FRIENDS
October 1990: Brian Kinney is a
College Sophomore
Brian's head was pounding, and not from a hangover this time, though he was
going to ease up on the beer. He'd had a meeting with his advisor yesterday,
talking about grades. Brian had admitted he was falling behind, and Dean
Johansen had delivered a long and very boring lecture about time management.
Brian had laughed off the dean's warning, but now he admitted to himself that it
was time to buckle down. Christ, 'buckle down' was something his dad would
say. Like 'nose to the grindstone' or. . .well, it didn't matter; it was
fucking true. If he wanted to keep his scholarship, he couldn't let his grades
slip, no matter what. No matter how miserably unhappy he was.
'I am not miserably unhappy,' he told himself, glaring at the mirror in the tiny
bathroom he shared with two roommates, Jack Masterson and Matthew McNutzenberger.
Matt's real name was McNally; Jack christened the asshole McNutzenberger because
he was a certified nutcase, who wore Nazi stormtrooper jackboots summer and
winter. Jack was okay, a quiet, pimply boy from Altoona; he kept to himself.
No, the headache was not from beer, and not from poppers, though the guy he was
with last night shoved the poppers so far up his nose, Brian's brain exploded,
or felt like it. He couldn't remember the guy's name but he remembered his big
beefy hands, and the roughness with which he jerked down Brian's jeans and
fucked him standing up, pressed hard against the men's room wall. He remembered
that the bricks had been cold against his face, and he remembered the guy
yelping when he caught some pubic hair in the condom he grudgingly put on, after
Brian insisted. They hadn't had lube though, and it had hurt, hurt a lot. But
sometimes Brian liked it rough; not often, but sometimes.
Brian had a quick shower, the water boiling hot. He bent over and spread his
cheeks, let the hot water soothe his burning anus. Better hold off for a few
days, he told himself; or better yet, he'd pick up a willing bottom or two.
There were plenty of them always hanging around the entrance to Banger Bar.
Brian loved that bar, a tiny hole-in-the-wall place, dark and crowded with hot
sweaty bodies every night of the week. He took Michael there, the last time he
was up for a visit, and Mikey said there was enough friction in that bar, you
didn't need a back room; you could drink your beer and have an orgasm at the
same time.
Mikey. God, he missed Mikey. Brian wasn't good at making friends. Oh, there
were plenty of guys, and girls too, that he talked to and went to parties with;
he was part of a loose-woven group, but he never got close to anybody. There
was one guy, Patrick, that Brian was pretty sure was gay; he was hot, too, but
Brian had decided to keep away from him, not make waves. As far as he knew,
nobody in the group was having sex with each other. They all talked about it
constantly, of course. He was pretty sure most of them knew he was gay, though
he never told anyone outright. It wasn't their business.
James didn't agree. James was always after Brian to come out, to join the
campus GLB club. Brian didn't do groups. And he didn't advertise his
sexuality, or anything else about himself, on banners and t-shirts. He didn't
do organizations or parades or clubs. He wasn't ashamed of being gay, as James
kept accusing; it was just private. Irrelevant.
James had given him a fucking ultimatum: Come out, get involved, or we're
finished. So, they were finished. Brian didn't care. Guys were easy to come
by, he didn't need a boyfriend. James hadn't been all that, anyway. Okay,
great in bed; okay, they were great together in the sack. And Brian had
thought that maybe he'd be able to talk to James someday; talk to him like Mikey.
There hadn't been time to get that far. James closed the door. Yesterday,
passing James in the quad, James had looked away, wouldn't even meet Brian's
eyes. So it was definitely over. No big deal. And Brian was NOT fucking
miserable.
Fucking miserable was the day Charlie moved away. Nothing in his life had
prepared Brian for the pain of losing somebody. Charlie'd always joked that
they were not in love, they were in lust. Charlie did not believe in love. It
was a good philosophy, really. Charlie had been able to leave everyone behind,
including Brian, without a backward glance. He'd gone to California and settled
in San Francisco; Brian received one postcard, almost two years ago. The
postcard was filed in Brian's Merriam-Webster dictionary, under C.
Toweling off, Brian glanced at his naked body in the mirror. He looked damn
good. Thin, but he liked thin, and so did the guys who hit on him all the
time. Still, his chest and arms could use some definition; he needed to make
time for the gym. Trouble was, there WASN'T time. Brian's schedule was so
tight this semester, with a full load of courses, eighteen hours a week working
in the campus cafeteria, another sixteen hours restocking shelves at the A&P.
He also worked occasionally for a local banquet hall, usually in the cloakroom,
when there was a big party. Every other minute was crammed with homework. And
tricking, of course; there was always time for a trick, most nights. Mikey had
been shocked to find out that Brian was having sex four or five times a week.
Mikey. Brian sighed.
Michael was in love (though he denied it) with a neighborhood boy in Pittsburgh,
Ralph. (Who was named Ralph anymore?) They'd had a sort-of date, Mikey told
him; an accidental date. They were both in line at the movie theatre to see
Batman, and had chatted, then sat together in the theatre and walked home
afterwards talking about the movie and their respective comic book collections.
The guy was twenty, a year older than Michael, a student at the community
college, living at home with his widowed mother. Ralph was tall, with curly
brown hair.
While Michael rhapsodized about Ralph on the phone last week, Brian had felt his
heart sinking. He'd said all the right things, or he hoped he had; he couldn't
remember much of the conversation, all he could think about was Mikey sharing
himself with somebody else. First Charlie had moved away, then James dumped
him, and now Michael was getting with some guy, and he'd forget all about Brian,
two hundred miles away from home.
At work that night at the A&P, stocking the long cooler unit with dozens of
cases of beer, Brian was listening to The Cure on his earphones and wasn't aware
of anyone in his vicinity, until someone tapped him on the shoulder. He jumped
slightly, pulled off his earphones and turned around, to see a tall man in a
beautifully tailored gray suit standing casually with one hand in his pocket.
"Excuse me," the man said, "I search for the vermouth."
"Aisle three," Brian pointed, and turned back to the box-laden dolly.
"Perhaps you would help me to find it?" the man continued. "I am very much
hurrying."
He had some kind of accent, probably French, Brian guessed. He couldn't resist
showing off a bit, and said, with a toss of his head, "Mais, certainement,
monsieur, je vous en prix," - certainly, sir.
