"Queer Identities" -- Chapter 73 "It Ain't Me, Babe"
Brian is Brian -- for good or ill.
This is Chapter 73 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Dorian Folco, Neil Winn, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian carries on. Toronto/New York City, December 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Earlier "QI" chapters online and on the LJ are here:
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaelmcgear/Gaedhalficpage.html
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaedhal/
Most recent "QI" chapters on the LJ are here:
Ch. 70 "All or Nothing at All"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/418398.html
Ch. 71 "It's Too Late"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/419286.html
Ch. 72 "Independent"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/419501.html
By Gaedhal
"Go away from my window,
Leave at your own chosen speed.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I'm not the one you need.
You say you're lookin' for someone
Never weak but always strong,
To protect you and defend you
Whether you are right or wrong,
Someone to open each and every door --
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe..."
***
"Fantastic, Brian," says Dorian. "That's a wrap for today, people. And Neil -- very good for you, too. I know that was a difficult scene."
"It was fine," I say.
"It felt good," Neil adds. "Really good."
The kid is always waiting for what I say, or what Dorian says, looking for reassurance. But he doesn't need all that stroking. He's fine. He's a good actor. And compared to Vaughn, he's fucking De Niro.
The scenes between Jack and Ron are tricky. They feel strange. Fucking déjà vu. But that's my own fault. I wrote them that way. What I remember. What I can never forget.
Dorian has a copy of Ron's 'Red Shirt' for reference. He's always checking it for language, for the look of a scene. Dorian is an artist and the look of this thing is important to him.
Me, I don't give a shit about the look.
I'm not sure what I give a shit about anymore.
Things have been weird ever since I got back from Pittsburgh. Not the actual filming -- that's been cruising along without a hitch. It's me. I'm weird. It's hard for me to focus. Hard to think.
And yet Dorian -- and everyone else, for that matter -- keeps telling me how good I am. That throws me. I'm used to thinking I'm crap. That I'm getting by on my looks, on my ass. That I'm fooling everyone and they'll eventually figure it out and toss me out on my ass.
I keep thinking that's what happened with 'The Eastern Front.' They figured it out.
I know that's not the truth, but it sticks in my head and I can't rid of it.
And Dorian -- he's been weird with me, too.
Well, maybe not weird. But gentle with me. Like the wranglers on 'Red River' were gentle and soothing with the horses so they wouldn't freak out during certain scenes.
I know how those horses felt. Like there's a rattlesnake under every bush. And they were right.
Rattlesnakes. Ready to bite you on the ass.
I brought something back with me from Pittsburgh. And last night I showed it to Dorian.
Maybe I shouldn't have done it. Maybe it was dangerous to do it. Maybe it was dragging Dorian into something he never should have been dragged into, but I had to.
He's so fucking obsessed with getting things right. With getting to the truth of a character. With knowing everything. Well, now he knows everything.
We had shot some of the so-called 'porn' scenes with Vaughn, but they were crap. Before we did them again for real with Neil, I knew I've have to bring out my final card. My game-changer. Or not. But I owed it to Dorian. The truth, you know what I mean?
So I invited Dorian over to my suite at the Four Seasons and told him to sit down. "You need to see this," I said, turning on the VCR. "I wanted you to watch it before we do the big sex scene tomorrow."
He looked at me curiously. "What is it?"
"Something Ron filmed." I paused. "From a long time ago. In New York."
And that's when he knew. Because I wrote it into the script -- and now we were going to film it. Ron's private fuck film -- starring yours truly.
"No!" Dorian breathed. "You never told me you had this!"
"Only a few people know about it," I told him. "My lawyer. Ron's old girlfriend Jane. And Justin." I didn't add that Jimmy also knew about it. Or that he'd found it in Ron's VCR after his suicide. "Ron thought the film was destroyed years ago, but when they decided to do the 'Red Shirt' DVD Jane sent him all the raw footage -- she'd kept everything during all the years when the legal crap was going on with NYU -- and there it was."
Dorian swallowed. "And he showed it to you?"
"Yes."
I didn't go into all the shit about Ron showing it to Justin or why I dragged Walter Urbanski, my shark of a lawyer, into it. Dorian doesn't have to know every sordid detail.
