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Prologue:
What if Justin hadn’t been standing under that lamppost on Liberty Avenue?
What if Brian had decided that the blowjob he was receiving in the backroom
of Babylon was worth sticking around for? What if…
This is a story set in 2005, Justin Taylor and Brian Kinney have never met.
Shortly after what should have been that fateful night five years ago, Brian
moved to New York to open his own advertising agency and Justin graduated
from St. James Academy. Never having met Brian, Justin didn’t come out to
his parents (or his peers, other than Daphne) in high school and wasn’t bashed
by Chris Hobbes. He went on to attend Dartmouth, delighting his proud parents.
Double majoring in Studio Art and Marketing, he satisfied both his father
and himself (and found the two areas of study melded much better than he anticipated).
Flash forward to today, May 18th 2005: Justin, an honors graduate of both
programs, is in New York City for a week, deciding if this wild, wondrous
place is where he’d like to make a life. Six job interviews scheduled and
a mile-long list of sights to see, Justin sits in his dingy hotel room triple-checking
the perfection of his portfolio.
CHAPTER 1
Justin and Brian's POV
PG
Justin
I know this fucking thing is good, that it's as perfect as it’s going to be,
but I still feel the need to pore over it just to be sure.
All of my professors told me I had an excellent book. The three places where
I interviewed in Pittsburgh last week seemed impressed. I imagine that I’ll
get an offer from at least one of them. The guy from Dean and Danner totally
had a crush on me, which will work to my advantage.
I don’t know though, I really don’t think the Pitts is where I want to make
a life. It was a great place to grow up, but a little suffocating. I was so
happy to get away for college. As any young gay man does, I finally found
the freedom to be myself when I lived away from home. New York is alive and
vibrant, a much better place for an artist to get a break. I’m going to work
this whole advertising thing for now since I have a marketing degree. But,
with any luck I’ll be showing in galleries while I’m still young enough to
enjoy it.
All of the firms where I’m applying are looking for graphic artists. That
wasn’t my focus at school, but I took enough design classes to build a fabulous
portfolio, and I was lucky: I bonded with the art director of the agency where
I did my marketing internship during my last semester of school; he taught
me a lot.
I know I need to put my artistic talent to practical use if I’m ever going
to make it in New York and advertising is just the field to start. After I’m
comfortable and established with lots of contacts, then I’ll focus on my true
passion.
Brian
“Cynthia!” Where the fuck, “Cynthia!” is she?
“Yes, dear.” She comes around the corner, all false smiles. God she knows
how to piss me off.
“When are the interviews today?”
“Brian, I’m not your fucking secretary anymore. Ask Irene.”
I try using the pouty face that sometimes works on her, but it appears to
be getting me nowhere today. Then I decide to change my approach all together,
“I know Cyn. I wanted you to do the interviews for me. I’m busy.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“And why not? The new designer will be working on your team. You should certainly
get to look at all of the candidates.”
“Brian, quit being a baby. You know damn well you don’t give a flying flip
what I think about those candidates. You want to see which boy has the hottest
ass coupled with the greatest skill set. You wouldn’t be happy with who I
picked. I might even pick a GIRL.”
“Jesus, you’re right. I have to do everything myself, don’t I? Send Irene
in here when you leave.”
“Yes your majesty.” She gives me a cheeky grin before leaving. I’m glad I
brought Cynthia to New York with me. It’s like having a dirty little piece
of Pittsburgh right next to me all day long, reminding me of why I left that
place. That, and I kind of like her.
Irene walks in, head down, notepad in hand. She’s new.
“Irene,” I pause, waiting for her to look at me…knowing that she never will.
Maybe I really am an overbearing asshole? Nah.
“Irene,” I repeat, but still no eye contact. “What time are the interviews?”
“You have a 10am, a 2pm and a 4pm, sir.”
“Irene, don’t call me ‘sir’.”
“Yes, sir.” Jesus! It’s like beating my head against a brick wall. Mental
note: hire a new assistant.
Suddenly she continues, unprompted, which practically knocks me out of my
seat, “Mr. Brown is at 10am. Ms. Adams at 2pm. Then Mr. Taylor is at 4pm.”
“Oh
yeah, the college kid. I don’t think so. Call and tell him we changed our mind.
I really don’t have time to waste on him.”
“So you want me to call and tell him he shouldn’t come in, sir?”
“Mr. Kinney, Brian, whatever…just not 'sir'. And yes, cancel with him.”
