Will showed him
the arm.

"Impalas never were no good."  The doctor folded his arms over
his scrawny  chest.  "You look pretty healthy to me, boy."  

In response, Will spread his knees.

"Nice.  What's with all those other girls out there?"

"We're a band. You've probably heard of us.  We're Jean-Luc and
the Magic Mountain Boys," Will said blissfully.   Fame!  Fuck
parties with rich doctors!   This was greater than he'd ever
hoped for! 

"Can't say that I have.  A famous band who drives an Impala, huh? 
I noticed two of 'em.  Who's the pretty one?"

"Q."

"And your bald-headed boss?" 
     
"How could you tell?"

"Baby, Ray Charles could read that.  He's Jean-Luc?"

"Yes."

Leonard left the examination room.  "Nurse," he said, "I want to
take the afternoon off, so you'll be the one dealing with the
patients.  Codeine all around, okay?  Just write out the receipts
and scribble my John Henry on it. Then send 'em over to my
pharmacy.  As per usual."   (It was a very synergistic work
place.)

Worf had gone out to the parking lot, he was under some stress,
but, in the waiting room, Q was sitting between Data
and Geordi and reading to them from a tattered "Good
Housekeeping."  "Can this marriage be saved,"  he said in his
dramatic baritone while Jean-Luc sat there like a stone.  

Oh, yeah, the whole fucking waiting room was now in love with Q
and his goddamn story.

Then Leonard came into the waiting room and eyeballed the band
again. 

Jean-Luc nodded at him. "Sir," said McCoy in a courtly manner and
inclined his head.

Jean-Luc rose and stalked back to an examination room.  "How's
Will?" he asked.

"Real good."  Leonard looked him over.

Jean-Luc crossed his legs, making the muscles in his thighs more
prominent.  

Leonard pressed his lips together, and his eyes raked Jean-Luc's
body.  "What do you boys need?"

Jean-Luc gazed steadily at the doctor.  He needed to drive, and
he needed to take the Boys with him.  That wasn't much to ask
from this hellhole of  a world.   And he could almost feel what
the old doctor wanted.  "What's our bill like?"

"It's serious without Medicare, and you sure don't look like
you're made  out of money.  What's with the radiator hose?"

"We're going to need a new vehicle.  That's no joke."   

"Maybe I could loan you a starter fee."

"I don't like loans, but I imagine we could barter," Jean-Luc
said.  

"Well, now, boy, what do you have that I might want?"

"I wonder," Jean-Luc said and undid the top of his jeans      "I
might have some medicine too."  Both men looked at each other. "I
could fuck you," Jean-Luc said.  These were high stakes.  It
would be worth being a whore for a little bit.  He gave the
doctor a tight smile.  

Q. 

Can this marriage be saved?

"I ain't no Miss America," Leonard said.

"Nonsense, I like an older ass.  When little Jean-Luc wants some
jump,  I don't want to have to go through that one-finger
two-finger song and dance."

"My lucky day."

Jean-Luc began to undress.  Slowly.  Pulling his shirt off over
his  head.  Taking off one boot and one sock at a time.  Peeling
those tight jeans down.  Now he stood there in his tight little
dark briefs.  He was distinctly hard.

And so there was one more thing that McCoy had to do.  He went
over to a cabinet and prepared a syringe.  Jean-Luc was taken
aback.  

"It's just Demerol, boy.  Mother's milk to me."

Jean-Luc said nothing.

"Boy, it takes a heap of dope to keep all Leonard's pots and pans
on the front burner," and, when he was through with the needle,
he began to take his pants off,  leaving the white jacket on.

"Oh, I like that," said Jean-Luc, "I like lifting clothes up"  
he grabbed McCoy's surprisingly limber and lean hips and began to
penetrate.  "You're sweet."

"Keep working that dick," McCoy said dreamily. He was touching
his own nipples through his jacket and shirt.  
               

And Julian and Leonard even had servants!   Their cook fixed 
beans and cornbread and green onions for the guests and, for
dessert, they had Moonpies and moonshine.   

A hounddog named Bones barked and bowed at the Boys; she clearly
loved company.

"Let Will stay til his arm gets better," begged Julian.

"Mr. Worf'll have something to say about that, boy."

"Oh, like he's number one and I'm just the second.  She told me
she's been freaking for seventeen years."  Julian had a pretty
amusing grasp of the idiom.

Will and Worf and Julian went in the bedroom, and in a few
minutes they came and got Geordi.  "You gotta see this number,"
Will was saying as Julian shut the door.

"Q, Data, you can go if you want to," Jean-Luc said in an amused
fashion.

"We want to play with Bones," said Q.

McCoy looked startled; probably the post-prandial dope was
kicking in.  "You got a fun-lovin bunch of boys there."   

"Fun's nothing new to you," Jean-Luc watched the emotions shimmer
on Q's face as Bones chased a red rubber ball   Data meanwhile
watched intently.  

"So how long were you in for?"

"It's that obvious?"

"Baby, even John Milton could see you're ex-cons."

Jean-Luc shrugged.  "Depends on which prison you mean."

"Give me some jailhouse fuck yarns."

And Jean-Luc told the one about the nimble Sisko whore, not
Wesley,  but another, older one who would take two in the ass at
once.

McCoy was not really impressed.

"Did you ever do that, McCoy?  Do two?  Give me a fuck story
too."

"I did do two.  I had two for a long time.  We were inseparable. 
Two that remind me of you and your girlfriend."  He inclined his
head to Q in the yard.  "One was a little bossy guy, big old
barrel chest like you.  Big hot thighs.  The other was like him,
tall and pretty and dark-eyed.   A real good-looking gal.  Had
the biggest one I ever saw."  He gestured at the size with his
hands, but what he indicated was impossibly romanticized.  "We
did it all, man, we did it all.  The good old days are a fact."

"Is that what you want?"

"Is that what you want?" said McCoy dreamily.

"We need money.  My traveling circus of big ready dicks will do
what  you want for money.  That's all there is to it.  You want
two at once, just tell me which two.  But I'll have to have
money."

"I don't want no two-at-once for me."  Then McCoy thought.  "But
I wouldn't mind seeing a couple of those old boys do Hoolio.  I
think that would be a right inspirational sight.  Yeah, I'd pay
five big go-go's to see that."  

"They'd have to be very big go-go's."

"All Leonard's go-go's are big."

"What's Julian going to think?"

McCoy paused for so long that Jean-Luc thought he had drifted out
of consciousness, but then he spoke: "Green card fever.  Hoolio
has green card fever.  He don't want to go back to emptying
bedpans on the Himavant.  He'll do what we say."
               

The Boys spent a night in simple pleasant amusement.    Worf and
Geordi were the designated two to do Julian.  The play of toned
skin on toned skin was gratifying, especially to Jean-Luc.
  


In spite of Julian's pleading, they had to leave the next
morning.  They had that gig. 

"These boys are good," McCoy said.  "Let's giv'em a going away 
present. Medicare pays for it.  Your tax dollars at work, good
buddy.   Write him a check for five large, boy."  He watched
Julian write one for five thousand dollars.  "Aw  hell, Hoolio,
we're not in Rawrawpindi no more    add another 10 kay to that."
                                        
"Fifteen thousand dollars," Julian said wonderingly.

"On that line there where it says what for   write 'project', no,
wait, write 'new project'.  I got pull with the  government. 
Yall come back, y'hear," he said airily and went in the  house.

"Whom do I make it out to?"

There was a silence, and then Q spoke: "Make it out to Magic
Mountain Boys Incorporated.  I'll incorporate us and do
the paperwork when we light somewhere."

Julian handed the check to Q; his eyebrows were circumflexed with
irony.  "That McCoy.  This is just the drugs talking," he waved
the check.  

"And I like what they have to say," said Jean-Luc.  "Girls, let's
hit the road."

Will and Julian embraced and kissed; no one missed how frantic 
Julian's embrace was.  

"Do come back, boys!" and he watched the Impala limp down the
road until it disappeared.  Then he went back in the house.  

Leonard was over at the wet bar. "I'm gonna mix me some Xanax
with my brandy and spike it with some of that Nyquil.  That ought
to do something."

"Don't forget your nitroglycerin," Julian said, and the way the
boy's  wicked mouth curled around the word "nitroglycerin"
made McCoy's  asshole pucker right up.

**************************


It was odd, the way the dee jay couldn't keep his eyes off
Jean-Luc.   His gaze kept wandering to just below Jean-Luc's belt
and then jerking away again, as if he couldn't quite permit
himself the pleasure of really checking out Jean-Luc.  

Jean-Luc was amused.  He posed for the man as they were
introduced all around, legs apart, hands on hips.

Brother Odo seemed to have trouble speaking.  He cleared  his
throat several times before he started his amiable studio patter. 
"So what do you boys call home?" 

The silence was embarrassing.  Fame would not be easy.  Then in a
rush Jean-Luc said "the world is my home" at the same  time that
Geordi said "home is in the music" and Q added "our home will be
heaven, someday, I know."

The scrawny disc jockey pushed his black glasses back on his
nose.   

"Brother Odo, we're from a little bit of everywhere," Jean-Luc
said.  "Let us sing a song or two for you." 

Then Jean-Luc's voice took over to the simple accompaniment of 
Geordi's guitar, and Brother Odo forgot to breathe. Jean-Luc
sounded as if every door that had been closed was opened.  

 "Oh well I'm tired and so weary 
 but I must go alone 
 til the Lord will come and call me call me away, oh yeah"

Then Q came in, 

"oh, the morning so bright and the lamb is the light  
  and the night, night is as black as the sea."  

And his soft fresh  baritone seemed to edge into a dark sadness.

Why?  

Because Jean-Luc had pointed a finger at Brother Odo and leaned
his head over, and Brother Odo and Jean-Luc left the studio and
the Boys had to keep singing. 

"Whoo yeah."  

And, as Jean-Luc pushed Brother Odo down behind the console where
he couldn't be seen, the voices of the other five blended into
one sad, yearning voice.  Then a distant yet relaxed look crossed
Jean-Luc's face.  

And Q continued in soft sorrow:

"There will be peace in the valley for me someday.
 There will be peace in the valley, for me, oh, lord I pray.  
 There'll be no sadness, no sorrow, oh my Lordy, no trouble I   
see.   
 There will be peace in the valley for me." 

"For me," his friends added.

Then Q took over again:  

"Oh well the beast will be gentle and the wolf will be tame 
 and the lion will lie down by the lamb;  
 oh yes and the beast from the wild 
 will be led by a child 
 and  I'll be changed from this creature that I am , oh yes."   

Q's voice showed how clearly he saw these dark turn of events. 
By the console, Jean-Luc was putting both huge hands to his face
and shuddering. 

 "There'll be peace in the valley for me, someday."  

The others were singing now, trying to comfort Q, but it was
useless.  He was beyond comfort. 

 "There'll be peace in the valley. For me.  Oh, lord I pray." 

Outside the studio, they saw Jean-Luc  smiling with satisfaction;
his big hands were clearly pushing Odo on.

"There's will be no sorrow, no sadness, oh my lordy, no  
trouble, I  see."

Q looked at the rest of the band; the song had one more line, and
then they would have to be silent and everybody in the whole tri-
state listening area would wonder what had happened to Brother
Odo.  

Q lifted his palms.  Leave it to him.

 "There will be peace in the valley for me." 

And Q began to speak in a robust ingratiating way.  "Thank you
very much.  You know when Momma and Daddy first let me go running
around at night by myself, the only places I wanted to go was to
the camp meetings where they would sing those good old songs, and
I got to learn all my favorites and one of them I like the best
was *I Am a Pilgrim,* and I hope it will be one of yours. 
Geordi, play that guitar now."

Geordi played loud and strong.  Jean-Luc's head was whipping back
and forth.     

 "I'm a pilgrim and a stranger 
 traveling through this worrisome land
 I've got a home in that yonder city"  ("Good Lord," Data sang) 
 "And it's called the Promised Land. "

Outside the studio, Jean-Luc was becoming very still; his eyes
were out of focus.

 "Well, I have a mother 
 And a host of brothers
 We'll go to that sweet home
 You know it's sure not made by hand (Good Lord)
 But it's called the Promised Land. " 

Now they could see Jean-Luc soundlessly gasp and then stand
straight and adjust himself.

 "As I go down to bath my soul
 Just in the river of Jordan"

And Jean Luc came back in the studio and took up the song again.

 "If I could touch but the hem of his garment (Good Lord)
 I'd believe I was in the Promised Land."

Jean-Luc sang as if he were gloating, which he was.   He gave Q a
triumphant look.

Brother Odo followed Jean-Luc back: he was clearly shook up.  He
said nothing, merely tapped a button that gave a raucous prefab
message for a funeral home.
 

A woman at the sink washing her breakfast dishes and listening to
the  radio put her hand to her throat.  Now, why was she thinking
of THAT? 


At Lucille's Beauty Loom, Lucille leaned back and looked at Mrs.
Tolliver, her best customer.  And Mrs. Tolliver looked
back at her.   What . . . the . . . "You don't need a new perm. 
That is not what you  need at all," Lucille whispered.
 

Over at Mooney's Garage, Mooney had already pulled his jumpsuit
down to his knees to let the youngest Purvis boy do
what he did best.  It was wrong and he knew it and the youngest
Purvis boy knew it and Mooney's garage sat at the top of a
winding hill and when he let the youngest Purvis suck his cock
with the garage doors up he was tempting fate and would go to
hell, not to mention lose the garage, but it was only for a
minute and how could he deny the world he lived in. For  fuck's
sake he was listening to the Brother Odo's gospel hour wasn't he. 
He began to beat his heated manhood against the back of the
youngest Purvis' throat.
 

And a man in a car pulled over to the side of the road.  He was
sweating.  He was breathing hard.  Fucking hillbillies.  You
would like very much to mark up the shoes 400 per cent and sell
them and get your money and go to the next town and live happily
ever after, but they in their hillbilly intransigence tore at
you.  And you sold the shoes at a 300 per cent mark up and cursed
yourself night after night in the sandy sheets of whatever
Godawful tourist court you were in that night and  you could
never get a decent radio station during the day and ended up
listening to farm reports and now out of the air came this: this
stuff, a cross between the sound of the human heart and a
Bacchante chant and a cry from the moon.  

He looked at the road ahead.

A neon sign outside a stuccoed shack that read WWDD and beside it
a radio tower.

A sign.
 
He didn't want to be a shoe salesman the rest of his days.

He scrambled out of his car and went over to the station and
walked in.

No secretary.  Nothing but a homely little studio, a bunch of 
stunned-looking gents.

"Where's those Mountain Boys?"

"We're them," said a powerful-looking bald man.  That voice.

"Where will you be playing next?"

"Down the road.  Why"

"Who's your manager?" the shoe salesman had the oddest little
high-pitched catch in his voice.

"We are our own manager," the bald man said.  Everything about
him was beyond belief.

"Is that your Impala out there?"  The Boys nodded.  "You need a
little help in the management department.  I can be that help."

"Oh, really?" said the bald man.  

"I'm your man.  We'll make thousands together."  The Boys just
watched  him.  "Okay: believe it or don't, but nobody fucks with
Little Tommy Quark.  You'll like having me on your side."
  
*************************

They had almost decided to give the Impala a Viking funeral by
burning it in an open field, but scrupulous Q said to sell it
to an auto junkyard.  

(Data loved the junkyard; rows and rows of things.  "Look at All! 
This!  Stuff!"  Jean-Luc was entertained.)

And then they filled out a few papers incorporating the Magic
Mountain Boys and signed a six-months contract on lined paper
with Little Tommy Quark (Quark was outraged: only six months! 
But Q insisted. "You need to prove  yourself," he said. And
Jean-Luc wandered over: "Is there a problem,  Quark?"   Quickly:
"Little Tommy Quark never has problems.")  

And they went to buy their bus.

And came home empty-handed.

Who would have ever thought it?  Jean-Luc was not an asset when
it came to dickering with car salesmen!  When Q and Quark were
just about  to  sign, Jean-Luc came up with some  cold-eyed
unforgiving demand and  the car salesman said he'd have to talk
to his manager and they waited for him to come back for
forty-five minutes and then they found the salesman had left the
lot and nobody knew when he'd be back.  After this happened
several times, Quark decided something.   

"Jean-Luc, I gotta be honest.  Don't come with us to buy a car no
more."

"I bought the Impala.  That's gotten us everything so far."  

(A winter morning in old Kentucky.  An older couple, their lives
playing out, were going to use that 400 dollars to help out their
worthless  daughter.   "Are you sure?" Jean-Luc said.  "We're
sure," said the old woman in a resigned distant way.  Before he
left with the Impala, Jean-Luc powerwashed their siding and
cleaned their windows.  Then he used the Impala over to bring
them back two large cans of special-roast coffee.  He wanted no
memory of their ruined faces to pursue him down the lonesome
highway.)

"Jean-Luc, listen to me," Quark said.

Jean-Luc hesitated.  Then: "I'm not going to sit in the car like
a fucking woman."  

"Look, Jean-Luc, I got some connections in Knoxville - I know I
can get us a good deal.  Why don't we rent you a little
room here and you  take a little break?  Rest your voice?  Smoke
a little boo?  Even out your moon-tan?  Sounds tasty, huh?"

"Q stays with me."

Well, that wasn't what Quark had in mind.  Q was valuable; Q
could do baffling things with his eyes and mouth that made men
give him things. 

"Let Worf stay here with you.  I bet yall could have some real
fun."

"Q."

"How about both Worf and Will?"  Quark tried to make a smacking
noise with his mouth.

"No Worf. No Will. No Geordi. No Data.  Q.  Only Q."
 

Johnson's Tourist Court was cheap.  Other tourist courts were
funky or gnarly or depressing or hopeful.  But Johnson's
was cheap.    The proprietress seemed to have no other customers
and, for all that, she was completely uninterested in the two men
who walked up and wanted one of her cabins.   

"Looks like rain," Q said cheerfully to her, trying to make 
conversation.  She was three hundred pounds, toothless, sixty,
her gray hair in a scraggly bun at the back of her head.

"I suppose," she said, not meeting their eyes.

"We'll probably stay for just one night while our partners are in
Knoxville, but it might be two.  Is that okay?"

"I suppose." She pushed the registration book toward them, and,
while they were signing their names, she got the key to their
cabin. 

"Could you tell us where the nearest convenience store is?"  This
was critical.  It had been a long day and they wanted to eat. 

"I suppose."  She sounded utterly unconcerned about the needs of
hungry  men.

Jean-Luc and Q exchanged glances.  Despite himself, Jean-Luc was
impressed. This woman's indifference was wholly admirable.

"I'm Maw.  Holler if you need something." 

They paid in advance, and Q walked down the road and came back
with provisions: ice, cheese, crackers, bananas, whole milk. 
"Look!"  He indicated the food.

Jean-Luc was miserable: nothing to drive.

They ate quietly with the door of the cabin open so they could
see the storm roll in over the Smokies.  

After supper, Jean-Luc stood at the door of the cabin: he was
singing random gospel phrases to himself   the food and the
coming storm made him feel a bit better.  He loved the look of
the mountains before rain.  The phosphorus-colored layer of sky
by the mountains, then a strip of gray, and then a black sky low
and wet, making it hard to breath.  

"I'm bored.  I'm going crazy," he said to Q.

"Let's do something."  Q tried to make his voice as alluring as
possible. 

"Like what? Fuck Maw?"

Q smiled: "I suppose."

Jean-Luc turned and looked at him.  Q sitting on the cheap
bedspread was nothing but charm.  And nothing but his.  The
storm was getting closer.  Jean-Luc unzipped his jeans and took
them off; he was now  standing at the door to the cabin in his
tee shirt and briefs.   

Q had forgotten the perfection of Jean-Luc's little body.  The
perfect pitch from chest to waist.  His wonderfully proportioned
legs.  Then still standing in the door way, Jean-Luc took off his
tee shirt.  He was standing there naked from the waist up.  Q
couldn't tear his eyes away.  

"Jean-Luc, what if somebody comes by?"

Jean-Luc looked over his shoulder at him, saying nothing.  And
then he turned to face Q and, although Jean-Luc was wearing his
briefs, Q could see how hard Jean-Luc was, how erect, how ready. 

Q longed to take it all in his mouth.  

"It's just us at the edge of the storm, Q, why don't you fuck
me?"

Q had never . . . 

"You mean that?"

"I suppose."  They gave each other little smiles.

Then Q got up to shut the door, but Jean-Luc stopped him.  "I
want it with the door open.  I want to know when the storm comes. 
I want to feel your dick all the way in."  

He went to the bed and took off his briefs, and then crouched on
the bed on his hands and knees.

Q was dry-mouthed; he looked at Jean-Luc's flawless body.  "Let
me do this for a bit," he said, and he knelt at Jean-Luc's ass. 
He had never used his tongue this way before, but now was the
time.  Jean-Luc sighed when Q touched him there with his tongue,
and then Q put his tongue all the way in, and Jean-Luc laughed
and moved back against him.  "Oh, Christ!  Oh, Christ!"

Then Q positioned himself and moved all the way in.   

Jean-Luc adjusted his position so that it felt better and then
whispered:  "Be rough.  Pull most of the way out and then pound
back in.  I want to feel every inch.  I want to feel every cell." 
Q was so big it was a painstaking procedure, but he began to
pound Jean-Luc who rocked and faced the door the whole time   
watching the lightning, watching the shreds of stormy black sky
dance against the white horizon.  

"It makes me nervous, Jean-Luc, what if . . . someone comes
along?"

"The more nervous you are, the longer you'll fuck me."  

Q gripped Jean-Luc's waist: why fight it?  

He watched himself, all dusky rose-colored and slick and long,
disappear and reappear; the way Jean-Luc's ass flared out from
his narrow waist was quite . . .intoxicating.  He gripped
Jean-Luc's ass harder,  appreciating the whitened skin where he
was grabbing him.  Then he pulled Jean-Luc back against him  
Jean-Luc's small hips, wet with his perspiration, were like shiny
beacons, and he aimed his cock between them sure as a ship
pulling into a slipways.  He put one hand around to Jean-Luc's
front and began to caress him.  The storm was growling in earnest
now, and Jean-Luc was breathing heavily.  Q shifted a bit; he
must have been doing it right because Jean-Luc groaned, "Don't
stop."

They both watched the open door   the storm threatening more  
but a friendly storm, their own storm, the storm they welcomed in
each other.  And Q knew he was getting close to - he was sweating
and pounding and he felt curiously omnipotent and he pulled at
Jean-Luc who was beyond groaning   who was making inarticulate
sounds like bones grinding in his throat.  And Q grabbed more
fiercely at Jean-Luc's cock  and at the same time grabbed his
shoulder with his other hand   and he was coming, surprised yet
not, and then he felt Jean-Luc twitching and jerking and a sudden
wonderful warmth on his hand and they both collapsed and the
thunder growled on the mountains.  He kissed Jean-Luc's damp back
  "I love you more than anything." 

And then the rain began.  

They lay there, naked as Gods, watching the storm roll in on
their own private Mount Olympus.  

Jean-Luc narrowed his eyes. "How'd you learn that licking
business?"

"You don't remember?  I thought I told you.  That old queen in 
Vicksburg.  He bought me for a hundred."

"I don't remember any of this.  You whore."

"He had this big old antebellum mansion.  And he licked me out
while I jerked off on this antique mirror.  The silver was all
blackened."

"As soon as I get to Vicksburg, he's a dead queen.  Stone.  Cold. 
Dead."

They both loved these rococo declarations of possession.


 
     
Section II: Convergence of the Twain
 
Driving soothed Jean-Luc.   

The steering wheel of the Stargazer fit his hands like a lover's
tits.

And even though they didn't make that model anymore, Quark swore
their new bus was a good deal.

That was all right.  Will could fix anything, and Q and Data
could always be on the lookout for spare parts.

After all, it was air-conditioned.  

It had a radio.

It had lights.

It had bunks.

Miracle of miracles, it even had a microwave.

They knocked off after driving all day and parked right off the
interstate in a grove of rumbling eighteen-wheelers.  Quark had
gone ahead to cut a good deal.  Data was cooking something.  Q
was teaching them a new song.  They felt buoyant  and cozy.  "You
believe this, Worf?"  Jean-Luc leaned over to his best friend
while Q and Geordi worked out a chord progression.   Worf stared
back with his usual sober expression, but his eyes  were warm and
lively.

Jean-Luc stared.  Large dark eyes and chiseled mouth.  On 
impulse, he leaned over and kissed that mouth.  Worf raised  his
hands and pulled Jean-Luc to him.  They kissed and ground against
each other until Jean-Luc raised his head. 

"Ladies, let's celebrate."
                    
They had never had an orgy before, but they had one now. 

Jean-Luc lowered the back of the chair so that he reclined on top
of Worf.  "Who wants to kiss Daddy?  Who wants to be Daddy's
darling?"


Geordi turned his head and reached out his hand, and Jean-Luc
reached across the aisle and pulled him close.  He guided
Geordi's mouth to his.  "Let me see that fabled Geordi dick."

Geordi gasped and complied as Jean-Luc pumped him and watched the
emotions play over his guileless face.  Then Jean-Luc grabbed
Data's shoulder   "I want to see Q get it both ways.  That's the
thing I most want.  On your knees, Q.  Data, help Geordi get into
Q and then let Q suck you."  Then as they were positioning
themselves, he kissed Worf again and stretched out alongside him. 

Will stared enviously, erect by now, but he did not dare to join
unless he was specifically invited.  

"Will, suck Worf off."   

As he moved towards them, Will took out his own dick and fingered
it in an experienced  way.  

Meanwhile, Q was being pried open on both ends: on his knees,
startled by the impact of Geordi, he was sucking Data who was
moving his head around: Data had never never never heard of any
thing like this --  and yet clearly it could and did  happen  
his huge eyes slid over to Worf, Jean-Luc and Will   Worf was on
his side, being sucked by Will, who was naked on the floor with
his legs apart, jerking himself off; Jean-Luc was behind Worf; he
must have been rubbing his dick against Worf.  Data's eyes met
Jean-Luc's   Jean-Luc's eyes were hooded, half-shut, and he
pursed his lips at him.   Then Data looked down at Q   Q had a
talent for taking all of a dick in his mouth, for "deep
throating" it - and he looked at Geordi's face.  "Oh, God,"
someone said.  Maybe it was Data himself.  He moved into Q's
mouth more as Geordi was hanging on to Q's ass.  Then Data began
to shudder; it was getting nearer.  Visions ran behind his closed
eyelids, asses, tongues, and he came.  He grasped his temples.   

A chain reaction was set off   Worf and Geordi groaned 
simultaneously,  almost bellowing   and Will's body was
convulsing.  

Only Q and Jean-Luc were still waiting.  Jean-Luc disengaged
himself from Worf.  And went to Q, waiting, cow-eyed.  "Let me
eat Q's pussy, boys," Jean-Luc  murmured.  And Q sat on the side
of the bus's only sofa and Jean-Luc was on his knees between Q's
spread legs and he was sucking Q, but the most exciting thing was
that he was touching himself, pulling himself, making feathering
motions with his hand against his cock.    

Seeing Jean-Luc against Q was like watching the final aria
between the tenor and his diva.  He was sucking Q off and Q was
helpless, putting his pretty hand against his chest, and then he
was coming and so was Jean-Luc who pulled back touching his own
nipples. 

When they were all finished, they opened the back windows to let
the sex-and-mushroom smell out into the wind.

And they said nothing until they were cleaned up and in bed.    
 
Sleeping all together on the bus!  And what a nice new experience
that was!

"Jean-Luc?  That was really nice, earlier."  Data said from his
bunk.

"Yeah," Geordi added.  "That was special."

Q's gentle voice.  "Very special, Johnny."

Worf added his grunt of assent.

Will never knew what to say. He had to make a joke.  "Night, 
John-Boy."

Q's voice had a giggle in it: "'Night, Maryellen."

"'Night, Grandpa."

Jean-Luc stood up. 

Naked.  

Furious.  

"Knock.  It.  The.  Fuck.  Off."  

"Jawohl, mein fuhrer,"  said Will very quietly without moving his 
lips.

"Oui oui, mon capitain," Data said in a high-pitched, fatuous 
voice.

They both made sure Jean-Luc didn't really hear them.  Then 
everyone but Worf giggled.

And Jean-Luc headed back to the bed he shared with Q. Q was lying 
on his stomach, bare-chested under the covers,
smiling, and he rolled  back for Jean-Luc to climb in and
Jean-Luc was naked too, and Jean-Luc lay on his stomach with Q
draped fluidly over him.

"It's like prison, isn't it?"

Jean-Luc's face went soft.
 
*************************

On the road: the air conditioning, the radio, every moment in the
Stargazer had a mescalin-like intensity.

Not that it was all sweetness and light.

Jean-Luc was at the wheel as usual.  They passed a young woman,
blond, braless, in a white halter top loping down the
road, looking  as if she owned it.  Not another car around for
miles.  But she clearly knew  where she was going.

They regarded her: "Marshall Tucker song on the hoof," Jean-Luc 
concluded.

"Should we help her?" Q asked.

"Nope. That one wants to be left alone.  A country gal that wants
no help isn't even in the same species as a country gal
that does." 

"You might mean phylum," said Data.

Silence.

"Who's hungry?" said Q after a while.

Everyone was.  

"Where shall we eat?"

"Waffle Shack," said Worf.  He loved Waffle Shack.

"No," Geordi laughed.  "A chicken place!  Please!!"

"I myself prefer waffles, I'm afraid," said Data.

"Yes, let's do waffles.  No chickens," Q agreed.

"Waffle Shack, then," Jean-Luc smiled.  "Chickens everywhere will
be  gratified."

"Chickens everywhere," said Will so softly they could barely hear
him.
 
They ate.  They drove on.     

They passed a field of grazing grain.  They passed a junior high
school at recess in the sun. 

"Mmph," said Will.  "I was just that age when I started."  His
head followed the schoolyard as they sped past it.

This simply would not do.  

Jean-Luc straightened up: "I don't like fucking over les enfants. 
I like people with hardened scruples.   That way I can dismantle
them brick by brick."
 
They stopped for gas.  Everyone went to the gents or stretched
their legs.  Data perused the postcards; it was hard to say what
he was searching for.  A boy near him, small, good-looking,
pursed his lips and  beckoned Data with his head.    

Data thought this was interesting.  He imitated the gestures.   

The boy came over to him.  "What's your pleasure, cowpoke?"

Data looked at him curiously, his head inclining slightly.

"It'll cost you."

Data's head inclined more.

"I could cut you a good deal.  I like you.  What would cost
somebody  else fifty-fifty would put you out seventy-five. 
Package deal."

Data was about to probe these enigmatic remarks more closely 
when Worf stepped in.  

"Go away," Worf growled.  "He's mine."

Data watched the boy scuttle off.  "There are subtleties to the
homosexual life style which with I am not quite conversant
as of yet."

Worf nodded.  Then he look at the next aisle.  Will had watched
the whole thing with his mouth open, his eyes clouded.
       
They got back in the bus; Will was staring out the window.  Now,
a school bus filled with junior varsity football players
was disembarking at the truck stop.  The boys were going in and
out of the restaurant, laughing, yelling to each other, horsing
around, innocently touching one another.  

Jean-Luc started the Stargazer up.

Will spoke cautiously: "How bad is it to really break the law
around  here?  I mean, REALLY break the law?"

"Very bad," Worf said.  "I would have to kill the lawbreaker." 

"Okay, that's a good answer," Will said.  "That's the answer I
want."
     
*************************

Quark had gotten them a gig at the Sunshine Lounge; it was a gay
bar.  Hearing that, Jean-Luc told Quark that, if he stuck
exclusively  to booking them at gay bars, he, Jean-Luc, would 
personally tear his,  Quark's, dick off.  Quark agreed to
diversify.  

Despite the backstage rumble, the two shows they played at the 
Sunshine went quite well.   Jean-Luc was impossible to ignore, so
compact and beautiful of body, so impeccable in bearing, so
intense in belief, and that was only Jean-Luc.  Any of the men
who listened to him, and even the few women, would have bent over
for Jean-Luc in a second on the strength of a song. Jean-Luc was
making people want to fuck him.  Q was amazed.  He looked at the
triumph in Jean-Luc's thick-lidded eyes, the sardonic, slightly
threatening smile, and it took his breath away.  And when
Jean-Luc took the mike over to him and menaced him with his sexy
voice, the tension in the room stoked itself so high Q could feel
it coming at him in waves.  He blushed, and then blushed some
more when he realized that everyone could see how red he was.  
                    
A wonderful evening.

They even got a motel room out of the Sunshine deal.  Everyone
had to crowd in and make do with cots and fold-out sofas, but
they still slept well.  Warm showers.  No road noises.

It was a nice change from the bus, but, nonplused by the lack of
an engine's hum, Q had awakened early.  He eased out of bed,
cleaned up and went down to the lobby.  Their room had a little
kitchenette, so he wanted to buy groceries, if he could find
them, and cook a decent breakfast.   The desk clerk told him how
to get to the store, so he walked out to  their bus, got in and
drove down the highway looking for the big 'Dixie Maid' sign.

Q was expecting a store of the type he was used to, a small 
convenience store with salted-in-the-shell peanuts and sodas on
display right up front, and all the serious food crowded together
on little shelves behind the junk. He wanted to pick up
Wonderbread,, packaged meats, eggs, and maybe some juice if he
could find some on sale.  But this place looked more like a
warehouse than a food store.

Still there were stripes painted in the broad flat parking lot
and signs advertising a sale on tuna, so Q parked the bus, got
out and crossed the lot into the store.       

He walked through the automatic swinging doors and immediately
had to fight the impulse to turn around and walk right out again. 
 Taking a shopping cart, he gripped its handle as if it might
keep him safe while he wandered breathlessly forward, without
direction, trying to fathom what he was seeing.   This  had to be
a movie set about a fantasy grocery store, not a real place where
real people bought food.  Q had never in his life been in a place
like  this.    The clean, bright, high-ceilinged room was like a
cathedral.  He turned and stared out the broad front window,
trying to get his bearings.

Yes.  There was their bus, so this must be reality, but it was 
nothing like he was used to.  He was still in the middle of a
farm belt, still out I n the country, yet these country folk had
a temple in which to buy their groceries.  

For several minutes, he simply wandered around, unable to believe
anyone had access to such luxury, much less that he'd had the
good fortune to stumble into it.  The broad, sparkling white
aisles, the glorious, almost sensual symmetry of the piles of
fruits and vegetables, the geometric precision of row upon row of
canned things,  the beckoning warmth of the in-store bakery, the
proud deli, the lascivious temptation of the meat counter, the
very notion of swordfish for sale where the likes of him could
buy it, and the incomprehensible fact of a swanky caf‚ with
tables where he could sit down and eat food cooked to order.  

Q wandered into the cafe.  There was a pizza and pasta bar and a
Chinese food bar, all closed on Sunday morning, but no less 
miraculous for that.  A dairy bar was open, and he ordered a
milkshake and then went back to ask for an omelet with mushrooms
and cheese.  

He was almost grateful to be able to pay for such things, not 
quite able to believe they only required mere money.  He took his
omelet and shake to a corner table and watched the slow trickle
of Sunday morning shoppers.  He ate slowly, adjusting to the fact
that it was really himself in here, and he felt shiny by
association, as if the glamour of glass cases full of good food
reflected onto him some effulgence that took away all his sins
and washed him Sunday-morning clean.  

When he finished eating, he carefully put his trash in the 
trashcan and placed his tray on the rack.  Nothing should soil
the pristine cheeriness of this unanticipated food store.  He
walked through the aisles proudly, an altogether different person
from the one who had awakened that morning in a cramped hotel
room with five other guys.  And this different person decided it
would be okay if he shopped like a Q who belonged here.  In fact,
it would be a crime to scrimp in a store like this, so he let his
imagination run away with him.  He splurged on crazy things.  He
measured a scoop of pistachios from a bin  whose sign encouraged
him to take all he wanted.  He measured a scoop  of shrimp (help
yourself, or ring the bell and our counterperson will be pleased
to do it for you), as much as he wanted, though he carefully
weighed an exact pound.  Splurging or no, he still kept a running
tally in his head, but that didn't stop him from buying spumoni
ice cream,  and a kiwi fruit, and mushrooms, and two dozen eggs
to scramble because he didn't feel it was fair for him to
experience such grace and not share it, and he bought an onion,
and almost bought a small bottle of olive oil, exotic in both the
shape of the bottle and the flowery writing as well as for the
pearly green liquid inside it.  

He thought, 'Extra virgin. I wonder what that means.'  

But he put it back on the shelf.  They had cooking oil on the bus
that was perfectly good.  

He moved over to the checkout.  In front of him a beautiful dark-
haired woman was buying a huge wedding cake.  She was paying for
it with a gold credit card!  She made a joke and the counter help
laughed!  Then she rolled away with her cake.  And the cashier
smiled at him, and he smiled back, and carried his loot out to
the bus in a daze of unexpected pleasure. 

By the time he got back, everyone was up.  A room full of  naked,
sleepy flesh greeted him, and they were uncurious about the 
contents of the bags until he started pulling things out, naming
them as he did so.

The kiwi fruit especially drew oohs and aahs, which finally 
caused Jean-Luc to come over for an inspection.   

"Kiwi fruit," Q pushed it towards Jean-Luc so he could see.  "And
look."  He pulled out the plastic bag of pistachio nuts.    
Worf, freshly showered, lumbered over and began pulling out the
wrapped packages as if he had hold of the grab bag at a party. 
He found the onion and his eyes lit up.   

By now Geordi, too, had his hands in the bags, gently feeling
over the contents. "What's this?"  He held up an unfamiliar
squishy, fishy thing.

"Shrimp," Q announced proudly.  "It's going in our eggs."

Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows. "It's to the poorhouse then, is
it?"

"Looks that way," Q ducked his head and smiled, "but you should 
have seen this place."  He described the grocery store that was
better than a church.

His festive mood infected them all.  They ate the breakfast he 
cooked, murmuring appreciatively over the mushrooms, the shrimp,
the  pineapple-orange juice, the abundance.  

"I wouldn't mind taking a look at this place," Will said.

"Let's get it over with,"  Jean-Luc said and threw down the piece
of paper towel he was using as a napkin.    

They went out and got on the bus, excited a bit, but not wanting
to admit it.

Q pulled to the very edge of the lot again, and they piled out, 
feeling suddenly a bit shy.  They didn't much go to stores, not
like this. "You'll see.  It's like the  heavenly highway in the
book of Isaiah."  And he took Geordi's arm and guided them in. 
There were considerably more cars in the lot by this time. 

"Look," he pointed proudly.  There, just like he said, was the
bin full of pistachio nuts, all anyone could want.  Jean-Luc
appeared taken aback, and Q knew exactly what he was thinking. 
Whoever had seen pistachios like this, so generously offered?

Treats, as many treats as you wanted, limitless bins of treats. 
The concept boggled.

They marveled over things none of them had ever heard of  except
Data -- plantains, cherimoyas, chayote, small red
bananas, kumquats (Will and Data snickering at the name) Asian
pears, tamarind, and jicama and taro.  They described them to
Geordi who experienced them by smell and touch.  They finally
gave up on playing cool and let themselves be overwhelmed by
variety and availability.

"Gala apples," Q told Geordi, walking him past the bins, 
"pippin, red delicious, yellow delicious, granny smith, winesap,
rome and fuji."  His voice was a little hushed with the wonder of
it.

"I smell bread," Geordi announced, and at once they all smelled
it with a single appreciative inhalation.  

"And pies.  Blueberry, cherry..."  He sorted through the  layers
of scent.  "I smell lots of things cooking."

"They have restaurants in here," Q sounded smug.  "And a place to
sit and eat."

Jean-Luc watched them wander through this amusement park of a
store.  "Okay," he announced, rubbing his hands.  "*One* grocery
cart,  and  when she's filled up, that's it."  His face was
inscrutble.

They bought all sorts of things they didn't need, things to be
saved and savored, things that would pacify them on the long
boring stretches of road when there was nothing to do but wait
for the ride to be over.  Squares of dried papaya and bits of
candied ginger, and other exotica that would last them a long,
long time.

Jean-Luc noticed how Q's long fingers brushed that silly  bottle
of oil with such . . .  longing.  

He went ahead and put the bottle into their grocery cart, and,
when Q tried to object, Jean-Luc glared at him.  Q  lowered
his head, but said nothing.  The olive oil would  reside in a
place of honor in their traveling kitchen.

'The first of many," Jean-Luc promised whoever was listening.

*************************

Quark set dates up all across the South. 

And Q set up one as well; despite Jean-Luc's irritation, he
wanted them to work Pistol Packin' Pete's, the only gay bar
in Abilene.  

Everyone objected, but Q remembered the owner's enthusiasm and
his determination that they come out there as soon as possible,
and for once, Q insisted that they do this.

He'd had to beg.  He'd had to apologize for being mouthy.  He had
to promise Jean-Luc that he would gladly turn tricks for gas
money if that was what was needed, and finally Jean-Luc said yes. 

They had traveled almost two full days.  When they disembarked,
they stretched out their cramped limbs, staring at the place in
wonder.  It was much nicer than what they were used to, and, when
a pretty, blue-jeaned boy came out to help them unpack, even
Jean-Luc was in a good mood.

The night could not have gone better.  They started off with "New
River Train" (*baby, you can't love one, no, you can't love one
and have any fun*) and got a full, round of footstomping
applause.  And, when Jean-Luc sang "Jailhouse Baby", the tops all
held their bottoms a little more bruisingly.  And when Q sang
"True Life Blues", the dancing boys came into each others' arms
for comfort and then ordered more drinks, needing to fortify
themselves against Q's ragged sorrow and plaintive pure baritone
sincerity.  

Pete couldn't believe his luck.  

Jean-Luc and The Boys were smiling broadly by the time they  were
done, clearly playing with their audience.  They'd found their
people, their crowd. The Boys played two encores and then rushed
off stage to congratulate one another.

The following night Jean-Luc and his Magic Mountain Boys  played
again.  Word had spread.  The bar was packed.  And afterwards,
when they came out to mingle, their new fans demanded to be able
to buy their CD.

Jean-Luc looked at Q accusingly.  "I take it you and Quark
omitted that little detail."  Then he scowled and turned away.  

They were asked to stay another week.  Between sets, Q looked up
recording studios in the Abilene telephone directory. 

"How much is it to record a CD?" He asked the person on the 
other end of the phone.   


Quark was there in twelve hours. 

"This little book has helped thousands," he told them and held up
a copy of "Management for Dummies."  "The main thing about
recording is the money is in the publishing.  Don't record what
you don't own.  That's rule 1.  And rule  2.  And rule 3." 

"No Chaka Khan for us," Q said and Jean-Luc nodded. 

"You Boys are going to have to dig up some original material."  

They all stared at him.

"Oh, that's impossible, huh?  Well, I gotta say I'm not
surprised.  But how hard can it be to write a song: ' I love you!
Where's my shoes, etc. etc.'"  Quark was in a creative frenzy. 

"I wrote some songs once," Q said softly.
     
*************************

Working in the prison library brought Q and Jean-Luc even closer
together.  There they discovered that they could listen to each
other's whispered thoughts without getting bored.   Neither man
had ever had an intellectual equal before.

"Look at this, Q," Jean-Luc would say.   And they looked 
together, their heads touching, their arms next to each other, in
Q's bunk.

Jean-Luc softened imperceptibly when he read and when he sang. 
It seemed to lift some burden from him.  

Q wanted to lift Jean-Luc's burdens.   He tried to think up ways
to make him soft.   

"I wrote you a poem," he whispered to Jean-Luc.

"A poem?"  Jean-Luc lifted his black brows.  "A poem?"
          
After Q read Jean-Luc his poem (which was about kissing and
loving and haylofts), Q kissed him, the first time Q had ever
initiated a kiss.  After all, it wasn't his right. And then  he
asked Jean-Luc to come closer. And Jean-Luc did so Q could stroke
Jean-Luc's sexy forearms and his perfect chest and his beautiful
shoulders and his spectacular legs, and thus distract Jean-Luc
from his own single-minded acrobatics. Jean-Luc was a wildly
skillful lover, no question, and Q appreciated that a great deal. 
Nonetheless, sometimes Q wanted to pull him away from fucking and
coax him into making love.

That night in their cell, in the loving aftermath of the poem, 
Jean-Luc allowed it, steam rising up from between their bodies,
the scent of their sex and their love mingling together on his
narrow bunk.  

It was important that Q do it perfectly, wrapping his strong 
arms around the back of Jean-Luc's neck, pulling him down to
exchange those open-mouthed, wet kisses that made them both
lightheaded, grinding his penis up between the heat of Jean-Luc's
thighs, driving themselves into  frenzies.  He caressed
Jean-Luc's muscular ass until Jean-Luc pushed back against him
and whispered to him to put his finger in.   

"I love you so much."  It was true, Q did love his Jean-Luc.  He
couldn't get enough of touching him and caressing him. Jean-Luc
was everything to him.  He wet his finger and stuck it up
Jean-Luc's ass,  finding the little swell that was his prostate
gland and caressing it  while Jean-Luc moaned.  Eventually their
movements became more frantic, and Jean-Luc's urgency, and his
own, became more important than exploring and  caressing. 
Jean-Luc slipped inside of him and Q curved his back and ducked
his head so their mouths could stay in close proximity.  He
opened his legs wide, pumping his hips against Jean-Luc's
thrusts.  Jean-Luc encouraged him, called him his sweet hot cunt,
his pretty pussy, his whore.  

Q loved it. 
     
And Jean-Luc began to think up all sorts of new things for their
pleasure.  In prison, he had learned that he liked to watch. He
liked to fuck too, but, if he could fuck and watch, there was a
special tang, and, if  what he was watching was Q take it up the
ass, well, he really loved that, loved watching Q take it and
take it and take it, because he knew Q.  Q would cry and bawl and
boohoo and suffer most enticingly, but he would never leave Jean-
Luc. 

***********************

Once, Sisko showed up alone.  "Picard, you wanted to see me."

"It's time to realize your vision.   Q, I want Sisko to fuck 
you."

Sisko looked at Picard.  "What do you really want?" 

"I don't want to worry about Q when I get out of prison.  And the
only way you'll get over it is to get in him and see he's
just another piece of ass."
                                             
Q sat there silently.  What was going on?
       
"Undress, Q.  Show Captain Sisko all your charms."  

"No, no, Jean-Luc!"

Jean-Luc hit him and he fell against the wall.  "Do what I say."  
His eyes were so tight the pupils were mere pinkpricks.  Q rubbed
the side of his face, but he began to unbutton his shirt.

Sisko liked this.  

"I want to see Q get fucked," Jean-Luc said.  "Mind if I watch?" 

"On the contrary, I would love that.  I love to perform."

"I've seen you before.  With Wesley."

"Wesley is nothing compared to this."

Q was naked now.  

"If Q gets on his knees, he could suck someone off," Jean-Luc 
suggested.

"Why don't you give yourself a treat?  Wouldn't it be splendid to
have this pretty suck you as he got fucked?  A charming vision,"
Sisko suggested cordially.

Jean-Luc rubbed the front of his jeans deliberately.  "Nice one,
Sisko, but I'd be too distracted.  What would you say to Worf
getting some?"

Sisko was amazing.  He understood everything so quickly.  "Let me
look Worf over first.  Make him naked too."

Jean-Luc called to Worf who had been waiting, listening.  "Worf,
get naked.  Q's going to suck you while he gets fucked by Captain
Sisko." 

Worf nodded.  He began to undress.  Naked he was nearly as lovely
as Q.  Jean-Luc and Sisko sat side by side watching the two
beautiful men.

"Make them stiff, boys," Jean-Luc said.  Q's face was as soft as
Worf's was hard.  "Worf, think about Q's mouth.  Q, think about
those dicks." 

Sisko took his pants off.  "Get your pussy on the floor, Picard." 
Jean-Luc got a rubber from the desk and, after a moment's
hesitation, he handed it to Sisko and then got another one and
rolled it on Worf's penis.  (He was breathing heavily by now.  Q
was going to get more of a fucking than he could give by himself. 
He found himself hoping Sisko and Worf took all night.  This was 
hot.  He was already erect himself, wishing Q had another hole
somewhere so he could stick his dick inside it.) 

Q groaned when Sisko entered him.  Jean-Luc watched closely.  Oh,
this was better than anything he'd ever experienced before. 
Jean-Luc wished he had a dozen Worfs, a hundred Siskos, who would
fuck Q anytime Jean-Luc felt like watching.  He would deputize
them to fuck Q while he slept, reassured that Q's ass was full of
cock and he, Jean-Luc, controlled it all.

Soon Worf came.  He reared back with unseeing dark eyes and
gasping  made his way to Q's bunk.   He lay there just  watching
and breathing heavily.  Sisko withdrew then; he leaned over and
kissed Q's damp back and buttocks, and then he turned him over
and fucked him face to face, murmuring phrases he must have
invented right that second to express how he felt. "Squeeze it
tighter," he hissed.  "I'm going to soak your pretty guts." 

Now Jean-Luc was very aroused.  Seeing Worf come and Q's
surprised, intoxicated face was unbelievably stimulating.  He
went over and fumbled at his pants front, bringing it out.  "Suck
me," he said.      

Q brought his mouth, a point of pure pleasure, to Jean-Luc's
cock.  But even as Jean-Luc was having all his nerves
methodically and rapturously manipulated, he couldn't help but
notice how Q's body made everyone weak.  There was the omnipotent
Sisko in the throes of kissing Q's ass.   Worf helpless on the
bunk.  Q, obedient, incapable of saying no or yes. 

Curiously, he and Sisko came together.   

Q was beautiful lying there, pinioned at both ends.  "Jerk off,
Q." 

Q did, coming a moment later   Sisko still in him, spent now  
and the sight of Q's convulsing beauty would stay in Jean-Luc's
bloodstream for months.  

Then he remembered his manners.  "Sisko, have yourself some more
of my good lady.  She's got a whole lot more to give."

Sisko smiled.  He touched Jean-Luc's chest.

Jean-Luc's eyes narrowed.  "Don't be macabre," he said.     

**************************

But the next week Jean-Luc had to meet his parole board and
*poof* he was gone.

Q tried not to show his terror, but he was petrified.  He felt
wispy and unreal, and he had to force himself to eat and go
through his daily routine.  The guards came and moved him and he
said nothing at all.  He was put in a cell with Kurn. 

What would Kurn do?   He knew Kurn, he'd met Kurn through Jean-
Luc.  Kurn liked music and sometimes sang with them.  But to Q's 
surprise, nothing happened.  Kurn never touched him, though he
growled at anyone who tried to move in on him.

"Why are things this way?" Q asked after a month.

When Kurn didn't answer, Q did not chance asking again, but he
began to notice that he was being watched, being hovered over in
the yard, eyeballed in the library, scrutinized at meals. 
Always, one of Jean-Luc's singing friends was wherever he
happened to be.  Silent Worf; hawk-faced Kurn; deceptively
smiling Pardeck with his lethal hands and cold eyes   one of them
was always with him.  

"McConn!"  That was Kurn.  He spoke more than Worf did, but not
much more.  "Go with Pardeck!"

And Q picked up his books and the notebooks he had filled with
poems for Jean-Luc and meekly did as he was told.  The burly men
did not respect him at all, rarely looked him in the eye, and
ordered him about like they'd seen Jean-Luc do, indeed, as they
would have done with any bitch.  Except they never touched him.

Was Q simply a dynastic hand-me down, a possession of the singing
group, protected for his skills on the mandolin?

Then one night Worf and Kurn showed up at Pardeck's cell
unexpectedly and walked Q down the hall.   Q said nothing; he
wasn't supposed to. 

They took him to Sisko's cell.  Sisko was waiting there with two
enforcers.  Q thought he was going to die of fright, but
all that happened was that Sisko ordered him to his knees. 
Unsure of everything, Q obeyed, using the rubber Worf silently
handed him, taking Sisko in his mouth.  All the men's stares
burned into his skin.  He hated performing in front of them, but
he had no choice.  He also had no choice when Sisko's two
enforcers stepped up for their turn.  

"That's not our deal."

Sisko gazed at Worf.  His enforcers crossed their arms.

So, rather than start a fight none of them could win, Worf
ordered Q to go ahead and suck off Sisko's lieutenants.  It was
humiliating beyond belief.  How much they enjoyed it was a bitter
irony.  

Worf walked Q back to his cell; "Let Pardek stay with Kurn.  You
stay with me tonight."

Q was numb.

"We will continue to protect you.  But," Worf breathed in, "What
happened tonight could not be avoided." 

"And then what?" Q asked.  He felt absolute despair.

"Jean-Luc will come for you."

Q stopped crying.  "Really?"

"Yes.  He wants you safe. He paid us to watch out for you.  Me. 
Kurn.  Pardek."    

Q was shocked.  He'd had no idea that Jean-Luc had paid  for his
protection.  

"Are you sure?"

"This is what Jean-Luc told me," Worf said with Biblical
certainty.


Q was much happier then: imagining the kisses and caresses in his
future.  He lay back in the bottom bunk and looked at Worf until
Worf could stand it no more; the next morning Q was covered with
bites and bruises.  He wore these like medals out to the yard.

Someday Jean-Luc would return.  

He wanted to write Jean-Luc. He wanted to send Jean-Luc some of
the poems he'd finished.  But how did one write someone who was
at an unknown destination?  


Mr. History was puttering around the library, spinning the globe,
gloating over the day's mail with its many tiny fascinating
stamps, turning the lights on and off to enjoy the vast mystery
of electricity.

"Sir," said Q, "do you remember Jean-Luc?"

Mr. History was shocked at the reality of someone actually
speaking to him.  "Your little friend?"

"He's gone now, and I need to get in touch with him.  I've been
writing poems for him and I want him to have copies.  But I don't
know how."

Mr. History took an imaginary envelope out of the air and began
to air-scribble on it   "See, you write the address on the
envelope this way and then you put your . . . "

"I know all that.  I just don't know where he is exactly."

Mr. History stopped and thought.  "Figure out a city where he'll
be and send it General Delivery there.  When he checks his mail,
why, there you'll be!"

"Where will I find a list of cities where he could be?"

"A map!"

"What kind of map?"

"Did he escape?  If he did, we'll have to use the whole globe!"

"No, he's paroled."

"Oh, well, then," Mr. History sounded disappointed, "he'll still
be in Kentucky.  Let me look at our atlases."  He poked around
and brought out a 1954 Texaco Driver's Guide to the Southeast
United States.  Prisons were loathe to have up-to-date maps in
their libraries. "Here, this should help!" 

Q pored over the map of Kentucky.  He had no idea Kentucky was
such a universe.  

But he made copies of all his poems in his pretty round 
handwriting and stuffed them in envelopes and sent them general
delivery to J.L. Picard in various little places: places in
Kentucky that sounded like the kinds of places Jean-Luc might be. 
Chloe's End, Coal Shute, Tiger Valley, Siam, Big Moody.  Q knew
he was putting messages in a bottle, but he still sent a new one
every day or two.  And then he lay back in his bunk, imagining
Jean-Luc walking up golden granite steps under a soft afternoon
sun to a mighty ivy-covered, marble building.  He imagined Jean-
Luc receiving these precious creme-colored envelopes in his hard
hands.  He imagined Jean-Luc in the house he had bought for them
putting his letters in a special multi-colored folder.

Of course, the truth was that Jean-Luc was not all that familiar
with getting mail and anyway never checked in at the post office
and these letters were left to languish and glow in the rusty
Quonset hut that a place like Sistergod, Kentucky used for a post
office.  

But cold reality never affected Q's dreams.  

*************************
 
They played a city-fest type of deal and several clubs.  They
made some nice money.

Quark rented some studio time and told them to get serious about
the CD.

Jean-Luc was pleased with the quality of the first two cuts 
until their lone sound engineer begged them to let him hire some
mixing artists he knew.  The Boys had a parley.  They didn't know
what mixing artists did, and they were frightened by the idea of
spending all that money.

Geordi spoke up: "It's not like in a . . . store.  There you 
know everything you're buying.  You can see it and feel it and
taste it."

Jean-Luc stared at Geordi.  Geordi felt the pressure against his
skin as all the eyes followed their leader and turned to him. 
"Geordi, you can hear it, can't you?  I mean, you'll be able to
hear  it if there's all that big a difference in the sound."  He
sat back and rested a thumb against his lips, thinking. "Geordi,
you go in and just sit there until the sound engineers are done
and don't say anything.  Then, when you come out, tell us what
you think."

Geordi nodded.  

The engineers agreed so casually to their request that they  felt
a little less like they were being roped in for a screwing.   
Serious with the responsibility for their well-being, Geordi sat
in the corner with a set of earphones on.  He let the mixers,
quiet efficient men who rarely spoke to each other or to anyone,
complete one song and then asked to be taken back outside. 
 

Jean-Luc himself came to get him and lead him back to the bus 
where the others waited tensely.  Then he spoke the single word
that had been trying to push its way out all across the parking
lot.  "Well?" 

Geordi's answer was simple.  "Yes.  Whatever it costs."

Pressed for more, he had a difficult time explaining.  The
engineers spoke using an arcane language which was just out of 
his range of understanding, but he could hear the essence of what
they said, and make sense by listening to the words and  the
sincerity in their voices.  They did not speak like charlatans.  

And then there was the sound they created.  Everybody simply had
to hear it for themselves.  There was no explaining it in a way 
that made sense.  

And when the Boys finally heard their improved recording, they 
looked at each other with unqualified delight.  They could all
hear it,  the clear harmony and balanced instrumentation and the
very essence of  what they were, perfected and pushed forward so
that it was impossible to miss.

Jean-Luc listened to it again and turned to stare speculatively
at Data.  Then he fixed his gaze on Q and his eyes hardened.  

They all knew what he was thinking.  Data would gamble and  Q 
would give blowjobs until his jaw cramped.  And they all would
live on beans and ground chuck, but they would get the cash and
make the best CD money could buy.  
 
*************************

To get some quick cash,  Quark got them a  gig at a little
out-of-the-way place.  When the Boys showed up,  they found out
that they were  the entr'acte for a group of busty   strippers. 
Jean-Luc said, "Well, let's do it," but the patrons wanted only
the strippers and booed them off the stage.  

The owner paid them full wages, saying, "You guys were better
than most bands that get booed off my stage."  

The boys ate, gassed up, hit the road.  They were bummed.  It 
had been a long time since they had had such a categorical
rejection. 

Maybe the gig in Kansas City would be better.

*************************
 
"Come on, Q," Jean-Luc pulled him out of his bunk.  They were 
parked in the back of the bar where they'd played, and to save
money they were sleeping in the bus.  "Get cleaned up."

"Is it . . ." Q wanted to know if it was a professional call . If
it was business, Q needed to dress up nicely since Jean-Luc had
raised his price.  From now on he was to charge fifty unless they
found themselves back in another one-horse cow town. 

"Just us.  Just some fun.  I need some fun."
       

After the gig the night before, Jean-Luc had been approached by a
redheaded pimp who asked him if he wanted a little something
special.  

Jean-Luc was completely uninterested:   "I have my own and it's
the best."

"Really," said the pimp.  There was a whiff of challenge in his
voice.  He threw his unfiltered Camel on the ground.

"Q!  Get over here!"

Q rushed over.  

"This is Q," Jean-Luc stared the other man down.  "He'll do
whatever I tell him, won't you, Q?"

"Yes, Johnny."  There could be no other answer.

Gratifyingly, the other pimp was very impressed.  A singing pimp
and his singing whore.  A pimp who was actually making a go at
singing.  "Pretty sweet.  You got it going on."

Jean-Luc nodded modestly.  

"I guess you don't want you any of my Oralee."  He leaned his
head over, indicating a young woman Jean-Luc had not noticed
before.  

Well.

She was quite beautiful, with a lush figure and caramel skin. 
Hispanic or Native American.

Jean-Luc was taken aback.

And, oh, that pimp knew how to read Jean-Luc.  "Maybe you can do
me a favor.  Maybe I could just take a few photos:  How about
yours fucking mine?"

Jean-Luc felt the heated blood rush to his face.  "Not his face,
but his dick's okay."

Now he and Q were meeting Oralee and the pimp who said his name
was Paris at a famous local porn shop.   Jean-Luc and Paris
wandered up and down the aisles, and Q and Oralee followed
silently.  They listened to their pimp lovers discuss  their many
charms, her big tits, her perpetually wet pussy, his staying
power, his big dick.  How well they both took it up the ass.

Jean-Luc bought a dozen condoms.  Paris bought lube and
brightly-colored rubber dicks of various sizes, some that
vibrated, some that didn't.

Paris tipped the cabdriver extravagantly as they pulled up to a 
fairly nice hotel, and, even though they couldn't really afford
it,  Jean-Luc paid for the room. Paris dressed conservatively, 
Oralee had on a modest suit, and Q and Jean-Luc might have been
quiet powerful working men employed at the hotel.  No one
challenged any of them as they made their way upstairs.

In the hotel room, Paris ordered Oralee to strip.  She did so
instantly, her expression cheerful.   Q knew it for the lie it
was.  Jean-Luc didn't care.  He ordered Q to take off his clothes
and stroke Oralee's breasts.  Q did as he was directed.  

"Roll her nipples between your fingers," Paris told Q.  

Q obeyed him.  They all heard her breathing get heavier, and her
face got flushed.  Paris had not lied about her beauty.  She had
the  perky pointed tits of a very young woman, and a plump,
jiggly ass that swelled out nicely from her waist.  And she
genuinely appeared aroused. 

After several moments of him fondling her breasts, she began to
squirm.  

"Reach down and put your fingers in her cunt."  Paris ordered.

Q did.  She was so slippery he could work three of his fingers
all the way inside.   

Paris pulled Q's wet fingers out of his girl and then looked 
triumphantly at Jean-Luc.  "See, what did I tell you.  Lay back
on the  bed, Oralee."

Oralee lay back and opened her legs without being told.  Q was 
aching by now, completely able to understand why it was so
irresistible for Jean-Luc to order him around sexually.  The girl
was anyone's for the taking. 

He heard Jean-Luc breathing heavily, and didn't have to look to
know he was erect too.  

"Turn over." 

Q and Jean-Luc stood aside and watched as Paris patiently covered
the dicks he bought with Jean-Luc's rubbers.  Unable to help 
themselves, they leaned forward a little, watching intently as he
upended the bottle of lube with a flourish and dribbled a steady
stream over Oralee's puckered asshole.  He rubbed it all over
her, stopping every once in a while to dip a finger into her ass,
getting her good  and moist.  He rubbed one of the smaller dildos
with the sticky gel, poised it against Oralee's flesh, and then
pushed it in.  Oralee gasped.  She reared up on her arms a
little, and  the muscles of her back flexed with her movements. 
She let her breath out in a little sigh.  It was a lovely
performance.  She relaxed again  in a moment, and lay passively
on the bed as Paris worked the little dick in and out of her. 

It was all Q could do not to moan himself.  He knew how good that
felt.  He took his own deep breaths, tightening the
muscles of his ass and letting them go lax again.  

Paris smiled at him.  "I see it.  You want to stick it up her
ass?   That's why I'm getting her ready, so she can take that
giant fucker without screaming.  You want to do some?"  He turned
to Jean-Luc.  "Can he?"

"Q," Jean-Luc ordered.  His voice was much lower and rougher than
normal.  "Go fuck Oralee with that dildo." 

Q grasped the sticky handle carefully.  He could feel the smooth 
movement in and out of Oralee's body.  He could feel when she
began to get very excited, gripping the hard silicone with her
sweet little tiny  ass muscles.  She opened her legs wider,
pressing her pussy into the bed so there  would be pressure
against her clit.  She made lovely little sounds,  soft mewling
cries.  The cries built.  Her body stiffened, convulsed.  

Q was breathing high in his chest now, rapid and shallow.  It
felt normal, by  now, for him to be naked while others were
dressed.  It established parameters, set hierarchies, defined his
place.  He liked how Oralee  looked, all spread out, taking
whatever was dished out to her.  He looked that way, he knew,
when Jean-Luc bent him over and fucked him.   All yielding and
vulnerable. 

Now Paris told Oralee to get up on her hands and knees.  He
pulled the little dildo out of her ass and replaced it with
a bigger one.  Oralee moaned. 

It obviously hurt her, because she whimpered a little, even as
she writhed. 

She looked so sweet.   

"Here you go, Q.  Nice and slow."  Paris handed him the dildo.

Q did as he was ordered.  He watched her asshole swallow the 
dildo. 

Then he watched Jean-Luc and Paris as they crowded around him, 
savoring her helplessness, savoring the same sight that thrilled
him so. 

His erection was tingling and pressing against his thigh. 

Paris reached down and milked him and Q shuddered.  He was going 
to give himself to Paris, he just knew it.  He was going to open
his legs for him and open himself up to him as he did with
Jean-Luc, and the idea shocked him.  

Help me, Johnny.

Jean-Luc's big fingers slid down his chest, found his nipples, 
rolled them firmly.  Now Q knew Jean-Luc didn't mind.  Q gave
himself because that's what he did.  He wasn't betraying Jean-
Luc.   He leaned his head back against Jean-Luc's warm stomach
and moaned.  Paris was playing with him.  Johnny was playing with
him.  Through him they both fucked Oralee's ass.  All was right
with the world.   

When he started breathing rapidly, Jean-Luc and Paris  backed
off. 

Oralee was sweating by now, a sheen covering her back and her
ass. 

Q kept on reaming her out, having to concentrate against his own 
persistent arousal.  He could smell Oralee's pussy, and see it,
and he was thrilled by the way it glistened enticingly.  It was
the prettiest thing he'd seen in weeks.  He wanted to lick it. 
 
Jean-Luc and Paris had other plans.  Paris took the second dildo
out of his hands and got the big red vibrating one. 

He shoved it up Oralee's ass and she cried out in pain.  
Jean-Luc handed Q a condom. 

By this time Q's erection was throbbing, standing out from his
body, looking sweet.  Paris had to actually wipe the corners of
his mouth.  "I swear I wish I had a piece like that one." 

"Yep.  She's a beauty, isn't she?"  Jean-Luc sounded very proud. 
"Get inside her, Q.  No.  Not like that.  Her pussy."  

Then Q understood.  The red dildo in her ass would be pushed in
whenever he drove forward.  With the simple movement of his body,
he would fuck both holes at once, something he'd never known as a
possibility until this moment.  The dildo had a flared base so it
wouldn't get lost inside her.  He wouldn't even have to hold on
to it.  He was scared he'd hurt her, but she took him in until he
filled her.  She groaned as she strained to get him and the dildo
completely inside her.  Her sweet dark body was turning dusty
rose with her exertions, but she fucked back against him,
pounding her little ass against him, making it obvious that she
really wanted what he had to give her.  Q was delighted at how
much she liked him. 

The walls of her cunt embraced him tightly and he could feel the
dildo through the thin layer of flesh between her pussy and her
ass, sliding in as the movements of his body pushed it forward,
let it out, pushed it forward, let it out.   

"You don't come until I say."  Jean-Luc was asking the
impossible, but Q strove mightily to obey him. 

"Push it in as deep as you can and then ease out slowly." Paris 
ordered.  Q tried to pound his long dick into the girl.  He was
doing it for Johnny.  He was doing it for himself.  He was doing
it for Oralee who was shrieking and moaning, encouraging him to
go in harder, crying that it hurt, begging for more.

Q was surprised at the distinctive click of a camera, and a
bright flash going off.   

'Oh, that's right,' he remembered.  He looked down.  Paris had
his face right down by his crotch, and the camera was going a
mile a minute.

"Slow down, Q.  Give Paris some room."  Q pushed in and out more
slowly.  Paris snapped more pictures. Oralee whimpered.  She
wanted it.  She was almost there.  Please, fuck her.

"Okay."  Paris was finished.  

Jean-Luc peeled the covers off the Polaroids.  "Damn," Q heard
Jean-Luc gasp.  "Mind if I keep a few?"

Oralee was growling deep in her throat, crying "Oh, yes, oh,
yes!"  Her hair was matted to her skull, and she huffed and
puffed, grinding back against Q and shrieking every time he and
the dildo smacked into her.  

Q concentrated on pushing the dildo in with his pubic bone.  This
was a great idea, and the girl seemed to love it.  Thank
God he was able to last until she came.  He felt her spasm once,
twice, and then a series of hard contractions grabbed at him.  He
watched her ass clutch at the dildo, nearly shooting it out as
she climaxed.  

Oralee was done for.  She collapsed against the bed,  shuddering
in aftershock as Q pulled out of her.  The dildo fell out of its
own accord, and Paris propped it against her ass and snapped one
last picture of it in all its glory.

"You can go ahead and come now, Q.  Aim for her ass."

It didn't take long.  Q finished up while Paris took a picture of
his cum and Jean-Luc went over the Polaroids.  He lay beside
Oralee, sweaty and overcome.  The two whores did not speak.   

The pimps did.  "So, what's with the pictures?" Jean-Luc and
Paris were on the balcony, letting the breeze cool them while the
whores cleaned themselves and got dressed.

"Well, these days you have to specialize.  When I show these
around, it'll turn the johns on and they'll give me her price. 
I'm betting I can get a thousand bucks a night easy with these. 
That way Oralee will last longer."

Jean-Luc nodded.  "Makes sense.  She's about as pretty as they
come." 

"Thanks.  So's he." 

"That's true.  Don't forget that when you see his face on a CD
cover." 

Paris smiled. "I won't.  Say, I want to thank you for the loan.  
He was good." 

Both playing it cool.  They were going to take their girls home
and fuck them senseless, but it wouldn't do to break down and
lose control in front of the other.

Jean-Luc had some Polaroids in his shirt pocket.  He and Paris
shook hands and walked out, promising to remember this night. 
Then Paris and Oralee disappeared.  Q followed Jean-Luc down to
the lobby. 

Jean-Luc was turning the key in at the desk when Q realized that
he hadn't spoken a word all evening.  It didn't matter. 

He'd had a very nice time, and he'd done what Jean-Luc wanted.
 
*************************

Everyone discovered that Q and Data were the two biggest
roadside-attraction queens ever.  The many signs intoxicated
them. 

"An Indian skeleton village!"

"The World's Biggest Hatstand!"

"The Iron Nail museum!"

The first few times this happened, it pissed Jean-Luc off.  He
took  their pleased cries as demands that they should stop 
and look, and he hated demands.  But after a while, he began to 
to find it somewhat amusing.  Sometimes a particularly lurid  and 
fetching sign would make all the Boys (except Worf) go 'ooooh'
like a car full of children, and, when that happened, Jean-Luc
gave serious consideration to stopping.. 

The roadside attractions became an important part of their
education. 

For example, they learned not to take Geordi on whirling rides
because the first one he rode on made him very sick and
disoriented.  

But they learned other things as well.  One time, Data said, "Oh,
look, a museum for the blind!"

"What?" Jean-Luc said.

"A museum for the blind!  It has displays of things the visually
disabled can feel and smell and hear.  Over 200 exhibits!"  

"I heard about that back in the home.  Are we very close?" Geordi
said.

There was a pause.  It was over forty miles away. Then Jean-Luc
said, "It's just down the block. Let's go."
      
*************************
 
They were on the way to Baltimore where they were scheduled to
play a club called Romeo's, the biggest gay bar in Maryland.    

They found a cheap motel way up Route 40 where they could shower
and rest up for the next day.  It was right near a
Little Bennett State Park, in a wooded area with lots of picnic
tables.  A group of picnickers grilled hotdogs and hamburgers,
undeterred by the dampness left over from the hard rain of the
night before.  The Boys had nothing to do but wait for tomorrow
night and watch for Quark.   He was going to meet them with the
first editions of their CD, and he even had some t-shirts Q
designed. 

Jean-Luc had been livid about the tee shirts.  "They're red and
black.  The ugliest colors in the universe."

Q was mildly taken aback.  They were the sort of shirt he liked. 
A thin red cotton with black tattered-looking block letters on
the back saying Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys, and on the
front over the left breast, the words: THE OUTSKIRTS TOUR.

Jean-Luc stalked off.

Will came up to Q.  "You'll have to shake that thing like a
circus ride to get Jean-Luc to forgive you those tee shirts."

Q looked at Will and then backed up to him, rubbing his ass
against the front of Will's jeans.

"And I'm just the girl to do it."  They both laughed; they were
closer than most sisters.

They decided to go for a walk.  Q loved rain, the smell of water. 
He never thought he would ever travel this far; what a pleasant
surprise to see the sun setting in Maryland as someone's car
radio played "Desperado" by the Eagles and Will strolled beside
him in his cowboy hat and Hawaiian shirt.  Q was very quietly
proud of his tall slenderness; he kept his hat on, but he wore a
tight, thin, dark brown tee shirt which accented every pleasant
thing about his body.

He stopped and smelled the air again.  The smell carried from
where the little group was grilling hamburgers.  He loved
the scent of octane. 

And someone said "hi" to him.

Q turned around and said "hi" back.  It was one of the picnickers
who had detached himself from his friends in order to follow them
into the woods.  Will drifted a little distance away.  The Boys
always gave each other a lot of personal space.

He was a pleasant-looking man, just the least bit burly.        

"You look like you'd like a good time."

Q was taken aback.  "Well, it all depends." 

"Want to party?"

Q did not want to party.  

But if the man were to give him some money, he could buy
something for Jean-Luc.  A little porta-grill!  He'd seen them
advertised!  Some hamburger!  They could grill in the parking lot
of the motel!  He could even grill some chicken for Geordi and
Data!    He could brown sesame-seed studded buns on the grill
too!  "I guess I could be persuaded.  What do you have for me?" 

"How much?"

"Fifty?"

"For up or down or both?"

Q hesitated: what the hell.  He still thought fifty dollars was a
lot.  "Both."

The man wordlessly handed Q two new twenties and a ten.   He
spoke into the air.  "Move in."

That was odd behavior.

Then the picknickers were all over him.  They had badges and
guns. 

They were cops.
 
**************************
 
Quark drove like a madman to where they were and handled it.  

Jean-Luc  was beside himself.  What if they found Q's old record? 
What about the gig the next day at Romeo's?   Would Q be in 
prison all night?  But mainly what the blue fuck of a crime had Q 
committed?

"Your boyfriend's back," Quark said laconically.  "I posted bond,
and he's going to come back and plead guilty next week
-- after Romeo's    and pay five hundred dollars for . . .
unnatural lewdness or some  such."

"He's innocent," Jean-Luc stormed.

Quark shrugged.  He had never known innocence.  "I think if I
play it right I can count that five hundred as a business
expense.  This is nothing."

"This will go on his record."

"A iddy baby misdemeanor."

"How'd you rig all that?  In all my dealings with Johnny Law, he
had no qualms about fucking the citizenry in the ass.  You must
have a talent."

"Tee shirts.  CD's.  Nightclubs.  The music business.  The cops.  
There's a synergistic relationship behind all of it.  And it's
really best if the artists know nothing about it.  Catch you
backstage at Romeo's."  
 

Q meekly sat in the car on the way back from jail.  Quark let him
have some room, but Q was afraid Jean-Luc was going to be very
angry and beat the shit out of him.  

Sure enough, Jean-Luc was standing in the parking lot waiting,
pacing, glowering. 

Will was nervously peeking out of the doorway of the room he and
Worf shared.   He wondered if he would be blamed though neither
Worf nor Jean-Luc said anything to him.  

Q got out of the car.  Worf called Will away from the door.  Will
came in and closed the door but both he and Worf kept sneaking
out of the curtains.  

Q walked up to Jean-Luc.  He was obviously agitated, his fingers
twisting around themselves.  Jean-Luc did nothing.

Then suddenly the tension drained from his face.  Q was back.  Q
was okay. 

Q said, "Johnny..."

Jean-Luc said, "You hungry?"

Q's mouth dropped open a little.  He nodded.

Jean-Luc leaned over to the car.  "Quark, let me have your keys." 

Quark got out but left his car running.  He took a CD and a boom
box out of the back seat.

Jean-Luc drove Q to a diner.  They walked in, sat down and looked
at the menu.

Q said, "I guess I'll have the burger special.  Well done."

Jean-Luc said, "Get the steak."

Q looked up timidly.  "Are you sure?"
     
Jean-Luc looked away.  He ought to beat the shit out of Q.  

"Eat," he said.  

Q wolfed his steak.  They went back to their motel and listened
to their CD.  Jean-Luc was ecstatic.  He put his arm
around Q, glad he had a excuse. 

*************************
       
Way over on the other side of town, in the kitchen of his
mother's Highlandtown rowhouse, John Mack Madred unlocked the
door to the basement.  He told his mother that he kept the door
locked because he didn't want her accidentally falling down
stairs, what with her arthritis acting up like it sometimes did. 
When she protested that her canning jars were stored down there,
he told her not to worry because he would always bring the jars
up whenever she asked for them.  She told him he was a good son.

He took a good look around his hand-crafted dungeon.  To the
uninformed, it might look like a mere torture chamber, but to
John Mack it was a temple, and he was its high priest and chief
caretaker, endlessly devising new details for his lower room.  He
had bolted chains into the foundation.  He had installed
handcuffs, suspended by a baroque system of chains and pulleys
from the beams that ran along the ceiling.  And he had a real
mortician's table with little channels down the side for the
blood to run off.    

John Mack could only imagine what it would be like if he had the
money to really do it up with spotlights and soundproofing. 
Still, it wasn't so bad.   The really important thing was to find
the perfect vessel.  This basement idolarium, however finely
crafted, was only the setting.  The vessel itself, now there was
the problem.  

John Mack knew what he wanted.  It had to be male because women
screamed too much, and that released all the lovely tension
before it had a chance to build.  It had to be gay because, while
John Mack himself was certainly not gay and had absolutely no
interest in gay sex, still only a gay male could be readily
convinced to come home with him and visit his basement.  Most
important, the vessel had to have a certain beauty and a certain
quality of purity.   

Sometimes, in desperation, John Mack brought home vessels he knew
weren't pure.  He didn't mind this so much   he thought of it as
practice for *the* one.  He just had to be patient.  The perfect 
vessel would *know* why he was in John Mack's basement.  He would
smile gratefully at John Mack, even as he screamed.  He would
thank him.  He would offer himself  wholeheartedly, even through
his tears and pain.  It would be perfect.   

John Mack felt good just thinking about it.  He sang to himself
as he went back upstairs, shut off the lights, and locked the
door behind him. 

     Know ye not, know ye not,
     Ye are the temple?
     Ye are the temple of the holy ghost.

He got out his light jacket.  It was almost ten thirty.  Time to
get busy.


John Mack stood in line at Romeo's.  He'd been here lots of
times.  The place was a bit more crowded than usual, but he liked
it because he could stare without being noticed, especially when
everyone else was staring too. 

John Mack despised these people.  All the thin-faced blond boys
in tight jeans; the older bearded men with indulgent smiles; the
gaunt queens with their hands at their throats, indulging their
plegian appetites, the cigarettes, the margaritas, all the
panoply of life at Romeo's.   

John Mack held himself aloof.  None of these people were capable
of understanding the rarified mission that made forced him to
troll this dance floor on weekend nights; only his vessel would
see that at once.  And when that happened, John Mack would
finally be able to share the vision that defined his life. 

But he was still surprised when it happened.

His back had been turned as he searched the shoddy dance floor
with all its imitations of perfection, when he was suddenly
overcome by a sound like bells ringing and wasps swarming and
silk tearing, and then he turned to see Jean-Luc looking right at
him.  

And Jean-Luc sang to Madred, a secret, coded message of three
simple words:  Here I am.

The crowd went wild, and John Mack could almost celebrate with
them except these people were too vain, too banal, too  shallow
for him to deign to share their ebullience.   They had no idea
that a miracle had happened right in their midst.  High magic,
the clockwork order and precision of a mage's universe.  The
angels never failed him, and Destiny sang on that stage.  John
Mack was so happy he was almost disappointed.

'Well,' he thought to himself.  'Hunt's over.' 

He collared the nearest gyrating body.  "Who is that?"

"John Luke and his Magic Mountain Boys," the dancer shouted back. 

John Mack made his way to the exit.   By the entranceway, there
was a little table.  The guy behind it was happy to sell  him
several t-shirts, a CD and a tape.  John Mack inspected his loot. 
On the back of the CD were pictures of all the band members and
their names.  

"Jeen Luck?"  

"John Luke," the little salesman corrected.  "And if you're
interested, you can write down your name and address and I'll
send you information about our fan club."

If he was interested?  John Mack took the lined yellow pad from
the man's hand.  The top sheet had nothing on it except the
heading 'Fan Club List.' His name would be first.  

Synchronicity all over.  This was truly the hand of God.  

John Mack signed his name.

*************************

As the tour continued through November, the Boys became more 
grateful to Q for creating their tour t-shirts; it made them feel
like a real group.  Q was good at decisions like that, running
the band so gently that nobody really noticed.  Everyone knew
they could go to Q for a Band-aid, an extra hat, a can opener,
shoestrings.  He was smart, and he had a good eye.  He was always
finding useful things in thrift stores and flea markets.

"I got these tennis shoes for Data," he reported to Jean-Luc. 
"They're hardly worn at all.  And I got Will an extra blanket
that only cost three dollars, and if you lay it down *this* way
that stained part will be at his feet. He won't even see it." 

Q wanted to make himself needed, and he was needed because
Jean-Luc did not think about buying aspirin until he had a
headache, nor would he think about getting food until he was
starving.  Jean-Luc could only see the big picture, "let's go,
let's play, let's keep going." 

Q saw the things they needed on the way.  In their rooms, Q
stayed on the phone, always talking to Quark, arranging dates
with other clubs, sending out tapes, consulting maps, examining
their finances, poring over slim telephone books to find parts
for the Stargazer.

He had learned not to bother Jean-Luc with the details, but he
ran the band like a general or a mommy, consistently thinking
ahead to the inevitable next crisis, whether major or minor.

"Q, the G string on the banjo's broke."

"Q, there appears to be lipstick on my jacket and we are due on
stage in less than an hour." 

"Aw, man, Q, isn't there anything else to eat?"

Q noticed things nobody else knew.  Geordi was tickled pink by
jelly beans because there was no way to tell by scent or feel
which flavor would burst on the tongue (except for licorice which
he set aside and savored last).  When it was Worf's turn to cook,
Q made sure there was bread and luncheon meat for Data who didn't
like spicy food and would pick at his dinner and then wander
forlornly back to the kitchenette and make messes unless he was
directed to make a sandwich.  However, when it was Data's turn to
cook, Q made sure every ingredient was available or else Data
would make bizarre substitutions based on a logic so peculiar
that it would have the others shaking their heads.   ("This
cinnamon toast tastes so strange," Geordi said, "it even feels
funny."  "Oh, we had no cinnamon, so I used cloves.  They are 
chemically almost identical.")

Q learned to buy national brands of bottled water, always.  He
learned to hide the make-up kit because sometimes Data got
into it and experimented.  He learned Will sometimes had
nightmares, but, after staying up with him for two nights, Q
discovered that he slept better when he could ball a pillow
against his cheek.   

Q had power of a distaff sort and control over the things nobody
noticed.  It suited him.  He did not take pride in his smooth
day-to-day administration.  It was simply what he did, that was
all.  Sometimes he sneaked small vacations -- a few hours all to
himself in a matinee, the calming thud of a laundromat, the peace
of a lone park bench, and always the dusty silence of a library.

*************************
     
Their growing success brought the Boys many new things.   One
night after a bar gig, Jean-Luc was carrying a box of equipment
out to the bus (the Boys were their own roadies), and there was a
beautiful young dark-haired man waiting for him.

"Mr. Picard! Jean-Luc!  I love you!"

Jean-Luc turned questioning eyes on him.

"I do, I really do.  That whole thing tonight was a spiritual
experience for me.  I swear, I'd do anything for you."

Jean-Luc was taken aback.  This man, little more than a boy
really, was beautiful and lush-featured; his body had the
mannered beauty of someone who worked on himself daily.

"Just tell me what you like. I promise I'll do it."

Jean-Luc kept staring.

"Please, please, please," begged the boy. His voice dropped. 
There was no one else around.  "Anything.  What do you like?"

Jean-Luc finally breathed.  "I like it simple.  I like them
pretty.  And I like them with big ones."

The boy unzipped himself and brought it out.

Jean-Luc gazed at it. "You're that big soft?"

"Want to see it hard?"

"All right." 

"Talk to me.  Tell me you'll be my daddy and spank me hard.  Then
tell me to bend over.  Tell me we'll have that hot anal love." 
The boy was touching himself and he was quick to become aroused.

Jean-Luc was trying very hard to keep his head. 

"Kiss Daddy's dick first.  Then we'll see about the rest of it."

*************************
     
Quark met them in North Carolina. 

"Guess what I've got!" he said in a sing-song way.

The Boys were tired from touring; they looked at him with
fatigue-glazed eyes.

"Aw, you won't guess!  It's a contract from DCA for your next CD! 
Including a fifty-thousand dollar advance."

They were too stunned to speak, especially Q who had always
thought Quark's deals would never amount to anything.  Still:
"Let me examine the contract, Quark." 

"Here 'tis."

Q was dumbfounded; everything was on the up and up.  

"I want you to do some song writing and rehearsing.  Winter's a
hard season for you country boys.  But I've got a lease-option on
a cute little cabana in North Alabama, three bedrooms, get it? 
It's out in the woods so you can rehearse all you like, but it's
only about forty miles from Muscle  Shoals and a hundred from
Nashville.  You could do some good work there.  Also I'll get you
a New Year's gig at a Mississippi redskin casino so you can ring
in the new year with some of fresh pieces of ass, if you want,
and meanwhile we're kings of the world.  Sign on the dotted line,
boys."

Q recommended that they sign.  

"Looks like you'll have to renew my contract, kids!" Quark
gloated.


"Quark," said Q, "this is wonderful work.  But what's in it for
you?"

"Q, I know you could give a shit, pardon my french, but I'm
getting more pussy than Rhett Butler.  The music business has
been very very good to Little Tommy Quark."

*************************

Quark had been justifiably frugal about the house.  Still it was
roomy and comfortably far away from the nearest neighbors, even
if it was a little bit ratty.

So, when they weren't rehearsing the new songs Q had written,
Worf and Q started painting, fixing the roof, repairing the
plumbing, doing a thousand householder things.   And Will was so
touchingly eager to help that they eventually taught him how to
do what they were doing.   

Jean-Luc liked to stare out of the window over the sink, watching
approvingly.  The work tightened up Will's body and helped him
lose a bit more of that flab.  Often, the weather was so mild
that they would take their shirts off.  Jean-Luc savored this
sight.

************************

Four.  Four.  Six.

Four.  Four.  Six.

John Mack Madred looked at the new combination lock on his
bicycle.  It was a sign.

John Mack Madred.

John Luke Picard.

Four four six.

He turned and looked up at the winter sky.  The clouds had a
broken, falling quality that made him highly uneasy.  Maybe he
should spell his name with a hyphen too.  John-Mack Madred. 
Didn't the Knights Templar invent the hyphen?

************************** 

The Boys had debated for some time before they decided to go
ahead and do it: they got cable television.  

A curious innocence had surrounded them.  It was the first time
any of then had cable.  Of course, it meant there was always a
debate about what they would watch, and, being very different
from each other, quarrels erupted.  But the sheer novelty of it
kept them glued to the set together.  Jean-Luc had the center
seat, the "big chair", a plastic-covered lounger, and Q always
sat at his feet.  On the other side of Jean-Luc sat Will and Worf
in a sort of wicker love-seat.  It made provocative groaning
wicker sounds as the two big men moved.  There was another
comfortable chair on the other side of Jean-Luc where Geordi sat,
and Data would sit with him, occasionally on his lap, sometimes
on the floor beside him. 

At these tight little gatherings, they always leaned a lot more
about each other.  At first, the other Boys were surprised that
Geordi liked television so much.  But he did; he especially loved
cartoons with their side-splitting sound-effects.  And Data liked
old shows like "Industry On Parade" which showed how beets got
canned and hats got made.  He loved footage of things traveling
on conveyor belts.  Q was very fond of how-to shows, the home
decorating channel, and cooking show, especially those with
stories about vineyards in France and stuff like that, and he
loved the Discovery channel because it gave him new things to
think about.  But Worf always insisted they watch a western if
one were on. He was also fond of the sort of war movie where
everybody dies in the end.  And he loved Kurosawa.  

Will plagued everyone by wanting to watch "Three's  Company." 
"What a lifestyle!" he always said.

However, Jean-Luc always had the last word about what they
watched, and he made everyone hush up when his favorite shows
came on.  He couldn't get enough of television evangelists.   And
although everyone else grumbled,  these shows were fascinating to
them too.  Fascinating in the lies they told.  Fascinating in the
downhome charisma they wrought.  But Jean-Luc watched them from
the viewpoint of a colleague; he wanted to know what was right
and wrong in how they controlled and manipulated.  It was his
equivalent of reading a professional journal.


Geordi wondered if Q were sick because he could definitely hear
him breathing heavily.   They had been sitting in their den
watching television when Q started making strange noises.

"Q, why are you breathing like this?"  Geordi demonstrated,
making his breath sound raspy.  

The others noticed the moment Geordi mentioned it.  Q sounded a
little gaspy.

"Well," Jean-Luc's dark voice sounded amused.  "Tell them, Q."

"Johnny's messing with me."  Q sounded demure and embarrassed.

Johnny was indeed messing with him, a little thing, almost
trivial.  He was idly rolling one of Q's nipples between his
fingers, and that was all he had done, but he'd been doing it for
almost half an hour and Q was squirming, his legs open in the
darkness, trying to work off his sexual tension as
surreptitiously as possible.  And he might would have succeeded,
too, if not for Geordi. 

"Can't leave the poor girl alone for five minutes," Will
murmured.  He slid his eyes over to Worf.

"Poor Q," Worf breathed in.  "Has a hard life."

"I bet that's not the only thing he has that's hard," Geordi
said.

Data moved his head back.  I believe you are being impolite,
Geordi."

"Oh."  Geordi couldn't have sounded more insincere.  "Sorry."
     
*************************

John Mack Madred faced left and looked in the mirror.  Twenty
years earlier, when he was in the army, he'd gotten his
initials tattooed on his right bicep in big blue gothic letters:
JMM.  He thought it was a very attractive tattoo.  Then he turned
and faced right.  He looked at his new tattoo, so fresh it was
still scabbing over:

JLP.

*************************

Q decorated the house for Christmas.  He spent fifteen dollars
for all sorts of dollar-store paper and Salvation Army discards
and suddenly every inch of the house was red and green and gold
and silver.

And he went out into the woods and cut down a fragrant young
cedar and put it in a bucket of wet sand right by the television
set.

And then he put mysterious packages under the tree.  "To Geordi
from Santa!?" read a card.  "To Will.  For being a good boy! 
From You Know Who!" was another.  "To Data.  Do not open until
December 25!!!"  "To Worf!  Merry Christmas!"  And "To Jean-Luc
with all my love!  Your secret admirer!!"   

Geordi had spent most Christmases painfully pretending with his
family that they had something in common.   

Data did not observe any religious holidays, but he could explain
the sociological implications of the need for ritual. 

Will had never imagined he would participate in a Christmas
occasion because he'd spent so long on the outside looking in.  

Worf was indifferent to holidays though he liked the food. 
Jean-Luc likewise.  They weren't quite sure of what to do or why. 

But the idea of presents intrigued them.  Especially distracting
was the fact that they each had a gift they weren't allowed to
open until a specific time.  What a cocktease!


Will, Geordi, and Data spent time playing with their packages. 
Shaking them.  Feeling them.  

And Data and Will had Geordi listen to and smell their gifts.  

"Something electric," he said to Data.  "I can tell that much."

"Peanuts," he said to Will who raised his eyebrows.


On Christmas Eve, they opened their gifts (except for Data who
pointed out that he had very explicit instructions to wait until
midnight at least). 

Will had gotten a six-pack of Payday bars!  "You better share
them," Q teased.

"I don't think so," said Will.

Geordi had gotten a smart new pair of wraparound sunglasses from
the sales rack at the drug store. Everyone whistled in admiration
when he put them on.

Worf got huge black rubber gloves to do chores in.  He put them
on and showed them off.

Jean-Luc got provocative underwear which he immediately hid.  He
made a mocking fist at Q, who blushed.

"Data, open yours!" said Will.

Data turned even paler.  "What might occur if I fail to obey
these instructions?"

"Nothing compared to what might happen if I have to come over
there.  Now open it," said Jean-Luc.

It was a toaster!  A hour's scrubbing and some electric tape on
the cord had made it good as new!

"Oooooh," everyone said.

And while they settled down to watch television,  Data took his
toaster back to the kitchen.  

Geordi said, "No one got Q anything."

"Q gets a big present from me later," Jean-Luc remarked.

Everyone smiled.

They were going to watch a highly-advertised special called "The
Love Hour."  It was the Christmas service from the pulpit of the
somewhat controversial but very entertaining Reverend Earl Garak,
the newest sensation in the televangelist-field.

Reverend Garak was something.  

It was hard to say what was the most horrible element of his
appearance.  Was it his hair, which reminded everyone of a
clipper ship in full sail?  Was it his voice which had a snake's
sibilance?  Was it the incredible glittering suits he wore? 
(Although terrifying to contemplate on a color television set,
they were supposed to glow in a heavenly manner on black and
white sets, much to the gratification of his less fortunate
parishioners.)  Was it his hideous eyes which bulged and nuzzled
the television camera?  Perhaps it was his mannerisms,
artificial, effeminate, pouncing like a spider on the weaknesses
of his audience?   But most people thought it was his smile, a
slow slice of alligator in a televised tank.  

The Boys couldn't tear their eyes away.  

"Data, what are you doing in there?" Q said, "I've been smelling
toast for twenty minutes."

Data came back in.  "I have been doing a statistical analysis of
the operations of my toaster.  I have tried different stages of
toasting.  And then I have toasted different types of
breadstuffs.  It is a fascinating device."

"Q, put a stop to this," Jean-Luc said from the big chair.

Q was loathe to leave the fascinating Reverend Garak, but he went
back to the kitchen with Data and put the toasted bread in one
sack and the untoasted bread ("future toast!" Data said) into
another.

Then he dragged Data back in to see what else Reverend Garak was
up to.

The highlight of Reverend Garak's Love Hour was always the hymn
he sang with the aid of his huge simpering choir.

"And, dear friends, ALL the Love Hour tunes are available on CD, 
cassette and 8-track at this address on your screen," he leered.

Tonight's ditty was "Satan Changed the Lock on Heaven's Front
Door."  

As usual Garak accompanied himself on the piano; he ran his
stubby little reptilian hands up and down the entire length of
the piano until he finally calmed down and began his hymn. 

It seemed that Satan changed the lock on heaven's front door.  

And the Reverend Garak's key won't be fitting in that lock no
more.  

The Reverend Garak had been standing on heaven's front porch all
night long, and he knew something was definitely going on wrong.  

Heaven's lights were dim, he continued, and God's shades were way
down low.  

And the Reverend Garak had knocked and knocked until his fists
got sore. 

Then Garak eyed the camera in a terrifying way as he played a
mutant hybrid of New Orleans whorehouse and child-ballet-recital. 

His hideously-robed choir was always very supportive of Reverend
Garak.  Oohing.  Ahhing.  Oh-lording.   And part of the fun of
the Love Hour for the Boys was to speculate on what each
chorister's favorite sexual position might be.  

Tonight Will said: "See the fat gal   she likes it in the
kitchen, she likes it in the hall, but, when you come in the back
door, she likes that best of all."  

Q said seductively: "You know, I think I did that organist when
we were in Tennessee."

"I think I did his wife."

"I don't think he had a wife when we were in Tennessee."

"Well maybe I did his dog."

"What's the difference?"

"Say, is that where you got that last case of fleas?"  

"Yeah, but the organist is still scratching."

"Scratching his organ, you mean."

"See that redhead?  Doesn't he look like he's wearing a 
buttplug?"

"He does not.  He looks like he's wearing two buttplugs."

"I think I fucked him."

"Me too."

"And me."

"And me."

"And me."

"Okay, show of hands, who didn't fuck the redhead?"

"Geordi, why not?"

"I refuse to fuck anyone who sings in a choir that sounds that
bad."

They all laughed.  It was a good Christmas.  Above them, the
silent stars went by.
     
**************************************************************

Quark called.  "Merry Christmas, children.  Stop that, Regina!" 

"What are you saying?" Q said, genuinely confused.

"Oh, someone here doesn't quite . . . oohh, you know what I like. 
Just stay there and do that til I get off the phone, okay,
honey?"

"Quark, are you okay?"

"Oh, just playing with what Santa left in my stocking. If you
know what I mean.  But here's the big deal: you know Rolling
Stone magazine?"

"Yes?"

"Well, in the next issue they're going to have a round-up of
trends for the New Year.  And Guess Who Gets Mentioned?  Along
with their new CD!  The songs for which, by the way, better sure-
as-fuck be finished." 

Q shouted the news to the others   they were beside themselves.

"I'm putting this item in our newsletter."

"Quark, what newsletter?"

"The newsletter I'm generating even as I speak.  That's my typist
you hear squealing in the back ground. We're debating pica versus
elite.  Regina!  Yes!  Yes!  I'm sending it to all the fans whose
addresses I've been collecting.  Brilliant PR move, doncha think? 
Regina! DON'T STOP NOW!"

************************

John Mack Madred finally found it.  The issue of the magazine
called Rolling Stone.  The one mentioned in HIS newsletter.  He
held it securely in both hands. He almost couldn't breathe. His
vessel was driving them both into history.  

And soon the newsletter would whisper where they should gather.

He looked at the cover.  Who was Johnny Depp?  

John Mack paid for the magazine at the convenience store counter. 
A flouncing hussy, just the kind he went to high school with, no
doubt a drug addict and clearly a whore, took his money and then
said to him: "Why are YOU buying this?"

John Mack looked at her.  "My son enjoys Johnny Depp.  But he has
cerebral palsy and cannot get out much.  I am buying it for him."

That shut the slattern up as well as if he had soundly lashed
her.

Odd.  He had never been a glib liar before.  Another sign from
God, clearly.

*************************
     
Television was boring.  "Let's make our own entertainment," Jean-
Luc said.  "You two," and he pointed to Data and Geordi.  
The other three watched them leave.


Q went to bed alone.  He was reading an American poetry anthology
he'd bought for a quarter at a second-hand shop.  There was a
little lamp by the bed, and Q had placed an orange scarf on the
lampshade so the light was mellow and golden on the cream-colored
acrylic blanket, on the patched white sheets.

Jean-Luc came in the room, naked and clean.

He saw Q lying there reading; Q was bare-chested under the
covers.

"Don't expect me to fuck you.  I just fucked both of them and I'm
chewed.  I'm going to sleep."

"Do you mind if I go on reading?" said Q.

"Be my guest."

In a moment, Jean-Luc was breathing rhythmically.         

**************************

It had been a fine late summer day when Q and Worf were paroled
from prison.  Warden Dougherty was there to look at them
distantly, shake their hands, and raise his refined eyebrows as
he said "Ciao, fellows".

"I want to say good-bye to Warden O'Brien.  He's been so
helpful," Q said.

An awkward moment.  "O'Brien is in Louisville talking to some
people.  What did he do for YOU?"  

"Oh, nothing really, it's just he was there."

Worf stepped in.  "Thank you, Warden Dougherty.  Good-bye to
you."

And they were free.

What was waiting for Q when he walked out of the gates of Fear
Alley?

He probably needed to see Beverly.                     

He wanted to see his boys.

He had to see Jean-Luc.

And when he walked through the prison gates, his wife and family
were not there, but Jean-Luc was. 

Something like a pillar of flame burned all the oxygen from the
atmosphere, and no one could breathe.  

Jean-Luc said, "You owe me big for this."

Brightness was all.

"Okay," Q answered.

The three of them standing there, Q and Worf freshly released in
their prison-issue new suits with their prison-issue three
twenties in their hands, and Jean-Luc waiting in jeans and tee
shirt and seeming to turn to stone as he regarded Q -- at last Q
was free to be his  -- but there was one piece of etiquette he
had to go through with: "Worf, you want to come with us?  Your
banjo would be a good addition."

"I have nowhere else to go."       
     

It was all Q could do not to throw himself into Jean-Luc's arms. 
He waited, excited, for Jean-Luc to acknowledge him. His hand
fluttered and twisted around themselves excitedly, and Johnny
hated it when he got twitchy, but he couldn't help himself; he
was just that happy even though there had been no presents, as
he'd hoped, and no big reunion.  All that happened was that Jean-
Luc looked him over, nodded, and then turned to Worf and invited
him along.  

None of that mattered to Q.  The important thing was that they
were back together at last.

Jean-Luc wanted to sing.  Q hadn't cared.  If Jean-Luc had said,
"Let's be winos, or nuclear physicists," Q's answer would have
been the same: "Okay, Johnny."

He took them to a very cheap motel in the Impala.  Two beds in
one room.  Very cheap.

Worf was a very gracious roommate.  "I want to walk around. 
Here's forty.  For gas and lodging.  This twenty will see me for
a while.  You need to be alone."  Then he left. 
     
Jean-Luc held out a white plastic bag.  "Go in there and  put
these on and come back out."  He indicated the bathroom. 

Well, it was a sort of present.  Underwear.  A package of three
large white tee shirts.  Vee-necked.  And three pairs of
tiny briefs made of some kind of nylon.  Sort of transparent.
Pastels.  Q cleaned himself up again and put some of the new
underwear on.  The briefs fit very  well, very tight.  They were
ideal for someone built the way Q was built.  He became slightly
aroused looking at himself; in a way, the garments caressing him
was Jean-Luc caressing him.

He went out.  Jean-Luc was standing there, leaning against a
dresser,  waiting.

"Time for bed, Q," he said.

Q got in the bed; he pulled the flimsy bedspread over him. 

"Didn't you forget something?  Daddy wants to see you say your 
prayers."

Q got out of bed and knelt by the side of the bed.  He put his
hands in front of him, bowed his head and began to pray.  
Something.  Anything.  "God keep Johnny and God keep Worf and God
keep . . ."

Jean-Luc was kneeling behind him; he was pulling up the tee shirt
and then he put his large warm hands on Q's ass where
the briefs were.  "What a good little girl.  What a good little
ass."  Jean-Luc was caressing him.  "I bet you have a sweet
little pussy.  Let me look at  it-- let me pull your panties down
to your knees -- just keep praying."   Q gasped; Jean-Luc had
pulled his briefs down and now his big hand was between Q's
thighs, was on Q's stiff cock, was on the end where Q was already
damp.  "Why, your pussy's wet, how did that happen, did you touch
yourself in the bed?  No wonder you need to say your prayers."  
He began to pump Q with his hand for a few seconds.  Q was
delirious.   Then he heard Jean-Luc unzip his pants.  "Let Daddy
get ready for bed.   Let Daddy help you say your prayers.  Look,
Daddy is so hot and big for his girl."  Q turned to Jean-Luc;
Jean-Luc was naked by now, naked, pale, erect, glistening.  Q bit
his lower lip.  "Your little pussy is so tight I need to be wet. 
Why don't you kiss it?  Just open that mouth and let me stick it
in."

Q was quick to take Jean-Luc in his mouth and so hot for Jean-Luc
and so good at what he did that Jean-Luc had to draw back and
collect himself.  Then he began to tease himself, sticking his
dick into Q's mouth and then pausing and doing it again.   "I
want to help you say your prayers."  Q's briefs were still 
around his knees.  

And Q knew what Jean-Luc wanted.  He edged his tee shirt up
around his waist and stuck his beautiful ass out, presenting it,
writhing a bit, saying "God God God" over and over again.  Moving
his ass as if Jean-Luc's big dick were already in it.  

And then Jean-Luc was in him, straddling, fucking, pounding. His
huge hands gripping Q's slim hips. "Keep praying, cocksucker," he
directed.  "Don't mind me.  Don't mind Daddy.  I'll be done
quickly.  You won't know I was here."  That was of course
impossible. Q wanted to come badly; he writhed more, pulling his
tee shirt up under his arms so he could touch his nipples, and
Jean-Luc  was coming, pumping so he could get all the sensation
out of it he could.  Then, panting, he stood up and Q stood too,
still erect.  

Jean-Luc smiled at that and kissed Q, and Q kissed back, a full
wet Q kiss.  "Change your underwear and we'll try something
else," Jean-Luc  whispered.

Q did.  When he came back out of the bathroom, Jean-Luc had put
his jeans back on.  

"Get under the covers.  Daddy says it's time for bed."

Q did; he was intoxicated by this, by Jean-Luc's potent purred 
suggestions.  He felt drugged, he felt huge and weighted, all his
power collecting in his cock.

Jean-Luc sat on the bed and reached out and rubbed his hand on
Q's  head.  "Let's get that pretty head ready for bed."  He
rumpled Q's hair; he pulled some down over Q's eyes. Then he
said: "Don't you want to touch yourself under the covers?"  And Q
did, still watching Jean-Luc.  "Rub  it."  Q was soon breathing
rapidly.  "Don't you feel guilty?   What if someone saw you? 
What if Daddy sees you touch yourself?"  Q kept his hand moving;
he was breathing through his mouth now.  "Do you  still have your
panties on?"  Q nodded as he panted.  "Why don't you pull them
off again for me?  And spread your legs.  Maybe you could stick
something in your pussy while you touch yourself.   Something
hard.  Something big you can move back and forth."   

"You can help me, Daddy.  You have a big thing."

"No, I want to see you.  Maybe Daddy can go to the store tomorrow
and buy you something big for your pussy." 

Jean-Luc pulled the covers down; Q had slipped off his briefs and
his legs were wide apart. "Wait, let me use my hand too," and he
wet his fingers and put them in Q as Q jerked off, and, with
that, Q became completely undone and came so hard he almost lost
consciousness; all he knew was that his head had fallen off the
pillow and he was writhing on the bed, saying  inarticulate
things, and Jean-Luc kept pounding his fingers into him.

As soon as he had calmed down a little, Jean-Luc stood up.  His
jeans were undone, and he had pulled himself out, erect
again. 

He climbed on top and fucked Q the way he had in prison, drawing
it out now that he knew he could last a while inside him.  On the
hotel bed he had room, so he fucked Q on his back, then on his
side, then thrown halfway off the mattress, then kneeling and
bracing himself against the headboard -- after prison, the big
bed was a luxury to them.  Jean-Luc held off coming for a long,
long time, fucking Q until they were both lightheaded.  He was
actually zoning out a little bit, like having white line fever,
but he kept fucking, coming back to Q's moaning voice and
grinding hips. 

Q tried to keep himself silent from force of habit, but Jean-Luc
didn't want that.  "We're not in prison anymore, girl.  Let me
hear you make some noise.  You remember me now, don't you?  You
remember who this is?  Then say it."

"Oh, Daddy," Q cried.  "You're all I dreamed about.  I could
never forget you."

"I know, motherfucker.  Me too.  Me too."   His hips ached from
pumping, but he looked down at Q's sweaty grimace and got renewed
strength.  "Come for me, Q." 

Dutifully, willingly, Q ground it out for him, his big hands
covering his dick, moving rapidly, making it happen.  All too
soon they were both crying out and Jean-Luc watched Q's dick
twitch as he felt his own orgasm, almost painful in its
intensity, wash over him.

They could not leave each other alone.  In their half-sleep state
they kissed, rubbed against one another, stroked each others'
bodies.  Q finally got up to shower, but, unable to stay away
from him, Jean-Luc got in too.  

Teasing, Q refused him the soap.  "Let me," Q said and touched
his chest. "I always wanted to."   

Jean-Luc nodded, amused.   Q washed him methodically from top to
bottom, wasting shampoo on his bald head, gently stroking around
his eyes and mouth, behind his ears, between his fingers, between
his toes.  He swabbed from the top to the middle and from the
bottom to the middle, saving his ass and penis for last.  Then Q
lathered up his hands and then slid his soap-slick fingers
between Jean-Luc's cheeks.  He rubbed the outside gently, slipped
a single finger in until Jean-Luc started to moan, and then
abandoned the back for the front.  Reverently, he knelt to cradle
Jean-Luc's testicles and penis, rubbing and rubbing until
Jean-Luc sighed and canted his legs open.  He could have stayed
like that all night but Q pulled him back to the bed again.   

"I want to dry you too."  

More sensual stroking.  The towel felt like silk because through
it Q's hands brought him pleasure.  Methodical as usual, Q dried
fingers, arms, feet, legs, chest, saving the best for last once
again.  He gently parted Jean-Luc's legs and patted softly
against Jean-Luc's testicles, not so much drying them off as
stimulating his lover to another erection.  

Jean-Luc heard his own heavy breathing.  "Are you done?"

Q looked up and nodded. 

"Then quit this fooling around and suck Daddy's cock."

Q threw himself on the floor and on Jean-Luc; he took almost all
of it immediately, massaging, his hand moving back to Jean-Luc's
ass.  Then Jean-Luc grabbed Q's head and began fucking his mouth,
careless of Q's feelings, careless of Q's  heart, the way Q liked
it.

"After this I'll have to beat you," Jean-Luc murmured and then he
was coming down Q's throat, panting, eyes closed; he sat back.  

They looked at each other.  "Lean over again, Q." And Q did,
watching Jean-Luc adoringly as any dog. Jean-Luc slid down beside
him on the floor.  "Let's get our money's worth."  Q was beside
him, naked and gleaming, lean where he should be, curvy where he
should be.  Jean-Luc  stroked his curved ass, again and again. 
Then he slapped it.  Once.  Once more.  Q's skin pinked up in a
very enticing, arousing way.  

Jean-Luc liked the way this sounded.  Q was handsome and solid. 
He kept hitting harder and harder; Q was breathing harder and 
harder.  And Jean-Luc began to whisper to him: "See what happens
to bad  girls.  Better than this will happen too.  I'm going to
dick your ass everyday from now til  heaven."  He hit Q
repeatedly with the flat of his hand.  Q was wiggling now,
backing away, backing up to the blows.

And suddenly Jean-Luc grabbed him and wrestled Q to the floor,
his shirt still pulled up.  Q felt the grit of the motel carpet
under his back.  Then Jean-Luc swooped down and began to suck Q. 
He was very good at that, rough, but good.  He pulled away
briefly.  "I like to eat pussy," he said and  started in again,
and Q's hands had folded in front of him like animal paws and he
felt the crisis approaching again and he found himself  bucking
into Jean-Luc's mouth. 

Then Jean-Luc pulled back; his lips were wet.

They looked at each other.

Could they say "I love you"?  If a person were in the very middle
of a prairie fire whose flames were taller than his head, could
he say to the fire "I love you"?  And what would the fire say
back?


They slept fitfully, waking to caress each other, to watch each
other,  to keep damp clean flesh pressed to damp clean flesh.   

At five a.m., they decided they could lie in bed no more.  "Let's
get up and eat somewhere. We can come back and fuck a lot more,"
Jean-Luc said.  

They went out to the parking lot and then guiltily realized that
they  had forgotten Worf, who was standing out by the car,
patient as stone.  

Had he been there the whole evening?

He nodded when he saw them.

"Worf, I'm sorry.  You should have come back and gotten some real 
rest."  Jean-Luc was genuinely contrite.  "I don't know what to
say."

"Do not worry," Worf smiled a tiny smile.  "Don't take this the
wrong  way."  He breathed in.  "But I have spent seven years in
small rooms listening to men fuck men.  It meant more to me to
walk under these  stars.  On these streets.  Than to sleep.  Last
night, we all got what we wanted."  He smiled again.  He had seen
the free world again.  Free things in motion.  Cars traveling all
night, their lights sweeping  brick buildings like movie star
entrances.  Their radios playing all  kinds of music.   

And women.  Women arguing.  Women laughing.  One woman, young,
white, in a new car, driving by, fixing her lipstick in her
rearview. When she saw Worf look at her, she laughed out loud,
amused to be caught in her  vanity.  Worf laughed with her, and
she waved and drove on.

He was free as a star, more free than a star because he had no
place to be.

"Worf, are you sure?"

"I am sure."

"Well, why don't we go to Waffle Shack then?"
 
*************************
 
Jean-Luc woke up gasping.  Q had just put down his poetry
anthology and was getting ready to turn out the lights.  "Q. 
Where are you?"  Jean-Luc said in a sleep-thickened voice.

Q reached out and placed his hand on Jean-Luc's chest.  "I'm
here, Johnny.  Always."

Jean-Luc grabbed Q's hand, shaking his head to clear it.  Then he
yawned and lay back  down: "A nightmare.  Ugh."

"You should take that l-tryptophan I bought. It's supposed to
help you sleep."  Q pushed himself deeper into the covers; he was
very aware of their nakedness.  He wondered if Jean-Luc might
possibly have recovered some of his stamina.  

Disappointingly, Jean-Luc only pulled Q closer before settling
down and closing his eyes. "No way.  I have a feeling about
that shit."  
 
************************
 
They recorded most of the new CD at one of the studios in Muscle
Shoals.  

These engineers and mix artists were even calmer and smoother and
more priest-like than the first ones.

And when Jean-Luc sang, he did not try to hide the fact that  he
was nothing but a piece of bloody soil but he did have something
to say.

And Geordi was their most brilliant musician, but he was teaching
the others how to be brilliant.

And Q's songs were all about what the fire said to him and what
he said back to the fire.

It was going to work.
 
*************************
 
"Rocket City, USA," said Data.  

"Huntsville, A-Ell-A," said Will.

They had driven over to Huntsville so they could go to a  decent
bar for once; it had been a particularly grueling and draining
session in the studio.  Geordi and Q kept wrangling with them to
get one little procession of sounds correct.  And the damnedest
thing was that they had all agreed to the ten hours it took to
get those 90 seconds of sound right.

In the bar were soldiers.  Fair enough.  Huntsville was a big 
military base.  Jean-Luc cruised them with his eyes narrowed, his
chin uplifted; he liked soldierly boys with good posture.  And Q
watched Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc walked across the room with every atom in the room in
his wake.  Suddenly he nodded as he passed by two soldier boys.  
The soldiers were alike as twins, shaved heads, pink skin, snub
noses, beefy.  He went to the exit and turned to them and they
stood up and walked to the exit too and then  all three
disappeared.

Q hated alcohol; there was nothing for him here.

A few songs played on the jukebox.  Q had fearful thoughts,
thoughts he couldn't explain, and Jean-Luc came back in and
touched Q on the elbow.   

"In the toilet, boy," he said.

Q followed him into the men's room.

They went into a booth together, and Jean-Luc fastened the door
behind them.  Then he unzipped his pants and rested against the
door of the stall. 

Q didn't move, so Jean-Luc put his hand on Q's shoulder and
pushed Q until he was kneeling on the floor.  And Jean-Luc's old
power took over and Q had Jean-Luc in his mouth and, worse than
that, he suddenly  wanted to make this the best Jean-Luc would
ever know and he massaged him and sucked him and caressed him
with his tongue and Jean-Luc's eyes rolled back in his head and
he was finished.

Q stayed on the floor: I love you, he thought silently.

Jean-Luc patted his head and smiled at him.  "Those two assholes
were a real disappointment.  One had a big dick so I had the
littler one fuck him, but . . . " he shook his head in
disappointment, "it got old quick." 

"You still got hot?"

"It was hot," Jean-Luc shrugged.  "Two boys sticking their dicks
around is always hot, no matter what.  But guess what: I've had 
better."  

Q held his breath.

"Don't look at me that way.  This is hardly the first time you've
sucked cock in a toilet."

"No, that's not what I meant."

"Then what did you mean?"

Q wanted to say, am I the best you've had, Daddy?  But he knew 
that wouldn't do.

"I didn't mean anything," he said, and that ended that.
 
*************************
 
They finished the recording for the CD, and the tapes were sent 
far and wide to factories all over America.  Now was the wait for
Providence to kick in.  

Quark cleverly got two cuts put out on cassette as a promotional
tool, and then he got them a gig on public radio. 

Jean-Luc knew what the radio audience wanted to hear: "The Celtic
influence has been predominant in mountain music, obviously, but
the Cajun and African roots cannot be underestimated in the
formation of the quintessential bluegrass sound."

Geordi elbowed Data.  The rest of the Boys all stared at each
other around the studio when that big chunk of verbiage came out
of Jean-Luc's mouth.  

Jean-Luc continued like this through the entire interview.  And
then they played their tape.  By the time it was over, the 
interviewer, a city girl who spoke through her nose and laughed
at her own jokes, was clearly in love with Jean-Luc.  But he
merely tipped his hat at her and said, "It was a pleasure, Miss
Anij," and headed down the street with the other Boys when the
interview was over.

Worf walked up.  "The Celtic influence.  Has been  predominant. 
In mountain music."  He was right behind Jean-Luc. 

Jean-Luc looked up  to see if he was being mocked.  He was.  They
swapped hard little smiles.

"Nice phraseology, Jean-Luc." 

Jean-Luc leaned back against him.  "Let's get Data tonight and
take turns.  I'll hold him down and you can fuck him and
then you do the same for me.  Deal?"

This vision made Worf gasp.  But conscientiously he said, "What
about the ladies?"

Jean-Luc shrugged.  "You know how they are.  Let Geordi fuck
them.  Then they can share hairstyle hints and pop popcorn.  You
know,  watch reruns of 'Welcome Back Kotter'.  Shit like that. 
Who gives a fuck?  Let's get Data." 

"Agreed."
 
*************************
       
At first, Data was intimidated by Jean-Luc and Worf, but then
something clicked in his brain and he began loving it; he loved
being traded back and forth, loved being completely naked and on
the edge of sensation as one erect man took him from another.  
 
**************************
 
Their first significant review was in "Entertainment Weekly."

It wasn't a long review; the young reviewer had said only, "To
learn about Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys is frankly
provocative, but they are next of kin to chaos, upsetting the
orderly and frankly stultifying categorization American music has
fallen into.  Nothing can prepare you for their sound.  Macho
homosexual traditional hillbilly music is the best description I
can come up with.  And that's only a fraction of it.

"In a way, Jean-Luc Picard, Quentin McConn, Will Riker, Gordon 
LaForge, Worf Rodshenko, and Dave 'Mr. Data' Soong together make
a new Elvis, blending everything that's good about America with
everything  that's scary about being human.

All I can say is buy this CD and change your life."  
 
*************************

They also tried to schedule some big club gigs to promote their
new  album.

And because they were who they were, these were their best 
performances ever.  

Q's earnest, beautiful face would lean towards the mike as he
poured out the lyrics he'd written.   There would be sadness in
his voice, and showmanship, and Jean-Luc would stiffen just a
bit, his smile becoming a little bit fixed as they sang a duet
about faithless lovers and broken hearts, but their voices
blended beautifully, rendering a poignant and tender sound, and
every once in a  while they would lean very close, Johnny
possessive and tender, Q maidenly and demure.   Their faces would
touch in a way that plainly said they were used to being very
close to one another, and at the end of the song they didn't move
and neither did the audience until Jean-Luc suddenly walked to
the middle of the stage, breaking their obvious, intimate
connection while Q stared yearningly.  Then Jean-Luc would launch
into another song, and Q and the other Boys would follow,
obedient as always, and the audience collectively shook itself,
realizing that they've been rudely eavesdropping on real life. 
What happened on stage was not a show, and, if the audience were
to come back the next night, they would realize how real it was.  
Some things (like life) would be the same; some things (like
life) would be different.  The audience paid good money, but
nonetheless they left  feeling somehow that they owed Jean-Luc a
debt, and it was all very  powerful and spooky.


They screamed like banshees when Jean-Luc walked across stage 
and said, "I hope this song makes you burn the way it makes us
burn," because no one could pronounce the word 'burn' the way
Jean-Luc Picard did.

He said, "What a relief."

He said, "I look like a soldier but I fuck like a thief."

They couldn't quit screaming.
 
*************************

That summer things changed so fast they didn't have time to 
breathe.

Jean-Luc realized that he could have any of the full-lipped 
damp-eyed boys in the audience.   At any time.  In any way.  In
any combination.  

They proved it to him night after night after night.


He had reached a strange Zen universe where the word 'no' never
occurred.
 

Their sound was getting better, and their act was more and  more
polished.  Q tried to console himself that it was due to his
excellent management skills and Geordi's excellent musical
skills, but he suspected the truth was that they were famous
because Johnny wanted them that way, the fates bowing to his
seductive croon. 


Earlier that week, they'd played the Mid-Atlantic Gay Rodeo Gala
and had brought the crowd screaming to their feet.  The Boys had
been thrilled at the way they were received, and  Jean-Luc wore a
small cruel smile, intent on the crowd's adulation.   

Q was sick with prophetic misery.  Sure enough, the pretty boys
threw themselves at his lover.  They also threw themselves at
him, but he never noticed that.  

"Which one should I pick, Q?"

"Which one do you want, Johnny?  Oh, by the way, guess how many
CD's we sold tonight?  Quark just told me."  He refused to
acknowledge Jean-Luc's attempt to hurt him. 

Jean-Luc turned narrowed eyes on him.

"Is that all you can think about, Q?  Little Q.  Work's over. 
Let's play."

"Work's over for you."  Q was priding himself on his virtuous 
behavior.  "Go ahead and have a good time.  I have to count the
receipts and pay the stagehands." 

Jean-Luc made the tiniest bow.  
 

He took revenge the next night.  After Q finished his mandolin 
solo to wild applause, Jean-Luc smiled at the audience.  

"Q's all mine, you know," Jean-Luc said in his seductive voice, 
"I bought him in prison for fifteen cartons of cigarettes." 

His eyes rested on Q for a moment, knowing and possessive, 
before turning back to drink in the audience's reaction. They
ooohed, nervous and titillated.  After the show, the middle-class
gay boys who were lurking backstage for Q's autograph stared at
him as if he'd suddenly become exotic and foreign. 

One of them asked, "Is it true what he said?"  The rest 
clustered close for the answer.

Q signed pictures of himself and considered what to say.  It was
true, but what was he, private property or public?  He breathed
in:  "We were in prison together," he hedged.

The gay boys stared harder, but then Jean-Luc stalked by with a
groupie right behind him and broke the moment.  Q forced a smile,
thanked his fans and walked out to the bus.  Johnny was near the
front, feeling the new boy up roughly as if no one could see
them.  Jean-Luc looked feral, but that boy really was extremely
pretty.  Q walked back to his bunk,  but then some defiant
masochism forced him towards the front where he took a seat
behind the new two lovers.

Geordi and Data were together in the seat behind him, and Will
and Worf were together in their bunk.  Q didn't blame them  one
bit.  Sex was the best way to come down after a show.  Sometimes
you couldn't even help yourself.

Jean-Luc and his new boy were now moaning together.  The lad
sounded very responsive.            

Q stared out the window.
     
*************************
 
They were in the Billboard Top 200, impressive by their standards
if not by the world's. 

Jean-Luc collared Quark.  "This isn't enough.  Let's get it
kicked  in."

They played some dates in the Southwest.

Lots of pretty hot boys in the Southwest.

Jean-Luc liked the dry deserts full of boys.

*************************
      
On the first of June, there was a famous gay festival in
California in  May, but the organizer was loathe to hire country
boys.  He said to Quark,  "Is this like the Village People?"

Quark could be a very accommodating item when he wanted to be. 
"Is  that what you want?" 

"NO!"

"Well, good, because that's not what I represent.  Listen to
this," he played the CD for the organizer.  

Who became an immediate believer.  

"How many days can I have them for?" he said so fervently that
Quark thought they'd misunderstood each other. 
         
The festival went extremely well.        

Everyone in the audience loved everyone on stage.  

At the end of the show, Jean-Luc shouted, "Get hot!  Get rubbers! 
Rave!"  And he stalked off in disgust as if  these
emotions were just too much for him.  

The audience would have fainted if it had been that kind of
audience. 


There was a boy there waiting by the bus.  He told Jean-Luc he
had already greased himself up on the off chance that Jean-Luc
would take him, so Jean-Luc did, walking him behind the bus,
propping him against the exhaust vent and driving into him,
pinning the boy's neck with his powerful forearms, quite careless 
of the fact that their cries of passion were clearly audible to
the other waiting fans.  No one dared go peek.  After ten minutes
or so, Jean-Luc made his way back to around the front of the bus
and calmly started signing autographs.  

A few fans stuck their head around to have a look at the
aftermath. 

They found a boy with purple lipstick, kneeling, breathing
heavily, his pants still down around his knees.  He looked as if
he were in shock.   

"Was it good?"  Someone asked him.

"The best."  

They accused him of palming the used condom as a memento. 

"And I suppose you wouldn't!"   
 
*************************
 
A network scout who happened to be a country-loving dyke saw the
Boys at the festival and told her people to book them on the
tiniest little early slot on Jay Leno's show.    

She said to the network owners, "Obviously we're competing with
80 bozillion cable channels, so let's not dispute the fact that
we're going to have to go to pussy.  And, guys, this band is pure
pussy."
 
*************************

Q bought new stage outfits for them.  All of them now, even Will,
had nice-fitting white jackets and black pants and  black cowboy
boots.  The ever-present straw hats and clever  little string
ties finished off the look.  Everyone who saw them thought they
looked great.  In his white cowboy hat, Jean-Luc radiated a
compact sort of old-fashioned virility that hadn't been around in
years.  Then there was Q, with his moo-cow eyes, his hat, his
mouth, his Marilyn-Monroe virgin-whore surprise: "oh, are you
talking  to little me?"   In Alabama, Worf had started growing
dreadlocks.  They weren't visible under his hat, but, as they
grew longer, he pulled them back into a ponytail.  After that,
with his goatee, his fu manchu, and his little sunglasses, he was
utterly unignorable.  Will's bulk made him look solid, even
slightly threatening, and, with his hat far back on his head,
with his shaggy hair and beard, he had a very piquant kind of
biker-chic.  Geordi also wore sunglasses, of course, and he, too,
wore his hat on the back of his head.  It made him look a little
bit daring, like a rodeo rider.  Data was the only one on whom
the hat looked slightly odd, but it so obviously made him a part
of the group that it was okay. 


The day before they were supposed to appear on Jay Leno, Q wore
his outfit most of the day and studied himself in the big hotel
mirror.  Around three o'clock in the afternoon, he changed to
street clothes and spoke quietly to Will; then they both
disappeared.
  
Everyone else shrugged and kept on rehearsing the one number they
were going to perform.  

About an hour later, Q and Will came back. 

Everyone was silent. How would Jean-Luc react?

Will and Q had gotten their ears pierced.  Each now sported
golden hoops in both ears.

Q spoke.  "Before you say anything, Jean-Luc, let me put my stage
costume on.  It'll work.  I promise." 

Jean-Luc leaned back, staring as if he were seeing Q for the
first time.  "We've rehearsed enough."

Worf was staring too.  When Will looked over at him for approval,
he smiled faintly.  Will gave a small smile in return, blushing
deeply.  

"Agreed," Worf said to Jean-Luc.  "We should take a little
break." 

Jean-Luc took Q's arm and led him into their room and shut the
door.  Still blushing, Will followed Worf.
  

"Sit on it.  I want to see those earrings dance."

"You like them?"

"Sit on it," Jean-Luc ordered.  He took his pants and shirt off
and lay back on the bed.

Q was a bit slower in taking on his clothes; he knew Jean-Luc
liked a little tease.  He took off his hat, his jeans but left
his thin tee shirt on.  He tucked his long black hair behind his
ears.  "I better get wet, Daddy."  

Jean-Luc watched as Q reached around his body and lubricated
himself.  Then Q stroked his growing erection, showing off for
Jean-Luc. 
     
"Stop this, Q. Just sit on it."

Q straddled Jean-Luc on his knees and slowly lowered himself onto
Jean-Luc, noting the way his lover's breathing became ragged. 
Then he moved back and forth and up and down as his eyes never
left Jean-Luc's face.  This went on for some time, each man
enjoying the solid comfort of the other until Jean-Luc finally
came, gripping Q's smooth thighs so hard they bruised.

"I want to watch you come," Jean-Luc whispered to Q.  "Get over
and..."  he frowned, thinking.  "Okay, see the dresser mirror? 
Face it and jerk that thing.  I want to see your ass and your
dick at the same time.  I want to see your little wet pussy all
over the place."
     
He got hard again while Q did this.  Every now and then Q would
look back at him with an intoxicated expression, the gold
earrings gleaming in the soft light.  Jean-Luc could indeed see
it all.  That seed-wet ass.  That huge inflamed cock.  Soon Q
grimaced and his hand was covered with his own wetness.        
  
Jean-Luc let Q gather himself for a moment and then slid off the
bed and headed for the shower.  
     
"I'm going to clean my dick off," he said.  "Then I want you to
suck me.  I want to fuck that pussy mouth of yours with those
earrings on." 

Really, nobody on earth could suck cock as tenderly as Q did.
 
***********************

Jean-Luc opened his eyes. This morning he would get up, go out,
and do a live performance on national television.  National
television.  Today.  Live.  He shrugged.  If he couldn't make it
happen, then it didn't deserve to happen.

Q was already awake.  He came out of the bathroom in his
earrings, but otherwise he was naked as he could be.

He sat on the bed beside Jean-Luc and teasingly pulled the covers
down.  

The hotel air-conditioning was freezing, but Jean-Luc said
nothing, willing to let Q have his fun.  

Q stretched out beside him, his body only inches away from
Jean-Luc's, talking about nothing in particular. "Will said Worf
had been after him for months to do something like get his ears
pierced."   Q's body heat radiated against him in their cold
room. 

Jean-Luc wanted to squeeze closer but restrained himself, picking
up on the conversation instead.  "What were the alternatives?"

"Pinky ring.  Eye makeup.  Something to show everybody Worf was
boss and Will was puss."  Q opened his legs so that Jean-Luc
could see more of his dick and his balls.  He was getting hard.

Jean-Luc was getting hard, too.  Q naked was something to see,
especially when he was pretending not to show off, like now. 
Still, Jean-Luc felt a bit lazy.  He decided to see how long he
could ignore the enticement that was Q. "I bet Worf loved those
earrings.  I bet he made Will suck him good.  Then Worf went down
to the lobby and bought Payday bars as a reward.  I bet their
whole room smells like cum and peanuts." 

"Mmm."  Q was obviously thinking about sucking and fucking.  His
dick was standing away from his body, looking sweet.  "What did
Geordi and Data do?"

"I bet Geordi stuck that fireplug in Data's ass and rocked all
night.  Just because." 

"Daddy, I like it when you tell me dirty secrets."  Q was
completely erect now. 

Jean-Luc's expression was very soft.  "Where are we?"

Q looked at him; then he understood.  "Oh, you'll love it.  Okay,
peep this, Daddy, we're on an interstate and my car's broken
down.  I'm standing by the side of the road, and I'm one of those
kind of boys who wear only cutoffs and socks and workboots. 
Except my cutoffs are the tightest, shortest, most ragged cutoffs
anybody's ever seen.  They fit my ass like skin."

Jean-Luc shut his eyes.  Q's long legs.  He breathed out.

"I'm hitching a ride and you're a big butch trucker and you stop
and I get in your truck.  And I start moping and bitching.  See,
I'm sitting there with my knees apart.  My cutoffs are riding so
high up my legs, you can almost see my ass, you know?  And I say,
I don't know anything about machinery!  It always breaks down on
me!  Even my zipper won't work!  And you say, well, I don't know
much about cars but I do know about zippers.  Can I look at your
zipper, you say.  And I say, be my guest. And I kind of lean back
and you kind of lean over and reach down to examine my zipper or
lack of one, and, I wasn't lying, my zipper doesn't work.  So you
say, you'll have to take off those pants so I can look at the
zipper more closely, and I do and my dick is so big and stiff. .
." 

"Stop this, Q," Jean-Luc's eyes had been closed the whole time Q
was talking.  "Fuck me, Q.  Now.  Hard."  He lay back down with
his legs open and his hips slightly up.

Q gasped.  

He fucked as tenderly and skillfully as he sucked.  No fuck was
quite like Q. 

*************************

Jay Leno's familiar paunchy face came on. 
 
"America's newest singing sensation.  Here they are, America. 
Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys."

They were on camera then.

"Howdy," Jean-Luc said in his grey-black voice, "we're so proud
to be here."

America paused.  

Then the six of them rushed the mike like a calvary charge:
                    
                    "It's mighty dark for me to travel.
                              But I must be a-travelin on.
                              The road is rough and filled with trouble.
                              But I must have that blacksmith's son."
 
Now Data stepped in with his fiddle ("Oh, it's mighty dark to
travel," Jean-Luc observed almost off-mike; he managed to be both
superbly suave and very scary: a first in American history.). 
There was something distant in Data's face  and in the way he
played, as it were being transmitted from the moon.

Jean-Luc dragged attention back to himself; he was ferocious.

                              "To me he was a little angel,
                              Sent down to me from God above.
                              'Twas on the day that I first met him
                              that I taught him how to love." 

(This confession was made freely.  A piece of history telling the
damn truth for once.  Was that a man singing about loving another
man?  Right in America's face?  Saying 'get used to me because
I'm not going anywhere.' )

Then they all sang: 

          "It's mighty dark for me to travel.
                              But I must be a-travelin on.
                              The road is rough and filled with trouble.
                              But I must have that blacksmith's son."

(Yes, America decided.  That's exactly what was happening.  But
before America could decide anything else, Worf was firing
invisible bullets with his banjo.  Except for Q, there was no 
more handsome man on television than Worf; his beauty was
unearthly.   Jean-Luc became outraged and tender.  He wanted to
say something.) 

                              "Many a night we strolled together
                              talking of our love and more."
       
America held its breath, and Jean-Luc rewarded it for its
patience.  
 
                              "Tonight that love will go much further
                              than it ever has before."
 
Then the voices burst again:
                              
          "It's mighty dark for me to travel.
                              But I must be a-travelin on.
                              The road is rough and filled with trouble.
                              But I must have that blacksmith's son."
 
And Q took a mandolin break; he smiled at Jean-Luc. (There's that
smile, America said.)

                              "Traveling down that lonesome highway "

(Q's mandolin impulsively broke in again and Jean-Luc's eyes lit
up)

                              "Knowing how much more I have to go,
                              knowing soon we'll be together,
                              He's the only love I own." 

The others joined him; were they his brothers?  His sons?  His
slaves?

                              "It's mighty dark for me to travel.
                              For my sweetheart he is gone.
                              The road is rough and filled with trouble.
                              But I must have that blacksmith's son."
 
America heard: My sweet hard.  My sweet hard.  Sweet.  Hard.

Then Geordi played his guitar like the beating of a thousand
hearts. 

And everyone burst in again, truthful as thunder, honest as
lighting.

                              "It's mighty dark for me to travel.
                              But I must be a-travelin on.
                              The road is rough and filled with trouble.
                              But I must have that blacksmith's son."

And Q tipped his hat (it would become his trademark move.)
 
America quit holding its breath.  Oh, that lucky blacksmith's
son!
 

"What the blue hell is that noise?" said Dad.  The Leno show was
generally quieter.

"Oh, my," said Mom looking up from her cross-stitching.  She
breathed deeply.

"They're cute, Mom," said little Sally.

There was a moment of silence in the living room.

"I'm so sleepy!  I better turn in," said little Sally.

As soon as she left the room, Dad's tongue was down Mom's throat.
 

Up late, elderly couples grasped each other, the spark not
extinguished yet.


Alone in their bedrooms young girls touched themselves.  Sally
touched herself.  
                    

In a college barroom where the Jay Leno show was going full
blast, a coed, pink-faced and sweaty, pushed herself away from
her companions and rushed towards the bathroom.  A boy, on his
way to do the same thing, almost collided with her.  They stared
at each other; then they gave in.  It was dark in the hall by the
restrooms, and nobody saw them grappling and groping.  She canted
her hips up, pumping her juicy little vulva against his erection,
getting as much as she could get, fucking herself against his
mound of hard dick as if their jeans had suddenly disappeared. 
He put his hand under her shirt and nearly swooned because she
wasn't wearing a bra.  Then he reached down and pressed her clit,
and she groaned against his mouth and he felt her body shudder
and shake and suddenly go limp.  It didn't matter that they had
never seen each other before.  


John Mack Madred stalked over to the television and turned it off
with a hard  snap.  Jean-Luc was no better than any
of them!   Whoring!  Showing off his  enormous gift to the total
fascist Golgotha that was America!  

"John, I was enjoying that.  Turn it back on this instant."

"All right, Mother.  But I won't listen to that poison.  I'm
going to bed."

But after John Mack turned the television back on,  she heard him
go down to the basement instead. 
 
*************************
 
The Boys didn't let it show, but they were so petrified they
couldn't  see straight.  They were aware this was a pivotal
moment for them.   Would they hit the national landscape like
Tiny Tim and then disappear, just a blip on history's screen, or
would this be it?  

The Boys could barely breathe as they waited for any sign that
they'd been noticed.  

They needn't have worried.

Jay Leno's switchboard broke down with people calling "Who were 
they?  Where are they appearing next?  Show them again."  And Jay
said  to the producers, "See if you can get them back right
away." 

Sales of the last CD leapt 40 percent, and the first CD climbed
into the top 200 for the first time. 

Ten days later,  they were on again, and the audience was full of
screaming women and gay guys, and the same thing happened all
over again.  

Jay was quite pleased to have discovered them.  He felt
responsible for their success.  He interviewed the intent,
unsmiling, irresistibly handsome Jean-Luc who pimped their two
albums a bit and told everyone where their next engagements would
be.
 
*************************
 
Back in Kentucky, the Crusher clan was annoyed with Beverly for
letting Quentin out of her clutches.  Beverly shrugged.  Nothing
she could do about it.  

Besides, she had no real reason for keeping in touch.  She  liked
Quentin, but she just never felt close to him, especially when
she compared him with Bubba and Junior and Sonny.  Bubba and
Junior and Sonny had always been possessive of her, as if she
were something that mattered.  Even when they'd been children,
they'd touched her as if they owned her, and over time their
hands moved with a sinister deliberation that thrilled her, even 
as it frightened her.  Then one day, down by Cooter's hideout,
one of them held her down while the other lay on top of her.   

"Quit that screaming now.  We'll tell Momma if you scream." 

That it had been another trick, she found out later.  They just
didn't want Momma to know what they'd been doing. 

"I ain't gonna scream," she assured them. 

She was nine years old.

After that, her brothers pretty much went to work on her any time
they chose.  She started to like it after a while, even after she
knew  there were words for what they were doing together, words
that meant something bad.  At one time, she had not known any
better than to tell her friends when they giggled together at the
movies and at the occasional slumber  parties.  But when all the
other girls went ewwwww, she quickly lied and said she was only
kidding. 

She never said anything again, but after that one or two of her
friends had carefully and deliberately mentioned certain words in
her presence and allowed as how it was pretty bad, especially if
babies came.  As a matter of fact, it was illegal.

She decided she was too old for slumber parties.

Once, desperation on his features, Quentin had said a certain 
word to her, whispered it really, and asked if it meant anything
to her. She accused him of being mean, but she knew it had
something to do with her brothers -- with the things they did. 
"I don't think there's any such thing," she finally said and
flounced out, but after that she had always felt a little nervous
around him, as if he knew something about her of which she
herself was unaware.  So, when he got sent to jail, she was
relieved.   She hadn't known what to do with him anymore.  

She was even more relieved when he didn't come home.  Actually
she never actually expected to hear from him again, but every
once in a while the kids got big boxes full of things, Spam and
pancake mix, clothes, socks, shoes, underwear, and books (for
some reason).   The boys wore the clothes, ate the food, and even
read the books.  "What's Daddy doin' now?" she would ask when
they got a letter, but the boys never said anything that made any
sense.  "He's at the circus," they said, or "he bought a bus".  
Her family told her she should get the boys to ask him for money,
but she had no way to get in touch with him.  The return address
on his letters was always Quentin's mother's house, and Mrs.
McConn had blamed her for getting Quentin sent away to jail.  

Then people started telling her Quentin had been on television. 
She hadn't believed it.  Q was probably bundling tobacco or
something in North Carolina. 

"He ain't in North Carolina.  You look at this."  Her girlfriend
shoved the color part of the Sunday paper in front of her face
and there, believe it or not, was Quentin with some other guys,
even some black guys.  He was singing in a  band?   Jean-Luc and
His Magic Mountain Boys?  Beverly hadn't even known he could
sing.

She'd read the article slowly, moving her lips wonderingly.

The article called them rising stars and said the unabashed 
truthfulness of the lyrics and their beautiful harmonies made
them one of the most talented bands to ever to be misunderstood.  

Oh.  

Beverly stared, trying to figure out which one was Jean-Luc.  In
the inside picture, her husband smiled shyly out at the
camera.  Beverly almost couldn't tell it was him.  He looked
different.  But there was the name: Quentin McConn.  His hair was
much longer, and there was something about the way he smiled.  He
looked more relaxed.  Or something.   

Her momma grabbed the paper and guessed right away.  "He's in
love,"  Momma declared.  "Look at him.  I've never seen him look
that way."

Beverly gave her mother a cool look.  Then she read through the
article again, looking for mention of girlfriends, lovers, a
second wife.  There was no other woman mentioned at all.  It did
say Quentin was very close to that Jean-Luc.  "Momma, what's
doting?"

Her mother didn't know.
 
"On the bus there are three bunks," Beverly read.  "Each bunk has
two pillows.  I tell myself I'm here to talk about music and
ignore the obvious, but I can't help but wonder if I've found the
real reason for the group's eerie unity, both on stage and off."

What did it mean, "the other five spend their time doting on
Jean-Luc, especially Q."   

Was doting the same as sucking?  Was Quentin  queer?  It couldn't
be.  He'd been with her plenty.  It hadn't ever been all that
great between them, but he knew what he was doing, she supposed.  

Her brothers smirked at her. They said they knew all along
Quentin was a big queer.

But Beverly knew something had happened.  She eyed the picture of
Jean-Luc with a sense of hostility and confusion. 

If she only could find out what doting meant. 
 
*************************
 
"Zefram, Hildred's here.  We're going off to Ladies Club. 
There's cold fried chicken on the sideboard." 

A more distant scratchy voice: "Tell him you might be late. 
We've got a lot of quilting to do." 

"Zefram, did you hear that?"

"Yes, Momma, I heard you."  

He hears his wife get in Hildred's old Ford and then he hears it
go down the road.  

The moment he had been waiting for.

When he first saw their picture in the Sunday-color supplement,
he had to go out behind the pig barn and just stand there gasping
and breathing and he wasn't even hard, he was just that shocked. 
Because he remembered what he had.  

At first, he had felt betrayed, because he thought what had
happened at the fair that Valentine's Day was special.  And
private. 

Now, alone at last, he takes the picture out and stares at it
again, trying to fully absorb the magnitude of what's happened to
him.  With that boy.  That mouth.  He recognizes him, big as life
for all the world to see.  It seems impossible, but Zephram's
been sucked off by a person who's now famous.  He says the words
to himself.  Sucked off.  He gets impossibly hard. 

Sucked off.  He closes his eyes.  He swallows. 

Now his breath is shallow, and beneath his t-shirt and boxers his
skin feels incredibly sensitive.  This moment is too good to
waste, so he does something he's never dared try before:  he goes
into the bedroom and rummages through his wife's chest of
drawers.  He gets her bright red lipstick, some of her shiny
jiggly earrings, her garter belt, her women's-size nylon
stockings, a pair of spiked-heel slingbacks he can wedge into,
and puts it all on.    

It feels better this way. He knew it would.  He'd dreamed all
along of doing this.  It was never enough to touch himself as
mere Zephram the farmer.  He has to be glamorous and languid and
beautiful, worthy of the memory of Q sucking him off in that
men's room.   

He looks again at photographs of that mouth. 

That mouth.

He's never felt like this before.  

He moves his round shaving mirror down to the edge of the sink so
he can see it when he does it.    

As soon as he's finished, he feels exhausted, guilty and ashamed,
but he's already looking forward to next week when his wife will
go to another woman's club meeting and leave him alone in the
house again.  He wants to do it some more.  He feels grateful to
Q for this. 


A month later he drives ninety miles to the nearest big city to
buy a wig and better fitting heels.

He tells the keen-eyed clerk it's for a church skit.
  
*************************
 
After Leno, Pistol Packing Pete's was their first stop.  Pete
loved them and was thrilled to have them back.  He even got  a
reporter from the local gay rag to come in and drum up more
business  for Pete.   

"So what made you want to start a gay bluegrass band?" was the 
reporter's first question.  

"We wanted to sing.  We liked to sing.  These are the songs we
sing," Jean-Luc said.  "We didn't aim to start a gay bluegrass
band and  we haven't started one.  We're singers first."

"Ummm."  The reporter was staring at Q.  His expression clearly
said *jump me.*

Q was smiling; he had one hand under his chin.  But his
expression clouded.  Surely the reporter couldn't mean . . . 

Worf had seen enough trouble start this way; he said.  "Q, come
with me."  He stood up and went out the door, clearly meaning for
Q to follow.  Q looked at Jean-Luc who nodded.  They went
outside, and Worf made Q stay outside until they saw the reporter
get in his car and drive away.

Then everyone went back in.   Jean-Luc was seething: "The nerve
of that guy."

"What is it?" Geordi demanded.

"The way he looked at Q."

"How'd he look at Q?"

They were at a loss.  Finally Data reached down and caressed the
front of Geordi's pants.  "If that could be distilled into a
look, that would how he was looking at Q."

"Ah."  Geordi politely declined to say anything more.
                                             
*************************
         
Thanks to Quark and his mailing list, they even got the 
beginnings of a fan club.  It got huge immediately because
everyone loved them.  Sometimes even a few members were allowed
to come backstage to see them.    

Tommy and Q sat Jean-Luc down for a brief but intense talk.  No
touching anyone in any of their fan clubs.  It was business, not 
personal, so Jean-Luc listened.   

Then he said: "Anybody who's been awake during any part of the 
twentieth century knows I don't make promises about my dick. 
Isn't that right, Q?"  

Q said nothing and Jean-Luc walked out of the room.

Despite that, Jean-Luc was gentle, almost fatherly with the fans. 

He spoke to old fat gal fans, to hopeless elderly men with
hearing aids the sizes of dictionaries, and to young teens in
braces.  They took pictures with him; they kissed him.  They were
surprised at how short he was!  They were surprised at how big he
was!  They were surprised he looked so different in real life! 
They were surprised that he looked just the same!  They gave him
tapes and songs and pictures they'd made   in some of the
drawings, he looked just like a decorated Easter egg; in some,
the artists were careful to put all his features on the very top
of his  skull.  And once he took one fat gal's two autistic
children on his  knee   in the Polaroid she took, the children
were beautiful and Jean-Luc looked like the original Saint
Nicholas, unselfish, unworldly, ascetic.  He gave each of the fat
gal's children a twenty-dollar bill.
 
*************************
 
"You've not only circumvented the decades-old restrictions that
country music stations have placed on bluegrass, but 
you've reshaped and revitalized a music form that was, frankly,
buried by tradition until you came along and blew down all the
barriers."

Jean-Luc laughed because he was nervous.  "I didn't do any of
that,  but I'm pleased if you think I did."

The reviewer mistook his laughter for genuine modesty. 

*************************

More orthodox country singers, realizing they might have 
unintentionally overlooked a critical indigenous art form (losing
potential bucks and adulation and endorsement deals as a result)
began  to yodel, just slightly.  The banjo and mandolin began
creeping into  some of the older and newer bands.  The engineers
in Muscle Shoals that the Boys had used were booked up almost a
year in advance. 
 
*************************
    
There was so much pussy that summer that Jean-Luc became very
picky.

After a while, he even got bored with novelty, so he made his
groupies debauch themselves in creative and original ways.  He
would take them into the bathroom.  "I want to watch you wash 
yourself.  Bend over.  Yes, scrub your ass so I can see it. 
Stick your finger in.   Now two fingers.  Fuck yourself with
them.  Slowly.  Let me see you  come.  See how hard you've made
me?  Not everyone can  do that."  For Jean-Luc that was close to
a lie; almost anyone could do that.  But still they opened
themselves to him, performing for him.  

Then the reward.  The lucky boy or girl who followed his
instructions was rewarded with  his heavy breathing and the
chance to rub his penis or suck on it through a condom.

It was frightening and erotic to submit like that, but Jean-Luc
was so matter of fact about his pleasures that his victims blamed
themselves for not being able to get the scene out of their heads
for months and months afterwards. 

Many would have done anything to be used by him.  Big hard
leather tops bragged that they could turn him in a heartbeat, but
they never  got the chance.  Jean-Luc wasn't one for 
super-masculine types.  He  preferred a dusting of softness --
youthfulness, innocence, vulnerability were major turn-ons  for
him.  

Once he found a lovely Vietnamese boy named Tranh.  Tranh dyed
his hair blond and wore elaborate eyeliner and lipstick; he was
as small as a child.  Jean-Luc kept him in his room for hours,
and actually kissed him and fucked him.  After that, the
temperamental boy demanded a memento, so  Jean-Luc autographed
one of his cowboy hats and gave it to him.  The boy wore the hat
the next night and became the hero of all his friends.  
 
*************************
    
Once, Q came back to the bus to find Jean-Luc watching as Will
fucked a college boy.   

Jean-Luc's pants were undone.  He seemed sated as a Caesar. 
Geordi walked by naked.  He was semi-erect.  

"Have you ever been done by two at once?"  Jean-Luc asked the
college boy.  "One in your mouth and one in your ass?" 
 
The college boy started coming when Jean-Luc spoke to him.

The bus had turned into some sort of pleasure palace.  It smelled
like semen. 
 
*************************
 
They played a concert hall which was managed by a man named Riva. 
He was redheaded and deaf.        

He was also a minor Jean-Luc in his own right.  The moment he and
Jean-Luc were alone, he tilted his head at him and smiled, and
then let his features morph into one of the most invitingly
sensual expressions Jean-Luc had ever seen.  Then Riva sat down
next to Jean-Luc.  He held Jean-Luc's eye as he reached down and
opened his pants.  His expression changed again, becoming harder,
saying in all but words that he would have this, he would do
this.  Then he knelt and took Jean-Luc in his mouth, and not a
word was exchanged the whole time.  

Jean-Luc was delighted. 

But when Riva next turned his attentions to Q, Jean-Luc, who had
been quick to catch on to Riva's nuanced body language, crossed
the room quickly and interposed his body between Riva and his
lover.  He bristled, his face tense.  He shook his head firmly
and then wordlessly pushed Data forward.   

Riva gave Jean-Luc the fish eye, but then he easily turned his
attention to Data, parting his lips.  Data parted his own lips
and cocked his head.  They smiled at one another.  Later that
evening Jean-Luc held  Data on his lap as they watched Geordi do
Riva.  "Those sounds he makes as he gets fucked are quite
intriguing," Data remarked.

Later that week, Riva screwed Will in the ass.  Jean-Luc found it
very pleasing to watch these two burly bearded men fuck.  Very
animal.   

Only Worf said no thank you.  

But it was no matter.  The band moved on and Riva got to brag to
his friends that he had had almost every one of The Boys, and
that Jean-Luc  was the best there is, bar none.

No one was surprised.  Not one bit.
 
