The Home For Wayward Ladies (9 page)

“The one and only,” Danny laughs. When he slaps me on the back, I wheeze.
Dear God,
I think
,
don’t let me be getting sick
. Danny continues, “The funny thing is I’ve only met Eli tonight, albeit in passing, when he came home. He was dragging with him another one of our show’s ushers. Oh, I’m so bad with names. What was that boy called, darling?”

“Jason,” Nick says. “Unassuming, weasely looking thing, too, which I suppose makes him Eli’s type.”

“Don’t you start, Lady,” I chastise him, “I haven’t got the strength. May God grant Eli the happiness that he swears he’ll never know.” It has been some time since Eli chased aimlessly after my affection, but I do remember his libido well. I try not to appear jealous as I recall how indiscernibly his seed can be sown. I steer the conversation back toward less spiteful ground. Or so I think. “And how is your show doing, Danny?”

“It’s, uh… very well, thank you.” In the short time I have been in this confident man’s company, this is the first time he’s faltered. “We’re still working to secure an audience to keep the seats filled. The critics had us drawn and quartered, but the crowds seem to leave happy.”

From what I’ve been told, the crowds are more happy to leave. I take his perspective with a grain of salt. I know better than to ever trust a producer, especially one with his hands all over Nick. “Well, I hope y’all call make a go of it. After all, you’re keeping our dear Eli on payroll, so you’re already a hit with me.”

My throat chokes closed like I forgot to swallow half of a cracker I never ate. Sadly, the feeling is nothing new to me. Rather, it’s another manifestation of a condition that I’d considered quashed since childhood. Since our move to Manhattan, however, the symptoms have reappeared. They are now more recurring than one of the three melodies they bothered to write for the musical
Blood Brothers
.

I try desperately to expunge the thought that the germs are invading. I am too weak. They begin to grow and multiply. I feel them crawl up my arm like a spider and into my mouth and nose where they are certain to infect. I try to swallow the tangy-tasting spit that signals the onset of nausea. It’s time I ask to be excused. Watching Nick lube this guy up and squeeze him is surely no antiseptic for my pending regurgitation.  

“Well, chickens, as they say in
How to Succeed
, ‘It’s been a long day.’ So, I’ll have to beg your pardon. You two have fun and,” I wink, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Trying to make it to the bathroom before I hurl makes me walk in a wiggle. The best I can do is hope that they didn’t notice. After all, in this apartment, my swish could easily be mistaken for an misbegotten impression of Mae West.

10

NICK

As soon as Hunter is out of my hair, I’m back to running my fingers through Danny’s. I’m fully prepared to sell my body and throw in my show as a package discount, but the task at hand (or the task “at mouth” as it were) is not without impediment. To date, I’ve never known myself capable of becoming tongue-tied. But something about this one makes me lose my words. Perhaps it’s his imposing height and asymmetrical smile. Frankly, I don’t mind the prospect of us using each other; I get star booking in the cabaret circuit while he gets to dip his bread in my fondue. Even though I’d kill a Lady if he ever told my mother, I have in the past slept with men for cab fare. With the possibility that Danny Olsen could get my name in lights, my ass cheeks part like the Red Sea. 

“If you listen to this song,” I say, “you really understand the struggle that Bette and I share.”  Danny obviously isn’t listening, even though he squints his eyes to make it look like he is. He savors another sip of wine and crosses his long legs. They purposefully pop my personal bubble. His brown Italian leather shoe press against my calf and I manage the courage to put my hand on his knee. Would that it were a doorknob- that he might open. 

“I have to admit,” he says, “I’ve always admired Bette Midler, but I feel so honored to have met her biggest fan. Your enthusiasm is infectious. Listening to you sing along makes the Divine Miss M sound even more divine.” Danny cups my face in its entirety within the palm of his single hand. It feels soft, like the hardest work he’s ever known was the typing an email (or counting all his dough).

