8 Ian
Ian
Another day, another terrible book.
The one the mom came into the store for: the latest Princess and Powderpuff.
Ian picked it up almost as a kind of penance—they’d been rude, sort of, even if it was maybe deserved.
And they were hoping maybe reading some cheerful kids’ stuff would make them feel childlike themself, filled with wonder.
But it doesn’t. It’s gender-drenched nonsense, like a pink toy aisle, and it makes them so sad thinking of all the kids forced to walk down this aisle or the blue one, like the walk through the long halls of a prison to their cells, the Barbies on the wall ringing cups against the bars. Fresh fish!
No, not sad, they decide, shrugging off that feeling or swallowing it deep down like a pill. It makes them angry. They don’t want to be angry all the time. But things just keep making them.
Brunch was good this morning. Having brunch and being onstage are the only times they feel like they can be anything, like they’re made of stars, and all the emotions swirl in them.
Same as when they were back in dorm rooms, talking identity with friends, playing with the self, with performance, talking philosophy, discovering things.
Ollie was always so good to talk to. Ian should try to have some one-on-one time with Ollie soon—though these days Ollie is so stoned, he probably wouldn’t notice it was just them.
They’re thinking about hurling the book across the bookstore, figuring out how to aim it so it doesn’t hit any of the people browsing, when their phone vibrates in their pocket.
TOM
Hi! Your show last night was amazing
Ian smiles. Tom is really a sweet guy. Cute in a dad kind of way, scruffy, glasses.
And the sex was good. But he’s so nice, it’s annoying.
After the sex, Ian thought maybe they could click more, turned on YouTube to watch some stuff in bed together, cuddled up.
And the algorithm—their algorithm, which should be all drag queens, makeup vloggers, and shirtless guys—showed some pseudo-right-wing bullshit.
Ian blew up about it, ranted about how these machines are turning everyone into Nazis.
The usual stuff. Tom just nodded, put his arm around Ian’s shoulder, brought them close so they were leaning on Tom’s chest, and clicked on a Trixie video.
“It sucks” was all he’d said about the algorithm.
Ian felt hot with rage, and now here they were, being comforted like a kid, and that just pissed them off more.
They watched the video in silence, Trixie unboxing makeup, and they even laughed with Tom at the jokes, felt relaxed after.
But that’s not how it’s supposed to go, is it?
The rage can’t just drift off, turn into vapor, and disperse. Rage is hot. It has to burn.
If it had been Victor, he would have raged right along with Ian, and they would have gotten each other riled up, written an angry Instagram post filled with swearing, and then had a sweaty round two.
Tom didn’t get angry though. It made Ian feel like there was something wrong with them, seeing Tom’s calm in the face of all their rage. So it wasn’t going to work out. No matter how sweet, how cute, how good the sex.
TOM
The bit about vinyl almost made me piss myself
Or how good his taste is.
IAN
You trying to tell me you have a golden showers fetish?
TOM
lol no
IAN
Too bad
TOM
Really?
IAN
No but I’ll try anything four times just to be sure
TOM
lol
So do you want to hang out again sometime?
There’s this documentary on Jackie Shane playing at Alamo I thought you might be interested in.
Damn it, Ian has been wanting to see that.
IAN
Maybe
This week is rough
TOM
It should be playing for a few weeks
IAN
I’m at work can I get back to you?
TOM
Of course
Talk soon!
Ian puts the phone down, feeling their mouth corkscrew the way it does when they don’t know how to feel about something. They don’t mind how thirsty Tom is; it’s kind of flattering. But it’s not going to work out, right? They’re just not compatible. He’s so calm, so happy.
But if Ian can’t find anyone else to go to the Jackie Shane documentary with them…
The rest of their shift goes quietly. They browse and pick out another book to read, a queer rom-com Brandon recommended.
Brandon hasn’t texted about his stalking with Ollie, not even by the end of Ian’s shift, which feels kind of weird.
Maybe he’s crying it off, or maybe that means it worked perfectly and they’re fucking at home.
Ian hopes not; they really want to lie in bed for a while and just relax.
They have drag brunch tomorrow, and that’s always a lot.
Fun, but a lot. Hard to relax when Brandon’s head is banging against the living room wall though.
But when they get home, it looks like Brandon’s plan worked. The door isn’t even locked.
