Oh my god.
You take a second look just to make sure.
Oh dear, dear god.
It’s tiny. You’d no idea they even came in sizes this small. This is something you’d have trouble finding in the dark. Even with the lights on …
Inadvertently, you giggle. The fatal mistake. Now it’s not just tiny; it’s tiny and sad.
“I’m sorry,” you gasp, now lost in paroxysms of laughter, “I just … it’s not…”
Serge is pulling his pants back on, and you have at least enough sense to take this as your cue to leave. Mumbling another apology, you inch out the door. Poor Clara.
Outside Serge’s place, you realize you’re just one block from your local, the Pub. You could stop in and see if any of the regulars are around. Or you could just go home and check your machine … maybe Suzy called.
If you go to the Pub, read on here.
If you go home, read on here.
“Hey, listen,” you say to Dave. “Let’s not tell anybody we were at a strip bar tonight, okay?”
“Not tell them we saw Howard Stern?”
“Yeah, that, too. Women aren’t always impressed by these things.”
“I guess you’re right.”
“Deal?”
“Deal.”
Read on here.
He mixes you a drink and puts on a CD. Barry White.
“Subtle. Does the couch revolve, too?”
“Hey, enough talk,” he growls, and pins you down.
Then, just as his tongue is foraging around in the general area of your tonsils, you realize that you don’t have to sleep with Serge to make Clara suspect something. You just have to make it look as if you, or someone, was here. And really, it’s not such a mean thing to do. Actually you’re doing her a favor by letting her know what he’s like. Sort of.
“Could you excuse me a minute?” you say, clambering to your feet and making your way to the bathroom.
On the bathroom shelf you spy a small flowery washbag. Clara’s. Inside is a compact, a toothbrush, tampons, deodorant, and various standard girlie bits and pieces. You take out the toothbrush and smear a little lipstick on it, so it looks as if it’s just been used, then leave your own lipstick in the bag.
Back in the living room, Serge has sprawled out on the sofa and is examining you with all the finesse of a small child eyeing a cookie jar.
“Freshened up?” he inquires.
“You know, Serge, this really isn’t a good idea. I’m going to go,” you say sweetly, pulling on your jacket.
“What? You can’t!” he wails.
“I just don’t feel like it anymore. Not feeling too well actually.”
“What’s wrong, are you marinating your steaks?”
Seeing the blank expression on your face, he continues. “Expecting a visit from Aunt Flo? Jamming, y’know?”
“Serge, y’know, see ya,” you snort, and make for the door.
Back outside, you realize you’re just one block from your local, the Pub. Maybe you could pop in and see who’s there, and check your machine from their phone—Suzy might have left a message. Or you could just go home and check from there.
If you go to the Pub, read on here.
If you go home, read on here.
To your extreme glee, people are coming out of the front door of 467 Ninth, others going in. You run to catch up with an arriving group so you don’t have to guess what buzzer to press. They’re all carrying brown paper bags, and you realize you’re going to have to mooch your booze. No hassle. You’re just thrilled to be here. You’re on a natural high. You think you can imagine how all those Outward Bound types feel when they spend twenty-four hours alone in a forest. You’re at the party! You made it. Against all odds. You’re as good as gold.
You find Mike and his whole crowd hanging out in an oversized kitchen and join them. Mike is first to spot you. “Hey, ace! What the hell happened to you?”
“Long story.” You go to the fridge and grab the cheapest beer in there.
Returning to the group, you crack open the can, the crisp sound of the splitting metal like music to your ears. And as you lift the can to your lips, imagining how good this beer is going to taste, even though it’s Carling Black Label, you hear Mike, practically in slow motion, saying, “You just missed Sadie. She had another party to go to.”
The can connects with your mouth, and you don’t stop drinking until it’s empty. You make an attempt to be social with Mike for about a half hour before deciding you’re in too much of a foul mood to rally. The room’s crowded, and you’re sick of being brushed against. In spite of two quick beers, your hangover’s already setting in. You go home and get into bed. Your upstairs neighbors are having a party that keeps you awake until 4 A.M.
The End
Jane suggests going to a place called the Three of Hearts. You’ve never been there before, but it’s a cool little basement dive, dark and cozy and not too full. Jane knows the guy behind the bar, and the first couple of rounds are on the house.
“So,” she says, once your irritation at Nick has been replaced by a warm, fuzzy glow, “you must have a good reason for wanting to go to that party if you were willing to put up with such an annoying little shit. What was it, some guy?”
You nod.
“You’re better off without the hassle. Men—can’t live with them, can’t attack their genitalia with a food blender.” She laughs, flicking her ash to the floor. “They want to fuck every woman they meet, but they can’t deal with women who actually like sex for its own sake. Then there are the ones who think they want an equal, and are scared shitless when they find one. You know what the answer is, don’t you?”
“Lesbianism?” you respond instinctively.
“Exactly.” The way she says it is a little too firm to be a joke.
“Have you ever thought about it seriously?”
