No. Kevin wants to get fucked.

He wants to shed the good guy routine that he's trapped in, the go-to guy that everyone depends on, even when he's a complete bitchy queen about it. He's tired of being the peacemaker and the voice of reason. He's tired of being everything to everyone else and not doing a damn thing for himself.

He sees him across the room and knows he's the one. He's not Kevin's type at all. He looks like he shouldn't be in a gay bar. He looks like he'd be more at home listening to AC/DC or Metallica than Erasure. Hell, Kevin would even peg him as George Jones or Johnny Cash over ABBA and Donna Summer. But he's there, and Kevin will be damned if he's going to let the chance slip by.

The usual routine involves buying a drink and talking, going to dinner and maybe a movie. Eventually making their way toward the bedroom with the dance of sexual history and partners, topping and bottoming and who's on first and what's on second and Kevin wants to skip all the bases and just slide into home. He also wants to kill himself for using sports metaphors, but he thinks classic comedy routine saves him from a ritual sacrifice.

He runs pick up lines through his head, discarding them almost as quickly as the come to him. The problem is that his repertoire of pick up line is virtually nil, which is sort of what's led him to this point. Well, that and a blow up at a family dinner and the slow disintegration of whatever his relationship with his father used to be.

"Shit." He needs to stop thinking about everything, but most decidedly about his family. Of course, Kevin's always failed at shutting his brain off.

"The song or the company?"

Kevin swallows and looks up. He's not actually that much taller, but he's solid and big and his voice seems to come somewhere deep in Texas, and it's a hell of a trip to get to California. "It's Gloria Gaynor."

"The song then." He nods and his eyes are like the ocean, flashing with humor and the telltale signs of a good buzz. "Unless that's your name, in which case you should have stopped by the bar first." He's slouched against the wall, slumped, so maybe he is taller, and his legs look long enough to make Kevin think very dirty thoughts. "Howdy."

"Kevin."

"Howdy, Kevin." His smile is made of wicked and filthy intentions and Kevin swallows, wondering what the hell he's about to get himself into. He leans in and it takes everything Kevin has not to take a step back or, more honestly, a step forward. "Come here often?"

"I…"

His voice drops even lower, and Kevin forgets to breathe. "Cause I'd like to make you come here."

Kevin nods and the guy pushes off the wall, rangy and lean despite his bulk and he takes Kevin's hand, leading him through the crush of the crowd. Kevin follows because he can't not, and they make their way to the dark and twisting hallway that lead to the backstage area, and Kevin's pretty sure they're not supposed to be here, until he mutters something that sounds like 'I'm with the band', and then his mouth is on Kevin's neck, and Kevin doesn't care about anything in the world other than making sure he doesn't ever stop.

Kevin loses track of everything except his mouth and then his hand as he undoes Kevin's jeans and slides a hand inside. His fingers close tight around Kevin and he starts stroking, no preamble other than the swipe of his thumb over the head and a huff of hot breath against Kevin's ear. Kevin groans and bites his lower lip to try to stifle the sound, even though he's fairly certain no one's going to hear him over George Michael wanting someone's sex. He can certainly understand the sentiment first hand.

"Oh, God." Kevin gasps out loud as his whole body jerks with the strokes, tight fingers sliding along his skin. He's hot and hard and he can feel sweat beading on his skin, soaking through his shirt. He knows he's getting close, and he can tell the guy knows it, his slow drawl falling over Kevin's skin in short pants, his own arousal obvious as he rocks against Kevin's thigh. "Oh…" Kevin tenses and the guy moves his hand up, catching the thick sticky liquid and stroking it along Kevin's shaft.

They stumble a few steps and Kevin pins him back to the opposite wall, sinking down on his knees. He can feel those eyes on him as he undoes the guy's jeans, pushing the denim out of the way and freeing his cock. It's thick and hard, slick and the tip is damp as Kevin presses his tongue to the slit before wrapping his mouth around it.

Long fingers curl in his hair and Kevin takes him deeper, tongue and lips and the roof of his mouth providing suction and pressure, teeth teasing lightly just enough to cause him to arch off the wall, thrusting into Kevin's mouth. He's fine-tuned this particular skill into an art, and the sounds he's hearing fall down on him are certainly appreciative. He holds the guy's slim hips and takes him deeper, pulling off to suck hard on the head before swallowing him down again. Muffled curses echo around him as Adam Ant starts stripping on the sound system and Kevin looks up to see him biting his lower lip hard, the free hand not fisted in Kevin's hair pounding on the wall behind him.

Kevin feels the shift of muscle and pulls back, replacing his mouth with his hand and stroking as tight and fast as he can. The guy's head falls back and he groans, hips jerking hard as he comes, spilling against Kevin's fingers. Kevin keeps stroking until the hand in his hair tightens painfully and then he looks up, getting to his feet slowly.

"Name's Marcus." He's all cocksure grin and satisfaction. "And I don't come here often."

"What about my place?" Kevin's surprised at his voice, surprised at the suggestion. "How do you feel about coming there?"