by Damon Suede
Two hours trapped watching garbage and groping each other in the back row had made them horny, giddy, and cruel. Afterward, they burst out of the rented theater. His AD crush had launched into a top-of-his-lungs tirade all the way across the lobby: the director’s tantrums, the cut-rate crafty, the cantankerous leads. Silas had cracked wise about the spaghetti-sauce gore.
As he’d popped the door open—tap-tap—fingers on his shoulder. He’d turned to see a complete stranger, all of nineteen, with huge eyes and a scruffy goatee. “I did that shitty makeup for about fifty of my own dollars. Thanks.”
Silas never forgot the weary, tortured expression on that poor kid’s face. He knew exactly what it felt like to have no budget or time, to pull rabbits out of your ass for a director who funded a film on his Visa.
Movies are a small world. That makeup artist might go on to become a Hollywood powerhouse, and Silas had taken a pointless dump on him at his lowest moment, just to impress some trick whose name he’d forgotten a month later. But he remembered hurting that kid.
From that night on, Silas adhered to a strict three-block karma rule. Talk shit all you want, but put three blocks between you and the subject of your scorn.
So yeah… maybe some of these comic people sucked, but his big mouth could only hurt Trip and hurt Scratch if he acted anything but friendly and enthusiastic. The wisdom of the staircase could wait till he and Trip were alone.
The thought put a smile on his face as he navigated the crowded bar. He and Trip, on their first vacation together. He’d never done that, either. Yeah, buddy. This boyfriend stuff had started to grow on him, big time.
Now Silas wished he had waited for Trip. Hell, in this room, Trip might be as much of a celebrity as Buffy the Vampire Slayer. If he could just get Trip to fraternize with the enemy, temper his tantrums, who knows what might happen for Scratch and for them. He loved that idea: being a power couple with a sexy project and money to burn. In the end, it shouldn’t and didn’t matter, but the possibility hovered just above his eye line.
Kurt raised his voice as Silas approached. “Smile and the world sleeps with you.”
He slid into the booth. “Gentlemen.”
Kurt fist-bumped him. The glass in front of him stood empty. He gestured at his companion. “Silas, Todd. Todd, this is my bitter half.”
Silas snorted. “I’m not bitter.”
“Well, mofo, you’re certainly not better,” Kurt scoffed. “Say hello.”
“Todd.” The escort sighed and offered his hand to Silas. “Hey.”
“But Silas and I are not boyfriends. We are man friends.” Kurt narrowed his eyes at them. “Miss Goolsby is one of the only people who tells me the truth. Reformed sex addict.” He turned. “And Todd collects comics and gym memberships. That’s why I invited him. Well, the other reason.”
Silas tried to redirect the conversation. “Comics?”
“Green Lantern.” The stark planes of Todd’s face were exactly the color of Brazilian teak. His pecs and lats were so overdeveloped, they actually made him look shorter, as if his torso was as wide as he was tall.
“We’ve spent all day getting buffed and plucked at the spa.” Kurt draped a casual arm over the bulging shoulders.
To his credit, Todd didn’t react.
Silas smiled. He always felt a little sorry for these guys Kurt rented. “He giving you hell?”
“Nah. ’S’good. He’s a pretty cool customer.”
Kurt chuckled. “Smart boy. Always go after the big tip.”
“Medical school.” Todd drummed the table with his palms.
Kurt turned back to Silas. “D’ya ever notice that every hustler in the world is planning on medical school or an MBA?”
Todd cleaned his nails with a business card. “That many wheezy geezers up close, you learn CPR.” This kid definitely had Kurt’s number. “You’re just a dirty old man before your time, Bogusz.”
“Touché.” A faint smile floated over Kurt’s face.
“Mostly we end up personal trainers and life coaches.”
“Indeed.” Kurt held his hands up in mock surrender. He turned to Silas. “Where’s the Drip? Hiding in the room?”
“God damn it, Kurt!” Silas stared daggers.
“Sorry.” He buttoned his lips. “Young Todd’s impertinence has got me horny and flustered, and I’m taking it out on your absent boyfriend.”
Silas scanned the drink-ringed table. “Because you’re a class-A prick.”
Todd lifted his glass to that and took the last mouthful of his red wine.
