the playgrounds of gay life he’d read about in college were either closed or had become video stores. Along with an interest in dance clubs, he’d developed a taste for the drug ecstasy, preferred reading biographies to fiction “because real people are always so much more interesting,” and had painted his apartment walls Prussian Blue, despite his landlord’s protests.
Lee was a bit overwhelmed by the sudden outpouring of biographical details. Michael gazed up to the night sky and lent his Gary Cooper profile for Lee’s appreciation. It was a nice face, to be admired for its angles, like the Chrysler building. For a moment longer, Lee considered the possibility of a date, but in a brief flash, he simultaneously realized that:
1) Few of the elements of Michael’s life interested him, except his body and his accent,
2) Handsome as he was, the guy hadn’t listened to a word Lee said,
3) Having never taken X, Lee assumed it was addictive, and should he take any, he might wake up one morning a rape victim of this pensive stud, or find himself jumping out of a plate glass window from an inappropriate height for a proper suicide. But worst of all,
4) The guy was wearing skin bronzer.
Lee realized an exchange of phone numbers was not in order. Michael, like many of the other gay men who worked at their good looks, was a late blooming swan, still fighting the queer young ugly duckling insecurity of youth. Lee, however, felt more like a mildly attractive mallard, and somehow outside the flock. He flicked his cigarette butt. The tiny red coal sailed into the darkness of the inside courtyard, minutely exploding onto the black asphalt.
“Well, back to the chain gang,” Lee headed in.
“Right.” Michael followed.
They passed a quartet of Latino workers from the rental company who sat waiting for the party’s end. Their tired eyes watched the two blankly, defying a greeting. Lee was about to attempt a casual “How’s it going?” when he heard the familiar lilting insult, “Maricones,” uttered by one of the workers. Lee turned slowly, bowed gracefully, smiled, and spat on the floor at their feet. It seemed a respectable response in his neighborhood. Perhaps they didn’t mean to insult him at all, he thought as he turned, awaiting a response. There was none. How was one to respond to “maricón,” a curse so ornate and pretty it sounded like a flavor of sherbet?
“Why did you do that?” Michael murmured to Lee.
“Because they called us a couple of fags.” Michael stopped and turned to look at the workers. Lee walked on toward the lounging cluster of waiters nearer the makeshift kitchen. He’d had his say.
In the pale fluorescent-lit hall, crowded with metal racks, trays, pots and pans, several waiters sat on tables, chatting and nibbling on bits of food and sipping soda, careful of their tuxes. Lee leaned against a table crowded with leftover dessert trays. A somewhat attractive blond turned toward him. In a Texan drawl he politely asked, “Have I slept with you?”
“You would have remembered.” Lee reached behind the blond and plucked a nuclear-sized chocolate-covered strawberry from a messy tray, chomping it in one guilty bite. Michael passed him, nodding silently. Lee looked down the hall at the Latino rental party workers. He wondered if, in the monstrous hierarchy of the industry, they were D waiters.
Carissa walked up to Lee. “Hey, pardner, how ya doin’?” she asked.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“Me too.” She leaned next to him. He offered her a strawberry, but she declined.
“Don’t like the rich food?” he asked.
“Or the rich people.”
They turned their heads briefly, and all conversation hushed as Philipe walked by with his business partner, the diminutive and impeccably dressed Fenton Gill, whose round white-haired face beamed with the benevolent pride of a horse breeder inspecting his stable. A single red rose nestled in his black lapel caught
Lee was a bit overwhelmed by the sudden outpouring of biographical details. Michael gazed up to the night sky and lent his Gary Cooper profile for Lee’s appreciation. It was a nice face, to be admired for its angles, like the Chrysler building. For a moment longer, Lee considered the possibility of a date, but in a brief flash, he simultaneously realized that:
1) Few of the elements of Michael’s life interested him, except his body and his accent,
2) Handsome as he was, the guy hadn’t listened to a word Lee said,
3) Having never taken X, Lee assumed it was addictive, and should he take any, he might wake up one morning a rape victim of this pensive stud, or find himself jumping out of a plate glass window from an inappropriate height for a proper suicide. But worst of all,
4) The guy was wearing skin bronzer.
Lee realized an exchange of phone numbers was not in order. Michael, like many of the other gay men who worked at their good looks, was a late blooming swan, still fighting the queer young ugly duckling insecurity of youth. Lee, however, felt more like a mildly attractive mallard, and somehow outside the flock. He flicked his cigarette butt. The tiny red coal sailed into the darkness of the inside courtyard, minutely exploding onto the black asphalt.
“Well, back to the chain gang,” Lee headed in.
“Right.” Michael followed.
They passed a quartet of Latino workers from the rental company who sat waiting for the party’s end. Their tired eyes watched the two blankly, defying a greeting. Lee was about to attempt a casual “How’s it going?” when he heard the familiar lilting insult, “Maricones,” uttered by one of the workers. Lee turned slowly, bowed gracefully, smiled, and spat on the floor at their feet. It seemed a respectable response in his neighborhood. Perhaps they didn’t mean to insult him at all, he thought as he turned, awaiting a response. There was none. How was one to respond to “maricón,” a curse so ornate and pretty it sounded like a flavor of sherbet?
“Why did you do that?” Michael murmured to Lee.
“Because they called us a couple of fags.” Michael stopped and turned to look at the workers. Lee walked on toward the lounging cluster of waiters nearer the makeshift kitchen. He’d had his say.
In the pale fluorescent-lit hall, crowded with metal racks, trays, pots and pans, several waiters sat on tables, chatting and nibbling on bits of food and sipping soda, careful of their tuxes. Lee leaned against a table crowded with leftover dessert trays. A somewhat attractive blond turned toward him. In a Texan drawl he politely asked, “Have I slept with you?”
“You would have remembered.” Lee reached behind the blond and plucked a nuclear-sized chocolate-covered strawberry from a messy tray, chomping it in one guilty bite. Michael passed him, nodding silently. Lee looked down the hall at the Latino rental party workers. He wondered if, in the monstrous hierarchy of the industry, they were D waiters.
Carissa walked up to Lee. “Hey, pardner, how ya doin’?” she asked.
“I’m tired,” he said.
“Me too.” She leaned next to him. He offered her a strawberry, but she declined.
“Don’t like the rich food?” he asked.
“Or the rich people.”
They turned their heads briefly, and all conversation hushed as Philipe walked by with his business partner, the diminutive and impeccably dressed Fenton Gill, whose round white-haired face beamed with the benevolent pride of a horse breeder inspecting his stable. A single red rose nestled in his black lapel caught
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