Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (4 page)

“Yes, please,” I replied, demurely. (What? It could happen.)

So I followed Doctor Larry downstairs to the kitchen, where he served me my coffee and a nice toasted bagel with cream cheese, and then he told me that Kiki had already left for the shop. Larry looked so happy and domestic spreading the cream cheese, and fuck if I didn’t feel instantly horrible. I just stood there and sipped my coffee and tried to think of something to say to the man whose partner I had swapped spit with barely a few short hours earlier.

“Myron’s a good kisser, huh?” he asked, and I nearly choked to death on my bagel.

“Um, er, um…” I was eloquent as ever. But, come on, I was in uncharted waters here.

“It’s fine, Bruce; Myron told me everything. He was my first kiss, too.” He sounded so calm. And I, of course, was at a loss. Larry merely sighed and grinned. “I let Myron sew his oats every so often, Bruce; and it was just a little kiss between two friends. Don’t sweat it. He always comes home to Daddy, and that’s what’s important.”

And then Larry proceeded to tell me the story of
Larry and Myron
. They’d met at Temple Beth Israel. Myron had caught Larry’s eye from across the pew, which wasn’t too difficult to do since he had bright pink hair and about six earrings in his left ear. Larry caught Myron’s attention, also, which wasn’t all that difficult either, considering Larry had on the only Armani suit in the place. Their eyes locked, there was a slight nodding of heads, and when the service was over,
BAM!
, Larry and Myron were
Larry and Myron
. Ain’t love grand? And here I am, years and years later now, with nothing to show for it but a barely used gym card, what surely must be the onset of an ulcer, and a best friend in a coma. Could be worse, though. (How, I haven’t a clue, but let’s just go with that for now.)

Myron was Larry’s first and only, and, according to Larry, that was fine with him; he’d found what he was looking for and there was no need to look any further. The fact that he was desperately busy starting up his practice at the very beginning of their relationship surely had something to do with it, but, still, he loved Myron with all his heart, and Myron, clearly, felt the same, except for a few dalliances along the way. Modern gay romances were new to me, so, naturally, I was a bit skeptical. But I should’ve been paying better attention back then, because Larry and Myron are still together, while I just finished with boyfriend number one-seventy-six, or
Johnny the Needy
, as he is so lovingly called. (Well, maybe not
lovingly
.)

That morning had a profound affect on me, actually. It showed me that gay people could live happily ever after. In other words, I still have hope. Hope and about four more good years of my youth left before it all starts sliding down hill. Like an avalanche. Thank goodness for Clinique moisturizer and Aveda hair care products. I mean, I can still pass for someone in their early twenties. (In bar light, anyway.)

I walked Larry to work, and he told me that he hoped we’d get together soon. All in all, I was really glad to have met him at that point in my life, because the only gay men I was getting to see were at Joe Joe’s, and they weren’t exactly what I would call good gay role models. Good Betty Ford candidates, maybe. And here was Larry: rich, successful, and still deeply in love. If he and Kiki could make it, I sure as hell had a shot at it, right?

I said my goodbyes to Larry and headed on home. I was still feeling like crap, but I was thinking bright, shiny thoughts. I mean, I did handle myself pretty good the night before, and I figured that Saturday night shouldn’t be a sweat. Fine, I sounded convincing, but I was still doubtful. I mean, one on one with Kiki was a snap, but Saturday night would be me solo and on alien turf. If I’d needed all those martinis the night before, what was I going to need to get by on Saturday? (Okay, a hell of a lot, as it turned out, but you’re gonna have to wait just a little bit longer before I get to that part. Don’t you worry though; it’s worth it.)

Luckily for me, my week was busy and I had little free time to fret. Between work and the gym (back then, I went quite often, really), I was always on the go. And what free time I had, I spent with Kiki or Kiki and Larry. See, I was getting my crash course in gay, which I sorely needed by that point. Though I was still having a hard time with my feminine pronouns, by Saturday afternoon I’d managed a
Miss Girl
without even thinking about it, had my second and third nights out at gay bars, had cruised a couple of guys and had them actually cruise me back, and, most importantly, my hair had started to grow back in a little and I looked less like a clown and more like a clone. (We all have our little goals in life, you know.) And, before I knew it, it was early Saturday evening and I, dear friend, was a nervous wreck. In Titanic proportions. Post-iceberg.

