Or maybe not? As with a mighty roar, I suddenly turn the tables—they forget that I possess a certain wiry strength, that my outward façade of a thin mild-mannered middle-aged man is somewhat deceptive—and I show them just how nimble a lycanthrope’s fingers can be, tickling each of them into submission before leaping up and out of their reach. “The winner!” I exclaim victoriously. And modestly.
This completely breaks the ice, as if any needed to be broken, and the slumber party officially begins. Once I don the brand new pajamas they have brought for me with cute little lambs on them. How old am I again? First we make mugs of steaming hot chocolate, topped with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles, and pass around bags of chocolate candy, milk chocolate and dark chocolate and white chocolate, while we play our favorite board game: Monopoly. Rachel has bought the Star Wars version, and we race around the board with miniature figurines of Luke and Leia and Han for markers. It doesn’t even matter who wins; it’s just for fun. And we natter about nothing. And everything.
Including, but not limited to my mother, of course, and Richard. And Mark. And Sebastian. And Doctor Who. All our favorite men.
After Monopoly, we break out the bottle of peach cider from the fridge, which was what they were hiding from me before. It is appropriately chilled and most delightful as we put Moulin Rouge into the DVD player and enjoy it, laughing and crying by turns, depending on what is happening. The girls all giggle when I tell them that I think Richard Roxburgh is a stud, and they all go gaga over Ewan McGregor, except for Maggie, who is partial to the conductor character named Satie. We’ve seen the movie so many times that we even role-play parts of it, taking turns with the various parts, particularly “Spectacular, Spectacular,” the scene where everyone is pitching the show to the Duke, as well as the tango that is danced to the old Police song “Roxanne,” which is a very sensual scene. By the way, Richard and I do a very mean tango.
After the movie we natter some more. The peach cider is crisp and fruity and goes down smoothly as we enjoy more chocolate. I am very relaxed and at ease, enjoying this evening very much. I shall have to thank Richard when he comes home, and I imagine various ways in which this can be accomplished.
We are sitting on the floor, lounging indolently on our sleeping bags and pillows. “I think Professor Snape is totally sexy!” Cat says out of nowhere, giggling.
“Totally,” Maggie agrees, nodding seriously, while of course Rachel has to speak up for her favorite. “Not as sexy as Sirius.” For obvious reasons.
“What do you think, Max?” Cat asks me, and they turn their heads expectantly toward me, awaiting my gay male perspective, I imagine.
“Yes, Max, who is hotter: Severus Snape or Sirius Black?” Rachel chimes in.
I ponder the question for a moment, take another sip of the cider, roll it and the question around on my tongue, before finally replying, “Richard Burke,” having decided to be diplomatic about it. Besides, that is the way that I feel.
“He’s not even in Harry Potter,” Rachel points out. “Tell us the truth, or pay the price.”
I arch an eyebrow at her quizzically. “What is this, Truth or Dare, all of a sudden? I don’t think so.”
“Yes, and you have to tell the truth, or we’ll tickle you again.” Cat giggles.
“Then you run the risk of having me spew all over you,” I bluntly point out, “so I wouldn’t do that. Got any other punishments?”
Cat and Maggie and Rachel put their heads together, before Cat stands, going to her things. Uh oh, I know they’re up to something. She returns to where we sit, holding a small cloth case and wearing an allegedly innocent smile.
“If you don’t cooperate, Max, we’re going to give you a do-over!” Rachel announces, and Cat and Maggie nod their agreement.
“And maybe even if you do,” Maggie adds.
“A what?” I ask, sure that I don’t really want to know.
Rachel gets up on her knees, crawling to me across the floor, plopping herself in front of me as Cat hands her the first item of torture: a small bottle which I instantly recognize as nail polish. Purple.
“You’re not seriously thinking of….” I splutter.
Rachel nods. “Oh yes, we are seriously thinking of….”
I put my hands beneath my ass, out of reach. “Nuh uh.” I shake my head. “Nothing doing.”
“Maxie,” Rachel coos, crawling predatorily closer and pressing her cheek against mine, “Maxie, let us have a little fun with you, pretty boy….”
“I’m not a pretty boy,” I protest.
