Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins

by Kage Alan

  "Which part of ‘I don't want to hear about your sex life’ didn't you understand?” Ryan asked with deadpan sincerity. “For that matter, how did we get on this subject anyway? What are you going to tell me about next? Nipple clips?"

  "I wouldn't recommend those,” I told him with complete sincerity.

  "I don't want to know about it!" Ryan stopped just shy of screaming at the top of his lungs.

  "I just miss warm fuzzies.” Kim took the floor again.

  "Warm fuzzies?” It seemed as if Ryan's linguistic night-mare was far from over.

  "Yeah,” I explained it to him, “it's when the sight of a guy makes you tingle all over and his touch just sends a warm wave through your entire body and you can feel it for entire minutes afterwards."

  "Again, straight guy here.” Ryan turned back to Kim. “Can't somebody talk about some girly parts or something? Listening to you two is enough to make it shrivel and hide for the next two weeks."

  "Here.” I got up and went to the other closet where I kept my storage trunk. After a few moments of rummaging around, I found what I was looking for. “These might help get you back in the mood.” I tossed the package of nipple clips onto his lap.

  "Andy!"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  14

  Eager chatter about upcoming trips for spring break floated through the air even though it was still a few weeks away. Plane and hotel reservations had to be made in advance, tanning booths had to be booked and old stories of last year's trips and conquests had to be reinvented. Straight people were so weird sometimes.

  Meanwhile, the world for the rest of us went on. The talk I'd had with Ryan and Kim several days earlier had gone well enough, and at least they'd agreed to help me combat Tri—the Lord of the Loins, as Kim now referred to him. I also continued to spend quality time with Alan and ask tons more questions about him. Since he thought he was in love with me, I might as well discover all there was to know, which I'm confident he enjoyed.

  Yeah, I'm not buying it, either.

  While he was intelligent, multi-cultural, well-mannered and rarely dressed in clothes without an expensive name attached to them, the boy had never eaten a hot pretzel with mustard from the mall or a Coney dog, fries and a Coke from National Coney Island. I mean ... please. Also unlike me, he had an annoying younger brother and an ex-military father who would probably come after me with a shotgun if he ever found out that his son had a boyfriend. That was certainly more than enough reason for me to live up to that middle name I professed to have.

  While I'd only recently “come out” to myself and a few others, Alan had been out to himself since he was old enough to know the main difference between boys and girls. He'd always known he was attracted to guys and never questioned it, though he did keep it to himself, which was a wise choice considering his military father. Girls had always been and still were attracted to him, and he did date them from time to time, but he never let it get serious. His plan was simply to wait until he was far away at college before investigating his options.

  Alan also learned about me, but not because he asked. I was just so overjoyed with being alive, having a boyfriend and being able to talk about how I felt that I didn't think I needed to be asked. When he did steer a conversation to something other than my being quiet, he stuck to the basics. While my music appealed to him, the posters in my room didn't, my shoes were a $14.99 K-Mart special, jeans and T-shirts made up my entire wardrobe, the only phrase I could remember in Cantonese was how to call someone a “butthead,” I seemed to generate heat and sweat a lot when he slept next to me in bed and I was unable to disguise the blank look on my face when he said something I didn't understand, like the entire Tommy episode. What a fiasco that was.

  I was in his dorm room one afternoon while his roommate was in class, and his humidifier—a.k.a. the pitcher of water near the heating vent—toppled over onto my jacket. Exactly how that happened isn't important, but the fact that it did caused me some distress, since Alan lived two buildings away from me and it was still freezing outside. Being the chivalrous person that I'd come to expect, he offered me a jacket out of his closet, something I could have sworn he said belonged to Tommy.

  "I am not wearing someone else's jacket,” I informed him.

  "What are you talking about?” he asked, mildly irritated at my rebuff.

  "I thought you said I was your first? Now you suddenly pull something out of your closet that belonged to Tommy? Who's Tommy?” I stared at him. “I'm not in the habit of wearing an old flame's clothes. I'd rather freeze."

