Brian

“We could do a San Francisco slideshow like Michael did of Paris!” Justin flips open the back of the camera and slips in a new roll of film.

“No, we could not.”

Justin’s already taken four thousand pictures of me and we haven’t even gotten off the boat from Alcatraz. I’m feeling a little nauseous, the water’s choppy, the boat rocks back-and-forth, back-and-forth as it nears the dock on Fisherman’s Wharf. Probably if I were leaning over the rail vomiting my guts out, Justin would be clicking away, capturing it all on film.

I didn’t feel well when I woke up this morning – perhaps a reaction to the stress from the past few days or maybe just a hangover from the numerous shots of JB I drank while I searched for Justin all over the SoMa loft last night, I’m still a bit out of practice with heavy drinking. But of course I said nothing, Justin’s waited patiently for two days for me to join him playing tourist, I didn’t want to dim his excitement.

I did talk him out of jumping onto the cable car as he bragged of doing two days before, instead we took a taxi to the wharf. Justin proclaimed it boring but it was much quicker and more comfortable and besides, he’d gotten tickets for a ten o’clock tour and we were running late. That wasn’t my fault, he’d started something in the shower that we finished on the bed, and then we needed another shower. We skipped breakfast and still had to rush and Justin’s been threatening to faint from starvation the past couple hours, even though he bought three donuts and two cartons of milk aboard the tourist boat to Alcatraz island.

As I expected, the prison tour itself was fairly boring to me. Justin’s enthusiasm covered my lack of, and he was so busy reading the brochures, taking photos, and badgering the tour guides with questions that I was able to fake an interest that frankly was completely missing. But even though I’m probably the world’s least tactful person, I couldn’t bring myself to crush Justin’s enjoyment by subjecting him to the cleverly sarcastic monologue that was running through my brain while I trekked all over the big rock with the ooh-ing and aah-ing tour group.

Or so I thought. When we reach the wharf and disembark from the unpleasant little boat and reconnoiter on the sidewalk, I’m rubbing my temple because of this fucking headache. Justin puts a hand on my arm and asks anxiously, “Brian, aren’t you having a good time?”

“Sure – it’s as much fun as Chinese water torture.” Immediately I bite my tongue. Fuck.

Justin’s smile almost comically turns upside down and quickly I shoot out my hand and grab his arm, pull him close. “The truth is, I’ve got a slight headache and – “

“It’s because we skipped breakfast!” Justin declares, and while I know that’s not the reason, I find myself nodding agreement.

“Yeah, let’s get something to eat, “ I suggest. Even though the thought of food increases my nausea, I know that Justin’s definitely starving by now, it’s noon.

Just as I’m thinking to myself that this tact shit is for the birds, a huge seagull does a kamikaze nosedive over our heads and lets loose with a huge shitload that splatters the ground near our feet. I’ll bet they aim for tourists and congratulate each other for near-misses like that one. Justin laughs out loud and I clamp my lips together to keep from saying what I want to say, instead, I smile grimly and let him take my hand and lead me away from the boat of the damned, the stinking reek of the water sloshing against the wharf pilings, and the fucking killer seagulls.

Three cups of coffee, an extra-strength Tylenol, and a halfway decent chicken sandwich help restore my equilibrium. We’re sitting in a restaurant with a view of the bay – my back is resolutely turned against it, having generously offered to let Justin sit facing the window, and he’s reading me a list of all the possible things we could do next – who knew there were so many fucking tourist attractions in this city?

Justin glances up from his brochures and catches a look on my face before I can remove it and his own face falls, he loses his happy smile. “You don’t really want to do this stuff, do you?” It’s rhetorical; he saw the answer before he asked the question.

“Some sound better than others,” I hedge. “We should rent a car, it would be easier to get around.”

“Brian, you haven’t said what you would like to do.”

Taking another sip of coffee, I consider. “I’d like to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge,” I admit, surprising myself; it’s the truth. “And,” reaching for the map and studying it, I add, “Would you like to see the ocean? We could drive there too.”

Justin sits up in his chair and exclaims, “Oh, I’d love to see the Pacific! Let’s do that!”

