Brian

Debbie's sitting at the kitchen table across from me, scowling heavily. "What did you do with Sunshine?" she demands.

"Stuffed his body in a locker at the airport."

Michael gripes, "Jesus, Brian, could you maybe remember not to get Ma upset?"

"Why should that upset her?" I counter, "Do you imagine she believes me?"

"Don't talk about me like I'm not here," Debbie interrupts. "I’m not pushing up daisies yet." She turns her frown on Michael. "And I am perfectly capable of dealing with Brian Kinney and his smart-mouth, after all these years." She pauses to draw breath, then demands again, "Now Brian, just answer a simple question, for fuck sake."

"Yes'm," I say humbly. "Sorry, Deb."

She's not buying it. "Don't bullshit me. Just tell me why you didn't bring Sunshine home with you. And don't tell me he didn't want to come, 'cause I won't believe you."

"Of course he wanted to come." I force myself to cut the sarcasm, easier said than done. "But we're on a tight budget, airfare's expensive, and - "

"Oh fuck," Debbie slaps a hand over her mouth. "Honey, I forgot! Seems like you've been stinking rich for such a long time, it's hard to imagine you pinching pennies."

No shit. "Of course we could've managed it anyway and I did ask him to come - but he was determined to be practical."

"Well, I suppose one of you has to be."

I decide not to be insulted and just nod agreeably. "Yeah. Maybe we can come for a real visit in a couple months."

"Christmas," Deb nods. "You need to be home for Christmas."

Being a million miles away from Pittsburgh at Christmas sounds great to me. I hate holidays. But I'm sure that Justin would like to come home. "Maybe.”

"I’ll bet he told you to give me a big hug for him."

"He did, but you can wait and collect it yourself, if we come home in December."

"Fuck being Mister Cool, Brian, and give me that hug. Pretend for a minute that you're Justin."

"Pretend I'm Justin?" I nod my head. "Okay, here goes: ‘Hey Deb - got any snacks?’”

"Ah," Debbie laughs but she's wiping her eyes, "I sure miss that little sweetie. You taking good care of him out there?"

"We're taking care of each other."

"He sent me a postcard with a picture of Simpson Studios on it," Deb tells me, "It's there on the fridge. With a little arrow pointing at the building where he works. Does he really like the job as much as he says?"

"He's mopping the floor with 'em," I assure her, "He'll be head of the art department in a few weeks."

"And are you boys getting along okay? You treating him good, Brian?"

The third degree is beginning to pall. "Yeah, yes, okay?"

Debbie picks up on my annoyance and changes the subject. "So, Jennifer says you boys met her doctor fiancé. She brought him to dinner here a few weeks ago, right before they went to LA. He seems like a nice guy, huh?"

"Sure."

"Does Justin like him?"

"Deb," I stand up and stretch, move around the kitchen, "He likes him okay I think. But it was a complete shock to find out that his mom is engaged, do you know that she didn't tell Justin anything all this time? Just sprung it on him, wham! - and expected him to be happy for her."

"Get me more coffee, while you're up. Oh relax, Michael," Deb flaps her hand at him, "It's fucking decaf, all right?"

I bring the carafe to the table, fill Deb's cup and my own, Michael shakes his head no. Deb takes a sip and says, "Yeah, Jennifer could have given him some warning. They don't seem to talk to each other much in that family, do they? Not about important things."

The irony of this statement - coming from a woman who told her son his drag-queen dad was a soldier who died in Viet Nam - completely escapes Debbie. I glance at Michael and I guess that it escapes him too, so I keep my mouth shut.

Deb's quiet for a moment, then she shrugs. "Well, he should be happy for her anyway, she seems to love this guy, and of course he's rich as what's-his-name, Crocus."

"Croesus."

"That's what I said."

I lean against the kitchen counter and sip my coffee. I tell myself to shut up, but it's not working; I can't help saying with a tinge of bitterness, "Justin's the one who's always supposed to understand."

"Brian," Deb gives me a hard look, "You have no idea what Jennifer went through after Justin came out. She lost her husband and her home, and - "

"Oh the fuck," I'm immediately angry. "And that was Justin's fault, I suppose?"

"I didn't say - "

"Brian!" Michael gives me a warning glance, I take a deep breath, then another.

Michael's right, I'm upsetting Deb. "I need a cigarette," I say. "I'll be back in a few minutes," Michael told me we're not supposed to smoke in the house now.

