The next morning, all of us twinks bid a grateful and wary farewell to Uncle Steve, who stood perplexed and half-asleep in the doorway of the stunning beach house that we’d never see again, and loaded ourselves into Toastine. We zipped down the coast toward Jean’s vineyard, shouting our lyrical take on Lady Gaga’s “LoveGame”:
I wanna fist you
But if I do, then I might get poo hands
* * *
—
Jean was the version of Uncle Steve that didn’t enjoy booze or meth. His money was very shiny gay money instead of mattress money. He greeted us in a crisp white button-down, short-sleeved shirt, a pair of Jesus-like sandals, and pressed khaki shorts that showed off the fine hair of his legs. His hair was carefully coiffed and fluffing about in the July breeze. If Uncle Steve was a bucking bronco, Jean was a My Little Pony. He wasn’t very effeminate, but he was just so clean. His straight, whiter-than-white teeth flashed in the summer sun as he welcomed us to his vast and sprawling vineyard, which was full of infinite rows of grapevines. Its organized composition was also a stark contrast to Uncle Steve’s butthole forest home and 1960s beach house.
We had spent the long drive constructing makeshift Radical Faeries costumes from materials we had bought at JOANN, and had changed into them in the car so we could make a grand entrance. Jean took us to a small hospitality house, where polite and quiet staff in cream-colored uniforms served us—extreme homosexuals wearing itty-bitty panties, tulle, glitter, and feathers—glass after glass of fine wine on adorable platters. I can’t help but feel that Jean wasted his wine on us, as we weren’t terribly discerning oenophiles.
Toasted by the sun and buzzed from a wine tasting, we decided it was time for our thank you performance as Radical Faeries. Jean gathered his friends and staff and sat on a hill adjacent to the long rows of vines. Our glittering costumes twinkled in the afternoon sun as we set up our portable speaker and pressed play. The dance was absurdly hilarious, but also sexual without actually being sexy. We grabbed each other’s asses, performed mock fellatio, and shook our butts to an ever-changing cheerleader megamix containing everything from Beyoncé to Tchaikovsky. Our petite audience laughed and applauded effusively when we finished. Teena was wearing a dog toy as a codpiece, so we all took turns slapping it to make a loud squeaking noise.
As the sun began to set, we stretched out on the highest hill of the vineyard, framed by little yellow buttercups and feeling the immense joy of being ourselves. There was a distinct magic in the air. Velvety lilac clouds wafted past us as we regaled each other with tales from just an hour ago, giggling and congratulating ourselves.
* * *
—
Our mantra had fully paid off in outrageous ways, so when we returned to Portland and one of Teena’s coworkers, Gennaro, invited us to a gay club on our final night, we felt obliged to reply, “Why not?” We showered and primped, styling our hair into spiky, straightened mohawks and donning our most skintight jeans and tank tops.
Gennaro met us at the club with his new boyfriend, who looked just like Jake Gyllenhaal. Gennaro was a short, handsome guy with hair that could have belonged to a Shiba Inu. He had large, brown eyes, a small, straight nose, and lips with a finely arched cupid’s bow. His body was tight and right, alluding to his many hours of work in the ballet studio. His boyfriend, whom we referred to as Jake Gyllenhaal because we never bothered to learn his name, was exceptionally tall, with thick-rimmed glasses and a long, chiseled face. His dark, gelled hair was close-cropped and parted at the side. He was hot, nerdy, and socially inept.
Teena, Prince, Chip, and I took turns flirting with Jake Gyllenhaal right in front of Gennaro’s unwitting eyes. The night wore on and the vodka sodas kept multiplying. We danced and scream-sang along to the dance pop emanating from the club’s plethora of speakers. Queen’s “We Are the Champions” blared, and we hoisted Teena up on our shoulders. He grabbed onto the club’s decorative chandelier and began swinging from it as onlookers laughed and the song morphed into a mash-up with Gaga’s “Speechless.” The joy in the room was tangible. It was a magical day topped off with an ecstatic night.
