Between Boyfriends (22 page)

“Everything okay over here?” Flynn asked.

“Nothing another drink won’t cure,” I said.

“Now yer talkin’ baby,” Brian added and walked as straight as he could to the bar to get us another round of drinks. I watched him throw his arms around Wendolyn and Lenda and I prayed he wouldn’t order a gimlet.

I desperately wanted to pull Flynn off into a corner and ask for a reality check, but he and Lucas looked so happy and homoesque with their arms around each other I didn’t want to ruin the mood. Anyway, Lindsay beat me to it.

“Gold! Gold! That’s what I should’ve won in Norway! A fucking Olympic gold medal!”

This sudden outburst didn’t faze any of us as we’ve heard it all before, but Wendolyn was different. And when Lindsay shouted “Gold!” right in her face she screamed, “Bad letter! Bad letter!! Please mother of odd take the bad letter away!” As the patrons stared, perplexed but thoroughly entertained, Lenda picked her lady friend up off the floor and raced her out of the bar. If Gus had been American he might have raced after his sister or gotten upset with Lindsay for pushing her once again over the edge, but being British he just raised an eyebrow.

“I see Wendolyn’s had a bit too much of the sauce,” he said. “Mates, you remember Alex.”

“Of the ten-inch club,” Flynn said.

“Actually it’s ten and a quarter,” Alex responded.

“Ouch!”

“Speaking of taking ten-plus inches, has anyone seen Sebastian?” I asked.

“His sores cleared up so he decided to gather his fuck buddies and have an end of the year sex party,” Gus replied with complete nonchalance.

“I hear they’re serving Valtrex and Viagra as the hors d’oeuvres,” Lucas quipped.

“Not to change the subject, but Alex is studying political science at NYU grad school,” Gus explained. “And I thought we’d take a cue from him and end the year by discussing something important and relevant to the state of our world instead of always chattering on about sex and pop culture.”

“So you want us to enter the new year bored?” Flynn asked.

“Sod off, Flynn. I want us to discuss things that matter. For instance, Alex and I were just discussing on the dance floor which group has the better rationale to win their war—the Sunnis or the Shiites?”

“Are you serious?” I asked. “There is no answer to that question. That’s like asking who had the better career, Judy or Audrey Landers.”

“Steven! That’s exactly the type of bloody nonsense I’m talking about.”

“You’re absolutely right, Gus, it is nonsense,” Lucas agreed. “Everyone knows Audrey Landers was the star of that family.”

“How can you be so certain?” I asked.

“Audrey was a regular on
Dallas
for several seasons and was the Tits and Ass girl in
A Chorus Line: The Movie
.”

“But they did some fancy editing and cut her out of the big dance number.”

“That’s because she had the tits and the ass, but not the dance moves.”

“I guess you’re right, but Judy was in
BJ and the Bear
.”

“When a bear gets better billing, it’s safe to say your career isn’t successful.”

“Okay, Audrey wins. Let’s all raise our glasses in honor of Audrey.”

Gus pulled Alex closer to him. “I guess we can talk politics later while you’re fucking my arse again.”

“Oooh, another ten-inch night?” Flynn asked.

“Ten and a quarter,” Alex corrected.

Suddenly DJ Esqualito/Medwyn’s voice boomed over the loudspeakers, announcing that it was five minutes until midnight. Lindsay scrambled over to us holding the hand of some twink who he announced had spent a year as a skating gargoyle with-
Disney’s Hunchback on Ice,
and seconds later Rodrigo scrambled over to us to announce that Brian was hunched over a toilet puking.

How perfect! Brian had spent the evening spewing bile at me and now bile was spewing from him. For a moment I thought I should let Brian puke on his own, but then I realized he was still my boyfriend and as such it was my duty to comfort him in his time of need. When he was sober I would of course blame him for ruining our first New Year’s Eve together.

On my way to the bathroom DJ Esqualito/Medwyn stopped me and handed me a rose and a card. Some guy had asked him to give it to me just before midnight, then left.

“Did he give his name?” I asked.

“No, he said it was a secret.”

Frank, the Starbucks Regular, flickered in front of my eyes.

“Was he by any chance…drinking coffee?”

