used to say. Bitter bile rose in my throat at that. Oh God, Jez was right. This was no good; I needed to let it go. My father and I never managed to connect, and there was no point in hashing it up anymore. I didn’t want to think about it.
It was ironic that I had fled from all that dreary crap I grew up with, but still managed to smuggle an unhealthy portion of it with me. At least I didn’t have to fret about disappointing my father anymore, I told myself. I might as well admit I’d never be the duly dutiful son my mother wished for and that I’d already disappointed my college professors. I had spent so much energy trying to conform to the expectations of everyone around me that I forgot to be me. Even drifting aimlessly felt like an improvement.
And there was that other thing… If I was honest, I’d always been attracted to guys too. I knew that from the day Billy Foster showed up in the sixth grade with his curvy lips and long eyelashes. I didn’t watch Baywatch only for Pam Anderson either. I’d just never put a name to it or looked at it directly, because it was far easier to get by that way. Imagine my father getting the slightest scent of it! I shuddered at the thought.
I’d become very good at ignoring the obvious when it was inconvenient. That was a trait of my mother’s I recognized in myself. It was wearing thin though; these days all you had to do was pour a few drinks in me, and the illusion evaporated like morning mist. Like with Mark at the party… The reason for that not going any further wasn’t some sudden sexual anxiety. Not in the state I had been in.
The truth was—if I dared accept it—I had it bad for Jez. I wanted him so much, it hurt. I wanted to touch him, taste him, fuck him stupid. Or have him fuck me—I didn’t care. Hell, just thinking about it made me hard. I turned to lie on my stomach so as not to make a spectacle of myself, and resisted the urge to rut against the warm sand.
Unfortunately I’d painted myself into the corner with him—assuming he could be attracted to me at all. It would be mighty arrogant to presume he’d be interested just because I was suddenly available. He was drop-dead sexy, the California dream embodied, and I was just a plain, skinny guy from Bumfuck, Nowhere. I fell asleep with unhappy thoughts swishing around in my achy head.
I woke a couple of hours later, hungry and without a headache. Adelle’s miracle medicine worked after all. I went home, took another shower, and contemplated my options with Jez. I could be a big wuss and do nothing. Or, I could ask advice from an expert.
* * *
Arthur was happy to see me. It was almost lunchtime, so we ordered Chinese. I couldn’t just come out with my question—needed to warm up first—so I asked how he started out in Hollywood.
“Did you always know you wanted to be a set designer?” I prodded.
“Oh hell, no. I sort of fell into it.”
“How?”
“Well, I was just a stupid nineteen-year-old kid when I got off the bus from St. Louis, like a bunch of others. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I knew spending the rest of my life in Missouri wasn’t it. I got a job on the RKO lot as a carpenter building sets. It just went from there. It was some luck and a lot of hard work.”
I slurped my chow mein thoughtfully.
“Did you make any plans?”
“Nah. I tried once or twice, but they always went to hell. Eventually I just learned to let life take me where it wanted; it was easier that way. If you leave yourself open to possibilities, a lot might happen that you couldn’t have planned for.”
“Being openly gay, that couldn’t have been easy.”
“The fifties were a bitch, but you are who you are. Hell, I look at some of these big Hollywood stars who twist themselves into pretzels to look straight. And for what? Fame and money? It’s not fucking worth it, if you ask me.”
That reminded me: “Have you ever been with a woman?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?” he
It was ironic that I had fled from all that dreary crap I grew up with, but still managed to smuggle an unhealthy portion of it with me. At least I didn’t have to fret about disappointing my father anymore, I told myself. I might as well admit I’d never be the duly dutiful son my mother wished for and that I’d already disappointed my college professors. I had spent so much energy trying to conform to the expectations of everyone around me that I forgot to be me. Even drifting aimlessly felt like an improvement.
And there was that other thing… If I was honest, I’d always been attracted to guys too. I knew that from the day Billy Foster showed up in the sixth grade with his curvy lips and long eyelashes. I didn’t watch Baywatch only for Pam Anderson either. I’d just never put a name to it or looked at it directly, because it was far easier to get by that way. Imagine my father getting the slightest scent of it! I shuddered at the thought.
I’d become very good at ignoring the obvious when it was inconvenient. That was a trait of my mother’s I recognized in myself. It was wearing thin though; these days all you had to do was pour a few drinks in me, and the illusion evaporated like morning mist. Like with Mark at the party… The reason for that not going any further wasn’t some sudden sexual anxiety. Not in the state I had been in.
The truth was—if I dared accept it—I had it bad for Jez. I wanted him so much, it hurt. I wanted to touch him, taste him, fuck him stupid. Or have him fuck me—I didn’t care. Hell, just thinking about it made me hard. I turned to lie on my stomach so as not to make a spectacle of myself, and resisted the urge to rut against the warm sand.
Unfortunately I’d painted myself into the corner with him—assuming he could be attracted to me at all. It would be mighty arrogant to presume he’d be interested just because I was suddenly available. He was drop-dead sexy, the California dream embodied, and I was just a plain, skinny guy from Bumfuck, Nowhere. I fell asleep with unhappy thoughts swishing around in my achy head.
I woke a couple of hours later, hungry and without a headache. Adelle’s miracle medicine worked after all. I went home, took another shower, and contemplated my options with Jez. I could be a big wuss and do nothing. Or, I could ask advice from an expert.
* * *
Arthur was happy to see me. It was almost lunchtime, so we ordered Chinese. I couldn’t just come out with my question—needed to warm up first—so I asked how he started out in Hollywood.
“Did you always know you wanted to be a set designer?” I prodded.
“Oh hell, no. I sort of fell into it.”
“How?”
“Well, I was just a stupid nineteen-year-old kid when I got off the bus from St. Louis, like a bunch of others. I had no idea what I wanted to do, but I knew spending the rest of my life in Missouri wasn’t it. I got a job on the RKO lot as a carpenter building sets. It just went from there. It was some luck and a lot of hard work.”
I slurped my chow mein thoughtfully.
“Did you make any plans?”
“Nah. I tried once or twice, but they always went to hell. Eventually I just learned to let life take me where it wanted; it was easier that way. If you leave yourself open to possibilities, a lot might happen that you couldn’t have planned for.”
“Being openly gay, that couldn’t have been easy.”
“The fifties were a bitch, but you are who you are. Hell, I look at some of these big Hollywood stars who twist themselves into pretzels to look straight. And for what? Fame and money? It’s not fucking worth it, if you ask me.”
That reminded me: “Have you ever been with a woman?”
“What is this? Twenty questions?” he
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