GYPSIES, TRAMPS, AND TATTOO SLEEVES.

 
      The only reason why I'm glad Brian Murphy is dead is because he won't find out that a Cher song inspired the title of this memorial. His taste in music was much cooler than mine, and needless to say he did not share my love of Cher. But even Brian would have to admit it's impossible not to think of him when you hear 'gypsy' and 'tramp'. 
      He was one-forth true Latvian Roma gypsy, which explained his thick black hair and brows and his wild behavior. It made him even more alluring, and also got him into more trouble. Almost every gay man I know wanted to have sex with him. And every gay man who had sex with him wanted to have sex with him again. Dykes, straight girls, straight guys, drag queens, professors, drug dealers, even his shrinks, all found him sexy. He had sex with so many men, both sober and when he was high, that it only made sense he was chosen to be the 'face' of Syphilis. 

This poster was intended 
to reduce the spread of Syphilis
in England, but there were many men 
who would have gladly gotten
an STD just to have sex with Brian.

He might have been the 'face' of Syphilis
but he was the 'back' of HIV, at least 
on this cover of POZ mag 

Brian cornered the market on STD's. He was more than willing to pose for any disease he contracted.
This was for HEP C. 

                                    
                                         *** THE FACE ***
    
       The gypsy in Brian, passed down from his grandmother, was the defining part of his background for him.  It sounded more dangerous than just calling himself Black Irish, which was the more typical way of describing his looks. The Black Irish are what the regular Irish dream of looking like. The only hint of Brian being Irish at all were his gorgeous green eyes, but even they looked dark until he got right in front of you. For sure, he certainly didn't drink like an Irishman. He had no cravings for it, and fell asleep the few times he tried to get drunk. Ironically, alcohol was the only substance Brian Murphy wasn't ever addicted to.
   He already had all the addictions he would ever need by the time he was 19.  Brian also had a penchant for piercings, and delved deeply into more extreme ways of lancing a body. He became one of the pierced performers at Club Fuck! in LA, doing notoriously anarchic but artfully executed stage pieces.

A few years later wearing the
'CROWN OF THORNS'

    After Fuck!, Brian and a few other performers moved to San Francisco and started  Retarded Whore Productions, a company that ran a club called Jesus. No other club flyer has ever managed to offend both Catholics and Sex Workers at the same time, along with the Handicapped.
    Brian also toured with the legendary performance artist Ron Athey, who was his lover and mentor at the time (Athey was robbed of the honor of being in the original NEA 4, but nevertheless, did get targeted by Congress in 1994.) Performing Athey's profane and profound pieces, Brian and the rest of the troupe caused scandals throughout Europe, where they ended up being chased by villagers with torches more times than Frankenstein.  


                     *** THE TATTOOS ***
        
       Before 1990, a person had to be a sailor or a murderer to be as heavily tattooed as Brian. By '92, when he was still in his early twenties, he had most of his major tattoo work completed, including Maori bats on his feet and Iceman crosses on his knees, black stars around his pierced nipples, a holstered gun on his calf, a Tibetan storm cloud on his stomach, his pyramid yoke collar, and a huge Polynesian line mask that covered his entire back. He had his upper sleeves tattooed last, which most people usually do first. 

   
    What made Brian's tattoos so distinctive was their placement, as well as the boldness of some of the less complicated designs. Artists Trev Marshall and Alex Binnie spent months designing them with Brian. His star nipples and stomach storm cloud were my favorites. Probably the most significant ones to Brian were the Mauri bats which were a tribute to his first boyfriend who has shot to death; the words 'Never Forget' tattooed with roses over his ribs to keep alive in spirit 'all comrades,  activists,and lovers who died of AIDS or drugs'; and his back mask, which was a gift he gave to himself at the one year mark of his first attempt at being sober.
   Out of all his tattoos, Brian's back mask stands out as being the truly iconic one. It was undoubtedly, and will definitely remain, one of the most photographed and recognizable tattoos of his generation.

