"Queer Identities" -- Chapter 60 "Incognito"
Brian makes his way.
This is Chapter 60 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Dorian Folco, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Sorting things out. Interstate 95/New York City, September 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Earlier "QI" chapters online and on the LJ here:
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaelmcgear/Gaedhalficpage.html
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaedhal/
Most recent "QI" chapters on the LJ here:
Ch. 57 "Indiscreet"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410071.html
Ch. 58 "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410497.html
Ch. 59 "How Soon Is Now?"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/411025.html
By Gaedhal
I check out the map the woman at the rental car agency gave me and note that Interstate 95 goes directly from Miami to New York City -- and beyond into Canada. It's not the most scenic route, but then I'm not planning to sightsee. I want to get to New York and I want to get there under my own power, on my own terms.
I guess I could fly. Or take the train. Or even hire a fancy car and driver to do all the scut work for me, while I sit back and watch the world go by.
But that's not what I need to do. I need some time. I need some space.
I need to fucking think.
I fold up the map and toss it on the passenger seat.
I point the gray Volvo north and begin to drive up the East Coast of Florida.
***
The first thing I realize is that I'm not in a hurry. No one is pushing me. No one is on my ass. No one is fucking breathing down my neck.
Yes, Dorian keeps calling my cell, but I just delete those messages.
"Brian! Where in heaven's name are you? Why have you left Miami? The Delano says you checked out after one day! What is going on? You realize we are starting pre-production in New York in three weeks, don't you? And the script needs to be finished! Brian? Brian! Call me, damn it!"
The first night on the road, at my first stop, somewhere just over the border into Georgia, I call him back and leave a message on his voicemail. I tell him I'm making my way to New York and that I'll be in touch.
I also tell him to stop fucking calling me ten times a day or else I'll have to kill him the next time I see him.
"I'm fine, Dorian. I'm not drunk or stoned. I haven't been kidnapped by a hoard of straight females who want to convert me or a band of wild lesbians who want my sperm. So chill the fuck out. Over and out."
Out. And over.
Is that what it all means?
I'm out and so I'm fucking over in this business?
I guess I could always go back to advertising. Or public relations. Or I could sit on my ass and invest the cash I've already made.
Or I could pack up and go to abroad. Try my hand in London. Fish around for jobs in Italy or France where being an American semi-movie star still has some cachet.
Or I can do everything to make this fucking script work. Make 'Red Shirt' work. And wait for 'Red River' to come out and hope I don't get slammed too badly. Because if the thing is a dog, the critics sure as hell aren't going to blame Clint Eastwood. Nope -- don't blame the icon. Blame the fag.
But why do I assume it's going to be bad? Why am I always thinking the worst? Is it the Black Irish Cloud always hanging over my head? Guilt. Pessimism. Pain management.
Shit.
Buck up, Kinney. What the fuck is wrong with you? You never used to lack self-confidence -- far from it!
How can things change so much?
Fuck it. It was all an illusion. Always an illusion. I was a huge fish in a tiny pond. I couldn't even score that job in New York after I fucked the jerk who presented the award for Ad Man of the Year. He wasn't even all that hot. Yeah, an award -- for Pittsburgh. Couldn't even get that fucking job....
But now... would I get something because I'm a great advertising man or because I'm Brian Kinney, failed movie star? Or whatever the fuck I am. Because I was a good ad man. Was.
But you can't go back. I don't want to go back. What's the point?
I'm like a shark -- I have to go forward or I'll die.
I stop in Savannah and decide to stay the night.
It's an old city and an infamous tourist trap. I fucking hate tourist traps. But... Savannah is charming. I can't help it, it just is. It also has a strong gay vibe. Like New Orleans, this is where a lot of those old Southern queers must have come when they couldn't live anywhere else. You can smell it on the streets, in the buildings, in the way the trees are dripping with moss and bugs. Perfume and decay.
