Between Boyfriends (31 page)

“Are you making puttanesca?” Sebastian asked. “That’s whore pasta, you know. Whores used to make puttanesca and put it on their windowsills to attract men with its intoxicating whorish smell.”

“Sorry, this is just plain old red sauce,” Jack said.

“Which cries out for red wine!” Lindsay shouted. “Steven, come with me so we can get some red wine.”

“I have wine. I was just about to pop the cork.”

“You have to pop
my
cork, Jack,” Lindsay said. “I’m the guest and guests bring the wine. We’ll be right back. Steven, come on.”

Confused and a bit suspicious, I found myself being pulled out of Jack’s apartment by Lindsay and just as I turned around I saw Sebastian close the door. Then I heard him lock it.

“What the hell is going on?”

“Hold this.”

Lindsay pulled out a bottle of red wine from behind the potted plant in the hallway and thrust it into my hands. He was either stealing Jack’s neighbor’s secret stash of spirits or this was all part of a grand plan.

“It’s all part of a grand plan, Steven,” Lindsay whispered.

“What plan?”

“To show you Jack’s true colors. Right now Sebastian is in there seducing him. He has exactly ten minutes to get Jack to reveal his duplicitous, disgusting self—which is nine minutes longer than Sebastian usually needs—so you can get over this stupid fascination with reliving the past.”

I was stunned. And surprisingly grateful. “You would do this for me?”

“Steven, do not repeat this to anyone or else I will kill you. You are my best friend and I love you and if this is what it takes to make you realize you’re making a mistake, so be it. Truth be told, I’ve done worse.”

For some reason I didn’t protest, but allowed Lindsay to push me so my ear was against the door and I could hear Sebastian attempting to seduce my ex- and current boyfriend. What concerned me most was not whether Sebastian would succeed, but that I wasn’t at all certain he would fail.

“You look mighty muthafucking hot, Jack,” Sebastian purred.

“Well, um, thank you. And you look, you know, pretty good yourself.”

“You think so? I do try to take care of myself. I work out a lot, can you tell?”

“That shirt isn’t leaving too much to the imagination.”

Lindsay whispered, “Oh my God, it sounds like he’s taking the bait.”

“What’s in your imagination, Jackie Jack? This?”

“Sebastian…I think you should put your shirt back on.”

“Come on, tell me you don’t like what you see.”

“That has nothing to do with it. You know what you look like.”

“Do you want to see the rest?”

“Uh…look, Steven is going to be back here in a minute.”

“Baby, my hole is so tight I’ll make you come before your balls hit my nether parts.”

“Ahhh…Sebastian…”

“That sounds like he’s gonna take more than the bait!” Lindsay whispered excitedly.

“Thank you, Fag Whisperer,” I replied. “I might be stupid, but I’m not deaf.”

“Listen, Sebastian,” Jack said. “You need to get dressed right now.”

“Must I remind you that it’s Friday?”

“What’s so special about Friday?”

“If it’s Friday it’s high-colonic day. I am clean as a whistle. And I need some loosening up ’cause I film my first porno tomorrow. The fucking IRS still wants their back taxes.”

“Sebastian, I know what you’re trying to do and yes, you are a hot man, but I do not want to fuck you. The only hot guy I want to fuck is Steven, so please get dressed before he gets back here and you make an awkward situation even more awkward.”

“You turn down the Sebastian? I do not understand.”

“That’s because I don’t think you understand anything about love.”

That’s all I needed to hear. I pushed open the door and stumbled in.

“Sebastian, I think it’s time for you to leave.”

Jack turned around and saw not only me standing there holding a bottle of wine, but Lindsay crouched in his doorway.

Lindsay tried to divert attention away from his compromising position and called out in a booming, authoritative voice, “Ignore the man crouched in your doorway.” And, as always, Sebastian ignored the oddness of the situation and focused only on himself.

“He passed the Sebastian test, Steven. I do not know how he did it, but he has passed where so many, many men before him have failed. Come on, Lindsay, let’s go, our work here is done. And I need to find someone to work over my waste-free heinie-hole so high-colonic Friday isn’t wasted.”

Sebastian didn’t even bother to put his shirt back on before he and Lindsay left and I faced Jack, who was wearing a much different expression than a man who is in love would typically wear.

“I hope you enjoyed testing me. I think you should go now.”

“Wait a second, I had nothing to do with this.”

“They’re your friends.”

“Lindsay’s my friend, yes, but Sebastian’s just a slutty accessory you like to wear every once in a while. Look, I didn’t even tell them about tonight, Flynn did.”

“But you think this is kind of funny, don’t you?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I knew Jack well enough to know that it would piss him off, but that’s how I felt. “It is funny. And sort of sweet, in a strange way. My friends care about me, Jack, and they don’t want to see me get hurt. Like it or not, you hurt me.”

