Read Online Let's Hear It for the Boy by T. A. Webb - Free Book Online
Authors: T. A. Webb
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Chapter One
Present Day
When Paul Stewart walked into the small dressing room, he stopped to take in the chaos. There were wigs, boas, rhinestone and sequined outfits…it looked like Dolly Parton exploded and settled like feathers all over the room. The blaze of colors and fabrics slowly came into focus, and he recognized that there seemed to be some subtle order at play here, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
But what drew his attention was the man sitting in a battered office chair, primping in front of the Barbie Glamor Mirror. Even seated, he could tell the man was tall and well-built. His goatee and shaved head were in stark contrast to the huge amount of black eyeliner around his eyes, and the fuck-me red lipstick he was applying like Paul had seen his sisters doing—lips rolling inward and then pressed together.
Paul must have made a noise, because sharp blue eyes met his in the mirror, and any thoughts he had that the man might be effeminate were dashed by the quirk of the lips, the quick wink, and the low, rumbly voice. “So you are the unlucky bastard the Journal sent over to interview me, huh?”
Paul started, then offered the man a wry smile. “Paul Stewart. And I assume you are Matthew Trammell.”
“Better known as Auntie Social. At your service.” The man stood, and while Paul wasn’t short, Matthew towered over him by a good five inches. He snuck a glance down to make sure the guy wasn’t in heels, and caught sight of muscular, hairy calves. He must have stared for a moment, because that low rumble filled his ears again, settling in his balls this time. “Not your mamma’s drag queen, am I?”
Paul felt the heat of a warm flush of embarrassed pleasure crawl up his neck, and he extended a surprisingly steady hand out for Matthew to shake while he tried to gather himself. He wasn’t used to losing control of his interviews, and his professional pride kicked in and he focused on the story, like he always did. He’d been attracted to men he interviewed before, and this one would be no different. Keep telling yourself that, and we’ll see how much you believe it at the end of the night , some little part of his brain whispered.
“Is it okay if I use my cell to record the interview?” Paul pulled out his iPhone and waggled it at Matthew. “I can transcribe it easier this way, and the facts and quotes I use are much easier to verify. I’ll also be taking some notes as we go, just to refresh my memory while I write the story. I can capture your words, but sometimes that doesn’t necessarily translate very well on a recording.” He slid a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open to a blank page.
Matthew looked thoughtful, then nodded, turned, and sat. He picked up a funky-looking triangle of some sort of white foam, dipped it into a light brown liquid, and began applying it to his cheeks. “As long as you don’t mind me getting ready. You know, the show must go on and all that shit.” With a foot, he shoved a simple wooden ladder-back chair out from the desk beside him, then turned back to the mirror and began dabbing the makeup on his face.
Paul pulled the chair up beside Matthew, facing him sideways and watched the sure way he applied the color for a moment before flicking the iPhone on and starting the recording application. After stating the date and time, pulling out a pen and making a quick note in his pad, he dove right in with the questions.
“Matthew, you’ve been a fixture in the Atlanta gay community for almost thirty years. And in that time, you’ve raised close to a million dollars for local AIDS charities. I’d like to know, what keeps you going? The disease is more manageable now, the mortality rate is down, the cocktails more affordable than ever. What is it that keeps the spark alive for you?”
The sudden quiet made Paul look up from the notes he’d been scribbling, and it was a totally different man he saw. The sadness in Matthew’s
Present Day
When Paul Stewart walked into the small dressing room, he stopped to take in the chaos. There were wigs, boas, rhinestone and sequined outfits…it looked like Dolly Parton exploded and settled like feathers all over the room. The blaze of colors and fabrics slowly came into focus, and he recognized that there seemed to be some subtle order at play here, although he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.
But what drew his attention was the man sitting in a battered office chair, primping in front of the Barbie Glamor Mirror. Even seated, he could tell the man was tall and well-built. His goatee and shaved head were in stark contrast to the huge amount of black eyeliner around his eyes, and the fuck-me red lipstick he was applying like Paul had seen his sisters doing—lips rolling inward and then pressed together.
Paul must have made a noise, because sharp blue eyes met his in the mirror, and any thoughts he had that the man might be effeminate were dashed by the quirk of the lips, the quick wink, and the low, rumbly voice. “So you are the unlucky bastard the Journal sent over to interview me, huh?”
Paul started, then offered the man a wry smile. “Paul Stewart. And I assume you are Matthew Trammell.”
“Better known as Auntie Social. At your service.” The man stood, and while Paul wasn’t short, Matthew towered over him by a good five inches. He snuck a glance down to make sure the guy wasn’t in heels, and caught sight of muscular, hairy calves. He must have stared for a moment, because that low rumble filled his ears again, settling in his balls this time. “Not your mamma’s drag queen, am I?”
Paul felt the heat of a warm flush of embarrassed pleasure crawl up his neck, and he extended a surprisingly steady hand out for Matthew to shake while he tried to gather himself. He wasn’t used to losing control of his interviews, and his professional pride kicked in and he focused on the story, like he always did. He’d been attracted to men he interviewed before, and this one would be no different. Keep telling yourself that, and we’ll see how much you believe it at the end of the night , some little part of his brain whispered.
“Is it okay if I use my cell to record the interview?” Paul pulled out his iPhone and waggled it at Matthew. “I can transcribe it easier this way, and the facts and quotes I use are much easier to verify. I’ll also be taking some notes as we go, just to refresh my memory while I write the story. I can capture your words, but sometimes that doesn’t necessarily translate very well on a recording.” He slid a small notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open to a blank page.
Matthew looked thoughtful, then nodded, turned, and sat. He picked up a funky-looking triangle of some sort of white foam, dipped it into a light brown liquid, and began applying it to his cheeks. “As long as you don’t mind me getting ready. You know, the show must go on and all that shit.” With a foot, he shoved a simple wooden ladder-back chair out from the desk beside him, then turned back to the mirror and began dabbing the makeup on his face.
Paul pulled the chair up beside Matthew, facing him sideways and watched the sure way he applied the color for a moment before flicking the iPhone on and starting the recording application. After stating the date and time, pulling out a pen and making a quick note in his pad, he dove right in with the questions.
“Matthew, you’ve been a fixture in the Atlanta gay community for almost thirty years. And in that time, you’ve raised close to a million dollars for local AIDS charities. I’d like to know, what keeps you going? The disease is more manageable now, the mortality rate is down, the cocktails more affordable than ever. What is it that keeps the spark alive for you?”
The sudden quiet made Paul look up from the notes he’d been scribbling, and it was a totally different man he saw. The sadness in Matthew’s
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