Part X, by lengli

"'James,' I asked, 'whoever is that delicious dish, that tall drink of water over there?' James, or Lippy as he was known in those circuits, nibbled thoughtfully on his mother of pearl cigarette holder, and followed my line of vision.

"'That, cupcake,' he replied, 'is the fresh meat in town - Timmy Gunn, fashion guru to Park Avenue, or so he'd have us all believe. Very mysterious, very edible.' James waggled his eyebrows suggestively. 'Get in line, sugar.'

"'Intriguing...' I contemplated coyly, toying with my new pink diamond earring, the very latest from Tiffany's, you know.

"'Fresh in from DC, apparently, and already making a huge splash. But no one I know has ever heard of him. You'd think a little bundle of joy like that would have quite a rep preceding him, wouldn't you?' But just then Lippy caught sight of Liza Minelli's bare breasts and squealed. 'Jesus Christ, not again! That hag is going to ruin everything! Sorry P, have to dash, damage control.'

"Then he rushed off, shielding his eyes as he ran towards the carnage that was Liza, and leaving me alone as I quickly formulated my move.

"Mrs. Gunn, I don't suppose I have to tell you what an intimidating presence your boy here can be," Perry interrupted himself, reaching for a beaver tail and winking. "I suppose he gets that from your side of the family, no?"

Mamma Gunn puffed up noticeably, clearly pleased with this tidbit of side commentary. "Well Perry, as a matter of fact, I was quite the heartbreaker in my day! Why, did you know I was Miss Hamilton Steel in 1948?"

"Timmy Bear, why didn't you ever tell me your mother was such a hot piece of ass!" Perry gushed. "Mrs. Gunn, do you think I can try on your tiara someti-"

"Perry, that's enough," Tim grimaced through clenched teeth. It was traumatizing enough being home; he certainly didn't need the stress of having to keep Perry's uncontrollable id on a tight rein. While Tim's parents knew he was gay, having them know his lifestyle entailed such characters as Perry was taxing his nerves. Though Tim had somewhat known just exactly what having Perry tag along would involve, he had imagined that Perry's more gregarious tendencies would be somewhat muted by the crisp Canadian weather and the notorious Hamilton smog.

"Mother, Perry, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll take a brief nap before dinner. You know how travel exhausts me."

"All right dearie, you holler down if you need anything," Momma Gunn said as Perry searched Tim's eyes for something that he still just couldn't seem to find. Tim had seen that look all too often, and merely lowered his gaze as he got up from the table.

It was true that when they had met sparks had flown, Tim pondered as he proceeded up the four steps that modestly separated "The First Floor" from "The Second Floor". Perry was wild, but at peace with himself, most certainly here and queer. In those days, Tim had still not yet kissed a boy, and was intrigued by Perry's manner, dripping with honeyed lust. In fact, so provocative was he, before he had even spoken any words, he had grabbed Tim's behind and stuck his tongue in his ear. Tim had naturally gasped and pretended to be horrified while attempting to extract himself, but Perry was nothing if not persistant and held fast.

A brief and torrid affair soon followed and the two were the It Couple, always seen and being seen about town. Tim brushed a hand through his hair, lost deep in thought as he opened his bedroom door. He had always known that they just couldn't make it work, and he kept trying to tell himself that it was for the best...but secretly, some nights he just felt so alone in that giant antique bed.

Startled back to reality, Tim jumped in surprise at the sight of Mr. Gunn standing in the middle of the bedrom.

"Dad?" Tim blurted out.

"I think it's past time you and I had a chat, Timothy Miles."

Part IX, by Cindy

Once inside the modest Gunn estate, they were whisked towards the kitchen where Momma Gunn was making a batch of her signature "Beaver Tails". Tim, sat down at the kitchen table and winced at the thought of the carb-ridden pastries as he quietly cursed the fact that he would likely put on a pound or two just by handling the greasy things.

"So Timmy, whatever brings you 'round to our neck of the woods?" Asked Momma Gunn with a sly smile that didn't quite hide the sadness in her eyes.

"Well, mother, you may not realize it, but I do miss home," replied Tim.

