Chapter 16 - History Repeating.

It took me a few minutes after I woke up the next morning before I realized where I was. The room I was lying in was dimly lit - even though I suspected it was already fairly late in the morning - and the poor lighting made it even more difficult to suss out my surroundings. The old-fashioned brass bedstead and other antique furniture threw me off at first. Then I remembered that I’d stayed over at Eggy’s the night before in order to ‘protect’ him from the invaders that he’d imagined coming in through his tunnel. Luckily, this time he took pity on me and, instead of his couch, offered me one of his spare rooms - get real, he owned an entirely empty six story building, so it’s not like he was short on space, right? - so I’d jumped on the opportunity.

I could have stayed curled up in bed all morning, it was so warm and cosy - and let’s be honest, it was a hell of a lot more comfortable than that damned couch - but my stomach was already protesting at going without dinner the night before. So if I didn’t get up and eat something now, I was only going to embarrass myself later when my tummy would start making those awful gremlin noises it makes when I neglect it. Plus, I was eager to go find my Egbert and fill my eyes with his morning yumminess. Food for the body and food for the soul at the same time, right?

I kicked the covers off and shivered as the cold air hit my bare skin. I’d never noticed how cold the building was until now, but maybe that’s because I’d never been completely naked while wandering around the place before. I hooked a leg over the side of the bed and picked up my discarded clothes with my toes, flicking them back up onto bed like some kind of clothing ninja. It was something I’d done ever since I was small and I had perfected the skill to an embarrassing level of greatness. I quickly got dressed, making sure my pants were tucked into my socks because it was so cold that I didn’t want any unnecessary skin showing. I made my way quietly down the hall to Brian’s rooms in case my host was still fast asleep, but as I turned the corner to the main living area, there he was, standing by the small breakfast bar in what passed for his kitchen.

From where I was hovering he couldn’t see me, but I had a perfect view of my man as he bent down, his shapely ass up in the air, so that he was eye level with the toasted bagel he was liberally spreading with cream cheese. He was eyeing up both halves, and spreading a little more cheese here and there until I assume they were both even. Shit, my mouth was watering and I didn’t know if it was from the half naked man in front of me or the thought of a toasted bagel smothered in creamy Philadelphia  . . . probably both if I was being honest. All I knew was that I wanted to lick something.

I shivered as a cool draft from the hallway brushed at my neck. I couldn’t help but smile as he jumped from the noise I must have made - dropping his knife in the process and tutting loudly as it clattered into the sink and splattered the countertop with cream cheese and bagel crumbs. So much for those OCD-clean counters, huh?

“Sorry,” I bit my lip as I walked into the kitchen and stood across from him, smiling almost shyly.

I don’t know why I suddenly felt almost nervous around him; not in a bad way, more of a fluttery tummy kind of way.

“It’s okay. I should be used to you sneaking around and scaring the shit out of me by now.” He smiled at me as he started cleaning up.

“I try my best to keep you on your toes,” I teased.

“My toes? You’ve done more than that, Sunshine. You’ve almost killed me a couple of times.”

I looked up from staring at his breakfast and was relieved to see he was teasing. “I promise, your life has always been safe with me around. Your breakfast, though, is another matter.”

And with that warning I reached around him, grabbed the plate with the perfectly spread bagel away from him and danced away with my ill-gotten gains. “Nom, nom, nom.”

“You’re a . . .”

“Pain in your ass? I know, I know,” I laughed as I took a huge bite, moaning as I swallowed. Man, I was hungry. I continued watching him out of the corner of my eye as I devoured my stolen bagel. I was happy to see an equally hungry look in Eggy’s eyes - and I don’t think it was just the bagel he was lusting after either.

“So, uh . . .” I cleared my throat and was just about to lick some cream cheese off my finger but managed to stop myself before doing so. “Are we going to talk about last night or . . .”

“What’s there to talk about?” Brian replied, as he went about making coffee for the both of us, cool as a cucumber.

