Growing Pains

by Cass Lennox

  Gigi frowned, unfolded his arms, and took another slow sip of wine. One long, frowny, unblinking moment later, he said, “I don’t follow.”

  Brock gestured at the living room. “My family’s different about those kinds of things. I mean, I don’t even know where pictures of me are.”

  Gigi shifted weight to his other foot and gave a sigh. “Uh-huh. And this meant you needed air?”

  “My family isn’t like yours.”

  “No shit, babe.” Gigi stepped forward. “You never mention your family, but I get the impression that they’re not exactly the never-ending source of laughs and total humiliation that mine is.” His free hand reached out and rested on Brock’s chest. “Here’s the thing though—they raised you. So I’m sure they’re not as bad as you think, you know?”

  There was a lump in Brock’s throat. Gigi looked so certain. “Uhhh—”

  “So let’s try this again.” He smiled and his hand moved up to gently squeeze Brock’s shoulder. “We’re in our crap-hole town for the weekend and you haven’t introduced me to your parents. So when am I seeing your baby pics?”

  “Um. Never?”

  Gigi’s face blackened with anger, and his hand tightened on Brock’s shoulder. “Oh?”

  “Boys?”

  Brock turned to see John and Naomi standing there, smiling and flushed with food and wine. Clearly the washing up was done.

  “You just standing there for fun?” Naomi asked.

  Brock cleared his throat. “Uh, we were, uh . . .”

  Gigi turned abruptly and went back into the living room. Flounced, really (he did the hip thing).

  Brock refused to be distracted. “I was about to take our bags upstairs.”

  Naomi nodded. “Sure! John will help.” She patted her husband’s shoulder and followed Gi into the living room.

  Oh man. That could’ve gone better. He still had a lot of stuff to explain to Gigi. But first . . .

  Brock looked up at John Rosenberg. He was a tall man, solid but lean, with a defined jaw and silver-threaded sandy hair. There was a brief moment when Gigi’s face appeared in John’s, and Brock could see how Gigi would look when he reached John’s age. The vision made his heart ache.

  “You’re staying in Toby’s old room,” John said.

  Brock nodded. “Cool. Great. Awesome.” Shut up, holy shit.

  John grunted and bent down to pick up several bags. Brock collected what he could, then followed John up the creaking stairs. The stairs and landing were lined with more family pictures, and the floorboards creaked underfoot. On the landing, John led him to the room and pointed out where the bathroom was. Inside, Brock dumped the bags before surveying the space.

  “Things are more or less as he left it,” John said. “We’re hoping you can help him clear it out this weekend. Put in a good word for us.” Brock nodded, a lump in his throat. “You gonna join us downstairs?”

  Brock suddenly wanted nothing more than to lie down on the bed and sleep until the weekend was over. No way was he going back down to a pissed-off Gi and a room full of happy, loud people. “Ah, I’m kind of bushed after the drive.”

  John nodded and clapped Brock’s shoulder. “Fair. If you change your mind, you’re welcome. Feel free to shower. We’ll see you downstairs for breakfast in the morning, but if you need anything, just shout. Sleep well.”

  Then John left, and Brock was supremely grateful for at least one chill Rosenberg.

  So here he was. Gigi’s old room. Toby’s room. When Brock had been in high school, he’d wondered what it looked like.

  The room was medium-sized, with a slight slope in the ceiling near the window. It was too tidy to have been completely frozen at eighteen-year-old Toby, but he got an immediate sense of what teenage Gigi had been like when he was at home. The walls were papered with posters from musicals and movies, a bookcase held multiple DVDs, books, trophies, and video games, and a desk still had folders and notepads on top of it. A few plush toys rested on top of the books, one of which looked like Luna from Sailor Moon.

  The thought that he could have seen this room while it was still in use annoyed him a little.

  The bed was a twin, and on the floor next to it was an air mattress, sheets and pillows already arranged. This family had put them together without any questions. A lump rose in his throat. Gigi was so lucky.

