Between Boyfriends (16 page)

“It’s just, you know, it would’ve been nice to put a face with the name.”

“Don’t worry, she’s threatened to pop in again on her way home,” Brian said, stifling a yawn. “I’m sorry, I have to get to bed, the car service is going to be here around five a.m. Have a good night, sweetie.”

“Yeah, you too.”

Long after I hung up, the nagging sensation in my stomach lingered. Why did he lie to me? Why didn’t he want me to meet his mother? And, most important, why didn’t he think meeting her was important? Our perfect weekend and our perfect dates seemed as long ago as my childhood Saturday mornings spent laughing at the silly antics of talking hats and prehistoric cavemen. And I knew that for better or worse, things had just changed between me and Brian.

O
n July 12, 1979, disco officially died. It was a particularly brutal death in Chicago’s Comiskey Park, when jealous and most likely overweight baseball fans brought disco records with them to the game so that a rhythmically challenged DJ could blow them up on the field. About twenty thousand pieces of innocent vinyl were destroyed on that sad, sad day, but despite the vicious act the beat thumped on—albeit a bit differently.

For proof, look no further than the transformation of Donna Summer from disco diva to rock ’n’ roll wanderer. It wasn’t the most successful reinvention, but it was a practical rebirth. She had two choices: try to exist beyond the last dance in a MacArthur Park that had melted beyond recognition or wander for a while in rockier territory in search of her own state of independence. She chose the latter and as a result is now able to work not so hard for her money. I, like Ms. Summer, now had a similar choice.

In the days following Briangate, I had to decide whether to confront Brian about his lie or forget about it and move on. Flynn, the only person I confided in, brought to my attention two important factors that helped me make my decision.

“Let Mama break down,” Flynn began. “First of all, you said Brian sounded calm and indifferent, not at all as if he were caught in a web of deceit and duplicity. Correct?”

“Correct,” I replied. “He sounded totally normal, and trust me, I was listening for that telltale pause or crack in his voice.”

“Nice work, Sherlock, but you didn’t hear anything suspicious because Brian didn’t think he had to cover anything up—because he didn’t think there was a problem with what he did.”

I digested this revelation. “I guess that is an alternative way to look at it.”

“So you might not like the fact that he kept his mother in social quarantine, but you can’t turn his different point of view into a lie.”

“Okaaaaaay,” I said, feeling childish about my chiding.

“And second of all, and I don’t think this will come as a shock to you, you’re a mama’s boy.”

Flynn was right. I wasn’t an apron clutcher who expected my mother to be my surrogate wife, cooking my meals and sprinkling the perfect amount of Downy in my laundry, but I was one of those sons whose mother would always be a large part of his life. Flynn made me realize what every frustrated Republican already knows: no matter how hard you try, you can’t force your lifestyle on someone else.

So Brian didn’t have a great relationship with his mother or think it was important to introduce her to his boyfriend. Was that reason to audition for the role of high-maintenance drama queen? I didn’t want to be that type of person and I didn’t believe Brian was interested in dating such a man either. So I, like Donna decades before me, made a realistic choice—I chose to ignore Brian’s actions and move forward. But I also accepted my reality and made another choice. I recognized that I am of the suburbs born and just because I ignore doesn’t mean I forget.

Luckily I had other things to occupy my mind, like preparing for Gus’s fortieth birthday roller boogie party. What a coup that Sebastian was such a slut. Otherwise, there was no way that we would have been able to have Splash to ourselves for a few hours on a Friday night. Jean-Luc, the ripped French muscle-boi PR rep for Splash and Sebastian’s Thursday night fuck buddy, loved the ’70s disco idea so much that he pitched it to the owners, who loved it even more and decided to have a whole retro weekend. This meant we didn’t have to spend a dime on decorations and DJ Pasquale would already have opened his vinyl vault and pulled out all those funkalicious vintage sounds. The gay gods were wrapping us in gold lamé hugs so we could ring in Gus’s fortieth year by shakin’ our groove things in style.

And although I had what I considered a fair amount of style as a gay man, I had absolutely no style as a gay man in drag. Standing in front of Brian dressed up as Samantha Sang, the Bee Gees’ very own Eliza Doolittle, I had to confront my worst fears.

“Tell me the truth, Brian, does this dress makes me look fat?”

“I haven’t even been able to look below your neck,” Brian replied. “You really are frightening as a blond.”

Ripping off my Tova Borgnine superblond, super-’70s wig I cried, “I told you I don’t look good in drag.”

