GOLDEN GATE

Part 3: Candy From Strangers



 

Brian

"Brian, I'm perfectly safe - there’s like a million people here. Besides, I'm a good judge of character, he's a nice man."

"You are not a good judge of character." I’m in the lobby of the Barnhart & Blessing building killing time till a three o’clock meeting with George Barnhart’s senior administrators, I've called Justin on my cell to check in with him. “You thought Gary Sapperstein was a nice man.”

"Brian, that was a long time ago! Besides, it’s just a boat ride to Alcatraz, what’s the big deal? I don’t want to go alone and it doesn’t seem like something you’d like to do.”

“It isn’t.”

“Well see? We were going to go this morning but did you know it’s like the number one tourist attraction in San Francisco? We were lucky to get tickets for this afternoon, and I – “

“Justin.” I wait for him to calm down and listen. “Justin?”

I hear him take a deep breath, he pauses then says, “What?”

“You can do whatever you want, you know that, you’re on your own. But,” I pause, then say seriously, “But I’m asking you not to go there with him.”

For some reason, and I really don’t even know why, I have a bad feeling about this new best friend Justin’s been prattling about ever since I called him. He told me the guy’s been with him all day – they met on the cable car this morning. If he was some kid I wouldn’t be concerned. But Justin says he’s middle-aged, and I can’t see a middle-aged guy tromping all over the waterfront trying to keep up with Justin. What’s in it for him? Doesn't he have a job, why isn’t he working on a Thursday? Why’d he attach himself to a teenager who’s a stranger in a strange city? Maybe everything’s explainable. Probably it is. But I don’t fucking like it.

Now I say, “Justin, if you really want to see Alcatraz that bad, I’ll go with you on Saturday.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” Christ, I do not want to go climbing all over some big rock in the middle of San Francisco Bay. Shaking my head, surprised at myself, I repeat, “Yes, I’ll go with you. So where’s this guy now?”

“He went to find a men’s room while I got in line here at the french-fry place. You can get a big cup of them with the skin on, they smell so good. Oh, here he comes. Hey, Andy!”

“Put Andy on the phone.”

“Brian, why? This is just so amazingly not like you.”

He’s telling me. “Humor me.”

I hear Justin whispering, “It’s my boyfriend, he wants to talk to you. I don’t know, he wouldn’t tell me. Just take the phone, okay?”

There’s a long pause, then I hear Justin say, “Why won’t you talk to him? He’s not all macho jealous or anything. Andy? Just talk to him.”

Another long pause. Then, “Hello?”

“Andy, this is Justin’s lover, and he’s wrong, I am very, very macho, in fact I’m in San Francisco to hire a hit man for my mob boss in south Jersey. It’s dangerous to mess with the lover of a Mafioso, wouldn’t you agree?”

Then he’s laughing. “That’s cute. But Justin already told me you’re in advertising.”

“Yeah, that’s my cover. Justin’s just a kid, I don’t tell him everything. I’m going to ask you politely to do me a favor, and this is it: Just walk away. Your family and loved ones will thank you for it later.”

He laughs again but it's forced. “You’re a comedian.”

“Andy, look over your shoulder. See the tall man in the dark glasses near the french-fry place?”

They’re on the tourist-infested waterfront near a french-fry place, there must be several men in dark glasses nearby.

After a long pause Andy says, “Yeah, what about him?”

“He’s watching you. Justin’s never alone when we’re traveling – he doesn’t know it, but I always assign somebody to guard him. All I have to do is say the word and you’re a dead man.”

“You don't really think I’m buying this shit, do you?”

There's a pause while I try to think of something menacing to say, then Andy mutters, "Christ, he's walking right towards me. Tell him to back off."

“Andy, what’s going on?” I hear Justin demanding. “Give me the phone!”

Turning my head slightly away from the mouthpiece, I growl, "Luigi - you see the guy with Justin? Take him out - now!"

Two women standing near the elevator turn and give me a startled look.

“Motherfucker!” Andy shouts, then there’s a loud bang that nearly fractures my ear drum.

“Brian? Brian, are you there?”

“Ow, did you drop the fucking phone? I’ve gone deaf in one ear.”

“He threw it on the ground. Andy. He threw the phone at me and stomped off. I’m surprised it’s not broken. Brian, what did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“What did you say to make him so mad?”

Bracing myself for Justin’s anger, I say, “I told him your lover was a Mafioso and if he didn’t leave you alone, he’d be a dead man.”

“No Brian, I mean, seriously - what did you tell him?”

“Justin,” I sigh, “I told him to go away. Now - have you had enough tourist shit for one day? I’ll be done with my meetings in another hour or so. Meet me back at the hotel, okay?”

