"Queer Identities" -- Chapter 107 "Somewhere Only We Know"
Somewhere...
This is Chapter 107 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Justin Taylor, Dr. Singleton, Lindsay Peterson, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Searching somewhere. Los Angeles/Jamaica, March 2004.
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. 104 "Beautiful"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/445438.html
Ch. 105 "Only Shades of Gray"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/445546.html
Ch. 106 "Baby Blue"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/446298.html
By Gaedhal
"I walked across an empty land,
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand.
I felt the earth beneath my feet,
Sat by the river and it made me complete.
Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.
I came across a fallen tree.
I felt the branches of it looking at me.
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?
Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.
And if you have a minute why don't we go?
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?"
***
We've got to get the fuck out of here.
Ever since 'People' and all the interviews came out on Monday it's been a fucking zoo. The phone doesn't stop ringing and reporters are hanging around outside the gates 24/7.
I know -- I should have expected this. But you never expect the insanity of celebrity. That's something no one can ever anticipate until it happens to them.
But it had to be done. The whole cancer thing is out in the open and we can only wait for it to die down. Wait for everything to get back to normal. Whatever normal is.
The whole cancer thing. Back to normal.
Yeah, I'm still waiting for that, too.
I finally went to see the doc -- Dr. Singleton, the urologist who sent me to Dr. Sun. Dicks are his specialty, especially dicks in trouble.
"What can I do for you, Brian?" he asks.
"You know the drill, Doc. It would be nice to know if I'll ever be able to get it up again."
And then he laughs. The motherfucker laughs. "Of course you'll get it up again. You're a man in the prime of life. Other than the cancer, which has been treated, you have no underlying health issues. Your incision is healing nicely. The effects of the radiation are receding. All systems are go, as they say."
Great for him to say. "Tell that to my dick, Doc."
He sits back in his chair and gives me that 'doctor look.' Gorowitz used to give it to me, too. That 'I'm thinking deep thoughts about your problem but fuck-all if I'll share it with you' look.
"Time, Brian. Time is the healer."
"Great. That's what everyone tells me, including my partner. Well, time marches on. I've been patient! Now I'm getting tired of this. Sick and tired..."
Dr. Singleton leans forward. He's got an angular face and large strong hands. Dark, smooth skin like Denzel Washington. He's in his forties, but still hot. Too bad he's got photos of the wife and five kids all over the office.
"Have you considered that much of your problem might be in your head?"
Huh? "What the fuck does that mean?"
He sighs. "Psychological, Brian. You're over-thinking this. You can't perform and then the anxiety ramps up and makes it harder every time you try to make love."
"Harder isn't the word, Doc. And for the record there's nothing the matter with my fucking head! I've been through a lot of lousy shit in my life, but I've always been able to get it up -- no matter what!"
"But you've never had cancer before, Brian," he tells me. "You've never had radiation. That's not only a physical assault on your body, but it's an assault on your mental state. You've lost a testicle. That's a potent symbol of your manhood. You're a man who is used to perfection. Your body and your sexual prowess is part of your identity. But it isn't all of your identity. You're an actor, a father, a friend, a lover. And now you're a husband. Focus on those other identities. Don't dwell on the operation. Think about what you can do and not what you can't do."
He's right -- in a way. But this isn't all in my head. I know it isn't. It can't be!
"Giving those interviews about your treatment was a good thing," he continues. "But don't become the poster boy for testicular cancer."
"Believe me, Doc, I'm not planning to. Justin and I are going to get out of this city for a while. We're going to Jamaica, lie in the sun, and not think of anything but what's happening at that moment."
He smiles broadly. "That's marvelous! A vacation is just the thing. You'll enjoy Jamaica, Brian. My father was born in the Virgin Islands. It's beautiful down there. The water is so clear and the sky is so blue. And the sun and sand will be just the ticket for relaxation."
"I know," I say. "I went to the White Party in Puerto Rico about ten years ago and had a great time."
Dr. Singleton raises an eyebrow. "The White Party?"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Doc. I'm not a secret Nazi. It's a gay thing. Think hundreds of guys all in white dancing their asses off." Among other things.
"If you say so, my friend," he says. He takes out his pad and scribbles away. "Here's a prescription for Viagra."
I don't take it. "I've already tried it. It was a bust."
"Take it anyway. You never know when it might help." Then he writes me another script. "And try this, too."
I take it. "What is it?"
"An anti-depressant."
That one I crumple into a ball and toss over my shoulder. "Forget it."