The only picture I have ever seen of
 Brian without the mask completed.
 The outline is barely visible in the left pic.

A beautifully stylized photo
by Brian's dear friend, Aaron Cohen.
  BRIAN IN CORSET

     No one was more fascinated by his tattoos and piercing than my family. The highlight of the first Passover dinner I brought him to was when he did his 'human water fountain '. He would unscrew the small, steel ball from the pointed steel stem of his labret piercing under his lip and remove it, take a big gulp of water, tilt his head back, and push the water out of it like a blow-hole, aiming for my open mouth two feet away. It became a family tradition, even when we were all at a restaurant. A holiday wasn't complete until Brian spouted. 

Good wholesome family entertainment   

   
                         *** THE MAN ***


   I've come to accept the fact, and now admit it publicly, that Brian Murphy was much cooler than me.  He was actually the coolest guy I ever met. He carried himself comfortably around all sorts of people, and instinctively knew how to act in dicey or dangerous situations without ever seeming nervous or vulnerable (he was only vulnerable in matters of love.) He kept peoples' secrets, never gossiped, and had the enviable skill of knowing exactly how much to say in social situations, never too much or never too little. He never bragged about all he had seen and done in his 20's, or where he had traveled to, or even what famous men he had sex with. He didn't have to be overbearing for his opinions to matter, and for many people including myself, his yay or nay was the one that really counted. He was extremely smart and sophisticated but could still enjoy the genius in tacky or creepy things, without ever being tacky or creepy himself. Anything he put on looked good even if it looked bad on everyone else. He didn't need designer labels to have style, and his style was impossible to label.
   So besides being the sexiest and the coolest man I've ever known, it appears that he was also one of the most liked. Seriously. Brian's death has brought an amazing amount of attention to his life. People are coming out of the woodwork.  Calls, texts, emails. They're stopping me on the street just to tell me how much they liked him. Parents are telling me how much their kids looked up to him. People are even telling me how much their dogs liked him.

Bronski and Mack loved Brian's
 skateboard more than a steakbone

With his little Felon

  An extra sparkle lit up Brian whenever he was around children and dogs.


  The only people I've ever known to say they didn't like Brian were usually the ones who secretly loved Brian the most, but didn't get as much of him as they hoped for.
                          
                       *** THE LOVE ***


    I met Brian Murphy in San Francisco in 1997. By 'met' I mean had sex. We saw each other once after that, at a garage sale he was having.
              " Hey, it's you," I said to him.
              " Hey, it's you, " he repeated back. He told me he was moving to New York while he petted and kissed my boxers ( dogs, not underwear), as if he already knew that Bronski and Mack would eventually be his pets too.  
              " Too bad you're not staying here. Ever coming back? "
               " Who knows."  He flashed his silver-covered canines, reminding me that he had one of the most beautiful, fun smiles I had ever seen.  

I'm going to miss that smile

    By coincidence, or by luck, or fate, the dogs and I moved back to New York a year later to live with a man I had met over the summer on a trip to Fire Island. Just as my short-lived romance was coming to an end a few months after I arrived, I happened to be squatting down cleaning up Bronski and Mack's shit on Christopher Street when Brian rode by on his bike. 
              " Hey, it's you," I looked up and smiled as he quickly turned around his bike. 
             " Hey, it's you," he smiled down at me, " And them," he added, bending from his bike and reaching to pet the dogs.
             " When they shit in front of you it means they like you," I said, holding up the warm plastic bag as I stood. 
             "Well when I shit in front of you, it means the same thing," he said, grabbing the bag from my hand and peddling over to the trash can and back with his ass in the air.
   After telling him about my ill-fated romance, I asked him if he had any plans that night. I could see he suddenly got nervous. He told me he was in ' kind of a show, but more like an art piece'. He was hesitant to describe it, and even more hesitant to invite me. 
            "What happens if you don't like it and you get turned off?" Brian asked frankly.
             " It would be very difficult for you to turn-off anyone, Brian." I promised him a dinner no matter how I felt about the show. He agreed and gave me the time and address.
            " Will I recognize you?"
            " I'll be hanging around. You'll see me." Brian tried to smile but his nervousness only let him grin as he rode off.

