Between Boyfriends (6 page)

“Do you know what just happened?” Flynn asked.

“Anjanette picked out the perfect pair of pumps for me?” I guessed.

“No! You went thirty minutes without thinking about Frank,” Flynn said.

“Excuse me, Maureen McGovern, can you read my mind?” I asked.

“Stop joking, Superman, I’m serious.”

I didn’t want to get serious, but I also didn’t want to contradict Flynn. As a producer I had learned the art of multitasking and that’s what I had been doing. While laying out the groundwork for Gus’s landmark party, I was planning what I would say if Frank walked through the door.

“Wow, maybe I’m moving on,” I lied.

“Well, it’s a start,” Flynn said. “I guarantee you, Stevie, that by the time Gus’s party rolls around you’ll have a boyfriend who loves you almost as much as I do.”

Sometimes truth flows effortlessly into the air. When it does it’s important to catch it so you can remember it at a later date like when you’re just about to fall asleep and you’re feeling a little bit lonely. I mentally stored Flynn’s comment, certain that I would need to use it later that night.

I watched Flynn walk down the street for a moment, then continued on my way. It was a balmy night, which meant the streets were packed, but I felt like a ghost floating through the horde of happy-go-luckies. Every once in a while when one of the happy boys brushed against my shoulder, I thought I got a fleeting idea of what they felt like on the inside. Many of them were as depressed as I was. If it weren’t for the ringing of my cell phone, I would have walked the entire way home in my dismal reverie.

“Lindsay?”

“Stevie! Sebastian just called me about Gus’s party!” he exclaimed. “Disco rocks!”

“I thought you had plans tonight,” I said. “Where are you?”

“The sex party,” Lindsay confirmed. “When Sebastian called he was getting a blow job. How surprised was he when I said ‘So am I’?”

“How surprised am I that none of us can sustain a romantic relationship,” I said, obviously still connected to my dismal reverie.

“Oh, please! One underwear optional party doesn’t define who I am.”

“I know, I’m just in a bad mood.”

“Well, stop it!” Lindsay yelled. “No, not you! My friend. You keep doing what you’re doing.”

At this point I became aware of the thump, thump, thumping of house music and the clang, clang, clanging of chains and realized Lindsay was most likely spread-eagle in a sling. I could hear an occasional grunt and labored breathing so I could tell that he was also getting slung in the sling. Outside, the clouds rebelled and suddenly I was being slung by a fierce downpour. Darting in between pedestrians and partygoers, I tried to run alongside buildings to escape the raindrops but when another call came, I was already so drenched I couldn’t see clearly and inadvertently hit
CONFERENCE
instead of
HOLD
and wound up in a three-way conversation with Lindsay and my mother.

“Stevie!” my mother shouted.

“Stevie!” my friend shouted.

“Can you hear me now?” my mother shouted louder.

“Can you hear me now?” my friend shouted even louder.

“Ma!” I shouted. “Hold on, I have Lindsay on the line and I need to disconnect.”

“Lindsay!” my mother shouted again.

“Hello, Mrs. Ferrante!” Lindsay shouted back.

“Um, Lindsay, now’s not the time,” I whispered.

“How’ve you been, honey?” my mother rattled on. “Have you heard from Nancy Kerrigan lately? Is she still complaining?”

“Yes, and it’s still ‘Why me? Why me?’ I’ll give you ‘Why’—ahhh!”

“Lindsay!” I shouted, desperately trying to disconnect the call but unable to see the touchpad.

“I’m sorry, Lindsay, I forget how badly the skating world treated you. You’re always asking, ‘Why pewter? How could I lose?’”

“Who’s your daddy?” said the man fucking Lindsay.

I felt my ulcer exploding deep within my abdomen as I frantically started hitting buttons on my phone.

“Ma! Hang up and I’ll call you back.”

“I said, ‘Who’s your daddy?’” the man fucking Lindsay repeated.

“Steven,” my mother started, “I did not know Lindsay was adopted.”

“Ma! Would you please, for once, do as I say and hang up?”

“Tell him I’m very good with genealogy. I found out your father was the fourth cousin of Sophia Loren’s brother-in-law.”

“Oh God! Yes!” Lindsay cried.

“That’s right, honey!” my mother cried in reply. “Mama can help you too!”

Finally, the Lord helped me and I was able to shut off my phone so my mother could let Lindsay get fucked in peace. If only she would extend me the same courtesy, my life would be a little less complicated. Or would it?

