“Rum and Coke?” Larry double-checked.
“Captain Morgan’s and Diet,” Miss Peter specified. “Avec une lime, si vous plaît.”
I told you she’s fancy!
My eyes focused on Larry’s legs stepping down from his stool. The muscles in his quads bulged beneath torn light denim jeans, supporting all 165–170 pounds of pure man. At 140, I made a mental note to make sure Larry didn’t crush me when the time came for us to make out…Notice I didn’t say if?
“That boy’s got an ass on him,” Miss Peter observed as Larry made his way across the room. “Hello, gorgeous!” Suddenly, she sounded like Barbara Streisand as Dolly Levi.
We watched from afar as Larry chatted with the Mike the bartender, another guy I been drooling over since day one. Between the bare buff torso, the army fatigues worn with combat boots, and the six-inch dyed-blue mohawk, I don’t know what I found hotter. Again, I marveled at what a regular guy Larry was. How many fags wear work boots out to a bar and could care less what their hair looks like?
Speaking of…
Did I mention Miss Peter works in a salon? You can totally tell from the way she’s got a new style every time you see her. Like I said, our first meeting found her looking like Robert Smith from The Cure, all ratted up and big. This week, it’s more demure—parted on one side, with a long bang drooping down over her left eye.
“You’re a very lucky boy,” Miss Peter sang. “Don’t you go breaking Larry’s heart.”
“Oh, I won’t!”
If anything, I was sure it would be the other way around. I couldn’t imagine what a 24-year-old guy saw in a 17—I mean, 18—year-old boy like me. I realize some guys like them younger, but with me, it’s never been the case.
I heard the flick of a Bic as Miss Peter lit yet another Parliament. She must’ve got more from the vending machine, even though I can’t believe anybody would ever pay $3 for a pack of cigarettes.
“I am pooped!” Miss Peter sighed. She set the smokes down on the table, perched herself on the vacant stool, and crossed one leg over the other, teetering a tad.
“I should probably get home.”
Mom was probably wondering why I was out so late again on a Friday night. Now that football season ended, I couldn’t use going out to the Tombs after the game as my weekly excuse.
Miss Peter placed a well-manicured hand on mine. “You can’t drive,” she informed me when I stumbled. “Not till you sober up a little.”
There was no point arguing. I flagged down the nearest waiter, a prissy little thing by the name of Aryc. If you think I’m a girly-boy, you should see her—I mean, him—in his hot pink spandex biker shorts and off-the-shoulder teal tank top, with his posh British accent.
Polite as punch, I asked, “May I have a glass of wa-dir?”
This is how I sometimes say water, mostly when I been drinking.
Aryc rolled his fake-blues. “I’m a bit busy at the moment.”
“Don’t be a bitch,” Miss Peter scolded. “Opie asked you nice.”
Aryc and his flippy hair flounced away.
“I can not stand her,” I grumbled.
“She thinks she’s the Princess of Wales,” Miss Peter mused before picking up where we left off. “You can’t leave without saying good-bye to your new boyfriend.”
“Larry’s not my boyfriend,” I insisted. “We just met…It’s not like we been on a date or anything.”
Miss Peter raised a perfectly arched eyebrow. “What do you call this?”
I scoffed. “I mean, a real date.”
A dish-spotty glass landed on our table with a thud. Miss Peter picked it up with an examining eye. “They never heard of Cascade?”
I didn’t bother thanking Aryc since he already scurried away like the weasel he is…Remind me to slip a Correctol in his cocktail next time I see him with a drink!
“Why don’t you ask him out?”
I took a nasty sip just as Miss Peter suggested this. Again, I almost choked. “I’m not asking Aryc to go anywhere!”
Miss Peter whacked me with the Metra magazine sitting on the table. “Not him, stupid…You must be wasted!” She glanced at the shirtless guy on the cover, commented, “Yum!” then came right back at me. “Who have we been talking about for the last fifteen minutes?”
Feeling totally put on the spot, I began giggling like a girl. “I’m not gonna ask Larry out, either!”
Miss Peter gave me a look. “You’ve got a dick between your legs, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but…” I wondered what that had to do with anything!
