career, so I counted to ten and reacted the only way a normal, red-blooded American gay man would: at five o’clock I sent an emergency e-mail to the boys and told them to meet me at Starbucks at six. I had to vent over a Venti.
“Why hasn’t he called me?” I questioned my friends as well as the universe.
“Why are you shaking?” Lindsay asked. “Are you hooked on Dexatrim again?”
“It’s my fourth Starbucks today,” I replied shakily.
“Honey, did you eat?” Flynn inquired.
“I had some baby carrots around noon.”
“Mama need starch,” Flynn said, tossing me a Yogurt Honey Balance bar. “It’ll absorb all that caffeine.”
“Not to mention the shock that your Mister Regular is probably just another regular two-timing, phone-number-tossing, no-good Chelsea boy with a killer smile and a cold heart,” Lindsay added.
“Sounds like someone’s channeling Patsy Cline after the plane crash,” said Gus in his perfect British diction that always sounded vaguely pompous and condescending, but because it also sounded more intelligent and superior than any American voice ever spoken, it was a sound that we all loved. “It’s only been one day, Steven.”
“Could you stop thinking rationally for a moment?” I asked. “I need your support.”
Gus ran his manicured fingers through his close-cropped, gray-speckled ebony hair as he pondered this request. He took off his titanium and matte black-framed Modo eyeglasses and stared at me with eyes so blue they would have humbled Paul Newman.
“Can’t I do both?”
“No, Gus, you can’t!” Lindsay replied. “The only time both works is when the Russian pairs figure skating team wins the Olympics because some Russian judge bribed a cash-poor French judge and the Canadians get robbed of their gold medal and the only way to make things right is for the Olympic Figure Skating Commission to give gold medals to both teams. If you haven’t noticed, that is not happening now. Steven does not need rationality and support so stop thinking old-man thoughts and pony up some positive vibes.”
“You know, Lindsay, Steven isn’t the only one who could benefit from rational thought,” Gus said, sounding completely pompous and condescending.
As always, Flynn decided to moderate this impromptu gay men’s group therapy session.
“Boys, there is no I in gay. But there is a Y. So let’s remember why we’re here,” Flynn said with a remarkably straight face. “We’re here to help Steven.”
As expected, Lindsay spent the next several minutes apologizing for his outburst and explaining why some words like both make him relive the injustice that is the modern day Olympiad. We all told him that we understood. We didn’t specify that what we understood was that he was psychologically damaged from the events in Norway and every four years when the Winter Olympics rolled around his skates had to be confiscated or else he would use them as razor blades to end his pain finally and symbolically. That was something that was simply understood.
“Maybe there’s something wrong with his phone,” Flynn offered.
“Maybe he got called away on a business trip?” Gus blurted out.
“Or maybe he had a family emergency,” Lindsay added. “You love family oriented guys.”
This show of support was catching on faster than a daisy chain among out-of-work actors in West Hollywood.
“Ooh! I know!” Flynn shrieked in a higher octave than normal. “Maybe, just maybe someone in his family tragically died. That would be wonderful.”
“That would be horrible,” I said.
“Yes, but no,” Lindsay interrupted. “Horrible for Frank, but a wonderful way for you to show how comforting and consoling you could be to the grief stricken. It’s the perfect Boyfriend Test.”
“That’s right! Show him your Mother Teresa side,” Gus offered. “But remember to dress like Princess Diana. Didn’t they make the cutest couple? I personally think Mother Teresa died of a broken heart.”
“What if Frank’s just not interested?” I asked meekly.
Like a bad hostess I had brought the party to a grinding halt and dismantled the chain of supportive daisies. The group was forced to regroup and contemplate a different approach.
“Well, honey,” Flynn began weakly. “That is a possibility.”
There was another awkward pause as we all reflected on how well gay men can flip-flop even when they’re not in bed. Maybe what happened was that Frank got caught up in the magic that Starbucks creates and before he thought it out completely he jotted his phone number on a newspaper and thrust it into my eager hands. Then maybe when Frank got outside and breathed in real air and not Starbucks magic-air he realized offering himself to me was a mistake. Maybe he knew I wasn’t worthy.
“What’s wrong with me?” I asked.
“Nothing is wrong with you!” Flynn and Gus cried out in unison.
“You don’t spend enough time on the treadmill!” Lindsay added.
“Shut up, Lindsay,” Flynn reprimanded. “Steven, there isn’t anything wrong with you. It’s the gay species, our interactions are very intricate. Like the relationship between Carrie and her mother in Carrie: The Musical.”
Everyone at the table, including me, let out a collective moan, for Flynn had once again compared something important and real to the Broadway stage’s biggest flop, the musicalization of Stephen King’s horror classic Carrie. About five people saw the show in ’88 and Flynn was one of them. Since then he had become an evangelist for the singing telekinetic and at any moment could and often would wax rhapsodic over the melody that was Carrie’s pain regardless of the fact that it had nothing to do with the present conversation. Like right now.
“Gay men are their own worst enemies,” Flynn began. “They, like Carrie and Mrs. White, superbly played by Outer Critics Circle nominee Betty Buckley, are victims of their own psycho-sexual-socioreligious dogma.”
“Flynn, we’re talking about some bloke who forgot to ring Steven back,” Gus corrected.
“It’s a symptom,” Flynn continued. “A symptom of the society that we have collectively created. Its structure is weak and if we don’t mend it, it will crumble.”
“Just like the way the gym crumbled at the end of the movie?” Lindsay asked, trying to sound like an innocent commentator when he was really a guilty instigator.
Flynn responded the way we all knew he would. He took the bait.
“I’m not talking about the movie!” Flynn barked. “The movie is a manifestation of Brian De Palma’s fear of Hollywood. A fear that made him turn from the source material—Stephen King’s straightforward, yet poetic prose—and run into the dictatorial arms of the movie studio machine. Brian didn’t trust his source, like gay men don’t trust theirs. They want to constantly be like the blockbuster and appeal to a wider audience instead of being happy to appeal to a niche market. Carrie: The Musical isn’t afraid.”
“But Carrie: The Movie was scary,” Lindsay said, unable to remain silent.
“Yes, it was scary!” Flynn freaked. “Because it was a prime example of how yet another talented filmmaker bent to the whims of the Hollywood dictatorship.”
“What about the hand coming up through the grave at the end?” Lindsay asked. “Tell me that wasn’t scary?”
“That isn’t even in the book!” Flynn screamed. “And now yet another gay man has bent to the whims of the gay male society. ‘Here’s my number, call me. No, wait, I can’t trust my instincts so when you call I won’t return your phone call.’ If gay men want to be trusted by each other