Before I went to bed I made one final phone call. Once again I got Frank’s answering machine. I listened to his deep voice one more time, then turned off my cell phone, not bothering to worry whether or not Frank was on the other end screening his calls or getting a late-night cup at Starbucks or lurking in the shadows at Lindsay’s sex party. Wherever he was, he wasn’t in my life because he chose not to be there. Flynn was right; I was already surrounded by love. Once I realized that, it was easy to look at my life like an audience member watching a nonsensical Bollywood movie. I didn’t analyze it, I didn’t judge it, I simply accepted it for what it was.

T
hank God It’s Friday.
Catchphrase, Academy Award–winning motion picture, truth. Even though I’m not like most nine-to-fivers and I truly love my job, I still get that lightheaded feeling whenever I wake up on a Friday morning. It’s the feeling of possibility.

This Friday turned out to be one of those exceptional Fridays that come along once every six months or so. One of the actresses who recently graduated from her anorexia outpatient program brought in a dozen boxes of Krispy Kremes for breakfast, our ratings shot up another three-tenths of a point, and each scene was shot in one quick take, including the cliffhanger when Stroke Roger uttered his first word to Ramona.
Purloin.
Because Roger had always joked that Ramona stole his heart.

I got out early enough to fit in a quick workout before heading home to find my answering machine blinking madly and I knew one of those blinks had to be an invitation to party like it was a Friday in 1999. Sure enough the first message was from Gus imploring his mates to gather tonight at Marys and meet his latest fling. This would actually be the latest in a string of flings that had started almost a year ago when Gus determined to sow each and every one of his wild oats before turning forty. By the lustful sound of Gus’s voice on my machine this latest boy toy might prove to be the wildest oat of all.

The three other messages were from Flynn, Lindsay, and Sebastian, all telling me that we should meet at Marys at ten o’clock, with Sebastian adding that he had secured Splash for Gus’s birthday bash and that his Thursday night fuck buddy needed to switch to Wednesdays so if I knew of anyone looking for a regular Thursday hookup I should feel free to give them Sebastian’s number. I didn’t think our human resources department intended for our community bulletin board to be used as a networking opportunity for sex addicts so I shelved the idea of posting a notice at work. Sebastian might have to watch TV on Thursday nights like the rest of us.

I made a quick dinner out of leftover Chinese takeout while watching white-hot Anderson Cooper on cable and soon I was eating bok choy with a boner. It was time for porn.

From my favorite cable bottom-liner to my all-time favorite porn top, I watched Aiden Shaw plow the ass of Tag Adams, in some triple X-travaganza entitled
Perfect Fit.
Tag was the perfect poster boy for the conflicted gay bottom. His grunts of absolute delight were in total opposition to his facial expressions, which made it seem like he didn’t know if he could take another inch of Aiden’s huge uncut dick. All I knew was that my cock fit perfectly in my right hand and I was able to stroke myself to climax while my man Aiden pulled out and shot an incredibly powerful load (and I choose to believe it was an angry one, in response to Tag’s mixed messages) all over Tag’s stomach.

The beauty of imaginary porn playmates is that they are often the most satisfying. My pretend partner, who in most cases is Aiden, is always a consistent performer so I never have to feign interest. The extra beauty of these early evening imaginary play-dates is that I get sex out of the way so I can concentrate on initiating conversation and not inevitable copulation while cruising the bars. Masturbation, for me, is a survival technique.

Dressed in a vintage purple and gold Duran Duran T-shirt, low-rise jeans, and color-coordinated Pumas, I waltzed into Marys a few minutes after ten grinning like Simon Le Bon on a VH1-sponsored comeback tour and immediately saw Gus towering above some blond, barely-out-of-his-teens waif wearing a vintage Human League T-shirt. How dare he?

Gus introduced the waif as Brady, a bloke he’d met yesterday online in a chatroom for gay anglophiles. Before I could ask for proof that
straight
anglophiles exist, Brady launched into an animated monologue about the first time he laid eyes on Gus. He rhapsodized and gesticulated in a manner that would shame any anglophile, gay or straight, and told me how he and Gus were just supposed to have hot sex but wound up having hot sex plus stimulating conversation, breakfast, a quick lunch at Gus’s office (and by lunch Brady informed me that he meant blow job), dinner, more sex, and now a night at Marys.

“Are anglophiles allowed to be so spontaneous?” I queried.