She stubbed out her cigarette. “So…” She lit another. “That’s the good thing about being a faggot. None of them stupid boy-girl rules apply.”
I guess I never thought about it before: I’m a guy, Larry’s a guy. Somebody’s gotta make the first move. Why couldn’t it be me?
So that’s what I did.
The minute he returned with Miss Peter’s drink, I took a deep breath and said, “Hey, Larry…”
“What’s up, cutie?” He put an arm around my shoulder and nuzzled my ear.
“You wanna go to a movie or something sometime?”
Larry furrowed his brow. “You mean with you?”
“No, with me,” Miss Peter snapped. “I’m a barrel of laughs on a date.”
“Well, in that case…” Larry moved to pull Miss Peter into a passionate embrace.
She cried, “Careful, the coif!” shielding herself like a chrysalis in a cocoon. Luckily, she had this huge black shawl wrapped around her shoulders to ward off a chill. Once outta harm’s way, Miss Peter droned dryly, “No offense, Larry, but you can’t even remember My Mother the Car.”
He gasped at the blatant rejection. “So you’re saying I’m too young?”
“Have you ever seen Valley of the Dolls?”
Larry stood speechless.
Miss Peter shrugged her shoulder pads. “I rest my case.”
“What about you?” Larry turned back towards me. “You wanna go out sometime?” Again, he flashed his dopey chipped-tooth grin.
How could I refuse?
Four days later…
“Br-a-a-dley…Telephone!”
I’m standing in my bedroom in nothing but a towel when my mom pounds on the door.
“Who is it?”
Rifling thru my underwear drawer, I pray I’ll find a clean pair—just in case.
“Who do you think it is?” says Mom, sounding somewhat annoyed.
“I mean, who’s on the phone?”
My mother asks, “Who’s calling, please?” Followed by a moment of silence. Followed by: “He says his name is Larry.”
The mere mention and I swear I’m sprouting wood.
“Tell him I’ll be right there!”
Grabbing a pair of maroon striped briefs from the pile, I hold them up to my nose, sniff. Passing inspection, I quickly put them on, push my dick down, and reach an arm out the door.
“’s up?”
I’m ear-to-ear smirk the second I hear Larry’s voice. “Getting dressed…You?”
“Just took a shower.”
Great!
Now I can’t get the image of him, dripping wet, outta my mind.
Sure enough, my dick is stiffer than a British upper lip.
Goddamn sexual peak!
“Who’s Larry?”
Mom’s on my heels as I’m practically out the door.
Again, I hate lying to her. So I simply say, “He’s a friend.”
She looks me up and down. I can tell she’s wondering why I’m wearing my best Guess? jeans, the ones that took an entire month of Big Boy’s tips to pay for, just to see a movie with a (quote-unquote) friend. But she lets it go.
“Try not to stay out too late…It’s a school night.”
Mom kisses my cheek, and away I go!
We meet at Larry’s house in Taylor. He drives us to TGI Friday’s in his brand-spanking-new ’87 Dodge Dakota. Larry orders the fish and chips and a beer. I have
the sirloin steak au jus, which comes with this huge-ass onion ring I decide not to eat. Who knows what’s gonna happen later? The last thing I want is bad breath.
Next, we go to a movie at Southland Mall, where I can’t say I ever been before. Larry pays for the tickets. I can’t believe they cost fucking $4.75 each. Something called Less Than Zero, starring Andrew McCarthy and the other guy from Pretty in Pink. Not Duckie Dale. The one who played the asshole, Steff. Too bad I can’t recall what the movie’s about, I barely pay attention.
The entire time I keep thinking, I’m out on a date with a totally hot guy…And worrying about what’s coming next.
“Now what?”
Once we’re back at Larry’s house after the show, he asks the $1,000 question.
It’s close to 11:00 PM on a Tuesday night in Detroit, so I can’t imagine there’s much else going on. Standing outside by my piece-of-shit car, which Larry thinks is totally cool and calls an antique, I’m freezing my ass off. What can you expect from November in Michigan? I’m sure there’ll be snow on the ground soon enough.