"Are you sure you want me to see this, Brian?"
I nod. "Yes. But only if you really want to. Remember, this is technically illegal as fuck. I was only 16 when Ron filmed it. But..." I shrug. "What did Shakespeare say? Something about 'That was in another country and the lass is dead.'"
"I'm willing to take that chance."
And so I turned it on.
Neither of us said a word, we just watched. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. I know Ron watched it as a turn-on, but that's not what drew me in. It wasn't sexy to me, it was painful. Ron and I were so young, so unaware of the future. It's a fucking tragedy in the making.
You never know what's going to happen. You never know how things are going to turn out. We couldn't have known. But one thing I did know then -- it wouldn't last. We were fucking doomed.
"We need to show this to Neil," Dorian said as it ended.
That made me laugh. "No fucking way! I'm not going to show this to that kid!"
Dorian glanced at me sideways. "Did you show it to Vaughn Powell?"
That brought me up short. "Jesus, Dorian! I may let my dick lead me around like a dog on a leash a lot of the time, but I'm not fucking brain-damaged!"
"But Justin has seen it."
I didn't reply.
Then he asked a typical director's question. "Where's the original footage?"
"I assume it's with all the reels from 'Red Shirt' -- in storage at UCLA. Or maybe Ron destroyed it, although I doubt that. He was too invested in... in us. But what the fuck difference does it make now? Ron's dead. It's not like anyone's going to go after him for corrupting a minor -- me!" I laughed bitterly. "This was Ron's personal dub. If there are any others I don't know about them."
"I'm glad you showed me this," Dorian said as he got up to leave. "It's the missing piece of the puzzle. He really was a complex man."
"That's putting it mildly. But I keep thinking it didn't have to turn out the way it did. And the fact that Ron's dead -- I blame myself. I fucked up at every turn."
Dorian put his hand on my shoulder. "You're not to blame, Brian. Ron made his own choices. And you made your choices as well. We all do what we will and then we must live with the consequences. Ron couldn't live with his choices. But you can and you have. That makes you the stronger one."
Living with your choices and the consequences. That's the key. I've always taken what life has thrown at me and barrelled ahead, saying fuck it all. But now...
I look at what might be ahead of me and wonder if it's worth it in the long run.
I keep reaching to feel my ball -- and I always stop myself.
I don't want to know what the future will bring.
I only want to finish this picture. That's my only goal right now.
And I want it to be right. I want it to be good. Not just for Ron, but for myself.
I want to leave behind something I can be proud of. Something I created.
Something...
***
So we get past the big sex scenes.
I'd been dreading them. What felt hot with Vaughn, with Neil feels... awkward. It isn't me and Neil pretending to fuck, it's Ron and Jack. All the strangeness of that time, the mystery, the fear -- that's what I feel. And all of that makes the scenes better. With Vaughn it was like watching someone's bad homemade porn. But with Neil it's... acting. But it feels more honest.
Dorian invites me to see the dailies. He doesn't invite Neil. "I don't want him to be self-conscious," he explains.
"But it's okay if I feel self-conscious?" I joke.
Dorian only gives me his headmaster look.
Watching the takes is another case of déjà vu. I don't really look like Ron and Neil doesn't really look like I did in 1988, but it doesn't matter. They feel real. Authentic.
"It's good," I say mainly to myself.
"Yes," Dorian agrees. "You seem surprised."
"I am. At least something is working in my life."
Insert awkward pause.
"Tell me, Brian," Dorian prods. "Tell me what's bothering you. You can confide in me."
I almost tell him. About Justin. About Vic.
And about... myself. About my fucking ball.
But I can't. I can't do it.
"It's nothing. I only want this thing to be right."
"It will be," says Dorian, standing and stretching. "Saturday we move to New York and finish the shoot there. Then I need to head back to Los Angeles and work on 'Red River.' But the editing for this shouldn't be too difficult. I shot precisely to the script, like Hitchcock!" And then he laughs.
"You should do a Hitchcock flick, Dorian. Guy in trouble, running from the law, mysterious blonde, lots of chases."
