“What are we going to do tonight?” he asks.
“Buffy, season six?”
“Nah. I’ve seen it too many times.”
“Oh! I know! We can steal some vodka from the bar!”
“Okay.”
“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat while I finish getting ready?”
He nodded vigorously, and I went into the kitchen to see what we had. Not much.
“Um . . . tomorrow must be grocery day. Let’s see. There’s some melba toast. Or I could make a Bundt cake!”
“Nah. Let’s just do shots. C’mon.”
How many times has this happened to you:
For some strange reason that can only be explained after twenty-six consecutive shots of pepper vodka, you’ve decided to finally set up that home karaoke machine you got three Christmases ago and perform your signature song: “I Believe I Can Fly” by R. Kelly. IT’S THE SONG THAT’S BEEN BUILDING UP INSIDE OF YOU FOR A LIFETIME, and you absolutely MUST SHARE it with an audience . . . RIGHT NOW. There’s no time to lose—no time to rehearse—just peel your new best friend, Flip, off the floor and thank God for the “Emergency drag bag” you keep next to the door. (It contains a full costume change, complete with makeup and accessories, for no-brainer quick changes like this—it’s a drag queen’s lifesaver!) Hurry! You’ll change in the bathroom. . . .
Things get a little blurry.
You remember changing into a gorgeous floor-length polyester cocktail gown with an empire waistline and gorgeous Pucci-esque swirls of ocher, cinnamon, and puce. You don your Suzi Wong wig—but it sits at a jaunty angle that’s not quite right. . . . In your haste you glue one eyelash to your nose and the other onto your forehead, for that delightful “Qu’est-ce que c’est?” look that’s so popular now.
Of course, unbeknownst to you, your best friend, Flip—who from now on will be referred to as The Hurlmeister—has just barfed into your drag bag before handing it to you, and as you take to the makeshift stage (a foot locker) you are covered in Whopper chunks and regurgitated melba toast.
I believe I can fly
I believe I can touch the sky
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
See me running through that open door
The audience (Flip) is wildly receptive. They are—okay, he is—throwing things at you: wigs, pencils, keys, and beer bottles (Isn’t that sweet?), and screaming, “Take it off!”
Hmmm . . .
It wasn’t meant to be a sexy number, but what the hell, you’re feeling saucy, so you show ’em a shoulder, give ’em some gam, then let your booty bobble and bounce—and you, sir, are NO LADY!
In your confusion you’ve fallen a beat or two behind, and in your struggle to stay on pitch, you begin braying like a herniated yak. (Use your imagination.) But nobody is paying attention to you, anyway, because the audience has begun throwing up on some old wizard robes and dashikis, which were probably ready for the trash, anyway, and before you know it, the two of you have both passed out on the staircase—sick and ashamed of yourselves.
How often has this happened to you?
I would hate to think I was the only one.
Eventually, he poked me, picked me up off the stairs, and wiped a few vomit chunks from my dress.
He slung his arm around me and slurred in his straightest voice, “You know what? You’re okay, dude.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“No. I really like hanging with you.”
“Right back at ya, babe.”
“You aren’t like a fairy or anything. You know what I’m sayin’? You aren’t like a fairy or anything.”
I wanted to mention that my “fairy phase” ended when my mother stole my wings and elf ears for herself, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. He was trying very hard to explain our friendship in straight terms.
“I mean, you dress like you’re from freakin’ Mars, man.” He looked critically at the eyelash glued to my nose. “I don’t care or nothin’. You are who you are, and I think that’s cool, man. . . .”
We walked outside, and as we walked, we talked. Without realizing it, we walked the length and width of the compound, along the sea wall, through the garden, around the guesthouse, finally ending up back at the house, the main house, with our arms still slung chummily around each other, feeling closer than we ever had before.
Once upstairs I excused myself to the bathroom, where I quickly brushed my teeth and washed my face. When I came back into the room, ten minutes later, I saw that he had fallen asleep on an old pile of wigs. SIGH. I set about making him comfortable, propping up his head and wiping his nap-drool.
