I exhale and lean back, suddenly exhausted by my own opinions. Meanwhile, Chase chuckles lightly, looks around the restaurant, then settles on staring at his drink. He doesn’t say anything for at least a minute.
What’s happened? Up until now, conversation has been flowing so perfectly, a witty tennis match of volleys as delicious as the cheesy carb piles we were shoveling in our mouths. I open my mouth a few times to try and create a new vein of discussion, but I’m too self-conscious. Verbally constipated.
After a minute of us silently chewing and slurping, Chase finally breaks the awkward silence. “Um, Marty?”
“Yeah?”
“I guess I’ll come out with this now. I usually hold off until a few dates in. But, up until a few minutes ago, I was liking you...And the last thing I want to do is waste either of our precious time.”
“Okay?” I’m immediately defensive, on date-protection duty. Suddenly, everything has taken a turn for the serious.
“Okay. So I’m a dance major at NYU.”
“I know! And that’s awesome! Clearly you’re working hard to get where you want to be too—”
Chase lifts his hand to stop me. I oblige.
“I am working hard. REALLY hard. And this city is expensive. REALLY expensive. You know? College jobs don’t cut it. And I sure don’t have the time to hold down a full-time day job and still attend all my classes.”
That’s a plight I can understand. If it weren’t for all the money I socked away from touring with
Jersey Boys
, I wouldn’t even be able to afford my tiny room in Astoria.
“Right?”
“I help pay down my loans and live in this city by working as a go-go boy.”
“YOU’RE a go-go boy? Are you serious?”
“Yeah. I’m serious. I’m sorry if it comes as a shock to you that a go-go boy CAN be serious...”
The snap response catches me off guard. I’m anti–gay clubs, not retarded. Now his quills are up, and I’m stumbling to find the right words to respond. “Well, sorry. I didn’t mean to insult your line of work. But I mean, you must be used to it...”
“No, I’m NOT used to it, Marty. Not all of us are as privileged as you. Some of us have to work to support ourselves while we reach for our dreams.”
“I wasn’t insulting YOU...”
“You just insinuated that I was a stupid, aimless slut. And a prostitute. Not to mention the crabs and herpes. You should share your opinions with my modern dance teacher, she’d be shocked to hear it.”
“No! Chase! I’m all for you chasing your dreams and working for it. I understand. But as a GO-GO boy? You couldn’t find some other way? You can’t deny that at least some of what I’m saying is true. You guys are always rubbing up on each other, making out with each other. And there are strangers all over you all night long...”
“Right, and it’s also one of the highest-paying non–sex worker jobs that lets you make your own schedule and work evenings, freeing up the days for class. And it’s not like I’m FUCKING them. I’m just dancing, for Christ’s sake. In clothing that’s no more scandalous than what most of gay New York wears to sunbathe all
summer long on the Chelsea Piers. Wow, I didn’t realize I was on a date with New York’s only virgin. Is your chastity belt on extra tight today or what?”
“I never said I was Mr. Innocent. There’s just a fine line.”
“You fucking actors. It’s all appearances for you. Pretending to be something you’re not. It’s a job. It’s what I need to do. And does it really fucking matter if I make out with a guy in a club versus the privacy of my own room?”
“Yes! At least there’s a little privacy! Some dignity!”
“Ever had an STD, Marty?”
“Yeah. I had chlamydia last month. Which I got from my boyfriend who cheated on me with some slut he probably picked up in a gay club.”
“Ooh, scandalous. Maybe he was even a go-go boy!”
“It wouldn’t surprise me.”
Chase sits back. “Well. I don’t see any reason why we should see each other again if you can’t respect what I’m doing to make ends meet. Clearly you should’ve met me in a year, once I’ve graduated and am doing something you find more worthy of your attention.”
“What is there to respect? Your lack of tan lines or expertise at spinning around a pole?”
“Nothing at all, Judge Judy. Three nights a week, I strip down to tiny pairs of underwear and dance on the bar at Splash. Sometimes I yank the fabric up my butt to give the clientele more to see. Sometimes I take my G-string all the way off and hold it in front of my junk. At some parties, I dance naked! Maybe someday you’ll embrace your sexuality without instantly going soft from shame.”
I have no words. But that’s unacceptable to Chase.
