Boys like us, p.4
Boys Like Us, page 4
“Paul’s been very upset,” he says quietly.
“How sweet you were there to comfort him, not to mention attend his annual solstice party.”
“His lover’s in the hospital with pneumocystis.”
“Shit, Clay –”
“Just put the room back.”
I do not put the room back. I change it even more. When Clay comes home he doesn’t say a word; he just carries me off to bed.
Afterwards, I have to ask him, “How’re we gonna solve our differences once sex wears off?”
“It won’t. Not if I have anything to do with it.”
“Well, having just come from an eight-year relationship, I hate to tell you, but it does. Believe me.”
“So? We don’t have differences. Not really.”
“What we don’t have is similarities, Clay.”
“Where they matter we do.”
“Yeah? And just where’s that?”
He climbs on top of me.
“Stop,” I tell him.
“I want you to feel something.”
“I’ve felt it.”
“Something else.” He lies on top of me. Very still.
“Feel it?” he asks.
“What I feel is your heart pounding.”
“Yes. Only inches away from yours and just slightly out of sync.”
I dump Randy’s AZT capsules out on the table and arrange them into a five-pointed star.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Voodoo. I learned it from David. When’d you take your first dose?”
“Seven this morning.”
“How do you feel?”
He reaches for the remote control. “I wish everyone would stop asking me that.” He turns on That Girl. Marlo and Don are devising a Mardi Gras costume. They’re going as a worm. She’s the front half and he’s the back.
“You only watch this show because it’s the worst sitcom in the history of television.”
“I watch this show to stay in touch with how bad good TV acting can be. Besides, when I lived in New York I used to cater for Marlo.”
I try to watch it with him, but the laugh track is so nauseating I finally have to go out on the balcony for some fresh air. I lean over the rail and wonder what it’d be like to jump.
At the next commercial break he joins me.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
“I told you, I hate that show. I don’t see why you can’t tape it and watch it when I’m not here.”
“OK. What else?”
“You were right about what you said the other night.”
“What?”
“That I loved you. More than Clay. Or David. Or anybody, for that matter. And you’re such a stupid asshole for waiting till now to realize it.”
He starts to say something, but his voice trails off. The only thing I catch is, “I hope –”
JESUS
LAS VEGAS
Randy is taking all the latest medicines in all the latest dosages and enjoying what his doctor cynically refers to as “the honeymoon period.” I prefer to say: Life goes on. And indeed it does.
Begrudgingly, Randy agrees to accompany me to Searcy’s opening, though he piddles around his apartment long enough to make sure we’re good and late.
The new Barbra Streisand is doing “The Music That Makes Me Dance” from the stage version of Funny Girl when we take our seats. The image is flawless, the acting style even more so.
He’s followed by a chorus number, a solo spot featuring Julie Andrews in My Fair Lady, then Searcy as Bette Midler wrapping up the first act with “The Rose.” That’s his signature song. It’s very touching. You can actually hear him singing on top of the tape, slightly off key and just a beat behind.
The minute the lights go up on intermission, a beehive of activity ensues. Boys, boys, and more boys. Looking around, being around.
Intermission at Show Babies is at least forty-five minutes. You know, give the folks plenty of time to knock back the booze.
Randy and I cruise the crowd from our table. I notice a young man leaning against the bar. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and has a short haircut.
He smiles. I smile back.
Lo and behold, it’s the new Barbra Streisand!
“S’cuse me,” I say to Randy, getting up.
I make my way over to the bar.
“That was quite a performance,” I say. “And you’re the one face in this crowd I thought I hadn’t seen.”
“The art of the illusion,” he observes wryly, in a heavy Southern twang.
“Where’re you from?” I immediately ask.
“Arkansas,” he tells me.
I just about fly out of my shoes. “Really? So am I!”
“No kidding! What part?”
“Little Rock. And you?”
“Oh” – he shrugs – “all over.”
“You’re the first Arkansan I’ve met up here.”
Searcy descends on us wearing his “between-acts” kimono, looking like a monstrous butterfly. “Well, well!” he says. “Knew it wouldn’t take you two long to meet.”
“Impressive show, Searce. The ‘Conga’ number from Wonderful Town knocked me dead. May I get you a drink?”
“Honey, you know I never touch the stuff during a performance. If I do, these lips will get a mind of their own. But,” he adds, “since it’s opening night and since there’ve been no major catastrophes thus far, I suppose a wee glass of vodka wouldn’t hurt.”
“And for Miss Streisand?”
“Jesus,” he says.
“Pardon?”
“That’s my name.”
Searcy clasps his hands together, exclaiming, “So you haven’t met! Well permit moi, por favor. Zero MacNoo, meet my latest star, Miss Jesus Las Vegas.” Searcy can’t help but add, “If you had been here in time to peruse your program, you’d have known that.”
“I’m really sorry, Searce.”
“There’s nothing worse than peeking through the curtains just before they open to see your best friends aren’t even at their table!”
“Don’t blame me.”
“Randy in another one of his moods?”
