The Present



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



It was ten-twenty on a Friday night, and they were lying in bed. Well, Brian was lying in bed; Justin was sitting up, reading one of his art magazines. Brian was on his side, his back to Justin and his arm stretched out, staring at his limp hand and trying to sort through a tangle of emotions. It wasn’t easy. Not only was he unused to being sober long enough to truly experience unpleasant feelings, but many of the feelings he’d never felt before. For example, was this how the soldiers in World War One felt as they spent months hunkered down in their trenches, trading mortar fire with an invisible enemy? A combination of boredom and terror? If so, then Brian could sympathize with them. He was bored out of his mind. No less than three months ago, this time on a Friday night would’ve found him in his VIP lounge at Babylon, drinking Beam and surveying his realm looking for the hottest guy on the dance floor. And now? Now here he was, glaring at his hand as though it was the source of all his angst. Despite being in his own bed in his own room in his own home, he felt like he’d been kidnapped by aliens and was currently flying around in outer space looking down at a green and blue, marble-sized earth.



And the terror? Well, that was harder to define – and even harder to acknowledge. He’d flush it down a drain of denial except he couldn’t. It was too present, too real. His heart would start pounding in the grocery store or at the dry cleaner’s or in the Vette on the drive to work; he’d never had a panic attack before, so he couldn’t be absolutely certain that that was what was happening, but he was pretty sure it was. The only question was why was he feeling so terrified? Was it the bomb? Was it Lindsay and Gus’s pending move to Toronto? Was it the lingering effects of Michael’s near-death? Was it that he and Justin were . . . ?



Brian slammed his mind shut. He wasn’t going to go there. He couldn’t go there because if he did . . . if he started to ask himself questions . . .



“Maybe you’d rather just cuddle.”



He hadn’t planned to say them. The words had simply left his mouth before he’d had the chance to consider the consequences. His voice had been sarcastic. Even biting. Definitely confrontational.



Justin had been trying his best all evening to coax Brian out of his surly mood. Just before Brian had dropped the Cuddle Bomb, Justin had been trying to initiate sex, but any thought of sex vanished when Justin leapt out of the bed as though there’d been a wasp under the covers and he’d been stung by it.



Shit.



Brian sat up. Something was coming, but what? Justin was furious, pink-cheeked and ready for a fight.



This can’t be a good thing, Brian thought crazily. He didn’t know much about rehearsal dinners, but he was pretty sure that a ripping fight the night before shouldn’t be part of the plan.



Why’d he do it? What had he been trying to communicate?



Alarmingly, he realized that he wasn’t entirely sure.





Five Days Earlier

“Brian!”



He was headed for his office when Cynthia grabbed his arm. He’d just escorted Remsen’s people to the door with a promise to present them with something “appropriate” (as opposed to “sophomoric” and “offensive”) at their next meeting. Now he needed some time alone. And a glass or two of whiskey.



“What?” he snapped.



“We don’t need them anymore,” she said. “We’ve got plenty of clients. We can afford to let Remsen Pharmaceuticals go. Ever since what’s-her-name took over the sales department, working with them has been hell. It’s not worth it. You should see how angry you look right now. I haven’t seen you this angry in months. Hell, I’m not sure I’ve seen you this angry since your mother was here and you told her you’d rather spend eternity in hell than one day in heaven with her.”



Brian snorted. Now, that was a pleasant memory. It made up for the total absence of pleasant memories from his childhood. Well, almost.



Cynthia loosened her grip, but she didn’t release him.



“Let it go,” she said. “You’re getting married this weekend.”



“Which means what, exactly?” Brian replied. “That I can’t be pissed-off because that bitch has neither a sense of humor nor a sense for business?”



“It means that it’s simply not worth it. This should be the happiest time of your life.”



Brian tugged his arm free of her grasp, dropped his head into his hands and scrubbed his face. This should be the happiest time of your life. Everyone had been saying the same thing for days.



“I wish people would stop telling me how I should feel,” he mumbled, combing his fingers through his hair with exasperation.



Cynthia didn’t say anything, but her weary, disappointed sigh spoke volumes. He knew what she was thinking and willed her not to say it. He might be scared, but he was not contemplating canceling the wedding. The wedding was going to happen. It was just . . .



“Look,” he said. “I’m just feeling a bit tired, and you know that being called ‘sophomoric’ pisses me off. Not to mention the fact that now I’ve got to spend the next few days designing an ad while trying not to puke.”



She nodded, seemingly satisfied with his response.



“Why don’t you hand it off to someone in the art department?” she said. “It’s not like it’s going to require the master’s touch.”



