Glamourpuss

by Christian McLaughlin

  ​“They all think the same about you. It’s not just me.”

  ​Silence for a little while. Then I heard him say: “Wanna go upstairs?”

  ​I clenched my teeth to keep my jaw from hitting the floorboard. “What for?” I picked up his hand and flirtatiously kissed between his slender fingers.

  ​“I dunno,” he shrugged, averting his eyes self-consciously. “I guess it’s kinda late…”

  ​“Come on,” I said, hopping out of the car. We went up. He went in before me and stood in the entryway. I put my leather jacket on a hook and asked, “Would you like a Coke?” He shook his head. “I think there’s a couple brownies left, if you’re hungry.” He shook his head again, luscious lips almost spreading into a smile. He put his hands on my waist.

  ​“Maybe what you want’s in me bedroom,” I said, mock-tentative with a Billy Idol accent. He nodded, then slowly led the way.

  ​I lifted the plastic lei over his head — he was the Hawaiian concert Elvis. I unzipped his skintight white jumpsuit and started to peel it off. Presently he was naked except for a few chains and medallions and, of course, sideburns. With surprising agility, I swabbed my throat with his mammoth dick while shucking off my costume (except for the studded bracelets). My hands were all over him, relishing every texture. I stroked down the length of his brawny arms and interlaced all ten fingers with his. He tightened his fists and hoisted me up off the floor. We hit the bed in an indecent tangle. When the dust cleared, I found myself on my back with Nick stretched over me in a 69, thrusting between my tongue and hard palate while he gripped my big business in his right hand and licked it up and down. This was fun, but too much like trying to watch two incredibly entertaining movies at the same time.

  ​I carefully emptied my mouth, then squeezed Nick’s penis rhythmically in one hand. He groaned. “Nick?”

  ​“Huh?”

  ​“Why don't you fuck me?” He’d never had anal with anyone, including Barney, but had told me he was “pretty curious” during an intimate chat a few weeks ago.

  He twisted around and sat up beside me. “It’s too dangerous,” he murmured.

  ​“You know I’m safe, and I know you are.”

  ​“We can’t be absolutely certain…” His fingers danced lightly over my chest.

  ​My right hand cradled his semi-erection. I pulled open a drawer in my nightstand with my left and fumbled out a gold-foil extra-large Trojan packet and a bottle of Astroglide, making sure the dildo I’d been practicing with didn’t bounce out and onto the floor. That was one little secret even Sara wasn’t going to find out about. I daubed some Astroglide onto my palm and rubbed it vigorously against one side of his perfect plump dickhead. Then the other. Back and forth, again and again. When every one of his muscles was squirming under the delicious frictionless sizzle I’d orchestrated, I stopped, then began to slide my palm over the tip of his penis.

  ​He gasped, moving back, then picked the gold packet off my stomach. I was faint from disbelief and fabulous forbidden excitement. I gave his cock a generous dollop of Astroglide and spread it evenly down the shaft as he tore open the packet, then fitted the condom onto his dick. Before tossing my legs back, I remembered to pinch the Trojan’s reservoir tip, as mandated by TV’s Dr Ruth. He slathered on enough Astroglide to lube a frat house for two weeks, then…

  ​It was a little painful going in, but he went slowly, and made it fun for me by moaning a lot. “Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he whispered.

  ​“I’m great,” I panted. “How do you feel?”

  ​“Fuckin’ amazing.” We kissed and I kept my eyes closed, until I opened them to the glorious sight of Nick hammering me, his face contorted into a near-rictus of pleasure. I thought it was going to be the end, but he was only slowing it down, breathing deeply and growling like the world’s most sensuous, cuddly poodle mix: “I wanna see you jack off.”

  ​This I needed no practice at. I waited until he was just as close as I was, then made quite a spectacle cumming all over myself. “Jesus Christ!” Nick cried, pressing every muscle against me as he flooded the reservoir. I held him like that for a long time afterward, gently massaging his neck and shoulders while he rested and made sweet little noises at the back of his throat. It would’ve been the perfect time for me to say I love you, but that was Not Allowed. Sara had been quite specific on that. Nick had to say it first, after which we’d share a warm wet kiss… and only then would I express reciprocal sentiments. Tonight, instead, Nick fulfilled a lesser if more macho fantasy by telling me I was “incredible.” We showered together and he went home. I unsnapped the one remaining studded bracelet and went to sleep, promising myself not to use any Elvis puns or Billy Idol song titles when recounting the torrid interlude to Sara.

