FUCK ARMANI

"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is the Part 4 of Chapter 6 in the "Queer Theories" series.

Go back to "Fuck Armani -- Part 3" , the previous section.

"Just come in for an hour. One fucking hour!"

"I have a production meeting first thing in the morning. I'm going home now. If you want to come with me, fine. If not, you can get a cab home."

"Ron...."

"Do what you have to do. Then come home."

I get out of the Jag before I even know what I'm doing. And he's driving away.

***

This club is the usual. Loud. A younger crowd than some. But I'm not that out of place. A bit overdressed tonight, but that's not always a bad thing. Sets you apart. Puts off the rabble. Usually.

I find a place to stand. Close to the bar. Watch the dance floor. Look around.

There's not a fucking soul to talk to.

A place like this isn't exactly conducive to making friends. Not that I want to make friends with any of these people. But in the time I've been out here I realize that I have no fucking idea HOW to make a friend, even if I wanted one. Everyone I know back in the Pitts -- with one exception -- I know through either Mikey or Lindsay. Their friends. Their lovers. Their connections. It's the same out here. Everyone I know I know through Ron. What does that say about me?

Not that I want to know anyone in this club. I might want to fuck them, but I don't want to know them. And that, I understand, is screwed up in some way. In some way I can't comprehend. This used to be the kind of place that was my natural environment. Now I feel about as comfortable here as Ron. What is wrong with me? Someone give me a dime so I can buy a fucking clue. Please.

Guy cruises me. Dark. Mexican. Esai Morales-type. Not bad. But....

"Sorry. I'm not interested."

Another comes up. Muscle-bound. That's a turn-off.

"Sorry. Not interested."

Now, this one is really amusing. A troll. A total troll. These are the ones you can't get rid of.

"You are beautiful. Has anyone ever told you that?"

Is he fucking kidding? "Why, no -- you are the first." He smiles. Awful. "Get lost!"

He moves away from me, but stays in the vicinity. That kind never gives up. It's their M.O. -- sometimes they can wear the prey down through sheer tenacity. But not me.

I have a beer and fend off a few more flies. Eventually, all the stuff I drank at Freddy's, plus the beer begins to work its way down. I head for the can.

It's the usual zoo in there. Someone makes a grab for me near the door, but I'm only interested in my kidneys. The last thing I want to do is waste my dick in this toilet.

I come out of the john and see something going on in the corner that I don't care for. This guy is struggling with a kid and the kid is not happy. It's one thing to push someone against a wall in a club and another thing to do it to someone who is obviously wasted. Someone who is trying to get away. Someone with short blond hair....

I turn and walk away purposefully. It's none of my fucking business.

Then I turn and go back.

The kid is trying to pull his pants up while this guy is trying to pull them down with one hand and holding him against the wall with the other. The kid is slipping. He lets go of his pants and tries to hold himself up, to keep from falling to the floor. That's when the guy takes out his dick and starts to push against him.

"Hey!"

The guy turns his head, startled.

"Huh?"

"Fuck off!" I grab him by his collar and pull him back. The kid slides down the wall, to his knees.

"Get the fuck out of here. Now."

He acts like he's going to protest, but he's drunk or stoned and not focusing too well. And he's a head shorter than I am, which makes him think twice about challenging me. He ends up just stumbling away.

I put my hand down and drag the kid to his feet. He looks dazed. He's pulling his pants up and trying to fasten them.

"Hey! Do you know what the hell you are doing?"

He looks at me.

"Where are your friends? Who did you come here with?"

He shakes his head. Fuck.

"Do you have any idea what that fucker was doing?" The kid leans himself against the wall, trying to get his bearings.

"You realize that guy didn't have a condom, don't you? Are you listening to me? Do you hear me?"

"Yeah. I...." He shrugs.

"How stupid are you? Here...." I reach into my jacket and pull out a couple of packages. "Take these. Use these. Don't be a fucking idiot!"

He looks at them and then shoves them into his pants pocket.

"You must have come here with someone. Go and find your friends. And don't take shit from people you don't know!"

Christ, I feel like the Daddy Police here. Now I really need another drink.

I head for the bar, but the kid is following me. This is what I don't need. This is what I get for sticking my nose in. Now he's going to be trailing me all night. Another stalker.

I get another beer. I never get a mixed drink at these places. I've seen too much around here. Someone can put things into your drink before you realize it. I never even leave a bottle of beer unattended. People really are shits.

