Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

  ​Dead silence. But he never took his eyes off me. Please, please, please let me get what I want. “That’s very flattering, Alex. I am attracted to you, very much…” But?! “But I’m in a relationship right now, and I can’t do anything to jeopardize that.”

  ​I bet you say that to all the boys. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

  ​He wasn’t finished. “And if we slept together, it’d make things really tough for you and me.”

  ​The fact that he even considered this a possibility pumped me full of an uneasy mixture of pride, wonder and despair. He didn’t make things easier with his next question: “So…” he began, looking at the floor and smiling in this cute, self-conscious way I’d never seen before, “what was your first experience with another guy?” I didn’t say anything and, finally, he looked up at me, eyes dancing.

  ​“I’ve never had that experience,” I practically stammered. His expression subtly softened, like he thought he’d embarrassed me. On the contrary — I was eager to let him know I was fresh, unmolested and 100% safe. I asked him about his.

  ​“That was a real long time ago,” he said, like some great-uncle launching into a story about voting for one of the Roosevelts. He settled back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head – the short sleeves of his green rugby shirt pulling back to reveal hard triceps and tufts of dark underarm hair – which equipped me with an instant hard-on. Marvelous. “The summer I graduated from high school, this old friend of my mom’s moved in down the street. And she had a boy a year younger than me. Blonde, massively cute. Tennis player. My Dad and I helped them move in and the kid and I started talking… about the school, what to do in town, where to hang out and all. Not that I was ever any social butterfly. We sorta became friends. We’d go out and goof off in his brand-new pick-up. Then one day we ended up a ways out of town and hiked over to this quarry. He asked me if I wanted to go swimming and, before I knew it, he was taking off all his clothes.” Between his Amarillo baritone and the Gay Penthouse Forum spiel, my jeans were only getting tighter. Transfixed, I waited for him to continue.

  ​“So we went skinny-dipping at the ole swimmin’ hole. We swam out to some rocks sticking up in the middle, and he just stretched out and… relaxed. Even though that water was awful cold, it was easy to see he was hung like a horse.”

  ​My mouth popped open all on its own. He smiled slightly and raised his eyebrows, nodding. “I crawled up that rock and tried to relax myself. But I got all excited. And he reached over and just helped himself.”

  ​This was unbelievable. Not the story — I bought every word of that. It was incredible that after I made a pass — well, a swipe, anyway — at him, he felt comfortable enough to sit three feet from me and use expressions like “all excited” and “hung like a horse” while confessing a mouthful like that. Christ almighty. My brain was still rewinding and scanning and freeze-framing what he’d just told me; only it was I who splashed into the quarry naked and watched Nick strip, the icy water barely keeping my raging erection in check. I who was lying next to him on the sun-warmed rocks until… yes — I sat up and lifted Nick’s robust penis from his stomach and began to caress it, his balls splayed beneath my other fist as I gripped —

  ​I tuned back in long enough to ask, “So what happened?”

  ​“Not a lot. We got together a couple more times. I thought I was in love, then he decided we couldn’t be friends any more.” For two seconds, his face looked like it must have on whatever sweltering West Texas day he found this out. I wanted to touch him. It was out of the question. So I said, “He was an obvious mental defective. Somewhere between ‘Feeble’ and ‘Dull’ on that moron-meter schools used back then.”

  ​Nick smiled and nodded. Then he laughed. “So, all those pretty actors and you never… ?”

  ​“No,” I told him. Then, playing up the tender/vulnerable angle: “I guess I was waiting for the perfect guy.” I added a quick, sad smile. Probably overkill.

  ​“Aw, Alex,” he said clapping me on the shoulder, then squeezing it. I nearly squealed like a little bitch. “You’re a damn hot fella. You won’t have any problem finding someone.”

  ​There was nothing to say to this, so I changed the subject. Nick suggested having more cake. I cut him another slice, my own appetite drowned in queasy disappointment. Somehow we started talking about Barney. He told me how they met while living at the same co-op and “found out about each other pretty quick” and had now been together four years. I was such a tard. One down from ‘Feeble’… just above ‘Vegetative.’ He also told me how much I’d like Barney, that we had “real similar tastes.” Obviously. The second part, anyway.

