TAINTED LOVE

"A Queer As Folk USA FanFic"

by Gaedhal

This is Chapter 36 of the "Queer Realities" series.

The narrators are Tim Reilly and Dylan Burke, and features Justin Taylor, Others.
Summary: Justin looks for help, while Dylan looks for a chance. Pittsburgh. February 2003.

It's a quiet morning. A few calls to make, a few clients to see. This afternoon I need to stop by the AIDS Hospice to see how a few of my guys are doing. Mid-winter blues are starting to get to me, so I need to keep busy. I think they are getting to everyone in these waning days of February.

I pick up my cup and open the door of my office. When I see him I stop short. "Justin? What are you doing here? I was just going to refill my coffee. Would you like some? Or a cup of tea?"

He hesitates, glancing around nervously. "No thanks, Tim. I wonder if... if I could talk to you for a few minutes?"

"Certainly, Justin. Why don't you have a seat while I go and get my coffee?"

He walks inside and sits down, while I go down the hall for my refill. Cory is sitting behind his desk, answering phones.

"Do you mind holding my calls?" I ask him.

"Sure," says Cory, setting down the receiver. "I saw the young guy come in. Is he a new client?"

"Oh, no," I say. "Justin is a friend."

"That's good," says Cory. "I hate to think of a beautiful young kid like that being infected. But I guess it happens every day. And that's why we're all here."

"I know." And when it happens I'm often the one who sees them. Young and old and middle-aged. But it's the young guys, the ones who have their whole lives ahead of them, who are the hardest. That's the downside of working in AIDS Outreach. "Unfortunately."

I carry my coffee back down the hall and shut the door of my office behind me.

"Justin," I say, sitting down behind my desk. "This is a very pleasant surprise. I was saying to Vic just the other night that we should give you a call and have you over for dinner. With Brian away...." I hesitate for a second. But Justin knows that I'm aware that Brian is in rehab, so it's silly to pretend that he's somewhere in California sitting by a swimming pool. "With Brian away I bet you'd love one of Vic's special Italian dinners."

But Justin doesn't smile. That's unusual. The first thing I think about when I picture Justin in my mind is his ubiquitous smile.

"I need to talk to you, Tim." Justin's face is so strange. So serious. So... something is definitely wrong.

"Justin, is there something you want to discuss with me?" I ask. I feel very uneasy sitting here, watching him. I've had so many depressing conversations in this room. Talking to young men who have just been diagnosed. Talking to middle-aged men who are trying to keep their lives on an even keel after dealing with HIV for many years. And talking to men who are nearing the end of their struggle. Not as many these days with all the new drugs, but still too many. So damned many!

"Tim," he begins slowly. "I came to you for... for two reasons. I can't talk about this with anyone else. And I mean that. You used to be a priest, so you know how to keep a secret, which is something that Emmett can't do. It's something I can't talk to my friend, Marshall, about either. Or Deb. Or my mother. Not even Daphne. I just...." He falters.

"Take your time, Justin," I tell him. I realize that I've unconsciously turned on my 'confessional voice' -- soft, low, and sympathetic. "Say what you need to say. I'm listening. And I promise that I'll never betray your trust."

"Betray my trust?" he repeats. "That's a funny word. Betray. I never thought much about it before." He stops and shivers. It's warm in my office, but he keeps his coat on, as if something is frozen inside of him. "The other reason I came to you, Tim, is because... because of Brian."

"Brian?" I sit up, all attention.

"Yes," says Justin. "Because I know you had a relationship with him. It may have been a long time ago, but you had one. There aren't many men who can say that. At least...." Justin swallows. "At least men who are alive."

"I doubt that Brian would call what we had a relationship," I remind him. "Brian never did relationships, remember? Until you, of course."

Justin's face is pale. He licks his lips, which look slightly chapped from the cold weather. "It was a relationship, Tim, from what I know about it. Brian used to claim that you only fucked a couple of times, but I know that isn't true. Things that he's said, and things that Vic has said, and even things that Michael's said, all tell me that it was more than that. Was it, Tim? Was it more than that?"

I take a deep, deep breath. This is such ancient history. And ancient emotions that I've buried deeply. "Even if it was a relationship, Justin, that's part of the past. What I did to Brian -- what WE did together -- is something that I'll always regret. It was wrong. It was a sin. And it was...."

