The Beary Best Holiday Party Ever (7 page)

“Why not?” he’d said—as long as other holidays were represented.

Most of the cakes and cookies
were
decorated for Christmas.

Ron was very pleased when Wyatt brought big sugar cookies decorated with pentacles. What surprised him was that he also brought cupcakes with Stars of David painted in the icing. It seemed he’d gotten some buddy of his to make them. Sadly, he’d rushed out moments later.

A cake with black, red, and green icing, which Ron found out was decorated for Kwanzaa, sold by the slice. Every single piece was bought.

Tommy, one of Billy’s close friends, brought gingerbread cookies cut in the shape of various-sized penises. Needless to say, those went fast too. Everyone wanted to eat some dick.

Many of the people who donated desserts solved the whole Christmas versus holiday problem by decorating with snowflakes and snowmen.

Paddy wasn’t there. He’d called to say he was going to be late, but he would take the responsibility of shutting everything down. It would be the first time he’d seen Paddy in a few weeks. They hadn’t got to the movies—not
The Man from U.N.C.L.E.
or
The Fantastic Four
or anything. Ron hadn’t called Paddy—he couldn’t. Paddy had called him a few times, but Ron had let the calls go right to voice mail twice, and two other times he’d made excuses. In retrospect, pretty lame ones.

Billy let him know that Paddy had finally started going to movies with someone Billy hadn’t seen before.

“Who?” Ron asked, despite himself.

“I don’t know.
Big
guy.” Billy shrugged. Scratched at his beard. Then quite abruptly, he pointed. “
Him
.”

“Huh?” Ron looked and saw Paddy had arrived. He wasn’t alone.

The guy was massive. He had to outweigh Ron by at least seventy pounds, if not eighty. Tall too, even taller than Ron’s own six feet. His hair was cut short, and he had a trim brown beard that looked almost reddish in the sunlight. It was clear who was in charge, though. Fatass was following Paddy as if he were on a leash, complete with adoring puppy-dog eyes.

Ron closed his eyes as a wave of guilt washed through him.

Fatass?

Had he
really
thought that? Really thought that word, even to himself?

God. I just devolved five years. What’s
wrong
with me?

Jealous?

No! No damned way! Why would I be jealous?

But in that moment, watching the two men walking toward him, Ron recognized the knots forming in his stomach for what they were.

Jealousy.

“Hey, Ron!” Paddy cried as he reached the table. He had dodged the entire holiday problem by avoiding the theme altogether. He was carrying a big platter of
very
chocolate cupcakes.

“
Yowza
,” Ron said, doing his best not to drool on them.

“Paddington!” said Billy, pushing his way over. “What the hell have you got there?”

Paddy grinned. “They’re called Death by Chocolate Cupcakes. But make sure you warn people. There’s Kahlúa in them.”

They looked
delicious
.

Paddy looked over the tables. “Is there room?”

“Sure!” Billy exclaimed. “We’ve been selling the hell out of our stuff. I think Ron’s giant painting”—he made a gesture over his shoulder—“is attracting people as they drive by.” He began to rearrange plates and platters and bowls, and soon there was indeed room.

“I’ve saved you a couple,” Paddy said, turning back to Ron. “I know you like my cake.”

I do?
“I do?”

Paddy looked over at his companion. “Wilbur, you got that bag for Ron?”

Wilbur? There was actually someone alive today named Wilbur?

Wilbur the pig?

Ron felt another wash of guilt.
What’s gotten into me?

But it was jealousy, of course. He saw no way to avoid the fact.

Wilbur grunted and handed Paddy a brown paper bag.

Paddy gave it to Ron. “Wilbur? This is Ron. Ron, Wilbur.”

The big guy made no move to shake Ron’s hand, so Ron just looked in the bag instead. Yes. There were two chocolate cupcakes inside. His mouth began to water.

“They look good,” he said.

“They’re the same thing you had at my place, only that time was a slice of cake, of course.”

Ron froze. “Oh.” Oh God. How could he have forgotten? He
had
had a slice of cake at Paddy’s. The
only
time he’d been to Paddy’s apartment. God.
God God God.

He’d wiped it from his memory. Or tried to. Now it all came back vividly. One bite of the superchocolaty dessert, and he’d thought he was going to have an orgasm.