Deb lets me go, and Michael makes as if to follow but I wave him off; I need to be alone, I need to walk off this sudden surge of anger in my chest. I pause on the stoop to light up and inhale deeply, the acrid exhaled smoke blown back into my face by the wind, making my eyes burn and water slightly, then I take off down the sidewalk, zipping up my jacket against the chill breeze stirring the trees and sweeping brown and gold leaves across the narrow lawns.

Let it go, I tell myself, let go of this burning anger I feel for Justin's mother. Oh, I appreciate her, I do. I know she stuck by Justin more than a lot of mothers would have done. But as many times as she stuck by him, there were plenty other times she pushed him away. It seemed like every time things got difficult, she pushed him away again. Pushed him onto me when he ran away. Then sat there in her beautiful living room and let his father push Justin away. Of course, I’d had to get Justin the fuck out of there that day, it’s not like I had any choice in the matter. And she let me take him away that time too.

And then after the bashing, she insisted I leave her son alone. Even after I came right out and told her that I cared for him. And I did leave him alone. I fucking did, never mind the agony I felt, slamming the door of my loft in his face! Christ almighty! And then a few days later, she pushed Justin back onto me again, when she couldn't handle him anymore.

Okay, I was glad that she did, I was glad that she gave him to me to deal with. I did too. I did deal with him. But still, I am bitter on his account, that she so easily gave Justin away to a man she hated, just because he was being difficult.

Stopping to drop my cigarette butt and grind it under my heel, I realize that Justin does not feel this same bitterness and anger toward his mom. Not that we've talked about it. I'd never badmouth his mother to Justin. She's a good mother most of the time, and maybe that's all you can ask of people. God knows she’s a hell of a lot better than my own mother.

Speak of the devil, here comes my own mother now, moving toward me down the sidewalk, the wind whipping the edges of a brown plaid coat, her scarfed head with gray curls escaping bent against the wind, her sensible brown shoes making crunching sounds as she shuffles through drifts of dried leaves on the cracked and crooked sidewalk.

I remember when this stretch of sidewalk was poured, the summer of 1985. Tree roots had grown large underneath, buckling and breaking up the cement. I remember that Mikey and I had watched from a distance till the city workmen cleared out and went away, before the new cement was dry. We’d loitered around near a tall and leafy elm tree waiting, then we’d hurried forward and quickly used a peeled twig to write our names in the hardening cement. I’d written ‘Brian Rules!’ which was dumb but which would not have proved my identity, but Mikey had written ‘Michael Charles Novotny was here,’ sealing our fate. Our parents had had to pay a fine, and my ass had paid a heavy fine the next day in the garage when Pop made me drop my pants so he could teach me a lesson with the thwap of a wide leather belt.

I’ve been standing frozen in time and staring off into memory-thick space when suddenly the plaid coat arrives and its wearer lifts her head and nods sourly as she marches noisily past, her shoes still crunching the dead leaves. It’s not my mother, after all, it’s some other old woman, some other unhappy shuffling old woman who probably has a thankless son like me that never visits or calls.

I stand there a few minutes longer, giving the old woman a head start, then I turn and follow in her footsteps, retrace my path back to Debbie’s house, go up the stairs and pull open the front door, sighing as I enter the familiar overheated, messy living room with the hideous wallpaper, the place that was more home to me than the always-cold, always-immaculate house I grew up in just a few blocks away. Debbie’s still sitting at the table sipping coffee, so I move to stand behind her, bend down and give her a bone-cracking hug. I kiss her cheek and murmur, “From Justin.” Then I straighten up and ask, “Any coffee left?”



Justin

Reg and I maintain an uneasy truce but every time he sees me, his eyes cut across my skin leaving invisible drops of blood and I feel imaginary daggers in my spine whenever I turn around and walk out of his office.

“Maybe you should fuck him,” Brian suggested, when I’d told him about Reg, Andrew Whittaker’s personal assistant. Reg wants to fuck the boss, Reg thinks I’m fucking the boss, he’s jealous of anybody getting close to Andrew.

“How would fucking him help?” I was exasperated. Fucking is Brian’s answer to most problems.

He'd shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt,” was all he’d said, before changing the subject, trying to distract me with a lecture about choosing cantaloupes. We were in the supermarket produce section.

“Why don’t you give me some serious advice?” I’d asked, struggling not to laugh as Brian displayed two large cantaloupes in his hands, holding them at crotch-level and smirking suggestively.

Dumping the cantaloupes back in their bin, Brian shrugged again, moving on. Over his shoulder, he’d said, “When I give you serious advice, you argue with me. Or tell me that you’ll handle things yourself.”