"Jesus Murphy, boy! You miss this? Ya hear that Pa? Mr. Shi-shi New York City misses his hometown? Now that's a riot!"

From the den, Poppa Gunn let out what sounded like a grunt of agreement.

"Mother, I do miss you and father. You know that," replied Tim softly in his defense.

"I know, dear. I know. But I reckon, I couldn't help my surprise. Forgive me. Good to see ya', son. You know Pa and I are thrilled."

Another grunt sounded out from the den.

"So... aren't you going to introduce me to your little friend?" Asked Momma Gunn.

Perry had already started to overpower the place in his overbearing and larger-than-life way. All 16-pieces of his Louis Vuitton luggage set, including his personal-make up case, were strewn about in the front hall. After bringing in the last bag from the car, Perry effortlessly glided towards the kitchen, and then in a swirling whirlwind of purple, puce and sea blue silk, sat down beside Tim and beamed sweetly in Momma Gunn's direction.

"Pleased to meet your acquaintance Mrs. Gunn. My name is Perrimond Montgomery Lewiston the fourth." He reached up to grab Momma Gunn's hand, leathery and worn by having worked at the Steel Mill for over 27 years. "Enchanté, indeed," breathed Perry as he took Momma Gunn's paw to his lips.

"Oh, my! Timmy, you've got quite a friend there. Honestly, Perrimond -"

"Oh, please Mrs. Gunn, call me Perry. Everyone does. All those gentrified names that run in my family, well, they just depress me and make me feel old."

"Well, then Perry, it's a pleasure. How do you know Tim?"

"Now that's a good story, Mrs. Gunn. Where do I start?" mused Perry.

"Oh Perry, Mother doesn't want to hear that story. Do you Mother? Now what's that you're making? Beaver Tails?" gulped Tim. "Wow, do they ever look, erm, good."

"Tim, don't be silly. You hate Beaver. Now let Perry finish the story he was just about to start."

"So as I was saying. It was the summer of 1983 and I was new to the New York scene. My face was fresh, my head was swimming with dreams and my ass had more sass than Bea Arthur. My godfather, James Lipton had invited me to his annual Mardi Gras bash, which was spectacular, might I add. I was drinking, dancing and on the prowl for a summer fling. When across the room, I see this striking silver fox, bashful, and yet immaculately dressed. What quiet intrigue. And those eyes! Oh, those eyse. I dare say, Mrs. Gunn, it was a decision I have never regretted once in my life..."

Part VIII, by lengli

A few minutes later, Perry parked the Escalade in the driveway of the Gunn family's split-level ranch. The house Tim had grown up in was modest, in a neighborhood not too far from the steel mill, where Poppa Gunn had put in several decades of work and clandestine union meetings.

Tim stopped in the driveway, the scent of the nearby Tim Hortons (after whom Tim was named) bringing back childhood memories. He used to play by himself in this very driveway, as the other neighborhood boys played street hockey without him. Though Tim was not very athletically gifted, the emotional pain of never being asked to play still hurt, especially after Momma Gunn had taken him to Eaton's to buy a Maple Leafs jersey just in case such a situation ever arose. It never did. As a result, whenever anyone asked him in future years why he never attended home games, he simply answered that he was a Canadiens fan, which was usually enough to stop any further inquisition; however, it also prevented him from cementing any friendships amongst fellow Ontarians.

Maybe he had been wrong about coming back. He had never been accepted here before, who was to say that he would be now? However, before he had time to ponder further, he heard a great whooping noise and was startled out of his reverie to see Momma Gunn's powerful frame barreling down the front steps, rolling pin in hand. "Holy shit, Timmy, I think she's going to kill us!" Perry exclaimed, the whites of his eyes gleaming in contrast to the smog of the steel mill.

"Timothy Miles Gilbert Horton Gunn!!" Momma Gunn bellowed, engulfing him in a massive bear hug.

"Hello Mother, I've come home for a visit," Tim spluttered with what remaining breath he had left.