“I dunno . . . I guess I just wasn’t expecting . . . THAT . . . Don’t get me wrong, I totally loved it . . .”

He looked a little smug as he smiled at me over the steaming cup in his hands. “Of course you did. What’s not to love?”

“I think I’m more confused than anything.” I had no idea what I was saying at that point.

Brian placed one of the mugs down on the coffee table in front of me - right smack damn in the middle of the coaster, like he’d had years of practice aiming at coasters. “About?”

I suddenly felt a little embarrassed. “I just never thought you . . .”

“What? That I whacked off? Choked my chicken? Drained the main vein?” He laughed out loud at my surprised look.

Egbert was evil. I think he relished the fact that he was the one that wasn’t uncomfortable for once. That he was in charge of this discussion. That he was the one in control. And he wasn’t going to let me off the hook, either.

I blushed deeply. I guess I’d never really thought about it before. I mean, I thought about him doing it but not him actually doing it - if that made any sense. I dunno . . . I guess his hermit-like personality confused me. I knew he’d not been outside for a while, but did I think of him as sexless? I’m not sure what I thought, to be honest.

“I’m not a monk, Justin,” he stated, apparently reading my mind, and then laughing again.

I could tell he was enjoying this.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I think we crossed that line a while ago, don’t you?” Brian winked cheekily. “But sure. Although I can’t guarantee you’ll get an answer.”

“The condoms?”

“What about them?” He shrugged.

He knew what I was asking but he wasn’t going to make this easy for me. He wanted me to ask the actual question. Which, normally, I wouldn’t have hesitated over. Why I suddenly felt so jittery around my hermit, I had no idea, but there I was. I had to give myself a good mental kick in the pants to prod myself into asking the question I was so curious about.

“Do you always use a condom when you . . . you know?”

Shit, why was I suddenly sounding like sixteen year old Daphne? Masturbating isn’t a topic I’m usually embarrassed to talk about, but right then I sounded like a teenage girl. Great! I think it must be because he was teasing me - I’d never really seen this playful side of my Eggy before and I kinda loved it - like a lot. It sorta threw me though. It turned the tables on our prior retaliationship making Brian the aggressor and I just wasn’t prepared for that switch, you know?

“What? When I’m Jackin’ the Beanstalk? Milking my Monkey? Pounding my Pu . . .”

I covered my eyes with my hand. “Yes, that,” I laughed.

He rolled his bottom lip into his mouth and looked me right in the eye as he answered. “Yeah, I do.”

I hesitated briefly before asking the logical next question, “Why?”

He did the lip thing again looked so freaking hot when he did it that my urge to jump him was almost unbearable. “Because it's all . . .” he sighed almost sadly, “wet and sticky.”

I heard myself groan loudly at the thought of getting all wet and sticky with him. “Mmm, exactly. That’s what’s so fucking good about it.”

Brian shook his head as though he was trying to rid himself of those messy thoughts. “Maybe for you it is,” he exhaled loudly, “but not for those of us with . . . OCD . . . issues. If I had to think about all that . . . mess . . . then I’d be too distracted to actually get off.”

“Even though it’s your mess?” I was doing my best to try and understand what Brian was saying, not that it was easy, because, personally, I love a little mess, you know? “I guess I can understand if it’s someone else’s,” I offered, although I definitely didn’t have that problem myself, “but when it’s mine . . . I actually kinda really like it.” I was definitely blushing now.

Brian rolled his eyes playfully. “Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?” I shrugged impishly just to play along, which caused him to huff with amusement, but then he continued with his explanation. “Anyway, my method is definitely more efficient than yours. When I’m done filling up one condom, I can just rip it off, toss it in the trash, and then roll on another without missing a beat. My clean up time is minimal so I’m not slowed down between sessions. My hand stays clean and my dick stays happy.”

“Jesus, how many do you go through at a time?” That factor probably wasn’t what I should be focusing on, but I can’t blame my brain for instantly going there.

