Between Boyfriends. Michael Salvatore
feeling lots of conflicting emotions, but one rose to the surface with more strength and speed than the others.
“Sad.”
Flynn grabbed my hand and looked me right in the eye.
“Well, get the fuck over it already.”
A little bit of Starbucks came out through my nose as I snorted in response and even though the sadness didn’t dissipate completely, a familiar happiness was growing. If I didn’t have a new boyfriend, at least I had an old friend to keep me company. Two seconds later and that number doubled, as our mutual second-tier friend, Sebastian Santiago-St. Clare, appeared and plopped down beside us.
“Hola, señoritas,” Sebastian purred. “Are you two fucking again?”
Flynn and I let go of each other’s hands and pishawed all over Sebastian’s ludicrous accusation. We should have expected such a comment since everything about Sebastian was ludicrous. If he were to file his taxes tomorrow, he would have to list college Spanish professor, fitness model, masseur, and dance instructor as his jobs. He was gorgeous, trilingual, and extremely intelligent, but also self-involved, twenty-something, and borderline sociopathic, so it was only possible to take him in small doses. Sebastian was a living, breathing recreational drug.
“I thought for a moment that the late Carl Sagan was actually right and I had stepped through a time tunnel,” Sebastian sneered. This, while sipping a double docchio.
“We were just having an after-school special moment,” Flynn explained.
“You and your TV references,” Sebastian snapped. “You boys need to get out in the natural light more often. Cathode ray tubes create lines on the face, and trust me, neither one of you needs any more lines.”
Flynn and I forced separate, though similar, smiles to appear on our lined faces; Sebastian was perilously close to receiving a social pink slip. But Sebastian could, as the Italians might say, turn from prick to paisan in the flick of a wrist, so it was no surprise that his next comment made us jump for joy instead of the exit.
“I have the greatest idea for Gus’s fortieth birthday,” Sebastian exclaimed. “Incidentally, can I just say that I pray to my spirit guides every night that when I turn forty I look as hot as Gussie Gus. Anyway, I propose we celebrate Gus’s age and not run from it like so many scary Marys do. Let’s cuddle up to his youth and throw a roller boogie party at Splash.”
For the second time that night Flynn clasped my hand. “That’s discotabulous!” he shrieked.
“We’ll be like Steve Guttenberg in the opening credits of Can’t Stop the Music,” Sebastian ’splained in a Spanish accent that he only employed when he was truly excited. “Buff, carefree, and so very, very gay. I think Gus’ll go for it.”
“He’ll love it,” I said. “And who would scoff at the chance to wear a tight midriff T-shirt and daisy dukes in public without being puked on by the fashion police?”
“Then it’s settled,” Sebastian declared.
It was decided that since Sebastian’s Thursday night fuck buddy did PR for Splash, he would handle booking the party, Flynn would deal with food and alcohol, and Lindsay would steer the decorations committee because history had taught us that he would redecorate whatever decorations were put up anyway. I, being the most organized, would put together the guest list and send out the invites.
“Now if you’ll excuse me, boys, I gotta run,” Sebastian announced, downing the last of his double-D. “I’m late for my Tuesday night blow job.”
“Oh, is it Tuesday already?” I queried.
“Time to be the highlight of some lonely queen’s week,” Sebastian declared. “I’ll be free in an hour if you guys want to be rounds two and three.”
We watched Sebastian’s denim-swathed ass wiggle out of Starbucks and we were confronted with the gay man’s age-old dilemma—sometimes the ass you wanted to boot out of your life was the same ass you wanted to rim. Sebastian, much more so than any of us, embraced his sexuality and didn’t care if he teetered on the edge of slutdom. Collectively, we tsk-tsked him; individually, we envied him.
Pushing X-rated thoughts from our minds, Flynn and I started to sketch out ideas for Gus’s party and soon we had come up with this: each guest had to come as a character from Can’t Stop the Music or a major icon from the disco era. Anticipating an influx of Donna Summers and Grace Joneses we decided to adapt a technique mastered by heterosexual women: the bridal registry, or what I refer to as the scam of the century. Along with the animated e-vite that we would create, we would include a list of appropriate disco era personalities that people could impersonate. Each time a guest chose a name it would disappear from the roster, thus ensuring that each guest would attend as a different disco star. To satisfy the popularity of such megastars as Donna and Grace we would allow them, and a few certain others, to have multiple listings that would reflect the range of their careers, such as Grace from her “Demolition Man” video and her grunt ’n’ glama role in A View to a Kill, and Donna as the whore of “Love to Love You Baby” and the paid whore of “Bad Girls.” I was filled with an emotion that took me higher when I decided I would break another one of my rules and don drag to attend the party as Samantha Sang. And then another emotion grounded me as I realized that no matter how hard I tried, I somehow always gave in to my mother’s wishes.
“Do you know what just happened?” Flynn asked.
“Anjanette picked out the perfect pair of pumps for me?” I guessed.
“No! You went thirty minutes without thinking about Frank,” Flynn said.
“Excuse me, Maureen McGovern, can you read my mind?” I asked.
“Stop joking, Superman, I’m serious.”
I didn’t want to get serious, but I also didn’t want to contradict Flynn. As a producer I had learned the art of multitasking and that’s what I had been doing. While laying out the groundwork for Gus’s landmark party, I was planning what I would say if Frank walked through the door.
“Wow, maybe I’m moving on,” I lied.
“Well, it’s a start,” Flynn said. “I guarantee you, Stevie, that by the time Gus’s party rolls around you’ll have a boyfriend who loves you almost as much as I do.”
Sometimes truth flows effortlessly into the air. When it does it’s important to catch it so you can remember it at a later date like when you’re just about to fall asleep and you’re feeling a little bit lonely. I mentally stored Flynn’s comment, certain that I would need to use it later that night.
I watched Flynn walk down the street for a moment, then continued on my way. It was a balmy night, which meant the streets were packed, but I felt like a ghost floating through the horde of happy-go-luckies. Every once in a while when one of the happy boys brushed against my shoulder, I thought I got a fleeting idea of what they felt like on the inside. Many of them were as depressed as I was. If it weren’t for the ringing of my cell phone, I would have walked the entire way home in my dismal reverie.
“Lindsay?”
“Stevie! Sebastian just called me about Gus’s party!” he exclaimed. “Disco rocks!”
“I thought you had plans tonight,” I said. “Where are you?”
“The sex party,” Lindsay confirmed. “When Sebastian called he was getting a blow job. How surprised was he when I said ‘So am I’?”
“How surprised am I that none of us can sustain a romantic relationship,” I said, obviously still connected to my dismal reverie.
“Oh, please! One underwear optional party doesn’t define who I am.”
“I know, I’m just in a bad mood.”
“Well, stop it!” Lindsay yelled. “No, not you! My friend. You keep doing what you’re doing.”
At