Let's Hear It for the Boy

Let’s Hear It for the Boy

T.A. Webb

Copyright
Let’s Hear it for the Boy is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2013 by T.A. Webb

Cover photograph from DWS Photography

Cover Art by Laura E. Harner

Edited by Jae Ashley

All rights reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-937252-38-0

Warning: All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any many without written permission, except for brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to five years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. eBooks are not transferable. They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this book.

Contact the publisher for further information: [email protected].

To Jim, who I still miss.

To Laura, Havan and Lee, my partners in crime.

To Will, Amy, James and Jo for friendship and because I trust you.

To Jae, who is nothing short of terrific.

Trademark Acknowledgements

The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following trademarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

Barbie Glamor Mirror
: Mattel, Inc.

Coke
: The Coca-Cola Company

Depeche Mode
: Venusnote Limited

Dolly Parton
: Dolly Parton

El Camino
: General Motors, LLC

Footloose
: Paramount Pictures Corporation

Grady
: The Fulton-DeKalb Hospital Authority

iPhone
: Apple, Inc.

Jack
(referencing Jack Daniel beverage): Jack Daniel’s Properties, Inc.

Madonna
: Madonna Ciccone DBS Madonna

Sprite
: The Coca-Cola Company

Varsity
: Varsity, Inc.

Walgreens
: Walgreen Co.

Table of Contents

Copyright

Dedication

Trademark Acknowledgements

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

About the Author

Also from the Author

Chapter One

Present Day

When Paul Stewart walked into the small dressing room, he stopped to take in the chaos. There were wigs, boas, rhinestone and sequined outfits…it looked like Dolly Parton exploded and settled like feathers all over the room. The blaze of colors and fabrics slowly came into focus, and he recognized that there seemed to be some subtle order at play here, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

But what drew his attention was the man sitting in a battered office chair, primping in front of the Barbie Glamor Mirror. Even seated, he could tell the man was tall and well-built. His goatee and shaved head were in stark contrast to the huge amount of black eyeliner around his eyes, and the fuck-me red lipstick he was applying like Paul had seen his sisters doing—lips rolling inward and then pressed together.

Paul must have made a noise, because sharp blue eyes met his in the mirror, and any thoughts he had that the man might be effeminate were dashed by the quirk of the lips, the quick wink, and the low, rumbly voice. “So you are the unlucky bastard the
Journal
sent over to interview me, huh?”

Paul started, then offered the man a wry smile. “Paul Stewart. And I assume you are Matthew Trammell.”

“Better known as Auntie Social. At your service.” The man stood, and while Paul wasn’t short, Matthew towered over him by a good five inches. He snuck a glance down to make sure the guy wasn’t in heels, and caught sight of muscular, hairy calves. He must have stared for a moment, because that low rumble filled his ears again, settling in his balls this time. “Not your mamma’s drag queen, am I?”

Paul felt the heat of a warm flush of embarrassed pleasure crawl up his neck, and he extended a surprisingly steady hand out for Matthew to shake while he tried to gather himself. He wasn’t used to losing control of his interviews, and his professional pride kicked in and he focused on the story, like he always did. He’d been attracted to men he interviewed before, and this one would be no different.
Keep telling yourself that, and we’ll see how much you believe it at the end of the night
, some little part of his brain whispered.

“Is it okay if I use my cell to record the interview?” Paul pulled out his iPhone and waggled it at Matthew. “I can transcribe it easier this way, and the facts and quotes I use are much easier to verify. I’ll also be taking some notes as we go, just to refresh my memory while I write the story. I can capture your words, but sometimes that doesn’t necessarily translate very well on a recording.” He slid a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open to a blank page.

Matthew looked thoughtful, then nodded, turned, and sat. He picked up a funky-looking triangle of some sort of white foam, dipped it into a light brown liquid, and began applying it to his cheeks. “As long as you don’t mind me getting ready. You know, the show must go on and all that shit.” With a foot, he shoved a simple wooden ladder-back chair out from the desk beside him, then turned back to the mirror and began dabbing the makeup on his face.

Paul pulled the chair up beside Matthew, facing him sideways and watched the sure way he applied the color for a moment before flicking the iPhone on and starting the recording application. After stating the date and time, pulling out a pen and making a quick note in his pad, he dove right in with the questions.

“Matthew, you’ve been a fixture in the Atlanta gay community for almost thirty years. And in that time, you’ve raised close to a million dollars for local AIDS charities. I’d like to know, what keeps you going? The disease is more manageable now, the mortality rate is down, the cocktails more affordable than ever. What is it that keeps the spark alive for you?”

