Between Boyfriends (25 page)

“Gus, it might be my sudden emotional maturity, but I don’t think holding your hand while getting fucked is going to help my self-esteem.”

“It’s always about you, Steven, isn’t it?” Gus said, eyes twinkling.

“Very soon it will be.”

But before I could focus on me, I had to focus on my mother, who’d been released from the hospital. The Salvatore DeNuccio Towers was disquietingly quiet for a Saturday morning when we arrived. No one was milling about in the lobby area, the community room was vacant, and the hallway was empty. When we turned the corner, however, we saw Audrey waiting in front of my mother’s apartment.

“Audrey, what the hell are you doing camped out in front of my door?” my mother asked. “Did you lock yourself out again?”

Once more Audrey used her rasp-whispery voice. “I am here to tell you that everybody is in your apartment—we’re throwing you a surprise Welcome Home party!” Trixie started barking her approval until Renée grabbed her snout and told her to ssh. “But they wanted me to warn you in case the surprise gave you a heart attack on top of your stroke.”

My mother’s eyes welled up with tears and she turned to us. “This right here is the true meaning of friendship.”

I couldn’t agree more.

When we opened the door we saw that Audrey was not exaggerating when she said
everybody
was attending the Welcome Home party. Every single tenant was crammed inside my mother’s apartment underneath a huge W
E
L
OVE
Y
OU
, A
NJANETTE
banner. There were Rosemary and Lenny, of course; and Alberta and Antonia, the seventy-five-year-old Italian twins whom my mother had known since grade school and who were dressed in identical leopard print velour track suits; Ruthie the crazy paraplegic who won the talent competition at last year’s Miss Senior Secaucus beauty pageant by popping wheelies in her wheelchair while lip-syncing to Kanye West’s rap ode to Evel Knievel—“Touch the Sky”—and even my mother’s nemesis Paula D’Agostino, who looked like anger wrapped in a gabardine pantsuit.

As I watched my mother hold court among her peoples, I thanked God for her quick recovery. I could tell she was a bit shaky and I would have to keep a more watchful eye over her, but she would soon be on the road to being her old self again. I also thanked God for the blessing of friendship. Not just for my mother, but for me as well. We both might be single, but we had great friends. And just as my mother was listening to her friends coo and caw it was time I listened to my friends’ advice and not pooh-pooh their suggestions. It was time for me to go home and douche.

If I were a financially savvy gay I would buy stock in Fleet enemas, for every gay man has, at all times, a few bottles stashed away in his bathroom. I will spare you the details, but just know that when I started to dial Aiden Shaw’s phone number my colon had never been cleaner. My heart skipped a beat when numero uno porn star answered.

“Hallo,” said Aiden in a voice that suggested accented gravel.

“Aiden, it’s me, Steven, from Rainbows & Triangles.”

“Sexy Steven who stole my heart?”

My face flushed. “One and the same.”

“How are you, mate?”

“Single.”

“That’s brilliant!”

Then I decided to do what Flynn suggested and feel more and think less. “So I’m calling on that rain check. You want to come over and fuck me?”

“Baby, I’d love to.”

Bingo!

“But I’m back in the UK.”

Loser!

“May I take a rain check on the rain check?”

My heart and dick deflated. “No problem.”

“Tell you what. Why don’t you go out, find some hot man, take him back to your place and while he’s fucking your arse, put in one of my DVDs and imagine that it’s really me doing the fucking. It’ll be like practicing for the real thing.”

The blood poured back into both my heart and my dick. “Um, that sounds like a plan.”

“I’ll be back in New York in a few months. I’ll call you then.”

A few months!? I couldn’t believe that a few days before, I had had the chance to have mind-blowing sex with my sexual fantasy and I had chosen to have dinner with Brian instead. Since I was horned up and hosed out, I decided I should fulfill Aiden’s sexual fantasy and go out to hit the bars. Just as I was about to leave, however, I realized that I could bump into Brian and/or Rodrigo and as firm as I was in my belief that breaking up was the right thing to do, I wasn’t ready to confront either one of them just yet. But I simply couldn’t ignore the fact that I was very, very horny and an evening of self-pleasure would not cure my itch, so I decided to check out Manhunt to see if there was anyone online who resembled Aiden in the ways that were most important. After a few e-mails I turned off the computer and waited for Hank to arrive. If his dick was as big as the one in his pictures, my spleen would soon be having company.

The next day my mother noticed that I was walking funny. Were the doctors wrong and did the stroke screw up the censors in her brain? She was already quite blunt and often spoke without thinking, but could my mother turn into the real live version of Dorothy’s mother, Sophia, on
The Golden Girls?