"You're a stubborn one." He shakes his head. "If you change your mind, call me. Good luck, Brian, and have a wonderful vacation."
Yeah, one without any happy pills.
I hope.
***
"Lindz."
"Brian."
"Just calling you back."
"Oh, did I call you about something? I can't remember."
"Listen, I know you're pissed with me about not telling you about... about the cancer."
"Oh, do you have cancer? I hadn't heard."
"Okay, so I'm a dick! I had a hard enough time telling Justin, let alone anyone else."
"Except for Michael. And then I find out that Debbie knows. And Jennifer Taylor. And -- apparently -- Ted! But the mother of your children has to find out in 'The National Enquirer.' And 'People.' And 'Access Hollywood.' Am I forgetting any other media outlet?"
"Jesus, Lindsay -- give me a break. Did Charity get her birthday presents?"
"Yes, she did. Thank you. They were very nice. Not really appropriate for a one-year-old, but she'll like them -- eventually."
"How the fuck do I know what a baby wants? I thought the dress was cute. I'm no Oscar de la Renta, for fuck sake."
"Obviously."
"We'll probably be in Pittsburgh in a couple of weeks."
"That's nice."
"What do you want me to say, Lindz? I want to see the kids, but it's fucking difficult. And when I am there you and Mel give me the runaround. You want me to be a father -- and then you don't. But one thing you definitely want is my money. That's pretty clear."
"Don't be insulting, Brian!"
"I can't win, can I?"
"You make me so angry! When I read you were sick, I was terrified! I tried calling you and all I got was your voicemail. Then Justin called me back, but the person I needed to talk to was you, Brian. I feel like I'm the last to know anything. Do you know how that hurts me?"
"What can I say? I'm sorry! I... I have a lot on my plate right now."
"I know... but it's hard to feel so left out."
"You're always telling me that I have to grow up, Lindz. Well, I'm trying. This cancer thing has thrown me for a loop. It's changed everything."
"And now you're a married man."
"That's one change. And it's not bullshit. It's real."
"I'm happy for you and Justin. I really am. But I'm still angry."
"I know you are. But no matter what I do, I'll never live up to your expectations. We both know that. I'll never be the man you want me to be. And you know what I mean by that. You've always known I'll never be that person."
"You're wrong -- I don't know what you mean."
"Your husband. I'll never be that. I never could be that, no matter how hard you might have wanted it."
"Don't be ridiculous, Brian! I'm a lesbian."
"I know. Whatever the fuck. Tell Gus I'm thinking of him. And give my daughter a kiss. All right?"
"All right, Brian."
"Later, Lindz."
***
Jamaica. At last.
I couldn't wait to get the hell out of Los Angeles. And Justin is so excited he's practically peeing his pants.
"Calm down, Blond Boy."
"I can't help it! This is going to be so amazing!"
Everything is going to be First Class all the way, from the airplane to the resort to all the extras I have planned. I've never been to Jamaica before, but I have been to the Caribbean and I know I can give Justin that amazing time he deserves.
With a little luck I might end up having an amazing time, too.
And -- just in case -- I have Dr. Singleton's Viagra in my bag.
Top of the world, Ma! Top of the world!
We're met at the airport by a limo from the resort.
"Mr. Kinney. And Mr. Taylor," says the driver. He's no Ramon, but he's not bad. "Welcome to Jamaica. I hope your stay will be a pleasant one."
"I know it will be!" says Justin. His tail is practically wagging. He told me once that he always regretted missing that trip to the Bahamas he was supposed to get for winning King of Babylon. Then he got bashed and the trip never happened -- the Sap certainly never offered to make it up to him. So here it is -- his exotic vacation with sand and sun.
The driver -- who never gives us his name -- loads our bags into the trunk. Justin, in his excitement pulls me down and gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
And that's when I hear it. An angry voice from across the street. The man is speaking in the local dialect, so I don't catch exactly what he says, but his meaning is crystal clear.
Fuck.
"Gentlemen, please get in the car," says the driver urgently. I hustle Justin into the backseat.
Justin looks around as we pull away from the curb. "Brian, what does that mean? 'Batty boy'?"
"I don't know," I lie. "Nothing." Then I try to change the subject. "How far from Kingston is it to the resort?" I ask the driver.
"It's a bit of a way, sir, but there are refreshments there in the bar. Please help yourselves."
It's a full set-up, with a mini-fridge and ice. Justin takes a cold beer, a Red Stripe, while I take a diet soda.