“I’ve done more than think about it. My friend says I’m just going through an adolescent lesbian phase ten years too late. Maybe she’s right. Or maybe it just took me a long time to realize the obvious, that I prefer women. Am I making you uncomfortable? I’m not hitting on you, don’t worry.”
“Oh, sure, I know,” you answer, feeling the slightest twinge of disappointment. Might have been nice if someone had hit on you tonight. Someone you actually like.
“Would you like me to?”
“Pardon?” You jump. It’s like she was reading your mind.
“Hit on you. Not that I usually go for straight women; it’s confusing as things stand … I mean, I only split up with my boyfriend eighteen months ago and I have enough trouble convincing people I’m serious about this. But if you want, I’d be willing to bend my rules.” She smiles. “Or we can just stay here and get drunk. Your call. No pressure.”
If you go for it, read on here.
If you don’t, read on here.
You’ve barely gotten a chance to look at the names on the buzzers at 457 Tenth—not that you have any idea whose party it is that you’re going to anyway—when a cop car pulls up right in front of the building.
“What’s your business here, young man?”
You’re too startled to respond.
“I said, state your business.”
“I’m going to a party,” you mutter, but apparently not loud enough that they can hear you.
One of the cops is leaning out the passenger’s-side window. “Listen, son, we got a call about a suspicious man wandering around this block, and we’re guessing that’s you. So state your business once and for all.”
Just then a woman with an overstuffed garbage bag comes out of the building you’re standing in front of. You can’t believe your eyes. It’s Sadie. She sees you—obviously recognizes you—then sees the cops. “There you are!”
You look at her in shock.
“I’m sorry, officers,” she says. “Is there a problem?”
“Do you know this gentleman?”
“Yes, officers, I do. This here’s my b
rother. He’s not, well, not quite right. We were just starting to get worried. We usually let him go out for ice cream alone, but I guess we won’t be doing that anymore, will we?” She pats you on the head.
“You sure everything’s alright, miss?” The police obviously aren’t too worried as they haven’t even gotten out of the car.
“Yes, fine. Sorry to trouble you.” Sadie escorts you inside after she drops her trash into one of the cans out front. “You look like hell,” she says flatly.
“Oh my god, Sadie.” You grab her by the arm. “I’m so glad to see you. I can’t believe this, though. What a coincidence.”
“Not exactly.” She starts up the stairs, pulling her silk robe tight around her waist. “I’m not Sadie.”
You just look at her, dumbfounded.
“I’m Amanda. Her twin sister, and her roommate.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“I shit you not.”
“How do you know who I am?”
“Sadie showed me a picture of you. Come on in.” She waves you along. “You look like you could use some coffee.”
“I was looking for the party Sadie’s at, actually.” You start up the stairs. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yeah, but I’m not letting you go there until you’ve had some coffee. It’s for your own good, trust me.”
You perch yourself on a high stool in the kitchen as Amanda starts to make some coffee. As you watch her move around—the spitting image of Sadie—you realize there’s no reason you shouldn’t be just as attracted to Amanda as you are to Sadie. That movement in your crotch indicates you are. You wonder if the two of them have ever been with a guy together.
If you see fit to ask Amanda this out loud, read on here.
If you ask her, instead, “Sadie ever say anything about me?” read on here.
Despondently, you push open the bar door, fearing the worst, only to have Suzy welcome you with a grin.
“At last! What took you so long? And where’s Nick? We found his jacket—it had fallen under a table. A little damp but all intact, including his address book!” She waves it in your face. “Hey, isn’t Nick coming?”
“No, he decided to stay at home.” Tomorrow will be time enough to explain what really happened. “Let’s go to the party anyway, okay? We can explain that we’re friends of Nick’s—I’m sure Lindy won’t mind.”
Suzy, you, and Phil walk to the address listed under Lindy’s name. The journey is long enough for you to regain your enthusiasm for the evening. At Lindy’s place, a lean, fortysomething man answers the door and smiles pleasantly at you all. “Thanks for coming! Come in, come in, make yourselves comfortable.”
“Which one do you think is Lindy?” whispers Suzy as you nod politely at the other guests, some of whom are eyeing you quizzically.
“No idea,” you whisper back. “Maybe that guy was her husband? I can’t see Mark anywhere. Not really the kind of crowd I was expecting. Kind of sedate. Kind of…”
“… old.” Suzy finishes, nodding. “Maybe I’ll go mingle, see if I can get a drink.”
She’s gone for fifteen minutes or so and returns just as you’re running out of things to say to the very drunken Phil. “We’re leaving,” she mumbles out of the corner of her mouth. “Now. Let’s go.”
“What’s wrong?” you ask as soon as she’s dragged you outside.
“This isn’t Lindy’s apartment. Lindy moved two weeks ago. This,” she opens Nick’s address book and points to another address, written on the page opposite Lindy’s name, “is the right address, way across town. I was looking for a beer in the kitchen and the guy who answered the door asked me how long I’d known Winston. ‘Winston who? By the way, where’s the booze?’ I said. ‘Winston, the guy I’m holding the intervention for,’ he said. ‘I thought you were friends of his. He’s supposed to show up any minute now. And there is no booze. You mean to say you’re not here to help get Winston into AA?’” She hides her face with her hands. “I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life. Can we go home now please?”
