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Chapter 3:  I'm a Man ... M-A-N




 

Justin

It’s weird. Sometimes we just … I don’t know … get on the same wavelength, I guess; like everything clicks into place and all the stupid little fears and irritations and all that shit just go away and we are absolutely sure of who we are. Who we are together, I mean. Usually it’s when we start laughing – and, really, the lamer the joke, the funnier it can seem; then somehow the laughter turns into really hot sex. I suppose what they say about how a sense of humor is a real sexual turn on is true. Mind you, I guess pretty much everything works for us. Although both of us becoming totally turned on by jokes about him lusting after my mother is kind of a new kink – with a major ick factor, if I let myself really think about it.

But it was probably just the release from tension … we’ve had so much of it lately; it felt amazing to laugh together at something silly like we used to, back in the days between Ethan and me leaving for New York. People probably wouldn’t believe it, but sometimes we both used to laugh hysterically over things that were really dumb. And not just when we were stoned, either. Sometimes Brian likes to just … let himself be totally uncool and silly … to throw the damned “Brian Asshole Kinney” mask into the trash for a while and let loose.

And I love it when that happens. I … when he does that with me, it’s like the most amazing statement of how he feels about me, how much he trusts me. It makes me feel like some kind of superhero; like I could and would do anything to protect him. Which I guess is how he feels about me, too; but it’s incredibly empowering that it works both ways, that he lets it work both ways. And it makes me more determined than ever that I am going to protect him while we work through this thing with Lindsay. He’s told me that that’s what he wants me to do, what he needs me to do, and that he trusts me like that makes me feel like I live at the top of a beanstalk; only a giant could stride as big as I do tonight.

But, major ego boost aside, what really matters is that by the time we get upstairs all the stupid doubts and idiotic resentment I was feeling this afternoon – well, we were both feeling, I guess - have just gone and we’re really solid again. I’m going to pick Gus up from Mom’s place tomorrow afternoon, and fill her in on what’s happening. Then maybe she can do the P-Flag introduction talk in “WASP” to the Petersons; coming from a fellow WASP they might even listen. It’s worth a try. One thing’s a fucking certainty – if they’re not willing to put their prejudices aside, Mom won’t pull any punches in telling them what she thinks about that attitude.

But this is about Lindsay. It … sometimes I might not like her very much over the way she behaves towards Brian, but she really is going to need help – and not just from the doctors. One way or another, we have to make sure that Lindsay’s friends are in the loop and ready to support her.

So if her parents won’t listen to my Mom, we might have to let Deb loose on them. I guess we have to hope for everyone’s sake that it doesn’t come to that.

We take a shower and then Brian goes in and flops onto the bed on his stomach. I must be tired, because at first I don’t recognize this as the invitation it’s apparently meant to be. I’m fucking about making sure I have clothes for tomorrow, and working out if I need to go to the loft to get more. I’m aware of him wriggling round like some worm trapped on a shovel, but I’m determined not to be distracted. At least, I am until he snaps, “For fuck’s sake! If you don’t want it just fucking say so.”

I turn to stare at him, and okay, so maybe my mouth was open just a little. Fuck! It’s not everyday you get that sort of invitation. I mean, I top Brian more than people would think, more than I ever expected to, really. But usually I initiate it. I don’t have to beg, or anything. But I let him know that I’m in that mood and when I do he usually goes along with it. He hardly ever asks for it. I can hardly believe he’s doing that now.

He gives me one of those raised eyebrow looks.

“Oh,” I say, dimwit that I am. “Oh!”

He grins, knowing by the sound of that second exclamation that it’s finally penetrated my slow-tonight brain what he’s telling me, what he’s asking me for.

“Get with the program, Sunshine!” he orders, then settles more comfortably on the bed.

God! I love bossy bottoms. At least, I do when it’s Brian; which is just as well, because he’s the bossiest fucking bottom in the universe. He says I am, but honestly, I have nothing on Brian, bless his not-so-little control freak heart. He’s all … ‘not there, not now, that’s better, yes, like that’ all the fucking time.