  ​The pressures of the next two weeks were exacerbated by an ominous absence of Nick. He showed up at the third of the three performances of La Loteria wearing his three-piece lawyer suit and giving me a quick peck on the mouth backstage before rushing back to the office at 9:30 p.m. to put in more hours. I had three midterms, two of them monsters, clustered together right after the play finished and had to spend the next few nights hunched over annoying, pre-highlighted textbooks and my disinterested class notes, not to mention a heap of Colonial prose and poetry, the castor oil of American literature. I waited to hear from Nick, sprinting for the phone at each infrequent ring and telling myself he’d definitely call… if I just got through one more practice quiz/subchapter/Anne Bradstreet poem.

  ​The day of my art history and English exams, I went home and crashed as soon as possible. When I woke up, it was dark out and someone was rapping on my front door. I got out of bed quietly, in my underwear, intending to ignore the pest after a routine peephole check. I mean, you never knew. It was Sara. I opened the door wide. “Come on in.”

  ​She stifled a fake squeal at my near-nudity. Then her eyes widened and she whispered. “Is Nick here?”

  ​“I wish. I was taking a nap.”

  ​“So much for the study marathon,” she said, coming in. She gestured toward the door. “Don’t you care who sees you like that?”

  ​I made a muscle and snapped my waistband at her. “No. And my other test is in mass communications and it’s a Scantron.” I went to my room and put something on. “Two more hours prep, maximum. I was planning on settling back with a bowl of popcorn, turning on public access and knocking myself out. What’s up?”

  ​She put a stack of what looked like magazines on my table and collapsed onto the couch. “I was coming back from Vanessa’s — Chuck laser-printed may resume — and I missed my exit so here I am. I hope you don’t mind if I do all my grad school applications here.”

  ​“As long as one of them’s for UT, ‘cause I’ll probably be here, too.”

  ​“One is.” She sat up. “Full disclosure: I’m sick of going to school and don’t give a shit about a master’s in journalism. I just don’t know what else to do.”

  ​“Join the club.”

  ​“I take it back. I do know. Graduate and just move the hell away and start freelancing. It’s the same with acting. Why don’t we go to New York together?”

  ​“New York?” I moaned, dropping beside her and kneading her shoulders. “There’s no work there. And I can’t sing a note, so Broadway looks bleak. I’d have to be on some lousy soap opera.”

  ​“Mmmmmm,” she said. “You really are good at this.”

  ​“So I hear.”

  ​“To support us between soap auditions, you could get a massage license and do outcalls. Full release.”

  ​“Of course. Manhattan’s expensive.”

  ​“Has he called?”

  ​“No.”

  ​“I wouldn’t be too worried. You two passed a sexual milestone the other night. A little lower, please. Ohhhhh, perfect. He needs time to deal with that.”

  ​“I guess. I just hope he’s not boffing Barney now.”

  ​“I doubt it — eeeuueww. Thanks, Ale
x. I was really tense.”

  ​“How’s Greg?” They’d broken up amicably at the start of the summer, he’d moved to Corpus Christi to start a surf shop that had already tanked, and was now back getting a second degree.

  ​“Being a pain in my asshole about the grad thing. He thinks I should stay here and take classes and write for The Chronicle or — God forbid — The Statesman. Men are such tards. Straight men. Except Chuck. Ow, easy.”

  ​“Have you thought about working for Texas Monthly? You had a great internship, they loved you…”

  ​“That one editor loved looking up my skirt. Working there was cool, but it’s a little dry. Am I that wild about a career profiling Odessa football scandals?”

  ​“True. Something’ll work out, Sara. You’re a wonderful writer. Forget that — you’re fucking exceptional.”

  ​“I know. About finding work, I mean. Thanks for the rest of that. Those apps would be a helluva lot more appetizing over pepperoni pizza and unlimited beverage refills. What do you say? I’ll even buy.”

  ​“Mr. Gatti’s?”

