WHEN IT SIZZLES
Part 1 - August 2008
I love Paris in the springtime,
I love Paris in the fall,
I love Paris in the winter, when it drizzles,
I love Paris in the summer, when it sizzles.
I love Paris every moment, every moment of the year.
I love Paris - why, oh why, do I love Paris?
Because my love is near.
-- Words and music by Cole Porter
Justin
I’m standing on a tiny balcony in the early dawn, a cool breeze billowing the
sheer white curtains behind me. I’ve flung open the room’s tall glass doors and
stepped outside to watch pale pink light shimmer through the wrought iron
filigree of the Eiffel Tower two blocks away. I'm feeling more relaxed than I
have in weeks and a smile tugs at the corners of my mouth as I lean forward on
the balcony railing and exhale a long, contented sigh.
Stirrings in the messed-up bed in the room behind me warn that he's waking up, I
hear him yawn and then a rustle of bedclothes tossed aside. Bare feet slip
almost silently across the hardwood floor as he approaches, and his breath
tickles my neck before I feel his arms slip around my waist and pull me tight
against his chest.
"Mmmmfff," he mumbles, "Mmmmff."
"Bonjour, mon amour," I whisper without turning.
His warm lips caress my neck, the side of my face, my ear. He sighs and tightens
his hold. "Bonjour, my ass," he grumbles then. "It can't possibly be jour yet,
we only slept for an hour, two at the most."
"Nevertheless, it is morning." I turn in his arms and then blink as I realize
that he’s naked. I’d pulled on a hotel robe before flinging open the window and
now I reproach him, “Brian, people will see you.”
“Anyone crazy enough to be awake at this hour deserves a shock,” he grumps, but
then I catch a glimpse of his wicked grin as he adds, “Besides, who wouldn’t
want to see me naked?”
“Can’t imagine,” is my honest answer. At thirty-eight, Brian is as beautiful as
ever, still slim and toned, and his shoulders are more heavily muscled than the
last time I saw him, he must be working out more often. Probably he’s paranoid
about keeping in shape as he nears forty. Later I’ll tease him about
overcompensating for encroaching middle age. Or maybe I won’t.
“You don’t need to get up yet,” I remind him. “I have to keep the appointment
with my agent this morning, but you can sleep in for a while, take time to
recover from jet lag.”
“No, I’m okay,” he insists, moving his arms from my waist to rest on my
shoulders. “I’ll have a run this morning, and relax for a while after that. I
told you I agreed to have a late lunch with Louis Maupin at his office on the
Champs-Elysees this afternoon.” Maupin Pharmaceuticals is a Kinnetik client.
Brian pauses and leans his forehead against mine. “Then we can forget about
business for a few days, both of us – right?”
“Right,” I agree. “There’s nothing on my schedule till Tuesday. We can get out
of Paris for a couple days, I’d like you to see some of the countryside.”
Brian pulls his head back a couple inches and frowns. “You haven’t planned some
touristy itinerary for us, have you? I don’t want to be dragged all over France
to worship at some famous lily pond in the middle of nowhere.”
“No lily ponds,” I promise. “But I made a reservation for two nights at a gay
B&B in St. Malo, a little town on the coast in Bretagne - Brittany. I thought we
could just lie around on the beach, eat a lot of crepes and seafood, and fuck
our brains out for a couple days.”
“Hmm. Sounds good – except for the crepes, pancakes are loaded with carbs.”
“Not French ones,” I promise. “They’re very thin and absolutely delicious.”
“YOU are very thin and absolutely delicious,” Brian pronounces. He moves
backward into the room pulling me along with him, and fumbles with the ties on
my robe. In one swift motion he’s pulled it off, but instead of smothering me
with kisses, he holds me at arm’s length and turns his head to one side as he
studies my naked body.
”You’re too thin, Justin,” he concludes after a moment. “Are you trying to
emulate a starving artist or something? Too late, you’re already amazingly
successful for a kid your age.”