"Well, I can see that, mister," she replied, relinquishing her death grip on Tim's slight frame. The notable body mass discrepancy between Tim and his parents was something that had always bothered him as a gangly adolescent, and had contributed to his daydreams about being the illegitimate love child of Rock Hudson and Joan Collins. "Planning on staying a while this time?" she asked, in a clear dig at Tim's past lackadaisical attitude towards his Canadian heritage.

Tim winced at the jab and at the feeling of air once more entering his lungs. Keep it together, Tim, he told himself, you just have to make this work.

Part VII, by Cindy

"Alright, girlfriend, let's get this motherfucking show on the road!" announced Perry at the top of his lungs as they stood by the Budget-Rent-A Car booth.

Tim could always count on Perry to remain true to his boisterously gay nature. You could take the boy out of the Village, but you could never take the Village out of that boy. Before Tim could muster a "shhhh" or even a shoot a furtive glance towards him, Perry grabbed Tim's hand and whisked him away towards the Cadillac Escalade that was waiting for them.

"For Christ's sake, Perry. Why the hell did you get such a garish vehicle? When you said we were getting a luxury car, I thought something more along the lines of a Bentley or a Mercedes!"

"Oh pah-shaw! Stop being such a ninny, Tim. You were born to shine. Don't you want your hometown to know what you've become?"

"Sure..." Tim said, and then thought to himself, but first I'd like to know what in the hell I have become.

"Then this Escalade was the right choice. Remember I'm here to make your life easier, Tim. You just need to relax. You're the king of the jungle, baby. Though it's a bit concrete, even for my tastes. Where are we again? Nowheresville, Tennessee?"

"Hamilton," said Tim in a resigned tone. "Hamilton, Ontario. The armpit of Canada."

"Sweetie Cakes," replied Perry in that dulcet tone of his. "We can make this work. Remember, your family is so proud of their little silvery foxy-loxy - YOU - Tim Gunn! You're famous. We'll be getting so much free shit here, by the end of this trip, we'll have tons of junk to bring back to all our friends as gag gifts."

Tim looked outside as Perry continued on, rambling off into a story that involved him, a midget and stuffed koala bear at the 2004 Toronto Pride Parade.

The world that Hamilton offered was gray and industrial. They weren't far from home now. Only another 20 minutes and he'd be back at his old house. What would he say to his mother and father? What would Perry say?

Tim gulped. He turned around and saw Perry reaching over to grab his hand.

"Sweetie Cakes, I'm here for you. You know that."

"I know, Perry, thank-you. But honey, you've gotta brace yourself, we're almost home..."

Part VI, by lengli

Part VI, by lengli:

24 hours later, Tim and Perry had just finished clearing customs at Pearson International Airport in Toronto. The flight had been positively dreadful: in an effort to remain inconspicuous, Perry had booked them in coach, something Tim wanted to erase from his mind for the rest of time. He tried to convince himself that his meagre helping of Planter's mixed nuts and the generic brand of club soda that he had been served was bringing him closer to his roots, but to no avail...maybe it was too late for him to go home after all. Thankfully, Perry had managed to secure a luxury car rental for them, so perhaps things were looking up.

Tim watched Perry returning from the rental desk, his embroidered silk kaftan (that he thought made him look like a male version of Elizabeth Taylor only without the crazy, as he loved to say) swinging behind him as he moved. Perry never moved so much as he glid, Tim paused to contemplate. He was so lucky to have found such a friend, especially in such a potentially lonely city as New York. They had found each other almost immediately, at a Mardi Gras party held by their mutual friend James Lipton back in the 80s. Their eyes had locked from across the room, exchanging mutual horrified glaces when Liza Minelli started flashing partygoers in an attempt to get beads. Gay icon or not, that was a side of Liza Tim certainly didn't need to see.

The attraction between Perry and Tim was immediate, and though the two had dated for several months, things ultimately did not work out. The pair decided though to remain best of friends, and best of friends they were to this day. Sometimes Tim still thought he caught a spark of fire burning in Perry's violet eyes, but ever since Tim's encounter with the psychic who had told him that as a "new soul", he would not find love in this lifetime, he quickly found an excuse to change the subject or leave altogether. All of a sudden Tim had a flash of panic of spending an entire weekend in the less-than-exciting town of Hamilton, especially as the silk caressed Perry's muscled torso.

