"A Queer As Folk USA Alternate Stream FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Part IV of a "Beatitudes" Alternate Stream story.

The other sections in "Beatitudes".

Features Justin Taylor, Brian Kinney, Paulie, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Justin takes a late night phone call. Paris, November 1960.
Disclaimer: This is for fun, not profit.

Paris, November 1960:

The phone rang incessantly until Justin fumbled around next to the bed and finally picked it up.

"Did I wake you, Sunshine?"

"Jesus, Brian!" Justin sighed. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

"Not really," came the far-away voice. "You know that I don't wear my watch in bed."

Justin snorted. "Look outside. See how dark it is, Brian? That means it's the middle of the night. When MOST people are asleep."

"So that means I woke you up, huh?"

Justin sat up in the big bed and rubbed his forehead. "But I'm awake now. What's up, Brian?"

"Nothing," he said. "Just wanted to hear your voice."

Justin smiled. "Why didn't you call me earlier, then?"

"I was out. Tonight was the first poetry reading and there was stuff going on afterwards."

"How did the reading go?" Justin asked. "Did they understand you?"

"I guess they did," Brian replied. "Most of the Q & A was in English. And at the reception a lot of them spoke English pretty well. Better than I speak German, that's for sure!"

Justin laughed. "Any Valkyries in sight at the reading?"

"Not a single one," Brian admitted.

"Well," said Justin. "There's still time. You aren't coming home until Sunday."

"I know," said Brian. The connection on the trunk line wasn't the best and Brian's voice kept fading out. "Listen, why don't you get on a plane and come here? You could be here by tomorrow afternoon and we could have dinner. I have a workshop right after lunch, but nothing in the evening. Maybe I'll rent a car and we can check out the countryside. We can zip down the Autobahn! How about it, Sunshine?"

Justin sighed again. "I can't, Brian. I have to get up early tomorrow and go to the gallery. Then I have to meet with some of the sponsors for dinner tomorrow night. And I STILL have those canvases to finish. I'm sorry, Brian, but there's no way I can leave Paris right now."

"Oh," said Brian. "I know. I was just thinking it would be nice." There was a long pause. "I miss you."

"I miss you, too, Brian." Justin yawned.

"I heard that."

"Sorry, Brian. I'm really sleepy," Justin apologized.

"Are you touching yourself?" Brian asked.

"Not really. Are you? Are you horny, Brian?"

"Yeah. I'm horny, Justin," came the voice. "Are you alone?"

Justin yawned again. "No, I've got two hot guys here in bed with me. Identical twins. They're acrobats with the circus. You can't imagine the positions they get themselves into. Oh, baby!"

"Sounds hot." Justin could hear Brian rustling around in the strange hotel bed. "I've got a hot guy in here, too."

"That's good, Brian. I told you to have fun while you were away. Is he a blond German god?" Justin glanced at the clock on the bed table. It was after 3:00 a.m.

"No, actually. He's British. Irish, really. Black Irish. With milky white skin and black hair. He's beautiful. And young. Only 18."

"No blond gods available, huh?" said Justin.

"None that interested me."

"Is he good?" said Justin. "Does he fuck upside down like my twin acrobats?"

"Not yet," said Brian. "He's a virgin. Or he was until about two hours ago. Until I opened up his tight hole with my 9-inch cock! But I'll have to try the upside down thing with him later."

"You're so full of shit, Brian!" Justin giggled. "Don't drop your virgin on his head. You wouldn't want your fantasy boyfriend to get a concussion!" He enjoyed playing phone sex games with Brian, but it was getting awfully late.

"I'll try not to hurt him. I guess he'll have to last me until I'm ready to go home. That is, if you aren't coming here to rescue me."

"I can't, Brian. You know that." Justin pulled the covers up around him. "I have to get some sleep now. Really. I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay. Good night, Justin."

"Kiss your pretend boyfriend good night for me, Brian," Justin said. "And get some sleep."

"I will," came the voice. It sounded more distant that ever. And then the connection was broken.

Justin hung up the phone and went back to sleep.