The man's face lit up with a huge smile, and Brian realized he was very
handsome, even debonair - at least compared to the usual A&P customers in the
liquor aisle, most of them beer-belly types in wrinkled t-shirts, grasping
impossibly large packages of potato chips and grabbing a couple six-packs, in a
rush to get home to the game on tv.
The man burst into a rapid-fire response in French, most of which was lost on
Brian; he made out "thanks" and that was about all. "Excusez-moi," he
interrupted, laughing, "Sorry, my French isn't that good!"
'But you are charming, to speak so," the man smiled. "And your accent is very
good."
"Merci. Follow me, aisle three is over here." Brian led the way round the
aisle endcap and found the section with bottles of vermouth. There were several
kinds. "You want sweet vermouth, or dry vermouth, or what?" He turned to face
the man, who was not looking at the bottles on the shelf, but was intently
studying Brian, instead. There could be no mistaking the look -
'elevator-eyes,' as Charlie had described it. Brian had become pretty good at
it, himself; and after his initial surprise, he returned the glance.
"Tu es tres bel," (you are very beautiful) the man spoke slowly, to be sure
Brian understood. "You would permit me to buy you a drink, peut-etre?"
"Sure," Brian agreed. "I work till midnight, though." He couldn't picture this
man meeting him in the Banger Bar; in fact, he couldn't picture him in the A&P.
He wouldn't mind a quick fuck in the guy's car, after work; he was really very
handsome. Tall, about the same height as Brian, with thick black hair swept
back from his face, a trace of gray at the sides. What was he, maybe forty?
But looking very slim and fit despite his advanced years.
"I am called Henri." He extended his hand and Brian shook it.
"Brian."
"Charmant! You have the automobile, Brian?" When Brian shook his head no,
Henri added, "May I pick you up here, at midnight?"
Thinking of a sociology paper due tomorrow, Brian hesitated, but only for a
moment. He'd never had sex in French before. "Ca va," he said, "Okay." He
also spared a thought for his sore ass, but fuck it, he didn't want to pass up
this guy.
"Bon!" Henri smiled, and extended his hand again. "Au revoir, we will meet
again very soon."
He turned to go and Brian called after him, "What about your vermouth?"
"Ah!" Henri laughed, turned back to peer at the shelf, and pulled off a small
green bottle. "Merci, Brian!" With a nod of his head, he walked off. Brian
couldn't help watching Henri walk away; his suit was to die for. Someday, Brian
promised himself, someday, he'd have clothes like that, too.
Punching out at midnight, Brian wondered if Henri would be there, or if he'd
changed his mind. It had rained sometime earlier, the parking lot was shiny
wet, reflecting light from the street lamps. Brian stopped outside the
automatic door and shrugged on his leather jacket; it had gotten snug on him,
he'd grown in the three years since Charlie bought it for him, but he loved old
leather and couldn't part with it. He didn't at first see Henri's car, till the
headlights were turned on, and Henri waved from his open window. Brian smiled
briefly, remembering all the anonymous cars he used to climb into, behind
Pittsburgh's dirty-book store.
Brian crossed the pavement and blinked at Henri's beautiful tan Mercedes. Henri
leaned over to push open the door, and Brian got in beside him. The seats were
leather, and the dashboard revealed enough lights and dials for an airplane
cockpit. "Bonsoir," Henri greeted him.
"Bonsoir."
"Where would you like to go, little poulet?"
Bristling slightly, Brian replied, "I'm not a poulet - a chicken. I'm a man,
not a boy."
"Certainement, certainement," Henri said quickly, briefly touching Brian's
shoulder. "It is a word for the endearment, yes? I can see that you are a man,
mon cher, I have no interest in the chickens, bien-sur."
"Okay," Brian relaxed, mollified. "You can drive down by the river, there's
some places to park that are dark with nobody around."
"Ah, no, Brian, you are far too beautiful to waste on the - what do you call
it? the quickie?" When Brian laughed, Henri continued, "Will we go to my
hotel, yes? We can have a drink, get to know each other, un peu. You are in
the rush to get home?"
"No," Brian lied, thinking of his sociology paper; maybe he could get up early
and finish it in the morning before class. He wanted to see this guy's hotel
room; he wondered what a rich Frenchman was doing in Harrisburg.
Henri shifted gears and rolled out of the parking lot headed east. "You live at
home Brian, with the parents?"
"No," Brian answered absently, running his hand over the smooth leather seat
cushion. "No, I live in campus housing." Campus housing was a joke; he'd
expected a dormitory, but Meade Heights was former air force housing units
converted into tiny, cramped apartment-type spaces for a few hundred students.
Still, it was cheaper than most apartments in the city, and not too far from
campus. He didn't like having roommates, but someday he'd have his own place, a
big, beautiful apartment, maybe in New York, and he'd live alone forever and
love every minute of it.
"And what are you studying in school?"
"Business. I'm a marketing major." Brian regarded Henri's profile; he had a
prominent nose, high cheekbones, and thick black eyebrows; his eyes looked black
in the darkness, but might be brown.
"But that is marvelous," Henri cried, throwing a quick smile at Brian as he
maneuvered a corner and headed north. "I am also in the business. Do you know
the General Refrigeration company here in Harrisburg?" He didn't pronounce the
H. "Non? Ce n'est rien, it does not matter. This company has merged, tu
comprends? - with L'Interdit, my company in France."
"You own a company?"
"Mais non," laughed Henri, "I am le directeur of international relations for
L'Interdit, and they sent me here to organize the staff, since the merger."
"So you live here now?"
Henri shook his head. "Not live, no. For two months only, then I will be in
Los Angeles a short time, then I return to Paris."
"Paris," Brian murmured, with a sigh.
"Ah, here we are," Henri said, slowing down to turn into the entrance to the
Hilton Hotel. They got out and Henri turned over the key to a parking valet,
then led Brian through the glass doors and into the lobby of the hotel.
"Would you like to eat something?" When Brian shook his head, Henri went on,
"We can get a drink in the bar, or go upstairs. I can make you my specialite, a
martini, very dry."
"A martini," Brian answered, following Henri to the bank of elevators off the
lobby. A very fat man in a double-breasted navy blue suit who reeked of stale
cigars got in the elevator with them, so they rode silently to the top floor.