William’s stunning, modern, new apartment complex was way up in Twin Peaks. No Victorian for Mister Perfect. It was concrete, chrome, glass, and wooden floors throughout. And (surprise, surprise) William had a flare for track lighting, the beautiful art and furniture perfectly lit. It was all, like him, stunning and pretentious. And the pièce de résistance was the front balcony, with its envious and expansive view of downtown San Francisco. My humble abode was looking more humble by the second and the lump in my throat was getting ever-lumpier, making it rather hard to swallow.

“Secret, so good of you to come.” I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck as butterflies took wing inside my stomach and nether regions. “Let me show you around.” His arm was quickly wrapped in mine as he pulled me to the bar. Thank God, because I needed a good stiff one right about then, and I
was
talking about a drink for a change.

He made us both perfect gin and tonics and then quickly meandered his way around the apartment, introducing me to several people and pointing out several pieces of art that he thought I might like. I couldn’t tell you what he said, or whom I met, or what he showed me; all, you see, was a belly-knotted blur. I’d been swept up by hurricane William and was going down for the count.

Our brief tour ended up, where else, but the bedroom. It was all done in natural woods and it was, surprisingly, quite cozy. Not at all what I was expecting. There were pictures all over the room, mostly of William in beautiful and exotic settings. And speaking of beautiful and exotic, guess who had me pressed up against the back of the door in no time flat? (Take notes, Susan Lucci, because here’s where the getting got good.)

“Secret, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he fairly moaned, those butterflies of mine growing big as bats all of a sudden. His eyes were mere millimeters from mine, and I could smell his alcohol-tinged, sweet breath on my face as he pulled me in tight, my heart, in a red-hot instant, beating faster than I thought medically advisable. Then, before I knew what hit me, his lips were pressed hard on mine. He kissed like an angel as he held me firmly against the door. And, yes, this was what I’d been imagining in my head for the past decade and whacking off to. When I opened my eyes, he was looking deep into them. Man, you’ve never seen orbs so blue and so clear in your entire life before. Meaning, I kissed him back, even harder and with more gusto than I’d ever thought possible. Then, just as fast as it all started, he pulled away from me and said, “Vicodin?”

Talk about a sudden turn of events, right? “Um, well, I don’t know, I’ve never, um…” But he was already handing me the little capsule and wrapping my fingers around it. So I took it. I mean, seriously, this man could’ve told me to jump off the Bay Bridge right about then, and I would’ve done just that. Head first. So much for good judgment. Sorry, Mom. (Who will be played by Dame Judi Dench, with a Midwestern drawl. Seriously, it has Emmy written all over it.)

And then he looked at me and gave me a whimsical, little grin and mussed up my hair and told me that I was just the sweetest, little thing before he gave me a peck on the cheek. Then he opened the door and walked me out of his boudoir and back into reality. Just like that. I swear. And, yes, my mind was racing. I mean, I hadn’t a clue what to think or to say by that point, so I just stood there and watched him walk away, his stellar ass swaying from side to side. Thank goodness I had my gin and tonic (and it was good gin) or I have no idea what I would’ve done. (Personally, I think alcohol consumption is severely underrated, thank you very much. I mean, when Mary Poppins was singing about a spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down, I seriously doubt she was referring to a packet of Equal.)

So there I was, alone, not knowing a soul, hunkered down on a warm leather sofa, watching the festivities going on all around me. It wasn’t much different than work, really. Same boys. Same conversations. And since no one else was sitting down, it was just me and my little, old drinkee. And then I started feeling rather relaxed and just a tad bit giddy. Oops, guess what Bruce forgot he had taken? In other words, it was Prescription City from there on out. Now, I don’t condone drug taking (in excess), mind you, but let me tell you, I, for one, was feeling no pain.

And then,
plop
, guess who sat down right next to me? Yep, it was that cute little thing from Badlands, the one that was cruising me in the bathroom. Trough Man! See, there was that fate again, ramming its thumb up my bum, all lubed up and ready to go. (Took it long enough.)

“You had the biggest grin on your face just then, dude,” he said. “You happy or what?”

“Well, uh, yes. Actually, I am.” And, actually, I was.

“Name’s Chuck. What’s yours?” he asked as he handed me his cute, little, blond, furry hand. I took it and pumped it hard, both of us lingering there for just a second longer than was necessary before we let go.
Yu-fucking-um
, I was thinking. Me and my crotch both, somewhat numb though it now was.