Hamburg, November 1960:

"Herr Kinney! We are so delighted to have you come and read to us tonight!"

The woman from the Hamburg Poetry Society might well have qualified as a Valkyrie. She was tall and had her blonde hair in two long, thick braids that wrapped around her head. She was also a woman of substance, ample of breast and wide of stern. Brian could easily picture her wearing armor and screaming Wagner at the top of her lungs.

Luckily, Brian was no longer in the market for a Valkyrie. He had something better to keep him warm through the cold German nights.

"And who is this, please?" asked the woman.

Paul looked up in dismay as the woman addressed him. He'd been trying to keep himself in the background as Brian dragged him around the city from one poetry event to the next. In the past three days they had been to workshops, lectures, receptions, and even a seven-course banquet at what looked like the Kaiser's old hunting lodge. Brian had also taken the boy shopping and bought him a pile of new clothes, including a warm winter coat, a stylish three-piece suit, four sweaters, two pairs of Levis, two pairs of shoes, and a new leather jacket with matching trousers to replace his old tattered leathers. Also a Swiss watch and a gold-plated cigarette lighter. Paul felt like a kept boy, but he had to admit that he looked great. Brian knew clothes and he knew what looked good.

"I ought to know clothing," Brian had told Paul as the boy was being fitted for his new suit at the most exclusive tailor shop in Hamburg. "After all, I was a model in Paris."

"You? Were a model?" Paul was surprised. That seemed the last place Paul would expect to see a poet -- modeling high fashion clothes.

"Yup," said Brian. "I did runway work for a couple of the couture houses. I was flat broke and Justin got me the job when one of the designers saw a portrait Justin had painted of me. He wanted to know who the hot guy was." Brian smirked at the boy. "Believe me, all you have to do to be a model is to fit into the clothes and be able to walk and scowl at the same time without falling down. It was the easiest money I ever made, but it bored the shit out of me."

"Tell me, is there anything you haven't done?" Paul asked in wonder. Everything that Brian did seemed amazing to the besotted boy. "Or anything you don't know?"

"When we come to something on which I'm NOT an expert I'll let you know," Brian had huffed. Then he kissed the boy on the lips while the fitter looked the other way and his assistant snickered.

And now they were at a large mansion just outside the city where Brian was about to read to Hamburg's literary elite.

"This is my friend, Mr. McCartney," Brian told the tall blonde Valkyrie smoothly. He put his arm around the boy and toyed with his long, silky hair.

"Oh, are you a poet also?" the woman gushed. Herr Kinney was so handsome! And his young companion was also beautiful. Two such lovely men!

"No, ma'am," Paul answered, squirming slightly. He was afraid the big woman was going to start pinching his cheeks. She looked like a cheek-pincher to Paul.

"Mr. McCartney is a talented musician. A singer and a composer," Brian interposed.

"Ach! We must hear some of your compositions for one of our musical evenings! Perhaps tonight even you will pleasure us?" The Valkyrie seemed delighted. If there was one thing the Germans loved even more than poetry, it was music.

"Perhaps another time," said Brian. "Mr. McCartney is only observing tonight."

Paul breathed a sigh of relief. He didn't think that the Hamburg Poetry Society would relish hearing him bang out "Long Tall Sally" on their grand piano.

Brian and Paul had gotten up late that Thursday morning after being up most of Wednesday night smoking some of Brian's reefer and fucking their brains out. Brian ordered a large breakfast from room service, an 'English-style' spread, which meant fried eggs, fried bread, bacon, and plenty of sausages. Paul loved nothing better than a fry-up and he wolfed down the greasy food while Brian drank down a lot of black coffee and warned Paulie that he was going to get fat eating all that crap.

"It's good!" insisted Paul. "Just like at home!"

"I was a bottomless pit when I was your age, too," admitted Brian as he watched the boy pack away an entire plate of sausages. "I never seemed to have enough to eat."

"That's the one thing I'll remember about being in this bleedin' city," said Paul. "I was always starving. We'd play for hours and hours on nothing but beer and cornflakes. And those fucking pills that John used to buy from some sleazy character who hung around the bar at the Kaiserkeller."

