Title: Aftermath
Author: Paul Plesko
Email address: pplesko@hotmail.com
Series/Sequel: Aftermath
Character/Pairings: Brian
Category: Angst, Brian POV, Post ep. (220)
Rating: NC-17
Date:
Summary: Brian reacts to Justin's departure from the Rage party in typical Brian fashion. A hedonistic, gluttonous visit to the Baths.
Spoilers: Everything through episode 220
Warnings: None
Author Notes:

Aftermath
by Paul Plesko

He made his choice, then turned, and left with Ethan. I watched them, mask off, as they wended their way to the door. And as I replaced the mask, I felt the eyes turn to me--- Deb, Mikey--- perhaps Ben and Emmett, plus numerous Babylon regulars. Mikey was fozen-in-place, still watching the image of them kissing burned into his retinas.

With my mask on now, I could resume my super-hero status, reassured that my mind- bending powers were still intact. The super-hero fuck in the back room had produced the expected result. It had made Justin make the decision he could not have made without it. The proverbial donkey between two bales of hay needed a two-by-four between the eyes to turn his head in one direction. It was as simple as that.

The enormity of the moment now past, I forced my way toward the bar through the crowd, but stopping to dance with one shirtless trick I'd had my eye on. He was oblivious to what had just happened.and I sought solace in his oblivion. I was going through the motions of dancing, but my libido wasn't engaged. He was willing---and his hand on my chest promised a good time. But I needed a drink. I spun away and resumed my quest.

"Line up three of 'em," I said to Paul. He picked up three over-size shot glasses in one big hand and placed them rim-to-rim in front of me. Then with one sweep of the Jose Cuervo he filled them to the rim without spilling a drop. "On the house, Bri. Don't tell Sap," he said, motioning with his head toward the boss's window overlooking the dance floor.

The musky taste---the burning as it slid down my throat---the warmth deep inside---all harbingers of impending numbness. The second. The third. Paul turned around to find the glasses empty and refilled them without asking. He had seen what had happened.

A hand on my shoulder. Before I could turn, Mikey shouted into my ear over the din of the music. "Did you see how that little fucker blew-you-off?---and I don't mean a twinkie blow-job. What an asshole!" Before I could respond, Ben's face appeared over his shoulder and he began to pull Mikey away.

"Sorry, Bri. Sometimes a buddy just doesn't know when to shut-up." His hand slipped over Mikey's mouth as he sputtered a response---and then Deb appeared to grab him by the ear just like she had when he was 13. "Let him be," she said. "Don't piss on a guy when he's down." They hustled Mikey away; I was relieved.

Four and Five went down slower---and I carried Number Six with me as I traversed the dance-floor again. The shirtless trick was still dancing, perhaps with someone, but I didn't care. I stepped in front of him and lifted the tequila to his lips. He smiled and swallowed as I poured it into his open mouth. Then he cleaned the glass with his long tongue. Another invitation. I clamped my hand behind his neck and kissed him hard, trying to retrieve a little of the taste---and then I propelled him toward the back room.

Blue lights---muscular torsos---sweat and poppers---rough hands removing my clothing-- -like sinking into the Maelstrom of Forgetfulness. Hot skin against mine---tight moistness---pulsing pleasure---wave-after-wave of sensations, each rising higher like the in-coming tide. I didn't care who---or why---or what they did. It wasn't what I was doing that mattered; it was what I wasn't doing---thinking about what had just happened.

Ted drove me back to the loft, with Emmett following close behind with the Jeep. I remember how they put me to-bed---Ted joking about how he'd always dreamed of stripping me naked, but he hadn't planned on having Emmett's help.

Sunday was a wasted day. I slept 'til 1:00 and woke up on Justin's side of the bed. Not since the ill-fated snow-boarding trip had I awakened alone. I sensed his presence---but he was gone. For someone once accustomed to awakening alone, it was amazing how alone one could feel when the solitude was restored.

