Brock's Night Out


The final straw came when Number 348573 turned him down.

"Well, isn't that a pretty little dress you're wearing. 'Course, it probably helps that you're wearing it."

"..."

"I bet it would look even better on my bedroom floor."

And while he didn't get sex, he did get a smack across the face. And to the sadomasochist in him, that was good enough. But the romantic side of Brock simply said, "Nay!" and decided that, perhaps, girls were a tiny bit overrated.

So, the following night, he decided to hit a... different sort of club. Which attracted a... different sort of clientele.

Yes, different. In his mind, substituting the word "different" for "gay" meant that he wasn't actually gay, and that whatever sex he got out of this particular gay bar was just, you know, for giggles.

"I'll have Sex on the Beach, please," he told the bleach-blond woman manning the bar. She gave him a leery grin and rubbed her thick chin with a low chuckle.

"That's my favorite," she demurred, fixing the drink. "Here you go, dollface."

Brock was on the prowl. And though he was getting some winks from a few of the guys over by the stage (it helped that he was wearing a tight white wife-beater that read Wink if You Want It), no one really got his engine reviving. Until he saw her.

She had wavy lavender hair that fell to her slender shoulders. She wore a lovely little slip of a dress, a deep red that contrasted with her pale pink skin. That she didn't have a chest meant that she had a penis, but Brock didn't care. This woman-man-whatever was quite a classy thing, and well, he had already crossed the threshold by patronising the gay bar. What was the harm in getting a little love? If anyone deserved it, it was the man who had spent ten years following hormonal teens around the world. Running a hand smoothly through his hair, he smiled at her as he approached the beauty at the bar.

"Well, hello there, stranger," the woman greeted with a glance at his shirt and winked up at him. "The name's Lucia. What's yours?"

Score! "I'm Brock. You're as beautiful as your name, my dear."

Lucia giggled. "Really? Well, that's quite kind of you to say..." She called the bartender over. "Candy, I'd like a Long Island Iced Tea, please. What'd you want, Brocko?"

A voice deep inside of him muttered about anything strong enough to lessen the tenderness. "I'll have one of those, too."

Lucia raised her finely manicured brows in delighted surprise. "You can take a lot, I guess. Candy makes 'em strong, here."

"That's what I was hoping," he replied with a smile.

The drinks came while they continued their innuendo-laden conversation, and once Brock had finished the last sip of his iced tea, Lucia sighed. "Hun, it's been fun playing with you, but you aren't fooling anyone."

Brock frowned. Well, there goes the sex. "W-whaddya mean?"

Lucia kissed him on the cheek and stumbled down from the counter. "You're about as gay as Russell Crowe. Get off of your sexy, straight ass and find yourself a girl who loves you regardless of your apparent sex addiction."

And so Brock went to his apartment and cried into his pillow, because once again he wasn't getting any. Maybe he did have a problem.

Or, maybe not.

Yeah, let's just go with that.

Yeah.


A/N: LOL. I really hope Brock turns out to be gay, actually. And Lucia = Lucian's transsexual name. I had a lot of fun writing this one, because I love my gays and I love my Brocko. So both together? And Lucian! I wanted to get Morty in here, but I figured that if Brock came on to Morty, Brock wouldn't learn anything because he'd be getting some hot Morty lovin'.