I walk around, anonymously. No one sees me because no one is looking for me. Why would I be here? And so I'm not. I put on a baseball cap and my beard is growing out in a sexy stubble. I look like just another redneck fag from the sticks, staring at the old houses -- the Mercer House, the Olde Pink House -- wandering around with nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
A guy cruises me down by the riverfront. It's mainly tourists down there, but a couple of guys are standing around, watching, taking in the possibilities. I walk into a lush park. More perfume and decay. The guy follows me and I stop. It would be easy. It's always so easy. Too easy.
I'm not that desperate. Or that horny.
I need a good night's sleep.
I head back to my hotel and leave early the next morning.
On the road again.
***
Up through the two Carolinas Interstate 95 veers away from the coast and moves through the heart of Deep South Redneckland.
This is far from Savannah or Atlanta, let alone South Beach or New York. No tourist traps here. No tourists. Just miles of tobacco fields, scrub pine, and tired looking barns next to broken houses. I stop only to fill up on gas or eat a hamburger. When it gets dark -- it's fall and night is coming earlier each day -- I find a motel room, check in, and lock myself up for the evening. I have a couple of bottles of Jim Beam and a few six packs of Bud, but I find that I only have a shot and maybe one can of beer in the evening. I'm living on chips and beef jerky and convenience store pizza. In the anonymous motel rooms I flip on the tube, turn down the sound, and fire up the laptop.
And then I write until I can't keep my eyes open anymore.
Before I finally fall asleep, I beat off, one hand on my dick and the other on my cell.
But I don't call Justin. I don't. I just imagine him. That's all it takes.
And then I move on.
On my own. A complete unknown.
With no direction home.
Like a rolling stone.
***
Richmond, Virginia, a city I ordinarily would pass through like the hounds of hell were on my tail, is welcome as my first real taste of civilization since I left Savannah. I check into a good hotel, have a more than decent meal at a Thai restaurant, and even find a gay bar that doesn't look like the cantina in 'Star Wars.'
Yes, I'm getting closer to New York.
The next stage of my journey takes me to Washington, D.C. Well, not Washington per se, but Alexandria. I always used to stay in Georgetown -- it's within striking distance of Dupont Circle and has a number of bars and clubs. But the last few times I hit D.C. the bars were full of fucking Republicans -- all closeted and all working for the Bushies. I can't face that shit right now. Besides, I'm not here to party -- I'm working.
Yeah, I'm actually working. And when I settle into a quiet hotel in Alexandria -- full of elderly tourists looking for antique shops -- I finally decide to get online, check my e-mail, and send my new pages to Dorian, who is already at the Royalton in Manhattan working out the details of the shoot.
He calls my cell immediately.
"Brian! Where in bloody hell are you?"
"On the road," I say. "Like Jack Kerouac. That was quick. You must have gotten the new pages."
"Blast Jack Kerouac! You need to be here! As in last week!"
Good old Dorian. A one-track mind. "I'm on my way. I should be there tomorrow. Or the next day, if I get sidetracked."
"Sidetracked? By what? What are you doing, Brian?"
"Nothing," I tell him. "Working. You obviously saw the pages. How are they?"
I hear him fumbling with something. "I only just received them. But they look good. I need to get them printed out, then I'll be able to tell."
Typical. "You do that."
He pauses. "When I didn't hear from you, I called Justin. He hadn't heard from you either."
"I'm glad you're both comparing notes."
"I'm serious, Brian!" No one can sound more annoyed than a peevish Brit. Or whatever Euro-Mutt Dorian is. "What is the problem there?"
The problem. So easy to question, so hard to explain.
The thing is, there is no problem. Or no problem I can articulate. Except maybe that I'm feeling restless. Stifled. I need some space and so does Justin. But I don't see that as a problem. Or not one I can explain to Dorian, who is so fucking literal.
"Are you there with... someone else?"
That makes me laugh. Who the fuck else would I be here with?
"No, Dorian. I'm all alone. Me and my laptop and your fucking screenplay. And some bad porn on the hotel tube. And a complimentary bathrobe."
"And the complimentary mini-bar," he adds.
"Perhaps," I agree. "Lubrication is a necessity."
"Don't get too lubricated," Dorian warns. "We have work to do."
"I know. And I'm doing it."