He had come straight to the loft from Babylon, probably with Ethan. And all of his things were gone. The key was on the desk without a note. He left the portrait he had drawn of Gus and myself---also a few things in the refrigerator---but otherwise the place was stripped bare of any sign of him. Not that I needed things to make me remember.

He had lain there that night in my arms not saying anything---almost forcing me to speak. But I couldn't say what he wanted to hear. The only way two people can be together is to be free to leave, but willingly stay. No promises can truly bind them. No words can make it true. No rules are unbreakable. Unfilled needs are like acid rain; slowly, with time, they eat-away the substance and poison the environment.

I could have made him stay; it would have been so easy to use my guile and grace to seduce him into another month---another year.

I could have LET him stay; he would have tolerated a degree of unhappiness just to maintain the status-quo. But slowing the deterioration would not stop it, just prolong it.

He was always, ultimately free to go---free to look for someone else---free to experiment- --free to grow. The man-boy with his early maturity and childish charm.

I knew it from the start---that it would end this way. But knowing it didn't make it any easier to open my cupped hands and let the fledgling fly-free with a gentle heft. Some loves are carrier-pigeons, always returning to the comfort of the familiar. And some flit from net to net, each time captured by someone new. And a few fly free and never land.

I opened the Jim Beam knowing it was a bad idea.

On Monday I called-in sick---and it wasn't a lie. The empty bottle wasn't my only symptom. I tried to sleep-it-off but my sleep was fitful at-best and dream-filled at-worst. When the phone rang I didn't answer. Mikey. Again. Lindsey. Again. Emmett, from Torso. They were checking on me, perhaps, and were reassured that I was at-work. Mikey called back; he'd apparently called the work number. I still didn't pick up. And then a call from an unknown number. Justin perhaps? I let it ring, and there was no message.

Only when I staggered into the bathroom to piss did I realize that vodka was an inappropriate choice for breakfast. I looked like Hell---two-day's beard growth, bags under my eyes, droopy lids, pillow-creases on my cheek---I couldn't look. And I smelled like the baths---stale sweat, ketosis from too much booze---"Take a shower, you stink" I said to the image in the mirror.

The shower didn't help. I forgot to shave. My problems wouldn't wash away.

Solitude, the only remedy. The loft became my monastery; my bed became my cell. The only music that didn't remind me of him was classical.we'd fucked to almost my whole collection of rock and pop---but I avoided Joshua Bell for obvious reasons. I didn't answer the buzzer or the phone---and I ignored my e-mail. Let them think I had left town. Living on creatinine-soy shakes and Jim Beam made time creep by so slowly.

Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I went to work. My only accomplishment was being there; the inner fire had burned-out. Cynthia seemed to know---either she could read my face, or she had gossip-connections in the gay-world. News traveled fast, apparently. She used her skills to protect me, perhaps. She interrupted my "work" only for the most necessary phone calls.

On Thursday, I finally turned on the cell phone, but didn't reply to any voice messages. I didn't need to. Everyone kept calling. "Everything was OK," I said---"Just like always-- -no sweat---things are fine---been away---shacked-up with the Steelers---heavy work schedule---been riding boy-ass (gotta keep up my image with Teddy)---writing my autobiography (little did they know it was close to the truth.)" All lies, though.

Friday I skipped work again---gym-workout, boxing, a swim, massage, haircut, facial, tanning,---the works. Getting in-shape for my return to the public-eye.

Babylon, Friday, 10 pm. Was there a slight hush and a slow-down in the gyrations on the dance floor when I entered---or was it my imagination. He wasn't there, of course. I knew he wouldn't be; too expensive for his newly-acquired poverty. I avoided the tequila shots this time. Paul poured a double Jim Beam and I nursed it from my seat at the bar. Most of the regulars were there plus a large contingent of the college crowd. Pitt, CM, and Duquesne must be starting their final exams because the gay-boys were out in droves.

I was getting the looks, as usual, but the karma was wrong. Did I have "Rejected" stamped across my forehead? I strolled over to Kenny and Troy, two of the dancers, but before I could say anything, Kenny said "He hasn't been here all week---and neither have YOU, for that matter." They turned and withdrew.