Throwing open double doors from the hallway, Henri preceded Brian into a large
suite. Henri hung their jackets in a closet near the entry. Brian walked on
pale green plush carpet across a room twice the size of his parents' living
room, and perched on a tapestry-covered loveseat when Henri waved for him to
sit. Against one wall was a brass tray on wheels, loaded with liquor bottles,
where Henri filled a silver cocktail shaker and then poured his concoction into
beautiful fluted glasses. He added olives from a small jar and carried the
glasses to the love seat, handed one to Brian. "Salut!" he said, clinking
Brian's glass, before sitting down next to him.
Sipping the martini, Brian decided that he liked it; now he knew what dry
martinis tasted like, the tip of his tongue felt fuzzy.
Henri leaned back against the sofa cushions, and he and Brian regarded each
other over their cocktail glasses. Before picking him up at the store, Henri
had changed from his gray suit into beige linen slacks pleated at the waist and
an ivory colored pullover sweater. "You are very beautiful," Henri told Brian
again; "Perhaps you hear that often?" He swiveled sideways and draped his arm
across the back of the small sofa.
Feeling slightly out of his element but determined not to show it, Brian made
himself relax, and he turned sideways, too. "Sometimes," he agreed. He wished
he'd had time for a shower; he was very conscious that he'd been wearing the
same clothes for eighteen hours.
"Your mouth is very. . . sensuelle. What is this word in English?"
"Sensual."
"Ah." Henri moved his arm, reached his hand toward Brian's face, slowly
outlined Brian's mouth with a caressing finger. Then he set down his drink on
an end table, took Brian's drink and set it down, too, and slid closer across
the sofa. "Do you kiss?" he asked, and Brian barely had time to nod before
Henri's mouth descended on his.
Slipping his arms around Henri's neck, Brian gave himself up to the moment. Sex
was best when you let go, forgot about yourself, forgot everything but the feel
of skin on skin, tingling nerves, quickened breathing, and the hot pulsing
hardness of two cocks straining for release. Nothing else existed for those
minutes, nothing mattered but letting your senses fill with the smell and taste
of another man, his whiskered chin scraping your face, your nipples, your belly;
his tongue rasping all over your body, leaving a moist, burning trail that set
fire to your skin, while you did the same to him, to his body, his cock filling
your mouth, tasting his flavor, till you were both slippery with sweat, panting
and moaning.
Somehow they ended up in Henri's king-size bed, though later Brian couldn't
remember making the move from sofa to bedroom, couldn't remember getting
undressed, so lost was he in the throes of passion. When Henri finally came,
his sudden burst of laughter brought Brian back to reality. He opened his eyes,
to find himself on his back on the bed, his long legs wrapped around Henri's
neck. Henri's head was thrown back, and he was gasping with laughter. A jolt
of remembrance jerked Brian's body, suddenly remembering Charlie's laughter;
Charlie often laughed when he orgasmed, from sheer blissful joy. Henri leaned
forward and kissed Brian's mouth, filled Brian's mouth with his tongue, as his
hands - rough then gentle then rough - brought Brian quickly to orgasm, held
tight to Brian through that first violent convulsion of pleasure, then rolled
over beside him on the bed and lay gasping for breath.
In a few moments, Henri moved, rolled off the side of the bed, pulling off the
condom carefully and wrapping it in tissue from the nightstand. He grabbed a
handful of tissues and gave them to Brian, then disappeared into the bathroom.
Brian heard Henri pissing, then he was back, and came round the bed, sat down on
the edge. "Permit me, mon cher," he said, and gently wiped Brian's cock and
stomach with a warm washcloth.
Henri's gentleness was almost Brian's undoing. He felt his throat tighten
against inexplicable tears; he would not cry, he never cried. It was only the
aftermath of release, of intense pleasure, nothing more. But Henri was too
quick, too aware; somehow he caught the edge of Brian's sudden vulnerability,
and reached a hand to caress Brian's face. "What is it, mon chou?" he
whispered. "Why suddenly you are so unhappy?"
Brian pulled away from the hand and pulled himself upright in the bed, cleared
his throat and leaned back against the headboard. He regarded Henri evenly and
repeated flatly, "Unhappy? I'm not unhappy. It was great. The sex was great."
"Mais oui, le sex was magnifique, yes," Henri agreed. He studied Brian intently
for a moment, then let his face relax, and he smiled. "Ca va," he said. "Okay.
Would you like another drink, or we can order the room service, if you have
hunger?"
"No, thanks," Brian shook his head. "But I'd like to take a shower, can I?"
"Of course." Henri stood and let Brian get up from the bed. He gave a
caressing pat to Brian's back, and Brian could feel the older man watching him
as he went into the bathroom. The shower was fantastic, boiling hot, the
intense water pressure creating a blissful, almost painful needle-sharp
cascade. The narrow shower stall at Brian's apartment was claustrophobic, the
spray anemic at best. Brian had not felt so clean in months. His ass was not
complaining much; Henri had used plenty of lube, so the soreness from last night
had been barely noticeable.
Expecting to be packed off with, or without, a farewell kiss, Brian was
surprised when Henri pressed for another meeting. And not just a fuck, but for
dinner. Brian was gratified, he wanted to be with Henri another time. The sex
had been great, as they'd agreed; but more than that, Brian liked being with the
older man. Despite all the guys he'd been with in the past few years, and he'd
long ago lost track of how many, for the first time since Charlie, Brian felt
wanted, felt liked, for himself. It felt good.
Henri got dressed and drove Brian back to campus; he could have put Brian in a
taxi, but he didn't. He kissed Brian goodbye, on both cheeks, then again on his
mouth, and something in Brian stirred; he got out of the car with a smile on his
face, and a wave for monsieur Henri.
***************************
Three days later, Brian was back in Henri's hotel room, sipping a before-dinner
aperitif. Henri had offered to pick him up, but Brian preferred arriving on his
own. He wore dark charcoal gray worsted slacks and a navy wool blazer, the only
half-way dressy clothes he owned. Henri had greeted him at the door, wearing
perfectly tailored black slacks with the merest break, and a pale gray raw-silk
long-sleeved shirt. He greeted Brian with a kiss on both cheeks and drew him
into the sitting room, pressed a tiny glass of clear amber liquid into his
hand. It tasted like sweet burnt almonds; almost too sweet.
They sat on the love seat. "That's a beautiful shirt," Brian said.
"Versace," Henri replied; "It's very comfortable. You like the feel of silk on
your skin, Brian?"