I hear that heavy sigh. I'm Dorian's burden to bear. "I've reserved a suite for you here at the Royalton. One floor down from mine."
"No." I have to be firm about this. "No Royalton."
I can picture Dorian frowning 200 miles away. "What do you mean, no Royalton?"
"I don't want to stay at the same hotel. I need to be somewhere else -- at least while I'm still working on the screenplay."
"But when we begin filming..."
"Then I'll move to make it easier. Maybe."
That pathetic sigh again. "Why are you being so difficult, Brian?"
Why, indeed? "Because I can, Dorian. I'll see you soon." And I snap the cell shut.
Am I being difficult? Or am I just being Brian fucking Kinney?
I think I liked it better when there were no expectations on me. When I could be a free-range asshole and no one thought twice about it.
Those days are gone.
I leave D.C. in the morning and make the final push into the Big Apple.
***
I steer clear of the Royalton. And the Paramount. And the Mercer. All the trendy spots dear to visiting celebrity queers and minor movie actors. I consider checking into the Chelsea, but although its history is impeccable, let's face it -- it's a fucking dump.
But I want to be close to my old stomping grounds. The only hotels on the Lower East Side are close to being flophouses -- I don't want my laptop stolen and I don't want to be mugged in the hallway.
So I check into the Tribeca Grand. The place is trying a little too hard to be ultra-hip, but it's got what I need and I can walk to the East Village. And to other spots, too.
Yeah, that's going to be a distraction, but maybe I need some distraction now.
They fall all over me at the Grand, but I let the staff know right away that I'm keeping things low key. Incognito and all that shit. They understand. They're used to crazy celebrities and their demands, especially during the Tribeca Film Festival. They know how to deal with any possible shit.
I call Dorian and let him know I'm in town. But I don't tell him where.
"Brian... seriously?"
"Give me a few days. It's not like I'm sleeping in the park."
Dorian pauses. He's counting to ten. "You know, my dear, if I wanted to know where you were all I would have to do would be to call around to the local gossip mavens and they'd inform me of your whereabouts in less than a minute."
"I know. But I need that minute. Okay?"
"All right. Whatever you wish. But let's have dinner tomorrow night. Anywhere you choose."
"I'll get back to you."
Because tonight, Dorian, I'm going out.
I need to get laid. Or at least get my dick polished.
And New York is finally the place to do it.
***
I put on my cruising uniform -- 501's, black tee shirt, boots, leather jacket. Of course, half the fags in the city are wearing the same thing, but that's okay. Incognito, remember? Tonight I'm not Brian Kinney.
I'm not anyone at all.
So many places to choose from in New York. Sex clubs, leather bars, dives, discos, bathhouses, piano bars. The Tunnel. Twilo. Splash. Lure. The Spike. The Manhole. J's. The West Side Club. The Eagle's Nest. Boots and Saddle. Monster. Bijou. Rawhide. The Boiler Room. Twirl. Barracuda. The Duplex. Hell. Something for everyone -- literally.
And CBGB's -- not gay, but still a vital stop if I want to delve into my past. But not tonight.
I head for Christopher Street. How cliché. And how apt.
I want something anonymous. And this is as anonymous as it gets.
I go into a few places and look around. Have a beer. Nod to a couple of guys. And then I move on.
If anyone recognizes me, they don't show it. That's not part of the game. It's New York and these aren't tourists. These are serious cruisers. Names, faces -- that doesn't matter. I'm looking for somewhere dark. Somewhere loud.
I walk into a bar that fits the bill. I don't know the name -- if it even has one. I immediately sniff out that it's a hustler bar. And I almost walk out. But...
Research. That's what I'm here for.
There's a range of guys. Older daddy types. Businessmen slumming. Trendoids looking for a thrill. And young, hungry kids waiting to hook up. I see that hunger in their eyes. I know that hunger. Know it all too well.
But what am I? I see some hostile glances from the young ones. Competition or customer? They aren't certain. I try to buy a beer, but it's already been taken care of. An older guy, but he's still hot. 40-ish. Jeans and a leather jacket. He could be anyone. A doctor. A lawyer. A truck driver. A fashion designer. Impossible to tell.
