REALLY VERY AMAZING PAIN
Brian
Fuck Michael. Fuck him for bringing it out in the open. Does he think I’m
stupid? Not Michael. Justin. Michael knows I’m not stupid. But fuck him anyway.
Of course I knew. I’ve known for a while now. Oh, not details, but I knew. Knew
he was fucking around, and not just random tricks. He wouldn’t try to cover it
up, if it was just random tricks. I didn’t care. I really believed I didn’t
care. Probably I could have gone on believing that for a while longer, if Mikey
had just kept his mouth shut.
Michael. Christ, everything is so black and white to him, good versus evil, just
like his damned comic books. He’s thirty-one and he still thinks the world is
full of heroes and villains, good guys and bad. After all these years, Mikey
still doesn’t know that everybody is bad, some people are just better at hiding
it than others. Except Michael. No, Michael is bad too. Otherwise he would have
left me alone so I could go on ignoring the truth.
The truth. It’s all over the loft, now that I can’t keep from looking for it. It
was invisible but now I can see it, like bloody fingerprints covering every inch
of my loft, left by that fucking murderer Justin Taylor.
I’ve never gone through his papers, his computer, the things on his desk. It
wasn’t merely some bullshit moral code that stopped me, it was, somehow. . .oh
fuck. It was because I trusted him. I can’t believe I’m even admitting that to
myself. I know better than to trust anybody, I fucking know better. I made that
the first rule to live by, many years ago. So in a way I deserve this, I deserve
this sick twisted feeling in my gut. It’s my own fault, for letting myself trust
somebody.
When I was sure Michael was out of sight at Babylon, I got my jacket and came
home. Justin’s not here of course. He stayed home to work on a project, he said.
He’s working on a project, all right, he’s sucking it or fucking it, right this
minute. In some stranger’s house or apartment or the backseat of a car. I don’t
care about sucking, I don’t care about fucking. But he’s kissing it. Kissing
some faceless, nameless man that he wants to be with instead of me.
It’s a joke really, an incredibly amazing and hilarious joke. Brian Kinney,
reduced to this, a man so consumed by jealousy, he’s snooping through papers,
even flipping through several of Justin’s sketchpads, stacked up on his desk.
It’s not really his desk, of course. It used to be my table, my dining room
table. The computer I flip on has the top-of-the-line graphics program that cost
me a fucking mint. I want to feel angry about that but I can’t. I cannot.
Because it did help Justin when it seemed he’d never find his way back to art
again. It sustained him. No matter what, I can’t regret that.
Under a stack of CDs I find Justin’s journal. At first I can’t open it, it’s
almost like the pages are glued shut, my hands are shaking so hard. That makes
me laugh out loud. Finally I pry the cover open, and start reading a page at
random. It’s about me. He’s describing the time we fucked on the sofa a few
weeks ago, with the windows open and the curtains blowing wildly in the breeze;
he’s describing the taste of my skin, the way he touched his tongue to the scar
on the inside of my right knee; he’s describing the feel of my fingers in his
hair, the way our bodies fit together and move together like choreography
without music. How much he loves me. Christ. Christ. I can’t read this. I close
the book, stack the CDs on top of it again, turn off the computer, and with my
eyes tightly shut, I stumble up the steps to the bathroom.
Turning on the shower, I wait till steam clouds the mirror before I open my
eyes, then quickly I pull off my clothes, step inside the enclosure and let the
water cascade over my head and shoulders with a burning heat that makes my eyes
water. My eyes keep watering and watering and I feel myself fall against the
wall, I can’t breathe, I can’t catch my breath, it must be too hot in here. I
slide down the wall and sit on the floor, my legs drawn up to my chest, my head
on my knees, waiting for the water to cool off, waiting for my eyes to stop
watering and my shoulders to stop shaking.
Justin
Lying in bed with Ethan is so different than being with Brian. No matter how
relaxed I am, I always feel this tension, this – something-going-on – with
Brian. Even when we’re lying like spoons, his arms draped around me, his head on
the pillow next to mine, his breath tickling my ear, I’m always so aware of him,
of his body, every inch of his skin where it touches mine.