“Well, I want to handle things myself.”

“There you go.” He stopped by the broccoli and reached for a plastic bag.

“I’m sick of broccoli,” I complained. “That’s practically all you eat and it stinks up the kitchen.”

“Broccoli-stink is healthier than chocolate-stink. All YOU eat is brownies, I gain weight just smelling them all the time.”

“Once a week is not all the time.”

I watched as he bagged a large head of broccoli and handed him a twistie.

“Justin,” he said finally, “There’s always going to be guys jealous of you, of your looks and of your talent. All you can do is ignore them, and watch your back.”

Pulling open the door of Reg's office, I force myself to smile at him and say hello. Reg is in his late twenties and is fairly attractive, but except for a long narrow swag of bright blond hair hanging down over his forehead, everything about him is brown - his eyes, the rest of his hair, his narrow tortoise-shell glasses, and he always wears brown or tan or beige sweaters and sports jackets. In the wood-paneled offices of Simpson HQ, Reg blends into the background and nearly disappears.

Reg gives me a brief glance and a nod before returning his eyes to his computer screen. His hand swipes at the blond hair, tossing it carelessly, an amazingly annoying and repetitive attention-getting habit. As I approach his desk he says, without looking up, "Andrew's not here."

"I know. He just called Joe on his cell, he's en route to a meeting in San Francisco and he wants me to pick up the Flyaway sketches and take them to Jim Masterson."

"Why'd he ask you?" Reg demands, "You don't even have a car. I can deliver them."

"I have a car today," I say mildly, "And he told Joe to ask me because the new logo was my idea and he wants me to show it to Masterson, explain the reasoning for the suggested change."

I'm annoyed that I'm explaining all this to Reg when what I want to do is tell him to fuck off, but I don't need to antagonize the man. If I were Brian, I'd steamroll right over the top of Reg and maybe that's the smart thing to do, but I'm not Brian and that's not my style.

Reg frowns and stands up, comes out from behind his desk. "Wait here," he says tersely, before opening the door of Andrew's office and moving inside. He leaves the door ajar and I watch as he rummages through piles of papers and documents on the wide mahogany desk.

"He said it was probably on the credenza by the window," I offer, moving to stand in the doorway but not going inside.

"Why didn't you say so," Reg grumbles, turning to the credenza and grabbing a thick manila folder. He shoves it into my hands and then detours around me, flipping that strand of blond hair as he moves back behind his desk and takes his seat again.

I'm not ready to be dismissed. "Joe said to get Masterson's number at the hotel from you," I tell Reg, "So I can let him know I'm coming over."

With a heavy sigh of the terminally put-upon, Reg drags his eyes from his computer screen once again and opens a drawer, pulls out a small leather binder. "I'll call him," he offers. "Give me your cell number and I'll tell Masterson to let you know if there's a problem."

I want to call Masterson myself, but it's really not a big deal so I decide to let it slide. Masterson's an important client and Reg obviously wants to assert himself as Andrew's assistant. "Okay," I agree, then add, "Thanks, I'll see you later."

"Ta-ta," Reg calls lightly; he's picking up the phone as I exit his office.

Despite the heavy traffic, driving the jeep around LA is fun, and it reminds me how free and independent having a car makes you feel. When I pull into the driveway at the Beverley Wilshire Hotel, I blithely toss my keys to a valet - Joe told me to submit a bill to petty cash for any expenses incurred today - and I glide through the impressive glass doors of the grand hotel, feeling very grand myself, despite my casual jeans-and-sports jacket attire.

Brian got me this new sports coat, he hated my old one. He refused to let me look at the price tag, he claimed that he didn't look either, but I know it was very expensive. And I understand now as I cross an expanse of thick pile carpet toward the concierge desk, why Brian likes to wear expensive clothes - the beautifully tailored jacket buoys me up with extra self-confidence.

And I need it, because, despite my outward calm, I'm a bit intimidated approaching one of Simpson's most important clients alone and basically unprepared. But Andrew was so pleased with my new logo idea for Flyaway Filmworks when Joe Lyons, the Art Director, showed it to him, that Andrew thinks it'll also wow Jim Masterson. He said he didn't want a third party presenting the idea and maybe being easily dissuaded by the client. Andrew and Joe trust me not to fuck up this meeting so I square my shoulders and approach the concierge with a smile and what I hope is an air of self-assurance.

I'm glad that Reg called Mr. Masterson because when the concierge announces me, Masterson tells him to send me right up, and he answers the door the minute I knock.

