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In and Out

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Title: Men Don’t Dance 

Author/pseudonym: Tinnean 

Fandom: In and Out 

Pairing: Howard Brackett/Peter Malloy 

Rating: PG-13 

Email address:

Disclaimer: They still don’t belong to me. They belong to Paramount and Paul Rudnick. Weren’t you paying attention? A good deal of the dialogue in this one is directly from the movie. 

Status: new/complete 

Date: 7/01 

Series/Sequel: You got me. This is the sequel to Peter Kissed Me 

Summary: Howard is going to convince himself he isn’t gay, if it kills him. 

Warnings: m/m, spoilers for the movie 

Notes: Thanks to DJ and Dorothy for their help when I got hung up on alphabetical colors. And as usual, as always, this goes to Silk and Gail.  

Men Don’t Dance

Part 1/1 

Peter kissed me

I pedaled madly down the two-lane blacktop road that ran parallel to the fallow field on the outskirts of town. 

I enjoyed that road very much, but somehow, today more so than ever. Every time my tires ran across a dip or a bump, the vibration would caress my balls, and I’d shudder. I slowed my speed, and the sensations became even more delicious as my cock was pressed up against the front of my trousers.    

My tongue peeked out, tentatively running across my lips, trying to capture Peter’s taste. 

He had kissed me! Right at that intersection, in front of God, a few cows in the field, and anyone else who might have chosen that moment to drive by.

If it had been in a more private place, would he have done more? 

Would I have let him? 

I felt flushed. My cock was hard, and tingles seemed to ripple over the muscles of my ass. 

He kissed me! 

The sound of a car coming up behind me caused me to reduce my speed even more. Was that Peter, intent on showing me just how gay he was? The car slowed to a crawl next to me. 

It was not a sleek, late model sedan. It was a beat up old convertible. 

“Hey, Mr. Brackett!” Jack, one of the seniors in my English Honors class, grinned happily. With him was his girlfriend Meredith, along with Mike and Vicky, who also had my senior English. 

I braked my bike and greeted them, disappointed and slightly out of breath. “Hi there!” 

“Nice fashion statement, Mr. Brackett!” Vicky giggled. She was the one who always said whatever came into her mind. 

Sheepishly, I gazed down at my shirt, which was hanging open. I had torn all the buttons off in an effort to show Emily what a macho man I was. 

Macho, ha. What a crock that was! 

And my tie was probably still in Emily’s bedroom. My students had never seen me looking so…untidy. 

“Yes, well…” What could I say to that? 

“We’re going to the malt shop right now, but we’ll see you tomorrow at the church, Mr. Brackett! Good luck!” They waved and Jack put the car in gear and they drove away. 

Oh God! I was getting married tomorrow. To Emily! 

I was not gay


I ran up the stairs to my apartment and dove under the bed, where I had stored that package, the one in the plain brown wrapper. I tore off the paper and stared at the trade-size paperback and the audiotapes that came with it. The instructions on the first page were quite clear. 

I needed to get into suitably masculine attire. In other words, something… casual, something…comfortable, something…cruddy. 

I sighed. 

My hands were trembling as I set the book and tapes down on my tiny dining room table and went back into my bedroom to change. The shirt I had on, one of my favorite tailored white shirts, was fit only for the trash bin. 

Glumly, I stripped off my trousers and padded in sock feet to the drawer that held my casual clothing. First came the jeans. I pulled them on, not enjoying the feel of them on my naked legs at all. I seldom wore jeans. That’s why these were still almost brand new. 

Then I found a belt that went very nicely with denim and threaded it through the belt loops. 

Next came the snug black tee shirt. All it needed was a pack of Camels rolled up in the sleeve. It was just so very ‘West Side Story’! 

And I had to admit, it made me look hot

I wondered if Peter would think so. 

Guiltily I glanced around my room, then banished that thought to the deepest recesses of my mind, and went to the closet where all my shirts where kept, hanging in alphabetical, color order: azure, bisque, carmine, daffodil. 

There was nothing suitable for this outfit! I gnashed my teeth, and wondered if I’d have to run to K-Mart to pick something up. I was determined to follow the instructions in the book, Exploring Your Masculinity, to the letter. 