  ​The walk to my front door was especially difficult. There’d be no goodnight kiss, no exchange of whispered intimacies. I’d never see him again. It would be too awkward, too unfair to both of us. He put one hand on the knob — the doorknob — and said, “Thanks for the play… and the cake… and the company. I had a real nice time.” I believed him. “Have a merry Christmas. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  ​I nodded, managing to get out a fairly friendly “Bye, Nick” before shutting the door and weeping. Big, wracking, hopeless sobs from the depths of an artist’s soul. I lurched over to Nick’s chair, but my nose was running and I couldn’t even enjoy one last fragrance sample. I went to my room. Had I actually thought Nick and I were going to share this bed? I couldn’t bring myself to crawl between those crisp and — damn my hubris — newly purchased sheets alone, so I did a fast packing job, hopped in my car and headed for San Antonio. I cranked up a pumping techno mix-tape to keep me wide awake and superficially cheery, but ended up listening to Tusk, realizing with renewed clarity what a heartbreakingly insightful poetess Stevie Nicks really was.

  I spent the week before Christmas acting like I was the same person my friends and family had deposited in Austin at the beginning of the semester. The main topic was the lawsuit my battered, bitter dad was filing against the “corporate douchebag” who’d sneaked up behind him in his office at Shady River Recovery Clinic, put Dad in a chokehold and started kicking the shit out of him. All while under the influence of some tres contraband cocaine laced with angel dust.

  ​Unceasingly, I thought of Nick. Usually this took the form of abstract daydreams — I’d constantly blank out and imagine he was holding me, that nothing existed but the warmth and strength of his arms and face (eyes closed, luscious lips parted as they nuzzled my neck and cheek) and his beautiful hairy chest, which I’d confirmed from the open-collared, low-cut shirt he’d worn the last night I’d ever lay eyes on him. Songs by everyone from Tracy Chapman to Paula Abdul attained new heights of relevance. Every happy couple I saw in a restaurant or on TV or the street were people oblivious to the damnation of romantic failure; the rest of my life, spent never knowing true love, previewed continuously in the obsessive cinema of my brain. Realizing how much better off I was in San Antonio, on vacation and away from it all, I made a titanic effort to snap out of it and have a holly-jolly Christmas. Whatever the fuck that was.

  ​December 27 I was back in Austin, not exactly a hopping town between semesters, to audition for Vampire Lesbians of Sodom and Psycho Beach Party at Capitol City Playhouse that night. I really, really wanted a big part. Not only was Charles Busch my absolute favorite, I’d even been borderline shitty on purpose at the University drama department’s auditions a few weeks earlier – a reckless gamble, but I couldn’t allow myself to be cast in a Spring show, creating a possible conflict. I’d seen both Busch plays in New York and knew them backwards and forwards. I planned to be hilarious.

  ​As soon as I unlocked my apartment, I realized my hasty departure had been a mistake. Plates and forks loitered in the sink, crumby frosting-smeared remnants of my aborted lovefest. There was Nick’s glass, the only thing of mine his lips would ever touch. I plugged the sink, ran the hot water, and glanced at my answering machine. I had one message. From Nick.

  ​“How ya doin’, Alex Yo
ung? It’s Nicholas Miller. I wanted to see how your holidays were going. I’ll be back in town on the 28th and should have lots of free time to get together. Maybe you can come over for dinner or something. I’ll talk to you soon.” Click. The machine’s robo-matron voice revealed that the message came in at 9:37 p.m. Christmas night.

  ​He was thinking of me enough to call from Amarillo — on Christmas? I tried to reason through this. The worst-case scenario was he really wanted me to be friends with him and Barney — hence the dinner suggestion. Seeing them together in their natural habitat would enforce the reality of the situation in a firm yet gentle manner. Fine. Or… maybe he saw something in me one of those nights; a sweet, well-muscled innocence, a spark of mutual attraction, an intangible but irresistible force that’s still pulling him. But even if it was some cheap hybrid of flattery and pity that prompted the call, I was going to be at my absolute best for Nick.

  I mean, really. Does someone who rejected you when you came on to them like a sledgehammer usually want to pal around together the next week? I certainly had no experience to draw from, but I had to go with “no”. Sara could tell me. It was time to verify what she’d probably always suspected — she was my hag. I imagined us discussing Nick over multiple Ben & Jerry’s flavors and wished she wasn’t on a goddamn ski trip.