The kid has now attached himself to my side. He's trying to put his arm around my waist. My stomach drops about ten feet.

"Quit that stuff, all right?" I buy another beer and hand it to him. "Stick with this and leave that other shit for now, okay?"

He nods at me, but he's not actually hearing me.

I watch the dance floor. I don't know anyone and no one knows me. Should be the perfect fucking situation. Then why can't I think about anything but leaving? Why did I want to come in the first place? Maybe Ron is right: I don't know what the fuck I want. That's my problem.

I finish the beer and start to make my way to the door. It's time to bail.

The kid is following me. Don't do this. He takes my arm and pulls me over to a place under the stairs. He's fumbling at my pants. Let's get this over with. I undo them myself.

So, why am I doing this? Why the fuck DID I come here if I'm just trying to get it over with as fast as possible? Is it really just a habit I can't break, as Ron says? Are we having fun yet?

This is taking a while. The kid is still stoned and doesn't have a clue what he's doing. And this is no place for lessons. Ron already blew me twice tonight: once in Freddy's backyard while we were smoking the joint and then in the Jag in the parking lot. So this is definitely taking longer than it should.

I look down at the kid's blond head.

Don't go there. Don't.

But if it gets this over with faster....

But it will be worse afterwards. That, I know.

Fuck. I close my eyes....

***

After sending that kid home in a cab, I realize that I don't have enough for my own ride.

We pull up to the house and I fumble around in my pocket, but I know I don't have it.

"Wait here and I'll get the cash."

"Fucking faggots," the driver mumbles.

"What did you say?"

"Nothin' " He slinks down in the seat. I head up the driveway.

"Wait a minute." He's motioning me back. He looks at me and then at the house. "Hey -- if you blow me, we'll call it even. What about it?"

The perfect ending to the perfect evening.

"I'd rather blow George Bush on national TV. Just wait and I'll get your fucking money."

I search around the kitchen, looking for the place Carmel keeps extra cash for deliveries and tips. I can't find it. Armani gets up from his basket and follows me, weaving in and out of my feet.

Finally, I go to their door and knock.

"Carmel. Carmel. Wake up. I need you to pay the taxi."

It takes a few minutes, but she opens the door. She's wearing her pink bathrobe and has those curler things all over her head.

"What did you do with all your money that Mr. Ron gave you, Mr. Brian?"

"It's spent, okay? I just need to get rid of the cab." Because I wouldn't blow that guy to pay off the National Debt.

She comes back with a handful of bills. This isn't the first time this has happened and she is letting me know that I owe her big time.

I take the cash out to the cab and count it out carefully. Plus the minimum tip. I don't need this guy's shit anymore. He peels out of there.

I put the remainder of Carmel's money on the counter.

As I walk upstairs I'm starting to feel the effect of the alcohol I've been processing all night long. I feel dizzy and have to grab the railing for a second. That's all I need is to pull a Scarlett O'Hara on the staircase. Armani is at my feet and he yips.

"Shut the fuck up."

I blunder around for a hanger and, as usual, end up draping the jacket on the chair and dropping the pants on the floor. So much for my new suit. Fuck Armani.

My heart is pounding as I get into bed. It's so fucking quiet. Now I'm paranoid. My stomach is churning.

"Ron? Ron?"

"Come on, Brian. Didn't you take care of that when you were out? Give me a break."

Okay. Okay. Whatever.

I get out of bed and find those pants on the floor. The dog is lying on them. I put them on and make my way downstairs, trying not to break my neck.

I go into the poolhouse and lie down on the sofa. It pulls out into a bed, but I don't have the energy to bother with it. Armani jumps up and settles next to me. I don't have the heart to move him. He tries to crawl up and lick at my face, but I nudge him back, gently. I can't afford to rebuff the only one around here who appreciates me.

I should be dead tired, but I'm as wide awake as I've ever been in my life.

I listen to that fucking thing in the pool that makes the sucking noise. Some weird sounds up in the canyon. The dog's little sniffling snores.

I look at the phone. How many times have I promised myself that the I wouldn't do this anymore? Just let it go. Let it go.

And I'm dialing the phone. Again.

"Hello? Brian? Is that you? Say something, please? Brian? Can't you say SOMETHING?"

Christ, sonny boy -- how loud do I have to fucking scream?

Continue on to "Expense Accounts" , Chapter Seven of "Queer Theories."

©Gaedhal, May 2002

Picture of Gale Harold from Showtime.

Updated May 8, 2002