*************************
       
And, of course, that summer the Boys all fucked each another, as
a matter of course, everyone except Q.  Jean-Luc never wanted Q
to get any unless he ordered  it, or at least approved of it.

"Jean-Luc, is this fair?"

Jean-Luc paid Q no attention.  He was enjoying all the many
shapes and flavors of the pussy available to him and he had no
intention of stopping.  One night, at Pete's, there had been a 
young man with a high, round ass like a girl's.  Jean-Luc brought
him back to the bus and made the boy suck him off while the
others watched.  He especially made sure Q saw it.  "Q, you
should be taking lessons."    He mostly said it to flatter the
boy, but Q's hurt look spiced his shuddering orgasm.   


Once Q was not in their hotel room when Jean-Luc came back.  "You
know better than to move from where I tell you to be, don't you?" 
Then he slapped him.  Hard.

Q gasped.  "I get lonely all by myself."

"Live with it.  You go sneaking around and I'll beat the living
shit out of you up there on that stage."

Q knew he would have to wear heavier makeup for the next few days
to hide  the bruising.  He didn't really mind the beating so
much, but he didn't want those other people to know about it. 
Those people who weren't Boys.  He would stay put.  

After all, Q still loved Jean-Luc more than life.  He loved the
way Jean-Luc smiled at all the raving, pleading, adoring boys and
girls who told him how much they loved him.  At these moments, 
Jean-Luc let go of some of that anger that always seemed a
permanent part of who he was.  Happier Jean-Luc was a glorious 
sight to him, and Q couldn't help but want to add to the things
that gave him pleasure, even when that meant Q himself was sad. 
So when Jean-Luc picked a pretty boy or girl to take to his hotel
room, Q tried to smile as he said, "You go on and have a nice 
time."

And when Jean-Luc came up to Q with an erection the size of a
mountain and demanded Q finish him off, Q did without comment.

*************************
                    
Once in a while, they had a two-day break.  That was when Q found
Jean-Luc thumbing through his notebooks.  Then Jean-Luc looked at
him."Jesus, Q, why don't  you write a plain and simple fuck song
anymore." 

"Well," Q lowered his head and looked up, hopeful, flirtatious.
"I suppose if I could get a plain and simple fuck from somewhere
I might be inspired to do just that."

Jean-Luc opened his mouth.  His eyes were tender.  "You want a
plain and simple fuck, do you?"  He unzipped his pants.  "Get me
ready, Q." 

Q was on his knees in less than two  seconds.  He loved doing
this for Johnny, loved the fact that Jean-Luc went so crazy when
Q went to work on him.  He sucked Jean-Luc's cock  until Jean-Luc
was gasping.  

"Turn over, Q."   

It had been weeks.

Q had been with Sisko, and every last one of The Boys, not to
mention all those johns, but Jean-Luc gave the smoothest ride of
all of them.  His dick was the perfect size.  And even though his
loving was cruel and hard, Q liked it that way because it was
Johnny's.
 

"Somebody got some," Geordi singsonged at breakfast the next day. 
He  paused a few moments.  "Now you're blushing," he announced.

Q was indeed blushing.  "How'd you know?"

"I could hear you limping when you walked up.  And your voice
sounds like this."  Geordi made his voice purr.   

Worf and Jean-Luc exchanged smirks.

Q and Will exchanged smirks.

Data elbowed Geordi.  "I believe you are correct on all counts."

Q's merriment made them all feel more cheerful.  

Then Jean-Luc went right back to tomcatting around on him  that
very night.  She was called Allison.

"Q, I want you to watch me with Alison.  Alison's a very hard
worker, aren't you, darling?"

The clueless Alison nodded and smiled.  When Jean-Luc told her
they were going back to his hotel room where Q waited, she hoped
he meant she would get to do Q and Jean-Luc both.  It turned out
that Jean-Luc got turned on by making Q watch.  

Well, okay, Alison didn't really mind.  It was a thrill to be
here with two of the sexiest Boys, even if one of them was only
sitting across the room, watching them.  Alison was enjoying
herself, enjoying Jean-Luc's  incredibly brutal pounding, until
Jean-Luc asked Q if he loved it too.

"Sure, Johnny," said Q; his voice was laced with an extraordinary
amount of pain.

She maneuvered herself so that she could see his face.  He didn't
look like he was having a good time.  Alison shut her eyes 
resentfully.  Here was her one opportunity to get it on with two
hot guys and Q was spoiling it for her.  

"Your friend is so totally not turned on," she said.

"He doesn't know what he's missing."  Jean-Luc wasn't really
listening.  He twisted her big legs around so she was now on her 
stomach.  "I'm a bad motherfucker, and that asshole knew it from
the start."  

Mollified, she fucked back.  Even if she hadn't enjoyed herself -
-  and she was enjoying  herself, Jean-Luc was a great fuck  --
the point  was to be able to truthfully say she'd been with the
lead singer of the  Magic Mountain Boys.  Q was just gravy, so
she could do without.
 
*************************
 
When they played a week of shows at Romeo's again,  Jean-Luc and
The Boys scheduled an interview during the prized morning drive
time on one of the more progressive radio stations.  Then they
immediately piled into a rental car and drove fifty miles into
D.C.  ("The nation's capital!  Just think!" cried the unbearably
excited Q) to talk with a very intelligent and self-important
host on a talk radio show on National Public Radio.

"I hate that guy," Jean-Luc growled.  

"Okay, but it's publicity, it's free, and the show broadcasts all
over the country," Quark shrugged.

So they went and listened to the guy's self-aggrandizing chatter
for an hour, barely got a word in edgewise, and then spent the
rest of the day as tourists.  They rode past the White House, got
out and took reverent pictures of themselves in front of it.  Q
bought every postcard and gewgaw he could find--tiny replicas of
the White House, the Capitol Building, the Washington Monument;
snowglobes of the cherry trees and the Lincoln Memorial; hats,
t-shirts, decals.   

Jean-Luc stared at the thousand iterations of beautiful black
women, surprised somehow that there were so many of them in
Washington.  "More black folks than I expected."

"I can hear," Geordi said.  He was excited too.  New accents, new
smells -- the flat oppressive steam of a Washington summer.  

Will tried to help Data pick out the gay guys.  They had little
success until Quark took them to Dupont Circle.  "This is your
end of town, Boys," he said.  

"Suck my cock," Jean-Luc said. 

There was even a bookstore where they could buy naked pictures. 
Will was panting.  Proud lesbians swaggered by with short hair
and outrageous earrings.  It was like heaven.   

"Look!"  Q pointed to a Vietnamese restaurant.  He'd never seen
such a thing.          

Jean-Luc though of Tranh. "Let's go," he ordered.

In the restaurant, there were more exotic smells and intriguing
accents for Geordi.  Jean-Luc had to force himself to stop
staring at their tiny waitress. Q looked at the lovely carved
pictures of oxen and grassy waterlands.  He pored over the menu,
asking questions about how the food was prepared, what went in
it, how spicy it was.  He ordered for everybody--noodles and
chicken for Data, the three-starred pork dish for Worf, noodles
and shrimp for Geordi, fish for him and Jean-Luc and Will.  He
ordered coconut chicken soup because he'd never heard of such a
thing, and delightful crunchy spring rolls that came with a tangy
sauce that had red pepper flakes and shredded carrots floating in
it.

On the bus back to Baltimore, Jean-Luc drove while his boys
slept.  

Constant travel carried an erotic friction for Jean-Luc.  He 
thought of the lovely brownskinned girls, all sizes, all
temperaments, all his.   And all those gay men in Dupont, just
hanging out, going about their business, being themselves and
therefore potentially available to him.  He had been used to the
world saying no to him; now the world was one yes right after
another.  And Q had been the first yes.

Jean-Luc was spoiled.  He now looked at people in terms of their
desirability and the degree to which they idolized him.  And he
still liked them young and beautiful with big packages.  More
Q's.  

*************************
       
John Mack could not wait to see Jean-Luc as he stood in the
autograph line.  Of course, Jean-Luc would recognize John Mack as
the soul brother he'd needed all this time and stop what he was
doing, drop everything, and go with John Mack on the back of John
Mack's bike (pressing himself against John Mack's thigh).  And
then Jean-Luc would lie down on his special altar in Mother's
basement and be ever so grateful for his completion.  The blood
anointment.  The final grimace.  The last sighing expulsion of
air.  Jean-Luc in repose, so giving and still.

*************************
 
Maryland was hard on Q.  

He felt the whole state knew he was a whore.

Signing tee shirts with Jean-Luc at his elbow was poor substitute
for being with Jean-Luc.  

And, as he signed tee shirts, he could tell Jean-Luc was cruising
for something new.  

Actually, Jean-Luc wasn't looking for something new.  Will had
brought in some videotapes someone had given him or he'd bought
or found in a dumpster (you never knew with that odd 
motherfucker) and they had watched them for a while and it was
standard fuck-suck stuff but Data had been very attentive as they
watched,  sitting with his hand draped casually very near
Jean-Luc's groin,  wiggling as if some tiny fire was licking at
his ass.  

The film had some grainy ill-lit footage of somebody getting a
rim job.  Everyone had cheered and clapped.

Data had very deliberately turned to Jean-Luc and said, "I've 
never done that."  

"Have you ever noticed how the countertops are so nice and wide
and sturdy in the dressing rooms at Romeo's?  Meet me there
before the show."

Data seemed taken aback, but his face flushed and he took a
conspicuously deep breath.

"Meet Daddy there," Jean-Luc said and ran his fingers through
Data's careful hair.  

Data had swallowed and then nodded.  

All Jean-Luc wanted was to get this damn tee shirt signing over
with (the big bright idea of Q and Tommy, those time-wasters) and
get backstage with Data.
       
Jean-Luc generally signed tee shirts and album covers without
looking too closely at most of the people who were getting
his autographs.  

But, when John Mack came through and murmured his name, Jean-Luc
was caught up in the vision of the boy right behind John Mack, a
boy who was blond and cute with a narrow jaw and pale blue eyes. 
He signed John Mack's tee shirt without looking at him.  

'Well, you can't hurry love,' John Mack told himself.   He
stopped to look back at Jean-Luc who was now aiming his feral
smile at the blond.

Then John Mack looked around.  No security people whatsoever.  
 
*************************
       
"I hate it when you do stuff like that with Jean-Luc and then
come back and tell me all about it.  It makes me feel really
bad." 

"I do not wish for you to feel bad, Geordi.  I will never tell
you again.  But..."

"But what?"

"You are the person to whom I tell everything.  I do not wish to
have things I cannot share with you."

"Data, I don't want to share this."

"I really do not understand.  This can not be a surprise to you."

*************************
       
The next day there was a autograph-signing at a mall record
store.        

As John Mack handed his copy of the CD to Jean-Luc, a flash went
off.  Someone, an angel perhaps, took their picture. 
Jean-Luc smiled at John Mack this time.

"It's me," John Mack was ready to say, but he was already 
supplanted by a group of squealing girls.
       
John Mack had many useful personality characteristics, but
perhaps the most useful was his ability to hide his rage. 
       
*************************
 
Jean-Luc watched Q put some vitamin E on his skin.  Where had Q
learned about that?  He must have heard something from
somebody. 

"Q, how much younger is Data than you?"

Q looked at Jean-Luc in the mirror.  "I think . . . five years or
so."    It was actually seven.  

There was a pause.  Then Jean-Luc said in an easy way, "Data
learns more quickly than anyone I ever met." 
  
*************************

Romeo's management had rented them a nice hotel suite for the
week.  Four bedrooms faced off a sitting room, and one was being
currently used. 

Q sat by the window looking at the rain.

Geordi was in a corner softly playing his guitar, just chords, no
music.

Worf and Will sat together on the sofa.

One hundred and twenty-one dollars ahead!  

Nice.

Worf had a little battery-powered game of Las Vegas solitaire he
liked to play with because sometimes, when things were as intense
as they were right now, he had to have some downtime.  

For a moment, he watched Q stare at the rain and then he returned
to his game.

Will was the most obedient lover imaginable (well, except for Q), 
and he gave Worf his space.  He would simply look at his porn
books and dirty photographs as Worf played with his game or
dozed.  Or remembered.
 
*************************

Q and Worf had conducted themselves as model prisoners, and their
probation reflected this.  After six months of reporting in, they
would have complete freedom.  So they got jobs and lied about
their associates, swearing they did not keep company with other
former inmates.   The truth was, they were sharing a dismal
month-to-month  apartment with Jean-Luc. Sometimes on weekends,
they played at local bars.  The patrons were usually far more
interested in getting drunk than listening to the band, and often
Jean-Luc's velvet singing voice was not even enough to pacify the
crowd.   

Still, being on stage was a way of saying their dream could come
true, even in this small way. 

"It'll be nice when we can finally go out of state, don't you
think?"  Q said hopefully. They'd just finished packing up their
instruments and were ready to head back to their rundown rooms.

"It'll be nice when we're finally paid more than shit,"   
Jean-Luc was counting their fee, making sure they got their
money.  

Suddenly his face grew pale, and he left the room.  He was headed
to the owner's office, anger radiating from him in waves.  Q and
Worf jumped up and followed him.

"Eighty-seven dollars.  Where's the rest of it?"  Jean-Luc
slammed the money down on the table.  He was between the owner
and the  door, and Worf and Q were crowded right behind him. 

"What's the problem?  What's the problem?"  The owner was a
skinny man in a red and white polyester shirt and dirty white
pants.  "I gave you your hundred."

"It's not.  All there."  Worf growled.

Trapped and outnumbered, with all his bouncers working the front
door, the owner caved in.  "Can't a man make a mistake?" 

But all three of them noticed that he counted exactly  thirteen
ones into the pile.   Jean-Luc picked up the money, shoved it in
his front pocket and turned on his heel.

"I won't need you boys to come back anymore," the owner said,
trying to save face as best he could.

"Kiss my ass," Jean-Luc murmured.  Worf and Q stepped aside for
him and followed him out to the Impala.  The engine
cranked up without a problem for once, and they were on their
way.  

"I hate this piece-of-shit life," Jean-Luc said suddenly.

 
In their simple shabby flophouse apartment, Worf slept on a lumpy
daybed and Q and Jean-Luc had a mattress on the floor.  But some
things never changed.  After the lights were out, Worf was
patient.    
 
Soon enough, he heard Q's soft exclamation.  It was so close it
felt like he was on the bed with them.  "Johnny, that
hurts."  

Worf believed it.  Jean-Luc still took his anger on Q.  Sometimes
Worf saw bruises on Q's arms. 

"That son of a bitch."  Jean-Luc's voice was a low, angry growl. 
"I should have kicked his ass."    

"Ouch!" Q gasped.  "I didn't do anything wrong." 

"You little pussy, can't you take it like a man?"  

Worf listened carefully.  Q was moaning softly, the sound of
pain, not passion.  Worf knew the difference very well.  In
prison Jean-Luc made Q cry out like this.  It was nice to know he
was continuing the tradition.   Worf had listened in then , too,
touching himself as he was doing now.   Q was such a sweet little
pussy.  You could tell when Jean-Luc entered him just by
listening to the way Q cried out, a distinctive catch to his
indrawn breath, then another one, quickly, then a moaning sigh. 
He sounded as if he were was suffering.  Worf's mouth fell open
slightly, and he whipped the  covers off his body.  This was what
he'd been waiting for.

He could hear Jean-Luc's whispered command to shut the fuck up. 
"It can't hurt that much, Christ!"   Then the mattress started
squeaking as Q moaned in counterpoint.  Worf imagined what it
would be like to be inside Q's body again, imagined it was
himself in there, and his hips moved rhythmically with Q's sudden
expressions of pleasure.  His hand moved slowly up and down his
throbbing erection, and he heard his own harsh, gasping breaths,
disguised by the sounds in the other room.   

Eventually Jean-Luc cried out.  Dazed, Worf pulled his hands away
from himself.  There was always a second half to this little
drama, the good half, and he wanted to wait for it.  It was hard
to stop   but it felt so much better if he waited.  There was a
moment of silence, then the rustling of bodies  shifting places
on a bed.  Finally, a soft exclamation.  

"Oh, Johnny!"

In the darkness, Worf moaned deep in his throat.  His  hands sped
up as his imagination taunted him with the thought of Jean-Luc's
mouth wrapped around his penis.   He writhed on the bed, heavy
with pleasure as the impossible image of  Jean-Luc sucking him
filled his mind.  He would have gladly traded  places with Q in
order to experience the last twenty minutes in Jean-Luc's  bed,
even as far as enduring the inevitable bruises.  Or if by some
impossible miracle, Jean-Luc should ever bend over for him, well,
he  would still be under Jean-Luc's will, obeying because it felt
too good to do anything else.

'Tell me what to do, and I will do it,' Worf thought.  Q must
have been getting close.  He could hear it in the pitch of Q's
strained exhalations.  Any moment now.

'Tell me!' Worf cried silently.  His fingers moved faster.  'Tell
me yes.  Tell me yes!'  

Then he felt the wet warmth on his hand, and he lay panting in 
the darkness.  Q came a moment later with a muffled groan, and
the night was still again.  

*************************
        
Now Jean-Luc didn't even bother to make sure everyone was asleep
before pulling Data into the bedroom with him.  Worf glanced over
his game to steal another glance at Q.  Q seemed to be bracing
himself against some terrible pressure by pretending it didn't
exist.  Meanwhile Geordi was hiding in the music.

Well, there was nothing Worf could do about it.  He reached over
and picked up Will's hand and pressed the palm to his lips.  Will
looked up in amazement.  He always seemed surprised at any
gesture of tenderness, which was why Worf liked to make them.  
"Baby, tonight?  Let's do the wildest shit we can think of."

"Wow!" Will said and grinned.

Wearing only a towel, Data came out of the bedroom and walked to
the kitchenette.  Q did not move, but Geordi lifted his head. 
Then Data came back; his eyes were narrowed.  "Will, I thought I
saw  you take that doughnut I was saving for Geordi."

"That wasn't me!" Will had a little smile on his face.

"Oh."  Data stiffened.  "I see," his head ticked to the side a
bit, "perhaps it was your evil twin I saw take the doughnut." 

Will sat up straighter: "Well, Data, maybe it was YOUR evil
twin."

Worf had his arm securely around his woman.  When he was Jean-
Luc's favorite, Data was a real asshole.   "Data," he said,
pulling Will closer, "perhaps it was... your mother's evil twin." 

*************************

Despite the rain, the concert at Romeo's was SRO.

Everyone who heard them wanted more.

It was of one the nights when Jean-Luc used the music to make it
clear to the audience that the beautiful, talented,  yielding Q
was his and his only.  When this happened, it made Q  happy;  he
did not mind at all being used to enhance Jean-Luc's reputation
as chief macho stud of the universe.  

All it was was Jean-Luc smiling at Q as he sang with him, but the
vibration was so incredible that all the voyeurs, not to mention
tops and bottoms, knew exactly what was going on. 
 

Afterwards, John Mack just walked backstage.  A hundred other
fans were there and no one was stopping anyone.  His
anonymous look allowed him to walk down the corridor which led to
the stage without being questioned.


"Excuse me," Q said graciously to the generic-looking janitor
standing in the corridor watching them.  Or maybe the guy was
some sort of security.

He turned back to Jean-Luc.  "Please, Daddy."

"Shut up, Q.  Here comes tonight's special.".

This one was a sturdy young man, Hispanic by the sight of him,
short hair.  He started stroking his shirtless chest when he saw
Jean-Luc and Q.  "You can both fuck me," he said.  Q bolted.  

Jean-Luc grabbed the boy's neck and kissed him hard.  His hand
went down to the boy's groin, feeling him up, making him moan.   

John Mack could not believe his eyes.             
       

The boy was very good, very pliant.  His gleaming brown body
writhed under Jean-Luc's stinging caresses.  Then Jean-Luc made
him finish himself off as he watched.  

"Pretty," Jean-Luc said as the boy lay helpless and gasping at
his feet.
 
*************************

Quark rushed into the hotel suite.  "Look!  Here's that article
in *People* magazine!  Can you believe it?" 

Q and Jean-Luc leaned over the magazine together.  There they
were!  On page 109, right next to the ad for Dove soap! A huge
two-page article!  With two pictures!  

Of course, one was of the outside of Fear Alley.  But still . . . 

"It's part of our mystique," Q dimpled.

Jean-Luc hugged Q in pure delight and became slightly distracted
from the magazine article.  No body on earth was as liquid as
Q's; every softness of his had a corresponding denseness and
mysterious allure.  And then there was the familiar comfort of
his scent, and his warmth.

"Look at who's on the cover," Quark crowed.  "This issue will
sell millions!"

They looked.  Melinda Madigan.  Some girl.

"She's the biggest female star in America," Quark said. 'She's
got three movies in the top grossing twenty movies of all time. 
She's hot!"  

"So.  Go manage her," Jean-Luc said.  He was feeling very cocky.
 
*************************

It appeared that John Mack would have to modify his dreams.

The newsletter gave their tour dates for the rest of the summer.

"Don't miss the biggy!" said the chirpy little newsletter. 
"Jean-Luc and his Boys will be playing at the Los Angeles Gay
Pride Fest on Labor Day!  This promises to be their largest 
concert yet!" 

Gay pride.  John Mack metaphorically spat.  There was just too
much of that going around.
 
*************************

As he sped down America's limitless interstates in his Ferrari,
Kivas Fajo loved to listen to American radio on his  German-made
sound system.  Fajo had already made his first few billion in
oil, communications, and other general necessities, and he was
indifferent about selling anything to these stubborn innocents,
but he was still curious about this vast green impatient
paradise.  A man in the twentieth century was not a man until he
could speak American.  Kivas smiled his sad little smile to
himself.  He would have to learn.

Meanwhile the late night radio amused him.  Loud yet dire ads for
funeral homes and hospitals were wedged between nasal songs about
incessant sex.  

America,  America.

And the preposterous names of the singers.  All those Bible
prophets,  Aaron, Jeremiah, Zeke, Nathaniel, John.  Bringing from
the American wilderness their messages about motels and backseats
and sweet lips.  

More songs, more miles.  

Then the disc jockey came on   was he a maniac or a pervert? Or
just a Fascist? -- Kivas never could quite decide about
American disc jockeys.  This disc jockey rattled on about
television for a bit, made an inexplicable joke about someone's
breast size, and then said, "Here they are again, all the way
from the other side of the tracks:  Jean-Luc and the Magic
Mountain Boys!  A special live remix of 'Prisonyard Blues.'"

Suddenly it was almost as if he were listened to a completely
different broadcast, something from the moon, perhaps, there was
the strangest overheard quality.  At one point, the amazing
singer went off mike to murmur something, some   tenderly-voiced
set of instructions, to one of the instrumentalists, and the
music which had been merely beautiful caught fire and surrounded
that vocalist.

When the music let him go,  the disc jockey came back and
smirkingly apologized to those who thought this was a decent 
station that played decent music.  Then he made a joke about
walking funny.  What could he mean?

Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys.  

Kivas brought his lips together.

It was very odd, but they seemed to know America's secret. 
Perhaps he could learn from them.

************************
       
Q was standing outside the bus when Will and Worf walked up. 

"Data?" Will said.

"Yes, the third time this week," Q said.  He slumped like a
balloon losing air.  

Geordi came over.  He said nothing.

"You know what Data told me?" Will asked.  He wanted to make Q
feel better. "He said Jean-Luc said, 'Data, you fuck just like
Q.'"

"But without the emotions," Geordi said.

Everyone was silent.
 
**************************
 
Using old Route 66, they took the Stargazer west.

And Jean-Luc had plenty of new cities to whore around in. 

After a concert in Oklahoma City, he orchestrated something 
complicated in the dressing room.  More a peepshow than a sex act
really.  The bad part was Will getting in on it.  But Jean-Luc
did keep the prettiest one for himself. 

Then, when they went back to their hotel, Jean-Luc insisted that
they circulate for a while in the smart dance club and 
downstairs.   He wanted to show off his pretty boy and he kept
stroking the boy's back as they walked around.  Some people
recognized them and came over to flirt and make small talk. Q
followed them, keeping his eyes down to make himself as invisible
as a tall and beautiful man could manage. 

Then he was spotted.  "You are one of those singers?"   It was a
man's voice.  

Q leaned his head over; the man was quite short.  "Well, I
suppose.  Please excuse me; I'm a little tired.  That was a long
concert."

"Forgive me, sir.  I didn't mean to be insensitive."  The  man's
accent deepened and he stepped aside.

Q glanced down.  Foreign.  Dark.  The stranger's big eyes were
fixed on Q.  Q almost lingered, but he really felt like sleeping. 
Since Jean-Luc had already disappeared, he probably didn't have
to stay here any longer. 
                    

Quark had booked three rooms, one for each pair, but, when Q got
to his room. Jean-Luc had the boy with him.  

"Q, you'll have to wait."  Jean-Luc didn't even look up as he 
caressed every part of the boy's naked and impressive body.   

"I'm awfully tired, Jean-Luc.  Couldn't you have done this on the
bus?"

It was impossible to describe how quickly Jean-Luc took offense.  
"Get out, you cow."

Q turned and slipped away.   But when he got back to the front
desk, another surprise awaited.  No room at the inn.  The place
was booked tight.


He didn't know what came next.  He had no plans except serving
Johnny.

"Come on, good looking!   Don't you want to join the fun?"

A pasty-faced blonde suddenly pushed herself into his field of
vision.  She was drunk. 

"I really don't think so." 

"He's tired, if I remember correctly."  That man again.  Small 
and dark.

Q turned to see if he were being mocked, but the alert beady eyes
were gentle in the leathery face.  "I'm not going back to my room 
tonight."  The man jerked his head towards Blondie. "Would you
like my  key?"

"Really?"  Q knew he should be more suspicious, but he was tired
enough to drop to the ground and sleep right there on the floor. 

"Really."  The man held out a room key.  Q looked down at the 
number.  Tenth floor.  The expensive suites.  It would be so
nice.  Any other time he might have gone back to the bus, but the
temptation of simply riding up the elevator to a comfortable bed
was too great.  He smiled.  

"Thank you, Mr...?"

"Fajo, Kivas Fajo.  Think nothing of it.  A great musician like
you deserves much better than a mere room in a hotel."

It was nice to be spoken to so gently.  Especially after Johnny .
. .

The suite was luxurious, but Q did not bother to notice.  He  
stripped and showered; then, when he lay down, he slept the sleep
of the dead, waking up to completely unfamiliar surroundings.  He
was stumbling around in his underwear, trying to get his bearings
when someone called him into the living room. 

Q yanked his jeans on.  They smelled a bit too much like hard
use, but there was no help for that.  He wandered out to the
front room.   

The generous stranger was sitting at a table loaded with food,
exotic and beautifully displayed, but some instinct warned Q not
to sit down.

"I can pay you for this," he said.

The man just shook his head. "Please.  I heard you singing on the
radio.  Then I heard the Americans talk about the sexual aspect. 
You are very brave to do what you do." 

Q lifted his eyebrows; he was the farthest thing from brave there
ever would be.

"I mean it.  Where I come from a man could not do that."

"Where might that be, Mr. Faj...o?"  Q stumbled over the 
stranger's name.

"Kivas Fajo.  At your service."

"Quentin McConn."  

Fajo gave Q a mockery of a firm American handshake.  Over  their
joined hands, his eyes were speculative.  

Well, Q had seen that look before.  He began to hold his eyes
down as he'd done when he was in prison.

Kivas backed off at once.  "I find your group simply 
fascinating.  I will buy your CD if you have one."

"I must go, really.  Thanks again. I don't know what I can do to
repay you."

Fajo knew.  This cowboy was beautiful in his jeans and hat.

But now was not the time.  He let Q out.  
     

Fajo chewed a bit of his breakfast, thinking about his house in
Munich.  One of the most striking things about it was the study
where he hung the mounted heads of the rare animals he had
hunted.  He had always been a gifted hunter.   He waited for a
few more minutes.  Then he followed Q.
       

In the lobby, Q was several yards ahead of him, but they both
paused when they saw Jean-Luc turn from  scanning the room; his
eyes went straight to his lover.  A muscle in  his jaw twitched,
and then he moved towards Q  like a stalking tiger.   Fajo eased
closer.  A little unhandsome man such as himself often picked up
useful information unnoticed. 

"When I got finished with the boy, I sent him down here to  find
you.  Where the fuck were you?"

"This man let me stay in his rooms while he spent the night 
somewhere else," Q hastened explain.  Fajo could see 
Jean-Luc's eyes narrowed.  "I never even found out what his name
is."  Q babbled.  He was shrinking in on himself, tensing 
himself against his lover's wrath.   Jean-Luc's jaw was working
furiously; he grabbed Q's arm and pulled him away.

Kivas smiled.  

So there were problems in this beautiful gay American garden of
Eden; that would certainly make it easier for him.  Because Kivas
Fajo had decided to have Q. Something about those sad eyes struck
his fancy.  

He had time.  He had money.   And he could buy his way into and
out of relationships for any reason that struck his fancy.  

After all, the blonde of the night before had belonged to another
American cowboy (Fajo liked cowboys) .  That cowboy had been
unavailable to him, and Fajo had resented that.  So Fajo flashed
his platinum card, and his wallet full of hundred dollar bills,
and those big vacant blue eyes of hers had gone wide and she'd
invited him up to her room, just like that.  Kivas relished the
idea that he was able to take her away from her showy, well-hung
cowboy boyfriend so easily.
      
He licked and guzzled the blonde all night long, and then he
apologized to her for having nothing else to offer her but money.
She was cordial, but distant.  He begged her to take the money,
and, finally, pretending she was doing him a favor, she did.  So
now she had turned out to be a whore, and early this morning
Kivas had found the well-hung cowboy   smoking a little American
cheroot and reading some sort of cowboy gazette at his breakfast
of pancakes    and told him as much.  And the cowboy hadn't dared
object.  He was too confused, "Baby, you did it for five thousand
dollars?" he kept saying to her, until she told him to shut the
fuck up.

This other one, however, this Quentin McConn, was indifferent to
money.  But he made Kivas shiver, and that didn't happen too
often.  The next few months should be enchanting.
 
*************************
       
The Boys traveled the Southwest.  They sold a lot of CD's. They
sang in a lot of gay bars and straight bars.  More
festivals.  Concert halls in the big cities of the southwest.

And Kivas was there.

Watching.  He watched Q watch Johnny.  He watched Jean-Luc's 
absolute dominion over the band.  He watched Q's pointless 
protests when Jean-Luc fucked yet another dewy-eyed boy or girl. 
And he was the only one who knew that but Jean-Luc had another
follower besides himself.  Kivas kept a casual eye on the man. 
The other man looked dirty and insane, but he was with them in
Denver and in Reno, and in Carson City.   
 
*************************
 
John Mack was fighting heartbreak.  Jean-Luc was not the pure
vessel of his idolarium, and he proved it night after night
     on the tour.  Jean-Luc clearly did not understand his true
calling; instead he was distracted by the cheap delights of the
Whore Babylon.  And this even after John Mack had made very
personal offerings to him.  He had even sold off most of his
father's gun collection to wily collectors who had no doubt
fleeced him.

But still, if he could punish Jean-Luc for betraying the world,
wouldn't the world turn to John Mack and thank him for breaking
the unrighteous grip of this lewd pied piper? 

He could just picture their gratitude.

After all, John-Mack said to himself jauntily, there's no law
that says it has to happen  in Baltimore.  It can happen 
anywhere.
 
*************************
   
One night, before the show, the crowd started what became a
standard chant at their concerts.  "John! LUKE!"  Over and over
again.  Tiny fires from a thousand lighters broke the darkness. 
Backstage, Jean-Luc was startled; he was headed towards the
curtain when Q grabbed him back. 

"Wait." Q grabbed Data and Geordi and pushed them forward.   Next
he lined up Will and Worf.  When the crowd was stamping its feet, 
he sent the first two out.  

"Okay, Data, take Geordi to his guitar."  

Data nodded and carefully led Geordi to his guitar stand.  The 
crowd started screaming.  Next Worf and Will went out, and the
screams  became louder.  Then Q turned to Johnny who nodded at
him.  

Jean-Luc looked so perfect in the soft backstage light.  So 
alert and intelligent.  On impulse, Q bent his head, and they
shared a  kiss.  It should have only taken a moment with the
crowd roaring as it was, but it went on a bit longer than either
intended.  Finally Q pulled himself away, gasping, and walked out
into the glare.  He lifted his hat respectfully, and the screams,
already on the edge of hysteria, turned to  roars.  Q did not
even have to look up to see that Jean-Luc was finally gracing the
stage.  The crowd jumped to its feet in a wild frenzy, and the
cry, "JEAN LUKE," shook the rafters.  
      
Fools!  Didn't they see!  Didn't they know!  Was the devil not
obvious  to their lust-flamed eyes? 

John Mack  forced himself to calm down.  Of course they didn't
know.  They were blinded, led astray, but that was alright.  He
was going to help them all.  

Thank goodness for the newsletter.
 
**************************
 
Kivas drove his Ferrari to LA. 

They were having Gay Pride day, a concept that boggled the  mind. 
To be homosexual and not be ashamed; to stand up with  thousands
of others of your kind and celebrate what you were  instead of
hiding it.  America was the greatest place on earth.  

He had the Magic Mountain Boys CD . . . how would the Americans
say it? . . . ah yes, cranked up.  He had the tunes
cranked up in his ride.   He smiled.  His Quentin had written all
of them, and they stirred a certain piquant frenzy in him.  He
understood why the Americans found these Boys provocative. 

He had imagined the Boy Quentin in a thousand different
positions,  some exhibitionistic, some phobically modest.  It
would be fun to see what he was really like.
 
*************************

The Gay Pride Festival in Los Angeles was going extremely well. 
They were giving three shows in one day, and the place was
packed.  

Tommy, bless his clever heart, struck a deal with the regional
manager  of a barely-one-step-up-from-K-mart department store
chain and made a rat-assed commercial which said where the Boys'
music could be had, and the next day there was a line of people
(mostly gay men, but a  curiously high percentage of women)
before the store was even open, and  they sold out before noon. 
They rush-ordered a thousand more CD's the next day, and Tommy
went to Kinko's and got a banner that said, "As seen on Jay
Leno," and spread it across the front of their little sale table
and it was sold out again.  

At their 4:00 show, they got a lot of enthusiastic applause.  

At their 8:00 show, they got a kind of completely hysterical
adulation that was almost frightening. 

They had one more show at 11:00, and then they could go back to
the sumptuous hotel suite the festival's managers had
rented for them. 

The word was spreading and the audience for that last show  was
bigger than ever.  Housewives drove their Volvo station wagons in
and paid twenty dollars for a parking place just to see them.
       
An argument broke out on the ticket line.   Are they gay or not?

Gay guys and women looked at unenlightened straight boys in
scorn.  "Jesus Christ, look at the way they look at each other
when they sing, what else could they be?  Tell me, Poindexter,
who would you look at with that expression on your face, your
best friend, or your girlfriend?"

The straight boys stared back, silent, confused, resentful.   

When the 11:00 set started, Jean-Luc was untamable.  Even in
prison,  he'd had the uncanny ability to make everyone bow to his
will.  Now he unleashed that quality on a huge audience.  He
could clearly make them feel any emotion he chose -- love,
contempt, appreciation.       

He said without words, but with his compact virile body, *You
love me.*

And the audience said back in screams: *Yes, Jean-Luc,
helplessly, madly, completely.*

Finally he let Q sing a song: Q had a lovely baritone voice that
he didn't think  much of because it wasn't like Jean-Luc's, but
in its upper ranges it was clear and soft and sweet and mournful,
and he closed his eyes and focused on his vocals because his
heart was already on his sleeve, and Data and Geordi accompanied
him, Geordi's twanging guitar hitting all the right places and
Data's plangent fiddle coming in at the music breaks.
     
"Oh, sweet Johnny darling, spare me my life, and I'll go
distracted and be no man's wife." 
     
And, when he sang this, a thousand hearts broke.  Actually  all
hearts broke except Johnny's.  

Jean-Luc crossed his arms.  He was a little jealous because he
hated for Q to get attention, even when it was good for the 
band.

Still Q turned to Jean-Luc, obviously seeking Jean-Luc's approval
of  him, of his singing.  Jean-Luc looked away. 

Slightly confused, Q turned to the audience.


And stopped cold.  

Then he roared and leapt towards Jean-Luc with arms outstretched. 

And a look of surprise crossed his face because his shoulder had
just exploded.

*************************
 
John Mack was waiting for the angels to direct him to the precise
second of judgement.  He had been at all three of the shows,
oppressed and morose because too many were loving Jean-Luc.   He
hated crowds.   

Then something curious happened.  

Everything slowed down and Jean-Luc was singled out from all the
others by a strange, corruscating field of light.   No one else
noticed this; they were all listening to the dark-haired
heart-broken one singing, crying really, while one black guy was
playing a plunking relentless guitar and that other little white
guy was fiddling, telling the crowd some secret with his fiddle. 
And Jean-Luc stood at the side of the stage, panting as if he had
been fighting, unknowingly enveloped by this lovely, rippling
fire, and a shower of silver sparks lit John Mack's field of
vision, and an angelic voice whispered tenderly, 'Now.'

John Mack lifted his gun and aimed it at Jean-Luc.

*************************
 
What the . . . ?

The crowd held its breath.  This was not an Ozzie Osborne
concert.  There was not supposed to be blood.  

Worf jumped off stage.  He tackled someone, a tall, otherwise
nondescript middle-aged man, grabbing a gun away from him and
throwing it to the ground.  Then Worf wrapped his fingers around
the man's throat and started to strangle him.  He looked as if he
knew what he was doing.   

Ten people pulled Worf away.  Ten more attacked the man who had
had the gun.  There was mayhem and screaming. 

There was more confusion.  Some people yelled at Worf angrily. 
Worf took it stoically.  

On stage, Jean-Luc pressed his hand to Q's shoulder.  Then he
pressed Q's unconscious face against his side.  There was blood
everywhere.
 

Kivas had paid good money to stand backstage.  He shook his head. 
This was so American.    

 
Luckily the managers had an emergency crew on site because
somebody always fainted at these things.  When the crew got a
call that there were shots fired and a man down, they jumped into
action, bullying their way backstage to get to their victim. 
They tried to ignore Jean-Luc who would not be ignored.  He told
the ambulance driver he would ride with Q or they couldn't have
him.  

The ambulance driver stared into his face.  A man being torn
apart by lions could not have looked more desperate. 
 

Kivas stuck around to see the dazed remnant of the band follow a
ferret-faced handler to their bus and then the ferret-faced  man
spoke intently to someone who nodded very apologetically.  
Suddenly Kivas was bored.  The only person he was really
interested in had gone away.  Kivas shrugged.   Time to find out
which one of the handsomely-advertised hospitals was housing Q. 
 
**************************     

Jean-Luc stayed at the hospital until well into the next morning. 
He didn't think about the other Boys.  He didn't think about the
money they were owed.  He settled himself in to wait, not caring
about his bloodstained clothes or the expressions of sympathy
from the hospital personnel. 

In the ambulance they'd barked questions at him that he hadn't 
been able to answer.  What was Q's blood type?  What were his 
allergies?  What medications was he using?  Did Jean-Luc know his
status?  Had he been tested recently?  Was he positive or
negative?  

For Christ' sake.

Jean-Luc could have told them many things about Q, but he was  
helpless now, even useless.  Q regained consciousness with a
sudden  inhalation that ended in a cry of pain, but the ambulance
technicians clustered around him before Jean-Luc could speak,
reassuring him that he was on his way to a hospital and that he
was going to be fine.

"Johnny," he heard Q whisper.  "The man shot Johnny."

"You were the only one who got shot."  The med tech sounded
bored.  This probably happened all the time in Los Angeles.

Q closed his eyes.  

The med techs gave each other information and ignored Jean-Luc
who sat there feeling useless and inconsequential while strangers
worked over his lover's body.  If only they'd asked him questions
he'd known the answers to, he would have gladly have helped them. 

He could tell them how beautiful Q looked all stretched out on a
prison bunk, waiting for him; or how gifted his fingers were on
the mandolin; or how soft his lips were.  He could tell them that
Q had a particularly masculine stride for all that he was so
gentle, and that, when he talked about things that were important
to him, his eyes glittered with a fierce intelligence and his
eyebrows danced.   He could tell them that sometimes Q looked at
him with an expression that was knowing and sardonic and needy
all at once, but he could not tell them about blood type and
allergies because he didn't know he was supposed to know those
things.

He felt frightened and vaguely ashamed of himself.  And still
they ground through their routine, talking past him.  Male,
approximately  thirty-five years old, blood pressure 113 over 60
and dropping.  

Gunshot wound to the left shoulder. Possible concussion. 

Jean-Luc knew of no such person.  He only knew Q, who was
bleeding, and in need of help.

Jean-Luc waited until they wheeled Q out of surgery, white-faced,
his head lolling with the sedatives they'd given him.  He
followed them to an empty hospital room and watched as they put Q
to bed. 

"Is that the boyfriend?"  He overheard one of them ask.

"I guess so."  The nurse turned to the corner where he was 
trying to be as inconspicuous as possible.  "Sir.  Your friend
is pretty heavily sedated.  The bullet lodged in his scapula ...
in his shoulder blade.  But there were no problems with the
surgery.  The only thing is he's going to be in and out of
consciousness for at least a day.  You should go home now and get
some rest."

Jean-Luc nodded.  He tried to follow the nurses out but the room
began to spin.  He thought of his heart, nicked and bruised. 
Suddenly his jaw ached.  He felt as if an iron bar were splitting
his chest in two.  No.  

No. No.  No.  

He just needed to eat something.  It had been hours, and he
should see about the rest of the Boys.
      
*************************
       
The whole band walked through the police interviews like zombies.

Quark kept the press away.
 
*************************
       
Jean-Luc did not sleep at all, and the next day Quark drove all
the Boys back to the hospital.  

Q wasn't in his room.    

Panic-stricken,  Jean-Luc rushed to the nurse's station.  "Where
is he?" 

The kindly nurses smiled at him, "He's fine.  He's been moved to
a private room."   


They went to a large, airy room with roses and balloons and fruit
baskets crowding every available surface.

No one knew what to say.  Maybe this was normal for hospitals in
California.  

There was a odd-looking little man sitting by the side of the bed
talking to the sleeping Q and touching his hand.   He jumped when
the Boys walked in.  Then he said "excuse me" and stood up.

Everyone was too surprised to say anything.  

The little man said, "shhhhhh" and then he tilted his head to one
side.  "He's ... sleeping..."  Then he tilted his head down in a
kind of bow and walked out. 
                                                       
"Who was that?" Jean-Luc's voice was raspy.

"The nurse?" said Geordi.

The boys clustered around the unconscious Q, patting his good
arm,  whispering how much him they missed him.  Jean-Luc hung
back, brooding  and suspicious.  He stared around the room at the
flowers and balloons and  candy.  All the cards were signed "Get
well soon, Kivas." 

Who the hell was Kivas?
 
     
In his big soft bed, Q slept on, pale and frail.
 

"Jean-Luc," Worf said, "there is nothing we can do here.  Come
with  us.  We will eat.  There's a Waffle Shack down the street. 
Q will not be hurt while we eat."

Jean-Luc just stared at Worf.

"Come," Worf said.

Jean-Luc followed him out.

*************************

Q woke up in stages, aware first of a strange confining  garment
that restricted his breathing.  He inhaled deeply and then
remembered the pain.  His shoulder, his arm, in fact that whole
side of  his body throbbed and ached as he shifted around trying
to make himself more comfortable.  

Then memory and fear flooded back at once.  He was in a 
hospital, drugged, thick-brained and groggy.  It hurt to move. 
And he had to pee really badly.  

Q slowly moved off the bed and staggered into the bathroom.  His
left arm was bound to his side, immobile, so he peed with the
wrong hand and then shuffled out into the hallway.  He  was
hungry.  He also felt stupid with his behind hanging out of the
hospital gown, and he wanted to go back to the bus.  He
immediately attracted attention. 

"Let's get you back to bed, big fella."  Hands urged him back the
way he'd come.  A nurse, a nurse's aide, an orderly. 

Q wanted to object, but he couldn't make his mind work very well. 
"Drugged," he managed to say.

"Honey, you need those drugs.  If we didn't give you medicine for
pain you'd be screaming, trust me on this one."

"Still hurts."

"You're due for your medication.  It'll feel better in a  little
while.

She had a kind smile, so he tried another request.

"Shorts."

"Well, if you insist, but the nursing staff is going to be 
really disappointed." 

Her joking distracted him from that awful pain in his shoulder. 
She tucked him under the covers and caged him in so he wouldn't
be able to leave so easily next time.   

"Now I'm going to give you some more pain pills and some 
antibiotics, and then we're going to bring you some breakfast in
a little while.  Won't that be nice?"

"Thanks,"  Q would have smiled again, but every movement hurt.  
The pain sapped him, held him prisoner as surely as the metal
bars around his bed.  

After he'd been medicated and given breakfast (eating clumsily
with the wrong hand again), he did feel a good bit better.  He
looked around, wondering where everybody was.  

"Has anybody been by that you know?" he asked the flirting nurse. 


"Your boyfriend Johnny and the rest of the band members have been
by twice, but you were asleep.  And your friend Kivas comes by 
all the time.  He brought you all these flowers and fruit baskets
and he had them switch you to a private room."

Kivas?  The name rang a bell, but Q didn't really care about that
right now.  Johnny and them had been to see him.  "Did he say
when he was coming back?" 

"Don't worry, sweet thing."  She leaned in.  She was very pretty. 
"He'd be a fool to leave something that looks as good as you."

Q blushed, pleased by her teasing.  

"I don't guess you have a comb or anything I could borrow."

He'd seen himself in the mirror, and he wanted to fix himself up
so that he'd at least be halfway presentable when Johnny
came.

"Well, I guess I could let you borrow mine if you promise to give
it back."

A little while later she brought him her purse from the nurse's
station and took a comb and brush out.  She helped him
go to the bathroom.  Then she helped him with his hair and
adjusted his gown so it didn't look as if it had been thrown  on
upside down.  Then she raised the bed so he could sit up. 

Q thanked her sincerely.  He dozed on and off for several  hours,
still in the grip of the narcotics.  When he wasn't sleeping, he 
stared at the TV and waited for Jean-Luc. 
 
*************************

Quark had no scheduled news conferences, but the reporters still
found  Jean-Luc and they were driving him crazy.  "Q sacrificed
himself to save you, didn't he?"

Jean-Luc said nothing, but his eyes narrowed.   For God's sake, Q
did no such damn thing.

Quark hustled Jean-Luc out of there.  They needed to be alone.  
"Jean-Luc, I've canceled the other dates   there were only a
couple  -  and returned the advance."  Then he leaned in. 
"Jean-Luc, we may have some hard decisions to make."  Giving
money back always made Quark somber.  
                                 
*************************

Down in the lobby of their hotel, Jean-Luc rubbed his thumb
against his lower lip.  

Three very nice boys were imploring him to take them.  

And Will had intercepted a phone call from the hospital.  Q was
conscious; he was fine; he was doing well.  He was getting better
every hour.  Nothing to worry about.   

Jean-Luc looked into the distance.  He thought of his heart.  A
man only had so much time.

Sad but true.

Like all of life, sad but true. 
     
*************************

When Jean-Luc finally showed up, he had Data with him, much to 
Q's disappointment.  

"Hi, Johnny," Q's voice sounded a little hoarse.  He cleared it
and tried again.  "I'm so glad he missed you."

"Q, what are we going to do?"   

Q had no idea what Jean-Luc meant.  He was going to get out of
the hospital as soon as they let him and go back to playing. 
What else was there?

"Your arm's no good,"  Jean-Luc shrugged pragmatically, "and we
have a new CD to get ready.  We'll pay you for the songs, but I
don't know about any of the rest of it.  We have to keep going
and that's that."  Jean-Luc was gorgeous.  He had on tight black
leather jeans and a black silk t-shirt.  Data was dressed
identically except his t-shirt was red.  "Sad but true."

Jean-Luc looked dangerous.  Data looked seriously sexy.    

"Data's getting the hang of the mandolin," he went on.  He
touched Data on the arm and left his fingers there.

Q stared.  He couldn't believe what he was hearing.

"Data's good."

But what about Geordi, Q wanted to say?  What about us?  He
opened his mouth, and then closed it.  Whatever he was about to
say froze in his throat and stayed there.

Jean-Luc was leaving him and he was unable to even beg for
another chance.  He would have said anything,  promised anything,
but his voice had deserted him and he could only sit  up on his
bed, dizzy and sick, and listen to the sound of his own rapid
breathing.  Panic clutched at his throat.  He had to say
something to convince Johnny to give him another chance. 
Convince him to change his  mind.  It was crucially important
that he say the right thing, but the enormity of the task
overwhelmed him.  Get it wrong and all of his life would unravel
in that instant of misspeaking, and he would die.   

"Q, don't do this to me," Jean-Luc said.

Data made a tentative gesture in his direction.  "Jean-Luc," he
started to say, "I think..."

"Come on," Jean-Luc fetched Data with a quick gesture.  "We need
to go." And they were gone.


Q stared at the empty doorway for hours, expecting them to come
back  in.  Surely Jean-Luc would stick his head in the door and
say, "Had you going there, didn't I?"

But nothing like that happened.

The nurse came in after lunch, took one look at his face and knew 
something was wrong.  "What is it?"

Q tried to speak, but panic rose up in him so sharp and fierce 
that he started to retch instead.  Spikes of pain shot into
his  shoulder and he cried out and fell back onto the bed.   

The nurse talked over his rapid breathing.  He didn't answer.  
The very idea made him flinch.  

"Say something," she said.  She sounded anxious.   

Q grabbed gingerly at his shoulder and shut his eyes.  He hurt. 
 
In a few minutes, he was wheeled into another room for more
tests.  And, when the test were done,  official-looking men and
women made pronouncements over him.  

Q was hysterically mute.  

No one knew why.  He could have told them if he'd been able, but
he couldn't manage writing yet and the machines they hooked him
up to went crazy whenever they asked him to talk.  Heart rate,
respiration, blood pressure, pupil dilation, they all went off
the scale.  He was deathly afraid of speaking.

*************************
 
Fajo hadn't intended to do anything but sit faithfully at Q's
side and be there when Q woke up, thus demonstrating his loyalty
in times of  trouble, but, when he got to Q's room that night, a
conclave of serious medical specialists trapped him. 

"We're sorry.  There have been some complications."

Tears sprang to Fajo's eyes.  They hadn't even had fun yet!  

The doctor instantly shifted out of medical jargon and began to
speak to him very soothingly.

"You *are* the boyfriend?"  The doctor asked.

It was night.  The day nurse was not there to identify the man
who'd sat in the emergency room for hours, waiting to hear about
his  lover's fate.

Fajo blinked three times and said, "Yes."

He listened carefully to the doctor's report on Q's sudden
hysterical muteness.

Fajo took a deep breath.  "He'd be better off at home with our
regular doctor.  How soon can you get him ready for travel?"

The doctors looked unhappy, but Fajo was insistent.

He signed Q out at 2 a.m.
 

Kivas gloated over Q the whole plane ride to New York.  Then,
just as the plane touched down, he thought of Jean-Luc's hard
stare.  He had never really met Jean-Luc, but he was aware of the
viciousness that would sometimes light Jean-Luc's eyes and
terrify whoever happened to be the victim of his terrible gaze.

He looked at Q.  Q was heavily sedated; he had been unconscious
since they left Los Angeles.  There was also a nurse on board and
an ambulance waiting to take them to Kivas' penthouse in the
city.  Kivas dismissed the nurse and ambulance and ordered the
plane refueled.   

They were going to his island in the Mediterranean for a while. 
Kivas wanted to make sure Jean-Luc would not be able to come
after him.  
 
*************************
 
Madred was quiet and calm.  When his court-appointed lawyer
showed up, Madred carefully explained that even though his
actions seemed irrational, angels had told him to shoot Jean-Luc. 
He spoke sincerely and eloquently about the need for purification
and sacrifice.  He lit up when he talked about how the Lord had
promised him the perfect vessel through which the blessing of
purity could be obtained.  His voice became animated.   His eyes
gleamed.   

The lawyer shrugged.  Pretty open-and-shut.
 
*************************

Quark didn't miss a trick.  

"That shooting was a smart career move," said the music company
executive. "Your Boys will be on the cover of four major
magazines  next week.  Beautiful photos.  I've already seen the
layouts.  We get that new live CD out pronto and then we'll set
up a major North American  tour.  I'm telling you, Tommy, we're
gonna make more money than God!" 

"Fabulous, Marty!  The Boys are really looking forward to it."

The mogul paused to light up a cigar.

"Of course we're going to have to replace the tall one, you know
that.   See if we can find somebody tall and cute to stand in for
him, just temporarily, until he gets his sight back."

"Uh, sure, but... let me deal with the Boys, okay?"
 
*************************

Well, there was nothing for Jean-Luc to do but forgive Q for 
terrifying him.  The band still needed Q after all.  He was
their  writer, and those big record-industry bastards were
already on their ass about another new CD.  

But, when he got to Q's room, the bed was empty.

Dammit, not again.  He went out to the nurse's station and asked
for Quentin McConn's new room number.

The nurse consulted the computer.  "Oh, he was discharged  very
early this morning."

"Discharged."  Jean-Luc wasn't sure he was hearing right.

"Yes."  The nurse sounded quite pleased.  "His boyfriend came and
got him.  Let's see.  He was released into the custody of . . .
Kivas Fajo.  He's taking him to a private convalescent facility. 
I have the address somewhere."

She rustled around a bit.  "Well,  shoot,  I can't seem to find
it."  But she brightened up and gave Jean-Luc a big smile.  "If
you come back this evening, the night nurse may be able to tell
you."
 

The other Boys were sitting patiently on the bus.  None of the
visits to Q had gone well, so, when Jean-Luc told them to wait
outside, they thought it wisest to comply.  No doubt Jean-Luc and
Q would work things out between themselves.

Jean-Luc came back and got behind the wheel.  He started the bus
and then turned to face them. 

The Boys gasped when they saw him, but he understood why.  He'd
seen his reflection in the rear view mirror.  His skin was gray
and looked like it might flake away under a light touch.  He was
haggard, and his eyes glittered strangely.

"Q's gone off with some other man," he told the shocked Boys.
"He's not there anymore."

He could tell they didn't believe him.  He didn't believe
himself.    

Q was gone. 

*************************

A week passed.  

Q was much better.  It was a throbbing pain now, instead of the
awl that pierced him in the hospital.  And it was being kept
almost completely at bay with smaller and smaller doses of
painkiller, so Q was able to spend more time clearheaded and
alert, but no one would tell him what was going on.

"Did Johnny tell you to bring me here?"  He had a pad and a 
pencil, and he'd painstakingly written out that question with
his clumsy, right-handed print.

The man's smile, as he answered in the negative, made Q feel 
very uneasy.  "You're with me, now."

It took a while, but Q had finally remembered who this man was.  
It was Kivas Fajo who had offered him his room back at some
swanky hotel, made a play for him, and then appeared to let the
whole thing drop.  Q had nearly forgotten him, but Fajo 
obviously had not forgotten Q.  And Fajo mentioned things he
could only have known if he'd been watching the band very closely
over time -- that time in Colorado when Johnny had shoved him and
he'd fallen against the marquee and stained his jacket.  The time
they'd celebrated their arrival in California by eating dinner in
the nicest restaurant they could afford.  That night at the disco
when Jean-Luc had taken two pretty young things back to the hotel
with him while Q stayed on the bus.  And Fajo seemed to know all
about Q's . . . sickness. 

"WHY!!!!!?"  That was the second question he scratched out. 

Fajo read the message and folded it and put it in his pocket and
smiled again.  "Do you know how easy you are to ignore?  I don't
have  to listen to you if I don't feel like it.  In fact, I could
simply  leave and you'd be lost.  Nothing to eat . . . No . . .
medicine."  He  was definitely gloating.

Q was furious.  "HOME!!!"

"Again with the demands.   How about if I just leave you here for
a few days alone?  Yes.   I . . . think I'll do just that."  

Fajo started to walk out.  Q heaved himself out of bed and
staggered after him, clumsily banging against the frame of a
painting that was hanging in the hallway.

"Oh, yes."  Fajo stopped and turned around, holding his finger in
the  air like an admonishing schoolmarm.  "If you break any one
of my beautiful artifacts, I'll have you charged with felonious
destruction of  property.  And they don't like Americans breaking
their historical  treasures, so they won't be inclined to go
lightly on you as they did in Kentucky and Maryland."

Q was in a foreign country?  And this man knew his record? 

Q had to say something.  He opened his mouth but only a soft
barking sound came out; he had to fight for breath.   

Fajo rushed over to him and tried to keep him from doubling over. 
His whole attitude instantly changed.  "I'm sorry.  I wasn't
trying to frighten you, but you must see how it is."

Q saw.  One-handed, he tried to shake off Fajo's support even
though the extra motion made him cry out in pain.  "Don't . . .
hurt yourself."  Fajo sounded anxious.  He called something out
in a foreign language and a slender, curly-haired man bustled in. 
 He took one look at the situation and drew out a hypodermic.  Q
felt a sting and the rest was darkness.   


When Q came to, Fajo was gone, but other people had obviously 
been  there.   There was a plentiful supply of food on the table
in the dining room.  The food was cold now, but Q was hungry.  

There was only one place setting.  This princely feast was his
alone.  He loaded food onto his plate.  The cubed meat was roast
lamb, and he recognized zucchini and tomatoes, all of it 
flavored differently from anything he'd ever tasted before.   But
if the amount and quality of the food was any indication, Fajo
intended to take good care of him. 

Not that that made any difference.
 
*************************
       
Quark and Data found out all they could about Kivas Fajo.  
Finnish-Greek oil billionaire.  Media executive, too.  Owned
a casino in Monte Carlo.  Had palatial homes all over the planet. 
"I'm going to kill that motherfucker," Jean-Luc said, and  tore
up the old newspaper photo of Fajo Data had given him.  "He was
waiting in the hospital to steal Q.  He planned all of this. 
Let's go get him."

"Jean-Luc," Quark said as tenderly as he could.  "Even if we knew
where he was, Fajo is a multi-billionaire.  He has his own
private army.   Some weird mercenary tribesmen from Thrace or
somewhere like that.  We're sort of outnumbered."
 
*************************

There were strange luxuries in Q's new life.

The curly-headed doctor -- who apparently didn't speak English  
spent nearly an hour each day checking Q over very carefully. 
The food was never less than exquisite.  His suite of beautiful
whitewashed rooms had a view of some ocean or sea, and the scent
of salt water was new and alluring to him, as were the smells of
pine and flowers that wafted in from somewhere.  And every day
silent maids came and changed his sheets.  They left him
beautiful cotton robes and luxurious leather clogs to wear.  No
real clothes however.  Not even underwear. 

He had a little verandah which faced the water.  There was a
wicker chaise longue there, and Q found himself lying there
most of the day. 

"Bonjour, mon ami," said a voice.

Q turned his head.  Fajo. 

Fajo sat beside him and took his right hand.

Q jumped, and Fajo's eyes softened.  "Are you better now?  A
little more tractable?  Now that you see I'm not going to hurt
you."

Q watched him with his huge staring dark eyes.

Fajo was not without a certain warmth.  He stroked Q's hand.  "My
God.   You're even prettier now than before.  How do you do it? 
I guess it's just luck."  He kissed Q's hand.  "Would you like a
tour of your new home?"  He snapped his fingers.  The
curly-haired doctor came out.  He and Fajo spoke in a language Q
did not recognize.  "Dr. Nicholopoulos has asked that he be
permitted to trail us at a discreet distance.  Lest you feel . .
. bad . . . again."

He took Q around his estate.  They were on a tiny island; Q could
see a distant grey-green coast but nothing else, and there were
guards with shotguns everywhere.

"You're tiring, aren't you?  Dr. Nicholopoulos, please take him
back to his room and be sure to help him to relax.  The maids
will bring him his supper."

The next day, Fajo was just as bright-eyed and eager to see Q as
he had been before.

"I'm sorry we had that . . . fuss on your first day.  Here, let
me show you some really rare things."  And they toured again.  
Fajo was clearly eager to show Q all his possessions.   Over the
course of several days, he showed Q the exquisite  paintings in
his private gallery.  ("Of course, this is nothing compared to my
other homes.")   His sculpture collection.  ("Notice Neptune
taming a . . . um, sea-horse, which Tom of Finland cast in bronze
for me.")  His toys. ("Your CIA has the only other one of these. 
It's a camera that takes picture on its own.  It focuses on where
the noise and heat are. It can reload with up to thirty-two rolls
before a human has to intervene.")  He smiled at Q.  "Nothing to
worry about.  My guards will make sure you're safe here, Q.  And
I may call you Q, mayn't I?  You Americans and your curious
nicknames."
       
They had lunch on the veranda.  The maids brought out a
cheese-and-wine drizzled salad, little cups of ouzo, bread with
honey and oil.  A  wonderful intense black coffee.  Fajo poured
the ouzo into his coffee and sat back.  Dr. Nicholopoulos was
sitting a short way from them prowling through a nice-looking
leather brief case. 
 
"You know, Q," Kivas had that same knowing smile he always  wore,
and he tapped his fingers together impatiently, "I've decided to
. . . make myself vulnerable to you."   He waved one finger in
the air at what he imagined to be Q's objection.  "Does that
surprise you?"  Kivas smiled smugly.  Then he glanced at Dr.
Nicholopoulos.  "Don't worry.  He knows no English.  Yes, I'm
going to make myself vulnerable to you precisely because you
can't, but more to the point, you won't betray me.  Will you?"

He talked like a man holding all the cards, and Q shook his head
because he knew that was expected of him.  Then he fixed his eyes
on his host in an imitation of rapt attention.  He had that
skill.        

"You see, I know a little something about vulnerability.  You
wouldn't think so to look at me now.  Rich, respected,  even
feared.  I've . . ."  he paused, then let the rest of the
sentence out in a prideful rush, "bought things other collectors
wanted just to keep them from getting their hands on them."   He
smiled.  "Just to rub their noses in the fact that I have what
they wanted and, while they live, they'll never see the thing
they prize."  Now his smile was conspiratorial.  "You'd never
believe that of me, would you, but it's true.  I can be vicious
when I want to be."

Oh, Q believed him absolutely.   He turned paler.

Kivas saw him pale and took that as an excuse to snake a
reassuring arm around his shoulders.   

"I would never be anything but gentle to you," he reassured.

'Liar,' Q thought.

"I was just trying to make the point that we are, in some ways, 
soul brothers.  You see.  When I was a little boy, my father  was
. . . hmm . . . an . . . I think the polite word is alcoholic.  
He had a disease called alcoholism, as you Americans like to say. 
I  really think he had a disease called 'I hate Kivas.'  I was
little.   A  shrimp, as you say, and he thought I would be weak. 
And he hated anything weak, so he hated me." Kivas leaned in.  He
moved his hand to Q's chest.  Where it rested heavily for a
moment on Q's right tit.   

Fajo was strangely jumpy.  He would focus on one thing until he
decided it was time to jump up when he suddenly remembered that
he'd been distracted and rushed back to his  original task.  Q
couldn't decide whether it was performance or  compulsion that
drove him to behave that way.  

"And the way he proved that he hated me was to make me take him
in my mouth whenever he came home drunk."  By now Kivas was
standing up.  "I had to suck on him until he came in my mouth.  I
was about nine or ten years old."  He paused to peek at Q to how
he was taking this. 

Q turned his head and closed his eyes.  Revolted.  Puzzled.      

"I tried to prove to him that I wasn't weak." Kivas continued. 
"I thought if I stood up to him he might like me more.  You know. 
Respect  me.  So the next time he came to my bedroom I told him,
no, I didn't want him to put his penis in my mouth anymore.  I
said I didn't like the way it tasted.  Well, he . . .  didn't
like that at all, so . . . he punched me . . .  and slapped me .
. . and told me I'd better do as he said from then on,  and then
he pulled his penis out and made me suck it again.  He liked 
that a lot.  He got hard quicker than I'd ever seen him before." 

Kivas gave a laugh that sounded like a hiccuping sob.

"I... could... barely breathe by that time because he'd broken my 
nose, but there I was kneeling on the floor while he stood over
me with his hands on his  hips.  So I did what he wanted."  Kivas
shrugged.  "And when he was done, he dragged me to the kitchen
and told me he would help me get the taste out of my  mouth. 
There was a bowl of lemons on the table, and he forced me to  eat
them all.  No sugar, just bite into them and swallow them down. " 
He shrugged again.  "So... I... ate them, peels and all.  I was
too scared to disobey.  I shit lemon  peel for three days.  It
burned when it came out.  I thought I might  die.  I had to stop
talking too, because I thought that if I talked,  somehow
everyone would know.  They'd think . . . I was a bad boy."

Q didn't know what to say.  He wanted to say something, yet he 
couldn't bring himself to try that again.  His head was swimming.

"I know, I know."  Kivas came and sat down by Q again,  holding
up a single admonishing finger.  "You want to know how I fixed
it.  Well, I didn't.  I failed in school because I wouldn't
speak.  I finally ran away when I was fifteen.  Never went back. 
Made  my first million before I was twenty five.  I went to see
my father about ten years ago.  I had money.   I had things.   I
went incognito.  Pulled up to the house, but couldn't walk in.  I
couldn't confront him. I couldn't even face him.  You see, I was
afraid that he would tell me to kneel down, and I was afraid I'd
still be too scared to say no."

Q still had his face turned away.  

Fajo placed a hand on Q's jaw and pulled him around so they faced
each other.  He looked searchingly into Q's eyes.  "Can't you say
anything even now?" 

Q's sudden panicked intake of breath was all the answer Fajo
needed.

"That's alright," Fajo consoled him.  "I just wanted you to know
that I know what it's like.  People see me and see a jetsetter,
billionaire, collector.   But I'm really just a boy who's always
been too scared to confront his father." His knowing smile was
like a snare.  "And you.  You're look big, strong, beautiful, but
what are you?  You're just a music-maker who's afraid to make
music  anymore.  You're lucky, really.  If I hadn't taken you
away, everyone would know that you're worthless by now.  Unable
to do the one thing you were ever any good at."  He squinted to
see how Q was reacting.  

Q gazed at him.  He had a sudden vision of Fajo walking around
his palace, stopping in front of his beautiful paintings and
statues, unburdening himself with this awful story to each one in
turn.   Fajo liked to keep his possessions safe.  So Q was safe.  

Jean-Luc had used Q, ignored Q, and cheated on him, but he'd
always been intently focused on Q the person, and Q thrived under
his harsh attentions, even when Jean-Luc had been his most
abusive.  But to Fajo, Q was obviously an artifact.

To his humiliation, he began to cry.  

"You're so sensitive," Fajo gloated.  He slid his arms around Q
again, this time gently touching Q's ass and then moving his hand
quickly away.   "I have to learn to be careful what I tell you."

Q clung to his peculiar interim lover, listening to the  air
shudder in and out of his own lungs.  So many sounds the body
made that weren't words at all.  He wondered how long it would be
until  Fajo made him moan.  

*************************

After a few days, Q assumed he was being monitored constantly. 
He could actually hear the camera whirring.

At the first, he had had diarrhea because of the water;  the next
day he was fed a very bland diet of chicken and rice.  

Another time he woke up crying and Kivas was right there.  "Let
me lie next to you.  It will make you feel better."   And they
lay there for a while.  Q was terrified.  He heard Kivas' breath
light as a moth.   Then Kivas reached over and touched Q's chest. 
He ran his hand over Q's right nipple.  "Odd, isn't it, that you
can't talk, but you make want to say things," Kivas whispered. 
"I think of words like 'come' when I get near you.  'Come.' 
'Come.'"  

Then Kivas sighed and got up and left.

**************************

They fell into a routine.  Q would eat breakfast alone and do his 
ablutions and then go back to lie in bed in one of his beautiful
robes,  while Fajo would come in and give that day's lesson.  
Fajo liked to deliver little lectures to Q.  His face gleamed as
he  made very abstract philosophical points. He had a little tic
with his eyes; they shifted constantly, appraising whatever they
saw.  They appraised Q a lot.  

One day, Q was lying down with one leg slightly inclined. As he
talked, Fajo walked around nervously and watched Q more intently 
than ever.

     
The next day the maids brought Q a robe which was the most
beautiful yet, a quilted silky fabric, cobalt and black.

When Q came out of his marble bathroom, Fajo was sitting on the
bed waiting for him.

He didn't speak for a moment.  He merely looked Q up and down,
his sad eyes lingering on the front of Q's robe.

Then he patted the bed beside him.

"Q.  Let's think about getting you ready to talk again."

Q looked away; he had nothing to say.

"Talking is a bridge.  Talking is a key.  If you make yourself
relaxed enough to talk, you can do it.  I want to teach you how
to relax."

Q had no idea what Fajo meant.

"Tonight I want to you dine with me in my great paneled dining
hall.  Afterwards, I have some extremely rare art works I want
you to see.  I promise they will . . . relax you."
 
*************************
       
"I know you're blue, boys, and I sympathize.  I loved Q as much
as  anybody."  

"He's not dead, Quark," Jean-Luc growled menacingly, and Quark
ducked.

"I'm aware of that, Jean-Luc.  But listen.  We have been handed a
new  contract from DCA.  They know Maiden Records is after you. 
Look at this."

Data was the default Q.  He took the contract.  "Is that a lot of 
money?" he asked.  Jean-Luc and Worf exchanged glances.  There
were going to be problems with Data that there had never been
with Q. 

"See that advance?  Look at that: an interest-free loan of 
three-quarters of a million dollars.  Now, I want you to listen
to me carefully.  You guys have been living out of a bus for 
years and it's time to make yourselves some kind of life here.  I
want you to find a nice house to rent!  A house where you can
heal!  A house where you can start to move towards recovery and
acceptance.  Then we can move into the studio and make a
platinum-selling CD!  Boys, we've barely touched the overseas
market and they're gonna love you once they hear you.  Oh, that
reminds me.  The studio likes that live CD from the last tour. 
That's why the advance is so big.  Now I got the names of some
real estate agents here, so Q, you get on the phone this
afternoon and..."

He paused abruptly because Jean-Luc had hissed as if he were in
pain. 

Quark looked at him curiously, and then remembered.  "Data," he
amended.  "I meant Data."
 
*************************

Q got ready for supper.  The maids had laid out another new robe
   still nothing but a robe and some sort of nice footwear which
fit as if they had been hand made for his narrow aristocratic
feet.    

This robe was very short and rather tight, but Q knew it was no
mistake.  Before he put it on, he brushed his hair.

Since he had been with Fajo, he had nothing to do all day long
but groom himself.  Q knew Fajo was right; he was prettier than
ever.   He was tan and relaxed, and the scuttling Dr.
Nicholopoulos must have been a good doctor because Q was glowing
with health.  He patiently worked with Q on a treadmill, on a
weight set, stretching his wounded shoulder to give him back his
mobility.  Making him beautiful for his new owner.

He stared at himself in the mirror.

He would not think about Jean-Luc.   When he did, he cried, and
Fajo hated that.  Fajo scolded him for it.  He said crying ruined
Q's beauty.  

Q understood that his survival depended on Fajo.
   
He forced himself to stop crying and went to eat his supper.  


Fajo made a very elaborate show of seating Q.  He watched Q's
thighs carefully as he helped push Q's chair in.  Fajo always had
organically-grown fruit and exotic nutty grains for them; he kept
them both on a very healthy diet.

Tonight for dessert, he had huge strawberries dipped in a very
fine chocolate.  "From France," he remarked as he served them to
Q.  His eyes lingered on Q's lap.
 
Q did not know what to make of this. Fajo had stolen him.   Fajo
had guards who could have held him down while Fajo raped him and
he wouldn't have been able to do a thing about it.  Fajo could
probably kill him and nobody would be the wiser.  Yet here Fajo
was courting him with slow deliberation.  Q was being pampered to
a ridiculous extreme, and, in spite of himself, he felt a little
flattered.   He mattered to a rich, powerful man.

Fajo looked him over.

"Did you have enough supper?"

Q nodded once.  Fajo's expression was ambiguous.

"Let's go into my other gallery, the secured one."

He led Q down a corridor to a locked room.  "It's lined with
steel so it won't burn.  These are one-of-a-kind artifacts that I
value more than anything else.  Come on in.  You'll be the first
of my friends to see this room."  

Q stepped in.  It was a very dark room; there was a powerful hum
from a air conditioning unit which clearly kept the air at a very
specific temperature and humidity level.

Fajo took out two pairs of white cotton protective gloves.

"I can't wait to show you my collection. It's quite varied.  Put
these on; some of these items are over three thousand years old."

No diamonds?  No gold?

Fajo went to a curtained case and took something out.  "Look at
this.  It's an ancient papyrus scroll.  Actually, it isn't all
THAT rare, except for the subject matter.  It's a visual record
of a visit to a Theban whorehouse." He carefully unwrapped it. 
Line drawings of pretty naked brown-skinned girls with elaborate
kohl-rimmed eyes sitting with their legs apart as they applied
make up.  A more casual sketch of a couple -- at first it seemed
they might be wrestling.  Many enigmatic hieroglyphs.   Fajo drew
other things out of the case.  A small, beautifully-detailed
phallic statue of Bacchus.  Smiling gently, Fajo let Q touch it. 
"Now look at this.  The past is so amusing." It was a Louis
Quartorze mantle clock; on the clock face was a painting of a
sweet-faced naked cupid.  Whoever had made this device had
fashioned the hour-hand a nicely-sized erection springing from
the cupid's pink loins.  Fajo smiled again.  "This tells us when
it's time for love," he said, translating the French motto over
the cupid's curly head.  He handed Q something that looking
vaguely like a seashell.  It was a tiny ceramic depiction of a
Japanese couple, very proper in their ornate robes.  "Turn it
over."  The underside was even more detailed, showing their
aroused genitals in sexual congress.

Q was overwhelmed.

"I also collect erotic films from all over the globe.  But the
film must be of superb quality, and I must have the only copy. 
It goes against my grain to share ownership of a rare and
beautiful object."  He paused.  "Q, I would like very much to
show you my favorite."

He pushed a button, and purple curtains parted showing a silvery
screen.  Fajo then pushed another button, and a film started. 

"Patience.  Great erotica takes time," Fajo whispered.

The soundtrack had insect sounds and every now and then a few
notes from a wind instrument.  It was an exterior, done in deeply
saturated colors at dusk or dawn, Q couldn't tell.  The camera
started panning a huge, beautifully manicured yard butted by a
huge magnolia tree beside a line of dense cedars.  Then it found
a tree stump.

Q jumped.

A small, muscular bald man, completely nude, was tied to the
stump.  

The man moved his face towards the camera.  

Oh, he was very young with a plump face, not what Q had been
thinking at all.

The soundtrack continued its haphazard-seeming tweeting.  Now
another character entered the scene; it was a taller man wearing
a very peculiar mask.  His entire face was covered by a stag's
head complete with vast horns; Q could barely see the eye holes
in the stag's neck.  The actor was wearing shiny leather trousers
which laced in the front and nothing else.   Q could tell that
the actor was somewhat aroused.

The stag-man put his hands on the naked man's ass.  Massaging. 
The camera moved in a bit.  And Q watched in fascination as the
stag-man took a small alabaster jar and knelt behind the other
man, carefully placing the jar right where he could easily reach 
it.  He dipped his bare hand into the jar and pulled it out; it
was dripping with clear gel.   With a slow, dreamy smile, he
began to probe between the bald man's legs.  The camera showed
the bald man's face in close-up.  It showed his adam's apple
bobbing.  It showed the way his chest heaved and heaved again,
his rhythmic hypnotic breaths, his heavy-lidded eyes so calm that
he might have spent the previous hour in an opium den. 

As the stag-man probed the other man's ass, small droplets of
sweat began to drip from beneath his mask and run down his bare
chest.  Sometimes he seemed to need to calm himself down.  Every
once in a while, he reached his other hand into the jar for more
gel, which he then smoothed over the crack of the other man's 
ass.  When the bald man sighed and pushed himself back on his
hand, the stag's chest shook as if with laughter.  He rubbed his
free hand in careful circles on the bald man's sweaty back. The
gratitude and delight on the bald man's face was plain to see.  

And then the camera cut close to the man's pink backside to
display something that Q had never imagined possible.  The stag-
man's hand was invisible to the wrist, firmly buried up inside
the man's ass.  Q was shocked.  He'd never imagined such a thing,
and his deep gasping breath made Fajo look up at him sharply,
concern and amusement on his features.  Q looked back at the
screen.  The two men seemed to be doing some sort of kneeling
dance, nothing but erotic satisfaction in their motions.  The
bald man seemed engorged with pleasure, gently backing against
the stag-man's fist and moving in small, rhythmic circles.  He
had a beatific smile on his face.  

Q heard himself gulp.

Fajo cut his tiny eyes to Q.  

The stag man withdrew his hand, and the bald man yelped.  Q
wiggled a bit.  The stag man was quite aroused, but he did
nothing but turn around and walk toward the distant cedars.  A
flock of starlings flew up as he walked near them. The soundtrack
magnified their calls.  The film flickered to an end.

"Isn't that beautiful?  An Iranian woman directed it.  Imagine!  
A woman from that repressed society!  I can't imagine what her
family must think.  Of course, I have the only copy."  Fajo shook
his head. "I could never fist anyone.  But if I did, I'd be very
gentle."
 
The evening ended with Q going alone to his bed; Fajo had asked
him if he felt relaxed. Q nodded again.  He had become . . .
relaxed.  

"We'll watch more movies later," Fajo said.  His eyes went over
Q's body.  Q's little robe really hid nothing.  

In his room, Q took off his robe and lay it over the back of a
chair.  Now he was left naked and aroused.

Well, he had to sleep.      

But when he lay down, if he lay on his back, his big hard cock
stood up distractingly from his body, and, if he lay on his
stomach, he was pressing it down in an enticing way against the
mattress.

He touched himself.  He had not felt any hint of sexual desire
since the shooting.  Now, however, he was beginning to heal, and
his sexual appetite was returning with a vengeance, spurred on by
the things he'd just seen.  He felt . . . 

Those two men.  

Fucking one of them.  Fucking both of them.  Getting fucked by
them.  Having something hard inside him the way it should be.  
Tears came to Q's eyes; he was coming.  He was wet.  He said
nothing.  He thought, Johnny.

*************************

On the bus, there was no food on the bus and no clean clothes
either. 

Jean-Luc was very quiet, very calm,  but he was losing weight. 
And whoever talked to him noticed that he would often look away
during the conversation.

And almost all the sex stopped.  Data and Geordi kept their 
couplings quieter than before, and Worf took Will to alleys and
parks and made him suck him quickly and then return before Jean-
Luc missed them.  At night in the bed on the bus, they gripped
each other without satisfaction.   

"Find a Laundromat," Jean-Luc said, his eyes staring unseeing
before him.  "Go to the store."

So Data and Will went shopping and Geordi and Worf did the
laundry.  And Jean-Luc sat on the bus with his hands clasped in
front of him.  

(This was not a successful arrangement; Will and Data did not
agree on what to buy and then bought foods simply to spite one
another.  "I cannot eat only marshmallows and cumin," Worf told
them sharply.

And Worf and Geordi were not natural laundrymen; everybody ended
up wearing strangely-dyed underwear because no one bothered to
read the detergent box.   Data ended up wearing Will's underwear
which fell off his body, and Will got Jean-Luc's underwear which
cut off his circulation so much he could barely walk.

And so a furious Jean-Luc bought everyone new boxers and briefs
until they realized Q's system, which was to neatly label the
underwear "Wi, Wo, D, G, Q, J."  After the Boys discovered this,
life got a little easier.  But the underwear still came out green
and purple because Q was the only one of them who ever really
understood laundry.)

*************************

"Do you know right from wrong?" the lawyer asked again.  But she
was just making him angry.  Of course, Madred knew right from
wrong.  And he had done the right thing in trying to destroy the
tide of filth that threatened America.  It had turned out wrong,
but that was not his problem.  

And now that he had so much time on his hands, he could figure
out how it went wrong.  

Oh, he cursed himself.  This public assassination had been such a
dopey thing to do.  Utterly beside the point.  

It was clear he should have kept his original plan.  

Which had always worked so brilliantly.

And incorporated so many elements he loved.

That first one, oh, the first time was always so sweet.   The
runaway boy with the big pretty eyes who said he'd do anything
for fifteen dollars.  So John Mack feigned an interest in him. 
Brought him back to Mother's.  Mother was sound asleep (no
wonder: John Mack had put two tabs of Tranxene in the Earl Grey). 
Then John Mack, for the very first time!, had tried out his
rigging or scaffolding or whatever it was.  Oh, the boy looked
luscious, his arms pinned above his head, writhing as he realized
he couldn't get free, his huge eyes even larger when he realized
no one could hear him down in the cellar.   And then John Mack
had taken out Dad's big service revolver.  Oh, those thin arms,
that heart-shaped, weak-chinned face, so helpless and therefore
so giving.  John Mack had loved seeing him pinioned like that.  
If only he could have done that with . . . Jean-Luc . . . now the
very name disgusted him.  No one understood!  No one understood
the passion that helplessness breeds.  If he could have had Jean-
Luc helpless and muttering and suspended from the cuffs he'd
screwed into the beams in Mother's cellar and if he could have
kept him there for days, oh, oh, John Mack closed his eyes.   Oh,
he loved the slack way a hopeless body looked as it hung from a
rafter.   

"I don't think the asshole can hear me," the lawyer muttered to
the jailer.  She spoke more loudly.  "Do.  You.  Know.  Right. 
From.  Wrong."

John Mack opened his eyes.  "Is that a trick question?" he
drawled.

*************************
     
Fajo had a natural rock swimming pool which overlooked the wild
dark sea near his home.  Q liked sitting near this pool.  And so
Fajo would join him, lying on a comfortable wicker chaise longue
as he made important phone calls and Q watched the water.

"Dr. Nicholopoulos says swimming is the best sport.  The most
recuperative one," he told Q.  

Q said nothing.

"Swim, Q.  Get better.  That's what this is all about."

Q knew what Fajo wanted.  

Q stood up and took off his robe.  

Fajo was secretly beside himself.  He couldn't breathe.  

Q put his arms above his head and stretched and then dove in the
water.    

Fajo was in paradise.  It was as if a light had suddenly been
turned on in his life.  Then, he became aware of an angry noise
coming from his telephone.  It was his man in Zurich.  "Fajo, you
fool," he said in Italian, "you just lost a chance to make three
million!  Why didn't you answer me!"  

Fajo shrugged and hung up the phone.

He spent the next half hour waiting for Q to emerge, and finally
Q swam to the side of the pool and brought up his hands to smooth
his long hair back.  Then he got out of the pool.
                         
And walked towards Fajo.

Where his robe was.

The water streamed lovingly down Q's smooth and sculptured body
and he was naked and Fajo knew it would be worth another three
million.  Easy.

*************************

The Boys rented a nice new house.  It cost three thousand dollars
a month, which stunned them all, but it had three big bedrooms
and lots of spare rooms that could be fixed up any way they
liked.  For weeks and weeks the house echoed with the sound of
their footsteps because they owned almost nothing in the way of
furniture.  They bought three kingsized beds, a TV, a dining room
set and a living room set; the place sort of looked like shit,
but none of them knew or cared.  

Geordi and Data's bedroom was filled with plans and specs and
catalogues. They were already planning their new home studio.  

Will and Worf slept together in another room, big,  overly
air-conditioned.  

The first night in their new house, Jean-Luc slept on the big new
sofa.  He made them return the bed they bought for him because he
said he didn't like it.  He said he would  pick a bed out later
and he didn't care where he slept.  But then he woke up with a
huge hard-on and, still half asleep, curled his hand down to it. 

He shook himself.  This wouldn't do.  

He undressed and went to Worf and Will's room.  They were asleep. 
Jean-Luc stood at the foot of the bed.  

"Will, get up and suck my cock," Jean-Luc shook Will's leg. 
There was barely enough light to see by.   Will sat up drowsily. 
"I want my cock sucked."

"What?" Will said sleepily.  

Jean-Luc slapped him.  Hard.

Worf sat up like a shot.

"Your pussy won't behave," Jean-Luc said to him.  Will was
moaning and holding his face.  

Worf was in an awkward position.  Jean-Luc had given Q freely;
Worf had been able to do anything he wanted to do with Q.  He'd
buttfucked Q, he'd made Q blow him, and he'd slapped Q, hard.  So
why wouldn't he want Jean-Luc to do the same to his woman?  

Because Jean-Luc ... was different.  

Because Jean-Luc didn't love Will the way Worf loved Q.  Because
Will wasn't Q.  

Q was there to get fucked and beaten, and Will was also there to
get fucked and beaten, but, when it happened to Will, it was
something he had simply fallen into.  When you fucked or beat Q,
it was part of Q's grand design.  It was what Q was meant for.

"Make your worthless pussy suck my dick,"  Jean-Luc insisted.

"Will, suck his dick. Now."

And so the whimpering Will got down on his knees.  

Jean-Luc kept hitting the side of Will's head, not hard, but with
his closed fist.  That thumping sound made Worf uncomfortable. 
But what could he say? 

Jean-Luc brutally beat himself against Will's throat until he
came, and then he lay back gasping. 

It was clear he wasn't satisfied.  "Move over.  I'm spending the
night here," he said, burrowing between them.

"Okay."
 

So that was how it was going to be.

With Q gone, all those tasks he had taken care of fell to the
others.  

Data ineptly helped Quark handle their business affairs.  

Geordi led the band.

And Will was now the band sex object.  Too bad.  Worf really
liked Will.  He'd straightened up a great deal since he'd
arrived, and he always smiled at Worf with a calmly trusting
expression that Worf had come to value greatly.  But that was
changing.  Well, okay.  

Because any fool could see Jean-Luc was in pain.  Worf told no
one that he'd found Jean-Luc on the bus one day, beating an iron
he'd found against the walls, the chairs, the beds, anything he
could reach.  Worf understood.  That iron had belonged to Q.  He
had always prepared their stage outfits with it.   He grabbed
Jean-Luc's flailing arms and wouldn't let go even though Jean-Luc
fought him.  Jean-Luc screamed against his chest.  Screamed.  Had
he been an innocent animal screaming like that, Worf would have
shot him to put him out of his misery.

As it was, he let the screams die down and then took Jean-Luc to
his bunk and held him there for a long time.

After a while, Jean-Luc said, "You know he might be dead."

"I know."

They lay folded around each other, feeling the impact of that
statement.  There was nothing to say.

"If he is, you have to help me kill Fajo."  But Jean-Luc's voice
sounded tired and weak.

"Most definitely," Worf assured him.  

He didn't tell Jean-Luc that he often thought of how good it
would feel to kill Fajo.   He didn't have to.  


After that Worf took Jean-Luc to his bed any time he wanted.  He
told Will, "We will have to do this for quite some time." Will
nodded.  Anything Worf wanted was aces with him.

*************************

Q masturbating!  Q swimming naked!  Fajo was so pleased that   he
went out and bought Q a present.  After all, that was what you
did with pretty distractable bits of flesh like Q.  You give them
pretty things when they pleased you.  It had happened with the
cowboy and the blonde, and it would happen now.  Fajo liked to
give jewelry.  He liked the idea of covering the one he loved
almost completely in gold and silver and diamonds.  Like a modern
Midas, in a way. 

The first piece was a bracelet made of silver and turquoise
because that reminded Fajo of the American West.

"I got you this to help you feel better,"  

Not long after that, Dr. Nicholopoulos subjected Q to a
particularly grueling physical therapy session.  Q was panting
and sweating.  Fajo brought him a glass of lemonade.  Q drained
it, and, when he put the glass down, Fajo was holding two more
prettily wrapped packages for him.  "I am quite pleased with
you," Fajo told him.

More turquoise jewelry.  Q looked at Fajo and Fajo said, "I
thought it looked so nice against your skin that I got one for
the other wrist and one for around your neck.  Put them on."

The bracelet was a twin of the one he had previously been given,
a chain of rough stones.  The necklace consisted of big one-inch
links around a centerpiece of ornately smithed silver framing a
giant rock.   Heavy.  Masculine.  Expensive.

Fajo said, "Here, let me help you with that," and Q lifted his
hair and bent forward over Fajo's lap, and Fajo could barely
choke back a groan as Q's pale neck was exposed to his hungry
gaze.

Q looked up again and Fajo had turned pink.  Q smiled at him,
thanking him with his expression.

Fajo lowered his eyes.  "That can't come off, you know."  The
catch had locked into place.  

That night Q slept in his jewelry; what choice did he have?

As usual, Fajo watched Q sleep on a monitor for a while, and then
went to Q's room.  Q was sleeping with his legs open, and he was
slightly aroused.

Fajo could not quit gloating.

**************************

"That jewelry is impossibly becoming to you, " said Fajo.  He
reached out to Q's necklace and then let his fingers trail down
to Q's left nipple.  He left his hand there. And then he gently
pinched it.  They both were breathing heavily.  

Q did not move away.  He knew how this deal worked.  That was all
right. Kivas had bought that caress with his jewelry and
patience. 

Then Kivas sighed: "I wouldn't mind if you ran around naked, but
we probably need to get you some clothing."
     
So Q got a new wardrobe.  Expensive tooled Moroccan slippers, and
thongs, and, over the thongs,  diaphanous harem pants in very
masculine colors.  Browns, dark blues, sheer black.  A pale
poison green both Q and Fajo loved.

And dressed like this, Q had nothing to do all day but work out
on the machines Dr. Nicholopoulos so assiduously lead him to
every morning after Fajo's lecture. 

And swim naked under Fajo's hawklike eyes. 

Fajo went away for a good part of each day to work on making his
fortune even more imposing that it already was. He had an nice
office with all sorts of electronic tracking devices and there he
nestled making more money for himself and Q until he was bored
with it.

Because Q was changing things for Fajo.  Making Fajo dream.  Fajo
would be making money in some leveraged buyout or merger and
suddenly something would come up which would remind him of Q. 
Perhaps the letter Q. Perhaps the word 'dream'.  

Perhaps the figure three million, which he regarded almost as a
fetishistic reminder of Q.  

And he would find himself . . . indulging himself.  Once or
sometimes twice.  Afterwards, he always looked at himself in the
mirror.  Could anyone tell what he'd done?

One day, he was making a minor fortune and he saw the ordinary
brace of words, "silver futures", and he put down his phone and
said to the air, "this has got to stop." 

He went to Q's room.  Q was lying on the bed in his new clothes. 
His legs were apart.  He was startled to see Fajo.

"We need to intensify your therapy.  You will have to speak some
day.  You need to learn to relax your muscles."  He put one hand
on Q's tit and rubbed Q there.  

And then he let his hand drift down Q's body.  

"Relax, Q.  Are you relaxed?"  He moved his hand lower on Q's
body.  He could smell its sweet perfume.  "Relax.  The golden key
to wellness is relaxation."  His hand was on Q's flat stomach. 
He looked at how small his hand was against the rosy wealth of
Q's long body.  He sighed heavily.  He moved his hand between Q's
legs, slowly trailing his hand over Q's stiffening penis.  He
kept his hand on Q's testicles for a moment.  Then he took his
hand away.

"Let me get some nice ointment for you.  To help you relax."

He came back with a small jar.

"Isn't this nice?  My God, your legs are tense.  Spread them so
you can relax."  He returned his oiled hand between Q's legs.

Q's huge eyes looked at him with an unfathomable expression.

"Please take your clothes off.  Let me check to see how relaxed
you are.  If I check, maybe I can tell if you're ready to talk."

Q was a bit frightened, a bit aroused.  

But what would be the worst that could happen?  And it wasn't as
if his body would be a surprise to Fajo.     

He slid those odd sheer pants off and then he sat on the side of
the bed and pulled the thong off.

Sitting right beside him, Fajo watched Q, saw how aroused he was. 
Fajo shuddered a little.  Then he put rubber gloves on both of
his hands.

"Lie down," he said.  Then he said, "This is very therapeutic.  I
myself feel very good about this," and he put more ointment on
his fingers and spread Q's perfect legs and very gently put his
index finger in Q's ass.

The sky did not fall.

Fajo moved his finger around and around, very gently.  Q breathed
as noisily as any man who could talk.

Fajo then moved to a different part of the bed; with his  finger
still in Q, he took Q's erection in his hand and began to gently
stroke him to climax.  Q made very human "ugh" sounds as he came,
and he came quickly.  Trembling.  Putting his gentle hands to his
face.  Lying there with his eyes closed.  

"You'll get a special present for that, Q."

Q was not fooled.  Fajo moved so his cameras could get a clear
view of Fajo jerking him off.  Still, Q wouldn't mind doing it
again.  Whoring was familiar to him.

*************************

Q had been the band leader, the man who did the arrangements, who
listened to the instruments, who picked the music they played.

Now that task was Geordi's and the other Boys had to put up with
his slight arrogance when it came to music.  Geordi was so
musically gifted that he had a hard time being gentle and
conciliatory.  Jean-Luc and Worf were self-taught; what they did
they did intuitively.  Geordi did not quite relate to that.

Besides none of them could write songs like Q.

**************************

Fajo became obsessed with Q's ass, and played with it constantly. 
When he worked up to two fingers, he was clearly addicted.  

He had an assortment of creams and unguents and he carried them
to Q's bedroom on a little tray.    

Q would nod.  He would take off his pants and the little thongs
Fajo provided and lay back on the bed with his legs wide open.  

Fajo always smiled at his evident willingness.

Q wondered if Fajo remembered that he didn't have a choice.  It
was just what he did, that was all.  He'd been a whore since
prison, and Fajo was paying a high price for him.  

'Get hard,' Q commanded himself.  Sometimes it worked, and he
could simply will himself erect.  Often he thought of Worf
fucking him in that hotel room in Tennessee, or his night in the
woods with the virgin Data, or the time on the bus when he'd bent
over for Geordi.  He very carefully did not think of Jean-Luc
because the one time he did, he almost cried out his name, and
that would never do.   

Afterwards, he would drowse through more of Fajo's lectures.  The
Americans had invented AIDS.  They killed innocent children in
South America.   It was a sort of social control.  Like spraying
drug crops.

Q looked up.  Is that where they were?  South America?  

Fajo misinterpreted, as usual. "You want some more, do you?"  He
got another glove.

*************************

Jean-Luc tore off his headphones and glared at them.  Then his
eyes lit on Data.  "Come here," he ordered.

Data approached him willingly enough, but, when Jean-Luc wrapped
his hand around Data's ass and began to nuzzle and bite at Data's
neck, Data stiffened and pulled away sharply.

Jean-Luc pulled back too, astonished by Data's resistance.  

They all watched, and Geordi listened, to see what would happen. 
Will quickly prayed that Data wouldn't get too badly beaten, but
all that happened was that Jean-Luc threw his headset down,
wheeled around and stalked out, slamming the door behind him.  

Will and Worf glared at Data.  

Then Will spoke first.  "What's wrong with you?"

"Yes, isn't that what you wanted, motherfucker?" Worf said.

"No," said Data.  "That is not what I meant at all."

"You worked hard enough to get it.  Nothing would do for you but
to replace Q." Worf was furious.  "And now when Jean-Luc needs
you, you pull away."  He was building a full head of steam.  "You
won't even go with him for one night.  You hide in your little
studio with Geordi and leave it up to Will to take care of him.  
Every night.  Every night!"

Data was speechless.  Then he said, "Worf, you are implying that
I am to blame for much, if not all, of our current woes.   I do
not believe that is a fair assessment of our situation."

Geordi and Will were gripping their instruments and listening. 

Then Geordi sighed.  "Maybe we should give up the group.  What's
the point really?"

Worf wanted to dismember both of them.  "If I recall correctly,
Geordi, without this group you would still be wasting away in an
institution.  When I first saw you, Data, you were about to be
killed over a fifty dollar bet.  Jean-Luc and I were the ones who
saved you."  His eyes turned to Will, softening only slightly. 
Will held his breath.  No one had to tell him what a major loser
he'd been. And still was, except for their generosity.  Worf
lowered his head.  "Jean-Luc has single-handedly led us to this
point.  None of us would have gotten here alone.  And now you want
to leave Jean-Luc.  When he needs us most."  He took a moment to
get hold of his rage.  Geordi could hear it disappear from his
voice, and he clearly heard the menace that replaced it.  "I
suggest there be no more talk of leaving.  I suggest we help
Jean-Luc through this.  Til Q comes back."  Worf leaned forward. 
"I suggest this with extreme ardor."  

At this point, Worf was far more terrifying than Jean-Luc.  All of
them nodded.  

They would stay.
  
*************************
                    
It was a miserable task, this business of trying to build a normal
life.  Jean-Luc was out of their reach now.  Q's whole existence
had been dedicated to making Jean-Luc happy, but the only thing
that ever made Jean-Luc happy had been Q. 
 
The Boys tried to learn by trial and error how to keep house.  
They posted an elaborate cleaning schedule so that the kitchen
would be usable most of the time.  They all knew how to cook eggs
and make sandwiches, and they stumbled onto a simple shopping
list.  Eggs, bacon, bread, juice.  More bread, lunch meat, chips,
sodas.  Most nights they ate carry-out.  They tried to do things
the way Q would have done them but with mixed results.  They
simply did not know how he did what he did.  And, after their
discussion, if Jean-Luc made the least overture, the Boys took it. 
Whenever he wanted to fuck one of them, they patiently endured his
nighttime thrashings and mumblings as best they could.  You could
tell where Jean-Luc spent the night by looking to see who needed a
nap the following day.

*************************

Q was swimming in Fajo's salt-water pool, and Fajo, sitting in the
sweet warm sea air, watched him.  

Up to now, Fajo had always worn the Mediterranean Millionaire get
up of open print shirt and tight little shorts when he was
poolside.  But Q had made him feel the vulgarity of this look, so
Fajo had decided to restyle himself; he bought a black wet suit,
short in the sleeves and legs.  The suit was very nice, tight like
a glove or girdle, with a strong tang of polyurethane.  There was
a genuinely stimulating quality to wearing it.

He watched Q swim forward and back til he could stand it no
further, and then he jumped in the water.    

"Q, let's relax here in the water."

Q gave Fajo a wary look.

"Come over here."  Fajo was resting against the pool side.  Q swam
over and bobbed in the water in front of him. Q looked good wet. 
His head was nicely shaped, his long eyelashes beaded prettily
with water.  He used his braceleted hands to smooth back his hair.

"Let's relax," Fajo said.

Q knew what that meant.  He paddled over to the poolside and
clutched the side.  His back was obediently facing Fajo.

"This pool is admirably equipped for relaxing," Fajo told him.  He
put his hand on Q's ass and rubbed it up and down, around.  Then
he took his index finger and worked it into Q.  Q stiffened.  
"Relax," Fajo hissed.  He moved his finger around.  He put his
lips on Q's shoulders.  Tasting the salt water on Q's skin.  Q's
braceleted hands held on to the rocks as Fajo pinioned him there. 
Fajo slipped in another finger.  The sky was heavenly blue.  Pink
clouds gathered prettily over the horizon.

Fajo caressed the little rise of flesh that drove Q wild.  

Q's back was flushed. Now Fajo put his other hand around to Q's
front.  Q's tits.  He loved to pinch Q's nipples, to feel his
smooth hairless stomach.  His hand moved down to Q's erection.  Q
sighed.

"Here comes a step forward in your therapy."  Fajo put a third
finger in Q.  "Think of what kind of present you want."  Q was
backing against him now, fucking himself on Fajo's hand. Fajo bit
Q's shoulder and gripped his erection harder.  

The new rubber suit was a miracle-worker.


Q would have preferred for Fajo to get it over with.  He knew what
Fajo wanted.  He had known for weeks.  And Q didn't mind; by now,
he wanted a big thing inside him   even Fajo's three fingers felt
wonderful.  He just didn't want to listen to Fajo was all.  

But Fajo was keeping him alive.  And now Fajo was gripping him in
both the front and back.  Okay.  Q closed his eyes.  He thought
about Worf fucking him as Will watched and jerked off.  He had
been bent over on his knees, head touching the earth, and Worf was
big, nearly as big as Q himself, and naked, and the slap of flesh,
and the salt water around him and Fajo's little hands and the
action in his ass and he made sounds and came.  

"You are relaxing very nicely," Fajo said in a strangled voice. 
"If you relax, you won't get hurt."

*************************

Q was permitted to walk around the island.  It was about two miles
in circumference and consisted mainly  of Fajo's lovely complex
and some lemon groves.   

He layered himself in two or three pairs of pants against the
constant wind and strode through the trees, pretending he was free
to go anywhere he wanted.


Once Fajo came tooting up in his little golf cart.   "Hi!  What
are you doing?"  The golf cart's engine disturbed the beautiful 
silence; its wheels crushed some wild flowers.  In fact its entire
presence, and Fajo's, was noisy and disruptive.  Even Fajo's
expansive smile was intrusive to Q.         

Q turned to look at Fajo.  He could barely keep his  sense of
feeling trapped off his face.  Fajo did a  double-take.  Q
smoothed his features into blandness and smiled, but Fajo
continued to scowl at him.  Q reached out to stroke Fajo's cheek,
and Fajo relaxed again.

"Get in," Fajo ordered, "I'll ride you around."

It was a struggle this time, to do what Fajo said. 

Nonetheless Q got in and let Fajo ride him around and pinch his
nipple and fondle his dick. 

Fajo appeared very pleased.  
 
*************************
     
Jean-Luc's eyes opened.  He was sweating.  Sleeping alone on the
sofa.  His mouth was dry.

He knew it.  He could tell.  The air was saying someone was dead.

He sat up.  Someone was dead.

It was still dark out.  He buried his head in his hands.  

The phone rang.

He got up to get it.  Walking slowly.  The air between the sofa
and the telephone seemed to telescope; he felt he was walking in a
long breathless tunnel.

He reached the phone.

Will was standing there.  Plump.  Naked.  Rubbing his eyes.
Watching Jean-Luc get the phone.  "Stay here," he said to Will. 
He was furious.

"Jean-Luc, I got to pee!"

"Stay," he said between clenched teeth.  Then, into the phone.
"Who's this?"  

"Jean-Luc, Tommy here.  Now don't freak out.  Don't get jumpy."

"What the fuck is it, Quark?"

"Well . . . "

Will was shaking his head no.

"You leave, motherfucker, and you'll never pee again."

"I got to pee," Will whimpered and fled.

"Goddam.  I hate all of you.  What is it?"

"Jean-Luc, calm down, we can handle this.  Madred's dead.  He hung
himself in his cell last night.  The press has been calling like
crazy.  I bet film crews are outside your house already.  He left
a suicide note and it's a doozy.  The Midnight Orb already bought
the rights to it.  Now, I want you to sit tight until I get there
to plan the publicity strategy.  Is someone with you?"

Data came in.  "Data's here."

"Good.  Sit tight and I'm on my way."  Quark hung up.

Data was naked too, slender and dapper.  He gave Jean-Luc a sleepy
smile.

Jean-Luc gave Data a look.  "Madred hanged himself.  One less
problem."

"Cool!"

Will rushed back, having peed, presumably.

"See, I wasn't gone long!"

"Okay, you can go back to sleep."  Will padded off.

Data came towards Jean-Luc.  Jean-Luc felt the fabric of his
underwear most keenly against him.  

"Jean-Luc, I'm sorry for the other night.  I'd like to make it up
to you.  I've been thinking of some little things I could do to
make you feel better.  I've been doing some reading."  

Jean-Luc leaned in.  One of the assholes responsible for this
current shit was down.  A Viking sense of triumph flooded him, and
he grabbed Data by the elbows.  "Did you ever read about fathers
and sons any?  Fathers teaching sons?  I can teach you some hot
fuck action, and that's no lie."

**********************************

The cameras of Fajo worked constantly.   Fajo liked to start off
his mornings seeing what Q did, and he was currently keeping a
record of Q's morning ablutions.  

He wasn't into scat, no, not at all, but he did want to know Q's 
business.  As their relationship became more intimate, Fajo
wanted a minimum of surprising unclean factors. (He had also
consulted with Dr. Nicholopoulos although, at first, Fajo had not
known how to approach him on this topic.   But Fajo's mastery of
Greek was nearly as good as his mastery of English, and Dr.
Nicholopoulos was greedy, so they ended up communicating quite
clearly.   "We are both men of the world," the good doctor said.
Proper diet, herbs, and a good German nurse.  That was what Dr.
Nicholopoulos prescribed.)
                              
What the camera saw was always provocative.  And it was somehow
touching to view the elegant Q's more squalid animal needs.  But
the fact that Q always started his morning in tears drove Fajo
crazy with jealousy.  

Frau Marouka also gave massages, so, when she finished giving Q
his regular cleansing session (he was so embarrassed), she would
rub him down with sea salt and olive oil.  She took special care
with his shoulder, manipulating it gently, stroking it, stretching
it back into full use.  She never spoke to Q, though, never looked
him in the eye.  He was clearly just another artifact.

Still, Q liked Frau Marouka because she was consistently there.  
He began to look forward to her massages and her enemas.  Even if 
there was nothing to do afterwards but shower off the massage oil, 
then rub on tanning oil, then maybe rub another oil on, then do
more exercises for his shoulder, then think about massaging his
feet, then maybe go for a walk. 

Brushing his hair was an event.  Showering was an event.  Putting
on whatever whore's costume Fajo provided for him was another
bright spot in his long days.

He spent a lot of time staring at himself in the mirror, or
walking from one end of the house to another, looking out at the
sea, sitting on a rock and thinking, eating lunch, going for a
walk after lunch, taking a nap after the walk, getting up from his
nap, taking off his whore's costume so Frau Marouka could give him
a rubdown.  

Getting in the pool,  swimming, rinsing the salt out  of his hair,
deciding which oil he wanted to rub on his body, rubbing oil on
his body, walking back through the house, looking for Fajo,
staring at the  sea, wondering what the local word for 'guard'
was, sitting in front of his mirror brushing his hair and thinking
about what they might be doing back home.  His life had a certain
fullness.  

He eavesdropped on the maids sometimes.  He learned the words for
cloth, dinner, water. 


One night at supper, after they had dined in silence (except for
the shuffling feet of the maids), Fajo indicated he wanted to go
Q's room.

Once there, he sat in a comfortable chair while Q sat on the bed.  

"Q," Fajo said.  "Q, Q, Q," and he shook his head.  "I want so
much for you.  You deserve the best."

Q's eyes never left Fajo's face.

"But, Q, your therapy isn't moving along as fast as I wish it
would.  And it's not that you're resisting me.  I know you're
trying.  And I appreciate that."  He sighed.

Where was this leading?

"Perhaps I've misjudged.  Perhaps I'm not the therapist I want to
be.  I have a lot of baggage, you know?"  

Q listened intently.

"My own background," Fajo shook his head again.  "Well," he stood
up suddenly, nervous, "well, the problem was . . . my father . . .
see,  I have rather a . . . thing . . . about cocksucking.  It
scares me."  He have Q a sidewise look from under his eyebrows to
see if Q were buying this.  "It's probably why I never married."

Q moved off the bed to his knees.  Fajo gave a little smile and
moved closer to him.

"You don't have to do this, you know."

Q understood; Fajo could get blowjobs anywhere anytime.  But he
would pay handsomely for the fiction he was indulging in with Q. 
Q unzipped Fajo's expensive wool gabardine slacks, undid the
lizardskin belt, found the slit in Fajo's silk boxers and brought
it out.  

Then he leaned back and looked at Fajo.  He tried to make his eyes
desiring and innocent; that was what Q did, after all.  He created
hot little worlds for himself and all his johns.  All his Johns. 
He lowered his eyes.

"I hope this isn't too horrible," Fajo said hopefully.  "Here,
I'll put on a safety."  He pulled the rubber on.

Q put his mouth around the head of Fajo's good-sized cock.   He
tried to move like a child or a virgin, a talented child or
virgin.  

Fajo was breathing like a man in a race.  Q made a few minimal
caressing motion.

"Oh, my Christ, that's enough for tonight," Fajo said.

But Q intuited that Fajo wanted him to continue and he did,
sucking gently and gingerly, as if he'd never sucked cock before.

Soon enough, Fajo was coming.  "Stay back, Q!  I don't want to
hurt you!"  It seemed as if he might collapse.  His eyes rolled
back in his head and his fists were clenched.   Then he leaned
back and looked at Q.  And smiled.

"Not bad!  You have a lot to learn, but we have all the time I the
world.  I'll make sure you get plenty of opportunities!"
  
*************************

This was good.  Jean-Luc and Data were roughly the same height so
Data could lean against a dresser or even just stand against a
wall and Jean-Luc could fuck him that way.  Jean-Luc had 
forgotten how he liked to fuck little men standing, their compact
asses presented a certain way, himself gripping their arms, in and
out for a long time.  He liked to hold off on coming; he wanted to
put Data  through the wringer.  Something told him Geordi was very
gentle.  Well, fuck that noise.  He loved the wet feeling, he
loved the sweat pouring off Data, he loved to see his dick
disappear and reappear and disappear against Data. And Data was
small and tight and whimpering.  At times  Jean-Luc brought it
almost all the way out so he could move just the  sensitive head
in and out, and Data was groaning and sweating, and now Jean-Luc
grabbed Data's neck and pulled him back and he pushed himself  all
the way in and Data said something inarticulate and Data was just
a fuck toy, just a stupid little fuck toy, and Jean-Luc was
pleased with not coming.  "Let's change positions.  Get back on
the bed.  Lay down on your back.  Spread those legs.  Make
yourself come.  I'll fuck you from right here."   And drawing
Data's thighs up against his shoulders,  Jean-Luc kept up a
bruising level of fucking as Data pulled at himself, lost in the
sensations  Jean-Luc was giving him.  Pulling.  Pressing.  Data
knew how to make himself feel all right   he looked at Jean-Luc. 
Jean-Luc pulled out and let Data drop.   

"Put on a little show, Data.  Make that thing come."  Jean-Luc was
standing there, his slick cock still erect, springing from his
body.  

Data spread his legs far apart on the bed and arched his back  
and that was all it took.  He was coming, he was coming.  He
shuddered and convulsed.   Then he closed his eyes.  He was aware
of the chill in the room now.  "You don't want to come, Jean-Luc?"

"I'll save it for Geordi.  I like fucking both of you boys.  Let's
get cleaned up and eat something and come back here."
 

Will smiled his broad hopeful smile.  "Look what I did!" 

Earlier Will had fixed supper, and it had been surprisingly  good. 
Pasta.  Marinara sauce.  Pears.  Simple things.  Geordi turned his
head towards Will's voice.  The rest all looked at what he was
holding now. 

"It's something I invented!  Worf, you do the honors."

Worf smiled and took something crumbling and brown from the pan
and put it in his mouth: "Mmm!"  Then he took another handful.

"Well, what is it?"  Jean-Luc said impatiently.

"A surprise!  Will Riker's Brownie Surprise."

"What is the surprise, Will?" Data said dubiously.

"Just taste it."  The rest of the Boys were wary; Will's cooking
was often full of surprises.

"I'll bite," said Geordi.  He took a small nibble.  And jumped. 
He wasn't . . . unhappy.  "Give me more."

"The secret is adding a little instant coffee.  They're kinda 
mocha-like.  I saw it on the television."

Soon, everyone was eating Will's brownies.  

"You know who would really love these?" said Will.

Worf turned on him.

Jean-Luc decided to ignore that.  "Geordi, Data, eat all the
brownies you want, but I'm going upstairs.  I'll be waiting."

Their master's voice.
 

"Did Data tell you I haven't come yet?  I want to come."

Geordi pulled his clothes off; Data gathered them up. "Remember
the Impala, Geordi?  Your ass sticking out of  the car.  That was
pretty nice.  Get on the bed and get it in the air.   I like your
big ass."  

And soon Jean-Luc was sweating and fucking Geordi who was pressing
against him and moaning, and Data had meant to leave them alone,
but it was so beautiful.  Jean-Luc's pale perfect body gleamed
like silver in the faint light, as did the surprisingly large
muscles of his arms and his beautiful thighs, and Geordi looked
like a sweet old brownie himself, a big man-shaped brownie, his
ass beating against Jean-Luc's body. 

But the most beautiful thing was Jean-Luc's face.  When he fucked,
it lost its haggard look and became serene in the search of
pleasure.  A tight smile played with the corners of his mouth. 

"Geordi," he said, "this is no good."  

Data's hand went to his mouth.

"Turn over.  Data can tell you.  I like to see dick.  And that big
Dixie cup of yours always amazes me."   And when he saw Geordi
turn over and grip his cock with one hand and his balls with the
other, Jean-Luc fucked more deliriously than before  and they both
began to come and Jean-Luc was frantic to kiss Geordi's wide
pretty mouth, a wet wild open-mouthed kiss, and Geordi pulled
Jean-Luc to him and they both lay panting together.

Both Geordi and Data knew what they had to do.  Like children,
they begged: "Spend the night with us.  We can do things.  And we
won't make a peep when you want to sleep.  Not a peep!"

Jean-Luc's eyes softened a little.  "Everybody take a shower, and
maybe I'll test that out."
       
When Jean-Luc came out of the bathroom, the other two were waiting
for him.  Data was in the bed with a sheet over him, and Geordi
was sitting up, softly strumming his guitar as usual. "I'm tired
of sleeping on the sofa," he told them, "but I don't want to be in
a big bed by myself.  I've got to rearrange my life." 

"You're always welcome here," Data said.

Jean-Luc nodded and lay down beside Data; he seemed relaxed for
once.

They all three sat there in a companionable silence. 

"Jean-Luc, you want to hear a song I wrote," Geordi said.  "For
the new album?"

"All right, but I'm not up to much business now."

"It's just a pretty little song: it'll probably put you to sleep."
                    
As Geordi sang his songs about broken toys and broken promises, he
could feel Jean-Luc's sad and sleepy smile.

"Okay, boys, best thing I've heard in a long time.  Good for you. 
Now sleep."
 
       
Jean-Luc slept in Geordi's arms all night long.  They both liked
that even when Jean-Luc writhed and made inchoate curses.
 
*************************

Now Fajo got his cock sucked almost every night; he seemed
obsessed.
                              
During the day, Q wore the little thongs and harem pants which
only emphasized the round allure of his ass. 

Often he was naked except for his bright bands of jewelry.  Then
he would sit naked on the boulders the gardeners placed in 
artful positions around the pool and his legs were open and he
would lift his arms  to stretch, and all the revealed dark curls
made Fajo's heart race.

"You look nice," Fajo said. 

Q nodded his thanks.

"I want you to start wearing eye make up.   Eyeliner.  Kohl."

Q froze, his face set in lines of refusal:  nothing doing.

"Yes, you will."

They looked at each other.  Q's demeanor did not change.

Fajo looked at him and then took a tiny black walkie-talkie out of
his shirt pocket and spoke into it.  

In less than a minute, four of Fajo's private militiamen marched
onto the veranda.

Fajo gave them some instructions; they nodded. 

No one looked at Q.  The maids came and clustered behind the
guards.  They looked confused and frightened.  Some of them stole
glances at Q.  

Fajo led everyone away.

Q was left lying there.

Q had thought he was acting like the kind of courtesan Fajo would
pride himself on possessing.  He thought Fajo liked it when Q gave
him a little show.   But this life took its toll.  He didn't even
know why he refused to wear eyeliner.

But Q hadn't missed the look of satisfaction in Fajo's face when Q
silently refused him.  It was unnerving.

Maybe Fajo wanted a fight.  A fight that only Fajo could win.  

If Jean-Luc had ever wanted Q to wear eyeliner, there would have
been slaps,  tears, a fuck, then an order to wear eyeliner or face
more slaps.  But Fajo was very different.  He played games.  He
had guards.  Q was a prisoner.  

He hoped Fajo wouldn't have him thrown over the side of the cliff. 

*************************

The cameras were still as soon as they saw they would only have
Little Tommy Quark to photograph.  He read the statement, a
carefully prepared mixture of pity and terror concerning the late
John Mack Madred, and asked if there were any questions.

Quark was honestly astounded by the explosion of words.  He shot
out answers as rapidly as the questions flew.     

"Yes, the Magic Mountain Boys are hard at work at their latest
album."

"No, Q has not left the group."

"The esteemed businessman Mr. Kivas Fajo has long been a fan of
the Magic Mountain Boys.  He is providing a quiet comfortable
place for Quentin McConn to recuperate."

"Now, sir, would YOU like people asking so many pointed questions
about YOUR sex life?"

"According to the sovereign state of Kentucky, Mr. Picard, Mr.
Rodshenko, and Mr. McConn have paid their debt to society. Any
other answers will have to be answered by a lawyer."

"They are in seclusion now.  It is a time for to heal.  We hope
you will keep the Magic Mountain Boys in your prayers.  And spare
a little prayer or two for the family of John Mark Madred.  We
could all use some prayer."

Then Tommy nodded at the reporters and left.  

The way he played those losers, he should have been the musician.

*************************

When Q woke up, everyone was gone. 

He didn't believe it.

The house was still.  But the hot tub was still bubbling.  The
toilet flushed.  The lights came on.  The  waters ran in all the
taps.  

There were bits of food in the fridge, not much.   

Q really didn't believe Fajo was gone for good.

But he shivered; he was Fajo's entertainment on the island.  So he
better entertain. 

Q spent the whole day alone, and the night and the following day
and the following night.  He lay on his bed and thought to
himself, 'Okay, Fajo, olly-olly-oxenfree.  You can come out now.'  

He was half annoyed, half terrified.  


Fajo returned on the third day.  His eyes were triumphant and
amused.  His arms were full of presents.

Fajo's amusement was insulting; Q frowned, and his hand came up
and swept across Fajo's face.   

The maids squawked in outrage.  

The guards roared, and their guns came up.  

A sharp word from Fajo quieted all of them.   Then he got up off
the floor. 
 
Q turned away and stalked off to his room and slammed the door
hard.   Please let it work!   

And for a moment, he thought of Worf, wishing Worf were here. 
Worf could teach Fajo a lesson.


He had lain down and thought determinedly of Worf.


An hour later, Fajo and two guards came into his bedroom.  Fajo
was deliberately deadpan.  

Q wanted to roll his eyes.  Fajo wasn't going to order the guards
to hit him and they both knew it. 
          
"You want to know why I left you alone?  Because you belong to me
and I can do what I like, that's why.  Or do you need another
lesson?  Shall I have my employees make that point for me?"

Q's breathing quickened.   He let himself look frightened.  

At that, Fajo looked smug.

And, for a brief second, Q felt a small triumph.  He was
manipulating Fajo, making Fajo believe what Q wanted him to
believe.  For the first time in months, Q felt something like
hope.  He might one day get out of here.  He shut his eyes and
lowered his head so Fajo wouldn't see him looking happy when he
was supposed to be frightened.

It didn't stop Fajo from slapping him.  

Tit for tat.  It meant nothing.  Jean-Luc and Worf had hit him
much harder.  Q let himself fall over, remembering at the last
minute to cry out.   


"Let this be a lesson.  I can be merciful, or I can be brutal," 
Fajo scolded.  "It's up to you."   And he swept out in front of
his guards as if he had won something.

Q thought, 'Please don't throw me in the briar patch.'


That night Q did not look at Fajo during supper.  

So his prize pet was sulking.

Fajo looked up from his moussaka.  "Come, Q, petulance does not
become you."
            

After supper, Q turned out his lights and pulled the blankets over
his head.  If he shut his eyes tight and breathed slowly and held
his pillow tightly,  he could pretend to be somewhere else. 
Somewhere.

The door opened.

Q smelled familiar smells.

Fajo turned on the light; he had his tray of ointments with him. 
And a knowing smile.

From the sound of Q's moans, this was really hurting him, but 
Fajo didn't care.   He worked on Q until he could get four fingers
in this time.  

*************************

Worf ordered Will to stay out of Jean-Luc's way as much as
possible because Jean-Luc had the right to hit Will if he wanted
and Worf did not want Will to get beaten for not being Q.  The
Boys got a bigger television and they had a nice den, but Worf
took Will away most evenings.   

And Data sat with Jean-Luc, pretending to discuss things as Q had
done, but Geordi hated sitting there pretending with them.  He
ended up buying a little TV with a braille remote and staying in
his room. 

Well, Jean-Luc didn't give a fuck.  He'd find something new in the
fans who were beginning to cluster around the house.

Mostly little second-rate Q's.

Not the same, but still. 

*************************

Every day, Q had to lie back while Fajo opened his ass more and
more.  Slowly, gently, but determinedly.  He thought he was
rewarding Q for this by jerking him off after each stretching
session.  Fajo loved Q's little noises.  Silence.  Q's moans. 
More silence.  Q's heavy breathing, then more silence.  Then , Q's
cries of discomfort and Fajo's soothing noises in return, and
finally the little cries Q made when he was about to come.  Then
more silence.  


One day Fajo said, "Kiss me, Q."  He had prepared for this moment
by eating a bunch of fruit and mint so his breath would be sweet
and fresh.  Q leaned in.  

Nothing could have prepared Fajo for this.  Q was the absolute
wizard of kisses.  Q had a way of wrapping his whole body around a
kiss and just pouring it into you so that you found yourself not
so much kissing his mouth as sipping from it, then guzzling from
it when you realized what you had. 

Fajo was besotted.

Q indicated he needed scissors.  He wanted to cut his hair.  Fajo
shook his head firmly. This was non-negotiable.  Q's hair began to
reach halfway down his back.  
     
The maids came in every morning and made Q's bed, cleaned the
bathroom, removed invisible specks of dust from the few pieces of
furniture in his room.  Toothpaste reappeared magically as did his
few articles of clothing.  Sometimes, he went naked except for the
jewelry Fajo insisted he wear.  He abandoned his shoes for bare
feet, enjoying the feel of the rough tiles of the veranda, the
polished smoothness of the inside floors.  He noted the sound of
the car that brought the maids and then later in the day returned
to bring food for their dinner.  Sometimes Fajo left again, but he
always came back and he never left Q truly alone again.  He seemed
unable to be without Q for long, which was a relief in some ways,
an annoyance in others.   Q smiled at Fajo's return, thanking with
his eyes for the gift that were forced on him.  He did not speak,
living comfortably within his own silence. 

Q's life more and more centered around looking pretty and making
himself available to Fajo's greedy, probing fingers.

The weather grew a bit chill.  Fajo saw him shiver one morning,
and the next day a tiny woman in a black dress came by and took
his measurements. 

A few days later Fajo gave him a slightly heavier costume, the
exact same style of pants with a little smoking jacket made out of
something Q might have guessed was silk, if he'd known what silk
felt like.  Now Q did not feel indecent, and he explored the
grounds a little more.  A guard followed him at a discreet
distance, but Q didn't mind.  He'd long since gotten used to being
watched, and the guards never hit him.

When the mood was upon him, Fajo took Q back to his bedroom.  He
would take his carefully arranged tray of oils and lotions and
prepare himself and Q and then insert his four fingers right up to
the knuckle. 

One day Q was lying on his stomach and Fajo had four fingers in Q;
Q shut his eyes and concentrated.   Then he felt Fajo gently take
his hand out and then . . . Fajo was fucking him, moving his cock
frantically inside Q, his breath ragged and throbbing.  And then Q
could feel Fajo almost withdraw and slowly penetrate him again. 
No doubt this was being photographed even as Fajo was relishing
the sight of being buried in Q's golden round flesh.  Fajo flung
himself a few more times at Q, and then it was clear that he was
coming and Q felt his long dark hair being gripped by an iron hand
and then the grip relaxed and Fajo was done. 

This was the first many fuck sessions for Fajo; he would play with
Q's ass and then "finish off" as he  said.  

Because it was so different from the way Jean-Luc did it, it was
easy for Q to pretend he was with a john.

Fajo also began to talk to Q as if Q were a dog. "Does he want his
supper, yes, he does, yes, Q does."  Fajo meant it affectionately,
but it was still quite strange.  

Q was now as beautiful as he had ever been.  Fajo watched him
staring out at the sea at sunset, and with his shoulder-length
hair, his half naked body, his extended arms, he was a vision of
masculine splendor, another wonder of the world, another sphinx
with a brand new riddle. 

Fajo felt his own dumpiness most keenly.

The air had a definite chill.  

**************************
       
Christmas without Q.  

It hardly seemed possible.

Will and Data tried to decorate.  

Will cut out tiny pictures of lusty nudes from some of his pinup
collections and glued them to pieces of Styrofoam and hung them on
the tree.   

Data wanted to have an elegant Christmas such as he had read about
in expensive magazines.  He wanted only blue lights and silver
decorations.  

Will's homemade brassy orange illustrations clashed.  

They exchanged words. 

Then Will tried to bake.  He bought tubes and tubes of
slice-and-bake cookie dough from the grocery store; the cookies
came ready-made with outlines of choristers and bells embedded in
them.  Will baked these cookies and then dolled them up more with
red and green sparkles; he bought icing that came ready to use in
squirting tubes, like toothpaste.   Some cookies ended up with
huge green nests or icing which held a walnut half or a maraschino
cherry.  Then he dyed coconut with food coloring and made red or
green lawns on the cookies.  Some cookies he left plain and merely
wrote names on them: Jean-Luc.  Worf.  Will.  Geordi.  Then, in a
burst of Yuletide cheer, he relented and wrote DATA in big grim
letters on one of the cookies.  

"Mmm," said Worf.

Jean-Luc looked at the cookies silently and nodded.  His shoulders
sagged.  

Then he went to the cabinet where the liquor was stored.  The Boys
were not drinkers, but it was a holiday.  There was brandy and
sloe gin and triple sec.   Industry people were always giving them
expensive gifts of liquor. 

"Lots of girl stuff here," said Jean-Luc, "but, if we mix it, we
could get fucked up."

"Is that good?" asked Data.  Jean-Luc's gaze froze him.

They began some serious drinking on Christmas eve.  

And only Data saved them from maudlin misery.  He got very very
silly.  He told them obscure facts about Christmas that no one
cared about.  He made amazing puns that no one got.  

He made some very strange motions with his legs and arms: 
"Jean-Luc, guess who I am?" 

Jean-Luc was speechless.  

"Jean-Luc, I'm the Mud Man!"  He made more motions.  "Who am I
now, Jean-Luc?"  

Jean-Luc took another drink.

"I'm Electro!"  Then he waved his arms slowly in front of
Jean-Luc's face.  "Who am I NOW?"  Jean-Luc crossed his arms
across his chest.  "I'm the Rubber Man!  See my limbs expand!!!! 
I can drive a car lying  down!  I can go to the mailbox at the
same time I pull into my garage!"  Now Data was on the floor
laughing at his own jokes.  

No one else laughed.  

"Too bad he doesn't have an off switch,"  Worf muttered to Will.  
 
*************************
       
"Do you know it's Christmas?" Fajo came into Q's room; Q was under
the covers again.  

He sat on the bed.  "I have presents for you."

Q lowered the covers.  

"Merry Christmas," Fajo said, just to say something.  He wanted to
gaze forever on Q's face; its beauty was so addictive.  "Let's see
what you got!" 

Q got out of bed; he was totally undressed as usual, wearing only
his  jewelry.  Fajo watched him.  "Tell you what -- let's have a
Christmas morning session with Frau Marouka.   Just to relax us,
darling!  And then we'll be ready to look at all our presents!  Q
wants to stay naked all day, doesn't he?   That's fine   I've got
fires in all the fireplaces!  And Q can show off some of the
pretty presents Fajo bought him!"
  
The presents were a strange assortment of things.  Jewelry, of
course.   Silver rings with huge orange stones.  Silver waist
chains made from interlocking greek keys.  A leather choker with
an uncut emerald as large as a hen's egg.  Then there were the art
supplies.  That was new, but rather nice.  Beautifully-mounted
sheafs of hand-made paper.  Sable brushes.  Ink from Japan in
jewel-shaped blocks.  A golden pen with a platinum nib.  Water
colors in exotic colors.  

"There's more," Fajo gloated, "for good boys.  But we'll have to
see how good you are.  We'll have to see what you got Fajo."

Q lay down, carefully watching Fajo set down his tray of oils and
unguents.   His legs were slightly apart. Fajo's eyes slowly
traversed every inch of Q's body.  "We really want it," Fajo
finally said.

He lay down beside Q.  He took Q's hand and put it against his own
chest, and something in the neediness of this gesture made Q take
pity  on Fajo, and he began pulling their bodies close, tilting
his head back so Fajo could get to his neck, hissing in pleasure
as Fajo started to kiss him, and running his hands over Fajo's
thighs.   

Fajo's defenses broke down.  "Oh, Q," he murmured, "I'd give it
all up for you."

Q smiled at him, one of those tender Q smiles.  Fajo could never
have bribed or blackmailed Q into smiling this way, and he knew
it.  He sat up and got some of his ointments and his gloves.  One
finger.  Q gasped.  Around and around.  A second finger.  Rubbing
Q's prostate in a way that made him melt all over the bed.  A
third finger   Q had been made ready for this for  some time; he
took the third finger greedily. 

Four fingers in a wedge.  More lubrication, much more lubrication. 

"Umm, we feel good," Fajo said.  He was pushing his thumb in with
the fingers, the knuckles battering against Q.  Q's knees fell
apart.   Fajo sat up between Q's legs to see better.  

More lubrication.  More twisting of fingers and thumb.  

Pushing.

Pushing.

And then he had his fist inside Q, and Q could not think of
anything except how good this felt.        

Fajo gasped.  He couldn't see his hand at all   just swells of Q's
flesh and his wrist.   He felt light-headed; he moved his hand
around in a circle.  He needed  to be very careful , but it was
hard to concentrate.

Q was making an odd sound deep in his throat; he was stiff as he
could be and wet and leaking.  Kivas had never seen Q so aroused. 
He was aroused himself.  "I'm teaching you to relax, see.  You
seem relaxed.  Your  beautiful American ass is relaxed."   Q kept
making those inhuman sounds.

"See: I've practically got you talking!"  Kivas was quite
sprightly.   He himself wanted to come so bad it was almost 
distracting.  Maybe after he finished with the fist, he could fuck
Q.  Q was making funny breathy sounds now. "Come for me." 

Q pressed himself gently, gracefully against the fullness of
Fajo's little fist up his ass.  His face was red.  His eyes
unfocused. 

"Q knows it's for his own good." 

Q knew this was not for his own good, but he didn't care.  What he
did care about was pace, direction, rhythm, riding Fajo's fist as
if it were something he cared about deeply. Without words, every
sound he made took on significance.  Vaguely, he noticed Fajo's
avid, greedy expression.  He turned his head away, focusing on the
sensations in his ass.  There was an incredible feeling of
fullness, as if all of his insides, up to and including his
pounding heart, were being squeezed by Fajo's fist.  He opened his
legs wider, rocked  harder. His noises became more abandoned. 
Fajo looked as if he were mainlining Q's every expression.  

His grunts and groans were sounds a baby might make, or an animal. 
He wondered if Johnny would like to see him like this, and that
thought pushed him right up to the edge.  

"Ooooooohhh," he cried.  He rocked faster, harder.  He could feel
the heat rushing to his face, his heart hammered frantically. 
This was so good.  He felt, in a way, almost violated.  But, in
another way, utterly revered.  This was the Q show now, his very
own hour of glory.  He could feel how his lips were pulled away
from his teeth, how his eyes squinted at nothing, how the sweat
poured off his forehead, and yet that perfect combination of pain
and arousal crept closer in tiny, tiny increments, teasing him,
forcing him to work harder than he'd ever worked for anything;
then suddenly it was upon him, a savage display of power and
might, and try though he did he could not prevent actual words
from coming out of his mouth.  "God!  Oh, God!"

Kivas' expression was triumphant, but a second later he was diving
across the bed to prevent his fist from being torn out
of Q's body.  In the midst of his orgasm,  Q had to roll away from
the deadly power of speech, and was now screaming with fear and
satiety both.  His hands clutched his hair.   He was spasming in
the throes of passion and simultaneously trembling in terror.    

Then there was a shaking silence.  

A very long time passed before Fajo lifted Q'sleg and began to
ease his hand out.  Q groaned, bearing down as if he were
evacuating his  bowels.  He appeared to have actually forgotten
that he had a fist in his ass.
       
Fajo watched Q carefully.  Q's eyes were closed and he was
panting, weak and shaken.  Nonetheless Fajo placed himself 
against Q's body and   he couldn't even control it anymore   came
almost as hard as Q had.
               
*************************

A hideous scream cut through the gray air of Christmas morning.  

Worf and Will sat up. Jean-Luc was sleeping between them. He was
covered with sweat because in the night Will reached for

Worf and sandwiched Jean-Luc between them. 

Now Geordi was yelling, "Jean-Luc!"

Jean-Luc ran down the hall with Worf and Will behind him. "Jesus
Christ, what now?" he said.  

"It's Data," Geordi said, an undertone of panic in his voice.

Jean-Luc looked at Data, who was lying on the bed paler than ever. 
"I am sorry, Jean-Luc," he babbled.  "I never thought death would
come to me, especially not this way. I fear that nothing will save
me.  After I am gone, please carry on the tradition of the Magic
Mountain Boys.  And by the way, here is a list of phone numbers
which will put you in touch with various ambulance services."  

Geordi took his hand: "You're cold as ice, Data!"

A very small, slightly smug smile appeared on Data's face. 
"Indeed, a classic symptom of dying.  I am reminded of Plato's
description of Socrates' death."   

Will began to sob softly.

"I forgive you for everything, Will."

Jean-Luc had about had it.  "What's the cause of this big death
scene?"

"Alcohol.  I feel awful."

Geordi withdrew his hand.  "Look around you, Data.  Everyone feels
that way."

"We are all," Worf breathed out.  "Hungover.  It goes with
drinking nearly unlimited amounts of mixed liquors."

Data's eyes grew very large.  

"I can make you feel worse," Jean-Luc offered.

"Oh.  I will never drink again."  
     

Not much was open on Christmas morning, so Worf, Will, and Jean-
Luc ended up at Waffle Shack for breakfast.  When they asked Data
and Geordi to go with them and Jean-Luc described the smell of
waffles and bacon and sawmill gravy, Data bolted to the bathroom.  
Then Geordi told them to bring him a Waffle Shack Big Breakfast
Special takeout since he was clearly going to have to stay with
the ailing Data (who was now making appalling sounds in the
toilet).

They ate well, lazily reading the various parts of the paper; this
Waffle Shack served a big queer clientele so they felt quite at
home.  

They were even cruised.  A number of young men walked by hitching
their jeans up in a provocative way.  "Nice," said Worf.  

Will liked to turn completely around in his chair to show his
approval.

Jean-Luc did not discourage this.  Several of the boys had caught
his eye.  "Wonder if I'll get a new toy for Christmas," he said in
his low dark voice to the smiling Worf and Will.  

One in particular seemed intriguing, despite the fact that he was
not really that attractive.  He was tall, in his mid-thirties, and
a bit bloated, with a thick waist, a chubby chin. A black
mustache.  And his plump ass stretched his black leather pants a
bit much for the classic leatherman look he was attempting.  

Worf followed Jean-Luc's eyes as he watched the chubby leatherman
preen.  Not the cutest thing in the world, but his soft full lips
and big liquid brown eyes and long legs were distinctly
reminiscent of Q.  The man whirled on his stool, big thighs opened
in a provocative manner.

Jean-Luc pointed to the seat beside him.

The man was sitting there instantly.

"You look like a top, but is that the only thing you do?" Jean-Luc
asked him.

"I like it all," he was breathless and effeminate.

"Would you do all three of us?"  Jean-Luc said as Will and Worf
leaned in closer.  This was actually very interesting.

"It would be my privilege!  See, I know you!  I know who you are! 
I have both your CD's!"

"Sweet.  We don't even have to introduce ourselves.  What's your
name?"

"Brandon?" he said this as if he were unsure, as if he were so
overwhelmed by the beauty of the task at hand that he had
forgotten himself.  "Where are the others?  Can I service them
too?"

"We'll see.  Settle with the waitress, Worf.  We have things to
do."

And he stared at Brandon, who was lowering his eyes and then
looking up at Jean-Luc through his thick dark eyelashes.  Then he
lifted his eyebrows.  

Just like Q.  Jean-Luc smiled a little.

*************************

Fajo let Q rest for a while. (He could hardly wait to do it
again.)  He brought Q an early supper made of things he knew Q
liked: grape leaves wrapped around ground spiced lamb, a local
cheese with the faintest taste of turpentine, honey-soaked
baklava.  Wrinkly black olives.  Walnuts preserved in oil and
vinegar.  He liked to watch Q eat.  Q was naked.  Fajo swallowed. 
Q's eyes were shadowed -- perhaps he was emotionally fatigued from
what they had gone through together.  

"Have you had enough?  I want to show you something.  You have
earned this."  He led Q through the large stone-paved central
corridor of his home.  There was a small door to one side, with an
ostentatious digital lock.  

"I can't wait for you to see this."  Fajo keyed in the number
which would unlock it.  "Here you go!  Just for us!  Only us!"

Q entered and looked around.  The room was not large, but it was
handsomely decorated.   The walls were covered with oxblood
leather and studded with brass star-shaped nailheads.  There were
several lamps with black marble bases and golden shades; the soft
light made Q and Fajo gleam in the dark red room.  

There was not much furniture: a daybed with dark upholstery, a
curious arrangement of wooden tables.   And more presents in
designer bags.  Or artfully wrapped in large scarves with hempen
ties.  Or hidden in shiny pasteboard boxes imprinted with
mysterious store names.

"Open them, Q.  Let the revels continue!"

Q did enjoy unwrapping presents.  These gifts were of a slightly
different nature.  Fragrant oils in alabaster jars.  Powders and
ointments to rub over . . .  And what was this?  Q looked at a
little jar of shiny red capsules.  

"Those are Soviet-made, Q.  For those times when Frau Marouka is
visiting her extensive family."  Fajo sighed.  "It's getting weird
in the CCCR." 

Then, an astonishing variety of sex toys.  Some battery-operated. 
All designed to be stuffed up somebody's willing ass.  

"Here's something very special, Q.  An old acquaintance and
business partner of mine is the designer Ransom Amozoki"   

Q looked at him blankly.  

"Well, Ransom is very famous.  Makes me a lot of money.  And of
course his private life is quite intriguing as befits a man of our
world.  I told him to stitch up the perfect garment for the
perfect man.  That's you, needless to say.   Let me help you put
it on."

The perfect garment would fit in the palm of a man's hand. Fajo
made him stand up as he fitted him with his new outfit.  It was
absurdly simple: a tiny apron of the softest thin black kid
leather which fit over Q's genitals.  It was fastened in the back
by twelve tiny silver chains which followed perfectly the curve of
Q's ass.  Ransom Amazoki knew what a lover liked.  Fajo carefully
fastened each chain to each side of the apron, smoothing it
carefully over Q's perfect buttocks, then  smoothing the front of
the apron over Q's aroused cock.  Twelve times.  Both Fajo and Q
were breathing hard.  

"You're so pretty," Fajo said.  He could barely speak.  "Now while
you're wearing that, let me stick something in you.  And then let
you walk around.  I know I'll come just from watching that."  

The large dildo he chose was made from black rubber; Fajo oiled it
carefuly and with teasing and stretching got Q to take it up his
ass all the way to the flared base.  Q's little moans of
discomfort were music to Fajo's ears.

Fajo was right.  He came again, hard.

*************************

"Merry Christmas, Jean-Luc baby!  Quark here!  Santa Claus must be
on the payroll because he's come through bigtime!"

"Hmm?"  Tommy and Q had always been the ones to understand each
other. 

"There's a bigbigbig article in the next Rolling Stone on the
Boys!  Cult Band on Cusp of Superstardom!  And in the year-end
People, you're one of their twenty-five most intriguing!   So I
called up the boys at DCA, and asked for, and got another six-
figure advance!  Merry Christmas!  We're already booking big
directors for the videos!  You'll love them!"  

"They advanced that to us without Q?"

"Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc, Jean-Luc!  Without Q?  Those two words have
no meaning!  I told them Q was still in the band.  Who says he
isn't?"

Jean-Luc was silent.  Too bad that fuckhole Madred hadn't killed
Quark by mistake.  Two birds, one stone.  

"They're sending you a present.   No advance.  No payback.  Just a
nice decent Christmas present to insure that you'll be their
slave.  It'll be parked   oops! I'm giving a hint!   in front of
your house this afternoon!  Check you later!  I've got a date with
a lapdancer.  But she's three times a lady.  I swear.  Don't
scold, Jean-Luc.  You know animal passions as well as I do!"  He
hung up.

Jean-Luc ran his thumb across his lower lip.  Then he went and
called the other Boys into the dining room; a big shiny table
there served as their informal conference room. 

Everyone assembled expectantly.  Data was wearing an ice-bag on
his head.  

"Okay, boys, let's talk.  First off, what did all think of
Brandon?"  

Worf and Will smiled.  

"Nice pussy," said Worf.      

"She gave it up like a real cunt, a hundred-and-ten-percent cunt,"
said Will.

Brandon had indeed been delightful, squealing, moaning, sweating,
bent over, helpless as they took turns fucking his big pink ass. 
"Break out some more rubbers," Jean-Luc had had to say.  Brandon
was worth multiple fuckings.  (Data had begged off, not wanting to
spoil Jean-Luc's love life by his imminent death and loyal Geordi
had stayed by Data.)

"I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking he reminded me of
Q.  Well, fair enough, but so the fuck what?  I defy anyone to get
some good puss and not think of Q.  That's something we'll have to
live with the rest of our days."  Data made a tiny moan.  Jean-Luc
shot him a hard look. Then: "Quark says DCA is advancing us more
and the press is still crazy for us.  If we play it right, we'll
have more ass than we can use.  The roads of America are paved
with Brandons just lying there ready to fuck and fuck and fuck. 
And I want to travel those roads.  Are you with me?  I mean, as
far as I'm concerned, the sky's the limit."  He lifted his elegant
head.

"I'm in," said Worf.

"Me too," said Will and Geordi.

"As long as my health permits," said Data.

*************************

The next time they went to Fajo's leather chamber, he brought out
a ball gag which he stuffed in Q's mouth.  

"I don't like to use things like this.  I think they're props,
fakes, substitutes for real passion.  This time, however, I do
believe it will be useful."

He tied the ends around Q's head and pulled another surgical glove
on. This one had a sleeve that went all the way up to his elbow.

Fajo started with two fingers, then three, then four, then his
fist.  He was ecstatic.  He fucked Q with his fist while Q howled
and screamed behind the gag.  With the gag, Q  wasn't able to make
treacherous words.   They were both safe.

And Fajo was good at fist fucking; Q wanted more.  If he could
have, he would have taken two fists up his ass, or a hundred.  
Suddenly then he wanted Johnny's big old fists, and, as he thought
of Johnny, he became more frenzied than ever.  He was totally
vulnerable, open, naked inside and out, and he wanted it this way. 

He gave it to Fajo, all Fajo could ever want.

When they were done, Q peeled Fajo's glove off for him and pulled
him down to the daybed with him.  Then he began to kiss Fajo all
over, reverently lifting Fajo's fist to his lips and bowing his
head over it.  Then Q touched it to his mouth, to his forehead, to
his heart.   

Fajo was very still.  He had won again.  Q's heart clearly no
longer belonged to that awful Jean-Luc. 

He should buy something nice for Q.

*************************

After Jean-Luc's little pep talk, the recording improved.

They rehearsed some of the older songs of Q's.  They practiced the
one that Geordi had written.  They had new song-writing sessions.  

They even did silly things like record "Here Comes the Sun" by the
Beatles.  

Jean-Luc took everyone for rides in the classic 1954 Cadillac
convertible DCA had given him for Christmas.  It was white and
turquoise, "a real pussy wagon," Will said admiringly.  Worf
thought it was obvious   and touching -- how much Jean-Luc would
have liked to have shown it to Q.  

The Boys seemed to have turned a corner.  

Data offered to take charge of redecorating their still nearly-
empty house.  He did a pretty good job for the most part, though
Jean-Luc frustrated him by refusing to have anything done to his
room.  Data put pictures up, and he bought TV trays and standing
lamps and a throw rug.  The place echoed a lot less.  Geordi
wanted a hot tub.  Data bought him one, thrilled by the novelty of
it.  All the Boys had to get in and try it out, but soon it was
almost exclusively Data and Geordi's since they both liked it so
much.   

*************************

Q and Fajo enjoyed Fajo's little forays into Q's rectum with a
consistency that drove them back to bed again and again.  Fajo
always looked so eager, coming in with his little tray of unguents
and rubber gloves.  He was hungry for Q's loss of control, Q's
passion, his enigmatic silence.  
     
Q was beautiful on Fajo's island.  He walked, he looked, he drank
a glass of water, he scratched his  shoulder. 

He walked around some more.  

The door to Fajo's office was open.  Q wanted company, not really
Fajo, but Fajo was the only game in town.  

Fajo looked up and smiled; he was on the phone again.  Q smiled
back, but Fajo had already turned his attention away from Q.  Q
looked around the office.  Suddenly, Fajo heard something on the
phone; he snapped his fingers at Q and pointed to a file box.  Q
brought it to him.   The maid came in; she had the mail.  Giving a
quick, disdainful look at his little robe, she handed it to Q. 
There was about six pounds of it.

Fajo said, "Q, be a love and throw out these catalogues out for
me."
 
Q obeyed, but, instead of putting them in the trash can,  he
looked at them.  He was astonished.  Q most certainly knew what a
catalogue was.  He had pored through the Sears catalogue and
dreamed of owning the things inside it, but this was more than
riding mowers and aluminum sheds.   Q hadn't known there were so
many ways to be pampered for mere money.  He was clearly shocked. 
He looked at Fajo.

Fajo was off the phone by now; he seemed amused at Q's look.  

Q pointed:  And why did this catalogue have a picture of a man
with a pig on a leash?

"Does him want a truffle?" Fajo asked fondly.  He reached out to
caress Q's flaccid genitals.  "Has him been a good boy?  Does him
know how to be a good boy?  Be a good boy for Fajo and I'll get
you all the truffles you want."

Q knew how to be a good boy.  He got down on his knees.


48 hours later a grayish-white wrinkly thing was on his plate.  

Q stared.

"It's your truffle," Fajo explained.  He told Q about how they
were hunted and how they were cooked and how rare they were.  He
took a bite of his truffle.  Q ate all of his. 

Fajo gave a crooked smile.  "These truffles go for eight hundred
dollars a pound.  You just ate three hundred dollars."  Fajo found
this information trivial, but Q began to choke and gasp.   He had
consumed this little bit of food so casually, and now he was still
very hungry.  But if a man had enough money, he could eat of this
until he was full.  

Fajo could.  

Q could too, if he prevailed upon Fajo.  

This was an octave above that time in the grocery store.  This was
a higher order of existence.      

Fajo laughed at his charming, backwards American.  "I love you
people." 


After that, Q looked at all the catalogues very carefully.   One
catalogue personally addressed to Fajo claimed to enjoy catering
to the tastes of a man with such refined sensibilities.  It showed
beautiful male models dressed in clothes much like the ones Q
wore.   There was a catalogue of one-of-a-kind objets d'art. 
There was a catalogue of cooks who would travel to your house from
anywhere around the world and cook a meal for you right in your
kitchen.  There was a catalogue of artists looking for sponsors.  

Q took some of the catalogues to his room and stashed them away
under a table.  Fajo saw him, and one day, when Q was off getting
his enema, he went into Q's room and inspected Q's little bundle
of loot.  

Nothing important.  Just catalogues.  Why did Q keep these?  To
keep himself entertained?  Fajo smiled.  Q was so sweet and silly. 
Fajo couldn't wait to fuck him.
        

Fajo got used to Q being in his office.  He forgot that Q was only
mute, not deaf, and  he carried on long, complex conversations in
front of his little human toy.   Q often merely lay on his stomach
and listened to Fajo's end of the discussion. 

Sometimes Fajo would get off the phone and talk to Q, venting his
emotions as with a pet parrot.  Q forced himself to listen
attentively.  Fajo seemed to have it in for everybody.  He was 
vengeful and played vicious games, gloating when he appeared to
win over his imaginary enemies.  Q didn't like to hear about
Fajo's little battles.  

The only time he really perked up was when Fajo talked about
charities.  

"Look at this one!  They have to ask me for money to feed their
own children.  How grotesque." Q came and hovered over Fajo's
shoulder which pleased Fajo enormously.   

Then Q pointed.   

Fajo smiled when Q pointed at things.  It was fun to guess what Q
was trying to find out.  Q was like a little boy in Daddy's
office, or a little intern or an ingenue.  
     
Q began to pick charities he liked and flirted with Fajo (head
tilted to one shoulder, demure little smile, pleading expression)
until he said yes.  Certain charities who were simply casting
messages in a bottle unexpectedly got their desires met because Q
interceded on their behalf.   Q pointed and pointed.  

And hoped this would help God to forgive him for being away from
his own children for so long. 

Once to show his gratitude and affection, he sat on the floor with
his head on Fajo's leg but Fajo wasn't Johnny.  Fajo made
a joke about Q's insatiability and shooed him away.  

Q was learning what it meant to be a rich man.   And, he told
himself, he was doing some good. Schoolchildren in Borneo got
puppet shows.  Youngsters in Ireland got to see a traveling
exhibit on ancient Egypt.  A reservation in Arizona got a
luxurious set of encyclopedias and learning aids.  Three teachers
in the Brazilian rainforest got miraculous stipends that allowed
them to teach for another two years.   Fajo learned what would
interest Q, and he made a game of it.  He would show Q a letter
requesting money.  Q would nod, his eyes shining.  Then Fajo would
point to the floor and Q would eagerly kneel.  Small lives were
enriched the world over, all because Q was so good at giving
blowjobs to Fajo.  

Q liked staying busy.  He liked evolving plans.

He began to use his art supplies to write letters.

Some of the letters were to Fajo.   They never contained words,
only drawings (Q drew fairly well).  He drew pictures of fists and
ball gags over and over again and slid them under Fajo's office
door.  Fajo was enormously pleased, and, after these letters to
Fajo started, Q got fisted every night unless he was too sore.  

Q would point to his drawing of the ball gag, and Fajo said, "Oh,
you liked that, did you?"  He began to assemble more and more
bondage paraphernalia.  

(Q also used his supplies to talk to Jean-Luc, creating lovingly
rendered images of Jean-Luc's face in every mood he could 
remember:  Jean-Luc in passion, Jean-Luc smiling, lots of those,
Jean-Luc sober, Jean-Luc bemused.  He drew himself down in the
corners of each picture, looking up at the love of his life. 
These portraits were a way of avowing his love, and expressing 
his sorrow that they were apart and his fear that they would never
be together again.  He ached to send them to America, but he knew
that he would have to be very careful about showing these to Fajo. 
He would have to wait for the right time.)  

One day Q read a letter Fajo showed him requesting 20K for a
project in provincial India.  Fajo reached for his checkbook and
even wrote a check, but he  didn't sign it.  Instead he pointed to
the floor.  Q  dropped to the ground like a shot.  He sucked Fajo,
and when he was done, Fajo pulled himself together and signed the
check.  
 
