The Home For Wayward Ladies (15 page)

I wanted so desperately to get better that I went along with his plan. As I approached the biohazard, I began to wretch. Thankfully, I swallowed my own vomit back down before it could contribute to the acrid smell in the room; knowing when to swallow is practically a sixth sense among us Ladies. In an instant, it was all too much for me. I had forgotten how to breathe. I was overwhelmed by a sub-primal desire to flee. Without the foresight to plan a route for my escape, I launched backwards over my bed and found myself stuck, pressed into a corner with nowhere to go. 

Without warning, he took the wastebasket in his arms and began depositing its contents with abandon throughout my room. By the time he was complete, my room throbbed a toxic glow. There was used toilet paper on by mattress, an old toothbrush on my computer keyboard, and clumps of matted hair packed into my dresser drawers. On a scale of one to ten, I was at a thirty-two. My knees gave out and I slid down the corner of the wall as I surveyed the damage he had wrought.

“Clean it up,” he said. And as quickly as he’d cut his swath of destruction, he was gone. I considered my options, which included but were not limited to: lighting a match and watching the whole place burn to the ground with me locked inside, throwing myself out the window or, better yet, poking out my own eyes with a lit match and
then
throwing myself out the window. But I had been throwing myself out of windows to escape my problems for far too long (proverbially, mind you, but the impact when you hit the bottom feels just the same).

So, I did what I had to do. I picked myself up off the floor. And then I got to work. Now, I won’t let you think for one second that the cleanup was all “Spoonful of Sugar” because, in actuality, I spent hours running around screaming like a cobra was chasing me with a chainsaw. Even though I won’t know for certain that I didn’t catch disease until I can afford proper medical testing, I could feel my symptoms start to fade by the time I was washing someone else’s cum off my bedside reading lamp. From now on, I declared, I would ride the donkey; the donkey would not ride me.

And speaking of riding donkeys, I am resolute that Eli has been too preoccupied in Jason’s lap for the past few months to have the slightest clue that our apartment has been turned into a Machiavellian game of Truth or Dare. Those two lovebirds have spent a lot of time behind closed doors, where, I imagine, they are indulging in some exposure therapy of their own. From what I’ve been told in hushed whispers, Jason himself has a fear of hotdogs to overcome. Yet, from what I hear down the hall on regular occasion, that boy has gotten quite adept at throwing one in a bun and then enthusiastically dousing it with relish. 

When I finished dressing, I ask Eli in a shrill blurt, “How do I look?”  

His eyes dart away like a pensive raven. We are both aware that this is a loaded question. There is a part of me deep down that still wants him to tell me that I look as if I were manufactured by the wave of a fairy godmother’s wand. I can’t help it. Ever since I gained a modicum of control over my disorder, I have felt the urge to remember what it is to both want and to be wanted.

Upon Nick’s urging, I have begun to lust again with an unexplored fervor. He’s become so tied down with Danny that I can’t help but think he wants to live through me like Mama Rose does through Dainty June. His advice was to celebrate my slutty ambitions by letting a stranger “fuck me so hard” that I “can’t walk the next day.” I remind him that several steps forward do not a marathon make. In the meanwhile, however, Eli’s attention suits me fine. He is safe, like a blanket knitted by your grandmother on the day that you were born.

“You look fine,” he says. “Can we fucking go?” 

While waiting for a cab, he lights a cigarette and I ask if I may steal a drag. He’s pleasantly surprised when he hands it my way, so I savor where his mouth had wet the filter and exhale slowly like I haven’t breathed in a week.

When a cab pulls up, the driver barely stops shouting at his Bluetooth in his native tongue to ask where we need to go. “Take the highway down to W. 10
th
and cut across to 7
th
Ave.” Eli speaks confidently to ensure the driver doesn’t run the meter. I put down the window to help pick up a breeze as we start on our way.

“Wherever might Jason be?” I ask, rubbing my palms on my knees. “I thought you said he was attending.”