“Well hello,” he greets me, taking my hand and hanging onto it as he draws me into the room. It’s more than a room, it’s a suite, with gauze draperies opened wide over a huge picture window filling the room with natural light. I glance around at the luxurious furnishings and then return my eyes to Jim Masterson, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his fifties with silver hair at his temples and a slight paunch minimized by his well-tailored beige linen slacks. He’s not wearing a jacket, just a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

And he’s still holding onto my hand. He squeezes it and grins, exposing a mouthful of very large and very white teeth. “So you’re Andrew Whittaker’s new boy,” he says, and not waiting for an answer, he adds, “Come in, come in, come in. What would you like to drink?”



Brian

The first plan had been for me to stay at Deb’s during my visit, and it had seemed a fitting irony that I’d be sleeping once again in Mikey’s childhood bed, the bed more recently occupied by a certain blond twink now residing in sunny California. But when Michael picked me up at the airport, he’d said that plans had changed. If I stayed at Debbie’s, nobody could have stopped her from bustling around cleaning house and cooking up every Italian dish she imagined was my favorite, there’d be no way in hell to keep her off her feet.

Of course, Michael and Ben’s apartment was already overpopulated, with Hunter sharing the small space. The loft was occupied by the guy with whom I’d traded spaces and I saw no point in making contact with him during this brief visit. I could have stayed in a hotel but the cost of doing that would have paid for a plane ticket for Justin.

In the end, I was fobbed off onto the munchers, a fate nearly worse than death. One of them welcomed me with open arms and the other with a frown and a warning not to expect room service. Mel was getting quite revoltingly zaftig – Lindsay had been unexpectedly beautiful when she was pregnant, but Mel looks hideous, bloated and with dark circles under her eyes. Of course I didn’t tell her how awful she looked, but I held that fact in reserve in case she bugged me beyond bearing; I only said, “Jesus, your tits got huge,” which she took as a compliment, somehow forgetting that I am a fag to whom huge tits are about as appetizing as flies on a rib roast.

Friday evening I stayed at Deb’s playing Twenty Thousand Questions till she was finally forced to go to bed, then Michael and I visited with Vic for a while, until jet-lag exhaustion, or more likely a lack of sleep for the past few weeks while I’ve been working myself to death, convinced me to make it an early night.

Emmett’s still occupying the girls’ guest room but even though he was out of town for the weekend, I couldn’t spend five minutes in the fluffy pink nightmare that he’d made of the room. Instead, I’d arranged to sleep on the living room sofa; in case I came in late, there’d be less chance of waking Gus. Lindsay’d given me a key, but it was early, the women were still up. In fact, when I pushed open the front door, I caught them fucking on the sofa where I planned to sleep – Jesus, how inconsiderate can you get? They’d been panting and making noises like pigs in a slaughterhouse. I was afraid they’d continue their gyrations when they adjourned upstairs, but if they did, the house has good soundproofing or else I was just so tired that I slept right through it.

Saturday morning breakfast at the munchers’ is an event not to be missed. Especially if you like the smell of oatmeal and burnt bacon, and the sound of two women’s high-pitched whining at each other and a baby caterwauling. No, not a baby, Christ, Gus is a toddler now, he toddles all the fuck over the place, putting his hands in everything, making a mess of toast, spilling milk and oatmeal and juice, putting his sticky hands on my jeans and in my hair when I pick him up. And asking, “Why, Daddy? Why, Daddy? Why? Why? Why? Why?”

When I first arrived at the munchers' Friday afternoon to drop off my suitcase, Gus came running to greet me, throwing his arms around my legs and nearly tipping me over before I leaned down to swoop him into my arms. "Daddy!" he shrieked in my ear with a decibel level roughly that of an exploding car bomb, and after he left a trail of wet and sticky kisses from my now-deaf ear to my chin, he twisted his head around, looking behind me, then looking all around the living room. "Unca Jus?" he demanded urgently.

"Justin's not here," I told him, "He had to stay home."

"No!" Gus denied it, then asked, "Why, Daddy? Why?"

"Because he was a bad boy," I answered with a smirk.

And how the fuck was I supposed to know that three-year-olds can't take a joke?

Gus started to cry and Lindsay ripped him out of my arms while Michael and Mel lashed into me in language unfit for a child's ears, which I fucking told them. I fucking told them that all the time I was getting the fuck out of there. And in the car again, I told Michael that if he had anything more to say about fathering, to save it for when his own kid is born, otherwise he could shut the fuck up.