“Okay. But then will you tell me what really happened? With Andy?”

I can’t resist asking, “Justin, didn’t your mom ever tell you not to take candy from strangers?”

“He didn’t give me candy.”

All I can do is shake my head. “Justin, it’s ten minutes to three. I’ll see you about four-thirty. Can you get back to the hotel without picking up anybody else?”

“Okay. But Brian?”

“What?”

“You didn’t really say you’d kill him, did you?”

“Bye Justin.” I click off the cell and shove it in my pocket, move toward the elevator. I knew I'd be sorry I brought Justin to San Francisco. Now I’ve got to switch gears and rev up for the next meeting; I need to persuade the B&B execs to choose my proposal. George Barnhart's waiting for me at the entrance to the conference room and he's grinning. I hope that's a good sign.



Justin

I can't stop smiling. Probably I should be mad at Brian for going all cave-man on me, for somehow scaring away my new friend Andy, but instead I'm feeling happy that Brian got jealous, so I can't be as mad as I should be.

Today was fun, I enjoyed exploring Fisherman's Wharf and all the other stuff on the waterfront, from the Ghirardelli chocolate factory all the way to Pier 39, which is where Andy and I were hanging out waiting for the three-thirty Alcatraz tour. We had lunch at the Bubba Gump Shrimp Company, there was a guy outside dressed like Forrest Gump and I talked to him for a while, he stayed in character the whole time. Andy insisted on paying for lunch and now I'm feeling really sorry that Brian chased him off. Or actually I should feel sorry, but I can't stop smiling.

At the information booth in Pier 39 I ask about buses to get me back to our hotel, but before I leave the waterfront I return to the tour office and buy tickets for a Saturday Alcatraz tour. Andy had our tickets in his pocket, but that’s okay, he paid for them. I hope Brian will enjoy seeing Alcatraz, he pretends not to be very interested in tourist stuff but I'll bet he changes his mind once he gets a look at the place. Who wouldn't want to see such a cool world-famous prison?

When I get back to the hotel I decide to take a shower and get ready in case Brian's in a hurry. He doesn't eat much during the day so I'll bet he's going to be starving. I'll put on my suit, he likes seeing me dressed up. I'd rather wear cargo pants or sweats but if I'm going to be Brian Kinney's lover for real this time, I'd better get used to wearing nice clothes.

Are we going to be real lovers, I wonder? Partners I mean, we're already lovers. It's for both of us to decide, and it's time we started talking about it. But not tonight. Not till after Brian finishes his business meetings tomorrow and then maybe he can relax. I wonder how it went today? I tried to ask him on the phone but he just said "Later." Everything's always 'later' with Brian.



Brian

Justin’s in the shower when I get back to the room so I quickly get undressed and go into the bathroom to join him. He hasn’t pulled the shower curtain all the way around the tub, he doesn’t hear the door open and his eyes are closed. He’s jerking off.

“Justin,” I say quietly, then a bit louder, “Justin.” His eyes pop open and he jumps slightly, then a smile spreads over his face and he opens his arms to welcome me as I step into the tub.

“Let me do that, “ I say gruffly, grabbing his cock and pretending to use it like a handle to pull him toward me. His arms slide around my neck and we kiss. Christ, he feels good, his skin smooth and slippery and warm.