It's getting late and I have work to do. He nods and I follow him into a backroom. But they're playing pool there. He leads me down some stairs. It's just a hallway, but it'll do. He goes for my cock.
He knows what he's doing. He doesn't hurry, but takes his time with my dick. It feels good. Better than my hand and a load of Kleenex, that's for sure. I close my eyes and he could be anyone. This could be any day, any year. Sex is timeless. You aren't in a real place. You're somewhere else.
I shoot, but, as often happens, I'm still hard. The trick is surprised. "Whoa," he says. He's done.
"No problem."
And that's when I see him. The kid.
He's been lurking in the corner, watching us. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. Intense expression. He looks me in the eye. He knows who I am.
When the older guy backs off, the kid slips right into place. He devours my dick. He's young, but he's had a lot of practice. Deep throat. Lots of tongue work. A little bit of teeth -- just enough to make it interesting. He brings me to the edge and then slows it down. Up to the brink again -- and back down. Like a roller coaster. This little fucker knows his stuff. He's a pro and I have to admire that.
"Fuck me," he whispers. "Fuck my ass." He pulls down his tattered jeans and shows me his smooth ass.
"No," I say. "Finish me off."
"Only if you fuck me," he challenges. "I want to be fucked by Brian Kinney."
I take my dick in my hand and jerk myself off, defiantly.
"That was a waste," he huffs.
"I don't know you and I don't know this place," I say. "I'm not an idiot."
"Take me back to your hotel," he says. "We can fuck there." He pauses. "No charge."
I hesitate. But only for a few seconds.
"No way." I button up my 501's. "It's been real."
Or unreal.
I toss a fifty on the floor. He glares at me -- but he picks it up and stuffs it in his jeans.
I don't want to think about this too hard or too long.
Then I get out of there. As fast as I can.
This is Chapter 60 in the "Queer Identities" series.
The narrator is Brian Kinney, and features Dorian Folco, Others.
Rated R and contains no warnings or spoilers.
Summary: Sorting things out. Interstate 95/New York City, September 2003.
Disclaimer: You know the drill. This is for fun, not profit. Enjoy.
Earlier "QI" chapters online and on the LJ here:
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaelmcgear/Gaedhalficpage.html
http://www.fortruthis.net/gaedhal/
Most recent "QI" chapters on the LJ here:
Ch. 57 "Indiscreet"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410071.html
Ch. 58 "I Do Not Want What I Haven't Got"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/410497.html
Ch. 59 "How Soon Is Now?"
http://gaedhal.livejournal.com/411025.html
By Gaedhal
I check out the map the woman at the rental car agency gave me and note that Interstate 95 goes directly from Miami to New York City -- and beyond into Canada. It's not the most scenic route, but then I'm not planning to sightsee. I want to get to New York and I want to get there under my own power, on my own terms.
I guess I could fly. Or take the train. Or even hire a fancy car and driver to do all the scut work for me, while I sit back and watch the world go by.
But that's not what I need to do. I need some time. I need some space.
I need to fucking think.
I fold up the map and toss it on the passenger seat.
I point the gray Volvo north and begin to drive up the East Coast of Florida.
***
The first thing I realize is that I'm not in a hurry. No one is pushing me. No one is on my ass. No one is fucking breathing down my neck.
Yes, Dorian keeps calling my cell, but I just delete those messages.
"Brian! Where in heaven's name are you? Why have you left Miami? The Delano says you checked out after one day! What is going on? You realize we are starting pre-production in New York in three weeks, don't you? And the script needs to be finished! Brian? Brian! Call me, damn it!"
The first night on the road, at my first stop, somewhere just over the border into Georgia, I call him back and leave a message on his voicemail. I tell him I'm making my way to New York and that I'll be in touch.
I also tell him to stop fucking calling me ten times a day or else I'll have to kill him the next time I see him.
"I'm fine, Dorian. I'm not drunk or stoned. I haven't been kidnapped by a hoard of straight females who want to convert me or a band of wild lesbians who want my sperm. So chill the fuck out. Over and out."