“C’mon, Brandon,” Ian says, closing the door behind him. “I get the undressing-in-the-hall thing is fun, but at least close the door behind you.”
They walk into the apartment. It’s quiet, which is weird—Brandon is, unfortunately, a moaner—but it’s also a mess. They must have really been going wild.
Except, Ian quickly realizes, this doesn’t look like the mess of people untangling themselves from clothes on their way to the bedroom. The place is trashed. Sofa cushions lifted, things taken down from shelves—including their drag stuff, which Brandon has always respectfully kept his hands off of.
“Brandon?” Ian calls. Nothing. Ian stares at one of their wigs, a black bob with silver streaks, lying on the floor like a dead dog. They go to pick it up and quickly find the box it came from, open on the sofa. “Brandon, what the fuck?”
Still nothing. They put the wig in the box. They’re going to have to give it a good brush, along with the others dotting the room, splotches of different-colored hair like a clown tried to shave their pubes for the first time.
They knock on the door to Brandon’s bedroom. “What is this mess?”
The door swings open. No Brandon. No one.
They take out their phone and open the group chat, looking for an explanation. Nothing.
IAN
I think someone robbed our place!
That’s the only explanation, right? They feel the shock of violation, of being vulnerable. It’s a cold liquid in their stomach, but then they boil it into a fury as they run to the boxes of jewelry in their room, check their laptop. They really can’t afford to be robbed.
The jewelry is a mess, tangled, but nothing is missing. Not even the few expensive pieces. And their laptop is open but on the bed, next to a pair of nipple clamps they haven’t used in forever. Nothing stolen. Just rifled through. Invaded.
IAN
False alarm
It’s just a mess—were you looking for something?
They wait a moment, but the text stays unanswered. Why would Brandon go through their jewelry though? Why would anyone? It doesn’t make sense unless—
Those nipple clamps were Victor’s favorites.
They’d bought them together, a simple silver pair with a chain between them.
Ian would clip them onto him gently, but then later, when they were riding Victor, would tug the chain hard.
That’s what they remember when they see them—that’s why they live in a box under the bed and haven’t seen daylight in forever.
And that’s why they’re laid out on the bed. A message. Revenge. For keying his car.
Ian feels themself smile but pushes that to the side. Victor could easily break in and would do this to fuck with Ian. It’s amazing it took him so long to retaliate, honestly.
They glance at the time. Five. Not usual work hours, but Ian knows Victor’s schedule. And just where to find him. They stomp out, door slamming behind them.
****
The U.S. marshals’ office in Lower Manhattan is technically closed on Saturdays, but Victor comes in to do work.
Raphael, his new boyfriend, is a bartender at some fancy restaurant and works Saturday afternoons until closing.
And Ian knows Victor only ever cares about four things: his boyfriend, his car, his mother, and his work.
He worked the Sunday mornings Ian did drag brunch when they were together.
If I can’t be with you, might as well get something done. Practical. Ian admired that.
Now though, from Raphael’s and Victor’s Instagrams, Ian knows Sundays are date days.
They start at the gym, then brunch at their little neighborhood spot, LightBite, and then some fun activity, like a museum or matinee, or walk in the park, a nice dinner out, and bedtime.
Raphael chronicles all of it, right down to Victor stripping down to his boxer briefs before he climbs into bed.
But today is Saturday. And Ian would bet money that Victor is here, at the lovely art deco building with the golden doorway.
They never visited Victor at work before or anything, but they met him outside sometimes, when they were trying to grab dinner together in between their mismatched schedules—Ian working weekends and nights, Victor working weekdays.
Ian marches in, shoulders back, jaw set like they’re about to fight someone. Maybe they are.
The building isn’t just the marshals’ office.
They have to find the floor and take the elevator.
Funny for law enforcement to be here among dentists and printers, but the marshals aren’t especially showy in New York.
Most people forget they’re here, putting people in witness protection, searching for the most wanted.
Ian was not into the idea of dating a cop, but Victor always explained they weren’t really cops, and Ian chose to believe it.
Stupid. Of course they’re cops. Who cares if they’re hiding innocent victims, too?
Trust a cop to cheat and then break into Ian’s apartment as retaliation for a little light vandalism.
Which Victor totally deserved. All seven times.