“I’m not a kid, I’m twenty-six. And no, I - ”
“Are you getting enough to eat? Or are you burning the candle at both ends? Why
- ”
“Brian - ”
“Why are you so thin?” He’s not letting go of me and I can tell that he’s
serious. I was afraid I’d have to tell him but I was really hoping to avoid it.
“What?” he demands, as usual he reads my body language and he can tell I’m
holding back. “Tell me.”
“Brian, it’s nothing, honestly. I’m fine now and I’m eating a lot, I’ve gained a
couple pounds already. I - ”
“Gained a couple pounds?” he repeats incredulously. “You mean you were thinner
than this?”
“Don’t – Brian, don’t nag me, okay? I was just. . .worried about something, for
a while. But I’m not worried any more, I’m eating normally, and I’m fine. I only
lost seven or eight pounds and like I said, already I’m putting the weight back
on. So, can we - ”
“Eight pounds? Eight fucking pounds? Christ!”
“Brian - ”
“What were you ‘worried’ about that made you stop eating? Nothing ever made you
stop eating before.”
That’s not strictly true. I remember when I was cheating on Brian with Ethan,
I’d lost my appetite for a while. This is different though. And damn, I was
hoping he wouldn’t even notice, but of course he would, Brian notices
everything.
“Can we talk about this tonight?” I beseech him. “I can’t be late for my
meeting, and I need to grab a shower and - ”
“And breakfast, you need to eat something this morning. You have time for
breakfast, in fact I’ll call room service while you’re in the shower, then we’ll
have time to talk before you have to leave.”
“Okay.” I give in. “Café au lait, please, toast and bacon. Or ham. That’s jambon
in French.”
“I can handle ordering breakfast, monsieur skinny-ass,” Brian snipes.
I feel him watching me closely as I grab my robe and head off to the bathroom. I
keep my shoulders straight as I leave the room, but the minute the door is
closed behind me, I feel myself drooping. I really, really did not want to talk
about this with Brian.
Brian
Naturally when Justin met me at the airport, I’d noticed right away that he
seemed thinner. But we’d barely even talked on the taxi ride into town, we were
jammed close together, hands clasped tight, enjoying the proximity. Enormous
willpower was required to prevent us from ripping off our clothes and fucking
right there in the backseat of the cab, and that’s exactly what we did the
moment the hotel door was closed and locked. Then we’d slept for a while, woke
up and fucked again. We’d skipped dinner – I don’t even know what time we
arrived last night at the Hotel Magritte, where Justin reserved a room for us
during this visit.
He lives in a studio suite on the top floor of an ancient building on the Left
Bank, where he shares space with two other artists. I’d seen the studio and met
the artists the last time I visited, nearly eight months ago. Each man has a
tiny cubicle with a bed and wardrobe, they share a hideously small and dark
bathroom, and the rest of the space is devoted to one large studio. The other
artists are Claude, a sculptor, and Frank, another painter. Justin mentions them
occasionally in e-mail but since they are both straight and both eminently
unfuckable, I haven’t given them much thought.
Now I wonder if something’s gone wrong with Justin’s living-and-working
arrangements. I know that the place is expensive – everything in Paris is
expensive – and I believe that it eats up most of Justin’s Longchamps Fellowship
grant. I also know that Justin’s adamant about not touching what’s left of his
earnings from the three-year-run of his and Michael’s RAGE comic, invested on
Ted’s recommendation in a modest stock portfolio. So now I’m guessing that
perhaps Justin is running short of cash and maybe skimping on the groceries to
compensate.
No point in guessing, I’ll get the truth out of him over breakfast, which I
order from room service, parlaying my rusty college French into what I hope
turns out to be an American-style meal of bacon, eggs and toast. And coffee,
Christ, I need a cup of coffee to get my eyes open and sharpen my wits. It used
to be easy to finesse the dear boy, but time and distance have lessened that
ability.
Time and distance used to be under my control of course. This is no longer the
case, in fact, that has not been the case for most of the past four years.
Justin emerges from the bathroom all pink and glowing just as a knock on the
door announces our room-service delivery.
