Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (2 page)

In any case, then it happened: he opened his mouth and spoke and, you guessed it, his purse fell out. Oh, sure, he had perfect pearly whites (caps, I was later to find out), his breath was minty and sweet, his eyes, from up close, were shockingly blue and stunningly intense, and, right on up to the point where he asked me for a cup of coffee, I could’ve sworn that my feet weren’t even touching the ground. There was only me and this man and the music. And life, dear friend, was really fucking good.

And then he spoke and the spell was broken. “Girl, if I don’t get a cup of coffee in the next few minutes, I’m gonna drop the fuck right on over. And you don’t want that on your conscience, do you, Precious?” Like I said, spell broken. Crushed. Stamped on and trampled to death.

“Sorry, sir, my section is full. If you’ll wait just a minute, I’m sure the hostess can get you your coffee,” I replied, icily, before turning away. Well, somewhat
chilly
, anyhow; I mean, he was still awfully pretty, if not rude and frightfully nelly. (Did I mention stunning? If not, he was. Stu-nning.)

But, as I turned to head on back to the world of the merely average, fate stepped in. Leapt in, really. Barged and pushed and shoved in. Because that’s when he grabbed my arm and asked, “What’s your name, Sugar?” Oh, I was quick on my feet that morning. My gayest gene kicked in and I answered in a deep, lush voice, “Secret, what’s yours?” If you don’t get that comeback, mid-nineties-dated as it now is, may I suggest you go out and purchase
Sexplosion
right this instant, ‘cause that’s a Grade-A, thinking on your feet answer in conjunction with the song that was playing at that very moment. And he got it, too, quick as wink, because his eyes twinkled and the slightest grin appeared on his devilishly handsome face, and he looked me deep in the eyes (here’s where the chills start) and he said, “Secret, I think I’ll wait until your section opens up a bit and you can get me that cup of coffee your pretty, little self.” And he turned and sacheted back to his six beau-hunk friends, leaving me quite breathless and dizzy. As the saying goes, he rocked my world, which thereon out would forever be at a noticeable tilt.

And, yes, he and his friends did stand around until I had room for all of them. And while the hostess gave them all cups of coffee, Dreamboat Andy waited until he was planted at a tight, little table meant for five and I poured him his steaming cup of java. It was to be the first of hundreds I was to serve him over the years and, needless to say, it was certainly the most memorable. Fateful, I’d go so far as to say.

Unfortunately for me, the restaurant stayed packed all the way through closing, and I only managed to catch snippets of the conversation emanating from the group of those beautiful seven men. Most of that consisted of who consumed what drugs and who went home with which trick: pretty standard stuff for Joe Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon, sad to say. Still, I’d gotten quite used to it all by then, even though I had yet to experience any of it firsthand. Of course, whenever Mister Universe opened his mouth, I managed to be nearby to hear it. Naturally, there were no surprises there. He was the crudest, rudest, snippiest, and bitchiest of the bunch. It was rather heartbreaking, really. If this was what it was like to be gay and popular and desired, then this was not what I wanted. (I know, I know, stop rolling your eyes up there; it was
exactly
what I wanted, just not how I wanted to be in order to get there. I think that’s one of those double-edged swords you hear talked about. Ouch. Band-Aid, please.)

Two hours later, apparently full and tiring from lack of sleep, the group started getting ready to leave. As for that, my feelings were divided. I mean, on the one hand, I was glad for this man to leave. He was truly one of the most arrogant and pretentious gay guys I’d ever served. On the other hand, well, you know what that hand is used for, right? Come on now, he was stunning, after all, and the thought that I might never see him again did kind of give me a pit in my stomach. Pathetic, I know, but, as I’ve said, I had little to no experience in the ways of gays. And here before me was my ideal, my prototype.

Then, as they got up to leave, guess who picked up the check? Yep, it was him. No wonder why they put up with him all morning, I figured. The other six staggered out the front door as he turned and came up to me with the cash. “Keep the change, Secret, and thanks for the coffee,” he said, looking me dead in the eye. (Yikes, there go those damn chills again) “And if you don’t have any plans this Saturday, I’m having a little get-together at my house at around ten. I wrote the address down on the check.” He turned around one more time before walking out the door, winked, and added, “Ciao, Precious,” and then promptly waved his goodbyes.
Boom
,
boom
went the pounding in my heart. And, no, the pounding lower down wasn’t much less noticeable. P.S., he left me a fifty dollar tip. What a fucking morning.