“I don’t know…”
I try acting coy, but between the knocking of my knees and the chattering of my teeth, all I want is to get inside someplace warm.
“You wanna come in for a nightcap?” Larry asks, like we’re on an episode of The Love Boat. “Or do you need to go home? It’s a school night, isn’t it?”
“Watch it, mister,” I tease. “I may be a Drama Queer, but I’ll fuck you up!”
“Oh, yeah?” He gives me a sly and challenging look. “I’d like to see you try.”
Like I said, I’m not a virgin. Well, I never did the deed, but I had sexual relations before, and I’m not totally naïve about these sorta situations…I know exactly what’s about to follow.
Larry opens the front door to his apartment. We get all of three steps inside, and BAM! His tongue is down my throat. My coat is off, my pants down, my harder-than-a-rock pocket-rocket launched.
Then I think about my mom.
She would not approve of what I’m doing.
Inside my head, I hear Miss Horchik’s haunting refrain: “To thine ownself be true.”
Despite how good it all feels, and how long I dreamed of having hot S-E-X with a hot G-U-Y like Larry, I immediately lose my hard-on.
“’s up?” Larry asks, tugging on my limp dick to no avail.
Obviously not me!
“You sure you’re a fag?” he snickers—and into his mouth I go.
I throw my head back, falling thru the void. I don’t want him to stop, but…“It’s late.”
Larry hesitates. “You gotta be fucking kidding?” He looks up at me like he can’t believe what he’s hearing.
All I can do is say, “I’m sorry,” and hope he’ll understand.
I used to joke around with Jack that I wish I’d been born a girl. They can be Total Whores and have sex with whoever they want whenever they want. Yet here’s me, pants down around my ankles, with this 24-year-old mechanic trying to get me off, and I’m asking for a rain check!
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I swear.
When it comes down to it, I like Larry. Sure, I’ve only known him a few days, but…I don’t love him. Call me old-fashioned, but I’m sorta saving myself. Not for marriage or anything silly like that.
For the right guy.
And like I said, technically it’s illegal for Larry to do anything with me. Until next September, at least, when I turn eighteen for real. The last thing I want is for anybody to get arrested all because I’m a horndog.
As promised, the next day when I get home from school, I dial Larry’s number.
Too bad he doesn’t answer.
Looking for a New Love
“Gonna get over you
A new boy I’m gonna choose (You’ll see)…”
—Jody Watley
I hate play tryouts—I mean, auditions!
Imagine what it’s like getting up in front of everybody and being judged. Not just for who you are, but based on the way you look, the way you talk, and how well you work opposite others. Lemme tell ya, it totally sucks!
Mais ç’est la vie d’un acteur.
You’d think by now Mr. Dell’Olio could just give me a part without putting me thru the whole excruciating process. It’s not like this is Broadway, for chris’sakes, it’s goddamn Hillbilly High School. Shouldn’t being a Senior count for something? It’s bad enough I gotta prepare two contrasting monologues (one contemporary, one classical) for my Juilliard audition coming up in January. Now I have to worry about A goddamn Christmas Carol.
Did I mention I finally decided where I wanna go to college next fall? Up till recently, I been torn between Wayne State University in Detroit, and Juilliard School of Drama in New York City, which is the (as in thee) best Drama School in the entire country.
The thing about WSU is they got this four-year tuition-free scholarship, as opposed to Juilliard, which costs several thousand dollars per year. Not that I’d qualify for a free ride since my grades totally suck, and not that I’d automatically get accepted into Juilliard because the competition is fierce. Plus if I did get in, I’d have to move away from home. And leaving my mom and my sisters and all my friends would totally suck, you know what I mean?
But like my junior high Band teacher, Jessica Clark Putnam, once told Jack when he contemplated not going to Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp by himself just because I couldn’t afford to go: “Friends hold you back.”
So to help me make up my mind, I had a meeting with my guidance counselor the other day, Mrs. Ellis…
“It’s your education, Bradley,” she reminded me.
Again, another adult telling me something I already know.
