For Sale

Chapter 1 - BRIAN

Now that I think back, it was two years ago that Justin left me for New York City.  Well, to be perfectly honest, he didn’t leave me, he left Pittsburgh, with my blessings and very strong encouragement.  

Neither of us regretted the decision although I had a feeling that my life would end the minute he walked out the door.  He’d promised that we’d see each other all the time, but at 22 years old I wasn’t sure that was a promise he could keep... or would want to.

Of course, single-minded twat that he was, and still is, he was not about to let me or us off the hook.  To be honest, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be let off the hook so easily.  

At first, I moped and avoided his phone calls and incessant e-mails.  Then, I allowed Michael to drag me to the shell of the has-been Babylon.  What a joke!  He wanted it to be rebuilt.

How could I possibly rebuild a club that people had died in, that my best friend nearly died in?  Well, Mikey wanted it.  It was a fight he could participate in and show that nothing would get, “This fag to back down and hide in my house, or worse, in a closet.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Michael?  You nearly died in this pit in the Pitts.  And you want it opened again.”

“What better way to tell the whole fucking world to shove their prejudices up their asses?  To rebuild -- bigger, better, hotter and louder.”

“Are you insane?”

“Make it the event of the season.  The biggest thing to ever happen to this shitty city.  Go all out with a campaign to match no other.”  He had paused to look at me and took my face in his hands and forced me to look directly at him.  “Make it something every gay person can look up to and look forward to with pride.”

I probably bit my lip and I’m certain I must have nodded because no sooner had I agreed when the very next day Ted had designers’, plumbers’ and electricians’ estimates splayed across my desk.

There was something else I really wanted across my desk, or rather someone, but he wasn’t around and no one else seemed to fit the bill so I threw myself into work and the recreation of a bigger, better Babylon.

Justin continued to stalk me.  At least I’d finally gotten it through my thick skull that once that little stalker starts his routine he never fucking stops.

I tried like hell to leave him alone.  I didn’t want him leaning on me as a crutch.  He was more than capable of being the best thing to hit New York in years and my intrusion would just stall the inevitable.

My determination held tough, as did my stalker’s, until one day about two weeks before Babylon reopened, which amounted to about two months after Justin had left for the big fucking apple.

Cynthia buzzed my office while I was pouring over some financial data regarding a new client and deciding how much to increase his new contract when he resigned with Kinnetik, as I new he would.

“Brian, you have a guest who would like to see you.”

“Cynthia, how much do I pay you?”

“Excuse me?”

“I pay you a great deal more than you deserve if you can’t figure out how to stave off an unwanted visitor when I explicitly told you I wanted no interruptions.”

“I think you’d better see this visitor.  She’s pretty damn feisty and I’d rather not tackle with her.”

“Her?”  I thought a minute.  “It’s not Deb, is it?  I can’t deal with her right now.”

“No, it’s not Deb.”  Cynthia laughed.

“Fine, send her in, but tell her she has two minutes of my precious time and then I have to go back to the work that actually brings in money to pay your salary.”

“Yes boss.”

“Fucking drop-ins.  What do they think, this is a free clinic where you can come off the street and just...”

“Brian Kinney, what the hell is wrong with you?”  There, standing at the entrance to my office with her hands on her hips looking at me with daggers shooting from her eyes was five foot nothing Daphne Chanders.

“Well now, isn’t this a pleasant surprise.”  I decided to pour on the sarcasm in the hopes that she’d get impatient with me quickly and then get the fuck out.

“It’s not a pleasant surprise unless you get the fuck out of this office and come with me to fucking New York this second.”

“Look, Daphne, I appreciate you trying to play matchmaker for a relationship (I can actually say the word) that is near death’s door.”

“You fucking asshole.  It’s about as close to death’s door as I am, and I plan to live happy, beautiful and single until I’m one hundred years old, so fuck that bullshit.”

I saw this wasn’t going to be quite as easy as I’d first thought so I gestured for the little pistol to take a seat on my sofa and I joined her at the other end.

“Look, he needs to make a life for himself.  He needs to paint and sketch and whateverthefuck to get noticed.”

“And you, Mr. Brian martyr Kinney, think you’ll get in his way.”  I bit my lip knowing that she was only throwing truths at me that I couldn’t deny.  “Well here’s a bulletin for you.  That cunt art critic actually came through and Justin’s been trying to get you for two fucking months now.  He would have come home but he doesn’t have time, and Jennifer is spending so much time trying to calm him that she hasn’t had the time to come here and tell you what an asshole you’re being...so I took the job.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Now you’re interested.  Well guess what -- Justin’s had two pieces hanging in a prestigious gallery for up and coming nouveau artistes.  And now they’ve asked for three others.”