So we get a taxi to a rental car place and I drive around San Francisco all afternoon, going across the bridge and back again, driving through Golden Gate Park, stopping a couple times to see landmarks and places that interest Justin. Then we reach the ocean, and I drive south for a half-hour or so while Justin enjoys the ocean view and I feel myself relaxing and actually enjoying the drive. In late afternoon we stop at a turn-out, park and walk down a steep path in the cliff to the beach, leaving our shoes in the car. Halfway to the water Justin grabs my hand and pulls me – and I find myself running beside him through the warm sand and splashing into the freezing cold water washing up in lacy waves onto the shore. It’s windy, Justin’s hair is blown around in the breeze, his face is flushed pink, and when he turns his head he’s laughing out loud with joy. I join in his laughter – he’s so beautiful – and suddenly I realize that I feel just amazingly happy being here beside him on the beach.



Justin

Renting a car was a great idea and I’ve had so much fun today seeing a lot of famous sights in San Francisco. Best of all though was finding this beach, there’s very few people around, we walk barefoot through the waves for a while and then climb over the sand dunes and sit by a big log, Brian leaning his back against the log and pulling me to lean back against his chest, wrapping his arms around me. We sit like that for a while watching the waves roll in and out, and I can tell how relaxed Brian is, and I feel so happy. The sun is very low in the sky, everything is muted pink and gold. Maybe now is the time to start talking.

“Brian, can we talk now?”

“What about?” I feel his arms tighten around me.

“Us.”

I’m not sure what I expect – annoyance, sarcasm, at least a joke. What I don’t expect is to hear Brian sigh and murmur, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I turn in his arms so I can see his face. His eyes are serious and he nods his head.

“Yes,” he confirms, before planting a quick kiss on my lips. “You start.”

“I – I don’t even know how.”

“You don’t have a speech prepared? Maybe some scribbles on three-by-five cards? Notes written on your hand?”

“Well,” I sigh, turning around and sitting cross-legged to face Brian, “Here’s the sarcasm that was missing.”

“Justin, sarcasm is me. It’s a reflex. You know that by now.”

“Sometimes you’ve been serious. You’ve talked about serious things to me before. Why not now?”

He takes a quick breath and says, “Maybe because I’m. . .”

There’s a long pause as he stares at me.

After a moment I try to fill in the blank. “Scared?”

Brian continues to stare at me, he doesn’t blink. Then there’s the briefest nod of his head. “Possibly.”

“No,” I say urgently, “You can’t be. If you’re scared, I’ll be scareder.”

Brian laughs softly, reaches a hand to brush the hair out of my eyes. “Impossible. You’re the bravest man I know.”

“I’m not brave,” I deny it.

“You’re willing to take me on – again. What could be braver than that?”

“Brian?” He nods encouragingly, so I go on, “Brian, all the times we were together. It was never really your idea. This time it has to be your idea. Otherwise. . .”

“Otherwise what?”

I try a different tactic. “Brian. This time you have to fight for me. This time you have to convince ME that we should be together.”

“Jesus,” he says, shaking his head. “You should have given me some warning. I don’t have a presentation ready. And my laptop’s back at the hotel.”

I don’t laugh, instead, I fold my hands in my lap and just look at him. And keep looking at him.

Brian sighs. He picks up a handful of sand and lets it sift through his fingers. Finally, he murmurs, “It’s easier to tell you the reasons we shouldn’t be together.”

“Okay. Number one.”

Brian looks back at me again and sighs. “Okay. Age. You’re twelve years younger than me.”

“A perfect match: When you’re decrepit, I’ll push you around in a wheel chair. I’ve already practiced.”

“Twat.”

“Next?”

“Economics.”

“Perfect again. You’re putting me through school and then someday I’ll be rich and famous and have ten times more money than you. I can be your sugar daddy.”

“Sugar baby.” His voice is soft, he touches my hair again.

“Next.”

“You have no fashion sense.”

“You can buy me more suits. And we’ll go see your tailor to have them fitted. Next.”

“I can’t be monoga-

“Fuck mononononononogamy. To quote you in one of your finer moments.”

“I was drunk. I’m drunk in most of my finer moments.”

We smile, remembering the night I drove him home from Deb’s birthday party. Then I say decisively, “Next.”

Brian looks away again, picks up another handful of sand, drops it. I just sit waiting and finally he crosses his arms, leans back against the log and looks me in the eye. “Justin, I can’t – I mean, I won’t – say the things you want to hear.”

