Chapter 1 - The Night Before the Morning After.
“You already know what I want. I’ve already told you,” Justin had said to me.
“That’s right. That you have - a husband, a family, a home - all the things that make life worth living,” I had responded sarcastically, throwing all those dreams back into his face.
“Would you fucking cut it out. Just stop it, Brian.” Justin had finally lost his temper, the anger glinting in his bright crystal blue eyes, but he instantly swallowed it and continued to try to discuss things in that reasonable tone of voice that made me even more angry. “And, I know you can’t give me those things.”
“Not CAN’T. Can’t implies that I’m incapable. It’s that I WON’T.” I’d responded.
The conversation keeps repeating over and over in my mind. Why the fuck did I say that? Yeah - it’s the truth. But, I guess I didn’t have to say it like that. It’s just that I’m having a really, really fucking lousy week and Justin had to pick that night to get into this all AGAIN. Why the fuck did the twink have to pick this fucking week to go all domestic on me?
That stupid fucker, Brandon - I blame my entire fucking crappy week on that asswipe. How the hell did I get here? Why the hell do I even care if the latest fad on Liberty Avenue - with his flat ass, his shaggy, greasy hair, thin lips and an expression that perpetually looks like he’s smelling a particularly unhygienic trick - turned ME down?
I’ll tell you why - It’s because I’m off my game. It’s because I’ve spent the last four years of my life being slowly brainwashed by the fucking stepford fags and that needy fucking twink. They almost had me, you know. I broke all my fucking rules for Justin and look where it’s landed me. He’s fucking gone - I broke every single one of my personal rules for him and it still wasn’t enough. Now, here I am, pushing 35 and because of him. . . . .
Because of him I’m now standing here in Mikey’s Stepfordville kitchen, drunk off my ass, having this ridiculous screaming match with my former best friend while the twink hides somewhere upstairs. Well, fuck them all. I won’t do it. Brian Kinney doesn’t do imitation hetero happiness. Justin knew that from the start. He seemed perfectly happy with the way things were until Mikey and the professor got to him.
“He was never perfectly happy,” Michael is yelling at me now, and it’s pissing me off cause I think I’m starting to sober up. “He’s been waiting for years for you to say ‘I love you. You’re the only one I want’.”
“That’s not who I am!” I yell back at the one friend that’s stood by me since I was fourteen but who has abandoned me now because of the stupid twink.
“Don’t we all know,” Mikey insists, his tone full of disdain for me and my life.
Well, if they all know it then why the hell are they all trying to make me act like someone I’m not? This is Brian Kinney. What you see is what you get, fellas. This is the way I’ve always been. Why should I change?
I still don’t even know why I’m here. What the fuck did I think would come from my confronting Michael? Oh, yeah - I didn’t think - I was a lot drunker when I decided to come over here and it seemed like a good idea then. Especially after I was practically driven out of my own club by that interloper, Brandon, who stole MY trick. I got nothing to go home to now that the newly domesticated Twink Version 5.0 has left. I guess I thought that Mikey knew who I really was and would at least understand. I guess I thought wrong. AGAIN.
“He didn’t leave because I ‘infected’ him, Brian,” Michael was still ranting at me even though I’ve already moved on from this conversation. “He left because of you. Who wouldn’t”.
Okay! Ouch! What a fucking mistake it was to come here. I really need another drink before I’m completely sober and that last lick starts to sting. I could also use a bump. And a blowjob.
Screw the twink. Screw Michael and the Professor. Screw all these fucking hetero values they keep trying to shove down my throat. And, mostly, screw that fucker Brandon. I’m going back to Babylon and get my needs met, like I should have been doing all this time instead of playing house with Blondie. If only I’d stuck to my principles and not let the twink get to me that first fucking night. If I’d stayed with the tried and true and kicked him out before dawn, I wouldn’t be in this fucking situation.