That day Q rifled through the outgoing mail, holding that
particular envelope up to the light.   The check was in there, and
Q was calmly delighted.  He'd just been paid 20K for a blowjob. 
There had been a time when he thought $50 was a lot for a blowjob. 
                    
He wandered back to his room, trying to figure out how much he was
making now.  With his pen and paper, he began to mess around with
the figures -- Q had forgotten the simple pleasure of sums.  He
was now getting approximately four thousand dollars per fuck or
suck.  

He was hardly worthless.

For a week or two, a pleasant brainless joy transformed Q; he made
sounds almost like humming.  

Fajo was astonished.  He gave Dr. Nicholopoulos a big bonus, told
him to work on the case even more.  He went to the mainland to buy
Q some presents.         


(Whenever Fajo went off the island, Dr. Nicholopoulos always came
out to stand on the patio and watch Q sunbathing.  The guards
always looked away with knowing smiles on their faces.  He never
came close, but it was obvious what he wanted.  For a long time
all he did was watch, but one day his curiosity got the best of
him.  As the guards played cards and the sun shone down, he joined
Q by the side of the pool and discovered for himself what all the
fuss was about.  Q didn't mind.  It was what he was for.  He had
learned that much about himself.)
   
*************************

When the others decided to practice their instruments, Jean-Luc
would take his Cadillac convertible out and drive for hours on the
oceanside road.  And if it was night and the moon was full, he
often stopped to watch the moon, the waves, the beach.  

He was sure he was getting over Q.

For one thing, he could now remember Q, the little things Q did,
without plunging into . . . a . . . sort of black sadness that
always drowned the world around him.

He could now think of what a fine fuck Q was without becoming
furious and lonely.

Q was a fine fuck.

One night in prison, it had been twenty minutes to lights-out, and
Jean-Luc was scratching away on pieces of paper, when he became
conscious of Q rustling in a very determined way in his bunk.  

He looked over.

Q was lying on his stomach with his arms resting on the pillow.  
When he saw Jean-Luc look at him, he looked away and at the same
time deliberately moved the single sheet covering him to just
under the cup of his buttocks.   Q had beautiful buttocks.  Then
he moved his arms back under his chin.  Jean-Luc couldn't tear his
eyes away.  Q had clearly lubricated his ass in preparation for .
. . there was a faint gleam in the cleft of his buttocks like the
wet gleam inside a young girl's lips, iridescent in the cell's
golden light.  And then Q looked away and began to gently pump his
hips against the inefficient mattress of the prison bunk.  Once. 
Twice.  His eyes closed and then opened again and slid to Jean-Luc
as he pumped against the mattress.  Jean-Luc was stunned   so
stiff and hot and wet at his tip he couldn't breathe.  Watching
Q's broad shoulders and slim waist go down to the lovely flare of
his ass.  Jean-Luc put his hand over his mouth and rubbed.  "Pray
for an punctual lights out, baby," he whispered.

Q closed his eyes and pumped again and   of all things   the
trustees called "lights out" ten minutes early and the lights were
out and Jean-Luc was beside Q on the bunk.

The cell was glowing with the bright moonlight everywhere.  

"Turn over   I want to see it."    

Q obeyed and Jean-Luc leaned down and took Q in his mouth.  No one
had ever done that to Q   Jean-Luc could feel Q's confusion even
as he sucked his cock.  He gripped Q's hips with his big hands and
moved his head back and forth to take as much of it in his mouth
as he could.  Then clearly the crisis was coming   Q's breath was
rattling and he called out, "No! Jean-Luc!" and started to come in
Jean-Luc's mouth.  And Jean-Luc had not pulled back but held that
big throbbing dick in his mouth til Q was through.  Then he said
to Q: "On your stomach.  I liked the way that looked earlier."

Nothing on earth was as beautiful as Q's ass.  Nothing was as
alluring.  Nothing as beguiling and provocative. 

He eased himself into Q's wet asshole.  "Oh, your pussy is so
tight and wet I bet you were playing with yourself and you're so
wet did you stick something in it waiting for me do you play with
it when you're alone tell Daddy tell Daddy what your pussy wants"
and fortunately they had a corner cell and the only nearby cell
belonged to Worf and Pardek and Worf and Pardek were snoring and
Jean-Luc was glad that only Q could hear his obscene beautiful
litany.  

*************************
     
Sometimes Fajo left for several days at a stretch.  One of his
armed guards would drive him towards the gates of his compound,
and Q watched as another set of guards stopped, checked, then
saluted and waved them through.  They were checking, Q knew, to
make sure he wasn't escaping.

Q forced himself to simply sit and stare out over the water for
hours and hours at a stretch.  He often fell asleep after lunch,
and sometimes he woke to find a guard standing over him, watching
him.

Q did more drawings; he wrote more letters.  He started writing
his sons.  He hadn't thought about them much when he was caught up
in Jean-Luc's headlong rush to the American dream, but now they
weighed on his mind.  

What it had cost Fajo to buy one of those little designer sex-
aprons would buy the boys a new farm.  Tears flooded Q's eyes.  He
was not a good father.  And he hadn't sent Beverly any money since
his . . . visit with Fajo.  He had to go home.


Fajo took him to the movie room again.  "Look at this!"

Again there was a whirring sound, and the deep purple curtains
parted.  The movie sputtered into being;  velvet brown flickers
resolved themselves into various creamy shapes.  A woman's nude
body, a beautiful woman's nude body, appeared.  Q recognized her. 
He went numb.  Her name was Melinda Madigan, a starlet type of
person, the person on the cover of . . . their . . . his and
Johnny's issue of "People".   Here, the all-American Melinda  was
sitting on her haunches with a knowing smile on her face; she
faced the camera frankly and honestly.  Then a man floated into
the camera's view; he was disguised as a giant swan with wings and
mask, but naked from the waist down and clearly sexually aroused. 
She took the swan's erect penis in her wide beautiful mouth.  An
ancient opera recording of a soprano singing the same line over
and over again was the sole noise on the sound track.

A high-class porn film.  

But Q was not disappointed.  He could not take his eyes from the
screen.  She put her long pale hand on her partner's bare ass and
drew him closer.  He steadied himself on her shoulder and clearly
began his orgasm.  Then he disappeared; Melinda Madigan gazed
steadily at the camera.  The opera continued.

"I've got some new toys, big wiggly ones with huge flared heads, 
Q."  He gazed at Q's groin.  "Look at these still photos.  I
rather prefer still photos."   Q blinked.   "This shipment is all
Melinda Madigan.  Generally, she wouldn't matter, being an
ordinary woman piece of ass, but she's one of the most famous
actresses in the world.  Get this: she's sitting on somebody's
stiff dick.  They say that's a well-known newscaster!   And here's
she being fucked in the ass.  You can't see who by.  I heard it
was a famous British murderer!  Whoever it is, he's got a big
knob.  See: here she is giving a blowjob to two men.  They're
producers!"  

 Q looked at the photos.  They were somewhat sexy.  "Here's she's
getting fist-fucked."   They both studied that photograph for a
while.  Although Melinda Madigan seemed calm and wide-eyed, the
camera angle was such that you could see the fist was completely
buried in her pussy.

Q couldn't help it; now he was hard as he could be.  He wanted to
be fisted and photographed and to see the photograph and feel the
camera flash go off and press against the big thing in his ass and
press again and again.  He wiggled.  

"You want it so much!"  Fajo was delighted!  "I love you!"       

In the leather chamber, he bent Q over the weird arrangement of
tables (it was actually some sort of pillory which, when Q bent
over it, left his ass high in the air.)  Then lotions and 
ointments and oils and then Fajo had his hand in Q's ass   Q could
hear faint clicks; no doubt that automatic CIA camera, heat-and-
motion-activated, was getting this on film.  Q writhed in what he
hoped was a becoming way; maybe Fajo would get careless and
someone else, someone in charge of something, would see the photos
and rescue him.  He also wanted more in his ass.  

*************************

After the article in Rolling Stone, the crowds outside the house
grew larger and more desperate.  

It was like an open-air market more than a fan club.  Jean-Luc
often went down just to check out the talent.  

No one was saying, "Me, Jean-Luc, take me," just yet.  But that
was certainly what they meant.  

And Jean-Luc knew what he liked.  The lovers he like best had to
be beautiful and hung, and they had to have, or at least appear to
have, a quality of soulfulness and tenderness of spirit that could
be consumed for the delicacy it was.  That he was picking
duplicates of Q never occurred to him.  

This night there was the prettiest one he'd seen yet.  Tall. 
Slender.  The longest blackest hair.  The prettiest black eyes
anywhere.  

"Isn't it a nice night?" Jean-Luc said to him.

"Yes," the boy breathed.

"I love the stars in January.  Look at them."

"Yes.  Yes."

"What's your name?" 

"Okona.  Mike Okona."  The boy had a wide shy smile.  A pretty
mouth.  Q had a pretty mouth.  And what would Jean-Luc do to Q if
he had him there right that second?   Jean-Luc studied the boy.  

"O'Connor?"

"No, it's Polish.  Okona."

"Let's go inside.  I want to show you something."
     
Inside, Jean-Luc turned to the boy and said, "I assume you're
eighteen.  Not that I give a fuck.  But I don't want the FBI on my
ass."

"I'm twenty-four."

"A pretty age.  Tell you what: Let's go to my bedroom and have
some fun."

"Yes.  Yes."
     
In the bedroom, Jean-Luc said, "I want you to fuck yourself with
this big plastic dick while you cry.  I'm curious about how that
would look." 

"Well," Okona said, "Okay, anything for you, Jean-Luc, but it's
hard to cry for no reason."

"I can change that."

And Okona looked into Jean-Luc's eyes and then Jean-Luc slapped
him once and once only, and then handed him the plastic dick and
Okona was weeping and fucking himself into such a frenzy that it
was hard to stop, and he was breaking himself open for Jean-Luc's
pleasure and Jean-Luc was breathing heavy with his power over this
boy, his power which he loved more than any sex, and after Okona
came, gasping, wheezing, crying, his face red and wet, he begged
Jean-Luc to tell him, "Was I good?  Was I good?  You have to tell
me!"  

And Jean-Luc looked at Okona once more, this time as if he were a
moderately interesting chef on a cooking show in a foreign
language.  He said "Yes, but I have to go."  Then he left the
room.

It took Okona nearly an hour to recuperate enough to get up and
walk out the door.  

(This was one of the most pivotal sexual interactions of his young
life, even though Jean-Luc had never even touched him.)

*************************

Q was asleep when he sensed someone in his room.  He murmured
'Johnny' in his sleep and then settled down again.  

The next morning Fajo was in an inexplicably foul  mood.

"This charade of not talking is growing tiresome to  me."  

Q agreed.  He would talk.  Today.  He lifted his chin 
determinedly.  He opened his mouth.  He looked at Fajo.  No sound
came out.  His breathing became very rapid.  He looked away from
Fajo.  His breathing calmed down.  

"Don't you tune me out.  Look at me, damnit."

Q turned his head back to him, his face wary,  his shoulders
stiff.

Fajo said, "Say 'Kivas,'" as if Q were a parrot.  

The very thought was making Q ill.   He shut his eyes. 

"Say 'Kivas.'  Say 'Kivas,' Goddammit."  Unlike  Jean-Luc, Kivas
didn't like to hit people.  He was satisfied with verbal bullying. 
He felt some glee at the effect his demands had on  Q.  "Come on. 
What are you afraid of?  Speak!"

Q jumped up and strode away.  Kivas followed,  but Q was only
standing by the patio door.  His  chest was heaving as if he were
crying. 

Kivas saw the tears and smiled.  Johnny would have seen the tears
and fucked him but good, but Kivas wasn't Johnny.  "I'm sorry.  
So very terribly sorry.  We'll work on your therapy  later."  He
ran his hand over the golden curves of Q's  ass.  "Would you like
a present?  Maybe you can ... indicate something nice I could give
you."  He turned Q to face him.  He made a funny little face. 
"I'm  good at giving things."

Q wanted just one thing.

He kissed Fajo's fist.  Fajo smiled.  Q smiled back.  In a
graceful harem gesture, he indicated that he wanted Fajo to follow
him to his bedroom. 

Fajo was pleased to do so, his eyes on Q's beautiful ass and long
tan legs.

Once in the bedroom, Q went to the table where he  drew and got
some papers.  Fajo smiled more broadly;  more drawings of fists,
no doubt.

They were letters.

Q touched his chest.  He held his palm down by his waist,
indicating a child.  A letter to a child?

Fajo didn't like this reminder of Q's other life, but he nodded
and took the letters.

Q smiled again.  

Fajo smiled back, meaning nothing.
                                                                   
*************************

Pressure from the stock-holders made the record execs try to
persuade Jean-Luc to find a replacement mandolin player.

Needless to say, Jean-Luc was quite recalcitrant, and therefore he
began to get two reputations.  The first was as a stupidly loyal
hillbilly who was too dumb to know good fortune when it hit him in
the face.  The second was as the scariest man who ever lived.  He
seemed to shimmer with hate at the stupid, ignorant, arrogant
assumptions that he could be sweet-talked into abandoning Q for a
promise of more money and a big shiny car. 

Out of desperation, they started sending a variety of lovers to
Jean-Luc, but none lasted.

The first was a beautiful shemale with the artificial, 
exaggerated femininity all transvestites seemed to carry.   It
worked for a while.  Then he picked a sculpted Russian dancer with
pouting lips and perfect grace to all his movements.  Finally
there was a lovely California boy, a surfer, with bleached blonde
hair and the vacuous friendliness of a person whose entire life
has been lived in safety. 

Jean-Luc loved them all a little bit, but he was obviously not 
some hillbilly pushover. 
       
Then the record company encouraged Jean-Luc to go to the dinner in
honor of People magazine's Most Intriguing 25 People of the Year. 
They had Ransom Amazoki make him a tuxedo which he wore with a
perfectly-placed cowboy hat.  Data -- also in a Ransom Amazoki 
creation -- was his date.  Or whatever. 

Jean-Luc kept on telling himself that it was worth it.  That
attending a few of these hideous occasions would free him so he
could pursue life on the highway, a life filled with handsome
novel pussy and money and success and traveling, always traveling.

He was seated between Data and a young woman who was also a Most 
Intriguing.  She was gone during the first two courses while  some
of the most excruciating speeches were made, but suddenly at the 
first meat course she was seated beside him.  "I know you," she
said in a teasing gentle husky voice.  "You're one of those Boys."

Jean-Luc turned to her and recoiled slightly.  He smelled
something.  Something that smelled startlingly like...

"I bet you smell cum.  I bet you know that smell.  I got some on
my dress.  I was blowing that man   he's some sort of director  --
in the men's room.  I thought it would be fun."  She was
extraordinarily lovely.  Big and freckled with wide wide features:
a broad mouth, huge dark blue eyes.  She was mocking him. 
"Speaking of fun, do you just do boys?" 

Jean-Luc turned to her.  She was a very interesting girl.  "I
believe you have the advantage, Miss . . ."

"Melinda Madigan."   She was not embarrassed or angry that he
didn't know her name.  She smiled with the sides of her lips
turned up as if holding a golden coin in her mouth.  Her tits were
big, high on her tall frame.

Jean-Luc was astonished.  She leaned over to play with a glass of
champagne, but actually simply to make sure Jean-Luc saw as much
of her cleavage as possible.   "Melinda Madigan," he said in his
low dark whisper. "You are astonishing.  Let's go somewhere now
and fuck."

"Everybody I know says you only like it in the butt."

"Don't do that to me," Jean-Luc said to her, and she leaned back
against the chair.  She had huge, hard nipples that showed through
the bodice of her evening gown.  He liked big nipples.  These
looked like thumbs.  He couldn't quit staring.

"Look, Jean-Luc!" Data said.  "There's Floyd!"  Floyd was a bright
blue gila monster very popular with children of all ages.  He had
an irritating theme song, and clearly some poor out-of-work actor
had been persuaded to don the felt Floyd outfit and come to the
banquet.  Floyd was also a Most Intriguing.  

Jean-Luc wanted to vaporize the annoying Data, but . . . Melinda
might not care for that.

"I like your date, Boy.  He's hot."

"Like all God's creatures, he has pluses and minuses."  She was a
real bitch.  Jean-Luc couldn't get enough.  "Are you wearing
panties?"

"I forget."

Jean-Luc thought the top of his head would come off.

*************************
     
Fajo brought in new technology.  He had Dr. Nicholopoulos  inject
Q with a drug.  "This is a truth serum.  I'm going to ask you some
questions and want you to answer them.  Now tell me, why won't you
speak?"

"I can't," Q heard himself gasp out.  Then he heard himself start
to scream.  After that he had a vague memory of servants running
in and standing helpless as Nicholopoulos injected him with
something that made him sleep, and he was aware of the sound of
screaming several times after that, and Fajo standing over him,
demanding that Nicholopoulos do something but little else left an
impression.  

It was only after Fajo put the ball gag in his mouth that he was
able to calm down enough to eventually slip into natural sleep.

*************************

Lotta synthetic women walking up and down Sunset Boulevard. 

But Melinda Madigan was the real thing.

She and Jean-Luc fucked in every position for four hours straight.

"Okay, Boy, give me all of it," she said, "and more."  And her
face never lost that little smile.  Her mouth kept its golden 
coin.

"When can I see you again?"  Jean-Luc felt compelled to say to 
her.

She shrugged.  "I go to Tunisia tomorrow.  Eighteen months.  I'm
shooting a movie there.  Science fiction with a touch of old
Egypt.   It ought to be freaky.  I play the kind of girl Pharaohs
like." 

"I can see that.  Who will you fuck in Tunisia?"

"I'll probably rent a canoe and get me some of that Monte Carlo
ass."

They looked at each other.  She was tall, nearly as tall as Q,
with long long beautiful legs, those eyes, that big bad mouth.  
Jean-Luc's fingers walked over her intricate pattern of freckles. 
He could get lost in that pattern.   He almost didn't know what to
say to her.  "I like your tattoo."

She had a crisp American flag tattooed right below her navel. 

"That's  what I bought with my first Hollywood paycheck.  To show 
everyone I'd made it." 

"Indeed. To show everyone?  Even, say, your grandmaw?"

"Hardee har har," she said, positioning herself on top of him
again.  Jean-Luc couldn't possibly get hard again, but that didn't
stop her.  "Leave my grandmaw outa this." 

"Can you bring yourself off that way?  I'm afraid I'm through for
the night."

"What if I asked you to put it up my butt?

His dick twitched.

"What if I asked you to put it up my grandmaw's butt?

His dick twitched again.

"You pervert!" and Jean-Luc grabbed her and rolled over on her and
they couldn't quit laughing.  

***********************

Fajo had no idea how to feel.  He had captured the most beautiful
thing on earth, but he felt like a man who had robbed an invisible
bank of invisible billions or a novelist who had written the
world's greatest work in invisible ink.  Now that he had been . .
.  intimate with every inch of Q, what was left?  And Q wasn't
getting better at all.  As a matter of fact, if anything, Q was
becoming a little less human everyday.

Fajo began to be reminded of he liked going to the mainland. How
he liked to see hustling, bustling urban life.  The noise of the
cities enchanted him.  Q stayed home, secreted away like his
geisha wife, beautiful and exotic and smiling when he greeted Fajo
on his return. 

The last time, on the mainland, he had met Aristoff Karnas, his
main rival in the arms business.  Karnas had his newest pets with
him, identical twin boys from Bangkok.  

"Haven't seen you about much lately, Fajo.  Is everything okay?"

"Of course," Fajo said in a frosty tone.  He couldn't help peeking
at Karnas' twins.  They were small and tan and dimpled and heavily
made up.  And they clearly worshiped Karnas, giggling and writhing
together and holding hands.

Fajo had a sudden brainstorm.

*************************

Jean-Luc drove Melinda to the airport; she was taking the studio's
jet to Tunisia. 

Before that, he enjoyed watching her do last minute packing.  In
the nude.  "Oh rats, where's my passport," she said.  It was on
the dresser.  Jean-Luc picked it up.  He had never had a passport;
they looked like nice little booklets, neatly bound and official. 
"Check out the passport photo.  I look just like Georgia O'Keefe."

He smiled at her and opened it up.  

What the . . .  "Who's Jadzia Dax?"

"Boy, what rock do you live under?  That's my real name.  I was
born gnarly little immigrant Jadzia Dax on the wrong side of
Chicago   my parents came here from Czechoslovakia.  It's part of
my legend.  Nobody is born Melinda Madigan."

"I like the name Jadzia Dax.  Why'd you change it?"  A name change
was a little like a lie.

"I wanted an American name.  Jadzia Dax is a bit too bohunk for
the likes of me."  She sighed.  "I'd like a valedictory fuck
from your big dick on the jet, so let's hurry."
                                             
*************************

Fajo had started reading the newspapers and making phone calls to
his broker during supper while Q sat there in silence.  Fajo
himself didn't appear to notice, but Q could see it.  Fajo's eyes
were harder.  He was losing  much of the pretense that they were
lovers and simply ordered Q around.  He was also spending more
time on the mainland.

Now, when Q expressed interest in charities that caught his eye,
Fajo didn't even make Q perform little sexual acts.  Q would have
preferred being a whore.  Selling ass was comfortable and familiar
territory.  This indifference was terrifying.
     
Then, one night after a extended trip to the mainland, Fajo came
into the dining room.  He looked tired and, when he looked at Q,
his eyes held no emotion.

"Q, if this relationship is to be successful, we're going to have
to do some work.  Just repeating the old pathways isn't achieving
anything.  I've gotten in touch with some of my friends and talked
about things.  They want to arrange a therapy session for you on
the mainland.  I thought it was a good idea."

Q's heart was racing with fear.

"Ransom Amazoki, remember the little leather . . . thing he made,
is motoring over here tomorrow for us.  You'll need some special
togs."  He patted Q on the arm in a friendly way.  


Ransom Amazoki was small and acerbic, and then he saw Q and his
eyes lit up.

"Q, take off that stupid thong," Fajo said.  "Show Ransom what's
he working with."

Q leaned over and pulled it off; then he stood up straight. 
Amazoki leaned back for a moment and regarded Q.  "Kivas, that's
pretty hard to take.  And he's mute?"

Fajo smiled proudly.  "Yes." 

"What luck."  And Amazoki snapped his fingers and a small crew of
seamstresses and assistants came in; Amazoki addressed them in
French and they all looked carefully at Q.

"Now, Kivas, I envision something like the Apollo Belvedere.  A
cape and some knee-high sandals, you know such as gladiators wear. 
Leather and beautifully crafted.  His hair blowing free.  Dark
jewelry at all his pulse points.  He won't be wearing anything
else.  Then when the session begins, he'll take off the cape . .
and oh, my."

Q listened carefully.  A session where he was naked.

"Those shoulders of his are round and soft and pink as tits." 
Ransom shook his head.

"I have a problem with that, Ransom," Fajo interrupted.  "He has a
bad scar on his left shoulder.  It . . . mars the finish.  You
know what I mean.  If he takes off his cape and everyone sees his
scar . . . ."

Amizoki stood beside Q and turned him around.  "Hmmm," he said;
then he turned Q around again and again.  "Kivas, you have outdone
yourself.  All this and mute too.  Christ!"  He leaned in.  "If it
were my choice, I'd make a leather shoulder guard from the same
finished leather of the sandals.  When he takes off his cloak, we
only see one shoulder but that's enough."  He ran his hand down
Q's satin ass.  "I need to take his measurements."

*************************
     
Like tigers patiently watching their prey for hours on end, the
record company owners had been watching the Magic Mountain Boys. 

And the moguls were delighted when the word came out: the Boys
were auditioning mandolin players. 

Many young men wanted to be the new mandolin player for the Boys. 
But there was one who stood out.  

"Remember me, Jean-Luc?" said the enigmatic and smiling Vietnamese
boy with blond hair.  "I'm Tranh.  You fucked me in Phoenix and
then signed my hat."

"Play the mandolin," Jean-Luc ordered, but his face was soft.

The boy was quite credible.  "Thank you," said Quark.  "We'll be
in touch."  

"I learned the mandolin just for you, Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc nodded.  Nice. Very nice.  Extremely nice.  Nice didn't
even begin to cover it.  He remember every little wet inch of
Tranh's body. 


He sat back with his legs apart.  

"Jean-Lux, stop doing that," Quark begged.

Jean-Luc gave a feral smile to Tommy.  "Can you tell he's the one
I like the most?".

*************************

It was the first time Q had been off the island in five months.
The very air was different.  Perhaps he'd be somewhere where
someone would see him.  Still he was wary of Fajo's therapy
session.  Frau Marouka had taken more time than usual giving him a
cleansing.  

And now suddenly he was in some sort of servants' quarters and
Ransom Amazoki and Fajo were fussing over his new outfit.  Then
they left him and he was alone.

He looked around.  The room was high-ceilinged and lit by wall
lights placed carefully around the edge of the ceiling. An opened
door led to a bathroom.  

Q looked at himself in the mirror.

It was a nice outfit, he had to admit.

His shoulder guard was beautifully studded soft black leather, and
his high sandals matched.  His cape was short and white and it
attached to the turquoise bracelets Fajo had given to him.  
Amizoki had cut the cape on the bias so it draped quite nicely on
Q's body, seeming to float even if there were no breeze.  Of
course, he was completely naked otherwise;  it was funny how he
had gotten used to that. 

The door opened and Fajo stuck his head in.  "Come on, Q.  Join
the party."

Q followed Fajo down a long spacious hallway; everywhere were
beautiful marble artifacts.

Then Fajo paused at a set of oversized double doors.  "Here we
go," he muttered. "You better behave."

And he flung the doors open.

A big room, beautifully appointed, large floor-to-ceiling windows
everywhere, reflecting the glittering night and the harbor lights. 
 

A three-piece band playing soft and pensive modern jazz.  

And a crowd of extremely well-dressed and well-groomed men and
women who turned to Fajo.

"Fajo, welcome!"

Fajo straightened his small shoulders, and both Q and he walked
in.  Everywhere Fajo was greeted.  A bulky dark-haired man came up
to him.  He was accompanied by two young Asian men.  "Hell-O,
Fajo.  So this is your little secret.  I AM impressed."  Fajo
lifted his chin.  And now most of the party people were coming up
to look at Q.  

"What a pretty boy," someone said, as if he were a pet.

"Too bad Melinda has to be in America," someone else said.  

"Oh, it makes me glad," another voice said, "now there's more for
us."

Fajo's bulky friend leaned in to Fajo.  "I can't wait to put the
stones to that."

Fajo laughed with him. "Oh, Karnas, you card," he said.

Someone touched Q, touched his ass.  

"Let's break him in now," Fajo's friend said.

"Ransom, help me take off his cape."  

Oooohs and aaaaahs.

"He looks like a statue of a God."  Ransom smiled at the speaker. 
Someone else said, "get the traditional blindfold out."

"Wait, before you do, there's something you need to know to
understand him.  He's mute."  Q heard words he didn't understand
being said, no doubt some kind of European translations of  mute. 
"He's psychologically mute.  And this is part of his . . .
therapy."

The band kept playing.

"Spread him out, Fajo," Karnas called.

"I'll do better than that. You attach him," Fajo said to the
bodyguard.

And Q found himself being blindfolded and attached by strong
leather cuffs to a wooden catafalque.  

"This is so fun," he heard a woman's pretty voice say.

"I want first blood," said a man's deep voice.

"Put the harness on him."

Harness?

And he felt practiced hands attaching a wide leather belt around
his waist; he could hear the creak of the worn leather, he could
feel how it curved naturally around him.  

"Bring in that big box of condoms," he heard Karnas ordering
someone.

When he heard that, Q couldn't help it; he began to pull against
the cuffs.

Fajo was beside him in a second.  "Stop embarrassing me in front
of everyone.  Or you will be sorry," he whispered.  Then in a
louder voice he said, "I apologize.  You know how these Americans
can be."  Everyone laughed politely.  "Charles, I believe you
wanted first blood."

"He needs a lesson, doesn't he, Fajo?"  Was that Charles?

"You betcha."

And Q felt a cold metal implement being pushed against his anus 
and there was a soft soughing sound and then he felt a tepid
liquid running down his legs.  "Lights low and musical effects,
Fajo," said the voice now right behind Q.  "This isn't a public
sex club."  

There were some titters.

The band began to play a faster kind of music; the organist in
particular kicked in.  Tense high notes were interspersed with
sweet violin effects.  

And someone was fucking Q.  Someone he didn't know, someone who
didn't know him, some faceless man with a big dick and no name.  
Someone ruthless and rapid and indifferent.  


"This is so much nicer," said a woman's voice.  "I hate to see
their big stupid fake faces when they get assfucked.  All ooh's
and ahhh's.  Just get it in the ass and get it over with."

"Somebody dick me a little too," said the man fucking Q.  

"Oooh," said a voice, and Q could hear more pretty giggles and
feel the animated air behind him.  The man fucking him shifted and
began short sharp thrusts.  

"You feel that, asshole?" he said.  Q could feel a tugging at the
belt around him; it must have had handles for a top to hold on to. 
He was trying to focus on the leather belt, the physics of it, the
engineering.  

The faceless Charles came with a dramatic groan.

"Oh, for God's sake," said the critical woman.

"Who's next?" said Fajo with a false heartiness.  

"Let my man do it," Charles said; he was stroking Q's flank.

"Perfect," Fajo said, but Q could hear worry in his voice.

Charles' man was bigger than he was.  He was a very matter-of-fact
fuck.

"Now, Charles, where's your man from?"

"Senegal, I think.  He doesn't speak English."

"He's quite attractive."

"He's all right," Charles said casually.

Charles' man was followed by two other faceless and nameless men,
but Q could tell the audience was losing interest.  Each anonymous
fuck was the same as the next or the last.  Well, how did anyone
expect them to stay interested?  With every fuck, Q was becoming
more and more invisible.

Karnas was beside him, eating something.  Q could smell garlic and
lamb.  "My goodness, Fajo, this item of yours is surely very nice. 
What about if we turned him over and let my two play with him?"

"Bored already, Karnas?" Fajo said acerbically.  

"Not at all.  I like the way your pet looks.  And the muteness is
a real gift.  You can pretend to be anything you like with him. 
You can pretend he's anything you want."

Fajo was silent.  Q could feel the anger rolling off him.

"What say, Fajo?"

"Very well.  Leave the blindfold on though.  It's just more
aesthetic that way."  

Small practiced hands undid his chains and pulled at him to turn
over.  Then Q felt soft warm breath on his cock and a small tongue
flicking at him; he tried to thrust towards it.  If he didn't get
some sort of hard-on, he would be invisible forever.  

He assumed it was the Asian men with Karnas who were attending him
so frantically; he felt like Gulliver with their busy
ministrations. 

"He's got a big one, but he's not hard," Karnas remarked.

More invisible by the second.

Q could hear Fajo breathing in fury.

Q had one trick left: he was still masked so he couldn't see how
big his audience was, but he made a fist and put it next to his
heart.

"What's he mean?" Karnas asked.

Fajo sighed. "He wants to be fisted.  Who'll do the honors?"

There were puzzled murmurs.  "Let my man do it," said Charles.

"What's his name anyway?" Fajo said.

"Tuvok."

"Can you tell Tuvok to fistfuck Q?"

Charles said something incomprehensible and Q was bound again to
the catafalque.  The crowd was now making pleasant hopeful noises.

Q was a little more visible.  He felt more lubricant being applied
and he heard the snap of a rubber glove.  Then he felt fingers
probing him, one, two, three.

"He looks quite ready," drawled Karnas.

Only a hard-on would make Q visible; he pushed his ass out as if
he were greedy and he was, because only something as big and 
definite as a fist would make him hard.  More murmurs.  He felt 
his anus being extended then by something large and he backed
against it.  Then he rocked again and again against the alien
hand.  In his mind was only darkness and the full push of the fist
and suddenly it was in him and he was hard.  This fist was good  
its soft punching motions were just caressing enough.   The
rhythms never changed and he saw nothing and heard nothing inside
his black silk mask, feeling only the relentless fist against his
heart.  

If Q opened himself up completely, he would be visible and people
would have to notice him.  

"I would never thought it was possible.  Look at how much he can
take," a young man's voice, European, wondering, said.

"I heard of people who can take two fists."

"Oh, yes, I've seen the photographs."

By now Q was cresting on the sensation.  This Tuvok had a certain
mechanical quality as he moved against Q, but that was what Q
needed.  Q moved again. Just a little more and his orgasm would be
triggered.  Jean-Luc's fist, Jean-Luc's powerful forearm, and he
knew that arm so well, roped with veins familiar as a face to him,
and he imagined it inside him pulsing with him and then he began
to rear back, the fist still pounding inside him, his cock jerking
against the air, splashing the catafalque, and his whole body
pulsing too. 

The crowd made a satisfied sound.  They clapped heartily.

When Q recovered, he tried to feel the air.  What was his owner
thinking?

But Fajo was a blank space.

"May I?" said a different man.

No one said no.  Q could hear people moving away.

Then somebody was fucking him.

And while that happened, a woman naked from the waist down climbed
on his back rubbing herself against him.  Pretty giggles. "This is
great," she said.  

Another woman came over.  "Does he eat pussy?"

"I imagine so," said an unknown voice.

Q was the most invisible he'd ever been.

*************************

The ride back to Fajo's island was a nightmare.  Fajo was as
silent as Q.  

*************************

Q  didn't talk, for God's sake, what kind of lover was that?  Q
was just like the rest of his collection.  Lovely, rare, but
ultimately unresponsive; closed inside himself in a way Fajo
couldn't breach.  And Karnas, big fat stupid ugly Karnas, had hit
the nail on the head.  It was all pretense!  Because Q was mute,
none of it was real!  

"Don't you have any brains in that big American head?"  

Q was indifferent to insult.  His inability to speak had become a
refuge. 

Fajo didn't mind kicking a helpless man when he was down.  In
fact, he rather liked it.

*************************

Fajo tried taunting him.  He played music from The Magic Mountain
Boys CD's, but instead of looking wistful, Q smiled.  He was so
stupid he thought Fajo was doing him a favor.

"You'll never be able to sing or play with them again, you know."  

Q nodded sadly.  

"Doesn't that bother you?"  Fajo probed.  

Q nodded again.  His face turned down.  Tears welled up.  

Well, there was a little pleasure in that, but Fajo was seriously
bored.  

Abruptly he made plans to be gone for a couple of weeks.  A
skeleton crew could take care of Q.

*************************
     
"I've written a song," Jean-Luc told the at their next rehearsal. 
"It's rough."  He seemed almost apologetic.  "It's called "The
Christian and the Lion."

He sang in his low voice:


          "I'm the man on the mountain getting ready to plow
          My wife's in the valley putting bread in the stove
          then it was suddenly revealed to me
          that I had to get out of here
          Gimme a gallon of gas 
          I gotta dollar for a gallon of gas." 

The lines were unfinished but they sounded as if they were better
unfinished.  As Jean-Luc sang, the other boys began to pick up his
lurching rhythms.  Will was first to be in synch.  
               
          "I know I should be a Christian until the end of time
          But I want to go to Rome and see the lion
          I mean, I really don't want to see the dawn of light
          as long as I have the night.
          Oh, the road to Rome is long and hard -
                                                                 oh, let's still go - I want to see the lion  
                                             in his cage              
          And thinking about you
                    leaving me is like thinking
                    about the Christian jumping the lion
                    Tell Daddy who you love the most
                    Is it the father the son or the holy ghost"
                    
The band was in perfect coordination.

                    "Just one gallon and I'll get oh yeah yeah 
                    And I'll buy the hamburgers from the
                    Gimme one gallon and I'll
                    Just one gallon and I'll get
                    I'll wait for you
                    Somewhere I'll wait for you
                    Elsewhere I'll wait for you
                    Please oh yeah wait for you
                    Gimme a chance to wait for you."

Jean-Luc set down his lyric sheet   it was obvious these chaotic 
lyrics were all he had.  But the band stayed on playing.  They
liked  this song very much.  Geordi kept an insistent
sledge-hammer rhythm going with Will.  Data hummed and yelped
while Worf followed him note  for note.  Jean-Luc kept saying
"yeah yeah".   

Then Geordi sped it up and only Worf could keep up with him;
together Jean-Luc and Data sang incoherent notes and Will clapped
his hands. 

Suddenly, Worf and Geordi stopped playing; in the silence, Data's
high tenor and the curves of Jean-Luc's sable baritone held one
note, and then Jean-Luc said "yeah yeah" once again.  The song was
over.  Yet not. 

"This will work," Jean-Luc told the Boys.  "We're sitting in the 
catbird seat."

Geordi was very still.  Then he said: "Sometimes I have this 
sixth sense that tells me when a storm is coming.  But what's the
opposite of a storm?"  

*************************

Fajo reluctantly returned to his tedious island.  

Time for fun with Q.

"Eyeliner, Q."

Q shook his head no.  

"Q, Q, Q, can't we get along?  You don't seem to get it.  I'm
trying to reform you.  I'm going to make you healthier.  I'm going
to teach you all the stuff that I know."  He sighed.  "What do you
want from me?"

"What do you want from me?" Q asked. It was like a  bird's cry. 

His voice was high and soft with disuse, but it was perfectly
audible.  He had been hoping his noise would entice Fajo.  He had
practiced softly while Fajo on the mainland.  It hurt like hell,
but Q thought if Fajo could hear him, then maybe he could see him
too. He was hoping for the best.

"I practiced.  When you were gone.  I wanted to surprise you."

Fajo smiled back.  "Come with me," he purred.  "This calls for a
special treat."

He led the way to the leather room.

Q trusted Fajo not to hurt him.  He knelt when Fajo told him to
kneel, held his arms out to be secured at the wrists, and did not
object when Fajo tied his legs down also.   

Fajo was clever.  By the time Q figured out that this was for
punishment, not pleasure, he was already bleeding.

"Oh, God!"  Q cried when Fajo thrust again.  "Fajo, please stop!"  

It was music to Fajo's ears.  He punched at Q again. "I can't
stop, Q, I'm helping you.  Now that you have your voice back, you
have to practice using it so you won't forget!"  And then he did
some more damage. 

Q screamed.  His body went slack.

Fajo stepped back and sighed with satisfaction.  He'd made Q talk
at last.  He had cured him!  Done what none other could do!

As for the rest, well, there was nothing to do but make Dr.
Nicholopoulos earn his paycheck.  


He was almost smug as he went to the doctor and confessed.  "I...
I... lost control.  I think he needs you."    

Nicholopoulos cursed as he pulled Q's body down off the pillory. 
He cursed some more after examining Q.  He called the burly
guards in and had them carry Q's body to his bed.  Blood dripped
on Fajo's rare marble tile, and Fajo frowned at that.

Dr. Nicholopoulos sedated Q and cleaned him out.  

Fajo and the guards waited outside Q's bedroom.  

When Nicholopoulos came out again, he stared at Fajo somberly. 
"If you touch him like that again, you'll kill him.  I won't be
responsible," he said in Greek.  

The guards looked at each other in amazement.  They understood
Greek.

Fajo went to the pool to dine.  All his guards were gathered in
little knots around him, by the pool, near the cliffs.

What the fuck was going on?  Didn't they know they could be fired
too?

His captain came up and smiled and opened a bottle of wine for
Fajo. 

"Would you mind telling me what is going on?" said  Fajo.

The captain smiled more broadly.  "Do you know what the men are
calling you now?"

Fajo stared at him coldly.

The captain said a strange word Fajo didn't understand.

Fajo lifted his eyebrows.

"That's their word for 'horse'.  They know what you did to the big
pretty Americani.  You are The Horse to them."    Then he shouted
something incomprehensible in Thracian.

The guards cheered and threw their caps in the air.

'They are glad to lay their lives down for The Horse."
        
No drug on earth could have given Fajo a bigger rush.  He felt
better than he had in months.  He looked down and smiled shyly. 
"Tell the boys The Horse thanks them.  Tell the boys I am going
away for a while, but when I come back I will give them a banquet
with the best wines and the most beautiful girls and boys to dance
for them all night.  You can also tell them I'm through with the
Americani.  I'm going to take him back to his little village now." 
He held his finger and thumb about an inch apart to indicate how
little Q's village was.

*************************
     
"Here you are, Q, back in your big stupid smiling country."

Q was oblivious to Fajo's insults.
  
As soon as he was well enough to travel, Fajo had smuggled him
back on his private plane to the US.  The first stop was Fajo's
New York penthouse.  Fajo owned the whole building and his
apartment took up the top floor, so large it had its own
arboretum. 

At any other time, Q would have been entranced by its fairy-tale
qualities, but now he just wanted to get home.  

"I want to go see my sons."

Fajo just wanted the last word.  "You mean, in that Godforsaken
inland refuse dump your government actually endowed with a zip
code?  That place?"

"Yes."  Q looked at Fajo guilelessly.  "I need some money."

Fajo was annoyed.  Q had used him so much, taken so much advantage
of his largess, of his kind and gentle nature.  He gave Q 50k.  He
had already had a jeweler in to carefully unhitch the jewelry he'd
given Q. 

Q said, "Do you want me to come back here?" 

"So I take it you don't plan on staying in Kentucky." 

Q suddenly felt as if he were negotiating.  "I should go back to
L.A.  Find the band.  See what's going on."  

The Boys.  

Johnny!

Luckily, Fajo did not know how helpless Q felt or he would have
been happier.   Fajo merely thought he had been  charged with the
task of caring for a tedious invalid.   He said, "Fine, I'll take
you to L.A., but after that I'm going to have to go."

Q nodded.  "Okay, Kivas."

Kivas rolled his eyes.  Americans.

************************

The doorman called up.  Mr. McConn's airport limousine was here.

The flight from New York to Atlanta was very pleasant.

Q walked down the long corridors of Atlanta's endless airports.   

He heard a Four Tops song on the radio and looked up at the
speaker.  

Just above his head.  It was round and perforated like a
shower-head. 

He listened to the song for a bit,  and then he put his arms out
at his sides and began to spin.  He spun faster and faster.  

Everyone watched this beautiful creature who seemed to be amazed
by the very American oxygen he was breathing

*************************


Beverly got the phone call.  "Unbelievable," she told her momma,
who said, "get them young'uns cleaned up right this minute, 
Beverly Lanelle Crusher, and I don't meant maybe.  They ain't seen
their daddy for years."
                    
*************************

Q parked his rented Volvo by a stand of rough cedars.  

Kentucky.  

He couldn't  believe it.  Home.  He looked at the cedars.  It was
late February, but it felt like spring.

He saw the Crusher homestead.  A one-story farm house covered with
tar paper textured to look like gray brick.  A rusted metal roof. 
A  crooked little stovepipe with smoke pouring from it.

Then his boys came tumbling out of the front door, all over each
other, and ran to him: they were so big!  "Look at you!" 

Q was on his knees in dark wet loam , and he didn't even notice. 
He had all three boys in his arms, squeezing as if he'd never let
go.  

"What did you bring us?" they all said and laughed.

Q's face turned up.  He didn't know if he'd be able to stop
smiling.   Naturally he'd stopped at a toy store.  He opened up
the back door of the Volvo.  There were bags and bags of shiny new
toys.  His boys gasped.  Who had ever seen so much stuff!  "Which
one's mine, Diddy?  Which one's mine?"

"You boys share now.  Vernon, remember what I always wrote you
about looking after your brothers.  You take some and you let them
have some."  They tore through the bags, pulling plastic cop sets
and basketballs and water guns and genuine medieval fortress kits
out of the  backseat.  And there were books with stiff new spines,
and three perfect skateboards, and strange little balls that
bounced wayyyyy high and a slinky and three G.I Joes, and brightly
colored modeling clays and a bunch of sports figures (the boys had
a brief but furious dust-up about who got to keep a particular
basketball player.  "Share,"  Q ordered) and there were candy
straws and peppermint patties and peanut cups and coconut and
every kind of candy possible.  

"Those are for you to share with your cousins," Q directed.  The
boys ignored him, gobbling the candy until he had to order them to
stop.  

More slowly, Beverly and her mother and Buddy and Sonny and Junior
approached.   They saw things the boys did not notice.  For
instance, the car that had purred like a kitten as it came up the
driveway.   Q's clothes which were new and fit him as if they'd
been wrapped around his body and sewn on by hand.  His tan which
was somehow different from what they were used to; not the bright
red burn of a face that had been chewed up by the sun, but an
even, perfect layering of gold and brown pigment.  His long hair
which did not trail to raggedy edges, but rather, when it came
loose from all the hugging and squeezing, fanned across his back
with a crisp, deliberate edge.  No one's hair grew so perfectly
like that.  

Q looked to them as if he might be from another planet.  

"We love you, Diddy!"  This came from Roger, the smallest one, the
one with the reddest hair.

"I love my boys!"  That much was obvious.  He couldn't stop
touching them, stroking their hair, smiling at them, staring at
them. 

"Hello, Quentin," Beverly said.  She was smiling nervously. 

"Beverly, Mrs. Crusher," he said.  He nodded to the brothers.

"I made some coffee, Quentin.  You come on up to the house,"
Beverly's  mother said.

The coffee was good, and, after Q sat silently with the Crushers
for a while, his sons came in.  Their grandmother smiled and gave
them big biscuit-like raisin cookies. 

"Diddy, are you back for good?" said Roger.

"Daddy has to go back to work, I'm afraid, but tomorrow I want us
all to go into town and buy some clothes for you.  And lots of new
shoes!   For those big old feet of yours!"

"Diddy, are you spending the night with us?" asked Vernon.

"No, I'm staying with Meemaw McConn tonight."

"How come you ain't staying here with us, Diddy?" 

"Meemaw's got a lot more room at her house," Q said smoothly.

"How come you don't like women no more, Diddy?"  Everyone looked
up.  It was either Sonny or Buddy. 

Q looked straight at the brothers.  "Oh, I like some women."  
Beverly had the grace to look away.  She looked mighty old. 

Q reached into his pocket to pull out a huge roll of bills.   He
peeled off a few and handed the rest to his wife.  

"Here, Beverly, buy yourself something pretty."  And his glance
wandered casually back to his brothers-in-law.

Beverly stuffed the money into her pockets without really looking
at it, but her mother had noticed the denominations on the bills.

She was furious. "Don't you dare come in this house throwing money
around like that!  You think I don't know what you're doing?" 

Quentin knew exactly what she meant.  He wanted to be the head of
this terrible family.  And he would buy his way there if he had
to.  Everyone clustered around as Beverly pulled thousand-dollar
bills out of her pockets, and they stared at the money and then
stared at Quentin resentfully.  They could not say no to this much
cash.   

Q stared back serenely, and then said to his sons, "Did you boys
tell me you liked the Krystal?  Come on, we'll get us some
hamburgers and Cokes."

"Yay, Diddy!" they all said and ran to get their shabby coats.

There was more silence.  Q stood.  "Beverly, day after tomorrow
I'm heading back to L.A., where the band is.  When I get there,
I'll send you my address so in case the boys need anything else."

Beverly never looked up; she only nodded.
 

Afterwards the boys could talk of nothing except what Diddy ate
for dinner and what Diddy bought them and what Diddy said he was
going to buy them, and Momma can we go to California and see
Diddy, please, please, please.  He said we could if it was all
right with you, please, Momma?

Beverly was overwhelmed.  Her brothers scowled, greedy and
resentful.   They wanted some more of Q's money.
        
*************************

Q was back at the penthouse.  He was a honest whore.

Fajo was exasperated, "Where in LA do you want to be dropped off?" 

Q hid his freedom well.  It seemed wise to act sad at leaving 
Fajo.  It seemed wise to act thankful, too.  Holding very still,
he gave Fajo Quark's address.

Fajo barely glanced at it.  

Still watching Fajo, Q called Quark.  They spoke briefly.

Then Q took his suitcase, still unpacked from Kentucky, and left. 

He barely breathed til he was on the plane to L.A.

*************************

Quark called the house, and Geordi answered.   His voice was full
of sunshine.  "Quark, hello!" 

"Don't tell Jean-Luc."

Geordi was taken aback.  Quark sounded furtive and subdued.   

"Q just called.  He's coming home tomorrow.   He wanted the
address.  I gave it to him."

How could such good news be so horrible at the same time?
 

Jean-Luc left the room when Geordi worked up the nerve to tell the
other Boys.

And all the next day, the Boys couldn't do anything but hover near
the front door.

Only Jean-Luc stayed in his room, maintaining a scary silence.  
 

At four o'clock in the afternoon, they heard the car.  They looked
out the picture window.   

A long-legged, dark-haired man climbed out of the limousine,
uncanny in his perfect beauty and making that nervous
hand-wringing gesture that Q always made when he was upset.

He needn't have worried.  Worf was down the front steps and in his
arms before the limo got twenty feet away. He kissed Q's  mouth,
his cheeks, his neck, grinding their bodies together; then
everybody was rushing up to Q to embrace him, and, being who they
were, the hugs quickly turned into group frottage.  All the faces
were wet, all the hands were stroking.  Now Will and Q were
holding each other's faces in their hands and kissing, and now
Data and Q were holding each other, and he had his arm around
Geordi's neck, and they kept moving, weaving themselves against
each other.   

Then Jean-Luc stepped to the front door.   

Immediately the rubbing, pressing, moaning group broke up and
stepped aside.

Jean-Luc simply stood there, letting Q shift into worried mode
again.   He waited until Q's slow steps brought them almost face
to face, stepping aside at the last minute to let Q into their
house.  

And then he shut the door behind him, leaving the other Boys
outside.



Part III. Money Changes Everything.


Jean-Luc pressed on Q's shoulders, pushing him down to the floor.  
His expression didn't change.

"You haven't forgotten, have you?"

Q stared up at him. That face. It was like staring at the sun. But
everything was starting again.  He hadn't been in the house one
minute and already he was letting Jean-Luc teach him his place
again.  So be it.  He knew it would be like this.  He bent to the
task of pleasing his lover.  Memorizing the inches of him.

Jean-Luc pulled away.  "You've gotten better at this." It was an 
accusation.

Q couldn't deny it.  He was better because he'd been pleasuring
the fussy Kivas for six months.   

Jean-Luc didn't say anything more.  He thrust to the back of Q's 
throat, forcing his lover to keep sucking around his gags,
holding his shoulders and head in a punishing grip.  And, when he
was finished, Jean-Luc buttoned himself up and walked away without
another word.  


Q stayed where he was on the floor.  He wouldn't start crying. 

He wouldn't.  He wouldn't.

The others were clustered around the front door, nervous and 
horny.  They knew what Jean-Luc was doing.  They waited in limbo 
until Q opened the door, his eyes downcast, and let them in again. 
 
      
Q's first night back made everyone nervous.  

Worf silently went back to Will's room, and, out of pure nerves,
began fucking Will as if by rote.   

There was a knock at the door.  "Let me in," Jean-Luc said.

Worf got out of bed, naked, and opened the door.

Jean-Luc walked in followed by a pale Q.  

"I've decided the auditions aren't over yet."  He lowered his
head.  "Will, you get to be Jean-Luc tonight.  Worf, you're with
me."

They left.

"What's this?" said a frightened Will.

"It's what Jean-Luc wants." Q answered.  He looked around Will's 
room.  His shoulders slumped.  

They were silent for a bit.  Finally Will said, "Isn't this a
great room!  Do you like all my centerfolds?"  

"My goodness.   And you have so many of them."

"This is nothing!  I get more all the time."

What was there to say or do?

Suddenly Will threw his arms around Q.      

Q embraced him back and they held each other silently, loving 
brothers back together after being sold into slavery.

Q finally stepped back.  "So, what's been happening all this 
time?"

Will misunderstood.  

"I've got a lot of pictures since you left."  Will answered.  He 
went to a huge drawer in his wall-sized bureau and drew out a
green  folder.

These were not casual snaps of the Boys on picnics and riding
bicycles and posing in front of Christmas trees.  Will's photos 
were like the centerfolds, only more so.  Will getting a blowjob
from a  fresh-faced blond boy.  Will fucking a young Asian.  Will
fucking a red-headed college boy.  Will and a young black man
naked and aroused in front of the Polaroid camera. Sometimes one
could see Worf or Geordi or Data in the background, naked or
partially clothed.  Will always smiling, proud of what he had. 
Numberless ones of Will smiling at the  photographer as he
masturbated.  Numberless more of anonymous  young men doing the
same.  A few women blowing Will, their arms or breasts tattooed
with other men's names, their pubic hair cut in ornate patterns.

Will's enthusiasm was getting the most of him.  "I love this 
life!" 

Q was gentle, "Do you always use a rubber?"

Will nodded.  "Always.  Jean-Luc said he would get hold of me if I
didn't.  I'm scared not to.  And Worf makes me too."  He scooted
closer to Q.  "You know what was going on when you came in?" 

Q gave a small smile.  "Worf was fucking you in the ass."  

"I think Jean-Luc wants us to get busy." 

Q sighed.  "I'd like to suck your sweet dick, Will.  Can I?"  

"Oh," Will breathed.  "The rubbers are over there."  And Q was 
back on his knees  disinterestedly yet devotedly sucking Will's
cock.  "I love you," he said before he took Will in his mouth. 

Will moved more closely against him: "You are so good.  I wish 
had a photo of this."

Q ran his teeth gently over the head of Will's cock.  And Will
began to squirm and spread his legs further and murmur things. 
"Cocksucker I always  think about you sucking Jean-Luc's dick and
stripping for him and I get... he likes to look at your dick and
maybe you don't even know he's looking at you and then he
surprises you and sucks your big dick and you're all stripped and
waiting and he fucks you and fucks you," and Will was becoming
quite undone by his own erotic vision and then he was very still
and Q felt the moment of crisis and Will came.  Then he lay his
head back.  "God!"

But in a moment he was sitting back up: "What can I do for you?"

"Nothing."  

Will's face went still.  And Q saw he had hurt him.  

Whores.  

"I don't want you to do nothing but suck me with that big old 
mouth of yours."

And Will bent and sucked him off.  Q had to concentrate against 
getting soft.  Perhaps, indeed he might be back with Jean-Luc 
tomorrow and they would sleep together and Jean-Luc would take him
and that warmth would be there that he had missed for so long and
that thought made him go into his final spasm. 

"Wow, that's what Jean-Luc was missing, huh."

"I doubt he missed it much."

Will shook his head.  "He missed you.  He never slept a night in 
his own room.  He would come get Worf, or go get Data and sleep in 
their beds."  Then he leaned closer, telling a secret on the boss. 
"Sometimes we had to be quiet at breakfast because he had slept on
the couch all night.  And  sometimes," Will's eyebrows lifted up, 
"he would bring these boys in.  Cute boys,"   Will smiled at the
memories, "with pretty mouths.   I think he was searching for
someone who looked like you."
          

The next morning, there was kiwi fruit and granola  and fresh
milk.  Jean-Luc sat at the head of the table.  When he saw Will
and Q come in, he said in a terrible still voice,  "What did you 
two do last night?"

Q could tell Jean-Luc hadn't slept well; there was a certain 
softness under his eyes.  He looked at Will and then he said.  "We
looked at dirty pictures and sucked each other off."

Will nodded.

Jean-Luc looked away.  "I made Worf fuck a groupie named
Christian.  Tonight, Q, you go with Data.  More auditioning. I get
Geordi."  He looked at Q daring him to say something.
 

The night hung over their heads.  The Boys showed Q their new
house.  They showed him their rooms, the way they'd decorated. 
Each room looked like the Boy who occupied it.  

Jean-Luc's room was the subject of intense study.  It was sparely,
almost severely decorated.  Not one picture on the wall, not even
a pillow on the bed.  Jean-Luc lived like a pauper, and Q knew
why.  His lover would give nothing of himself away, not even in
private.  Q made a mental note to put pictures in this room,
something bland and misleading that Jean-Luc would be indifferent
to.   Boats, maybe.

Q's room was bare and echoed when he walked around.  He pretended
to be impressed by the picture window that overlooked  their pool. 
He pretended to think about how he wanted to decorate it, but
mostly he wondered how long Jean-Luc would be angry enough to hand
him from man to man. 

*************************

The door to Data's room closed.  Data said, "What do you want to 
do?"

Q felt small, overwhelmed.  
       
They talked long into the night before they got around to having
sex.  Data also wanted to fill Q in on the events of the entire
six months he'd been gone.  Like Will, he tattled on Jean-Luc. 
"We finally got Worf to buy a bed for him and put it in his room. 
He still doesn't sleep in it much."

Then he tattled on Will, telling Q the story of the Christmas
cookies that were hard as rocks.

"Jean-Luc was very angry that you weren't there at Christmas,"
Data said.  "I believe he missed you very much.  I observed
several drastic modifications in his eating and sleeping patterns,
and temperament.  Especially his temperament."  Data paused.  He
seemed to be struggling with something.  "Q, I am sorry for my
part in this.  I feel I . . . complicated things.  I will do
anything to make it up." 

Q looked at him.  Then he took Data's smooth pale hand.     

*************************

Jean-Luc sat at the head of the table, waiting. "Okay, Boys, I
made Geordi jerk off while I watched.  Very gratifying for both of
us.  What did you do?"

"I fisted Q," Data said.  

Jean-Luc was very quiet and then he whispered, "Come with me, Q."

The word 'Q' left his mouth like a curse.  Or a gasp.

After Jean-Luc had pulled Q out of the room, Will turned to Data.
"You fisted him?"

"Yes."

"What was that like?"

Data looked down.  "It was a very . . .potent experience."  His
emotions seemed to be going in and out of focus.  "Actually I want
to fist . . .  I want to do that again.   I have never . . .," he
lifted his head; his eyes stared at nothing, "the experience was
extremely potent."
       

Upstairs, Jean-Luc forced Q into his bedroom, threw him face down
on the bed and tore his pants off him. "Did Fajo teach you that?"
he wrestled Q underneath him.  "Yes," Q cried.  Finally Jean-Luc
moved his own pants to his knees -- a bit of lubrication and he
was fucking Q -- Q's face was buried in a pillow, and Jean-Luc was
holding Q's neck down with his forearm.  Q.   No ass was like Q's,
small and firm, not overly muscled.   So high on those long legs. 
So smooth.  Jean-Luc loved pinching Q's ass with his huge hands,
seeing the bruises appear.  Seeing the faded bruises and renewing
them.  He was slamming into Q.  Paying Q back.  He wanted Q's
blood on the sheets.  

Finally he finished.  He was strangely unsatisfied, and he hated 
the smell of his own sweat rising from his body.  He pulled out. 
"Turn over, asshole."

Q turned over   his dick was hard.  

Jean-Luc looked at Q.  "I know all about Kivas.  He has small
hands.  And Data has small hands.  But you need to consider 
these."  He held up his huge hands, flat and broad as two Bibles,
and then turned them so Q could see both sides.  Then he stalked
off to the shower.  
 
Q made a quick decision to feel elated.  He had made Jean-Luc fuck
him.
 

Jean-Luc turned the water on as hot as he could stand it and  just
stood there and let it run down his body.  He hated Q. He wanted 
to go back out there and beat him until the image of Fajo with his
fist up his ass had been excised from his memory.  He wanted to
slide his hand inside Q's body and fuck him until he came
screaming.   Six months of wondering and Q just walks in as if
nothing's happened.  Six months of holding on so tight Jean-Luc
thought his entire body would turn to rock.  Not one fucking
letter, not one post card.  Q's shoulder had a scar on it now.  
Jean-Luc hated that scar, because it was a permanent reminder of a
time when Q had not been his.  It was a sneer from Fajo.   

Jean-Luc wrapped a towel around himself and went out into the
bedroom.

Q had pulled up his pants, but he was lying across the bed 
waiting for him.  He smiled when Jean-Luc came in.

Jean-Luc ignored him and went to stand out on the balcony.  Sure 
enough, Q got off the bed and came up behind him.   

"I missed you, Johnny."

Jean-Luc felt Q's dick soft against him.  Had Q been out there
fucking Fajo with that big dick?  Had he thought of Jean-Luc when
he spread his legs and told Fajo to go inside?  Jean-Luc turned
around and shoved Q as hard as he could.  Q staggered and fell,
rolling out of range of Jean-Luc's fists and feet. 

"What?"  His eyes had gone wide and frightened.  "Johnny, what's 
wrong? What did I do?"

"What did you do?"  Jean-Luc imitated him.  "What did you do?  
What do you think you did?"  He shadowed Q while Q tried to keep
out of his way.  Jean-Luc's bedroom was much bigger than the
prison cell, but eventually he was able to trap Q against the
wall, pinning him while one large hand wrapped bruisingly  around
his bicep.  "You tell me what you did."  

Q's stared back at him, fear written all over him.  He was 
breathing in shuddering gasps, trembling, trying to resist his
natural urge to pull away because that would only make Jean-Luc
angrier.  "But you told me to sleep with Data," he protested. And
this piece of idiocy made Jean-Luc too angry to even think 
straight.  His hand was slamming across Q's cheek before he even
knew it.  Q collapsed, covering his head with his arms.  Jean-Luc
dragged  him up by the hair, punching and slapping, pushing him
around the room.  Q was heavy, but Jean-Luc's rage gave him
strength. 

And Q was crying, begging and babbling. 
"Oh,GodohGodJohnnyI'msorrypleasewhateveritwasIwon'tdoitagainplease
Iswear."  He even tried to hide, which Jean-Luc somehow found 
endearing, even through his blinding rage.  

Finally Jean-Luc shoved Q backwards across the bed, and Q curled 
against the headboard, crying.  

Jean-Luc watched him for several moments.  If he'd been a smoker,
he would have enjoyed a cigarette as he surveyed his handiwork,
the rage gone out of him as suddenly as it had come.   

Downstairs the boys looked at each other helplessly .  Data was
especially distressed.   Q sounded so broken and sad and
Jean-Luc's fury was terrifying, even from upstairs behind the
bedroom door.  It was impossible to imagine what Q felt having to
experience it up close.  Q was crying, pleading for Jean-Luc to
please stop, promising not to do it again, apologizing for
whatever imaginary transgression Jean-Luc was angry about.

He and the rest of the boys had been hopeful when Jean-Luc had
taken Q upstairs just now.  They knew how much Jean-Luc missed Q. 
But, as they finished their breakfasts and were washing up, they
heard the sound of Q getting a beating.  

The Boys stared at one another disbelievingly, but the cries of 
pain and fear were unmistakable. 

Worf cried out his name in warning as Data ran out of the  kitchen
and up the stairs.  He wanted to beg Jean-Luc to stop, but
Jean-Luc owned Q, and he could do what he liked.  

The rage and cruelty confounded Data.   If his fisting Q had 
caused such a backlash, then it was his fault.  He should make
amends, but how? He listened to Q begging God for help, but he did
not dare intervene.

Finally he went down the hall.  He knew now that Q would never use
his empty bedroom.  Jean-Luc would  keep Q all to himself again,
just as he always had.

The echo of his footsteps against the bare walls seemed to confirm
this fact.  Data wished he'd at least bought a bed for Q.  That
way Q could hide in this bedroom whenever Jean-Luc was too much to
handle. 

Next door the beating reached a crescendo; then suddenly all was 
silent.  Data caught his breath.  Jean-Luc would never  . . . 

Data was terrified; with absolute stealth, he entered Jean-Luc's
bathroom, the better to eavesdrop on what was happening.  Q's
crying was clearly audible, and Data sighed in relief.  Jean-Luc
said something angry --  clearly an order of some sort; then Data
heard the bedroom door slam.

Q was alone, but Data still hesitated before entering.  If
Jean-Luc came back and found him, he might be angry.   Then he saw
his own reflection in the bathroom mirror: pale and childish. 
'You're a coward, Dave Soong,' he told himself.  He  opened the
door to Jean-Luc's room and looked in.  Q was curled by the 
headboard, his face in his arms.  

Data went to him and put his hand on Q's shoulder.  Q  flinched,
terror on his features, and tried to scramble away until he saw
who it was.  

"Shhh."  Data wrapped his arms around Q, taking in as much as the
broad shoulders as he could hold.  "I won't hurt you."  He sat
there patiently while Q sobbed in his arms.  Q was badly hurt -- a
black eye, a swollen lip, bruises all over his arms and shoulders. 
He looked horrible.  

"If only he'd tell me what I did wrong."  

Q hadn't done anything wrong.   Jean-Luc hit him because something
was wrong with Jean-Luc. 

"I didn't like to hear it when he hit you."

Q drew a shuddering breath. "Sorry."

"You did nothing wrong,  Q."

"Johnny..."

"Jean-Luc isn't angry at you.  He . . ."  Data could not quite 
bring himself to blame Jean-Luc, but he wanted to, which was
amazing in its way.  He tried to make an excuse.  "He missed you a
great deal.  He  tossed and turned all night.  I used to wait
until he fell asleep and then go sleep with Geordi because it was
very uncomfortable to be with him.  He called your name all night
long.  I would wake him and tell him you were gone, and he  would
finally wake up and tell me to shut up and go to sleep."  

Q closed his eyes. "He must have loved that."

"In fact he did not... Oh.  You are teasing."  Data considered. 
"He was most annoyed."


Q smiled through his swollen lip, and Data smiled back.  Both
smiles were little.

"Let's just lie here together," Data suggested.

"I'm a mess," Q demurred.

"I can run you a bath."

"That would be nice." 

Data was not willing for Q to be alone.  He led him into the 
bathroom while he filled the tub with hot water and bath salts
until the water was nice and foamy.  Then he helped Q undress and
then put him in  the tub and bathed him as if he were a child.  He
was gentle with the cut lip and the bruises.  To his immense
satisfaction, Q calmed down a great deal.  

"We're going back to my room," he said, and Q followed, compliant
as a three-year-old.

Data left Q's blood-stained shirt on Jean-Luc's bed, hoping 
Jean-Luc would see it and feel ashamed.

An hour later, there was a knock on the door.  It was Will.
"Jean-Luc says to tell Q to come on downstairs."

"Q's sleeping."  Data looked significantly at Will.  He was 
obviously lying because Q sat up in bed the moment he heard the 
knock on the door, and now he was staring at Will fearfully.

Will nodded.  He looked straight at Q.  "Sleeping hard.  I saw 
it."

It might work.  Even Jean-Luc was hesitant to enter another man's
bedroom if the door was closed.

"You all are so nice to me."  Q's voice was shaky.  

"We love you, Q.  Try to rest."

In fact, Q did doze a little, worn out from the beating and  the
tears.  When he woke, Data had food and clothes for him.  "Will
wants to take you for a ride in his new jeep," Data told him as he
dressed.  

"Where's Jean-Luc?" Q asked, quite expectedly.

Data hesitated.  He didn't want to admit that they were hiding Q 
from Jean-Luc as long as they possibly could.  He said, "I'm not
sure."

Q sighed.  "I guess he doesn't want me."

"He thinks you're still asleep."

Q thought about that for a long time.  "You're trying to protect
me from him, aren't you?"

"Are you not patently in need of protecting?"

Q would have liked to be able to pretend to some dignity, denying
that he needed to be protected from the man who loved him, but his
body ached and throbbed all over from the beating. "He might get
angry if I'm gone."

"That is true."


Will and Q met Jean-Luc on the way to the garage.  

All three were shocked into stillness.  

Then, "We're going for a ride," Will said in a high strangled
voice.  

Jean-Luc gave them a dark look.  "Be back for supper, or else.  I
have plans tonight."

Will backed his new car out of their garage and rode Q around all
afternoon to show him the sights. There was the restaurant that
sent them food almost every night.  There was a special love hotel
though  nobody was supposed to know it existed.  Worf had promised
to take Will there sometime.  And here was the grocery  store
where they shopped, another place Q might like.  

"Let's stop," Will said.

"No, everyone will see . . . my eye," Q whispered.     

"What exactly did you do to piss him off so bad?"  Will handled
the jeep very well. "Data said it wasn't your fault.  He said you
were pretty much kidnaped."

Data said.   Data said.  Abruptly Q felt a moderate sense of well
being wash over him.  Things were the same as they ever were --
don't tell one Boy anything you didn't want the other four to
know.

"I don't think it matters.  Let's not talk about it?"

"Sorry.  Let me show you this great burger joint I found."

They got back home around seven, just in time for dinner.  No one
ate very much.  After supper, Jean-Luc told Geordi it was his turn
to take Q upstairs.  When Geordi objected,  Jean-Luc's voice
hardened.  

"Whores need to be treated like whores or they forget their 
place.  Isn't that right, Q?" 

Q put his hand on Geordi's arm.   "Show me your room again,
Geordi."  
  

Since Geordi was with Q, Jean-Luc thought he might amuse Data. He
gave Data what he thought of as a simple girlish fuck.  And
actually it was, except for Jean-Luc's driving relentlessness. And
his hissed obscenities.  And Data's terror.    

 
Geordi was always the most centered Boy.  The worst had already 
happened to him, happened at birth, and having nothing more
serious to lose had been quite liberating.  He always got a little
anxious when helpless, virginal Data was fucked by other people
and then had no more dignity than to gab about it, but a good part
of Geordi was also amused by his dizzy dame who was so smart and
attentive.  Data learned quickly, and he liked pleasing Geordi. 
He was detail-oriented and persistent, and, unlike Will, once you
taught him something you never had to repeat it.  Of course, he
was often a bit too literal-minded, but he made Geordi laugh so
that was okay.  And Data clearly preferred Geordi's company over
all the others.  Occasionally Jean-Luc and Worf made Data fuck
them or someone else for fun, but Geordi had learned to put up
with that.   Data always brought his immaculate presence, his
tight ass, his slender frame back to Geordi.  Data cheated only
when he had to. 

Q, on the other hand, was a bit of an enigma.  He was a whore,
Geordi knew, and a slave, but without him, they wouldn't have any
of the things they had now.  Jean-Luc was too impatient, too
volatile, to administer the thousand and one details of running a
band.  Geordi didn't even know how much Q meant to the band until
he was absent and nobody could do anything right.  But for all
that, he didn't know Q.  They'd never spent much time together. 
Geordi would have preferred that Q come to him on his own, but
there was no circumventing Jean-Luc.

"We've never been together before."

"One time," Q corrected.  "On the bus, remember?"

Geordi smiled.  He could hear Q wandering around his room.  "Not
alone though."

"No, but I'm looking forward to it."  Q's voice had been
professionally alluring.  Geordi could hear it.  

"Q?  Come here?"  Geordi reached out for him, and Q came to him
and took his hand.  Geordi put both hands on Q's chest and then
reached up to touch his face.  "I missed you."

"I missed you too.  I missed all of you.  Sometimes I would have a
song in my head, and I'd wonder about the fingering, and I'd
think, 'Well, Geordi will tell me.'  Then I'd realize you weren't
there, and I'd feel..." 

"Lonely."  Geordi supplied.

"Lonely," Q confirmed.  He leaned down and kissed Geordi's mouth,
and there was nothing of professionalism in it.  This was
heartfelt, and now he stared down into Geordi's face, and his own
fingers gently explored him.  "Your skin," he murmured.  "You're
so beautiful, Geordi." 

"Tell me." 

Q thought.   "It's hard to say exactly how brown feels, but did
you ever taste chocolate pudding?  Did you ever taste black
coffee?  Well, if I took a sip of black coffee, then a spoon full
of pudding and mixed the tastes together in my mouth, that's what
you look like."

Geordi smiled.  "I like that."  

"Me too."  Q kissed him again and his body relaxed.  This had
somehow been transmuted from a performance for Jean-Luc's benefit
to a true reunion and, even though he didn't know how it occurred,
he was grateful to Geordi for making it happen. "Let me make you
feel good."

"We'll make each other feel good."  Geordi gently took over; his
voice was wonderfully calming..  "Be like me, Q.  Shut your eyes." 
Geordi reached out to find the buttons on Q's shirt and Q fumbled
with all the fastenings of Geordi's clothes.  "Now follow me, and
don't open your eyes yet.  I can tell if you're cheating."

Q couldn't help a shiver as he followed Geordi's exacting
directions out to his little hot tub.  He gasped when his foot
touched the churning water, gasped again as his naked bottom
touched the ledge.  "What are you doing?"

"Now we have to pick scents.  It's something Data and I always
do."  Geordi put a vial in his hand and Q felt its shape before
opening it and inhaling the contents.  "That one's nice." Geordi
handed him another one, and then another one after that.  With his
eyes closed each different scent was clear and sharp. 
Distinctively lovely.  

"This one."  He upended the bottle and in moments the steaming air
was redolent with the scent of blossoms.  It made the experience
more lush, more sensual.  Q wished Geordi could see, because he
would have liked to smile at him and have Geordi smile back. 
Well, there were other ways to accomplish that.  Q began a slow
massage of Geordi's shoulders "Geordi, I want to open my eyes.  I
want to see you."

"Sure."  Geordi was giving himself over to the strong sensations. 
Q was kissing him now, biting his shoulder where he rubbed.  Now
he turned Geordi around and licked at his nipple and then blew on
it.   Geordi shuddered.  Now the other one, now back, now forth. 
Again and again until Geordi groaned and began to thrust his hips. 

Q reached down.  Geordi was fully erect now.

"Do me, Geordi. My ass needs taking care of.  It needs fucking." 

Geordi's pretty open face smiled.

"I could sit on you, Geordi.  Let you hit my sweet spot with that
incredible cock of yours.  Hit my sweet spot, Geordi."  And Q was
getting worked up; Geordi's long thick dick did promised  all
sorts of exciting sensations.  And the warm water . . . and the
stars above . . . "Grab me right here, Geordi," Q pulled Geordi's
hands to his hips.  "Pull me down on you, use me, just use me, and
I'll play with myself while you do that."

And Geordi did.

He was astonished anew at what Q was.  

Data approached fucking as the logical end product of wanting
some.   And so he got it in the ass and therefore was pleased. 
Until his next time he felt . . . erotically stimulated. But Q's
pleasures were about pleasing his partners;  if you screamed with
pleasure,  if you panted and said "fuckfuckfuck", if your hands
formed subconscious fists and held Q's ribcage that way, then Q
rubbed himself against you all the more, Q was more breathless,
more excited, and he gripped that huge cock all the more
feverishly.  Like a virgin, his sex was all about you.  

"Geordi," he was saying now.  The water helped counterbalance Q's 
weight; he could easily lift his legs and have Geordi use him as
some sort of fucking device, but his beautiful ass still lapped
against Geordi's body like the tide.

Then he ground himself against Geordi, wanting more.  Spreading
his legs.  

And Geordi thrust against him: "Come on, Q, come, come for me,"
and he felt a tension in Q collapse and Q was coming and moaning
and he grabbed Q's unresisting hips and forced himself in as far
as he could go, and then he was coming with Q.

They sat back, Geordi softening inside of Q.  Q said, "I'm going
to be lonely without your dick."   

"There's more stuff where that came from," Geordi smiled and
withdrew,  laying back against the side of the hot tub.  Then they
were silent. It was a bit awkward, Jean-Luc intruding again; after
all, their climaxes were as much his objective as theirs.  

Q took Geordi's wet hand and kissed it.

Geordi touched his face again, questioningly.  

"I guess we can tell Jean-Luc we did it."

"In the hot tub."

Another silence.

Geordi's face was beautiful, pensive.  Q felt the weight of
Geordi's  world.  

"Q, Jean-Luc is making you do this to all of us so you can be a
part  of us again, isn't he?"

"I never thought about it.  Jean-Luc does things because he wants
to,  and I do things because Jean-Luc wants me to."

Nothing to say to that.  

Geordi moved the conversation to a more pragmatic turn.  "It's
good that you still write songs.  We're going to need some help. 
Tommy's riding our asses to get the new CD done.  But we haven't
put one tune in the can.  It's pitiful."  

He heard Q breathe in.  Very excited.  "Yes, I've got a million
songs in my head.  Things I've been thinking for some time.  I'd
take old songs and put new lyrics to them in my head."  He paused,
and his voice grew sad, dark.  "I  haven't sung any, though," he
sounded apologetic.  "I went mute after . . ." There was a pause.
"It was awful."

"What happened?"  Geordi was very alert; Q's voice was not casual.

Q hesitated.  "After I... after my shoulder got shot..."

He paused.  

Geordi waited.

"I couldn't talk.  For a long, long time.  Finally I... got
better.  Maybe ten days ago. I knew I had to come home while I
still had the courage to make my voice work.  The . . . man I was
staying with was getting tired of me anyway."  He gave Geordi a
weak smile.  Geordi didn't see it, but he heard it in Q's tone of
voice.  "My voice sounds strange to me sometimes."

"It's sounds fine," Geordi reassured him.

"Are you sure?"

"I have good ears," Geordi said gently.  "Tell you what, we'll
make some 'before and after' tapes.  You can hear for yourself
that your voice still works." 

Geordi couldn't see Q dimple: "I'm being a silly bitch, aren't I?" 
This  discussion, for some reason, was as interesting as fucking
to them.

"Q, sing for me."

"Sing what?"

"Any old song."

So Q began to sing, beating time with his fingers on the side of
the tub.


                              "You wouldn't read my letter if I wrote you;
                              You asked me not to call you on the phone;
                              But there's something I'm wanting to tell you--
                              So I wrote it in the words of this song."
 
                              "I didn't know God made honkytonk angels.
                              I might have know you'd never make a wife.
                              You gave up the only one who ever loved you
                              And went back to the wild side of life."
 
Q looked away; Geordi would never understand what this song meant
to him.  Geordi had never whored, never thought about whoring,
never been backed up against Fate's wall and whored his heart out. 
        
                              "The glamor of the gay night life has lured you
                              To the places where the wine and liquor flow
                              Where you wait to be anybody's baby
                              And forget the truest love you'll ever know."
 
Geordi's expression was pleasant, appreciative.  To him, the song
meant an artful arrangement of notes sung in very specific
temporal intervals, but to Q it was a portent, justifying
Jean-Luc's fury.  Q lounging on Fajo's elegant rugs, Q with Fajo
in his ass daily, Q the shameless whore.
 
                              "I didn't know God made honkytonk angels.
                              I might have known you'd never make a wife
                              You gave up the only one who ever loved you
                              and went back to the wild side of life."

It was embarrassing to both of them when Q began to sob
uncontrollably, but the ironies of the simple song were corroding
every piece of control Q had mustered.  The control that kept him
upright when he was sucking Will and being fucked by Jean-Luc and
fisted by Data and when he was facing down the Crushers in
Kentucky with his head held high.  And all of this he had done to
get back from Kivas so he could make sure his world was still
ticking, his sons happy and healthy, the Boys together and
productive, and . . . he couldn't quit crying.  Geordi began to
whisper hesitantly, "It's okay, let's just go to sleep for a
while, we're nice and clean, it'll be okay."  He led the weeping Q
out of the tub and to the bathroom to dry off and then to the bed. 

"Q, please, Q, calm down," Geordi said, "we'll protect you, I
promise."

From something.

They spent the night in each other's fragrant arms.


When Q and Geordi came down the next morning, Jean-Luc wouldn't
even look at them.

"Back to my room, motherfucker," he said in a soft voice.


In the bedroom, Jean-Luc still wouldn't look at Q.  "Where did you
and Will go yesterday?"

"He took me around.  We thought it might be okay with you."

"It will be if I can take it out of your whoring hide."

And he pushed Q to the floor and then methodically began to slap
Q, hard slaps, all over his body, on his face again, and Q wept
again and said, "I love you" a hundred times. 

Jean-Luc was too moved to speak.

He sat back.

The door to the bedroom was open.  Worf was standing there.

Jean-Luc stood up, furious.  Q scuttled to a corner.

"Beat me now," Worf said.

Jean-Luc stared at Worf.

"I know you're mad, and I know you got the right," the big man
tilted his head towards the corner where Q cowered, "but I'd as
soon spare him this one time."

Jean-Luc glowered.  He was being unfair and he knew it, but he was
not about to acknowledge it.  He gave Worf a hard look.

"I guess I'd as soon you turned around and shut that door behind
you."   He looked at Worf.  Worf looked back and then backed 
away.  Jean-Luc lifted his chin and then turned his hard look on
Q.  Who dropped his eyes and tried to shrink even more deeply into
the corner where he cowered.


Jean-Luc didn't beat Q any more that day.  And that night he
silently let Worf have Q.  From his point of view, this was the
final test of Q's love; the strongest emotions were among them,
the first three, the original jailhouse boys -- and he knew Worf
loved Q and Q loved Worf.  

Jean-Luc was so angry and upset he was nearly paralyzed; he wanted
to fuck over the world.

*************************

Worf had waited his turn patiently, but now he was staring at this
piece of prime rib in his bed, wondering what it would be like to
beat him like Jean-Luc beat him.  There were bruises on Q's face
and arms, and more bruises on his back and ribs, and Worf felt
sorry for him.  Q had always been kinda helpless and he probably
shouldn't have made Jean-Luc angry, but still...    

But still Q's helplessness was his main attractiveness, along with
his beauty and grace and tenderheartedness.   Worf would have
bitten into him and swallowed him whole if he could have, but what
they were doing now was just fine.  His whole hand was inside Q's
ass and Q was moaning wildly.  His head was thrown back and his
arms and legs were splayed out, and he looked like pussy so bad
Worf could hardly stand it.   

"I don't see.  How Jean-Luc.  Can ever.  Do anything.  But fuck 
you," he muttered.  "Not sing.  Not eat.  Just fuck you.  Up that. 
Pretty ass.  Of yours.  I'm going to.   Wake you up.  Again
tonight.   And fuck you again.  And every time you see me."  His
hand moved more forcefully.  "You're going to think of me inside
you.  Every time."   He punctuated every sentence with  another
thrust of his fist, and Q undulated against him, looking totally
undone.  He had his head turned to one side, as he always did,
moaning and sighing, suffering so sweetly that it was hard not to
want to make him moan forever.    "Fuck that pussy.  All kinds of
ways," Worf  mumbled.  To his amazement he was getting erect
again.  It couldn't be, could it?  His third time in one night? 
But he himself had just said so.  With a Q in your bed, all you
could do was fuck him.  It was like squinting at the  sun.  Or
holding your breath under water.  You didn't have to think about
it.  It just happened automatically.

"I love you," Q whispered with his eyes closed.  

"It's okay. That you're thinking.  Of  Johnny."

"I love you, Worf."  The tone was completely different this time.  
They were good friends.

*************************

While Worf had Q, Jean-Luc had gone with Will.  

"Let's go to your room," he had said, grabbing Will's neck.


Will was shocked.  "When I took Q, you gave Worf some blond
chicken  named Christian.  How come I don't get any blond 
chicken?"

Jean-Luc couldn't believe it.  "You useless fat piece of pussy. 
Are you disputing me?  You will do what I say." 

Of course. 

"You want to go back to Big Daddy Riker?  You think I can't
arrange that, motherfucker?  You can leave tonight." 

Will fell to his knees.  "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.  I'm
just ... I didn't ... I thought ...  I didn't think you would want
me ... I thought maybe ... with one of the groupies ..."  He
cringed at Jean-Luc's anger.

Jean-Luc kicked him; Will fell over. "Crawl to your bedroom, you
piece of shit."

The halls were haunted with men's tears.

"Get out those pictures you showed Q.  I want to see what made you
two so fucking hot."

"No!" Will cried.

Jean-Luc slapped him.  "Do it!  I'm not going to tear them up if
that's what you're scared of.  Just hand them over."

Will got a couple of handfuls of Polaroids out.  

"Pull your pants down to your knees and bend over by the bed," 
Jean-Luc instructed him.  "What drawer has your fuck toys?"

Will pointed, sobbing.

Jean-Luc opened it and rummaged around.  He took out a velvet bag. 
Handcuffs.  He came over and grabbed Will's hands and handcuffed
him to the bottom  bed rail.  Will's head was practically touching
the floor.  He sobbed harder.  Jean-Luc ignored him, looking
through the photos.   

Then he unzipped himself and spit on his hand and, using that as 
lubrication, plunged into Will's big pale womanish ass.  Will
groaned in pain, but Jean-Luc ignored him.  He kept on looking at
the photos as he fucked him, letting the pictures fall on Will's
back like autumn leaves. 
       
*************************

Q wished he could hide until the bruising went down, but there
would have been no point.  Everyone knew Jean-Luc beat him. 
Everyone could see the purple-yellow swelling around his eye.   
Will and Worf took him out for long rides in the jeep.  Data and
Geordi hid Q in their room as much as they could.  They said they
wanted him to record his new songs for them so they could
transcribe them.
   

Jean-Luc continued his dark testing, his black mourning.  He made
Q spent another night with Data.  With Geordi.  With Worf. The
house itself seemed to walk on pins and needles around him.  He
knew what he was doing to his little band, but he also knew this
purging would not stop until it was done.  He could see nothing,
feel nothing, except the rage that twisted inside him.

Then he began to hear the music.  Gruesome and beautiful.

He barged into the family room.  "Where'd you get that piece?"

"Q wrote it."  Geordi obediently handed over the music.

Jean-Luc took the sheets and looked over the words.
 
*************************

Tommy Quark had deliberately stayed away.  All those big
incomprehensible homosexual emotions were hard for a  regular
straight guy like him to take.  

But when he saw Q, he was shocked.

"So he mopes around for six months, missing you.   Six months in
the music business is a lifetime!  And, when you finally get back,
what does he do but pop you a good one."  

Q shrugged.  "Johnny has a temper."

"A temper?  So that is what you call it?"

Jean-Luc walked into the room.  

"Jean-Luc," Quark said, "why don't you just kill him and get it
over with?"   

Jean-Luc didn't look at anyone.  "Why don't you fuck off and get
it over with?"

Quark turned to Q.  "How's your arm?"

The other Boys looked at each other.  He'd been back for almost
two weeks, playing and singing, and not one of them had thought to
ask how his shoulder felt.

Q flexed his fingers.  "I'm fine.  I can play."

"Good.  All of you get your asses back into the studio yesterday. 
I'm in negotiations for your-third-CD major concert tour." 

Tommy looked at Q.  It was obvious he wanted to say something 
sympathetic, and just as obvious that Jean-Luc's glare was
preventing it.  "Sooo, you take care, Q."  He shot a look, both
mean and apprehensive, in Jean-Luc's direction and disappeared. 
 
*************************

Jean-Luc decided to rape Q.  This turned out to be an awful
decision.  

Rape meant resistance, fighting, scratching, tears.  Cries of 'no'
and 'stop,'  Jean-Luc's will imposed on Q's.  

But Q had no will when it came to Jean-Luc; he worshiped him too
dearly.   

Jean-Luc came for Q when he was singing with Data and Geordi.  He
was gratified when Q paled at his expression.  He took Q to the
bedroom and punched him and pushed him around a little and then
tore his clothes off.  But when he forced himself inside Q, Q's
body relaxed.  Jean-Luc pretended to ignore it until he saw his
reflection in the dresser mirror -- redfaced, sweating and
grimacing.   Jean-Luc closed his eyes.  He looked too much like
his father when he stared up at him from the bottom of that
ravine.  Beneath him, Q was crying, but he was moaning a little
too, being helpful, moving his hips so Jean-Luc had better access.

Jean-Luc quit fucking him.  He fell across Q's sweaty back and lay
against him, panting.

"I love you, Jean-Luc," Q whispered.

Jean-Luc withdrew.  He laid a quick kiss against Q's beautifully
muscled back.    Q had it coming and worse, disappearing like
that.  Then he rolled away from Q and lay on the bed with his arms
over his eyes.  "Get your clothes back on and go back to what you
were doing.  That song might be useful."
 

Geordi and Data were still waiting, frightened, when Q came back
in.

Data silently noted that Q did not appear to have received any new
bruises, but Geordi could hear that his breathing was just a bit
faster and shakier than usual.  He reached out to Q and when Q
came to him, Geordi ran gentle hands over his face and torso. 
Sure enough, when he got to Q's arms and shoulders, Q winced with
a quickly indrawn breath.  

"Again?"  Geordi asked resignedly.

"He..."  There was no excuse Q could give.  He shut his mouth.

"Q, why is Jean-Luc doing this?  It does not really . . .
compute."

Q looked at Data, but it was Geordi who answered.  "I know why.  I
can taste it on Jean-Luc. He's relieved Q's home."

Q said nothing.  He would have to endure this until  Jean-Luc
might begin to trust him again.

He just wished it didn't leave so many bruises.

Each man quietly tuned his instruments.

"The record company gave Jean-Luc a car," Geordi finally said.  He
had clearly been studying something over. "Ask Jean-Luc if he'll
let you  see it."
       

The television was on in the den.  Jean-Luc sat alone, withdrawn,
half-watching it.  He'd left the supper table early, his dinner
mostly unfinished.  The others drifted in slowly and sat down to
watch too, ill at ease, but they could knew they could never leave
Jean-Luc alone.  Jean-Luc didn't look up.

Reverend Garak was peering out of the televison screen.

Reverend Garak smiled.  He leered.  He said, "Let's have some
frank talk about sodomy."  And he licked his lips.

"Get her," Worf said.

"Don't talk the talk if you can't walk the walk," Geordi said,
hoping Jean-Luc would smile.  

Jean-Luc's pain was palpable: his regret and his memories and his
love and his fury warred, leaving this withdrawn, bitter husk
sitting in their midst.

"Jean-Luc, show me your new car," Q said softly.

Jean-Luc stood up and walked out of the room.  Q followed him.
 

Jean-Luc drove Q to a place on the beach.  The water beat against
the packed sand, and seabirds cried far off.   They both got out
of the convertible and leaned against the grill. 

Jean-Luc had said nothing the entire drive; now he was standing
there with his arms folded in front of him.

Q's job was to stay by him.  Q still liked that job more than 
anything.

Finally, Jean-Luc took a deep breath.  "I'm not going to change,
Q."

"Good," Q was smiling.  He eased closer, hoping he would be
allowed to wrap his arms around Jean-Luc's body as he loved
to do.  Jean-Luc frowned and jerked away from him.  Q was patient. 
This would take a little time. 
 
They came home.  Jean-Luc was ragged with fatigue, but he  managed
to knock on Worf's door.  "It's open," Worf said.  Jean-Luc leaned
in: "Let's get a lot of little things squared away tomorrow, and
then after supper go back to the studio. Spread the word."
 
*************************

DCA Records was much relieved to hear from Q; their international
markets wanted bright shiny new curious American
product. 
 
*************************

After supper, they all trooped into Data's bedroom/studio.  

Fortunately, so much studio work was getting sound levels and 
headphones adjusted and moving mikes and speakers around and
figuring out places to stand so that, if a person was really shy
about what he had to say, no one knew immediately.  
 
Q had on big space-age headphones, and so did Jean-Luc. 
"Jean-Luc, would you like to try this song?  It doesn't have a
name because I figured we would end up throwing it away.  But it
might be good to  warm up with.  I'll play the piano for you."  
The others worked, keeping half an ear open. 


The slow simple tune was like a folk tune, heard a million times
before.
       
                              Come into these arms of mine
                              and lay your dear head down;
                              You're prisoner of the trembling earth
                              but I will bring you peace.
                              Let me bring you love
                              Let me bring you hope
                              Let me bring you release.
 
                              Once you heard the warrior drum
                              and left me for the fight

(Q started to sing with him, spiking Jean-Luc's burly demanding
voice with something softer.)

                              Cruel time split us in two
                              but now you're back on my breast-
       
                              Oh, there is in all the world
                              no greater love than mine
 
Jean-Luc looked at Q; when he wanted to, Jean-Luc could be as 
clear-eyed, direct and tender as a woman.  Why be loyal to him
otherwise?  

The song sped up.
 
                              In this cave let us love tonight
                              I will hold you from the cold
                              the warrior drum has passed us by
                              Now we burn with other fires 
                              Let me bring you love
                              Let me bring you peace
                              Let me bring you release
 
                              Come into these arms of mine
                              and lay your dear head down;
                              A prisoner of the trembling earth
                              I will bring you peace.
 
By this time everyone had stopped to listen.  

Jean-Luc looked at Q   "Bluegrass songs generally have a little
more rime."  His voice was as gentle as possible; Q's song was
gorgeous.  

"Thunder and rain don't rime, but you still listen.  Our fans 
need to get over it." 
 

They all sang and played music all night long.  At dawn, they went
out for dough-nuts and coffee and mango nectar and 
oatmeal biscuits with pear jam.

"Let's get some sleep, and we can start all over again tomorrow 
night," Jean-Luc said.

Everyone nodded at him.
 
Q followed Jean-Luc to his bedroom; Jean-Luc hadn't said he wanted
Q to come with him, but he hadn't not said it either.  They
showered silently, separately, and then Q joined Jean-Luc on the
bed.  He crept under the covers very cautiously. 

Yet the silence wasn't unfriendly.  

"What is that you have on?" Jean-Luc said finally.

"Oh.  This sort of underwear-thing I got used to.  In . . . in 
Europe."  Q was trying to make his absence sound generic,
unimpressive.

"Stateside we call it a thong.  Are you wearing a thong, Q?" but
his voice was half-amused.

"Do you like it?"  No one but they knew this was the most delicate
of conversations, a conversation they'd been avoiding for weeks.   

"Will always wears thongs," Jean-Luc said.  They both thought
about that for a while.   "Was that your costume for your big
six-month European fuckathon?"  In his own way, he was trying to
be very gentle about it.

"Do you like it?" Q was not insistent, but flirting.

"Obviously," Jean-Luc said and pressed against him.

They didn't make love, but it still felt as if they might be in
love.                                             

*************************
 
The real estate agent, all frizzy hair and power suit, was driving
her most important client around.

"Mr. Fajo, it is always such a pleasure to see you."  Fajo was
worth billions; that was the pleasure part.  "Now about this
office building you're interested in, it is fully leased.  The
most important client is . . . ", she said  "most important"
without irony, "is named Tommy Quark.  DCA loves Tommy Quark.  I
heard they might advance him the money to buy the building."  She
was not above lying to sell a building, but that rumor happened to
be true.  

Then her heart sank.  The building sure didn't look like much in
the bald sunlight.

And some kid was out front, some street kid no doubt.  Big white
cowboy hat.  An Asian!   Thai or something!  With bleached blond
hair!  And he was crying!  He apparently had had some sort of
elaborate eye makeup on and was now sobbing his eyes out, the
makeup running down his face.  Eyeliner everywhere!  He made the
place look like a slum!

"Stop," Fajo said suddenly.  "I want to get out and look around."

                         No accounting for taste. 

*************************

More songs.  Q gently re-assumed the role of band leader; his ears
weren't as good as Geordi's, but he was more balanced.  He kept
working on the Boys to create a constant hums of noise behind
Jean-Luc's cries and bellows and roars and purrs.  He coaxed fast
little "yeah yeahs"  out of Jean-Luc, insistent murmurs of sound
from Geordi, wild quick yodels like punctuation marks from Data.   
     

For a few weeks they lived an odd life of midnights to dawns.  The
late hours made music flow more easily for all of them.  They
worked as hard as they ever had, and loved every second of it.

Jean-Luc would not ever have admitted it, but he was thrilled to
have Q back as bandleader again.  Only someone who loved him as
much as Q did could push his voice so gently.  Q guided Jean-Luc
through their songs as if he were navigating the curves of the Big
Doe, avoiding the rapids, easing over the rocks, curving the music
around and through him until it was beautiful, then more
beautiful.  And Jean-Luc could give himself over willingly because
Q's one job in life was to learn his Johnny from one end to the
other.  Q knew his voice, but, more to the point, Q knew what to
do with it.  Between the two of them, they puzzled out the
dimensions of his extraordinary ability.  He made such a rich
sound that even he himself had to pay attention to it when they
played back their recordings.  Dark and sinuous, his voice
promised freedom like the river did.  His voice was the dime
hitting the bottom of the wishing well, it was the very second
right before the Sears catalogue fell open to your favorite page,
it was the preacher's hand reaching out to baptize you in the
sacred waters, and the promise that your dearest wish would be
fulfilled.  Jean-Luc knew that every time he opened his mouth to
sing, these things happened, but he didn't know why.  After a
while, he did not question it, but simply trusted Q to bend the
music around the sounds he made.  

He enjoyed Geordi and Data's wide knowledge of music and music
history, but it was Q's instincts he trusted more than any book
learning.  Sometimes Q asked him to sing for the band, and he did
so, teaching them his voice so they could learn how to play to it,
enhance it, present it like a woman on a satin bed.  

Quark showed them the tour calendar.  Big tour.  Big halls.  Many
tickets.  People were clearly expecting miracles. 

Jean-Luc smiled to himself.  He was unafraid; he could walk out on
those stages knowing exactly how precious it was, this thing he
had to offer.
 
*************************

The sweetness of Q's temperament had not changed at all, but he 
had gotten used to having beautiful things around him and being a
beautiful thing himself.

He looked around their rental house and frowned.  It was too
small.  And why were they renting when the could get a nice tax
break if they actually bought a house?  Didn't their accountant
tell them?

"Accountant?"

Q sighed.  He went out and hired an accounting firm.  Then he went
out and found a real estate agent.  The Boys were excited.  They
were going to buy a house.  

Even Jean-Luc got into the act.  "We each get our own bedroom," he
ordered.  That way they wouldn't have to play musical beds
whenever he wanted to fuck one of his Boys.

"Geordi needs a place to put his hot tub," Data said. 

"We have to have a pool," Q told them. "Everyone has a pool."

"A garage for the cars would be nice," Will suggested.  Jean-Luc
nodded.  "A big garage," he said.  
        
So Q went out to look for a six-bedroom house with a pool and a
hot tub and a big garage.  He found one, too -- a faux-colonial
monstrosity squeezed into a cul-de-sac with three other houses
just like it.  But it had a five-car garage and a pool and a pool
house.  The house was tacky and overdone, but this was Hollywood,
and the price was right.   

The other Boys thought they'd moved into heaven.  Q knew better,
but he didn't say anything.

They were thrilled to have their own rooms, and each Boy
immediately set about decorating (except for Jean-Luc, who
regarded the entire house as his).

Q arranged his room exactly the way he thought Jean-Luc might like
it.  He put up pictures of sailboats, and a soft beige carpet for
his knees (he knew he'd be on his knees a lot) and a few pieces of
simple furniture.  

Geordi's room was very precisely arranged.  Pieces of gaffer tape
marked where the furniture was placed so Geordi could stay
oriented.  One wall was devoted to his sound system, and his was
the only room to open onto the flower-scented patio with its
constantly gurgling hot tub. 

Data's room adjoined Geordi's.  It had a number of machines in it,
humidifiers and air cleaners and electric toothbrushes and three
televisions and an amazing closet with a round rack like a
drycleaner's so Data could spin to the exact garment he wanted. 
He also had a shelf full of carefully labeled remote controls.

Worf liked it dark.  The walls and furniture were covered in a
beautiful black-gray upholstery; the  floor was covered with a
kind of black marble.  It was a remarkably relaxing space. 

And Will.  Ah, Will.  Yes, Will.  Will was the last  straw.  He
had a big round waterbed with a shaggy blue fur bedspread.  A
question mark was embossed in the shaggy blue fur.  He also framed
and hung his numberless centerfolds of men and women.  Then he had
a black and chrome entertainment center/wet bar installed, and a
full-sized refrigerator.   Next to the refrigerator was a
treadmill which he used as a laundry rack, mostly for XXL nylon
thongs.  

How nice, the seeing boys said politely.   

After the movers left, Data and Will came to Q.  They had their
little home-making schedule with them. "We shall work together to
keep our new house nice," Data said. 

Q looked back uncomprehendingly.  "You still clean the house?"

The two other Boys seemed a little nonplused.

"But why didn't you get a maid to do this?" 

"We thought you would want to come back and do this stuff with
us."  (But even as they said it, they saw that it sounded
ridiculous addressed to this languidly elegant beauty who had just
had his nails buffed.)

Q had been a geisha. He raised his eyebrows.  Then he told them to
get the phone book and look under 'M' for maid services.  "And not
just a maid, guys.  Let's get a personal trainer too." 
 
The maid was just barely all right with Jean-Luc, but he drew the
line at a personal trainer.  

"I just have a feeling about that kind of thing."

So they all got health-club memberships, and Jean-Luc escorted Q
to the gym. (It  never occurred to Q to buy just one membership,
and Quark said it was all tax-deductible -- profitable too if the
Boys stayed healthy during the  tour.) 


Jean-Luc knew at once that he was seriously out of his element; he
wore sweats and a t-shirt, but Q changed into biker shorts and a
tank top, and skin gleamed as he huffed and puffed on the rowing
machine.  

Jean-Luc looked around at all the weight-room booty with their
perfectly sculpted looks and he saw very clearly that Q fit right
in, getting more than his share of speculating, admiring smiles. 
It took less than half an hour for him to order Q out of there.  

"Q," he said, "it's stupid to have to run out to the gym every
day.  We'll build us a weight room."

"Good idea, Johnny."


Q had learned how to be rich.  He knew catalogues.  He moved them
out of their holding pattern, the pattern they didn't even know
they had been in, catapulting them into this place of security and
wealth and power. 

He hoped Johnny would like it.
                    
"We have to get ourselves a lawyer."

"Why?"  

It was hard to explain.  Q had learned how to be rich.  He knew
what it was to take care of the money he had.  He also knew the
others had no experience of taking care of large amounts of money. 
Or any amount of money.

"Jean-Luc, how many times have you ever paid taxes?"

Jean-Luc shrugged.  He hadn't paid taxes since the army.  "Fuck
Uncle.  He can kiss my ass."

"Well, Jean-Luc dear, that didn't matter when you didn't have
anything for them to take away.  But now..."

All the other Boys got very silent.  They liked their big new
house and their pool.  They didn't want the government to come
take it all away.  They looked at Jean-Luc.  His jaw was clenched
tight.   "Okay, motherfucker.  Get us a lawyer.  And while you're
at it, you can pay my fucking taxes."

Q did, patiently working with their lawyer and their accountant
until they created a believable fiction of how a man could live
for decades without paying the government a single fucking dime. 
They made an appointment with an IRS agent and intimidated him
into accepting forty thousand dollars for Jean-Luc's indemnity. 
Then they did the same for Will and Data.  Worf, Q and Geordi owed
nothing.  They paid piddling penalties for filing late and that
was all.

Then Q asked Jean-Luc to call a meeting.  He sat down with the
other Boys around the dining room table and explained what he'd
done.  

Jean-Luc pretended not to be impressed.  "You're wasting all our
money," he said and rubbed his lower lip with his thumb. 
  
Nonetheless, he had Q make copies of all the letters and
statements from the IRS, and he bought a little metal lockbox to
keep them in.  He kept the lockbox in his big new closet and every
once in a while he took his papers out and looked at them.  This
was better than a driver's licence, or a credit card.  This almost
made him a citizen.  

Q saw Johnny looking at his IRS forms, and it thrilled him that
Johnny was pleased with what he'd done.  He decided to come up
with even more plans.


Their old bus, the Stargazer, just barely fit into a corner of
their big garage.  Q studied it.  It was still a beautiful
serviceable vehicle, but Q felt they could do better.  So, sight
unseen, Q had the Boys buy the latest model tour bus for 
themselves.  The salesman Q talked to on the phone didn't have to
work hard; Q had read up and knew what he wanted.  A brand-new
customized Enterprise, fast as a star, soft as a  mattress. 

Worf said, "Will we trade in the Stargazer?"

"No," Q said, "I have other plans." 
       
The Stargazer was going to be their equipment bus and the bus
where their newly-hired roadies would live on the road.   

Then Worf had had a terrific idea.  He'd gotten a postcard a few
months back congratulating him on his success.  It had been signed
'Kurn,' their old prison buddy.   Worf kept it, and, when they
decided to hire roadies, he looked at the return address and hired
someone to find their jailhouse pal.           

Worf called him.  Did Kurn want a job?

"I'll take the first bus out," Kurn said.  When he got there, Worf
and Jean-Luc embraced him like a brother.  Kurn, like everyone,
had some rough edges, but he worked hard, and his allegiance was
never in question.

Kurn recommended hiring a couple of other men from prison.  Data
and Will were a little nervous about this, "Cons?" they said, but
Q, Jean-Luc, and Worf knew that the prison bonds were too peculiar
to explain, to firm to break. 

"We're cons too," they pointed out.

So they hired Kurn's men, an odd, intense little duck named Gowron
and a rather pretty rough boy named Klag.

Jean-Luc thought these men were great roadies; he spent a lot of
time talking to them.  Q teased him, "I didn't know you spoke
roadie, Jean-Luc."       

Jean-Luc looked at Q.  He felt real joy for the first time in
ages.  It was like being back in prison.  "I might give you to
them for a few days.  I want to make sure they're on our side."

Q dimpled and beamed.  Just like old times.  And it was a gift Q
could give Jean-Luc: he could be the biggest and most beautiful
whore.  
 

Kurn was almost driven to tears by Jean-Luc's largess.  He made Q
undress and sprawl on his stomach across the bed. 

Everyone's eyes grew round and their mouths hung open.        

Kurn took it upon himself to explain it to Gowron and Klag.  "Now
this is the boss-man's queen.  And he's giving her to us to fuck
all we want for a little spell of time and then we're on our own
again.  During this time, we can fuck her as much as we like.  And
any way we like.  She's the queen, yes, she is.  If somebody
wanted to fuck her pussy  while another wanted to get his cock
sucked, why, she's the one.  Look at that ass.  Boys, have you
ever?"  He shook his head.  

"The boss-man isn't giving the likes of us his little queenie for
nothing," Gowron growled.  "What's he want in return?"

"He wants our loyalty.  We fuck her now and we do a good job
after, later he might give her ass back to us for a bit. I say
it's worth it.  I say if a man can't tell it's worth it, then that
man don't deserve this job.   And I myself am now going to fuck
the queen til we both bleed." 

Q turned to Kurn and said, "Oh, yes, fuck me, Kurn.  I always
wondered what you'd be like."

Kurn almost gave himself a heart attack.  

And then he lay back recuperating as Klag and Gowron made Q take
both of them together.  They fucked Q until the world ended. 
Then, when it began again, they fucked him some more. 


When Jean-Luc came to take the exhausted, dilapidated but radiant
Q back from the roadies, he sat down for a chat.  But they did not
speak of the spectacular fucking they had given Q.  Jean-Luc spoke
to them as a man, and men had more important things to talk about,
much more important than the fun-loving kitten Q now resting his
dark head against Jean-Luc's knee.   

Jean-Luc absently stroked Q's head as he spoke.  The main thing
was the bus-driving duties.  Nobody said it out loud, but driving
duties were going to be apportioned the same way as fucking Q had
been.  Jean-Luc would drive whenever he wanted to; the rest would
swap it out when Jean-Luc let them.

"Will wants to do some of the driving.  He's got a taste for 
mechanical things," Jean-Luc smiled.  "He's mighty scared of 
ex-cons though.  I can't think why."

Kurn spoke: "We're a mother's kisses compared to some.  Say,
Picard,  did you hear about Sisko?"

Q looked up; Jean-Luc's face tensed.  "Where is that
motherfucker?" 

"Somebody else confessed to his crime.  That motherfucker was
always innocent."  All the men shared a dark smile.  "Yeah, Sisko
is back in action.  You knew what happened after you got paroled,
didn't you?  Remember that asshole O'Brien, Sisko's best buddy? 
O'Brien gave Sisko everything he wanted, including keys to other
cells, in exchange for money."

"Money was all O'Brien wanted?"

"Yeah, he didn't care none to fuck any of us, not even that
Wesley."

Everyone smiled at the memory of hot little wet Wesley.  Wesley in
the showers.  Wesley in the yard.  Wesley.

"But he liked having a garage full of cars.  O'Brien liked his
Datsun Z-100's he did."

"Give me a fucking break," Jean-Luc said.  "The perfect
piece-of-shit cop car.  Not even American-made."

Kurn waited for Jean-Luc to finish. Prison etiquette.  Then: 
"Louisville Prison Board found out about their relationship when
they discovered a bunch of contraband in Sisko's cell.  Demoted
O'Brien.   Woulda fired him but he knew where too many prison 
commission bodies  were buried."

Jean-Luc twisted his head around.  "That explains why Sisko let up
on Q when I was gone.  I wondered what was making him so timid."

"Yeah, after that, his big hard-on was for O'Brien. He got some of
his goons to tear O'Brien limb from limb.  O'Brien's still alive,
but he's got a bad limp."

Klag spoke for the first time: "Yeah, and an eyepatch."

"And somebody   I wonder who   cut a slice out of his face.  Got 
a big curved scar on his cheek now,"  said the sinister Gowron. 

"After that, we just called him Smiley," Kurn added, and everyone
nodded.  Prison held some amusing memories. 

"Want us to find out about Sisko?  Seems like you and him had 
unresolved issues."  Kurn was Jean-Luc's man now.  

"You heard about that cocksucker in San Francisco with a gun." 
The roadies nodded.  "His name was Madred; he's dead now." 

"Good," the roadies said.

"You only get one Madred in a lifetime.  I've won every round so
far with Sisko.  I say, let me at him."
        
Then, after teasing the roadies about the damage they'd done to
Q's precious ass, Jean-Luc took the drowsy, pleased Q back to his
room and put im  to bed.  What he really wanted was to hear about
the various things the roadies had put into Q, but that could
wait.  Discussing it would be a pleasant diversion on down the
road.


The next day at breakfast, when Jean-Luc left the table, Q asked,
"What really happened to that man that shot at us?  Johnny told
the roadies he was dead."

The other boys looked at one another.  

So Q didn't know.  That chapter was past for the rest of them, but
Q has to be caught up on it.  "He killed himself,"  Will blurted,
trying to be helpful.  

"And?"

"By and large, we do not care to speak of it," Data said.   


Q ended up looking up the newspaper accounts.  Madred had killed
before.  Madred had three bodies in his crawlspace.  Madred had
religious visions.  Madred was pretty typical major-American-
murderer.
       

"Jean-Luc, maybe we should buy guns or something."

"What the hell for?"

"Well, we might need them."  Q was rocking and twisting his hands
and looking out the window.

"Look, Q, someone might shoot at us again, and there's nothing you
can do about it."

Q whispered "I'm afraid."

Jean-Luc said , "So am I, but if you don't get your ass back to
work and stop acting like a pussy I'll have to kill you."

Then he went to talk to Kurn and the other roadies. "Help Q out if
you see he's looking scared."  Jean-Luc's jaw tensed.  "Don't let
anybody steal her away again."

This made sense to the roadies.  If Q could protect himself, he
wouldn't have been pussy in the first place.  They would be very
vigilant about protecting the bossman's queen.  Q could not go
anywhere without one of them detaching himself from the others and
casually sauntering along with him.  

Q and Jean-Luc were both delighted; it was just like prison.
     
*************************

Quark called a meeting: "Two words," he said.  "Videos and media
reporters."        

"That is four words," said Data.
  
For the first video, they were going to have to meet with Donnie
Ral.   Yes, the Donnie Ral, director of million-dollar commercials
for dog food and soap, all of which featured cooing scantily-clad
women.  The auditions for these commercials were the source for
his well-stocked harem of scantily-clad women.   

Some of this harem even came with him to the meeting, ostensibly
as secretaries and stenos and generic factotums but mainly as
trophies to show these Mountain Boys just which side of the 
railroad he, Donnie Ral, traveled on.  

"Why this guy?," Jean-Luc stormed.  "We're not . . . products."

"To DCA we are," Geordi said.  "They said they wanted our first
video to be done by the book.  No weird little variations, just
something nice and friendly that will reach the widest audience."

They hated Ral from the start.

He explained in his nasal way, with his adam's apple bubbling
rhythmically, his Vision.  "See, what people watching television
want to do is, check this out, WATCH TELEVISION!  So we're gonna
take advantage of that impulse.  I've story-lined a video here
that will get us more attention than the Zapruder film!  Remember
that old show that used to be on television?" He named a wildly
popular show that still had a bit of a cult following.  It was
famous for its limpid-eyed male leads, their funny pajama-like
costumes, the cardboard sets, the carefully delineated morality
plays, the repetitious whirling about with small hand-held
weapons.   "See, we'll parody it!  You guys can be various
characters.  The chief guy.  His companion.  Their friends.  Maybe
a couple of you could be their enemies!  And we'll get some of
these gals to round out the cast," he leaned back and winked at
the Boys.  "We could have a whole little tribute to the entire 
series!  But it'll be ironic, see!  Everybody'll know how smart
you are 'cause you're makin' fun of it!  And the press'll love it! 
And, don't worry,  your little song will be playing in the
background!"

Jean-Luc stood up.  He was pale and trembling.  "Get this fuck out
of here."

That meeting was over.


The moguls at DCA yawned; they were used to prima donna music
groups.  They had other directors ready to work with the Boys.   

"What's that new one's name, Marty?  She's good, and, thank God,
cheap."

"Kira Nerise."

"Sounds like a anagram for something."

His secretary-cum-mistress sat up.  

"What's anagram mean?"  She thought it might be drug-related.
       

The Boys were crazy about Kira Nerise from the git-go.  She wasn't
the prettiest girl in the world; she smoked too much and, when she
smiled, her nose wrinkled and her little face crumpled up into a
funny harlequin's mask.  But she was really talented.

And guess what?  She, too, had someone she owned.  Just like
Jean-Luc and Worf.  She and her property, Bareil, both belonged to
some weird cult-type group.  He was one of the high priests and he
was always fasting or chanting or meditating or something, but he
was a very serene and calm presence, especially when compared with
Kira's pushy intensity.  When he wasn't busy with his religious
obligations, he followed Kira around adoringly, always carrying
their beautiful bright-eyed baby girl.  They had named her Modyed. 
It was Polish, like Kira.

The first time he saw Jean-Luc, Bareil put his hands flat on
Jean-Luc's chest and said simply, "such beauty."  The Boys shot a
look at Kira who only shrugged and smiled because he was who he
was.   
       
The video was for the title song from their album.  It was called
'Ordinary Boys,' a quick, upbeat, catchy song with a memorable
tune.  They shot it over three days on a working ranch, and the
Boys loved it.  They wandered and explored after the shooting was
over for the day, they were patient with the make-up and camera
men, and they generally obeyed Kira when she gave them orders. 
She was good at her job. 

Only one unexpected thing shook their equanimity a little bit --
the whole time they were shooting Will stayed near the baby.  The
other Boys watched and said nothing.  

Then their first night, as Kira was reviewing the blocking for
their various scenes, she casually handed Modyed to her slave who
just as casually offered her to Will.  

Will stared up at Bareil, tense and apprehensive.  The slave
stared back serenely.  He had intuited Will's desire to hold his
daughter. "You won't break her."

"I've never held a baby before."  Will was pale and sweaty.

"I have," said Q.  "I have three sons." (He silently said a little
prayer for the fourth.)  He took the baby who cooed and squawked. 
Will watched anxiously. 

"Really?  Three sons?" Kira was interested; she loved kids.  "You
know, you could bring them out here.  They could be extras.  The
ranch has plenty of extra beds."

"They'd love this ranch," Q agreed, "but they're with their
mother."

"Ah."  Kira diplomatically declined to continue that line of
conversation.  She turned the topic back to filming.   

During a break, Jean-Luc wandered over and looked at the baby. 
Who looked back at him with her eyes wide and her mouth open in a
circle.  

"Don't look at me that way, Modyed.  I still have more hair than
you do."

Everyone laughed.  Then Q nodded at Kira and gave the baby to Will
who carefully imitated the way Q had held her, tucking her into
the crook of one arm.  The baby smiled at Will and immediately
went to sleep.  And Will held her for the rest of the evening
until Kira took her back and put her in her crib.  

*************************

Absurdly, the video set reminded Jean-Luc of Kentucky.  Of
moonshining.
     
There was even an old barn which smelled sweetly of horses and
manure.  One afternoon when it was too late to film any more, 
Jean-Luc and Q climbed up into the hayloft and stood looking out
over the ranch and the river and the mountains beyond.  The air
was full of sound.

"There's the future, Q.  Let's go," Jean-Luc said.  He looked
around.  "You ever fuck anybody in a hayloft, Q?  It's pretty
sweet."  He turned to Q.

Q had turned his head away; Jean-Luc could see his back was
shaking.  He was crying, trying to hide his tears so Jean-Luc
wouldn't be irritated.  Jean-Luc watched him for a moment. 
Actually he loved Q's tears.

When he pulled Q to him, they both fell to the floor, and suddenly
Q was weeping and they were fucking, Q was weeping and being
fucked, just like old times, just like the first time in jail, and
then Q broke away from the wet-faced kissing.  "I wish none of
this ever happened.  Sometimes I'd give anything to be back in
Fear Alley."  

"No, you wouldn't."  Jean-Luc was tender with Q; he was still
inside Q's long body   he was aching to come and watching Q weep,
watching Q go through the incredible emotional gymnastics of being
Q, would do it.   The way Q's ass fit around him with just the
right amount of tension made his cock even harder.  

"I couldn't help it, Johnny!  I was there all by myself and nobody
spoke English except Fajo and when I didn't do what he told me he
took everyone away and left me there alone."  Q was crying, near
hysterics.  "He treated me like I was an animal, and I couldn't
even talk and I didn't even know where I was.  For the longest I
thought I was still in somewhere in California.  I didn't know
what to do.  I didn't know!  I was innocent!"   

As he sobbed, Jean-Luc kissed Q's cheeks the better to taste his
luscious tears and feel his softly heaving body.  He was grunting
with the force of his desire for Q, not only for his lover's body,
but for the broken words and the emotions and the sinuous,
writhing need of him, and then he growled "Snap out of it, come
on, Q," and Q looked at him with those wild black eyes and Jean-
Luc grabbed Q so hard it bruised and then he whispered, "okay, Q,
who's your daddy?" and Q pressed back and began crying and
writhing against his Johnny and saying "Daddy Daddy Daddy" until
his cascade of words finally dried itself up and he was still
again except for his shuddering gasps. 

They had not made love to each other in over seven months and
their bodies felt it.  After they both came, they simply remained
where they were, holding on tight, clutching at each other because
neither one could bring themselves to let go of the yielding
warmth of each other.  Jean-Luc kissed the side of Q's face over
and over, treasuring his scent, his smoothness.  Q's hands rubbed
Jean-Luc over and over.  His manly back, the short bristles at the
back of his neck.  And finally, when they were both stiff and
hungry, they got up and made their way back to the main guest
house.

It was dark by then, and very quiet.  The rest of the Boys had
eaten and some of the crew were sitting around watching TV, and
Data and Will were in the kitchen showing things like eggs to baby
Modyed and saying "Egg!"   Trying to teach her to talk, even
though she was just seven months old, and, when Q and Jean-Luc
came in, it was obvious that things were the best they'd been in a
long time.
 
Their video wrapped up right on schedule.  Kira was smart and
efficient about the way  she worked; she knew what she wanted and
she took it.  She knew how she saw them and it was how they saw
themselves.  She saw their beauty and was undeluded.  

"Good-bye," she said warmly and shook their hands with her firm
little  mitt.  She smiled at Will.  "Don't think you can get away
with putting Modyed in your suitcase and stealing her away."  He
grinned and handed the baby to Bareil.  

"You're good," Jean-Luc said.

"I'll think this will be a great video," she agreed.  "By the way,
I heard your next video will be 'Come into My Arms.'  That's a
beautiful song.  I also heard who the director is.   She's an old
friend of mine.  I think's she's best in the business."

"Who?" said Jean-Luc.

"Her name's Guinan and she rocks."
                

When they got back, Quark was in seventh heaven.  "The DCA boys
love  the rough cut!  We rule the world.  And, Jean-Luc, guess
what!"  Quark  was nearly breathless; they had never seen him that
excited before.  "You got a phone call from Melinda Madigan. 
Imagine!  Melinda Madigan.  She wants you to call back
immediately!"

Jean-Luc turned to Q.  "She's become a good friend," he said
smoothly.
  
Q's eyes grew large.  So Jean-Luc was right; he hadn't changed.
 
************************

The album was finally released.  

Lines formed at midnight at all the big record chains.  The single
'Ordinary Boys' shot to the top of the country and pop charts. 
The album climbed steadily to a number-one position and held it
for almost six weeks.   

Sometimes you could breathe a little easier.
 
*************************
 
Of course, they now had to deal with the press.

For the most part their work paid off.  Critics raved.   They were
wild about Jean-Luc -- they called him The Hillbilly Incubus, a
Backwoods Rasputin, the Mountain Houdini.  His concerts,  they
said, were part orgy, and part spirit possession.  He *did* 
something to you, made you look, made you listen, made you want to
open  your legs and offer yourself.   His abilities were almost
uncanny and very hard to fathom, and the few reporters who got in
to see him reported that the Jean-Luc effect, as they called it,
was even more intense up close.   The very select few who got
themselves a turn as his one-night concubines said the same thing. 


All the Boys were scrutinized more carefully.  Critics demanded to
know why they made the music they did.

The depressing narrowness of the critics appalled Jean-Luc.  He
said:  "Music is just stories.  Wouldn't I sound stupid singing a
Beach Boy's song?  I don't surf, you know. I sing what I know
about, and what I know about is driving, and prison, and singing." 


Jean-Luc was the one who did all the talking because the others
found the press painful to deal with.  After being compared to
Stevie Wonder for the dozenth time, Geordi, for some reason,
developed a aversion to strangers.  Data knew by now that his
natural inclination to chat endlessly made him sometimes appear 
ridiculous, and he was very quiet.   Will was afraid of saying
something stupid.  Q liked to talk and talked sweetly and
smoothly, but he didn't want to answer questions about his
relationship with Jean-Luc, and reporters honed in on that first
thing, trying to get him to expose his private life in ways that
he found impertinent and aggressive.  He often excused himself 
when reporters came.  And Worf just wasn't much of a talker.   

That left Jean-Luc.  He tried to cover for his Boys as best he
could, encouraging them to answer questions.  They obeyed him with
such obvious reluctance that occasionally reporters were reduced
to begging. 

"Why don't you like to talk?"  One of them asked Will.  

Will looked at Worf.  Worf nodded. 

"I like to talk.  I talk plenty."

"Can you tell me about your band?"

Will was silent for a while.  "I play bass," he finally said.

"Where'd you learn?"
 
Will was silent.  His breathing became more rapid.  Geordi heard 
it and pretended the question had been directed at him.  "I went
to school at the Alabama Home for Blind Boys."

"And I was taught by tutors," Data added helpfully.  "And Q
learned in prison."

Worf got up and walked out.  "Will," he said.  And Will followed
him. 
     
Jean-Luc watched them; his jaw was tight.   The problem was,
Jean-Luc understood exactly why they didn't want to  talk. They
were known quantities to one another but completely different 
from the people who interviewed them, and from the people who
listened to them.  The Boys were suspicious of the notoriety which
was rushing to embrace them.  Only a fool would throw himself into
those open arms.
      
         
And some reporters were deliberately unpleasant.  One found Q's
old soliciting conviction from Baltimore.  

"Did you often work as a prostitute?" she asked.   Her name was
Maureen Shelby, and she hated the Boys.  She called them "extras
from *Deliverance*".   She particularly hated Will.   She told him
he had a pretty mouth and then said "soooeee" several times to
him.  She also compared him to Junior Samples.

And it would give her the greatest of pleasure to dick Q into
saying something wild, and then she'd have a million-dollar 
article.  

Q only sighed.  

"Sometimes," he answered softly.  "If we needed money."

Shelby was disappointed at the lack of reaction.  Was this man
actually *proud*  of being a whore?  She asked him as much.  

"Yes. I suppose I am."  Q's smile got more demure.  

Jean-Luc was squinting at her suspiciously, but she decided to 
try again anyway.  "Look here, Jethro, you really want me to
believe it doesn't bother you that you are, or were, a male
prostitute?"  Shelby tried her strident best to sound incredulous
and disdainful, hoping for a little defensiveness.

Jean-Luc stood up.  His eyes were hard.  "Are you trying to make
something out of this?"

Shelby looked alarmed.  This was *not* the result she'd been
looking for.  "Uh..."

"Yes,"  Jean-Luc took a step closer.  "He was a whore.  He fucked
a lot of people for money and he was good at it.  He was probably
better at fucking than you are at writing."

By now he was standing over Shelby's chair, pinning her with his
anger.  "Do you know how to look truth in the face?  Because *he*
can."   He pointed at Q.  "Sex *is* truth.  So tell me, which of
you is the better person because of what he does for a living?" 

Shelby grew pale and swallowed.  She was sweating.  "Uh,  what I
really want to know is how you came up with the name Magic
Mountain Boys.  Is that, uh, a good story?"
 
*************************

'Jean-Luc," Q said.  "I should have lied."

'Q," Jean-Luc looked fondly at his idiot lover.  He really enjoyed
having the biggest and most beautiful whore in America for his
own.   And Q was beautiful, more beautiful daily.  "I am myself
much in favor of whores.  I'll pay you ten thousand dollars if
you'll let me stick it in you right now.  See," he rubbed against
Q.  "Besides, I never knew a strawberry blonde who wasn't a
natural born bitch."

"Get your checkbook, Daddy."

They embraced.  "Listen, Q, don't worry about the press.  Nothing
will come of it."
                                                                  

In that he was wrong.  Prostitutes wrote Q, pouring their hearts 
out.  He wrote back as often as he could, nice, uplifting, generic
letters that told them to never give up their dreams.
 

One time Christians picketed a concert.  Jean-Luc shrugged and
allowed  as how he recognized one or two of them from a bar in
Reno.  
               
Then they made on the cover of *Time* (a groundbreaking critical
article written by one of America's most famous critics).  On the
cover photo, the  Magic Mountain Boys were dressed in their dinner
jackets and hats and Jean-Luc was positioned in the very center of
the picture.  Q was on his left, Data was on his right and Geordi,
Worf, and Will stood in the back; Jean-Luc was the only one who
sat directly facing the camera.  With his right leg casually
crossed over his left and his hands folded in his lap, he could
have been a leftover antebellum Colonel.  His eyes burned into the
camera.  The photo was originally in black and white, but it had
been toned blue, and the cover caption said "Bluegrass Is Cool
Again."   All over the world the magazine was bought and traded
and passed hand to hand.

Straight guys everywhere recoiled: "Well, I don't get it   it's
just hillbilly stuff."

Their wives, along with gay men everywhere, got it immediately.  
Inside there were less formal pictures, including one of Jean-Luc
in little black swim trunks.   Once everyone found out about that,
even more copies were sold. The article focused on the
distinctiveness of the Bluegrass style, its historical
inflexibility towards innovation, the fact that it was often
treated as the overlooked stepchild among the pantheon of American
musical styles.  It also mentioned that none of the Boys was
married - although Jean-Luc told the critic that they couldn't
wait to settle down and start families   but their lifestyles
precluded meeting the right woman.
 

After the article in *Time* appeared, Melinda called again. "Boy,
wasn't I the right woman?"  She was teasing.  

"Melinda, ma cherie, how's Tunisia treating you?"

"I've learned some Babylonian fuck tricks I'd like to try."  Her
voice was low, dark, insinuating.  "Does that make you hard?"

"Yes."

"Boy, your stuff makes me lose my mind."        

"Are you wearing panties?"

"Let me check.  Oh, no, I was, but they just fell off.  Of their
own accord.  Now I just have a little itty  bitty short skirt.  
Eh, bien, I never liked panties anyway.  Maybe I'm tired of this
skirt too.  So I'll just slip it off as well.  But I do like these
spike heels that I'm wearing." 

Interesting that she was as big a natural fuck as Q. And that
Jean-Luc knew both of them so well.
 
*************************
       
Jean-Luc was himself.  He didn't lie.  One interviewer who spent
the summer traveling behind them said, "He either stays silent or
tells the plain unvarnished truth.  Once you've been with him (in
more ways than one for some), you don't soon forget him.  He does
what he wants and doesn't  give a damn what anyone thinks.  In
performing this music, he doesn't just flout convention, he bends
convention over a table, gives it the coring of a lifetime and
then sends it home without cabfare, walking funny where everyone
can see." 

The Boys told jailhouse secrets and didn't ask permission.  Some
women whose husbands had been locked up turned to their men
hesitantly.  "When you were in jail did you have to...?"  

And the men, angry at being cornered, said, "Jesus Christ, woman,
what do you think?  You weren't around, were you?"

And the women thought of how letters home sometimes mentioned 
cell-mates.  They wondered.  "Did you love him?" 

(And eventually they wondered, "Just how did you love him?")

Some said Jean-Luc was crazy.    No one could fall in love in
prison.  Some other men thought, 'What the fuck?'  They went and
looked  up old cell mates.  No real reason.  Sometimes the cell-
mates were  married and ran them off.  Sometimes they invited them
in.  It wasn't like there were a lot of secrets between them.
 

Rightwing talkshow hosts ran them down.  Just what we need!  More
gay jailbirds!  A lot of them tried to blame Worf.  A leftwing 
conspiracy, they claimed.  Just look at his dreadlocks.  

Famous fundamentalist Christians agreed.  These wicked and
perverse men were trying to recreate their own private Sodom
and Gomorrah, a sure sign that the end times were approaching. 
One of the fundamentalists even wrote a book entitled, 'Sodom and
Gomorrah--the End Times Are Approaching.'  The cover had a man in
a pink shirt, leering suggestively at a horrified upright citizen
who was innocently out walking with his wife at his side.  The
book targeted the heinous entertainment industry.  It talked a lot
about the Great Whore, Babylon, etc. etc.  In its own way, it was
a splendidly hot read, extremely detailed about the things gay men
did, and it sold lots of copies. 
 

Many woman fantasized about taking Jean-Luc away from the rest  of
the Boys, taming him, presenting him in restaurants and charity
luncheons.   
 
*************************

Q got a reputation for being amazingly sweet-tempered and
gracious, which he was, but sometimes things happened that cracked
even his equanimity. 

There was a reporter with the curious name Vash.  All the Boys
hated her.   

Except for Jean-Luc.  

And because of Jean-Luc's unfathomable affection for her, she
stayed with them on the bus for a while.  She walked around
smirking each time Jean-Luc fucked her.
 
Q was raging.  "What does he see in her?"  He could understand the
haggard allure of her over-aerobicized ass if Jean-Luc had been a
. . . a . . a  dentist or something, but Jean-Luc was a demiGod. 

She finally quit smirking and went away and wrote her article. It
appeared in *The New Yorker*.  And it was thirty pages of scathing
observations, not about the music (which everyone in their right
mind adored) but about Jean-Luc.  She said he was a harem master
and she lambasted him for  keeping his band in a state of 
terrorized subjugation.  "He smiles whenever his little trained
minions scatter to do his bidding, which means he smiles a lot."   
   
Vash didn't want to be perceived as the homewrecking skank she
was, so she didn't mention how flattered she was when Johnny
invited her to travel on tour with them, and she didn't mention 
the awkward, betrayed expression Q gave them when he stumbled in
on them having breakfast together in a hotel bed.   And Vash 
talked about Johnny's cavalier attitude towards sex without once 
mentioning that one night he wore her scent on his face when he
went on stage, singing into Q's mike so that his lover would be
sure to know where his lips had been.

She wrote: "And Jean-Luc likes being the dominant man in his
universe.  When he reads this he'll be proud of himself.  Using
the most twisted syntax this side of President Bush, he told me, 
*I know that there were all kinds of rumors circulating -- all of
them for the most exaggerated -- about my behavior. *   I said,
Jean-Luc, all of them?  For the most part?  Hmmm!  He just fixed
his iron gaze on me."

Vash was no good trash, but her article was well done.  She even
quoted T.S. Eliot!

'Poetry is not the expression of personality and emotion but an
escape from these things.  But only those who have personality and
emotion know what it means to want to escape from them.  Jean-Luc
has a bad butt-load of personality and more emotion than the end
of time.  That hard look on his face is his trying to escape these
things."   She ended by saying, "Even if Jean-Luc ain't nothing
but a mountain boy, he does everything rock and roll said it would
do.  He cries without weeping; he screams without raising his
voice.  He's the king of the jungle; they call him Tiger  Man.  He
never stumbles; he's got no place to fall.  He woke up this
morning with moving out on his mind.   And he put the weight right
on me."  

The photos were great too, done by a renowned photographer, Aloe 
Secondwind; Aloe had also done the *Time* cover.  She was a very
generic-looking woman, and very patient.  They often forgot she
was there. 
 

"Vash wanted to be my girlfriend, you know."  Jean-Luc was  curled
next to Q. "She asked me what she meant to me. I told her I'd
remember her tits."  His hands wandered to Q's tits.  "I said I'd
remember her sweet little pussy."  One large hand caressed the
front of Q's tight jeans.  "I told  her I'd probably forget her
name.  That's when she got angry and threatened to write a hatchet
job."
 
"Johnny, you were just way too good for her," Q was squirming now,
trying to stifle a  moan.  He remembered that night very well
because, after she'd left  Jean-Luc, she'd come to him and tried
to seduce him.  Q had felt guilty.   He was not aroused by her icy
touch, and Vash had been furious at his resistance. "So he
basically owns you?" she had demanded.  Q had sobbed once and
walked away.  Since tears came easily to him, he thought no more
of it.   

Vash was appalled.  She was all for sensitive modern men, but  not
when they loved someone else.  Still, she went easy on Q in the 
interview, citing his artist's sensibilities and his almost
otherworldly preoccupation with his emotions as one of the reasons
for the Boys' poignant, soulful sound. (Of course, it was typical
of Vash to get that part all wrong.  Q was the most focused,
practical one of them all; he just happened to be in a  tortured
relationship that allowed him to write great songs about it.)

"She spent all that time hanging around us," Jean-Luc said.  "And
she still manages to get us all wrong.  Stupid bitch."  He
breathed out like Worf.  "I hope I never have to do another
interview."  


He changed his mind when the results of her story began to be 
apparent.  Everyone wanted a part of the Boys.  Everyone had their
favorite Boy.  They were such macho queers that gay guys and women
threw themselves at them, and straight men went to their concerts
as a vicarious male bonding ritual and then went home walking
taller and feeling proud.



Their fan mail increased to amazing proportions.  Q got almost as
much as Jean-Luc.  Even Will had his devoted followers, sheer
dedication making up for what they lacked in numbers.  

"That Wyoming boy sent me another picture of his ass!" Q loved his
fan letters.

"Burn it." Jean-Luc ordered.  "After I look at it."  Oh, hell,
that Wyoming boy was truly cute.  He took a great photo.  You
could see everything.  "Q, go back to your bunk and wait for me."

Q shook his head.  "You first."  He was wise to this trick.   
Jean-Luc might get lost in Data's bunk on his way back to find Q. 
He might change his mind and send Will back to stand in for him. 
Jean-Luc loved the rush of knowing he could make people fuck at
his  behest.

Jean-Luc smiled.  Q obviously wasn't going anywhere unless he went
there first.  He considered, and then smiled and jumped to his
feet.   "Okay.  We'll do it your way this time."
     
************************

Their fame grew and grew.

Some leathermen wanted to fuck Jean-Luc so bad it was painful. 
They fantasized about bending him over in a prison shower. There
was a strange fad for making fake pictures of Jean-Luc and
circulating them.   Quark got one from a little handmade Xeroxed
newsletter.   A picture of Jean-Luc's head had been pasted onto a
body in full leather gear.  Even Jean-Luc was taken aback.    

There were rumors about the nature of Q's relationship to him.  Q
wore a chastity belt.  Q slept at the foot of Jean-Luc's bed.  Q
had been seen at an exclusive slave training camp.  Q had been
bought as a slave in prison (the only remotely accurate rumor).  

Jean-Luc was said to have declared once that sex is truth.   It 
got printed on t-shirts and attributed to him.  He didn't remember
saying that.  He tried to deny it, but it only made people want to
believe it more.  Parents were scandalized. 

Many gays were beat up   a few mean heterosexuals used this as an
opportunity for backlash and attacked them on the streets. 

On a talk show Jean-Luc was asked if gays had a right to shoot
people in self-defense before the fact.  He shrugged.  "You make
your own rights."
 
A famous right-wing actor declared in the press that he would like
to slap the cocky little queer son-of-a-bitch.   Jean-Luc told an
enquiring reporter.  "I don't beat up old guys.  But I always
liked his movies.  Remember when he was in that ancient Rome movie
with the hot-looking friend, I know I liked what he looked like
then.  I liked that a lot.  I might have given him a ride then."   

"So you are definitely gay?"

"You can call me whatever you want to call me."

"But you would fuck Harlton Cheston?"

This reporter was very dense.   Jean-Luc was growing impatient.
"Not now.  Possibly when he was younger.  If he kept his mouth
shut."


Harlton Cheston sputtered.  "I'd like to see him try."


Jean-Luc laughed his dark laugh.  "I think he means that."


Harlton shut up.  
 

At one concert, Reverend Earl Garak showed up!  Out front! 
Singing  hymns!  He brought holy water and holy oil and baptized
the stadium where the concert was taking place.  He said the Lord
had directed him to cleanse the very ground of the sin and
perdition brought by these evil-doers.  He gave a press conference
about the Boys, pointing out how they'd burn in hell if they
didn't repent of their perversions.   

Jean-Luc was genuinely astonished.  "Am I the only one who thinks
Garak's the biggest queen on nighttime television?"


Some people were very amused by them.  Some people adored them. 
Some people were horrified by them.  It depended  on how much of
an insider you considered yourself to be.   People said,  "I don't
get the gay stuff, but they're mountain men bred to the bone,"  or
they said, "That mountain man stuff is just so over the top, but
I'd do any one of them in a heartbeat."


When the CD went triple platinum, John Doe, one of *Rolling
Stone's* most famous critics, interviewed him for a cover story. 
Doe had just published his best-selling autobiography
*Transfigurations*; the sole reason it was a best-seller was  of
his frank discussion of  his over-active sex life and the many
willing women, young and old, who had given him the ultimate gift. 
Rolling Stone was paying a handsome price for this piece.

"And you are gay?" John said.

Jean-Luc was so tired of this.  "What does that mean?"

"You're all homosexuals?"

"Why do you need to know?"

"It just seems through your songs . . ."

"Actually, I don't hear that at all in our songs."

"You seem clearly gay to me.  You play in gay pride festivals."  

"How many women do I have fuck to be *straight?*  I bet I can
provide those numbers right now.  And I bet it's more than you
have.  Are you gay?"  He wasn't angry with John Doe, just startled
by the way the word *gay* would exert controls on him, controls
that he didn't want exerted.

'No, but . . . " 

But John Doe begins to twist inside: Jean-Luc makes him wish he
were; in a way, Jean-Luc is the man he's been trying to create
with his endless vulpine promiscuity.   Oh, what it would be like
to be in Jean-Luc's arms, to have that perfect little horse-like
body pressed throbbing to him, and he reaches out to  Jean-Luc and
they embrace and kiss and, when he feels Jean-Luc's tongue in his
mouth, an intense longing is born.

"But what?" Jean-Luc leaned into the critic.

"Fuck me, Jean-Luc."

"Oh, yes."  Jean-Luc hissed.  And he pulled the pants right off 
John Doe and then lowered his own pants and right there on the
sofa,  face to face, made John Doe take it all.

John Doe went crazy. "Jesus Christ!  Don't you dare stop, you
motherfucker, don't you  dare... Jesus!"

And he came like thunder on the day of judgement, shaking his ass
around Jean-Luc's cock, sweating and gasping, and Jean-Luc pulled
out and turned him over and rode him home, and all John Doe could
think was, "I'm being fucked in the ass.  I could beat the shit
out of this little guy but instead I'm letting him fuck my ass,
and  it's the best ride of my life.  I could be a gay guy, if I
didn't have to act like a sissy."  And he left feeling proud and
aggressive, as if  some of Jean-Luc's machismo had rubbed off on
him, but deep down he knew his predatory sexuality was an act,
while Jean-Luc lived and breathed his.  

When he finally wrote his article, John Doe said, "The Boys aren't
homosexual.  They aren't heterosexual.  They are something new and
frightening and wonderful on the American landscape: they are just
. . . sexual.

"Merely sexual. 

"Truly sexual."

*************************

A phone call. 

"Guess what I did last night, Boy?

"Knowing you, there is no way of telling."

"I went to the movies."

"No doubt some honest sweet little film."

"Hardee har har.  You're right, it was filthy.  There are all
these crazy Mediterranean millionaires over here and they all
trade dirty  movies.  Well, and they make them too.  And one guy
from someplace like Mesopotamia showed one.  It was very well
done.  His girlfriend, well, one of his girlfriends was the
star-slash-meat and he had six guys poking her simultaneously."

"Charming.  How is that possible?"

"Maybe special effects were involved.  It was beautifully 
photographed.  Umm, ooh, the cook is grilling lamb downstairs.  I
can smell it from here."  Melinda's joy in all of life was
contagious.  "Guess what I found out, Boy.  You can't buy panties
in Tunisia!   Panties are against some sort of ancient
Carthagenian law!  All mine  got all worn out and I had to throw
them away and now ... you see..."

"Melinda, don't start with me."  But Jean-Luc was very tender with 
her.

"Boy, you know what I'm saying about the six guys, don't you?  
When I get back?  We could try it.  Just imagine."

He could.  He did.  Even if it were absurdly impossible, the
vision was overwhelming.

"Boy!  You're breathing funny!  Have I at last awakened the beast
in you!"


The beast was indeed awakened in Jean-Luc.  As he toured and sang
and plunged into groups of willing followers, Jean-Luc
renewed his devotion to promiscuity.  He blew through bodies two
and three at a time.  For Jean-Luc touring was like being
presented with a new gourmet meal every night.  It defied
comprehension that he would fuck the same body day after day any
more than he would eat the same exact meal.  

There were, of course, certain things in which he found consistent
pleasure -- eggs for breakfast, for instance, and Q's body next to
him at night.   He loved to sleep with Q, sex or no; he insisted
on it actually, and Q never denied him.

Well, Q understood.  Q was a whore.  He knew the allure of bodies. 
And Jean-Luc was, in his own way, fastidious.  He liked to tease
himself with sex, a little here, a little there, taking from this
one and that one like appetizers, coming back to Q for the main
course.  It made him an excellent lover when he felt like paying
attention.  He played with his partners, slowly, over long, long
periods of time, stopped to do something else, came back.  He
liked to see them out of control, gasping, spending themselves all
over their hands or feet.  He liked women's nipples.  His own were
like alfalfa seeds, but, when he saw big wrinkly pretty ones,
especially if they were dark, he got lost in them.  When he could
he had sex three, even four times a day, with as many partners,
finally getting himself off with the last one.        

Sometimes the Boys silently jockeyed to be the one who got him
last.  It was rare nowadays, to see him out of himself, lost in
climax.  Only Q saw it often.  It was simply one of his jobs to
take what Jean-Luc gave him.  Write bills, open his mouth, relax
in Jean-Luc's heated embrace, receive Jean-Luc one way or another, 
write more bills.  


They hadn't played at Daddy's Girl for some time, but halfway
through  the tour, after fucking and getting sucked by lots
of others, Jean-Luc came to Q on the Enterprise, in their
locked-off little sleeping area, and asked Q to sit on his lap. 
When Q did, Jean-Luc said, "Where's that little thing all sweet
girls have?"

Q wiggled enticingly. 

"There it is."  They were both quiet then, with their eyes closed,
as Jean-Luc stimulated Q and Q pushed back on him.   

"Daddy, make your little girl come."

Jean-Luc stood up quickly and took his jeans off.           

"Wait just a minute, Daddy," Q said.  "Let me get ready.""

Jean-Luc lowered his head and watched.

When Q was finished, he just had on a long tee shirt (Jean-Luc no
longer cared to see Q totally nude; Madred's scar was too
disturbing, too complicated).

Then Jean-Luc was lounging on the bus bunk,  his jeans undone.

Q got on his knees; outside as they sped down the road (mad-eyed
Gowron at the wheel), a rainstorm began.  Q took Jean-Luc lovingly
in his mouth.  Jean-Luc closed his eyes and relaxed, letting the
soft miracle of Q's beautiful wet mouth nurse him into sensation
after sensation.  No tongue was like Q's, no lips like his, and
Jean-Luc's head fell softly against the side of the bus.  Behind
his eyelids, visions of Q, Q and himself, Q and Worf, Q and the
roadies, and that vision pleased him and he saw clearly Q sucking
off roadie after roadie, hands behind his back, naked, his ass
bruised and beaten and wet, and he thrust towards the back of Q's
throat for a bit and then came.  The soft rain continued.  The
tires of the bus hissed against the road.  It was a curiously
cordial orgasm.     

"I love you," Q whispered. 

"Excellent," said Jean-Luc.  "Why don't you play with yourself?"  
And Q stood up and leaned against the wall, with his huge black
eyes and his full mouth and long black hair and Jean-Luc stood
beside him, watching, pleased to watch this.  He leaned in to
whisper in Q's ear.  "Did you like it when Daddy threw you to the
roadies?  You like having them in line for your pussy?  Did they
use anything besides their dicks?  Any toys?  Anything else?"

Q kneaded himself, eyes closed.  His breathing was uneven,
sighing.

"Did they use their fist?"  Jean-Luc had a cold-blooded pleasure
in the thought of Kurn with his fist in Q's pretty ass.  At the
thought of Q trapped, pinioned more than ever.

"Oh, God," Q said and came.

*************************
     
Sure, he had a weakness for gambling, and a losing streak the
length of a mountain range, but a man could not be blamed for
wanting to have a little fun.  His problem was, he was too good to
people.  

Take Mona.  She had the nerve to give tail away like to that
promoter in Tallahassee and then tell him she wasn't the type of
person to sell it.  Well, he'd showed her, the stupid bitch!  Now
she was a lot smarter about what she gave away and what she chose
to say about it.   After that, he'd put her on the street.  Not
for long, just until he could rent that studio time he needed to
get their Christian Children's hour up and running like they
planned.  But for now they were hustling her out of a drugstore.

Big Daddy was waiting for Mona to get some trade, idling at the
magazine rack -- my God what a man could do if he had money!  -
when his eyes happened to fall on this one magazine.  He
recognized something about the guy on the cover -- completely
bald, hooded deepset eyes; grim sliver of a mouth; suspicious
expression.  He knew this guy from somewhere, but where?

Kyle picked up the paper and read the caption.  Hillbilly chic? 
What the hell was that about?  He read that the band was famous 
for its  shoot-from-the-hip-take-no-prisoners lyrics about men in
love with men, and for the outrageous behavior of their lead
singer who had a voice like a lorelei on testosterone.  He flipped
the page, ignoring his son's face out of long habit, still trying
to figure out where he'd met this hard-eyed bald guy and how he
could possibly take advantage of him, assuming he hadn't already.  

Something told him he had, and Kyle liked that feeling.

Jean-Luc and the Magic Mountain Boys.  Damn but this was familiar. 
He knew them from somewhere.  He scoured the article for any hint,
but the reporter was too enamored of their sound and their
outrageous macho queer . . . vibe (whatever that was) to give him
the details he needed.  It wasn't until his eyes hit the caption
of a group portrait that he saw his own last name and put two and
two together.  There was his fat ugly son, not so fat anymore,
dressed in a suit jacket, posing with the rest of the band. 

There was even that same damned bass he'd sold before running off
with all the man's cash.  

Now he remembered.

"Hellfire." Of all the people he shouldn't have stolen from . . .
Well, see, just another example of how life did him wrong at every
turn.  He looked at his son's face again.  It smirked at him.
'I've got plenty of money,' the smirk said.  

Kyle felt something curdle inside him.  That fat piece of shit was
not going to outdo his only father, not after all Kyle had done
for him. 

He squinted at the touring schedule and then went outside and
pulled Mona off her beat. 

"Come on, honey, we've got to pack.  We're headed north."

*************************

The Boys were in their dressing room in a club in Georgia when a
note came for Will.  He looked at Worf.

"Well, open it," Worf directed.  Will's indecisiveness amused him
sometimes.

Will did.  His gaze, when he looked up again, made Worf think of
roadkill the second before the wheels run it over. 

"What's wrong?"

Data looked up because Geordi's head swiveled in Worf and Will's
direction when he heard Worf's tense question.  Data, too, noticed
Will's helpless expression.  "What is the matter, Will?"

"Will?"  Q asked quickly, preemptively; Jean-Luc's mouth was
forming a straight line of exasperation.

Will held up the piece of paper.  "It's a note from my father." 
He was caving in, his head  drooping, his shoulders sagging. 
Every inch of his body screamed defeat.

Jean-Luc was alarmed.  "What does the note say?" 

"It's from Big Daddy.  He's out front with Mona.  He wants me to
come say hidey to him." 

Worf looked back at Jean-Luc.  He didn't know what to do.  

Q did.  He went over to Will and pulled him down into his arms. 
"We won't let him hurt you."  Then he shot a significant glance at
Worf.  "And you don't ever have to go back with Big Daddy."

"Correct."  Worf squared his shoulders.  "We will not allow him to
take you away from us."

Will lifted his head; his eyes were wide.  

Jean-Luc didn't even look at Will.  "You big stupid pussy.  So you
thought we were going to let that bastard steal you away from us?"

Worf tried to pick up from Jean-Luc.  "He's right.  You *are* a
pussy, you know."  He put his arms around Will and rubbed their
groins together.  

Will smiled a bit.  It didn't seem he would be sent back.  His
face grew slightly pinker.

Jean-Luc breathed out.   Bitches.  "This is just a shakedown,
Will. Can't you see that?"

Will looked at him uncertainly.

"Watch.  Q, get about a thousand dollars, put it in twenties, and
go out there and tell him 'that's all.'"

"Okay, Johnny."  


Q understood why he'd been chosen to go deal with Kyle.  Sending a
bitch was a deliberate insult.  It told Kyle he wasn't significant
enough to deserve a meeting with the men.  It told Kyle that
someone else controlled his son's actions now, and a pile of
wrinkled twenties told him he would have to make do with what he'd
been given.  

Q watched Kyle's eyes narrow.  He waited patiently while Kyle
tried to bluster his way in.   "Are you trying to keep me from my
son?"  Kyle's voice was loud and booming, but the intimidation
didn't work. 

"You took the money," Q gestured pointedly at the greens Kyle was
stuffing into his pockets.  "And Will says he doesn't care if he
never sees you again."  Will hadn't said any such thing, but it
sounded good, and it turned the burden of proof back onto Kyle.  
Q turned and walked away.  A further insult.  Bitches didn't leave
until they were dismissed.

Kyle started to follow, but Worf and Klag took that moment to
stroll up to the door that led back to the dressing rooms.  They
moved casually, no sign of stress or tension.  Just two big guys
out for a walk.  Q smiled at Worf as he stepped past them.  Worf
and Klag crossed their arms.  Their expressions were neutral. 
Kyle caught the message and turned away.  It wasn't as much as
he'd hoped for, but it was worth a twelve-hour ride.

By the time they were ready to go on stage, Will was elated.  His
father had gone away, just like Jean-Luc said.  Worf had
protected him, and the band had claimed him as one of their own.   

That night he played with such gusto that The Boys stared at one
another in shock.  Jean-Luc was so pleased that he pulled Will's
head down and kissed him right there on stage.  The crowd roared.  

*************************

"Boy, I lied to you."

Jean-Luc was expansive.  He felt he could forgive Melinda her
pretty little lies.  

"I'm coming back to Hollywood next week   I only said I'd stay in
Tunisia for eighteen months because I didn't know if 'Hard Time'
was going to be made."

"Hard time?"

