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BEYOND THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD

CHAPTER 26-PROGNOSIS

BRIAN’S POV

a little too ironic

So often in life our fear of something dictates our every move--losing what we (think we) love or actually getting what we think we want. The lengths people will go to avoid what they fear are as elaborate as they are ironic, so often leading them smack in front of it again, completing the circle. You’d tried to circumvent this inevitability in your life, to predict where each road would take you and determine how to avoid it completely, but time is nothing if not a teacher. And now you know that life actually is that circle, and, therefore, everyone in the world will always be perpetually dizzy—and forever searching for something or someone to help them keep their balance.

Your revealing conversation with Justin had taken place on a Tuesday night. The door to his studio had remained closed the rest of the week, and you hadn’t badgered him about it or even really mentioned it, relieved that this struggle with his muse hadn’t ended with him joining a fashion-challenged street gang. He’d gone into town both Wednesday and Thursday that week, but the rendezvous at the loft hadn’t happened. He seemed preoccupied, lost in his own head. So by Friday at three p.m., after snapping at Cynthia about a deadline that she still had ample time to meet, she informed you that you were back to being an ass again which clearly meant that you were being denied one. Her ability to litmus-test your sex life was becoming almost as bad as not having one for three days. It wasn’t that Justin wasn’t horny, evidenced by the fact that the top rack of your dishwasher was filled with his dildos, or that he’d turned you down; he’d just fallen asleep during more than one of your patented advances. The night before you’d jacked off while he slept—and drooled—on your chest.

Memories.

You can always tell when Justin has fallen out of favor with his muse because he either draws with a vengeance or forgets that he even knows how. It’s always been different for you; when your muse refuses to show up for work, you throw a tantrum, hurling liquor, drugs, and illicit sex at it until it begs for mercy. In the early hours of the morning, when you refuse to admit that you’re actually awake, you’ll acknowledge the ‘all or nothing’ similarity that exists between the two of you, but after that, you’re back to staring at him (when he’s not looking) as if he’s a carnival anomaly. And earlier that week, while you and Justin lay in bed (him reading and you pretending to), you proved to yourself that you were exceedingly bad at it. He confronted you about it without taking his eyes off the page he was reading,

“Brian, why are you staring at me?”

Shit.

“I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.”

……

You tried to think of something, “Well, there’s a giant bug in your hair.”

Momentary flailing ensued. “What? Are you kidding? Where? Get it off of me!”

“Okay, okay. Hold still.” You smacked him on the head.

“Ow!”

“It was a native West Virginian bed bug.” (Repelled only by incessant fucking.)

…….

“There was no bug in my hair, was there?” You pretended you didn’t hear him. “Answer me, Brian.”

“Just bringing the dissonance.”

“Freak.”

……

In your private bathroom at Kinnetik, the walls were adorned with various ad campaigns that had never really taken off. It was where you figured out what went wrong, why you couldn’t complete the sale. And it was there, sitting on your throne, that you realized what you had to do…

*******************
and baby, you're so smart,
you know, you could've been a schoolbook


"Good afternoon, Mr. Kinney. Today is Friday, March 18, 2011. The time is three sixteen p.m. The current temperature is sixty-seven degrees under mostly cloudy skies. You may enter your destination now."

“HOME.”

"Thank you. Home is entered as your destination. Have a safe trip."

Plan A: to call Justin and invite him out for a night on the town--dinner, maybe dancing—was tabled as soon as you got in the car…

"Incoming call…number restricted.”

You hoped that it was Gavin ‘Won’t Return A Call’ Newsome, finally calling you back. “ANSWER…Brian Kinney.”

“Brian? It’s Ben.” No such luck.

“Afternoon, Professor.”

Have you talked to Justin since lunch?”

“No, in fact, I was just about to call him.”

"Well, he’s either not home or not answering the phone. I’ve been trying to call him for over an hour.”

You offered up a little, white lie, “He might be in his studio working.”

Maybe. But I think he’s ignoring me.”

“Why?”

Ben sighed, “It was just a misunderstanding. Justin came by the store. Michael wasn’t expecting him, hadn’t even seen him since he got back—"

“He’s been busy.” You didn’t know why you were making excuses for him.

