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Authors: T. A. Webb
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eyes, the hardness in his jawline that wasn’t there a moment before, the tension in his shoulders…Paul swore the temperature at once rose and dipped. Paul had done his research. He knew Matthew started his drag career when he was eighteen, and that he was forty-seven now, just a couple of years older than Paul himself. In that moment, he saw the weight of those thirty years on this man’s face, through the patchy makeup and the kohl around his eyes, and started to reach a hand out to touch—comfort—him, but Matthew blinked and turned back to the mirror and the moment passed.
“Do you want the story I give at all the bullshit banquets, Mr. Stewart? That this disease isn’t cured, that only those with health insurance and ins to the pharmaceutical companies have access to the latest and best drugs? That the infection rate is rising again? That kids who can barely find their peckers without a roadmap think that they’re bulletproof and are barebacking because they think the drugs will be there to keep them alive, and by the time it matters, we will have found a cure?” Matthew spoke casually as if reading off a grocery list, but his words somehow throbbed and Paul swore he heard anger. And pain.
Paul cleared his throat and, in a quiet voice, said, “I’d rather hear the truth. Not that those aren’t very real reasons. I could probably fill in a few you didn’t name. The disease doesn’t have the same impact among the hundreds of other worthy causes, because who really cares about the hundreds of thousands of Africans dying of it. The government has other hot-button issues to deal with, and the Baby Boomers have to worry about keeping their cocks hard with Viagra, and their hips and knees working to play tennis. No”—he leaned forward and did touch Matthew this time—“I want to hear the story that put the storm clouds in your eyes a moment ago. Please. Just…please.”
He held his breath and waited. The moment stretched, and when Matthew carefully laid down the blush applicator—yes, he did know what it was, he chastised himself—he wasn’t sure if the interview was over, if he’d overstepped and taken the interview into an area that was too personal. Then Matthew turned his chair to face Paul and pulled the iPhone close in between them.
“I was a teenager back in 1984, and my best friend was Patrick Holton.”
And Paul settled back and listened.
Chapter Two
1984
It was Friday night, and I was on my way to pick up Patrick and our girlfriend Sonia. None of us were out to our families or other friends, only to each other, at the time. We were all seniors in high school, and Atlanta was a fun place to be in those days. We could sneak into some of the bars, because I always looked older than I was, Sonia was a girl and the bouncers didn’t care, and Patrick…well, he was beautiful and you know how that goes.
We were supposed to go see Footloose for about the tenth time because I had a huge crush on Sean Penn’s hot little brother, Patrick loved Kevin Bacon, and Sonia loved it when Lori Singer said, in that silly ass Texas accent, “I’m goin’ away.” But instead we started drinking Rum and Coke while sitting at the Varsity and eating hot dogs and onion rings, and ended up at the Warehouse dancing instead. I was still a virgin at the time—we all were—and nobody much cared about hunting down somebody to screw.
In my heart of hearts, I was more than a little in love with Patrick, though. We’d been best friends since sixth grade, and my crush had developed over the years into a love he never saw. Sonia knew, of course. Looking back, how could she not? But she would only give me a hard look and flick her eyes at me when the conversation would lull. I know she was trying to get me to say something, but, well, I couldn’t. Because what if he didn’t want to be friends anymore, or what if he laughed? Looking back now, I can only be filled with the what-if’s. Especially that
“Do you want the story I give at all the bullshit banquets, Mr. Stewart? That this disease isn’t cured, that only those with health insurance and ins to the pharmaceutical companies have access to the latest and best drugs? That the infection rate is rising again? That kids who can barely find their peckers without a roadmap think that they’re bulletproof and are barebacking because they think the drugs will be there to keep them alive, and by the time it matters, we will have found a cure?” Matthew spoke casually as if reading off a grocery list, but his words somehow throbbed and Paul swore he heard anger. And pain.
Paul cleared his throat and, in a quiet voice, said, “I’d rather hear the truth. Not that those aren’t very real reasons. I could probably fill in a few you didn’t name. The disease doesn’t have the same impact among the hundreds of other worthy causes, because who really cares about the hundreds of thousands of Africans dying of it. The government has other hot-button issues to deal with, and the Baby Boomers have to worry about keeping their cocks hard with Viagra, and their hips and knees working to play tennis. No”—he leaned forward and did touch Matthew this time—“I want to hear the story that put the storm clouds in your eyes a moment ago. Please. Just…please.”
He held his breath and waited. The moment stretched, and when Matthew carefully laid down the blush applicator—yes, he did know what it was, he chastised himself—he wasn’t sure if the interview was over, if he’d overstepped and taken the interview into an area that was too personal. Then Matthew turned his chair to face Paul and pulled the iPhone close in between them.
“I was a teenager back in 1984, and my best friend was Patrick Holton.”
And Paul settled back and listened.
Chapter Two
1984
It was Friday night, and I was on my way to pick up Patrick and our girlfriend Sonia. None of us were out to our families or other friends, only to each other, at the time. We were all seniors in high school, and Atlanta was a fun place to be in those days. We could sneak into some of the bars, because I always looked older than I was, Sonia was a girl and the bouncers didn’t care, and Patrick…well, he was beautiful and you know how that goes.
We were supposed to go see Footloose for about the tenth time because I had a huge crush on Sean Penn’s hot little brother, Patrick loved Kevin Bacon, and Sonia loved it when Lori Singer said, in that silly ass Texas accent, “I’m goin’ away.” But instead we started drinking Rum and Coke while sitting at the Varsity and eating hot dogs and onion rings, and ended up at the Warehouse dancing instead. I was still a virgin at the time—we all were—and nobody much cared about hunting down somebody to screw.
In my heart of hearts, I was more than a little in love with Patrick, though. We’d been best friends since sixth grade, and my crush had developed over the years into a love he never saw. Sonia knew, of course. Looking back, how could she not? But she would only give me a hard look and flick her eyes at me when the conversation would lull. I know she was trying to get me to say something, but, well, I couldn’t. Because what if he didn’t want to be friends anymore, or what if he laughed? Looking back now, I can only be filled with the what-if’s. Especially that
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