Brian shrugged, “two or three . . . it depends what’s on my mind.”

He said that last part while looking directly at me with this provocative little smile. My shy little hermit had seemingly turned into quite the flirt, and it was pretty much the biggest turn on I’d ever experienced. I didn’t even bother hiding the fact that I was squeezing myself through my pants by that point; the slight relief in pressure it gave me was enough to make me sigh.

“You only used the one last night though . . .”

“Justin,” he scoffed like I had just insulted his manliness. “You caught me at the tail end. I’d already been going at it a while . . . I’m surprised I had anything left.”

That made me smile.

“That was maybe my fifth . . .” he bragged, eliciting an impressed whistle from me.

“Wow. Five? And here I thought I had pretty amazing stamina,” I replied.

Brian just tilted his head to the side in a self-deprecating gesture and shrugged. “I’m sure you do fine . . . And, while we’re on the topic, may I say that you definitely have a nice sized dick to work with. I’m assuming you’d have to use the Magnum XL Trojans if you were doing things my way. And that’s not just because of the volume of the load you shoot either.”

I laughed out loud.

Was he really just standing there complimenting my dick size while casually drinking his cup of coffee as though this was everyday breakfast conversation? I definitely liked me some playful, confident Egbert.

“It’s not so much the length I have to worry about, but more the girth,” I returned, bragging a little myself.

Even as I said the words, though, I was amazed by my own temerity. I couldn’t believe that I was telling him any of this. Talk about my mouth working faster than my brain.

Meanwhile, Brian licked his lips and hummed happily to himself, his eyes a little unfocused as if my words had led his imagination somewhere fun. I was hoping he was fantasizing about my cock and all the wondrous things I could do to him with it. A boy can dream, right? And after the night before, I knew for certain that would be all I was dreaming about.

Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to stick around for long after that provocative breakfast with my Egbert. We were both a bit bummed, especially when I had to tell him that I couldn’t come back that night. I perversely enjoyed his disappointment since it was just another sign that I’d managed to get under my Hermit’s skin. But there was no way I’d get out of my commitment for that night.

See, most of the time my father and I kept our distance. He liked to pretend that I didn’t exist, because having a gay artist as a son simply wasn’t acceptable in his circle, you know? But twice a year, when he just couldn’t avoid it, he forced me to appear with him at ‘family’ functions where he was expected to show up with doting children in tow. I envied my mother, who had been excused from these events by way of her divorce, but since Father Dearest still controlled the purse strings to my education trust, I didn’t have the leverage to tell him to just fuck off. Therefore, every year, come Christmas and Independence Day, my sister, Molly, and I were dressed up, threatened with grave consequences if we misbehaved, and then marched into my dad’s club to play the role of good little children. The parties were intensely boring and several times I’d contemplated just telling Dad off, but until I finished school and was able to support myself, I had to continue to be nice to him.

Unfortunately, it just happened to be one of those nights. It was the Duquesne Club Christmas Party - a holiday tradition that went back more than a hundred years, if the hype was to be believed. So, I was obligated to appear, dressed in a monkey suit approved by Dad, and do my duty as the obedient offspring. Fuck me.

When I told Brian that I could still pop over the next morning, the look of relief and, dare I say it, happiness, on Eggy’s face gave me a nice memory to leave with. I would need to fill my head with happy and somewhat innocent thoughts if I was going to get through the night. It’s not as though I could spend the evening thinking about our bathroom escapades - having a hard on the whole evening surrounded by my father’s country club friends was not my idea of fun - not that it would be easy to get the images out of my head. Yep, I had it bad and there was nothing I could do about it.

Anyways, I headed home right after breakfast, spent a couple hours sketching the deliciously naughty scenes I’d just lived through, and then got ready with as little effort as I could get away with while still looking acceptable enough to be seen with my father - his words, not mine. As I was doing my hair in the hall mirror, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it usually takes me at least double the time to get ready for an evening at Babylon. No one can say I don’t prioritise.

