Between Boyfriends (19 page)

“In that case I’ll have three.”

“Psst,” Renée whispered. “How’re you feeling?”

“Really well,” Flynn whispered back.

“Good, I’m glad. And psst: you look fabulous.”

“Me! You must have Anna Wintour tied up in the basement doling out styling tips.”

And as always Renée did look fabulous. She was wearing an ivory man-tailored shirt that made her ebony hair appear darker, a brown tweed miniskirt with the most miniscule stripes of orange and a gold chain belt, mocha textured stockings, and brown alligator-skin shoe boots. Renée paid attention to fashion, which was one of the reasons we got along so well.

“How ’bout you, Brian?” she asked. “Mushroom?”

“I’d love one. Steven wouldn’t let us eat in the car.”

“Are they made with garlic?” Rodrigo asked.

“My mother-in-law made them, what do you think?”

Rodrigo grabbed Brian’s hand before he could pop the mushroom into his mouth. “Brian, maybe you shouldn’t. You said garlic was bothering you lately. You don’t want to spoil your dinner.”

“You’re right. Here, you have it.” Then Brian did something he probably thought was quite innocent and not at all jaw-droppingly provocative, he popped his mushroom into Rodrigo’s open, eager mouth. Jaws dropped.

Renée, like most Italian girls who grew up in gritty, urban Hoboken, New Jersey, then moved to one of the state’s more up-scale neighborhoods, could lose the demure dentist’s wife shtick and become the gum-chewing, teased-haired, tough girl of her youth in 2.5 seconds flat. Renée bent her knee, jutted out her hip, and cocked her head. When she spoke she looked at Brian, but pointed at Rodrigo. “Is he boyfriend number two?” Once again I felt the need to break the awkward silence.

“So Paulie, is now a good time to fertilize Renée’s eggs?”

We are not the type of family to pray before a meal, but I said a quickie asking God to send Rodrigo off to Spain or Russia or wherever they speak Mandarin on a six-month highly confidential work-related translation project. So confidential that he wouldn’t be able to have contact with the outside world. Renée wasn’t praying, she was eyeing Brian and Rodrigo as if she were Lil’ Kim and they were her former rivals from the big house. Even Trixie knew that her Mama was sending off ugly vibes and refused to leave my lap even when Renée waved the Thanksgiving wishbone from across the table.

After a while I was able to push images of Brian finger-feeding Rodrigo out of my mind and the day became more enjoyable. Paulie was a bit more social than usual (possibly because he knew he was going to get laid before the dishes were dried) and my mother seemed taken by Brian’s easy charm. She kept giving me not-so-secret winks whenever she caught my eye. Most of the time, though, she and Audrey flitted from the dining room to the kitchen and back again bringing in trays of food, then removing empty dinner plates, taking hostess duties away from Renée, which was perfect because she was clearly more interested in examining my boyfriend and his boy friend than in serving dinner. During a break in the meal Renée snuggled up beside me on the couch while I tried to feign interest in the football game that was unfolding on Paulie’s fifty-inch plasma TV screen.

“Steven?” Renée whispered just like her husband previously.

“Yes, Renée.”

“I do not trust him.”

“Paulie is not having an affair.”

“Please! Paulie’s lucky he got me. I’m talking about Miss Alabama.”

“Brian?”

“Keep in mind this has nothing to do with my hatred of the South. I just think you should invest in a private investigator. Though I have never employed one for personal use, I can pass on to you the names of several reliable private eyes from my very own Rolodex.”

“Since when do you hate the South?”

“
You
represent your state in the National Hair Colorists Competition in Pelahatchie, Mississippi and wind up spending two days in jail because some homegrown bitch claims you transported illegal hair-care chemicals across state lines and see if you don’t come out cussing anyone with a drawl. Bottom line, Steven, your boyfriend’s a little too friendly with the Rican.”

I didn’t get a chance to correct Renée and tell her that Rodrigo was actually from Argentina because at that very moment Brian wedged his way into the whisperfest.

“What are y’all talkin’ about?”

“You,” Renée said. “And your adorable Southern accent. Have I told you that I spent some time in the South?”

“Ma! Do you need any help?” I asked.

“Why do you even ask?” Paulie asked. “You know she’s going to say no.”