"Apparently, from what I pieced together from Michael, Justin had two cases of condoms in the front seat. Michael saw them through the car window, asked Justin what he was doing—"

“Let me guess. He offered to give them to him.”

Yeah. But at the same time, Michael saw the ring on his finger, said something to him about not being invited to the wedding he didn’t even know about—"

“Nobody knew about it. I was fucking him at the time…without an audience.” (People have spent so many years trying to understand your penchant for group sex, and then when you stop having it, everyone has a conniption.)

Brian, it was stupid. Justin explained that you two didn’t need the condoms anymore, and I think Michael just extrapolated a little. He feels awful. He’s tried to call Justin to apologize, but he won’t answer. Then I tried, just to smooth things out, but—"

“Michael’s upset?”

He hesitated before he continued, ”It’s just that we’ll never have that, Brian. Ever. I think the reality just hit him a little hard.”

“Christ.”

I think they were both embarrassed. They didn’t part of very good terms.”

“He would never hurt Michael.”

I know. Michael knows. Please tell Justin that everything’s fine. If you want, you guys can come to dinner next week.”

“I’ll talk to him.”

And congratulations, Brian. We’re both really happy for you.”

“Do I need to call Michael?”

Not now. Give him a while.”

“Thanks for letting me know.”

He laughed, “Sometime’s a husband’s gotta do what a husband’s gotta do, you know?”

“Believe me, I know.”

When you pulled into the garage, you got out, relieved that the ‘vette was there, momentarily back in the station, folded Plan B and stuffed it into your briefcase.

*******************
I second that emotion

Justin was lying on the sofa in the home theater room watching a movie with the sound off--Philadelphia, the remote control propped on his stomach. Your presence surprised him. As he sat up, the remote slid off of his stomach and landed on the hardwood floor.

“Shit.” He recovered it and continued, “Didn’t know you were on your way home.”

“Yeah, the day just felt over,” you told him.

“I know that feeling.”

……

He turned off the television when you sat down beside him, your briefcase leaning against the sofa. “Michael knows he overreacted, okay?”

Justin’s head fell into his hands, “What’d he do? Call you up and tell you what I did?”

“No, Ben did. You wouldn’t answer the phone.”

“Oh, that’s just great.”

You put your arm around him, “It’s okay. He knows you didn’t mean anything by it. He’s just sensitive.”

“He was the one who asked me about the condoms. I didn’t offer them to him.”

“I know.”

“I was going to give them to Zeek, but I never even made it that far. I’m not some asshole.”

“Nobody thinks you are.”

He stood up, pushing on your thigh for leverage, “God, I have such a fucking headache.” You watched him walk out of the room and up the stairs. Your frustration of the past few days began to evaporate as you watched him go, no longer obsessing over what you weren’t getting but, instead, appreciating what you had.

……

When you joined him upstairs a few minutes later, you found him lying face down on your bed, his sneakers flung to opposite sides of the room. “I’m sorry, Brian.”

“For what?” you asked, sitting on the edge of bed.

“For hurting him. He’s your best friend.”

You smiled, putting your hand on the back of his head, “No, you’re my best friend.”

He held your hand, sliding it out of his hair, “Really?”

“Yes, really.”

*******************
he was impressive
young and agressive


There’s a phenomenon on every roller coaster that every rider covets—air time--the moment of zero gravity. Some travel the world trying to find the ride that can sustain that heady suspension the longest, prolonging the instant euphoria. And then there are some who’s every contact with the sensation makes them blow chunks…

Justin bunched a pillow underneath his head, the expression on his face beginning to deflate as he told you, “I don’t feel like I fit in here anymore.” The look on his face told you that, as far as he was concerned, that was his reality, but, still, you tried to convince him otherwise,

“Things are a little different, but that doesn’t mean—"

“A little different? They’re a lot different. Everybody you know works for you. Hell, everybody I know works for you. You own everything. I can’t even have a conversation with my mother without every other word being, ‘Brian this,’ or ‘Brian that.’”

“It’s just an adjustment, Justin. Everything will smooth out.”