The rest of the day went by in a coffee-egg-ketchup-splattered blur. Thank goodness I was swamped, and didn’t have much time to think about what had just happened. But when I did, man, did it ever terrify the hell out of me. I mean, I was just invited to my first gay party by the most amazing looking man I’d ever seen, plus I was way more scared than happy at the prospect of mingling with this particular group of demigods. To be honest, I had absolutely nothing in common with them and couldn’t even begin to imagine what I could add to the conversations once I got there.

Well, live and learn my mom used to say. (No, not really, but she deserves credit for something. Raising me was no picnic, after all.) So I decided to make the best of it and I turned my frown upside down. Glass half-full. Hopefully with something strong and gin-and-tonicy.

When I finally made it home, I had a chance to look at what was written on the check. Lo and behold, my man had a name: William Astan. It was several months later, while I was doing the Jumble puzzle in
The Examiner
, that I realized what you get when you jumbled his last name... figure it out yet?... it’s Satan. Of course, by then it was way too late. Water under the Golden Gate Bridge. If I’d noticed this at the time I first read his name, would I have done anything differently? Nope. I must say, I have no regrets. It’s been quite a memorable and educational experience, really, and too much has happened to ever turn back. So onward and upward, or some such thing. Full steam ahead! (And batten down the fucking hatches, for goodness sake.)

First thing was first, though: shopping for the big event. William had, after all, given me fifty bucks. That and the other hundred I made in tips that day made for a reasonably nice wad to spend on an outfit and a new haircut. I mean, how much could a tight tee and jeans cost, right? Fuck my rent, I figured. (Hey, I was only twenty-one. Naiveté came easily.) But then, who knew that designer tops went for a minimum of forty bucks and jeans double that? Of course, if I had nothing to say come Saturday night, at least I would look nice standing there. The haircut, however, was trickier business.

Since officially coming out, I really didn’t have any gay friends. In college, as far as I knew, I didn’t know any gay people. And do you think moving to San Francisco made it any easier? It was like being in France and not being able to speak French. I could admire the beautiful surroundings, but I couldn’t communicate with the natives. Heck, I didn’t even know where to begin.

Well, thank goodness, that’s when Kiki swished into my life. Oh, and you must pronounce Kiki like you’re a twelve-year-old girl on lots of caffeine. I don’t know why, it just sounds better that way. Like screaming
yippy
with your hands flung in the air.

Kiki, you see, gave me my first haircut. I’d been in the city all of two months and was very nearly broke from having spent all my money on moving to San Francisco and paying first month’s rent, last month’s rent, and a down-payment on a studio apartment that just barely held me and my ratty, old futon. Still, I figured that a new coif would brighten my spirits, if not severely deplete my funds. Cut It Out, the salon, just happened to be down the street from where I lived, so I walked in, and, as luck would have it, Kiki had just had a last minute cancellation. And you know what it says in the Gay Bible, don’t you?
And a dresser of hair shall lead them out of the darkness and onto the path of enlightenment.
So it is written, so it shall come to pass.

“Darlin’, you must be new to this city, ‘cause I haven’t seen a do like that since about seventy-six or so. Don’t you know, disco is dead, Sugar, and that hair of yours should’ve been buried right along with it.” Those were Kiki’s first words to me, I swear it. And, yes, I was terrified of him. No gay man had so much as touched me, and here was this little wisp of a queen suddenly running his hands all through my hair. I was mortified. Honestly, I wish I’d died right along with disco. (God rest its soul. Amen.) But I was there, so I made the best of it. 

“Just do whatever you think looks best then,” I said, giving him carte blanche.

“Hon, you just leave it all up to Kiki, and you’ll be looking fine in no time.” And he went on to trim off almost all of my fine, long, wavy, brown hair until I fairly looked like a newly radiated cancer patient. What was left was just a bit all around and a spiky clump on top. This was not what I would call
looking my best
. “Welcome to 1996, Honey,” he said, when he was done. 

Welcome to Army boot camp
, I thought, but it came out as, “Looks great, thanks.” He smiled and gladly took my twenty. Maybe no one would notice, I prayed. And I could cover up all my mirrors. And avoid looking at the back of spoons.

