Between Boyfriends (5 page)

“What if Frank’s there?” I asked.

“You can finally have sex with him.”

“I want more than sex with Frank.”

“Then what a perfect setting to discover if Frank is the right guy for you,” Lindsay rationalized. “Surrounded by a hundred hot, sweaty, horny men, you and Frank choose each other. If that’s not everlasting love, Stevie boy, I don’t know what is.”

“I can’t,” I said finally.

“Why not?” Lindsay said fitfully.

“Because I’d feel awkward and stupid if the next time I see Frank I’m standing butt naked with lube on my dick.”

“Wear a jock.”

“Lindsay, you don’t understand,” I replied. “And besides, if you’re going to a sex party tonight why are you eating lunch? You know your digestive tract is unreliable.”

“I was only going to lend my support to Rudy and sample the bar,” Lindsay explained. “I hear they have a drink called a Michelle Kwantreau. Served on ice, of course.”

“Of course. Well, you enjoy sipping Michelle, I have to put out some fires here.”

“Steven, don’t look so sad,” Lindsay said. “I will ask every man at the party if his name is Frank. And if I find him I will fuck his brains out for not returning your calls. Because even though I’m a bottom, I’m tops with my friends.”

“You’re also an asshole.”

“At least I’m a clean one.”

Lindsay gave me a surprisingly supportive hug and waltzed out of the studio waving to the cameramen and the lesbian manning the Kraft food table as if he’d just shot his last episode after an incredible thirty-year run. With charm like that it was certain that tonight Lindsay’s asshole would be as popular as it would be clean.

The rest of my work day became a logistical nightmare. I was forced to meet with the director and the writing team and together we decided to extend Lucas and Lorna’s scene to include Lucas’s emotional fall to the ground. Lorna, as Ramona, would later explain that Lucas’s character, Roger, had suffered a mild stroke brought about by the emotional confrontation. This way they could exploit Lucas’s true pain, plus explain his damaged eye if it never returned to its original state. Unfortunately, this also meant that we had to bandage the face of one of the extras to play Stroke Roger, turn all of Lorna’s dialogue into monologues, and still shoot the rest of the script, which included a dream sequence in a Las Vegas casino, the pregnant nun going into labor in a secluded cave, and the blind obstetrician trying to find his way out of a cornfield maze after being lured there by none other than Rodney, the homicidal physician. It was just a typical day in Wonderland.

After work, I decided to pay Lucas a visit in the hospital. It was, after all, my duty as producer, but more importantly, I had a variety show to cast. My actions could be judged as selfish, but anyone who has ever fallen victim to the wrath of Anjanette Ferrante would understand and temper their judgment with mercy.

Like most things on the Upper East Side, Mount Sinai Hospital was devoid of any personality. It was a commanding structure and a powerful presence, but left little impression once you hopped on the 6 train and fled downtown. There was a reason that most gay men never strayed anywhere north of East 90th Street except for a quick visit to a sick friend or the occasional desperate hookup with a bi-curious married man.

As I entered Lucas’s hospital room, I thought that either the network is doing something right or I’m doing something wrong, because his room was almost as large as my apartment—and furnished with more flair. He was propped up in bed surrounded by a smorgasbord of flora with a bandage covering his eye, watching a rerun of
Will & Grace.
I wondered if he was watching it out of professional curiosity or personal connection.

“Hi, Lucas,” I said. “It’s me, Steven.”

Lucas turned and when he saw me his one good eye widened with surprise.

“Hey, Steven, I can’t believe you came to see me.”

“It’s what they teach in Producing 101,” I replied. “Always visit sick employees.”

“Well, that’s very thoughtful of you,” he said, forming those award-winning lips into a genuine smile. “Thanks.”

I put my cactus plant, which had seemed quirky when I bought it, next to a gorgeous spray of yellow roses and daffodils. Bending over a bit more than necessary, I was able to read the gift card attached to the yellow floral arrangement:
With one eye or two, you’re still the sexiest man alive. Feel better. Love, M.
If that card had been sent to me,
M
would probably have stood for
Mother,
but that’s an issue for me and my therapist. If I could find out who
M
stood for in Lucas’s life, I would know if Lorna was telling the truth or setting me up for a fall. Being Italian, subtlety is not my forte, so I asked him point-blank.

