Authors: Marshall Thornton
Chapter Twelve
While Dog was gone, I decided to have sex with him. I mean, he wasn’t the son of a bitch I thought he was and I couldn’t walk so there wasn’t much else to do. It was, in my humble opinion, a very practical decision. Not that sex is a default position with me, though it was close. Plus, Dog was fucking sexy. And good in bed. I couldn’t think of a reason not to have sex with him. And I did try.
When he got back, he got busy. He wrapped my ankle and then smashed up a chemical ice pack so it would work.
“You’re going to need to stay off it for a few days.”
“Really? Shit, I start my new job on Tuesday.”
“Okay, well, stay off it until then. Keep it wrapped. Ice it every few hours. Take lots of analgesics.”
“Anal whats?” I resisted batting my eyes. Well, I tried to resist.
“Hah-hah. I’ve heard that one before. Aspirin. Ibuprofen. Acetaminophen.”
“Oh. That’s not as much fun as what I was imagining.”
“They’re going to be a lot of fun once the pain sets in.”
“Are you implying that the pain hasn’t set in?”
“No. It hasn’t. It will be bad tomorrow, then it will get better each day. I mean, if you go to work on Tuesday, you’re going to need to come right home and elevate it again. Ice it, too.” He stood there awkwardly. “Well, I should get going.”
“You don’t have to.”
“But you didn’t want to let me in.”
“I changed my mind. Stick around. We’ll get a pizza. Watch a movie or something.” It was the ‘or something’ I was most interested in. “Sit down, okay?”
He looked at my yellow chair and decided to sit on the couch. But not too close. “So, what’s the deal with those?” he asked, pointing at my beautiful red heels which were now sitting on the coffee table next to my wounded ankle. “Are you like a drag queen?”
“Oh Gawd, no. Drag queens are performers. I don’t want to perform. I don’t want to walk a runway, or lip sync, or tell jokes. I just like to wear pretty shoes.”
“Why?”
“I like the way they make my ankles look. And I like to fuck with people.”
“Yeah, I noticed…the part where you mess with people, I mean. That’s not always a good idea.”
I shrugged.
“Bad things can happen.”
And they had, but I wasn’t in the mood to think much about that. “Bad things happen anyway. I might as well have the satisfaction of knowing why.”
He looked worried for a moment, then asked, “Have you always been...this way?”
“You don’t have to be careful with me. I know what the world is like. No one ever writes ‘please be femme’ on their Grindr profile, now do they?”
“That wasn’t what I was going to ask. I was going to ask if you’ve always been, you know, trouble.”
I laughed. “Yes. I guess. When I was a kid, I had to make a decision. I could be the kind of wallflower who always got bullied or I could fight back.”
“So you fought back and people stopped bullying you?”
“No, I fought back and they kept bullying me. But I felt better about myself.”
“You’ve had a lot of experience with people like Chuckie?”
“Oh yeah. Lots. You’d think things would have gotten better since, you know, I was working in a gay bar. But things just changed from, ‘Oh my Gawd, you’re a fag,’ to, ‘Oh my Gawd, you’re the wrong kind of fag.’”
“You could…be different.”
“You mean butch it up?”
“I guess.”
“Why don’t you femme it up?”
“It’s not really who I am—oh…”
I didn’t know why I was being so hard on him. I had just butched it up to get a job at V-Bar, so it wasn’t like I butch it up—although the fact that I managed it had been a tad surprising. So obviously I had no right to be offended that he’d suggested I do what I’d just done. I mean, I didn’t want to butch it up all of the time. That sounded exhausting. Truth be told, I had serious doubts as to how long I’d be able to keep it up working at V-Bar. A swish of the hip, a fluttering hand and a few sprinkles of fabulousness, and I’d be looking for a new job.
“They remind me of my mom,” I said.
“Who does?”
“The shoes. High heels remind me of my mom. That’s part of why I like to wear them.”
“Your mom wore heels that high?”
“Well, no, hers were lower. But, you know, I’ve got to wear what works for me.”
I reached over and grabbed him by the collar of his grungy T-shirt, pulling him to me. His lips were warm, dry and incredibly comfortable, like a mattress that wrapped around you. I slipped my arms around his shoulders and pulled him closer. He hugged me close and we lay pressed together on my velvet sofa. I moaned a little, then so did he. Slipping my hands up under his T-shirt, I found his nipples and began to pinch them. I remembered he’d liked that when I did it the night we met. This time though, he pulled away. “Maybe we should take this slow.”
