Lots of times I’ll sit and ponder just what the hell it is about me and Brian. Like, what it is that he has over me that’s got me so tight in his binds and him in mine. Doesn’t matter what the occasion, whether he’s pissed me off so badly I’m reduced to throwing a orange at him, beaning him in the head or he’s crazily furious with me for something or other I’ve done and stomped out, telling me to be gone when he comes back. Yeah, right.
I remember the first time, that first night. He was so totally gone on E and whatever else he had taken to bury the realization that he was a daddy. Two times over. Yes, there was Gus. And then there was me. From about 1:38 AM to present time…there’s been me. No matter what he says, what Michael…what anyone, shit even me, I’ve been here. I’ve been here.
He brought me back, made me come. I came of my own volition. And while I was here, it became my everywhere. Willingly and anxiously wanting it all. Melanie made him come to the hospital. Very unwillingly. We came back to the loft...he made me come again. What could I do, refuse? I don't think so. Then, I made him come.
If you ask him, I bet he’d tell you that he’s been imprisoned by the human bondage of emotion. To Brian, the perils and 'motherfucking bullshit' of all that is a relationship will castrate you and put you in the padded cell of heterosexuality. Emotions? Too hetero. Talking? Too hetero. Love? Too hetero and too lame. Oh yeah, he’d spin it someway or another to say that while he relishes the bondage part, it’s the emotional parts that make him wish for death. And, he does like to be tied up and spanked if truth be told. Coddled and catered to…he can be the most infantile man at times. And I’m the 22 year old?
We’re telling the truth now, right? Yes we are, of course we are, even though my only audience are the chatty voices in my head. Even though I’m totally talking to myself, lying next to the man in question, listening to him snore which is why I’m up at, what time is it anyways? I mean, it’s my truth which in turn is Brian’s. But you’ll never get it out of him. Good luck with that.
I caught a few winks between being fucked six ways to Sunday. He made me watch him juggle lemons and applaud his handstands...that sucked, let me tell you. He even did impersonations. It took me awhile to be able to look at Emmett, Ted and Michael without cracking up. God he was wasted. We laughed and drank. He was so open and gentle. Smoked some of his pot…he even made me a sandwich. It makes me laugh now when I think about it- all the care and trepidation we both had that night for one another when he really could have given a fuck and all this time and shit, man there’s been so much shit, later, Brian takes it as a personal affront when I ask him to hand me a towel when he's standing in front of the towel rack. Perish the thought.
When searching for reasons why I’m unable to kick this horrendous addiction I remember again that first night. There was that one cartwheel that I scored him an 8.5 on until he stomped, licked my tits and blew me. I relented giving him a 10, reconsidering. Then there was more of what we are, this animalistic, unrelenting, unrepenting *thing*, that we became. What we are, will be always. He was magnificent and incredibly shifty that first night. And I was in love. Infatuated. Obsessed. Completely fucking gone from there on out. A total whore for all that is Brian Kinney. I was defenseless and he loved it and worked it and counted on it. Does this all still.
So while here is still my everywhere and everything, I can honestly say that I’ve tried unsuccessfully to kick the habit that is Brian Kinney and I'm ashamed to admit it. How could I have possibly given up on all this? All this that is trying and exciting, ruthless and serene and torturous, beautiful and crazy to the point of insanity. It's us.
You see, I cannot be without him. He’s my air. Man that's corny. Thank God the voices are inaudible or I think Brian might shoot straight up out of his drug induced state to slap the shit out of me, then berate while kicking my sentimental ass out. Anyways, these are my voices...the blood pumping through my veins even. He carries me through it all. I try to, no, I know I do, the same for him. He’s just as needy and pitiful as I am for him. And for all outward appearances I’m sure that most of our friends think me duly pitiful for it but they don’t know. They know nothing of me and Brian so they can just fuck off into their own idiotic, unknowing and unforefilling lives.
