WHEN IT SIZZLES
Part 2 - February 2008
Brian
I’ve been to San Francisco a few times on business and naturally I always make
time to drop into one or two bars in the Castro to check out the local talent.
This trip is brief however, just a midweek overnighter to make an initial
proposal on spec, so there’s not much time for tricking.
A glance through the Damron guide sent me first to the Midnight Sun, a bar
supposedly renowned for its cruisability. I’d done a quick glance around the
place and discovered that the clientele – at least those out on a Thursday night
– are cookie-cutter boys: attractive but disappointingly mundane, all twenty-somethings
in snug tee-shirts and skin-tight jeans. Without even stopping long enough to
order a drink, I’m back outside, checking out other establishments along the
street for something a little different.
Stopping to light a cigarette, I catch the eye of a likely prospect walking back
the way I came. Turning as he passes, I watch as he enters the same bar I’ve
just exited. He pauses in the doorway to look back at me and though he makes no
gesture, I know that he’s interested. He’s dressed a bit more imaginatively than
the guys I saw inside, a long gray cashmere coat unbuttoned over a red v-neck
sweater and gray slacks, nicely fitted but not so tight as to advertise the size
of his cock.
In my quest for a nice tight ass or talented willing mouth, I’m not sure why I
give a fuck what a man is wearing; but I refuse to waste time questioning why
I’ve apparently grown tired of look-alike clones. Surely I’m not tired of
tricking, that can never get old. It’s my life’s work, alongside creating a
successful business and completing the purchase of my building. The sale of the
house in West Virginia provided funds to buy the second and third floors. It’s
only a matter of time till the ground-floor tenant gives in to my determination
to purchase his apartment.
Flicking away thoughts of home along with my half-finished cigarette, I
leisurely follow the red-sweatered man, heading back into the Midnight Sun.
Unsurprisingly, he’s posted himself just inside the door, leaning against the
end of the bar, watching the entrance. When I walk toward him, he nods his head
and gives me a lopsided smile. He’s a looker, absolutely in my league. Tall,
nearly as tall as me, with shaggy black hair falling over his forehead, red lips
and a square jaw, smooth-shaven but darkly shadowed. It’s not easy to judge his
age, he’s probably late-twenties or early thirties, looking fit but not
over-muscled; not a gym-bunny, thank god, that’s another clone affectation that
bores me.
”Hey,” I address him casually, not returning his smile but showing interest with
my eyes.
“Buy you a drink?” he asks, straightening up at my approach, and though normally
I’d shake my head no and drag him off to the backroom, I find myself nodding my
head yes and moving closer to stand next to him at the bar.
“JB,” I say, and when he turns to get the bartender’s attention, I have a moment
to study him more closely. Proximity does not detract from his good looks; his
profile is masculine but with smooth eyebrows and long thick eyelashes that
soften his features. He turns to catch me checking him out and he chuffs a brief
laugh, seeming almost self-conscious. Which is ridiculous, of course he must
know how attractive he is.
“I haven’t seen you here before,” is his opening gambit. “New in town?”
“Business trip,” I acknowledge, immediately regretting the acceptance of a
drink. I’m just looking for a quick fuck, I’m not here to socialize with the
locals.
“Let’s sit, shall we?” he raises eyebrows at me, gesturing toward a table that’s
become empty. I pause for a moment, then shrug and give in. It’s early evening,
I guess I can spare a few minutes for some pre-fuck niceties. The man grabs our
glasses just delivered by the bartender and precedes me to the table; we sit
down in adjacent captain’s chairs, raise our glasses and clink them together
briefly before taking a drink.
“I’m Max D’Antoni,” he introduces himself, and almost begrudgingly I accept the
hand he’s extended, shake it and reply, “Brian Kinney.”
“Where are you from, Brian?”
I hesitate, almost saying, “Fuck this, I’m just looking for a little action in
the backroom; lead the way.” But I don’t say it. Instead I realize that I’m
relaxing back in the chair, stretching out my legs and unbuttoning my top coat.
“I’m from Pittsburgh,” I hear myself answer. I’m downright fucking chatting with
my erstwhile trick. “You from Frisco?”