“I mean, Christ. I went to go see Michael. I was excited to see him again, Brian. We’re friends, or I thought we were. And then all of a sudden and totally by accident, it became all about you. Or rather, what you were doing with me.” His head sunk back into his pillow.

“Justin, I really don’t think that’s what his reaction was about.”

“Well, with all due respect, you weren’t there.”

“He just wants something he can never have.”

“Yeah, you.

He rolled his eyes when you disagreed, reason so distant at that moment that you changed the subject, “Your head hurts?”

“Yeah, like hell.” Time for Plan B.

“I’ll be right back.” You looked back over your shoulder once you were in the doorway and added, “Leave the lights on and get undressed.” The best way to deal with Justin’s stubbornness had always been to distract him and hope that when he caught on and tried to return to it, it had tired of waiting and fled the scene.

*******************
everybody plays the fool

In the olden days of backrooms and bathrooms, a fuck was like a handshake to you—a handshake with a spark. It always originated with you, and you shared it with someone else when it was in your best interest. The brief connection was powerful, but always the same every single time. It took the universe quite a while to convince you that there was more pleasure in denying someone what he was expecting, and then making him wait to get what he wanted . So, over time, you learned to tease the spark out of Justin, and once you captured it, to keep it viable for as long as possible. When done right, it was significant ‘air time’ for both of you.

You could hear him rustling in the bedroom as you descended the stairs to find your briefcase and get ready. He took one look at you when you returned and flew under the covers, a curious, but somewhat frightened, look on his face,

“Oh my god. What the--?”

“You were unaware that Dr. Kinney makes house calls?” you asked.

“I don’t remember making an appointment,” he said, yanking the covers all the way up to the top of his neck.

“You were under hypnosis at the time.”

……

He tried not to laugh, “So if you count to three, I’ll cluck like a chicken?”

“Something like that.”

It was the height of irony that the props from the failed Erectile Dysfunction ad you pitched to Remson were now the very things that were going to resurrect your fledgling sex life. You were proud of yourself for having finally found a use for the white lab coat and stethoscope, and, amazingly, for finding your glasses all by yourself. Justin seemed less proud, and more, well, concerned. There was nothing on under your lab coat, and you fiddled in the right hand pocket for a tongue depressor. His eyes froze on your face when you sat down beside him and told him, “I’m afraid, Mr. Taylor, that you need a complete physical examination.”

“I’m afraid, too.”

His nervous laugh only spurred you on as you forced yourself not to smile. “You seem a little on edge.”

“I am, especially now.”

“Sit up.” He hesitated, scanning your face as if he was trying to be sure it was really you, and then finally sat up, still clutching the covers around him. You disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a small cup of water and a blue pill in your hand, both of which you handed to him. “Bottoms up.”

“Very funny.”

“Valium. Enjoy.”

He swallowed it, drinking all the water. “You have a very nice bedside manner, Dr. Kinney.”

You took the glass from him and sat it down, “I’ll bet you say that to all the doctors.”

He lay back down, his hands resting above the covers, his fingers toying with the sleeve of your coat, “Just the rich ones that let me walk all over them.”

*******************
I told the witch doctor I was in love with you

While you waited for the moment when you knew the pill was having an affect, the two of you decided that you should give Zeek the two cases of condoms. It would be an odd olive branch, but somehow it seemed fitting, considering he was apparently the glue holding your (emotionally fragile) management team together. You told Justin about your day, he told you about his, and then his eyes closed for a second longer than a blink, and when he opened them again, he was sort of smiling. It’d happened quicker than you expected.

“You don’t have any food on your stomach, do you?” you asked.

“Nope. I wasn’t hungry after all that crap with Michael.”

“How do you feel?”

“Ridiculously content.”

“Good.”

……

“Come here, Dr. Kinney. Kiss me with your glasses on.” You obliged him, letting your hand slip under the sheets, planting the stethoscope on his chest. His body jerked underneath you immediately, “That’s fucking cold.”

“Just wait ‘til it’s between your legs.”

“I don’t recall signing a consent form for that.”

Sometimes he’s so fucking adorable. “You waived that a long time ago, Sunshine.”