"Amphetamines, probably," Brian guessed. "Diet pills. They take away your hunger AND they get you wired up. But those things are murder when you crash. They'll fuck up your body like crazy."

"I know," said Paul, setting down his fork. He stared at his plate thoughtfully. "Do you think I ought to send a message to John? I mean, just to let him know I'm all right?"

"If you want to," said Brian, watching the boy's face carefully. Brian had been wondering when the kid would start to get restless. When he would begin to miss his mates -- and especially his pal John. "You can do anything you like, Paulie. Do you want to go over there? To the club? Or to that movie theater where they're living? I can call for a taxi and we can drive over. Or you can go by yourself if you'd rather I didn't tag along."

Paul shook his head. "Naw. I don't think so."

"Do you think they know where you are?" Brian asked. "That you're with me?"

"It doesn't matter," said Paul, defiantly. "I'm not a fucking child. John missed three days once because he drank some bad booze and was too sick to play. And Stu is always skipping out on gigs to be with Astrid. It's not like I'm getting paid big money for all the fucking time we play. It's not like they really need me."

Brian rubbed his forehead. He could feel a headache beginning behind his eyes. "What about when I leave? Are you going to go back to the club?"

"I don't know," Paul said truthfully. He didn't know what he was going to do. He tried not to think beyond each day he stayed there with Brian.

"If you want to go home, Paulie, I'll give you the money," Brian told the boy. "You can fly from Hamburg to London and then on to Liverpool. That might be the best thing for you. It might give you time to figure a few things out."

"I'm not thinking about that now," said Paul. He stood up from the breakfast table and went in to take a shower and then get dressed in his new clothes.

They ate lunch at a fancy restaurant with Brian's German publisher, an aristocratic gentleman who kept calling Paul 'Herr Taylor,' obviously mistaking him for Brian's lover back in Paris, even though the two were complete opposites in looks. The publisher was the one who had arranged the private reading for the Poetry Society. The mansion where it was being held belonged to his cousin, a baron with a long, hyphenated name that began with 'von.'

A big Mercedes Benz picked Brian and Paul up at the Hotel Schiller just after dinner and drove them out to the baron's estate where the Valkyrie woman -- the Vice President of the Poetry Society and a wealthy patroness of the local art scene -- greeted them so profusely and ushered them in to face the waiting crowd. Servants with silver trays circulated among the guests, distributing glasses of champagne. Brian immediately grabbed two glasses -- one for himself and one for Paul.

While they sipped the champagne, Brian scanned the room. He recognized a well-known German novelist among the attendees. Two young West Berlin poets Brian had meet in Paris a few months before came over to shake his hand and exchange pleasantries. The pair also eyed Paul. They had met Brian at a party thrown by the editor of 'Crash,' an avant-garde poetry journal published in Paris, and Justin had been there with him. Now they saw that Kinney was with a new boy. One even younger than the blond painter. Well, that was one of the privileges of Fame! All the prettiest boys to choose from.

Finally, Brian made his way to a podium set up in the large parlor while the members of the Poetry Society found their seats. Paul stood over to the side, leaning against the high arched doorway. He couldn't get over how handsome Brian looked. He was wearing a dark blue Italian suit that showed off his long, slender body. Brian's chestnut hair seemed to have a touch of red fire in it as he stood under the baron's antique chandelier.

A week ago Paul had been sleeping in a storeroom with the other lads. He had been cold and tired and hungry all of the time. The only real joy he got was when they were on stage, playing. But often even that joy was ruined by petty arguments among the boys, or by John's drunken antics, or by Paul breaking the cheap strings on his guitar -- strings he couldn't afford to replace. But now he was living in a luxurious hotel. Wearing new clothes. Eating good food. Hobnobbing with posh Krauts in castles. And sleeping with a famous American poet. Making love five times a day with a man! A man he was afraid he was falling in love with.