"Perhaps next year. I have enough on my plate right now. What are your plans, Brian?"
I just shrug.
New York for two more weeks.
Then... back to L.A. And Christmas.
And after that...
Who the fuck knows?
At my suite I pour myself a double. Jim Beam. Bourbon is for drinking alone.
I should call Gorowitz. He's the one I should be confiding in. He's my fucking shrink, after all. But he'll want me to come back to Springhurst for a 'refresher course.' Fuck that. I've done the rehab thing. I've gotten past Vaughn Powell and his fucking dope. A couple of drinks after hours won't kill me. And neither will a couple of joints.
I sit with the cellphone in my hand, staring at it.
Even if he answered it would be useless. Justin's also made his choice. And I can't disagree with it. It's a man's decision. And if it's right for him, I'm not going to stand in his way.
I would never want to stand in his way. Or fucking drag him down.
There's a knock at the door.
I should have guessed it's trouble. A knock at a hotel room door after midnight is always trouble.
For one moment before I open the door, I think it's Justin. That it has to be Justin. Who else would show up right now, when I need him the most?
Who else?
"Hey Brian," says Neil. He's blinking like a deer caught in the headlights. And he looks ridiculously young, although he's older than Justin was -- that first time.
"What can I do for you?" Keep it formal, Kinney. Polite, but formal.
"I...I..." he stammers. "Can I come in? To talk."
Talk. I've heard that one before. "Talk about what?"
"Some... stuff."
I hold my breath. I should close the door. Lock it. Double-bolt it. Push a dresser in front of it.
But instead I let the kid in.
Because I'm a fucking idiot.
***
I've reserved the same suite at the Tribeca Grand I had before we left for Toronto. A little continuity is always good.
Yeah, a lot of things are good.
But a lot of things are fucking bad, too.
Drinking too much. Smoking too much. Too much weed. Too much sex.
In New York it's easy to be bad. Too easy.
Thankfully, Neil Winn is no Vaughn Powell. For one thing, the minute we get back to New York, I find out he has a boyfriend, Jamie, a skinny redhead who dances in some Broadway show. He and the boyfriend were on the outs when Dorian brought him to Toronto, which is why he decided he had a crush on me. But once he's on his home turf, Neil is the one who cools things off, much to my relief. His crush dissipates and the boyfriend is firmly back in the picture.
I'm not what this kid needs. I'm not what anyone needs, especially some kid.
Jesus.
When the fuck did I get to be this twink magnet? Or chicken hawk. It freaks me out because it makes me feel too fucking old. At 32 I'm not ready to feel old.
But then I consider that Ron was only around 25 when I met him. It's strange to think about that -- he seemed so much older than me, but the difference was only nine years. Only nine years! Listen to me! I'm something like twelve or thirteen years older than both Vaughn and Neil. And Justin, too. That definitely makes me feel old. Maybe I am a dirty old man after all.
Neil stops coming around, which is just as well. The sex was only okay. Not the kid's fault, but mine. Even when my heart isn't in it, I can usually perform better than the average queer -- that's why I'm Brian fucking Kinney, after all! But something isn't right. It's that ache in my groin. Maybe it's only in my head, but I'm feeling shit I never felt before. And my dick is balking. After I shoot I can't get it up again the way I used to.
And the other night I was jerking off -- and I felt a pain when I accidently knocked my nut with my hand. I thought my head would fly off, that's how much it hurt.
I know I have to see a doctor, but...
I can't do it.
I can get on the internet. I can fucking read. A lump on your ball can mean a couple of things, not all of them tragic.
But there's no way I'm going to dodge this bullet.
And there's no way I'm going to live my life as a one-balled wonder.
Brian Kinney -- damaged goods.
Brian Kinney -- fucking finished.
It's snowing in New York, which is exactly what Dorian was praying for. The first day we film on the streets of the Lower East Side it's exactly like it was in January 1988 -- cold and windy and miserable. The difference is that I have a warm coat and scarf and gloves. Neil and the other kids playing the hustlers are in thin jackets and sneakers. The fucking wind cuts right through all of us. The crew has heaters for the cast to huddle around between takes, but it's still fucking freezing.