“Yes, you are, and you’ll be even prettier,” Cat chimes in, and I see that she holds a tube of lipstick in her hand while Maggie wields what appears to be a can of instant hair color.
Bloody hell. What is happening here?
The wine must be getting to me. That must be it, for I can think of no other reason for allowing them to continue with their evil machinations as suddenly I become a human Barbie doll to be fiddled with and decorated. And they still insist on playing Truth or Dare.
“Rachel, truth or dare,” Cat begins. Rachel has one of my hands held on her knee and is very meticulously applying the nail polish, which is a red-violet in hue, almost day-glo. I dare not move, lest she spill it. Not that she couldn’t wash it off herself, but it would be murder on the carpet. She pauses a moment, cocks her head, and grins at Cat. “Truth,” she replies.
“Have you ever kissed Max?”
“Hey, hey, that’s getting personal!” I protest, but I am shushed by all three girls.
“That’s the point of the game!” Maggie giggles.
“Max, stay still!” Rachel warns me, brush poised mid-air. She turns to Cat. “Yes,” she says succinctly. Finishing the hand, she holds it up for inspection as she blows on it, looking at it critically.
“Ooh, details, details,” Cat and Maggie sound like a Greek chorus.
“Nope, not required.” Rachel grins. “Okay, my turn. Max, truth or dare.”
Not liking the sound of that, I decide to try something different. “Dare.”
“Good. I dare you to let me do your toenails too.”
I am going to look so fucking gay, I moan to myself, and no comments from the peanut gallery, if you please. But what can I do? Merely smile charmingly and present my long hairy werewolf toes for coloring, which I do, and which she immediately begins upon, the same shade. Have to coordinate, you know.
Cat kneels beside me now. “Turn your head a little this way, Max,” she coaxes me. The wine is loosening her as well, and there is a decided rosy glow to her cheeks.
“First, my turn,” I insist. “Cat, truth or dare.”
“Truth, I guess,” she says.
“Do you want to marry Sebastian?”
I have caught her off guard with that question, I can see. Her eyes grow wide, and she flushes even brighter red. But she doesn’t exactly look displeased, or as if the thought has never occurred to her.
“Okay, yes,” she admits, and Rachel and Maggie both start hugging her and squealing excitedly. “But don’t tell him I said that,” she adds hastily. Of course they swear they won’t. She gives me a look, and I affirm the same. Of course I’ll tell Richard; I tell him everything, naturally. It’s what lovers do. Or should do, anyway. Okay, let’s not go there, not while I’m feeling so good.
Cat takes my head, aims it toward her. The tube in her hand is plum colored. “Pucker up,” she encourages me, and for some strange reason I do, as she paints my lips with practiced fluid strokes. Oh well, they’re too pale anyway. Can’t really hurt, can it? Besides, it’s not like anyone will ever see me. I’ll wash it off before Richard gets back, and it’s only for fun, right? “Maggie, truth or dare,” Cat says as she concentrates, her eyes intent on my lips.
“Truth,” Maggie immediately chooses.
“Would you like to kiss Richard?” Cat glances up at her as Maggie is standing behind me, hairbrush in hand, brushing out my hair. I’ve been lazy, and it’s grown a little
longer than usual, starting to wave now. When Richard is in a playful mood, he calls me his little Lord Fauntleroy, which earns him a bleak look from me, but he only laughs and kisses me. If Richard were here, I would run my fingers through his golden tresses, ’cause I love the way they feel—like silk sheets and butterfly wings and baby kisses—how they fill my nose with traces of citrus and whispers of love when I press my face into them. I start to drift away on my sensuous daydream but after Cat’s question, I am listening once more.
At first there is dead silence. I tilt my head back toward Maggie, inquisitorially; she swats me with the brush while Cat chides me with, “Max, be careful!”
Finally Maggie admits, “Yes, I would.” Nothing more. No news flash here, who didn’t know that? “But only as a friend,” she hastens to add.
“Right,” Rachel says.
“Sure,” from Cat.
“Of course,” is my contribution.
“Besides, he’s gay.”
“Really?” I pretend to look shocked. “Are you serious? Richard is gay? Don’t tell Reverend Fuckface. He’ll have a heart attack.”