One guy was cruising me, but he was too old. Another brushed his hand across my black-lycra shoulders, but when I turned to see who it was, I realized it was a guy I'd rejected a half-dozen times before. Several guys nodded and said "hi" but not with the enthusiasm of the past years. And a few offered condolences either in words or in looks, as if someone had died.

And then I saw him---a guy I had seen before---dancing shirtless, his fine-sculpted body gleaming with a mist of sweat. He moved like a dancer or a soccer-player---head back, mouth open, eyes closed---apparently dancing with no one. I stepped between two lovers as they parted and stood directly in front of him, watching the flashing lights reflect from his undulating abs, stark red and blue oblique light accentuating the hills and valleys of his abdomen. I rubbed my fingers over their oily dampness as he jolted to consciousness. He smiled first, appreciating the attention. But then his face darkened. "Well, if it isn't Justin's Daddy looking for a new boy," he said with a smirk. I turned to leave. His hand on my shoulder pulled me back to face him. "So pathetic," he said---"How far the mighty has fallen. You'd probably give me head right here on the dance-floor." His hand began to push me downward as if he actually thought I would. I swung my arm up inside of his and brushed it off my shoulder. "Sorry, I mistook you for someone human," I said. "Go paw some little tramp, then, you pedophile!" he shouted. I didn't see his clenched fist until it was too late; he caught me on the left cheek. I swung instinctively. The boxing earlier in the day had re-enforced the muscle-memory of a right-jab in response to a blow from the left. I probably broke his nose. The dance-floor cleared as guys tried to avoid the fight, but a tight circle quickly formed of those wishing to see a little blood. Two security guys grabbed me from behind, pinning my arms behind me---and the fucker got in one more blow to my face before he was subdued too.

Sap appeared on the balcony. He had heard the tumult and the bartender had pushed the emergency button indicating a security incident. "You're fucked, Kinney. Get outa here. I've been waiting for the chance to throw you outa here for years." To the security guards he added, "And make sure he never comes back."

I tried to walk to the door in a dignified manner, but a third bouncer joined the others and they lifted me in strong arms by the shoulders and knees. "You messed with the wrong guy," the bouncer offered in a low voice. "He's been after Justin since the King-ofBabylon Contest---but you were always in-the-way. Built-up resentment, I'd guess."

They carried me to the sidewalk where they dropped me roughly. I got up before a crowd could gather. The urge to "score" immediately was an obsession now. It was almost as if a switch turned-on somewhere in my groin.

There was only one place to go---the Baths. Everyone was there for one purpose, sex. No one asked your name; no one cared about who you were. And everyone could find some kind of action if he was willing to do what it took to participate. The Baths were pure, unrefined, anonymous, over-the-top pleasure---as much as you wanted.

"Hi, Bri." The kid behind the metal screen at the check-in counter had been a Saturdaynight regular for two years before he became "legal". Well, so it wasn't totally anonymous. "What's up tonight?" I asked.

"Oh, regular crowd plus a few novices. You know how it is on a cool evening. The guys from the park move indoors. What'll you have tonight?"

"Give me a cubicle, but not the one with the sling. Save that for Charles," I said.

"He's already here---and probably in it already." He smiled. "You want it by the hour or for the whole night?"

"Open-ended," I answered. "Just put it on the card."

"A few of those park-boys will be 'open-ended' by the time you're through with 'em." He smiled at his own joke, then looked wistful, regretting for-a-moment that he had to spend the entire night behind the counter. "Here's your basket." He handed me the wiremesh basket to check my clothing and valuables. "And your towel---as if you ever used one." He smiled again. "And the key to 107."

"Is the kid with the tattoos here?" I asked casually.

"Came in about half-an hour ago---hot as they cum---he's probably someone's dinner by now." I nodded, looking forward to dessert.