Brian put on his coat. The weather had been cold this morning, the rain flirting with the possibility of snow. In mid-April. Thank God, he and Justin would be in Monaco this time next week.



“Lunch or home?” she asked.



“Home,” he replied.



“Coming back?”



“Not unless I have to.”



“Do you want me to tell Elliot to find some models?”



“Sure. Why not?”



“Any requests?”



“Silver-haired. Patrician. Bland, happily-married expressions. I don’t care. Whatever. Just tell him what the concept’s going to be and let him go nuts. He’ll like that.”



“And Heidi? Do you want her to set up a date for the photo shoot, or do you want to make that call?”



“Seriously, Cynthia,” he said, pulling on his gloves and heading for the door. “I couldn’t care less. Tell her to do what she wants. Just tell the art department to have the mock-ups ready for me by Thursday.”



He didn’t wait for a response before throwing open the door more forcefully than necessary and letting it slam shut behind him. It was only then, outside and alone, that he realized he was shaking with anger. Renee Dickinson wanted “monogamy.” She wanted “intimacy.” She wanted “dignity.” What the hell did that mean? That fucking was somehow innately undignified? Something people should only do with the lights off or else in front of crackling fires with light jazz playing in the background? Because if that’s true, then he hadn’t gotten the fucking memo – nor did he want to.



But it was too late now. Far too late. He was about to join the herd. The happily married, monogamous herd.



He walked to the Vette, his hands shoved in his pockets and his shoulders hunched around his ears. These are conservative times, Brian. Sex no longer sells. The words echoed in his head. It was bullshit, and he knew it. Sex would always sell. Hell, look at the Victorian Era – the more hung-up and prudish society is, the more sexually obsessed it becomes. He was right. His ads were right. He didn’t doubt that. His faith in his own vision hadn’t been shaken, so why was he so upset? If he capitulated and created an insipid ad at the client’s bidding, it wouldn’t be the first time. It wasn’t like he’d be selling his soul to a puritanical devil.



So what was it? Why was he shaking?



He got into the Vette, but he didn’t start the engine. Instead he just sat there. He had no idea where he was going to go – in fact, there was really nowhere he particularly wanted to be. Before . . . before he’d gotten engaged, he would’ve headed to the nearest bathhouse, done some coke and fucked some guy senseless. But he couldn’t do that. When he’d asked Justin to marry him, he’d made a promise – a promise that he would give Justin whatever he needed to be happy. One of those things was monogamy.



They hadn’t talked about it. Brian knew that if he were to discuss his concerns with Lindsay, she (or anyone else) would tell him how stupid he and Justin had been. Sexual exclusivity – especially for gay men – was a really big deal, something that needed to be discussed and about which agreements had to be hammered out. He and Justin had done neither. At the time, Brian really hadn’t seen the point. He’d known Justin for five years and for at least 75 percent of that time, Justin had wanted them to be monogamous. Isn’t that why Justin had made the no-kissing rule? Isn’t that why Justin had left him for Ethan? Isn’t that why Justin had left again in November? Why discuss something so obvious? Why dredge up old grievances and bad memories. Brian’s tricking was over. Case closed. Why turn it into a big, fucking deal?



Because it was a big, fucking deal?



Brian rested his forehead on the steering wheel. He’d been a fool to think he could just snap his fingers and change the way he’d lived and thought for twenty years. And the truth – the honest to God fucking truth – was that he didn’t want to. He didn’t want to give up tricking. He simply didn’t want to, and why should he? His tricks had never been a threat to Justin. Never. Not since the day he and Justin had met. When Brian had taken Justin home that second time, Justin had become someone special. Someone to whom the rules didn’t apply. And from that day on, he’d become more and more special. Brian had never wavered in his devotion. Never. He could fuck a dozen guys a day, and it wouldn’t matter. It wouldn’t change his feelings for Justin – hell, it wouldn’t even affect them.



But the point was moot. Whether or not he regretted it, Brian had made a promise. The issue was settled. Besides, what if he did try to raise the subject? Christ, he could see it all as clear as day. Justin would feel angry, betrayed . . . and that would be it. The wedding would be off. The marriage nullified before it even began.



Uhm, Justin?”



Yes, Brian?



About this whole monogamy thing . . . .



. . . What do you mean ‘about this whole monogamy thing’?



Well, you see. It’s like this. I don’t want to be monogamous . . . it doesn’t mean I don’t want to marry you, it’s just that . . .



. . . So, what you’re saying is that you want an open marriage?



An ‘open marriage’? Honestly, I don’t even know what that means. I just want to fuck other guys now and then. Not every day. Maybe not even every week, but I still want that. I still need that.



I see. And you didn’t tell me this before you proposed to me because why?