The company quieted as the Valkyrie introduced Brian in English and gave a brief overview of his career, his publications, and his awards. When she had finished, Brian thanked her and said, "I would like to start the evening with a new poem. Something that no one has ever heard before. I thought you might enjoy it because I wrote it here, in your fine city, just yesterday."

Brian looked around, caught Paul's eye, and began to read:

"'Hamburg, November 1960.'

to P.M.

I see you always
in black and white
a pre-war movie
a distant world
that has come home right here
to my arms.

In this half-damaged, half-defiant city
under the shadow of war once again
you bloom
like a white flower
breaching the rubble
looking for a hint of sun

wait at the window
staring at the empty street
your black hair shining
your back pale
the curve of your white ass
your skin like living moonlight
I press my lips there
but I am touching something
that is already lost

In the midst of chaos
you are a still point
inside the deafening noise
you stand like silence
staring inside of yourself
you have no idea
what you can do
you have no idea
of your power in this jaded world
because you are made of love
and you know
that is all you need."

Paul held his breath until Brian finished. This poem -- it was about him! That did his head in!

Brian was looking directly at Paul as he said the final words. Paul no longer knew what to think, except that he was completely enamored of this man. And that he knew he always would be, no matter what else ever happened to him in his ordinary little life. Because now Brian had made Paul immortal. And that changed everything.


The reading for the Hamburg Poetry Society had gone very well, Brian mused. He'd collected a tidy fee from the Society and also received invitations to come and read at Poetry Societies in West Berlin and Vienna. Also, representatives from three German literary magazines had each requested the exclusive rights to translate and publish his work for the German market. Brian had sent the trio over to his publisher, the baron's cousin, to fight it out.

And Paulie had been glued to his side all evening, gazing at him with those huge, adoring, honey-colored eyes of his. Brian smiled. He knew that the boy would get a kick out of Brian's new poem. He had others, too, but they weren't finished yet. Maybe he'd end up with a whole new cycle of love poems in his portfolio. That was a delicious side benefit of this trip. That and finding this beautiful boy in the first place. This boy who had eyes only for him.

It had been a while since poems had flowed out of Brian so freely as they had in the last few days. Not since he had begun the 'White Gold Angel' poems back in the summer of 1957. Those had been written in a torrent in the heat of first meeting Justin and were the poems that had made Brian's name. Those poems had won Brian the Dickinson Prize for the best book of poetry written by an American in the year 1959. The $50,000 award that went with the prize, a year as Poet-in-Residence at Carnegie Mellon University, the invitations to read all over the world, and the subsequent brisk sales of his books had allowed Brian and Justin to stop living hand-to-mouth and start enjoying the fruits of their success.

The attention that Brian's poems received had benefitted Justin, too. Justin's name was in the papers and magazines alongside his lover's. As the inspiration for the book 'White Gold Angel,' Justin was also a minor celebrity in the cultural world. He got more commissions and galleries began to ask for his pieces to feature in their exhibits. And now Justin was having his first show in Paris. The Katz Gallery was small, but it was still a triumph for an artist just turning 21. Brian was actually prouder of Justin's accomplishments than he was of his own, although he didn't tell the little twat that! Justin would never let 'the old man' live it down!

But recently it seemed that Brian and Justin had been drifting apart. Brian finally had money in his pocket, but he was also busier than ever with his readings and workshops and social obligations. Sometimes Brian wondered when he would have time to write new poems because he was so busy flogging the old ones. Brian traveled constantly on reading tours and Justin only rarely was able to accompany him. Justin's main focus these days was on his own burgeoning career. Each of his paintings took a lot of work and Justin was a perfectionist. The two men never seemed to have time to lie in bed, get high, and fuck the day away anymore. Instead, they had appointments and responsibilities and a million phone calls to make.

Brian didn't want to tell Justin that he missed the old days. Missed living in an empty flat and having no money. That was when Brian had written poems on the backs of paper bags because he couldn't afford paper. But those were some of his best poems. Poems written with love and pure passion. The 'White Gold Angel' poems. But those days -- and those poems -- were in the past.