“I wish he would,” Rachel says half-seriously, and for a moment, we merely murmur our agreements.
“Okay, my turn,” Maggie says. “Rachel, truth or dare.” She is shaking the spray can now, and on the label, I catch a glimpse of a model with red hair. Not a bright red, more of a muted shade, closer to auburn. “Max, close your eyes. Cat, you almost done?”
Cat nods, releases my face, “Yep, all through,” and stands back to admire her handiwork. I feel the cold spray hit my hair, and I involuntarily shiver. “Don’t be a baby, Max, it’s not that cold,” Cat chides me fondly.
“Truth,” Rachel says.
“Okay, then, what is the biggest secret that you know?”
My breath hitches a little bit at the question. Rachel is the only one that knows about me, at least among this group. “Not mine to tell,” she says smoothly, and I breathe a little easier. “But if you insist, I’ll tell it….”
Uh oh. I look at her, panic-stricken momentarily. She only winks at me.
“Yes, yes,” Cat and Maggie encourage her. “Tell, tell.”
“Well,” Rachel looks around, as if making sure no unseen spies are lurking about, listening in on our private conversation, “to tell you the truth, I’m in love with this Englishman by the name of Gary.”
Rachel can be damned funny sometimes. Cat snorts and Maggie giggles.
“Rachel, that’s no secret, everyone that knows you knows that.”
Rachel passes on now, before anyone can comment on her answer. “Max, truth or dare.”
I’m tired of dares, I think. “Truth.”
I should have thought that through better.
“When are you going to tell Richard that the next time he leaves you is the last?”
I scowl at her words.
“Don’t do that, you’re mussing up the lipstick.” Cat tries to get me to relax. She turns to the other two. “What color shadow do you think?”
Maggie looks at me critically. “Blue. But first the eyeliner and mascara. I brought midnight blue.”
“That’s the color of Richard’s eyes,” I comment randomly, still not responding to the question.
“I know,” Maggie murmurs, blushing, as she tilts my head into position. “Look up and do not move,” she warns me as she begins to apply the pencil below one eye.
“How about some music?” Cat suggests. Ever the diplomat is my Cat, wanting to ease the sudden tension in the room.
Rachel is nothing if not straightforward. “Max, you know I love you, and I’m only looking out for your best interests. It’s just us talking now, no game. You need to let him know he can’t keep doing that to you. He can’t play with your heart like that.”
“Richard loves Max,” Maggie defends him. “Maybe he has his reasons.”
For the moment, I say nothing, knowing in my heart that what Rachel says is true but not really wanting to hear it. Or deal with it.
“Max, you don’t know where he goes, what he does,” Rachel points out, as if the same thoughts don’t churn through my brain every time he is gone. “and in this day and age, and with AIDS, and STDs, you just can’t be too careful. Have you ever made him get tested when he comes back? I bet you never have. Or gotten yourself tested, for that matter.” Her words bore directly into my soul. But I haven’t. I never could. That would mean talking to him about it, and that never happens. When he returns, we simply move on, no looking back. Well, nothing overt, anyway. I don’t bring it up, but I never forget.
Cat starts a CD. I can hear the opening notes of Tchaikovsky’s beautiful “Swan Lake.” Maggie finishes applying eyeliner below both eyes. Then the stiff mascara brush is carefully layered over my lashes, and I am especially careful to be still, not wanting to feel that thing go into my eye. Upper lashes, lower lashes. All midnight blue. “Okay, close ’em,” she says, and I do. She runs her lithe fingers over my eyelids. I can feel her applying more liner, on the edge of my upper eyelids. Then a softer feel as she uses her finger to spread some liquid shadow. Then a soft brush across my cheekbones. What the hell now? I wonder.
“Cat, that’s nice,” Maggie compliments her.
“Ripe peach,” Cat says, “to give some color to his skin. He’s so pale.”
“Cadaverous,” Maggie agrees.
“I’m not that bad,” I insist. “Can I open my eyes now?”
“Yep,” Maggie says, while Cat echoes, “Sure, go ahead.”
I blink from a little excessive eyeliner, find Rachel’s eyes delving into mine. “Look,” I say defensively, “it’s been a long time now since he’s gone. Maybe he won’t go again.” Wishful thinking on my part, I guess.