Maybe this had been a very bad idea...

Part V, by Cindy

There was no rhyme or reason to it, but at the precise moment that the VHS video was covering the Declaration of Independence Tim's heart wrenched. Who, am I? He asked himself. What have I become?

He got up off of his ivory colo(u)red sofa and walked towards his bedroom. Once inside he went straight for his walk-in closet, opened it and reached up towards the top shelf. Underneath his collection of strategically placed out-of-style Kenneth Cole man-bags, were about 10 embroidered pillows.

"We love you, Tim", "We're so proud of you Tim" emblazoned the top 2 pillows. Others were outfitted with Trilliums, Beavers, Moose and Maple Leafs. Tim, thought of Momma Gunn, sturdy and proud, sitting at the breakfast table embroidering thoughtful notes to him. Last time Momma Gunn game to visit, Tim had forgotten to take out the pillows and was sad how crestfallen Momma Gunn looked when she couldn't find a stitch of embroidery anywhere in his minimalist home. He told her that he, "couldn't make it work", that the pillows didn't match his decor. But when pressed to show her were he kept the pillows, Momma Gunn was moved to quiet disappointment when she learned of their spot behind the man-bags.

Since that time, Tim hadn't spoken to Momma Gunn. No more pillows came to his house wrapped in brown paper and sealed with cinnamon sprinkles. True, Tim wasn't ready to come out as a Canadian yet - there was too much to lose. But he could not continue in his quest for American Citizenship without meeting with Momma Gunn one more time. Papa Gunn could barely even look at him - no pansy non-moose-huntin' son of his could ever help Papa Gunn to even consider the usefulness and stylishness of a Kenneth Cole bag. But Momma Gunn loved him still, he knew it. He just had to see her again and maybe he could make it work.

Tim picked up his phone and dialed the number to his personal assistant and long-time confidant, Perry. Perry answered the phone in his sweet dulcet tone that always warmed Tim's heart:

"Timmy Bear, tell me, what I can do for you?"

"Perry. This isn't working. I have to go to (pause and gulp) - Hamilton. Be a dear and book me the soonest flight out and don't tell anyone. Especially that bitch, Michael Kors."

"Timmy Bear, I'm on it. And don't you worry about anything. I'm coming with you. You need all the strength you can get. Remember, I'm here for you."

"Thanks, Perry. Let me know when we're leaving and send a car. I'm going to pack."

Part IV, by lengli

Two days later, Tim, having been too embarassed to go to the Immigration Office himself, lest someone recognize him underneath his aviator sunglasses (minimalist to the core, disguise was not of Tim's stronger suits) and his secret get out, went to retrieve his FedEx package from his doorman. Inside the box he was delighted to find not only a US Citizenship Application Kit, but also an exam guide on video. Being that he was a visual learner, Tim breathed a heavy sigh of relief at the thought of watching a video instead of trudging his way through pages and pages of government literature. As he popped the VHS into the machine, he thanked heaven that he hadn't listen to Michael Kors' ramblings about VCRs being outdated. That little queen sure could get on Tim's nerves sometimes. Just because he ran his own fashion line and Tim was "only an academic," Kors thought he ran the whole ProjRun show. "Those who can't do, teach," was one of Michael's favorite expressions to throw around, which hurt Tim more than he would ever let on.

Tim nestled into his ivory-colo(u)red sofa, prepared to be taken away into the world of American bureaucracy. It all seemed so complicated: so many forms and so many questions. Would he be able to get through the entire process without anyone catching on? After all, there were offices to visit, officiaries with whom to interview, lines in which to stand. "Was being from Hamilton really ultimately so bad?" Tim began to wonder, thinking back to times before he knew any better. Sure, his childhood hadn't been ideal: no matter how much he tried, snow suits were just never fashionable enough, and he always got caught whenever he tried to sneak out to go to Toronto on weekends. However, people there never made fun of his speech pattern: in fact, though it would probably greatly surprise Santino, that was effectively how most Hamiltonians he knew spoke.

Had Tim perhaps been too hasty in writing off his Canadian heritage? Did his heart truly belong to Washington, D.C. as he had once told reporters?

