Growing Up Kinney by Myrna, Queer As Folk Fanfiction

Growing Up Kinney by Myrna

Growing Up Kinney by Myrna, Queer As Folk Fanfiction

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Growing Up Kinney
By Myrna
Gus is growing up. His POV of life in the Kinney-Taylor household.
Part 1
We were about half-way through my graduation ceremony, and I was thinking maybe I was going to get out of it all
without any permanent scarring because even though I’d been boneheaded enough to fuck two fellow classmates
within two weeks of each other, at least I’d had the common sense to pick Jane Abbott and Chloe Wiseman. There
were four hundred students between them, so the chance of them comparing notes and finding out was slim, at least
for the next four hours, and I just needed to get out of there without any shit hitting the fan. Well, any of that
particular shit anyway. My moms would, like, so not shut up about respect and feelings and all that shit if they had
any idea, and my dad. Christ, you talk about fucking a girl in front of him, and he acts like I’m schtupping goats or
something.
Okay, so screwing two cheerleaders on the same squad without the prerequisite two week break in between was a
brainless move, but I’m working without much of a net here. I mean, I’ve gotta seek out, like, the postman or the
local produce guy down at the grocery story if I expect to find any kind of how-to advice when it comes to dealing
with women. Well, straight women anyway. Here’s something I’ve learned: straight chicks do not share in any way,
shape or form the same ideas about fucking as, say, your average gay guy.
At this rate, I’m gonna be a hundred before I ever have a relationship with anyone.
Not that I’m looking for a relationship or anything. Please. I’m fucking 18 years old, and in three short months I am
out of the hell hole that is Pittsburgh, bound for Columbia University thank you very much. I’m declaring pre-law,
much to my mothers’ delight (especially Ma—she loves the idea of her boy following in her footsteps). My dad on
the other hand has done more than his fair share of pissing and moaning about it, even threatening for, like, five
minutes not to pay my tuition if I was going to insist on such a boring, unimaginative career. His partner made so
much fun of him over the whole thing that the subject was just kind of dropped.
Yeah, it’s pretty obvious we’re not your typical Stepford family here. It’s almost easier to show people than to
explain it all. I mean, the Peterson-Marcus-Kinney-Taylor-Novotny-Bruckner-Hunnicutt-Schmidt faction takes up a
fucking wing of the auditorium. Not like you could miss us or anything. I mean, Jesus Christ, my grandmother
painted a sign! A fucking sign for God’s sake! Just kill me already.
So here’s the short version—my moms are Lindsay and Melanie Marcus. They’ve been married, like, a hundred
years. My dad is Brian Kinney. Yes, the Brian Kinney. His partner is Justin Taylor. Yes, the Justin Taylor and no I
can’t get you an autograph and no I don’t know when the next book is coming out and no they don’t film the movies
here in Pittsburgh and yes I’ve met Colin Farrell and he’s really short and my dad is forever pissed that he plays him
in the films, even though Justin insists Andrew Kent isn’t even remotely based on my father. Can we move on? So,
my sister Sarah’s dad is Michael Novotny who grew up with my dad so they’re kind of like brothers I guess, and
Michael’s partner is Ben Bruckner and then everyone else is just everyone else and so that’s my family in a nutshell.
Sarah and I have contests to see who can use the most degrees of separation to describe one of our motley crew of
family members. Like, Sarah can say Jennifer Taylor is her brother’s father’s lover’s mother.
Okay, that’s actually not very funny given the way prim and proper Jennifer so literally observes the boundries of
“family.” Because Justin and my dad are together, she recognizes me as her quasi-grandkid. But Sarah has no
“official” tie to her, so she’s treated like one of my school friends instead of my sister. It’s embarrassing and
irritating, and I hate it. Sarah acts like she doesn’t notice, but give me a fucking break. I mean, when I turned 16, Jen
gave me $5,000 toward a new car that my dad had already promised me anyway. Sarah got a gift certificate to
Nordstroms.
Of course, on the total other end of the spectrum, you have my grandma Deb. Deb would kick my ass if I ever
referred to her as my sister’s father’s mother. Deb is Gran to me in exactly the same overbearing, totally horrifying
way she’s Gran to Sarah. I can’t believe Sarah let her hold up that fucking doofus sign. Like I won’t remember it
two years from now when she’s sitting up there? Jesus.