You nod wearily—by now it’s too late to show up at the other place anyway.
“You know,” Suzy continues, as the three of you wait outside the apartment building for a taxi, “on the bright side, one day this is going to seem really funny. Hey, it’ll make a great story to tell Mark.”
“Yeah, great story.” You sigh. “When and if I see him again.”
The End
You overcut the shot and miss. The cue ball bounces off the bank and goes into the corner pocket nearest you.
“Figures you’d end up with a loser,” Thomas says to Chris.
Irate, your new friend’s entire countenance changes. “Well, at least my loser’s great in bed. Which—and I hate to admit I know this firsthand—is more than can be said for either one of you.”
Thomas turns and looks at Vince in horror, then storms off.
“That was really mean, Chris.” Vince shakes his head and gives Chris a disdainful look. “Particularly because it’s not even true.”
“How do you know Chris and I haven’t slept together?” you ask.
“He means that he and I have never been together,” Chris explains.
For some reason, you find it kind of refreshing that men can be just as vindictive as women.
“So this isn’t your new boyfriend?” Vince asks.
“I’m not even gay,” you say. It’s all you can do to stop yourself from adding “not that there’s anything wrong with it.”
Vince looks you over. “Yeah, whatever you say…”
“No wait!” You want to find out what he means, but Vince is gone before you get a chance.
“He’s right, you know,” Chris says.
“About what?”
“You may not know it yet, but you’re definitely gay. You probably think you’re looking to score with some woman tonight—maybe you even know what woman—but she’s not going to satisfy you any more than any of the others.”
You decide it’s time to accept the possibility that you go both ways. So for tonight, at least, you give up on Sadie so you can sort through your feelings. You and Chris order some more drinks and talk the night away.
The End
Mecca has the crisp, clinical smell and spotless interior of a very new bar. The furniture is tastefully modern and at the back you can see a small elevated platform; it looks like they’re getting ready for some kind of show. It’s pretty crowded, and you notice that the ratio of men to women is decidedly in your favor. Peter is already putting songs on the jukebox—he’s gone for his all-time favorite, “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker” by the Ramones—but through the glass door you can see Jay and Mark standing outside, having what looks like a heated discussion. Still, Peter has finished picking his songs and is ordering your usual, so you take a seat.
Mark wanders in, looking uncomfortable. “Hey, how about finishing those real quick and going to McCormick’s before your friends give up on you?” he says.
“No hurry,” you say soothingly. “It’s barely midnight. I thought Jay said you liked this place?”
“Mark!” calls the bartender. “You’re not on tonight, are you? I thought you swapped shifts with Mikey.”
“No, I’m not on; just here for a very quick drink with some friends.”
“You bartend here?” Peter asks Mark.
“Mark?” The bartender laughs. “Hell, no.” He hands Peter a flyer. “Mark couldn’t mix you a Screwdriver if you gave him an instruction manual. But he does the best Mariah Carey impersonation in the city, don’t ya, Mark?”
All the margaritas in the world couldn’t have prepared you for this. You can actually feel your jaw dropping, and Peter, giggling hysterically, gingerly takes the drink from your now shaky hand.
“Holy shit!” is all he can say. You can’t even manage that much. The flyer features a photo of three drag queens, with a caption beneath saying “Shows nightly.” And sure enough, one of them is quite obviously Mark.
>
“Nice calves,” notes Peter. “You look a little like Cher.”
“You’d probably have preferred if I looked more like Sonny,” Mark says to you, looking flustered. “The thing is, hardly anyone knows about this. It gets exhausting explaining to people that I’m not gay, so I don’t bother explaining what I do for a living.”
“He’s been dressing up as a woman ever since our class did A Streetcar Named Desire in high school,” interrupts Jay. “All-boys Catholic school, so some of us played women. Mark made an awesome Blanche DuBois.”
“I know it seems a little weird,” continues Mark, in what you feel to be one of the record-breaking understatements of the century, “but really, it’s just a job. I don’t usually dress up as a woman except at work.”
“You don’t usually?” you sputter.
Peter tugs your arm and whispers, “This is getting a little weird for me. You want to forget the party and just go somewhere else?”
If you decide to stay with Mark and Jay, read on here.
If you think that now would be a good time to leave with Peter, read on here.
You line up the shot as best you can, then shoot. The eight ball rapidly hits the bank and sails effortlessly back toward you and into the corner pocket.
“Nice shot.” Chris steps forward to shake your hand.
Vince comes up and shakes hands with you and Chris both, but Thomas says “Whatever” and walks away. Vince apologizes for Thomas’s behavior, then follows him back to the bar.
Chris turns to you. “You want to play another?”
If you say yes, read on here.
If you decide that you want to go watch the band instead, read on here.
Big Night Out Page 11
