“Right on.”
“Daniel.” Charles leaned forwards. “The Duchess rarely grants interviews. But her mind is as sharp as ever. She’s the most intelligent and knowledgeable woman I’ve ever met in my life. She’s invited me to visit her.”
“You’re kidding.”
“And my fiancée too, of course. Which is the main reason I brought up the Duchess of Grey with Megan. I thought she’d be pleased. Of course, we could never afford to travel to England. But you’d suppose one would be flattered, right?”
“But Megan wasn’t flattered.”
“No, she wasn’t. Honestly, I never saw this coming. She accused me of having an emotional affair.”
I thought of all my cake outings with Nadia. “And you think ...”
“I know I am guilty, Daniel. In hindsight, I realize what I’ve done. I do take full responsibility. I expressed remorse to Megan, I did. I said I’d break off my relations with the Duchess immediately. I even said I’d remove any reference to her from my research. But she still had me sleep on the couch last night. This morning, I sent a dozen roses to Megan at work, but I haven’t heard from her. I don’t know what more I can do.”
Charles’ face was puffy and red. It looked like he hadn’t slept at all. “You said the Duchess had started asking you personal questions?”
Charles nodded. “At first she was just inquiring about Canadian society, our attitudes toward sex, the BDSM culture here in Toronto.” He blew his nose, folded the napkin and set it aside. “But then she started asking about my own social circle, details of my own sexual proclivities.”
“Ah. I can see how that might upset Megan.”
“Yes, I told her about my relationship with Megan, our toys, the little role-plays we’d script, other couples we’ve met. Once, when I mentioned how our neighbours had complained about the noise, she offered the most brilliant exposition on cross-species female copulatory vocalizations. I told her how Megan and I first met, at a dinner party you and Karen hosted. I told her about you.”
“Why would you mention me?”
“Early on, during our tea-talks, she’d asked if I’d ever had relations with a man.”
“During your what?”
“Oh, every Friday at noon, we’d meet for tea over Skype.” Charles’ face softened. “I could always see the dusk seaside behind her, and hear the gulls crying. We’d take exactly two cups of Fujian white tea with just a drop of honey. She insisted I have the same and instructed me precisely on the proper method of brewing. The Duchess would call these meetings our tea-talks. They made quite an impression on me.”
“I get it. So what did you tell her about me?”
“Just that we used to date. That you were pleasant to be with and that the sex was adequate. But that I needed something more.”
“Okay.” I’d gotten used to Charles’ detached, analytical manner long ago, or so I thought. I folded my arms. The truth was, my relationship with Charles had always been too comfortable and safe. If he hadn’t left me for Megan, I would’ve ended it myself. This was before he’d gotten involved in BDSM.
“I told her how your boyfriend has a transgender brother.”
I unfolded my arms. “You told this woman about Luke?”
“She wanted to know who else I was speaking with as part of my research. At the time, Luke Moretti was my most recent interview. She was quite intrigued.”
“Hold on a second. Charles, you’ve interviewed David’s brother? How do you even know Luke?”
“We all met New Year’s Eve, remember? Luke and I talked for quite some time. He even bought me a beer. After that, I asked if I could interview him.”
“Why Luke?”
“I was interested in his perspective as a trans man.” Charles straightened, looking alarmed. “Daniel, you do know he’s transgender, don’t you? Luke told me you knew.”
“Of course, I know that.” I looked for my drink but it was nowhere in sight. “What did you talk about?”
“Masculinity, male privilege, sex toys. Oyster shucking. At first I thought he was employing a thinly-veiled metaphor, but then, after ten minutes, I realized he literally was talking about oyster shucking. Did you know Luke Moretti was the Fanny Bay Oyster Shucking Champion two years running?”
“No, I didn’t know that.”
“After that, he suggested I interview his girlfriend, Ai Chang Cho.”
“Why would he want to interview Ai Chang?”
“She’s a costume designer for the National Ballet of Canada. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“Yes, Charles. What’s your point?”
“He thought I might find interesting her insights on the culture of ballet and body dysphoria. He was quite right about that.”
