Between Boyfriends (12 page)

During the week Brian and I chatted on the phone and IM’d each other during work just to say hi, share some slightly ribald Internet humor, and plan our wardrobe for Saturday night. We decided that Brian should simply wear a backward baseball cap, a stained dress shirt, and crumpled pants, and stuff his shirt pocket with unlit cigars. On a side note Brian and I discovered that we had both grown up with fathers who smoked and as a result the smell of a cigarette was not only unpleasant but conjured up images of riding in the backseat of a car with the windows open as ash flew into our faces. We couldn’t tolerate cigarettes or their smellier cousins, cigars.

As Felix, I would wear a dress shirt, tie, and slacks and a full-length lace apron with a strategically placed can of Lysol. To top off the outfit, Brian suggested I borrow his maid Viva’s feather duster. I was going to live out the maid fantasy sooner than expected.

When Lucas entered Starbucks on Thursday night I almost choked on my SU. The poor thing still had the eye patch on and now his left arm was in a cast. If he kept going at this rate, in six months his whole body would be covered in plaster and/or black leather. The thought got me mildly aroused.

“Thanks for meeting me, Steven,” Lucas said, sitting down across from me with what looked and smelled like a grande Caramel Macchiato with extra caramel. Lucas must have a sweet tooth.

“No problem. How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay. The eye patch comes off tomorrow so I won’t look so pathetic.”

“You don’t look pathetic,” I lied. “Just…unlucky.”

“Well, hopefully my luck will change starting with the Christmas extravaganza.”

Lucas showed me his sheet music for the songs he planned to sing and thankfully “White Christmas” was among them so my mother and the rest of the over-the-hill gang would get their Bing Crosby fix. I also noticed quite a few show tunes.

“You’re fond of Broadway, I see.”

“Well, duh! Who isn’t?”

On perfect cue, Flynn, the king of theater queens, waltzed in and I called him over. He sat in between us and before he even noticed the one-eyed, one-armed soap star, he saw the sheet music for the song “Fine and Dandy” from
The Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.

“And who, may I ask, feels like a hard candy Christmas?” Flynn questioned.

“That would be me.”

Some people believe in Santa Claus, others the Tooth Fairy; I believe in the magic of the Starbucks Mermaid because when Flynn looked at Lucas a spark ignited between them. Was it love? I couldn’t say because Lucas still wasn’t officially out of the closet, but it definitely was deep
like.
The kind of deep like that only two show queens can share.

“That musical was so far ahead of its time,” Flynn said.

“So was the sequel.”

“Say it ain’t so, Ethel! You saw
The Best Little Whorehouse Goes Public
?”

“Twice! Opening
and
closing night.”

“I was there on closing night too. Row G.”

“I was in Row F!”

I listened to the two of them chatter on and on about this flop show and that diva’s debut and who should’ve won the Tony and who should never set foot on the Broadway boards again. I smiled approvingly when Flynn suggested a certain song for Lucas’s Christmas show and nodded when he claimed another should be cut. Lucas looked like a lonely gay nomad who is befriended by a kind widower near the end of a long journey; he had found a companion. A few minutes into their conversation and I had no more doubts: Lucas was definitely a full-fledged homosexual and I was bursting with pride that someone so sweet and so handsome was on our team.

“What’s your favorite musical?” Flynn asked, nearly breathless.

“Oh, I’m sure you’ve never heard of it.”

“Honey, I saw
Rags, Raggedy Ann
, and
Annie II
.”

“
Annie II
only played off-Broadway.”

“Just keeping you on your toes, baby. Now answer me. What’s your favorite musical?”

“
Carrie
.”

I think Flynn may have started to cry because at that moment he realized his soul mate was staring at him with one beautiful green eye. My eyes got teary too because at that moment I realized my best friend had fallen in love.

Flynn spoke slowly. “
Carrie
is, without question, my absolute favorite musical in the history of modern American theater.”

“Really? I cannot believe I found someone who shares my love for the ostracized, yet vocally gifted, high schooler.”

“Do you have the bootleg recordings?”

“Yes! The Broadway company with Betty Buckley
and
the original Royal Shakespeare Company version with Barbara Cook.”

Flynn moved in closer to Lucas and clutched his hand. I noticed Lucas didn’t pull away. “Have you ever heard a recording of the workshop with Maureen McGovern?”

