All About Yves (9 page)
"But you always come upstairs to see me first,” Marco said.
"I didn't want to be rude to Yves,” Frazier said.
"Oh no,” Marco said, slamming a box of coasters down on the table. His voice rose. He'd had just about enough of this Yves and he couldn't hold back. “God forbid anyone is rude to
Yves
. He's so young and innocent, and so loyal and devoted. We wouldn't want to hurt
Yves's
feelings, would we?"
Frazier's eyes widened. “Yves is young and impressionable. He's like an innocent young buck afraid to cross the road, standing on the shoulder with wide eyes.” He spoke as if he were giving a sermon on the mount.
Marco laughed. “He's young and innocent all right, with a hard body, a huge dick, and a face without a wrinkle. And his skin is so smooth and soft, and he laughs at everything you say and he makes you feel strong and powerful.” He kicked a small footstool and crossed to the window on the other side of the room. “You're just dying to get into his pants, aren't you? Admit it, Frazier. I'll bet you get an erection just listening to him fawn all over you."
"I can't believe you're carrying on this way about Yves,” Frazier said. “It's ridiculous. You sound like one of those wooden characters from a sex scene in a bad gay novel."
"I saw the way you were looking at him,” Marco said. He clenched his fists again and looked into Frazier's eyes. “I saw the way you were laughing and joking. You love the attention from someone so young and handsome and you love the way he flatters you."
Frazier lifted his arms and shrugged. “We were only laughing about the fact that he didn't know Elton John's song,
Candle in the Wind,
was originally written for Marilyn Monroe. Yves thought it was written for Princess Diana."
Marco rolled his eyes and raised his voice. “Oh, that's just so
special
. I can just see Yves standing there, looking so naive. I'll bet he said he didn't even know who Marilyn Monroe was."
"Sorry, Marco,” Frazier said. “He's just a twenty-year-old boy. He didn't know Marilyn Monroe nearly as well as you knew her."
"How dare you?” Marco said. His voice snapped and his eyes bulged. “That's not funny and you know it. I'm thirty-five years old, not a hundred and thirty-five. And I don't need you to make me feel older than I already am."
"It
is
funny,” Frazier said. “This sick obsession you have with age is hysterical."
"There's nothing laughable about a male model getting older,” Marco said. He walked up to Frazier and pointed at him. He jabbed Frazier's chest with his finger a few times. “And while we're talking about obsessions, I'm sick and tired of the way sweet young Yves follows me around and mimics my every move. When he's not watching the way I walk, he's watching how I dress and how I hold a glass. I've. Fucking. Had it."
"He's just in awe of you,” Frazier said. “How can you be so sadistic to someone so gentle and decent and kind-hearted?"
"I've always managed to maintain a balance between my public persona and my private persona,” Marco said. “I intend to continue doing just that. There are certain things about my life I'm not willing to share with the public or anyone else, including some fucking little cunt named Yves."
"For example?"
"For example:
you
,” Marco said. “You're
my
partner,
my
lover, and
my
husband. I'm not allowing a sneaky little climber like Yves Marisano to stick his claws into your back so easily."
Frazier smiled and crossed to where Marco was standing. “I know this is when I'm supposed to reassure you and baby you. But you're not a teenager, Marco. You're almost a middle-aged man."
"Watch it Frazier,” Marco said. “I'm not joking.” He hated being called middle aged.
"Frankly, I resent the fact you'd even think I'm interested in taking advantage of a nice young man like Yves,” Frazier said. “I know you've always had to fight hard, but I'm not going to let you stick your vicious claws into me for no reason, and I'm not going to let you stick them into poor Yves either."
Marco took a deep breath and turned his back on Frazier. “What about
his
claws?” He spoke through clenched teeth.
"He doesn't even have claws yet,” Frazier said. “He's too young and sincere to even know how to defend himself against someone with your experience. He's just a star-struck kid who worships the ground you walk on. He's never made an inappropriate comment or advance to me. The only thing he ever talks about is how much he admires you and the fashion empire we've created. The fact that we're even arguing about this is insane."
