Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

  ​Edgar answered. “Look, Alex, let’s cut to the chase. America’s not ready for openly gay series regulars. Especially the housecoat ’n’ Bisquick America watching soap operas.” This is exactly what I’d opined to Trevor, but coming from a cocky hetero pig like Edgar Black, it sounded moronically simplistic and irritating. He wasn’t done: “We represent a very young lesbian actress…” I thought I knew what was coming and couldn’t believe it. But before he could finish, the phone beeped.

  ​“Edgar?” Tiki queried.

  ​“I said hold the calls.” His tone was the same as if he’d discovered she’d put sugar in the gas tank of his Porsche.

  ​“It’s Bob Harbin from Fox on line six. He says it’s urgent, and Tricia’s still out.”

  ​“Ahhhh fuck. Hello, Bob. I haven’t heard from her yet… Don’t bust my balls, Bobby. We don’t have to close yet… I will. Bye. As I was saying before that rude interruption, Alex, there's a cute gay actress we handle and I was thinking of setting you two up.” I looked at Connie, already shaking my head.

  “We didn’t talk about this, Edgar,” she began.

  ​“Hear me out! Hear me out. I’m not talking about marriage and adopting fuckin’ babies, for God’s sake. A couple parties, premieres, maybe something on the E channel. Be good for both of you.”

  ​“No, thanks,” I said. I wanted to tell him asshole shams like that were a big reason why Velveeta-eaters coast to coast were still appalled by pictures of two men kissing. “I think I can avoid sucking dick in public without a female escort to rein me in.”

  ​“Oh, God,” I heard Connie mumble. She quickly began to stuff the lunch debris back into the bag. Edgar’s upper lip curled, like he was a mastiff ready to spring. I kept my lovely blue eyes unblinkingly fixed on his beady, crow-footed gaze.

  ​“Fine,” he said, royally pissed. “Connie, do you have anything to add?” Beep. “Goddammit, Tiki! I said to hold the fucking calls!”

  ​“It’s Kimba, not Tiki.”

  ​“Didn’t she tell you we were in a meeting?” he hissed.

  ​“No. She’s at lunch.” Edgar threw up his hands helplessly.

  ​“Alex,” Connie said. “I’ve gotten a few calls from the gay press. And Hard Copy. Wanting to talk to you, cover the whole thing.”

  ​“Yeah, Edge called me at home,” I told her.

  ​“Doesn’t he have an unlisted number?” Edgar squawked at Connie. We ignored him.

  ​“I don’t think it’s a good idea to talk about it with anyone,” she said.

  “You obviously don’t want to deny it — I mean, those pictures — and beyond that, there’s nothing to discuss. Otherwise you’re just asking for a label that’s gonna be impossible to scrub off.”

  ​Edgar snorted. “A gay activist soap star! You’d be about as marketable as Lucie Arnaz.” As I wondered what the hell poor Lucie had ever done to him, the intercom buzzed again.

  ​“Connie?” Kimba said. Edgar shook his head in amazement, pointing at the phone and looking to Connie and me as if expecting us to empathetically call Kimba a stupid cunt.

  ​“What, honey?” Connie responded.

  ​“Arlene from Consolidated Amusements on two.”

  “Okay. Come on, Alex. I’ll take it in my office. Bye, Edgar.” He waved dismissively, already on the phone. I resisted the urge to blow him a kiss.

  ​I skimmed Variety while Connie briefly argued with Arlene. She hung up. “That was Dramatica. They’re dropping you from the cruise, Alex.”

  ​“Did they give you a reason? Not that we don’t know what it is.” I took mild solace in the fact that we weren’t still with Edgar.

  ​“She said they were overbooked, the lying cooze. Fuck ‘em. You get a $700 cancellation fee. No commish — I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m sorry, Alex. I’m also sorry about Shit-For-Brains Edgar. I honestly didn’t know he was gonna suggest that dating scam.”

  ​“I hope I didn’t embarrass you too much.”

  ​“You gotta be kidding, doll. I haven’t been embarrassed since Can’t Stop the Music.”

  ​“What did you have to do with…” I began.

  ​“Never mind. Now beat it, hon. Lunch on the set next week?”

  ​“Sure.”

  ​“Everything’s gonna be great, Alex. Trust me.”

