Brian

Justin fell asleep in the middle of the movie. I'm wearing earphones too but listening to classical music. I'd been sure that fucking fiddler had ruined classical music for all eternity but recently I've been able to tolerate it again, at the very least it's white noise and good to prevent distraction on airplanes. I finished proofreading a large section of text and when I glance at Justin to see if he's enjoying the film, I discover that he's slumped over against the window, sound asleep.

The stewardess is passing by so I stop her and quietly asked for a pillow - Justin's head is tilted at an odd angle and I'm sure he'll wake up with a stiff neck and a headache. I manage to push the button on his chair to tilt it a bit further back, then when the girl brings me a pillow, I carefully tuck it behind Justin's neck and slowly shift his head to rest against the pillow. He doesn't wake up, and glancing at his watch I see that it's almost midnight, we've been flying about four hours. I'm sorry for the late-night arrival, Justin would have enjoyed seeing San Francisco from the air but with the last-minute changes, I couldn't get an earlier flight.

Straightening up in my seat again, I realize that the stewardess is still hovering in the aisle. "How sweet," she whispers, smiling. "Your little brother?"

"No," I answer shortly with barely a glance at the girl, then I do a double-take as I notice the cabin steward peering over her shoulder.

"No," he echoes me, with a wink and a sly smile. In a way I'm annoyed - I loathe people who wink - but he's a looker, medium height and meatier than I usually like, but with curly blond hair and thighs of death, outlined by his carefully tailored uniform trousers. The girl glances at him over her shoulder, then back at me, and shrugs.

"Figures," she whispers to me, "You're impossibly gorgeous." I don't acknowledge their comments, just turn back to peer at my computer screen again, waiting for them to go away. The girl does but the guy lingers in the aisle.

"Anything else you need, sir?" he murmurs, his voice seductively muted. I stare at him for a moment, realizing that if Justin were not with me I'd consider hooking up with the guy in San Francisco, he'll probably have a layover. But Justin is with me so I can't do that. Well, I can. But I won't. Not this time anyway.

"No thanks." I look away and ask, "What time do we get in?"

"Ten-fifteen local time, another hour or so," he answers, reverting to professionalism. "We're going to start serving coffee in a few minutes."

"Thanks." I don't look at him again, instead, I concentrate on my laptop screen until I feel him move away down the aisle.,

Justin's slept through the murmured conversations but I feel him stirring and then he's sitting up, blinking his eyes and looking around. The movie screen's blank now, the film must have ended. I think Justin was the only one watching anyway, a quick glance around the first-class compartment shows most people sleeping or reading.

Justin yawns. "Hi," he says, pulling off the earphones and shoving them into the seat pocket. "I fell asleep."

"It's late, we'll be there soon. You can sleep in in the morning." I save my file and close it, click off the laptop and fold it up, slide it under the seat in front of me.

"Did you finish your presentation?"

"I'll read it over one more time when we get to the hotel. But I think it's ready."

"Cool!" Justin yawns again, rubbing his right cheek, which retains the imprint of the scrunched-up pillow. Then he asks, "Are they going to serve us breakfast?"

"It's night-time, Justin. Coffee's coming soon, though - maybe you can get a croissant or something." I push the call button and almost immediately blondie is beside my seat.

"Sir?" he says, then he notices that Justin's awake. "Sirs," he corrects himself.

"Hi Robert," Justin says, turning sideways in his seat, "Can I get something to eat?"

"It's not a restaurant," I remind him, but the steward cuts in.

"Certainly sir. How about a Danish pastry? I think we have a few of those stashed away."

"Great!" Justin's really waking up now. "Would it be rude to ask for two?"

I'm ready with a sarcastic remark when I realize that Justin is talking to the steward, not to me. Justin's flirting with the guy. Robert. Christ, Justin always knows people's names. Robert smiles, "For you sir, of course. You can ask me for anything. Anything at all."

Justin laughs then and I remember all over again how beautiful he is. Of course, he's always been a beautiful boy, well he's a man now of course. But when he smiles, when he laughs, there's something extra, something that takes him way beyond mere beauty, something downright fucking dazzling.

Christ, hyperbole at thirty thousand feet, and from the world's greatest cynic. It must be the late hour, I'm exhausted; my eyes are practically crossed from staring at the computer screen for the past several hours. I need coffee.

