Between Boyfriends (10 page)

“Hold on. Flynn!”

“Yes, Steven.”

“Why did you tell my mother that I have a date?
And
that I’m wearing my dead father’s jewelry? You know how jealous she can get.”

“She called me because she was worried about you. You, my love, are as transparent as Lisa Rinna’s attempts to get back on network TV. I told her about your date so I could put her fears to rest.”

“What about
my
fears!?” I cried. “Now she’s going to expect a recap before midnight.”

“Is she still on the other line?”

“Yes.”

“Conference her in.”

Wiping away the sweat on my upper lip, I conferenced in my mother so she and Flynn could talk about me as I listened.

“Mrs. Ferrante, it’s Flynn.”

“Hello, lovey!”

“Steven’s a little nervous about tonight.”

“I am not!”

“Yes, you are,” they both replied.

“Stevie, make sure you walk with your arms outstretched,” Anjanette advised. “There is nothing more unattractive than a sweat stain. You should’ve borrowed my dress shields. You could use a maxipad as a substitute; they can absorb a river, let me tell you.”

“I am not sweating!” I said as I walked down the street looking like a jet plane.

“Mrs. Ferrante, let’s let Steven have his night all to himself and he’ll call us tomorrow with a recap.”

“Oh, of course he can call me tomorrow. I wouldn’t dream of calling him tonight, I understand all about remaining in the periphery of my son’s life.”

“Ma, don’t lie! You’ve camped out in the epicenter.”

“Steven, I don’t even know what that means, but I attribute the tone of your voice to your fragile emotional state. Remember this date is not your last chance.”

And there it was. The ugly voice from way down deep in my gut finally channeled itself through my mother and shot its contaminated comments into the air. I did feel that my date with Brian was my last chance at a happy future. This feeling was un-warranted, unsubstantiated, but undeniably real. It was also a feeling that had to be shaken off before I met Brian so my part of the night’s dialogue would be dazzling and not desperate. Just then another call came through and instead of fighting fate I conferenced Lindsay in to join the cell party.

“Hi, Lindsay, my mother and Flynn are also on the line. Go ahead, tell me not to be nervous.”

“Hello! I’m with Gus and we want to wish you good luck tonight.”

“Have a brilliant time, Steve, you deserve it. And hello, Mrs. Ferrante. When are you coming across the pond to have a night out with the boys? It’s been too long.”

“Oh, hi ya, Gus. You know I don’t like to wedge myself into Stevie’s life. He likes to keep his affairs in New York private and so I respect that.”

“You can’t even spell respect, Ma!”

“And Steven hasn’t had any affairs in years, that’s why this date is so important.”

“Oh, Lindsay, did Steven tell you that I could help find your father?”

“He did and thank you very much, Mrs. Ferrante, but I did find my daddy, he is everything I could have hoped for, and I will be seeing him regularly on Tuesday evenings.”

“That’s wonderful, Lindsay, I’m so happy for you.”

“Will you be able to handle a weekly meeting with Dad?” I had to ask.

“As a son, Steven, you should know that children need to make sacrifices for a parent’s love,” Lindsay said. “I may hurt in some specific places, but the pain is worth it to see a sneer—I mean a smile—on my daddy’s face.”

“To hear you talk like that, Lindsay, brings a tear to my eye,” Anjanette said.

“Oh, I do hope Daddy brings several tears to mine.”

About a block from 23rd Street I saw Brian walking toward me talking on his cell phone too. It was time to see if the problem of my love life could be solved quicker than a novice named Maria.

“People! My date is here, I gotta go.”

A chorus of
good lucks
and
have funs
erupted and I clicked off my phone. I couldn’t be mad at them, they were just as excited as I was. Hopefully, Brian would be too.

“Your friends wishing you luck too?” Brian asked.

“Yeah,” I admitted. “It’s been a while since I’ve been on a real date.”

“Me too. Let’s promise that no matter what happens we’ll just enjoy ourselves tonight.”