  ✽✽✽

  The first fan mail to reflect a change in the public’s perception of me consisted of four letters: one begging me to turn from a life of sin and “sodommy” and embrace my savior Jesus Christ (“like Brent Bingham”), along with a request for an autographed photo; two supportive notes basically insisting I was the victim of a cruel hoax, but uneasily requesting confirmation; and my favorite, a long, deliriously gushy love letter from a 20-year-old Myrtle Beach health club attendant named Trip. “Finding out that you’re that way was so incredibly ballistic I could barely concentrate on the show this afternoon. Is that your boyfriend in the pictures? You are so evil and sexy at the same time! Please do more scenes topless because you have a beautiful chest. Needless to say, if you’re ever down here, come by the gym for a free workout.” I wondered what the prim, silver-haired fan mail lady at the studio thought of this one.

  ​Trevor’s show was taking a short break while they fired all the writers and assembled a new staff. He decided, surprisingly, to use the opportunity to fly home to Pennsylvania instead of modeling the Tear-Away Bikini for International Male in Las Hadas, Mexico, prompting a hysterical call from his print agent. “You can act and model at the same time! Look at Brooke Shields!”

  ​“Yeah, look at her,” Trevor snapped, hanging up.

  ​I called Sara and invited her out for the weekend. “Three days’ notice, Alex? Have any idea how expensive dilettante airfares are?”

  ​“I’m paying,” I said.

  ​“See you Friday night.”

  ​I picked her up in Burbank at seven-thirty and we headed directly to Spago. Phalita had gotten me the reservation. Over pumpkin ravioli, we had a celebrity sighting. “Omigod, is that Aidan Quinn?!” Sara whispered. “I’m gonna wet myself.”

  ​“You are,” I campily quipped.

  ​“This is a long way from Mr. Gatti’s all-you-can-eat on The Drag,” she observed, as I divvied up a sun-dried tomato and goat cheese pizza. “Remember when you first moved here and we used to smuggle muffins and tollhouse cookies out of Soup Exchange? You probably still do that, though… Nathan asked me to marry him.”

  ​“And how long ago was this?” I sputtered indignantly, through my grin.

  ​“Yesterday, dork.”

  ​“This calls for a toast.” I signaled our Bridget Fonda-lookalike waitress.

  ​“Hey… I said no.”

  ​“But I thought you were crazy about him.”

  ​“I guess I am. But we've only known each other eight months. And I’m just not ready. For that. But I did agree to move in with him. Next month.”

  ​“Aha!” I barked. The waitress appeared. “A bottle of your cheapest champagne, please.” She chuckled convincingly and was gone. “You’re moving into his house?” I asked Sara.

  ​“House? He lives in a garret. There’s no way. He’s coming to my place. Shacking up is really an ideal compromise, since I’m hardly about to change my name to Sara Saracen. That sounds like an antibiotic. Isn’t that Sophie B Hawkins over there?”

  ​“I think so! That’s such a great CD.”

  ​“Especially that last song, ‘Don’t Stop Swaying’.”

  “I bet she’s a really good kisser.” Sara raised her eyebrows. “What? Too late for me to pass for bi?”

  ​“That ship sailed in tenth grade.”

  ​I gave her a mega-queeny look of outrage, which she met head-on, with a tough-as-nails Chained Heat stare. But since I was a pro, she cracked first. Satisfied, I asked, “What does your mother have to say about your new roommate?”

  ​“The notion doesn’t exactly thrill her… but what does, besides those Shih-Tzus she r
escues?”

  ​“As long as you’re happy.”

  ​“Oh, I am. But you…”

  ​“I’m okay,” I replied, too quickly. Bridget and the bubbly arrived. We toasted Sara and Nate and freedom of the press. “I think I’ll survive being outed.” She put her hand over mine and squeezed. “It’s weird because I always really resented celebrities who had it all then couldn’t resist acting like total out-of-control slobs in public… ending up in The Enquirer. Now here I am, in their sleazier rival.”

  ​“Bull. This is different.”

  ​“Kind of, yeah… it does seem ridiculous. I wasn’t trying to hide it. So why should I care at all?”

  ​“Because they took something personal and natural and treated it like some grotesque character flaw.”

  ​“That’s good.”