I look down at the proposal in front of me and moan at the amount of work it
needs. I have a great team. I cultivate excellent employees because I won’t
tolerate anything less. I had to deal with unbelievable amounts of idiocy and
an astounding lack of creativity when I was working for Ryder and then Vance
back in Pittsburgh, but
now…everything is the way I want it. And I still wind up working 16 hours a day
to get things right. I wonder how that human cloning stuff is coming along? One
version of me to work all day, one version of me to fuck all night. Mental
note: look into human cloning experiments.
Cynthia’s whining breaks my train of thought as she sticks her nose in where it
doesn’t belong (some things never change), “Brian, you can’t cancel on someone
the day of the interview. What if he came to New York just to
interview with you? He has a great book. That’s the kid from Dartmouth, right?”
I just nod at her slowly, taking in the look in her eyes. It’s actually
threatening. She’s actually trying to get me to concede. I’ve taught her so
well.
I sigh, “Yeah, yeah. I’ll see him. But when I’m here working on this fucking
proposal at midnight I’m calling
your ass at home to come back and help me.”
“And how would that be any different from any other night, sir?” Cynthia rolls
her eyes at me as she leaves my office. I try hard not to let my know-nothing
assistant see my face as I suppress a smile.
Justin
I walk down 5th
Avenue
with my portfolio slung over my shoulder and a look on my face that implies I
belong here. I studied the map in my hotel room last night so I wouldn’t look
like a tourist. I’m doing my best to blend; it’s going pretty well so far.
My interview with FKS went well this morning. I got a really good feeling from
the art director, but I actually didn’t like the agency. They are a little old
school for my taste. I don’t need to work in a warehouse with techno music
blaring, but some exposed plumbing and beanbag chairs would be nice. I have
this idea of what a “cool New York agency” looks like and FKS wasn't it.
I do know one thing though; I’m falling in love with New York City. The way it
swallows you whole and takes you on this roller coaster ride. Before you even
realize you’re going up the incline, you’re free falling into nothing and
loving every second of the adrenaline rush. My body is literally buzzing,
taking in the people and storefronts and insane traffic. I’ve never felt so
alive, which is exactly what I expected from New York. I’ve visited
the city with my family before, but never alone.
Navigating the streets, figuring out the subway system and finding the hidden
charms of the city is leaving me feeling satisfied. There is nothing quite like
making your own way in a foreign place. The moment a new city becomes yours
is nothing like I’ve ever experienced. In college I studied abroad in Paris. France suited me well.
I remember the day I got lost trying to find my way home (slightly drunk) from
a dinner with friends. I’d been in Paris for about a month and was
having the time of my life. I wandered away from the restaurant with this
magical feeling bubbling up inside of me. My head was floating and my feet were
taking me in any direction they pleased. Then I looked up only to realize I had
no idea where I was. I managed to get my bearings and find my way home that
night. When I finally landed at the front door of my tiny apartment, I’d never
been prouder of myself. I want to relive that feeling in New York. I hope I get
the chance.
Continuing my journey down 5th Avenue I turn onto 52nd, making
my way toward Times
Square.
At Broadway I stop on the corner, making a mental note of the building where my
afternoon interview will be held. Paramount Plaza is unbelievably
tall, as all New
York
buildings seem to be. The agency I’ll be interviewing with, Blue Light, is on
the 38th floor.
Based on my knowledge of each company I’m interviewing with, Blue Light is my
first choice. They have an unbelievable client list and a kick ass website.
It’s a small agency that’s known in the industry for its cutting edge creative
work. They push the envelope a little, and I like that. It’s also interesting
to me that they do pro bono work for the national PFLAG chapter. I’d imagine
that says something about the CEO, Mr. Kinney I think his name is. Maybe his
daughter is a lesbian or something. Hard to say, but seeing that information on
their website was a big attractor for me.
I jump aside to avoid a group of skateboarding teenagers and then get screamed
at by a cabbie’s horn when I nearly fall into the street as they roll by. In an
attempt to not look thrown by the encounter, I duck into the Starbucks on the
corner. They’re on every corner. Once inside, I’m struck by the familiarity of
the interior of the popular chain. If it weren't for the floor-to-ceiling
windows revealing the bustling city just beyond this small space, I'd almost
feel like I’m in Pittsburgh. How boring, I should head somewhere cooler.