Knowing how to ride a climax, I wait for Bette to hit fortissimo before I allow myself to be drawn in. When she does, I let him lick my neck. I pull Danny’s hand around the small of my back. Our tongues exchange a seismic introduction. I embark on a self-guided expedition of his South Pole, which, I can tell by grazing the tip of the iceberg, is frozen solid. I pull him off the sofa and muss his pompadour as I push him against the wall in the hallway. Our pelvises struggle against each other like a sword fighting lesson in Stage Combat 101. With more practice, we’ll undoubtedly make it to graduate level. As we stumble into my room, I don’t bother to turn on the lights. I didn’t make the bed this morning because, well, I never do (why bother?). Danny doesn’t seem to mind when he throws me down on rumpled sheets and strips my pants down to my ankles. I remind myself that, to get my show off the ground, I only have to bilk him out of five thousand dollars. But this man is so fucking hot that I may just give him the million-dollar treatment. 

11

ELI

I can hear Bette Midler caterwauling with my bedroom door closed. Apparently, Nick and that producer from my show were in such a hurry to consummate their mutual adoration that they’ve left on the stereo in the living room. I only wish that it was louder; I’d prefer to listen to Bette Midler than to hear every bump and groan coming from Nick’s latest round of slidey-pokey-hide-old-smokey. Good thing it isn’t a race because, with closeted Jason, I’d be bringing up the rear (and not in the manner I’d prefer).

My room has become quite the Freudian soiree. I let Jason follow me home like a cat, which I somehow thought would garner a bit more purring. Instead, he’s lapping up the vodka I can barely afford and, in return, offers himself up for nothing more than analysis.

“So, you’ve had sexual urges toward men,” I ask, practically salivating, “but you say you’ve never acted on them?”

“No.” He shrugs and takes another slurp of straight vodka over ice. He is a man of few words, which is to say it would be easier to communicate with Koko the gorilla if I had no hands. It’s pretty obvious to both of us that he has feelings for me. He wouldn’t be here if he didn’t. I see the way he stares. It’s been like this between us long enough that he should know it’s not a passing phase. 

It’s easy to convince yourself during the process of sexual discovery that you might grow out of it, that your genitals have been momentarily mistaken. That denial is something that occurs to all gays. You try to talk yourself out of it. For me, it lasted all of three days. The first time I jerked off, I was thirteen years old. I realized immediately after that I’d been thinking about schlong the whole time. For the 72 hours, I lied to myself until I was finally willing to admit that, like it or lump it, I was a fag, I am a fag, and I will always be a fag. For Jason, my guess is that deceit is at least a decade old. From what I can tell, at this point only his uncertainty is certain.

He drags his fingers through his wavy hair and preens like he wants to know how I taste. While the vodka is helping, it certainly isn’t working any miracles. I take some initiative and press my knee against his. When they touch, it causes a surge that makes me shiver. The radiator is at full hiss. I admire how his hairless chest has begun to dampen the collar of his v-neck tee. I dream of finding the audacity to order him to take it off, to expose his arms and abs and pull me close like the only thing that matters is to never let me go. Instead, he smiles at me like he’s trying not to cry.

“Maybe I could let you hold me. Yeah, that might be okay.” There is a quiver to his voice. He tucks his knees and shifts his head onto my lap. As he does, I take in the musky smell of his deodorant. I must try my best to act consoling, knowing well that it isn’t a role I’m best suited to play. Having him there makes my dick throb. I try not to poke him in the neck. I want to take things so much further than my heart will let them go. But I can’t. He’s too vulnerable. Tonight, sexy fun times are strictly verboten; he needs to be protected from my libido. To take advantage of a person at the precise moment they are willing to admit who they are could do a lifetime of damage, all in the span of fifteen cock-sucking minutes.