The place was already crowded. The video lounge was almost full; the dark passageways were clogged with guys on-the-prowl. The low-level sounds of lust seeped through the thin doors, raising my level of arousal. I found 107 and entered. Leaving the door open as I stripped, I folded my clothes into the basket. The cubicle had been used recently, probably by one of the early-evening gang who grab a quick fuck and hurry home for dinner with the wifey. The floor was littered with trodden Kleenex. I kicked them into the corner by the room's only other piece of furniture beside the bed---a wastebasket. The bed was a single mattress on a metal frame---no sheet, no headboard or foot-rail---just a plastic- covered mattress. I left the towel on the bed to indicate that the cubicle was occupied and took my basket back to the check-in window. The key, with it's conspicuous "107" was on an elastic band around my wrist. "One more thing," I said to the kid. "What's on the menu?" I reached for my wallet as he started to take the basket.

"E, and meth, some sort of purple pills---don't know what they are, couldn't understand the delivery guy,---and poppers, of course. But you always bring your own shit, don't ya?"

"Not tonight," I said. Giving him $200, I took some of each, except the mystery pills.

Back in the cubicle, I hid the stash under the mattress, then locked the door as I began my hunt. At least the kid hadn't mentioned Justin's name or the fact that I'd been bringing him here for the last few months to play. At a place like this, no one gives a shit who you arrive with---and only the losers bother to keep score.

I had taught him how to hunt---how to share the enjoyment with me. He had not been into it, at first; he just wanted to be with me. But I showed him sex-as-sport---the random, anonymous sampling of pleasures. "Couldn't you just enjoy pick-up basketball?" he had asked with that toothy grin and a flip of the blond forelock.

I had taught him bathhouse "etiquette"---the Door Code. A closed door meant the cubicle was either unoccupied or the occupants wanted no interruptions. An open door with the dim light on said "I'm an exhibitionist. Do you like what you see? Come in, and if I like what I see, I'm available." And the open door with the light off said "Available for all comers."

We had tricked together---and one time separately. Recently, I had begun arriving a halfhour before Justin to let him look for me---the anticipation of "the hunt"---the heartpounding exhilaration of stalking the passageways looking for me among the other stalkers or in the darkened rooms.

I had sent him through the pitch-black maze where the passages were so narrow that one had to feel his way, occasionally encountering the warm skin of men in the twists and recesses of the labyrinth or brush chest-to-chest with others trying to pass in the darkness. He had exited shaken and afraid.

But he wasn't here tonight.

Tonight I could have stayed in the cubicle and waited for them to come to me, but choosing was half the fun. And the admiring eyes as I strolled by were reassuring too. My cock was already semi-turgid as I traversed the passageways; a few hands brushing my hip or more boldly caressing my shaft as I passed them in the dimness. If tattoo-boy was here, I'd find him.

He was already in one of the blue-lit orgy rooms, being shared by a couple. They had obviously just begun because they were stroking him between them, covering him with kisses. I stepped up behind one of them and cupped his chin in my palm over the guy's shoulder. He opened his eyes to see who had joined the pack. His nostrils flared and he smiled; we'd made eye-contact a few weeks ago when the situation was reversed. I had promised him, with my eyes, that we would meet again sometime---and sometime was now. He lifted his arms and broke their embraces, then slithered from between them. They grasped for him, then turned to each other in consolation. I showed him the key and he proceeded through the maze of passageways, familiar with the jumble of cubicles and specialty rooms.

The bold geometric tattoo which covered his entire right arm spread-out onto his shoulder blade as if it were eventually intended to cover his entire torso. He had more ink than the Sunday Post-Gazette. It accentuated the curve of his triceps and deltoid; it made him look alien and dangerous. The triangle of broad shoulders and narrow hips pointed to the finest ass in the place that night. I followed him into the cubicle, dimmed the light, and closed the door. No one would bother us.

