The Trouble Boy, page 18
“Nope,” he said. “Just Xander.” He had a slight Southern drawl.
“Did your parents name you that?” I had phrased the question rudely, I realized as I said it.
“Yeah,” he said. “They were hippies.” He was from South Carolina and, I was surprised to learn, was an architect who had gone to Harvard. He worked at a well-known firm with offices in Union Square.
The bar was closing, so I had to make my move quickly. “Do you want to, uh . . .” I faltered.
“Go somewhere? Sure.”
He had boyfriend potential, so I decided to suspend my moratorium on sex.
I followed him out of the bar. His hair was cut military-style, the kind of haircut boys at boarding school would get to show solidarity with each other before an important game. But this wasn’t any simple clipper job. He had been styled.
We went for burgers and milkshakes at Stingy Lulu’s, a nearby diner that catered to the late-night club crowd. As Xander dug into his onion rings, I realized how much I liked that he ate. He was a real boy, not a waif who would order a green salad with dressing on the side as a main course. And he was good-looking and slim. He must have been one of those people with the metabolism of a hummingbird.
“Lean towards me,” he said as we were finishing up and getting ready to leave.
He dipped his napkin in his water glass and wiped the corner of my mouth. “Something on your mouth,” he said.
I smiled. No one had ever done that for me before.
An hour later, after I showed him my apartment and introduced him to Gus, we were kissing. I wasn’t too drunk, and so it was beautiful, perfectly choreographed, no fumbling, no falling out of bed, no clothes being ripped or buttons popping off. He took off his clothes and hung them neatly on a chair, then proceeded to remove mine while he stood there in his underwear. He started to fold my shirt and then my pants.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Sorry,” he said. “I’m sort of a neat freak.”
“I’d hate to know what you think about this mess,” I said.
He climbed into bed and then proceeded to give me the most satisfying massage I had ever experienced. As my muscles melted into his hands, I kept wanting to do something for him. I wasn’t used to being taken care of like this.
Jamie’s recent discovery—not to mention my own issues—weighed on my mind as I felt Xander’s erection poke through his boxers. But what could I do? Men had penises, and gay men liked to touch other men’s penises, and if they couldn’t, they might as well just shrivel up and die. I didn’t advocate unsafe sex, but a blow job was a blow job. Every action in life came with an attendant risk.
He finally let me give him a massage, which I did clumsily, like a student at a recital with his teacher in the wings. He gave me pointers: “A little more there,” “Up a little, that’s it,” “You got it now! ”
Xander motioned for me to lie on my back and started massaging my front. As he went lower, he pulled down my shorts and started rubbing my cock, first gently and then more vigorously. I was going to come; I could feel it. A moment later, I exploded onto my stomach.
It was the first time in four years that I had had an orgasm on a first date.
He was grinning, proud of his handiwork. I jerked him off as well, which seemed like an afterthought instead of the main event. We kissed for a few more minutes, then curled up into each other and fell asleep.
In the morning, I let him take the first shower, and I used the time to examine his clothes. I wanted them to smell like him, but they were smoky, like the bar. I noticed that every item was Polo, right down to his socks.
“So . . . you hate Polo, right?” I teased him as he toweled off.
“I just love his stuff,” he said, as if he and Ralph Lauren were personal friends.
There was something slightly disingenuous about him, a boy from the South who had become a Harvard-educated preppy. Maybe it was just the wardrobe that bothered me, the affectation of a lifestyle to which none of us could truly aspire. But in New York, we were all reinventing ourselves every day. How different was that from what I was doing, trying to be a screenwriter? At least Xander had been straightforward about not being a real preppie. He wasn’t like Elizabeth, who was my friend one minute and my enemy the next, or Lola, who would promise work to anyone who could help her out.
Even better, I liked him, and he seemed to like me.
Xander and I had brunch together, and he was as charming as he had been the evening before. He gave me his cell phone number, and I gave him my information, all of it, without hesitation.
After we parted ways, I thought about what had happened the night before and this morning. I felt cured, but more important, I had given up control by letting someone else take responsibility for my pleasure. For a life-long masturbator, it felt like infinite possibility.
After I had worked at Eastside Pictures for almost three months, the company was finally hosting a premiere. Dozens of calls a day were made between Ariana’s office and ours as we arranged the intricacies of seating charts, press clearances, VIP access, plans for the after-party at Mirror, and a multitude of other details. The film was a sappy romantic comedy about two guys—played, naturally, by straight actors—who meet while training for the Los Angeles AIDS Ride. I had read the screenplay, and I thought as a company we could do better, but it wasn’t my place to say anything.
I was allowed to invite three friends, which made this premiere the first time since I had left CityStyle that I was able to bestow work-related perks on other people. I chose Donovan, Jamie, and Xander, whom I was now seriously dating.
In the two weeks since we had met, Xander and I had enjoyed a boozy dinner at B Bar, had drinks at the scene of the crime, Rocket, and had seen a movie together, which was then followed by more drinks. On several other nights, he called me around eleven, asking to come over. I always let him.