“Charles.” I leaned back and picked at a remnant of a sweet potato fry on my plate. “How come you’ve never asked to interview me?”
“Well.” Charles rested his hands in his lap. “Well, you know I have been conducting ethnographic research on sexual and gender diversity for some time now.”
“Yeah.”
“And it’s been important for me to secure as broad a sample size as I can.”
“Okay.”
“Well. My impression, Daniel, has always been that you are rather normative.”
“Normative?”
“Establishing, relating to, or deriving from a standard or norm, especially of behaviour.”
“I know what normative means, Charles. You don’t have to spell it out for me.”
“Most people’s behaviour is normative, Daniel. There’s no judgment here whatsoever.”
I smiled tightly and nodded, just as the waiter brought my drink. Of course, deep down, I knew the mortifying truth: normative equalled “boring.” I might as well have had a rusted neon sign blinking over my head: B-O-R-I-N-G. When I’d been with Marcus and Fang, I was sure they both thought I was boring. They never said it outright, but I knew it was what they were thinking. I’d never been a go-go dancer or a music video producer or a burlesque performer or best pals with Sook-Yin Lee on national radio. I was perpetually-exhausted med student Daniel Garneau, neck-deep in debt, who wore a mouth guard at night and orthotics in his shoes.
On the day we broke up, Marcus had described me as, “simple, like a glass of water.” I’d heard it as a put-down, spoken calmly, even lovingly. In fact, Charles was the one who’d actually introduced me to Marcus Wittenbrink Jr., having already interviewed him for his doctoral thesis years ago.
“Look, Charles.” I drew a deep breath and focused on the soggy black bean burger on his plate. “Were you ever trying to keep anything secret from Megan?”
“What? No, never.”
“Did you ever talk badly about her?”
“To the Duchess? No! On the contrary. Megan’s beautiful, she’s wonderful. I’d tell the Duchess all the time about how wonderful she was. Megan’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. She truly is. I know we’ve had our difficult moments, but our relationship is better than ever. At least until yesterday.”
“Well, then. I really don’t think you did anything wrong. I mean, when it comes to this Duchess of Grey, it sounds like you’ve just made a really good friend. You’re allowed to have friends, Charles. You’re allowed to be intimate with others. Megan only wants to be close to you. She loves you. I think she just got jealous of how passionate you are about your work. Your work brings you into contact with some really interesting, sexy people, right? I think maybe part of her was just feeling threatened.”
“I never thought of it that way.”
“I know, Charles, you’re crazy in love with Megan. Megan’s smart. She’ll understand this. She just needs some time.”
Charles’ face tightened. “Do you really think so?” His phone buzzed and he took it out. “It’s Megan,” he said, head bowed. “She’s just texted me.”
I waited five minutes while Charles sat hunched in his chair exchanging texts. I observed how his ears were like jumbo pasta
shells, and that his hair was starting to thin on the top on his head. Once, I’d thought of Charles as having all the sex appeal of IKEA furniture. But now I saw him more deeply than that. I wanted to get up and give him a hug. Finally he set down the phone.
I peered at him. “And?”
When Charles looked up, tears had welled in his redrimmed eyes. “She said she loved the flowers.”
“That’s a start.”
“And she apologized. She said she’d gone over the transcripts I’d given her.”
“Your interviews with the Duchess of Grey?”
Charles nodded.
“Okay. And?”
“And she just realized the Duchess is older than her grandmother.”
“Megan didn’t know that before?”
“I guess not.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t think I ever mentioned it.” Charles blinked owlishly. “It never came up.”
“Charles.”
“She says she feels like a complete fool.”
“Charles.”
“Yes, Daniel?”
I compressed my lips. Finally, all I said was: “This is good. This is good, right?” The sparrow had returned, perched on the patio railing, observing us with one sharp, bright eye. “You two are going to be okay.”
“She wants me to come home. I think I’m going to go home now.”
“I think that’s a good idea.”
“You haven’t finished your drink.”
“That’s alright. You should head home. I’ll settle up here.”