“Who’s M?”

“An ex.”

“M’s an ex?”

“Yup.”

“Sounds like M wants to be an ex-ex.”

“For some time now.”

“So will M get…
its
wish?”

My choice of third-person pronoun did not escape Lucas. He might have been visually impaired, but he wasn’t stupid. As he stared at me with one gorgeous blue eye, I thought there was subtext underneath that gaze, but it could have been the side effects of the Percodan.

“I think the real question is will I get mine.”

Another smile, another intent one-eyed stare, another insipid plot twist involving Jack, Karen and a leaking fire hydrant.

“What wish would that be?” I asked, forcing my voice not to crack.

“Lorna phoned earlier and said you might have a proposition for me,” he replied. “One that
sings
with opportunity.”

It was my turn to catch the clever turn of phrase. So, Lorna had called Lucas to alert him that I might offer him the chance to star in the biggest show Secaucus has ever seen. That’s why he was acting so coy and demure. It wasn’t the Percodan, it was ambition.

“Can you sing?” I asked.

Like every wannabe starlet, from the little girl who wears her mother’s false eyelashes and dances on her dining room table to the businessman who squeezes in tap lessons between meetings, Lucas answered my question the only way he knew how, by channeling Ethel Merman and singing the chorus of “There’s No Business Like Show Business.” It was a stirring rendition and Lucas displayed a powerful belting ability and the hint of a lovely vibrato. Moreover, I really didn’t have the stamina to search for another star so I told Lucas the job was his.

“Thank you, Steven, this is the break I’ve been looking for,” he effused.

“Let’s see if you thank me after you’ve met my mother,” I said.

“She can’t be nearly as bad as the narcissistic drunk who reared me,” he confided.

I flushed. Even if Lucas wasn’t gay, maybe we did have something else in common: we were the products of questionable parenting.

“I owe you one, Steven.”

“I was counting on it.”

On my three-block walk to the subway I noticed not one, not two, but four Starbucks, which was quite a high concentration of retail outlets even for the Queen of Caffeine. I took it as a sign and decided to pop into a certain Starbucks in Chelsea that held fond memories for me. But when I got close to the door my optimism waned. Was I so lonely that I clung to the possibility that a chance encounter with a stranger in Starbucks was meant to be important and life changing—when it was more likely just a random footnote in a lifetime of romantic disappointments? Before I could answer, the bad Hindi movie that was my day provided yet another scene change as another friend popped up unexpectedly. Looking through the window, I saw Flynn surveying the room like a Connecticut housewife at a rival’s dinner party. When he caught my eye, he beckoned. The next thing I knew I was sitting across from Flynn drinking my SU in the exact same seat I had occupied a few days earlier when I thought my love life was about to take off.

“What are you doing here?” we asked each other simultaneously.

“You first,” I said, not completely willing to reveal my true intentions.

“I thought I might find Frank,” Flynn admitted.

“Me too!” I squealed, ignoring my intent.

In a tone remarkably free of pity, Flynn explained that he was concerned about me and thought it might help if he stalked the Starbucks customers in case a certain dark-haired regular-looking guy walked in alone looking for someone. I was touched by Flynn’s concern, but also felt foolish. Perhaps my behavior was a by-product of my job: it’s easy to blow things out of proportion when you’re accustomed to people regularly coming back from the dead or marrying three weeks after a first hello. Evidently, I had begun to live my life in the exaggerated terms of soap opera. The truth was, I could remain seated for the next three days and Frank wouldn’t waltz through the Starbucks doors accompanied by his own personal theme music and soft lighting.

“I can’t make any excuses,” I said. “Clearly, Frank’s not interested.”

“How does that make you feel?” Flynn asked.

I thought about it for a moment and realized I was feeling lots of conflicting emotions, but one rose to the surface with more strength and speed than the others.

“Sad.”

Flynn grabbed my hand and looked me right in the eye.

“Well, get the fuck over it already.”

A little bit of Starbucks came out through my nose as I snorted in response and even though the sadness didn’t dissipate completely, a familiar happiness was growing. If I didn’t have a new boyfriend, at least I had an old friend to keep me company. Two seconds later and that number doubled, as our mutual second-tier friend, Sebastian Santiago-St. Clare, appeared and plopped down beside us.