"Brian doesn't believe in sin, Tim," Justin interrupts. "And he doesn't believe in love. Brian believes in fucking, as we all know so well! So I don't think he would see anything that you two did as a sin."

"Brian didn't always not believe in love, Justin," I remind him gently. "And he believes in it now. That much is obvious. Obvious to anyone who sees you two together."

He closes his eyes for a moment and then opens them, staring me down. His eyes are so blue. So blue and so clear. And so very troubled. "What Brian believes right now is beside the point. But the one thing I do know is that... that you loved him. I know that you did. That was obvious to me the first time I ever saw you two together at Brian's big dinner at Papagano's last year. I saw your face, Tim. And I saw his face, too. You loved him."

I look away from Justin's eyes. He seems... angry. Or is it frightened? I'm not certain. But there's some powerful emotion churning inside of him. An emotion he's struggling to contain. Or release.

"Yes," I admit. "But that was a very long time ago. And the circumstances were... impossible, to say the least. And Brian didn't have the same feelings for me. Perhaps he liked me, but he certainly didn't love me. He wasn't IN love with me. He was simply a very needy, lonely boy and I was a very needy, lonely, and foolish man. But it ended, thank God. It ended. And I left the priesthood not long afterwards. I knew that I couldn't stay any longer and deny my sexual feelings. I couldn't deny my feelings for Brian. And I could no longer deny that I was a gay man."

"But you didn't go to Brian then, after you left the priesthood!" says Justin, his voice rising. "You didn't go back to him!"

"No," I say. "It would have been wrong. Brian needed to find his own way and his own life. And so did I." I pause, thinking. What would my life have been like if I had gone after Brian back then? Could we actually have been happy together? Or was it already too late? But I have to put that thought away, far back inside my head. I can't dwell on what might have been. I don't want even to consider it.

"But you did it," says Justin, his voice trembling. "You walked away from Brian. You loved him and you walked away."

"Yes," I answer, my words sounding hollow in my head. "I walked away. Because it was the right thing to do. For both of us."

"I want to know," says Justin, his voice almost in a whisper. "I want to know how you did it. You're the only one I can ask. The only one who's done it. The only one who turned and walked away."

"Justin, what do you mean?" I ask with great concern.

"I want to walk away, Tim. I don't want to love him," he replies. "I... I can't do it anymore. I want to know how you made yourself stop loving Brian -- and how you survived it. I need to know! So that I can do it, too."

I sit there behind my desk and stare at Justin like we are both on distant planets, separated by light years of space. What am I really hearing? What is he telling me? The words are coming out of Justin, but I can't believe them. Can't get my mind around them.

"Justin, what happened?" I say as gently as possible. "What did Brian do now?"

Justin's face gets red and his eyes flare at me. "It always has to be what Brian did or didn't do to me! It's always about Brian, isn't it, Tim? It's never about what I fucking want or what I fucking need! I'm sick of it!" Justin jumps up. "This was a huge mistake. I have to get the fuck out of here."

I stand up and grab at his arm. "Justin! Please stay! Please talk to me about this."

His face goes through so many changes. Something is tearing him apart inside. Then he sits back down.

"Justin, you wouldn't have come to me if you didn't have something to talk to me about," I continue. "If this is about Brian or about yourself or about whatever -- please allow me to help you. That's what I do all day -- I talk to people. People who are in trouble. People who are often facing illness or even death. I know I'm not a priest any longer, but anything you say to me stops here. I promise you that. I would never betray your confidence."

"I'm sure Brian thought that, too, when he trusted you," Justin says, wearily.

"I've never spoken of that to anyone and I won't now." I swallow hard. This is not only about Justin and his lover -- it's about me, too. About me and Brian. "And I can't speak about it even to you, Justin. I've tried so hard to make up for the sins I committed against Brian, although you're right. I doubt that Brian would ever see what we did as a sin. But that's what it was to me and I'll always be paying for that betrayal, every day of my life. Perhaps helping you might be part of that payback. But if you still want to leave, then I won't stop you."

But he sits there. His smooth, pale face is mottled with red. I think he's going to bolt out the door. But he doesn't.