“No, you boys relax. You too, Renée. Audrey and I can handle it.”

“That’s right,” Audrey said. “Today on this most thankful of days you people are my family. Thank you!” Then she burst into tears and ran into the kitchen.

“What the hell’s wrong with her?” Paulie asked as a spokes-person for us all.

My mother explained that Audrey’s daughter, Lori Ann, had taken her family to spend the holiday with her husband’s relatives in Colorado this year and ever since “the nine-one-one” Audrey refuses to fly, so she was left alone this year.

“But as long as I’m alive, Audrey, you will never be alone!” Anjanette yelled into the kitchen. “Now stop the friggin’ crying and baste that turkey!”

I watched the tears well up in my mother’s eyes. Her relationship with the crazy woman basting the turkey, whose tears were probably falling into the gravy, was most certainly stronger than the bond that had kept my parents’ marriage together for over thirty years.

So why was Brian’s friendship with Rodrigo any different? Because I felt threatened in the knowledge that my brief time with Brian couldn’t compare to the years he and Rodrigo had spent together cultivating a closeness that wasn’t based on something as ephemeral as mutual physical attraction? Or was it all the years I’d spent reading scripts filled with dialogue wherein a friend suddenly proposes undying love for another friend and they realize their friendship was a mask for their true love?

Later that night, in bed, unable to keep my inner dialogue within any longer, I asked Brian if he was aware that Rodrigo had the hots for him. Kudos to him for not denying it.

“I think on some level there’s an attraction. Just like with you and Flynn.”

“Flynn and I are not attracted to each other!”

“Yes, you are. And that’s why you’re friends. Are you going to act on that attraction and have sex with him?”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“Then why do you think Rodrigo and I will?”

Damn, my man was clever. I guess it was possible that Flynn and I weren’t the only best friends who knew our friendship was more important than a quick fuck. But then why couldn’t I get out of my mind the image of Rodrigo alone in his own bed jerking off while thinking of Brian dressed as a hot roller-skating construction worker?

“Rodrigo’s flirty,” Brian said. “He’s got a stressful job and that’s how he blows off some steam. But you don’t have to worry, he isn’t blowing me. You’re the only one who gets to do that.”

“Okay, I get it.”

“Good. Now I have to visit the latrine. Your mother sure does like the garlic, doesn’t she?”

“Hey, did you have a good time today?”

“Yeah, I did. You must’ve figured out by now that I’m not really the family type, but yours is entertaining.”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Especially when we could hear your brother banging Renée while your mother was serving dessert.”

Left alone in bed, I was conflicted. If I expected Brian to deal with my neurotic family and friends, the only fair thing to do was temper my objections toward Rodrigo and make an effort to get to know him as something more than my boyfriend’s inappropriately flirty friend. I thought for a moment, stubbornly held on to my own neurotic nature, and made yet another choice—I decided to look at Rodrigo as the guy who wanted to steal my boyfriend. Because enough was enough—I WAS NOT STUPID.

So I turned up the volume on the TV to drown out the sound of Brian having a touch of diarrhea thanks to my mother’s garlic-infused cooking and with apologizes to God knelt at the Altar of Summer. I thanked Donna for teaching me as a young boy that there were bad girls in the world and that a fairy tale high may lead you faster and faster to nowhere, just like it had in my first major relationship, with Jack. And I prayed for the strength to get my love life back under control, because this time with Brian I knew it was for real and I didn’t wanna get hurt by another guy. By the time Brian crawled back into bed I felt better knowing that I had Donna on my side in my fight to keep my boyfriend.

I
n 1964 Christmas turned gay. It was the year Rankin/Bass’s now-classic stop-motion TV special,
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer,
premiered. To the layman, the program was just a holiday special based on a popular Christmas song. But to gay men, this animagical musical featuring thinly-veiled gay anthems like “We’re a Couple of Misfits” and “Silver and Gold” was the first in-depth full-color televised examination of what it truly meant to be a misfit in the closeted 1960s. This song-and-dance version of the Rudolph story would go down in gay history.

