This is insane. Completely, utterly fucked up. And what a waste of time.

But it’s like the night before and the night before that: sleep won’t come. I toss, I turn, I feel like the most pathetic loser for my whining, but damn, I just need some fucking sleep.

I can’t exactly pinpoint when it started. I never cared much about sleep, never needed much. There were always other, more important, far more enjoyable things to do, especially in bed. And somehow, I always got the amount of relaxation my body needed, so why bother?

But this has changed lately. For some weeks, I wake up in the middle of the night and have trouble falling asleep again. It’s become some kind of regular pattern. And now, for a few days, I barely sleep at all. And though I hate to admit it, even to myself, it bothers me. A lot.

It’s not that I do anything differently than before. I don’t drink more coffee – in fact, I didn’t drink any coffee at all today, which made me snarky and picky, more than usual, that is. It felt awful to give up caffeine, but that’s how desperate I am. And this thought alone makes me feel sick.

I was also trying to trick my body by exhausting myself. I’ve been working like crazy the last few days, pitching campaigns, talking clients into anything, monitoring every fly on the wall. And it seemed to work at first. Just today, I laid down on my sofa during lunch break and shut my eyes for a few minutes. But then Theodore came in – he never bothers to knock anymore, I have to change that as soon as possible – and almost freaked when he saw me. I had to calm him down, tell him that no, it wasn’t anything cancer-related and yes, I’m doing fine, I was just trying to think with my eyes shut. The fuck I’d have told him I was tired and opting for a short nap. Here goes nothing.

Later today, I went to the gym and had one hell of a workout. I got home, took another hot shower, lay down and here I am. As soon as my body touched the mattress I knew it wouldn’t work. Fuck.

I am tired but can’t sleep. Someone just tell me what the fuck is going on. I’m going crazy.

Okay Kinney, try to think. What are my options? Meet my friend Jim and drink until I pass out? Hardly. Brown is scheduled for 9 am tomorrow and last thing I can afford is a hangover. Same thing goes for pills, too late for that now. Drugs might have the same effect. Besides, I don’t have any left, scary as it is. But I’ve been too busy lately to go out and meet the people who’d help me restock. I need to re-establish some contacts, I remind myself.

I could watch television, one of these pathetic movies Justin loves so much and that usually put me to sleep in no time. Only, I’ve tried that yesterday and it didn’t work. Jerk off and fall asleep in a post orgasmic bliss? Yeah, well, I already came twice since I’m home and am still eyeing the ceiling. Maybe a real fuck would help. I could call some guy and invite him over. But then I’d have to wait for him first. And who knows, as fucked up as I am, my body might finally give in the very second he knocks. If not, he’d have to undress, get over here, I’d have to prepare him, maybe he even wants to talk. Afterwards, I’d have to kick him out and face another likely argument about that. The thought alone makes me cringe. Yes, Brian Kinney, too lazy and tired to invite someone over to fuck, watch the world come to an end.

I’m so desperate that I’m ready to do almost anything. So I decide to think about my problem. Realization through analysis? Might be worth a shot. It’s not like I’m even considering going to a shrink or anything. It’s just me, trying to figure out what the fuck is wrong.

Have I ever had these problems before? Laying in bed, not being able to sleep, feeling an inner frustration growing by the minute?

I know I have. But I never thought about it this way. And even after all these months, I still hate to think about it.

It was during the phase I used to refer to as ‘the liberation of Brian Kinney’. Which it wasn’t, I know that now. It was more ‘the liberation of Justin Taylor’, considering all the changes he went through. Okay, we both went through. Him acknowledging that romantic gestures and sweet words are not the basis for a relationship; me acknowledging that trust and this damn good feeling I can’t explain in words are the basis for a relationship. Whatever. Fact is, I had trouble sleeping when Justin was screwing the fiddler. Although I never looked at it this way back then. Sure, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, doing anything but sleeping. But I told myself I was contemplating how Justin could be so dumb and fall for all this bullshit in the first place. I was wondering how long it would take him to realize what a fool he’d made of himself. I thought about how he dared to choose this cheap imitation of a good fuck over me.

That’s what I made myself think. What I wanted myself to think. Although, it’s more likely I didn’t or couldn’t sleep back then just because he wasn’t there, for whatever reasons. Pathetic.