“I know that, Steven! But I don’t feel like being constantly reminded of it.”

“It won’t be constantly, but every once in a while something’s going to happen or someone’s going to say something that will remind us both that you told me to get the hell out of your life so you could be alone in this nice apartment with all the nice little things while I slept on Flynn’s couch trying to figure out what the hell I was going to do with my life. I don’t like being reminded of it either, but sometimes when I look at you I see the same face I saw seconds before our final conversation.”

“Could you stop being a soap opera producer for just a second?”

“Don’t make fun of me, Jack, this is serious!”

“I know this is serious! I don’t take taking you back lightly!”

And suddenly, as if I were stepping from a house that had crash-landed in a strange place, the landscape of our new relationship changed. The happy delight of making love to an old lover had been replaced with the recognition that the old lover came with the same old unhappy baggage.

“
You’re
taking
me
back?” I asked, stunned. “Is that how you see this?”

Jack let out a groan and almost started to stamp his feet. “Don’t do this again, don’t harp on my every word!”

“If anyone is taking anyone back, I’m taking you back!”

I wasn’t sure if he understood my words, but he understood that his answer was extremely important. He took a deep breath and I could tell he was searching for the most perfect response.

“Yes, I understand that, Steven. Now can we just sit down and have a nice dinner?”

Very, very far from perfect.

“No! No, we can’t. This isn’t going to be easy, Jack. Learning to live without you wasn’t easy and learning to live with you again isn’t something I can do overnight.”

“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to rush things, but I’ve missed you. I’ve missed having you in my life. So come on, let’s start small, one little dinner, that’s all I ask.”

There really is no place like home. But often we fill our memories with dreams of happy laughter and rainbow colors to overshadow the wickedness and the cruelty. It works very well until you wake up and stare directly into the black-and-white reality.

“I think I’m going to have dinner without you tonight, Jack,” I said. “Just like I’ve done for the past five years.”

C
inematic hubris was committed in 1985. That was the year some moronic film studio president gave the green light for
Return to Oz
, the sequel to what I’ve already stated is one of my favorite films. If only that studio head had had a brain, he would have realized that tampering with a classic is not the way to box office gold or critical acclaim.

The movie actually asked the question, “What if Dorothy was insane?” and opens with the popular singing farm girl from Kansas as a patient in a mental hospital. But maybe the dumb-ass film honcho was trying to teach us all a lesson—do not meddle with the past. If that really is the lesson to be learned from the sequel, maybe I should follow Dorothy’s footsteps to the nearest Duane Reade and fill my prescription for thorazine.

My relationship with Jack was not a classic love story, but like
The Wizard of Oz
it was a product of a specific time and place and perhaps any attempt to revisit that time and place could only end up in failure, like the critically trounced box-office flop
Return to Oz
. These were the thoughts floating in my head like a hot air balloon in a windstorm as I read yet another of Jack’s text messages asking me to meet up with him.

When I was away from my friends their voices were only louder and more effective. I heard every one of their words of caution, and understood that those words were intelligent and just. I had a great life without Jack; I had survived, prospered even, and it had been quite some time since I had even thought about him and had those pangs of “If only?” and “What if?” But could my life be even better if I were with Jack and not without him?

“Hi, it’s me, Steven.”

“I know it’s you, silly,” Jack said. “Thank you for calling me.”

“You know, it really is a fine line between secret admirer and stalker.”

“I’m sorry, but the way you left…I couldn’t let it end just like that.”

“Who said anything about ending?”

I actually heard Jack smile.

“That’s the best news I’ve had all day. Could I come over? I know it’s late, but I would like to see you before I go to bed.”

Without hesitation I lied. “I have to get up really early in the morning. I have to go to Jersey to take my mother to a doctor’s appointment before work.” At that point I started pacing my apartment to give God a moving target in case he wanted to strike me dead for using my mother’s illness as an excuse not to meet Jack.

“I could go with you, I wouldn’t mind.”

I started moving faster.

“The truth is, I haven’t told her about the new us yet, so it might be a bit awkward. She just needs to have some tests done anyway, no big deal, but I want to be there just in case.”

“You didn’t tell her about me?”

I stopped moving because I could finally resume truthful talk.

“No. I figured I’d tell her if we decided this was going to be permanent.”

“You mean if
you
decide this is going to be permanent.”

I decided to speak more truth and let God aim elsewhere. “Yes, that’s right. When I decide.”

Whoever said the truth shall set you free was a liar. All it does is make you think more and sometimes thinking is not the answer; sometimes porn is. As I sat on my couch with my sweat-pants rolled down to my ankles, one hand stroking my lubed-up dick, the other fast-forwarding to all the close-ups of Aiden Shaw’s superior piece of lubed-up manhood, all I could think of was Jack. And not the Jack who fucked me or French-kissed me, but the Jack who wanted me to decide. The only decision I wanted to make was if I should come at the same time Aiden did or let the Britstud shoot first. I decided to let Aiden explode first, then I followed up with a lukewarm ejaculation that would have gotten me banned from any respectable porn set. Decisions suck.

