Sparkle: The Queerest Book You'll Ever Love

Chapter 7

“You might as well crash here,” Kiki said, while opening the door. “We have a spare room upstairs, and you’re lookin’ pretty schnockered.”

I had to admit, the thought of walking home was a bit daunting, and I certainly couldn’t afford a cab. But I hardly new Kiki, all things considered, and felt a little hesitant. In any case, I’d barely managed an answer either way when he grabbed my arm and dragged me inside. “C’mon, it ain’t safe for no pretty, little gay boy out here this late and this drunk,” he said, and I agreed.

We walked up the stairs and Kiki pointed out my room for the evening, then his and Larry’s room, and then the bathroom, should I need to pee or anything. Then he walked down the hall – well, stumbled was more like it – and I flopped down on my big, cozy bed, smiling all the while. So much had happened to me in the past few hours and I felt, just, so free. And then I fell sound asleep with my happy gay thoughts spinning around and around in my happy gay head. Or maybe it was the room that was spinning that way. Hard to tell. Whichever it was, I was on cloud nine.

Waking up, of course, was a different story entirely. Cloud thirty-seven, the gray one far to the back, was much less enjoyable. Because happy had been replaced by nauseous sometime during the night. My head was pounding, my mouth was as dry as the Sahara, and I felt like I was going to puke. I looked at the clock by the bed and it was already ten o’clock the next morning. Thank God I didn’t have to go to work, as there was no way I could be gracious and accommodating for eight solid hours; that was hard enough to do when I was stone-cold sober. Plus, I was having a difficult enough time just throwing myself out of the bed and going down the hallway to go to the bathroom. And I’d just remembered that I kissed Kiki the night before. Ugh. Then I was peeing like a racehorse and wondering how I was going to face Kiki or, worse, Larry, when I heard a knock on the door.

“You okay in there?” Larry asked, sounding concerned. God, I felt guilty. How could I have kissed a married man? Oh, how the mighty have fallen!

“Um, well, I’m fine. I’ll be out in a sec,” I answered, my voice cracking just a hair. Damn, damn, damn those martinis.

Larry was waiting outside the bathroom door when I finally stumbled out. He was already dressed for work and looking quite the professional. “Coffee, Bruce?” he asked.

“Yes, please,” I replied, demurely. (What? It could happen.)

So I followed Doctor Larry downstairs to the kitchen, where he served me my coffee and a nice toasted bagel with cream cheese, and then he told me that Kiki had already left for the shop. Larry looked so happy and domestic spreading the cream cheese, and f**k if I didn’t feel instantly horrible. I just stood there and sipped my coffee and tried to think of something to say to the man whose partner I had swapped spit with barely a few short hours earlier.

“Myron’s a good kisser, huh?” he asked, and I nearly choked to death on my bagel.

“Um, er, um…” I was eloquent as ever. But, come on, I was in uncharted waters here.

“It’s fine, Bruce; Myron told me everything. He was my first kiss, too.” He sounded so calm. And I, of course, was at a loss. Larry merely sighed and grinned. “I let Myron sew his oats every so often, Bruce; and it was just a little kiss between two friends. Don’t sweat it. He always comes home to Daddy, and that’s what’s important.”

And then Larry proceeded to tell me the story of Larry and Myron. They’d met at Temple Beth Israel. Myron had caught Larry’s eye from across the pew, which wasn’t too difficult to do since he had bright pink hair and about six earrings in his left ear. Larry caught Myron’s attention, also, which wasn’t all that difficult either, considering Larry had on the only Armani suit in the place. Their eyes locked, there was a slight nodding of heads, and when the service was over, BAM!, Larry and Myron were Larry and Myron. Ain’t love grand? And here I am, years and years later now, with nothing to show for it but a barely used gym card, what surely must be the onset of an ulcer, and a best friend in a coma. Could be worse, though. (How, I haven’t a clue, but let’s just go with that for now.)

Myron was Larry’s first and only, and, according to Larry, that was fine with him; he’d found what he was looking for and there was no need to look any further. The fact that he was desperately busy starting up his practice at the very beginning of their relationship surely had something to do with it, but, still, he loved Myron with all his heart, and Myron, clearly, felt the same, except for a few dalliances along the way. Modern gay romances were new to me, so, naturally, I was a bit skeptical. But I should’ve been paying better attention back then, because Larry and Myron are still together, while I just finished with boyfriend number one-seventy-six, or Johnny the Needy, as he is so lovingly called. (Well, maybe not lovingly.)

That morning had a profound affect on me, actually. It showed me that gay people could live happily ever after. In other words, I still have hope. Hope and about four more good years of my youth left before it all starts sliding down hill. Like an avalanche. Thank goodness for Clinique moisturizer and Aveda hair care products. I mean, I can still pass for someone in their early twenties. (In bar light, anyway.)