He sat on one side of the bed waiting for instructions, but I could tell he was already aroused and ready. The muscles of his inner thigh trembled nervously and uncontrollably. I sat down opposite him, then lay back along the length of the mattress. His eyes never left my cock which now curved upward to my abs. I reached for his neck and pulled him down onto me. He ate it hungrily. "Slow down," I said. "We have all night."

"I'm meeting someone here at midnight---but I want to get as much of you as I can," he said as he pulled off my shaft and left a string of saliva as a shimmering bridge between mouth and cock. He dove again, taking it full-depth, making me thrust upwards in response. His mouth was almost as good as--- I put Justin out of my mind, but not far enough. In the dim light, his brown hair almost glowed blond and the curve of his un-tattooed arm remind me of someone else. In anger, I shoved him into a kneeling position between my legs, and I raised my knees to trap his shoulders. "Suck it," I growled. The sound of his mouth devouring me could be heard in the passageway, probably.

He worked at it for at least ten minutes using every trick in his repertoire---hands, lips, soft cheek, hair brushing over the tip. Nothing could bring me to climax. I could have fucked his throat all night without a dribble.

"I want it," he said desperately, breathlessly between plunges. "I want to swallow it. Feed me. I WANT it!" He was jacking himself now, ready to shoot. I pushed him off my cock and gripped it myself to see if I could finish. But he shot all over me in one huge gusher and collapsed onto me stopping my hand motion. I pushed him away---but I had lost the urge and the attraction to this nobody. He felt me shut down and started to re-start, but then he sat up and stood by the bed. "The Great Brian---can't live up to the legend." He left quickly to make his rendezvous. I lay there realizing that I had not cum for a week---and I couldn't remember when that had happened before. Perhaps that first week after the bashing---I had no memory of that time other than the image of his nearlifeless body in the hospital bed.

He turned out the light and left the door open as he departed. And before I could get up to walk around again, the shadow of a muscular guy filled the door. He stepped in, looking into the darkness---then saw me sit up. He sat on the bed, his naked hip brushing my shoulder as his hand explored my chest. He took a swig from the bottle in his left hand---the familiar smell of whiskey. Pleased with the torso he discovered, he offered me a swig.and I sat-up to take a drink. The liquid, warm from the bottle, burned its way into my stomach and the warmth spread from there like a blow-torch on cast-iron. He took back the bottle and lifted it to his lips again, swallowed hard, and returned it to my lips, holding it himself this time as he poured it into my mouth. I swallowed three times before he stopped. He was already under-the-influence and he was trying to get me there, too, as quickly as possible. He stood as if to leave, but when he reached the door and opened it, he called a name and motioned. He was quickly joined by two other guys who crowded into the cubicle---all naked, all solid. "Try this," he said as he held a pinch of something under my nostril. It burned my nasal passage as it started to work its magic. I reached for the bottle again as multiple hands began stroking my body and exploring the obvious places. Hands under my arm-pits dragged me to the end of the bed, with head and shoulders hanging backwards over the end. A cock suddenly flopped on my face as a torso stretched over me in the darkness and a mouth surrounded my cock. I took his cock instinctively into my throat; in the dreamy drug-stupor it was almost like sucking myself- --mouth stuffed with hard cock---hard cock surrounded by hot mouth. The body above me tensed as I felt something strike the top of my head. He was being fucked by one of his buddies while he was fucking my throat. It drove his cock deeper into me almost making me gag. Years of practice---operating instinctively. A hand moving up my inner thigh, then a second forcing my legs apart---then fingers exploring my hole. I knew then that I wanted it.

More. I wanted more. I wanted to forget. I wanted to turn-off the memories. I wanted to give-in to the inevitability of what was happening. I wanted to function at the base level of primitive desire. I wanted it all.

New positions. New partners. On the bed. On the floor. Against the wall. The bottle kept passing-around. The numbness. The detached feeling of seeing myself get fucked-- -an out-of-body experience. Pounding pressure. Pounding heart-beat. Feeling my body pressed into new positions---lifted up---held by strong arms---a mouth covering mine, sucking the air from my lungs. I wanted to shout as I came, but a hand over my mouth stifled it to a groan. And that was just the beginning.