"My prison movie! I play a reporter!  I go underground at a
woman's prison in the South to see what life is really like!  The
bulldyke screws are on to me!  They beat me with a bullwhip!  They
fuck me with a broomstick!   Then I help a helpless black girl con
escape; we run from bloodhounds.  She's gets shot!  To memorialize
it, I publish it all in a searing newspaper article!  It's real! 
It's squalid!  Word is they're even going to try to get some of
your songs on the soundtrack!" Her beautiful low voice bubbled
with amusement.

"For God's sake, Melinda, that sounds like shit."

"I'm in every scene, Boy.  That makes it all worthwhile."

"Nobody's contacted us.  How do you know they want our music?"

He could hear her yawn; she even yawned prettily.

"Oh, Hollywood's a hive mentality.  Not a sparrow falls on the
Paramount backlot, but everybody knew it yesterday."

"I bet Quark knows."

"Ummm, typical Quark."   

"When did you meet Quark?"

"Never.  But I know the type.  Hollywood is shot through and
through with Quarks.  Enough of that. Let's discuss your dick. 
Please."

"When can I see you?" Jean-Luc said; he had to see her soon.

"You know what I'd like.  Let my Quark contact your Quark, and put
me in your next video.  Wouldn't that be synergistic and career-
oriented, and we can have some fun on the set.  Fucking for
hours."  She liked the fact that Jean-Luc could last so long. 
"Fucking for hours," she repeated sleepily.

*************************

But first they had to shoot the video with the mysterious Guinan.

"Hello, Boys," Guinan said.  She was very distinctive-looking,
with huge dreads and flowing red robes and a big circular hat.  
She looked closely at Q. "Have we met?" she asked him.

"Not in this lifetime," Q was startled into saying.

She didn't smile; she merely lifted her head as if tasting the
air.  They were to find that Guinan was not one to give her smiles
freely, that Guinan thought life was serious, worth living without
irony but with wisdom.  She was the perfect choice for one of
their love songs.

Jean-Luc regarded her uneasily.  He trusted her and respected her,
but he always knew when there was more to a person than met the
eye.  He sat and watched her when he wasn't  in a scene.  She saw
him looking and was completely unfazed. 

At one point, when Q and Jean-Luc were sitting together eating, Q
asked her a question.  When was she going to tell them what she
wanted from them in their next scene?  

She smiled gently.  "When I want you to know, you'll know."

Jean-Luc looked up.  She was looking at him, not Q. He squinted at
her, but his mouth was turned up in a smile.  He looked back at
his sandwich and shook his head.  He knew the drill now.  He had
worked under commanders like this in the army. 


Guinan showed a great deal of affection towards both of the camera
people.  They were a young black man and a young black woman.  

"She sure treats them different from the way Kira treated her
crew," Will whispered to Worf.  "She's awfully touchy-feely with
them.  Whatcha think?  Maybe that Guinan's got something going on
with those two."

"That's correct."   Will nearly had a heart attack.  Guinan had
appeared out of nowhere. "I certainly do have something going on
with them.  I gave birth to them."

"Christ, don't do that!"

Guinan simply smiled her smile and slid away. 

When the time came, she showed them her elaborately drawn
storyboard and was careful to explain it so they knew about every
shot and could feel proprietary about what she was doing.  It
wasn't her video and it wasn't a video of the Boys; they were  in
this together.

It was set mostly outdoors at a ranch.

At first there was a beating bass and a close-up of a bird's jerky
black head.  Then the bird gathered itself in a wild velvet flurry
and sped away.

The video cut to Jean-Luc, alone in the studio, a look of
eagerness and amusement and gravity on his face.  He held a sheaf
of papers, and with no sign began to sing:

     "Come into these arms of mine"

Then there was a shot of the other five Boys walking into a dry
ravine.

     "and lay your dear head down;"

Q and Data and Geordi were standing in the shallows of a river;
the glittering water reflected against them.      

     "You're prisoner of the trembling earth"

Close up on Q.  On Data.  On Geordi.

     "but I will bring you peace."

On Worf, without a shirt.  He was extremely muscular.

     "I will bring you love"

Now both Will and Worf were walking shirtless into water; what
Guinan did with their faces was miraculous.  They were smiling at
each other without smiles, without looking at each other.  The
very simple warmth of their eyes did it all.  

     "I will bring you hope"

Worf lowered his head under the water and lifted it up, and shook
it; the water from the ends of his long hair fell against Will's
face and chest; Will looked startled and pleased.

     "I will bring you release.
     Once you heard the warrior drum."

There was a high-noon shot of Data watching Geordi sit on a
motorbike; Geordi was laughing and Data was looking at him very
tenderly.  

By the second day of shooting, there was no sign of the skepticism
and disapproval that had first greeted her when she had the
motorcycles unloaded.  She had told them during the pre-shoot
storyboard session that Data would teach Geordi to ride a
motorcycle.         

"That is impossible, Guinan.  I do not even know how to ride."

"But you're very smart," Guinan said.

"Yes."  Data frowned suspiciously. 

"So, tomorrow morning you will learn.  Tomorrow afternoon you will
teach."

"You've got a lot of faith in that boy," Jean-Luc had been
watching them. 

Guinan smiled with one corner of her mouth.  "So do you, or you
would have objected by now and we both know it."

The Boys glanced at Jean-Luc in amused agreement.  Jean-Luc
blinked, but then he gave her a mocking salute and subsided.

Data learned how to ride a motorcycle.  He couldn't wait to teach
Geordi, and his enthusiasm and tenderness were obvious on film.

     "and left me for the fight
     Cruel time split us in two
     but now you sleep on my breast."

Then there was a sunset shot; Geordi and Data were comfortably
riding their two bikes, Data guiding Geordi with one hand, and
Worf, Will and Q  took a break from shoveling out the barn just
for a moment, and their eyes followed the two bikes and they all
three smiled with expressions of satisfaction (Worf showed just
the barest softening, but it was clearly there) and it was obvious
they were glad for Geordi's triumph.

Then the video cut back to Jean-Luc in the studio, his posture
impeccable as ever, singing:

     "For there is in all the world
     no greater love than mine."

Then there was a shot of a table full of steaming food, and he got
up and rang the dinner bell; the three shovelers poured water over
their heads before they came inside for the day.

     "In this cave let us love tonight
     I will hold you from the cold
     the warrior drum has passed us by
     and we burn with other fires 
     Let me bring you love
     Let me bring you peace
     Let me bring you release"

Jean-Luc was sitting at a piano; suddenly Q leaned in behind him
and abruptly whispered something in his ear and then walked off
camera.  Jean-Luc's grave warm gaze followed his lover's
departure.     

     "Come into these arms of mine
     and lay your dear head down;
     A prisoner of the trembling earth
     I will bring you peace."

There was a shot of empty plates and empty bowls; after a shot of
all six of them sprawled in front of the TV watching their old
video; then a shot of them going upstairs two by two, Will and
Worf, Geordi and Data.  The music played the last little bit of
instrumentation.  There was a shot of the TV still going and the
audience saw a shot of Q's dozing head leaning against Jean-Luc's
thigh; then a hand nudged him awake, and there were the last two
last pairs of legs going up the stairs, a distance shot of the
house, and then the last light went out as the song came to an
end. 
     
Quark watched it as he ate a banana.

"That's pretty blatant, Guinan."

Guinan gave him one of her direct glances.  He looked guilty and
put down the banana.

"I love it," he tried to tell her.

She finally spoke: "It's blatant about love, not sex.  What's so
wrong with that?" 

*************************
     
After the first take of the first shot, Jean-Luc stood pressed
against the door of the make-up trailer like a dog who smells
something good.

Q's idealized beauty was driving him wild.

And Jean-Luc couldn't wait to grab the newly made-up Q and take
him to their trailer and right inside the door lower his jeans and
make Q kneel down and suck him while he fucked Q's throat.  As a
matter of fact, Jean-Luc only had Q take the first couple of
inches in his mouth so he could continue to see that beautiful
face, the eye make-up, the highlighting along Q's graceful
cheekbones, the lipstick, as Q used his mouth to bring him to
ecstasy.

Owning Q made him feel powerful.  

When Jean-Luc and Q came back from making love in the trailer,
they walked side by side (lovers that close don't have to talk)
and they didn't even know Guinan was watching them until Jean-Luc
looked up to see her eyes following them, amusement and approval
written all over her face.
                                  
*************************

At the concerts, posters of each Boy were offered at the
merchandise booths.  

Worf looked so good in a threatening and unique fashion that his
picture sold almost as much as Q's.   And, needless to say, Q's
poster sold extremely well.  Jean-Luc had nursed him through the
photo, posing him the way he wanted Q to be seen.  Q's face was
very young and innocent-seeming, but his pants were tight and he
ended up showing off everything.  "I wasn't trying to do that,"  Q
said to anyone who would listen.  "It's just that those pants were
so tight and I couldn't help it." 

Jean-Luc had a blue-toned poster of himself in a cowboy hat
holding a guitar by the neck.

(The unofficial merchandise booths outside the concert halls sold
an older publicity shot of Jean-Luc by himself, a full body photo
where he was staring straight out at the camera in a relaxed pose
with his hands at his sides; some air-brush magician create a halo
around his head and added the caption:  "A prophet is without
honor in his own country."  This poster was in a lot of dorm rooms
and cubicles across America.)
     
A famous gay designer clocked their visual appeal and asked them
to please, please wear his clothes.  Jean-Luc was about to jump
in, but Q said, "No!  Wait!"   He said the designer could use them
for one season only and then they would be up for auction again. 
And Q and Tommy stared at each other with triumphant expressions.  

The designer prepared a series of soft homoerotic pictures for his
fall line.  The pictures were in major men's magazines and in
Rolling Stone.  Worf fared especially well in the photographs.  In
one, he was looking away as he sat in a white leather club chair
with his legs apart.  His pants were so tight that his big set of
equipment was clearly outlined against his thigh.  In the
background, the other Boys were a blur of action, singing or
laughing, you couldn't tell. 

This photograph was pasted to so many ceilings it wasn't funny. 
And, after the pictures were published, the erotic mail and
letters poured in at an all-time high.  

"Dear Worf.  I always beat off to you.  I love you and if you want
to have me anytime you can.   Dan."

"Dear Worf.  I always had a fantasy of being done by two black
guys at once.  You and my boyfriend are perfect.  Please come to
my house or I will come out to wherever you are.  Cody."

"Dear Worf.  Remember me?  I still work for the Warden and I still
think about our time together.  You were special to me.  Love,
Wesley.  P.S. I love your dick. I am touching myself right now
thinking about it."


Before one concert, Jean-Luc was in a small little well-lit
dressing room when he said, "What's that?"

Q was the only person around.  "Me, I suppose."  He smiled at
Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc walked over to him and grabbed his arms and sniffed him
carefully.  "What is that?  It's strange.  Nice, but strange."

"It's a new fragrance, a present.  I like it a lot."

"And just who is this present from?"  Jean-Luc pushed Q against
the broad table where they did their makeup; Q's back was to a
mirror. 

Q named the designer.  "He's going to call it Q!  He had already
designed it and all and he was going to name it Krupskaya
Krupskaya after this famous Russian woman but . . . you know, he
fell in with us.  Q!  My own fragrance."

"What's he paying you?"

"Nothing.  You can't copyright the alphabet."

"Too bad." Jean-Luc kept pushing him.  "What sort of panties are
you wearing?"

Q pulled back; by now he was sitting on the makeup table with his
knees apart and his breath was shallow.  "What do you think, Jean-
Luc?"

Jean-Luc gazed between Q's legs.  "It looks as if you're wearing
none.  Oh, God, say that."

"I'm not wearing panties, Daddy."

"Take off your jeans and prove it."

Q did.  The dressing room was lined with mirrors.  Q climbed back
on the table with his legs apart; he hoped Jean-Luc would fuck him
like that.

And Jean-Luc did, moving his own pants to just below his ass.  

Because of the way he was sitting, Q's seed splashed against his
own costume; but it was a very nice thing.

*************************

They got their share of hate mail too: "Dear Jean-Luc,  I'm going
to fuck you in your faggot ass and then I will shoot your brains
out you faggot son of a bitch and kill you dead.  P.S.  You're
music sucks.  You're truley,  Jack Troper."

They took every threat seriously.  John Mack Madred had shown them
that they had to.  Curiously, Jean-Luc, who got most of the hate
mail, was the least upset about it.  He turned it over to Tommy
who turned it over to detectives who did threat assessments for
them.  The threats came from mostly pitiful people -- Jack Trooper
couldn't even spell his own name right.  It was unlikely their
spite would go further than hate mail, but it paid to be sure.  

*************************
     
They were millionaires; Quark was a millionaire.

Will sometimes seemed quieter than he had been. 

One night, after a particularly good show, Worf and Will made
their way to their bed together.

And Will launched it on him.

"Worf, I want us to be a family.  You know.  With a baby."

For a moment Worf felt the squeaking horror of a woman being
chased by a mouse. His voice reflected this, warbling and cracking
when he attempted to speak.  "A baby?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"I want to do it right."

"I am not," Worf breathed in.  "Good with children."

"Yes, you are."

"You would have to be the one to take care of it.   Feed it. 
Carry it around."

"I'll do all that."  Will had that catch in his breath like as if
he thought he might get something that he really wanted.  Once
Worf had let Will buy a jeep, and Will cared for it just as he'd
promised he would.  "Please. I want to be . . .real."

Worf was very quiet, and then he told his messy busy lover, "You
know Quark's got us going to Europe over Christmas.  Maybe when we
get back we can talk about it."  He sounded surer than he felt.
          
*************************

Kira was going to direct the new video, and Melinda was going to
star with them.  This would publicize the new single coming out in
the fall, and then the Boys would head to Europe for a brief tour
of the Continent.

Even Jean-Luc seemed more peaceful.

*************************

Worf and Will contacted a lawyer named Eileen Farralon and told
her what they wanted.

She warned them that it wouldn't be easy.  Or immediate.

They diffidently told her money was no object.

She shook her head no.  Money wasn't the issue.  It was the
availability of babies.

Will said in a very small voice, "I've heard it's easier to adopt
mixed-race babies.  We're mixed-race.  That's what we'd like."

"This isn't like going to the store and purchasing something, Mr.
Riker," she said in a very kind way. How much he was longing for a
child was touching; she herself had had some experience in that
feeling. "But I will do my best."

"Here's a number where you can reach us twenty-four hours a day,"
Will said.

"I have to say this.  My firm has standards; we are legitimate. 
We'll have to file reports to a number of government agencies as
well as keep an in-house file on you too.  Can your lives face
that kind of scrutiny?"

"I suppose," Will said as Worf looked stonily on.
     
*************************

"Babylonian fuck tricks, now, if you don't mind," Jean-Luc said. 
Melinda was back, lovelier than ever, her breasts high on her
svelte body, her lips wide and smiling.  And she was pleased to
see how her lover had thrived.  Jean-Luc was more confident than
ever, and his self-confidence, his satisfaction at himself were
what made him such a good lover.  She supposed it was the touring
or the success or that Q.  

(Jealousy had never eaten into Melinda; mostly she wanted a piece
of Q.  Jesus, he was a handsome man.)

"I lied," she said; she was sitting across from him.  She let her
knees fall open.  Jean-Luc watched her knees carefully.  She was
wearing a full-skirted sleeveless dress made of turquoise silk. 
It looked as if it would have been high-style thirty-five years
before, but she made it her own.  Of course, she had no underwear
on.  She wiggled her bottom a bit.  Her legs tilted a bit on her
stilettoes.  They had ankle straps.  They cost five hundred
dollars.  Jean-Luc made a noise deep in his throat. "Take off that
ridiculous dress," he said.

"Who'll fuck me if I do?"  Not that that stopped her from taking
off the dress.

Now Melinda wore nothing but those five-hundred-dollar heels.  She
spread her feet apart a bit, like a professional model; she was
showing him her body.  "Can you tell I'm having my period?"  She
had a very serious look on her face, her big eyes warm in her
grave face. 

"Aren't you something?" Jean-Luc leaned forward; he was still
fully dressed.  "Did I ever tell you how much Jean-Luc likes a
little blood on his sheets?  Come here.  Come to Daddy.  Come be
Daddy's little girl."

She came and sat on his lap, her round luscious bottom against his
swollen fly.        

"I can read Daddy's mind.  I bet Daddy likes to put it up butts."

Jean-Luc was too bemused by her lush behind to hear more than her
cozy and teasing tone.  

"I bet Daddy gives one bad spanking too, to bad girls and boys."

"Lean over so I can see your butthole," he said.  She did, resting
her elbows on her knees, her back still to him, her ass resting on
his big thighs.  

Then she stood up and leaned over with her hands on her knees; he
could see all of her.  She straightened up and walked away.  

"Let's get some pretty light, Boy, it's like a cafeteria in here
or something."  It was late afternoon; she had been in town for
forty-five minutes.  The first place she came was to his house. 
She turned the television to a channel that gave nothing but
fritzing sounds and shooting pixels, and then she did a little
dance step and walked back towards him; he saw her maddening
smile.  In front of him, she shut her eyes, she tweaked her own
nipples: "Oh, Boy, stick it in me."

She was right about the light; the television gave her motions a
certain blue-tinted drama.  

He stood up and silently grabbed her elbows and directed her to
her knees, her arms propped in a praying position against the
chair he'd just been in.  Then he moved his pants down to his
knees and, after stroking on a premium lubricated rubber, began to
tease her ass with his stiff cock.  "Shut your eyes, don't pay any
attention to Daddy, just give Daddy a little pussy every now and
then."

Then he was all the way in and they were moving together; the
flickering blue light made it different from anything he'd ever
done, as if they were aliens or prisoners in a strange prison.

She had a lovely gift of contracting her anal muscles to help
Jean-Luc.  "I'll just stroke myself from here," she said.  "You're
sure a beast."

"Expect nothing else from Daddy."

And now he settled down to marathon ass-fucking; she needed it,
she wanted it, she couldn't live without it.  

This late afternoon was made for leisurely fucking; he liked
looking at himself disappear in her plump ass, soft and perfumed,
not a sign of a muscle anywhere, flesh like down, flesh like
satin, flesh like fresh-cut fruit, plunging again and again.  He
would never bruise her, never want to break her.  She was a
perfect Goddess. 

"Talk to me, Melinda, tell me about the best time a man fucked you
in the ass.  Did you have one with a bigger dick than me?  I like
to think that."

"You mean the one in my parents' garage?  In Chicago?"  Her breath
was coming in funny gasps; her hand was busy in front.  Every now
and then Jean-Luc smelled the sharp copper of her blood.  "I
wanted it.  I was coming home from school.  I kept on my Catholic
school cardigan, my blouse, but I took off the skirt."

"The knee socks!"   They both half-groaned, half-laughed. "I said,
I need it. I need it now.  And I was suddenly on my hands and
knees and he was inside me and moving and grabbing my tits" (Jean-
Luc grabbed her tits) "and he let me fuck him; he was just the big
dumb dick that I was fucking myself with and that was the best
part.  I kept backing into it. I couldn't believe it.  I could
just get his big hard constant dick out of his pants anytime,
practically anyplace, the back seat of the little car Pop gave me,
the family room late at night, in my little gingham bedroom, and
his dick was so big and always hard, I had always made him hard,
even when I was twelve years old and we were doing some shit in
our club house we didn't need to be doing, and fuck myself with it
whenever I liked and I could pinch it with my little hot ass and
then take it all in and I could watch TV with him in my butt or do
it at the drive-in, the last drive-in movie in Cook County, Boy."

"How did you do it at the last drive-in movie in Cook County?"   
"On my hands and knees in the van.  Lying on my back in the
backseat.  Sitting on it in the front seat of his car."

He put his powerful arms around her; she was sweet as sugar and
she wanted nothing more than to feel it inside her.  

"Melinda, Melinda," he said, and he closed his eyes.  With it up
her butt.  Then he began to come driving frantically and wildly
into her, and she began to scream softly and writhe against him. 
"I don't want to bruise you or hurt you," and she said, "that's
okay," and then they were both coming hard against each other.

When they calmed down, slick with sweat, panting, gasping, he sat
back and pulled her with him, his softening cock still inside her.

"Boy, you know my secret?  I want a big one in me all the time. 
It's just pathetic."

"You came to the right place.  I want a big one in you too."  

She waggled now against his softness.   "Let me get cleaned up."

"No!" he said. "Stay dirty with me."

"You can help!  You can watch!"
     

Jean-Luc adored everything about Melinda.  While she was
showering, he picked up her bra.  A soft purple/brown satin.  He
held it to his chest, thrilling at how it must hold her pretty
titties in place.  He looked at her box of Tampax, carefully
unfolding the instructions, smiling at the simple Egyptian eros of
its illustrations.

She was not remotely secretive about any part of herself and, when
she got out of the shower, untoweled, unrobed, a naked nymph
emerging from her own spring, she asked him to hand her a tampon
and he did, wonderingly.  

"Would you like see me with it?  I don't fancy you get to see this
much with the Boys."  

He watched her insert it with great curiosity. 

Her vagina was beautiful, shell-pink surrounded by voluminous dark
brown curls.  

Jean-Luc said, "Wait.  Let me do something."  Q had given him a
little instant camera a while back; he'd never used it.  He had no
reason to photograph anything.  Until now.  "Let me photo your
puss."

She sat on the edge of the bed with her ankles together and her
knees apart.  He took the picture and let her hold the developing
shot.  After he counted to sixty, she opened it.

The photograph was awful!  Orange and brown and purple shapes
arranged haphazardly.

Jean-Luc looked horrified.  

Melinda gave him a tender smile.  "That's the first cherry I ever
saw busted on you, Boy.  Alas, it's true: not all dirty
photographs work out.  Besides," she began to tease him, "you got
the littlest Polaroid imaginable. I don't want to go with no Boy
with a Polaroid that little.  Later on when we have time, you can
get a real camera in to snap my snapper."

*************************
       
Q spent the night with Worf and Will; to take his mind off
Melinda, they told him their secret.

"Q, there's something else you need to know," Worf breathed out. 
"Melinda is a fine girl.  Really nice.  And she's good with Jean-
Luc."

*************************

At the first day of the shoot, Kira showed up with Bareil and
Modyed. 

"Jadzia!" she squealed.

"Nerise!" Melinda laughed and hugged her.

"Why do you use those names to address each other?" Data asked.
Always curious.  

"I've known this crazy girl in several of her different
incarnations," Kira smiled.

"I've got to go to make up.  Kira, come with me and tell me about
our video.  We'll have some girl talk!"

"Ohh, squeal!  Makeup!"

"Hairstyles!"

"Prom dresses!"

"And dick!"

"Lots of dick!"  Kira was laughing now.  "Will, I believe you can
help me out.   Make Modyed happy til I get back."

The smallest, sweetest smile appeared in Will's eyes and he took
Modyed.  

The ladies left; the men were still there.  Because of the
ebullient Jean-Luc and the very subdued Q, it was slightly
awkward, but Modyed helped them through the awkwardness.  

"Worf, don't you have a little something for Modyed?  Get it out
for her."  Will was bouncing Modyed and now Q was waving at her
and making little ticking sounds.  

In a big brightly-colored bag which rattled seductively, Worf put
his hand in.  "What do I have here?  What is it, Modyed?  What is
it?"  And he drew out a pretty little light blue teddy bear and
Modyed began to squall and then everything took a backseat to
that. 
     

The video was beautiful.  Jean-Luc saw a new side to Melinda; she
and Kira worked together very well, discussing lighting and shots
and story-boards.  Melinda was as smart as she was beautiful.  A
couple of times she made suggestions about angles, and Kira's face
opened up its funny harlequin smile because Melinda was right.  

But all it was was a black-and-white video of Melinda dancing with
each Boy as their song played in the background.  The black-and-
white film was rich and saturated, almost sepia in tone.  

And Melinda was such an expressive actress that she was different
with each Boy.  An astonished look at Data when she saw how well
he could dance.  A tender guide at slow-dancing with Geordi.  Both
she and Will throwing their heads back and laughing as they did a
sort of hoedown.  Serious with Jean-Luc, a sober tango.  With
Worf, starting across the room from each other, then approaching
almost as adversaries, holding herself quite erect and nearly as
tall as Worf when she had on her heels and then he grabbed her and
swung her around.  Even the camera crew applauded them.  And then
it was her turn to dance with Q. 

Q was so subdued that all hearts went out to him.  Except Jean-
Luc's.  

Kira and Melinda whispered together.  

Q stood alone in front of the camera.  A light came down from
above on him.  His proud beauty.  He held his hands behind him.  
He was like a mediaeval saint with his cowboy hat halo.

Melinda walked up to him and kissed his cheek.  She touched his
chest.  Then she held him; he didn't move.  He leaned his head
down and she leaned up head up; their eyes met, saying 
unfathomable things, things that made each of them grieve for the
impossible things the world seemed to promise and then held back.  

Instead the camera danced. And why not?  Q and Melinda were the
two loveliest people it had ever seen.  With beauty that simple,
there was no need for plot or action.  The camera danced to the
music, loving them, trying to persuade them to give themselves to
it.  At one point, the camera closed in as Q put his hand on
Melinda's shoulder.  She seemed startled.  It was as if a third
character had come into the scene.  Then as the music ended, they
separated and each went a different way.

No applause now.  Just a silence that said more than words.

Quark suddenly appeared.  "Where's my dance, Miss Madigan?"

She smiled her slow smile and drew him to her.  His head came to
just below her tits.  Quark appeared to be having a religious
experience.

*************************

Melinda had to fly back to Tunisia to do post-production on her
film.

She called Jean-Luc before she left: "Merry Christmas, Boy," she
said.  "Our video's going to be a huge success."  Then she 
laughed her curly little laugh.  "Did you hear about Donnie Ral?"

"That pisshole.  What about him?"

"He's shooting a video for that new big-hair-band rock band from
L.A.?  And he's, well, word has it he wants to do better than a
Boys video, so he's got the video crawling with, get this,
lesbians!  Donnie says," and she made her voice go deep and dumb,
she was a brilliant mimic, "*Homosexuality is selling like hot
cakes today! It's everywhere you look!*  And they're not even real
lesbians.  Just his girls waggling their tongues at the camera."

"That cocksucker sure misses the point," Jean-Luc said.  "Maybe we
can spend some real time, doing some real fucking together this
summer."  

"Ooh," Melinda said.  "Let me lay this little last-minute fantasy
on you, Boy.  Me.  Me sitting on you.  Maybe some nylons and
heels.  I turn my head.  Q's there, big and stiff; as I slowly
pump your dick, I suck him.  Worf's there too, I've got his hogleg
in one hand and Data's in my other.  I get Geordi in my ass -- it
CAN be done.  Maybe Geordi or Data sucks Will til I get one of you
off and you boys can trade places.  I want to be in a bedroom with
the Boys' dicks.  I want that dream to come true."

But this dream was interesting Jean-Luc less and less.
                                        
*************************

For the Christmas holidays, Q bought a big tree for their living
room and expensive decorations.  Then they had their pictures made
and sent to their fan club.

And the night before Christmas they put all the presents
underneath the tree and then opened them the next morning,
petrified of each other's judgement.  

They didn't need to worry.  Geordi and Data bought everyone the
same thing -- computers and computer lessons.  Q bought clothes
for all of them, which, because of his exquisite taste, they
actually ended up wearing.   Worf and Will bought everyone pieces
of exotic art they'd seen in a catalogue that had come to the
house one day.  Jean-Luc's gift was a trip for all of them to the
Taj Mahal.  No particular reason, he just knew it was someplace
far away and very special, and he wanted to go exploring after
Europe.

They even had a beautifully-catered Christmas day reception --
with the roadies, Kira with some of the cult, Guinan and her
family, and Quark in a Santa Claus hat bearing presents (which
turned out to be mostly Boys merchandise).  Will held Modyed, 
"Christmas is for children," he told everyone.

They were proud of themselves afterwards, because they'd crossed
another milestone into respectability.  They'd successfully pulled
off Christmas.  

Q was the happiest he had been a while.  In his lackluster
childhood, only Christmas ever held any promise of treasure and
change.  His two older sisters would turn up with their families
(in true hillbilly fashion, Q had nephews and nieces older than he
was), and filled the house with rare liveliness and laughter.  On
these occasions, for once, his family felt like a family in
magazine with pretty food and decorations.

Even now he liked to sit by the tree, hardly moving his eyes from
its starry white lights. 

*************************
   
And then they went to Europe. 

London, Paris, Amsterdam, Madrid, Berlin.  Everywhere they went
their raw American masculinity titillated and shocked, but it
unquestionably drew the eye.  The subjects, prison love, love
between men, heartbreak, were surprising, yet intimately familiar. 
They did not complain about the rough touring schedule.  Tommy
Quark took  good care of his egg-laying goose and scheduled long
breaks between cities so they could rest and sightsee.  

Jean-Luc was in heaven.   Pretty boys, ruins and museums to
explore.  Everything.  He tried to explain to Q why this was
important, but Q already knew.  Q had been on Fajo's island, had
seen things that knocked the hillbilly  breath out of his lungs.
       
*********************

In Paris, late at night, Will got a phone call from Eileen
Farralon.   He was very pale and sweaty as he listened.   

Eileen Farralon was going to turn fifty in July and she was
beginning to realize that a lot of pretty young dreams were not
going to come  true for her, despite the cute young husband and
the six-figure-law-firm income.  She wanted something else, a
little happiness.  Maybe if she made these intense talented queer
lovers happy, that would add a few particles of happiness to the
world. 

So she had not looked in her usual sources, which were brokers who
fed unwed mothers from the Midwest to wealthy couples who wanted a
healthy  white male baby.  Instead, she looked in infants in the
city's homes for abandoned babies. She even went to women's
prisons, and there she caught a break.  A  young lady, busted with
her crack dealer boyfriend, was serving three to five years.  The
girl wanted to give up the child for adoption because her
boyfriend had refused to marry  her.  Then he disappeared.

Ultrasound reported a baby girl.  The adoption lady spread some of
Will and  Worf's money around.  The nice young lady got vitamins
every day.  She was escorted to the interrogation room once a day
where wonderfully prepared meals  waited for her with lots of fat
and protein to keep the baby healthy, and lots of calcium, too. 
Would she consent to taking these extra vitamin  pills? 
Flattered, she said yes.  It was the most attention she'd gotten
in her life.  Eileen Farralon was nothing if not thorough.  The
girl was taken in handcuffs to a hospital for another ultrasound
and an amniocentesis.  The baby was healthy.  

"They're rich?" the girl said, for reassurance.

"Very rich, and they specifically asked for a mixed-race baby." 
Eileen fixed honest eyes on the young girl. "And they might be
persuaded to send you to night school -- or even junior college --
after prison."  

All Will and Worf had to do was wait until they were back in
America.

*************************
 
In Europe, Geordi was hearing new and interesting music everywhere
he went.   He became more obsessive than Data about collecting
this music, and  together the two of them went on a musical
discovery jaunt, buying anything and everything new they could get
their hands on.   Yanamamo Indian music, Tuvan throat-singing
music (it blew their minds), eerie Celtic music, Tunisian music,
Israeli music, Slavic, Norwegian, Indian, you name it.  Geordi
bought exotic new instruments in every city and talked to
musicians all over Europe about studying with them on their next
break. 

The other Boys were a bit upset.  "No,"  they told him.  "You
can't stay here studying this stuff when we have an album to
prepare."  

Geordi sighed and acquiesced, but not before trying to explain the
dimensions of music that were opening up before his ears. 

"But our music is great right now," the other Boys protested.  
"We think so.  Everyone thinks so."

Geordi gave up, but his frustration was evident.  This was big. 
This was important.  Worth much more than a postponed CD.  He
didn't understand why they couldn't see it.   

Data was amazed.  His respect for Geordi's abilities soared higher
than ever.  

Then in Bonn, Geordi met a young Dane who had gone to Kerala to
study the tampura.  He did not claim to be very good (the opposite
in fact), but by the time he finished explaining about the
evolution of Syrian Orthodox Christianity and its subsequent
influence on this particular style of traditional Indian music,
Geordi was entranced.  They jammed with each other, and Geordi's
guitar was imitating the tampura's distinctive sound within an
hour.  He insisted that Hugh teach him what he could in the short
time they would be in Germany, and Hugh was happy to comply.  

He would sit very close to Geordi, or put his arms around him in
order to demonstrate the fingering techniques.   Sometimes, when
Geordi immediately picked up Hugh's example, Hugh would tighten
his arms in exuberant triumph, and once he kissed Geordi's cheek
in happiness.  

Geordi would not have cared to admit it but he enjoyed the
closeness of Hugh.  He had heard Will laugh and murmur to Worf and
Q about how to "get some of that Hugh."   He'd listened to
Jean-Luc's slowing footsteps he entered a room Hugh was in, and he
felt the heat from Jean-Luc's body as he looked over at Hugh and
asked him how he was doing.  He would never know how beautiful
Hugh was (huge eyes and lips, a soft and small gracefulness), but
he could feel it.

But Hugh was interested only in Geordi.  He would touch Geordi on
the thigh or the butt as if helping Geordi find a direction
he couldn't see. 

And then one evening Hugh kissed him a long, unmistakable kiss, a
kiss that said he wanted it and wanted it now.  So they went into
the bedroom and lay on the soft European flannel sheets and Hugh
gave Geordi a tender,  loving blow job, and loved it when Geordi
told him to keep his eyes closed so they would be equal.
                              
Geordi did not try to hide what they were doing, and Data caught
on quickly. 

"I do not care to have Hugh keep visiting because I do not like
for you to have sex with him."

"Well, I understand, Data, but it doesn't change my feelings for 
you one bit.  I hate to say it, but it's sort of like with you and 
Jean-Luc."  Geordi was always reasonable.

Data was shocked by his own jealousy and fury. "I do not believe 
the two situations are comparable.  I did not have the luxury of 
choice."

Geordi's mouth dropped open.  "You threw yourself at him!  You 
practically bent over with a 'fuck me' sign pasted to your
butt."

"Your perception is inaccurate."

"Data!"  Geordi was shocked.  Then he sighed:  "Oh, forget it. 
We'll be in London tomorrow.  I'll probably never see Hugh
again."  He sounded frustrated.  
       
*************************

For their two-week stay in London, Quark had rented for all of
them a beautiful old British home in Mayfair.  The windows alone
were worth  the rent   ten feet high, five feet wide, inset with
beautiful leaded panes.   

And the soft February light of London made everyone look younger
and lovelier.

Jean-Luc and Q had some very nice fuck sessions in London. "Let's
play like I'm Hugh," Q whispered.  "Oh, what is that big thing
there, sir?"  His Danish accent was most amusing.

"Something nice for Daddy's little Hugh."

Q caressed Jean-Luc, he was straddling Jean-Luc's thigh with his
legs and rubbing himself against Jean-Luc.  Then he stood up and
turned his  back on Jean-Luc, posing.  "See something nice,
Daddy?"

Jean-Luc liked fucking Q when Q was bending over.  Jean-Luc liked
the whole concept of men bending over for him.  Lots of them. 
Acres of asses, his the only dick.

Afterwards, they took baths in the funny old British bath and
talked, Q naked, using the toilet as a chair while he dried
himself and Jean-Luc in the tub watching his pretty naked lover. 

"Put your fingers in your ass, Q," Jean-Luc said.

"Why?" Q smiled.

"Because it's there." 

Jean-Luc soaked in the scented water and watched Q's little show. 
Which was mostly stretching and caressing, gently erotic.

The phone rang.  The operator had been instructed to let only
certain persons ring through.  Jean-Luc and Q looked at each
other.  Then Jean-Luc got out of the tub.  

"Yes."

"Yes!  Yes!  Yes!"

Jean-Luc said nothing.

"Boy, oh, no, I'm sorry.  I'm sorry a thousand times.  You're with
someone, aren't you?  Oh, weep weep, I'm the Anti-Christ.  I
didn't mean to interrupt.  I just missed you so much but I'll ring
off now  - I'm just a bad girl."

"No, no, Melinda, it's fine.  Q and I were just . . ."

"Fucking like there's no tomorrow!  I know.  Damn, I wish I were 
there.  I've been totally unplugged lately, and us modern
a-go-go girls  want our plugs.  I'll let you get back to Q. 
When's a good time to call?"

"Just call when you want to, Melinda."  

She rang off.

A soft February rain started to fall.  

"Melinda is so nice," Q said without irony.  "Let me dry you off
and let's get in the warm bed.  We can take a little nap. I love
sleeping in the rain."

Outside it was just getting dark, hazy.  The gentle street lights
were coming on.  

Jean-Luc stood looking out the window for the longest time and Q
came and held him from behind.  Eventually Jean-Luc let himself
relax, leaning into Q's arms.  They said nothing.

*************************
 
In London, Will and Worf spent time walking in pretty little 
jewel-like parks.  They often struck up conversations with 
craggy-looking British mothers pushing round-headed babies  in
shabby prams.  The women were always making sure the babies were
warm.  Europe was sure cold in February!   

*************************
       
After one of the London shows, Hugh showed up backstage, beaming. 

Kurn recognized him from the other country and let him in.  

"Hugh!  Thank you for coming."

"Thank you for letting me in, Geordi.  I wanted to see you."

Geordi reached out and Hugh pulled Geordi's arms wide and stepped
into an embrace.  

"I love you, Geordi."

Geordi was courteous and polite.  "I'm glad to hear you say that,
Hugh, but I'm in a pretty good relationship right now.  I don't
know that I could be fair to you if we let this continue."

"I know.  But I don't care if you're fair to me or not.  You're
special, Geordi.  Please don't send me away."
 
*************************

All the Boys were napping except one.  For the last hour, Data had
lingered outside the room he and Geordi shared, blatantly
eavesdropping as his lover made love to the interloper Hugh.  Data
could imagine perfectly what Hugh and Geordi looked like, earth
and snow, fucking each other in the stately old room.  

After they'd finished, there had been a long silence; then Data
clearly heard Geordi ask Hugh to tell him some more about his
adventures in India.  In moments their voices got sleepy and
trailed off, and all the while Data just stood there, listening to
them talk, listening to them sleep, imagining he could hear their
deep, even breaths.  

Earlier that day he'd taken Geordi out walking so that Geordi
could listen to the traffic going backwards.  But, when Hugh 
stepped out of a cab a few hours later, Data had excused himself,
going out to wander those same streets, isolated and bereft.  Now 
he realized he should have not allowed the two of them any time
alone.  

What would Jean-Luc do?

And with that thought, Data pushed the bedroom door open and
stepped in, the unexpected boldness of the move shocking him into
momentary stillness.  He had to fight the instinct to excuse
himself and leave because Geordi and Hugh were, as he expected,
sleeping gently amid the fluffy white covers.  His eye was drawn
to the beauty of their combined colors of skin, their different
textures of hair.  But he especially loved Geordi's full lips, his
wide nostrils, the relaxed expression on his face as he slept.  He
wasn't giving any of that up to Hugh.  Not again.

Data pulled off his clothes and defiantly slid into bed next to
Geordi.  Hugh and Geordi lay face to face, holding each other
loosely, but Data spooned up behind Geordi and wrapped his arms
around him tightly.   He threw his leg over Geordi's thigh,
obviously, and somewhat gleefully, displacing Hugh.

Who woke up.

"Am I intruding?" Hugh asked in his polite, accented voice.

"Not at all," Data answered with tight courtesy, "but this is my
bed. Since I wish to sleep now, this is naturally where I would
come."

"Perhaps I should leave."

"If you wish.  Please don't mind if I don't see you out."

"Of course not."  Hugh's tone was never less than civil.  

He enraged Data by bending over and gently shaking Geordi awake. 
"Geordi, I'm going now."  He leaned over him and kissed his lips.

Geordi lifted his head.  "Hugh?" He asked sleepily.  He was
obviously disoriented by the fact that one body was wrapped
around his back while a voice came from somewhere near his face. 
"Data?"

"I am here, Geordi."  He snuggled a bit closer, settling into his
pillow.

"What are you doing, Data?"  

"Sleeping with you."

Geordi was silent.  "Okay." He finally responded.  "Hugh ... I..." 

"It's okay, Geordi."  Hugh slid out of bed.  "I let myself out. 
Maybe we see each other again sometime."  He nodded courteously to
Data, dressed and left.

Geordi slid over and nestled a bit too comfortably in the warm
spot Hugh had just vacated.

So it wasn't quite over.  


That night, at dinner, Will put his foot in it by asking Geordi
where Hugh was.  

Data took note of how quickly Q and Worf looked up, obviously
interested in the answer.  

"He's at a hotel, I think."  Geordi sounded very calm.

"When's he coming back?"  Will pressed.  He had a thing for little
blonds.

Data was seething.  "Never, if I have anything to say about it." 
The words were out before Data had a chance to stop them, and he
was just sullen enough to be pleased with everyone's astonished
reaction.  

Geordi turned to Data.  "If you have anything to say about it? 
Just why would you have anything to say about it?"

Data sounded hurt.  "I thought my feelings meant something to you. 
I thought our relationship meant something to you."

"I thought I meant something to you, too, but I didn't mean much
when it came time to fuck Jean-Luc."

"Why are we back on that subject again?"  Their voices were rising
against each other.  "I told you, I did not have any choice.  Q
was gone.  What was I supposed to do?"

"Maybe not throw yourself at Jean-Luc like the flavor-of-the-month
before Q was gone?"

Jean-Luc sat up very straight.  Astonished.

"I didn't throw myself at him!"

Will and Worf scoffed simultaneously.


"You stay out of it," Data snarled.

Jean-Luc sat back. "I fuck anybody I like.   I guess that's what
this is about."

"It's about Data acting like an asshole."  Geordi corrected.

"It is about Geordi fucking around as if I did not count."

"You fucked around on me and I never said a word."

"That was only with Jean-Luc!"

"Bullshit.  You took what you wanted."

"Jean-Luc does what he wants.  Was I supposed to say no?"

"BULLSHIT!!"  Geordi was breathless with fury.  He.  Had. 
Witnesses.  "Will, Worf.  You both saw Data throw himself
at Jean-Luc."

"We sure did!"  Will answered promptly, alive with the rich dark
pleasure of watching Little Mister-Know-It-All fuck up.

"We're not in it," Worf said.  "But, yes."

Data's chair screeched backwards on the polished oak floor.  He
stood up and stomped off.  Then they heard the door, and he was
gone. 

Everyone sat silent.  

"He doesn't want me to sleep with Hugh."  Geordi ventured.

"So I gathered."  Jean-Luc's voice was dry.

"I'll sleep with Hugh,"  Will volunteered.

"Shhhh," Worf admonished with a small smile.



Data came in very late that night, and Geordi got out of bed and
came towards him.  Data automatically stepped forward to guide
him.  They ended up on the settee at the foot of the bed.  

"Data, what was that shit this afternoon?  And tonight at dinner?" 


Data didn't answer.   

"Hugh is my friend.  I love him."

Data clutched him frantically.  "No."  

"Listen to me, Data.  I love him.  Not like I love you.  Not deep
enough, not strong enough, not wide enough to be anything like my
love for you, but I do love him.  I'm not asking you to love him,
but I am asking you to understand.  I enjoyed him.  I love you."

"I don't want to understand.  I want it to be as it was.  You and
me. "

"I know."  Geordi put his arms around Data's drooping shoulders. 
"It is a hard thing, and it's hard no matter who it happens to. 
You know how hard it is for Q.  And you know how hard it was for
Worf.  Remember when this happened to Worf and Will?" 

Worf had angrily dragged Will away from several sex scenes  before
simply giving up and setting out strict rules.  Everyone wore a
condom every single time, and, if Worf found out otherwise, he
would beat Will severely.  If Will touched anyone under the age of
18, Worf would beat Will until he died.  And Worf had had his
share of sweet pussy, so it wasn't like one was cheating and the
other wasn't.  Eventually they both made their peace with it. 
Will obeyed the rules.  Worf settled down.   Will always came
back; Worf owned Will.

"This is different somehow."  But it was a feeble objection and
they both knew it.

"It's different when it happens to you."

Data hesitated for a long time.  Then, "Yes."    

"You're gonna have to get over it, Data, just like all the rest of
us."

"I do not want to 'get over it.'"

"I don't care.  Come get in bed."

Data got in bed, but he tossed and turned.  


During their next concert, Data played  mechanically.  Jean-Luc
glared at him, and even Q gave him a look.  Will smirked. 
'Data's-in-trouble,' his look singsonged.   

That did it.  

If even Will could laugh at him, he must truly be pathetic.  He
resolved to do something.

But what?  This was not the type of problem Data was good at
solving.  This called for the soft, intuitive intelligence that
he'd never quite been able to grasp.  But he knew someone who did. 

Every day Data saw Q preening himself like a geisha, and every day
Data saw Jean-Luc try to control the way his eyes followed Q
across the room and finally give in.  Q's purpose in life was to
keep Jean-Luc's roving attention, and he had more tricks up his
sleeve than any man had a right to.  Interesting food, places to
visit, tight new clothes, sexy poses, eyeliner, lip gloss, new
songs, devastating kisses, irresistible vulnerability -- it worked
more often than not, especially considering the length of
Jean-Luc's attention span.   

Once in America, on the bus, Data had been reading something and
he looked up to rest his eyes and he saw Jean-Luc talking with Q;
Jean-Luc looked irritable and bored, and Q's expression had never
changed but he quietly opened his satiny shirt to his sternum and
spread the shirt open so his nipples showed, the skin around them
brown and round as pennies.  Jean-Luc smiled.   Their low
conversation continued uninterrupted, but Jean-Luc was back into
Q's love.  

He should be able to successfully modify Q's techniques to work
with Geordi.  Geordi had been the first of them to get bored
with the nonstop parade of new bodies, followed quickly by Data
himself.  If he could make himself more interesting to Geordi,
perhaps Geordi would cease to find other men attractive,
especially Nordic tampura playing types.


"Geordi, I want us to have sex again."  They had not fucked since
England, nearly three weeks ago.

'I'm right here, Data."

"I have been a fool, and I regret it, but what I regret most is
that it has been so long since I've touched you."  He put his hand
on Geordi's shoulder and drew him in and kissed him deeply. 
Geordi opened his mouth pliantly beneath him, and Data kissed him
and ground against him for a long time before coming up for air.

"I love you, Geordi."

"I love you, Data.  Let's not fight anymore."

"I will try very hard never to fight with you again."

But that was not all Data intended to try.

"What's that?"  Geordi didn't recognize the sound of this
particular bottle. 

"It is for our sexual gratification,"  Data whispered and was
pleased to see Geordi wiggle excitedly as he lay on his back.

Data covered his hand with lube and stuck two fingers in Geordi. 
He played with his prostate until Geordi groaned and started to
pull at his erection. 
 
"No,"  Data pushed his hand away.  "Not yet."

He stuck another finger in, and Geordi groaned.  He began to
thrust back excitedly.  Data started moving his hand around
and around, widening the circle until it was time to ease the
fourth finger in, which he did with no  problem.   By now Geordi
was sighing, calling his name.  He obviously knew what was going
to happen next.  He pushed against Data's hand, helping as best he
could through his delirious excitement.

Data kept twisting his fingers.

"Breathe, Geordi.  Are you ready for all of it? "

Geordi pushed himself harder against Data's hand, groaning
steadily now, breathing deep and rhythmically, and Data folded
his hand into a wedge and suddenly his fist was in him.  

They paused.  Data felt Geordi's pulse beating against his flesh. 
Oh, he loved the way this looked   his own sallow hand swallowed
up by Geordi's gleaming dark skin, so beautiful and pneumatic. 

Then, like music, they set up a rhythm.  Breathing.  Fisting.
Pulsing.

And faster and harder, yet gentle, and Geordi was going crazy,
just like Data hoped and planned.  "Oh fuck fuck fuck Data
I want all of you in me!"

Data paused, and, with his fist up inside Geordi's ass, he
carefully leaned over until he could take Geordi's dick into his
mouth.  He set up his rhythm again, just as he knew Geordi liked,
a moderate, steady, unwavering beat; pumping short hard strokes
that never wavered, that drove Geordi like a throbbing bass
backbeat until he screamed and twisted into Data's mouth and gave
up all that he had.   

Data felt the contractions around his hand and knew without having
to have it explained to him that Geordi had never come like that
in his life. 

He was very proud of what he'd done.

And he waited patiently until Geordi was still again.

Finally Geordi turned his head towards Data.  "Don't you want to
come?"  

"I had mine."  It was true, Data had ground himself against the
bed, almost unconsciously, until an orgasm annoyed him by tugging
at his concentration; a minor thing, quickly dismissed in light of
the reaction he was wringing from Geordi.  He instructed Geordi to
bear down as he pulled his fist out, and then went to the bathroom
and washed his hand very carefully.  When he got back to the bed,
Geordi lay like a man in a coma, utterly overcome by what had just
happened to him.  Data wiped his bottom as tenderly as if he were
a baby, and then crawled in bed next to him.

"Did you like that?"

"Oh, God, Data.  It was like your fist was pushing me deeper and
deeper into your mouth.  It was like I could feel you forcing me
to be inside you.  Every time your fist moved it was like you were
taking a part of me, more and more of me. I was totally yours,
Data.  Totally yours."  The normally serene guitarist was nearly
incoherent with amazement.  He turned to Data and ran his fingers
reverently over his face.  "I can't close my legs," he murmured in
astonishment.  "I can't stand for this feeling to go away."  He
pulled Data against his side and held him tightly for a long time. 
"I can't believe how that felt."  He said that time and time
again. 

Data was ecstatic.  He resolved to fist Geordi as often as he
could, 'til death they did part.

He chanced saying what he felt.  "You belong to me, Geordi."

Geordi's answer was a dreamy sigh.  "Yes, Data, I belong to you."

*************************

Three weeks for Geordi and Data.

Three weeks for Melinda.

Jean-Luc had tried to call her   she never answered or picked up. 
He had Quark's office trace her; she was in Tunisia and Monte
Carlo and Ottawa.   Then Brazil.  He didn't own her, he didn't
feel that he owned her, but it would have been nice if she were a
bit more convenient.

And so Jean-Luc was not in a good mood when she finally called.

"Where have you been?" was all he could say.

"Canada.  Rio.  Those kinds of places."  She sounded surprised at
his brusqueness.

"I'd like to be able to reach you easily."      

There was a puzzled silence.  "Boy?  I'm right here.  But I felt
bad. I felt  I was crowding you.  I think both of us like a lot of
love room.  That's one of the things I love about you." 

Love.

He had a quick image of what Melinda would have looked like in
that beautiful London hotel room.  Gentle, fragrant, a wide mouth,
his hands splayed on her titties.  The light gray and soft and
wrapped around  them like fur.   

"Boy, I like Q.  I don't want to hurt him."

"Q doesn't matter to us."

Another silence.  Then: "I think he does."

"You know, Melinda, Q wants to be fucked over.  He was born a soft
piece of puss and that's how he'll die.  I enjoy fucking him over. 
That's what we do to each other, Q and myself."

"Q's mighty nice, mighty cute."

"Melinda, I want to see what you and I can  get going on."  Jean-
Luc drew a deep breath.  "What the fuck are these sudden scruples,
Melinda?"

"They're not scruples.  I just feel . . ."

"Sorry for that whore Q?  I don't think so.  He likes it up the
ass.  And he's good at that."

"All right.  Fine.  I'm hanging up now."

"Wait, wait just a goddamn minute. Where are you going?"

"This conversation is unsettling, Jean-Luc.  I mean, I think we're
talking about at least four different relationships.  Yours with
me.   Mine with you.  Q and you.  And Q and you and me.  None of
which really  exist."  And she hung up.

Jean-Luc tried to ring her again, but she had disconnected.

Q walked in the room; he had been showering.  He was naked.  He
felt the sudden chill roll off Jean-Luc.  

He barely had time to hold his long hands against his chest before
Jean-Luc was hitting him.  
 
*************************
 
"Saw Herself at a party last night, Jean-Luc."  

Jean-Luc wanted to kill Quark more than ever.  Good thing Quark
was still in LA  and Jean-Luc was in a airport hotel just outside
Rome.  "I've got a date with the Taj Mahal, Tommy.  No time to be
tied to somebody's apron  strings."

"We talked over margarita after margarita.  After margarita."

What was this rat motherfucker implying?  "I know she's pissed
with me.  I'm pissed with her, and, if you don't stay out of it,
Quark, I'm going to disembowel you."  

"Jean-Luc, she's not pissed.  Actually, she has a infinite amount
of hots for you.  I should know.  Listen, twice this week I've
visited topless psychics   it's the latest thing in California  -
and both of them said the same thing!" 

Jean-Luc was stunned.

"They said I was a woman in a previous life!  And that's why I'm
so good with girls.  So I know what's happening with Melinda. 
She's got it bad for you and that's good!" 
      
*************************
       
Will called Eileen Farralon.  "How's it going?" he said, his voice
full of timid hope.

"The baby is due on April 25," she said.  

Their smiles were perfectly audible on the phone lines.
      
*************************
 
Jean-Luc had said they were going to India, and so they were by
God going to India.
      
All bets were off in India.  

"Who's foreign, us or them?" Will whispered as they walked through
the airport.

No one had an answer.  
 

At first the Boys were intimidated by the wealth of difference
their eyes beheld.  

How could food and people and clothes and streets be so different
from  Kentucky?

They relaxed a little over their rice and dal after they realized
they  were simply eating beans and rice.

Jean-Luc wanted someplace far away, as far as he could get, and in
spite of a careful preparation by their private tour guide, the
shock of the place overwhelmed him.  He remembered something Data
had heard: "Rule number one," Data quoted, "This is not America. 
Rule numbers two through a thousand:  see rule number one." It
helped a little.  

Jean-Luc looked at the women and smiled at their kohl-lined eyes
and their saris.

Q saw Jean-Luc's softness and relaxed.  He loved the way the men
wrapped their loins.  He began to dress like that, and Data
followed him and then they dressed Geordi dress that way as well. 
They looked a bit odd because the clothes fell differently on
their thick American bodies, but they didn't care.  

All of them loved the temples with all the dancing, serene,
smiling Goddesses.  Jean-Luc, in particular,  was very attentive
to the tour guides, listening politely to their cosmology,
nodding, saying in his dark brown voice, "This makes as much sense
as anything I've heard back home," and they all described things
to Geordi, things that stunned them. 

Animals walking around the streets.

The colors of the sky and the night.

The things for sale.

Worf, Will and Jean-Luc were definitely foreigners; they kept
their hats on and ever so slightly reared back when one of the
sloe-eyed Indians addressed them.  But they liked getting the
royal treatment,  first class all the way (not that that precluded
finding a deeply weird bug in one of their rooms, but they all
were polite about it.)   

Then they were amazed and delighted at how the people and the food
completely changed when they went to another region.  

They met a saintly guru who treated them like all the other Yanks
and Europeans who come to visit him.

They saw an Indian movie (Q thought of the clothes Fajo made him
wear).   

They bought tons of souvenirs, so many that they finally hit
souvenir overload, even Q.
     
And Jean-Luc realized how much he loved traveling.   He was
becoming a citizen of the world  He had his passport to prove
it.  It stayed with him always.  When he slept.  When he bathed. 
What a wonder.  

Q had a passport too.  Jean-Luc's passport photo was identical to
his Kentucky mug shots, but Q -- that sonofabitch Q   Q  looked
like an angel-movie-star in his passport. 

Q understood exactly how Jean-Luc felt about passports.   He
wished he had passports to give his little raggedy boys and,
although he laughed at the idea of his kids ever needing
passports, he still wished they would one day.  Jean-Luc laughed
with him. 

Jean-Luc was at peace. These alien, exotic people were simply that
-- people.  They saw him in his cowboy hat and his cowboy boots
with his little band of friends, and they smiled and nodded, as
friendly as if he were in Barbour County, Kentucky.  

Friendlier really.

      
Q made them travel to one special place.  He didn't say why.  And
then he did.  Sort of.  "There's this Consolata Sisters orphanage
there and . . . "  How could he explain that he'd given Fajo a
blowjob so Fajo would send the orphanage thousands of dollars?  Q
just wanted to see if the orphanage was working.  

It was working okay.

Jean-Luc had no interest in the orphanage.  

He walked out onto the bare soil of the village streets.

He saw a woman driving sheep.  She was copper and upright and
maybe seventeen, on the high road.  Clay and bushes stood in tufts
around her.  It seemed an almost Biblical vision.  She was
Dravidian, with broadly boned cheeks and long slender fingers,
with obsidian eyes, unclouded, austere.  

Q saw Jean-Luc's new peacefulness and was hopeful.  For the first
time, Jean-Luc seemed to want to give in a little.

Then, at the first chance he had, Jean-Luc called Melinda: "Are
you ready to see me again?  Or are you going to put me in some
doghouse in Tierra del Fuego?"

"That'd be okay, Boy.  They don't wear clothes in Tierra del
Fuego. Things are always coming to a head in Tierra del Fuego."

Jean-Luc swallowed.  She really had a way with her.  He was
instantly aroused.  "What are you wearing?"

"Never you mind about that.  I just want to get one thing
straight.  You're wrong: I don't have scruples.  I have no fuck
scruples. I have no love scruples.  I have no scruples at all. 
I'm just not interested in your fucking over Q.  It holds no
interest for me.  None.  De Nada.  Zero.  Zilch.  My sole interest
is in what you will do to me.  Now you have five seconds to repair
our relationship."

"I want to stick it in you so bad."

"Okey doke, you bought five seconds."

He felt the heat rise in him. "Five hot seconds."

She whispered some more preposterous things to him until he was
quite beside him.  Then there was a knock on his door.  He hung
up.

He hoped it was Q.  It was, and Q was able to suck him so lovingly
and tenderly and carefully that the force of his orgasm astonished
them both.
       
*************************

"I felt as if we were in another dimension," Q said on the plane
home to L.A.  
      
Jean-Luc was very quiet.  He too felt he was in another dimension. 
All the airports of the world treated him like a king when he
showed his passport. He was no longer an outsider looking in, nor
a refugee in his own country.  

And as for Melinda.  He could not wait to see her.  Before, she
had had a certain queenliness in her relationship with him.  But
now he was her equal in some mysterious way.  With his passport
which let him both in and out, he could conceive of them together. 
Himself with her, married to her, able to honor her with a
beautiful mansion that was worthy of her great value, racing to a
vast future together.  Something like that time in the grocery
store.

*************************
       
But Melinda was back in Ottawa!  On a film shoot.  The windy wilds
of Canada standing in for Mississippi in her idiotic prison film.

Okay, later for that noise.  Jean-Luc just wanted a little fun. 
So he bought himself a present, something he'd always wanted.  

A 1975 Plymouth Gold Duster in mint condition!  (He was sick of
little pussy foreign cars.)

He showed it to Worf.  "Nice car," Worf said.   

"Want a ride?" said Jean-Luc.  He felt expansive, and he wanted to
be with one of his Boys.

"Good idea." 

In the car, Worf took Jean-Luc's hand and put it on his thigh. 
Jean-Luc relaxed noticeably.

"Something's come up," Worf said.

Jean-Luc removed his hand.

"Will and I."  Worf stopped, thinking.  Hesitant.  

"What is it?" Jean-Luc said sharply.

"We want a baby."

Jean-Luc looked at him.

"We found one too."  There was a pause.  "She's due April 25. 
It's a baby girl.  She needs a family.  Her mother," he breathed
out.  "Is in prison.  That's no life for a baby. And there's no
father in the picture."

Jean-Luc looked in the rear view mirror.  

My God.  My God.  My God.  

"Worf, I have some reservations about this.  It could lead to
trouble.  In a lot of ways.  I trust you.  But Will has problems. 
He has the kind of problems that make it a bad idea for him to be
around . . .  and everybody knows this."

"If something happened, I would pull his head off.  I did it once, 
and he knows it." Worf looked down.  "We have a lawyer.  It's a
done deal."

Everything was getting complicated.  

*************************

In the meantime, the press had gone mad for the Boys. 

When the Boys were on the cover of magazines, those magazines
flew off the shelves.

In Seattle, where a lot of alternative music was being made, a
young dyke journalist named Tasha Yarwood, blonde,
chunky-featured, eyes the color of a rainswept sky, wrote in her
Hello Kitty notebook: "Why is it boy critics love Metallica and
Aerosmith and Motley Crue and all that he-boy dick rock but they
don't get what girls see in Jean-Luc and the 'Boys?"
       
In Ohio, Professor Arthur Weyoun sat down in front of his trusty 
Remington and began to type: "Part of the fascination of popular
music is the way in which the most fundamental needs of the
audience are met. By far the most successful acts," he frowned
for a moment as he puffed his pipe, "are those which incorporate
basic human narratives into their public personae.  I speak of
Elvis Presley and the Beatles, those whose trajectory of fame
include discovery, wealth, separation and bitter dissolution of
the family, decay, and death in a kind of public shorthand which
almost perfectly tallies with life as we know it.  On the other
hand, those performers who believe it is the  music and the music
only are the ones who end up parodying themselves.   Seducing

supermodels, organizing forlorn and temporary benefits for the
darker-skinned less fortunate, and  always with a  pained look
which seems to say, what happened?  Well, nothing happened, lads! 
That's the problem!  Where's our story!  But while you weren't
changing, those who live and die on stage have won fame.  They
know the potency of narrative.  And nowhere is this better
illustrated than in the adventures of Jean-Luc and his Magic
Mountain Boys."  Professor Weyoun's odd lavender eyes blinked
several times: *oh, good stuff,  Arturo!* he said to himself. 

In New York City, in the *Village Voice*, the famous critic Tom
Kang published his review of the Boys' latest album.   He wrote,
"Jean-Luc Picard certainly has an amazing voice, but I hate
them.  I hate them.  I hate them.  I hate them. " He filled two
columns with the words "I hate them."  For this, Kang was
nominated for a Pulitzer Prize.
     
And everywhere were the tabloids.  Ben Sisko sold the story of
"JAILHOUSE ORGY WITH THE BOYS"  to the National Questioner.   ("I
wondered when that motherfucker would surface," Jean-Luc said
darkly.)  And there were other, more lurid headlines.  The Weekly
World Gazette screamed MAGIC MOUNTAIN BOYS AIDS SCARE.  And GAY
BLUEGRASS BAND GOING STRAIGHT TO HELL, SAYS POPE.  And GAY
BLUEGRASS SINGERS SECRET PLAN TO TURN  AMERICA GAY!  How do you
fight something like that?  

The Boys were not even safe relaxing at home with each other. 
Reporters hid in trash cans and under bushes to get pictures of
them hanging around their pool.  They were filmed constantly,
but, since they didn't do much by the pool but roughhouse and
make jokes, they were angered but not freaked.   

One afternoon Q had taken his clothes off and elegantly stepped
onto the stairs in the shallow end and started swimming around. 
The camera wasn't able to catch what happened next, but there
were some obvious sexual shenanigans interspersed with the
splashing, mostly having to do with Q's activities when he took a
deep breath and dove right below  Jean-Luc's waist and then swam
away again after a moment.  The National Quizbox showed a butt
shot of Q walking into the house to dry himself off, but really
you couldn't even tell it was Q.   Although there were those who
recognized that butt ("BOYS MALE-MALE POOLSIDE ESCAPADES SHOCK
ONLOOKERS").  

After the tenth article appeared (it was in the National Exposer:
another Sisko special entitled "THE BOYS' PSYCHO SEX PARTIES:
INMATE CHUM REVEALS!"), Tommy Quark hastily called a press
conference.  He was shocked!  Shocked!  

"You'd believe a criminal like Ben Sisko?" he said to the
newspapermen.  

The newspapermen smirked at each other.  Little Tommy wasn't
denying it.
 

Eileen Farralon was in a tizzy.
 

A couple of the newspaper boys went to Fear Alley itself and made
an appointment to see Warden Dougherty.  

Warden Dougherty was an interesting bird; he pronounced Jean-Luc
"Zzzahhn Leewwk".  The way a snake would! He talked aimlessly
into their tape recorders about how good Fear Alley was at
rehabilitation; Zzzahn Leewwk and his little friends sang hymns,
you see.  Why, the one called Q was a librarian.  Worf had
perfect conduct. Fear Alley's rate of curing criminals was
fabulous!  Look!   as his secretary brought in coffee,   "See my
secretary: he was a con.  Now he's my right-hand man; I  trust
him with everything!  Isn't that right, Wesley?"  And Wesley 
smiled alluringly at the reporters. 

But, the newspaper boys asked, was Fear Alley rife with
homosexuality, as everyone suggested?  Warden Dougherty eyed the
tape recorder: "Is that thing still on?" he asked.  Then he said,
"O'Brien!"

A man on crutches with an eyepatch stumped in. "Get out before I
cut yer balls off."  

The Irish First Amendment.


Speeding away from Fear Alley in their rental car, one newspaper
boy turned to the other: "You know it, I know it, the American
people know  it, Fear Alley is nothing but a manfuck factory."

"Oh, wow!" said the other newspaper boy admiringly.
 

Then there was: "I'M ASHAMED OF MY QUEER SON!!!"  Q had to call
Meemaw.  She wept to him on the phone that the neighbors were all
praying for him not to be queer any more.  He ended up sending
her a lot of money, and, when they saw Mrs. McConn in her brand
new Mercury Cougar sedan, the neighbors shut the hell up. 

*************************

Then they found the FBI standing on the front porch.  The FBI had
an interesting photo.  Yellowed with age, it was a simple photo
of a boy and his big friend.  

Just thirteen-year-old Will sucking off a grown man.

How many times did Will have sex with this guy, they asked, and
who else did Will have sex with?         

Geordi (who was blatantly eavesdropping and anyway always heard 
everything) heard Will's voice go high and uncertain, and he
called Data's room and said, "Something's wrong.  We should go
check it out." 
 
The Boys had politely cleared out of the living room so as to
give Will his privacy, but, without the rest of the Boys, Will
had no strength, and now the FBI people were tearing him to pieces.  

Will was terrified.  The FBI wanted him to bring charges of
trafficking in child prostitution against the man who happened to
be, in addition to a child molester, a big time Mafiosi, but how
could he do that?  Then . . . people would . . . know.   About
him.  
 
After Data and Geordi gave the alert, the Boys trooped downstairs
from their bedrooms and in from their studios.  They drifted into
Will's line of sight, and saw his desperate eyes pleading at them
to come help him.   So Data led Geordi in and they sat to one
side of him on their long couch.  Then Jean-Luc and Q came in and sat
to the other side, and  Worf came up and put his hands on Will's
shoulders from behind.

Will sat back and crossed his arms.  The tension drained out of
his features.  Next to him, Q crossed his arms as well, and one
by one every Boy sat back and crossed his arms and legs.

The FBI man found himself looking at a wall of resistance.  He
kept his temper, but barely.  "I can finish this downtown if you
are going to be uncooperative," he threatened.

"In fact you cannot."  Data's voice was even and pleasant. 
"According to the uniform criminal code of the State of
California, subsection d, paragraph 12, you may not detain Will
unless he is a suspect in a felony."

Mr. FBI looked at their faces:  contempt, cold endurance,
irritation. These guys were unintimidated now that they were
all together.    

The FBI man looked up at the big black guy standing protectively
behind Will. The black guy was a convicted killer, and, according
to the information they had, these two had an ongoing homosexual
liaison.  His mind put the two of them together in a bed and he
recoiled slightly.  He decided to play harder.

"If you don't help us, we won't have any incentive to keep  the
rest of these pictures away from the newspapers."  He opened a
manila envelope and dumped it on the table.  Out poured scores of
pictures.  Pictures of Will.  Pictures of Will sucking and being
fucked every way. 

The Boys stared.  They didn't mean to, but they couldn't help
themselves.  Will was only a child in these photographs, and
there were dozens of snapshots.

The FBI man smirked.  "I'm sure your friends are used to seeing 
you like this, but what will this do to your band's reputation
when these get out?  Cooperate with us and we'll spin them nice." 

Will was destroyed.  "How did you get these?"  

"Do you know the name 'Mona Riker'?"

Will nodded, pale and sweaty.  

"She got pissed off at something and stole these pictures from
your father.  Too bad for Kyle; I think he wanted to do something
else with them.  Still, we let him think things over for a while
and now he's going to testify against these filthy sodomites who
forced you into prostitution."

"But it was Big Daddy who turned me out,"  Will whispered.     

The head FBI man lounged in his chair.  "I'm sure he did.  I
asked your father where he kept the family pictures.  You on a
tricycle.  You and him at a picnic.  You and him at a ball game
... he doesn't have a single one.  But he has a lot of pictures
like this.   We're still identifying most of your boyfriends. 
But this is the biggie."  He tapped the first photo.  "Eddie
Ducatti.  Or did you call him Uncle Eddie?  See, I know exactly
what kind of man your daddy is, and I don't care.  I want Ducatti
and you're going to help me get him.  Or you and your little
white trash group of howler monkeys are going to be destroyed."

Jean-Luc looked at the merciless photographs.  He saw Will's
clear, youthful skin, his big wide blue eyes, his  mouth pursed
in an expression of mature lust that sat oddly on his young face. 
He saw Will's  slight build and the first downy bits of hair
appearing in his chin in the close-up of him sucking dick. 
Smiling with downcast eyes as some man took him from the back.  
Will should have been in junior high, but there he was in a cheap
hotel earning money for his father.  Everything fell into place. 
When Will was supposed to be doing homework, he was out whoring.  

Jean-Luc rippled with fury. "Get out," he ordered. 
               
The chief FBI man smirked as he lazily made his way out. 
Jean-Luc's anger meant nothing to him.  He was the one holding
all the cards, not Jean-Luc.  


When Jean-Luc got back from putting the FBI people out of their
house, the Boys were staring at the  pictures in shocked silence. 
They looked at the pictures and then at Will.  At  Will, then at
the pictures.  Geordi's frantic demand to know what was happening
went unanswered.  

Will was pure shame.  He couldn't meet any of their gazes, not
even Worf's.  

Jean-Luc picked up a couple of snapshots.  "You were something."

Will heaved to his feet and left the room.  Jean-Luc collected
Worf with his eyes and they caught Will at the foot of the
stairs.   

"Don't walk away.  You took it like a little man.   I had no idea
you had such a talented tongue.  I could have some fun with you."

Will turned pale.

"Come, Will," Jean-Luc's eyes narrowed and his voice was very
low.  "Let's go upstairs.  It'll be just like old times."

"All right, Jean-Luc."  Will's eyes were glazing over with fear
and his mouth was open. 

"Ladies, I believe we have something to celebrate," Jean-Luc
said.

The other Boys hesitated; then they followed.     

Upstairs, Jean-Luc sat on the bed and patted the  mattress,
waiting for Will to join him.  When Will eased down next to him,
Jean-Luc wrapped his arms around him and began to kiss him.  They
necked until their breathing became heavy and ragged.   

"What do you want, Will?  Maybe somebody  could buttfuck you for
old times sake.  Which one of us do you want?" 

Will looked at everyone.  He wanted to say Jean-Luc, but he was
too scared.  So he said his second choice.   "Geordi."

Jean-Luc was surprised.  "Why?" 

For answer, Will made his thumb and forefinger into a circle, and
everyone except Geordi smiled.    Geordi's cock, thick as a
cucumber, was a very unique, very gratifying ride.

"Yes," Jean-Luc's voice went even lower.   "He has a big cock and
you want it up your ass."  Will's eyes got frightened, but
Jean-Luc only smiled.  "I know what you're thinking."  He
caressed Will's broad shoulders.  Will nodded helplessly, caught
in Jean-Luc's will.  "You're don't know if this makes you a good
boy or a  bad boy, right?"  He shifted closer, running his thumb
across  Will's jaw.  Will stared silently into Jean-Luc's face.    


Jean-Luc kept his hold on Will.  He knew exactly where he was
going.  His voice was smoother than anyone remembered hearing it. 
"But you wanted to be Daddy's good boy, didn't you?  That's why
you were smiling in all those pictures.  You wanted to help
Daddy."  

This time Will nodded.  "He told me that after a while I wouldn't
have to anymore, but I..."

"But you liked it.  You wanted those men to keep coming to you so
you could do those things with them, but you weren't sure if you
were still a good boy anymore, right?"

Will nodded.

"You were always a good boy.  You're still a good boy.   Because
you do what Daddy wants.  And right now Daddy wants you to lie
down on the bed.  Geordi, touch Will where he wants to be 
touched."

"Billy,"  Will whispered.  "He called me Billy." 

Data and Q started undressing Geordi.  

Jean-Luc helped Will, pulling at his shirt until Will got the
idea and shucked off the rest of his clothes.  Then Jean-Luc sat
on the easy chair by the bed, watching every muscle of Will's
longing body.  "After he fucks you, we'll  get in a line, and
you'll have all of us.  And if you do that, Daddy will be very
proud of you and always love you, Billy."

"Okay," Will whispered.  He still looked a bit apprehensive, but,
when Geordi was starfished on his body, his features went slack
with gratitude and desire.  He twisted his head back and forth
frantically, eyes closed.  

Jean-Luc beckoned to Data to him.   "Get naked,  Data.  Sit on my
lap." 

Data draped himself across Jean-Luc's lap and Jean-Luc fondled
him while watching the scene on the bed.

Soon enough Geordi came.  He bent down to the side of Will's head
and murmured some meaningless, reassuring compliment, and Will
took a deep breath and thanked him.

"Your turn, Data," Jean-Luc ordered.  

Data was a little shy, but the sight of so much wet, luscious
flesh inspired him and presently he was fucking Will
enthusiastically; his eyes closed, his breathing clogged.         
Jean-Luc stood up and walked over to Worf.   They both undressed,
each holding the other's eye and smiling a little.  Then, like a
wild stag, Worf leaned over and pressed his forehead to Jean-Luc's and they
hissed sexy words to each other as Data fucked Will.  "You girl
cunt."   "You bitch, gimme that pussy."  

When Data was finished, he fell back.  His normally sallow skin
was flushed and his eyes stared at nothing.

Jean-Luc disengaged himself and gently pushed Worf towards the
bed where his lover waited for him.  "Your turn, Worf."

Serious now, Worf turned to the bed.

Will was still on his back.  "On your knees,"  Worf told him. 
Then, entering him, "Love you."   

But for this particular fuck, there was no place for the kind of
love shared between adults.  Worf barrelled in and out of Will's
body, stroking him reassuringly, telling Will exactly what he
needed to hear.  "Daddy's good boy?"  Worf demanded.  "Daddy's
best boy?" 

"Ooooh, yes, yes!"  Will threw himself against his lover in a
frenzy of appreciation and lust.  He'd wanted to be Worf's boy
like this from the day they'd met.  He banged his ass against
Worf with such force that the big muscular man was forced to use
one hand to brace himself.   Worf was very strong, but Will was a
big boy too.   They made fire on that bed.

Jean-Luc turned to Q whose eyes were bright.  

"You're next, baby.  Will, did you hear me?   Q's going to fuck
you.  His dick makes Worf's look like a tadpole's.  There's no
fuck like Q.   And I've had them all."

They watched and listened as Worf turned Will onto his back
again, pushing in and out of him.   Worf was roaring.  Will was
moaning and thrashing.  Jean-Luc just couldn't keep away.  He
eased his naked body up next to theirs, helping Worf hold Will's
big leg, indiscriminately pressing himself against their flesh,
caught in the pitch of their desire.

"Hurry up, bitch," he said to Worf roughly, punctuating his order
with a couple of hard slaps to Worf's ass.  

"Harder!"  Worf growled, and Jean-Luc brought his hand down so
forcefully that Q winced.  He cried when Johnny hit him that
hard, but Worf seemed to love it, roaring  out his pain as his
thrusts became stronger, more violent.  All too soon he
stiffened.  His face contorted.  He groaned in an agony of
relief.  And, in the midst of his coming, Jean-Luc pushed him
away, but Worf was too much in the moment to object, or even
notice. 

"We learned how to buddy fuck in the pen," Jean-Luc said as he slipped into
Will's ass.  Will cried out in surprise, but Jean-Luc shushed
him.  He was riding Will roughly,  patently enjoying himself.  
"Be a good boy for Daddy," he ordered.  "Show Daddy what a good
boy you are."

Will's expression became open and needy when Jean-Luc said that. 
He arched his back up higher, holding his legs wide open for
Jean-Luc.   

"Your ass is so great," Jean-Luc encouraged.  He  fell into a
steady rhythm, showing off how long he could fuck without
shooting his wad.  Finally, he slapped Will's round wet flesh and
withdrew without coming.  

"Q?"

"Roll over on your back, honey," Q whispered to Will.  Then hestuck his dick in his mouth to give
Will the full sense of the moment; in a moment, Q eased back down and began to fuck
Will, his hands on Will's hairy breasts.  He was tall enough that he
could curve his body over Will's girth and kiss him; a long,
sensual Q kiss.  The others sighed in appreciation.  It looked
hot.  Will looked hot, taking it from Q.   

All Q wanted, as usual, was Jean-Luc's approval.  He watched
Johnny for cues as to what he should do and say.         

"Tell Billy what a good boy he is," Jean-Luc ordered.  "Tell him
what a hot little fuck he is.  Tell him what a talented mouth he
has.  Tell him how much Daddy loves him when he's good like
this." 

"Billy," Q murmured.  This was actually the first time he'd been
up Will's ass.  The sphincter was nice and loose -- the flesh
inside swollen after such a strenuous workout.  Q knew exactly
how that felt.  He knew how much it would hurt tomorrow whenever
Will tried to sit down.  "You're doing great," he encouraged. 
"God, it's so good."   He knew what else Will needed to hear. 
"It's almost over, and when it's finished Johnny will love you
...  Daddy will love you."   

Jean-Luc liked that.  He liked being Daddy.  Approvingly, he
stuck two wolfish fingers up Q's ass and watched Q come
helplessly.  Now it was his turn again.  He casually pushed Q
aside and stuck it in Will a second time.  

Will was very brave.  It hurt now, but he didn't cry.

Jean-Luc looked down at him.  "Do you want to come, Will?" 

Will nodded, waiting patiently for Daddy to give him his reward. 
For the first time in his life, Daddy might come through on a
promise.  

"Would you like to stick it in Q?  His stuff is hot.  Over here, Q, on your
knees."  And he moved away from Will so Q could move in.

"Will he suck me?"  Will asked diffidently.
 
In response Q got on his knees and sucked Will til Will was
gasping,  and then he turned his ass to Will.  "Please now, I
want you to fuck me, Will."   

Will jumped in. 

He'd only had Q one time before, and, as Jean-Luc  liked to
boast, Q was just about the best there was.  Will's head fell
back in ecstacy as his hands braced Q's lean form. 

"My God," Worf murmured.  He was squinting at  Will as if he
hadn't ever seen him before, appreciation and amazement  on his
features.  Data and Jean-Luc followed his gaze, looking more
closely.  In a sudden  revelatory unveiling they saw it too --
before their  eyes Will became grave and handsome, as if Daddy's
approval, or Q's  unrelenting beauty, or some other thing, had
somehow rubbed off on him, burnishing him so that his own
magnificence was finally revealed.   He looked like a Renaissance
Zeus. 
  
Worf stretched on the bed behind them, the better to appreciate
his lover's transformation.  When Will finished, gasping, Worf
pulled him so that they lay together.  

Then Jean-Luc crawled into bed with them, painfully aware that he
hadn't come yet.  Data curled up next to Geordi, whispering some
quiet narration as they made themselves comfortable on the floor. 

Jean-Luc smiled at Worf.  Then after pushing Worf and Q together, he   
turned Will so that his big ass was right next to Jean-Luc's dick.  Then Jean-Luc
stuck it in and fucked Will as he lay on his side.  At one point Will
opened his eyes and gave a dreamy smile to Worf and Q who watched
approvingly.  Daddy was fucking Billy.  In his ass.  Because he
was good.

He shut his eyes again.  The warm mammal companionate act made
them all comfortable, warm, together.  

Jean-Luc pulled out and came all over Will's body.  Q reached out
and smeared Jean-Luc's come into Will's skin.  

The deed was done.  Now they could sleep.  

Nobody wanted to leave.  

"Push the blanket down here," Geordi murmured.  He and Data got a
blanket and a pillow.  It was like the old days again, six men
crowded in a single room, and it made them feel nostalgic and
cozy.  They all fell asleep together, heart to heart with their
lovers, immovable as mountains.
  
*************************
 
(The chief FBI man had three ex-wives and a girl friend; he was
smiling because he had just told the big hotshot mountain boys
where to get off with their perverted ways.  It would not be
long, he told himself, til they were all behind bars.  Then he'd
write a book and have all the nookie in the western hemisphere. 
That night he told his girlfriend what he'd done; her first name
ended in "i".  

"You talked to them and you didn't get their autograph!"  

The chief FBI man was astonished.   "They're perverts!" he said.  

She rolled her eyes, "you really blew it this time!  What a
hopeless fucking jerk!")

*************************
 
Everyone wanted their piece--it was one of the rules by which
Eddie  "The Snake" Ducatti lived his life.  Sometimes they
bargained for it, sometimes they begged, sometimes they lied or
killed or stole.  And  this little redneck jukebox robber was no
different.  Eddie recognized a type somehow similar to himself,
the expensive clothes that somehow  managed to look cheap the
moment they touched his body; the ducking underdog set to his
shoulders; the big words that tripped clumsily off his tongue --
still he looked unusually self-confident for a basic backwoods 
greaser, but Eddie couldn't see why.   

"So what do you want?"  After sizing him up, Eddie figured he
didn't need to be polite.

Tommy looked around.  "I need the room cleared except for you."

"Okay."  Ducatti jerked his head and his goons walked out, their
scowls  trained on Tommy's face.

"So now." Eddie made his voice very threatening.  "Whaddaya
want?"

Tommy reached into his breast pocket.  He knew to do it very 
slowly and deliberately, and Eddie's tension racheted up a few
notches.

If it wasn't a hit...?

Tommy pulled a picture out and silently slid it across the desk.

Then he sat back and crossed his arms.  His eyes were
contemptuous and a little amused.

Eddie Ducatti looked at the picture.  It was as if a gun had
suddenly  exploded at his temple, and he slumped lower in his
chair.  Even sitting he'd lost all his strength at the sight of
what lay before him.   Across the table Tommy ghosted a laugh.
For a moment, Eddie almost pulled a gun out of his desk and shot 
the man, a convulsive, desperate attempt to erase the fact that
his most secret pleasure was exposed.  For there he himself was,
his face ecstatic, with a boy, twelve, maybe thirteen at the max,
kneeling on the bed in front  of him, smiling, obviously taking
it up the ass and loving it.  Eddie knew he'd gone pale, and he
could feel the sweat breaking out across his forehead, but there
was no help for it. 


"There are lots more," Tommy assured him.

"What do you want?" Eddie croaked.  

Tommy shrugged.  "Nothing.  But when we do want something I'm
coming to you and I want no questions, just solutions.  If I want
money, I get money.  I want help with a problem, I get help with
a problem.  Et.  Cett.  Uh.  Ra."  

'We.'  So somebody else knew about him.  More than one  somebody
else, by the sound of it.  Eddie nodded.  "You got it."  Tommy
sat like a statue, his arms crossed.  "You gotta understand
something.  The statute of limitations has run out on this for
us.  We don't care.  It's just business.  Nobody's  gonna tell
unless they have to." 

They held each other's eye, and finally Ducatti nodded.  It was 
just a shakedown, but a good one.   Tommy had no reason to tell 
because then he had no hold over Ducatti anymore.  If any of the
other bosses found out ...       

Tommy got up.  He made no move to reach for the picture.   "Keep
that if you want." 

Ducatti put it in his own breast pocket.  Now that he knew he was
safe for the moment, he had plans to savor this expensive little 
photo. 
 
Actually, Tommy had saved both their lives.  Even  Ducatti's own
people would turn on him if they found out -- boyfucking violated
their macho image.  

And Eddie had no intention of stopping.  He would simply be more 
careful next time.  He did not intend to get caught, and Little
Tommy Quark didn't want him caught.  Obviously.  Eddie was more
useful to Tommy alive and powerful.

"Have a nice day, Mr. Ducatti."


After Quark left, Ducatti drew out the photo. Sweet Jesus! 
Twenty years ago at least.  Maybe it was his first time with the
boy, but definitely not his last -- he still remembered every
inch of that night.  The freshfaced angelic beauty; the way the
old man had turned him around so Eddie could see his round little
ass; the way the kid had done everything he wanted; smiling,
wanting it, loving it.  Showing it all off.  That kid had known
what he was doing, even at that young age.  Eddie felt the
stirring of his slow reptile blood.  He took a deep breath. 
Tonight he would make some phone calls.  He knew some janitors at
third-rate orphanages, and he knew some out-of-work country club
tennis coaches.  Surely somebody would have something for him.  
 
*************************
                    
Jean-Luc looked at Quark, and Quark gazed back. 

"It's all pretty fucked, Quark."

"I universally saved everyone's bacon, Jean-Luc.  I don't see
what the problem is."

"The FBI wants Will to testify against Snake Ducatti, and Will
might do it if he thinks he'll be able to . . ."  Jean-Luc had to
force the words out, "adopt a . . . baby."

Quark looked at the ceiling.  "Well, we do A LOT of business with
Eddie's friends.  Using those connections was the only way I
could get to see him." 

Quark and Jean-Luc kept staring at one another. 

"I sense some synergy here," Quark said.
 


Eileen Farralon's private investigators were hawkeyed women who
combed through the house looking for any sign that the Boys were
going to be a bad influence for a child. 


Eileen Farralon's private investigators also knew a lot of people
in town.         

*************************
       
Jean-Luc sat across from Ducatti in the same chair Quark had
occupied.  The Snake's discussion of how to keep the record
company from pissing on him had been most informative.  Now it
was time to turn to other topics. 

Jean-Luc told Eddie that for some reason he'd been thinking a lot
about kids lately.  "You know Will?  Big Daddy Riker used to beat
him all the time.  Even thinking about it just messes with my
Boy's head."  Jean-Luc's face was carefully neutral.  "Can you
imagine that?  The kid was bringing home a thousand dollars a
night on his little knees and the old man still slapped him
around."  


Ducatti wagged his lean and sleazy head in manufactured  outrage. 
"Some people, the way they behave they ought not be allowed  to
have kids.  Maybe they shouldn't even be allowed to live."

"Well," Jean-Luc rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "that's neither
here nor there at the moment, but Will?  He has a good heart.  He
wants a kid himself, you know.  And he's found one, too.   He's
getting things ready, buying cribs and bottles and so forth. 
It'd be a real shame if he couldn't get that kid because of some
outside interference.  Will needs that baby."

Ducatti nodded; he sure could understand that. "You know who I'm
good friends with?   Well, Eddie 'The Snake' Ducatti is good
friends with all of mankind,  but I'm especially thick with the
tab publishers.  We go way back.  Us getting stuff for them, them
getting stuff for us, all of us getting  stuff on somebody else. 
All we gotta do is publish the truth about the most worthless
motherfucker in history." 

Jean-Luc tilted his head as if he were very interested.  

"I'm talking about Big Daddy Riker?" Ducatti smiled. "Oh, man,
there's a lotta bodies buried there.  Your Boy's momma was
discovered by the side of a road.  Beat to death.   Meanwhile 
Big Daddy said he was at one of our motels fucking a couple of 
showgirls and so he got an alibi.  I'm still in touch with one of
them showgirls, Kay something.   She's back home in Alabama now. 
We're good friends.  There's no statue of limitations on murder
one, you know.  It's nice to know stuff." 

"So: you'll bend Big Daddy a bit, and he'll recant, and the FBI
will have no witnesses to anything.  And if Big Daddy tries
anything again, his ass is grass."  Jean-Luc lifted his elegant
eyebrows.

  
"I ain't saying that.  I ain't saying nothing.  I ain't saying 
Eileen Farralon's girls won't find nothing.  I ain't saying your
boyfriend's gonna get his prisonyard baby.  Eddie 'The Snake'
Ducatti don't say nothing." 

"He just acts," Jean-Luc said and smiled.

Eddie smiled back.  They understood each other perfectly.  
 
*************************
 
April 23 she came screaming into the world. 

Her mother had already signed the papers.  She never saw her baby
girl.  It was probably easier that way.  Eileen Farralon and a
beaming nurse brought her to Will and Worf when she was four
hours old.   

So now they had a baby.  Worf was in shock.  The Boys gathered
around  to stare.  Will, in his poor, grade school handwriting,
inscribed 'Patsy  Riker-Rodshenko' in the blank space on her
birth certificate.  (After long debate among all six of the Boys,
they'd decided to name her after Patsy Cline.)  

The trembling Will gave her infant formula and watched her to see
what she would do.  She slept a lot. 
     
Nobody believed she had really come to stay, but, when she
finally arrived, it was almost as if nothing was happening.  Will
retired to the nursery and never came out.  The Boys were reduced
to waiting for Worf to file reports from the front. 

"They're sleeping,"  Worf said.  He was making another pass
through the kitchen on his way out to buy carry-out and formula.  

For a week that was pretty much all the other Boys saw of them. 
Once Q knocked and asked if everything was alright, and they
called through the door that yes, everything was fine, but they
didn't invite him in.  


In that week, Will  had developed a type of grimness.  He had a
secret life now, an existence unlike any he'd had before, and he
was surprised at how unprepared he was.  He washed bottles in the
bathroom.  He emptied the trashcan at night when everyone was
sleeping.  He was not going to admit that he was terrified, and
he was determined to show that he could do this the right way. 
He didn't like for anyone to help him except Worf, and even that
was limited.  Worf could buy him more diapers when he ran out,
and more formula.  The rest of it he wanted to do for himself.  
The mechanical stuff was much easier than he anticipated.  He
quickly became expert at changing, feeding, even burping.  At
first, he was embarrassed about the diapers, afraid at to put his
fingers near her little tiny vagina, but he got over that very
quickly.  He didn't like putting her in the tub either, because
he was afraid she'd wiggle too much and hurt herself, but all in
all it was the other stuff that was so wearing.  He was terrified
that he'd forget he had her and accidentally leave her someplace
by herself.  He wasn't sure what to *do*, or even what to call
himself now.  

"I'm your father," he'd whispered it furtively, down low over her
body on the off chance that someone should overhear and think him
stupid.  "I'm your father," he reassured himself.  

He spent all his time holding her.  He watched her, waiting for
her to do something.  

Patsy liked to sleep and make poopy diapers.

Eventually, it occurred to Will and Worf that it might be  safe
to take the baby out of her room.   One night they came
downstairs to watch television.  It was a big production.  Worf
carried the diaper bag with him.  He had a bottle and wipes and a
bib.   Will was holding Patsy in the crook of his arm; she was
dressed like the top of a wedding cake.  Immediately the
television lost all appeal.   Everyone had to look and touch. 
Even Jean-Luc's face softened ever so slightly.  Patsy slept on. 
She was very small.  

"So what's it like?"  Geordi asked.

"It's different,"  Will answered.  "It's real different."


Patsy always stared at him very seriously when she drank from her
bottle.  'Don't you fuck this up,' her little eyes seemed to say.

'Don't worry, I won't,'  Will promised her.  

He did not say any of this to the other Boys.  

They seemed to know anyway.  He could feel their quiet surprise
at how well he was doing, and it warmed him.
     
Will did what he said he would, waking every few hours to feed 
her.  He'd pored his way through a baby book and believed
everything the experts said.  He mistakenly assumed she would
work on a schedule and would sleep through the night at eight 
weeks.  It took thirteen.  There were nights he wondered if it
were fair to Patsy to be at the hands of someone as incompetent
as he was, but, when she finally slept through the night, he was
terrified at her silence.  
 
And through all the distractions, they had to finish work on
their new album.  Before they had sequestered themselves into a
little nighttime world that included only each other and the
music.  There they endured Jean-Luc's occasional temper, Geordi's
fussy musicianship, and Q's determined insistence that there was
a perfect sound and that he would find it come hell or high
water.  

But now this single-minded devotion to their music was no longer
possible.  Patsy required a big portion of the time and energy
they'd only ever given to one another. 

Will now spent most of his time alone with Patsy.  He always
managed to bring her downstairs for a few hours to watch TV, but
after that he took her right back to her room.  

They tried to hit upon a plan to coax Will out of his room.

Data suggested they leave a trail of Payday bars that led from
the doorway of Patsy's room to the studio.  

Hahaha.

They looked for real solutions, some of which worked better than
others. 

Q suggested a schedule such as they'd done with cleaning duties.

"But that means one of us will always be missing when it's time
to work," Geordi objected.

Will was relieved.  He was determined to do everything himself. 
They all wanted to get back to their music, but it was simply
impossible to work with their usual focused concentration when he
had to stop every few hours to feed Patsy, bathe her, change her,
sing her to sleep, wash bottles, buy diapers and formula, get
himself something to eat, and maybe snatch an hour of sleep.

Then Q suggested a professional nanny but Will summarily refused. 
Patsy was *his* baby.  He would care for her.

Finally Jean-Luc declared that they were all on vacation until
Patsy slept through the night.  The pressure lifted off Will
temporarily, but he could see another problem looming on the
horizon.

"What if she wakes up and starts crying?  We'll be downstairs in
a soundproof room!  We can't hear her!  She'll think we abandoned
her!"  Will was undone by this vision.
 
They discussed various options.

"An intercom system."  Geordi concluded.  "If we put a one-way
mike in her room, we'll be able to hear her if she starts
crying."

The Boys looked at one another in triumph.  Perfect.

"I'll look in the yellow pages and we can have someone come in
and install one."

The other Boys looked at each other again.  Q was always so
casual about the idea of having people come in and do work for
them.  Jean-Luc rolled his eyes, but he was smiling.  

Q shrugged.   

Will picked a random electronics shop out of the phone book.  He
wanted someone who could come out right away.  It was very
important, he reassured the woman on the other end of the phone. 
It's an intercom for a baby's room.

The woman sounded less than impressed.  Yes, she would come out

today.  Yes, yes, she was sure it could be done very soon.

Will was taken aback.   How dare she not understand how
critically important this was?  But she had said they would come
over that same day.

The electronics experts were even more intimidating in person.  A
tall flat-chested blonde and a short, stacked, dark-skinned
middle-aged woman, they appeared utterly unimpressed by what was
requested of them until Will came in with Patsy.   Instantly, the
short one's face lit up.  She oohed and ahhed and reached her
arms out for her.

"She's adorable."  Her arms curved around Patsy in a protective
circle while she and her partner exchanged a look.  "Makes me
wish I had one."

Will beamed.

Her business partner sighed.  "We should get back to work, Pen."

"In a minute, Chris."  Pen cooed and tickled Patsy's little belly
with an astonishingly long fingernail.

"She always wanted one," Chris explained quietly.
  
"We adopted Patsy," Will offered unnecessarily.  He was trying to
be helpful.  By now it was obvious to him that these two women
were more than just business partners.  They could no more make a
baby together than he and Worf could.   

The short one relinquished Patsy after giving her a good half
dozen kisses.  

"Well, let's get back to work."  She looked up at Will.  "You're
going to need a very sensitive mike because you're going to be
listening for her over a lot of decibels.  I have just the
thing."

She was all professionalism again; her dismissive attitude had
completely disappeared.  

(Will kissed the side of Patsy's head.  He loved the way she
could work her will on just about anybody.)

Both women were extremely knowledgeable about electronics and
music.  The short one, Pen, was the more talkative of the two,
and, now that Patsy had broken the ice, she was very willing to
make suggestions about the best kind of studio equipment for
their needs.  The Boys wanted everything she recommended, and
they wanted it now. 

Pen apparently decided they Boys were worthy of a full name. 
"Upenda Uhura," she said as she handed them her card.  "Come by
the shop and we'll talk.  And be sure to bring Patsy with you." 

"Christine Chapel."  The tall one was slower to talk and slower
to smile, but she was as fiercely competent as her partner. 

When the Boys turned on the new intercom system, they could hear
Patsy breathing.  

"Come back tomorrow,"  Jean-Luc pressed.  He was amazed at how
much there was to learn about sound systems.  

"We're closed," Chapel said.

"We're presenting a paper at a conference day after tomorrow." 
Pen was a good deal more diplomatic than her friend.  "We'll be
out of town, but we'll be back Monday."


Monday, Q and Will and Patsy showed up at their shop. 
Incongruously, it was incongruously located in a tiny, exclusive
mall off Rodeo Drive.  Q wanted to ask what they were doing
hidden here among the boutiques and shoe stores, but he
concentrated on equipment instead.  That is, Q and Chris talked
about equipment and delivery dates.  Will and Pen played with the
baby.  

Q was astonished.  Once they were in the car he teased Will about
his distractedness.  "You think you could have been any less
useful back there?"

"You know what she said?"  Will was sitting in the back with
Patsy.  So she wouldn't feel lonely.  "She said it was perfectly
okay for Patsy to be the center of my attention.  She said that's
perfectly normal."

Q thought of Beverly with their boys.  He remembered how she'd
ignored him when the kids needed her attention.  Actually, as he
looked back, he realized that his wife ignored him most of the
time.  "Pen's probably right," he conceded.  "Kids take a lot of
time and attention." 

Will nodded, but secretly he believed it was not kids in general,
but Patsy herself that was deserving of the most lavish
attention. 
     

Even their cleaning lady softened a bit under Patsy's charm.   

At first, Senora Palomas had been amused and accommodating, but
she refused to babysit.  "Senor," she told Q.  "My baby is
twelve.  I changed his  last diaper more than nine years ago and
I don't want to change another one.  Nada mas." 

But one afternoon, the vacuum woke Patsy, and, when she cried,
Senora Palomas took her out of her bassinet and sang to her and
rocked her back to sleep, pausing to change her since she was
wet.  After that, Patsy duty was simply interspersed with the
rest of her tasks.  

Will wasn't sure how he felt about other people taking care of
his Patsy, but he had to admit that it was nice to be able to
sleep
through the night.   He let Q and Data share Patsy duty after a
while, but he insisted that he was the one to wake her first
thing in the morning.   She smiled and waved her arms when she
first saw him, as if she were relieved and happy to see him.  She
made little noises.

Will called her 'daddy's  girl' with no self-consciousness now, 
and he held little conversations with her about everyday
things, breakfast, fuzzy kittens, all the things in her diapers,
the ozone layer.  She never looked at him like he was saying
something stupid.
        
In the afternoons, Q got her while Will slept.      

Evenings also belonged to Will.  Nowadays, everyone still
gathered in front of the television after supper, but they
weren't really watching as much as they were waiting for Will to
bring Patsy down.  He was thrilled that he could be part of a
grand entrance, and he prepared her with meticulous care -- socks
with pearls and lace, lacy crinolines, matching rhumba-panty
diaper covers when he could find them.  He noticed that Jean-Luc
waited along with the rest, and this made him feel a bit smug. 
If she could hold even Jean-Luc's attention, she must be really
something.

"Right, Patsy?"

"Grm," she answered.

She had to be passed from hand to hand so everyone could kiss her
and exclaim over her lovely clothes.  Sometimes Geordi ran his
hands gently over her face.  It was his way of telling her he was
here.  She always wrinkled up her nose and frowned at him, and it
always made them laugh.  

Most of the time Jean-Luc was fairly perfunctory about cooing
over Patsy.  One time, though, he held on to her and let her
clutch his finger.  He scowled, then he smiled, and to his own
unending surprise he kissed her little forehead.  He still
thought the whole thing was idiotic, but it wasn't turning out as
badly as he'd feared.  "She's better when she doesn't cry."  

(Who knew a baby's cry could be so piercing?   Q would always
slide out of bed in spite of Jean-Luc's objections.  "I can't
believe you would be so hard-hearted to a crying baby," he would
say and leave.  When Will couldn't get Patsy back to sleep some
nights, Q sat up with them.  He was no better with children than
the average parent, but, between the  two of them and much
consulting of baby books, they would get her quieted down.  They
eventually figured out that it was a combination of small
discomforts.  If she ate too little in the evenings and woke up 
hungry and alone and wet in the dark, she was going to make
somebody pay.)
  
One day Data and Geordi babysat while Will and Worf went out.   
Patsy was awake when they got back, and the moment she heard
Will's voice she set up a fuss that could be heard half a block
away.  Will came and picked her up and she quieted down at once,
hiccuping her little baby gasps and looking at everyone
reproachfully.  

Data was appalled.  "She was quiet the whole time you were gone," 
he explained.  

"She just wants her daddy, don't you, darlin'."  He squinted at  
her and smiled proudly, patting her little upholstered butt.  He
looked around, making sure everyone noticed the power of Will
Riker to nurture and protect small babies named Patsy.  "She's
just spoiled."
 

Worf watched Will.  Will seemed . . . happy?  No, not quite that. 
Something was up with Will, and Worf couldn't say what it was. 
The only reason Worf had said yes to this fandango was that Will
wanted a  girl rather than a boy.  Patsy should be perfectly safe
from Will so Will would be safe from Worf, but still there was
some odd triumph in Will's expression that Worf didn't
understand.  He remembered things Will had said in the past, in
the heat of love, fantasies, thoughts.  Worf was ever so slightly
nervous. 

He chewed over it a bit.


"You know,"  he and Jean-Luc were in the garage playing with 
Jean-Luc's cars,  "Will is strange with Patsy."

Jean-Luc shrugged.  "Everything is okay.  Isn't it?"

It was.  Will was much improved from the ignorant fat boy  they'd
bought from his father.   "Yes."  Worf sounded a little hesitant. 
There were aspects to this woman of his that confused him still,
especially now that they had a little one.  

"Will is changing," Worf said, and he and Jean-Luc looked at each
other.

"Hand me that Allen wrench," Jean-Luc said. 

Worf handed it to him.  He thought of Patsy's round mouth and 
round eyes and dark plentiful hair pinned in a topknot.  She was
nice.  He did not know what was up with Will, and he did not like
to be suspicious, but his job was to protect his daughter.  

*************************

Will, Q, and Data liked to dote on Patsy, talking about her
clothes, brushing her silky hair, analyzing the meals she ate and
the diapers she made.  Jean-Luc, Worf, and Geordi sat a little
further away and watched the doting, clucking women with fondness
and exasperation etched on their faces. 
      
Jean-Luc knew how to read the situation.

There were two types of women in the world and there they sat.
 
See, women all started off as one type.  Grapes fresh off the
vine.  Nothing but little vine-like bones and all smooth skin. 
But as they grew  older, they divided into two camps: rot and   
raisins.

One type was like Will.  In his youth, Will must have been 
thin-wristed, smooth-skinned, biting his wet little lower lip. 
But every year, he had grown lusher, fuller, juicier and in his
fullness he plopped things in his insatiable mouth, hazily rowing
up and down store aisles with Patsy, filling his endless basket
with animal crackers and socks that matched her dresses.

Data and Q were the other type, smooth and alluring at first and 
then somehow drying, becoming a little . . . desiccated.  Q was
still the most beautiful man in the world, but there was a
softness under his eyes, under his chin where the skin was fuller
than the flesh, his hands had vinier ropes on them, and Data's
mouth, never generous, grew thinner.  They both were beginning to
be careful, to do a lot of planning, to chivvy the round ones
like Will, to take hankies and spit on them and wipe dirty little
faces. 

Fair enough.  Patsy could learn from all of them.

*************************
 
"I confess, Will, I do not understand the process by which she 
will become a human being," Data said.     

Will smiled broadly.  He understood because he could see it
happening day to day.

"Uh-oh," Geordi said.  He was always the first to know when she
needed changing.

"Oh, no!" said Q tenderly, "Baby girl, what have you been eating? 
 Not skunk dumplings again!"

Will got the diaper bag.

"Listen, Will," Q went on, "I've been meaning to tell you this. 
I hate these paper diapers.  I hate that texture against her
pretty skin.   I went out . . . well, I was at this Beverly Hills
baby boutique the other day, okay?  They have some Egyptian
cotton diapers that would be much nicer for her. So they
delivered a few dozen this afternoon.  And  then I got a Hotpoint
washer and dryer for upstairs in that alcove off that big
bathroom of yours?  So we don't have to run up and down stairs
all day when we need to wash them.   When she gets a little older
and doesn't need a diaper change every fifteen seconds, let's
switch over.  It's just nicer." 

"Oh, good idea, Q."
        
Jean-Luc rolled his eyes.  He looked at Worf.

Worf seemed stunned.

Jean-Luc stood up. "Let's go to the garage and look at things,"
he said to Worf.

"Agreed." 

Outside the television room, "I need pussy," Worf breathed out. 
"Will's quit putting out."

"How many times have I heard that?  It's the first thing to go
out the door when the baby gets there."  He touched Worf's arm.
"Geordi needs a break too.  How about some of that?"

"Nice one, Jean-Luc."
  

In Geordi's room, they were a little awkward at first.  There was
no Q to manhandle, no Data to seduce, no Will to carelessly take. 
They came to each other as equals and that was a challenge.  

Jean-Luc started things off by stripping down to his dark tee
shirt,  his black briefs.  Then he began to undress Geordi with
large tender  hands. Rubbing himself against Geordi and watching
Geordi become  excited.  Putting both hands over Geordi's
swelling arousal.   Placing both hands on Geordi's nipples and
working his fingertips in circles.  

Worf watched.  Silent. Stoic.  Then: "Let's make it special," he 
said.

"You know what I want?" Geordi whispered.

"I think so. Jean-Luc, if you don't mind."

Jean-Luc sat back on the bed   Worf undressed.  "On your knees, 
Geordi."  

Jean-Luc was watching attentively.  Worf's big dick glistened 
against the brown velvet of Geordi's ass.  But that wasn't what
Worf was really interested in.  Instead, he reached over to the
bedside stand and got a large tube of lubricant.  

"Smell this, Geordi," Word presented it to him.  Geordi grunted
and  wiggled a bit.  Worf lubricated his hand.  One finger went
in easily.  So did two.  "You feel nice, Geordi."  Geordi kept on
wiggling.  Three wet fingers were also easy.  Worf twisted them
carefully, around and around.   

"That looks nice," Jean-Luc was hoarse.  

"You can get closer, Jean-Luc; you can look at his ass and see
what happens."  Four fingers were tricky.  Lubricating. 
Twisting.    
  
Geordi was groaning louder.  "Give it all to me, Worf.  I want it
all in."  Worf pushed against him, twisting his wet hand, putting
more lubricant on with his other hand.  "Oh, I love this," Geordi
said,  shoving his ass against Worf's hand.  Worf was intent,
panting, hissing his breath out.  Geordi was   grinding his face
into the  quilt.  Jean-Luc was watching them with bright eyes. 
He pulled his  briefs down to the tops of his thighs, holding his
hand for a minute between his legs.  

"That pussy looks good," he said. 

Worf worked his hand slowly against Geordi.  Then he said, "I'm 
going in, Geordi.  Just relax."  His hand slid all the way in. 

Everyone was still.  Worf felt the beating of Geordi's heart.  He 
gently rubbed the small of Geordi's back with his other hand.   

Geordi grunted through his nose.  He began to back himself 
against Worf's fist.

Jean-Luc spread his legs and thrust himself out a bit.  A very 
interesting juxtaposition of Worf's huge cock and his fist in 
Geordi's butt. 

Worf glanced over.  Both he and Jean-Luc had a very nice view of
the fucking that was going on and the surrounding dicks. 

"I'm hot," Jean-Luc whispered.

"This is hot," Worf admitted.  They looked at Geordi back himself
against Worf again and again.  

Then Jean-Luc took Geordi's hand and Geordi felt his way up
Jean-Luc's arm to his head.  Cupping Jean-Luc's face, he pulled
him towards his penis.

"Oh, yes," Jean-Luc sighed.  He couldn't get enough of Geordi's
cock. 

Worf knelt carefully, readjusting himself so Geordi could move
his cock nearer Jean-Luc's mouth.  He continued to twist and
push, giving Geordi what he wanted.  Around front, Jean-Luc
savored his aching jaw.  He would suck this cock until he drained
it dry.  

Between them Geordi was wailing softly, working his ass around
Worf's fist, clutching Jean-Luc's head, driving himself into
Jean-Luc's mouth.  As his orgasm approached, his movements became

carefully violent.  "Jesus Christ, Worf, this is so fucking
good!" 
Jean-Luc's head was bobbing around his cock.  Geordi felt his ass
tighten around Worf's fist' then suddenly everything was too much
and he was losing himself; crying out, cursing, fucking and being
fucked, dragging it out for as long as he possibly could.   
Jean-Luc reached up and grabbed him, sandwiching him against
Worf's body.  He couldn't tear his eyes away.  Worf's  muscular
forearm looked so big.  He could just imagine what that giant
fist was like inside Geordi's ass. 

"Worf, don't leave him til I come.  I want to come to that
scene."  He was stroking himself efficiently, using one hand on
the end of his dick and the other against his testicles, his dark
briefs halfway down his thighs.  It quickly overwhelmed him and
he was coming too, exploding on Geordi's ass and Geordi groaned a
little, Worf's fist still huge inside him. 

They took a moment to appreciate what they'd done; then Worf
stirred. 

"I'm taking my hand out, okay, help me out,  Geordi." 

Geordi began to take deep full breaths.  Worf eased his hand out
a little more at each inhalation; then they were done.

Jean-Luc wrapped Worf's hand in a towel and wiped it off. 

They looked at each other. "Worf, let me suck your big dick,
okay?  Your stuff has always fascinated me," Jean-Luc said.  Worf
said nothing, just stuck his cock out, and Jean-Luc, kneeling
down and resting his hand on Geordi's unresisting ass, sucked
Worf into a state of howling bliss. 
   
They finished up in Geordi's scented hot tub.  Jean-Luc was 
enjoying being totally naked with his Boys. He'd forgotten how
good that felt.  He leaned against the edge of the hot tub.   

"Nice. We ought to get together more often."

"That damn baby," Worf said soberly, "is pretty demanding."

"Yeah, she's just no good," Geordi was teasing him.  

Jean-Luc saw he would have to put his foot down.

"Enough domesticity, boys."

Geordi turned his head to him and Worf looked at him.   
Obviously, they did not believe in enough domesticity.  They
smiled at  him; then Geordi said, "If Data comes home with a
baby, I'll murder Will!" 

"I  think Patsy's enough for Data.  Did you see his face at that 
last dirty diaper?"  

Jean-Luc was astounded.
        
*************************                                   
     

Quark wrote a press release to the effect that Ralph Rodshenko
and William Riker had adoped a child and named her Patsy 
Riker-Rodshenko.   He put it off as long as he could because Will
was adamant about having some damned privacy.

"It's been a couple of months," Quark reasoned. 

"It'll be years if I have anything to do with it."

Worf overrode Will's irrationality.  "Send out the press 
release." 

Will sulked for a few days until Worf got tired of it.  

"I'll give that baby to Q," he threatened.

"I just want to keep her safe."

Worf was offended.  "I will do that."   

(Before he knew it, Worf had started taking care of Patsy almost
as much as  Will did.   She was a little like a puppy to him.  He
carried her around and kept her out of harm's way and didn't
expect much of her except that she would be cute and harmless and
pee where she wasn't supposed   to.  Holding her felt  awkward
and embarrassing at first, but then he just got used to  it.  It
was a familiar sight, Worf ambling through the house with the
baby tucked in one arm.  There were some things, however, that he
simply never got the hang of.  Will put a cloth on Worf's
shoulder, put Patsy on the cloth and Worf  patted her, and patted
her, and patted her.  She wouldn't burp.  The two fathers
exchanged glances and then Will took her back.  Worf gave up with
some relief.  He was stoic with spit and poop, but it was  . . .
unpleasant.   Sure enough, when Will took her, she spit up
nicely.  Worf made a face.  "It's not that bad."  Will soothed. 
"Don't you feel better, Patsy?")
  
Patsy stayed the center of the Boys' life.  She babbled now,
making up little stories and grinning at her own cleverness.  She
shook rattles and banged cups.  She sang to herself.  Will swore
he could tell the difference between one type of noise and the
other.         

When she started to sit up and crawl around, everything went into
her mouth.  She gnawed on chair legs and *TV Guides.*  She tried
to eat the shafts of afternoon sunlight that fell  through the
kitchen windows.  She was confused because she couldn't catch
hold of them.  She tried to eat the dresses Q and Will put on
her.  She tried to eat the camera they used to snap photographs.  

          
(Will didn't allow any nude pictures of his daughter.  He went to
the opposite extreme with elaborate little baby costumes with
matching shoes and socks and hair ribbons.  It didn't matter that
she quickly grew out of them, wearing most things only once. 
What mattered was that they get a picture of her smiling in her
over-embroidered finery.  Patsy pictures replaced the naked men
and women that had once adorned Will's bedroom.  Worf was
surprised and a little disappointed.  I'm a father now, Will told
him.  I have to be responsible.)

*************************

Of course, the tabs somehow picked up on their domesticity and
tried to cash in on this latest incarnation. 

After all, Reformed Sodomites sold nearly as well as Sodomites.   
    
The Boys bought the house next door to theirs and moved Kurn,
Gowron, and Klag in for protection.  Kurn, Gowron, and Klag were 
very good at breaking cameras.  

In retaliation, the tabs began to dig deep in the Boys' 
background.  
     

Will had a good number of step-brothers and step-sisters from Big
Daddy's numberless unofficial "marriages".  Some of his 
step-brothers sold stories of boyish sexcapades to the tabs. 

Well, that was to be expected.  

Then one step-brother, fat and blond and wholly forgotten by
Will, became a cut-rate evangelist and advertised his connection
to Will.   "My Narrow Escape from a Filthy Magic Mountain Hell by
The Rev. Ricky Riker" was what the billboards said.  He cashed in
handsomely, for a cut-rate evangelist.  

Will read about him in the tabloids and about some of his other 
step-brothers and sisters, all casual alliances from Big Daddy's 
liasons, all now living in shacks sided with asbestos tarpaper or
in hotels for the homeless.  And Will would think of his new
family and then become frenzied in his care for his daughter. 
She got more toys, more bottles, more clothes, more baby food,
better baby food.  Will roamed the aisles of Infancia, the hot
place to shop for pampered babies, and he bought stuff by the
bagful, and was grateful to Q for always going with him.  They
made an odd pair, these two men with their lovely little brown
baby, exclaiming over crib bumpers and and matching mobiles. 
Will ignored the snickering amusement. He was frantic to do this
family perfectly.  

Someone snapped a picture of him buying a hand-crocheted blanket 
for three hundred dollars and the caption read, "He pampers his 
daughter while the rest of his family starves."  Right next to a 
picture of the expensive blanket's price tag was a picture of a
woman in front of a trailer.  She claimed to be his sister.  She
told reporters that Will's nephews and nieces were in need of his
help.  "My kids need blankets too, but I can't afford no three
hundred dollars for no baby blanket.  We was real close as kids,
but now that he's made his money he treats us like dirt." The
article went on to show the squalor Will had left her in.

Will was devastated.

Nonetheless Worf forbade him to contact her or send her money. 
"It's just a trick.  You feed her once it'll be like feeding a
stray cat.   You'll never get rid of her."

"We gave Big Daddy money and he stayed away," Will murmured
hopefully.  

Worf's eyes narrowed.  "You think he won't be back?"
                                                  
Will looked worried.  "Let's give some money to an animal shelter
in Patsy's name."


Geordi's stable family turned down tabloid money.   Geordi had 
begun sending them money from the moment he'd received his first
check, along with strict instructions as to how it would be
spent.  They would attend college and send their children to
college.  Later, when The Boys went big, he bought his parents a
new house and two new cars.  

"Because you have to," he explained to the uncomprehending Data. 
"It's like a law."
 
Data eventually came to understand that taking care of momma,
poppa, and family was the righteous thing to do.  Geordi's
brothers and sisters sold their parents' old house and shrewdly
invested the money in cable  companies and convenience stores. 
They became very prosperous due to Geordi's largess, and Geordi
was pleased with their pragmatism.  He had no intention of
letting them feed off him, and was, in fact, rather strict about
how much he would give away.  

"I had to earn this money, so don't waste it," he told one niece. 
"If you fail another class, I'm not giving you any more." 

Once he brought the whole family out to L.A. for a nice vacation. 
However, for all their impressive new education, they still had
some very country ways.  Like the sweet rubes they were, they'd
bought matching outfits for every day of their visit.  When Data
saw this, he went out to the same chain store and bought
identical clothes for himself and Geordi.  And while  they all
went sightseeing, he made sure he and Geordi wore the same
outfits as the rest of the family.  Geordi never knew they all
matched.  
  

The tabs also found what was left of Worf's family.  His foster
parents had not lived to see Worf released from prison.  His
foster brother Paul was the only one left.  The press made much
of the fact that Paul's wife was black.   The brothers, they
reported, had sworn a pact before Worf went into prison.  As a
token of their brotherly affection, they each promised to marry
someone from the other's race. This was news to Worf and Paul.  

The press hounded Paul for stories about his younger brother, but
Paul was repulsed by them.  Eventually he relented enough to
explain that he was the one who nicknamed him Worf because, when
Worf was a baby,  Paul couldn't pronounce the word 'Ralph.'

Worf found his number and called him when he saw the article.  

It was the first time they'd talked in over ten years.

"It's me," Worf said into the receiver.

There was silence, then, "I read about you in the paper."

               "Okay."        

"I mean that time with Deanne."

"Okay."        

"I went down to the courthouse every day."

"I didn't see you."

"I know."

A silent minute passed.

"So you got a kid now."

"Yep."

"If mom and dad had ever seen that guy you're with, they'd  . . . 
I don't know what they'd do."  

"Yeah, I know."

More silence.

"Well, I guess I'd better be going."

"Why don't you come on out and see us?  See the baby."

"I don't want to put you out any."

"No bother.  You and your wife could meet everybody."

"Well, okay."

Eventually Paul brought his pretty little bride out for a visit. 
Her name was Cassidy.  He looked around.  Finally he said, "This
is nice."

Worf swelled with pride.



The tabloids didn't do well with Data's family.  The Soong 
compound was guarded by massive electrified gates.  They could
only show dim gray  photographs of the buildings in the hot Texas
sun.   Data's father was described as a "Mystery Man".   

"Essentially, they are correct.  My father is a bit of a mystery"
was all Data had to say.



The tabloids beseeched the Crushers to speak.  They wanted  
pictures of  "Gay Dad's Three Boys".  But Bubba, Sonny, and
Junior were holding out for much bigger bucks from Q himself. 

Meanwhile Beverly was having modestly consistent good luck 
whenever she contacted Q with demands for the boys.  She started
by asking for money for practical things like shoes, clothes, 
food, visits to the doctors.  Q would let himself be gulled but
only so much.  He was careful not to send Beverly very much in
the way of cash.  He asked for sizes and sent clothes and shoes
as needed. 

He paid the doctor bills and hoped and prayed that some of the
money he sent her for food was actually spent for that purpose. 
When he talked to his boys on the phone, he gently tried to
ferret out the details of their care without  alerting them to
the fact that he was spying on their mother.   Beverly meant
well, but the brothers were poison.

What he heard was somewhat dismaying,  so one day he had a
lovely, chatty conversation with Beverly's mother, the upshot of
which was an  arrangement with a local food store to give Mrs.
Crusher a five-hundred dollar a week credit.   

"Even three boys can't eat that much," she protested.

"Well, I certainly don't mind sharing," he countered.  "That way 
there'll be enough for everybody."  

Beverly continued to ask for modest amounts of money.  The
windows in the back bedroom needed fixing or the boys would catch
cold.  The brothers' trucks were all getting old; who would drive
the boys around?  Q was unstintingly generous. 

"She is the mother of my children," he told a scornful Jean-Luc.  

"She hasn't borne any child of yours," Jean-Luc pointed out.

"Yes, she has," Q answered quietly.  "Those are my sons."  

He sent her several thousand dollars so she could buy a nice used
car, but he was afraid she'd give the money straight to her
brothers.  Beverly didn't even have a driver's license.
 

With Jean-Luc's family, there was a bit of luck.  A photographer 
in Virginia once saw Jean-Luc walking down the street and snapped
his picture.  To his surprise, Jean-Luc had no reaction; he just
walked  into a nearby laundromat.  The photographer followed
Jean-Luc.

"Jean-Luc?" he said.

Jean-Luc looked at him as he got change to buy some detergent. 

"Aren't you Jean-Luc Picard?"

"You're half right.  My name is Picard.  I'm Armand Picard."

The photographer looked at him closely.  There was a subtle 
difference.

"You're his brother!"

"Whose?"

"Jean-Luc Picard's!"

"Never heard of him."

Armand was lying.  He remembered his little brother Jean-Luc.
 
 
Then a fan in Georgia saw Jean-Luc in a bar in Savannah. 

Jean-Luc was chatting up the waitress.

"Jean-Luc Picard!"

Jean-Luc smiled.  "Wrong, buddy. I'm Jean-Pierre Picard."
       

The truth was that Jean-Luc did have two older brothers who 
joined the army as soon as they could, leaving little Jean-Luc
to face their father alone.  They were both overseas when their
mother died, and no one bothered to tell them.  Then, one behind
the other, they came drifting  back through town on their way to
parts unknown. 

Kindly neighbors sat them down and told them their momma was
dead. 

It didn't take much guessing to figure that their dad pretty much
had driven  her to death.  When time passed and they later found
out that the old man was discovered dead in the bottom of a
ravine, it didn't take much more guessing to see their little
brother  behind it.  They occasionally thought about this, but
they did it separately.  They never talked to one another.  


The oddest thing was that all three looked exactly alike, three 
baldheaded peas in a pod with deep set, hard little eyes.

And when somebody said to them "Jean-Luc?" (which happened more
and more often), both older brothers answered exactly the same
way, even though they knew their baby brother's name:  "Never
heard of him.   Nope, no kin to me." 

"But your last name is Picard, too."

                                                  They shrugged.  It meant nothing to them.         

One of them was in and out of jail and one of them was a crazy 
alcoholic who'd had three wives.  He never laid a hand on any of
the wives, but he terrified them with his rages and finally they
gave up and left.  

The Picard boys were resourceful though, and they did okay for 
themselves.   They survived in this hellhole of a world and that
was that. 

A persistent reporter tracked both of them down and asked them 
about their famous homosexual singer brother.  He took their
picture when they weren't looking and captured the same bald head
and big nose and hard eyes.  He ran the pictures in the tabloids. 


"What about these brothers of yours?" he asked Jean-Luc at a
press conference.

(Jean Luc didn't know why but that question made him 
extraordinarily uncomfortable.)   "I don't have any brothers."

But then, almost like a dream, he had a recall of a boy whom he 
loved, a boy who sang a French song to him when he was very
young.  He said: "Jean-Pierre?"   It came out 'Zhompyay.'

The reporter said, "That's him, that's one of your  brothers."

Jean-Luc was very still.  "Well, don't bother him."

The reporter was flabbergasted.  None of the brothers had any  
emotion on hearing about the other two.  


(Finally Armand showed up in Hollywood.  "They said they'd give
me 20 grand if I'd come talk to you.  I've got three ex-wives.  I
could use the bread." 


"I see."    The cameras clicked away at this historic moment. 
Armand looked stunned for a second; then he relaxed. This was
proof that the deal had been done.  The brothers walked out where
no one could hear them.  Jean-Luc said, "turn your head this way,
or they'll catch every word out of our mouths." 

They had a modest reunion.  Jean-Luc said, "You went to Korea?" 

Armand nodded.

"You killed people?"

"Well, I stopped when I got back stateside." 

His younger brother had something else on his mind.  He said, "I 
guess you know about maman."  

Armand gave him a hard look.  "Et pere aussi."  

Jean-Luc shrugged.   

After a moment, his brother shrugged.  

That was that.  Later, Armand went to the tabloid office and 
collected the money.  They never saw each other again.)
                    

Meanwhile Jean-Pierre (in a rare non-jailhouse interlude) had
gotten another job.   He was a janitor in a girl's dormitory at a
big southeastern college.  And because of who he was and how he
looked, he got more nooky than the football captain, at least
until he was fired.

*************************

Q was very fond of the electronics shop ladies who had installed
their intercom.  By now they were on a first-name basis with one
another, and he and Will liked to hang around their shop because
it was calm and peaceful, and the ladies were always glad to see
them, especially when they brought Patsy, which they always did.  

One day they dropped by the shop to find a 'for rent' sign tucked
in the corner.  

"Great," said Q hopefully.  "You're going to a bigger shop?"

Chris was silent, but Uhura said, "The mall owner wants to revamp
everything and put a day spa in here.  I think it's a lovely
idea, but we have to move."

"Oh.  Couldn't you find another place?"

Pen smiled wryly.  "It's much more complicated than that.  It
took us forever to find this place.  Our clients like privacy."

"Ah."  Now their bizarre location made sense. 

Q took a deep breath. "I have an idea.  We have a big old empty
pool house.  And we need someone to watch Patsy for us sometimes. 
And it's plenty private.  We could make a trade.  You could move
in with us, and we'd have someone to keep an eye on our little
girlchild."

Will's face lit up.  "YES!  PLEASE!  That's a brilliant idea, Q." 
 They were poised and professional; Patsy would do well under
their  influence.  "And you wouldn't have to leave the area."

They looked at each other.  Upenda had the baby in her arms and
was babbling to her again.  Patsy was smiling and waving her
hands.  

Christine shook her head.  "We have a lot of personal electronics
equipment.  We spend a lot of time with it."

"You could keep it with you in the pool house, couldn't you?  And
you could help us out with our recording.  We really need folks
like you."

"We have private clients," Uhura purred.  

"We wouldn't mind."   Q had always noticed that they never had
any other customers around. 

"Well, how big is your pool house?"
 

So Uhura and Christine moved into the pool house and now there
were women always around, lesbians the boys were tickled to find
out.  Will bragged that he had known it all long. The ladies had
a very long-term relationship, and they were the oldest couple,
of any stripe, the Boys knew.  Will was very proud of that.  

Uhura sang to Patsy in the pool house.  

When she and Christine moved in, Jean-Luc raised his eyebrows at
the mysterious electronics stuff they brought with them.  But
they let Patsy play with the old stuff and they more than once
fixed up the Boys' studio when Data and Geordi couldn't, so he
tolerated them. 
  
And even though they had their own apartment in the poolhouse,
Will wanted the Girls to stay near Patsy.  So he got rid of his
big waterbed and moved in a nice queen-sized bed.  It didn't
matter; he always slept with Worf anyway.  

The ladies proved to have their own way of doing things.  They
had very definite ideas about what was best for Patsy.  They gave
her organic baby food with Q's approval and read her stories and
took her to baby swim class and story hours at the local library. 
  

And, once in a while they had mysterious customers.  

Data told Q, "I went to get Patsy to show her that new toy I had
purchased.  Did you know they have very sophisticated
surveillance support equipment in there, some of which, in fact,
may be illegal to possess?"

"Oh, I know."  Q recognized some of it from his time with Fajo. 
"But this is LA."
       
It sure was L.A. 

And they had L.A. problems.

One time, Christine brought in some hussy for a couple nights'
special amusement.  Jean-Luc really lifted his eyebrows then.

Uhura was smirky and utterly calm.  Q gently asked her,  "It
doesn't bother you?"

Uhura just shrugged.  "Her?  Janice Rand?  I don't think so.  I
don't like blondes except for Chris, or I might be in there too.  
Let her have her fun."

Typical L.A. story.


Q was amazed.  When Guinan came over to discuss video shoots, he 
told her all about it.  

"I'd like to be like Upenda when Jean-Luc fucks around.  She's so
. . . tolerant."

"How long have Penda and Chris been together?"

"30 years."

Guinan just looked at him wisely.   

"Guinan, do you think in 30 years I'll be that calm?"

"I think in 30 years you'll have no choice."
  
*************************

Q put his foot down."Yes, we are having Patsy baptized.  I can't
carry that on my conscience if . . . something happened."

Will looked horrified.

"And I think we should go to  the Metropolitan Community Church. 
They're gay, you know." 

So they went.  It was weird, all six of them standing there while 
Will held the baby.  The minister had long dreads like Worf's. 
She took the baby from them and said lovely things about new life
and new chances.

Will teared up.  That was it exactly.  Just a few years ago, he'd
come to Worf with all his worldly goods in two paper bags.  He
hadn't even owned the instrument he played.  Now he was a father,
a responsible  citizen.  He owned one sixth of a great big house
and he had a husband and a family. 

How had he ever gotten so lucky?


Q noticed the tears in Will's eyes, and he teared up too.  He'd
held three children at the altar like this, promising God that
he would do his best, come what may.  


Worf glanced over at Will.  Will looked back at his lover, and 
the pride and vindication on his face made him look like a
completely different human being.  'Look at me,' his expression
seemed to say.  'I'm real, I'm whole, and this is the proof of
it.'

Worf was surprised.  Was this what he'd been seeing in Will all
this time?  Dignity?  Identity?  Worf had wanted this for him in
an undefined way, but had resigned himself to the fact that Will
would always be... weak, in some ways.  But now here was Will,
holding his eye, making Worf understand that he was right about
this, and he knew it.  

And the tension Worf had carried ever since Patsy's arrival
suddenly relaxed.  He suddenly knew that what had been done to
Will didn't matter; his lover was going to do right by their
squirming, fretful daughter.  He decided he was proud of Will --
proud of his family.  


Jean-Luc glowered.  He hadn't been in a church in decades, and 
he mistrusted the whole deal.  But he was here because he
wouldn't be left out.  

To the other side of Will and Worf, he heard Data faithfully  
whispering the details to Geordi.  Patsy was kicking.   Will's
face and eyes were red, his expression triumphant.  The  minister
was dripping water on Patsy's head.  She was holding Patsy up
high in her arms.

Now she was droning on.  Jean-Luc gritted his teeth.  This was 
such horseshit.  He wondered what was in it for her besides
the hundred dollars she charged.  There had to be something or
else she wouldn't bother doing this.

Aha.

She was posing with them; he knew those pictures would turn up in
the papers.

Well, relief was in sight.  Melinda was due back soon. 

*************************

Dark spicy perfume, long reddish-brown hair, fingernail polish,
laughter.  Tits.  A vision.

She brought the baby a sterling silver bracelet.  Will gasped at 
the beauty of it; he loved getting baubles for Patsy.

"She's going to be much worse than I ever was, Willy," she told 
him.  Then she went to pick her up. "I know how to hold babies,
guys.  Remember when I was the crack-addict mom in that afternoon
TV special!"  

She sat with Patsy whose eyes were wider than ever.  "I love your
shoes, Patsy.  Manolo Blahniks, right?  Geez, I wish my feet were 
perfectly round like yours." She kissed the top of Patsy's
fragrant head. "I can't wait til you're older.  You and me'll do
the town; we'll need an 18-wheeler to haul the boyfriends."

Jean-Luc leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed.  

Was the world insane?  He had been relieved for a while, assuming
that Patsy would keep keep Q busy while he and Melinda fooled
around, but now Melinda, too, was entranced by Patsy. 

Patsy began to wail.  Melinda was unperturbed.  "Oh, no, Will! 
It's one of those science-fiction personality swaps!  This must
not be Patsy; maybe it's... Bratsy!" 

They all laughed and Will took her back.  "She cries if she sees 
me or hears me and I'm not holding her."  He tucked her into the
crook  of one arm and bounced her on his knee.  Patsy's wail
turned into a whine and then stopped altogether.

"I'm very impressed," Melinda leaned over to give Patsy a broad
wink. "Always give 'em hell, Pats, til you get what you want. 
Meanwhile, I  think I'll get what I want.  Jean-Luc?"

"It's about time."


Q watched Jean-Luc's eyes meet Melinda's; he didn't mean to be, 
but he was always silent when Melinda was around.
 
*************************
 
They went to her house.  Her maid opened the door, and Melinda
hugged her.  "Elena!"

"Melinda!"

Everyone was equal to Melinda.

Then the maid nodded at Jean-Luc and left; the maid knew her
mistress very well.
 
In Melinda's bedroom, she sat down on a chair near the bed. 
"That was a sweet domestic scene, Boy."

"Too sweet."

"I wish Q wouldn't look at me that way."

"Q who?"

Melinda made a tiny moue.  

"Melinda, Q isn't like you.  He's just . . .  property."  He sat
on the bed. 


"The newspapers say you pimped him."

"I sure did.  It was hot."

They smiled at each other.  Nothing timid about either of them. 

"Would you pimp him to me if I asked you?  Tell you what, Boy.   
I'll give you a million dollars for one night with that big hot
whore of yours.  A million big ones.  I'll even let you watch."   
Jean-Luc was surprised at how tempted he was by this vision, but
he shook his head.  "You're trying to confuse me, aren't you? 
You want my head to explode.  I'd have to film it so that I could
watch it over and over again."

Melinda clicked her tongue against her teeth.  "Boy, you're no
good at cameras.   Let's do something else."

"Like what?"  Jean-Luc was relieved to be off the subject of 
Melinda fucking Q.  There was no way he could mix and match Q and
Melinda.  

For an answer, she walked over and pulled up her skirt.  Of
course, she was naked from the waist down and all Jean-Luc
had to do was lean over and begin kissing and licking her
exquisite sex and she started moaning.  

"I've been wet since I got off the plane," she explained.
 

After the first bout of love, they lay together, him holding her
warm smooth skin next to him.   

"Apparently I just saved myself a million dollars," she murmured. 
"I don't need anybody else."

"Good.  Besides, if I rented him out to you, you might steal him
from me and then where would I be?"

"Oh, I assure you I would definitely steal him," Melinda laughed. 
 "I'd stick a vibrating butt plug up his ass and suck him off
every night."

Jean-Luc didn't answer for a bit because he was too busy feeling 
himself up.  Q with a butt plug up his ass.  What a vision.  


At dusk, Jean-Luc took her out for a ride in his restored Caddy.  


She said, "You want to see something pretty?"

"Sure, get it out."

"Jean-Luc, I mean in the world," and she began to give him 
directions.

Soon they were parked outside a darkened mansion on a high hill 
looking at the lights of L.A.  

"Whose place is this, baby?" Jean-Luc said.

"This producer I know.  Right now he's in Pago Pago, I think, but
he said I could stop by whenever.  I've used his fuck-shack many
a time." 

And right there in the driveway overlooking the city, she began
to pull off her dress, her underwear, and then she threw it all
in the back seat. Now she was relaxing against the door of the
convertible, completely naked except for her shoes.  "Oh, don't I
look like a porn  princess?  But I probably wouldn't do this
except for you, Boy.  Are you hard yet?"

Jean-Luc was hard as he could be.  But that was almost 
irrelevant.  He looked at her   her legs open, her dark sex
bright and waiting under that silly flag tattoo on her flat
stomach, her full firm breasts, the open car, and behind her the
vast city blinking.  "Melinda, for some reason I want to marry
you." 

It was so quiet they heard each other's blood beating.

"Yes on all levels, Boy."

"Get out of the car.  Sit on its hot hood.  Let me fuck you
there.  Spread out on the city."

*************************
  
For the ride home, she had put her dress halfway on and left her 
underwear off completely.  

"Boy, did you mean it?"

"I'm afraid so."

"When?"

"Soon as possible is best."

"You know I have a career.  This prison movie is important to me. 
 And the space-pharaoh thing is going to be in
post-production forever.  I keep  getting called back to loop new
lines."

"Melinda, that stuff is shit and you know it.  Let's get married 
next month.  August.  We'll go somewhere exotic, have a
king-hell wingding and a big fucking honeymoon, and then we'll
both get back to  work." 

"Look behind you."

"Huh?"  Then Jean-Luc's prison reflexes kicked in.  He wheeled
the car around, t-boning and then going the other way.

It was the tabloid press again.  

*************************

Q loved decorating for the holidays.  Any holidays.  

He had the dining room replastered and painted a soft gold;
twinkle lights hung from the molding.  For Christmas, there were
white twinkle lights.  For Halloween, he had very spooky orange
ones.  And for Independence Day, he put red and blue lights among
the white ones.   

He and Will carried Patsy around the room and showed her the
lights.   She was wearing a fluffy dress of white lawn with
little American flags embroidered on the hem.  Her little socks
were red, white and blue, like the smocking on the bodice.

Jean-Luc came in and sat down at the head of the polished table. 
He was dressed very casually and he leaned back in his chair and
rubbed his lower lip with his thumb.

Waiting.

Q felt a chill.

Will felt it too.  He looked a timid question at Jean-Luc. 

Jean-Luc jerked his head at the door and Will took his daughter
back from Q and quietly left the room.  

Q stayed by the lights.

"Q," Jean-Luc's tone was not unkind. "You're no fool.  You know 
what I'm about to say."

Q felt the room get colder.  His eyes widened.  He slumped
against the wall with his arms folded around him.

"Nothing will change really.  I'll still come back and fuck you
every now and then.  The band will still record and tour.  But
I'm moving on.  I'm going to marry Melinda and we're going to
live in her house."

Q nodded.  

"I never made you any promises," Jean-Luc continued.  Then,
because it sounded like he might be trying to justify himself, he
added, "I'm out of here, starting now."

Q said nothing.

"Don't give me that silent shit," Jean-Luc leaned forward; he 
seemed suddenly dangerous.

"I'll help with the wedding," Q offered.  His voice was weak, but
quite clear.

"Good girl.  That's more like it.  And you like that kind of
thing.   It'll be fun for you."


Q stayed by the dining room window, watching Jean-Luc walk down
the  driveway, and he saw as if for the first time again
Jean-Luc's impeccable posture, his perfect proportions, the 
muscular arms and legs moving gracefully forward against the warm
air.  Jean-Luc passed the roadies doing yard work out front; they
nodded respectfully.  Then he pointed something out to them. They
looked away to where Jean-Luc was pointing and nodded again.

And then he got in his big Caddy and, with a bang and clatter, 
Jean-Luc hit the road. 


Will and Data were suddenly behind Q.  "He's gone, isn't he?"
said Will.

"Yes," said Q, "he's gone."


Part  Four: Into the Beyond.


The only thing that made Q smile was the wedding planner, a tall
pale languid man who always dressed in black.  His name was
Charles Crosis, but everybody called him Very-Very because of the
way he talked.

He was the best, the most expensive events coordinator in
Hollywood.  Q admired his cool efficiency and followed him
around, watching, learning.  Crosis did a brilliant job because
nothing was beyond his grasp.  So, when he found out that the

happy couple wanted to get married in Hawaii, he didn't bat an
eye.  Q hung out in his office and watched Crosis.  Crosis
smoothly anticipated crises both major and minor, handling them
all with cool aplomb.  Crosis called Scotland to have salmon sent
to Maui.  When the panicked chef called to say he couldn't get
salmon, Crosis was able to reassure him that he would have it. 
"Oh, and by the way," he informed the high-strung chef de
cuisine, "be prepared to work with either black truffles or white
because, unless you know a very very good source for black this
time of year, white may be all we can get.  Yes, yes,  I know
you'll do your best," he reassured.  He hung up on the mollified
cook and then called his source for beluga caviar.  Yes, only a
few pounds, a month from now.  Regards to Vanya."  There was only
one butcher he worked with, a man in Texas who grew free-range
organic beef which he slaughtered and hung himself.  Six weeks,
really, was the minimum for very very tender hung game, he told Q
while he waited on hold for the Texan to come in from his
pastures, so he was going to make do with some nice prime rib
instead.  And the lobster chicks were coming in from Maine the
week before in a special tank.  Chicks were very small and
unimpressive to look at, but they had very very tender meat, and
he was planning for two a piece, so that should do. 

"Sit down and look at these," he ordered Q.  He handed him a big
portfolio.  "Do you know her colors?"

Q had no idea what he meant.  "Colors?"

"Most brides have a color theme.  They pick one or two colors and
we work around them.  Now, I've got to select the flowers, and
I'm thinking of hibiscus for a splash of exuberance, but that
means pink or red.  I can get bamboo orchids which are lovely but
they have yellow centers and you know how fussy brides can be
about having everything match.  We can go with Chinese Violet
which is mauve, or passionflower and we can trail it around the
altar.  It makes a very very lovely bloom, but ultimately we need
to get the bride involved, don't you think?"

"Well, actually they left everything up to me," Q demurred.

Crosis stopped his busy chatter and looked at Q over his glasses. 

He had heard all the gossip from his friends and had almost
turned this job down -- hillbillies, even rich ones, weren't his
cup of tea, but Q seemed very very nice when he talked to Crosis
on the phone, his soft, accented speech quite intriguingly at
odds with his incisive inquiries.  And, then too, look at the
man!

"Well, if it's all been left up to you, it can't help but be
perfect," Crosis responded easily.  "No, really," he said into
Q's skepticism.  "You have very very nice taste.  I was afraid
you were going to go for gaudy and overblown, but I really like
your choices."

That got him a smile.

Crosis smiled back.  He'd watched Q as he talked to hotels and
florists and wine merchants, and, the more he looked, the more he
liked what he saw.

Listen, doll," he flirted gently.  "I'm keeping your number, 
and, when all this is over I'm taking you to lunch.   We're going
to go out and get very very plastered."

"That's awfully nice except I don't drink."  

"Well, then just come have lunch with me," he said soothingly to 
Q. "You're going to need something to keep yourself distracted."

Q's face grew sad.  He looked down at the portfolio.  "I don't
think these are her colors."

Crosis shook his head again.  "Don't worry, my husband isn't
going to come after us with a pistol or anything,  I just think
you're going to need a friend or an occasional shoulder.  You
know, I want to be very very honest with you," he lied to Q with 
absolute charm, "all gay men don't want in your pants.  Just
lunch." 
 
Q smiled.  "I'd like that."
 

The wedding would be sumptuous in every direction.  "Shrimp,
lobster, prime rib, caviar, truffles," Q told Johnny as they
tried on their tuxes.  "Three different pates, smoked salmon,
quail eggs in aspic."

"What's aspic?"

"It's like jellied consomme."

Jean-Luc looked at his lover across the table and thought, 'In
less than a week I won't ever have to put up with this again.' 

But secretly he was pleased at Q's efficiency.
 
*************************

Suddenly everyone was at the beautiful old thirties hotel they'd 
rented for the wedding.  It sat on stone terraces which led to a
private white-sand beach. 

Melinda's parents had been flown in from Chicago.   The Boys flew
in with Patsy (who cried and cried until she fell asleep) and the
whole thing was costing almost a quarter of a million dollars but
Jean-Luc and Melinda looked radiantly happy.  

It was one of the most beautiful places anyone had ever seen, but
sadness floated through the lovely rooms like a little cloud.  

Data's heart tore at the sight of Q alone in his hotel room.  It
wasn't the way things should be.    

"I..."  Data was not always good at expressing empathy.   "I wish
to know... how you are holding up."

Q smiled.  "Thanks, Data.  That's nice of you." 

But Data noticed that Q hadn't answered the question.  Jean-Luc
and Melinda were out being photographed for their wedding album. 
At the registration desk; holding hands on the beach; eating in
the restaurant.  Q was unnecessary, and redundant, and he had no
real choice but to make himself scarce.  

"Geordi is rehearsing," Data offered clumsily.  "I thought we
might spend some time together."

He reached out to take Q's hand.

Q looked at him suspiciously.

"Shall I leave?"

"No.  Stay."  And Data came into his arms.  His kiss was very
comforting and gentle, and Q smiled around it.

"What?"

"You're being very nice, Data."

"You are my friend, Q."

Making love with Data was a nice distraction.  It took his mind
off the fact that he was counting down the hours until Jean-Luc
permanently and irrevocably walked out of his life.  Data was a
surprisingly good lover.  They took their clothes off and got in
Q's bed and took their time.  

*************************

'Well, I've managed to kill two more hours,' Q thought.   It was
a dark bit of irony that when he closed his eyes he could pretend
he was holding Jean-Luc because Data was nearly the same size. 

*************************

Jean-Luc's bachelor party was the night before the wedding.  But,
although some of the men at Jean-Luc's bachelor party had a
wonderful time, on the whole it was not a success.  

The co-hosts were Worf and Q.  The irony of this did not escape 
anyone.  They rented a small but expensive dining hall decorated
with a jungle motif and hired some hula-boy whores to entertain. 

Quark was there; he was oddly despondent. "Things would be so
much easier if I were queer."

Q looked at him.  "That's the most Martian thing I've ever heard
you say, Quark."

Worf was never sunny, so his disposition did not change, but  
Will intended to enjoy himself.   Chris and Upenda loved Hawaii 
(although they certainly had a lot of luggage and there was some 
strange argument at the airport about it), and they took Patsy 
everywhere with them.  It was the first break from parenting Will
and  Worf had had in months.  It was almost like a  honeymoon for
them.   

When the hula-boys started to strut their (in some cases amazing)
stuff, Will took off his Hawaiian shirt and waved it around his
head.  

Q sat loyally at Jean-Luc's table.  Neither of them said much.

Geordi and Data sat near them, very quiet as well.  One of the 
hula-boys took a shine to Geordi and kept edging nearer to their
table as he danced.  He smelled wonderful because he was
slathered in coconut oil -- and he was wearing an orchid on a
leather cord around his  neck.  Data found him distracting.  

Since Kira was the matron of honor, Bareil was at the bachelor
party.   He was baffled but not displeased by the ferocious
oiled boys threading their rapacious way through the tables.  He
murmured noncommital compliments as they came near him.

Only the roadies were unambivalent.  Klag, Gowron, and Kurn all
called for louder music, cried for more coconuts filled with
exotic liquors, and shouted for the hula boys to shake their
stuff faster.   They told them to put on a little show and, when
Will finally gave in and took off all his clothes and became an
honorary hula-boy, the roadies were boundlessly delighted.  And
they laughed uproariously when the hula-boys began to take
liberties with the naked Will.  Even Worf, intoxicated by the joy
on Will's face and knowing full well his woman was not seriously
seduced by the mischievous hula-boys, laughed as well.  They both
needed some R and R, and he enjoyed seeing Will lose himself. 
Besides, Will could have all the hula-boy fun in the world and
that would only be an appetizer for Worf fucking him raw when
they got back to their hotel  room.  He spread his knees in
anticipation.  His woman sure had a fine big willing ass.  

Klag stood up and brought his out!  Kurn and Gowron went wild
with merriment!  

"But what about the boss-man's presents!  Let's have presents! 
We want to give the boss-man our presents!"  And everyone settled
down a bit, entwining themselves with each other and with the
hula-boys, and watched Jean-Luc unwrap his bachelor party
presents. 

Will and Worf gave Jean-Luc a package of designer thong
underwear.  Jean-Luc blinked at them.  They were the exact same
design and color as the ones Q wore.  Jean-Luc smiled a little
and waved them around.  

Data and Geordi gave Jean-Luc a tape recording of sensual
designer music.  Its pulsing subharmonics simulated the rhythm of
human sexual intercourse in seven minute cycles from fast to slow
to fast.  The effect was hypnotic, making you feel like fucking
even though the throbbing bass was barely audible below the
trilling flutes and strings.  They guaranteed Jean-Luc would be
very pleased with its effects.  

Bareil who didn't quite get it gave Jean-Luc a tourist-type hula 
skirt. 

Q gave Jean-luc a small but exquisite statuette of a seated
Indian Goddess.  "Her name is Kamala," Q explained.  "She is the
Goddess of beauty and abundance.  Not that you need her help in
that arena."  His smile was very polite.


Everyone else smiled politely too.

The roadies had the best gift.  It was a box of love toys from 
Captain Bart's Love Shack right outside the base at Pearl Harbor. 

Jean-Luc really liked the roadies with their dark joie de vivre;
he smiled and thumped their backs.

"Look at this: it's the Gopher!" Klag said.  A vibrator with two
heads. "And this  is the Flying Saucer!"  The Flying Saucer came
with little belts so Melinda could wear it around all day.  "And
look at this!  A vibrating buttplug!"  Jean-Luc looked at that
closely.  Creams.  Ointments.  Stay-Long Gel!  

"And Quark bought the batteries!"  Kurn added.  

Then Klag put his foot in it: "Now who'll get your old queen?"

They all grew silent.

With no change of expression, Kurn backhanded Klag in the
stomach.   
Jean-Luc jumped to his feet.  And stood before them.   No one was
less frightened of facing down a crowd than Jean-Luc. "Nobody
gets her.  It's all still mine."  He pointed from man to man. 
"This is my band.   You roadies are mine.  Quark, you belong to
me too."  He turned to look at Q.  "All mine," he declared.  He
stood straighter than ever.  "Any questions?"

"No, boss," the roadies murmured and everyone else nodded. 

"I think this party's about over, what do you say?  Worf, you and
Will are leaving?" Worf  nodded.  "Then, Data, see that all these
boys are tipped double.  Q, you're with me.  And bring that box,"
Jean-Luc wheeled around and  walked off. Q followed diffidently.  

Kurn and Gowron began to pound the shit out of Klag.
       
*************************

He made Q insert it.  It was big.  "It hurts, Daddy," Q moaned.

"Sit on it, motherfucker."  Jean-Luc was masturbating and
thinking  of Melinda.  He was so hot he ended up having Q fuck
him while the buttplug was still up Q's ass.  Q moaned more.  The
big buttplug in motion felt very good, and in his frenzy he gave
Jean-Luc a Jean-Luc fuck -- taking forever, rolling him all over
the bed.  Then Q reached around while he was still inside
Jean-Luc and pumped him off.    They were grinding it out,
cursing, fucking, going crazy.  They collapsed on the bed after
Jean-Luc was finished, sweaty all over and worn to a frazzle. 

Afterwards, Q said, "help me, Daddy."  He turned his sweet ass to
Jean-Luc so Jean-Luc could pull the buttplug out for him.   

Jean-Luc said in his beautiful voice, "I ought to leave it in
there."

"But it'll hurt," Q said.

"So?"

"I don't want it to hurt."

"Okay, since you've been a good girl, I'll pull it out for you.  
This time.  Here."  He grasped it and twisted it out.  Q groaned
and collapsed, almost coming a second time, but a moment later he
got up  and staggered to the bathroom to wash it off.  

"See, Q, wasn't I good to you?" Jean-Luc called.

"You sure were, Daddy."                                     

*************************

The wedding took place in a natural rock chapel bursting with
plumeria and bougainvillea.  A tiny waterfall played in the
background.  Very-Very Crosis had choreographed it down to the
last second.   

Jean-Luc stood at the end of the aisle.  Worf was his second. 
Data, Q  and Will sat in the first pew.  On the other side were
Melinda's bewildered parents.  Q smiled through the whole thing. 
Then it was over, and they moved to the reception.  Q stood and
raised his glass high when it was time to toast the happy couple. 
The photographers snapped away.  

The food was delicious; the wines were perfect. The famous
Hawaiian band playing all the Boys' biggest hits was quite
amusing.  But the bruised and bandaged roadies in ill-fitting
rental tuxedos served as a warning of how close to the edge this
wedding was.        

The oddly somber Quark nudged Q.  "We need to go get drunk."

"Why?"

"Oh, lost loves, that kind of thing."

"What have you lost?"  

Quark shrugged.  "Doesn't matter now, does it?"  He was already a
little drunk. "You two had the most fucked-up relationship in
American history.  But you're no fool, and I'm not either. 
Neither of you would have stayed if you weren't getting something
out of it.  And now he wouldn't have the strength to marry
Melinda if it hadn't been for you.  Isn't that crazy?  But that's
love."  

And Quark wandered off.  Q watched him leave.  

Q's secret wedding present to Jean-Luc was to be cool.  

Bareil helped.  He came over and put his arm around Q's waist and
held him tightly.  It had nothing to do with erotic attraction
and everything to do with solidarity, and they both understood
that.  They simply stood there for a moment; then Bareil gave him
a parting squeeze and walked off again. 