And sometimes so does work. Before my SU could even do its job and soothe, delight, and invigorate me and my tonsils, Laraby pulled me into his office and informed me of his latest ill-conceived decision.

“Lucas is going to be gay,” Laraby declared.

“Lucas is already gay.”

“Lucas is going to be gay on TV.”

“He is already gay on TV, you were at the Emmys. He’s gay on TV, he’s gay off TV. He’s an all-the-time gay!”

“Lucas is going to be gay on TV,” Laraby repeated, “as Roger.”

Listening to this man (who, as infuriating as he could be, was still my boss and fellow homosexual), I felt betrayed, like Toto must have felt when Uncle Henry awarded Miss Gulch canine custody. “Lucas is gay, but Roger is straight.”

“Not after next Wednesday’s episode! That’s when his secret affair with Rick is finally revealed.”

“Since when is there a secret affair? Roger pledged his undying love to Ramona just last week.”

“He was lying. We’re going to shoot a flashback scene that shows Roger declaring his love to Ramona, but then looking past her to where we see Rick peering out from behind the curtain. That’s who Roger was talking to. It’s brilliant!”

“It’s fucked up! And furthermore it’s wrong!”

Even though I was completely repulsed by this blatant attempt to exploit Lucas’s recent personal triumph, I wasn’t sure if the rage I was feeling was a byproduct of my own personal crisis. Mentally I had done a lot of screaming and venting, vocally I was silent. I welcomed the opportunity to be able to channel some of that silent screaming and direct it toward Laraby and his ridiculous scheme.

“You will not use Lucas’s coming out to spike the ratings. I would think as a gay man you’d have a little more integrity.”

“Don’t be silly, Steven, like every other good television producer, I leave my integrity at the door. This is an opportunity to seize the drama of real life and turn it into something good—a controversial plotline. Can’t you see the beauty in that?”

All I could see was a desperate fag trying to hold on to his job. “This isn’t even your idea. The suits upstairs told you this is what they wanted and you didn’t have the balls to tell them to fuck off.”

It was Laraby’s turn to pale. “I…I…I…” And to return to the stuttering. And my turn to return to my dramatic homosexual roots. I walked into the middle of Loretta’s lavish living room set and looked around to make sure I had an audience. Lucas, Loretta, Lorna, and Lionel were just coming out of makeup, ready to shoot the first scene of the day; Lourdes was lingering a safe distance behind them, and Leon was consulting with a cameraman. In the distance I could see two of the powers-that-be loitering near the control booth, looking a little bit anxious. They had good reason. When I knew attention would be paid, I began. “Lucas Fitzgerald is gay!” Someone muttered, “That is so last week’s episode.”

“Roger Renault is not.”

“Not unless Ramona is silicone and duct tape,” Lorna shouted.

I could hear some laughter, but I kept my eyes on the two PTBs in the back of the studio. They weren’t laughing at all.

“If the network has its way that might just happen.”

“Watchootalkinbout, Homo?” Lorna asked.

My catchphrase was catching on. “Laraby has informed me that the network wants to turn Roger gay simply because Lucas is gay, in a revolting attempt to force art to imitate life. I don’t know about you, but this makes me sick and I will not stand for it.”

Lucas’s voice broke through the din of chatter. “Neither will I!”

“Good. Because
If Tomorrow Never Comes
is not a side show. We are not here to turn an actor’s personal life into a ripped-from-the-headlines plot twist. Otherwise Regina would be a drunk and Ramona would be a coldhearted shrew. So listen up, network brass! Roger will not bed Ramona’s nephew Rick next Wednesday as planned. He will keep on fucking Ramona, because that’s what Roger does and that’s what the audience wants to see.”

“You tell ’em, Electro Papi!” Lourdes shouted from well over twenty feet away.

“Thank you, Latyna Girl. Our audience might be made up of a bunch of housewives, but they’re not stupid and they will never believe that Roger would give up a hot piece of ass like Ramona for a skinny twink like Rick.”

“Thank you, Steven,” Lorna said. “I
have
been doing some extra squats at the gym. And I would also like to remind the network brass that my contract states that while Ramona may turn another character bi-curious, she will never turn two men one-hundred-percent, jumped-over-the-fence gay. FYI—that goes for off-camera as well.”

“They wouldn’t let me put that in
my
contract!” Loretta cried. “Laraby!”

“This is how you reward me for winning the Emmy?” Lucas cried. “Laraby!”

“I am
not
gay-for-play!” Lionel cried. “Laraby!”