  ​“And Trevor’s fine about the whole thing?”

  ​“Now. He’s realized it’s not going to affect his budding superstardom. He’s really been okay. I still can’t believe we’ve been dating this long. He’s… fun.”

  ​“Do you love him?”

  ​I thought for a moment, sipping champagne and looking down at the Sunset Strip, wagering that we were the only people from our high school class who’d ever sat here. “Does lust plus affection equal love?”

  ​She considered this, then: “No. You of all people know what love feels like.” She gave me a little whack on the arm.

  ​“It doesn’t feel like that,” I admitted.

  ​“He phoned me twice this week.”

  ​“Nick?”

  ​She nodded. “He’s worried about you. Said he called and you sounded ‘odd’.”

  ​“I was in bed with Trevor.” More eyebrow action from Sara.

  ​“I told him I knew that guy in the photos and that he was just a friend.”

  ​“You did?”

  ​“Well, he was at the time.” True.

  ​“What else did Nick say?”

  ​“That he wanted to come out here and see how you were doing. Look, Alex, maybe I shouldn’t have said so, but I told him unless he was ready to commit to you, he shouldn’t try to see you.”

  ​“No… that’s exactly right.”

  ​“Y’know, I’ve tried to get him to talk about his… situation with Barney. And everything. He won’t.”

  ​“He told me things were the same.”

  ​“Of course they fuckin’ are. Like Barney volunteered for a personality transplant? Although Vanessa spotted him at Highland Mall recently….” She mouthed “he’s fat”, another Amber Von Tussle/Hairspray homage that lit up my face with delicious immature spite.

  ​“Since you saw him last summer at Six Degrees of Separation?” I leered, breathless.

  ​“That’s what she said. And this sighting was on Wednesday. I showed her Barney in one of the photos I took at the Paramount that night, and she insists he’s ‘porked out.’ That’s a quote. Van and I both thought you’d appreciate that,” she added.

  ​“Can I get you anything else?” the waitress asked, eager to assign our table to a more extravagant, heavier drinking couple.

  We skipped dessert and got the check. Sara snagged it. “I’ll write this off as an expense. I’m going to interview you for Paseo del Rio tomorrow.” We’d talked about this a couple of months ago but I’d assumed that in the wake of the “scandal,” it wouldn’t be happening any time soon.

  ​“Do you want to cover the outing angle? Because I’m under strict orders…”

  ​She adopted her most professional demeanor. “It’s irrelevant to your success. I didn’t quiz Robert Rodriguez about his sexual tastes, did I?”

  ​“Not on the record,” I said.

  ​She tried to look offended, but just then Warren and Annette walked by.

  MARCH 12, 1991

  ​The whole apartment smelled like chicken and dumplings because it’d been slow-cooking the entire day. I’d assembled the ingredients the night before and turned the crock-pot on before I left for class at 8:30 a.m. It was cooking when Nick called three hours later at 11:17, simmering freshly chopped organic carrots and potatoes to melt-in-your-mouth consistency, as it sealed a delicate blend of herbs and spices into succulent chunks of pricey free-range white meat, while my machine recorded the message that he’d be unable to make it for dinner. When I burst in the door at quarter to six with cookies and a baguette from Texas French Bread, the concoction was bubbling industriously under the glass cover, unaware it was all for naught.

  ​I turned it off and put it in the fridge. The dinner had been short-notice, but I still felt betrayed. My acceptance letter from the University of Texas School of Law, the reason for tonight, was propped up on the dinette. I left it there. Would I be feeling these same outrageous highs and lows for the next three years if I sent in my tuition deposit and sentenced myself to law school and this apartment and this town? Or was the extra time the crucial factor needed to wrest Nick away? I’d told no one of the letter — I wanted Nick to be the first. Now who knew when that might be.

  ​I immersed myself in homework — made especially pointless by my official new pre-law status — with background scoring provided by the Shock Treatment soundtrack on LP… because I was nuts and probably belonged in an asylum. At ten thirty-five the phone rang.

  ​“Hello?”

  ​“You havin’ an okay night?”

  ​“Nick. Hi. What happened?”

  ​“This and that.” Rueful, resigned, maddening. “Still want some company?”

  ​“Sure.” The elation nearly knocked me to the floor.