“Maybe,” she repeats, but I can hear doubt in her voice, and I can’t honestly tell her she’s wrong to feel the way she does. I’m just taking my usual journey into Egypt, wandering down the Nile so to speak. That’s our catchphrase for things like that; we accuse the other one of being in D’Nile. You know the phrase: de Nile is not just a river in Egypt. Usually we laugh about it, but not tonight. It’s just too close to home, and it mirrors my fears that with everything that is going on with my mother and her boyfriend, Richard might get stressed out and run from me. I can hardly bear the thought, but I have to live with it.
Cat claps her hands. “Ooh, Max, you look so pretty!” and Maggie chimes in, “Yes, he does, doesn’t he?”
“He’s beautiful.” Rachel gives me her best smile, the one that says “I love you, Max, no matter what,” and reaches for my hand. “C’mon, let me show you in your mirror.”
Richard has a full-length mirror on the back of the bedroom door. I hate mirrors myself and only look into one when it’s absolutely necessary, but he uses that one, and I like to watch him looking at himself in it. Okay, I like to watch him, period. I am taken aback at the sight which greets me: my hair is now red, my lips are plum while my eyes are heavily accented and blue, my cheeks are properly blushed, and my fingers and toes are an iridescent purple. Regular drag queen, I am. Which reminds me of another line from Rocky Horror, something about Puff the magic drag queen. I know, don’t say it—way too much. Rachel stands behind me, winds her arms around me, and hugs me tightly. No words pass between us, but I know what she is saying, and I appreciate that she is here for me.
We return to the living room and pass around the last of the cider. Cat has thoughtfully set out the sleeping bags so that everyone can be comfortable, as we begin to settle down for the night. No teenagers are we to sit up talking until the cock crows. And the wine is making me sleepy. The girls are still talking, but it’s getting harder to focus on just what is being said. Occasionally I hear snippets of conversation. Maggie says something about Sylvester McCoy and Daleks. Rachel is explaining something about Sirius Black. And Cat has a story about Sebastian, but I miss most of it, floating in and out of consciousness…
…until I am awakened some time later by the fe
el of a wet tongue on my cheek. “Mmm,” I murmur without thinking, “Richard,” and reach out to touch him. But I am taken by surprise by the feel of something warm and furry, much too furry to be my lover. What the hell? I open one eye and look up. By the light that streams in from the window, I see a strange little face looking back at me. If I’m not mistaken, it appears to be a puppy. Funny, I don’t remember having one of those. Just a big bad wolf. Oh wait, that’s me.
The tongue laves me again, now I open both eyes. Yes, it’s a puppy. A very cute puppy. From what I can see of it, it looks like a spaniel. And he—or she—seems to like me, for some reason. And when I hear a familiar voice, shivers go up and down my spine.
“I think she smells me on you, Max,” I hear as Richard drops down onto the floor next to me, holding the puppy between us as he reaches for my lips. And when he pulls back, I can hear him tasting his own, as if he is trying to figure out what that strange flavor in between us is.
“I didn’t expect you back tonight,” I say, slightly disoriented and trying to make sense of the situation.
“I missed you too much to stay away,” he says, and I hear the question in his voice as he tries to get a good look at me in the limited light. “Max, come into the bedroom. I want to introduce you to her properly.” He takes my hand and helps me up, carrying the puppy in the other arm. We quietly tiptoe around the sleeping beauties, who haven’t been disturbed by Richard’s unexpected entrance, at least not that I can see. We close the bedroom door behind us before I turn on one of the lamps next to the bed.
Richard whistles at me. “You look very delicious,” he says, his eyes running up and down me. I blush at his words, as I had thought to have done away with it long before his return, but I am pleased. “You should wear makeup more often, lover.”
“I don’t think so,” I demur, “but the girls kind of insisted. I think it’s a bit much, don’t you?”
“No, I think it’s lovely,” he says softly, “as lovely as you, pretty baby.” And he kisses me again. The bundle in his arms yips. “Good girl,” he coos, “it’s okay, this is Max, I told you about him. He’s my baby, and you’re his now.” He kisses the puppy softly, hands her to me.
To the Max Page 25