If you don't belong here, anything I have to say to you won't deter you. Sex may or may not be forthcoming, as it depends on whether the characters and the story warrant it. This chapter will deal with the inevitable familial confrontations that accompany homosexuality and, to an extent, introduce characters.
You know how when you fall in love for the first time, you think you're the first person ever to have had the experience? The whole world takes on that ethereal look, as though it's being filmed through gauze, and you feel tingly and flushed and utterly happy, and when someone says or does something mean, you just shake your head and wonder how anyone could ever be so unhappy. No one possibly could understand what's happening. And really, it's a perfectly understandable assumption. For most couples, that newness wears off, and they find themselves loving and contented (if they're lucky) but no longer "in love," no longer pinballing around in the throes of passion. The first time you fall in love, you think it will last forever. Why wouldn't it? That's what makes the first time the best: it isn't fettered with the knowledge, floating at the lowest levels of consciousness, that this, too, might end.
I think that everyone hopes to find that one never-ending love, even (I suspect) those jaded cynics who insist that the best for which one might hope is something that jells into companionable friendship. But companionable friendships don't inspire love songs, don't imbue each morning with a throat-tightening sense of adventure, don't prompt stories like this one.
For some of us, finding that first love takes quite a long time, because we can't admit to ourselves that we're gay. Maybe it's because we've been taught that it's wrong to be gay. Maybe we're afraid of the uphill battle we'll face when the world realizes what we are. Or maybe it's because we think we don't deserve to be loved. Whatever the case, some of us take far too long. This is, or will be, should the response warrant a continuance, the story of a first, but a first that was too long in coming. That's not how it starts, though.
Justin toyed absently with the buttons cluttering his armrest. Seatback and tray table in the full and upright position, he thought to himself. What a curiously pointless token gesture to safety. He double-checked his seatbelt and visualized the plane spiraling a smoky path towards earth. He visualized the smooth, tan box of Camels lurking at the bottom of his Mark Cross bag, which he had stowed underneath the seat in front of him.
Non-smoking flights, victorious achievement of the health nazis. At the head of the aisle, the stewardess pantomimed the actions appropriate to an "unlikely" in-flight emergency.
Yes, Justin thought. In the event of a mid-air explosion, calmly follow the lighted path to the nearest emergency exit.
His father was the most perpetually absent person he had ever known. The only proof he had of his continued existence were the dozens of messages he left for Justin, the blinking light on his Bang & Olufsen tapeless machine signaling his next hasty apology and cancellation of whatever plans he had made for "just the two of them." This time, it had been skiing in Tahoe, which he had appreciated, since it meant a four-hour drive from Los Angeles, rather than flying. But now he was stuck in New York on business, and Justin had to see him, so here he was.
His father had been good to him, he reflected, though rarely in person. Beverly, his aging secretary, often came in his stead to the events that punctuated the timeline of his life. The pony when he was six, the red BMW when he was 16, the keys to his condo on Wilshire at graduation time, all delivered with what he now saw as apologetic regret by the woman he knew better than his father. Even now, his angry shopping sprees on Rodeo were courtesy of his father's platinum card.
How, then, would he tell him about Randy? He could have told Beverly about his new relationship and left it at that, he supposed, but to do so would have been to become like his father, and that was something he refused to do. What might his reaction be? How would he explain the deep-seated dissatisfaction with the women he had indifferently allowed into his life? Their ineffective and clueless grabbing and needing and panting would not, could not, be this exalted thing he daily saw reified around him.
Before Randy, he had resigned himself to the notion that love was a myth.
The in-flight movie was something about a boy who was a janitor and a math whiz called Will. He didn't watch much of it, but he put on his headphones, as a distraction, long enough to catch a scene where a girl with curly black hair was talking about her own father's death. She had apparently inherited a great deal of money from him. "Don't you think," she said, "that I would give it all back for just one more day, one more moment, with him?" And at that, the tears had come, without permission.
After the plane had come to rest at JFK, he had, relieved, scurried out, collected his bags, called for a car, and found himself deposited at the door of the 89th street building his father called home. He wasn't expected, and the doorman didn't know who he was. He did not, in fact, even know Mr. Procter had a son.
Since his father was not at home, he called his office. Beverly was pleased Justin was in town, and said to expect Mr. Procter within the hour. With time to spare, he walked a block over to Madison and stopped at Cartier, where he bought a gold and silver watch and matching fountain pen for Randy with his father's credit card. What if his father cut him off financially? He had not considered this.
Justin was waiting in the lobby when he arrived, immaculate in a dark Paul Stuart suit. Beverly had probably selected it for him, he thought. Justin's mother had died when her Swissair flight had collided with an Alp. Justin had been three at the time, and really couldn't remember his mother, but he knew he had inherited his fashion sense from her mother, not his father.
Surprised, his father hugged him, admonished the doorman for not having let him in, and they went upstairs. He wanted to tell him, tell him now, get it over with. But instead he refused the proffered drink and went to change, folding his Armani three- button and shucking his Bruno Magli dress shoes in favor of a Prada wind suit and pair of sneakers.
