Between Boyfriends (27 page)

“The Greenland gay?” I asked.

“I guess I shouldn’t have asked him to bend the rules for my sister’s adoption as I was bent over taking his dick up my arse.”

“Isn’t bottoming wonderful?” Lindsay asked dreamily.

“Your sister should stick to the Far East,” Flynn said, looking nothing like the despondent man he had seemed just moments earlier. “They’re giving babies to anyone with a mullet.”

“I’ll suggest it to her,” Gus said. “Once I break the news, though, I may have to hop a flight to London. Mates, I have to admit I’m noticing Wendolyn’s starting to lose her grip on reality a bit.”

“Starting to!” Lindsay shouted.

“Just little things, you know, besides her little thing about the letter
g
.”

“Oh yes,” I said, “that little thing.”

“Speak of the devil,” Gus declared, answering his cell phone. “It’s Wendolyn. I’ll take this out in the lobby.”

After Gus had left, Lindsay’s face held an expression that meant he was either caught with his hand in the cookie jar or with his hand on some big boy’s cookies.

“I think Wendolyn’s going to unravel a wee bit further.”

“What’s the worst that can happen?” I asked. “She and Lenda won’t be able to vacation in ’reenland?”

“No, a different kind of unraveling,” Lindsay said. “I did something.”

I almost choked on my egg roll. “What the hell did you do?”

Lindsay swallowed a healthy mouthful of moo goo gai pan, then confessed that he had bought a large selection of vintage G-Man comics on eBay and shipped them to Wendolyn hoping they might shock her back to normal. As one who understood what it’s like to be held back by a terror from your past, he was trying to help her come to terms with her own irrational fear.

“I think you done good, Linds,” Flynn said. “Sometimes you need a little dose of reality to make you come to your senses.”

I didn’t like the tone of Flynn’s comment, but I couldn’t press him further since Gus came back into the room.

“How is she?” Lindsay asked.

“Not good. But she just got a note from the mailman that a post came the other day that was too large to deliver. She has to pick it up tomorrow. Maybe that’ll cheer her up.”

It wasn’t the edge of night, but suddenly darkness crept into the room. Flynn was the only one who seemed to react favorably to the news and that worried me. I didn’t know what was going on in his sort-of-young and definitely restless mind, but I sensed it wasn’t full of many-splendored things. Lucas, however, once again proved me wrong and reminded us that we have one life to live so we should do our best not to fuck it up.

“I’d like to say something.”

“Let’s go, mates, the boys want some privacy.”

“No, I’d like to say this in front of Flynn and his friends.”

If we were being watched by housewives in the Midwest, the next word that would be heard would be from our sponsor.

“I’m an actor and I have a certain image to uphold, at least that’s what my agent tells me.”

Our sponsor had never been so shocking. And our writers had never been so bold. I couldn’t believe Lucas was going to break up with Flynn in front of his friends. Maybe he was being accommodating since he knew Flynn would want the support of his friends? Or maybe beneath that aw-shucks exterior was the evil heart of a daytime supervillain?

“So I fired him and got a new agent. I told him what I’m going to tell you, Flynn. I am a gay man in love with another gay man who just happens to be HIV-positive. If the world finds out and it means the end of my career, so be it. I will not live in fear.”

Aw shucks. There were no traces of evil blood in his heart.

“Does that make you afraid?”

Flynn didn’t flinch. “Yes.”

“Good. Then together we can find some peace.”

Watching Flynn take hold of Lucas’s hand inspired me. I could do the same thing. Starting tomorrow I would search for my own peace. It might involve my secret admirer, it might involve my family, it might even involve taking a trip to Dallas, Knots Landing, or Melrose Place, but wherever my search took me, I knew I would go. Because from now on, no one else was going to write the story of my life but me.

T
he most nerve-wracking moment in the life of a soap opera producer had finally arrived: it was time for the Daytime Emmy Awards. Everything that my colleagues and I had worked for during the year, every episode that we had created, was about to be judged. And not judged by an impartial panel of our peers, but by a group of bitter, desperate-to-keep-their-jobs, would-prefer-to-work-in-primetime sons o’ bitches. Yes, daytime television is a nasty business.