"Coffee?" I suggest, hearing the frost in my voice. Robert and Justin hear it too, they look at each other and laugh softly, they're laughing at me. Did I sound like a jealous husband? I'm too tired to figure it out; too tired even to pretend to be amused. Instead, I stand up abruptly and when Robert takes a step backward, I shoulder past him and head for the bathroom. Let them flirt and giggle all they want, I'll take a piss and wash my face.



Justin

Brian looks so tired, I wish he could have slept a while on the plane but he’s been working like crazy almost every minute since I met him at the loft. When I arrived he had an empty suitcase ready for me to transfer my clothes from my duffel bag and he watched me critically, making tsky sounds. Finally, he demanded, “Didn’t you bring your sports jacket?”

“No – why would I need that? We’re just going to do tourist stuff aren’t we?”

“Maybe I’d like to eat dinner someplace besides McDonalds. Never mind,” he turned away, sliding open the door of his closet. “I’ll put your suit in my garment bag.”

“Oops, Brian,” I stopped packing and spoke to his back, “I spilled butter on it when I had the lobster, remember?”

“I had it cleaned,” he said without turning around. “We still haven’t had it altered yet, you were supposed to remind me.” I watched him unzip the leather bag and put my suit in with his – there’s at least two of his own already inside. Of course, Brian needs to dress up for his meetings but he likes to other times too. I like casual clothes best.

“Sorry, I forgot.” I continued transferring my stuff into the suitcase and added, “I don’t think about clothes most of the time, I’m not into fashion.”

“No shit.” He zipped the bag then walked past me and down the steps, going over toward his desk. “Decide what you want for dinner, then call for delivery or go pick something up. I can get a couple hours’ work done before we have to leave for the airport.”

"Brian," I called after him, "What do you want for dinner?"

He kept on walking and without turning around he said ominously, "You're bothering me. Don't do it again - or else." He was joking but I decided to pretend he was serious. So I finished packing quickly and went into the kitchen to find the take-out menus. I decided on Thai - it's practically his favorite food, maybe it would put him in a good mood - and I called the restaurant from my cell phone. Then I didn't have anything to do. Television or music might distract Brian so finally, I just pulled out my sketchpad and settled down on the sofa to draw for a while, at least till the food arrived.

Brian took a break and ate with me, though he was quiet and I knew he was still thinking about his presentation. I wanted to ask all kinds of questions about it, about his client and what he was doing, but I decided that would be classified as "bothering him" so I kept silent. I did put some soft music on while we ate and when we finished, Brian said it was time to leave for the airport; he wanted to get there early to be sure we wouldn't miss our flight.



Brian

“Pretend it’s three in the morning.”

Justin turns around quickly when he hears the rough edge in my voice. He was peering out the hotel room window at the lights of Union Square, his forehead pushed against the glass so he could look down six flights to the sidewalk below. He's the picture of a pitiful caged bird longing to spread his wings and fly. Realizing that he’s almost unbearably excited, I relent. “Go out if you want to.” I shrug and continue unpacking my suitcase, all I want to do is take a hot shower and fall into bed.

“Brian – “

“I mean it,” I glance at him over my shoulder. “It’s only midnight here – if you want to go out, just do it. You can sleep in tomorrow.” I’m not being sarcastic; I don’t even feel sarcastic. Just exhausted and thinking about tomorrow’s meetings. In Pittsburgh and inside my body, it’s three a.m. It took forever to get our luggage and get a taxi into the city from the airport, check in to the hotel. And now I’m too tired to go over the presentation again; I’ll wake up early and give it a final read-through in the morning.

Justin turns away from the window and grabs his suitcase, tosses it on the other side of the bed and opens it up. “I don’t want to go out,” he lies, “Let’s just go to bed, I’m really sleepy.”

He’s about as sleepy as a whirling dervish on speed but I don’t argue. We finish unpacking in silence, then strip off our clothes and he follows me into the bathroom, waits while I adjust the shower temperature and gets in beside me. The routine of washing each other is soothing, and when Justin raises his eyebrows in silent question and slips to his knees, I mutely lay a hand on his shoulder for balance, close my eyes and caress his smooth wet hair as he sucks me off. When I move to reciprocate, Justin pushes me away gently. “Too tired,” he lies again, and again I don’t argue, just turn off the shower and reach for a big white towel.

We get in on opposite sides of the king size bed and our bodies slither across the cool sheets to meet in the center of the mattress, Justin slips into my arms and lays his head on my chest, our legs pretzeling softly together. “Thanks for bringing me with you, Brian,” he murmurs, and I feel my head nod, and keep nodding and nodding and nodding as I drop off to sleep.