Charles took out his wallet and handed me a bill. “Is this enough?”
“Plenty.”
“Thank you, Daniel.”
“Go. Megan’s waiting for you.”
Without another word, Charles got up and walked away. Halfway down the street, he broke into a run. He rounded the corner and was gone.
A flock of sparrows settled in the nearby maple tree. Often, I’d wondered if I was having an emotional affair with Nadia. David joked about it. I’d told Nadia things over cake I wouldn’t think to tell Karen or David. Nadia was classy and beautiful. I dressed up for her and liked being seen in her company. More than once, we’d been mistaken for a straight couple, and some small, secret part of me enjoyed it. I knew if Karen ever became close with another gay man, I’d be jealous. Hell, I was jealous of Bob for replacing my brother Liam as her boyfriend. Of course, David didn’t count. I wanted Karen and David to be friends, for the same reason Karen wanted me to like Bob. David’s family reunion in Italy was just about to start. Luke would’ve arrived in Palermo by now. I considered ordering another drink.
“Charles is lucky,” someone behind me said. I turned, squinting at a figure sitting alone at a high-top table. Closing his silver laptop, he stepped off his stool and picked up a glass of pale, white wine. “To have you as a friend.” He rested his fingertips on my shoulder. “Fang tells me he bumped into you. May I?”
When I didn’t say anything, he eased into the chair Charles had vacated, set down his glass and rested both palms on the tabletop. The warm sunshine bathed his face, illuminating the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. He regarded me thoughtfully, with a kind of shy bravado, the way a magician might modestly perform some inexplicable sleight of hand. “It is good to see you, Daniel,” he said. “You look well.”
“So do you, Marcus. So do you.”
The first time I’d let Marcus fuck me was on our very first date. I hadn’t meant for it to happen, and I hadn’t been prepared for it. It wasn’t because I was against sex on a first date (I’d had enough casual hook-ups by that time to blow that ideal to smithereens), but in hindsight, I supposed it never occurred to me that someone like Marcus Wittenbrink Jr. might conceivably be attracted to someone like me. The only reason I had asked him out was because Karen made me promise I would. Even after he’d taken up my offer to meet for a drink, I was convinced it was out of boredom or pity or a sense of humour. Later, I found out he’d been a sickly, eccentric child growing up. During high school, Marwa had been his only friend. Now Marcus was an award-winning multimedia artist, poet and performer. Like the Duchess of Grey, he was surrounded by a coterie of admirers, men and women from every walk of life. Marwa called him Max, King of All Wild Things.
For our first official date, Marcus suggested meeting Saturday night at the Green Room in the Annex. I was twenty years old and had been in Toronto two years. It took a while for me to find the dark entranceway, tucked away out of sight in a graffiti-stained back alley just east of Honest Ed’s. The candle-lit interior was cluttered with mismatched tables and chairs, colourful couches, and rustic chandeliers. Bookshelves and artwork adorned the walls. Pierced and bespectacled students lounged in noisy packs, The New Pornographers playing in the background. I spotted Marcus at the bar wearing a burgundy dinner jacket, chatting with a slim, pale guy with a receding hairline whom he introduced as Will.
“Will’s throwing a party later,” Marcus said. “Just around the corner.”
Will’s thin brown hair was spiked up and he was wearing eyeliner and glitter. He hefted a heavy canvas army-issue knapsack, kissed Marcus on the lips, and smiled at me. “Nice to meet you, Daniel.” He squeezed my arm, backing away. “You should come to my party.” He handed me a black-and-white flyer before vanishing down the stairs.
Gay men kissed on the lips, I reminded myself. It didn’t mean anything.
“Sorry I’m late,” I said. “I had a hard time finding this place.”
“It was always kind of a secret hangout,” Marcus said, looking around with an expression that was simultaneously affectionate and aloof. “When I first moved to Toronto, I used to love coming here. Daniel, I took the liberty of ordering us a pitcher of white sangria. I hope that’s alright.”
