In the span of three years I lost three of my closest confidants to AIDS. Brian was the last in 1991.

We were not partners but we were both hypersexual so on occasion, out of necessity, we’d shag. Though we were never mushy. We loved to cause trouble and we were good at it.

The pictures of him passed out are from 1982 on the night I returned from my first trip to Europe. My friend Giorgio had given me two beautiful bottles of ancient Chianti. He insisted they were purely ornamental, they’d gone bad years ago.

Brian never met an order he couldn’t defy. We drank them both that night.

Trouble with a capital T

Treasure Trail? More like the Trans-Siberian Rail Line

Under the watchful gaze

Succumbing to noxious chiantic gases

Preparing a meal for our vegan friends

Brian didn’t have a sincere bone in his body. Well, maybe one. 1987

Trying to fit in at a Republican fundraiser

The torch was accepted by a new generation of Americans

A rare moment without guile. Or was it.

Hiding from the cops on the fire escape. My ass/his face. As God planned it.

Brian and David on my birthday. Daylight was often low energy, things would perk up at cocktail hour.

Returning to the closet. An impossibility.

Get off me, faggot

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