The bloodcurdling shriek that was next heard wasn’t, as we all immediately thought, from Laraby. Lourdes, in her excitement, rushed toward me, but the minute she got within twenty feet of Loretta her ankle bracelet kicked in and several volts of electricity joined the adrenaline pumping through her veins. As the crew carried her a safe distance away she could be heard mumbling, “Papi really is electric.”

When I looked up I saw that the two PTB had disappeared. An hour later when the network bosses called Laraby and me into a closed-door meeting, I thought it would be the end of my career as a soap opera producer, but I walked proudly into that meeting and closed the door behind me, determined not to bend. I would not allow my colleagues to belittle something so brave as Lucas’s public coming-out by turning it into a publicity stunt.

Surprisingly, the network honchos agreed with me. Before I could launch into a Julia Sugarbaker-esque homily about respect, one of the PTB apologized for making it seem as if they were suggesting Roger become homosexual as a result of the actor’s recent public announcement. They in no way wanted to create a work situation where anyone felt as if they or their lifestyle was being unjustly exploited or they were in any way being harassed. Obviously, someone had made a quick phone call to a labor attorney. Roger would remain heterosexual, but one who is philandering and possibly homicidal, you know, just to keep the character interesting. Upgraded from homosexual to homicidal? For a moment I felt Ms. Sugarbaker’s passion stir and demand articulation, but then I remembered what my father used to tell my mother: “Sometimes, Anjanette, you just have to shut up.” And so I did.

Leaving the meeting, I had one of those fleeting moments of pure joy—like what Dorothy experienced when she woke up in her own bed and was surrounded by her loved ones. The feeling is like wind: it rushes in, completely overtakes you, but flees before it can be caught. The meeting had made me feel good, as if I had made a difference. All by myself. It also made me realize I did not need Jack in my life. I could feel happiness on my own. Before I told the cast and crew the good news, I took another moment to remember this feeling before it got lost amid the regular demands of the workday. The next time I saw Jack I would be a little bit closer to making a decision.

“The
H
in HGTV no longer stands for
Homo,
” Jack declared.

We were lying on my couch sharing a bowl of popcorn and watching some real estate show on the House & Garden channel, and we were quite disappointed that the little cable station we had loved so much had changed so much.

“It’s all about hetero home-buying instead of homo house-decorating,” he continued. “Who cares which house a couple in Arizona buys?”

“Not me. I miss the days when you could make treasure from someone else’s trash.”

Somehow Jack took that comment as foreplay.

“I’ve got a treasure you can trash.”

And with that subtle segue we tossed aside the popcorn, turned the channel until we found a
SpongeBob
repeat, and started to make out. The kissing turned to undressing, which in turn turned to sucking, a little rimming, and a finale of flip fucking. But the sex was a bit different this time. It was a bit quieter than it had been and I got the distinct impression that although we were connected physically, we were separated emotionally.

I didn’t know if Jack was bored or grateful that I was allowing this relationship to move forward, but I knew that I was not able to let go of myself. While Jack was blowing me and tongue-lashing my testicles, I closed my eyes and thought it was interesting that I had been so powerful at work a few hours earlier, but now was too weak to tell Jack that something felt a bit off. Maybe I had already made the decision, but wasn’t completely ready to say it out loud.

The next day, however, I had no choice but to be more vocal.

“Steven, is there something wrong?” my mother asked.

“I’m dating Jack again.”

I braced myself for a barrage of maternal warnings, but instead Anjanette was oddly quiet. Every once in a while she did this and I hated it. As much as I complained that my mother was loudmouthed and intrusive and blunt, that’s what I expected. And that’s what I wanted, because any other response would be unfamiliar and therefore unsettling.

“It doesn’t sound like that’s making you happy.”

“It’s making me nervous.”

“Nervous isn’t happy, honey. And that’s all I want for you.”

“For me to be nervous? Don’t worry, you’ve taken care of that.”

“All I want is for you to be happy. If Jack can do that, I’ll make him lasagna the way he likes, without the hard-boiled eggs.”

“You remember that?”

“I remember everything that has to do with you.”

We talked silently for a few moments. I could hear my mother saying that life is too short to waste it with people who make you unhappy. And I’m sure she could hear me saying that life is too short to waste it alone. Where was that feeling of joy when you needed it?

“Thanks, Mom. I haven’t decided what I’m going to do yet, but I appreciate the support.”

She had one more tidbit of post-stroke wisdom: “Don’t complicate things, Steven. Keep it simple and do what makes you happy.”

Once upon a time happy meant gay. Now it means something you have to visit a shrink to discover. My mother was right though, happy is uncomplicated, it’s simple. Everything was so much easier when it was simpler. Even salad—iceberg lettuce and a tomato. Simple, delicious, basically healthy. Now you can add every type of vegetable, nut, dressing, and spice to your salad and what do you have? Lettuce in hiding. I took another deep breath and felt like I was closer to turning my life into a happy salad.