Chapter 4 #2
It’s the glimpse of Kira’s glower I catch as he bends that prompts my response.
Kissing him is easier than conversing, and it serves to remind me what it is I like, namely men.
Okay, not especially this man, but at least he’s got the right appendages.
I cup my hand right between his thighs to confirm that fact, and he stands straight and laughs.
“Well that’s straightforward.”
“Ain’t much straight about me.”
“Thank ever loving God. We should hang together, maybe go places…” He reels me in again, and slips me something hard along with his tongue.
Fuck! What the hell sort of nonsense is he giving me? I don’t trust the stupid sod.
I break it off. “Back in a few.” I hope he doesn’t imagine I’m inviting him to a rendezvous, or that we’re going to be taking this thing any further.
I’m not interested in being Adam Bask’s safety net, and it occurs to me as I make the dash to the men’s room, that he’s a foolish choice if all I’m looking for is a quick confirmation that the world remains as it’s always been.
I need a nobody, someone forgettable, someone without any baggage.
A man like “Oscar.” I should have brought the kid along.
That would have kept Kira at a distance.
Or not. Thinking about Oscar just summons up memories of her gaze raking over my skin, and my flesh growing tight and hot.
I need someone I don’t associate with Kira.
I’ve a friend or two here tonight who fill that bill.
Maybe one of them will even be prepared to play along with me.
My heart’s racing by the time I hit the men’s room.
I plough straight into the nearest cubicle, and spit the crap Adam just pushed on me down the loo, and flush.
The water swirls around the pan, and I sway dizzily watching it.
Unsteadily, I lean back against the wall of the stall.
I am so bloody screwed up. Can’t blame it on the drugs, as I didn’t swallow.
Fuck—I never swallow. Heck, I don’t even suck unless I’m totally wasted. Too many associated memories.
Right now, as the sweat beads around my collar, I don’t see any of those dastardly shadows. Instead, I get a single clear vision of Kira on her knees. Red lips, pretty mouth open, waiting for me to slide inside.
Jesus holy Christ!
She’s a woman. She’ll splutter. It’ll be awful.
She won’t cope with giving it to me the way I like it. She’ll gag and curse and call me a bastard.
It’s true that I am one, and an unwanted one at that.
Somehow all the negativity I pour onto the vision in order to drown it does nothing of the sort. The bubble of lust only expands, until I’m tearing at my hair in frustration.
This is a result of the drink.
I’m drunk, that’s all.
Deep down, I acknowledge that it takes a lot more than a few shots to get me so hammered I’m capable of forgetting myself. Alcohol erodes barriers; it doesn’t fundamentally alter us at our cores.
In any case, it’s moronic to try and blame my state on inebriation. The only reason I started knocking them back was because she’d wormed her way into my head. Now instead of obliterating the odd notions I’m having about her, all I’ve managed to do is pickle them like goddamned shallots.
“Dylan… Dylan, are you in here?”
What have I had, forty seconds alone time and she’s already here?
“I’m taking a piss.”
“Then piss faster and get your butt back out here where I can keep an eye on it.”
Seriously, she can’t even let me be while I make use of the GENTS’?
“Don’t you think you’re taking this a little too far?”
“I’m probably not taking it far enough. Howard was very specific in his orders. If I was obeying the letter of his words, I’d be in there holding it for you.”
“Jeezus!” This is nuts. What the hell do they think is going to happen to me in here? It’s not like my imaginary stalker is going to float up out of the bowl and then splatter my brains over the tiling.
“Just speed it up. Before anyone decides you’re cruising for customers.”
“Back the fuck off, or that’s exactly what I might take it into my head to do.” I’m sure Bask would oblige. He didn’t attempt to feed me whatever that shit was purely for kicks. Probably imagined it was an easy route into my pants.
I hear the scream of hinges and the clunk, clunk of inner and outer doors opening and closing, then footsteps approaching.
“Oh, are we doing gender free toilets for the evening?” A male voice asks. He’s obviously just spotted Kira. I’m sad I miss the glower she no doubt responds with.
She knocks on the outside of my cubical. “I’ll be right outside. Don’t be long.”
I’ll be as long as it takes. However long that is, and considering what I’m dealing with, that’s likely a deal longer than the two minutes she’s assigned me before she starts getting super pissy.
The moment I’m alone in my own head space, I start mourning the pill I just flushed.
No joke, I recite a whole eulogy to the loss of that fucker, and the trip to Technicoloured Woo-Woo-Land it could have whisked me off to.