“That sounds like a perfect plan.”

East of Eighth is the type of gay restaurant that can work for every type of gay. The flamboyant, butch, just-out-of-the-closet, or married-with-two-kids-in-Westchester will all feel at ease. It’s my favorite first-date restaurant and I was thrilled to be going back after such a long dry spell.

Part of the reason the restaurant is such a safe haven is the wait staff. They’re all gay without being in-your-face obnoxious like Mario Cantone wannabes auditioning to be the host of
Steampipe Alley: The Next Generation.
They can also recognize a relationship that’s fresher than the other side of a pillow. Instantly they become more friendly than flirty, ask a few more personal questions so you can use them as a springboard for conversation if there’s a lull in the air, and they always give that one-sided smile and wink that translates into “He is sooo incredibly cute, make him your boyfriend now or I’ll have him for dessert in the break room as four Mexican busboys cheer us on.” They may not mean a word or gesture they convey, but it doesn’t matter, their attention and support keep those childhood friends—emotional pain and self-doubt—at bay.

Wearing a pale blue dress shirt with tiny-tiny light yellow vertical stripes that perfectly matched his blond hair and navy blue pants that had a touch more Lycra in them than mine, Brian looked more like a Southern California man-boy than a Southern Alabama transplant. But it was more than his physical beauty that I found attractive; he had a calm, serene air about him despite the fact that he was a workaholic. He was one of those people who seemed laconic, but was really just comfortable in his own skin. He spoke evenly and in full sentences, he didn’t stutter or interrupt himself, so even when he rambled from one tangent to the other, he sounded fluid and vocally hypnotic. It also helped that his voice was deep and smooth like bourbon with a splash of fruit juice. Whatever the reason, he made me quiet.

“…So between my job, freelance assignments, the bowling league, and the Sci-Fi Channel,” Brian said, “my life is pretty busy.”

“You’re a sci-fi fan?”

“Love it. I’m a closet geek.”

“And a sportsman. Though you look more like a surfer than a bowler.”

“I feel it’s important to get in touch with my inner lesbian.”

“Me too. That’s why I have a pair of Dockers and some flannel shirts in the back of my closet.”

“Dockers are very underestimated. They’re stain-resistant, cheap, and the pleats add emphasis to your entertainment center. Not that your center needs more entertaining.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. You have beautiful eyes.”

Apparently, Brian was also a segue master. Or just one of those people who said what was on his mind, like Lindsay. But unlike Lindsay, Brian didn’t seem to offend when he observed.

“Thank you. I wish I had a more clever retort.”

“No need. Just keep focusing your beautiful eyes right over here.”

I actually blushed. I would have laughed out loud if Flynn, Lindsay, Gus, and especially Sebastian had told me that his date said that to him. But Brian was sincere and that was wildly refreshing. Was his sincerity his strategy? Maybe, but I wasn’t allowing my thoughts to focus on anything other than the here and now just as I wasn’t allowing my eyes to focus on anything other than Brian’s effortless beauty.

“I must say your Southern charm is irresistible,” I declared. “But is there an accent buried beneath your laid-back charisma?”

“The only time my drawl starts to come out is when I get tipsy,” Brian said.

“So I guess when you start saying
y’all
it means that it’s time to go home?” I asked.

“Or that the night’s just started.”

We smiled, we flirted, we giggled like girls then tried to cover it up with guylike guffaws, only to giggle louder, and the dreaded lull never swooped in to destroy our conversation.

“You majored in English lit too?” I asked.

“Yup. I almost became a teacher, but I feared I would end up reliving my high school angst.”

“I am such an anomaly. I loved high school.”

“Really? I hated it! So much so that I graduated early. Luckily I had my books to lose myself in.
Wuthering Heights
made me forget about my troubles more times than I’d like to recall.”

“
Jane Eyre
did it for me. I still grab for the tissues when she marries Mr. Rochester.”

“Steven.”

“Yes, Brian.”