What I really want is a big slug of the rum that's in there, but I don't go for it. After all I've been through I don't want to begin this trip -- this fucking honeymoon, if I have to call it that -- with a giant leap off the wagon.
It's a fairly long haul to the resort. Justin reads his guide book while I stare out the window. Yes, this is really happening. The real deal. I'm fucking married. This is my fucking honeymoon.
And I'm not hating it.
Jamaica -- once we leave rundown Kingston -- is as beautiful as advertised. Slate-colored mountains and vibrant green countryside and the water bluer than Justin's eyes.
And a lot of poor people. We pass women walking with heavy bundles and drive through villages of corroded metal shacks. Old men sit and stare at the road, while barefoot children in American team tee shirts chase the car, begging for coins. High up in the hills I can see expensive villas, facing the bay.
Seeing that makes me fucking uncomfortable. I know Jamaica is a troubled country, a poor country, a violent country. I'm not stupid -- I read the news, after all. But I'm unprepared for such a wide disparity between the very, very rich and the very, very poor. And Justin and I are heading for one of the most exclusive and extravagant places on the island -- Goldeneye.
The resort -- it's fucking gorgeous. No wonder Ian Fleming wanted to live in this place. It's like a film set, it's that unreal, a lush fantasy of what a tropical paradise should be. Our cottage is a weird hybrid of the luxurious and the minimal. The bed is covered with mosquito-netting and there's no air conditioning or in-door showers -- the windows are open to the ocean breezes without any glass or screens, while the shower is an outside spout. But it's also completely private. You could be naked the entire time you're here and no one would ever see you. Except the servants, who are eerily unobtrusive.
The attendant is showing us everything and giving us the low-down on dining and going on outings and all the other amenities, when another man shows up. Like everyone else here, he's dressed all in white, very casual in shorts and sandals, but I can tell by the way he carries himself that he's someone important.
"Mr. Kinney, welcome," he says. "I am George. If there is anything you need, please ask me personally. I am told we were recommended to you by Mr. Dorian Folco. He has visited us a number of times and his father was a visitor here many years ago when it was a private home."
Yeah, that makes sense. Dorian's father knew everyone who was anyone.
"It's quite satisfactory," I tell him. "So far." Justin has already run down to the beach, so I can level with the man. "Back in Kingston, there was some guy..."
"Nigel told me about this unfortunate incident," he says. "A street thug, looking to make trouble, sir. Pay no mind to fellows like that." He twitches nervously. "But if I may make one small suggestion, Mr. Kinney, if that is not too bold?"
"Suggest away."
"I know you are on your..." He pauses, as if he can't quite say the word. "Honeymoon. Congratulations. We host many couples who are beginning their lives together. And when you are here on the grounds of the resort feel free to... to be yourselves."
"Be ourselves?" I know what he's talking about, but I'm not going to make it easy for him. "You mean because my partner and I are a couple of queers, right?"
"That's not the word I would use, Mr. Kinney," says George, wincing.
"What about 'batty boy'?" I say. "That's the word the guy used on the street. Directed at me and my partner. I'm not an idiot. I know what it means. And it's not very friendly."
"Please understand, Mr. Kinney. This is a very conservative country. We cannot be responsible for the actions of a few ignorant and uneducated people. We want you to have a wonderful stay here, which is why I am suggesting that if you leave the resort and go into Kingston or elsewhere on the island that you... that you and your companion..." He hesitates. "Not show any attention to one another."
"No PDA, huh?"
He frowns. "I don't know what that means, sir."
"No Public Display of Affection," I explain.
I mean it sarcastically, but he nods. "Just so, Mr. Kinney. I'm glad we understand each other."
Now I realize that I have been a fucking idiot. I knew the reputation of this island and I just ignored it. I still think I'm above anything as mundane as paying heed to the situation for fags here -- which I knew isn't good. But what the hell? As long as Justin and I stay in our little cocoon, we'll be fine, right?
Goddamn it.
I look out at Justin, already running along the pristine beach, his shirt off and his pale skin glistening with water from the sea spray. He's laughing, waving for me to join him.
I can't let reality interrupt this special time. Our time.
We can hide here.
The rest of the world can go and fuck itself.
I pull off my clothes and run down to join him.
***
"Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.
So if you have a minute why don't we go?
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go?
So why don't we go?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?"
(Tim Rice-Oxley, Tom Chaplin, Richard Hughes)
This is Chapter 107 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Justin Taylor, Dr. Singleton, Lindsay Peterson, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Searching somewhere. Los Angeles/Jamaica, March 2004.