“Slow?”
“Yeah. I think you might be worth waiting for.”
I pulled him back to me and whispered into his ear. “We’ve already had sex. It’s too late to wait.”
“Slow down, then. Whatever. I think you’re worth slowing down for.”
I stared at him for a long moment. I was tempted to throw him out. He wanted more than just sex. I had serious doubts. If he wasn’t going to put out, I should kick him to the curb—but I didn’t.
Instead, we ordered pizza.
###
The next morning, I quit the team.
I have a laptop but I don’t use it much. I’m not big on games or apps or posting pictures of my dinner. Most of what I do is email and I read that on my phone anyway. Plus, most emails I get are about straight porn and meds for erectile dysfunction. Neither of which I want or have. So, usually there’s nothing in my inbox that can’t wait. I’d only use my laptop if I was getting serious about something.
Grabbing it off a shelf, I left my apartment to go to Hot Times, a coffee shop around the corner from my place. It’s a cute place with sofas, tables, chairs and even some stools to sit on. I got a latte, found a little table, sat down and dug through my email to find the one Chuckie had sent to everyone asking that they get Lionel fired. I decided I’d resign from the team in a reply-all email. That way every one of the guys who signed the petition would get exactly why I was resigning.
Well, I was going to write something, too. I just didn’t know what. Whenever I have something important to write or say or even think about, the first thing I do is avoid it completely.
I called my sister.
“Finally,” she said, when she picked up. “I’ve left you a million messages.” Seven, she’d left seven messages. In phone calls, seven equals a million.
“Sorry, I had some stuff to do.”
“I’ll bet. How did it go with Dad?”
“Didn’t Mom tell you?”
“Yes, but I want to hear it from you.”
“It didn’t go so great.”
“That’s what Mom said. He’ll come around.”
“That’s what Mom said.”
“I know. Can you believe her, though? Oh my God, suddenly she’s all G-A-Y friendly.”
“Kids in the car?”
“I’m dropping them off at preschool. Mom is acting like she never had a bad thing to say about a G-A-Y person in her life. And we know that’s not true. She’s said some things about the G-A-Ys.”
“Maddy, you don’t have to spell the word gay. Your children aren’t old enough to know what it means.”
“But if I wait until they’re old enough to know what it means, they’ll be old enough to spell.”
“Well, there you go.”
“Was Dad horrible?”
“He’s not pretending he’s never said anything bad about gays.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
Then I had an idea. Maybe not a good one, but an idea. “I have to write an email. Do you think—?”
“Seriously? This is like high school when you’d ask me to do your homework.” In my defense, she always did it. And I always got B’s. “Okay, as long as we can do it at your place. I love my house, but I’m having serious cabin fever.”
“Actually I’m at a coffee shop.”
“Coffee shop! Oh my God. I haven’t been to a coffee shop in, well I don’t know how long.”
“What are you talking about? You go to Starbucks all the time.”
“I go to the drive through window. I don’t actually get to go inside. Is it the one by your apartment? The G-A-Y one? Oh my God. You live in the G-A-Y ghetto and go to G-A-Y coffee shops. How did I ever not know you were G-A-Y? I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
She clicked off.
While I waited I stared at the screen, rereading the email Chuckie had sent. Well, first I was staring at the replies, having to scroll through the “Okays,” the “Will dos” and the “You got it Big Mans.” At the bottom was Chuckie’s original email.
It read:
Dear Team,
Yesterday, after the game, the flitty little cocktail waiter at The Bird behaved in a rude, disrespectful and thoroughly inappropriate way toward me. As your captain, I hope you’ll join me in letting Bob Grottoli, the owner of The Bird, know that sort of behavior cannot be tolerated. We’re grateful for his support of the Birdmen, but are also aware that we bring publicity and goodwill to his establishment. Not to mention we spend a good amount of money there each weekend.
Any employee who treats us badly is sabotaging his business and he should not tolerate it. If a team member behaved this badly he would be tossed off the team. We all know that.
Thanks for your support.