Q felt better.
 
There was dancing, and more champagne, and there were tiny bits
of cake for everyone.  Melinda tossed her bouquet.  Later,
describing it, Very-Very Crosis laughed with his friends about
Jean-Luc tossing Melinda's garter into a crowd of gay men, but it
was tradition, so they did it.  Bareil caught it and stared at it
in shock while everybody laughed at his expression.  There was
more dancing. 

Eventually, however, the bride and groom stood at the steps of
their hotel and watched their guests leave.  They were already in
Hawaii, so there was no point in honeymooning anywhere else. 
They waved adieu to their guests.

Melinda kissed each boy as they filed past her.  Jean-Luc shook
each guest's hand.  He hugged all the Boys.  Polite, sincere
hugs, even to Q who whispered,  "Good luck, Johnny."

The bags had already been loaded onto the busses.  The guests
climbed on and settled in for the ride back to their waiting
plane.  On the bus, they loosened their ties and cummerbunds. 

It was over.
 
*************************

Melinda was a genuinely mythic courtesan, as wise as she was 
beautiful. She knew that, when Jean-Luc finally turned to her,
his eyes would  have a tiny lost light in them.  He had shut a
door on his Boys and he was wondering what he had done.  But
she'd change his mood or be damned.

"Did you know I got you a wedding present?"  She put her arms
around him; he rested his head against her shoulder.  "Rub my
tits for good luck."  He did.  "It's waiting in our suite." 

He moved his head back.  "Does it have to do with Aloe?"

Aloe Secondwind had been hired by the Boys to take the wedding
photos, but Jean-Luc wanted Aloe to take pictures of all aspects
of the wedding.  He loved pictures of Melinda like that.  

"Are you kidding?  She only shoots in natural light.  She's going
to make us restage things tomorrow.   I told her that was okay
because it meant we get some rehearsal time.  Time to practice
our own little scenarios."
       
Melinda's present was named Belanna.   She was Hispanic, darker
than Melinda, small and muscular.  She had already stripped down
to a lei and a grass skirt.  The grass skirt was pleasingly loose
and threadbare.  

"Belanna's the best whore in Honolulu.  She's so good she's never
fucked a sailor.  You ever hear of that in whoring?"

"That IS a first," said Jean-Luc. "How are you tonight, Belanna?"

"Quite ready, Johnny, Melinda," she had a beautiful throaty
voice.

"She's your present, Boy.  What would you like to see?"

"Oh, just do some warm-ups, girls.  Til I get inspired."  And
Jean-Luc sat on the bed to watch. 
 
Melinda and Belanna used the chairs to put on a little show. 
Belanna knew all men liked a little peekaboo in their fuck
sessions, and Jean-Luc was no different.  Using her fingers, she
showed him various aspects of her body.  Melinda sat by, getting
a little breathier with each passing minute.  

Jean-Luc took off his shirt and pants, leaving his underwear on
(its tightness against his dick, against the crack of his ass was
a pleasant sensation).

Then Belanna got a bottle of something liquid and slick and
showed it to Melinda -- Melinda was not fully naked either; she
had kept on a blue satin bra that exposed her nipples and her
high-heels (of course) and from somewhere she'd gotten a little
hot pink boa for her neck.  

Both girls looked most enticing.   Belanna was on her knees; she
single-mindedly began to slick Melinda down, particularly between
those long legs, those slender thighs.   Melinda sighed. "Stand
up," Belanna ordered her.  She began to really concentrate on
Melinda's pussy, on her ass; Melinda began to sway to meet her
touch.  Then Belanna stood up and they rubbed their slick breasts
together.   

Jean-Luc was quite gratified.

Melinda leaned in and whispered something to Belanna.

"Are you ready?" Belanna whispered back.

"Ready for what?" Jean-Luc asked.

Melinda was enigmatic.  "What's a wedding night without a
cherry?" she asked.

She and Belanna began to neck.

Then Melinda sat back down, but this time she sat backwards on
the simple chair, her round satin ass hanging over the edge. 
Belanna crouched behind her, sitting on the floor.  She kept
lubricating Melinda's body.  Then she began her assault.  One
finger in Melinda's tight asshole.  Melinda rocked back and forth
in her chair.  Belanna was sweating; her long black hair hung in
damp strands around her face.   

Jean-Luc liked dark-skinned women; he loved Belanna's dark dark
nipples, and the gleam of her tan thighs.  Her warm skin against
Melinda's pink flesh was most enticing.  And as Belanna worked
harder, her silly grass skirt hung lower on her ass, revealing
more of her.  Every now and then Jean-Luc could see the
glistening dark hairs of her cunt.  He was spellbound.  

Belanna was up to three fingers; Melinda was groaning softly. 
"You're not going to hurt me," she said in a thick sleepy voice,
"your hands are tiny.  Come on.  Get that whole thing in there
and fuck me please."

Belanna said nothing; she was twisting her slick fingers around
more and more.  Melinda was stroking herself in the front,
stroking her swollen clit; every now and then she would grab her
nipples and rub them fiercely.  


Four fingers.  Then Belanna put her fingers in a damp slick
wedge. "Now?" she asked.

"Now.  Now."  Melinda hissed.

Jean-Luc brought himself out.  His cock was harder than ever.  He
put one hand on his balls -- thrusting himself out.  

Belanna's hand was all the way in; she was slowly flexing it.  
Melinda was rubbing herself furiously and making inhuman sounds
deep in her throat.  Every now and then she said some fragment,
"I didn't . . . oh God . . . please please."

Belanna looked directly at Jean-Luc; she was pumping her hips
back and forth too -- wanting her turn.  She looked at Jean-Luc's
stiff dick and smiled.

The way Melinda's plump buttocks hung over the edge of the chair
with Belanna's hand in them was an intoxicating sight, and 
Melinda moved against Belanna to get the hand deeper in and
starting saying "come on come on come on" and now she had two of
her own fingers in her pussy but her high round ass was going
back and forth on Belanna's damp wrist and Belanna was sweating
now with her eyes half-closed.  The yellow electric lights threw
their vibrating shadows against the walls -- and Melinda said
some wordless sound and was coming, still pushing, still sobbing
wordlessly, still coming.   And she collapsed against the chair. 

"You okay, baby?" Jean-Luc asked.

Melinda was breathing softly, softly as a sleeping child. She was
obviously okay.

"It's our turn," he said to Belanna then.  "Can I fuck you in the
ass?' he said in a gentlemanly fashion.

"That's why it's here," she replied generously.
  
And he lapped her pussy for a few minutes and then stuck it in
her willing asshole and they came almost as hard as Melinda had.  
Meanwhile, Melinda slowly came to and, turning around in her
chair, lazily watched them with her legs far apart.
       
They slept quite soundly.  Melinda had tipped Belanna handsomely
(the Hawaiian tourist board wished the Boys would visit more
often) and Belanna had dressed in normal clothing and left the
honeymooners. 

"Thanks very much for the present.  It was . . . wonderful."

"I had a hunch you hankered for dark-skinned gals."

"They are very attractive."

"My Boy changed his luck!" 

"Baby, she wasn't that dark."

"But you do like it in colors?" she said and snuggled next to 
him.

He shrugged.

"Tell me about a black piece you've had.  It'll be a bed time
story."

He smiled to himself.  How'd she know?  Jean-Luc did like all of
it, no matter what hue, but sometimes he craved brown-skinned
women.   Not too long before, there had been one girl in Jessup,
Georgia, with skin the color of cinnamon.   She had been fat,
with huge tits, a big round stomach.  A big, wide ass.  He had
held her with his arms far apart.  Big legs, strong as an ox.  It
had been like riding a bull.  Or a powerful wide-footed mare. 

"I like you the best.  Let's hit the hay."  The girl in Jessup
had soft skin and melting brown eyes and a face like a plump
little elf.   Jean-Luc had liked her turned-up chin, and the
rimples and corruscations of her broad-beamed hips and ass.  
Fucking that abundantly sensual piece of brown woman-flesh had
been like fucking sex itself.  He'd loved it, and so had she. 
She called him Little Man the whole three days he was in her
town, and he'd allowed her to learn how to suck cock by
practicing on him.  Where had Q been during all that?  He tried
to remember.  Oh, yeah, Q was driving around with Data and
Geordi.   Looking at peanut farms.  Investments.  

Peanut farms.  Q loved shit like that.  

"Tell.  I know what you're thinking."

"Fuck it. I can't hide anything from you.  Okay, a chubby little
black girl in Georgia.  I taught her how to suck cock.  She was a
quick  study.  But I like all sorts of pussy.  Now let's go to
sleep."    


Aloe Secondwind was taking both sets of wedding pictures--the
public set with all the posing guests, and a boudoir set for 
their private enjoyment.  

Aloe's colorless personality made her a good photographer.  She
could photograph any scene with equanimity because all she cared
about was the play of light and color.


A fierce storm was blowing in from across the seas and the light
bouncing off the clouds was soft and silvery, a beautiful light
that would give this particular set of pictures the muted,
dreamlike quality that such pictures should have. 

"This will be a good shoot," she said.   Jean-Luc looked at her.
"You're not afraid of doing what you want," she observed
dispassionately.  She turned her camera over and over in her
hands, looking closely at its many indicators.

"That is true." Jean-Luc agreed.  "We are not afraid."

Melinda and Jean-Luc did what they wanted without fear or 
self-consciousness.  Aloe took pictures of Melinda's beautiful
wedding body, and then of Jean-Luc watching, and then of Melinda
stretched out over the white satin sheets.  She got Jean-Luc
unselfconsciously taking off his wedding finery, and then
Jean-Luc and Melinda making love.  It was plain sex, nothing
special, except for Aloe's presence and her gently ticking
camera.   They made love under Aloe's direction as she encouraged
them gently, asking them to pose, to shift position, to hold
various angles as she took advantage of Jean-Luc's great staying
power and their willingness to cooperate with her as fully as
possible. 

"Kiss her like that again, Jean-Luc," and he would do so, burying
his face in Melinda's peach-soft skin, letting himself drift
through sensation on Aloe's softly murmured instructions.

"Look at her face," Aloe would say.  Or, "Shut your eyes.  Feel
every bit of her skin beneath your hand."  It seemed that as if 
Aloe were making love to both of them through her camera.  And 
Jean-Luc found himself making love back to her through
Melinda's lovely body.  It was surprising, but he could do it
easily, and so could Melinda. 

"Jean-Luc, do you like it when she kisses you there?  Good. 
Melinda, do it again.  You two are swimming in light.  His
other nipple.  Open your thighs against him. Good!  You read my
mind."  Afterwards, they rested and chatted for a bit, and Aloe
sat on the side of the bed with them to share a pot of lukewarm
tea.  Eventually she drained her cup, picked up her camera and
stood over them again. 


"Now this time," she ordered gently, "I don't want you to make
love."  They looked at her; she looked back diffidently.  "I want
you to fuck.  Do you know what I mean?"  

They did.  

And they went all out.  Aloe snapped away, capturing the power
and the wild energy, and the tenderness and passion.  This time
she gave no instruction, no direction.  Instead of moving them,
she moved herself, sometimes getting so close that the camera
became part of their lovemaking, snapping away frantically, as if
it, too, felt their urgency and was aroused by it.  Jean-Luc and
Melinda drove each other, but the camera drove Aloe, pushing her
to dive and squat and lunge around them almost as frantic in her
passion as the newlyweds were.  She was sweating by the time they
were done, and, after Jean-Luc cried out for that last time, all
the humans in the room had to pause for a long time while they
caught their breaths and came down from their various highs.
 
(The next day she brought some proof sheets by. Even in that tiny
peephole format, they all could tell she'd shot beautiful, 
powerfully loving pictures.   Jean-Luc was overwhelmed by the
love and trust on Melinda's face.  The fact that his naked butt
and hard dick were captured on film bothered him not at all. 
They told the truth, and because of that, he was a bit in awe of
them, and a bit in awe of the process that had taken place.   One
frame showed Jean-Luc diving to hold Melinda's legs, leaning over
her, inside her, his pelvis thrust forward, his features
transformed into something fierce and feral.   Melinda caught her
breath. "Oooh, Boy," she crooned, "that makes me so hot."  She
bit at his neck. Aloe turned to watch Melinda's beauty contort,
her hands automatically moving to her camera.  She had been
especially curious about the look on Jean-Luc's face when he was
naked and aroused for the camera.   It was very strange to her
how invisible and shuttered his famous face became when he was
completely unclothed. She felt she'd discovered something new
about the camera.)

*************************

Back home in LA, everyone stepped lightly around Q for several
days.  They went out of their way to be attentive to him.  He
appreciated their concern,  but he really didn't need it.    

"It's not like I won't ever see him again," he told Worf.   "In
fact, we've got that video in a few weeks."  

Worf silently nodded. 


A few days later in the kitchen, Will whispered: "Things are sure
quiet now, aren't they?"  He seemed grateful.

In fact, Jean-Luc's absence gave them the space to see the past
as something that wouldn't turn on them.  Now they could see it
as an escapade, a lived adventure, a wilderness trek.  They were
satisfied veterans -- they'd been through combat and survived to
tell the tale. 

"Remember that warden?  In that park?"

Geordi said, "Remember Memphis?  Playing on that street corner 
for what seemed like weeks. It was so hot."

"And remember the time we stopped at that fast food joint and the
guy came on to Data and Worf chased him away?"

"Remember the Blind Museum?"

"Remember those pasties we ate in London?"

"Remember India?"

"The clothes!"

"The food!"

"The spices!"
  
"Remember that grocery store?  That time we bought that kiwi
fruit?"  Q had cut it into six careful sections, and they'd all
sat around the table to sample it, sober as judges at a
wine-tasting.  No one had quite known what to think or what to
say until Worf muttered that it needed sugar.  Q hadn't known
from a ripe one at the time, though he did now. 

It was odd to sit here and have these little reunions.  Odder
still to sit here without Jean-Luc.  They laughed and laughed
and remembered.

Sometimes they laughed til they cried.


At night, however, Q looked at an empty bed.  It took some
getting used to.  He woke up sometimes, waiting, only to realize
that Jean-Luc was not going to come sliding in beside him.   And
this was how it would be.  For eternity.  

Q alone in the chilled sheets.  The world sounding outside his
door.  A child's delighted shriek.  Men's laughter.  The scolding
voices of women black and white.

Once he prayed, "Bless them Lord."  It seemed years since he'd
last prayed.

So strange.  In the months that led up to Melinda, Q had allowed 
himself to dream of marrying Johnny.  Maybe they could have gone
to Europe or Red China or somewhere and have it done it there. 

But he had watched Jean-Luc become more unhappy as they'd become
more settled.  Melinda's wildness was alluring to Jean-Luc
because it spoke to his own restless nature.  She matched him in
a way Q had never been able to do.   

Q wanted a home and Jean-Luc wanted the road. 

Jean-Luc had felt the burden of all their newfound domesticity --
women, children, established routines -- it was simply not his
style.         

Jean-Luc was a rolling stone.

But Q couldn't shake the conviction that they'd had something
good together.  It felt so right between the two of them.  His
tears overflowed.  He remembered one of the first nights Data was
with them and Data had asked if Q and Jean-Luc were homosexual
lovers and Jean-Luc had said "we certainly are".  How happy Q had
been!   By now he was completely awake, tossing under the
expensive sheets he'd bought because he thought Johnny might like
them.  Had he simply invented a life that never really existed? 
It didn't feel like it, but Q couldn't be sure.  He'd always been
a good one for that, dreaming, imagining, creating whole
universes out of shreds and vague wishes. 

He loved Jean-Luc, and desired him, and wanted desperately to
please him, and he knew that Jean-Luc accepted the offerings he
made in the name of love, and knew them for the adoration they
were meant to convey.  

And Q had always felt that deep down Jean-Luc loved Q. Even that
fortuneteller had said so all those years ago.  But for Jean-Luc,
love was not as important as freedom.  So here Q was, staring
into the darkness, coming to terms with the absurdity of his
desperate longings.  

He wished he didn't feel so alone.  

Geordi was still laughing with Data out on the patio. 

And, downstairs, Chris and Penda had finished taking Will and
Worf to task for whatever transgression they'd committed.  The
house was falling silent.

Q shivered.  Without Jean-Luc, he always became invisible.  He
got out of bed; his heart was racing.  He was invisible now, he
knew it.

He went downstairs.  No one was around; without Jean-Luc,
everything had disappeared. 

He shook his head.  He wouldn't cry, he wouldn't.

There was a light on in the kitchen.

He timidly went to the kitchen and stood in the door.  Will was
in there.  He had on an apron and was mixing something.  

"Shhh," he said and smiled.  "I'm making some Riker's Surprise
brownies for Worf.  For my sweetie."  Then he looked at Q's
flushed distressed face.  "Come over here and give me a hug."

Q did.  Will saw him.  He wasn't completely invisible.  

"Q, we both know it'll take time.  But everything will be all
right."

Q leaned back and looked at Will's big open boy's blue eyes.  He
felt like never speaking again; that was the easiest way to go
through life. But it wasn't fair to Will.  People like Will loved
him.

"I know," he said.

"Why don't you take advantage of this freedom?  Why don't you go
visit your kids?"  

At one time, Q -- and everyone else -- would have been suspicious
of this suggestion from Will.  But they'd spent so much with
Patsy he knew Will's remark was innocent.

He would make a phone call tomorrow.  

*************************

Luckily, Beverly's mother picked up.  "Mrs. Crusher?  It's Q. 
Fine.  Fine.  And you?  Good.  Listen,  I've been thinking. 
I know school starts in a week or two.  Let me come out there and
get them ready for school.   And listen, why don't we talk about
having the boys come out here for Christmas!"

She thought it was a wonderful idea.  She would put them on a 
plane any time he said the word.  

Q said the word and then his heart leapt.  At Christmas he would
get to show his sons all around California.  He hung up the
phone, thrilled at how simple this was.  
       
A day later (he deputized Will to stand in for him if they ran
out of eggs and milk) Q was in Kentucky.  He reveled in the fact
of his sturdy boys, shopping until they were all stuporous, 
loving their delight in his presence even when he wasn't buying
stuff for them.  He went down to Cooter's Hideout with them and
walked along the railroad tracks and showed them the secret cave
where Old Cooter hid his corn liquor.  He proudly pointed out his
old piano teacher's house and the boarded-up store where he used
to work.  To his utter pleasure, his boys would not let go of
him, even for a second, especially the youngest.  Roger had to
wrap his stubby little arms around Diddy's long leg while they
stood in line at the department store, or worm his way into
Diddy's lap when they ate in a restaurant, or demand that he be
allowed to sit in the front seat next to Diddy in the shiny
rental car while the other two sat in back.

His oldest two were almost as bad, crowding in on him, taking any
excuse to be near him.

"I miss you boys, you know that?"

"We miss you too, Diddy."

"Well, you all are coming out to see me, you know.  Did they tell
you?" 

Their eyes were round with amazement.  California was not a real
place if you were a little boy from a Kentucky coal town.  

"When, Diddy, when!"

"Christmas.  You all will just have to wait until then."

No, they protested.  They wanted to go now.  

Q was adamant.  "Do what your Mamma and Nanny and Meemaw tell
you, and I'll see you in December."  He waggled his eyebrows
mysteriously.  "You'll get to fly on a plane by yourselves."


"No way!"  All three looked scared and thrilled in equal measure.

"You think you'd like that?  Come on,"  he was suddenly struck
with a good idea.  Shopping could wait.  "I'll take you to the
airport and show you around."

"Yay!"  They were in the car before he could say, 'Roger go to
the bathroom right now because we're not stopping.'
        
It was so easy to make children happy.  The boys begged him not
to leave.  He bought them a calendar and marked the date that
they would get on the plane to come see him.   

Beverly and her brothers stayed away the whole time he was there. 

*************************

And when he came back to California, he came back home to utter
calm.  No one was angry with him for being gone.  No one was
yelling.  No one was nervous or frightened.  There were no crises
for him to resolve one way or another.  He showed pictures and
everyone gathered around to stare and comment.  He informed them
that his boys would be coming for the holidays.  

Everyone thought that was nice. 

To his surprise, he discovered that he could make an arrangement
with the phone company so that the boys could have a direct line
to him any time they wanted, day or night.  The company would
bill him for the calls.  After that they had long, luxurious,
idle conversations about sheep or monsters or basketball;
anything that came to their minds. The best part was, he didn't
have to look over his shoulder every few minutes to see if he'd
exhausted Jean-Luc's precious store of patience.  He talked to
them all they wanted.  

He didn't want to say it.  He didn't want to think it.  But their
lives were quiet and pleasant now that Jean-Luc wasn't here
anymore. 

*************************

Very-Very Crosis was as good as his word.  

"Now, Q, I know you're very very sad and you're sitting there all
alone and you're brooding and it's just very very Miss Joan
Crawford, am I right?"

"Very-Very, I'm okay.  I really am."

"Then come have lunch.  I want you to meet the Girls."

The Girls were a group of men who were lovers with rich and 
powerful Hollywood mogul types; they met regularly by Very-Very's
pretty little backyard pool.  It was cozy and luxurious, and
Very-Very added to the ambiance with a variety of muscular,
scantily-clad houseboys who brought all the food.

"Ladies, I'd like to introduce a very very good friend.   Q.  Q, 
meet the gang."  Everyone nodded as they ransacked Q with their
eyes. Then everyone smiled all at once.

"These Girls know me from my clone days!" Very-Very said.

Q looked at him.  What were . . .

"Oh, Q, back when I had THAT look.  The tan.  The shirt off. The
very very tight cutoffs. The workboots."

"The blonde hair!" said one of the girls.

"The mustache!" said another.

"Oh, yes, I had that whole Dirk Benedict thing going on.  But
now. . . " Very-Very sighed at time's strange passage.   "Sit
down, Q," he smiled.   "So what we were talking about?"

One of the men picked up where he'd just left off.  "Okay, now,
Bret?   Big fight with Gary because Gary agreed to go to therapy
sessions with his wife.  Again.  To try to 'work things out.' 
Bret hits the roof, and frankly, I don't blame him. Gary likes
sucking cock."

"Don't we all, don't we all," murmured Very-Very.

"Bret points out that Gary knew his wife didn't have a dick when
he married her.  In fact,"  the gossiper leaned in triumphantly,
"Gary was dating Bret when he met Cami.  She knew she was
protective cover from the start.   So tell me what is this
bullshit about counseling?  I mean, face it, sweetheart, your
husband's gay!"  His tone became even more smug.   "So anyway. 
Big fight.  Gary kicks him out.  Bret disappears.  A week goes
by.  Two weeks go by.  I get a call from Gary.  Frantic.  He
hasn't heard from Bret.  Sobsobsob!  Have I heard from him?  I
tell him I'll call when I hear anything.  Gary calls again.  He's
afraid Bret's hurt himself.  He gives me another number.  Call
him any time of the day or night.  Well, by this time, I'm
worried.  Finally Bret calls. I was so pissed I almost hung up. 
Frightening everybody!  I thought he was dead!  I told him
wherever you are, get your ass back here right now.  He says he
can't.  LA holds too many bad memories.  Sobsobsob.  Well.  Miss
Diva can totally get over that because he knew what he was in for
the moment Gary decided that getting married was a good career
move.  Can we say 'grand self-delusion,' on both their parts?  I
think so." 

Mister Gossip drew a deep breath and sat back in his chair,
evidently quite overcome by this recitation.  

Q nodded delightedly.  He remembered Horatio and his circle. 
"This is just like when I was in prison."

"Excuse me?"  From one little bitch. 

"In prison," Q hugged himself and dimpled, "you knew I was in
jail?  Well, I was.  That's where I met Johnny.   Anyway, in
prison all the wives sat together and talked and it was just...
nice.  That's what this reminds me of."

"Well!" said the little bitch to his date.  

"I myself have always had a little prison fantasy going on,"
Very-Very said smoothly.   "Johnny's the one I was telling you
girls about.  Jean-Luc, the new Duke of Fish.  What is his deal,
Q?  Give us the latest scoop!"      

Q shrugged helplessly.  "There's nothing to tell.  Johnny always
did what he wanted."

The storyteller chimed in again.  "See, life is perfect until a
woman gets in the way.  It's just like Bret and Gary."  The
others nodded.  He turned to Q to explain all about their mission
to rescue Bret.   "Gary has all the money.  Bret does not have
DIME ONE to his name.  You know he's tending bar in Cincinnati." 

The other wives' mouths dropped open.  No.

"Yes.  Very-Very and I were on the phone with him for an hour..."

"Two hours!" Very-Very interjected.

"Trying to get him to Come Back.  I offered him my pool house 
and he said he wasn't going to be reduced to living on charity. 
I told him he'd better take what he gets!  Can you imagine?  What
in God's name does he think he's going to do in Cincinnati?"

"Tell him this Gary has a new boyfriend."   Q offered softly. 
"He'll come back.  He won't be able to resist.  Then when he gets
out here, you can help him get back on his feet." 

Very-Very laughed, "Looks like someone has had experience with
this kind of thing."

The other wives glanced at one another.

Q was in.  

*************************

Gay America was incensed at Jean-Luc's treason.  Some gay men
wrote him letters telling him what a low-down dirty dog he was. 
Some of them wrote Melinda and said, "Honey, I don't know if this
is all for show, but I hope for your sake that it is because if
it isn't you're fooling yourself."   Papers editorialized.
Christians didn't know what to think; it was  what they wanted,
but still . . .  Jean-Luc had lost none of his illicit allure.

*************************

A week later, Q read an article about pick-your-own berry farms,
and he decided that Patsy might like a little expedition.  He
over-prepared to a ridiculous extreme, buying a wicker picnic
basket with a lovely gourmet lunch for four, and more small
wicker baskets to put the berries in, and a little cap to keep
the sun out of Patsy's eyes; then he, Will, and the baby rode out
to the charming little pseudo-working farm and picked enough
strawberries to last a lifetime.  

Will loved Patsy's innocent pleasure.  She got berries all over 
her face and her shirt, and they snapped a picture of her in her
pretty disarray.  Worf, Data and Geordi were amazed at the three
big flats of strawberries that scented the kitchen and the TV
room.  That week they had a strawberry orgy, eating and eating
because it seemed impossible that they should ever run out of the
succulent fruit.  By  week's end, when every single strawberry
was gone, they felt bereft.   

They decided to go again.  

In their casual jeans and t-shirts, no one recognized them.  They
caused something of a stir with their seventeen pounds of
strawberries, but they swore they would probably eat them all. 
On the ride back, Worf gently teased Geordi about the way he
sampled each one he picked to see whether it was ripe or not.

"Oh, yeah?"  Geordi shot back with amusement.  "You wait until
the next time you need help buying another banjo.  I'm going to
remember  this."

"We will establish a truce then,"  Worf declared.

The Boys burst into laughter.

Patsy fell asleep.  They munched strawberries in silence, so as
not to wake her.    


Jean-Luc was waiting for them when they got back.   

"Where have you been?" he demanded.  

The calmly cheerful mood evaporated instantly.  The Boys looked 
at one another, frozen in his glare.  The only possible answer,
'We went strawberry picking,' sounded ridiculous in the face of
his annoyance.  

Q told him what they'd done, but he sounded subdued, even a
little afraid.  

"Look what we got."  He showed Jean-Luc their bounty.    

"I see."  Jean-Luc was surprised, and not quite sure what to say. 
"Do you think you picked enough?"

"Taste one," Q flirted.  He held one out to Jean-Luc who rolled
his eyes but took a bite nonetheless.

"Mm." 

"I'll show you what else I can do with a strawberry," Q 
promised, but it sounded wrong.  This day was about being
together as a family.  Sex talk felt awkward and artificial. 
Everyone sensed it and made mumbled excuses as to why they should
put their berries down and leave.
 
Jean-Luc sensed it too, but he didn't know what to make of it so
he ignored it.   

There were no problems here.  The Boys were doing fine. 
  

The rest of that weekend the Boys hovered around that balance
point between the calm of his absence and the tension of his
presence, but no one said anything.  He was Jean-Luc.  Without
him, they had nothing.

"So nothing's changed," Jean-Luc said.  He'd come over early to
have breakfast with them before getting to work again.  He was
curiously cranky this morning, maybe because Melinda was gone
again.

Everyone stared at him.

Then Will coughed.  "Patsy said her first word."

Jean-Luc looked over at Patsy.

"She can say,*Doe-idd.*"

"What does that mean?"  Jean-Luc poured himself another cup of
coffee.

"It's somebody on TV," Will murmured.  His voice faltered a bit. 
Jean-Luc's attention always made him a bit nervous.

"Who?"

"Uh, Floyd.  He's a . . . character on a show."

"He's that big lizard, remember."  Data offered helpfully.

"He's blue."

"He was on the tee shirt Patsy wore yesterday."

Jean-Luc said nothing.
 
*************************

When they were through discussing their plans for their next
video, he drove back to Melinda's.   

Without her, the home was empty, but somehow emptiness was easier
to take than other things.   

Success was a good deal harder for Jean-Luc to deal with than
failure ever could be.  He could handle the hard parts.  Hell, he
was good at it, but, now that he could take it easy, he didn't
trust life enough to shift gears and relax.

The Boys said it.  Melinda said it.  Everything said it.  'This 
is it!  We've arrived!  We've reached Xanadu!  The streets really
are paved with gold!  This is easy street!  Fat city!'  

But how do you act on easy street?  If you're there for the 
first time.

Somehow it was easier with Melinda.  Nothing about her reminded
him of his hardscrabble existence before success had changed his
life.  She was so casual about enjoying every part of her life
that she made him feel casual too.  He watched her.  He did what
she did.  She did not have to call upon strength and grit just to
meet the requirements of her day-to-day life.  She never needed
anger.  In fact, she had no use for it.  Eating, acting, fucking,
shopping, exercising;, she approached everything with a joyous
intensity that was wholly admirable.   Melinda was like light on
water.  But Q was like depths and shadows.  He made everything
difficult, and he always had.

Jean-Luc walked through her house deliberately thinking of it as
home.  He liked it here.

The only thing about Q, though, was that being around him made
Jean-Luc feel horny.  

But Melinda's house was a good place to be if you were horny.   

Aloe's wedding pictures were upstairs; there were also some rude 
outtakes from Melinda's Playboy spread. He sat down and idly
leafed through them.

Melinda always had a good time.

He took off his clothes and put them on a chair.

Aloe had some nice photos of Melinda sucking his dick.  It looked
so big in the photos, sticking out from his lean body.  

Jean-Luc stood up and went into the bathroom.  He wanted a simple
lube like soap.  He looked at himself in the full length mirror
and then he looked just at his hard-on.  He leaned against the
cool tiles and closed his eyes.  Melinda, Q eating Melinda out,
Melinda touching her nipples; he held his balls in his hand.  He
thought of himself lying  down, Q, Melinda, Data, the
delightfully scrawny Tranh, each nipping his dick with their ass,
and he began to come.  

After he came, he looked in the mirror again; there was a red 
place on his forehead where he leaned so intently against the
tiles. 
                                   
Everybody who said Jean-Luc was in fat city was full of
horseshit.  He looked in the mirror.  Well, he knew one cure for
blues.

*************************

"Look at this idea," Q said to him the next morning.  Q looked
beautiful in the morning, his skin always clear and shining. "Why
don't we do a video on the Alaska pipeline?"

"Why there?"

"Well, Jean-Luc, isn't it kind of sexy?  The pipeline I mean."

Jean-Luc looked at Q.  "Why would you say that?"

"It's just so . . . big."

"Ah."


They had a good day at rehearsal.  After supper, Jean-Luc stood
up and said, "Q?"  It sounded like an order. 

"Excuse me," Q murmured to the other Boys; he looked very sober.

Out in the hall, Jean-Luc turned to him.  "Isn't it time you were
in bed?  It's very late."

"Jean-Luc," Q said grimly.

"What is it?" Jean-Luc answered evenly.

"I've been thinking.  Much as I want to, this isn't right."

"What?  What's not right?"

"You know what."

"No, what?  Tell me what's not right."

"I can't do anything with you.  You're married now."

Jean-Luc put his hand on Q's tit.  Sweet. 

Q pushed his hand away.  "No!"

Jean-Luc backed away.

"No," Q said again and moved against the wall, every thing about
his body saying yes.

Jean-Luc's face softened.  "We won't do anything.  I'll respect
your wishes. I just want to make sure you get some sleep
tonight."

"Well, you better."  Q said and lowered his eyes.

They went upstairs to Q's bedroom; Jean-Luc kept his hand on the
small of Q's back.

In the bedroom, Jean-Luc said, "Put your pajamas on, girl."

"Not til you leave."

"I'm already gone.  No, really.  You won't even notice me."

"No.  And that's that."

Jean-Luc sat on Q's bed. 

"No, Jean-Luc!"

"What harm can I do just talking to you?  We used to talk all the
time, Q."

Q just stared yearningly at Jean-Luc.

"Tell you what.  Come downstairs to the living room and we'll sit
and talk."

"Okay."  Q looked relieved.  "Just let me change and I'll be
right down."

Q's new pajamas made Jean-Luc more determined than ever to have
him that night.  They were shiny and silky, and they rippled over
Q's body when he moved.   Jean-Luc felt his breathing go high and
shallow, but he knew exactly what to say.

"Those looks nice.  Where'd you get them?"

All of Q's defenses were lowered.  He blithered on about the
store where he and Will went, and the nice sales lady who got
them XL and XXL sizes, and all the different colors, and did
Johnny want one too because Q could go back and get another one,
it wouldn't be a problem. 

"I might want you to do that.  Let me see how it feels."  He
rubbed his hand up Q's silk-covered thigh. "Does that feel good,
that silk?"

"The silk feels nice and soft, Johnny."


"Mm.  How about there?"  Jean-Luc's hand moved up to cup Q's
penis, rubbing his lover's silk-clad groin. 

"Well that feels really good too, but..."  There was a catch to
Q's voice.  "I don't know if it's a good idea..."

"Q, it won't hurt Melinda if we do this, and it won't hurt you. 
But it will hurt me if we don't.   You'll make me think you don't
care."

"Oh, Johnny, no!"  Q opened his legs wider, trying to show that
he was still Jean-Luc's.  "Of course I care.  It's just that I
don't think this is such a good idea..."

But even as he spoke he let Jean-Luc move closer. 

Jean-Luc began to nuzzle Q's neck.  Q's mouth dropped open a
little and he sat stock still, letting the sensations wash over
him.  

"When it's wet..."

"What?"  Q was having trouble concentrating.

"The silk.  When it's wet what does it feel like?"

"Um... I don't know."

"Time to find out, don't you think?" Jean-Luc found Q's nipple
with pinpoint accuracy through the pajama top.  

Q said nothing, but he was beginning to breathe more heavily.  By
the time his sighs turned into moans, he had his big legs open as
wide as they could be, and the scent of him was killing Jean-Luc. 
 "You're the finest bitch a man ever met," he murmured.

"Thank you, Johnny."  Q tried to change the subject.  "You know I
would never do anything to hurt you, but we don't have to have
sex to prove that I love you.  You know I meant that about us not
... doing anything ... because of you being married now."

"I know you did." Jean-Luc soothed.  "You would never do anything
wrong.  But Q, you've got to let me know that you're still mine."

"Oh, Johnny that's never in question, but..."

"Here," Jean-Luc's voice was husky and soothing.  "Just let me
feel this silk against you, just to find out what it's like."

"Oh... sure..."  

Q did not object when Jean-Luc climbed on top of him, rubbing
their bodies together.  The old sofa was perfect for fucking on,
something Jean-Luc had done many times.   Even Q's long body fit
comfortably.  

"Lie down.  So I can feel the silk," Jean-Luc coaxed.

He pressed his lips to Q's, and in a moment Q kissed back, full Q
kisses, everything in  his body straining towards Jean-Luc.  A
moment later, however, Q stopped, his eyes troubled.  "I just
don't feel right about this."

"Q," Jean-Luc murmured, "we were made for each other.  How could
this not be okay?"   He was thoroughly enjoying this new conquest
of Q, and he would be in Q's ass in the next five minutes or his
name wasn't Jean-Luc Picard.

In actuality it took ten.  Jean-Luc was hard as a rock, but he
wanted to make sure Q was more urgent, more desperate, begging
for it.   He sucked on Q's cock and stuck one finger up Q's
asshole.  Q was writhing, that helpless expression on his face
that Jean-Luc so loved, begging for it in all but words. 

Jean-Luc couldn't help teasing both of them.  He pulled away from
Q, frowning.  "I don't know, Q, maybe you're right.  Maybe we
shouldn't do this."

"If that's how you feel Jean-Luc." Q's voice was shaking.   

"You know damned well that's not how I feel.  Upstairs with you,
and on the bed."


They were upstairs in seconds flat and Q was naked and on the bed
with his ass up in the air and his knees as wide apart as they
could go, and Jean-Luc was in him, groaning at the feel of Q's
tight ass around him, groaning at the feel of Q's surging body
and the sound of his begging voice.

Let the bitch beg.  Jean-Luc fucked his lover for a long time,
knocking his hand away when Q reached underneath his body.  "You
... wait ... for me ... motherfucker.  You wait ... until I say
... you can."  He pulled out and turned Q over on his back. 

Jesus, he loved pussy.

He pulled those long legs over his shoulders and dived between
them.   


Q gave it up, fucking back with frenzied vigor, working his ass
around Jean-Luc's dick, making sure Jean-Luc would not forget
this night for a long time. 

"Goddamn, girl!"  Jean-Luc was sweating, pumping his hips like a
madman.  "You're about to kill me!" 

Even after he came and collapsed across the bed, Jean-Luc did not
stop playing with Q: "See, Q, I told you we were made for each
other."

"I know, Johnny."  Q was glad Jean-Luc had fucked him, but he
still had to know one thing.  "Did you really feel like I stopped
caring for you or did you just say that so I'd shut up and let
you fuck me?"

"What do you think?"

"I feel like the baby sitter you seduced when you drove her
home." 

"Oh fuck," Jean-Luc groaned and pulled Q's legs up, instantly
ready for round two.  In no time he was back inside Q's round
wet ass, his perfect ass, moving back and forth and back and
forth.   

Q was completely into it, moving against him and groaning and
sighing, enjoying himself completely.   

Jean-Luc was getting jolts to his heart like something  electric. 
 "Oh, fuck fuck fuck fuck," and Q was wet against him, he could
feel Q's wet heart beating and he himself had only to be a little
harder on Q and he would come.  He thought of that babysitter and
fucking her in the backseat of the car and Q was the unwitting
baby-sitter that he could still fool into thinking that they
hadn't gone too far and he began to drive into Q and Q screamed

softly and  then Jean-Luc was over, triumphant once again.  "See,
that wasn't bad."

"You're so awful."

Jean-Luc smiled at him.  "Now that you've learned that, when I
drive you home next time, I'll show you how to kiss it and all
the boys will love that." 

Then he fell asleep.

Q held him; it took forever for Q to fall asleep because he was
so aroused.  

And, when he awoke the next morning, he was even more aroused.

He stood up.

"Where are you going?" Jean-Luc was instantly awake.

"Nowhere," Q murmured.  Jean-Luc could see what was going on with
him.

They looked at each other for a moment.

"Jean-Luc, you said last night you'd teach me how to kiss it."

Jean-Luc's cock jolted into life. "And so I will."
        
If loving Jean-Luc was wrong, then Q didn't want to be right.
          
     
*************************
     
Kira met them to discuss the Alaska video shoot.  She was thinner
and paler than before.  And sharper tongued, too. 

"Where's Bareil?" Q asked. He liked couples.

"And Modyed?" Will added.


"Modyed is home with some of the guys, but Bareil's been sick
since we got back from Hawaii.  He's undergoing tests.  He
doesn't know why he feels the way he does."

She lowered her head and looked up at them.

Q felt a shiver go down his spine.

"How's married life treating you, Jean-Luc?" she said in a hard
tone.  

"I like it fine," he said smoothly.

"Yes, I figured it would harder on Jadzia than it would on you."

"Indeed," Jean-Luc said.

Kira didn't say anything else about Bareil, but Q couldn't let it
go.  He called Bareil.  

His friend's smile was audible through the phone.  He was really
pleased to hear from Q.   "No," he answered Q's inquiry, no one
knew what it was yet.  They were still running tests.   He
sounded very tired.  Q let him go after a few minutes.  

*************************
     
"Baby, when are you coming back?"  Jean-Luc was alone again at
her house.

"Boy, I'm so hot for you."

"We've got to talk."       

She heard something in his voice and was instantly concerned.  
"What is it?"

"Just something nice.  Something Daddy wants."



She flew back to Hollywood the next day.  Jean-Luc was in the
kitchen washing his few dishes (he hated to depend on the maid
for something simple like that) when she pulled in the 
drive-way. 

She came in the kitchen and saw him.  Her blue eyes couldn't get
enough of him.  He was barefoot, wearing only jeans.  "You got
the look," she said.  "I'm next."  She took off her shirt.  Now
she was standing there by the door wearing only her cutoffs, a
scarf, a pair of expensive ankle-length high-heeled boots.  Then
she unzipped her cutoffs all the way, so he could see her tattoo. 
 

Melinda was supernaturally sexy.  She walked back and forth in
the kitchen.  "Don't scare me like this, Boy.  What do you want
to talk about?"         

"Daddy wants pussy."

"Please, Jean-Luc, what is it?"

Jean-Luc looked away.  "I was thinking we might build us a home
somewhere."

Melinda looked him in the eye.

"It means that much to you?"  She smiled at his sober expression. 
"Then that's what we'll do."

*************************
        
He was driving her like the engine of a freight train.  


Melinda felt she had never been anywhere else, had never done
anything else, never wanted to do anything else; she could feel
him again and again and when she opened her eyes it was the sun
and then when she opened them again it would be the moon.  "How'd
you get so good, Daddy?"

"Daddy's worked on this his whole life." 

She was pinioned by his relentless hips -- the smells of the
pines and the laurels circulating around her.  The cool scents
all around the sharp-edged piney ground where she lay.  

She felt small pieces of gravel, twigs digging into her, as if he
would grind her back to the soil.  If she kissed him, the grains
of the earth would be left in her mouth.  There were roarings in
her ear; she was full of him, full of his breath and cock and he
took one of his big animal hands and put two fingers in her
asshole and then she shivered around his fingers and came and
something in that caused something in him and he came as well,
groaning, rearing back.

She felt his wetness between her legs and pressed herself to him,
in love, in need.

"Now we really own this," she whispered.

"I claimed it and paid for it, baby.  Two hundred and forty acres
of the best land in middle Tennessee.  The richest land this side
of the Valley Nile.  It's ours."  He sat up.  "Are you okay?"

"Of course."

His severe face turned gentle. "You see why I like this."

"Those magic mountains," she said and pointed.  He moved so that
they were sitting together; she sat with her legs far apart. He
loved it when she sat like that, exposed, scented, waiting.

"It will work.  We're twenty minutes down the road from the
interstate, another fifteen to an international airport.  It
would be worse in L.A.   And Tennessee's cleaner and safer."  

"Not that we care.  Sex sailors like us love danger and dirt."

He kissed the side of her wide brilliant smile.  "How long can
you stay?"

"Five days.  Then I've got to shoot some publicity photos.  We're
about three months from releasing it."


"Is this the prison one or the sex-pharoahs-of-the-moon one?"

"You mean is it the one where I french-kiss the girl or the one
where I french-kiss the alien?"  She smiled.  "*Hard Time*.  The
prison one.  They've contacted Q for a title song, you know." 

"Ah."

"That was Tommy's doing."

"Ah."  There was a pause.  Then he said: "I'm paying this
Nashville architect a big assload of money.  He's coming out
tomorrow.  Let's tell him what we want."

"What do you want, Boy?"

"I . . . " Jean-Luc suddenly found it impossible to speak.    At
her house, he was at her house, and, when he went to his old
house, it wasn't his anymore.  He had to have his own home.  "I
can tell you the truth now;  I hated Hawaii.  Fucking island the
size of a gnat's ass.  Give me a break.  There was nowhere to go. 
Nowhere to drive.  No way out.  I hated that place.  They're
lucky I didn't bomb Pearl Harbor."

"Boy!"

The truth was that he had to see mountains to live.  He had to
see them to breathe.  A mountain meant there was somewhere else
to go.  Himself going forth in the blue mist towards the
ever-receding peaks. "I do know I'm telling the architect I want
the master bedroom to open onto a stone balcony.  The pool will
be under that." 

"Who's going to take care of this chateau Picard, Boy?"

"We'll find somebody."

************************** 

Q was gentle, even through his own heartbreak.

"Jean-Luc, he was too far gone to operate on."

Jean-Luc's jaw went stiff.  "We were just getting ready to come
out there."

"The funeral's the day after tomorrow.  Their . . . faith group
has some things to do first."

"Thanks, Q."

There was a silence the exact same length of time it would take Q
to say "I love you Jean-Luc."  And then Q said, "I'll talk
to you later." 


All the Boys were heartbroken.  

Bariel had died of brain cancer. 

Just like that.  

Q asked what he could do to help.  He'd washed Horatio's body. 
He wasn't afraid to do what was needed.

Kira sounded subdued.  "Bareil loved your music.  Write a song, 
something he'd like."
     
Q had to wake up early to herd everyone through the purchase of
decent black suits.  Will, especially, had been hit quite hard by
the news; he took care of Patsy by rote, and, even though she was
at the stage where she preferred running around to sitting still,
he kept her on his lap until she started to fret.  Finally Worf
took her from Will and sent him and Q off to find an off-the-rack
black suit from a big-and-tall men's store.  After Will had been
taken care of, Q still had to shop for a nice dress for Patsy and
a suit for himself.  He and Worf went out in the evening, bought
clothes, and came back late.  

Then Q sat up all night despairing.  He was so tired by now that
he could feel himself getting hyperactive.  Jean-Luc would have
grabbed him by the jaw and demanded that he calm himself
instantly, or else.  But Jean-Luc wasn't here now, so Q sat on
the floor of his music room and wrote and rubbed his eyes and
wrote.  Finally, at six in the morning he put his pen down.  'I
mean every last word,' he promised his absent friend.

The funeral was strange.  Bareil had been a priest, so he
received the elaborate ritual due a person of his stature.  There
were many solemn men and women in long, dark robes.  The
purification of the body had taken place the day before, but
there was still the work of purifying the room where the services
would be held, and, after that, there was the purification of the
mourners.  It consisted of a lot of sitting around and waiting
while priests chanted and waved incense in the air.  It was warm,
and Q began to feel sleepy as he sat and waited, his frantic
activity finally catching up to him.  He dozed a bit, drifting in
and out of dreams where Jean-Luc and Bareil told him important
things that he couldn't remember.  

Finally the guests were allowed to file in.  A smiling, courteous
acolyte explained the ritual in which they were to partake.  The
priests and priestesses made a big point of ritually cleansing
the mourners because during the ceremony they would be opening
the vortex through which Bareil's soul would travel.  If the soul
of Bareil came from a pure place, he would be permitted to go to
the highest possible plane of existence.

The Boys nodded patiently: whatever it took.  

Inside the blessed building, cacophony reigned.  The Boys went
straight to Kira.  She had Modyed on her lap. The look on Kira's
stoic face was the universal mask of grief, but Modyed was too
little to understand.  She could tell it was a solemn, serious
occasion, but that didn't stop her from clapping her hands when
she recognized Will. 

Will handed Patsy to Worf and took Modyed from her mother's arms. 
Kira smiled at him gratefully. Then the Boys took both little
girls with them as they huddled together in their seats.  Modyed
was good and quiet.  She had on a pretty black dress which she
and Will soberly discussed it until Patsy got jealous (a
first!)and began to fuss until the Boys played musical toddlers. 
Q was nervous.  The droning prayers had an odd effect on him, and
fatigue was making him stupid.  One of the priests came over and
pointed to his printed name and then to the dais.  He was next. 
He followed the priest up to the front of the room where all the
other priests looked at him politely.  This was certainly an
interesting twist, their expressions seemed to say.  Q wondered
if he should say something.  He was almost apologetic as he
explained briefly that Kira had asked him for a song as a kind of
going-away present for Bareil. 

Then Q began to sing, and, just as he started, an intrusive burst
of sunshine threw off his concentration.  Latecomers had come in. 


Q blinked.  Maybe it was going to be just as the priests said. 
The light would come in, and  everything would be alright.  He
had lost his concentration a bit, but he kept on singing until he
stopped and went back to his seat.  He couldn't tell what kind of
job he'd done.  He hoped he'd sounded okay.  

**************************************
                                                        
Jean-Luc and Melinda got there late.  The last time Jean-Luc had
been to a funeral he'd had to wear prison-issue clothing. This
time he wanted to look respectable, so he stopped on the way from
the airport and spent an hour buying formal clothes and having
them hemmed right there on the spot.  Melinda was most agreeable,
assuring him it was better to look nice and show up late rather
than vice versa.  She was wearing a lovely black hat with netting
over her face, partially obscuring her lovely features in a way
served to take his mind off Bariel because the way she looked
drove him crazy.  

And when they got there, well, wouldn't you know, they walked in
just in time for Q to start singing.  

Jean-Luc felt a deep, wide empty space open up inside.  He wanted
to reach for Melinda's hand, but he wasn't sure exactly why he
wanted to hold on to her, so he kept himself still.  Q's song,
dammit, was sappy and miserable, but there was nothing to do but
bear it to the end.  He tried to distance himself by listening
with a professional ear.  

Q was singing a capella, so every syllable was clear as a bell,
and it wormed its way inside him.  It was a sure crowd pleaser,
especially under the circumstances.



     Beyond the edge of heaven  
     our friend is wandering now complete -  
     I know he'll find in starry reaches 
     the true peace that wisdom teaches.

     We know our journey never ends 
     Our strange trek will go on forever. 
     But tell him while he travels the sky 
     to remember, remember me. 

Jean-Luc could see Geordi nodding as Q sang.  He crossed his
arms.

After the service was over, each mourner was permitted to file
past the coffin one last time.  Since Bareil would be cremated, 
the mourners went straight to the group's compound for the
reception.

A young woman in their distinctive robes stood by the coffin with
a basket of flowers. "White rose petals," Melinda whispered. 
"The symbol of their Goddess of purity."

Jean-Luc nodded absently; the Boys were in the line up ahead of
him.  Data gently guided Geordi's hand into the bowl of flower
petals and led him to the coffin.  Their heads were very close as
Data whispered to him.  Then Worf took a handful of flowers and
then bent over so that little Modyed could take some in her tiny
fist.  He nodded at her when she looked to him for approval after
tossing her flowers over her father's body.  Will was moving like
an automaton, and Jean-Luc was annoyed    weak as water.

And then somehow after all the religious people had pulled
Melinda and Jean-Luc this way and that to offer condolences and
refreshments, they found themselves face to face with the Boys.  
Jean-Luc had meant not to spend a lot of time with them, but 
there they were.

Will stood up.  "Q, would you come help me with the diaper bag?"

Q rose at once.  His smile was kind.  "Please, have my seat,
Melinda."

He smiled at Jean-Luc, quite warmly, but then he and Will
disappeared.

Data turned his pale eyes towards Melinda.  "You seem quite
familiar with the rites," he observed and then clarified his
remark by stating that he'd heard her voice quite clearly during
the anthems.  

"I've been coming to these services with Kira for a long time
now," Melinda answered.

And they settled in for a long dignified conversation.

**********

The funeral finally ended.  Kira thanked Q for his song.

"Don't worry about the pipeline shoot.  We'll do something else. 
We really want you to direct it so we'll just put it on hold
til you contact us," he told Kira.      

"Do you want me to come stay with you?" Melinda asked Kira.

Jean-Luc wanted to say, 'hell no, you aren't staying with her," 
but naturally he said no such thing.    Q was standing to the
side, waiting for him to say something.  There was awkwardness
again.  What was the protocol for pretending to ignore your
ex-lover's soulful eyes while your wife was offering condolences
to one of her closest friends?  Damned if he knew.  He sighed.  
"See you in the studio, Q."

"See you, Jean-Luc."  The Boys all made little shuffling
departure gestures, but Melinda wasn't quite finished with them
yet.  

"I wanted to ask you," she smiled at Q.  "That song you sang.  It
was beautiful.  Would it be too vulgar and crass and Hollywood to
ask you if I could have it for my prison movie?"  

Q smiled a little  "I was going to make a gift of it to Kira. 
Let her decide."

Melinda beamed at Q's generosity.  The other Boys smiled.  Even
Jean-Luc was impressed with Q's gracious behavior.
 
On the ride home, Geordi asked, "Data?  Am I dressed in black?"

*************************

People magazine decided to do something different when it
presented its latest edition of the 50 Most Beautiful People.  To
attract fans and collectors, they would print three different
covers of the same edition. The editors were also quite aware

that a good number of people would buy all three versions.  
There was the cover with Jean-Luc, his beauty as pared down as a
pyramid and just as elegant, and the one with Q, wide eyed and
open mouthed (he looked like a feverish angel), and the one with
Worf. 

Worf was smiling!  That version flew off the stands.

Controversy spread.  Worf never smiled.  It was manipulated, a
computer-generated image.  The photographer vowed it was real; he
submitted the negative to his editor as proof.  Experts said you
could make a negative of anything these days.

Data, Will, and Geordi had featured photos as some of the other
50 Most Beautiful on the inside.   They were very nice photos.

(In the studio, after he had done posing, Geordi was waiting for
the others to finish up, and he had idly asked the photographer
what it meant to be one of the 50 Most Beautiful.  That was when
the photographer was able to snap the smiling photograph of
Worf.) 

Melinda was also a Most Beautiful.  This was her third time.

Quark was crowing.  He said, "All my clients are the Most
Beautiful.  Next year they'll have to publish my picture."  He
glanced quickly at Melinda to make sure she saw it was a joke. 
She gave him a beautiful witty one-sided smile. 

*************************

Very-Very's crowd were very helpful.  They told Q to run out and
get Childcraft Encylopedia for Will.  "Read that girl baby to
sleep, I'm a witness," they said and so he did. 

Will started reading to her too.  "I didn't know that about
electricity!" he would come down and tell Q.  Or he would say,
"Wow, did you know the invertebrate story? " 

Q saw he had a lot of work to do.  Very soon Patsy had a library,
the only one in the house.  Senora Palomas complained that all
she did anymore was pick up books because Patsy dragged her books
all over the house.  She learned a poem and drove everyone crazy
with it.

          'Darling Dollicky Dillicky Dina, 
          Niece, they say, to the Empress of China.'  
     
She couldn't really say all the words, but she could imitate the
rhythm, and she would pick up a book, find a lap, and insist on
hearing that same bit of rhyme.  Every time. "Patsy," Upenda
tried to teach her that every book did not contain the same poem.
"The poems are upstairs.  Upstairs.  This is the wrong book." 

"Pen."  Christine was by far the more practical of the two. 
"Give her something else to do.  If you don't distract her, she's
never going to stop asking for that damned poem.  Patsy, sweetie,
look at this nice transducer."

Will, coming in with another bag of groceries, leaned over
Christine's busy hands to peek at whatever she was offering
Patsy.  "Forget it," he said, making a face, "just say the poem."

They all sighed and started in.   "Darling Dollicky Dillicky
Dina "

Patsy squealed and clapped her hands.  She loved that part.

"Maybe a dictionary would increase her word power," he told Q.  

"Patsy can't read yet."

"But when she can, she might need one."

Q looked at him and said nothing.  He took Will to a gigantic
bookstore the girls had recommended and let him look around. 
Giant alphabets on the wall!  Huge Poohs and Tiggers!  A
monstrous Floyd statue!  Will's eyes were wide.  Then Q saw his
face grew pink.  

So this was a childhood.

Q pointed to the sign that offered storytelling hour in the
children's section every Tuesday.   "Should we buy more
bookshelves?" he asked drily.

"Lots more," Will answered.

Fair enough.  Q was rich.  Stocks, bonds, mutual funds,
investments.  He often thought of the bars where he'd sucked cock
in order to keep the band alive and cooking, and then he would
look at his investment portfolio with a sense of wonder.  How had
he gotten from there to here?  And if a nobody like him could do
it, why hadn't everyone  done it?  Was he just lucky?  Was it
Johnny's doing?  He thought about all the people who were exactly
like he was and he thought about how he must have had a lot of
lucky breaks on the way from there to here.  He wondered if it
was possible to help people, give them things they needed.  He
was already doing this with his sons, but he started making lists
of other people he could help.  

Prisoners.  Prostitutes.  If he could, why couldn't they? 

*************************

At the breakfast table, Data waved a piece of paper.  "Look, I
have a fan club!" 

Everyone smiled. 

"It's girls who meet and talk about me.  You will not imagine how
this happened."   The previous year he'd answered a letter from a
young lady who told him that Data and calculus were her two
biggest interests in life.   She'd poured her heart out to him,
explaining how her math teacher ignored her when she raised her
hand and only called on the boys.  Data had, naturally,
encouraged her to pursue her study of higher mathematics and she
had, forming a girl's math club that met after school. "And they
keep the letter I sent her in a special folder.  I found myself
quite moved by this."

The other Boys nodded.  By now they'd all gotten letters that
told them how much they'd touched lives.

"At any rate, she has now written to tell what has transpired.  I
believe I shall ask her if I can visit.  Do you think this would
be appropriate?" 

"Data!"  This from all sides.  "Of course it would be
appropriate.  It's something she'll remember the rest of her
life!"

Data had that half-hopeful, half-bashful, disbelieving little
smile he sometimes wore when he figured out a social interaction
correctly.  "Then I shall do so."

"Definitely.  You should get you some of that math stuff,  dude,"
Will said, smiling.  "Hot integer action."  He'd been up all
night reading Childcraft again.

The day Data went to meet his club everyone waited impatiently
until he came back.  When he finally walked in the door, Geordi
was grinning almost as broadly as Data himself.  

"So, how'd it go?  Tell us," Q had trouble imagining an all-Data
math fan club.  

"It was pleasant.  They were quite surprised to learn that I
enjoyed the study of mathematics as much as they themselves did. 
And guess what?  Of their own volition they have come up with an
idea for tutoring those people like themselves who find
themselves somewhat . . . "  Data seemed to have trouble
understanding this part, ". . . intimidated by regular
instructional surroundings.  They propose to meet in one of the
local libraries on Saturdays and offer math help to any child who
might  need it.  I told them I believed it is a most generous
proposition, and worthy of support."

Will sighed, impatient for him to get to the good part.  "Were
they hot?"

Data tilted his head, thinking.  "Not particularly," he
concluded.


The tutoring was a big success.   The school sponsor said it was
good that so many women came.  They would make good role models. 

"Did you know there is a fundamental disparity between the
treatment of females versus males in the sciences?" Data reported
at breakfast one morning.

Will hugged Patsy close.  He would look up the word disparity
because he wasn't sure what it meant, but it didn't sound like
something he wanted for his Patsy.   "What are you going to do
about it, Data?"

Data opened his mouth to answer and paused, slackjawed and
uncertain.  "I am not certain," he replied.   

*************************

Very-Very loved having Q around.  He invited Q to the Girls' 
meetings at Strega, the important nouvelle Italian restaurant. 

"You can't eat here unless you're very very famous,"  he
whispered to Q as they walked in.  

The Girls had a good table; they could see everyone as they came
in and as they left.  

Q sat with them.  He knew better than to say "Look! There's a
famous movie star!" but that's what he felt.

Many people came over and air-kissed various Girls; all of them
were shiny-eyed at meeting Q.

He was talking to the waitress, a harried-looking redhead (his
heart had gone out to her; she was working hard), when he heard a
voice.

"I'm sitting here."

Everyone turned; then Very-Very said,  "Q, this is the very very
notorious Casey Spevin.  He's been dying to meet you."

"Thanks, Very-Very.  For making me sound like Charles Manson." 
Casey Spevin had an amusing drawl.  He was always twiddling with
the ends of his fingers.  "I just wanted to sit here so I
wouldn't  have to wait for a table."

Q was very quiet; he wanted to watch and learn this new world. 
But he nodded at Casey Spevin whose bright hard brown eyes rarely
left off looking at Q.

The waitress brought the tray full of lovely creations.  

Casey and Q were the only ones who actually ate any of theirs.  
The other girls, Hollywood-style, only picked at this and that,
opting to gossip rather than actually dine. 

When the waitress came to pick up their still-full plates, Q was
surprised and a little disturbed that all that food was going
to waste.  "If you all were my sons,  I wouldn't let you up from
the table until you finished your plates."

"A very very butch remark, Q," smiled Very-Very.

"Please.  I wish I were butch," Q smiled back,   "I'd get more
done that way."

Casey leaned in and teased him, "Yeah, you'd shop until four 
instead of two." 

Q had a charming blush.  "I suppose.  What I really meant was,"
he lowered his head and then turned his eyes at Casey (Casey
breathed in),  "I'm doing my first album by myself and nobody
believes that when I shut the door to the music room I really am
working.  So my roommates are running in and out all day and I
can't get a thing done." 

Casey pursed his lips.  "You're a musician?"

"Q's one of the Magic Mountain Boys," one of the Girls chimed in. 
"The famous bluegrass singers?"

Comprehension dawned on Casey's face.  "Oh, really?  Isn't that 
interesting.  That new cowboy movie has a bluegrass soundtrack on
it."

"Yes, sir.  I'm doing it with my song-writing partner, Geordi 
laForge."

"If you call me 'sir' anymore, I'm going to have to say something
rude."

Q blushed.  "What do you want me to call you?"

Casey lifted his eyebrows, "I can think of a few things, but, for
now, let's start with Casey."  His lips were parted in a slightly
avaricious way.

The other Girls around the table exchanged significant glances. 
 
The minute Q arrived  home from lunch, he got a call from one of 
the girls, the one named Timmy.  Timmy Trent.   Q thought Timmy
might be a dancer.  He was small and lithe and wore elaborate
earrings.  

"You've made a conquest.  Casey is nuts about you."

"You really think so?" 

"I KNOW so.  He's already asked Very-Very if Very-Very thinks
you'd say yes if he asked you out on a date."

"Well, I don't know, Timmy.  I've never really dated anybody. 
I'm not sure I'd know what to do."  Q was secretly excited;  
he'd never had an ordinary phone conversation with another girl.  

"What do you mean you've never dated?"

"I've never been on a date."

"Q, you're forty-one years old."

"I know, it's complicated, but I've never been on a date.  I
mean, not like you're talking about with dinner and a movie or
dancing.  I've read about them."

"Q.  I don't believe you."

Q had a sudden daring idea.  Without Johnny, he was facing a 
vast desert of weekends.  Even the other Boys were still in
devoted couples.  "Hey, Timmy, take me on a date."

"Are you asking me out?" Timmy said.

"No.  I'm asking you to take me out.  As a favor.  To a friend. 
I mean it.  I've never been on a date and I want to go.  But I
can't go with a  total stranger.  I'd be too nervous.  So you can
take me.  I'll get all sorts of experience."  

On the other end of the line, Timmy's mouth fell open and then he
felt his face get warm.  Q  had a  gift of paring down the
universe until it included just the two of you. He'd get his
dancing shoes and jump at this chance.  "Fine, I'll teach you
what it's like.  Let me hang up and I'll call you right back and
ask you out."

And so Timmy did. 

He was unexpectedly touched at how thrilled Q sounded. 

They agreed to go out that Friday.

*************************

Q was not the only one who was making interesting new friends. 
An extremely attractive woman was joining Data's weekend math
tutoring program.  She was blond and Slavic-sounding and she said
her name was Sela.

*************************
 
I have a date, Q said to himself.  

He wanted to tell Johnny, but that would be a big mistake, so
instead he told Will.

"Like a real date?"  Will was as excited as he was.  He had never
had a date either.  

Q nodded.  "A real date.  He's actually coming here to pick me 
up."
 
"All right, what is going on?" Worf said.

Will couldn't contain himself.  "Q is going on a date!"

"It's true!"  Q confessed.  "I have a date."  He was pulling and
twisting his hands as he always did when he was nervous, but he
looked and sounded so excited that the other Boys smiled along 
with him.  

Worf, now the head of the household, didn't quite know how to
respond.   He resorted to teasing a bit.  "I want to meet this
person.  Before I let him take you out." 

Q took him very seriously.  "Oh, yes.  I'll introduce him."
 

Timmy won everyone over by being impressed to the point of envy
with Q's family.  He oohed and ahhed at everything before driving
off with the flushed and radiant Q.

*************************

The following morning, after Q left her apartment, Timmy called
the other Girls.  They wouldn't believe this guy's fabulous
house.  They wouldn't believe his outrageous hillbilly family. Or
the cozy nesting ground that was their home.  One pair of
roommates even had a baby!

And was Q hot!  Hotter even than they all had conjectured.   
(Timmy was leaping with delight because she was the first one of
them to get Q, and did Q ever have it going on.  He was totally
luscious and juicy.  Timmy had even gotten Q to agree to go out
the following  Friday.  My oh my.)
 

Will and Q also talked about the date all day long.  The movie
Timmy took Q to!  Then the swanky restaurant!  Then the dance
club!  "He spent a fortune," Q whispered.  

"Oh," Will breathed out.  

Then the doorbell rang.  They looked at each other.  Visitors
couldn't get there with a password.



Will went to the door.  

"Hallo," said the beautiful blonde woman, "I am called Sela.  I
am here to see Data."

Data took Sela into the study and closed the door.

"When did everybody start getting so straight?" Will said to Q.

"You started it, breeder," Q said teasingly.

"Bitch," Will replied and they both laughed.

Data was not there at supper.  No one said anything until Geordi
opened the subject up.

"What do you make of that Sela?"

"We have no clue."

"Data told me she said she was familiar with his father's work. 
What do you suppose is going on?" 

*************************

Data was very preoccupied for several days.  Then he seemed to
brighten up a bit.  

"Can I bring someone over for lunch?"

"Sela?" asked Q cautiously.

Data was quiet.  Then: "I believe Sela has gone back to St.
Petersburg.  This is someone else.  He started coming to the math
club after Sela did."  


Rhemuel was a retired government worker and was using some of his
spare time to volunteer with the math club.  

He was an interesting-looking man -- tall as Q but more slender,
tall as Worf, but not so well built, and just slightly swarthy,
with gray-flecked hair and calm brown eyes.  A lined and chiseled
face.  He had an odd little haircut and very handsome strong
features.

He followed Data onto the patio, slowly and deliberately nodding
as Data pointed around the table and named the members of
his family.

The man lowered his head in greeting.  

"I am Spock," he said. "Dr. Rhemuel Spock.  How do you do?"

*************************
 
Rhemuel Spock came over a second time, and then a third.  Data 
was particularly glad that Geordi and Rhemuel enjoyed each
others' company.  In fact, Rhemuel spent most of his time talking
with Geordi.  They both loved music, and, if his conversation was
any guide, Rhemuel was quite a skilled musician.  

Data was delighted.  "Perhaps we can all play together," he
suggested.

"A splendid suggestion," Spock agreed.  "Though I am not
particularly versed in the Appalachian style."

"That's okay," Geordi answered.  "In fact that's great!"

Spock brought his harp the next time, and he, Geordi, and Data
shut themselves in the studio and started to jam.  After ten
minutes, Geordi turned on the tape so that he could record what
they were doing.  

"Have you ever played the tampura?" He asked.  

"Never."  Spock sounded slightly surprised.  "Why?"

"Amazing," was all Geordi said.         


It all became very nicely domestic.  Q and Timmy went out three
or four times a week, Will and Worf had Patsy, and Geordi and
Data spent time with Rhemuel.  

Data, Geordi and Rhemuel played together, and, when they weren't
playing they had long, rambling conversations about mathematics,
politics, literature, anything that came to mind.  He was
extraordinarily well-versed on a multitude of topics. 
Surprisingly, he also knew a great deal about acoustics.   

"You should meet Chris and Pen," Data suggested.  "They are quite
adept at acoustical design and engineering."

"Chris... and Pen?"  Rhemuel stared at Data very intently.  "How
do you know them?"
 
"They live here,"  Data answered in mild surprise.  "I take it
you know them as well?"

"We may not be talking about the same two people," Rhemuel
answered faintly.

"It seems quite possible that we are discussing the same
individuals,"  Data replied.  "I find it highly unlikely that two
sets of acoustical engineers with the same names could exist in a
confined geographic area without causing a great deal of
confusion.  Can you describe the two people you referred to?"

Rhemuel's expression became chillingly calculating for a moment;
then his usual calm demeanor returned.  "Tall and short," he
finally answered.  "White and black, reserved and outgoing. 
Female."

Data and Geordi were nodding.  "That's them," Geordi affirmed. 
"Where do you know them from?"

"We worked together once."  Rhemuel smiled.  "It would be ...
nice ... to see them again." 

"They are at swimming lessons with Patsy.  They will be back
soon.  Would you like to wait?"
        

Less than an hour later Christine and Penda walked into the
kitchen and reacted just like Spock did -- freezing in alarm when
they saw his face.  Only when the slightly-neglected Patsy began
to wail piteously did they snap out of it.

Rhemuel's eyebrow shot up when they turned to their little charge
and calmed her down. "I admit to being somewhat surprised to
discover your presence here," he said when peace was restored. 

"Do you find this inconvenient?" Upenda said cautiously, her
black eyes blazing. 

"Nothing of the sort," Rhemuel answered.  

Data observed that Upenda and Christine seemed relieved to hear
Rhemuel say this.  Both women smiled and Upenda rushed forward to
wrap Rhemuel in an exuberant embrace.    Rhemuel bent down and
hugged her back.  Then he and Christine gave each other wary but
respectful nods.  

"I happened to remark to Rhemuel about the extensive collection
of acoustical surveillance equipment you possess."

"Uh... Data?  It would probably be a good idea if you didn't talk
about that very much."  Christine said. 

"I do not believe that will be a problem.  Most people don't know
such things exist, much less the wide array of applications for
which they can be utilized.  However, why don't you permit me to
demonstrate your collection to Rhemuel?"

But all three said they did not have the time just then.  

*************************

"Geordi?"  They were in bed.  "Did it seem to you that they were
talking in some kind of code this afternoon?"

"Exactly, Data.  I think they must have been spies together or
something."

"I agree.  Geordi?"

"Yes?"

"I would like to have sex with Rhemuel."

Geordi rolled over and reached for Data's face.  "I don't mind,
Data.  Truly I don't. Rhemuel seems like a very nice person." 

"Yes, but..."

"But what?"  Geordi wanted to go to sleep, but Data's concerns
were worth staying up for.

"I would like for the three of us to be together."

Geordi smiled.  "I love you, Data."

"I know.  Why do you say that now?"

"You don't have to be generous about this."

"I love you too, Geordi.  And I am not being generous.  That is
something I truly desire." 

"Mm.  Well, if Rhemuel says yes, we'll do it."

"Good.  Good night, Geordi."

"Good night, Data."
        
*************************

Rhemuel Spock suspected that Data and Geordi's family found him
somewhat weird. He was used to that reaction; he even relished it
sometimes, and he'd long since learned how to use it to his
advantage.  What he found difficult to get used to was the way
this odd, cobbled-together family had taken him in so openly and
so utterly without suspicion.  The organization for which he
sometimes freelanced kept a casual eye on the son of Noonian
Soong.  It had been Sela's introducing herself into the situation
that forced Spock to step out of the shadows.  Now that she had
been sent back -- sans Data -- to her unstable nation, Spock
could breathe more easily.  And he was relieved to be able to
report that the young man was just what he seemed -- a musician
with a taste for mathematics.  It would have disturbed him
profoundly if his employers had resorted to their dire invasive
reconnaissance techniques on the mere suspicion that the son was
as unpredictable as the father.  

Because the son of Noonian Soong had a new family.  Unlike
Noonian, they were simple folk; hardworking, kindhearted,
generous to a fault.  They even accommodated Spock's
vegetarianism, learning how to prepare meals he didn't have to
pick through.  They hadn't acted martyred or exasperated, but had
happily done what was necessary to make him feel comfortable in
their home.  It was the kind of people they were.

Granted, Rhemuel had been profoundly shocked to discover that one
of them was a murderer and one of them had been a drug dealer. 
He'd been even more shocked to discover that two of his old
associates lived here among them, but, at the same time, he felt
oddly reassured.  Pen and Chris would never associate themselves
with people of questionable character.  Rhemuel liked them all --
Will, who took it upon himself to buy a vegetarian cookbook, and
blushed deeply when Spock complimented his efforts.  Q, who ran
everything, though no one (not even himself) seemed to realize
it.  Worf, who soberly took on the role of man of the house so
that all the others could have someone to lean on.  Geordi, who
was a quiet, patient genius of the sort Spock idolized.  And
Data.  Intrigue notwithstanding, Spock would have long since gone
away if not for Data, but Data reminded Spock of Spock, and Spock
was utterly seduced by him.

Rhemuel chided himself for his narcissism, but it was impossible
for him not to feel an affinity with the young man.  Data was
blindingly brilliant, and their minds were exactly alike.


At Thanksgiving, they had been sitting around the kitchen table
when Will wondered aloud how long he should cook the turkey that
Q brought home from the best butcher in L.A.

"We could call the Butterball Hotline or . . . " Q started to
answer.

Data and Spock spoke simultaneously.  "Multiply vector cubed with
mass over ambient temperature."  

"What?" Will asked. 

"How to cook a turkey," Data and Spock chimed.  

Data's eyebrow shot up.  His eyebrow did that a great deal,
lately.  "Here,"  Data got a pencil and paper.  "Tell me how much
the turkey weighs and I'll work out the formula."

All the men gathered around, watching.  Will's forehead were
wrinkled in concentration.  Q watched intently, nodding,
obviously getting every word.  Data did his sums aloud--so Geordi
could hear what was going on, Spock realized.         

Geordi was ahead of them with the simple mathematics.  "Mmm.
Twenty minutes,"  he guessed.

"Twenty minutes per pound," Spock and Data confirmed.

"That's what it says on the label," Q sighed.

"Cook that bird for five hours and twenty-eight minutes," Geordi
said. 

Spock and Data nodded.  "Correct," they said.

"That's so spooky," Will said.  "How do you guys do that?"

The turkey, in fact the entire dinner, turned out beautifully. 
By way of thanks, Spock offered to clean up.  Will and Q were
very grateful.

"I'll stay too," Data offered.  

Spock had smiled to himself.  Data had an instinct for
selflessness. 

They worked in efficient, companionable silence, wrapping food,
loading the dishwasher, scrubbing pots -- the whole room shone

by the time they were done.  

When Data stifled another yawn, Spock stopped handing him glasses
to dry. 

"The rest of these can air dry," he said.  "Perhaps we should
sleep now." 

Data gazed at him with an oddly shy expression.  "Agreed, but
Rhemuel ..."  Data moved a step closer.  "Do not go to my room. 
Come and sleep with Geordi and myself."

Spock turned to him, saying nothing.  When he stayed over, which
he did more and more, he slept in Data's bed and primly refused
himself the pleasure of imagining Data there with him.  But  
perhaps there was much less of a father/son dynamic than he
thought. 

He was sorely tempted.  He found Data's pale beauty fascinating. 
In fact all the Boys were lovely, but it was not Spock's way to
intrude. 

"It would be inethical of me to trespass on a relationship."

"You won't be tresspassing."  Data's voice was very soft. 
"Geordi and I discussed it.  Both of us want you." 

Rhemuel considered.  He rarely indulged his sexual appetites. 
Christine had once accused him of an excess of asceticism, but
it was his nature to enjoy self-control more than
self-indulgence.   
On the other hand, here was the beguiling Data, gazing at him
solemnly, waiting for an answer.  Spock wondered what it had
taken for the young man to reach out to him like this.  He knew
he was not particularly approachable, yet Data had taken a leap
of faith, and, if Data could, then he could at least match him.  

"I will come," he decided, and was relieved to hear himself say
so. 

Geordi was asleep when they got to the bedroom. 

Spock might have excused himself, but Data pressed him to remain. 
 
"Geordi will be very disappointed if I tell him you came and then
left again."

So Spock got in bed with them, enjoying the sensation of warm
bodies next to his.  In California, a house was not a home unless
the air conditioning ran constantly.  He usually slept under
piles of blankets.  That night, however, he relished the heat of
his companions' younger bodies.        

The next morning, Spock woke up to the feel of Geordi's hands on
his face. 

Geordi's smile was enough to ease any hesitation.  "I'm glad you
came.  Data really wanted this." 

"I wished it as well," Spock confessed.  "But there are things we
should discuss."

"Is something wrong?"   

"I am... different," he'd answered hesitantly.

"Because you're circumcised?"  Geordi guessed.  "So's Data."

"That is part of it.  There are other things."   Spock took
Geordi's hand and moved it down his body.  Then he was very
still.

Geordi made a small gasping sound.


The sound of the other two showering awoke Data.  When he
realized what it might mean, he hopped out of bed to join them.  

And was as shocked as Geordi.


Even in a flaccid state, Spock was as thick as Geordi's and very
long.   Neither young man seemed to be able to keep their hands
away from it, and Spock found himself very pleased.  He played at
self-control, but soon abandoned all pretense.  Geordi and Data
fondled him intently, examining him.  "Really I require nothing
of you except your company," Spock tried to reassure them.  

"You've got it all wrong," Geordi said.  "I can't wait to get my
hands on you.  It's all I can do not to drag you to Worf and
Will's room and show you off." 

"It would be extremely immodest of me to permit such a thing,"
Spock demurred, but he was amused.  

"I don't care about immodesty,"  Geordi reached out and found
Spock's arm.   He began to feel his way around Spock's body.
Spock drew Geordi to him, and they shared a deep, searching kiss.

"Shut your eyes," Geordi whispered.

"Open yours," Spock murmured in return.

"What do you mean?"

By way of reply, Spock trailed his hands across Geordi's torso. 
It would have been illogical to try to hide his ... particular
attributes, especially under the circumstances. 

Quite unexpectedly, Geordi drew in a shuddering breath.   "What
is that?"

"I have never been sure.  But it happens to me in moments of
intimacy and I cannot control it.  If it makes you uncomfortable
we will stop at once." 

"Oh, no we won't," Geordi gasped.  "Do it again!"

"What?" Data asked.  

Spock was pleased to be able to share his little skill with these
lovely men.  He'd suspected they would react with curiosity and
acceptance, and he was pleased to see that he'd been correct.  He
reached out with his other hand to draw Data in as well, the hot
water pounding down on them as his hands drew trails of fire
across their bodies. 

"I have never known what to call it," Spock murmured, "but I
enjoy it because it brings pleasure."

"Indeed," Data murmured faintly.  His mouth had dropped open and
his eyes were glazing over.  Spock felt most gratified.

"Come to the bed," he suggested, and they followed him as if 
imprinted to him.  Spock was beginning to feel very excited.   It
was worth investing his entire set of gifts into this experience.


Later, Geordi told him it was one of the few times in his life he
wished he could see.  "I want to know more about what you do."

"It is hard to control myself," Spock admitted.  

"Never control yourself, Rhemuel."  Data still sounded dazed.  "I
wish I could adequately describe it to you.  It was as if I were
lost inside your pleasure.  I felt... compelled to give you more,
to give myself over to pleasure.  Yours, mine, all of ours."

"Exactly." Geordi agreed.  "It was different from everything I've
ever experienced.  But I didn't feel like I was being forced. 
More like drawn in, and every time I felt I couldn't come in any
closer another level opened up and there I was deeper and deeper. 
I never wanted it to end."

"You're like Q," Data said.

"How do you mean?"

Data lifted his head and stared into the distance.  "On more than
one occasion, Jean-Luc has informed us that Q is a *fuck toy*. 
As if Q were designed to perform a single function and that
function was to provide pleasure."

"It's hard to describe," Geordi said," but when ... if ... you
ever make it with Q, you'll see what I mean."

"My sexuality is autonomous, as is Q's."  Rhemuel spoke somewhat
more sharply than he intended.  He loathed the idea of being on
display. 

"Geordi did not mean to offend, Rhemuel," Data sounded a bit
timid, "but Q's sexuality is not autonomous.  He belongs to
Jean-Luc." 

Spock took a long moment to digest that.  "I have observed," he
finally said slowly, "that Will receives orders from Worf and
seeks his approval before embarking on any matter, even the most
trivial.  This is a formalized relationship?"

"Well, Will belongs to Worf and Q belongs to Jean-Luc even though
Jean-Luc went off and got married,"  Geordi replied.  He reached
across Rhemuel's chest and took Data's hand.  "Data and I belong
to each other."  

"I see."

"Will and Q," Data hesitated.  "Are slaves."

"I see."

Not in any legal sense, obviously," Data continued, "but I know
Will and Q were... purchased.  They consider themselves to be
property.  They are used to it.  They appear to enjoy it on some
level."

Spock did not answer at all this time.  

"Rhemuel,"  Data sounded a bit apprehensive.  "Please don't be
angry.  Really, Will considers himself quite fortunate.  And
Q..."  He appeared to be having trouble knowing what to say about
Q. 

Spock realized that his anger was frightening his two companions. 
"I find it difficult to absorb this information."

"I know it must sound... repugnant to you.  I guess we've lived
with it for so long that it's normal for us."

"It was hard for us too, at first," Geordi said.  "I mean, a lot
of things that we saw and lived through.  But it's a lot better
now.  A lot calmer."

"I am glad it is calmer," Spock answered, and from either side of
him came deep sighs of relief.  

Geordi and Data seemed touchingly eager for his approval.   They
admitted that, far from being indifferent to their friends'
status, they'd spent a great deal of time confused and saddened
by the particular state of affairs in their family.   They poured
their hearts out to him.  Jean-Luc beat Q.  Jean-Luc pimped Q. 
Jean-Luc often behaved quite cruelly towards Q.  Worf ordered
Will around, but he rarely hit him, at least, not  anymore. 
Sometimes, when Jean-Luc fucked one or both of them, it felt like
rape.  They weren't exactly  scared of Jean-Luc, and they weren't
angry with him, exactly, and sometimes it was strangely
pleasurable, but it was often hard to be around him.  

Spock listened in sadness.  He'd always been a misfit , yet
because of the outlaw life they'd lived, these youngsters
perceived him as a model for normalcy.   A surge of compassion
made him tighten his arms around them.  

"I am afraid I have burdened you," Data murmured against his
chest.  "I apologize, but we have not ever had the opportunity to
speak of this until now."

Data, his lovely Data, lived like this.   

Spock took a deep breath.  "My own family background was quite
difficult.  I left, and now I regret it." 

"You, Rhemuel?"  Data sounded as if he had a hard time believing
that Rhemuel had regrets. 

"Yes."  He stopped what he was doing to peer down into Data's
surprised expression.  "There are other cruelties besides
physical abuse.  It is the reason I spent so much time in the
solace of meditation.  And music lessons, and academic pursuits. 
It was easier to hide, and eventually, to flee."

"I'm sorry to hear that, " Geordi murmured. 

"It was a long time ago," Rhemuel answered, "and present delights
more than compensate for past sorrows."

He turned his head into Geordi's shoulder and bit gently.  Geordi
moaned, and his body relaxed under Rhemuel's assault.   By now
Spock felt comfortable enough to let go of his tightly held
control.  He was intensely vulnerable to physical sensation, and
now that he'd permitted himself to enjoy it, he wanted all he
could get of it.  "Data," he encouraged, "Get close behind me. 
Do to me what I'm doing to Geordi."

Data moved closer and pressed his growing erection against
Spock's back.

"Yes," Rhemuel sighed.  He wanted Data inside him, taking him, as
he took Geordi.  He maintained enough self-control to murmur to
Geordi that, if it hurt too much he would stop; then he took
lubricant from one of the several opened jars on the headboard,
greased himself and began to push his way in. 

Geordi was pushing back against him, urgent, saying things that
sounded crazy, but Rhemuel knew better.   "I want it,"  Geordi
moaned.  "You're making me want it, Rhemuel.  You can't.  Stop. 
Fucking me!"

"I am inside you," Rhemuel admitted; half confession, half
warning. 

Geordi didn't seem to care one way or the other.  Rhemuel felt
himself welcomed, held inside Geordi's mind and body as he held
Geordi.  And Data.  Spock was nearly purring in gratitude.  Three
together was so normal for him that dyads sometimes felt a little
strange.  Data made it perfect, following Spock as Spock pushed
into Geordi.  Geordi sounded almost as if he were singing.  Spock
let himself go completely.  His sexual desire, once unleashed,
consumed them, consumed him, like brushfire.  All three trembled
with the force of Rhemuel's passion, as it had always been, as it
was supposed to be.  Rhemuel, and two beautiful men.  He reveled
in the fact that he could let himself feel his lovers, and let
them feel each other -- Geordi, sturdy as a stallion, his
oblique, oddly-angled genius, at work even now.  Data, his ego
more waifish, more childlike; his carefully segmented,
far-reaching intelligence overlaid with an innocence which might
never completely vanish.  Rhemuel felt like a ravaging beast,
taking his fill of minds, bodies, souls.  He felt like a vampire,
feeding on willing flesh.  He was impaled, caught as deeply as
the two he held to him.  Gratified, grateful, dying of pleasure.  
The writhed together, drowning in fire, their minds weaving in,
out and around one another.  It was indescribably good.   

Eventually they all came back to themselves, spent, and utterly
without strength.  Rhemuel stretched languorously.  He felt
sated, even decadent, drowsing between these beauties.  So much
like old times. 

"Rhemuel?"  Data's voice was a satisfied murmur.  "When you said
you were inside Geordi, you didn't mean just physically, did
you?" 

"No. Not just physically."

"I felt it too." Geordi sighed.  "It was wonderful.  You're
wonderful, Rhemuel."

"You are wonderful.  Both of you."


They came down to breakfast very late.  Spock's eyes met Worf's,
but, when Worf smiled,  Spock had a hard time smiling back.  He
looked at Q and Will and thought, 'Slaves?'  But day, and for
several days to follow, he watched Will, Worf and their daughter. 
Both parents were quite tender with their child.  He observed
Worf's patience with Will's hesitance and indecision.  He
observed that Worf was quite kind to Q.  Q and Will both seemed
content.  Perhaps, as Geordi and Data said, the cruelty they'd
witnessed was a function of poverty and  uncertainty.  The life
of a musician was often fraught with both.   

Rhemuel found himself feeling more and more at ease.  

His fears that he wouldn't be accepted had been put to rest. 
Data and Geordi's burden of emotional pain had been, at least
temporarily, relieved, and they were, all three, giddy with
pleasure at their sexual compatibility.  The rest of the week had
been like a honeymoon.  They spent most of their time in bed. 
The other three teased them gently but appeared very
understanding. 

'I like it here,' Spock decided. 'These are good people.' 

*************************
     
Timmy and Q became a very small item.  "I'm dubious about the
future of those two," whispered Very-Very.  "They're very very
cute together, but I doubt it will last long."

The best thing was that Timmy seemed to be as wealthy as Q.  His
house was fat with jacuzzis and swimming pools and designer
cactus gardens.  How'd little Timmy Trent make his money anyway,
Q gently asked around. 

"Well, he's doing a one-man show downtown -- based on the life of
Vladimir Nijinsky.  It got rave reviews."
                                                       
Q already knew about the one-man show.  And Q was a good
businessman.  You didn't make that much money from one-man shows
based on the life of Vladimir Nijinsky.

"He choreographed some videos for Donnie Ral and Guinan and
them."

Q also knew the salary for video choreographers. "That's like
telling me he sells Tupperware, Very-Very.  It doesn't compute." 

Very-Very shrugged.

The worst thing about Timmy was that both he and Q were classic
courtesans.  Timmy played out wonderful scenarios where Q came
over and he and Timmy retired to the hot tub and then to the
bedroom.  They had gentle chitchat about who was hot; then Timmy
put some videos in the VCR ("Hot Black Inches!" "Darryl Does 
Deliverance!!" "Limo Ass Fuck") and made Q lie down on a big soft
pillow with his lissome ass in  the air.  Q would watch these hot
videos as Timmy gave him a delicate rim job.  This was very nice
for Q who pumped lightly against the pillow, and who then
insisted on doing the same for Timmy.   

"Which one of you comes first?"  Very-Very asked.  

Q blushed.  "It really isn't about that.  We just enjoy each
others' company."

"Mhm."  Very-very put a world of disbelief in two syllables.


Casey Spevin was nobody's courtesan.

When Very-very had a barbeque, Casey showed up and never once
left Q's side.  Oh, what would his public, who were mostly chubby
Christian women,  think if they saw him in his leatherman garb!   
He wore a black peaked Muir cap, which looked quite smart, and a
nice leather harness which met in a metal circle in the middle of
his chest and rough vintage  501's.   (This garb was not entirely
compatible with Casey's vibe however.  He had a faint cortisone
bloat to his chinline that Q always associated with, well, youth 
ministers and so on.  Still, Casey looked menacing in a darling 
fashion.) 


The only problem was that Casey was in that warped relationship
with some guy named Russell.   Q wouldn't play Melinda to Casey's
Jean-Luc before he had to. 

Q decided to count his blessings.  After all, Timmy did have
advantages.   He loved hanging around the house with everyone,
and he was especially tender with Patsy.

She was nearly two now - that bulky toddler body was slimming
out.  
"You ought to make sure she takes dance lessons,"  Timmy said in
all seriousness.  "Before it's too late."

"Too late!" Will's eyes were huge. 

"Four's too late to make a prima ballerina.  Look it up. But
don't let them put her on toe until she's at least three.  She
needs to develop more muscle tone." 

Too late!  Oh my God, what had he done!  Will put his hand to his
mouth.

Q saw he'd have to stop this before Will got too unstrung.  "And
just think of the dance outfits she'll  have to have.  We better
start shopping now."

"She won't need anything special," Timmy started to say, but Will
didn't hear that. 

"Yes, let's take the van out tomorrow.  I know just the store!"
 
*************************

In early November, the final version of Q's song, now titled
"Beyond the Edge of Heaven"  was recorded, and then *Hard Time*
was released in December.  

All the Boys were going to the premiere.   

"We're together for Christmas!" Q exclaimed.

"Will you take Timmy to the opening?" Will asked cautiously.

"No, my sons will be in town!  Isn't that wonderful!  Roger,
Vernon, and Jerry -- they'll get to go to a movie premiere and
have Christmas here!"  (Q had already started decorating.  A
lifesize creche scene was being erected on the lawn; Very-Very
was supervising the recalcitrant roadies in putting together the
A-frame stable for the Holy Family.)

"We can buy toys," Q said.

"We can buy toys," Will echoed breathlessly.

     
The movie was wonderful.  (Despite being completely ridiculous.)

Jean-Luc sat on the front with Melinda.  Her costar, the
beauteous and dark Lily Sloan, sat beside them with her handsome
physician husband.


At the swanky ball afterwards, Jean-Luc approached Lily.  "I like
that back porch you had built on your house," he said.  He stood
about an inch away from her.  

Lily could feel his heat.  She'd worn the dress for that very
reason.  "I think you're confused, Jean-Luc.  I'm a lying
scheming ho' in the movie and in the movie only.  But I
appreciate your appreciation."  Then they both laughed.
     

"Will you all come over for Christmas?" Q asked Jean-Luc at the
reception.

"It's possible."

"How's that house coming?"    

"I'm beginning to enjoy hotel life."

The features editor from *Vanity Fair* was standing nearby with a
decoy highball glass.  Jean-Luc and Q knew how to play the game
by now.

*************************

Q's Christmas party was quite a do.  Everyone was there.  There
were Chris and Penda and the Girls and their husbands and Kira
and her toddler and her cult-friends and Guinan and her family
and friends and then Jean-Luc and Melinda showed up and Q was
clearly delighted to see his old lover.  He gave him special
treats (truffles!) and a specially-wrapped gift.  

(All the Girls just shook their heads.)

Jean-Luc was no happier than the Girls; he did not much care for
Q's sons.  They were rowdy loud hillbilly belligerent rednecks,
and, as far as he was concerned, the only way to deal with them  
was to kill one and show off his severed head to the others and
then they'd calm down but Q and, hell!, even Melinda wouldn't
approve.
     

Q's boys decided they could kind of get used to the fact that
this was their Diddy's life.   Diddy had already bought them
three four-wheelers and a pontoon  boat.  And he cooked their
breakfast and didn't make them help clean up.  He took them
around everywhere he went and introduced them proudly.  They were
thrilled by the way he treated them.  He always talked to them,
always listened to them and always wanted them around.  Their
Diddy loved them. 

"'Course he buys you things," their uncles had said. "You ain't
never seen a poor faggot, have you?"

That faggot part was problematic.  What did it mean if your daddy
was a faggot?

The boys discussed it amongst themselves.  Why, he might not
really be a faggot at all.  They needed to be sure. 

Finally Vernon, the oldest, asked Worf (they trusted  Worf), "Is
that Diddy's boyfriend?"   He pointed to the bald-headedy man
Diddy was dancing around.    Worf shrugged and said, "It's a long
story."   

Vernon, Jerry, and Roger stared at him.

Worf sighed.  "Yes," he finally answered.

The boys looked at each other and nodded.  As they suspected, it
was all Jean-Luc's fault.  Well, they would take care of that.
They would protect Diddy.  They spent a lot of time glaring at
Jean-Luc who glared back ferociously.
 
*************************

Quark was lounging in his hot tub with a thoroughly pleasant
Christmas gift named Lynette when he got a phone call.  The
voice on the other end said, "It's an emergency!"

How many phonecalls like that would a man get in one lifetime? 

Quark sighed and answered all the questions from the other end of
the line.

*************************

That evening,  Will got the phone call.

"You selfish asshole, you don't give a fuck about me, do you? 
It's Christmas, you're in fat city, and what thanks do I get?   I
shoulda let you rot long time ago, you fucking piece of shit, now
where's my goddamn money?"

"Big Daddy!"  Will said.  "W-w-what money?"  He stammered.

"The money you owe me for all the care I took for you your whole
Goddam life, you stupid fuck!"

Then Will got it.  Another shakedown.  "How much do you want?"

"I want the fifty grand I spent feeding and clothing your fat ass
for thirty years, that's how much I want, you cocksucking little
faggot!"

Big Daddy Kyle Riker went on like this for some time.

When he hung up, Will was near tears.   He knew he was on his own
now.  The only reason Big Daddy hung around was because of Will,
and so it was Will's job to get rid of him. 

And if he said anything about Big Daddy to his family, they would
be disgusted with him.

By the time he got to the foot of the stairs, he was wearing a
very cheerful smile on his face.

"Hey," he stepped clumsily into the quiet evening activities. 
"who wants a big Will Riker sloppy-joe thing?"

They all looked at him.

"I'll be cooking it up!  Yum!"

"What's his problem?" Geordi asked softly.

Spock was sitting next to Data, showing off the functions on his
new calculator.  He lifted an eyebrow at the undertone of
hysteria in Will's voice. 

"Patsy, come with your daddy," Will said with a kind of frantic
joy.  He pulled her from Worf's lap and Worf squinted at him in
annoyance but said nothing.


Fifteen minutes later Patsy screamed, a frantic siren.  Worf was
in the kitchen in a half-second.

The other Boys stopped what they were doing.  Geordi listened
carefully.

"What did you do?" Worf demanded.

"Nothing!"  The hysteria in Will's voice made him sound as
terrified as Patsy herself did.  "I didn't do anything!  I was
just   I wanted   I was trying to make  "  There was the sound of
dishes clattering as they were hastily shoved aside, and  the
sound of  water running.  Patsy's screams soared above the
cacophony.  Will was shrieking, "I didn't do anything!"

Worf came out of the kitchen carrying the panic-stricken, howling
Patsy.  "Data, Geordi, take her to the pool house.  Let Pen and
Chris calm her down.  Spock,"  he nodded, "sorry.  Family
matters.'

Data, Geordi, and Spock took Patsy away.

By the time Worf took the two steps back into the kitchen, his
arms were folded across his chest; his face closed and accusing. 
Will was staring beyond him, straining in the direction their
daughter had gone, but Worf looked so forbidding that Will did
not dare try to move past him.   

"W-w-where'd you take her?"  Will looked panicked, his eyes wide
and staring.

"She is safe," Worf growled.  "I will not bring her back until
you tell me what you did."

"I didn't do anything wrong!  I didn't do anything!"  

Worf merely frowned more deeply.  "Did you take drugs today?"

"NO!"  By now Will was pacing like a wild animal.   Worf had
never seen him like this.  "I want Patsy!"
 
Worf shook his head.

"Patsy!" Will screamed.  


Spock came back in with Data.  They stayed by the door,
appraising the situation.  Things were clearly at an impasse. 
Worf had pointed to a chair and Will sat, staring up at his
husband with a frightened expression, but saying nothing.  His
eyes darted towards the door, clearly looking for his child.

Spock cleared his throat, drawing attention to himself, then
stepped past the astounded Worf.  "Permit me, please."

He took a seat next to Will, laid his hand on Will's arm and
stared into Will's eyes.  He did nothing for a moment except
stroke Will's forearm.  His breathing was very slow, very
deliberate.  When he finally spoke, his voice was serene and
soothing.  Almost toneless.

"Nothing can hurt you here."  He was calm, but he made the words
sound like a proclamation from the governor.  His long fingers
slid down Will's forearm; soft, almost random strokes.  That's
all he did, but Will visibly calmed down.  Spock continued
speaking, very softly, very gently.  "Your husband who loves you
is here, your family who loves you is here and we will protect
you.  You are safe, do you understand?" 

Will stared at Spock as if he were speaking another language, but
he nodded slowly.

"Everything is all right now," Spock continued, "so you can tell
us what happened.  You can tell what happened because it's safe
here.  No one will punish you, no one will be angry with you, no
one will hurt you for any reason.  We only want to know who did
this to you so we can protect you."

His fingers moved up Will's arm until he was stroking his bicep,
then his shoulder, and eventually the side of his face.

Will's breathing was slowing down, matching Spock's.  Finally he
blurted, "I gave Big Daddy fifty thousand dollars."

Worf took a deep breath to roar, "You did what?!"  But Spock's
other arm was out in a flash, halting him before he could
get the words out.

"Why did you give him fifty thousand dollars?"  The slow strokes
continued unabated.

Will leaned towards the gentle touch.  He was considerably calmer
by now, almost detached.  "He called me.  He told me I was. . ." 
Will paused, then plunged in,  "a no-good piece of shit and I
owed him money.  He told me I was a weak little cocksucker.  He
told me I was going to be kicked out of the band and I'd have to
be on my own and I wouldn't be able to take care of myself and
I'd starve to death.  He told me," Will's voice started to shake
now,  "they were going to come and take the baby away."  His
breathing started to speed up again.  Spock's hand continued its
gentle stroking.  

By now Worf and Data were staring at each other.  Even Spock
seemed to have trouble composing himself.  Long moments passed
before he spoke again.  

"Who is going to take the baby away, Will?"

"I don't know."

"What else did Big Daddy say?"

"He said to wire him money in Flagstaff, Arizona, so I did."

Spock nodded.  After a moment he asked, "What happened just now,
with the baby?"

Will said nothing;  his huge eyes stared at nothing.

"Will, it's okay to tell us what happened with the baby.  No one
will be angry.  No one will hurt you."

Will took a deep breath.  "I was making the sloppy joes.  There
was a metal spoon on the stove.  I knocked it on the floor. 
Patsy bent over to look at it.  I said no, don't, but I didn't do
anything.  I thought if I moved too quickly I might spill hot
food on her, and then she picked it up and it was too hot to
touch and she burned her fingers. and then she started
screaming." 

Spock spared a glance at Worf who was very still.  Then he drew a
wearied breath.  He stroked Will's arm again.  "Everything will
be fine, Will.  You did a very good job."  He tapped on Will's
hand.  "Take a deep breath.  Look at me."

Will's eyes focused on Spock.  There was clarity in them now, and
calm.  

"How do you feel?"  Spock asked.

Will turned to look at Worf.  "I'm sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry for."  Worf's tone was very gentle. 
"*I* am sorry for not protecting you better from your father. How
did he get this number?"

"I don't know."

"Do not worry about the money.  It was ... not a good thing to
do, but I understand why you did it. Go and get Patsy and put her
to bed."  


Worf's heart was in his mouth until he checked on Patsy a few
hours later and found her sleeping soundly.  The burn had been
extremely superficial; poor Patsy was simply startled, and her
fathers' distress and agitation had frightened her even more.  

It had taken every ounce of strength Worf had to stick to his
usual routine of looking in on her last thing before going to
bed.  He would have preferred to spend the evening standing guard
over his daughter, but it was more important that Will should
know he was still trusted with her care.  
 
He lay in silence beside Will for a long time.  Then he said, 
"You must never apologize for this again.  I do not hold it
against you."
 
Will was quiet; then he said, "I love you, Worf."  It was the
first time he had ever said that to another person.

Worf breathed out.  "I love you."


They slept for a few hours, and then Worf woke up.  "Wake up,
Will.  I have something to say."

"Oh, God."

"Wait.  Listen.  If Big Daddy ever calls again, you put the phone
down, no matter what he says.  And don't pick it up if it rings
again.  Understand?"

"Okay."

*************************

A day later Quark called to ask how Will's dad was doing after
the operation.  "Christ, he sounded in rough shape.  When that
stuff hits you, you need to have something done." 

"Come over at once," Worf instructed. "We need to talk."

*************************

The producers of *Hard Time* got Melinda plenty of press space to
publicize the movie. 

The January *Vanity Fair* came out Jean-Luc and Melinda on the
cover.   They were in Jean-Luc's Caddy.  Big letters printed over
their picture declared "Boys To Men."  

The article inside was all over the place.  Tennessee.  Fear
Alley.  It even had the ex-wives Beverly and De-Anne.  

But Jean-Luc had grabbed Vanity Fair's leading reporter (his name
was Walcott James and he'd been in the business for years) by the
throat and insisted on one thing being made plain, and he got it.

So Walcott James wrote: "Jean-Luc is not just another of the
music business' suave dunces.  And, unlike some other marriages I
could name (the most charming being Charles Laughton and Elsa
Lanchester) he did not marry the lush and gymnastic Melinda
Madigan merely for show.  His eyes are as glazed as Robert
Mitchum's when he looks at her; his upper lip sweats like a
seal's.  Her clothes are always wrinkled and charmingly she keeps
tugging at them.  Gay men may protest, but this is the real thing
for both of them."
        
Very-Very read this out loud, and then he looked up.  "Etcetera
etcetera, etcetera.  Girls, have you ever heard such horseshit?"  
     
*************************         

As Jean-Luc's house was being built, he lived in a hotel in
nearby Nashville.   But, when Melinda came back from her
publicity tour, he rented a new Jeep and took her all around
Tennessee.  He wanted to show her where he came from; he showed
her where he ran shine.  He knew every back road, hidden entrance
and secret cul-de-sac along his old route.  He pointed out
moonshiners and revenoors by sight.   

Melinda was charmed and amazed.  What a rough man she'd married. 
How surprising.  How amusing.  How bizarre.  She was hotter for
him than ever.  They fucked over the entire state.   He fucked
her on the side of the roads he had been arrested on.  With her
teasing him, grabbing him, kissing him, he relived his life
before there were any Magic Mountain Boys.  He felt unburdened
and strangely settled in mind.  He took her to a 
bed-and-breakfast he discovered by accident once long time ago,
and they spent the night.  He lowered his guard even further,
showing her the secret treasure he had found there:  a willow
grove on the property that ranged over several acres.  She was
enchanted.  

Then he said to her,  "I love you, Melinda."  He sounded
determined.
   
"I know you do, Boy.  Well, I love you too."  But it had none of
the desperation and plaintive sincerity of the times Q said it,
and he wondered if she meant it.  But it really didn't matter.  
He loved her.  That had to be enough.

*************************

But one thing had to be settled.

She took his hand as they walked along the countryside.

"Boy, what do you think is supposed to happen when we're apart? 
Because we'll be apart a lot.  I have my job.  You have yours."

Jean-Luc had been curious about that himself.

"You are enough for me," he said in a courtly fashion.

Melinda was very quiet, but she was wearing a secret smile.  "And
you are enough for me.  When you are there."

"Melinda, would you fuck somebody and not tell me?"

She paused and smiled more broadly.  "Jean-Luc, what would you
like me to do?"

"What do you want to do?"

Suddenly, she quit smiling.  "Jean-Luc, I just want us to do the
right thing.  I don't think our right thing corresponds with
Jerry Falwell's, I think our thing is righter.  But we have to do
the right thing."

"Of course, we do," Jean-Luc said; his voice was a soft burr.  

They walked along a little more.  Still holding hands. "Boy, in
the business I'm in, it's considered kinda nice to put out.  And
I like putting out.  I like it a lot.  I want to do it right now
as a matter of fact." 

Jean-Luc was stirred to the center of his being.  "I want you to
put out all the time, Melinda.  I just want you to tell me.  I
like to hear a good fuck story.   So when you tell me about
fucking somebody, you're not just being a good wife. . . you're .
. ."  He couldn't even think of what he wanted to say; he just
collapsed to his knees and, pulling up her skirts, buried his
face between her exquisite tan thighs.  She wasn't wearing
underwear as usual, but she did have on her high heels.  

Oh, she was his Goddess, his fragrant Goddess of wetness   and of
all the men who'd been where he was now, leaving their taste and
lips and cocks all over her big sweet body.  He heard through the
rushing blood of his ears her small litany of gasps and she
pressed herself to his face.  She was so wet, so warm.  He pulled
away: "Let me fuck you on your knees," he commanded.  And even
through they were partially visible from the road and it was high
noon, she crouched in the tall scented grass and he pulled her
skirt over her head and entered her   oh, the white globes of her
ass and his dick disappearing between them, a sight equal to all
the world's songs and poems, and she was his and never more his
than when she was fucking somebody else.  Fucking somebody else
for him.  Then he started to come and she backed against him and
she was coming as well, and, bold and cunning girl that she was,
she was reaching back with her pretty hand and putting her own
finger in her asshole to come harder and so he used his fingers
there too and then they were both finished.


After that,  they sat just sat chatting, facing each other in the
grass, his legs spread, his pants still unzipped, her legs over
his, her skirt pulled up to her waist, and the sun smiled down on
them.  

*************************

Then in February Melinda went back to London, so Jean-Luc came
back out to Hollywood.  That was all right; Jean-Luc and the Boys
had some business with the record executives, renegotiating a
more favorable royalty statement or something.

Melinda's house was empty (why the hell didn't she sell that
shack?).  It was two a.m., and he didn't feel like being alone. 
Besides, Melinda . . . well, nobody told Jean-Luc what to do.  

He went to the Boys' house and let himself in.  After all, it
was still his bed dammit.   But Q wasn't there.  

He went to Geordi and Data's bedroom.  

"Where the hell's Q?"
 
"I don't know, Jean-Luc,"  Data mumbled.  Geordi turned over and
partially awoke at a familiar voice.  

Jean-Luc did a double take.  

There were three bodies in the bed.  The third one was long and
lean, but it was not Q's.


"Dr. Rhemuel Spock," a sleepy baritone mumbled.  "Not *the* Dr.
Spock.  No babies."
      
And they all settled down to sleep again.  

He remembered Spock only as a shadowy figure from Christmas.  Now
the man had moved in.  Life changed around here while he was
gone.

No matter.  He had a life of his own.  He had no reason to feel
left out.   

Where the hell was Q?

*************************

Breakfast was very tense, and it got worse when Q came walking
in.  He was smiling and biting his lower lip and he looked just
as if he had been fucked silly.   He said, "I almost missed
breakfast," and then his mouth dropped open in delight and then
froze open.  Uh-oh.  Busted.   

Well hell.  The sight of Q sure warmed Jean-Luc's eyeballs.  

"Bitch, don't make me come over there."   It was like a caress,
and the room and the world heated up.  

"Johnny!"
 
Jean-Luc stood up.  Q was in his arms, kissing him and then
kissing him some more until he abruptly broke off.  "Is
Melinda...?"

Complications within complications.  "Don't be stupid."  (Spock
lifted an eyebrow at that.)

Q smiled and gave him another kiss.  "Do you want kiwi fruit for
breakfast?  We have mangos too, you know.  I got them from this
gourmet store down on Alvarado street where the guy has them
specially imported from Venezuela.  They're different from
Mexican mangos, you want me to show you?"

"Yeah, okay."  Jean-Luc was trying to sound resigned, but deep
down he was very pleased.  He was home and Q was coddling him and
fussing over him again, and all was right with his world.  He
couldn't help but notice, however, that Q was babbling just the
least bit nervously. 

                  
Later that day, in the limo back from the big downtown office,
Jean-Luc said, "Where were you last night?"

Q looked down and blushed. "I spent the night with Timmy."

"Did I tell you you could?"

"I didn't think you'd care."

Life really had moved on without him.   Jean-Luc shook his head. 
He had Melinda. That probably made up for everything.  


Q almost fainted when Jean-Luc did nothing but smile as he looked
out the window at the retreating roads of Bel-Aire.


And Timmy himself was at the house when Jean-Luc and the Boys got
back.

At the sight of him, Jean-Luc rubbed his finger against his lower
lip.  "So you're the famous Timmy."

"Famous to some," Timmy said.   He had been teaching a simple
dance step to Patsy.  "Like her," he smiled and nodded to Patsy. 
It was hard to say who was the most frightened -- Timmy staring
at the unpredictable Jean-Luc; Patsy staring up at someone who
was now a stranger to her; or Q. 

"I wouldn't dream of interrupting," Jean-Luc said smoothly. 
"Please continue what you were doing." 

"What was that dance step, Patsy honey?" Will said, getting ready
to scoop her up.  She pushed him away.

"Froe."

Timmy gave a timid little smile.  "I was teaching her the Floyd. 
You know, that thing on televison."  He hunched down while
holding his arms in front of him and swaying slowly.  Will rolled
his eyes at Worf, who smiled and drew his finger across his
throat.  Like most parents in America, they had serious Floyd-
related fatigue.

"Froe!  Froe!" Patsy said merrily, all big useless tense people
completely forgotten in her ecstacy.         

*************************

Kira called the next day.  "Jean-Luc?  I know Melinda's in London
for a while.  What do you say we hop on up to Alaska and shoot
some footage?" 

"Kira?"  Jean-Luc was a little cautious with her now.  "Are you
sure you feel up to it?"

"Of course I'm sure.  I'm bored and tired and sad.  You're free
with Melinda out of town, and you can round up the Boys.  Let's
go.  I want a change of pace."
 

Jean-Luc didn't much care for the sound of that, "Melinda's not
in town, so Jean-Luc's free.  And he can round up the Boys." 
Like he was Melinda's little dog.  Or the Boy's fucking
babysitter.

Well, it would be nice to get back to work.  He had to pay for
that damn Tennessee shack somehow.  The one he owned.

**************************

Rhemuel watched the Boys prepare for their trip.  

"I bought you a parka in case you changed your mind," Data
sounded a little abashed by his own presumptuousness, but he
resolutely shook the jacket out and handed it to Rhemuel. 

Rhemuel took it and inspected it.  Super-insulated, imitation fur
around the hood, and lined with a special fabric wicked away
moisture for maximum comfort.  Data had obviously gone out of his
way to find such a thing.

Even though he folded the jacket and put it back in the bag,
Rhemuel was careful to let his appreciation show on his face.    

"I appreciate your generosity, Data, but there is something else
we need to talk about now."  

Data sat down and looked at him expectantly.  

Rhemuel looked over at Geordi.  There was a small contraption on
the table in front of him.   "This does not have a name, but it
is a type of drawing machine.  It works like a three-dimensional
etch-a-sketch for blind people.  The numbers are in Braille. 
Geordi can draw with it." 

Data raised an eyebrow.  "How interesting," he said politely.

"It was designed for... an acquaintance of mine named Miranda.  I
asked her to send me one because I have a theory which
Geordi and I tested while you were gone."  Rhemuel stood up.   
"Did you know that Geordi has all the makings of a superb
engineer?  I suspected as much when I heard him talking to the
contractors doing your remodeling. He caught a design flaw just
by listening."  Rhemuel leaned forward, pinning Data with his
intensity.  "Do you understand what that means?  He *sees*
multidimensionally, with a great deal of accuracy.  With this
device," he indicated Geordi's drawing machine, "he will be able
to draw what he sees."    

Data looked completely surprised.  He said nothing. 

"Data, Geordi.  I had intended to leave soon."  He reached out
and grasped Geordi's hand, forstalling their objections.  "I have
obligations ... things I must do.  However, if you can help me, I
will not have to leave as soon." 

Geordi and Data nodded.  Anything for Rhemuel.

"I wish to build a model of a multidimensional transport 
enhancer.  We've talked about it as a theoretical possibility. 
Now I want to design one.  I believe you two could be a great
deal of assistance to me.  If you're willing."

He sat back and waited to see how his proposal would be received.

Geordi was nodding excitedly,  but Data looked rather shocked. 

"Data?"  Rhemuel asked gently.

"This is all so new."  He looked surprised, his head moving
nervously.

"You will help us?"

"Gladly."  

All of a sudden Alaska was an irritating distraction.
 
*************************

Kira brought Modyed to Alaska; now that the little girls were
older, they took to each other.  They danced together, played
together, held hands.  All hearts went out to their tiny
hopefulness.  

Will and Worf were shocked.  They'd never seen her so lively, not
even for the Floyd videotapes. 

Kira said, "When she's old enough, put her in daycare.  It's good
for her to be around other children."


The idea of being apart from Patsy made Will nervous, but it had
to be gospel since it came from Kira.  

They had all fussed a bit about the video, and then finally
decided the hell with it.  "Give America the dirt it wants," they
all concluded.  "Give America the dirt it needs."

Kira carefully story-boarded the video.  Scenes of the Pipeline
and the snow and the Boys in beautifully-cut parkas walking
together through the snow would be interspersed with false
concert footage showing the Boys in satiny cowboy shirts and
white hats singing at some local hoedown.   And what a hoedown.  

Kira wanted to capture that excitement that was the Boys when
they were on stage and to also make it clear that -- Jadzia
notwithstanding -- they were who they were.

So the hoedown footage was carefully fashioned to look like a
dance at one of Alaska's many mines; no women were at the dance. 
And, as the miners very suggestively danced together, Jean-Luc
and his Boys threw themselves into pounding out the great old
Hank Snow song "Golden Rocket".

          "From old Montana down to Alabama,
          I've been before and I'll travel again.
          You no-good women can't keep a real man down.
          You dealt the cards but you missed the play,
          so hit the road and be on your way.
          Gonna board the golden rocket and leave this town."

Jean-Luc smiled at his Boys.

          "I was a good engine running on time,
          but, baby, I'm switching to another line 
          So, honey, quit hanging your signal out for me.
          I got tired of running on the same old track,
          Bought a one-way ticket and I won't be back 
          This golden rocket's gonna blow my blues away."

Then Geordi leaned in with his guitar and played a bluesy break.

          "Hear that lonesome whistle blow
          that's your cue and by now you know
          that I got a real love a-waitin in Tennessee
          This midnight special's a burning the rail
          so, woman, don't you try to follow my trail
          this golden rocket's gonna blow my blues away.
          Hear him thunder all through the night
          this golden rocket is a-doin me right 
          And that sunny old southland is a part of me.
          From your call board I've erased my name.
          You're filing out; you done lost your claim.
          This golden rocket's gonna blow my blues away."

Kira mischievously included footage not only of the Pipeline with
the Boys laughing as they stood beside it but other shots of men
grabbing hotdogs, of men lighting cigarettes for each other, of a
perpetually swinging men's room door.   Jean-Luc even
suggestively held the old-fashioned microphone stand as Data
swung into his fiddle break.  

          "That old conductor he seemed to know 
          You done me wrong and I was feelin low 
          for he yelled aloud we're over that Dixon line.
          The brakeman started singing a song  
          said you're worried now but it won't be long 
          this golden rocket is blowing my blues away."

And then with a hot and single-minded look from Jean-Luc, Q
played the mandolin for a moment until Jean-Luc moved very close
to him, and Q stopped and tenderly looked back at Jean-Luc.

          "Then a nice-looking guy with a southern drawl 
          said rise and shine good morning yall
          And I sprang to my feet to greet the newborn day
          when I kissed my baby in the station door
          he blew my whistle like never before 
          On the golden rocket that blew my blues away."

Kira was almost her usual self.  She was as creative and
energetic as she'd always been, but now and then there were
occasions when she seemed lost. 

"I know you miss Bareil." Q and Kira were alone in the director's
trailer and she'd just had another one of her little spells.  The
others were all in the bus on their way back to the hotel, but Q
had volunteered to stay and help her review the day's footage. 
"You turn around to tell him something and then you remember that
he's not there." 

"That's it exactly.  Then  I feel so lonely that I don't know
what to do.  I just stand there, thinking everybody's watching me
and wondering if I've lost it."


"Nobody is watching.  And it's obvious that you haven't lost it."

"Is it?"

"Yes," Q smiled.  "You'd be surprised how you can carry on a
normal life even though you feel miserable."

Kira's eyes were sympathetic.  "You'd know all about that,
wouldn't you?"

"Well, I guess we both do."

There was a strained silence; then Q abruptly blurted that they
should get on with picking the shots they wanted.  

"Yes."

But they just stood there.

"You know," Kira's voice was small and bashful, "Bareil still
talks to me sometimes."

"Really?"  

"Yes."  She sounded shyer than ever.  "The other day he said,
'I'm dead, not you.  Modyed needs you among the living.'" 

This kind of talk scared Q a little.  The only dead person he
knew for certain was Horatio, and Horatio never talked to him. 

"It sounds silly, doesn't it, Quentin?"  

"Not at all.  I hear Johnny in my head sometimes, even though
he's not with me anymore." 

"Quentin, I was wondering.  Would you like to come by tonight? 
We could just talk.  Modyed is already spending the night with
Patsy."


Q felt truly wicked, stopping by his empty hotel room to pick up
condoms.  He had brought them  in case Johnny . . .well, enough
of that.  Then he crunched through the cold Alaskan night to the
apartment DCA had rented for Kira.  It was rugged-looking
outside, cozy and inviting inside, and Kira was quite at home in
it.

Q was trying to play it cool.  This was so . . . normal.  Yet he
half expected Worf to burst in, grab him, throw him over his
shoulder, drag him back to the hotel and throw him at Johnny's
feet.    

All that happened was that Kira brought out wine and tried
unsuccessfully to open it.  

"That's okay," Q reassured her.  "I'm not much for wine anyway."

"I wish I'd known.  I had a time trying to pick the right one.  I
figured a guy like you would expect me to have the right vintage,
and everything."  

Q laughed.  "I'm from Kentucky.  Until a few years ago I never
even had wine that didn't have a twist-off top."

She smiled at him, and he smiled back, but the conversation
stalled after that.

"So Jean-Luc is straight?  Surprise suprise."

"I don't think . . . he cares."

"Does it matter to you?  I mean, boy or girl?"

"Kira, did you know I was married once?"  She nodded.  "But after
prison I never had another woman.  Well, one, once.  Years ago." 
Q remembered the satin-skinned whore Oralee, but the strongest
memory of that was of how Jean-Luc had fucked him for hours
afterwards.    

Kira rolled her eyes.  "Why'd you have to tell me that?  Now I'll
be nervous."

"No.  You're perfect."  And she was.  Pretty auburn hair, bright
brown eyes, and she wore long johns, jeans and boots.  She looked
... real, something he appreciated after the coifed, perfect
Hollywood women.    

She seemed to be thinking along the same lines.  "I'm not very
glamorous compared to the women you're probably used to."

Q moved closer.  He stroked the fabric of her plaid flannel
shirt.  "You are to me."  

She smiled up at him, and her eyes were soft.  

Q was suddenly very nervous.  Daringly, he let his hands roam 
over her breasts; then he pulled her to him and kissed her
gently.  "Can I undress you?"

"Please,"  Kira said.  He pulled her to the couch in front of the
roaring fire and knelt at her feet.  He unlaced her boots and let
them clunk against the wooden floor.  He pulled off her socks and
kissed her painted toes; then he unbuttoned her jeans and pulled
them down along with her long johns.

The slenderness of her thighs and calves amazed him.  Her skin
was sleek and soft and the muscles beneath it were small and
strong.  She was the loveliest thing he'd seen since forever. 
Reverently, he stroked her pubic triangle.   "You are the most
beautiful woman I've ever seen."

"Quentin," she grabbed his head so he could see her eyes, "I'm
practically the only woman you've ever seen."

"Well," he smiled, "that might be true, but it doesn't matter
right now."

He bent his head over her thighs, tasting her, pushing her shirt
up out of the way so he could get to the rest of her body.  Her
fragrant skin was salty and sweet instead of musky.  And she
didn't shave her underarms.  Q was in heaven.  

"Your skin," he sighed.  "Your breasts."  He couldn't get enough
of stroking her and touching her.  He worshiped her, and she
clearly enjoyed it.  She was used to being worshipped. 

Q was nearly quaking with excitement as he stroked the wetness
between her thighs. He presented his erection to her like a gift,
and tried to last inside her forever.  

Kira liked to be on top.  She flipped him over and rode him
urgently, triumph and pleasure mingled on her face.  She worked
for her orgasm, huffing, sweating, rocking her body over his
until she completely lost control, gripping his hands tightly and
crying out, her high-pitched woman's voice delighting him.  

Q could feel the inside of her body shaking around him.  "Kira!"
He cried.  "Please!"  

In his excitement, he pumped so vigorously that he pushed her off
of him.  She laughed delightedly, slid down onto the bearskin rug
and opened her legs to him.   She was wet with sweat, "Come on,"
she said.  "Don't stop now." 

He climbed on top of her, and she welcomed him, rocking with him
as he rode her, encouraging him, wrapping her legs around him and
grinding it out with him.  Finally he collapsed over her and
shuddered to a stop.  

Then he rolled away but not far.  They lay together on the rug
and watched the fire without speaking.  

After a while, Q looked down at the curves of her body.  His
hands, which had been idly caressing her, started to move more
purposefully. 

"Quentin, we have a six a.m. shoot tomorrow."  
 
But she helped him bundle up, and kissed him goodbye at the door.


On the set the next day they were shy with each other, and even a
bit formal.   They didn't kiss; they didn't hold hands.

It didn't matter.  Jean-Luc knew.  


They took a break.  He said,"So you got a little taste from the
merry widow, did you? You're going to whore no matter if I'm
around or not." 

Q didn't answer.  His eyes were very big and round. 

"I'm not angry."  And Jean-Luc truly wasn't.  "I just want to
know." 

"We were together last night, yes."

Jean-Luc wanted it very clear.  "Fucking?"  He wasn't angry, but
he was certainly frosty.

"Fucking."


Even though Jean-Luc was genuinely un-angry with Q, the rest of
the day had its difficulties.  Kira more than once felt
Jean-Luc's cold hazel eyes lighting on her in a way that could
have been frightening.

However, Kira  didn't frighten easily.

Finally, she called a break; then she stalked over.  

"You have a problem today, Jean-Luc?" 

He had to take a step back.  Her finger was poking his chest. 
She looked very angry.  The roadies were startled.  This wasn't
exactly their kind of rumble.


Kira, however, had momentum on her side, and, even though she was
tiny, she made up for it in sheer iron.  "I assume that you know
I slept with your old boyfriend last night, and I assume that you
don't like it, but you know what?  You're just going to have to
get over it.  I've seen how much he loves you, and I've seen how
all you do is bully and run around on him.  For Christ's sake,
you got married to Jadzia on him.  Now if he's willing to let you
treat him like he's persona non grata, that's up to him, but, if
you try that shit with me, I'll make sure this is the worst shoot
you ever have in your life.  You will *run* away from Alaska by
the time I'm finished with you.  Do you understand?"

Jean-Luc squinted down at her.  "I own Q," he spoke very
precisely,  his voice dark and and dangerous, iced with
imperiousness.  "Just as you owned Bareil; you both told me so." 

"Yeah," Kira shot back, "I did own Bareil.  But the difference
is, I made Bareil happy."
       

Modyed and Patsy would not be separated.  Will was proud to be
entrusted with the care of not one but two children.  The girls
demanded that Modyed sleep at the hotel again.  

Well, of course they could.  

That night Q went back to Kira's apartment.  He  sat very quietly
and ate the sparse supper she had prepared while she talked in
her fiery way about everything.  His huge eyes never left her as
she moved around the room. 

"Come here," he said shyly when she paused for breath.

She scrunched up her face in a rueful smile. "I guess you were
wondering why I was talking so much.  It was nerves.  I can be
pretty pissy when I want to, but . . ."

"Come here," he repeated.

She sat on his lap.  She was such a gift, her soft weight
enticing and charming him.

He put his hand inside her shirt.  "I've been thinking about this
most of the day."

She was ready for him.  No underwear, nothing but her 
feather-soft flesh.

"Really?" It was the first sign of diffidence from her.

"Really."  His fingers were gentle on her skin.  "I thought about
how beautiful you were last night.  And every time I thought
about you I wanted to do it again.  I could barely concentrate on
the music."

It was amazing how bashful she was at this particular stage of
courtship.  "I thought about you, too," she murmured. 

"Let's lie down together," he said and carried her  to her bed. 
To her beautiful bed, puffy with down comforters and badger
pelts.  Then he reverently undressed her.  "Let me just look at
you.  Let me memorize this."  He touched her small breasts.

"Undress too, Quentin.  Let me see you.   I like men's  bodies. 
I like beautiful men's bodies.  I love your body."

And they began to make love, gentle at first, then sweating and
rushed, sweaty and clamorous.  Kira turned Q over on his back so
she could fit herself around him, so she could ride him  out to
the end.  He never moved his hands from her breasts, not even at
their thundering finish.  

She curved over him, gasping, and, when she recovered somewhat,
she floated her fingers through her damp hair, stretching
sensually.   "You're wonderful, Quentin.  Don't let the bastards
drag you down."   Then she adeptly eased off him as he held the
edges of the rubber to himself.  It was odd how much came back so
quickly, how familiar a woman's body could be.          

Her arms and breasts were getting goosepimpled from the cold. 
She shivered and snuggled in beside him, kissing his cheek   
"umm, you're so warm."

"Put this tee shirt on, sweetheart."  Q loved being gallant to
her.   

Smiling, she sat up and pulled the shirt over her head.

Then a burst of cold air suddenly rushed over them as the front
door slapped open.

A moment later Jean-Luc was standing in the doorway to Kira's
bedroom.

"Stop this, Q."  There was silence.  "Get your clothes on,
motherfucker.  I'm serious."

Kira exploded from under the covers.  "You asshole, what do you
think you're doing?"

Jean-Luc took a slow, dangerous step towards her.  

Q froze, but Kira stood her ground.    

Jean-Luc jerked his head in Q's direction.  "I'm taking what's
mine.  What's all mine."  He narrowed his eyes and gave her a
hard smile.  His eyes raked her body.  Q's huge tee shirt was
falling alluringly off one shoulder, and he could see all of her
shapely legs.  "Q's not entirely to blame.  You're a piece and a 
half."  His eyes fell to her vulva which was just barely visible
under Q's shirt.  "But pussy has to learn to behave, Kira.  You
know that as well as anybody." 

"Quentin, you don't have to go if you don't want to."  She 
didn't take her eyes from Jean-Luc's face. 

Q was already half-dressed.  "It's easier this way," he
whispered.

"That's my girl," Jean-Luc purred and crossed his arms in front
of him.
 

Because of the video, Jean-Luc left Q's face unmarked, but from
the waist down Q was black and  blue. "It's kind of late in the
day to have to teach  you which one is the dick and which one is
the pussy,"  Jean Luc said as he moved in and out and in and out
of Q's bruised body.  "But I will do it." 

"Oh, Daddy," Q groaned.  His voice was hoarse.  He'd spent the
last twenty minutes muffling his screams into a pillow.  Patsy
and Modyed were sleeping in the room next door and it wouldn't do
to wake them.
      

Back in her apartment, Kira sat cross-legged in the  midst of a
circle of scented candles.  Her face was utterly calm.  Then she
opened her eyes and raised them to the sky.  "Looks like
everybody got something they wanted.  Thank you, Bareil."
       

The tension made the video catch fire.  Now, in the video, when
Jean-Luc looked at Q playing his mandolin,  he seemed to be an
animal aching to be unleashed, and only the looping sounds of
Geordi's guitar restrained them from  melting together.     

*************************

But when they returned to Hollywood, Jean-Luc immediately drove 
back to Melinda's house.  He didn't even say bye.

She was home, thank God.

They stayed home together; it was chilly outside and, besides,
that was the day the Oscar nominations were announced. 

Melinda listened carefully to the televised announcement.

All that publicity paid off.  She was nominated for her role as
the reporter in "Hard Time."

"Let me squeal, Boy," Melinda beamed.  "Then we'll listen more." 

They didn't care about the best-actor nominations.  They didn't
notice that Casey Spevin was nominated for his role as a
hard-hitting environmental ichthyologist who becomes a drug
addict.  

Her costar Lily Sloan was nominated for best supporting actress. 
Melinda lifted her eyebrows.

Q was nominated for best song.  

"Whoo, Jean-Luc!  That will mean millions for Kira, won't it!"  

"Beyond the Edge of Heaven" had become an extremely popular song,
often sung at the funerals of teenagers who had died in driving
accidents.  
                
*************************

Q was gratified at the Oscar nomination!  Who could believe it! 
Little him!

He was a star!   "Maybe I should spruce up the place.  Maybe I
could buy some vases," he told Very-Very's Girls

"You need to find galleries," they responded.  "You need to find
a style, you need to find a theme, you need to decide where you
want to be consistent and where you want to buck the trend.  You
need to decide what exactly you're going to do with these vases
of yours -- dried flowers or fresh?  Or art?  Or are they
standing by themselves?  Are they accent pieces that have to jump
out and announce themselves, or do you want something relatively
subdued so that you can change the room's mood without having to
buy all new furniture?  These are important things to think
about, Q."

Q sighed in gratification.  "I don't know what I would do without
you ladies.  Who's going to come shopping with me?"

*************************
     
Mirasta Reed was a Born-Again Christian on her way to heaven, but
that didn't stop her from being a hell of a journalist. 

Beverly took her phone call trepidatiously.   Mirasta told her
that, because of the Oscars, everything relating to the Boys was
still the hottest news in town; she wanted to do a story on Q's
wife.  She was also going to get in touch with the former Mrs.
Rodshenko.  The whole story ought to be worth something.

If the wives would cooperate.

Beverly closed her eyes.  

Sonny, Junior, and Buddy wanted her to.  They said, "Don't you
turn that nose up at good money."

But Beverly somehow didn't want to. 

She called Q on the line he had installed especially for his
boys.  
It was the first time she'd ever called him.  He seemed
frightened to hear from her, but then he calmed down.   "Just
tell them the truth," he counseled.

That she was a willing partner in an ongoing incestuous
relationship with all three of her brothers, and her kids weren't
her husband's?

She decided to ask Q for money instead.  He said yes, but the
brothers weren't interested in Q's money after it got there.

"You're doing that interview, bitch," they told her. 

Beverly was terrified and close-mouthed for the first half of the
interview until she figured out that the reporter was trying to
slant her article against Q.  

"Don't you miss him?" purred Mirasta.

"I reckon."

"Wouldn't it be better if you were partners in raising those
sons?"

"Um, yeah."

"Isn't it too bad that Q gave into the seductive lure of the dark
side, to that evil homosexual Jean-Luc, to the easy temptation of
show business and Hollywood? Isn't it too bad that you have been
pushed away from your rightful place at your husband's side?  Are
you not just consumed with utter sorrow?"  Beverly nodded in a
stunned sort of way.  It was obvious to Mirasta that Beverly was
a deer in the headlights, frozen by the spotlight and parroting
anything that would get her back to anonymity once more.  She
narrowed her eyes.  Lying hussy.  Pitiful really, but the
investigation had to be done.  Now all she needed was a quote
from the former Mrs. Rodshenko.
                    
*************************

Jean-Luc had to hand it to the money-wasting fag architect.  The
house looked wonderful. It was made of natural stone and white
wooden siding.  From the swimming pool, he could see way into the
Smokies.   

"I'm okay with this, Boy," Melinda teased.
     
He had to talk to the man the architect recommended as a
caretaker.  That caretaker shit pissed him off; why couldn't he
just have one of the roadies come out here?  But they all wanted
to stay in Hollywood.  All that Cali puss, he guessed.

The man drove up in an old white truck and got out.

Jean-Luc was not enthused.  This character was just some old
black guy; he seemed too old to do much caretaking.

Still: give the cat a chance.

"I'm Jean-Luc Picard.  Are you the man Arnold Ring was going to
send over?"


"Yes, I am.  Howdy do, I'm Joe Sisco."

Sisko!

"I knew a man named Sisko in the pen in Kentucky.  I didn't think
much of him."

"I knew a man named Picard in the army.  I didn't think much of
him."

"This was Ben Sisko."

"I don't need the job that much."  He turned to go.

"Wait a minute.  Hold your horses, Joe.  I just don't want
trouble.  I want someone to take care of my new house so I can
keep my new wife happy."

Joe turned around.  "There's a way to keep women happy that's
more fun."

He was very proud, very dry, very professional.  Jean-Luc decided
to hire him.


Jean-Luc's new house was different from the flophouses and roach
motels where he had lived most of his adult life, like the dump
he and Q and Worf rented when they were right out of prison.  

He gave a dark smile.  

He was proud to actually bring his beautiful bride into this
lovely house.  This was the life.  This was all he needed.  

He wanted to call and tell Q how happy he was; he wanted to tell
Q the maid's room was bigger and more spacious than most places
they'd lived in.   Q was almost the only one who would 
understand, but then, thanks to that curious personal Q alchemy,
Q would probably turn the whole conversation into some tragedy
and boohoo and then where would Jean-Luc be.

The maid's room was also bigger than their cell at Fear Alley.  
It was bigger than the room over the principal's garage where he
grew up.

Melinda found him sitting in the sofa in the maid's room. 

"What are you doing in here?"

"Resting my feet.  Come here, angel meat, and let Daddy lick your
pussy.  We'll baptize this room along with all the rest.  Then go
to those goddam Oscars."  

*************************

Oscar?

Data, Geordi and Spock poked their head out of Data's bedroom.  

Oscar who?

"*The* Oscars," Will explained patiently.  "With movie stars and
awards.  It's a really big thing that Q's going to, and you guys
have to take a break from what you're doing and come down and
watch.  Jean-Luc's going to be there and everything.  It'll be on
in about two hours."

They reluctantly agreed to watch, but it was hard to walk away
from such an interesting project.  "You see, once we refine the
dimensions of the reactor segment we'll be able to modify the
energy impeller housing..."

But Will was already backing away.  "I uh ... have to go get
Patsy."  He nearly ran away from their door.

Data and Spock watched without comprehension.  How could anybody
not think this was fascinating?  They themselves were engrossed
by it.  They spent all day working on it, buying parts for it,
arguing about the best way to go about it.  And they were
thrilled to discover that Spock been correct in his assessment of
Geordi's engineering abilities.  Geordi was a natural. 

"I suspected you were a genius the moment I met you," Spock said. 
His eyes were soft.  

Data smiled.  He loved the fact that Spock's esteem for Geordi
matched his own.  "Spock," he murmured happily.  He lifted his
face up. 

"Yes," Spock agreed.  This was the other component to their days
and nights together:  sleep, eat, play with their lovely
contraption, make love, play some more.  Their days flowed in
simple but idyllic rhythm, like paradise.  Even the interruptions
were benign -- playing with Patsy, spending quiet evenings by the
pool with the others, making music.  

"I feel apprehensive," Data confessed, "when I think that someday
this must all end."

"Do not be afraid," Spock told him.  He put his hands against
Data's cheek.  Whenever he made that peculiar caress he would
whisper, "I am inside you."

It was impossible to be afraid when Spock did that.  It was the
most amazingly soothing sensation, more deeply loving than
anything either Geordi or Data had felt before.  It had the added
effect of making them ravenous for Spock's hands on their bodies. 
          

This time was no exception.  Data pressed himself forward. 
"Touch me," he said, offering himself. 

Spock's hands tightened against his skin.  Long moments of
silence passed; then Data moaned softly.  "Just for times like
this," Geordi murmured, "I wish I could see." 

"If you can't see, then feel," Spock said.  He let go of Data
long enough to pull Geordi towards them.  The bed had been pushed
over to a corner to make room for a workbench.  Spock led them to
it and all three lay down.   

"My eyes are closed, Geordi."

"Mine too," Data said.

"I know."  When their eyes were shut, Geordi felt their movements
go soft and tentative.  They'd discovered that even temporary
blindness heightened sensation.  With Spock, all extraneous
sensory input was distraction.  Geordi and Data always made love
to Spock with a kind of swooning amazement.  He had a gift of
cocooning them in his presence.  And he was intensely vulnerable
to physical sensation.  It made sense now that he should be so
physically distant at other times.  Rhemuel could actually be
made to tremble with the force of his desire.  Yet for all that,
he was amazingly unschooled in some ways.  Data and Geordi had
taught him how to fist.  They frequently knelt in front of him,
coaxing him to orgasm with their lips and tongues, thrilled with
his response. 

When Rhemuel got very excited, they all felt it--his passion
washed over them, engulfed them.  They felt his helpless pleasure
along with him, and it enhanced their own pleasure a thousand
fold.   

"I can't believe you tried to hide this from us," Geordi said.

"I wasn't trying to hide anything."  Spock sounded rather solemn
for a man who was panting under the stroking hands of two
beautiful young lovers.  "I simply did not wish to underestimate
the effect of my ... differences."

"Your differences are beautiful, Spock."
 
"As are yours, Geordi."

Data smiled at the exchange, his mouth busy against Spock's
superheated flesh.  There could be no more perfect happiness than
this.

*****************************

Meanwhile Will and Worf and Patsy were waiting at the bottom of
the stairs for Q to come down.  And when he did, they applauded. 

He looked wonderful   his black tuxedo fit him as if it were made
for him, which it was of course.  He had the tail coat, the
wonderful high-collared shirt.

It was his first date with Casey Spevin!  They were going to the
Oscars!  They were going to sit on the front row!

Casey was just beaming.  How lucky could he get tonight?  Maybe
lightning would strike twice. Oh, he gritted his teeth, he loved
that softness and pliance and giving in Q.  And Q was so pretty  
the prettiest in Hollywood.  And Q was his tonight, all his.   
Casey had a million plans for after the Oscars.


But when they got to the auditorium with a thousand screaming
fans calling to them, the only real people they saw were Jean-Luc
and Melinda.  

"Fancy meeting you here," Casey said to them in his sardonic way.

Melinda gave her trademark baritone squeal, and the foursome
entered the pavillion.

*************************

Will called the reluctant Spock, Data, and Geordi down to the
television room.  

"You have to see this!"

Jean-Luc and Q together on the front row!  Sandwiched by Melinda
and Casey!  Man oh man!

But, despite all that, the Oscars were faintly boring.   But
Casey also had on a beautiful tux, and Jean-Luc looked quite
handsome,  and Melinda was leonine and elegant and statuesque,
and then there was Q, so there was at least that.  

The first important Oscar given was best supporting actress. 
Lily Sloan won; Melinda was on her feet applauding wildly.

Lily's speech was short, sweet; she gave all the credit to her
co-workers.

Melinda applauded again as Lily walked off stage.  Her smile was
wide, but she said, "T'aint fair, Boy -- she had as much screen
time as I did.  She deserved a best-actress nod." 

Jean-Luc smiled back.  "The system's fucked, baby."

Boring technical Oscars.  But Q was ecstatic.  On one side the
warmth of Jean-Luc (Jean-Luc would see him in his smart
clothes!), on the other, the slightly more tepid wattage of Casey
Spevin, and all on the front row at the Oscars.  Wouldn't his
sons be proud!  

Then a rising young starlet named Robin Lefler strode out on
stage; her silky white strapless dress was slit to her waist. She
appeared to have no underwear on, and Jean-Luc had a front row
seat for it.  He gave a real smile.  

Robin was giving out the best supporting actor award.  She beamed
when she saw Jean-Luc looking at her.  

"Down, Boy," Melinda drawled.

Robin gave the award to some man and walked off.  A sight to see. 


As was Q.  

Jean-Luc knew what Q was thinking: 'Wow, look at me at the Oscars
with all the big stars!'  Q had always loved things like that,
even in prison.  In a way, Jean-Luc was enjoying  Q's enjoyment
more than he enjoyed Melinda's,  but every time a smile crossed
his face at some Q memory, he tried to remember to turn it to 
Melinda so it seemed as if he were really enjoying being with
her, and, of course, she was a brilliant actress,  so she knew
just how to give him an amused, excited high-wattage smile in
return.

Then it was time for Q's song.  

And Celine Dion was going to sing it.  

Q was a big enough fool to think this was great; of course,
everyone else in America wanted to see Q sing it.  Editorials had
been written demanding to know why Q was not singing    and
certain groups responded by saying "certain groups shouldn't be
appeased in their immoral demands to have people like that 'Q' up
on our fine American Oscar stage.  Only good Americans like
Celine Dion should be permitted up  there."  It was pointed out
that, among the other things she was not, Celine Dion was also
not American.  

But she was a trier; she gave the song her hysterical best.       
     Beyond the edge of heaven  

(At home, Geordi jumped, and Data's head ticked.)

     our friend is wandering now complete -  
     I know he'll find in starry reaches 
     the true peace that wisdom teaches.

(Spock gave the television a keen searching look.)

     We know our journey never ends 
     Our strange trek will go on forever. 
     But tell him while he travels the sky 
     to remember, remember me.         

When the song ended, it didn't quite end, because without 
missing a beat, Celine took a deep breath and sang: "Brandy,
you're a fine girl, what a good wife you would be."   

Even grown men were tearing up.

     "But, my life, my love, my lady . . . "

(Q and Kira was splitting the profits.  One half went to Kira's
odd church; the other half to a reading project in Kentucky named
after Horatio.  Q had never forgotten him.)
 
Worf and Will and Data, watching at home, looked at each other
and shook their heads.   No one said anything about the music. 
"Her dress is very bright, like bubbles and sunshine," Data told
Geordi.  The dress was yellow.

"She has very pointy shoes," Worf observed  

"She opens her mouth very nicely," Will added.  Worf looked at
him and rolled his eyes.  As parents, they weren't supposed to
talk like that anymore, but Patsy was safely asleep in his lap. 

Geordi got it.  "She's hitting almost all the notes right."

"Yes," Data agreed.  "Almost every one.  I am sorry you are
blind, Geordi, because you cannot see Jean-Luc's face every
time the camera moves past it."

"If he were smiling any harder, his teeth would break."  Will
offered.

"Is it like his reporter voice?" 

They had all heard his reporter voice.  "Exactly."

Q lost.   He barely noticed. Casey patted his arm.

Elton John had been named the winner for his song "Tomorrow (Is a
Another Day)" from the Disney cartoon version of "Gone with the
Wind."   Now Elton was climbing the stage in tears.   When he
composed himself, the first thing he said was, "Q, you deserved
this more than I do!"

Q clapped his hands until they were bruised.


Melinda lost.   Jean-Luc and Melinda still seemed merry.  
Jean-Luc's ex-lover's long legs were crossed away from Jean-Luc
and towards Spevin.

And then something almost happened.  

They were announcing the best actor awards, and Q was so thrilled
at the excitement of it all that he unthinkingly held his hand
out to Jean-Luc who reached back automatically.  Then Q
remembered that he was reaching towards the wrong man and 
quickly snatched his hand away from Jean-Luc's grasp, and held
his other hand out to Casey.  The camera zoomed in on him as he
fumbled for Casey's hand, panning right past Jean-Luc's
expression of disorientation and shock.  And Melinda saw it all.  


Casey won.

Q jumped to his feet -- hugging Casey; one of those full-bodied Q
hugs--with a happy, beaming smile because he truly was glad for
him.     

Jean-Luc's heart skipped a beat.

*************************

Too damn much.  

Melinda went to the ladies room during Casey's speech. 

When she came back out, she found Quark idling outside.  

"Melinda!" he said questioningly, hopefully, sadly.

"Tommy!" she said.  She was feigning great cheerfulness.  Any of
the overdressed people milling around with great elan could have
been the goddamned press.  "You can't tell me you don't have a
date to the Oscars."       

"Well . . ." he said.  He actually did have two dates, a couple
of leather thirtyish gals, workers in  the California sex
industry, both of them about 25 per cent silicone.  But right now
the gals were flirting with some of the robust young lads who
were hired to do that night's valet parking.

"Quarky-warky," she said with utter sincerity.  "How did you
achieve peaceful coexistence with Jean-Luc and Q?  It's been a
hell of a night, really.  I think all those Boys are having fun,
but frankly it's a nightmare to me."

Quark looked at her.  She was wearing a royal blue dress,
strapless, backless, tight, floor-length -- it seemed to be glued
to her.  But the tightness, the breathlessness was offset by long
floppy white gloves, bunched around her slender wrists and cuffed
with sapphires the size of her thumbs.   With matching sapphire
earrings.   

The white satin tower of her throat was bare, however.

"Miss Melinda," Quark said carefully, "are those rocks real?"

"Whatever real means," she said and shrugged.
  
"I always found Jean-Luc a big pain in the ass?" said Quark
suggestively.

"He may be a pain in the ass, but it's my ass," she leaned
against the wall outside the ladies room, putting one arm out to
touch the wall.   

Quark watched her, her outstretched arm, her bare armpit, sexual
as a loin. Didn't his idiot Boys say something about a Goddess
when they got back from India?  Shiva?  Or something?  Hadn't
they visited her temple?  Or, who knew, visited HIS temple?  The
Boys never gave a fuck about what sex anything was.  But, boy or
girl, they raved about the profound temple they had seen. And now
suddenly he was looking at that profundity, into its midst.  
Gazing at Melinda was like gazing at pure heat, more than a
Goddess, indeed into the heart of light. 

"I'm sorry you're not having a good time.  This should be your
night, Miss Melinda."

"Losing the fucking Oscar isn't helping.  But, oh, rats, I
shouldn't be mean.   Former pop-songstress Esme Dexter was
brilliant as the disabled mother of ten who was kidnaped by the
IRA."  She rolled her eyes.  "I've got lots of years to win an
Oscar in. It's not like Hard Time is the last film I'll ever be
in."   

"Who do you suppose Esme was sleeping with to get that kind of
attention?"

Melinda shrugged and then sighed.  "She just slept with the same
people I slept with.  It doesn't make sense."
     
"So you want an Oscar?"

"Who doesn't?  It can date my old Barbies."

Quark couldn't decide if what he was about to do was right or
wrong.  "I can work on it . . . Melinda.  I'm not a bad manager,
if I have the right thing to manage.  The Boys were singing for
free out of an Impala when I met them.  I know you're being
managed by William Morris and them -- and they're good.  But let
me get in touch with your manager.   Let's be honest. . ."

She leaned into him.  Innocent-eyed.  Goddess-y.  Quark would
have moved the world for Melinda if he had a place to stand. 
"It's all in the vehicle, Tommy. "

"There's a lot I can do."

"Yay!" she smiled.  "Give me a ring tomorrow.  You've got the
number."  She kissed the top of his head.

Just when everyone thought it couldn't get more complicated.
                        

Jean-Luc was infuriated to see Casey ask Q to hold his Oscar for
him when Casey went to give his post-Oscar press conference, and,
of course, Q did, standing in the background, smiling softly,
acting like the perfect, supportive spouse, and one of the
reporters said, "I couldn't help but notice you have a different
escort from last year, Mr. Spevin?"  

Casey looked at Q and his smile widened.  "If there are no more
questions." 

"Q, Q," a reporter yelled.  "What'd you think of the way Celine
did your song?  Would you rather it had been you up there?"
 
Q was Q.  "Celine did a wonderful job with the song," he gushed. 
"Her voice just soars."

The reporters said nothing.  

"It's party time, boys," Casey said to the reporters; he wanted
to get Q off by himself.         

*************************

After the Oscars, Jean-Luc stalked down the street amid the limos
and valets and screaming fans, indifferent to them as a tiger to
the grass.  

Where the fuck was Melinda?

Where the fuck was Q?

Well, he knew actually.  Melinda had taken their limo to the
governor's party, and Q was still giving press with that 
Oscar-stealing asshole Spevin.  Jean-Luc hated Spevin, no
question.  Q, gallantly standing by his date, was infuriatingly
out of Jean-Luc's grasp.  This feeling of being out of control
was as irritating as nails on chalk. 

"Jean-Luc," someone said.  Jean-Luc chose not to hear it.  Some
loser was always yelling 'Jean-Luc' at him.  

A  limo stopped right in front of him.  Oh, that was where the
loser's voice was coming from.  "Jean-Luc," it insisted.  "We're
going to the governor's mansion.  Melinda told Cami she was going
over early.  You need a ride?"

Jean-Luc glared at the babbling limo.  Fame was strange.  He'd
never met either of the people in the back of the limo before,
but he was famous and they were famous so that made them instant
friends.

At least he recognized the man who was yelling at him.  A very
pretty actor named Gary Mitchell.  Jean-Luc looked warily at the
limousine.  Well, that was something.   Gary Mitchell was far
cuter in real life than in the pictures Jean-Luc had seen. 
Kitten-faced with a pleasantly raspy boy's voice.  Well-built,
earnest, full-lipped.   

Ad his wife was beautiful too.  Jean-Luc had heard a thousand
times about Cami Spencer.  Melinda was not one to gloat or hold
grudges, that was part of her magic, but she had often mentioned
the fact that she and Cami had come to Hollywood at the same time
and had auditioned for many of the same roles.  They were quite
alike, long-legged, dark auburn hair, freckles, big-boned
beautiful faces.  Sometimes Melinda got the role, and sometimes
Cami got it.  But Cami had a quality of ethereal, almost
spiritual refinement while Melinda was sex incarnate.  Cami spoke
four languages and played the violin beautifully, but Melinda's
earthy allure was invincible.  It sold tickets to movies. 
Melinda began to get the better roles, and Cami settled down to
marriage with Gary Mitchell.

Jean-Luc said nothing, he was too pissed off, but he opened the
door and climbed in.

"Sit between us, Jean-Luc.  We both want to be able to hear you,"
Cami was saying.  "I love your voice.  I could turn out the
lights and listen to it all night long."

"The lights stay on," he said in his baritone growl.  He was not
interested in this woman.  He could smell the saintliness coming
off her like ozone.  She was so fucking spiritual.  He was tired
of fucking spiritual women like her and Q.  Trouble-making
bitches.

Gary's eyes slid over to him too. 

The last time Jean-Luc had been in a mood like this was when Q
was on that European whoring thing.  That was when Jean-Luc felt
he could fuck just about anybody.  And, if he didn't get to fuck
somebody, he would fuck everybody.

The chauffeur was driving to the governor's mansion.

"Do we pass through any isolated canyons?" Jean-Luc asked
suddenly.

"We can. . . I suppose," Gary Mitchell said.

Jean-Luc sat back.  "Do so."

They drove for a while.  "Stop here," Jean-Luc said.  "Do you
want to see something, Gary?"

"Oh, yes, Jean-Luc."

