Title: Reasons Why Justin Taylor Is A Twat
Disclaimer: I don't own Queer as Folk. Not even Justin, though I did try to bargain with Showtime and Cowlip for him once.
Justin Taylor. Even the twink's name makes me insane. I do not think I have ever met a person more infuriatingly twat-like than him. Not even Michael, and that is really saying something.
These are not some baseless, vague reflections of mine, existing mostly in my own head...they are actual, direct observations. Justin Taylor is a twat. There is no getting around it, it is practically scientifically proven fact, like the Earth being round and gravitational pull.
So, in light of this recent discovery of mine, I decided to make a list. A list of every reason why this new knowledge cannot possibly be proved false. A list of every contribution to my ever-growing compilation of reasons for Justin's twat-ness. So here it is:
Reasons Why Justin Taylor Is A Twat
#1 He would cry if he ever found out I was writing this list.
And he would. His big blue eyes would fill with tears, his bottom lip would quiver, and he'd look up at me with that helpless, hurt expression as if asking what he had ever done to me. I'd roll my eyes. The tears would spill over and he would take off for Debbie's or Daphne's or the Munchers. Why'd he have to be so sensitive? Damn artist's temperament. Really, people called me things all the time, and you didn't see me crying over them. Most of the time they were much worse things than 'twat' too. He had no right to cry.
But he would, and then I'd have to play the hero and go over and comfort him, tell him whatever I could to make him feel better. Only because if I didn't, he'd flood the whole fucking building out with his tears, and I didn't want my imported sofa ruined. Plus, I really didn't need him crying to Debbie about what an asshole I was being. I'm pretty sure I've already got brain damage from her hitting me on the back of the head so many times. And Daphne's pretty dangerous when she's angry, too. The last thing I needed was a horde of angry women after me for hurting their "Sunshine."
#2 He insists on filling my life with all sorts of hetero-torture methods.
Movie nights alone, candlelit dinners, even a 'tunnel of love' ride at a theme park once... I'm fairly certain I was high at the time...
Why on Earth he forces these things on me, I'll never know. He claims to love me (Though I prefer the word 'worships'...bit more accurate) so why does he take so much pleasure in causing me pain? He takes one look at my revolted face and starts giggling like a school-girl. What the fuck is that all about? I know he thinks he'll get through to me one of these days... like maybe I'll wake up one morning and decide that my life-long dream is to live a pathetic imitation of a heterosexual cult-life. Not going to happen.
Ever.
Okay, so maybe I don't mind so much when he curls really close to me during the particularly frightening or gory parts of the movies he rents. Or when he tangles our feet together under the table at Woody's or the diner. Or even... I can't believe I'm writing this... the occasional slow dances with him (all his idea), though the gawking we're forced to endure on those occasions is never much fun.
But still... Hetero. Torture. Methods.
#3 His damn artwork.
Justin is an amazing artist. I mean really, truly amazing. And he has this incredible passion for it that even rivals his passion for stalking me. Hard to believe, I know. Of course, I'd never tell him how impressive I think he is with a paintbrush. Brian Kinney doesn't do flattery. Except, perhaps, when he's kissing a potential client's ass (sometimes literally), but that's about it.
Again, I'd never dream of telling him this, but I'm always a bit honored to be the subject of his artwork, which I am quite often. And why shouldn't I be? I'm fucking gorgeous, after all. But, for some lesbianic reason or another, I always have to hide my smile whenever he asks me to pose for him.
Ahem. Anyway, back to my "Justin is a twat" argument... So I'm honored and flattered and all of that other appreciative shit, but then he finishes his "masterpiece." And then, because he is Justin and is apparently genetically incapable of not being a twat...he must ask, every damn time...what I think of it.
It never fucking fails.
I have tried every brush off, every side-stepping-the-question technique known to humankind... yet he still continues to ask me. Of course, my answer, at least in my own head, is that I think it's fucking brilliant...but how am I supposed to tell him that? More importantly, why does the little shit keep asking me? Then when I brush him off or don't answer, he gets this broken, wounded look on his face, like I just crushed every dream he'd ever held dear. Again with the sensitive artist thing. So I get this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, which, slightly concerned for my health, I described to Debbie once... and she had the fucking nerve to suggest that I was "actually feeling the human emotion of guilt, you big asshole."
Right. I think we can be reasonably certain that's not it. It's more likely due the fact that I then have to put up with a sniveling, pitiful twink for the next hour until I tell him I like the damn painting or sketch or whatever the hell he did, and he starts beaming that giant smile of his that earned him his nickname.
Little shit.
#4 He loves to... oh, God, I can't even write it. He loves to do that sick thing that hetero's do at night in bed. All right, I'll write it once...cuddle. There. From now on, we shall just call it the 'C' word.
Justin loves to do the 'C' word thing at night. He just scoots on over to my side of the bed, wraps his arms around me, and lays his head on my chest like it's the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Then he sweats and squirms and snores all night so that I can barely get any sleep at all. He seems to assume that, just because I drape my own arms around his back and shoulders, run my fingers through his hair, and kiss his forehead, that I actually want him over there with me. Other than that, have I ever given him any indication that I appreciated it? Or do I just look like a fucking body pillow? It's disgusting I tell you. Disgusting.
It is especially sick and disgusting when he does that thing he does... kissing my neck and nuzzling it with his nose. Then he just... breaths... like he's trying to breath me in or something. Is his nose the only functional sensory device on his body? I don't think so. So why must he sniff me like a blood hound, I ask you? Then, of course, my own nose happens to be about an inch from his blond little head, so I really can't help it when I lean forward just a bit and then I'm breathing in the scent of his shampoo. Nor can I help it when I think that it actually smells pretty good, like him. And I really can't do a thing about it when my lips brush the top of his head. They're right there, after all. It's a complete accident.
Anyway, Justin and his stupid 'C' word. Sick.
#5 He makes me think about things I don't want to think about.
All right, by the time this list is finished, I'm going to have to throw it in the fire, lest it be seen by another pair of human eyes. But I will actually admit, with this pen and paper as witnesses... that Justin Taylor has actually made me give a shit.
I don't know how it happened. One night, he was the underage twink I'd brought home who practically worshiped the ground I walked on and wouldn't stop stalking me, the next he was... something else entirely. Still a twat, but not the annoying, stalking twat that he was. I'm not saying I want to go off and marry the little shit or anything, but I do want him to be happy. Healthy. Safe. If at all possible, I want him somewhere close by, while he's at it, too.
He makes me think about... what it would be like. If I really gave up everything... all the tricking, all the clubbing, all the drugs and booze... and just kept him instead. Of course, I would never. I'm Brian Kinney, for fuck's sake. But he's made me wonder, on the rare occasion that I was actually drunk or high enough to entertain the thought...how bad it would really be.
But then, as soon as I get to the part in my mind's fantasy where I come home from work and fuck him all night—just him— I realize what I'm thinking and quickly down another shot of Jim Beam.
So maybe I give a shit. That doesn't mean I have to analyze it like a fucking therapist or a lesbian and figure out what it's supposed to mean for me.
#6
Shit.
#6 He's a twat because I can't even think of a damn number six.