  He began searching through his bag for the sleep shirt, but the room was distracting. His eye kept being caught by a poster or the title of a DVD. When he found his shirt, he gave in and went to the bookcase. Books on theatre and movies, YA and fantasy, and a few children’s books fought for space with Mario Kart and Legend of Zelda. The trophies and medals were interesting—mostly drama club–related stuff, but there were a few third-place medals for street dancing dated from Gigi’s last year in high school. Brock picked one up: blunt, fake bronze, heavy and meaningful. Had winning this prompted Toby towards dance in university?

  The familiar image of teenage Toby came to mind, all hair and acne and big mouth, singing and dancing. A firecracker, sizzling, then erupting when lit. This town had given him shit for his weight, his breathy voice, his theatrical tastes, and his orientation, but he’d given it right back.

  Nowadays he was slimmer and his skin was better, but the essentials were still there. If anything, they’d become more pronounced now that he had Gigi LaMore. Now that he was Gigi. That teenage wit had sharpened with experience and education; Brock knew because he’d been on the receiving end of it more times than he liked to remember.

  But Brock knew him better now, and knew how much it took to take on that shit in the first place, let alone turn it around and give it back.

  Coming here had been a mistake. Staying up here to sleep was a mistake. Gigi would see this as the retreat it was and become angrier.

  Fuck. Everything Brock did was wrong. Standing here getting all nostalgic over toys and books wasn’t going to help with anything.

  He used the bathroom, then returned to Gigi’s room and changed. He pulled the air mattress away from the bed and put his phone on to charge. Turned out the light and made himself comfy on the mattress while unfamiliar laughter drifted through the floor from below.

  Brock woke up as the door opened. When had he fallen asleep? Blearily, he watched Gigi come in, close the door, then strip off and aim for him and his mattress.

  This was a surprise.

  Brock inched back as Gigi sidled in next to him, moving close so that Gigi’s face met his. Wine furred his breath, and his body burned against Brock’s. Gigi only wore briefs, his dick so hard it threatened to break free of them. An arm wormed its way around Brock’s waist, and Gigi bent to suck on Brock’s neck.

  “Gi?” Brock murmured in disbelief.

  “Mmm. Hey, boyfriend.” That arm tightened, and Gigi sucked fiercely.

  “What’re you doing here?”

  That wide mouth split into a smile against Brock’s skin. “Wha’ does it feel like ’m doing?”

  Was he serious? After today? “Go sleep in your own bed, Gi.”

  A hand latched onto Brock’s shoulder. “’M pissed off. Still.” Gigi’s knee rubbed along Brock’s leg, working its way between his thighs. “Buh I wanna fuck. An’ I know”—fingers fanned on Brock’s abdomen—“you’re up for tha’.”

  True. No matter what arguments they’d had, sex had never been a problem. Brock always loved fucking Gigi, always wanted to touch him and hear his moans and taste his skin. Even now, as Brock let his thighs open and Gigi worked his knee up to press against Brock’s balls and dick, Brock could feel the familiar heady rush of knowing it was him, his guy, and that his guy wanted him. Usually he gave in to it.

  Tonight felt different though. Tonight felt totally disjointed. Like Gigi wanted him, but not in the way he usually wanted him. It was all intertwined with today—how he’d wanted Brock to come here, and how he’d wanted Brock to be funny and chill in front of his family, and how he’d suddenly wanted to know Brock’s family, and now
this? Brock was sick of trying. He couldn’t do this as well.

  Brock eased back from Gigi’s face, gently pushing the knee away. “Not tonight, Gi.”

  Gigi stopped attacking his neck, head tilting up to stare Brock in the face. “Wha’?”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Not thah drunk. An’ we’ve been drunk before.” He leered.

  “I don’t want to.”

  Gigi’s hands tightened on Brock’s skin before he hissed angrily and pulled away. “Fine.”

  Brock’s heart sank. He knew that tone. “Don’t . . .”

  “Don’ what, boyfriend? Be mad? You don’ wanna be here an’ don’ wan’ me t’meet your family an’ now I can’t even blow you? Uggghhh, ’m so mad.” Gigi rolled over and stood.

  Brock sat up. “Gigi.”

  “Don’t Gigi me. I got it.” He somehow managed the four steps to his bed and got in, back towards Brock. “You can sleep aaall by yourself this weekend. The shop is closed.”

  “Gi . . .”