  "You're a boob.” It was Alanspeak for I was acting retarded. “I said it is a Tommy, not that it belonged to Tommy, and why am I explaining this to you, anyway? You're joking, right? You do know what a Tommy is?"

  Apparently, this was something I indeed should have known, so I decided to come clean.

  "Of course.” I chuckled and tried desperately to associate meaning with what he was talking about. “Like someone isn't going to know who a Tommy is?"

  "You almost got away with that one.” He crossed his arms. “I think it's because you've actually started to mask that look on your face that so blatantly tells me you have no clue what I'm talking about. If you'd said someone isn't going to know what a Tommy is instead of who, you might just have pulled it off."

  "Semantics.” I shrugged my shoulders.

  "You haven't figured out that there's no such thing as static psychotherapy but you understand semantics? Darwin would love you.” He went to the door. “I'm going to go grab some towels. When I get back, I expect that you'll have your story straight."

  And with that, he left the room and I dove for the phone. Kim might know the answer!

  "If you're male, straight, cute, hung and naked, I'm available."

  "Miss Kim!” I spoke quickly, “I need your help and I need it fast.” The wrong thing went through her mind. Typical. “Not that kind of help. This is Andy. Don't talk, just listen. I'm over at Alan's and I need to know what a Tommy is?"

  "It's a seventies rock opera by The Who.” She sounded as if I should have known that, too. Apparently, I should know everything. But to think, there was a designer clothing line based on a rock opera. Maybe it was just expensive and that's why he liked it. “The only reason I know that is because we had some white neighbors on the block who..."

  "That's nice. Let's do lunch. Kiss noises!” I hung up a moment before Alan came back into the room. He looked at me and I grinned.

  "You have something you want to say?"

  "No, not really.” I paused dramatically and tried my best to act impressed. “I just think it's really great you're familiar with the whole seventies period and the nostalgia of it all."

  "Okay ... what?"

  "The whole Tommy thing. Like I wouldn't know it's a rock opera by The Who.” He must have thought I was really stupid. “I figure you saw the movie and then the line of clothing came out and, of course, you had to have it because it's popular."

  Alan was giving me a pitying look, but his phone rang before I could ask him if he had anything to say. I picked it up. “Hello?"

  "Don't you ever hang up on me like that, you mutha—"

  "Sorry, you have the wrong number.” I hung up and looked over at Alan. “Someone who wanted ... someone else.” He was still staring at me. “What?"

  "If you didn't have any idea what a Tommy was, why didn't you just ask?” He walked over to me and put his hands on my shoulders. “A Tommy is a Tommy Hilfiger, the fashion designer, not a rock opera by The Where."

  "Who."

  "What? Never mind. It's not important.” He sighed. “Don't you have somewhere you need to be?"

  "Yeah, I have to get back to my room so I can grab my extra winter jacket while this one dries, then I've got to get to class."

  "My boyfriend.” He hugged me. “The moron."

  "You've called me a boob and moron all in the last five minutes. God's going to punish you if you keep saying things like that
.” At least I got the last word in.

  "He already is,” Alan muttered.

  Dammit!

  * * * *

  Alan told me that we wouldn't be able to see each other during the upcoming weekend because his parents were visiting, but that he'd make it up to me Monday evening. Something was definitely up, so I concentrated on that and didn't utter a single peep about not being invited to meet his parents. It would have been nice, but why risk giving them any ideas before we had to? Besides, I'd rather run naked through the streets of Grand Rapids than have to dodge his father's bullets, anyway.

  Ryan and I were sitting in the student center the following Monday, reeling from the stench of all the stories about last year's spring break still being exaggerated around us. It was getting to the point where I wanted to avoid the place, but then, students were talking about it everywhere. Hibernating in my room was always an option, only that would be interpreted as hiding, and I refused to allow myself to do that.

  Actually, I don't think I could have hidden anymore anyway. Thanks to Tristan, way too many people knew who I was, and I now had a reputation for being “one of those.” The whole sordid episode was making me crabby, which really pissed me off!