Out. And over.
Is that what it all means?
I'm out and so I'm fucking over in this business?
I guess I could always go back to advertising. Or public relations. Or I could sit on my ass and invest the cash I've already made.
Or I could pack up and go to abroad. Try my hand in London. Fish around for jobs in Italy or France where being an American semi-movie star still has some cachet.
Or I can do everything to make this fucking script work. Make 'Red Shirt' work. And wait for 'Red River' to come out and hope I don't get slammed too badly. Because if the thing is a dog, the critics sure as hell aren't going to blame Clint Eastwood. Nope -- don't blame the icon. Blame the fag.
But why do I assume it's going to be bad? Why am I always thinking the worst? Is it the Black Irish Cloud always hanging over my head? Guilt. Pessimism. Pain management.
Shit.
Buck up, Kinney. What the fuck is wrong with you? You never used to lack self-confidence -- far from it!
How can things change so much?
Fuck it. It was all an illusion. Always an illusion. I was a huge fish in a tiny pond. I couldn't even score that job in New York after I fucked the jerk who presented the award for Ad Man of the Year. He wasn't even all that hot. Yeah, an award -- for Pittsburgh. Couldn't even get that fucking job....
But now... would I get something because I'm a great advertising man or because I'm Brian Kinney, failed movie star? Or whatever the fuck I am. Because I was a good ad man. Was.
But you can't go back. I don't want to go back. What's the point?
I'm like a shark -- I have to go forward or I'll die.
I stop in Savannah and decide to stay the night.
It's an old city and an infamous tourist trap. I fucking hate tourist traps. But... Savannah is charming. I can't help it, it just is. It also has a strong gay vibe. Like New Orleans, this is where a lot of those old Southern queers must have come when they couldn't live anywhere else. You can smell it on the streets, in the buildings, in the way the trees are dripping with moss and bugs. Perfume and decay.
I walk around, anonymously. No one sees me because no one is looking for me. Why would I be here? And so I'm not. I put on a baseball cap and my beard is growing out in a sexy stubble. I look like just another redneck fag from the sticks, staring at the old houses -- the Mercer House, the Olde Pink House -- wandering around with nowhere to go, nowhere to be.
A guy cruises me down by the riverfront. It's mainly tourists down there, but a couple of guys are standing around, watching, taking in the possibilities. I walk into a lush park. More perfume and decay. The guy follows me and I stop. It would be easy. It's always so easy. Too easy.
I'm not that desperate. Or that horny.
I need a good night's sleep.
I head back to my hotel and leave early the next morning.
On the road again.
***
Up through the two Carolinas Interstate 95 veers away from the coast and moves through the heart of Deep South Redneckland.
This is far from Savannah or Atlanta, let alone South Beach or New York. No tourist traps here. No tourists. Just miles of tobacco fields, scrub pine, and tired looking barns next to broken houses. I stop only to fill up on gas or eat a hamburger. When it gets dark -- it's fall and night is coming earlier each day -- I find a motel room, check in, and lock myself up for the evening. I have a couple of bottles of Jim Beam and a few six packs of Bud, but I find that I only have a shot and maybe one can of beer in the evening. I'm living on chips and beef jerky and convenience store pizza. In the anonymous motel rooms I flip on the tube, turn down the sound, and fire up the laptop.
And then I write until I can't keep my eyes open anymore.
Before I finally fall asleep, I beat off, one hand on my dick and the other on my cell.
But I don't call Justin. I don't. I just imagine him. That's all it takes.
And then I move on.
On my own. A complete unknown.
With no direction home.
Like a rolling stone.
***
Richmond, Virginia, a city I ordinarily would pass through like the hounds of hell were on my tail, is welcome as my first real taste of civilization since I left Savannah. I check into a good hotel, have a more than decent meal at a Thai restaurant, and even find a gay bar that doesn't look like the cantina in 'Star Wars.'
Yes, I'm getting closer to New York.