I took one last look at him, my lovely Prince of Pouts—So perfect! So sweet!—turned out the light, and retired, regretfully, to the bed.
XVIII
5 A.M. BLUES
He’s asleep now. On my mattress. In his underwear. With an erection. It’s very early in the morning. The sun is slowly spotlighting the room. He must have gotten up and moved in the middle of the night. Now I’m perched on the side of the mattress, breathless, holding a Dr Pepper, staring at his chest, his nipples, the thick tufts of hair under his arms. . . . I’m all moist and oozy just looking at him. I couldn’t possibly go back to sleep. Could you?
I stare at him, hard, until I am unable to focus clearly on a detail. If I blur my eyes, try to take in the whole image, he seems to bend and shift. He’s not solid somehow, more like the memory of something solid, something forgotten.
He is a wave, maybe, that you can touch but never hold—moving, changing, disappearing and reappearing. I am suddenly aware that this moment will be with me forever. I will carry this vision to my death.
If I bend down, if I get close enough to him, will I be able to smell him? In my mind he smells like a stable boy, reeking of horse sweat, cut grass, and olive juice. In my mind he smells like a caveman fresh from the hunt: bloody, murky, dark, and primordial.
If I lick his nipple, will I taste the testosterone that drips from him? I crawl closer to him. He won’t mind. I stare at the birthmark on his shoulder, the one shaped like Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. When he moans and turns onto his stomach, I get a pen and connect the freckles on his back.
This is love.
If only he would wake up. If only we could roll around in each other’s arms for a couple of years. Playing games and giggling. Writing words with my finger on his back, and letting him try to guess.
I could have him now, you know. If I really wanted to. Really, who turns down sex once it’s already underway? Afterward he’d probably never talk to me again. At best. At worst, he’d beat me up, he liked it so much.
But no.
Instead, I shove a couple of Flossie’s cigarettes up his nose and take a picture for posterity. Using a wire coat hanger, I try to open the flap of his boxers and get a peek. Then I leave and go out into the living room to see if Regis and Kelly are on yet.
XIX
LATE MORNING—
I watched him lace his boots in that cute way that he has: across and across rather than letting the laces crisscross over each other. It requires skill that way, he told me, and concentration. His forehead crinkled in childlike frustration as he tried to show me, and then his eyes lit up with satisfaction when he was finished.
I marveled once again at how he’s changing. He doesn’t hang out with the other Manatees as much—he says they don’t understand him anymore. He seems quieter now, more introspective. He doesn’t talk in that tough-guy wigger way as much anymore. (Although it did return in full effect last night, when he was drunk, huh?)
He acts increasingly protective toward me. Dare I say tender? When we’re together at night, he jokingly refers to me as his bitch. Isn’t that sweet? In private he tells me I’m the best friend he’s ever had. Sometimes he holds my hand when we are out walking in the gardens, and that just makes my LIVER QUIVER, I’ll tell you THAT.
XX
SATURDAY NIGHT—
It is almost
midnight when I make my entrance.
Spotlight, please.
My gown is glimmering, shimmering. A gorgeous piece of craftsmanship. One hundred thousand Japanese silkworms pooped it up, and twenty-seven blind nuns beaded it while locked in a castle tower somewhere in Tuscany. It’s unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Under different lights, at different angles, it moves, it undulates—it SINGS THE BODY ELECTRIC! Is it real? A mirage? Perhaps a holy vision? If so, then it’s, quite literally, TOO DIVINE.
My wig is enormous, at least two feet high. It has a nautical theme tonight: “Under the Sea.” It’s blue and white, like foam on waves. It’s swirled up here and curled down there and then piled into a glamorous, cascading topknot. It is pinned with pearls and tiny shells and even starfish. . . . But the pièce de résistance—are you sitting down? Look! There! From a circular swirl at the center of the topknot, BUBBLES EMERGING! Yes! From a hollow hole deep within the mound of curls, my hair is blowing out a continuous stream of bubbles! I call this my GLUG GLUG wig. I see your mouth visibly drop. “Am I underwater?” you ask.
No! I rigged a bubble machine to the base of the wig! I’M A GENIUS!