Dad had a car pick me up - heaven forbid Dad might actually care enough to pick up his children himself, right? - and then we headed off to Mom’s condo for Molly. Molly climbed into the car with me, frowning just as much as I was, and not saying anything more than ‘hello’. She proceeded to take her cell phone out and spent the rest of the ride to the club engrossed in her social media feed, which was fine by me because I wasn’t in the mood to talk.

Molls - as I like to call her when I’m in a good mood, which is a lot nicer than ‘Fartface’, the nickname I use when she’s being an annoying little brat - is fourteen years old and as obnoxious as any girl her age. It doesn’t help that there is almost six years difference in our ages. We don’t really have that much in common. We pretty much fight all the time. But ever since Dad had made it known within the family that he didn’t approve of my ‘disgusting, unnatural ways’, Molly had suddenly given up idolizing our father, become much more of a mommy’s girl, and now barely tolerated him. And our mutual, yet unspoken, dislike of the Club Christmas party was something else we could still bond over. Hey, it’s a WASP thing - this suffering in polite silence yet doing what you have to do because of the family money - so don’t judge us.

Our car was met at the curb by the well appointed Duquesne Club doorman and we were quickly ushered under the red entrance awning and out of the bad weather. The staid, old, five-story stone edifice was bedecked with festive yet restrained holiday lights along the front walk and all the windows were brightly lit. There was a crowd of people already waiting to get inside, so we had to wait a few moments on the walkway just next to the plaque on the front balustrade that announced the building was on the National Register of Historic Places. I noted from the date on the plaque that the club was built right around the same time as my Triangle Building - 1889 per the sign - and vaguely wondered why Eggy hadn’t pursued the same distinction for his building. Maybe I’d suggest it to him the next time I saw him, I thought, as we finally made it through the front doors into the club proper.

Despite the onerousness of it all, things were going pretty well after we arrived at the party. Molly and I found our way to the ballroom where we dutifully checked in with Dad. We smiled and pretended to care while he introduced us to the group of businessmen nearby. I noted that Dad bragged on and on about Molly, her grades, and the fact that she was a forward on the school field hockey team, but said very little about me other than I was ‘in college’. He was probably afraid if he mentioned that I was attending the Art Institute of Pittsburgh, all his friends would know I was a fag. Whatever. I didn’t care about any of these doddering old bigots. I was only there because I had to be, so I swallowed my annoyance and tuned out the rest of their drivel. Luckily, the conversation very soon veered back to business topics, which meant that Molly and I were no longer needed. We were shooed away and ordered to mingle until further notice.

I took Molly with me to the bar and got her a soda, flashing my fake ID so I could get a beer for myself. Then Molly spotted a group of girls she knew and she abandoned me. Typical. I could have followed suit and tried to join one of the groupings of younger men, some of whom I had met before at various functions, but I just wasn’t in a social mood that night. The thought of standing around with a bunch of Chads, talking about the benefits of protein powder, their workout regimens, and all the Staceys they were currently boning, made my stomach curdle. It really sucked that I had to be there at all, wasting my evening on such drivel, instead of hanging out with my mysterious Egbert, but I kept reminding myself it would be worth it once I graduated from art school and became the next Andy Warhol. However, that didn’t mean I had to suffer through the pain of actually talking to any of these losers.

So, rather than join in with the mingling, I wandered the periphery of the room, strolling around at random and pretending to look at the pictures and artwork on the walls while I sipped at my beer, smiling ambiguously at the people I passed along the way. Fuck I was bored. So, so, so, so bored. There was absolutely nothing to entertain myself with. I fleetingly thought about maybe asking one of the hot waiters I saw darting around to dance, which would likely blow a few minds in that conservative crowd. I thought about devoting my time to getting really drunk, seeing as it was an open bar and I wasn’t one to pass up free booze, but decided it was probably a bad idea if my goal was to keep on dad’s good side. I thought about slitting my wrists right there in the middle of the fucking ballroom just to add a little excitement to the night, but . . . okay, I was being a total drama queen but, seriously, I was THAT bored.