“Brian,” he breathes into my mouth, “Brian, how’d it go? Did you – “

“Later.” And I shut him up with kisses.
 

``````
 

Justin asks if he should wear his suit but I’m in the mood to be casual tonight, so we put on jeans and head out looking for dinner and some relaxation. I’ll need to spend a couple hours going over my notes later tonight, I’ve got one more presentation to make tomorrow and then it’s out of my hands. Hopefully Barnhart and Blessing and their execs will make a decision on Friday, but they may need more time – I’m not sure if they’ve interviewed all the other agencies or not. Justin tries again to ask about it but I’m not ready to discuss anything yet.

I’m not surprised to discover that Justin’s made friends with the staff at the hotel’s concierge desk, it’s his suggestion we stop there to ask about local places to eat. Since I had sushi for lunch I’m not really hungry so I let Justin decide and we head off on foot to a small Italian bistro just a few blocks away. We take our time over dinner, and I find that I actually enjoy listening to Justin tell all about the tourist shit he saw today. He skates around the Andy issue and I decide to let it drop, except for one comment.

“Justin, when you go out tomorrow, don’t pick anybody up. At least not anybody so much older – you never know what you’re getting into with geezers.”

Justin looks up from his bowl of spumoni, licks his spoon and nods. “It’s like your dating rule, huh?” When I just raise my eyebrows in question he clarifies, “I can’t pick up anybody in San Francisco who’s older than me.”

“That’s a good rule,” I say blandly. “Give me a taste of your ice cream.” I lean across the table and let Justin put a spoonful of spumoni in my mouth. “Mmm.” It’s good.

“Can we go to the Castro tonight? I waited to go there with you.”

“Sure.” The waiter brings our bill and I hand him my plastic. “But just for a couple hours, I need some time on the computer tonight.” I think about it for a minute, then add, “You could stay there longer though. If you’ll be careful.”

Justin lifts his glass of wine and looks at me over the rim. “I don’t need to stay longer, I just want to experience it, don’t you? The bars and so forth.”

“Especially the so-forth,” I grin at him, thinking he’ll laugh.

But he doesn’t. Instead his face gets solemn and he says, “Brian, just for tonight could you maybe pass on the tricking?”

I’m annoyed. “Why do you assume I’ll be tricking?”

“Well duh.” He tosses his wadded-up napkin on the table and stares hard at me. “Why should tonight be different than any other night?”

“Because I’m with you.”

I return his stare and when after a moment he says, “Really?” I nod, my eyes never leaving his face.

I know what he means. We haven’t talked about it yet – we haven’t talked about anything much and I’m not ready to start right now. But he said a while ago that if we get back together, he doesn’t want to see me tricking in front of him. I haven’t consciously thought about it but I realize now that I’m prepared to honor his request.

Suddenly Justin smiles and stretches his hand across the table. I reach out and take his hand and squeeze, and I realize that I’m smiling right back at him. We don’t say anything, it’s not exactly like a promise or anything completely binding. Then the waiter returns with my card, I put it back in my wallet and we stand up and walk out of the restaurant. We’re not holding hands but it feels like we are.



Justin

I’m happy as a clam in chowder.

That’s something my grandma used to say, and I didn’t realize till I got older that it didn’t make sense, a clam wouldn’t be happy in chowder, but I like the sound of it anyway. Brian almost, sort of, kind of gave me a promise tonight. I don’t know if he’ll keep it – I don’t know if he CAN keep it – but just the fact that he agreed at all is what matters to me right now.

He gets a taxi and we climb in and head for the Castro. I’m very excited to be going there, it’s like the center of the gay universe practically. But I’m a little disappointed because when we step out onto the street, it looks almost exactly like Liberty Avenue. Only bigger. There’s about a thousand bars, the crowds on the sidewalk are dressed exactly like the guys at home, music is pouring out the open bar doors – the same music as back in Pittsburgh. Brian warned me but somehow I didn’t believe him.

We have one drink in each of three bars, and naturally a million guys give Brian the eye, I guess some are looking at me but I’m too busy wondering what he’ll do to really pay much attention. Finally Brian puts his arm around me and leans down to whisper, “Stop waiting for me to fuck up. I don’t want any of these guys anyway, let’s go to the hotel.”

I nod okay and we go back to the street, it takes forever but finally Brian flags down a taxi and we head back to Union Square. “How come you’re so quiet?” he asks me. “Disappointed?”

“Yeah,” I admit. “I thought it would be different.”

Brian doesn’t laugh or say I-told-you-so, instead his hand slips across the seat and he takes hold of my hand in the darkness and squeezes my fingers. “So what’s your agenda for tomorrow?”

“The museums,” I tell him, my enthusiasm for San Francisco rekindling. “The modern art one is on Third Street, I looked at the map and I think it’s walking distance from our hotel. But the palace one is over somewhere by Golden Gate Bridge, I’ll have to take a bus.”

“Take a taxi,” he insists; “You’re on vacation, you can’t take buses on vacation.” After a moment he adds, “Besides, you meet too many geezers on public transportation.”

“Brian,” I venture to say, “I think Andy was all right.”

”How old is he?”