“Then we won’t do drag, let’s go as something else. It’s not like the disco police will arrest you for showing up as your own gender.”

“The police! That’s it!”

“Um, Steve, the Police aren’t really considered disco.”

“No, not Sting’s police, the gay police. Let’s go as the Village People!”

Not to beep, beep, toot, toot my own horn, but sometimes my ideas are brilliant. And this one most certainly was. What better way for Gus’s friends to celebrate his birthday than as a unified group, a collection of random gay stereotypes? I called the boys and they were all on board. The thorny part, however, came when we had to actually decide which village person’s persona we were going to don. We hashed it out over coffee.

“Everyone knows that I have had sexual fantasies about John Wayne since grammar school,” Flynn declared. “I should be the cowboy.”

“But I have Western blood in my name,” Lindsay said. “I should represent the wild, wild West.”

“Speaking of things Western, I want to make a political statement and come as the police officer,” Gus said.

“And how would that be political?” I asked.

“Because I’m a foreigner. It would be a statement about America’s misguided foreign policy.”

“I have a feeling that subtle political irony is going to get lost when your friends are trying to push their bush into the nearest tush.”

“Well, I’m sure we can all agree on one thing,” Sebastian said. “I should be the Indian chief.”

“I don’t think so!” Lindsay shouted. “I have an Indian head-dress from
Ice Reservations
, the skating show I did in New Mexico.”

“And I have a loincloth,” Sebastian added.

Flynn rolled his eyes. “Of course you do.”

“Anyway, you want to be the wild cowboy,” Sebastian reminded him. “So it’s decided, I am the Indian.”

“But Sebastian,” Lindsay said exasperatedly, “if
you
have half the costume and
I
have half the costume why should you automatically get to wear the full costume?”

“Because I look better naked.”

And that was true. For even though Lindsay had a smooth, muscular body which I had now seen way too up close and personal, Sebastian’s was a bit smoother and a bit more muscular. Having seen the penises of both friends in the flesh—and not while accidentally stumbling upon pictures of them online while cruising for sex—I had to admit I wanted Sebastian to be the one wearing nothing more than a loincloth that would flop up and down as he turned his beat around on the dance floor. But Lindsay’s ego was as huge as Sebastian’s uncut manmeat so this couldn’t be admitted out loud. Fortunately another brilliant idea came to me.

“Sebastian is also Latin, which on the skin color wheel is closer to Native American Indian than Anglo-Saxon, so he’ll look more authentic.”

Lindsay digested this information. “Fine. The Puerto Rican can be the Indian.”

“Thank you,” Sebastian said with a smile. “Now I have to go home and practice putting war paint on my body. Maybe I’ll paint my phone number on my ass!”

“Copycat!” Lindsay cried. “Now listen up, people, if I’m not the Indian chief I should be the cowboy.”

“I want to be the cowboy!” Flynn cried.

“I’m going to be the cowboy,” I informed them, then waited for Flynn and Lindsay’s high-pitched shrieks to finish. “My mother bought me a complete cowboy outfit for last year’s Salvatore DeNuccio Tenants’ Group’s first annual hoedown. I even have a lariat.”

“When did the old hoes have a hoedown?”

“The event had to be canceled thanks to that friggin’ Sylvia Dumbrowski.”

“Steven, you’re starting to talk like your mother.”

“Sorry. Sylvia snuck into the community room the night before the hoedown and broke her hip while riding the electric bull. She was trying to get in some extra practice so she could win the bull-riding contest. First prize was a free dinner at the Outback. Before five p.m., of course. But I kept the outfit so I’m the cowboy.”

“Then I’m the leatherman,” Lindsay declared.

Some of the other Starbucks regulars were startled by our howls of laughter and stared. What they saw was three men hysterically laughing and pointing at one blond man-boy with delicate facial features who thought he could pass for a big bad leather daddy. Gus snorted back some latte drizzle that was seeping out of his nose and said, “Blimey, Linds! Not even under gay disco standards could you pass as a leatherman.”

“Excuse me! I love the leather lifestyle!”

“Sure you do,” Flynn said, wiping his eyes. “Leather cock rings under hot pink undies, leather thongs with the word S
EXY
spelled out in rhinestones.”

“That was a gift!”

“It’s my birthday and I’m going to be the leatherman.”

“I thought you wanted to be political!”

“I’d rather wear leather chaps and expose my beefy arse.”

“Is that the same as ass?” Flynn asked. “Because if so I just got hard.”

“I figure I’m forty, I’m in the best shape of my life, why not show a little arse? Sebastian reveals more when he goes to church.”

