A Plateful of Sunshine
Why the fuck am I here? Because Michael put it into my head to stop by the diner before Babylon. I told him no--not so much because the idea of going to the diner was for shit, but because I knew what would happen if we went together. Mikey would sit there eating some disgusting, fat-laden double cheese burger and start plying me with a load of bullshit about how I'm better off without him--how it was bound to happen sooner or later--how he was too young, too deceitful, too selfish to really give a fuck about me. Then he'd stare at me with his goddamn puppy dog eyes and proceed to tell me that if I give it time, everything will get better. As if anything was really wrong in the first place. As if my pathetic little heart was hanging by a thread, just waiting for someone to kiss it and make it all better again.
Give me a fucking break.
"What'll ya have?" Kenny--no, Kiki--the . . . waitress . . . asks. She snaps her gum and starts poking her long purple fingernails into a gaudy up-do that could withstand gale force winds. Someone's been working a little too closely with Debbie.
"Turkey on whole wheat . . ."
"No mayo, two pickles, hold the chips," Kiki finishes brightly. "It'll be up in a sec."
God. I'm becoming as predictable as Ted Schmidt. I might as well plaster a simpering smile on my face and ask the guy sitting next to me 'how's it goin'?' She starts to turn away, but I stop her. No way am I going to be anything like old reliable Teddy.
"What's the special?"
Kiki purses her lips, smothered in 'fuck me' red, and thinks for a second. "There's a choice. We got 'Fishin' for Men,' that's two fillets of cod deep fried to a golden brown with fries and slaw. . ."
Christ, one bite of that shit and I'll be fishing for a double bypass.
"Or there's 'Creamy Beefcake'--meatloaf and gravy with a side of double whipped potatoes." She leans in toward me and sort of winks confidentially. "The leather queens love it."
Like I've ever given a fuck what leather queens eat for dinner--or for dessert, for that matter.
"Just get me the turkey sandwich--no pickles."
"You got it, honey." She flashes me a smile and rips the order off her pad. Then she turns away and her god-awful perfume hits me right in the face. It smells like that Jean Natae shit Claire always used to drown herself in.
Of course, even a gallon of that Big Q skunk juice isn't as bad as the smell of days old diner grease--especially when someone would come traipsing into my apartment reeking of it and then collapse on my bed--smothering my new silk sheets with the stench of fries and fish and chicken strips.
I'd tell him to get the fuck off my bed and go take a shower but that would only make his cocky smile get bigger. He'd wiggle his ass deeper into my sheets--the fucker--and then start whining about how he'd carried so many pink plate specials that day he can't even feel his arms anymore and if I want him stripped down and in the shower, I'd have to take care of it myself.
"The fuck I will," I'd say--but by that time, I'd have already yanked his shirt off and have pulled his pants halfway to his ankles. I wouldn't want my bed smelling like a bucket of the Colonel's secret recipe, for Christsakes. Then, I'd order him to get his ass into the shower and finally the little prick would listen to me and haul off to the bathroom and turn on the taps.
He'd step under the spray and he wouldn't even reach for the soap. He'd just stand there . . . letting the hot water flow over his head and down his back . . . trickling through the crevasse between his shoulder blades and all the way down his spine. He'd close his eyes and sigh as the steam would begin to rise up around him and the water wash over his shoulders, stroking and kneeding each muscle, turning his pale skin pink and glistening wherever it touched.
He'd clench his right hand and shake it out once or twice—trying to hold off the spasm that was inevitable after an 8-hour shift carrying pots of coffee and platters of food to a hoard of ungrateful fags. He'd bite his lips in frustration . . . and then they would curl up in to a smile again as I step up behind him with the soap and slide it up and down his arm and over his shoulders and down his back . . . lathering up his tight, perfect ass until he smelled like lavender and sandlewood and sage. Then he'd lean back against my chest and rest his head on my shoulder. "Brian," he'd whisper, "Brian. . .we're out of whole wheat."
What the fuck?
"We're outta whole wheat. We got white, sourdough or rye. Take your pick." Kiki. The diner. Turkey sandwich.
"Uh . . ."
Kiki snaps her gum and taps me on the shoulder. "You okay, honey? Your face is all red."
Then I notice the throbbing between my legs and before I can think, I cross them quick.
Kiki leans over the counter and looks down. She shakes her head and raises one of her painted-on eyebrows. "I heard you were easy, Kinney, but I never seen anyone who could get a hard-on from ordering a sandwich before."
"And I've never seen the love child of Tammy Faye Baker and Ronald McDonald before. But then, here you are. Now get me my sandwich—on rye. I want to eat it before I start collecting Social Security."
"Prick," she mumbles as she turns away and heads toward the kitchen.
The throbbing between my legs slows down to a dull pulse as my dick decides to relax. Kiki is for shit as a waitress but you can always depend on her to make a boner die—fast.