“I don’t know.” I stop and think. “As old as Vic probably.”

“Ah,” Brian exclaims quietly, “And if Vic followed a guy your age around Pittsburgh all day, what would you think?”

That brings me up short. “Oh,” is all I can say.

“Geezer behavior,” Brian confirms. “The guy had ulterior motives, trust me.”

“Maybe. But I wasn’t in danger, Brian. I’m not helpless, just because I’m young.”

“Maybe not. Probably not. But you’re too trusting.”

We’re quiet for a moment, then I can’t help but ask, “Did you really tell him you were a Mafia hit man?”

“Here we are,” Brian announces, as the taxi stops in front of our hotel.

We’re alone in the elevator going up so I ask again, “Did you really tell Andy you were – “

“Yeah. Just like Tony Soprano.” Brian turns quickly and pushes me hard up against the mirrored wall of the elevator, pushes his body roughly against mine, leans down till we’re nose to nose. He’s frowning menacingly and he growls low in his throat, “And when we get to the room, I’m going to pull out my gun and shoot you.”

“I can feel your gun.” It’s the truth, I feel his cock pressing hard against my leg. “I won’t resist. Not unless you want me to.”



Brian

I was in high gear for the final B&B meeting and I feel confident that it went well. When the meeting adjourns, George Barnhart invites me to his office and he closes the door behind us. Then he pulls a bottle from the bottom drawer of his desk and produces two glasses. His are crystal, not paper like the glasses in my desk in Pittsburgh.

After pouring an inch of whiskey into each glass he hands me one and salutes me with the other. “Well Brian,” he says, “You’ve got my vote, if that means anything – and it usually does.”

“Thanks,” I nod, raise my own glass to him and swallow a gulp of twelve-year-old scotch. “When will the final decision be made?”

“Next week.” George drains his glass and sits down in one of the easy chairs in front of his desk, waving me toward the other. “It’ll be a group decision – fuck group decisions, but of course I don’t have the leverage I used to have before we merged with Blessing. What did you think of him, by the way?”

Today was the first time I met George’s junior partner, Henry Blessing. George and Henry, such old-fashioned names for men in their mid-thirties. “He seems fairly conservative,” I suggest, not saying what I really think, that the man’s a reactionary Republican asshole. Throughout the morning meeting he threw out one negative comment after another, interrupting me, interrupting others who had questions, he was a real pain in the ass. I managed to keep my cool – I always do – but he annoyed me.

“He’s a – difficult man,” George confirms, “A lot of his persona is bluster, he’s not as smart or as quick as the rest of the exec team and it makes him defensive. But I think I know him well enough to say that he was impressed with you and with your campaign concepts. I’ll have a better idea next week, and I’ll call you as soon as I know anything.”

“Thanks,” I salute him again with my glass and drain it.

“So,” George asks, unbuttoning his jacket and sprawling comfortably in his chair, “Are you heading back home tonight?”

“No, I’m staying for the weekend.”

“Going to do the tourist bit?” When I nod he smiles and asks. “Need a tour guide?”

“Got one, but thanks.”

“Ah yes,” George nods understanding, “I remember you said you had a traveling companion. Lover? Partner? Just good friends?”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. Justin might be any or all of the above, but I’m not ready to go public with that information.

“Actually,” George informs me, “I have a partner too – and it’s not Henry Blessing!” He laughs and I join in though I’m vaguely wary of the direction of this conversation.

George continues, “I’d love for you and your partner to join Stephen and me for dinner tomorrow night. It’s a bit early in the game to mix business with pleasure – it could be misconstrued as favoritism or some other political bullshit – but nobody needs to know about it.”

“Thanks, George. That would be great.” I give him the smile he wants, then add, “As long as you’re sure it won’t jeopardize my agency’s chances.”

Actually I’m pissed. Accepting Barnhart’s invitation could screw up everything. But not accepting could be even more hazardous.

“Meanwhile,” George continues, “I’m calling Alexander Grantham, he’s a buddy of mine and probably the richest, most influential queer in San Francisco. He’s having a party tonight and I’ll wangle an invitation for you and your partner. What’s his name?”

“Justin Taylor.” I’m getting painted into a corner and I seem to have temporarily lost my ability to finesse my way out of it. “But I think he’s made plans for us tonight – “

“It’s an enormous but very informal get-together Alex throws once every month or two - it’s great luck that you’re here at this time, I promise you’ll have a ball. Unfortunately I’ve got to fly to LA tonight for an early morning meeting so I’ll have to miss the party. But I’ll send a car to your hotel tomorrow night – that is, if you’re free for dinner with me and Stephen?”

“Of course, I’ll look forward to it.” That’s my cue to stand up. I grab my briefcase and head for the door but George beckons me over to his desk.

“Here,” he says, scribbling on a piece of notepaper, “This is the address of the party, Alex has a loft in SoMa, and I’ll make sure your names will be on the guest list at the door.” He straightens up and hands me the paper, and when our fingers touch, I feel that unmistakable spark pass between us.

George smiles then and narrows his dark green eyes.

Fuck.