“You know how he feels about your forsaking the legitimate stage for these dubious surroundings.”
Searcy shouts at him over the crowd. “We can’t all work the Stratford Festival, honey!”
Jesus and I shake hands. He has wonderful hands.
“I’ll just have a beer,” he says.
I motion over to Randy to see if he wants anything.
“Scotch,” he growls.
“Don’t you mean a mineral water?”
“I mean a scotch! And make it a double!”
After I get the bartender’s attention and place our order, I resume my flirtation with Jesus. “Where’d you ever get a name like that?”
“His daddy’s a tent preacher,” Searcy answers for him. “And his mama’s a showgirl.”
“Is he making this up?”
“Not entirely.” Jesus grins.
“Biggest talent I’ve run into in a decade!” Searcy exclaims. “This kid’s got real class, Zero, unlike most of these queens. Star quality. Like me!”
“Well, it’s certainly true. You don’t look a thing like Streisand, and you sure had me convinced.”
“Wait till you see his Sam Cooke.”
“I didn’t know Sam Cooke was a girl.”
“One of the originals!” Searce replies, giggling gaily.
“Scotch,” growls Randy from the lonesome table.
I take it over to him.
He grabs me by the arm. “As your friend, it’s my duty to tell you you’re on the verge of making a very big fool of yourself.”
“How?” I ask innocently.
“Good thing Clay’s out of town, isn’t it? Go ahead. Desert me on our one night out.”
I’m only half listening to Randy’s tirade. The other half of me is watching Jesus put a Marlboro to his lips. “I’m not deserting you, Randy. You’re just jealous I got to him first.”
“I am not jealous! You just see that you keep me in the scotch. I don’t even want to be here!”
Back at the bar, Jesus is asking Searcy, “How long we got till the next show?”
“’Bout half an hour.”
Jesus motions to the pool table and asks me if I want to play.
I tell him I’m terrible at pool.
“Good,” he says, sauntering over. “You break.” He deposits some quarters in the slot, racks up the balls, and hands me a cue.
“Dollar a game,” he adds.
I position myself against the table like Paul Newman in The Hustler. I pocket two stripes and two solids, one of them being the eight.
Jesus laughs. “That’s one dollar you owe me. This time you rack.”
He pockets three solids on the break and continues dropping balls with studious concentration.
I start making small talk, hoping he’ll miss a shot. “Where’re ya staying?” I ask.
“Selby Hotel,” he says, not looking up.
“How do you like it?”
“It’s OK. But I hate not having my own kitchen.”
“How long are you here for?”
“Depends on the show.”
“Maybe Searcy can find you a sublet.”
“He’s working on it.”
Before I even get a turn, Jesus is down to the eight ball. “Top right,” he calls.
He makes it.
“That’s two dollars you owe me.”
I reach in my pocket to pay up. He touches my hand. “Why don’t you just meet me after the show and we’ll settle things then?”
“Sure. I mean, we’ll be here.”
He smiles and disappears backstage. I go back to my seat.
“So?” asks Randy.
“So what?”
“I’ve seen you like this before,” he says knowingly.
But I’m saved from further interrogation by the lights dimming.
The curtain opens on Searcy as Lauren Bacall in Woman of the Year. His three-note range matches hers perfectly. Then he does an onstage reversal of his wig and dress to become Angela Lansbury in Sweeney Todd. That’s followed by a full-chorus rendition of “There Is Nothing Like a Dame.” And finally Jesus, who performs a stunning version of “I’m Just a Little Girl from Little Rock,” starting out as Carol Channing and ending up as Marilyn Monroe.
After the show, Searcy decides to take Randy off my hands. They’re going down to Fran’s, a twenty-four-hour dive that attracts a vast range of clientele thanks to its liquor license, all-day breakfast menu, and spaghetti cellar.
“To people-watch,” says Searce. “I’m in the process of getting used to the place. We’ll all end up working there once our looks go.”
“Once?” leers the drunken Randy.
“Well, I don’t know about yours, hon, but mine are just down in Jamaica getting a suntan, do ya mind?”
Randy weaves down the staircase and out onto Yonge Street singing, “I Enjoy Being a Girl.”
“So,” says Jesus Las Vegas. “Your place or mine?”
I find the assumption that we’re automatically spending the night together rather bold, but I dismiss my reservations and simply say, “Mine.”
Jesus pulls off his T-shirt, steps out of his jeans, and perches on the arm of the couch in just his underwear. I, of course, am still fully dressed.
We talk.
“My lover’s in the air force,” he tells me. “We don’t see that much of each other, but if he knew I was here tonight, he’d kill us both. What about yours?”
“No, I don’t think so. He’s not really the Rambo type. He’s very nice. You’d like him. Everyone does.”
“What’s he do?”
“Investment banking.”
“Sounds like a death sentence.”
“Well, he gets to travel a lot, which he likes.”
“So, while the cat’s away –”
“Look. I didn’t go out with the intention of meeting anyone tonight.”
“That’s what they all say.” Jesus grins, displaying himself in a slightly more provocative position.