“Cluck. Cluck. Cluck.”

He was ready to object to the treatment until he felt your hand moving in advance of the metal. You smiled when you felt his erection forming in your palm. “I like that, Dr. Kinney,” he told you, his hand pressing on yours from over the sheets.

“I know what you like, Mr. Taylor. I’ve read your chart cover to cover.” You tugged on the sheet still covering his chest, “May I have that, please?” He obeyed reluctantly. “Now, put your arms up over your head, and keep them there.” You helped him a little, pushing them out of the way. And then you cuffed them to the wrought iron headboard just because he asked so nicely. “You have such nice manners when you’re looped.”

“Thank you.”

*******************
the doctor knew just what to do

You’d raised the heat in the upstairs by a few degrees as you were preparing for your patient, and it paid off because he didn’t seem to shiver when you pulled the sheet down to his ankles, smiling at your approval of his restrained, aroused body. It was one of the most delicious paradoxes in bedroom science: the sooner you tie him up, the sooner he’ll want to let go. You began your examination with his face, kissing his eyelids, his nose, his cheeks, and then the warm and waiting areas behind his ear and down his neck. He bent his knees and you were lying between them when he asked, “Please take off your coat. I want to feel your skin.” You unbuttoned it, and he moaned when your chest touched his. You slipped the stethoscope between you, letting it rest on a nipple, and he began to writhe under your weight.

“Shh, Justin,” and he did once he realized that your mouth was following the instrument, sucking and warming the affected skin. He began to pull against his restraints, a sign that the scope on his cock was a maddening sensation, one that he wanted you to make go away. His legs were open, but you made him spread further as the instrument grazed his balls and pressed underneath them, a wet finger already sliding into his bottom.

He couldn’t touch himself, and it drove him crazy. With your stethoscope pressed against his inner thigh, you told him to be quiet, watching how wet he was getting as you touched him. “I think I hear something,” you told him, as he’d given up trying to use his hips to guide your hands.

“What?”

“Your muse.”

“Oh god, you’ve lost your mind.” But he was lying. You could tell from the look his face and the desperation in his voice—it was his mind that was long gone.

“You can’t hear it? It’s saying, ’Fuck me, fuck me, oh god in heaven, please fuck me.’

His head popped up off the mattress, “That’s me, you quack.”

It was a logical mistake. You hadn’t heard that in so many days, you barely recognized it anymore.

*******************
he cured the infection with one small injection

Any lover worth his salt is a scientist and an artist at heart, concerning himself with the precise moment that expectations and pleasure try to connect. To hold them at bay without discouraging them is pure science (some still call it ‘advertising’), an experiment easily duplicated with practice, but to exploit the eventual impact takes nothing short of artistic talent—the replication of the exact opposite of buyer’s remorse--pleasing the client..

You tossed your glasses and lifted his thighs, letting them rest on your shoulders, and then took your time, holding his hips at bay as he begged you to suck him off. You refused, pushing his thighs back, letting him feel your mouth trailing down the back of his them, and then taking your much anticipated place inside of him for a nice, slow fuck. He was pinned underneath you, and the more he tried to resist you, the harder you held him down, your mouth right beside his ear so you could hear everything coming out of him.

Combative abandon.

He was begging for relief, having resigned himself to the fact that you were going to come first, when the warmth spilled inside him. “God, that feels so fucking good,” he breathed in your ear as he came. You kissed him, smearing the proof all over his chest. “Please let me go. Let me touch you.” You freed him, closing your eyes when his hands combed through your hair, pulling you down so he could kiss you, the urgency behind it rushing between your legs. “Take this fucking coat off,” he demanded, pulling it off your shoulders, and then yanking the stethoscope from around your neck and throwing it across the room. Your little diamond…that likes it rough.

“Take it easy, Sunshine.”

It was a perfunctory response; you wanted nothing of the sort. It seemed like an eternity since he’d wanted you so badly. His desire for you has always been your downfall. Sometimes you were less than adept at realizing it was the same for him.

*******************
what is love?

When you first met Justin, you were convinced that love was an illusion, mastered only by those who could be duplicitous, who could harbor the urge to care and to hurt simultaneously. You were convinced that there was only one definition of love.