“Goodbye George, and thanks,” I wave the notepaper at him before shoving it into my pocket. Why does it feel like I’m taking candy from a stranger?

“See you tomorrow night,” he says, raising his hand in salute, then I turn and go out the door.

I knew I’d be sorry I brought Justin along on this trip with me. And not because I want to fuck George Barnhart, because I don’t. Well, that’s an amazing lie. The truth is, I do want to. But I don’t want to want to.



Justin

We’re going to a party and I’m wearing a new shirt that Brian bought me this afternoon. I wish I’d known his meetings were over early, I wouldn’t have stayed so long at the museum, but there was an entire room of sculptures by Rodin. I sat on a bench and sketched for HOURS, till my hand went numb. I completely lost track of time.

I’ve changed into my suit and Brian made me promise not to spill anything on it because we’re going to a dinner party with his big cheese client tomorrow night. He didn’t sound too happy about either party but he’s still not ready to talk about things. Work things or us things. When’s he going to be ready? Somehow I’m going to make him talk to me tomorrow. I don’t know how, but I’m not going to wait any longer.



Brian

Where the fuck is Justin?

I've made my way around this fucking enormous loft twice now and there's no sign of Justin. This place is the entire upper floor of a renovated factory building in the fashionable SoMa, or South of Market district. Justin could be anywhere.

We wandered around the place together when we first arrived, then we went our separate ways. He isn't in what he termed The Sex Alcove (not that I'd expect to find him there); he's not outside on the large balcony that wraps halfway around the building and is filled with little clumps of chattering men, some in tuxes, some in jeans, the rest in everything in between. He's not on the makeshift dance floor gyrating to some God-awful earsplitting live band; and he's not among any of the small groups and knots of people chatting pretentiously about the so-called art on display in the atrium. He must have left - maybe he went back to the hotel, maybe he hooked up with somebody. But I can't believe he'd leave without telling me, and he's either not answering his cell or he left it in the hotel room. Of course he can take care of himself. It’s not like I’m worried about him or anything.

"Looking for your boyfriend?"

I've stepped outside on the balcony yet again to sweep my eyes over the small groups of people, and now I turn around quickly to discover Alexander Grantham leaning against the door jamb, holding an oversize champagne glass in one hand and a joint in the other. Alex is the host of this circuit-party-like Friday bacchanal, he was at the door greeting guests when we arrived. He’s a tall man on the wrong side of fifty, slightly overweight, wearing a designer tuxedo that must have cost a fucking mint. His hairpiece probably cost even more.

"Just looking around," I answer casually, pulling out my cigarettes and shaking one loose, lighting up. "This is quite a party, must be a couple hundred people milling around."

"At least. Every guy in SF who's a Queer with a capital Q shows up at my parties."

"Hmm." I glance around the balcony again, and I’m getting really annoyed with myself for trying to find Justin. If he wants to go off on his own, that’s his business.

Where the fuck is he?

“Want a hit?”

I look back at Alex again and he’s offering the joint. “No thanks.”

“If you want some E or some coke, there’s plenty to be had in the party favors room.” I start to shake my head again but he’s still talking. “It’s in the second-story bedroom above the kitchen, down by the – “

“The kitchen?” He’s got my attention now. “There’s a kitchen?”

“Sure, the caterers have taken it over, and the master bedroom is built right above it, there’s a winding staircase up the side – “

“Where’s the fucking kitchen?”

Alex glances over his shoulder and points. “Down that way, just about in the middle of the loft, you can – “

“Thanks.” I drop my cigarette into an ashtray on a nearby table, move around Alex and head in the direction he pointed.

And of course he’s there. Justin. Sitting on a countertop, his legs swinging casually as he nibbles on an enormous turkey leg and chats happily with a guy in a tall white chef hat. He looks up and sees me hesitating in the kitchen doorway and he waves at me with the turkey leg. He says something to the chef and jumps down off the counter, hurries over to join me.

“Brian! Did you know there’s a chef school in California that’s as famous as that whatchacallit one in Paris? Only here it’s called C.I.A. just like the government only it’s the Culinary Institute of America. Joe – see that guy I was talking to?” Justin points backwards and chatters on, “He’s a chef at some restaurant in Carmel, that’s a city somewhere around here, he makes extra money sometimes working for Mr. Grantham’s caterer.”

I interrupt Justin just as he’s stopping to draw breath. “Have you had enough of this party?”

“Huh?” Before I can repeat my question, Justin answers, “Brian, I had enough HOURS ago. Can we go back to the hotel now?”

“Yes. But get rid of that thing.”

Justin looks down at the turkey leg. “Okay. You want a bite first?”

“I want a bite, but not of turkey. Let’s get out of here.”

Justin dumps the turkey unceremoniously in a trash can, wipes his hands on a pile of napkins near the door, then turns and slips his arm through mine. “If you remember the doorman’s name and ask him nicely, I bet he’ll get us a taxi.”

I don’t remember his name of course, but I’m sure that Justin does.

12/21/02
 

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