This is Part 1 of Chapter 6 in the "Queer Theories" series.
Go back to "Two Virgins" , the previous chapter.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Ron, Lindsay, and others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: The Continuing Adventures of Brian Kinney, Hollywood Wife: Los Angeles is a good place to shop. Takes place in February 2002.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit. Watch Queer As Folk on Showtime, buy the DVDs, videos, and CDs. Read the stories and enjoy.
I've never had any trouble waking up with a hard-on. But it is nice to have it nudged a bit when you're still half-asleep. A little touch here, a stroke there, a few nibbles, a lick....
"RON! Will you get the dog out of the bed! Please!"
He's now working his way up to my face. Completely against my will, I poke my head out and look at the clock. Just after 8:30 a.m. So Ron is already long gone. And he obviously left the fucking door open again.
"I hear you yelling."
"Can you take the dog out of here? Please?"
"You yell like that first thing in the morning and you give yourself a headache."
"I already have a headache. Not to mention this dustrag with a tongue is in here again. Can't you just lock him in the kitchen?"
"How can I keep him closed up in the kitchen all day when we're in and out all day? He runs too fast!"
I grab Armani by the scruff of his nasty little neck and hand him over. "Maybe if you accidently let him out into the far backyard the coyotes would come and get him."
"Such a fuss over a little dog. I think you make too big a deal over it, Mr. Brian." Tucking the dog under her arm, she wanders through the room, picking up clothes. "You throw this nice shirt on the floor and then you want me to iron it as good as new? Why can't you hang it up like a good boy?"
"I was too fucked up to find the hanger." I try burying my face in the pillow, but I'm too awake to turn back.
"And I'm NOT a good boy."
"That I know. You're just lucky I like the bad boys."
"You want breakfast? You can come downstairs and have some oatmeal."
"Oatmeal? I'd rather eat the dog's breakfast. I'll have something when I really wake up. Like a Bloody Mary."
"Well, you get up soon because you have to take us shopping this morning."
"The fuck I will."
"Mr. Ron said last night."
Goddamn it. "I can't. I have to go out today and buy myself a new suit."
"That's when we are going, too. So don't go back to sleep." She stomps out of the room. "Or I'll put the dog back in there with you."
"I'm not spending the whole day driving you around!" She's gone. "Do you hear me?"
"So, when are you coming here? I want to make arrangements."
"I told you that we are in the middle of the semester. I can't just leave my classes and take off for two weeks...."
"Brian, I can't stay there for three weeks -- I have responsibilities here."
"What about that Spring Break thing? When is that?"
"Not until March."
"When is that?"
"Brian, don't you have a calendar there?"
"Why? All the days look exactly the same."
"Well, this is February, so we are talking next month. And Spring Break is only a week, anyway -- and I can't stay for three, no matter what!"
"I'm just telling you the truth. YOU are the one being a bitch. And, by the way, how long are you going to stay away from your job? They couldn't be paying you for this 'extended leave' you are taking. You can't even be pretending it's some family emergency."
"Everything is fine. Aren't you getting the checks for Gus regularly?"
"That's not what I meant. I'm talking about you. Are you going to keep up the loft? How are you going to pay for it if you aren't working?"
"That's my problem, not yours, Lindsay."
"I know that Justin is still living there, but that can't go on indefinitely if you...."
"I told you before that if you mentioned that name, I would hang up."
"Oh, grow up, Brian!"
"I'm hanging up!"
"Then Gus and I will never, ever come out there...."
"Yes, which is your tactic, usually. So don't blame me if I use it against you." Long pause. "Are you there? Brian?"
"Let's not have a big argument over the phone, okay?"
"I didn't start it."
Carmel comes into the room, looking for wastebaskets to empty.
"Have you told anyone that I've been calling you?"
"No, I promised I wouldn't. Not even Melanie and I feel like a traitor keeping secrets from her. Plus, I still think it's stupid that you are pretending to be completely cut off from everything here -- especially when you are talking to me almost every day."
"I have my reasons."
"I'm sure they are completely ridiculous ones, too. What are you doing there all day, if you aren't looking for a job?"
"I've been working since I was fifteen. I'm on vacation."
"I'm working on my tan."
"Now I know that's a lie -- you wouldn't let any ultra-violet rays get within six miles of you."
"Except for the White Party."
"Please, even for that. You put on so much sunscreen it negates the effect."
"Well, you have to be careful when you have the delicate Irish complexion that I have."
Carmel rolls her eyes at me. I point to my dick.
"Hm. I've seen it. You can keep it."
"Who is that, Brian?"
"Carmel. She was just going."
