Skye Blue, page 5
part #6 of Firsts and Forever Series
After being told to show up for work at five the next day, I thanked everyone and left with my friend. As soon as the door shut behind us, Christian and I stopped and stared at each other, and I said, “So, that just happened!”
We grabbed each other in a hug as he said, “Where did that come from, Skye? I had no idea you could do that. I mean, I know you’re a great dancer, but that was something else. You weren’t just dancing, you were performing.”
“I don’t even remember what I did. I just tried to give it my all so I could show up that ass in the pink shirt.”
“Do you want to see it? I recorded the whole thing on my phone.”
We put our heads together around the little screen, and after I watched my audition I said, “I actually looked like I knew what I was doing. Go figure. But they only let me go ninety seconds before they stopped me, so I’m surprised I got the job.”
“That’s the full audition time. They were stopping other applicants way before that and only let you and one other guy go until the end.”
“Oh. Well, cool.”
We caught a bus to take us across town to my apartment, and when we were seated, Christian put his head on my shoulder. I said, “I didn’t even ask what the job paid.”
“I’m sure it’s better than minimum wage. Plus, I noticed a big tip jar for the dancers on the bar. I’ll bet you all divvy up the tips every night.”
“You don’t think the patrons tip us directly?”
“They do that at strip clubs, not places like this.”
“But they tipped me at my last job, and that wasn’t a strip club.”
“Skye, that other place was as close to a strip club as you could get without having to take your clothes off.”
“And this place is different? I’ll bet the costume is just as skimpy.”
Christian sat up and thought about that for a moment, then said, “Here’s the difference. At your other job, you were there to make men so horny that they opened their wallets and bought tons of drinks and stayed in that club for hours. In a place like Thrust, overtly sexual name aside, the dancers are there to energize the crowd and to get people out onto the dance floor. You’re still there to help people have a good time, but in a very different way than at that other place.”
I frowned and said, “I feel kind of dirty now.”
“Don’t. You weren’t doing anything wrong. Every time I visited you at that other club, it was obvious that all you were doing was dancing and having fun.”
“But you thought it was one step up from a strip club. Why didn’t you say anything while I was working there?”
“I thought it would be okay. Sure, that club was tacky, but I didn’t think it was dangerous. When I heard about the night you were drugged though, I guess it cast the whole place in a different light.” Christian was quiet for a moment, then murmured, “Maybe in some ways, I’m as naïve as you are.”
“If I was drugged. We really don’t know.” I grinned and added, “Also, naïve is about the last word I’d ever apply to you.”
Christian wove his fingers with mine and smiled at me. “I just hide it better than you do. I actually grew up really sheltered, and find myself surprised a lot of times at the world we live in.”
“You never talk about your childhood or your life before I met you.”
“There’s nothing to tell. I was born, I grew up, it sucked, and here I am.”
“One of these days,” I said, “you’re going to finally feel like opening up, and I’ll be right here waiting with open arms when you do.”
“It’s never going to happen. I’m just not that guy, Mr. Feel-Sorry-For-Me-While-I-Whine-About-My-Stupid-Life.”
“But I can see you’re hurting, Christian, no matter how much you try to hide it, and I want to help.”
“You do help every single day, just by being you.” He grinned and added, “That was so sappy that I hate myself now. Totally your fault.” He grinned at me as he fished his sunglasses out of the pocket of his leather jacket and slid them into place. That was CSL (Christian Sign Language) for ‘I’m done talking about this.’
We made a quick stop at the bodega near my apartment on the way home. Christian went a bit overboard just like every time we shopped there, loading up his shopping basket. He claimed this was because he loved trying different, exotic Latin foods, but I knew what he was really doing. He’d sample maybe ten percent of what he bought to make it seem like he’d gotten it for himself, and then he’d leave the rest in my apartment to make sure I had enough to eat.
I’d called him on it more than once and he’d completely denied it, but it was pretty obvious. My best friend was forever finding little ways to take care of me. While I hated the fact that he spent his hard-earned money on me, I also found it incredibly touching. No matter how gruff Christian tried to appear on the surface, my best friend was pure kindness.
When we got to my apartment, Christian led the way to my bedroom, since it really wasn’t possible to hang out in the living room. At the bedroom door he stopped short at exclaimed, “What the fuck!”
“What?”
He went to the foot of my bed and tilted his head. “Tell me what I’m looking at here.”
“I told you the sign had a mouse in it.”
“Yes, but you failed to mention that it’s the gayest mouse in the entire world.”
I stepped around Christian and assessed the scene. The tiny invader and its cage were in the center of my bed where I’d left it. Apparently, the rodent had made a few upgrades.
The mouse had reached out of the cage, grabbed my quilt and ripped up one of the fabric squares, along with a bunch of the fluffy white batting beneath it. It had been a gift from my mom during her sewing phase. She’d called it a crazy quilt, which would have been my name for it even without knowing that was an actual thing. Each of the squares was a different pattern, some stripes, some plaids, some solids. The mouse happened to grab the one floral print, which was pale yellow with hot pink daisies all over it. He’d torn this into strips, which he fashioned into a tidy round nest atop a big, white, fluffy base of batting. He was perched right in the center of his little cloud throne, and if it was possible for mice to look smug, that was what he was doing.
