DARK ROOTS
Part 1: Mothers
Justin
“Brett swears it’ll be just a couple more weeks.”
“Whatever.”
“Brian, I told him three weeks max and then I’m leaving, no matter what.”
“You’re going to miss next term.”
“I’m not. Brian? I’m not. I told you I registered on-line, it’s all set. And
I’ll be there when the term starts - if not before.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Can we change the subject now? Your nagging is getting really old.”
“Your excuses are getting old.” I can hear him take a drag from his cigarette
and exhale, then he draws a quick breath and adds, “But do whatever you want,
it’s your life. If you want to fuck it up, that’s your business.”
“I’m not going to fuck it up.” We’re back where we started, this conversation
has come full circle. “Please,” I soften my voice, “Let’s not waste our one call
arguing. I miss you.”
There’s a long pause, then Brian grudgingly admits, “Me too. And the
one-call-a-day rule was your idea.”
That’s true. Partly it’s because of the time difference – Brian’s at work before
I’m even up in the morning, and by the time I finish what’s usually a ten or
twelve-hour day, Brian’s gone out for the evening. Even so, when I first came to
LA, Brian and I were calling each other constantly. Not only couldn’t I
concentrate on my job, but somehow it made me miss him even more, to hear his
voice ten times a day without being able to see him, to touch him.
Brian is a great multi-tasker, he compartmentalizes everything, effortlessly
closing one door and opening another. I’ve tried to emulate him but I can’t do
it, my thoughts spill all over each other. I know that those times when we’ve
had heated arguments on the phone, Brian can hang up and go calmly about his
business while I am left emotionally wrecked, replaying and revising dialogue in
my brain. “No regrets” is a great philosophy but it doesn’t seem to work for me.
Now I feel guilty. “I’m sorry, Brian,” I murmur, hurrying on before he can tell
me that sorry’s bullshit. “Let’s talk more often.” I press my lips together
tightly to keep from blurting out, “Talking to you on the phone is what I look
forward to most each day.” That’s way too lesbianic for Brian.
Then I say it anyway, lowering my voice and almost whispering, “Talking to you
is the best part of my day.”
I’m expecting an acerbic reply or at least a teasing taunt, but Brian surprises
me by gently admitting, “Yeah, me too.” Then he quickly appends, “Well. . .you
know.”
We’re silent for a moment, then we both sigh at the same time. Brian recovers
first. “That’s only,” he brags, “Because I get you off better from three
thousand miles away than any of your hunky Hollywood tricks can do in person.”
I won’t pander to his ego by admitting that he’s right. “Oh,” I change the
subject, sitting up in bed, piling pillows behind me so I can lean back against
the headboard. “How’d your meeting go with the new client?” I push away the
crumpled bedspread and wrinkle my nose at the big wet spot on the sheet.
“They loved me, of course. A two-year contract with an option to renew for two
more.”
“Brian, that’s fantastic!”
“Yeah,” he agrees, then adds, “Except. . .the client’s flying me to Chicago to
meet with their in-house marketing staff next week. I have to cancel on you –
again.”
“Oh, no.”
Brian’s visited me twice in California but he’s also had to cancel three times.
Swallowing my disappointment, I try to be upbeat by adding staunchly, “Well, you
know that I understand. And I’ll be home in two weeks – three, tops.”
“Tops nothing, bottom boy,” Brian scoffs. “Get all that ass-pumping out of your
system in LA. You know where you’ll be once you get home, Mr. Taylor.”
“Hunh,” I snort, “That is negotiable, Mr. Kinney.”
Though he tries to stifle it, I can hear Brian yawn. It’s only midnight in LA
but it’s three a.m. in Pittsburgh, and a weeknight. “I’m sleepy,” I say, faking
a yawn of my own. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow night, okay?”
“Justin?”
“What?”
There’s a long pause, then Brian says, “I wish I didn’t have to go to Chicago,
but I really do. This isn’t something that Ted or Cynthia can handle. I’d send
them if I could.”