Anyway, it all mixes together for us in a way that seems pretty normal, even though it leaves most people confused
about who’s who and stuff. I kind of like messing with people about it. Like last fall when I was touring colleges, I
asked Ben to come with me on a couple of visits, figuring that on the off-chance that coming in as the offspring of
Brian Kinney wasn’t enough, certainly walking around with the dean of Carnegie Mellon’s English department
would be. Well that and touring with my moms was a total pain in the ass because Mom would get all, like weepy
about my leaving home, and all Ma wanted was for me to go to Columbia so she bitched about everything on all the
other campuses. And going with my dad was out of the question because it always caused too much of a stir. The
university fuckers would be so obsequious about it and that always puts my dad in a pissy mood (unless, of course,
they *d on’t* fawn all over him, which puts him in an even pissier mood). Look, I don’t give a shit if being Brian
Kinney’s son gets me somewhere, I use it all the time to get shit, I’m the first to admit it, but it’s penny ante shit,
you know? Like the best seats in the house on that rare occasion when a decent band comes to town, that kind of
stuff. And okay, I’ll admit that if I hadn’t gotten into Columbia, I woulda sic’d my dad on them in a heartbeat, but
that’s not the point I’m making.
What the fuck point am I making anyway? Oh yeah, messing with people.
Part 2
So a couple of times when Ben and I were looking at schools, I introduced him as my sister's father's partner, but
then over a cup of coffee Ben just laughed as he said, "Gus, let's go with 'uncle,' and leave it at that."
I know I inherited more than a little of my dad's in-your -face approach to people, but I have a much better sense of
humor about it. I mean, both Ben and I knew I was introing him like that as much for affect as for clarity. I can't help
it-it just cracks me up the way someone being queer still bothers some people.
After the graduation ceremony, I made a beeline for my mob, praying I could chuck that fucking sign before Jane or
Chloe used it to track me down. I figured Dad and Justin would have already ducked out, but they were waiting right
along with everyone else. Public shit like a graduation can be a pain in the ass for them anyway, just because, you
know, it's Brian Kinney and Justin Taylor and all the shit that goes with that. But even if they weren't so well
known, it would be...I don't know, hard or uncomfortable or whatever because, well, you know. I mean, any time
you're in a crowd, in some unfamiliar place and you can't see, it's gonna be hard.
The thing is, you'd never know it if you were just watching from the outside. Justin never looks nervous or upset or
anything. He's so...just normal about it, it's easy to forget he hasn't always been blind. He didn't even start to lose his
sight until I was, like, fourteen, I guess. No, that's not right. That's when they told everybody. It had started
happening way before that, a few years at least. They just covered it up.
I sort of see why they did. First of all, it was just so awful. And it would have been awful no matter who it was
happening to, but Justin was an artist, a painter. I know the blurb on his book jackets always says "graphic
designer," but that was just something he did when he wanted to earn a few bucks. He was really an artist. I know
that because his work is all over their place. We have a couple of pictures at our house, and Gran and Jen have some
too, but most of them are at my dad's.
When they found out that Justin was going blind (but long before they told anyone), my dad started buying up every
piece Justin had ever sold. It's not like they were worth millions of dollars or anything, but there were a lot of them.
"He can't stand for them to be out there," was my dad's cryptic explanation for doing it, and even after we all knew
what was going on, I couldn't understand what he meant. Maybe it sounds callous but it seemed to me like all of
Justin's stuff would be worth tons more money after he couldn't draw anymore, but all my dad would say was, "I
told you. He can't stand for them to be out there. So, they're not gonna be."
"But that doesn't make any sense!" I said.
Dad just lifted his eyebrow at me and said, "It doesn't have to."
That's kind of my dad in a nutshell.
So, back to graduation day. I made my way over to my crowd, a little concerned because my friend Chewy's dad
was talking to my dad. Chewy's dad is a neurosurgeon, and every time he talks to my dad or Justin, he tries to get
into all of the stuff they're doing nowadays with conditions similar to Justin's. I guess there was this operation he
could have had a few years ago that might have saved his sight or at least slowed down the process of losing it, but
Justin didn't do it. There were a lot of risks and stuff, but you'd think he would have at least tried something.
Dad has a really short fuse about all of that stuff, and if I wanted to be alive for the round of parties later that night, I
needed for us to get the hell out of there without a scene. "Hey, hey, Dr. Morgan!" I said, jogging up to the two of
them. "I saw Chewy looking for you. He's up toward the stage with Moog and Fitz."
