Between Boyfriends (26 page)

“Iceland isn’t out of town.”

“It’s a few hours on a plane. It takes longer to get through the tunnel to Jersey during rush hour. We leave Friday afternoon and you’ll be back in your office Monday morning with a fresh new outlook and the chutzpah to tell the flaming queen cast as your boss that you want a raise, not a rose, and if he doesn’t give you one you’ll take the floral evidence to his boss and get his faggoty ass fired! Now go home and pack yourself a thermal thong, Steven, we’re going to Iceland.”

My mother insisted that I go and I knew she would be in good hands—and paws. Renée and Trixie were sleeping over on Friday and the girls were going to make lasagna for Paulie on Saturday to celebrate his five-hundredth root canal. On Sunday if my mother was feeling up to it she and Renée were going to use Paulie’s money to shop for Renée’s five-hundredth handbag. My mother would definitely be in good, capable hands so I jetted off to Iceland to hopefully lose myself in the hands of a good, capable Icelandic male.

Reykjavik is an odd city. Look one way and you see what resembles a typical American urban landscape, but look the other way and you see hot steam boiling up from the ground. It’s disconcerting. Who wants his world to look like an entrance to the fiery pits of hell? Unless, of course, that entrance is guarded by bare-chested hunky men with chiseled features, jet black hair and ice blue eyes. And that’s just what we found at our very first hot spring in the center of town. You have to love a country whose people start their day with a near naked dip into a communal pool. And thanks to Lindsay’s online research we found the homo-hottest hot spring in all of Reykjavik.

“It’s like a Turkish bath without the hairy backs,” Lindsay squealed as hot bubbles erupted around him.

“Did you fart?” I asked.

“No, it’s the spring’s way of saying hello to strangers.”

“A better way to say hello to strangers is like this,” said a stranger in the spring. “Hi, my name is Eric.”

“Hi, Eric,” I said, shaking his wet hot hand. “Are you a local? Eric doesn’t sound very Icelandic.”

“It’s actually spelled with two
i
’s and a
k.
”

“Ahhh, Eriik. This is my friend…” When I turned to introduce Eriik to Lindsay I saw that he had drifted away into the arms of a tall, muscular man.

“I see Jason has also turned a stranger into a friend,” Eriik said.

“You know Jason?”

“He’s my brother. And Jason’s with two
a
’s and an
e
instead of an
o.
”

“Eriik and Jaasen,” I said. “Two gay brothers from Iceland. Hmmm.”

Eriik smirked, “Must be something in our water.”

That corny line that I’m sure he used on all the gay male strangers who stumbled into his spring worked and soon I found myself staring at Eriik from the comfort of his bed. Iceland might be on the verge of bankruptcy, but very soon we were on the verge of orgasm.

An hour later I found myself at Ice Land, Iceland’s only ice rink, giving Lindsay a last-minute pep talk via cell phone, when my blood went icy.

“Dick!”

“Seriously, Steven, haven’t you had enough sex for one day?”

“Not that, it’s Dick Button!”

“Oh, say hi for me! Tell him he’s my salvation.”

“He’s also Laraby’s obsession.”

“Are you on crack?”

“No, on target. Dick’s sitting at the commentators’ table with Peggy Fleming, who looks absolutely stunning, I might add, and he’s fixing the most beautiful red rose in his lapel.”

“Steven, the hot springs have been known to cause hallucinations. It’s probably his bow tie.”

“I’ll prove it to you.”

Certain that Dick would remember me from our last memorable encounter, I put Lindsay on speaker and walked up to the commentators’ table for the denouement of my mystery date storyline. Just as I was walking up to the skating legends I was hit with another huge realization—I was on location! Maybe despite the decline in ratings that started the day O.J. decided to take a spin in his Bronco, soap opera’s glory of yesteryear could be relived.

“Hi, Mr. Button.”

“Steven, how nice to see you again. May I introduce my colleague—”

I blushed. “Miss Fleming needs no introduction. Hello.”

“Hi, Steven, welcome to Iceland.”

“Oh, I’ve already been warmly welcomed to this gorgeous country, thank you very much. Mr. Button, may I speak with you for a moment?”

Like the first-class lady she is, Peggy knew Dick and I needed some privacy and left us. She could definitely teach Katarina Witt, two-time Olympic gold medalist and
Playboy
covergirl, about decorum.