The next stage of my journey takes me to Washington, D.C. Well, not Washington per se, but Alexandria. I always used to stay in Georgetown -- it's within striking distance of Dupont Circle and has a number of bars and clubs. But the last few times I hit D.C. the bars were full of fucking Republicans -- all closeted and all working for the Bushies. I can't face that shit right now. Besides, I'm not here to party -- I'm working.
Yeah, I'm actually working. And when I settle into a quiet hotel in Alexandria -- full of elderly tourists looking for antique shops -- I finally decide to get online, check my e-mail, and send my new pages to Dorian, who is already at the Royalton in Manhattan working out the details of the shoot.
He calls my cell immediately.
"Brian! Where in bloody hell are you?"
"On the road," I say. "Like Jack Kerouac. That was quick. You must have gotten the new pages."
"Blast Jack Kerouac! You need to be here! As in last week!"
Good old Dorian. A one-track mind. "I'm on my way. I should be there tomorrow. Or the next day, if I get sidetracked."
"Sidetracked? By what? What are you doing, Brian?"
"Nothing," I tell him. "Working. You obviously saw the pages. How are they?"
I hear him fumbling with something. "I only just received them. But they look good. I need to get them printed out, then I'll be able to tell."
Typical. "You do that."
He pauses. "When I didn't hear from you, I called Justin. He hadn't heard from you either."
"I'm glad you're both comparing notes."
"I'm serious, Brian!" No one can sound more annoyed than a peevish Brit. Or whatever Euro-Mutt Dorian is. "What is the problem there?"
The problem. So easy to question, so hard to explain.
The thing is, there is no problem. Or no problem I can articulate. Except maybe that I'm feeling restless. Stifled. I need some space and so does Justin. But I don't see that as a problem. Or not one I can explain to Dorian, who is so fucking literal.
"Are you there with... someone else?"
That makes me laugh. Who the fuck else would I be here with?
"No, Dorian. I'm all alone. Me and my laptop and your fucking screenplay. And some bad porn on the hotel tube. And a complimentary bathrobe."
"And the complimentary mini-bar," he adds.
"Perhaps," I agree. "Lubrication is a necessity."
"Don't get too lubricated," Dorian warns. "We have work to do."
"I know. And I'm doing it."
I hear that heavy sigh. I'm Dorian's burden to bear. "I've reserved a suite for you here at the Royalton. One floor down from mine."
"No." I have to be firm about this. "No Royalton."
I can picture Dorian frowning 200 miles away. "What do you mean, no Royalton?"
"I don't want to stay at the same hotel. I need to be somewhere else -- at least while I'm still working on the screenplay."
"But when we begin filming..."
"Then I'll move to make it easier. Maybe."
That pathetic sigh again. "Why are you being so difficult, Brian?"
Why, indeed? "Because I can, Dorian. I'll see you soon." And I snap the cell shut.
Am I being difficult? Or am I just being Brian fucking Kinney?
I think I liked it better when there were no expectations on me. When I could be a free-range asshole and no one thought twice about it.
Those days are gone.
I leave D.C. in the morning and make the final push into the Big Apple.
***
I steer clear of the Royalton. And the Paramount. And the Mercer. All the trendy spots dear to visiting celebrity queers and minor movie actors. I consider checking into the Chelsea, but although its history is impeccable, let's face it -- it's a fucking dump.
But I want to be close to my old stomping grounds. The only hotels on the Lower East Side are close to being flophouses -- I don't want my laptop stolen and I don't want to be mugged in the hallway.
So I check into the Tribeca Grand. The place is trying a little too hard to be ultra-hip, but it's got what I need and I can walk to the East Village. And to other spots, too.
Yeah, that's going to be a distraction, but maybe I need some distraction now.
They fall all over me at the Grand, but I let the staff know right away that I'm keeping things low key. Incognito and all that shit. They understand. They're used to crazy celebrities and their demands, especially during the Tribeca Film Festival. They know how to deal with any possible shit.
I call Dorian and let him know I'm in town. But I don't tell him where.
"Brian... seriously?"
"Give me a few days. It's not like I'm sleeping in the park."