“I know.” I’m impressed that Brian feels the need to reassure me, he never used
to explain himself or express any regret when business interfered with our
plans.
“Christ,” Brian exclaims suddenly, “I just realized – if you come home in three
weeks, that’ll be almost two months since we’ve fucked.”
“Lucky for you I didn’t suggest that we be monogamous while I’m gone.”
“As if.”
“Yeah.” I sigh again. As if. Then I shake off this sudden surge of melancholy
and say cheerfully, “Good night, Brian, have sweet dreams.”
“Mmm,” he agrees sleepily, “Night.”
Flipping my phone closed and tossing it onto the night stand, I slide down
beneath the sheets – being careful to avoid the wet spot – turn on my side and
close my eyes. It’s easy to imagine Brian lying behind me, curled around my
back, holding me tight in his arms as we sleep. Just two more weeks – or maybe
three – and I’ll be back in Brian’s bed. Our bed. And I’m not leaving it ever
again. Not willingly, anyway.
Brian
Three more fucking weeks. Or non-fucking weeks. Not that I'm playing the
monogamy game of course; but I can't deny that it's just not the same without
Justin in my bed.
Our bed. Christ, why can't I remember to call it "our bed?" I asked him to move
in and he did - briefly, before he had to leave for this temporary job in LA.
But since I invited him to live with me and since we've gone well beyond the
point where I can deny that we're partners, then my bed has become our bed. And
my loft is our loft. Our home.
Funny, although I've owned the loft for six years now, it never really felt like
a home until Justin began to push his way in, always bringing more and more bits
and pieces of his life along with him.
Almost from the beginning Justin has claimed at least one drawer as his own. And
there've always been piles of his dirty laundry on the bedroom floor, stacks of
sketchbooks on the table, and his CDs have become almost inextricably mixed in
with my own. Some of his unhealthy foods still live on in the cupboard and the
freezer even though he's not been around for months. Well, there used to be
stuff, I should have thrown it out. Instead, insomnia-driven munchies have more
than once caused me to raid his supply of Ben & Jerry. And his Count Chocula. I
must remember to replace them before he gets back. Or maybe I'll just say that
Gus ate it.
Three Weeks Later
Brian
When the buzzer sounds I’m annoyed, she’s early and I’ve just stepped out of the
shower. Though I’m pissed enough to be tempted to answer the door naked – it
wouldn’t be the first time Mother Taylor has seen me naked – I take a deep
calming breath before padding down the steps and across the floor. Without
comment I hit the buzzer to let her in downstairs then return quickly to the
bedroom to pull on jeans and my long-sleeved gray tee – Justin’s favorite shirt,
he says he always wants to jump me when I’m wearing it. Of course it goes
without saying that he always wants to jump me anyway, but might as well give
the lad a special treat today.
We’re driving to the airport together to claim our wayward child, Jennifer and I
– her idea, not mine. I offered to swing by her condo but she suggested picking
me up here, since she says she’s meeting a client downtown this afternoon. Maybe
she’s trying to be considerate, figuring that once I get Justin home, neither of
us will be anxious to leave the loft for at least a few hours. More like a week,
as horny as I’m feeling. Carrying my shoes to the living room, I move forward to
slide open the door – I can hear that the elevator has just stopped on my floor.
The metal door shrieks a loud protest as I pull it open, and I nearly shriek my
own protest when I see who’s standing there. Not Mother Taylor – instead it’s
Mother Kinney.
“Mom.”
Christ, I haven’t seen her for months, why’d she pick today to come torture me?
“Hello, Brian, may I come in?”
I’m frozen in place, unmoving, my shoulders and neck taut in spite of myself.
And in spite of the fact that I really have no desire to see my mother, I pull
back the door another few inches.
“I’ve got plans,” I mutter ungraciously, “I’m leaving in a minute. Can’t this –
whatever it is – wait for another time?”
“Oh.” She stops just inside the doorway and I watch as she swings her head
around, surveying the empty apartment. Satisfied that there’s no orgy of naked
sweaty men in progress, she turns back to me and apologizes. “I’m sorry to barge
in on you.” She does sound sorry but as always around my mother, I don’t let
down my guard.
