Popcorn 9: Page 6 earlier. "Come on, fuck me some more. I haven't come yet. Get hard. You've gotta fuck me. It's MY TURN!" The only reply from Michael had been a weak post-orgasm attempt to push his pudgy partner off so that he could dress and leave. That shove, that exclamation point of re-jection, while not unseating George, did push him too far. For every action … and the reaction was those two chubby yet strong hands wringing that vain and selfish neck.     Albeit a deceptively pretty neck. Not too long, not too squat, it had proudly held Mi-chael's head above everything around it earlier that evening as he surveyed the Rose Tattoo's Wednesday night patrons. The neck, actually, had kept Michael's head out of George's reach for most of the night. As the target of the short-er man's unintentionally comic come-hither glances, Michael had made his disdain quite clear from his heights. Only when offered speed had Michael looked down, so very far down, to the papaya-shaped space George occupied. They snorted the powder in the bathroom, George taking his second hit of the evening, Michael having his first in three days. It felt good, and he wanted more. His eyes ran over George, finding him considerably less unappealing than he had been only a brief inhale before.     George was not quite stupid - stupendously impetuous, perhaps; generally fearful, definitely - but not quite stupid. He knew the effect the drug would have and had counted on Michael wanting more. They always did. He knew to say, "I have more at my place," when it was half an hour to closing time and Michael did not have any other prospects because George had been preoccupying him for the last hour while driving all other men off with a wild glare.