"I only want it all to be over." His voice is low, but steady. "A year ago I was alone in the loft. And now, a year later, I'm still alone in the loft. I loved Brian a year ago and the year before that. And... and I still love him. But everything is falling apart, Tim. I feel like I can't keep living like this. I feel that Brian is trying, but that even as hard as he's trying, he'll never be better. Never. It'll always be like this. Brian trying, and then Brian fucking up, and then me forgiving him and trying to help him. And then it all starts over again!"

"Every relationship goes through these challenges, Justin," I tell him. It's a patented response, but it's true. "Sometimes you have to roll with the punches."

"But that's all I do," he replies, his voice harsh. "Roll with it. One fucking thing after another. In the beginning I had to live with Brian telling me that I was nothing. That I was meaningless to him. I had to live with him always pushing me away and flaunting his tricks in my fucking face! Then when I got bashed I had to deal with Brian abandoning me. Never visiting me. Never showing me that he cared about whether I was... was dead or alive." Justin stops, his voice breaking. "It was like being bashed all over again. It was like being dead inside. Then I had to deal with his... his pity. Taking me back in only because he felt guilty about what had happened to me."

"It was more than just guilt," I say. "Brian really loves you."

"It was guilt," he answers firmly. "Brian told me so himself. He took me in because I took a bat to the head. But then, just when I was beginning to think he really did have feelings for me, he left me to go to California with Ron. Left me because he couldn't deal with my love. With my overwhelming need. I was smothering him and he couldn't handle it. So when Ron came along at the perfect time and gave him an out, Brian grabbed it. He wouldn't have to be 'Brian Fucking Kinney' anymore. And he wouldn't have to deal with my shit -- or with my love -- anymore."

I have to put the breaks on this. Because that isn't the entire story. Not at all.

"So why is Brian in rehab now, trying to turn his life around?" I tell him. "Because he knows that he finally has to deal with his own emotions. And who do you think Brian is doing it for, Justin? Who do you think he cares about enough to want to make that change in himself and in his life?"

But Justin pulls back. "For himself. That's who, Tim. And for his career. Because the studio is forcing him to. Those are all good reasons. Better reasons than to please some kid who... who thinks that he's in love with him."

"Thinks?" I say. "You only 'think' you are in love with Brian?"

"Love," Justin whispers. "It's only another fucking word! Words are meaningless, you know? Brian is always telling me that. So when I say that I love him, it's only another word to him. And when he says it to me -- it's more of the same! Empty fucking words!"

"You don't really believe that, Justin, do you?" His hurt is so palpable that I can feel it vibrating across the desk.

"I want to believe it," he says. "I have to believe it. Because things have changed. Things will never be the same way again."

I have to frown at that. "Why, Justin? What's happened to change things?"

"I... I've met someone else." He closes his eyes. "Not met him, really. I've known him for a long time. Since we were kids, actually. But... but...." Justin opens his blue eyes and it's like I'm seeing another person sitting there. "We fucked. I refused to go up to see Brian last weekend. I lied to him and told him that I was too busy. But I wasn't too busy. I was angry! Did you read his interview in 'The Advocate'?"

"Yes," I say. "I read it. Vic showed it to me and we talked about it. And we both agreed that the interview sounded like Classic Brian Kinney -- in-your-face, defiant, and so very naive about his own emotions. When did he give that interview, Justin? Before he went into rehab?"

Justin nods. "In December. Right before Ron died."

"That was months ago. Things are very different now, Justin. Aren't they?"

"Are they?" Justin spits back, suddenly very, very angry. "Are things different? Can Brian ever be different? Really? I don't think so! I don't think he can be different!" Justin is taking deep breaths, almost panting, like he's been running a great distance. "But I can be different. I know I can. Maybe this is my last chance to be me. Only while Brian is away. Because when he's there, in front of me, I can't think. I can't be myself. I'm only Brian's piece of blond boy ass. That's all I want to be when I'm in the same room with him. And that's what I'll be when he comes back from rehab. Kinney's piece of ass. Kinney's boytoy. That's why I have to try now to get my heart away! To try something else."

"Try something with this new man?" I clench my hands on my desk because I find that I'm shaking. "A relationship? Behind Brian's back?"

"He has a name! Dylan! His name is Dylan." Justin stops and wipes at his nose. "And it's just fucking, Tim. That's the last thing Brian cares about. Fucking. It's meaningless to him. But it's never meaningless to me. Not even when I try to make it meaningless. Not even in the backroom at Babylon. I could never separate my mind from my body the way Brian can. I tried to -- and it almost killed me."