"Sure. I don't know, I never felt it. But probably." Shut up, Brian told
himself, you sound like an idiot.
"Come with me." Henri stood up and led the way into the bedroom. He pulled
open sliding doors on a large closet, filled with wooden hangers spaced an inch
apart, hung with beautiful shirts, most of them beige or cream or pale blue.
Henri walked behind Brian and removed the navy blazer. "Take off your shirt,"
he said.
Embarrassed, Brian unbuttoned his shirt. He was acutely aware that the cotton
Van Heusen was revoltingly commonplace, and his Hanes undershirt even more so.
Henri stepped forward and pulled off the t-shirt, messing up Brian's carefully
disheveled hair. Then he reached into the closet and pulled out a shirt the
color of mist, a blue so pale as to be almost white. He held it out and Brian
slipped his arms into the sleeves. "Wow," he said, an understatement. Henri
buttoned it up for him and stood back.
"So, here is the silk. How does it feel?"
"Incredible," Brian breathed. The cool brush of the silk against his bare skin
was almost aphrodisiacal.
"Bon!" cried Henri, "Your beautiful body was meant to wear silk. No, no - do
not take it off, Brian! Keep it, it suits you, mon chou."
"I can't." But he wanted to. "I can't."
Henri tossed his head. "Do not be silly, Brian, you can see I have many of
these shirts. It fits you very well, a bit large in the shoulders, peut-etre,
but nothing to matter."
Brian stood still, rubbing his fingers lightly over a sleeve. His pride warred
with his intense desire to own the beautiful shirt, and desire won out. "Okay,"
he agreed. "Thank you. Merci! Merci, monsieur Henri!"
"Oh, la la, Brian, that smile! You will break a million hearts with that smile,
mon cher." They laughed. "Now, we must hurry un peu, la reservation is for
eight o'clock."
Tucking the shirt in, zipping up his pants, shrugging on his blazer, Brian
glanced at himself in the mirrored closet door, used his fingers to carefully
disarrange his hair, and followed Henri to the door.
When they arrived at Les Fenetres, Brian was glad he'd kept the shirt; it gave
him a modicum of confidence walking into what was probably a four-star
restaurant, probably Harrisburg's ONLY four-star restaurant. Henri was
well-known, a frequent visitor it seemed, and all the wait staff were
deferential and incredibly polite. They were seated immediately, at a table in
a quiet corner, and were handed menus the size of the Declaration of
Independence. The menu was in French with no prices indicated, which Brian knew
meant they must be extremely expensive.
Brian wrinkled his forehead. His
two-years-of-high-school-and-one-year-of-college French did not help him
decipher entrees on the imposing menu. 'Fruits de mare' - what the fuck were
fruits of the sea?
"Do you like the biftek, Brian?"
"Steak? Sure."
"Bon," said Henri to the waiter, rescuing Brian from his dilemma. "Deux bifteks,
avec pommes frites, et salade nicoise. Ca va, mon ami?"
"Yeah. Ca va," Brian agreed. He recognized steak, fried potatoes, and he'd
have to trust Henri about the salad. He sighed with relief when the waiter took
their menus and disappeared. "Oh," he turned to Henri, "Can you please tell the
waiter I want my steak rare?"
"No need. We French eat our beef bloody."
"Bon!" Brian said, and relaxed against his chair. He liked Henri.
***************************
Two or three times a week, Brian visited Henri at his hotel. Sometimes they
went to dinner, once they even went to see a film, Les Parapluies de Cherbourg,
at an art-house theatre, but mostly they just fucked. Brian's schedule was too
tight to spend as much time with Henri as the older man wanted. Brian cut out
his frequent visits to the Banger, hitting the books and saving his ass for
Henri.
Saturday was a late-work-night at the A&P, and it became a habit for Henri to
pick up Brian in the parking lot and drive him to the hotel for a shower, a
fuck, and a wonderfully quiet night’s sleep away from his noisy apartment
complex. They would sleep in next morning, have a leisurely room-service
breakfast while reading the Sunday paper, and sometimes go for a drive in the
countryside, before Brian had to report for work in the campus cafeteria at
three o’clock. He worked there till seven, then walked home to the apartment to
work on school assignments until late into the night. Within a few weeks, he’d
managed to catch up in all his classes, and knew his grades would be excellent
by the end of the semester, assuring renewal of his scholarship.
Brian's wardrobe had expanded to include several of Henri's silk shirts, a pair
of tan linen slacks altered to fit Brian's slimmer legs, and a new thigh-length,
rust-colored leather jacket with a belt. Henri had insisted on buying Brian a
pair of Gucci loafers, which Brian loved so much, he almost wore them to bed.
It had been difficult at first to accept Henri's gifts; but the older man took
so much pleasure in the giving, that Brian soothed his pride and tried to be
gracious.
In early November, while eating dinner at Les Fenetres (Brian had graduated
from biftek to coq au vin), Henri proposed a weekend trip to Philadelphia. He
had a yearning to see the Liberty Bell. "America was the example, tu comprends?
For the French people. Our Revolution was modeled after YOURS. That is why we
gave the Statue of Liberty, for your New York harbor. I want to see all these
glorious symbols of liberty, they are - merveilleuses?"
"Marvelous," Brian corrected. They were helping each other with vocabulary.
Brian was learning much more than French from Henri, he was learning about food
and wine and even American history. He hadn't remembered that the Statue of
Liberty had been a gift from France.
Later, relaxing on Henri's thoroughly messed-up bed, Henri again pressed Brian
to go with him to Philadelphia.
"I could get away next weekend," Brian finally agreed. "It's Parents Weekend,
so the professors will let us off easy."
"Oh non, non, Brian, you will want to be here for your family."
"My parents are dead," Brian said flatly, "So it's no problem." It was what he
told everyone here in Harrisburg; it saved a lot of trouble.
Henri was shocked. "Mon dieu," he exclaimed, laying a hand on Brian's arm. "I
am so sorry, mon pauvre lapin, my poor rabbit, c'est dommage!" Brian looked
over Henri's shoulder and said nothing. Henri squeezed his arm and asked
gently, "How did they die? You were very young?"
"Car crash," Brian said stoically. "I don't like to talk about it."
Henri regarded Brian's profile in silence for a moment, then squeezed his arm
again. "And everyone, they let you get away with this?" he asked quietly.
"Huh?" Brian swiveled his head around to look at Henri.