  As troubled as I was, Ryan looked equally bothered about something.

  "What's wrong? Aerosmith write a pop song?” I smiled and took a sip of my Pepsi.

  "Don't even joke about that!” he snapped. “They better not. Next thing you know, they'll be doing soundtracks.” The thought sent a cold shiver up his spine. “I'm just thinking about some of the junk mail I've been getting at home from school. Mom usually goes through it and throws it out, but lately, she's piling the stuff up on my desk."

  "What kind of stuff?"

  "From some organization—I haven't really looked at it closely. With so much crap happening lately, I've been focusing on making a major effort to handle things in a very mature manner."

  "You sent yourself a gift subscription to Playboy to get your parents off your back, didn't you?"

  "No, but that's an idea."

  "So, what is this major effort of yours?"

  "I haven't sworn in seventy-two hours."

  "That's unprecedented!” I complimented him. “That has got to take a lot of fucking effort."

  "You're God—” He caught himself. “You jack—” And did so again. “It does, doesn't it? I have to admit that even I'm a little impressed with myself. Man.” He paused. “I wish I could remember the name of that school organization. Have you ever heard of the Ten Percent Club?"

  I was in mid-sip when he asked me, and I nearly choked!

  "Yeah,” I rasped, “I've heard of it."

  He handed me a few napkins.

  "Well?” he pressed when I didn't offer an explanation. “Are you going to keep me in suspense or do I have to go place an ad in the paper for someone to explain it to me?"

  "That was a little below the belt.” I cleared my throat again and breathed deeply. “Believe me when I tell you that you don't want to know what it is."

  "Yes, I do."

  "No, you don't."

  "Yes...” He glared at me. “...I do."

  "Okay.” I looked around us at the crowd of people and tried to figure out some clever way to tell him without anyone overhearing the conversation. “You remember that thing that I am that you aren't and strongly resent anyone making implications that you might be?"

  He ought to be able to figure it out now.

  "Oh, no.” Yep, he figured it out. “Somebody paid the penny and signed me up as a member of one of those Columbia House Music Clubs, didn't they?” Ryan sighed in disgust. “I knew they'd get me one day."

  "No,” I told him, “not that. I'm talking about that other difference between us. The big difference."

  "Big difference?"

  "Yeah.” I urged him on to think. “The big, big difference."

  "If this is going back to the size of my penis..."

  "I'm talking about something much bigger than that.” I wanted to smack him. “You know what I mean."

  "Oh, you mean the big, big difference?"

  I nodded that he was correct, but I still wanted to smack him.

  "Okay, but what does that have to do with the mail I'm getting?"

  "Well...” How did I explain this? “It's thought that at least ten percent of the population is like me. Anyway, some of them have gotten together and started a campus organization called what you said you were getting mail from. I don't know how they got your name, though.” I did have a theory. “Well, I think it's a safe assumption how they got your name, or at least, who gave it to them."

  "That son of a..."

  I looked at him and smiled, a reminder that he was about to break his record of seventy-two hours.

  "...bleacher!” He gritted his teeth. “And these people get together and have meetings and things like that?"

  "Apparently. They must if they actually have literature to send out. Campus organizations generally do. Why?"

  "What do they talk about?” Ryan stared at me. “I mean, really. What do they have to talk about?"

  "Let's put this in perspective.” I stared right back at him. “What do straight guys sit around and talk about when they're together?” I was pretty sure they weren't even closely related, but I had to give him a frame of reference. After all, he wasn't a part of the club. On the other hand, if I managed to convert one more person, I'd get that toaster oven I'd had my eye on.

  "I've got to get my name off their list.” Ryan just didn't know how, nor did I, for that matter. “I told my parents the phone calls were from a bunch of people in class and I don't think they believed me. Now I've got mail coming from a gay organization? How do I explain that?” He looked at me as if I should magically be able to tell him. “My mother has been whispering on the phone lately. What do you think she's saying, and who's on the other end?” Good questions. “Do you think this club has an office or something?"

