"Christmas Eve" 4
Under a streetlight.
By Gaedhal
Pittsburgh, December 2004
Justin's hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette.
It was starting to snow, but he'd forgotten his scarf and his gloves in his hurry to leave the house. Justin pulled his collar up around his neck, shielding it from the cold.
Two men just outside the exit of Babylon were kissing and groping each other. One was taller and looked a little older than other guy, who was slim and blond. The shorter guy leaned his head against the taller man's chest, while the taller one smiled.
"Move on! Move it now!"
A pair of cops from Mayor Stockwell's Vice Patrol shoved the two lovers along the sidewalk. The cops were dressed in black leather coats and carried batons, leading most of the denizens of Liberty Avenue to refer to them as the Stormtroopers.
"Don't touch me!" the shorter man bristled.
"Don't block the pavement or we'll run you in, pansy!" barked one of the cops.
The taller man took his boyfriend's arm and pulled him away. Neither one of them wanted to spend Christmas Eve in the Pittsburgh PD's infamous 'Queens Tank.'
Justin stared at the little drama in dismay. Then one of the cops noticed him. "You move along, too, faggot! Go home where you belong and don't clutter up the streets!"
Justin backed away as the Vice Patrol continued their circuit of the streets. Yes, that's what he was, Justin thought. A faggot. There was no doubt. There was no hiding it anymore. Maybe he would spend his life being hated. Or maybe he might even find love someday. But he couldn't deny what he was. He was just like the two men who had been pushed along the sidewalk. Except he was alone.
It stopped snowing. Justin clutched his cigarette. He felt a little dizzy and the pavement was slippery. There was a streetlight a few feet away. Justin stumbled over to it and leaned against the metal pole, trying to get his bearings.
***
Brian danced with the trick for two songs, but it was getting late. It had been a long day and his dick was hard. Let's get this show on the road, Brian thought.
"Come back to my loft," said Brian in the trick's ear. "I want your ass to get a taste of my 9 inch cock!"
Ordinarily, those were the words that sealed the deal. Brian took the trick's hand and began leading him off the dance floor.
But the guy stopped in his tracks. He pulled his hand out of Brian's grasp. "I don't think so," said the trick. "I've already had you."
Brian blinked. "What did you say?"
The trick shrugged. "I said that we've already tricked. Last summer, remember? At Woody's. You were okay, but I think that I can do better tonight."
"Oh, you think so?" said Brian, his face red.
But the trick only stared at him. "Yeah, I think so. I know you're Brian Kinney and you're supposedly hot shit, but aren't you a little old for this game? You must be at least 35! I'd like to pick up someone a little younger and hotter for Christmas. That's my Christmas present to myself."
"I'm 33," Brian countered. He'd been insulted before, but this one really threw him. "And fuck you!"
"Whatever," said the trick, indifferently. Then he moved back onto the dance floor.
Brian walked to the cloakroom and retrieved his jacket. He saw Ted and Emmett waving him over to the bar, but he ignored them. Michael and Ben had already gone home.
Brian walked out of Babylon. His hands were shaking.
The trick was right. What the fuck did he think he was doing? He wasn't the same as he'd been. He wasn't as hot. He was no longer the perfect stud, the ultimate fuck. Men could sense that he was diseased and it would only get worse from now on. The trick had thought he was 35! That really hurt! Cancer and radiation and a slow, painful recovery had obviously aged him. Brian didn't feel the same and it showed.
Merry fucking Christmas!
Brian looked up and saw a young blond leaning against the lamppost right outside of Babylon. He was finishing a cigarette and glancing around at the men passing by.
Brian's heart gave a lurch in his chest. Here was everything he once had been. Young. Beautiful. Sexy. Confident. A few stray flakes of melting snow clung to the young man's golden hair and Brian longed to brush them away with his long fingers. Longed to brush his own lips against the blond's plush, pink lips. Put his arms around this young man and feel his warmth, his vitality.
But it was useless. Brian suddenly saw a picture of his own bleak future. He saw a lonely man who had once been beautiful, but who was now sick and ageing. A bitter man who took little pleasure in the things that had once obsessed him. The thrill of the chase. The taste of good liquor. An awesome high. A tight, eager ass to fuck. Brian saw a man who was reduced to standing on the sidelines, picking up strays at the end of a long night, or paying a hustler to tell him that he was still beautiful, still desirable. Someone who was truly pathetic. Someone his friends whispered about behind his back, wondering what they could do to help poor old Brian.
Fuck that, thought Brian. I won't let it come to that. I can't let it come to that!
He still had control over his life. That, at least, still belonged to him. And his life was his to do with whatever he thought was best.
His affairs were in order. His will, leaving everything in trust to his son, Gus, was air-tight. His shrew of a mother and his whining sister couldn't break it -- he had made certain of that. Gus would have money for his schooling and a nice inheritance when he turned 21. Maybe Gus would stop once in a while and wonder about the man who had left it to him. Or maybe it was better that Gus simply forget the man who had been his father for a few short years.
Better that they all forget. That's the way he wanted it.
Brian knew what he had to do. It would be quick. It would be easy.
He walked past the lamppost on his way to find the Corvette and return to the loft. Weariness overwhelmed him, but he'd soon find rest. And peace, finally.
A hand reached out and touched his arm.
"Excuse me?" It was the young blond man. "Please?"
But Brian didn't look up.