"You are not, I think, telling the truth."
Brian was amazed, and stared at Henri, open mouthed. "How'd you know my parents
aren't dead?"
"I did not, not really. But I can tell when you are not being truthful." Henri
sat up and leaned against the headboard. "You forget, mon chou, I am the -
specialiste? Ah, specialist! In the personnel. I can tell very much about
people, from the way they speak to me." When Brian said nothing, Henri
continued, "So tell me, please, why you don't invite the parents to come see you
here at school?"
"Henri," Brian said earnestly, "My parents would never come here, and I'm glad.
I don't want them to. We all hate each other, it's no big deal."
"Because you are gay?"
"Ha ha!" Brian barked a staccato laugh. "They don't even know I'm gay. They
just hate me on general principles." He looked away again, swallowed hard.
Fuck Henri and his damn questions. He didn't need to hash over this family
shit. He stood up abruptly, but Henri grabbed his arm, pulled him back down on
the bed.
"Tell me," Henri said.
"Tell you what?" Brian demanded. "I don't need any fucking psychoanalysis, so
drop it, okay?"
"Brian. . ." Henri paused, then said deliberately, "Brian, friends talking is
not the psychoanalysis. Aren't we friends?"
Brian stared down at his hands, clasping each other white-knuckled on his naked
thighs. After a long silence, he said at last, "I was an accident. A mistake."
"An accident, perhaps. Not a mistake. A child is never a mistake."
Brian shook his head. "You don't understand. My dad TOLD me, my mom TOLD me.
I was a mistake. They didn't want me. They don't want me now. Oh!" he tossed
his head, "I don't CARE. It's not like I fucking CARE, you know?" He squinted
his eyes and glared at Henri. "It's no big deal. So just lay off this shit
now. Okay?"
Henri paused. "Brian, you are a beautiful, intelligent, sensitive young man.
You are going to have a wonderful life. That is the truth, that is not a
mistake. YOU are not a mistake."
"I know," Brian insisted, his voice hollow.
"Do you, mon lapin?"
"Yes! Fucking yes! Okay?"
"Okay," Henri agreed, and let the subject drop.
***************************
All too soon Henri's allotted time in Harrisburg was whittled away. They spent
his last night in the hotel room, ordering room service food which neither could
eat, and sharing a final shower, drying each other off with huge fluffy white
towels. Brian thought he would miss Henri's shower almost as much as Henri
himself, and he said so. He could do that, he could say what he thought to
Henri, and the older man would laugh or nod understandingly. Brian was
comfortable with Henri. Not in love; not even in lust, though he always enjoyed
their sex; he was IN LIKE with Henri. It had been a wonderful interlude in his
mundane, hard-working college life, and he'd never forget it.
Henri was less sanguine than Brian about the end of their affaire. Brian was
truly surprised to see tears in Henri's eyes as, dressed to leave the hotel,
Brian was drawn into a bearhug that literally took his breath away. Pulling
away at last, Henri said, "I have a surprise for you, mon cher. But only if you
want it! No strings, as they say." He handed Brian a large white envelope.
Ripping open the flap, Brian pulled out a smaller envelope that said Air
France. Inside was a round-trip ticket to Paris. He stood staring at the
ticket, at a loss for words.
"The ticket is what you call it, open-ended," Henri explained. "There are 'no
strings' because, you can visit Paris on your own, any time you like. Of
course," he smiled, and shoved hands in his pockets, "Naturally, I would like
you to visit me, but you don't have to do so."
"Oh my God," said Brian, stunned. Paris! He'd always dreamed of visiting
Paris. "But, I can't leave school," he said sadly. "I can't miss school, or
I'll lose my scholarship."
"But you have the holidays, non? The winter holidays, with no school, n'est-ce
pas?"
"Two weeks at Christmas. I'm supposed to go home." Brian thought about going
home. Home was Mikey. Not his parents. Nobody else, nothing else. But
Michael had Deb; Michael had his family and other friends. Michael would
forgive him, if he went to Paris instead of Pittsburgh over Christmas. Wouldn't
he?
***************************
"Who is this guy?" Michael's voice
crackled over the phone, the long-distance connection was poor. "I mean, you
said he's old, so what are you doing with him?"
Brian laughed. "You name it, Mikey. He is kind of old, forty-two, but he's
hot, really good in bed."
"So, is he your boyfriend now?"
"No! Jesus, you know I don't do boyfriends."
"What about James?"
"Oh," Brian sighed dramatically, "I dumped James, weeks ago. He got really
boring, always droning on about politics and activism and shit like that. And,"
Brian's voice reflected outrage, "He wanted me to be MONOGAMOUS. Can you
imagine?"
"No, I cannot imagine that!" They both laughed, then Michael continued, "So,
are you dating this old guy, or what?"
"Michael, you are so pathetically HETERO. He's just a fuck, that's all."
"But you said he takes you to dinner, and to movies, that's dating, isn't it?"
"No, it's foreplay." Brian changed the subject. "Never mind him, tell me about
you and Reginald."
"Ralph, his name is RALPH. You're such a shit, Brian Kinney."
"That's why you love me. So tell me about Ralph. How big is his dick?"
"I don't - it doesn't - oh fuck you."
Brian was amazed. "Don't tell me you guys haven't done anything yet! Jesus,
Michael, it's been months!"
"Not months," Michael corrected, "Three weeks. We're, you know, friends. And I
- "
"Mikey," Brian interrupted, "Are you sure he's gay? Come to think of it, are
you sure YOU'RE gay?"
Annoyance coloring his voice, Michael snapped, "Being gay doesn't mean you have
to fuck every guy you meet!"
"Sure it does," Brian insisted. "Didn't you read the instruction manual? It's
on page three."
Michael laughed, but added, "I must have got a different version. Anyway, Ralph
is really nice, and he's funny, and I can't wait for you to meet him. I wish
you were coming home next week for Thanksgiving."
"Me, too." Brian could almost smell Debbie's turkey. He sighed. "But it's
only two days off school, and they gave me extra hours at the A&P, and I've got
a sociology term paper to finish. Finals start in three weeks."
"Poor Brian," Michael sympathized. "When do you get off for Christmas?"
"My finals are over December 15, I think. Somewhere around then, I don't have a
calendar right here." Brian shuffled some papers on his desk, pretending to
look for a calendar, buying himself some time. He wasn't sure how to broach the
subject of Christmas to Michael.