Lucas gasped. “I have been searching for that missing tape for years.”

“Well, your search is over. How would you like to come back to my place and listen to it now?”

“I would abso-fucking-lutely love to,” Lucas said. “Steven. I’m sorry, but do you mind if we talk about my show some other time?”

“Even if I wanted to I don’t think I could interfere with the magnetic pull that is drawing the two of you together. Go on, go listen to the freaky girl sing.”

“Thanks for understanding,” Lucas said.

I pulled Flynn closer so his ear was next to my mouth, “Remember to sing out, Louise! And call me in the morning.”

Flynn guided Lucas to the door and the two of them floated outside on two great big pink musical notes. (Or at least they did in the musical in my mind.)

Typically, I am not what you would call a Halloweeny kind of guy. Perhaps it’s because I work in the soap industry and get to watch people dress up and act crazy every day of the year, or perhaps it’s because while growing up my father would make us put every piece of candy, gum, fruit, and currency under a microscope to make sure it wasn’t tainted with poison or harboring a razor blade. The man may have been looking out for his children’s safety, but he took all the fun out of the holiday for me. This year, however, was different. I had a Halloween party to attend and, most important, I had a date.

Dressed as Oscar, Brian looked several years older. Dressed as Felix in a frillier-than-expected apron, I felt a bit submissive. It was an interesting combination and one that we both noticed. By the duration and intensity of Brian’s hello kiss, it was a combination he wholeheartedly supported.

“Hello, boys,” Gus cheered as we entered. He was wearing what I thought was supposed to be a butler’s outfit and a gray wig. “I took your lead, Stevie, and I’m that effing Benny Hill. Who are you two supposed to be?”

“The Odd Couple,” I said.

“Well, you do look a bit odd. You’re all neat and fussy and your date is quite sloppy and stained. Do you need a washcloth?”

“Gus! We’re Felix and Oscar from the series.”

“Oh, I don’t know why I ever agreed to this cocked-up theme, I never watch TV.”

When he was done chastising, Gus gave Brian the once-over and me an approving wink. He then introduced us to the emaciated waif who was dressed as Benny’s cheap tart and who also had one hand in Gus’s back pocket.

“This is my date, Reuben,” Gus said. “Reuben Kincaid.”

Reuben smiled at us tartly and Brian and I looked at Gus in disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?” Brian asked.

“No, that’s my name,” Reuben said.

I looked around for a school bus with a Mondrian theme and said, “Gus honey, you really need to get yourself a TV.”

He may not have had TV savvy, but Gus had style. His apartment could have been photographed for
Metropolitan Home
or showcased as the “after” segment of an HGTV special on home makeovers. It was impeccably decorated in masculine hues like chocolate brown, pumpkin, and pomegranate and filled with dark wood furniture and backlighting. And unlike most picture-perfect abodes it was also very comfortable. There were no floor cushions or seats without backs; Gus’s apartment was filled with furniture that looked good and felt better. It reminded me of Brian.

I brought my BF over to the bar, which was manned by a very hot-looking African-American bartender wearing what looked like the Chippendales’ version of a Navy uniform. He introduced himself as Isaac, our gay bartender, and welcomed us to
The Love Boat
bar. When Lindsay threw a party, he sure did pay attention to details.

Brian ordered a Long Island Mr. T, which was a regular Long Island iced tea topped with Goldschlager, and I settled for a Captain Rhoda Morgenstern, which was a rum and Coke with a splash of Manischewitz. After we ordered our second round of TV-flavored drinks, Flynn finally arrived and I was a bit surprised to see that Lucas wasn’t on his arm. He explained that Lucas had booked a personal appearance at a shopping mall in Des Moines for the following morning and had had to fly out tonight. I could tell he was lonely, but I couldn’t tell what character he was dressed up as.

“I’m supposed to be David Janssen from
The Fugitive
, but it really doesn’t work without the one-armed man. But forget about my costume, I have bigger problems. Is Lucas gay?”

“You’re asking me? I’m almost certain, but I thought you’d be able to end the mystery.”

“Well, he definitely passes the gay test when it comes to musical theater.”

“What about the French kissing test? That’s a bit more conclusive.”

“There was no kissing. Flirting, sitting way too close together, but at the end of the night, he just gave me a hug.”