I pet his hair in hopes that he might purr again. The gesture makes him close his eyes. He finally looks at peace having drank himself into oblivion. Within moments, he is snoring. It’s a quiet, drunken snore that I wouldn’t mind sleeping next to for a couple lifetimes. I excuse myself so I can brush my teeth and silently rub one out on the john.

On the way back to my room, I see that Hunter’s light is on through the crack beneath his door. I wonder if he heard Jason’s voice, and, more importantly, if it made him jealous.

I stand in the hall for a moment watching Hunter’s shadow. It seems to be frenetically dancing, hopping and bobbing all around. I admire his dedication, to have been on his feet all day and still feel the need to create movement in the wee hours before dawn. I think of how things used to be back at Mackinaw. On nights like this, we would sit wrapped in each other’s arms predicting what may come. Consequently, those predictions turned out to be less accurate than hoverboards in
Back to the Future II
. Hunter’s movement suddenly stops. I fear he has caught on to the fact that he’s being observed. Before he can approach the door and I am discovered, I scuttle back to my room like a sand crab at low tide.

Jason is on my bed right where I left him. He’s curled in a fetal ball, passed out on top of my blanket. His frame is small, but his heft makes him nearly impossible to maneuver. I struggle to peel the jeans from his muscular legs and then restrain myself from helping to release him from his boxer briefs as well. When I lift his head and place it down on a pillow, he rouses. He opens his eyes. Without any precise consideration, he kisses me, once, delicately, and smiles like I’m his favorite flavor.

“Goodnight, sweet prince,” I say, laying him to rest. When I climb into bed, I try not to disturb him as I position myself close enough to feel the heat of his body pervade mine. He turns away, pulling my arm with him. We are nesting like bowls in a cupboard, eagerly anticipating a hearty meal.

12

HUNTER

Errant bumps and moans ooze out of Nick’s boudoir and disturb my sense of sanctuary. Eli’s room, however, remains silent. Frankly, I’m surprised. From him, I expect nothing less than a marching band to be led past my door while he conducts with a stiff wand. Not that it would matter; it’s doubtful at this moment that I would hear a horse tap dancing on tin foil over the throbbing in my head. Even if I could, I wouldn’t care. I mean it when I say, “good for Eli.” I’ve made my bed and now I have to lie in it. And honestly, even if I did care the teensiest bit that he’s in there with some other boy and not me, what’s left of my faculties would be put to better use not worrying one iota about what and whom Eli does in his free time.

It’s time for me to prioritize. As overwhelmed as I feel, it’s time to put myself at the center stage. I’ve spent too many moments hiding in the wings, fearing the spotlight so that I might uphold humility. I want to know how life outside the shadows feels. 

I pray for sleep to carry me from one nightmare to another but my mind will not relent. I am transfixed by a picayune detail. For some evasive reason, I cannot rest until my new curtains drape just so. It’s been two hours since I was first consumed by this imperfection. During that time, my shoulders have risen to my ears like dough. Still, no matter how much I adjust the hem, the way it touches the floor offends me. It mocks me from its curtain rod, yet I refuse to succumb.

I will not let this detail defeat me. Too much of today has already been a defeat. But that was out there in the world of filth and noise. This is my room. My room is my kingdom. In here, order is maintained by royal decree.  

As a choreographer, I find that my compulsions are a blessing in fastidious disguise. My work’s composition has the ability to be more precise than a surgeon’s incision yet can cut twice as deep. However, outside of the studio, my demand for control has become somewhat debilitating. There are only so many times in a day that you can wash your hands in boiling water before your skin wants to slide down the drain with the soap. Still, neither of the Ladies have seemed to notice. I don’t know whether to be offended or relieved. It’s my own fault, I suppose. It is I and no one else that maintains the perimeter around my flourishing garden of symptoms. As of late, it is so heavily guarded that Eli and Nick are unable to determine precisely how far I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole. For all they know, I spend so much time in the bathroom because, at the cost of all consideration, I like to be clean. Really, really clean.