“No.”

“What did he look like?”

“He had a baseball cap on so I could hardly see his face. Just be happy that you have a secret admirer, eh, mate? It’s kinda sweet, no?”

Yes, it was kinda sweet. But since I was on the way to the bathroom to help my puking boyfriend, it was also kinda disturbing. What was more disturbing was seeing Brian on his knees in front of the toilet throwing up about a gallon of bourbon and a splash of lime juice. He leaned back to rest and saw me standing there holding a rose which of course he thought was for him.

“Mah baybee got me a rose. Thahtsshnice.”

Brian plucked the rose from my hands, sniffed it, and proceeded to throw up all over it. I opened the card and read the unfamiliar handwriting:
I’ve been thinking about you
. Could it be really be from Frank? Who else could be thinking about me? Thoughts of secret admirers were drowned out by the sound of the crowd counting down to midnight. While they cheered for the arrival of the new year I watched my rose swirl down the toilet bowl to the sewer below. Sitting in the stall, Brian wiped his mouth with some toilet paper and wished me a happy new year, and I managed a weak smile back. Happy Fucking New Year.

I spent the next few days exhausted from all the backpedaling. I didn’t want to admit that I was having serious problems in my relationship with Brian. I didn’t want to admit that the more I got to know him the more I didn’t like him, because I didn’t want this relationship to wind up like the rest. I was determined not to become the commitment-phobic gay guy I’d heard so much about, so I did the only thing I knew to make things better. I ignored all of Brian’s bad aspects, convinced myself there were rational explanations for everything he’d said and done, and plunged myself into my work.

It was perfect timing too, since this Monday was going to be a tougher one than usual: it marked the return of Loretta Larson. We were all curious to see how a few months in a rehab center might have changed our tempestuous diva. Would she be a kinder, gentler version of herself? Would she be sober? Would she at least be a better actress? When she sashayed onto the set—and I do mean sashay—we realized immediately that Loretta had indeed changed. Her hair was now a dark espresso and her nose no longer had those thin red veins crawling all over it. The most remarkable change, however, was that Loretta was smiling and the cameras weren’t even running. Laraby and I exchanged glances, and the thought occurred to me that the day might not be that bad after all. It was a premature thought.

Loretta stood in the middle of her palatial living room set and acted as if she were Gloria Swanson’s stand-in. “It’s so good to be back home. Why, everything’s as if I never said good-bye.”

“She never did say good-bye,” Laraby whispered. “She just spat at all of us.”

“I want to thank you all for standing by me during this most difficult time. And as I climb the twelve steps that so many others have climbed before me, I have decided to embrace my illness the way my fans have embraced me all these years.”

“Oh God, I need a drink,” Lourdes whispered from my other side.

“I am not going to cower in the shadows like a frightened lamb. I am stepping into the light like a proud lioness to share my story. Today I have invited the editors of
Soap Opera Digest
magazine to follow me around as I begin this new journey in my life. The journey to sobriety.”

“Steven, do you know what this means?!” Laraby shrieked.

“Loretta’s got herself another cover on the
Digest
?”

“Everyone’s going to know that daytime’s biggest star is nothing more than a drunken boozer! We cannot let that happen.”

“So we just ignore the truth of what Loretta’s gone through?”

“Yes! We keep up the story that she was visiting a sick uncle, has nursed him back to health, and is now able to return to work.”

I thought about my own personal situation. “I don’t know, Laraby. Maybe it’s time to tell the truth.”

“This is daytime television, Steven! Our audience doesn’t want the truth. They want to see the heiress transform the bad boy into the perfect husband, they want the heroine who tragically died on the operating table to miraculously come back from the dead, they want every good citizen to have an evil twin, they do not want to know that the woman they have adored for almost thirty years is nothing more than a bitter, foulmouthed alcoholic who’s tasted her own vomit more than a mother bird with ten chicks.”

“Well, when you put it that way…” I started.

“That’s the only way it can be put. Now I want you to stop this madness. Talk some sense into Loretta and get those magazine people out of here!”

“Shouldn’t you do it? Loretta likes you better.”

“I can’t,” Laraby whimpered. “I have to go to my office and cry.”