Although many of those who worked in my industry considered it a stepping-stone to a more lucrative job, there were a handful of us who truly loved the medium of daytime TV and didn’t have aspirations of producing one of the ubiquitous and now repetitive
Law & Order
franchises. We preferred to create drama in the harsh light of the sun. Unfortunately, the harsh reality was that the soap opera industry was on the critical list and while winning an Emmy wouldn’t reel in more viewers, holding one while standing on the unemployment line would make you look that much more impressive. It was an accessory that I didn’t yet possess, but now that
If Tomorrow Never Comes
had been nominated for Best Daytime Drama, this might be the year I, as one of its producers, brought home the winged statuette.

As expected, my emotions surrounding the event turned out to be unpredictable. I spent a day feeling post-Brian depressed because I didn’t have a serious boyfriend to bring to the ceremony, but then decided to ask Lindsay to be my “date” since he would definitely do something to make me forget about my nonpartnered life. I was also able to snag two extra tickets for my mother and Renée. My mother only watched
ITNC
out of loyalty to me so she was only excited to come because there was the possibility that her son could win an award and thank his mother on national television, something Paula D’Agostino’s daughter had never had the opportunity to do. Renée, in contrast, was a rabid, lifelong soap viewer and was beyond thrilled to be going to what she referred to as “
the
most important television event of the year.”

“Steven,” she said breathlessly, “if you see me and that hot British guy who plays Lionel on your show sneak off to the ladies’ room together, you must promise never to tell Trixie.”

“What about Paulie?” I asked.

“My husband understands I have certain fantasies that even he cannot fulfill.”

So much for the sanctity of hetero marriage.

Regardless of what Lindsay did while among the soap opera elite or which member of the soap opera elite Renée did, the surprise of the evening would definitely involve Lucas. Not only had he been nominated for Best Actor (because ever since the eye incident his acting had vastly improved), but he was also bringing Flynn as his date. And Flynn would not be introduced as his brother, college roommate, or president of his fan club, he would be introduced as his boyfriend. When Laraby found that out, his newly opened mind shut tighter than an Italian virgin’s legs while on one last fling before her wedding day and old stuttering Laraby returned.

“S-s-steven!!” Laraby screamed. “You m-m-must put an end to this!”

“I’m a producer, not a crisis manager.”

“What the hell do you think p-p-producing is? You put fires out! And this flaming inferno needs to be doused with c-c-cold water before it spreads out of control and we all get burned!”

“What happened to saying good-bye to your closet, Laraby? I thought you had put your homophobia to bed and covered it up with a baby blue cashmere duvet.”

“Oh, that sounds lovely, Steven! Do you think I can find one at Gracious Home?” Laraby said, then covered himself. “Oh, will you stop diverting my attention from the issue. Lucas cannot attend the Emmys with his b-b-boyfriend!”

“Well, that’s what he plans to do and there’s nothing you or I can do to stop him.”

“You’re half right. There’s nothing I’m going to do, but as your boss I demand that you make him take a woman. I am!”

“What woman are you taking?”

“Loretta.”

“She’s not a woman, she’s your beard.”

“Enough, Steven! You make Lucas straight for the night and that’s an order!”

Had I recently said that I wanted the old Laraby back? What the hell was I thinking? And what the hell was I thinking by actually dialing Flynn’s number to ask him to
not
attend the Emmys with Lucas?

“Steven, you’ll never guess where Lucas and I are right now!” Flynn said, before I could even say hello.

Could Lucas and Flynn be on some deserted island without television reception? Could I be that lucky? No.

“At Georgette Klinger for a day of beauty before the Emmys! I’m going to walk down the red carpet with my boyfriend with blemish-free skin.”

“I thought you stayed away from all things red since the color clashes with your auburn hair.”

“Simple solution—after my mud bath, Lucas scheduled me to have my hair highlighted with chocolate brown streaks. Hasn’t he thought of everything?”

Well, not everything. “Could you put him on the phone, please? I’d like to wish him good luck in case I don’t see him before the ceremony.”