“Oh man,” Max rolls his eyes, “Don’t dare call it Frisco, you’ll be drawn and
quartered by the natives, they consider that an insult. And no, I’m not from The
City originally, hardly anybody in California was actually born here. I moved
from Denver a year ago when I got a job offer I couldn’t refuse.”
For some reason I want to hear about his job, so I nod my head at him to go on,
as if I’m actually interested.
“I’m an architect,” Max tells me, leaning forward in his chair. Elbows planted
on the table, he says with a disarming grin, “Actually, I’m kind of an
entry-level architect right now, I’ve just got my foot inside the door, but I’m
working my way up. I’m at Massey & Massey,” he proclaims enthusiastically,
“They’re the premiere architectural firm in San Francisco!”
What I want to do is curl my lip in derision at his eagerness. The only
enthusiasm I’ve ever been able to tolerate used to come from a young blond
artist formerly of Pittsburgh and now residing in the City of Light.
Yet I don’t deride Max; instead I feel my face soften and I realize that I’m
smiling back at him. “That’s great,” I say, surprising myself with the sound of
sincerity in my voice. Where did I misplace my usual cynicism?
“We’re moving into new offices soon, on the top floors of the Samson Towers
downtown,” Max goes on, “Do you know the building? It’s a landmark in San
Francisco. I helped with preliminary plans for expanding the office, and Massey
Junior actually singled me out for praise today. He said - ” Max glances at me
and his voice stutters to a stop. “I’m sorry,” he says quickly; his face is red,
can he really be blushing? “This is boring – you can’t possibly be interested.”
“No, it’s not boring,” I contradict, wondering why I’m perjuring myself. I
really was getting bored and apparently I was letting it show on my face. Justin
always used to chastise me for what he called facial fascism, the way I can
intimidate and silence long-winded assholes with a single withering glance.
But Max is not an asshole, he’s just a guy who’s excited about his job. And I’m
being a dick.
“I’ve never heard of Samson Towers, why is it a landmark?” I ask, raising my
glass for another sip of bourbon and looking over the rim at Max.
“We don’t have to talk about it,” he shakes his head; crossing his arms over his
chest. His body language tells me that he got my message of ennui loud and
clear; so maybe he thinks I’m just humoring him now. I open my mouth to speak
but he hurries on, “I should have realized that you were just out cruising
tonight. Well,” he admits then, shrugging his shoulders, “That’s what I was
doing myself. I don’t know why I was acting like, like - ”
“Like we were friends?” I suggest.
Max just shrugs again and finishes his drink. “There’s a backroom here,” he
tells me, “If you’re still interested.” He’s acting blasé but I can tell that
he’s embarrassed.
The backroom is exactly what I had in mind, but instead of gesturing for Max to
lead the way, I set down my own glass and shake my head. “How about we go back
to my place? My hotel, I mean. I’m staying at the Crowne Plaza.”
Hesitating only a moment, Max then nods and stands up. “Union Square? The
streetcar goes directly to Powell, it’s just a couple blocks walk from there.”
“Yes, but let’s take a taxi, if we can find one.”
Max nods again and leads the way out of the bar and we make our way in silence
around the corner onto Castro Street, whre we wait for a cab to appear. In a few
minutes one comes along and I gesture for Max to precede me into the taxi and
give directions to the driver. We still don’t speak when we reach the hotel.
After we enter the empty elevator and the doors close, I turn toward Max, reach
out my hand and squeeze his shoulder. “I’m glad you came back with me,” I say,
and I’m rewarded when I feel his shoulders relax and he gives me his lopsided
smile.
“Me too,” he agrees.
```````
I’m surprised when I wake up in the
morning to discover that last night’s trick is still asleep in my bed. What’s
even more surprising is that I remember his name. I lie there staring at his
profile for a moment, thinking about last night’s really great fuck. Suddenly he
opens his eyes and stares back at me; we both jump slightly.
“Brian,” he says, then he smiles slowly. He must also be remembering our fuck.
“Good morning.”
“Hmm.”
I don’t want to face a morning goodbye scene; that’s the main reason I never let
guys sleep over. So briskly I turn away and climb out of bed, heading for the
bathroom. After pissing, I turn on the shower full blast and climb in. I’m
hoping the guy (okay Max, so I remember his name, that means nothing), I’m
hoping that Max will get dressed and leave before I come out of the bathroom.