“I’m really not an anglophile,” Brady confessed. “The accent just gives me a boner!”

Gus smiled hard and slapped Brady’s ass harder, which prompted me to get the beginnings of my own boner. Then Brady went on to confess that his parents had named him after their favorite sitcom family, which prompted me to lose my boner completely since
The Brady Bunch
was also
my
all-time favorite sitcom and I suddenly felt very, very old. I spied Gus’s index finger introducing itself to Brady’s ass-cleft and realized I was the only one bothered by the fact that nearly two decades of reruns separated us from this Brady boy. I firmly believe that chicken-love has its time and place, but I just couldn’t imagine how Gus could enjoy a blow job from a man named Brady without it conjuring up images of three very lovely girls with hair of gold. Perhaps
The Brady Bunch
never aired in Britain. Perhaps I got too emotionally invested in television as a child. Perhaps life is sometimes just as annoying as Cousin Oliver. Whatever the reason, I knew I would be thankful when Gus inevitably told Brady he had been canceled.

Luckily Lindsay has the comic timing of Ann B. Davis and was soon standing by my side, drink in hand, jabbering away about the details of his recent foray into the world of the sex party.

“I loved it!” Lindsay squealed. “I felt free, like a kid again.”

“You were in a sling, not a swing,” I corrected.

“You had your childhood playground,” he said, “I had mine.”

While ordering another round of drinks for us all, Lindsay announced that he had seen several familiar faces at the party, including an Academy Award Best Actor nominee who made his partners wear gold condoms so he could imagine he was being fucked with an Oscar.

“I assume he wanted to know what it’s like to be the former Mr. Hilary Swank,” Lindsay declared. “That lucky broad’s got his and hers Oscars. When they were married I bet they lay side by side to see who could take more of the phallic gold statuette.”

“Jodie Foster can do the same thing,” I reminded him.

“Do you really think Jodie does anything with her Oscars except stare at them and envy their slim, boyish hips?”

“Well, I’m sure many Academy Award winners have had sex with their Oscars. What about Barbra Streisand? She’s got two Oscars too,” I responded.

“Do not take the name of La Streisand in vain!”

“Bette Davis had two,” I said, feeling very knowledgeable in gay cinema all of a sudden. “And she was a wild one.”

“The Oscar reminded her of her uncle,” Lindsay reminded me. “Even she wasn’t kinky enough for that.”

“Oh, my God! Katharine Hepburn had four!” I shouted.

Lindsay’s face went white as the blood drained from his face and raced to his dick. “Just imagine the sex party possibilities,” he sighed.

Before I could imagine the endless possibilities of a group of horny, naked gay men and four Oscars, Flynn and Sebastian joined us at the bar.

“Hola, chicas!”
Sebastian cried, then noticing Brady he added, “And chiquitas.”

It looked like Sebastian was going to make a Chiquita hawk comment, but a remix of a remix of a Madonna classic blasted through the airwaves and he declared it was time to get into the groove.

One Madonna remix led to an Amber remix, which led to another musical attempt by Dolly Parton to have a hit song post– “9 to 5,” and soon an hour had passed. My lungs begged my body to stop moving, so I grabbed the boys and we huddled at the end of the U-shaped bar, which was manned by a strapping, hairless man-boy in a boy-sized jockstrap, and ordered ourselves a round of cosmos. Before the first sip, Brady took control of the conversation and announced that he was attending graphic design school and was looking for opportunities to perfect his craft.

“Isn’t that what you’re doing with Gus?” I asked, allowing myself a moment of bitchiness.

“No!” Brady squealed. “I’m letting Gus perfect his craft at being the perfect top with me!”

It sucks when your own bitchiness comes back to bitch-slap you in your face. The boys all saluted Gus’s quest for perfection and I felt like Dolly reading the latest, unkind
Billboard
charts.

“Maybe Brady can design the invitations for my upcoming birthday bash,” Gus suggested.

“We’re not throwing you a birthday bash!” Lindsay protested.

“You, Lindsay Wilde, are a gay liar,” Gus said. “And you know what happens to gay liars?”

“They grow up to become Scientologists?” Flynn suggested.

“Yes,” Gus answered. “But they also get spanked with an Olympic pewter medal.”