Justin
Brian toys with the food on his plate while gulping down hot coffee sweetened
with enough sugar to put most people into a coma, and I concentrate on forking
huge mounds of eggs-and-bacon into my mouth, in an effort to convince Brian that
I’m intent on regaining some weight. In truth he still expects me to have my old
teenaged metabolism and he won’t believe that that changed a long time ago.
Brian often chooses to remember the past instead of dealing with the present.
Just like he continues to believe that I need a keeper, someone looking out for
me. That’s a role he filled for a long time. And of course he would vehemently
deny being a manipulator, since he’s loudly and ostentatiously been pushing me
to be independent since the very first night I met him. But behind the scenes,
Brian has always maneuvered to make life easier for me, even after the times I
walked out on him. Sometimes he’s even stupidly taken himself out of the
picture, thinking he was doing what was “best” for me. The lummox.
Brian tries to take care of everyone he loves, and it’s always dangerously
tempting to give in to him. He’s so damned good at it.
“Okay,” he says now, setting down his empty coffee cup, standing up and pacing
over to the window. Folding his arms on his chest, he lowers his head and gives
me his quirked-eyebrow stare. “Tell me whatever the fuck it was that got you so
wound up, you became anorexic.”
Swallowing the last bite of egg and wiping my mouth with the napkin, I stare
back at him. “Don’t exaggerate, Brian, I wasn’t anorexic, I just lost a couple
pounds. I’ve been working really hard and sometimes I forget to eat. It’s an
occupational hazard with artists.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re not crapping out on me. You already said
you’ve been worried about something, so you’re not going to fob me off with that
artistic-temperament routine.”
With a sigh, I nod and say, “Yeah, okay, but Brian? Let’s wait till tomorrow,
till we finish up our respective business shit and get away from the city. We’ll
have more time to talk and relax and - ”
Surprisingly, he immediately caves. “All right,” he agrees, “It’ll keep. You
don’t need to be all hot and bothered right before you see your agent, so I’ll
wait till tomorrow for the third-degree.”
There he goes again, deciding what’s best for me. He doesn’t even know he’s
doing it. But this time it works in my favor, I’m relieved and I push back my
plate and stand up. “Going to brush my teeth, then I’ve got to run. The Metro
station’s a couple blocks from here.”
“Take a fucking taxi,” Brian exclaims impatiently.
“The Metro’s faster,” I contradict him, moving quickly into the bathroom and
rummaging in my toilet kit for a toothbrush. He lounges in the doorway watching
me brush my teeth.
“Were you always this contrary?” he wonders aloud. It’s rhetorical so I don’t
answer, just give him a big foamy smile before rinsing my mouth and moving past
him to the closet, grabbing my jacket and pulling it on. He comes to the door
with me and allows me to slip my arms around his neck, pull down his head for a
kiss.
“I’ve missed your mouth,” I whisper, as always I’m immediately shaken with
desire for this man and his perfectly beautiful body. I’ve missed sketching him
too, but he doesn’t even have to be in the same room for that, I can recall
every line, every gesture, every inch of him, whether he’s holding me in his
arms or whether he’s thousands of miles away.
“You and your cock can get reacquainted with my mouth tonight.” Brian releases
me and steps back. “We’re meeting for dinner?”
“Yes, I’ll be here by six at the latest. You won’t want to eat that early, but
we can take a walk by the Seine, or – did you ever go up in the Eiffel Tower
after dark? The view is amazing, and wonderfully ro- ” I stop abruptly, which
makes Brian frown.
“I’m not as anti-romantic as I used to be,” he positively growls.
“I know, I’m sorry,” I apologize. Standing on tiptoe, I plant another, briefer
kiss on his lips and pull open the door. “Good luck with your client,” I throw
over my shoulder and then I’m running down the stairs, leaving Brian standing in
the open doorway behind me, watching me go.
Brian
I watch him go and a dozen conflicting thoughts crowd into my brain. I’ve
watched him leave me so many times, and some of those times I thought I’d never
see him again. Some of those times I thought I didn’t want to see him again. By
now of course I know that never seeing him again would probably kill me.