I shiver and that's not acting.
I'm also aware that today is Justin's birthday.
What is all the hoo-ha about birthdays, anyway? Another fucking year, another day on the calendar that you'd rather forget.
He's 21.
He's a man, officially, although he's been a man for a long, long time.
This morning I got a call from Hilly. Apparently Justin's moved out of the loft. Hilly got a letter notifying him that the loft was empty. He's still driving the Jeep, but he wrote Hilly it's only until he gets 'alternate transportation.' What the fuck is that? Is he going to ride around the Pitts on a fucking bicycle like Ben Bruckner?
I should have his P.T. Cruiser shipped to him. He needs a decent vehicle, especially in the winter. I don't want him driving some unreliable pile of shit. But Justin would probably think that was me trying to control him.
Like I'd try to fucking control him! I can't even control myself.
Whatever the fuck.
It's better this way.
If I get sick...
Shit.
And I was always so careful with...
Well, if they don't get you one way, they get you the other way.
I walk down the Bowery as they film me. I look over and see Marc Gerasi behind the camera. Too weird. Too much.
This isn't me. It's someone else.
Another life.
But I have to claim it.
If I knew how to say what you want me to say, Justin, how to do what you want me to do, I still can't guarantee that I could say it or do it.
That's not me. The way I was. The way I am. The way I will be for the time I have left.
As if I really know who I am anymore.
Or for how long.
Happy birthday, brat.
I don't have anything left to give you that you don't already have.
And isn't that the way it should be?
***
"Go lightly from the ledge, babe,
Go lightly on the ground.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I'll only let you down.
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part,
Someone to close his eyes for you,
Someone to close his heart,
Someone who will die for you and more --
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.
Go melt back into the night, babe,
Everything inside is made of stone.
There's nothing in here moving
And anyway I'm not alone.
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall,
To gather flowers constantly
And to come each time you call,
A lover for your life and nothing more --
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.
(Bob Dylan)
(Credit to Piksa for the first beautiful shot of Gale)
This is Chapter 73 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Dorian Folco, Neil Winn, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Brian carries on. Toronto/New York City, December 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Earlier "QI" chapters online and on the LJ are here:
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaelmcgear/Gaedhalficpage.html
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaedhal/
Most recent "QI" chapters on the LJ are here:
Ch. 70 "All or Nothing at All"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/418398.html
Ch. 71 "It's Too Late"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/419286.html
Ch. 72 "Independent"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/419501.html
By Gaedhal
"Go away from my window,
Leave at your own chosen speed.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I'm not the one you need.
You say you're lookin' for someone
Never weak but always strong,
To protect you and defend you
Whether you are right or wrong,
Someone to open each and every door --
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe..."
***
"Fantastic, Brian," says Dorian. "That's a wrap for today, people. And Neil -- very good for you, too. I know that was a difficult scene."
"It was fine," I say.
"It felt good," Neil adds. "Really good."
The kid is always waiting for what I say, or what Dorian says, looking for reassurance. But he doesn't need all that stroking. He's fine. He's a good actor. And compared to Vaughn, he's fucking De Niro.
The scenes between Jack and Ron are tricky. They feel strange. Fucking déjà vu. But that's my own fault. I wrote them that way. What I remember. What I can never forget.
Dorian has a copy of Ron's 'Red Shirt' for reference. He's always checking it for language, for the look of a scene. Dorian is an artist and the look of this thing is important to him.
Me, I don't give a shit about the look.
I'm not sure what I give a shit about anymore.
Things have been weird ever since I got back from Pittsburgh. Not the actual filming -- that's been cruising along without a hitch. It's me. I'm weird. It's hard for me to focus. Hard to think.
And yet Dorian -- and everyone else, for that matter -- keeps telling me how good I am. That throws me. I'm used to thinking I'm crap. That I'm getting by on my looks, on my ass. That I'm fooling everyone and they'll eventually figure it out and toss me out on my ass.
I keep thinking that's what happened with 'The Eastern Front.' They figured it out.
I know that's not the truth, but it sticks in my head and I can't rid of it.
And Dorian -- he's been weird with me, too.