Just as I was getting desperate enough that I began to contemplate giving up my wallflower impression and surrendering to the nearest group of Chads, a tittering debutante who looked like she was on her second or third glass of champagne bumped into another of the guests, who happened to be walking past me at the moment, knocking the gentleman into me and causing me to spill my beer all down the front of my dinner jacket. The man immediately began to apologize and tried to use his own cocktail napkin to help dab at the beer stains. I waved him off, telling him it was no big deal, and joking that I’d always hated that damned jacket anyway but that my father said I couldn’t wear my tuxedo t-shirt. He laughed at my unorthodox comment and smiled again, insisting that he would at the very least go get me another drink. I accepted, offering him one of my best Justin Taylor patented grins in return. As he trotted off towards the bar, with me still wiping up the dregs of my beer, I chuckled to myself, thinking that at least I was no longer bored. Thank fuck for distractions, right?

The guy was back in only a few minutes, bringing my fresh beer. We chatted for a bit, mostly complaining about how we both hated these affairs, and then he excused himself saying he needed to get back to his date. I tapped the neck of my beer against his highball glass as a gesture of thanks and nodded a goodbye. Then he left and I went back to being bored.

Unfortunately my boredom didn’t last all that long because I was almost immediately set upon by a quietly fuming and hissing father.

“What was all that?” My father asked irritatedly as he pulled me over into a quiet corner of the room. His eyes were darker than usual; over the years I had learned this meant he was royally pissed off about something.

“Huh?” What on earth was he jabbering on about?

“I saw you . . . fraternizing . . . with Peter Wyzkopf’s son. What were you doing? Flirting with him? Trying to pick him up? You know very well how I feel about that sort of behavior, Justin. It’s disgusting and I won’t have you embarrassing me like that here, in front of my friends.”

Oh, that. And really, if he thought that was me flirting then I feel sorry for him. How clueless can you get?

“I was just talking to him, Dad,” I tried explaining - which fucking pissed me off, because I shouldn’t have to explain anything about what I was just doing. “He knocked into me and spilled beer down the front of my shirt . . .”

“Listen.” Craig exhaled loudly through his nose - another mannerism from my childhood that I remember all too well and that never resulted in anything good happening. “I don’t give a damn about what started it, I just don’t want you humiliating me any more than you have already.”

I clenched my fists tightly by my sides, I had to really force myself not to do something I would regret later. How fucking dare he though? Humiliate him more than I already have? If anyone there had reason to be embarrassed it was me, seeing as I had to put up with his homophobic ranting. I wanted to tell him off so bad, I could feel the words crawling up my throat, itching to get out, screaming at him to take his club and his fellow bigots and go fuck himself . . . but then I remembered all that lovely money and the fact that I had none and that this stupid party was the price I had to pay to get my art degree . . . and I clamped down the anger yet again.

“I need some air,” I muttered as I turned my back and headed out of the room.

I could hear Craig calling after me, but I just kept walking. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with his bullshit and if I’d stayed any longer I might have lost the battle and told him what I really thought. So, rather than risk next semester’s tuition, I wisely removed myself from the situation. Luckily, Craig was too afraid of making a scene to bother coming after me and let me go. Of course, I didn’t breathe easily until I’d rounded the corner and was out of the man’s direct line of vision.

While I silently bitched my progenitor out in my head, I continued to stroll along the hallways of the club. The decor was exactly what you’d expect: it was elegant and staid and looked expensive. Everything smelled like wood polish. The wood floor was covered in a thick oriental carpet runner. The furniture consisted of groupings of wingback chairs and small side tables set up along the walls, all heavy pieces made of sturdy wood and plush padding with far too many velvet and brocade cushions. It felt stuffy and confining and like I was totally out of my element. However the walls were adorned with some fairly decent artwork - the club had to do something with all the money it raked in via those exorbitantly high membership dues, right? - so I was content for the time being to focus on that rather than my annoyance with my father.

