Plastic Jesus by Poppy Z. Brite Read Free Book Online Page A

usually in bed. He had a never-ending stack of books, a bunch of daily newspapers from all over the world, his cigar box full of drugs, his mirror and razor blades and rolling papers. And, of course, the TV. If Peyton was in the house, Seth was always yelling at him to come here right now , Peyt, you've gotta see this. But it was usually something interesting. This time it was more interesting than usual.
    The BBC was showing a news clip of a riot in New York. At first Peyton thought it was a race riot. Then he saw that the rioters were of all different races, and that many of the men were in drag. They were jeering at policemen, throwing rocks and bottles. As Seth and Peyton watched, a policeman jumped back into his patrol car and peered out at the crowd, looking almost comically terrified.
    Seth filled in the blanks. A gay bar in Greenwich Village, the Stonewall Inn, had been raided by the police. In America, gay bars weren't illegal in theory, but in practice they could be raided at any time and the patrons arrested on morals charges. Usually those who weren't arrested slunk away, hoping to escape the notice of the police. This time, apparently, they hadn't.
    For the first time in he wasn't sure how long, Peyton thought of Harold. How many places had he been forced to slink away from in his short life?
    Some of the young men in front of the Stonewall Inn were shirtless. They draped themselves over one another and kissed for the cameras. They were reckless and gorgeous. They looked the way Peyton had felt when the Kydds first started up, when he hadn't cared about anything but playing loud American rock and roll.
    â€œWe have to go there!” Seth said.
    With an effort, Peyton dragged his eyes away from the screen and looked at his partner. Seth was thinner than he'd been in years. His eyes glittered hectically. God only knew how many things he was high on right now. But he was also excited, excited about doing something that involved leaving the house, excited in a way Peyton hadn't seen him get lately.
    He knew that he hadn't discouraged Seth's heroin habit as he should have. Seth mightn't be writing as much as he used to, but the songs he did write were among the best he'd ever done. With Seth on smack, Peyton could have his partner, his lover, his band, and his peace all rolled into one. Seth hadn't felt like giving interviews, let alone holding press conferences, for quite some time now. Peyton handled most of the publicity. If pressed about his personal life, he said he was seeing an actress.
    He looked back at the TV and felt a deep stab of shame.
    â€œWe have to go,” Seth said again.
    Peyton sat on the edge of the bed, slid his arm around Seth's waist, leaned his head against Seth's. “Yeah,” he said finally, “I suppose we do."

    * * * *

    They were only there a little while before the glut of fans and media got so thick that they had to leave for their own safety. But in this case, a little while was enough.
    They'd left London that very night, arrived in New York the next morning, slept all afternoon at the St. Regis, then gone down to the Village. The rioting was over, the bar closed for the moment, but people were still congregating in front of the Stonewall Inn. The summer evening was clear and blue, the smell of sweat intoxicating. This had become a pilgrimage spot, no less to Seth and Peyton than any of the others.
    They stood on the sidewalk talking to people, their arms slung casually round each other like so many other pairs of young men on this hot summer evening. “Aren't you Seth Grealy and Peyton Masters?” someone finally asked, half-embarrassed—New Yorkers were supposed to be so cool about celebrities—and they said yes.
    Someone else asked the question that would become a cliché: “Are you two, uh, together? "
    Everyone laughed—perhaps it was already a cliché—and they could have dodged the question that time. But they just said yes again,