“I think we
are
lesbians.”

Over coffee and a shared dessert of hot apple crumble pie with vanilla ice cream I sighed with relief. Unless Brian revealed that he had to check in with his parole officer before midnight or that he was Republican, this date would go down in history as my most successful and least awkward. And then the waiter placed the check in the middle of the table.

Awkwardness prevailed and I was instantly filled with hetero-envy. If we were a heterosexual couple the waiter would have put the check in front of the man because the man always pays. Or at least that’s what my blue-collar Italian Catholic upbringing taught me. But we’re both men, so even the most gay-savvy waiter gets confused. I subscribe to the theory that whoever does the asking should do the paying. Maybe I’m hopelessly suburban, but if I’m on a date I want to be treated as such whether I’m the guy or the girl. Luckily, Brian and I had something else in common.

“I asked you to dinner so I’ll get this,” Brian declared, picking up the check.

“Thank you,” I said.

Once the check was paid we had another decision to make. This was the one that most hetero couples didn’t have to ponder on the first date and could involve two men unclothed and horizontal. I was just about to explain my no-sex-until-the-third-date rule when Brian interrupted.

“I know I’m going to sound like an old-fashioned fag, but do you mind if I walk you home? It’s not a ploy to be invited up to your place, but it’s such a beautiful night I’d like to share it.”

On the way home we giggled some more, took some time to just look at each other, fought the urge to grab hold of each other’s hands because we both knew that it was a little too early for such a statement, but did let our hands brush against each other and enjoyed the hint of warmth. We kept learning about each other: we both had an Aunt Matilda who was a not-so-loveable curmudgeon, we were both morning people, and we both had crushes on Olivia Newton-John. We acknowledged that if we were true lesbians this would be cause for Brian to move in right then and for us to open up a joint bank account online. But we also acknowledged that we were gay men and at the foot of the steps to my apartment we paused.

“There’s a part of me that wants to run upstairs with you, throw you on your bed, and ravish you,” Brian said breathlessly. “But I’ve done that before….”

“And the relationship petered out as quickly as your peter.”

“Exactly.”

“I’d like to see you again.”

“Good. Me too.”

“So I guess this is good night,” I said.

“No. This is.”

Like the end of a good Julia Roberts movie, one where she doesn’t die or play the maid to a drug-addict doctor, Brian leaned in, pressed his warm hand against my chest, and kissed me gently. His lips felt moist and I responded by pressing in just a little to make sure he knew he wasn’t on his own. We kept the kiss going long enough to let our tongues meet and our breath quicken. And then we pulled back and stared at each other. Was it a defining moment in my life? Was it the beginning of a problem-free romance-filled future? Did it unlock the mystery of how to catch a cloud and pin it down? I couldn’t say. All I knew was this was the best first date of my life and Brian Patrick Oldsboro was officially my new favorite thing.

T
he waves caressed our toes with a lazy bonhomie. Brian held me ever-so-tightly as a breeze drifted over and through us making his white linen shirt billow to expose a glimpse of supple, tanned flesh. I was right, Rakiraki on Fiji’s Sunshine Coast was indeed the perfect place for a commitment ceremony. Blue sky, bluer water, bluest eyes. Raising my chin proudly, I mouthed my new name to the Fiji air—Steven Bartholomew Ferrante-Oldsboro—and squinted as the sunlight bounced off my new platinum and 24-karat-gold wedding band creating a prism of light that turned the tropical skyline into a radiantly happy rainbow. I closed my eyes and arched my back in such a way as to permit the sun
and
Brian to kiss my skin. Our embrace grew so intense that we fell to the beach and rolled around on the sand like lovers from the alternative ending of
From Here to Eternity.
How wonderful to be gay and in love and in Fiji. And how wonderful to allow myself a moment during my busy Wednesday morning to succumb to a moment of GRIFF—Gay Relationship In Fast-Forward. Major emotional don’t, but common practice by gays who haven’t been in a real relationship for four years, three months, two weeks, and three days and suddenly find themselves on the brink of coupledom.

