Dax was a one-night stand. I never saw him again. Isn’t that what happens with bad boys all the time?
* * * *
Guy’s badass in his life just happened to be Freddy Frye. Guy told me he slept with the man after first meeting him, fell for him, and carried out an abrupt relationship with Freddy. He couldn’t deny—actually, both of us couldn’t deny—thinking Freddy set the fire at the J. P. Bovane Warehouse, attempting to demolish the parade’s floats, since he knew Guy oversaw them.
Before the production of the show, while Guy drove us from our apartment to Studio 8, he brought up the topic of Freddy Frye being an arsonist. “He’s never been a fire bug before. Why would he start now?”
“Sabotage” slipped out of my mouth.
“He’s in charge of vendors, though, not floats. Why does he want to ruin us?”
“Stop,” I told him. “You know why. It’s all about the day you fired him from Guy-Spell. He’s still not over it and never will be.”
“I don’t know, Landon. Freddy’s a rough guy, the epitome of a bad boy, but I doubt he had the balls to start the fire at the warehouse. If caught, he knows it wouldn’t be a slap on the hand. Severe jail time could be the outcome, which I’m sure he’s aware of. Freddy might be a badass, but he’s not fucking stupid. Besides, the guy knows he wouldn’t last a day behind bars, becoming everyone’s bottom-bitch.”
I didn’t agree with him. “Once a bad boy, always a bad boy. Sabotage. Revenge. Call it what you want, Guy. He’s always out to get you and make your life a living hell. We both know that.”
Guy dropped the subject, needing to direct all his energy and brains on his day at Guy-Spell, presenting his faithful viewers with the best show he could.
* * * *
Approximately three house later, at Studio 8, Stage L…
“Arson, thievery, lies, and broken hearts,” Guy said while looking into camera one, providing a wicked grin and wide eyes to his viewers, sexy as ever. “Today’s show is all about bad boys and how we love them and hate them at the same time. My guests today include our in-house relationship advisor, Chris Kelper; Pittsburgh’s sexy and alluring Mr. Bad Boy 2017, Dylan Masenski; and fresh off the plane and in town for a just a few days, Brazil’s badass and roguishly-tempered soap star from the popular Casaville, Renaldo Estuar. So come back and be bad with us, because you know you want to.” Guy growled and pawed at the camera in his best bear impression as camera one closed in on his pretty face and the show eventually went to a string of commercials.
Lucy Bender gave me a thumbs-up, pleased with the opener.
Neil Carmen whispered something into her right ear; not that I was privy to such information since they were both my supervisors and a higher level on the food chain.
Back from the block of commercials, Guy executed his daily monologue: a compilation of gay-related jokes about Hollywood, politics, and other current events. Then he introduced his first guest, Chris Kelper, Chett’s older brother, who answered a string of relationship-related questions.
“Chett, our viewer, Vinnie Carloto, wants to know what he should do involving this situation: His boyfriend is sleeping over at a single, and extremely hawwwt, man’s house because he’s had too much to drink. Does Vinnie bust down the guy’s door and claim his boyfriend? Join the pair and have a threesome? Or does he suck it up and trust that his boyfriend won’t sleep with the stud? Tell me what you recommend that Vinnie do.”
Chris took a sip of his water, swallowed, cleared his throat, and looked directly at camera one. “Vinnie, you need to let your boyfriend have some space and trust him. If he’s going to be a bad boy and sleep with a man behind your back, then he doesn’t give a poo about you. If he’s faithful, then you’ve found the right guy, and you might want to consider marrying him.”
Guy asked four more questions, two of which were chosen from the live audience.
Following the in-house relationship advisor’s bit, Guy welcomed Pittsburgh’s Mr. Bad Boy 2017, Dylan Majewski. Dylan entered the stage through the floor-to-ceiling curtains. He wore nothing but a pair of skimpy, red-and-white boxer-briefs. A yellow lightning bolt semi-covered the area of his crouch. He posed a few times, flexing his muscles and playing the audience. Then he pressed his almost-naked body against Guy’s private parts, ground his lightning bolt-covered center against my fiancé, and pulled Guy against him, planting a kiss on his lips.