“You have more bounce in your step. You’re happier, I can tell.”

“I am counting my blessings.”

“And you have many.”

“Yes, I do. Instead of focusing on what I lack, I am making a very conscious effort to be thankful for what’s mine.”

My mother gushed, “Like mother, like son.”

On the way to work the next morning I was still walking funny, but funny happy and hopeful, not funny like my ass was so stretched out and hyperextended that it hurt to take a step. The magic of Alexander’s Toy Department had returned. I was in charge of my life; I had chosen to break up with Brian and return to singlehood, I had chosen not to be one miserable half of a couple just because society likes people (gay and straight) to be paired up. I was a proud, gay American who did not have to settle.

The magic feeling grew stronger when I entered my office. I took a deep breath and imagined that my mother was holding my hand, forcing me to stop and appreciate the moment. On my desk was another rose and card from my secret admirer. The card read,
I think it’s time we meet.

I
f I hadn’t already been standing less than fifty feet from the set of the number four daytime drama in the country, I would have felt that I had just been thrust into the surreal, sudsalicious world of the great American soap opera. A world of extreme highs and lows with all the boring stuff in the middle cut out. In the past week I had dealt with the unexpected health emergency of a loved one, I unexpectedly broke up with my boyfriend, and now I was staring at yet another unexpected missive from a mysterious stranger. The one thing I could expect: the secret storm was approaching.

I deliberately tried to ignore the fact that I had a secret admirer because as addictive as I knew it could be to an audience, I did not want my life to be a potboiler with endless storylines that only got exciting and resolved during certain sweeps weeks in November, February, and May. I wanted my life to be viewed as a neat little episode, beautifully written, but with a plot that could be wrapped up in under an hour. But whatever network was running the serial of my life had a different idea. My plotline had just thickened.

Who would send me red roses and cryptic messages?

I examined the note card more closely to see if it prompted a memory. None emerged. The handwriting remained unfamiliar and at first glance appeared to be delicate calligraphy, but upon closer assessment was revealed to be merely swirly cursive. My secret admirer might be romantic, but he was lazy. Or was he a she? Could I be sending off hetero vibes without knowing it? I did love my pleated Dockers and there had been times when I didn’t wash my hands after peeing, but that was only when I peed in a very steady stream and didn’t get any on my fingers. Could that be enough to fool a straight woman? They are gullible creatures.

No! My storyline was already revolutionary enough, seeing that it uniquely focused on the romantic exploits of an attractive gay man, so it didn’t need to add a straight twist to the mix to make it breakthrough material. My secret admirer was definitely a man, but which man? It was time for me to be bold and once again adopt the persona of that Saturday morning super-heroine, Electra Woman, who incidentally was played by soap opera icon Deidre Hall of
Days of Our Lives
fame. But this time I needed backup; I had to find my very own Dyna Girl.

“Lourdes!” I shouted into my phone. “I need you!”

Within seconds the fiery Latina was in my office.

“¿Que pasa, jefe?”

“Are you up to playing junior detective?”

“Do I get to carry a piece, homoslice?”

“No. But I’ll buy you a slice of pepperoni pizza from Ray’s for lunch.”

“
Amiga,
you just bought yourself a South American sidekick.”

It was true. Her people would do anything for a little something spicy.

First, I made Lourdes put her hand on my Jack Spade bag and swore her to secrecy. Second, I filled her in on the details of my secret admirer. Third, I demanded she stop giggling. Fourth, I informed her that a secret admirer was not gayspeak for stalker. Fifth, I told her that from now on we would be known as Electra Woman and Dyna Girl. And sixth, I accepted her counterproposal that henceforth we be known as Electro Papi and Latyna Girl. Sometimes immigrants could teach.

“Electro Papi?” Lourdes said.

“Yes, Latyna Girl.”

“We have to get ourselves a catchphrase. We can’t be a dynamic duo without one.”

Would the teaching never end? The Dominican crime-fighter was right, we did need a catchphrase, but how to decide on one?

“I got it!
Beam me up, gayboy
!”

“Excuse me, but do I look geeky enough to be allowed entree to a Trekkie convention?”

“
Who loves ya, papi?
While you suck on a lollipop.”

“That’s a bit too homoerotic even for me.”