“What would you like to speak about?” Dick asked.

“I wanted to know about your rose.”

“My Irish maid?”

“No, the one in your lapel.”

Dick couldn’t hide a huge grin. “Ah, this rose. Young man, can you keep an old man’s secret? I have a secret admirer.”

“Didja hear that, world?” I shouted loud enough for Lindsay to hear, then shut off my phone, satisfied that I had proven my point.

“It’s nice to know that I can still turn a head. However, I am dedicated to the sport that has been so very, very good to me and I have no time for affairs of the heart. I have accepted this rose, but I cannot accept my admirer’s request that we meet.”

I was as happy and relieved as Susan Lucci the night she finally won a Daytime Emmy after her eighteen-year losing streak. Laraby was a secret admirer, but he wasn’t mine and that’s all that mattered. Of course there was still the matter of who my secret admirer was, but prime suspect number one was falsely accused. It didn’t say much for the track record of Electro Papi and Latyna Girl, but perhaps it was time to retire my superhero cape and go back to being a full-time gay who was open to new and increasingly exciting possibilities. But my personal adventures would have to wait for the moment, as the competition was about to begin.

One after another the skating legends took the ice. I held my breath each time a skater attempted a triple salchow, flip, or loop or some combination thereof, not because I was afraid they would fall, but because I hoped they would. It’s not that I had anything against Viktor Petrenko and his ice posse, but I wanted Lindsay to have all the help he needed to win.

Most of the skaters, while not as flexible and powerful as they had been in their early competitive days, skated clean programs. Some of them even reached new artistic heights—although if Flynn were in the audience he would have ripped the mic out of Dick Button’s hand to tell Rudy Galindo and the packed Icelandic stadium that Stephen Sondheim’s “Send in the Clowns” was not, in fact, about circus clowns and therefore the wearing of a silk pink-and-purple harlequin costume was inappropriate. It was finally Lindsay’s turn to skate and as always I had to force myself to watch him with both eyes open. At least this time he didn’t enter the ice with a raging hard-on or a rage against the world, he actually looked calm and composed. Maybe he realized how important this competition was. It was fine that he had been asked to perform in exhibitions and touring shows, but at the heart of every great skater is a fierce competitor. And a fierce competitor always wants one more chance to win.

Skating to the iconic music of
The Mission,
Lindsay looked incredibly trim and buff in a simple black long-sleeved shirt and pants ensemble. The shirt was adorned with a simple cross and nothing more. Even Alexei Yagudin, the former Russian Olympic champion, wore a bugle-beaded top that Peggy Fleming found to be quite
busy
.

One minute to go in his program and Lindsay looked like he might finally take home gold instead of pewter. Dick had run out of superlatives after Lindsay completed a huge triple axel, so he simply gushed about his clean edges and effortless grace. And then Lindsay fell. It was what skating insiders call a hard fall. Not one of those simple falls on the bum where the skater almost bounces back up from the ice and continues on with his program as if nothing happened, but a crash belly-first onto the ice that takes the skater careening uncontrollably twenty yards on the ice, through the protective barrier, and directly into the front row of startled fans. It’s an ugly fall and it means the difference between first and fourth place. Which is exactly where Lindsay finished.

Standing once again next to, but not on top of, the podium, Lindsay clutched his pewter medal and flashed back to the horror of Norway. With the Russian national anthem playing in musical homage to Yagudin’s win, Lindsay’s psyche couldn’t take a replay of his worst failure and he let out a guttural scream. He blindly flung his pewter medal into the audience, where it hit Nancy Kerrigan right in the shin. Nancy and Lindsay simultaneously screamed, “Not again!” but their painful cries were drowned out as Dick instructed the sound man to turn up the volume on the music.

The silence on the ride home from the airport was interrupted by the ringing of my cell phone. It was Lucas. I didn’t really want to don my producer’s hat for a few more hours, but talking to Lucas would be better than not talking to Lindsay.

“Flynn’s in the hospital.”

My first thought was irrational. It’s general knowledge in the soap opera world that one hospital storyline shouldn’t piggyback another. It’s overkill and the audience finds it depressing. Then I went into action mode, rerouting the driver and informing Lindsay of the news, calling Gus to meet us at the hospital.

Entering the hospital room, I could only see Flynn from the waist down, lying motionless on the bed, but I could very clearly see Lucas hunched over him sobbing.