Yet I’m not really surprised when I hear the bathroom door open and I’m aware
that Max is standing outside the billowing white shower curtain. If I ignore
him, maybe he’ll get the message and disappear.
“Knock-knock,” he says. Christ, I hate when people say “knock-knock.”
Jerking open the shower curtain, I prepare to give Max another one of my
famously evil fuck-off glances. This time I’ll let him get the message.
But when I see him standing there, beautifully naked, one hand casually resting
on his cock and the other trying to smooth down a case of crazy bed-head that
rivals my own, I lose my desire to unceremoniously kick him out the door. “Come
in,” I offer. Inwardly scolding myself for prolonging the inevitable kiss-off,
outwardly I welcome Max into the tub, and a tiny eager gasp escapes my lips as
he drops to his knees on the slippery porcelain and takes my already tumescent
cock into his really very talented mouth.
After Max’s superlative shower blow-job, it seems churlish not to invite him to
stay for breakfast, which we order from hotel room-service. With only minor
encouragement, Max tells me more about his job. He says that it’s fantastic to
work in a city where being gay is practically an advantage, and the specter of
discrimination isn’t constantly hanging over your head. I find myself telling
him some of my own experiences with Marty Ryder and Gardner Vance.
Before I know it we’re laughing together, and I even let him borrow my razor so
he can shave before getting dressed and heading off to work. He says that today
is “business casual” Friday, so he doesn’t need to rush home and change into a
suit, he can wear the clothes he had on last night. I hold the cashmere coat as
he slips his arms into the sleeves and I get a look at the label – Armani, no
wonder I like it. Max must make a good salary to afford designer labels at his
age.
He’s twenty-nine. “And holding,” he’d adds with a grin when he tells me his age.
“I held onto twenty-nine for a while myself,” I admit, and we laugh together. I
never discuss my age with anyone, so I’m surprised when I admit to Max that I’m
thirty-eight.
“Perfect age for a man,” he insists, grabbing hold of my hands and squeezing
them as he leans forward to plant a small kiss on my lips before going out the
door. “Young enough to still be gorgeous, but old enough to be past the age of
heartbreak.”
I feel my smile falter but I nod agreeably. We say goodbye, and I watch as Max
moves down the hall and gets into the elevator. He waves just before the doors
close, and without thinking, I raise my hand and wave back at him.
Feeling foolish and already regretting whatever impulse caused me to indulge in
what could only be called an uncharacteristically sentimental one-night stand
with a beautiful and downright fucking nice man, I close the door of my room and
grab my suitcase, throw it onto the bed and begin to pack.
In a way I’m surprised that Max didn’t ask me to call him next time I’m in town.
I had mentally braced myself for the inevitable discomfort when I would, of
course, have refused. He didn’t ask, but it soon becomes clear that he didn’t
let me off the hook so easily. I discover that at some point, Max had scribbled
his name and phone number on a hotel envelope and he’d folded it and shoved it
into the pocket of my top coat hanging in the closet.
For a moment I stand with the paper in my hands, staring at it. Swallowing an
unaccountable lump in my throat, I murmur, “No.” More loudly I insist to myself,
“No!” Then I crumple the paper and throw it into the wastebasket, before
hurriedly finishing packing, shrugging on my coat, and heading out the door to
catch the morning flight to Pittsburgh.
```````
A week later I’m back in San
Francisco. The client I propositioned on spec, Marshall’s Culinary Supplies, is
enthusiastic and insists on paying my airfare, first class, to return to the
city and discuss my campaign ideas with VP Jim Cassidy. I arrive early Wednesday
morning, and while I’m waiting in the reception area for my appointment, I stand
staring at a map of San Francisco’s financial district mounted on the wall.
Without any effort whatsoever, I locate Samson Towers, apparently just a stone’s
throw from here. Immediately I flick my eyes away from the map and glance around
the room for something to distract me. Luckily the receptionist calls my name
and leads me down the hall to Cassidy’s office.
