tight? One of these days, I really had to switch dry cleaners. They were obviously shrinking my clothes with inferior cleaning fluids.
Finally, after trying on enough clothing to start my own department store, I decided on the same outfit I’d started off with—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I corralled my mop into a ponytail, spritzed myself with Jean Naté, and broke out a pair of suede boots I’d been saving for a special occasion.
Cameron picked me up at seven, his blue eyes crinkling, looking very J. Crew in chinos and a chambray shirt. I found myself wondering how he’d look in something a tad more formal—like a wedding tuxedo.
“What an interesting place you’ve got,” he said, looking around my apartment.
I have to admit, it does have a certain carefree Ikea-ish charm.
“And who’s this?” he asked, as Prozac circled his ankles like a lovestruck teenager.
“That’s Prozac, my significant other.”
“What a doll,” he said, scooping her up in his arms.
“She hates strangers,” I warned him. “Don’t be surprised if she scratches.”
Then, before my astonished eyes, Prozac—the same cat who barely acknowledges my existence—started licking Cameron’s face with all the abandon of an X-rated movie star. I’m surprised she didn’t give him a hickey.
I watched, incredulous, as she lay cuddled in Cameron’s arms, licking his face and purring in ecstasy.
God, how I envied her.
Marian’s movie was a 1945 RKO musical about two sisters who go to Miami to meet rich husbands. Marian played a hatcheck girl. Not exactly a starring role. But she had a few funny lines, and she knew how to deliver them. The mostly gay audience laughed out loud at her zingers. I could see why Cameron had liked her so much; she looked like she’d be a lot of fun.
Now we were sitting in a coffeehouse called Garland’s, in the heart of the distinctly gay district of Silver Lake. The place was loaded with good-looking guys, several of whom had their eyes on Cameron.
Our waitress was a twenty-something sprite with an orange buzz cut and a nose the size of a cherry pit.
“Look at that nose,” Cameron whispered. “It’s got to be a nose job.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Looks to me like she was born with it.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her,” he said, and motioned to her. “Oh, waitress!”
“Cameron, what are you doing? You can’t ask someone if she’s had a nose job.”
“And I don’t think those breasts are hers, either.”
“You’re not going to ask her about them, too?”
“C’mon, this is L.A. She won’t mind.”
“Hi, guys!” The waitress came bopping up to our table. I was too embarrassed to even look at her.
“Look,” Cameron began, “I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“Could we have some refills on our espressos?”
“Sure thing, guys.”
She bounced off, and Cameron grinned at me. “Gotcha.”
“Oh, you! You really had me going.”
And he really did have me going. I couldn’t help myself. He was just so darn cute.
“Well, you’re sure an easy mark,” he was saying to me. “Hope you’re not so gullible on the force.”
“The force? What force?”
“The police force.”
“Oh, right.”
He shot me a look.
“You’re not really a cop, are you?”
“Oh, fudge. I screwed that one up, didn’t I? No, I’m not really a cop.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What gave me away?”
“Well, for starters,” he said, “Elaine told me about your Bloomingdale’s press card.”
“I should have figured that maybe you two would compare notes.”
“And besides, I don’t think cops go around saying, ‘Oh, fudge.’”
“Yeah, I guess it’s not their F-word of choice.”
He took a bite of his biscotti. I’d long since finished mine. I’d started out nibbling daintily, hoping Cameron would think I was one of those frail little things who eat like a bird. But somewhere around the fifth nibble, I forgot to be dainty and snarfed them down like a
Finally, after trying on enough clothing to start my own department store, I decided on the same outfit I’d started off with—a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. I corralled my mop into a ponytail, spritzed myself with Jean Naté, and broke out a pair of suede boots I’d been saving for a special occasion.
Cameron picked me up at seven, his blue eyes crinkling, looking very J. Crew in chinos and a chambray shirt. I found myself wondering how he’d look in something a tad more formal—like a wedding tuxedo.
“What an interesting place you’ve got,” he said, looking around my apartment.
I have to admit, it does have a certain carefree Ikea-ish charm.
“And who’s this?” he asked, as Prozac circled his ankles like a lovestruck teenager.
“That’s Prozac, my significant other.”
“What a doll,” he said, scooping her up in his arms.
“She hates strangers,” I warned him. “Don’t be surprised if she scratches.”
Then, before my astonished eyes, Prozac—the same cat who barely acknowledges my existence—started licking Cameron’s face with all the abandon of an X-rated movie star. I’m surprised she didn’t give him a hickey.
I watched, incredulous, as she lay cuddled in Cameron’s arms, licking his face and purring in ecstasy.
God, how I envied her.
Marian’s movie was a 1945 RKO musical about two sisters who go to Miami to meet rich husbands. Marian played a hatcheck girl. Not exactly a starring role. But she had a few funny lines, and she knew how to deliver them. The mostly gay audience laughed out loud at her zingers. I could see why Cameron had liked her so much; she looked like she’d be a lot of fun.
Now we were sitting in a coffeehouse called Garland’s, in the heart of the distinctly gay district of Silver Lake. The place was loaded with good-looking guys, several of whom had their eyes on Cameron.
Our waitress was a twenty-something sprite with an orange buzz cut and a nose the size of a cherry pit.
“Look at that nose,” Cameron whispered. “It’s got to be a nose job.”
“I don’t think so,” I said. “Looks to me like she was born with it.”
“Okay, I’ll ask her,” he said, and motioned to her. “Oh, waitress!”
“Cameron, what are you doing? You can’t ask someone if she’s had a nose job.”
“And I don’t think those breasts are hers, either.”
“You’re not going to ask her about them, too?”
“C’mon, this is L.A. She won’t mind.”
“Hi, guys!” The waitress came bopping up to our table. I was too embarrassed to even look at her.
“Look,” Cameron began, “I was wondering…”
“Yes?”
“Could we have some refills on our espressos?”
“Sure thing, guys.”
She bounced off, and Cameron grinned at me. “Gotcha.”
“Oh, you! You really had me going.”
And he really did have me going. I couldn’t help myself. He was just so darn cute.
“Well, you’re sure an easy mark,” he was saying to me. “Hope you’re not so gullible on the force.”
“The force? What force?”
“The police force.”
“Oh, right.”
He shot me a look.
“You’re not really a cop, are you?”
“Oh, fudge. I screwed that one up, didn’t I? No, I’m not really a cop.”
“I didn’t think so.”
“What gave me away?”
“Well, for starters,” he said, “Elaine told me about your Bloomingdale’s press card.”
“I should have figured that maybe you two would compare notes.”
“And besides, I don’t think cops go around saying, ‘Oh, fudge.’”
“Yeah, I guess it’s not their F-word of choice.”
He took a bite of his biscotti. I’d long since finished mine. I’d started out nibbling daintily, hoping Cameron would think I was one of those frail little things who eat like a bird. But somewhere around the fifth nibble, I forgot to be dainty and snarfed them down like a
Similar Books