   When I got to the space where the show was, I  realized why Brian didn't want to explain it. How does one explain being suspended from meat hooks pierced through your skin attached to elastic cords, without freaking people out? 

   It was my unexpected introduction into the world of Suspension. I had never seen, read or even heard of it before. Suspension, like so much else in the realm of tattooing and piercing, has its origin in tribal custom and dates back thousands of years. It moved underground in modern times but, like tattooing and piercing, was resurfacing again for nice Jewish boys from Long Island like me to see.
   In the past, it was more of a ritualized rite of passage for warriors that challenged physical endurance and mental control, but could also be used as a punishment or for torture. Now it's more of an artform, with modern warriors fighting against norms instead of enemy tribes.   

    When I first realized Brian was one of the performers hanging from the meat hooks, I was shocked, but luckily only for a moment. Only wearing white pants, his entire upper half was covered in white powder. The black-green of the mask was still showing through, along with dried blood where each hook was inserted. The mask's shape was being contorted by the pulling of the hooks, as if it was making faces at me.The more Brian leaned forward, the more the mask lifted away from him.         

    For a half an hour, I stood in back of him just watching as people stopped and stared. I heard all kinds of comments, from ''disgusting' and 'fucked up' to 'holy' and 'metamorphic'. After a few minutes I stopped caring what anyone was saying, and didn't even hear their voices anymore. Brian's slow movements and the shifting of the mask's shape were hypnotizing me. I started to see the beauty of it, and I saw an even greater beauty in Brian's artistic fearlessness. I wanted to defend him and show him off at the same time.
   I felt something inside that I recognized from my past. It was a feeling that I had known twice before. My heart, which had been sitting on the sidelines for 4 years recuperating from my break-up with Pepe, had suddenly appeared again and was back in the huddle, joining my mind and cock in the game. This was all going on inside me as I continued to silently watch him. I had fallen in love with Brian before he even knew I was there.  
   He was leaning forward with his eyes closed so he didn't see me come from behind. I stood right in front of him and leaned forward too.
              "Hey, it's you," I whispered into his ear.
   He opened his eyes and found me staring right at him. I saw a moment of panic in his eyes before he read the love in mine.
              "You are so cool. I'm so proud of you," I told him. I gave him a quick, gentle kiss on his powdered lips. " Is it OK if I wait until your done?"
             " If you want to. Of course," he smiled and straightened up, forgetting for a moment that he was attached to the meat hooks.
               " I'll be hanging around, " I smiled, saying good-bye with a toast of my drink as I started to walk towards one of the club's couches.
               "Hey," Brian called out to me.
    I turned and looked back at him.
               "It's you." 
                               