The first time I watched this Christmas masterpiece, it was with wide eyes and a heavy heart. As a six-year-old I couldn’t comprehend that Rudolph’s red nose and Hermey’s desire for unconventional employment were symbols of the alternative lifestyle I would lead as an adult, but I still felt sad. Even at that age I knew what it felt like to be called names and I understood the wish to run away to a place where I belonged. In that respect Rudolph, Hermey, and I were kindred spirits. And fat old Santa was our archenemy.

I had been taught that Santa was a gentle, kind-hearted man who loved all children. But that is a lie. In that TV special it was made clear that Santa was selective in doling out his love and was nastier than the Abominable Snowmonster before his first dental visit. SC represented every adult I ever met—with the exception of my mother—who I intrinsically knew would shun me if I didn’t keep my own red nose a secret from the world. The big fat gift-giver was actually the mob ringleader who ran Rudolph out of Christmas Town just because he was different. He was as evil as my Aunt Katey who snidely referred to me as “The little Mary boy who plays with dolls.”

So evil, in fact, that in the original version of the special he ignored his promise to include the misfits in his annual Christmas Eve delivery run. It was only after a write-in campaign championed by angry viewers expressing their disgust at Santa’s obvious sexual-orientation bias that a scene was included wherein Santa scatters the inhabitants of the Island of Misfit Toys (an obvious homage to Greenwich Village) throughout the world. Despite this attempt at redemption, Santa’s despicable actions toward Rudolph and his friends left an indelible impression on my young gay brain. There’s a reason Santa is an anagram of Satan.

But while Satan, or Santa, only pops up once a year, best friends are just the opposite. Thus far Brian and I had attended three holiday gatherings and Rodrigo had piggybacked an invite to all of them. Not only that, but he clung to us like a koala bear cub with separation anxiety. I tried introducing him to some eligible bachelors. I tried setting him up with some not-so-eligible bachelors. I even tried to convince him that a very handsome, strong-jawed woman would make an interesting yulehole.

“Are you trying to get rid of me, Steven?” Rodrigo asked.

“Of course not!” I lied. “I just want you to be as happy as I am with Brian,” I lied again.

“That is so sweet,” he gushed. “Bri, you are one lucky man.”

“I know,” Brian said as he pushed me under the mistletoe to seal his comment with a kiss. “But you’re pretty lucky too, Rod. Or should I say Mister I-Have-the-Entire-Month-of-December-Off.”

“Rodrigo has off for the entire month of December?” I gasped.

“Yeah. Nothing much happens at the U.N. in December so this year they gave a lot of us time off. With pay.”

“Of course,” Brian said. “The government wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“That’s right,” Rodrigo agreed. “So not only do I have a lot of free time, but I have lots of spending money too. What should we do first, Brian?”

I felt as fretful as Rudolph did when Comet—the athletic, burly, manly-man coach of the reindeer team—announced in front of all the other reindeer that he could never, ever join in any reindeer games again. I took a deep breath and tried to remember a happier time, like when it was just Rudolph and that strapping young blond buck, Fireball, before that stupid Clarice showed up and told Rudy he was cute.

“Are you going back home to visit your family?” I asked hopefully.

“I wish. Technically I’m still working so I have to stay in the city. Which just means Brian and I will do some day trips.”

“Yeah, the magazine shuts down the last two weeks of the year so I’ll be free. What about you, Steven? Does the studio shut down for the holidays?”

“Just on Christmas,” I replied, then added feebly, “And, you know, the day after.”

“Oh, that’s too bad,” Rodrigo said. “You’re going to miss all the holiday fun.”

“Well, there are always the holi-nights,” I said.

“Perfect! We can share Brian. You can have him at night, but during the day he’s all mine.”

Rodrigo clinked our glasses and a little bit of eggnog foam splattered into my eye—not enough to blind me to what was truly happening right in front of me. I flicked away the foam and forced myself to laugh along with Rodrigo and his boyfriend, I mean
my
boyfriend, but underneath that smile a desperate plan was forming. You could keep your gold, your frankincense, and your myrrh; this holiday season I would be giving the gift of revenge.

“Stevester, I would love to help destroy your boyfriend’s relationship with his best friend, but I leave tomorrow for two weeks,” Lindsay announced. “I’m joining the
Stars on Ice
tour.”

“Really?”

