Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love (18 page)

Then I reached into my pocket and pulled out the discarded bracelet. Sparkle reverently took it and put it back on his wrist. That put a smile on both of our faces as, arm in arm, we made our way out of the police station. It was only then that my breathing finally returned to normal.

“Horrible lighting,” my friend said to me on our way out. (Told you so.)

“Oh my God, yes. Some indirect lighting would be so much better.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “So how was prison?” I asked as we walked down the street in search of the nearest bar.

“Not bad, actually. I had company.” We rushed into the pub on the corner.

“I heard. Any cuties?” I ordered a double gin martini, putting my arm over his shoulder.

“All of them. Yumminess from one end of the cell to the other,” he answered and ordered the same.

“Any dates?” I tacked on as I gulped down my drink.

“Just one; tomorrow night. Of course, it depends on whether or not he gets out of jail by then. If not, I promised to visit him there. I’ve never made out in the
big house
before, by the way. Definitely sexy, but I’ll pass on the repeat performance.” He downed his drink even faster than I and ordered a second.

“I think I may have a date as well,” I informed him, producing the business card.

“The lawyer? No way; I saw him first. He’s mine!” said he, but before I could respond, he added, “Nah… just joking. He’s all yours, dude.”

I gave him a hard punch on the arm and finished
his
second martini. “Sparkle, my friend, life with you is never dull,” I said, with a happy sigh. “It’s a pain in the ass, but it’s never dull.”

“Amen to that, Brother. Amen to that.” And then we ordered another round.

It was then we noticed that we were in a straight bar. See, just like I told you: dire times, desperate measures.

Chapter Five

What a Drag

What’s the weirdest dream you’ve ever had? Was it that classic one where you’re back in school after not being there for years and there’s a test that very day? Or maybe the one where you’re running really, really fast and all of a sudden you’re off the ground and you’re flying through the air? You know, they say that flying in your dreams is a sign of good luck to come. Personally, I’m terrified of heights, and those flying dreams are a real pain in the ass. It’s like, hey, I’m flying, cool, but,
whoa
, I’m way too high for my own good. (I think a good therapist could really do me some good, don’t you?) Or is it that one where you’re back living at home with your parents and your mom and dad are being their usual interfering pain in the asses and you’re, like, screaming and totally going off on them? With that one, I always wake up in a good mood, but with just a slight twinge of guilt. (I know, I really do have issues. See back to the therapist question.)

Well, let me tell you something, those dreams are nothing compared to this recurring one that I’ve had ever since Sparkle and I became friends. Maybe you can interpret it, because I can’t make head nor tail of what it could mean. In any case, it appears now to be entirely prophetic.

See, it starts out normal enough, with Sparkle and I sitting around his living room listening to music. I’m pretty sure that it’s Heart that’s singing in the background, but it sounds like Pat Benatar. And the funny thing is, I know that that can’t be, but I don’t know why. (Personally, I wish it were the other way around. I think Nancy Wilson could sing the shit out of
Love is a Battlefield
. But, then again, Pat could probably do
Barracuda
some justice.) Anyway, during this dream, Sparkle and I are sitting around doing nothing in particular, and every time I turn to look at him, he has one less layer of clothes on. First he loses his shirt, then his pants, and then his undies, all while I remain fully clothed. Now, before you think the obvious, that I secretly desire Sparkle or some such foolishness, let me just say that there’s no sexual tension in this dream; it seems perfectly natural that Sparkle is becoming nude. (Of course, that is perfectly natural for him in real life, but no judgments, please.)

Well, after a short time, Sparkle is naked and the two of us are carrying on a normal conversation like nothing is out of the ordinary. That’s when things turn freaky. Next, whenever I turn to look at him, he slowly becomes… well… sort of, well...
a woman
. His short, dark hair becomes long, luxurious, and very blonde. His nice hard pecs turn to big, bouncy boobs and all of his body hair just all of a sudden disappears. Thankfully, he retains his penis, which alternates from erect to flaccid. You know, I think that part of my dream is just a reflection of my utter lack of sex. I mean, I seriously doubt that I’m attracted to he-shes. (Or as Sparkle affectionately refers to them: chicks with dicks or pussy on a stick.) And I’m certainly not obsessed with Sparkle’s dick, pretty as it is and all.