Part III, by Alissa

As he continued to gaze down at the street, his worried eyes framed beneath his furrowed brow, something caught his attention: A large truck whizzed past his building, resplendent with its crustacean mascot. His stomach lurched. Not only would he be forced to move to the slums of West Village, but with his decreased popularity and no doubt, subsequent termination from his role of Den-mother on Project Runway, he'd be forced to accept Andrae's many invitations to join him for a Red Lobsterfest. His stomach had become accustomed to regular helpings of pate, escargot and various other foods he that could satiate not only his appetite but his love for speaking with a foreign accent. Surely he could never stomach food from an establishment that boasts its Roasted Tilapia in a Bag.

At that moment of deep despair, Tim had a flash of divine inspiration. He would go through a naturalization ceremony and officially become an American citizen...

Part II, by Cindy

Thinking back to his youth, spent living in the industrial Ontario city of Hamilton, Tim knew the world would not understand. But his fears of underrepresenting his people, his kind, continued to nag at him. Hamilton is not glamourous like New York - shit in New York people were "glamorous" not "glamourous". Damn "Labour Day". Damn his inability to spell like an American. He knew one day, be it either via his blog, or by the speech that may eventually condemn him, that he would be found out.

He had no problem proclaiming his homosexuality and his belief in past lives, but to admit that the Silver Fox, Tim Gunn was a Canadian, well that's just obscene. Obscene like Daniel Franco's face or being overweight.

Tim got up out of the creases and crumples of fine Egyptian linen that were hugging him like the lover he will never have and began to pace back and forth inside the cavernous halls of his just-off-Park Avenue apartment. He knew that someday this dream would have to end. A Canadian in Park Avenue, well he'd never heard of that. The minute his building's committee caught wind of his Canadian heritage he'd be forced to find a new place to live. He'd probably end up in the West Village living next door to some smelly hippie couple. "No, no. That's unaccepatble. I won't be able to make it work. I can't make it work".

The torment was causing havok in his soul. He had to make it work. He just had to...

Why does he feel the need to hide? Part I, by lengli

I have had an unsubstantiated theory in my head for quite some time that Tim Gunn of TV's "Project Runway" is Canadian. I don't know what it is about him, but there is something that makes my Canadar^TM go ping (and generally it's pretty accurate: I called Avril Lavigne before she was came out as a Canadian); however, I cannot find one bit of evidence to support. I have tried on multiple occasions to find out where he is from, but each effort has proved more futile than the last. Which only adds to my conspiracy: no longer is Tim simply Canadian, but now in my mind he is ashamed of his motherland.

I think we all know by now what happens when lengli starts harping on a theory: ridiculous stories result. Last night I started writing up a fictional work about Tim Gunn's underrepresented Canadian heritage and his fearful existence resulting of the fact that he grew up in Hamilton, Ontario. If you have any fuel to add to the fire, by all means feel free to contribute a chapter (especially you, Cindy!)

---

Tim Gunn settled into the 400-thread count Egyptian cotton sheets that topped his Louis XIV 4-poster canopy bed with the newest issues of Us Weekly, silently berating Natalie Portman's attached earlobes. Though admittedly Natalie did her best to make them work, there were surgeries for that kind of thing. Tim sighed to himself, absent-mindedly running a hand through his silver hair.

He put down the magazine and gazed off at nothing in particular for several moments. Suddenly, tears started to well up in his eyes, and their plopping onto the glossy gossip pages was the only sound in the room. Tim shook his head, trying in vain to stop their flow. Why were things so hard for him? He knew it was only a matter of time: imdb.com had workers lurking in every alley, and those hounds at E! Online were giving Tim ever-increasing migraines. He reached for his glass of San Pellegrino and tried to persuade himself of the soothing power of its effervescent bubbles: people paid top dollar for similar treatments at spas, and such treatments only affected the outside of your body.

But all was futile, Tim knew deep in his soul. Such was the double-edged sword of fame with which he had been knighted. One day, for certain...the truth would come out, and the knowledge of that fact ate away at him every waking moment of the day.

For Tim had a secret.

He was Canadian.