Christ, I shake my head, laughing at myself, I really have become a romantic
sap. Nobody dies from a broken heart, but I’ve learned that sometimes you wish
you could. It’s funny that Justin is the one who showed me that I do have a
heart after all, and Justin is the one who’s come close to ripping it out of my
chest, three or four times now.
As I shut the door and move into the bathroom to take a shower, I switch gears
and mentally rehearse the proposal I’m making to Louis Maupin. His company has
been a client for two years and he’s considering expanding his products into the
Southeast Asian marketplace. I need to convince him that Kinnetik can handle
that market as prosperously as we’ve done in the west.
Justin
We’re traveling by high-speed TGV train from Montparnasse station to the city of
Rennes, a two-hour journey, and I’ve arranged to pick up a rental car there for
the short drive to St. Malo. Our B&B is on the outskirts of town and promises
access to a private nude beach. The place accepts only gay male guests, so it
should be a relaxing getaway. And I made sure that there are a couple gay bars
in the area, in case Brian gets itchy to go cruising.
I doubt that he will, and though I wouldn’t dare suggest he’s too old for that
now, I suspect that he’s experienced some rejection from the younger crowd at
times, despite his undeniably gorgeous sexiness. For sure he would not want me
to witness that happening to him here. It doesn’t make me complacent, but I
can’t deny that I’m glad to know that Brian will likely be sticking close to my
side during this visit.
Dinner last night was relaxing; Brian did not renew his attempts to get me to
spill the beans about my weight loss, biding his time for St. Malo. We did take
a long walk along the Seine and through parts of the right bank, pausing at the
Place d’Alma to remember Princess Diana who died there in the tunnel beneath the
Seine. Then we walked across the Pont de l’Alma and strolled over to the Eiffel
Tower.
It’s great to go at night when there are no crowds, no long lines snaking around
the base of the tower; you can just walk right into an elevator and be whisked
to the second level for magnificent views out over the illuminated city. There
was a cool breeze gently ruffling our hair, and Brian didn’t resist when I
slipped my hand into his. We walked the perimeter of that platform and then
stopped to gaze out across the river toward Trocadero, watching the illuminated
fountains of the Palais de Chaillot. Brian slipped his arm around my shoulders
and he kissed me in the moonlight. I couldn’t resist a big sigh at the romance
of it all.
Then of course we returned to the hotel and fucked for hours.
This morning I made sure to eat a big breakfast again, the best way I know how
to prove that appetite is no longer a problem for me. While that’s not exactly
true, I find that with Brian here beside me, eating is not such a chore.
It’s lucky that I made reservations for the weekend, all of France goes on
vacation in August. The train ride is scenic but uneventful, we pick up our
rental car and I give in when Brian insists on driving. Any car that Brian’s in
is an extension of his cock, and he insists on being in control of it, even if
he doesn’t know where he’s going. When I point this out to him, he counters with
the excuse that someone who does know where he’s going should be the designated
map reader and watcher-for-signs. As so often with Brian, it’s easier to
acquiesce to his demands, and anyway, he does have a point.
We arrive at our B&B without mishap and I can tell that Brian’s pleased with my
choice. We have a tiny bungalow to ourselves, which opens onto a large patio
surrounding a pool, glints of late-morning sun dancing on the surface of the
bright blue water. As soon as we’re settled in our room, Brian suggests having a
swim.
Since this B&B is “clothing optional,” we don’t bother with bathing suits, just
don the white terrycloth robes provided and walk out to the pool, nodding hello
to the only other person present, an older man lounging on one of the chaises
scattered pool-side. We drop our robes on a chaise and jump into the pool. Brian
literally jumps in, diving into the deep end; I’m more cautious, sitting on the
edge and dangling my feet before sliding into the water.
Brian’s head breaks the surface and he laughs right out loud, and I laugh with
him. The water’s cool but not cold, and it feels wonderfully refreshing to swim
nude in the warm summer sunshine. We meet in the center of the pool, Brian pulls
me into his arms, and we kiss. Then we laugh again, and Brian says, “This was a
great idea, I’m impressed. How’d you find out about this place?”
