This is Part 2 of Chapter 103 in the "Queer Theories" series.
Go back to "Outlaw Blues -- Part 1", the previous section.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Justin Taylor, Wade Anderson, Debbie Novotny, Jennifer Taylor, Lindsay Peterson, Melanie Marcus, Professor Minton, John Hamilton, Gwen Worthing, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian wants to get to Justin's gallery show in time. Pittsburgh, October 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.
By the time I pull my rented Lexus up to my building it's almost 7 p.m. I know that the reception for the gallery show has already started and that they are giving out the awards at 8:00. With all the fucking delays in Chicago and then more hold ups once we reached Pittsburgh, I was afraid that I would miss the whole damn thing.
As it is, I have just enough time to change and get my ass over there. My fucking hands are shaking with nervous energy as I slide the loft door open.
I'm not expecting anyone to be in the loft, but I know he's there the minute I set my bag down. There's someone in bed up on the platform. The lights are off, but I can hear him moving around. Breathing. Sighing. I was fucking hard before, but now I'm like iron in anticipation.
But it's also odd. Justin should be at the gallery. Unless he's sick. Or found out that he wasn't winning an award and blew the reception off. Which is what I would do -- but not at all what Justin would do. Ever.
So something must be wrong. Very wrong. It's funny. My 'vibe' must be off, somehow. That usual intense electric sensation I feel when he's in the vicinity is missing. Like there's a curtain between us somehow. My stomach lurches a little. It's because I've been away. I know it is. And I've been such a fucking idiot, too. Maybe it's my guilt that's closing me down.
But nothing looks wrong here. The loft is in typical Justin-order -- a little messy, with his art shit making little piles here and there, his CD's and DVD's scattered around, a laundry basket sitting in the middle of the floor. And no signs of illness, either -- his vaporizer isn't spewing Vicks-scented fumes all over the room and his mother isn't standing here, a thermometer poised in her hand.
I take off my suit jacket and toss it over the Stairmaster. Justin never uses the thing except for storage, so there are a number of hangers dangling from the contraption already. I pull one of the extra hangers off and add my pants to the line up, then I throw my shirt, briefs, and socks into the laundry basket. Something still feels off, but if I'm going to get to the bottom of this little mystery, I might as well get to the real 'bottom' of it. Right now.
I walk up into the bedroom and snap on the neons, as quietly as I can. It's already fairly dark outside, so I need to shed a bit of indirect light on the proceedings. I slip under the duvet and reach around, feeling for his warm ass, his cock, his... Wait a second. Shit!
"Who the fuck are you?" I almost yell, sitting up. Because whoever it is, it certainly isn't Justin. Even in the semi-darkness I can tell that in a moment. Everything is wrong -- the smell, the feel, the vibration. Everything.
A strange boy sits up and stares at me. He's fucking terrified. But he's not half as surprised as I am.
"I said -- who the fuck are you?"
"I'm W..... Wade," he stammers. "Please don't kill me! Please!"
But I'm ready to grab this kid and shake him. "What the fuck are you doing here? Tell me the truth!"
His eyes are like goddamn saucers. "I... just stayed over last night. I was supposed to... to leave after Justin left for the gallery... but I just decided to hang out. And I got sort of sleepy, so I took a nap. I wasn't expecting anyone to come in here."
"Well, Justin wasn't expecting me -- obviously," I say. Yes, obviously. Fuck! "Wade. Aren't you that kid who went to the 'Olympian' promo party with Justin?"
"Yes... sir. He took me. I... I had a good time. The clips were just great. You... were great! It was my first time at Woody's. Or at any bar."
So, this is the newbie Justin told me about. And a virgin, too. I can't blame Justin. How CAN I blame him? I'd be the ultimate fucking hypocrite! Now I have to think. Yes, think. "Do you come over here most nights?"
"Me?" he says, cowering away from me. "No! I just come over to hang out sometimes. And for the tea parties."
"The tea parties. With Justin and Emmett. We get together and talk and drink tea and stuff."
Tea parties! What the fuck next? Make-up sessions? I'm going to have to have a little talk with Mr. Honeycutt.
"I was at Jerk-at-Work last night," the boy continues. "And Emmett invited me to come over with him. I called my mom and she said I could stay over because it was Saturday night. And my mom really likes Justin. But I'm so sorry that I'm still here! Nothing happened! Really! We were just sleeping. You gotta believe me!" The kid is talking so fast he starts to gasp.
"Christ, don't hyperventilate on me. Calm down." I reach over and hand him a tissue from the box on the nightstand.
The boy blows his nose and sniffs a couple of times. Another fucking drama princess! Then he looks around and sees how dark it's getting outside. "What time is it? Oh, my God! It's after 7:00! I missed dinner -- and my mom will KILL me!"
Right. She'll have to stand in line, kid, because I'm FIRST to kill your little semi-virgin ass!
"And I'm going to MISS Justin's reception! I've gotta catch the bus first! I better get out NOW!" And the kid -- Wade -- scrambles out of bed and stumbles around, looking for his clothes.
"Wade," I say, because now I'm curious. "What were you doing over at Jerk-at-Work? Don't tell me you work at Ted's website?" Impossible -- this kid is too young.
"Oh, no! Ted is... my boyfriend." The kid stops and looks away from me as he says it.