The two men got out of the car.  Cami sat there in silence. 
There was something distastefully overblown about Jean-Luc's
masculinity, yet at the same time it drew her in.  It was
impressive the way a pirana's teeth are impressive.   

My goodness, she thought.

The limo was rocking.   Were they leaning against the car and
laughing?  Cami couldn't quite make sense of it.  Even when
she thought she heard Gary make the huffing sounds he always made
when they made love,  she couldn't understand.  What were they
doing?

(The chauffeur knew; the chauffeur enjoyed the view -- Gary with
his pants down to his knees, his round white ass glowing in the
starlight, Jean-Luc thrusting again and again into him.  That
Jean-Luc really knew how to fuck.  The chauffeur wondered who
would give him the most money for this story.)

A condom landed in the dirt and then the two men got back in the
limo.

"What were you doing out there?"  Cami asked cautiously.

Jean-Luc would have told her the truth, but Gary squeezed him
silent.

Gary's face was red even in the limousine's dim interior light. 
He was sweaty, and he sounded a little breathless.   "We were
talking about sports," he answered her.  

They went on to the governor's mansion.


Well, thank God his wife finally showed up.

"Where've you been?" he said to her.

She looked at him; they were reading each other.

"Melinda, have you been fooling around on me?"

"Not yet," she said and smiled.

He didn't say anything.  

"Boy, take me back to Tennessee.   I'm pretty fucking depressed
and I want to hide out and lick my wounds."

*************************


Casey and Q were back home in bed by the time Jean-Luc got to the

governor's mansion.  Of course, they still had their clothes on. 
For the moment.

Casey was trying to figure this one out. 

What beauty.  What talent.  What indifference.         

When he had said, "Let's stretch out on the bed and watch
ourselves on TV," Q agreed at once, kicking off his shoes and
loosening his tie.  Now he was watching Casey with a knowing
little smile on his face.  

Casey was pretty sure he was about to get lucky.   "How about a
kiss?" he asked. 

Q leaned in close, all warmth, scent and wetness.    Casey
couldn't even tell how long the kiss lasted.   When he finally
pulled away to recuperate, his ears were ringing.  "You certainly
know your stuff," he gasped.

"Thank you."  Q's smile was pleased and cordial.

Casey leaned away from him.  "You're still in love with Jean-Luc,
aren't you?"

"Of course."

"Does that preclude your getting a little tonight?"

Q was quite cordial.  "Not at all.  I've been looking forward to
this all day."

Casey was quite taken aback. "What a whore."  He picked up the
Oscar. "I ought to fuck you with this!" 

Q's eyes grew large.  "What's wrong?  I thought we both
understood where this evening was headed, but if you've changed
your mind..." 

"...that's okay too," Casey finished for him.  "You'll be happy
to come back some other time, right?"  He was seething.

"Well, of course."  Q's expression was morphing into a soft
smile.  "But I'd rather stay if it's just the same with you."

Casey fell back onto the bed.  He shook his head.  "I don't
believe this."

"What?"  Q sounded utterly confused.  "What don't you believe?"

"You."  Casey rolled to a sitting position again.  He looked a
little stunned. "You're a perfect whore, aren't you?  One of a
kind, a professional, creme de la creme.  I had no fucking idea." 
He stared at Q as if seeing him for the first time.

Q gazed back patiently.

"Q," Casey began again.  "You know... I asked the studio to set
up this date because I knew I was going to win, and I knew I
wanted to come home with the most perfectly beautiful man I'd
ever seen.  But you're more than just beautiful, Q.  And now that
you're here... well, let's just say I'm a little overwhelmed.  I
didn't expect a professional."  Q looked at him.  Casey didn't
know if he'd ever seen such a sunny expression on a human face. 
He reached out and put his hand against Q's cheek.  "Tell me what
*you* like, Q.  We'll do anything you say.  Do you like toys?  I
have a large selection.  You like to suck cock?  I'd be tickled
to help out.  You like it in the ass?  Just tell me the position. 
I've even been known to be a very effective bottom."

One of the most charming things about Q's pretty face was that
little overbite; it made him seemed childishly excited about
everything.  He reached over and took Casey's hand; then he
formed it into a fist.


When they were at last naked and Casey's hand was all the way
inside Q and Q was moaning like a dove, Casey asked humbly,
"Would you pretend I'm Jean-Luc?"

Q moaned more loudly.  "Oh, yes."  He half-opened his eyes.  They
glowed with tenderness.  "I love you," he whispered, and it was
so melting and gentle that Casey  knew at once that it had
nothing to do with him.  The thought was sad, but not completely
so. 

"You're so beautiful when you think of him."

Q was beyond words.  He was undulating against Casey's hand,
clenching his sphincter muscle as much as he could, loving it,
losing it.  His legs were pulled back, splayed wide.  His dick
was waving in the air like a flag on the breeze.   "It's so
good," he moaned.

Casey smiled his capitulation.  "You can call me Jean-Luc if you
want." 

"No!"  It was obvious Q was having a hard time focusing, but he
managed to open his eyes and find his lover.  "One person at a
time, please.  Casey!  Casey!!  CASEY!!!"   His come jetted up
and then landed cold against his belly.  

Casey looked at it hungrily.  His fist moved  gently inside Q's
body.  "I wish I could stay just like this all night."

Q smiled tiredly.  "I toss and turn in my sleep or else I'd say
yes.  Come up here so I can hold  you."

"So you actually want to spend the night  here?" Casey's sardonic
tone could not belie his eagerness.  He slowly worked his hand
out of Q's ass, peeled his glove off and threw it  away.  "I'm
honored."

"You want me to suck you off?" Q asked  gently.

"No. I want to fuck you, but not yet."

When Casey was lying next to him, Q reached down and stroked his
chest, hairy, manly.  Silence.  Then Casey asked Q if he had
liked it. Q kissed him.  "Who I love and who I fuck are two
different things."

"I know."  Casey pulled Q on top of him, "But  I just like to
hear it."

"You were better than good."  Q tilted his head back and Casey
arched up and bit at his neck.  

"Can I fuck you now?  Even though I just pulled my hand out of
you?"

"Of course." 

So Casey did.  He was careful to treat Q like the accomplished
courtesan he was; mauling him, devouring him, but respectfully. 
Q was a professional, and Casey wanted him to know that he,
Casey, appreciated that.      

Casey's house  was gigantic for one person.  In the morning, they
made love again, and then they walked around nude, nibbling at
breakfast things, kissing and caressing slowly.  They had all the
time in the world.
  
"I want to see you again."

Q smiled.  He was so flattered that a big movie star like Casey
wanted to see him again.

Casey misinterpreted.  "You do everything  perfectly, don't you? 
No wonder Jean-Luc beats you.  He must feel frustrated that he
can't live up to you." 

Q was shocked.  Jean-Luc wanted to live up to  him?   

Casey misinterpreted again.  "Don't worry.  I'll never tell.  And
don't tell me when it happens, either.  I swear I'd come rescue
you if you'd just say the word."   He was very still, seeing how
Q reacted to his offer.

Q picked up Casey's hand and kissed it.  "I don't need rescuing." 

"You don't want it either."
 
*************************

Jean-Luc was no fool.  He called his new friend Gary and they
went out.  Just boys together.  Boys married to the same kind of
woman.  There were things to talk about.

"I bet you go to Casey Spevin's house all the time?" he said to
Gary who was lying gasping on the car seat.

"Oh, God.  Sure.  Casey and I go way back.   I used to go
trolling with Very-Very's crowd all the time."

"Where's Casey live anyway?"

"It's just down the way a bit.  Listen, where'd you learn to fuck
that way?"


*************************

When Mirasta Reed's article about De-Anne appeared,  Worf read it
voraciously looking for grand words such as "he's the love of my
life," but all De-Anne had said was: "Worf Rodshenko and I are no
longer married.  I have no further comment."  He stared at that
sentence trying to fathom its emotions.

Will came in with a big pan of fresh brownies.  Worf had no
appetite, but he smiled at his woman anyway.

*************************

"Oh, hello, Jean-Luc.  Somehow I've been expecting you. " Casey
Spevin's small muscular mouth was almost as expressive as Q's.
"To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"Were you busy?"

Casey stood still.  

The sun couldn't have been more opposite to the moon.  

"I am trying to be a husband to him.  Envy, I guess.  My sin.  I
want to take care of him in a way you never could," Casey said.

"Maybe I should take care of you, motherfucker."

*************************

Casey didn't call again.  The papers said he was going to parties
with his friend Russell.

And Jean-Luc went back to Tennessee. 

Q quietly ignored his disappointment.  He threw himself into
another project, the biggest one yet.  They'd bought the house on
the other side, and he and Data and Spock were going to modify it
specifically to Geordi's needs.  Data was thrilled by this
undertaking.  He glowed.  Q liked planning and looking at
blueprints and talking to architects.  Will liked buying things. 
Worf loved Will.  Spock was there with them.  Except for Q, they
were all very happy.

Spock and Data wanted the house to hold sensory appeal in ways
Geordi could appreciate.  They wanted to fill it full of
interesting things to feel and smell and hear. 

They had a decorator in and told him, "One of us is blind.  We
need for him to be able to enjoy the feel of the house and we
need very specific differences in the floors to define spaces for
him.  We want him to know by the feel under his feet where the
pool is, where the kitchen is, when he's coming up on the steps,
that sort of thing."   

The designer was ecstatic.  He finally had a challenge worthy of
his skills.  He rushed back to them with ideas as soon as he
thought of them.  Rough tile for outdoors leading to the pool. 
Smooth tile leading to the steps.  Vinyl tile for the kitchen and
work areas.  Talking appliances.  Thick rugs for the music rooms. 
The designer went crazy with texture and fabric and sensation. 
Heat from the sun, sudden cool spots for interest. Raised
wallpaper.  For the rest of the Boys, he used restful colors,
beautiful plants and 'treatments' all over the house.  A
'treatment' for the sun room, and another for Geordi's spa/hot
tub and another for the living room and another for the kitchen
and another for the TV room.  All this was based on his very
scientific traffic analysis, the one that didn't quite jibe with
Data's analysis and caused a few hot looks at one point.   (The
Boys tended to eat and play music outside by the pool, in the
kitchen and in the TV room.  They were too much a product of
their background to use the living room for anything but
company.)

Q conferred with the acoustic people and picked the best material
for Geordi's special needs.  He met with the plant people --
asking which ones were perennials,  which did well in a moist
environment with dappled sun, which ones needed a great deal of
pruning and care?  He sat with the designer and the maid (the
laundry room was just off the kitchen, would she fold clothes in
the kitchen or should they put another washer and dryer upstairs
where it would be most convenient?)  He got prices for pool
cleaning services.   And then he moved the laundry room upstairs
and converted the downstairs laundry room into a little gym for
Worf. 

(It was a surprise.  One day Q got Will to take Worf for a long
drive out to the mountains.  When they got back, the room has
been converted, complete with mirror tiles, free weights, running
machine and rowing machine.  It even had a tiny shower.  Worf was
ecstatic when he saw it.  He pushed Q against the mirrors and
tongue-kissed him hard and sweet.  Q was dizzy by the time they
were done, but then Worf pulled Will to him and did the same
thing.  He and Will changed clothes and worked out.  Will's eyes
were glowing with joy, and Q was delighted that they were so
happy.)  

Meanwhile, Q pored over the tapes of himself and Casey at the
Oscars.  

He looked so old! 

Well, obviously one reason Jean-Luc walked out (even if it was a
kind of non-conclusive walking out) was because he, Q, was 
losing his looks.    

Very-Very was very very sympathetic; Very-Very knew just who to
call.  So did Timmy.   "Dorothy, you landed in the right
Munchkinland this time around," they said. 

And so, very soon, Q had taken on even more of that polished
Hollywood perfection.  He had a chin tuck and a skin peel and he
had worked out with a trainer and he had the bags under his eyes
lifted and he hired a consultant who took him wardrobe shopping
and who picked the perfect clothes for his body type and season. 
And he looked more like an emperor's pampered favorite than ever.

Then Timmy persuaded Q to work with his reincarnationist.  (Will
smiled at this, "Remember Sister Queen," he said and Q smiled
back.)  She told Q he would never get away from Jean-Luc. 
"Never, never, never, and I don't believe in destiny, but if
there ever were such a thing, you're his destiny and he's yours."

And to his intense surprise, Q didn't know how he felt about
that.  He just didn't know.
     
*************************

Patsy had a cold.  

Very-Very was throwing a big beginning-of-summer party to
celebrate Q's exciting new look.   Everybody from the house went
over to Very-Very's but Will.  He didn't want his sick subdued
Patsy to have to stay with a strange baby-sitter, and he was
really just as happy holding her as he would have been at a big
Hollywood movie-star party.   They watched Floyd videos (well, he
didn't want to do that, but it made Patsy happy) and they drank
orange juice, and eventually she dozed on the big comfortable
sofa right beside her big warm daddy.

The doorbell rang. 

Will went to the door   a little trepidatious because he was
alone.  (The roadies had gone to the party; all Very-Very's Girls
were dying to meet these roadies.)          

But only a few folks had the pass-code so it was probably all
right.

He opened the door.

And nearly passed out.

"Remember me," Big Daddy Kyle said and spread his mouth in a wide
predatory smile.  "How can you forget your poor old gray-haired
daddy?"   He started to push past Will.  

"Big Daddy!  No."  

"You said *No* to me.  You don't do that, Boy."  He saw Will look
nervously into the televison room.  "Why, what have we got here." 
He went into the room and Will helplessly followed.  

"How'd you get in?  We have . . . guards."

"Those cocksuckers.  I talked to the tall one."  

Klag!  

"That old boy understood me perfectly."

He leaned over Patsy who slept on the sofa, innocent as a flower.
"Is that the famous little baby you stole from some poor
Christian momma?  She sho nuff is dark."

Will didn't know quite what to say.  "Don't wake her.  Please go
away.  What do you want?" 

"Where'd all these orders come from, Boy?  You got the big head?" 


"Big Daddy, let's go talk in another room.  I don't want to wake
her."

"I'll leave in a minute.  I don't have much to say.  You know
what I want."

"I'll give you more money."

"I know you will.  I want a million this time."

"Big Daddy!  What happened to that other money   it's just been a
couple of months."

Big Daddy's eyes shifted around a little.  "Wadn't much when it's
all said and done."

Clearly, Big Daddy had gambled it away.  "I'm not giving you a
million dollars, Big Daddy."

"Yeah, you are.  Or I'm taking that baby away.  And that's that."

"Big Daddy, I think you need help.  Let me pay for your
treatment."

"I don't need any treatment.  My little granddaughter will help
me get over anything."

All the air in the room was no bigger than the head of a pin. 
Will was drowning, dying, tearing up inside.  Big Daddy was
glowing in his malevolence.  

This could not be happening.

"Wadn't I a good Big Daddy to you? "

"No, you weren't."

Big Daddy's eyes narrowed.  "What kind of horseshit is that?   I
could have raffled you off to the highest bidder when you were
eight years old.  Believe me, I had offers.   But I didn't.  I
loved you too damn much."

Will looked at him.

"And I'm going to be just as good a granddaddy as I was a daddy."

Will closed his eyes.  "You can have a million.  Give me some
time to get it together."

"Fair enough.  Hey, this is just between us, cocksucker."

And he was gone.

Will still couldn't breathe.


"Mr. Crosis's residence," the houseboy spoke carefully into the
telephone.

There was a strange silence at the other end.

"Hello?"

"Let me talk to . . . .somebody," a subdued voice said.

"Hello?"

"I have to talk to Worf."
     

Worf's face grew very still, and then he hung up the phone and
walked into the dining room where he found Klag and threw him
against the wall.

The Girls screamed.

"What the fuck is that for?" Klag said.

Worf turned to the rest of them.  "He let Big Daddy in the
                                        house."  Q put his hand to his mouth.   

"What was wrong with that?" Klag said, " I thought Will would be
lonely.  I thought he was just some harmless old . . .  cowhand. 
They could party when the baby was asleep.  He had some dirty
pictures of Will.  I mean, you know Will."  Worf began to slam
his fists into Klag.

And Spock stepped forward and put his hand on Worf's elbow. "Stop
this.  Will needs us.  He needs us now."

The party was over.

Back at the house, Pen and Chris carefully gathered the sleeping
baby in their arms and took her upstairs.

Will was wild, wide-eyed.  

Spock and Worf took Will upstairs.  Geordi and Data followed;
they always followed Spock. 

Spock was holding Will's head in his hands.  "You are all right,
Will.  We are all here with you." 

"How many times will I have to go through this?"

"How many times will you let yourself go through this?

Will opened his wide blue eyes. 

"Leave us alone for a few minutes," Spock said; his eyes never
left Will's.

**************************

The next morning, Spock seemed strangely agitated, which was to
say he did not go to bed with Geordi and Data but paced sedately
along the side of the pool, his hands behind his back.  Upenda
came out very late to stay with him, but she had finally fallen 
asleep.  

Christine found him there when she came out to put a blanket over
Upenda. 

"Spock," Christine coaxed.  "Sit down.  We can talk about old
times."

She and Spock exchanged a long, somber glance.   

"I am glad," Spock finally said, "that you and I have ceased to
be enemies."

Christine had a very direct stare.  "You never admitted that
before.  I got Pen, and that made you angry, but you would never
say so." 

"I am saying it now."  Spock stared down at Upenda as she lay in
her deck chair, his love for her naked to Christine's knowing
eyes.  "She would have been a great solace to me."

"Yes, she would have been."

In their tight-knit, paranoid little community of spies and
spooks there had been precious few moments of calm and
relaxation.  They'd all fucked one another as a matter of course. 
And fought.  And got jealous.  And resolved their differences
because they'd had no choice in the matter.  The bonds they'd
forged would not be broken simply because one of them had
outfoxed the other in the hunt for a mate.

"Remember how she sang all the time?"

"Of course.  Remember when she and Jim paired up?"

"Of course."  Christine smiled at the memories.  "An
impossibility."

"Indeed."

They were quiet for another long moment; then Christine gestured
towards the house with her chin.  "Will you ... help them?"

Spock, too, was hesitant.  Remote.  "If they ask."

"But you want to."  

Christine's blunt way with the truth had long since ceased to
rankle.  She was correct.  "I do." 

You want to bring Kirk in on this, don't you?"

"Not before I have to.  It would not be . . . appropriate."  

Christine nodded slowly.  "I would like to see him again.  Once
more, for old times' sake."  

Spock looked at her with gratitude in his expression.   He did
not need her permission, but he was glad he had it.  He did not
yet understand the connection between himself and these wild
cowboys, but he had a duty to them. 

*************************

Will wasn't at breakfast.  

"Where is he?" Q asked Worf.

Worf looked out the window.  He was a little afraid but not for
himself.  "He went somewhere."

"Where?"

"He said a man's got to do what a man's got to do and then he
left."
        
*************************

"Hey, Snake!  Your little friend Quark's back!  And he's brought
him a buddy!"

Ducatti nodded, and his assistant let Quark and the buddy walk
in.  

Ducatti felt he had played around long enough with these
hillbillies. "State your business and get out."   Then he
realized who the buddy was.  The adrenalin rush almost deafened
him.  "Frisk 'em."  

The assistant was careful to search them over.  "They're clean,
Snake."

"Get out." The assistant left.   Ducatti looked at his guests. 
"What's this new trick, Quark?"

"I'm merely the facilitator.  Will Riker wants to talk to you
alone.  I'll be glad to leave.  Just say the word."  

Will turned to him.  "It might be better if you did leave us
alone."
        

Alone, it was hard to think of things to say.  Ducatti didn't
want to stare   he didn't want to have to think about how old
Will had gotten, how big, how much of a man he'd become, 
bearded, burly.  He still had a big round ass and a pretty face,
but he was a middle-aged man.  

Will said, "You busted my cherry, but he busted up my life."

Ducatti looked away. "You ain't suffered much.  You got
everything you want."

Will looked back; his enormous blue eyes were clear and calm.  "I
haven't gotten everything I want."  


After Will left, Ducatti reared back in his chair.  That boy sure
had the fuckin balls.  The Snake musta done him some good.

*************************
     
Beverly had more than one secret.  

There was the big secret that her brothers knew and Q knew, and
then there was her other secret: she'd gotten Sonny, the most
listless of her three brothers, to teach her to drive and she'd
taken some of Q's money and bought herself a ten-year-old little
yellow four-cylinder Dodge K-Car.   When she drove it, she felt
like a . . . one of those creatures that was half person and half
horse, as if she were flying.  When she drove, she felt as if she
were finally part of the world.

(At one time, her brothers drove her places.  They liked sitting
in the car and glowering at strangers as she shopped.  And, of
course, Q, when he was in town, would do anything for her,
patiently driving her back and forth to the doctors and Sears and
the grocery store.  But those days had long passed.  Her brothers
had tired of the novelty of her, and she'd tired of waiting for
them to take her places.)

So out of the blue she was driving.  Besides, there was something
she really wanted to see, and there was no reason not to go. Q
had the boys, and, since there was some sort of fishing tourney
going on,  her brothers would be gone for days.  At last, she
could do what she liked.

It was an easy hundred miles to Shepherd's Town, West Virginia  
and then there she was.  She looked at the wrinkled, damp
magazine she had been carrying around for weeks.  Screaming words
on the cover said,  "Heartbreak of Cheating Wives Turn Mountain
Boys Gay!!!!"    Inside there were quotes from Worf and Quentin
about how they could no longer love women because of their
hardhearted, conniving wives.  The story of Worf's trial was laid
out in detail, and there were pictures of Q's pay stubs that
showed how he'd been working in North Carolina each time Beverly
got pregnant.  "Mountain Boy Q  tried to be a faithful husband,
but his loving wife got pregnant everytime he was out of town!"

Somehow, they'd gotten a picture of her and put it right next to
one of De-Anne, too, standing outside of her little shop.

This very shop.   

She read the name of the shop over and over again, slowly.

De-Anne's Hair Hut and Antiques.

She knocked on the door, diffident, sweaty-palmed.

And was shocked at how familiar the woman opening the door was.  

"Hello, you must be Beverly."  The woman's voice was beautiful,
low, throbbing, a slightly flat Virginia accent with soft 'r's.

"Hidey, I guess you're De-Anne."

"Come on in."

Beverly wiped her palms on her polyester slacks and went on in.

Beverly had actually never even seen a real apartment, and now
she was in one.  It was cunningly hidden away above De-Anne's
shop, at the top of pretty little carpeted stairs, and once
inside its brightly painted little door, she saw how beautiful it
really was.


De-Anne must have been born to decorate.  Big rose-print curtains
and lacey curtain liners and stuffed pillows all embroidered with
the word "Love," figures and posters of kittens and cupid
wallpaper in the bathroom and plastic toilet tissue holders that
matched the Kleenex holders and little needlepointed pictures
everywhere held to the wall with ribbons.  Imagine!  With
ribbons!            
"This is so beautiful."

"Thank you," said De-Anne.  She was very calm and pretty.  "I'm
glad you decided to come.  I hope you were able to follow my
directions okay."
 
Beverly nodded. Then, because she was still nervous, she blurted
out, "I reckon you wonder what my deal is."         

"I figured it was about the Boys, right?"

"Mostly."
                    

De-Anne fixed them tea and served it in beautiful china-glass
cups with matching plates and she had actual sugar cubes like
people on the television and a real little Lucite sugar-cube
tongs-thing and little teeny store-bought cookies. 

She even had a teenitesey poodle with bows in its ears!  And the
poodle lived in the apartment with her!

"Yes that's mummy's Cocoa, yes it is, yes it is."  Then De-Anne
gave the adoring Cocoa a cookie! 

"You sure are doing a good job with all the reporters."

"I'm just saying no," De-Anne smiled.

"Yeah.  It's hard to say no sometimes."  She twisted the magazine
nervously.  "My brothers always want me . . . to talk to the
reporters, but I don't want to.'"  She put her cup down and
leaned forward a bit.  "And now that woman reporter wants me to
spill the beans on Q and my brothers want to me to too, if they
pay me enough money, and she says she'll write a book exposing
those Boys and we'll save America from the queers and I'll make a
fortune but I don't want to.  I mean, I want a fortune, but . .
."  How could she explain?  Q's going to jail had been her fault. 
 Q's falling in love with that mean old Jean-Luc was her fault. 
Jean-Luc leaving Q alone and treating him like dirt (there had
been a picture in another magazine!) had been her fault.   All
the bad things in Q's fate had been steered there by her and her
alone.  Even the paper said so, and now everyone knew what kind
of person she was.  

All Q ever wanted was to be a good husband and father, and she
had to go and not say no and get laid by her brothers and all
that meant and there everything was and before she knew it she
began to cry.

And she found herself in this De-Anne's arms and De-Anne was
murmuring very soft and soothing things.   

"I'm just tired of everything getting worse and worse, and every
time I turn around somebody else is trying to get me to talk
against him and I really don't have anything to say and I don't
care either way.  I'm tired of it!"

"You're very unhappy, aren't you?"

"How'd you know!"

"I could just tell."  De-Anne studied Beverly's face.  "What
happened?"

"Nothing."  Beverly took a shuddering breath and tried to pull
herself together.  "Everything.  I don't know.  I can't say no to
men.  I'm worthless."

"Beverly, you're not worthless."

"If you read the papers, we both are."  The tabloid articles had
made both women look terrible.  Now this Christian reporter
wanted to take up their side, but it could backfire, and, if it
did, the Christian reporter would simply walk  away, leaving them
holding the bag again.  "Are you gonna talk to that reporter?"

De-Anne smiled.  "I have a feeling Worf is going to do that for
me." 

Beverly looked alarmed.  "What do you mean?"

De-Anne rolled her eyes.  "He's a mountain man.  And even though
I'm only an ex-wife, you don't mess with a mountain man's woman. 
I wouldn't be surprised if you heard from Q on this, too."

The thought gave Beverly pause.  Q didn't particularly like her,
but they had a common interest in their children.  He might
consider it his duty to protect her.  But she didn't deserve it. 
That thought made her feel more depressed than ever, and she
almost started to cry again.  

"Come on."  De-Anne suddenly got to her feet.  "Let me show you
around."

Beverly was startled out of her tears.  


De-Anne had the best life!  She ran the whole beauty shop
herself, and she had two shampoo girls who worked for her and
everything.  The shop was almost as pretty as De-Anne's
apartment, with pictures of beautiful women and kitten posters
everywhere.  Beverly stared at herself in one of the omnipresent
mirrors.  No wonder De-Anne looked so pretty.  She was a
professional when it came to this stuff.  Beverly's hand went to
her ratty home-made dye job, the gray already showing.  If only
she could take better care of herself . . .

Beverly looked up; De-Anne was watching her.

"De-Anne, it's about five and I'm an early sleeper.  You better
tell me where's a good motel around here.  Cheap too."

"Beverly, we're practically kin.  Why don't you stay here with
me? "

Beverly gasped.  What a sweet person De-Anne was!   "Let me pay
you in advance."

De-Anne looked at her.  "I'd just throw the money in your face."

"You got to let me do something."  They looked steadily at each
other.

"Okay, you can buy us supper at the Dairy Prince."

Beverly was taken aback.  "Buy supper?  Why don't we just cook?"


De-Anne's face lit up.  "Cook?"


Dinner was late.  De-Anne didn't have a thing in her fridge but
chocolate sauce and yogurt.   

Beverly ended up going out and buying pork chops, canned baked
beans, Irish potatoes, a few other things, and made an emergency
meal for them, apologizing as she brought it to the table.   

De-Anne stared at her with a shocked expression.  "What are you
talking about?  This is wonderful."

Was she making fun?  "If I'd had more time I could have made you
something decent."  Beverly's voice was a little hurt.

De-Anne looked at her uncertainly.  "This is decent, this is
better than decent.  Beverly, I really meant what I said.  I like
your food."   She wasn't lying.   Even as she talked, she didn't
stop eating, shoveling daintily between words, making a sizeable
dent in her portion.         

"Oh."  Beverly didn't quite know what to say.  "Sorry.  I thought
you were ribbing me."   

"Hardly," De-Anne gave a rueful smile.  "I never really learned
to cook.  My mother couldn't cook and I guess I take after her."

Now it was Beverly's turn to be shocked.  She'd been cooking
since she was eight years old.  She didn't know there was such a
thing as women who didn't cook.  It made De-Anne seem exotic to
her, and even a bit alien. 


Later on , washing up, Beverly allowed herself to dream that she
could stay up here in this beautiful apartment and cook wonderful
foods while De-Anne ran her shop downstairs.  'You just wait,'
Beverly thought to herself.  'If you think I can cook now,' she
thought to herself, 'wait until you see what I can do with real
food.' 

The idea made her feel giddy and happy.


De-Anne's bedroom was even more beautiful than the rest of her
apartment.  Her curtains had this stuff like fur along the edges,
and her bed had a pink comforter and lace bolsters everywhere. 

And De-Anne was easygoing and generous with her things.  She lent
Beverly a beautiful nightgown that made her feel like a princess. 
It was so delicate and lacy that Beverly objected.  She usually
slept in an over-sized NASCAR t-shirt, and she was afraid she
would tear this up thrashing around in her sleep.  "All my
bedclothes are pretty much the same," De-Anne said.  She opened
her closet and showed Beverly what she meant.  Everything was
lacy or ruffled or filmy, like Beverly imagined a movie star's
nightgowns would be.   

She put on the nightgown and felt like a princess. 

De-Anne even brought chocolate to bed with her.  She shared a
piece with Beverly and suddenly it was like those sleepovers from
so long ago.  It made Beverly feel giggly and cozy.

She was asleep in five minutes.


The next day Beverly went to the grocery store and bought some
real food.

*************************

Q embraced the boys as they got off the plane.  "You're so tall!"

"We're gonna be tall just like you, Diddy!"

"Oh, my!"

*************************     

"Hey, Jean-Luc, guess what?"

"What now, Quark?"  That asshole should know better than to
bother him in Tennessee, but ever since the Oscars Quark had
telephoned the Tennessee house almost daily.  What the hell did
he want?

"Remember Big Daddy Kyle Riker?  Guess what?  He's dead.  Gone
home to Jesus.  Car wreck."

Will had often mentioned how Big Daddy liked those big stupid
Pontiac Transams.  Television cars.

"One-man one-car wreck.  Middle of the night.  In Florence,
Alabama, or someplace like that.  Nobody knows how it happened. 
The local Johnny Laws said it looked like a bomb had gone off."  

"Well, that is interesting," Jean-Luc admitted.  


"It IS interesting, isn't it?" Little Tommy said, and then
switched topics:  "The record company wants to know if you'll
sign the papers on the royalties split on Q's songs.  I say don't
do it, but do what you like.  What do I know about making deals? 
Oh, is Melinda around?  Tell her Quark says hi."


*************************

De-Anne smiled at the little bowl before her.  "Let's see: it's
got lemon Jello, pecans, grated carrots, and it's topped with . .
. ?"

"Miracle Whip," Beverly shyly whispered.  "And two whole pecans. 
Those bagged pecans ain't too good.  Not like what comes off our
trees.  Our have more fat in them."

"Oh, my," De-Anne said when she tasted it.  "This is so good.  I
love gelatin salads.  What's this called?" 

"Well," Beverly shrugged, "Momma always called it Waldo Salad. 
But I don't really know."

"What's your mother like?"

Beverly's face softened.  "She's a real old-fashioned Momma.  She
cooks and cleans for her man.  She's the real thing allright."

De-Anne had the sweetest saddest smile.  "We have opposite
mommas.  Mine is living on a houseboat in Florida somewhere with
her fourth husband."

"That's okay.  My momma's had three husbands too."

"Men and women," De-Anne smiled.  

"Men and women," Beverly smiled back and shook her head.

*************************
     
Q was playing with Will and Patsy on the big sofa.

"Tell Daddy he's a number two," Q whispered in her little ear.

Patsy shrieked with laughter.   "Numbra two!  Numbra two!" she
laughed and laughed.

"Bad Q!" Will said and laughed too.  "Saying bad words!  You
better behave or I'll spank your tail, Q!"

Patsy laughed harder.


"Tell that mean big Daddy to knock it off!"  Q whispered again.  

"Mean Big Daddy!  Mean Big Daddy!"

Will was quiet.  Q looked at him; then he realized what he'd
said.  "Will . . . "

Will rolled those big blue eyes at Q.  Patsy was lolling against
him, still laughing and squealing.

"I'm sorry, Will."

"Say it again."

"What?"

"Call me 'Big Daddy.'"

"Patsy, shhhh.  Is that your . . . Big Daddy?"

"Hims Big Daddy!"

Q patted her.  "He looks like a Big Daddy, doesn't he?"

Q and Will nodded at each other.   

"This child needs a bath," Will said and smiled; he leaned over
and kissed Q lightly. "You go put your younguns to bed and I'll
handle mine."


The bath was a ritual.   First Will had to get the big yellow and
white thermometer and make sure the water coming out of the tap
was 107 degrees exactly.  Then he added the bubble bath and
Patsy's bath toys.  Then he put one of her Floyd bath towels in
the towel-warmer and dropped her little Floyd sponge in the
water.  Then he got the special soap she liked (it was clear
glycerine so she could see the little Floyd toy inside it.)   He
got out a clean bath mat so she wouldn't slip on the floor when
she got out of the tub, and then he took his shoes off so he
wouldn't get the bath mat dirty.  

Then he took off all her little clothes and left them on the
floor.  He would put them in the hamper later, when she was
asleep.  He lifted her into the tub and let her wash her Floyd
bath toy with her special Floyd sponge while he washed every part
of her precious little almond-skinned body.  The only time he let
her stand up was when he had to wash her butt and the backs of
her sturdy little legs.  

Patsy knew that standing in the tub frightened her daddy Will, so
she tried to do it every time.  Will cleverly circumvented his
willful child with songs, stories and water puppets, and finally
got her bathed with a minimum of fuss.

Then the warm cotton towel, gently on her skin, then a little
pure cotton  nightgown with lace on the collar and piping around
the sleeves. (Everyone but Will saw these clothes as the joke
they really were.  Patsy was about as demure as a firetruck; a
little well-fed, over-vitamined dynamo of a girl who ran around
until she dropped from exhaustion.  And yet Will determinedly
dressed her out of the flower-girl-princess section of his
favorite children's boutiques, airily not hearing Q and Upenda's
suggestions that Oshkosh wasn't a bad line, very sturdy.)

"Let Big Daddy put you to sleep, Patsy," he said softly.  

"No," she said, but it was hollow.  She was already half locked
in the channel of sleep. 

He put her in her little canopy bed.  

"We'll pray now.  God bless everybody.  Amen."

"Naymen."

"Want me to sing?"

"Sing."

And he sang very softly, a song he had learned in school, when
he'd been in school, "Glory glory hallelujah when I lay my burden
down.  All my troubles will be over when I lay my burden down. 
All my troubles will be over when I lay my burden down." He
looked at her.  He eyes were big and glazed and she was clutching
that eighty-dollar plush Floyd tightly.   "Glory glory hallelujah
since I laid my burden down. Glory glory hallelujah since I laid
my burden down."

He was quiet then.  Patsy was very still; her eyes were still
half open, but he knew she was gone for the night.

"Big Daddy's going to go read now in the next room with the nice
big light on, and, if you need him, Big Daddy will always come
running, and tomorrow when you wake up, Big Daddy will be there. 
Big Daddy loves you."

*************************

"Now this one's got canned black cherries in it and it's black
cherry Jello too and some canned mandarin orange slices and
. . ."

"Miracle Whip!" De-Anne laughed.    


The days and nights began to be spent all the same way.   Beverly
stayed upstairs cooking and cleaning while De-Anne did hair and
nails and sold antiques.  

At night they climbed into the pristine sheets and talked.

Always about the Boys or things related to the Boys.
       
                    
Beverly turned to De-Anne in the bed.   "Can I ask you what
really happened with you and that Worf?  The supermarket papers
made it sound pretty bad."


De-Anne hesitated; then the words came out in a soft rush, "It
was.  I messed around on my husband with a man named Tom Decker. 
And he caught us and tore Tom Decker limb from limb.  Right
before my eyes."  Her voice was flat.  She sighed.  "I  didn't
have any real reason to mess around with Tom except he was such a
smooth talker, and Worf never talked.  I wanted him to, but he
never did."

"That's too bad," Beverly commiserated.  "Q talked plenty, but we
never really hit it off.  I mean it was okay and all, but it was
never . . ." 

"Great?"  De-Anne finished for her.

"Yeah,"  Beverly sighed.  Sometimes it had been great with Buddy,
but she couldn't think of that without guilt and confusion.

"What?"  De-Anne asked.  There was something in Beverly's voice.
. .

"Nothing."  Beverly sounded terse.

De-Anne decided to change the subject.  "Well, I guess they're
both happy now.  The papers say they all have orgies together."

"I don't believe that at all," Beverly said demurely.

"Oh, I do.  I wish I was there."  De-Anne lowered her voice.  "I
think it's kinda of sexy."

"No!"  Beverly was scandalized, but then she thought for a
minute.  It was kind of sexy.  

  
"Now this here's a health food Jello salad."

De-Anne gave a sweet ironic smile.  It was lime Jello with grated
carrots.  "You're the Jello queen, girl."

Beverly laughed.

De-Anne did not laugh, but her smile grew broader. 

"Someday I ought to tell you about Tom Decker and Jello."


Beverly began to learn a lot about what Tom Decker and Worf
liked.  Tom liked for De-Anne to lay on her stomach on a bed
pillow  and hike up her slip so her bare bottom was stuck in the
air.  This vision made Beverly's heart pound.  

*************************

Geordi looked up; he could tell Data was padding into the
kitchen.  But what was that strange new smell?  

Then Patsy screamed.  With pleasure.

"Geordi, we have a kitten now!"

Patsy, Q's sons, all the children  gathered around the little
orange kitten cooing, stroking, petting it, Data down there with
them; all the grownups rolled their eyes.  


"She's hungry!" said Roger as the kitten licked the butter off
his toast. 

"I'm sure we can find a good home for her," said Chris.

A number of horrified eyes turned to her.

"I think we already have," said Q in a resigned way.

*************************

Every time Jean-Luc came home something else was different.  It
was almost a game, looking out for whatever goofy decoration Q
had put up in his absence.  Last time it had been vases.  Then it
was plants.  Now it was all animals and children.  Jean-Luc hated
Q's ruffian sons.  Among other things, they took Q's attention
away from Jean-Luc.

Fortunately, Will and Data had taken all the kids to the mall to
buy more cat toys, and Jean-Luc could just be with Q.  Now Q was
dragging him to the kitchen and cutting him a piece of coconut
cake.

"You're pretty comfortable with Will hanging out with those
little boys."

"He's gotten over it," Q sounded relieved.  "And not just because
he knew we were all watching.  It was like he really didn't want
to. We ought to be happy for him.  I've always been afraid Worf
would kill him one day."

"Me, too," Jean-Luc admitted.  "This is good cake."  He stopped
eating for a minute. "Listen, Q, don't get any more plastic
surgery."

Q was blushing, appalled.  "I only wanted to look good for you."

"You get one of those face lifts and it'll pull your mouth back.
Don't do it."  Jean-Luc loved Q's wide dreaming pussy of a mouth. 
 

"But I'm old-looking!"

"Q, stop this.  I like you the way you are."

Q's heart bloomed.
                    
The kitchen door opened and all the children ran in, Will and
Data behind them.  They were all carrying huge bags from the
dollar store.  

Q's sons ignored Jean-Luc and Jean-Luc ignored them, but Patsy
stopped right in front of him.  And stared at him.  

"Remember me?  I'm . . . Uncle Johnny.  Who are you?"

She looked down.  

"I bet I know.  I bet you're Daddy's little darling."  He lifted
his brows at Will.

And was shocked to see Will's eyes narrow at him and feel the
temperature in the room fall.

"Come on, Patsy, let's show Ginger his new stuff!" Roger shouted,
and the children ran out of the room.

There was a silence.

Everything had really changed.


The rest of that day Jean-Luc kept a careful eye on Will.  He
noticed that he was the only one to do so.

Will was especially good with Patsy, but, after he'd called her
in from outside and bathed her and tucked her in and came back
downstairs to report to Worf that she was down for the night, he
simply shed his role as mommy and became someone else entirely. 
He joined the other Boys around the pool with Chris and Upenda,
and they had casual, late evening conversation like normal adults
while Q's boys splashed around. 

Jean-Luc watched silently as Will got up and took Worf's empty
glass. 

"Anybody else?" Will asked.  

Q stood up.  "Boys, bedtime now."  They obeyed him instantly.

Will brought Worf's glass back and Worf put the glass to his
lips.  It was as if he were kissing Will through the glass.

Will was an entirely new person.  For a moment Jean-Luc felt
enraged.  No one had bothered to tell him Will was different.  He
was smooth, he was self-assured.  He was calmly competent.  

Will had turned into a lady.
 
Suddenly Jean-Luc was achingly erect.  He hadn't made love to
many ladies in his day.  One time with a judge's wife, twice with
the wife of his commanding officer.  A weekend with another
colonel's lady.

And now here was Will; almost as classy, not quite as
untouchable, alluring and mysterious in his progression towards
something approaching dignity.   How had she done it?  Made that
transition from just a piece of pussy to momma to lady.

"Worf, is there any chance you'll take Q tonight?"  He let his
eyes roam over Will's body.  "I'm curious about this class act of
yours.  Don't worry, Q.  You'll get yours, I promise."

Worf looked at Will. 

Will blushed and nodded agreeably.
     

That night Jean-Luc almost didn't know where to begin.  He had
her lie on the bed beside him and stroked her strong breasts,
kissing the side of her sober and serene face.   

"You are a beautiful lady," he said in his velvet voice.  "You
were made for love."

"Thank you, Jean-Luc," Will smiled his lovely smile.  Then she
leaned over and kissed him softly.  Then again, and again, a
woman's full-blooded wet kisses.   

"Let me get you ready," Jean-Luc said.  He used his hand to make
sure he wouldn't hurt the great sanctity of Will's new found
dignity.  

Then he leaned down to lap at her pussy.  She was so sweet down
there.  

Will groaned softly; Jean-Luc was good with caresses.  She opened
her eyes   Jean-Luc was watching her with that keen studying look
he had; his hand was still stroking her down there. "That feels
so good."

"You feel good."  He moved between Will's full legs.  "May I?"

"Please!"

Oh, she was sweet, big as a barn, wet as rain, with those huge
thighs enwrapping him.  Jean-Luc was safe as he could be
fucking this big sweet lunging cunt.  And it was relaxing as well
as exciting.  You could trust ladies.  They had as much to lose
as you did, and they liked to come just as hard.  

Will was making little gasping noises in her throat, saying "oh"
over and over again.  And Jean-Luc had Will's legs draped over
his arms and he was driving into her and he saw her sweet little
lady-like dick began to come and come and he held out a little
longer and then he came too.  And fell to her moist breast,
breathing hard, hearing her sound heart beat against him.

"Thank you," Will said.

"Oh, thank you," Jean-Luc said.  He smelled Will's sweet perfume,
stroked the softness of Will's hair. 

Then he kissed Will's cheek.  "Get cleaned up and I'll take you
back to your man."
     
*************************

"Celery stalks and pimento cheese!" De-Anne squealed.  "I love
pimento cheese!"  She bit heartily into one of the stalks of
celery.  "Did you put Miracle Whip in this too?" 

"No," said the scandalized Beverly.  "I just did what I always
do, used a little brown sugar and some mayonnaise."  She
pronounced the last word in the real hillbilly way: May Nayse. 

De-Anne sighed.  Her perfectly manicured nails tapped the celery
stalk.  "There's something I'm dying to know, Beverly."

"Oh, what is it?"

De-Anne sighed.  "Well . . . is it true what everybody says about
Q's thing?  I mean, I know Worf's thing was the biggest one I
ever saw.  But I heard Q's was bigger."

Beverly swallowed.  "We ought not to talk of such."

"And why not?"

*************************

"Roger's skeered of slugs!  Roger's skeered of slugs!"  His older
brothers loved brutalizing him.

Worf was taken aback at their baby ferocity.  He decided to
intercede.  "Roger, I myself am . . . uncomfortable . . . with
slugs."
     
Roger loved Worf.  

Actually, all of Q's sons loved Worf.  Q wasn't jealous; he was
glad they knew someone as manly and yet as saintly as Worf.

*************************

When Melinda had time to spend in Tennessee, Jean-Luc always met
her there.

They ate well, swam naked in their pool, made love constantly.

"This is too comfortable. I'm too comfortable."

"What do you need an edge for?" Melinda said, and then she
laughed at his flabbergasted expression.  Q would have been
slapped around for his impertinence, but there was no question of
ever slapping Melinda.  


He thought about what she had said and a light slowly dawned.  He
had truly hit the jackpot.  He had more money than he would ever
need, a beautiful wife, a successful career and a lovely home. 
Why was he holding on to his edge?  

*************************     

Beverly loved to run her hands over De-Anne's pretty things,
gently wiping them with a soft rag, pretending they were hers. 
De-Anne's apartment, which had been neat if not spotless, began
to sparkle and shine.

Beverly walked Cocoa, feeling glamorous with the pampered little
dog on a leash in front of her.  Like she was in Hollywood or
something.

One day De-Anne called up the stairs and asked Beverly to come
down a minute.  

"I'm in the middle of a perm and this lady wants to see that
quilt that's in the window.  Would you get it out and show it to
her?"

Beverly had no idea what to do.  If she'd known what De-Anne
wanted, she wouldn't have come down at all.   She didn't want De-
Anne to be mad at her, and she wanted to apologize and explain
how she'd never done any such thing before in her life and should
therefore be expected to mess it up, but the lady was tapping an
imperious foot and there wasn't time for any of that. 

So Beverly simply ran to the window and took the quilt out,
diffidently handing it over for inspection. 

"Can you tell me a little about its history?"

Beverly shook her head.  She stood frozen as the lady looked
around De-Anne's little shop.  Every once in a while the woman
would wander towards the quilt again, and finally she got her
wallet out of her purse.

"Oh, I want it so much I don't care!  Here, I'll take it." 

Beverly was so excited she almost couldn't wrap it up.  The lady
bought it! 

Beverly had actually sold something!  She carried the money to
De-Anne with trembling hands.  

"What is it?"  De-Anne stared at her curiously.  "Why are you so
excited?"

Beverly couldn't explain.  This whole thing was just . . . too
much.  All she could do was stand there.

That night when they climbed into the pristine sheets and talked,
Beverly tried to explain about selling the quilt.  

She'd never anything remotely like that before.

"Doing stuff like that beats being a working-man's wife," De-Anne
told her.

"But you aren't a coal-miner's wife no more.  Everything you
got's so nice."

"Yeah.  Now.  But I had to go through a lot."

"Tell me again how it started," Beverly settled herself more
comfortably under the blankets.  This was like a bedtime story. 
Except for adults. 

De-Anne had been teaching  Vacation Bible School one summer when
Tom Decker had begun studying the Bible with her.  He was
part-owner of the coal mine where Worf worked. He had a big brick
house with shutters.  He was stout and handsome, and he wore a
little pencil-thin moustache.  

And one night when Worf was mining the graveyard shift, Tom
Decker came over with his little white illustrated Bible.   He
was not near the lover that Worf was, but he was rich and
attentive and he worshiped her almost as much as Worf did.   

"He knew A LOT about love," De-Anne assured Beverly.  

He bought her lingerie, very seriously sexy lingerie.  Some
without all its parts so her body peekabooed him.   Oh, he loved
that.   He was particularly fond of her bottom and her boobs  and
her feet and her mouth and her hair.  He liked her wrists too and
the creamy inside of her elbow.    He liked to do it in different
positions.  

Nobody had ever spoken to Beverly about these matters. "You ought
not to be telling me this," she kept telling De-Anne.

"Beverly, knock it off."  They both giggled.  "You know you want
all the dirty details," De-Anne said.  In the dark, in the warmth
and security of blankets, she sounded a little breathless.  "We
even did it in his hot tub.  A lot of times."

Beverly wiggled.  "How did it happen?"

"It?"

"You know."

"How much truth can you stand?"

Beverly thought of herself and her brothers.  "I can take a lot."

"Tom and I were making love   and it was good.  Worf was supposed
to be working the graveyard shift, but he walked in.  There'd
been an accident in the mine.  A couple of men had been killed. 
He saw us there, me on my hands and knees and Tom behind me and
we were naked and something snapped in him.  Maybe it was the
fact that friends of his had died in Tom's mine or maybe it was
just the sex.  But the next thing I knew was that he'd grabbed
Tom . . . he . . . "

She closed her eyes.  She'd been in a state of catatonic shock
when the police found her the day of the murder, standing with
her back up against the wall, naked, splashed with her lover's
blood, unable to speak. 

Everyone had been so nice to her until the trial was over.  After
she'd given her testimony, the lawyers dropped her like she
smelled bad or something.  And the people in town, all working
people, blamed her for Worf's trouble.  She'd had to leave town.

But De-Anne hadn't been able to help herself.   She loved making
love; that was her nature.  If she had had three lovers, that
might not have been enough.  She made love to Worf from 3 to
eleven and then to Tom Decker on the graveyard shift.  

But she didn't want anyone to die over a little sex.

She did without love then.  Only in her dreams, did Worf or Tom
or some dream lover come to her, with lips soft, his hips
pounding against her, and she woke up wet with her heart
pounding. Only in her dreams.

"But now it's okay, huh, De-Anne.  You got everything."

De-Anne was flattered.  She'd sold off some of her father's
things to go to a cheap beauty school.  

And then she found she had a gift.  She was able to intuit what
people wanted in a perm or haircut or makeover.  

The women would look at the mirror and say, "I never dreamed I
could look that good."

De-Anne made enough to expand.  She opened her antiques shop
right next door to her beauty parlor.  And she still knew what
people wanted.   Her little shop always managed to sell somebody
something, and they always really liked it.


Beverly was wearing her newest nightie, the blue satin one , the
one so flattering to her warm pink tones and her brand new dark 
blonde hair.  De-Anne had given her both the nightie and the hair
color.

"Now look at this," De-Anne was saying as they lay in bed
together, between the warm clean white sheets with the lacy
comforters.  The peach-colored lamps on each side of the bed gave
a soft enticing glow, and on the floor Cocoa breathed softly in
her little basket.

"What is it?" Beverly snuggled closer.

"The latest pictures of the Boys."  Then they both giggled.

*Life* magazine was running a little pictorial essay just to
remind everyone on earth why they loved the Boys so much (Quark
had arranged this;  it was going to tie in with their newest
record releases, solo albums by Q and Geordi.   Although
everybody was making guest tracks, these were clearly solo albums
and hence a marketing gamble.)

One picture showed Q and Jean-Luc sitting together; Jean-Luc
looked cross and furious as usual, but Q's eyes were soft,
intense.  He was such a beautiful man.

"He never looked at me thataway," Beverly said in a mock grumble.

Worf was shown in a scanty little outfit lifting weights. *Life*
knew its audience.

Both women stared at this photograph for some time.

"Can you believe that?" De-Anne finally said.

Beverly wiggled.  "He needs to put some real britches on."

"Ummmm."

"De-Anne, what do you suppose the deal is with that Jean-Luc?" 
What did Q see in him?  "Do you think it's wrong?"

"What's wrong with a little loving?"

Beverly looked at De-Anne.  Cocoa sighed and rustled.   She
swallowed.  "I don't think I ever told you how comfortable I am
here."

"Good," De-Anne said.  They looked at each other; then De-Anne
leaned over and kissed Beverly's cheek.  And Beverly put her arm
around De-Anne's shoulders, soft and full as breasts.  

And De-Anne's warm wet breath was in her ear and at first Beverly
couldn't quite hear what she was whispering, but then she could:
Beverly felt a stirring in her, and it made her a bit
embarrassed.  "You keep talking like that, De-Anne, I'm going to
be too hot and bothered to stay in this bed."

"No, you won't."

"Won't what?"  De-Anne's voice was still close.  If Beverly edged
a little closer . . . 

"Have to leave this bed."  De-Anne shifted towards her, just a
little. 

"What will happen if I stay?"  Beverly breathed.  But she edged
closer too.  

"I don't know."  Now their faces were inches apart. 

"Neither do I."  Beverly didn't pull away.

De-Anne wiggled so their bodies were almost touching.  She made a
sound, something between a gasp and a giggle.

Beverly giggled too, because she was nervous.  Because she could
say 'Oh, we were only fooling around,' if anybody ever accused
her.  Because she wanted this, and the strangeness of it
frightened her.  It was like a funhouse mirror.  You didn't
recognize the person you were anymore,  even though you knew it
was you.

"De-Anne?"

"Yeah?"

"Have you ever. . . ?"

"Yes," De-Anne answered firmly and leaned over and kissed her. 
"Just now." 

"Oh."  Beverly was relieved.  She leaned over too, found
De-Anne's mouth in the darkness and kissed her back.  "Me too."

They kissed and kissed in the darkness.  Beverly closed her eyes
and opened them again, to see if it made a difference.  Nothing
changed.   De-Anne still smelled of perfumed soap and clean
linen, and Beverly still wanted to be right where she was.

"'I could clean your linen for you,' Beverly thought.  'Keep it
smelling nice.'  She put her hand on De-Anne's waist and pulled
her on top of her.  Then De-Anne tilted her hips in, getting the
angle right.  

Beverly's body was throbbing all over.  She was getting more
excited, letting herself go, matching De-Anne's arousal.  She
could do this without feeling guilty, like with Q, or ashamed,
like with her brothers.  It was just friendly and nice.  She
really liked De-Anne.  Their soft cries reached a crescendo and
then faded into the night. 

For a long time both women were silent.  Finally De-Anne asked,
"Are you okay?"

"Yeah."  She was, too.  She liked what they had just done and
wanted to do more.  "Are you?"

"Yeah."

More silence ensued; then Beverly had to ask, "Are you still
thinking about Worf?"  She couldn't believe she had the nerve to
tease this way.  After all De-Anne might say yes, you just saw
his picture and you know what I'm missing.    

But De-Anne just said "Worf who?" and kissed her.

 
*************************

Geordi frankly hated Ginger, who therefore couldn't keep her 
paws off him.  She jumped on their piano.  She jumped on the
prototypical transport moderator they were constructing with
Spock.  She jumped on Spock, loving his warmth and stillness; she
would kiss Spock when he said, "Kiss."  Data always quit
breathing when that happened. 

Ginger also jumped on Geordi and it spooked him, it just spooked
him.  "You never hear of a seeing-eye cat and there's a reason
for that, Data," Geordi said.  He had never spoken so sharply to
Data before.  "Maybe I should get Will to bring his supersoaker
over here."

Data gasped. 

(Will had thoughtlessly bought a super-powered water gun to spray
at Ginger when she fooled around with Patsy's things; he thought
that would be an amusing solution.  But everyone else was
horrified, Q, Worf, Q's sons, even Jean-Luc.  "For Christ's sake,
give the beast its freedom," he growled.) 


"Geordi, I could not squirt my cat."

They compromised by having Ginger wear a bell; because Geordi had
such keen hearing, Data buffered the bell so it gave the merest
tinkle (he did not want to traumatize Ginger   finding  the sad
little stray in the garden had been horrifying enough.)

Data ended up teaching Patsy not to pull Ginger's tail.  Even
Will said it would have been better to just let her pull it and
get scratched, but Data really didn't want Patsy to get scratched
or Ginger to get pulled.  

And then he taught Geordi to sit down slowly in the chairs Ginger
liked to sit in so he wouldn't have the shock of sitting on the
squawking, hissing Ginger.

*************************

De-Anne had a pink telephone!  Did you ever!

"I'm going to owe you for this phone call, De-Anne!"

"I'll take it out of your first month's rent," they smiled at
each other.

Beverly dialed her mother's number with trembling hands.  What if
Buddy or Junior or Sonny answered?  But then she heard Momma's
familiar twang, "Hello?" 

"Momma!" she breathed.

"Beverly LaNelle Crusher, where are you?  I been worried sick." 
Her mother sounded so happy to hear her.  

Beverly smiled into the pink receiver."Momma, I got news!" 

"Oh Lord," her momma said.  Country people were always afraid of
news, especially news on the telephone.

"Momma, it's good news!  Momma, listen, guess what." Now suddenly
Beverly was shy about her news.  "Momma, I got a job."

"A job!"  Her mother was shocked.

"A job!  And I've rented a little house and I'm going to save up
my money and get Q to help us out and we're going to open up a
restaurant.  And my boss -- well, she was my roommate til I got
settled in -- she's real sweet and my car and . . . " Beverly
didn't quite know how to say it but . . . she had it all now.  
That was what she wanted to tell her mother. She had it all. 
"I'm going to work for this real nice woman here in West Virginia
and live downtown and I can walk to Sears from my house and to
the movies; we live that close in.  And I'm going to have Q drop
the boys off here 'cause they got really good city schools here
but we'll come see you Labor Day weekend."  

"Oh, my," her mother said.  Beverly could tell her mother was
trying to envision this wonderland.  "How's that house heated?"

"Electric heat, Momma!"

"Oh, my."
                         
*************************

Q, Will, Worf, and the boys were taking old route 66 back to West
Virginia.  

Roadside attractions held dominion over all.  

*************************
     
"Momma's babies," Beverly crooned as her wide-eyed boys got out
of the car. 

The boys loved their big dizzy momma but what now?  Still, Diddy
said they had to be the man when he wasn't there.  

"I already don't like West Virginia, Momma, I want to go back to
Kentucky," little Roger said.  He spoke for all of them. "Or
California."

Beverly looked at him (Q was very tactfully staying out of it). 
Then she said: "Believe it or not, I understand.  But I want us
to give West Virginia a try.  I've rented us a little house and
it's downtown and it's got a sidewalk."

A sidewalk.  


Even Diddy's house in Beverly Hills didn't have a sidewalk in
front of it.

"And I got cable."

"Is Diddy giving you more money?" Vernon, the middle boy, asked.

"No!  I've got a job!  I'm helping manage a beauty parlor.   I
make good money.  Hey," she leaned down, "me and De-Anne are 
going to open up a restaurant soon.  I'll even hire you all and
pay you a dollar a hour!"

The boys nudged each other.  Life had lost none of its savor.  


For their famous guests, Beverly made her special German potato
salad with brown sugar, vinegar, bacon and onions and a little
pepper.  Will and Q were genuinely appreciative. 

But Worf was too sick to eat.

Maddeningly, De-Anne was more beautiful than ever; with all this
good cooking, she had gained weight in all the right places, with
a full little face and nice, big tits, a big round bottom.  And,
like a cold slap in the face, another woman as a lover.

Everybody was being so pleasant, so cordial, Q nodding agreeably
to that Beverly, De-Anne now hugging Q's sons, and he, Worf, was
back at the place where his whole world had cracked in two, like
the site of a vast and horrible massacre.

And Will?

Once a whore, always a whore.



Damn!

Will's eyes never left the two lovely ladies. 

They were the two hottest babes he'd ever seen.

And they sure could cook.

A tiny little tendril of a thought crept into his brain.  He
almost wanted to stay there forever and have  these two women
take care of him too.  After all, here with them was a lot more
like where he came from than his big Beverly Hills mansion, and
he wouldn't have to be as careful and learn as many etiquette
tips, and he would have these two fine-looking women to cuddle
with and snuggle with (oh, just like "Three's Company"!  And
everybody thought Jack was a big queer and meanwhile you just
knew he was getting it on with Chrissy and Janet.)  Beverly and
De-Anne maybe wearing little aprons with nothing on underneath
and taking turns sitting on it at least until all the kids got
home from their school.  He and Beverly could take turns cooking,
see?  And Patsy could go to school with Beverly's boys and wear a
lovely little uniform, and he would press it for her every night
so she looked beautiful, and it would be a wonderful life.  And
now De-Anne was leaning over and touching his hair, and it was so
gentle and soft that Will was enchanted.  He knew that all De-
Anne really meant was  'Isn't it nice that my former husband has
a nice guy like you to love him,' but Will couldn't help himself. 
Two pretty women and wonderful food to eat every day and Patsy
safe and sound.

Then he looked at Worf.  Stoic, distant, in pain.

Will immediately got up from the table.  

"We have to get an early start tomorrow.  And Worf and I really
need to telephone our daughter.  We should probably head on back
to our hotel."

"I wish I had room for you to stay here," De-Anne murmured
politely.

Will smiled a friendly Will smile and thanked her as Q hugged his
sons good-bye.
     

After he got off the phone with Patsy, he turned to Worf: "De-
Anne's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, Worf."     Worf
didn't say anything.

Will curved his warm, constantly sweaty bulk around Worf's body. 
He wanted to be comforting, and that was the only thing he could
think of doing.

Worf put his hand on Will's hair.  It had started to gray.
"You're not going anywhere," he said and put both powerful arms
around him.  De-Anne was a Goddess but he was not a God and she
had flown away; after that, Worf   willingly - had turned to a
woman more earthbound, less desired by the world.  Surely, in her
messy lassitude, this woman would stay by him.  

"I will never leave you.  I will always obey you," Will said
breathlessly.   He was where he should be, with someone who owned
him and loved him.  Someone who cared enough to fight for him. 
And, if he didn't have Worf, he would have nothing.  "Always."

*************************

"Who's cooking tonight?" Chris asked.  

"You might as well let Patsy have a turn.  She couldn't do worse
than any of us," Geordi said.  

"Isn't there a Ethiopian restaurant that delivers?" Spock asked.

"I want Big Daddy Will!" Patsy wailed.

"I know just how you feel," Geordi told her.

***************************                  

Q said good-bye to Beverly and the boys, and Worf nodded at De-
Anne, and they hit the road.

They decided to a take a rough route through the Smokies before
they joined the zooming interstate around . . . Nashville (Q 
gulped at that).

But on the first night, on their way to a little tourist court,
they got caught in a rainstorm. 

It was as if the three men in some sort of space ship alone in
the middle of nothing; the rain fell in solid sheets.  They
couldn't move in the dark. 

"Looks like we have some time to kill," said Will.  The jeep he
had been driving was warm and dry   no one was around. "Let's
have some fun, yall.  Let's do something different."  He really
did have a one-track mind.  Worf had been sitting in the back
seat with Q; they had intended to nap.

"How different?" Worf breathed.

"Real piss different.  Everybody think."

There was silence; the rain washed around the car.

"Who's getting a little stinger?"  Will said seductively.

"Me," said Worf.

"Me," said Q.

"I'm going to bring mine out," said Will.  "I can't hardly stand
it."  He stroked himself in a practiced way.  "Maybe somebody can
fuck somebody in the car in the rain."

"In the ass," Worf said.

"What are you thinking?"

"If I kneel here on the back seat, Q can fuck me in the ass here.
I never had that happen.  He fucked you," Worf explained.

"Yeah, and it was so fucking hot."

"I want it up the ass, here, now."

"You have to suck me first," Q dimpled   he was fully erect.  And
Worf leaned over and took Q into his mouth, Q was warm and sweet,
and then he turned over on his hands and knees and Q eased
himself all the way in, Will watching the whole while as Worf
groaned and bellowed and Q moved in and out and in and out.  And
soon Q was gripping Worf's hard hips and panting, moving his hand
under Worf to play with him; then he was coming against Worf and
Worf was sweating in the humid car and breathing heavily.

Then Q sat back; his pants were down around his knees. "Jesus,"
he said.

And Worf and Will looked at each other, and Worf said simply,
"Yes."

Q said, "Yes what?"  

Will's face lit up.  "Oh, thank you."

And when Will said that, Q knew what was happening and he
obligingly climbed underneath Worf and kissed him and played with
his tits while Will climbed back with them and starting fucking
Worf.

Their breathing and the rain made the inside of the car steamy,
like an aquarium, and Worf seemed to have trouble breathing and
then he groaned and came and came against Q's belly and Q kissed
him and pinched his nipples and Will kept beating against Worf's
full buttocks and then he too panted and came.  

Then all three lay against each other, crowded in the back of the
jeep, with Worf in the middle and Q and Will to either side,
perfectly peaceful.
          
*************************
               
"Boss, you'll need a housekeeper."  Joe Sisco was serious.

"Why?"

"I don't dust.  For no amount of money."

"You know anybody?  She's got to be reliable.  Or he."

"Actually I do."

"How surprising."

"In the army I knew a man named Tyler.  He fell in love with a
little brown girl in Haiti.  Moved there and married her and they
had a little daughter.  Now the daughter's grown up and she's
coming up here to go to a junior college. Nice girl.  Ambitious. 
An American citizen thanks to her pop.  Tyler's died a few years
ago, and I got to look out for her.  She needs a job while she's
in school.  Let her do this for a while."

"Was Tyler a white man?"

"No, why?" Sisco gave Jean-Luc a look.  

"No reason."  Jean-Luc was just curious. "Send her in."

*************************

Jean-Luc liked Sebastiana the minute he saw her.  She was very
young and shy and skinny and had skin like pitch.  He noticed her
big dark eyes, and then her cheekbones, and then her narrow hips. 
He forced himself to ignore her mouth which was as generous and
beautiful as Melinda's own.  She was like a little sister, he
told himself.

When she first got out of the cab, heaving her big suitcase, she
was wearing a charming little coat with a matching hat, and she
clutched her hands together in joy when Melinda smiled and hugged
her and told her they wanted to hire her.

"Make yourself at home, Sebastiana," Melinda said.  "You need to. 
We spend a lot of time on the road.  As a matter of fact, both of
us are headed out at the end of the month.  Jean-Luc's going to
California, and I've got to go to Monaco."

"I'll make your house so clean you won't know it."  Her accent
was charming.

"And get that schoolwork done," Joe added.

"Oh, yes!"     

*************************

When Q, Will and Worf got back, there was a message for Will.

Snake Ducatti wanted to see him.

Will took his jeep to his office. 


So it wasn't over.  

He had been being the same old stupid Will when he thought
Ducatti was finished with him.

He hated himself.

"Will," Ducatti said in his hissing way.  "How are you?" he
reached out his long scaly fingers to shake Will's hand.

Will had no way to resist.  He shook Ducatti's hand.

"Everything worked out perfectly, didn't it?  But now it's time
for my share.  Everybody and his dog knows about the kind of
action you Boys are getting.  I just wanna taste a little
spillover."

"I'm not sure I . . . "

"Your bald-headed boyfriend told me all about it.  You and your
little baby.  If you can buy babies, well . . . I know you can
help me out."

"What. . . ?"

"I just want some chicken is all.  You can get all the little
boys on earth.  Time to share or face the consequences."

"You've got it all wrong, Mr. Ducatti."

"What's with the baby?"

"For heaven's sake," Will whispered.  "She's my daughter.  I'm
her father."

"And that's a fun game.  But the Snake wants some fun too."  

"No."  Will was trembling.

"Don't tell the Snake 'no'."  Ducatti uncoiled himself; he was
long and lean like a knife.  "Bad things happen to people who say
no to the Snake.  The Snake wants some kiddy action.  You've got
it; now give it to me."

"I can't."

Ducatti leaned in, fixing his mesmerizing reptilian eyes on Will. 
"If I don't get what I want, guess what might happen?"

Will felt paralyzed.  He could only think of one thing to say:
"You know Jean-Luc bought me for three hundred dollars.  I don't
like to do things without him.  Let me talk to him to work out .
. . details and stuff."

Ducatti blinked slowly.  "Three hundred? Your price sure came
down fast."


Geordi and Data were hunkered together in the music room trying
to unravel the myriad mysteries of Hank Snow when Will walked in.

His skin was the color of swiss cheese, white, greasy   he seemed
about to faint.

"I need Spock," he whispered.
      
*************************

Rhemuel spent the morning thinking about the Jewish Zen Buddhists
he'd lived with in Seattle.  It had been a long time ago, but he
still recalled them with aching fondness.  It had been the one
time in his life when nothing about him was misunderstood -- not
his yarmulke, not his meditation not his practice, not anything.

These Boys were like that too, questioning very little about him
even though he was quite obviously different from themselves. 
Data, of course, queried him constantly on his knowledge of
physics, but very carefully avoided soliciting  anything personal
unless it was entirely necessary.  They seemed to have an 
unwritten agreement to give each other space whenever they could
manage it.  Rhemuel thought they lived like ants in a colony,
each one with his or her specialized role.  Even Upenda and
Christine had fallen into that pattern. 

The only mystery was his own role.  Why was he still here?  He
had put the finishing touches on the transport enhancer, and he
was doing Data and Geordi no favors by staying.  Logic should
dictate that he leave.

But over many years Rhemuel had learned that there was more to
life than logic.  He had discovered,  through trial and much
error, that feelings also had to be accounted for.  Rhemuel
thought about  that -- thought about synergism and synchronicity. 
Nothing else was required of him at the moment; it was really
time to go, yet he had a strong sense of unfinished business, and
he didn't think it wise to ignore it.  Abruptly an image of Will
and Patsy popped into his mind.   Rhemuel steepled his fingers. 
He would wait.  It was clear that something was afoot. (He smiled
to himself.  Data had taught him to say that.)  
 
       
So Rhemuel kept his features calm when Will came to him later
that afternoon and asked if they could speak privately.

They went into the formal living room.  

And Will sat before him passive, frozen, defeated.  

Rhemuel carefully kept his features neutral.  He'd made the
acquaintance of a three-legged dog once, a creature with every
disadvantage who nonetheless stumped along gamely, making the
best life for herself that she could.  Will reminded him of that
little bitch, but Rhemuel chastised himself for his pity.  Will's
worth did not depend on his education or his emotional stability,
and he, Rhemuel, should know that by now.  

"I see Patsy has a new tutu," he said gently.  

Will's face lit up and he sat a little straighter.  "And she has
new ballet slippers too.  I told her not to wear them outside 
but she did anyway.   She wore them out in less  than two weeks. 
Jean-Luc said I shouldn't let her get away with so much, but she
likes them, and I don't  want to tell her no." 

Rhemuel made a noncommittal sound.  He did not care for 
Jean-Luc.  He'd learned to be less judgemental over the years,
and so did not condemn the Boys' charismatic leader, but Jean-Luc
lived in a state of unrelenting rage and pain, and Rhemuel found
it disruptive.  The entire house walked on eggshells when he was
around, and his will prevailed even when  he was gone.

"Pink becomes her."

Will shone more brightly.  "Doesn't it?  She  looks like a little
angel.  I can't wait for her  recital."  He paused, apologizing
for himself.  "It's  not like a real ballet or anything.  I mean,
I have to take her to a ballet so she'll understand why she goes
to dance class twice a week.  I mean, me and Q will take her."

Of course.  Will didn't do much of anything on his own, but still
he managed to get things done.   

"Is something else on your mind, Will?"

The cheerful fa‡ade crumpled.  After a long pause, Will asked,
"Remember that time with Patsy?  In the kitchen?"

"Of course."

"And after that party?"

"Yes."

"I asked one of my . . . older clients . . . well, he . . . it's
complicated.  He wants me to bring him little boys, I guess. 
He's buggy."  Will was overwhelmed.

Rhemuel took a moment or two to pull himself  together. He
breathed slowly.  He thought of the unending ice fields of his
Russian childhood.  Ice was still and cold and impervious to
rage.  Ice felt nothing.  He, Rhemuel, felt nothing.  Suddenly
his mind was clear of emotion again.  He felt a tickle of pride
that this clearing exercise took less and less time as years went
by. 

"I have a good friend," he finally spoke.  "You may have heard me
speak of him."

"Your old army friend? Captain Kirk?"


Spock was not surprised that Will picked up on that.   Rhemuel
had noticed he was very good at reading cues.  

"Yes, Kirk.  He  helps people sometimes.  He will help us if I
ask him to."

"I'd like that.  I wouldn't ask except Ducatti threatened to hurt
Patsy."   Then Will added in a rush.  "It doesn't matter about me
anymore, but he wants to get other children."

"If Kirk has anything to do with it, Patsy will never be hurt." 
Rhemuel promised.
 
*************************

The next morning, Will left a message for Ducatti.  The message
was "no".

*************************

During the week, everyone grew increasingly nervous though no one
really knew why.  Will was obviously afraid of something, and
Spock walked with him by the pool, but neither would say what
they talked about.
 
Worf watched but said nothing.  He found himself flexing his
fingers for no reason he could think of.  He abruptly announced
that the switch grass needed trimming and went out and bought a
machete.   

Upenda and Chris were a little less subtle about their beady-eyed
vigilance in regard to all things Patsy.

Data, Geordi and Q stayed very quiet, listening for instructions
from Worf or Spock.  

Nobody admitted that they were all preparing for... something...
but Wednesday morning, when the doorbell rang, everyone jumped. 
Worf eased over to the living room window and looked out.  Q took
his cue from Worf and ran over to the window on the other side. 
There was a delivery truck at the end of the drive.  

Probably just more boxes of equipment for Spock's project.  

The burly delivery man eased his truck up the driveway, got out
and carried an armload of boxes to the front door.  He seemed to
have them balanced perfectly until he stepped inside and lost his
footing.  The boxes began to sway precariously.  


Spock was closest to the door and he made a creaky dive for the
boxes.

He missed.  Then a small miracle happened: the boxes righted
themselves.

The delivery man tore his driver's cap off and smiled.   "Almost
had you there, didn't I?"         

Spock froze for a second; then delight and amazement crossed his
features. 

"JIM!"

The delivery man looked inordinately pleased with himself.   

The stack of boxes might as well have not existed. 

Spock reached out, wrapped his hands around Jim's arms and simply
held on. 

Jim!  

The Boys all stared.  So this was Jim!  The enigmatic Captain Jim
Kirk, the man Spock could not speak of without a mysterious fire
lighting behind his calm eyes.  

Jim! 

Spock remained speechless, staring, smiling.   

Jim smiled back, his ruddy face turning bright red.

"Spock?"  He finally said.

"Yes, Jim."

"Ouch?"

Spock abruptly realized that he had Kirk's arms in a grip of
iron.  He let go and straightened up, and suddenly he was as calm
and formal as if he were talking to a stranger.  

"Jim," he took a step back.  "Please come in.  I would like you
to meet some new friends..."
                         
Q looked at Will and rolled his eyes.  It was obvious that all
Spock wanted was to pull Jim down and ram his tongue down Jim's
throat.  Each of them lifted a brow.  That Spock.

Kirk's eyes were merry and amused as he tried to follow Spock's
formality.  He cleared his throat. 

"It's good to see you again."  Kirk lowered his eyes briefly and 
then raised them again; he was enchanting. "I thought it might be
you ordering this exotic equipment.  So I decided to come check
it out."  By now his voice was a low murmur.  "And here you are."

Spock had to clear his throat also.  "Indeed."

"Well,"  Kirk's gaze turned amused.  "I'd better get this truck
back."

A smile twitched at the corner of Spock's face.  "Please do not
feel you must hurry.  I believe you would be most interested in
the project I am working on at the moment, Jim." 

"No!  I mean, maybe later."  Jim's eyes slid down Spock's body to
rest on the box at his feet.  "I take it you have some use for
these little toys I brought."  His warm bouncy voice had a
teasing suggestion in it.

All the Boys shivered, watching them. 

Spock responded with a slight reddening across his cheeks.  He,
too, did not bother to control his roughening voice.  "I am
sure I will be, as always, quite pleased with the toys you've
brought me, Jim."

"You know where I'm staying," Kirk murmured.   

"Of course.  Perhaps I will be able to visit you this evening."

"I... look forward to our meeting."  

"As do I."  All the control was back in Spock's voice, but it
didn't make a bit of difference.  His entire being was centered
on Kirk's gaze.   

"Spock?"  Data said in a low voice, "you won't introduce me to
your friends?"

"Remiss of me," Spock answered faintly.  His eyes had yet to
leave Jim's. "David Soong."  (Was there the  slightest stress on
Data's last name?)  "My friend James Kirk."

Everyone caught it.  James Kirk's eyes hardened  perceptively as
they flicked over Data's face.  His  smile, nonetheless, was
professionally charming.   "Pleased to meet you, David."

"I am called Data," Data corrected.  "And I am pleased to  make
your acquaintance as well."

"Data Soong?  Have we met before?"

"Not to my knowledge, Sir."

"Jim," Spock explained, "Data and I have become quite close over
the past several months."  Spock did not move closer to Data, so
much as shift his stance so that he and Data faced one another. 
His eyes stayed glued to Kirk, but his body hovered  protectively
over his young friend.  "He is a brilliant mathematician."

"Only because I stand on the shoulders of giants."  Data looked
up at Spock adoringly.

Kirk's face softened in understanding.  "I'm glad." 

"As am I, Mr. Kirk."

"You mean Captain," said Spock.

"Call me Jim."  Kirk smiled again.  This time, when his gaze
moved back to Spock, it was full of warmth and amusement.  

"Jim Kirk, meet Geordi laForge, Q McConn, Worf Rodshenko."

Everyone nodded at one another.  

"I suppose I should be going," Kirk said.

"Perhaps not quite yet," Spock said.  "The Boys and I... find
ourselves in a somewhat... difficult situation.  Your appearance
may prove quite serendipitous."

"Spock, Spock!"  Jim sounded teasingly reproachful.
"Serendipitous?   Don't you know by now?  I can always tell when
you want me." 

Spock looked as if he were about to faint.

Jim's eyes swept over Spock's discomfiture and then took in the
rest of the group.  "Something's happened, hasn't it?  Something
bad." 

Spock had to clear his throat a second time.  "Perhaps we'd all
better sit down." 

    
Now it was Will's turn on stage.  He was terrified.  Speaking in
front of the this new guy, Kirk, was one thing, but the really
awful part was that what had happened with Worf.  

Will had betrayed Worf.  

Worf would find out all the things Will had hidden from him these
last few days.  Will kept hearing himself pause for long breaks
while his mind insisted on playing back every kind thing Worf had
done for him over the years and a voice in his head screamed
'Traitor!  Traitor!'  

He didn't meet Worf's eye.  Answered Kirk's questions as clearly
as he could and pretended not to see Worf's crossed arms, or his
expression carved out of rock.

When Kirk had gathered all the information he needed and excused
himself with promises to return the next day, Will didn't even
have to ask what he should do next.  He simply went up to their
bedroom and waited.

When Worf came in, he was sitting on the bed, hunched around
himself.   

"I'm sorry," Will said.  "I wanted to tell you, but I was
afraid."

Worf said nothing.  His arms were crossed in front of him and his
face was still closed.

"I'm sorry!"  Will repeated.  "Worf, please don't..."

He paused, unsure of what to say next.  Please don't be angry. 
Please don't stay silent.  Please don't stop loving me.  For a
crazy moment he was sure this fiasco was all Big Daddy's
evildoing, his malevolent hand reaching from the grave to make
good on his threat to destroy Will's life. 

Will stared apprehensively as Worf, still silent, crossed the
room to the toy drawer.  Then Worf got out the handcuffs and
turned to Will with a cold, expectant expression.  Will slid off
the bed and knelt in handcuff posture, his wrists together,
hugging the metal bedpost.  This position usually meant an
evening of fun, but now Will trembled in fear of what was to
come.  

All that happened, however, was that Worf cuffed him to the bed
and left the room.  


At first Will was relieved, but, as time ticked past, he began to
see just how awful a punishment this was.  Immobilized, he had
nothing to do but think about how he'd betrayed their
relationship by not telling Worf what had transpired between him
and Ducatti.  Even worse, he'd confided in someone else.  A total
stranger.  A  man who hadn't even fucked him for Christ sake! 
Tears of remorse welled up.  He wished Q would come in and make
him feel better.  He wished Worf would come back and give him the
beating he deserved.   

But when Worf did come, it was only to let him go to the bathroom
and feed him dinner from a carry-out box.  Will wore the
handcuffs while he ate from Worf's chilled hands.  He stayed on
his knees; his shame was so overpowering he couldn't even meet
Worf's eye.  And Worf wasn't even mistreating him.  He was simply
refusing to engage, and his withdrawal punished Will more
fiercely than any physical violence.  

Worf didn't say a word.  He gestured to the kneeling post again,
and Will took his place, tears streaming.  Outside their
bedroom-turned-punishment-box, the rest of the evening went on
normally.  The room darkened as the sun went down.  He heard the
other Boys getting dinner, going about their usual activities. 
He felt very sorry for himself.

Eventually he heard Worf give Patsy her bath, read her a bedtime
story, and kiss her goodnight.  Worf did all of it with the
bathroom doors open so that Will could hear every bit of their
precious night-time routine.  

It was agony not being able to participate.  'This is what I did
to Worf,' he admitted to himself.  'Cut him off, tuned him out. 
How could I have been so horrible?'  Will could have screamed his
remorse, but he knew better than to make noise.

Finally Worf came in from his shower, took a fresh pair of briefs
out of his drawer and pulled on a t-shirt.   

'I can't even pick up his dirty underwear,' Will realized.  'I
couldn't pick up Patsy's clothes, didn't help with dinner...'

"Worf?  He heard his own muffled voice speaking into the covers. 
"Worf, I'm sorry."

Worf didn't answer him.  He got under the covers and turned off
the lights.  

Will teared up again, crying softly so he wouldn't disturb his
husband.  


The following morning he opened his eyes.  He was still in the
same position, cramped and cold.  Then  he felt his hands being
uncuffed.  

"Now do you understand?"

Will buried his face against Worf's thigh, clutching, crying.  "I
won't ever do it again.  I'm sorry, please forgive me.  I'll
never do that again."

Worf took Will's bearded face in his hand and turned it up so
they were looking eye to eye.  "I will hold you to that." 

Will took a deep, shuddering breath, sobered by what he was
hearing.  Worf was asking him to make a claim of honor.  This was
more important than life and death.  Will straightened up.  He
held Worf's eye, and, even though his voice shook, his words were
perfectly clear.  "Never again.  I swear it."

*************************

Kirk was as good as Spock claimed.  A few days later, all of
Ducatti's best clients suddenly started using other delivery
companies. The Snakes's threats did not move them at all.  

So he sent some of his boys around to talk sense into those
fucking hillbilies.

The boys disappeared.

That made Ducatti nervous.  He needed relief bad.  He called Will
and put a hard bite on him.

Jim took the call.  "I want you to leave my friend alone.  Leave
his daughter alone."

"Or else what?"

"There is no 'or else.'  I will never threaten you, though I will
always do what I say I'm going to do.   Your men, in case you're
concerned, are being treated very well.  When you see them again
they will be... different from the way the were before.  It won't
be their fault.  I just thought you'd like to know." 

Indeed his men were different.  Several of them came wandering up
to various of Ducatti's businesses.  They'd been on their
way to do a job when something happened.  They didn't remember
what, exactly, but they remembered going someplace nice.
Enjoyable.  They wanted to go back.  Meanwhile they didn't feel
like hitting people anymore.  Did Mr. Ducatti want his lawn
mowed?  Or a nice meal, or a trip to the opera? 

Ducatti was confounded.  His best henchmen didn't want to be
henchmen anymore.  They had no loyalty to him whatsoever.  Some
of his young up-and-comers offered to kill them.  Ducatti said
no, but there was someone else who could stand a good pasting.


None of Ducatti's boys had heard of Gowron, but that didn't
matter.  They dumped him off at his own front gate just barely
alive, his mouth blackened with dried blood.


"Have you called Picard yet?"  Kirk asked.  At Q's affirmative,
he gave a satisfied nod.  "We'll wait until he gets out here. 
Meanwhile, I have a few things to do yet."  


Data helped Kirk set up a blocker that would prevent Ducatti, or
anyone, from tracing the  call.  Then he watched as Kirk dialed
Ducatti's private number. 

"Edward, that wasn't very nice."  His voice was  suave, even
bland, but there was an undertone of mischief in it, and in his
expression, as he tapped the broadcast button. 

Ducatti was blustering,  "You're next, you cock fuck!" 

"I don't think so."  Kirk sounded more suave than ever.  "I could
be standing beside you  and you'd never see me.  In fact, I was
standing  beside you last night when I heard you tell your boys
that you were tired and you were turning in.  About one-thirty,
outside Tugio's. You never had the slightest idea.  Oh, and by
the way, that white flower delivery van that none of you ever
seems to notice?  It's a  government surveillance van.  Send one
of your boys over to open the back door.  I've fixed it so you
can.   Nothing but cameras, trained on you." 

"Fuck you."  Ducatti was trying to get his own back.

Kirk chuckled.  "You sound like you're afraid,  Eddie.  I wonder
what you're friends would say if they've seen some of the
pictures I've seen." He hung up and turned to Spock and Data, his
expression smug. 

"I see we have not modified our flamboyant style."  The words
were disapproving, but Spock's voice had the faintest purr to it. 

Data looked from one man to the other.  They seemed to be sharing
some moment.   

*************************
         
Jean-Luc went to the hospital even before he went to the house.  
Gowron was in rough shape, but he had gained a great deal of
status for taking such a rough beating for the Boys.  He was a
hero. 

Worf had been sitting next to Gowron ever since he had gotten out
of surgery.  It was a prisoner thing.  If someone to whom you
felt loyalty got sick or incapacitated, you stood guard over him. 
That was all there was to it.  And, when Jean-Luc came in, that
was the changing of the guard. 

"No need for that shit," Gowron said in a rough whisper.

Jean-Luc didn't answer.  He would be replaced in five or six
hours by one of the other ex-cons.  That was that.   

And Jean-Luc was paying for everything, the hospital, the
physical therapy, the dental reconstruction, for everything.  

It was Q who spelled Jean-Luc at Gowron's side;  he insisted on
kissing Jean-Luc good bye as they traded places.


What an asshole.  Still, Q always had the sweetest kisses. 

Q had driven Will's jeep over so Jean-Luc got to drive it home;
oh, the jeep was a perfect kitty-cat.   

Something about sitting exhausted by the fierce roadie's bedside
agreed with Jean-Luc; he only wished he could have faced Ducatti
down with Gowron. 

Even the intervention of those two types Data seemed to have
dragged in was agreeable.  

In fighting Ducatti, everybody was working together again.  Just
like when they'd battled poverty and obscurity and the Kentucky
parole board. 

Jean-Luc gave a dark smile.

*************************

That evening, everyone gathered around the pool, as always.  

Kirk and Spock were there when Jean-Luc joined them.  Kirk was
telling a story, a battle story.  Upenda was correcting his
memory of certain events.  Christine was nodding along.  Spock
sat perfectly still.   

"The most important thing in a situation like that is knowing you
can trust the people around you to do their jobs.  But we had
this guy..."         

"Chekov," Upenda murmured.  She wore an expression of distaste. 

Will squinted at them.  "That's the name of a writer, right?"  

"Yes, but it's also the name of a..."

"Jim,"  Upenda admonished softly.  "Be nice."

"...of a person whose... enthusiasm did not always match his
talent.  But he was on loan.  He was supposed to be the best, so
we had to use him.  But the guy couldn't aim for beans.  We used
to bribe Bones into detailing him into sickbay duty whenever we
had a critical mission so Spock could substitute at his post. 
Pen would take Spock's post.  Chris would take Pen's post, and
then we could get the job done."   Kirk shook his head and
shrugged.  "You did what you had to, to complete the mission, but
sometimes I couldn't believe what I was stuck with."         

Jean-Luc found himself nodding along.  He understood that.  He
wondered what kind of missions Kirk had been on.  "You were in
the Marines?"

"We were detailed to the CIA at the time."  

Kirk launched into another story, engaging, fascinating.  All the
others were glued to his every word.  


Jean-Luc found Kirk and Spock an interesting pair.  Kirk's
emotions never seemed far from the surface; despite his obvious
heroism, and his complete lack of fear, there still was a
neediness about him -- most particularly when he looked at  Spock
-- that was absurdly sexy.  Spock was the exact opposite; he was
quiet and still, his emotions buried deep inside him.   What
would it take to make them flame up?

Jean-Luc thought he knew.  Spock's eyes rarely left Kirk,
although one eyebrow occasionally shot up in punctuation of some
of Kirk's more hair-raising tales.   It was clear to Jean-Luc
that Spock loved Kirk with a love that would never die.

Jean-Luc gazed at Spock and inexplicably thought of Q.  There
were parallels that he wasn't entirely comfortable with.  On one
hand, Jean-Luc was glad to see that handsome lasted longer than
pretty  did.  At one time, clearly, Kirk had been the beauty,
with his slanted eyes and boy's nose and wide beautiful mouth. 
But now that Kirk was older and heavier, that beauty, while still
visible (after all, Kirk was to Jean-Luc an extremely appealing
piece of ass), had cracked and faded.  Spock was harder-featured, 
all bones and nose and ears, but in the fullness of his maturity
he was the one who pleased the eye.   

Perhaps the same would happen with himself and  Q.  Young beauty
and old beauty were two completely different things. Q might stay
pretty, but Jean-Luc was aware of how he himself was growing into
his own features, and the effect was not displeasing.  Perhaps,
like Spock, he might one day get a chance to glow.   

On the other hand, it was unnerving to see where Kirk's strength
and bravery and bravado came from.  He was secure in the love of
Spock; Spock sat there with his love unwavering for his captain. 
Was the same true of him?  When that asshole Fajo had stolen Q, 
Jean-Luc felt himself lose strength.  To this day he couldn't
acknowledge how bereft he'd been without Q's presence.  Of course
Q had come back on his hands and knees.  Jean-Luc smiled.  Old
Spock the rock.  Wonder what Spock would look like on his hands
and knees?

Spock's eyebrow shot up.  He glanced over at Jean-Luc  and their
eyes met.  His smile was amused, knowing.   

What the . . .?

The smile disappeared but not the amusement.  

Jean-Luc felt his face grow very warm.  That hot-skinned bastard
was sitting there reading his mind.  Just like Q did.  Jean-Luc
scowled, and his dark brows came together.  Okay, motherfucker,
read this thought.  

Spock's brows lifted and his head moved back slightly.   Spock
was laughing at him.  Jean-Luc was seething.   

"Spock, what are you doing?" Kirk's voice was pleasantly smooth. 
"Are you torturing our host?"


"Merely re-acquainting myself with the foliage in this very fine
gazebo."

*************************
     
"The next time copies of the pictures go to all your little
business partners.  Would you like that?"  Kirk's voice was as
suave as ever.  "Maybe the one of the little boy sucking your
dick.  Maybe the one of you riding that little boy like you were
in a rodeo."

"You like talking dirty, don't you?  Anonymous little cocksucker. 
Just who the hell are you?"

"Eddie, the only thing you need to know is that  I can get to you
any time I want and you can't even  see me."

"So what the fuck do you want?"

"I think you know."  There was a chuckle in  Kirk's voice as he
hung up the phone. 

"Why didn't you tell him?"  Data demanded.  "It appears you have
him in an optimal position to force him to accede to our
demands."         
Kirk smiled fondly at Data.  "Right now he's only scared.  I want
him desperate."  

"A desperate man may be most unpredictable,"  Spock warned
gently. 

"I think I've accounted for that."  Kirk had a way of glancing at
Spock out of the corner of his eye  that made him look like a
flirtatious young girl.  Surprisingly,  it wasn't even remotely
at odds with his ability to strategize a campaign of terror.  "We
can see him.  He can't see us.  He has no resources we can't
account for."  His gaze swept the rest of the boys.  "Can anyone
think of anything I've missed?"  

"You've bugged his cars, his phones and all his usual places of
business,"  Will pointed out.

Kirk smiled and shook his head.  "Just goes to show, you should
never fall into predictable patterns.  What else?"

"You've got his businesses rigged with plastique.   Upenda says
it can be set off from anywhere within a  twelve-mile radius."

"All his customers are frightened," Worf said. "They've all taken
their business elsewhere." 


Kirk nodded.  "We'll let him stew for a week or  two; then we'll
call him back with our ultimatum.   Agreed?"

Heads around the table nodded.  It sounded like a good plan.  

"Jean-Luc?" 

Jean-Luc sat up in his straight backed chair.  He was extremely
pleased that Kirk sought his final approval.  It was the perfect
touch to acknowledge his position in all their lives.   He
wondered if it was a calculated move on Kirk's part,  but in that
very same moment of wondering, decided that he didn't care.  He
frowned with his thumb across his lips.  Thinking.  Finally he
nodded at Kirk.  "This is good.  Thank you for helping us." 

Kirk's smile was truly charming.  "Thank *you*.  Old retired guys
like me jump at the chance to get back to work."

Jean-Luc nodded and stood up.  The meeting was over.  Then,
underneath the general sounds of people moving about, he heard
Spock say:  "You are not old."  Kirk looked up into Spock's face
and smiled, boyish, coquettish.  'Gotcha,' the smile said. 

Jean-Luc felt his head go light.  He looked down at Kirk's ass. 
Wide, but still firm.  He would fuck Kirk, absolutely, if not for
the fact that it would  complicate things more than they were
already. 

Kirk suddenly turned around to face him.  "Hey, Jean-Luc, an old
acquaintance of yours has hired on to work for Ducatti.  You know
him from Kentucky."  

Jean-Luc lifted his eyebrows.   

"Miles O'Brien.  We learned he told Ducatti that the penal system
*no longer fulfilled his need to contribute to society in a
wholesome, productive fashion.*" 

Despite a certain superciliousness of Kirk's,  Jean-Luc was
intrigued.  "He got fired?" 

"Now he works for the other side.  It happens." 

Kirk kept smiling.  Jean-Luc found the smile half alluring, half
irritating. 

It sure would be pleasant to fuck that smile right off Kirk's
face.

But he remembered Data and Geordi's fights in London and decided
to take no chances.  Besides, he had an inkling Spock was a good
deal more possessive than he let on.

*************************

Beverly's little cafe, 'Country Cooking Cafe,' took off.  They
take a picture of her and put it in the local paper.  The boys
sent a copy to their father.

Q was so proud.

Not that Beverly cared.  She and De-Anne were busy looking for a
sweet little house together.

*************************

September slipped by.  The cat-and-mouse game with Eddie started
to become routine.  Every time Kirk called Ducatti to taunt him,
Ducatti sounded more and more crazed.  

Q observed that what Kirk was doing to Ducatti was the same as
torture. 

Kirk shrugged.  "When I broke into his house, I found pictures of
him with other children.  Recent pictures.  Very recent."

Around the table everyone was quiet.  After that, no one raised
another objection.

*************************

Beverly called; she was nervous and that made Q nervous and he
began to twist his hands together. She said, "I don't know how
you're gonna take this."

"What is it, Bev?  Is the restaurant okay?"

"Oh, yeah, it'd doing real good."

"Did you buy that house?"

"Yeah."

"It's not the boys, is it?  Bev, tell me what's happened!"

She sighed.  "I couldn't help it. I just wanted to take advantage
of this situation."

"What is it, Bev?" Q cried.

"I put the boys in a Catholic school.  They can walk to it from
the house and it's near the restaurant.  It's called Saint Ann's. 
Is that okay?"  

Q bit down a smile: that ancient hillbilly aversion to Catholics,
those fearful people who worshiped a Pope.   

"Q, The boys wear the cutest little uniforms." 

Q  melted.  "Send me pictures of them in their uniforms.  Do you
all need money?"

"No," she said proudly.

**************************
     
Breakfast time: everyone was around the shiny dining table and Q
and Will were bringing in hotcakes and muffins and kasha when
Kirk walked in.  

"Ducatti's in the hospital.  He's suffering from some sort of
psychosomatic blindness.  Very odd."

"Ooooh," Data breathed out.

"Heard it on my spy phone," Kirk purred.  "How about that,
Spock?"
                                        
**************************

It was settled.  Jean-Luc could go back to Tennessee; Melinda had
a week off and he could meet her there.  He only had one thing
left to do.  

The night before he went to Tennessee, Jean-Luc went to Gowron's
room in the carriage house.  

"How are you now, man?"

Gowron was limping, but in great shape.  He had gotten out of the
hospital with new smart-looking dentures and many ruggedly
attractive scars.  And he was more loyal than ever; clearly, he
was on a winning team.

"You want some pain-killers?" Jean-Luc said.  

"Is it moonshine, boss?"  That was the only pain-killer Gowron
associated with Jean-Luc.

"Nope, it's Q."


Gowron liked fucking Q more than anything on earth.  He liked a
soft ass he could brutalize; at first he did it with Q lying on
his stomach, soft as a pillow, and then he turned Q on his back
so he could see Q's big dick jerking with his; then he put Q on
his knees to suck him.  That wide wet red mouth.  The matted wet 
eyelashes.

And when Gowron had to lie down (he was not fully recovered from
the beating Ducatti's goons gave him), he made Q put on a
stimulating little show with the super-willing Klag.  

And Jean-Luc came in and made Q sit on the reclining recuperating
Gowron and jerked off while he watched them.  

And then he went back to Tennessee.
  
*************************
     
"Let me see it, Sebastiana," Melinda said teasingly.

"No, Miss Melinda," Sebastiana said softly, holding it behind her
back. 

"But Joe said you made an A on it."

"Yes, Miss Melinda," Sebastiana's eyes were soft and proud. 

"How about if I ask to see it?" Jean-Luc asked tenderly.   

They were very pleased with Sebastiana.  Sebastiana wore white
socks and tennis shoes with her little uniforms, but on her days
off she went out and bought the latest American fashions.   She
was very clean and neat.  She ironed all their blue jeans until
Jean-Luc finally ordered her not to.  Her main job was to keep
the house clean.  

Still, Jean-Luc was extraordinarily uncomfortable telling her
what to do.  Before,  Q was the one who talked to Mrs. Palomas
about what needed to be done.  Well, fortunately, Melinda was on
good terms with her help and was casual about orders.   "I assume
you know what to do... dust, vacuum, bring the mail, wash the
dishes.  I do my own clothes or I send them out.  You'll wash
Johnny's things."


Jean-Luc wanted to object.  It had been Q's job before, and it 
never bothered him to have Q see his dirty drawers and smelly
t-shirts.  But this was like exposing himself to a stranger, and
he felt unexpectedly awkward.

He was glad Melinda was there, glad they could tease the flushed
and blushing girl about her English paper.

"No, Mister Johnny!" she whispered.

"Just for a minute," he said.  He held his big hand out to her.

"It's too silly.  My teacher was just bein' sweet."

But she handed it to him.

He smiled fondly as he took it from her.  He won!  "Let's see
here," he said.  "'Symbolism in Nathaniel Hawthorne's *The
Scarlet Letter.* That sounds very professional, Sebastiana. 
They'll probably ask you to teach the course next semester."

"Oh, Mister Johnny!"

Melinda kicked him under the table.

"Johnny, you remember that big computer with the word processing
unit we bought and were having delivered."  He said nothing;
Melinda was improvising something.  This was the first he had
heard about a computer.

"Sebastiana can use it also when you aren't writing your songs on
it."  She gave him a steely look.  He better play along with
this.

"Sure," he said agreeably.


"Learning computer stuff will change that child's life.  You
deserve some sugar," Melinda said that night.  "What haven't we
done that you always wanted to do?"

Jean-Luc tried to think, but, when he was that sexed up, it was
hard to remember.  And now Melinda was placing her wide beautiful
mouth right above his dick and looking at him; he could feel her
gentle breath on him and it made him hard, it made him leak.  

"Would you like to stick it in my ass while we stand out on the
balcony?"

Jean-Luc breathed out.

"I really like to be buttfucked, Jean-Luc.  An Anal
Entanglement."

"Let's do that," he said.

"Get naked, motherfucker," she whispered.

But first he watched her take off her clothes; she handled her
own nipples, she touched herself gently between her legs.  Then a
little less gently.

Out on the balcony, he had her lean over its wide stone
balustrades, and then he entered her; oh, he saw stars when he
fucked her that way.  He did it slowly, enjoying the sight of his
dark pink flesh against her, and she kept adjusting her position
to get the most of him in her, using her hands, stretching her
legs.  "Oh, God," she said. "I wish I could pull myself open for
you."

"Let me come and I'll lick you til you come.  Lick you out here
on the balcony.  You're my queen."  

"This is good," she kept insistently backing into him.  "I wish I
could keep you in my butthole all night long."

And suddenly Jean-Luc thought of the fetching and caramel Oralee
  how Q had kept that plastic dick inside her with his own
massive number   and he began to pant and come and batter himself 
against her.

Then, true to his word, he satisfied her under the stars.

*************************

Spock had on a lightly padded kimono, so Data wore one too, and
he bought one for Geordi, enlisting Q's help to find the perfect
color for Geordi's skin.  The silks whispered against their skin
as Data parted Spock's robe and began, gently and slowly, to push
his knees apart and caress his lean thighs.  

Spock sighed.  Data's eager soft mouth reminded him of something. 
Once in Angola, Jim had done that.  After the rickety plane was
finally off the ground and off to a base in North Africa, and
Uhura was getting some much-needed sleep, he and Jim had dived at
each other in the plane's cargo hold.  They'd been urgent,
crazed, but when their clothes were finally off and Spock was
ready to go out of his mind with need, Jim slowed down, evading
Spock's frantic, clutching grasp. 


"Let me do this slowly, Spock.  If we get shot down, I want them
to find us with you in my mouth."

Spock shuddered.  

"What are you thinking about?"  Geordi's voice interrupted his
reverie.

*************************

October was beautiful that year.  The bluest skies possible.  Q
had seen skies that blue only on Fajo's island.  He was about to
have a birthday.  42 in October.  Well, that wasn't much of an
age.

Data said, "many sevens make up 42.  I think it's a very nice
number."

Will said, "Elvis died when he was 42."  Then he said, "Ooops."

Very-Very said, "Let's party."

Even Jean-Luc was coming back from Tennessee for this one.    

Very-Very designed the party; that was his gift to Q.  The floral
arrangements were amazing -- Very-Very was very fond of
anthuriums (for obvious reasons) and they were everywhere in big
beautiful pots around the pool (it was going to be a pool party).

There were also twinkle lights in all the trees.

"You know who gave me the dough for all these pretties, don't
you, Q?"

"Jean-Luc," Q smiled.

Very-Very was taken aback.  "Darling baby Q.  Sweet pretty cutie
Q." He smiled sadly.  "No.   It wasn't Jean-Luc.  It was Casey. 
He couldn't be here, but he wanted you to know he was celebrating
with you."

Q looked down.  "I'll write him a thank-you note."

"He might want more than that."

Q looked back at Very-Very.  "I'd love to see him."

"He wants to see you on his terms."  But Q's cowed look made it
clear this was not a happy topic for Q, and, more than anything,
Very-Very wanted Q to be happy.  "Just wait til you open the
other presents, girlfriend," he whispered and then Q dimpled.

Everyone was there wearing everything (after Patsy got put to bed
many would switch to wearing nothing).

There was even a live band playing fifties music   a salute to
Q's decade.  There was magnificent food and an open bar and 
goldfish bowls filled with condoms and lube all placed around the
pool and the house.  

It was a great October party, very friendly, very naughty.   All
the Girls brought their husbands and boyfriends and somehow all
sorts of random generic major booty turned up to stroll around
all night. 

Chris and Penda were there for Patsy, but they managed to grab a
few slow dances together.  Chris was her usual rangy self, all
Marlboros and capris, but Penda was an autumn beauty   even the
queerest of the queer couldn't keep their eyes off her.

And Data was very pleased   he had persuaded both Spock and Kirk
to come!! (despite demurrals from each that they didn't go to
parties and they wouldn't know anyone at all and anyway they were
too old for this kind of thing.)

And Jean-Luc gratified many by wearing a tiny black Speedo and
nothing but a tiny black Speedo.  The Girls lifted their
collective eyebrows at this.  (Perhaps Q wasn't totally crazy for
loving that wicked Jean-Luc.)
                
                "The night was clear
                and the moon was yellow . . ."  

Jean-Luc smiled; he and Worf were talking to some of the more 
sedate husbands when the band started in with"Stagger-Lee". 
     Jean-Luc loved "Stagger Lee."  It was just . . . so . . . manly. 

Suddenly there was a warmth beside him.   

Kirk was saying, "Let's dance."

Jean-Luc said, "I don't dance."

Kirk said, "Sure you do," and he pulled Jean-Luc into his arms
and they began to dance and Kirk's smile was knowing and amused,
and he murmured, "See, I knew you were good at it."

Jean-Luc tried to glare at him, but suddenly he began to blush.

Q stared at them.  They looked great,  but he didn't want them
together.  They were like powerful magnets; if they got together,
they might never be able to pull away.

The Girls exchanged significant glances and one of them broke
away from the group and came over and pulled Q into his arms. 
"You're dancing with me," she said.

Q was a good dancer.  By the time they got to the break, he was
showing himself off quite naturally, charging the dance with his
own sense of intimacy.  

Very-Very smiled.  Everyone was starting to watch Q, especially
Jean-Luc. 

Kirk still held Jean-Luc in his arms, watching his expression
change, watching the lust move across his features.  He liked
looking at Jean-Luc and Jean-Luc seemed to like being looked at.
Kirk licked his wide lips.  

Jean-Luc stared at Q and let his body move closer to Kirk's.  He
was pleased that Kirk was not leaving, standing with him in one
spot, not even thinking about looking around to see if Spock was
watching them, not even remotely interested in staring at Q.  

Many eyes moved back and forth between Q's smoothly gyrating body
and Jean-Luc's powerful stillness.

"Those Speedos are too much," Very-very said.  "The man is
perfect."

The song ended and another started.  "I'm going to get a drink,"
Kirk said. "Join me."  

Jean-Luc nodded.  They walked together to the bar.  

"October's really kicking in, isn't it?" he remarked.  For
whatever reason, Jean-Luc wanted to keep Kirk at hand.

Kirk stood still for a moment.  He himself was wearing tight
faded jeans and a yellow tee shirt with a nice big flowered
Hawaiian shirt over it.  The corners of his mouth went down in an
ironic smile and he peeled off his Hawaiian shirt. Then, knowing
Jean-Luc was transfixed, he pulled off his tee shirt.  "Here." 
He tossed the undershirt at Jean-Luc who caught it easily.  "I
wouldn't want you to take a chill."  The insinuation in his voice
vibrated all the way down. 


Jean-Luc breathed lightly, staying in control, but it was a near
thing.  He didn't quite trust himself to speak.  Covering, he
breathed in the scent of Kirk's cologne and let himself take in
the sight of Kirk's naked torso.  Kirk was solidly built, like a
Big-Ten Southern football coach or a Texan oil millionaire.
Solid.  Prosperous. His muscles had not run slack and they
probably never would, but they were padded over just enough to
take the angles off his once-sharp physique.  He looked strong.

Jean-Luc solemnly eyed Kirk's prominent nipples.  He could never
get enough of looking at tits. He looked down at the tee shirt in
his hands.  It had a little emblem on it that had gone over
Kirk's left breast.  J.C. Penney's or something.  Suddenly he
smelled something.  

"Do you like my scent?"  There was a special tone was back in
Kirk's voice. "Spock gave it to me, synthesized it for me
actually," said the smiling Kirk -- and he put his outer shirt
back on.   


Jean-Luc took a deep, deep breath.

The band took a break and put some recorded music on.

The first recorded song was the Platters' "Smoke Gets in Your
Eyes," which began the way it always began, with Tony Williams
sounding out the most beautiful syllable in American history, the
extended "they" on "they asked me how I knew."  And Jean-Luc
looked to the dance floor and then back to Kirk, but Kirk was
gone.

However, Q was standing near him, near the pool, a soft Q smile
on his face.

"Come on, Q," he said and took Q in his arms.

It was irritating how pleased Q was to be dancing with him.

"Is this my present, Johnny?"

"You could say that," Jean-Luc said and continued their slow
dancing.  
     

Thank God.  At last.  

Patsy was wearing out.  

It was great that she was there at Uncle Q's birthday party and
eating cake and ice cream and hopping in and out of the pool, but
it was late, and the adults wanted to party like adults.  
 
Will was holding her but she was very fussy, and he was about to
hand her over to Penda when Kirk came up.

"No, no, let me.  That's right, Will, I have talents you don't
know about   I can hold a child in my arms without killing her." 

Everyone looked surprised, even Patsy.

"Let me take Miss Patsy down to the end of the pool     I want to
show her something."

Will grinned; he actually couldn't wait til they got Patsy to
sleep.  He had some ideas for fun.

And Jean-Luc and Q kept dancing together, their bodies closer
than close, and the Platters kept singing, and Kirk carried Patsy
down to the end of the pool where nobody else was and began
pointing to the stars and she pointed too with her little round
hands and he was clearly telling her about the vast other worlds
out there and her head kept nodding and he kept gently rocking
her and then her head fell on his shoulder and he walked back and
handed the completely sleeping Patsy to Penda.

"Thank you.  I was afraid we were going to have give her a
martini to get her to knock off."

And Chris and Penda went to put Patsy in bed and stay with her,
and the second part of the party began.


When the band started again, everybody wanted to dance with Q and
Jean-Luc watched, as usual getting off on the attention his honey
always got.  And men began to go off in twos and threes and come
back flushed, satisfied, smiling in silly ways.

Timmy got Q then and they danced really beautifully.  By now,
everyone was watching them.  

Spock idly walked over to Jean-Luc.  "They have a great deal of
expertise at this, do they not?"

Jean-Luc gave a small smile and nodded.

Suddenly Spock sniffed.  He looked more closely at Jean-Luc and
lifted an eyebrow.

The tee shirt.

Will came out of the bushes shirtless; he was with Worf and a
small blond man.  "This is the best party ever," he breathed. "It
is so hot."

Jean-Luc wasn't about to argue with that.  He was just tired of
waiting. 

When the music ended, he went to the dance floor and grabbed Q's
hand.  "Don't we have a date?" he murmured.


Q beamed. (He was walking off the dance floor with Jean-Luc, and 
Jean-Luc was holding hands with him!  In public!  Everyone was
watching!  And Jean-Luc showed no sign of wanting to move his
hand away!  Q tried to put all his love into the hand Jean-Luc
was holding.  He took his thumb and stroked the sensitive palm
and then he squeezed it gently.  Jean-Luc squeezed back!  Q then
gently rubbed his palm against Jean-Luc's.  Jean-Luc breathed out
audibly!)

"In the bushes now, Q.  I want something quick.  You can just
suck my cock."

"My pleasure," Q breathed.

But the first nook they went to was already occupied by two of
Very-Very's invited guests.  Jean-Luc put his finger to his lips. 
It was a white guy and a black guy and the black guy was in the
white guy who was underneath, writhing, "Simon, oo-ee, Simon!"
and Jean-Luc silently hugged Q and they quietly went to another
secluded place and Jean-Luc pulled his Speedo to the top of his
thighs and Q sucked him gently and so thoroughly that they were
hardly missed anything of the party.  

"I love you, Johnny," Q said deliriously as they walked back. 
Jean-Luc wasn't holding his hand now, but, when Q said that, he
put his hand around Q's waist and gave him a quick hug.  

It was a wonderful birthday.  It was a wonderful party.  

And everybody, not just the birthday boy,  got a lot of what they
wanted.

And it went on til six in the morning.


*************************

It took forty-eight hour for everyone to calm down.  

Jean-Luc restored his equilibrium by swimming laps.  

Once when he looked up, Kirk was standing by the french doors
watching him.

Jean-Luc smiled.

     
At Monday's breakfast, Q came out of the kitchen from helping
Senora Palomas prepare the food and sat down.  He had a large
white envelope with him; Jean-Luc and Worf were the only ones
there.  They watched him open it.  

It was a birthday card from his sons: there was a brightly
colored kangaroo on the cover saying "Hoppy Birthday."  Some
photographs were enclosed.

Q gave a tender smile, and his eyes softened.  "Look, here's my
boys in their school uniforms."

Jean-Luc and Worf looked the pictures over.  "They certainly have
red hair," Worf said.

Then one of those emotional looks crossed Q's eyes; he leaned his
head down.  "I'm so scared.  Now that Beverly's left Kentucky,
her brothers . . . I bet they think they've lost their meal
ticket.  Which they have kind of.  It wouldn't surprise me a bit
if they didn't have something planned.  Someway to get at us."  

"We can handle those assholes."  Jean-Luc said; Q could tell he
was looking forward to it.   Then Jean-Luc turned to Worf. 
"Where's your woman?"   

Worf breathed in.  "Late last night, Kirk came to me.  He wanted
my permission to fuck Will.  Of course, I granted it.  That is
the proper thing to do."  He shrugged.  "Kirk is a great leader. 
One always shares one's women with the leader."  He nodded to
Jean-Luc, who nodded back.

And then he said: "Worf, are you lonesome tonight?"

They all smiled.

"Q, when do we go back to work on the new album?"

"The producers are flying in from Muscle Shoals at the end of the
week."

"Then, let's have fun til then.  If you're not doing anything
tonight, Worf . . .?"

"My pleasure, Jean-Luc."


Worf was lying on his back with his beautiful hard dick in  the
breeze.  Q climbed on top of him, facing him.  He guided Worf's
dick into his ass and rocked himself slowly.   

Jean-Luc watched Q work himself up and down on the big cock and
he was suddenly struck with a brilliant idea.

"Sit still,"  he ordered.  "Now lean forward."

Q did as he was told, and Jean-Luc climbed on too, squatting over
Worf's thighs.  Jean-Luc pushed Q forward a bit more and then
started to force his dick into Q's hot asshole, right up there
next to Worf's.  Q moaned, which made Jean-Luc push in even
harder. 

When Q finally caught his breath, he could feel all of Jean-Luc
and Worf, fighting for room up inside him. He could feel their
dicks rubbing against each other.  It was as if they were fucking
each other inside his ass, and they were going crazy.  He felt
like the great whore of the galaxy.  Worf was roaring and
clutching at him; Jean-Luc was grunting and heaving like a boxer
in a prize fight.  Worf thrust into him hard and Jean-Luc cried
out, "Not too soon, Worf, make it last." 

"I... can't," Worf gasped.  He pushed Q down against his dick and
Jean-Luc was draped over Q's back, riding Q's ass, and Q took it
all, calling out to them to fuck him so hard Daddy please fuck
him in his asshole please, him and Worf fuck him so good please,
and Worf and Jean-Luc bellowed and came at the same time, and he
felt them shoot, both inside him, coming, filling him up with all
of them, and he was so proud of himself he could barely see
straight.  
Jean-Luc pulled Q off of Worf and pressed his wet dick against
Q's thigh, the better to stain him all over with come.  He felt
stunned.  He could barely think straight. 

"Buy a video camera," he finally said.  He couldn't force his
voice above a murmur as he burrowed himself next to the damp and
satisfied Q.  "We're doing that again and recording it."

On Q's other side Worf growled, "We already have one.  Will
bought it for just such occasions.  Well, for Patsy's ballet
recitals too."


Kirk claimed Will the next night as well.  

"Can you imagine that flesh next to that flesh?"   Jean-Luc shook
his head.


Worf got out the videocam and some accessories. 

"Stick something in him, Jean-Luc."  There was a  ten-inch bright
pink dildo handy so Worf got to film that.  When they played it
back,  it was mostly just Q's  ass with the dildo going in and
out of it, and the  sound of Q moaning and Jean-Luc adding more
lube and occasionally whispering "Motherfucker!"   

"Turn that thing off."  Q was suddenly embarrassed.

"I don't think so," said Jean-Luc.  

"Q's being very disobedient.  Q might have to be restrained,"
Worf said smiling.         

They ended up handcuffing Q on his stomach at the foot of the bed
so he had to watch the video over and over again. 

In the video, Q made soft squealing noises, and they had a great
view of Q's balls and his long hard dick hanging down.  It made
Worf and Jean-Luc very hot, so they went crazy on Q, climbing all
over him and fucking, fucking, fucking him anywhere they could
reach.  Then they uncuffed him and made a Q sandwich; Worf on Q's
back, biting and chewing on any part of Q's body he could reach
-- his shoulders, his neck, his arms -- Jean-Luc in front, doing
the same thing to Q's titties, chewing on them, licking them,
sucking them.  Q was covered all over with hickeys and bite
marks.  He was cooing and sighing, his eyes glazed, his breath
now shallow, now deep and gasping, and he was writhing, trying to
feel everything, trying to give every bit of himself to these two
men he loved so much.  

After all, a submissive piece of pussy like himself couldn't
really do otherwise. 

Jean-Luc lifted his head.  "You're the best whore there ever 
was,"  he declared.  

Q smiled beatifically, his response completely heartfelt and
tender.  "Oh, thank you, Johnny!"   

Worf propped pillows against the headboard and leaned back
against them.  He pulled Q so that he lay with his back against
Worf's chest; then Worf stuffed his dick up Q's ass again.   

Jean-Luc crawled up between their open legs.  He took Q's thighs
over his arms, leaned forward and ordered Q to guide his dick
home.  Q whimpered a bit because the angle was a little different
this time and it hurt, but Jean-Luc was merciless, forcing
himself in regardless of Q's cries of pain. 

Worf came to their rescue, reaching around to pinch Q's titties
and so take his mind off the battering ram moving up inside him. 
It worked.  Q started moaning in pleasure as Worf worked his
tits, and all the pain must have started to feel good because now
Q was gasping and shuddering again, working it instead of
fighting it.   

"That's my baby!"  Jean-Luc hissed.

Now they could get to work.  Worf, propped against the pillows,
had to take a lot of weight, but in exchange he had to make
almost no effort.  Q, with his back against Worf's chest and with
Worf's big beautiful black dick up his ass, was bunched up
between his two men, helpless, while Jean-Luc held his legs in
the air and drove between them.  Worf kept his hold on Q's tits,
and he and Jean-Luc proceeded to fold, spindle and mutilate Q
until there was nothing left of him. 

Even so, their fever remained unabated.  Even after they'd both
come, they didn't let Q off the hook because it was a universal
constant, like gravity, that something had to always be inside
Q's ass fucking him.   Jean-Luc got the big dildo back out and
stuck it up Q's ass and then lay with his pelvis pressed up
against Q's ass, just as Q had done with Oralee all those years
ago.  Jean-Luc ground against him so the dildo moved in and out
and Q felt very comfortable and sleepy and he thought he'd like
to come but there was no hurry and Jean-Luc began to doze a
little, but he didn't want to let the dildo fall out.  

"You keep that in you, motherfucker.  I'm serious."  

"Make me come, Daddy, make me come."

"You keep fucking him that way, Jean-Luc, and I'll  suck him
off."  
"Oh, yes."

Q just lay there and let it happen and then he came.  Even then
Jean-Luc didn't want to pull to the dildo out, but Q said
sleepily, "Let me sleep now and I'll wear a buttplug for you all
tomorrow," so Jean-Luc let Q push it out, and they all fell sound
asleep.  

Jean-Luc dreamed that he was fucking Q and Q was screaming with
pleasure.  
                                                                  
             
The next day Worf pulled Jean-Luc aside. "Captain  Kirk has asked
for my woman again tonight.  I told him yes."  

He sounded as he were enormously pleased by the whole thing.  

Jean-Luc smiled at him, pleased for him.

"She was a good call, Worf."

"Of course, it also means I am free again tonight."
 
The video they made that night was the hottest one yet.   

Worf was used to being taped, so he was very comfortable as he
placed himself in the big easy chair completely aroused and
naked. 

"Sit on it, Q," and on the tape Q's face was beautiful, big
bruised lips always swallowing, his jet black eyes large and
wondering, his flesh pink and smooth, and he faced Worf and
positioned himself on Worf's cock.  Worf grunted with pleasure.

Q lay like a baby with his beautiful head against Worf's
shoulder,  his hands against Worf's tits.   

"Stay there," Jean-Luc's voice said.  "Let me fix the tripod so I
get it all."

On the tape, Worf was pulsing his body against the sighing Q.  
Then Jean-Luc could be seen pulling a hassock up to the easy
chair and getting on his knees and contemplating Q's stuffed and 
extended asshole and suddenly moving himself and his big dick up
against Q's ass and, then as Q moaned, and his dark eyes bulged
and his dark, dark lips moved as if praying, Jean-Luc moved into
Q too.  

The camera was fixed on Q's ass and everything in it.  It picked
up sighs, moans, groans, and the mysterious creak of flesh
against flesh.   
 
And, when Q would occasionally lift away from Worf,  the camera
caught his big stiff cock pressed against Worf's stomach. 
Jean-Luc tightened his hands on Q's shoulders and forced himself
again and again into Q.   Q let his head fall back and the camera
caught the angelic look on the pinioned Q's pretty face and the
pink satin of his thighs against Worf's darkness and the white
easy chair.  And Jean-Luc's pulsating ass looked great too,
drumming again and again into Q.

"What's it feel like, girl?"  Jean-Luc suddenly demanded.  "Tell
Daddy. Tell him how good it is."

"Oh, it's so good.  Getting fucked like this is so  nice, Daddy. 
My ass was made for this, my asshole  can't get enough," and Q
pressed against Jean-Luc and  Worf and his big dick was visible
again as he moved back.

"Come on, motherfucker," Worf whispered and he  grabbed Q's dick
and Q reared back against Jean-Luc who managed to stay fully
inside Q and Q took over, beating his ass against both of them as
Worf jerked him off.    Then Jean-Luc grabbed Q's tits. "Daddy's 
pussy," he hissed.

And Q started coming; the tape clearly showed Q's  rolling eyes,
his gasping mouth, the white clots coming from his jerking cock. 
Worf looked down at his stomach and rubbed Q's come with his
hand. 

Jean-Luc disengaged himself from Q with a groan.   "On your
knees, cunt," he said. 

Q, his face pink as a rose, pulled himself off Worf and knelt on
the floor, and the tape showed Jean-Luc and Worf jerking off in a
practiced way on Q as he caressed their balls and rubbed his 
face against their thighs, and then they were coming on his face
and shoulders and in his hair, and the tape caught every bit of
it.
                                                                
*************************

Spock's face had not changed when Kirk wandered off again arm-in-
arm with Will, but Data had seen his chin lift in a way that
spoke volumes. "We would welcome your company tonight, Rhemuel,"
he had said and Geordi passionately agreed. 

Like the noble ladies of ancient Rome, Spock always kept at least
one garment on, even in the most intimate of moments; tonight he
was wearing that kimono-like robe which draped very enticingly
about him as he lay in the big bed of Data and Geordi.  

"Is it troublesome to you that Kirk is sleeping with Will Riker?"
Data did not quite know now to approach Rhemuel on this
particular topic, but he was curious.

"They have much in common," Spock said distantly.  "They are
perpetual . . . boys in a way.  When Jim is seventy, I expect him
to still retain a child's enthusiasm at life."

"Yeah, that's right about Will," Geordi nodded. "He sure likes
playing around." 

"Rhemuel, can I ask you how long your relationship has been
maintained?  Or is that rather rude?"

"Although our relationship is not well served by trying to fit it
into the parameters of mere words, I do not find you in the least
bit rude, and  it still pleasures me to contemplate it."  He gave
a small nod when Geordi and Data, both naked, curled up by him. 
Data loved to learn and Geordi loved to listen, so the three of
them had a nice synergy.  "As you know, we were in black ops
together, along with a number of others.  At our first briefing,
Jim immediately caught my eye.  He was so young, so vibrant, so
handsome.  His face was quite as lovely as a girl's.  And he was
always teasing the rest of us.  'C'mon, Spock, let's go mind the
store!' he would say when we were issued orders.  'You better
watch out, Spock!  McCoy's gaining on you in the doctoring
department.'" Spock shook his head.  "And he loved women.  Every
night he left the officer's quarters headed for some new
assignation.  And, after a while, it wasn't just women.  You
recall Hiroko Sulu of whom Jim has spoken so highly."   

Data and Geordi nodded.  

"On the other hand, I always returned to my quarters every night
and studied.  The scholarly world had -- and has -- much of
interest for me.  I had never felt the need for that sort of
relationship with another person. But I cannot tell you that Jim
did not . . . catch my eye."

After their training, Kirk and Spock had been assigned to an
operation in the woods of Washington State, living in  a rustic
cabin right below the timberline for eight weeks while they
tested some radically non-traditional survival techniques.  No
one else was around for a hundred miles.

"The first couple of weeks were spent fixing up the cabin, 
building water reservoirs and firebreaks, and all the other 
survival things one generally does.  Jim was a hard worker, and I
admired him for that.  It was also quite obvious that he loved
adventure, which I found equally admirable.  I was less sure
about other things, our compatibility factor for one. Jim was  
and is   a very emotionally . . . noisy man.  I am not."

Geordi and Data's eyes were shining.

"He had no sense of traditional modesty."  

They had rigged up a primitive outdoor shower out of a large
metal canister.  The canister was filled with water in the
morning and permitted to warm; then one stood beneath it and
pulled a rope and that was his shower.  

"Because Jim has such a strong sense of cleanliness, he showered
several times a day."

And Spock could not help observing Kirk on these occasions.   As
Kirk put his hands to his face and scoured it, Spock could see  
his flat stomach, his small nipples, his plump buttocks.  His
manhood.  

"It became an addiction with me to see Jim in all his wet beauty
in the shower.  After three weeks, I felt as if I were suffering
from some sort of fever.  At night, in my sleeping bag, I would
retire with a book by lantern light, fully intending to read it
as he slept.  But I found that all I could do was watch his
sleep-calmed features.  He always slept naked and I drove myself
mad imagining what it would be like to slip into his sleeping bad
and just hold his warmth against me."  

As Spock spoke, Geordi was lying in back of Data and now he put
his arm around Data's neck.  "I wanted to touch Jim.  I wanted
him to touch me."  

But most of all, Spock had wanted inside Kirk.  He could imagine
Kirk bent over holding himself open.  Or Spock lying down and
Kirk  placing himself in all his roseate beauty on Spock's
erection and then moving together until they both were satiated. 

"I was so distracted by these visions my work began to suffer.  I
could get nothing done.  One night there was a serious thunder
storm, and we heard an unusual noise.  We both leapt out of our
sleeping bags, but, because it was so dark, we couldn't see one
another.  Then Kirk brushed up against me.  He was so warm   and
I could feel his strength, I could smell him, he smelled warm and
aroused.  Then he laughed a little and we moved on.  But I
remembered it, how he felt and how he smelled.   What had been an
obsession now became a kind of madness.

"I would shower after dark so I could . . . satisfy myself
without Jim knowing.   But those satisfactions, while the most
profound ones I had ever had, only fed my madness.  

"A few nights later, Kirk did not drop off to sleep as usual. 
Instead, he sat up and with the lantern on.  He said he wished to
speak to me.  I said, perhaps we should light a hearth fire.   I
was looking for a way to hide my feelings through work.  After we
built our fire, Kirk sat there looking at me.  He was wearing
only his white underpants and a plaid shirt open all the way. 
Watching him, I got a   to me absurd   vision of my bending
between those powerful thighs and rolling his underwear down to
the top of his highs and taking him in my mouth.  Then letting
him come inside me.  I was so consumed by this vision that I
could barely speak. 

"'Spock, you're not yourself,' he said to me.  'I am entertaining
situations' I told him.  It was a nonsense statement, and Jim
seemed taken aback.  Oh, what I wouldn't have given to slip my
arms under his plaid shirt and around his chest.  'Can I do
anything to help?' he said.  'Just be my friend, I suppose,' I
said, cursing myself for the timorousness of my response.

"He yawned and stretched.  I saw his legs part.  He was always
slightly aroused.  'Hearth fires make me . . . sleepy,' he said.
And he lay down on his side in front of the fire, facing it.  And
I could take it no longer and lay down right behind him, my body
straining against my robe, almost touching the white cotton of
his backside.  'Welcome, Spock,' he said.  'I'm glad you like a
fire like this too.'  I touched my lips to the short hair at the
nape of his neck, hoping he wouldn't pull away.  But he backed
against me.  Quite emphatically.  I let my hand go around to the
front of his underwear.  I caressed him there.  'Let me
facilitate things, Spock,' he whispered and began to undress.  I
could not believe it   all of his body was now available to me. 
I was frantic   the madness was fully upon me.  'On your
stomach,' I whispered roughly, and he complied.  Then I took off
my undergarments.  'I'll need something to ease the way,' I said. 
And without a word, Kirk rolled over and, holding my hips in his
hands, and   I could scarcely believe it - he took me into his
mouth."    

And then it had happened; Spock was lying on his back and
extended fully into the air and Kirk pulled back and he straddled
him and, because he had made Spock so wet with his soft girl's
mouth, he was able to take Spock with ease. 

"In Kirk, I found a kind of paradise I had never thought
possible.  Soon I came and he came, but the madness hardly let
up. Over the next few weeks we found every way possible to
entertain each other's bodies.   But nothing alleviated my
madness.  I wanted to be inside him forever.  He would stand in
our primitive shower and I entered him there.  We would be out
working on our special assignment and there would be a convenient
tree stump or big boulder and soon he would be lying across it as
I pinioned him again and again.  We would sit down at our
primitive picnic table to eat and the next thing I knew I was
standing beside him and he was kneeling in front of me." 

Data was gently stroking the sighing Geordi.  "But quite clearly
a separation had to come.  You were apart when we met you."

"Time and life both bring numerous separations," Spock said.  His
eyes did not leave Geordi and Data's exertions.  "When we were
called back to the CID camp in Virginia, we knew we might have to
part, but he told me he would always find me again.  And on and
off for the last twenty five years, we have always found each
other.  I admit that I have spent many nights watching Jim wander
off to another's arms.  In a way, that part of our relationship
has provided an intriguing friction.  Perhaps I would prefer it
to be otherwise, but Jim Kirk is Jim Kirk.  We have bonded."

Data pushed Geordi on his back.  "Watch us, Spock," he said and
he took the willing Geordi into his mouth. 

And Spock, an intent look playing on his face, readjusted his
robe and watched.  

*************************

Will's ass was positioned at the very edge of the bed, and Kirk
was holding his big legs up and moving back and forth.  "Who's
your daddy?  Who's your daddy?" he kept saying; it was almost a
scream.  

"You are, captain, you are." 

Kirk had one of the nicest dicks Will had ever seen and he had
seen a lot of dick.

*************************

But when Kirk was through with him, Will was happy to be reunited
with Worf. (The nights with Q and Jean-Luc were hot and stark,
but for everyday Worf liked the soft glow and warmth of Will much
better.)

Will and Worf and Patsy watched the new release  "Floyd Goes  to
Peking"  on the VCR and then she was bathed and put to bed and,
when Will came back in the room and said "she's sound asleep,"
Worf slipped his newest video in the machine. 

He ended up with his fist up Will's butt because they both were
that hot.  And Will loved it.
                                                      
*************************

Jean-Luc relaxed by the pool as Q put on his headphones and
conferred with Data and Geordi on arranging some of the songs he
had written.  He liked the fact that they were using his songs. 
About time, fuckers. 

Kirk came out on the patio.

"Beautiful evening," he said in his warm voice. (What did that
constant little smile mean?) 

Jean-Luc said nothing in return, but he knew Kirk could see the
returned smile in his eyes.

Kirk sat down in the chair beside him.  His eyes never left Jean-
Luc's face.  

They could both feel it coming, this thing between them.  There
was no need to rush it.  

"Data, Q and Geordi are working on the arrangements for your 
next album," Kirk said.  He stared at the sky as he spoke, and it
would have taken a fool to miss the yearning on his features. 
Then he turned  back to Jean-Luc.  His eyes were gold-brown in
the soft afternoon light.  

"Ducatti's been pretty well neutralized.  Every one of his
traditional business associates has seen compromising photographs
of him with underage boys."  He did not say how the copies had
gotten sent around.  That Kirk must have more connections than a
spider.  But there was a finality  to Kirk's tone, as if he were
summing things up, getting ready to say goodbye.  

Sure enough.  "I'm beginning to think vacation's  over."  Kirk's 
eyes ranged skyward again.  "Spock and I have things to do."

Jean-Luc stared at him, waiting.   

"We'll be shoving off tomorrow."  

So he was taking Spock with him.  Jean-Luc said nothing,  opting
to simply watch Kirk's face.  The thing between them was stronger
now, oscillating, building.  Jean-Luc could hear it buried in
Kirk's smooth voice, and feel it in the air around  them.  "I'm
sorry you're leaving," he said finally, and he truly meant it.

For a moment Kirk's eyes were sad, but then he smiled.  "Me too. 
But you know," he purred, "I don't have to go anywhere right this
minute." 

Their gazes locked.  The thing was in Jean-Luc's  throat, in his
abdomen, everywhere.  "Are you sure?" 

Kirk's voice was low and smooth.  "Uh-uh."  

The thing, whatever it was, pushed them closer.

"Come on then."  He stood up, reached for Kirk's hand  and pulled
him out of his chair.  "I want you to see the piano room."

"I've already seen it," Kirk teased.

"But not with me."

He led the way into the piano room  and shut the door.   

Kirk moved so that their bodies were very close, as when they'd
been dancing.  Then his hand moved down to Jean-Luc's trunks,
rubbing his penis through the fabric. 

"Nice," Kirk murmured.  His eyes were starting to look a little 
glazed.  "Yours is clearly the dick to reckon with around here." 

An arousing remark.  "Indeed?  What makes you say that?" 

"Baby, even Jose Feliciano could see that." 

Jean-Luc reared back, teased by a memory he couldn't place.  Then
he let go of it instantly.  The thing was pulling at him, making
him forget everything else but the allure of the man in front of
him.  

"We've had this date from the beginning, Picard,"  Kirk said  and
set his mouth against Jean-Luc's and drew him in for a deep long
wet hot kiss.

Oh his breath was sweet, oh his mouth was like sugar. And he was
folding Jean-Luc's trunks off him and  Jean-Luc was suddenly
naked. 

"Take off that shirt," Jean-Luc told him, "and get those pants
off."

Kirk smiled the smile of a man who is supremely confident of his
own attractiveness, and he did as he was told.  In no time at
all, he was naked, stiff and solid, with beautiful muscular 
legs, and Jean-Luc had all he could do to get enough oxygen in
his lungs.   

Then, when Kirk draped himself over the piano, Jean-Luc felt the
tiniest bit of tension relax.   He would have bent over for Kirk,
no  question, but he wanted to be top dog here.  It was  who he
was. 

Kirk turned around to challenge his hesitation.   "Well, come
on," he mocked gently.  "Nobody's going to die from  this."  He
stuck his lovely pink ass out enticingly.  

"Lord," Jean-Luc murmured.  The thing was surging now;  building
and twisting and buckling around them, and Kirk's  flirting was
goading him into madness, but still he controlled.   He wanted
Kirk satisfied.  He wanted Kirk screaming and shaking and
trembling through the ride of a lifetime.  He wanted his mouth in
Kirk, so he bent over and took what he wanted while Kirk's
breathing came in tight little knots.  Then Jean-Luc leaned back
and sucked on his fingers and stuck them up Kirk's  sweet little
bowl of jelly ass and asked if he could and Kirk said, "God yes,"
and Jean-Luc said, "Get me wet," and Kirk was on his knees
instantly, but only for the five seconds it took for his tongue
to lube up Jean-Luc's leaking dick and then he was spread out
over the piano like Christmas dinner and Jean-Luc was in him,
fucking him and grimacing against the surge of power that opened
up a vortex beneath them.  It was the thing.  He didn't know what
to call it, but he could feel it strong like mountains, hard as
granite, and good, so fucking good, and he was making it good for 
Kirk, and he drew his cock in and out against the perfect pink
circles of Kirk's meaty ass, and then he slowed down to make it
last, but Kirk was having none of it because this was Kirk's ride
and he was going to drag it out of Jean-Luc as hard and fast and
rough as Jean-Luc could take it, and so Kirk went faster and
faster, fucking Jean-Luc's big dick with his hot, sweet ass and
letting Jean-Luc fuck him back with that strong iron dick, and
they made the most of it, giving  themselves up to the thing that
was happening and to each other. 

Jean-Luc felt like John Henry with his hammer, killing himself
but by God making sure no one would forget this for a long time
to come.   He saw little lights behind his eyes.  His breath
rippled  out of his lungs and steamed up the room as he gave Kirk
a long, spectacular, time-consuming fuck that was going to have
sparks flying off Kirk's body and catching the house on fire any
second now.  And the captain was shaking and trembling just as
Jean-Luc wanted  him to; he grabbed the edge of the piano and
wailed his pleasure into the soundproofed, acoustically perfect
room, and Jean-Luc was inspired, fucking maniacally, and the
thing, whatever it called itself,  claimed both of them and they
entered a zone where there was nothing but fucking and power and
fucking for all eternity.  A place where Jean-Luc was always
pounding into Kirk's ass and Kirk was always sucking air into his
lungs in mighty, heaving wails, and even the piano itself seemed
to be shaking, and then a lamp fell off a little end table and,
with this proof that their fucking was truly unearthly, Jean-Luc
finally began to come and come and come.  

When the beating in his ears died down a little, he lifted
himself up to find he had fallen over Kirk's body.  Kirk was
still moaning, still fully erect, and Jean-Luc fell to his knees
and took the lovely dick into his mouth.   

Right then there was a knock at the door.  Jean-Luc couldn't
believe it.  He glanced up at Kirk who was still looking dazed
from the fucking he'd just received, but Kirk shook his head.  

The door opened the merest crack, and they heard Data's voice. 
"Is everyone all right in there?" 

Jean-Luc just growled.

"Oh," said Data, and they could hear him patter down the hall.

Jean-Luc went back to what he was doing, taking one of Kirk's
balls in his mouth and caressing it, and then doing the same for
the other.  Kirk's dick was not gigantic, but it was ideally
shaped, ideally proportioned.   A genuine pleasure for the eyes.
Kirk reached down and put his strong hands around Jean-Luc's head
and pumped into Jean-Luc and Jean-Luc took it all in even though
he wasn't even aware he had that skill, and then Kirk  was
finally coming.  Jean-Luc savored the bitter taste on his tongue
because he wanted as much of this strange charismatic  man as he
could get. 

And then Kirk pulled him up and did a strange thing, holding 
their sweaty bodies together tightly and laying his cheek against
Jean-Luc's face -- his jaw, his cheekbone, his eyebrow.  

He wondered what man in what strange culture had taught Kirk to
do this, and he leaned against him in return for a moment,
willing to lower his guard that much because there was something
about Kirk he had learned to trust very deeply.  Finally Kirk
pulled away and smiled at him.    

"Let's get dressed," Jean-Luc whispered.  Even though very little
time had passed, he felt as if he had lived an entire lifetime
since shutting the piano room door.  They stepped into the
hallway and met flutter and panic.  Q  was coming down the hall
with Spock and Data following  him.  "Oh, thank Christ, you're
okay, Jean-Luc."   

"Give it up, Q," Jean-Luc was quite surly.  He had done what he
had done, okay?

"It was a big one!" said the wide-eyed Data.

What the...

Spock stepped up to Kirk, frowning.  "I will grant that random
factors perpetually favor you, but that is no excuse to tempt the
odds."

A guilty expression crossed Kirk's face. 

"It happened again," Spock continued.  "4.5 on the Richter
scale." 

Kirk opened his mouth and then thought better of what he was
going to say.  He glanced over at Jean-Luc and his gaze became
wicked for a tiny second;  then he wiped the smirk off his face
and meekly faced his scolding. 

"I take it," Spock murmured, "that your attention was. . .
otherwise engaged when the quake occurred.  Did you even notice?"

Kirk could look amazingly boyish at times, all the more when he
was being bad.  "Spock ... I ... don't know what to say."

"I wonder when you will stop doing that," Spock said and lifted
an eyebrow.

Q caught on.  "Oh, Jean-Luc," he said reproachfully.
 
*************************

Spock took a long time saying his goodbyes.  He spent private
time with Will, holding him very close, nuzzling his hair, the
side of his face.  Will felt very warm and relaxed, almost
sleepy.  He barely noticed when Spock's hand came up and stroked
his cheek in a manner that was slightly odd.


Next Spock sought out Worf.  Formally and respectfully he thanked
Worf for his hospitality.  Worf accepted this with a regal bow. 
They understood each other.

Spock smiled at Q.  He smiled at Jean-Luc.

He walked over to the pool house.  Christine and Upenda were
obviously expecting him.  They waited at the door with their arms
around each other's waists as Spock approached.  When he was
about five feet away from them, he stopped still.  He gazed at
them.  They gazed back, solemn and peaceful for several long
moments; then Spock spread the fingers of his right hand in a
peculiar formation and held it out in front of him.  The two
women lowered their heads, accepting the gesture as if it were a
benediction.  That was all that happened; then Spock turned and
went back to the house.  Christine and Upenda stared after him
until he was no longer in sight. 


Kirk did not say much of anything, but he was oddly restless. 

"What are you doing?"  Jean-Luc trailed behind Kirk as Kirk
stalked around the perimeter of the property.

"Looking," was all Kirk would say.

Jean-Luc had to will himself to trust Kirk and not demand further
explanation, but once that decision was made, he felt 
perfectly at ease. 

This was Kirk.  He would never do anything to hurt them. 

Q whispered, "Spock says Kirk does that with people he likes. 
Jim cases their homes, making sure they're safe."  He forced a
smile.  "Data said Chris and Penda had to chase him away because
he checked the poolhouse eleven times." 

Jean-Luc understood what it was to feel responsible for others'
well-being.  He watched Kirk and said nothing more.


In the privacy of their bedroom, Spock gathered Data and Geordi
into his arms.   

"I will never truly leave you.  A part of me will be with you
always."   Spock sounded as if he were he was reassuring himself
more than Data and Geordi.  "Do you understand?" 

He held them tightly to his chest, as he'd done with Will. 
"Never leave you," he whispered. 

"I will never see you again, will I?"  Data sounded as broken as
Spock did.

Spock pressed a kiss against Data's neck.  "I am inside you."   

The last thing he did was to move all the components of their
multidimensional transport enhancer outside.  "You all deserve
this," he said enigmatically.

He and Kirk stood very near the model.  Spock pulled out his
retrofitted portable computer and played with some of the dials.  
Their model began to whine.  There was a strange sensation, as if
the air itself were collapsing.  Then there was a flash from the
model.  It seemed to catch itself on fire and quickly burn out,
and, when all their eyes were readjusted to the twilight
darkness,  Spock and Kirk were gone.

No one said anything.  They could not believe they had seen it.  

Jean-Luc thought of the earthquake.  All this should have been
impossible, yet clearly such things happened.

He made the decision for all of them.  "We don't discuss this. 
It never happened," he announced.  "Let's go back to making
music."


Part Five: Bringing it All Back Home
                                   
It was raining.  The gray sky had opened and Q was looking out at
the deluge; the Japanese magnolias were an impossibly sexual
purple in the gray rain.   He smiled; he inhaled.  The rain was
so sweet-smelling.

Then he saw the car coming up the long driveway.  Casey's car. 
Well . . . that was nice.

And Casey, bareheaded, indifferent to the rain, got out.  

Q went to meet him; by the time Casey walked to the front door,
he was soaked.

"Casey!  What is it?  Is everything okay?  Let me get you a
towel."

"Really.  Check out this fucking rain water."  Q loved the beat
of Casey's voice; he spoke like nobody else in America. Murmured
flat vowels alternating with superemotional ones until you didn't
know what you were hearing.

Q rubbed him with one of their big towels.  "You could take this
old wet shirt off," he said in a small voice.  "I could get you
one of Geordi's.  I bet it would fit you pretty well."

"Stop this, Q."

Q stood very still.  Then he said, "I'm sorry."

"Oh, for fuck's sweet sake, Q.  When will you ever stop?"

"What is it?  What have I done?  I know you're mad at me, that's
why we only had the one . . .  date, but I'm okay with that.  I
just want to make you happy.  Don't . . ."
 
Casey grabbed Q and pressed him against the foyer wall.  "Make me
happy?  Don't make me laugh.  If that miserable fuckwad Jean-Luc
didn't exist, there might be a baby chance at happiness for me. 
But . . . you . . . I love you."  He hissed the last  ords.  "You
big stupid bitch with your big stupid ass that the whole world
can fuck and that closed heart that no one can have." 

Q lowered his chin and looked at Casey.  Casey was a little drunk
-- that must be what was causing all this.  "You mean my loving
Jean-Luc . . ."

"My loving Jean-Luc," Casey mocked.  Then he closed his eyes and
leaned back.  "Q, I would have given you everything.  Oh, fuck, I
wanted to do it all with you.  There are sensual pleasures I
haven't begun to explore and you'd be just the right agent.  My
fist in your ass was just the alpha; Christ knows what the omega
would have been.  I have a little dungeon.  I have clamps.  I
have . . . rubber hammers.  As a matter of fact, I have the
largest rubber gadget collection in Hollywood.  Which is saying
something.  There's this wonderful hospital bed I have where I 
turn my dates upside down.  Imagine if I hogtied your thighs to
your chest and put you on the motorized bed and got your asshole
at the optimum insertion level."  A little bubble of saliva
appeared at the corner of his mouth.  "There would be nothing I
couldn't stick in you.  Your ass would be full all the fucking
time.  I've got two fists, motherfucker.  But," he shook his
head.  "Love got in the way.  Love."  He looked at Q.  "Say
something."

Q kissed him quickly.  "I don't know what to say. I didn't think
you liked me."

"Q, I love you.  You're all I think about."

No one had ever loved Q that Q didn't love.  It was the saddest
feeling.

"You can fuck me, Casey."

"We both know that's not enough."   Casey was sagging now.   He
turned to go.  "I am Casey Spevin," he said suddenly, menacingly. 
"I won the Oscar.  I make twenty million dollars a picture.  I
deserve the best.  I deserve your ass."  

Q wasn't sure what to say.  "Stay in touch.  I loved your fist."  
              
"I'm so sure," Casey said.  And he went back out into the rain.
     
*************************

"Jimmy Jay, the boss wants to see you."

Jimmy Jay Zimmerman didn't give a fuck.  He looked at the crumbs
on his desk.  Hmmm.  He picked up one of the more mysterious ones
with a wet finger.  Oh, yeah, it was from the  . . .  muffin he
had had last week.  Well.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Uh-oh, the boss wanted to see him so much he had come out to
stand over Jimmy Jay's desk.

"My friend . . . he's in the hospital . . . sudden inexplicable
blindness. . . I'm working through to acceptance . . . I seem to
be bogged down in grief, however."

The boss rolled his eyes.

"Boss, you know Eddie Ducatti wasn't just a friend.  He was a
valued source."

The boss looked down.  "Well, Eddie had done us a lot of favors
in the past.  That part is true.  But all that's past now.  We
gotta a newspaper to put out.  I WANT STORIES.  I WANT THEM NOW. 
Move to acceptance and then get your ass on the streets.  Isn't
there something about Melinda Madigan or those Boys to find out
about?  They're always good for a cover story."

(It was too complicated to explain to the boss Jimmy Jay's
intricate relationship with Snake Ducatti.   Jimmy Jay Zimmerman
thought about things, but Snake Ducatti did them.  Jimmy Jay
Zimmerman reported trouble; Snake made it.  Jimmy Jay was always
grateful to look at the photographs and books Snake gave him, but
Snake lived them.  Because of that, Jimmy Jay always pulled
favors for Snake; f'rinstance, if one of Snake's U.S. Senator
friends wanted to repeal certain boring parts of the Bill of
Rights, Jimmy Jay made sure an approving article appeared in his
supermarket rag.  And Snake would made sure Jimmy Jay knew about
the beautiful seventeen-year-old girl the liberal opposition kept
in an apartment back in his home state.)

Jimmy Jay lit a cigarette.  He shrugged.

"Oh, never mind, Zimmerman," the boss said.  "I'll get that new
guy Whatisname on the story."

He looked at Jimmy Jay and Jimmy Jay looked back at him.  

"Don't start that again, boss." 

"Get me a good story and I won't."      

Jimmy Jay stood up.  "I'm flying to Kentucky today.   "

"Try to stay somewhat sober."


The brothers Crusher were very disappointed with life.

Q had gone away with the gold, and Beverly had gone away with the
sugar.



Jesus, these people were backward.  Jimmy Jay Zimmerman was no
fashion plate with his five o'clock shadow, his orlon polo
shirts, his 1963 stingy brim hat which he wore to hide his
baldness, but next to these guys he looked as snugly elegant as
the Duke of Windsor.     

"Them Boys are all perverts," said one of them.  (Were they
triplets?  How on earth did these people tell each other apart?) 

"All queers ought to be shot like deer," said another.

"And gutted too," said the third.

"I see," said Jimmy Jay, "but is there a specific reason for this
free-floating hostility?"

"He was a dope addict around our family."  

"Okay."  But, alas, GAY 'BOY'S' DOPE ADDICT PAST!  was old news;
one of Jimmy Jay's new friends was named Benny Sisko, and he had
told Jimmy Jay all about the dope.

"That's why old Q went to the pen."
     
"Indeed."  WILL THE 'BOYS' DOPE-SEX SCANDAL NEVER END!

"He knocked up our little sister," reproved one of them.

"That perhaps is not so bad.  They were married after all."

All three of the terrifying brothers smirked. "Not that first
time."

"I see," nodded Jimmy Jay.  PANSEXUAL GAY 'BOY' IMPREGNATES
WOMAN!!!

"That's the one they don't talk about."

"Hmmm?"  

"The first one.  Little Beverly was just fifteen.  She had to
give it up for adoption.  Some people took it away the same day
it was born.  It was a little boy."

"Oh, really."  This sounded very promising.  PANSEXUAL GAY 'BOY'
IMPREGNATES YOUNG GIRL!!!  WE GOT IN TOUCH WITH POOR CHILD HE
ABANDONED!  HIS OWN SON LIVES IN LONELY POVERTY WHILE 'BOY'HAS
HIGH OLD TIME IN HOLLYWOOD!  "Where do you think I can get in
touch with this child?"  

The Crushers looked at him.  

"I'll pay handsomely for all information.  Very handsomely."

The Crushers smiled.
     

Jimmy Jay sat in his motel room thinking.

Then he lit a Lucky, cleared his throat, and dialed the number of
the courthouse.  "Hello, J.J. Zimmerman here.   I want to talk to
the Public Records office.  The vast corporation I represent
needs to look up a certain birth certificate -- all I have is the
rough date -- from the first three months of 1965.  It's part of
a sensitive legal matter.  What would be the procedure to access
this information?" 

Oh, yeah.  The astounded hicks always said 'be our guest.' 
Worked every time.

*************************

Melinda's big deal computer for Sebastiana reminded Jean-Luc of
Spock's contraption for some reason.  And, for some reason, now
that they had it, Jean-Luc felt compelled to write songs.  

When Sebastiana was busy cleaning house, he would sit in the tiny
computer room with the Smokies looming over him and let his life
bubble out of him and onto the screen.

He always stashed the poems in a drawer by the bed.  Melinda
never asked him what he was doing even though she was almost
always sprawled across their bed, nude, reading scripts that came
in for her.  Jean-Luc appreciated that.  In fact, he enjoyed
almost everything about his new life.  He could see and hear
Sebastiana and Joe coming and going, but most everyone left him
alone when he didn't want to be bothered.  He had the perfect
combination of solitude and companionship.

Once in a while, when Sebastiana called them to lunch, the
delectable Melinda would roll over with her legs open, just to
tease him into an erection before they had to go downstairs.  The
first time Melinda teased him this way, he lost his temper.  And
Sebastiana had cried.   Melinda had no reaction except to find
Sebastiana and soothe her out of her apprehension. Later, Melinda
walked into the bedroom; "Quit scaring my maid," she said
smiling.

Of course, some things transcended self-control.  


Joe and Sebastiana had been driving his car around for an hour. 
Jean-Luc put up with it until he could stand no more of it; then
he went outside and took over.  