I just tune him out. At least, I tune out the words; his body tells me what it needs, and sometimes what it really needs isn’t what he thinks it is.

Like tonight; tonight he thinks he’s in the mood for quick and brisk and ‘let’s just get off’, but when I turn him partly onto his side, and lie down behind him and start flicking my tongue over the hairs at the nape of his neck, his body kind of relaxes, and presses back against me, somehow molding itself to mine, so that I know what he really wants is slow and sweet. He doesn’t want me to fuck him, he wants me to make love to him, to make him feel loved and protected, cherished even; and so that’s what I do.

 

*****
 

Brian

Little twat! Trust him to turn a simple fuck into … well, something else. But although I hate to admit it, what he does, what he gives me … it must have been what I needed to finally unwind after this bastard of a day. Because by the time he starts cleaning me up with a warm face washer, I’m almost asleep. I wasn’t even aware that he’d gone to the bathroom to get one, but it feels good to be clean and before he’s back in bed I’m out like a light.

I sleep right through till morning.

Of course that comes all too fucking early because I have to be in the office by seven at the latest to make sure I’m ready for the presentation we have at ten. As soon as the alarm starts buzzing, I turn it off, and after a quick shower, I grab the clothes I put ready last night and head downstairs. One of the things that we’ve learned the hard way is that it pays to have an alarm clock each. He used to bitch at me endlessly because I’d forget to reset the clock for him after I got up (funny, it was never him getting up first), so I bought him his own – a mammoth old-fashioned wind up clock (so he can’t claim that the batteries died or a power failure meant it didn’t go off) that sounds like the trumpet of fucking doom. It takes something like that to wake him. A morning person he is not – ironic, given his nickname.

Thanks to the miracle of the timer on the coffee machine, there’s a halfway-decent cup of coffee waiting for me and I take time to sip it appreciatively while I check my messages. A couple of work-related ones assuring me that everything will be ready for me to go over when I get in this morning, one from Deb thanking me again for getting Michael up to Toronto and one from Mikey updating me on his own legal adventures.

Seems like the bitch from Hell isn’t having a good run with the courts. One of the things that she didn’t take into account, apparently, with this move to Canada where they are so much more enlightened that in the good ol’ US of A about gay rights, is that the courts there are also primed to recognize the rights of gay dads, and not “punish” them for being gay by just handing everything to the birth mother.

Since the girls have been in Canada, Michael has been doing his best to keep sending regular support payments; not a lot, money has been tight with all the legal expenses over Ben – not to mention the loss of Ben’s income – but at least something every month. Plus they had a formal legal agreement before the girls went North; and of course, in the eyes of the Canadian courts he and Ben are as married as Mel and her new wifey. More so, probably, since there’s no question mark hanging over them from the Immigration authorities.

So yesterday there was some kind of mediated session and now Mikey has a Canadian court-sanctioned agreement that he still has rights to his daughter and can visit her every month, and have her come on visits of at least two weeks every quarter till she starts school, and after that for at least a week in every break, and for three weeks in the summer.

It’s not perfect, but it’s way better than nothing, and Mikey is typically emotional over the whole thing.

“I just can’t believe how much she’s grown,” he says on the message he left some time last night. “Brian … I know you hate being thanked for stuff, but honestly, if it hadn’t been for you I might have lost my daughter, and I will never forget this.”

Yeah. Right.

Not until the next time I do something that pisses him off, anyway.

But at least JR isn’t going to be left entirely to the mercy of that bitch, so that’s something.

I know it’s time to head out to work, but before I go I just nee … want to check on my Sonnyboy.

He’s still asleep … well, it’s not full daylight out yet, and he had a busy day yesterday. He looks so fucking small, lying there all sprawled out in his new bed. There’s no smell of urine, so I guess he had another dry night. He hasn’t wet the bed again, after that one time, so maybe he feels more settled and safer now. I fucking hope so.

He’s got a little smile on his face, anyway. Of course, he loves this room; maybe as much as his play room at Jennifer’s place, so I guess he feels fucking happy here.