I fucked someone in the darkness, urged-on by hand-slaps against my ass. "Fuck him harder. He loves it!" The teeth on my nipple made me inhale sharply; I stifled a curse. The cubicle swirled in the darkness. My body, wet with cum and saliva, ground against unidentifiable body-parts. Weight pressed me onto someone---into someone. My balls felt as if they would explode the second time I came.

The door opened. Dim light from the passageway lit the ceiling for a moment. "Fuck him," a voice said. "He's ready for more." An ampoule of amyl was cracked open under my nose, then poured into a Kleenex held over my nose and mouth. My head felt as if it would explode---then I sank into the numbness of a popper-high so intense my heart felt as if it would leap from my chest. Tightness around my cock---a fist?---an ass? I thrust not knowing what I was doing. And I felt myself being entered again---not the gentleness of a first-time, but the demanding thrust of someone who didn't care about the damage he could cause. I willed my ass to open to accommodate whatever was penetrating me.

More voices. The players kept changing as they came and went. "you'll never get another chance like this," someone murmured. The guy with the whiskey returned and fed me another long draught. Strong hands pressed my arms against the mattress over my head. My hips were lifted off the bed. Fucked-over---and over and over.

I awoke the next morning in total darkness, forgetting for a moment where I was. (I hate that feeling!) Aaah, the Baths; places like this never have windows---or they're totally boarded-up. I started to get out of bed, but it had been moved over against the wall, and I bumped my knee as I swung it over the edge. Feeling for the door, wrapped in a semidamp towel, I finally managed to pull it open. The passageway was dark. Even the dim, red lights had been switched off, the exit-sign around the corner gave enough of a glow so I could find my way to the stairs.

The same guy was at the check-in counter. "Got a cigarette?" I asked. Someone stole my pack last night." He pulled a pack from under the counter and slid it to me. "Keep 'em," he said. "You look like Hell." Before I could explain, he continued. "I'm almost finished up for the night." I looked at the clock---9:30. "I just need to wipe-down some of the benches in locker room, mop the cum off the floor-pads in the orgy rooms, and--- there's one thing I could use your help with, if ya don't mind." I always need help getting Charley out of the sling." (I'll save you the details of this mildly disgusting joint-effort.)

While Teddy did his clean-up chores (he told me his name as we finished releasing "the prisoner"), I ate breakfast from the vending machines in the rec-room (right next to the condom dispensers)---peanuts, popcorn, and a Diet Gingerale---so much for good nutrition. Hell, I needed a shower. My hair was encrusted with Lord-knows-what and I smelled like the floor of the Pitt-Panther locker room.

The shower room was empty although there was plenty of evidence of last night's activities---foil condom pouches, some used condoms clogging one floor drain, some broken glass shoved into the corner, a pair of torn underwear hanging from a shower head, and some telltale brown stains where water had pooled and dried during the night. I chose my footsteps carefully and turned on the spigot. Hot water over aching muscles worked its magic; I took the spray full in-the-face and let it run down my torso in wild torrents. The sound of the water masked the sound of someone approaching, apparently, because when I finally turned, I saw a figure through the flood of water in my eyes. It was Timmy, watching me with a mop in one hand and a plastic spray bottle in the other. After watching me silently for a few seconds, he dropped the bottle and leaned the mop against the tile wall. "Gotta get me some-a that," he murmured as he stepped closer. The mop fell with a crash that echoed in the shower room like a gun-shot. He startled for a moment, then fell to his knees in front of me, catching the last few drops of water that dripped from my cock-tip before he swallowed me whole. I was barely turgid, but his sucking soon made it swell in his mouth and down his throat. His hands explored my dripping torso and gripped my hips to sway me into him in counterpoint to his bobbing head. He paused, looked up, and let my cock slip out of his lips. "Will you fuck me?" he asked. He stripped his t-shirt over his head. I took a handful of his hair and pulled him to his feet. Then I opened his jeans and spun him around. I shucked the jeans to his knees and pushed him toward the time wall. He staggered as the pant-legs limited his steps. I pressed his chest against the cool tiles---my chest against his back---as I fed my cock into his ass. He clawed at the tiles, unable to find support, then moaned as my shaft slipped into him. After the previous night, it took longer to finish him than normal, but he wasn't complaining. In fact, his moans drew a few other over-nighters from their cubicles to watch. He moaned with each thrust; his voice raised in pitch as my speed increased. The rest was a blur; the only ways to suppress reality were---drugs, sleep, or fucking.