One evening in the second week, we were lying together after sex, sharing a bottle of wine.
“So,” I said, rubbing up against his chest, “are we boyfriends?”
I immediately regretted saying it. I should have just let things happen.
And then, just like that, he said, “Sure.”
Sometimes it was that simple.
He was the first guy I had ever met who had a greater tolerance for going out than I did. I was usually the one who wanted to stay at a bar until closing time, and now I had become the person who was begging off at 2 A.M., while he wanted to get another round. He was a lush, but lushes love company, so we fit together perfectly. I tried to control the hangover factor by rotating in club sodas, since I knew I would have to be up in the morning for work.
I wanted to see him more during those two weeks, but he often begged exhaustion or said that he had to hang out with a mysterious group of friends that I hadn’t met yet. All things considered, though, it was going well, and elevated my status considerably in my friends’ eyes. Since we had known each other, I was the first one in the group to go on more than two dates with anyone, save for David and Alejandro, who were practically married and therefore didn’t count. I wondered if until now we had effectively all been dating each other, though there was no sex, only friendship and emotional dependency.
Xander was excited about the premiere. He had never been to one before, and since I, having been to one premiere with Donovan, was a virtual expert on the topic, I filled him in on what to expect. The reality was that at Ariana’s premiere in the fall, Donovan and I had been seated in the second to last row and had only managed to squeeze our way into the VIP section at the after-party because we spotted Ariana across the rope and she let us in without our names being on the list. Being on the list would have granted us legitimacy, and Ariana wasn’t about to do that for two editors at the beleaguered dot-com that happened to be her tenant.
The day of the Eastside premiere, I spent all day at Ariana’s office, helping to finalize the seating chart and dividing VIPs from non-VIPs. The VIP area at Mirror could only hold seventy-five people, so the chances were slim that I would be able to slip my friends onto the list. I tried to get us good seats, but the best I could do was the right-hand side, halfway down the aisle. They were decent, considering that we were nobodies in the celebrity-studded universe of Ariana Richards.
I arrived at the theater at six that evening; the film would be screened at seven. Press barricades had been set up, a red carpet had been rolled out, and Ariana and her staff were manning the door. When one of Ariana’s assistants saw me, she handed me a walkie-talkie and a clipboard.
“We’re missing a staff member, so we need your help,” she said. “Photographers will be given fifteen-minute walk-throughs in the lobby and at the party, but then they have to go back outside to arrivals. Don’t let them stay longer than that. Nobody likes it if there are too many photographers inside.”
I had thought my main job for the evening would be troubleshooting for Cameron, which would consist mainly of fetching him drinks when there wasn’t a waitress available. Apparently, he had okayed my deployment with Ariana’s team, so I took on this job with a newfound sense of responsibility. Part of me couldn’t help thinking, though, I’m a writer, what am I doing here?
I felt better when I saw Sonia standing behind a press table handing out kits.
“You’ve got to see what I wrote about this movie,” she whispered to me. “You’re going to gag.”
My job was more complicated than I thought it would be, because every photographer wanted to get into the theater, especially after bigger celebrities like Gwyneth Paltrow, who was a friend of one of the film’s stars, arrived. The photographers kept pestering me, and I had to keep a strict time limit on the ones who were already inside, which often involved grabbing them in mid-shot and pushing them back outside.
Donovan, Jamie, and Xander showed up as I was being hassled by an agency photographer. Of course, no flash bulbs went off for them.
A few moments later, Jordan Gardner arrived, to the great excitement of everyone watching. Her dress looked familiar, and I realized it was one of my mother’s designs. Jordan walked right by me, clearly not remembering me from our interview or the night at Flash.
Lola, conversely, was vamping it up for the photographers when she noticed me near the barricade. She was wearing a Vivienne Westwood black lace bustier and mini-skirt; her breasts spilled out like a showgirl’s.
“Toby, how are you?” she said, giving me a showy air-kiss that I didn’t return. She acted as if I were sure to be devastated by the termination of our project together, destitute and lonely on the streets because I was no longer working with the great Lola Copacabana.
“Fine, Lola, fine. You’d better move along. I think Kim Cattrall is about to show up.” I had no reason to be nice to Lola, so I wasn’t going to be.
Undaunted, she continued sashaying up the red carpet.
It was soon time for the screening to begin, and I had to round up two remaining photographers who were inside. I found them just as the lights were going down and hustled them out. Ariana’s people would take over from here.
I went to find my seat, the location of which I had memorized by now, but I found the row full.
“That’s my seat,” I whispered to a guy who was sitting next to Donovan.
“Like hell it is,” he said.
“Do you want me to call security?”
“Shut up, the movie’s starting,” he said.
I was furious, not only that this jerk had taken my seat, but that my three friends, who had barely even noticed I was there, had failed to come to my rescue. I walked to the back of the house, certain there would be something open.
There was nothing. I could sit in the aisle and look like an idiot, or I could play it cool and pretend that as a staff member who had already seen the film—even though I hadn’t—I wasn’t interested in something as pedestrian as watching it again. I opted for the latter.