“You look awesome, Billy,” Flip shouts when he sees me. He leaps to his feet and gives my outfit a standing ovation.
“Thank you. Thank you.”
Eventually he stopped clapping.
Then he looked at me.
And I looked at him.
We looked at each other for a few moments.
Then.
I . . . um . . . got nothing.
That’s when—TOTALLY OUT OF THE BLUE—Flip raises his hand like he’s asking a question at school, and blurts out: “So . . . um . . . then . . . tell me: Are you gay? Or what? Bisexual? DON’T WORRY. You can tell me. I can take it. I have an uncle who’s a stewardess.”
I was thrown. Clearly, this was something he’d been thinking about. And possibly worried about? What if I scared him off? What if this was a test? What if he wanted me to say yes so he could come out, too? Um . . . maybe not. But I needed time.
So I stood there—in my beaded dress; my bubbling blue wig; and six-inch heels—looked him straight in the eyes, and said, “Me? Oh. Um. Sort of, kind of, maybe a little bit bisexual. Kind of. Maybe. Sort of. You know.”
He wasn’t buying it. “So you’re saying you’re NOT gay, then?”
I laughed and punched him in the arm, real manlike. “Nooooo, silly goose!”
He arched a brow. “Hmmm.” And he shuffled through my CD pile. “A LOT of straight guys collect Kylie Minogue B sides and bootlegs, huh?”
Not such a dim bulb after all! “Um . . . I don’t know what you could mean by that.”
“So, if you’re so straight,” he continued, “who’s your ideal girl? If you could have hot monkey sex with any GIRL in the world, who would it be?”
“Um . . . um . . .” (Don’t say Liza! Don’t say Liza!) “Um . . . um . . .” (Don’t say Martha Stewart! Don’t say Martha Stewart!)
I hemmed and hawed for a solid three minutes until I came up with: “Beyoncé!”
He made the sound of a buzzer. “Yeah. Um. No. You want to BE Beyoncé, Billy, not bone her. Nice try. And besides, according to you, she’s already technically a drag queen, anyway, so she double doesn’t count!”
Wow. He’s a quick study.
Then, innocently, as a simple matter of course:
“So, what kind of BOY do you like?” and “Who’s your ideal boy?”
DANGER! DANGER! Uncharted territory! Potential land mines all around! All previous experience useless! Emotional compass going hay-wire! Turn around now!
How to answer?
The truth?
Be honest?
Tell him you like impossibly blond superboys? Heartbreakingly pretty quarterbacks? Power-pouting teenage saints? Emo-eyed Bambiboys?
What about: Guys named Flip?
What about: YOU! YOU IDIOT!
KA-BOOM!
But no. I went with: “Donnie Darko.”
Flip chewed on that for a moment. “Yeah. Hmm. Donnie’s dope. Hey, but what about Captain Jack Sparrow? That nizzle is off the hook, right? He’s gotta be up there, huh? Pirates are the shit! And Johnny Depp is the MAN!”
Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!—I had to pinch myself. Was this really happening? Were Flip and I really gossiping about cute boys? And was Flip just totally crushing on Johnny Depp? We were! He was! Oh my God—we’re not boyfriends, WE’RE GIRLFRIENDS! This is SO tween slumber party. All that’s missing is the popcorn, headgear, and a new pom-pom routine.
The next question, then. “How far have you gotten with a guy?”
This could be potentially creepy. Luckily, I’m a teenage spinster, so there’s no icky reveal. “Nowhere. Nothing. No one. Ever. Really. I am so totally homo-challenged, I might as well be straight. I mean, I am clueless. What’s a bottom? What’s a bear? What’s a chicken? I may never find out. I’ll probably die a virgin. I’m just going to hermetically seal my ass now and save future archaeologists the problem.”
“No one? Ever?” He was silent about that for a very long while.
Then we continued on.
Like so, you know.
Ha-ha-ha.
La-la-la.
Things took a sinister turn, though, when Flip introduced a new game—Who Would You Rather Do?
The rules were simple enough. He would list two options—A or B? This one or that one? Tom or Dick?—and I chose the one I’d rather “do.” (“Dick.”)