After breakfast Saturday morning it was a relief to get away from Muncher Mansion and spend a few hours in Mikey’s comic shop. Hunter came by to watch the shop while we picked up lunch and took it home to Deb. Naturally Hunter tried every way he could to put his skinny-ass boy fingers all over me but I managed to avoid him. In the car, Michael tried to give me a lecture about staying away from Hunter and I nearly punched him, why does everybody imagine that I can’t resist boy ass, for Christ’s sake? Besides, I have my own boy-ass (who seems to think I’ve got ‘Property of Justin’ tattooed all over my cock) waiting for me at home.

Probably he‘s waiting for me.

“Brian,” Justin had asked as we drove to the airport Friday morning, “Are you going to Babylon when you’re at home?

“Why would I go to Babylon?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he answered casually. “Nostalgia? For old time’s sake? To get your dick sucked a few thousand times?”

I didn’t answer, just shrugged. “I’m going home to see Deb and Michael, not to trip the light fantastic down Memory Lane.”

Justin said nothing for a moment, then he asked nonchalantly, “Do you want my permission?”

“I don’t need your permission.”

“Well,” he said, “You have it anyway. Go ahead, dance your ass off, get blown a few times.”

“If I go to Babylon,” I told him, “It’ll be because I want to, not because you gave me what you imagine is your permission.”

“Then go.”

“Maybe I will.” When he said nothing, I reminded him, “I signed on as domestic partners, I didn’t sign any monogamy agreement.”

“Brian, I don’t need monogamy.”

“So what’s this conversation about?”

“I just wanted you to know that I’m okay with it. ‘No locks on our doors,’ as you put it a long time ago.”

“Hunh.”

We drove along in silence for a few minutes, then I had a thought. “Is this really about you giving YOURSELF permission to fuck around while I’m gone?”

Justin laughed. “Absolutely. Of course. How’d you guess?”

“Because,” I ignored his amusement, “Because I’m okay with that too, you know?”

“I know.”

We’d left it there and that was an end to it as far as I was concerned. I didn’t really think he’d be out screwing around, but if he was, I was okay with it. I am okay with it. If he does. Though he probably won’t.

Michael has to unpack a special shipment that arrives at the shop unexpectedly Saturday afternoon so I’m at loose ends for a while. I go for a walk in the park and then, strictly out of boredom and for no other reason, I decide to call Justin. Our last phone bill was fucking astronomical so we’d agreed to switch plans, and our new service restricts long-distance. We decided we didn't need to talk while I'm away this weekend, except for a brief check-in call when I arrived and another on Sunday to confirm my flight arrival time in LA.

I don’t really expect Justin to be cooped up in the apartment on a Saturday afternoon and he isn’t. But he isn’t answering his cell either, which is kind of annoying. Maybe he let the battery run down again. Maybe he’s in a movie theater and has it turned off. Maybe he’s busy and just doesn’t want to talk to me. That’s fine. That’s perfectly fine. It’s not as if I’m missing him or anything, I’ve been away not much more than twenty-four hours, and why should I give a shit what he’s up to, anyway?

We have dinner again with Deb and Vic and hang out in the living room for a while watching some really terrible tv shows - Christ, even I could write better dialogue. I take a cigarette break outside and decide to call Justin again but still his phone's turned off. What the fuck is that kid up to anyway, that he has to turn off his phone?

Finally, Debbie kicks us out, saying that she knows we're bored to death, why don't we go to Woody's for a while. The sounds and the smells of Woody’s affect me strangely and I start drinking JB while we wait for a pool table. After every shot, I realize that I'm checking the clock behind the bar, and when Michael heads for the men's room, I step outside the back door and pull out my phone again.

It's midnight here, which is nine o'clock in LA and Justin's phone is still turned off. Maybe he's hanging out with his friends at the d'Or, there's always a huge crowd there on Saturday nights. Everywhere in WeHo is crowded on Saturday night, the bars along Santa Monica Boulevard are thick with hot guys cruising each other. Probably Justin's not cruising, it's not really his thing, but if he wants to, that's okay with me. He can trick if he wants to, we both can, it's no big deal. That doesn't mean he has to turn off his phone.

The thing is, what if I had to reach him? I don't, but what if I had to? What if something happened to Debbie and I needed to reach Justin? With his phone turned off, I can't reach him.

Of course, I can leave a message on our phone at home, but what message would I leave? Nothing's happened, there's no emergency, so there's no need to call. And no need for me to be pissed off. But I am pissed off. I go back into Woody's and throw back another drink. And another.

