Divas Las Vegas (11 page)

"And a drink."

"Oh, that goes without saying."

Napping was not done easily. For one, I was nervous about
my date with Marvin. And with Chris. For two, I was
hornier than hell. Of course, Justin was out like a light.
Sometimes I hated the bastard. But, then again, he had a
date with Jacques and I landed Marvin, so, for a change,
I had won. That put me in a better mood. Well, that and
the gin and tonic I concocted from our minifridge. I was
thinking about installing one of those when I got home.
Talk about convenience.

Once Justin awoke, we primped and preened, downed
our pre-date cocktails, and chatted benignly until six. Then,
Justin left to go meet Jacques and I waited, nervously, for
Marvin. Thank God he was prompt. Not a trait characteristic of most gay men, I find, especially yours truly.

Marvin looked yummy and tasted even better.

"Mmm," he said, after planting a deep, long wet one on
my eager lips. "I missed you." Always nice to hear, especially from a handsome man.

"Likewise," I responded, nibbling his ear.

"I have some good news for you," he said, returning the
favor on my ear.

"I know. I feel it thumping against my thigh."

"No, not that, though that's for you as well," he said
with a slight smirk. "I semi-found Mary."

Yikes. Again I had forgotten about that little detail. I
think I may have burned off one too many brain cells in the
past few years. Pretty soon, I'll be running completely off
my fat cells. Not a wonderful thought, but at least I have plenty of those. Hearing Marvin's words pushed me out of
horny mode and right into reconnaissance mode. Though
both, at that moment, consisted of me being rather rigid,
you know where.

I jumped up. I shouted a glorious "Yippee!" I did a minor
dance routine around Marvin. And then I realized exactly
what he had said.

"What do you mean, semi-found?" I asked, ceasing my
little jig and staring blankly at him.

"Ah, well, it seems that Mary, at the time of the taping,
was visiting her daughter, and left her daughter's address
with the folks at Antiques Roadshow. My friend remembers her very well. The daughter is quite the head turner.
Apparently, she resembles someone famous. Anyway, here,"
he said, handing me a slip of paper.

"You mean he actually gave you the daughter's address?"
I asked, surprised.

"Hmm, no, not exactly. Look at the address."

I did as he said. "Marvin, this says the name of this hotel.
What's going on?"

"She works here. Actually, she's the star of the show. A
sort of Vegas celebrity. Almost single-handedly keeps the
night club here afloat."

"Let me guess," I guessed. "She's the Patsy Cline impersonator, right?"

"Oh, so you've seen her already?"

"Nope, but I've heard of her talents. Mind if we catch
the show after dinner?"

"Hell, no. I love Patsy Cline. What gay man doesn't?"

I giggled. "Well, I know of one."

"They should take his card away."

"That's what I say, but this guy's a charter member."

We decided on dinner at a nice little Italian restaurant away
from the Strip and away from the throngs of vacationing
straight couples and families. Not an easy task, but there are
still places hidden away that attract mostly locals. We sat in
a booth in the back of the restaurant. It was dark and quiet,
and the air was ripe with desire. Well, maybe I'm exaggerating, but there was certainly some chemistry going on.

We ordered a nice bottle of red wine, some tasty appetizers, and wonderfully prepared pasta. Everything was
lovely, especially the company. The conversation centered
mostly on our backgrounds: upbringing, education, past
loves, past travel. You know, the usual first date mumbo
jumbo. And with each passing minute, I was growing more
and more fond of him. He was nice and easygoing and just
plain old normal-something I rarely encountered back in
San Francisco. I pictured a life ahead of us, mowing lawns
and visiting art galleries. Ah, average suburban bliss.

The mood was helped by the fact that he was sexier than
hell, that he had a well-paying steady job, that he seemed
to like me, and that his hand was gently stroking my inner
thigh. (Mostly that last stuff.) When he leaned in to kiss
me, my heart was racing, my lungs were expanding and
contracting wildly, my foot was tapping, my bladder was
pushing down relentlessly on my groin...

"Would you excuse me, Marvin? I need to use the restroom," I said, excusing myself. Sometimes your body can
be your worst enemy. Or your best friend. When I returned,
and shuffled my behind back into our booth, I peered down
and saw that Marvin had undone his fly and a rather large,
rather turgid penis was pointing up at me.

"Dessert," he informed, noticing my wide eyes.

"Ah, low in fat, high in protein," I commented, reaching
my hand over to gently stroke it, his flesh now pulsing in my
sweaty grasp.

"I think I'll have the same," he said, indicating that I
should follow suit.

And I cautiously and carefully did. Which was hard to do
without calling attention to myself, as my own member was
equally stiff. Luckily, my pants had a fly and not buttons,
and I deftly removed it without too much fanfare. So we
sat there stroking each other's man-meat and continued our
conversation. If the waiter noticed, he never let on. Not that
we cared by that point, anyway. I mean, once you have your
prick out in a restaurant, you're usually beyond worrying if
you'll get caught.

But when he reached across for the butter, that's when
I started to get nervous. It was one thing to have a boner
beneath the table. It was quite another thing to have it lubed
up with pats of Land 0' Lakes. Not that it was an unpleasant
feeling, mind you. Actually, it felt considerably smoother
than my usual bottle of Wet. Maybe there was a whole new
market for the butter people to conquer, I thought. The ads
could read "Great on any kind of meat, even your own."
Still, I would've preferred to be doing it lying in a nice kingsized bed, with the lights down low, and some nice romantic
music on the radio, not with busboys removing our dinner
plates and silverware. Call me old-fashioned.

When he reached over again and applied some to his
own thickening stiffy, I knew we had a problem.

"Um, can't this wait?" I suggested.