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. 104 "Beautiful"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/445438.html
Ch. 105 "Only Shades of Gray"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/445546.html
Ch. 106 "Baby Blue"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/446298.html
By Gaedhal
"I walked across an empty land,
I knew the pathway like the back of my hand.
I felt the earth beneath my feet,
Sat by the river and it made me complete.
Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.
I came across a fallen tree.
I felt the branches of it looking at me.
Is this the place we used to love?
Is this the place that I've been dreaming of?
Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.
And if you have a minute why don't we go?
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?"
***
We've got to get the fuck out of here.
Ever since 'People' and all the interviews came out on Monday it's been a fucking zoo. The phone doesn't stop ringing and reporters are hanging around outside the gates 24/7.
I know -- I should have expected this. But you never expect the insanity of celebrity. That's something no one can ever anticipate until it happens to them.
But it had to be done. The whole cancer thing is out in the open and we can only wait for it to die down. Wait for everything to get back to normal. Whatever normal is.
The whole cancer thing. Back to normal.
Yeah, I'm still waiting for that, too.
I finally went to see the doc -- Dr. Singleton, the urologist who sent me to Dr. Sun. Dicks are his specialty, especially dicks in trouble.
"What can I do for you, Brian?" he asks.
"You know the drill, Doc. It would be nice to know if I'll ever be able to get it up again."
And then he laughs. The motherfucker laughs. "Of course you'll get it up again. You're a man in the prime of life. Other than the cancer, which has been treated, you have no underlying health issues. Your incision is healing nicely. The effects of the radiation are receding. All systems are go, as they say."
Great for him to say. "Tell that to my dick, Doc."
He sits back in his chair and gives me that 'doctor look.' Gorowitz used to give it to me, too. That 'I'm thinking deep thoughts about your problem but fuck-all if I'll share it with you' look.
"Time, Brian. Time is the healer."
"Great. That's what everyone tells me, including my partner. Well, time marches on. I've been patient! Now I'm getting tired of this. Sick and tired..."
Dr. Singleton leans forward. He's got an angular face and large strong hands. Dark, smooth skin like Denzel Washington. He's in his forties, but still hot. Too bad he's got photos of the wife and five kids all over the office.
"Have you considered that much of your problem might be in your head?"
Huh? "What the fuck does that mean?"
He sighs. "Psychological, Brian. You're over-thinking this. You can't perform and then the anxiety ramps up and makes it harder every time you try to make love."
"Harder isn't the word, Doc. And for the record there's nothing the matter with my fucking head! I've been through a lot of lousy shit in my life, but I've always been able to get it up -- no matter what!"
"But you've never had cancer before, Brian," he tells me. "You've never had radiation. That's not only a physical assault on your body, but it's an assault on your mental state. You've lost a testicle. That's a potent symbol of your manhood. You're a man who is used to perfection. Your body and your sexual prowess is part of your identity. But it isn't all of your identity. You're an actor, a father, a friend, a lover. And now you're a husband. Focus on those other identities. Don't dwell on the operation. Think about what you can do and not what you can't do."
He's right -- in a way. But this isn't all in my head. I know it isn't. It can't be!
"Giving those interviews about your treatment was a good thing," he continues. "But don't become the poster boy for testicular cancer."
"Believe me, Doc, I'm not planning to. Justin and I are going to get out of this city for a while. We're going to Jamaica, lie in the sun, and not think of anything but what's happening at that moment."
He smiles broadly. "That's marvelous! A vacation is just the thing. You'll enjoy Jamaica, Brian. My father was born in the Virgin Islands. It's beautiful down there. The water is so clear and the sky is so blue. And the sun and sand will be just the ticket for relaxation."
"I know," I say. "I went to the White Party in Puerto Rico about ten years ago and had a great time."
Dr. Singleton raises an eyebrow. "The White Party?"
"Don't get your knickers in a twist, Doc. I'm not a secret Nazi. It's a gay thing. Think hundreds of guys all in white dancing their asses off." Among other things.
"If you say so, my friend," he says. He takes out his pad and scribbles away. "Here's a prescription for Viagra."
I don't take it. "I've already tried it. It was a bust."
"Take it anyway. You never know when it might help." Then he writes me another script. "And try this, too."
I take it. "What is it?"
"An anti-depressant."
That one I crumple into a ball and toss over my shoulder. "Forget it."
"You're a stubborn one." He shakes his head. "If you change your mind, call me. Good luck, Brian, and have a wonderful vacation."