“Oh Steeeeeeeeeevie!”

Judging by the tone of Laraby’s voice I was on the brink of yet another uncomfortable moment with my might-be-homo-boss.

“Yes, Laraby,” I said.

“I need you!” he barked. “I need you
now!
”

“And what
exactly
do you need from me?” I said, praying the answer wouldn’t be undying love or an article of used clothing.

“A bulletproof vest.”

A near miss.

“Sorry, but I just donated all my Kevlar to a marine I met online.”

“Really? What’s the Web site?” Laraby asked. “No! Stop confusing me, Steven, I’m serious. I have to do something terribly dangerous,
terribly
dangerous, and I’m afraid for my life.”

Hmmm. What could possibly make a possibly homosexual businessman fear for his life? Could the X-rated photos have resurfaced? Could he be living a
second
alternative lifestyle involving the selling of drugs and/or black market army surplus? Could his ex-wife Midge be blackmailing him for the entrance money to the LPGA tour?

“Laraby, leave the drama to our cast. What could possibly be that dangerous?”

“I have to fire Loretta Larson.”

Talk about a cliffhanger. If the writers of
ITNC
could come up with storylines like that, we’d never be cancelled. Loretta might be a raging alcoholic bitch diva, but she had also been a daytime staple for the last three decades and the life force of Wonderland. If she could get the axe, then nobody was safe. And if Laraby didn’t want to wind up in the morgue he would have to make sure there were no axes around when he broke the news to her.

“Fire Loretta Larson!?” I asked in disbelief. “Tha…that…that’s like firing Arnold from
Green Acres
.”

“I know! Every fictional town needs its pig,” Laraby squealed. “What am I going to do?”

“Sudden agoraphobia? Witness protection program?”

“I don’t need a plot device, Steven, I need real-life advice!”

“I’m a soap opera producer, my real-life advice
is
a plot device,” I said. “Now back up a second. The network really wants you to fire the star of our show? Why?”

“When she turned the set into a vomitorium it was the last straw,” Laraby said. “Oh, God, she’s going to kill me! And then vomit on me!”

“You’ll be lucky if it’s in that order.”

“I can’t do it, Steven, I can’t! I’ll show them. I quit!”

My dream was in reach; Laraby Simmonson was about to quit his job and consequently quit being my boss. But like so many dreams of adulthood, this one came with a tarnished silver lining. If Laraby quit, I would get his job and by default the responsibility of firing Loretta. I could not let that happen.

“Laraby, harshness is sometimes appropriate during lovemaking, but never during decision making,” I said sternly. “You are a producer and every once in a while a producer has to produce something that is vile and painful and this is one of those times.”

“Did you say something about lovemaking?”

“Focus! When Loretta comes out of her dressing room I want you to march right up to her, bring her into your office, and explain to her that while we have enjoyed her presence in Wonderland these past thirty years, the time has come for her to move on to a land even more wonderful. Tell her that cable television awaits.”

“You think I can do that?” Laraby trembled.

“I know you can,” I fibbed.

“Your support means more to me than you will ever know, Steven,” he said, clutching my arm to steady his trembling. “How will I ever repay you?”

“Get rid of the pig.”

Oddly, Loretta was nowhere to be found. Laraby checked her dressing room, the ladies’ room, the men’s room, even the outdoor smoking room on the third floor and still he couldn’t find her. I wondered if someone had tipped Loretta off and she had decided to go AWOL, but I quickly realized that Loretta was not the type to react peacefully when betrayed.

Half of the day’s episode was already shot and still no sign of Loretta. Every time I tried to have another moment of GRIFF and fantasize about what Brian and I would name our adopted Malaysian children, I thought I saw her entering the soundstage and instinctively ducked for cover. According to the shooting schedule the wait could soon be over—Loretta was supposed to be in the next scene, the day’s cliffhanger.