Normally I don’t let good manners stand in the way of getting rid of unwanted
visitors, but I surprise myself by gesturing Mom toward the living room as I
mutter, “Come in,” my voice thick with the suppressed desire to tell her to fuck
off. I follow behind and wait as she sits down gingerly on the edge of a chair.
Mom hesitates, then says slowly, “Brian, this is really difficult for me, but –
well, I’ve come to make peace with you. We left things on such a bad note the
last time.”
If she considers me making an ass of myself in front of most of my staff at
Kinnetik a “bad note,” she should see me when I’m fucked up on Special K.
I say nothing, just nod, and she asks, “Won’t you please sit down for a minute?”
Reluctantly I perch on the edge of the sofa facing her but halfway across the
room, out of striking range. Who’s likely to do the striking, I’m not sure.
The silence between us goes on too long, finally I shrug and say, “If you’ve
come with more advice on how to save my soul, don’t bother. I sold my soul to
the devil years ago.”
“Shush,” Mom hisses, sitting up straight and fixing that righteous stare on me.
“That’s nothing to joke about.”
“So, IS this about saving my soul, or what?” I’m getting antsy, Jennifer will be
here soon, I don’t want her to walk into the middle of this – whatever this is.
“No,” Mom denies, shaking her head but holding my eyes with that piercing gaze.
“It’s about saving my own. My own soul.”
Snorting, I stand up again and pace away from her, demanding, “What the fuck are
you talking about?”
“Brian, I’m sick. I – I might die.”
“We’re all going to die.” I keep my face noncommittal but I feel my shoulders
slump. Not another dying-parent visit. I don’t want to ask but I ask anyway,
“You have cancer too? We should get a family rate at the hospital.”
“Always a joke, Brian, don’t you ever take anything seriously?” When I don’t
answer, just cross my arms over my chest, Mom shakes her head. “I don’t expect
you to care,” she mutters bitterly, “You’ve never had time for your family,
never cared about any of us, so why am I surprised that you don’t care now?”
“Why indeed?” I raise an eyebrow and look down my nose at her. But the famous
Brian Kinney sneer has no effect on my mother, and with all the heart I used to
think I didn’t have, I wish I really could be unfeeling. But some little asshole
has chipped away too much of my protective ice shield.
Giving in, I move back to the sofa and sit down again. “Okay,” I resign myself.
“Just tell me - what’s wrong with you? And do you need help, or something?
Money?”
“I’d never take your money,” Mom curls her lip disdainfully. “That’s not why I’m
here.”
That may be true, but she’d be the first Kinney to turn it down, since Pop and
Clare always had their hands out. “Then cut to the chase,” I’m growing
impatient, glancing at the clock. Jennifer’s due any minute.
“Heartless,” Mom mutters under her breath, then she sits up straight in her
chair and says, “All right, I’ll tell you. I have liver disease, pretty bad the
doctors say. I may need a transplant.”
“Sorry,” I say now, “Mom, I’m sorry. Are you sure you don’t need anything?”
“No, I told you that. I’ve got insurance, and Medicare. But I – “ Her voice
falters and unconsciously I lean forward as her next words are almost inaudible.
“I – I know that I am being punished. I’ve brought this on myself.”
Well, yeah, Mom drinks like a fish, always has. So did Pop. Between the two of
their gene pools, it’s no wonder I’m a heavy drinker. Less so since the cancer,
but still. . .
“Mom,” I’m surprised to hear that my voice has grown almost gentle, “Mom, you
are not being punished, it’s not unusual for people who drink a lot to have
liver damage. You – “
“It’s not from that!” Mom exclaims angrily, her eyes flashing daggers at me.
“Besides, I don’t drink a lot, just an occasional social drink, like everybody
else.” Her eyes dare me to disagree but I’ve got my lips pressed tight together
to keep from contradicting her.
