Almost Royalty: A Romantic Comedy...of Sorts (32 page)

“He had highlights put in?”

“He won’t talk about it. Meanwhile he’s working around the clock with Haggis. I almost never see him.”

“Are you sure that’s what he’s doing with Haggis? Working?”

“You know, I told him what you said. He was really insulted.”

“Oh yeah? Has your boyfriend touched you yet?”

“That’s beside the point.”

“It is?”

“He said he doesn’t define himself by his sexuality,” said Jennifer.

“Unlike most human adults. What is he… Pippi Longstocking?”

“That’s not fair. Dating is different now.”

“How so? Isn’t a boyfriend still someone you’re having a romantic relationship with, usually involving sex, on a regular basis?”

“It can be.”

“Well if it isn’t, isn’t that a friendship?”

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“The sexuality.”

“What about it?”

“It’s just not that clear anymore,” said Jennifer.

“There are new categories?”

“There are no categories.”

“Well, you guys will need to bring sleeping bags with you. If you’re going to stay here, you’ll be in the living room. With Abyss.”

“Is she still up to her old tricks?”

“Which ones?”

“Barfing.”

“Yes, she’s barfing. And she’s addicted to baloney. By the time you come down, I’ll try to understand your confusion with Marshall.”

“You mean my relationship?”

“Look, you know that someone’s sexuality is about as interesting to me as the answer to the question ‘de-caf or regular?’ But you know better than this. A guy who doesn’t touch you within a month of dating you, unless there’s a religious issue at hand… but that wouldn’t be an issue because he wouldn’t be around you for a month anyway… is gay. Or your brother.”

“You’re wrong if you think it’s that simple anymore. You may be in for a surprise.”

“You know what I think.”

“I know, I know,” said Jennifer. “There are no mysteries.”

There was a time, well to be precise—right now—when I thought everyone was gay. It was almost a knee-jerk reaction, something that clearly came from a period of time when I viewed an enormous portion of the male population with a great deal of mystery.

Why did that guy who was so kind, so fun to be with, and such a wonderful cook never seem to have a girlfriend? Your terrifically witty classmate from your grad school who loved the theater just couldn’t find a girl. What was the problem? And that friend of your roommate’s boyfriend who was a male model—inhumanly gorgeous—who always seemed to be alone. Don’t tell me they couldn’t find a girlfriend.

At first it was all a mystery.

Then, I came to believe that there was no mystery.

“There’s always an answer,” I would say.

And the answer was that they were gay.

I would be told that a great potential date was “a terrific cook.”

“Of course,” I’d reply, “and he’s also gay.”

A description involving “male” and “loves the theater,” would elicit a response of “And he’s been with his boyfriend for how long?” And anyone who dared to tell me that some guy was “beautiful,” without any further description, would receive a bored look, a roll of my eyes, and the word “gay” out of my mouth.

“But he’s married,” they would say.

“Still gay,” I’d say.

“They have three children,” they would say.

“Gay,” I’d say, “his wife just doesn’t know it.”

“They’ve been together for 10 years.”

“And he’s still beautiful?” I’d say. “Absolutely gay.”

I’m sure that this was cultivated by my high school education, an education in which my desperately experimental teachers—desperate because all the students had disappeared from the high school the year before I attended due to an untimely riot on the campus and the school needed some method to attract students back to the school—had followed a methodology now referred to as “experimental developmental.”

“Developmental. Children know what they need to learn. Children learn at their own pace.” It’s all fine—if you’re under five years old and potty training, the alphabet, and drinking from a sippy cup are relatively new skills.

At 14, “experimental developmental” means instead of reading Edith Wharton, Steinbeck, or Stendahl, you will pursue a course of study which will ensure that your SATs will be 60 to 200 points lower than what you would have scored had you received instruction for four years in a structured, academic English class.

You will keep a daily journal for three months, write what is important to you, and give a report at the end of the semester.

English Class. It’s Report Day. I’m 14.

“Who would like to go first?” said my teacher, Mr. Levy.

“I would,” said my friend, Steve Dutton. Steve walks to the front of the room.

“My report is titled, ‘I Have a Boyfriend,’” said Steve. Laughter in the room.

Steve begins to read.