Well, maybe not weird. But gentle with me. Like the wranglers on 'Red River' were gentle and soothing with the horses so they wouldn't freak out during certain scenes.
I know how those horses felt. Like there's a rattlesnake under every bush. And they were right.
Rattlesnakes. Ready to bite you on the ass.
I brought something back with me from Pittsburgh. And last night I showed it to Dorian.
Maybe I shouldn't have done it. Maybe it was dangerous to do it. Maybe it was dragging Dorian into something he never should have been dragged into, but I had to.
He's so fucking obsessed with getting things right. With getting to the truth of a character. With knowing everything. Well, now he knows everything.
We had shot some of the so-called 'porn' scenes with Vaughn, but they were crap. Before we did them again for real with Neil, I knew I've have to bring out my final card. My game-changer. Or not. But I owed it to Dorian. The truth, you know what I mean?
So I invited Dorian over to my suite at the Four Seasons and told him to sit down. "You need to see this," I said, turning on the VCR. "I wanted you to watch it before we do the big sex scene tomorrow."
He looked at me curiously. "What is it?"
"Something Ron filmed." I paused. "From a long time ago. In New York."
And that's when he knew. Because I wrote it into the script -- and now we were going to film it. Ron's private fuck film -- starring yours truly.
"No!" Dorian breathed. "You never told me you had this!"
"Only a few people know about it," I told him. "My lawyer. Ron's old girlfriend Jane. And Justin." I didn't add that Jimmy also knew about it. Or that he'd found it in Ron's VCR after his suicide. "Ron thought the film was destroyed years ago, but when they decided to do the 'Red Shirt' DVD Jane sent him all the raw footage -- she'd kept everything during all the years when the legal crap was going on with NYU -- and there it was."
Dorian swallowed. "And he showed it to you?"
"Yes."
I didn't go into all the shit about Ron showing it to Justin or why I dragged Walter Urbanski, my shark of a lawyer, into it. Dorian doesn't have to know every sordid detail.
"Are you sure you want me to see this, Brian?"
I nod. "Yes. But only if you really want to. Remember, this is technically illegal as fuck. I was only 16 when Ron filmed it. But..." I shrug. "What did Shakespeare say? Something about 'That was in another country and the lass is dead.'"
"I'm willing to take that chance."
And so I turned it on.
Neither of us said a word, we just watched. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't. I know Ron watched it as a turn-on, but that's not what drew me in. It wasn't sexy to me, it was painful. Ron and I were so young, so unaware of the future. It's a fucking tragedy in the making.
You never know what's going to happen. You never know how things are going to turn out. We couldn't have known. But one thing I did know then -- it wouldn't last. We were fucking doomed.
"We need to show this to Neil," Dorian said as it ended.
That made me laugh. "No fucking way! I'm not going to show this to that kid!"
Dorian glanced at me sideways. "Did you show it to Vaughn Powell?"
That brought me up short. "Jesus, Dorian! I may let my dick lead me around like a dog on a leash a lot of the time, but I'm not fucking brain-damaged!"
"But Justin has seen it."
I didn't reply.
Then he asked a typical director's question. "Where's the original footage?"
"I assume it's with all the reels from 'Red Shirt' -- in storage at UCLA. Or maybe Ron destroyed it, although I doubt that. He was too invested in... in us. But what the fuck difference does it make now? Ron's dead. It's not like anyone's going to go after him for corrupting a minor -- me!" I laughed bitterly. "This was Ron's personal dub. If there are any others I don't know about them."
"I'm glad you showed me this," Dorian said as he got up to leave. "It's the missing piece of the puzzle. He really was a complex man."
"That's putting it mildly. But I keep thinking it didn't have to turn out the way it did. And the fact that Ron's dead -- I blame myself. I fucked up at every turn."
Dorian put his hand on my shoulder. "You're not to blame, Brian. Ron made his own choices. And you made your choices as well. We all do what we will and then we must live with the consequences. Ron couldn't live with his choices. But you can and you have. That makes you the stronger one."
Living with your choices and the consequences. That's the key. I've always taken what life has thrown at me and barrelled ahead, saying fuck it all. But now...