Chuckie Cooper
Maddy arrived while I was mulling over how I might say what I wanted to say. She went up to the counter and got herself a soy latte with two caramel pumps. When she got to the table I had her read Chuckie’s email.
“Wait, you’re on a softball team? Why didn’t you say anything?”
“It’s a
gay
softball league.”
“Does everything come in a gay flavor? Should I have gotten a gay latte?”
I gave her a dirty look. “You’re being ridiculous. You can figure out why there are gay sports teams.”
“Did you tell Mom you play softball? She needs to tell Dad. You know how he is about team sports. That could solve half your problem right there.”
“Could we just write the email?”
She frowned as she read it closely
“So what did the flitty waiter do?” she asked, sipping her coffee drink. “This is good by the way. Gays do everything better.”
I closed my eyes and sighed. I knew that someday she’d get bored with the fact that I was gay. I looked forward to that.
“Lionel, that’s the waiter’s name. He didn’t do anything. I mean, he did. He reacted. Chuckie called him nelly and then Lionel said he ‘wouldn’t mind being called names if Chuckie knew how to tip’ and then Chuckie stiffed him.”
“Chuckie is a douche.”
“Yeah. And then yesterday, even though he’d been fired, Lionel went into the bar and he and Chuckie had words, and Chuckie pushed him, hard. Lionel sprained an ankle. And instead of throwing Chuckie out they banned Lionel.”
I was leaving some big things out of that story and the look on my sister’s face told me she knew it. I could see her deciding to ignore that.
“Okay, so reply all.”
“Done.”
“Dear Team.” She began. I typed it in. “‘An intolerable situation has arisen and I find that I cannot continue with the team.’”
“That doesn’t really sound like me.”
“If you want to sound like you, why am I here? You can write ‘this sucks, I quit’ on your own.”
I started typing ‘An intolerable situation…’
“So do you have a crush on this nelly guy, Lionel?”
“I guess.”
“Will I like him?”
“He’s, um, interesting.”
“That could mean a million things.”
“Uh-huh. Let’s keep going, I need to send this.”
“Okay… ‘After an incident that was largely his own fault, Chuckie used his position as captain to coerce the team into requesting that a cocktail waiter at The Bird be fired.’ So is that what you like? Effeminate guys?”
“No. I mean, I like him in spite of it.”
She thought about it, then said, “Well, at least people won’t wonder who’s the woman in bed.”
“Maddy!”
Chapter Thirteen
Dog was right. The next day the pain in my ankle was excruciating. When I woke up I hopped to the bathroom and took three aspirin and two Tylenol. Then I hopped back to bed and pulled my comforter over my head. I felt horribly betrayed. Over the years I’d watched dozens of actresses die of terminal film illnesses and barely register pain. Of course, I wasn’t terminal, but JESUS FUCK it hurt. Hollywood could have told me there was more to illness than mood lighting and sallow makeup.
I was marginally better by afternoon, so when Dog called me I didn’t scream out in pain. He told me not to eat dinner because he was coming over after work to cook for me. I suggested he get takeout instead, but he seemed really interested in cooking. I prayed that meant he could actually cook.
I clicked off before I realized that cooking in my kitchen could be a problem. I’d lavished a lot of attention on my bedroom and the living room, but absolutely none on the kitchen. To me, a kitchen is of limited use. I keep bottled water, beer, wine and leftover takeout containers in the refrigerator. The freezer is filled with goodies from the frozen food section. My microwaving skills are unrivaled. Apart from the microwave, there are only a few other things I can manage in the kitchen. I can make tea, I can do Pop Tarts in the toaster, and I can make Ramen noodles. Basically, I know how to push buttons and boil water. I texted Dog, FYI: NOT A LOT OF KITCHEN GADGETS.
Two hours later, while finishing up an all-day Shirley MacLaine marathon (
The Apartment
,
Terms of Endearment
,
Steel Magnolias
and
The Turning Point
), I realized I should have eaten something the minute Dog called. He wouldn’t get off work until seven, which meant he wouldn’t get to my place until almost eight, at which point I’d be so hungry I might eat the throw pillow my foot had been resting on all day. But by then it was too late. I was starving and going to stay that way.