When I saw Flynn’s arm reach up to stroke Lucas’s back, I cried out. Flynn wasn’t dying! The next moments were a jumble. I was crying; Lindsay was crying; Lucas was crying, then laughing, then crying again; and even Gus was wiping a tear from his eye and blaming us American softies for crumbling his British resolve. I hugged Flynn so hard I didn’t think I’d ever let go.

I cried more in those few moments in my friend’s hospital room than I had cried the whole time since I first learned my mother had a stroke. I guess you expect your parents to die; hopefully you don’t spend too much time dwelling on it, but the idea is part of the parent-child contract. Friends, however, aren’t supposed to die; they’re supposed to make you forget about unpleasant things like death. I would forgive Flynn for this breach, but make him sign an updated version of the friend contract wherein all mentions of death were forbidden.

“Are we done with the hysterics?” Flynn asked, propped up in bed.

“What happened?” I asked.

“I started some new medicine and it gave me the dizzies.”

“He passed out,” Lucas corrected.

We pressed Flynn for more details and he explained that his doctor had said that the new combination of medicines Flynn had started to take sometimes triggered an adverse reaction. His was a bit more severe than usual, but it was not a cause for alarm, just an indicator that the new medicine would have to be substituted with another that had less harsh side effects. Much to Flynn’s disapproval, his doctor had insisted that he stay in the hospital overnight so his response to this new medicine could be monitored.

“What’s that noise?” Flynn asked.

“My stomach,” Lindsay said. “I didn’t eat on the plane.”

“Too upset to eat because you won another pewter?” Flynn asked.

Lindsay’s body language spoke volumes. “You, my friend, are so lucky I am minutes away from thinking you might die.”

“We’re all lucky,” Lucas added.

I couldn’t tell if everyone caught Flynn’s reaction, but I did, and I knew that Lucas said something wrong. I couldn’t imagine what it was, but I was certain that Lucas’s intent and Flynn’s interpretation were as disparate as J.R. and Bobby’s views on who should run Ewing Oil.

“Lucas,” I said, “why don’t you and the boys go get us some food? We can have hospital room potluck. I’ll stay with the patient.”

I couldn’t tell if Lucas knew that I wanted him out of the room, but like the good actor he had evolved into, he did as he was directed. When it was just Flynn and me, I found out that he and Lucas had more in common with the wayward Ewing brothers than I originally thought.

“I’m breaking up with Lucas.”

“Haven’t you learned not to make big decisions when you’re dizzy?”

“Please put on your serious hat.” I did. “Look at me, this is my future.”

“Look at Lucas,
he
is your future.”

“He is a very sweet man and I have fallen in love with him quicker and more deeply than I have ever fallen in love before and that is why I have to break up with him.”

“Repeat after me: ‘I am a stupid gay.’”

“How long do you think it’s going to be before Lucas realizes an HIV-positive boyfriend who makes frequent trips to the hospital is not the type of baggage an actor needs when he’s on the brink of success? I’m a liability.”

“You are not a liability, you’re a wonderful man! How long’s it going to take for you to realize that Lucas loves you despite your illness, despite the fact that every once in a while you might have to spend a night or two in the hospital, despite the fact that you’re stupid enough to even contemplate pushing him away? So you’re HIV-positive! So what? It’s not the best hand to be dealt, but it’s not a reason to push away a chance at happiness.”

“I’m afraid.”

“You told me very recently to stop being afraid of being alone. Now I’m telling you that you need to stop being afraid of
not
being alone.”

I knew Flynn had heard me, but like Miss Ellie after she scolded J.R. for yet another unscrupulous act, I just wasn’t sure my words had any impact. Flynn wouldn’t make eye contact and he wouldn’t answer me when I wanted him to promise he wouldn’t push Lucas aside out of fear. When the boys returned with a Chinese smorgasbord, I still didn’t know on what side of the Lucas-fence Flynn was standing.

“Well, here’s to another relationship gone bust,” Lindsay announced.

Was Flynn and Lucas’s breakup already a spoiler alert on some soap opera blog? Could bad news travel that fast on the Web? Would Pamela enter the bathroom to find her dead husband alive and showering and realize the past year was an incredibly long and specific dream? Alas, the truth was nothing quite so entertaining or unbelievable as Lindsay clarified: “Gus gave Fred the boot.”