All around me it was business as usual and it was clear that no one else but me, Laraby, and the network executives knew that Loretta was soon to be a tele-footnote. The scene began with Lorna and Lucas’s characters, Ramona and Roger, waking up from a night of passionate sex, joyful that they had rekindled their love affair. Lucas looked ultra-sexy wearing just his ultra-tight jeans and his eye patch, and Lorna was so sultry and seductive you could just sense the network censor’s finger stroking his hot-button, ready to press down hard and put a stop to the afternoon delight if things got too steamy. But everything went sub-zero when Loretta, as Regina, entered the scene.

Lorna, still clutching Lucas’s bicep, lifted her eyes to meet Loretta’s and I knew that she knew. Peripherally, I saw Laraby open his mouth in a silent gasp and knew that he knew that Lorna knew as well. But the most important fact was still not known: did Loretta know?

How I longed to be back on the shores of Fiji with Brian and our children, Leilani-Anjanette and Montgomery, but I was forced to bear witness to what could be the single most pivotal moment in daytime television history. “I know all about Ramona’s past disgrace,” Roger said. “And I don’t care. I don’t care, I tell you!”

“You see, Regina,” Ramona purred. “You really are nothing but an
old
woman without ammunition.”

Fury flared across Loretta’s face, for Lorna was supposed to call Regina
stupid
and not
old
. But if throwing up on camera couldn’t derail Loretta, a scene partner throwing her lines hardly had any chance of throwing her off course.

“I guess if I’m an old woman, Ramona, that makes you…middleaged.”

Lorna gripped Lucas’s bicep so hard his good eye winced. Loretta’s eyes darted to where Leon, the director, was standing when she didn’t hear his familiar “Cut!” that always rang out whenever the ad-libbing went too far. Her eyes darted back to Lorna, then to Leon and back to Lorna again. She was acting like the only laboratory mouse left in its cage, happy for its freedom, but perplexed as to why a latex-gloved hand wasn’t swooping in for the kill. Her confusion was about to end.

“Better to be middle-aged than…
unemployed
!” Lorna screamed.

Laraby screamed even louder and in one apoplectic move spilled his coffee all over himself. He wanted to run from the room, but he was as transfixed as the rest of the crew.

“What did you say?” Loretta said in a dangerously hushed tone.

“Not only are you old, Loretta, but you’re fired! You got the axe, lady! You have officially become Loretta Larson,
ex
–Regina O’Reilly of
ITNC.
”

Lourdes scoured the day’s script to see if there was any chance that the writers had rewritten history to make Ramona Regina’s boss and thus the firing would merely be fictional. But then Lourdes realized Regina didn’t even have a job in Wonderland, she owned the town. Lourdes threw down the script and picked up her digital camera, flicking on the video button. That Latina was determined to buy back her plantation.

“You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” Loretta said nervously.

“If you don’t believe me,” Lorna said, “ask them.”

Lorna pointed to the crew, causing Laraby to shake so uncontrollably that his flailing arms sent the entire snack table flying. A croissant landed at my feet as I distinctly heard Lucas say, “You’re breaking the fourth wall, Lorna.” God bless his innocent heart.

“Laraby!” cried the Medusa of mid-afternoon drama. “What the fuck is this ugly, no-talent bitch talking about?!”

Lourdes pushed Laraby forward so he was on the set and lined up her camera so both he and Loretta were perfectly in frame. She could taste the sugarcane already.

“I…I…I…” was all Laraby could utter.

“Stop stuttering, you sycophantic sissy, and start ’splaining!”

“Sh…sh…she’s right,” Laraby started. “You’re fuh…fuh….”

“Fucked?” Lorna suggested.

“Fired!” Laraby got out.

Jaws dropped lower than Dominick Dunne’s when the O.J. verdict was announced.

“Why, you overweight, bald, incompetent, coffee-stained faggot!”

“It’s ca-ca-ca-cappuccino.”