“You think Sebastian goes to church?”

“The priests probably pay him to go to confession. It gives them a week’s worth of fantasies to wank off to.”

“I do not want to hear about priests wanking off,” I said.

“Sounding like your mother again.”

I quickly changed the subject. “Now Linds, didn’t one of your long programs have a military theme?”

“Oh yes! I skated to the soundtrack from
Private Benjamin
and wore army fatigues.”

“Ice-skating is so bloody gay!” said Gus.

“I lived a very sheltered life when I was training. I thought the movie was a glimpse into the early life of Benjamin Franklin.”

“He wasn’t a soldier! Even I know that and I’m not American.”

Lindsay was stymied. “I’m limited,
okay
?! All I know is what takes place on the ice!”

“Calm down Linds, at least you have a costume,” Flynn said. “Who the hell is left for me?”

“You’ll be the cop,” Gus said with a wink. “I have a cop’s hat and shirt at home that you can wear. I dated a policeman a few years back.”

“When you were still dating adults?” Flynn cracked.

“Don’t be jealous ’cause I’m riding the boyhole.”

“Then it’s settled, we all have our roles.”

“Wait a second,” Lindsay shouted. “Isn’t there a construction worker too?”

“For crissakes, just how many Village People are there?” Flynn asked.

“If it’s all right with you guys, I’ll ask Brian to put on a hard hat.”

“Only if that’s all he wears,” Gus said. “You landed yourself a cutie, Stevie.”

I blushed a little. “I know.”

“Is he as nice to you as he is sexy?” Gus asked.

Flynn was the only one who noticed that I paused for a split second. “Yes, very nice.”

A few days later when Brian and I walked into Splash dressed up as two parts of the musical group that made Culture Club look butch, I felt like I had entered a time machine and been transported back to the good old gay days. The whole place truly resembled a boogay wonderland. Hanging from the ceiling was the de rigueur silver disco ball that slowly revolved, creating little specks of light that trickled down onto the revelers. Rainbow streamers fell from the center of the ceiling and were draped to create inverted arches that were tied back in the corners of the room by balloons shaped like huge, sparkly red platform shoes that could have been worn by the Wicked Witch of the East if she had had a little more funk in her soul.

Everywhere you looked there was a visual homage to a disco icon. In the center of the dance floor–cum–roller rink was a life-sized cutout of a white-suited John Travolta in his
Saturday Night Fever
dance pose and strategically placed throughout the hall were mannequins dressed up as disco royalty. There was Grace Jones in thick purple eye shadow and a leather one-piece bathing suit with a neckline that plunged below her belly button, Andy Gibb in tight purple bell bottoms and a billowy white shirt that was unbuttoned below his belly button, and even those two tons of fun, the Weather Girls, wearing purple raincoats and holding umbrellas that sprouted two naked male mannequins that had fallen from the sky.

Even DJ Pasquale was dressed up like Sly Stone in polyester, gold chains, and a ’fro so big it could be used in the next decade to house a flock of seagulls. The bartenders, all of whom passed Sebastian’s soon-to-be-patented
I Really Do Suck Cock
test, were clad in one-size-too-small tighty-whitey underwear emblazoned with such logos as K
NOCK
O
N
M
Y
W
OOD
and H
OW
D
EEP
I
S
Y
OUR
L
OVE
H
OLE
? And then there was the Altar of Summer.

It was only fitting that the undisputed queen of disco, LaDonna Adrian Gaines Sommer Sudano aka Donna Summer, should have her own special place where the grateful could worship. (It also doubled as the birthday gift table because whenever possible gay should be fabulous
and
practical.) Lindsay had constructed the altar and he had done an outstanding job. In the center of the table was a papier-mâché bust of Donna from her
Live & More
album underneath a rainbow adorned with hundreds of fairy lights and the words O
NCE
U
PON A
T
IME
written on it in silver Mylar. There were several Sugar dolls—Barbie’s mulatto girlfriend—dressed up like hookers standing under a street lamp, a naked doll swimming in a bowl of hot stuff, which was actually Anjanette’s jalapeño salsa, and another doll sitting on a cotton-ball cloud hanging from the other side of the rainbow wearing a
HELLO MY NAME IS HEAVEN
name tag with a thought bubble over her head that said,
I KNOW
. To top it off, a light switch was rigged so the rainbow lights would dim every thirty seconds. Although I knew this perfect piece of summer-love was created by Lindsay’s talented hands, I felt it could have been done by magic.