“There’s a gay grapevine in Paris, just like in Pittsburgh. One of my friends at
the Blue Parrot suggested this place, he and his lover stayed here last summer.”
“You’re still hanging out at that bar? It’s such a tacky place.”
“It is not!” I deny adamantly, splashing water on Brian’s face. I took him to
the Parrot the last time he visited Paris and I remember that he’d curled his
lip at the place. It’s a modest bar with two pool tables and an outdoor patio
under a meager grape arbor, but I feel comfortable there, in fact it reminds me
of Woody’s.
Brian doesn’t splash me back but he does suggest, “There’s got to be a lot of
bars in Paris much cooler than the Parrot. I didn’t see a single guy there that
I wanted to fuck.”
“Tricking’s not why I go there,” I remind him. “I’m not a sexoholic like you,
remember?”
“Ah yes,” Brian sighs, “My little protégé is such a disappointment.”
I shake my head and smile. “Come on, you’re glad I’m not. Otherwise you’d be
hiring detectives to follow me around, making sure I’m not getting into
trouble.”
He doesn’t laugh. “You’re a grown man now, you’ve been on your own for years. I
don’t keep tabs on you.”
Before I can pretend to agree with him, Brian snorts. “Although it seems like
maybe I should have been keeping tabs on you this year, God knows what kind of
trouble you’ve gotten into in Paris. I won’t wait much longer for you to tell me
what’s caused you to get so thin. And you’re pale as a ghost too, now that I see
you in daylight.” He flicks water on my shoulders and he’s frowning.
“I’m always pale – I never tan, you know that. Besides, I’m not lounging around
on the beach, I’m working in my studio, sometimes eighteen hours a day.” He
opens his mouth to say something else but I cut him off. “And before you nag me
about THAT, let me remind you that I know you still routinely spend as much time
as that at Kinnetik, Cynthia and Ted have told me so.”
“Blabbermouths.” Brian turns then and swims away from me. I retreat to the edge
of the pool, treading water and watching him swim laps for a while. Eventually I
climb out of the pool and choose a chaise in the shade of a large umbrella. I
lie down and close my eyes and before I know it, I’ve fallen asleep.
Before long I’m awakened by Brian sitting down on the chaise next to my legs, I
open my eyes to see him staring at me. We say nothing for a moment, then he
breaks the tension by shaking his head, sprinkling me with cool drops of water
from his dripping wet hair. “Hey,” he murmurs, “I missed you.”
“Just today? Or - ”
“Today. Yesterday. Every fucking day. Justin,” he asks seriously, “Are you ever
coming home? Or is Pittsburgh not your home any more?”
Wow, I was not expecting such a question from Brian. If anything he’s the one
always pushing me away, encouraging me to go to New York, then encouraging me to
stay there when homesickness nearly drove me to give up my commission at the
MoMA. It was Brian who encouraged me to accept the Longchamps Fellowship for a
year’s work-study in Paris. I just stare back at him now, flabbergasted.
“I didn’t mean to say that,” he notes ruefully. “I’m not sure what came over me.
Hey,” he jokes, “It must be the sight of your naked little body after such a
long absence. Guess I get off on skinny blond supermodels now.” He fakes a laugh
and makes as if to get up but I snake out my hand and grab onto his arm.
“Brian,” I say seriously, “Pittsburgh will always be my home. Or, what I mean
is, wherever YOU are, that will always be my real home. Paris is temporary.
Anywhere else is temporary.”
“I wasn’t angling for a commitment,” he says tersely, flaring his nostrils. Then
he adds, “It was just a, just a something.” He tries to joke again: “I must’ve
misplaced my self-censor for a moment.”
“I wish you’d lose your self-censor permanently,” is my serious reply. “You can
always say what you mean to me. Brian - I know that I’ve let you down in the
past, but I hope that by now you’ve learned to trust me again?”
He just looks at me for a moment without answering, then he says, “Why don’t we
take a drive before dinner? See the coastline, maybe walk around this old city
your tourist brochure described. We can find a nice place to eat.”
“Okay,” I give in, reaching a hand to him so he can pull me to my feet. We grab
our robes and make our way back to our little bungalow to get dressed.