I limped to the door when Dog arrived just before eight, as predicted. He had a bag of groceries in each arm. Paper, not plastic. Plastic bags were now illegal, just like cocaine or stabbing your neighbor. Dog didn’t think that was a funny joke when I said it, though, so I just hopped after him as he went into my kitchen. I didn’t have a kitchen table, so I hoisted myself onto the counter to watch him cook.
He set the groceries on the counter and, with great speed, looked through my refrigerator, opened my drawers and examined the contents of my cabinets. He looked at me and said, “Hmmmm.”
“That’s a very judgmental sound.”
He held up a red pepper and said, “This is a vegetable.”
“Darling, I know what vegetables are. They’re the things I pick off a pizza before I eat it.”
He growled. Joining the pepper on the counter were a zucchini, an onion, garlic, mushrooms, olive oil, a bag of salad greens, some fresh pasta, a package of Italian sausage, a loaf of French bread, a half-pound of butter and a container of parmesan cheese.
“What are you making?”
“It’s a sort of pasta primavera with Italian sausage.”
I loved sausage and pasta. I hoped that the primavera part wasn’t anything too gross.
He’d already found the pot I used to cook Ramen noodles in, now he looked at me and asked, “Do you have a frying pan?”
I shook my head.
“You don’t have a frying pan?”
“No, that would imply that I fry things.”
“You don’t eat fried food?”
“I buy fried food. I don’t make it myself.”
He looked inside my oven and found the cookie sheet I used when I wanted frozen pizza. If I ever go to college, I plan to do a dissertation on the differences (and similarities) between frozen pizza and delivery pizza. I think it would be fascinating and culturally valuable. And I’ve certainly done the research.
“I could roast the vegetables. That’ll work.” Obviously he was talking to himself. To me he said, “Do you have a sharp knife?”
“Yup.”
“Where is it?”
“In the bedroom. Between my mattress and box spring. On the right side.”
He looked at me curiously for a moment.
“Yes, I’m the sort of girl who is more likely to need a knife in the bedroom than the kitchen.”
“Okay, I’ll go get the knife.”
He walked out of the kitchen. I listened as his footsteps echoed through my apartment. Then imagined him sliding his hand between the mattress and the box spring—
“Be care—”
“Ouch. Frig.” I heard him say. Frig, really? Was I having dinner with a boy who didn’t use curse words?
When he came back into the kitchen, Dog had his finger in his mouth. That was kind of sexy. The knife in his other hand, not so much.
“Is it bad?” I asked.
“No, it’s okay.” He rinsed his finger off in the sink and took a good look at it. I didn’t ask if he needed a Band-Aid; I didn’t have any. Of course, he probably had six different kinds in his truck, if he really needed one. He seemed to decide his finger was okay and set about chopping veggies. Which left it up to me to make small talk.
“So…frig? What’s that about? You don’t swear?”
“I try not to.”
“Good Gawd, why?”
“It’s how I was brought up.”
Of course, if memory served, the first thing he really said to me was, ‘Wanna fuck?’
I decided not to bring that up, and instead asked, “Why softball? What is that about?”
“It’s not about softball, exactly. I like being on a team. I mean, there’s gay basketball and gay flag football and gay hockey. Like I told you, I did football in high school; I figure I’ve been knocked around enough, though. Even flag football is more than I want to risk. I’m not tall enough for basketball and the hockey team is practically professional, so that kind of leaves softball.”
“I hated team sports in high school.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“What do you mean, you know? You weren’t there.”
“We had guys who were…like you.”
“Femme,” I supplied.
“Um, yeah, I guess. Femme. They always got picked last.” He chopped and thought. Then, “Maybe that’s why I liked it so much. I got picked first or second. That meant I belonged. That I was part of something. That I wasn’t alone. I mean, in high school I was pretty afraid people would figure me out. So there was that. Being on a team now, though, well that’s kind of amazing. I’m who I am and I’m still part of something. I belong even more than I did in high school. Now I’m really not alone.”
He was adorable when he was serious. But I couldn’t help teasing him. “And I bet the locker room orgies keep things interesting.”
“It’s not like that,” he blushed, as though he wasn’t telling the truth. “I mean, sometimes things happen, but it’s not, you know, like a porno.”
