Read Online Slut Lullabies by Gina Frangello - Free Book Online

tonight, everyone will be friends.
    The music begins. For the warm-up, to create a proper mood of both romance and whimsy, Chad’s mousy administrative assistant sings the Indigo Girls’ “Power of Two,” accompanied by X on guitar. His strumming hums unexpectedly gentle. Angelina is a black-locked, pornographic Shirley Temple in a curve-hugging dress, hair coiled tight, vampy but comical. She is a fag’s wet hag dream, a vixen who does not take herself seriously, whose charm is in her self-creation. In lieu of a bride, she flits around doing her dangly-wrist scotch routine; she hugs miniature grandmothers—in keeping with his fine, long-living lineage, Chad has two. Miguel keeps his eyes on Angelina like a talisman. How has she managed to hide so long in the shadow of their sister, her mother? His chest feels swollen; he is unable to draw a full breath. Chad’s hand touches his arms at intervals—here—away—here.
    Procession music begins.
    â€œOh, Christ!” Elaine, departing from her usual Tammy Faye Bakker, honey-tongued sweetness, stomps a low-heeled foot. “I’ve got to pee—Charles, what’ll I do?”
    â€œGo to the toilet, dear.”
    And she’s off. Scampering up the stairs, skirt gathered at the knee. The men shift weight from one leg to another and back again. Somebody has apparently clued in the pianist to stall. Pacabel’s Canon—are they kidding,
    who OK’d this? Charles Merry belches quietly into his fist. He has had more martinis than the rest.
    â€œShe might have gotten lost,” Chad suggests after five minutes pass. “She’s never been here before.”
    â€œHow could she get lost—the port-a-potties take up an entire hallway!”
    â€œYeah, but they’re, you know . . .” Chad gestures vaguely, imitating his mother, appropriately confused. “Off hidden to the side.”
    Miguel bolts. This is his job—husbands fetch cars while their wives wait under restaurant canopies in the rain, and so this will be his fate, too. He will go fetch Chad’s socialite mother who, perhaps so offended by the port-a-potties, has swooned and is lying on the inclined hallway like a damsel. He’d like to kick her ass.
    At the port-a-potties, he stands outside the row of shut doors, clearing his throat. “Elaine? We’re ready to start, uh—are you—Chad wanted me to check and see if we should go ahead without you.”
    No reply. Miguel begins to knock on plastic doors, and, when that fails, to fling them open. Empty. Paranoid, he runs toward the main entrance to glance outdoors and make sure she has not taken off—Cinderella amid the bums and club-goers on Broadway—having decided this was all a huge mistake after all. But once in the main lobby he glimpses, at the very top of the stairs next to the entrance for balcony seating, a door marked LADIES. Clearly Elaine— being Elaine—would have imagined that the port-a-potties would be in the ladies’ room—that would be the only civilized thing! Taking off, he tackles two stairs at a time. But at the top of the grand stairway, the door to the ladies’ room will not budge. Who knows what manner of rubble lies inside—like the crazy heaps of broken rocks and wood that obstruct the historic wood floors of Chad’s buildings—who can guess what bones and flecks of old skin inhabit this place? Downstairs, Pacabel’s Canon comes to an end. The pianist waits, a palpable pause, then begins Chopin’s Etudes—thank God. Miguel sinks to the floor to clear his head.
    He sees her shoes first. Under the curtain that closes off the balcony: a red, cigarette-burned velvet curtain that does not reach the floor.
    Miguel hops to his feet and flings it back—shit, has Elaine signed up on the sex list?—and gapes, eyes traveling the bent bump of ass, beige tweed gathered, garter tops visible, as Elaine