Then every lesson Loretta ever absorbed from every bad acting teacher rose to the surface and she focused her tirade to the powers that be. Channeling Joan Crawford at her most nonmaternal, Loretta delivered
the
performance of her life.

“What’s the matter, boys? Dontcha have the balls to fire me yourself?!” Loretta shouted up to the glassed-in executive producer’s booth, gesticulating with gusto. “Are you pussy boys afraid of me? Well, motherfuckers, you
should
be afraid!” She circled the set, her boobs heaving and her heels
click-clicking
on the hardwood floor. This was an actress fighting for her very survival and she would not be ignored. “Ask your stupid little selves this: do you really think my fan club will allow you to fire me? All it takes is one e-mail from me to [email protected] and tomorrow morning you won’t be able to get your fat asses into this studio because Loretta’s Army will form a human blockade!” The
click-clicking
stopped and Loretta positioned herself center stage to deliver the rest of her monologue. “Because let me tell you this, you little pieces of dried-up chicken shit, do not underestimate the power of a mob of bored, bitter housewives and repressed middle-aged queens. My name is Loretta Larson, I am the queen of this fucking shithole we call daytime TV! And those people out there, they are my slaves and they shall do my bidding!”

There was a smattering of applause and slowly Loretta’s lips turned into a satisfied smirk. Gently, Lucas grabbed Loretta’s elbow and asked, “Loretta, honey, why don’t you come with me?”

And God bless his innocent heart for a second time. Whether or not Lucas was gay, the truth was he was a nice guy. While the rest of us were watching Loretta unravel and quite honestly enjoying the performance, Lucas realized she was making a backside of herself and was trying to do something gentlemanly. Unfortunately, Loretta hated gentlemen.

“Get your fucking hands off me, Cyclops!”

She pushed Lucas backward with such force that he spun around and with his open palm slapped Lorna across her face. He stumbled until Lorna pushed him in the opposite direction so she could charge into Loretta. Handicapped with only one-sided vision, Lucas didn’t know that he was falling onto Laraby until he heard him whisper, “The haggardsnatch won’t blow so quickly this time,” quickly followed by the sound of Lucas’s left arm breaking in two separate places.

Loretta yanked out Lorna’s hair extensions and Lorna tried to dig her nails into Loretta’s fleshy bum but only succeeded in ripping her Bumderwear, the posterior-enhancing undergarment Loretta had sewn into every outfit she wore on and off set. As pieces of fake hair and bum scattered all around them like confetti, the women put Alexis and Krystle to shame, catfighting over the couch, the coffee table, Lucas, and Laraby. Lourdes was actually crying tears of joy as she captured all the action on her camera. I would have loved to join in the tearfest, but I was too busy trying to figure out how the events could turn out so incredibly wrong.

Later that night at Starbucks, I brought the boys up to date.

“So we had to re-tape the entire last scene to make it look like Roger broke his arm while having sex with Ramona, a grief counselor had to be brought in when Lourdes’s digital camera was confiscated, and in order to get her contract renewed, Loretta had to agree to take a vacation at a rehab clinic in Aruba.”

“I love Club Meds,” Lindsay said.

“Steven, I must say you have a much more exciting job than I do,” Gus said. “The only thing I did today was make a certain gay baseball player three million dollars richer by moving around some of his investments. He’s only seven million away from announcing to the world that he’s a poof.”

“Then poof goes his career,” Lindsay interjected.

“Don’t be such a cynic.”

“I’m a realist. And I know a thing or two about sports-related homophobia. I am an athlete.”

“You’re not an athlete, you’re an ice-skater,” Flynn said.

“And you wore sequins, not pinstripes,” Gus added.

“Not only are you two nancy boys jealous, you’re misinformed,” Lindsay said. “I have so worn pinstripes. Did you not see my long program at the ’92 nationals when I skated to
Field of Dreams
?”

“Boys! While I love your good-natured ribbing, why hasn’t anyone asked me about my new boyfriend?”