Tucked in between the real art, the club had hung photos of their members from over the years. And, seeing as The Duquesne Club was more than a hundred years old, there were some pretty ancient pictures on those walls, I can tell you. It was almost more fun to look at the pictures than the art, despite how expensive or how well known I knew the artists were, since the subject of most of the artwork was a snooze. I mean, let’s face it, how many still lifes of vases and flowery landscapes do you really need to look at, no matter how esteemed the artists might be? No wonder I was finding the old photographs more interesting than the artwork for once in my life.

The further I walked along the corridor, the more dated the photos became. It was like walking backwards in time. You could tell the age of the pictures without looking at the captions just by the way the photography changed. The photos went from modern color photography, to the kodachrome yellow-tinted photos of the sixties and seventies, to black and white, to the even older, silver-tinged photos of the thirties and forties, to the downright ancient sepia tinted photos from around the beginning of the twentieth century. And at the very end of the hallway where I was walking there were several pictures from back when the club - and Pittsburgh for that matter - were relatively new.

I recognized the first couple of photos, which were straight out of the architectural history course I’d just finished at school. There was one of the Allegheny County Courthouse’s ‘Bridge of Sighs’ - the bridge that connected the Courthouse to the jail so that inmates could be walked to their hearings without escaping - and another of the Smithfield Street Bridge when it was just being built. There was also a picture of a smallish brick structure that I didn’t recognize. When I leaned in to read the caption, I discovered that the photo depicted the original building on the site where the current Duquesne Club now stood. Apparently there had been an earlier building here, which had been destroyed in a fire and subsequently rebuilt in 1889, remade into the much more imposing structure where I was standing. Who knew, huh? The final picture showed the rebuilt club in its present incarnation dating from 1889.

Next to the picture of the older version of the Club, there was a photo or two of what purported to be the ‘founding’ members of the social club. These were just the kind of photos you’d expect; a group of sober looking gentlemen wearing dark suits, standing around with somber expressions, trying to portray the gravitas of their social standing in the burgeoning metropolis of Pittsburgh. Basically, they pretty much all looked like they had broomsticks up their asses and weren’t happy about it. I at least got a good laugh out of that thought.

Leaning in closer, I was able to read the little brass plaques attached to the bottom of the photo’s frames. The first, and clearly the oldest photo of them all, was of the ‘Founders’, and the inscription listed the gentlemen’s names. I whistled as I read through the list; there were some impressive and well-known names here. Alfred Childs, Henry Phipps, B.F. Jones, John Chalfant . . . Any kid who’d grown up in The Pitts would recognize those names. No wonder this club claimed such exclusivity with those men as their originating members. Although, to look at them, they all looked like a bunch of tight-assed, old, grumps. Not exactly the kind of guys I’d want to socialize with.

The second photo wasn’t quite as old and the individuals pictured included some younger men, so it was probably the second generation of club members. According to the plaque on that one, these were the members of the club as of 1885. The list of these fellow’s names were just as impressive though. There, in the front row, was a relatively young-looking Andrew Carnegie and, on the other side of the picture was his future rival, Henry Clay Frick. I scanned through the rest of the names quickly, not recognizing all of them, until I was stopped short at the last three names listed there.

Hidden in the last row of the men pictured were three gents whose names I had come across quite recently: Andrew Peebles, Jay Frick and, the youngest of those pictured by far, sweet little William Carnegie.

My Eggy’s mystery men were all here, pictured together, standing shoulder to shoulder forever in this dusty old photo. Small world, huh? So I had been right that they all knew each other back in the day? That was telling.

I immediately pulled my phone out of my pocket, unable to wait even a second more before telling Brian about my latest discovery.