  ​I went to the gym to pump up before the audition then zoomed to the theater. I was possibly even funnier than I’d vowed, bouncing off the walls in slutty tank-top and blue lycra workout pants. They kept me there four hours, usually a good sign.

  ​The next day, I prowled the apartment like a caged beast, waiting for the phone to ring. There was no reason to expect Nick to call the minute (or even the day) he got back into town. But I was feeling positive and hyper and everything seemed possible.

  ​The Cap City director phoned to schedule a callback. He told me I’d definitely be in the show, he just didn’t know in which role or roles. Starcat Starcat Starcat I telepathed into the receiver. I’d be cool with anything in curtain-raiser Vampire Lesbians of Sodom. Psycho Beach Party was the real apple of my eye – an outrageous cross-pollination of Gidget and Marnie about a surfer chick with a dominatrix alter ego. It was the funniest of Busch’s wacky plays, and the role of Starcat, the brainy beach hunk, was perfect for me. Surely they knew that. Wait a minute… what if I’d been too campy and they wanted me in two female roles?! It could happen. I squelched the thought and packed my gym bag for a blistering masculine torso workout. I was closing the door behind me when the phone rang again. I grabbed it just before the machine could. Nick was calling from the snotty law firm where he clerked. He’d driven back this morning and invited me over for dinner with him, Barney, and “a friend of ours” the next evening. I said sure.

  ​At the gym, I spotted some really attractive guys, and thought that any of them could be Barney. The duplex apartment he and Nick shared was nearby. It made sense he’d want to be flexed and hard to welcome his handsome man-mate home after a long day at the office. I was too tired, sore and — endorphins be damned — depressed to worry about getting chubbed sharing the showers with one of the Barney prototypes — a sandy-haired stud best displayed bent over lathering his big feet, perfect white ass taut and spread, making it impossible not to picture him romping naked with Nick in their love-nest, which in the past two months, I’d slowly driven by five or six times just to torment myself.

  ​I made up my mind to be friends with them. It was self-destructive to believe Nick had anything else in mind. After all, our little dinner foursome with their “friend” reeked “fix-up”. What the hell — I had my career. I’d get over my first crush gracefully, and come out of it with two or three new friends, celibate yet empowered in my own sexuality. I actually began to believe this at some point between picking up a dozen oven-fresh cookies at Texas French Bread, a bottle of champagne at Longhorn Liquors (the best-ever name for a booze bazaar, made even better when “…since 1959!” was added to the huge sign crowning the mini-mall) and Lair of the White Worm and Blood & Black Lace from Vulcan Video. What a guest.

  ​Or… as Bugs Bunny might opine — what a maroon.

  ​I proceeded directly to Nick and Barney’s, arriving at six-thirty precisely. I rapped on their door, assertive, confident, pert and winsome. Lights, voices. Their “friend” answered. Thanks, Nick… so very, very much. He was tall but dumpy, with a crow’s nest of hair shaded a unique dishwater-strawberry, formless clothes, and a face that could tactfully be described as bovine.

  ​“Hi!” I said, all smiles.

  ​“Hi,” he mumbled, quickly checking me over. The nerve. I glided in and there was Nick, appetizing in stylish worn jeans and a paisley shirt.

  ​“What’s up, Alex?” He had such a great grin. “I’d like you to meet my roommate Barney Gagnon.”

  ​I was steeled for Barney’s entrance when the dorky quasi-redhead stuck out his hand. I shook it and realized the horrifying truth. Before I could scream, Barney took off for the kitchen, yammering something about coke. What?!

  ​“How’s it goin’, Glamourpuss?” Nick grazed my biceps with his fist. “I guess congrats are in order.”

  ​I was spacing. “For what?”

  ​“Your big part in Lesbo Beach Sodomy.”

  ​“Whatever that turns out to be. Still no word,” I shrugged modestly.

  ​“Doesn’t matter. I’m buying a ticket. Whatta ya got there?”

  ​ I handed over my peace offerings, starting to compliment the thrifty-hip decor when Barney came in with the coke… two sixteen-ounce bottles of it. He sucked on one as he passed me the other.