“No, it’s not that,” she repeats, “It’s God’s will. God is punishing me. And
because of me, he’s punishing you, too.”
Oh Christ, here we go again. “Don’t start that,” I warn her, getting to my feet
and feeling heat rise up my neck to flare in my cheeks. “Don’t you dare come
here and start preaching at me again. No more!”
“I’m not preaching!” Mom’s on her feet too, and she’s glaring right back at me.
“I just need to tell you, to tell you about my sin, and the wages of sin is
death! That’s why I’m going to probably die, and that’s why my only son is a
sinner too. Jesus said – “
“No!” I hold out both hands to stop her. “No, you will not bring Jesus into my
house. Get out! Get the fuck out of here!”
“Brian – “
“No!” I’m shouting now and waving my hands at her, shooing her toward the door.
She backs up but she keeps talking, though I’m closing my ears to her ridiculous
rant.
“I’m just trying to explain, Brian, that it’s not your fault! It’s my fault that
you’re a homosexual! Because I sinned, and now – “
“GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!” I’m bellowing now, and I don’t know what Mom
sees on my face but she stops spouting her bullshit suddenly and moves more
quickly for the door. I’m on her heels as she moves out but she turns once more
to face me.
“Brian, you have to listen,” she insists, but I cut her off.
“Get the fuck out, and don’t ever come back. Do you hear me? Don’t EVER come
back here again!”
I grab onto the door and begin to pull it roughly closed when suddenly the
elevator burps open and Jennifer Taylor steps out, right into the middle of what
I hope to bloody Christ is the last fucking confrontation I’ll ever have with my
mother. I take one look at Jennifer’s shocked face before letting go of the door
and turning to move back inside. Hurrying to the liquor cart, I pour myself an
inch of JB with hands that shake.
I hear the two women murmuring, there’s the sound of the elevator descending,
then my metal door is pulled closed and I hear the clicking of Jennifer Taylor’s
expensive high heels tapping across the hardwood floor. I swallow the last of
the bourbon in my glass as I feel Jennifer move to stand near me.
“Want a drink?” I ask lightly, holding up the bottle as I turn to face Jennifer.
“No, thanks.” Her face is noncommittal but she adds, “And I hope you’re not
going to have another, since you’re driving my car to the airport.”
I want to say, “Don’t fucking tell me what to do, you’re not my fucking mother,”
but instead I just nod and screw the lid back on the bottle. What the hell,
she’s right.
“You’re punctual,” I make myself smile as I carry my glass to rinse it in the
sink. “Ready to go?”
Justin
Brian told me that Mom was coming with him to the airport but I forgot. I forgot
that, I forgot everything in the world when I spied Brian waiting for me at
baggage claim. Gasping, a huge old dopey smile splitting my face open, I
sprinted forward and threw myself into his arms. Brian grabbed onto me with a
laugh, and I was happy to see his face reflecting my own silly grin. We kissed –
never minding the hordes of heteros surging all around us.
I was the first to pull away, something else that pleased me inordinately, and
then I saw Mom hovering behind Brian's shoulder. I let him go then and grabbed
onto her, hugging her tight and laughing. I was just so fucking happy to be
home! Then I was talking a mile a minute while we waited for my luggage, and
Brian and I stood as close together as possible without lube. Moments later the
luggage carousel starting turning and spewing out luggage. When my big suitcase
surged out, Brian grabbed it. I carried the smaller one, and Mom took my
carry-on, then we moved out of the building and into the parking lot. I was
surprised to see that Brian drove Mom’s Lexus to the airport but then I realized
that there’s not room for three in the ‘vette.
Now we’re heading downtown. Brian insisted that Mom should sit in front, but I’m
leaning forward on the edge of the backseat, with one arm wrapped around Brian’s
neck and I keep pressing my face into the back of his head, smelling his hair,
tickling his ear when I exhale.
“Justin, you’re distracting Brian,” Mom nags me, for the second or third time.
“Sit back, please.”
“It’s okay,” Brian tells her, and then I notice that he sticks his tongue into
his cheek as he adds with a shrug. “He’s done much more distracting things while
I’m driving.”