“Brian. There’s only one thing I want to hear. Only one.”

He shakes his head, “I can’t – “

“Yes, you can.”

“I won’t – “

“Well, you have to. This time you have to.”

He just stares at me without speaking.

Rising up on my knees, I lean forward and put my arms around his neck. “You have to,” I whisper.

“Justin,” Brian says urgently, “The tide’s coming in.”

Unwillingly I glance over my shoulder and he’s right, the tide’s been coming in and the water’s getting close to us.

So I stand up and Brian stands up and we move across the sand back to the side of the cliff, climb up to the parking area, brush off our feet and put on our shoes. As we get into the car Brian murmurs, “The ocean’s so beautiful here. You should have brought your sketch pad.”

“Yeah.”



Brian

Justin’s quiet all the way back to the hotel. Our conversation is low key and scattered, pointing out things to each other like a lighthouse or an interesting bird swooping over the car. He’s very subdued, but I can’t help that the tide coming in interrupted our conversation. Besides, I wanted to interrupt our conversation. I wasn’t ready for it to go further.

There’s a parking garage beneath Union Square so we leave the car there and walk across the street to our hotel. In the shower Justin says, “We still need to talk,” but I remind him there’s not time right now – George Barnhart’s driver is going to come for us about seven o’clock. When we’re getting dressed I stop Justin from tying his tie – instead, I take it from his hand, loop it over his neck and tie it for him. He likes me to do that. For some reason, I like it too.

“Brian,” he says, looking down at my hands on his tie, “Does this guy know I’m your boyfriend?”

“Well, I didn’t tell him you were my secretary. There.” I finish with a flourish and turn Justin around to look at himself in the full-length mirror on the closet door.

“We look good together,” Justin comments ingenuously.

“Hunh,” I snort, turning away quickly to hide my smile. He’s right.

“I just don’t know how I’m supposed to act tonight. You said he’s gay too, right? And – “

“Justin,” I throw over my shoulder as I stand at the desk checking my wallet and putting it in my pocket, “You don’t have to ‘act’ any way at all. Just be yourself.” I glance at him and his forehead is wrinkled.

“There’s not going to be any – umm, funny business, is there?” he asks anxiously.

“Of course not.” I hope to Christ I’m right. Justin’s making me feel tense again, ruining all the relaxing I’ve done today. The phone on the desk rings suddenly, I reach for it and answer calmly, “Yes?”

It’s the driver of course, and I hustle Justin into his shoes and out the door, into the elevator and through the lobby to the reception desk, where Barnhart’s driver is waiting. Thankfully the car’s only a Mercedes not a limo, which might have made Justin nervous. As it is, he leans over the back of the seat and talks to the driver, asking if he likes living in San Francisco and telling him what a great time we had today seeing Alcatraz and the ocean.

Barnhart’s house turns out to be a four-story Victorian, the front doors of mahogany with etched-glass panels are opened by George Barnhart himself wearing a casual Versace outfit in dark green that’s perfect for his coloring.

”Brian!” he greets me warmly, taking my hand in both of his and flashing those green eyes at me ever so briefly before he turns his gaze on Justin. I see his eyes widen with obvious approval before he takes the hand Justin extends and repeats his double handshake. “How lovely to meet you,” George murmurs when I make the introductions, and I see a pale pink flush rise from Justin’s neck to color his cheeks. Someone comes up behind George, who turns and says, “Darling, come and meet Brian and Justin, two new friends from the east coast.”

Darling mirrors George’s smiling welcome and we all shake hands. Darling’s name is Stephen and I’m somewhat surprised to discover that he’s nearly the same age as Justin. He’s also elegantly dressed, in pale blue, it goes well with his light brown hair which is long and curls over the collar of his shirt. George leads the way into a what he calls the parlor, and it’s very much a renovated Victorian parlor, somewhat oppressively decorated with antiques and tapestry wall hangings.

“It’s like living in a museum,” Justin exclaims, looking around the room as we’re seated on an enormous sofa. Then realizing what he’s said, Justin glances at George and adds earnestly, “It’s very beautiful.”

“Thanks,” George smiles benignly. “Tell us how you’re enjoying your visit to San Francisco. Is this your first trip to California?”