  ​“I’ll see ya in just a minute.”

  ​“Okay. Bye!” I leaped off my bed and stripped away my t-shirt and gym sweats. In my underpants, I hastily straightened the bedroom before selecting a stonewashed cotton shirt from Banana Republic and a pair of Levi’s shorts. I was in the bathroom, reaching for my brush and wondering what the hell was going on, when the knock came. We’d hung up literally less than three minutes ago. He must’ve called from the Stop’n’Go at the corner. I threw open the door and there he was.

  ​We didn’t say anything at first. His unearthly blue eyes seemed softer, somehow tarnished. I realized he’d been crying. I took a step forward. He swung the door shut behind him and I took him in my arms. His body went limp, his face resting just above my clavicle, his arms loosely encircling me. I held him, gently caressing the back of his neck with my palm.

  ​“Sorry I’m late,” he said, equally gently.

  ​“I got into law school here,” I told him.

  ​He looked at me. “Aw, that’s fantastic, Mr Young. I knew you wouldn’t have trouble.” I was having trouble not flinging him on the couch and feasting on him. I asked if he was hungry. “I didn’t eat. Wanna call for a pizza?”

  ​“No need,” I said. “Chicken and dumplings will be served shortly.”

  ​He assumed a supremely cute expression of tender surprise. “You made dinner?” I nodded. “I’m sorry, Alex.” He hugged me again, harder. I grazed his ear with my lips and he kissed me. This would’ve been the ideal time for me to find out what had kept him, but I just couldn’t ask.

  ​We ate next to each other, his right leg bent at the knee and resting on my lap, my left hand under his short sleeve, taking his shoulder into protective custody. He praised the dinner and the reheated Texas French Bread cookies. Together we cleared the table. I ran a sinkful of suds while he examined the letter from the School of Law. “This is great, Alex.”

  ​I dried my hands. “Thanks for your help.”

  ​“I didn’t do nuthin.” Our eyes met and stayed, making me feel as if I’d cracked open an arcane treasure chest and the secrets it contained could actually evolve me to a higher level of existence, as long as I could keep the light and heat generated from within from liquidating my soul. He closed his eyes, my signal to attack him. I hooked a finger into the waist of his jeans and undid the three buttons of his collar. I kissed the hairy northern re
gion of his chest until he tilted my head upward and pressed his bee-stung lips to mine. I put my hands on his ass and pulled our bodies together. I’d never had this much fun in a kitchen before.

  ​He whispered, “Would you mind if I spent the night?” I’d been waiting 16 months to hear that question. If only I’d known he was going to ask it tonight. Think of the misery I could’ve avoided. It just proved what an idiotic waste of time it was, feeling sorry for myself, fretting about the future. Every day should be lived ecstatically in the knowledge that your dreams will come true as long as you never give up. Hey, I was 21.

  ​“Please stay,” I said to him, after mentally jettisoning such cliches as Oh, God, do you even have to ask? What did this mean?! Obviously he’d had some falling out with Barney, major enough to warrant such a drastic move. Was it over me? Had they broken up? Would I come home tomorrow to find his suitcase at the front door, chockfull of the items he’d need until Barney had moved from their house to an efficiency over his parents’ garage?

  ​I looked at the clock… 11:58 p.m. Which meant seven hours of bed together. I vowed to not waste another second. He went down to his car for tomorrow’s suit and an overnight bag (what a ring that phrase had) and met me in my room. I brushed my teeth, watching him take off his clothes in the mirror. When I walked back in, he was tucked into bed. My bed. For the night. I stopped to drink in the scene. I could talk with him, massage him, kiss him, play with his big penis. In any order. For as long as we wanted. Then finally drift off to sleep, knowing that no one in the universe was closer to him than I was and that when I woke up he’d be there and maybe tell me he loved me. It was the happiest night of my life so far. Easy.

  ✽✽✽

  Dearest Alex, I knew it. I knew you were just like me. It is Fate. More than ever, I need to see you. To touch you in the flesh. Let me describe myself. I’m 5’9 1/2”, dark hair and eyes, slender build, generously endowed. I have a pierced nipple, but do not have to wear my rings if that’s not your taste. You’re on TV right now, taking your blue shirt off. The producers of your show know how to display you.