In any case, the dick thing is not an integral part of the dream (really). And, pretty soon, it’s out of sight and hidden by a billowing gown. Then, always at this point, I get up off the couch and I stand directly in front of a mirror. Well, lo and behold, I’m also in a dress and my hair is long and flowing and whorishly red. What scares me is that the dream-me isn’t the least bit upset about the transformation. If anything, I’m happy to be so outwardly feminine. As that old song goes:
I enjoy being a girl
.

The dream always ends the same way, and that’s with Sparkle and I as full-grown women. It’s not that I feel like a woman in the dream or anything, but I certainly look like one. And, of course, Sparkle makes a glorious woman: all tall and lean, with achingly high cheekbones. Sadly, even in my dreams, I get the short end of the stick, as I look more comical than alluring. My makeup never looks quite right, my hair is always just a bit askew, and my dress hangs weird. Sparkle ends up looking like
Elle
and I end up looking like
Hell
.

Sparkle gets a big kick out of this dream. Me, I just find it kind of weird. I mean, honestly, I’ve never had the least bit of desire to be a woman. And I certainly have never wanted to be with a woman. The thought is just so, well,
icky
. I constantly meet gay men who came out after years of dating women, and most have had sex with a girl at least once in their lives. I thank God that I don’t have that awful memory etched forever in my head. Seriously, the only bush I’ve ever seen up close was in my mother’s garden, and I plan on keeping it that way. Please don’t think of me as being overly misogynistic; I’m simply more than happy being a man. (Granted, a somewhat affected man, but a man just the same.)

And while the dream never feels threatening to my masculinity and it doesn’t make me wake up with night-sweats or anything, I am kind of curious as to why I keep having it. I often wonder if it has some hidden meaning. That is to say, I
used
to wonder. My questioning, you see, stopped shortly on the morning after we rescued Sparkle from jail.

That night, after we finished our drinks and were significantly more relaxed, we both got into cabs and headed our separate ways. I had to go to work in the morning, after all, and I was still upset about the whole Mack thing, but Sharon was more than qualified to help me run the store and I liked her an awful lot, so, as I often say, glass half-full. Plus, Sharon being my first official bisexual friend, I always felt so worldly around her. Or at least less Kansas.

On a side note (yet another one), something I swear I cannot grasp is the notion of bisexuality. I mean, I have a hard enough time dealing with men, sexually speaking, without also having women in the picture. Of course, they say that bisexuals are extremely well adjusted, again sexually speaking. And, certainly, I can see where it would be convenient to have no preference between the sexes. I mean, can’t get sex from one, go onto the other. But still, there seems something wrong with the whole notion of it. Call it a lack of sticktoitiveness or something. Regardless, Sharon was a real pill, and I was, if not happy, then at least relieved that I had an assistant whose company I enjoyed. Heck, even Sparkle liked her, and that’s saying something. (Well, everything, really, given the whole Mack debacle.)

She was already at the shop when I got there the next morning and obviously knew most of how and why she all of a sudden was working alongside me and not Slim. In any case, I don’t think she cared either way. She adored working with all the old books and had a true yearning to read every last one of them, whether in my store or the other one. In truth, I’ve never ever seen a more dedicated and driven reader before. Every few days, I’d catch her reading a different tome and always on a different subject. When I asked her why she was so voracious in her reading habits, she had a purely original response. And a very Shirley MacLaine one at that.

See, she said that she’s a strong believer in reincarnation, dreaming of her past selves every so often. Sort of like she’s at once herself and a total stranger all rolled into one. She told me that she has this gut feeling that in one of her past lives she was illiterate and that it was her complete undoing. And so, in this life, she not only cherishes books, but also it’s like a compulsion for her to always be reading one. She says that she has overweight friends who say that they were malnourished in one of their past lives and never let themselves get hungry in this one. In my case, I must never have had sex in a past life, because I find myself looking for it around every corner in this one. Or maybe I had too much sex in a past life and I’m being punished in this one by never getting any. (It’s actually a blessing to be able to blame my past incarnation for my lack of sex instead of blaming myself. It’s good for my ego at any rate.)