I spent the rest of the morning watching the news in one of the TV-lounges---and a little porn. The kinds of guys who have no place to go or nothing to do and who spend their time in a place like this had no attraction to me. I could have gone home---but I would have simply turned around and come back in a few hours. And there was nothing in the loft but memories.

Why did this bother me so much? Wasn't it what I'd wanted?---what I'd wanted for his own good? What I had predicted all-along? He was presumably with someone who could give him what he wanted. Well, perhaps not. I didn't find the violinist to be that attractive or sophisticated. He was talented. He was young. He was only doing what I would have done at his age---attempt to go after what I wanted. If Justin couldn't see the difference between Ethan and myself in a positive way, then fuck him. I never pinned my happiness on another person. Period. So, why did I feel rejected? Why was I reliving the break-up with John? Why couldn't I live by my own self-declarations? The kid had peeled the armor plate off the armadillo to reveal the fleshy, vulnerable parts--- and then declared himself a vegetarian?

The afternoon went by slowly---golf, tennis, an old movie.I leaned back on the fakeleather sofa with my fingers intertwined behind my neck. Naugahyde had the feel of leather against my bare back, but without the pleasant, manly aroma. For a moment, it reminded me of a possible visit to the Meat Market, but I quickly rejected the idea of spending a Saturday night with the weekend motorcycle crowd and the guys who learned knot-tying in Boy Scouts.

At dinner-time, I told the new check-in-clerk to order a few pizzas at my expense for the last remaining hangers-on; we needed our strength for the up-coming night. The delivery kid had never delivered to the Baths before; he was a little stunned and shy when I stepped forward in-a-towel with my wallet in my hand. He left quickly, feeling as if he'd saved his ass just-in-time.

The early evening crowd began to arrive, not ready for sex yet. It was mostly a time for camaraderie and joking among the regulars. I headed for the hot-tub to warm-up the seminal vesicles for another workout. The warmth caressed me like a partner in bed.

As the late-night crowd finally arrived I began the hunt in earnest. Never stopping, walking slowly from room to room---traversing the passageways---exploring the pitchblack maze, which I knew by-heart---always watching the new-comers arriving. Was I getting picky? Was I suffering overload? No one looked good to me. Lust dimmed to nonchalance. Only a few guys from last night had returned, but none of the new crop turned-me-on. By 11pm, I called it a night, gathered my things, and checked out. Teddy had changed the books to show "paid-in-full" for the previous night, so the new guy only charged me for a few hours. I almost spoke-up, but I was so disappointed by the turn-out, I said "What-the-Hell" and paid what he told me---and then put the remainder in an envelope with Teddy's name on it. He'd probably take it the wrong way---but he could use the money.

Back at the Loft. At least I could sleep. The drug-induced sleep of the night before, plus that uncomfortable bed, had eliminated all possibilities of restorative sleep. But that night I actually slept well for the first time in a week.

There was still no usable food in the refrigerator for breakfast. The milk was spoiled, so I couldn't even make a soy-shake. But I put-together a supplement mixture, some powdered egg-whites, and a bioflavone shock-dose into a bottled water cocktail that was probably the most nutritious thing I'd eaten in months. Then I sat at the desk to check the messages.

Answering machine messages:

Mikey - " Bri? Pick up, will ya? Did you leave town? I saw the Jeep was gone. I'll bet Justin is feeling like shit---the little shit. Call me." He couldn't avoid getting his dig into Justin.