"It could, but we could always have a repeat later," he
replied, his breath quickened and raspy. The logic was sound,
though it lacked a certain romanticism I was hoping for.

"Okay, then, I'm ready when you are," I whispered, mere
seconds away from... From...

And then we both shot. At least we did it together. That's
sort of romantic, isn't it? Now the nasty part. Cleaning
up a lap full of butter and cum isn't easy with your standard dinner napkin. But we managed. Then we threw our napkins to the ground and cleaned up the remaining "mess"
using our shoes. Not exactly the afterglow I had expected
from our first time.

"That was hot," he whispered into my ear.

"That was something," I replied, not exactly sure how I
felt about it. But at least I wasn't horny anymore. That was
something.

We paid our bill and made a hasty retreat before our
little secret was discovered on the floor. I was picturing the
waiter picking up our napkins from beneath the table, and
in my mind I was singing that classic Parkay commercial,
"If you think it's butter, but it's not..."

"Well, I've never done that before," I said as we got into
his rental car.

"I know it would have been nicer alone and in bed, but I'd
been thinking about you all day and I couldn't wait any longer.
Do you know what it's like to be hard an entire day?"

Sadly, the answer to that was a resounding yes. Fortunately, he wanted the same thing I did, so I was starting
to feel better about what we had just done. And at least
he wanted me just as desperately as I wanted him. That's
always nice to hear.

"Want to do it again? I have some margarine in the glove
compartment," he said.

"Well-"

"Just Joking. Now let's go hear some Patsy!"

"Okay, but if there's any whipped cream on our daiquiris,
stay away from my lap."

We arrived back at my hotel just a few minutes before the
show started.

"What the hell are you two doing here?" Justin asked, as
Marvin and I grabbed two chairs and joined them.

"I have a surprise for you," I said, shushing him, as the
emcee walked on stage.

"What is it?" he whispered in my ear.

"Wait, you'll see in just a bit."

"Does it involve Mary?"

"Wait," I repeated, and held up a finger to indicate that
he'd see in just a minute.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage the
legendary Miss Patsy Cline," said the emcee, after a short
welcome to the show.

And lo and behold, you would have sworn that it was
actually Patsy. She came out in full Western gear, complete
with leather tassels around her long skirt and cuffs, and
pristine white cowboy boots that matched her smile. I had
goose bumps as she made her way around the stage, waving
at the huge group of people who had come to our pissant
hotel to see her. Jacques was beaming with pride at his
star performer. Justin looked less than enthused, but I was
beyond thrilled. And then she started to sing. It was as if
heaven had opened up its gates and the voice of Patsy was
coming through this woman's mouth. I was, needless to say,
flushed with bliss.

Justin leaned in and whispered, "I'll tell you what's
crazy. Spending fifty bucks to see this show, that's what's
crazy. Now tell me what the surprise is."

"Damn, you're a pain," I whispered back to him.

"Tell me. Tell me. Tell me. Where is Mary?"

I pointed to Patsy, who couldn't have sounded lovelier,
and said, "There you go."

"That is not Mary, you dumbass. I saw Mary. Mary is
old, dude. How much have you had to drink tonight? And
why do you smell like Country Crock and cum?"

Jacques was looking at us impatiently as we continued
to chat through the first song, but once you get Justin going
there's just no stopping him.

"Okay, fine, if I tell you, will you shut up?" I asked, also
wanting to hear the rest of the show in peace.

He nodded and crossed his heart. Which never meant
that much to me, as he had very little of one to swear on.

"That, my dear friend, is Mary's daughter and the key
to my vase."

"No foolin'?" he asked, looking at me, then over to
Jacques, then back at me. "Well, now, I don't think it's
gonna be too hard to get a personal introduction, do you?"

"Nope. Now let's enjoy the show."

"Whatever you say." He reached over to hold Jacques's
hand. That turned his frown upside down and got us one
teensy step closer to Mary.

The rest of the show was wonderful, but the showstopper was Patsy Cline, yet again, singing "Walkin' After
Midnight" and "I Fall to Pieces." The woman sounded like
an angel. By the time she was done, I was seriously thinking
of taking up the slide guitar and learning how to yodel. Too
bad I have no musical talent. (Well, any talent, really.)

"That was amazing," I said to Jacques, when the show
was over and the house lights had gone up.

"Yes, Jacques, thank you so much for that," Justin added,
forcing a smile on his face.

Judging from the way his fingers were digging into his
right leg throughout the show, I believe he was miserable
from beginning to end. But since the other leg had his date's
hand firmly planted on it, I figured he would end the evening
on a happy note, so I wasn't feeling too guilty about forcing
him on the date to begin with. Besides, it was for a good
cause.

"You're all very welcome. It was my pleasure. Would you
like to meet the star?" he asked, pushing all of us to the end
of our seats in anticipation.

"Yes, please," I responded eagerly.

"Then follow me," he said, and walked us over to a door
on the side of the stage.

Our little trio gladly followed. And, if you must know,

I was tickled pink about going backstage. Not just because
we were meeting Mary's daughter, but also because I'd
never been backstage before, anywhere. I felt so cool. So
hip. Like those people who wear black Armani suits and
sunglasses indoors. (Okay, I'm tragic. But I think we knew
that already.)

Jacques knocked on the dressing-room door, the one
with the star on it, just like in the movies, and announced,
"It's Jacques. May we come in?"

A few moments later, the door opened and Patsy was
standing before us in a robe. Her makeup was mostly gone
and her hair was pinned up where the wig had once been.
The aura had sadly gone with it. She was no longer the Patsy
of my dreams. Without the makeup and clothes, she barely
resembled the legend. Sadly, the thrill of backstage life was
ebbing fast.