Marco banged his fists on the bar. He tried to lower his voice, but he was too furious to do anything but shout. “So I guess I should just ignore everything and start taking those Prozac pills everyone else takes. Let me tell you one thing..."
"Marco,” Yves said, appearing in the doorway. “I checked on the canapes and everything in the kitchen is fine."
Marco took a deep breath and turned toward the living room doors. Yves was standing in the hall, with his fingers laced together and his head tilted to the side. He was smiling and his voice sounded feathery.
"Thank you, Yves,” Marco said, wondering whether or not Yves had heard them arguing. They didn't argue often, but when they did it was usually as passionate as when they made love.
"Would you like me to get you a drink, Marco?” Yves asked.
"Yes, Yves. I'll have a vodka martini, with an extra olive.” Though his voice was softer now, he still spoke with the same dismissive tone.
Frazier gave Marco a nasty look. “I'll get the drink,” he said. “Would you like anything to drink, Yves?” When he spoke to Yves, his voice was calm and gentle. He even smiled and tilted his head.
"A glass of chocolate milk,” Marco said, with a vicious campy tone he rarely used unless he was mocking something.
Frazier gave him another nasty look, and then smiled at Yves.
"I'd love a cosmopolitan,” Yves said. “I'm not much of a drinker, though. I usually just sip one drink all night.” Then he giggled and batted his eyelashes.
When Frazier headed out to the bar to make the drinks, Yves turned his back on Marco and walked into the entrance hall. Marco heard the front door open and close, then voices. Molly, Jasper, and an old friend, Edgar Dupree, had just arrived at the party. Marco heard Yves greet them at the door and insist on taking Molly's jacket to the master bedroom. When Molly tried to refuse, offering to take her own jacket, Yves smiled and told her he'd be more than happy to do it for her.
Marco took a deep breath and smoothed out his jacket, then went into the hall to greet his guests. Though his fists were still clenched and his face was still flushed from arguing with Frazier about Yves, he smiled as if he were on location shooting magazine photos.
He hugged Molly and kissed her on the cheek.
Molly smiled and said, “Yves looks wonderful tonight. He almost seems like a different young man than the one I found lurking outside the TV studio in the rain."
Marco frowned. “Yes, he does, doesn't he?” He wondered how his best friend could be so stupid.
"I think you found a real treasure,” Jasper said. “He's the most polite man I've ever met. And he seems so capable and trustworthy."
"Yes,” Marco said. “He's a real
treasure
. What more can I say?"
Molly's eyebrows rose. She knew Marco well enough to know when he was being sarcastic.
"He's very attractive, too,” Edgar Dupree said, rubbing his chubby palms together. Edgar spoke with a thick French accent. Although Edgar himself was over seventy, shaped like a beach ball, and almost completely bald, he owned one of the most successful modeling agencies in the world. He had an eye for good-looking young faces. And when the talent happened to be a young man, his eye was even sharper. “That boy has something."
"You can say that again, Edgar,” Marco said, rolling his eyes.
Marco looped his arm through Molly's and led them into the living room. On the way, Molly looked back at Jasper and tilted her head. She seemed to sense something was wrong. “Marco,” she said. “You've inspired me by taking Yves into your home the way you did."
"I'm glad you're so inspired,” Marco said, wishing he could kick Molly in the ass for bringing Yves back to his dressing room in the first place. If Molly had minded her own business, he wouldn't be dealing with this viper at all.
They settled in front of the coffee table near the fireplace and Edgar said, referring to Yves, “Will the nice young man be joining us for the party? He certainly is a nice addition to your staff, Marco."
"Yes,” Marco said. “I'm thinking of having him bronzed."
Before anyone else could comment on Marco's snide remark, Frazier walked back in with two drinks. He smiled at everyone and handed Marco a martini. Then he looked around and said, “Where's our boy?” He looked back and forth for Yves.
Another female guest entered, and when Edgar heard her voice he ran back into the hall to meet her.
Marco stirred his drink and said, “Our boy, if you're referring to Yves, will be down soon. He took Molly's jacket to the bedroom. Would you like to go and see if he needs your help? I sure he's always depended upon the kindness of strangers.” His voice trailed off with a fake Southern accent. He knew Frazier had referred to Yves as a boy just to piss him off. And it was working. Marco was ready to pour the entire drink right over Frazier's head.