“Christopher Reeves went to Juilliard,” I informed her, even though I meant to say Christopher Reeve (no S). Most people don’t realize the Man of Steel is a classically trained actor.
“And Casey Kasem went to Wayne State,” Mrs. Ellis reasoned.
No disrespect, but how the hell could she sit there in that goddamn butterscotch-colored plaid blazer she wears practically every goddamn day comparing Richard Collier from Somewhere in Time to Shaggy from Scooby-Doo?
Gimme a fucking break!
As much as I wanted to shout, Thanks for nothing, Bitch! I minded my manners as Mom always taught me and politely replied, “So you can see it’s a tough decision.”
Mrs. Ellis forced a smile. “If it’s any help, I got my Bachelor’s from Wayne, and I ended up with a good job.”
Working as a guidance counselor in Hazeltucky, Michigan.
Did I mention she barely looked up from her lap, engrossed in my permanent record? Until she noticed my ACT scores.
“Have you considered Oakland Community College?”
Fuck Mrs. Ellis!
After that total waste of time, I decided to get Mr. Dell’Olio’s opinion. For the past two years, he’s worked with me as an actor. His judgment I trust on how I should go about pursuing my future career.
Yesterday after school, I stopped by the Drama room…
‘member Zack Rakoff, the only male member of Flag Corps? Back in elementary school all-city Honors Band he wore GASS shoes and I thought he was a girl. Well, I popped my head into Dell’s class and found Rakoff and Flaggot co-captain Claire Moody sitting at one of them trapezoid-shaped tables, deeply engrossed in debate.
“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I heard Moody saying to Rakoff. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend since What’s-Her-Name.”
Rakoff replied, “I haven’t had a girlfriend ever.”
“Maybe you’re gay too,” Moody mocked, half joking, half not.
“Thankth a lot!” Rakoff lisped, totally insulted.
“Who’re we talking about?” I politely interrupted. Around these hallowed halls, there’s nothing quite like good gossip—unless it’s about you.
Like salmon ready to spawn, Rakoff and Moody stopped midstream. They looked at me like I had two heads sprouting outta my mock-tu
rtleneck. Like I couldn’t be trusted with such classified information.
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Moody snapped smugly.
I felt like saying, Fine, Bitch…See if I care.
I thought we used to be friends back at Webb and during Okla-homo! when Claire was Sophomore Student Director. Evidently not! So I laughed her off, reminding myself, “Claire’s a fat girl’s name.” Not that I’m saying Claire Moody is fat, even though she sorta is.
“Brad can back me up,” boasted Rakoff. “He’s Jack’s Best Friend.”
I wanted to say, I was Jack’s Best Friend, but I had a feeling this was one conversation I’d rather stay out of.
What was I gonna say? The fat girl’s right, Rakoff…Jack is a Total Fag.
I couldn’t do that to the poor guy, even though Mr. Paterno’s made it perfectly clear he wants nothing more to do with me because I’m one.
So all I said was, “People have been saying that about Jack for years.”
Moody said, “Precisely.”
I reminded them, “You should never believe gossip, you know what I mean?”
Quickly, I changed the subject, asking if either knew where I could find Mr. Dell’Olio.
“I haven’t theen him thince 5th hour,” Rakoff reported.
Moody speculated, “He’s probably in the Parker office,” meaning The Hazel Parker. “I know he’s on deadline.” She rolled her eyes. “Chances are Jack’s in there with him, editing the HE-double-L out of one of my stories.”
Did I mention that Dell also serves as faculty advisor for the school newspaper since he minored in English up at Northern? Evidently, Claire’s a tad bitter that he made Jack Editor-in-Chief of The Hazel Parker when he only joined the paper Junior year, and she’s been reporting since Sophomore. Maybe it’s true that he did it because Jack is the only guy on staff. Or maybe it’s because Jack is a better writer than Claire.
Who the hell knows, and who gives a flying fuck? Not me.
“Brad!”
I was about to head back out the door when Rakoff called.
Stopped in my tracks, I asked, “What’s up?”
“Claire and I are writing a thort film thcript…”
Drama Queers! Page 11