Oops . . . I think I spoke too soon. An incredibly hot guy has just strolled in. Tall, dark, his amazingly firm pecs and abs hugged tight in a black muscle shirt, his bubble butt accentuated by even tighter black jeans . . . he's like a walking wet dream. My dick's seen him too and from the way it's pushing up against my pants, I'd say the guy's at least 9 inches.
And I thought all I would get here was dinner. Looks like dessert's on the menu, too.
I let my eyes glide up and down his body as he walks into the diner—just to give him a heads up that Brian Kinney is interested so he can take a moment to thank his lucky stars and prepare himself for the greatest fuck of his life. He comes closer and closer--then he breaks into a huge smile. He's ready. He's willing. He's . . . walking right past me.
He fucking walks right past me! He saunters over to one of the booths where a short, skinny, oily-haired, buck-toothed computer nerd with the flattest ass I've ever seen stands up and kisses him full on the mouth. It's enough to make anyone lose their appetite—let alone their boner.
"Hi Sweetie, sorry I'm late," Bubble Butt says as they sit down. Then they fucking hold hands across the table and start staring into each other's eyes. Christ, that can only mean one thing. They're in a "relationship"--which means they have to act like a pair of limp-dicked hetero wannabes who probably spend their nights folding the laundry and cooking and reading Emily fucking Dickinson and who couldn't get one hard-on between the two of them if they massaged their prostates all night. I bet they watch Gay as Blazes, too.
What the fuck is happening to the world of fags? Why is everyone in such a rush to get a boyfriend? What does a boyfriend bring to your life that you can't get from the baths or the backroom at Babylon, anyway? Just a load of extra bullshit about love and "needing someone" and being able to see it through the tough times together and becoming stronger because of it. As if our lives were some fucking Barbra Streisand song. Forget that shit. Relationships are for losers.
Thank God I've never been in one.
Kiki—who I'm beginning to suspect has sent my order to China to be filled—comes out and sets a dish in front of the happy couple. It's a disgusting mess of ice cream drenched in some kind of obnoxiously rich syrup and topped with enough whipped cream to kill a cow. Flat Ass shovels up a spoonful of it and then starts feeding it to Bubble Butt. It won't be too long before Bubble Butt will become Lard Ass and his looks will have gone the way of his dignity. Then what will he have?
If relationships don't kill you, dessert definitely will. Ice cream is especially for shit. You might as well shove a stick of butter down your throat, it's so full of fat and calories. You wouldn't catch me touching it to save my life.
Well, all right. I do have one exception—vanilla frozen yogurt. But none of that cheap freezer-burnt store brand crap. Only Haagan-Daaz—and only vanilla. All those fancy flavors that they market are just useless attempts to improve on vanilla and the harder they try to add pizzazz to it with chocolate or cherries or fucking bubble gum, the more it tastes like shit. Vanilla stands on its own. It's pure and real and true and doesn't force any bullshit on you. It is what it is. Take it or leave it.
And there's something about the way vanilla smells—fresh and cool and sweet like the air after it rains on a hot day. It tastes so simple—so basic—and yet, its texture is complex and changeable . . . the way it melts slowly over your tongue, turning from firm and smooth to liquid and velvet--hitting the back of your mouth in one cool, creamy, luscious stroke then effortlessly sliding down your throat . . . all the way down . . . like it was meant to be there all its life.
It always tastes best after a long, hard day at work. I'd yank off my tie and strip out of my Armani suit and lie back on the chaise . . . downing spoonful after spoonful of it . . . sucking on it harder as he'd drop his clothes in a pile then stroll over and straddle the chair. He'd bend down and run his warm, wet tongue slowly over my abs and pecs and up my neck, stopping only to lap up drops of melted cream that somehow fell from the spoon. Then he'd stop and grin at me—just waiting for me to beg him for more--which is something he knows I'd never do—but he'd sit there and grin anyway. Then, without warning, he'd smother my lips with his and slide his way inside my mouth--our tongues tasting the mingled flavor of sweet cream and salty sweat.
Foreplay over, I'd drop the frozen yogurt and push him onto the floor. He'd laugh . . . and then smile wide and bright—just like sunshine. I'd dip my head and trail my lips softly against his smooth, creamy skin. A gasp would shiver through him and his back would arch as I'd go lower and lower and . . .
"You want some blond boy ass with that?"
"What the fuck did you just say to me?"
Kiki looks at me as if I just sprouted tits or had a cock growing out of my forehead.
"I said, here's your order and do you want some dessert with that? The way you were looking at those guys eating the dessert special over there, I figured you might be interested. And it is delicious. Vanilla ice cream piled on top of golden sponge cake and covered in hot butterscotch—believe me, it is to die for. We call it 'Twinkie's Revenge'".
"So, ya want some or what?"
"What I want is my goddamn sandwich." I throw a ten-dollar bill at her, grab the takeout container, and walk out the door and into the cool, crisp night.
I shove the sandwich into a garbage can. Suddenly, I seem to have lost my appetite for dinner. But dessert still sounds pretty good. I think a serving or two—or three or four—of sweet succulent cock would be just perfect.
I wonder what's on Babylon's menu tonight.