Yours.

But then the realization that you wanted things for him, things that you’d denied yourself, opened a window inside you that you could’ve sworn was painted shut. To want to open it was terrifying; to see yourself opening it was paralyzing. And now that he was back, fucking him had become less of a handshake and more about the handling, about balancing on a rickety ladder while you pried open the rusty window screen. It was the first time you’d even seen yourself on the other side of that window, brave enough to be looking in, amazed that you’d steadied yourself.

He didn’t seem amazed, though. And although he’d doubted the sincerity of some of your more blatant overtures in the past, that didn’t seem to be the case anymore. You were relieved though somewhat dubious. It wasn’t easy to feel someone love you; your instinct was to question it. Your fear of it had worn the same mask for eleven years—eventually, he’ll leave. But when the mask finally dried up and crumbled, the real fear stood tall and staring at your uncovered eyes—he’ll stay and see me for who I really am.

And who were you? The question had only episodic answers.

And in that night’s episode you were his lover.

*******************
like a game show contestant with a parting gift,
I could not believe my eyes


Preparing to fist him that night felt different than the first time at The Rockford. His body felt more relaxed as you touched him. You kneeled in front of him just like before letting his legs drape over your knees. There was resistance just like the first time, but it was a different sort. You remember feeling him working with you to control the pace as you worked your way inside him, the smile on his face that seemed spontaneous as if it wasn’t the work of his mouth.

His self-gratification claimed you both, seeming to use the two of you for its single-minded purpose. You felt almost frozen as you watched his body stretch into the pleasure, one hand reaching over his head to wrap around the headboard while he stroked himself with the other. As for the latter, you were doing the same when you could.

The muscles in his fingers, his arms and legs, seemed to stare at you, defining themselves in protest, as you closed your hand inside him. It was as if they’d taken over trying to control the tsunami that was about to crash over him. But you hadn’t. You’d placed your hand on his inner thigh, stilling him when you knew he was going to come, and he grabbed it and held on like it was his only lifeline. The pressure on your hand, the heat, when he came, was the only thing making you think he hadn’t left the atmosphere on a temporary ecstasy visa. You saw yourself come between his legs, but it almost surprised you, feeling more like a reflex than anything else. As reflexes go, it was definitely one of the more noteworthy ones.

And as much as his body had invited you in, it seemed to be throwing you out in the next few minutes, and Justin’s eyes fixed on your face, “Brian.”

“Just relax.”

……

The aftermath was what you expected, although he was less patient as you cleaned up. You chalked that up to his anticipation of the pain he knew was coming and worked as fast as you could to make him comfortable, offering him more Valium, and turning off the lights. Your chest was pressed against his back as you asked, “You’re okay?”

He swallowed, “Yeah.”

You propped your arm along his thigh, “Want me to turn the television on?”

He shook his head, “No.”

……

“Do you need anything?” you asked, covering him up. He was shivering.

“I’m not cold; I’m just shaking.”

“I know.”

“I just need to lay here for a minute.”

“Head still hurt?”

“Not a bit.”

“Good.”

……

……

Your eyes were closed as you lay beside him when your stomach growled, echoing in the silence.

“You’re hungry, Dr. Kinney.”

“I guess so.”

“Go get something to eat.”

“In a while. I’m fine.”

……

His hand was pressed against his stomach, and you held it, kissing the back of his neck, his shoulder, “I love you.”

……

……

Eventually, his body unfolded as the pain went away, and he rolled over in your arms, reaching for your face.

“Better now?” you wanted to know.

“Yeah.” His voice sounded tired, medicated. “I think I’m falling asleep.”

“You are.”

“But I have to tell you something.”

“I’m listening.”

His head had dropped against you as if it’d just gotten too heavy, “The painting that I said I didn’t like.”

“It’s okay. Don’t worry about that.” You brushed his hair out of his face.

“I’m not. I know what it means.”

“You do?”

He yawned, “Yep.”

……

……

……

“Justin?”

“Hmm?”

“What does it mean?”

……

“What does what mean?”