It was as close to cumming as he’d gotten that night.

Wilbur was not looking at Ron in a friendly manner. He turned away. “How long are we going to be?” he very pointedly asked Paddy.

“Well, I
am
on the board. I warned you. I need to stay until we shut down. That’s going to be a couple hours. You told me you’d help—”

“No!” Ron blurted. “We’re okay.” He looked to the others behind the tables. “Right, guys?”

“Damn straight,” Jon said. “Which I’m not. I’ve gotten four phone numbers today already—”

Of course you have
, thought Ron.

“—so I’m not goin’ anywheres! I’m shooting for an even dozen.”

“Hail Mary, Mother of God, these cupcakes are divine!” That was Gary, wiping chocolate icing from his plump face. “Yeah, yeah. We’re
fine
.”

“They’re frigging awesome!” Billy added.

Everyone laughed.

“You sure?” Paddy said, and he looked up at his big… friend.

“Yes,” Ron assured him. Because he couldn’t watch the two of them for the next couple of hours.
Couldn’t.
And it wasn’t as if he could leave.

Why do you think my ass is fat and his is fine?

 “Cool,” said Wilbur. “Then let’s go to camp.”

“Camp?” asked Billy, scratching his beard.

Paddy nodded. “Yeah. Wilbur wants to go to Camp Sanctuary for the day.”

Ron’s throat closed, and he had to remind himself to breathe. The reason gay men went to Camp Sanctuary for the day was to get naked and go swimming—and immediately he saw Paddy’s naked body in his mind. But this time in the bright sunlight. He tried not to imagine Wilbur the same way.

“W-Well, go, then,” he somehow, miraculously, said. “You t-two have fun.”

Paddy shrugged. “If you’re sure.”

“Of course I’m sure,” Ron said, amazed that he sounded like he meant it.

“Okay.” He leaned over the table and hugged Ron, who gave a perfunctory hug back. He couldn’t let himself do more. Then Paddy hugged the rest, and after giving Ron a long look, he and Wilbur walked away.

“Wilbur’s ass is much fatter than mine.”

“Boy,” Gary said. “You got it
so
bad.”

Ron jumped.

“That was
so
catty.”

“What was?” Ron looked at his “Communications Queen” in confusion.

“That remark about Wilbur’s ass.”

Ron’s mouth fell open. “I said that out loud?”

“You sure as shit did,” Jon said, joining in. “And yeah, you got it
bad
.”

“What?”

“Don’t even pretend, missy,” said Billy, now putting his two cents in. “You are
so
in love with that boy.”

“
Who
?”

Gary rolled his eyes comically. “Who! Like I need to say.
Paddington
, of course.”

“I’m not in love with Paddy!” he objected.

But as soon as the words were out of his mouth he knew it was true.

Fuck.

I am in love with Padraic Brennan.

And didn’t that just suck green monkey dicks?

OCTOBER

T
HE
BOARD
,
plus a remarkable turnout of club members, spent the whole day painting. Any worries Ron had about it being a club project were banished quickly. Jon was right: people did like paint by numbers, and anyone could do it. And a lot of guys wanted to.

And a lot of guys
wanted
to.

It had started with the drawings, of course. Paddy had come over to Ron’s apartment and they shared ideas, and then Ron drew. Paddy spent a lot of time leaning over his shoulder while he did so, which wasn’t easy considering Paddy was shorter than him. It also put his crotch against Ron’s backside. At least once Ron thought he felt something hard.

As rude as it might have been, Ron found he couldn’t bring himself to ask about Wilbur, and thankfully Paddy didn’t volunteer any information.

He did four sketches in all. There was a bear with a scarf and knitted hat holding a snowball. One wearing a sweater with a Star of David on it, holding a long match and lighting a menorah. A companion piece was a bear wearing a big sweatshirt that would be painted in the Kwanzaa colors. Behind him was a kinara with seven candles, which Ron understood was kind of like a Kwanzaa version of a menorah. And finally a bear wearing a holly wreath on his head. Ron wrote “Happy Yule” on this bear’s sweatshirt. He and Paddy debated whether it should be a pentacle, but thought the lettering was better. There were far more Christian types in the club who might get bent out of shape over a symbol they didn’t understand. Happy Yule seemed safer.