I want to snatch him up in my arms and just … I don’t know … protect him or some shit.

But all I can do is try to provide somewhere that’s safe for him to grow up, somewhere he feels safe, and where he’ll always know that his old man … loves him. And so does his beloved Dus.

If I can give him that, at least, then he’ll have a fucking lot more than I had … or his Dus either, when it came down to the crunch.

I stand watching my son, my blood, my precious Sonnyboy, sleep, and try to imagine something he could do or be that would make me say to him, “Stop doing that, stop being who you are or never come home again”.

But I can’t.

I just can’t fucking fathom doing that.

Even fucking Jack never did that.

He might have lashed out when I broke the news to him … but, although at the time I just thought he was a total asshole, now I understand more how much that reaction was driven by fear, and by sheer fucking envy that I was healthy, and not dying, like him. I mightn’t have been able to see that at the time, but later, when I had to go through the shadow of that fear myself, then I understood. If I’d been given a different verdict … if they’d told me that I was going to die in a few weeks, then I think I would have hated and envied every fucking healthy asshole on the planet.

But after that, after that first reaction, he’d come to me … he’d buried his fucking pride and come to me … at least he gave me that.

Justin’s asshole father had him fucking arrested, just because he was so fucking afraid of the strong gay man that Justin has grown into, when what Craig had wanted was a milk and water little plastic model that he could turn into his own vision of the perfect son, following meekly in Daddy’s footsteps.

I let my eyes rest on my son’s face and swear an oath by everything I am that I will never do that to him, never try to break him to fit some mold that I want him to be.

Then with one light touch to his hair, I leave and head off to work.

For today, my Sonnyboys are going to have to manage without me.

 

*****
 

Justin

Gus is excited to be going to school again today. And even more excited to be going to my Mom’s house. He likes the toys and stuff there, that’s obvious, but what he keeps talking about is “Grandma”. It’s all “When my Grandma takes me home from school she gives me milk” and “When I’m at my Grandma’s house, she reads with me” and “my Grandma said …”.

I can’t wait to tell Mom. She’ll love it … although I guess she’s still adjusting to the whole “Grandma” thing.

I wonder what Tucker makes of it?

Does it get him hot thinking he’s fucking a Grandma?

Or totally turn him off?

I wonder what would happen if Gus started calling him “Grandpa”.

That thought makes me chuckle and I’m in a good mood when I leave Gus at his classroom door. I make sure the teacher knows that if they need to contact anyone today for any reason they should call me first, then I head off to my studio.

I’ve just about finished the painting. Today, all I need to do is to add a little more dark color to my hair and Brian’s knuckles. That’s one of the things I remember most about that night – the ashes and soot that I seemed to be washing from my hair and skin for weeks afterwards.

That and the lights - from the first intense flash to later, when the fiery darkness was lit by the lights flashing red and blue and white. And overall the smell – of smoke, and burning wood and plastic and, in my mind at least, the stench of scorched flesh.

I know Brian is going to think I’m crazy painting this.

But it feels cathartic.

The two figures dominate the foreground and the pale blue from my shirt is picked up in a streak of light and the side of the ambulance and something that looks a bit like a figure in a hazmat suit.

I was going to add a wall of stylized flames, licking towards us, but not able to reach us in that special place we were in at that moment. Maybe even some kind of halo of light around us protecting us from the flames, from the hate.

But that would be a lie.

Love doesn’t protect you.

I could have died that night.

Dusty did die. And left her partner and her children grieving. Others died, and left mourners behind. Love didn’t protect any of them.

What love does is help you get past it; to put aside the horror and try to live your life creatively, with passion and joy. Without love, you’d be left with only the fear and the pain and the anger.

Just like the ones who set off the bomb, I guess.

Brian hasn’t said anything, but Ted told me that the police contacted Kinnetik and told Ted that they were close to making an arrest. Apparently they want to get everything water tight so that no smart assed lawyer can find a loophole for the bastards who did it to wriggle through.