Staggered by the hugging, grinding, and kissing act, since it wasn’t in Guy’s script, Guy pulled away from the man and laughed. He wiped spittle away from his mouth and called out to his audience, “And that is why Dylan’s Mr. Bad Boy 2017 and not the husband of the year!”
Should I have been jealous of Dylan’s attack on my future husband? Not really. It was all in jest. Guy’s job was to entertain and keep Guy-Spell interesting and its ratings up, even if it took a semi-naked and beautiful model like Dylan Majewski to get the job done. Frankly, I didn’t have anything to worry about because Dylan had the seedy (and sticky) reputation, off-air, of going from one dick to the next in the city’s queer bars, being a riding queen, which just happened to be an unattractive attribute.
Bottom line: Guy didn’t like easy guys, which told me he would leave the bad boy alone.
Following Mr. Bad Boy 2017’s interview—a completion of more hip-thrusts, self-executed nipple pinches, and dancing around Guy, and a brief question/answer forum—Dylan left the stage, waving his right hand, grabbed his mound of dick with one hand, and then mooned the audience.
The final guest on Guy’s show was Renaldo Estuar, the dark-haired actor from Brazil who spoke broken English. Because a language barrier occurred between Guy and Renaldo, the day’s script detailed a game like Hasbro’s Yahtzee. Renaldo could play with an audience member.
After audience member Lucia Panita, a Brazilian like Renaldo, won the game, she was escorted off the stage by a crew member’s hand. Lucia won a two hundred and fifty-dollar gift certificate for Best Buy. Renaldo then blew kisses to the audience, waved goodbye, and exited backstage.
Guy ended the show with the quick statement, “If you recall this week, my fiancé, Landon Brice, passed out on the stage. I just want everyone to know he’s doing fine, and he said he would marry me!” Guy clapped his hands together and jumped up and down, excited. “This show is dedicated to him…us.”
The live audience screamed, cheered, and applauded regarding the news.
Guy then hollered out a thank you to his guests and told his viewers good-bye, waving both arms above his head.
End of show.
Lucy told the crew, “Go to credits, black, and cut. Nice job, crew.”
* * * *
That evening, after we finished our day at Studio 8, Stage L, Guy had dinner reservations for us at Mouflon Vex, a French place on Tottenham Avenue we frequented because it was just four blocks from our apartment. After walking inside and being greeted by a young female named Tiffany Rae, we were escorted to our regular, two-person table at an expansive floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the choppy Monongahela River.
Just as we were being seated, someone rudely and purposely poked me in the ass.
“You two men should sit with us this evening and have dinner.”
Pissed, I spun around, ready to bark at or slug the bad boy in the chops. To my surprise, Caster Ray stared up at me and grinned.
He said, “Good evening, Landon. A pleasure to see you.”
To Caster’s right at the four-person table sat the adorable, and much younger, Dane Dandy, Caster’s obvious dinner date for the evening.
Both Guy and I told the pair, “Hello,” and decided to have dinner with them, since all of us were acquainted, and connected by the Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day parade, its floats, and all-day festivities.
Less than three minutes later, a Liam Hemsworth-lookalike took our drink orders. Caster and Dane ordered glasses of a semi-expensive white zinfandel, Guy got a Scotch on the rocks, and I decided to go with my norm, a Long Isl
and Iced Tea.
Conversation consisted of the production of Guy-Spell, Dane’s art courses at Pitt University, and Caster’s day job managing rentable warehouse buildings around the city.
During appetizers, calamari for four, Guy said to Dane, “I’ve heard the penis float was something to see.”
I almost choked on a piece of squid.
Dane handled the question like a civilized adult and confidently replied with, “It was a rocket.”
Caster chuckled, half concealed behind his drink. “We all know it was a penis, Dane. There’s no hiding the truth. Trust me when I say we all know what a dick looks like since we’re queerbies.”
It was Dane’s turn to chuckle. “Doesn’t matter what it was since my brother and I are out of the parade now due to the fire.”
