of hours into it, Chuckles walks up to me, grabs me by the hips, stands on his tippy-toes, looks up at me and says, “I live next door.” Now, as you might have guessed about me, I’m not one to miss an opportunity, and, within two minutes, I was next door. I think you can fill the rest in yourself, Secret, but, suffice it to say, it was a memorable evening. We’ve been passing acquaintances ever since. He’s been at every party I’ve thrown in the last two years. So has his friend, Jeff, for that matter.”
“Well, I doubt Jeff will be at your next one,” I couldn’t help but add.
“No, doubtful, but let me tell you something, Secret, that Jeff is no Miss Snow White herself. She was cruising everything that had a pulse last night, and I’ve caught her more than once on the dance floor locked in a vise-grip with someone other than James. Who, by the way, is Dud City in the sack, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“No, of course not,” I replied, feeling no pain by that point. Whatever he had given me was making me mellower than a James Taylor album.
“By the way, just where are we going? This isn’t the way we came up,” I made note.
“It’s a surprise. So just sit back and relax and we’ll be there in a few.” (Yippy, more surprises. Well, what was one more?) As commanded, I sat back and enjoyed the view. It always seems so funny to me that you can leave the hustle and bustle of San Francisco, and fifteen minutes outside the city is nothing but rolling green hills (or brown, depending on the season) and stretches of land with either small herds of cattle or acres of vineyard on them.
As promised, in about five minutes, we pulled up to an adorable wooden house in the middle of nowhere, and Sparkle, with his arms thrown up, proclaimed, “We’re there.”
“And where is there?” I asked, with about as much curiosity as my current state of mind would allow.
“Casa d’Astan!” He pointed grandly to the home before us.
“Huh?” I wasn’t formulating sentences too well either by that point.
“Well, this is my parent’s summer cottage, but they aren’t due up for another week or so. See, they always come up the same time every year. Anyway, there’s bound to be some cans of something in the house that we can make due with to tide us over until we can get back into the city.”
So we got out of the car and walked up the little stone path to the house. There were lemon and avocado trees all around the periphery and patches of wildflowers here and there. In truth, you couldn’t have asked for a more serene setting. It was hard to imagine Sparkle, and the apparent hullabaloo that was his life, in such surroundings. But he was telling the truth, because he produced a set of keys and we were in the house in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
The inside of the cottage was just as rustic as the outside, very Martha Stewart meets Betsy Ross all over. There was lots of dark, antique wood furnishings and beautiful, old quilts and tapestries strewn about. The walls were painted in muted pastels and the paintings were all of scenes from times long past. Homey, quaint, and cozy. Everything Sparkle was not. Picture Sadam wintering in Martha’s Vineyard, and you wouldn’t be far off the mark.
“Strange,” I chirped, “this strikes me as very un -Sparkle like. You must be nothing like your parents.”
“Fuck, no,” he was quick to respond. “My parents and I are nothing alike, but it’s no wonder, really. I mean, as a child, I was raised by nannies and butlers and maids and cooks, while they were always off to Europe or up here. I was never allowed to join them. No big loss there, seeing as they’re massive bores. In any case, I had much more fun and learned way more from the people they left in charge of me and my brother than I ever could have had with them. Honestly, we barely ever see each other now, thank goodness. I mean, they don’t exactly approve of my lifestyle. But you know
“Well, I doubt Jeff will be at your next one,” I couldn’t help but add.
“No, doubtful, but let me tell you something, Secret, that Jeff is no Miss Snow White herself. She was cruising everything that had a pulse last night, and I’ve caught her more than once on the dance floor locked in a vise-grip with someone other than James. Who, by the way, is Dud City in the sack, but you didn’t hear that from me.”
“No, of course not,” I replied, feeling no pain by that point. Whatever he had given me was making me mellower than a James Taylor album.
“By the way, just where are we going? This isn’t the way we came up,” I made note.
“It’s a surprise. So just sit back and relax and we’ll be there in a few.” (Yippy, more surprises. Well, what was one more?) As commanded, I sat back and enjoyed the view. It always seems so funny to me that you can leave the hustle and bustle of San Francisco, and fifteen minutes outside the city is nothing but rolling green hills (or brown, depending on the season) and stretches of land with either small herds of cattle or acres of vineyard on them.
As promised, in about five minutes, we pulled up to an adorable wooden house in the middle of nowhere, and Sparkle, with his arms thrown up, proclaimed, “We’re there.”
“And where is there?” I asked, with about as much curiosity as my current state of mind would allow.
“Casa d’Astan!” He pointed grandly to the home before us.
“Huh?” I wasn’t formulating sentences too well either by that point.
“Well, this is my parent’s summer cottage, but they aren’t due up for another week or so. See, they always come up the same time every year. Anyway, there’s bound to be some cans of something in the house that we can make due with to tide us over until we can get back into the city.”
So we got out of the car and walked up the little stone path to the house. There were lemon and avocado trees all around the periphery and patches of wildflowers here and there. In truth, you couldn’t have asked for a more serene setting. It was hard to imagine Sparkle, and the apparent hullabaloo that was his life, in such surroundings. But he was telling the truth, because he produced a set of keys and we were in the house in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.
The inside of the cottage was just as rustic as the outside, very Martha Stewart meets Betsy Ross all over. There was lots of dark, antique wood furnishings and beautiful, old quilts and tapestries strewn about. The walls were painted in muted pastels and the paintings were all of scenes from times long past. Homey, quaint, and cozy. Everything Sparkle was not. Picture Sadam wintering in Martha’s Vineyard, and you wouldn’t be far off the mark.
“Strange,” I chirped, “this strikes me as very un -Sparkle like. You must be nothing like your parents.”
“Fuck, no,” he was quick to respond. “My parents and I are nothing alike, but it’s no wonder, really. I mean, as a child, I was raised by nannies and butlers and maids and cooks, while they were always off to Europe or up here. I was never allowed to join them. No big loss there, seeing as they’re massive bores. In any case, I had much more fun and learned way more from the people they left in charge of me and my brother than I ever could have had with them. Honestly, we barely ever see each other now, thank goodness. I mean, they don’t exactly approve of my lifestyle. But you know
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