Well, he asked for it. Justin leans forward, elbows on knees, and regales George and Stephen with an excited monologue on the tourist pleasures of the city. I sit back and fold my arms, smiling inwardly; I told Justin to be himself and he’s taken me at my word. Luckily it’s only about ten minutes before a gong sounds, announcing dinner. For a moment I’m afraid Justin’s going to laugh – for a moment, I’m afraid I’m going to laugh, but neither of us does, and when we stand and follow our hosts into the dining room, I grab Justin’s arm and give it a squeeze. He glances up at me and the look that passes between us does not need words, I can tell that Justin’s exactly in tune with me about George Barnhart’s pretentious bullshit.

Justin’s almost always exactly in tune with me I realize, as we’re seated at one end of an enormous dining table set with crystal and what appears to be Queen Elizabeth’s hand-me-down china, gold-rimmed plates, and the silverware is also gold. There are no less than five crystal water and wine glasses at each place setting. Justin and I are seated close together, and while George speaks to the servant – butler or whatever he might be, Justin slides his hand into my lap and without looking at me, he pinches the inside of my thigh. Hard. It hurts, but I’m almost glad of that, it helps me keep a straight face.

Somehow I had not expected George Barnhart to be so pompous, so formal, but it’s obvious in observing him that he’s enormously enjoying his Lord of the Manor persona. The dinner is almost unbearably long, with an array of courses that even Justin can’t completely do justice to. I notice that George speaks rather condescendingly to his servants and also to Stephen, and I realize that I’m not surprised when dinner’s finally over to hear George suggest that he and I should share brandy and cigars while ‘the boys’ go off somewhere to play.

I’m peripherally aware of the look Justin’s giving me though I don’t need to see it to know what he’s thinking. “Actually,” I tell George, “Justin quite likes brandy and cigars, don’t you – darling?” I turn and raise my eyebrows at Justin.

“Oh yes,” he agrees immediately, “That would be mahrrvelous.”

Don’t overdo it sonnyboy, I silently warn him, but he turns such an innocent look on me that I almost laugh out loud, and promise myself the pleasure of spanking him later.

George frowns slightly, and I wonder if this was an attempt at divide and conquer. What’s strange to me is that after spending a few hours in private company with George Barnhart, I no longer have the slightest desire to fuck him. He’s gorgeous but his self-confidence and dynamic personality that seemed so attractive to me just yesterday now seem overblown and overdramatic. I’m not sure what that means exactly but it can’t be a good sign. I’ve always loved fucking almost anything that moves, yet tonight all I want to do is take Justin away from this stuffy dinner party, strip off his clothes and hold him naked in my arms in the king-size bed in our hotel room.

Somehow we survive half an hour of cigar-talk, and I keep an eye on Justin to be sure he’s not turning green – he doesn’t really like cigars and the few times I’ve smoked one around him he’s made a huge fuss of flapping his hands, opening windows, and telling me to brush my teeth. Then I stand up and Justin jumps up to stand beside me; we begin to make our adieux to George and to Stephen (who’s hung around in the background while we smoked). George is surprised and his displeasure shows briefly, he says now that he’d hoped we’d make a night of it. I’ll just bet he did.

“Sorry, we’d love to, but we’ve got an early flight tomorrow and Justin really got exhausted with all our running around today.” Justin yawns obligingly and slumps against me, sighing heavily. The chauffeur is called and we’re escorted to the door, where George manages to pull me aside and urges me to visit San Francisco again very soon. With effusive thanks, we slip away from our host and climb into the Mercedes for the ride back downtown.

When we’re a block away, Justin leans close and whispers in my ear, “He wanted to have sex with you. Couldn’t you tell?”

“Not interested,” I shake my head.

“But he’s hot. And he’s rich.”

“Justin,” I suggest quietly, “You can drop me at the hotel and go back and fuck him if you want to.”

Justin laughs at that. “I can’t,” he whispers, “I’m too exhausted from all our running around today. And we have an early flight tomorrow.” Then he adds, “I thought our flight home was tomorrow night?”

“Yeah,” I agree. “Early tomorrow night.”

When we’re back at the hotel, I’m afraid that Justin will start up his ‘let’s talk’ spiel again, but my words to George Barnhart that Justin’s exhausted prove to have been prophetic. Justin can hardly keep his eyes open, and once we’re undressed he slips into bed while I quickly check my e-mail. When I log off and come to bed a few minutes later, he’s already asleep.