  Gigi waved. “No, no, you sleep withou’ me an’ like it, boyfriend.” He shifted around before giving a deep, sad sigh.

  Brock was torn between joining him and flipping him the finger. He did neither—just lay back down and rolled the sheets around him. Regret and anger roiled inside him, clenching his stomach tighter. It took a long time for him to fall asleep again.

  Three months ago

  Gigi gave herself one last look in the mirror, checking her curves were in place, her boobs were sitting well, and her tuck was neat. Leotards hid nothing, and the stage at Woody’s was tiny.

  A twenties chorus girl gazed back at her. Stylized, of course, because LaMore wasn't simply a cardboard cutout from a line of identical girls. Sparkly leotard and matching heels, feather boa and headpiece, accentuated rosebud lips, come-fuck-me eyes, and enough diamonds to see her through to retirement.

  Well . . . “Diamonds.” Chorus girls only earned so much. But damn, she was looking fierce! Channelling chorus-girl chic tonight, honey! Marilyn Monroe and Jane Russell would shrivel in their heels if they could see LaMore. Gigi gave a wiggle, just to see the right things jiggle, then executed a perfect turn and strode from the dressing room to the wings.

  Her friend, Miss Molly Maneater, was just stepping off the stage as Gigi approached it from the wings.

  “Oooh, girl, you look like you’re husband hunting tonight,” Molly said.

  Gigi arched one elegantly shaped brow. “Who says I'm not?”

  “Your boyfriend might have something to say about that,” one of the bar staff, Jason, muttered.

  Awww, cute. “Keeps him on his toes.”

  Molly laughed and whacked Gigi with a fan. “You’re terrible.”

  “What’s the crowd like? You warm them up for me?”

  “Please. Enjoy my sloppy seconds and I'll try not to embarrass you at the bar later.”

  Gigi cackled. “You nasty bitch.”

  “I'll have a cosmo waiting for you.”

  Molly stepped away, and Jason gestured Gigi forward. The host for this evening was wrapping up one of his awful jokes, and Gigi danced a little on the spot to keep up her energy. She liked the chorus girl routine, but it needed her to be warmed up, flexible, and to keep her wits about her.

  The host got a round of groans and applause, then Gigi was introduced. She double-checked her wig and headpiece, tossed back her shoulders, and danced onto the stage.

  Here’s how the routine went down: she danced on like she was part of a chorus line, then was surprised to find she’d gone on stage without the other girls and was so embarrassed, and would you believe those bitches? Like, maybe she could perform for the audience anyway because working girls like her were always looking for their big break. Cue the big startled eyes and fluttery eyelashes, work the room, work the room, then segue into a song and dance routine, can-can, because that was always expected and appreciated, and finish off, ideally draped over a willing audience member. And they were always willing.

  Tonight’s song was Eartha Kitt’s “An Englishman Needs Time,” only Gigi had changed up Englishman for Canadian and adjusted a few lyrics to be more relevant to her fellow Canucks. It usually went down like Molly on a fireman—loud and enjoyable for everyone concerned.

  She got through to the part where she was surprised at being alone on stage, then minced forward to pick up the microphone where the host had nicely left it for her—downstage, front and centre, on the floor. As she bent over and picked it up, whistles erupted.

  “Now, now, boys,” she breathed into the microphone. “Behave.”

  “Bend over again!” someone shouted.

  “Are you hung like a god and able to lift me with one arm?” Gigi asked. “Because if not, pay me.” Laughter from the crowd. “I’m supposed to be up here with a whole line of girls, but somehow I’m here all on my own-some.” She pouted and there was a resounding Awww. “I mean, what’s a girl to do? I work so hard—” yells and whistles “—and I go home simply aching, you know, from all this hard work, and then this shady shit happens.” She tossed her head. “Well, don’t you know, I can perform on my own! I’ll show those bitches. I’ve been working on a thing. You wanna see my thing?” Roars of affirmation. “You do? Oh my gosh, you’re too sweet! It’s just a little thing.”

  She lowered her voice back to its normal level. “Well, actually, it’s a big thing. The rumours are true. I feel like I have a roll of loonies between my legs.”