The sudden quiet made Paul look up from the notes he’d been scribbling, and it was a totally different man he saw. The sadness in Matthew’s eyes, the hardness in his jawline that wasn’t there a moment before, the tension in his shoulders…Paul swore the temperature at once rose and dipped. Paul had done his research. He knew Matthew started his drag career when he was eighteen, and that he was forty-seven now, just a couple of years older than Paul himself. In that moment, he saw the weight of those thirty years on this man’s face, through the patchy makeup and the kohl around his eyes, and started to reach a hand out to touch—comfort—him, but Matthew blinked and turned back to the mirror and the moment passed.

“Do you want the story I give at all the bullshit banquets, Mr. Stewart? That this disease isn’t cured, that only those with health insurance and ins to the pharmaceutical companies have access to the latest and best drugs? That the infection rate is rising again? That kids who can barely find their peckers without a roadmap think that they’re bulletproof and are barebacking because they think the drugs will be there to keep them alive, and by the time it matters, we will have found a cure?” Matthew spoke casually as if reading off a grocery list, but his words somehow throbbed and Paul swore he heard anger. And pain.

Paul cleared his throat and, in a quiet voice, said, “I’d rather hear the truth. Not that those aren’t very real reasons. I could probably fill in a few you didn’t name. The disease doesn’t have the same impact among the hundreds of other worthy causes, because who really cares about the hundreds of thousands of Africans dying of it. The government has other hot-button issues to deal with, and the Baby Boomers have to worry about keeping their cocks hard with Viagra, and their hips and knees working to play tennis. No”—he leaned forward and did touch Matthew this time—“I want to hear the story that put the storm clouds in your eyes a moment ago. Please. Just…please.”

He held his breath and waited. The moment stretched, and when Matthew carefully laid down the blush applicator—yes, he did know what it was, he chastised himself—he wasn’t sure if the interview was over, if he’d overstepped and taken the interview into an area that was too personal. Then Matthew turned his chair to face Paul and pulled the iPhone close in between them.

“I was a teenager back in 1984, and my best friend was Patrick Holton.”

And Paul settled back and listened.

Chapter Two

1984

It was Friday night, and I was on my way to pick up Patrick and our girlfriend Sonia. None of us were out to our families or other friends, only to each other, at the time. We were all seniors in high school, and Atlanta was a fun place to be in those days. We could sneak into some of the bars, because I always looked older than I was, Sonia was a girl and the bouncers didn’t care, and Patrick…well, he was beautiful and you know how that goes.

We were supposed to go see
Footloose
for about the tenth time because I had a huge crush on Sean Penn’s hot little brother, Patrick loved Kevin Bacon, and Sonia loved it when Lori Singer said, in that silly ass Texas accent, “I’m goin’ away.” But instead we started drinking Rum and Coke while sitting at the Varsity and eating hot dogs and onion rings, and ended up at the Warehouse dancing instead. I was still a virgin at the time—we all were—and nobody much cared about hunting down somebody to screw.

In my heart of hearts, I was more than a little in love with Patrick, though. We’d been best friends since sixth grade, and my crush had developed over the years into a love he never saw. Sonia knew, of course. Looking back, how could she not? But she would only give me a hard look and flick her eyes at me when the conversation would lull. I know she was trying to get me to say something, but, well, I couldn’t. Because what if he didn’t want to be friends anymore, or what if he laughed? Looking back now, I can only be filled with the what-if’s. Especially that night.

Sonia and I were at the bar, laughing, and Patrick went off to dance with some guy while we watched.

“So when are you gonna grow a set and ask him out?”

I choked on the beer I was sipping. “What do…what are you talking about?”

She flipped her strawberry blond bangs back out of her face, dykey little thing she was, and rolled her eyes at me. “God, men are so fucking stupid. You either think with your dicks, or totally make moon-pie eyes at each other. Look”—she tapped me on the chest and leaned in—“everyone, and I mean
everyone
, knows you have it bad for him. Hell, even he knows it. And he plays you like a fucking violin. Ask. Him. Out. Shit or get off the pot, boy.”

I was mortified. Patrick knew? I didn’t know what was worse, that he did, or that he was out there dancing with a guy ten times hotter than me and…and that’s when I noticed he wasn’t out on the dance floor.

“Yeah. He went toward the back about five minutes ago.” Her voice was as soft as cotton, and when I moved to go find him, she grabbed my arm and pulled me up short. “Matthew, it’s his choice. Listen”—she reached up and wiped away a tear I didn’t know had escaped—“you deserve better. He knows how you feel and he…if he’s doing this, it looks like he doesn’t want you that way, babe.”