Justin

I've never seen Brian this tense, well not about work things. He must be really uptight about his client meetings today. When I wake up he’s already on the computer, his laptop open on the hotel desk. When I slide out of bed he glances up quickly, nods at me and returns his focus to the computer screen. I tiptoe into the bathroom to take a piss and I almost jump when Brian comes in behind me a moment later.

"Will you call room service? Ask for breakfast in half an hour."

"Sure - "

"I want coffee, whole-wheat toast and one strip of bacon, well done." Then he turns on the shower and steps into the tub. Apparently, I'm not invited this morning, so I move into the bedroom and find a room service menu in the drawer of the desk. I order the stuff Brian wants - adding a glass of grapefruit juice and remembering to tell them no butter on the toast, and order ham and eggs for myself.

I'm being careful to keep my promise that I'd speak only when spoken to. I hear him turn off the shower, and while he's shaving I sit by the window looking at a binder the hotel compiled of all kinds of tourist information. You can see Union Square from our window, it's a big park taking up a whole city block, surrounded on all sides by hotels and stores including a huge Macys. Cable cars clang right down the middle of the street below, I can hardly wait to ride one of them to Fisherman's Wharf. But maybe that should wait for the weekend, so Brian and I can do touristy stuff together?

Breakfast arrives just as Brian comes out of the bathroom wearing a hotel terrycloth robe. I have the guy put down the tray on the round table in the corner and Brian grabs his wallet on the desk and gives the guy a tip, then says, "Let's eat." After he's drunk a cup of coffee and eaten a piece of toast, Brian leans back in the chair nibbling bacon and watching me devour my breakfast. "So," he says, "What's on your tourist agenda today? Going to make a beeline for Castro Street?"

"Oh no - we should go there together, I want to save all the best stuff to do with you. It's your first time in San Francisco too, isn't it?"

He shakes his head. "No, I've been here before, on business. But there wasn't time to see much of the city. I've been in a couple of the bars on Castro Street."

Swallowing a mouthful of scrambled eggs I wave my hand dismissively. "Well, that hardly counts, if you spent all your time in backrooms. That's not why I want to go there."

Brian reaches for the grapefruit juice and drains the glass in one long swallow. "Why else go there?"

"It's a cultural phenomenon!" I say enthusiastically, "It's part of our culture, like Liberty Avenue only way bigger and way better."

"'Way bigger and way better' just means twice as many bars and clubs. Gay bars are the same wherever you go."

"No," I insist, suddenly feeling deflated. "They can't be."

Brian sets down the glass and stands up, leans down till his face is a few inches from mine. "You can decide for yourself. But maybe it's a good idea if you do wait for me. There's some big bad bears in the Castro who eat little Goldilocks twinkies like you for breakfast."

"I'm not a - "

He stops me with a quick kiss, then straightens up and moves toward the closet, drops his robe on the bed and begins to get dressed. I love to watch him dress, there's something sensual about the way he pulls on underwear and socks, and I notice that he watches himself in the mirrored sliding doors of the closet. He's always so critical of his body, checking all the time for any imagined bulge or softness. Once he's dressed he wastes no time in logging off the computer, shoving some thick folders into his briefcase and pocketing his wallet.

“I’m off,” he says then and I can tell he’s getting tense again.

Jumping up and walking Brian to the door, I put a hand on his arm. “Do I wish you good luck or say break a leg or what?”

“I don’t need luck,” he scoffs, as he leans down to kiss me, just a touch of his lips on mine. He’s said that before but this time I think I can see through his façade of self-confidence.

“You behave yourself today,” he warns me, “And meet back here by six o’clock, seven at the latest. We’ll go someplace nice for dinner.” I nod and he pulls open the door, then stops and turns around again. “Here,” he says, setting down his briefcase and pulling out his wallet, cracking it open and taking out two fifties.

I back away. “I don’t need that, I have my own money.”

“Justin,” he says, “Don’t be stoobug.”

He knows that will make me laugh, it’s a word we’ve been using since Brian had a swollen lip after the car crash and couldn’t talk right. It makes me laugh this time too but still I open my mouth to protest when Brian shuts me up by saying, “Justin, pretend this is Vermont, okay?”

“Brian – “

“Just shut up and take the money. Have a good time today, just don’t fall off a cable car or do anything else terrible that I’ll have to explain to your mom, okay?”