Half an hour later we still haven't got a pool table and Michael is getting antsy to go home. But I don't want to go home, home is a lumpy sofa at the munchers' and I'm not sleepy, I'm not tired, I want to have some fun for Christ's sake. "Let's go to Babylon," I suggest, carefully setting down my empty shot glass and hanging onto the edge of the bar, which is starting to tilt at a very slight angle. Not enough to make me dizzy, just enough to cause me to hold on with both hands.

Of course, Mikey argues with me for a while but I tune him out like I always used to and eventually he gets tired of fighting me and agrees. "Just for an hour, though, okay?"

"Yeah-yeah." I switch hands from the bar to Michael's shoulder. I don’t need support, I can walk perfectly fine, but we're buddies and buddies hang onto each other all the time.

The cold air hits us both in the face when we come out the back door at Woody's, which smacks me nearly sober and which makes Mikey say, "Oh shit, I've gotta pee again - wait here for me."

As long as I'm hanging around the alley leaning up against Michael's piece-of-shit second-hand car, I might as well pull out my phone and call Justin. It's hard to see the little illuminated numbers but luckily all I have to find is “one” and punch it. Which I do. And fucking hell, his phone is STILL turned off.

Babylon is louder than I remember it, more crowded, and I feel the sweat break out on my face the minute we're inside the door. Mikey takes my jacket and his and drops them off at the coat check room, which is really a great idea since I left my phone in the pocket. No need to call Justin, no reason to call him, and now I'm not even tempted because my cell phone is tucked inside the folds of my leather jacket.

Grabbing Michael's arm I drag him over to the bar on the lower level, swiveling my head around to cruise the place strictly out of habit. Lots of hot guys wearing minimal clothing shaking their asses and bumping their pelvises and rubbing up against anything and anybody. And every face is shining with sweat and lust, you can smell sex in the air, and I drink it down in big gulps. "JB," I yell to the bartender, drinking the bourbon down in a big gulp too. "Another."

"Brian," Michael's pulling on my arm and yelling in my ear, "Brian, that's enough, you're fucking drunk already!"

"I am drunk, but I am not fucking," I state emphatically, holding up a finger to the bartender.

But Michael grabs my finger, grabs my hand and insists, "Enough already!"

Pulling my hand roughly away from Michael, my feet get tangled up and I lean heavily against the bar for support. Then fixing my eyes on his face, I tilt dangerously far forward, staring at Michael nose to nose. "Mikey, s'no such thing as enough," I start to remind him, when suddenly out of the corner of my eye I spy a bright blond head.

"What the fuck?"

"Huh?" Michael asks, swiveling around to see what I'm looking at.

"How'd he get here?" I demand, letting go of Michael quickly, too quickly, I almost lose my footing when I lurch past him and follow the shiny blond head as it moves away across the dance floor. The floor's so crowded that it keeps me from falling down, I move hand over hand through the gyrating bodies, grabbing an arm here, a shoulder there, feeling like a salmon swimming upstream.

I'm sober enough to chuff a laugh at my own clever imagery, I'm a salmon swimming upstream to the spawning room, Babylon's sex room where dozens of nearly-naked men are wriggling around, spilling their seed on the sticky backroom floor. Subdued blue lighting and the swishing sound made by long strips of translucent blue plastic hung from the ceiling add to the underwater feel of the place. I see my little blond fish swim around a corner and I pick up speed, but I'm definitely lurching now, and my reaching hands grasp onto naked slippery bits of fleshy bodies as I move through the crowd still pursuing.

Around the corner I'm pulled up short by the sight of him, he's removed his shirt, his narrow shoulders are beautifully pale in the dim light as he drops to his knees to worship the cock of a tall dark-haired man who's leaning against the back wall. No wonder he's not answering the phone, he's too busy fucking around. The dark-haired man closes his eyes, grasps a handful of thick blond hair and groans loudly, "Suck me, baby, suck me!"

As I reach down to grab those pale shoulders and drag him to his feet, I remind myself that I really don’t care, Justin is free to fuck around as much as he wants, but for some reason that doesn't stop me from grabbing him and lifting him up off the floor, twisting him around to face me as I demand, "Why did you turn off your phone?"

Justin looks up at me and suddenly he turns into somebody else. This isn't Justin.

I know him, though, I know this face, I know this boy.

"What the fuck are you doing?" he demands as he pulls away, then he looks at my face again and does a double-take. "Oh, it's you," he says, "I turned off my phone 'cause I'm not working right now. But you can call me later."