“Speechless, huh? I must represent everything you hate about the club scene. Or is it everything you hate about the gay community at large? Everything you hate about yourself, perhaps?”
“What?” This is crazy! I haven’t said more than ten words since his revelation, and he’s acting like I’m a member of the Westboro Baptist Church who just condemned him to hell! “You don’t like actors, I don’t like go-go boys. I don’t see what the big deal is. We can just agree to disagree.”
“I didn’t launch into a fucking monologue insulting every single actor in the entire universe!”
“No, why would you? We’re doing SHAKESPEARE! You’re exposing your ass crack to the tune of Britney Spears! I don’t think there’s much of a comparison!”
Okay, I know I’ll never do Shakespeare. But I’m making a valid point here. Questions are sprouting up all over: Does he do drugs too? Does he go home with the heavy tippers? I don’t know who he’s been sleeping with. The life he leads. And I don’t need to spend every waking hour wondering.
There’s only one question that HAS been answered:
Chase isn’t the boy for me.
“I’m sorry,” I tell him. “Seriously, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m not judging you. But I know myself well enough to admit I’d be way too jealous to let a guy I dated dance naked in a roomful of strangers. In my opinion, in a relationship, that should be for my eyes only. Or else, what’s left that’s special, just between us?”
“Damn,” he says. “Well, I guess in the grand scheme of things, a wasted hour or two is better than dating a jaded, bitter queen.”
“Hey!” I say, trying to grab his hands over the table—because I feel bad that I hurt him, not because I want to rescue the date. But too late. He yanks them away and shoves them under the table. We still have a check coming. Can I just get up and leave? Will he make a scene? I can’t believe I almost got hit by a car for this guy!
“I still like a LOT about you and where you’re going,” I say. “And I know I’m spouting every line you’ve ever read in a bad gay romance novel...But would you want to be friends?”
“You’re right, Marty. That does sound pretty fucking predictable. And I’m sorry you can’t pick and choose the pieces of me you find acceptable.”
I’m back on the defensive: “I’m sorry too.” I made a peace offering. Forget him if he won’t take it.
“And just so you can be extra sure we both made the right decision here, I’m dancing at this party called eWrecksion tonight. There’s a bunch of gay porn stars from New York Screwniversity doing a live sex show on stage! It’s right up your alley. Hey, maybe I’LL even get naked up on the go-go box.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
Chase grins. He’s not finished with me yet. Something tells me this is the most fun he’s had on a date in ages. “Oh, and by the way—Marty Brayden? My bad date? He’s the STAR of that gay porn site. We fucked on camera in front of thousands of strangers. That was my most recent ‘date.’ Maybe we’ll reprise it after I see him tonight! Have I thoroughly repulsed you yet?”
“Actually? Yes.”
My phone vibrates. It’s Stanford. Like a guardian angel here to rescue me.
“It’s my agent.”
“Oh! Of course! How perfect. Run along, you talented thespian. Clearly you have more important places to be than associating with lowlifes like me. I’ll even pick up the check! Hope you don’t mind that the dollar bills paying for it were probably scrunched under my taint at some point.”
Gross. I already decided I don’t like him. Does he really have to hammer it home? Doesn’t he realize that, with his admission about that night with Marty Brayden, he just confirmed
everything I accused go-go boys of? I want to say so many things now that I’m feeling both righteous AND righteously pissed. But Stanford might have news about
Wicked
. I drop a twenty on the table to cover my food and the tip. “Let me know what you think of Musical Mondays. If you’re bored, just head to the bathroom. The stall farthest on the left has a glass wall instead of a regular one. Bet you can still find a dick to suck, even on a Monday.”
Aaand scene.
I call Stanford back once I get out of the restaurant and across the street, under another scaffold.
“Golden Goose!”
“Sorry I missed ya. You know actors. I was in the middle of a little drama.”
“Naturally. Where are you? In Astoria?”
“Actually, near Union Square. What happened? Did
Wicked
call you back?”
“Even better!” I don’t think I’ve ever heard Stanford this giddy. “We’ve got two seats at an Equity Fights AIDS dinner at a table alongside the casting director you saw today! And he said he can’t wait to talk about you!”
“Oh my God! Are you serious? When?”
“In an hour! How do you look?”