Kurt shrugged. “I am. But it’s a world of assholes, so things work out. Cocktail?” He flagged the waitress, who’d climbed the little rise of steps. He lassoed a little circle with his finger. “Another for us, Suzette. And a Jack-’n’-Diet for my friend?”
As she left, he patted the table in front of Silas and for five seconds stopped his performance. “Sorry, Goolsby. I’m sorry.”
“Right.” Silas turned back toward the exit to keep a lookout for Trip. Surely the LGBT panel paperwork wasn’t taking this long. Now he wished he’d gone along rather than tried to snag a drink. What if he’s getting cold feet again?
“Incoming. Five o’clock.” Kurt nudged Todd, who appeared to be watching some side of beef who’d caught his attention. “College baseball. Blew out his knee and now he works in advertising in the burbs. Married to a former model, but they never fuck ’cause it’s messy.” He frowned. “Some kind of humiliating kink. Furries. Shaving. Diapers?”
Silas didn’t turn to examine the object of scorn.
“Hot, though.” Todd’s gaze took dispassionate measure. “Gym and all. Spray tanner.”
“He’s headed this way. Expensive fucking hair too.” Kurt sat up. “Silas, you gotta see this douche.”
“I know you!” A frat-row boom. Dude.
Silas stiffened. Oh shit. One of his exes. Here? Last thing he needed.
Kurt laughed. “Who is this joystick?”
At first Silas couldn’t place the square-jawed gym-rat barreling toward their booth like they’d saved a seat for him. Either he was dressed as John Constantine or he expected a dust storm to whisk through the Marriott bar at any moment, followed by a pack of hellhounds. Floppy light brown hair. Quarterback shoulders and ass. Cock-o-the-walk strut.
Fucking hell. He’d seen that face on photos all over Trip’s shelves. “It’s Staplegun.”
“The who?”
Cliff’s rumpled jock routine played well in a room full of freaky orthodonture and love handles. He looked like the guy half the room wanted to hump and the other half doodled in their margins.
“We haven’t met, yet.” All Silas could see was the sneering plastic calculation, like every entitled MVP Homecoming King asshole who’d kept his life miserable in Alabama.
Kurt muttered, “Hello, three-way.”
Silas scolded him. “He’s not a hustler. Well, no. Yeah, he kinda is, but not like you think. He’s—”
Cliff jogged up the four steps in two bounds and stopped almost on top of Silas. “Hey, bro, I thought that was you.” He wheezed, out of breath, his wavy mane mussed perfectly. He wiped his mouth, pulled the dark salmon of his lip open.
Everything he does, he knows he does.
Todd and Kurt seemed hypnotized by the caramel skin, hair, eyes. They browsed the jocky burnt-sugar perfection of him: class president of Hero High.
Cliff favored the table with a thirty-two-tooth grin and gripped Silas manfully. “Trip sure knows how to pick ’em.”
Where the fuck was Trip?
Finally, Todd turned to ask Silas, “This is your boyfriend?”
Kurt jeered. “Chiropractor.”
“Hardly!” Silas tried to keep the discomfort off his face. “This is my boyfriend’s boss. Well, editor. Staplegun.” He said the nickname casually, as if it wasn’t an insult.
“Stapleton. Cliff.” Cliff shook Todd’s hand. Then Kurt’s for an extra beat. “Cliff Stapleton. Big Dog Comics
.”
Kurt ogled openly. “Big doggy-style.”
“Nice to see ya.” Silas waited for Cliff to leave, expected him to leave, couldn’t imagine why he didn’t leave. “Trip’s their star penciller.” Did he expect an invite to join them?
Kurt tipped his head as he assessed the assets on offer. “Maybe he’s in the market.”
“Ohhh…. Cliff doesn’t fuck guys.” Silas wiped his hand on his pants before he finally accepted Cliff’s manly clasp. Grah. Even the handshake felt phony. “He just fucks with ’em.” He pretended to laugh.
Cliff pretended to laugh back.
They both hated each other and knew it.
“Bi now, gay later.” A faint smile played on Kurt’s face as he appraised Cliff’s appeal.
Silas scowled at them both. “So you came to work the party.”
“No rest for the wicked, dude.” An awkward blip passed as no one invited Cliff to sit, and then he decided to invite himself.
Cliff plonked into the booth beside him, rested the full press of his body against Silas like they were buddies.
Silas inched away. “I figured you’d set up the Big Dog pavilion, peeing on your hydrants.”
