An Open Letter to Justin Taylor from Brian Kinney
I hate it when you think you've nailed me. No one gets in to see the wizard, not no one, not no way. But you did, didn't you? You did. A fading stud? Ouch. Is that what you think of me? You could be right. I know when I was your age, I thought men my age prowling back rooms were losers. Pa-the-tic. Newsflash, kid. When you're my age, suddenly it doesn't seem so old anymore. You want the same things, you feel the same way, no one passes you a note to tell you the party ended five years ago, go home. This is what I know: if you hurt, medicate it with sex. Sex is good. Sex makes you feel better. Sex fills the void. Or does it? I don't know anymore. I know sex with YOU cures a lot of ills, however.
Am I scared? Hell yes, I'm scared. I have a loft and a car and a son and a blond with tuition issues all relying upon me for support. I can lose the loft and the car, but what do I do about the kid and the blond? How do I disappoint them? It wasn't supposed to be this way, it was always supposed to be me, just me. If I disappointed myself, hell, I'm used to that. I never thought it would end up with me as the axis in the wheel. But then, I thought I'd be managing partner of Vanguard in ten years, and you can see how right I was about that.
I'm no superhero, kid. You are. I'm YOUR sidekick, not the other way around. You're the one with the moral integrity. I come to those conclusions belatedly every time. Honestly, I don't know how to start looking for a job. I know the mechanics of brushing off a resume and calling for an appointment, but then what? "Why did you leave your last job, Mr. Kinney?" What do I say to that? I betrayed a client because he interfered with my world view? HIRED! Not. How much do crusaders get paid, anyway? Can we live on the salary?
What you're missing is that I don't want you to eat out of trash cans and live in alleys to be with me. I want you to be the best homosexual in the world, because you have the raw goods for it. If I can't make a decent life for you, I want you to find it somewhere else, because it's what you deserve. In the mean time, I'll survive. I always do. I'm not Ted, god forbid. Sex and drugs were commonplace to me by the time I was sixteen, I don't need to relive the thrilling days of yesteryear.
So let go of my hand, and come fuck me whenever it seems like the fun thing to do, but make your life on your own, without the baggage of my mistakes. Go for it. Let go. Wait....don't. Not yet. Hold onto my hand a little longer. I'm not quite ready to be alone.
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July 25, 2004