Turning on my heels and heading for the door, I notice the most gorgeous guy
sitting in the corner poring over some papers. He's wearing an expensive, well
cut steel gray suit. His dark hair, slightly shaggy, hides his eyes a little,
creating a veil of mystery. I’m so taken with his beautifully chiseled face and
dominating demeanor that I forget I’m standing in the middle of a Starbucks
until I hear an annoyed, “Can I help you?” By the time I finally acknowledge
the 16-year-old girl behind the counter, she’s already had enough of me. I
smile sheepishly and approach her. I really didn’t want to stay here, but
there’s no way I’m walking away from that hot guy!
“Um, I’ll have a tall latte please.” Pulling out my wallet, I roll my eyes at
the five bucks I’m about to pay for a cup of coffee. That should really be
enough to buy me lunch, but I suppose in NY a five-dollar lunch would be tough
to find. This will do, a little sugar and caffeine will get me through until I
find a place to have an actual meal before my afternoon interview. Not to
mention the eye candy I’m about to feast on.
I wait politely for my coffee, tipping the girl behind the register a couple of
quarters. When she hands me my drink I turn around with plans of picking out
the best place from which to watch Mr. Beautiful, only to discover that he’s
gone. Bummer.
Brian
Sometimes the only way I can think straight for 10 minutes, without someone
calling me or paging me or bursting in with some catastrophic disaster, is to
leave my own office.
I grab the proposal and head for the Starbucks down the street. Two
espressos later, I’m sitting in the corner focusing on the Epson proposal. I’m
in pitch-mode – that's what I call the zone I enter when I’m working on a new
campaign pitch and can drown out anything and anyone around me – which is why
I’m surprised when I look up as the girl behind the counter raises her voice,
“Can I help you?” As she whines it for the third time, I get a look at the
idiot she's talking to and I'm pleasantly surprised to see a blond with the
greatest ass.
I watch as he approaches the counter and orders a latte. I watch as he reaches
into his worn wallet and hands the girl behind the counter the cash. I watch as
he waits for her to brew his espresso. Then I actually look at my watch and
realize I’ve been gone from the office for over an hour. I didn’t mean to be
here for so long. I bid the blond and his ass goodbye, silently, as I make a
hasty retreat. Luckily, there are a million beautiful gay men in the city and
when I’m fucking one of them tonight I can pull the Starbucks blond out of my
fantasy file and have a little fun. Taking one last look at his profile (both
face and ass), I turn and leave.
Back in the war zone, there’s anger and tears. I’ve only been gone for 70
minutes. I find one of my senior account reps bitching out a copywriter and my
assistant standing by nearly in tears.
“What the hell?” I ask them in an annoyed tone. I’m definitely annoyed. I think
about waiting for an answer, but instead I just head for my office, letting
their voices fade as I get further down the hall.
Justin
Well that sucks, but there are a million beautiful gay men in New York. Reason number
674 to move here! The gay community at Dartmouth was all right,
since I was an art major I think I knew every gay guy at the entire school, but
by the end of my four year stint I felt a little suffocated. I think it would
take a hell of a lot longer to burn through all the eligible men in this city.
Maybe the rest of my life!
Not to say I’m out for tons of casual sex, that's not all I did for four years
of college. I'd just rather be in a relationship. It seems to suit me better.
Having someone to wake up with and really talk to is great. Plus, I love having
a sexy guy to sketch whenever I get the notion. I had two semi-serious
relationships while I was in college.
The first guy, this cello player, Aaron, was pretty cool. He was my first for a
lot of things. I’d lost my virginity in high school to this football player
that no one would have guessed was gay. Then I slept with a couple of random
guys I met in bars before I fell for Aaron during our first semester at school.
He was sweet and romantic, but very controlling and cocky at the same time. I
was immediately drawn to him. We dated for nearly a year before he won this
international music contest and left to travel abroad, studying music in some
of Europe’s most
prestigious conservatories. We realized it was better, and more realistic, for
us both if we called it quits. In the end he met someone in Italy and never came
back to school. For a while I was a little bitter, but I’m happy for him now.
The second guy was more serious, way more serious. Paul the painter. I still
call him that in my head, Paul the painter. We dated up until about four months
ago. We were together for more than two years. It was hard in the end, really
hard. Our relationship was fucking fabulous when it was good and a fucking
nightmare when it was bad. It still smarts like it was yesterday.
Paul was wild and free-spirited and incredibly talented. He was an abstract
painter, which made our work very different (thank God, I don’t think I'd have
handled the competition very well). He was moody and controlling and passionate
as all hell.
Unfortunately, he was also into drugs and random sex. They were habits that
didn’t really bother me at first because I thought I could change him. I was
lying to myself.