  ​“Buffet ’til eleven. Come on. Study later.”

  ​“Twist my arm. Hey! Ow, that hurts!”

  ​I spent that weekend in San Antonio, away from it all, listening to my dad complain about his assault case. It was finally going to court in six weeks and everyone was pissed that the company that had placed Dad’s dickweed assailant in rehab wasn’t agreeing to a settlement. Since the incident, my father kept a loaded gun in his desk drawer, and even hired a couple of strapping male nurses, whom I’d had the pleasure of occasionally peeing next to during my lightweight May-July employment at the clinic.

  ​When I got back to Austin late Sunday night, there was a message from Nick left at one that afternoon. He was “hoping to get together Monday or Tuesday.” He came over Monday after work. I could tell something was bothering him. Don’t panic — remain normal. I gave him a hug and kissed his neck. “Hi, handsome,” he said softly.

  ​He sat down while I got him a Coke with sliced lemon and a seltzer for myself. “What’s up?” I asked, as I joined him on the couch, making sure not to crowd him.

  ​He closed his eyes and shook his head. “I just don’t have any time anymore. I had to cancel the last two times I was supposed to man the switchboard for the GLSC. And now… Barney’s not real happy with me.”

  ​“Oh.” What he’d just said reminded me of the verbal section of those standardized tests you take in middle school — the part where you’re given a paragraph with huge gaps in it and must fill in the correct series of phrases for it to make sense… from a list of possibilities, which made it way easier than it was now.

  ​Nick put his hand over mine. “I’m afraid I’m gonna have to bow out of Thanksgiving.”

  ​My heart was sinking fast, but I forced myself to take a deep breath and hold it. Keep it together, baby. You knew it was too good to be true — getting him out of town for a fun, romantic, Barney-free holiday would’ve been too much of a goddamn coup. I decided to treat this as an improv challenge — you’re not devastated… go! “How come?” And I did it. My voice hadn’t quavered an instant.

  ​“Barney’s parents want us both over for dinner at their house. To sort of celebrate my new job and all. It’s the first time in five years, so I can’t really get out of it.” His tone was gentle and soothing, and he was caressing my sensitive interdigital area with his fingertips in a way that would normally have driven me crazy. Now I barely felt it.

  ​This was truly gross — Barney’s parents treating Nick like the Antichrist just until he coincidentally lands a position at a prestigious law firm. Now he was a suitable husband for their dorkzilla Little Precious? I felt tears of indignant rage (and plenty of jealousy) well up and shut my eyes against them. No weeping. None. You can do it. Act, bitch!

  ​“We’re gonna have to see a little less of each other,” I heard him say in the same cradle-rocking voice. Keep those punches coming, Nick. There’s probably one more in there to completely finish me off. Perhaps refer to Halloween as “a terrible mistake”? How long could I realistically keep up this exercise in detachment? I was above-average, not Daniel Day-Lewis.

  ​Somehow this mind-game was suppressing any actual weeping. Astonishing. I decided “wet-eyed” was permissible. I looked at him and asked, “Is that what you want?”

  ​He stared at the slumbering TV for a while, then dropped his head toward his chest. Melting ice cubes clinked loudly in his Coke glass. “I’m not trying to blow you off, Alex. Honestly, I’m just… very confused right now.”

  ​I leaned closer, interested. “Confused” was different. “Confused” indicated activity and turmoil in heretofore sedentary areas of the brain. “Confused” was good! I laid my hand on his shoulder and moved in close to his ear. I could smell him and it was heavenly. “For the record,” I whispered, “there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you.”

  ​I sat back and watched him. He opened his eyes and smiled wearily, patting me on the leg. “Can you — no, I shouldn’t. It’s not fair to you.” He stared into the entertainment components again while I fought simultaneous impulses to roll my eyes and throw myself prostrate at his feet.

  ​“What?” I asked mildly (I hoped). “Can I what?”

  ​He sighed, directing the all-powerful blaze of his blue eyes into my own. “Will ya just hold me for a little while?”

  ​“That’s it?” I couldn’t help blurting.

  ​He nodded and I knew it was the truth. “I need some more time, that’s all, Alex. I don’t know what else to say.”

  ​“You don’t have to say anything. C’mere.”