He walked on into the darkness.
By Gaedhal
Pittsburgh, December 2004
Justin's hands were shaking as he lit a cigarette.
It was starting to snow, but he'd forgotten his scarf and his gloves in his hurry to leave the house. Justin pulled his collar up around his neck, shielding it from the cold.
Two men just outside the exit of Babylon were kissing and groping each other. One was taller and looked a little older than other guy, who was slim and blond. The shorter guy leaned his head against the taller man's chest, while the taller one smiled.
"Move on! Move it now!"
A pair of cops from Mayor Stockwell's Vice Patrol shoved the two lovers along the sidewalk. The cops were dressed in black leather coats and carried batons, leading most of the denizens of Liberty Avenue to refer to them as the Stormtroopers.
"Don't touch me!" the shorter man bristled.
"Don't block the pavement or we'll run you in, pansy!" barked one of the cops.
The taller man took his boyfriend's arm and pulled him away. Neither one of them wanted to spend Christmas Eve in the Pittsburgh PD's infamous 'Queens Tank.'
Justin stared at the little drama in dismay. Then one of the cops noticed him. "You move along, too, faggot! Go home where you belong and don't clutter up the streets!"
Justin backed away as the Vice Patrol continued their circuit of the streets. Yes, that's what he was, Justin thought. A faggot. There was no doubt. There was no hiding it anymore. Maybe he would spend his life being hated. Or maybe he might even find love someday. But he couldn't deny what he was. He was just like the two men who had been pushed along the sidewalk. Except he was alone.
It stopped snowing. Justin clutched his cigarette. He felt a little dizzy and the pavement was slippery. There was a streetlight a few feet away. Justin stumbled over to it and leaned against the metal pole, trying to get his bearings.
***
Brian danced with the trick for two songs, but it was getting late. It had been a long day and his dick was hard. Let's get this show on the road, Brian thought.
"Come back to my loft," said Brian in the trick's ear. "I want your ass to get a taste of my 9 inch cock!"
Ordinarily, those were the words that sealed the deal. Brian took the trick's hand and began leading him off the dance floor.
But the guy stopped in his tracks. He pulled his hand out of Brian's grasp. "I don't think so," said the trick. "I've already had you."
Brian blinked. "What did you say?"
The trick shrugged. "I said that we've already tricked. Last summer, remember? At Woody's. You were okay, but I think that I can do better tonight."
"Oh, you think so?" said Brian, his face red.
But the trick only stared at him. "Yeah, I think so. I know you're Brian Kinney and you're supposedly hot shit, but aren't you a little old for this game? You must be at least 35! I'd like to pick up someone a little younger and hotter for Christmas. That's my Christmas present to myself."
"I'm 33," Brian countered. He'd been insulted before, but this one really threw him. "And fuck you!"
"Whatever," said the trick, indifferently. Then he moved back onto the dance floor.
Brian walked to the cloakroom and retrieved his jacket. He saw Ted and Emmett waving him over to the bar, but he ignored them. Michael and Ben had already gone home.
Brian walked out of Babylon. His hands were shaking.
The trick was right. What the fuck did he think he was doing? He wasn't the same as he'd been. He wasn't as hot. He was no longer the perfect stud, the ultimate fuck. Men could sense that he was diseased and it would only get worse from now on. The trick had thought he was 35! That really hurt! Cancer and radiation and a slow, painful recovery had obviously aged him. Brian didn't feel the same and it showed.
Merry fucking Christmas!
Brian looked up and saw a young blond leaning against the lamppost right outside of Babylon. He was finishing a cigarette and glancing around at the men passing by.
Brian's heart gave a lurch in his chest. Here was everything he once had been. Young. Beautiful. Sexy. Confident. A few stray flakes of melting snow clung to the young man's golden hair and Brian longed to brush them away with his long fingers. Longed to brush his own lips against the blond's plush, pink lips. Put his arms around this young man and feel his warmth, his vitality.
But it was useless. Brian suddenly saw a picture of his own bleak future. He saw a lonely man who had once been beautiful, but who was now sick and ageing. A bitter man who took little pleasure in the things that had once obsessed him. The thrill of the chase. The taste of good liquor. An awesome high. A tight, eager ass to fuck. Brian saw a man who was reduced to standing on the sidelines, picking up strays at the end of a long night, or paying a hustler to tell him that he was still beautiful, still desirable. Someone who was truly pathetic. Someone his friends whispered about behind his back, wondering what they could do to help poor old Brian.
Fuck that, thought Brian. I won't let it come to that. I can't let it come to that!
He still had control over his life. That, at least, still belonged to him. And his life was his to do with whatever he thought was best.
His affairs were in order. His will, leaving everything in trust to his son, Gus, was air-tight. His shrew of a mother and his whining sister couldn't break it -- he had made certain of that. Gus would have money for his schooling and a nice inheritance when he turned 21. Maybe Gus would stop once in a while and wonder about the man who had left it to him. Or maybe it was better that Gus simply forget the man who had been his father for a few short years.
Better that they all forget. That's the way he wanted it.
Brian knew what he had to do. It would be quick. It would be easy.
He walked past the lamppost on his way to find the Corvette and return to the loft. Weariness overwhelmed him, but he'd soon find rest. And peace, finally.
A hand reached out and touched his arm.
"Excuse me?" It was the young blond man. "Please?"
But Brian didn't look up.
He walked on into the darkness.