It’s time I got back to the basics! I still believe only in fucking - get in and out with the maximum of pleasure and the minimum of bullshit. Fuck all the relationship crap. If the twink wants to go off and tell himself he needs ‘Love’ and all the crap that goes along with it - the 2.5 kids, the golden retriever and the white picket fence - then let him. I should have never wasted my time on him anyway.
Fuck, I need another drink.
The fucking alarm is going off. Shit. It feels like my head is going to explode. When did I move the alarm back over to the other side of the bed again. If I roll over there to turn it off I’m probably going to puke, but if I don’t the noise is going to break my eardrums. Fuck.
I roll over towards the alarm on the side table on the far side of the bed and have to reach across another warm body to get there. Shit, last night’s trick is still here. My eyes aren’t exactly open yet and I roll back to my pillow and lay there trying to will away the headache.
Fuck. This isn’t a good way to start over with my rules - never letting the trick stay overnight is rule number one. Why the fuck didn’t I throw the guy out last night before I passed out. Probably because I passed out, is why. God, I’m going to just close my eyes and lay here for a few more minutes and hopefully, he’ll get the hint and disappear.
I start to drift back off to sleep thanks to my still relatively high blood alcohol content. That’s when I feel a soft, warm, oddly familiar hand on my shoulder. And, then, a moment later, the hand reaches across my body and a soft, only slightly stubbled cheek replaces the hand on my shoulder. It’s so familiar - the touch, the scent, the feel of the person next to me. I rouse from dozing enough to roll over and snuggle into that warm neck, the familiar ticklish hairs trailing against my nose and cheek. Then it hits my brain that this is NOT right and I bolt up onto my elbow to look down at the familiar and beautiful face on the pillow next to me.
Shit! What the fuck is Justin doing back here? What the fuck did I do last night after I left Mikey’s? The last thing I remember, I was at Babylon. I saw that fucker Brandon getting sucked off on the dance floor and told security to have him permanently banned. Then I got a little drunk - okay a LOT drunk - I don’t remember leaving the club at all. When did Justin get here and why is he in my bed?
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I ask the twink.
“You said I could stay,” the twink replies like there’s no problem at all with him just crawling back here after he practically slammed my balls in the door on his way out the other night.
“Well, I was fucking drunk out of my mind so don’t believe anything I said,” I snark at him, roll back onto my own pillow, and cover my face with my hand to keep out the annoying sunlight.
Something about this is just not right, though. I manage to sit up enough to look around the bedroom and through the doorway out into the living room area. It’s a fucking mess; furniture overturned, clothing everywhere, the blinds all pulled wonky. It looks like I had one hell of a great party here last night, I just wish I could remember it.
“Jesus Christ, what the hell happened?” I ask Justin, who’s sitting up in the bed next to me and smiling over at me with the most adorable twinkie smile.
Then I look at Justin more closely and - fuck me - what the fuck is GOING ON HERE? Am I still tripping? What the fuck did Anita sell me last night? The twink looks like he’s seventeen again. He’s got that same prep-school buzz cut hair that he had the first night I met him. His skin and eyes and mouth - they all look just the way they did that first night. I mean, it’s not like Justin ever really looks his age, even today at twenty-one he still looks seventeen most of the time. But this morning he fucking LOOKS seventeen again.
I carefully run my hand through his hair looking at his right temple and I CAN’T FIND IT! The scar. The fucking scar from the bashing isn’t there. What the FUCK! I jump the fuck out of that bed as fast as I can and stand there stark naked looking down at the beautiful fucking SEVENTEEN YEAR OLD TWINK IN MY BED!
‘Okay. Don’t panic, Brian’, I tell myself. Think. I bend down and reach over to feel the warm smooth skin of the blond twink; he’s definitely real and not just an hallucination. I pinch him and he yelps and giggles as he scoots out of range of my fingers. It’s definitely not an hallucination. So, what then?
“You were doing handstands and juggling,” Justin said, laughing, obviously responding to my last question. “You’re not very good.”