Well, that was easy enough!
Sounded like good fun.
But wait! Not so fast! It wasn’t as simple as that! There was a hitch! A glitch! A bump in the road. A blackfly in the chardonnay!
For some reason Flip’s choices almost always consisted of “Bib” and someone else. And that someone else was almost always someone like Gary Shandling, Comic Book Guy, Stephen Hawking, Carrot top, Chris Farley’s corpse . . . you get the picture. It was all very strange, and I wasn’t quite sure where he was going with it.
“Who Would You Rather Do? Bib or Jar Jar Binks?” he asked.
“Bib or Richard Simmons?”
“Bib or Mini-Me?”
So it went. Until . . .
“Bib Oberman or . . . Michael Moore,” he said. He paused, then added, “And Michael Moore has advanced flesh-eating disease. . . . And he’s only wearing spandex hot shorts and a sports bra. . . . And while you’re deciding, he’s hard-core krumping, and as he pops and spins, large, crusty, infected chunks of rotting flesh are flying everywhere, pelting you in the eyes and mouth.”
Oh my God. This was so retarded. I said nothing.
“Well? Who? Come on?”
“Bib!” I finally groaned. “I’ll do Bib!”
He LEAPED into the air, eyes blazing, finger pointed to God: “AGAIN! AHA! I KNEW IT! Five Bibs in a row! You have a thing for Bib, don’t you?”
This shit was bananas. Where was it coming from? I never knew he was so jealous of Bib!
“Okay, Flip,” I said. “You’re so smart. You got me. It’s true. I love Bib Oberman. TLA. True Love Always. We didn’t want to tell you, so we concocted the whole months of torment and coma thing to throw you off the track.” I started making out with my hand, “Kiss, kiss. Slurp, slurp. Oh Bib! Bib! You’re so hot!” I stopped and turned to him, and here’s where I forgot about the potential land mines.
“Now, I have a question for YOU! Okay—who would you rather do? ME? Or STAR JONES? And Star Jones has a nasty-smelling yeast infection. And humongous hammertoes, which she insists you suck. Oh! Oh! And she likes to use her old liposuction fat as . . .”
Well, that shut him up.
“That’s different,” he said, sulking. “I’m straight. You have to give me two females.”
“Oh? Oh? Is that THE RULE? Is that how they’ve been playing it for GENERATIONS now? Is that written in the bylaws of the charter of the HICK RETARD IDIOT GAME LOVERS CLUB? Well, tough crap, straight boy. So? Well? Who’s
it going to be? Me or Star Jones’s hammertoes?”
“I’m outta here,” he barked, and slammed down the stairs.
“Yeah! Well, FUCK YOU! GET OUT!” I screamed. “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!” I was angry and hurt. He couldn’t have just been polite? He couldn’t have been a gentleman? Who knew I was somewhere beneath yeast infections, hammertoes, and recycled body fat on the Table of Sexual Desirability. I felt rejected and monstrously, hideously ugly. I’m grotesque!
XXI
Maybe the air was getting a little thin, or maybe the peanut-butter-and-Robitussin sandwich was finally kicking in. At any rate, I was hot, nauseous, and cramped. I was spending the day in my footlocker, with my snout against the airhole, whimpering like the dog I was.
This was my penance for being mean to Flip.
I closed my eyes and prayed to Mary Hart, the symbol of all that is good and pure in my life. “Please, Mary, deliver me from madness, passive-aggressive hostility, and hetero-hating.”
Amen.
According to the Big Book of Symptoms I found in my dad’s library, that heavy feeling in my chest, pressing down on me, was a terminal case of angina pectoris. And all this time I thought it was a broken heart.
(Sniffle.)
I took to my bed, yet again, and piled on layer after layer of foundation to cover the pain of rejection. I propped myself up to receive visitors, like Garbo on her deathbed in Camille. . . .
Oh. Oh dear.
Anyone?
Anyone?
Oh, people. GARBO. Greta Garbo! Swedish movie star of the 1930s! Heart-stopping beauty! “I VANT TO BE ALONE!” Frequently lampooned in Bugs Bunny!
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