I couldn’t believe it.  That little fuck’s been trying to tell me to come see him and his work to celebrate, and I’ve been thinking he’s leaning on me and wanting to come home to his shelter.

“And the three new pieces are a series called ‘The Fucking Muse’ .”  I couldn’t help laughing at the title.  Talk about turning the knife in anger.  “Guess who the subject is, oh great ad exec?”

I stood up and brushed my hand through my hair and smiled.  “I don’t think I’ll need more than one guess.”

“No shit!”  She really is one protective fag hag.  “So what are you going to do to fix this -- and if you tell me nothing, I may have to resort to violence.”

No reason to anger the little lady any further, although thinking about the word ‘lady,’ to describe Daphne right now really didn’t fit.  “Okay, okay.  I admit I may have misjudged the situation.”

“Misjudged!”  Her tone was quite clear and extremely impatient.

“Alright, I fucked up royally.  Do you think he even wants to see me?”

“What do you think, oh great fucking muse?”  She stood up with that hands on hips stance again, and I kept thinking that between Deb and Jennifer’s influence, she’s going to be the next generation supreme leader of all PFLAG.  No one would mess with this little pint-size stick of dynamite.

“I think it’s time I took a couple of days off from work.  I pay my employees quite a bit and they are certainly capable of looking after Kinnetik for a long weekend.”

“Now let’s get going.  I happen to know that there’s a flight to New York City that leaves in about one and a half hours.  Just enough time for you to go to the loft, get your toothbrush and toiletries and go.”

“Aren’t you forgetting -- I may need to pack some clothes for the next four days.”  She just looked at me and tilted her head.  “Right, clothing optional and whatever I need I can buy in New York.  I could use some new Armani, Prada and Boss.”

“Now that’s the spirit.  That’s the Brian I love and get regularly irritated by.”  Then, she opened her phone. “Hi Mrs. Taylor, we’re on our way...uh huh...uh huh...” laughing, “You can always count on me.”

I thought to ask what that was all about but decided that some mysteries were best left unsolved.  Besides, I smelled an ambush and had no intention of letting one happen.

Truth be told, I hadn’t felt this energized in over three months.  Not since the last night Justin and I spent at Britin.  

Britin -- I hadn’t been able to set foot back in that house since he left, and now he was becoming the darling of the New York City art scene.

The flight seemed to take forever, despite the fact we left and arrived on time.  Daphne dragged me to the taxi stand at the airport and gave the driver the address of Justin’s apartment/studio.  I had been given that address in one of his e-mails but I’d never put two and two together and realized that if he was able to get his own place something must be going right.  I am an asshole sometimes and this was one of those times.

While I was pretty sure Justin still loved me, I was also pretty sure he didn’t like me right now.  I decided that rather than call him, the tactic of surprise attack was the only way that I could avoid serious injury.

When we arrived at Justin’s building Daphne bid me good-bye.  “Aren’t you coming in?”

“I’ll see you both at the gallery later.  Brian, you and I both know, this next step is a duet, not a trio.”

“You’re smarter than I ever imagined.”

Daphne smiled, “Don’t ever sell me or Justin short again.”

I kissed her cheek. “Thank you.  I mean that, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.  Now go fix things.”

I grabbed my laptop and my small bag of toiletries and underwear and ran up the stairs to Justin’s studio/apartment combination.  I was warned that it was tiny -- a virtual shoebox -- but that he could afford it and it was clean.  In fact, if someone hadn’t been leaving the building I wouldn’t have been able to get upstairs unannounced.

I ran up the stairs to the third floor, taking two at a time.  I knocked, actually feeling what others must call those god damned butterflies, in my stomach.

I noted there was a peek-hole in the door and realized he’d see me before he opened it, but I guess he was expecting someone else when it started to open. “Look Mom, I told you I’d meet you at the...”

At first, it was an awkward staring contest.  That lasted about five seconds and then my, yes my jean clad twink jumped into my arms.  “It’s about fucking time. you asshole.”

As I backed him into the apartment and shut the door behind us no words were spoken other than, “Bedroom that way,” for the next 30 minutes.

He had been angry with me and after I fucked him, I let him fuck me.  It was only right under these circumstances.

Then, lying in each other’s arms, sated and happy (in my case for the first time in over two months), we spoke briefly but it said volumes.

“Brian, promise me you will never, never pull this incommunicado shit again.  You nearly destroyed me and my spirit.”

I looked directly into Justin’s eyes so he would know that the words were true and I was also speaking from my heart, “Never again.  I do promise.  Never again.”

“Okay.”

“Okay...and Justin...”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“Sometimes you say just the right thing.  I am so fucking in love with you, too.”

Then, all communication returned to our unspoken style once again.  Funny thing was, he seemed as sexually hungry as I was.  It couldn’t be, could it?

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