  ​“Thanks,” I said.

  ​“You’re welcome.” He looked at Nick. “Oh. Did you want one?”

  ​“That’s okay,” said Nick, ever-chipper. “I can get it myself.”

  ​“So,” I said to Barney, “you’re at UT, too?”

  “MBA program. Second year.” Fascinating.

  ​Nick returned. “Why don't we all have a seat?” he suggested. We all glanced at the furniture, mentally choreographing this maneuver. Luckily a knock at the door prevented us from actually attempting it.

  ​“Must be Pete,” Barney said, then answered it. I was introduced to a rail-thin, reasonably sexy Mexican-American with many earrings and a daringly theatrical van dyke.

  ​My little matchmaking theory was quickly invalidated — Barney and Pete began a private conversation that continued out the door, into the car and at the restaurant (Hut’s, a retro-Fifties diner downtown). Pete and Nick sat on one side of the table, opposite Barney and me. The weekend crowd was surprisingly healthy and loud for Xmas break, and Nick and I could barely hear Pete and Barney. Of course, they couldn’t hear us, either. Not that anything suspect was said nor even nonverbally communicated by us, although I had to constantly make sure I wasn’t staring at Nick, besotted.

  ​Soon we were back at their house, where Nick broke out my cookies and we finally achieved the semblance of a four-way chat. The vibe was so completely unlike what I expected. Nick and Barney behaved like they barely knew each other. Were they acting so detached because of discomfort in front of company? You’d think after four years they’d feel no need to suppress natural loving chemistry… especially in front of a pair of fags like Pedro and me.

  ​The evening grew murkier when we cleared the cookie plates and Barney announced he and Pete were “going to take a walk.” They threw on their jackets and left. Despite the joint and lighter that suddenly appeared between Pete’s bony beringed fingers… what the hell was going on? I decided to simply be grateful I’d been left alone with Nick.

  ​“Feel like a movie?” he asked.

  ​How ‘bout The Young & The Hung? We can act it out Rocky Horror-style, right here. “Sure,” I chirped.

  ​He put Lair of the White Worm into the VCR and sat down next to me on the futon couch. He got into the film right away, relaxing for the first time all night. I’d seen it enough times to fake involvement, despite
being eight inches from him. All I could think of was how easy it would be to snuggle in close. I wanted to lie against him, take his hand in mine, place it under my shirt and let every obstacle between us dissolve…

  ​Nick laughed at Amanda Donohoe. I had a hard-on. I checked my jeaned crotch. Nothing too obvious. I couldn’t help it — I shifted slightly toward Nick. Then we both turned to the porch area. Pete and Barney were monkeying around outside. Nick zapped the movie to Pause, then: “Think I’ll put on a pot of tea. Want some?”

  ​I politely declined, trying to hear what was going on outside. Nick came back and we watched more of White Worm, but it wasn't the same. He kept glancing at the door until Barney and Pete finally came in. Pete said he had to get up early to open the mall record store, then he split. Nick brought Barney a steaming cup. “Made ya some tea,” he said, handing it over. Barney chewed and swallowed the two bucks’ worth of cookies in his mouth and took a sip. “It’s not strong enough,” he bitched. “Didn’t you let it steep?”

  ​“Sorry about that,” Nick replied with visible chagrin. I wanted to punch Barney’s ungrateful mutt face.

  ​Suddenly I was glad Barney had been so stand-offish and surly. I sized him up from my vantage point next to Nick on the couch as Lair galloped to its fab, frantic conclusion: homely, sullen, socially inept, apparently quite resentful of me for no reason that he knew of. Was I too presentable and upbeat for Nick to be friends with? Or did it have nothing to do with me, and Barney always acted like this? After rewinding the VHS, I bade Barney my friendliest good night, then asked Nick with amplified innocence, “Want to walk me to my car?”

  ​“Sure thing. Barney? Be right back.” Barney grunted something and shuffled off to the kitchen. Probably to mix the $20 champagne I brought with Coca-Cola.

  ​Outside I walked as slowly as possible without seeming impaired, wanting to prolong the moment, knowing how I’d feel as I drove back to my empty apartment.