"And you don't think Brian would care to know that you are fucking some guy -- meaninglessly?" My voice comes down harder than I mean it to. "Because it sounds like you have feelings for this boy. As you say -- it's not meaningless then. But is it fair to Brian? To your partner?"

"Partner," he repeats. "What does that even mean? Are we really partners? He's probably fucking a bunch of different guys in rehab. Fucking them and not thinking twice about it. Michael told me once that fucking to Brian is like shaking hands. And means exactly as much."

"Has Brian said that he is? Has he admitted that to you?"

"No," says Justin. "He doesn't have to. But I know Brian. If he isn't right now, then he will be soon. In rehab or in Pittsburgh or out in Los Angeles or on the fucking moon! That's Brian! He will. Nothing I can ever say or do will stop him."

"But it seems to matter to you," I reply. "Has this other man -- Dylan -- has he told you that he loves you?"

But Justin doesn't answer right away. He's blinking and his right hand is balled into a fist. Then I realize that it's shaking. That's his bad hand and he can't control it.

"We went to a party on Saturday night," he tells me, his voice numbed. "I had a few beers and them we both took some 'E.' Sex is... is pretty great on 'E.'"

"So I've been told," I say. "But it's not real, either, Justin. You're fucking the drug, not the person."

"No, Tim!" Justin's voice rises. "The drug was fucking ME! Dylan fucked me, Tim! I was sucking him off and I wanted to do it. He was doing me, too. It felt good. He felt good. I wanted to do it! I wanted to! Believe me!"

"I believe you, Justin," I say, trying to calm him. "There's no need to shout. It's all right."

He clenches and unclenches his stiff right hand. "Then Dylan fucked me. I let him fuck me. I wanted him to... to fuck me! But then when he started to do it... I panicked. I tried to stop him. But... it was too late."

"Justin," I say, reaching over to touch his trembling right hand. "Did you tell him to stop, but he kept going? Even after you told him not to? Justin -- this is... serious. Do you understand what happened to you?"

"No!" he yells. "I wanted him! I wanted him to fuck me! I only got scared for a minute!" Justin's face is ashen. "He didn't... didn't do anything to me!" Justin grabs my hand and clings to it. "Brian was the only one I'd ever let... let inside me. The only one I ever wanted to be inside me. That was something that was... it was for US. But I needed Dylan to fuck me! Don't you see, Tim? I needed Dylan to fuck that stupid, romantic notion out of me! I needed Dylan to fuck Brian OUT of me! Don't you understand? Don't you?"

I'm not certain what to say to this boy. What's he telling me horrifies me. Makes me sick to my stomach. And makes my heart bleed for him and for his pain.

"Justin, you need to think about this some more. To talk about this with someone who knows what to say to you." I try to think about who I know who might be able to help him. The only place I can think of is the Rape Crisis Center, because there is no doubt in my mind that Justin was raped by this Dylan person. Maybe it would be considered date rape, but that doesn't make any difference. This man forced Justin to have anal intercourse. And he seems to have given him drugs and alcohol to break down Justin's defenses. That Justin is a man and gay shouldn't matter. It was an assault, plain and simple. And Justin knows it.

"I'm not talking to anyone else about this, Tim!" Justin stands up quickly. "I shouldn't have told you about it! I knew you'd misunderstand! Fuck YOU, Tim! Fuck it all!" And Justin rushes out of my office.

I leap up and run after him into the hallway. "Justin! Don't go! Come back and talk to me!" I plead. "This is important! Don't bury it inside yourself! Please!"

Justin is out the front door. I run into the parking lot, but he's already in the Jeep. Then he peels out, hurtling onto Liberty Avenue.

But he's gone.

***

I look at my watch. 3:45! What the fuck? Where the hell is he?

I decide to stay another 10 minutes in front of the building. But that's all. Fuck this! I'm freezing and I'm hungry and I need a fucking drink, too.

And then I see Kinney's Jeep. That big black box comes lumbering down Fuller and pulls up right in front of the building.

Shit. He's got that kid with him. Kinney's fucking son. He's always dragging that drooling brat all over town, like he's a goddamn babysitter or something.