So he and Sebastiana drove around in circles for another hour
while Joe sat in the back seat offering driving hints. 

Then the two men got out of the car and, with much fear and
trepidation, let her drive down the driveway and back.   They
stood there looking, pretending not to be relieved when she
turned back in the drive.  It was almost like gentling a wild
pony, waiting for the car to pull to a jerky stop.  

"Driving is the only thing I could teach her that I wouldn't get
arrested for," Jean-Luc remarked, and Joe nodded.

*************************

Patsy was having a wonderful time chasing Ginger who had crawled
beneath the tree to experiment in marking her territory.  Patsy
knew it was bad when cats crawled under the Christmas tree, but
then Ginger climbed up the branches and overbalanced the tree.

Then Mister Christmas Tree fell on Patsy.  

At her unholy screaming, Daddy and Daddy and Diddy came running
in.  They righted the tree and checked Patsy, and then permitted 
themselves to smile.  Patsy was stunned with pine needles laced
all in her hair and Ginger was sulking at his loss of dignity.  

Then Q's boys dashed in.  The parochial schools of West Viginia
had done them some good; they were handsome sturdy smart boys.    
   
Patsy was still sobbing.

"Patsy!" cried Roger!  "Don't cry!  Let's us put candy canes on
the tree."

The grown-ups smiled at his tact as Patsy squirmed down.

And later, when it was observed that all the canes were at the
Patsy, Roger, Vernon and Jerry level, the Boys scattered the
canes a little more regularly around the tree.

So Mister Christmas Tree was perfect by the time Jean-Luc got
there.  
     

Nowhere else to go.  He went to Chicago with Melinda and spent
two miserable days in her parents' house in the suburbs.  He had
never felt more alone than in their wall-papered guest bedroom.
And Tennessee was empty.  Joe was visiting with his grandson, and 
 Sebastiana had gone back to Haiti to see her maman.  A damn
lonely world.  And here this was, another lovely domestic
Christmas scene, not nearly as scary as Chicago, but horrible in
its own way.  All those children were dressed in their Christmas-
theme clothes and they were all 'helping' Daddy and Diddy get
ready for the holidays and the house smelled like cinnamon and
cookies and the tree was twinkling and the presents were all
wrapped and the life-size creche was somber and stiff out front; 
the whole house was full of a quiet Christmas happiness.

Jean-Luc felt sick with misery; it was getting harder to convince
himself with his usual refrain: "I have Melinda so that makes up
for everything." 

And yet nothing would change Q's delight.  He had Jean-Luc's
present already beautifully wrapped and under the tree. 
Naturally Jean-Luc hadn't gotten him anything at all, but that
didn't matter to Q; he was just pleased to see Jean-Luc. 
However, it was clear to everyone but Q that Jean-Luc did not fit
in with this happy little scene.  

And he grew stiller and stiller. 

"Look, Q, I just dropped by to see how everything was, but I
really have to be going now."

Q bit his lower lip.  "Okay, Johnny, but..." (he was trying to
come up with a reason to have Jean-Luc stick around a little
longer) "Let me wrap you up something to take with you.  Knowing
you, you probably don't have anything in your fridge at . . . at
home."  

Jean-Luc stalked back to the kitchen with Q, while Q wrapped up
some of his lovely food (sometimes he and Will killed time by
playing with gourmet recipes -- who would have thought Will could
be such a terrific cook.  Worf would have to watch his weight.)

Jean-Luc took the package (he knew he would never eat it; Q
probably suspected he would never eat it) and Q walked him to the
door.  And leaned against it as Jean-Luc opened it.  

"Go to the garage," Jean-Luc said so softly Q wasn't sure he
heard him. "Go now."

In the garage, Jean-Luc looked at Q; then he kissed him, and
suddenly they were both hard.  "Whip it out, Q," Jean-Luc
commanded.

Q looked nervously towards the kitchen entrance. "But the
boys..." 

His hesitation made Jean-Luc harder than ever.  "Just something
quick.  Nobody will notice.  We'll be very quiet."  And he
started playing with Q's dick, jerking him off and rubbing up
against him and Q moaned and Jean-Luc hissed, "Sssssh," and they
were both hotter than ever, and Jean-Luc unzipped his pants and
said, "Touch it, Q," and Q reached in and pulled out Johnny's big
stick, and he moved so that their dicks were touching and they
played with each other's dicks and shushed each other and laughed
quietly; then they both came, collapsing against some shelves
against the wall of the garage and wiping their hands on Q's
t-shirt.


Of all things, Jean-Luc was starving by the time he got home.  Q
was right; there was nothing in his refrigerator, but he still
had Q's foolish little Tupperware dish.  

The food was delicious.  Q had chattered and smiled and dimpled
at him as they walked to the car and now Jean-Luc's memory was
supplying him with the names of all the dishes Q had so
considerately packed:  Prime rib in a thyme marinade, broccoli
quiche with tomato compote, chopped green beans with pignolia
nuts and parsley in vinaigrette, whipped candied sweet potatoes
and a big piece of pecan pie.  

Jean-Luc knew Q would not cook this way for his sow-belly-eating
sons, and he also knew Q knew he could take of himself one way or
another.  Jean-Luc was generally not a big eater, but he ate a
great deal of the food Q had made just for him and felt much
comforted.

*************************

Jimmy Jay Zimmerman had come back to the office for Christmas;
somebody had to coax all the roaming psychics in the office into
making predictions which, while completely implausible, were at
least amusing.  ("1992!  MICHAEL JACKSON ELECTED PRESIDENT!  LONI
AND BURT REUNITED!  MELINDA BEARS JEAN-LUC'S TRIPLETS!")  Then he
skulked back to Kentucky and hooked up again with his old friend,
the country secretary.  She had that report he wanted ready:
Beverly Lanelle Crusher, age 15, delivered of a live, healthy
male on February 21, 1965.  

Nice.

"Tell me," he said in his amusingly clipped speech, "I know this
child was adopted.  How can I retrieve that information?" 

She gave him a look.

He gave her a hundred-dollar bill. 

The state adoption files did not have the names of the baby's
parents, just the dates.

Jimmy Jay worked his way through the 1965 files, ignoring the
ones with female names.  He went patiently through the rest of
them, tracking down the 70 adoptions that took place on or about
that day.  It would take some time.

*************************

The Boys were slow in getting out their album.  Many imitators
flooded the market with blue grass played by pretty-boy mandolin
players.       

One was a new CD called "American Tribute".

Expensively produced, expensively packaged, it featured the
talents of Tranh!

Tranh!

Tranh played the mandolin accompanied by musicians with Asian
stringed instruments.  The album was popular on all the jazz
stations.  

"Where'd this come from!" Jean-Luc demanded.

Q read the album very carefully.

"The executive producer is named Kivas Fajo," he whispered.

Jean-Luc looked at him.
     
Quark filled in the details.  Rumor had it that Fajo was Tranh's
latest -- Quark cut his eyes to Jean-Luc -- Tranh's latest sugar
daddy. 

Q was such a sap: "I hope Fajo is happy in his relationship with
Tranh."

Quark shook his head.  "The word on the increasingly global
street is that Fajo and Tranh are EXTREMELY happy together."

"Yeah," said Will, "looks like Fajo's getting him some of that
Pacific rim action."

"Actually, that might be something that they share," Data said,
"as they are both of Asian descent.  Finns are, after all, more
Asian than European."

Quark sighed.  "In jolly ole Europe they're being compared to
Onassis and Callas.  I've been given to believe that both of them
are pretty . . . high strung."

Jean-Luc kept turning the album over and over in his hands and
looking at it.  He was furious.  "Can we sue!"

Quark shot him a straight look, "Hey, good buddy, nobody can
copyright America."

*************************
                    
Melinda was scheduled to return to Tennessee at the end of
January.  Jean-Luc had not seen her since Christmas. And now they
were in their big bed together.  Tennessee.  A wintry midnight
rain and the sounds of the slick road outside.

Jean-Luc woke up, aching, aroused.  But he hated to wake up the
warm and fragrant Melinda lying by his side.  She had just got
into town and she was tired and a little . . . depressed.  Show
business was hard on her -- her simple needs and its complex
network of marketing and prostituting and sacrifice were hard to
mesh.

But he was so . . . he touched her.

Her eyes slowly opened.  "I love you, Boy."

"I . . . love you," he said and pressed himself to her.

"Oh, Boy."  She was tired.

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be sorry.  Is there something else I can do?  Maybe
tell you a little sweet sex fable?"

Jean-Luc thought for a moment.  "Okay.  Tell me one."

"What kind?" she smiled sleepily.  She was touching him now,
slowly stroking him.  She wet her fingertip with her tongue. 
"Listen, I know.  Did I ever tell you about the time I was taking
a shower on the set of Hard Time?  I was in my trailer, and Lily
walked in."

Lily Sloan!!  Jean-Luc drew in a ragged breath.

"And I got out of the shower and I was all wet."

"Had you gotten dresed?"

"On, no, I was wet.  I was naked.  She could see it all."

"What was she wearing?"

"Um.  At first, normal clothes, but she took off all of them." 

"Not all, surely."

"Oh, Boy, she left on a pair of white thigh-high stockings and
her black patent high heels."

He thought of Lily's black satiny skin, that heart-shaped face of
hers, her round sulky mouth.  My God.

"I had some body slicker stuff I'd gotten in a big basket, and I
began to rub my nipples with it.  My ruby nipples.  And Lily
watched, her nipples got hard too.  She has huge nipples, like
thimbles.  And she has a lot of dark public hair, a feast of hair
down there.  I wanted her to suck my nipples and she did, and
then we were sitting together on my daybed and stroking and
sucking each other's breasts, and I was using the slicker
everywhere, between her legs, everywhere, and she was sitting
with her legs open and I got so hot that I went down on her; I
used my mouth all over on her -- she was so clean and sweet and
then I took this mirror I had, a pink plastic one with a long
handle, and I fucked 
her with that, and fucked her again and again."

She was varying how she stroked him, sometimes hard, sometimes
cupping his testicles with her soft hand, sometimes just rubbing
the leaking semen around his edge; he grabbed her soft breast and
took it into her mouth and that, together with her insistent hand
and the idea of a lenient resistless Lily brought him to the
edge, and he knew it had never happened, Lily had a straightness
to her character that forestalled any such things going on, but
he thought about her and Melinda --  "Oh, fuck, did you pretend
you were in prison, like in the movie?  Fucking in the cell?"

"You know it, Boy," she said and he came, harder than he thought
it would, and she kissed him and he kissed her and she asked to
go back to sleep and he said he would hold her til she did.

*************************

Whenever Patsy swam, or when Will washed her hair, it turned into
a big, bushy afro.  Will and Worf were both delighted by that. 
The first time Worf saw her with her fluffy little halo he
laughed and called her Bootsie Collins.  He pretended to eat it,
hoisting her in the air with one hand and then slowly pulling her
towards his mouth, making num-num-num sounds.  Patsy screamed
with laughter, so he did it again.   

After that Patsy always wanted Daddy Worf to play
eat-Patsy's-hair with her.  Daddy Will was for serious stuff,
like nurturing and food and big-eyed comforting, but Daddy Worf
was strictly for fun.  Worf was glad that Patsy was so fond of
him.  He learned to smile a great deal from spending time with
her.  When she wasn't around, he got restless.

Then Upenda had to sit Will down for a conference.   Princess
Patsy's hair, she informed him, was losing its baby texture,
becoming kinkier and tighter, and they had some decisions to
make.  
Will listened solemnly.  He'd often watched Upenda with a
wide-toothed comb and a spray bottle of water, combing out
Patsy's hair and braiding it close to her head in two neat little
rows, fastening the braids with little barrettes.  The process
enchanted him.  He would have braided Patsy's hair himself, but
the few times he tried the braids came out lumpy and uneven. 

Then too, Patsy always pulled her little head away from his 
thick fingers and said 'ow.'

So Will always watched a little yearningly as Upenda created
braids that were smooth and lovely.

"Do not wash her hair more than twice a week,"  Upenda ordered,
"or it will become brittle."

It was the law, so Will obeyed, but he wished he didn't have to. 
He liked playing with Patsy's hair, fascinated by the fact that
it would stay in the braid patterns Upenda so carefully created
until he combed it out again. 

He broached the subject of dreadlocks.   Upenda flat-out refused. 
Will was a little hurt at her vehemence.  He thought they might
look nice.  After all, he loved the texture of Worf's long locks, 
running his fingers through stray bits of Worf's hair until Worf
growled at him to lay off.  

He went to the only other black person he knew. 

"Geordi, what's wrong with dreadlocks?" 

"I don't know.  Does Worf want to cut his hair?"  Geordi sounded
alarmed.  He liked Worf's hair though he opted for cutting his
own hair close to the scalp.
 
"Upenda doesn't like them."

Geordi thought about it.  Upenda was about his mother's age. 
"Maybe it's part of the next generation of black hair styles."

Will was confused.  Still, he bowed to  Upenda's expertise and
listened carefully as she outlined his options.  She could have
it pressed with a hot comb.  "No!" Will said immediately.  She
reassured him that in the  hands of a professional they had
nothing to worry  about.  Will still said no.  Hot things were
not allowed around his Patsy.  They could have a texturizer put
on it.  "What's that?" said Will in a panicky voice.  "It's a
chemical process."  A chemical process?  On Patsy's head!  "No!"
he cried. Well, then, they could go to one of these new-fangled
'natural' salons and have Patsy's hair done without chemical or
heat processing.  Upenda wasn't sanguine about this last option;
she had not learned to do hair that way. 

In spite of Upenda's reservations, Will was all for that last
option.  Texturizers were chemicals, and hot irons were . . . .
hot!  But he was perfectly comfortable  with the idea of an hour
drive into downtown LA for a solution that would not pose a
hazard to his daughter, and, if he looked stupid -- a big round
white guy in a black hair salon, anxiously hovering over his
little girl as she was propped up on phone books and shampooed --
well, so be it.  People always giggled and elbowed one another
when he came in, but the hairdressers were tickled pink to see
him.  Will was so besotted with his child, and he was so
appreciative, tip-wise, that they jostled with one another for
the opportunity to do Patsy's Riker-Rodshenko's hair.  You could
sell Will anything for Patsy, and he would be grateful for the
opportunity to fork over his money. 

After a while Upenda grudgingly gave her approval.  She admitted
that Patsy's hair looked very nice.   It grew much longer.  Will
was tickled pink. 

And the best part about taking Patsy to the salon was that they
could do her hair up in very fancy styles.  After all, she needed
to be stylish.  Now that they were sending Patsy to nursery
school, they were getting invitations to kids birthday parties. 
All the other children wanted the pretty, confident, generous
Patsy at their parties, so she went to at least one a month,  if
not more.  Will was thrilled.  Each party was another opportunity
for him to dress Patsy up and show her off.  Hair, shoes, dress,
jewelry: he made her look like an angel.  

Will and Q started planning Patsy's fourth birthday party months
in advance.  Worf  was exasperated by this, but he tried to get
into the spirit, however reluctantly.  Fortunately, Q loved stuff
like that.  He called on all his friends to help, and they put
their heads together and came up with a perfect plan.  Worf could
not believe they actually had the damned thing catered, with a
kids menu Very-very designed, and a big expensive cake from the
same bakery that had baked  Jean-Luc and Melinda's wedding cake. 
It had Patsy's name written on it in pink rosettes, and it was so
fancy that the baker put it in his brag book.   

There were real seed pearls sewn onto the bodice of her birthday
dress. 

And she wore a little necklace and bracelet set with pink
diamonds.

And Will wanted to buy her a pony.

"Not as long as I'm alive," Worf said.  (In other words, maybe
next year.)

Instead of the pony, Will bought her a huge doll house and had 
it wheeled out onto the floor of Party Tyme Play House.  All the
other kids put their gifts around it like offerings.   

A Floyd lunch box!
       
Another Floyd lunch box!

A Floyd board game!  Fun for the whole family!

Will and Worf sat there.  

(Away from Patsy, Will and Worf had turned one of Patsy's stuffed
Floyds into a sort of voodoo doll.   Worf choked it.  Will kicked
it under the bed.  They cracked each other up by hanging it in
one of Will's handcuffs and suspending it from the bedpost.  They
took Polaroids of Floyd sitting on top of Will's largest
vibrator.   They dangled Floyd in front of Ginger so she would
claw it.  They made dead Floyd jokes, but not in front  of Patsy. 
In front of Patsy, they were always drippy sweet Floyd lovers.)

Even Very-Very was there at Patsy's party, beaming at the
proceedings in his dark way. And he gave Patsy a tiara!

Timmy was there too.

Timmy.

Q was a little worried about Timmy.  Lately, things had not been
going well with Timmy.  And that made Q a little sad.  After all,
he had learned so much from Timmy.   Hand in hand they walked
through museums on idle days, listening to the docents, marveling
over the thousands of wonderfully obscure facts to be learned,
appreciating each other's company.  It was no great love affair,
but . . . this was different.  Timmy seemed genuinely miserable. 

Suddenly he was struck by a horrible thought.

What if Timmy wanted to break up with him?  He didn't love Timmy
at all, but Timmy's utterly compliant personality was very
comforting.  

"Timmy, are you all right?"

Timmy turned that tiny sweet face to Q.  "This is for Patsy."  A
big box.  

"I know she'll love it!"

"I doubt it," Timmy said glumly.  "It's a picture book of
Nijinksy.  It's probably not her thing.  But, Q," he turned on
him, "Q, I want you all to get that child serious about her
dancing.  I want her to really devote herself to her art."

Timmy was just so somber it made Q wonder.
 
*************************
     
Jean-Luc walked out on to his balcony.

Where he saw Sebastiana frolicking by herself in the pool, a
juicy little brownskinned mermaid.  

He stood there watching her splash.
        
*************************

Jimmy Jay Zimmerman adjusted his porkpie hat and pulled his Orlon
shirt down.  He needed to look his spiffiest.  He cleared his
throat and knocked on the formidable-looking door.

A slender, well-groomed middle-aged woman opened the door. "Are
you Mr. Zimmerman?"

"Ah, Mrs. Sudler, I presume you received my phone message."

"My husband told me to call the police if you showed up here." 

"Mrs. Sudler!  I don't understand!"

"We have severed all ties with that . . . person."

"Your adopted son!"

"He is no son of mine!"  

And she slammed the door.

Jimmy Jay smirked.  "Well, mamacita, better people than you have
slammed the door on me," he murmured.

Those Boys!  They were an endless source of fascinating stories;
just when you thought the well was dry, something new happened
and the heat clocked up a few more degrees.  Man-oh-man.
     
He drove over to the school board to examine any records they
might have.  Anybody at any local school board would do anything
for money.  

He would actually have liked to have visited the high school
itself, but that . . . 

At one point, Jimmy Jay had thought about being a doctor; he was
smart enough and meticulous enough, but there was something about
humans, about human flesh, that made him strikingly uneasy.  

His carnal pleasures were not pleasures of the flesh.  But he
didn't mind photographs.  That, actually, had been a kind of glue
binding him to poor old Ducatti.  (Snake had been last seen in
some sort of Family-owned mental institution, raving.  Oh well.) 
Of course, the photos that Snake provided were all on the same
subject, and Jimmy Jay liked a lot of variety.  Still, photos
were great. You were never embarrassed about tipping them too
little or suggesting something too weird for them or returning
too frequently.  Photographs were easy; it was people who were
tough. 

At the school board, there was a spectacularly disgruntled
employee at the school board.  My goodness, the things she knew!
And she was cheap!

"For another fifty, I'll tell you something that will knock your
socks off," she growled.

"Sure!" he said, handing over the fifty.

And then she leaned over and whispered in his ear the tabloid
story of the decade.

*************************

It was Sebastiana's 19th birthday, so Melinda took her on a
shopping spree and then they met Jean-Luc for supper in a nice
restaurant.  

(He had been back at the house setting up the new television and
VCR they had given her.)

When they went back home and Sebastiana saw her other presents,
she was ecstatic.  She threw her arms around Melinda, ""Miss
Melinda!  I thank you so very much!"  And then she turned to
Jean-Luc.  "Mister Johnny, where's my birthday kiss?" 
                                        
When she put her wiry arms around him, Jean-Luc was startled but
pleased.  He leaned in and kissed her warm cheek.  He didn't know
much about innocent kisses.  "Merci, Monsieur Jean!" she
squealed.

A storm of sweet nostalgia.  

More often than not, when they spoke French to each other,  their
dialects were so different they could barely understand each
other.  But sometimes what she was saying was clear as a bell.

*************************

Now what.

Timmy was sobbing.

"Q, I've been living a lie."

"Who hasn't?" More and more Q was allowing himself a certain
irony; irony didn't sit well on most middle-aged queens, but with
Q it merely italicized  his charm and beauty.

"Will you still like me no matter what?"

"I'm sure I will."

"I made Very-Very pledge secrecy."  Timmy was sniffling.

"You can use my hanky, Timmy."

"I'm going to have to go to Europe."

Hmmm... "That's not so bad."

"But . . . but . .. "Timmy began to wail.

"Shhhh. Shhhh," Q held Timmy as tenderly as if he were one of his
sons.  "Tell me what it is I need to know."

"Q, you never picked up the clues!  You never guessed!  It's
driving me crazy"

"What is it, Timmy?"

"Q, I'm... Floyd."

"Floyd?"

"The blue gila monster!  On televison!"

What... 

"Floyd!"   This was a real shocker.  "When did you find time to
go to Peking?"

"Oh, Q, good grief!  It was bluescreened in, but I will have to
go to Oslo.  I was so afraid you'd read it in the trades.  I had
to tell you."

"Timmy, this is a bit difficult to deal with."          

"Q, You fucked Floyd!  Isn't that horrible!  It's horrible in so
many ways."

Q held Timmy tightly.  "It's all right."

Timmy, however, was venting, getting it all off his chest.  He
sobbed out the whole story against Q's broad shoulder.  His ex-
boyfriend was the marketing director for one of the big three
networks.  It had been Brad's idea for Timmy to be Floyd.

"If only I'd known what I was getting myself into," Timmy
quavered.  His crying jag was winding down and he able to speak
more or less coherently.  "He wanted to take care of me.  He told
me that this would be the best way to get myself set for life. 
He pulled strings and got me the job.  And it's not that I'm not
grateful.  Every toy, every sock, every pinafore with Floyd's
face on it pays me money.  But it's a trap!  He set it up so that
I'm the only one allowed to be Floyd, so I have to do all those
awful publicity appearances.  And that stupid show!  I'm so tired
of that damned costume!  No one understands! I'm not Floyd!"

Q was aghast.  Poor Timmy. "Well," it was the only thing he could
think of, "Floyd can't be popular forever.  Can he?"

*************************

"Quark, what you have is not big enough for me."

Melinda was examining her manicure while Quark watched.

He was beside himself.  Finally, she was here, in his office, and
he had disappointed her.

"Melinda, I've been tossed around by every she-rat in this town."

"Have you, babe?" she said sympathetically.

"But, as God is my witness, I will get you a better script."  
She really did know best, the script about the girl who became an
aerospace engineer and the one about the stripper, and the one
about the young mother who died of liver disease, none were right
for her.  He saw that now.  But he would bitterly miss all the
elaborate shower scenes he'd had the writers insert.


"It's fun to think that you believe in God, Quarky!  Which one!"  

*************************
     
Jean-Luc stood on his stone balcony and looked out over the
Smokies.  

A black storm was blowing in.  

His land.  His 200 acres.  His soil.  With the siren mountains
beyond.

He felt the wet air on his face.

Melinda was doing some Hollywood shit, so he was alone here. 
Well, not utterly alone. Joe was somewhere on the edges of the
property, and Sebastiana was June-bugging  around inside.

Alone was not all that interesting to Jean-Luc, but he did love
this. 

Storm and land, his.
        

Sebastiana brought out some of her specialities at supper.  

"Your cooking will make me fat, Sebastiana."

"Never, Mister Johnny."  She smiled, and then shivered.

"What's wrong, girl?"

"I'm scared of thunder storms, Mister Johnny," she looked
apprehensively out the big dining room window.  "I'm scared of
that lightening.  What if it hits me?  I can feel that
electricity in the air, can't you?"        

Jean-Luc was aware of her trembling; she was standing very close. 
She shook with a child's fear of loud noises.

"I like it.  I'll protect you from the storm, I promise."  

She turned those huge brown eyes on him and at that very second,
the heavens opened.  A pitchfork of lightning hit the ground, and
a peal of thunder broke the air.  

She flung herself at him.  "Mister Johnny, no!"

The suddenness had startled even Jean-Luc.  "It's okay," he
whispered.  She was warm and bony and fragrant and wiggly like a
pup.  Her little hands crept around his neck.  She seemed to be
trying to bury herself in Jean-Luc's body.  

This was . . .  "Sebastiana, calm down."  

She moved in more closely.  Now she was on his lap.  "I don't
like the lightning," she said.  Her mouth was right beside his
ear.  Her breath was damp upon him.

He put one big hand on her right hip and pulled her in closer. 
This was really extremely pleasant.  He let his hand drift
between her warm brown thighs.   She didn't move away.

For a long time, Q and Melinda had been the only two sets of ass
that interested him.

But this was something new.  

She was very deliberately staying on his lap.

Her immaculate little socks and white sneakers.  That little
skirt.

He found the zipper and undid it.  

"What do you want, Sebastiana?" He was caressing her body where
the zipper opened.

"I want what you want, Mister Johnny."

Another bolt of lightning hit, crashing the earth.  She drew in
closer to him.  His hand was very close to the center of her body
now; he could feel the heat, the moistness.  She opened her legs
ever so slightly and moved herself towards his big hand.  

He took his hand away from her thighs.

She looked at him.

He moved it under her shirt.  To her breasts.  Those little
pointy girl titties.  Soft little cones of sweet flesh.  

Then his hand moved back down to her thighs and opened them more. 


Then back to her breasts.  

He looked at her dear little face.  Her eyes were closed and her
mouth was open and panting a bit.

He moved his stiff dick against her.  My.  Then he moved his hand
back between her legs.  He touched her very gently through her
damp panties.

"We could go upstairs to the bedroom.  We wouldn't be by this
scary old window," he said in the most seductive voice in
history.  More thunder and lightning.

"Please, Mister Johnny."

"If you're sure?"

"I'm sure."

In the bedroom, he sat on the edge of the bed.  "I'd like to see
you take your skirt off, Sebastiana.  Let me see you in your
panties."

She pulled the unfastened skirt over her head.

Then she pulled her little shirt off.  Only then did she remove
her shoes and socks.

Jean-Luc went dizzy with want.  Those pointy titties, the
immaculate white panties barely covering her privates.  

"Come here, girl."  He took her and rolled her on the bed beside
him, and then he took his shirt off.   He unfastened the top of
his jeans.  

He felt her panties tight against her little ass.  He peeled them
down a little.  He could see where the little brown globes of her
ass started.  He stroked her there.  He loved ass, and he could
look at that particular ass for a hundred years.   He moved her
panties down further, half-way down her ass.  He leaned over and
kissed each side of it.  Then he rolled her panties down below
the full curve of her ass.  She was completely rounded there,
despite her slenderness.  

"Let's take off everything," he whispered and unrolled those
spotless white panties.

Naked, she was lovely, skinny, skinny legs, a living triangle of
dark hair between the skinny legs.  Oh, how he wanted to open
those skinny legs.

Her kisses were incredibly sweet, avid, wet.  "Oh, Mister
Johnny," she said.

His dick was hard, leaking; what it would be like to be in that
little black puss.  

That little black puss.

He reared back on his heels and took her knees in his hands; he
split her legs and then leaned in for a loving kiss between her
legs.  

"No, Mister Johnny!" she cried.

He stopped.  "What's wrong?

She looked up at him abashed.  "It doesn't seem very nice, sir."

"What's not nice?"

"Down there."

He looked at her.  "Down there is extremely nice.  Let me make
you want me."

"I already want you, Mister Johnny.  I've wanted you since I got
here!"  

He swooped down.  Oh, she was sweet there, slick and delicious. 
He kissed her everywhere between her legs until she was moaning. 
Then he took her little swollen clitoris in his mouth and licked
it until she began to tremble.

"Are you ready, Sebastiana?"

"Oh, please, please," she begged.

He got a rubber out of the bedside stand and put it on, showing
off a little for her, showing her how hard she made him, how big,
how long it was standing from his body.  Stroking the rubber on. 
He thrust a little into the air, and then knelt between her legs. 


She was wet enough, but her little cunt was tight; she even
grimaced a little at first, and then she began to push against
him as he pushed against her.  Oh, this was good, this was good,
this was good.  Her slick pussy grabbed at him, wanted him in
her, wanted him all the way.  She was moaning "Mister Johnny
Mister Johnny" and he kept on thrusting at her, a machine
couldn't be more steady, and he felt her tense up underneath him
and she grabbed his shoulders hard and starting saying incoherent
things and he could feel her come and then he came with her, and
kept jerking inside her but it was just to help his orgasm last.

When he recovered himself, he patted her.  "Good girl."

"Oh, thank you, Mister Johnny."

He withdrew, holding the open end of the rubber carefully; then
he snapped on the beside lamp so he could see what he was doing. 

What the . . . the rubber was bloody.

He looked at his bloody hands.  Sebastiana must be having her
time of . . .

Those immaculate panties.  And he had kissed her there.

What was. . .

"Sebastiana," he said.  She was lying there with her eyes shut,
smiling, her little breasts pointing up.  "Sebastiana, where'd
this blood come from?"

"Blood?"  Her eyes flew open.

"Blood," he said.  He wasn't scared exactly,  but he wanted to
know.  He showed her the blood smeared on his hands.

"I'm so sorry, Mister Johnny," she cried out, shutting her eyes
in humiliation.

He had to say it.  "Sebastiana, was I the first?  Were you a . .
. virgin?"

She was crying now, her arms covering her face.  He couldn't help
noticing her pretty little stick arms, those smooth little brown
hands.

"Please tell me, ma cherie," he whispered.

"I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what, dearest?  If I had know I was the first, I would
have tried to make it better for you."

Her eyes opened.  "Oh, Mister Johnny, it could not have been
better."


It was almost too much for Jean-Luc to take in.  In his mind's
eye, he saw that little grimace over and over again.  That was
when it had happened.  He looked over at the clock on his
nightstand, estimating the time it had actually happened. 
Outside the thunder growled and rumbled.   Sebastiana's eyes
flashed fear again and he shifted a little closer.  She was
trembling.

He stroked her hair to comfort her and himself a little. 

"You know I am fifty years old," he told her, "and in all that
time I've never been with a virgin.  That makes you very special
to me." 

She put her small hand against his thigh,  "I'm so glad it was
you."

He looked at her sharply.  "Are you?"

She nodded.

After a moment, he smiled.  "You know what this means, don't
you?"

Sebastiana shook her head.  "What?"

"It means I have to teach you."  He thought of the way she
squealed in protest when he kissed her pussy.  Well, he would
change all that. 

"You already taught me."

He breathed in.   "Just you wait, little girl." 


The storm left quietly and the resulting silence woke Jean-Luc
out of sleep.  Sebastiana lay curled up against his warmth.  She
did not stir as he slipped out from beneath the covers, and
Jean-Luc took a moment to watch her.

Patsy slept like that, intensely vulnerable, utterly undisturbed
by dreams and memories.

Not so Jean-Luc.  His thoughts woke him, and he prowled through
the silent house, listening to night noises, thinking about
everything and nothing in particular.  Normally a mood like this
would find him in his car, driving until he sorted things out.  

But there was really nothing to sort, was there?  He'd made love
to Sebastiana, astounded her, worn her out, done himself proud. 
This had been her introduction to sex, and because of him she
liked it and wanted more.  Jean-Luc caught sight of his
reflection in the big-paned windows.  

He saw a very self-satisfied expression.  

Fifty years old, he thought, and stared at his nude torso.  And
he'd been fucking for how long?  Sebastiana hadn't even been
born.  His first time?  That had been an experience.  A girl
whose name he'd forgotten, if he ever knew it, another rainy
night, like this one as a matter of fact, on the floor of the
cloakroom in the school.  They'd broken in and she stood there
shivering a little as he laid their coats down on the floor. 
Then she lay on top of their makeshift bed and opened her legs.

He remembered how shocked he'd been at the scent of her body--he
hadn't even been sure he liked it, and hadn't really known what
he was doing.  He poked between her legs with his stiff penis,
feeling her rough pubic hair against his dick, and then she
reached down, and suddenly, almost by accident, he was sinking
in.  The surprise of it, the relief of it, was like coming into a
warm place after being out in the cold forever.  It hadn't lasted
long, and he'd gotten up and almost run from the cloakroom when
they were finished.  

The second time, well, that was something else.  He had been
working in the fields when a man offered him money to run
moonshine.  Well, why not.  One stop had been a jook joint on the
outskirts of Raleigh, rough, with tattered Christmas lights lit
all year around in the middle of a muddy field.  The woman who
ran the joint had been dark like Sebastiana,  a little bit older
and wizened, but kind, and amused by the sober  redneck youth who
delivered white lightning to her jook joint.  She took him in on
a whim, and dismissed him on a whim, but she'd been gentle with
his ignorance, and let him come to see her all summer long. 
Fucking her in her ratty backroom as the gray Virginia rain fell
had been one of the happiest times in his life.  Now he was
somehow returning the favor; he felt as if he'd come full circle.

In those days, his innocence had calved like an iceberg, broken
from him in big chunks.  He'd been in county lock-up again,
feeling fatalistic, feeling as if nothing mattered.  His cell-
mate wanted money for heroin and he'd offered to suck Jean-Luc's
cock for ten dollars, and Jean-Luc thought, 'What the fuck.'  It
hadn't been very good.  Jean-Luc kept his eyes shut, pissed off
when the grimy little man pulled out his own dick and brought
himself off as well.  He hadn't touched a man again until he was
looking at hard time in the state pen.  His cell-mate offered
himself, and Jean-Luc, understanding that it was
fuck-or-be-fucked, bent the man over and hurt him as best he
could.  It was something to do, certainly, during the long boring
days and nights in prison, and Jean-Luc began to amuse himself by
learning everything there was to know about fucking. 

He went for endurance, keeping track of his times by a cheap
commissary watch; learning to hold off coming until thirty
minutes passed; until forty-five minutes passed; an hour.  

His cell-mates all bragged about how well he fucked.  Jean-Luc
was pleased in his dark fashion.  He was a good fuck and he had
always known it.  Now it helped cement his identity as a hard
man, a real man.  He beat his cellmates sometimes too, which they
also enjoyed.

It wasn't until Q came along that he actually kissed another man. 
He hadn't intended to allow it, really, but Q touched him so
gently; Q smiled at him so tenderly.  No one had ever looked at
Jean-Luc that way.  It pissed him off, and it made an ache behind
the scar where his heart was.  He'd beaten Q for that kiss, and
for many others since then.  

But he hadn't beaten Sebastiana when she kissed him.   And then
she, too, ran her small hands wonderingly over his  lightning-
shaped scar, and she, too, leaned over to kiss it, just like Q
had done.  This time, however, all Jean-Luc had done was smile. 

The thought of her little fingers against his chest made him
wonder if she was still sleeping.  He wondered if she might wake
up alone and be confused or afraid, so he padded back to bed and
slipped in beside her.  Her wiry body and warm skin were very
inviting.  Jean-Luc nestled against her and was soon asleep
again. 
     

Over the next  few days, he was as good as his word.  He felt
very tender towards her.  A virgin.  His virgin.  Jean-Luc
couldn't explain how priceless this was, how precious.  The
shyness, the hesitance that might have irritated him in anyone
else was suddenly charming.  She was so demure.  She wouldn't
even touch his erect penis.  He didn't mind.  He wanted it to be
different for Sebastiana.   She was a fine girl, and she deserved
to be brought from innocence to knowledge by someone who valued
what she had to offer.

So he taught her.

Day and night, he taught her.

He was gentle and very, very thorough.  He mostly taught her
positions at first, to get her over her natural shyness.   She
hadn't known it was possible to be that naked with another
person.  He learned to listen for her nervous giggle so that he
could desensitize her to whatever it was that made her skittish.


Joe knew at once.  There was no hiding the way she changed.  She
moved differently, more aware of her body, more aware of how
exciting it was to move in desire-tinged air.  

Sebastiana had just pulled off down the driveway when Jean-Luc
caught Joe watching the way his eyes followed her.           

Joe pointed after her and gave Jean-Luc a somber look: "Her daddy
and I saved each other's lives.   More than one time."  

Telling him something.  "Is that a fact?"  

"Sure is.  It was a long time ago, and now here's his little
girl, all grown up."  Joe walked up close to Jean-Luc.  "I once
had me a young  girl friend.  A lot younger.   You know what?" 
Jean-Luc lifted his chin.  "It wasn't as much fun as it sounds."

Jean-Luc said nothing.  He thought of Patsy, imagined her all
grown up, and imagined himself or Will or, God forbid, Worf,
chasing off interlopers.   

"You know I will do right by her," he finally said.

"Oh, I'm sure you will."  Joe looked at Jean-Luc.  

They said nothing more.  
     

He found himself pleasantly amused by his obligations to her.  He
bought a cute little car she could use  He bought her little
gifts.  Nothing too obvious, just CD's and videos, mostly. 
Perfume.  Rings. He deliberately kept his temper; loud noises
upset her.

And every night he stretched out on the big bed in the master
bedroom and caressed her warm soft flesh until they were both
delirious.
     

Sebastiana came out of the shower, her dark cloud of hair beaded
with water.  She was wearing little golden hoop earrings Jean-Luc
had just given her and nothing else.  She gave him that radiant
wide smile.

He was very aroused watching her.

She rolled her eyes at his arousal and smiled more widely.

Then she sat on the bed.  "I feel so good, Johnny."

"You look good," he said in a low voice.

"Let me make you feel good," she said and straddled him, the cool
damp flesh of her pussy right against his navel.

"Umm," he said.  Then she rocked a little on his stomach, teasing
him, teasing herself.  

He closed his eyes.

She placed her small self on the tip of him.  He wanted to say,
wait a minute, let me get a rubber, but the way she was poised on
the end of his dick was exquisite; it didn't matter.  She was
clean   he was clean   he'd been tested and she was his little
virgin.  She began to move up and down.  He opened his eyes   she
was so beautiful, her big eyes closed, himself disappearing and
reappearing, glistening inside the dark hair at the base of her
brown body slippery, satiny against him.  Then she was very
still, using the muscles of her little pussy to stimulate him. 
Oh, he was stimulated.  He grabbed her hips.  "Let me do it for a
bit, baby," he whispered, and he plunged again and again inside
her until they both came.  


Once he drove her five hundred miles to New Orleans so she could
buy things they didn't have in Tennessee.  

He rented a suite in an ancient expensive hotel in the French
quarter for them.  It had an iron balcony and several ceiling-
high mirrors.  Once, he left the doors to the balcony open and
sat naked in a gilt chair while she sat on top of him.  He could
see them at different angles in the different mirrors.  Her white
panties were rolled down around her knees, and he was able to put
his big fingers up against her cocoa-colored pussy and they could
hardly get enough of each other.
      
When they went back to Tennessee, the Caddy's trunk was loaded
with bags of foodstuffs and with brightly-colored  pictures of
the Virgin and holy cards of Santa Barbara and candles depicting
sacred hearts.  Jean-Luc had warned her that he might have to
stop and sign autographs, but no one bothered them.  A
middle-aged white man with a young black girl in his car? 
Nothing anybody hadn't seen before.  They assumed the obvious and
looked right past the fact that it was Jean-Luc Picard behind the
wheel.

He took her to get goat's meat so she could make him a kind of
stew with potatoes and the spices she'd found.  She taught him
how to suck the meat off the bones, and he did so, delirious with
the innocence of her little ways.  

Time and time again he took her to bed with him.  When Melinda
called, he did not tell her what they were doing.  

He had no idea how to feel about that.

He tried to tell himself that this was no different from fucking
old Gary at the Oscars, and it wasn't as if they'd promised each
other fidelity.  He wasn't doing this because he was lonely or
anything.  She was just here, and he liked her.
       
Besides there was a lot to like about Sebastiana.  Her tiny,
skinny body held an incredible amount of energy and passion.  Her
bony shoulders and narrow hips made him feel protective and
courtly.  Her labia were dark on the outside and dark pink on the
inside.  At the demarcation the skin was the color of a purple
plum.  Jean-Luc wished there was a way to get Aloe to come take a 
picture of Sebastiana like that, but somehow it wouldn't be
right. 

She was a young girl.  Let her be a girl for a while longer.  

*************************

"Honey, I'm home!" 

It was Melinda, finally, with a rush of spicy perfume and her
height and her wide smile. 

At supper, Sebastiana dropped a plate of sandwiches on the
kitchen floor.

Jean-Luc knelt beside her to help.  "Don't be nervous.".  

"I can't help but think she knows just by looking," Sebastiana
whispered.  She appeared very ill-at-ease.  

"She probably will figure it out, but she won't say anything to
you about it.  It's my show now." 

Sebastiana was no dummy.  After a lot of teasing helloes, Melinda
had been uncharacteristically quiet.

Sebastiana sat the sandwiches down and curtsied.  "I will go
now."

"The only thing that could depress me more right now is your
curtsy.  Don't curtsy, island girl, we're all in this together."

Sebastiana swallowed and shot a look at at Jean-Luc.

"You may go, Sebastiana," he said smoothly.

She fled the dining room.

"Melinda, is there something you want to talk about?"

"Boy, will you always love me?"

"I'm sure I will," he said cautiously.

"I saw a rough print of that stupid pharoah-of-the-sex-moon movie
of mine.  It sucks.  I mean it really does.  It might turn a
profit eventually if they market it amongst native peoples who've
never seen a movie.  But it's awful.  They spent all their rat
dollars on special effects, and none on the script, and, brother,
does it ever show.  My career is over.  I lost the fucking Oscar
-- yeah, yeah, I know I oughta be over that because I'm Melinda
Madigan, Girl Survivor, but shit.  I guess I could be the wacky
neighbor on a TV show, but that's about it.  Hey, don't you need
a caged go-go dancer on your next tour?  Maybe I can apply for
that job.  At least Quark likes me."

"Lover, eat something."

"'Lover, eat something.'  Jean-Luc, I think we can do a little
better than that.  I guess you think it's just that bitch's
career.  But my career matters to me.  I want to succeed.  I want
to be just like that old Jean-Luc Picard.  I want to change the
world."


They did not make love that night.  Melinda was too depressed. 
So she cried in his arms, but they did not make love.
     
Jean-Luc and Melinda spent the next day by their pool. 
Sebastiana diffidently brought the mail.  He did not ignore how
gracefully she leaned in when she handed it to him.  He slit one
big envelope open and some photos fell  out - it was all from
Quark, who had included a short little note which  said "Busted
at last!  Here's those elusive telephoto photos we've been
hearing about for years   our lawyers are on the case."  Jean-Luc
looked at them; they were from that same surreptitious spying
sequence taken a couple of years ago -- the one where Q's ass
appeared in the Wide World News.  But these had not appeared in
the Wide World News. 


No, these could not quite appear in a family newspaper.  Although
Jean-Luc and Q were doing nothing more than standing there and
talking and Jean-Luc was wearing a perfectly normal if tight
little black swimsuit, Q was quite naked and the photos, taken
from the front,  showed all of him.  

All of him.  

Jean-Luc remembered the occasion clearly.  He'd been pissed off
with Quark about some touring shit and was threatening to
dismember him; Q had been in the tenderest mood, cooing little
ironically agreeable phrases, "I'm all about strangling  Quark!"
"My hero!" "Squeeze him til he pops!" "Oooh, Jean-Luc!" "Right 
on sister!"  And his adoring eyes had removed the sting of irony,
and he had moved so beautifully, pulling his long hair back,
hugging  himself as he moved his shoulders, tenting his fingers,
moving his eyebrows up and down, biting his lower lip.  Giggling. 
Blushing.  Q  looked like a God in those photos.

Jean-Luc sat up in his lounge chair.  Beside him, beside their
crisply rippling turquoise pool, Melinda sprawled, his wife, the
most famous  movie star in the world, her beautiful bikinied body
glistening with tanning oil (even the American flag tatooed below
her navel was shining in the sun); inside he could hear
Sebastiana vacuuming.        

Melinda opened her eyes.  "What are those photographs?" she asked
languidly.

"Old photos of Q and myself."  He handed them to her.

She stared at them for a bit.  Then she said, "His dick is bigger
than yours."


"To an extent," Jean-Luc said carefully.  "Quark sent these."

Melinda sat up a little straighter. "Good old Quark."  She looked
at her husband.  "Well, maybe I'll snap out it after I stare at
that do-nothing bathing suit of yours for long enough.  Honestly,
Jean-Luc, do you have to share it with the world?"  But she was
smiling and he took her inside and made love to her the rest of
the afternoon.
     
After all that strenuous love they fell asleep, and in the early
evening they woke to the scent of Sebastiana's cooking.  

Hmmm.  

In the days and weeks after her seduction, Sebastiana had showed
her gratitude by cooking for him at least once a day.  She said
it was because she finally had the spices she needed, but she
also presented the dishes to him with a hopeful expression on her
face that told him how much his opinion meant to her.  She need
not have worried about his appreciation.   

Sebastiana had fixed him peas and rice, fried plantains, okra
soup, thick slices of corn mush drowned in creamy beans.  She
called the corn mush by a different word entirely and tried to
teach him how to say it, but he simply called it corn mush and
let it go at that.  She fixed fish in lime sauce, and yam and
lamb, a spicy stew with tomatoes which he loved, even though it
gave him heartburn.  She made ginger beer.  She made coconut
pudding.  She poured the leftover okra soup over the corn mush
and put it in front of him, apologizing.  

"If you apologize anymore, I'm going to put you out of this
house."

She giggled.  They were sitting at the kitchen table, where she
usually ate.  He tried to get her to come sit with him in the
dining room, but she demurred.  She said she didn't want to carry
dishes all that way.

"I'm glad you liked it, Johnny."

He shook his head.  "I did more than like it.  Look at my plate." 
 It was so empty it almost looked clean.  

She ran a fingernail across the back of his hand.  "Since you eat
all your food maybe you only want to sleep now.  Maybe I go to
sleep in my old room."  

She took two steps away and paused, looking at him over her
shoulder.  

He pulled her down on his lap, her smallness always surprising
him. "You'd better not.  I'll just come find you."

She giggled again and he had leaned in and kissed her, tasting
okra and olive oil on her lips.


Now that Melinda was back, however, Sebastiana had returned to
the maid's quarters.  Jean-Luc assumed she would no longer cook
for him, fully expecting to go back to their old routine of
eating out every night.  The smell of food surprised him.  

The dining table was set when they went downstairs.  Another
first.  Melinda seemed delighted by the ambience and by the food. 
"This is so good.  Jean-Luc, you ought to try it." 

"Oh, I already had some."

Melinda sighed.  Sebastiana went back to the kitchen.

"I need to go back to Hollywood in a few weeks," he said.  "Music
business stuff."

"You're scared, Boy, you're running away."

Jean-Luc stared at her, beyond reacting.

Melinda pushed her meal away and settled her chin in her hands. 
"Sebastiana's got an ass like a little chocolate cupcake."  Her
eyes were amused and measuring.  "And you bit into it because
it's not your way to resist.  Now I'm back, and you don't know
what to do with both of us in the house.  I understand, Boy, but
don't fuck with us.  Got it?"

"No."

Melinda narrowed her eyes at him.  "I'm not your groupie,
Jean-Luc, I'm your wife.  Don't make me have to shake you up."

"Melinda," Jean-Luc said carefully.  "I've never been one for
being told what to do."

Now her expression was tight, wary.  "This whole thing is not
typical of you."

He stood up and put his hands flat on the table.  "Yes.  It.  Is.
" He breathed out.  "You didn't know that before,  but now you
do."

*************************

Jean-Luc slept in his bedroom.

Sebastiana slept in hers.

Melinda slept in the guest bedroom.  

Not that any of them got much sleep.


On the third silent morning that Melinda was back, Jean-Luc heard
something.  Sebastiana was retching in the bathroom.

He ran to the bathroom.   "What is it, girl?" 

"Don't you know, Johnny?" she moaned.  Her skin was clammy, her
eyes dilated.

"No," he said, unsure what he was saying no to.

She put something in his hand and leaned back over the commode.

Vitamins.  Materna brand.  He read the label.  For pregnant women
and nursing mothers.  

"Sebastiana."

He became aware that Melinda was standing at the door to the
bathroom.  He glanced at her.  She looked concerned; she walked
in and started wetting towels to put on the back of Sebastiana's
thin little neck.  

"Sebastiana," he said, "who gave you these?"

"The doctor." she groaned.  Then she lay down curled up on the
cool tile floor.

Melinda lay a sympathetic hand on her shoulder.  "Drink some
water," she said, "Then rest.  We'll get our own breakfast this
morning."

"Thank you," Sebastiana said in a weak voice.

"What kind of doctor?" Jean-Luc said.  Although he knew.  He just
wanted to hear her say.

"The doctor for women."

A great silence engulfed all three of them.  

Finally, Melinda said, "are you pregnant?"

Sebastiana gave a weak smile. "Yes."

Melinda looked at the girl.  "Give me your doctor's name. I need
to see if we're doing all we can," she said in a soft voice. 

"Those pills he gave me make me burp."  Sebastiana closed her
eyes.

"We like to hear you burp," Melinda smiled at her.

"Dr. Gaines is his name.  He's at the clinic here."

"I'll go call him.  Jean-Luc, help this child back to bed.  Make
sure she's got plenty of covers."


"Who got her pregnant?" Melinda was sitting at the kitchen table. 
She had a pad full of notes from the doctor.

Jean-Luc looked at her as if she were joking.  "Obviously I am a
suspect."    

"Oh."  Melinda didn't know quite what to say.  "You didn't take
precautions?"

"I did.  Almost always.  Almost."  He remembered that time weeks
ago.  "She wouldn't.  She's Catholic, I guess."

"When did this start?" 

"When did what start?  The pregnancy is news to me."

"When did you start with her?"

"Around Mardi Gras."  It was now May.

"She told me she's about two and a half months pregnant." 

They looked at each other.  

Melinda was almost amused by this husband of hers and his 
let-come-what-may attitude.  

She stood up and leaned against the kitchen table and, as if in a
dream, Jean-Luc moved towards her, his eyes large and bright, and
she grabbed him and hugged him to her, and he let his hands slide
down and then bring  the skirt up over her satin thighs, her
muscular flat stomach. Then he knelt and kissed the salty
slickness between her legs as she closed her eyes and moved
intently against him.  He rose up between her legs as she made
frantic sounds and she found him pressing himself, his cock, the
cock she loved, in her and she pivoted her firm hips so that she
could get every bit of it and she was lying on the kitchen table
making hard little sounds over and over while he moved in and
out.

But by the time they finished fucking, she was crying.

"What are those for?" Jean-Luc asked.

"I can't stay with you, Boy, and it makes me sad because I love
you so much."

"Because of Sebastiana?"  Jean-Luc wasn't sure he was hearing her
correctly. "Melinda, this doesn't have to be that big a deal.  We
have lots of . . . money."

"You've let Q spoil you," she said. "He's the only one in the
world who would put up with this."  

"Put up with what?  I thought we could both fuck anyone we
liked."  
She looked at him steadily.  "She was a young girl from some
third-world island hellhole.  The last thing she needs is to be
pregnant.  Do you know what she told me when I interviewed her?
She said she wanted to save her money and go to college.  She has
college catalogues in her room and we talked about how she could
borrow our car to get back and forth to class.  Now look at her. 
Anybody can make a baby, but papers on *The Scarlet Letter* that
make A's are scarcer than hen's teeth.  Do you know how much work
a baby is?  Do you know how long it's going to take her to get
her career back on track?"

Jean-Luc knew exactly how much work a baby was.  He was there
watching Will and Patsy from the beginning.  He had no answer to
Melinda's words. 

"Maybe you could talk her into getting an abortion."

She gazed at him; her eyes were so hard they seemed transparent.

"Look, Melinda, I'm sorry I hurt you.  I wasn't thinking. I just
wanted some sex."

"My lawyers will call your lawyers."   Her voice was rough.
     

He walked around his property while Melinda packed.  When he
heard her car leave, he went back inside.  He had lost the
beautiful, wise, generous-spirited, infinitely valuable Melinda
chasing after a little girl with pretty nipples.  He couldn't t
quite comprehend it yet.

Her housekey was on the kitchen table.  

She wasn't Q.  

And he wasn't in control.

He went to their bedroom.

Her closet was still mostly full.  He stared at her empty
clothes; they hung there like gently fragrant ghosts.  

Then he opened the drawer to her bedside stand.  It was empty. 
He gave a tight smile.  She had taken their photos with her, the
wedding photos Aloe had shot,  the secret ones, the ones she had
always loved, where Jean-Luc was relentlessly driving into her.  

He heard a sound down the hall.

Sebastiana was weeping.

*************************
     
It was Melinda's first conference after the separation.  The
newsmen were there in droves.  

"Hey, Quark, what are you doing here!" one of them shouted; they
spotted him easy.

Quark shrugged: "I'm a friend of the 'family'."  He made little
quote marks around the word family.  

She was coming out of Quark's office building where she had
agreed to meet the press.   She had on a nice print dress,
sleeveless   she wasn't wearing stockings, only those high heels. 
Melinda really was a looker.

"What about those rumors that Jean-Luc was physically violent and
abusive?"  One reporter shouted.

Melinda was genuinely shocked.  "Is this how a press conference
begins?  He has his wild side, that's definitely true, but he's
not the type to hit people.  He has a temper.  He yells.  Then
it's over." She shrugged a pretty little shrug.  "He's a very
sensitive man."

"Why are you divorcing?"

"Was he unfaithful?"

"Would you say your marriage was happy?"

Melinda looked at the reporters.  "He's the love of my life, no
shit, but that doesn't mean as much as it used to."

They shouted more impudent questions and Melinda just watched
them.  Then she stood up and took the skirt of her dress in her
hands.  "Do you like my new dress?  I needed something I could
wear to Sunday school."

They applauded her; she was ending the scary press conference
with grace.

"My marriage is over.  I sure wish somebody would buy me a
martini and make it this arid," and she stretched out her arms. 

There were gay and straight reporters, black and white, male and
female, but only those who were awake knew what they were seeing:
they were seeing Melinda evolve.

"This is where she's earning her Oscar,"  one reporter whispered
to another.
     
*************************

"Women."

"Hmm?"

"I never thought I was attracted to other women," Beverly said. 
The friendliness, the kindness, the cuddliness   she looked at
De-Anne.  "Girl, it's never been like that for me ever.  I didn't
even know you could do half that stuff."

"I sensed that about you."

De-Anne rubbed Beverly's back.  

"You know everything, don't you, De-Anne?"

"I know things, yes."

"I bet you know about," Beverly took a deep breath, "Sonny and
Bubba and Junior, don't you?"  And she buried her face in her
hands.

"I sensed that as well," De-Anne said in her comforting voice.
"Don't cry.  It wasn't your fault.  Just thank God the kids are
okay."

"What kind of a woman would do what I did?" Beverly cried.

"The kind of woman I love."

*************************

Women.

Did they really have brains or was it just a bee in a bottle in
there? 

Quark shook his head.  Quark loved the eternal mystery of the
female enigma.  But, geez, look at these two. 

Betty and Ursula, the Duras sisters.

"Well, Betty, this script I gotta say is very interesting to
myself and my client."

"I'm Ursula," the woman said.  

"Oh, sorry."  Actually, Quark had small reason to make that
mistake.  The Duras sisters were very alike on some level, both
plump and busty, nearly popping out of their tight blouses, both
with long curly hair, but the older one, the dreamy ineffectual
one, Betty, was very fair with pale hazel eyes while the younger
one, Ursula, Ursula, the smart one who dealt with people, was
darker with dark flashing eyes and glossy raven hair. 

And the hell of it was that their script was good.  With a role
tailor-made for Melinda.  And if she and Quark produced the movie
together . . . Quark shook his head.   

He needed that script for Melinda.   She had to have something to
take her mind off Jean-Luc.  He could see it with Melinda's tall
broad-shouldered beauty, maybe a little bulked up, maybe in
ragged cutoffs and a t-shirt.  Maybe sweating down the front of
her shirt, her muscles bulging, maybe there could be a big shower
scene towards the start . . .  Betty and Ursula's script had been
shuffling around Hollywood for a couple of years and Quark had
come across it quite by chance (he'd asked this feminist agent
one of his many random girlfriends recommended.)   

The agent indicated that Betty and Ursula were, together and
separately, quite a handful, but that the script had something 
to it.  It was called "The Cause" and it had the perfect role for
Melinda.  

She would play a member of a do-gooding missionary group over in
war-torn East Mesopotamia.  Melinda in the desert, sweaty, very
few clothes!  There was also a bossy adminstrator-boss man which 
they could get some B-list actor to play and a rescued orphanage
full of mixed-race kiddies (cheap to cast).  And Melinda's
character got stuck out in the middle of nowhere with the kiddies
and her character kept wearing less and less clothing.  

That was certainly a nice touch, Quark nodded to himself. 

In the end, she walks off alone into the desert with her AK-47
slung across her beautiful shoulders.  Maybe with the puppy she
befriended right behind her.

"How much money do you want?"

Betty and Ursula smiled at each other.  They did not have very
good teeth.

"Five thousand dollars?" said the unworldly Betty.

Ursula slapped her wrist. "Fifty thousand dollars and a few
points of the gross," she said.

"Sold."

*************************

Women.

Jean-Luc slammed the door of the Caddy closed and stalked into
the desert.  He had to piss  - a convenient saguaro caught his
eye.

Them.

He felt he had narrowly escaped from the entangling arms and
beseeching looks of Melinda and Sebastiana, and now he was headed
towards Q. 

Would he never be free?

All he wanted was to lead his little band of lovers (all right,
his harem) with him into the future, himself at the head, with
Melinda and Sebastiana and Q in all their human elegance arrayed
beside him and Worf and Will and Geordi and Data right behind
them.  A wedge-like grouping of lovers advancing against tomorrow
and time and society.

But no.

All they ever brought was sorrow.

A man wanted a little pussy, just a little, and all of sudden it
was ground-zero for the boo-hoo bomb.  Look at Melinda and
Sebastiana (pussy in his own house that was unavailable to him? 
What the hell was that noise?)  Look at Will and Data and, for
God's sake, Q.  How much trouble he had spent with Q!  Christ.

He finished pissing and zipped back up.

He was furious.

Dealing with women was like kicking that cactus   you thought
you'd hurt the cactus and walk away, but all that happened was
that they got you much deeper than you ever got them.

What was he going to do with all those women?  Sebastiana was the
worst; her little trick of getting knocked up outraged and
terrified Jean-Luc.  Well, no baby was on earth yet; he'd think
about that later.

And the real killer was, he'd always had too easy a time getting
women, even though he knew his looks counted against him.  He had
eyeballs.  He could see in the mirror.  He was ugly. He figured
he'd just go to prostitutes when he wanted to get his rocks off,
but to his endless surprise some women wanted to go with him even
without being paid.

He was suspicious, and a little resentful; it kept happening. 

"Why'd you want me?" he asked them.

They always shrugged.  "I don't know.  Just something about you. 
The way you looked at me.  I thought  you'd be good at it."

"And was I?" But he had always been good at fucking, and he knew
it.   He'd work all night to get a woman off.  Or a man, for that
matter.     

The highways were littered with those he'd satisfied in the
flesh, if not in the heart.
     
Q.  

Jesus Christ, Q would be a relief after all of that.

Back in Fear Alley, the first time in the showers, Q had been
terrified,  shaking,   his skin fish-cold.   It meant nothing,
really;  merely a display of Jean-Luc's power over his nice fresh
bride -- a little  show for Sisko and the rest.  

But the second time, months later, had been with  Q's willing  
consent, Q's desire, Q's need to serve Jean-Luc, to  make
Jean-Luc feel so good that he would never abandon  Q, so good
that Jean-Luc and Q would stay together forever.

And it was good.  Q had put that wide flexible giving mouth
around Jean-Luc's cock and used his tongue all around the
sensitive head.  Then he had leaned back on his heels and looked
up at Jean-Luc with those limpid melting amused eyes.

"Well?" Jean-Luc had asked carefully.  "Isn't there more to it
than that?"


"Did you like that?" Q asked, the eternal flirt.  "Would you like
some more?"  He leaned over and took Jean-Luc into his mouth,
almost all the way in.  He moved his head back and forth, and
Jean-Luc stood there, silvered in the moonlight, feeling as if a
God had come down to woo him with his fiery sighing mouth, and he
had gently moved with Q -- everything was nothing but damp and
slick between them.

He touched Q's soft dark hair and felt the pulse of Q's beautiful
head between his big fingertips and he began to caress Q's
beautiful face and head as Q took him deeper and deeper in, and
then the crisis approached, and  Jean-Luc's breath became ragged,
but Q only moved in closer and then Jean-Luc felt Q's graceful
hand go behind him and one finger went inside and Jean-Luc found
himself frenzied, panting and sighing.   "Q," he managed to gasp,
"Q."  

Q stayed on his knees, supporting Jean-Luc, keeping Jean-Luc from
falling.  He had not moved away but kept his mouth on him all the
way through as if nothing could rip Jean-Luc and Q apart. 

"Johnny, I love you!" Q whispered, as if it were a  secret.

*************************

"And what's this one?"

"I got it in Toronto.  It's white!"

"I didn't know it came in white.  I've seen it black and I've
seen it green, but white's a new flavor for me."  Guinan sipped
the oddly-scented cup of tea Q gave her.  Her head moved up. 
"Not bad."  There were also little slices of organic carrot cake
on pretty ceramic plates.

"The man I bought it from said it was rarer than jade.  But I bet
he was lying."

"Men do lie."

Q said nothing.

Guinan looked around the little airy gazebo where they were
sitting.   Mums decorated the bed by their pool, and there was
some kind of flowering vine over the french doors that led to
Geordi's room.  In fact, it looked like Q had gone flower crazy,
because they were all over the back yard -- penstemon and
abutilon which attracted hummingbirds, and stately birds of
paradise by the pool house, and a small stand of lilly pilly
trees with their lovely flat leaves and pesky fruits. 

"Those will attract birds," Guinan warned.

"Patsy likes birds," Q shrugged.  

Guinan looked around more carefully.  "You've planned it so that
something will always be in flower," she concluded.

"You noticed!"  

Q's appreciative smile warmed her more than the tea.  On impulse
she reached out and took his hands.  "I'm glad we're friends." 
Her expression twisted.  "In a way I'm almost relieved that we're
friends.  I don't know why that should be."

"I don't either," Q put his hand on top of hers, "but I'm glad
we're friends too."

They sat for a while in silence, appreciating the beauty around
them.

"Did you ever imagine it could be this peaceful?" 

Q stood up; he didn't face her.  "Jean-Luc is due today.  We have
all that stuff to tend to."

Guinan followed the sudden tension in his movements.  "And your
life won't be peaceful for a while."

"Guinan, it's very complicated."

"Oh."


Jean-Luc was suddenly there, standing fierce and glowering by 
the pool. "Not much of a welcome, Q."  

He nodded at Guinan.  She gave him a look: "Oh, hello, Jean-Luc.
Sorry about your Tennessee sorrows.  Are things better?"

"Still complicated.  You look good, Q.  Come with me."

Q jumped.  What. . . ?  "Guinan!"  She had stabbed him with her
fork. 

"You're not his slave, Q," she said. 

"Yes, he is."  Jean-Luc was standing very near Guinan.

Q stood up and shrugged and cowered all at the same time.


In the bedroom, Jean-Luc sat on the edge of the bed and scowled. 
"Tennessee turned out to be a fucking bust.  Look at this."  As
he had driven up the house, a process server had waylaid his car
with the divorce papers.  Although Melinda didn't want any money,
just her freedom, he still wanted to kill someone.  

"I'm sorry, Johnny.  I really wanted it to work out for you."

Jean-Luc sprang from the bed.  "You lying son of a bitch."  Then,
with what was almost a sense of relief, he turned on Q,
physically pushing him towards the wall.  

Q didn't move.  Jean-Luc pushed a little harder.   Q fell against
one of the plaster columns, and a vase crashed to the floor.  

Jean-Luc backed Q up more.

And then the air changed and Q stood up straight and backhanded
Jean-Luc, and Jean-Luc went flying.  He leapt to his feet 
outraged and charged at Q a second time.  "Are you crazy,
cocksucker?" Q backhanded him again.  This time it took a good
deal longer for Jean-Luc to get to his feet.

He stared at Q as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing.  

Q stared back with a gentle, sober expression.  "I don't want you
to hit me anymore," he whispered.
 
Jean-Luc scowled.  "I'll do whatever I damn well please."

Q shook his head.  He wasn't disobeying.  He just didn't want to
be hit anymore. "I'm really sorry about Melinda."

Jean-Luc blinked.  He'd almost forgotten what this was about. 
Then he turned and stalked away.  He hadn't hit Q.  He just
walked out.

     
Q suddenly realized what he had done.  He had destroyed them, he
had destroyed everything.  He was shivering.  It wasn't a
catharsis, it wasn't a turning point, it was the end.  He was
terrified.

Will stuck his head in the door.   Q was standing there all
alone, twisting his hands as he always did when something was
wrong.  

"I hit Johnny.   I just couldn't stand to be beat up one more
time.  I just couldn't.  But now I've broken up the band. 
Jean-Luc's gone."  

Will said, "I'm sure he'll be back," but he wasn't sure at all. 
He had seen the look on Jean-Luc's face when Jean-Luc had pushed
back him and jumped in his Caddy and gunned down the road.

Well,  Worf would know what to do.  


Worf had a one-word response.  "Good."

Will rushed back to tell Q what Worf said.  

So it wasn't completely bad.  

That night, as a reward for standing up for himself, Worf took Q
to bed with him and Will.  They both fucked him good.  Q felt a
little better.  

"I am very proud of you, Q.  You fought well."

"I love Jean-Luc."

"That's fine," Worf shrugged, "but have you forgotten that in his
absence you are my slaves? "  

Patsy was being baby-sat by the girls.  Will got very hard. 
"Jesus.  Shit, Worf, say it again."

"What's that?"

Will got on his knees in front of Worf.

"What he's doing in the front I can do in the back," Q whispered
to Worf.

Worf closed his eyes.

*************************

Since he couldn't go back to Melinda's, Jean-Luc slept in his
car.

He was exhausted when he drove back to the big house.  Gowron let
him in; Gowron was ecstatic in his roadie way to see Jean-Luc. 
He growled with pleasure.  

That relieved Jean-Luc a little. "Q's fucking pissed with me. 
Just like Melinda.  I may have to move in with you boys."

"Awwww, boss, you shouldn't let your queen treat you that way. 
Still, you're always welcome with us."  Gowron was gleaming with
pride.
            

At noon, Jean-Luc went out and sat by the pool.  Maybe this was
his share of the house.  Data must have taken pity because he
brought him some lunch on a tray and sat silently with him.   

Then Patsy rushed outside and said, "Data, Johnny, look!"

"What is that?"

"Daddy Will said it was Mister Bug!"

"Oh, Mister Bug!  Well!"

He looked at Mister Bug.  It was a caterpillar, a little crushed. 
 Data leaned over and looked at it too; his expression was very
grave.

"I love Mister Bug!" she said heartily.

"Oh.  Well!"

"Mister Bug moves!  Lookit him!"  Mister Bug did not move.  He
was profoundly still.  "Why isn't Mister Bug moving, Johnny!"

"I'm not sure, Patsy.  Let me see."   Jean-Luc was sure he knew
why Mister Bug wasn't moving; it was just too complicated to get
into.  He poked at the unresponsive caterpillar.

"Make Mister Bug move!" Patsy commanded.

"No can do, Patsy.  I'm pretty sure Mister Bug is dead."

"What's dead?"

For God's sake.  For fuck's sweet sake.

"Well, Patsy, it's hard to describe.  Dead means you've left your
body.  There's no more.  You are dead."

She looked at Jean-Luc with her big liquid eyes.  "Make him not
dead."

"Patsy.  Nobody can make things not-dead.  He's dead."

Two big tears ran down her cheek.  "I love him!"

"Data, for Christ's sake, help me."

Data looked searchingly at Jean-Luc.  "Is there not a bug
heaven?" he asked. 

Jean-Luc closed his eyes.  "Patsy, being dead happens to
everybody.  Mister Bug lived every one of his days being a bug. 
Nothing but a bug.  Happy to be a bug.  Then he died, but, when
he died, he was with you, somebody who loved him.  That's all
anybody can hope for.  I know that's what I hope for.  And now
the best thing you can do for Mister Bug is to be happy.  Okay?" 

"Patsy," said Data, "let's find a matchbox and bury Mister Bug."

"Not too morbid, Data."  

Data cocked his head at him.  Then he and Patsy wandered off with
Mister Bug's body.  Jean-Luc rubbed his lower lip as he watched
them leave.  After all he'd been through, now he had to babysit
the next generation into the truth.

Q came out on the patio. 

"And now here's the man who doesn't love me anymore." Jean-Luc
said.  He wouldn't look at Q.

"Oh, God, Jean-Luc, I'll never stop loving you."

"You have an odd way of proving it."

Q's voice was low, impassioned, "I'd do anything you said."

"You could prove it now."

They looked at each other.  "You want to punch me out, Jean-Luc?"


Jean-Luc said nothing.

"Go on.  Take a sock."

They both smiled; then Q looked genuinely sad.  "The wall-paper
people are here.  They're very . . . they're not like us.  Here,
let's move to the shady part of the yard and I'll get you some
good lemon tea."

Jean-Luc followed him. 

"I bought this new patio furniture.  It's nicer than the old
stuff we had, don't you think, Jean-Luc?  Sit in it.  Isn't it
softer than that other stuff we had?  Do you like it?"

Jean-Luc was slightly mollified.  "Yeah, I like it just fine."

Q sat next to him and began to talk and hold his hand and stare
at him, and Jean-Luc just sat there feeling Q next to him and
letting the words flow over him.  "Let me show you something
else, Jean-Luc."  

It was the weight room Q had had built for Worf.

Q locked the door and got on his knees.  "Do you mind?"

"Do I mind, motherfucker?" 

"Tell me if you're in a hurry, because I want to take my time."

Jean-Luc breathed out, "You're trying to kill me for sure."

"I just don't want you to ever forget me."  Then he stood up.  "I
would love for you to kiss me, Johnny."

They kissed and kissed, and Jean-Luc found himself licking and
sucking Q's shoulders, his chest, his nipples, and Q was holding 
the back of Jean-Luc's head, deliriously aroused and happy. 
Jean-Luc was still kissing him, working his way down Q's body.

And Q began murmuring about how beautiful Jean-Luc's body was and
all the wonderful things in the fridge and bossy little perfect
Patsy, and it was as if Jean-Luc were making love to all the
things Q named. "And oh, I can buy you shirts made of silk and
soft leather shoes and a leather coat for you to wear when it
gets cold, and creams to rub on your skin to help it feel good
and kisses, Jean-Luc, more kisses, and chocolates with names I
never heard of.  Remember in the store that, oh, that first time
when we could buy anything we could put our hands on?  Oh, you
did that!  Told us we could, gave us permission.  It was the most
wonderful thing.  I bought everything I ever wanted. 
Everything," Q sighed.  
Jean-Luc had entered him by now and was riding the wonderful wave
of memory and sensation.  Sound, color, taste, texture, driven by
Q's murmured chain of memory, all of it was building up in a
tension right below his navel and then bursting over them in a
shower of intensity and light.   

"All of it," Q murmured drowsily.

"All of it," Jean-Luc echoed.  He lay panting against Q's chest. 
He had forgotten what was it that had driven him from this man's
arms.

*************************

Not here.  Not now. 

Jimmy Jay Zimmerman thought he might be having a coronary.  He
was in a Waffle Shack idly discussing things with the infinitely
scary and beguiling Benny Sisko when Sisko said something that
even made Jimmy Jay put his hand to his mouth. 

**************************
     
Jean-Luc had always slept wrapped tightly around his lover.  But 
Melinda had pushed herself out of his arms or frowned in her
sleep at his clutching grasp.  And Sebastiana did the same thing. 


Q was the only one he slept with who wanted to be wrapped in
Jean-Luc's iron embrace.  He would roll over on his side and let
Jean-Luc tuck his arm across his chest and lie in absolute bliss
until sleep claimed him.  When Jean-Luc tossed and turned, Q
followed him, turning with Jean-Luc and tucking his lover tightly
within the curve of his body. 

Sometimes Jean-Luc growled at him to let go, but very often he
simply settled in and fell more deeply asleep.

****************************

They had a band meeting.  

"I think we need a percussionist," Q could only whisper it.

Geordi came to his rescue.  

Geordi had loved his new house, but there was one thing he had
insisted on:  the biggest, baddest, most expensive synthesizer
anyone had ever seen.  He got two: one in his bedroom and one in
a downstairs music room.  And Data was able to program them with
a great deal of memory so he could record on both of them
simultaneously.  He showed the other Boys  the wonderful, exotic
stuff he had been writing and then he showed them what a
percussionist would sound like.

Data loved it. Q loved it.  Worf hated it.  Will followed Worf. 
Jean-Luc was the tie-breaker.

Jean-Luc turned to Q.  "Is this what you want?"

"Yes," Q said, his skin and eyes more radiant than ever.

"I still want the lyrics to reflect us, who we are.  No
pretending," Jean-Luc said.

"Of course," Q breathed.  

*************************

Jimmy Jay finally had the police photo in his hands: He could see
that Q and his son looked exactly alike.  That same bottom lip,
those same gentle eyes, the strong chin, the jet-black hair and
lovely cheekbones.  It would be on all the newsstands in four
days.

*************************

Quark found out first on the mysterious Quark-hotline; he flew
over to the house and got everyone but Q in the dining room to
talk about it. He never met Jean-Luc's eyes.  It didn't matter. 
Worf and Jean-Luc never took their eyes off each other.

"I bet the reporters will be on our doorstep tonight," Geordi
said.

Suddenly Q burst in the dining room.  "Jean-Luc, where have you .
. ." he noticed everyone looking at him.  "What?"  He smiled at
their solemn, hangdog looks.  "What is it?"

Jean-Luc's heart skipped a beat.  Q would never in his life be as
happy again as he was that instant.

Quark handed him the faxed article, with the side-by-side
pictures of both him and Wesley.  Looking remarkably alike.

Q was beyond horror.  He went white and began to sway. 

Jean-Luc stood up and grabbed Q.  "Q!"  He was very frightened. 
"That boy is not worth this."

Q buried his face in his hands.  "My son is in jail." 

Worf and Jean-Luc exchanged looks.  

Worf turned to Will.  "Go look after Patsy upstairs."  And 
Jean-Luc turned to the others.  "Will you excuse us for a while?"

The others three disappeared.  

Worf put his hand on Q's shoulder.  He wanted to say, Jean-Luc's
right, the boy was nothing but a worthless whore who shouldn't
take up any more of Q's time.  But it was not exactly the right
thing to say.

"What do you plan to do?"  Jean-Luc finally asked.  

"I'm going to find him."

"What?"

"I only saw him the one time."

And Jean-Luc suddenly saw that Q had been in mourning all these
years.  If he'd had the chance,  Q would have treated this son as
gently and lovingly as the three he raised.  

Q pushed himself up from the table.  He still looked weak and
shaky.  

The other two men watched him.   "I'm going to Kentucky," he told
them unnecessarily.  And he went to pack. 
     
****************************

That night in the pen.  

"A present for you, Jean-Luc.  I got my best bitch back from
Worf," Sisko had said.  Then he said to the beautiful boy:
"Strip." 

Sisko and Jean-Luc looked at each other: Sisko knew and Jean-Luc
knew he knew what this was all about.   When Jean-Luc had given Q
to Sisko, Sisko had lost all control in front of Jean-Luc as he
played with Q's pretty body; Sisko had been publically,
unbearably weak.

But Sisko had figured out that Jean-Luc must like, no, he must
LOVE pretty, big-mouthed, black-eyed, slender, liquid-voiced
girls; with Wesley, perhaps he could subtly maneuver Jean-Luc
into losing control in front of him.  

Jean-Luc nodded.  Wesley was in front of him now, servicing him
in a very efficient and professional way.  He had no use for
Sisko's sullen little piece of Eve, but he might need Sisko
himself.  So he smiled and said, "Q, go over there and make Sisko
at home."

Q obediently knelt down in front of Sisko and took his dick out
of his trousers and sucked it; then Jean-Luc pulled back form
Wesley: "The Vaseline's under the pillow in the top bunk, boy. 
Bring it here; then give some to the captain." 

And, while Jean-Luc perfunctorily fucked Wesley, Sisko was again
inside Q, the most exciting fuck in Fear Alley, and in a few 
minutes Q was moaning, soft but abandoned, so, not to be outdone,
Wesley let himself get off too.  

"Oh, it feels so good."

Sisko and Picard were sealing a strange pact.  By fucking each
other's females, they were saying, "We will never be ever be
friends, and I'll still hurt you bad if I ever get the chance,
but for now  we've reached a stand-off in the dickswinging
contest."  That was how prison worked.  Hell, that was how life
worked. 

*************************
     
Jean-Luc looked at Worf.  "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?"

They went up stairs to Worf's bedroom, and  Worf let Jean-Luc
grab him and shove him over the side of the bed and fuck him
until they were both sore. 

"Motherfucker, you know I once wanted to give Wesley to Q," Jean-
Luc hissed.

"Me too, me too," Worf growled back and arched his back to get
more of Jean-Luc. He was holding his long hard cock and his
swollen balls in his hands as Jean-Luc moved in and out and in
and out.  "All I wanted to see was Q's big dick in Wesley's tiny
ass.  Wesley bent over so good it made me cry."

"He sat on it.  He sucked it.  He got both hands and held that
little ass open like a real pro."  


Neither knew why but they ended up fucking for three hours, just
back and forth and fingers and tongues and everything everywhere. 


"He's such a cupcake," Worf finally muttered.

"Which one?" Jean-Luc gasped.

"Q..." Worf said, "...and his whore son."

"Jesus Christ.  Two whores."

"One in front and one in back."

"Jesus Christ!"

"No wonder the kid was so good.  He came by it naturally."

"Jesus Christ!"

*************************

Q's plane was leaving for Kentucky the next day.

Oh no!  

He had forgotten that he had Roger, Vernon, and Jerry for the
summer.

Well, they could fly back to their momma; school was just about
to start anyway.

"I'll chaperone them," Jean-Luc said darkly.

"Jean-Luc, is that a good idea?  You know you hate kids."   

"Well, fuck that," Jean-Luc began to restlessly stir around.   
"I reckon the damn disco album everybody wants us to put out is
on hold.  I'm going to go see how it's going in Tennessee.  I'll
just drop the boys off.  Too many goddam nuts out there and you
know it."
                                             

"If any of you clown around on the plane, I'm throwing you out
and that's a fact."

Worf interposed: "Jean-Luc wants you to be little soldiers."


Beverly and De-Ann met them at the airport.  The changes in Q's
wife were unbelievable.  The one time Jean-Luc had eyeballed
Beverly had been eight years before and she'd been wearing a
dirty tee shirt with an antic reindeer imprinted on it and it was
July and she had seemed beyond redemption.

Now she was poised and slender, holding the boys as if she might
not stop.

Then she turned to him.

"Umm, we've met before," he said.

Beverly's eyes were warm and amused.  "Oh, yes, I remember you."

De-Ann invited Jean-Luc to supper, and, after supper, Beverly and
Jean-Luc took a long walk.  When they came back, she looked
rustled but relieved. 

Jean-Luc was gone by the next morning.  Oddly he had taken a
photograph of Q's sons with him. 

*************************

Loss was rubbing its icy hands all up and down Melinda.  Her man
had knocked up the maid.  Like something out of the 18th century.
And the space-pharoah-movie had been finally released to
universal disdain and contempt.

"Let's shoot this new one in New Zealand.  New Zealand sounds
like it might have a lot of opportunity for girls like me," she
told Quark.  He was co-producing "The Cause" with her.

"Let me get Q squared away."  (Q had asked Quark personally and
he was pretty persuasive.)  

Melinda was so sad she didn't react immediately.  Then: "Poor Q. 
Take care of him, Quark.  Jean-Luc needs him more than ever."

*************************     

Thank God for Bill Clinton.  

Q's scandal was unfolding just as the '92 elections were taking
place.

Quark stared at the photographs of all the mean-looking blondes
the presidential candidate was supposed to have shacked with. 
"Sing it, girls," he murmured.  As long as there was a Bill
Clinton, it kept the heat off Q.  Only three or four newsmen were
camped on the steps of the compound, and Kurn, Klag, and Gowron
could take care of that easily.  

He made plans for New Zealand.  

*************************

How could this happen!

Here was the ultimate scandal about old Q and not one reporter
was crouched on the Crusher porch wanting information.

Bubba and Sonny had urged Junior (the most polished Crusher
brother) to call the tabs and promise exclusive stories on the
relentless faggot evil of Q.  

But now something else had driven up their front drive.  The
three Crushers looked at each other.  "Well, hell, a country boy
WILL survive," Sonny muttered.  Then they went out to meet their
fate.

A rented Lincoln was parked right in front of their house, and
Jean-Luc Picard himself in the flesh was leaning against it with
his arms folded. 

Very carefully the brothers took in Jean-Luc's full thighs and
powerful arms.   

That didn't help the Crushers much.

They stared at him; he stared back, very comfortable with
dominating the situation.

"What do you want?" Sonny finally asked.

"I imagine you know," Jean-Luc said.  

"You homos ought to . . ." Junior started, but Bubba socked his
arm.

Jean-Luc moved his feet until they were about eighteen inches
apart.  He seemed suffused with his own manliness.  "You
motherfuckers are never to mention Q's name to anybody, you
understand.  Q went to prison because of you; Q gave up his only
real son because of you; and he raised your little red-headed
leavings."  

The Crushers growled and moved from foot to foot.

"Oh, yeah, I forgot.  I'm going to go meet a new friend. Jimmy
Jay Zimmerman."

Zimmerman!

"We all know how he likes good stories - I have a good one for
him, complete with snapshots.  It's all about the real reason Q
went to prison.  And you think the whole town doesn't know.  They
know about it all.  You three and Beverly.  The moonshine."  He
stood up straighter.  "Don't rock the boat, boys."  He seemed
very threatening at that moment.  Then he gave a vulpine smile. 
"It could be your turn to go to prison.  I have to say, I liked
prison.  I got along very well there, made many friends, planned
my career.  But mine was the exception, boys, mine was the
exception."

The Crushers had lowered their heads.

"I bet you assholes know the concept of being a bottom very well. 
Maybe it's even what you want?"

All the Crusher brothers wanted was to flee, to flee Jean-Luc's
blistering presence.

"You little piss-ant cocksuckers need money?  I'll give you
money.  But you will leave Q alone from now on.  Or get fucked." 

The Crusher brothers said nothing. Nothing to say.  

"I will assume we have a deal?"  

The boys nodded.

"Good," Jean-Luc said.  "I'm out of here."

*************************

Q flew first-class to Louisville and rented a car to take to Fear
Alley.  

He was racked with nerves, racked with memories.
     

The night Sisko brought Wesley to their cell and he and Wesley
had gotten . . . fucked . . . by Jean-Luc and Sisko had been
strangely exciting.  As Sisko fucked him and fucked him hard, Q 

opened his eyes.  Wesley was watching Sisko fuck him as Jean-Luc
moved in and out of his little ass.  Q closed his eyes again and
just kept taking it.  He could hear Wesley  moaning, and it made
him more excited. 

But the next day, Wesley had come to him as he stood in the
woman's section.  "Can we talk?" he said in his liquid teenage
voice.

Q followed him: this boy, hot as he was, made him slightly
uneasy.  
"Wasn't that fun last night?" Wesley had smiled.

"Umm."

"I saw your big dick.  I sure would like to bend over for you.  I
really like them big.  Jean-Luc's big, but you're bigger.  I want
more fun."

Q had not wanted to fuck this boy, ever.  He changed the subject.

"What are you in for?  I don't think Sisko ever said."

"Something new.  A crime they don't even have a name for.  I
think there's a law up before the legislature.  They call it
*Wesley's Law.*" Wesley snorted.  "All I did was use the
computer.  I broke into some fat-ass old people's accounts and
used their credit cards to have a little fun.  I got some tickets
to concerts, some, you know, some three-X titty pics of movie
stars, some CD's and games and . . .  collectible cards." He
shrugged. "A ticket to Las Vegas.  I went to Havana.  Just shit
really."  

The boy's affectless litany had chilled Q.

"I don't Worf to be angry with me.  Aren't you his girl?" 

"I do what Sisko says."

Ah.  Sisko.  Trying to get at Jean-Luc maybe.  But Q had looked
closely at the boy.  The boy seemed simply to want Q to fuck him
good.  He was putting his forefinger in his mouth and moving it
in and out in a dreamy way.

"Let's go do it."

"Jean-Luc would beat me up."

"You pussy."

"What about your parents?"

"They hate me," the boy smirked.  "I got on a telephone chat line
with some dirty old man and I met him at the mall.  He was okay,
just sorta old, and he took me to a hotel, and my parents found
out and just freaked out and the guy shot himself and I sued my
parents and I told them they weren't even my real parents as far
as I was concerned and I went into business for myself and here I
am."

"You need to finish school."

"Spare me."  Q could tell the boy was getting bored with him.
"Let's get naked."

"I only fuck who Jean-Luc says I can fuck and that's that."

"That's disgusting. You ARE pussy."  The boy turned to leave.  

"Then don't be like me   go to school.  Get a real job   if you
stay here, you'll be pussy the rest of your life."

"Eat me," the boy said and left.

Pussy the rest of your life.

Q had been relieved to see Wesley leave.  

*************************
     
Poor innocent Sebastiana looked at her hawk-faced maman.

"He buys me everything I want."

She showed her mother the earrings, the VCR, the red Mercedes,
the closet full of clothes.  "And he said he's going to let me
live here as long as I like so the baby and me will have
somewhere to live."


"Joe, he is buying her."

"Nothing to be done about it now, Martine."

"There certainly is.  I can make sure that old man pays a high
price."
     
*************************

Matt Dougherty had put Wesley in hiding   too much controversy.


"Even the Loooooooeyville Board of Corrections got in on the
act," he said in his languid way and moved his graceful right
hand around.

"My son's not here?"

"He was here working for me.  We shared an . . . a nice 
apartment."  Dougherty sighed.  "But when Loooooeyville saw that
report in the supermarket newspapers, I thought it wise to ship
him off."

"He isn't property!" Q fumed.

Dougherty leaned in.  He seemed fully awake for once.  "He's the
finest young man I know. But you understand how he couldn't be
found here.  I do have a job to do."

"When can I see him?"

"Right now, but . . . " Dougherty leaned his head towards the
window.

Q looked out.  Someone had set up a satellite dish.

"I believe the people out there want a little show," Dougherty
said and breathed in.

     
To kill time until Q could be smuggled out, Dougherty showed his
special guest around the facilities.

Q had forgotten the graves at the entrance.

He bowed his head at Mr. History's grave.  "How'd that happen?"

"We found him dead.  He died a good death; a stroke killed him
instantly in the library."  

At Horatio's grave, Q was quieter.  He knelt and put his hand on
the wet earth; what had it been?  Eight years. 

"I love you," Q whispered.
     
Then they walked through the facilities.  

Q smiled.  As long as he was in prison, he was safe from the
outside world.  

"I wish Jean-Luc were here," he said to Dougherty.

"I see."

Q was amazed; as he walked along, there were catcalls, screams,
laughter.  Everyone wanted to touch his hand.  He nodded, hugged,
shook hands.  

Iron claws gripped his throat when he saw the cells where he and
Jean-Luc had discovered each other.

Then he saw something else.  

A prisoner, something familiar about him, about his greased
insinuating smile.  

"Is that you?"

The prisoner pursed his lips.  "I beg your pardon!"

Another celebrity! "Reverend Garak!  What are you doing in here?"

"Why, the Lord's work, naturally," Garak said smoothly; even in
Fear Alley, he was smiling at his own interior amusement.

"I see that serial number on your pocket, Garak.  You don't get
put in the pen for doing the Lord's work.   What are you in for?" 
The world's oldest jailbird question.

And he got the world's oldest jailbird answer.  "It was all just
a misunderstanding," Garak said.  "Between me and some
parishioners from Amsterdam and two of the choir's underage
daughters. I swear I turned over every cent I made from the
transaction to the Lord."  He smiled furiously.  "The only thing
that pisses me off was that all this took place in East Shithole, 
Kentucky.  If we'd gone forty miles further, I'd a been across
statelines and apprehended on the Mann Act.  That would have
meant federal prison for me, and then I sure would have my tail
in a tub of butter.  I just wasn't thinking globally." Then Garak
looked around.  "Well, this is not to say that there haven't been
some subtle rewards."  A slender dark youth came over and stood
by him.  Garark looked fondly at the boy.  "Meet Baby Ray Martok,
Jr.  Isn't he something?  See, lad, I told you I was a
celebrity."

"Martok.  I knew your dad!"

"Oh, wow," said Baby Ray.

*************************

Down near the traintracks in the filthiest part of LA was a place
called the Victory Motel.  

Jimmy Jay liked meeting people at the Victory.  It made them feel
dirty and suspicious and guilty.  

Jean-Luc was already there when Jimmy Jay drove up.  Leaning
against a sharp-looking restored Plymouth Duster, his powerful
thighs crossed and huge, his strong arms folded in front of him. 
Waiting for Jimmy Jay.

Jimmy Jay took a little surreptitious nip from his flask before
he got out of his own nondescript car.  Then he got out.  Jean-
Luc just kept watching him.  

"You're the most famous person I've ever met at the Victory,"
Jimmy Jay called with what he hoped was a nice show of bogus good
cheer.

Jean-Luc didn't move.

Jimmy Jay got close enough to be friendly, far enough away to
avoid being swung at. Although that could be interesting. 

Too bad Jean-Luc had told him that if he brought a photographer
the meeting was off.

"Well!" said Jimmy Jay in a sprightly fashion.  "Here we are!"

"Do you get us a room?" Jean-Luc made it sound dangerous.

"Well, um, yes."

The room was dirty too.  Jean-Luc looked around suspiciously. 
Then he sat on the bed.

"This business with Q McConn's son is no big deal.  Tell America
that," he said suddenly.   

"Well, of course, you're right, Mr. Picard."  Where was this
leading?

"Okay," Jean-Luc made as if to leave.

"That's it?"

"What else do you want from me?" Jean-Luc seemed surprised. 

"I thought we were going to . . . quarrel.  I thought you would
be angry."


"Q's a whore.  His son's a whore, too.  Good whores too, and I
should know.  I had them both."  Jean-Luc was genuinely
frightening; he had narrow eyes, a narrow cruel mouth.  It was
impossible to see him losing any battle.  Maybe that was why
everybody found him so attractive.

Because Jean-Luc Picard was attractive.  Here in the flesh as he
stood up, look at that posture!  Those slender hips and bulky
thighs!

Then Jean-Luc turned, his upper body in a perfect handsome
spiral.  "Your job now is to calm everybody down.  To remind
America none of us would be here without fucking."

The two men looked at each other.

"You're not going to beat me up?" Jimmy Jay said.

The mood in the room changed.  "Is that what you want?" Jean-Luc
said in a kind of low purr.

"Well . . . no.  You look like you could hurt."  Oh he wished he
had a picture of Jean-Luc Picard looking as he did now.

Jean-Luc was suddenly across the room and standing right beside
Zimmerman, their chests perhaps a hair apart.   He placed his
massive hands on Zimmerman's upper arms.  And then he kissed him,
a ferocious kiss, wet as a river; Jimmy Jay could feel Jean-Luc's
huge fingers rubbing his flesh and then Jean-Luc was pressing
into him   Jimmy Jay could feel everything about Jean-Luc's body,
its insistence, its single-minded desires.

"I think you could put those hands to a lot better use than
typing asshole jailhouse stories about Q.  Why don't we have a
little fun?"

"Fun?" stammered Jimmy Jay.

Jean-Luc said nothing   he just began to undress.  

Jimmy Jay couldn't take his eyes off Jean-Luc.  Oh, for a
picture, just one little photograph.  Jimmy Jay was so hot and
hard he couldn't believe it.

Then Jean-Luc was standing there naked, aroused; he put his hands
behind his head and stretched.  Jimmy Jay's pulse was pounding in
his ears.  "Come on, Zimmerman.  Get naked."


"I'm not quite . . . as . . . nice-looking as you are."

"I like your look.  Now get naked."

Zimmerman took off his clothes slowly, abashed.  He was nowhere
near the man Jean-Luc Picard was.

"Good."  Jean-Luc began to caress Jimmy Jay.  Jimmy Jay was
slender, olive-skinned, hirsute; he kept undressing until he was
wearing only a big fake-gold wristwatch on his hairy wrist.  

Jean-Luc ran his hands up and down Jimmy Jay's back as they
kissed, touching tongues; then Jean-Luc grabbed Jimmy Jay's
buttocks and began to press himself up against him.  

"You're going to find out how good a fuck can be," Jean-Luc
whispered. "You're going to lay on that bed and stick this ass
up." 

But Zimmerman had to ask. "Why?"

"Why what?"

"You have had the most beautiful women on earth.  And the most
beautiful boys.  Why me?"

Jean-Luc seemed taken aback by the question.  "Well . . . I like
fucking.  Like everybody else.  And," he blew out between his
clenched teeth, "it can't be news that I haven't had the best
luck with all these good-looking girls and boys.  Q.  Melinda
Madigan.  To tell you Christ's truth, I'm fed to the teeth with
pretty girls and boys.   Besides, I like your body; it's a man's
body, a real man's body.  And it's been a long time since I
fucked another man.  Now get your ass up on that bed."

Jimmy Jay had a pleasantly round butt smooth above those dark
hairy thighs. Jean-Luc stroked it.  "You sure got you some damn
monkey blood," he told Jimmy Jay.  "Look at that," he said and
rubbed Jimmy Jay's legs.   Jimmy Jay's mouth was open in
amazement.

"Be careful," he whispered.

Jean-Luc didn't say anything but merely opened Zimmerman's thighs
up and got between them.  Then Jimmy Jay could feel Jean-Luc,
lubricated and slick, seeking his center; he bobbed himself
against Jean-Luc.  Jean-Luc chuckled once and gently placed
himself against Zimmerman.  "Ready, my man?"

"Oh, God, yes."

And Jean-Luc slowly penetrated Zimmerman, cold and hot, slick and
tight, pleasure and pain, all in that one movement.  Zimmerman
could feel Jean-Luc's sweaty body, he could smell Jean-Luc's
clean mammal smell; and then Jean-Luc was all the way inside him
  he could feel every inch of Jean-Luc inside of him and outside
against him.

"Let's make ourselves come.  That's what men are good at," Jean-
Luc hissed, and began to pound into Zimmerman.  Who forgot that
this was something he didn't do.  Who could feel only Jean-Luc
again and again against him, a soft train driving against him. 
"Don't stop.  God, that's good."  And he arched himself against
Jean-Luc to get more of it. More dick.  More and more dick. 
"Damn damn damn."

"You sure have come to the right place.  This fucking won't stop
til I'm satisfied."

And then and there Zimmerman got the longest fullest fuck of his
life -- first with his stomach on a pillow, then kneeling on the
side of the bed, then kneeling on the bed itself, his hands
holding his legs open for Jean-Luc, and, when he finally came, he
nearly blacked out from the strength of it, his cock bright red
and jerking in the Victory's fetid air.

"Shit.  Never," he gasped as he rolled over.

Jean-Luc was standing up, his eyes hooded, his mouth slightly
open.  "You're good."  He took the rubber off and threw it in an
ugly little trash can.  Then he went to wash off.  Jimmy Jay lay
there; he could see the beautiful shadow of Jean-Luc cleaning and
drying himself, pissing, washing his hands, looking at himself in
the mirror.  Then Jean-Luc came out and started getting dressed.

"You going to write the truth about Q now, right?"

"What's the truth?"

"Am I going to have to fuck you again?  That was the truth.  The
truth about everything."  He leaned over the naked Jimmy Jay
lying there on the bed.  

Jimmy Jay was sore and wet, but he sure wanted to be fucked
again. 

Then he realized.  

Oh.  Yes.


HEROIC Q RESCUES SON FROM PRISON HELLHOLE.  'I'LL PUT YOU BACK ON
THE RIGHT TRACK' VOWS HILLBILLY SAVIOR.  

Jimmy Jay smiled to himself. So that was what real men felt and 
what real men did to get it again.   "Oh, God, anything for you,
Jean-Luc."

"There you go," Jean-Luc said and leaned down and kissed Jimmy
Jay before he left.

*************************

Well, that was a switch.  

The press was welcome to come on into Fear Alley.

Q was giving a free prison concert that night.  He had even been
able to round up  some musicians (because of dope and general
worthlessness, prisons were always crawling with musicians). 

"We've got all the men waiting in the cafetorium," Dougherty said
diffidently.  

And then Q saw: Wesley was standing behind Dougherty.  His mouth
open, his eyes large and dark and damp.

And Q was speechless   he would do anything so he could get this
boy.

"I've got a concert to do, boy, but you're the most beautiful
thing I've ever seen."

"One of my men has driven your car back to the rental agency."
Dougherty said.  "And there are three patrol cars out front;
they'll take off right after the concert.  We think the press
will follow them.  Then you two can take my Lincoln back to your
hotel.  I'll pick it up later tonight." 


Maureen Shelby looked around nervously.  That whole Southern
inmate-redneck-sodomy thing was for real.

She could barely breathe; the temperature was warm and the
collective damp panting of the inmates against the stone walls
made her feel as if she were in an underwater cave.  
                         

The whole pen was in love with him.  

"Hello, I'm Q," he said and the place exploded.

The songs went on for two hours.

"Well," Q finally sang, "you wonder why I always dress in black, 
          Why you never see bright colors on my back,
          And why does my appearance seem to have a somber tone.
          Well, there's a reason for the things that I have on.

The audience screamed.

          "I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down,
          Livin' in the hopeless, hungry side of town,
                    I wear it for the prisoner who has long paid for his
          crime,
          But is there because he's a victim of the times.

They began to beat their feet against the stone steps where they
sat.  Maureen put her hand to her throat; the few other
journalists closed in together.

          I wear the black for those who never read,
          Or listened to the words that Jesus said,
          About the road to happiness through love and charity,
          Why, you'd think He's talking straight to you and me.

          Well, we're doin' mighty fine, I do suppose,
          In our streak of lightnin' cars and fancy clothes,
                    But just so we're reminded of the ones who are held
          back,
          Up front there ought 'a be a Man In Black.

Then Q sang a capella:

          I wear it for the sick and lonely old,
          For the reckless ones whose bad trip left them cold,
                    I wear the black in mournin' for the lives that could
          have been,
          Each week we lose a hundred fine young men.

          And, I wear it for the thousands who have died,
          Believin' that the Lord was on their side,
          I wear it for another hundred thousand who have died,
          Believin' that we all were on their side.

          Well, there's things that never will be right I know,
          And things need changin' everywhere you go,
                    But 'til we start to make a move to make a few things
          right,
          You'll never see me wear a suit of white.

          Ah, I'd love to wear a rainbow every day,
          And tell the world that everything's OK,
                    But I'll try to carry off a little darkness on my back,
          'Till things are brighter, I'm the Man In Black.

The audience, already wild, exploded.

*************************

The lazy chubby boys in engineering at the University of Kentucky
looked in amazement at the readings.  "It says it was a 6.4
earthquake on the Richter scale up on the Doe River!  Near the
prison!"

"But there's nothing on the news!"

They all looked at each other.

***********************************

Q smiled at his audience and tipped his hat.  Wesley would be in
his arms this very night.

Q had never quit praying for that.  

Wesley.  His beautiful boy.


Q was proud that he did not have to look for seedy rooming houses
advertising 39-dollar-a-night specials.  He pulled up to the
Hyatt Regency; the valet took the car from him, nodding at Q's
handsome tip. 

He and Wesley were still silent and shy with each other. Each of
them knew life's road was full of rocks, but this was incredible. 

He had gotten the Regency's VIP suite for them, Wesley watching
silent and round-eyed as Q magically pulled out his gold card and
swept them both to the top floor.
     
Wesley had been a little ashamed at how pathetic his luggage
looked in the hands of the bellboy, but he had the bravado of a
true tart.  

When he came out of the bathroom, he crawled right into Q's bed.  

Q was surprised but pleased.  His other sons sometimes slept in
bed with him when they had nightmares, their little bodies warm
and comforting.  

Wesley was clearly not afraid of nightmares.  He pressed his body
against Q's and touched Q's chest.  His come-hither smile had not
changed one iota from that night in Sisko's cell.

"Feel this, Daddy," he said and pressed himself insinuatingly
against his father.  And then he opened his mouth as he leaned
over to kiss Q.

Shocked, Q pulled himself away from Wesley.  

"Come on, it doesn't matter what the papers say," Wesley coaxed.
"It only makes things more special."

"It matters to me, boy.  I've missed you for twenty-five years." 
Q put his arms around Wesley's shoulders letting their wavy hair
mingle as he drew his son closer.  "I've always wondered where
you were, and to think I saw you right there and didn't recognize
you.  You look just like me."

Wesley was taken aback.

Then Q got out of bed to get his wallet.  He showed Wesley a
picture of Vernon, Jerry, and Roger.  "They look like their mamma
. . . her side of the family.  But you.  I can see myself in your
face.  I don't know how I ever missed it."  

Wesley was very still.

"I loved you so.  I always prayed for you.  When those folks took
you away to their car, I followed them.  I was trying to memorize
the tag before they drove away.  But I . . . the tears in my
eyes. . . well, that's all over now.  I kept hoping they'd look
in the rearview and see me waiting. For years, every time I saw a
pretty little dark-haired boy I kept thinking it might be you. 
Even after my other sons.  I wanted to find you, to tell you I
hadn't abandoned you, that I loved you.  All those . . . social
workers said I was too young to be a real father, but I never
thought I was.  I always loved you, you understand?  I'm your
father."


Wesley almost gagged at the word 'father'.  He could understand
fucking old guys   that had been his one real gift for years. 
This was something else.  Against which he had no real defense.

"Being father and son doesn't have to stop us," he said.  He put
his hand on Q's thigh.


Q was too far gone in emotion and sentiment to really hear
Wesley.  "Lie close," he murmured and carefully tucked the plush
blanket between their groins; then he wrapped his arms around
Wesley. "All my other sons did this.  They got in bed with Daddy. 
Or I'd come  get in bed with them if they were scared." He was
smiling at the sweet memory.

Wesley could not believe it; there was nothing of sexual interest
in Q's attraction to him.  

"I don't feel like it," he protested.  "I don't want to *sleep*
with you.  Not like this."

"I know," Q's voice was soothing.  "But just shut your eyes for a
minute.  Just one minute."  Q had had years of experience at
talking drowsy boys into sleep before.  And now he was holding
the son he thought he would never be able to hold and  he could
hear the smile in his own voice.  He couldn't help it.  He had
always wanted to hold his son, and twenty-five years late was
better than nothing.

Then Q did the one thing he could do best: he began to tell
Wesley a story.  In the past, he'd calmed Jean-Luc down with fuck
tales, he'd calmed his boys down with stories of his own
childhood, refined and embellished into lies of an idyllic
childhood, he'd even calmed down Worf with his stories of
Beverly's good cooking.

And what would calm this boy down?  

"We can buy you some stuff."

"I don't want stuff."

"How about a car?"

"Who gives a damn?  I can't even drive."

"You don't know how to drive?  Tomorrow you start to learn.  Then
when we get you away from here, I'll buy you a car.  I wonder
what kind of car would be best.  There's these little VW
Cabriolets, convertibles, real cute little cars.  I bought your
Meemaw a good-looking  Mercury sedan."

Wesley began to nip at Q's neck.  

"I love you, boy," Q said and stroked Wesley's head.  Wesley drew
back.  

"You can do anything you want to me."

"I know that.  That's what makes this so special."  

Wesley was very still.  

"Wesley, I know what you did in the pen.  I did the same thing. 
Being a whore is irrelevant.  Did you ever see any cars you
liked?  There's SUV's and there's four by fours -- I've been
seeing some nice two- color trucks, silver and red, or green and
white."  He went on great soothing length about the cars and
trucks he'd seen.

Wesley listened; then his breathing started getting solid-
sounding.  "Vans are nice."  He had a sigh of surrender in his
voice.  "You see them on TV a lot."

"Vans ARE nice."  Then Q was very quiet.  

And Wesley was asleep, his lean body giving off a kind of
pleasant dog-warmth that was more comfortable than fifty good
quilts.

Q pressed his lips to the top of Wesley's head.  

"Sweet dreams, son."


Wesley woke up disoriented and surprised. He was alone in a
comfortable bed.  He looked around.  Their hotel suite was
beautiful.  He got out of bed and walked through it on his
tiptoes.  He couldn't get over the big picture windows
overlooking the tumultuous beauties of the distant blue Smoky
Mountains.  He wasn't used to wide windows.  

Q was sitting on the balcony.

"Good morning, son!  Isn't it a beautiful day?  Now what do you
want for breakfast?"
                                 
After breakfast, they went shopping.  A whole new wardrobe!  A
Walkman!  A Discman!

A two-hundred-dollar pair of sneakers!

"Just wait til we get back to L.A., son!  You won't believe the
different kinds of music you'll be able to buy."

Then he took Wesley to an expensive chain steakhouse.

"Order anything.  Or everything," he whispered to the dazed
Wesley.

The waiter brought out two monster t-bones and set them down.

"Delicious," raved Q.  

Wesley put down his fork.

"What is it, boy?" Q said.  "Should I call the waiter over?"

"What if I don't want to go to L.A.?  What if I want to go to
college?"

College!  Q bit his lip. "There are excellent schools in the L.A.
area -- we could get you a nice apartment.  A part-time job. 
College is great.  It's better than great."

"Well."  Wesley looked pale, and Q felt real terror.  "See, I've
been in touch with this guy.  On the Web?"  He ducked his head. 
"I mean there's no action here, right?"

The web?   Was this some prison thing poor Wesley was involved
in?  "What's a web?"

Wes gave Q a little smile; for the first time, Q seemed like any
old dad.  "The Web's a computer thing   my computer terminal
calls this guy's computer terminal and we . . . talk and stuff."

The web?

"See, and he's in Ann Arbor. The University of Michigan.  He's a
grad student in physics there.  And he's . . . we have a lot in
common.  We talk about physics stuff together.  Well, we talk
about a lot of stuff really."

"What's his name?"  Q was not one-hundred-per-cent following
this.

"Well, his . . . the name he uses on the web is Traveler."

An alias!  Oh, my God!


Q and Wesley bought a lot of maps at a truck stop just north of
Louisville.

"Wesley, put your jacket on.  It's getting chilly."

Wesley just looked at him.  "I'm not in prison any more."

Q lowered his eyes: "I guess I'm not used to having such a
grown-up son.  Of course you don't have to put your jacket on if
you don't want to.  But I won't be able to say these things to
you when you're in Ann Arbor."

Five minutes later Wesley was wearing his jacket.  

*************************

Zefram had a locked box out in the pig barn where his wife never
came, and he kept it filled with the things that gratified him --
lipstick, garter belt, stockings, high-heeled shoes in a variety
of lovely colors, a blonde wig, a red wig, and a breathtaking
Morticia Adams wig of long black hair.  He also had sexy dresses,
and, when he put them on, he was able to tease  himself,
smoothing the material against his body, stroking his penis
through the fabric, admiring his long legs in their lovely high
heels.  Zephram genuinely loved the woman he became.   He loved
her flat chest and broad shoulders and large ungainly hands.  He
loved her freedom to be sensual and erotic and enticing.    


"My wife is an invalid," Zefram said in a soft voice. "But we're
celebrating our 30th anniversary next week and she needs a
special dressy dress.  She wears about a size 22 tall. Would you
have something she would like?"  

The plus-sized clerk smiled.  What a lucky woman to have such a
devoted husband!

"I'll just look over this rack," he said and she smiled at him
again.

But he wasn't alone.  Another ordinary-looking man was there too. 
He was also shopping for his wife.  

The man's eyes met Zefram's.

I won't tell if you won't.  

They both lowered their eyes and continued to search the racks.  

But a few minutes later, he was standing next to Zephram, making
an elaborate show of looking in the opposite direction.  Zephram
did not dare look at him.  The man had a card in his hand.  

Zephram took it and left the store without buying anything.

He didn't dare look at the card until he was well away and down
the road.  Then he pulled over on the empty highway and took it
out.  On the left side of the card, there was a picture of a man;
on the right, a woman. The writing said 'From Michael to Mindy.' 
It had a phone number.  Zephram pocketed the card. 

He had no idea what it meant. 

That evening his wife had gone out again and Zephram was in the
bedroom making the transformation from drab and sexless to
glamorous and erotic when he suddenly got it.

Some one knew.

He thought he might be sick to his stomach.  

*************************

Jumping Jesus.

Sebastiana's maman.

"Mrs. Tyler," Jean-Luc nodded warily at her. "I know Sebastiana
is glad you came to Tennessee."

"I could sue you for everything you've got," she said.

A nice way to start a relationship.

Supper that night was not easy.  Joe, Mrs. Tyler, Sebastiana, and
Jean-Luc.  Hard to find common ground in that crowd.  

"When will you two be getting married?" Mrs. Tyler said.

"Never," Jean-Luc said smoothly.  

There was a big silence.  

Sebastiana's huge eyes swivelled between her mother and Jean-Luc. 
Joe breathed in.  

"So Sebastiana's baby will have no father."


Well, nothing to do but call Q. Q could come to Tennessee and
persuade the silly girl to have a late-term abortion and that
would be that.  Unfortunately, Q was whoring around with that son
of his, but he always turned up.

*************************

"You're Wesley! I can't believe it!" said Traveler.

Q didn't much care to make judgements about his fellow man, but
Traveler was the ugliest man he had ever seen.  Bald with a
caveman's forehead, Traveler had an eerie resemblance to the
Creature from the Black Lagoon.

Wesley didn't seem to notice as he shook Traveler's hand, a
handshake that mutated into an awkward hug.  "Welcome to my
humble abode!" Traveler said with a little smile.  He was wearing
a huge circus-tent striped shirt.  Ugly.  And quite the . . .
nerd too, Q couldn't help but notice.  

"Ummmm, yeah, and this is my . . . father.  Ummm, Quentin
McConn."

"Hey," said Traveler.  He could care less about Wes's dad, that
was plain to see. 

"Nice to meet you," Q said.  "Say, do you have a last name?"

Wesley glared at him.

"Actually, Traveler is just what I call myself when I'm on-line.
My real name is Waymon Hurlbut."

On-line?

"But Waymon Hurlbut isn't nearly as glamorous as it could be,"
Traveler was one of these lads who liked to merrily prattle on. 

"I know.  Wesley is such a loser name, too."  Wesley and Traveler
were smiling at each other.

"Oh, I beg to differ.  I just LOVE the name Wesley," said
Traveler in a meaningful way.

Q eyeballed the apartment.  Just two rooms as far as he could
tell.  This kitchen/living/dining area filled with papers and
books and high-tech equipment.  And then there was a door which
opened on an untidy bedroom.  An unmade king-size bed.

"Son, are you sure you know what you're doing?"  They both looked
at him. "I mean, settling here in Ann Arbor."

"Dad."  Wesley's voice sounded impatient, deflated. 

"Oh, Wesley can just stay here with me til he finds his own
place."

"And Traveler's going to practice my driving with me til I get my
license."  Q had bought Wesley the van he wanted the day before. 
He had also opened a bank account for Wes with ten thousand
dollars and given him an American Express card with a monthly
thousand-dollar limit.  Now he could take off, he supposed.  But
still . . .

"Well, Wesley. . . I don't know if . . ."

"Dad, I promise I'll make you proud.  I'll be the first great gay
white-trash ex-con physicist."  

Traveler put his arm around Wesley's shoulder and whispered, "I'm
not an ex-con or I'd give you a run for your money," and they
both laughed.

*************************
     
New Zealand was one damn weird place to Quark.

Lotta different kinds of bugs in New Zealand.

Many with fatal bites.

But being there with Melinda was worth facing a fatal bug bite.

She was the most wonderful woman in the world.

Just the day before, he'd had to confer with her about something
the artistic director was having to rebudget and so he went to
her trailer and she was sitting there with her hairdresser and
she was . . . not wearing anything above the waist.

"Let me check out the problem," she said to him in a professional
way as the hairdresser fussed with her hair.

Meanwhile Quark had turned into a pillar of salt at the sight of
her perfect high breasts.

"Jadzia, are you ready for that outdoor shower scene?"  Kira came
in the trailer.  (They had hired her as director.)

An. Outdoor.  Shower.  Scene.      

Melinda smiled.  "Betty and Ursula faxed us the new draft last
night.  By the way, Quarky-Warky, don't you think as producer you
ought to supervise this crucial scene?"

Quark was speechless.


*************************

Data was on the phone: "Q, Jean-Luc has been trying to reach you. 
He wishes to inform you that you are needed in Tennessee."

*************************
     
A dark, dark girl with a lilting accent and a big belly answered
the door.

"You must be Q," she smiled.  "Come in.  I'm Sebastiana.  Johnny
told me to expect you."

Q doubted he'd told her exactly what to expect, but he went in to
find Jean-Luc anyway.  


Jean-Luc's expression was grim, but he pulled Q in for a long
kiss.

Sebastiana gasped.

Jean-Luc broke off the kiss.  "What is it?" he said; his posture
was very erect.

"Why do you kiss 'im like that?  You're both men."  

Jean-Luc shrugged, and she wheeled around and ran down the hall.

"Go talk to her, Q.  I don't want to hear her carrying on like
that all day."

"Is that why you asked me here?  So I could do more of your dirty
work?"

Jean-Luc looked at Q steadily.  "She wants to marry me."

"And you panicked.  Why didn't you tell her before now?"

"You have to talk to her." 

Q obeyed.


By the time Q found her, Sebastiana was on her bed, wailing and
crying.  "Jean-Luc is going to give you a whole lot of money," he
said to her. 

She stopped her noise for a brief second before starting up
again.  "What good is money when my baby's father loves a man.  A
man!"  She rose from the bed, cumbersome and dangerous to
herself.  "I should scratch your eyes out!"  She raised her hands
to his face.

"Stop this or you'll hurt the baby."  He very gently took her
hands in his.

That stopped her.  "What am I going to do?"  She threw herself on
the bed again, carefully falling on her side.  

Q sat down on the side of the bed feeling like the maid cleaning
condoms out of the pool.  "You don't want to marry a man who
loves other men."  He dangled bait again.  "Johnny asked me to
make sure you and the baby got everything you needed.  He wants
me to take you shopping for baby clothes and ..." 

The girl looked up. Jean-Luc should be ashamed of himself.  She
was little more than a child.

"I'm sorry," she said and began sobbing again.

"Believe it or not, I'm here to help you."

************************* 

"Q, I'm not ashamed of anything.  I taught her about love."  

Q was silent.  Then: "Now what?

"I want her to get an abortion.  Not just for me, but for her
too.  So she can go back to her real life."

"Isn't she too far gone for a safe abortion?  How many months is
she?"

"She got pregnant around . . . Mardi Gras, I think.  Sometime in
February."   

Q looked at his fingers.  "Six months!  Jean-Luc!  I just . . ."

"Then talk her into giving it up for adoption."

Q couldn't speak.

Jean-Luc sighed, "Things are very bad," he whispered.  "I don't
love her.  I'll do right by her, but I don't want to marry her. 
Doesn't it seem that getting rid of the baby would be easiest?"
     


Well, fuck it, Jean-Luc knew he was asking the wrong person.  
Oh, yeah, Q the softhearted.

Q the savior of kittens and puppies everywhere.

Q the giant tit who moved heaven and earth for his rat sons.  

And then the giant tit spoke: "What if we get Will and Worf to
adopt the baby?  You know Will would love that."

Jean-Luc shut his eyes. An image of Patsy bossing around his,
Jean-Luc's, flesh and blood, came to him.  "No."   Patsy was a
fine little girl, but his own child was not going to play second
fiddle to some kid of Will Riker's.

"Jean-Luc, we could watch Will and Worf raise her."

"What makes you think it's a girl?"

"The way she's carrying it.  My mother always said that if you
carried it high it was a boy and if you carried it low it was a
girl.  That little girl is carrying the baby really low."

Jean-Luc stood up very straight.  "Actually, I assumed she was
having a son."  Then he sighed, "Wait til you meet the girl's
mother." 

"Jean-Luc, this wouldn't have happened if you'd stuck to your own
kind."

Jean-Luc wouldn't look at Q.  "Suck my dick," he said and
breathed out like Worf.


"Joe, this is Q McConn.  Q and I go way back."

Joe Sisco looked at the beautiful man with long dark hair, with
perfect full lips, with beautiful long hands.

"Picard, I read the papers."  Joe didn't much want to discuss
this with Jean-Luc.  A man should be able to live the life he
wanted.

"Joe, what are we going to do?"

We.  

************************

A soft summer night on the screened side porch. Melinda had made
that their summer dining room with a huge oak table and candles
and comfortable chairs.  

Jean-Luc refused to sit down, so Joe was sitting at the head of
the table.  

Sebastiana was sobbing softly, but her mother sat with her head
lifted high and hard.

Q sat beside Joe.

"Joe, what do you think my husband would say to you about letting
his only child fall into that old devil's hands?"

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes.

"Martine, there's no call to say that to me.  I was there with
you when Sam died.  You know I promised to take care of his
little girl."

"You're doing a pitiful job of it."

"Mama, I'm not a little girl," Sebastiana sniffled.  "I went into
this with my eyes open."

"I believe we can work something out," Q said.

"And who are you?" Martine's voice was edging near hysteria. 
"Another devil?"  She seemed genuinely consumed by despair.  

"I am Jean-Luc's friend.  I'm also the father of four children. 
What happened . . . is what happened."

Martine shuddered.

"About the baby - Sebastiana, Jean-Luc says it ought to be your
choice.  We'll help you with whatever you want."

"I want to marry Jean-Luc Picard and live here forever with him
and our little baby."

There was a silence then; they could all hear moths battering the
screens.  

Q looked at her in the candlelight; she was a charming child who
thought Jean-Luc was a key to happily ever after. 

"You are not marrying that . . . man," said Martine.

Thank God.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Jean-Luc said.  "I'm leaving."

Sebastiana buried her head in her hands.

"Don't cry, baby," said Joe and stroked her soft hair.

Martine unbent a little.  "Are you two as bad as I think?"

"Yes, ma'am," Q said simply.

Sebastiana lifted her head.  "Maybe if I stayed here and he
stayed here, he'd realized how much he loves me and we could be
happy."

Q heard Jean-Luc's car scratch out of the driveway.  Then
Sebastiana fled the room sobbing.

He looked at Martine.  She was grim and heartbroken.  She had
wanted so much for her daughter.  Q could understand that.

"Jean-Luc wants to give Sebastiana this house.  He and I have
already contacted a lawyer.   She'll be the owner tomorrow.
Jean-Luc will own the rest of the property, but she gets the
house and five acres of property."

"How's she going to pay for this?  What about the taxes?"

"She gets five thousand dollars a month for the next twenty
years.  If she needs more, he'll give her more."

He saw Martine's eyes grow puzzled. Could that be as much as she
thought?  She looked at Joe Sisco.  "How could you let this
happen?  He was your friend, how could you let this happen to his
child?"

"Now, Martine, I can't stop nature.  Jean-Luc treats her fairly
well, never raises a hand to her, gives her the best care."

"The girl told me she wanted to study," Mrs. Tyler mourned.  

"She still can.  Her life isn't over."    Joe drew in a deep
breath. "Martine, let's make the best of a bad situation.  Forty
years ago . . . I was accused of the worst crime I could be
accused of then.  A white woman said I'd assaulted her.  No truth
to it.  I was working on a nearby farm and she'd hired me to do
some chores on my day off . . . " he seemed lost in memory.  "She
was lonely.  She was talking to me. Her daddy walked in on us. 
He was a worthless sonofabitch.  He threatened to whip her bloody
for talking to me.  Accusing me was the only story she could
think of.  I had no money, but a lawyer took pity on me.  Big
rich white guy.  Now, if this was a fairy tale, he'd have won the
case and I'd have been cleared.  But life's not a fairy tale.  He
plea-bargained me into the military.   Pled guilty to a
misdemeanor when I'd done nothing!   But off I went.  First time
away from home.  I was a man, but I started crying."  Joe drew in
a deep breath.  "Best thing that ever happened to me.  I learned
everything, saw everything.  Served in the Navy for twenty years
and I wish I were still there.  Pleading guilty was the best
thing I could have  done. Sometimes you have to ride what
happens, Martine."
      

The next morning when Martine woke up, Q was padding around the
kitchen in tight white tennis shorts and nothing else.  

"Good morning, Mrs. Tyler," he smiled.  "I'm just fixing Jean-
Luc's breakfast."
     

"Sebastiana, you really want to stay here with these evil men?" 

"This is my house now, and I want to live here."

"Let him move back in with that boyfriend."  Martine shut her
eyes.  "Then you can come back. Go someplace decent and have the
baby."

"I don't want to," Sebastiana started to cry, something that had
always worked with Mister Johnny.  "Leave me alone!  Let me do
what I want to do!"


Jean-Luc was getting dressed when he heard the slap and 
Sebastiana's wails.
     
Pale and trembling, he burst into Sebastiana's room.  His little
virgin was holding her cheek.  

He breathed in furiously, but Martine wasn't one to give in.  


Q appeared at the bedroom door.  

Then Jean-Luc led Sebastiana out of the room.  
     

Jean-Luc and Q spent the next hour wiping her tears, patting her
hand, getting her a cold drink, leading her to a comfy chair,
speaking to her very soothingly and in general coddling her.

Martine watched silently from the stairs.

What else could she expect from such womanly men?  That Jean-Luc
was dirt under her feet.  How dare he do this to her daughter?

*************************

But the daughter was thriving and glowing and wealthy.

And that Mr. Q could be useful.  

Martine found Sebastiana loading the dishwasher one day.  


"Stop that or you'll tear up your back.  Go swim in the pool."

Then she found Q: "Sebastiana  doesn't need to be cleaning in her
state.  You get her a maid."

Q did immediately. 

"And I want to see this doctor she's been going to."

Q took her that day.  The doctor was confused and a bit
disdainful.  "You are not the father."

"I'm his boyfriend," Q lifted his chin.

"Are you are the mother's mother?"

"Yes."

Martine was looking around his office.  It was very opulent. 
Paintings and shiny oak wood everyhere. He was a real doctor in a
beautiful white jacket, not a harried technician in a clinic.  

She sighed.  In some ways, she did not want to be part of this
native-girl-and-rich-bwana scenario, but there was something very
seductive about the sheer opulence of her daughter's life now.


Q noticed that, while Martine hated Jean-Luc, she still had
Sebastiana teach her how to use all the wonderful gadgets in the
kitchen.  Martine loved the Cuisinart.
          

At supper that night, Martine fixed a special stew.   It was
excellent.

Sebastiana was sitting between two candles; she looked like a
sweet dark angel.

"I want to name the baby Stephanie Crystal."

Joe lifted his eyebrows.

Too much television.

"Hush," said Martine.                                       

"That's a very nice name," Q was making an effort.

"Sammi Jo," Jean-Luc said with finality. "Sammi Jo Picard."

*************************

Every morning in that damp velvet Tennessee August, Q woke up in
Jean-Luc's arms.  But he was surprised to find how uncomfortable
he was.  Not with Johnny exactly -- it was always good just being
with Johnny, watching Johnny sleeping in the pink dawn light,
seeing Johnny wake up.  There were always tender silent times in
the morning together.  But Johnny went into Sebastiana's room
every night and only climbed into bed with Q after spending a
couple of hours there with Sebastiana.  

What if Johnny was in love with that girl!  He sure wasn't having
sex with Q.

What if Johnny married her after the divorce from Melinda was
finalized!  

Sebastiana was a fine girl, sweet and pretty, smart and kind . .
. but Q had been completely lost without Jean-Luc.  He could not
bear to lose Jean-Luc again.

Sebastiana was a fine girl.  And Jean-Luc was Q's God.  

But frankly Q found himself on Martine Tyler's side.

It would have been better for Sebastiana if Jean-Luc had left her
alone.  Even now, when Jean-Luc padded every night into
Sebastiana's glowing little bedroom with its maple furniture and
creamy walls, there was something unsettling about that whole
scene.
     
*************************

"I'm chewed, Q.  I'm beat.  You're going to have to take
Sebastiana for me tonight."

Q was speechless.  Pale.

Jean-Luc looked at him.  "Oh, so that doesn't that fit into your
busy agenda of sucking up to Martine."

"I . . . can't."

"Don't say no to me."

"No," Q said softly.

Jean-Luc looked at him.  "What in fuck's name is wrong with you?"

"I can't.  It's wrong."

Jean-Luc didn't seem angry.  He seemed amazed.  "What do you
think I'm talking about?"

"Sleeping . . . with Sebastiana?"

Jean-Luc was very still.  Still not angry.  "You're not going to
sleep with her.  You're not going to *sleep* with her.  I
certainly haven't been if that's what you and your big buddy
Martine are thinking.  But she's pregnant and lonely and she
needs someone with her.  It . . . soothes her to talk.  Or we
watch television.  I want to keep things . . . peaceful around
her.  I thought I might catch a break tonight.  You're . . . a
good one for peacefulness."

Jean-Luc wasn't angry.  He just seemed puzzled by his own
emotions.

Q dimpled.  "I'd love to watch television with Sebastiana!"


So Q and Sebastiana watched television in her comfortable room
every night til she went to sleep.  Sometimes Martine came in
(Martine was developing a little crush on Q) and sat with them,
and once in a while even Joe and Jean-Luc would join them.

Sebastiana was good company; her simple childlike pleasure in
silly American television shows always made Q smile.

She loved the networks that showed old television shows like
Dragnet.  Or Adam 12.  Their simple braveries thrilled her.  She
also loved shows which featured evil scheming women who got their
comeuppance.  They made her laugh, and that made Q laugh with
her.  Then together she and Q would solemnly watch television
movies where famous stars pretended to be dying of various
diseases.  

"No!" Sebastiana would whisper when the television doctor gave
his dire prognosis.  

And together Q and Sebastiana would cry at the scene where the
costar made a vow over the dead star's grave.

"That was so sad," Q said.

"I'm glad it's not real," Sebastiana said.

And when the late-night news came on, Q coaxed her into letting
him turn off her lights and tuck her in.
     

Even Martine was secretly thrilled by how much Sebastiana was
thriving.  

*************************

Q was actually gaining a sense of accomplishment here.  The house
now always smelled of fried plantains, and Jean-Luc was stuffing
himself silly on tropical cooking.  

It was a strangely timeless time.  Quark was out of the country,
Geordi and Data were working on the newest album, Will and Worf
were settled in with their brood.  

Jean-Luc had never quite felt this way.

"Q, let's do something," but he wasn't restless.  He seemed calm
and pleased.  

Well, Q was game.  They hadn't had sex in ages   Sebastiana's
condition had the strangest damping effect.

"What do you want to do?" Q said breathily; he bit his lower lip.

"Let's take a trip.  Martine and Joe can watch Sebastiana   the
doc says everything is great.  If we go away for a weekend, the
world won't fall apart."

"Oh.  Okay."

Q made numerous plans and connections and packed weekend bags for
Jean-Luc and himself while Jean-Luc rolled his eyes, and then
they were out of there in Jean-Luc's big showy convertible.
     
They were going east past Nashville, past Knoxville, towards
North Carolina.

They drove until Jean-Luc pulled towards a small, flower-painted
sign.  "Willow Grove Bed and Breakfast," Q read.  He looked at
Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc ignored him; he merely pulled up the drive and got out
and took his small duffel bag out of the car.  "Reservation's
under Nagel," he said in a loud, nondescript voice.

"I have you booked in a room with a queen-size bed," the
proprietor frowned when the two men walked up.  

Q thought a queen-sized bed would fit them perfectly, but perhaps
he shouldn't say that.  "I thought the rooms had two double
beds," he frowned, as if it were the proprietor's fault.   

"I can put you in the room next door if you want."

"That will be fine."  Q and Jean-Luc exchanged glances.   After
they paid for the second room, they didn't even bother entering
it.  

Well, that first room was bad enough. "This whole country theme
is so overdone.  I can't believe this!"

"Bitch."

They exchanged smiles.  
        
Melinda was in New Zealand; she'd thrown Jean-Luc out of her life
with no second thought.  Well, two could play that game.  Sort
of. Now that Q knew about the Willows, she shared no secret with
Jean-Luc.


The next day they strolled through all the willows in silence
when Q turned to him.

"How'd you find this place, Johnny?"  Beautiful Q.  Tall handsome
surprising alert Q.   Q knew exactly what questions to ask. 

Q's tender concern was palpable.  Jean-Luc found it hard to speak
for a moment.

"I found it one time when I had to hide out," he finally
answered. "These two sisters ran it.  They took me in."

The truth was that shinerunning had its intrinsic difficulties. 
Twice he'd been badly beaten and had his cargo stolen, and he'd
outrun the law more times than he'd cared to count.  He had been
in his early thirties then, still a hotshot with reflexes like
lightning, and he had his lights off, racing down a dark county
road to get away from a state trooper's cruiser.  His car had
been customized with a special switch that turned the taillights
off, and Jean-Luc knew the road like the back of his hand.  It
should have been a cakewalk.  It would have been a cakewalk but
he had hit something in the darkness--to this day he didn't know
what--and the car bounced and jolted so violently that he banged
his head on the roof and the impact knocked him out.  

Jean-Luc had come to with the engine running and the police
nowhere in sight.  There was nothing to do but sit there in the
darkness and hope for the best.  

In the morning, he was so sore and stiff he could barely move. 
He pulled over to the first place that looked as if it might have
a bed, rolled up the driveway and staggered up to the front desk.

"You have a room?"

The little lady behind the counter looked at him skeptically, but
she nodded.

Jean-Luc pulled out a wad and shoved it at her.  "Tell me when
that runs out."

He didn't remember much else except taking off his clothes in an
over-decorated room and falling into the bed.   

Every once in a while there was a knock at the door which he
ignored--troopers didn't knock, so he was safe.  A few days later
he was up and walking around though he probably shouldn't have
been.  His ears rang continuously, and any movement made  dizzy. 
Still he pushed himself.  After a while, he forced himself to
walk around the property, and that was when he discovered the
willow grove. 

Jean-Luc paused.  Q had put his arms around him, which Jean-Luc
hated.  

"Q," he warned. 

"Just for a little while," Q begged.  "Just until the end of the
story, please."

"Stop this, Q."

"I know.  What happened next?"


There wasn't that much to tell.  He walked, he looked.  He liked
it.

"Magical," Q ventured.

"I guess."  But really, that was the only word for it.  The
constant, gentle movement; the draping, protective canopy; the
utter stillness of trees; it had touched an answering stillness
in Jean-Luc, a part of himself that was utterly foreign to him
until the trees introduced him to it.  He still didn't know what
to make of it.  

He had come back to the place several times, always warning
himself that it was probably razed to the ground; that the trees
had been chopped down to make way for a shopping center or
something.  Nothing ever lasted. 

But the place was still here.  Even after the sisters died and
someone new bought it, the grove was still here.  

"Why don't we buy it, Johnny?"

"What would we do with this place?  You're crazy."

"I know.  But we need a place nobody else knows about.  Besides,
you've given up the house to Sebastiana.  Don't you want a place
of your own?"

In fact Jean-Luc did, but . . . "It's not for sale."

"You don't know that."

That was the thing he hated about Q.  The way he always took
Jean-Luc by surprise with the things he said and did.

"Motherfucker," but it was said very affectionately.  "You buy
it.  I'm still short from paying for Sebastiana."

"You mean paying off Sebastiana."

Then Q leaned close, obviously wanting a kiss but not daring more
than to present his lush mouth as available.  Jean-Luc felt
pressured.  He didn't want kisses.  He turned away. 

Q sighed.  

Jean-Luc turned back.  "Dammit, come here."  This one time it
wouldn't kill him to give Q what he wanted.

After a moment, he drew back.  "We'll christen this place when we
own it.  And then nobody can chop these trees down."

*************************

Just the two of them there.

And making love to Q would be a relief -- unlike Melinda, unlike
Sebastiana, there was a giving in Q, and a forgiving too.  

That night when they went back to their queen-sized bed, he said
to Q: "Tell me fuck stories about what you've done.  You can't
make me believe you were celibate all that while."

"Put something in me and I might," Q teased him.

Jean-Luc put a finger in his mouth, and then inside Q.

Q sighed.  "I got some and I gave some, but nothing was like you
. . . Daddy."  He breathed the last word softly, as if afraid of
what it might mean to Jean-Luc now.

Jean-Luc said nothing; he just twisted his index finger a bit.

"Jean-Luc, have you heard about that new lube?  For men?  For
butt-fucking.  We used it out in California."  

"Who's we?"

"A bunch of us." Q was flirting.  "Guess who I did have a big
fuck session with?  Will and Worf."

Jean-Luc smiled back.  "What'd you do?"

"I sucked Worf's balls while Will licked him out.  He came
double-hard.  I wish you'd been there."  His knees were open. 
Jean-Luc rested his hands on Q's knees.

"I can fuck you from here, bitch, make that little panty-free
pussy come and come.  I'll make you wet as water."

"Let me get that lube.  It's really a great product."

Q was back in a second.  "Here."  It came in a blue tube; it had
a nice neutral smell. "It's made in Germany.  They know how to
manufacture things in Germany."  He squirted out a bit on his
fingertips and moved his hand to his ass.  "You like this,
Daddy?"

"Girl, don't even ask."

"Let's have a little fun, Jean-Luc.  It's been forever."

"Forever."  Jean-Luc gave a small smile.  He abruptly put two
fingers in Q's lubricated opening.

Q gasped.  "More."

Jean-Luc stroked him, feeling all the familiar slicknesses of Q. 
"Are you ready?"  He slid a third finger in.  

Q writhed more.  "My pussy is so wet."  He was lying on his back
with that big dick sticking out; now he grabbed it with one hand
as he threw the other arm out.  He looked angelic and trapped.

"Can't wait to fuck you there," Jean-Luc whispered.

Q beat himself against Jean-Luc's fingers.  "Johnny, put another
finger in," he begged.  

Jean-Luc looked up.  He was trying not to look apprehensive. 
"You want me to fist you, Q?"

"Oh, yes, Johnny, more than anything."

"Talk me through it."

"You'll love it.  It's so powerful.  And it feels like nothing
else on earth.  You know I'm pussy, and that's all I am.  Please,
Jean-Luc.  Please."  He opened his eyes.  

And was shocked to see Jean-Luc hesitate.

"Please," Q said again. "You won't hurt me.  Think of everything
that's been in me in the last twelve years.  That's what I do,
Jean-Luc."

Jean-Luc stayed still.  His slightly shocked expression did not
change.

Q sat up; he still had Jean-Luc's fingers inside him.  He moved
against them, his big dick stiff as ever.  "See how I want it.  I
want it."  He leaned in.  "You can fist me while I pray.  Won't
that be something special, Daddy?  Your little  girl's saying her
prayers and you've got your whole fist in my ass and I'm praying
and praying.  And you're fucking me with your fist, your whole
big fist; I'm that hot and that ready."

He eased away from Jean-Luc's fingers and pulled the top sheet
around him. It was like a makeshift skirt.

Jean-Luc never stopped watching Q.

AS Q knelt by the side of the bed, he pulled the sheet up so that
the bottom few inches of his ass showed as he knelt.  

"I'm praying, Daddy."  He looked at Jean-Luc.

And Jean-Luc knelt behind him.  "Put your little knees on a
pillow; make your little self taller for Daddy.  I have plans for
your pussy."  He pulled the top sheet away.  "Where's that
grease?" he said and then found it.  He coated Q's asshole and
then his fingers.  One finger.   "Keep on praying."  Q backed
again and again against him.  Two fingers slipping in easily.  

"I'm glad my Daddy's big."

Three fingers.  

"Twist them, Daddy.  Make me big enough for your big hand."

More lube.  Twisting.  A fourth finger.  Up to the knuckle. 
Jean-Luc barely moved his hand; it was the sheer size of his
fingers in Q that mattered.  Q was grunting now -- rearing back
against him.

Jean-Luc put more lubricant on his hand and put his thumb in a
wedge against the other fingers.  He would never have thought
this possible, but now it was more than possible, it was
plausible.  Q's ass was so open and wet.   Christ, didn't this
look nice?  His hand buried to the knuckle in the wealth of Q's
ass.  More lubricant.  He made his hand writhe and twist and
swivel against Q's pounding flesh, and then it was in -- not even
with a sound, unless you counted Q's long drawn-out sigh.

"Oh, fuck me with it now."

Jean-Luc tentatively moved against Q and Q began to thrash and
throb against him.  He had never seen Q so out of control.  Where
did this power come from?  And then Q started to come, leaning
against Jean-Luc, batting against Jean-Luc's fist, and Jean-Luc
hardly knew what he was feeling.  Was this how it felt?  So slick
and -- how did you know you were doing it right?   Mysterious
shapes made way inside Q; he could feel the beating of Q's heart
as if he were touching it.  But Q was coming and gasping and
panting and his back was flushed bright red.


Then Q quit thrashing and became very quiet; Jean-Luc still felt
his beating heart.  

"Are you all right?"

"Oh, yes, Daddy," Q said.  "I don't want you to leave.  I wish we
could stay this way forever."  

Jean-Luc could feel Q compress himself around his fist -- it was
pleasant.  Pleasant to look at; more than pleasant, hot actually. 
Like he was punching Q in the asshole.  Well, who wouldn't want
to do that?  Punch Q in the asshole -- make Q's asshole take it
all, take everything.  "You sure got a busy pussy."   

"I'm your little pussy," Q purred and backed against Jean-Luc.  

"When I take out my hand, if I take out my hand, will you suck my
dick?  Then we can make plans to do this again.  Now that I know
how.  Sweet little whore pussy ass."

Q bore down, and Jean-Luc moved his hand out.  

Blood.

They both saw it.

Q shrugged.  "Jean-Luc, fisting alway causes a few asshole
fissures.  That's nothing.  Let me suck your cock."  

And he did.  Jean-Luc was mildly distracted by having to hold the
bloody hand away from their bodies, but he grabbed Q's hair with
the other hand and fucked Q's willing wet mouth and fucked it
hard.


Cleaned up, they slept as they had in the old days.  Back in
prison.   Or on buses.   On rental shacks in rural woods. 
Spooned together, Jean-Luc at Q's back. 

Then Jean-Luc awoke.  

He felt . . . a trickling warmth against his groin.  "Come, it's
come," he thought and smiled.  His come.  He felt a bit more
trickling, and his eyes opened.   Q hd sucked him off; he hadn't
come inside Q.  

He turned on the light.

A plate-sized pool of blood was on the sheets.  

And Jean-Luc felt a terror he had never felt before.

"Q, you're bleeding."

"It's nothing, baby." Q said sleepily and wiggled, and then said
"ouch." He stiffened.

"Look, Q."

Q diffidently looked at the sheet.

Then they both looked at each other.  Q moved his hand to his
back. And brought it back out.  It was covered with bright red
blood.  

Jean-Luc couldn't think.  "Shit shit shit, Q.  Now what?"   They
were alone in the middle of nowhere.  For shit's sake.  "You've
got to go to a hospital." 

Q was visibly turning paler.  "There's an argument in favor of
that and against it," he whispered.  "You know about the papers."

Jean-Luc felt he was going to explode.  "Q, we have to do
something now.  Q. Q." 

Q closed his eyes.  Was it pain?  "Call Julian Bashir.  His
clinic's only about seventy miles away. "

"Julian Bashir?"

"He and his partner gave us the money for the Stargazer. 
Remember?"

An excited dog.  A slender Brahmin.  An old dope-addict.  That
scene.

"What's his number?  How do we know he's on the up and up?"

"We can give him what he wants.  That'll . . . " Q winced.

"What's his number?"  

The dayplanner was in Q's luggage; Jean-Luc was astonished.  Q
had the number of everyone on earth.

He dialed the number.  Panicked. Some fucking answering service
was going to pick up and there'd be red tape and he'd end up
driving the now-shivering Q (was Q going into shock?) to the
hospital and . . . "Hello," said a gracious, amused voice. 
"Julian here."

"You've got to help me."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Jean-Luc, tell him . . ." Q whispered.

"This is Jean-Luc Picard -- Q McConn said I could call you.  We
need help.  We were . . . playing and Q's bleeding.  I don't want
the papers to know.  But I'll do whatever it takes to get Q safe. 
I'm . . . it looks rough."

"You were playing.  Now Q's bleeding.  Okay, I think I get it. 
No press.  Now listen, do you have a helicopter pad near there?"


They told the hotel owners Q had had a sudden major nosebleed and
paid them money and said they'd be in touch.  There was a little
baby tri-state airport just ten minutes away, and there was a
nice little private clinic -- just ten beds -- fifteen minutes
from there.  And since Julian had admitting privileges, there
they were.

"My patient's name is Gulwinder Morra," said the sober and
dignified Bashir.

Jean-Luc was standing behind him. Baseball cap.  Tinted glasses. 
Hopefully unrecognizable.

"And I want him ready for surgery in twenty minutes.  It's a bit
of an emergency really," Julian shrugged.

Then he turned to Jean-Luc.  Julian had grown up a bit, Jean-Luc
was glad to see.  "This is a good place," he whispered. 
"Actually, they're quite used to celebrities.  Perry Como had his
eyes operated on here."


Jean-Luc had calmed down some.   He was calm because he knew Q
wasn't going to die.  Q had promised Bareil that he would live to
see Modyed reach adulthood, so everything would be alright.  Q
was a man of his word.   And the atmosphere was totally different
from the time Q got shot.  That had been a busy, big-city
hospital with police and medical personnel running around
everywhere.  This was a small, quiet place where he sat in a
private waiting room while people spoke to him in hushed tones
and offered him things to drink. A pretty dark-haired nurse came
by with fruit juice.  "Your friend will be fine.  He came to the
right place," she smiled.  "Did you know Perry Como had his eyes
operated on here?"


After what felt like a long time, Julian came and got him.

"I've done a pretty good job if I must say so myself.  He'll be
up and about in no time, but I think you may want to reconsider
your playtime for a while.  Come on."

Q was in bed with blood running into his arm from an IV. 
Jean-Luc's heart was pounding. He told Julian to give him lots of
blood to replace what had been lost.  

Julian smiled.  I'll leave you two alone."

Jean-Luc didn't even hear him leave.  He pulled up a chair right
next to the IV stand and laid his fingers against Q's arm. He
didn't dare touch the Band-aid that held the needle in his arm,
but he ran his fingers all around it, helping it, encouraging it,
thanking it.

Q opened his eyes.

"I'm okay, Jean-Luc."  His voice was slurred, but he was still
beautiful.

"You're in a good place.  Hey, Perry Como had his eyes operated
on here."

"Wow."



Julian sat Jean-Luc down and talked to him about the various
things he'd have to do for Q.  Jean-Luc was comfortable with
that; it was like the army.

Then: "How's . . . Will?" Julian asked in an off-hand way, but
his eyes were bright.  "I liked him so much."

Jean-Luc lifted his chin.  "He's good, real good.    Maybe you
can come visit us.   I know Will would like to see you again."

Julian blushed.

"How's that McCoy?" Jean-Luc asked him.  

Julian shook his head.  "Some day I'm going to discover what the
CIA poured on his Wheaties.  He's indestructible."

                                                       
Julian and the hospital personnel made sure Jean-Luc had
everything he needed.  They gave him a special pillow for Q  that
looked like a toilet seat, and slender-snouted tubes full of
disinfectant cream to stick up Q's ass.  They gave Jean-Luc
prescriptions for strong laxatives so Q wouldn't have to strain,
and instructions for what to eat and what to avoid.

Fear Alley, California, Tennessee.  He was always receiving Q
back from a hospital somewhere.  Q, his delicate flower, moved
stiffly and winced often.  Jean-Luc would have to remember to be
careful.  

He wasn't taking any chances.  He made Q lie on his side in the
back of the Caddy as they drove back home.  

"You okay back there?" He asked this every few miles or so.

Once when Q didn't answer, Jean-Luc died.  He gently pulled over
on the side of the road, got out and shook Q's shoulder.  Q
opened his eyes and said, "Are we there?"

Jean-Luc came to life again.  "Not yet," he answered.  He got
back in the front seat and kept driving.

*************************

Back at Sebastiana's wasn't quite as awful as Jean-Luc had
feared.  Q had a scheme where they told Joe and Martine and
Sebastiana that Q had fallen off a cliff! 

Joe rolled his eyes, but Martine and Sebastiana had gasped. Q was
an invalid now!  

Thirty times a day Jean-Luc helped him from the bed to the
bathroom and back again, and never thought to complain.  When Q
was sleeping, he snuck out to the store.  Q needed soup and fruit
and lots of liquid.  Jean-Luc gave him soda pops until Bashir
called to check on him and scolded him for doing so.  After that,
Jean-Luc bought apple-cranberry juice.

Meanwhile Sebastiana's visits to the doctor were coming more
frequently.  Impossibly, she was getting even bigger, and she
needed his attention too. 

Q solved it.  "Get a visiting nurse."

Such a thing would have never occurred to Jean-Luc, but he got
two nurses, one for him and Q, and one for Sebastiana.


Sebastiana was having pains!

My God!  No!  The time was totally wrong!  

Jean-Luc drove her to the doctor, Martine sitting in the back
seat bitching at him the whole while.

Sebastiana's doctor was very nervous about this family.  But
fortunately, Sebastiana was, thank God, okay.

"These are just Braxton-Hicks contractions.  She just needs to
keep on resting and eating right and going for little walks."  
He recommended a certain kind of elaborate pillow.

"Go and get one," Martine ordered him.  She still wasn't speaking
to Jean-Luc except to boss him around. 


Jean-Luc was losing weight.  He had dark circles under his eyes.

"That bitch is putting shit into my food," he rumbled to Joe. 
"I'm going to kill her."

"Boss, you're tired," Joe opined.  "Get some rest."

*************************

But what Jean-Luc really needed was someone to help.
     
"Data, I need you to help us out here.  And Geordi can stay in
California  and work on the album." (Geordi normally got all
Data's attention, and right now Jean-Luc needed it all for
himself.)

Data came.  He wore an apron and busied himself.  Martine's face,
which had been softening, grew hard and vigilant again.

Jean-Luc couldn't bring himself to get in the same bed with his
lover anymore.  Too dangerous.  He was sleeping on the sofa
again.  So Data acted as their go-between.  When Q fell asleep,
Data slipped out of his bed, came to Jean-Luc and opened his
mouth to share the taste of Q.  Jean-Luc's eyes grew wide.  He
knew that taste.

"Do you know what you're doin'?"

"Yes, Mrs. Tyler, I have studied all sorts of massage therapy
programs."   Data rubbed Sebastiana's legs twice a day, and he
escorted her for brief walks around the property.  He helped her
with her pre-natal exercises.  

"Well.. . " Martine looked at Joe.  This did give her time to
call home and find out how everyone was doing in her absence. 
Her expression became a bit less harried.  

Then Data told Geordi that Q had been in the hospital and Will
and Worf learned almost by osmosis, and messengers started
arriving with elaborate baskets of fruit and flowers.   And all
of a sudden they were there in person, Will, Worf, Geordi and
Patsy.  

"Who's taking care of Ginger!" Data was panic-struck.

"Chris and Pen," Geordi assured him.

Martine heard the role call and nearly fainted.   

Will had brought Q a Gameboy. He shared it with Sebastiana.

Worf glared at everything.  Patsy climbed on Q's lap and demanded
all the attention and Geordi learned his way around the house
while Mrs. Tyler stared in amazement and Jean-Luc made a
conscious choice not to murder even one person.

"This is my band," he introduced them all around, "and this is
Sebastiana.  And this," he ran his large hand over Sebastiana's
ever-increasing stomach, "is my son Pierre."

"No, it's your little girl," Sebastiana corrected, and they gave
each other strained smiles.  It was now just a joke between them.

*************************

Martine kept a close watch.  The "Boys" sure had a nerve calling
themselves that.  But they all treated her daughter with grave
courtesy.  They were polite and deferential towards her, and her
spoiled daughter took full advantage.  Martine nodded to herself. 
When all this was over, she was going to take her unruly daughter
down a peg or two.  

*************************

In the driveway, Q's rental gathered spiders under a fir tree. 

Jean-Luc's Caddy was next to Sebastiana's red Mercedes which her
mother was now driving; then there was a Jeep for Worf and Will
with a baby seat Patsy, and the two nurses' sturdy cars.  

Jean-Luc stared at all the various vehicles and felt better.

Worf rumbled up behind him and touched his shoulder.     

Jean-Luc sighed and settled back against him, relieved to let go
a little.

"If you weren't here, I don't know what I would do," he said.

"Woe to liars," Worf said

"I certainly can't lean on Q like this."

"Liar," Worf insisted.  "You lean on everybody."  He was like an
old oak, or a sequoia planted so deep in the ground that he would
not go anywhere, no matter what. 

Jean-Luc stayed where he was.  So he leaned on people?  So the
fuck what? 

"I can't have any Q?" Worf teased.  "I know I want some."

Jean-Luc was shocked.

(Worf was watching him carefully.)

Data.  Petite and precise.  Data would do anything.  "Worf, let's
fuck Data.  Just like old times."


Geordi brought out a strange maternal quality in Martine; she
loved cooking for him as he stayed in the kitchen strumming
exotic stringed instruments or devising new uses for the
Cuisinart.     

Those so-called Boys couldn't be too bad if a fine man like
Geordi laForge (and what a pretty name!) was a part of them.

     
*************************

Data found himself being dragged into one of the guest bedrooms.

"Just look at what we found," Jean-Luc said.

"Looks good," Worf said.

"I beg your pardon."  Data was very formal.

"We're lonely," Jean-Luc began to rub Data's back; "we want some
loving.  You're cute, did anyone ever tell you that?"
     
"We heard your husband was blind.  He'll never know what we did
to you."

"Show us your tits," Jean-Luc said. "I like titty."

"I could not do that," Data said.  Prim.  Maddening.

Worf rubbed the front of his jeans against Data's side.  "Ummm,"
he said.  
     
"No, you must not," Data said, sliding his pale cool eyes over to
Worf.

"Pull her panties down, Jean-Luc."  
     
"All right," and Jean-Luc got on his knees and began to undress
the writhing Data   when his pants and briefs were down to his
ankles, Jean-Luc leaned back to admire his handiwork.  Data was
stiff, already leaking a little, and his sallow skin was flushed. 
 "There she is, Worf," he said as he stood back up.

Worf was methodically stroking the front of his own jeans and
pressing himself against Data's small firm buttocks.  "Let me get
some first, Jean-Luc. I've got the lube right here."  And he
unzipped his pants and sat down, his long hard cock rampant in
the air.  