“Unfortunately, so little of life is…”
###
I got the vegetables roasted, the pasta made, and tossed a simple salad. We had to eat on Lionel’s white sofa since he didn’t have any kind of table. That made me glad I hadn’t made anything with a red sauce.
Once we were situated, Lionel with his foot up on the coffee table and me perched on the edge of the couch so I didn’t spill anything, he said, “It’s nice to know you have a feminine side.”
“What do you mean?”
“You cook. That’s feminine.”
Reflexively, I shook my head. “All the great chefs are men.”
“Oh, yeah, you’re right. Julie Child was kind of butch. And Martha Stewart, well, I wouldn’t want to get into a fight with her. She’d cut a bitch.”
I could have named at least a half dozen famous male chefs, but decided not to. He’d made his point. Now I wanted to make mine. “My dad taught me to cook. He learned when he was in the Marines. My mom worked when I was a kid, so Dad made most of the meals. My mom was better at the cleaning. That’s how they split things up.”
“It’s not a bad thing to have a feminine side.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“You’re an excellent cook by the way.”
“It’s a pretty simple dish. I’ll make something complicated for you some time.” I took a couple bites of my dinner. Even without a frying pan to sauté the veggies in, it had come out pretty decent. “You never told me about your new job?”
“Bartending at the V-Bar on Fourth Street.”
“That’s a straight bar.” As soon as I said it I regretted it, thinking that Lionel might be offended but he wasn’t.
“I butched it up to get the job. Of course, I don’t know how long I’m going to be able to keep that up.”
“Is it that hard to fake it?” I asked.
“Are you faking it?”
“We’ve already had this conversation.”
“Sorry.”
We ate silently. Finally, Lionel said, “Maybe you could give me a few pointers on being straight-acting.”
“But I don’t think about it. I just…do it.”
“Stand up.”
“I’m eating.”
“Please.”
I took a quick bite of my dinner and then set the plate on the coffee table. I stood up.
“Further away. Where I can see you.”
I walked over near the TV. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just stand.”
I stood. He studied me.
“What do you see?” I asked.
“Sit in the yellow chair.”
“Do I have to?”
“Okay, that reaction is very straight-acting. And, yes, you have to.”
I sat down in the daisy-like chair, leaned forward and put my hands on my knees. “Is this really helping?”
“Sort of. You maintain a really wide stance. Standing, sitting. It’s like you think your dick is enormous. I mean, your dick is nice. I like it. I like it a lot. It just doesn’t need the kind of clearance you’re giving it.”
“Should I stop doing that?”
“I don’t care. We’re worried about me right now.”
Lionel struggled up off the sofa, balancing on his good leg. Gingerly, he set his right foot onto the floor. Then he spread his hips.
“I think that’s too wide,” I said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. You look kinda like a ballet dancer.”
He turned his hips back in a bit. Then he walked a few steps and looked back at me.
“You’re swinging your hips too much.”
“It’s my ankle, I’m all off kilter,” he said, snappishly.
“It’s okay. You can walk however you want.”
“No, I’m sorry. I asked for your help.” He walked back to the couch, managing to keep his hips stiller this time. Unfortunately his hands were floating at chest height. “Better?”
“Yeah. Watch your hands, though.” He put his hands on his hips. “No, don’t put them there.”
“Okay.”
“Say, ‘okay man.’ And use dude a lot.”
“Okay, man. Dude.”
“One or the other,” I said, softly. I didn’t like criticizing him. “Do you really want to do this? There have to be other jobs.”
He got back onto the couch and put his foot back onto the coffee table. “I have to be able to get to work without a car. I mean, I’m saving for a car, I just don’t have enough for anything that would actually get me from point A to point B.” Then he bit his lip and said, “This is going to be a disaster.”
I didn’t really know what to say to that. It probably
was
going to be a disaster. “I like you. I like you anyway.”
I leaned in for a kiss but got pushed away. “You like me
anyway
? You like me despite that I’m a full-on fairy? You like me despite the fact that you don’t like who I am? Is that what you’re saying?”
“No. I said that I like you.”
“
Anyway
. As in even though… You like me, even though you don’t.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“So, you say things you don’t mean?”
“Not on purpose.”
It was very uncomfortable. We both just sat there, neither of us eating.
“Should I go?”
“Up to you. But just so you know…we’re not going to fuck.
Anyway
.”