The tone of their ‘conversations’ had changed abruptly after Brian’s delivery of those photos to Justin. Instead of sitting around in the lobby writing short comments and responses back and forth, they now would prepare long, detailed, very explicit letters to each other earlier in the day and exchanged them at the normal meeting time. Most of the time this would result in both men ascending to their respective beds (or couches or showers, as the terms of the letters dictated), letters in hand, as soon as they began to read what they’d retrieved from the box. ‘Shit, those letters,’ recalled Brian with a groan, remembering the particularly juicy one Justin had given him the night before.
Not that they didn’t sometimes still have other discussions. They would still occasionally settle into their accustomed places in the lobby – Brian had eventually purchased a chair which sat in the corner, while Justin still preferred his cushion on the floor – for a total ‘Gab-Fest’ - passing notes like a couple of school girls. (Justin had refrained from making that observation to Brian though, afraid of the sophisticated older man’s likely response.) They’d write about what happened that day, their problems, funny stories and everything else two friends would share. It was such a great feeling to have someone that each of them could confide in. Both men had found an unexpected support system and both had started to look to the other for help when needed.
Like last Wednesday, for instance, when Justin had attended his first official day of classes at PIFA. It had been a tough day. His professors had not been very accommodating about the difficulties with his damaged hand. He couldn’t seem to get them to understand that all he needed was a little extra time to complete his assignments. If he didn’t push his hand too much, he would still have the necessary fine motor control that was needed. But none of the professors seemed willing to listen – instead they gave him the standard crap about how PIFA had a ‘challenging curriculum’ and that Justin should maybe re-evaluate whether or not he could keep up. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Justin left school that day so frustrated and discouraged he was ready to give it all up and trash his dreams.
He’d been almost in tears by the time he’d reached the loft that evening. Justin hated that he was the kind of person whose anger often manifested itself as tears. He wasn’t some silly little faggot that cried at the drop of a hat. Anyone who thought he was, didn’t know him at all. It was just that sometimes he got so furiously angry that his only release seemed to be through tears. And, damn it, was he ever angry that day.
Brian had known something was wrong right from the start. Justin’s usual banter was ‘off’. With a little prodding, including a threat to withhold Justin’s ‘mail sex’ letter that night, the boy eventually told Brian the whole story. When he heard what had happened, Brian was almost as angry as Justin. The artist was touched at how much his difficulties affected Brian. The older, and very aggressively self-confident man, was not going to let Justin quit. And he wasn’t going to let some stupid, talentless wanna-be teachers browbeat his friend/lover/boyfriend?/what-the-fuck-ever. Brian gave Justin a good old-fashioned pep talk and some surprisingly astute, concrete suggestions, and by the time the two headed off to their beds, Justin was reassured and confident enough to take on the profs again the next day. If he had to, he would go to the Dean. Maybe he’d even try to find a computer program similar to the one Brian said his art department used and try to get the school to let him use that. Whatever it took!
Today, though, it was back to sex-as-usual. Brian was intent on drafting the best ‘mail sex’ letter the world had ever seen. ‘Mail Sex?’ he thought. ‘Definitely sounds too much like ‘Male Sex’. Of course it’s male sex – what the fuck other kind is there’ (at least according to Brian Kinney). ‘Maybe, ‘Postal Sex’? No. Sounds too much like what you’d do after sex,’ and Brian didn’t do anything after sex except kick the trick out. ‘Postal Sex’ brought to mind stuff like cuddling and other lesbionic actions that are simply not acceptable. Brian decided he would have to try to find a better term for this thing he was enjoying so much and which he planned to continue enjoying for as long as possible. He was Brian Kinney, for fuck’s sake, and whatever it was that he and Justin were engaged in, it deserved a much more dignified name. ‘Wait. I’ve got it: Sexmail (like email, only better). Nailed it,’, he congratulated himself.