Brian
I can’t believe the I’ve practically admitted right out loud that I want him to
come home. I swore to myself I would never ask. I swore to myself that I’d let
him go. It’s insane, patently insane, for Justin to consider moving back to
Pittsburgh now. At his age, with his talent, the world should be his oyster.
Somehow I have to convince him of that fact, somehow I have to erase the thought
I planted in his little brain just now that his old (fucking old for real) lover
is pining away, waiting for his return. The idea that he might feel obligated to
me is anathema. I literally cannot bear the thought that Justin might feel
honor-bound to return to Pittsburgh to take up the reins of the old life we
shared, only because I am missing him.
For the moment I let it go; it’s more important to get Justin to relax again,
get him in the right frame of mind so he’ll talk to me about whatever the fuck
has been going on to get him upset enough to forego eating. Despite everything
he’s been through, appetite has never been an issue with him. And now I’ve about
reached the limits of my patience, we’re going to have that serious talk
tonight.
The pleasant drive along the Brittany coastline in the fading daylight is
relaxing. We stopped for a few minutes near a beachhead where we watched the
tide roll in, long gentle waves breaking on the white-sand beach, and I think it
helped both of us to take some deep breaths, to let go of a lot of tension. We
found a public parking lot in St. Malo and walked around the old town for an
hour or so, and following a recommendation from the owner of our B&B, we’ve
found a delightful small bistro at the edge of a tree-flanked square. We’re
seated at a table on the sidewalk, sipping dry white wine and nibbling crepes
filled with lobster in a rich, creamy sauce. I’ll forego thoughts of calories
tonight, it’s more important to encourage Justin to pig out on the delicious
food and enjoy our al fresco meal in the moonlight.
At last sated and tranquil, we saunter from the bistro past the trees and
through the town square, in a few minutes we find ourselves at a sort of
ramparts, a low wall overlooking a beach far below, phosphorescence sparkling on
the ocean, twinkling like a reflection of the starry sky above. It’s serene
here, removed from the bustle of the town, the light muted but not completely
dark, and we sit down side by side on the wall looking out at the sea. After a
moment I close the distance between us, slide my arm around Justin’s waist and
pull him till he’s leaning against my chest. I can tell that he’s relaxed and I
indulge myself with a sniff of his sweet-smelling hair and a small kiss on his
forehead, then I murmur, “Now. Tell me everything.”
“Okay,” he sighs, “I will.”
First he takes a deep breath and exhales a long sigh. “I didn’t want to tell
you, for lots of reasons.” When I nod, still keeping my chin resting on his
head, Justin sighs again. “Partly it’s about. . .Ethan.”
Despite my best intentions, I feel my shoulders begin to tense up. “No,” Justin
twists sideways to peer at my face. “It’s nothing like that. Brian, he’s – he’s
sick. He’s probably dying.”
“I’m – sorry,” I manage to choke. I don’t want to ask how he knows this.
“He wrote to me,” Justin answers my unspoken question. “He contacted my mother,
and she told him how to reach me.”
Jennifer. I thought we’d come a long way, Jennifer and I. I thought she approved
of me now. But –
“He told her, Brian. Told her he was sick. Otherwise I don’t think she would
have told him anything.”
That might be true. But probably I’ll never know for sure.
There’s a long pause and of course I have to ask, but I don’t want to. Finally I
cough to clear my throat. “Is it – AIDS?”
I feel him nod before he murmurs, “Yes. He’s got a strain that’s resistant to
the meds. He’s living in some hospice in Switzerland. He – Ethan said that he’s
not going to last much longer.”
Involuntarily I shiver. I realize that I’m too afraid to ask any more questions.
I am, in fact, frozen to this rock wall perched high above the ocean. For a
brief moment I feel dizzy, and I’m afraid that I’m going to fall over the edge
of the cliff, fall to my death on the sharp rocks below. Maybe I want to. Maybe
I’ll want to, if Justin. . .if Justin. . . .
Justin
Of course I should have known that telling Brian about Ethan having AIDS would
make him think I was worried for myself. That I was worried about my own health.
