Brian Kinney and the History of Architecture

Gradiva

This is for mintwitch, juteux and josselin.

Pr0n. and to quote spike, "You're what, shocked and disappointed? I'm evil." So yeah, you've been warned. This is me being evil.

* * * * * * * *

Long before I knew how I wanted to live, I knew how I wanted to die - defiantly. I would either take my own life, or have it taken from me, but I would not suffer the normalcy, the ignominy, of an ordinary passing away. I would be a sailor, and wrestle with wind and water for the right to exist, for my memories and all that I held dear, heart racing as I held on for dear life to some frayed rope on a slippery deck, until either the water took me, or I took it; or I would be a jockey, tie my security to a particularly feral, temperamental beauty of a horse, and I'd die on the track in a blaze of glorious tragedy; but I would never lie in my bed reciting corny tenets that pass for an elderly wisdom, issuing regrets and benedictions until I tediously breathed my last. It is only danger that is capable of crafting heroism, only when facing fear can we realize that we are other than dead.

* * *

Justin made me watch "About a boy" some time after we got back together. It was his version of punishing me for my isolationist tendencies, and it might have worked if I hadn't kept saying, "Hugh Grant is hot" every five minutes. Finally, he got pissed and said, "Well, at least he's not fucking Marcus, because that would make three things the two of you have in common."

"I don't get what you expected me to get from this. I'd watch Hugh Grant, without wanting to fuck him? I'd somehow miraculously realize that no man is an island and fall down on one knee and propose to you? Or, oh, wait, I get it... you're like Marcus. The poor kid who's so obviously gay, I mean with that hair who wouldn't be, not to mention hopelessly in love with Hugh Grant, and so this somehow parallels our situation?"

"I was just hoping you'd enjoy watching a funny movie with me," he said in his quiet, now-feel-guilty voice. I wasn't going to let him off that easy.

"Liar. Why not watch Finding Nemo then? And don't tell me you don't want to." I said, smirking, more at the fact that I knew exactly where this was going, and I was enjoying stringing him along. Cue the drama-queen exit in five, four, three, two...

"I don't know why I try," he said, shrugging elaborately before stomping off to the kitchen. Damn, we need a tiara in this house. I wanted so very badly to go and put one on his head right then.

I gave him five minutes of wallow-time before going to the kitchen. Finally I walked up to him and sang in his ear in my best dopey voice, "You're killing me softly..."

"Fuck off," he said, but he was smiling. He's such an idiot. I nuzzled his shoulder for a second as he washed a few dishes, then reached around him for the button of his jeans. Before he could even say a word of protest, I had his jeans and underwear down to his ankles and was fucking him over the kitchen counter. His palms slid on the wet marble, and his feet weren't touching the ground. He'd have a bruise the next day where the edge of the counter had rubbed against his stomach. When he came, he shouted my name and collapsed on the counter, unwilling to move. I pulled out of him and stepped back, but found myself staring at him, doubled over the kitchen counter, his shirt pulled up and his pants pooled around his ankles, his little-boy sneakers dangling six inches over the floor, his ass open and inviting on the edge of the counter top. He moaned softly, a sing-song hum of pleasure. I walked over to him softly and whispered in his ear, "Don't. Move."

I placed my hand on his lower back, just above his ass and he broke out into goosebumps. I ran my hand over his ass and cupped his balls, then parted his cheeks slightly and just looked at him. I was suddenly overwhelmed. This was how I possessed him, how totally he gave himself over to me. He didn't just allow me to enter him with my own flesh, to reach into him physically, he allowed me to look at him, look into him, into the chambers of his soul, into the labyrinths of his being. I kneaded his ass a little and then spread him open, pulling apart his legs before leaning into him with a feral moan and tasting him, reaching into the very depths of him and claiming everything as my own.


* * *

"If you could choose to be someone from literature, anyone at all, who would you be?" Justin asks me one night after sex. I am irritated instantly. Post-sex banter equals insufficient sex.

"You obviously are going to tell me I'm Dorian Gray, then I'm going to tell you that we're in the highest point of this building so I don't have an attic with a hidden ageing picture of me, then you're going to bring up the topic of us ageing, and ageing together, and then I'm going to yell at you and then you're going to sulk and then we're going to fuck, so why don't we just get straight to the fucking and be done with it?"

He stares at me and then bursts into laughter. He nuzzles into my chest, and I fight the urge to push him aside because he's behaving in a very wife-y way and it's annoying the fuck out of me.