“I have always known that I was different,” said Steve. “I wanted to do things different from other boys. I liked different things. I felt different things. I thought something might be wrong with me. I thought I might be sick. I thought that I was the only one like this and that I was alone. But now I know what I am: I’m gay.”

For 10 minutes, Steve tells us the story—in details more graphic than anyone had ever wanted—of his sexual discovery.

“Thank you, Steve,” said Mr. Levy, after he was finished. Mr. Levy seems disturbed and pale.

His boyfriend’s name is Robert.

I have never heard the words “gay” or “out” before.

Steve changes his name to “Stefan.”

I stretch to understand.

From Stefan and Robert I learn about gay clubs, gay drugs, and gay music. I see men who dance better than I ever will. I meet men who have a greater sense of hair, clothes and makeup than I do. I meet men who know how to cook and decorate a home with the flair and creativity that I will never have, men who spend hours obsessing over interior decor.

Jeans are replaced with tight, form-fitting clothes. Natural brown hair is highlighted with blond streaks. Then red. This year it’s platinum blond and shoulder length, wavy: “My Marilyn Monroe look,” said Stefan.

Then there are hair extensions—straight hair that falls to the center of his back, pulled back with a rubber band. Like the lead singer of Red Hot Chili Peppers.

Thin bodies become thinner. Then hard. Then buffed to an extreme, a scent of steroids in the atmosphere.

And then there are earrings.

I meet the Gay Fashionafia.

They called me “Blanche.”

“Not that lipstick, Blanche,” they tell me.

“Not those dishes, Blanche,” they tell me.

“Not that boyfriend, Blanche,” they tell me.

The gay-pretty-male version of Marcie.

In San Francisco, I am on the periphery of the community which is ravaged by Aids. Polk Street and The Castro are subdued. It’s the Aids March, the Aids Walk, the Aids Run, the Aids Dance, the Aids Campaign. Everyone knows someone who is infected. The first sign: rapid weight loss. A persistent cough that won’t go away. Then Sarcomas. Then gone.

At art school, it’s Bettina and the lesbians. Bettina and her girlfriend, Luba, the truck driver. Bettina and her girlfriend, Wanda, the welder. Bettina and the Lesbian Art Collective. “If you loved yourself, you’d want to be with a woman,” said Bettina.

“Then it’s clear,” I said, “I must hate myself.”

For having a boyfriend, the lesbians call me “oppressed.” For wanting to have children, the lesbians call me “a future breeder.” For having gay male friends, the lesbians call me “confused.”

So when Bettina starts hanging out with Marcie, and somewhat forgets her pronounced, political, and almost professional sexual orientation, I am confused. She never invites Marcie to her art performance, “I Do… Not,” and pretends that the ripped wedding dress in her closet, rather than being a prop from her performance, is something on which she’s hoping to model her future wedding dress.

“Uh,” I say, “aren’t you going to tell her that you’re gay?”

“Why?” she answers.

“That’s your thing. You’ve practically made a career out of being gay. That’s who you are.”

“Is it?” she says.

And I’m a little confused. Because two weeks earlier, when I had attended the Gay and Lesbian Film Festival premiere of Bettina’s film about lesbian commitment ceremonies,
Wedding Belles
, I knew that she had begun to spend a lot of time with that guy, Bean. And he was there and winked at her when she went on stage to introduce her film. And then he gave me flowers to give to her. And sometime after the post-screening party, Bettina disappeared and didn’t arrive at our dorm room until two days later, on Sunday afternoon.

“What about Luba?” I said. “I thought you were really involved with her.” Bettina had practically moved into Luba’s North Hollywood apartment after meeting her at The Woman’s Village. Luba drives produce interstate for one of the large chain grocery stores.

“Luba,” she said, “has parked her Big Rig at the door of another woman. I’m done with her.”

I never “out” her to Marcie. But Bettina is mad at me now for bringing it all up.

On my voice mail: “I’m really mad at you. You just can’t walk away from a friendship—just like that. I’m still your friend. But I’m mad at you for what you said… well, almost said… about me to Marcie.”

I’m not returning this call. Ever.

But Stefan has remained a constant in my life. “Not that skirt with that sweater,” he would say. We have commiserated together about dating. Tearful late-night phone calls. “He said I wasn’t buff enough,” said Stefan.