“Would if I could. Currently he’s wrapped in cellophane from head to toe to sweat off an inch from his waist. Did you know the camera adds ten to fifteen pounds? I have to remember not to lower my chin tonight.”

I wanted to tell Flynn that no one would look at his chin if he arrived holding the hand of one of the Best Actor nominees, but that would lead him to think that I thought he shouldn’t be Lucas’s date, which isn’t what I thought. Or was it? Was I being a hypocrite? Was I as homophobic as Laraby? The answer was a very definite maybe.

Anyone in my company for two minutes knows I’m out and proud, but Lucas, whether it was deliberate or not, was still passing. I wasn’t afraid for myself or for the show—Lord knows we could have used the publicity—but I was afraid for Lucas. If he were realistic he would be wrapping his head around the idea of returning to his previous career as bartender instead of wrapping fat-reducing cellophane around his body.

Suddenly I was angry. This was the twenty-first century and if American soap fans couldn’t handle watching a man who likes men in real life play a man who likes women on TV, then they should just turn the channel and pray a rerun of
McMillan & Wife
wasn’t airing.

“You tell Lucas I’m proud of him and even if he doesn’t win, he’s the best actor daytime’s ever had.”

“I’ve already told him that, but I’ll let him know you agree.”

I felt better about myself, having handled the crisis the only way I knew how, by admitting to myself that there really wasn’t any crisis to handle. I would have to take a different approach with Loretta, who like Laraby had regressed.

In what was supposed to be a poignant reconciliation scene between Regina and Ramona, Loretta relied on old habits and went off script. Instead of acting humble, she stumbled around the set, under the influence, and called Lorna slutty, scandalous, and South Carolinian.

“How dare you!?” Lorna screamed. “I am from
North
Carolina!”

Loretta must have jumped off the wagon because she was clearly drunk. We gasped when she pulled an Absolut bottle out from underneath her skirt—I’d thought she was retaining water, not vodka. Just as she was about to chug what was left, Lourdes leaped onto the set and ripped the bottle out of Loretta’s hands. How happy I was that my sidekick couldn’t bear to watch a victim suffer. How sad I was when it turned out my sidekick was the victimizer.

“I’m sorry, Miss Loretta,” Lourdes cried. “I turned your orange juice into a screwdriver.”

Loretta’s mind slowly digested this information. “You screwed with my breakfast? That’s why my vodka craving came back! You lowlife immigrant, I’ll fucking have you deported…in a body bag!”

Loretta lunged at Lourdes, who did a dive roll to the left, which resulted in Loretta crash-landing onto the floor and grasping Lorna’s ankles firmly with her hands. Then Lorna lunged at Lourdes, who did a floor roll to the right, which resulted in Lorna crash-landing onto the floor grasping the ankles of Larry the cameraman firmly with her hands. As a result, Larry lunged forward and lost control of the camera, which luckily landed on Loretta’s bumderwear-clad butt and bounced onto the carpet without breaking. Boozed-up and padded, Loretta never felt the impact.

There was no other direction Lourdes could roll in and she was finally subdued by security. I didn’t approve of my Latyna Girl’s actions, but I was proud of how valiantly she tried to escape.

A half-hour later I found myself holding a drunk and incredibly angry Loretta in the shower hoping the cold water would sober her up so she would be presentable to be a presenter later on that evening. I didn’t care that I was soaking wet, Loretta would represent
ITNC
in prime time and it was my duty to do everything possible to make sure she was flawless. Even Lorna understood how important the Emmys were and volunteered to make a pot of coffee. Of course, in the middle of all this drama my mother decided to call me.

“Burgundy or black, Steven?”

“Did you try to make meatloaf again, Ma?”

“Dresses! Should I wear the burgundy dress I wore for your brother’s wedding or the black one I wore to your father’s funeral? I had a good time at both, so they each hold pleasant memories.”

“You had a good time at Daddy’s funeral?”

“I mourned for that man for two years while he was sick, I deserved a night out!”

“I was going to announce tonight that I was three months sober,” Loretta slurred in between gulps of shower water. “I’ll be lucky if I’m three hours sober.”