Caster reached over and gently rolled fingers over Dane’s right, muscular shoulder. “You’re still on the float team, buddy. Don’t count you and your brother out just yet. There are others who need your help with the floats. Now is your time to step up to the plate and lend a hand.”
Other topics shared over our meals: springtime weather, the gay baseball team, a rowing competition on the Allegheny River in late June, and…
My mind drifted. Somewhere. Somehow. Floating. All I could see inside my head were the Best Pittsburgh Bear Pageant winner topping the boyishly cute, and young, Dane Dandy. My mind strayed to a pornographic scene of the pair in a rented and randy hotel room, filming their naked play against a paneled wall. Visions of Caster pounding Dane floated through my mind, roughly banging the guy and calling him little dirty bitch boy…dick-beggar…ooze-taker…
“Landon…Landon,” Guy said, pulling me out of XXX-rated daydream at the table. “Dane just asked to see the ring I gave you. Show it to him.”
Caster said, “I want to see it, too.”
I showed off the ring, splaying it before the two men, who fingered the band, oohed and ahhed.
Dane asked, “When is the wedding?”
I looked at Guy, and he looked at me. Baffled, I eventually said, “Soon, I think. We haven’t talked about a date.”
Guy played on my statement and added, “Maybe in the fall. We have some talking and planning to do.”
Dane gulped his drink down, asked the waiter for a fresh one, and said, “I can’t wait to get married. There’s something about gay matrimony that turns me on. The rings. The toasts. The tuxedos. The guests. The music. The wedding cake. Everything. I love it all. Just talking about it right now is making me hard.”
Caster sucked down his drink and told Dane, “Don’t get ahead of yourself with us. This is only getting started.”
Everyone at the table laughed.
Over the French entrees—Guy ordered salmon rillettes, Dane had steak Diane, Caster chose chicken Gruyere, and I had filet mignon in a mushroom-cabernet gravy—the topic turned to the fire at the J. P. Bovane Warehouse again.
Caster pointed out first, waving a knife in my direction, “I know the media is pegging Freddy Frye as the arsonist, but I honestly don’t think the man is smart enough to pull something like that off.”
“I agree,” Dane said, enjoying his steak. “He’s an attractive loudmouth, but comes across as being quite an unintelligent nitwit.”
Guy laughed. “I personally think he’s a villain who hates me. Freddy knows the floats are important to me, even penis ones, but I don’t think he wanted to destroy them all just to affect my life and Landon’s.”
Caster shook his head. “True. There are so many people helping with the parade and making the floats possible. The fire isn’t all about you.”
“Caster,” I started, “you’re not in any position…”
“Gentleman,” Guy aggressively cut me off, ending my comment.
Dane shared a simple, but not convincing, smile with the group.
Irritated, I simply asked, “Do you all think Freddy Frye set the fire?”
Guy immediately said, “No.”
Dane said, “No.”
Caster Ray said, “No.”
“Shit,” I whispered. “I’m the only who thinks he did.”
Conversation topic over. Immediately.
Dane let out an obnoxious sigh, playing with the food on his plate. “I miss my penis.”
Again, we all laughed, shifting the tone of the dinner to happy and relaxed.
* * * *
Buzzed from drinking too much at dinner, having enjoyed our evening walk home from Mouflon Vex, Guy and I decided to turn in. Feeling sleepless, though, we ended up making love, showering, and then started watching the evening news on WCPH.
Newscaster Casey Shaw told his viewers, “Thirty-nine-year-old resident of Southton, Frederick Frye, was taken into custody earlier this evening by the Pittsburgh police department. Police soon released him after questioning about the arson at the J. P. Bovane Warehouse on Smay Street. Mr. Frye insists he doesn’t have anything do with the fire and stated, ‘There are enough petroleum-based products in that warehouse to cause a city inferno. The fire could have started on its own.’”
“You think he’s lying?” I asked Guy, mesmerized by Shaw’s story.
“Freddy can’t be trusted, I know this for a fact. But he’s right, there’s a lot of fire-producing material in Caster Ray’s warehouse.”