However, he had to admit to himself that even HIS creative genius had been challenged lately, trying to invent new and ever more erotic sexmail for his long-distance lover. Luckily, he had been inspired the other day when Justin had forwarded another batch of his mail from the future. Why he kept sending on the stuff, Brian had no idea – it’s not like he was going to pay a bill that wasn’t due for two years and he couldn’t order out of the catalogs because their merchandise wouldn’t be available yet anyway. Right? Justin still kept forwarding the mail though, regardless of Brian’s arguments.
One of the forwarded items this last time happened to be another catalog from one of the many online sex toy companies Brian sometimes patronized. He’d been quite amused when he noticed that the ever-curious young man had gone through the catalog already and affixed sticky notes to several of the pages with questions or comments. Among his favorites were: ‘Ouch’, ‘Looks like fun’, ‘How the fuck, exactly, do you do that’, and the best of all, ‘Please, please please!’.
Most of the items in that particular catalogue though were a little more advanced than he would have recommended for a tyro like Justin. Some of the others were just impractical, given the limitations imposed by their unconventional, time/space challenged relationship (yes, he thought the 'R' word every so often but that didn’t mean he would ever say it aloud). He thought he would have to shop around a little to find something what was just right for his boy.
Fortuitously, Brian had found the perfect thing just that morning at the ‘Hard Wear Store’*, his favorite local toy store. It was a fairly simple, hard plastic, little black butt-plug. “A ‘must-have’ this season for every fashionable gay man,” he’d commented to the clerk at the store.
This wonderful new purchase was now sitting in a gift box on the Diner counter in front of him. Brian was using his lunch hour to revise the explicit ‘use and care instructions’ necessary for the proper implementation of Justin’s new toy. (i.e. ‘Insert at least ½ hour prior to leaving for work – see paragraph #2 for instructions regarding insertion with proper stroking techniques, preparation and lubrication’ and ‘Do not remove for a minimum of four hours – see paragraph #4 for further directions re additional stroking, appropriate dirty talk, and fantasy suggestions’). He was so involved with this important work that he failed to notice Michael entering the Diner and seating himself on the stool next to him.
“Hey, Bri. What are you doing?” were the first words out of the nosy man’s mouth.
“I’m writing a letter. What does it look like I’m doing?” was the terse reply.
“When did you start writing letters?” Michael persisted.
“Um, it was in Kindergarten, I believe. Remember the whole, ‘A, B, C, thing’, Mikey?” Brian couldn’t resist that one.
“No, I mean, WHY are you writing a letter. Aren’t you more of the email type?” Michael was not going to let this go.
Brian tried to explain it to Michael in small words so he would finally understand. “I’m writing a letter to a friend. He can’t get email and I can’t call him. That is what letters are for, Mikey.”
“Ooh, ooh, ooh. A love letter? Can I read it,” spouted Emmett as he took the seat on the other side of Brian.
“Fuck off, Honeycutt. You sound like an overexcited chimpanzee – Ooh, ooh, ooh. Deb, can you toss a banana over here for the primate section?” Brian added as he hastily folded up his letter and stowed it safely in his jacket pocket. Emmett retreated without further comment.
“Jeeze, Bri. We’re just giving you a hard time. Nobody’s seen you in, like, forever. You’re like the invisible man or something these days. When are you going to come out with us?” Again, with the persistent Michael thing.
“I’ve been busy, busy, Mikey.”
“Well, we could come over to the loft instead. What are you doing tonight?” Michael asked, deciding to go with a different tack.
Brian was not thrilled with the idea of having the Liberty Diner Horde descending on his loft that night. But he knew Michael would not give up this time – he had put him off too many times lately, and the man was nothing if not persistent. “Fine. I’ll hit Babylon with you tonight, but you’re not all coming over to fuck up my loft. Okay?” he conceded. “I’ll meet you at Woody’s at 9:30. We can go to the club from there. Happy now?”
Michael was finally satisfied and applied himself to his sandwich with substantially fewer comments. Brian thought he could at least have a couple hours with Justin before he would have to put on his ‘Stud” face and meet the gang. This wasn’t really what he wanted to be doing that night, he thought, picking up the little gift box and waving a goodbye to Michael. He was going to have to find another location in which to do his instruction manual revisions – he really needed to find another place to have lunch, too.