"Mom's having Ralph over for dinner, Christmas eve. Of course you'll be here,
too. Oh, I know you're really going to like him, I just know it!"
"Sure I will," Brian lied; he hated Ralph already, sight unseen. "But I. . . I
might not be coming home for break."
"What?"
"I said, I might not be - "
"You have to!" Michael's voice cracked a high note. "Brian, you have to come
home! I haven't seen you for MONTHS, why wouldn't you come home for Christmas?"
"Mikey, you know I want to see you too, but. . .I've got a chance to go
somewhere that I've always wanted to go, all my life, and. . ." Brian's voice
faltered; he could sense Michael's profound dismay on the end of the line.
"Where? Where would you rather go, then come home to see me?" When Brian
didn't answer, he continued, "We've been together every Christmas for FIVE
YEARS. Why do you want to go someplace else, and spend Christmas with
strangers?"
Brian could hear the tears in Michael's voice, his own throat tightened in
response. "It's Paris. A chance to go to Paris, Mikey."
"We were going to Europe together. You promised we would, someday. Now you
want to go without me." Michael was crying now, full out, not even trying to
hide it.
Brian's heart sank. How was he going to get Michael to agree? "Okay, Mikey, if
you don’t want me to go, then I won’t." He paused. "It's just - I’ve been
working so hard all semester, and then I get this incredible offer to see Paris,
for free. It’s the chance of a lifetime. But -” Brian took a deep breath,
then continued staunchly, “But I won’t go, if you don’t want me to.”
There was a long pause, then Michael said, "Wait."
Brian could hear Michael lay down the phone and leave his bedroom, then he heard
him return a moment later, blowing his nose, Michael's honk-noise making him
smile slightly in spite of everything. When the honking and snuffling noises
stopped, he asked, "Are you there?"
"Brian. . ." Michael cleared his throat. "Brian, I'm sorry. Of course you
should go to Paris. I'm sorry for being selfish."
"I miss you like fucking hell, Mikey. If you say, ‘don’t go,’ well then, I
won’t." Brian’s held his breath, his heart in his throat.
"I miss you too. But I know how much you want to go there, I know that's why
you took French in high school, and you had that dopey poster of the Eiffel
Tower inside your closet door."
"It wasn't dopey."
"It was queer."
Brian laughed. "Okay, so it was queer, why do you think I put it in the
closet?"
"Is it your old French guy who's taking you?"
"Yeah. But. . .you're sure it's okay?"
"Sure I'm sure," Michael's voice was brisk now, "You can't pass up a chance like
this. We'll be together spring break. And you can bring me a present."
Brian laughed with relief. "Of course I will! How about a beret? Or a bottle
of champagne?"
"Oh, I know!" Michael exclaimed, "You can buy me some comic books, in French!
See if you can find Le Captain Astro!"
Shaking his head, Brian sighed. "I'm so sure I'm going to spend my vacation in
Paris looking for comic books."
"You're staying at this guy's house? He lives in Paris?"
"Yeah. I guess so. He has to work, but he's going to take time off so we can
be together. I don't know the details yet.”
“We better say ‘bye’ now,” Michael said quickly, “We’re over ten minutes
already.” They rationed themselves to ten minutes a week; Mikey kept a timer on
his desk.
“Bye, Mikey. Give Reginald a kiss for me, huh?” Brian held the receiver away
from his ear, enjoying Mikey’s explosive curse, and laughed as he hung up. Now
that he had gotten over that hurdle, excitement began to build about the
Christmas trip to Paris.
***************************
The plane ascended above the clouds, and Brian had his nose pressed to the glass
of the window, staring down at the earth falling away. His stomach was doing
flip-flops and his pulse was racing. He had never been so excited in his life.
His first airplane ride! His first trip to Paris!
In Brian's pocket, in a new, expensive leather wallet bought by Henri as another
going-away present, was Brian's passport, rushed through the system with some
pushing by Henri; the picture inside displaying Brian's incredibly eager face,
despite his best attempt to look blasé for the photographer. He also had a wad
of French money, the large, unfamiliar bright-colored paper fascinatingly
meaningless, like oversized Monopoly money.
It was a week before Christmas and the airplane was surprisingly uncrowded; in
fact, Brian could have spread out, lying down in his empty row, except that he
was too excited to sleep. He spent hours poring over a large street map of
Paris he'd bought at the college bookstore, listened to music piped through the
airline headphones, ate everything the smiling flight attendants brought to him,
and flirted with all of them. Two girls and one guy, in their bright-colored
uniforms, hung around near him, their tasks on this half-empty flight giving
them time to play. Eye contact with Maurice when he'd boarded had alerted Brian
that the other man was gay; but he enjoyed flirting with the girls also, and
practiced speaking French with them.
It was gray and overcast in Paris when the plane landed at Orly Airport, the
city invisible from the air. Brian followed the queu through Customs, his eyes
peering beyond the barrier, looking for Henri. Finally coming out the other
side, he spied him near the exit and rushed forward, throwing himself into the
other man's arms, forgetting for the moment that Henri had told him French
people were reserved. But Henri laughed and hugged Brian back, and kissed him
on both cheeks. "Bienvenu a Paris!" he greeted, "Welcome!" and hugged Brian
again.
Henri kept Brian answering questions about his final exams, about the flight,
all the while they waited for luggage and finally made their way out of the
terminal. "We'll take a taxi to the hotel," Henri informed him, curbside; "I
did not bring my car; it is too difficult to drive around Paris this time of
day, what you call the rush hour."
"You're taking me to a hotel?"
"It is a very nice place, mon cher, on the Ile St. Louis, tres charmant. You
will be comfortable there."
"Why can't I stay at your house?" Brian was confused. "You said you have a
house in the city."
Henri laughed. "Mon dieu! My wife is, how do you say, open-minded, but not
THAT open-minded."
"Your wife?" Brian could feel his mouth drop open. "You're married?"
"But of course," Henri raised an eyebrow, amused by Brian's surprise. "It is
necessary, for the business, tu comprends? It is an arrangement, un marriage du
convenance, there are many so. We share a home, but not a bedroom. This is not
unusual in France."
Brian nodded, tried not to look shocked. But he was shocked. And upset, for
some reason; why should he be upset? he asked himself.