We certainly do things to one another that batter us occasionally. My idiosyncracies and his *shit* bug the crap out of me. And, I bet he’s got his pretty little Palm full of ones he’d love to kill me for. Could call them up at a moment's notice with his little pen thingy. Fucker. But it’s what makes us us, right? I say it’s endearing and Brian calls it monstrous and ‘annoying as fuck’. Parts are parts are parts. Those parts fit one another so that’s all that matters.
I cannot stand that wheeze or wuffling or snore or whatever the fuck it is that he does when he’s sleeping. It drives me insane. It’s particularly bad after a night of boozing and pot, which is like, all the time. He’s oblivious that he does it and when I wake him up, telling him what he’s doing, he’s shocked. A little bit angry too. Just a little bit. Can you believe it? I mean, he should be more attentive to me, right? One would think but not Brian. He’s even pushed me off the bed a couple of times when I wake him up to tell him that he’s snoring. He’ll get up and come over, gently and carefully picking me up, placing me back on the bed immediately and paw at me after the thud of me smacking the floor. Some would be appalled at him pushing me out of bed but I, of course, feel completely loved and reveered with him picking me up and putting me back into bed. The pawing too. I can’t imagine never hearing that incessant snore ever again. It chills me to think that I may at sometime have to go to sleep in silence.
Oh sure, he can counter with my carelessness of his clothes and towels and the way that I leave the loft *totally fucked up* after his cleaning lady comes. He’ll come home and there’ll be books, sketch pads and papers strewn across the loft, soda spilled on the counter, smudge marks on the Sub Zero that I’m ‘apparently blind to’. He’ll call me a lazy child and tell me that I’m a fucking pig. In turn, he’ll receive utter silence as I know better than to challenge him on the cleanliness issue. We’ll not go into the splashes on the bathroom mirror and the toothpaste in the sink. Oh, I can’t even deal thinking about that right now. He’ll piss and moan, make a big show of cleaning up and then after he gets out of the shower, he’ll come give me a kiss, stroke my belly through my shirt, mutter about how much trouble I am, telling me with his eyes that he’d expect nor want nothing less. That he needs it no matter how frustrating it is.
If I had a chance to kick, which I have truthfully, I’m not sure that I could. Well, I know I couldn’t. Because I didn’t. Well, I kicked for a little while with another distraction, another drug so to speak but it never gave me what I wanted. Didn’t cut it, you know? What I needed and craved, had to have so bad it made me sick. The high just wasn’t there. Everyone treated me like they treated Ted when he got out of rehab. Like, ‘oh Ted, we’re so proud of you.’ Did they even see me or Brian during all that? Jesus, take pity or some shit. Really. I mean, I think I looked pretty bad, I felt like shit fuck, that’s for sure. I was supposedly over the first most treacherous hurdles considered in addiction at least in their eyes and I was to keep moving forward. But, the thing to do, the humane, the kind thing, would have been for someone to slip me something. Anything to help me tide me over at least. You’d think. That’s when I would see Brian or hear his voice…that had my blood pumping like I just mainlined right then and there. My God, it felt good.
But no, they wanted to make sure that me and Brian steered clear of each other. Best for everyone around. Sunshine’s gonna be 'oh so much better off'. And Brian? ‘Well, that’s what the shithead gets.’ Such loving and compassionate lot those fuckers are. Maybe back then I wanted to want to be rid of him? Maybe I wanted to be reformed of all that's Brian Kinney. But all that amount of want couldn’t do it. Giving up, finding it futile, I found out a way to get to my stash, to get to Brian. To get back what it was. And we did, but better. Much better. This time around, the goods were Mana. Excellent.
All of this and that and more is why I’m still awake, listening to him, and thinking these things in what Brian likes to call my ‘gerbil wheel’. Not like I’m trying to convince myself of anything or trying to make head way with my feelings. I talk to myself about it because it just is.
Because when he does what he does like he did just now, woke himself up from snoring, looking at me, blinking. Groggily, “Why the fuck are you awake?”
“Just thinking.”
“Hmph. Come here.”
Pointed stare.
“Was I?”
“Yes, you were,” as I brace myself to be pushed off the bed.
Rolling me over, lying across my chest, head over my heart, “Sorry. Now, go to fucking sleep.”
I know that there are worse fates.