And if I am totally honest, I could admit that that’s exactly what I wanted him
to think. Because then maybe I could avoid telling Brian the real reason I’ve
been upset all these months.
Immediately I recognize what a chicken-shit thing that is to do to him, so I
grab onto his arms, stare intently at his face, and insist, “I’m okay. I promise
you, Brian, I am okay. I’ve had all the tests, and everything is fine. It’s been
so long, it’s been years now. It’s so long ago that the doctors assure me it’s
extremely unlikely that anything’s – um, lurking, or whatever they call it.”
“Dormant.”
“Yeah.”
When Brian just stares back at me wordlessly, I know exactly what he’s thinking.
“We didn’t,” I say brusquely, answering his un-askable question. “We didn’t
bareback. But the condom broke. A couple times.”
“Christ. That fucker.”
“No, Brian, that’s not fair. That happened to you and me a few times too,
remember? It does happen sometimes, to everybody. Nothing’s a hundred percent
safe.”
He waits, taking a few deep breaths. I can tell that he’s relieved – relieved to
know that I’m safe. That I’m probably safe. But he’s angry, and I know he is
angry at Ethan. Angry for possibly putting me at risk, but especially just plain
angry at Ethan for fucking me.
Brian never seemed to mind all the times he and I shared tricks, all the hot and
nasty and sometimes crazy things we did together. But despite all his
protestations, I’ve always understood that Brian cannot bear the thought of
Ethan making love to me. It’s not very logical, and he’d deny it with his last
breath; but I know this man.
“If he wasn’t already dying,” Brian says tonelessly now, looking out over the
sea toward the horizon, “I’d kill him.”
Tightening my hands on Brian’s arms, I shake him gently, bring him back to where
we’re perched on our rock wall. “It’s about ninety-nine percent sure that he got
it, that Ethan got HIV, after we broke up. He said he still felt like he needed
to tell me, just in case. It was an honorable thing to do, don’t you think?”
Brian doesn’t answer, just keeps staring out over the ocean. Finally he turns
his head and looks at me. “So,” he says, then clears his throat and repeats,
“So, this is what you’ve been worrying about? This is why you couldn’t eat? And
why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”
“I needed to be sure I was okay first. And I wanted to tell you in person. This
isn’t something we could have done over the phone. We were too far away.”
“Okay,” he gives it up. He’s not happy about being kept in the dark, but I know
he understands my point of view. “So,” he repeats, “This is why you’ve not been
eating, why you’ve lost so much weight?”
I take a very slow deep breath and murmur, “Uh, yeah.” Honesty forces me to add,
“More or less.” Then quickly I go on, “I was upset about it for a while, of
course – I mean, I’m still upset naturally, for Ethan’s sake. Despite the way we
ended, I still care about him, as another human being.”
We’re silent for a moment, then it occurs to Brian to ask, “You said, ‘more or
less.’ You said, ‘more or less,’ the Ethan thing is what you’ve been worried
about.”
I nod. “Yeah.”
“So,” he pushes on, “So, which is it – more, or less? Justin, is there something
else you’re worried about?”
I shift my shoulders slightly but say nothing.
“Justin? Is there something. . .more?”
“I don’t really know if there’s more,” I murmur at last, my voice barely audible
even to myself. Brian leans his head forward, straining his ears to hear me
whisper, “I’m not the only one who’s been keeping secrets.”
“What do you mean?” He pulls a few inches away, slides back a bit on the wall.
“I’ve been kind of, sort of, upset about you, Brian.”
“The cancer is fine.” I’m sure he deliberately misunderstands me.
“Yes,” I agree, “You shared the results of your last check-up with me a while
ago. I know, and I’m relieved that everything’s okay. But it wasn’t that.”
He’s not going to help me.
Sliding another few inches away and tilting back his head, Brian looks down his
nose at me. And waits.
I lean forward and squint my eyes in the near-darkness. I desperately need to
see his face as finally I have the guts to tell him, “Brian, I know about. .
.Max.”
11/3/05 Rev. 11/18/05