  ✽✽✽

  Dear Alex, I just had to write again to let you know how very happy and thrilled I was to hear that you are staying on the show. I can’t tell you how happy I am! If I may be honest, I think you are a nice, gorgeous guy. But your character seems so sad. You never get to smile at all. But I love “Simon” anyway. (I don’t think I have ever saw you smile on the show and mean it!) I have seen you on Anything For Love and Quantum Leap and enjoyed every one, especially the scene with Mimi Rogers where you laughed and you danced and laughed. I can’t wait to see what they have in store for “Simon”. I hope it is real nice. I would love to see “Simon” happy for once on the show. Just remember you have one fan out here who is on your side, good or bad. Wasn’t for the villains, wouldn’t be any show! I wish they’d let you be in a scene where you get to smile. I can’t wait to see that b-tch Cyrinda in a coffin. Much love and God bless, Rhonda Matthews, Tulsa, OK. P.S. Smile!

  ​“Worst childhood trauma?”

  ​I chuckled politely, thinking the reporter was kidding. But she just twirled the pen between her fingers and kept her eyes on her steno pad and mini-recorder, so I had to ask, “Really?”

  ​She looked up, phony PR smile hastily tacked on. “Sure. You don’t have to answer it, though.” Her name was Heidi and she was on-set covering the gala 2500th episode of Hearts Crossing for Soap Opera Magazine. She’d coerced me into my dressing room for a “star profile”. These were special boxes in each issue featuring a glossy color photo of you flanked by a list of essential personal data, such as favorite movie (Andy Warhol’s Bad), favorite snack (Benita’s Frites), and favorite pals on the set (Phalita Renee and Allison Slater Lang). It reminded me of slambooks from sixth grade, except that Heidi wouldn’t dare ask me who was cuter, Ponch or Jon. Not that I would’ve answered that question back then either, despite my tween lust for Erik Estrada. A simple “NC” (no comment) scrawled next to my sign-in number would’ve had to suffice. I was a boy after all.

  ​I decided to tell Heidi the truth: “My worst childhood trauma happened on Easter. The night before, I’d left out a plate of carrots for the Easter Bunny, and the next morning I came down and next to my basket full of chocolate and other candy was the plate, with just the green tops left. Every year that always happened, and it would leave me thrilled that magic really ex
isted in the world. I’d sort of eased into the knowledge that Santa wasn’t real a couple of years before, but I held onto the Easter Bunny. I don’t know why. Maybe because I loved Watership Down, book and movie.” Despite the tape recorder, Heidi was scribbling like mad, shaking her head like she was loving it.

  ​I went on: “Anyway, I was getting myself a glass of milk later, and in an obscure corner of the fridge I discovered a bunch of carrots with the tops cut off. I took them out and just started crying. My mom was rushing around cooking Easter dinner and she saw me… and she gave me this embarrassed sympathy-look I’ll never forget. Although she must’ve been relieved. I was going on 12.”

  ​“What a great story, Alex!” Heidi gushed. This is what it looked like in print: Worst Childhood Trauma — No Easter Bunny.

  Life was good. I was on two covers — Soap Opera Update (“HC’s Simon’s Wicked, Wicked Ways!”) and the TV insert of the Sunday Newark Star-Ledger. The fan mail was pouring in, mostly love-to-hate-you-type adoration, with a few screwballs sprinkled in. Not a peep from ex-classmate Juliana, though. Soap Opera Digest named me Best Psycho in their colorful and informative Daytime Villains Guide. When my Soap Opera Weekly interview hit the checkout stands, my castmates started asking for the name of my nonexistent press agent. “I just do a little self-promotion,” I told them, trying to be diplomatic even though I did zilch. They smiled and nodded, frothing with envy.

  ​My mother came out for a week and I got her extra work on Hearts Crossing, a beauty parlor scene with phabulous Phalita. I naughtily neglected to tell Mom until we arrived at the studio that morning, but her initial shock and terror faded to simple jitters by the time they slapped the makeup on and propped her under a hairdryer, and she ended up having the time of her life. We ate in a different restaurant every night and had a long overdue chat about the Nick situation, which she found “hopeless”. The day before she left, I introduced her to Trevor, at his most charming and hilarious.