For the first time, Brian realized that he did not know Henri very well, after
all. They'd never talked about his life in France. Brian had never been
interested in Henri's life. He'd never asked any questions about him. Am I
really that selfish? he wondered. That superficial? Brian glanced at Henri,
several feet away in the street, negotiating with a taxi driver, and suddenly he
felt engulfed by guilt and sadness.
Henri waved him over to the taxi, the driver helped stow his suitcase in the
trunk, and they got in. The driver pulled out into traffic with a lurch, and
Henri turned sideways on the seat to regard Brian. "What is it, mon lapin?" he
asked gently.
"Nothing." Brian tried to pull himself together. "I'm just tired."
"Yes," agreed Henri, "It's a long trip. You can have a good sleep tonight."
Brian nodded, and spent the rest of the taxi ride peering out the window at
landmarks pointed out by Henri, or grabbing hold of the doorframe as the taxi
hurtled at what felt like a hundred miles an hour through the darkening rain-wet
streets. It was seven p.m. in Paris, six hours ahead of Pennsylvania.
“There’s no snow,” Brian noticed. He’d removed his coat in the overheated
taxi. “It doesn’t snow in Paris?”
“Sometimes. Mostly, it is the rain in winter. You are disappointed?”
“No, I hate snow.” He did, too. Shoveling snow, trudging to school through
snowbanks. Still, it did not feel like Christmas time without it.
The taxi screeched to a halt in a quiet street on the Ile St. Louis. Henri
explained that this small piece of land, located directly behind Notre Dame
Cathedral, was one of the best neighborhoods in Paris. There were several small
hotels and shops, but most of the island’s buildings were private residences.
It was but a few minutes’ walk to Notre Dame, to the Left Bank and the Latin
Quartier. Brian grabbed his suitcase from the trunk as Henri paid the driver,
then followed Henri through a small carved door in a scrolled archway into a
paneled room with a fireplace at one end throwing out welcoming warmth. A door
in the wall across from the fireplace opened and a distinguished looking
gray-haired man entered, approached a tall narrow desk and greeted them
somberly: “Bonsoir, messieurs.”
“Bonsoir,” Brian shyly echoed Henri, then zoned out while Henri dealt with
registration, turning instead to study the carved stones surrounding the
fireplace. He could tell that it, and the entire building, were very old.
Another wall held a large tapestry, shabby and ancient; the floor was stone,
covered and overlapped with oriental carpets of mismatched design. He was
snapped out of his reverie when Henri called to him.
They followed the elderly man through a door beside the fireplace and ascended
several narrow, circular flights of stairs. Round and round the narrow steps
led upward, till Brian was dizzy and his suitcase was becoming heavy in his
hand. At the fourth floor landing they passed through an archway into a narrow
hall. Four doors led off the hall, and the elderly man unlocked the second door
on the left and held it open for them to enter.
“Oh!” a cry escaped Brian’s lips. The room was small, but in the center stood a
large four-poster bed, with heavy carved posters, hung with draperies of maroon
silk. He dropped his suitcase, and went to the narrow window, with tiny glass
panes and a wooden shutter. He pushed it open and gasped again, as he looked
down into a courtyard straight out of the fifteenth century – cobblestoned, with
topiary trees in the center, and an archway through which Brian was sure coaches
had once passed.
“Monsieur, la salle de bain,” the old gentleman was saying, and Brian turned
back as the man opened a door leading to a small bathroom with an imposing
claw-footed tub.
“Merci, monsieur,” Henri was thanking the man, discreetly slipping a folded bill
into his palm, and Brian echoed him, with a huge smile, “Merci!” The door
closed behind him, and Brian threw himself into Henri’s arms.
“Oh, it’s beautiful, so beautiful!” he gushed, then pulled away, blushing
slightly, and went back to the window. “Look down there,” he said, “Wow.”
“Yes, I have stayed here before, in this very room, I think,” Henry smiled,
glancing down at the courtyard. Brian wondered if another young man had been
treated by Henri to a holiday in this hotel. Henri pulled the shutter closed.
“It’s a bit cold now, though, n’est-ce pas?”
Brian’s room had a corner fireplace, which had been fitted with a gas heater.
Henri showed him how to work it, and demonstrated how to use the telephone. “I
am going to leave you now,” Henri said. “You can unpack your baggage, faire la
toilette, relax for a while. I will come back in perhaps an hour, take you to
dinner. Ca va?”
“Yeah. Ca va,” Brian agreed. Henri squeezed Brian’s arm, then walked out the
door with a wave and a smile.
Brian threw off his clothes, took a piss, then struggled to figure out the
workings of the chrome hand-held shower inside the huge porcelain bathtub. He
sprayed more water on the room than on himself, but felt refreshed after his
shower adventure, and set about unpacking his clothes into a standing armoire of
inlaid oak. He dried his hair with a built-in blow-dryer in the bathroom, and
had just finished buttoning his pale blue silk shirt when a knock on the door
announced that Henri had returned.
Henri greeted Brian with a kiss on both cheeks, held Brian’s coat for him to
shrug it on, then preceded him downstairs and into a waiting taxi. They sped
through now-dark streets lined with tall trees, past floodlit stone buildings,
and came to an abrupt halt beside a carpeted strip of sidewalk under an awning
proclaiming Le Bistro Vingt-et-un. Inside the heavy wooden doors was a narrow
reception area, where they waited a moment until a table was prepared for them,
then followed the maitre d’ to a corner table draped in heavy white linen. By
now Brian knew to expect the oversize menus, and he was able to select his own
dinner without coaching.
Dinner was fantastic, and afterwards Henri insisted Brian join him in sipping a
snifter of warmed brandy, before they retrieved their coats and climbed into a
taxi back to the hotel. As Brian pulled up the taxi door handle, Henri laid a
hand on his arm. “Attends, wait a moment,” he said softly. “Do you want the
company tonight, or perhaps you are too tired, mon lapin?”
Brian leaned his forehead against Henri’s and whispered, “Please come up with
me.” Henri smiled broadly and followed Brian out of the taxi and up the curving
stairs. Soon Brian felt like he was acting in a movie, exchanging hot,
passionate kisses in the middle of a silk-draped four-poster bed in an ancient
stone building in Paris.