Justin

We woke up early this morning and Brian let me order room service breakfast, though he told me to eat light because he’s taking me somewhere special for lunch. We have a couple hours left for touristy things, so I choose to have Brian drive us up the hill by Coit Tower where we have a beautiful view out over the city and the bay, then he drives us through North Beach and – with a lot of complaining, finally agrees to drive down Lombard – the crookedest street in the world. That was a lot of fun but I’m glad it wasn’t me driving!

Back at the hotel, we change clothes – I’m back in my suit again, Brian insists we have to be dressed up, and we get a taxi to the restaurant since it’s so hard to find parking places in the city. The restaurant is called Charles Nob Hill, and it’s a really beautiful place, it’s fancy but not schmancy. I hope the food is good, I had such a small breakfast that I’m already starving.



Brian

When we enter the restaurant I can hear Justin gasp softly. It’s a beautiful place, it had been described to me as romantic though that’s not a judgment I’m capable of making, but I can tell that Justin likes it and that’s what matters. We’re seated in a small dining room with paneled walls and a few strategically placed paintings that immediately catch Justin’s eye. He tells me they’re very good, another judgment call of which I’m not capable.

However I am very capable of selecting menu choices and I talk Justin into trying the prawns with lobster ravioli and he loves it, insisting that I try a bite of the ravioli and I agree that it’s not bad. We share a bottle of wine though I drink most of it; wine makes Justin sleepy and I don’t want him getting sleepy this afternoon. For dessert, the waiter suggests lavender crème brulee and I laugh softly when I see Justin’s eyes light up. He’s seldom too full for dessert.

Lounging comfortably in my chair, I watch him inhale the custard, which he does with polite but unabashed gusto, then finally he’s finished and he relaxes back in his chair. Justin’s smile encompasses the waiter who appears to whisk away the dishes from our table, and then he leans forward and says emphatically, “Brian, that’s the best meal I ever had in my whole life.”

I return his smile but I have to reach up and slightly loosen my tie, which suddenly constricts my throat. Then I slip a hand into my pocket and pull out a small flat box, lean forward and hand it to Justin.

“What’s this?”

“Nothing,” I answer quickly. Then I correct myself, “Well, it’s not nothing, it’s something.” Still, he sits grasping the velvet box, staring down at it then back up at me. I can’t read the expression in his eyes. “Just open it,” I tell him, and this fucking tie is constricting my throat again, I have to pull it loose a bit more, I must have tied it too tight.

Still, he doesn’t open the fucking box. “Stop being a drama princess, it’s not the Hope diamond, it’s just a – thing. A something. It’s no big deal.”

“Okay,” Justin whispers, and I can see that his fingers are fumbling on the clasp of the box. Then he’s got it open and his eyes fly back to my face but I’m giving nothing away, nothing, he can’t read anything on my face.

“It’s – beautiful,” Justin breathes, looking down again and lifting the bracelet out of the silk lining of the box. It’s a gold link band, chunky enough to be masculine but narrow enough to be comfortable on his slim wrist.

When I say nothing, Justin again raises his eyes to my face. “Brian, it’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“Okay.” It’s all I can say at that moment, I’m waiting. I can’t somehow tell him to look at it more closely, instead, I have to wait and let him find out for himself.

He senses something’s going on, he tilts his head to one side and studies me. Still, my face is noncommittal, almost casual. I hope. We just sit looking at each other for a moment, then Justin looks down at the bracelet again, turns it over in his fingers, rubbing the smooth gold links. Then he sees it. He turns the largest gold link over and stares at it. The inscription. And looks at me again.

“Brian.”

Then the waiter’s here at my elbow and I’m annoyed at his timing and yet relieved at his timing, both at the same time. I pull out my plastic and the waiter disappears and Justin’s still looking at me.

“Brian.”

“If you yell or something,” I warn him, “I’m outta here, you’ll be stuck with the check.”

“Brian.”

“No crying either. Yelling, crying, I’m gone. You’ll be so embarrassed if I stand up and walk the fuck right out of here.”

“Okay,” he says, but he’s smiling. I can’t smile back at him because if I do my face might crack wide open and fall off.

