Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love

Chapter 4

CHAPTER ONE

FROM QUEER TO ETERNITY

Honestly, I can’t say that being at San Francisco General at two in the morning is any great surprise to me. I mean, I had a feeling this would happen someday. And though I can’t say for sure who shot Sparkle, I’m sure he deserved it. My best guess is that it was probably some bitter trick. Of course, in my years of experience, when it comes to Sparkle, they’re pretty much all bitter. Go figure. In any case, since I’m up and you’re up, let’s try to figure out who pumped that little, old bullet into my best friend’s magnificent shaved chest.

Yes, yes, I know what you’re thinking. Poor, jealous Bruce, mocking Sparkle while he lies fragile at death’s door. Well, you haven’t met Sparkle; this is, in fact, the perfect time to mock and deride. Fucker’s dangerous as all hell when he’s lucid. In other words, don’t be so surprised that I’m making fun of the man while he lies there drooling, possibly in an irreversible coma. Ooh, doesn’t that sound all melodramatic-like: irreversible coma. Such a soap-operie condition. Well, friend, that’s Sparkle all over. One big-ass soap opera. Big enough for Susan Lucci to play him if this s**t ever gets televised. (Don’t worry; the names will be changed to protect the innocent. If there actually are any.)

Anyway, Sparkle and I are indeed best friends, as I mentioned back there. Have been for many these long years. The how you’re soon going to learn; the why is a mystery of the ages. I mean, if you knew Sparkle, you’d wonder how he manages to have any friends at all, really. And, yet, he does. Scads of them. And way more enemies. See, there’s a mascara-thin line between love and hate, and I’ve seen one dude after the next skip over said line. Well, I think you get the point. I mean, you look pretty bright up there. But, just to make it perfectly clear, Sparkle is plain, old evil. (And mean, vindictive, cruel, plotting, snide, crude, and lewd.) And, suffice it to say, I love him with every fiber of my being. God help us all.

So here we are, very early in the morning, too early if you ask me, but here nonetheless. And since we have nothing better to do or, sadly, anyone, I might as well fill you in on myself and my life with that drooling, comatose son of a b***h. Now, first comes first, but you might be surprised to learn that I didn’t used to talk this way, or act this, or even look this way. I mean, I was just your average small-town, confused, slightly neurotic, somewhat cute, and very closeted kind of guy. As straight acting, looking, walking, and talking as you can possibly get.

By the way, don’t you just hate that term: straight acting? I mean, as if. Who in their right minds would choose to act straight? Oh, but now I’m sounding like Sparkle. Guess he’s worn off on me over the years. Anyway, back to the story.

See, I met him fresh out of college. I’d just earned my Bachelors degree in English Literature and was doing what any normal college graduate would be doing: I was waiting tables. The place was called Joe Joe’s, the owners both being named Joe. How original, right? In any case, I absolutely hated that job, but at the time I had no idea what I could do with my degree. I mean, what was I thinking? When did Jane Austen ever open up any doors for anyone? In any case, that’s where and when that into my life walked Sparkle. Well, sauntered, at any rate. Heck, cat-walked was more like it. (Dude could give Naomi Campbell some pointers.)

Joe Joe’s was, as usual, packed for Sunday brunch. Normally, very few gay men ate there, but on Sunday, between ten and three, watch out. Every queer worth his weight in Pradas could be seen downing a mimosa and eating one of the dozen or so mediocre omelets they had on the menu. Honestly, the restaurant was nothing to write home about, but it was certainly the place to see and be seen, even with the bad location, absolutely no parking, and, at best, so-so food. It did, however, boast several mirror-covered walls, so the cruisabilty level was way high. Also, it had the slammingest jukebox ever, filled to the brim with the best tunes of the day. Music-wise, I was in rhinestone-studded heaven.

So there I was, twenty-one, fresh out of the proverbial closet, and knee deep in queer every Sunday. I hadn’t even done it with a man yet and I was surrounded by testosterone-coated yumminess, with nary a shred of a clue of how to get me some. Or what to do should, gulp, that even happen. I mean, I might as well have been from a different planet as I had no idea what these boys were talking about half the time. Truthfully, I was quite in need of an unabridged Webster’s Gay English Dictionary. (This being long before s*x in the City, it certainly would’ve come in handy. Oh, Samantha, where for art thou?)

I can remember that day like it was yesterday, by the way. Even after all the drugs and booze. I mean, please, I can’t possibly have more than a few brain cells left, and a couple of those are about to forever blink out. But that day, that day I remember perfectly, and it still gives me the chills just thinking about it. Because that’s the day I took my first baby gay steps into the man you see standing before you today. (Well, teetering, at any rate.)

It was close to eleven, with a minimum half-hour wait to get into the place. All my tables were crammed full as soon as the doors were open, and I hadn’t caught a breath since. Thank God they made a mean cup of coffee or I have no idea how I could’ve made it through those awful Sundays. Thankfully, too, the music had been incredibly fierce that morning. Lots of techno and industrial dance stuff: Bizarre Inc., Lords of Acid, and, at that very moment, My Life with the Thrill Kill Kult’s mega-hit, s*x on Wheelz. Just as the song started, in came a party of six. I’d seen this group before. All pretty, all buffed, and all tweeked out on one thing or another. Miraculously, they’d rarely slept the night before and still always seemed to look fabulous. Better living through chemistry, I figured. The only difference this time, however, was the stranger they soon had in their ranks.