I guess I’m kind of surprised. After what happened to Hobbs (basically, nothing), I think I expected the police to just kind of let this drift away into the unsolved case files, but it looks like that’s not happening.

There’s good and bad to that. I mean, it’s good if they’re brought to justice and get a decent sentence. It’s bad if they just get a slap on the wrist.

Plus, however it goes, it’s going to dredge it all up again, for all of us. But especially for Brian, because he buries these things deep, never to see the light of day again. So he’s not going to deal well with the trial and all that shit.

But I guess that probably won’t be for a while, anyway.

Meanwhile, what he is going to have to deal with is this painting.

I guess I could have painted something else.

But this painting has been kind of lurking around the edges of my mind for a long while, and it fits the theme of the Warhol exhibition perfectly … art in response to violence, or whatever.

And now that it’s done, I feel …

Fresh.

Released from all that darkness.

And ready to move on to new things.

I’m in a new life now, a new place in my life at least. I’m living with Brian … not for a while, because I have nowhere else to go, or because I’m so fucked up I can’t sleep without him beside me … but because we’ve both decided this is what we want in our lives.

We have a house that’s ours … and we love it, and we’re doing the whole renovations thing and making it even more ours. We argue about colors and fabrics like any other couple. And, of course, we have Gus now as well.

I am totally not the boy who was bashed at his Prom and couldn’t function for months after. But I’m not the young man who was nearly killed in the bombing either. I came out of that kind of shell-shocked and … I don’t know … somehow more aware of who I am, who I want to be, how I want to be in the world; but not exactly knowing how to do that, how to be that man.

Then I went to New York and found ways to be that Justin Taylor. I know I wasn’t there long, but for those months I had no one to answer to but myself; no one to take care of me – not in the little day to day things, anyway, and no one to care for, no one to give me a hug when I felt blue, and no one who relied on me to give them a hug (or a stellar blow job) when they were going through a bad spot. I’d never really gone through that before. Even in LA, I had Brett looking over my shoulder, playing at being some kind of sucky big brother. But in NY, it was just me. So now I know what that’s like, and I know it’s not for me.

Now everything’s coming together for me to move on and be who I can be, who I want to be – Justin Taylor, artist; Justin Taylor, Brian Kinney’s partner; Justin Taylor, Gus Kinney’s “Dus”; and most importantly, Justin Taylor – man. Not just a gay man, although that’s an important part of who I am, but a man … with lots of different facets, and lots of thoughts and feelings that aren’t just tied to being gay, but are about a man who’s trying to live a decent, ethical life in a time when that isn’t easy. Maybe it never is.

But I’m lucky. Because I have a partner who shows me every day how it’s done.

And I’m not going to let him down.

 

*****
 

Brian

Not for the first time, I am so fucking grateful that I started Kinnetik. Not because of the prestige or the money – at least, they’re not what I’m most grateful for right now. Right at this minute the best thing about owning my own fucking agency is that I’ve been able to hire the right people to do the right jobs.

Which means that we have an art department who actually deliver to spec every fucking time. If they have ideas they voice them at the creative meetings early in the process and after that they just get it done. Sometimes they go ahead and produce two versions – the one I asked for and their own ideas. They do that in their own time and it’s part of their learning curve. If I like their idea better than the original they get credit and a bonus. If not, then I take time out after the pitch to explain why – or let them explain to me why I didn’t go with what they wanted. Either way, we all benefit – they know that even if their ideas don’t get used, at least they are listened to, they get a chance to learn, and that I value their efforts. And I know that I can rely on them to use their brains, and not just go along without thinking about things, but that when it comes down to it I will walk into any presentation with exactly the artwork I need.

So I’m not exactly surprised to find everything laid out exactly as I wanted it for this pitch.

But it does make me wonder why the fuck I rushed into the office.

I review the boards, the presentation packages Cyn had prepared and my notes, then I settle down with a cup of coffee and catch up on some of the paperwork that’s been put aside every time another crisis comes along. When Ted comes in just before eight, I’m pretty much up to date on everything that’s been happening. He gets his own coffee and we sit down and go through some of the financials, and review any contracts that are coming up for renewal.