I grunted. “My gut tells me he’s an arsonist.”
“Not to worry. We’ll find out the truth behind the fire soon.”
* * * *
May 15
The weather for the Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day offered beauty beyond anything I could have imagined. The sky turned a stunning light blue without clouds, and the temperature stayed at a comfortable eighty degrees with next to zero percent humidity. Honestly, I couldn’t remember any other day in my life that compared, thinking it blissfully perfect, spring time at its best, and glorious.
Even Guy thought it stunning, sidling up to me as we carried Styrofoam cups of three-bean coffee around the neighborhood’s gathering. Guy kissed my check and said, “We killed this as a community. The turn-out is unbelievable.”
“Just as it should be,” I replied, taking the day in and absorbing all its visual details.
An abundance of gay and straight supporters of the Love Yourself, Love Someone Else Day filled the streets. It looked as if a rainbow had exploded over Southton as they sported their pride colors. People young and old patronized the gathering, enjoying the vendor booths, street games, and craft show. Random chatter proved they anticipated the upcoming parade. Over two hundred thousand people were estimated to attend the function, although more had already showed up, exceeding the attendance goal.
Hot dog booths, pie booths, pretzel booths, beer booths, and other foodie booths fed the masses, who savored the fair-like provisions. A face-painting station, two giant inflatable slides, and a grounded bouncy room entertained the children. Adults played Skee-Ball and video games near The Silver Spoon Pub. Mikey Silver opened for business at nine o’clock and had already started racking up beer sells for the morning and afternoon. Husbands and wives enjoyed shopping, perusing the art show and the nearby LYLSED Flea Market. Many families had visited the temporary petting zoo set up on Lyser Street, perpendicular to where the parade operated. Other events for all ages included the Petta Art Gallery, Gay Marriage Bingo at the Southton VFW, a badminton tournament, and horseshoes.
Guy looked down at his watch. “The parade starts in five minutes. We should find our spots for the viewing.”
In the distance, not even two blocks away, high school bands drummed, clowns dinged their adult-sized tricycles’ bells, and a fire truck roared to life. Horns honked, tapping teams were heard, and the sounds of the Southton Cyclones High School Football team roared, ready to march in the parade, celebrating their pride and support for gay marriage.
* * * *
The LYLSED parade could have easily been one of the best parades in Pittsburgh’s all-time history. It started at ten-thirty in the morning, and the streets li
ned with anticipating spectators. A variety of Southtonites of all sizes, colors, races, and religions gathered for the event, making it the city’s highest-attended function that year.
“Wow,” Guy said at my side. “Everyone’s here celebrating with us.”
“I’m glad we have their support. It’s about time this country and city comprehend the true meaning of equality and gay marriage.”
“I’m proud of us, Landon. And you should be proud of us, too.”
“I am. More than you know.”
The parade started. Floats, bands, and fire trucks filled the street in front of us, passing. As the crowd screamed, pleased with the festivities, overjoyed with the celebration, Guy and I stood among them, watching the familiar floats. We saw the castle float with its two kissing princes. Then we saw the two Peace, Love, and Gay Marriage! floats, the Titanic float, and the float shaped like a church’s interior and decorated for the celebration of a gay wedding. There was the float called Love Wins! and a Statue of Liberty float.
Between viewing the arrangement of floats, there were local high school bands, more fire trucks, EMT ambulances, and city police cruisers. Local politicians who were advocates of LGBTQIAP rights and equal marriage rode by in fancy convertibles. There were jugglers, dance groups, and flame-eaters, all of which performed for the vast pool of gatherers, creating a fabulous parade for the community.
During the middle of the parade, Caster Ray and his young boyfriend, Dane Dandy, slinked between Guy and me. I smelled beer on Caster’s breath, realizing he was semi-blitzed.
Caster said, “Boys, boys, boys, you all did such a fine job. This parade is amazing.”
“My penis float is dead,” Dane reminded us.
Guy joked with him and said, “Keep your chin up. There’s always next year for your penis float, buddy.”
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