Finally, we found ourselves downing our last-call beverages as the lights came on. “Let’s get Taco Bell!” Teena said. We found a taxi outside the club and got in. Somehow, we persuaded Jake Gyllenhaal to come with us, even though Gennaro was nowhere to be found. I imagine he grew tired of our shameless flirting and left in a huff.
In the car, Prince sat on Jake Gyllenhaal’s lap, and they started making out at impossible angles. The rest of us laughed and turned up the radio. We begged the cabbie to take us through the Taco Bell drive-through, promising to tip him well. He obliged, and we were on our merry way, six tacos and Crunchwrap Supremes richer.
Arriving at Teena’s building, we spilled out of the taxi and made our way up to his studio apartment, where the four of us were staying. Jake Gyllenhaal came up with us, and he and Prince continued their drunken shenanigans. They were both completely inebriated and it was a very comical affair. Teena, Chip, and I peered at them from the kitchen alcove, Crunchwrap Supremes in hand like popcorn at a movie, and giggled at the two of them while trying to remain fairly quiet.
Prince was still trying to discern the general location of Jake Gyllenhaal’s anus when suddenly he stood up and ran into the bathroom, where he vomited violently into the toilet. He kept barfing for a long time and did not emerge. Jake Gyllenhaal was still sitting on the bed, masturbating furiously and ignoring the commotion around him. He looked up at Teena and asked, “Got a dildo?”
“Sure!” Teena said and rummaged in a drawer to produce an enormous, double-sided matte black dildo, which he handed to Jake Gyllenhaal. It’s a fact: Jake Gyllenhaal loves dildos.
Teena returned to the kitchen alcove and we resumed our places as absurd voyeurs, squirting Fire sauce on our tacos as Jake Gyllenhaal squirted lubricant on a massive, double-headed dildo.
Jake Gyllenhaal’s next move would burn itself into my brain for all eternity. When the universe collapses, the following image will still be etched into my mind. Jake Gyllenhaal knelt on the bed, his back to us, and generously lubed up one of the hydra dildo’s heads. He then proceeded to wrench his body around and clamp down on one side of the dildo with astoundingly dexterous, primate-like feet. The big black dildo waved in the air like an air puppet at a used-car lot. Holding one side of the dildo with his feet, he guided the other side into the expectant maw of his anus. He proceeded to effectively fuck himself using his feet while he masturbated to completion. We were crying, laughing into our tacos at the absurdity of the scene, while Prince continued to vomit from the bathroom. Jake Gyllenhaal then got dressed and left without saying a word to any of us.
We awoke the next morning with the kind of booze headaches that limit one’s ability to see. On our way to the airport, we retold the tales of the week with immediate and giddy nostalgia.
* * *
—
When I think of friendship, I think of this trip: the Michael Jackson street party, hiking in a Twilight wood, Cuban Sausage, Dylan and Chad, the nude beach, Uncle Steve, Jean and the vineyard, swinging from the chandelier, and Jake Gyllenhaal’s double-sided dildo. I believe we accidentally embodied the mores that the Radical Faeries stand for with all the unintentional success of youth. We were creative, curious, and completely unaware of the pressures of the gay patriarchy. We did no drugs, went to no circuit parties, and planned virtually nothing. Our very existence was bolstered by camp. My friends and I reveled in the newfound ecstasy of our chosen family with all the vigor and courage of the not-yet-jaded. Our actions were founded in the appreciation of each other and of new experiences. We were selfish, but never malicious.
I recall this time wistfully, as I have found that time has complicated life. It’s not that life has become more complicated; it’s that with age and wisdom comes vision that bares the world before you in all its
monstrous glory. I miss that type of friendship. The type that allows you to behave with a completely shared reckless abandon. None of the What can we do for each other? types of friendships adult lives are riddled with.
I happily remember the Queen lyrics urging us to keep fighting till the end. But then I recall the end has already come—the end of wild youth. Any wildness now is just bad choices. So reader, as you’re swinging on the chandelier, “We Are the Champions” will eventually morph into “Speechless,” and all your bubble dreams will remain bubble dreams.
But stick around, because eventually, life finds a way to metamorphose into a new kind of odyssey. One of knowledge and perseverance. Reckless blindness feels great for a while, freeing you from vicious reality, but soon you’ll long for nothing more than the power to see.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank my mother for instilling in me a sense of freedom and curiosity, and a general indifference to normalcy. I love you and I miss you every day.