Yeah, one without any happy pills.
I hope.
***
"Lindz."
"Brian."
"Just calling you back."
"Oh, did I call you about something? I can't remember."
"Listen, I know you're pissed with me about not telling you about... about the cancer."
"Oh, do you have cancer? I hadn't heard."
"Okay, so I'm a dick! I had a hard enough time telling Justin, let alone anyone else."
"Except for Michael. And then I find out that Debbie knows. And Jennifer Taylor. And -- apparently -- Ted! But the mother of your children has to find out in 'The National Enquirer.' And 'People.' And 'Access Hollywood.' Am I forgetting any other media outlet?"
"Jesus, Lindsay -- give me a break. Did Charity get her birthday presents?"
"Yes, she did. Thank you. They were very nice. Not really appropriate for a one-year-old, but she'll like them -- eventually."
"How the fuck do I know what a baby wants? I thought the dress was cute. I'm no Oscar de la Renta, for fuck sake."
"Obviously."
"We'll probably be in Pittsburgh in a couple of weeks."
"That's nice."
"What do you want me to say, Lindz? I want to see the kids, but it's fucking difficult. And when I am there you and Mel give me the runaround. You want me to be a father -- and then you don't. But one thing you definitely want is my money. That's pretty clear."
"Don't be insulting, Brian!"
"I can't win, can I?"
"You make me so angry! When I read you were sick, I was terrified! I tried calling you and all I got was your voicemail. Then Justin called me back, but the person I needed to talk to was you, Brian. I feel like I'm the last to know anything. Do you know how that hurts me?"
"What can I say? I'm sorry! I... I have a lot on my plate right now."
"I know... but it's hard to feel so left out."
"You're always telling me that I have to grow up, Lindz. Well, I'm trying. This cancer thing has thrown me for a loop. It's changed everything."
"And now you're a married man."
"That's one change. And it's not bullshit. It's real."
"I'm happy for you and Justin. I really am. But I'm still angry."
"I know you are. But no matter what I do, I'll never live up to your expectations. We both know that. I'll never be the man you want me to be. And you know what I mean by that. You've always known I'll never be that person."
"You're wrong -- I don't know what you mean."
"Your husband. I'll never be that. I never could be that, no matter how hard you might have wanted it."
"Don't be ridiculous, Brian! I'm a lesbian."
"I know. Whatever the fuck. Tell Gus I'm thinking of him. And give my daughter a kiss. All right?"
"All right, Brian."
"Later, Lindz."
***
Jamaica. At last.
I couldn't wait to get the hell out of Los Angeles. And Justin is so excited he's practically peeing his pants.
"Calm down, Blond Boy."
"I can't help it! This is going to be so amazing!"
Everything is going to be First Class all the way, from the airplane to the resort to all the extras I have planned. I've never been to Jamaica before, but I have been to the Caribbean and I know I can give Justin that amazing time he deserves.
With a little luck I might end up having an amazing time, too.
And -- just in case -- I have Dr. Singleton's Viagra in my bag.
Top of the world, Ma! Top of the world!
We're met at the airport by a limo from the resort.
"Mr. Kinney. And Mr. Taylor," says the driver. He's no Ramon, but he's not bad. "Welcome to Jamaica. I hope your stay will be a pleasant one."
"I know it will be!" says Justin. His tail is practically wagging. He told me once that he always regretted missing that trip to the Bahamas he was supposed to get for winning King of Babylon. Then he got bashed and the trip never happened -- the Sap certainly never offered to make it up to him. So here it is -- his exotic vacation with sand and sun.
The driver -- who never gives us his name -- loads our bags into the trunk. Justin, in his excitement pulls me down and gives me a quick peck on the cheek.
And that's when I hear it. An angry voice from across the street. The man is speaking in the local dialect, so I don't catch exactly what he says, but his meaning is crystal clear.
Fuck.
"Gentlemen, please get in the car," says the driver urgently. I hustle Justin into the backseat.
Justin looks around as we pull away from the curb. "Brian, what does that mean? 'Batty boy'?"
"I don't know," I lie. "Nothing." Then I try to change the subject. "How far from Kingston is it to the resort?" I ask the driver.
"It's a bit of a way, sir, but there are refreshments there in the bar. Please help yourselves."
It's a full set-up, with a mini-fridge and ice. Justin takes a cold beer, a Red Stripe, while I take a diet soda.