He sees me but he doesn't acknowledge it. He looks the other way as he parks the Jeep. He's obviously pissed off. Fuck. So what else is new? Between him and my stupid roommate and my coach and my old man the whole fucking world is pissed off at me.

But I take a deep breath anyway. I don't want to blow this chance. I've gotten this far and I'm not about to back off. Not when the person I've been chasing after for my whole fucking life is finally in reach.

Justin opens the door of the Jeep and that's when he begins to have problems. He's struggling with bags of groceries and his bookbag and portfolio -- and he's got the kid, too. He's struggling with the car seat, trying to unbuckle it. And the kid is wriggling around, punching out his little fists like he's about ready to cry.

I set my bundle down on the sidewalk and walk over. Dylan Burke to the fucking rescue! "Let me help you with that." I'm always such a gentleman.

"Fuck off, Dylan!" he says, heatedly. "I can do it myself!"

"Give me the bags and you take the kid," I tell him.

"I can do it!" he shouts at me.

And that's when the kid starts screaming. And I mean really fucking screaming his head off. And he's beating at Justin with his little, snot-covered fists.

Justin stands back, looking totally defeated. I have this weird urge to put my arms around him and hug him. Yeah, I'm not a guy who hugs people. No fucking way. However... I put my arms around him and hold him. That's exactly right.

And Justin totally fucking loses it. Both he and the kid are crying. There's nothing I can do about the kid, so I focus on Justin.

"It's okay," I say, holding him tightly and stroking his soft, sweet hair. "Everything is okay." And I think for a minute that it just might be okay after all.

Finally, he pulls away, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. "You take the other bags and I'll take Gus."

The kid stares at Justin's red face and quiets down while Justin fumbles to undo the car seat straps. He frees the kid and lifts him out of the backseat of the Jeep. He takes a blue quilted bag off the floor and slings it over his shoulder. Then he picks up the kid. I get the rest of the shit and carry it to the door, retrieving my own bundle while I'm at it.

We ride up the rickety elevator to the top floor. To the loft. Kinney's Lair. It looks like you're going to walk into a fucking storage room -- until he slides open the door and you see the place. Then you're fucking knocked out! It's sweet, let me tell you. All silver metal and white furniture. The first time I ever walked into the place my mouth was hanging open. I knew that this was a whole new fucking level. But it didn't intimidate me. I'm up to the challenge. I'm up to any fucking challenge!

Justin puts the kid down and strips off his hat, jacket, gloves, and boots. I put the groceries on the kitchen counter and set his bookbag and portfolio on the floor. And I put my own bundle on the breakfast bar or whatever it is. It's metal with stools so you can sit there and eat or drink coffee, like a fancy faggot diner. I run my hands over the smooth surfaces. Everything in this place is smooth and cool. Expensive. Sweet.

Justin gets a few toys out of the quilted shoulder bag and then he turns on the TV. The kid is quiet now, although he gazes at me skeptically. Then the kid shrugs and sits in front of the huge screen on the furry white rug. Some cartoons flash across the screen and the kid is mesmerized.

That's when Justin turns his attention on me.

"Babysitting?" I smirk.

"What the fuck are you doing here, Dylan?" Justin seems tired. When he's not smiling his face looks so fucking grim. And so fucking sad.

"I've only called you about a thousand times since Sunday," I reply. "Were you planning on calling me back? Or were you going to make me sweat bullets?" And I give him my most ingratiating grin.

But his face is rigid. "Get out of here, Dylan. I don't have time for this." He starts putting away his groceries. Milk and beer and cornflakes. Diet Coke and Orange juice. A bunch of bananas. Peanut butter.

"You don't have time to call me?" I ask. "You don't have time to see me at all? Don't you think you owe me at least one phone call?"

Justin freezes. "I owe you?" He stares at me. "I can't believe what I'm hearing. I can't believe that you're standing here, in my home, telling ME that I fucking OWE you a phone call. Or owe you anything!"

Okay, Dylan. He's really pissed. This is the make it or break it moment, so don't fuck it up!

"I love you, Justin," I almost whisper. "I've always loved you. Ever since we were kids. I thought I proved that to you at the party on Saturday night? It hurts me that you seem to treat our making love as... as only a fuck. I guess that's what you've learned from your 'boyfriend.' But it means more than that to me. And I thought it meant more to you, too."