Brian's German publisher's big Mercedes drove Brian and Paul back to the city. The boy had drunk a lot of champagne and he was giddy as he sat next to Brian on the wide backseat.

"Let me suck you," he whispered. "Please?"

It was dark in the back of the Mercedes and the driver was separated from the two passengers by a glass barrier.

"Okay," said Brian, taking out his long cock. "Do it."

The boy pounced on Brian's prick and began sucking vigorously. He'd had a lot of practice over the past few days of staying with Brian. He'd blown Brian in the shower, in the men's room of a cafe, in a park where they went walking, up against some railings at the university where Brian had gone to give a workshop, and in a taxi after Brian paid the cabbie $10 in American cash to just keep driving. Paul still wasn't able to swallow all 9-inches of Brian's dick at once, but he was working on it. What the boy lacked in technique, thought Brian, he definitely made up in sheer enthusiasm.

Brian's cock was as hard as steel and the boy's lips felt like hot butter against it. Brian closed his eyes and let the sweet sensation of being sucked wash over him. Then he had an idea.

"Paulie," he said urgently. "Pull down your pants."

"Huh?" The boy stopped sucking as Brian fumbled to unfasten his new trousers. Brian slipped them down and off and also discarded Paul's thin black Y-fronts.

Then Brian spit on his fingers and wet Paulie's asshole. "This will be a tight fit, so let's take it nice and slow."

The boy nodded and climbed onto Brian's lap, easing his ass down on top of Brian's stiff prick. Without the Vaseline it burned and Paulie winced.

"Hold it a second," whispered Brian. He wet his fingers again and slicked his cock up some more. Then Paul relaxed his hole and slid all the way down, inch by excruciating inch.

"Shit!" breathed Brian. "That's good!"

They fucked hard on the backseat of the Mercedes, Paul bouncing on Brian's cock and Brian trying to hold the boy steady against his upward thrusts. The lights of on-coming cars swept over them and then passed, but they didn't care. They were lost in the raw power of sex.

Finally Brian pulled out of Paul's ass and re-positioned him on the wide seat with his bottom in the air. Then Brian rammed his cock back inside the boy and kept slamming until they were both crying out loudly. Until they both came with a hard rush -- Brian up the boy's ravaged ass and Paulie all over the leather seat of the Mercedes Benz.

Brian cleaned up their come as best he could with his handkerchief. What the hell, thought Brian. His publisher could afford to get the leather upholstery professionally cleaned.

When they reached the Hotel Schiller, the driver opened the door for the pair and never even blinked as Paulie rearranged his clothes before he stepped out onto the sidewalk. Those Germans, thought Brian. Such devotion to duty! And then he laughed.

Brian stopped at the front desk to get his messages. There was another invitation to dinner and a confirmation of Brian's flight back to Paris on Sunday. And a message that Justin had called. Brian glanced at the slip of paper and shoved it into his pocket.

"Are you going to call him back?" asked Paul as they got into the elevator and Brian told the operator he wanted the fifth floor. He knew it was a message for Brian from the painter. In his head Paul pictured a tall, elegantly dressed blond man standing in a posh flat in Paris holding a telephone. Justin. Brian's lover. The White Gold Angel. A surge of jealousy pulsed through the boy. "Tonight?"

"It's late," said Brian, shortly. "I don't think so."

Brian had his hand on Paul's soft ass. He had just fucked that ass in the car, but he wanted it again as soon as they got back to the room. He wanted to fuck this boy on the floor, on his hands and knees, on the oriental carpet in the middle of the sitting room. Wanted to fuck this boy senseless. Fuck him until he yelled out Brian's name. Until the boy cried out for Brian and no one else. Until he said that he loved him, again and again. This boy with his milky skin and his black mop of hair and his intoxicating honey golden eyes. This boy. Paulie.

Justin could wait, thought Brian. I'll call him back. Tomorrow. Eventually.

Tonight Brian's mind and his cock were going to be busy elsewhere.

Continue on to "Hamburg -- Part V".

©Gaedhal, August 2004.

Posted August 17, 2003.