I went outside to the lobby where several of Ariana’s assistants had decamped. Apparently, they were all in the same situation.
“The star brought ten of his friends who hadn’t RSVP-ed,” one of them said. “We had to let them in, or he threatened not to attend the after-party.”
“I’ll give you the tape of it,” Sonia said. “You can watch it at home.”
“Great,” I said. “My first working premiere, and I don’t even get to see the flick.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Sonia said. “You could write a movie like this in your sleep.”
One of Ariana’s assistants glared at her, shocked that she had maligned the product.
“Sorry,” Sonia said sheepishly.
Outside the after-party, I had the same job as at the theater, which meant I was continually shuttling between the throng of photographers and arrivals outside and the swarm of activity inside. I finally was able to say hello to Jamie, Donovan, and Xander, who gave me a big kiss. They had loved the film, which made me all the more annoyed I had missed it.
“Can we get into the VIP area?” Xander asked. “I just love that leading guy; he’s so delish.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said.
On my next trip past the entrance to the VIP area, I waved to Ariana.
“Hey, Toby.” She smiled at me.
“Can I get stamps for my friends?” I asked. Access to the VIP area was determined for noncelebrities by the presence of a stamp, only visible under black light, that read “Fabulous.”
“I can’t do it,” she said. “I’ve got too many people in there. It’s a fucking zoo.”
Now I felt really stupid. I went back to tell the boys they would have to be content with the open bar in the area for the hoi polloi.
On my way back outside, I ran into Cameron. “How’s everything going, Toby? You having a good time?”
I wasn’t sure if he was being ironic or if he thought I was so lucky to be there I would have been happy busing tables.
“That guy with your friends, is he your boyfriend? He’s really hot.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said. It was creepy to have my boss scoping out Xander.
“He looks familiar; I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere.”
“Really, where?” I asked.
“I don’t know. I asked him and he didn’t think we’d met.”
I shrugged, not really sure what to say.
By midnight, we weren’t letting any more photographers into the party, so my job was done. I was completely bushed. My shirt was damp with sweat and someone had spilled a drink on my trousers. I couldn’t wait to get home and snuggle in bed with Xander. I grabbed the boys and we headed to Cafeteria for a late-night meal. I had forgotten to eat dinner.
“Do you think there will be any more premieres?” Xander asked after we sat down.
“I hope not,” I said.
“Toby’s become too cool for this kind of stuff,” Jamie said.
“No, I haven’t,” I said. “I just hate being treated like shit.”
“Who treated you like shit?” Donovan asked.
“Everyone,” I said. “I thought it would be so great to have a stupid clipboard and a walkle-talkie, but instead everyone just pushed me around.”
“I’ll tell you what was really weird,” Donovan said. “Your boss was hitting on me, hard-core. Telling me about his apartment, how I should stop by and see it, giving me his card, telling me to call him.”
“And?” I asked. I hoped Donovan would know better.
“I’m not going there,” he said. “The guy’s a player. Besides, that would be totally weird. I mean, he’s your boss.”
“I’d do him,” Xander said. “He’s hot.”
“No, he isn’t!” I said. “Look, we’re not having this conversation, okay?”
We paid the check and Xander and I shared a cab to the East Village. We stopped at my place, and I got out my wallet to pay the fare.
“Actually,” he said, “I’m just going to go home tonight. I’ve got to get up early for work tomorrow. We have a huge, uh, project due, and I—”
“That’s fine,” I said coolly. “No problem.”
I slammed the door with just enough force to keep him wondering.
This was even worse than not getting a seat at the premiere, worse than Cameron hitting on Xander and Donovan, worse than not getting into the VIP area. Xander should have known what I needed was a night with him, a night to be comforted, to be assured I wasn’t going to flack for movies for the rest of my life, that I would have a real career, eventually.
I resolved not to call him until he called me.
I spoke with Jamie the next night. We had been talking on the phone regularly since his breakdown. It was late, and I was at home lying on my bed. Gus was perched on the windowsill, anxiously looking at the lightwell.
“I went back to get another test,” Jamie said. “I found a doctor I like better.”
“Yes?” My heart started beating faster.
“She said the first test could have been a false positive, so she gave me another test, a different kind of test. If that test came up positive, then I would have it for sure. But it didn’t: it came up negative.”
“That’s great!” I said. “You must be so happy.”
“Well, not quite. That test gives false negatives. I have to wait at least two more months until I can take the other test again.”
“Why don’t you just go and take it now?”
“The doctor said the only thing I could do was wait.”
“Can’t you go to another doctor?”
“No. I don’t want my insurance company knowing about this. I paid for this last visit out of pocket, and in cash. I don’t want it on any records.”
“Jamie, all that stuff is confidential You know that.”
“They’re crazy at Pelham. If they thought I had it, they’d fire me.”
“Oh, come on!”
“And there’s another thing.” I heard him getting choked up on the other end of the line.
“What’s that?”
