comfortable with our friendship to want to sleep together.
Not that we didn’t have some partners in common. He dated Micha after I did, and we both slept with this ringtail named Allen, who joined FLAG our sophomore year. Comparing partners was always good for hours of talk, tossing back a couple beers in between bitchy and sometimes wistful commentary (“such a shame… that thick head on that cute ass”). But Brian and I never lacked for things to talk about. He was a theater arts major and I was English, so he got me to join the Forester Troupe and I got him to read Wilde. We both loved sports, and though I liked the mechanics of football and the tactics while he liked to follow players and keep statistics, we both liked watching the guys’ butts onscreen. Brian used to say it was the gayest thing you could do while acting straight.
Monday nights are the FLAG meetings, and I’ve been avoiding those too. But to assuage some of the guilt from Brian’s call, I head down there tonight.
Going to a FLAG meeting isn’t as easy as just showing up at the Richman F. Baker Center at 8 pm. No, there’s a whole ritual around it. Dinner at the Class of 1939 Pavilion, first, where my arrival at the table is greeted with mock amazement designed to hide the real thing.
“Wiley Farrel, as I live and breathe!”
“Hey, look, fellas, this newbie’s a real fox!”
“Oh, Mister Farrel, how nice of you to step down off the stage and mingle with us common rabble.”
“Slumming it tonight, Lee? ”
The fake Southern accent belongs to Allen, the ringtail who does sets for the theater troupe, and whom I’ve mentioned once already. The punster is Liz, a badger who wears denim overalls everywhere. They’re both juniors. Daniel is the sole sophomore, a twinky raccoon who obsesses about his weight. Jake, the cougar who’s his current fling, is a senior like me, though he didn’t join FLAG until our sophomore year. Came out to his parents over the summer and they kicked him out. Last year they took him back in.
And the lanky weasel who doesn’t say anything, just slides his chair over and smiles at me, that’s Salim, my best friend now. I didn’t tell him I’d be coming tonight, but I knew he wouldn’t be surprised. He asked me why I stopped going. When I didn’t tell him, he just shrugged and said, “You’ll come back when you’re ready to come back.” And he never asked again.
“Hello, ladies,” I say with a flourish. “Sorry: ladies and Liz. Yes, I felt it was time. You all have suffered without my classical charm and good looks for long enough.”
Liz snorts, and as a badger, she does that exceptionally well. Daniel flutters his eyes and says, “Oh, Mister Fox!” and feigns a swoon.
Salim gives me a soft smile and says, “Don’t eat the green beans, they’ve been there for ages.”
“I got a fresh batch,” I say, digging into the chicken a la king.
“So to what do we owe the honor, Lee?” Jake says, his black-tufted ears flicking in my direction.
“’Square Room’ is all done,” I say around mouthfuls of cream and chicken. “And we finished the draft of ‘Monkey Wrench,’ so no more writing meetings.”
“Did you write yourself a big fat part for that one, Red Flag?” Liz thinks that nickname is cute, because (she says) I like to draw attention to myself. Plus she thinks the “FLAG” tie-in is a bonus. Liz thinks a lot of weird things.
I give her a courtesy flick of the ears and then return their focus to the table at large. “No, I’ve done enough acting for a while,” I say. “But if you want a part, we have ‘Screaming Baby’ still uncast.”
“Did you guys work out your issues with the writing?” Salim says, and for a few minutes we divert the conversation into the faults and strengths of Jeffrey Purgudgeon, my co-writer on the play.
Allen, predictably, is the one who brings it back around to me. “So, you sleeping with him?”
“Jeffrey?” I snort. “His
Not that we didn’t have some partners in common. He dated Micha after I did, and we both slept with this ringtail named Allen, who joined FLAG our sophomore year. Comparing partners was always good for hours of talk, tossing back a couple beers in between bitchy and sometimes wistful commentary (“such a shame… that thick head on that cute ass”). But Brian and I never lacked for things to talk about. He was a theater arts major and I was English, so he got me to join the Forester Troupe and I got him to read Wilde. We both loved sports, and though I liked the mechanics of football and the tactics while he liked to follow players and keep statistics, we both liked watching the guys’ butts onscreen. Brian used to say it was the gayest thing you could do while acting straight.
Monday nights are the FLAG meetings, and I’ve been avoiding those too. But to assuage some of the guilt from Brian’s call, I head down there tonight.
Going to a FLAG meeting isn’t as easy as just showing up at the Richman F. Baker Center at 8 pm. No, there’s a whole ritual around it. Dinner at the Class of 1939 Pavilion, first, where my arrival at the table is greeted with mock amazement designed to hide the real thing.
“Wiley Farrel, as I live and breathe!”
“Hey, look, fellas, this newbie’s a real fox!”
“Oh, Mister Farrel, how nice of you to step down off the stage and mingle with us common rabble.”
“Slumming it tonight, Lee? ”
The fake Southern accent belongs to Allen, the ringtail who does sets for the theater troupe, and whom I’ve mentioned once already. The punster is Liz, a badger who wears denim overalls everywhere. They’re both juniors. Daniel is the sole sophomore, a twinky raccoon who obsesses about his weight. Jake, the cougar who’s his current fling, is a senior like me, though he didn’t join FLAG until our sophomore year. Came out to his parents over the summer and they kicked him out. Last year they took him back in.
And the lanky weasel who doesn’t say anything, just slides his chair over and smiles at me, that’s Salim, my best friend now. I didn’t tell him I’d be coming tonight, but I knew he wouldn’t be surprised. He asked me why I stopped going. When I didn’t tell him, he just shrugged and said, “You’ll come back when you’re ready to come back.” And he never asked again.
“Hello, ladies,” I say with a flourish. “Sorry: ladies and Liz. Yes, I felt it was time. You all have suffered without my classical charm and good looks for long enough.”
Liz snorts, and as a badger, she does that exceptionally well. Daniel flutters his eyes and says, “Oh, Mister Fox!” and feigns a swoon.
Salim gives me a soft smile and says, “Don’t eat the green beans, they’ve been there for ages.”
“I got a fresh batch,” I say, digging into the chicken a la king.
“So to what do we owe the honor, Lee?” Jake says, his black-tufted ears flicking in my direction.
“’Square Room’ is all done,” I say around mouthfuls of cream and chicken. “And we finished the draft of ‘Monkey Wrench,’ so no more writing meetings.”
“Did you write yourself a big fat part for that one, Red Flag?” Liz thinks that nickname is cute, because (she says) I like to draw attention to myself. Plus she thinks the “FLAG” tie-in is a bonus. Liz thinks a lot of weird things.
I give her a courtesy flick of the ears and then return their focus to the table at large. “No, I’ve done enough acting for a while,” I say. “But if you want a part, we have ‘Screaming Baby’ still uncast.”
“Did you guys work out your issues with the writing?” Salim says, and for a few minutes we divert the conversation into the faults and strengths of Jeffrey Purgudgeon, my co-writer on the play.
Allen, predictably, is the one who brings it back around to me. “So, you sleeping with him?”
“Jeffrey?” I snort. “His
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