Wrinkly, still slightly damp, and furious at the go-go boy who just went on a bitch bender at me. “Fine, I guess...”
“Fine won’t cut it. It’s jacket and tie. Do you have those? You won’t have enough time to go back to Astoria...”
“Crap! No.”
“Okay, okay. That’s fine. You’re an actor, I used to be one. We can improvise, right? Meet me at the office. I’ve got a spare getup. It’s not the cutest ensemble and you may end up looking like one of those kids in adult’s clothing from the old Frosted Mini-Wheats commercials, but it’s the best we can do in the time allotted. Defy gravity and get here NOW.”
Stanford disconnects and I run to grab a cab, waving frantically. As I hop in the backseat, I catch sight of Chase. He is leaning against a building, his face so angry it looks like someone stuck a screwdriver in his nose and spun it until everything tightened. He taps his cell phone furiously. A cigarette hangs limply from his lips.
I’ll happily make that disgusting habit the clincher on the laundry list of reasons why this go-go is a no-go for me.
Onward!
But traffic isn’t ready to let me go so victoriously, clogging every street and avenue. Stuck here, now with the knowledge that Chase was nothing like I’d hoped he’d be, I am back on Gulliver. In fact, next to that pole-twirling slut bomb, Gully suddenly looks wholesome.
Trapped in this cab, I start to face the facts: If I get cast in this show, I’ll be on the road for who knows how long. What snowball’s chance will I have of finding any kind of meaningful relationship bouncing around from city to city? For anyone I meet outside New York, dating me will be like dating a terminal cancer patient, knowing that, in a matter of weeks, I’ll be gone for good.
I’ve been on tour before. I’m done with the shallow sex thing. I don’t want to wait a year or two or longer to find someone who’s right for me.
Like Gulliver.
I know him. And so I know, even if he did leave New York, he’ll be back someday. He has unfinished business here. Unfinished with ME.
Do I really want to miss out on even a sliver of a chance at patching things up with him just to be touring with some silly show?
No. I don’t want
Wicked
.
But how can I turn down the role if it’s offered? That’d be the last straw with Stanford. He’ll never represent me if I refuse to leave Manhattan just because I need to wait like a lapdog for my lover to return. For any lover, but especially for Gulliver. Because if Gully does reappear, Stanford will seriously disapprove of us getting back together. So I’ll be hiding Gully from him, just like Gully hid me from Stanford. Making all the same mistakes that led me here in the first place.
So. I DO want
Wicked
.
Ugh. Chase was right. We did waste each other’s time tonight. I could have been at home, putting on something that fits and looks right, instead of crossing my fingers that whatever getup awaits me at Stanford’s office only makes me look HALF-clueless about how to dress myself. That’s something Chase never has to worry about. Is it even possible for a G-string to be ill fitting? I hope he and that gay porn star DO go home together, swapping herpes and crabs. Clearly, they belong together.
The TV in the cab goes through its full cycle of advertisements and movie reviews. I shut it off and turn to my phone. There are no e-mails or Facebook updates to occupy me. And now I’m curious about this porn star that Chase will ostensibly fuck in front of thousands again tonight on the Internet. Because something’s not right about all of this—my name, smooshed together with my psycho ex’s name? What are the chances? Since I’m stuck here for at least a few more minutes, I figure a quick Googling couldn’t hurt.
I type “Marty Brayden” into the search engine and let it take me where it will.
I have a bad feeling about this.
The first site recommended is New York Screwniversity, just like Chase said. I have to promise that I’m over twenty-one to even take a look. The dorm has a thirteen-man lineup, the stars of the site. No, not “stars.” They’re “dorm mates.” This is one
of those dumb sites where they act like you’re getting a sneak peek at the lives of twenty-somethings who are attending college or in a fraternity or whatever. What kind of pervy idiot falls for this?
The most popular video of the month (go figure) is “Marty Brayden Fucks Midnight Visitor Chase Bliss.” I don’t have to pay a penny to see twenty full-color, high-resolution photos of my recent date in all matters of compromising positions with this blue-haired punk. Here they are sixty-nining. There’s Chase on the floor, legs in the air. And two zoomed-in orgasm shots, their sex parts out of focus and in the foreground, their crystal-clear O-faces in the background. Chase’s orgasm face is pretty awkward, if you ask me. And as for this impostor with my name...