In the end, when I realized I was never going to matter more than his next bump
or his next fuck, I had to admit defeat and move out of our shitty little
apartment just off campus. Since Paul, I’ve been staying away from anything
more than the occasional bar hookup. I decided that I’d wait until I had my
head on straight and my life in order before I even considered dating again.
Now that I’m in New York and my career is about to take off, I realize that
everything has worked out for the best. It’ll be good to be single in the city,
and a hell of a lot of fun.
After I gulp down my latte and head out of Starbucks, I decide to take a stroll
through Central Park before I head over for my interview. Passing a long line
of horse drawn carts, waiting for would-be tourists to hop in, I think about
how many scenes there are like this all over this city each and every day just
waiting for me to draw them.
Grabbing an overpriced hot dog from a street vendor, I walk past a playground,
a handful of homeless men napping and a group of women doing what I can only
guess is Tai-Chi– all in under ten minutes. They don’t call the Big Apple the
melting pot of the world for nothing. Checking my watch, I realize it’s time to
head back to my hotel. I have hours before my interview, but I want to shower
and change and make sure I’m early.
Brian
I lean back in my chair, reviewing the highlights of both of the interviews
I’ve conducted today. Both candidates were good, but not great. I doubt I’ll
hire either of them. Which is disappointing, considering the only other person
I’m seeing today is a highly under-qualified kid just out of college. But his
portfolio is great, his internship was impressive, and he did graduate with
honors from Dartmouth.
Who knows, maybe it’s my lucky day and he’ll knock my socks off. My train of
thought is interrupted by Irene’s high-pitched screech coming through the
speaker on my phone, “Mr. Kinney?”
“Yes,” I bark back.
“Mr. Taylor is here.”
I shift my eyes to check the time, “He’s fucking early. I’ll see him at 4
o’clock.”
“Yes,
sir.” Dammit! That woman is going to drive me mad.
I clear my desk and check my email and in what feels like 6 seconds, it’s
already 4
o’clock.
The second the phone beeps I know what she’s going to say, “Send him in.” I
beat her to the punch.
Irene pushes the door open and the moves to let Hopeful #3 through the door.
The second I see his blond head, that bright smile and his unforgettable ass,
it’s all I can do to keep my jaw from dropping. I keep a straight face as I
stand to shake his hand.
“Mr. Taylor,” I stand to greet him and then motion for him to sit down across
from me.
“Mr. Kinney,” his firm handshake and confident smile both get me in the gut. In
a way I’m really not comfortable with.
Well, this will be a much more interesting afternoon than I’d anticipated.
Justin
When I arrive at Blue Light, the receptionist shows me to a beautiful office
belonging to Mr. Kinney’s assistant. She’s quiet and nice as she greets me.
When she calls Mr. Kinney to announce me, he barks that I’ll have to wait until
4
o’clock.
I didn’t expect him to be the person interviewing me. Usually at an agency like
this I'd be seen by an art director or a VP first. I’m here 30 minutes ahead of
schedule and the tone in Mr. Kinney’s voice reveals he isn’t happy about it. I
didn’t mean to be quite so early, but whatever – he’ll get over it.
I wait patiently, growing more nervous by the minute. At 4 o’clock on the dot,
Irene shows me into Mr. Kinney’s huge corner office with a view. I see the
windows first, floor to ceiling, overlooking downtown Manhattan. Then I see
impeccable leather furniture and breathtaking artwork on the walls. As I move
past Irene and catch a glimpse of Mr. Kinney for the first time, my breath
catches in my chest.
It’s him! It’s the fucking gorgeous guy from Starbucks. Holy shit, holy shit,
holy shit! It’s all I can do not to drool all over myself or scream, ‘Hey!
You’re the hot guy from Starbucks!’ in his face. Luckily, I just grin ear to
ear as I walk over to greet him. He surely didn’t notice me when our paths
crossed for just a few minutes this morning, he was so engrossed in the work he
was doing.
When he extends his hand to greet me, I give him an extra-firm handshake to
camouflage my shaking. Suddenly everything is coming together in my mind. His
company does work for PFLAG and my gaydar definitely went off this morning when
I soaked in his perfectly tousled hair and his impeccably cut Armani suit.
God, what I wouldn’t give to work for a very successful, very attractive gay
man. Of course, there could be the little matter of me not being able to
concentrate on my job on the account of wanting to fuck him silly. But, I can
cross that bridge when I come to it.
I sit in the oversized leather armchair across from his desk and let my
portfolio slide off of my shoulder. I will my heart to stop racing as I prepare
to give the best interview of my life.
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