“Damn,” I said, tugging the rest of the quilt out from between the bars of the cage. “My blanket’s going to have a cold spot now.”
“Why is the mouse pink?” Christian wanted to know.
“Mistakes were made.”
“Where’d the cat come from?”
“No idea.”
“Did you just happen to own that gilded rodent palace, or did you go out and buy it especially?”
“I owned it.”
He bent down and peered into the cage. “Those bars are fairly far apart. I’ll bet he can get out of there.”
“That doesn’t make sense. He’d escape if he could.”
“I’m not so sure. I think he’s enjoying his tiny, gay empire.”
“Just because he’s pink doesn’t mean he’s gay.”
“That’s not the only reason.”
I rolled my eyes. “Just because he chose the floral print fabric, took the time to decorate, and lives in a gilded palace doesn’t make him gay either.”
“You left out his hairdo.”
“Are you done with your egregious rodent stereotyping?”
Christian pulled my little plastic tiara out of the pocket of his leather jacket, set it on top of the cage, and smiled at me. “I’m done.”
He helped me rearrange things a bit, and when the sign, the cage and the cat had all been relocated to new spots around my room, we sat on my bed and had a little picnic. All too soon though, he said he had someplace he needed to be, and Christian took off, leaving me (predictably) with all the groceries.
It was too early to work on any of his graffiti projects, so I wondered where he was going. I’d learned to accept his secretive nature, mostly because I really didn’t have a choice. But I was still more than a little curious about Christian’s life when he and I weren’t together. There were just so many major things he refused to discuss, including his job, his family, his lovers. I really believed he’d eventually open up to me, but in the meantime I was left with a mountain of questions.
The cat jumped up on the bed, distracting me from my thoughts. “It’s just you and me, kid. Well, and the rodent,” I told him, and he smirked at me. It was news to me that cats could smirk.
I fished a tamarind-flavored lollipop out of the shopping bag and retrieved my laptop from under the bed, then flopped down on my stomach, my elbows propping me up. When I logged on to the dating site, I bypassed the new messages and went straight to chat. There was a little green dot next to BoxerBoy’s name, meaning he was online, and I wrote: Hey! So, I got that job. Things are looking up.
He replied immediately. Congrats, that’s terrific. Why aren’t you out celebrating?
I’m IN celebrating, with you, a tamarind lollipop, our cat and the mouse.
The mouse is still around?
I put him in a gilded cage that looks like the Taj Mahal until I have time to take him to the park and set him free. While I was out, he decorated it by making himself a puffy cloud throne out of my bedding.
There was a pause before he replied: Oh my God, I almost dropped my laptop from laughing so hard.
Careful there. I don’t want to be held responsible for your computer’s untimely death.
So, what does our cat think of your new roommate?
I took a look at the cat, whose face was smashed up against the bars of the cage. He’s a little too fascinated. Did I mention he’s slightly evil?
Have you named him yet? If not, I just thought of the perfect name for him.
Not yet. What is it?
Draco.
I laughed at that and wrote: I love it.
Small, blond, and evil. It was the only real choice.
Alright, so now that our cat’s named, tell me, how was your day? I asked.
So totally shitty. I hate my life.
I’m sorry.
It’s okay. At least I had you and our cat to come home to. That made me grin. Then he added: I’m flipping TV channels right now. Want to turn to the same station and watch a show with me?
I would if I had a TV. I’m entertainment deprived. All I have is this old laptop with one movie on it.
What’s the movie? Maybe I own it. If so, we can watch together.
I replied: It’s Dirty Dancing. My friends make fun of me because I’ve seen it a million times. But if loving Johnny Castle is wrong, I don’t want to be right.
I have it right here.
We spent the next couple hours watching the movie, shooting lines back and forth, and laughing. I took Baby’s lines and he took Johnny’s without missing a beat. It’s nice to meet someone as crazy as I am, I told him when the movie was over and I was curled up under the covers with the laptop.
Oh no, he wrote back, until I capture a rodent and put it in a golden palace, you’re way out front in terms of overall craziness.
That made me smile. I set a high bar, I know.
You’re a lot of fun, Homer, he wrote.
Thanks, Marge. Random Simpsons reference?
No, silly. It’s your name on here.
Oh, I’d almost forgotten! I’d like to point out that I’m normally a lot funnier than that, but I was both drunk and not taking this site seriously when I came up with that name. At the time, HomerSexual struck me as a hilarious play on homosexual. But ugh, I should really delete my profile and start over.
No don’t, he replied. I thought it was funny, and this site desperately needs more humor. If I see one more photo of washboard abs, I’m going to run screaming.
Right?! After hesitating and chewing my lower lip for a few moments, I wrote: So, I know you said in your profile that you’re looking for chat only, but I’m going to ask anyway, just because I think you’re a lot of fun. Do you feel like getting together for a drink sometime?