"Congratulations, Gus!" Dr. Morgan said, shaking my hand. "We'll see you later at Lewis' party, won't we?"
"Absolutely," I said, glancing quickly at my moms. I knew we were having a family thing back at our place, but I
was counting on it being over by three, four at the latest. There were parties all over the place, and if I played my
cards right, I could stay one or two parties ahead of Jane and Chloe and keep my balls in tact for another day or two.
But Mom had a tendency to get way too sentimental about, fuck, I don't know, passages or whatever. And
sometimes Ma could talk her out of it, and sometimes we all had to, like, join hands together and sing campfire
songs.
"Columbia!" Dr. Morgan said to my dad. "You must be proud of this boy, huh?"
"As can be," Dad said, with this really insincere smile on his face, and I hoped he wouldn't say anything about
Chewy going to Penn State because even if he was trying to be polite somehow he probably would have made it
sound like a slam.
Justin patted Dr. Morgan on the back. "Good to see you, Don," he said.
"You too," Dr. Morgan said. He held a card out to Justin who obviously couldn't see it. My dad kind of snatched it
from him and slid it into the breast pocket of his suit coat. "Call next week to set up an appointment," he said, then
walked off to find Chewy.
"Fuck you!" my dad called softly once Dr. Morgan was (thankfully) out of earshot. Justin smacked him on the chest
as he threw an arm around my shoulder.
"Gus! You're a high school graduate!" he said, and then everyone remembered why we were there, and I was hugged
and kissed and slapped on the back within an inch of my life.
"Christ, get the hell off my boy," my dad finally said, prying Gran's hands off me. He licked his finger and tried to
smear away the lipstick covering my face, but his grimace told me it wasn't working very well. "Could we get this
show on the road?" he griped. "They're gonna smear my picture all over the paper tomorrow. Like I need the world
to know I've got a high school graduate for a kid."
There were the usual groans and eye rolls that always come when my dad says stuff like that, but at least it got
people moving toward the door.
"Guster!" Moog shouted as we passed him, raising his fist in the air.
"Moooooog!" I shouted back. "I'll pick you up at four! Fitzie's Mommy's gonna drop him off at Chewy's around
five!"
"Chewy, Moog, Futzie," my dad muttered, shoving me out the door. "Why can't straight people use actual names?"
I rolled my eyes at him. "It's Fitz," I said, which he totally knew because Chewy, Moog, and Fitz had been my best
friends since I was, like, eight. "His last name's Fitzpatrick. It makes perfect sense." Dad hrmphed, but it was mostly
for effect.
We stopped by the passenger door of what is the fucking coolest 2018 Porsche Dhormer on the planet. He'd just
bought it a few weeks ago, and I'll admit I was hoping he might hand his 2016 Porsche down to me. I know, I know,
I have a totally choice two-year old Benz, but Jesus think what I could score on the Columbia campus with the
Porsche? Dad just made this whole big production of laughing his ass off when I asked about having it, but he might
come around yet. He's one of the few parents in the world who's actually swayed by arguments about how much
more you can fuck around if you have this accessory or that.
"Hey, can I drive?" I asked, expecting little more than incredulous laughter from my dad. Usually he won't let me
touch a new car until it's at least six months old.
Dad studied the keys in his hand for a second then studied me with this fake intensity that had me rolling my eyes at
his drama. He chuckled then and threw me the keys, and I whooped with victory and slid into the driver's seat as
quickly as I could before he changed his mind.
He stood outside the door for a minute, acting like he was fixing the cuff of his shirt, but he was really watching
Justin getting into Jenn's car. It's a habit for my dad because it's not like Justin needs special help anymore for stuff.
Well, I mean, he does, you know, need a guide when he's walking through the parking lot or making his way to a
seat in the auditorium. Dad still sort of thinks he's the only one who knows how to offer an arm or mention how
many steps are coming up or things like that.
"So are you gonna make Justin call Dr. Morgan?" I asked once we got on the road.
My dad sighed. "I wish I had a dime for every well-meaning asshole loser who's found the next great cure for what
ails us. I'd be a rich man."
"You are a rich man."
"Hmmm, true. I'd be a richer man. Always a good thing."
"Ma said they're making new discoveries all the time and you never know when they'll be able to do something so
he can see again. Why don't you just get him to go talk to him?"