I look at what might be ahead of me and wonder if it's worth it in the long run.
I keep reaching to feel my ball -- and I always stop myself.
I don't want to know what the future will bring.
I only want to finish this picture. That's my only goal right now.
And I want it to be right. I want it to be good. Not just for Ron, but for myself.
I want to leave behind something I can be proud of. Something I created.
Something...
***
So we get past the big sex scenes.
I'd been dreading them. What felt hot with Vaughn, with Neil feels... awkward. It isn't me and Neil pretending to fuck, it's Ron and Jack. All the strangeness of that time, the mystery, the fear -- that's what I feel. And all of that makes the scenes better. With Vaughn it was like watching someone's bad homemade porn. But with Neil it's... acting. But it feels more honest.
Dorian invites me to see the dailies. He doesn't invite Neil. "I don't want him to be self-conscious," he explains.
"But it's okay if I feel self-conscious?" I joke.
Dorian only gives me his headmaster look.
Watching the takes is another case of déjà vu. I don't really look like Ron and Neil doesn't really look like I did in 1988, but it doesn't matter. They feel real. Authentic.
"It's good," I say mainly to myself.
"Yes," Dorian agrees. "You seem surprised."
"I am. At least something is working in my life."
Insert awkward pause.
"Tell me, Brian," Dorian prods. "Tell me what's bothering you. You can confide in me."
I almost tell him. About Justin. About Vic.
And about... myself. About my fucking ball.
But I can't. I can't do it.
"It's nothing. I only want this thing to be right."
"It will be," says Dorian, standing and stretching. "Saturday we move to New York and finish the shoot there. Then I need to head back to Los Angeles and work on 'Red River.' But the editing for this shouldn't be too difficult. I shot precisely to the script, like Hitchcock!" And then he laughs.
"You should do a Hitchcock flick, Dorian. Guy in trouble, running from the law, mysterious blonde, lots of chases."
"Perhaps next year. I have enough on my plate right now. What are your plans, Brian?"
I just shrug.
New York for two more weeks.
Then... back to L.A. And Christmas.
And after that...
Who the fuck knows?
At my suite I pour myself a double. Jim Beam. Bourbon is for drinking alone.
I should call Gorowitz. He's the one I should be confiding in. He's my fucking shrink, after all. But he'll want me to come back to Springhurst for a 'refresher course.' Fuck that. I've done the rehab thing. I've gotten past Vaughn Powell and his fucking dope. A couple of drinks after hours won't kill me. And neither will a couple of joints.
I sit with the cellphone in my hand, staring at it.
Even if he answered it would be useless. Justin's also made his choice. And I can't disagree with it. It's a man's decision. And if it's right for him, I'm not going to stand in his way.
I would never want to stand in his way. Or fucking drag him down.
There's a knock at the door.
I should have guessed it's trouble. A knock at a hotel room door after midnight is always trouble.
For one moment before I open the door, I think it's Justin. That it has to be Justin. Who else would show up right now, when I need him the most?
Who else?
"Hey Brian," says Neil. He's blinking like a deer caught in the headlights. And he looks ridiculously young, although he's older than Justin was -- that first time.
"What can I do for you?" Keep it formal, Kinney. Polite, but formal.
"I...I..." he stammers. "Can I come in? To talk."
Talk. I've heard that one before. "Talk about what?"
"Some... stuff."
I hold my breath. I should close the door. Lock it. Double-bolt it. Push a dresser in front of it.
But instead I let the kid in.
Because I'm a fucking idiot.
***
I've reserved the same suite at the Tribeca Grand I had before we left for Toronto. A little continuity is always good.
Yeah, a lot of things are good.
But a lot of things are fucking bad, too.
Drinking too much. Smoking too much. Too much weed. Too much sex.
In New York it's easy to be bad. Too easy.
Thankfully, Neil Winn is no Vaughn Powell. For one thing, the minute we get back to New York, I find out he has a boyfriend, Jamie, a skinny redhead who dances in some Broadway show. He and the boyfriend were on the outs when Dorian brought him to Toronto, which is why he decided he had a crush on me. But once he's on his home turf, Neil is the one who cools things off, much to my relief. His crush dissipates and the boyfriend is firmly back in the picture.