“Hola, señoritas,”
Sebastian purred. “Are you two fucking again?”

Flynn and I let go of each other’s hands and pishawed all over Sebastian’s ludicrous accusation. We should have expected such a comment since everything about Sebastian was ludicrous. If he were to file his taxes tomorrow, he would have to list college Spanish professor, fitness model, masseur, and dance instructor as his jobs. He was gorgeous, trilingual, and extremely intelligent, but also self-involved, twenty-something, and borderline sociopathic, so it was only possible to take him in small doses. Sebastian was a living, breathing recreational drug.

“I thought for a moment that the late Carl Sagan was actually right and I had stepped through a time tunnel,” Sebastian sneered. This, while sipping a double docchio.

“We were just having an after-school special moment,” Flynn explained.

“You and your TV references,” Sebastian snapped. “You boys need to get out in the natural light more often. Cathode ray tubes create lines on the face, and trust me, neither one of you needs any more lines.”

Flynn and I forced separate, though similar, smiles to appear on our lined faces; Sebastian was perilously close to receiving a social pink slip. But Sebastian could, as the Italians might say, turn from prick to paisan in the flick of a wrist, so it was no surprise that his next comment made us jump for joy instead of the exit.

“I have the greatest idea for Gus’s fortieth birthday,” Sebastian exclaimed. “Incidentally, can I just say that I pray to my spirit guides every night that when I turn forty I look as hot as Gussie Gus. Anyway, I propose we
celebrate
Gus’s age and not run from it like so many scary Marys do. Let’s cuddle up to his youth and throw a roller boogie party at Splash.”

For the second time that night Flynn clasped my hand. “That’s discotabulous!” he shrieked.

“We’ll be like Steve Guttenberg in the opening credits of
Can’t Stop the Music
,” Sebastian ’splained in a Spanish accent that he only employed when he was truly excited. “Buff, carefree, and so very, very gay. I think Gus’ll go for it.”

“He’ll love it,” I said. “And who would scoff at the chance to wear a tight midriff T-shirt and daisy dukes in public without being puked on by the fashion police?”

“Then it’s settled,” Sebastian declared.

It was decided that since Sebastian’s Thursday night fuck buddy did PR for Splash, he would handle booking the party, Flynn would deal with food and alcohol, and Lindsay would steer the decorations committee because history had taught us that he would redecorate whatever decorations were put up anyway. I, being the most organized, would put together the guest list and send out the invites.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, boys, I gotta run,” Sebastian announced, downing the last of his double-D. “I’m late for my Tuesday night blow job.”

“Oh, is it Tuesday already?” I queried.

“Time to be the highlight of some lonely queen’s week,” Sebastian declared. “I’ll be free in an hour if you guys want to be rounds two and three.”

We watched Sebastian’s denim-swathed ass wiggle out of Starbucks and we were confronted with the gay man’s age-old dilemma—sometimes the ass you wanted to boot out of your life was the same ass you wanted to rim. Sebastian, much more so than any of us, embraced his sexuality and didn’t care if he teetered on the edge of slutdom. Collectively, we tsk-tsked him; individually, we envied him.

Pushing X-rated thoughts from our minds, Flynn and I started to sketch out ideas for Gus’s party and soon we had come up with this: each guest had to come as a character from
Can’t Stop the Music
or a major icon from the disco era. Anticipating an influx of Donna Summers and Grace Joneses we decided to adapt a technique mastered by heterosexual women: the bridal registry, or what I refer to as the scam of the century. Along with the animated e-vite that we would create, we would include a list of appropriate disco era personalities that people could impersonate. Each time a guest chose a name it would disappear from the roster, thus ensuring that each guest would attend as a different disco star. To satisfy the popularity of such megastars as Donna and Grace we would allow them, and a few certain others, to have multiple listings that would reflect the range of their careers, such as Grace from her “Demolition Man” video and her grunt ’n’ glama role in
A View to a Kill,
and Donna as the whore of “Love to Love You Baby” and the paid whore of “Bad Girls.” I was filled with an emotion that took me higher when I decided I would break another one of my rules and don drag to attend the party as Samantha Sang. And then another emotion grounded me as I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I somehow always gave in to my mother’s wishes.