Because I . . . shit. I wanted to marry you . . . I still want to marry you. The whole monogamy thing . . . well, it didn’t feel important at the time . . .



Didn’t feel important.

Yeah.



But it’s important now.



Well . . . uhm, yeah. I guess it is. Justin, is this going to be some kind of deal breaker? Because if it is . . .



If it is, what? Of course, it’s a deal breaker, Brian! I left you because of the tricking. I left you because I was fucking sick of that way of life! I was sick of Babylon. I was sick of you going out every night! I was sick of you fucking around!



It doesn’t have to be ‘a way of life.’ I mean, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. Listen, I’ll be discreet about it. I won’t let it ever interfere with our time together. It’s not like I’d be going out to clubs and screwing in backrooms. Hell, I won’t even trick at the bathhouses. I’ll go off the internet . . .



What? And bring strangers back to our house, to our bed? Or are you going to set up a separate room. Hell, the house is big enough. Why not? I’ll have an art studio, and you can have a fuck studio. Very cozy and convenient, I’d say.



Justin, wait! Hear me out . . .



I have heard you, Brian. Loud and clear. You’re saying you don’t want to be in a monogamous relationship. Well, I do. And you damn well knew that before you proposed. Jesus, Brian! We’ve already sent out invitations. We’ve already bought suits and rings and . . .



Justin, please. Stop. Listen, if this is a deal breaker . . .



It is.



. . . then we’ll be monogamous. I want you more than . . .



Sorry, Brian. You showed your hand. That cat can’t get stuffed back in the bag. I know how you feel now. Every time you see a hot guy, you’ll think ‘God, I’d love to fuck him – too bad my husband is a fucking ball and chain.’ No way, Brian. No fucking way. I told you I didn’t want to be in a marriage with someone who will fail at it. What about that did you not understand? Or did you just not care?



Tricking doesn’t have to ruin a marriage . . . Where’s you romanticism? Isn’t love the only thing we need?



Fidelity is part of love. Without it, love is a mere illusion.



So . . . so what are you saying?



I’m saying the wedding’s off. Good-bye, Brian.



Brian lifted his head off the steering wheel and started the engine. That would be how the conversation would go. He knew it. The voices and images were so vivid in his mind that he might as well be watching a movie. If he brought up monogamy now . . . if he said he didn’t want their marriage to be sexually exclusive . . . Justin would leave him. Brian knew it in the marrow of his bones. His tricking was the reason Justin kept leaving him. Brian knew that when he’d asked Justin to marry him. There was no way in hell he could go back on any of those commitments now. He’d lose Justin. He didn’t want to lose Justin. And he sure as hell wasn’t going to fuck guys behind Justin’s back. Which only meant one thing. He had to change – not only his attitude about sex, but his attitude about life in general, about what it means to be a homosexual. About what it means to be himself.



He wasn’t terribly surprised when he found himself pulling into the parking lot of a bathhouse in Cleveland. He turned off the engine and sat with his hands on the steering wheel again, staring unseeingly into the middle distance. The building was made of grey cement blocks, windowless and undeniably seedy. Was he really going in? Was he really that desperate? He’d been engaged for all of two months. Hell, he wasn’t even married yet, and there he was already thinking about cheating? God. What was wrong with him?



In the end, after a long, agonizing struggle, he went in, but he didn’t do anything. He just walked the halls, glancing into rooms where men waited with their asses in the air, their holes already stretched and lubed. The sound of fucking echoed off the walls, punctuated now and then by a command or a plea. Brian felt like a ghost, like he’d died and was returning briefly to an old haunt before fading into the shadows. He’d never been in that particular bathhouse, but it didn’t matter. Bathhouses were pretty much all the same. Even the guys looked the same. Brian didn’t care. He never had. All he’d ever wanted were muscles, a rough, masculine voice, a hot ass, a cut cock, and a willing mouth. If the faces were pleasant to look at, well, then hey, bonus. But at the end of the day, it was about fucking. It was about making a stranger beg for your cock and shout obscenities when he comes. That was it. Nothing more. There was no one in any one of those rooms or in any room in any bathhouse in the world that he wanted to fall asleep next to. Justin had nothing to fear from these places, nothing to fear from these men. For Brian, going to a bathhouse was like going to a gym. You fuck, take a shower and go home feeling refreshed. That was it. Nothing more.



He jerked off watching a guy getting fucked from both ends and obviously loving every moment of it. When someone tried to take over and go down on him, Brian shook his head. No one was going to touch him. No one was even going to speak to him. After he came, he took a shower, got dressed and drove home.



Thank God, Justin didn’t ask him where he’d been. He wouldn’t have lied, consequences be damned.