  Back to her higher pitch. “I hope you like it!” She turned around, wiggled a little as she took her place, then made a sign to Jason. “This is a small number I’ve been working on, and I’m singing it for my favourite kind of man.” She waited a beat. “Alive.” Laughter. “I mean Canadian, sillies!” Whoops and cheers. Such a patriotic bunch.

  Gigi loved this. The innuendo, the playacting, the freedom to deliberately camp it up and be her sexy feminine self. She’d never had this as a kid, and every time she was on stage, she revelled in it. It was like breathing. Sort of. Hiding herself away since being a baby queen meant she deserved her moments here. Dancing in glitter and heels, in front of an audience of gorgeous men, was where she was born to be.

  She was a performer. An entertainer. Nothing like the beauty queens waiting in the wings for their slots, bedecked in their perfect costumes and flawless contouring, here for the attention and the clothes without acknowledging the performance, the history. A lot of them had the personality of a clothes hanger. Appropriate, considering that was all they essentially were. Drag as art was all well and good, but connecting with your audience was artwork, baby. And Gigi knew how to work.

  So she did. She sashayed, she spun, she danced around, she flirted with the audience, she made them laugh, she gathered muhneh bitches, then she left them wanting more. That was how LaMore rolled.

  And by the time she reached the bar—still in leotard and heels and batting away drinks offers on the way—to find Molly and the promised cosmo, she was feeling pretty damn amazing.

  Molly handed her the cosmo, and they saluted each other with their drinks. “Good set, hunty.”

  Gigi preened. “Oh, that old thing?”

  They took ladylike sips of their drinks.

  Molly gestured at the stage and the young queen speaking vacuously on it. “Look at this tone-dead cow. Jesus Christ. Which do you think she smoked first—pot or meth?”

  “It’s inexcusable.” The queen was lovely, but in the pre-twenty-two way. Girl was going to pack it on once she grew up. “Especially after you showed them how it’s done.”

  Molly was one of the blessed drag queens—beautiful and funny. Right now, she wasn’t looking so hot: one eye was smudged slightly from sweating under the lights, and the curls in her black hair were falling out already. She was forever complaining about how Asian hair just did not curl well, and Gigi kept telling her to get a haircut and buy some more damn wigs already if her own hair was so difficult. Not that Gigi could be too bitchy—wigs were ex
pensive, and Molly’s natural hair was gorgeous.

  “I wonder how long we’ll be doing this,” Molly said. The sass had dropped from her voice, and Gigi glanced at her. She looked super serious.

  “Queens can go for decades, baby. You know that.”

  “Yeah. It’s just . . . I don’t know. So tiring, you know? And these upstarts don’t give me hope for the future.”

  “Hey, bitch, some of us upstarts are the hope for the future.”

  Molly smiled at her, then sipped her martini. “It’s just . . . I wonder what else is out there, you know?”

  What had brought this on? This wasn’t normally Molly. Gigi glanced her over, glanced around the bar, then hit on it. “Your beau broke up with you?”

  Molly grimaced. “Third one this year. Kinda makes you think there’s something wrong with you.”

  “Nope. You’re looking fine and everyone here wants you. Go out and get another.” Gigi pointed out a particularly fine specimen of shirtless man.

  “Baby, wanting me isn’t the problem. I’m not Molly all the time—that’s the problem.” She gave a deep sigh, then shimmied in her chair as if to shake off her funk. “But you’re right! Plenty of fish to be had.” She smiled at Gigi. “Speaking of fish, where’s your guppy?”

  Good question. Gigi dug into her handbag for her phone and found a message from Brock: Running late. Sorry.

  “Not here.”

  Molly raised her eyebrows. “But he will be?”

  “Yeah.” Suddenly in a sour mood, Gigi drained her cosmo and turned around to order another. A nearby guy paid for her drink (of course), and she and Molly began the terribly easy task of reading the other queens while flirting with the guys lingering near them for attention.

  In the back of her mind, though, Gigi wasn’t enjoying it. Like, it wasn’t difficult to get to Church Street from Brock’s fancy hipster workplace in downtown. This was, what, the fifth time Brock had come late? And this time he’d actually missed her routine. Gigi LaMore didn’t come out to play every week, so if he missed the show, he missed the point of being here—well, apart from spending time with his incredible queen, which totally went without saying.