I’m finished by eleven, a tentative agreement drawn up and another meeting,
lunch with Marshall’s top brass, scheduled for the next day at noon. So I’m left
to cool my heels in San Francisco for the rest of the day. When I exit the
building, I make a sharp left turn to ensure that I’m heading off in the
opposite direction from Samson Towers. Briskly walking through the financial
district, the streets mostly in shadow from soaring skyscrapers on every corner,
eventually I find my way to the waterfront, and I follow the sidewalk that
passes the piers until I reach Pier 39, a touristy conglomeration of shops and
restaurants.
I’m hungry and I succumb to the enticing smell of seafood, climbing steep wooden
stairs to a second floor and treating myself to a decent crab sandwich in one of
the nicer restaurants, where I’m seated at an outdoor table under an umbrella
with a view over San Francisco Bay. When I’m finished, I go back downstairs and
walk out to the end of the pier, lean against the railing and watch sailboats
ply the waters between the wharf and Alcatraz Prison on an island in the Bay.
With a deep sigh I congratulate myself on the willpower that prevented me from
seeking out Samson Towers to search for a particularly handsome architect.
So it’s with surprise akin to shock that I realize I have pulled out my cell
phone and flipped it open. Staring at it for only a few seconds, I shake my head
in disbelief as I punch in the phone number that was scribbled on an envelope at
the Crowne Plaza hotel last Friday by that same architect. I threw the envelope
away. I have no idea how I remembered his phone number. No idea at all.
Max comes directly from his office to my hotel room, he’s wearing a beautiful
charcoal gray Prada suit which I barely acknowledge before I’ve stripped it off
him. His cock is hard before I’ve even removed his shirt, his hands are shaking
with eagerness as he fumbles with my belt, with the buttons on my shirt. It’s
fucking exciting as hell to realize that he’s even more eager than I am myself
for this second time together.
This second and final time.
I’d halfway expected that the memorable fuck we’d shared last week might have
been created in my imagination during those odd moments the past week when I
recalled the time we spent together. But the truth is, there has never been a
man I’ve been so eager to fuck a second time since. . .
For a long time. For a very long time.
When Max asks me to extend my trip, to stay for the weekend, at first I refuse.
There’s business to take care of in Pittsburgh, I’ve been invited to dinner with
Debbie and Carl on Saturday, there’s a million things I should be doing at the
loft. But finally I give in to Max’s entreaties. He wants me to see his
apartment, he wants to show me some of the tourist sites of this beautiful city,
and eventually I realize that I do want to stay, I do want to spend more time
with him. Which naturally should send up all kinds of warning flares. And it
does, of course it does, but I ignore them.
The long weekend in San Francisco is a revelation. It seems like I have
forgotten what it’s like to just kick back and relax. To spend time talking with
someone and actually caring what they have to say. To really enjoy going out
dancing, just to have fun, not merely to get loaded and fuck my brains out.
The truth is, I didn’t realize until now how fucking lonely I’ve become. At
heart I am a solitary man. Or I was, before Justin came along and messed up my
well-ordered life. When he left for New York – with my blessing! and with my
encouragement, of course – somehow all the joy went out of living. It didn’t
help that Michael and I had finally grown apart, and that Lindsay moved away
with my son, but I could have weathered all that, if only I’d still had Justin.
He had become, completely and totally against my will, the center of the
universe.
I’m still an over-achiever, I’ll always be one. I still haunt Babylon, still
maintain my business and personal reputations as a killer, still walk around
with my head held high. And I still feel satisfaction at my own success. But
ultimately at the end of the day, my life seems empty, hollow. Meaningless.
I haven’t seen Justin for a couple months, and it’s possible that I will never
see him again. As his achievements take him farther and farther from Pittsburgh,
any hope I had that things would ever be the same again have gradually faded
away. He’s settled in Paris now, and though I visited him once at Christmas, the
trip was brief and it seemed to me that he was preoccupied, that maybe he was so
caught up in his new life that I was becoming merely an unwelcome distraction.
He didn’t say so, but then he wouldn’t, would he? In fact he has asked me to
visit him again this spring, but I’ve pleaded work deadlines and other
commitments.