I just stand there like a statue, staring at the boy, at the almost-but-not-quite Justin lookalike, the three-hundred-dollar hooker.

"Sorry," I hear myself say, starting to back away; Mikey's still behind me so I turn and throw an arm around his shoulder and half-lead, half-lean-on him, urging him back the way we came.

“Who was that?” Michael’s demanding, twisting his head to look over his shoulder, and though I ignore him, he asks again, “Who was that? He looks like. . . Umm, he seemed to know you.”

“Ev’body knows me.”

“Brian – “

“Oh-oh,” I moan, “Gonna be sick.”

“Like that’s a surprise,” Michael grumbles, steering us into a right turn and hurrying toward the men’s room.

The next bit of time passes in a blur, I know there’s a close encounter with porcelain and the cement floor of the men’s room. While I wasn’t paying attention, Mikey must have phoned Ben, because suddenly they're these big strong arms around my shoulders maneuvering me toward the back door of Babylon, and he holds me up against the wall while Michael goes to fetch our jackets. If I wasn’t so sick I’d be doubled over with giggles when Mikey tries to put my jacket on me, my right arm keeps going into the left sleeve, till finally he loses his temper and swears and together he and Ben get me into my jacket and half-drag, half-carry me down the steps and into the alley.

Somehow I end up in the backseat of the car, I don’t really remember that part, but I’m aware of the seatbelt being buckled over me and then there’s a silent passage of time which must be Ben driving us someplace. I must have fallen asleep, I’m awakened by bright lights and Ben’s voice saying loudly, “Two large coffees, black,” and I open my eyes to discover that we’re in the drive-through at McDonalds.

I close my eyes again and don’t open them until the car stops someplace and Michael says, “Come on, drink this.”

He’s leaning over the front seat, pushing a cardboard cup into my hands. “Can you hold it? It’s hot, if you spill it on your lap, you’ll burn your cock off.”

“Got it,” I mumble, keeping a firm grip on the cup and raising it to my mouth, slurping a small sip, then another. I’d rather go back to sleep, but if I have to wake up, I might as well get on with it. After another sip, I raise my head and look around. “Where are we?”

“Just a parking lot, the Pak-n-Sav market,” Ben answers. “After you drink those coffees and sober up a little, we’ll take you to Lindsay and Mel’s. Michael didn’t think you’d want to show up there drunk as a skunk.”

“Okay.”

We sit in silence for a while as I drink coffee. When I finish one cup, Michael takes it from me and hands me another. Halfway through the second cup, I feel my shoulders relaxing and I lean back a bit in the seat, stretch out my legs. “Thanks. Guess I fucked up your evening.”

”Wouldn’t be the first time,” Michael noted. After a pause, he says, “So - you going to tell me what that was all about?”

“What’ya mean?” I ask without looking at him. “Just a normal Saturday night.”

“Hmm. Not anymore. Not for a long time really.”

“Just blowing off steam.”

Michael’s silent for a moment and I think he’s going to let it pass. I should have known better.

“I saw the kid, in Babylon. You thought it was Justin.”

“Justin’s in LA.”

“You were too drunk to remember that. You saw what you thought was Justin blowing some guy, and you freaked.”

Taking another sip of the now-lukewarm coffee, I sigh. “I might have over-reacted slightly.”

“I thought you guys have an open relationship?” He waits and when I merely nod, he goes on, “You never used to care about sharing guys, tricking. Have you stopped having three ways, going to the baths together, stuff like that?”

“Michael,” Ben says gently, “Maybe Brian doesn’t want to talk about this.”

Ignoring Ben, I say earnestly to Michael, “We’re both working hard in LA. There’s not much time for stuff like that.”

“Brian Kinney has no time for tricking? Alert the media.”

“Fuck you.”

We’re silent again, then Michael asks, “Is this thing with Justin – permanent? I mean, is this the real thing for you?”

I turn to give him an incredulous look and he has the grace to laugh at himself. “Okay,” he admits, “So I’m a little slow, so I’ve been under a rock the past three years. But all your life you swore you’d never settle down, you’d never buy into ‘the love thing.’ Or have you forgotten?”

“Who says I’ve settled down?”

“Brian, for Christ’s sake, you’re married now.”

“What the fuck,” I sit up straight on the seat and glare at Michael. “He told you?

“You mean,” his voice goes up an octave, “You mean you ARE married?”

Back-peddling quickly, I remind him, “Queers can’t marry.”