Support dinners when relationships were going bad and after the inevitable break-up. Chocolates, “Because I Will Always Love You” on Valentine’s Day. “I’m so proud of you.” Always there when personal achievements are reached.

“I hate men,” said Stefan, a constant topic for ten years. “I don’t think that I’ll ever find
the one
. My soul mate.”

He invites me to dinner with his new friend, James. James is nice. Funny. Successful. He owns two homes. Athletic, working out every day with weights.

And 24 years older.

“I hear that you two go way back,” says James.

“Way, way back,” I say.

“That would make you children when you met.”

“We were.”

I am there when Stefan moves in with him.

“I think he’s the one,” sighs Stefan, looking at me. “Those shoes, Blanche? …hmmm.”

I go to their housewarming party and bring a beautiful ripe brie.

“Where’s my Velveeta?” said Stefan, he a secret indulger.

“Your boyfriend would kill me if I brought any onto your property.”

“Not only the Velveeta,” said Stefan, leading me to garage. He opens the garage door. In it, I see stacked furniture.

“He won’t let me bring my furniture into the house,” said Stefan. “He says it clashes with ‘the décor.’ Do you want any of my furniture, Blanche?”

“Ohhhh,” I say.

Stefan has spent the last seven years combing thrift shops and garage sales every weekend for forgotten Eames chairs, Le Corbusier lounges and Finn Juhl’s classic Danish modern tables. He took pride in his design aesthetic.

“What I did for love,” he said.

It’s not just the furniture. James takes Stefan on a clothes shopping spree at Barney’s. He makes Stefan throw out all of his old clothes.

I am invited to fabulous dinners. Parties. Thanksgivings. Fourth of July celebrations. But James travels, so Stefan travels. Hawaii. Martha’s Vineyard. New York. Paris. Florence. San Francisco. Paris. Palm Springs. South Beach. Fire Island. The White Party circuit.

Growing more distant in the last few years.

“I miss you,” I say.

“James has so many friends,” he says raising his left hand so that I notice the lapis and gold promise ring which he is wearing. “Is it so difficult out there in that straight world, Blanche? Can’t you find yourself a husband?”

“Meow,” I say, “et tu, Brutus?”

“Rethink your hair, Blanche,” he says.

A near silence for two years.

Stefan calls.

“I sooo need to see you,” he says.

“It’s been a while,” I say. “What’s going on?”

“Can I take you out to dinner? Please?”

Dinner on Beverly Boulevard, the night before Jennifer, Marshall, and Haggis are arriving. Loud, small, but fun restaurant, known for cobbler and fried chicken.

I’ve been training for the marathon. I run by myself. 12 miles. The following week 6 miles. 14 miles. The following week 7 miles. 16 miles, the following week 8 miles. 18 miles then 9.

By the second week of January, I can do 20 miles. In the second week of February, I run 24 miles in just over 5 hours. So I am going to eat fried chicken. And maybe cobbler.

Stefan is waiting at the bar when I arrive. He is wearing a suit, blue shirt, and a tie. Not an Armani, or some hyper modern designer suit—just a suit, like Macy’s Off-the-Rack. His hair is what I vaguely remember to be his natural hair color. No highlights, no platinum blond, no red. Just brown, clipped short. The earring is gone. The lapis and gold promise ring is missing. His body is thin.

He looks like a first year associate in the corporate practice group of a large Chicago law firm.

“Hello, stranger,” I said.

“Hello, beautiful,” said Stefan, “you look great.”

“But the shoes…”

“Are great.”

“And the skirt…”

“Is great.”

“And the hair…”

“Looks great,” said Stefan. “So stop picking on yourself. May I pour you some wine? I ordered a nice Pinot Grigio.”

“Sure. It’s nice to see you, Stefan.”

“Steve.”

“What?”

“Just Steve. Not Stefan. I dropped the ‘efan’ three months ago.”

Our table is ready and the hostess seats us. I order the fried chicken and Steve orders crab cakes. I see the cobbler on the other tables and give it a look of desire, which Steve catches.

“And she’s getting the cobbler, which I am going to split with her, to relieve her guilt,” he says. “You know you want it.”

“Once upon a time, that would have been the way to address a different topic.”

“Yes. But my feelings are the same.”