Now it was his turn to pause. It took him almost a minute to write: I love talking to you, I really do, but I’m in no way ready to get back out into the dating world. I had a horrible breakup a few months ago and it left me reeling. It tore my whole world apart.
I’m so sorry to hear that. I just have to ask, though. In that case, why did you join a dating site?
I was lonely and just hoping to find someone to talk to, he admitted.
What about your friends and family, can’t you talk to them?
My family wants nothing to do with me since I came out. And what few friends I had sided with my ex when he dumped me.
God, I’m sorry, I told him again.
It’s okay. It shows they were never really my friends, so they weren’t much of a loss.
Well, for what it’s worth, you can talk to me, I told him. I’m a good listener, so feel free to vent any time you need to.
I wasn’t planning to dump my problems on you, he wrote, but I needed to explain why I’m not willing to meet. It’s not a reflection on you, it’s all me. Which is such a cliché, I know, but it’s also the truth.
I shouldn’t have asked. You were perfectly upfront about that in your profile. I’m sorry to make things awkward.
I’m the one making things awkward. I should probably just say goodnight, before you decide I’m a pathetic loser and want nothing more to do with me.
I replied: Why would I think that?
Well, let’s see: no friends, a family that hates me, so desperate for conversation that I spend my free time lurking on a cheesy dating site, despite not actually wanting to date – do you need more reasons?
I get lonely too, you know. It doesn’t even matter that I spend a lot of time with other people. I get home and climb in bed at the end of the day, and there’s this cloud of loneliness just waiting to descend on me.
That’s surprising, he typed. You seem like a very upbeat person.
Everyone thinks that. I’m always all jokes and smiles – first one on the dance floor, last one out of the pool, you know? People think that’s all there is to me, but there’s so much I keep hidden.
Why do you hide it?
I considered the question for a few moments before telling him: I went through a really rough patch a couple years ago. I did something incredibly stupid and ended up scaring everyone that cared about me. I hate that I did that. I don’t want my friends and family to worry about me anymore, I just want them to think I’m okay. I’ve caused them enough grief.
But are you okay?
I took a deep breath, my fingers hesitating on the keys. Then I typed a single word: no.
Tell me what’s wrong.
I stalled with: You really don’t want to sit there listening to me complain about my problems.
I like you, he wrote, and I think you need someone to talk to as much as I do. So maybe we can help each other.
But you don’t even know me, I persisted.
You don’t know me either, and maybe that’s perfect. It means we can tell each other anything without having to worry about how it affects the other person. And I promise you this: I won’t judge you, I’ll just listen.
I asked him: Isn’t it kind of weird though, spilling our guts to someone whose name we don’t even know?
I think it’s perfect. Keeping that level of anonymity is kind of like the curtain between you and the priest in a confessional. It just makes it easier to open up.
I grinned at that. I’m half-Jewish and half-‘other’ so I’ll have to take your word on the Catholic stuff, but I see your point. Then I wrote: I’m going to have to ease into this whole spilling-my-guts thing though, so maybe you can go first. Do you want to tell me what happened with your ex? Why did you two break up?
He wrote for a while, then sent this answer: Things started unraveling when I hit a big speed-bump in my career. Overnight, I went from successful to unemployed, and I didn’t handle it well at all. Actually, I pretty much fell apart for a while there. My boyfriend hated that. I tried so hard to keep it together, but I just couldn’t. I’d been working toward a set of goals for most of my life, so when my career derailed, I got really depressed and emotional. It took me a while to shake it off. Too long, apparently. Finally, he said he’d had enough of my drama and broke up with me.
My mouth dropped open and I typed furiously: A good boyfriend is supposed to stand by you during times like that, not dump you as soon as you face an obstacle! He sounds like an asshole, and you’re better off without him.
You’re right, he is an asshole. He took everything from me.
What do you mean?
He told me: Well, I really shouldn’t include this on my list, but I was a virgin when I met him. I gave my ex all of me willingly though, so I can’t really hold that against him. Despite being a naive kid, I knew what I was doing.
How old were you when you lost your virginity?
I was eighteen and he was nine years older. After we got together, he moved me into his apartment. I lived there the six years we were together, so I lost my home too when he dumped me. Also, like I was saying before, what I considered ‘our’ friends were really ‘his’ friends, so they all sided with him and I lost them, too. That all sucked, but the real icing on the cake was having to leave my dog behind when I moved out. That’s him in my photo.
God, I’m sorry. Why did you have to leave him?
At first, I bounced from hotel to hotel. I didn’t try to get my own apartment right away, because for a while I thought I could get my ex to take me back. Pathetic, I know. Anyway, when I did finally get an apartment and told my ex I wanted to come and get Benny, he said no. He said the dog was better off in the home he’d always known, with a more ‘responsible adult.’
My eyes went wide at that as my fingers flickered over the keyboard. God, I hate your ex.
It’ll sound even worse when I tell you the dog was a gift from my ex for my twenty-first birthday, so Benny really is mine, as opposed to ‘ours.’ I don’t know why his attitude surprised me though, he wrote. I chose to get involved with a man that was much older than me. He always treated me like an irresponsible kid, so it figures that he’d think I was incapable of taking care of a dog without his help.