“Bigger fish in here.” Cliff made it sound like a come-on. “I got interns for that crap. Give ’em a backrub and a couple pizzas and they’ll go till midnight.” He draped an arm along the back of the booth. “They start to flag, I trot by and flash my junk. Keep ’em on the hook.”
“Abracadabra.” Kurt clapped and scolded Silas. “Where have you been hiding this shyster?” He flashed his caps and licked them.
Where is Trip?
“Nowhere.” Silas stiffened, keenly aware of Cliff’s arm behind him on the booth. “I swear.”
Todd looked confused. Even Kurt seemed a little weirded out. He caught Silas’s gaze and widened his eyes as if to ask, “What the fuck?”
Silas shook his head in answer. No clue. Why was his boyfriend’s pricktastic boss sleazing on him?
“Man, you are jacked.” Cliff rubbed Silas’s shoulders roughly. “How much do you squat?”
People fall for this shit? “Uh. I dunno. Three twenty?” Silas blinked.
“I hate the gym.” Kurt exhaled noisily. “When we were all little faggots, we did anything we could to skip gym, and now we spend our lives trapped in ’em.”
Silas dug out his phone. Still no message.
“I played lacrosse in school and just got into the habit.” Cliff flexed without shame or irony. “I only like what it does for my artillery.” Thwap. He smacked his hard belly with his hand.
No doubt, he’d planned his yeasty straight-boy scent too.
Silas scooted away. “Did you just come from lifting?”
Todd cracked the knuckles of one hand, and then the other.
“Meetings. Hey, bro.” Cliff snapped his perfect fingers. “You’re a gaming guy, aren’t you?” He craned his exaggerated chin to point at Kurt. “Unbored?”
“Yes! Wowza.” Kurt pointed at him and leered like a game show host. “Head of the class-less.”
“I read an article about you. Variety, I think.” For the first time, Cliff’s physique shifted slightly to include the entire table, as if Kurt now existed in his universe because of his star power. “Great booth.” Cliff stretched; his shirt rucked up to reveal a strip of sun-kissed abdomen.
Todd laughed. “Wow. Okay.” He and Kurt eyed each other. Todd gave a subtle nod, silently agreeing to whatever Kurt had asked.
Silas’s smile buckled. “Kurt…. This is not the place.”
Kurt ignored him and addressed Cliff directly. “We’re scouting for adaptations. Work, work, work.”
“Big Dog has a load of family-friendly—”
Kurt snored loudly and flapped a hand. “We like NC-17 meat on our grill.” He did something to Todd under the table that made him snort. “M for mature.”
“Right?” Cliff winked and took a breath. “Well, we’re hoping Campus—”
Silas’s phone buzzed. Trip. Fingers crossed he hadn’t created too much of a mess, but Cliff deserved it, and the cat was almost out of the bag. Tomorrow Scratch would get loose and nothing Cliff could do or say would tie Trip down.
Pushing Cliff out of his way, Silas slid free of the booth and smiled as he accepted the call. “Good evening, Mr. Spector.”
“Hey.” Trip sounded breathless and wind muffled his voice. “Sorry…. Not you, I bumped into a couple guys from DC. Sorry.”
“Are you outside?”
“Change of plans. I got invited to dinner with some of the folks from the Eisner Awards. Kind of a huge deal, but they sorta kidnapped me from the lobby.”
“Well, you need to eat something.”
Trip grunted or sniffled. “Yeah. The paperwork got screwed up, and I just got finished over there.” He covered the mouthpiece and whispered to someone. “One sec.”
“Probably good to breathe actual oxygen. Why don’t I come meet you? I’ve eaten, but—”
“No. It’s gonna be talking shop with a bunch of old guys. I’m just gonna buy a couple rounds, and then I’ll meet you back in the room.” Trip’s voice was tight.
Riiight. Silas swallowed his disappointment. Fair enough. Trip needed to get the Barney out of his system before the panel tomorrow.
He nodded and then remembered he had to say something. “Uh. Okay. Yeah. We’re just having drinks. Kurt wanted to meet you.”
Kurt stifled a low giggle. Silas glared at him until Kurt went back to watching Todd and Cliff flex their biceps and pretend to like each other.
Just to be safe, Silas stepped farther away from the table and masked his voice. “Your… editor is here. Staplegun himself.”