Justin… it’s strange. He’s gone again, though only temporarily this time. And that’s not the only difference between both our – dare I say it? – separations. Back then during his fiddler episode, nobody would even mention his name when I was around. It was as if Justin had simply disappeared. Not for me, though, I was somehow, unconsciously, always on the lookout for his presence. Going to the diner. Asking him to do the carnival sketches. Not to mention the way he fucked my mind while my dick was busy fucking someone else. But the people around me carefully avoided to talk about anything Sunshine-related.

This time, it’s completely different. I can’t have one decent conversation without being asked about Justin at one point. ‘How’s he doing?’ ‘Is Justin enjoying L.A.?’ ‘Has he met anymore famous people yet?’ ‘When will he come back?’

I’m so sick of it. Most of the times, I bark something unintelligible and switch the topic. However, sometimes, I share some information I don’t really have. ‘Yes, he’s fine.’ ‘Yes, he’s having a great time.’ ‘Yes, he’s meeting a lot of stars.’ ‘Yes, he’ll be back soon.’

The thing is, when I talk to Justin, it’s like the counterpart of my daily inquisition. He wants to know if Lindsay and Mel are still over or getting back together, he asks how the baby and Gus are doing, if Hunter’s got a new girlfriend, how Debbie, Carl and Emmett get along. So we chat about other people, he tells me about his job, I bitch about my employees and clients. Before or after this gossip exchange, we include a hot phone sex session. That’s the part I enjoy most and I bet he does, too. I do most of the talking. Usually Justin’s the one who babbles without a pause, but when it comes to talk dirty, he knows it’s best to let me take over. And I don’t need him to talk anyway. Hearing his moans and gasps and beggings through the receiver is more than just good enough for me. For us both. Finally, he says he misses me, I say ‘yeah’ or something the like and maybe, on a good day, I tell him what I’ve planned for the loft. My way of saying I miss him, too and I know he gets it.

Thinking about it now, we never really talk about us. I wonder when this started to disturb me. But well, when I tell others he’s doing fine, I’m never really sure. And why the fuck is that so? It’s what he tells me when I ask him, damn it. But how do I really know? And if I feel like he’s just brushing me off for whatever reasons whenever I ask him, am I just an over-worried, pathetic twat or have I become some kind of, I don’t know, caring partner?

Jesus. No wonder I can’t sleep.

Justin’s a big boy, he can take care of himself. Right? I tell Debbie on a daily basis. I even told Jennifer when we met for lunch a couple of days ago. (I still don’t know how this happened. I haven’t told Justin, though I’m sure she told him. And I’ll give him extra credits for not mentioning it.)

But is he really? I know he thinks I will say so. I also know that’s just what he wants me to think. But I’ll be damned if he tries some shit just to prove something, anything, and gets in trouble. Two words: Pink Posse. Know what I mean?

Fuck, fuck, fuck. There it is: I’m worried. Fuck, Kinney, you’re really losing it big time. I’m deprived of sleep and going insane. Or maybe it’s the other way around, maybe I can’t sleep because I’m worried? Either way, I’m completely fucked up. Brian Kinney thinks he and his partner should talk more often. The world really is coming to an end.

And here I am, back at considering my options. Not many left, I guess. I glance at the clock: 3 am. That would be, like midnight in glorious California? Hmmm. I know I’ll make a fool of myself. It’s different when Justin calls me in the middle of the night. I mean, he’s Justin, he can do that. Like so many other things I can’t. And he’s probably not home anyway. Maybe at some cool party or club. Turning some straight movie star into a big bottom. Getting high…

Damn.

I reach for my phone and hit #1 on speed dial. The call’s answered after the second ring.

“Hey,” I say, knowing that caller ID makes any other introduction pointless. “Did I wake you?”

“Nah,” he answers, “I can’t sleep.”

Looks as if I’m not the only one. Maybe it’s something with the moon. But his voice alone makes my eyes flutter shut like some kind of weird reflex.

“So,” I go on, “tell me what’s wrong.”

And finally, he does.

At 3:43 am, we tell each other ‘goodnight’ and I put the phone down. I fall asleep about two minutes later.

~END~