Before spittle could form at the edges of Lindsay’s mouth, Sebastian intervened and admitted that we were planning something special for Gus’s fortieth birthday, but would never divulge what that surprise was unless, of course, Gus fucked it out of each and every one of us, starting with Sebastian. Being the proper Brit that he is, Gus declined to go to such extremes, but he did allow his eyes to glance lasciviously at Sebastian’s extremely round ass, causing Brady to snuggle closer to Gus and hyperextend his own bulbous backside even farther away from his spine. Then, once he realized his friends had not forgotten his milestone, Gus showed that most improper of British emotions: joy.

“I can’t wait for the surprise!” Gus gushed. “But I have bad news for you boys.”

“Bad news has no place at your birthday surprise,” I replied.

“Bad news will not attend, and, unfortunately, neither will Wendolyn,” Gus said.

Flynn, Lindsay, Sebastian, and I didn’t dare look at each other, but gave each other imaginary high-fives.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” I lied. “You’re sure that there’s absolutely, positively, no chance in the entire whole wide world that Wendolyn will be able to attend?”

“Sorry, mate, she’ll be in Nepal with Richard Gere on my birthday weekend.”

“Your sister knows Richard Gere?” Brady asked.

“Yes, she hobnobs with the stars.”

“All of a sudden you’re even hotter than you were like five seconds ago.”

Gus and Brady started to make out with each other as if oblivious to our presence, so we decided it was time to give Daddy and Son some alone time. Almost instantly, Sebastian got sucked into the crowd by one of his many paramours, leaving the three of us alone to revel in our luck.

“I was so afraid we were going to have to invite psycho-sister!” I exclaimed.

“I know! Let’s tell Brady all about Ms. Wendolyn,” Lindsay suggested. “Guaranteed he’ll disappear quicker than my last crab infestation.”

“You still get crabs?” Flynn asked.

“Only when I have sex on the beach,” Lindsay replied. “We should find out if Brady’s last name starts with a
G
!”

We laughed hysterically, downing our cosmos like good homos, and wondered if Gus’s boy toy would still be so young, carefree, and gay once he found out the truth about Gus’s sister—that she is certifiably insane. And not just eccentric in that irrepressible Maggie Smithish sort of way, but undeniably nuts. It’s always difficult dealing with the mentally challenged, but the situation with Wendolyn is worse because Gus doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with how her brain works. To him, she’s his wacky baby sister. We think she’s missing a chromosome.

Among Wendolyn’s many symptoms is that she is mortally afraid of the letter
G.
Her real name is of course
Gwendolyn,
but she changed it before she hit her teens. It seems that when she was a little girl she got into her father’s collection of G-Man comics from the 1940s that was stored in the attic of their lovely country cottage. Gwendolyn was a shy child and preferred the solidarity of a stuffy attic to the overpopulation of a family outing, so while the rest of her family was enjoying a picnic on the rocky shore near the beach, Gwendolyn rummaged through the comics and spread them out in a circle around her until she was surrounded by the red, white, and blue uniformed G-Man, upholder of all things true and just. The floorboards of the attic, however, were not as strong and just couldn’t hold up Gwendolyn’s ample weight and she fell through. Actually, she only fell halfway through, as she got stuck right at the point where her size 35 waist bulged out over the wooden slats.

Clutching at the floor around her, Gwendolyn frantically tried to pull herself back up, but only succeeded in getting fists full of splinters and pulling the G-Man comics closer to her. Hysterical, she began to scream for help, but alas the family couldn’t hear her cries over their own laughter and the crashing of the waves. They went on frolicking about, assuming sensitive Gwendolyn needed some private time.

As night began to fall, the mice in the attic came out to play and exhibited the same interest in G-Man comics as Gwendolyn. Not as a way to spur the imagination, but a perfect place to poop—and Gwendolyn’s frizzy red hair the perfect place to nuzzle. When her family finally found her, they recall that she was maniacally pushing away the comics and the curious rodents screaming, “No
G!
No
G!
” And from that day forward Gwendolyn became Wendolyn and has been afraid to say any word with the letter
G
in it. Therefore, she refers to Gus as “Us” and he rationalizes her unique nickname for him as being symbolic of their close relationship. Long ago, I decided not to try to get Gus to accept his sister’s madness like I have accepted my mother’s, because I realize the British deem mental instability as weakness, while the Italians see it as standard.

I was about to raise my hand to order another round of cosmos and completely enter the world of drunken madness, when Lindsay yanked it and pointed it toward the dance floor.

“See that guy in the black Henley tank top?” Lindsay gasped.

“You mean Fuck Counter?” I announced.

“
He’s
Fuck Counter?” Flynn asked.