“He is,” Eli sighs. “I got a text from him earlier saying he’ll have to meet us there.”

“You don’t sound excited to see him. How exactly is that pet project coming along?” 

“Ever since our show has closed, it’s been a lot more project and a lot less pet. Gone are the days when all I had to do was clock in and strut to the locker room to see him with his pants pulled down. Nowadays, getting that boy in his underwear takes strategy. He won’t let me go to his place because his frat boy roommates can’t know how many times I’ve wrapped my lips around his cock. And with my new temp schedule and his new schedule at the bar, I wake up around the time he’s going to bed.”

“I am so disappointed to hear,” I reply. “Perhaps if he spent as much time barebacking as he does barbacking, it might be worth your while.”

Eli giggles. “Not necessarily. Jason is so inexperienced that, when he fucks me, I can’t help but think about when Jenny climbed on top of Forrest Gump. He’s got all the grace of a quadrapalegic climbing out of a hammock.”

To hear they are struggling gives me hope, albeit perversely. Jason is generically handsome in an Eddie Bauer catalog kind of way. But if Eli considers him worth the extra effort, then maybe, just maybe, I am not doomed to spend my days branded by the manufacturer as damaged goods.

The cab pulls up to the club where Nick will soon debut his homosexual opus. We have made it here exactly on time, just as I had planned. Eli pays the driver and reaches out a hand to help me to the curb. As I emerge, I feel like a butterfly that has grown the most spectacular pair of wings.

18

ELI

When the cab finally pulls up to the fucking club, I offer my hand to Hunter in hopes that I might pull him faster than slow motion. We aren’t exactly late, per se, but we are cutting it closer than a shave from Sweeney Todd. Hunter emerges front he backseat as if he were Audrey Hepburn on the red carpet outside Grauman’s Chinese Theater. He seems to have forgotten that he’s still a nobody and that this is, in fact, a pigeon shit-covered sidewalk outside of a queer bar north of Chinatown.

Jason’s not waiting for me out front like he promised. He must have already wandered inside. He’s friendly with Danny, so it wouldn’t surprise me if he’s gone to say hello and save our seats. I check my phone to see if he’s sent word. There are no new messages. It’s been almost a week since I’ve seen him and the way that Hunter’s been begging to be kissed gives me the power to stop missing Jason altogether. I need to get inside. I need to find Jason and pull him close, to give him the chance to rekindle my frustrations while Hunter watches me admire how the spring air compliments his replacement’s aftershave.

I breeze past the bouncer after the line clears at the door. Hunter, however, is detained. I fiddle with my watch. We have three minutes until curtain. “ID,” the bouncer demands, his hand barred across Hunter’s chest. Hunter flirts shamelessly with the ginormous bald man who’s got a tattoo of a rosary around his neck. He flashes his wallet while patting the back of his hair like it’s in an updo whose Aquanet lost hold.

I put Hunter’s hand on my shoulder and drag him through the crowd as we make our way upstairs. When we reach the top, I see no sign of Jason. Danny’s trademark pompadour, however, shines like a beacon. He is, without a doubt, the most handsome man in the room. Some of Nick’s friends from his old job at TKTS are here at a table near the front. Each of them wears a tank top, flip-flops, and cut-off shorts. I’m embarrassed for them; in that getup, they’d be underdressed to catch the ferry back from Fire Island. Danny, in stark comparison, is so elegant in his crisp linen suit and chartreuse socks that match his bow tie. You’d think by looking at him that we were attending a gala at the Governor’s Mansion, not at some shithole with a door charge and a two-drink minimum.

“Ladies!” he shrieks, waving at us from across the room like he’s trying to catch a lightning bug. “I’m so glad you could make it.” (As if we had a choice.)

I cut to the chase. “Have you seen Jason?”

“Can’t say that I have, Eli darling. But I do have three VIP seats saved for you right up front for when he gets here.” I look at my phone again to see if I have missed a call. Nothing. “Don’t fret- he’s still got a few minutes. Nick’s asked that we hold curtain. He thinks it builds anticipation.”