I have made up my mind that it’s time to cut Justin loose, once and for all. For
his own good. It’s time to set him free to pursue his own course without any
backward glances. That isn’t so easy to do as it ought to be. I should know,
I’ve tried it several times already, and always circumstances (and Justin’s
single-minded determination) have brought us back together again.
But now I am convinced that this time around, Justin won’t make the effort; that
he is ready to become a solitary man himself. Either that, or embark on a
relationship with someone less complicated and difficult than myself. I don’t
believe that Justin is truly happy. I’ve never been a man given to
introspection, to self-analysis or, God forbid, self-pity. So it took awhile
before I became aware of how deeply, deeply unhappy I have become. And then I
realized that maybe Justin feels the same way, and he just can’t find the words
to tell me.
It actually took meeting Max, getting to know him, before I realized how much
has been missing in my life. Business trips bring me back again and again to
California. It’s just business. That’s what I tell myself. But the truth is, by
now I could delegate such work to Ted, to Cynthia, to others at Kinnetik. It’s
Max who draws me back to San Francisco.
My longtime mantra, “I don’t believe in love,” was turned into a lie a long time
ago. Even so, I’ve continued to mouth that sentiment and use it as a weapon to
keep other guys away. And it’s always worked. Almost always. Max is only the
second man in my life who has dared to call my bluff.
On the night Max says, “Brian, I love you,” we are stretched out on his bed
sharing a cigarette. Sex is good with him. Nothing has ever come close to the
amazing sex I’ve shared with Justin, but even so, it’s better with Max than
anyone else before or after that damned blond kid who fucked up my life forever.
It would be a lie to pretend that I’m surprised by Max’s revelation.
“I love you,” Max says, stubbing out the cigarette and turning sideways in the
bed to face me. Before I can speak, if indeed I can think of anything to say,
Max continues, “Now look me in the eye,” he commands, “And swear that you don’t
love me too.”
Immediately I answer, “I don’t love you,” but my eyes slide quickly away from
his face and I stare over his shoulder at the first rays of morning sunshine
peeking in the window beside his bed.
“The truth, Brian.”
I return my eyes to his face. “I don’t want to love you. And I won’t. That’s the
truth.”
Max sighs. Already he’s getting used to my pigheadedness. ‘Brian,” he says,
“Since we’ve been seeing each other so often now, I’ve just assumed that you are
not in another relationship already.” It’s a question but I don’t answer it,
just stare at him woodenly.
“Brian,” he tries again, “Are you in another relationship?”
“Not really. No. No, I’m not.”
“You don’t sound too sure.”
“I’m sure.”
Max nods. “Okay. You always refuse to talk about ‘the past,’ but I’ve assumed
that somewhere along the line, somebody broke your heart. And so maybe now
you’re afraid to fall in love again?”
“I’m not afraid of anything,” I contradict impatiently, turning to slide off the
bed and stand up. “And hearts don’t really break. I thought you were too old for
that fairytale bullshit?”
My sneer doesn’t faze him. “Tell me.”
I’m angry, I’m pissed, I’m prepared to storm out of Max’s apartment. But I
don’t. Instead I grab another cigarette and light up, take a few deep drags and
exhale machine-gun bursts of smoke. Then I sit down on the edge of the bed again
and face him.
“I did love somebody once,” I finally admit. “But even though it’s over, he has
a hold on me that nothing can break.” With a sigh at the melodrama of it all, I
add quietly, “I won’t ever love anyone again.”
“Don’t you want to love me, Brian?”
I look at Max’s face and I feel a wrenching deep in my chest. The simple answer
is yes – but the reality is more complicated. It has suddenly occurred to me
that you cannot love somebody just because maybe you want to. Just because maybe
they deserve to be loved. I look into his eyes and I know exactly how dishonest
I have been. I have been using Max to fill the void in my life, but I have
nothing to give him in return.
My famous line, “I don’t believe in love,” has become a joke, has become a lie.
I do believe in love. Yet I can never love anyone but Justin.
I don’t have the words to explain all this. Instead I repeat, “I won’t ever love
anyone again.”
Max stares at me without speaking for a moment. He swallows twice, and then he
whispers, “Won’t you give it some more time, Brian? Won’t you please just give
us a chance?”