Dorian pauses. He's counting to ten. "You know, my dear, if I wanted to know where you were all I would have to do would be to call around to the local gossip mavens and they'd inform me of your whereabouts in less than a minute."
"I know. But I need that minute. Okay?"
"All right. Whatever you wish. But let's have dinner tomorrow night. Anywhere you choose."
"I'll get back to you."
Because tonight, Dorian, I'm going out.
I need to get laid. Or at least get my dick polished.
And New York is finally the place to do it.
***
I put on my cruising uniform -- 501's, black tee shirt, boots, leather jacket. Of course, half the fags in the city are wearing the same thing, but that's okay. Incognito, remember? Tonight I'm not Brian Kinney.
I'm not anyone at all.
So many places to choose from in New York. Sex clubs, leather bars, dives, discos, bathhouses, piano bars. The Tunnel. Twilo. Splash. Lure. The Spike. The Manhole. J's. The West Side Club. The Eagle's Nest. Boots and Saddle. Monster. Bijou. Rawhide. The Boiler Room. Twirl. Barracuda. The Duplex. Hell. Something for everyone -- literally.
And CBGB's -- not gay, but still a vital stop if I want to delve into my past. But not tonight.
I head for Christopher Street. How cliché. And how apt.
I want something anonymous. And this is as anonymous as it gets.
I go into a few places and look around. Have a beer. Nod to a couple of guys. And then I move on.
If anyone recognizes me, they don't show it. That's not part of the game. It's New York and these aren't tourists. These are serious cruisers. Names, faces -- that doesn't matter. I'm looking for somewhere dark. Somewhere loud.
I walk into a bar that fits the bill. I don't know the name -- if it even has one. I immediately sniff out that it's a hustler bar. And I almost walk out. But...
Research. That's what I'm here for.
There's a range of guys. Older daddy types. Businessmen slumming. Trendoids looking for a thrill. And young, hungry kids waiting to hook up. I see that hunger in their eyes. I know that hunger. Know it all too well.
But what am I? I see some hostile glances from the young ones. Competition or customer? They aren't certain. I try to buy a beer, but it's already been taken care of. An older guy, but he's still hot. 40-ish. Jeans and a leather jacket. He could be anyone. A doctor. A lawyer. A truck driver. A fashion designer. Impossible to tell.
It's getting late and I have work to do. He nods and I follow him into a backroom. But they're playing pool there. He leads me down some stairs. It's just a hallway, but it'll do. He goes for my cock.
He knows what he's doing. He doesn't hurry, but takes his time with my dick. It feels good. Better than my hand and a load of Kleenex, that's for sure. I close my eyes and he could be anyone. This could be any day, any year. Sex is timeless. You aren't in a real place. You're somewhere else.
I shoot, but, as often happens, I'm still hard. The trick is surprised. "Whoa," he says. He's done.
"No problem."
And that's when I see him. The kid.
He's been lurking in the corner, watching us. Dark hair. Dark blue eyes. Intense expression. He looks me in the eye. He knows who I am.
When the older guy backs off, the kid slips right into place. He devours my dick. He's young, but he's had a lot of practice. Deep throat. Lots of tongue work. A little bit of teeth -- just enough to make it interesting. He brings me to the edge and then slows it down. Up to the brink again -- and back down. Like a roller coaster. This little fucker knows his stuff. He's a pro and I have to admire that.
"Fuck me," he whispers. "Fuck my ass." He pulls down his tattered jeans and shows me his smooth ass.
"No," I say. "Finish me off."
"Only if you fuck me," he challenges. "I want to be fucked by Brian Kinney."
I take my dick in my hand and jerk myself off, defiantly.
"That was a waste," he huffs.
"I don't know you and I don't know this place," I say. "I'm not an idiot."
"Take me back to your hotel," he says. "We can fuck there." He pauses. "No charge."
I hesitate. But only for a few seconds.
"No way." I button up my 501's. "It's been real."
Or unreal.
I toss a fifty on the floor. He glares at me -- but he picks it up and stuffs it in his jeans.
I don't want to think about this too hard or too long.
Then I get out of there. As fast as I can.