Mom blushes! And I have to laugh, but a glance in the rearview mirror shows that
I’m also blushing. I catch Brian’s eye in the mirror and he has the grace to
laugh. “Sorry, Mother Taylor,” he apologizes demurely.
“You should be,” she answers severely, but she’s smiling too.
I see Brian do a double-take as he glances quickly at my reflection in the
mirror again. “What happened to your hair?” he demands suddenly.
I thought he’d never notice – but, “What d’you mean?” I raise my eyebrows at
him.
Mom turns sideways on the seat to look at me, then she exclaims, “Good Lord, I
never noticed, till we got outside in the light. Your hair’s so blond, Justin.
You didn’t – did you bleach it?”
Brian stops at a red light and twists around in the seat to regard me more
closely. “You did, didn’t you?” he demands.
“It’s the sun. California sunshine. From lying on the beach.”
“Bullshit.” Brian leans sideways and peers closer. “You have fucking dark roots.
Or,” he clarifies, “They look dark, compared to the rest. What the fuck were you
thinking?”
“It’s cool.” Damn it, I hate that my voice sounds defensive. I really thought
he’d like it. “Don’t you like it? It’s the in thing in Hollywood.”
“What is – looking like an albino monkey?”
“Bri-an!”
“It’s. . .it’s nice,” Mom tries lamely. “It’s just different. Actually,” she
adds, her face relaxing into a frighteningly motherly smile, “It’s almost the
same color as when you were a baby. Like corn silk.”
Ugh. I really, really don’t need my mother to start reminiscing about my
childhood, so quickly I explain, “In California, blond hair with dark roots is
majorly hot. And,” I add with a quick glance at Brian’s frowning profile as the
light changes and he pulls out into traffic, “And it’s very popular in the
clubs. I was very popular in the clubs.”
That’s as close as I want to come to broadcasting the special relationship rules
that Brian and I share. Mom doesn’t need to know that we’re both still tricking.
Probably because I’ve moved in with Brian, she thinks we’re a couple in the way
that Michael and Ben are. Without the marriage part, of course.
I expect Brian to comment but luckily he says nothing, and now we’re almost
home. Mom changes the subject, she says that Deb has invited us to a big family
dinner Sunday night. Brian doesn’t answer so I say, “Oh, it’ll be great to catch
up with everybody again, I’ve missed Pittsburgh so much!”
“Anyone who misses the Pitts must be fucking nuts,” Brian says dryly as he
parallel parks the Lexus around the corner from the loft. “The peroxide fumes
must’ve addled your tiny brain.”
We pile out of the car and Mom pulls me into her arms for another big hug.
“Welcome home, Justin!” she exclaims happily.
“Aren’t you coming up for a while?” I inquire, crossing my fingers behind my
back that she says no. I really, really need to get naked with Brian in the next
five minutes or I’m going to explode. He busies himself opening the car’s trunk
and pulling out my bags as Mom shakes her head no.
“I’ve got an appointment cross town, I’m showing a property this afternoon.”
Thank God.
“See you tomorrow at Deb’s then!” And I hold the door for her as she gets into
the driver’s seat.
“Brian, thanks for letting me tag along today,” she smiles up at him as he hands
her the car keys.
“Of course, Mother Taylor,” Brian gives her his most sincere smile. “Any time.”
Then we grab my suitcases and move quickly into the building, not waiting to
wave Mom goodbye. “Hurry,” Brian growls in a deep throaty voice, the urgency of
his command going straight to my dick.
We pile ourselves and my bags into the elevator, Brian pulls the door closed
while I push the button, then we’re grabbing onto each other as we begin to
creak slowly upwards, the rickety shaking of the elevator an aphrodisiac, a
reminder of all the times we’ve been nearly naked before reaching the fourth
floor. Today’s no exception.
He’s pulled off my shirt and thrown it on the floor, I’ve got my hands under his
gray tee, shoving it upwards as I lick his chest and nibble on his right nipple.