“Okay.” Reluctantly I take the bills and shove them in the pocket of my robe.

Of course Brian doesn’t owe me for Vermont, in fact, I spent a lot of his money there while I waited for him to come join me, which I should have known he wouldn’t do. But I guess he means he wants to smooth over that bad time, make it go away. I wish Brian would talk about things like normal people instead of turning ordinary conversation into riddles and guessing games. He kisses me again then walks out and down the hall toward the elevator, and I close the door behind him, thinking about all the things I want to do today.



Brian

The offices of Barnhart & Blessing are on a narrow side street in the Financial District, I’m glad I allowed plenty of time to get here as the taxi slowly jostles its way through heavy morning traffic. Even so, I arrive twenty minutes early and find a nearby coffee kiosk to kill time and fortify myself with more caffeine. It’s interesting to stand on the corner watching the crowded sidewalks jammed with morning commuters rushing to work, and I make eye contact with several good-looking men in beautifully tailored business suits who aren’t too preoccupied to scan the crowd.

One, in particular, gives me an undeniably interested stare and switches his direction, making a sharp turn and walking right toward me. At the last moment, he detours sharply, steps up to the kiosk and buys himself a cup of coffee. Then he saunters over to my vicinity and gives me a nod and a smile. “Morning,” he says, “I think we met at the Giants-Padres game last week, you were with your wife and three kids.”

“No,” I correct him, shaking my head. “All six of the kids were with us.”

He laughs then and extends his hand. “I’m George,” he says. He’s about my age, as tall as me, broad-shouldered and tan, with thick dark red hair and wide-apart green eyes; he’s amazingly hot.

Taking his hand I tell him, “I'm Brian.”

“Brian, I’m late for work, but maybe we could meet for lunch today? We could talk about the Giants’ pennant chances this year.”

Regretfully I say, “Sorry, I’m in meetings all day and I don’t know if or when I’ll be free. Pity, though,” I add, “I’d love to hear your thoughts about the team.”

“Yes, a pity,” he agrees. “Dinner?”

Again I shake my head. “I’m in town only a couple days on business and I’m traveling with a friend.”

“Bring him along,” George suggests, and when I merely smile regretfully (and it is a fucking shame to miss having sex with this guy), he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out a business card. Handing it to me he says, “If you break free, give me a call, maybe we can work something out.”

“Sure,” I agree, palming the card and slipping it into my pocket, then George turns away and hurries off down the sidewalk, not without a glance over his shoulder and a wave of his cardboard coffee cup.

I decide to wait another five minutes; it won’t do to appear overeager by showing up before my appointment time. Finally, I make my way to the Barnhart & Blessing office building. It’s eight stories high, dwarfed by surrounding skyscrapers, with a distressed-brick-and glass façade.

At the reception desk, I'm redirected to the seventh floor, where I'm greeted at the elevator by a tall man in his fifties, salt-and-pepper hair closely cropped, wearing a suit especially tailored to minimize his considerable paunch front and center; his florid complexion tells me he likely also overindulges in liquor. "Mr. Kinney, I'm Chuck Hansen, welcome to B&B. We're very anxious to hear your ideas. Come to my office and we'll get started."

Once we're settled in Hansen's large office, he explains, "As I told you on the phone, we'll have a preliminary discussion, and the Specialty Foods boys will join us later. This afternoon, if all goes well, you'll see Mr. Barnhart, President of Barnhart & Blessing."

"Great," I respond, opening my briefcase and pulling out the thick manila folder with my printouts and preliminary marketing outline that I've been roughing out for most of the past week. The San Francisco trip is an expensive gamble - I've spent so much time recently on this project to the exclusion of almost everything else, and naturally Barnhart & Blessing have thrown out invitations for marketing proposals to several top agencies around the country, so the competition from other agencies will be fierce.

After about an hour, Hansen decides it's time for the others to join us, so I know I've passed the first hurdle. He leaves me in his office and I stand up and stretch, loosen my shoulders which despite myself are a bit tight, and stand at the window taking in the view - which is mostly tall buildings and the shadows they throw down onto the street, but if you look straight down one side street, there’s a slice of blue sky and darker blue water in the distance. If I remember the city map correctly, the Financial District stretches west and south from the waterfront.