Her black eyes almost jumped out of their sockets like they had when she found out that Juanito, the hero of her favorite Mexican telenovela,
Los Crucifixiones de Juanito,
was not a poor orphan boy who had overcome poverty and polio to become Mexico City’s highest ranking lame bishop and sometime advisor to the Pope, but was actually Juanita, a wealthy post-op transsexual, who came over to Mexico from Palos Altos, Texas to escape her family of religious fanatics, hellbent on exposing the Catholic Church as the lame organization he/she deemed it to be. “How about
Watchootalkinbout, Homo?
”

“Perfect! You’re ethnic and I’m not exactly tall!”

Now that we had settled on a catchphrase we could begin our investigation. Lourdes as Latyna Girl flirted with Luther, the security guard whose teeth ranged in color from ash gray to gold, and found out that there had been no visitors to the set the night before or that morning. Next she flirted with Lorenzo in the mailroom, whose hair followed the same color spectrum as Luther’s teeth, but this time she had more success. She learned that a dozen roses had been delivered to the set early that morning.

“Who received them?”

“Brace yourself, Electro Papi. The roses went to Laraby.”

“¡Dios mio, no!”

Laraby couldn’t be my secret admirer, he was my boss. Plus, he had a lisp. I must find the head writer and demand a rewrite.

“I know how we can find out if Laraby is your
admirador secreto
,” Lourdes claimed.

“
¿Cómo
, Latyna Girl,
como?”

“Follow me, Papi.”

I followed Lourdes as she tiptoed down the hallway, her back pressed up against the wall, her index finger pressed to her lips. She dashed behind a flat that served as one of the walls to Regina’s penthouse set, then down a makeshift alleyway so narrow that we had to turn sideways in order to get through to the other end. Before exiting, we did a superheroinesque slo-mo look to the left, then one to the right to make sure we weren’t being watched. The few people who were dressing the set were so engrossed in their jobs we were able to dash unseen down the hallway until we came to Laraby’s office.

His door was open, but from our angle we couldn’t tell if he was inside. We each put an ear up against the wall, but could only hear silence. Lourdes dug into the back pocket of her one-size-too-small Lucky jeans and pulled out a slightly bruised Hershey’s Kiss. I know Latinos like their sugar, but I thought it odd she would satisfy a craving while on a stakeout. Then I remembered that Laraby had a wicked sweet tooth and had been known to interrupt taping if he could smell chocolate.

As if it were a tiny silver-wrapped grenade, Lourdes bit the paper string that wraps around every Hershey’s Kiss and pulled it out with her teeth. She then tossed the candy so it landed perfectly in the doorway of Laraby’s office. No response. There was no explosive roar from within the office indicating that he heard, saw, or smelled the chocolate decoy. Location Laraby was empty.

“Quickly, Electro Papi, quickly.”

We slinked into Laraby’s office and hardly needed X-ray vision to see the beautiful bouquet of red roses in a crystal vase displayed smack dab in the center of his oversized faux marble desk. Of course my first thought was, Why couldn’t
I
get a desk like that? But my second, more relevant, thought was, Why were there only eleven roses in the vase?

“Latyna Girl, count the roses.”

“¡Ay, Papi!
One’s missing.”

The beautiful bouquet was flawed. One of its robust red roses was missing, taken from its group and placed on my desk in an attempt to spread its message of love. The unlovely truth had to be that it was placed there by Laraby. If it were ten years ago, this storyline would have dragged on for weeks. Latyna Girl and I would have followed the scent of increasingly more complex clues; we would have crossed paths with eccentric day players, one of them most definitely played by a dwarf, perhaps even an albino dwarf; and we would have gone somewhere exotic on location. But times have changed and soap opera budgets have tightened, so this storyline was wrapped up quickly and we found our evidence before the opening credits rolled. The mystery of my secret admirer was resolved and while the audience might be titillated by this plot twist, I was horrified.

“Are rosessss sssso beautiful becausssse they’re the ssssymbol of love? Or are they the ssssymbol of love becausssse they’re sssso beautiful?”

Laraby stared at us from the hallway and while he waited for our response to his lispy riddle, he popped the Hershey’s Kiss in his mouth. My secret admirer was a pasty effete who would eat stray chocolate found on the ground.

“¿Qué pasa, Papi?”
Lourdes whispered to me. “You look pale.”

I took a ten spot out of my wallet and stuffed it into Lourdes’s hand. “You go have that pizza, Latyna Girl. You earned it.”

Before my faithful sidekick left she turned to Laraby and said, “You take good care of my papi.” It was close-up worthy.

Laraby looked confused…or was he faking it? “I’ll never undersssstand the minoritiessss.”

Once Lourdes was gone Laraby closed the door and walked toward me. I instinctively moved in the opposite direction. He kept walking and so did I, so we appeared to be playing a very slow version of musical chairs around his desk.