When the elevator halts, we pull away briefly, both of us gasping, he throws
open the gate and we kick and shove my bags across the hall. Panting audibly,
Brian fumbles the key into the lock, and the door is shoved back with a loud
screech.
“Leave it, leave it,” Brian urges, grabbing my arm and pulling me away from the
pile of luggage and into his arms.
It’s a three-legged race as we hump and bump our way to the bedroom, neither of
us wanting to let go of the other. Somehow we manage to get most of our clothes
off before we hit the bed, then we just sort of fall over sideways onto the
duvet. I totally stop thinking for a while as we succumb to an orgy of kissing
and touching and rubbing and sucking. My senses are filled, overwhelmed; warm
Brianscent filling my nostrils, the feel of his smooth skin taut beneath my
fingers, the taste of his hard cock hot on my tongue.
When Brian flips me over and I’m trapped between the quivering muscles of his
strong thighs, I’m shaking with the desperate need to feel his cock plunged deep
inside me, possessing me completely. Brian leans over me, pressing his chest
against my back, his mouth kissing my neck and his face against my hair, his
breath hot in my ear as he whispers, “Justin, Justin.”
My eyes are squeezed shut and I’m nearly shaking to death while I wait for him
to grab a condom and roll it on, shivering in anticipation of the chilly lube
that warms quickly on Brian’s probing fingers. My ass rises up of its own
accord, as I reach my left hand back to grab Brian’s knee, urging breathlessly,
“Now, Brian, now-now-now!”
Then suddenly he’s inside me and we both gasp out loud, freezing for a
micro-second before Brian pushes further in, and even further. I exhale a shaky
breath and then I gasp loudly again as Brian’s cock sinks up to the hilt deep
inside my ass. In moments we’ve picked up momentum, our bodies melding together,
Brian plunging his cock inside and my ass rising up to meet him, my right hand
grasping and pulling my own cock in rhythm with his thrusts.
It’s not long till we’re ready to come, we’ve waited almost two months to
physically reconnect and neither of us needs to prolong this first hungry fuck.
I reach back to slap Brian’s thigh and after two or three more urgent thrusts, I
feel Brian let go with a mighty grunt, and he collapses onto my back, slipping
slightly sideways to keep from crushing me under his weight. He hangs on tight
to my shoulders as my own orgasm rocks my body and I shudder with the enormity
of sweet release.
Brian slides completely off me then, deftly pulling off the condom, knotting it
and throwing it over his shoulder onto the floor. I slide into his arms and we
lie still, chest pressed to chest, my head tucked underneath his chin. When
we’ve caught our breath, Brian pulls back his head and his lips find mine for a
gentle kiss. We open our eyes then and smile, and sigh, and hold each other even
more tightly.
“I’m really here,” I murmur inanely, and Brian smiles.
“Finally.”
We lie pressed together a few more moments without speaking again, then I shiver
slightly.
”Cold?” Brian asks.
“Yeah,” I admit. “I forgot the loft is so drafty.”
“The loft isn’t drafty,” Brian denies it. Then he pulls himself upright and
glances across the room. Suddenly he laughs, and raises his hand to point at the
door.
We’ve left it wide open. Outside the open door my luggage is in a jumbled pile
in the hallway, and there’s a trail of clothing leading directly from the
elevator to our bed. I join Brian in laughing, but I feel my face flush pink
with embarrassment.
“Brian, what if somebody had come by!”
“Well,” he answers practically, “The downstairs door is locked.”
Yes, but. So many people have keys to the loft, someone’s always walking in on
us.
Brian peels himself away from me and moves to the door, drags my luggage inside,
pulls the door shut and locks it. He comes back to the bedroom and stands by the
ledge looking down at me. “Want to take a break before round two?” he raises an
eyebrow in inquiry.
“No.” My answer’s stark and makes him laugh.
“Okay, Peroxide Boy,” Brian drawls agreeably, crawling toward me across the
rumpled duvet. “Here I come, ready or not.”
1/14/05