Jasper smiled. “I have a feeling there's something going on, because Marco doesn't quote Tennessee Williams for nothing."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Jasper,” Marco said, drinking the entire martini in one fast gulp. Then he lowered his voice and gave Frazier a dirty look. “There's absolutely nothing going on."
Molly's eyes widened. “And he has the same look on his face Joan Crawford had right before she chopped down all the rose bushes in the movie
Mommie Dearest.
Did we miss something, or is the fun about to begin?"
Marco handed the empty martini glass to Frazier. He practically shoved it into Frazier's chest. Then he headed back to the bar for another drink. Before he left the room he turned to Molly. “Baby, I'm just getting started.” He didn't speak this way often; he was always aware of his actions in public. But he was so infuriated at the way Frazier was fawning all over Yves he felt like punching every piece of furniture in the house.
The other guests were beginning to arrive. On his way to the bar, Marco smiled and greeted a few people, speaking fast so he wouldn't get stuck in a long conversation. He knew how to put on a good act and he knew how to pretend to be happy. He'd been smiling for the cameras all his life. But when he ran into Harris Wolfe, he looked Harris up and down and frowned. Harris was wearing one of Frazier's tuxedo designs and his salt-and-pepper hair was spiked and combed up to a point at the top of his head. For a man Harris's age, this hairstyle had been a huge mistake. It only worked with men under thirty. On Harris, it looked as if he'd left the hairstylist's chair before the hairstylist had had a chance to finish the haircut.
Marco smirked and looked at Harris's head. “I
love
your hair,” he said. “It makes you look so young and butch.” This was a double shot. Not only did Harris's hair look ridiculous, but Harris had always been extremely effeminate.
Harris caught the dig; he wasn't stupid. “And I love your tuxedo,” he said. “I've loved it every single time I've seen you wear it in the past year.” He was making reference to the fact Marco had worn the suit more than a few times.
"It's nice to know I look just as wonderful as you do tonight,” Marco said, without missing a beat. He'd learned early how to survive in a world filled with snakes like Harris Wolfe. The secret was to never let them know they got to you. No matter how much it hurt, never let them know you care.
"I'm sure you remember my dear friend, Avi,” Harris said. He gestured to an attractive young man on his right.
"I doubt it, because I've never met him,” Marco said. He shook the young man's hand and smiled.
This Avi guy had to be at least twenty, a good forty years younger than Harris. Avi had streaked blond hair, a deep fake tan, and a rented tuxedo that looked a little too tight around the crotch. But this wasn't unusual. Harris Wolfe always traveled with young, impressionable men who were looking to get into modeling or acting. And they always had bulging crotches and big feet. Harris was old and decrepit and repulsive, but had influence. There were plenty of young men who were not too proud to pull down their pants for a toothless old codger like Harris Wolfe and close their eyes for a gum job. They turned a deaf ear to his effeminate voice and a blind eye to his limp wrist. They agreed with his twisted gay politics and his self-indulgent sob story as a gay man. And though Harris was the epitome of the worst gay stereotype, they didn't seem to mind at all. Unfortunately, the only talent these guys had was what they had hanging between their legs.
"Avi is a student at the New York Institute of Television, Acting, and Singing,” Harris said. “He's a very talented young man, indeed.” Harris's annoying lisp seemed more prominent that night.
Marco smiled. “I'm sure he is. And with impressive credits like those, I'm sure he'll go very far.” He was being sarcastic. He'd never heard of this acting school. It was probably one of those places in a walk-up in the East Village, run by a shifty, pushy type who offered trusting people unaccredited certificates of education that meant nothing.
Avi giggled. “I even have my own Facebook fan page and Twitter page,” he said, with pride. “I tweet on the hour. And I have Facebook events all the time to let my fans know what I'm doing. When I'm not doing all that, I work with my best girlfriend creating New Age gay greeting cards."
"How nice,” Marco said. His voice dropped this time. He was starting to feel a little sorry for the poor clueless bastard and he didn't want to be cruel. It wasn't fair to go after people who just didn't know any better and probably never would.