                 *** THE PROPHECY ***  

   There was a part of Brian that was even darker than his darkest gypsy features. It was the only part that was as powerful as his allure or his adventurous, wild spirit. The difference was that his spirit reached outward while this darkness burrowed in, like an auto-immune disease.        
    He was absolutely fearless and fun loving, but his heart was surprisingly fragile, especially for someone desired by so many. Physical pain didn't scare him. He laughed at piercings and lancing that would make warriors cry. The pain of being betrayed and then left was what frightened him so much. It was what his first boyfriend did by being murdered, it was what his next boyfriend William did by cheating on him, and it was what it felt like when his father, Wayne, got killed in a car crash when Brian was 12 months old, and when his mother, Robin, died from a pill overdose when Brian was 21. After she died, Brian was left with no family, except one wonderful aunt, Susie, who lives in Arizona and loved Brian like a son.
   He told me all of that and other facts as well, totally revealing himself that night, more than anyone ever does on a first date, and more than some people reveal themselves in an entire lifetime. He showed me levels of vulnerability and strength that I had never seen in someone. That first night, he also told me something else. Something that he was certain about. What he told me was melodramatic and macabre, but he said it so casually that I laughed it off. At 28 years old, Brian was totally comfortable telling me without hesitation or doubt that he would not live past the age of his mother's death, 41. 
   I was not the first one to hear this, or the last. Anyone who knew Brian well eventually heard the prophecy. When Brian felt a strong enough connection to strangers, they sometimes heard it too. He toasted to it each of the 13 birthdays I celebrated with him, including his 41st one, which was 11 months ago on May 22. 
     The whole subject of dying young was not as foreign or frightening to Brian as it is to the rest of us.  He already had his father die at 22, his first boyfriend get killed at 24, and his mother died at 41. Compared to 22, 41 must have seemed like a good, long life to Brian when he was growing up.
   Add to that the specter of AIDS that loomed over Brian's head in the late 80's and early 90's, when he was still living with the death sentence of having HIV before the protease inhibitors stopped all the mass dying in '95. Premature death was all around him, and he was forced like so many other gay men to reconcile himself with a shorter life, and somehow put a good spin on it. 
   Brian had been so familiar with premature death, and spent so much of his early life imagining his own early demise, that he had no real concept of growing old. 41 was as old as he knew how to be. It was the target he aimed for, the last island before a vast sea of uncharted waters. 41 was his lighthouse. There was nothing beyond it to guide him.  
   In Brian's eyes, 41 was a great accomplishment. He considered it quite a feat to have lived to this age. Considering his copious drug use and his 'big heart' 
( he was diagnosed with cardiomegaly, or enlarged heart, 5 years ago) he was holding up pretty well. 
   No one else can say if another person has lived a full life or not; some people feel they have had full lives in only half the time. Brian's fast-forward button was pressed long ago, and he tore through his life like very few other people in this world. He traveled more, saw more, fucked more, performed more, got photographed and interviewed more, read more, learned more, laughed more, dared more, risked more, and cried more than most people do in 70 years. 
   Brian truly expected to have a shorter life, and Brian usually got what Brian wanted. He was extremely stubborn and tenacious, and could do anything when he put his mind to it. That was how he became one of the youngest to ever be a Master Piercer in the entire piercing industry, and how in his mid 30's, right before his heart condition developed, he was able to graduate a Teaching Credential Program at SFSU with straight A's while being high everyday ( Yes, frightening yet astounding.) 
       Only such a person could get what he wanted from even Death Himself. Somehow Brian managed to die  exactly like he told me he would thirteen years earlier. Robin Murphy died on April 13th at 41, Brian Murphy died at 41 on April 14th exactly twenty years later. The unbelievable thing about this, the thing that makes it exquisite, the thing that makes it nothing less than stunning, is that Brian Murphy pulled this off without actually killing himself. Sure, he was absolutely gambling with his health everyday and speeding up his demise faster than most, but that's different from actually pulling a trigger, or swallowing pills, or jumping off a bridge. 

In the end, it was Brian's big heart that apparently, and ultimately, killed him.

    ============================

    There he was, Baby Brian, the quintessential man-boy. Dead but still amazingly beautiful. He was laying in bed, propped up on pillows with his head gently resting on his left shoulder, with his lube bottle and penis-pump nearby, porno set to 'repeat mode' still playing on the TV, and his clean-up towel already draped over himself. Brian Murphy, who could have died a hundred different times in a hundred different scenerios in a hundred different places with a hundred different people, died painlessly and peacefully after a little pleasure, safe in bed in the most comfortable position, at the age he always wanted to. I am so grateful for that and happy for him. I'm a little jealous too. We all hope we go as perfectly, but of course we won't. Only Brian Murphy gets to exit so exquisitely, that lucky stiff.