If I had to pick a favourite hangout for Karen and myself, I supposed it would’ve been Sneaky Dee’s. I had no idea what sangria was. I shrugged, trying to look casual. “Sounds great.”
In the half-hour it took us to finish the sangria (which turned out to be the most delicious drink I’d ever had in my entire life), three separate people paused to greet Marcus in passing. Without needing to be prompted, I ordered a second pitcher. Later we found a small wobbly table for two with worn velvet chairs and Marcus ordered the avocado salad and veggie rolls. My vermicelli with lemon-grass pork came with a crispy spring roll on top. This was exotic fare for me, and I did my best with the chopsticks I’d been given. “Here,” Marcus said, after watching me struggle. “Like this.” He reached over and took my hand in both of his. His touch was electrifying. Carefully, with the precision of a jeweller, he repositioned my fingers and the angle of my wrist. “Better?” I was conscious of how we were two guys sitting together on what was obviously a date. “Now try.” After a few more minutes of coaching, I did get better at it. After a third pitcher of sangria, I really didn’t care anymore what anyone thought of us.
The Green Room was packed by then, and we had to lean into each other to be heard. I couldn’t actually remember what we talked about, except that, to my surprise, I didn’t feel at all nervous. Marcus was like the handsome, charming game show host who put an arm around your shoulder, guiding you along every step of the way, making you feel right at home in the dazzling spotlight. Toward the end of our meal, I poked at the flyer Will had given me. “We should go to this,” I said. “It’s a party, right? You said your friend lives close by?”
“Well.” Marcus sat back, wiping his mouth with a napkin, and draped one knee over the other. “It is just around the corner.”
I downed the last of the sangria and studied the scrap of paper. “Vazaleen. That’s the name of his party? What kind of a name is that?”
“He used to spell it Vaseline, like the petroleum jelly. But then lawyers from Unilever came after him and he was obliged to change the name.”
“Unilever?”
“That’s the company that makes Vaseline.”
I’d imagined gathering in a
student apartment with someone’s scratchy mixtape playing on a boombox. Maybe we’d all hang out on the fire escape, or play drinking games in the living room, or Truth or Dare (which I’d reluctantly join only after some cheerful cajoling by my newfound, super-cool best friends). That would be fun. “How big,” I asked, “is this party?”
Marcus smiled. “You’ll see.”
Saturday night. It was the Ferragosto in Italy and David’s family reunion was in full swing. In Toronto in our loft, I sat alone on our broken couch in the half-dark, finishing a lukewarm beer. I hadn’t heard from David, but he’d told me already he probably wouldn’t be in touch until the whole thing was over. Pat and his band were somewhere in the Midwest by now, road-tripping in a Winnebago across America to Burning Man. Liam was either on Manitoulin Island or up at our family cottage. Bumping into Marcus yesterday was a bit of a shock, although I couldn’t really say why. Maybe it was because in that moment I was feeling particularly lonely or horny or inadequate or all of the above. We hadn’t talked long. Marcus was meeting his stage manager to discuss final details of his new show which had been in development for over a year. It was already slotted as the Mainstage Season premiere for Buddies in Bad Times Theatre’s new program.
“Congratulations,” I’d said. “What’s it called?”
“Face.”
I tried not to look confused. But Marcus knew me too well.
“Just Face. As in, giving face, or in-your-face, or turn-to-face. Face.”
After that, Marcus’s stage manager showed up and we parted ways. Marcus gave me a hug and a kiss. I reminded myself it didn’t mean anything. I tasted white wine on his lips.
Before he left for Italy, David and I agreed it’d be okay if we fooled around with other people. Still, I hadn’t been about to go cruising for a hook-up the moment he left. I’d told Karen we were monogamish. But after seven weeks, I was starting to get tired of surfing porn on the Internet. I’d cycled away that day in the Don Valley because Trevor Fang was too close to Marcus. Fang had also annoyed me, the way he’d talked in front of that kid Jonathan, even though I knew it was pretty much the way Fang talked all the time. Jonathan also hadn’t been my type, although that thought just made me feel shallow as hell.
Tales from the Bottom of My Sole Page 12