Maybe Laraby was right? Maybe the truth had no place in our job. It wasn’t like I was allowing honesty to fester in my personal life, why should I let it live in my professional world? I watched Loretta being photographed on the set; she had never looked happier. As producer, it was my job to destroy that happiness.

“Excuse me, Letitia, may I have a word with you?”

Letitia Dumonde was the long-standing editor-in-chief of
Soap Opera Digest
, but she looked more like the desperate, wannabe actress she really was. She had secretly screen-tested for nine different soap operas over the past fifteen years only to be told every time that she was a far better journalist than she was an actress. And she sucked at being a journalist. The only reason she was editor-in-chief was because she was awarded the title in the divorce from her first husband, the publisher.

“You’re gay, aren’t you?”

And here I thought I could pass. “I beg your pardon.”

“My first two husbands were gay, so I’ve learned to be more aware when it comes to the opposite sex.”

“Kudos to you, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”

“My current husband, I believe, is bisexual. He knits, but he also enjoys professional wrestling.”

“Does he knit those cute little wrestling trunks? You know, the one-pieces with the straps that always shift so you can see some nipple.”

“No, those he gets online.”

“News flash, honey—you’re three for three.”

“Damn! You gays are ruining my life!”

“Well, I hate to do further damage, but I have to ask you to leave the set.”

“But I’m conducting an interview with a star.”

“Without permission from the network…so you and your homosexual photographer need to vamoose.”

“Lloyd! You’re a homo?”

“You cannot ask me questions about my sexual orientation.”

“I’m surrounded by you people! Loretta!”

Loretta politely excused herself from Leon, the director, who was going over the day’s shooting schedule with her, and waltzed—and I do mean waltzed—over to me and Letitia.

“I am being forced to leave the premises by this gay man.”

“Why, Steven? I thought you were different from the others. I thought you recognized honesty.”

“I do recognize honesty, but I also recognize job security. And when my boss gives me a direct order I follow it through.”

“Laraby!” Loretta shrieked in a perfect mimic of her old drunken, shrewish self. “Laraby Simmonson, get your chicken-shit ass out here right now!”

Laraby stumbled out of his office wiping tears from his eyes. “Y-yes?”

“Why are you trying to suppress me, Laraby?”

“Why are you trying to destroy me!? You know the show can’t take any bad publicity.”

“You mean
you
can’t take any bad publicity. You’re so frightened of your own shadow that you refuse to allow anyone else to push back the lace curtains and let the sun shine in.”

“I just don’t want the world to know about your…problem.”

“Don’t whisper, Laraby! Everybody knows my name is Loretta Larson and I am an alcoholic.”

Some of the crew spontaneously applauded.

“Hear that, Laraby? That’s applause because they aren’t afraid of a character flaw. They understand people need a helping hand. Give me your hand, Laraby.”

I didn’t know where Loretta was going with this, but I knew she was going to make Laraby climb a few steps of his own.

“Now repeat after me,” Loretta said as she clutched Laraby’s hand. “My name is Laraby Simmonson.”

“My…name…is…Laraby…Simmonson…” Laraby repeated.

“And I am a flaming homosexual.”

“And I am a flaming homo…what? I am not!”

“Laraby, don’t fight it, take that first step.”

“Lots of straight men enjoy cooking and collecting antiques!”

“Just speak the truth, Laraby, it will set you free.”

“No! Let go of me!”

Laraby wasn’t the only one who wanted to let go. Poor homophobic Letitia also found herself in an extremely uncomfortable situation.

“Have all the straight men died?”

“Nope, they just went to gay heaven,” I declared.

“Loretta! I’m outta here.”

The rest of the month chugged along without too much drama. Loretta did wind up on the cover of
SOD,
in an issue that included an exclusive in-depth article about how she had battled the devil’s brew since she was a teenager growing up in Montana. She embellished a little of her past history and hid some of the uglier moments, but she basically told her truth. It was a brave thing to do and although the set was far from a love-in, it became a place that was a bit calmer and less volatile. Lourdes wasn’t thrilled by this change, but the network brass was ecstatic when
ITNC
shot up two full points in the ratings and maintained that increase going into the all-important February sweeps period.