Justin

There's an information desk in the lobby of the hotel where I pick up an armful of maps and brochures, and right outside the door on Powell Street I stand and watch a cable car lurching up the hill. It's jam-packed with tourists but when it stops on the corner I see that a few brave people surge forward and try to climb aboard. Two of them make it, and that encourages me to follow their lead. When the next cable car inches up the hill, I’m ready on the corner and when the car stops, I throw myself forward, grabbing a pole in one hand and shoving my body in between the already-cramped crowd of bodies on the steps of the cable car. Somebody grabs my shoulder as we jerk forward again, and people laugh - everybody's having a good time.

"Thanks," I exclaim to the middle-aged lady attached to the arm that grabbed my shoulder, and she nods and warns me, "Hold on tight when we go around corners." I nod thanks again and then twist my body around, trying to watch the passing scenery. We go up and up and up Powell Street, which becomes a very steep hill. We pass by Chinatown, barely visible down narrow side streets, then we go very fast around a really sharp turn and I lose my hold on the narrow pole and feel my body arching outward - when my guardian-angel lady and a man on the other side of me both reach out and grab onto my jacket and pull me to safety. Strangely enough, we all laugh, and I thank them both and determine that I will NOT tell Brian about this adventure. If falling off a cable car didn’t totally kill me, Brian sure would.

A few people get off at the next stop, including the lady who helped me, and then there's room to sit on the cable car's narrow bench facing the street. The man who grabbed me slides over to make room for me to sit next to him, and it's a relief to plop down and I let out a whoosh of air. "Having fun?" the man asks, and I nod eagerly, turning to look at him for the first time, he's one of those not very noticeable kinds of people, middle-aged, dressed very plainly with close-cropped hair and large black-framed glasses.

"Yes," I tell him, "It's my first ride on a cable car!"

"Going to Pier 39?"

"I guess." Then I laugh and admit, "I don't know where I'm going, I just saw a cable car and jumped on."

"You're on the car that goes close to Pier 39. The other one goes to Fisherman's Wharf. Though everything's easy walking distance on the waterfront." He pauses, then asks, "Meeting friends?"

"No, I'm on my own today. Oh, look!" I exclaim, pointing down the hill at the sudden view of ocean. Or I guess it's the San Francisco Bay. "Is that Alcatraz?"

"Yes. The island in the middle of the bay is Alcatraz, the bigger island on the left is Angel Island. And Golden Gate Bridge is over to the far left, you can see it when we get closer to the waterfront. Are you going to take the boat to Alcatraz?"

"No," I hear myself sigh, wishing Brian were with me. "That wouldn't be any fun alone."

"You wouldn't have to go alone."

That makes me glance quickly at the man again, and though I wasn't getting any gay vibes from him - not that I was really paying attention – now I wonder. Maybe he's hitting on me? Or maybe not, maybe he's just a nice man being friendly to a stranger.



Brian

The ‘Specialty Foods boys’ introduce themselves: Rob Lexington, a tall brunette with narrow black-framed glasses; and Paul Russo, a blond of medium height with blue eyes nearly as intense as Justin's. I'm not sure what it is about blue-eyed blonds that always seems to get my attention. Lexington starts right in. "Chuck tells us he was impressed with your initial presentation, so we're expecting you to really wow the second team - that's us. Is that intimidating enough for you, Brian?"

Glad that I've graduated to first-name basis, I laugh and say confidently, "Not at all - I love a challenge." Being aggressive has gotten me where I am today, being aggressive and being brilliant of course, so I open up my folders and spread some color-copied concept sheets around the table. After a couple hours lively discussion, Lexington announces that he's going to recommend that the company president take a meeting with me later today, after lunch. Then Lexington invites me to have lunch with him - unfortunately (or maybe fortunately) the delicious Paul Russo has another commitment. Naturally, I agree and we adjourn to a nearby sushi restaurant, which pleases me on several counts, not least of which because traveling with Justin precludes eating in any restaurant that serves raw fish.

After lunch, we return to the B&B offices, to the eighth floor where Lexington escorts me to the president’s office. I follow him down a hallway and wait while he opens an office door, then he precedes me inside and announces, “George Barnhart, here’s Brian Kinney from Vangard.”

The red-haired man behind the desk stands up and extends his hand across the polished mahogany surface. With a flash of deep green eyes and a broad smile he proclaims, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Kinney – although I do think we may have met once before?”

As I shake his hand I try not to lose my smile, though I'm almost speechless with surprise. Somehow I manage to murmur, “Why, yes. Yes, I think we have. Perhaps it was at a Giants game?”