"Ted Schmidt is your boyfriend?" I say, incredulous. Then I remember that Justin has mentioned something about this, but I never believed it. I still don't. I know better. Justin told me that he and this kid have messed around. And it looks like it wasn't only a one shot deal, either. But who could blame either of these boys? Isn't that the way it should be? A couple of twinks, having a little fun? Isn't it?
"Uh huh. Justin introduced us. At the promo party at Woody's. Ted is really great!"
I can't imagine anyone, even some clueless twink, describing Ted Schmidt as 'great' - but what the fuck? I watch Wade as he fumbles to put his clothes on. Scrawny and completely hairless. Younger than Justin, even if he is a little taller. And completely fucking terrified of me. I don't blame him for that. He SHOULD be terrified of me! After all, he's in MY bed -- mine and Justin's -- and I DID scream at him. What the hell?
But I can feel my anger receding -- and now I feel sorry for the kid. "Wade," I say, getting out of bed.
"What!" He jumps, thinking I'm coming after him. He shrinks back against the closet door.
"I'm going to get a quick shower and get dressed, Wade. Call your mother and tell her that I'll take you over to the gallery with me. And turn on some lights in here," I say, snapping off the neons and turning on the reading lamp. "And make the bed, if you don't mind, while I'm getting cleaned up."
"Okay, sure. I will!" Wade babbles. He's staring at me, looking me up and down. His gaze lingers on my cock, which is still half-hard from anticipating Justin. He smiles at me. Now he's a happy camper. Fucking kids!
I go in the shower and try to wash this whole stinking mood off. I've got to get over myself. Especially about Justin. I encourage him to do what he has to do -- to get his 'needs' met, the same way I do -- and then I'm jealous when he does it. Jealous. Yes, I'm fucking jealous of this hairless, geeky kid who obviously is nuts about my... my what? Fuck. MY boyfriend. That's WHAT! And Justin's fucking around with him, too!
Like I say -- I'm the worst kind of hypocrite and I better get over it fast or else I'm going to ruin these few days I have to be here. I stand in the shower and take a lot of slow, deep breaths. I get out and dry off.
"Wade?" I call from the bathroom.
"What?" He comes running like Armani, wagging his little tail. Thankfully, he's all dressed now.
"Could you bring my suitcase up here? And it's heavy, so don't hurt yourself."
"Okay! I'll bring it right now!" And he scampers to get the thing. I hear him dragging it across the floor to the platform and then pulling it up the steps.
I wrap the towel around myself and walk out.
"It's locked!" Wade says, fiddling with the bag. I go down to the Stairmaster and pull my key ring out of my suit coat. I find the right key and turn it in the little lock, then press in the code to release the safety lock. I unzip the bag and open it, looking for what I want to wear.
"Can I hang anything up for you?" says Wade. Now that he knows I'm not going to strangle him, he's like a fucking Cub Scout, he's so helpful.
"That won't be necessary," I reply, pulling out my black jeans. There are a few pairs of black boots in the closet to go with these jeans. And something else should be in there, too. Because now I know what I'm going to wear tonight. Definitely.
I paw through the bag, taking out my kit, trying to decide if I need to shave. Oh, fuck it. There isn't time. Then my hand hits a plastic bag. I jammed all the freebies from the press junket in there. I open the bag. There are four watches, an assortment of gold-plated cigarette lighters, some tie clips, fountain pens -- just a pile of very expensive odds and ends.
"Hey, Wade. Do you need a pen?" I hand him a fancy Mont Blanc fountain pen with the 'Olympian' logo etched on the side.
"Sure!" He takes it and turns it over in his hands. I look at Wade, standing there, grinning at me. He isn't bad-looking, but he's so ordinary. He's certainly no Justin. He's blondish and WASPy -- but he's bland. All the animation and inner life that makes Justin practically glow in the fucking dark is missing from Wade. I guess it's charisma. That's it -- Justin has charisma. That word people are always tossing around about me. But Justin is the one who really has it. And I can feel it even when he isn't in the room. No wonder Wade is enamored. Why should he be any different from me?
I reach into the bag again and take out a watch. It's a Bulgari. A nice little thing that I'll never wear in a million years. I already have a drawerful of watches Ron's given me that I've never touched. I absolutely HATE wearing a watch. It feels like a golden handcuff -- and the other end is attached to a roller coaster that's heading right for the end of your life! Tick tick tick. No fucking way. I'm saving the big Rolex in the bag for Justin -- to him, the bigger the watch the better. And he loves all the dials. I used to love all the dials, too, when I was a kid. But this little watch also has a few bells and whistles on it, and I think Wade might like it.
"Here, kid -- take this, too," I say, shoving the watch into Wade's hand. "Put it on. And don't tell anyone I gave it to you. They might think there's something going on between us."
His eyes get big again. "Okay! I won't! This is great stuff, Mr. Kinney. I mean... Brian." Now he's coy. "Thanks a lot."
"Come on -- we have to get going." And I go to the closet to look for the shirt I have to wear tonight. Yes, the only shirt I CAN wear to Justin's art show.
Continue on to "Outlaw Blues -- Part 2, Page 2", the second page.
©Gaedhal, December 2002
Send Gaedhal any comments, critiques, suggestions. I welcome all of your feedback on this chapter.
Updated December 8, 2002