“Hugs are nice,” Brian said.

“I am so incredibly rude; you must be Brian,” Flynn said.

“And you must be Flynn.”

“Wow, Mama like! You really are as cute as Steven described,” Flynn began. “I thought he was just making you sound hotter than you are, like
People
magazine does with Ed Norton.”

“Thanks, Stevie,” Brian said, looking at me.

“The truth is, I’m on edge. I haven’t gotten laid in three months and the first man I met who I would like to lay with is on his way to friggin’ Iowa and may be straight.”

“Well, when he gets back just ask him straight out, ‘Are you gay?’” I said.

Flynn was dumbstruck. “Why are you always logical when it comes to someone else’s love life? When it’s about you, you’re completely crazy and irrational.”

“Because I’m a homosexual!”

I made Flynn change the subject so Brian could discover why he was my best friend and once the two of them started talking about less volatile subjects like music, television, and, of course, me, they were laughing like Laura Ingalls and Nellie Oleson before Nellie became a bitch.

Soon enough the three of us were standing on the sidelines commenting on the party revelers. At some point, though I don’t know exactly when, Brian’s hand found mine and our fingers intertwined. Brian’s hand felt warm and secure. We didn’t have to adjust several times to find that perfect fit and he didn’t keep breaking the hold to scratch or brush off some lint from his stained shirt; our hands just stayed together and it felt good.

Flynn noticed our hand holding and smiled at me. I smiled back and although tomorrow I would listen to him blurt out how Lucas’s absence made him feel a bit lonely, I knew that as he watched me he was happy for me and wished me and Brian all the happiness we could create for ourselves. But the time had come to stop thinking about ourselves as Lindsay made his grand entrance.

“Well, it’s about time the bloody party planner arrived,” Gus shouted.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. Lindsay was wearing what appeared to be a fat lady suit underneath a blouse, jeans, and fire-engine red cowboy boots. His costume was topped off with a long blond wig that was teased so it resembled my cousin Angela’s hair after she gave herself a home perm and tried to straighten the resulting curly horror with an iron. It was dry, frizzy, and in severe need of an Alberto VO5 hot oil treatment. Next to Lindsay stood an African-American midget wearing a track suit and sneakers. For the life of me I couldn’t figure out who Lindsay and his date were supposed to be.

“I’m Sally Struthers,” Lindsay announced. “And this is one of the third-world children I’m exploiting.”

“Actually I’m supposed to be Emmanuel Lewis,” the midget corrected. “But Lindsay offered me fifty bucks and I’m a little short on rent.”

Emmanuel Lewis announced that he was going to get sauced on the free booze, which I thought would have been more appropriate coming from Gary Coleman, and he scampered over to Isaac the bartender.

Then in walked Sebastian. As expected, his outfit was scant. It was also inspired. He was wearing a simple blue Speedo and on his feet he wore flesh-colored aqua socks that were redesigned to look like there was webbing between his toes. He was the Man from Atlantis, and the reason I knew was that when Patrick Duffy emerged from the ocean every week, my preteen dick bobbed like a buoy in a rough sea. I watched every lame episode of that show and each time Patrick went anywhere near water, I got hard. It was one of the first times I suspected I was gay.

“Sebastian, I love your costume,” I said.

“I thought you would. I know how much you lust over Mr. Duffy.”

“Fuck your costume, Sebastian, your ass looks bloody hot!” Gus exclaimed, causing Reuben to shoot him a look, as if he had just screwed up the singing family’s Las Vegas booking.

“Speaking of, I just got my asshole bleached,” Sebastian declared. “Pink is the new brown, you know.”

“Liar!” Lindsay shouted. “You cannot have your asshole bleached. I’ve looked into it.”

“Well, you didn’t look deep enough because you can and I did. You want to see?”

“Yes!” we all shouted.

So there we were in Gus’s posh apartment, me holding Brian’s now-clammy hand, as Sebastian bent over, pulled down his Speedo, and spread apart his asscheeks to reveal the most gorgeous pink asshole any of us had ever seen.

“Oooh, Mama like pink!” Flynn exclaimed.

There wasn’t a fleck of brown, mocha, or even dark cinnamon anywhere near his hole or the rind surrounding the hole. It truly was pink. And smooth. And inviting.