“Then why did you ask if he ‘told’ me? Told me what?”

“Fuck.”

Drinking down the last dregs of cold coffee, I roll down the window and throw the cup outside.

Normally that would distract Michael, he’d call me a litterbug, he’d get out of the car and retrieve the tossed cup. Not this time. This time he sits staring at me, they’re both staring at me. Ben asks, “Did you and Justin get married in California?”

“No,” I answer firmly. Then honesty forces me to add, “Not exactly.”

“What exactly?”

“I’m sober now, take me to the munchers.’”

“Brian,” Michael’s insistent, reaching over the back of the seat and giving my shoulder a shake. “We won’t tell anybody, I promise.”

“Ha,” I sneer. “You’ll tell your mom, which means you might as well put up a fucking billboard on Liberty Avenue.”

“Tell me.”

Sighing, I give up. Looking out the window, I admit resignedly, “We – we’re ‘domestic partners.’ It’s fucking official.” My voice filled with doom, I add, “Life as we know it is over.”

“Brian,” Ben says eagerly, “That’s terrific news! Did you have a commitment ceremony?”

“No, we fucking did not!” I exclaim hotly.

“When you come home at Christmas, we can have a party for you,” he offers.

Dropping my head into my hands I groan, “Oh God, I’m going to kill myself.”

Ben laughs but Michael takes me seriously. “Jesus, Brian, Ma’s stressed enough right now, you can’t do that to her!”

“Oh, all right,” I agree reluctantly. “But remember that you promised you won’t tell anybody. Not,” I add bitterly, “that I believe you.”

“We won’t tell,” Ben assures me sincerely as he starts the car, and I groan again. It’ll be all over Pittsburgh by morning.

The girls are in bed and I’m able to get rid of Michael and Ben and lock the door behind them. I take a piss, then strip down to briefs and spread a blanket on the munchers’ sofa. Before lying down, I glance at the living room clock. It’s after two but it’s three hours earlier in LA, so I decide to try Justin’s cell phone one more time. Still, it’s turned off, and I curse softly and raise my arm to throw my phone against the wall. Then I stop, shake my head, and decide to call our home number and leave a message. Justin picks up on the first ring.



Justin

“Kinney-Taylor residence.”

“Don’t you dare answer the phone that way.”

“Well duh, I knew it was you. Besides, fuck you.” I keep my voice cheerful. But not too cheerful.

“Did you just get home?”

“No, did you? It’s late back there.”

“Justin, I think your cell’s turned off,” he tells me.

“Oh yeah, it might be. Were you needing to reach me? Is everything okay - Debbie and everybody?”

“Everybody’s fine. I just wondered why.” When I say nothing, he asks, “Everything okay there too?”

”Sure, Brian, everything’s fine.”

He hesitates, and I wonder if he can hear something in my voice. With an effort I make myself laugh and ask, “Did you call to check up on me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I just wondered why your cell was off.”

“I’ll check it. But you can call me here, I’ll be home all day tomorrow. I’m working on that margarine commercial.” I pause and then add, “You’re going to call me when you confirm your flight, right?”

“Sure.”

We’re quiet for a moment and I imagine that I feel him probing into my brain. He’s gotten pretty good at reading my mind, so I decide I’d better hang up soon before he figures out that something’s up. There’s nothing he can do so far away and besides, I need to handle this myself. I’m a man, not a child needing Rage to swoop down and rescue me.

“Okay then,” I keep it casual, “See you tomorrow. Say hi to everybody for me.”

“So,” Brian asks quickly, “You’re not going to try and make me say anything to you?”

My heart skips a beat. “You mean, you would if I asked you to?”

“No,” he denies it. “I’m just surprised that you didn’t try. In case,” he adds quickly, “In case the plane crashes tomorrow.”

“I didn’t think that would work twice.”

“Well,” he says, “Just so you know, in case it does, I do.”

“Brian,” I can’t help smiling, in spite of everything, “I never thought I’d hear you say ‘I do.’”

“Fuck you.”

“I wish you could, right now.”

“Me too.”

He’s got me smiling. “You can fuck me tomorrow night.”

“I plan to. Repeatedly. So go to bed now and rest up. I’ll call you from the airport, and I’ll see you about four o’clock.”

“Bye. See you tomorrow.”

“Bye. See you tomorrow,” he echoes.

“Bye.”

I hang up the phone quickly before I’m tempted to tell him – anything. Tomorrow will be soon enough and besides, by then everything will be okay. I hope.