  "Probably, but I'd call instead, if I were you. You never know who's going to see you walking in there, and then you'll have all these excuses and explanations to come up with. It's not worth it, so call."

  He still didn't look very happy. I suppose I wouldn't either if my mother started reading material sent to me about a gay organization and then started whispering on the phone, especially since my mother never whispered.

  "You okay?"

  "I'm going to kill him.” Ryan was determined. Whether or not he'd actually resort to violence was anybody's guess, but he was determined about something. “Anyone getting this big a kick out of causing so much trouble deserves to die."

  "No,” I countered, “I'm going to kill him first, but you can kill him second."

  "I'm really not in the mood for this. One more thing today, and I swear to God...” He looked up and saw a few girls from our creative writing class approaching our table. “Oh, what the hell do you want?"

  "Have you seen this?” One laid down a sheet of paper in front of him. “It's an ad for an art show, and since Professor Gevaultski asked the class to culture you in any way we feel appropriate, we think it would be a genuine sign of character if you went with us."

  Was it possible Ryan had an admirer? I'd heard that women were sometimes attracted to the mouthy ones since they were a bit of a challenge.

  "Do you see this?” Ryan raised his middle finger. “Why don't you run back to your sorority house and sit on an object this reminds you of. I'm sure you have one. Most girls like you do."

  I'd have been willing to bet that if she had been an admirer before, she wasn't now. Her friends weren't much help either. They just kind of stood there and gawked.

  "Uh...” I tried to find some way of diffusing the situation. “That was Ryanspeak for ‘No, because I already have other important plans of a personal nature that require my immediate attention, but thank you for your gracious offer, nonetheless, and I hope to take you up on another one sometime in the very near future and at your earliest conveni
ence.’”

  "You don't need to talk to me that way.” She glared at Ryan. “I'm not like that Tristan guy. Everybody knows he uses vulgar language and jumps into bed with any weak-minded tramp with low morals around."

  "Ryan's right.” I changed my mind. “Fuck off."

  We watched as the one who'd spoken bit the edge of her lip, turned around and walked away. The rest followed.

  "Anyway.” I picked up the conversation without skipping a beat. “I can't wait to get back to my room today. Alan's parents were up this weekend and I didn't see him at all, so he promised to surprise me with something and I'm hoping it's you-know-what!"

  "Oh, good. You're sharing too much again.” Ryan turned away from me.

  "I'm in a giving mood lately. I think the spirit of Snooky is with me."

  "Oh, for crying out...” He looked more agitated than ever. “Do you have any idea how long it took me to get Kim to stop talking about her last semester? Do not start that crap again. She's a Detroit-area urban legend. There is no Snooky."

  "Oh, but there is.” Now I was deliberately pushing his buttons. “She's a complete and total dominatrix. At least, that's what Dani, Sandi and Carolyn say. Likes to tell people to lick her, too. Cantankerous, yet lovely.” That was a good word. “Lovely. I like that word. Alan is lovely. I think I'm in love with him, so that theoretically makes me lovely, too."

  "So now you're in love with each other?"

  "We think so.” I told him—quite proudly, actually. “He thinks he loves me, I think I love him, we think we love each other. He almost makes me happy."

  "I'm happy that you're almost happy and I will be happy, too—if you can ever shut up about it.” Ryan rolled his eyes. “You're starting to sound like every other idiotic couple I know. ‘Oh, my god. He's so awesome. I'm so awesome. We're so awesome. Look at us. Envy us. The world is our oyster.’ It makes me wanna gag."

  "Sorry.” I laughed. “He is pretty awesome, by the way."

  "I really hate you."

  "Hey, guys,” Kim greeted us and slid into the booth next to Ryan. She was in what she called her “grubs,” clothes she wouldn't be caught dead in if she was looking to find a man but fine for getting from one place to another in a hurry if nobody important noticed. We apparently didn't rank as important. “What have you two been talking about?"