His face is blank. A fucking blank. Then he blinks at me. "Making love? That's what you call it? Getting drunk and... and getting high and then fucking? That's making love? That's not making love, Dylan! Not to me!"

He turns away, but I clutch at his arm and force him to look at me. "So what if we had a few beers and a bump? So fucking what? It's not the situation, Justin. It's the person. That's what matters! I wanted to make love to YOU -- and you wanted to make love to ME, too! So don't fucking deny it! You knew exactly what you were doing!"

He swallows. His face is so close to mine. I can smell him. Fucking taste him!

"Yes," he says slowly. "I... I knew what I was doing. I knew where I was. I'm not some high school girl in a panic because she did the dirty deed with her boyfriend and now regrets it. I've fucked plenty of guys in my life. I'm no blushing virgin."

"So what's the fucking problem?" I ask. Really! Come on, dude, this is two guys here! "Justin, you're acting like I did something wrong. Don't you believe that... that I love you?"

"I don't know what to believe," he says flatly.

"Because you 'love' Brian Kinney?" I snap. "Or because you think you love him -- or think you're supposed to love him?"

"I don't know what I'm supposed to believe anymore," he says honestly. "My goddamn head aches trying to think about it! But don't push me, Dylan. And don't question me about Brian. He has nothing to do with you. Or with us."

Us. He said it. US!

"I'd never push you, Justin," I say. I rub his arm softly. I want to kiss him, but I also don't want him to freak out. "I don't want to push you into something you aren't ready for. But I also don't want you to think that I don't care. Because I do!"

I can see him melting -- at least a little. He doesn't look angry anymore, only exhausted. And confused. But Justin's confusion is my opportunity.

"I brought these for you." I pick up the bundle from the breakfast bar and put it into his arms. It's all wrapped up in dark blue paper. I asked for the dark blue particularly. It reminded me of his eyes.

"What's this?" he asks. But he knows what it is. He hesitates.

"Open it." I smile slightly. "I don't have a lot of money for anything really fancy, but I thought these were nice."

He rips at the paper and uncovers the flowers. 'Spring Bouquet' the flaming queen at the florist shop said. Lots of daisies and little purple flowers and green stuff. What the fuck do I know about flowers?

"The guy said to put them in water right away," I tell him. "So they won't shrivel up."

"Yes," says Justin. "I know." Then he looks up at me. "But I can't have flowers. I'm allergic. They make me sneeze."

Total bullshit! "I don't see you sneezing, Justin." And he's not. The flowers are right up in his face. And he's not sneezing at all.

"But... I'm allergic to flowers," he insists. "And just about everything else. Animals. Dogs and cats. Most drugs. Even Tylenol."

I smirk at him. "Club drugs, too?" Because I've seen him high. I've even seen him at Babylon, obviously high on 'E.' Then the other night he was as high as a kite. We were both flying and it was so fucking sweet! There's nothing like fucking when you're tripping!

"I... I mean...." He seems confused. "That's different. I... sometimes I get a reaction and sometimes I don't. It's...."

"Sounds like an excuse to me, Justin. No offense, but you're only allergic when you want to be. Then when you want to get high, you aren't allergic at all. It's so convenient. If you don't want my flowers, then tell me to my face." I'm all hurt. What the fuck? Does he think I'm an idiot? "Just don't make some lame excuse that you're allergic when I can see that you aren't."

"But I am!" he repeats. "Usually. Sometimes." He touches the petals on one of the flowers. Then he sniffs it tentatively. Nothing. He looks up at me. "Brian sent me a huge bouquet of roses and I almost fell over! My eyes were watering like crazy! I ended up throwing them all in the trash. I couldn't have them in here. I... I couldn't...." His voice trails off.

I step forward. And that's when I take him into my arms. Stroke him. Kiss him. Breathe in the sweetness. "Maybe it wasn't the roses you're allergic to." Fuck! I'm so hard! "Maybe it wasn't the roses at all."

"Then what?" he whispers. He buries his face in my flannel shirt and I put my mouth on his pale hair.

"Kinney," I say. "That's who you're allergic to. Him and all of his bullshit. Your body is telling you, but you don't want to listen. Maybe because you're afraid to let go. But now you have something else."

I feel him tremble. But then he relaxes.

"Like what?" he pleads. He's asking. Begging.

"Like me."

©Gaedhal, March 2005.

Posted March 3, 2005.