I'm not what this kid needs. I'm not what anyone needs, especially some kid.
Jesus.
When the fuck did I get to be this twink magnet? Or chicken hawk. It freaks me out because it makes me feel too fucking old. At 32 I'm not ready to feel old.
But then I consider that Ron was only around 25 when I met him. It's strange to think about that -- he seemed so much older than me, but the difference was only nine years. Only nine years! Listen to me! I'm something like twelve or thirteen years older than both Vaughn and Neil. And Justin, too. That definitely makes me feel old. Maybe I am a dirty old man after all.
Neil stops coming around, which is just as well. The sex was only okay. Not the kid's fault, but mine. Even when my heart isn't in it, I can usually perform better than the average queer -- that's why I'm Brian fucking Kinney, after all! But something isn't right. It's that ache in my groin. Maybe it's only in my head, but I'm feeling shit I never felt before. And my dick is balking. After I shoot I can't get it up again the way I used to.
And the other night I was jerking off -- and I felt a pain when I accidently knocked my nut with my hand. I thought my head would fly off, that's how much it hurt.
I know I have to see a doctor, but...
I can't do it.
I can get on the internet. I can fucking read. A lump on your ball can mean a couple of things, not all of them tragic.
But there's no way I'm going to dodge this bullet.
And there's no way I'm going to live my life as a one-balled wonder.
Brian Kinney -- damaged goods.
Brian Kinney -- fucking finished.
It's snowing in New York, which is exactly what Dorian was praying for. The first day we film on the streets of the Lower East Side it's exactly like it was in January 1988 -- cold and windy and miserable. The difference is that I have a warm coat and scarf and gloves. Neil and the other kids playing the hustlers are in thin jackets and sneakers. The fucking wind cuts right through all of us. The crew has heaters for the cast to huddle around between takes, but it's still fucking freezing.
I shiver and that's not acting.
I'm also aware that today is Justin's birthday.
What is all the hoo-ha about birthdays, anyway? Another fucking year, another day on the calendar that you'd rather forget.
He's 21.
He's a man, officially, although he's been a man for a long, long time.
This morning I got a call from Hilly. Apparently Justin's moved out of the loft. Hilly got a letter notifying him that the loft was empty. He's still driving the Jeep, but he wrote Hilly it's only until he gets 'alternate transportation.' What the fuck is that? Is he going to ride around the Pitts on a fucking bicycle like Ben Bruckner?
I should have his P.T. Cruiser shipped to him. He needs a decent vehicle, especially in the winter. I don't want him driving some unreliable pile of shit. But Justin would probably think that was me trying to control him.
Like I'd try to fucking control him! I can't even control myself.
Whatever the fuck.
It's better this way.
If I get sick...
Shit.
And I was always so careful with...
Well, if they don't get you one way, they get you the other way.
I walk down the Bowery as they film me. I look over and see Marc Gerasi behind the camera. Too weird. Too much.
This isn't me. It's someone else.
Another life.
But I have to claim it.
If I knew how to say what you want me to say, Justin, how to do what you want me to do, I still can't guarantee that I could say it or do it.
That's not me. The way I was. The way I am. The way I will be for the time I have left.
As if I really know who I am anymore.
Or for how long.
Happy birthday, brat.
I don't have anything left to give you that you don't already have.
And isn't that the way it should be?
***
"Go lightly from the ledge, babe,
Go lightly on the ground.
I'm not the one you want, babe,
I'll only let you down.
You say you're lookin' for someone
Who will promise never to part,
Someone to close his eyes for you,
Someone to close his heart,
Someone who will die for you and more --
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.
Go melt back into the night, babe,
Everything inside is made of stone.
There's nothing in here moving
And anyway I'm not alone.
You say you're looking for someone
Who'll pick you up each time you fall,
To gather flowers constantly
And to come each time you call,
A lover for your life and nothing more --
But it ain't me, babe,
No, no, no, it ain't me, babe,
It ain't me you're lookin' for, babe.
(Bob Dylan)
(Credit to Piksa for the first beautiful shot of Gale)