“You’re awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?”
“If I don’t believe in me, who will?”
That does it.
I jump him.
After a very romantic half hour on the couch, we try our luck in bed. Before I know it, he’s straddled me, slipped me inside of him, no condom, and I freeze.
“What’s the matter?” he asks.
“Ever heard of the health crisis?”
“Don’t worry. I never do this.”
“You’re doing it now.”
“I come from a family of faith healers.” He laughs. “Nothing ever happens to me.”
“Have you ever known anyone who’s been sick?”
“Do you think I was born yesterday?”
“Funny.” I lift him off me. “And you seemed like such a smart kid.” I’ve lost my erection and roll away.
“God, I hate this.” He pouts.
“Come on,” I tell him, “it’s not as bad as all that.” I reach for the K-Y and grease us both up with a generous gob. “Watch me thrill you with my expert hands.”
I’m awake hours before Jesus is. I busy myself cleaning the apartment, wondering what in the hell possessed me to invite a virtual stranger into Clay’s bed.
I check on him every fifteen minutes to see if he’s stirred. Finally at noon, I just give him a good shake and say, “Get up!”
“What’s goin’ on?” he asks with a start. “Your lover’s not back, is he?”
“No. But it’s late. Don’t you eat breakfast?”
“Yeah,” he says, pulling me to him. “As long as you’re on the menu.”
“I’ve got a lot of things to do today,” I tell him.
“Let’s just do what we did last night.”
“If you insist.”
“I insist.”
He throws back the sheet, exposing his naked body. He’s hard, ready, and raring to go.
Half an hour later, he slips on his jeans and T-shirt. He doesn’t bother with his underwear. He just crams that in his back pocket like a handkerchief. Or an advertisement. I’m not sure which.
“Some kind of new code?” I ask.
“No, I just don’t feel like wearing it today.”
I take him down to the Church Street Cafe.
He orders half the menu.
“How’d you ever get into female impersonation?” I ask him.
“Like anything,” he says. “I was good at it.”
“But from the evangelical tents of Arkansas to Barbra Streisand?”
“I didn’t start with Barbra. I started with Mary.”
“Mary Martin?”
“No, you idiot, the Virgin.”
“You played the Virgin Mary?”
“Yeah, it was all part of our revival routine. My mama had nine sons. Someone had to do it.”
“But my semi-retarded cousin and I used to spy on revivals all the time. We never once saw anybody dressed in anything other than a choir robe.”
“Then you obviously didn’t see us. We acted out all the biblical passages. Mama even found a way to incorporate her chorus-line kick.”
“And they didn’t lynch her?”
“Lynch her? Hell no. They loved it. A revival is just as much show business as anything else. You couldn’t ask for better training. Plus it’s a damn good living to boot. I tell you, when these looks go you can bet I won’t be stuck in any two-bit restaurant. No way. That’s when I get born again.”
“What does your family think of your work now?”
“When I won Miss Little Rock, they sent me a case of Baby Duck. Does that tell you anything?”
“It tells me their taste in wine.”
He looks at my plate. “You gonna eat your sausage?”
“No, go ahead.”
He stabs it with his fork and pops it in his mouth. “Best sausage I’ve had in Canada so far.”
“I’m glad you like it.”
When the waiter brings the check, I tell Jesus it’s on me.
“Thanks,” he says. “And in return I’ll let you off the hook for that two bucks you owe me.”
“What two bucks?”
“Your pool debt.”
“No,” I say, handing it over. “I prefer to pay my debts.”
On my grocery rounds, I run into Randy, who’s sitting on the steps of the Second Cup.
“Recovering from le gym,” he says.
“You joined?”
“For my health.”
“You mean so you can watch all the muscle queens shower.”
“One of the many fringe benefits.” He takes a sip of his tea. “Did you have fun last night?”
“I suppose.”
“Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Come on, Zero. You’re talking to your A-l confidant. Either you did or you didn’t.”
“I just wonder if I’m not getting a little old for the mating ritual.”
“Well, anytime you feel too feeble, just send ’em over to me.
“I thought you didn’t trust twinkies.”
“This has nothing to do with trust.”
“Very funny.”
“You busy tonight? Want to go to a movie?”
“Can’t. I’m making a welcome-home dinner for Clay.”
“My, you do feel guilty.”
“Yes, and I’d better get home and get at it.”
I curtsy.
He flexes his biceps.
“God, I’ve missed you!” says Clay. He reaches for our toy box and hands me some rope. “Be careful, no burns, huh? I’ve gotta play squash with someone from work tomorrow.”
I tie his hands to the headboard and bind his feet, as he requests. With my tongue, I begin to trace the entire length of his body. His cock bobbles with excitement.
The phone rings. We let the answering machine get it. After the beep, I hear my mother’s voice saying, “Zero, if you’re there, please answer. I’ve got some news that’ll change all life as we know it.”
Thinking she’s won a million dollars, I dash into the living room and pick up. “Hello?”
“Hope I’m not interrupting anything.”
“What’s the big news?”
