By Anthony Paull
As friends, let’s keep things on the surface, shall we? After all, talk of “lost love” is the best way to ruin a perfectly good evening, and I’d like this dry martini to go down smooth. Very smooth. You heard right. Tonight, I think it’s best not to go too, too deep, because then we might stumble upon sordid, little details our tiny brains might not be able to absorb. And tell me, who wants to dive in a dark, dirty rabbit hole, full of even darker secrets, when you’ve been so happily hopping around the world as if were a buoyant, multi-colored wonderland?
I guess you can say peering through the “looking glass” has tainted me, but that’s part of the fabulous and screwed-up world of being Carrie Bradshaw with a penis rather than a dick-nose: Sometimes, I have little choice but to pry into the private lives of friends and readers and ask questions I might not want answered. Like for example, why does your boyfriend’s butt smell like the bottom lip of the queer with the Star Trek Enterprise eyebrows working at the MAC counter? And tell me, when did shit-brown become the new pink?
Oh, I know; I’m going to hell, but I’m demanding a suite right below you so I can get off listening to you do all the same “yummy in my bum” things you prefer that I not write about.
Yes, we’re all such prudish creatures when we’re at the height of our game, but give a bitch a hot man and a key to a dingy, hourly-rate hotel on Sunset Strip, and BOOM, watch the fireworks explode! “But no! Wes promised he’d never, ever cheat on me!” my L.A. actor-friend, Willie Boy, cries.
My favorite, beautiful blond drama queen, Willie Boy, has been ‘dating’ his boyfriend, Wes, for five “yes, I said the greatest man on this green earth” months. However, recently, he sadly discovered that he’s been getting cheated on all along. Me, I should know better than to ask how he found out. Still, I open my mouth as we walk, rather briskly, under the bamboo fans located at the mall’s food court. Willie’s dying for cheese fries but says he’ll be damned if he gains an ounce and looks like deep-fried dog shit. That’s the thing about having boyfriend trouble – it works a body good. “So how do you know he really cheated?” I ask.
“Let’s just say I know!” Willie Boy heatedly whispers. Then, searching his black skinny-jean shorts, he pulls out a shiny, silver iPhone. “Take exhibit A,” he says. “His stupid little slut left him a text to pick him up at the MAC counter, but sadly, Wes never got the message. That’s because I got to his iPhone first.”
In a mad, speed-walking fit, Willie takes on an eerie resemblance to those husband-caged-women you find doing hamster laps around your friendly, deed-restricted neighborhood. He’s all hips, hips, hips.
“That doesn’t prove anything,” I say, trying my damnedest to keep up with him. “Is that all you have?”
“No, I have chlamydia, gonorrhea and a yeast infection that won’t quit. Is that enough evidence for you?!” Huffing and puffing and puffing, he’s zigzagging through a pod of concerned parents, who pull away their confused children, when I grab him by the shoulder.
“OK. You’re not that fag, and this is not your next movie!” I kindly inform him. “You said we were here to go Dumpster diving for clearance-rack underwear at Express. So why are you racing to the MAC counter?”
“To punch the makeup off that bitch’s face!” he declares. And that’s when his crying turns to sobbing, and it all leaks on the shiny tile floor. Just in time for the locals to pop their popcorn and take in the festivities.
In sum, Willie Boy says that a friend told him that Wes had been screwing the MAC guy, the one with the tweezed eyebrows, at some nasty hotel for the last five months. Willie Boy failed to believe the torturous tale even though Wes had been waving red flags since their onset. You see, a text-message maniac, Wes was famous for being glued to his iPhone, where he’d receive private messages at the most private of hours. Of course, he’d say they were from his mom or his brother, but deep down, Willie Boy knew the truth. He knew those strange boys on Wes’ Facebook page weren’t merely strangers. He knew why he wasn’t Wes’ No. 1 friend on MySpace. Still, he turned a blind eye – till last week, when he began experiencing anal itchiness and a shot of fire through his penis every time he peed.
After a doctor visit, Willie Boy confronted Wes, who denied the allegation, stating diseases like that can remain dormant for years.
“So let me get this straight,” I say. “Wes risked your life by lying to you and giving you a rash of STDs, but you’re mad at the MAC guy?” And maybe that was my worst question of all, because right then, I knew his silence meant he was still in love, and that leads to no easy answers, especially when the one you’re mad at most is yourself.