"I think you're Rhett Butler," he says, daring to bat his eyelashes at me.

"Well, you're no Scarlett."

"I'm Melanie," he says, and I groan.

"You brought Mel into the bed. Now I need a drink." I get up and walk to the kitchen, pour myself a little Beam and sit down on the sofa, my legs on the coffee-table. He walks out of the bedroom slowly, his eyes adjusting to the light, his naked body glistening with sweat and splattered with dried come.

"Besides," I venture, "The real love story is of Melanie and Scarlett."

"What?" he asks, amused.

"It was so obvious. I mean Scarlett takes care of Melanie, delivers her baby, drags her all the way to Tara and then falls to pieces when Melanie dies. Duh."

"Fine then," he says magnanimously, "I'll be Melanie, and you can be Scarlett."

"I am not a fucking lesbian."

He laughs at that, then comes to me and sits down on the coffee-table.

"Get the fuck off that. It's a fucking expensive coffee table and that's fucking disgusting." Not even my cleaning lady can get a Mies van der Rohe table to look un-fucked-on.

"Really?" he says, with a mischievous glint in his eyes. "Why did you buy this anyway?"

You weren't here. I was fucking bored.

"I've always admired good old Mies."

"Why?" he asks, and I roll my eyes. Pry, pry, pry. He wants to know everything, wants to unravel me, reach into me in all the ways he can't touch me and possess that inner tell-all-eye.

"He was a good advertiser. He knew the importance of the catch phrase, the slogan, the pithy aphorism. Less is more. I don't want to be interesting; I want to be good." I reply, quoting the quirky genius.

"Architecture is the will of the epoch translated into space," he adds another quote, "Until this simple truth is clearly recognized, the new architecture will be uncertain and tentative. Until then it must remain a chaos of undirected forces."

"Good memory. Do they test memory on the SAT's?" I ask, bored and a little nervous because he has that piercing sparkle in his eyes and that usually means trouble.

"You like him because he's a control freak," Justin says calmly. "You like the honesty, the integrity of his design because it appeals to you as a simple unpretentious display of power. But it's more than that. Mies van der Rohe entered competitions for Nazi architectural commissions and solicited votes for the party. He was an opportunist... while not a Nazi supporter, he was a figure occasionally without principle. You told Ethan as much about yourself."

I can't help but cringe. Not because I regret what I'd told the roof-top fiddler, but because... well, just because. But Justin doesn't stop. Stupid shit never does. He gets on all fours on the table and leans in towards me, saying quietly, "You've wanted to be him because he knows as nobody else does the importance of façade combined with authenticity. His furniture is stable, strong, built with functionality in mind, while at the same time evocative of power, money, control... his style embodies everything you've wanted to be -- beautiful, sexy, rich, powerful... a monument to the potential of the individual... a monument to who you are and what you've done."

I stare at him wordlessly, because I want right now to fuck him on the table, to fuck him hard with all the anger I feel and all the relief I refuse to admit. How dare he. How fucking dare he look into me with his pretentious country-club gentile education and think he knows what makes me tick? How dare he insinuate that he knows what I felt each time my father lost his job and got drunk on the money he received from unemployment while I learned at school about how welfare breeds a culture of dependency among the poor, while I walked around in my cheap clothes that made people look at me with the worst of all emotions - pity.

And yet, I know that the violent turbulence is combined with a gut-wrenching tug of relief... that he, that someone can know what is hidden behind my swagger, that he knows my greatest secret, my hopeless self-doubt, that he sees past the onyx walls, the plush black silk velvet curtains and the complex aerodynamic geometries that conceal my ugliness.

He sees the look in my eyes and starts to stroke himself slowly, throwing his head back and sighing through flushed lips, "I want you to take me."

And there's nothing more that I want right now than to do exactly that. I take his hands off his cock and place mine there instead. I run my hands over his dick, slowly, deliberately. I want him to lose control, to have no power over what happens to him. I want to make him mine, to strike away at the layers of complacency in his eyes that terrify me into thinking about what I'd do if he ever realized... I want him to beg for me as he would never beg for anyone else, reclaim some of what power his insight has taken from me.

"You're not to come until I tell you... or I'll make you pay. Understood?" I say quietly, dangerously. He nods, whimpering a little.