Lindsay slammed his fist on the table so hard my Venti cup tipped over. I grabbed it a second before it was horizontal and once again my eye was hit with foam. “Does that surprise you? Did you think I was all washed up? Did you think the public wouldn’t have any interest watching an Olympic loser skate?!”

“Shut up, Linds,” Flynn said. “And tell us how you got the gig.”

“It’s all thanks to my friend Dick Button.”

“Your
friend
?” I squealed.

“Once I let go of my hatred for him, I realized he’s quite a nice man. And he arranged it so I can sub whenever they need a replacement for the tour. I leave tomorrow, but before I go maybe I can help you rid yourself of the Ladyfriend of Spain.”

At that moment Sebastian showed up out of nowhere and plopped his floppy mocha brown ass down at our table. Not surprisingly, he thought it was him we were speaking about.

“Steven, why would you want to get rid of me? Are you finally tired of the competition?”

“We’re talking about a different señorita,” Flynn said helpfully.

“What are you doing here, Sebastian?” I asked. “Following us?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, puppy. Papi just came in to get some coffee to give himself a coffee enema later on tonight, but then I realized it’s Thursday.”

A moment of silence followed this remark. “And by that do you mean that Thursday is herbal tea enema night?” Lindsay asked.

Rolling his eyes, Sebastian explained, “I forgot that my Thursday night fuck buddy has to switch to Wednesdays and my Wednesday night blow job will now be on Tuesdays.
Dios mio,
I need a BlackBerry to keep up with my own sex schedule.”

“You need a blackberry with penicillin shots,” Lindsay declared.

“I get those on Fridays.”

“So what are you going to do with a free night?” I asked.

“Maybe I’ll fuck Gus now that he’s a power bottom.”

“Getting fucked once doesn’t make you a power bottom,” Lindsay corrected.

“Turns out Alex P. Keaton is packing a ten-incher.”

“And Gus took every inch?” I asked.

“
Sí, señor.
Ooh look, I’m hard now!”

“So am I,” Flynn, Lindsay and I said simultaneously.

Sebastian jumped up, “I’ll let you know what it feels like to be inside the great Briton!”

“Even though I’ll be skating under the spotlights straining to hear my music over the deafening applause of my fans and won’t be around to watch you get your revenge on the boyfriend stealer, I will help you plot against him.”

“Me too. Ever since Lucas shoved his tongue down my throat and then ran for the nearest exit, I’ve been miserable. And misery needs company, so count me in.”

“That’s the holiday spirit, guys,” I said. “Now let’s brainstorm.”

“Don’t start working those brain cells without us. The Jersey bitches have arrived!”

And for the second time that night someone popped up out of nowhere and plopped their ass at our table. This time it was two someones, my sister-in-law Renée and her faithful companion, Trixie Trueheart. Earlier that day I had called Renée to fill her in on the latest Rodrigo incident, or as we called them,
Los Incidentes de Rodrigo
. She had just been on her way into the city to attend a hair coloring seminar at the Color Annex of the Vidal Sassoon Beauty Salon and said she would meet me for coffee before she and Trixie headed home.

“Have you started to strategize?” Renée asked.

“Not yet,” I said grabbing Trixie, who barked and rolled on her back in my lap so I could rub her belly.

“Good, because I learned something today that is the answer to your prayers.”

There was another moment of silence.

“With the help of Vidal Sassoon’s protégés, I learned that you can color hair…with colorless dye.”

And yet another silent moment.

“Trixie might be distracting me, but I don’t follow.”

“Concentrate, Steven!” Renée barked. “Rodrigo has been Brian’s friend for years, you’ve been dating him for barely three months. So Brian is not just going to dump his friend because he’s got a boyfriend no matter how extra special you are. What you need to do is make Rodrigo dump Brian. Or at least not want to hang out with him.”

“And how do the superbly coiffed spawn of Sassoon fit in?” Lindsay asked.

“With the help of Vidal’s vinions…”

“I think you mean
minions
,” Flynn corrected.

“Vinions sounds more dramatic,” Renée countercorrected. “The
vinions
have developed a color-free hair coloring gel, which means you can dye Rodrigo’s hair—any color you want—without him ever getting suspicious.”