Lindz - "Brian? Brian, pick up. I know you're there. I know how you operate. You can't shut us all out. You can't drive all your friends away the same way you've shut Justin off. He's having second thoughts, by the way, wanting to---" I pressed the button to move on to the next message. Lindsay had always taken Justin's side. She had, on the one hand, always assumed Justin and I would be life-mates forever; if she couldn't have me, then someone else would tame me. But, on the other hand, she constantly criticized me to-my-face---and to Justin---and she was part of the problem. White houses with picket fences and window boxes may be fine for lesbians, but that was not in MY future. And, to top it all off, she inadvertently (she said) brought-about the meeting with Ethan. I had been ignoring the next message, so I backed-up to hear Lindz again. "How can you be an adequate father for Gus, if you can't be a mentor for Justin? You probably blame me for this, but, as your friend---" I turned her off again. This wasn't about Gus.

Emmett - "Hey, doll. I have this extra ticket for the Ballet Theater tonight. Wanta go with me? Teddy says that ballet was invented simply to give tenors the time to catch their breath---so he's not interested. You, on the other hand, love to look at blond twinkies wearing skin-tight pants---or, if we're lucky, no pants at all---so give me a call. It's Saturday." It was too late. At least he hadn't mentioned Justin.

Number Not Available: "Hey, stud. I still wanta connect. Your website is fuckin' fabulous. I wanta---" Click. Next message.

Number Not Available: Traffic noises in the background---breathing, then a sigh. Dialtone.

Mikey - "This is JUST like you---burying yourself in some hole---or in someone's hole. You never let your friends help you out. Just a self-righteous ass-hole. I know you better than anyone. This banishment has got to stop!" Another word he got from a comic book and mis-used. It wasn't banishment; no one had sent me away. Self-imposed banishment, perhaps? If being with Mikey would have helped the situation, I would have sought him out---but I didn't.

The phone rang, jolting me to reality. An unrecognized number---another jack-off buddy? I picked up ready to hang up again.

"Hello." The perfect blend of nonchalance and no-shit business.

"Brian, this is Gardner."

"Hey, sorry, Gardner. I've been a little sick the last few days, but I'll be at work bright and early Monday," I promised, not sure if I could make it through Sunday.

"I don't make it a practice to get involved in my employees' private lives, let-alone a partner---in fact, I don't care what-the-fuck is eating your guts---but something is. You've been 'off' for over a week now. Bad for us---bad for business---bad for our clients. If you weren't so fucking valuable, I'd tell you to get lost, but I can't afford to lose you. Permanently, that is. Cynthia says you have a lot on your plate right now. It's a secretary's business to know, although I don't know how they find out these things." He finally paused to breathe.

"She's exceptional," I said. "I couldn't do without her."

"Then here's the deal," Gardner resumed. "Get over it, whatever it is. Get it out of your system. Take 2 weeks---or three weeks---and go to my house on Lake Geneva. Hole-up. Take some work with you---or not. Your choice. Get your feet under you. Come back the old, ruthless, creative Brian Kinney. We need you."

"Two weeks in a Wisconsin far-suburb of Chicago? That makes Pittsburgh sound good, by comparison," I said, smiling.

"Asshole. Geneva, SWITZERLAND---big house and grounds on the lake. Private. A small staff. I go there once a year---wife's orders. The rest of the time we rent it out to time-share, or we give it to ingrates like you! How about it?"

"I'm packing---as we speak," I said.

E-mail to Cynthia: "Going to Gardner's monastary. He'll know how to reach me. Call Lindsey and tell her, if there's any emergency, you can reach me. Otherwise, I'm locked in a cell in perpetual prayer. She won't believe it, but she'll laugh, at least. To anyone else, I'm 'away.' I'll bring you back some perfume as a 'thank-you' for sticking up for me with Gardner. I know he probably chewed your ass for letting me sink so low. Or maybe you'd like Swiss cheese---"

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Go to the sequel - Moving On

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