I lean him back so he's lying on the table, his legs apart, his toes curling in and out helplessly as I jack him off. I take my hand off his cock and he groans. I settle on my knees at the edge of the table and hold his feet down. I massage his ankles a little, then use his thighs to drag him nearer to me. There's a squeak as he slides over and his hands fly to his face in ecstasy as I lift his legs over my shoulders and take his cock into my mouth. I slide a finger into his hole, pull it out and then put two in. I take my mouth off his cock and use his legs to raise his ass to the level of my face.

His head thrashes from side to side as I suck his asshole and his hands fly all over the place until he loses all pretense of dignity and whimpers, "Please, please, please..." a broken record of surrender. I am not feeling too merciful right now. I lower his ass back to the table and lick the inside of his thighs. I lave the soft golden hairs until they rest, until the moisture on his thighs glistens in a fine sheen and my breath on him makes him shiver. He slaps the table with his palms to centre himself, but I bite down on the inside of his thigh, hard and wildly, and he comes with a scream loud and long enough to draw the cops.

I stand up and stare down at him, at his body covered in a glaze of sweat and slick with his come, his hands across his eyes as he tries to catch his breath and slow his heart rate. When I am sure he is coherent, I pull his hands away from his eyes and look at him with thinned lips, glowering at him and delighting in the nervousness in his blue eyes. "I told you not to come."

I grab his wrists and drag him to the floor, position him on his knees with his face to the floor and his ass in the air. I enter him quickly, suddenly, ram into him unawares, then grab his hips hard enough to leave bruises for days. This is my anger, my grief, my sense of unfairness and disappointment and my fear... I pour it all into him, tear at his hair, grab his neck and shoulders, bite into his soft flesh, dig my nails into his hands to keep him from slipping as I take him brutally, desperately. When I sense his orgasm, I grab his neck and slowly contract my fingers, asphyxiate him slightly until he leans into my chest, goes still in my arms, and screams out my name in submission as he shoots all over his chest and hair. I too fall over the edge, and then we both go limp, him lying in a pool of his own seed, and me sprawled over him, my fingers entwined with his.

We sleep there on the floor that night, collapsed on the floor in our naked glory, exposed and unornamented by furniture either plain or designed. We lie bedizened only with our own sweat, neither of us willing or able to move, holding on to each other for a reason as simple and natural as needing warmth.

* * *

When I was seventeen and enraptured with Brian Kinney, I would dream of us at a nymphaeum. There would be a river, clear and shallow enough to see the stones and the moss and the quiet underworld of the water. There would be grass on which we would lie together naked, feeding each other grapes or whatever it was that the ancient Greek hetaeras fed their lovers. Yeah. I got over that.

When I was eighteen and still enraptured with Brian Kinney, I would dream of us in a modern-day glass menagerie, with subtle golden chandeliers. There would be candles that cast shadows against the wall, and the dancing flame would ensconce us in our perfectness, in an immaculate art that would transcend Brian's pain and my disabilities, recreate us as epic heroes, legends to be emulated. I got over that too.

Soon after the Stockwell fiasco, I went over to Linds and Mel's to babysit Gus one night. It was the first time since I'd been expelled that I'd seen Lindsay, and she was appropriately proud and disappointed. She was proud of me and of Brian for what we'd done... but she cried the tears I wouldn't allow myself, bemoaned the pastels box she'd given me and cursed the Dean, and sobbed that now I'd never go to Italy. She had always wanted me to see Italy, to worship Michelangelo and Palladio and the glorious empire-building aspirations of ancient Rome and Byzantium. I've always been surprised that Lindsay was so... well, so straight in her art.

Palladio was a dickhead. Usefulness, durability and beauty defined his work, and he applied the same old rules he'd inherited from classicism and the ancients - architecture based on the laws of nature: symmetry and harmony. I've never believed that nature was fond of either symmetry or harmony. There is something almost fearful about attempting balance in architecture, about creating a landscape that pleases the eye without exciting it, that caters to your aesthetic sense but doesn't grab you in that visceral, sexual way.

Me? I'm a baroque boy. I want extravagant shapes, riotous ornamentation. I want complex geometries that defy mathematical axioms. I want the sheer eroticism, the ecstasy, the undulating facades and theatrics. I want the exuberant decoration, the secrets of concealed lighting and trompe l'oeil painting. I want the drama, the excitement, the fierce style and nearly violent rejection of complacency. I want something I can't take for granted, an unparalleled rapture that comes at an unspeakable price. I want Brian Kinney.

End