“The painting, Sunshine. You said you know—"

“Oh, yeah. It means it’s not about the words.”

……

When he woke up an hour and a half later, it was hanging over the bed.

*******************
wild thing,
you make my heart sing


The weekend passed without one comment about it from either of you, and by Sunday morning, Justin’s energy level had spiked to that of a beaver on speed. You were a little concerned, but he was fascinating to watch at the grocery store and every other store he dragged you to on Sunday because he just had to get ‘one more thing.’ He didn’t complain once while in the Mercedes or disparage the kitchen in any way while the two of you were (at his insistence) reorganizing the pantry.

You took him out for dinner Sunday night and tried to get him drunk, but his tolerance to alcohol seemed to have spiked as well. You had no other choice but to pound him into the sofa, the futon, and the mattress when you got home, and when he implied that he wouldn’t mind going again, you picked up the phone and pretended to dial 9-1-1. Clearly, your life was in jeopardy.

It was more like your ass.

He fucked you with a misguided enthusiasm that reminded you of Frankenstein trying to cuddle with a hamster.

When he finished, he collapsed on the bed beside you, slapped you on the butt, and said, “Give me a cigarette.”

You were afraid to disobey him, so you lit one for him. “I thought you were quitting,” you told him as you gave it to him.

“Yeah, right. What a crock of shit.”

You slept on your back that night with one eye open, terrified that he’d wake up at midnight and want a rematch.

*******************
I’m gonna be the man who goes along with you

He was still chipper for the Monday morning fuck, and then joined you in the shower for an instant replay. You were actually relieved to get in the car and go to work. While you drove, you wondered if the pharmacist who’d filled his allergy meds had accidentally switched them with Viagra. Monday night was more of the same, so you got stoned so you could suffer through it. On Tuesday morning, you woke up, went to piss, and when you came back to bed to perform your carnal ritual, he was on his knees waiting. When you were ready to leave for work, he met you in the doorway like he did every morning to kiss you good-bye, but this time, there was a suitcase in his hand. Your suitcase.

“Here,” he told you as he handed it to you. “Don’t come home tonight.”

“What?”

“You heard me. Don’t come home tonight. Sleep at the loft. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

What the fuck?

“You’re kicking me out of my own house?”

“Yes, I am. You’re a big boy; you’ll be fine.”

“Why?”

He smiled and bounced on his toes, “Can’t tell you. Go hang out with Michael or something. See your friends.”

“I don’t want to see my friends.” (You sounded like Gus when you forced him to take a bath.)

He pushed you out the door. “Go. Have a good day. I love you. Bye.”

“But—"

“I packed you clothes for tonight if you want to go out, your gym clothes, and work clothes for tomorrow. There’s some E in there, too. You have everything you need.”

You tried to appeal to the maniacally horny part of him that you were suddenly really missing, “But I need to fuck you tonight.”

“You can make it up to me.”

“Oh, well, in that case—" You moved toward him, thinking that if you just started that immediately, he’d forget all about this nonsense, but he was on to you.

“Jesus, you’re a drama queen. Go to work. Have fun. I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

He shut the door and waived to you from the window. You could hear him laughing all the way to the car. Where was Dr. Kinney when you needed him?

*******************
reflections of the fears I know I left behind

 



When you were a kid, your father would take you and Claire to Hershey Park. It was the only activity you can really remember doing with your dad. The images have become aged and distorted in your mind, but you’re never able to doubt their veracity. Jack enjoyed those outings because he could smoke the entire time and because you and Claire could pretty much occupy yourselves. You enjoyed it, too, up to the point when you got to the roller coasters. Your father had to ride with you because Claire wasn’t tall enough, and because, for some reason, your dad wouldn’t let you go alone. Claire would pitch a fit at being forced to stay behind, but your dad would give her a dollar so she could buy some ice cream and that always seemed to calm her down.

The older you got, the more you began to dread those roller coaster rides. There was something about the look on your father’s face, the pleasure he seemed to get when he knew that you were terrified. It was as if he’d decided that being willing to ride a roller coaster was somehow a mark of your character. You always felt that your manhood was at stake. And when Claire was finally tall enough to go, he still went with both of you, his eyes always focused on your face at the top of the first hill.