Then we got to talking. Or at least Chuck got to talking. I was pretty zonked out there for a while. But I know I nodded at all the right times and smiled intermittently to let him know that I was interested. And I
was
interested. And not just because he was absolutely adorable and perky and sweet, but because he seemed smart and for real. He wasn’t talking about drugs or boys or parties; he was telling me about his graduate studies in biochemistry, in fact. And he was telling me about his great new apartment. And he told me about his childhood and growing up in Alabama and about coming out to his parents when he was fourteen. Fourteen! And there I was, almost twenty-two, and my parents thought I was dating a girl named Laura (don’t ask). And I just sat there and dreamily smiled and nodded. If this boy loved an appreciative audience, he had one in me, drugged and drunk though I might’ve been.

“Can I get you another drink, Bruce?” he asked, already getting up to get himself another one. I managed a nod, and he was off.

I sat there thinking of my good fortune. Did he remember me from the bathroom at Badlands? It was awfully dark in there, after all. In any case, who cared? I was just glad to have this second chance.

And so I sat there waiting. And waiting. And waiting some more. And still no Chuck. I mean, how long could it take to get a couple of drinks, right? Even with the Vicodin in full-force, I became impatient and struggled off the couch to go take a look. And, let me tell you, gin and pills are not a good mix, because walking anywhere wasn’t easy. But I was a man on a mission and managed to search from room to room for him. Sadly, he seemed to have up and vanished.

Damn
, I thought, I couldn’t believe I missed another opportunity. So pay attention up there, because here comes Gay Rule #2 (you should read this with an echo effect in the background for maximum impact): never, I repeat,
never
miss an opportunity when love (sex) may be at hand; you will surely regret it if you do. And regret makes you bitter, and bitterness causes frown lines, and before you know it you’re a tired old drag queen performing for quarters on Polk Street. No foolin’. So be warned.

Then, miraculously, I heard his voice, and he sounded upset. I followed the noise to the one room I hadn’t checked out yet: the kitchen. See, my gay sensibilities were still in their infancy, and I was unaware that the kitchen is always the focal point of any gay party. (No, that’s not a gay rule. Not yet, anyway, but maybe someday it’ll make the list. I’ll let you know.)

I peeked into the room, and in the corner was Chuck, holding back another guy who was cursing and who had obviously been crying. Drama! The only thing I could make out was the other guy saying, “I’ll kill him. I’ll kill that lousy fuck.” And other things along those lines. Chuck was trying to calm the other guy down by telling him how it wasn’t worth it and that he should just leave and to count his blessings that he found out now instead of down the road. Man, Chuck was cute, even in emergency situations. Luckily, the booze was by the door, so I poured myself another gin and tonic and continued to watch the scene unfold.

It took Chuck another five minutes or so, but the other guy finally started to calm down and was getting ready to leave, when guess who should pop in for a drink? Yup, it was our old buddy, William. Well, that’s when the you know what hit the fan. It seemed that the ever-popular William was the source of the misery. No great surprise there. Should’ve known, right?

“You lousy piece of shit,” the traumatized stranger shouted out, and Chuck had to restrain him yet again. “If I ever get my hands on you, I’m going to fucking strangle you.”

And, calm as he could be, William looked him right in the eyes and said, “If I was you, I’d be having this conversation with your boyfriend and not with me. I didn’t force him to have sex with me. Actually, he was the one who approached me. Practically begged me for it. As a matter of fact, if you were any kind of boyfriend to him at all, you should be thanking me. From the looks and sounds of it, your boyfriend really needed a good fuck.”

Then there was the briefest moment of silence in that kitchen. (Well, except for the tinkling of the ice in my glass. Tension makes me thirsty, you see.) And then the other guy just snapped, and it took several men this time to hold him back. I don’t think in all my years I’d ever seen another person so full of hatred. Honestly, it was almost scary. Well, it probably would’ve been scary, but between the drugs and the booze, I wasn’t feeling much of anything by that point. Then William, still not the least bit riled, finished fixing himself a drink and walked back out into the living room. A few minutes later, Chuck and his distraught charge were leaving through the front door. And Bruce, me, I was just leaning against the counter, trying very hard to stay awake, or at least upright. Which wasn’t too easy, mind you. Nope.