Thank you, Pop, for teaching me to love reading. I am forever grateful to you for always letting me find my own path, while gently guiding me in the generally correct directions. I love you.
Thank you to my siblings, Pete, Missy, Robbie, and Andrew. Our hours-long, midpandemic family Zoom meetings will always be a cherished memory. Discussing Nancy over cigarettes and bottles of Labatt while laughing hysterically should be a requisite family bonding exercise.
Thank you, Cindy, aka Isabella Boylston, and Dan Shin, aka Dshin, for listening to me prattle on about this book for nearly two years. Your sensitivity and advice have shaped my direction and I’m very thankful. I also just like hanging out with you both. You know you’re my favorites.
Thank you, Dan Donigan, for supporting all my creative endeavors. Your belief in me has enabled my delusions of grandeur, which I will be forever grateful for.
Thank you, Coop, for being the best friend anyone could ask for. You’re an actual angel.
Thank you, Teddy O’Connor, for bringing exactly what I knew you would to this book. Your illustrations are a window into my heart. Your talent and style are perfection. It has been a dream working with you on this and hopefully it’s the first of many projects together.
Gretchen Schmid, my tireless editor, thank you from the bottom of my heart for plucking me from the hall of aspiring writers. I truly know that this book would not exist without you. You have given me purpose during a tough time. I finished this book during the COVID-19 pandemic of 2020, when my job as a ballet dancer all but ceased to exist in its natural form, when I split with my boyfriend of twelve years, and when my cat, Ms. Bit, perished after nearly nineteen years. This book, however personal and strange, was paramount to retaining my sanity. I’d also like to thank the marvelous team at Viking for their support of Center Center.
Thank you, Cindy Uh, my brilliant literary agent. I bet you didn’t know what you were signing on for when I brought you some writing samples! You have done nothing but fight for me and I absolutely wouldn’t have come anywhere near publishing a book without you. And Abby Walters, my fabulous cheerleader! Thank you both for taking the time and care to see this book come into the light.
Thank you, Nate Pinsley, for offering me a frigid home in which to write my book. Rhinecliff, your little hamlet, however frozen, was the perfect place to dive into my laptop. Life is a slice of watermelon!
Thank you, Daniel Clark, for your bombastic cover art. I’m so happy to have come across your work on Instagram and can’t believe we went from book proposal to published together!
Thank you, Kimberly Giannelli, for your friendship and always being on call for me. I’ve loved every moment of this journey we’ve embarked on.
Thank you, Gilda Squire, for joining me as I bring this book to fruition and helping me shine the brightest light on it imaginable. You are absolutely brilliant.
Thank you, Uncle Grant and Aunt Marie. Squam served as the perfect writer’s sojourn as I put the finishing touches on this book. I truly appreciate the way you’ve shared the splendor of that place with me and I will be forever grateful. I look forward to connecting more, post-pandemic!
Jim Luigs, you were actually the first person to read my book in its entirety. Frankly, I’m obsessed with you and I am so glad we met on a beach volleyball court on Fire Island. I value your friendship and respect your work. But most important, I can’t wait to get back on the court! “I’m running, I’m running.”
And finally, I’d like to thank the countless artists who have shaped the way I think about humor and the world: Roald Dahl, Lewis Carroll, John Tenniel, Seth MacFarlane, David Sedaris, Matt Groening, Tina Fey, Tex Avery, Chuck Jones, and so many more.
About the Author
James Whiteside (alter egos JbDubs and Uhu Betch) is a principal dancer with American Ballet Theatre, a pop star, and a member of the NYC-based drag posse the Dairy Queens, which also includes RuPaul's Drag Race alum Milk. He has choreographed for music videos, commercials, film, and ballet, and in 2018, he starred in Arthur Pita's dance/theater work The Tenant at The Joyce Theater in New York City. Whiteside also hosts his own popular podcast, The Stage Rightside with James Whiteside. His song and music video "I Hate My Job" has been featured in The New York Times, Huffington Post, MTV, Billboard, and more.
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