The year that Hershey Park got a twin coaster was the last year your father took the two of you. You insisted on riding in the first car and that he ride in the other. He didn’t realize that the trains would part after the first hill, and he’d be separated from you until the end of the ride. You laughed at him when the trains parted ways.

And when you remember it—and even though the technology wasn’t available then—you always picture the ride operator snapping a picture of you and your father when you were the most terrified and selling it to you on the way out. You can never stop yourself; you buy it every single time.

*******************
I got the rockin’ pneumonia and the boogie woogie flu

You smoked all the way to work that day, feeling like a complete idiot for not figuring out that Justin was up to something…He only ate my ass last night because he was going to toss me out on it this morning… You were grouchy once you got to work, screamed at Theodore because your revised, third quarter projections weren’t on your desk the minute you walked in, and then barked at Cynthia because she’d (supposedly) forgotten to remind you that you had a conference call with Nate at eight thirty, and you’d arrived at eight thirty-two. You knew you were being a royal ass and avoided everyone for the rest of the day.

Ruben was thrilled to see you at Babylon that night—(he was the only one that was)—and you helped him serve so that he could spend more time walking along the bar on his hands and less time pouring. (You’d made at least one person happy.) Zeek was there, but he always took his job too seriously when you were around. During a lull in the bar traffic, you found yourself watching the security feed from the new backroom in The Mecca, and actually thought that those older guys looked really pathetic hitting on those twinks. One night without Justin and your world had turned completely upside down. Pathetic.

The loft was too quiet, the bed felt too big, and you kept waiting for him to join you in the shower. The next morning, you had to get your own coffee, and while you were sitting at the bar drinking it, you took your wedding ring off and gave it a piece of your mind…Look what you’ve done to me.

It knew you didn’t mean it and ignored you.

*******************
he came a long way just to explain

So by the time you finally got home Tuesday night, you felt as if the twin coasters were finally pulling into the station. Justin seemed genuinely glad to see you, led you up the stairs, and then made you close your eyes before you stepped into your bedroom. It smelled different.

“Okay, open your eyes.” He’d painted…the walls.

“Whoa.”

“You hate it?”

You loved it. He’d completely redecorated. Gone were the dark blue linens, the dark blue walls, and in their place was dark brown. He’d recreated your entire bedroom to compliment the painting hanging over the bed. The walls were a warm coffee color, the hardwood floors looked fantastic with the new color scheme, the bed frame was a beautiful, dark cherry, the comforter and pillows…

“Neiman Marcus. Do you really like it?”

“It looks amazing.”

He was grinning from ear to ear, “I put our old stuff in the guest bedroom.”

“I can’t believe you did all this by yourself.”

“I know. I got inspired.”

“How much did this set me back?”

“Oh please, do you really care?”

“That bad, huh?” You pulled the comforter back to feel the dark brown sheets. “Brown sheets. You’re tired of doing laundry?”

“Very funny.”

It was funny actually. There were two more sets just like them in the linen closet. You had to admire his practicality. “Where’s the chair that was in the corner?”

“Being recovered.”

“Wow.” You pushed him down on your brand new bed and started peeling his pants off. “Is this why Zeek called in sick yesterday?”

“Just fuck me.”

*******************
can I help it if I think you’re funny when you’re mad?

Sunday morning, April 3, 2011

You didn’t know it then, but that Sunday morning marked the beginning of the last twenty-four hours of domestic bliss that you and Justin would have for quite a while. You spent it arguing with him about what he was making for breakfast, informing him,

“I’m not eating French Toast for breakfast, Justin.”

“If I make it, you’re going to eat it.” It smelled really good. “Besides, it’s fat free.”

He was such a little liar, “Justin, I’m watching you make it. Do you think I’m an idiot?”

He cracked another egg, “Well, then, don’t look.” You walked to the sink to rinse out your coffee cup, and when you were done, you popped him in the ass with a dish towel. “What are you? Five?” he asked.

You wrapped your arms around him, letting your head rest on his shoulder, “Well, apparently I am since I’m being mothered to death.”

He rolled his eyes, “What would you know about mothering?”