Henri did not spend the night; he had to be in his office by nine o’clock next
morning, Monday. Buckling the belt of his trousers, he paused to leave his
office number by the telephone, and explained that Brian was now on his own for
two weeks. He could call if he needed help or got lonely; otherwise, Henri
would see him at the week-end. As Henri pulled on his jacket, Brian nodded
solemnly; he’d expected to spend more time with Henri, but he knew he’d get by
on his own.
When Henri pulled out a wad of brightly colored bills from his pocket and laid
them beside the telephone, Brian suddenly said, “No.” Surprised, Henri regarded
him. “I have my own money,” Brian explained, wrapping his terrycloth robe
around him. “I brought money with me, I don’t need it, really.”
“Mon lapin, ce n’est rien, this is nothing. Of course I am paying for your
holiday, I invited you, tu comprends?”
“Henri. . .” Brian swallowed a lump rising in his throat. “No, Henri, no,
okay?”
“My silly boy, don’t upset yourself, please.” Henri brushed the hair back from
Brian’s forehead and regarded him closely. “What is it? What is upsetting
you?”
“I can’t – I don’t want you to do this. That’s all.”
“Why?”
“Because!” Brian suddenly exclaimed. “It’s all too much! The plane and the
hotel and now this pile of money.”
Henri tsk’d. “You are not feeling the, oh what is it called? Like a kept boy?”
Yes. “No,” Brian denied. Yes, and no. He wasn’t sure how he felt. “I just –
I just, you know – “
“Brian.” Henri sat down on the foot of the bed, pulling Brian down next to
him. “You enjoy the sex, yes?” Brian nodded. “You do not feel like I am
making you do the sex with me?”
“No! No.” Brian shook his head. He loved having sex with Henri.
Henri took Brian’s hand and kissed the palm. “It is nothing to me, this money,
it is the, what do the British say? ‘Piffle.’ For me, it is the piffle. This
money, this holiday, it is not for the sex, mon lapin. You understand? We are
friends, you and I. Friends, they share things, yes? And I am the older
friend, the one with money because I have lived much longer than you. You are
the young friend, just starting your life.”
“Yeah, but –“
“Non, let me finish.” Henri stared into Brian’s eyes. He said solemnly, “We
are good friends, mon cher, and friends take care of each other. Always. It is
my turn now, someday it will be your turn, to take care of a friend. Yes?”
Suddenly Brian pulled away, stood up and walked to the window. He stared at the
shutter, as if the window was open and he was looking out onto a distant view.
“I’m not a friend,” he whispered.
“Comment? What?”
Brian raised his voice. “But I’m not a friend. Not a good friend. I’m bad.”
“Come here, please.” Brian came back to the bed and stood looking at Henri.
“Tell me what you are thinking.”
Brian sighed. “I didn’t even know you were married. I don’t know exactly what
your job is. All those weeks, in Harrisburg, all those times we were together,
I never even asked you about yourself. All I ever thought about was me."
Henri smiled. "But my dear, dear Brian - that does not make you bad. That only
makes you very young. This is perfectly natural, for the youth, tu comprends?
You understand?"
Brian nodded. In a way it was true. But not totally. "My best friend is
young, and he's not like that. My best friend is not like that at all. He
cares about people. Everybody. He would've known all about you."
"You are speaking of your friend Michael?"
Brian nodded again. He'd told Henri about Michael, he'd talked about Michael
lots of times; how tight they were, how Michael was always there for him, no
matter what.
"I should have gone home to Michael, instead of coming here. Michael wanted me
to come home, for Christmas. He wouldn't have come to Paris without me.
Michael would've come home to me, instead." He dropped his head in his hands,
squeezing his eyes tight to keep tears from falling.
Henri said nothing for a moment, let Brian have time to pull himself together.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you telephone your friend, right now?
And if he wants you to come home, I will take you to the airport myself. We
will change your ticket, and voila!”
“Really?” Brian was dumbfounded. “You wouldn’t be mad, if I went back home?”
Henri shook his head. “Of course not. I don’t want you to be unhappy. Do you
wish to call Michael now?”
“It’s so late.”
“It’s not late in Pennsylvania,” Henri reminded Brian, “It’s early evening
there.”
Brian took a deep breath, then another. He needed to do this. He wanted to do
this. “Okay.”
Picking up the phone, Henri dialed the international code number for long
distance, then had Brian repeat Michael’s phone number and punched it in, then
handed the receiver to Brian. “Shall I leave the room?” he asked, but Brian
shook his head as he heard the phone ringing.
“Hello?”
“Mikey!” Brian exclaimed, “Mikey, it’s me. In Paris!”
“Oh my God! Mom, Brian is calling from Paris!” Michael’s voice was squeaky, as
always when he got excited. “How is it?” he demanded, “Are you having fun?”
“Michael,” Brian interrupted, paused, then charged ahead. “Mikey, I – I’m
missing you. I should have come home for Christmas, instead of doing this.”
“What?”
“Henri – Henri says he’ll get my ticket changed and everything, so I can come
home to Pittsburgh tomorrow.”
“Are you nuts?” Michael shouted. “You’re in Paris, you idiot! Don’t you dare
come home!”
“But I miss you,” Brian said. “I mean, I really, really do. I’d rather be with
you than anywhere in the world.” He gulped, cleared his throat.
Michael said, "Oh, Brian. Me too." Then he was laughing again. “But have you
lost your marbles? You can see me on spring break.”
Brian laughed too, but said earnestly, “Are you sure?”
“Did you buy my French comic books yet?” Michael demanded.
“No, I – “
“Well then, don’t you DARE come home without them! Now stop being such a drama
queen, and have a good time, you dope!”
“Okay. Okay. Say hi to Deb for me. And Michael?” Brian lowered his voice and
whispered, “Thanks.”
“Send me a postcard, Brian! Good-bye.”
“Au revoir, mon ami,” Brian answered, and hung up the phone. He felt like
jumping up and down and whooping, but remembered just in time that he was
nineteen years old. He flashed a dazzling smile at Henri. “Merci.”
Henri hugged Brian, and kissed his cheeks. “You see? You are a good friend,
after all. Now sleep well, mon lapin. Paris waits for you in the morning!”
Brian closed the door behind Henri and whirled around in a circle in the middle
of the room. Paris was waiting for him, and Michael was waiting for him. First
thing tomorrow, he’d find a comic book shop. Then he’d visit the Louvre. Then
Notre Dame. Then the Eiffel Tower. All of Gay Paree was waiting for him
tomorrow! If only he could get to sleep tonight.