He was, be still my heart (and hard-on), six feet tall, with short-cropped, jet-black hair, not quite a buzz-cut, steel-blue eyes, a slightly aquiline nose, studded ears, and an immaculately shaved goatee. And, of course, he donned a deep even tan on his perfectly complected skin. Like the rest of then, he had on a form fitting muscle tee, blue jeans, and black boots. The dude was thin and tight and too, too dreamy. He was called, as I was later to learn, a clone. But, no, friend, because if there where others like him out there, life would be unbearable for us ordinary folk. And, gasp, he was coming straight (directionally forward) toward me. Kathump went my heart again. Kapow went that bulge in my work slacks.

Breathe, Bruce, breathe, I thought. He’s just like any other of the queers in the place, just a little more, well, um, perfect. Seriously perfect. Serious as a heart attack. Or, as in our present case, a coma. (We can turn Susan’s head to the side for those scenes, away from the camera. A body-double would be much cheaper, yes?)

In any case, then it happened: he opened his mouth and spoke and, you guessed it, his purse fell out. Oh, sure, he had perfect pearly whites (caps, I was later to find out), his breath was minty and sweet, his eyes, from up close, were shockingly blue and stunningly intense, and, right on up to the point where he asked me for a cup of coffee, I could’ve sworn that my feet weren’t even touching the ground. There was only me and this man and the music. And life, dear friend, was really f*****g good.

And then he spoke and the spell was broken. “Girl, if I don’t get a cup of coffee in the next few minutes, I’m gonna drop the f**k right on over. And you don’t want that on your conscience, do you, Precious?” Like I said, spell broken. Crushed. Stamped on and trampled to death.

“Sorry, sir, my section is full. If you’ll wait just a minute, I’m sure the hostess can get you your coffee,” I replied, icily, before turning away. Well, somewhat chilly, anyhow; I mean, he was still awfully pretty, if not rude and frightfully nelly. (Did I mention stunning? If not, he was. Stu-nning.)

But, as I turned to head on back to the world of the merely average, fate stepped in. Leapt in, really. Barged and pushed and shoved in. Because that’s when he grabbed my arm and asked, “What’s your name, Sugar?” Oh, I was quick on my feet that morning. My gayest gene kicked in and I answered in a deep, lush voice, “Secret, what’s yours?” If you don’t get that comeback, mid-nineties-dated as it now is, may I suggest you go out and purchase Sexplosion right this instant, ‘cause that’s a Grade-A, thinking on your feet answer in conjunction with the song that was playing at that very moment. And he got it, too, quick as wink, because his eyes twinkled and the slightest grin appeared on his devilishly handsome face, and he looked me deep in the eyes (here’s where the chills start) and he said, “Secret, I think I’ll wait until your section opens up a bit and you can get me that cup of coffee your pretty, little self.” And he turned and sacheted back to his six beau-hunk friends, leaving me quite breathless and dizzy. As the saying goes, he rocked my world, which thereon out would forever be at a noticeable tilt.

And, yes, he and his friends did stand around until I had room for all of them. And while the hostess gave them all cups of coffee, Dreamboat Andy waited until he was planted at a tight, little table meant for five and I poured him his steaming cup of java. It was to be the first of hundreds I was to serve him over the years and, needless to say, it was certainly the most memorable. Fateful, I’d go so far as to say.

Unfortunately for me, the restaurant stayed packed all the way through closing, and I only managed to catch snippets of the conversation emanating from the group of those beautiful seven men. Most of that consisted of who consumed what drugs and who went home with which trick: pretty standard stuff for Joe Joe’s on a Sunday afternoon, sad to say. Still, I’d gotten quite used to it all by then, even though I had yet to experience any of it firsthand. Of course, whenever Mister Universe opened his mouth, I managed to be nearby to hear it. Naturally, there were no surprises there. He was the crudest, rudest, snippiest, and bitchiest of the bunch. It was rather heartbreaking, really. If this was what it was like to be gay and popular and desired, then this was not what I wanted. (I know, I know, stop rolling your eyes up there; it was exactly what I wanted, just not how I wanted to be in order to get there. I think that’s one of those double-edged swords you hear talked about. Ouch. Band-Aid, please.)

Two hours later, apparently full and tiring from lack of sleep, the group started getting ready to leave. As for that, my feelings were divided. I mean, on the one hand, I was glad for this man to leave. He was truly one of the most arrogant and pretentious gay guys I’d ever served. On the other hand, well, you know what that hand is used for, right? Come on now, he was stunning, after all, and the thought that I might never see him again did kind of give me a pit in my stomach. Pathetic, I know, but, as I’ve said, I had little to no experience in the ways of gays. And here before me was my ideal, my prototype.

Then, as they got up to leave, guess who picked up the check? Yep, it was him. No wonder why they put up with him all morning, I figured. The other six staggered out the front door as he turned and came up to me with the cash. “Keep the change, Secret, and thanks for the coffee,” he said, looking me dead in the eye. (Yikes, there go those damn chills again) “And if you don’t have any plans this Saturday, I’m having a little get-together at my house at around ten. I wrote the address down on the check.” He turned around one more time before walking out the door, winked, and added, “Ciao, Precious,” and then promptly waved his goodbyes. Boom, boom went the pounding in my heart. And, no, the pounding lower down wasn’t much less noticeable. P.S., he left me a fifty dollar tip. What a f*****g morning.