Well, anyhow, Sharon was all smiles and good cheer when I arrived at work the next morning, thereby brightening my spirits considerably. At least I didn’t have to come up with any more schemes to keep Sparkle and my assistant apart. (I don’t think scheming is my forté, huh?) Also, she was just as excited as I was about the new gay section. Hallelujah for that, because it was quite an undertaking getting it off the ground.

After my first cup of coffee, I felt back to my old, cheerful self. I was obliged to let Sharon in on the whole story of Mack and his departure, and she thanked me for my honesty. I also told her that I was glad she was working with me fulltime. She blushed a little, then thanked me again. All in all, things were turning out better than expected. I honestly felt that. Really, I thought that my life was now back on track and as normal as it was ever going to get. (Yes, we’re about to take a turn for the bizarre. What a shock. Ready? Here goes.)

We were both sitting there, letting the caffeine surge through our veins, when who should walk in but Sparkle. Nothing strange about him being at Classics II. I mean, he was there all the time, for that matter. What was odd was that it was before ten o’clock and, for the life of me, I could only remember a handful of times when I’d seen him at such an early hour. Conscious, I mean.

“And what do we owe this vision to? Catching the proverbial worm, are we?” I asked, in utter amazement. Barring earthquake, flood, or other natural disaster, I couldn’t imagine what could get him out and about at such an ungodly time of day.

“What, can’t a man just enjoy the rewards of an early morning jog?”

Now
that
wasn’t the answer I expected. “You jogged over here? Are you feeling all right?” I knew that Sparkle exercised. I mean, you don’t look like him without a little sweating, but I never actually saw him work out and he never really talked about doing it. I think he wanted me to believe that it all came naturally for him. But since it didn’t come naturally (or any other way) for me, I figured that he must pump the iron or some such thing when I was at work and he was left to his own devices.

“Yes,” he answered, incredulously, “I jogged over here. Why is that so special?”

“It’s not special,” I responded. “I’ve just never seen you do it and I’ve never seen you out at this hour before without being forced into it. Not unless I spend the night at your house, and, even then, you’re not nearly this alive. What gives? Sale at Macy’s you just have to get to? Cruisy bathroom opening up in the park?”

He shook his head and grimaced at me. “Well, if you must know, it was my prison internment.”

“But you weren’t in prison; you were in a small county jail’s holding cell. And, for that matter, you were only there for a few hours, during which time you met a man and made a date. How traumatic of an experience could that have been to cause you to be up, out, and jogging at this hour of the day?” I couldn’t wait for his answer.

“A few hours in a cell feels like years, Secret. You cannot possibly imagine what it’s like to lose your freedom. So, here I am, enjoying my freedom. From now on, I’m going to grab life by the balls and take off running. (A painful expression, if ever I’d heard one.) Instead of
no I can’t
,
no I won’t
,
no I don’t want to
, it’s going to be
yes I can
,
yes I will
,
yes I want to!
Hello world, here I am! (He was quoting Barbra Streisand, so I knew he was serious.) So, damn it, pour me a great big cup of coffee ‘cause my head is saying
go, go, go
and my body is saying
back to bed, back to bed, back to bed.
” And then he promptly slumped into the spare chair at our table and plopped his head down on it.

“Now that’s the Sparkle I know and love,” said I, getting up to get him his much needed coffee.

“Bless you,” he moaned, soon adding, “Good morning to you, too, Stryker.” He was talking to Sharon, and, no, he wasn’t referring to that gay icon, Jeff, of the large endowments Jeff. He called her Stryker because it was a combination of straight and dyke. (Befitting if not original, I thought, for a bisexual woman.) Sharon also enjoyed the name and referred to Sparkle, on occasion, as Cheat. Which is a combination of cheap and slut. (Also befitting.)