I stumbled upon the most incredible discovery a few weeks ago.
The kids were asleep, the marijuana bowl was freshly packed, and 90210 was on Hulu.
It was Season One, Episode Three—“The Green Room”—and about fifteen minutes in, my jaw hung wide, the epiphany far more potent than weed.
“Oh my God,” I said to absolutely no one. Dylan and Brandon were lovers! From the moment they locked eyes!
I felt like Brandon at the end of the show because I, too, finally knew what to write for my erotic literary salon reading.
The entire episode was like Brokeback Mountain without the sex (and heartbreak). But mostly sex. There was so much pent-up sexual tension I imagined many a gay teen stroking it to this episode.
And it’s for them that I dedicate my revised fan fiction version of the show. (Some of the dialogue, by the way, comes straight from the episode).
So here goes…
Scene: West Beverly High. New kid Brandon walks into the DJ booth to see a sweet nerd getting harassed by some asshole jocks who want to mess with his computer. Brandon is ready to defend said nerd when a mysterious stranger emerges from the darkness.
The stranger is clad in black, catching Brandon off guard as he walks toward the bullies.
“Please,” the stranger tells the jocks. “Touch it.”
There’s a coolness to his tone, his threat as calm as it is intimidating, and he doesn’t have to say much else. The jocks leave as Brandon walks over, flashing his warm, Midwestern smile
“I like how you handled that,” he says.
“Yeah, well, I don’t believe in winning by intimidation unless I’m the one doing the intimidating.”
Brandon’s face is warm, flush with the longing he feels growing inside. He tries to suppress it, but it’s too late. Dylan’s furtive glances miss nothing.
“Hungry?” Brandon asks.
Dylan is. But not for food.
Rough waves crash before them as they pull up to the beach.
The drive, the anticipation, the exhilaration of it all excites Dylan. He closes the door and feels the sand between his toes. It’s an uncomfortable walk, made even more so by his massive erection. Brandon can’t pretend he hasn’t noticed.
“Now I’m feeling intimidated,” he says with a smirk.
“Please,” says Dylan, once again. “Touch it.”
Brandon is happy to oblige. First with his hands, and then, his mouth.
Dylan seems to grow harder inside him, aggressive even, his thrusts pushing ever deeper into Brandon’s throat.
It is too much and not nearly enough. Brandon wants more. His hands roam, and he presses his fingers down to his own dick, feeling the warm ejaculate on his fingertips.
He brings them around, still sucking, taking in every inch he possibly can with one hand, stroking with a firm grip, as he pushes the wet fingers of his other hand around.
Dylan moans the second he feels the pressure mounting inside of him, and Brandon feels that he himself may soon explode, the longing so strong he doesn’t know how much more he can take.
He tastes Dylan in his mouth, relishing the flavor. Salty like the air around them.
Brandon drinks deeply and falls on his back, throbbing as Dylan guides him inside.
He comes almost immediately, though he holds the position for as long as he can.
“I don’t want to leave,” he finally says. “I really like it here.”
“Me too,” says Dylan. “This is where I start each morning. In the Green Room.”
“The Green Room?” Brandon asks.
“Yeah,” Dylan says. “It’s a surf term for riding the perfect wave.”
They laugh.
That evening, Brandon finishes his newspaper editorial, the one Andrea’s been hounding him on for weeks.
He’d been searching hopelessly for the words, but tonight he knows just what to say.
“There’s an expression surfers use to describe the curl of the perfect wave,” he begins. “It’s called the Green Room, and getting inside is the peak of the ride.”