He found his father in his study at his desk, editing what appeared to be a contract of some sort, and nursing a glass of something amber, probably alcoholic. It was time.
He dragged a Jacobsen chair around beside him and sat on its edge, hands folded on his knees. "Do you know why I'm here?" he asked, softly.
"No," he said, then: "I'll admit, I'm curious."
"And why is that?"
"You don't often just...show up," his father said, finally.
"I have something..."
A brief frown creased his features. He looked at the sheaf of papers in his lap, then lay them on the desk. It must have been something in Justin's face. He never remembered his father having put work aside. He looked at Justin, silently prompting him onward.
"Tell me what you know about me, Daddy," he said. "Not what I look like, or anything like that. Tell me what you know about me."
"You're my son," he said simply.
This stopped Justin for a moment. Was his father saying he loved him? But he'd said that before. Hadn't he? He waited for more, and when none came, he said, "I'm in love."
"Congratulations, kiddo. That's wonderful," he said, smiling his hail-fellow-well- met smile, the one he knew he used for business associates. "Who's the lucky girl?"
He bit his lower lip for a moment. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Daddy." He had been reaching for his papers again, and his hand froze halfway there.
"What's wrong with her? Is she into drugs? One of those weird LA types? What?"
"No, Daddy." The tension went out of him. "His name is Randy," Justin said.
"He's a... he." The tension was back. The papers were forgotten.
"He's...a he," his father repeated.
"Yes," Justin went on quickly, "and I know you'll just love him. He's a sound designer for the movies, you know, one of those people who makes explosions sound like explosions and all of the other special..."
"Justin, how did this happen?"
"Oh, it's a really funny story, see, he was moving into my building and he dropped one of his tape recorders, and so I..."
"No, Justin. That's not what I mean, and you know it. I mean, how the hell did this happen?" Angry now. "What made you do this?"
"Nothing. I just realized it, that's all. Women aren't, I don't know... Right."
"I can't believe you would do this."
"I'm sorry, Daddy. I just need you to.... I mean, you never...."
"So you're saying this is my fault?"
"No. I'm saying I've never asked you for anything before, not like this. And I need you to support me. That's all."
He had his pen out now, a Dunhill rollerball, and he stared at it, twisting it in and out, in and out. He stopped, closed his eyes, and then, with his eyes still closed, said, "I loved your mother."
"I know that, Daddy."
"Maybe so. But what you don't know, can't know, is how very much of her I see in you."
"But what does that have to do with this?"
"Well, nothing, I guess. Except that seeing you is seeing her, and remembering how much it hurts that she's gone."
"..."
"And over the years, I've buried myself in my work, because... because if I didn't, I'd go crazy."
"But Daddy, she's gone."
"It isn't that simple."
"Do you love me?"
"Of course, but.... At the same time I love you and I'm scared to love you.
Because if I do love you, you might leave, too."
He pondered this for a moment, then said, "But you take risks all the time.
Business, and stuff."
"It's not the same."
"Have I left?"
"I don't know. This thing, this Randy. I don't know what I think about that."
"I'm not any different, you know."
"But you are."
"No! You can't do that; say that I'm different and that I've 'left' you just because you're too scared to admit that you love me. I love you. But all those times I've needed you, wanted you there, you've been busy, business calls, all of that. This time, I can't deal with that again."
"I've done many things for you, Justin. Who do you think paid for those clothes?"
"That's not the same. You can't really think that giving me money is the same as giving me love. Randy gives me love."
"So this is my fault."
"I just want you to love me, too. That's what I mean. Randy doesn't give me things. He gives me love. You could love me, too."
"Maybe that's why he loves you. Because you give him things."
His shoulders slumped at this. "This isn't a business deal, Dad. I'm not out to get you. And neither is Janet. But if you want me to leave, I will."
"And go back to Randy?"
"Where else?"
He squeezed the bridge of his nose, eyes closed again. "No. That's not what I want."
"What, then?"
"I guess I want to be able to answer that question you asked me."
"Which question?"
"The one about who you are. I guess I really don't know the answer."
"It'll take a long time, Dad. Are you really willing to do all the work?"
"I think I am."
"There's still the question of Randy, you know."
"Yes, I realize that. I don't quite know what to do there."
"Why don't you meet him? Could you do that?"
He paused, then said, "I could, I suppose."
"You'll like him, I promise."
"Tell you what. There's a guy from LA who's supposed to come here next week for a meeting. Why don't I get it changed so I go there instead? I bet we could find a free evening or two, have some dinner together. Would that be a good start?"
"I think so, Dad. I think so."
Criticisms, comments, questions, suggestions, rude remarks, etc., are welcomed at smartascii@yahoo.com
This is a first for me. The next chapter will, likely, be longer, and explore the initial Randy/Justin meeting. This was written before the American version of Queer as Folk began its run, and so the characters have nothing whatsoever to do with Randy Harrison or his character, Justin. It's coincidence.