Shattered Glass(5)

“Now, now, Jeffrey, eight more weeks and we’ll both be put out of our tailoring misery.”





Douchebag of the Year Award

Two hours later, Angelica twined her fingers with mine as we walked toward my car. We would split up for the day before arriving there, as she had “things to do that would only annoy you, Austin.” The wedding colors had been officially changed to navy and silver; though by the next week I expected them to be red and gold, or even pink and black. I was relaxed enough that my mind wandered back to slippers-boy as we moved quietly through the mall. Which relegated me to Biggest Asshole on the Planet.

I needed to stop thinking about it. Him. I felt like such a jerk. Especially since I was so lucky to be with her.

“Austin?” Angelica prodded me out of my musings. “What are you thinking about?”

I offered a guilty smile at her furrowed brow. “How lucky I am,” I said, touching her hand to my lips while wiggling my brows.

She laughed musically and leaned into my arm. The bump was too soft for any effect other than to cause me to look at her. I winced when I compared her tanned shoulder to freckled skin. I was a bastard. Angelica was beautiful, both inside and out, and to compare her to some grungy man-child was Grade-A douchbaggery.

“My dress came in today,” Angelica sighed blissfully, her green eyes glazing over. Unbidden, I pictured eyes the color of the sky.

“Can I come in your dress today?” My brows waggled again, earning another bright laugh from her.

“Mm. Maybe later this week. Oh, and don’t forget we have the gala next Sunday.” We stopped at a nearby hotel, using their taxi stand to get her a ride home. With a quick kiss and a gentle wave, she climbed into the first cab that pulled up and they drove off.

Continuing the Douchebag of the Year theme, I walked the half block, got into Arturo and drove thirty blocks out of my way to pass slipper-boy’s diner.

I honestly had no idea why I was there, or why I couldn’t keep my mind off him. Him. I even had to keep reminding myself it was a him. Not a her. No breasts. And, I guessed, no vagina. Definitely a him. And my fantasies were filling with images of his mouth on naked things of mine.

Naked things. With a guy. Naked things with a guy. Surreal.

I sat outside for half an hour with those words buzzing in my ear, before giving myself a mental slap and driving home. I resolved to forget about Bunny Slippers.

A block later the resolve crumbled as I began picturing those slippers’ ears flopping around with the guy’s feet in the air while I pounded into—

Jesus! Okay, that’s just disturbing.





We Played Football Together, They Can’t Be Gay

Back at my apartment, I sat at the computer and shuffled through websites. The moment I found myself downloading the wrong kind of porn, I figured I should go out. I needed to get my mind off sex. It was nearly an impossible feat, so I settled for keeping my mind off sex with a guy. Seriously. What the fuck?

I wasn’t gay. You don’t go twenty-six years before the gay gene suddenly just kicks in. It didn’t work like that. I was sure of it. Not that I knew that much about being gay. I had one friend with same-sex orientation, and Dana hadn’t spoken to me since I asked her to describe her honeymoon in graphic detail—and then made vibrator noises. Actually, I would have called Dana anyway, but she was out of town until the end of the month.

Obviously Angelica’s sister came to mind. But Jessica had about as much figured out as I did. And if she was a lesbian, well, I probably would be less interested in that aspect of gay life than my current dilemma. I decided to call my best friend.

When I was in eighth grade, I used a self-timing camera to take nude pictures of myself in various stages of erection. I then exchanged my biology teacher’s slides with the images. The teacher, in a state of panic, kept rapidly pressing the ‘next’ button. It was like a pornographic flip-book. That was the last straw in a very heavy pile of straws. I was expelled, and I ended up transferring mid-year from boarding school to a public school near home.

In retrospect, I probably shouldn’t have included my grinning face in the pictures. With a thumbs up next to my penis.

Having spent the previous years at an overseas coed Catholic preparatory school, I had no idea how to cope with students who were not rich and privileged. I went from being one of sixty students to one of fifteen hundred plus. On my first day of class, I wore my former school uniform: tie, blazer, tan pants, button-down shirt. I don’t remember much except dark lockers and so many wedgies that even at age twenty-six I couldn’t see a thong without cringing.

By the end of the day, a sophomore named David Buchanan had rescued me and taken me under his wing. We had been getting in trouble ever since.