“You’re so moody when you cook.”

He laid his spatula down and turned around in your arms, “This isn’t mothering; it’s a very rare type of foreplay practiced only by extremely attractive, candy-ass, blond men under thirty who put up with your bullshit because you’re the most beautiful man and the best goddamn lay in the Western hemisphere.”

You held him tighter, “That is the most intelligent thing to come out of your mouth since the day I met you, Sunshine.”

“Well, I’m wicked-smart.”

“And wicked-modest.”

……

So the two of you ate French Toast and read the paper, and the kitchen was epitome of peaceful again, until he told you, “I just think you should know, I’m firing the pool boy tomorrow.”

Your section of the paper landed on your plate and was immediately soaked in syrup, “Excuse me?” The fuck he was.

“I’m going to fire him tomorrow.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am.”

You assumed that Justin was having another crisis of conscience, “Look, so what if he’s not legal. Who cares?”

“I don’t care if he’s legal or not.”

“Then why do you want to get rid of him?” You thought about it for a minute, and then added, “Because Zeek fucks him in the pool house?”

“You know about that?”

“Of course. He leaves evidence all over the place.”

“That’s not why.”

You took his newspaper away from him so he could stop hiding behind it, “Then why?”

“Because he doesn’t listen to me.”

Good lord.

“I don’t care if he wipes his ass on the welcome mat, Justin, you’re not firing him. You have no idea how long it took me to train him to do the yard, and the pool, and everything the way I want it done.”

“Twice I’ve thrown those ugly ass gnome statues away, and twice he knocks on the damn door, and when I answer it, he says, ‘Here, Misser Taylor. You make mistake.’”

You started laughing.

“It’s not funny, Brian.”

“Don’t throw those statues away. I like them.”

“You would. Might as well have pink flamingos in the front yard.”

……

He’d lied to you that morning. That French Toast was fattier than hell and you were completely unable to charm any foreplay out of it. When Justin refused to blow you in the shower, you pinned him against the wall and told him, “Excuse me, Misser Taylor. You make mistake.”

He got out of the shower before you, and when you were finally ready to leave the comfort of the pelting, hot water, every towel in the bathroom was gone.

“Get your candy-ass back here, Misser Taylor!” (He’d taken the rug, too.)

“YOU MAKE MISTAKE!”

*******************
c’mon ride the train

 




Hershey Park was home to a wooden coaster called The Timber Trap. As roller coasters go, it approached its mission in life much differently. It wasn’t there to wow you with the latest technology or to take you higher than you’d ever been before; its purpose was much more subtle: to teach you to expect the unexpected. You’ll never forget the noise it made, the rickety symphony you were treated to each time you road it. There was nothing unstable or unsafe about the ride, but it was determined to make you think that there was. And then there was always the best part: diving between the trees. The train wound through the enclosed forest thrilling you yet forever obstructing your view of what was going to happen next.

There was a time in your early twenties when you returned to Hershey Park with Michael in tow to relive all of the experiences that were so vivid in your mind. And as they often are, the memories were more enticing than the reality. When the two of you left the park that day, you looked back over your shoulder and thought, This is the last time I’ll ever come here. But just like the predetermined tracks of that wooden coaster, your destination was pre-arranged and your journey to the end would be complete with free falls into a dark, screaming forest.


Lyrics taken from Alanis Morissette’s Ironic, The Temptations’ The Way You Do the Things You Do, Smokey Robinson & The Miracles’s I Second that Emotion, Jimmy Buffet’s Why Don’t We Get Drunk and Screw?, Aaron Neville’s Everybody Plays the Fool, David Seville’s Witch Doctor, Interjections from School House Rock twice, Haddaway’s What is Love (Baby, Don’t Hurt Me No More, Blue Traveler’s Run Around, The Trogg’s Wild Thing, The Proclaimer’s I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles), Heather Small’s Proud, Johnny Rivers’s Rockin’ Pneumonia, Paul Simon’s Slip Slidin’ Away, Bare Naked Ladies’s One Week, and the Quad City DJ’s C’mon & Ride It (The Train).

Chapter End Notes:

Original publication date 6/11/06

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