Suddenly I remembered the very nice flannel shirt I purchased for my brother. Walter’s birthday wasn’t for another month or so, and I’d have plenty of time to replace it. I kept it in the window seat in my bedroom. 

I held the shirt to me, and examined myself in the floor-length mirror that hung on my closet door. It seemed to be just the thing. It only took a minute to strip off the tags and remove the pins and the cardboard that firmed the collar. 

Normally I would have washed it before wearing it, but there just wasn’t time. As Emily would have said, this was a heterosexual code red! I shuddered at the scratchy feel of the material, but buttoned it up anyway. Right to the collar. 

No, that was just too… I unbuttoned the top two buttons exposing the black tee and rolled up the sleeves, neatly

There. That was much better! I pursed my lips at my reflection and sent it a kiss. “Handsome!” I flirted with myself. I wondered if Peter would think so if he could see me, and squashed that thought. 

I went back into the other room and picked up the first tape. Nervously, I inserted it into the cassette player and pressed play. 

A plumy voice came over the speakers. “This is audio tape number one, Getting a Grip.” 

I licked my lips and stood in the middle of the room, trying to relax. I could do this. I was determined to do this! 

I was not gay

The voice soothed me, and I lost some of my tension. Until it instructed me to untuck my shirt. Only one side of my shirt! “Oh come on,” I moaned, “that’s so sloppy looking!” 

But the voice insisted, admonishing me for wanting to look tidy. And then it told me to adjust myself. 

Umm. All right. I touched my fingertips to the hair at my temple, making sure it was in place. The sleeves of the flannel shirt were even with each other, and the buttons were lined up properly. 

“Not there!” the voice sneered at me. “The package, you sissy Mary! The family jewels!” 

Oh. I touched myself in private, but I couldn’t imagine myself doing this in a public place! But that voice was so insistent! 

Hesitantly I reached down and brushed a hand over my crotch. 

“Not like that, you pantywaist! Grab ‘em!” 

I grabbed ‘em. Too hard. I winced. “Oww!” 

“Now, imagine you’re in a barroom! Say Yo!” 

I licked my lips again. This was the masculine thing to do. I was masculine. Therefore, I could do this!  “Yo!” I repeatedly dutifully. 

“Hot damn!” 

I could feel my resolve weakening. That was so…*redneck*! “Hot damn,” I said, with something less than enthusiasm. 

“What a fabulous window treatment!”

Manly men said that? All right! Now we were talking! “What a fabulous window treatment!” I responded with eager assurance. 

“That was a trick!” the voice informed me snidely. 

Well, hell! I stamped my foot. 

“Now, the most critical area of masculinity! Truly manly men do not dance! Whatever you do, do not dance!” 

“Maaannnn!” I flinched at the whine in my voice. But the truth was, I loved to dance! 

The seductive strains of disco came out of the speakers, and in spite of myself, my hips began to twitch, my body to sway. 

No! I wouldn’t dance! 

My knees began to bounce to the beat. I struggled to contain myself. 

The voice ordered me not to dance. Then it pleaded. 

But my feet took off and I was lost in the rhythm of the music. I waved my arms over my head, pointing at an imaginary partner, bumping my ass against the doorframe, rocking my groin forward in sharp little jabs. I tore off the flannel shirt and tossed it onto a chair, and bounded and undulated across the floor, while the voice howled at me. 

“Punch someone!” it exhorted me. “Kick someone! Bite someone’s ear!” 

But Gloria Gaynor was joyously singing of surviving, and I danced around my rooms, happier than I had been since Cameron Drake announced to the entire world, and my hometown of Greenleaf, that I was gay. 

The music came to an abrupt halt, and I stopped so sharply I almost fell over my feet. “So. How did you do, pussy boy?” the voice sneered. 

Panting harshly, I smacked the button on my stereo system and yanked out the cassette, pulling the tape from the plastic casing, more furious than I could ever remember being. 

I sank down on a chair, the same chair that held the flannel shirt, and buried my head in my hands.


On to It Might Have Been

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