What I really want is a big slug of the rum that's in there, but I don't go for it. After all I've been through I don't want to begin this trip -- this fucking honeymoon, if I have to call it that -- with a giant leap off the wagon.
It's a fairly long haul to the resort. Justin reads his guide book while I stare out the window. Yes, this is really happening. The real deal. I'm fucking married. This is my fucking honeymoon.
And I'm not hating it.
Jamaica -- once we leave rundown Kingston -- is as beautiful as advertised. Slate-colored mountains and vibrant green countryside and the water bluer than Justin's eyes.
And a lot of poor people. We pass women walking with heavy bundles and drive through villages of corroded metal shacks. Old men sit and stare at the road, while barefoot children in American team tee shirts chase the car, begging for coins. High up in the hills I can see expensive villas, facing the bay.
Seeing that makes me fucking uncomfortable. I know Jamaica is a troubled country, a poor country, a violent country. I'm not stupid -- I read the news, after all. But I'm unprepared for such a wide disparity between the very, very rich and the very, very poor. And Justin and I are heading for one of the most exclusive and extravagant places on the island -- Goldeneye.
The resort -- it's fucking gorgeous. No wonder Ian Fleming wanted to live in this place. It's like a film set, it's that unreal, a lush fantasy of what a tropical paradise should be. Our cottage is a weird hybrid of the luxurious and the minimal. The bed is covered with mosquito-netting and there's no air conditioning or in-door showers -- the windows are open to the ocean breezes without any glass or screens, while the shower is an outside spout. But it's also completely private. You could be naked the entire time you're here and no one would ever see you. Except the servants, who are eerily unobtrusive.
The attendant is showing us everything and giving us the low-down on dining and going on outings and all the other amenities, when another man shows up. Like everyone else here, he's dressed all in white, very casual in shorts and sandals, but I can tell by the way he carries himself that he's someone important.
"Mr. Kinney, welcome," he says. "I am George. If there is anything you need, please ask me personally. I am told we were recommended to you by Mr. Dorian Folco. He has visited us a number of times and his father was a visitor here many years ago when it was a private home."
Yeah, that makes sense. Dorian's father knew everyone who was anyone.
"It's quite satisfactory," I tell him. "So far." Justin has already run down to the beach, so I can level with the man. "Back in Kingston, there was some guy..."
"Nigel told me about this unfortunate incident," he says. "A street thug, looking to make trouble, sir. Pay no mind to fellows like that." He twitches nervously. "But if I may make one small suggestion, Mr. Kinney, if that is not too bold?"
"Suggest away."
"I know you are on your..." He pauses, as if he can't quite say the word. "Honeymoon. Congratulations. We host many couples who are beginning their lives together. And when you are here on the grounds of the resort feel free to... to be yourselves."
"Be ourselves?" I know what he's talking about, but I'm not going to make it easy for him. "You mean because my partner and I are a couple of queers, right?"
"That's not the word I would use, Mr. Kinney," says George, wincing.
"What about 'batty boy'?" I say. "That's the word the guy used on the street. Directed at me and my partner. I'm not an idiot. I know what it means. And it's not very friendly."
"Please understand, Mr. Kinney. This is a very conservative country. We cannot be responsible for the actions of a few ignorant and uneducated people. We want you to have a wonderful stay here, which is why I am suggesting that if you leave the resort and go into Kingston or elsewhere on the island that you... that you and your companion..." He hesitates. "Not show any attention to one another."
"No PDA, huh?"
He frowns. "I don't know what that means, sir."
"No Public Display of Affection," I explain.
I mean it sarcastically, but he nods. "Just so, Mr. Kinney. I'm glad we understand each other."
Now I realize that I have been a fucking idiot. I knew the reputation of this island and I just ignored it. I still think I'm above anything as mundane as paying heed to the situation for fags here -- which I knew isn't good. But what the hell? As long as Justin and I stay in our little cocoon, we'll be fine, right?
Goddamn it.
I look out at Justin, already running along the pristine beach, his shirt off and his pale skin glistening with water from the sea spray. He's laughing, waving for me to join him.
I can't let reality interrupt this special time. Our time.
We can hide here.
The rest of the world can go and fuck itself.
I pull off my clothes and run down to join him.
***
"Oh simple thing, where have you gone?
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on.
So tell me when you're gonna let me in?
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin.
So if you have a minute why don't we go?
Talk about it somewhere only we know?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go?
So why don't we go?
This could be the end of everything,
So why don't we go
Somewhere only we know?"
(Tim Rice-Oxley, Tom Chaplin, Richard Hughes)