Well, if this present moment wasn’t an hallucination, and it didn’t look like it was a practical joke from the adoring look on the twink’s face - oh and the fact that there was no scar - then was the rest of what I THOUGHT I remembered the hallucination? A drug induced dream? But, if so, how come I already remembered doing this particular morning before? Deja vu was one thing but this was fucking amazing. What the hell was in those drugs Anita gave me?
“Shit. Why do I do these things,” I said aloud, noting that the twink was about to respond, so I stalled him. “I’ll tell you. It was that fucking pig Anita. She told me that was E. That wasn’t E; that was some shit they cooked up in a bathtub in Tiajuana.”
“That’s why you should never take drugs that aren’t prescribed by a physician or recommended by a reliable pharmacist,” Justin announced with that completely innocent and sincere look I remember from when he was seventeen - which was apparently now - in fact, if I remember correctly, that was the same fucking thing he said to me four years ago.
I think . . . Maybe I’m fucking crazy. Was it all a fucking dream?
“Can I take a shower?” the twink asks, his face is so young looking, it’s totally creeping me out.
I start to tell him to go ahead, but then I stop myself. Wait a minute - even if that was just a dream, wasn’t I just telling myself that I needed to stick to my rules? Rule number one - don’t let the tricks outstay their welcome. That means they don’t stay overnight and if, by some mistake they do, then they’re kicked out as soon as I come to. No shower, no nothing. Here’s my chance. I need to do things right. Dream or no dream the message is clear, I can’t start breaking my rules for this twink or for anyone else.
“Wear it home with pride,” I tell blondie, trying to convince myself that this boy is just another trick and everything I think I ‘remember’ about him is just some stupid figment of my imagination. “Time for you to go, Sunsh . . ."
I start to use that stupid pet name that seems to just fall off the tongue every time you look at the boy. But I manage to stop myself - that was just a dream, right? Hell, for all I know this twink’s name is Fred or Larry or Dweezil. I just dreamed that I knew the kid and we were together for four years and his name is Justin, right?
“What was your name again?” I ask the twink, just out of curiosity.
“Justin,” he says with such a disappointed look on his face.
I start to pick up the kid’s clothing which is strewn all over the floor of the bedroom to hide my panic. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. It has to have been a dream, right? This kid is obviously NOT twenty-one and he hasn’t got any scar from any bashing. Everything I think I remember can’t have happened or I wouldn’t be here now with a pristine, recently de-virginized seventeen-year old twink with no noticeable scarring of any kind.
“Time for you to go home, Blondie,” I say, tossing him his clothes and practically dragging him out of the bed.
“You don’t have to shove me out the door, Brian. I’m going, alright,” the kid complains but then his tone changes as he nears the door and turns to look at me while he hastily dons his clothing. “When can I see you again?”
“Never. I don’t do repeats. Get the fuck out!” I practically scream at him, shoving the kid out the door onto his ass and slamming the loft door shut.
I lean back against the loft door, breathing hard. I feel like crying for some reason. What the fuck is wrong with me? Anita’s so fucking going to pay for whatever the fuck shit she gave me this time. Why the hell do I feel like I just threw my best friend out the door? I don’t even know the kid, it was just one night and fuck it . . ."
I walk over to the kitchen counter where there’s a fifth of scotch almost all the way full and upend the bottle into my mouth, downing a good half of what is left in one swig. That was one fucking weirdass dream, though, and I need to do something to get it out of my mind. Imagine, me - Brian Fucking Kinney - settling down into semi-domestic bliss with some fucking twink. I would NEVER do half the shit I seem to remember from that dream. I would never go to some fucking kid’s prom with him. I would never play fucking nursemaid to some gimp kid. I would never . . . Would I? Fuck, it all felt so goddamned real. I quickly upend the bottle again and down the remains of the bottle of scotch and head back to bed, hoping that by the time I wake up from the second hangover I’m going to have after drinking this bottle, that I will have forgotten all about the beautiful, wonderful twink named Justin Taylor that I may or may not have spent the last four years of my life with.