Then we sit in silence while Justin fingers the bracelet and stares at me, and I look around the room admiring the décor. It’s very French, dark wood paneling, soft candlelight from chandeliers above our heads, thick velvet draperies at the windows. Finally the waiter returns, I pocket my card and glance quickly at Justin.

“Ready?” I ask but I don’t wait for his answer, I push back my chair and stand up, turn around and head for the door. Justin’s right behind me and he says nothing while we wait for the valet to get us a taxi. I didn’t plan how to spend this time, the time after Justin opened his present, I didn’t plan what we’d talk about or anything at all, not anything. I was afraid Justin would – I’m not sure what I thought he would do, but I realize that I’m surprised that he’s so quiet, so calm.

When we get into the taxi, I brace myself until I realize that Justin’s going to remain silent for the ride back to the hotel. The only thing going on is that Justin slides his hand across the seat, finds my hand and we twine our fingers together and hang on tight.

Once we get to our room, I see Justin set down the velvet box on the desk, then he turns to me and moves in close, sliding his arms around my neck. “Do we have time to mess around one more time before we leave for the airport?” he asks.

“We have time to do it twice,” I answer, pulling away from him to slip the ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign on the outside doorknob.

Then we’re pulling off our clothes and we slide onto the bed. Or rather, I slide onto the bed but Justin turns away. He goes over to the desk and returns with the velvet box. We stare at each other in silence, I don’t think I’ve ever been this speechless in my life before.

“Okay,” Justin says, climbing on the bed. I’m lying flat on my back and he moves to sit on my legs, to straddle me. In a way, I’m almost pinned down. Trapped. I could easily throw him off if I wanted to. But of course I don’t want to and yet still I feel trapped.

Pulling the bracelet out of the box and tossing the box over his shoulder, he holds the gold link-chain out to me. “Brian, put it on me.”

“Okay.” I take the bracelet from his hand, the gold warms up quickly and feels smooth in my fingers. “Give me your wrist.”

“But first.”

“First what?” I ask, my voice sounding annoyed, my gut twisting with more of that trapped feeling.

“Brian, read the inscription.”

“I don’t need to,” I try for exasperation but it sounds more like desperation, even to myself. “I told them what to write, I know what it says.”

Justin nods. “Yes but. Read it to me. Out loud.”

“No.”

Then he’s smiling, smiling, that fucking dazzling smile I can never resist. Have never been able to resist, damn him all to hell.

I stare back at him and I know that I’ve lost. I’ve lost this God-damned knock-down, drag-out fight that I’ve been fighting for almost three years. I’m trapped and I’ve lost and I’m almost paralyzed as I lie there on the bed staring at his beautiful face, staring into his amazing blue eyes, feeling the warmth of Justin hovering over me, all around me.

“Read it,” he whispers, and I look at the bracelet in my hand and turn it around so I can see the inscription.

“To Justin,” I read aloud, hardly recognizing my own voice, it’s so raspy, almost inaudible. “To Justin,” I repeat a little louder, continuing to read the words inscribed on the gold link. “I love you.” I pause and then add, “It’s signed, ‘Brian.’ Brian somebody – no last name.”

He’s silent and I have to look back at him, he’s shaking his head and softly laughing. “When we get home, let’s find a jeweler to add ‘Kinney.’ Just so there can be no doubt.”

“Okay.”

“Brian,” Justin says solemnly, “I love you. I’ve loved you from the first time I saw you, and no matter what things we’ve gone through, I’ve never stopped loving you. And I never will.”

I nod, still hardly able to speak. “Me too,” I answer him at last. “Ditto. More or less.”

Justin pulls the bracelet from my fingers and fastens it on his wrist, then leans down till his naked chest is pressed against mine, we’re skin to skin and the familiar wonderful smell of Justin, of his hair and his skin and his soft breath are all around me. “Can you say it now, Brian, without reading?”

“No.”

Justin insists, “Then read it to me again.”

“You’re determined to kill me, aren’t you?” I ask conversationally, then I sigh, and I feel my resistance melting away. “Justin, you little asshole,” I grab both his arms and shake him roughly, “I’ll read the bracelet to you anytime you want, okay? But shut up now, you’re wasting valuable time – roll over.”

“Oh Brian,” Justin sighs, “You’re so romantic.”