“Cliff?”
“Thatsa fella.” Silas exhaled. “He recognized Kurt from an Asskissers Anonymous meeting. You shoulda seen.”
Trip laughed. “They’ll probably circle and sniff each other’s butts all weekend.” His voice dropped. “I’m sorry about tonight. I changed the sheets for us.”
“Nice. I guess we’ll… hang out. Kurt rented some gymnast guy for the weekend. Cliff will have to do more than naked backflips to get hi—”
Trip huffed. “Well… stay out of trouble if you can. I’ll be done in an hour, hour and a half.” Crowd sounds smothered his words. He must’ve arrived wherever. “I’ll meet Kurt at the panel tomorrow. Okay? Rain check on drinks. You’re okay there, though?”
I came to Chicago and he’s blowing me off. Silas fought to keep his disappointment out of his voice. “Yeah. I’m a veteran of hotel bars.”
“I gotta go.” Trip sounded muffled, and then he was back. “Sorry. They picked a restaurant. I’ll see you in a bit. Sorry! Sorry!”
The phone cut off.
Silas studied his phone a moment. Trip’s habitual secrecy still irked him in ways he’d never expected. He’d never been closeted, and Trip’s anxiety about including him on this dinner was fear of being judged by his colleagues. Closets come in lotsa shapes and sizes.
Baby steps.
Trip had gotten braver, and they’d learned to open up to each other. Once he announced Scratch at the panel and put Big Dog on a longer leash, they’d have to do these events as a twosome.
Silas slid back into the booth next to Kurt and leaving Cliff to work his wiles on Todd, who seemed singularly unthrilled.
Kurt patted Cliff’s hand. “Big Dog is gonna come bark at our next OutRun event.”
Todd tipped his head speculatively, as if trying to see the possibilities. He asked Silas, “Bromance zombie? Closet-case zombie?”
“Sure….” Cliff looked unconvinced. “I mean, it’s for a good cause.”
“So where is the boy wonder?” Kurt ignored him and peered at Silas. “Trip.”
“In here, I thought.” Cliff examined the gamy crush below them.
“He got stuck filing paperwork, and then he had to meet award people for dinner.”
Todd leaned forward. “He’s up for an award?”
“Paperwork,” Cliff cut in, drumming the table. Thap-a-dap. “We filed all that for him.”
“Not the Artist Alley table. This was last minute. Nerd Herd.”
“Nah.” Cliff’s sour grimace said plenty more.
“Yup.” Silas tried not to smile. “He’s speaking on their LGBT panel tomorrow.”
“Groovy!” Kurt drained his glass and hoisted it high. “Achievement unlocked!”
Silence.
Cliff opened his mouth and shut it.
Silas sighed with lazy, overblown pleasure. “He’s announcing a new project.” He manclapped Kurt’s shoulder.
“What project?” So Cliff hadn’t believed him after all. Jackass. Trip had predicted as much.
Kurt smiled very slowly. Even Todd seemed to sense something.
“Well, after you yanked his Campus Champions idea, he had all this extra time and energy.” Shrug. “He’s really excited, and he’s got meetings with buyers all this weekend. Three different places, I think.” A lie, but it felt good twisting the knife as Kurt grinned back at him. Silas felt like Superboyfriend, able to leap tall prick-teases in a single bound.
“The porno comic.” Cliff gaped. “That fucking queer-bait cock book?”
Malevolent glee blazed in Kurt’s eyes. “Two scoops!”
Silas mocked the thought. “Not porno. It’s graphic and there’s sex, but it’s not just pee-pees and woo-woos. Or wee-wees and poo-poos.”
“Impossible.” Cliff’s handsome mug had gone greasy and gray.
Todd took a swig. “This book I gotta see.”
Kurt mock-sighed and confided to Todd. “Silas has corrupted the poor lad with combo attacks. Rubbing-rubbing-rubbing away at his superscruples.”
Cliff’s hands twitched and shredded one napkin, then another.
“He’s announcing it. Tomorrow.” Silas knocked back his whiskey and Coke and signaled for another. “Done deal. Uh-yup. Why do you give a shit? You stole his idea and crapped all over him. You don’t own him.”
“Well, not legally.” Kurt shrugged at Todd.
“You have to stop it.” The Big Dog editor’s oily charm had evaporated. “Indie comics are a crapshoot, y’know.”