“Wear the black, Ma. More than one career might die tonight.”

“I can always count on you, honey,” my mother said, which was exactly the same thing Loretta said to me right before she fell asleep in the shower stall.

Several hours later Loretta was dry, sober, and compassionate. Once she heard that Lourdes only spiked her juice because she missed Loco Loretta, whom she dearly loved, Loretta decided not to have Lourdes arrested or fired, but did request that she be fitted with an ankle bracelet that would give her an electric shock if she came within twenty feet of her. Loretta loved her fans, she just wanted them to fawn over her from a distance.

Before we all left to go home and change for the festivities, Laraby cornered me. He used his Tony-Soprano’s-long-lost-gay-brother voice so I knew he was trying to be serious.

“Did you take care of things, Steven?”

“Yes, Loretta’s alcohol free.”

“I mean the other thing we talked about when we were talking about things.”

“Oh, that thing.”

“Yes, that thing. Did you take care of it?”

“Yes, it’s been taken care of.”

“I can always count on you, Steven.”

Radio City Music Hall is one of those landmarks in New York that a New Yorker will walk by thousands of times and not even notice. Yeah, it’s big, iconic, and has a huge neon sign, but unless it’s showcasing the talents of, say, Liza, an ’80s reunion band, or the Daytime Emmy Awards, who really cares? Okay, perhaps I’m speaking only about myself and the subset of gay men who are over 30 and love
Cabaret,
Kajagoogoo, and daytime television. We may be a small subset, but we’re vocal.

But not as vocal as die-hard soap fans. When Lindsay and I arrived at the red carpet, the iron-lunged teenaged girls were already out in full force. Each time a hunky young soap actor touched down on the red runner, they let loose with piercing screeches that would have made a banshee proud and ignited passion in every dog from New York to the outer banks of Long Island.

Needless to say, when Lindsay and I walked down the redness there was silence. Until, of course, my mother spotted me. She raced down the runway with her black tea-length dress hiked up to her knees screaming, “Steven! Mama want an Emmy!” followed by Renée and Trixie chasing after her dressed in matching hot pink one-shoulder Grecian silk gowns. The look was pure over-dressed fan club presidents stalking a soap star. Naturally security intervened and I had to explain who I was and that the stalkers were relatively harmless relatives, though Luigi, the larger of the two security men who blocked our entry into the Music Hall, didn’t hear a word I said because all his attention was focused on Renée’s rack. Luckily my sister-in-law’s got a nice set of jugs and Luigi accepted her story that Trixie was a service dog and allowed us to enter. I started a prayer to the Blessed Mother asking her to make the rest of the evening less bumpy, but before I could get to the Amen I overheard my mother asking Lindsay if he was happy now that he had found his real daddy, and I knew that even Jesus’s mother was powerless when it came to protecting me from mine.

We did luck out and get primo seats ten rows from the stage and far away from the screaming teenaged girls. To my right sat Lucas and Flynn. “I don’t care how much it costs, Flynn,” I said, admiring his bronzed and glowing skin, “but for my next birthday you are getting me a spa day at Georgette Klinger.”

To my left sat Laraby and Loretta. “I don’t care how much it costs, Steven, but you must split those two up!” Laraby hissed at me, his face red and glowing. “So far we’ve gotten lucky.”

It turned out that the moment Lucas and Flynn had begun their red carpet journey as a couple, they were separated. The daytime paparazzi descended upon Lucas (the absolute hottest Best Actor nominee in the past three years) with such gusto that Flynn (who was not accustomed to being photographically assaulted) was momentarily blinded by the flashing lights of the cameras and in his desperate attempt to reconnect with Lucas, found himself clasping the hand of the sturdy, horse-faced female star of
As the World Turns.
Both Flynn and Horse-face were startled by their unexpected clutch.

By the time Flynn’s sight returned, Lucas was at the other end of the carpet being pushed inside by an overzealous Emmy intern. They didn’t reunite until they were inside the Hall and far away from the prying eyes of the general public. I took it as a sign that perhaps the whole male-actor-with-a-boyfriend thing was really no big deal.