"You tell your girlfriend to bring that baby out here soon! Mama and I are waiting for him!" She goes out, dragging the trashbag behind her.
"I'm trying to! And she's not my girlfriend!" I turn back to the phone. "These women have baby fever. They are so anxious to get their hands on Gus they are driving me nuts."
"So, it isn't you who wants us out there, but the maids? Is that it?"
"No. I want you to come."
"Don't tell me you are lonely out there? With the entire Hollywood fuckfest at your fingertips?"
"I'm never lonely. I don't do lonely."
"You can lie to yourself, Brian. You can lie to Ron. But you can't lie to me. I know you too well."
"Maybe you think you know me. Or used to know me."
"As I said before: grow up, Brian!"
"I'm trying to! Okay? But sometimes...."
"You know, these women have a photo of you and Gus down in the kitchen."
"A photo? Where did they get it."
"I guess I gave it to them. They wanted to see what Gus looked like. Was that ever a mistake."
"Why, for heaven's sake?"
"Because now they think you are just like the heroine of their favorite Mexican soap opera, 'La Rubia Novia,' or some shit like that. You are their idol."
"Is that true, Brian?"
"Please. I couldn't make up something so nauseating."
"That is so sweet!"
"Yes. Their dream is to reunite you and me and Gus into one big happy family so that we can live here under their benevolent dictatorship."
"Oh? And where does poor Ron fit into this happy little scenario?"
"I'm not sure they've figured that part out yet. Listen, these two women have worked for Ron for years and are supposedly devoted to him. But they can hardly wait to stab him in the back -- all in the name of 'amore'."
"I think that's Italian."
"And what exactly do they think you are doing there?"
"That I'm a poor boy making my way through a cruel world any way I can. I think."
"That's the way I've always pictured you, certainly."
"Bitch." I look at the clock. "I better go -- I have a date with a new suit."
"It is. It's my new vocation."
"And I'm sure you are wonderfully successful at it, as in all things."
"I'll talk to you tomorrow."
By the time I stumble into the kitchen it is almost 10:00. Carmel is sitting at the counter, making out her shopping list, while Maria is stirring some toxic concoction on the stove.
"Hey, she does know we aren't going to be here for dinner tonight? What is she making?"
"Nothing for you, don't worry."
"Thank God. I'm getting an upset stomach just smelling it."
"If you would eat more and drink less you wouldn't have such a bad digestion. You want that oatmeal? Is good for your colon."
"Please leave my colon out of your conversations. And my digestion is just peachy." Sure.
I look out and see a truck pulled up to the garage. "Who's here?"
When I first got here and heard "poolboy" I perked right up, envisioning Brendan Fraser cavorting around the backyard. The reality was a wizened Filipino man and his ten year old grandson. Thus are fantasies dashed here in La La Land.
"Oh. It's about time. That pool was getting disgusting." I root through the refrigerator, looking for something to drink. "Is this that stuff from the can? Christ! This is California -- can't I have some fresh juice?"
"Don't take the Lord's name in vain, Mr. Brian."
"I give up." I drink the canned juice.
"Tomorrow you should take the dog to the groomer. They called this morning to say he's due."
"He's due, all right. And I'm not taking him over there. They can send a car to pick him up."
"Why not? You take him last time."
And never again. I was never so embarrassed to be a queer as I was carrying that little shithead into the Puppy Palace or Poodle Parlour or whatever it was called. A twenty minute conversation with the world's most flaming dog groomer on what color would be suitable for Armani's ribbon has to be the low point in my adult existence. And when I made it clear that I didn't give a fuck what color a shih tzu's hair bow was -- the hell with color coordinating it with Ron's next 'function' -- you'd have thought I'd just shit on the white plush carpet. And I wanted to do just that. Of course, the capper was that as I stalked out of the joint I heard the groomer say to his flunky: 'So cute, but so rude!' Fuck you!
I go and pull the Mercedes out of the garage. Ron bought it to pilot his mother around when she's in town and I feel about a hundred years old driving it. But I don't dare take the Jag. Not after last time. I got so trashed at a club that I knew I'd never make it home -- I'd either James Dean it within the first two miles, or I'd never find the place in the maze of dark roads and canyons. So I called a cab and left the Jag in the lot. And it took three days to find it, since I couldn't remember the name of the fucking club or where it was. Hey, Greater L. A. is a big place.
"What did you do in Pittsburgh when this happened?"
"Ah -- Mikey drove me home -- or someone else."
"Well, they're not here now."
Tell me something I don't know.
Continue on to "Fuck Armani -- Part 2" , the next section of Chapter Six of "Queer Theories."
©Gaedhal, May 2002
Picture of Gale Harold from MetroSource.
Updated May 5, 2002