“And how is our Lady doing?” Hunter asks cautiously. “Is our star ready to shine?”

Danny leans away from the gaggle of fags from TKTS. “It’s not going well backstage. One of his backup singers showed up 15 minutes late for call. I’m surprised he didn’t slap her.”

“With his backhand or with a lawsuit?” I reply.

“He’s got so much on his mind,” Hunter adds. “I hardly blame him for being a pill.”

“But there is good news.” Danny leans closer so I can smell his Burberry cologne. “Do you see that old man over there with the beard?” Hunter and I turn slowly to see a man with a cane looped over his arm. He’s draped in tweed despite the humidity. “That’s Carter Harrigan. He’s a big time agent. I don’t have the nerve to tell Nick that he’s here, but if all goes well, that man has the power to make our boy a household name. Now, you ladies must excuse me. Nick isn’t the only one here tonight that’s got a show to perform. I want to make sure Mr. Harrigan’s had a few cocktails before we get underway.”

Hunter and I watch in awe as Danny shifts the color of his chameleon skin. Seconds before, he was one of the Ladies. Now, as he offers Carter Harrigan his outstretched hand, he’s got dollar signs for eyes. The life of a producer, I suppose, to be able to schmooze the Black Panthers just as easily as you could the KKK.

I try not to gawk at the door but it’s impossible. I expect Jason to appear at any moment, flushed and apologetic for having made me worry. He doesn’t- there’s still no sign of him. When the waitress stops by to ask what we’d like, I bark a demand for vodka soda. Hunter bristles because I am being unnecessarily gruff, so I touch his knee demurely and force a smile when I order him his usual- a Tom Collins.

The next person to enter the room makes quite a stir. It’s Tilly Applebaum, Nick’s mother, whom I haven’t seen since graduation. She is precisely the woman I remember her to be; if only that were a compliment. Her purse is large enough to restock the pharmacy at Duane Reade and her pouffy hair has succumbed to the heat (which doesn’t surprise me considering how full the room is of hot air). As soon as Hunter and I are spotted, she clutches at her chest like she could collapse to the ground. She makes a beeline for our table.

“Aren’t you handsome men a sight for sore eyes? Hunter, the city seems to agree with your complexion. And Eli, I don’t know what Nick’s talking about- you’re as svelte as you’ve ever been. Get up and hug me or I’m going to cause a scene.” It’s no wonder where Nick gets it from.

“Mrs. Applebaum, you couldn’t look better…” I say. “Not every woman could pull off leopard print and zebra stripe in the same ensemble.” She looks as if she’s come from big game hunting at the Paramus Mall. Her garish selection flattens where it should round and rounds where it should flatten.

“You flatterer,” she says through a kittenish grin. “And thank you kindly for saving me a seat. I was afraid I’d never make it on time, as if Nick needed another reason to not call home.” She parks her flattened ass in the chair where Jason is supposed to be. It’s then that I run out of nice things to say. Thankfully, this is the woman that raised Nick, so she doesn’t stop talking for long enough to notice.

“You have to tell me,” she says pointing a french-tipped nail, “which one of these people is Danny Olsen? I got the right to know who’s schtupping my son.” In the old days, if I found myself in a room full of queers and was told to say which one Nick was fucking, it would have been easier to say which ones he wasn’t. Now that Danny is the only dish on the menu, Tilly Applebaum has the opportunity to dust off her son’s dowry. When we point to Danny, she audibly gasps. 

“My goodness,” she says. “He certainly is something to look at. But what’s more important is that he treats my boy right. I trust the two of you would tell me if I had to set some matters straight.”

I want to tell her that you can’t do much better than sucking someone’s dick so well they pay you. Hunter jumps in before I have the chance. “Danny is wonderful to him. You needn’t worry about a thing. And do you see the old man with the beard that he’s talking to? That man is an agent here to see Nick.”