“You don’t think Rodrigo will be suspicious if I’m wearing rubber gloves and rubbing gel into his hair just because the gel is color-free?” I asked.

Renée tossed a plastic tube onto the table. “He won’t be suspicious if you put the gel into his shampoo.”

The fourth moment of silence descended upon the table.

“Will you marry me?” Lindsay asked.

“I cannot marry a man who wears more sequins than me.”

“So all Steven has to do is get this gel into Rodrigo’s shampoo and before he can rinse and repeat his hair will turn a vibrant orange?”

“I actually chose green dye, Flynn, to keep it Christmasy.”

“Can’t you get orange? That way it can perfectly mimic the final episode of
The Brady Bunch
when Cousin Oliver and Bobby sell Greg mail-order shampoo and his hair turns orange the day before his high school graduation.”

“Oh, that would be so symbolic,” I said. “But risky. Brian knows the Bradys were my salvation growing up.”

“It’s green or it’s nothing,” Renée announced.

“Fine. How long will it last?” I asked.

“It’s still being tested,” Renée answered. “But long enough to put a dent in Rodrigo’s holiday activities.”

“Brian won’t want to set foot out of his apartment anyway and Rodrigo, as the superficial gay we know he is, won’t want to spend time alone with Brian if his hair is completely green.”

“But how are you going to get this stuff into his shampoo?” Flynn asked.

“Well…Brian and I are going to Rodrigo’s for dinner tomorrow night. I’ll just slip into the bathroom and put some in his Head & Shoulders. How much should I use?”

“Half the tube, just to be on the safe side.”

Finally, my conscience intervened. “This is a terrible thing I’m doing, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” Flynn said. “But the Argentinian deserves it. Your relationship with Brian will never fully develop if you don’t take drastic action. Plus he’ll never be able to trace it back to you, so I say go for it!”

Even though my instincts as well as my years of working as a soap opera producer told me that Flynn was wrong and that no one ever gets away with such harebrained schemes, I couldn’t think of another breakup plan.

“Okay, I’ll do it. But I need you all to take an unbreakable Christmas oath on this tube of colorless green hair dye that you will never expose my secret.”

Four hands and one paw touched the plastic tube in the center of the table. All but one of them repeated the same solemn vow: “I swear on all that is holy, holly, and homo, that I will never expose Steven Bartholomew Ferrante’s secret that he was the one who caused Rodrigo’s hair to turn Christmas green.”

Later that night I felt as befuddled as the little Misfit Girl Doll. Why was she on the Island of Misfit Toys? What was her imperfection? Could it be psychological like mine? Was I that crazed by Rodrigo’s presence that I was actually going to change the essence of his hair in an attempt to loosen his grip on my boyfriend?

I still didn’t have any answers by the next night. I also didn’t have any control over my motor skills and I stood frozen next to Brian in front of Rodrigo’s apartment. He clutched a bottle of red wine while I clutched the tube of colorless hair dye that was stuffed into the pocket of my olive green corduroy cargo pants—green in case the tube accidentally opened. Brian flashed me a smile and I was consumed with guilt, convinced that I wouldn’t be able to go through with it. But when my nemesis opened the door all happy and Hispanic I got lucky because he took a moment to give Brian a hug, which gave me a moment to will my body into action.

From somewhere deep inside my head I heard a tiny voice whisper “Put one foot in front of the other.” And because I always listen to the voices inside my head I did. And as a result soon I was walking ’cross the floor and into Rodrigo’s apartment as if I was just a guest and not some vengeful winter war-lock.

Somehow I got through dinner without self-destructing and exposing my diabolical scheme. Finally I couldn’t take the suspense any longer and right before dessert was served I announced that I needed to use the little boys’ room. Once again I put one foot in front of the other until I was inside ground zero. I made sure the door was locked and surprised myself by how quickly I slid back into Electra Woman undercover superhero spy mode. I surveyed the area, commented to myself that gray, yellow, and beige do not make an attractive color grouping, pulled back the shower curtain making sure not to let the metal shower curtain hooks scrape against the metal shower curtain rod, and grabbed the bottle of shampoo from the shower caddy without making a sound. It’s difficult to say if I was more repulsed by my actions or by the fact that Rodrigo shampooed with Original Formula Suave.