The morning of the big painting event, Ron picked up the overhead projector his friend cheerfully loaned him again, while Paddy got people screwing the big pieces of plywood together. They were done by the time Ron got there, and then it was just projecting the pictures onto plywood set up against the walls and people climbing ladders to trace the projected lines with big black markers. The only thing Ron insisted on doing himself was the faces. He wanted them just right. Thankfully one of the members was a mechanic and owned his own garage or they might not have had a room big enough for the huge wooden “canvases.”

Then came the fun part. And everyone had a blast.

Ron drew numbers in various places on the plywood and handed out pieces of paper explaining what color of paint went with which number. He reinforced that by putting numbers on the gallon and half-gallon cans of paint, as well as providing pictures he’d colored.

Ron couldn’t believe how much fun they all had. Someone thoughtfully provided holiday music. Fortunately Paddy picked a different bear to paint. Unfortunately, whenever Ron looked his way, he was staring at Paddy’s butt. Everyone had to sit or be on hands and knees to paint, and Paddy elected the latter. Ron made sure that he was sitting.

He certainly didn’t want Paddy to look over and see his “fat ass.”

Interestingly, Wilbur didn’t show up for the great paint-off either.

Are they still seeing each other?
Ron wondered.

To reward themselves for a long day’s hard work, most of them decided to go to the big charity Halloween bash at the very same VFW hall where the club had decided not to have their party. Ron had kept it simple by wearing a red flannel shirt, jeans, and boots, and carrying a packaged roll of Brawny paper towels.

Several of them met up at Ron’s place. Gary was dressed as a chef, Harvey, a garden gnome. Billy, surprisingly, wasn’t wearing a dress, but instead came as the octopus-faced Davy Jones from
Pirates of the Caribbean
(he looked pretty awesome), and Jon showed off his upper body by wearing a Pan costume, complete with hooves. They took one car over to the party, and it was a good thing, too. Parking spaces were at a premium. The place was packed.

Which was good because it upped the fun quota quite a bit—and Ron found he really needed some fun. The big crowd was also good because Gary (acting wonderfully in his role as Communications Queen) had gotten the event to put up a few posters advertising The Beary Best Holiday Party Ever, as well as allowing them to pass out flyers. So they could go for business as well as pleasure.

And damn were there a lot of men! A lot of scantily clad men. Right off the bat, Ron saw a couple in matching jockstraps and T-shirts. One couple was dressed as an angel and a demon. Another came as a plug and an outlet. Yet another as Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Popeye and Olive Oyl made an appearance too.

God, there were a lot of couples!

He saw several gladiators, as well as a Spartacus. At least one Tarzan. A man wearing an orange prison jumpsuit. Vampires galore. Army men. A guy dressed up as the terrifying clown from
American Horror Story
. Another as Jessica Lange’s witch (short black dress and pointed hat) from the same show. Tons of drag queens. There were lots of superheroes, including Thor, Batman (although the man had chosen to wear the cowl, cape, and boots only, with a very abbreviated version of the trunks), Hulk (he was all painted green and wore a Lou Ferrigno fright wig and purple pants, extremely tight), Captain America, the Arrow, and a very hot bearish Wolverine.

Ron was on his third whiskey and Coke and was just building up the nerve to ask Wolverine for a dance when Paddy showed up.

Ron froze, drink halfway to his mouth.

He was wearing leather.

Paddy’s chest was crisscrossed with a metal-studded leather harness under his usual black bar vest. His eyes were covered by dark sunglasses under a leatherman’s cap, and his legs were clad in black leather chaps—and no jeans. Instead he was wearing a dark blue jockstrap.

He strode up to Ron as casually as if he wore such outfits every day. “Hey, Ron.”

Ron couldn’t talk.

He couldn’t move.

Except for his cock. That moved. That got hard. Fast.

“I said….”

“Yowza,” he finally managed.

“I like your costume,” Paddy said—his voice barely over a whisper.

“I thought you said you didn’t have… chaps.” It wasn’t “I like yours too,” but it was better than throwing himself into the man’s arms and licking his face.

“I didn’t,” Paddy said. “But I wanted to wear something that would get me… ah… some attention.”