Read Online How's Your Romance?: Concluding the "Buddies" Cycle by Ethan Mordden - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Ethan Mordden
Tags: United States, Fiction, Romance, Literature & Fiction, Gay, Gay & Lesbian, gay romance, Genre Fiction, Lgbt, Gay Fiction
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“it’s always a surprise. He made me get a VCR and he’s teaching me all about the movies. ’S’funny, with friends, ’cause you don’t want a buddy like Red too smart or he’ll go all boss on you. But I like J. being smart, you know. He showed me this one attraction I would never have known was okay didn’t J. explain it to me. It looked stupid, but J. says it’s supposed to, so then you can enjoy it. Two old bags going at each other, greasy fat guy and all.” He thought for a moment. “See What Happened to Lady June.”
“Lady Jane,” said J.
“Baby Jane,” said Cosgrove.
“Yeah. Movie’s older’n I am, could almost be a silent. You know, where all the actors was posing while passing fifi remarks and it don’t seem real. Like, we sure could use Harrison Ford here. But J. says it’s this whole world of entertainment I could get into, with strange music and jokes, and it gives you a new life.”
“‘You will be assimilated,’” said Cosgrove, quoting Star Trek in hollow tones. “‘Resistance is futile.’”
“You haven’t said much, mister,” Vince told me.
“Cosgrove went to special trouble over this dinner,” I replied as the little chef returned to the kitchen. “He’s trying out some first-time recipes of great complexity.”
“Yeah? I don’t cook myself, except for you heat a can of tuna and stir it into spaghetti. Some butter, grated cheese. Company coming, you can sprinkle those French’s fried onions over the top, it’s fancy. Right, J.?”
“Vince and I are pals,” said J., “so what he says, goes.”
“Here’s the appetizer,” Cosgrove announced, bringing in a platter. “I call it”—he had to concentrate to get the sounds out smoothly— “biscuit assaisoné.”
“Say, little pretzels!” said Vince. “Fresh and hot, too, like you can’t get on the street.”
I was watching J., wondering if he’d make a disparaging comment. He seemed about to, but then he simply took his pretzel and ate it.
He’d seen me watching him, too. He didn’t care. He’s busy re-tailoring Vince as a suitor, stooge, and meal ticket. Why should J. worry what judgments I draw?
Was all that Little Kiwi—Dennis Savage love affair a fraud? No, of course not. But J. deeply resented having to work—especially after Cosgrove moved in with me with only the family chores to do. Straights want laws, constrictions, social pressures. Gays want freedom. J. may well be the gayest of all. He yearns for irresponsibility. (That’s a joke, my brothers.)
I was riding my train of thought with such concentration that I didn’t realize that I had reached a conclusive stop and opened my mouth at the same time:
“You’re a little gold digger,” I blurted out.
J. coolly considered me. Vince was once more fondling Fleabiscuit. Cosgrove was back in the kitchen.
Silence.
Finally, Cosgrove came out with his risotto of greens and sea scallops, cooked to a T. As he and I had made sure that Vince’s glass was never left empty, the guest of honor was soon buzzed, which led him to confide in us his dating secrets. These included how to tell gash from brides; how to speed a princess; and how all women want to be fucked by their fathers.
“Not their main and true father,” he added. “The husband of their mother. But someone like that, with the power to love them or not when they were, like, four years old. That totally huge guy who can give or take everything from them, you know? And they don’t care what he looks like. He’s got the tall and the making rules and the heavy dark thing to him. That’s daddy to them, and they need daddy so.”
Cosgrove distributed the plates, his face blank.
“No, sure, they don’t admit to it.” He laughed. “Start with whispering in their ear, the puppy kissing, the daddy talking. My pal Red, he always backs off at the time. He don’t have the script. But it’s not poetry, it’s anything, like. Just so you’re gentle, ’cause they’ll do
“Lady Jane,” said J.
“Baby Jane,” said Cosgrove.
“Yeah. Movie’s older’n I am, could almost be a silent. You know, where all the actors was posing while passing fifi remarks and it don’t seem real. Like, we sure could use Harrison Ford here. But J. says it’s this whole world of entertainment I could get into, with strange music and jokes, and it gives you a new life.”
“‘You will be assimilated,’” said Cosgrove, quoting Star Trek in hollow tones. “‘Resistance is futile.’”
“You haven’t said much, mister,” Vince told me.
“Cosgrove went to special trouble over this dinner,” I replied as the little chef returned to the kitchen. “He’s trying out some first-time recipes of great complexity.”
“Yeah? I don’t cook myself, except for you heat a can of tuna and stir it into spaghetti. Some butter, grated cheese. Company coming, you can sprinkle those French’s fried onions over the top, it’s fancy. Right, J.?”
“Vince and I are pals,” said J., “so what he says, goes.”
“Here’s the appetizer,” Cosgrove announced, bringing in a platter. “I call it”—he had to concentrate to get the sounds out smoothly— “biscuit assaisoné.”
“Say, little pretzels!” said Vince. “Fresh and hot, too, like you can’t get on the street.”
I was watching J., wondering if he’d make a disparaging comment. He seemed about to, but then he simply took his pretzel and ate it.
He’d seen me watching him, too. He didn’t care. He’s busy re-tailoring Vince as a suitor, stooge, and meal ticket. Why should J. worry what judgments I draw?
Was all that Little Kiwi—Dennis Savage love affair a fraud? No, of course not. But J. deeply resented having to work—especially after Cosgrove moved in with me with only the family chores to do. Straights want laws, constrictions, social pressures. Gays want freedom. J. may well be the gayest of all. He yearns for irresponsibility. (That’s a joke, my brothers.)
I was riding my train of thought with such concentration that I didn’t realize that I had reached a conclusive stop and opened my mouth at the same time:
“You’re a little gold digger,” I blurted out.
J. coolly considered me. Vince was once more fondling Fleabiscuit. Cosgrove was back in the kitchen.
Silence.
Finally, Cosgrove came out with his risotto of greens and sea scallops, cooked to a T. As he and I had made sure that Vince’s glass was never left empty, the guest of honor was soon buzzed, which led him to confide in us his dating secrets. These included how to tell gash from brides; how to speed a princess; and how all women want to be fucked by their fathers.
“Not their main and true father,” he added. “The husband of their mother. But someone like that, with the power to love them or not when they were, like, four years old. That totally huge guy who can give or take everything from them, you know? And they don’t care what he looks like. He’s got the tall and the making rules and the heavy dark thing to him. That’s daddy to them, and they need daddy so.”
Cosgrove distributed the plates, his face blank.
“No, sure, they don’t admit to it.” He laughed. “Start with whispering in their ear, the puppy kissing, the daddy talking. My pal Red, he always backs off at the time. He don’t have the script. But it’s not poetry, it’s anything, like. Just so you’re gentle, ’cause they’ll do