Tonight is totally mucked up. In another ninety minutes I’m supposed to stand up and speak for my tribe, tell the world that while barriers are eroding, it’s still unfair for those of us who choose to love, dress and identify differently.
The bigots are still out there. There are still entrenched opinions to bulldoze, and foundations to shake, but we’re stronger than we’ve ever been, and we do have voices that are being heard.
We are all making a difference. We no longer have to hide our true colours and pretend that we’re straight or the gender the doctor’s assigned us at birth or whatever, or face devastating repercussions.
I’ve not once, ever, pretended that I was straight.
Playing ostensibly straight characters doesn’t count. That’s not me. It’s a persona I pull on for a while.
I’ve suffered the pain and consequences of my refusal to conform.
Had folks try to beat the queerness out of me, and worse.
So why do I feel like a great big blinkin’ fraud?
Not a single goddamned thing has happened between Kira and me, but she’s right there in my head melting age old synaptic connections and soldering new ones.
I just need to remind myself who I truly am.
Eventually, I fix on my charmer’s smile and emerge from the cubicle ready to roar at anyone who might insinuate that I’m even remotely straight.
The only person in the washroom takes one look at me and sniggers like I’m wearing my undies on the outside of my trousers.
The mood I’m in, the only reason they don’t get punched in the face is down to them being a long-time friend and ally.
“I hear the studio have had you tagged.”
“Fuck off, Ronnie.”
“Darling, you know fucking’s not something that rocks me.” My fellow Sunsetters actor falls into the embrace I open my arms wide for. Ron’s still as regal and unquantifiable as ever. Labels of every kind slide right off.
“You’re looking good.”
“Vintage Chanel.”
I trace a finger over the front lapel of the three-piece suit jacket. “You always dress to perfection, but I didn’t mean the suit.”
“Your charm’s wasted on me. You know that.”
I do
“So what’s Mister Bankable doing sulking about in the lavs?”
The description brings a chuckle to my lips. “Have you been tuning in, Ronnie? I didn’t think Oldrich was your thing, the bastard I’m playing or the show in general.”
“Too much flesh on display, darling. And you know how I feel about the exchange of fluids.”
Yeah, I know, I don’t even need to clock the shiver of revulsion that runs through my dear friend’s scrawny frame to remind me.
“I can’t count you among my converts, then?”
“Haven’t seen an episode. Not even you’re enticement enough to endure the damage it would cause to my pearly-whites.”
“Yeah, we wouldn’t want to damage those.”
Ronnie has the most perfect set of teeth you’ve ever seen, and not a single millimetre of that dental real estate is down to cosmetic manipulation. They’re all natural.
“Got the jitters over your speech?”
“Something like that.” I preen before the mirror, straightening out my tie, and cuffs, and settling my flashy watch just so on my wrist.
“You know you don’t have to give them anything of yourself. Just because you’re representing the cause doesn’t mean you have to divulge what’s none of their goddamned business.”
“My fucked-up past isn’t the problem, Ron.”
It’s the present I’m struggling to handle.
“Is it true you’ve been receiving threatening letters?”
“Same old, same old,” I say, brushing away the notion that anything in my world is any different to normal.
I don’t think there’s a day that’s passed since I was ten or eleven that hasn’t involved a threat of some sort or another being hurled in my direction.
It’s sad to say that even the laser printed epitaphs threatening to cut me to ribbons if I don’t slither into a hole and agree never to disgrace the silver screen again are anything new.
I come from a gene pool of sociopaths, and have suffered my share of power mad agents, studio execs, and psychotic directors.
Stephen King inspired stalker-fans are simply the newest layer on the crazy cake.
“Shall we go and be fabulous together?”
“Dylan Drake,” Ronnie drawls. “Like you ever need to ask.”
The foyer is now largely deserted as most of the networking has moved to the tables dotted around the main auditorium.
Ronnie abandons me all too soon in favour of Dare Wilde’s baby sister.
Not that she looks like much of a baby anymore.
Jeez, I must be getting old. I do a quick head count and quash the notion that I’m in any way past it.
There’re still two generations of silver-headed sires and sirens floating about the place, and only a handful of youngsters.
With Kira back on my heels, I head over to the table reserved for the cast and crew of Oldrich Hall. Hopefully, once I’m seated with the people I work with every day, it’ll be easier to push Kira out of my mind and be myself.
It’s a plan, okay. I never said it was a good one.