Ethan is – comfortable. Not in a boring way, never boring – sex with Ethan is
wonderful, it’s beautiful. Like poetry. But sex with Brian is. . .urgent. Always
urgent.
I glance at Ethan’s clock, it’s almost one-thirty. Brian’s still at Babylon, he
never leaves before two, but I want to get to the loft, have a shower, before he
comes home. Ethan hangs on to me, wanting me to stay, wanting me to spend the
night. He knows I can’t, I wish he’d stop asking. He pulls me back into his arms
and we kiss for a minute, but gradually I inch away, slip out of the bed and
pull on my clothes.
It’s a cold walk home, and I’m shivering inside my jacket. I breathe in gulps of
damp night air, trying to keep my mind blank. Trying not to feel the regret and
the unhappiness raging in my stomach. I get halfway home before I double over,
which is a record, usually it only takes three blocks for the guilt to grind
inside my stomach like broken shards of glass, forcing me to stop and bend over
the curb, to vomit my guilt into the street. The waistband of my jeans is
getting loose, I’m vomiting nearly every day now. Like some supermodel with
bulimia.
I need to tell him. I tried to tell him, just the other night. He joined me in
the shower, put those fantastic gently-rough hands on me and started kissing. I
pulled away and looked into his eyes. Almost I told him. Almost. Then I lost my
nerve. He didn’t notice of course. Didn’t notice my hesitation, didn’t notice
that my ass was already sore. Ethan’s not as skilled at Brian, well how could he
be? Ethan hasn’t fucked ten thousand men. I used to be happy knowing I was the
only one out of thousands of fucks that Brian ever cared about. It doesn’t make
me happy any more. It’s not enough.
When did it become not enough? I think it really started with Rage. When Brian
got jealous of me and Michael and pissed all over my art. Until that exact
moment, I thought I knew Brian. Or as much as anybody can know Brian, since he
keeps himself locked up tight. I thought I had a key. Michael has a key to a
piece of Brian, Lindsay and Debbie have keys to pieces of Brian, and I thought I
did, too. But the Brian I knew, or thought I knew, could never have done that to
me. Could never have sent me that message, by pissing on my art.
He apologized. Michael accepted immediately, but I couldn’t. I pretended to, but
in my heart I couldn’t forgive him. I believe Brian was sorry, it wasn’t that.
But an apology couldn’t erase the way I felt when I saw how he’d trashed my
artwork. Nobody knows better than Brian how hard it’s been for me to get back
into drawing. I almost gave it up, I would have given it up probably, without
Brian’s support, without his encouragement. Not just because he bought me an
expensive computer. But he believed in me. Or I thought he did, anyway. I never
would have guessed in a million years, that Brian could use my art against me,
could use it to hurt me.
Is that why you’re hurting him? The question snaked into my brain, and I stopped
wham! on the sidewalk, as if I’d walked into a brick wall. The question took my
breath away. But immediately I knew that the answer was ‘no.’ With a deep sigh
of relief, I knew without a doubt that me fucking Ethan had nothing to do with
hurting Brian, with getting even. It had everything to do with me needing
something, needing something Brian would never give me. The words. I need the
words.
It was on my birthday that I finally realized, finally accepted, that Brian
would never give me the words. What I told Ethan was the truth, I didn’t really
care about not celebrating my birthday. I stood next to Brian in Babylon when he
explained to the guys that birthdays were nothing to celebrate, and I nodded my
head. I know how Brian feels about getting older, I figured maybe he didn’t want
to acknowledge my birthday because his was not far behind, and I’m sure turning
thirty-one was going to upset him. So I was okay, I truly thought I understood,
and it didn’t matter. If only he’d left it alone.
But he didn’t leave it alone, he decided to surprise me with a present. A
hustler. Worse than giving me a hustler, a naked guy with a red bow on his cock,
was Brian’s absolute assurance that he was giving me what I wanted. Or what I
needed. Brian’s always bragged that he’s teaching me to be the best homosexual
ever. Mostly that’s a joke, but partly it’s the truth. He believes, Brian truly
believes, that the life he lives is the best possible life for a gay man, for
himself, and now for me. Career success and a lifetime of fucking as many men as
possible, who could ask for anything more?