I walked Larry to work, and he told me that he hoped we’d get together soon. All in all, I was really glad to have met him at that point in my life, because the only gay men I was getting to see were at Joe Joe’s, and they weren’t exactly what I would call good gay role models. Good Betty Ford candidates, maybe. And here was Larry: rich, successful, and still deeply in love. If he and Kiki could make it, I sure as hell had a shot at it, right?

I said my goodbyes to Larry and headed on home. I was still feeling like crap, but I was thinking bright, shiny thoughts. I mean, I did handle myself pretty good the night before, and I figured that Saturday night shouldn’t be a sweat. Fine, I sounded convincing, but I was still doubtful. I mean, one on one with Kiki was a snap, but Saturday night would be me solo and on alien turf. If I’d needed all those martinis the night before, what was I going to need to get by on Saturday? (Okay, a hell of a lot, as it turned out, but you’re gonna have to wait just a little bit longer before I get to that part. Don’t you worry though; it’s worth it.)

Luckily for me, my week was busy and I had little free time to fret. Between work and the gym (back then, I went quite often, really), I was always on the go. And what free time I had, I spent with Kiki or Kiki and Larry. See, I was getting my crash course in gay, which I sorely needed by that point. Though I was still having a hard time with my feminine pronouns, by Saturday afternoon I’d managed a Miss Girl without even thinking about it, had my second and third nights out at gay bars, had cruised a couple of guys and had them actually cruise me back, and, most importantly, my hair had started to grow back in a little and I looked less like a clown and more like a clone. (We all have our little goals in life, you know.) And, before I knew it, it was early Saturday evening and I, dear friend, was a nervous wreck. In Titanic proportions. Post-iceberg.

William’s stunning, modern, new apartment complex was way up in Twin Peaks. No Victorian for Mister Perfect. It was concrete, chrome, glass, and wooden floors throughout. And (surprise, surprise) William had a flare for track lighting, the beautiful art and furniture perfectly lit. It was all, like him, stunning and pretentious. And the pièce de résistance was the front balcony, with its envious and expansive view of downtown San Francisco. My humble abode was looking more humble by the second and the lump in my throat was getting ever-lumpier, making it rather hard to swallow.

“Secret, so good of you to come.” I could feel his hot breath on the back of my neck as butterflies took wing inside my stomach and nether regions. “Let me show you around.” His arm was quickly wrapped in mine as he pulled me to the bar. Thank God, because I needed a good stiff one right about then, and I was talking about a drink for a change.

He made us both perfect gin and tonics and then quickly meandered his way around the apartment, introducing me to several people and pointing out several pieces of art that he thought I might like. I couldn’t tell you what he said, or whom I met, or what he showed me; all, you see, was a belly-knotted blur. I’d been swept up by hurricane William and was going down for the count.

Our brief tour ended up, where else, but the bedroom. It was all done in natural woods and it was, surprisingly, quite cozy. Not at all what I was expecting. There were pictures all over the room, mostly of William in beautiful and exotic settings. And speaking of beautiful and exotic, guess who had me pressed up against the back of the door in no time flat? (Take notes, Susan Lucci, because here’s where the getting got good.)

“Secret, I’ve been thinking about you all week,” he fairly moaned, those butterflies of mine growing big as bats all of a sudden. His eyes were mere millimeters from mine, and I could smell his alcohol-tinged, sweet breath on my face as he pulled me in tight, my heart, in a red-hot instant, beating faster than I thought medically advisable. Then, before I knew what hit me, his lips were pressed hard on mine. He kissed like an angel as he held me firmly against the door. And, yes, this was what I’d been imagining in my head for the past decade and whacking off to. When I opened my eyes, he was looking deep into them. Man, you’ve never seen orbs so blue and so clear in your entire life before. Meaning, I kissed him back, even harder and with more gusto than I’d ever thought possible. Then, just as fast as it all started, he pulled away from me and said, “Vicodin?”

Talk about a sudden turn of events, right? “Um, well, I don’t know, I’ve never, um…” But he was already handing me the little capsule and wrapping my fingers around it. So I took it. I mean, seriously, this man could’ve told me to jump off the Bay Bridge right about then, and I would’ve done just that. Head first. So much for good judgment. Sorry, Mom. (Who will be played by Dame Judi Dench, with a Midwestern drawl. Seriously, it has Emmy written all over it.)

And then he looked at me and gave me a whimsical, little grin and mussed up my hair and told me that I was just the sweetest, little thing before he gave me a peck on the cheek. Then he opened the door and walked me out of his boudoir and back into reality. Just like that. I swear. And, yes, my mind was racing. I mean, I hadn’t a clue what to think or to say by that point, so I just stood there and watched him walk away, his stellar ass swaying from side to side. Thank goodness I had my gin and tonic (and it was good gin) or I have no idea what I would’ve done. (Personally, I think alcohol consumption is severely underrated, thank you very much. I mean, when Mary Poppins was singing about a spoonful of sugar helping the medicine go down, I seriously doubt she was referring to a packet of Equal.)