He’s on his feet, picking up his cup, about to leave the office when I gesture to him to sit down again.

I take a deep breath and tell him that I might need him to free up some money.

He doesn’t say anything, which somehow lets me go on, “It’s for Lindsay. She might need some for medical bills and she doesn’t have insurance.”

He looks startled and concerned, and I figure of all of us, he’s probably going to be the one best placed to understand what she’s got in front of her, so I tell him quietly what the situation is.

His eyes widen, but he straightens in his chair and says, “I’ll get onto it, Bri. Don’t worry about it. You just let me know how much.”

“I promised the Petersons I’d give her an advance on her support payments.”

He shoots me a look. He knows as well as I do, as well as Justin does, that with Gus staying with us full time she’s not entitled to any fucking support payments, but he has the sense not to argue.

He bites his lip, though, and I can tell that there’s something he’s stewing over.

“Out with it, Theodore,” I advise. “I won’t fucking bite your head off this time.”

He gives me a little grin – it’s been a long while since he took any notice of any snapping and snarling I might do around the office.

“It’s just …” he starts off, then stops. “You shouldn’t get too involved in this, Brian.”

We just sit and look at each other for a moment or two and I find myself wondering how the Hell this happened. How the fuck did Theodore become my closest friend? Justin aside, of course.

I nod. Somehow I find voice enough to tell him that Justin is going to be the one dealing with Lindsay once she’s allowed to have visitors.

He nods, and if he thinks I don’t notice the fucking look of relief, he’s kidding himself.

Then he stands up again and moves to the door. When he gets there, he stops and says, “Maybe once she’s ready, I could get Blake to talk to her. I mean, I know she’ll have doctors and consultants and all those professionals, but sometimes having someone who knows you, knows your history, but isn’t involved … that can help. It means you don’t have to explain every little thing.”

‘Especially about what it’s like to be gay in a country where that’s still preached against from the pulpit and thundered against by every right wing TV pundit’ goes unsaid.

I’d forgotten his little ex-Crystal counselor, though, but that’s a fucking good idea.

I nod to him and without saying anything else, he leaves me to get on with things.

So now I’ve handed everything I can do to help Lindsay over to other people – to her parents, to Justin, to Ted and even to Jennifer.

In some ways I feel like I’m deserting her.

But I know it’s the only way … for both of us.

One of the main things Lindsay has to come to terms with is that I’m just not the Brian she used to know; but I haven’t miraculously morphed into some fucking Stepford husband for her either. It’s like she wants them both – the outlaw and the perfect partner – and for some fucking reason she can’t let go of her fantasies about either of them.

But it’s come to the crunch now, and she has to. I won’t let her damage what I have with Justin. And I won’t let her fantasies do any more damage to Gus than we’ve already done between us – she and Mel and I. The truth is I should never have fucking agreed to be their sperm donor. It was never going to end well. Especially when the baby turned out to be a boy. Maybe if she’d had a girl Mel might have gotten past it, but the older Gus got, the more like me he looked, the harder it was for her to see him. She looked at him and saw me; saw Lindsay’s … fuck, yes, obsession with me. And that … it doomed their fucking relationship and it rebounded on Gus.

I can’t regret it … I could never regret having Gus in my life. But I wish I’d given more thought to how Mel was going to cope with having the child of a man she hates foisted on her. And how that was going to affect the child.

Maybe if I had …

Well, too bad, too late, too fucking done and dusted.

All I can do is to try to fix what I fucked up back then by being the best fucking father I can.

Lucky for me, I have a partner who shows me every fucking day how it’s done.

And I’m not going to let him down; let either of my Sonnyboys down.

Somehow I'm going to be the man my father didn't fucking know how to be, or tie myself in fucking knots trying.

But right now, I've got a much easier job ... I just have to dazzle the latest client into spending a million or so in advertising with Kinnetik.

That, I can definitely handle.
 

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