It’s not enough for me. I’ve tried to make it be enough, and I thought maybe it
was. Till I met Ethan.
Brian
I hear the elevator ascending and I hurry to slip into bed, to pretend to be
asleep. I can fake it, lying motionless, breathing deeply and evenly, a skill I
learned as a kid. If Pop came stumbling home angry-drunk, sometimes being asleep
saved me from a beating. Not always, but it was a skill I mastered early on, to
save myself. Just as tonight I need to save myself. If I look at Justin now, if
I talk to Justin now, I don’t know what will happen. Better to fake sleep.
He only takes the elevator when he’s tired, he’s probably spent the whole
evening fucking his brains out. No wonder he hasn’t wanted to share tricks with
me lately, to play the game we invented. I thought he was too tired from all his
school projects. It’s amazing how a single piece of knowledge can crystallize
the truth. He doesn’t want to trick with me, because he’s tricking with his
lover on the side.
The door slides open, he’s not being quiet. I commence my fake sleep-breathing,
and I hear him at the foot of the bedroom steps, his sneakers squeaking to an
abrupt halt. He didn’t expect me to be home. Then he tiptoes, undressing almost
silently. He takes a piss and I wait, holding my breath. Sure enough he turns on
the shower. He’s going to wash the come-stink off his dick, out of his mouth,
out of his ass, before he crawls into bed beside me. By the time the shower is
turned off, I’m slipping into real sleep, a sleep of exhaustion and anger and
really very amazing pain. Who knew I could ever feel this way?
By morning I wake up before the alarm goes off, fresh as a daisy. I’m fine,
everything is fine, it’s hard to believe I was so upset last night, over
something as unimportant as Justin fucking around. I slip out of bed without
waking him, and when I glance over, he’s slightly mouth-breathing, one hand is
tucked under his chin, his blond hair rumpled on the pillow, his face as
innocent as a sleeping cherub. He’s still asleep when I come out of the shower
and start getting dressed. His secret fuck really wore him out. Normally I reset
the alarm for him. Today he can wake up on his own, I’m out the door before
seven o’clock.
For the first time in two weeks I’m glad that work sucks, it sucks every ounce
of energy from my body and fills my brain completely, leaving no room for other
thoughts. Justin calls twice, and both times I tell Cynthia to take a message,
and I ignore the looks she gives me both times. She’s too fucking sharp
sometimes. I get home late, surprised to find Justin waiting for me. I’d
forgotten that I insisted he go with us to the bowling alley for our big Cops &
Queers contest tonight, and the sulky look on his face almost sets me off.
“You don’t have to go after all,” I tell him, with a calmness I don’t feel. “If
you need to work on your project.”
Justin’s face immediately lights up and he gives me a huge grin. “It’s not that
I don’t want to!” he assures me eagerly, reaching for his jacket flung over a
chair and shrugging it on. “It’s just that I need to research some Renaissance
artist at the library, for my art history assignment.”
Don’t lie, Justin, I want to tell him. Do whatever you want, just don’t fucking
lie. “It’s okay,” I assure him, turning my back in case my face gives me away.
“See you later.” I feel him hesitating as I climb the steps to the bedroom, then
I can almost feel him shrug his shoulders before he pulls open the door and
hurries down the stairs. I realize that he didn’t even take a notebook with him,
to cover his library-research story. Justin’s not very good at cheating.
I clear my mind of everything but the bowling match. Surrounded by so many
people who think they know me, I’m on guard against anyone trying to read my
mind. I throw myself into bowling, and surprisingly we do very well, getting
within one point of tying the game with the cops. We all adjourn to Woody’s, and
Deb’s cop boyfriend shows up. When Deb plants a sloppy kiss on him, Michael
comes crying to me. ‘Grow the fuck up,’ I want to tell him; instead I make a
silly remark about Deb giving the cop a blowjob later. So naturally Michael has
to get even with me.