"Now that your panties are off, you can sit on Worf's lap.  We'll
all have a good time."

"No, you must not do this," Data said as Jean-Luc pushed him down
on Worf's lap.  "No, you mustn't," he repeated as Worf worked
himself into Data.  And suddenly Data was completely pinioned on
Worf's huge dick, and Worf's eyes rolled back in his head as Data
ground back and forth against him.

Jean-Luc finished undressing Data as Data was being soundly
fucked by the panting Worf and suddenly Worf and Jean-Luc
exchanged a look and Worf was still.  "Where's Jean-Luc's little
piece of poon?" Jean-Luc said, and he had his pants off and he
lifted Data's legs and held them level with his hips as he
entered Data. 
     
"Jean-Luc, what are you doing?" Data said in a panicky voice.

"Nothing, just getting some," Jean-Luc was not really listening
to Data - he was inside him moving back and forth against Worf
whose breath was raspy, solid-sounding.  "I know it must feel
good."

Data was limp and panting.  "No, please.  No.  Please."

"You know you want it," Worf said in Data's ear.

"No, no."

"Come on, bitch, quit that lying or it'll be much worse."

Data's eyes were closed and Worf's dark hands were on his chest,
on his nipples, caressing and pulling them into small points of
sensation.  "I want more dick," he whispered.

"Okay, touch yours so I can see it," Jean-Luc said.

And Data needed no encouraging to put his hand down against
himself: "Can we not make it last a long time? This is so
pleasurable."  And he began a leisurely stroke as he backed
himself against his partners.

Jean-Luc pushed and pulled back rhythmically, his eyes never
leaving Data's caressing hand.  "Data, put your other hand on
your tits.  Worf, you can support him."

"Take it all, bitch," Worf gasped.  Oh, he loved feeling Jean-
Luc's slick cock next to his in Data's narrow channel.  He felt
as if his skin were on fire.

"Did you do this with that big cocksucker Spock?" Jean-Luc said.

And Data's eyes opened and his legs spread even further and his
hand moved faster and he began to come on Jean-Luc's stomach and
he said, "yes, yes, Spock had a big one.  I fucked myself," he
whispered, "I fucked myself all the time with it, Jesus Christ,"
and he fell still. 

"Don't stop, whore, we still need to come," Jean-Luc hissed at
him.  "Was it big as Q's, did you suck it like a bitch, did you
get down on your hands and knees while Geordi stuck it in your
ass and Spock made you take it in his mouth?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Data's hands were dreamily stroking his own
chest.  "You know I did them both in the hot tub almost every
night.  Then they made me get out and jerk off so they could see
it."

Jean-Luc's eyes were closed tight: "Oh, really," he said, as he
envisioned it, and suddenly he was coming and Worf grabbed Data
all the more tightly, moving his hands down between Data's pale
thighs and pulling Data's small tight body against him and then
Worf was coming also.

It was almost as if they had been sleeping or dreaming and were
suddenly awake.  Jean-Luc pulled out and then sat on the side of
the bed, his head lowered, his shoulders slumped.  

Worf pumped into Data a couple of times more and then his big
softening cock fell out against Data's ass, and Data turned over
so he faced Worf and they began to exchange soft open-mouthed
kisses.  

"Thank you," Worf said softly.

"Thank YOU," Data kissed him again.

"You performed very well," Worf patted Data's back.

"As did you."

"I know what you're doing," Jean-Luc said suddenly.  "I'm all
right. I'm just thinking."  

Worf's eyes met Data's.  They nodded at each other.

"Q's all right.  So's the little girl.  I've been through a lot
worse than this."  Then he added, "Let's get cleaned up."


******************************************************

"I know you, Jadzia.  Snap out of it."

Melinda looked in the mirror.  "Kira, I can't help  how I feel."

Kira sat beside her.  "I myself always found Jean-Luc very hard
to take.  You're well rid of him.  Enjoy his absence in your
life."   She leaned in.  "Did I ever tell you about my fling with
Quentin?"

"No!"  Melinda perked up a bit.  Generally, she loved this kind
of chat. "Is it true what they say?  I've seen pictures, but
still . . ."

Kira smiled and wrinkled her nose.   "Oh, Christ, yes.  Hung like
nobody's business, and so damned good at it I was flying.  Did I
tell you what happened the second time?"

"You had him twice?  Bitch!"

"Two nights in a row."  Kira was smug.  "The second night
Jean-Luc comes bursting on us and practically drags Quentin out
by the  hair.  The whole time on the set it was all I could do
not to grab him and throw him on the ground.  He looked so...  I
don't know, so fuckable.  So big and vague and fuckable."

"That's the thing about Q!" Melinda agreed excitedly.   "He
always looks like that.  And Jean-Luc knows it.  He gets very
jealous.  I told him once that he should bring Q out to Tennessee
so he could  watch me do Q ...  he got so excited I thought he'd
break my ass in two, but then, he never did it.  He's a pig for
Q." 

"Face it, Jadzia, he's a pig, period."


They were really in the farthest reaches of Kiwi-ville; not much
action at night.  Drink a few tubes of Fosters, adjust the
mosquito netting over the bed, watch CNN.  
     
But Quark was a great producer, clever, quick, synergistic.  And,
unlike any other producer Melinda had ever worked with, he spent
a great deal of time trying to keep his star happy.  

Flowers.

Specially catered meals.

He would turn up at her trailer with a bag of newly released CD's
for her to listen to.

"This whole movie depends on you, Melinda," he would say.

"He's not totally wrong," said Kira sagely.


They were getting ready to film their most difficult scene

All the children from the orphanage were standing in the back of
an old pick-up truck in the sand behind Melinda.

Melinda was standing over the bloody body of her boss (the
biggest role Gary Mitchell had had in a while) as the evil El
Presidente's soldiers took up their rifles against Melinda.  

And Kira wanted to shoot each scene a multiple of times, each
time with a subtly different emphasis, so she could edit the
final scene into a cross-cutting masterpiece.

One of the children, a little boy, was to dash out of the truck
towards El Presidente's militia men who opened all their fire on
him.  And this, of course, would upset Melinda's character so
much that she climbed on the hood of the truck and began firing
randomly and ferociously at the troops.

Of course, it was not realistic that she would defeat all those
soldiers, but Kira hoped that, by that time the audience would be
so hooked on the mysterious chemistry of Melinda's character,
they would cheer everything she did.  

Melinda was brilliant, her best acting ever.  She was sweating
and muscular with a little sleeveless white shirt tied to expose
her midriff and very tight cutoffs.  Her hair was short and damp
with sweat and pushed off her face by two plain little bobby
pins.  

Quark thought she had never been more beautiful.
     
At the end of the day, when the soft twilight made it impossible
for them to continue filming, Melinda came back to her trailer.

Quark was standing there by it.  "You were great, Melinda," he
said, trying to make his voice sound normal. 

"Thanks, Quarky-warky." 

"Umm, there's some more stuff we need to discuss.  I, uh, have
got some faxes about . . . um, the sound track."

"Great!" Melinda said.  She was tired but the movie meant more to
her than her fatigue.
     

They had supper in the finest restaurant Whangamomona could
offer. 

"All the best for madame," Quark told the good-looking Maori
waiter who nodded and smiled.  Some things were just universal.

Quark tried to keep the conversation going with a discussion of
the soundtrack.  "Geordi is going to work on it.  He thinks we
need a world-music sound track.  He's talked to different ethnic
musicians, like he knows some Danish instrumentalist, and then
there's this kind of a strange little guy who is Vietnamese but
plays bluegrass."

Melinda's eyes were distant.  "Who's the Vietnamese?"

Quark allowed himself a little smile.  "His name is Tranh; some
wealthy Greek owns his contract.  The Greek's named Kivas Fajo."

"I know Fajo.  I used to hang around with that whole
Mediterranean-millionaire crowd.  Lotsa strange stuff there." She
was drifting away in thought.

"You seem . . . a little sad," he said.

"YOU seem a little sad," she gave Quark a small smile.  "I bet I
know what it is.  You haven't had you an American piece of ass in
too long."

Quark mulled this over as the waiter put the bread basket in
front of them.

Then they were alone again.

"Did I just shock you?" Melinda said in a tiny voice.  

Quark looked at her.  "I love you."

There was a vast pause.

"You don't love me."  Quark could tell Melinda was being
mystifyingly tender and careful.  "But I will sleep with you." 
     

Well, damn, in the sack, Melinda was as good as she looked.  She
liked it in her every way and she had a bag of toys and videos
(featuring Melinda herself!  Quark had heard rumors of those
videos for years, but nothing could prepare him for their beauty
and heat.  Melinda with her legs tied together and her white
satin panties pulled down around her bobby sox and saddle
oxfords,  Melinda riding a mustached black man with a
preposterously big dick, Melinda all by herself covered with some
slick substance and taking full advantage of it). 

After the videos, she rode him.  He rode her.  She gave him the
best head of his life.  He nuzzled and licked her til she came
again and again.

"I love you," he said to her   she was sitting naked on the bed,
her short hair all awry, her legs apart.

"No, you don't.  I mean, you can fuck me all you like.  Get
Melinda Madigan out of your system.  But you don't love me." 

*************************

Oh, a rerun of Jacqueline Susann's "Love Machine"!  

Sebastiana was enthralled.  Q kept looking around her to Jean-Luc
who was seated on the other side of her and smiling at him.  That
blond boy playing the Love Machine was quite hot!  Not that
Sebastiana needed to know that.

Jean-Luc nodded back.  
     

Although he had wonderful expensive medicine and doctors and
nurses, Q still got tired easily.  "I'm hitting the hay,
Sebastiana.  Tell me what happens to the Love Machine.  I think
he either dies or else he . . ."

"Mister Q, no!  Don't ruin the story for me!"

He patted her hand.  "Good night, Sebastiana."

"Let me help you back to the room," Jean-Luc said.  It was okay. 
Data was there, and he could stay with Sebastiana.
     
"You can sleep here tonight, Jean-Luc."

"Impossible."

"I love you."

"All right, but you're not ready for . . ."

"Jean-Luc, we can just cuddle."

"Cuddle." Jean-Luc looked steadily at Q.

"For a little bit."


Just like the old days.  Just like prison.

"A few more weeks and my son will be here."

"Yesterday, the nurse-practitioner said the baby's heartbeat was
consistent with its being a girl."

"No girl. A son."

"Why didn't you have one of those tests and find out for sure?"

"Amniocentesis?" Jean-Luc managed to straighten his posture even
though he was lying down.  "Did you ever?"

"No."  They were silent.  Probably a lot of reasons Q and Beverly
didn't have amniocentesis tests run on their boys. 

"Well," Jean-Luc continued.  "The doctor told us about it.  It
was news to me, and I sure as shit didn't like the sound of it. 
'We'll take amniotic fluid from the placental sac around the baby
- there's a slight danger to baby and mother.'  Well, fuck that. 
Even that bitch Martine agreed.  Listen, we'll know soon enough. 
I already know.  It's a boy."


Jean-Luc awoke.  Martine was standing over the bed like an evil
angel.

"Jesus Christ, woman!"

"It's time, old man.  Her bags are packed.  Let's go."


*************************

Q, of course, was also already packed, and, even though he was
still limping, he led the troops.

Will was keeping Patsy.

Joe was driving their jeep.  

Worf was riding shotgun.  The back was pulled down.  Sebastiana
lay there with her head in her mother's lap while Data rubbed her
legs and timed her breathing.  

Q drove the Mercedes with Geordi's calming presence beside him.

And Jean-Luc was in the back seat beyond speech and motion.


In the end, it was Q who went into the delivery room with
Sebastiana.  Jean-Luc and Martine were too nervous.  They
bickered with each other about who should do what, and, while
they were busy thumping their chests, Q quietly put on a hospital
gown and held Sebastiana's hand as she was wheeled in. 
Sebastiana was terrified, complaining in rapid patois that she
didn't want to do this, she just wanted to go home.  

"English, sweetheart.  The doctor's going to be here in just a
few minutes.  Remember how you breathed for Data?  Can you show
me?" 

Q coaxed Sebastiana into a semblance of calmness,  teasing her
through her embarrassment as she was prepped, helping her get her
feet into the stirrups, making her squeeze his hand through the
worst of the contractions.  

The doctor was extremely glad Q was there to help.   This whole
goddamned menagerie was just too much to take--man and woman, 
black and white, gay and straight!  He wanted them out of his
hair. 

But that big guy, Q, was very quiet and competent    speaking
softly to Sebastiana, holding her hands, cooling her forehead
with wet cloths.  The girl seemed to trust him.  She calmed down
and stayed calm, and the doctor got to work.  

As far as Q could tell, it was a typical labor.  Strangers stood
over the bed and called instructions to them.  Bright lights 
shone everywhere they looked.  It was exciting and scary, and Q
concentrated on helping Sebastiana feel less alone.  He stayed
right by her side, talking to her, encouraging her,
congratulating her on her fine efforts.   

Finally there was a hue and cry from the other end of the bed. 
Sebastiana was panting, too tired to pay much attention, but 
suddenly there was a baby in the room.  

Jean-Luc's son. 

A masked nurse put the child in his arms for a  second and then
took the baby away again to measure and prod at him some more. 
She said something incomprehensible to the doctor who leaned over
to Sebastiana and said,  "It's a perfect little boy."

"A boy!" Sebastiana screamed and then she laughed. 

                         And they all laughed.    


Jean-Luc sat alone in the waiting room, small and withdrawn.  

He didn't want this.  He wanted his car.  He wanted out.

There was a flurry of noise and the air shivered and then a
little parade came out of the delivery room.  Joe and Martine,
Geordi and Worf got up and ran over.  And then it seemed everyone
was saying, "It's a boy!" 

And Jean-Luc, pulled by a force he couldn't name, slowly walked
towards Sebastiana; now she looked just like her mother.  Worn,
sweaty, haggard.

Only her sweet smooth little brown hands were hers.

He patted them and smoothed her hair.  "Brave girl," he said.

"Johnny!  It's a boy!"  She seemed drugged and ecstatic.  "Let's
name him Etienne."

Etienne?  Etienne Picard.

Even as he said it, he knew that was the baby's name.

He turned to his son.

His son.  Q was holding his son.  


"He looks just like you," Q said and smiled.  "And his APGAR was
perfect."

APGAR?   

Jean-Luc looked at the wrapped-up and motionless piece of blood
and bone in Q's arms. This would take some getting used to.  The
baby was . . . Etienne was . . . 

"Why does he look that way?"

"Jean-Luc, all babies are ugly!" Q was laughing.

"I think he's beautiful," said Sebastiana.

"Hold him, Jean-Luc."

And, as Jean-Luc stiffly held his arms out, Q put the baby in his
arms.  All Jean-Luc could feel were blankets and blankets.  There
appeared to be no baby there at all.

"You won't drop him," Q teased.

"He's a Picard, all right," said Martine with a hostile edge. The
old whore.

Etienne yawned.  Jean-Luc almost dropped him.  Etienne did
something!  He could do things!

"Are you okay, Sebastiana?"

"Very tired," she said in a sad way.

"Well, you did it," Jean-Luc said.


Jean-Luc didn't leave the waiting room that night.  He just
watched Etienne lying next to other babies in their little
basinets.  He couldn't get over how hideous the boy was. 

Even from the nurses in the hospital he'd seen the silent shock,
the forced admiration and the awkward, polite comments about what
a sweet personality Etienne must have; how intelligent he looked; 
how well-behaved.  The truth, from which there was no hiding, was
that Etienne was a creature from a horror  movie, the kind of
thing that made women scream and jump on tables. 

And Jean-Luc was the only one who saw it that way.

"His APGAR was perfect both times," that big imbecile Q told
everyone and everyone clapped or said "great" and acted generally
as if a perfect APGAR were the equivalent of an Academy Award.

But everybody did appear to love the baby; they wanted to hold
him and talk to him and just gaze at him for hours on end.

It just wasn't natural.

He got the doctor's private phone number from somewhere and him
in the middle of the night.

The doctor was terrified.  He had thought it was over.

"Is that baby normal?"

The doctor paused.  That was the question he always got asked. 
"Yes, I assure you, Mr. Picard.  That little boy is normal." 
Yeah, the baby was normal, but the family was right out of the
Munsters. 

*************************

Then, the next day, Q just had to bring it up.  He just had to
talk about it.  

"You're so lucky, Jean-Luc!  He's really yours.  Even being born
on your birthday . . ." but before Q could finish his sentence
Jean-Luc was right on top of him.

(Jean-Luc had told Q early on: no birthdays.  No birthday
parties.  No surprise birthday parties.  Nothing.  Absolutely
nothing.  The other Boys would ask once in a while about Jean-
Luc's birthday but Q knew better than to tell.)

"You use this as an excuse for some sort of fucking joint
birthday party and I'll tear your throat out."

Q nodded respectfully, but he still secretly thought it was
wonderful that the baby had the same birthday as its daddy.
     
*************************
     
Q called Quark with the happy news.

Quark actually laughed, but then his laughter ended abruptly.

"Q, listen."

"I know, Tommy.  We've got to get working on that album.  Well,
it's going to be great. Geordi and I already have most of the
songs outlined.  It's going to be strange, very cutting edge and
traditional at the same time.  Oh, just wait until you hear what
I've got in mind for the videos!"

"Well, great.  But . . . "

"What is it, Quark?"  Q was suddenly concerned.

"It's about Melinda.  Melinda and I . . ." Quark realized he had
no way of finishing that sentence.  Certainly not truthfully at
any rate.  The night before, Melinda had slept beside him naked,
stretched out like one of daVinci's circle men, welcoming the
embrace of the air, the sky, one long tan smooth leg pinioning
him.  

"What is it?"

"Frankly, Q, the movie is a complete masterpiece.  She's great. 
I think everybody will be happy for . . . everybody."

Q was too busy to wonder why Quark was acting so strangely.
     
************************
          
And, in the rush to take care of Etienne and Patsy and Sebastiana
and Q, everyone was ignoring the latest edition of *Harper's*
poised enticingly on the corner of the coffee table.  Aloe
Secondwind was back; she had done the cover   it reminded
everyone a little of Andy Warhol; there were four brightly
colored squares, each containing a man's portrait done in
brightly contrasting colors.   Each face, despite the odd
coloration, was instantly recognizable.  In one square was Elvis
Presley, in another was William Shakespeare, in the third was the
man named Bill Clinton (he'd just been elected President of the
United States) and in the fourth was Jean-Luc.  And over their
picture was the quote "oh my how that little country boy could
play."  

Arthur Weyoun had outdone himself for this article.  His simple
thesis was America and how it got that way.  

He wrote, "Quite the pensee could be written about the creation
of America by the arriviste yokel, the parvenu bumpkin, the
country boy who does what he has to, to rise.  America was not
made by kings and conquerors; it was created by a peasantry
determined to be king.   

"To change the subject slightly, one of the great ironies about
the eternal Shakespearean debate of who actually wrote
Shakespeare is the argument that a simple country boy like Will
Shakespeare would never be so supportive of  monarchy.   My
goodness, how fallacious can you get!   Of course, Shakespeare
would do everything he had to, to rise.   And country-boy Elvis:
all he wanted was to be . . . the King.  And mountain man Jean-
Luc Picard, the leader, the master, of his band, accruing more
followers even as I write.  And then Bill Clinton, swamp born.
swamp bred, now a President and arguably the most powerful man on
earth.  

"The history of America is the history of a bunch of blindly
ambitious hillbillies, a redneck juggernaut that shows no sign of
slowing down."

There were accompanying articles about each man too.  The famous
lesbian-feminist-theorist Pamela Caligula wrote the one on Jean-
Luc.  She meant for it to incite, and incite it clearly would.

"I have a  friend, plump, pleasant, pointless, her house
decorated the exact way she wants it to be decorated, her
refrigerator filled with yummy foods, her feet clad in sensible
shoes, her life a succession of brightly-lit pleasant days, her
nights spent cuddled next to a puddytat named Moondancer.

"How did it go so wrong? 

"Well, I'll tell you   in two words.  She's a Daddy's girl. 
That's right, Daddy's darling.  Never once did her father slap
her across the face for fucking the wrong guy; never once did he
himself look at her in a certain way and tell her she was getting
ripe for the picking, never once did he say to her 'you do as I
say little whore or you'll never do again.'  Instead her father
indulged her, told her she was his princess and, as long as he
drew breath, she would never have to lift a finger.

"But a happy childhood is the worst preparation possible for the
real world.   The father who beats his child til she learns the
right thing, who says 'you ain't leaving this house til I'm
happy', the father who makes her marry the lecherous old  butcher
so they can have meat all winter; that will be the father that
makes a successful woman in this world.  And only that kind of
father.  

"A soft father breeds a soft child, and soft children accomplish
nothing.  For too long, we have had soft little daddies who wore
cardigans and smoked pipes and read the paper and patted us.  And
so America became a soft baby country. *Oh, we had the nicest
toys.  We don't understand what happened in Vietnam.* 
Comfortable people don't accomplish shit; the starving are always
the first in line.

"What we need now is a father who will treat us mean.  What we
need is a father who won't give us a smile until we give him our
souls and bodies.  What we need is a father who's going to beat
us and put his hand between our legs to make sure our cherry's
still there and then go out and wallop Momma because she's
objecting.   What we need is Jean-Luc Picard, the big bad daddy
who will make us understand what it means to be an adult.  To be
evolved and grown-up and capable of facing down the sorrows of
this world, because Daddy made us used to it.  

"He's not gentle, kind or understanding.  Neither is the world. 
Boo fucking hoo.

"Jean-Luc stands silhouetted in the open door of our collective
darkened bedroom thumping a hairbrush against his thigh and
saying, 'Take down those drawers, girl, it's time for your
medicine.  Yeah, you need a lesson to be taught.'

"Well, I want to be the first in line.  Screw the guidance
counselors; get out the hairbrushes.  Let's go."

*************************

"Etienne is, what, two weeks old?  I'm out of here."
               
"Jean-Luc!"

"Look around you, motherfucker.  Somebody has to support all
these people.  Yeah, old Jean-Luc has to sing for his supper. 
Get packing."
     
He walked into Sebastiana's room.   Sebastiana didn't look as 
much like Martine as she had right after Etienne's birth, but his
little virgin was still gone for good.

"You're a brave little soldier," he said.  Q stood in the doorway
behind him.

She looked at him with those big eyes.

Jean-Luc scrutinized her carefully.  She had Etienne at her
breast, nursing him.  The boy was doing fine now, sucking 
enthusiastically, but Jean-Luc had been keeping a careful eye on
them because Sebastiana had done it wrong at first and let her
breasts get sore.  She'd  missed a feeding and they'd had to run
out in a hurry to get Etienne a bottle and some formula. 

It hadn't worked.   Etienne spit out the formula, raging and
screaming until Martine thought to paint numbing solution on 
Sebastiana's nipples so she could nurse without pain.   

Poor Etienne had looked so desperate when she finally took him
back to her breast, clutching at her and whimpering as he gulped 
his food.  Afterwards he fell right to sleep, exhausted by his
ordeal.   Jean-Luc hadn't wanted to admit how shook up he felt.  
How helpless.  They seemed to have it all together now, but he
still felt the need to check on them from time to time.

He turned to Q.  "Look at him go."

"Just like his old man," Q murmured.

Jean-Luc leaned over and touched Etienne's chilly little hand:
for something that could not think or feel, Etienne had a
phenomenal grip.  "You're both good little soldiers," he said
softly.  "But I have to go to L.A.  I have a job and that's
that."  Behind him, Q cleared his throat.  "Oh, yeah, right, Q's
arranged for a couple of nurses to stay here til the baby's a
little older and you've got your momma and Joe and we put ten
thousand dollars in a special account for you.  I don't what the
hell else you'd need."

"Mister Johnny," she whispered.

"I gave Joe my phone number.  We'll talk later."
     
*************************

Some sleepy members of the Hollywood press were lolling against
the gates when Jean-Luc and Q drove up.  

"Jean-Luc, what about Melinda!" they shouted.  "What about the
baby!"

Jean-Luc didn't even hear them by now.
     

"What about Melinda?  She and Quark are in New Zealand.  No
badass things can happen in New Zealand," he said with dark
amusement to Q as they took their bags from the car.  Kurn and
Gowron were down at the gates threatening the reporters; Klag was
helping them off-load.
     
*************************
     
After everyone had been back in LA for a couple of days, Q held a
business meeting in their beautifully appointed dining hall.

"Where is Tommy?" Data asked.

"Babysitting my ex-wife in New Zealand when I need him here.  Any
questions?" 

Q was very business-like.  "My version of *Games People Play* is
doing very well, especially as a video.  I want to propose
something to you guys."

Jean-Luc rolled his eyes.  

"Aloe Secondwind and I want to do a sequel.  Geordi, remember
that version of *Suspicious Minds* we're working on."

"Yeah, that old Elvis song. *We're caught in a trap.  And we
can't walk out.*" Geordi was half-singing half-talking.  "I love
early seventies Elvis.  All that jawocketa-jawocketa guitar!"

"In the ghetto!" Worf said and laughed and then they all laughed.

"Did you enjoy working with Aloe?" Q said earnestly, trying to
keep the meeting together.

The video had actually been a great deal of fun.  All Aloe cared
about was the photography and the light, but Q wanted a plot.  So
in the video he played a preacher in a depressed and depraved
Southern town.  Jean-Luc got to play the corrupt mayor who sat on
the front row listening to Q preach.  Then Q got to offer his sad
little congregation the most primitive form of communion.  His
eyes had met Jean-Luc's, and everybody in America knew that the
moment had two meanings: on one level, the poor and pure minister
attending his flock and, on the other, two people who meant more
to each other than life itself.  Geordi and Data had played
church musicians, Worf had been a working-class lad seated in the
back, and Will was one of evil Jean-Luc's henchmen.  

The entire video had been sad and funny and musical in Aloe's
silvery photographic vision.  And Q had made a great minister in
his big red and black robes.
          
          "Giving up your sanity 
           For your pride in humanity
           and you don't give a damn."

Q didn't flounce when he preached; he was too graceful and fluid
for that.  Instead, he took the pulpit like an dark angel or
gentle vampire.  The video had been played on all the stations
almost constantly.  

"I told Aloe I wanted to continue with this small-town thing. 
She'll direct the next one.  We'll get Guinan to do the one after
that."

"Fair enough," said Jean-Luc.  "But what's the point exactly?"

"Wouldn't it be nice to accidentally," Q sighed, "to accidentally
create a . . . story.  That when you put all this sequence of
videos together on one tape, suddenly you have a movie with a
little plot and everybody's got a character that something
happens to and there's a little story."  Then Q shrugged.

"Give it a whirl, just don't get too tired out," Jean-Luc said.

"Oh, DCA's sent over an assistant.  Her name is Nancy Tyler. 
She's supposed to help me out."

************************ 

Zephram was proud and depressed.  He had stopped playing his
special game for a long, long time; the rage and loathing he felt
made it impossible.

Because someone knew.  That little card the man had handed him
had showed him.  Someone knew.  And now that he discovered that
other men also did this, it made everything seem so tawdry--a
pitiful and insignificant perversion.  

Part of him was sad and angry that he spent so many years of his
life unaware of this splendid secret dimension of existence.  The
rest of him was revolted.    

He said the words to himself.  Crossdresser. Gay male.  They
meant nothing to him.  He was just Zephram, the pig farmer. 

That was all.


Zephram finished saying grace over supper: turnips, meatloaf,
dinner rolls.  "Looks mighty good, Momma."  

She beamed at him.

The radio was on the background the way it always was, always set
on the same country station.  

"Well, I swan," said Momma.  Her head was lifted as if listening. 


Zephram heard it too.  That old Joe South song "Games People
Play" was galumphing along.

          "Neither one will ever give in,
          So they're gazing at a 8 by 10,
                    thinking of things that mighta been,
          and it's a dirty rotten shame."

But it wasn't Joe South singing it. Instead, a familiar sweet
baritone was swinging from note to note.  Zephram could even tell
the background voices.

"Idn't that some of them Magic Mountain Boys?" Momma said; she
had a soft smile on her face.  

"I believe so," Zephram said, looking at his food.

"All that scandal," she said fondly.  "Those Boys are a sight!"

Zephram looked at Momma.  She was listening to the song and
nodding her head. 

"All those stories don't bother you none?" he said curiously.

"We're always talking about them at church meeting.  Those Boys
don't always act right, but I sure do like their music."


It had been so long since he played the game that he had
forgotten how enticing it was.  He lifted his skirt to his waist. 
Lordy.  Then he lifted his perfumed hand to his bright red lips
and dragged it across his mouth.  What it might feel like if
another man . . . He had kept the man's card in the locked box
with all his other special possessions. 

That phone number was local.

He smiled. 

Someone knew.
     
*************************

On the first night back in Hollywood, Jean-Luc couldn't sleep.  
Poor Etienne.  He was so tiny and bald and ugly.  How did
Jean-Luc know Sebastiana would take good care of him?  What if
she forgot?  What if she slept through something?  How would  she
know how much to feed him?  What if he got kidnapped?  Poor
Etienne.  He was an unprepossessing little bit of flesh.  Squinty
eyes,  little paper cut of a mouth, and bald as a berry.  But by
Christ he was  Jean-Luc's bit of flesh.  

First thing in the morning, he would go see one of Q's big fag
law-whore buddies and have him craft a contract which said that
Sebastiana  wouldn't get any money if she neglected him, or
something like that.  He had to keep Etienne safe.  He had to
shepherd that beating bleating bit of flesh into
self-sufficiency.  Dammit that baby was helpless and dependent. 
One more nail in his coffin.

Q was waking up. Well, it was about time.  

"Umm, Johnny honey, what time is it?"

"It's time for us to have a talk, motherfucker."

Q came awake then.  "Oh, God, what is it?"  He looked at the
clock.  It was three a.m.  "What's happened?"

"I'm concerned about Etienne."

"Why?"  Q sat up, alarmed.

"He's so helpless."

Q sighed and flopped back down. "He's with his momma.  And she's
with her momma."

"How do I know they know what to do?"

"She's his momma.  She'll know."

"She's just a child."

Q was silent.  Jean-Luc didn't care to interpret that silence.

Then Q said: "Have faith, Jean-Luc."

"I'm going to call them now.  What time is it in Tennessee?"

"Jean-Luc, don't call, okay?  They have a new baby.  They need
their sleep.  Remember Will and Worf with Patsy?"

"Hell, I need to know."

"Need to know what?"

"If that damned baby is still alive."

"Etienne is alive. I just know it.  Here, let me help you relax."

"We can't do anything."

"It's way past the time Julian said I could.  It's been over six
weeks,  Jean-Luc!"

"What the fuck does that quack know?  I want to wait a bit
longer." 

"Julian has an international reputation."

"As what?"

"Something to do with neurology.  Addictions.  He's
world-famous."

"How do you know that?"

"It was in the paper."

Jean-Luc was scornful.   "Neurology isn't in the ass, even I know
that.  And I bet I know more about ass-fucking than he does."

"Goody.  Now let's get down to business, baby."

"Let's just talk."

They were silent for a long time.

"So where are we, Q?"

Q smiled in the dark.  "Somewhere nice.  Maybe it's Christmas!  
And we're under the aluminum Christmas tree; we've set out
presents for the kiddies and eaten Santa's cookies and drunk
Santa's Coke and . . ."

"What are we wearing?"

"Matching pj bottoms.  But while mine are navy with little stars
on them, yours are green with a red Christmas tree print.  And we
have on fuzzy Santa hats!"   

"Ummm," said Jean-Luc.  It wasn't a totally happy "umm."  "Q,
let's say I took off my fuzzy Santa hat hours ago."

"Oh, Daddy, that is so true.  And now we're just admiring all the
presents under the Christmas tree.  Christmas Eve is magic, you
know!"

Now it was Jean-Luc who was smiling in the darkness.  "And then
you . . ."

"I say, where's my present?  And you say, first tell me what you
got me.  And I say, I already got my ass lubed up for fucking."

Jean-Luc rustled around very intently.  

"And I pull down those pj bottoms and show you my wet ass and you
stick it in my wet asshole right there on the floor, by the
gifts, the doll babies and train sets and candy canes.  And we're
really near the picture window, so, if Santa did come by, he'd
look in and put his hand  to his mouth and say, ho ho ho, for
real because you're giving it to me so hard and hot and my ass is
so creamy and I never want you to stop but . . ."

"Q, stop this.  It's just . . .," he took Q's hand and directed
it to his erection. 

"Let me use my mouth, Jean-Luc."

"Please please."
       
Then Jean-Luc sucked Q, too, half returning the favor, half not 
wanting to be alone.
 
"Now what time is it in Tennessee?"

Q looked at the clock again. "Right before seven."

"I don't give a shit what you say.  I'm calling."

The phone rang.

Jean-Luc sat up and reached for Q.  "Shall I get it?" Q
whispered.  They had a phone on each nightstand.

"No, no," Jean-Luc shifted over to his side of the bed and
fumbled with the phone and the light.  "What is it?"  He looked
at Q.  "Say that again, Sebastiana."  He listened.  "What?"  
Then: "Is that good or bad? . . . No, no, no, Sebastiana, I do. 
I  really do.  I do want to know about every stage of Etienne's 
development.  I'm glad you called.  I really am.  Let me tell Q." 
He looked at Q.  "Etienne slept through the night," he said.   

Q smiled brightly.

"What else has he done? . . . no, Sebastiana, that's awful.  Did
you take him to the doctor?  Q, Etienne fell off the bed."

"Oooh," Q murmured.

"You didn't take him to the doctor?  And why not?  Is this some .
. .  island thing?  You hired a nanny!  Without consulting Q and
me!   Sebastiana, don't make me have to come out to Tennessee."  
He looked at Q.  "They let the nurses go and hired some nanny and
the nanny said if a baby didn't fall off a bed before it was a
year old, it wouldn't live."

Q yawned.  "I've heard that."

"I want to talk to that damned nanny now."      

He glared at Q so fiercely that Q picked up his receiver and
listened in. 

" . . . live right outside of town," a woman with a flat country
voice was saying.  "I've took care of a hundred babies, Mr.
Peecard.  None died.  They all lived.  Some of them even got
babies of their own now."

Her even country tones were soothing to Jean-Luc.  "What are they
paying you?"

"1200 a month   good money."  

"Ummm, are you on call twenty-four hours?"
 
"I reckon.  We never put it that way to each other."

"What would happen if I paid you 1500 a month?"


She seemed taken aback.  "Well, I'd get me a better car, I
guess."

"Then do that.  Make sure it's got good tires.  You can send me
the bill.  Make sure those tires are new too, or I won't pay for
it." 

"Well, all right, Mr. Peecard."

Q put his receiver down.  Everything was obviously fine.  But
Jean-Luc kept on talking.

"You make sure you watch him good," Jean-Luc was now saying.   y. 
"Nobody wants to take care of Etienne because he's so little and
ugly!"


(Q's jaw dropped.  Listen to that lie!)


"Mr. Peecard, I never knew a cute baby who was worth a dern
thing.  It's them ugly little babies who learn to use their
brains."

Jean-Luc had to admit that there was a lot of old-country-gal
truth in that.  Maybe it would work.  

"Mr. Peecard, that baby and Sebastiana and me all three need our 
breakfast.  So, if you don't mind . . . "

They hung up.  Jean-Luc was thinking furiously.  

"Q, were any of your youngsters pretty as babies?"

"Well, Wesley was.  He was the most beautiful baby anybody ever
saw."

"Ah."

They lay there for a moment; then Q said, "When Etienne is older,
have him come out here for a couple of months.   Sebastiana will
enjoy the break.  And the rest of us will enjoy the battle." 
Then  Q gave him that wise, patient look that Jean-Luc hated.
"Jean-Luc, it takes a lot of give to be a parent.  You don't have
much give in you."       

"Listen, whore, you have more than enough give for both of us." 

Q shifted so that he was very close to Jean-Luc.  "Yes, but I'm
not going to raise your son for you."  

Jean-Luc stiffened for a moment and then seemed to accept this. 
There was a silence.

Then: "Jean-Luc," Q said, "we've done everything two men can do
in bed. We've had a heart-to-heart, we've bickered, we've even
gotten us some.  As a matter of fact, we've done everything but
sleep.   So, let's do it: let's sleep."

"Okay, motherfucker, you win this round."  

And they fell asleep.

*************************

But Jean-Luc wasn't finished yet.  He had one more thing to check
on.  Later that morning he posed a question to Will.  "Did Patsy
ever fall off the bed?"

"Oh, God."  The memory obviously shook Will even though Patsy was
almost four years old.  "She landed right on her nose.  I thought
she broke it.  I'd only turned my back on her for a second and,
when I turned back around, she was on her way down.  Remember,
Worf?  We had to rush right out to the pediatrician.  He gave her
a neurological work-up and it turned out she was okay, but she
gave me a scare like you'd never believe."

Will then regaled Jean-Luc with even more lurid details of
Patsy's brush with death.  Jean-Luc tuned him out.  He'd heard
what he needed. 

*************************

The next night Sebastiana called crying.  Jean-Luc's heart
stopped.  

Reporters were dogging her every step trying to take pictures of
her and Etienne.  She wanted to move to a different house so the
reporters would not find her. 

Jean-Luc dispatched Kurn and Gowron.  (Q put on his most
seductive face; "I know that Tennessee pussy is not up to your
usual high standards, but I'll give you both one hot blow job if
you help us out."  After that reporters weren't a problem.)
                                                            
*************************
     
Q saw in the trades where Melinda was returning to Hollywood. 
Then he looked across the breakfast table, Jean-Luc was eating
breakfast and reading the real newspaper.

Then Jean-Luc put the newspaper down.  His eyes were shut and his
head was rolled back.  "Christ," he said in a strangled voice.

"What is it, Jean-Luc?"

"Some woman found her baby in the swimming pool.  Just floating. 
She'd only looked away one second, and the baby fell in.  Oh,
God," he groaned.

Q grabbed the paper.  "But the baby's okay.  The momma knew CPR."

"You think that little girl in Tennessee knows CPR?  Q, what have
I done!"



Jean-Luc stood in the doorway of Patsy's room.  He seemed on
fire. 

Will approached him timidly.  "Are you okay, Jean-Luc?"

"Where the fuck is Q?"

Will swallowed and scuttled to get Q, and then they both
nervously returned.  

Jean-Luc was seething.  "Q, you didn't get any shit like this for
Etienne."

Q and Will leaned in together as they looked at Jean-Luc.

No one spoke.  Jean-Luc continued to glare at Q.

"What sort of shit, Jean-Luc?" Q finally whispered.

"Clothes.  Towels."  Jean-Luc crossed his arms.  "Shoes."

"Jean-Luc, babies that young don't need shoes."

"I don't want him running around barefoot."

"He can't run around.  He can't even crawl."

"Well, Q, I guess you're going to be just like my assholin' son-
of-a-bitch old man and not even get that little boy a pair of
shoes."


Joe Sisco was keeping count.  It was the fifth big brown UPS
truck in two days to pull up and off-load a bunch of boxes.


Martine came and stood beside him.  "I hope this stops soon. 
We've got enough stuff to last til Etienne goes to college."  

*************************

Quark was back from New Zealand and ready for business.  There
was the latest Aloe video to shoot.

Q was the first to greet him.  Quark was tanned and effusive, he
was wearing a nice Hawaiian shirt, but there was the slightest
edge of nervousness in him.  

"Have you heard the latest from DCA?" Quark said.

Jean-Luc looked at him.  And then Jean-Luc's fingers were around
Tommy's neck before he could say, "You sleazy limpdick son of a
bitch!" 

Q's strong hands were around Jean-Luc's arm, pulling him away.  

Jean-Luc was outraged.  "Let me go."

"What the fuck is going on?" said Worf.

"Smell the little motherfucker!" Jean-Luc hissed.

Worf looked blankly at Quark.  Who looked guilty and pallid.

"You've got my wife's scent on you.  You've been with her."

"Now, legally, Jean-Luc, Melinda is not your wife.  You all have
divorced."

Worf was beginning to seethe as well.  This was a familiar
scenario.  "But you have been sleeping with her."

But Quark stood his ground.

"We are lovers."

Jean-Luc leaped at Quark, and only Q contained him.  "Jean-Luc,"
he whispered.  "Show some class."

"I ought to kill your little ass."

Quark opened his mouth as if to speak and then closed it again.

Worf was edging closer to him.  


Jean-Luc closed his eyes.  "Stop," he said. "Quark's a worthless
little son of a bitch but he's right on this one.  Legally, the
little cocksucker is right."

(Jean-Luc was breathing hard, trying to pull it together.  After
all, who would he impress if he kicked Tommy's ass?)

He leaned into Quark. "Where is she?"

"Leave her alone."

Jean-Luc breathed in.  "Catch you on the turnaround, you little
piece of shit."

*************************

Of course, she was at her home.

And, of course, Elena answered the door and let him in; she gave
him a wise look.

Good thing he didn't deck women.

She was standing in her foyer, looking at her mail.

"How'd you know?"

"I know your smell better than any other thing."  He was beside
himself.  "How could you sleep with Quark?  Who's next?  Donnie
Ral?"

Without warning, Melinda hit him with her fist; it hurt like hell
-- that big sapphire ring Tommy had given her nicked Jean-Luc on
the side of the mouth.

He held his face. "You deserved it, bitch."

"I don't care what you say about me, Jean-Luc, but you can't talk
about Tommy Quark that way.  Not on my dime."     

"Name one positive thing about that rat motherfucker."

"He's like a little lion.  He protects me."

"I would have protected you.  Goddammit, you were always safe
with me."

"But I was never safe FROM YOU."   They glared at each other.
"You know that's a fair comment, Jean-Luc," she said in a small
voice.

He shut his eyes and tilted his head back.  "You were aware of my
personality when you married me."

"What happened with Sebastiana broke our rules.  Our unspoken
little rules of love.  We could be wild, but we couldn't be 
insanely careless.  Jean-Luc, I didn't think I had to tell you
not to fuck over les enfants."

Jean-Luc had the grace to look down.  

"The point was always to enrich everyone's life.  Not ruin it. 
You damaged that girl, Jean-Luc."

He grabbed her fist, the one with the ring, the one she'd hit him
with.  Then he kissed it.

With one gentle finger, she touched the bloody nick on his mouth.

"So that's what the scar's for," she said.

He gave her a look from under his dark brows.

"On your chest.  Where they took your heart out."  She looked
away.  "They took it out and replaced it with one big diamond. 
That's why it's hard and cold.   That's why everybody wants it. 
But not me.  Not anymore.  You're outa here,  Jean-Luc."  She
crossed her arms.  

Jean-Luc didn't move.

"Jean-Luc, you know what Q told a bunch of us once?"

"Oh God. Him."

She was intent, persistent.  "Q told me he read that every
twenty-eight years you go through a big fat change in your life. 
Every cell in your body has been replaced since the last
twenty-eight years, and it's time to clean house.  I'm
twenty-eight now, Jean-Luc." 

He was startled.

"Okay, I lied.  I lied when we got married; I  wasn't
twenty-four, I was twenty-six."  They looked at each other. 
"Maybe I'll catch you when I'm fifty-six."

"What'll I be then, two hundred and three?   Baby, by that time,
you'd have better luck with Etienne."

Melinda smiled.  She had a beautiful smile, even when it was
bitter.  

Jean-Luc scowled.  Was she laughing at him?

She read him perfectly.  "So what if I'm laughing at you?  Now
get going."

Well, fuck it, she was doing the right thing and they both knew
it, but fuck it, anyway.  There was nothing more to say. 
Jean-Luc walked out, quietly closing the door behind him. 

*************************

Aloe had said: find an ugly little town and we'll plan on filming
"Suspicious Minds" there.

Oh, okay, find an ugly town in the South.  


Q and Jean-Luc were at the LA airport; they were going to visit
Etienne first ("gotta see if that bitch Martine has sold all the
stuff we sent" Jean-Luc had said) and then start scoping film
sites.  

Jean-Luc spent an unGodly amount of time in the gift shop and
almost missed the plane.  When he finally got on board, he was
carrying a huge stuffed Floyd.

Q grew pale. "What's that for?"

"My son," seethed Jean-Luc.  "Can't the little child have
something of his own?"

Q was silent for much of the trip.
     
     
And despite the fact that Sebastiana was looking much like
herself and dropping sweet hints that she wanted to sleep with
Jean-Luc again, he made it clear he was with Q.

She was hurt.  "You just wanted to have a baby," she accused. 
"You never cared about me."

He stayed patient.  "None of that is true.  Etienne was an
accident, but, yes, now that he's here, I want him."

Sebastiana was not about to be outdone.  "I want him too." 

"Then we have something in common."  Jean-Luc sighed.  "That's
why I gave you this house.  I intend to do right by you."

"But you're not going to marry me."

"Goddammit!"  She was really getting on his nerves.  "You got a
house, a car, money, a nanny, two bodyguards, everything I can
give you!  Why would you want to marry me?  Do you think I'll
stop fucking Q once we're married?  Do you think I'll stay in
your bed just because we're married?  We have a child.  He was an
accident, but he's here now and I'm going to take care of him. 
But that's all."

He paused, squinting.  When he spoke again, his tone was
completely different.  "Sebastiana, if you don't want to take
care of Etienne, I completely understand.  If you want me to take
him, I'll take him.  I'll pay for your schooling, whatever you
want.  But we're not getting married."  His voice got as soft as
it could.  "You're going to have to grow up and that's a fact." 

Sebastiana stared.  She was beginning to realize that she had
never really known this man, but she'd be forced to deal with him
for the rest of Etienne's life.  A sobering moment.  "What will I
say to my son when he asks about his father?"

"He will never have to ask.  He will know who I am."  
      
(Where the hell did that come from?  When Etienne was born, he'd
had no intention of committing to anything like parenthood.  But
the poor kid was so ugly and pitiful.  Etienne needed him, that
much was obvious.  And Jean-Luc didn't shirk.)


So, with Q at his side, there Jean-Luc was laying out the terms
of his involvement in his son's life to Sebastiana.  He wanted
her to take a CPR class, and he wanted her to take Etienne to
infant massage and infant swim class and, when the child was old
enough, Montessori.  

"Then you can go to school like you wanted,"  he enticed her.
Hell, what was her problem?  She would have never got this much
cleaning houses.  

Sebastiana was pouting.  "My maman wants to talk to you."

Jean-Luc lifted his chin. "Send her in,"

Sebastiana left the room.

Well . . . what . . .was this?

"Say merci to Mister Johnny, children," Martine said to the two
skinny little children, a boy and a girl, she was leading in.

Even Q lifted his eyebrows.

"These is my niece and nephew from Haiti.  Richard," the boy
bowed, "and Olivia," the girl curtsied.  "They are going to stay
with us while my sister recovers from a very serious surgery."

"Merci beaucoup for everything, Monsieur Johnny.  For the clothes
and food," they chanted.

"And for the tuition money," Martine prompted.

"Oui!" the children chirped.

Jean-Luc's lips were in a thin line.  "Thank you.  You may go." 
They turned to leave.  "Not so fast, Martine."

She turned on him. More evil than ever!

"Is my name Meal Ticket," he asked incredulously.  "What about
the money I give you each month?"

"Oh, that's for the baby," she answered smoothly.  "This is
different."

Jean-Luc sighed, and Martine made a triumphant retreat.

"How the hell much more of this do I have to take?"

Q left the room.  Jean-Luc stared after him as he disappeared
into the soundproofed music room.  What the hell was Q up to? 
When he opened the door, Q was leaning against the wall, laughing
so helplessly that at first Jean-Luc thought he was sick.

"Bring the whole family up from Haiti.  She's got to have at
least half a dozen more.  I'll even pay for it.  How many
brothers and sisters do you suppose Martine has in all?"  Then Q 
was off again in gales of laughter.  "Just don't fuck any of
them," he finally burst out, and Jean-Luc was startled into
laughing right along with him.
     

Martine, oh yeah, that bitch was the soul of generosity; she was
letting Q and Jean-Luc spend the night in the guest room.  Hey,
thanks, Martine.
     
But just before they drifted off to sleep, there was a wild
commotion.  

The roadies!

Jean-Luc put on his jeans quickly.

"What is it!"

Kurn and Gowron were holding a struggling young black man.

"Boss, we caught you one!  He's a reporter too!  We found his
press card."

"Let me go," said the young man.  "It's not what you think!"

"Yeah, I'm so sure, asshole."

"Wait a minute.  I can prove who I am."

"So who the fuck are you?"

"I'm not here to interview anybody.  I'm just here to see my
granddaddy.  His name is Joe Sisco and they said I could find him
here.  I'm Jake Sisco."

Suddenly, Sebastiana was there too, holding the wailing Etienne.  
"What is it?" she cried.

"Go back to bed, Sebastiana," Q tried to soothe her.

"Why are they hurting that boy?"

"If you don't believe me, go ask Grandpa Joe," the young man said
in a reasonable tone.  

"Shhhh," Sebastiana said to Etienne, but her eyes were fixed on
Jake.

"Q, get Joe.  Boys, don't let that cocksucker go."  ("No,"
Sebastiana whispered.)  But Jean-Luc felt the boy was telling the
truth.  

The roadies eased their grip a little.  They really liked Joe.  

Then Joe came in with Q.   His pleasure at seeing his grandson
was palpable.  "Jake, I didn't know you were coming.  Why didn't
you tell me, boy!"  

The roadies paused and then released Jake to his grandfather's
embrace.  "I didn't know myself I was coming.  Then I got the
impulse."

Everyone was smiling now.  Even Jean-Luc.  A little.

"Jean-Luc, Quentin, Gowron, Nathaniel.  And, oh, yeah,
Sebastiana," Joe said, "meet Jake, my grandson."

"You've mentioned him," Sebastiana said quietly, her huge eyes
glowing above Etienne's dark sleeping head. 

Jake nodded at her and smiled.

Q sighed.

*************************  

Jesus Christ, Q," Jean-Luc stormed in the room.

"Jean-Luc?" Q said.  Now what?

"Do you know what they're doing downstairs to Etienne, that bag
Martine and the rest?"

Q couldn't imagine. 

Jean-Luc told him.  For reasons he couldn't fathom, they were
discussing Etienne's exact skin color.  And now the whole lot had
discovered that Etienne's skin was the exact same shade as the
bamboo place mats Martine used in the kitchen.  The two larger
children had even started calling the poor tyke "Bamboo".   

"Bamboo this and Bamboo that, but I put a quick stop to that,"
Jean-Luc scowled.

"I think it's sweet," Q smiled.

Jean-Luc looked at Q.  Q had always been insanely sentimental
about his boys' lives, and they loved him for it.  Buying them
things, talking with them on the phone, bringing them out for
holidays, Q was always reaching out to his boys, and they always
responded to him. Even to this day, when his offerings were so
much more extravagant, the boys still talked about Q's letters
home.  Q smiled and smiled when they said this, but it always
annoyed Jean-Luc.  He wanted sole rights to Q's wonderful
imagination.

Jean-Luc was going to be a different kind of daddy, one patient
and serious until the time he didn't have to worry about Etienne
anymore.  Meanwhile, he would come out as often as he could and
get Etienne used to him.  He couldn't be amusing like Q, or
dedicated like Will, but there had to be something he could do.  

He went back downstairs.

Nanny and Martine gave him suspicious smiles.  "Would you like to
feed the baby?" they said.
                              
He gave them a frosty look, but, really, there was nothing to do
but give him some soupy cereal.  He took Etienne from Nanny and
sat down.

"Here you go, son; after all, you can't stay on the tit forever." 
He looked around to make sure all the women had heard him say
this.

Squawking like a monkey, Etienne opened his mouth wide.  He had a
few licks of black hair now, but that only made him look weirder. 
He looked like a strange little old man with a chin dimple. 
Yeah, he looked more like his father every day.  

'Poor kid,' Jean-Luc thought to himself.  He would have to come
back often, to help him.  He would also make arrangements for the
nanny to bring Etienne out to LA when the tour was over. 'Poor
little sonofabitch.  Poor little bastard.'



Some of Q must have rubbed off on Sebastiana.  His geisha lessons
had really sunk in.  "Jean-Luc, would you like to take our son
back to Hollywood for Christmas?"

Jean-Luc was taken aback.  He looked closely at her.  "A baby
ought to be with its momma on its first Christmas."

She hugged the gently snoring Etienne closer to her.  "I just
want to please you."

"Jean-Luc," Q broke in, "we are having that big reunion.  All of
my sons will be there," he explained to Sebastiana.  "You can
have a break and we could take care of the baby for a day or two
  we'll make sure Etienne has a great time!" 

Ever since Fear Alley, Q had always had a hopefulness that
bordered on insanity.

*************************

In Hollywood, everyone (Very-Very and his Girls, Chris and Pen,
Q's three sons, all of them) were pretending that Etienne was
cute.  

But Jean-Luc knew.  There.  Ain't.  No.  Way.

Etienne had little narrow shoulders, and an odd pot belly.  He
was growing and gaining weight, but he stayed skinny.

"Nice baby," Worf said.  "He looks just like his father."  

He and Will were really taking to the baby.  At one point,  Jean-
Luc actually got jealous and took Etienne from Will. 

Jean-Luc knew folks were amused by the baby's odd looks.  

Fair enough.  Jean-Luc was beginning to like Etienne's ugliness;
it gave him something in common with Etienne.  It meant Etienne
was his.

Even Q admitted as much. "I wish *my* sons looked like *me*."  


Q's sons.

To get Wesley to the Christmas party, Q had to beg and plead and
coax and cajole; he finally had to end up sending airline tickets
and offers of limos to Wesley and Traveler.  Then Q picked them
up at the airport; Traveller was still his goofily-dressed, 
goofy-looking self, but Wesley was cute and nicely dressed. 

"I'm mighty proud of you, son," he whispered.

It was a pleasant drive back to the house.  Traveler was chatty
and nerdy but also loving and kind, affectionate and gentle, and 
seemed quite taken with Wes.  

Q was trying very hard to be happy.  He did feel a bit oppressed
by the burden of entertaining them, and he was afraid they might
not fit in with the Hollywood crowd.  

And they didn't.  At first.

"Let me introduce you boys around," he said awkwardly when they
got there.

Wes and the Traveler said nothing, merely following Q. 

Near the kitchen, they ran into Data and Geordi.

"Data, Geordi, you haven't met my son Wesley, have you? And his
roommate Trav . . .uh, Waymon."

"I KNOW THAT BOOK!" Waymon shrieked.

Data's head jerked back a little; then he looked down at the book
he was carrying.  

"It's by RHEMUEL SPOCK!"  Everyone looked at Waymon who was
embarrassed by the sudden attention and awkwardly tried to go
back to being his retiring self.  His body looked like it were
doing a strange little clumsy jig, pushing itself forward and
back as if it couldn't quite decide what it wanted to do.

For a moment Q felt absolute despair.  This cloddish man was
going to make a rough situation even rougher.

Waymon clearly had no idea how strange he looked. "It probably
isn't the same person, but if it was. . . wow, he's one of the
greatest minds in physics."

Data looked again at his book.  "Do you know Rhemuel's work?"  
And suddenly the awkwardness was completely gone.  They all began
to talk furiously of Spock's theories.  Q could not even remotely
understand their conversation, but he could see how their
postures suddenly went from stiff and formal to welcoming and
relaxed.  

"Well, I'll leave you to it," he said.

They hardly heard him.

The party had started.

Will was carrying Etienne (whom he had dressed in a little red
velvet Santa outfit) and walking around with Patsy.  Everyone was
there. Guinan and her crowd. Very-Very and his Girls.  And
everyone had invited someone else so very soon the party was
going full blast.  

Every so often, Q would break from hosting and go check on Wesley
and Traveler.  But they were still standing in that same spot by
the kitchen door with Data and Geordi.  

As a matter of fact, the caterers were giving them funny looks as
they worked around them all night.   

"You guys need to move out of the way," he told them.

"Oh," they answered in the manner of nerdy scientists everywhere. 
"Okay."  And stayed right where they were. Waymon and Data were
looking at the book together ("there's my FAVORITE Spock
footnote!" Waymon said, "I just have to laugh everytime I get to
page 620!") and Wesley was talking in a low soft voice to Geordi. 


The change in Wesley was astonishing.  He was no longer awkward
and resistant in his father's house; rather, he was among people
of like mind in a place where he could be himself.  

"Wesley, move please," Q said.  "Give the caterers a little
space."

They all laughed, and Wesley took Geordi's arm and led him to a
big easy chair near them.  Then he just sat himself right down on
the padded arm of the chair and continued talking to Geordi.  (A
big mistake this sitting on the arms of chairs; if Wesley had 
been any of Q's younger sons, he would have gotten a reprimand).

And, when Aloe got there, she took bright-red-eye snaps of Q with
all four of his sons and Q felt a completion he had never felt
before.

"It's present time!" Q said.  "Everyone gather around!"

"Where's Jean-Luc?" Guinan asked.

*************************

Nearly identical twins.  They looked just alike.  Blond, blue-
eyed, tan, with that unearthly almost zombie-like California
beauty.   

Somebody Very-Very had invited had brought these two. But one was
a hot muscular beach boy and one was a lissome nymphet girl.  He
had a big dick which needed no encouragement to get stiff and
stay that way, and she had big tits and wide hips, full round
voluptuous buttocks.  Jean-Luc wanted to fuck both of them in the
ass.

"My Christmas present," he said to them and they agreed.  They
would do anything for Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc had stuck around the party for a while, but singing
carols around the piano and watching Q's loathsome brood fling
plastic toys around was not for him.  So he'd rounded up these
two.  They had interested him.

*************************
     
"Oh, my, look at this. Q, you shouldn't have!" Waymon was saying. 
It was a certificate for two weeks at a all-male spa on the
Atlantic seaboard.  

Q smiled.  It was a thin sad smile.

And everyone but the children noticed.  

Kira, tactfully, had not come (after all, not only had she stolen
Q for two nights but she was also implicitly siding with Jadzia),
but she dropped Modyed off.  Patsy and Modyed were best friends.  

Santa Q had given them (among other things) life-size rag dolls
with combable hair.  The dolls had elastic bands on their feet
and you put the elastic bands on your feet and the dolly could
walk with you!  The girls walked around and around with their
dolls!  

And Vernon, Roger, and Jerry had gotten computers!  

Computers!  With all the latest games!

From his perch at Geordi's side, Wesley looked wistfully at his
brothers' presents.           

"Hey, let's us pretend like we're from out of space!"  Jerry
shouted.

Then Wesley opened his gift from Santa Q.  A huge computer AND a
spa certificate!  He gave his father a radiant smile; he hadn't
been forgotten.     

But, predictably, Etienne got the most presents.  Precious tiny
clothes and bath toys and smart tiny spectator brogans and Floyd
sunhats and Patsy had saved her pennies and gotten Etienne a
plastic ashtray from the dollar store!

"Etienne says 'thank you very much, Patsy!'" Will translated for
the beaming Patsy.

"I wish Jean-Luc were here to see all this," Q murmured to no one
in particular.

*************************
     
Jean-Luc had her kneel on the floor with her elbows on the bed
and her twin lay on the bed and jerked himself off as he watched
Jean-Luc fuck her big pink ass.

*************************

"Geordi, really, isn't there something I can get you?"

Geordi paused.  "Well, Wes, maybe some more egg nog."

Q was watching this from his seat beside the tree.  (Will had
taken over hostess duties while Q held the gently snoring
Etienne.) 

He smiled.  Wesley had waltzed right into the kitchen and helped
himself.  Wesley was . . . home.  (You don't open a refrigerator
unless you're at home.)

Guinan came over.  "I have a Christmas present for you, Q," she
said in her careful measured way.

He looked at her empty hands.

"The best presents are surprises, no?"  She sat beside him.  "So
here's my present:  "Yes, he loves you, but you have to be
patient.  He's had a lot of pain in his life and he doesn't mean
to take it out on you even though he does."  Then she flexed her
thin eyebrows.

Q just stared at her.  

"And the pain Jean-Luc causes you is nothing compared to the pain
he causes himself."

*************************

And then Jean-Luc climbed on the bed and fucked the boy in the
ass and she climbed on the bed with them and stuck one finger in
Jean-Luc's butthole as she caressed his balls.  When Jean-Luc
came, he nearly blacked out from the force of it. 

**************************
      
"Is there anything else you'd like, Geordi?"

"No, Wesley.  Thanks though."

"Are you sure?"

     
Kira came to pick up Modyed.  She was polite about not coming in. 
But Modyed and Patsy both began to scream so piteously that the
party stopped for a minute.


Q stood up quickly and went to the door  -- "Kira, let Modyed
spend the night.  You know we'll take good care of her."

Kira looked back at her car.  "Well, I do have . . . someone with
me."  She shrugged.  "An old friend of mine and Bareil's."  She
and Q looked at each other.  "Thank you," she said quickly and
kissed him.  "Merry Christmas."

And the little girls jumped up and down.
     
After that, the party began to break up; the caterers started
cleaning.  Guinan and her crowd said good-bye.  Will and Worf
took Patsy and Modyed upstairs to get ready for bed so Santa
Claus could bring more gifts (Modyed had never heard of him!) 
And Wesley was deep in conversation with Geordi.

Jean-Luc walked downstairs.  The twins followed him, satiated,
slightly abashed at what they'd done.  

Very-Very rolled his eyes.

And Q was standing at the foot of the stairs with a poleaxed look
on his pretty face.  

He had just known things would be different.  How could they not
after they've gotten so close?  But he was wrong.  Again.

Jean-Luc thanked the twins and said good-night; then, he motioned
for Q to come up stairs with him.

Q shook his head no.  "I'm going to work in the kitchen a bit. 
I'll be up directly."  

What an asshole, they both thought. 

*************************

Aha.

With Dad in the kitchen, the coast was clear.

Wesley put his hand on Geordi's knee.

Geordi moved his knee away.

Wesley moved his hand to Geordi's knee again and left it there,
warm and beguiling. 

"No," Geordi said.

Wesley thought Geordi's voice was so beautiful.  "Why not?"

Geordi was horrified.  "I've had sex with your father.  Go find
someone else.  Someone who doesn't live in this house."

"You're what I want.  You're what I need."  He moved his hand to
the front of Geordi's fly.

Geordi was not aroused.  "Absolutely not."  He paused.  "You want
me to tell Jean-Luc on you?"

"I'm not a child, Geordi."

"I'm going to find Data and hit the hay.  I suggest you do the
same."
     
Geordi could tell Wesley wasn't moving.

Suddenly, he felt a surge of pity for the boy.  Everybody knew
his sad story and probably, from Wesley's point of view,
everybody hated him.  "It's not like I don't appreciate it, Wes,
because I do.  And I know it really means a lot coming from you.
But I value what Data and I have.  And I love your father too
much."

Wes said nothing.  

Geordi tried to read the boy's silent skin.

"Wes?"

"This is the first time I've . . . done anything like this since
I moved in with Traveler.  What if I've ruined everything?"

"Wes, you haven't."
     

Well, shit.  Geordi was being a decent person who responded
appropriately to an indecent proposal.  

"Don't be mad at me, Geordi.  And don't tell Dad, okay?  I'm
sorry.  I lost my head.  This whole straight world is strange to
me.  I'm sorry.  I'll behave."

"There you go," Geordi said reassuringly.  "Hey, tomorrow, let's
finish this conversation.  I mean, don't tell me you love me only
for my body."

*************************

Q had been the one to take Etienne back to Tennessee; Jean-Luc 
couldn't stand to say good-bye to Etienne.

Q didn't mind, he said.  He had these investment opportunities in
Tennessee he had to see about.

"You think that little son-of-a-bitch knows who I am?"

Q smiled weakly.  "I'm sure of it."
     

He said good-bye to his own sons at the airport.  Wesley and
Traveler were taking Wes' brothers home to Momma.  (Q had drawn
Wesley aside and strongly urged him to spend some time with his
mother: "She gave you life, Wesley.  It was my fault she gave you
up.")

*************************

Wesley had not expected such a poised woman as Beverly to be his
mother, and the beauteous and sympathetic De-Anne was just a
bonus.  They both were working extra hard to make Waymon fit in.

And the cooking!  And there was so much of it!  (Waymon was
particularly grateful for Beverly's gift in that area.)

When they sat down to eat, Beverly said, "Let's say grace," and
when she was through, the three little boys and Waymon all made
the sign of the cross.  De-Anne smiled.

Wesley had a lot of catching up to do with Beverly.  She was
tickled that he was in school, and he was tickled that she had
gotten her GED and was going back to school.

"I've been accepted into nursing school!"

Everyone clapped and said 'yay'.

"Next Christmas, make Q have us all have Christmas here," Beverly
said.

"I'd love that," Wesley told her, "but now I feel guilty about
not being here this Christmas."  He peeked at his mom.  She
hadn't quit smiling.

"Momma, didja miss us, didja miss us?" Roger said.

"Your momma didn't miss you all half as much as I did," De-Anne
said and smiled at them.  (They loved De-Anne nearly as much as
they loved their momma and diddy.)

"What happened?"

She looked at Beverly who smiled back.

"It's a long story."  

De-Anne's mother, the infamous LouAnne Bell Troy Timerson Scott,
had visited with her latest husband, Cap'n Monty.

"What's he captain of?" Waymon asked.

"They have a houseboat called 'The LouAnne'.  I guess that's his
ship."  She sighed. "LouAnne is NOT happy with my lifestyle.  Or
with my house.  Or with my job."

"Don't forget the poodle," Beverly added.

"That's right, Mother doesn't even care for my poodle."

"No!" cried Roger.  

"They brought their little scotty dog with them.  And when Cap'n
Monty wasn't keeping us up all night singing these weird sea
chanties, their dog was picking fights with Cocoa."

"What's the dog's name?"

De-Anne sighed. "Scotty."

"Scotty," Beverly echoed.

"That's why it's so good to have you boys all here.  I can see
what a good mother is like," De-Anne said and Beverly patted her
hand.  Then Beverly looked at Wesley and put her other hand on
top of his.

"I love my whole family," she said, beaming.  "You make me
complete." 

*************************

Q's plane landed early, just in time for a nice breakfast with
Jean-Luc and Data.    

Data buttered a scone.  "Well, Quark says . . "


Jean-Luc was on him.  "Don't say that cocksucker's name around me
ever again."

Q looked at him. Patient.  Understanding.  Jean-Luc was furious  
he wanted to say to Q, quit understanding me, but he couldn't
quite. 

"Jean-Luc, we're going to have to talk about Quark. He's our
manager. That's all there is to it."

"The news is out all over town."  Jean-Luc was seething.  Photos
of Quark following the goddess-y Melinda around were in all the
newspapers.  Quark always appeared stunned by his new-found joy. 
Then Jean-Luc looked almost mournful, his eyes narrowed to slits. 
"I have no idea what happened.  All the goddam pussy in America
has an out-of-order sign on it."
 
"How about us?  Data doesn't look like he needs repairing and I .
. . I love you."

Jean-Luc seemed mollified.  "Well, we'll have to start all the
goddam business soon.  Let's have a little fun.  Let's work on
Data.  Just let me watch for a while.  Is that okay with you,
Data?"

"Yes," Data leaned his head to the side.

In the bedroom, Jean-Luc took a deep sighing breath.  "Show me
what you did that first time.  In the woods.  I like cherry
busting.  Especially in the great outdoors."  He slid his jeans
off.  "Come on."

In response, Q grabbed Data around the waist and drew him close.

"Do you remember, Data?  You didn't know anything at all, but you
let me show you."

Data moved his hand to the front of Q's pants and moved it
against the bulge, against the fullness. "It is exactly like that
first time.  You are as aroused."   

"Let's take off our clothes," and, kissing and moving against
each other the whole while, they undressed.  Jean-Luc watched the
pretty sight silently.  

Then Q lay down and pulled Data on top of him.  "Use your mouth,
get me wet," Data whispered.  "Then I'll get inside you."  Q
grabbed Data by the waist and turned him over so he could lean
over and suck Data into readiness, into surrender, and then Data
said, "I'm so ready," and Q whispered, "touch me there," and Data
did, using his fingers, and Q was on his back now, and Data
pulled Q's long legs open and then entered him and moved
methodically, eyes closed, in and out and in and out.  "You feel
so nice," he whispered to Q.  

"Which is better, pitching or catching?" Jean-Luc leaned over to
Data.

Data slid his eyes over to Jean-Luc. "You want to see me take it
all in, don't you?"   

"Yeah, I do.  And maybe sit on mine after that.  Look," Jean-Luc
held himself, fully aroused and gleaming, out to Data.

Q gasped, both at the sight of Jean-Luc and at the feel of Data's
methodical coring of his sweet ass.

And suddenly Data pulled out and leaned over and took Q in his
mouth. "Remember how I licked you? I had no clue as to what I was
doing. But I loved it."  He leaned over, his tongue busy around
Q's cock.  After a few moments, Q began to buck gently against
Data.  

"You can sit on it now.  Just sit on it now."

"Oh God, my favorite thing."  And Data straddled Q, placing
himself carefully against Q's erection.  

"This is great," Jean-Luc whispered. 

And Data twisted again and again to take Q inside him and Q moved
just a little against him not wanting to force himself into Data,
not wanting to hurt Data, but wanting it all just the same. 

Suddenly Data had all of Q inside him, and his eyelids fluttered. 
And Q began to shuffle his body against Data more and more
rapidly, holding Data's pale thighs against his waist, pounding
against Data, and Data loved it.  His cock was erect, standing
out from his body, and, when he put his hand on it, Jean-Luc put
his big hand around Data's hand and they both caressed it
together. 

"After this, I'm going to make Q suck my balls and you can lick
my tits, Data." Jean-Luc's voice was rough and rapturous. And Q
gripped Data's thighs and he was coming   Jean-Luc could feel,
even at a distance, the throbbing of Q's body.  "How is it,
baby?" Jean-Luc whispered, but Q could not even speak.

"I am still quite aroused,"  Data said as he pushed up and down
on the gasping Q. "Look."

"Let me get a rubber and I'll fuck you til you're done.  Then I
really want Q to suck my cock."

And Data rose up from the pink-faced Q and got off the bed,
watching Jean-Luc as he slid the rubber on.  Jean-Luc slowed down
so Data could watch him, slit-eyed, breathing noisily.

"Kneel like you're praying, and let your daddy come in," Jean-Luc
said.
     
Q watched.  He could see Jean-Luc rocking again and again against
Data who was pressing himself against the side of the bed.  

Data's eyes were rolling and he looked nowhere in particular,
being completely lost in this sensation.  

"Big enough for you, fucker?" 

Data leaned over more to position himself better; he wanted more.
Much more.  He was fucking the cloth, fucking the air, and he
moved his hand to himself and it took only a touch and he came
too, his head moving back and forth intently, his eyes closed in
appreciation. 

Jean-Luc pulled out, still quite aroused, still wanting.  "I'll
take off the rubber and get cleaned up.  I want some cocksucking
and I want it bad."
     
And when Jean-Luc came back from the bathroom, Q was ready for
him, and he made Jean-Luc lie down and put his thighs on Q's
shoulders and then Q took all of him in his mouth, massaging it
carefully with every part of his wet lips and tongue, and Data
lay down and, rolling over to Jean-Luc, sucked his small pale
nipples into hard little wet bullets as Jean-Luc ran his hand up
and down Data's side.  

"I like fucking two men," Data said as he stretched out beside. 
"Geordi and I did much of that with Rhemuel Spock."

"I bet that was something," Jean-Luc yawned.  

Data looked at him.  "Worf and Will are fond of engaging another
man so they both can fuck him."

"Not the worst fate that can befall a man."

"I have not yet done that with Worf and Will, although Worf and I
have had a number of intimate encounters."

Jean-Luc touched himself, touched his balls.  "Tell me about it. 
Are you listening to this, Q?"  Jean-Luc was in the middle
between Q and Data; now Q snuggled closer.

"You know how we get sent all those photographs of nude fans?"

"Where are they?"

"I have been cataloguing them over the years."

"Data, I didn't know that."

"Yes, and I filed them according to subject matter.  Tits.  Ass. 
Dick.  Those are the categories recommended to me by Worf."  Data
was lying on his stomach watching Jean-Luc arouse himself.  "I
was intrigued by the first time I saw a photograph from a woman. 
She had positioned herself right in front of the camera and her
external genitalia were quite visible."  

"Make this story a little hotter, Data," Jean-Luc suggested.

Data paused.  Then he started again.  "I did not know how to
catalogue it.  The only person other than myself who happened to
around was Worf.  I showed Worf the photograph and he said, *that
is a piece of ass.  I would know it anywhere.*" Data was very
amusing in his imitation of Worf.  

Q was erect again, pushing against Jean-Luc's backside.  

"Then he looked at me and said he wanted to play a little game."

"A game?"

"He would be Jean-Luc and I would be Q, he said.  And he would
show me the rules to this game upstairs in his bedroom."

Jean-Luc was darkly amused.  "How do you play Jean-Luc and Q?"

"I lay on the edge of the bed with my knees in the air and he
fucked me from there.  We were both naked, needless to say.  He .
. . " Data was trying to remember exactly how it was done.  "I
recall his remarking that he was my daddy and he was going to
take his little girl home."

"Did you like it?"

"It was incredibly stimulating."

*************************

"That's the third time this week."

Kurn sighed.  Gowron sighed with him.

"What the hell should we do?" 

They had been riding around the property in the golf cart Jean-
Luc bought for just that reason when they spotted Sebastiana and
Jake walking away from the house.  Friendly.  Laughing.  

"She's not the bossman's new queen, is she?"

"I don't think so.  He's back with Q, I think."

They looked at each other.

"That Q's some pussy."

"Jesus.  I wish I had me some of that right now."

They both shivered at the memory.

"But that girl's the mother of the bossman's baby."

"Yeah, and that boy's Joe's grandson.   I like Joe."

"I like Joe too."

"Oh, hell, I like Jake all right too."

"Oh, hell, you know you're right."

"The boss didn't give us any instructions."

"Yeah, but he didn't know this would happen."

The roadies looked at each other.  Moral uncertainty was new to
them.

*************************

Sebastiana enjoyed Jake's company.  He was nearly as wise as Joe,
but he was young and handsome and tall and gallant.

"That sausage your mother cooks is so great," he was saying.

"Tell Maman.  She loves your compliments."  Martine did seem very
comfortable with Jake.        

"I love your mother.  She reminds me of my mother.  We'll have to
let Mom come visit here.  She'll love to see Joe again. He's a
great man."

Sebastiana looked down as they walked along.  "But your dad is
the one who is Joe's son."

"Yes," Jake said.  He said no more.

They walked along in silence.  The mystery of fathers was one of
the things they had in common.

"When I first got here, I thought you were married to one of
those men.  But they're gay."

Sebastiana's face was serious. I'm not married to anyone."

"Your boyfriend must be very happy about the baby."

She became even more serious. "I don't have a boyfriend."

"I don't want to intrude, Miss Sebastiana.  Ever. But nobody's
ever talked much about who the father of your baby is."

Suddenly she buried her face in her small hands and began to sob.

Jake grabbed her shoulders, "I'm sorry.  I didn't meant to bring
up anything sad from the past."

She looked up; the quick tears were like a spring rain.  Now her
face was clearer and more beautiful than before.  "Mr. Johnny is
the man who got me pregnant.  But he doesn't stay here.  He goes
with Q.  I love Etienne, but none of this is what I wanted out of
life."  

Jake drew her nearer.  "I'm so sorry.  I wish I could do
something to make you feel better."  She shook her head sadly and
stepped away.

They walked on.  The Smokies rolled away in the distance.  And it
looked like the roadies were doing something on the edges of the
property.  

"This is a nice place," Jake decided to change the subject.

"Jake, did you mean it about doing something for me?"

Jake smiled.  

"Can you teach me how to use the word processor?"

*************************
     
"Q, let's take a break.  You've not ridden in my restored
Corvette yet, have you?"  Jean-Luc  just wanted to drive.  It
didn't matter where.  Just driving was very nice; it cleared his
head. 

"A convertible!  Oooooh!"

And now Q was sitting there beside him talking idly of different
things.  Money.  Deals.

"We'll get those filmmakers to shoot that tour documentary. 
Those things go to video and they sell forever.  Say, that boy
that Wesley rooms with is really smart.  He's showed me some
things about marketing I never dreamed of.  He says that very
soon we'll be able to market things at the speed of light."   

Jean-Luc was only half-listening.  Q's voice was a pleasant purr
in his ear.

"And Wesley's gotten enrolled in some basic engineering courses. 
Since he was in prison, he didn't accumulate the credits he could
have."

Jean-Luc drove on.

"I talked to Vernon on the phone last night.  Vernon's in high
school now.  I can't believe it!  I told him to make good grades
and I'd make sure he went to college.  He said no one he knew
ever went to college.  And, you know what, he's right.  I'm
awfully worried that my three younger sons won't go on with their
education."

Normally this sort of chat drove Jean-Luc insane.  Who cared if
Q's gruesome sons went to college or not?  But now when Q talked
of his sons, Jean-Luc thought of Etienne.  Everything had changed
with Etienne.  "What's in that will you have for those boys?  You
told me and I forgot."

"Well, I have a trust set up.  They'll get some nice money.  When
they finish college.  Well, two years of college."

"I want to do that.  Except, of course, Etienne will have to get
a degree.  And he has to be twenty-five.  No sense spoiling the
boy."


They were quiet for a bit.

"Q, you're mighty good to some little old boys who might not even
be yours."

"They're mine."

Jean-Luc drove a bit further.

Q decided to tease Jean-Luc.  Gently.

"Daddy, you're mighty good to some little old boy who might not
even be yours."

"Even Geordi laForge could see I'm Etienne's father.  Poor little
bastard looks just like me.  Poor little sonofabitch."  

*************************

Aloe shot the cover picture for the new album, and it was a
miracle.  

Jean-Luc and Q were in the center.  Geordi and Data were on their
right, and Worf and Will were on their left.  Sebastiana, holding
the ecstatic and drooling Etienne, stood behind Jean-Luc. 
Vernon, Jerry and Roger were clustered behind Q.  Wesley and
Traveler stood behind  the three redheads.  Christine, Upenda and
Patsy stood behind Worf and Will.  Radiating out from behind them
were Bev and De-Anne, Mrs. Crusher and Meemaw McConn, Paul and
Kassidy, and all of Geordi's extended blood family (their outfits
matched again; everyone smiled).  Even Martine was in it, her
arms around her nephew and niece, her head held high.  And the
roadies stood in the very back, glowering proudly.

They all smiled for the camera, like a big old family reunion
portrait.  In fact, it turned out quite a bit like a family 
reunion because everyone had flown or driven to Tennessee in
their best clothes, then patiently turned this way and that for
Aloe, and then finally got to sit down to a big spread that young
Ms. Tyler, bless her officious little heart, had the caterers
bring in.  The stiffness drained away as all the varied
participants sat down to criticize the caterer's renditions of
potato salad and baked beans.

"Not one bit of ham in those beans," Mrs. laForge sniffed to
Beverly.         

Beverly just shook her head.  She could do better with her eyes
closed.

People politely ooohed and aaahed over Etienne.  "What a... nice
boy," one of Geordi's sisters said.  Jean-Luc seethed quietly.

Meemaw McConn offered to hold Etienne on her lap so Sebastiana
could eat in peace.

"I'll hold him," Jean-Luc said.  It was his job to protect
Etienne.  Etienne sat quietly in his father's lap.  No one
noticed it all but, whenever Jean-luc scowled, Etienne made a
tiny scowl too.  Q and Will nudged each other over Jean-Luc's
protective dignity (though they carefully waited until his back
was turned).  Jean-Luc the ever-vigilant.  Aloe got a shot of him
with the baby on his lap.  In the picture you could see that the
boy was a beige version of his father.  Aloe also got a shot of
Wesley talking with Vernon.  They looked nothing alike.  Q didn't
care.  He had that one framed.  
     
*************************

And while Quark and Melinda sat this one out, they were there in
spirit.

Because they were happy.  The studio and the preview audiences
were ecstatic over "The Cause."  

"That's a little more like it," Melinda growled as she looked at
the morning Variety.

"I love you."

"Knock it off, Tommytommy."

"No, I love you."  Quark searched his brain for something vast
enough to contain his love.  He wished he owned a contient, a
moon, a galaxy! to give her. "Will you marry me?"

"Tommytommy," she shook her head sadly.  "Tommy, I have a date
tonight with a studio head.  I can't marry you.  I'm sure I'll
end up balling him.  Maybe his wife will even videotape us doing
it.  She did the last time.  Until she joined in.  We ended up
chaining him to the wall while we put on a little show. I'm kinda
hot thinking about it right now."  She sighed.  "I'm just not
bridal material." 
 
"You think that doesn't make me hot!  Feel me!" 

"I'll do better than that, Tommy."

When they had finished, Melinda lay there glowing on the white
sheets of her immaculate bed.

"I love you, Melinda."

She pulled the sheet over her head.  "Who you gonna call?"

Quark looked at her.

"Ghostbusters!"  She pulled the sheet down.  "Because his ghost
is always with us in this bed."

"I love you."

"Jean-Luc loved it when I fucked other men.  He wanted to hear
about it.  He wanted to see it."

"I'll run out and get you other men right now.  I can't wait til
tomorrow because you'll get to tell about stuffing that big
exec's dick in your honey pot."  

"Ummm," she said and kissed him.  

"Plus, Melinda, listen to this.  Your career is my career.  Jean-
Luc is sex on the hoof, but I'm a businessman.  You KNOW you love
your career."

For the first time, Melinda looked directly at him.

"Good one, Quarky.  And you think you could handle it if I did it
with other women?"

"You'll do it with other women?"

She smiled.  "I HAVE to do it with other women."

Quark clearly saw the gates of heaven opening.    

*************************

"Jean-Luc, we have to do business."

Jean-Luc would not even look at Quark.

"Jean-Luc, permit me to say one thing."


Jean-Luc was still as stone.

"Jean-Luc, I always knew you as the world's most truthful man. 
And I respect that.  Now, when Melinda left you, you were sad. 
And you were mad.  But when Q . . . went away, well, you know
what happened.  It's Q that you love."

Jean-Luc leapt like a tiger.  "It's Q.  That.  I.  Own.  I never
owned Melinda.  Obviously, she'd have been better off if I owned
her, but . . . "

Quark lifted his eyebrows at this.  And suddenly Jean-Luc was
holding him by his shirt front.

"If the woman wants to crawl around with some little inch-dick
like you, well, this is America the last I heard."  Then he let
Quark go.  "Everybody's got me by the balls.  I have to keep
singing so I can support the entire Nation of Jean-Luc.  Fuck it,
Melinda was the only one who ever pulled her own weight on
payday." He narrowed his eyes at Quark.  "I'll work with you,
fucker, but never mention MY WIFE'S name to me ever again."

"Thank you, Jean-Luc."

"I should have ripped your lungs out before I got famous."  He
looked down.  "It's back to work now."
          
Q started in.  'There's the *Suspicious Minds* video and then
there's this one other thing we have to do." 

Jean-Luc looked at Q.  Suspiciously. Everyone else around the big
polished dining room table studied their fingertips.

"Well, I'm been talking.  On the phone."  Q took a deep breath. 
"With Martine.  And she wants Etienne baptized.  Soon."

"You talked to Martine?" Jean-Luc said.

Q nodded. Miserable.

"How big a whore can one man be?"

*************************

Well, all right, they had to go to Tennessee anyway to film the
video so they might as well stop in and get the poor little
bastard baptized.  Jean-Luc made one stipulation, however: it had
to be a Metropolitan Community baptism.

"Not some chicken blood island thing of Martine's."

"Jean-Luc, they're Catholic."

"No real difference."

Q affected the compromise.  The baptism was presided over by both
an elderly Irish priest who drove down from Kentucky and a Metro
minister with a plump red face.   Surprisingly, once the initial
introduction was made, these two got along well.  All they wanted
to do, after all, was baptize one little baby.  

Father Boothby looked closely at Etienne; he seemed startled.  
Then the Metro minister took Etienne in his arms; he too was
startled.  Then he gave the baby a wide smile.

Jean-Luc scowled.

Father Boothby began his mumbo-jumboish ritual.  Water.  Oil.  
"Does this community renounce Satan?"

There was a long pause.  Then: "We do."  The priest sighed and
continued.

After a bit, the Metro minister took over.

"We thank you, Lord of the earth, for this . . . beautiful baby
boy.  Whom we call Etienne Taylor Picard."

Data leaned forward.  "His initials are E.T.," he whispered
excitedly.

"Not another fucking word out of you," Jean-Luc said with his
head lowered. 

*************************

Patsy was feeling very insecure.

She loved her little cousin and she loved his room and his toys
and his bottle of juice but there was something else  going on.
And she had talked to Richard and Olivia and asked them who the
lady was holding the baby and they had said that that was the
baby's mommy.

Everybody she knew had a mommy.  

She had tried to brazen it through; "I don't have a mommy," she
had told Richard and Olivia, "I have TWO DADDIES!"

And Richard and Olivia had laughed.

Patsy had no frame of reference for any of this.


So, when Daddy Will came in to kiss her good-night and stay with
her til she went to sleep, she was frank with him. "Who's my
mommy?"

But Will had been ready with this story for years.  He called in
Worf whispering "she finally asked," and then together they sat 
down with Patsy. 

'...and the nice lady looked around for somebody who would love
her beautiful little girl as much as she did, and your Daddy Worf
and I said, 'We will!'  So she said 'Are you going to love her
and hug her as much as I want to?'  And we said, 'We sure are.'" 

Will demonstrated, giving Patsy a giant squeeze. 

'Then she said, 'Are you going to buy her nice things?'  And we
said 'Yes.'  So she said, 'Okay, you can be Patsy's new parents.' 
And here we are." 

'But you didn't have a baby?"  Patsy had to be sure. 

"No.  Daddy can't have a baby."

"Because you're a man?"

"Right."

"Believe it or not, most people have a mommy and a daddy, not a
daddy and a daddy."

"Why do I have a daddy and daddy?"

"We loved each other too much to be apart."  

Worf could tell by the look on her face that this wasn't anywhere
near over.

*****************************************************        
          

After the baptism, Jean-Luc was holding Etienne.  Once you got
used to his looks, the baby had many nice traits.  He was cheery
and he made amusing, whoopie-cushion noises.   He was discreet
about his dirty diapers, not having one every ten minutes the way
Patsy had.   And his mother and his father both loved him.

Jean-Luc put a spoonful of bananas in the baby's happy mouth.  


Jake Sisco walked through the kitchen.

"Still here, Jake?  Helping out your granddad?"  Jean-Luc just
wanted to make sure.

Jake swallowed.  "Actually, I'm helping Sebastiana get back into
school.  I'm doing . . . computer stuff for her."

"I see."

********************************************************

The "Suspicious Minds" video was directed by Aloe; it was part of
her "movie" series.  This time Q's minister character was sitting
in his study in a soft dusty afternoon light.  A bird was singing
outside his window.  Then Q turned on a little old-fashioned
record player which played a scratchy rendition of the first line
of Elvis Presley's "Suspicious Minds."

Then the Boys' version kicked in.  As Jean-Luc sang of being
caught in a trap and of not being able to walk out, the video
showed villainous Jean-Luc knocking down the minister's door with
his leering henchman Will.  Will made the Reverend Q get in a
convertible; Will's character was  holding a huge rope.  The song
played underneath the action as they drove along.  

Suddenly, the song stopped and so did the car.  They had had a
flat.  "We can't go on like this," Jean-Luc's voice observed.  

And Jean-Luc and Will forced Q on his knees. . . to fix the flat. 
Will never once quit leering.  (It was what his character did.)

Then the song started again and so did the car.  

("Why am I driving the car?" Q asked Aloe.  "What's my
motivation?"  Your motivation is to be in the video.  It just
looks right.")

They got out of the car in front of a shack with a rusty tin
roof.  
The music was picking up its tempo.  

Jean-Luc, followed by Will and Q, threw the door open and walked
in.

Jean-Luc had found what he wanted to find.

Worf was lying in bed with . . . Kami Spencer.

(Everyone had wanted Melinda to play Jean-Luc's cheating
mistress, but no one wanted to ask her to do it.  And no one
certainly wanted to suggest that casting to Jean-Luc.  So Kami
obligingly took the role.  Jean-Luc shrugged.  "She's perfect.")

Now the scene became very tense.  Would they attempt to lynch
Worf?  Jean-Luc played angry very well.

But no, what was happening was that Jean-Luc was pulled the naked
Kami out of the bed, and rubbing his hands up and down her arms,
sang more to her about suspicious minds.  (Aloe's clever camera
was able to avoid Kami's full nudity.)  

Worf was naked as well, the sheet positioned modestly over him. 
But his long muscular legs and perfect chest showed, and his
broad shoulders and strong biceps were not hidden at all.

Then the still-leering Will threw a rope around Kami's neck and
led her to the car, behind the triumphant Jean-Luc.  Followed by
the despairing Q.    

(But as an interesting subplot Will's character had exchanged
very meaningful looks with Worf's character.)

"Cut!," said Aloe finally.  "It's a wrap!  Now, to be continued!"

*************************

The new tour was going to run from this May to the next.  They'd
be on the road forever, and Q was a little sulky about that.  He
wanted to spend some time with his sons.

The other Boys said they'd fly them in.

But still.

Well, Nancy Taylor was a big help.  She was an efficient, quiet,
young woman, very eager to do a good job.  She had only one flaw. 
She was crazy about Geordi.  

"I am rather exhausted from keeping up with all the many
thousands of people who want you," Data told Geordi.  And he
wasn't kidding.  There was the slightest curl of fury in his
voice.

"Don't start with me, Data."

*************************

Guinan came over with her entourage and met with Jean-Luc and the
Boys in the dining rom.  Nancy demurely followed Q and took
special care to sit near Geordi.

"I like that video of Aloe's.  Jean-Luc, you seem quite happy to
play the villain."

Jean-Luc nodded.  "You female video directors are always getting
me into something."

Guinan didn't smile a lot, but she smiled at that.  "Too bad we
can't get Kira on the case."

"I never thought Kira's videos were so hot."  

"When did you take up lying, Jean-Luc?"

Jean-Luc just rolled his eyes.     

Q leaned in.  He was breathless.  "Word's going around that Kira
will probably get nominated for a directing Oscar for 'The
Cause'!  It's that good!"

Jean-Luc sighed. "Stop tormenting me, both of you."

Everyone looked down.  

But Guinan had more tact than even Q himself.

"I like this song.  Isn't it one that you wrote?"

Jean-Luc nodded once.  "The Devil in Cell-Block D."

"I think it's time to put a twist in Aloe's movie.  We could show
the reasons why your character is always such a mean son-of-a-
bitch."

Jean-Luc's face was stone.

*************************

At one point, Guinan stopped the filming.  "This is wrong.  This
is wrong," she said.   Her two kids looked at her, alarmed.  
"Jean-Luc, you're too happy."

"I'm not much of an actor, am I?"        

Guinan shook her head: "You look . . . retired."

"Tamed, you mean.  So I better get wild again."


The video kicked ass.  

It took place in jail.  There was not a single bit of flesh to be
seen, yet it was as close to porn as a video could be.  It was
all men in prison -- men leering at one another as they entered 
their cells.  Men dominating other, smaller men.  Burly guards
walked  Jean-Luc and a beautiful young felon to his cell.  They
had to run a gauntlet of muscular, snaggle-toothed, tattooed old
prisoners who looked at them hungrily.  

The music was slow, almost dirge-like in its simplicity.

A big bull faggot caught Jean-Luc's eye.  Jean-Luc stared back,
and the bull faggot looked away.  There was a shot of the sun
going down.  The young felon dropped to his knees and fearfully
raised  his eyes to heaven as the lights went out. 
       
The camera cut to Jean-Luc, who looked through the bars of his
cell at the terrified, praying youngster.  His eyes were
impenetrable.  Was he angry?  Did he want him?  Did he want to
pray too?  

The camera never gave an answer, but the next scene was of a
frocked Minister Q, waiting to visit him.  Jean-Luc was brought
in to a visiting room and forced into a chair.  Q's compassion
for the bound man was palpable.  It made Jean-Luc obviously
uncomfortable.  He shifted and turned his face away, but Q came
after him.  
 
Jean-Luc looked like he was pleading with Q to stop.   Whatever
it was he was doing.   If anything, Q's love, his compassion grew
even  deeper.  Jean-Luc gave in, acknowledging defeat.  He hung
his head. 

Q's hand reached out.  Touched his face.  Tilted his head up. 
Their eyes met.  The next scene was of Q leading the unbound 
Jean-Luc out of the prison gates.   Then the two men got in
preacherman Q's ugly old car and headed down the road.

In a wild rain.

So wild they had to stop and they ended up a men's room
somewhere.  

Q had been picky about the construction of the men's room set; it
would have to reflect a certain quality that he couldn't quite
name.  

And it wasn't just that Q had spent a lot of time in men's rooms.

But there had been that time when the Boys had just met Data in
Memphis and they had been heading east and had camped in a KOA
campground near Shiloh, Tennessee, where the old battlefield was,
and, of course, Q and Will and the new boy Data had fussed until
Jean-Luc let them visit there.  And then let them go into the
gift shop (Reproductions of Confederate money!  Actual Civil War
clay bullets!  Aunt Pittypat's Trademark Mints!)  

And then everybody went to the men's room before they hit the
road.

And all six of them were washing their hands and doing their
ablutions and talking about the future, and it was a men's room
with no glass in the windows, just rusty screens (and the pale
early summer sun and the heat rolled in), and wooden doors on the
stalls painted metal gray with huge push bolt fasteners, and no
graffiti, and black seats on the porcelain toilets, and, when he
stood at the sink to wash his hands (pumping a suds-free pink
soap on his hands)Jean-Luc and Worf had teased him by pressing
against him on either side and Jean-Luc said this puts me in mind
of prison and didn't we have some good times in the pen Worf and
Worf said the best part of prison was all of that jailhouse pussy
and they both laughed rough laughs and rubbed against him and
he'd never been happier.

He wanted that look somehow for the scene where they look in the
men's room mirror together.        

When they finished the video, no one quite knew what to say.  
Guinan simply looked amused.  
 
*************************

On an early spring afternoon, a gray rain fell on the Smokies.

Upstairs, Jake and Sebastiana were lying together on her little
bed.  They were not lovers yet, but it was just a matter of time.

"Are you sure, Sebastiana?" Jake whispered. His shirt was
unbuttoned and her skirt was pulled up above her white panties.

But: "Maybe we should wait," she said.

Jake swallowed.  She was so desirable with her slightly opened
knees in the air.  He wanted to cover her and protect her and
explore all her secret parts with his tongue and his hands and
his eyes.

"My maman says a man would be a fool to take on a woman with a
baby."

"Guilty as charged."

They leaned together for a long breathless kiss.

"I love you, Sebastiana."

"I love you, Jake."

She had made sure of it this time.  Now, when she brought in
supper for Joe and Jake and Martine and Richard and Olivia and
Etienne, she could barely control her contentment.  That there in
the warmth of her home (and it was her home; it had her name on
it) her family was residing in peace and prosperity.  Jean-Luc
had been a dream, but this was the reality.

"I want to marry you, Sebastiana."

"I know," she smiled.  She was a very accomplished girl.

They kissed again.

"There's just one thing," he said.

She had been afraid of this.  "Jean-Luc?"

"No.  Worse even than Jean-Luc."  At first Sebastiana smiled and
then she looked at Jake.  He was serious.  "It's my dad."

*************************

After she left Jean-Luc, a small but determined group of
misguided fans sent hate mail to Melinda.  Once in a while, it
made her cry.  
And Quark couldn't stand it when Melinda cried.  He stayed right
by her and wiped her tears and made jokes and brought her hot tea
and showed her photographs of kittens and flowers and good-
looking couples fucking their brains out. 

And he whispered how much he loved her.

"Everybody says I'm just a horrible old career-whore."    

"I love you."

"That's mildly helpful," she sniffled.

"Goddess, I thought you wanted to be a career-whore."

"You have a point there," she whispered.

*************************

"Things have never been better between Jean-Luc and me," Q 
confided to Will, who bit his lower lip before smiling broadly.

*************************

The roadies had recognized him.  

"What do you want here, Sisko?" Gowron growled.

Benny climbed out of his rented Tercel.

Gowron and Kurn bristled, but Sisko didn't flinch. 

And suddenly it all rushed back on all three of them.  Prison. 
What they carried with them from where they came from.

"You wouldn't treat an old jailhouse buddy so mean.  Picard can't
be that persuasive of an article."

"We sympathize with you, man, but Picard said guard this place."

"From who?"

"Bad eggs," Kurn said.

"Like Jake Sisko?"

Kurn was the smartest roadie; he grasped it first.  "Is that your
boy?"

Sisko nodded.

"So you two are think about getting married."

"Yes," Sebastiana ducked her sweet face as she spoke.  Man, they
made a good-looking couple.  Dark and skinny, with pretty lively
features.

"In June we think.  We . . . want to get the business situation
settled," Jake said.

"You mean Picard."

Everyone nodded.

"I talked to Mr.Q on the phone last night," Sebastiana said.  "He
said it was a little . . . early to discuss this with . . . Jean-
Luc, but maybe they could take Etienne while we're on our
honeymoon.  They always love having him."

She was feeding Etienne who was hooting with pleasure. 

"Mr. Q," Benny said with a little hum in his voice.  "He was in
jail with us too.  I was there when they met.  I got fifteen
hundred dollars for selling that story."
     

Martine was silent.

Just when things seemed to be getting better for her precious
daughter.

She liked Jake enormously; he had a college education, and he was
a writer, and he only loved women.

And she had heard Jake tell Sebastiana that he'd help her finish
college; he even took her up to the nearby community  college to
register for the  next semester.  

Then one day she found Richard and Olivia and, yes, Sebastiana
sitting around the dining room table, doing homework.

And for the first time in ages, she had relaxed. 

But now this ex-con father appeared out of nowhere.  She knew
Joe's son had lived a troubled life   he made no secret of it,
but she hadn't known all the squalid details.

Martine closed her eyes.

In having that baby by that man-lover, Sebastiana already had a
big strike against her.  Now, who knew what Jake's daddy was
going to turn out to be.

"Dad," Jake was saying.  "There's one thing I want."

"What's that?" Sisko said with some irony.

"I talked to Mom yesterday."

Benny sat up straight.

"About everything happening all at once.  The wedding.  You. She
said all she wanted was for you to sing at my wedding.  She said
she could still hear your voice in her head.  She said you were
the best singer she'd ever heard."

Sisko lowered his head; were those tears in his eyes?

*************************
     
Q hung up the phone.  And sighed.

Well, he could handle THAT.

He went upstairs to their room.

Jean-Luc was sitting at his desk, reading with his little light
on.  

"What are you reading?"

Jean-Luc turned to him (both he and Q had to wear reading glasses
now) and held up a paperback book.  

It was Dr. Spock.

They smiled at each other.

"I want to go to Tennessee and see Etienne before the tour
starts," Jean-Luc said.  "I would like to take him some
presents."

And then Q gave Jean-Luc himself a present by whispering a hot
little story about Q getting naked and riding a horse into a
peaceful river and Jean-Luc was waiting on the other side.

"Then what happened, Q?"

"I got it up the ass all night long."  

"I can't wait til we do that again."

"What are you waiting on?"

"Til I'm sure you're better."

Q knew better than to argue; "Want me to suck your dick like
there's no tomorrow?"

Jean-Luc sighed and lay back with his hands behind his head.

*****************************

"Mr. LaForge, let me help you," Nancy Tyler said in her soft
brown voice.

"Call me Geordi."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Geordi said; he shook his head.  If he hadn't know better,
he would have said . . . 

And, of course, Data stiffened up like steel whenever she was
around.

***********************************************
     
The plane trip back to Nashville was very sweet.  Jean-Luc was
changing, Q could tell.  

"I'm glad we could get all the presents on one little jet liner. 
It'd be a shame if we had to hire a fleet of transport trains."

Q leaned against Jean-Luc and smiled.
     

But Jean-Luc wasn't one bit surprised when the world reverted to
its complete motherfucker of a self.    

"What are you doing here?"  As if he couldn't guess.

"I'm an invited guest, Picard," Sisko said.

They were all the front porch awaiting him.  The whole damn
menagerie.  Taylors, Siskos, roadies, and one little Picard. 

"Joe, you shoulda told me."

"Couldn't think of the right words, Picard."

"What about you roadies?"

The roadies were genuinely abashed.  "Boss, we was watching him. 
One false move and he was in worse shape than prison," Kurn tried
to explain.

"So, Benny, in essence you're living off a . . . " Jean-Luc
wanted to say a woman peddling ass, but suddenly he couldn't do
that to his son's momma.  

"I made some of my famous swiss steak, Johnny," Sebastiana said
softly.  

"All right," he said.  He was trapped.       
     
Fortunately, all the Sisko family disappeared and the roadies
stayed on the porch patrolling.    

The steak was good, but Jean-Luc was disconcerted by everything.  
He couldn't take his eyes off Etienne.  Etienne had a very big
head and little twig arms and legs.  He looked like a little
deformed spider.  What if Etienne never held his head up and
crawled around like other babies?.

"What did the doctor say when you took him?  When's he supposed
to sit up?"                    

"The doctor said Etienne was in wonderful shape."  Sebastiana was
such a woman now.  "Johnny, I know finding Ben and Jake here was
a shock to you.  But you said you wanted me to get on with my
life."  She looked down.  "Jake and I are getting married."

Q was listening carefully.  She did not say "Jake and I want to
get married" or "Jake and I are thinking about marriage."  She
said they were getting married.  

"We'll talk about it later," Jean-Luc murmured.  "I've got a job
to do.  On the road again."  He kept glancing at Etienne.

*************************          

Bootlegged tapes of the Boys' various on-stage performances  had
been in wide circulation for nearly ten years.

Every now and then there was a crackdown on these illegal tapes,
but it was mostly for decorative reasons.  (Q and Geordi actually
enjoyed buying these tapes and listening to them.  They respected
their many fans.)  

There were all sorts of interesting variations on the tapes.  One
tape caught Jean-Luc singing a simplified version of "Shake
Rattle and Roll."

About this, famous rock critic Marc Greilus said in his mandarin
way: "It's sung with the kind of accompaniment that Elvis used, a
hysterical guitar and a soothing bass.  But Jean-Luc Picard makes
his little band use the same stately 4/4 time that Bill Haley
used, not Elvis' fearful rush.  And this dignified timing brings
out the true menace of the original song: 'I'm like a one-eyed
cat peering in a seafood store.'  Then Jean-Luc pauses and
considers.  'Yes, I'm like a one-eyed cat peering in a seafood
store.  I can look at you and tell you ain't no child no more.' 
My God.  No wonder they wanted to lynch Elvis.  'Get in the
kitchen and rattle those pots and pans.'  Only a fool would
disobey Jean-Luc Picard.  'Get in the kitchen and rattle those
pots and pans,' he seethes.  'Make my breakfast because I'm a
hungry man.'  Et puis, Jean-Luc, et puis?  'I'm like a
Mississippi bullfrog sitting on a hollow stump, I said I'm like a
Mississippi bullfrog sitting on a hollow stump - I have so many
lovers I don't know which way to jump.'  When Jean-Luc sings
these last strange lines, he sounds like Melville would sound if
he sang Elvis songs.  Amazed, furious, in love, intelligent, with
all the great vast brew of surrealism in the American character. 
When Jean-Luc Picard speaks, he's an accidental myth whether he
likes it or not.  You can smell the prairies, you can see Audie
Murphy on top of a Sherman tank in Italy, you can hear the doors
creaking downstairs at the House of Usher, you can see the
lissome hillbilly boy at the heart of American history gazing
into the middle distance.  Jean-Luc lifts his arms and the
world's red meat trumpets in response; what you hear in Van
Morrison when you're drunk, you can hear in Jean-Luc Picard when
you're stone cold sober."

*************************

Quark had hired some cheap and gifted filmmakers from a film
school in Nashville to do a documentary on the Boys on tour.

"These videos sell forever," he told the Boys. "It'll save wear
and tear on you later."

"Like Oralee," Q murmured.  Jean-Luc slid his eyes over to Q and
nodded.

"I'm going to have these boys film it all," Quark went on.  "Then
we'll sort it out later."  After that, he was flying back to
France to meet Melinda.  But he did not mention that.

*************************

Actually, Jean-Luc had not changed at all.  It was a marvel to
see his nightly feral search for pussy.  And now the sneaky
cameras were catching all of it.


In one scene, the Boys were rushing, sweating and elated, down a
backstage corridor in Dallas after a powerhouse show.  Fans were
scattered all along the way.  As Jean-Luc passed one little
group, he tapped a slender young blond man on the chest and
motioned with his head for the man to come with them.  The young
man gleamed with joy; Jean-Luc hadn't even looked him in the eye
yet.  

Another time, the cameras caught Jean-Luc chatting up a different
pretty-boy fan.  The tall, broad-shouldered boy had his back to
the camera.  Jean-Luc reached out and put his hand on the boy's
back; then he lifted the boy's tee shirt in a caress.  The boy
moved toward Jean-Luc.

Jean-Luc leaned forward, and then he suddenly saw the camera. 
"Get that goddamned camera out of my face!"  He was furious.

But that scene stayed in the film; Jean-Luc saw no reason to get
rid of it.


Some of the scenes were sweeter.

One showed Jean-Luc sitting on a hotel bed with Q beside him. 
They were looking at fan mail.  Jean-Luc held up a hand-drawn 
picture of himself and Q.  It was as big as a movie poster and
showed a drawing of Jean-Luc was holding a dramatically reclining
Q against a fiery red background.  "Gone With the Boys!" had been
lettered beneath it.  They smiled at each other.  Then Jean-Luc
held up a comic book.  "This one is called 'The Only Comic Book
You'll Ever Need about Jean-Luc and the Boys.'" He and Q smiled
at it.  Then Jean-Luc leafed through it.  "This is pretty well
done."  
"It's great, a real labor of love," Q said softly.

"Lot of lonely people out there," Jean-Luc murmured as he thumbed
the pages. "That's all right.  I know what it means to be
lonely."  

There was an awkward pause.  Then Q moved closer to Jean-Luc - he
wouldn't hold him because the camera was watching, but he clearly
wanted to   "that's just because you're so evolved.  I bet the
first Cro-Magnon man was lonely too."  Jean-Luc looked at Q who
gazed back.  

"You educated bastard," Jean-Luc said in a low voice.


The camera loved Q. The boys behind the camera followed Q
everywhere asking him questions.  And Q looked good on camera,
warm and obliging.  


In one scene, he was in a lobby by himself.  (Jean-Luc had just
taken two girls upstairs.  He had put on a show for them; now he
wanted them to put on a little show for him.) Obviously one of
the camera men had just asked Q about the name Magic Mountain
Boys.

"Well," Q said and paused.  "One time Jean-Luc said we ought to
call ourselves the Prisonyard Boys.  But Will and . . . Data and
Geordi said they had never been in prison.  Jean-Luc said,
everybody's in prison.  And then we thought about being the
Frosty Morn Boys.  Because like the song says, 'in Dixieland
where I was born, early on one frosty morn.'  We were all born on
frosty morns.  But that just wasn't right either."  He seemed
lost in reverie.

************************
     
Q was spending a lot of time on the phone managing business in
Tennessee and elsewhere, but the only thing Jean-Luc ever asked
about was Etienne.  

"Sebastiana told me he got up on all fours last night," Q told
him.

"Is that good or bad for babies?"

Q smiled tenderly.  "It's very good at his age.  And he's got a
toy he loves."

"Some Floyd shit."

Q quit smiling.  "No, it's a little fuzzy lamb.  Martine got it
at Walmart."

Nobody said anything.

"You know what I want to do when this tour is over?" Q decided to
change the subject. "I mean, everybody's doing well here.  Just
think of it.  All our boys are doing well and Will and Worf have
their family and Geordi and Data have all their science . . .
stuff."  He drew a deep breath.  "I've been thinking about going
back to India.  But I don't know if I want to go to Nepal or back
down South to Kerala." 

"What do you want to do that for?"

"I don't know," Q sighed.  "I just feel restless."

"Me too." Jean-Luc admitted.  

"Come with me!"  Q was trying to say it as if he had just 
thought of it. "I'd love for you to come with me.  Please.  We
could mess around on the Himalayas!"

Jean-Luc was grudgingly compliant.   "At least if we go there, we
won't run into Quark and Sisko on every street corner."
     
*************************
     
The documentary caught everyone jamming late one night.

Jean-Luc played the tambourine as he watched his brilliant
musicians play New Orleans Dixieland, Duane Eddy, and Santana.  
The sly camera caught him excited in a way that most men in their
fifties had lost years before, the wonderful hollows of his
muscular face balancing the blackness of his hooded and slanted
dark eyes, the beautiful domed oval of his head leaning into the
music.  

When he saw the daily rushes, Q looked at that scene over and
over. 

*************************

Wesley hung up the phone.  His pretty face was serious.  

Traveler was almost preternaturally in tune with Wesley's moods. 
"And . . .?" he said.

Wesley sighed. "Nothing really.  That was Dad on the phone.  He
was telling me about all the stuff he's done."  He was deflated. 
"He met up with Benny Sisko again.  Sisko.  In Tennessee.  It's .
. . so weird and complicated."

Traveler gazed at him; then he sat down beside him on the sofa. 
"Why does talking about it always make you sad?"

"I was a jailhouse whore.  Sisko sold me off to all kinds of
different men."

"You said he ended up selling you to the warden."

"It's so humiliating." 

Traveler put his arms around the sobbing Wesley.  "Wesley, I love
you."

"I love you, Traveler."  Wesley's voice was cloudy, damp.

"Wesley, there's something I've been thinking about . . ."

"No!" Wesley suddenly threw himself at Traveler, his face wet
with tears, his arms frantic and clutching.

"Wesley, sweet sweet Wesley, calm down.  It's a good thing.  I
just don't know how to say it."  Traveler's voice was soft,
kindly.  "There's a lot of men who would like to be jailhouse
whores.  I know I wouldn't have minded it, although I doubt I'd
have been very popular.  But you're cute.  You're really cute.  I
mean, I bet you're one of the cutest boys in American history. 
In a way, being a jailhouse sex toy is a kind of a strange
tribute to you.  It's a real gift.  Don't deny it."  His hand
began to move about Wesley's trim body deliberately. 

"Stop," Wesley said softly, but his tears were over, and they
both knew it.

"Let's take off our shirts and talk," Traveler said.  He removed
his shirt (rayon, brightly printed with jungle scenes) and then
pulled Wesley's tight olive tee shirt off.

Wesley responded by putting his hands behind his head and
stretching.  Traveler loved it when Wesley did that.  He loved
the little licks of hair under Wesley's arms, the little patch of
hair at the center of Wesley's chest, all in delightful contrast
to his smooth pale body.   

"Tell me about the card game again," Traveler whispered.  "It
makes me hot."

"Well, it WAS hot." Wes was petulant when he said that, and
Traveler felt like exploding.  He loved his petulant limber
Wesley.

The card game had been just another jailhouse poker game. 
Gowron, Pardek, Kurn, and a man called Korax were playing against
Sisko.  They were all betting cigarettes, except for Sisko who
was putting something far more valuable than cigarettes into the
ante.  Sisko was holding Wesley on his ample lap and, when he had
to bet, he put one of Wesley's garments on the table.  Shirt. 
Tee shirt.  Belt.  Shoes.  Socks.  Wesley's cheap plastic
wristwatch.  A little string necklace another whore had made him. 
His jeans.  And now Wesley, posed on Sisko's thigh, was wearing
only his little prison-issue briefs.  Sisko kept running his big
fingers inside the elastic of the briefs, and the other men
couldn't keep their eyes off Wesley.

Everyone had folded except for Sisko and the dark and volatile
Korax.  His eyelashes were black and lush as a girl's.

"You are going to fold, aren't you, Korax?" Benny said in his
hypnotic voice.

"I.  Will.  Have.  Him," Korax hissed.

"You're out of cigarettes, my friend," Benny said. "You don't
have another pack to put in the kitty, but I still have something
to bet."

The other men were spellbound.  This night would fuel a year's
fantasies.  Kurn silently handed Korax a pack of cigarettes. 
"I'll pay you back double," Korax said, not looking at him.

"I don't think that quite jibes with poker protocol," Sisko said
in his smooth tones.

"We.  Don't.  Care."  Korax's eyes were gleaming.  

"Place your bet, Sisko," Pardek said.

"Wesley?" Sisko said, and Wesley stood up and very slowly pulled
his briefs down; he still had a boy's undefined body, a long
torso, long slender pale legs, and at the very base of his body, 
his sweet little flowering of flesh, enticing and aroused.  The
room sighed.  

"Turn him around," Kurn said.  His voice was hoarse.

"Wes, lean across my knee," Sisko ordered.  "The stakes are
high."

Wesley was obedient.  His ass was round, alluring, high on his
legs.  Sisko put his hand between Wesley's thighs to get him to
spread his legs a little.  The other men were breathing heavily;
they craned their necks.  They wanted to see everything, the
outer edges of Wesley's puckered little asshole, the shadow of
his cock and balls between his parted thighs. 

Sisko's hand moved in a mesmerizing rhythm in the furrow of
Wesley's buttocks.  "I've been here a thousand times," he said
softly.  "Nothing like it really.  This little boy is the purest
kind of pussy."

"I just want my cock sucked.  Is that too much to ask from the
world?" Korax whispered.

"You know what you have to do," said Sisko; his fingers kept
moving up and down Wesley's ass.

"I call!" said Korax.

Sisko threw his hand down.  Three jacks.

Korax started laughing; he threw his head back wolfishly and
howled.  "Two pair.  Two's and seven's.  I have my blowjob."

"For a carton of cigarettes, you can have him for the entire
night.  You know you won't miss them.  Look at how many you won." 
Sisko was always scheming.  

"It's a deal," Korax said.  

Wesley stood up, naked; the rose meat of his mouth gleamed in the
dull light of the cell.  

Korax put out his arm and Wesley walked toward him; when he was
beside Korax, they embraced.  Korax clutched Wesley; his hands
crawled up and down Wesley's back. 


"Did you suck him off?  How big was his cock?"  Traveler said. 
They were both jerking off.

"I sucked him off all night long," Wesley buried his head in
Traveler's neck.  "His cock was average, but nice-looking.  The
main thing he was hard for the whole eight hours we were
together."    

Traveler held Wesley's head against him with his free hand -- his
cock was almost there; he looked at Wesley's erection through his
nearly closed eyes.

Wesley looked good beating off; he looked right beating off.  He
looked good helpless in the thrall of his own ecstasy.  

Suddenly, Traveler was on his knees in front of Wesley, and his
wet mouth was around Wesley's cock.  He loved his little Wesley
with the nice thick hard cock, and he loved taking it all into
his mouth and he loved the vivid human taste of Wesley's cock,
especially when Wesley began to helplessly come in his mouth.

Traveler swallowed it all, and stood up so Wesley could see his
cock and then Wesley returned the favor, because he loved
Traveler's dick as much as Traveler loved his.

*************************

"I've broken in too many damn women for the Sisko family."

"Oh, Jean-Luc."

"Benny Sisko will be at the goddamn wedding, won't he?" 

"He's Jake's best man."

So it was decided.  Worf and Data would stay with Jean-Luc.

"We can have some fun," Worf said to Jean-Luc tonelessly.  

Jean-Luc puffed with exasperation.

Q was helping the bride's side of the family pay for the wedding, 
Geordi was helping with the music, and Will was going to be the
baby-sitter.  Then Etienne would join his daddy on tour while his
momma honeymooned back in Haiti.

"And after that they come back to Tennessee with half the island
in tow," Jean-Luc could barely contain his fury.  "Like Moses
entering the Promised Land."

*************************

Very-Very, Quark, and Melinda met them at the Nashville airport.

"I'd forgotten how much I love you other Boys!" Melinda squealed.

Very-Very was perturbed.  "It's going to be very very rainy all
day tomorrow!  All those outdoor arrangements I put together will
be simply ruined!"

"Happy is the bride the rain falls on, my momma always said," Q
smiled and hugged all of them.
          
Father Boothby was going to perform the ceremony.  He, Q, Very-
Very, and Geordi had a number of quick intense conferences that
night during the rehearsal dinner.  

Joe was going to give away the bride.  He was beaming with pride.

And Jake's mother was there. (Q smiled and shook her hand.  What
had Benny been thinking of?  What power would make him quit this
woman and commit crimes and get in jail and even now resist her? 
It was sure easy to see where Jake got his slender sweet looks
from.  Jennifer was tall and dignified, just like Jake.  Q would
never understand men if he lived to be five million years old.)
     
Martine was glad Q and Geordi were there. And Q had to admit it:
Martine was looking pretty good.  Her mother-of-the-bride drag
was not nearly as overdone as Very-Very had implied.  (Very-Very
and Martine did not get along, to put it mildly.)
     

"Melinda," Q said over a glasses of a good California cabernet,
"where are you off to next?"

"Quark and I are producing a documentary Kira wants to make about
her . . . religious group.  Then I'm going to do 'Cat on a Hot
Tin Roof' on Broadway with Tommy Lee Jones as Brick!  It's going
to be an HBO special!  Then I'm going to Thailand to do some
animal rights work!"

"Ooooooh!" Q was almost envious again, but mainly he was
surprised at how similar he and Melinda were.

"But first the Golden Globes," Quark interjected.
     

Geordi had programmed his synthesizer so it sounded just like a
good church organ, and now he was playing "Here Comes the Bride"
(only in partial irony).
     
Will was holding Etienne who was round-eyed, old enough and smart
enough to be a little shy and apprehensive.  But Uncle Will was
very comforting.  "Hush, little man," he crooned.

Q thought he would join Martine in crying her eyes out.

And Melinda, since she was technically unmarried, was the maid of
honor.

Ben stood at the altar with his son.  He looked calm and
dignified: Captain Sisko.

And Joe brought the bride down the aisle.  Because of the
circumstances, she had eschewed a completely white wedding dress
-- her dress (a gift from Melinda) was a Ransom Amazoki creation;
a pale white crinoline was topped by a deep cream bustier.  She
also wore a halo of flowers, little black boots, and white lace
gloves.  She was the most beautiful bride any of them had ever
seen. 
 
At the reception, Geordi played his synthesizer as everyone
danced with everyone else.
     
After the first break, Ben joined him on stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, someone very special is joining the Geordi
laForge experience tonight," Geordi announced in a deep voice. 
"Let's give it up for . . . Benny Sisko!"

Everyone clapped in a good-natured way as Sisko approached the
mike.

Geordi wasn't playing any music.  He seemed to be waiting for a
cue from Benny.

Who started out almost whispering and then, in a measured tone,
he half-sang, half-spoke: 

          "And you are nobody til someobdy loves you
          and you are nobody till somebody cares 
          You may be king
          and you may possess the world and its gold
          but gold don't ever buy you happiness
          when you're growing old."

Then the song kicked in, with Geordi on a looping soulful
synthesizer line, but the real miracle was in Benny's singing.
          
          "You know, the world still is the same, 
          you'll never change it"
(a little ripple of applause from Ben's co-workers)
          just as sure as the stars shine above!"
(A series of rapid little breaths)-
          "And you're nobody til somebody loves you
          so find yourself somebody to love."
(Ramrod posture, a serious face, but Ben still seemed so happy.)
     
Then he smiled)

          "At the half way mark now," he sang, 
          "The world still is the same 
          you'll never change it"
("same" and "world" and "change" took forever to sing)
          "Just as sure as the stars shine above!" 
("Above" was also paced slowly)
          "You are nobody until somebody loves you, yeah!"
(He began to snap his fingers)
          "So find yourself somebody 
          I said find yourself somebody
          so find yourself somebody 
          to love"   

The last note hung in the air like twilight in summer. Then the
audience collapsed in applause.

Q couldn't believe it. Like everyone else, he was on his feet
clapping.  And then he saw a familiar face.


"I never got to thank you for all you did."

"I need a smoke, mate.  I guess we better go outside."


"I can't believe you've turned up here.  It must be God's hand."

Miles O'Brien crossed himself.  "Benny and I made up our
differences a while back.  When that new program started hiring,
he contacted me.  Took the hiring test and ended up with a nice
position in engineering."

"You mean at the Saturn auto plant?"

Miles nodded.  The eye-patch was actually rather flattering. 
"Did ye see my two youngest?  They were the altar boys tonight."

"You know I helped set it up," Q said shyly.

"What's that?"

"I invested a lot of money in Saturn.  And I helped them set up a
program where they'd recruit ex-cons, test them, and place them
where they would be of the most use.  Who knew Ben Sisko had so
many administrative skills?"            

"Oh, I did, boyo, I did."


The honeymooners left amidst a flurry of rice and bird seed.

"Guess we'll be shoving off," Q said to Martine.

She was crying.

"We'll bring Etienne back on the third, okay."

She kept crying, and Joe patted her and winked at Q.  "That
sounds good."  

Q turned to Ben.  "Good-bye.  It was great seeing you again."

"I hope there are no hard feelings," Ben said sincerely.

"Oh, none.  Now that I think about it, I learned a lot from you. 
I've learned a lot from every person I've ever met, actually."

"You going back to that worthless motherfucker Picard?"

Q stopped stone still for a moment.

"Well, it's complicated."  He looked around. "It's so nice here. 
And I've got a lot invested."


Sisko looked carefully at Q.  "Bad as I was, I wasn't as bad as
Picard."  He gave Q a sober dark look. "After all, I never hit
you.  Picard hit you.  I never hit you."

Suddenly a voice broke in.

"Ben Sisko, leave nice Mister Q alone.  Remember what you told me
you'd do.  Well, no time like the present.  Get to work."  

Martine was obviously over her tears.

*************************

Jean-Luc had been much moved to see that Etienne seemed to know
him now and cawed like a crow when he saw his daddy.

"He still looks odd," he whispered to Q.  So Etienne wouldn't
hear.

"He's normal.  What you want is perfect.  Well, that may not 
happen."

Jean-Luc shrugged.  Of course, Q was right.  Not that Jean-Luc
would permit Giant Tit Q and Giant Tit Will to be better at this
than he was.  He might ask them for advice, but that would about
it.


While Jean-Luc was walking around with Etienne, showing him the
tour buses and the sky, Q had lunch with Will and Worf.

"Wasn't Tennessee pretty?"

"Yes," said Will warmly.

Worf studied Q.

"How pretty was it?"

Q sipped his juice.  "This tour has been a bit of a
disappointment to me."

Will and Worf nodded.

"I'm not sure I want to tour anymore for a long time. Worf, I was
jealous of Ben Sisko. Of all people.  He's in one spot -- he's
settled.  I'd love to be that settled."

Everyone looked out at the hotel verandah.  Jean-Luc seemed to be
enjoying himself with Etienne.

Q sighed.  "I'm tired of being always on the road."

"You don't have to take everything he dishes out," Worf said and
Will nodded in agreement.

"I don't know what to do."

"Just do it," Worf said.


Etienne was napping.

Jean-Luc came into their hotel suite.  

"This baby stuff sure enough cuts into my pussy time."

Q gave a thin smile.  "Did I tell you the best part?"

Jean-Luc lifted his chin.

"Martine's ordering Benny Sisko around like there's no tomorrow."

Jean-Luc's eyes darkened.  "Is he taking it?"

Q nodded. "Like a bitch."

Jean-Luc laughed. "I win again."  Then the phone rang.



"Trouble in the henhouse," Jean-Luc said when he got off the
phone.

"Hmm?" said Q.

"Aloe and Guinan are quarreling.  Guinan thinks Aloe's videos are
taking us in the wrong direction, and Aloe thinks the same about
Guinan.  Aloe wants Will and Worf to run off together to Scotland
so she can film castles, and Guinan wants Worf to kill me in a
dream sequence so she can do another prison storyline. 
Basically, Aloe wants a happy ending and Guinan doesn't."  

"Well, it really doesn't matter, does it?  I mean some story will
get told one way or another."  He sighed.  "Although I never
thought that would happen.  They seemed to be on the right
track."

"Really, Q.  I'm not in the least bit surprised."  Jean-Luc shook
his head.  "Women."

Q ducked his head and dimpled: "Women," he said beaming.

"Still, gives us a free five days.  Let's blow the camera crew
and grab the baby and go somewhere fun.  Just the three of us."

*************************

Q rented them a villa on a Caribbean island.  At first Jean-Luc
moped.  "I hate islands," he said.  "A man feels so trapped."

But Etienne loved the water and loved the sand and the overweight
maid who sang soft little songs to him every afternoon while his
father took Q for a walk, so Jean-Luc cheered up a little.  

On the island, Q wore a sarong and Jean-Luc wore his trademark
tiny black briefs.

"You look so cute," Q said.  The sand was hot against his feet,
his shoulders, against his glossy black hair.

"I like your bug spray," Jean-Luc said.  Q smiled; Jean-Luc was
talking about his cologne.  "Whenever I pick up Etienne, I can
tell when you've been holding him; I can smell you on him."

"I just want to stay fresh."

"Oh ho," Jean-Luc said.  

"Three more weeks to tour and then there's the break," Q said as
they strolled along.   

They walked a little further.  

"We have strong genes, don't we, Q?  With all those sons."

"The strongest, Daddy."

"What's under that skirt, girl?"

"Something pretty." 

"Nobody's around.  Take it off and let me see something pretty." 

And Q did, untying the sarong and pulling it away from his strong
tall body and Jean-Luc couldn't tear his eyes away from the lush
vision that was Q.  So pink, so rosy. 


"Q, are you well enough?" he whispered.

"I'm sure I am."

And Q spread his sarong carefully in the sand and lay down on top
of it with his legs slightly spread so Jean-Luc could stand above
him and see everything and Jean-Luc was taking his time, gazing
at Q as if he had never seen anything like him, and he was very
aroused.

"Anything you want me to do?"

Jean-Luc took off his trunks; then he knelt between Q's legs.  "I
bet you have a tight little cunt.  I bet Julian operated you back
to a cherry."  Then he leaned over and began to kiss Q everywhere
between his legs.  And Q writhed and stretched and Jean-Luc could
see every inch of him, including Q's sweet dark little puckered
asshole which looked tight and healthy, pretty as a girl's
really, "I haven't seen your pussy in so long I forgot how sweet
it is." 

"Do you want me to kiss your big thing, Daddy?"

"Only if you want to."  And Q got on his hands and knees and
knelt in front of Jean-Luc who was still kneeling before him and
opened his mouth and took the barest tip in, a hesitant but
ultra-willing bit of puss trying to please her big daddy with his
big thing coming off his lean hard body and Daddy's mouth was
open and breathing heavy and he pushed himself hard two or three
times against the back of Q's silky throat and then he pulled out
and said: "I want to fuck you.  It's about time.  You don't need
that cherry one second longer."  

And he pushed Q back and Q wrapped his strong thighs around Jean-
Luc's waist and Jean-Luc was on the edge; in his mind's eye he
could see Q's asshole pulled open and waiting and shaping itself
hot against his dick and even the air was superheated, hot as Q's
skin and his own skin, and then Jean-Luc felt that he was the
same temperature as the wet hot island air and he pushed his hips
forward a little and he was inside Q and with every shove he was
a little more inside him, and inside Q seemed the right place to
be and he began to move and the water was moving against the
white sand just the same way and the water was as hot as Jean-Luc
and the air and the world was not distinguishable from them as
they moved together on its edge.

************************

The band met the honeymooners in Houston so they could take
Etienne back home to Tennessee.

The newlyweds were radiantly happy   Sebastiana really was
beautiful.

"Too bad that little boy doesn't look like his mother," Jean-Luc
said to her.

"I'm glad he doesn't.  He's more beautiful this way."

Motherly love.  

Jean-Luc said "goodbye" in a clouded voice and left the room.

Q leaned in.  "When we break, we're going back to LA.  I'll call
you."

"Yes," Sebastiana said.  She was under some stress;  Etienne was
crying as if his heart would break.  

"He wants his daddy," Jake said.

*************************

Quark was manning his short-wave radio like a member of the
French Resistance.

Then the news came in.

He whooped so loudly everybody on the exclusive beach heard him.  
And they knew what he was exclaiming about.

They began to applaud in that strange measured European way. 

"Brava Melinda Madigan!  Et maintenant Monseiur Oscar!" they
cried.

*************************
     
The last concert of that leg of the tour was just supernatural. 
At the end, they had all gathered together and sang Hank
Williams' "I Saw the Light."  Jean-Luc was never an ironic
performer (that's why so many loved him) but spirituals always
brought out his true  gravity.  Then the Boys all linked arms and
raised them high and then bowed low.  "Thank you," they had all
called to the rapturous mob.

There was a big party afterwards where the documentarians were
going to show a rough cut of the road movie.

In Las Vegas, the Boys had rented the main room of the Universal,
one of the older casinos.  It dated back to the forties, funky,
seedy.  And ineffably sexy.  It was also close enough to L.A. for
all the studio types to fly in.  

The party was noisy, crowded, glittering.  And everyone on earth
was there; the Boys sprang for a free bar -- hell, they had the
money.     

Jean-Luc wound his way through the crowd.  He hadn't wanted to
watch much of the movie, just enough to make sure he had gotten
his fair share of screen time.  Mainly he wanted to continue his
catting around.  He loved free young pussy.

He looked around.  Will and Worf had disappeared early on, but
Geordi and Data were deep in some sort of serious chatter with
some quiet-looking technicians.  And Q was standing back with the
help, counting cups and smiling and greeting people.

And Jean-Luc was on that worthless cocksucker Q like a duck on a
junebug.  

Because Q was talking to . . . Casey Spevin.

Where did that faggot get the jam?

"I thought I warned you, cocksucker," he said to Casey.

Both Q and Casey gasped. Gratifyingly.

Then: "I thought you were busy, Jean-Luc," Q said timidly.        
         
"I can talk to the boy, can't I, Mary?" said Casey casually.

"What part of 'all mine' don't you understand?"

"Damn," said Casey, his mouth a quaint orifice clasping  that
syllable.  "You both are still in jail, aren't you?"   

"Remember me, Jean-Luc?" said a thin little voice. Q looked
horrified.

That little bastard what's-his-name.

"You were so wonderful!"  Then the little bastard paused. "You
don't remember me?  Timmy Trent?"

What the . . .

"Timmy's just back . . . from Europe.  He was working on . . .
his latest project."

"Timmy, you imp, long time no see," Casey drawled. 

"Hi," Timmy whispered and ducked his head.   

"Enough of this horseshit.  I want you out of here, Spevin."

"Q?" Casey pursed his lips.  "What do you want?"

Q bit his soft lower lip, imploring and silent.

"Q, tell Jean-Luc the truth now," Casey looked at Q with some
mischief.

There was complete silence.

"All right then, I'll tell him.  Q called me.  He wanted me to
come here."

Jean-Luc turned pale.  "Q, why?" he whispered.

"Casey's a movie star.  And soon we'll . . . be . . . movie
stars."   Q had never changed, not one lick.  Stars.  Big stupid
stars in his big stupid eyes.

"What's this I'm hearing?" Casey continued in his silken drawl.
"You mean Miss Q hasn't told Miss Johnny the whole truth?  Well,
I swan."

"What truth?"

"T. H. E. truth, girl.  I fisted the boy the first time out -- no
hand was up his honeypot on the first date but this hand right
here."  He waved it tauntingly.  "Can you imagine the neural
explosions I set off in our neck of the woods when I shared that
fact?  Do you know what a dreamfuck he is?  But I wouldn't have 
done it if I didn't love him.  I love him.  That's actually . . . 
the truth."  Casey had gotten increasingly serious as he spoke;
by 
the end of his little speech, his gravity was surprising even
himself.  "I love him."

Jean-Luc felt as if his head would explode.  "My sorry bad
asslicking luck," he shook his head.  Then he turned on Q. "You
cunt.  I can't trust you to check the mail without giving it up
for the mailman and the mailman's dog.  I could fucking kill
you."

Q ducked his head.  


"My life would be so much easier without you, Q."  And it would. 
If Jean-Luc were ever free of the nelly spread-out constant cow
of a tramp that was Q, he'd . . . be free.

Q stood up straight.  "My life would be so much easier without
you, Jean-Luc," he said quietly.

A life without Q.  

All the pussy in the universe at his feet.  No one and nothing to
worry about.  He gave a savage laugh.  "I guess that settles
that.  She's yours, Spevin."

Casey lifted his brows.

"Oh, yeah, Miss Casey, you have you some fun with your new
whore."  And with that Jean-Luc turned to leave.

"Thanks, Johnny, we'll look good giving Melinda her Oscar for
*The Cause.*" Casey called.  "Say, where should I send the
fifteen cartons of cigarettes?"

And Jean-Luc spun around and connected perfectly, his fist
slicing into Casey's pink dimpled cheek.  Casey was beyond
shocked; he fell to the ground with Q and Timmy falling right
beside him.

Then Jean-Luc straightened his shirt and looked at the the crowd,
his mouth in a serious scowl.

No one said anything but he could hear Q and Timmy patting
Casey's wrists.

He stalked away, towards the back entrance.
     
"Ice," Q called, and a dozen people were there with ice in
handkerchiefs and cups and glasses and Q and Timmy placed one icy
handkerchief against Casey's bruised face.  

Casey was panting; his eyes were closed.

"Are you okay, Casey!" Timmy cried.

Casey opened his eyes.  "I feel so . . . butch," he gasped. 
"I've never felt this butch in my whole life!"

"You were so brave!" Timmy said softly, his eyes glowing with
admiration.

"Ouch," Casey said.  

"Try not to smile quite so broadly, Casey," Q said with some
irony.  

"I got a lotta of what I wanted," Casey said.  And smiled again. 
"Ouch!!!!"

"Is there a doctor in the house?" Timmy said timidly, looking
around.  Then he beamed.  "Casey, you're my hero!  A real man!"

"Why, thank you, Timmy."  Then Casey turned to Q.  "I love you."

"I love you," Q said and kissed him lightly on the lips. And then
he turned to Timmy.  "Timmy, can you nurse Casey til I get back?" 
Timmy nodded; he was holding Casey's head in his lap.  "I love
you too, Timmy," Q added, and then he gave Timmy a kiss. "Let me
get a wet towel."  He stood up and headed for the door.

*************************

Jean-Luc felt as if he were electrified.  He was free.  Then he
saw someone.

"I know you," he said.

"I know you," came the soft slow luscious reply.

Tranh! 

The willing beguiling Tranh with that firm little ass.

Wait.

"You're our competition," but Jean-Luc tried to say it tenderly.

"I don't think so."

"What's this album of yours?"

"Three albums, Jean-Luc.  But the last one was techno."

Techno?

"What's with your asshole manager?"

"He wants to meet you.  He says you two were never properly
introduced."

And Tranh turned.  

Yeah, there was that asshole Fajo, drinking his, Jean-Luc's,
liquor, sitting comfortably in a nice alcove at his, Jean-Luc's,
party.  Waving.

"Let me go stare down that cocksucker," Jean-Luc said and walked
over to Fajo. 

Fajo was sitting comfortably at a nice table, rather far away
from the center of the party.  And he had his arm around a . . .
woman?  
"Well, good buddy, I've seen the derivative little albums you're
producing.  Good thing this is America, or I'd sue your balls
off.  Motherfucker."  It was very important to Jean-Luc to keep
Fajo in his place. 

"Umm," said Fajo.  "Jean-Luc Picard.  We meet again.  Have you
met my wife?"

Where did that asshole get a wife?

Politely, both Fajo and the bride stood up.  

Jean-Luc lifted his chin.  He had to check her out.  

Tall, but not as tall as Melinda.  But a little like her in a
way.  With a queen's posture, a queen's elegant head sitting on a
queen's elegant neck and shoulders.  She had short cropped dark
hair and an obliging open mouth.  

"Hullo," she said.  Her accent was vaguely European, mybe
British.  "I like you.  I've always liked you."

She had a sleepy insinuating voice.  Jean-Luc didn't want to, but
he felt her attraction.  Fajo was a rich motherfucker and he
could buy whatever he wanted.  Q had said that over and over.  
Now he had bought himself this. 

"Darling, may I present Jean-Luc Picard?  Jean-Luc is, of course,
the leader of the Boys.  And, Jean-Luc, let me present Tatiana. 
My wife.  Tatiana, it will please you to know, is royalty. 
Seventeenth in line to the British throne.  And if all the
dominoes fall into place, she'll be queen.  Isn't that right,
dearest?"

"Oui."

Jean-Luc couldn't take his eyes from her. That pissant Fajo was
eclipsed completely.  Even Tranh was secondary to her.  

"I met Fajo's dear friend Q earlier.  You are lucky - he is so
charming."

A vein pulsed in Jean-Luc's temple.  

"Please sit with us.  This is a very good wine."  

"Of course, it is.   Q ordered it," Jean-Luc said.

"I taught Q all he knows about wine," Fajo leaned in to say.  His
beady little eyes were gleaming.

Tatiana patted the seat beside her.  Jean-Luc was furious.  He
looked at her condescending hand.    

Hmmm.  Her little black leather skirt had ridden up.  She was
gazing at him with her hypnotic royal eyes.  Well.  He looked
back down.  She must have been one of those girls who liked to
shave it.  Not a single lick of mammal hair down there.  He
glanced back up at her face.  She knew what he liked.

"You like my sloppy seconds, don't you, Jean-Luc?"

"No, cocksucker, you like mine."

"Knock it off, Fajo," Tatiana said.  "Jean-Luc, let's have a good
time.  Fajo's rented the ninth floor of the Universal.  We could
have some fun if we go there.  Drink a bottle of wine.  Become
better acquainted."

She had a beautiful voice, breathy, alluring.

On the elevator to the ninth floor, Jean-Luc asked  something he
had been wondering.  "How full of shit is Fajo?"  '

"Wait a minute," said Fajo.

"About what?" breathed Tatiana.

"Are you really royalty?  A princess? "

"Oh, yeah. Gotta lotta Battenberg in me.  But really I'm a Grand
Duchess.  A Romanov."

"Romanov?"

"Romanov?  Remember the tsar who was shot?  I had a fuck session
in the Impatiev house the day before Yeltsin tore it down."

"That was some time ago, Duchess," Fajo piped up.

"1976," she shrugged.  "I started young." 

Jean-Luc was thinking about that little shorn pussy.  She had
shaved her eyebrows too.  European, he guessed.   
        
They walked down a long hotel corridor -- Tranh followed Jean-Luc
who followed Fajo and his queen.

"Home sweet home," Fajo said and opened a door.

A swanky suite.  Jean-Luc could care less.   He wanted her, he
wanted that little clean cooch clasped to him. That she belonged
to Fajo only sweetened the deal. 

"Fajo, leave us alone," she said.

His face was carefully blank.  "Very well," he said and left.

Then she opened a door.  

A huge bedroom, a round bed, black satin sheets.

"I like it rough," she said.

"Quel coincidence.  So do I!"

"Chain me to the bed, Jean-Luc.  I want to be taken."

Chains?  

Tranh appeared out of nowhere; he was apparently in charge of
chains. 

Jean-Luc was comfortable enough to size Tranh up more closely.
Tranh was wearing jeans and a tight little tee shirt.  Nicely
packaged, especially next to Tatiana who was now bare naked. 
Except for a choker around her neck and a bracelet on each wrist. 
Her pale bare skin had an unearthly glow.  

"Chain me up, Tranh."

"Oui," he said with some irony.  He rolled his pretty dark eyes
at Jean-Luc.

And Jean-Luc sat back and watched the show. 

She liked it on her knees apparently since that was the position
she assumed.  And Tranh brought out chains (they appeared already
attached; maybe that was a standard ninth-floor feature) and
connected them to her choker and her bracelets.  And there she
was, butt out, enticing, round and soft and perfect and smooth.

And then she said, "put it in my ass, Jean-Luc."

He needed no second invitation.

He stripped down quickly and positioned himself. 

Suddenly, Tranh was there again in his enticing little tight
shirt and jeans offering Jean-Luc a selection of rubbers. 

"Oh, yes," Jean-Luc said, selecting one.

And rolling it on, he was positioned at her very center.  "Are
you ready, Duchess?"

"Oh, God, Jean-Luc, don't make me wait."

And he began to move into her, oh, she was slick and ready and
she writhed around, spreading her knees, thrusting her pale ass
back, trying to get as much of him as she could, and then they
found their rhythm, back and forth and back and forth, and he was
beating himself against her round ass and she was forcing
herself, those soft round buttocks, against him, and they went on
and went on and Jean-Luc found himself wondering just how long
this could last, looking at her slender waist, her short short
hair, the pretty forms of her back, and feeling the subtle
muscles of her tight ass, and every now and then they would stop
to catch their breath and then it was back to ass-fucking and her
tiny metallic squeals and his pneumatic sighs and over and over
again he was inside her and grabbing the flesh that wasn't quite
flesh and he could see no chance of coming in his future, that he
might fuck her and fuck her like the Grand Duchess she was and
she was stretching herself back to him; she was almost inhuman in
what she could take and Jean-Luc closed his eyes and opened his
eyes and out of the corner of his eye he could see Tranh biting
his lips and puffing and he could even hear things, maybe
something recording this with whirrs and buzzes, and she was
gasping and gasping and he said, can't you come, little queenie,
shake that pussy for Jean-Luc,  and she backed against him like a
strong jolt to the heart and he could feel her soft wetness clamp
and clamp against him, and he shut his eyes and saw a bare sweet
girl's puss and he began to come and come too, and it was over.   

He hardly knew who he was she was that intoxicating.

He backed up and took the rubber off. He was trembling.

"Bravo," said Fajo from somewhere.  The worthless tiny
motherfucker had returned from somewhere.

He heard Tranh laughing. "Told you he was the best ever.  She
never comes like that for Fajo."  

Jean-Luc stood up.  "Tell me something I don't already know."

Fajo was red-faced; he interjected: "My friends will love my film
of this," and cut his angry eyes at Tranh.

Jean-Luc shrugged and put his hand on her ass.  What was it Worf
always said.  Nice pussy?  "Nice pussy," he said.

"Do you want Tranh next?" Fajo offered. (Trahn seemed very
eager.) "He's not much but he's here."

Jean-Luc started getting dressed, zipping up.  "I'm going back to
the party," he said and turned his back on Fajo mid-sentence. 

Tatiana was looking at him.  He looked at her.

She seemed to be staring at him with something like love.   Or at
least true appreciation.  And Jean-Luc gave one last glance to
Fajo's blithering face and walked out.  As he left, he could hear
Fajo screaming at Tranh and Tranh screaming back.

**************************

Geordi and Data had gone upstairs early.  It seemed Geordi had
spent too much time at the party talking to Nancy Tyler.

"How big a whore can a man be?" Data said.  He had heard Jean-Luc
say that once and had been quite struck by the image.

"Hmmm?" said Geordi.

"You are leading Miss Tyler on."

"Oh, for God's sake, Data, Nancy is an employee."

"It's Nancy, is it now?"

"She's just a kid."  Actually, she was just a kid and that was
how she had been treated.   When Gowron had started hanging
around her, Jean-Luc had threatened to saw his dick off.  After
that, the roadies had been attentive but distant.

"You don't love me," Data said mournfully.

"Data, of course I do."

"Can you prove it?"

"I suppose I'll have to.  Undress me."

And Data did.  "I'm undressed too, now."

"Data, get on your stomach."

"Will you stick it in me?"

"I'll stick something in you."

"Oooh."

And Geordi felt Data's back, his hands moving down to the cleft
in Data's ass.  He ran his satiny fingers up and down and up and
down til he felt the hard little button of Data's anus.   Data
spread his legs a bit and pressed himself against Geordi's
finger.  "Get some lube," Geordi whispered.  And Data moved away
from a moment and then handed Geordi a tube of something cool and
clean-smelling.  Then he slicked up his fingers and went back to
Data's ass.  One finger.  Data was slick inside, and he could
feel the place where Data liked to be rubbed.  Two fingers.  

It was amazing how opposite they were, Data's thin lips versus
Geordi's beautiful expanse of mouth, Data's pale ash color versus
Geordi's darkness, Data's narrow well-formed ass and Geordi's 
expansive broadbeamed body.   Dicking Data's little ass had
always been very nice, very stimulating.  Actually, no other body
really interested Geordi.  It was amusing that Data didn't see
that.  Three fingers.

He twisted and twisted his hand until Data groaned.  

Four fingers.  Data had an ingrained mildness that made him a
safe, sweet lover; even when he was at his most abandoned, there
was a softness that was very attractive.  And he sure loved
getting it up the ass, Data sure gave it up easy, gave it up like
a bitch.  Data was cooing now, and Geordi could tell just by the
way it felt that Data was ready.

He drew his hand back.  "No, " Data screamed.  Softly.  Mildly.

"Here it comes, Data.  Tell me if it feels the way you thought it
would."

And he added more lubrication to his hand and forced it into a
wedge.  

"Geordi, you might injure me."

"It's about time."

And Data backed up against the wedge of Geordi's fist and moved
back and forth against it.

"I'm in, sweet jesus, I'm in," Geordi said.

"Harder," Data whispered, "I want to feel it all the way up to my
tits."

"Will you suck my dick after?"

"Yes, Geordi, I certainly want to suck your cock."

Geordi moved his fist again, listening very carefully to Data's
breathing to hear the level of arousal.   "You getting ready to
come, Data?"

"Yes, yes," Data murmured gasping.

"Remember the first time we did it?  It was so hot and I was
lying on top of my sleeping bag and we were off from the others
and do you remember?"

"Yes, yes."


"You said do you think it would be all right if I sat on your
dick?  I almost shot my wad right then."

"I was so lucky," Data whispered and backed again against him. 
"The perfect man, the big fat perfect cock in me."

And Geordi gently moved his hand again and again against Data's
slick flesh and he could feel Data jerking off and he felt a
tightening in Data and now Data's breathing was in tiny grunts
and there was a sudden explosion of convulsions in Data and
Geordi realized that Data was coming and coming and that his fist
had made it happen, and Data collapsed with Geordi's hand still
fully inside him.  

"Do you like the way this feels?"

"Oh, yes, I'm going to feel empty when you leave."

"Now will I hear no more about Nancy Tyler?"

"You must admit that quarreling like that certainly spices up our
fucking," Data said mildly.  He loved how Geordi's fist filled
him.  He loved it big, he had to admit.

"Do tell," Geordi drawled.


*****************************

Worf and Will had a little game they liked to play: Worf and Worf
and Will.  Worf was Worf, and Will was Worf, and always some
lucky young man got to play Will.

Look at this time's designated Will! (The pleasures of fame and
fortune never failed to make Will beam and glow.)    

Julian Bashir, the famous and wealthy neurosurgeon, a star in his
own right, had turned up at their party.  Just to see him.  Will. 
And now they were all upstairs in their swanky Las Vegas hotel
room together. 

"Why don't we dress the boy up?" Will suggested to Worf.

"You do it.  I'll watch," Worf said.

Julian was standing there, radiating happiness.

"Get the special box," Worf directed.  Will brought a small trunk
over and took out a pair of nipple clamps and a leather cock
ring.  "Take off every bit of clothes, boy."

Julian was almost instantly naked.  He was still slender as a
boy, his skin just as smooth and coppery.  

"Get your tits ready, boy," Will taunted.   

When Julian's nipples were completely hard, Will put the nipple
clamps on him; then he slipped the ring around Julian's cock and
balls.  Julian shivered.

"Now handcuff him," Worf directed.

Will did and pushed Julian to his knees.  Worf stood up and took
off his clothes slowly, watching Julian's face shadow itself with
desire.  

"On your knees, Bashir."

And Julian got on his knees and began to suck Worf's cock, and,
while he was doing that, Will undressed and lubricated himself
and began to fuck Julian.  Worf could feel the acceleration of
sensation on his cock when Julian realized what was going on.  

And Worf loved seeing Will fuck Julian.  Will was never so
radiant, so Olympian as when he was up the ass of somebody
pretty.  
"Who's your Daddy?  Who's your Daddy?" Will demanded through
clenched teeth.

Julian was still sucking Worf's dick, and Worf felt Julian ripple
against him, as someone speaking under water.

"Who's your Daddy?"

And Worf grabbed the back of Julian's head, not enough to be
painful, merely enough to gain attention, and said, "Tell the
man: Who's your Daddy?"

"You are.  You are," Julian gasped.

"Good.  Now give it all up."  And all three were sucked and
fucked into contentment.
     

Afterwards they all three lay on the satin-scented sheets of the
Universal's nicest suite.

"How's your partner?" Will asked.


"McCoy's doing quite well. It was he who told me I needed to come
out here and see you."

"Really?"

"I think he was just trying to get rid of me for a little while. 
Two of his oldest friends popped up out of nowhere, and they
wanted to have some sort of old-fashioned fun."

"Who's minding the store?"

"Oh, we've turned our clinic over to another pair of doctors.  
McCoy's retired really, and frankly I'm more interested in
research these days.  I'll be moving my practice to Virginia. 
Actually, Q's helping us make the change.  In return, he's
arranged for his ex-wife Beverly to finish her degree work and
become the chief nurse-practitioner at the Cumberland Clinic. 
You two have met Beverly, right?"

Worf was very still.  "She is . . . partners with my former
wife."

"That's right.  I had forgotten.  Did you know that De-Anne went
back to school with Beverly?  Her degree will be in psychology. 
That little clinic is going to be in great hands.  Everybody's in
college.  Everybody's a success story."

"I am pleased to hear that," Worf said.

Julian burrowed deeper between Worf and Will.  "What is it that
singer says? *Ain't that America, baby*?"  

*************************

That was easy enough, Jean-Luc thought to himself.   

He didn't really know what else to do with his freedom so he went
out to the Enterprise.  Maybe he'd do some driving. 
 
He climbed in the driver's seat.  

Surprise, surprise.

Q was already in the seat behind him.

In his white hat and his long hair and his earrings.

Jean-Luc spoke first.  "I'm tired of every bitch in America
laying her big rat head on my shoulder and saying, *oh Jean-Luc,
help me help me help me.*  Screw them. I could have been a
brilliant solo artist."

Q kept watching him.

Jean-Luc adjusted the rearview.  His voice was suddenly ragged.  
"Q, if you want me to say I need you, I need you."

Q didn't smile.  He leaned up against Jean-Luc's ear and
whispered, "Then do what you always do.  Do what you've always
done.  Drive until tomorrow and take me with you."

Jean-Luc twisted his head and met Q's eyes.  

Then he reached over and turned the key and the Enterprise eased
once more into the darkness.

*** the end ***


"Sometimes it's hard
to be a woman,
Giving all your love
to just one man.
You'll have bad times
and he'll have good times
doing things that you
don't understand.
But if you love him,
you'll forgive him,
even though he's hard
to understand.
And, if you love him,
be proud of him,
'cause after all
he's just a man.
Stand by your man.
Give him two arms 
to cling to
and something warm 
to come to when nights
are cold and lonely.
Stand by your man -
and show the world
you love him.
Keep giving all
the love you can.
Stand by your man."

     Tammy Wynette
     "Stand By Your Man"

    Source: geocities.com/promised_land_by_sunbeam