“I’m glad you ssssaw the flowerssss, Ssssteven.”

“Before you say another word Laraby, I must insist you stop the lisping.”

His stare intensified. “As you wish. I don’t need a speech impediment for the world to see that I’m gay.”

“No, Laraby, your gayness speaks volumes without special effects.”

Laraby beamed coquettishly, but then something interesting happened. His coquetry grew into confidence. This was a new, stronger Laraby. “These simple, yet exquisite roses mark a new era in my life.”

No matter how catty I had to get, I had to break him. “I’m glad that you’ve decided to start a new diet.”

It didn’t work. “Better than that! As that prophetic nutritionist and one-time
General Hospital
contract player Richard Simmons once suggested, I’ve decided to Live-it.”

Self-assurance was an admirable trait, but right now I wanted the old insecure, stuttering Laraby to magically appear. Obviously the writers had decided to take his character in a new direction. Damn the regime change!

“Ever since Loretta forced me to step out from the darkness of my closet my life has bloomed like one of these delicate, yet muscular, roses. I’m happier, I’m not stuttering any longer.”

“I-I-I hadn’t noticed.”

Laraby didn’t stop moving nor could he stop talking. “And the show has gone up two more points in the ratings thanks to
Soap Opera Digest
’s in-depth cover story on Loretta in which I was mentioned as ‘one of Miss Larson’s cadre of homosexual supporters and close friends.’ They called me
homosexual
, Steven…in print! I’m having that page framed and placed on that wall behind you. What this all means is that I am out, proud, and ready to revel in the man-to-man love that is my right as a homo
Homo sapiens.
These flowers are a thank-you to Loretta for changing my world. I’ll hand-deliver them to her after we finish taping.”

I couldn’t take the suspense any longer. “Why are there only eleven roses?”

Laraby finally stopped moving. He stared at me and although I tried to look away I knew it would make a better shot if I stared back at him and so I did. It was a well-produced scene and I could hear in the back of my mind, softly at first, one note of music build until it became an ominous sound.

“As a symbol of my love I sent the most beautiful rose to a man. A man I have been interested in for a very long time. I’m not sure if that man is interested in me, but I had to make a gesture. I told that man I think it’s time we meet. What do you think that man will say, Steven?”

“Watchootalkinbout, Homo?” I love when a catchphrase actually fits neatly into the dialogue.

“Do you think he will respond with a romantic gesture of his own?” Laraby asked, then gasped as his puppy dog eyes grew teary and he clutched a recently manicured hand to his throat. “Do you think he will send me a box of chocolate?”

Like sands through the hourglass, Laraby inched, one step at a time, toward me, and every inch of my body wanted to move away, but that would have put me out of frame. Remarkably, I didn’t flinch when he touched my arm. “Do you think my sweet will send me a sweet?”

The perspiration that began in my armpits was now speeding down my arms and the sides of my chest. I shivered. “What’s wrong, Steven? Your hands are like ice,” Laraby said. “Do you need me to warm you up?”

“Uh, uh…my mother’s had a stroke!”

“Another one?!”

“No, but I think I’m getting sympathetic pains. I have to go.”

I couldn’t take it any longer. I wrenched myself from Laraby’s hold and made a quick ungraceful exit. It was an awkward end to the scene, but the dazed expression on Laraby’s face would make for a good cutaway. The boys in the control room would be pleased. I, however, needed a jolt of Starbucks and some company, so I called the only person I knew who would be free in the middle of a workday.

“Lindsay, what the hell am I going to do?”

“You’re going to Iceland.”

I tilted my head and raised my eyebrows much in the same way that Alexis did when Fallon came back to the Carrington mansion with bigger boobs and a British accent. “Don’t you think relocating to the Arctic Circle is a bit drastic?”

“Just for the weekend.”

I took a long, comforting sip of my SU and once again adopted what could become my trademark catchphrase. “Watchootalkinbout, Homo?”

Lindsay explained that he had just been asked to skate in a by-invitation-only professional figure skating competition that weekend in Reykjavik, Iceland and that I should join him as one of his people. “They sent me two first-class tickets and since Fuck Counter is part of my very colorful past, I want you to come with me.” I was intrigued, but I couldn’t accept. “I have a sick mother to attend to.”

“The same mother who you said was laughing it up with the crones at her welcome back party like virgins getting ready for their first panty raid? Listen, your brother and Renée will be there and the doctors said she was going to be fine. Nothing bad will happen if you go out of town for a few days.”