“Too bad Justin couldn’t be here.”
I have to look away. “I’m out of here,” I say and leave without any goodbyes. I
stop at the liquor store on the corner by my loft and pick up a couple bottles
of Jim Beam. I have a feeling I’m going to need them before the weekend’s over.
In fact, sitting on the bed in the dark, I finish off a good half of the first
bottle by the time Justin gets home. He comes through the door, he almost dances
through the door, and he’s humming to himself. I go out to meet him, and when he
turns to see me, he jumps.
“Bri-an,” he says, his surprise drawing out the two syllables of my name. “I
thought you were bowling.”
”Game’s over,” I tell him. It is, too. It’s over.
“How’d we do?” he asks, as if he were one of the team.
“Three cheers to the winners,” I raise my glass in a toast and toss back the
liquor. When he smiles congratulations, I add, “It wasn’t us.”
“Oh.” He’s heading toward the bedroom, but at an angle so he won’t have to pass
close to me.
“Come here,” I say, grabbing on to him. He resists, he wants to take a shower.
I’ll bet he does. “I want to smell you, not soap,” I murmur, pulling him close.
I lean down and smell the dick on his breath, and he tries to pull away. I see
fear in his eyes, and it touches something inside of me, it wakes up some hugely
hungry animal deep inside of me, I feel angry and strong and dangerous,
dangerous. In his eyes I see him acknowledge that danger, and I grab hold of him
even tighter, he cannot get away now.
With my mouth I devour Justin’s face, I suck his tongue into my mouth so roughly
I hear his almost-inaudible cry, but he can’t escape, I’m holding him too tight.
And I’m kissing him and I’m eating his face and I’m grabbing his body with a
death grip. And suddenly Justin is grabbing me back, grabbing on to me, I’ve
waked up the lust beneath the surface of his skin, we’re alike under the skin,
Justin and I, under the skin we are both hungry animals with a lust greater than
any normal human can imagine. He matches my lust, he has always matched my lust,
the frightened seventeen year old kid matched my lust from the very beginning.
Maybe I saw that in him, sensed that in him, when I caught sight of this
incredibly beautiful boy waiting for me beneath that street lamp so long ago.
Together we’re ripping his clothes off, tugging and grabbing and pulling, all
the while my mouth is possessing him, possessing him like no one else ever can,
he’s mine, he belongs to me, he will always belong to me. We throw ourselves on
the floor and I’m pushing him down, my mouth hot on his neck, on his chin, on
his face, on his mouth, he is gasping for breath, we’re both gasping for breath,
and he reaches his hands toward his cock but I slap them away. Then he knows, he
knows it’s going to be rough, and I feel a shiver make his body tremble, but not
with fear any more. He wants it, he wants me, and I ask him, “Do you like that?”
and he shudders as he whispers “. . .yes. . .” and I kiss him some more, and rip
open his pants and pull out his dick, swollen and dripping and hot and throbbing
and. . . and then. . . and then, I stop. I stop and stare at him, both of us
gasping for breath.
“Why’d you stop?” he whispers. I stare at him, I lower my head and I look deep
into his eyes. “Brian - ?”
Neither of us moves, we’re frozen to the floor. “Go take a shower,” I smack him
sharply with my voice, “You stink.”
I get up off him and move away quickly, into the bedroom. I feel him lying there
behind me, stunned, silent, then I hear him get up, pull himself to his feet and
stumble into the bathroom. He closes the door. We never close the door, he’s
shutting me out. For a moment I’m tempted to follow him, to knock down the door,
to push him to the floor of the bathroom and fuck him right there. Fuck him till
he screams. Screams for more.
Instead I pick up the bottle of Jim Beam and walk out into the darkened living
room. I stop to pick up my glass, then realize I don’t need it. It will only
slow me down. I let my body collapse onto the sofa, and I stare out the window.
The drapes are closed, but I can see light and shadow, light and shadow, light
and shadow, as I raise the bottle and start drinking seriously. With any luck I
will pass out soon.
Justin
He knows. Brian knows.
6/29/02