“Sweetie, since you’re apparently new to Never, Never Land, what say you let this little Tinkerbelle take you out for a drink tonight? My treat. And I won’t take no for an answer, so you may as well just nod and say okay.” My brain was saying
NO!
, but my head was nodding yes. “And don’t you worry your pretty, little head, Sugar, ‘cause Kiki is very much the married housefrau.” Well, thank goodness for small miracles, because if he had made a pass at me… well, I don’t know what I would’ve done since no one
had
actually ever made a pass at me, but I’m sure I would’ve reacted badly. “Then it’s settled; meet me at my place at nine,” he commanded, while writing down his address.

I just kept nodding, having no idea what to say to the man that just completely butchered my hair and very nearly took my last twenty. Besides, I’ve always been told that whatever doesn’t kill you can only make you stronger. This little experience should’ve made me the next Sylvester Stallone, circa
Rambo
, I figured.

Still, I must tell you, in all honesty, I was just a little excited about my first outing with another gay man. Even if it wasn’t a date, and thank God this wasn’t my first date, at least it was a step in the right direction. I mean, I really needed some help, any help, by that point. And who better to help a novice gay man than a hairdresser? It’s like having the Pope teach you about being a good Catholic.

Okay, so let’s continue our trip down Memory Lane, shall we? Kiki’s place, as it turned out, was a lot lovelier and grander than what I was expecting from a mere hairdresser. (No offense to all the hairburners out there.) He lived in a charming Victorian just outside The Castro. It was blue and green with yellow shutters, with palm tress and magnolias out front, all surrounded by a white picket fence. And just within that fence was a perfectly tended garden that was fairly bursting with every color of the gay rainbow. The smell of jasmine wafted languidly up my nostrils as I approached the house. Honestly, it was enough to make a guy sick. If that guy was the jealous type. Which, of course, clearly I’m not.

Kiki answered the door with a grand flourish and promptly handed me a martini. “Darling, welcome, welcome to my
humble
abode,” he said, while bowing deeply and gesturing with his hands to the rest of his home. Of course, in doing so, he was also managing to point out the rather large gentleman planted in the living room.

Noticing my stare, he introduced me to Larry, his partner. Now, I know you’re not going to believe this, but I’d never met a gay couple before. I mean, yes, I had seen them, but I’d never actually
met
one. I was enthralled. Not to mention, I couldn’t believe Kiki had been able to snag a husband. Yes, I had a lot to learn, but all in good time, friend. All in good time.

Kiki went over and sat next to Larry, leaving me a comfortable looking easy chair to rest my butt upon. So I sat down across from the both of them and scanned the rest of the place. It was very nice, actually. Maybe I had the hairdresser thing all wrong. Okay, well, not really, because, as it turned out, it was all Larry’s. That is to say,
Doctor
Lawrence Goldstein. Kiki, by the way, wasn’t even Kiki, but Myron Schwartz, who sat beaming next to his partner of (you’re not going to believe this one) seven years. Myron’s mom, apparently, was the proudest Jewish mother of a gay son in all of Manhattan. (No small feat, mind you, when you think about it, because,
hint
, there are a lot of gay Jewish men in New York City.)

They’d met at their synagogue. Larry was fresh out of Medical School and fresh
out
. And Myron was fresh out of beauty school, but not the least bit
fresh
out. Not by a long shot. Some people, from birth to death, are just obviously gay. And others, like myself and Larry, well, we just sort of grow into it. In other words, some of us have closet doors and some of us don’t. Heck, Kiki didn’t even have the hinges.

Officially, my new friend had come out years earlier when he was, as he put it, “deflowered by a neighbor at the ripe, old age of fourteen.” Needless to say, I was envious of him. See, my neighbor growing up was, like, the hottest man on the block and he wasn’t married or seen in the company of women, ever! I fantasized about that man endlessly, but to no avail. I guess he thought that doing it with the innocent, young neighbor boy wasn’t worth a prison sentence. As if I’d ever tell anyone about it for him to get caught, right? In any case, at least someone made out okay, and it certainly didn’t look like Kiki was any worse the wear. Well, except maybe for the blush he was wearing or the hair extensions. Still, looking back on it, if someone had offered me a two-story Victorian just outside The Castro, knowing what I know now, I’d have worn a dog collar and barked at the mailman to land such a cushy life. But hindsight is twenty/twenty, friend. Sucks, don’t it?