Tell Me It's Real(11)

“He would, too,” Charlie huffed. “Eric’s ass is so loose it sounds like wind blowing over a cave entrance when he walks.”

“Oh, Daddy,” I said, laughing.

Eric didn’t think it was funny. In the slightest. He sort of huffed and thrust the drink in my hand, spilling a bit of it before turning and stomping back down the stairs. “He’s a bit bitchy today,” Charlie observed in that dry way he has.

“Maybe he found out he has crabs,” I said.

“That was last month,” Charlie said. “He needs to be a bit more careful, otherwise he’s going to wind up in a world of hurt.” There was affection in his voice, however. Charlie’s a big old softie, and I’m sure Eric looking the way he does helps that just a bit. Charlie’s not a creepy lecherous old man, but he does have eyes. “You going to drink that?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “Seems someone fancies you.”

“This has to be a joke,” I grumbled. I look down to the floor below and saw Eric reach Mr. Yes Please. Eric made sure I was watching with a little glance over his shoulder and then leaned in far too close to Mr. Yes Please, giving him a bit of the old bump ’n grind, whispering something in his ear but nuzzling a bit too. I wanted to stand up and tell everyone that Eric apparently had crabs last month, but even I’m not that mean. Out loud, anyway. In my head, I’m the meanest bitch who ever walked the face of the earth.

What bugged me a little bit (even though it had no damn reason to) was that Mr. Yes Please didn’t exactly seem to be pulling away from Eric. He even seemed to be smiling a bit to himself as Eric fucked the air around him with his mouth, the dimples flashing in the strobe light. His friends over his shoulder were grinning at the two of them and whispering to each other, obviously sure that Eric was going to get down on his knees and blow Mr. Yes Please right there.

“He’s a big fat slut,” Charlie told me, obviously not missing a thing. He reached over and patted me on the shoulder as Helena stood in one place and did this pretty little twirl.

“Shouldn’t your eyesight be failing by now?” I asked him, watching as Eric did a little twirl of his own, pressing his ass up against Mr. Yes Please’s crotch, bending over and then grinding against him as he held the tray perfectly level. Mr. Yes Please stared down at him, not touching him, but not junk-punching him either. People began to give them room, backing out of the way as Eric worked his whore magic. Mr. Yes Please glanced up at me, an undecipherable look on his face.

“Cheers, Daddy,” I said to Charlie, raising the glass to Mr. Yes Please and knocking back the shot before I even tasted what it is.

And as it hit my tongue, I realized it was whiskey.

I can’t stand whiskey. Makes me sick. Makes me feel gross. Can’t stomach it.

Which is why my throat closed up.

Which is why I spit it out of my mouth, forgetting I was on the balcony.

Which is how it sprayed off the balcony.

Which is why it landed right on Eric’s head, splashing a bit onto Mr. Yes Please.

Even though it was an accident, I couldn’t have planned that better had I done it on purpose.

Most people didn’t even notice, their attention still on Helena Handbasket, who was doing this awesome backflip thing, pressing her feet up against the wall. But Eric sure as fuck noticed, snapping back up and glaring at me. Mr. Yes Please had the weirdest look on his face as he watched me, as if he couldn’t decide if I was awesome or the grossest thing he’d ever seen. Charlie was busting up laughing, obviously not caring if it messed up the sound on the tape still recording.

And what about me, you ask?

I was fucking mortified.

I tried to sink down into my seat, my face going as red as it’d ever been. I really wanted to run down the stairs and get the hell out of here, but the stairs curved around and the door to the dance floor was right near where Mr. Yes Please and Eric stood. I decided in that moment that I was never going to leave the balcony ever again and that I would live up here for the rest of my days. People would come from everywhere to see the Gay Who Wouldn’t Leave Because He Couldn’t Handle His Alcohol And Spit It Onto A Stupid Slutty Twink. There would be lines to take my picture as I roamed the balcony, bemoaning my apparent lack of any kind of social skills.

But then the crowd roared as Helena Handbasket did her big finish (the one where she did this creepy/sexy upside-down crab-walk thing down the middle of the runway, all the while thrusting her taped junk toward the ceiling in writhing time with the music). I turned my attention back to my best friend and clapped meekly, praying that she would feel like staying up here for a bit before we went back downstairs.