A small smile played at my dad's lips. "Why don't I get him to go?" he repeated.
"Don't act like that's some out-there thing to say. He does shit for you all the time."
"Do we really need a sermon about Saint Justin the Divine today? I'm all about a little macaroni salad, seven
thousand beers, your mothers' tearful lamentations about how they used to diaper your darling little ass and now
look at you, all grown up, a man..."
"God, shut up."
"Shocking the way you speak to your father," he said, with a tragic sigh. "The father who bought most of those
diapers. The father who steered you down the road to adulthood, who selflessly nurtured you on the..."
"Jesus, Saint Who the Divine are we talking about again?" Dad just laughed, even as I shook my head. "I just think
Justin should have, like, tried harder. Don't you ever get, like, pissed at him?"
"All the time," he said easily. "How fucking hard is it to put the milk back in the fridge when you're done? I've
poured fifteen thousand dollars down that sink in the last 20 years. And you know what he says every time? Every
fucking time? 'Oh, I didn't see it out.'"
"Dad," I interrupted, "You know what I mean. That he didn't have that surgery. That he didn't, like, at least *try*,
you know?"
He turned and looked at me with that condescending amusement that makes me want to throw shit and, like, totally
wipe that look off his face forever. He shook his head and said mockingly, "Still think you've got us all figured out,
don't you Sonny Boy."
God, I hate that! I hate it so fucking much! "What?" I said. We were home by then, and I got out of the car and stood
there for a minute. "Just...maybe you should have pushed even harder, that's all I'm saying."
My dad got out and gently closed the car door, then walked toward me, his chin raised in that way that said he was
going to challenge me to do something or think something.. "I begged him," my father said slowly, using that tone
that meant I'd better be listening. "On my knees, Gus; God damned down on my knees, wailing like the helpless
little fairy you think HE is and throwing out every lame ass bargaining chip I could think of, I begged him not to
have the surgery. Hell, I'd've run for president of the fucking PTA in high heels and pearls if that's what it took."
I was nodding, like I was totally getting it, but then the words actually registered and then I was shaking my head.
"Wait, no, that's not how it..." I said, but was interrupted by that cool, dangerous tone.
"What, you don't like that picture of your big butch daddy? Does that mess with the tidy image of your old man as
the mighty lord of the manor and wussy Justin as the timid little woman?"
Okay, see, this is where Dad and Justin are so different. Justin would never in a million, billion years throw back in
my face what a total shit I was to him for...or, I don't know, like, the first few years of my adolescence. My dad, on
the other hand, will remind me of it on his death bed when he's, like, a hundred and twelve.
Well, what the fuck can I do? I was a shit. But God, I mean, I think I can be cut just a little bit of slack, you know?
There I was, like, 12 or 13 years old, and I'm in the middle of the weirdest fucking family situation in the universe
and everyone around me is totally queer, and I'm trying to figure out what that makes me, and then there's all these
different ideas buzzing around me about what it means to look like a man, never mind what it means to actually
*be* a man. I think I'm entitled to be ever so slightly screwed up.
Which, actually, my father granted me. I just wasn't allowed to shit on Justin because of it. And isn't that what you
need to hear when you're a kid who's just coming to understand how fucking hypocritical the entire universe is? My
dad shit on Justin all the time, but the minute anyone else looked at him cross-eyed, he blew up.
Look, there's a reason why no one lets him read J's book reviews before they've been sanitized.
So, I'm 13, and my father is Brian Fucking Kinney. He's always been this, sort of, dangerous, mysterious figure and
he's just so fucking...cool. Everything about him just seemed so totally cool, you know? He's, like, the best looking
guy and rich as fuck and has all these cars and electronics and, God, his loft was huge and full of the best of, like,
everything, and he has a condo in Aspen and use of a beach house in Miami. I thought he was a god. And then
there's Justin. And he's, like, short and skinny and doesn't dress cool or anything and he's kind of quiet and, I don't
know, he's not, like, effeminate the way Emmett is, which is kind of funny and, sort of made up or, you know, done
just to get a rise out of people. But I started to realized that Justin was effeminate in a different way, like a really
irritating, lame kind of way. Like...weak, you know?
I just couldn't understand what a man like my dad was doing with someone like Justin. My dad could have been with
the richest, smartest, coolest guy anywhere, but instead he was with Justin.
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